Songs of the Dancing Gods

help him and he pushed her away, shouting, “Boots! Find me boots! And gloves, if we have them!”

“What is wrong?” she asked, looking through the other pack. “Here is your hat, Master. A bit flat, but —”

“Mia! I’m freezing! I need boots! And gloves!”

She rummaged around. “I did not know you were so sensitive, Master. It is a bit cool, but not terribly uncomfortable.”

“Mia, it’s the spell Sugasto gave you. You don’t feel the weather; it’s as if you have Marge’s flesh or even some kind of spacesuit on you can’t see, feel, or touch. I don’t. Of the three of us, I’m the only one this weather can harm or even kill. Ah! The boots!”

“And here are your gloves, Master,” she responded, still not quite following the reality of the situation. It just didn’t feel, or even look cold. Oh, on the mountains nearby there was snow, yes, but there was grass here, and even some flowers.

Joe felt much better, but he still felt damned cold. This outfit would be uncomfortable around here but would allow him to survive; on the ice pack, though, where it was clearly going to be much colder yet, this would be no more good than a loincloth.

Of course, there were the blankets they had used to keep the stuff together. Irving, the sword, was wrapped in three of them! He knelt down and began unwrapping the great weapon, for the first time more interested in the container than the contents.

“We’ve got plenty of wool and cotton in these blankets,” he told Mia. “You’re gonna have to rig something from them that’ll keep me much warmer.”

“Yes, Master. I will do what I can. Oh, look! When we speak we spout steam like a dragon!”

“That’s because it’s cold,” he told her again, trying to underline the concept. “We humans are always warm inside but the air is around freezing. Our breath, heated from inside us, gets blasted by the cold air and it turns to fog.”

She nodded. “I knew that happened, Master, but it honestly does not feel to me as if it is more than you might feel on a cool, cloudy day in Marquewood. This will take some getting used to. I will not know your requirements.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you,” he assured her. The trouble is, I wish I knew if my requirements can be met, he added to himself.

He strapped on the sword and tested it out with the gloves. A bit awkward, but this Irving didn’t need much in the way of feel—it did its own fighting.

He had finally warmed up to “just chattering and looked around. The mountains were a couple of miles over there, and, from the map, he assumed they were now in Hypboreya and that those were the Scrunder. Since that range was essentially east-west, it put the Lakes to their east and a bit behind him. To the north was almost a tundra; grasslands, rocky outcrops, yet basically flat. Not a lot of cover, but at least nothing much was going to be hiding from them, either. Still, he knew he would have to try and bluff his way through whoever was in the nearest settlement. He needed furs, not leather, around here. Best to wait for Marge to give him the lay of the land.

Mia found some of the bread and vegetables he’d packed. Nothing to drink, though, right around here, unless they wanted to go mountain climbing.

“So how come you came as that thing?” he asked her.

“Well, Master, first the man came and flew the flying horse away, but not before he told his friend that the flying horses could not see well at night anyway, and so I had to think of what would best serve our needs and get me out of there and then I remembered us being chased—”

He laughed. “All right! All right! I figured it was something like that. It’s done, it worked, and we’re here.” He looked around. “Why then do I suddenly long for that lousy cafe and that overpriced little room?”

He was suddenly convinced that they were being watched. That sixth sense that keeps men in his profession alive was tickling the back of his neck, and he suddenly whirled around.

He sensed—something getting out of the way fast, but where? And what? It was pretty flat here.

Mia saw him, tensed, and turned to look around as well. “What is it, Master?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably nothing, but I’d swear that something was in the grass over there only a moment ago.”

Before he could stop her, she ran over to where he was looking and looked around on the ground. She seemed to see something, because she suddenly crouched, as if waiting to pounce.

“Bunnies,” said a tiny voice from somewhere behind her, like the voice of a small child speaking through its nose. She whirled, and a nearly identical voice said, “Yes, bunny!”

Suddenly Mia stiffened, then stood, knees bent, her arms out in front of her and bent at the elbows so the hands hung down, and twitched her nose. She looked stupid, bewildered—and scared.

Joe reached down and pulled living from his scabbard. The great sword hummed in anticipation.

In fact, it hummed Melancholy Baby.

Gnomes! he thought suddenly. He’d heard of their stupid tricks. “Mia!” he shouted. “Snap out of it! You are not a rabbit! It’s gnomes! Gnomes playing tricks in your mind! Listen only to me, not to them!”

She blinked, seemed to wilt for a moment, almost assuming normal posture, when a chorus of the voices said, “Horsey! Horsey girl!” and she was back somewhat in the same position, only she was on tiptoes and actually whinnied!

In the meantime, Irving had finished Melancholy Baby with a flourish and was starting on God Bless America.

Wait a minute! he told himself. They can’t possibly know those songs! This is like a hypnotist’s act. Shut them out! Ignore them!

Suddenly, out of the ground, rose a horrible, roaring monster, all teeth and fangs, dinosaurlike and hungry. It roared, and Irving just about swung into action at his reflexive moves, now humming the theme from Rocky.

He moved in toward it, the sword poised, and almost struck— when the monster vanished, showing Mia there instead. Another split second…!

“All right, you little monsters!” he growled. “That’s pushing it too far! Irving—the next one you hear, anywhere, strike!” He knew that the sword could not possibly be affected by these creatures; its songs were strictly what was coming from his own subconscious.

“Irving?” a tiny voice just behind him said with disbelief. The sword took control, whirling Joe around and striking something with the flat of its blade. There was a terrible screech, and suddenly Joe was looking down at a tiny, limp form, sort of greenish but dull, with flecks of gray. It was about a foot tall, if that, with an oval-shaped, sexless body, two short, stubby legs, and equally short arms with tiny hands. The face was a cartoon mask, with eyes five times too big, a nose that looked more like a hanging dill pickle, and a rubbery, oversized mouth.

It also was out cold, and a real goose-egg-sized lump was rising on the side of its head.

Suddenly the ground virtually erupted with clones of the little creature, all chaptering excitedly and screaming, “Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve done to him!”

“Nothing the rest of you don’t deserve!” he shouted back. “That little bugger almost made me kill my companion! And the rest of you aren’t any better!”

Mia stared openmouthed at the assemblage of little green something or others, but she repeated, “Companion?”

“Spoilsport!” they began muttering to one another.

“Spoilsport my ass!” he responded angrily. “You want me to instruct this sword, which is very sensitive about its very fine name, to whack each and every gnome it can? With the blade this time?”

There was a collective gasp.

“Not so funny when it’s your neck on the line, is it?” he went on. “From the looks