"If I know what is good for me? Alas, little man, none ever know what is good for him. And if one knew, would he follow that path?"
"I'm warning you, Lod—you
are
Lod, aren't you? If you've hurt her Highness—"
"Yes, Lod is my name." The giant's voice rang with a harder note. "Undertake to offer me no warnings, small creature. Instead, speak to me of the errand that brought you hither."
"I came for Princess Adoranne . . ." O'Leary stopped to swallow. "I know you've got her, because who else—"
"At first lie, I give you pain," Lod said. "Like this." He leaned forward with a swift motion, gripped O'Leary's shoulder with one huge hand and squeezed. O'Leary yelped in agony.
Lod rolled back, eyeing him with a touch of amusement. "At second lie, I give disfigurement; the loss of an eye, perhaps, or a crushed limb. And at third, I condemn you to hang in the cage of tears, where you will die with a sloth that will surprise you."
"Who—who's lying?" O'Leary managed, blinking away pain tears. "I heard Adoranne was missing; everybody thought I did it, but that's nonsense. You're the one with the motive and the organization—"
"What? Must I inflict lesson two already?"
"He's telling the truth, you great ugly imbecile," a sharp, though muffled voice piped up from somewhere. Lod halted in mid-reach, looking disconcerted.
"Of course I'm telling the truth," O'Leary moved his shoulder. Nothing seemed to be broken. What a pity he hadn't equipped himself with a .45 automatic while he was at it; it would be a pleasure to plug this leering man-mountain.
"Who sent you here?" Lod barked. "Nicodaeus, I think, that sly traitor!"
"Nicodaeus tipped off the palace guard when I paid him a visit in his room," O'Leary said. "I'm no messenger of his."
"Ask him who
he
is, not the name of his master," the snappish voice came again. It seemed to O'Leary that it emanated from behind Lod. He craned to see who might be crouched behind the chair.
"Name yourself then, little man," Lod commanded.
"I'm Lafayette O'Leary. What's that got to do with it? I demand—"
"Where do you come from?"
"I left Artesia yesterday, if that's what you mean. Before that—well, it's kind of complicated—"
"I sense a strangeness in this man," the shrill voice piped. "Let him go, let him go!"
Lod's eyes narrowed. "You came alone and unarmed against mighty Lod. How did you pass dragon who guards my eastern gate? How—"
"As well ask the west wind why it blows," the shrewish voice shrilled. "You face power here, vile usurper! Have the wit to turn from it in humility!"
"Speak up!" Lod's voice was a snarl. "I think you fairly beg for torment!"
"Look, all I want is the girl and my freedom," O'Leary said desperately. "Tell your gorillas to release us, unharmed, and—"
Lod's immense hands jumped, caught O'Leary between them and lifted him off his feet, bruising his ribs.
"Must I tear you in two, stubborn mite?"
"Aye, kill him now—ere he tells you that which you fear to hear," the shrill voice snarled. "Shut off the voice of doom impending!"
Lod snarled, tossed O'Leary from him. He came to his feet, stood over O'Leary, ten feet tall, a mountainous, crook-backed ogre. "Must I boil you in pitch?" he boomed. "Impale you on a bed of thousand needles? Drop you in the dark well of serpents? Bury you neck deep in broken bottles?"
O'Leary picked himself up, half-dazed by the blow his head had struck the floor. "No, thanks," he faced the giant towering over him. "Just . . . give me Princess Adoranne and a good dinner and . . . I'll let you off easy this time."
Lod roared; the other voice squealed in wild laughter. The giant whirled, stalked back to his chair, threw himself in it, his face working through a series of Halloween expressions before setting in a grim stare.
"Kindness avail nothing with you, I see," Lod grated in a tone of forced calm. "That being case, stern measures are called for." He twitched a wrist. The door opened. Crusher stood in it, looking like a dwarf in the shadow of Lod.
"Take him to interrogation room," the giant rumbled. "Prepare him. Then await my coming."
* * *
It seemed as though hours had passed. O'Leary felt himself swaying again, tried to catch himself; then the stabbing pain as the sharp spikes set in the cage stabbed at his right shoulder. He jerked away, struck his left elbow an agonizing crack on the neatly placed projection on that side. Then again he was huddled in the only position possible in the cage; half-bent, half-crouched, his head cocked sideways. His knees and back ached; the throb of a dozen shallow puncture wounds competed for attention. He shifted minutely to relieve the cramp developing in his thigh, felt the prod of the waiting needle points.
"This won't get you anything, Lod," he croaked. "I can't tell you who sent me, because nobody sent me. I'm operating on my own." The giant was lounging at ease in a vast chaise lounge, dressed in pale pink robes now, a voluminous scarf of purple silk wound around his grotesque neck. He waved a ringed hand as big as a briefcase.
"Be stubborn as you like, little man. It gives me pleasure to watch you fret there, surrounded by pain, weighing one punishment against another. An artful device, the cage of tears, for as it torments body with its spikes caresses, so does it agonize the mind with the need to make frequent, painful decisions." Lod chuckled contentedly, lifted a gallon-sized leather jack, quaffed deeply, then plucked a leg from a roast turkey-sized creature and sucked the meat from the bone in one gulp.
Moving only his eyes, O'Leary looked around the room for the fifteenth time, scanning the high, beamed ceiling, the damp earth floor, the rich rug on which Lod's chaise rested, the trophies hung carelessly on the rough, stone walls. There were heads of great reptiles—not cured and stuffed, merely rotting empty-eyed skulls—broken weapons twice normal size, a great ax with a leather-wrapped haft and a rusted, double-bitted head. There was nothing here he could work with—not that he could concentrate, with pain stabbing at him from every side. There was just one door, and he knew where that led. It was fruitless to try to imagine the U.S. cavalry charging in to the rescue. King Goruble's subjects, fond though they were of the princess, were too much in dread of Lod and his dragon to attempt to storm his citadel.
"I see you admire my little souvenirs," Lod rumbled cheerily. He was growing more talkative as he downed mug after mug of brown ale. "Mementoes of early years, before my elevation to present eminence."
"Eminence?" O'Leary put all the scorn he could manage into the word. "You're just an ordinary crook, Lod. A little uglier than most, maybe, but there's nothing special about kidnapping and torture. The dregs of humanity have been at that sort of thing for thousand of years."
"Still you pipe merry tune," Lod boomed, smiling genially as he chewed, showing immense, square teeth. "But pain and thirst and hunger are faithful servants; they do their work, aided by their ally, fear."
"Only the fool knows no fear!" the strange, shrill voice screeched suddenly. "You toy now with forces you know not of, foul tyrant!"
"Where's that voice coming from?" O'Leary croaked.
"Voice of my conscience," Lod growled, then guffawed and drank.
"Some conscience; I can hear it all the way over here. Why don't you pay some attention to it? It's smarter than you are."
Lod lifted his lip in a snarl. "One day I kill conscience," he muttered as though to himself. "And day grows close." A shriek of insane laughter answered him. He drank again, spilling the ale down his chin, slammed the jack to the table and eyed O'Leary balefully.
"You babble of her Highness, Princess Adoranne, my bride-to-be," he growled. "He swore to me: wench would be my prize! And now my agents bring word that he spirit her away. Time grows close; his plots ripen—and now he needs me not, thinks he! He do away with girl, threat to his grip on throne, and cast me aside—me, to whom he swore his oath!"
"You mean . . . Adoranne really isn't here?" O'Leary stared with pain-blurred eyes at the horrendous face.
"Aye, he is sly one," the giant went on, slurring his words now. "With his promises and his gifts and his treachery. But the fool fail to remember that in my own land, I was king!" Lod banged the mug again, sloshing ale. "By force of my arm and guile of my nature, I
made
myself king! My father was mighty one, but I slew him! I!"
"He trusted you, unnatural son and brother!" the voice piped. "You cut him down while he slept."
"To victor belong spoils!" Lod boomed. He refilled his mug, drank, tore a great chunk off the roast bird while the thin voice screamed curses.
"But—" Lod pointed a finger at O'Leary, as the latter twitched away from the stab of a spike digging into his thigh. "Does traitor who plots in palace deal fairly with me? Does he fear powers that made me king? No! He thrust me aside, think to confine me here in this parched land while richness of cities and fields goes to him!"
"Why not?" O'Leary heard himself taunting. His mind was fogging now; only the recurrent prick of the dagger points kept him from fainting. "Nicodaeus knows it's safe to cheat you, because you're stupid."
"Stupid?" Lod laughed, a sound like a stone tower falling. "Yet he sent you, a weakling, here."
"How did this weakling pass the guardian?" the voice piped. "Ask him that, mighty imbecile!"
"Yes, now you will talk!" Lod leaned forward unsteadily. "Why did the gray magician send you? Why
you
? Who are you?
What
are you? How—"
O'Leary managed a creditable Bronx cheer.
Lod started to his feet, then sank back heavily. "I exercise myself needlessly," he muttered. "But a little time, and the cage will do its work."
"But a little time, and you will die," the disembodied voice screeched. "Then will the foul ghosts of the ancestors rend your stinking corpse, and that of my father will be foremost."
"Silence!" Lod bellowed. He poured and drank, slopping the ale. "If I die, who then feed you, evil leech?" The giant slumped back in his chair, watching O'Leary with red-rimmed eyes. "I tire of this sport," he rumbled. "Speak now, little man! What are secret schemes of Nicodaeus? What double-dealing lies behind his promises? Why did he send you? Why? Why? Why?"
"Don't you . . . wish you knew . . ." O'Leary managed. If the cage were made of something soft, like taffy . . . or if he had thought to provide a small gun . . . or if someone—anyone—would burst in now, open the cage . . .
It was no use. He was stuck here. His powers didn't work under stress like this. True, when he'd been drowning, he had managed to jump back to Artesia at the last instant. But at least he had been drowning in comfort, and perhaps he hadn't yet reached the last minute. If he ever got out of this, he'd have to set up some controlled experiments, determine the extent and nature of his abilities.
But this time he wouldn't escape. He'd die here; and Adoranne would never know he'd tried.
" . . . now, before it's too late," the tiny voice was chanting. "Let him go, foul parricide, turn back from disasters you know not of."
"Almost," Lod rumbled blurrily, "I think stubborn runtling has suborned you, so merrily you cry his cause! But I am Lod, king and master, and I fear neither man nor devil nor caster of spells."
"Fool! Let him go! I see death, and rivers of blood, and all your vile plans fallen to ruin! I see the shadow of the Great Ax that hovers over your head!"
"Great Ax hangs there amid my trophies," Lod laughed wildly. "Who's to wield it against me here?" He finished off another gallon of ale and refilled the jack with unsteady hands.
"How say you, starveling?" he called to O'Leary. "Do you tire of game? Do red-hot knives of pain loosen your tongue?"
"I'm fine," O'Leary said blurrily. "I like it here. It's restful."
"Let him go!" the voice snarled. "Let him go, cretinous monster!"
Lod shook his head in drunken stubbornness. "You see, little man, what a burden even greatness must bear. Day and night, waking and sleeping, that foul voice ever shrilling at my ear! Is enough to drive lesser man mad, eh?" He peered owlishly at O'Leary.
"I . . . don't hear . . . anything," O'Leary got out. "You've already . . . gone nuts, I guess . . ."
Lod laughed again, hiccupped. "No ghostly voice, this," he rumbled. "It issues from hideous lips as ever body nourished."
"That's . . . the first sign," O'Leary gasped. "Hearing voices . . ."
Lod grinned. "And you, little man—you draw comfort from the impertinence you hear pass unpunished. You guess you gain an ally, eh?" Lod's chuckle was not an encouraging sound. "Small help you'll have from that quarter," he cried. "But I've been discourteous! I've not made introductions! An oversight, believe me! But I'll soon set that aright." Lod reached to his throat, fumbled at the scarf, tore it free.
From the base of his bull-neck, a second head grew—a shrunken, wizened, hollow-cheeked copy of the first, with eyes like live coals.
"Behold my brother!" Lod mumbled; then he fell back in his chair, mouth open, eyes shut, and snored.
For a long minute, there was silence. Lod's snores grew louder, deeper. He stirred, flung out an arm that knocked over the ale mug. Dark fluid gushed, splashed on the floor, then settled down to a steady drip. O'Leary watched, wide-eyed, as Lod's second head stirred, staring across at him. The lips worked.
"The . . . great brute . . . sleeps," it whispered shrilly. "The strong ale tugs at my mind also . . . but I will not heed it."
O'Leary stared. The spilled ale dropped. Lod snuffled, snorted in his sleep.
"Hearken, small one," the head hissed. "Will you do my bidding, if I help you now?"
O'Leary tried to speak; his tongue seemed paralyzed. It was too much effort. He felt himself slumping against the spikes. He knew they were cutting in, but the blessed relief of a moment's rest . . .
"Don't die now, fool!" the head whispered harshly. "I can free you—but first your word that you will do the task I set you!"