To Rescue Tanelorn by Michael Moorcock

at its centre, a circular dais.
    “It will be interesting to learn the reason why these villages are so arranged,” Lamsar said, and they began to move down into the valley.
    As they reached the bottom and came close to one of the villages, people came gaily out and danced joyfully towards them. They stopped in front of Rackhir and Lamsar and, jumping from foot to foot as he greeted them, the leader spoke.
    “You are strangers, we can tell—and you are welcome to all we have, food, accommodation and entertainment.”
    The two men thanked them graciously and accompanied them back to the circular village. The amphitheatre was made of mud and seemed to have been stamped out, hollowed into the ground encompassed by the houses. The leader of the villagers took them to his house and offered them food.
    “You have come to us at a Rest Time,” he said, “but do not worry, things will soon commence again. My name is Yerleroo.”
    “We seek the next Gate,” Lamsar said politely, “and our mission is urgent. You will forgive us if we do not stay long?”
    “Come,” said Yerleroo, “things are about to commence. You will see us at our best, and must join us.”
    All the villagers had assembled in the amphitheatre, surrounding the platform in the centre. Most of them were light-skinned and light-haired, gay and smiling, excited—but a few were evidently of a different race, dark, black-haired, and these were sullen.
    Sensing something ominous in what he saw, Rackhir asked the question directly: “Where is the next Gate?”
    Yerleroo hesitated, his mouth worked and then he smiled. “Where the winds meet,” he said.
    Rackhir declared angrily: “That’s no answer.”
    “Yes it is,” said Lamsar softly behind him. “A fair answer.”
    “Now we shall dance,” Yerleroo said. “First you shall watch our dance and then you shall join in.”
    “Dance?” said Rackhir, wishing he had brought a sword, or at least a dagger.
    “Yes—you will like it. Everyone likes it. You will find it will do you good.”
    “What if we do not wish to dance?”
    “You must—it is for your own good, be assured.”
    “And he—” Rackhir pointed at one of the sullen men. “Does he enjoy it?”
    “It is for his own good.”
    Yerleroo clapped his hands and at once the fair-haired people leapt into a frenetic, senseless dance. Some of them sang. The sullen people did not sing. After a little hesitation, they began to prance dully about, their frowning features contrasting with their jerking bodies. Soon the whole village was dancing, whirling, singing a monotonous song.
    Yerleroo flashed by, whirling. “Come, join in now.”
    “We had better leave,” Lamsar said with a faint smile. They backed away.
    Yerleroo saw them. “No—you must not leave—you must dance.”
    They turned and ran as fast as the old man could go. The dancing villagers changed the direction of their dance and began to whirl menacingly towards them in a horrible semblance of gaiety.
    “There’s nothing for it,” Lamsar said and stood his ground, observing them through ironic eyes. “The mountain gods must be invoked. A pity, for sorcery wearies me. Let us hope their magic extends to this plane.
Gordar!
”
    Words in an unusually harsh language issued from Lamsar’s old mouth. The whirling villagers came on.
    Lamsar pointed at them.
    The villagers became suddenly petrified and slowly, disturbingly, their bodies caught in a hundred positions, turned to smooth, black basalt.
    “It was for their own good,” Lamsar smiled grimly. “Come, to the place where the winds meet,” and he took Rackhir there quite swiftly.
             
    At the place where the winds met they found the second gateway, a column of amber-coloured flame, shot through with streaks of green. They entered it and, instantly, were in a world of dark seething colour. Above them was a sky of murky red in which other colours shifted, agitated, changing. Ahead of them lay a forest, dark, blue,