City of Hawks (29 page)

With steps that lagged more and more all the time, he traversed the length of the narrow tunnel and crawled eventually out into the cave where Imprimus had fed his ghoul and ghulaz hounds the leavings from his table-the bloodless corpses of those shadowfolk drained by his insatiable need for blood and lust for stolen life energy.

“Smokemane! Hotbreath!” No lion answered the call. Then Gord saw there were lions in the place, but they were dead. Some combat had occurred here during the time he was confronting Imprimus. The evidence showed that ghouls had returned, and gloams as well, for several of them lay torn and mangled among the half-dozen of the big cats who had died in the fighting with Imprimus’ minions. One was the huge old Smokemane, but of the other big lion, or the three missing lionesses there was no trace.

Taking a moment, Gord went to each of the slain cats, touching them tenderly, one by one. “Goodbye, friend and ally. May your journey through the infinite be forever peaceful and serene,” he murmured to each in turn. Then, the crystal sword shedding its pale light to show him the way, Gord left the charnel cave and followed the route that the fleeing ghouls had taken when he and his escort had first entered the place.

The stink of rotting flesh was so great that Gord was unable to tell if ghouls or lions or both were nearby. The adit to the small cavern was a natural passage, some fault that bent and jogged in a crazy manner as it wormed its way through the strata of shadow-rock. After what seemed an eternity of plodding progress, the young adventurer finally reached the surface of the Plane of Shadows. It was alight with strange silvers and pearl hues, now that it was not awash with the monochromatic gray-whiteness of Twilight or cloaked by the gloom of Snuffdark. In short, although even at its best this was a world of somber tones, it seemed to the young adventurer that he had just emerged into the bright sun and blue sky of a spring morning on Oerth.

“You live, lord!” The roared greeting came from Hotbreath. The big cat actually bounded to Gord and placed his massive forepaws upon the young man’s shoulders, nearly toppling him over in the process.

“You are much too heavy!” Gord managed to gasp, laughing in joy as he shoved the lion off and stood panting. “I am glad you too have survived!” Man and lion spoke together for a moment, Gord relating the struggle against Imprimus, and the dark-maned Hotbreath telling how ghouls and shadowkin had both come to attack him and his comrades when the murk of Snuffdark began to lift.

“That is why we left, Gord,” the big male growled.

“We know by instinct and inner feelings too when the gloom of the time is passing. When it Was gone and you did not appear, we thought you dead. We are no match for such as that one, the gloam you call Imprimus, so we sought escape, having done all we could to bring harm to the evil ones.”

Holding fast to the torn and bloodied mane, Gord said earnestly, “You did so much, friend-you and your pride, Smokemane and his too!-that there is naught I can say to adequately convey my thanks. Shadowking too will know of the sacrifices and service of your kind, and perhaps there will be peace and an end to the animosity between him and the lions of shadow hereafter. Now I must go and seek the lord of this plane, for if I remain here much longer, I know that never again will I be able to return to my own world.”

“We too must seek our places. Smokemane’s pride must be cared for-some females and cubs remain still, you know. They will now join mine until one of his sons is grown and able to form a new pride to hunt over the territory of his father and those who sired his line. As for Shadowking, what he thinks of our kind is of no import If he seeks us for sport, we will in turn hunt for him and his. To our liege, though, please do commend us. Speak well of shadow-lions to the Mastercat, and we will always be your friends.”

After an exchange of final words, the lions went away, some limping, all bearing signs from the great battle they had fought. Gord also displayed his wounds, as it were, as he slowly wended his way through the weird realm of shadow, again seeking the lord of the plane.

It would be a long, difficult trek, but the young thief meant to locate the Chiaroscuro Palace once again. Even if there was but scant hope that Shadowking would be In residence, it was the only chance he had of escaping to the world he called his own. Glowing brand of crystal upon his shoulder, Gord plodded with measured steps over the shifting surface of Shadowrealm, determined to win through or expire in the trying.

At long last, he saw spires rising on the horizon. The palace of the ruler of shadows came into view, drifting toward him as would a ship carried by a slow current.

As it came nearer, Gord stepped toward it, allowing the little island of shadows he had stood upon to slide away from him. By angling in the direction of the huge structure, he was able to arrive at the gate of the great fortress before too much more time had passed.

Even by consciously disbelieving what he saw, Gord could detect no retainers on the battlements, no heralds to alert those within of his approach. The gates of the Chiaroscuro Palace were shut fast. But as Gord came and stood before them, the mouth of a carven face upon one of these valves opened, and a toneless voice asked, “Who stands before the forbidden entrance to the Keep of Shadowking?”

“Only I,” the young man said with resignation, fighting off a feeling of boundless despair, “Gord, a wayfarer, come too late…”

Another of the wooden visages opened its mouth. “Enter, Gord, and any others who are with you. Our sovereign bids you welcome. Go to the Vault of Veils immediately.”

It took him only a little time to go to the place the magically animated face of wood had instructed him to seek. As he approached the featureless door to the chamber, the portal swung open just as the great gates to the Chiaroscuro Palace had done for him. As soon as he had stepped all the way into the room, the door banged shut and Gord was utterly alone in a space illuminated only by the pale radiance of his sword of crystal.

Suddenly the place was awash with the hues of shadow and even faint pastel colors as well. The transparent form of Shadowking appeared in the king’s seat, and spoke.

“I have left this for you, Prince Gord, against your return. That you are seeing and hearing this means you have triumphed, and your victory is mine! I thank you most sincerely. And I name you Prince of Shadows, Duke of Shades, and evil ones must now bend their knee to me and you and all my other noble vassals. Yet you are no actual vassal; the title is but meant to honor you.

“When you laid low the duskdrake, the shock of that malign one’s parting was felt throughout all the realm. Then I grew hopeful, for one able to deal with that fell creature might indeed find and slay Imprimus before Snuffdark’s lifting. Because of this renewed hope, and knowing that your sword’s potent talisman was destroyed in the annihilation of the duskdrake, I sought out the best prize in my treasury. In the shadows they are greatest, but even in sun or midnight blackness they are most potent.”

As the illusion uttered those words, a flat, metallic gonging sounded, and a small case appeared before Gord. He looked inside and found it full of little, round seeds. “They are shadow seeds, Gord,” the phantasm said. “Use them to create a thicket of umbral sort. Each curtain lasts but an hour, but a pinch of the stuff suffices.”

It was a splendid gift, especially for one who practiced the craft of thievery. Gord smiled slightly as he tucked the parcel carefully into his tunic’s inner pocket. The image of Shadowking was still before him, but now the phantasmal voice had paused as though waiting for a response.

Gord did not mean to sound unappreciative of the gift, but there was really only one thing on his mind, and it was that question that he blurted out: “How am I to escape from here?” Then, remembering that he spoke to naught but an illusion, the young man sighed and hung his head in weary dejection.

“By my dweomered sight, noble Gord,” the phantasm went on, “I saw you at the end. At the lich-fiend’s death, my forces surged, and before my eyes you recovered something which was bestowed to you by your sire when you were but an infant, a babe too young to know. The nine black sapphires in that necklace are your means of returning to your world, prince. This, then, is my…”

Gord was dumbfounded. Had the illusion actually heard his plea? He opened his mouth to say something, but the phantasm of the king did not pause to give him a chance.

“…final gift to you. Free the ebon stars from their prisoning metal. As there are nine dispositions, nine and ninety principal states of existence, so too there are nine gems in your inheritance. Place eight circling one, think of your own place, and there you shall be. Ere you do this, Gord, there is one caution I must give you. As the power of the nine stones grants you leave to pass on to where you Will, the sapphires will return to their origin, that place which was the home of your sire, and they will be gone from your ken until you yourself again find them.

“The choice is yours. Keep the stones, stay in Shadowrealm as a prince, my foster son, and in time you will come to the knowledge you seek regarding your origin. Then you will be a great Lord of Shadow, and you will be free to journey to many places, even the realm of your ancestors, but no more will you be human.

“If you use the powers bound up in those dark sapphires, then you lose them for a time at least, perhaps forever. As a mortal man you are subject to the hazards of whatever fate lies in store, but you will be flesh and blood again, in your own world.

“Whichever course you decide upon, you must act quickly, for not even I can halt destiny. If you stay too much longer in Shadowrealm, you will be bound to this place as though you were a native of it. Exactly how much time you have left to decide, no one can know precisely-but I do know that the time for final decision draws nigh. Decide what you will, and may fortune smile upon you either way. Prince Gord!”

The illusion vanished, and the young adventurer was left terribly alone. What was his decision to be? If he stayed, he would be a mighty lord of this place, a walker of planes, and as Shadowking stated, eventually brought to full knowledge of his ancestors. That portended great things.

To counter that, however, was the longing he had for the solid world, the bright sunlight and vivid colors of Oerth. He had no love for Greyhawk, a place of raptors, a city of hawks, but still it was his home. He had few friends, but those he had were cherished and dear to him.

And something else there was to consider too… As he thought about his friend Gellor, the words of the one-eyed man came to mind again. He had said that Gord might be a key figure in a struggle for the world-nay, even more than that! A struggle that pitted the malign against all that was right, a war that would affect not just his world but the many states of the multiverse-Shadowrealm included. Further, the master of all shadows had told him that should fate allow, Gord would someday come to his heritage… but perhaps, only perhaps.

The young man set down the crystal blade upon the strangely shaped table in the Vault of Veils. It was a weapon that Shadowking would find good use for against the gloams and other evil ones who forced their way into his land. So much had been granted to Gord by the ruler of this place that it was a small thing to give in return.

“Now I do what I must do,” he said, using his dagger point to prize the sapphires from the necklace and casting the metal and diamonds aside. “I am who I am, and will remain a mortal man.”

The circle of eight gems began to glow as the ninth was placed in the center of their midst. A second later Gord had vanished from the plane of shadow, and the gems too went to wherever they had come from.

“Have a flagon of ale with us, mate!”

The invitation was called from a nearby table, a place where a half-dozen brown and hard-bitten soldiers sat. The speaker was a big, burly mercenary with a missing ear and a gap-toothed smile.

Even as he heard the man speaking, Gord swept up the sprinkling of coins before him and stood. “Sorry, comrade. There’s a little wench nearby whose heart would be broken if I didn’t come as I’ve promised… ,” The young thief allowed the double entendre to sink in; then he continued as the warriors vented lusty laughter and began shooting back bawdy jibes at him. “Nay, nay, look for your own ladies, my boys! I thank you for the offer of ale, though, friend,” Gord added, speaking to the one who was undoubtedly the captain of this little band of sell-swords. “Another time, perhaps…,”

The pale, hard eyes of the burly mercenary crinkled at the corners as he looked up at the young fellow and smiled broadly. His eyes were as empty and distant as ever when he did so. The pale, blue orbs looked into the hard, gray eyes of the small, dark young man and saw kinship there. “Of course. The world is small and the fields too few. Keep your weapon ready until then!”

“As always!” Gord responded. A barmaid was near, and as he spoke he dropped the handful of coins on the wooden tray she bore. “Here, lass. A round for my comrades there, and the rest Is for you!” Then he left the noisy crowd in the tavern, striding out into the night of Greyhawk.

The sounds faded away quickly, but the impact remained. It bothered Gord at the same time it pleased him. The recognition of brave men, the acceptance of him as one of them, was gratifying. Still, Gord wished to think of himself as a young and carefree rogue-and a bit of a dandy and a ladies’ man too. He played hard at that, with an outward attitude of derring-do and devils-may-care, but professional soldiers, who knew what to look for, saw him otherwise. Too many times had he faced dragon and demon. Dungeon darkness and the threat of death, or living death in shadow, had placed their marks on Gord.

His face was still young-looking, having developed only a few lines to serve as maps of his past adventures. The giveaway was his eyes. They were old, distant, hard. They had seen war, danger, death. But he didn’t have the stony gaze of a killer, or the merciless, empty look of the mercenary who gave no quarter to his foes. Gord’s eyes revealed something of his inner troubles, the missing part of his soul. His lost spirit looked out of those eyes, searching for the answer. Who was he? What was he destined to become?

Only a very discerning individual would note the special aspect of Gord’s eyes, differentiating it from the look of veteran soldier and sell-sword. Thinking about his internal plight sometimes bothered Gord, but tonight he tried to push those thoughts aside. At least the look in his eyes had advantages, too… He had not lied about tonight. His eyes attracted women; their look was almost an irresistible challenge to many.

“I think perhaps the game wasn’t worth the candle,” the young man said softly to himself as he strolled down the street. Then he shrugged, squared his shoulders, and went on with a jaunty gait and whistled an almost-merry tune as he walked. Where he was, after all, was much better than the alternative that might have occurred many a time.

Several weeks later he received a message from Gellor that his friend would not be meeting him after all. The missive was not overdue; in fact, it came almost two months to the day from when the two of them had last seen each oilier. Despite all the time Gord had seemingly spent in the realm of shadow, only a few days had gone by on the calendar of Oerth from when he was stricken outside the temple in Dyvers to when he had abruptly found himself standing in the countryside, within easy sight of the walls of City Greyhawk.

The bit of information from Gellor, whispered to him by an anonymous barkeep, was not very informative at all, but Gord was used to that sort of thing from the one-eyed troubadour. What really made him uneasy was the return of his own discontent and uncertainty here in the city. There was no joy or excitement left in even the most risky of exploits. Gord was alone and felt it very much. All of his old comrades were elsewhere, presumably doing things that were significant, or at least enjoyable and productive for them. Gord was simply drifting, wondering what all life was about, and trying to make his mind up as to what he should do about it.

Then, gradually at first but irrevocably, the whole world changed.

Far to the west, unbeknownst to the young thief, his friend Gellor and the bald-pated druid-warrior Curley Greenleaf were given information and instructions that sent them hurrying off. The half-elven Greenleaf was to round up Gord and meet with Gellor in the distant Pomarj. Desperate times had come, with portents of ill, and all were to play a part. The two men said little of it, but both believed that the young man was more important than he could know, or would believe. Neither spoke of it for many reasons, not the least of which was their own uncertainty as to Gord’s precise role in the events unfolding.

“Be careful, my rotund druid, and hasten!” The latter charge was hardly necessary, for despite appearances, Greenleaf was as aware of things and as conscientious as the bard was.

“I shall, Gellor, I shall. Much more might rest in our hands than we know…” He allowed the last part to trail off, for nothing further needed to be said. Then he laughed. “I am supposed to be the kind and caring priest, you the hard-bitten troubadour-and you admonish me to hasten and take care as if I were some fledgling about to flutter forth for the first time against the dark foe! Bah!” The expression of disgust was mock, and Curley Greenleaf hugged the one-eyed man even as he said it. “But you too, friend, you too take care! We shall see you soon, and then the test shall commence.”

Soon Gellor was off on his own errands, and the warrior-priest too was gone from the secret place where an occult group bent on saving the systems of the multiverse had held conclave. In the chess game that Gellor had spoken of to Gord, those two were perhaps minor pieces, and the young thief a pawn. Yet they were being moved to support the lesser man, as chess terms would have it, and when it was properly protected, the pawn would move.

In the vast, multifaceted contest taking place for supremacy of all, there were many sides and more pieces than could be counted. Some of the participants sat idle, however, and most of the playing pieces were unmoving as well-misplaced, powerless, guarding meaningless squares from nothing in particular. Only two of the many sides in this multiversal game moved with purpose and understanding. One was the side championed by Greenleaf, Gellor, and others of their ilk. The other was hostile, malign, and very, very evil. How else could it be?

Evil has many faces, of course. Bestial, leering demons and grinning devils are at opposite spectrums of the vile depths of that force. There is a sink, a depth greater than the iron-floored pits of the hells, more profound than the unfathomable depths of the Abyss of demonkind. The nadir of all wickedness, the greatest depression of depravity, lies between the two. Some call that place Hades, others the black void. By any name, it and its denizens represent the most wicked of evil, the darkest of the dark. Their hosts were those in motion on the imaginary playing board, and they moved against not only the weak and exposed force represented by such as the one-eyed troubadour and his friends, but also against the gibbering hordes of demons, for those too would not bend their necks and be ruled.

“Which of the useless turds serves us in this matter?” The daemon who spoke from his dais was Infestix. Overlord of Death, ruler of the deepest darkness.

A decayed creature, some minion of the rotting lord of Hades, replied humbly in a maggoty voice. “The ones of scarlet hue, master, move in their thousands to do your bidding…”

“And?”

“The Eight Diseased Ones, master,” the thing choked out, “with all of their servants, daemon and human.”

Infestix spat, a wad of horrid, yellowish green that struck the floor of ebon stone at the feet of the rotted servitor. It spread and sank, eating the stone and leaving it riddled as if by worms. “Yet none bring me the quarry I want-not even intelligence of it! I am tired of this dung-headedness. Out of my way, you sweet-smelling blossom,” the Overlord of Evil commanded as he rose from the ghastly throne and moved toward the daemon steward.

Virulex, himself a fell and dread lord of the realm, fairly scrambled to make way for his liege. “The matter is far more complex than we thought, master, the possibilities and their permutations impossible to analyze. One nexus after another, all leading to places none can discern…”

“You yammer like a soft-eyed puppy, Virulex. You create excuses for all, but only to cloak yourself. Do you think I am stupid? Be silent and follow, dog! I will personally tear aside the intervening veils and solve this once and for all.”

In another smaller but no less hideous chamber in Infestix’s loathsome palace, the Eight Diseased Ones and their lieutenants were gathered expectantly. They quickly covered their surprise when the Overlord himself came, each then reporting the results of their seeing and divination. Armies marched, the soldiers of Hades marshalled to contest with the rebellious demons. Spies slunk, assassins lurked, agents served, mages cast their magical nets, while priests of darkness sent forth their own evil meshes. A great hubbub of action and reaction, plots and ploys. Decoys and false trails, sendings and energies to confound and confuse any who sought to pry.

“We are sure to succeed, Master of Death,” one of the lesser ones said.

“Your existence rides on that,” Infestix said offhandedly as he peered into the misty vapors of a great pool of inky shadows. The massive basin was set into the chamber floor, a scrying pool filled with some undefinable substance. “I thought as much!” The daemon overlord spat that out in his hollow, dead voice as he saw the scenes flashing within the basin.

“Time varies there, master,” one of the eight supplied. “Perhaps we can intervene.”

“Fool! That would alert every enemy that we have, reveal to them our intentions, destroy whatever secrecy remains!”

Infestix had seen the fall of a massive citadel belonging to the Scarlet Brotherhood. That evil organization worshiped him in the form of his avatar, Nerull, who served the cause. “Besides,” the ruler of the lowest thought to himself, “the flow of events is such that even I might misjudge and thereby alter something which would rebound to foil my purpose.” Infestix would serve as Tharizdun’s viceroy. Better a servant of that greatest one and ruling over an infinite domain than being masterless with naught but the petty plane he had.

“It is the ambitious runt who meddles in our plans, master. If we arrange to have the Prince of Ulek murdered-”

“Silence.” Infestix spoke without anger, but the command was quite sufficient to make the whole of the eight still. “Who is that one?”

“It is a slave of the Qabbala, master, one most commonly known as Gellor.”

“I thought as much. Watch that one. Wherever he goes we must be before him, ready to thwart his plans.”

“I will have him dead, master, within an hour.”

Infestix turned and looked at the daemon who had volunteered that. Then he turned to Virulex. “That one,” he said softly, pointing. “Have it removed and destroyed instantly. It is stupid and inferior.”

The creature tried to protest, but it had already staked its continued existence on a claim proven false. It mewled and groveled to no avail as the daemon steward dragged it away. The Eight Diseased Ones stood still, silent as statues. Variolaz finally dared to speak. “What, master, makes… us…need to so respect the feeble Qabbala and its dogs?”

“They have The Rede,” Infestix explained as if to a child. “That relic which is the codex to the multiverse. With it they could manipulate any dimension, space, probability. It is small comfort that they do not fully understand its usages yet… A pair of their lackeys won it from a demon guardian-rot those idiotic lords of the abyssal planes! Had they but given it to me…,”

“Cannot we eliminate those vassals of theirs, then? By destroying their tools we will curtail their power. Then we Eight can move to recover the relic for you, master.”

“A most pleasant suggestion, and well put. The very thing, were it not for the rest who oppose us. No, better to allow those dogs to run and follow their yapping than to try to intervene and be discovered. It is the one-eye we must be most careful of, I think. The rest are nothings. Look. That one shows no aura at all, and has no cord!”

“He was one of the two who stole The Rede,” said the chief of the Eight Diseased Ones.

“That one will die soon,” Infestix said with a pleasure-laden tone. “I will watch a while yet.”

The overlord of all daemonkind and his eight were viewing the scenes in the scrying basin when Virulex returned from his executionary duties. He too joined them as they watched tiny figures go through their meaningless little actions on the material plane, on the world known as Oerth. At times the scenes faded, masked by intervening mists. Infestix tried to clear those vapors, rend the veils, but even his powers were insufficient. Still they stood and watched what they could, and the overlord of them all never allowed a hint of his frustration and uncertainty to show.

The citadel fell; armies marched and fought: men, dwarves, and humanoids died. Here a little band went off to seek one thing or another. The demons came then, and the daemons snarled as their own servants failed because of the intervention of the Abyss. “We must do something!” The chief of the eight was infuriated. Infestix remained calm.

“The unruly brawlers bring attention to themselves-see! Now all forms of antagonists gather to contest for their prize. That is the middle Theorpart, the Arouser. My servants have the Initiator, and it calls to its own. Neither human mage nor demonling shall have it!”

Yet even the master of daemons was proved wrong by the events that followed. Mighty armies clashed over the relic, that which would awaken the sleeping one of greatest evil, that king to whom even Infestix would bow, for he was Tharizdun. Tharizdun, greatest of Evil, he who would restore all the multiverse to the malign powers. Locked away in nothingness, comatose, chained now. But the means to pierce the nothingness, dispel the unconsciousness, free the bonds, had been unearthed at last.