Gord's victory was due to his ability to assume the form of a panther. Then, a demon stood before him and offered Gord the very artifact he had sought, the prize for which he and Obmi had fought. Vuron, the alabaster-white lord of the Abyss, henchman of the demon king Graz'zt, spoke with Gord and explained much. Eventually Gord came to the only conclusion he could: Graz'zt must have the Theorpart, for only an evil power could maintain a hold on an object of such vileness. There was a terrible price to be paid for that decision, even though it seemed the correct thing to do. Vuron, for reasons of his own, would not take the key unless Leda also willingly accompanied him — so all three had to descend into the abyssal netherplanes. Leda understood this and agreed. Despairing. Gord also consented. For the third time in his life, he had loved and lost.
Feeling but half-alive, Gord traveled on with his new band of comrades. Soon they took ship and sailed into the southern seas of Oerik — the name of the great continent on which is found the City of Greyhawk. As traders in the wild jungles there, as island explorers, and as buccaneers too, the young thief and his friends went. They earned fabulous treasures and gained untold wealth, only to lose it just as readily in games of chance or mishaps in some exotic city of the many lands of the southwestern seas. Eventually the pain of Gord's loss became only a dull ache that upset his quiet moments and disturbed his sleep.
Gord had finally become a full-fledged man, and one with wisdom beyond his years. Still a daring thief and a willing roisterer, he was no longer altogether uncertain of himself or what he stood for. Despite that, he remained ignorant of his background. Who had his parents been? Why had he been abandoned in the slums? Those questions and others remained unanswered, and when he thought about them — which was often — they troubled him.
The saga now continues with Gord aboard a ship in the southern waters off Oerik. Much is in store, not only for Gord but for those who share this episode of his life with him….
Chapter 1
The leaden sky lowering above seemed to press flat the dull waters of the sea. The lean ship sat upon those waveless waters as does a little fowl in the center of a great pewter salver, alone, awaiting a certain fate. The air was as motionless as the water. Heat and oppressive silence were the vessel's only companions in the middle of that forsaken ocean desert. No creak of plank, no rattle of rigging, not a splash of wave or whisper of motion in canvas.
A dark-winged sea bird gently gliding high above the cog saw scattered bodies littering the ship's weathered decking, their forms as still as the sails and Gords. The bird croaked raucously, flapped its great wings, and soared away. Again the vessel was alone, bearing its cargo of dead upon the dead-gray, becalmed sea. All was quiet, until…
'It is gone.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes. It is gone.'
A group of corpses suddenly became animated. The five arose and peered carefully around them. One gave a low whistle, and the remaining litter of dead forms likewise stirred and began to move about.
'The trick worked, Cap'n, but how long can this game go on?' The man who rumbled the question was a stockily built old salt, sailing master of the ship, known to one and all simply as Barrel. He looked expectantly at the man he had addressed — his boon companion, the vessel's captain, and in fact leader of all aboard.
Gord was a seasoned traveler, experienced on land and sea, but he felt more at home swindling some dishonest noble or fighting a fell monster than trying to outwit whatever unseen powers worked against the ship now. Without revealing his own uncertainty, the young adventurer leveled his gray eyes calmly so as to look Barrel squarely in the face as he replied.
'Sea hags and sirens have failed to waylay us. We weathered the storm sent next. Now, we've managed to fool that ill-omened bird of evil into believing all of us have died from thirst. I'd say we have the enemy on the run, old friend!' Gord turned and looked at the old priest who had taken ship with them on Keoland's coast. 'What say you, good cleric?'
Abbot Pauncefot was forthright and direct. 'Oh, we have managed to fox them well enough,' he barked, 'but the workings of demons are not so quickly done. Even if they suppose us all dead, they'll not be through with us until bones of men and ship lie rotting on the floor of the deep!'
A buzzing of fearful exchanges sprang up among the crewmen at that. Barrel set his mouth tightly, almost as if In imitation of the thin-lipped priest. Gord frowned and thought furiously. Could he repair the damage the cleric's words had done? 'Grist for our mill,' Gord said with a jauntiness that he hoped would hearten the men. 'They've tossed their best at us and failed. Whatever else might happen along can be something to batten on. What with our good abbot's powers, master Dohojar's magics, and the stout steel of our weapons, no fiend of the netherworld can harm us now.'
'Never tempt demons!' This new admonition from the cleric countered whatever bolstering of flagging spirits Gord had just managed to accomplish. Abbot Pauncefot cared not a whit for anything but the truth… as he saw it. The benisons bestowed by mine own Great Lord are but petty powers when compared to those of the evil ones who seek to destroy this vessel and all aboard. It is no fault of Rao that I am too small to channel more than a trickle of the benefit he could bestow.'
'You have seen to our drink and sustenance, good abbot,' the homely Barrel said. 'Your prayers and divinations have brought us all through 'til now….'
The elderly priest squared his thin shoulders and looked grimly at the men who had gathered close to hear the exchange. Forsaking the compliment Barrel had just paid him, Pauncefot saw instead an opportunity to address a higher issue. The abbot spread wide his arms and spoke loudly for all to hear. 'Salvation of the sort I have provided is temporary. To be truly saved, you must give yourselves unto Him who is All.' Before the priest could say more, growls and mutterings arose from the crowd.
'We are of the sea,' one crewman called. 'We trust and believe, abbot, but there are times and places for-'
'Silence!' Gord shouted. 'I am your captain. All of you, quiet!' Then the small, dark-haired thief turned to the cleric, saying, 'It is your good counsel and great spells we need. Abbot Pauncefot, not preaching. Even now the evil might be again massing to attack us.'
It was as If the cleric had been awaiting just this sort of opportunity. His face was stern and his voice thundered. 'It is not these men whom the demons and dark forces seek to destroy — no! It is you, Gord ~ you, the disbeliever. I cannot fathom you, but I think you are not far removed from those who threaten to carry us all into some watery hell!'
First the
This is the next attack of the enemy, Gord Ze-haab! Listen, friends, bold sailors and shipmates all!'
This voice of reason came from Dohojar, the only man among them all who seemed unaffected by rage. The dark man native to far-off Changar was a spell-worker, an aspiring mage, but despite his uniqueness one of the group nonetheless. His magic was of the West, his inner powers thus slightly different from what the others were used to, and he sensed the black force that lay unseen upon
Dohojar's admonition contained sufficient accuracy to give everyone pause. The old abbot started a chant to counteract malign sendings, while the Changa used his own spell-working art to ward off dark magical forces being visited upon them. Gord, Barrel, and the two dozen crewmen stood sheepishly by. It was humiliating to realize that the enemy had almost managed to bring another of its attacks to fruition so insidiously that none but the perceptive
