you so favor when giving voice to war songs!' It made him feel better to speak, to issue instructions. With each word Gord's voice gained in volume and the sound made his spirit rise, his courage expand.
Gellor had covered his enchanted eye, so that he was not forced to view this terrible place as it actually existed. 'I'll do so,' he replied when Gord spoke. The bard's voice was as harsh and croaking as his champion's had been at first, however, and his shoulders drooped. His fingers played upon the strings of his little kanteel, but only a disGordant jangling arose. 'Help me find the right note, Chert.' Gellor whispered.
'Huh! No, no! I can't sing here,' the hillman whispered back, licking his lips and trying to clear a parched throat. 'You can do it without me….' And then Chert went back to staring around, jerking his head wildly from place to place every so often as if trying to keep his eyes on some hovering threat.
'Come on now, both of you! I require it — and old Curley, here,' Gord said as he squeezed the hunched shoulder of the druld. 'wants very much to hear a stirring ballad of heroic sort.'
Chert was turning now, wary, staling around his position with wide eyes that didn't see his comrades. No words spoken reached his ears. Gellor spat when he saw the antics, saying, 'That oaf was ever too stupid and useless in a press!'
'Then sing alone, Lord Gellor,' Gord urged.
'Sing for yourself,' the one eyed man replied in a harsh whisper. 'I've no voice in this place. You've been placed above me — above us all. Go ahead and make music on your own, mighty champion.' There was scorn and derision in the last word. Gellor made 'champion' sound vulgar and dirty.
Anger began to wash over Gord. His brain sent a score of attack modes forth, a means of displaying to his critic Just how potent a champion was and how painful his wrath could be, even as blood suffused Gord's vision. Seeing red, he did nothing for a split second as the various means of punishing this detractor for his scorn flashed across his mind. The troubador was paying him no heed. Gellor was now directing his sarcasm and scorn toward the others.
'A giant too puny to shake away bogeymen he thinks are hiding out there, and a cringing druld who can't even speak. Why am I in such company? Because noble lineage and long accomplishment account for nothing with the addle-pated Masters' of balance.' Gellor was barking now, his words still harsh and dry, but louder than before as he warmed to his task. 'A lowly thief, that's who they give the laurels to. Oh, yes. Clever. A claim of illustrious parentage, substantiated only by the tomcat king, one always seeking to lord it over all the rest. Let this whelp-'
Gord's open palm struck Gellor's face with sufficient force to make the troubador stop talking and reel back. 'Now, you half-assed, one-eyed old has-been!' Gord said with ice in his tone. 'I'll make you masticate and swallow that talk. The eating will be most unpleasant — but you'll do it, or eat this!' The steely hiss of metal on metal seemed to fill the whole of the place as Gord's long, dead-black sword shot from its scabbard.
The slap seemed to have sobered Gellor, to have cleared his head and galvanized him to action. His own brand of enchanted steel shot out, the longsword giving forth a deadly sheen as he drew it with rapidity that matched that of the young thief who threatened him. 'Cease your childish prattle,' Gellor grated with a snarl to match his expression. 'The time is overdue for such a settling of old accounts!'
The two blades cut through the air, rang against each other, darted, danced, circled. Close and apart and into intermediate ground the opponents leaped and danced, lunging and circling as they exchanged feints and attacks.
Gellor was the better swordsman, but only by a hair's breadth, and his advantage was outbalanced by the sword that Gord held. Each time its lightless metal struck the glowing steel of the bard's weapon, a tiny filament of deepest jet played along Gellor's blade. The tendril shot up and touched the hand that held the sword, and a minute fraction of Gellor's strength, speed, and energy was drawn from him through that leeching filament. Both men were panting with tension and exertion, both bore small red badges attesting to the skill of the other.
'I use only my own force,' Gord sneered after a quick exchange that resulted in a pricking of the bard's left forearm. 'Come now, let's see your vaunted prowess, windbag!'
'Bah! You lean on a demon-cursed brand, whelp!' the troubador countered. 'You'll need more!' His attack came so close on the heels of his shout that Gord was unable to react quite quickly enough, and now he had another little crimson-dripping cut to prove the excellence of Gellor's bladecraft.
'It is time to settle down to a conclusion,' Gord said with a voice as hard as the steel of Gellor's sword. 'In a trice, now, we'll find out Just who is indeed fit to be champion.'
'Save your wind,' Gellor panted back. 'You don't have long to enjoy such anyway.'
'Gord! Gord! You are-'
Those four words were spoken inside Gord's head by a different voice, and the sound rocked him. A long lunge by Gellor at the same moment would have done for him, but his reflexes and enchanted mail both served to save him.
The voice had been Basiliv's. Gord knew it with certainty. Just as he understood the communication had been mental, not physical. What disturbed him was the suddenness of its cessation. The Demiurge had been interrupted in mid-sentence by some force so powerful that not even Basiliv could resist it.
But despite the break, there was an image, a strong series of impressions, in fact, left in Gord's mind. There had been a message on two levels sent by the Demiurge, and the forced interruption had only partially succeeded.
The long thrust left Gellor off balance standing close to Gord. He was too near for an effective sword-thrust, though, and neither man was about to ply his dagger, this was a sword-to-sword duel. As the bard tried to recover. Gord smashed the hilt of his weapon against Gellors temple with tremendous force. The one-eyed man dropped as if pole-axed.
'Sorry, my dear old comrade.' Gord said aloud as he gently picked up the crumpled form and laid it beside the silent, withdrawn figure of Curley Green-leaf, where the druid huddled in introspective escape from the terrible nothingness around him.
All anger was gone from the young champion. He now had only purposeful resolve. 'Now for Chert.' he said softly to himself. As the struggle between Gord and Gellor was coming to a conclusion, the barbarian had begun to circle and pant, his eyes as huge and wild as those of a bull sensing lurking wolves nearby. He attempted to come near, but Chert swung his battleaxe in a circle. The hillman uttered not a word, but Gord knew that Chert somehow believed that anything that came near was a deadly foe to be slain. Here was a problem indeed. In order to save them from this trap. Gord had to get his associates into a single spot, each in proximity to the other. Finally, he rolled Gellor and carried the withdrawn druid to a place as near to Chert as was possible without risking their lives to the humming axe. 'This will have to do.' he said uncertainly. 'I hope it will be sufficient.'
As Gord moved to place himself as near as possible to the still forms of Gellor and Curley, positioning himself as close to the berserk hillman as he dared, the formless void that surrounded them all suddenly began to seethe and shape itself. Chert bellowed a challenge then, at last seeing the dreadful foes he had known were lurking Just beyond his vision. Whether the visions that appeared to his eyes were the same nightmare forms that Gord saw was immaterial. The sudden activity in the place was due to Gord's resolution, his formed purpose. The nothingness sensed this change and was reacting. 'Too late.' the young thief said confidently.
Ignoring the threatening things that were now growing to loom on all sides, Gord sheathed Blackheartseeker and calmly began to shut out all distractions, gathering power within himself, yet at the same time remaining acutely aware of his comrades. As he did that, the roil of confusion that had just before seethed and stormed quieted to a mere brooding menace again. Chert settled down at the same time, seemingly exhausted from his recent expenditure of physical and especially mental energy. He sat, then slumped as if he was asleep.
Gord thought nothing of the place, so there was no stimulus for the plane to respond based upon his thoughts. In truth, Greenleaf had been correct in his reaction, at least in part. He was now safe, but he had no personal means of escaping other than withdrawal into a shell and eventual dehydration and death. Gellor had fallen prey to the terrible trap almost as easily as had Chert. 'And I not far behind them either,' he said wryly to himself as he thought momentarily of what had transpired. 'Had not Basiliv's thought managed to reach me, we might all be dead by now.' So pondering. Gord closed off even such reflections as that and did what he knew he must do.
Using the great store of force that had been granted to him by the diverse group of beings representing Balance. Gord mentally reached out and 'felt' the form of the place. It was small, confined, restricted. It was but a single step amid a whole series that twisted upward to a place above. By the same means through which he was
