Only two other figures were visible aside from dead bodies. Off to Gord's right, fifty or sixty paces distant from the white figure and the dark elf, was a male drow — a spell-binder by the looks of him, for he was frozen seemingly in the act of casting some dweomer. The wind rippled his garments, giving the dark elf a semblance of motion. Perhaps he still lived, perhaps not. On the other side of the dell equidistant from the two central figures, a blood-smeared man in battered armor leaned on his sword, staring around in a state of dazed wonder. A few of his comrades were lying nearby, dead. No enemies were in sight.
His eyes fixed on the object the willowy creature of dazzling white held above its androgynous head, Gord came down the gentle slope toward the central pair. After taking only a few steps, he could recognize the object as the Theorpart itself. While part of his mind told him to turn and run, the more sensible portion of his brain won out; certainly, this white… thing… could kill him effortlessly any time it chose to do so. But with every step he took forward, his life became that much longer, so he elected to keep advancing… or was it really his choice?
Gord had closed to within a few paces of the white figure when he chose to, or was caused to, halt. At the same moment, the chiming stopped. The long, thin arms moved, and the Theorpart descended from overhead to waist height. Then the being turned to one side and lowered the object into a coffer of brass as the young thief watched, transfixed by the sight. Without looking at him, the alabaster being spoke.
'You have come as is fated, Gord of Greyhawk,' a clear, cold voice said. Take your ease now, while you may, for soon you will be in trial for your life.'
'Who are you that claims to know such?' Gord asked.
'Claims?' The white creature turned, looking directly at Gord for the first time with mirthless, red eyes as it laughed. 'I, Vuron, make no claims at all. I simply tell you what I know.'
At this point Gord first became aware that his six comrades had followed him down the slope into the glen, because he detected a sudden, collective intake of breath from behind him. They, like Gord, had just met the figure's gaze for the first time, and this was sufficient to strike awe, if not terror, into the stoutest of hearts. With great effort of will, Gord managed to prevent any visible display of fear on his part, but could not suppress a feeling of dread that rose up inside him. If this creature before him was not a mockery of goodness, a thing of evil, then no such jape could ever be thus. Handsome in its strange and sexless way, the snowy form exuded a power that made the very marrow of the bones cold. The force it radiated was of malign, frigid evil. So too the face, for despite all its handsome aspects, it embodied the demoniacal in near-human form.
As if reading his very thoughts, the alabaster demon lord Vuron looked down at Gord and said, 'There is evil, as your sort name it, and there is Evil. I pose you no physical threat, Gord of Greyhawk, nor any mental one either — unless you believe that reason is baneful…'
'Demon-talk, Vuron, is just that. Yet I confess,' Gord went on, 'that your actions and words… puzzle me.'
'They trouble you. You wonder why I simply do not take up the Final Key, slay you and your associates for the pleasure of seeing you die, and transport myself and the Theorpart to the safety of the Abyss.'
At this, the young adventurer knew that the tall demon was indeed reading his thoughts. 'And?' was all Gord said.
'We must speak with no reservations, and our time is brief. I do read your thoughts, but the amulet around your neck allows me only to scan the very surface of your mind. I tell you this in order to gain your trust — sufficient trust to consider what I have to tell you now. You are thereafter, of course, free to make whatever decision you choose. What I have just done is- '
'Shut your perverted mouth!' This screeching demand came from Eclavdra. The High Priestess of Graz'zt had sprung up at Vuron's last words, her beautiful face contorted in rage. She pointed a finger and glared up into the red eyes of the towering, thin demon without the slightest trace of deference, let alone fear. 'You have done too much already, you pale snake, and I will make you answer to My king for what you seek to tell this mortal now!'
Vuron never blinked, but he did smile a cold, dead smile. 'My liege and yours, too, and I have served him for eons… Yet this is not the time for such petty matters. You too have to face the prescribed conclusion of your trial, as it were.'
'My trial is you, Vuron,' Eclavdra shot back with acidity, hatred still written on her every feature. 'I have powers too, and I name you a traitor now and always. The human you seek to treat with is not of the Abyss, and you would give over to him that which is Mine by right!'
'Yours?' the alabaster demon lord said expres-sionlessly. 'If you claimed it our king's, I must acquiesce in spirit if not avow it a fact. No matter. You have spent the time allowed you uselessly, it would seem. The moment is gone, and they come… Prepare now, drow — and you too, Gord of Grey-hawk — to face your opponents in combat. You see? The two come now, and with them are their supporters.'
Both Eclavdra and Gord looked to where the thin, white demon was pointing. At the edge of the dell was the broad-shouldered Obmi, martel in hand, and with him were Leda and a dozen fierce-looking marshmen.
'Eclavdra, you dark bitch!' the dwarf boomed out. 'You have put yourself into My hands by violating the rules of the contest, and I'll close my fists and crush you for it!'
The dwarf rushed forward, accelerating at an unbelievable pace thanks to his magical boots. 'Gord,' said Vuron as Obmi began his charge, 'you must face that one. The life of Eclavdra is not his to take or die trying — that opportunity belongs to her clone, the one you named Leda.'
Without pausing to consider the veracity of the statement, Gord drew his sword and leaped to intercept Obmi's rush. Behind him, his six friends moved to defend him from any other foe who sought to interfere in the duel. The wild brigands from the Hool marshes gladly went to meet these opponents.
As for Eclavdra, as soon as she laid eyes upon her clone, she paid no attention to any other, even the onrushing dwarf. In fact, had Gord not intervened, Obmi could have struck the dark elf down with a single blow. Their eyes locked, Eclavdra and Leda closed with each other and squared off.
'I should have known!' spat the high priestess.
Leda smiled at the outcry, shouting back, 'Yes, you should have, mother, sister, and self,' and she laughed at that even as Eclavdra scowled.
'How could it be? You had a telepathic link — I know that now! — and I had none… or did I?'
'You didn't, for all I know,' Leda said as the two stood only a few feet apart. It was as if a mirror cast the reflection of the other — they were identical twins, cloned and clone. 'You failed because of me. That I do know!'
The triumph evident in Leda's expression was too much for Eclavdra. Her mouth set in a grimace of fury, eyes blazing violet evil, she flew at her twin with nothing more than clawed hands and bared teeth. It was not surprising to any onlooker knowing the circumstances that Leda responded in the same manner. The two dark elves collided, locked, and fell to roll on the ground in a parody of how females battled when they sought to scratch and claw until one or the other surrendered. This fight, however, was not likely to end until one of the combatants was dead.
When the young thief interposed himself between Obmi and the original object of the dwarfs ire, the broad- shouldered servant of the demoness checked his attack. He faced Gord with his pick held ready in both hands. His face bore a sneer of contempt, but there was a crafty gleam in the dwarfs eyes. 'I once supposed you a pile of stone, but then I heard you had returned — just as a wart does,' rumbled the dwarf, allowing himself a small chuckle at his own joke. 'Miracles of that sort don't often happen, lightweight little human. Stand aside and let Me slay the drow, or better still for you, join Me in the killing of that whore, and I will reward you- '
Gord's longsword flicked out in a lunge, and the dwarf had to bite off his sentence and dance backward. 'No, you lying and crooked dungheap!' Gord spat back. 'No demon-serving dwarf will make bargains with me. After you overcome me, the field is clear to do as you will — but you'll find me no easy foe!'
The reply was too long — just what Obmi had hoped would happen. As the young adventurer was uttering the last two words, Obmi rushed suddenly to his right, darted in, and swung a two-handed, backhand blow with the martel's hammer head. It was aimed at Gord's left kneecap, but it went high and landed with a meaty thud upon his thigh instead. The young thief was unable to stifle a gasp of pain as the force of the blow buckled his leg, but it was because he toppled that he was able to avoid the next stroke.
As Gord was going down, Obmi pivoted on his left heel, executing a full circle with incredible speed and wheeling the martel around as he did so. The long pick was aimed at the left side of the young adventurer's chest. If he had simply dropped in his tracks from the effect of the first wound, the point of the martel would have taken Gord just under the ribs and struck his heart as it hooked upward. However, instead of trying to stand his ground, Gord had used the momentum of the leg-blow to help him move to his right in a motion that turned to a roll and a
