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.
Chapter 25
“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.
