Still, the daemon allowed with grudging admiration for his human lieutenant. Gravestone had managed to bind the two elder demons to himself without alerting Infestix to the fact. The priest-wizard might Just have other secret powers to spring on the enemy. Gravestone could be annihilated for all the daemon monarch cared. The demonurgist meant nothing — less than nothing — to Infestix. He must not fall to the one of the Balance, though. Never! That would create a new force for the enemy, place them one step closer to success in their desire to prevent the rising of EMI, the return of Tharizdun. Let Gravestone deal with Gord; then he, Infestix, would squash the overweening little priest-wizard as his final act before freeing the great dark soul.
Parts of each force fell away. The daemon was happy to observe the losses to Balance, uneasy when he saw the damage being inflicted on the compound figure that was his own right hand, his chosen force there. Although he was unaware that his foes too watched, Infestix observed and saw in finer detail than they did. First came the utter destruction of much of his lieutenant's power. Then the innermost citadel was blasted and the whole field of play, the terrible place Gravestone had created, began to disintegrate. With a vile oath, the master of the nether-pits forced the scrying into closer, sharper image. He would see the outcome down to the last!
Just then a dark veil seemed to drop, and the daemon was left unseeing. Infestix was powerless to prevent that from happening — as helpless as Basiliv had been just a short time before.
* * *
In the place of no-time and no-space where Tharizdun stirred, there was a ripple. The nothingness wavered. The dark form of the greatest of evil convulsed. Then it sat upright with a sound that was like the rattling of ethereal chains of adamantite.
* * *
Observe the observers.... The thought made the entity laugh. Ordered steps bringing chaos. Good and evil now locked in melee, now ignoring one another. Balance, those tiresome little neutrals seeking vainly to triumph. Well, perhaps...
Then the entity laughed silently again to itself. It had succeeded with interference so subtle as to be undetectable until now. And what matter if it had been revealed? The steps taken were so clever and potent that none could ever discover that the players of the game were themselves made pawns of itself... until it was too late. The contest would play itself out to the conclusion, but that end was predestined now, a forced game above a game, and the entity was the sole master of both struggles. Soon, there would be no need for subterfuges such as this. Soon all would be as was inevitable.
Chapter 19
"NO, I AM SOUND."
That reply from Geilor was all Gord needed to hear. Then get up, and let's get out of here," he urged, grabbing the bard by one hand and pulling to help him stand.
The entire place was shaking. It wasn't much more than a gentle swaying now, but a few moments earlier it had been only a barely imperceptible trembling. Thanks," Geilor said as the two men ran along the dark passage that led up and out of the labyrinth. "But how in the blazing brass buckets of the hells are we going to get free of this place? I think it's beginning to crumble!"
The same stairs we came up," Gord panted in reply, "must be the link that son of a bitch maintained between this place and his headquarters in Greyhawk."
"You're not certain."
"Uh-uh," Gord grunted the admission. "What's the difference? You were right. The whole plane is falling apart now that the dirty demonkisser has gone down."
"Okay," the bard said and let it go. He was in no shape to waste further breath, not after the pounding he had taken. Gellor looked at Gord, seeing his comrade was in rough shape, too. Then the one-eyed troubador grinned. "We just booted that bastard's ass into the pits!"
"You got it," Gord said tersely. Then he grinned back. His face was lined, older-looking than it had been before all of this started. But at that moment he looked almost boyish again.
Gellor had tracked Gord to the demonurgist's lair. That hadn't been hard, for the champion of Balance had scratched marks all along his route — the instinctive procedures of a master thief. The two followed these same signs now, and they reversed their route as quickly as they could. The deep purples and violent lavenders of the dead priest-wizard's domain were paling. The stuff of the quasi-plane was cracking, flaking, crumbling around the edges. "How much longer?" Gellor shouted as they pounded toward the dais area.
It was getting difficult to run. The whole little universe was now shaking violently with an increasing swing. It took concentration to maintain balance and force one running foot to come down ahead of the other so as not to tumble and sprawl. "Not long enough to worry about. There's the staircase — can you manage Chert?"
"I'll manage," Gellor shot back. "You just take care of Curley."
Just then the whole of the floating disc tilted. The troubador was thrown against Gord, and both men tumbled uncontrollably toward the canted edge. With a wild surge of effort, the small champion forced his body to roll in the direction of the spiral steps. Gellor was already heading that direction after caroming off his comrade. The one-eyed man grabbed the metal of the staircase, Gord snagged Gellor's belt, and the platform they had been upon a heartbeat before fell into nothingness, crumbling away as it plunged into an ever-widening chasm of nullity. Gellor pulled his friend up beside him on the uppermost step. "What now?"
"Down those stairs like the wind, Gellor, and keep your mind set upon the wonders of Greyhawk!"
Scenes of various sort flashed past as the two bounded downward. The spiral was now beginning to twist and rock just as the disc had done before. That it still stood at all was mute evidence of its existence on more than the one plane that the demonurgist had made for his lair. Thirteen stairs down, and then they were standing in a tower room.
"We made it," Gellor panted.
"Chert and Greenleaf didn't," Gord growled. His face was drawn and tight.
The bard placed a fatherly arm around Gord's shoulders. "We all knew there was a chance of that when we took this mission, Gord. Look," he said, turning his comrade toward one of the diamond-paned windows. "There's the city. You're alive to fight on.... I'm here to help however I can. The man who killed your parents, the chief agent of the enemy on all Oerth, is dead, slain by your own hand, Gord. And you're alive to take the fight to Tharizdun himself, perhaps!"
"But four of us are gone...."
"They died to enable the battle to continue. It was a worthwhile sacrifice, my friend. Without you, all of us are doomed! Don't belittle their deaths by maudlin words — they died as heroes."
That made him realize the futility of his feelings and expressions. "Of course, Gellor. Your level head and firm advice make you a friend, indeed. Let's get out of this filthy place — it belonged to that rotten shitpile Gravestone. I find it a cesspool."
"Agreed," his comrade replied, opening the door to the plain, unmagical stone steps that would take them down from the tower and out into the streets of Greyhawk. "Best of all, that one will have no memorial of his own," Gellor said with rising heartiness. When Gord looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, the troubador explained, "No gravestone for Gravestone!"
It was mid-morning, that time when the laborers and other working class folk of the city took a brief rest to drink tea or beer, eat a bite and prepare themselves for the remaining eight hours before employment ceased with the evening.
Both men had taken time to clean up from the grueling ordeal they had undergone and used cloaks found in the complex that had belonged to the demonurgist to hide the condition of their garments. Nonetheless, there were a number of odd looks and hard stares as Gord and Gellor passed along the streets. It was too obvious that these men had been engaged in strenuous activity of a very questionable sort. City watch and citizens alike presumed the pair to be bandits or hardbitten thieves.
"Down this alley," Gord said in a hushed tone, steering his comrade into a narrow, dirty passage that curved off toward the northeast.
"This makes us look even more suspicious," Gellor hissed.
The champion made no reply but increased the pace. The alley widened into a little plaza where another similar way met it. There were steps there, both leading to cellars and going upward to a balconylike walkway above. Gord chose the upward direction, and after they had attained the upper tier he led the troubador into a little place that served a half-score of different teas and had a fragrant array of breads and rolls to go with the infusions.
"We can be compromised still," he told Gellor after the proprietor had set tall glasses of smoky flavored tea and a basket of rolls made of heavy rye flour whose tops were sprinkled with tasty seeds and crystals of rock salt. The food was consumed quickly, neither man speaking for a time, for both were absolutely famished from their exertions.
"I know that all too well," Gellor remarked, harking back to what his friend had said minutes before. "It's your city, though, Gord. I don't know it anywhere near the way you do. How do we avoid being embroiled in more trouble?"
Gord signaled, and a boy hastened over to the table to bring more tea and a different sort of food, this time a loaf of bread on a long board. Patrons supplied their own knives, naturally. The lad left as quickly, grinning at the extra bronze coin Gord had slipped him. "The fall of Gravestone is an event," he said softly to Gellor after making certain that there were none nearby to overhear. "His lord and master will be filled with fury and desire for revenge, and by now agents of the pits will be sending word to all who serve them."
"How does that respond to my query?" Gellor asked in irritation. "I am as aware of all that as you. How do we get from here to the safety of our rendezvous?"
"We don't. That's exactly what they'll expect. Every known meeting place for... our side, each dwelling place of the ones who belong, will be watched."
Gellor was indifferent to that. "Who cares if their spying dogs yap of our passing? By then we'll be far away."
"If they would only watch, old comrade, I'd agree with your assessment, and we could hie from here now. Many in Greyhawk openly serve the nether-spheres, though — not Just the priests of evil, either. The dead enemy served the assassins, for instance."
"And the rulers of the city too, I am told," the one-eyed bard supplied. "You think that such as those will intervene directly?"
The great ones of evil will send word to the powerful here in Greyhawk. Of that I'm sure! If we are seen, you can bet a squad of watch will be there to make an arrest. Clerics of evil and assassins will league to see we never live to protest the injustice."
"So we come back to my original question."
"If we can get to one of my own places of hiding— " "Then we could use the pyramid to move... elsewhere," Gellor finished.
Gord seemed uneasy, uncertain. "I wonder about that, Gellor. If we were observed closely, then the aura of that object could be known, our route plotted, and a detour prepared."
"Why have it at all, then?"
"When I held the device it was safe from scrutiny, because I have a warding against prying magics. It passed to your hands in time of jeopardy. You could have used it without fear. Now I think it most unwise to try the pathway it would open for us."
"Then we have only one hope," Gellor said softly. "We must try to go to the main headquarters in this city, fighting our way if need be, or..."
"Or?"
"Or we can slip quietly out of Greyhawk and speed to the stronghold of the lord-mage Tenser."
That is an option I wasn't considering," Gord admitted. "His castle is the nearest place of true safety, but the passage there is difficult and dangerous."
"True, true," Gellor nodded in agreement. "Perhaps the very reason why the enemy won't place the likelihood of our doing that high on its list."
"The water route?"
Gellor shook his head. "I know you have a fondness for the Rhennee, Gord, but too many of those folk are unscrupulous. What think you the reward for your head at this very moment? Ten times its weight in gold orbs, I'll wager."
"I hate to mention this, Gellor, but traveling by land is dangerous, because it is no problem to note a one-eyed man."
"But a blind man being led to the Shrine of St. Cuthbert By The Lake for healing would raise no notice, I think. Two pilgrims amongst a whole troop of the faithful trudging through the fringes of the Cairn Hills would be quite unremarkable."
"And the holy ones and relics borne with the train, the blaze of the aura of such a body; there would no chance of discovering us two in such a crowd!" Gord was enthused now. "It will be no problem to slip from the city between afternoon and evening — but we must be disguised ere then. Here's my plan...." And the Champion of Balance eagerly set forth his ideas on what they should do in the seven or eight hours time that remained before then.
In half an hour the pair departed. Using the less traveled routes, and with hood and cowl raised, they managed to get to a small set of rooms that Gord kept as a second hideaway. They were in the River Quarter, at a place where a fishmonger had his shop in the front of a ramshackle building. The man and his family lived above the store. A small, cluttered storage room was left vacant, though, by terms of the agreement. This place had a concealed entrance that led into a narrow room beyond and from there to the larger basement room below. It was damp and musty, as were the various garments cached there. Such garb suited both men. It would draw no notice.
"Not much in the way of coin," Gord noted sadly, parceling out the few coppers and silver nobles between himself and his comrade.
"A blind pilgrim and his devoted nephew will have few riches, Gord," the troubador noted with a smile as he returned the money to his friend. "You are the master of the purse, for a blind old codger such as I could mistake a zee for a common... or vice versa."
Just after the fourth hour, at the time of early evening when the streams of visitors to the city began their long treks homeward, Gord and Gellor slipped out of the place and found a ferry to take them across Hook Harbor to the place along River Street outside Greyhawk where pilgrims gathered to make their journey northward to the fabled shrine. Dressed as they were, and haggling over the price of smoked fish and wheat loaves, nobody paid them attention, not even the sharp-eyed men who moved here and there along the quay and wharves searching for wanted men. At sunset the two were camped with a half-hundred folk preparing to begin the march into the hills next day. They did so without molestation when the warm red of the sun's great disc pushed above the horizon a few hours later.