Sea of Death (7 page)

"Contending factions work against the forces of Good and Those-Who-Seek-Balance as well as EMI," the Demiurge noted. Too many desire to use the malign powers of the artifact for their own ends. Nothing beneficial ever comes of EMI, Master Gord – remember that! Even I, in my young and foolish past, have misused my powers and wrought badness, seeking nothing but seclusion. Now folk fear and hate me, I know. Though their feelings are misplaced at this time, the past gives them cause. But I digress." Basiliv paused and quaffed his concoction again, then continued.

"My friend and associate, Rexfelis, has always believed as I do now. That is why he and I are united now to achieve a certain goal. He suggested that you, Gord, might be the one to bring our desires to fruition. I believe his perception is correct." After another short pause, the Demiurge explained himself further.

"The contending factions which would have the Final Key are so busy fighting with one another that most have effectively taken themselves out of the contest, as it were. That is as it should be. But can the Lords of the Upper Planes use, or even hold, the Key? Not likely. Its base vileness would soon bring it into the hands of those who want to awaken… that dark being who sleeps. Do the Cabalists have better skills? The Hierophants? Never! And I am no more fit to employ such an object than is Mordenkainen or any of the others who would have it. Despite intentions, they would find themselves growing as evil as the one whose essence is the artifact. Do you understand?"

"I hear what you say, Lord Demiurge," Gord replied slowly. "I think I perceive the point you are driving at. I do not understand, however, why you are telling me that you have no desire to yourself possess the Final Key."

"Quite so! You do not yet understand because you are unaware of what has recently transpired. Let us have another round of potables, and then Rexfelis and I, my boy, will provide you with all there is to know on this matter."

Several hours later Gord saw the whole matter in a new and very different light. He had taken no oath, nor sworn any vow, but he knew within himself what he must now do. After shaking hands with Basiliv and bowing in farewell to the Catlord, Gord simply walked out of the Demiurge's strange palace and into Bardillingham. In less than an hour he met up with a party of the Demiurge's soldiers (who apparently had been awaiting him), packed his possessions (which had been brought from his room in the castle), and was on his way out of town.

He rode northward in company with a mixed group of close-mouthed men and taciturn elves. The latter were called Grughma by their own kind, and "Valley elves" – a term of derisive sort – by men and other sorts of elves who dwelled outside the realm of Basiliv. It was not a particularly pleasant trip. The soldiers of the Demiurge showed great respect and deference to Gord, but kept themselves isolated from him. The landscape was interesting, at least, which made the journey somewhat more bearable. They traveled from valley to foothills to mountains – the first peaks Gord had ever seen.

On the second day after leaving the town, once the group was well into the Barring Range, the elves and men turned back, taking with them the horse that Gord had ridden. They would not go farther than the boundaries of their lord's domain. New escorts took over, though, so Gord did not have to worry about being abandoned in the vastness of rock that jutted and towered so majestically.

The fifty soldiers of the Demiurge's troop were replaced by four times that number of dour dwarves dressed in iron and steel armor. The long-bearded mountain dwarves dealt summarily with any predatory creatures foolish enough to approach them. Gord and this small army of dwarves trudged upward into the mountains, going ever higher. Soon, Gord recalled, the very air seemed so cold and thin that he felt like he was being strangled. The broad-chested dwarves appeared not to mind the rare atmosphere, but they deferred to the young human, taking a path through the mountains that was not the shortest but which enabled the group to avoid climbing to even higher elevations. Gord was glad when their path led downward, and some of the deep breaths he took were genuine sighs of relief.

He was surprised that the dwarven company remained with him when they all finally left the mountains, four days after beginning their descent toward less rugged ground. They had come to the rough foothills on the north side of the Barring Mountains, an area called the Pen-Wilds, where few folk lived and game abounded. Gord hunted with success and greatly enjoyed the wild lonesomeness of the place. Noticing this, the dwarves warmed to him a little.

"Do you, Gord of Greyhawk, roam thus in your own lands?" the captain of the band asked him one night as they camped. Gord replied in the negative, but then told the broad dwarf of his adventures in other places, his hunts, his combats with monsters.

I see why you are a Chosen One," the fellow rumbled when Gord had finished. "Our gift to you is this," he said, and held forth a broad armlet of varicolored gold. It was a work of odd design, its material being gold of hues like palest sunlight, deepest sunset-orange, gold-green, and violet-gold intermixed with the usual yellow gleam of the ore.

"I cannot accept such a treasure!" Gord said.

"No, man, you cannot refuse it," the dour demi-human rebutted. "We all depend on you, and this is our offering of success."

Gord took the band, clamped it around his bicep, and nothing more was said on the subject.

The next day they came to a place where the hills became more gentle and trees dotted valleys and hilltops alike. In the distance the mass of a forest could be seen, blanketing the last, low ridges and mounds of the Pen-Wilds. Here the company of dwarves told Gord that they would go no farther.

"You are now at the edge of Briartangle Woodland, Gord," the gnarled captain of the demi-human band said to him. "That little brook there is the headwater of the river the Baklunish humans call the Toosmik. If you keep it on your left hand, it will guide you through the forest to Hlupallu."

Such a speech was quite a bit for a dwarf to say, and this impressed Gord. "Many thanks, Good Captain. May I ask a question?" When the dour fellow nodded assent, the young adventurer went on with, "Why do you name me as a Chosen One?"

"Our folk know Basiliv the Demiurge, and the Master of All Cats, too," answered the captain. "We neither serve them nor care overly much about their whims. But some greater force is at work now – we know this. They send you, but their purpose is not of them. It is of the greater power." And then the broad-shouldered, curry-bearded dwarf clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. He had said all he would say in response to Gord's question.

"I see," Gord replied, not fully understanding but accepting this mysticism as something the dwarf chose to believe. "Fare you well, captain and company all!" As he turned away and began to stride northward, the stout demi-human rumbled after him, "The armlet you wear, Gord of Greyhawk, was forged long and long ago by the smiths of Grotheim. It bestows the strength of our folk upon you in certain ways."

At this, Gord turned back toward the dwarves and bowed slightly in a gesture of thanks and respect. He had never suspected that the armband was anything but a valuable piece of jewelry; now he had been told that it was special for a greater reason than the gold it was made of. The dwarven captain nodded to Gord, and behind him his fellow warriors raised their weapons in a silent salute. The whole incident moved Gord deeply.

"Venoms and dweomers, man – dwarves are very strong against them!" the captain shouted out. Then he and his men turned and trudged on corded legs back toward the rugged hills of the Pen-Wilds.

Whether or not the dwarves had any idea of Gord's abilities, their directing him through the forest proved to be exceptionally useful for the young adventurer. Once alone and concealed within the thick growth of the Briartangle's southern verge, Gord transformed himself from man to panther. He was relieved to find that the armlet changed with him, as did his other possessions.

There were dangerous beasts in the forest, monsters too, and occasional outlaw bands. Those that Gord was unable to avoid either avoided him or discovered after a brief encounter that it was better not to attack such a creature. A black leopard the size of a jaguar was an unusual creature, to say the least – too much of a match for lion, carnivorous ape, or green forest ogre.

When he eventually came to the open, cultivated lands beyond the Briartangle, Gord changed to his true form again. The herdsmen and farmers of Ket were a mixed race, although Baklunish blood predominated. Although Gord was dark in complexion as they were, his dress and speech gave him away as a foreigner. The natives shunned a lone wanderer of this sort. Nevertheless, his passage was swift enough, inns and caravansaries providing for his needs.

When he finally arrived in Hlupallu, Gord sought and found service in the army of the Marcher Lord. When he demonstrated that he could ride well, Gord was assigned to a troop of mercenary lancers. Tests of his weapon skills showed that the new Ourmi recruit had no ability whatsoever with the recurved bow but could at least point a lance correctly. He was appointed a private in the company of lancers commanded by Malik Ibn Urchi. Wearing the brown cloak with the white and orange emblem of the Kettite kingdom, Gord rode over the lands around the capital for hundreds of miles, chasing Bayomen tribesmen, raiders from the tribes of hill-folk, or local bandits. He learned a smattering of Kettite Baklunish speech, and his comrades told him that his accent no longer sounded eastern. Then abruptly one night he deserted the troop, leaving without farewell or regret, and went alone into the teeming streets of Hlupallu.

The city was a mixture of cultures, but it was more of West than East. Hlupallu was divided into a fortress compound of great size, the casbah; a crowded market district, the souk; a residential quarter, the medina, a sector for foreigners known as the ourmistan; and a place of warehouses and the like. Each portion of the city was walled off from the others. This was purposeful, not a case of happenstance as it was in some eastern towns and cities. He took up residence in the foreign quarter, traveling here and there in Hlupallu dressed in native garb – looking, listening, and learning so that he could pose as a Kettite. He managed to do well enough in the few weeks he had to further study the manners and speech of Hlupallu.

As he had been told by both Demiurge and Cat-lord, some event would occur that would take him from the capital of Ket. What the event was, neither could say for certain, but Basiliv had said that Gord's journey would be west and southward, and Rexfelis assured him that once it was underway he would recognize the enemy and know instinctively what he must do. More than that, neither could tell him.

Gord stayed in Hlupallu and waited for fate to move him. He continued to practice his skills – thievery, gymnastics, weapon play – as much as he could; but he did not actually ply any of these arts beyond mere rehearsal. In fact, at times he felt frustrated, for it seemed to him that he was becoming more and more a swordsman and less and less a thief and burglar. This boded ill for his purse, for the pay of a mercenary, no matter his ability and prowess, was laughable when compared to the return from a single successful mission such as the ones he had undertaken as Blackcat the burglar.

Then came the night when he was seated in the Dar Peshdwar, watching one incredibly lovely dancer perform but recalling another dancer, another time, and another place, long past, much distant. Was the combat there and his flight with Zulmon and The Pearl to the Pennors the sign he was supposed to wait for? Perhaps, perhaps not. It didn't matter now, for there was nothing he could do about those events. What had occurred had occurred, and Gord was now committed to action. Although he had seen no enemy as he had been told he would, it seemed to be time for him to move westward. Once he had left Hlupallu, the young adventurer felt strongly that he must follow a new strand spun by fate. Those who sought the last portion of the malign artifact would have to travel this way, Gord reflected. It stood to reason, then, that he must ride forth to meet them in some other locale than the city.

Whether it came from native intelligence or by the hand of some greater power, this belief was to prove correct.

OBMI STOOD FIDGETING before the fearsome trio. Zuggtmoy, Demon Queen of Fungi, was in human form, looking ravishingly lovely even to the jaundiced eye of the dwarf. Beside her lounged Iggwilv, likewise seeming to be nothing more than a young and incredibly beautiful female. Between exchanges of "girl talk," these two would chatter with Iuz. The cambion was irate at this behavior, but he dared not speak to either female about his anger. In fact, Obmi gloated mentally, when the towering cambion had started to take out his frustration by snarling at Obmi, Zuggtmoy and Iggwilv had intervened.

"Stop that!" the great witch had commanded.

"Yes, Iuz, you know that the dwarf is no longer yours," Zuggtmoy had added. "Obmi is mine now, and I will not tolerate meddling from another when it comes to my servants!"

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Iuz interrupted the two females with a loud demand. "If you are going to waste your time, that is up to you, but I have better things to do. If you ever get down to important matters, you may inform Me. Perhaps I will attend and give you the benefit of My wisdom!"

"Stay, Iuz," Iggwilv said. The tone was conversational, but her look and meaning were unmistakable. She would have no such conduct from her son.

Zuggtmoy smiled at the glowering cambion. "Very well, dear Iuz. We have had enough of gossip, I think. It is just a matter of letting those who must obey you know exactly where they stand," the demoness said, giving Obmi a casual glance.

Iuz ground his hundred little fangs in fury at the manner in which his mother treated him. He said nothing, but he held in his heart a growing hatred for the most ancient and powerful of witches. One day soon, Iggwilv would regret her treatment of him. First, however, he would use her to attain rule of all Oerth. "I consent to your wishes. Greatest of Ladies," Iuz said, smiling and nodding. "It is merely that I believe My dear father, rot his scabrous skin, will be acting with more expeditiousness…"

Tour apology is accepted, Iuz," Iggwilv said, knowing full well that statement would annoy him. She meant to teach this sprat some manners soon, but not until his usefulness was ended. The witch waved a hand toward the sweating dwarf. "Are you ready for his instruction, Zuggtmoy?"

"Did you enjoy being My toad?" the demoness inquired, smiling at the dwarf as she did so.

"Well, great queen, I must say that it was an experience which I had never had the privilege of prior to your kindness," Obmi replied.

"No matter!" Zuggtmoy interrupted before the clever dwarf could speak on. "You will not have the opportunity to experience the… pleasure… of that form again – if you obey Us and succeed. You will gain the Final Key for Us, won't you?"

"Yes, great Queen of the Abyss. You may always rely upon- "

"I rely upon no one!" The statement thundered in startling fashion from Zuggtmoy's slender, full-bosomed form. "If you fail, dwarf, you will either be dead or wish for death."

"Iuz trained you well, did he not, Obmi?" Iggwilv inquired, redirecting the conversation. She wished Zuggtmoy to get to the point now.

"Yes, greatest of witches," Obmi said with a bow toward Iggwilv.

"He is very strong, Zuggtmoy," Iggwilv said to the demoness. "See those knots and bands of muscles? That one is as near to extraordinary strength as is possible for mortals, be they men or dwarves."

"No, dear," Zuggtmoy contradicted. "He is not as strong as a dwarf can be through supernatural means. That favor I shall bestow upon him soon, to assure he does not fail."

"An excellent idea, Zuggtmoy!" Iuz said, so as not to be left out of the matter. After receiving sour looks from both females, Iuz scowled and did not go further. Iggwilv, however, had something meaningful to add.

"Obmi, I too shall give you a special gift in order that you may serve Queen Zuggtmoy better." With that, the witch took out a small square of folded cloth, odd material bearing glyphs that writhed and changed before one's eyes. She unfolded the stuff carefully, and as she did so the cloth seemed to stretch and alter. It became larger unfolded than the small packet ever could have been, if it had been normal cloth. Soon the material actually blanketed Iggwilv's lap and spread to the floor around her pretty little feet. Lying across her lap, somehow revealed from within the package by the unfolding of the cloth, was a strange-looking object. There, Champion of Zuggtmoy, is your second weapon!"

The dwarf stepped forward and took the gift as Iggwilv held it out to him. It was a short-handled, hammer-backed military pick known as a martel. Its color was odd, and inlays of silver ran through beak and butt. "I am eternally grateful, munificent lady of witches," Obmi said ceremoniously, but his nervousness was obvious from his expression. He sensed that Zuggtmoy was annoyed about the exchange that had just taken place. Indeed, the demon queen wanted to be the one to extol the virtues of the weapon, but she had not been given a chance to examine it before Iggwilv handed it to Obmi, and without a careful study of the weapon she was quite unable to inform the dwarf of its values.

A beatific smile spread across Iggwilv's gorgeous features. It was obvious that she appreciated and enjoyed Queen Zuggtmoy's discomfiture. She allowed the moment to stretch on… a bit too long.

"The martel, Obmi-My-Former-Slave, is obviously magically forged of latten, inset with silver against the dogs of the Hells, and magicked to a degree of much power," Iuz said smugly.

Iggwilv, her thunder stolen, gave her son a stare that would have withered any lesser creature, but the cambion simply bowed slightly, as if she had paid him a compliment, and smiled so as to show his rows of pointed teeth. "Iuz is correct, dwarf, as far as he could go," she said acidly. "The pick is of such enchantment as to be powerful enough to wound the greatest of Hell's dukes. Its metal of copper and tin is finest latten, as Iuz mentioned, but its dweomer is such that it is as strong as adamantite. Better still, no magnetism nor iron-eater will affect it. Should you not choose to use your little hammer, Obmi, this weapon will serve you most ably… and I give it in honor of your mistress, Queen Zuggtmoy," the witch concluded, with a sweet smile toward that person.

"I thank you on behalf of My servant," Zuggtmoy said with a regal tone. "Of course, you are wise, dear witch, to recognize that My cause – and it will succeed – is best furthered by aiding My champion and thus assuring your own ends will be met. We must now get to the serious matter of this contest."

There followed a period of express instruction. Zuggtmoy told Obmi that he was to depart the grim city of Molag the next day. All of his magical gear, armor, hammer, and boots would be restored to him. In addition, the dwarf would don a dweomered hat, a magical head covering that would enable him to appear far different from his true form. When he ventured forth on the morrow, Obmi would seem to be an aged female elf, one making a pilgrimage to Celene and the Great Temple of Ehlonna before she died. Of course, no such destination would ever be reached. Once in the Kron Hills, the dwarf would use the magical hat to appear as a gnome, crossing westward to gain Yolakand over the Larkill Mountains, the Longridge Hills, and the Pennors.

"It is a slight deviation, Obmi, but you must turn north and go to Hlupallu in Ket. There you will find your assistants and guards. Understood?" Zuggtmoy queried.

"Yes, Queen of the Abyss."

The demoness seemed pleased. "When you leave the hills to go to Hlupallu, eliminate any of those still with you in the party – this poison and your own weapons should serve for that," Zuggtmoy told him as she handed him a tiny vial. "It is certain that one or more of those who accompany you will be spies, agents of Graz'zt or some other meddler. Enter Hlupallu as a half-elf with a spade beard and yellow eyes. Go to the place called Dar Peshdwar, and there your assistants and guards will await."

"Whom should I seek?" Obmi asked meekly.

"No!" admonished Zuggtmoy. "That you will learn when you arrive in Hlupallu – those you seek will find you, not you them. I want no slip of the lip occurring in the meantime. Those who will serve you will bear my further instructions."

"Leave us now, dwarf," Iggwilv commanded coldly. Obmi hesitated but a moment, glancing up to see if the demoness would countermand the order. Zuggtmoy's face was absolutely expressionless, as beautiful and unreadable as a portrait by a master limner. Falling to his hands and knees, Obmi crawled backward from the metal-walled little chamber, thanking all with flowery profusion as he departed. His underlying thoughts were carefully screened by mental images of gratitude and desire to serve – a trick that he had become quite good at since falling in with witches and demons.

When he was gone, Iggwilv brought the others to attention by saying, "That one is a snake and a jackal!"

"A fitting servant, true," Iuz commented.

"And a nonesuch among dwarves. He is a warrior more able than most, if not all, living humans," the Queen of Fungi boasted of her new servant. "He is the best tool We have to defeat Graz'zt!"

Iuz sneered. "Bah! He would have failed Me earlier, had not you two rescued the situation in the Vesve and captured the Middle Key."

"He has learned much since then, I think," the demoness said.

"With those We support him with, Obmi will succeed," Iggwilv said with an iron ring in her voice. "But let Us now converse on a still greater topic – Graz'zt and his filthy slaves!"

Zuggtmoy sat up at that, and Iuz stared hard at his mother. The witch smiled warmly at both of them. Seeing that she had their rapt attention, Iggwilv explained, "It would never, never in a thousand years, be to Our benefit for Graz'zt and his lackeys to possess any of the Theorparts."

Iuz started to interrupt. "But you- "

"I said otherwise? Of course! We need his cooperation in gaining the Final Key. Once dear Queen Zuggtmoy has it safely, she can turn on him and the vile Kostchtchie and the rest. They will be powerless against her then, and their foes will rend the braggarts' petty kingdom plane from plane."

"You are a dear!" the demoness said, leaping up and hugging Iggwilv.

The cambion had to smile broadly himself, thinking of how his hated progenitor would fare in such a situation. "I am proud to be your son, Mother!"

"Just so," Iggwilv said dryly, smirking slightly in Iuz's general direction. "Moving ahead, though, We must lay out exactly what course We will follow once Zuggtmoy gains the Final Key." The other two assented eagerly, so the ancient witch went on. "Graz'zt will be hard-pressed by his growing number of enemies. Worse still, for him, the boastful swine will be confined to his own personal domain.

These circumstances, Zuggtmoy, will enable you to send aid to Us. Then you, Iuz, with your demons – and you will command many hordes with the Theorpart – and My skills and powers, will overthrow the Brotherhood. You will destroy those scum, and then the Initial Key will be in Our hands as well."

"I will be Emperor of Oerth!" Iuz crowed, barely able to suppress the urge to beat his massive chest in delight as he did so. Zuggtmoy started to frown slightly as she witnessed this outburst, and Iggwilv acted quickly to soothe her.

"Be not alarmed, sister!" the witch said, taking and holding Zuggtmoy's shapely little hand. "Iuz, in his excitement, wrongly assumed that he would retain possession of the Initial Key once the Brotherhood is obliterated. But in truth, he will not need it to maintain his power. And what could be more fitting than a bestowal of that object upon she who assured Our success here? What more proper, adored Zuggtmoy, than you using the Initial Key to become Queen and Ruler of all the Abyss?" Iuz bristled a bit when he heard this, but was wise enough to hold his tongue.

Still suspicious, the demoness looked sharply at Iggwilv and asked, "Why would you hand so great a thing over to me so willingly?"

"Without mention of the undying love that Iuz and I hold in Our hearts for you, great queen, I need only point out two simple facts. First, with the whole world Ours, what need do either of Us have for more than the single key We now possess? Second, who better to hold two, and thus assure rule of the entire Abyss, than Our staunchest friend and ally?"

"You speak with wisdom beyond mortals and the powers beyond them," the Queen of Fungi said solemnly. "I had resolved to speak of the problems which the unruly Graz'zt might cause should he somehow blunder into possession of the Final Key, or even the initial one. I am happy that you, dearest Iggwilv, have anticipated My needs thus. Your once-husband will never forgive the humiliation he once received at your hands. Graz'zt will cause much trouble for both of you, should he ever manage to gain a Theorpart. Your understanding of this fact and your pledge of loyalty to Me indicate that My past judgment has been correct. You, Iggwilv, and you too, Iuz, shall be the most favored when I rule the Abyss. You have the word of Queen Zuggtmoy!"

Thanking her profusely, Iggwilv and Iuz both embraced the demoness. "Shall we now refrain from this tiresome business and enjoy ourselves?" the witch said with urging in her voice.

Iuz implored Zuggtmoy to let that be the case, but the demoness demurred. "There are matters on My own plane which need My attention now. After all, I must alert Szhublox and the others and make preparations." Promising to come back as soon as possible, the "Queen of Fungi took her leave.

As soon as she was gone, Iuz turned angrily to his mother. "Are you growing senile? How dare you suggest that she possess two keys, let alone pledge them to her?!"

"Mind your tongue, lest I have reason to severely punish you, Iuz. Never forget that I am your mother and guide!" Then, softening her tone and smiling, Iggwilv hugged the scowling cambion. "You are My own, dear son! I would never betray Mine own flesh and blood thus. Never suppose I would actually give anyone but you the Theorpart. You will rule Oerth with the strength of two keys, and none will ever be able to remove your yoke then. Let the Abyss squabble and contend as its princes will – so much the better for Us! Not even Zuggtmoy will dare challenge Us when We hold two thirds of the artifact."