City of Hawks (32 page)

“See that Lord Lurajal is comfortable in his own chambers,” the seneschal commanded after a cursory appraisal of the two. “Then report back to me.” The four bustled about to assist Lurajal, then off all five went as ordered. That ended Gord’s hopes of learning more about Rexfelis’ special rings.

“Now, Master-Sir Gord, I suppose-it wouldn’t do to have princelings brawling with common folk, would it?” the big man harrumphed. “I think you need to have some rest and time alone to reflect yourself. Please go to your quarters, and I will have some refreshments brought there directly.”

“Of course, Lord Lowen.”

“Splendid. I will speak with my liege of the matter. When that is done I will come and tell you what sentence you might expect, or what judgment is to be handed down.”

Gord was anxiously awaiting the second interview, as it were, with the seneschal, when he heard a sharp rapping at the huge slab of rosewood that closed his antechamber from the hall without. Gord jumped up, took a step, then stood still and composed himself. “Enter, please,” he said loudly.

The thick door with its gleaming panels of fine-grained wood swung inward, and through the portal stepped not Lord Lowen but Rexfelis himself. His face was graven, his eyes unsmiling. “You assaulted one of my own blood,” he said heavily.

“That is correct,” Gord replied.

“Have you any excuse?”

“None, Lord Rexfelis.”

“Do you plead for mercy?”

“No, Lord, that I will not stoop to. I have made my peace with Lord Lurajal, and I have settled my own thoughts as well. I am ready to accept your judgment squarely.”

“It is this,” the Lord of Cats said slowly. “You accepted a challenge from one who unjustly interfered in an affair not his own, you fought all too well, and then spared the instigator and his lot too, if I am a judge of such matters. Your conduct was correct, noble, and above reproach. Nonetheless, you did bodily harm to one of my blood, so I must mete out a fair punishment,” the Master of Cats said as he fixed his gaze upon the young adventurer.

Gord managed to return the look without wavering. “Which is?”

“You will offer apologies to all concerned-Lurajal, Raug, even Lady Tirrip. They will accept them, I will see to that. Then all of you will accompany me to my audience hall. There I will hold the ceremony necessary to make you an officer of my lands, a knight more or less, to put it into human terms.”

Gord was thunderstruck “I… I… It is a most undeserved honor, Lord Rexfelis,” he managed to stammer. “But… but why?”

“Lord Lowen pointed out that as long as you are here, you are likely to be at odds with Lord Raug and his lot-silly stuff, but typical of immature toms, I know. He suggested the honor, and I could not deny the sense in it. After all, there is no insult or injury when a peer accepts a challenge from another-even if that other be of royal lineage.”

Gord dropped to one knee, speaking his thanks freely. “It is a most royal and generous favor-”

“Up, up. Enough of that! Think you that I am unaware of your honors elsewhere? Your actions in Greyhawk have been of mixed sort, often dubious, but are you not also an honored member of that city now?”

“Well, yes, I suppose…”

“No supposing about it, sir, none at all. Think you not that we lords speak not with each other? Those of Balance commend you. He of All Shadows more than that! Well, now you have noble status on fully three planes, my fine young sir thief! Material, Shadow, and Catsreach all-you have justly deserved respect on all three. I am not to be outdone!”

In fact, Rexfelis was not to be outdone. When the apologies were finished, he personally led the train into the chamber where a ceremony full of pomp and ritual was duly conducted by various officials and presided over by Rexfelis. From his own hand he bestowed the honor upon Gord, making the young man a Leopard Guardian, Lone Chevalier Sentinel, Duke of Catsreach, Protector of All Felines, and so on and so forth.

When it was all finished, however, Tirrip and Raug and their coterie left with scarcely a word. With them went several others with whom Gord was virtually unacquainted, although he had seen them around and spoken briefly and formally with one or another on occasion. He shook his head, wondering what the outcome of all this would be.

Lurajal stood close by. He placed his hand on the young thief’s shoulder in comradely fashion. “Congratulations, Lord Gord,” he said with hearty warmth. “I bear no grudge, you know; I would call myself your friend, if you would take no offense.”

“Offense? Why, no, quite the contrary,” Gord said with a smile, and he extended his hand.

Lurajal shook it vigorously. “Then friends we are! You’ll need all you can get now, I think,” the fellow added. “Both tigers-long-toothed and short-are ranged against you, so too the ancient ones of liondom and the lions of the mountains. Old Lowen will take no such stance, but his sprat will certainly troupe with those others, Lynxkind is not in attendance, nor is the Royal House of Leopards-save that you hold honorary grant to a position therein. That will probably mean their support, should their number ever come to this court again. Thus fully five are certainly ranged against you, Gord.”

“Five what?”

“Five of the nine Royal Houses. There are three noble ones as well-Domesticus, Ocelotus, and Jaguarundis, my distant kin. The primordial demesnes belong to House Smilodon and Paleoleo. The ancestral fiefs are Tiger, Lion, Jaguar, and Catamount. Last, but not least, are the estates of Leopard, Cheetah, and Lynx. Each is ruled by a royal scion of our liege, Catlord Rexfelis.”

“I see…”

“And so much for lessons, my friend,” Lurajal said under his breath. “Here comes Lord Sergetta and his lady. Welcome them warmly, for he is the Prince of Cheetahs-you need all the support you can get.” So it went. In the end, the only ones who showed their friendship were Lord Lurajal and the lords of the cheetahs. Those of the house of Lynxkind arrived late and did stay at the festivities, but made no formal introduction of themselves.

It was like a game to Lurajal. The Lord of Jaguars was strong, honest, and sincere. He loved the intrigue; this was evident and plain to see. In short, Gord thought, his friend was a staunch ally but no sage, to put it kindly. Plain to see, it was Lurajal and Gord alone against the faction of Raug and Tirrip. The noble Sergettas were friendly, but not directly aligned. Lord Lowen was neutral, as were the nobles of the last of the nine houses. Some faction! Some intrigue!

“I would see my own land again,” Gord finally said aloud one day.

“What, Oerth? That place is a pesthole!”

“True enough, at least in part,” Gord admitted to his friend, “but it is a broad and many-faceted place. If the factions of one place are bothersome to you, you need simply ride somewhere else in the Flanaess or even beyond.”

Lurajal was unconvinced. “There is virtually no end to this plane of our liege lord’s-my plane, and yours now too, Gord!”

The young man smiled at Lurajal and then tilted his head slightly. “It is not home.”

Lurajal didn’t have a reply for that. Eventually he met Rexfelis at an opportune moment and mentioned to the Catlord the difficulties he and Gord were having. “Yes, prince,” he said in reply to the golden-eyed noble’s statements. “I am all too aware of the growing unease in my court which the hotheads are creating with their petty squabbles and grudges. It is time for you to return to your personal fief-only a short interlude, Lurajal, rest assured.”

“What of Gord, sire?”

Rexfelis gave the Prince of Jaguars his best smile. “You are so stout and true a one. Put you on a track and you will not swerve, will you?”

“Never, my liege!”

“Just so. Gord too is like that, in his own fashion. That is why you two are boon companions. Well, as to him, I have spoken with… old associates of mine, shall we say. They have some interest in him and his employment.”

“Is he to be bound over as if he were some serf or apprentice?”

“No, not at all,” Rexfelis laughed, reassuring the honest-faced fellow as he expressed his mirth. “Think of it as a sort of noble service for a just and worthy cause. After all, Gord does grow bored and restless here. He himself fans the flames of the antagonism between my kin because it gives him something to keep his interest. It is an unconscious thing, I am sure, but effective nonetheless.”

“Well…”

“Yes. It is well. You shall be off to attend to your domain for a time, and I shall personally accompany your friend, Gord, on the first portion of the journey that lies in store for him.”

“It is not an exile, then? Only a brave and bold service?”

The Catlord was grave. “That, dear Lurajal, is it exactly.”

As the young lord left, Rexfelis added under his breath, “No exile at all-unless Death has his way.”

While demons schemed in the Abyss and the masters of the pits of Hades machinated with their diabolical allies, the fates worked as they would. First one side moved in the cosmic chess game, then another; sometimes many sides moved multiple pieces simultaneously. The vast board was complex, confusing, unenlightening.

What had seemed an unassailable position for one force crumbled under a flanking attack. The attackers were demoniacal, the losing force responsible to Infestix. The only problem for the Abyss was that in usual circumstances each of its pieces, every pawn, worked as it alone saw fit. It was highly unusual, but effective, that on this occasion many of the pieces of demonkind worked in concert-and it was also singular that Hades failed to note this compromise.

Perhaps even the massive intellects of beings such as the daemonlords and the dukes of the Nine Hells were incapable of grasping the whole of play, intent as they were upon clearing the way for their most powerful piece, a man which might be likened to a combined king, queen, knight, and giraffe of Great Chess. No other side had such a figure, so such a failure was somewhat understandable. If freed to move, this piece would command so many spaces that nothing would stand before its power, no opposing man would be able to approach with impunity.

Even as their position crumbled, however, the great intellects of Evil worked, and the way became less congested. It could not be long now before the violet-hued forces of Hades, with their blood-red allies from the hells, successfully fought off the others-black, white, gray, blue, golden yellow, tawny. Only the green pieces and pawns, those affiliated with the Balance, were positioned correctly… and there were but a few of those men left on the field.

Green, in its exposed and surrounded central position, seemed the weakest. In truth, it had suffered many losses. But the men of paler shades of vert-chartreuse, aqua green, light emerald-as well as those of olive hue, bottle green, and the other deeper shades of that middle color, were now free to move to confront their foes. With no threat from elsewhere, the whole of their forces could be used against the dark hordes. The bright, verdant men of Balance were being supported by shadowy green and emerald, by greenish citrine legions and dusky olive.

“We are being outmaneuvered!” The cry of rage came from one of the Eight Diseased Ones. The other seven bent closer to the scrying basin, peering with their lifeless eyes to observe what their associate had seen. “Inform the Master,” the chief of the Eight commanded one of his fellows. “I will see that this brashness does not go unpunished.”

Another of the Diseased Ones tried to object. “Lord Infestix ordered us not to interfere…”

He was silenced by a glare and a rejoinder from the leader. “If I do not act immediately, we will lose a major piece and our foremost position!” In fact, the hordes of Death did hold their own for a time, but then the deep ebon forces of the demon princes moved, and all was undone. Hades’ right flank was en prise, and the Abyss struck to assure its capture.

“What is this?” Infestix saw what had happened and was appalled. The greatest of the eight servitors was made least, and he who had dared to object was elevated to chief. The overlord of daemons would have done worse to the offender, but the situation was too critical, and Infestix knew that he needed all of his lieutenants if he was to triumph.

“Errors, unforgivable misjudgments, stupid blunders have been made. Yet we have by no means lost this contest. Be reassured. Work diligently. Spare no one, least of all yourselves,” he told the Eight. “The opening game has ended, but the middle portion is just beginning. We will move cleverly now, take our positions, marshal our forces, and lay our traps. When the ending phase comes, I will suddenly open to reveal our true strength, and then only the deepest purple will remain in play.”

“Traps, Master of Death?”

“Yes, traps. Traps, and a sacrificed place or two, I think Ask no more questions!” The grim overlord of the pits left them pondering his words. He alone knew exactly what moves he would make.

The major ones of demonkind fought and squabbled, sending their pawns of dull black, darkest sepia, or glistening jet here and there. The minor ones of their host imitated their masters’ methodology, doing as they themselves willed, and the position of the demons was fraught with chaos. Their power and numbers were such, though, that the inky hordes of the Abyss spread like a stain over much of the field, and the demoniacal lords rejoiced.

Iuz the dreaded cambion exulted, for he had obtained the citadel position and had two great queens to strengthen his safehold. Graz’zt rallied disparate men and brought demon pawns by the legion to the field. Others of his ilk quarreled with one another or contested with men of other stamp-gold or blue, white or gray, orange or hellish red. It was the battle and the killing that mattered. The emerald army was not worth bothering with, not when there were so many others of greater size and fiercer powers to attack. Black was moving, its advance unstoppable, and the pleasures of mopping up would wait. The violet ones, the pompous men of purplish hue, were already pulling back, entrenching, shivering in dread anticipation of the end of this marvelous, slaughter-filled game.

Far away from the contested squares, on the material plane, the world called Oerth, in the city of hawks, only one inhabitant had the slightest inkling of the struggle being fought. He was a savant and demonurgist. Nobody knew his real name. Perhaps even he himself no longer remembered it, for it was as deadly to reveal one’s true name as to not properly bind a demodand or dreggal brought by sorcerous conjuration.

Children in his neighborhood called him Master Beanpole. He laughed at that and made horrible faces at them. That caused the urchins to shriek in mock terror and run away. The adults observed that and smiled. To them he was Norund the Gemner, a half-dotty old coot who occasionally gave away a chip of emerald or amethyst for some simple favor such as a pot of stew brought over as a kindness.

The lord mayor and oligarchs of Greyhawk knew far more of the man. To them he was a mystical seer, one steeped in wizardry and priestcraft too. Although old, tired, and short of gold and silver, Rundon Tallman was a valuable informant for them as to the happenings roundabout and in the whole of the Flanaess. That the old fool was a tool who was much used and underpaid was common knowledge to all of the officials who benefited from his efforts. Even great dweomercraefters and high clerics were amazed at his skills, and the fees for their services were ten times greater than those paid to Rundon. But the lean fellow was content, for he neared dotage and dwelled in austerity. That was good, the lord mayor and oligarchs told themselves. If he were content, then so were those who paid him so little and gained so much. These ones would gladly accept his due and live in high style indeed.

Of course the demonurgist knew very well what others believed, but it was his aim never to let on that he knew this. Only one of the council of the city of hawks was aware that he was something other than a doddering gemner or a failing seer. The master of assassins of Greyhawk knew him as Undron Nalvistor, low priest of Nerull and sorcerer extraordinaire. His guises were many, and his efforts on behalf of darkness never-ending.

The guildmaster regarded Undron Nalvistor as his chief agent, a figure more important to him than any save his first assistant, another spell-binder who was now skilled in the arts of assassination. Thanks to Undron Nalvistor, he had worked his way to headship of the guild and recently taken a chief position among the oligarchs. This tall and thin old man was a keen edge to be used with delicacy and skill, and the guild-master paid him well. What the man did with the vast sums he received was his business.

It was expected that Undron would maintain his disguises and remain as he was. One day, perhaps, he would outlive his usefulness. Then one bright morning the old man would be found dead in his bed, and it would be said that he passed on quietly in his sleep. Smothering with a pillow left that impression. It would never do to have a doddering, senile old man stumbling around telling tales with a wagging tongue, of course.

Norund-Rundon-Undron knew all of that and was content. He truly served only one, and that one was the superior one-himself. To further that end, he was an agent of Infestix, worker for Nerull, servant of the pits, seeker of lowest EMI. His true master, Death, called him Gravestone, both as a remark on his ability to place his human foes into their last earthly home and to remind the savant that he was but a mortal man. In truth, the Master of Hades was slightly uneasy in this one’s presence. And Grave-stone-Norund-Rundon-Undron minded that not the least. Nerull would never allow him to die as long as he was useful, and he would always and always be that, for he had knowledge and powers unknown even to Death.

The demonurgist had bound to him two great demons, Pazuzeus and Shabriri. Although even those of the Abyss thought of the two as their own, neither Pazuzeus nor Shabriri was actually a demon. Both were spawn of the depths, of course, and they dwelled in the dark reaches of those evil realms. Yet the two were of different, older origination. They sprang from a race of older beings that had originated in the nadir of darkness, the home of Infestix.

Pazuzeus and Shabriri were his own agents, forced perhaps, but perhaps not, to labor on his behalf. When the great darkness came over all, then those two would be freed by the demonurgist. That was his promise, and he would keep it-if the Lord of Unrelenting Evil commanded he do so. The demonurgist doubted that would occur… ever. His service was too useful. It was not unthinkable that a man, one no longer mortal, might become chief under Tharizdun.

With three hounds on a leash-Shabriri, Pazuzeus, Infestix-he would be a fine satrap Indeed. There was a small problem just now, though, and the savant-demonurgist was concerned.

He understood the full span of the field, the nature of the game, the forces engaged, the pieces and pawns in play. Currently he stood near the purple king, a vizier, a weak but important piece for guarding against unexpected assault. Not even his own lord knew that the demonurgist commanded two of the minor pieces of the black array. At his command, those two would change from ebon to amethyst, join with him, and change his status to that of a major figure. Far-ranging, powerful, a fit eliminator of adversaries, he would be an optimum choice for crowning as a new king… only there was one obstacle in the path of that goal.

Long ago in terms of man, he had worked to assure that the rise of absolute darkness occur unhindered. He had been the spider who had spun webs, the puppeteer who had pulled silken cords. His plan had succeeded, his plot come to fruition perfectly-almost. One insignificant victim had somehow slipped away. That one was now a pawn in one of the many enemy armies which dared to oppose purple. Many times the demonurgist had moved his own pawns to threaten that one, but each time the escapee managed to capture or avoid. Nerull himself knew naught of the initial failure on the demonurgist’s part, nor was he aware of the successive miscalculations either. The savant worked doubly hard to keep all such information arcane. Now the enemy was moving again, and his own position was being slightly compromised. He summoned his vassals.

“Pazuzeus, speed to the manifold planes of the Abyss and make certain that the boorish princes there send forth their most fell champions to eliminate the green!” The winged seeming-demon was gone in a flash and a thunderclap to obey.

Shabriri watched with burning eyes, all four of them fixed on the demonurgist. The man noted and thought he saw doubt, “Never doubt, little demonling! Else you shall suffer for it…” Shabriri dropped his burning eyes in mock servility, and the demonurgist seemed not to notice the sham. “Go you to those who work here upon the material planes. Insinuate the same instructions which Pazuzeus gives forthright to his peers. Succeed, ’Briri, and you will assume the right-hand position; fail, and we shall see how you enjoy further foreshortening of your appellation…”

Wincing at the threat, Shabriri likewise departed in flame and thunderous noise to fulfill the command. Still, he was not convinced that the great dweomercraefter was doing right. He was but a mortal, after all, and mistakes were made most often by such. But the thought of gaining freedom from his bondage, of taking the unnamed quarry in his strong, many-handed embrace, made the demonlike being exult inside.

Alone, the demonurgist pondered the developing moves of the middle game and was satisfied. Even now black and red pieces moved to check the green. He was unknown, safe, and in command. Soon that rule would grow. With a contentment he had not felt for a long time now, the lean man relaxed and watched…