Dance of Demons (14 page)

Gord nodded with conviction. "Ample for our purposes, I assure you! It is not to be a protracted engagement, Elazalag. It is only necessary to make the daemon stand and fight for a little time. We will scythe through the so-called Lord of Death's ranks as if they were ripe stalks of wheat, pluck his fangs — the Theorpart — and leave him and his hordes to run howling in terror back whence they came."

"That is a pleasing thought," Nisroch growled. "The great daemon can flee safely back to his nest, of course; but the rest of his army will not have such a luxury. . ."

"Lord Gellor," Gord suggested, "Is the one to assist you with the disposition of your forces."

"That is so," the grizzled bard affirmed. "I have fought many such battles, albeit with slightly different sorts of troops." Even Nisroch chuckled at that. "Whilst you gather the warbands, let us examine maps of iyondagur to find the best ground to confront the invaders. They will be marching here, hoping to gam your surrender, conscript your Abat-dolor soldiers, and then thrust into Mezzafgraduun as a sword's point slides into the heart of a foe. Now, Princess Elazalag, I think the best position is likely to be near to your own . . ." And so Gellor went on, as the ebon-hued demons rushed to bring together their forces to face the invading horde led by the master daemon.

Chapter 8

"THE BLACK ONES gather against us, Most Foul."

"Dolt! Do you think I am blind? Stupid!"

The captain of the dreggal scouts stood trembling before Infestix, not daring to speak further.

"Well? Do you?"

"No — never. Most—"

Infestix shot forth his hand without warning, tapping the spidery dreggal on its spiky cranium with one gray, skeletal finger. The filthy-looking nail pierced the thing's head. The dreggal quivered, Its skin writhed as growths sprang forth from it, and then putrescence took it, and the former captain was an oozing pool of slimy decay at the daemon's feet. "I am not inclined to deal otherwise with incompetence," Infestix announced.

"It is fitting," agreed the group of Diseased Ones nearby.

"The Abat-dolor will not bend their necks to Us?" asked Infestix.

Brucilosu, currently the highest of the eight, didn't hesitate in responding to the query. "No, Master of Death, the fools resist for some reason. Why, I cannot guess, for they hate Graz'zt and— "

"It is because of some outside interference," Infestix snapped. The great daemon was pleased, despite the circumstances, for the chance to shame the highest of his lieutenants. Any one of them would supplant him in an instant if that were considered possible. Fair enough, then — he, Infestix, would see to it that each of them was cut down when any opportunity presented itself. This time it was Brucilosu's turn. "Some force of Balance is nearby, and that force bears with it a pair of trifling powers. This is what incited the black ones to resistance — and that will mean their immediate extinction, for I will bring Unbinder to bear upon them! Go now, all of you. Marshal the hordes for battle. We will roll over these little Abat-dolor. It must be done quickly. Do you hear? I want victory quickly!"

The eight daemons scurried off to see to the disposition of the four corps that comprised the horde which Infestix had brought to iyondagur. As soon as he had redressed things against Vuron, the Master of Hades could see that Graz'zt's toad would retreat to yet another defensive position. It would be like that for too long a time — series after series of attack battle, withdrawal to yet another defensive position. Eventually the stupid demons under Demogorgon would grind the albino's force to powder. But by then, Iuz and his assorted freaks would possibly have cracked the main lines defending Mezzafgraduun, overwhelmed Graz'zt, and stolen the Theorpart — which was rightfully the prize of Infestix.

In the moment he thought out that line of possibility, the lord of daemons had determined to commit everything he could muster with no further delay. Infestix gathered his strongest assistants, brought Initiator's energies into play, and opened first one channel, then another, to the planes of the netherworld beyond the Abyssal tiers.

Dumalduns, daemons, and cacodaemons by the tens of thousands were thus swept into his ranks. Dreggals, even maelvis, were suddenly teeming there on the somber plain from which Vuron had but recently retreated. Then Demogorgon, Mandrillagon, and their demonlords felt new confidence. With a million fresh soldiers to send into the fray, the stupid monsters went willingly away to batter against the thin lines of defense. Oh yes! The demon fighters and netherworld soldiers would attack and die by the tens of thousands despite their vast superiority in numbers.

Hie albino turd still held a Theorpart, Infestix knew, although the Eye of Deception was elsewhere — exactly where, he could not discern. That bothered him but a little, for the thing was inconsequential compared to Initiator or either of its matching parts. What counted was pressure and swiftness of action.

The bi-headed folly would press upon Vuron, push the pale slug back and back. Would Vuron then draw troops from Graz'zt? No, that was not likely. The result could only be a drain of the defenders under Vuron, a weakening so great that there would be but a corps or two left. As for Demogorgon? He and his baboon-faced brother would be leading mere squads soon. A hundred or two hundred thousand should suffice to form the anvil to Infestix's hammer. Infestix would break off a flying force, an army of no great size compared to the masses usual to warfare in the Abyss. It would be most potent, though. Hand-picked by himself Fast fearsome, and fueled by Infestix's own will and the force of the Theorpart. If the Abat-dolor were compliant and accepted his yoke, so much the better, for they would add more fodder to his horde. If not, a hundred thousand of the six-fingers would pose no obstacle to his march — not with the power of the relic's fraction in his hand.

Infestix knew that Vuron was fiddling with time in order to make good his flight. The ape-heads were too thick to understand the tactic, but not Infestix. In fact, he realized, two forces might benefit from the pastime, because Greater Mezzafgraduun's parts were interlinked with other places, especially iyondagur. So, with the force of two Theorparts working toward the mutability of the flow, chronology was altered to assist both the albino and Infestix.

Even as the wild throng thundered and broke upon defenses that Vuron had been able to prepare especially for Demogorgon's assault, so too did the master of daemons cross the intervening places to arrive in the heart of the lands of the Abat-dolor. With or without those demons, Infestix would then enter Mezzafgraduun prime, behind the thin shell of defense that Vuron attempted, behind the ring of resistance Graz'zt forged against Orcus and his minions, the dupes of Iuz and his lot. Before the weight of troops could be shifted, Vuron would be crushed between the hard place of Demogorgon and the rock of Infestix. Two Theorparts welded into one, and the demon armies were fatally compromised.

"King of Extinction ..." It was a fawning legate of the maelvis legions that comprised the center of the army. Infestix turned from his contemplation, nodding slightly. "The enemy are deploying before our advance — only a few divisions. Great Master, no more than a hundred thousand."

"As I expected. Attack them!"

"Ah ..." the centurion hesitated, then decided to huny to get it out. "There is a knot of foreign forces in the midst of the Abat-dolor host, my King. There is too a banner. ..."

"Out with it, clod! What are you saying?"

"I am informed by your Diseased Ones, Mighty Lord, that it is the standard of the ... Demiurge . . ?"

"What? Basiliv? So! That is the one who Balance has finally chosen!"

Infestix paused. That explained much. As the aural readings of neutrality shifted and flowed, it had become more and more difficult to discover exactly what the meddling nothings were up to, who was bearing their accumulated force. For a time it had seemed as if some little part-human, a former thief and too-frequent thorn-prick known as Gord, was to wear the mantle of champion. Then all sign of the Demiurge had vanished from the field. Could Basiliv have managed that? Perhaps. . . . But did that entity fit the prophecy? Could Basiliv be the one destined to oppose Tharizdun? Very doubtful, and thus so much the better for Evil! The wise ones" of Balance had blundered!

"Tell me, maelvi, what powers does the Demiurge bear with him?"

"That is beyond me, King of Extinction," the creature gulped, "but the Lord Brucilosu did say you must be told that the Demiurge displays four dweomers of the elements — auras which are potent."

Infestix sneered. He knew well enough the tokens of the energy of the elemental spheres. In their proper places, each might be considered the equal of Graz'zt's vaunted Eye of Deception, perhaps. Here, the four together would be hardly greater than the Eye, and the latter's strength was but a tithe of the Theorpart he wielded. "Start the assault now! Inform my commanders that I will personally advance and deal with the Demiurge once the Abat-dolor scum are pinned."

"Yes, King," the maelvi cried, and sped away as quickly as he could. It was always a terrible thing to be the messenger to Infestix, and the quicker he was away, the less the probability of his being slain by the dreaded daemon.

Under the circumstances, it was perhaps understandable that the centurion didn't relate the Diseased Ones' warning — that their observations were somewhat clouded, and that the emanations might indicate some form of distortion, a trick That sort of intelligence often spelled death for the one relating it, and despite its malign and hateful nature, the maelvi prized its horrid existence above all else.

Abat-dolor cavalry posted on the wings prevented Infestix's horde from immediately encircling and surrounding the main body. The riders were mounted on hippokeres and vargrlneens. Though few in number, that made them formidable enough that it required some considerable time to drive them off. As the core of dreggals smashed into the demons' center, the other units in Infestix's horde closed and fixed the Abat-dolor where they were. His own demon warriors followed the dreggals, while the other troops moved to encompass the outnumbered resistance. After watching the slaughter for a span, the lord of the netherspheres decided it was time to deal with the situation. His personal guards, the plagante, swept forth with their master in their midst.

"I see you there, Basiliv. You carry the Quadrate Pillars of . . ." Infestix suddenly broke off his mental challenge, allowing the telepathic shout to die in midsentence. What had been the image of the Demiurge had suddenly shifted to another. Not a stone's throw distant, and coming through his guards as if they were mere phantoms, was another one altogether.

Infestix knew that one well enough. It was the spawn of Rexfelis, the adventurer named Gord. In his hand was the sword that had sent Gravestone, the daemon's chief human agent, into oblivion — only the blade was worse now than it had been. Infestix could plainly see destruction dancing from its length in tongues of diamond and jet Flanking the small man were a drow female, in whose hands rested the Eye of Deception, and a man with a kanteel of druldic dweomer. The instrument was of nature, and its harmonies inimical to the netherlife. In its own right it was as potent a thing as the Eye was; yet neither of those things, nor the ones who bore them, caused the greatest of daemons concern. It was the small one with the long sword. . .'.

"You recognize me, worm-fornicator?"

"You should have been expunged as a babe!" Infestix snarled.

"You tried, didn't you? Too bad your tools were so inept, eh? If you had come against me personally, as you did later, then things would have been different."

The crash and roar of the battle seemed distant, dim. Even the melee at hand was taking place as if it were happening underwater. Motion was slow, sound muffled. Waves of silvery music swept forth from the troubador's little harp in patterns that Infestix could discern with a glance. They impacted upon his daemon guards, the demons and dreggals around them, and the notes pierced and slashed the netherbeings as if they were arrows and blades. Darts of energy spat forth from the Eye of Deception too, and where the maroon rays played, more destruction came to his protectors. Infestix realized that the banter from his foe had been nothing but a distraction to allow the closing of the distance that had separated them.

"A clever ruse, you little weasel," Infestix grated. "So much the easier for me to send you to scream for mercy in my domain!" With that, the daemon brought up the malformed thing that was Initiator, the Theorpart, and willed an opening between it and the antispheres. From that channel would come the stuff of total nihility, and upon his adversary would it raven. The material form of the small human would be destroyed, but the soul he would reserve for his own amusement "Now eat death, man ling!" The Theorpart sent forth its lightless stream, but Infestix saw something other than what he expected, something that horrified the master of horrors.

The sword in Gord's hand suddenly shimmered and became two. A crystal blade sprang free from the dark and soared above as a faicon. The jet-black portion simply stretched forth to greet the beam of negativity, drink it, and devour the stuff of nihility. As if some leech feeding, the weapon drew the lightless stuff into its length, became greater, and began to glow with a radiance unknown even to the eyes of the greatest daemon.

"Courflamme thanks you for the refreshment," Gord said with a chuckle as he came, now almost within sword's point of the surprised Infestix.

Something warned the daemon not to try his attack any further. Instead, Infestix brought the Theorpart up to a defensive position over his maggoty head. There was a tinkling screech, and the glowing diamond-length of the crystalline portion of his adversary's strange sword went flying off as a quarrel skitters away after striking granite.

"Aha! Now half of your brand's potency is shattered, would-be champion," Infestix gloated. "Half a sword, half a man. That is but a half-fart's duration in a wind. Now let us see the defense against this!" As he shouted that to Gord, the daemon used Initiator to bring down a roaring column of pure energy upon the place his foe stood. Fractured, showing a crazing throughout its length, the diamond-bright blade still interposed itself between the stuff of consuming force. As its ebon twin had done, so too the crystal sword negated the energy — and at the same time that it absorbed the eye-searing brightness of the blast, the brand's damage was wiped away.

But not all of the energy could be stopped. Gord was bathed in a small part of the force. His being was assaulted, atoms assailed and nearly sundered. It took all of the distillation of powers granted to him to save himself from being blown to nothingness in an explosion that would have devastated iyondagur for a league around. Gord managed, but the drain was enough to bring him to his knees, eyes and ears trickling blood, nose streaming the crimson stuff.

Seeing his adversary in such a condition, Infestix leaped forward to slay Gord personally. The two halves of Courflamme saved him from simple slaughter at that moment Dark and bright blades leaped out, posing twin threats to the daemon, and the fiend Jumped back as quickly as he had sprung, defending himself with the Theorpart. Neither the jet nor the diamond portions of the sword would come near to Initiator, so the defense was effective.

"It is but a matter of time," hissed the daemon master in his moldery voice.

"But not as you assume," Gord countered. He used his last remaining force to restore his body, stand erect and ready himself to fight.

Infestix caused the Theorpart to metamorphose in his hand. It changed from a twisted thing of no particular purpose into a weird sort of pole arm. There was a haft with thin, axelike blades radiating from its head, and lower, leaflike tines with solid spurs at their base. As a spetum or ranseur, the daemon's weapon could catch and snap a sword blade in these latter projections. At its terminus was a foot-long spike. The thing was an axe-mace on the end of a short pike, with holding and disarming capability included. It would be very effective, too, if used at the right distance by a very strong wielder against an incautious opponent.

"No?" Infestix mocked. "Let us see how you manage play with me now, manling! You fight the master now, not the petty servant as you did when you bested Gravestone."

The daemon thrust the weapon at Gord, spun its length with his long arms, then slashed in a horizontal arc. Gord weaved away from the stabbing attack, then had to dance backward as quickly as he could from the long sweep of the glittering edges of the thing. The touch of its pointed end sent showers of fiery sparks flying from the shadow armor that protected his chest, and that brief kiss knocked the young champion off his feet.

It was lucky for Gord that the Theorpart-weapon was an unwieldy instrument. Had it been shorter, Infestix might have been able to deal the coup de grace then and there. By the time the daemon could bring the head of the weapon around and up to strike, though, his adversary had recovered enough to roll aside when the weighty axe blades came down. Infestix levered the thing up and into position immediately, but that allowed Gord time to clamber back into a crouch, and now he held the rejoined Courflamme before him. "Good, but not great, corpselover," he taunted.

What had Just transpired had given the daemon confidence, and Infestix readied his next attack with a leering look of anticipatory delight on his cadaverous visage. He had been unsure of exactly what would happen when he willed Initiator into a weapon. But the Theorpart had responded instantly, and the instrument he now grasped at the ready was a strange and devastating thing of death. As he moved it, became more accustomed to it, Infestix found it light, responsive, almost alive. This time he would be quicker, more exact, and the heart of the human opposing him would be his to devour.

It was all Leda could manage to keep the Eye of Deception functioning. The press of vile daemons around her and her comrades was growing greater as the creatures rushed to the defense of their master. As fast as she could cut them down with the Eye, more were taking the places of the slain. Because of this, she was unable to assist Gord; she couldn't even see or sense what was happening to him. In truth,

Leda could not have helped even had she been aware of his dire predicament One moment of distraction and the little dark elven priestess would have been buried under a wave of attacking fiends.

Much the same was happening to the right, where Gellor stood fast. The troubador had laid low a thousand of those monsters subject to the magic of the kanteel. Now all those still able to press toward him were of the sort immune to the harp's dweomers. With the gifts of the Catlord adorning his hands and feet, Gellor placed the kanteel safely in its case, then drew his own longsword. Wielding his blade and wearing the claws of a tiger, the one-eyed bard tore into the score of netherbeings still advancing. Locked in his own awful melee, he too was unaware of Gord's condition.

The flanged head of the pole arm came flashing down toward Gord's head. Gord thought to use Courflamme to deflect the blow, but instead the sword literally dragged him aside. The blades of the weapon tore lightly at his armor, but this time there was no shock nor was there any pain or damage from the glancing blow. The tip of it was deadly, probably the blades as well, and the weight of its mace head was probably enough to either pierce or break his shadow armor.

All that was bad enough — but worse, Courflamme could not be made to engage the weapon. Could the single Theorpart be so much greater than the greatest token of Balance? That seemed impossible. So, perhaps instead of striking at the blade-end, he should try something else. . . . Gord moved lightly, rapidly, circling to cause his foe to have to turn his body to keep the clumsy pole arm moving and spinning.

"I have patience," Infestix laughed, his voice a horrid hooting. "The wait will make your end all the sweeter." Indeed, time was favoring the daemon. Soon the thousands of his soldiers around them would break through and fall upon Gord and his companions. If Initiator didn't kill them before then, the sheer weight of hundreds of enraged demons and netherbeings would.

Suddenly Gord felt a warm tingling as if the sword were sending energy to him, and at that instant he closed with a rush. The pole arm that was Initiator shot out, Infestix meaning to use it either to skewer the foolish little human or to hold him at bay with its projections. Losing no momentum, Gord darted to one side and dashed in toward the daemon, past the end of the weapon. Infestix tried frantically to pull the long weapon back in.