Dance of Demons (42 page)

They reeled back from the assault on their senses, each one suffering agonies from the terrible mental lashings that the archfiend sent forth as he stood vaunting before them. Instinctively Gellor, Leda and Gord thought of some defense against these attacks, and from the ring each wore sprang a pale radiance to shield them. Gellor's golden aural shield was but faint and ale-colored, that of Leda's silver almost leaden, while the blue from the adamantite band that Gord wore was not the bright azure it should have been but rather a faded and weak gleam of indigo.

Somehow Tharizdun managed to control the yammering agglomeration of hound-things. He almost caroled his greeting. "
Well met, dear adversaries
!" the archfiend yelled to the three over the still-noisy pack of yapping and snarling yeth. "
No better place than the to bring out little game to its conclusion
!" Then he threw back his head and gave vent to a long and satisfied burst of wicked exultation that could marginally and at best be termed laughter. "
But I stand here chatting inconsiderately — my pets have desire to give you their greeting too. . . . kill
!"

The hundred or more vicious and demented monsters charged instantly upon the archfiend's command. They bit and fought with one another for a place in the front rank that charged at the three. Great sprays of the noisome liquid went flying as the massive yeth came galloping toward their hated foes, a dozen or more with their insane eyes fixed on Leda, a like number racing toward Gellor. Only three of the hounds were in that part of the front rank which approached Gord, however, and those three were the greatest of the pack They ran in single file, too. The thing Tharizdun had named Graz was foremost, for the master had so ordered.

When the other howling yeth came close to the heroes standing to either side of Gord, they struck the screening energies emanating from the rings, and a crackling discharge occurred. Snarling or whining hideously, the hounds that struck the shielding force were tossed up and back. These sunk beneath the stinking stuff of the pond or were trampled down by their fellows there, mad dogs still eager to attack A second wave of hounds struck and this time not all died. After the third such assault, fully half of the attacking yeth seemed only hurt and enraged, held just at bay by the powers of Good that the bands discharged.

Tharizdun had little interest in those events, although he did occasionally glance to left and right to observe the course of the battle there. The archfiend concentrated his attention upon the champion's struggle almost exclusively.

Some three-quarters of the way to where the champion stood braced, sword held ready, the three greatest hounds were jerked to a halt, almost as if their master had them tethered and had yanked back on their leashes. Ahead of them, from the second rank shot six hounds of size scarcely less than those three. These horrors hurtled into the blue radiance around Gord, and as they expired in a hellish frenzy of clashing fangs and pumping legs, the fiery insanity of their eyes remained fixed squarely upon him. Now another wall of yeth was there, dying too, but slowly, and closer to his feet. Only then did Graz come forward again, tongue lolling and dripping some greenish drool, green eyes lambently malign in the blackness of his face. Slowly. At ten paces the monster sprang.

The deep howl of hatred died in the hound's throat as Courflamme severed it, sending the mismatched head spinning away from the hound carcass. Ichorous stuff of mossy hue covered the blade from tip to midpoint, glistening and stinking as it clung there. "Not much of a dog you had there, maggot!" Gord managed to shout, even as he prepared himself for the next attack. Tharizdun made no reply, but he did smile and make a little gesture.

The devil-headed yeth named Mephisto came charging. What little aural light had shielded Gord when Graz had come at him had vanished under the hound's evil radiation. Now this Yeth had no such obstacle to contend with. Its sickled, poison-laden foreclaws actually raked along the armor of Gord's cuirass as it closed. Then Mephisto was without forelegs, and then the yeth's head was cloven in two as were its shoulders, and the length of Courflamme was spattered with red ichor as well. "Another runt, maggot?"

This time Tharizdun was moved to respond. "
But of course! I'll send you one immediately
," and his laughter at his own joke was more hideous than the thing that came charging at Gord.

Thrax, daemon-headed though it was, reminded Gord somehow of Gravestone as the yeth hound came bounding through the cesspool. Moved by particular hatred, the young champion actually advanced eagerly to meet the thing, and his longsword moved with such speed and violence that even the archfiend could hardly follow its motion. Gord danced sideways, avoiding Thrax's leap, and sliced the whole length of the abomination's massive flank. Yowling in furious pain, the thing tried to circle so that its wounded side was away from its tormenting foe.

It was exactly what Gord desired, and a heartbeat later, the ribs of the yeth were exposed on both flanks. Tail next hellhound? Or shall I take off your pitty-pat paws first?" Thrax sprang again, dragging flaps of its stinking hide as it came. Gord ducked, Courflamme overhead, edge upward, held parallel to the ground with point behind. The hound sliced its whole belly open thus, and as he spun Gord saw it writhing and twisting. "Why, dear hound! You're all tangled up in guts — here! I'll. . . free . . . you!" And with three more blows he had ended the miserable things existence.

Gord stepped over the ruin, having first wiped the grayish-yellow fluid of Thrax from Courflamme. Although the blade still showed traces of all his kills, it no longer dripped the goiy and noxious stuff. "Well, maggot what now? Back to the kennel for better breeding?"

"
Perhaps, little man. First too had better judge the other dogs, though — I mean tour comrades
!"

Gord turned instantly. He had forgotten Leda and Gellor in his fighting rage. Leda was surrounded by a ring of yeth. A score or more lay dead around her, but a dozen had their teeth locked onto the little elven gir. It was a duplicate of what was occurring to his right, where Gellor was being dragged down by at least as many of the hounds. He had to choose between them, and of course it was to Leda he went. Cursing, striking with lightning speed, he slew the things of the archfiend's creation. Each stroke of Courflamme sent another of the hounds into whatever oblivion of eternal damnation such things as they were had in store.

"Too late, too late . . . my love," Leda managed to say as Gord threw the last of the yeth from her. Then she died.

He was too shocked, too numb to react as he might have otherwise. With even greater fury Gord spun and ran to where his comrade still struggled beneath a yammering mass of the hounds. Gord struck almost indiscriminately. Bits and pieces of the yeth flew away, monstrous wails and hideous yappings sounded. Two hounds he cut from spine to belly, then the champion kicked the halves off his prone friend. Gellor's face was a mask of agony. Dead eyes stared from that face, and his throat was a gaping hole where the hounds had torn flesh from body. Unbelieving, Gord stepped back staring. Gone too were the troubador's hands. Gellor was no more than a corpse.

"
Not so much the warriors you thought them, 'champion'
?"

Gord turned slowly to look at Tharizdun. The archfiend still stood on the spot where he had first appeared, squarely in the middle of the noisome pond. The liquid was near inky now and almost solid too, so great was the evil of thought now extant in Oerth's limited cosmos. Nothing else could be, of course. With one such as Tharizdun dominating all, only wickedness and the malign could exist. "You are forever accursed, Tharizdun," Gord said levelly. There was no emotion in his voice, for inside Gord was as dead as his companions. Yet he was by no means surrendering. "To the death," he said flatly, for such was now his only purpose.

"
As has always been
," Tharizdun agreed.

The archfiend walked toward Gord, coming with slow and measured tread. Each step made him rise, and after but a handful of paces Tharizdun strode over a solid, if stinking, surface toward his motionless adversary. Gord shifted Courflamme slightly, readying for some attack from the monster who opposed him.

"
Oh, no. Do not think so ill of me, dearest champion! Although I mourn the loss of my poor yeth as much as you grieve for your associates, I believe in fair hay. I came to you, so you shall have first blow
," he said with what seemed utmost sincerity. Then Tharizdun spread his arms, palms down. Naked and bearing no arms, he advanced several more slow steps. "
There. Am I not at sword's length now? If you wish, I shall move in closer — just command me, champion. Here I stand, naked and unresisting. Strike
!"

Gord needed no urging. Courflamme came downward in an arc that met the exposed neck of the archfiend truly. Gord's whole body shook from the impact of the blade upon Tharizdun's unmoving form. Courflamme shattered at the stroke, its whole falling into a colorless powder that drifted downward as do ashes from a dead fire when disturbed.

As if reflexively, Tharizdun's right arm jerked around. and his open hand struck Gord in the same place the longsword had encountered the archfiend's neck There was a dry snap, and Gord fell to the floor of the cavern. His head lay at a right angle to his body, and only convulsive twitchings animated him. "
Oh, my! Did I hurt you
?" Tharizdun smiled as he spoke. The smile broadened, spread across his face, and behind it came the monstrous sound of Evil triumphant. "
And so it is finished, and I am Master of All!
" the archfiend shouted. His triumph abruptly ceased as he saw faint light surrounding his adversaries' bodies — Gord, the dark elf, Gellor too. "
Entropy
?"

"I have destroyed the bands," the leaden voice sounded, seeming to come from the three corpses.

"Stop, you fool! If you destroy those bands I'll — " Tharizdun clipped off his sentence there. It was obviously too late. The three dead were becoming as ashen as the dust of Courflamme.

"Now as to ordering things here, Tharizdun," Entropy started to drone.

The archfiend sent the ponderous presence a million miles distance with an irritated flick of his hand. Here was a war he could truly enjoy!

Chapter 25

THERE MIGHT HAVE BEEN SERIOUS BICKERING indeed, had not the butler intervened. As often, the maids had spent too much time in gossip, and too little in preparation for the great occasion. Even the head cook had become involved in whatever little dispute the maids had entered.

Time to put a stop to this, thought the butler. "No more from either of you, hear? There's too much work to be done in short time for such wagging of tongues and wasting of energies, I'll have you know. If any of you have extra energy, I'll be happy to assign you tasks in my buttery. . ."

The maids sniffed, but busied themselves nonetheless. The head cook bustled away without comment either, though muttering something under her breath, as she went, about having to fix dainties for a thousand. In truth the kitchens were in something approaching an uproar, and drink as the guests might, food would be more in demand than wine, ale or spirits in the immediate future.

Soon after the arrival of the butler, others of the palace's officers drifted in. Steward, chamberlain, constable, sergeant-at-arms, chancellor, and even the keeper of the wardrobe were soon gathered in the great room. Then usher, porter, and verderer joined in the conference. "Is it true that all five of the Kings of Avillon are to be here?" one of their number asked.

The steward ticked them off by rote: "Albion, Caledonia, Cymru, Hybernia, Lyonnesse — yes, ail of them, and soon too."

The porter, being perhaps the least experienced of the palace officials, was agog at that. "All the way from those strange kingdoms to Hy Brazeal! For as strange a union — "

The chancellor shushed the fellow instantly. "Speak no ill of your betters!" The porter tried to become inconspicuous, and the talk circled quickly to other subjects. Then the knot of functionaries dissolved, for there was a myriad of things to accomplish and only a few hours left for them to manage their tasks. Even with staffs varying in size from only a handful, in the case of the porter, to the steward's scores, there never seemed to be enough hands.

"He comes!" an equerry said hastily. The uproar of preparation increased at those words, then suddenly calmed to become an almost orchestrated movement like a dance. Guards snapped to attention, servitors stood ready, and all but the most important of ministerial and domestic staff found their assigned places and routine functions for such an occasion.

The master of the palace entered through the great double doors of the hall. "All is in readiness. Your Sagacity," the steward pronounced.

As if there might be some untruth in his servant's assertion, the master surveyed things around most carefully. Finally, after a long scrutiny, he agreed. "Very good. Major domo, place the household under the supervision of the seneschal. He shall have to miss the rite, but some must. . . ."

"Of course, sagacity. I will repair to the chapel immediately to see that the other officers are in their proper places." With a bow and smile of thanks, the steward departed.

There was nothing else for him to do but to take his own place in the temple area and greet the arriving guests, noble, royal, and those of yet more exalted status. Think of it! Well, upon reflection, he was himself now a "personage', one to whom even emperors bowed. The business of being Demiurge was still strange and a bit uncomfortable to him, but considering the alternative, there was no comparison. "I'll get used to it . . ."

"Your pardon, Sagacity? I did not understand you properly. ..."

"Never mind, third equerry. I simply expressed a thought out loud."

* * *

". . . and join together in union inseparable for eternity the two great estates here come together. Now shall the King of the one bestow his kiss upon the Queen of the other," intoned the pontiff as he beamed effusively upon the royal couple before him and the great assemblage of guests seated beyond. Upon seeing that the proper embrace had been accomplished, the priest resumed his ceremony, voice resonant, obviously well trained for ritual orations lasting for what seemed an eternity to those little interested in such things.