Dance of Demons

Chapter 3

It was a black vortex filled with motes of disgusting colors. The motion of the bilious green, rotten gray, putrescent yellow, and livid violet glows as they whirled and mixed with a riot of ineffable motes of other hues, was sufficient to sicken the viewer. Intestines churned in nauseous counterpoint to the evolutions of those vile-colored little gleams as they surfaced and sank within the growing maelstrom. The sight of that, the terrible wrongness of it all, caused brains to ache, thoughts to turn inward in a desperate desire to escape. Wrenching gut joined wracked brain in denial of it all. Still the vortex grew, intensified, and became omnipresent. Then the sounds reached out, and with them came the indescribable odors. It was too much for any normal mind to bear.

"Is. . this. ."

"The Abyss? Yes. Exactly as pictured for me by the Hierophants," Gord said. With a great deal of effort, he managed to speak to Gellor without choking on the gorge that was rising in his throat.

Gellor swallowed hard and with crabbed fingers managed to pull his leather eye patch down to cover the enchanted gem that served as his left eye. "Your energy is greater than mine, Gord, or else your constitution is stronger. Either way, I can’t view the place through the ocular. Too much can be seen that way."

"Not likely, you old wolf!" Gord countered, squeezing his comrade's shoulder in a gesture of both sharing and reassurance. Gord, as the champion of Balance, had been imbued with a deep and lasting vitality from many supernatural sources. In all, however, the one-eyed troubador was his equal. Gellor too had received energies, been gifted with power, and granted strength beyond the ken of mortals. "I'd wager it's the perspective, not the prospect, which so disconcerts you."

That remark, meant in Jest but taken more seriously, gave Gellor pause. Gord obviously referred to their situation and status. Always in the past it had been the bard who knew more, discovered more, and was in charge. Gord had been like an apprentice, a wayward nephew, then almost a protege. Now the roles were reversed, and Gellor accompanied his young friend as a lieutenant. Gord shared information, but there were certain things Gellor was not privy to, despite that. That circumstance existed because of the responsibility the young man bore, and because Gord must bear it, not because Gord desired to surpass his friend or to dominate him. "Perhaps you do see things better than I," Gellor finally said as the spinning vortex loomed to fill the whole of their universe. "I am unused to reliance on another, albeit even a minor dependence and from a bosom companion."

"This is a fearsome thing we do," Gord said. "Who can feel anything but dread when confronting the mouth of the Abyss?"

"It is like no other plane," Gellor said with a choked voice. "You have walked in Shadow, dwelled on the sphere of the Catlord, and sojourned in aether and astrality; but this. ."

"Don't forget I've brushed the interlinked planes of the elements, Gellor — even seen the fuicrum of positive and negative, sailed upon the vast Ocean of Thought."

The grizzled troubador nodded vigorously at that. "None of which could have prepared you for. . this!" he nearly shouted, waving wildly to indicate the now all-encompassing expanse of the first tier of the chaotic evil sphere known as the Abyss, the realm of all demonkind. "I have in my time had to deal with the charnel vistas of Acheron, and seek certain objects in the riotous horror of Pandemonium. Not even those places prepared me for what we now must face!"

"Face? More than that, dear friend, more! We are to enter, traverse, and make this place our own,"

Gord said with a grim smile.

After being armed, armored, and equipped with all that the masters of neutrality could provide, he and the bard had simultaneously touched the intricately worked buckles of their girdles. Each buckle was imbued with those dweomers that enabled the two to traverse the infinity of places that constitutes the cosmos, the endless spheres of the multiverse. Each device was rune-worked, sigil-covered, studded, and bore a spiderweb tracery of marks in strange and rare metals. A touch and a thought; then Gord and Gellor were no longer in the realm of Rexfelis, master of all felines. One moment there was the assembly of the Lords of Balance; the next instant, Gord and his companion were elsewhere.

In the pearlescent twilight of the Aethereal Plane, Gord and Gellor fairly glowed with the strength of their internal powers, while the many magical items each bore radiated intense auras of their own. When Gellor remarked on the rather obvious locating and identifying effect coming from this emanation of dweomer, that caused Gord to consider cloaking both of them. By merely concentrating on his own amulet, a device that screened its wearer from magical locating and spying, the young champion was able to determine what needed to be done. By mentally weaving a screen of force to close in the radiations, by bending some forces and by altering others, he was able to dim the aura around them.

"How's that?" Gord had asked his companion as the two strode along the glowing gray path that their senses interpreted for them as the environment of the place. In truth, human senses, even many supernatural ones, could not properly interpret the aethereal realm as it was in actuality.

"Better," Gellor replied as he stopped and gazed first at the young thief, then at himself. "Less than beacons, now, we two, but bright still. I think we will bring attention to ourselves despite your best efforts, Gord."

Gellor's young companion shook his dark head. "Normally I would agree with you, but look at the distortion just in the near distance. See the paling of colors? The dimming of light?"

"Yes," Gellor admitted, having studied all that surrounded them for the space of many heartbeats. "There is something wrong. …"

Gord shrugged. "Wrong? Perhaps, perhaps not. But there is something unnatural to this plane. It seems to screen us from it — it from us, too. Were Basiliv extant in the world I'd think he had managed it, but with the Demiurge passed elsewhere, I think we are being cloaked by another agency."

"So which force aids us?" Gellor asked uncertainly.

"The one of Entropy," Gord replied flatly. "And I don't believe that one interposes for our real benefit."

"So?"

"So we forge onward," the champion of neutrality said, shooting the troubador a hard smile. "I plan nothing good for such a thing as it is, either; that makes us even. . once the greatest of evils is dealt with!"

Gellor shook his head, wondering if Gord was suddenly overcome with a hubris brought on by the infusion of power he had been granted. Yet he said nothing further and followed Gord's lead. There were whorls and streamers of various hues evident in the milky nebulousness of the aether. Where these colors were most intense they went, passing through the fringes of the elemental spheres to gain the manifold branches and loops of the Plane of Probability. In all time and none at all the two heroes traversed the elemental planes and probability's sphere and could thus pass onto the astral realm. It was as if they suddenly stepped into the center of an infinite bubble. There was nothing supporting them, yet their feet were firmly planted. Above them the cosmos grew bright and brilliant, while beneath their armored feet spread gloom of somber and ugly hues. Gellor gestured toward a well of inky darkness.

The Abyss," Gord agreed. "Let us hurry."

That is how the pair came to the insanity-provoking maelstrom that now surrounded them, moments before Gord had said they had to face and conquer the many strata of the realm of demonkind. When he heard his friend speak thus, Gellor commented, "No two can ever subjugate such a madness as this place, Gord. Not if we had every atom of energy of every deify opposed to the demons!"

That's no more than the simple truth," the young thief agreed with a smile of encouragement. "When I said we must make this place our own I meant we would venture through it, dispossess those opposed to our purposes, and bend the others to our will. Never would any but those of netherspawn dream of actually possessing this vile agglomeration of forsaken planes!"

The grizzled bard had to chuckle at that "Thinking aloud, as it were, has definite disadvantages now that both of us employ mind speech, mind search. Instant thoughts allow no modification through reflection in the course of articulation of the basic ideas. We are both being too literal, too serious."

"I get your point. This is a serious business, yet we must keep our good humor, uplifted spirit, the sense of true reality in the multiverse. If we dwell too much on the abyssal realms, both of us will surely lose perspective — even sanity."

That and more," Gellor agreed telepathically. "So what do we face here in the vestibule of demons?"

"I see this area as a no-demon's-land, more or less," Gord told the troubador aloud. He needed to hear the sound of his own voice to bring himself firmly into the reality of the Abyss as a mere portion of an infinite series of places, states, conditions and energies. "It is the common entry point to the hundreds of realms which are below, a wilderness of lurking monstrosities and roving packs of outcasts. This first tier is a place where not even the weakest of demonlings dwell; instead, it is the habitat of terrible things which guard the deeper spheres."

At that the bard turned up the leather covering of his gem-faceted ocular, viewing the surroundings carefully as if wishing to confirm his companion's words. "Faugh!" Gellor said after completing his survey. "This is a disgusting place. What can live in it?"

"Many things, methinks," Gord replied slowly, gazing off beyond Gellor's right shoulder. "In fact, here comes a welcoming party now!"

The pack that approached was indeed no puny force of scavengers vomited up from below. The demon-beasts were elephantine in size, and their aspect was a nightmare phantasmagoria. As soon as Gellor turned to view their approach, the monsters sensed discovery and rushed at the two companions in a thundering charge. Bellows, hoots, and screams of hunger, blood lust, and cruel anticipation accompanied the mad stampede.

As the bulking demon-beasts rushed toward the intruders, the bard had time to notice that there were many smaller, shadowy shapes alongside and behind the herd. Hippo-bodied things with snake necks and beaked heads lumbered alongside bearlike and mastodonian demons with equally incongruous appendages. Smaller but no less ferocious ones accompanied the great beasts, evidently planning to share in the feasting after the gigantic monsters had done the work. All that for two small people. Here brawn evidently ruled over brain.

Gellor brought forth his ivory kanteel, adjusted one of the golden pegs, and gently stroked the silver strings of the little harp. A ripple of beautiful notes washed outward, and the demon-beasts reacted as if they had been struck by a tldal wave.

When the sounds from the enchanted strings of the instrument struck, fully a dozen of the massive monsters were bowled over, while a half-hundred of the lesser scavengers were blown away, some actually torn to pieces in the process. Gord saw that, noting that already fresh bands of these creatures were being attracted to the scene by what was occurring. Down and wounded horrors were being torn and devoured by those of their fellows not so disabled.

Courflamme seemed to spring from its scabbard as the young champion drew the sword's glittering blade to confront the onrush. Somehow Gord knew that this was the correct thing to do, even though the marvelous weapon seemed a minuscule defense in the face of such an attack. The pommel of Courflamme flashed heat, then chill to his hand, and the whole sword shimmered and pulsed.

As this occurred the blade sundered itself into two portions. Gord held a bright band of silvery hue with an ebon-flamed core while its counterpart, a sword of Jet with a coruscating heart of diamond radiance, sprang forth to hover before him.

Gord knew instinctively what he had to do. "Go!" he said aloud to the dark blade as if it were a living entity. "Seek the demons out — spare none!" As he uttered that command, Gord willed the weapon to arrow toward the monstrous pack that still came ahead. Many of the demon-beasts had escaped the effects of the kanteel's music, and these things still thundered on, bent on devouring him and his companion.

The sable-hued sword sped out as if it were a bolt. Straight through the leading behemoth it shot, passing through the demon-beast from front to rear. The thing shrieked in agony at the passage, gouts of gore fountained from it, and it collapsed into putrid jelly an instant later. That was hardly the end of it, however. The long blade arced and spun in the foul atmosphere of the uppermost layer of the Abyss as if it were a faicon after a flock of doves. Back it came, sliced through a saurian neck chopped tree-trunk legs from under another of the chimerical demons, gutted a fourth, lopped the outstretched pincers of a fifth — all in the space of as many heartbeats.

Gellor found it difficult to play his ivory harp. After the initial chords had been struck, the kanteel seemed to turn and twist as if it wished to escape his fingers. The troubador knew it was the evil of the nethersphere resisting the music, not the magical instrument. Bringing forth power from within, Gellor controlled it by building a mental image of the little harp held steadily. He pictured his hands grasping it firmly yet gently, and then thought of his long fingers touching its silvern strings. The forces bent on preventing its playing were pushed back dispelled. With a grim look of satisfaction at the success he had thus achieved, Gellor placed his fingertips upon the row of argent wires and once again sent out the sweet, ascending ripples of sound from the kanteel. Predatory demons a mile distant turned away from the wash of music he brought forth.

Initially Gord had concentrated on the ebon twin of the bright blade he clasped in his right hand. Its attacks upon the pack of great demon-beasts had been envisioned by him, and the sword seemed to respond as if it were an extension of the young champion's will. The herd of ringing lesser monstrosities no longer surrounded the two men. Those nearer to Gellor had been slain, wounded, or driven off by the music the bard brought forth from his magical harp. Before Gord, though, there was still a horde of howling horrors, and three or four of the towering demon-beasts were nearly upon him. Letting the dark brand do its work as it would, Gord prepared to face the onslaught with the shining portion he still held.

A leering thing with a froglike mouth splitting its wolverine head was almost upon the young champion. Despite its porcine body and flipper legs, the monster moved fast. Gord raised the diamond-bright part of Courflamme, aiming at the demon's outthrust head. The sword's tip suddenly spat forth a black bolt of force. The crackling ebon dart sheared off the top of the fiend's head, and the impact of it actually flipped the demon's massive body over in a somersault.

Without pausing to view his work Gord turned and faced his next foe, now aiming the long blade as if it were a wand. Again the inky core of the weapon sent forth a blast of dark power, and another of the charging demons died. It became almost mechanical thereafter Gord pointed the blade, willed destruction. and another monstrous beast crashed down dead. Again, again, yet again. Soon a half-circle of twitching demon corpses formed a barrier in front of him, a wall so great that the young champion could see nothing but its stinking height.

In desperation, Gord moved backward, readying for yet more of the terrible things to come pouring over the barrier of corpses. "I'll blast you all!" he shouted defiantly, cutting a semicircle in the air before him with the bright blade. The gesture brought a withering geyser of soot-tongued flame from the sword's crystal tip, and the inferno of black fire disintegrated the reeking pile of demon-flesh. A dozen of the smaller beasts, busy feeding on the bodies of their larger kin, were caught by the torrent of destruction and likewise made into corpses. A handful of the massive fiends, the slowest of the pack, suddenly floundered to a halt at the sight of what had occurred. Even such minuscule brains as theirs could discern the fate that awaited, should they come closer to the small man who had seemed such easy prey. They flopped and rolled and turned, seeking escape.

Gord didn't allow that. Even as his comrade sent forth fresh ripples of sweet sound to play havoc among those demons who still opposed the troubador, Gord leaped through the breach in the massive wall of dead fiends, and with arm outstretched brought his blade into play again. It was as if he were skewering tied fowls. Black radiance sped from Courflamme's point, and a lumbering thing convulsed in its death agony. Another elephantine demon shot yards into the air as the burning ebon force struck and slew it. Foul thing after even more disgusting one yammered and went into nothingness as the weapon sent its destruction through each in turn. Straight as arrows the bolts of force sped, well beyond the range of the best bows. In minutes not a single living demon was anywhere in sight before Gord. Then the young man turned to see how Gellor was faring.

A rippling peal of harmony greeted Gord's turning. "Most impressive, my young friend," Gellor told him with a second little run of the kanteel's silver strings as an accent to the compliment. "My little harp sent the demons tumbling and breaking well enough — but that blade of yours spits out magical bolts as if it were Cabbac's own Baton of Blazes."

"Not an impossible inspiration, Gellor. After all, the Uncaring One is of neutral disposition," Gord said dryly. Both men chuckled, for they knew that the god of all magics was indeed uninterested in affairs of any sort except those that pertained directly to dweomers and their spinning. Cabbac did not prevent his lieutenant from siding with Balance, but the father of magics himself remained purposely unaware, aloof. "Seriously, though, I do think that one of the Twelve Great Magicks of Cabbac was set within the sword."

"Quite possible," Gellor concurred as he eyed the desolate, dun landscape that stretched into infinity around them. Leprous ochre growths and lIvid gashes of terra cotta were the only relief to the dull, decayed brown that colored this part of the plane. "Ugh!" the troubador added, noticing the ground that squished under his feet for the first time since the two had trod upon this tier of the Abyss. "Nothing in this place is right or clean!"

"A bit cleaner now, with those heaps of offal manuring the ground." Gord quipped, spitting at the corpse of the nearest demon.

"Shit to shit," Gellor agreed. "But where to next?"

"We jump from this place to the buttes off there," the young champion told the bard. In the vast distance there were several tall, flat-topped hills rising like uicers from the mud-colored terrain. "The entrance to the next spheres lies there."

Gellor didn't bother to ask his comrade how he knew that. The information was simply in Gord's brain. "Need we progress from first to second, second to third, and so on?" the troubador inquired, dread evident in his tone.

"Nay. Whatever levels of this cesspool we can bypass, we will," Gord told his friend. "We need not prove anything, accomplish anything, save reach that place where Graz'zt and his allies wage war with the throng of demonkind who side with Iuz. From the central portals, we can step onto any one of a score of these spheres," Gord said reflectively. "I think, though, that we must opt to pass to the eighth plane next, and from thence make our way slantwise through several of the interposing levels, to reach the midrealms as quickly as possible."

"Then why not pass directly to the lowest tier we can attain from the central gates? There, I perceive, is a portal which enters the three hundred third of the spheres of demonkind."

"Think on that again, Gellor," Gord said as if instructing a pupil. "Does your mind note anything unusual about the plan?"

The bard concentrated a moment, then nodded curtly. "Right. I sense a clot of evil blocking that path."

"You sense right, Gellor," Gord confirmed. "I felt it immediately. Infestix and his rotting lieutenants are gathered there. He has gathered with him a legion of daemonkind, along with sundry demons and other scum of the netherplanes to greet us. His decayed brain labors for naught, and by my route we sidestep his trap and foil the ambush with ease."

Although Gellor didn't mind playing a secondary role to the Champion of Balance, the one-eyed hero was by no means along merely to serve as a ready sword. His own mind was at work on the problem, too. "A sly demon spy reports our slaughter here to the Lord of Death even now, Gord," he told the young thief. "Infestix will soon enough note our route and send forth his fastest companies to block the way. From the eighth tier let us go directly to the Soulless Sounding.,

"Bold, very bold. Yet I think you are wiser than I, my old friend. It is a dangerous and demanding way, but one which only the lords of the Abyss can normally manage. No being less than a netherlord can survive its passage. It will take us longer, prove more perilous, but allow us the greater chance of swift and sure arrival when all things are taken into account. Let us go there, then!"

Side by side, the two heroes strode across the endless leagues of the foul layer that was the entry to the Abyss. In a short time, thanks to their innate force, they came to the lowering bluffs that housed the gateways to the next twenty tiers of the agglomeration of planes that formed the depth of evil called demonrealm, the Abyss. A few hundred lesser demons were there to contest their entry, prevent them from going on; but those malign guards died in vain, swiftly and without great effort from the pair. A clear and bright melody from the kanteel, some dark and deadly lightnings from the rejoined sword, Courflamme, and none stood to oppose them.

Bottomless pit, toothed maw, steely sphincter, raging cauldron of lava, grinding millstone, and more. Each such obstacle disguised a means of entry to another of the many tiers beneath the first With a sharp prod from his sword, Gord caused the metallic sphincter to open, for it warded the way to the eighth sphere. "Quickly now, Gellor," he told the bard. "As soon as we arrive below, we must make for the Soulless Sounding with all speed!"

Gellor shook his head in assent, leaped through the opening, and vanished. Gord followed. The razoredged circle snapped closed, but it was too late. Champion and hero now stood upon demonkind's eighth tier.