Sea of Death

Chapter 3

By morning the group was miles away from the city, but they had been moving in a direction that made no sense to Gord. When he questioned the other man, Zulmon explained his deception. "We ride southeast into the middle regions of Ket — but the garments we wore at the city gate last night were of Tusmiti sort. I think that pursuit will sweep the northwest and west, expecting us to head for Tusmit," the big nomad said. Then he gave out a barking laugh and added, "Who in their right mind would seek safety from the agents of the Marcher Lord by riding deeper into his very realm?"

"That is a novel approach to escape," Gord commented dryly. "It also places me in a most undesirable situation, for I desire to travel southwest."

"Why that way, Gord of Greyhawk?" The Pearl asked in her sweet voice. "Why not just come with us and dwell with Zulmon's tribe?"

Before the young thief could answer, Zulmon spoke to the point. "We will turn due southward soon enough, Gord. The Toosmik River flows to our left hand, and as it bends southward so too will our path." The tall hillman looked inquiringly at Gord, and the black-garbed thief nodded for the Kirkir to speak on. "The land between the great forest you easterners call Briartangle and the river is a wild and lawless region. Bandits might try to molest us, but none of Ket's soldiery will be in our way. We will ford the Toosmik and be in the hills by tomorrow evening."

True to Zulmon's prediction, the three riders came to the first slopes of the Pennor Hills before the sun set the next day. The locals avoided them, and a handful of motley-dressed outlaws posed the only threat they encountered. The Kirkir's huge bow, so large the nomad had to dismount to nock an arrow and draw it, easily discouraged the ragged men from coming close enough to ply their weapons against the three.

The Pearl was silent for several hours as they rode, her expression impassive. Finally, when the sun had all but disappeared below the horizon and Zulmon decided they would stop for the night, the girl dismounted with a huff. As if getting off the horse was a signal for her to begin talking again, she told her troubles to no one in particular. "I hate horseback riding!" she shouted. "I hate it!" This was the first time Gord had ever heard her voice sound so harsh, and the dancing girl looked bedraggled and cross, too. "I will never be able to dance again if I must sit on a horse for so long, and I want a soft bed and a place to bathe!"

"I am sorry, my golden dove," Zulmon told her softly, "but we can rest only a few hours here. In but one more day of riding we will be in the lands of my people. Then all will be made right."

The Pearl grumbled and still looked miserable and unhappy, but she sighed with resignation and tried to get comfortable on the hard ground. "Ow! Rocks stab me all over," she cried, "and the smell of horse sweat makes me sick!"

Zulmon offered to take the first watch, so Gord found his own piece of flat ground, lay down on his side, and tried to get to sleep. Meanwhile, Zulmon helped his intended bride get more comfortable, assured her over and over that soon all would be fine, and urged her to rest while he stood guard over her. Things were not going to be all mare's milk and honey for this couple, Gord reflected. He knew a little of nomadic life, and these hills would not provide the every comfort The Pearl seemed to desire. Nonetheless, he thought to himself, eventually she would get used to it. A better man than Zulmon would be unlikely for her. The adjustment, however, would be difficult for both, he mused. Then Gord fell asleep. When Zulmon woke him later for his turn at the watch, The Pearl was sleeping fitfully — but at least she was sleeping, and she dozed that way until dawn.

The Al-babur tribe welcomed the three of them joyfully when they rode up to the camp late the next afternoon. Gord was surprised and mildly impressed to find that Zulmon was the first son of the tribe's hetman — a fact that Zulmon, to his credit, had not seen fit to reveal. The young man's return with four splendid horses and the gorgeous girl who was to be his wife was more than sufficient cause for the whole group to celebrate wildly. Gord was accepted as a member of their people by the hetman, named Mulha, after Zulmon described the fight in the Dar Peshdwar and the young adventurer's victory over so many swordsmen.

Like all the Kirkirs, this tribe was not truly nomadic. The Al-babur built stone villages and their women tended crops. Periodically the tribe would move from one village site to another, each place matching one of the four seasons. The men of the tribe hunted and fought. Occasionally there would be disagreements or even feuds between the tribes, but usually the Al-babur and the other Kirkir tribesmen made war upon the wandering Bayomens and the roving Yollites. Their celebration on this evening of Zulmon's return was a dual one, for it was also time to move from the village they occupied in high summer to the fortress in which the tribe dwelled during the coming autumn months.

Just as promised, the latter part of his journey with Zulmon had taken Gord back in the direction he wished to go. And with the move of the Al-babur tribe, if he remained with the group, he would be taken farther along his intended path, ending up in the hills between the southern grasslands claimed by the Yollites and the broad steppes where the Bay-omen tribesmen roamed in bands with their herds of grazing animals.

"Stay with us this season, Gord of Greyhawk," The Pearl pleaded when the three of them found themselves alone inside Zulmon's tent during a lull in the revelry. "I am bored here, and it will be nice to have someone who knows more of civilized life to converse with."

A scowl crossed Zulmon's countenance momentarily when he heard that statement, but he did not allow it to remain and even managed a slight smile to go with his next words. "As my bride wishes, Gord my brother, let it be. I too ask you to remain with us. A warrior such as you will be a great honor to the Al-babur, and you will soon become wealthy and respected. Already my father tells me there are two men who wish to have their daughters married to you!"

Gord had to laugh at that last remark. "I am honored," he said quickly, so as to show no offense to his host, "but imagine a man such as I trying to settle down — and with two women, not just one! I would be crazed or fleeing within a month. I am much honored, Zulmon my brother, but my feet can never be still — and I have duty to consider also. On the morrow I must bid you farewell."

"You are too young for such wandering," The Pearl said petulantly.

Zulmon started to retort angrily on Gord's behalf, but Gord managed to interject his own reply. "Not so, dear sister. I look but a youngster of twenty summers, but I am older. The years have been kind to me…"

"Hah! At sixteen, warriors of the Al-babur tribe ride alone to steal horses from our enemies," the tall hillman told his wife-to-be. "You shame Gord by suggesting he is not equal to his manhood!"

Offering vague excuses, Gord managed to slip away from the two and go outside. He was greeted heartily by several warriors, and soon they all were drinking wine and talking of horses. The gathering lasted well into the night, with Zulmon's father repeatedly singing the praises of the young easterner who had so much to do with his son's safe return. When Gord departed the next morning, he was mounted on a small, swift stallion named Wind-eater, given to him by the leader of the Al-babur as a gift of thanks. The animal was far stronger than it looked, Mulha said, assuring Gord that it could run for hours without tiring. The young adventurer sat in a silver-studded saddle, and behind him were silver-embellished saddlebags filled with his old clothing and ample provisions. Gord now wore the garments of the Kirkir people over his mail shirt.

Before he left, Gord got himself alone for a moment with Zulmon and The Pearl, intending to say a quick good-bye. The girl spoke first. "I am sorry, Gord of Greyhawk, that I had to involve you in the unpleasantness at Dar Peshdwar," she said. "You understand, I know, that I did not wish to end my days as a harem slave." She was back in form, sounding seductive even while making an apology.

"It was my privilege to be of service, lady," Gord said, anxious to end the conversation and be on his way. But the girl insisted on explaining further.

"Omar, that pile of pig fat, planned to use me as an instrument to further his influence at the court of the Marcher Lord," The Pearl told him. "I tried everything to escape his toils, and Zulmon spoke on my behalf, but to no avail. When I salaamed before Zulmon in the traditional offering of my body, I was taking an enormous chance. I expected that Zulmon would be able to contend with fat Omar, as he did indeed. But I knew that both of us would need help to overcome or escape all of the force that Omar and the Shah Kufteer would use. I had a good idea that you, Gord of Greyhawk, would somehow interfere — but I could never have guessed how formidable you actually were."

"She speaks the truth," Zulmon interjected. "Each time I sought to come near The Pearl, Omar prevented it. Neither would he listen to any of my offers to purchase her. I am sure he was scheming with agents of Ket to place her within the seraglio at Jakif as a spy. Promises of freedom would have been made, of course, if she had provided all the information the Kettite agents demanded. Perhaps their promises might have been kept eventually — although poison after her usefulness had ended would have been more likely."

"Why did you think I might help?" Gord asked, finding himself drawn into the conversation despite his sense of urgency about leaving.

"Something in your eyes," The Pearl said. "You had no expression on your face, Gord, but your eyes were like a window to your heart. Those gray eyes looked at my dance, but they saw some other one performing. I could tell you were too much of a man not to hate the likes of Omar and the Shah Kufteer, but I could only hope that you would somehow help us to escape from the Dar Peshdwar by using those straight blades of yours."

"I could have died," Gord said, a bit of irritation creeping into his voice as he realized that he had been taken advantage of.

"As I could have — and The Pearl too," Zulmon said. "But why look as if you have just learned that your best stallion has become sterile?" the tall nomad added, his dark eyes crinkled with mirth. "You helped and added much glory to yourself in doing so. Now we are happy, and you are an honored blood brother of the Al-babur tribe! I will not beg you to stay with us, Gord, but I pledge you my brotherhood and the welcome of the Kirkir always."

Forsaking offers of horses, flocks of goats, and many wives, the young man rode west without looking back into the steep hills behind. There were many leagues to go and much to consider before he entered Yolakand. One hundred leagues, In fact — more than three hundred miles of travel across the open, rolling plains that stretched westward from the Pennors farther than anyone knew. Just why he was bound for the great city of the Yollites, Gord still wasn't certain, but go there he would.

As he cantered along on Windeater, Gord recalled The Pearl's comment about his being too young, and he chuckled to himself. How old was he? It was a fine question, and he wasn't really sure of the answer.

Since the time when he grew up as a child of Greyhawk's Old City slums, Gord had had no accurate idea of his age. His foster mother, such as she had been, never told him — if she knew, which Gord doubted. Old Leena cared only for herself, never for Gord, except as a means of providing things that Leena could not otherwise get. His adolescent years as a beggar and thief, the time he spent studying at the city's great university, and his periods of traveling in the wide world he could reckon. Counting in the time between travels, when he had roamed throughout Greyhawk as Blackcat, the most successful thief and burglar the city had ever known, and as Gord the free-wheeling gambler end rake, and adding that total to the other years, Gord arrived at a good reckoning of his age. He also took into account the time he had spent in the strange realm of the Catlord, but he had the distinct impression that somehow he had not aged, or had aged only very slowly, during that time. All things considered, Gord's best estimate of his age was between twenty-eight and thirty. In light of this, he was always amazed nowadays to hear others remark on his youthful appearance — and when he viewed his reflection in a mirror, he was as puzzled as anyone else. Judging by looks, he was barely past twenty. Perhaps, Gord mused, this was a side effect from the time he had lingered in the Catlord's domain. Having nothing better to do while Wind-eater carried him west, Gord allowed his memory to drift back through the strange series of events that had brought him to this place and time…

He wrote an end to his adventures in the city of Greyhawk when Gord agreed to accompany his half-elven friend, Curley Greenleaf, on a quest for what the druid-ranger referred to as the Middle Key. It was a portion of an evil artifact meant to awaken a being who was the embodiment of all wickedness, should the three parts of the malign thing ever be joined. One evil group, known as the Scarlet Brotherhood, held the Initial Key. Gord and his comrades sought to gain the middle portion so as to keep the artifact from the grasp of those who promoted vile darkness. Although he and his group failed, the Middle Key fell into the hands of the half-demon Iuz — an outcome that was not all bad. That evil cambion had no more desire to see the whole artifact united than did the other forces of Oerth, either those on the side of good or those who sought balance between good and evil.

In the process of returning from this perilous mission, Gord encountered and fought a terrible creature — a devil in the form of a monstrous boar. In the process, the beast tore him to shreds and actually killed him! Gord was still amazed whenever he thought about this. The fiend was likewise slain in the awful contest, but it had no magical protection from death as did Gord.

The young thief stroked his ring idly as he recalled these events. On one other occasion, before confronting the devil-boar, he had been killed and then awoke to find himself in the otherworldly realm of one known as Rexfelis the Catlord — only Gord hadn't realized immediately that he had been dead and then restored to life. The Catlord told him that the green cat's-eye chrysoberyl he wore set in his ring was special. This ring, which Gord had somehow become attuned to, had been made by Rexfelis himself, along with eight others of similar sort, for some purpose that the lord did not reveal to the tan-skinned young adventurer. Even after his first rescue, Gord hadn't believed the Catlord s assertion that the ring had the power to restore him from death nine times, the proverbial number of lives a cat was said to have. The second time he found himself recovering in the realm of the Cat-lord, however, there was no doubt left in his mind.

As he recuperated, Gord experienced nothing but comfort and pleasure, and he was tempted not to leave. After all that had befallen him, it was no wonder that he wished to linger in the strange but peaceful domain of Rexfelis and his cats. There were felines of all sorts there — subjects of the Cat-lord? Perhaps. But if subjects these animals and others were, they served willingly and from respect. Gord himself was a werepanther of sorts, for the ring he wore also empowered him to take the form of a black leopard whenever he chose. For all of the ring's benefits, Rexfelis never demanded anything of Gord. Homage was freely given and majestically received by the Catlord. In addition to the attraction of the fascinating nature and beauty of this realm, Gord was tempted to stay for another reason… and her name was Tirrip.

She was a human, yet she was a tiger. She explained to Gord that on her own world the dominant species was of the latter sort, and that only here, with Rexfelis, could her folk take both human or feline form at will. Gord didn't care that she wasn't really a human. He loved this strange female, and he and Tirrip had spent uncounted days and nights together. They roamed the place in cat bodies or in human ones, as they felt at the moment. He hoped that their idyll would never end… but it did, of course. One day Tirrip told him sadly that she had to return to her own world, for a reason she would not reveal. There was discussion — argumerit on his part, actually — but that could not alter things. She left a few days later, and afterward Gord felt more alone than ever before, even more than when he had been sentenced to the workhouse in the Old City of Greyhawk for theft when he was still a very small boy.

After seeing Gord mope around for too long a time, Rexfelis summoned the young man to join him in his private area of the seemingly endless villa that served as court and home for the Catlord and who knew how many cats of all sorts. Stroking a sleek, black tomcat, the Master of Cats said, "I am journeying to Oerth soon, Gord, to the town of Bardillingham. Will you come?"

Gord was perplexed. "Bardillingham? That name is unfamiliar. In what land does the town lie?"

"Have you been here so long that you forget your own world, Gord?" Rexfelis laughingly asked the dark-haired young man.

Gord wasn't quite certain how to take that remark. It seemed like a jest, but then again he had to admit to himself that perhaps he had tarried in the Catlord's lair too long. "No, Catmaster," he said carefully in reply. "I fear that my real knowledge of the Flanaess is confined to that bit I have traveled in and what I read about other parts in books when I was a youngster at college."

"Little portion of the Flanaess? Come, come, my boy. From all I have heard, you have covered a good bit of eastern Oerik. It is not surprising that you know nothing of Bardillingham, though," Rexfelis went on. "It isn't much of a town and lies in a place most folk are ignorant of. The community boasts scarcely three thousand inhabitants, and it lies deep within the land governed by the Demiurge Basiliv. You might know the place as the Vale of the Archimage."

The Flanaess was named for the old race originally dwelling in the heart of the continent of Oerik, one of the four great land masses of Oerth.

The Flan nation was ages gone, although Flan peoples still inhabited the continent, some still relatively unmixed with the other races that had eventually settled the Flanaess and carved their kingdoms and states thereon. Having wandered the east as a gypsylike entertainer and later as an adventurer, Gord had seen some of this territory, and then more of it when he had sought the Middle Key. The Vale of the Archimage, however, was a near-fabulous place, or so he had thought, supposedly lying somewhere in the mountains that separated the Baklunish states of the west from the Oeridian and Suel nations of the east. For all of his travels, Gord had been no farther west than Veluna, and Rexfelis's definite words about the Vale of the Archimage were music to his ears.

"You mean there is such a place?"

"Yes, my friend, there certainly is… and a Bardillingham town, too. The headwaters of the Chaban River rise in the Barring Mountains range, form a series of deep, cold lakes, and have carved a great, lush valley in the eons since this watercourse began flowing. This is the Vale of the Archimage — at least, so it is named on those maps that show anything there at all. The so-called Archimage is actually a Demiurge, and his name is Basiliv. I have business with him."

"Bardillingham?"

"That is the only real community in the whole of the valley. There are some scattered villages and hamlets, but little else. The town is rather dreary."

"I have read a few things about the Vale of the Archimage," said Gord. "Whether the tales are fanciful or not, it is said that strangers are… most unwelcome there."

"You'll be welcome enough if you should care to come along," Rexfelis purred reassuringly. "I, of course, am no stranger at all, and whomever I bring with me is accorded acceptance and respect. Besides, Basiliv has asked to meet you."

This last statement made Gord very uneasy. The reputation of this secluded land and its ruler was anything but amiable. And why would the Catlord be discussing him with Demiurge Basiliv in the first place? Gord didn't think he wanted to know, so he suggested to Rexfelis another course. "Hmmm," he murmured, pretending to consider the matter carefully. "Perhaps another time, Master Cat, for I have things to attend to in Greyhawk soon now. Perhaps thereafter I can travel westward and pay my respects to the Demiurge. Meanwhile, could you not simply transport me back to my home city?"

Rexfelis laughed softly. "Diplomatic, very diplomatic! I would indeed fulfill your request if I could, Gord," the Catlord said with a sincere smile, "but many powers weave and interlock over the Flanaess now, as they have done for some time past. All is not well there, you know — but I suppose you do not need to concern yourself with such matters any more. To give you a short answer, though, I am able to send you back to Oerth via the terminus that Basiliv's force keeps open and operative. You must go there if you wish to return to your world. But you can feel at home here, too, Gord. You may spend all of your life here if you wish, for you are now certainly of my own ilk," the Master Cat added warmly.

His heart sinking, Gord asked, "Cannot one of your power go where he wills?"

"I? Yes indeed. I can go where I desire. You would not survive the rigors of such a work, however. Would you use another of those precious lives — only to end up back here where you started?"

"Pray, Catlord, tell me what is going on," Gord asked him earnestly.

"Time here is different," Rexfelis explained. "Sometimes a day here is a month long, by Oerth reckoning, while the obverse might prove true before or later. The months and months you have lingered here have been moving less rapidly on Oerth. Evil still strives to gain that tool which you have sought a part of. Many of the demons of the Abyss have united, melding their powers. They contend with the Hells and all others of evil, and in such warfare we all profit. Who can object if demon slaughters devil? Those great ones from the higher planes take a hand also, and strange twists and fluxes abound in the multiverse. It is quite impossible to use planar travel without expending great power, and even then there is risk. Established gates are now watched, traps are set, misdirection abounds. Basiliv is strong enough to maintain an unwarped gate. In this matter I assist him, naturally. Even the Demiurge is not strong enough by himself to hold against the ones now bestirring themselves."

Gord had no reason to doubt the truth of these words — or any others the Catlord spoke, for that matter. Still, he could not be entirely convinced that the course laid before him was the best one for him to follow. But after some more discussion and still with reluctance in his heart, Gord agreed to go with Rexfelis to the Vale of the Archimage.

Bardillingham was a plain and unattractive town. At least, that's the way Gord perceived it in comparison to places such as Greyhawk, Dyvers, Rel Mord, and even Wintershiven. Contrary to what he had read and heard about the Vale of the Archimage, these people seemed neither hostile nor secretive, and their town was anything but glamorous and lavish. The officials of Bardillingham received them with ceremony. The earl who resided in the nearby castle did them honor, and Gord was surprised to be included not just as the Catlord's guest but as some minor personage in his own right. Despite all the pomp and circumstance, he found the whole place uninteresting. After almost three days spent walking the corridors of the castle and the streets of Bardillingham, Gord was bored and impatient.

"When will I find out why I am here?" he asked Rexfelis in as polite a tone as he could muster.

That will come soon enough," said the Catlord. "In another day or so, Basiliv will be seeing us."

The next day, as Gord and Rexfelis were strolling through the town, the Catlord brought them both to the front steps of an unimposing stone building in the center of town, a site they had not yet visited. Gord had a feeling that their audience was about to take place — but could this be where the Demiurge held court? The place was barely large enough to contain a town bureau, let alone the sovereign of the land! When Gord made a remark to this effect, Rexfelis merely laughed and reassured his young charge that wonders were abundant in the strange realm ruled by Basiliv.

Once they were inside the building, Gord realized the truth of those words. Somehow, the interior of the place was as large as the largest palace Gord had ever heard of. He presumed that some mighty dweomer allowed a vast space to be contained within the small shell of the building. This was such a contrast to the drab and ordinary appearance of the rest of the town that Gord could not contain his wonderment. Rexfelis, of course, was considerably less impressed.

"Be not amazed. Others can manage this little trick, too," the Catlord told him. "Did you know, Gord, that when Basiliv is elsewhere, all this is too? Had we come yesterday, we would have found only a small and empty structure." Gord, feeling a bit embarrassed by his awestruck reaction, kept silent as he and the Catlord crossed under the archway that led to Basiliv's audience chamber.

Basiliv, wearing an impassive, businesslike expression, nodded in Gord's direction as if to acknowledge the young man's presence. After exchanging pleasantries with Rexfelis, the Demiurge addressed himself directly to the young adventurer.

"You no longer serve those of the Hierophants and the Cabal."

It was a statement of fact, not a question, and for a few seconds Gord wasn't sure how to reply. The affair of the Middle Key had left him feeling worn and disheartened, believing that he and his comrades had been little more than meaningless pawns in a struggle far beyond their comprehension. When that portion of the Artifact of Ultimate Evil was reported by Rexfelis to be in the possession of Iuz and his horrid associates, Gord had felt less than useless. The young man detested evil, that he was certain of. But he disliked being used, too. During the short silence that hung over the chamber, Gord decided that he would continue to strive against the ascendancy of malign powers as well as he could, but he intended to do so in his own way and as he chose to. He would have knowledge before he entered any new quest, and never again would he contest blindly if he had his way.

Tes, Great Demiurge, I am my own man," Gord said quietly to the waiting Basiliv.

A secret, knowing smile passed between the Demiurge and the Catlord. Neither sought to conceal the exchange. "None of us are actually quite that, young Gord of Greyhawk," Basiliv replied, smiling benignly. "Yet the desire to be one's own is admirable… if actions match ideals!"

Now Gord was truly puzzled. What could this great magic-user be talking about? And why was Rexfelis nodding in agreement? "I am at a loss, My Lord Demiurge, to know how to reply."

"No need. Your life is known to me, Gord. You have come far and accomplished much for one of so tender an age. Thank your progenitors for supplying you with such splendid genes! But let's get down to business, shall we?"

What on Oerth this bizarre spell-worker was speaking of, Gord had no idea. Genes? Perhaps they were some form of guardian genies — he didn't know. And what manner of business Gord and the Demiurge could possibly have between them was totally beyond him. Despite the awesomeness of the two figures he was with, the young man actually began to become annoyed. "It seems that you have the advantage of me, as does the Master of Cats," he said. "I am at a loss, as I already stated. I must know what is going on if I am to do anything at all!"

This brought laughter from both Demiurge and Catlord, and their laughter was both real and friendly. "Seldom does anyone manage to get the advantage of you these days, Master Gord," Basiliv said after composing himself. "Let us depart this too-formal audience hall for my private chambers," and so saying he got up without ceremony.

His guests followed him, and soon all three were seated in a crowded but comfortable study of some sort. Gord didn't recognize much of what lay around him, but there were books, maps, and charts in profusion along with the paraphernalia of dweomercraefting. There were also strange, large seats of padded and most comfortable sort for each of them. Refreshments floated in the air, trays of beverages and tidbits of tasty food that served each of them in turn — Catlord, Gord, and then Basiliv.

"Now, that's better," the Demiurge said contentedly as he leaned back in his chair and sipped the fruity concoction he had selected. "Rexfelis," he went on while looking at Gord, "you told me this one was unusual, but I hadn't appreciated until now just how unusual he might be."

"As always, dear Basiliv, I have a tendency to understate. Let us suppose it is simply a case of blood telling…"

With a shake of his large, black-maned head, Basiliv turned to stare at Rexfelis a moment, shook his head again, and returned his gaze to Gord. "So it is information you must have, is it? I shall now do my best to supply you with just that."

Then the Demiurge related to Gord how he had kept track of events in the past, events surrounding the three portions of the evil device that would awaken the slumbering Tharizdun, Lord of All EMI, the one who would weld demon and devil together and bend the Abyss and the Hells to his vile will. Basiliv said that he knew of the Scarlet Brotherhood's discovery and use of the Initial Key, and that he had done what he could to confuse them so that the middle portion of the artifact would not also fall into their hands.

"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.