Come Endless Darkness (13 page)

Gord allowed himself a moment to feel satisfaction, then inquired, "The elemental revealed who had summoned it to bring the storms?"

"Oh yes, eagerly too... after a time. The summoner, the one who commands the service of the netherfiend Krung, is one you might actually have heard of. He is from Greyhawk and uses many different appellations. It took us only a few hours to discover that, but we do not have his true name."

"Enough beating around the bush, Gellor," Gord said in the hard, impatient tone he had used so frequently of late. "What aliases does the scum use?"

"Undron Nalvistor is the one you may have heard, Gord. That is the name that the Assassins Guild of Greyhawk knows him by. Beanpole is the appellation that the urchins of the Low Quarter use, while his older neighbors there refer to him as Norund, a dotty gemner. Certain of the city's oligarchs utilize his talents, thinking the man to be named Rundon Tallman, a mystic and seer of no small power."

After pondering a minute, Gord shook his head slowly. "Odd. I have not heard those names at all. This one is a spider!"

"Spider and adder as well," Gellor concurred with a look of disgust and loathing on his lined countenance. Tet not so clever as he thinks himself to be — not by half! He used the air elemental to travel swiftly and safely from Greyhawk to Hardby. Then he masqueraded as a cleric, calling himself Brother Donnur, and insinuated himself onto a vessel bound for Safe-ton. How he knew that
Silver Seeker
was making for that same port speaks volumes in testimony of his connections with the nether realms.

"When he arrived in Safeton slightly in advance of
Seeker,
which was coming from the opposite direction, he assumed the guise of Graves, a navigator and river pilot. He fabricated a suitable tale, applied bribery freely, and got aboard
Seeker
as the one who would guide it safely up the Selintan to Greyhawk. That he did, but in the end only so that he could torture and murder the ship's captain and crew outside the city's high ramparts.

"His vile servants know his name as Gravestone. So too his masters use that name, in all likelihood. He is a rarity — perhaps a nonesuch, considering just who this Gravestone must bow down to. The creature is a demonurgist of great power. We have not discovered which of the abyssal spheres are in his thrall, but we will, we will. Powerful and clever — invisible until now — but no supra-genius. Gravestone left a clear trail from his meddling with elementals and others of that ilk. He can no longer hide from us, Gord!"

"And he has the sword?"

"Aye. Donnur the mendicant cleric entered Grey-hawk the very morning of the frightful killings aboard
Silver Seeker.
By close querying we discovered that the supposed priest carried with him a sword-sized parcel. Man, weapon, and whereabouts — we have them all!"

Basiliv and Rexfelis exchanged glances. "That is fine work, Gellor," the Demiurge said then. "No wonder so many of our associates in the alliance speak so highly of your talents. One small matter, though. It seems that this... Gravestone knows far too much. How, for instance, did he know that the sword was there aboard that ship? What intelligence does this demon-binder have?"

"More than mere demons, even lords of their vile kind," the troubador said with conviction. Tenser posed the same question. How can it come to pass that this one knew to find the right vessel at the right time and take from it the sword?"

Gord stood and raised his right hand, slowly turning it into a fist. "Because there is a traitor amongst us," he spat through clenched teeth.

"Just so," the Demiurge agreed. "Not one highly placed, however. It would be worse otherwise. Someone who professes to serve Balance is actually a carefully masked double agent. It can only be one of those placed so as to pass information, a relay." Basiliv turned to the Catlord. "When Gord told us that he had left the sword on board the ship, who was it that took the information out to pass along to the rest of the network?"

"Prince Lurajal and Prince Raug," Rexfelis replied slowly, obviously weighing each in his mind as he spoke, trying to fathom which of the two might be leagued with Evil.

"Let us summon them to us, then." Gord said the words before the Demiurge could. "One or the other, we will have the truth quickly enough!"

"Have a care. Lord of Cats," Basiliv said instantly. "Either of them could undo us now. Both have at worst an inkling — at best, certain knowledge — that Gord is the foreordained champion. Whichever one of those two is the spy and traitor, he must be itching to convey that information to the masters of evil. Do not alert either Raug or Lurajal of the true reason for their summoning. The guilty one will certainly have some means of escaping, some portal to carry him away instantly to the nether realms!"

"They shall both believe that they are to accompany their cousin, Gord, on his imminent visit to the material world," Rexfelis said with a tigerish snarl. "Have no fear. Both will come quickly enough upon hearing that... only one of them will hasten to us for the wrong reason!"

It was open and shut as far as Gord was concerned. In his mind the young champion dismissed Lurajal from consideration. There could be no real suspicion about that one. Not only had he become Gord's fast friend, but he was too open, too uncomplicated a person to manage such duplicity as what had occurred. In short, Lurajal was just not bright or clever enough to manage such black treachery. Raug, on the other hand....

Rexfelis called one of his servitors into the room. After giving a carefully worded set of instructions, the Catlord told them all to compose themselves and to wait. It was only a few minutes before both of the suspects came eagerly into their presence.

Raug bowed stiffly, showing not a little cold jealousy on his face when it came to paying his respects to the new crown prince, Gord. On the other hand, when Lurajal entered he did not bother with protocol and went straight to the young man and hugged him. "Gord!" Lurajal purred. "High time they recognized you as prince and heir!"

"Does that suffice?" Gord said aloud, looking from Rexfelis to Basiliv and then finally glaring at Gellor and Raug.

The latter scowled. "I have no idea what you mean... prince," Raug said.

Lurajal didn't bother to inquire at all. "When do we seek out the enemy?" he asked Gord.

"Enough, all of you," the Lord of Cats said, looking meaningfully at the young champion. His glance told Gord to shut his mouth and keep it that way. "Now then — you, Raug, and you, Lurajal, of House Panonca. Do you both stand ready and willing to serve me in a matter of life and death?"

"Yes, Lord of Us All," the two replied in chorus.

"Good. It is all settled, then. Gord will need two such stalwarts as you in what lies ahead. Before you equip yourselves for the mission, however, there is one thing further I require of you. Go to the crown prince and pledge your fealty and life to him!"

There was no hesitation from Lurajal, but Raug rumbled ominously, deep in his chest, a scowl plainly written on his face, and made no move to comply with Rexfelis's command. "I am your right arm!" Lurajal exclaimed, dropping to one knee before Gord as he spoke and holding both hands before him.

"And you?" Rexfelis asked ominously, staring at Raug.

The big fellow tried to remove the look of enmity from his face. "I... I... have some difficulty, lord, accepting him... the Prince of Panthers... as my liege," Raug finally blurted in a growl.

"Here to me, then, and let it be as it may. You shall not go," said the Master of Cats.

Raug stared at him only a moment, then shrugged and stepped to stand beside Rexfelis. "I will be obedient, lord... but Gord and I have been at odds often, and it will take time. I wish to serve you in this cause, but another in my stead is better, I suppose."

Rexfelis smiled in an agreeable, knowing way when Raug said that. "Yes, it is only honest to admit your weakness thus," he replied. Turning to the others, the Catlord then spoke sharply. "Have a care when you take Lurajal! He will resist to the death!"

Basiliv had anticipated the matter fully. His hand shot forth and touched the dark young scion of jaguars on the forehead, and Lurajal dropped as if he had been poleaxed.

"There, my friends," said Rexfelis sadly. "The Demiurge has taken care of the traitor in our midst."

Lurajal wasn't dead — only unconscious, Basiliv explained. He would be questioned immediately when he awakened in an hour or so. Raug was completely taken aback and bewildered, but the Catlord took him aside and patiently went over the whole affair for his benefit. While this was occurring, Gord looked from Gellor to the Demiurge. "I would have wagered my life against Raug and on him," he said, pointing to the prone Lurajal.

"And lost, too," the one-eyed troubador observed. "Then again, I would probably have made the same misjudgment as you... until it came time to pledge an oath of fealty."

Basiliv nodded. "That was the undoing of Lurajal. He was too ready, and Raug too honest. Lucky for us that both did not agree readily, for then we would have had to use some potent spells to discern the truth — and that might have allowed Lurajal an opportunity to make good an escape. But no trick or enchanted object will save that one now," the Demiurge noted. "Even now there are spell-workers and priests hastening here with armed warriors. Soon Lurajal will be stripped, chained, and put to the question in a place where none of his magic will work. Soon we will know his master's name and perhaps more; the evil ones he serves will not guess the fate of their agent until it is too late, I think. For once, we are ahead in this deadly game!"

Chapter 6

REVELRY AND LAUGHTER filled the Blue Lantern Tavern's long, narrow confines — not overly loud and boisterous, but enough so that the musicians hesitated to resume their playing.

The four veteran players didn't mind. Why should they? All the more time for them to drink and laugh themselves. Soon enough the crowd in this place would begin to demand more of their art — and that of the girl who danced to their melodies.

For now, though, the musicians would allow the crowd's amusement to run its course while they enjoyed the relative calm of the eddy. In fact, several others near their back table seemed to be doing much the same, deep in drink and close conversation during the break before sensuous music and writhing dancer would again drive the patrons of the Blue Lantern into a frenzy of noise over which no voice in conversation could prevail.

"Typical crowd," the drummer offered rather idly.

"Not so! This is the third round of potables those kind gentlemen at the nearby table have furnished us in appreciation for my playing." This came from the viellist, who was remarkably haughty for one of his occupation.

The fat musician who played the sackbut eyed the patrons to whom the viellist had referred. Garbed in nondescript clothing, these four were as unlikely a group as any he had ever known to send musicians drinks in appreciation of their musical talents. The fellow was quite intelligent enough, and a realist as well, so he accepted the harsh fact that if they were virtuosos they would be performing for nobles, not seedy denizens of a Foreign Quarter tavern. "The dancers are graceless or lumpy or both," the sackbut player supplied in answer to the viellist's boast. They feed us drink to
keep
us from playing."

At that the virginal player laughed, nearly choking on his ale and splattering the viellist with a shower of the brown liquid in the process. Sniffing disdainfully, the latter man arose, brushed at the droplets and announced, "It is past time for us to play again. Let us by all means put our respective theories to the test. I say it is my artistic renditions of these common folk melodies which generate such enthusiasm!"

Still sniggering, the virginal player followed him, so the other two decided to get on with it as well. Just as they were mounting the low platform whereon they performed, the sackbutist happened to glance toward the door. A pair of hooded men there were motioning toward the table where the four who had bought the musicians their drinks were seated. A bald half-elf positioned so as to be able to watch the entrance noticed the two strange figures, said something to his friends, and all four arose and left the tavern in the wake of the hooded pair.

The viellist refused to speak to anyone the rest of the night.

Outside the Blue Lantern Tavern the four plainly dressed men joined the pair of heavily cloaked wayfarers who had gestured to them. All six walked rapidly along Hardcobbles Way, entered Lost Lane, and disappeared into the deep darkness there. A drunken fellow weaving along across the street from them burst out in a ribald song, took a few more steps, then fell into the gutter in a drunken stupor. The sound of his singing disturbed a cat or rat elsewhere, for there was a clatter just after the last off-key notes died away. Then the street was quiet.

"We are being followed."

"Very perceptive, Chert," Gellor whispered dryly. There seems to be some sort of relay setup, I believe, designed so that we wouldn't notice that which you immediately spotted," the one-eyed bard added softly. The big hillman's sixth sense was keen, and Gellor did not want to discourage Chert from using it to the fullest.

There are at least two men on the rooftops above," Gord hissed. "Watch that we aren't caught unawares if they try to rain death upon us in this narrow place."

Curley Greenleaf, uncomfortable in this urban wilderness, started to walk faster. Gellor unobtrusively caught hold of the druid-ranger's cape and tugged on it to slow his pace. "Let's not alert the enemy and let them know we're aware of them," he said in his soft whisper. The sound didn't carry more than a few feet. Then, loudly enough for any nearby to hear, he asked, "How far is this place you're taking us to?"

One of the hooded figures turned and replied casually, "Just a little way ahead. We'll arrive soon enough, I assure you."

Lost Lane had several narrower alleyways leading from it, but it terminated in a close called Heart's Desire. Not only did the street there make a vaguely heart-shaped bow among the buildings of the close, but the establishments there were of the sort sought out by those abroad at night. There were dens where exotic substances could be consumed, houses of pleasure, and gambling establishments of unusual sort. There were many such places in the Foreign Quarter, but no others quite so varied or expensive as these. In fact, outside of certain places in the Garden and High Quarters, the whole of Greyhawk offered no establishments of higher quality than were to be found in Heart's Desire. It was therefore quite plausible that the half-dozen men would be where they were.