Only a very discerning individual would note the special aspect of Gord’s eyes, differentiating it from the look of veteran soldier and sell-sword. Thinking about his internal plight sometimes bothered Gord, but tonight he tried to push those thoughts aside. At least the look in his eyes had advantages, too… He had not lied about tonight. His eyes attracted women; their look was almost an irresistible challenge to many.
“I think perhaps the game wasn’t worth the candle,” the young man said softly to himself as he strolled down the street. Then he shrugged, squared his shoulders, and went on with a jaunty gait and whistled an almost-merry tune as he walked. Where he was, after all, was much better than the alternative that might have occurred many a time.
Several weeks later he received a message from Gellor that his friend would not be meeting him after all. The missive was not overdue; in fact, it came almost two months to the day from when the two of them had last seen each oilier. Despite all the time Gord had seemingly spent in the realm of shadow, only a few days had gone by on the calendar of Oerth from when he was stricken outside the temple in Dyvers to when he had abruptly found himself standing in the countryside, within easy sight of the walls of City Greyhawk.
The bit of information from Gellor, whispered to him by an anonymous barkeep, was not very informative at all, but Gord was used to that sort of thing from the one-eyed troubadour. What really made him uneasy was the return of his own discontent and uncertainty here in the city. There was no joy or excitement left in even the most risky of exploits. Gord was alone and felt it very much. All of his old comrades were elsewhere, presumably doing things that were significant, or at least enjoyable and productive for them. Gord was simply drifting, wondering what all life was about, and trying to make his mind up as to what he should do about it.
Then, gradually at first but irrevocably, the whole world changed.
Far to the west, unbeknownst to the young thief, his friend Gellor and the bald-pated druid-warrior Curley Greenleaf were given information and instructions that sent them hurrying off. The half-elven Greenleaf was to round up Gord and meet with Gellor in the distant Pomarj. Desperate times had come, with portents of ill, and all were to play a part. The two men said little of it, but both believed that the young man was more important than he could know, or would believe. Neither spoke of it for many reasons, not the least of which was their own uncertainty as to Gord’s precise role in the events unfolding.
“Be careful, my rotund druid, and hasten!” The latter charge was hardly necessary, for despite appearances, Greenleaf was as aware of things and as conscientious as the bard was.
“I shall, Gellor, I shall. Much more might rest in our hands than we know…” He allowed the last part to trail off, for nothing further needed to be said. Then he laughed. “I am supposed to be the kind and caring priest, you the hard-bitten troubadour-and you admonish me to hasten and take care as if I were some fledgling about to flutter forth for the first time against the dark foe! Bah!” The expression of disgust was mock, and Curley Greenleaf hugged the one-eyed man even as he said it. “But you too, friend, you too take care! We shall see you soon, and then the test shall commence.”
Soon Gellor was off on his own errands, and the warrior-priest too was gone from the secret place where an occult group bent on saving the systems of the multiverse had held conclave. In the chess game that Gellor had spoken of to Gord, those two were perhaps minor pieces, and the young thief a pawn. Yet they were being moved to support the lesser man, as chess terms would have it, and when it was properly protected, the pawn would move.
In the vast, multifaceted contest taking place for supremacy of all, there were many sides and more pieces than could be counted. Some of the participants sat idle, however, and most of the playing pieces were unmoving as well-misplaced, powerless, guarding meaningless squares from nothing in particular. Only two of the many sides in this multiversal game moved with purpose and understanding. One was the side championed by Greenleaf, Gellor, and others of their ilk. The other was hostile, malign, and very, very evil. How else could it be?
Evil has many faces, of course. Bestial, leering demons and grinning devils are at opposite spectrums of the vile depths of that force. There is a sink, a depth greater than the iron-floored pits of the hells, more profound than the unfathomable depths of the Abyss of demonkind. The nadir of all wickedness, the greatest depression of depravity, lies between the two. Some call that place Hades, others the black void. By any name, it and its denizens represent the most wicked of evil, the darkest of the dark. Their hosts were those in motion on the imaginary playing board, and they moved against not only the weak and exposed force represented by such as the one-eyed troubadour and his friends, but also against the gibbering hordes of demons, for those too would not bend their necks and be ruled.
“Which of the useless turds serves us in this matter?” The daemon who spoke from his dais was Infestix. Overlord of Death, ruler of the deepest darkness.
A decayed creature, some minion of the rotting lord of Hades, replied humbly in a maggoty voice. “The ones of scarlet hue, master, move in their thousands to do your bidding…”
“And?”
“The Eight Diseased Ones, master,” the thing choked out, “with all of their servants, daemon and human.”
Infestix spat, a wad of horrid, yellowish green that struck the floor of ebon stone at the feet of the rotted servitor. It spread and sank, eating the stone and leaving it riddled as if by worms. “Yet none bring me the quarry I want-not even intelligence of it! I am tired of this dung-headedness. Out of my way, you sweet-smelling blossom,” the Overlord of Evil commanded as he rose from the ghastly throne and moved toward the daemon steward.
Virulex, himself a fell and dread lord of the realm, fairly scrambled to make way for his liege. “The matter is far more complex than we thought, master, the possibilities and their permutations impossible to analyze. One nexus after another, all leading to places none can discern…”
“You yammer like a soft-eyed puppy, Virulex. You create excuses for all, but only to cloak yourself. Do you think I am stupid? Be silent and follow, dog! I will personally tear aside the intervening veils and solve this once and for all.”
In another smaller but no less hideous chamber in Infestix’s loathsome palace, the Eight Diseased Ones and their lieutenants were gathered expectantly. They quickly covered their surprise when the Overlord himself came, each then reporting the results of their seeing and divination. Armies marched, the soldiers of Hades marshalled to contest with the rebellious demons. Spies slunk, assassins lurked, agents served, mages cast their magical nets, while priests of darkness sent forth their own evil meshes. A great hubbub of action and reaction, plots and ploys. Decoys and false trails, sendings and energies to confound and confuse any who sought to pry.
“We are sure to succeed, Master of Death,” one of the lesser ones said.
“Your existence rides on that,” Infestix said offhandedly as he peered into the misty vapors of a great pool of inky shadows. The massive basin was set into the chamber floor, a scrying pool filled with some undefinable substance. “I thought as much!” The daemon overlord spat that out in his hollow, dead voice as he saw the scenes flashing within the basin.
“Time varies there, master,” one of the eight supplied. “Perhaps we can intervene.”
“Fool! That would alert every enemy that we have, reveal to them our intentions, destroy whatever secrecy remains!”