It was a slow and arduous passage. The pilgrims wished it thus. How else could one benefit? The trials and perils were tokens of faith and offerings, as it were. Days later, just short of the shrine that was the object of the pilgrimage, Gord and Gellor disappeared, leaving in the dark when all the good folk, and even the tough and not particularly prayerful soldiers guarding the flock of pilgrims, were sound asleep or nodding by fireside or sentry post.
The slow pace of the train had been beneficial to both men. Bruises and cuts had time to heal, damaged internal portions of the two began to mend. To veterans such as these, twenty miles of walking each day, plain fare, and seven or eight hours sleeping on the ground were both restful and restorative.
Gord worried about the sword. He had wrapped it carefully, but its length made the bundle rather noticeable, he feared. Because the group was large and the champion kept the weapon near his person at all times, nobody took interest in it, and no good priest or faithful paladin sensed its dark dweomer. Many of the members of the long stream of pilgrims undertaking the trek were taciturn, somber, and remote. Those more sociable and garrulous simply steered clear of the few who wished to be left alone. Although Gord and Gellor did not announce such a desire for privacy, their attitudes and introspective silences quickly placed them into the category of those not active in the pilgrim train's social community. Neither outcast nor shunned, for that was unthinkable to such persons as these, their attitude was simply accepted as part of what these men held dear. In fact, a score of others were similarly not a part of the activities. Most of the introspective ones had afflictions that were similar to or worse than that which the bard supposedly suffered from.
"I feel rather shoddy," Gellor whispered one night. "How many of these honest men and women are truly in need of help?" It was a rhetorical question. "It bothers me to pose as another blind one seeking the blessed cure."
"We are helping them all to live, old comrade," Gord noted as softly. "Not one of the truly decent folk here would say aught of it if they were aware of our feigning and the cause thereof."
"Yes, I know that's true, Gord. Yet it disturbs me nonetheless. I also am forced to wonder why more of such disabilities cannot be cared for by the great clerics."
"Too few are the priests with the power to heal such needs as these, too many are those with serious deficiencies to be rectified. I would not be a priest for any reason, Gellor. The need and my shortcomings would soon bring dementia to my brain."
There was more bothering them than either could articulate. Curley Greenleaf had been the bard's oldest and closest friend. The druid had been Gord's mentor for a time and dear comrade since. It was not possible for either man to speak of the loss they felt, not yet. It was too deep, too strong.
So, too, the death of Chert. He and Gord had shared a youthful time together in such fashion as bound man to man in bonds of brotherhood. Gellor had patted the big hillman's curly head when Chert could barely toddle, hunted with him when the lad received his first bow, advised him as a man. The four had undergone desperate adventures together, fought the enemy side by side. Two comrades in arms as well as old friends had gone outward and would be with them no more. The aching void that left within each breast was indescribable. The two kept their own counsel about that feeling and made each day as busy and mundane as possible. It was in all ways a beneficial journey.
When they slipped off into the darkness, each felt a particular tug. It was the poignancy of leaving behind a painful yet needed time of healing. Soon now they would have to deal fully with all that had transpired, undertake new missions without their old comrades there beside them.
It was as if the two were facing manhood again, having to leave the things of a childhood behind. Each sense was in part correct. Yet Gord and Gellor went forth without hesitation, and the mourning for their dead comrades was now something that would be retained in a special, deep place inside each of them, a badge in a place of honor where none but them could ever view it. That sharing was known to both men, but it too was unsaid.
"Mounts," Gellor said. "We need them now, and there's not enough coin between us to buy a single old plug!"
"No problem," Gord rejoined as he dug around in his gear. "This little pearl necklace should take care of the need nicely."
"I know that you didn't have any such thing when we began this trip," the bard said with rising suspicion in his tone.
Gord laughed. "Too long a thief, perhaps," he admitted as he admired the string of oddly shaped freshwater pearls. "The lantern-jawed merchant who purported to be a pilgrim — he was a dealer in stolen goods, too. I recognized him, Gellor, and relieved him of just a little of his ill-gotten gains."
Sound horses were soon found in a village, and with saddlebags well-provisioned and bedrolls tied behind saddles, the two heroes set off along the narrow trail that wound upward into the high hills and steep bluffs of the northeast. There, lost amid the wild terrain, was the keep of the mage they sought. In but a short while the two were safe within the walls of Tenser's castle.
The great archmage was absent. That surprised neither of them. He would be with the others, of course, working in concert to bring dismay to the hydra-headed gang who sought to free Tharizdun. The venerable Poztif greeted them warmly, however, and after formalities were concluded, Gord and Gellor related all that had transpired.
The high priest was shocked. "Timmil... the laughing barbarian lad, too... and the others, even Greenleaf," he said slowly, shaking his head. "It is a dark victory, but what else can be expected when one contends with the vilest of evils?" He led them to a place where they could rest and refresh themselves, saying. "I'll prepare immediately for your departure, of course. As soon as you have taken what sustenance you need and rested sufficiently to feel capable, I will have all in readiness for the next step."
Gord slept only a little, Gellor scarcely more. It was only hours after their arrival at the lonesome stronghold of the lord-mage that both of them were sent elsewhere. Neither of them knew their destination, not exactly. It would be someplace where Balance held sway, but Poztif kept his lips sealed on the subject. That was proof enough of how desperate the time was and how strong the foe.
Chapter 20
THE CHIAROSCURO PALACE. Shadowrealm. It was so unlikely a setting in so improbable a plane that Gord wondered aloud, "Have the Lords of Balance lost theirs?"
Before Gellor could say anything to that, however, another voice spoke. "Quite the contrary, Gord! We selected this place because Basiliv is unfit to participate, and we are under strenuous assault by the nether spheres!" Those words were from the bushy-browed archwizard Mordenkainen, come to fetch the arrivals.
"Almost misheard you, sir. I though you said that the Demiurge was ill," Gord said, rising to follow the crusty old spell-binder.
"You have remarkably dull wits for one supposedly serving as champion, young fellow," Mordenkainen snapped. "I said that Basiliv is unfit. In truth, the man is a vegetable. Left all the responsibility to me, he did! Imagine! And Tenser and the Hierophants are blessed little help either...." He allowed his words to fade, for the three were already at the Vault of Veils. When Gellor and Gord both started to speak, the archwizard hushed them with a sharp gesture, saying, "No time for chatter now. You must intelligence the Council, and then we will give instructions. Come along now."
The assemblage was as expected. Basiliv the Demiurge was there too, seated next to Shadowking, but his face was blank, eyes empty, mouth slack. "He has been struck by a most potent foe," the ruler of shadows told the newcomers curtly. Then he launched into a session of questions and answers. The questions were put to Gord and Gellor, and they supplied the answers. Finally Gord and the troubador were asked to relate the whole of events from their own perspectives. The whole business took several hours. When it was finished, they had the strange, shadowy wine and cakes of the plane set before them and were surprised to discover that these offerings satisfied their thirst and hunger.
"Had one of the urgists mumble over the lot," Mordenkainen said under his breath as he leaned near to Gellor. Gord overheard the words and thought that the aged wizard was perhaps a trifle less cantankerous and absentmindedly thoughtless than he had supposed. Then the Hierophants took over, enunciating in their fluted, speaking-as-one voice.
They explained that despite the severity of the blow struck to the enemy, rather than being weakened, Nerull and the forces who fought to free Tharizdun were suddenly strengthened. That infusion of dark force flows from deep, deep below," the Hierophants noted rather offhandedly. "It is the one of all evil who sends it forth. The nether spheres are mere beneficiaries of it."
"Who is so potent? What power strives against us and succeeds with such ease?" Gord demanded. "I have brought victory, made the sword a weapon of might against any malign being — any! Gravestone is lost to the evil ones forever. Gellor and I have done as you have requested — yet we hear only of defeat?"
"Peace, Gord." It was Rexfelis.
"He has a right to be irate," Shadowking said in admonition to the Lord of Cats. "It is neither your fault nor ours, champion — and friend! Some new ally of the nether spheres has joined to discomfit us. Here in shadow is the only safe place for us all now. The evil has managed to penetrate into all the other places of Balance — or watches and guards them so carefully as to make our gathering there perilous in the extreme. We are as isolated fortresses besieged."
"Then all is lost?" the bard said unbelievingly.
"By no means!" Mordenkainen interjected. "You proved that when the two of you journeyed safely to the castle of young Tenser, there." the archwizard noted, pointing at the lord-mage who had been of such status for a mere handful of decades or so. "And being here demonstrates much, obviously."
"Much?"
"Much, Gord," Shadowking agreed. "You are our mobile army."
"Some army! The two of us—"
"Managed to beat the living shit out of Gravestone and his whole lot!" That from the rather earthy lord-wizard, who was being restrained in his comments.
There was a brief furor at that, and comments flew around the many-pointed table for several minutes before order was restored. Finally, the ruler of the shadowy sphere managed to silence the score of other Lords of the Balance and say so all could hear, "I understand your feelings, champion. You have evened things, brought the murderer of your own parents to justice even as you struck a blow of utmost severity to the enemy." He paused, and when there came a nod from Gord, Shadowking continued. There is but one true enemy, though. All the rest are but minor extensions of Tharizdun — even Infestix-Nerull. He would have no legions of devils at his side were it not for the one of ultimate darkness."
There were murmurs of agreement. Cries of "Hear, hear!" and "Speak on!" came from various members of the assemblage.
The dark lord of Shadowrealm smiled. "I only say that which we all know at heart. The loss of Basiliv is a terrible blow to us. It is by no means the loss of all, for we still have you, champion. The new, unknown enemy is a shocking setback to us, but even so great a setback as this one is not fatal... nor of great import."
"No import?!"
"What balderdash!!"
"Horseshit!!" Tenser chimed in.
Gord rose and spoke to the clamor. Truth," he said without heat. "If the ultimate enemy is beaten, the allies of Hades are of no great interest at all."
"We concur, champion," the multitoned voices of the Hierophants chorused. "Yet Tharizdun stirs and sends forth his strength to Evil. The end is near."
"Why does that surprise any of you?" The one-eyed bard suddenly was on his feet beside his friend, his face set in hard lines. "We all know that there is but one purpose for the champion, one reason why the power we have is his — our power and that of... elsewhere, too, as you know. It is to face and fight the greatest evil when —
when,
not if, he arises!"
Silence.
"We do not agree." That from the Hierophants after a full minute had passed without any sound save breathing.
They have always been fools." Mordenkainen quipped dryly. Tenser nodded and made a rude gesture in their direction.
That brought a flurry of name-calling, charges, counter-charges, and insults flying across the table. After quite some time, Shadowking managed to restore enough order to the conclave to make a call for adjournment.
The members of the council readily agreed to that. Immediately thereafter, over half of the lordly masters of Neutrality departed for their own places.
* * *
"What terrible disaster is now wrought?" Gord was sitting in dejection when he said that. With him were Rexfelis, Shadowking, Murlon, Heward, Lord Thomas, and Gellor, of course.
"Why, none!" the master of the shadowy sphere said happily. "It went just as we'd planned. You were superb, both of you!"
"Superb? Planned? All I am doing is asking questions, and I am getting very tired of that." Real anger was in his voice and his face.
"With evil so powerful, menacing us everywhere, we dared not keep so strong a force together, united. Now we appear weak, factious, disjoined, and plainly ineffective to contend against anything. Had you known, then there might have been a warning, and the foe might have discovered the ruse."
"We are not traitors," Gellor said with heat. "You could have explained!"
"You are not, but some agency seems to be able to spy out our great meetings, learn what is decided in conclave. You would not have been so convincing, the quarrel would not have seemed so real, had you been forewarned."
"We are safe enough now from intrusion," Rexfelis said. "Now you will learn all that we know."
"Who has joined with the vile foes, we know not," the Catlord said. "Perhaps Basiliv could tell us, but he is as a shell. His body lives, but his life force is elsewhere. We must assume that there will be no return before the final confrontation occurs."