Gary Gygax - Dance of Demons

Judged by human standards, basing the assessment strictly upon physical and mental capacities, arts and skills possessed, Gord the Rogue of Greyhawk would measure high. Ever since his early years, he has been a master of disguise and impersonation. It might be that Gord was the commensurate thief in all aspects of that questionable craft. It would be judged certain that he was unparalleled as a cat-burglar, for none surpassed him as acrobat and gymnast. That Gord was a swordsman of masterful ability would be contested by none. In fact, some would Judge that he had sacrificed the status of grand master of all thieves to be a master swordsman; so perhaps there were one or two more skillful at either profession than Gord, but in no one else could be found such a combination of talents. High praise, but no more than the truth as men measure such qualities.

At the age of thirty, Gord was still young and appeared youthful — until one noticed the creases around his eyes, and the eyes themselves. Gray eyes that could be as hard as stone, as cold as the leaden seas of the north under winter sky. These were the eyes of a remorseless opponent, for they had seen suffering, torture, deceit, and death. Yet none would say that they were absolutely cruel, could not glow with comradeship, shine with happiness. Gord was as stout a friend as he was unrelenting a foe. No enemy who had stood before Gord remained alive to boast of the encounter. No comrade would say aught than that this man stood ready to lay down his life on behalf of right and friendship.

"Touche!" The cry came from a tallish, grizzled nobleman. A knightly troubador, this man plied all manner of weapons with skill, but his specialty was the longsword. Close examination revealed that one of this troubador's eyes glittered unnaturally. Under the scarred eyelid there was an orb of golden hue. No normal eyeball that, but rather a polished and enchanted stone of corundum, a golden sapphire that enabled the possessor to see through the false and illusory, to espy the hidden and view the alien dimensions otherwise closed to mortal eyes. His name was Gellor. He was Gord's closest friend.

"We are even, then, at three each," Gord shot back, parrying a stroke from the one-eyed bard as he spoke. Then he launched into a flurry of cuts, thrusts, and feints both high and low.

Gellor saved his breath, concentrating on defense until an opening came and he could resume the offensive again for a time. He was fencing with an ordinary practice sword, just as Gord held a blunt-tipped, dull-edged brand. Thus armed, Gellor was reasonably confident that he would eventually prevail in the match, if only by the slimmest of margins. His short, gray-eyed opponent was faster than he was, but Gellor was stronger and far more experienced. An opening! "Four," he told his opponent softly, as his sword bounced off the younger man's padded legging, and he tried to press the advantage immediately as Gord had just done.

Now Gord defended himself grimly against the storm of the troubador's glittering steel, and the air reverberated with the clash and ring of their blades. Had Gellor been wielding his enchanted blade, then Gord would have been dead. At the same time, Gord knew that, armed with his own sword now called Courflamme, he would be more than a match for the one-eyed nobleman with or without any other magical weapon. "Come and get me, then, one-eye!" he taunted, using his speed and reflexes to make a steel hedge between himself and his opponent's darting and slashing blade. He watched the eye, the body's shifts, the footwork simultaneously. As he did so, Gord's mind correlated each look and move with the swordplay that followed. He was learning, practicing, and honing his skill.

"Enough?" Gellor asked after another quarterhour had passed. Both men were panting, sweat-covered. Neither had succeeded in another penetration of the other's defense.

"For now," Gord replied with a chuckle as he stepped back and put his point at rest upon the smooth strips of oak that floored the place.

Just under five and one-half feet tall, the darkhaired young man had sinewy muscles and lightning quick reflexes. Just like a panther, Gellor thought to himself. As strong as a leopard, as fast, as ferocious. Had any such cat the intelligence and reasoning ability that Gord possessed so amply, then that animal would be king of beasts and men alike. It made the grizzled veteran proud that his friend was so staunch a fighter for choice and liberty, the champion of Balance, the sworn foe of all who would oppress any other. Gellor knew that if Gord had cast his lot with Evil, then Tharizdun would be assured his reign of unyielding darkness upon all for eternity. Instead, the young adventurer had accepted the burden of opposing the ultimate wickedness. It was only a short time now before Gord would have to face the dreaded god of all Evil. It was a confrontation that boded ill. No man, regardless of his qualities, could face such a test with even a scant ray of hope.

Granted, Gellor thought to himself, the Lords of Balance had bestowed supernatural and magical devices and powers upon their champion. That he could actually receive and maintain unique forces and abilities of this sort was indicative of his heritage, of the legacy which made Gord more than a mortal. A glimmer of hope from the supernatural energies, a glistening of chance from his heritage and his innate desire. Was it a measurable chance? One in a thousand? The newly merged sword was an unknown quantity. And Gellor himself had to be added into the equation, since he would accompany Gord. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a real probability of success; if not, then what of the prophecy? If he had no chance of success, then why did the dark rulers of the nether spheres fear Gord's very survival, let alone his coming?

"Would money buy your musings, bard?" Gord asked, wiping beads of salty sweat from his brow.

"Mere commons, my friend, would purchase such idle queries as I have been mulling over," Gellor replied with a trace of a smile. "When do you think we will set forth?" he asked, even though he knew the answer as well as Gord did.

"When they have finished the enspellment of everything — our weapons, our other possessions, us! It is no small matter to bring about that which will enable us to stride the nether realms as Gill Plowman walks his furrows," Gord responded, breaking into a broad grin. It was no false humor, either. He and his comrade both knew what he had just articulated. Gord was japing at Gellor's nervousness and his own as well.

"Instruct your grandsire on the consumption of suet pudding, whelp!" Gellor said. "Come on! Let's bathe the stink from us and get some nourishment inside, else we'll have neither the company for our final instructions nor the strength for any undertaking."

Clapping his arm around the taller man's shoulders, Gord said, "Very well, grandpapa, and allow me to support your aged bones as we go!"

The walk was but a short one to the suite of chambers that had been reserved permanently for Gord and whatever guests he might choose. The vast expanse of the Catlord's rambling palace had no finer chambers than Gord's. Soon he and Gellor were stripped and enjoying the plash of water from the cascade that fell from the artesian-fed fountain into the tiled basin of the great pool in the inner gardencourt that Gord's suite surrounded.

Later, while his comrade was sleeping in his own rooms, and Gord was himself comfortably sprawled on a huge, feathery bed, half dozing, the young champion's mind returned to the question Gellor had voiced. . and the ones left unspoken as well. It was plain what concerned the bard. He would accompany Gord, both despite and because of the dangers that awaited on the nether regions. Gellor would haw it that way — no question!