Gary Gygax - City of Hawks

“No, I mean now, this minute! I wish to be taken to the exact spot, distance-wise, where the Chiaroscuro Palace was last seen. Can and will you do that?”

The big phantom took only an instant to consider the request. “It is easy, for I am a hunter. If we hurry, I can have you there in about a quarter-sleep-sooner if you mind not jogging as the dingewolf does.”

Pleadings to hurry back, mixed with good wishes, followed the two as they trotted from the village into the black and gray of the land. Now that Gord was aware of what was coming, the face of the strange luminary above did seem lighter, the illumination it provided less dim, and the faintly glowing black specks that were Shadowrealm’s stars were hardly visible in the gloom above.

Gord was a tireless runner, and he pushed his guide hard. They came to the spot the fellow was sure was the right one within about an hour and a quarter by Gord’s reckoning, based in part on his heartbeat, in part on an inner time sense. The ever-paling face of Mool hung motionless overhead now.

“I must say goodbye, stranger,” the bowman said. “Luck in all you undertake!”

“Thanks, phantom friend,” Gord called back, already jogging downcurrent. “My hopes for prosperity in Dunswych henceforward!” Then the phantom was out of sight and Gord was running hard in the direction the palace had been seen flowing. When he grew winded, he paused, rubbed himself with the flame-hearted opal, and then dashed on again, covering ground as does a dark wind blowing fiercely from the north.

The terrain of Shadowrealm flowed, of that there was no question. Yet, when one moved along the flow, up or down, or even across, the movement altered somehow. Thus, the destination Gord sought was not moving away from him-at least not as rapidly as if he were not coming toward it from behind. Under the ever-lightening disc of Mool, Gord raced. When his muscles again grew tired, and that occurred all too soon, he renewed his vigor with the opal and trotted onward. His pace ate up yards, and yards grew quickly into miles. When he became truly weary, Gord pulled out Shadowfire a third time, concentrated, and pressed the opal sphere to his flesh. Tingling flowed into him, and his skin began to shine with the luster of ancient silver. That was enough-more, and he might actually sink through the fabric of this place!

Like quicksilver he ran, and that suited his looks well. The luminary above was just becoming the color of old tallow when Gord spied a massive structure on the gray horizon ahead. It was a huge place of towers, turrets, spires, and flying buttresses-the Chiaroscuro Palace of the Shadowking at last!

“I am called Smokemane,” a deep voice rumbled at him in the language common to men.

Gord swung quickly at the sound. There, as if conjured from the vapors, was the largest lion imaginable, one whose shaggy head was of smoky hue, just slightly darker and less sleek than his dove-gray body. Near this great beast sat another maned male lion of shadow, seeming to be the soot-maned one Gord had seen in the throng of creatures that had encircled him shortly after his arrival on this plane-the one that had left, taking other shadow lions with it, when Gord had requested it to leave.

The cats smiled at him, a gesture perhaps meant to put Gord at ease but one that had the opposite effect. “I go to the place where the Shadowking holds forth,” he managed to stammer to the pair. “Do not inhibit my progress,” he added, not feeling very threatening to such great beasts as these.

The younger of the two, the huge lion with the sooty-shadow mane, actually laughed in lion-fashion as Gord said that. Smokemane, an even larger creature, cuffed him with claws sheathed. “When that one speaks,” he roared, “you listen!”

The old male then turned to Gord once again, saying, “Your destination was told to us by our liege lord. It was he who commanded us to await your arrival, and we are to accompany you as attendants-if it pleases you.”

Despite the pressure of time, Gord allowed himself to stay still, staring at the two shadow-lions with interest. Perhaps great cats could speak, in a language of their kind, but how was it that these shadow-lions could converse with him in man-speech? Animals of this sort weren’t supposed to do that! But, beast or no, Smokemane was indeed speaking in human tongue, and in a manner that indicated that he and his young companion had intelligence far above that of the felines of Oerth, for instance.

Gord had to know just what these creatures were. “You mentioned your liege lord…” he ventured.

“The Mastercat, of course!” the sooty-maned one supplied. The older lion seemed disturbed at his companion’s disregard of protocol but growled a note of assent at the identification.

That seemed believable, even fitting. Shadowrealm was as appropriate a place for felines as the material plane, and it stood to reason that cats here, as elsewhere, would have but one lord.

“How came it to pass that your lord knew of me?” Gord asked.

“When you sent Hotbreath, there, and his pride away from the circle of shadowfolk who had come because of the compelling force you emanated, he spoke of it to me,” Smokemane rumbled in reply. “I would have done nothing in the matter, for such things are beyond the ordinary course of our folk. In any event, it was taken from my claws by the Mastercat. He came to me. asking about any unusual events here, and I related what Hotbreath had said. Thus we are now at this place awaiting your instructions, lord.”

Lord? The gem he possessed must have powers he still did not fathom! “Thanks to you, bold pridemaster… Thank you both,” Gord said to the two huge lions. “As it is the wish of the Mastercat, evidently in return for my regard for his own, I accept your service. I must enter the Chiaroscuro Palace and have audience with the Shadowking. You two will be my attendants in this matter.”

Hotbreath stood and stretched, flexing forth his long claws and displaying his massive teeth. Above and beyond their extraordinary brainpower, shadow-lions, it seemed, were nearly as amply endowed with fangs as the archaic smilodons, the saber-toothed proto-tigers.

Smokemane too exhibited his arsenal of teeth in a relaxed yawn that followed Gord’s words. Then he snapped his maw shut and rasped, “The Shadowking loves not cat-kind.”

If that is true, Gord wondered, then why would the Mastercat command these two to intercept him just as he was about to visit the hall of the ruler of the shadow plane? But that was not quite the question he wanted to ask. First it was important to get to the heart of the matter.

“Why does the lord of this plane bear enmity toward you?”

“You? Better think of it as us,” Shadowmane purred. “That one would have it that all who dwell in shadow either serve him or strive against him. Being able to classify creatures thusly seems to satisfy Shadowking in some perverse way. But we are cats, and our ways are our own. Our lord is what he is, and we honor and serve in our own particular ways as we choose. If others are princes or peasants, what matters that to cat-kind? Alone we stand, go our way, do as seems fitting. Such independence is disturbing to the ruler of this plane, for it seems he would have control, as the puppeteer pulls the strings, for good or ill. You too are independent, aloof, and your own being.”

“Are you saying that Shadowking is malign?”

“Nay,” the big cat said, shaking its massive head in manlike fashion to emphasize the response. “He is not a servant of EMI. Not even I would so designate Shadowking. His self-will goes beyond the acceptable-for us cats, this is condemnation enough. That one desires to remove liberty from others through control, but in fairness it was not always thus.”