Gary Gygax - City of Hawks

Gord didn’t even bother to turn around. Before him was a heap of treasure, all jumbled and mixed. It was alight with a glow from within, faint but discernible. Somewhere in the mound, he hoped, would be a weapon that would enable him to combat the terrible power of the vampire gloam-lich. Imprimus was presently weakened by the tide of darkness, yet still too formidable a foe for normal means of attack to affect.

Ivory, amber, and jade flew upward and rained down alongside jewelry and great gems, pearl ropes and precious metals, magic amulets, and crystal flasks of dweomered fluid. Some merely spun and rolled, others cracked and splintered or smashed to send their contents mingling with the shards of a ruined ruby or the parchment tube of some ancient scroll of spells. Heedless of the wreckage, Gord went on, burrowing into the vast pile as a badger would dig into the dirt in search of a fat hare.

Bony fingers suddenly grasped his shoulders, long nails sinking toward flesh but foiled by the steel mesh of Gord’s hidden shirt of elvish mail. The touch sent a wave of chilling cold through his body nonetheless, and then the searing agony of long fangs puncturing his flesh made the young thief cry out in pain. “Be damned!” he yelled, spinning to dislodge the attacker and striking with his dagger as he turned.

The force of the stab caused the awful creature to release its grip on Gord, hissing in pain as it did so, for the long dagger had sunk deep into Imprimus’ right side. The thing stepped back then, glaring hatefully at the frail human who dared to strike it, meanwhile beginning the passes that would conjure up one of the manifold spells the monstrous creature commanded. “Now it is time for you to learn what pain is, manling!” the vampire-lich spat, its batlike face contorted. Then it made the swift passes of conjuration. In desperation, Gord scooped up a handful of the treasure from the mound and hurled it full into the bat-featured face of the Snuffdark-altered gloam.

“Reeeyaaaha!” The enraged shriek that emerged from Imprimus was the most bestial sound Gord could ever recollect, demon and dragon included. The spray of coins and gems had certainly had the desired effect, that was evident. The hail of objects had so disturbed and distracted the horrid creature that the spell was lost in the process. Meanwhile, Gord kept at his work, flinging stuff in the general direction of Imprimus as he sought a suitable weapon. There were, of course, any number of arms in the vast mound. Jewel-encrusted daggers, maces set with glittering gems, ceremonial swords and axes of precious shadow-gold-but all were useless for his purpose and thus ignored.

“Now let us contest more fairly,” Gord said just then, springing atop the precious pile as he spoke-just in time. The gloam had again launched itself into an attack, physically attempting to grapple its opponent and sink terrible teeth into human flesh. “No, no! Up here, dungpile!”

The gloom of Snuffdark was nearly gone; that was obvious from the growing lambency of the monster’s eyes and the increasing speed of Imprimus’ movements. Gord had to madden the thing sufficiently to give him one brief opportunity, a chance to lay the vampiric lich low. His time was running out all too rapidly.

The gloam snarled, glaring at its foe. The human had uncovered and was holding a long, double-edged sword. It was an ancient weapon, one with a leaf-shaped blade and a strange crossguard showing serpents. Why was it there in the trove? Imprimus could not recall, but the old sword-thing appeared to be nothing more than a useless ornament, for it was fashioned entirely out of crystalline material, probably some form of quartz or topaz… No matter. The oppression of darkness that lay upon the plane would soon be lifted, but before Snuffdark fled, Imprimus intended to deal with this arrogant little man who had so painfully reminded the gloam of its weakened condition just now. This one had defied Imprimus’ demand for Shadowfire, then actually given it to the petty lordling who claimed the realm as his own. Well, soon the human would be another vampiric servant to Imprimus, and then the gloam would take the mighty black opal from Shadowking-this time to a place far beyond any return. First one, then the other. Imprimus meant to drain the vitality from his foe personally, savoring the rush of power gained thus, as well as reveling in the agony that the upstart man would suffer as his life force ebbed away to be replaced by the cold burning of the negative stuff of unlife!

“Now, you! Come down off the little heap you play king of the mountain on, and I will treat with you,” Imprimus said, eyes burning hypnotically into the gray ones of his intended victim. “My generosity will not abide forever…”

Gord shook his head to break the effect of the gaze, the drone of the monster’s beguiling speech. Then he kicked another spray of precious stuff into the gloam’s face. “Ratshit, batface! You come here and-”

The pelting coins and gems did it. New power born of its rage surged through the gloam-lich. “Too late!” Imprimus roared, and as it did so it launched itself through the air, long-fingered hands clawed, huge mouth opened to enable it to ply its great fangs upon the soft body of the vulgar human who had dared to be defiant. The vampire-lich had such great strength now that its leap carried it up and at the small man as if Imprimus were a spear shot by a ballista. Such speed and power were irresistible. The attack was so sudden and overwhelming that the leap took Imprimus to the impact in the span of a heartbeat, and its iron-hard hands grabbed its foe with viselike power.

“Too late!” The words echoed, but only in a dying mind.

“What becomes of one undead when it becomes dead?” Gord asked this question, but there was no reply. Imprimus’ nails tore the young man’s flesh as its hands slid slowly down Gord’s body. Even in death, if death it was, the terrible thing seemed determined to wreak vengeance.

The hilt of the crystalline sword protruded like a strange tongue from Imprimus’ mouth. The point of the sword was buried somewhere deep within the monster’s chest. Gord thrust the shriveling remains away with his foot, then watched in fascination as the once-mighty overlord of gloams withered and crumbled into a foul puddle of ooze. Then this too dried and nothing but a shrinking pile of blackish powder was left.

No, not quite all was gone. The crystalline sword remained, no trace of the foul vampire-lich evident upon its transparent blade. Actually, the sword was even brighter than it had been, more phosphorescent by far. “Of all this treasure,” Gord murmured, peering around him, “I take only this sword and what I sought when I came here. The rest is befouled by the stuff of Imprimus, but you, good blade, are yet clean!” Then, dagger sheathed and crystal sword in hand, the young thief began his search for the necklace of nine black stones.

Despite his fatigue and his wounds, Gord was determined to sift through Imprimus’ treasure hoard, piece by piece if necessary. It stood to reason that the black sapphires would be here; in a land of shadow, gems such as those would be prized above all other sorts, and this was the only treasure trove of any size he knew of in this realm. Not even the Shadowking kept anywhere near as many gems, pieces of jewelry, and other valuable items.

Doing his best to ignore his pain, Gord held the crystal sword in one hand as a light source and meticulously searched the floor, in case the platinum necklace had been among the handfuls of stuff he had flung at Imprimus. It was not to be found among the miscellany scattered around the chamber, so he turned to the remainder of the once-massive pile. Then a thought took shape in his mind.

Of course! If the sapphires in the necklace were as valued here as he supposed them to be, the throat-piece would not be frivolously cast into a pile-it would be in a revered place.