Gary Gygax - City of Hawks

The major ones of demonkind fought and squabbled, sending their pawns of dull black, darkest sepia, or glistening jet here and there. The minor ones of their host imitated their masters’ methodology, doing as they themselves willed, and the position of the demons was fraught with chaos. Their power and numbers were such, though, that the inky hordes of the Abyss spread like a stain over much of the field, and the demoniacal lords rejoiced.

Iuz the dreaded cambion exulted, for he had obtained the citadel position and had two great queens to strengthen his safehold. Graz’zt rallied disparate men and brought demon pawns by the legion to the field. Others of his ilk quarreled with one another or contested with men of other stamp-gold or blue, white or gray, orange or hellish red. It was the battle and the killing that mattered. The emerald army was not worth bothering with, not when there were so many others of greater size and fiercer powers to attack. Black was moving, its advance unstoppable, and the pleasures of mopping up would wait. The violet ones, the pompous men of purplish hue, were already pulling back, entrenching, shivering in dread anticipation of the end of this marvelous, slaughter-filled game.

Far away from the contested squares, on the material plane, the world called Oerth, in the city of hawks, only one inhabitant had the slightest inkling of the struggle being fought. He was a savant and demonurgist. Nobody knew his real name. Perhaps even he himself no longer remembered it, for it was as deadly to reveal one’s true name as to not properly bind a demodand or dreggal brought by sorcerous conjuration.

Children in his neighborhood called him Master Beanpole. He laughed at that and made horrible faces at them. That caused the urchins to shriek in mock terror and run away. The adults observed that and smiled. To them he was Norund the Gemner, a half-dotty old coot who occasionally gave away a chip of emerald or amethyst for some simple favor such as a pot of stew brought over as a kindness.

The lord mayor and oligarchs of Greyhawk knew far more of the man. To them he was a mystical seer, one steeped in wizardry and priestcraft too. Although old, tired, and short of gold and silver, Rundon Tallman was a valuable informant for them as to the happenings roundabout and in the whole of the Flanaess. That the old fool was a tool who was much used and underpaid was common knowledge to all of the officials who benefited from his efforts. Even great dweomercraefters and high clerics were amazed at his skills, and the fees for their services were ten times greater than those paid to Rundon. But the lean fellow was content, for he neared dotage and dwelled in austerity. That was good, the lord mayor and oligarchs told themselves. If he were content, then so were those who paid him so little and gained so much. These ones would gladly accept his due and live in high style indeed.

Of course the demonurgist knew very well what others believed, but it was his aim never to let on that he knew this. Only one of the council of the city of hawks was aware that he was something other than a doddering gemner or a failing seer. The master of assassins of Greyhawk knew him as Undron Nalvistor, low priest of Nerull and sorcerer extraordinaire. His guises were many, and his efforts on behalf of darkness never-ending.

The guildmaster regarded Undron Nalvistor as his chief agent, a figure more important to him than any save his first assistant, another spell-binder who was now skilled in the arts of assassination. Thanks to Undron Nalvistor, he had worked his way to headship of the guild and recently taken a chief position among the oligarchs. This tall and thin old man was a keen edge to be used with delicacy and skill, and the guild-master paid him well. What the man did with the vast sums he received was his business.

It was expected that Undron would maintain his disguises and remain as he was. One day, perhaps, he would outlive his usefulness. Then one bright morning the old man would be found dead in his bed, and it would be said that he passed on quietly in his sleep. Smothering with a pillow left that impression. It would never do to have a doddering, senile old man stumbling around telling tales with a wagging tongue, of course.

Norund-Rundon-Undron knew all of that and was content. He truly served only one, and that one was the superior one-himself. To further that end, he was an agent of Infestix, worker for Nerull, servant of the pits, seeker of lowest EMI. His true master, Death, called him Gravestone, both as a remark on his ability to place his human foes into their last earthly home and to remind the savant that he was but a mortal man. In truth, the Master of Hades was slightly uneasy in this one’s presence. And Grave-stone-Norund-Rundon-Undron minded that not the least. Nerull would never allow him to die as long as he was useful, and he would always and always be that, for he had knowledge and powers unknown even to Death.

The demonurgist had bound to him two great demons, Pazuzeus and Shabriri. Although even those of the Abyss thought of the two as their own, neither Pazuzeus nor Shabriri was actually a demon. Both were spawn of the depths, of course, and they dwelled in the dark reaches of those evil realms. Yet the two were of different, older origination. They sprang from a race of older beings that had originated in the nadir of darkness, the home of Infestix.

Pazuzeus and Shabriri were his own agents, forced perhaps, but perhaps not, to labor on his behalf. When the great darkness came over all, then those two would be freed by the demonurgist. That was his promise, and he would keep it-if the Lord of Unrelenting Evil commanded he do so. The demonurgist doubted that would occur… ever. His service was too useful. It was not unthinkable that a man, one no longer mortal, might become chief under Tharizdun.

With three hounds on a leash-Shabriri, Pazuzeus, Infestix-he would be a fine satrap Indeed. There was a small problem just now, though, and the savant-demonurgist was concerned.

He understood the full span of the field, the nature of the game, the forces engaged, the pieces and pawns in play. Currently he stood near the purple king, a vizier, a weak but important piece for guarding against unexpected assault. Not even his own lord knew that the demonurgist commanded two of the minor pieces of the black array. At his command, those two would change from ebon to amethyst, join with him, and change his status to that of a major figure. Far-ranging, powerful, a fit eliminator of adversaries, he would be an optimum choice for crowning as a new king… only there was one obstacle in the path of that goal.

Long ago in terms of man, he had worked to assure that the rise of absolute darkness occur unhindered. He had been the spider who had spun webs, the puppeteer who had pulled silken cords. His plan had succeeded, his plot come to fruition perfectly-almost. One insignificant victim had somehow slipped away. That one was now a pawn in one of the many enemy armies which dared to oppose purple. Many times the demonurgist had moved his own pawns to threaten that one, but each time the escapee managed to capture or avoid. Nerull himself knew naught of the initial failure on the demonurgist’s part, nor was he aware of the successive miscalculations either. The savant worked doubly hard to keep all such information arcane. Now the enemy was moving again, and his own position was being slightly compromised. He summoned his vassals.

“Pazuzeus, speed to the manifold planes of the Abyss and make certain that the boorish princes there send forth their most fell champions to eliminate the green!” The winged seeming-demon was gone in a flash and a thunderclap to obey.

Shabriri watched with burning eyes, all four of them fixed on the demonurgist. The man noted and thought he saw doubt, “Never doubt, little demonling! Else you shall suffer for it…” Shabriri dropped his burning eyes in mock servility, and the demonurgist seemed not to notice the sham. “Go you to those who work here upon the material planes. Insinuate the same instructions which Pazuzeus gives forthright to his peers. Succeed, ’Briri, and you will assume the right-hand position; fail, and we shall see how you enjoy further foreshortening of your appellation…”