“It is not an exile, then? Only a brave and bold service?”

The Catlord was grave. “That, dear Lurajal, is it exactly.”

As the young lord left, Rexfelis added under his breath, “No exile at all-unless Death has his way.”

Chapter 28

While demons schemed in the Abyss and the masters of the pits of Hades machinated with their diabolical allies, the fates worked as they would. First one side moved in the cosmic chess game, then another; sometimes many sides moved multiple pieces simultaneously. The vast board was complex, confusing, unenlightening.

What had seemed an unassailable position for one force crumbled under a flanking attack. The attackers were demoniacal, the losing force responsible to Infestix. The only problem for the Abyss was that in usual circumstances each of its pieces, every pawn, worked as it alone saw fit. It was highly unusual, but effective, that on this occasion many of the pieces of demonkind worked in concert-and it was also singular that Hades failed to note this compromise.

Perhaps even the massive intellects of beings such as the daemonlords and the dukes of the Nine Hells were incapable of grasping the whole of play, intent as they were upon clearing the way for their most powerful piece, a man which might be likened to a combined king, queen, knight, and giraffe of Great Chess. No other side had such a figure, so such a failure was somewhat understandable. If freed to move, this piece would command so many spaces that nothing would stand before its power, no opposing man would be able to approach with impunity.

Even as their position crumbled, however, the great intellects of Evil worked, and the way became less congested. It could not be long now before the violet-hued forces of Hades, with their blood-red allies from the hells, successfully fought off the others-black, white, gray, blue, golden yellow, tawny. Only the green pieces and pawns, those affiliated with the Balance, were positioned correctly… and there were but a few of those men left on the field.

Green, in its exposed and surrounded central position, seemed the weakest. In truth, it had suffered many losses. But the men of paler shades of vert-chartreuse, aqua green, light emerald-as well as those of olive hue, bottle green, and the other deeper shades of that middle color, were now free to move to confront their foes. With no threat from elsewhere, the whole of their forces could be used against the dark hordes. The bright, verdant men of Balance were being supported by shadowy green and emerald, by greenish citrine legions and dusky olive.

“We are being outmaneuvered!” The cry of rage came from one of the Eight Diseased Ones. The other seven bent closer to the scrying basin, peering with their lifeless eyes to observe what their associate had seen. “Inform the Master,” the chief of the Eight commanded one of his fellows. “I will see that this brashness does not go unpunished.”

Another of the Diseased Ones tried to object. “Lord Infestix ordered us not to interfere…”

He was silenced by a glare and a rejoinder from the leader. “If I do not act immediately, we will lose a major piece and our foremost position!” In fact, the hordes of Death did hold their own for a time, but then the deep ebon forces of the demon princes moved, and all was undone. Hades’ right flank was en prise, and the Abyss struck to assure its capture.

“What is this?” Infestix saw what had happened and was appalled. The greatest of the eight servitors was made least, and he who had dared to object was elevated to chief. The overlord of daemons would have done worse to the offender, but the situation was too critical, and Infestix knew that he needed all of his lieutenants if he was to triumph.

“Errors, unforgivable misjudgments, stupid blunders have been made. Yet we have by no means lost this contest. Be reassured. Work diligently. Spare no one, least of all yourselves,” he told the Eight. “The opening game has ended, but the middle portion is just beginning. We will move cleverly now, take our positions, marshal our forces, and lay our traps. When the ending phase comes, I will suddenly open to reveal our true strength, and then only the deepest purple will remain in play.”

“Traps, Master of Death?”

“Yes, traps. Traps, and a sacrificed place or two, I think Ask no more questions!” The grim overlord of the pits left them pondering his words. He alone knew exactly what moves he would make.

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.