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  Wanno looked briefly at him, then nodded. “Yes. Keep a sharp eye out for hawks…” the mage said. his words trailing off as he suddenly brought his arms up in a sweeping gesture and spoke a word that sounded impossible to speak, even for one so skilled at dweomers as Halferd was. At its utterance, Wanno was gone with a popping sound, followed by the whoosh of air rushing in to fill the space where he had been a split-second before.

  Hawks? The man really is beginning to slip into dotage, Halferd thought. Demons or devils, yes; perhaps some horror from Tarterus or Gehenna; but… hawks? “Bah!” Halferd muttered aloud. “This is for you!” he added, making vicious strokes as he drew a precise set of sigils and strange marks on the stone floor. Instead of scribing the lines and shapes with tenderness and deliberation, Halferd worked as if he were wielding a sharp instrument upon exposed flesh.

  When Wanno eventually returned, his apprentice had done all he had been charged with and was alertly seated near the infant, an old, gnarled staff held in his grasp. When his gaze fell upon this, Wanno spoke sharply. “What are you doing with my staff!” It was an accusation, not a question.

  Halferd tightened his grip on the ebon-hued wood. “I carry out my duty to guard the babe,” he said, letting his eyes meet Wanno’s for only an instant before sliding away. The old one could work magic simply through his gaze meeting with another’s, and Halferd had no intention of allowing himself to be caught by some trick-not now!

  Then something seemed to alert Wanno. A strange light shone in the old man’s deeply set eyes as he looked at his apprentice. The realization came to him at that moment that Halferd was near middle age, even for a dweomercraefter. And he was also a spell-worker of considerable ability-so why had he been content to remain an apprentice? There was only one answer…

  Wanno stood with his spine straight. His staff was in the hands of an outsider, a man he didn’t really know after all, despite their years as apprentice and master. Halferd’s brief glance into Wanno’s eyes had betrayed something that the old mage liked not. There was a smell of duplicity in the still air, a sense of something malign that hovered in the shadows overhead.

  “I see,” Wanno said, meaning something entirely different from the way Halferd took the remark “Exemplary, Halferd, exemplary!” he added with a bluff heartiness that he hoped didn’t seem as forced and insincere to his apprentice as it did to him. “However, I have other, more important things for you to see to now. Hand me my staff, and I’ll instruct you as to their nature.”

  Halferd coughed and shuffled his feet. He didn’t hand the twisted length of ancient yew to Wanno. Instead the apprentice raised the silver-bound tip of it, so the staff pointed with veiled menace in the general direction of his master. “There is a matter to be cleared up ere I give this to you, Wanno.”

  Coldness suddenly flowed through the mage’s veins. Here was vile treachery unmasked! Wanno had anticipated the possibility of some trouble; indeed, he had built in some protections around the infant that no one else knew about, just in case something beyond his control should occur. But he had not suspected that Halferd-loyal, quiet Halferd-would turn out to be one of his enemies!

  Smiling slightly, Wanno set his steel-hard eyes upon the man before him. A word was locked just behind those iron orbs as he stared out upon Halferd, a terrible word of magical force ready In his forebrain. Before his foe could do aught with that fell instrument, the syllable would roll from throat to tongue and out into the room. Halferd would be blasted where he stood. Perhaps he was more than an apprentice, but he was no great binder of dweomers. It was madness indeed for one of his poor strength to challenge Wanno-especially in the old man’s own place of power!

  “Place my staff most gently upon the floor, boy,” the mage commanded, “and then I will permit you to speak.” He saw Halferd break into a sweat and begin trembling slightly.

  “No!” Halferd shouted, but at the same time he started lowering the staff. Then he began to shake more, and his body was wracked by a fit of coughing and gasping. He tried to talk, but explosive bursts of air and desperate indrawings of breath between the hacking coughs prevented meaningful speech.

  This was very odd, Wanno thought, for he had used no spell upon the fellow. What was going on? Then a faint rustling from behind betrayed the presence of someone else in the room. It was an act! Halferd’s fit was a contrivance, intended to distract him while more danger came at him from the rear. Without another second’s hesitation, Wanno allowed the word to thunder forth. The syllable rolled up and was shot forth in an eyeblink-and Halferd was no more. Greenish bits of ash floated in the place where he had stood. Gone too was the staff. Too late to mourn that now, the mage thought, as he started to direct his attention toward the trespasser who had slipped in at his back.

  Too late indeed… As Wanno turned his head to look over his shoulder, the last thing he saw was the face of his killer-and the last thing he felt was the blade of a dagger as it sheared through his spine.

  “That’s done him!” The voice was jubilant, harsh.

  “Shut up, you silly blaster, and do the same for the sprat!” the other man ordered. The bigger and meaner-looking of the pair held a long, wavy-bladed dirk whose metal glinted with an ugly purple sheen where it wasn’t smeared with bright red blood. The man he spoke to was slighter and uglier. Both were clad in deep gray and wore felt-soled boots. Any resident of the city could have identified them instantly-assassins of the guild. Denizens of either the lowest dives of Greyhawk or of its high places might have been able to do more than tell one what they were; these were two of the greatest assassins in the whole city. Alburt, known by some as Goodarm, was the dirk-wielding leader of the pair. He spoke to Slono Spotless, held in only slightly less awe than Alburt himself by those who knew of them.

  “Futter yerself, Alby,” the small, ugly killer growled back. “What about Halferd?”

  “He don’t have nothing to fret about now, Spotty. The geezer got him before I stuck the dagger in. Now cut that little brat’s throat while I check this place for valuables.”

  The child in the strange crib was wailing, and Slono thought it would be a good idea to off it quickly. No sense in taking a chance on having its noise alert anyone to what was going on. “Here, my wee bunny,” he muttered with a horrid grin on his crooked face, “Uncle Spotty’s got a nice little s’prise fer ya…” With this, the assassin stepped toward a place where he could reach down and ply his own sharp blade-and suddenly his eyes stopped working!

  “Godsdamnit!” Alburt cursed. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing?”

  “I can’t see a thing…,” was all Slono managed to reply. The man’s voice, although panicky, was barely audible.

  Alburt hurried to where his compatriot crouched, still a few steps away from the crib, with his hands clutching at his face. He had seen no flash, heard no sound, yet the chalked marks upon the floor burned with a smokeless, almost lightless flame. He felt weakness in his bones, sickness in the pit of his stomach, when his gaze went to those dancing lines of flame.

  “Here, jerk,” Alburt said to his smaller associate as he roughly yanked the assassin out from amidst the magical markings burning on the stones. “You stay put until I finish the kid-I can manage everything.” With that, he picked up the lifeless body of Wanno, dropped it across the magical lines, and used it as if it were a bridge. He stepped gingerly, careful to put his feet only on the corpse or on the places where Wanno’s robe was splayed on the floor. Alburt made his way to a location from where he could peer over the side of the high-walled crib and view what was inside. His eyes grew wide instantly, and then he reached down and stabbed repeatedly, viciously.

  “Crap!”

  “Wazwrong, Alby?” Slono was still swiping at his eyes, but it was evident that some vision had returned to him already, for he was peering in the direction where the bigger thug stood.

  “The li’l fart’s gone!” Alburt growled. “Jus’ plain vanished!”

  The smaller man
suddenly realized that the infant’s crying had stopped at the very moment his eyesight had been lost. “Some rotten magic trick,” he suggested.

  “Naw,” replied Alburt. “I stuck the damn blade all over the whole crib and didn’t feel it sink into nothing but the mattress. Magic maybe, but it sure as shit ain’t invisibility. The flamin’ sprat just ain’t here anymore.”

  “What’ll we do, Alby? This could be big trouble for us…”

  “Not by a long shot. Spotty. Remember what that geezer did to our customer, so who’s to know the same thing didn’t get the brat too? I’ll check the place out, and check it good too, but I think the kid’s gone to wherever Halferd got blasted to.”

  Eventually the smaller assassin managed to regain enough vision to assist his comrade in the search for loot. There was a fair haul that included gold orbs and several potentially valuable items of interest to those who dabbled in the arcane arts. Alburt claimed the lion’s share because he’d slain Wanno the mage and would have had to do the job on the child as well due to Slono’s temporary blindness. Because the smaller assassin valued living, he didn’t argue too loudly or too long. And neither did he enlighten his partner when he discovered a heavy ring of pure gold with a big, green cat’s-eye chrysoberyl set in the yellow metal. That he scooped up and slipped into his pocket without Alburt noticing. Whatever the cut he got, Slono would have a little something extra as his just compensation for this botched mess.

  “Get your ass moving, Spotty. We been here too long,” Alburt ordered as he stuffed the last of several small crystal flasks into a bag.

  “You know it,” his associate said, heading for the place in the wall where a secret passage led to and from Wanno’s hideaway. “Nice of that spell-binder to set up his quarters so near the Thieves’ Way,” Slono observed as the two went along the narrow passage in the walls of the Citadel.

  “Yep. His sort always stick themselves up in some high tower or down underground. Never does ’em any good, either way.” He fell silent after that. In a few minutes the pair left the known passage and went into the even more secret way beneath it, the adit built by Greyhawk’s vaunted Thieves’ Guild. None of the members of the latter group knew that it was now a regular route for the assassins. Silence was complete in the passage and in the rooms it led to.

  It was not until days later that Wanno’s body was discovered, and the news caused a stir in the Citadel that lasted for days thereafter. Finally, the apprentice Halferd was held guilty of murder and flight to avoid paying for his crime. Word was posted that he was a wanted man, and the matter was all but forgotten.

  Chapter 2

  The being whose name and title was Infestix stood as a misshapen pillar before the silent assemblage. If likened to a court on Oerth, this gathering would be an imperial parliament, or perhaps a council of royal sovereigns. The masters of the many planes of Gehenna, Hades, and Tarterus were ranked before Infestix. These terrible beings stood in a semicircle before that one’s dais, those to the left diabolic in appearance, those to the right demoniac, those in the middle resembling Infestix.

  Other royal assemblages would show magnificence, splendid robes, glittering gems, bright gold. But the court of Infestix was the nadir of squalor and decay; where other courts would display beauty, grace, and life at its finest, this one showed instead ugliness, clumsiness, and the ever-present threat of death. This grand court existed in the deepest Gloom of Hades, lowest of the Lower Planes, evilest of evil realms. “Nightmare” would be far too pleasant a term to describe this place, considering both the gathering of creatures and their overlord, Infestix.

  “Is there nothing more?” Infestix asked accusingly. His voice was hollow-sounding and sepulchral. Sickly yellow slime dripped from his lipless mouth as he spoke, and his tongue was a fat, gray worm.

  A muted rasping and creaking issued forth in response, sibilant whispers mixing with harsh croakings. Here a figure shuffled, there another shifted. Ghastly heads bowed, clawlike hands clasped, but none of the Lords of Netherevil spoke in reply to their overlord’s query.

  “What is forewritten can be altered.” This statement from Infestix, for all the self-assurance of its content, held a note of doubt, perhaps desperation.

  A warty dreggal from the fuming pits of Gehenna drew itself up to its full height. “Who can oppose Infestix?” the monster shouted metallically.

  “Better to ask who does,” a massive demodand crackled in retort.

  The Masters of the Horde gabbled back and forth at that remark. Deviloids and dreggals screamed in rage while demodands and demonkin yowled their laughter at the caperings of hordlings and night hags.

  “Stop.” The dead, toneless voice of Infestix somehow filled the vast chamber. The assembled horrors became instantly silent and still. Riot had been averted. “You, Haegresse. What became of those fools who were Our dupes?”

  The queen of night hags made a terrible face, something between a smile and a moue. Perhaps she was being charming. “They have withdrawn, all of them, to their domains,” she simpered. “They will respond to no coaxing and are beyond ken.”

  “What is the rede of the hells?” Infestix put this question to a huge fiend towering over the wart-covered dreggal who had begun the near-chaos.

  The horned head of the great devil tilted slightly in perfunctory obeisance. “The writ has changed, fearful lord,” he replied with a sharp clashing of his tusks and fangs, “but there is still the last portion which is nebulous. We have increased the probabilities in our favor, but at the last there is still a small chance of risk a modicum of doubt…”

  Infestix’s terrible visage grew even more awful to behold. “Why did the eight sons of… that one… withdraw, hag? They had already given over their brother into Our hand.”

  “They are a suspicious lot at best,” Haegresse replied in her strange voice, “and much bent toward the weakness of weal. Suspicious the eight were from the first, and their part in the fratricide caused much argument amongst them. Usurpation of the right of lordship was no longer a sufficient prize. He of Lions demanded to see the whole of the prophecy. Of course I demurred, seeking the sympathy of the one representing the hot-tempered Ancient Tigers, but even that stupid lout was no help,” the queen of night hags said, spitting to emphasize her disgust.

  “They know, then, that there was less than total success.” Infestix looked slowly, his gaze moving from left to right, over the group that stood before him. “It is our mission-more than that, our duty! — to reawaken the Greatest One, free Him, and assist in His triumph over all… You have failed me, though, and that will not be forgiven.” With that the Netherlord’s burning stare fell squarely upon the night hag. Haegresse’s form cringed under the gaze. She bowed her head in fear, expecting the worst, but Infestix looked away and spoke on.

  “Fortunately for all of you fools, I have personally brought forces to bear on this affair. I have discovered what you could not: Others have learned of what we plan. They dare to interfere. It is their power, their meddling, which caused you to bungle.”

  At those words, Haegresse dared to look up again. She saw a bony finger pointed straight at her, and the leering visage of the terrible daemon looking along the digit’s path. The night hag opened her mouth to protest, but a pale ray of putrescent green hue struck her full in the face before she could utter a sound.

  The leathery flesh of her face bubbled and ran as if it were wax. In seconds Haegresse was nothing more than a vile-smelling puddle on the black basalt flags of Infestix’s court.

  The others looked warily at the Netherlord. “She it was who gave our enemies the clue. Her stupid mouth is now silenced forever in nothingness,” Infestix informed the assembled horrors. “Bunglers cannot be tolerated.”

  Those on the side of chaos shuffled and leered at what had just occurred, enjoying the spectacle, while the more ordered sovereigns of Gehenna merely stood taller and gave slight indications of approval. After a few seconds, the ambassador of the Nine Hells sp
oke up. “Lord Infestix, does this mean that my master will be called upon to play his proper role in this?”

  “All of the Dukes Infernal will be… welcomed,” the overlord of daemons replied in his chill, hollow voice.

  “Of course. Overlord of Gloom, the great Asmodeus will be chief-”

  “That is between your master and I!” Infestix’s glare was sufficient to silence the pit fiend, and the devil bowed his head in recognition of the daemon’s power. “No mere mortal, regardless of potential change, can stand before the united might of the nether planes. Haskruble,” Infestix said, fixing the demon of that name with his icy gaze, “you must bring the rulers of the Abyss to us now.”

  The steel-blue scales of the demon rippled as Haskruble shrugged. “No one can do that, mighty Overlord of Hades-not even Orcus, my own lord. The monarchs of the Abyss do as they choose.”

  Although the daemon knew full well the truth of that statement, he trembled with rage at its utterance all the same. The demon emissary’s voice had borne an unmistakable tinge of sarcasm when he had spoken in reply. This was not missed by the other beings in assembly, and they awaited the results of this breach with varying degrees of anticipation.

  No retribution came. The overlord of the nether planes swallowed his umbrage. The demon hordes of the Abyss, their many and puissant rulers, were needed. “Leave now, servant, and tell Orcus and the others that the time has come for all to rally to the Everdark Banner of Tharizdun. He alone can overthrow all Good and bring Evil to a place of supremacy for eternity!” There was disappointment plainly written on many of the vile countenances at so meek a rebuke, so straightforward a command. The demon Haskruble, needless to say, was not among the disappointed ones. He knew all too well the situation.

  “I shall inform Prince Orcus,” he said loudly, and without formality spun on his scaly heels and strode toward the chamber’s exit with a swagger. Then Haskruble howled in agony as an ulcerous growth sprang from his head, sprouting upward in corrupt nodes. The demon spun to face Infestix, a mixture of indignation and terror on his visage.