Such events were mirrored elsewhere. On Oerth the tide of battle swung first one way, then the other. Dark-complexioned armies from the far south marched northward into the vacuum left by hordes of nomads riding eastward. There these southerners met even more numerous hosts of golden-skinned warriors, and both forces were bloodied uselessly, the lands they fought over despoiled. The nations of the central portion of the continent became battlegrounds, just as all the rest of Oerik had been. Here, though, as if in counterpoise, the companies of darkness were being driven back. The powers of Weal ceased their bickerings and united to form an effective front against Iuz, the Scarlet Brotherhood, and the daemon-worshipping wild folk of the great steppes of the west.

During all of this. Balance strived vainly to check Evil's advance into the spheres of neutral sort and, more importantly, to convince the lords of the spheres of Light to spend their power to thwart Hades, delay Infestix, and hinder the wielding of the Theorparts. But the forces of Light refused to cooperate; only Good can bring about a good end, they reasoned, and the urgings of the lords of neutrality went unheeded. Indeed, many of those greater ones who sought Weal were convinced that Balance was actually leagued with the dark powers. How else could Evil spread and grow? they asked. Thus, no small portion of the efforts of Good were expended against the neutral position.

On the phantasmal playing board of the cosmos, the pieces belonging to Light, the pawns of white and gold and blue, took material spaces and threatened the dark regions. Yet as they were so moved, their numbers shrank and there were fewer and fewer pieces to hold the territories and planes behind them. The blood-red and deep purple forces representing the Hells and Hades gathered in the nether planes to contest with the black masses of demonium, so few were their men moving on the spheres of Oerth and its sister worlds. These dark-hued pieces too were shrinking in number, but a shadowy one of massive size and unguessable power was forming deep within their lowest citadel. Expunge the inky rebels, brush aside the puny barrier of green, and carry the prize to Hades' nadir. Then would appear the great piece of All Evil, and it alone would be sufficient to sweep all other forces from the many-planed field.

Green forces, those pieces and pawns of Balance, were troublesome in their placement, true; but their numbers were steadily eroding, and the configuration of potent men showing were clustered impotently in an out-of-the-way corner of the multiverse. There was interference of a most annoying sort, cloudings that disrupted moves, made captures turn into exchanges, shifted squares so that key positions were suddenly compromised or shunted to less important regions. No matter, Infestix said to himself. Strike into the Abyss with all available forces. Gain the three keys. Then — ah, then! — Infestix himself would carry the great relic's portions back to his realm. He would personally unite them, and in an instant Tharizdun, Greatest of Darkness, would be loosed for all time.

What power could resist then? None. Gone would be the rebellious demon lords. Balance would be broken as rotten bones snap under the iron sole of a megadaemon warrior's armored boot With one taloned hand Tharizdun would tear down the spheres of gold, the vaults of argent, the thrones of blue. The gloom of Evil would rise upward as smoke. It would cover the heavens, darken all light, and bring all under the sole rulership of Tharizdun. Infestix, as the chief worker for the cause, would surely sit at the Blackest One's right hand. He was yielding his autonomy, but it would gain him tenfold the power, a hundred times the glory!

The master of Hades crooked a skeletal finger. "Go, fetch The Diseased Ones to this place now," he grated to the putridaemon herald who hovered nearby. "Tell them to come before me fully prepared for every exigency," Infestix added in his hollow rasp. The herald knelt, banged its bronze-helmeted, zombie-faced head upon the massive stones of the floor, then crept backward from the place until well away from the hideous throne of its monarch. Then the monstrous thing leaped to its feet and ran to carry out Infestix's commands.

To each of The Diseased Ones, the greatest of daemonkind other than Infestix himself, the putridaemon repeated the orders he had been charged with. A sense of urgency was conveyed; that, and a sense of impending triumph. These had been incuicated merely through the word and will of Infestix. The dull brain of the daemon herald was a sponge, and the eight who were The Diseased Ones squeezed it with their own mental power and were excited by the results.

"The moment draws near!" exclaimed the first of the eight.

"The Master himself will lead us," the least of them murmured.

"Never fear," the greatest said with a mirthless smile to the eighth. "You will have your moment of significance. ..."

"Pardon, Lord, I fail to understand," the least intoned suspiciously.

"Heh, heh, heh! As the eighth, Brucilosu, it will be your honor to take the field as commander when the Master personally intervenes!"

"But if I fall against the demons? . . ."

"There is the seventh waiting behind you, of course. Heh, heh. . . ."

Nothing further was uttered as the eight servants of Infestix made their way to their lord's grim audience chamber.

Chapter 3

IT WAS A BLACK VORTEX filled with motes of disgusting colors. The motion of the bilious green, rotten gray, putrescent yellow, and livid violet glows as they whirled and mixed with a riot of ineffable motes of other hues, was sufficient to sicken the viewer. Intestines churned in nauseous counterpoint to the evolutions of those vile-colored little gleams as they surfaced and sank within the growing maelstrom. The sight of that, the terrible wrongness of it all, caused brains to ache, thoughts to turn inward in a desperate desire to escape. Wrenching gut joined wracked brain in denial of it all. Still the vortex grew, intensified, and became omnipresent. Then the sounds reached out, and with them came the indescribable odors. It was too much for any normal mind to bear.

"Is . . . this . . ."

"The Abyss? Yes. Exactly as pictured for me by the Hierophants," Gord said. With a great deal of effort, he managed to speak to Gellor without choking on the gorge that was rising in his throat.

Gellor swallowed hard and with crabbed fingers managed to pull his leather eye patch down to cover the enchanted gem that served as his left eye. "Your energy is greater than mine, Gord, or else your constitution is stronger. Either way, I can’t view the place through the ocular. Too much can be seen that way."

"Not likely, you old wolf!" Gord countered, squeezing his comrade's shoulder in a gesture of both sharing and reassurance. Gord, as the champion of Balance, had been imbued with a deep and lasting vitality from many supernatural sources. In all, however, the one-eyed troubador was his equal. Gellor too had received energies, been gifted with power, and granted strength beyond the ken of mortals. "I'd wager it's the perspective, not the prospect, which so disconcerts you."

That remark, meant in Jest but taken more seriously, gave Gellor pause. Gord obviously referred to their situation and status. Always in the past it had been the bard who knew more, discovered more, and was in charge. Gord had been like an apprentice, a wayward nephew, then almost a protege. Now the roles were reversed, and Gellor accompanied his young friend as a lieutenant. Gord shared information, but there were certain things Gellor was not privy to, despite that. That circumstance existed because of the responsibility the young man bore, and because Gord must bear it, not because Gord desired to surpass his friend or to dominate him. "Perhaps you do see things better than I," Gellor finally said as the spinning vortex loomed to fill the whole of their universe. "I am unused to reliance on another, albeit even a minor dependence and from a bosom companion."