"I see," Gord replied, not fully understanding but accepting this mysticism as something the dwarf chose to believe. "Fare you well, captain and company all!" As he turned away and began to stride northward, the stout demi-human rumbled after him, "The armlet you wear, Gord of Greyhawk, was forged long and long ago by the smiths of Grotheim. It bestows the strength of our folk upon you in certain ways."

At this, Gord turned back toward the dwarves and bowed slightly in a gesture of thanks and respect. He had never suspected that the armband was anything but a valuable piece of jewelry; now he had been told that it was special for a greater reason than the gold it was made of. The dwarven captain nodded to Gord, and behind him his fellow warriors raised their weapons in a silent salute. The whole incident moved Gord deeply.

"Venoms and dweomers, man – dwarves are very strong against them!" the captain shouted out. Then he and his men turned and trudged on corded legs back toward the rugged hills of the Pen-Wilds.

Whether or not the dwarves had any idea of Gord's abilities, their directing him through the forest proved to be exceptionally useful for the young adventurer. Once alone and concealed within the thick growth of the Briartangle's southern verge, Gord transformed himself from man to panther. He was relieved to find that the armlet changed with him, as did his other possessions.

There were dangerous beasts in the forest, monsters too, and occasional outlaw bands. Those that Gord was unable to avoid either avoided him or discovered after a brief encounter that it was better not to attack such a creature. A black leopard the size of a jaguar was an unusual creature, to say the least – too much of a match for lion, carnivorous ape, or green forest ogre.

When he eventually came to the open, cultivated lands beyond the Briartangle, Gord changed to his true form again. The herdsmen and farmers of Ket were a mixed race, although Baklunish blood predominated. Although Gord was dark in complexion as they were, his dress and speech gave him away as a foreigner. The natives shunned a lone wanderer of this sort. Nevertheless, his passage was swift enough, inns and caravansaries providing for his needs.

When he finally arrived in Hlupallu, Gord sought and found service in the army of the Marcher Lord. When he demonstrated that he could ride well, Gord was assigned to a troop of mercenary lancers. Tests of his weapon skills showed that the new Ourmi recruit had no ability whatsoever with the recurved bow but could at least point a lance correctly. He was appointed a private in the company of lancers commanded by Malik Ibn Urchi. Wearing the brown cloak with the white and orange emblem of the Kettite kingdom, Gord rode over the lands around the capital for hundreds of miles, chasing Bayomen tribesmen, raiders from the tribes of hill-folk, or local bandits. He learned a smattering of Kettite Baklunish speech, and his comrades told him that his accent no longer sounded eastern. Then abruptly one night he deserted the troop, leaving without farewell or regret, and went alone into the teeming streets of Hlupallu.

The city was a mixture of cultures, but it was more of West than East. Hlupallu was divided into a fortress compound of great size, the casbah; a crowded market district, the souk; a residential quarter, the medina, a sector for foreigners known as the ourmistan; and a place of warehouses and the like. Each portion of the city was walled off from the others. This was purposeful, not a case of happenstance as it was in some eastern towns and cities. He took up residence in the foreign quarter, traveling here and there in Hlupallu dressed in native garb – looking, listening, and learning so that he could pose as a Kettite. He managed to do well enough in the few weeks he had to further study the manners and speech of Hlupallu.

As he had been told by both Demiurge and Cat-lord, some event would occur that would take him from the capital of Ket. What the event was, neither could say for certain, but Basiliv had said that Gord's journey would be west and southward, and Rexfelis assured him that once it was underway he would recognize the enemy and know instinctively what he must do. More than that, neither could tell him.

Gord stayed in Hlupallu and waited for fate to move him. He continued to practice his skills – thievery, gymnastics, weapon play – as much as he could; but he did not actually ply any of these arts beyond mere rehearsal. In fact, at times he felt frustrated, for it seemed to him that he was becoming more and more a swordsman and less and less a thief and burglar. This boded ill for his purse, for the pay of a mercenary, no matter his ability and prowess, was laughable when compared to the return from a single successful mission such as the ones he had undertaken as Blackcat the burglar.

Then came the night when he was seated in the Dar Peshdwar, watching one incredibly lovely dancer perform but recalling another dancer, another time, and another place, long past, much distant. Was the combat there and his flight with Zulmon and The Pearl to the Pennors the sign he was supposed to wait for? Perhaps, perhaps not. It didn't matter now, for there was nothing he could do about those events. What had occurred had occurred, and Gord was now committed to action. Although he had seen no enemy as he had been told he would, it seemed to be time for him to move westward. Once he had left Hlupallu, the young adventurer felt strongly that he must follow a new strand spun by fate. Those who sought the last portion of the malign artifact would have to travel this way, Gord reflected. It stood to reason, then, that he must ride forth to meet them in some other locale than the city.

Whether it came from native intelligence or by the hand of some greater power, this belief was to prove correct.

OBMI STOOD FIDGETING before the fearsome trio. Zuggtmoy, Demon Queen of Fungi, was in human form, looking ravishingly lovely even to the jaundiced eye of the dwarf. Beside her lounged Iggwilv, likewise seeming to be nothing more than a young and incredibly beautiful female. Between exchanges of "girl talk," these two would chatter with Iuz. The cambion was irate at this behavior, but he dared not speak to either female about his anger. In fact, Obmi gloated mentally, when the towering cambion had started to take out his frustration by snarling at Obmi, Zuggtmoy and Iggwilv had intervened.

"Stop that!" the great witch had commanded.

"Yes, Iuz, you know that the dwarf is no longer yours," Zuggtmoy had added. "Obmi is mine now, and I will not tolerate meddling from another when it comes to my servants!"

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Iuz interrupted the two females with a loud demand. "If you are going to waste your time, that is up to you, but I have better things to do. If you ever get down to important matters, you may inform Me. Perhaps I will attend and give you the benefit of My wisdom!"

"Stay, Iuz," Iggwilv said. The tone was conversational, but her look and meaning were unmistakable. She would have no such conduct from her son.

Zuggtmoy smiled at the glowering cambion. "Very well, dear Iuz. We have had enough of gossip, I think. It is just a matter of letting those who must obey you know exactly where they stand," the demoness said, giving Obmi a casual glance.

Iuz ground his hundred little fangs in fury at the manner in which his mother treated him. He said nothing, but he held in his heart a growing hatred for the most ancient and powerful of witches. One day soon, Iggwilv would regret her treatment of him. First, however, he would use her to attain rule of all Oerth. "I consent to your wishes. Greatest of Ladies," Iuz said, smiling and nodding. "It is merely that I believe My dear father, rot his scabrous skin, will be acting with more expeditiousness…"