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ONCE upon a Time in the mythical city of Greyhawk
there lived a young urchin known as Gord. His life and
adventures, from slum waif to beggar-apprentice, from
thief to deposer of deities, are told in a new series of novels
which TSR will publish during the next two years. The
initial work, Saga of Old City, will be available in November.
The second book, Artifact of Evil, is planned for release
in early 1986.

DRAGON® Magazine herewith presents, for your
amusement and edification, a short story about Gord of
Greyhawk. The action takes place in the fabulous City
itself, at a time when Gord?s initial indoctrination to the
world at large is over and before he sets off on his first real
quest. Thus, the story is an interim piece which fills the
gap between the two novels mentioned above. In the story,
you will meet both Gord and his bosom friend, Chert.
Only after completing Saga of Old City, and prior to the
writing of this tale, did I notice the similarity between this
pair of doughty adventurers and Fritz Leiber?s famous
characters Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. I have great
personal admiration for Fritz Leiber and his renowned
Swords & Sorcery duo. But, the similarities notwithstanding,
I trust that you will also notice the distinct differences
between the pairs of protagonists. I myself have been
?flattered? too often by imitators to accept aping as a
sincere form of flattery. . . .

At the Time of this story, Gord is about 21 years
of age and his barbarian comrade Chert is but a year or
two older. They are both typical young adults ? not dissimilar
to what I was and what you will be/are/were at
such an age. Think about and remember that, please.
Times, circumstances, and technology change ? but
people don?t. The tale involves FUN, adventure, and a
sprinkling of the swordplay and sorcerous doings so necessary
to any effort in this genre. There occurs herein a
learning experience which will stand Our Hero in good
stead later in his life. In the meantime, there is some High
Excitement to be experienced.

Return with me now to those thrilling days of
neverwhen, as heroes set about their derring-do and spellworkers
cast their nets of magic, and a certain arch-mage
learns that . . .

At Moonset
Blackcat Comes

The last rays of the setting sun washed the dun walls of
the city with the color of old blood and cast long shadows
on the broad thoroughfares which bisected the New Town.
In Greyhawk's Old City, the twisting, narrow lanes and
alleys were cloaked in obscuring dimness. Through the
gathering dusk hurried honest folk, anxious to be safe
behind closed doors, while those of another disposition
altogether slunk forth to prey upon the unwary and belated.
Encompassing these two extremes, and everything
between them, was the nighttime city, that world where
bon vivant and criminal, adventurous young nobleman
and professional gambler mingled. Along the notorious
Strip, pimps and prostitutes competed with tavern hucksters
and gambling dens for the clinking coins of rivermen
and riffraff, mercenary and petty merchant. The scene
was more genteel and subdued in the upper-class equivalent,
that place where High and Garden Quarter adjoined,
but the activities were of similar, if more
expensive, nature. Fortunes, whether consisting of a few
copper commons or a stack of gold orbs, were lost to
wheel or dice, drink or drab, no matter if the latter was
called a whore or styled herself a courtesan. Into this
gloaming walked a pair of young, well-dressed men.
 

"Where to this night, Gord?? asked the taller of the
two."

Gord, a fellow of but moderate height and build,
glanced at his companion and smiled. This roguish grin
transformed his seemingly average face into a boyishly
handsome one, and his white teeth flashed bright in the
fading light. Brushing back a stray lock of black, wavy
hair, he replied: ?Chert, my friend, tonight we visit the
Foreign Quarter!?

?Why there.?? Chert demanded. ?There?s more action
and prettier women just nearby!? he exclaimed, waving
one of his massive arms vaguely toward the flaring torches
which illuminated the elegance of the establishments of
Fortune Street and the other byways of the fashionable
upper portion of New Town.

?But last night you nearly killed that snot-nosed rake ?
Lord Fradel?s scion, as I recall ? when you caught him
cheating at dice. If we are seen in these parts again soon,
do you think that some band of his henchmen won?t fall
upon us with murderous intent??

?So? Such twits as Fradel?s whelp can muster will be no
threat to us!? shot back the lately sophisticated barbarian.
Considering Chert?s towering, six-foot, six-inch frame,
bulging muscles, and weapons skill, his claim was unquestionably
true ? even without the commensurate sword
and dagger work of his comrade to support his contention.

Gord looked fondly at his friend again, measuring him
from the top of his curly, light brown head of hair, already
showing signs of its usual disarray, down to his thick legs
encased in leather boots of the latest design popular with
the elite of Greyhawk. ?You appear civilized, Chert, but it
is only a veneer! We must be regarded as boon companions
and moneyed sports, not brawling killers. You?d soon
have us on the wrong side of society, rightly or not. How
then would we practice our livelihood??

Glowering, Chert snapped: ?A pox on society! Who
needs those fops and dandified pretenders? We still have
gold from the sale of those gems we took from the catoboligne
demon guarding the cairn ? and when that?s gone,
we can easily take what we need from those soft, simpering
fools who think themselves bladesmen and dangerous
opponents.?

?Perhaps,? Gord countered, ?but do not pass them all
off too lightly, for there are indeed fine swordsmen
amongst those you term fops, albeit masquerading as
urbane, sophisticated courtiers.? Gord paused to direct his
comrade toward the desired destination, then continued:
?Besides which, there are also artful thieves and blackhearted
assassins within that crowd, too ? not to mention
the hard-bitten mercenary fighters who serve those very
ones you pass off so easily.?

Chert grumbled but made no resistance to being steered
to the place that his friend had said was to be tonight?s
area of adventure. The pair soon came to a dimly lit tavern
just within the precincts of that portion of Greyhawk
specified for those not claiming to be citizens of the free
city. Entrance to the Foreign Quarter was not difficult, but
soon the gates would be shut and barred, sealing off the
place until morning came. Escaping the place at night
would be impossible, save by climbing over the thirtyfoot-
high wall or passing under it by means of some secret
tunnel. Both were certainly possible for the duo to
achieve, so neither adventurer gave the matter a second
thought.

To his credit, Chert did not bellow out an order immediately
when he walked through the doorway into the
tavern. But when the ostler inquired as to his preference,
the barbarian?s response belied his cultured appearance.
?Strong ale!? he rumbled in his deep voice. ?And a brace
of those fat ducks I see turning on the spit!? He punctuated
the order by slamming his fist down on a heavy
oaken table, hard enough to make the table jump.

Somewhat ashen-faced, the proprietor turned and hurriedly
asked Gord: ?And you, sir??

?Keoghish amber ? the oldest vintage you have,?
Gord replied mildly but with a wolfish smile. ?Capon
roasted golden, with crisp skin, and galda fruit and ripe
cheese after.?

The ostler scuttled away as if he had hot embers in his
breeks, and the sight was enough to break Chert?s dark
mood into peals of deep, ringing laughter. ?Ahh,? he
sighed, rubbing his huge, calloused palms together briskly
in anticipation of the coming repast. ?A bite of food and a
sip of frothy brew, and I?ll be ready for anything ? even
such devious plots as you hatch, Little Man!?

Gord?s hand darted out, slapped the barbarian lightly
across his surprised face, and returned to lie flat on the
table before Chert could twitch a muscle. ?Little man??
he shot back. ?Slender, certainly, not a great tub of
bearguts disguised as a human! Normal-sized, not a hulking
ogre! And far too quick and clever for the likes of you
to defend against, I agree ? but not little!?

Their drinks arrived just then, turning Chert?s goodnatured
and tolerant expression into a broad smile of
pleasure. With a single, swift motion, the brawny fellow
hoisted the bumper and quaffed its contents in a long
gulp. Chert?s smoothness and speed belied the insults
which Gord had just heaped upon him, and he knew it.
?More ale, quickly !? he shouted after the retreating ostler
as he banged the empty vessel down on the old, stained
planks of the trestle.

*    *    *    *

?This place is new to me, Gord,? murmured Chert as
they approached a narrow building 5 storeys in height.
The sign that hung above its iron-bound portal showed a
golden ship surmounted by three silver coronets on a deep
blue field.

?The Ship and Crowns?? Gord?s question was purely
rhetorical, for he immediately went on: ?I frequented this
place occasionally in my younger days ? I was known as
the Grand Count then. . . . Did I ever tell you about the
time I was impersonating a Velunese knight? I called myself
Sir Margus ??

?Countless times!? the big barbarian interjected. ?Just
tell me why we come to the . . . Ship and Crowns . . . this
night.?

?It is a place much frequented by wealthy merchants,
ship?s captains, traders, and even slumming noblemen. It
has gorgeous serving wenches, the best of potables ? even
that new fiery distillation called whiskey ? and most challenging
games.?

?Games? Bah!? Chert replied in disgust. ?Why come
here for gambling when the whole of New Town abounds
with gaming establishments??

The dark-eyed young adventurer gave his comrade a
look which bespoke pity for someone hopelessly retarded
in intellect, and muttered something about the correlation
between mighty muscles and minute mind. Gord pulled a
crown-shaped key from his pocket, inserted it into the
heavy door?s great lock, and entered the place. Chert
stepped in behind him, amazed in spite of himself at the
sight thus revealed.

Instead of the interior of some typical common house,
he saw a chamber more befitting an aristocrat?s private
study than a drinking establishment. The floor was clean
and polished where thick rugs of exotic origin did not hide
its surface. The paneled walls gleamed, the polished wood
being replaced by plastered and painted wall upward from
about waist height. These latter surfaces were covered
with artistic works ? tapestries, trophies, carved ivory
pieces, paintings of exceptional workmanship. Gleaming
brass lanterns and candelabra held thick tapers, the soft
light from which made the whole place warm and comfortable.
Perhaps a half-dozen chairs and two small tables
were scattered about the room, and there wasn?t a single
person in sight.

?Not a very popular place,? Chert muttered while continuing
to gaze at the surroundings.

?Wait and learn,? Gord replied simply.

They stood, in relaxed postures, and in another moment
a tall girl with long, blond hair and garments of
diaphanous silk appeared from a draped archway at the
back of the chamber. ?May I ask my lords? pleasure this
evening?? she offered. ?Do you wish jolly company and
merrymaking? Beauty and quiet to sample marvelous
potions? Or perhaps you have come to contest in challenges
of tactics and wit??

Her last query was somewhat hesitant as her gaze took
in the towering barbarian's substance, for his stance and
bearing revealed those aspects of his nature which finery
and dress could not hide. Here, she thought, is one suited
for berserk battle, the wild hunt, or questing after dragons
not the sedate pursuit of victory on a game table.

Chert?s massive arm looped itself easily around the
lovely, milk-white shoulders of the pretty lass. ?I say that
my pleasure will be best served, girl, by you and I going
to some secluded nook to sample those marvelous potions
you mentioned!?

?Oh, no, sir!? the girl exclaimed as she slipped easily
from his grasp with a fluid motion born of long practise.
?My station is here, but I will have you escorted above to
the Masters? Cabin, or the Leisure of Lords ? the two
pleasure salons at the top ? if that is your desire. . . .?

?No!? Gord managed to insert the word even as his
barbarian companion was opening his mouth to assent
happily to the suggestion. ?We have come to sample your
best spirits, and enliven our minds with contests of the
intellect ? not to wallow in carnal combat of the delicate
sort.?

Chert?s mouth closed, then opened again, and he was
about to voice a strong protest, but the girl spoke first.
?Most certainly, sirs.? With that, she drew aside the curtains
and ushered them through a short hall into the inte-
rior of the establishment. ?Please ascend the stair. Games
and contests of skill are featured in all of the rooms of the
second storey.?

Gord was already mounting the steps as she spoke, and
his brawny companion had little choice but to follow.
They climbed past a floor where the thick, plush-draped
entrance only slightly muffled the sounds of ribald singing
and laughter. Again Chert tried to distract Gord from his
stated goal, but the slender fellow never paused in his
progress upward. Cursing softly under his breath, the
barbarian stamped after Gord?s retreating back. Games of
skill, indeed!

?Here, now!? exclaimed Gord when he reached the
second storey. ?In here are the things to challenge the
mind, sharpen the wit, and test one?s true mental mettle!?

Glumly unconvinced of such wonders, Chert shook his
head and refused to show the slightest trace of enthusiasm.
Gord led him through several rooms to a place where
cushioned chairs and soft divans surrounded oddly shaped
and patterned tables. The patrons were of mixed sort,
diverse race, and both sexes. All were obviously wealthy.
Gord and Chert took their ease on a long divan, and they
were no sooner seated than another maid, this one an
auburn-haired beauty of dazzling smile and extraordinary
figure, was before them.

?What may I bring you, sirs?? she asked with a curtsey
which revealed a breathtaking display of rounded bosom.

Chert was reaching, but Gord was quicker and caught
his companion?s great paw before it attained its desired
destination. At the same time, he hastily responded, ?We
shall each sample your famous whiskey potion.?

?Bring a keg of the stuff!? Chert demanded, truculent
over the foiling, once again, of his imagined sport.

There were a number of others in the room, sitting
around one table or another in pairs, trios, or quartets,
evidently engaged in various forms of the games that Gord
was so eager to indulge in. At the noise of the commotion
caused by Chert, several looked up to scowl ? a bearded
Kettite in orange turban, a fellow wearing Tenhite dress
and obviously of Flannish race, and a burly ship?s captain,
among others ? and hastily returned their eyes to the
tables before them at the sight of the giant who glared
back at them. This one certainly sought some more active
form of contest than any here cared to offer on this night!

After sampling a draught of the distillation, Chert
swilled the whole contents of his beaker down and poured
some more from the large earthenware jug the wench had
brought to them. ?Urrruphf!? he belched, then smacked
his lips, sighed with real pleasure, and, ?The stuff is tasty
. . . and I like the way it burns all the way down the gullet.
This . . . whiskey . . . fairly makes a man glow!? he
finished loudly. Nobody looked up this time, much to the
disappointment of the barbarian.

Gord, who had been watching a game involving runeinscribed
stones, dice, pathways, pits, and walls, turned
angrily toward his comrade. ?Godsdamnit, Chert,? he
growled in a half-whisper. ?Can?t you control yourself for
once? Just because we aren?t gambling, wenching, or
brawling, you think yourself deprived and mistreated.
Well, tonight I am going to do something I like to do ?
enjoy something cerebral, not full of physical action or
violence. If you don?t wish to be uplifted, then why don?t
you just bugger off??

?All right,? his friend said flatly and with finality. ?This
is bullshit. See you later.? And without another word
Chert arose and stumped off.

Gord was sorry he?d been so sharp then, for he enjoyed
the barbarian?s company, and a little coaxing would have
certainly mellowed him to the point where he would have
actually enjoyed the new atmosphere and the gaming.
Worse still, he had taken the jug when he left! Well, no
help for it now. Chert and whiskey were gone. Gord decided
to make the best of it. A few coins brought a fresh
flask, and Gord began strolling here and there to watch
the contests going on and to look for a possible opponent
in one or another of the games.

Although the games were often tense matches, Gord
found little enjoyment or excitement in being a mere spectator.
He wished to pit himself against some worthy opponent
in a contest of strategy and skill. But all here were
already partnered, and the role of observer palled upon
the young man. After going through several of the many
rooms, Gord came to a small, secluded study which had
only one, three-layered table, flanked by a pair of overstuffed
armchairs with high backs and protruding sides.
He was about to move on, thinking the place deserted,
when a voice called to him.

?Your pardon, good sir, but do you seek someone to
challenge??

?What?? Gord spun, startled at the unexpected sound
of a voice coming from a place he thought deserted. He
took two wary steps into the chamber, angling his path so
that he could see the far chair and the figure seated in it.
?Oh, yes indeed!? he continued, adopting a casual tone
to cover his surprise. He moved farther into the room and
surveyed the strange-looking table. ?I have played at
Chatraj before, but this board is far different . . .? His
voice trailed off as he realized how different it was.

?Chess has many forms,? the other fellow purred as he
held aloft the ornately carved figure of the scarlet king,
?but all are similar, too. Allow me to introduce myself. I
am Rexfelis ? no mean player, to be sure, but one who is
quite willing to offer instruction to another devoted to
such pursuits. Will you accept the challenge . . . ?? he
added as he stood and offered his long-fingered hand in
greeting.

?I am Gord, and happily I accept, Rexfelis, so generous
an offer.? Gord shook the man?s hand, assessing his
new opponent as he did so. Rexfelis ? an unusual name,
Gord mused ? was just about his own build and only
slightly taller. That explained how he could go unnoticed
by one so sharp-eyed as Gord, hidden as he was by the
great chair. Of indeterminate age, the fellow appeared
highly intelligent and seemed to move with the same catlike
grace which Gord so prided himself upon. There was
some similarity in their looks, too, for this Rexfelis had
dark hair and eyes, a fine-featured face, and long, sinewy
limbs. Instead of Gord?s olive skin, however, Rexfelis had
a very pale complexion, which made his black eyes seem
large and somewhat startling. On the whole, though,
Gord found himself liking the fellow and feeling immediately
comfortable with his company.

?Allow me to provide us with refreshment, sir,? said
Gord, ?while you instruct me in the intricacies of. . . .
What is it you call this game??

?Agreed!? said Rexfelis with a merry laugh. ?And I
call this Dragonchess. It is easy to learn, but difficult to
master ? much as a woman!?

Soon a pair of crystal glasses filled with tawny liquid
were gracing the sides of the game table, as Gord?s newfound
comrade explained the form of the board and its
many pieces: ?The upper board is clear, you see, with
checks of palest blue and faint white. The whole represents
the air above us, and the element as well. On it are
ranked the sylphs, the griff, and each of our terrible
dragons. Next, the transparent layer of light green and
amber squares is the board which represents the land
surface ? the mundane world, as it were. Note the warriors
filling the second ranks of each side, and behind
them stand the oliphants, unicorns, heroes, and thieves ?
some prefer to call them elven thieves, or simply elves, but
I say that?s begging the question. The middle board also
houses the singular pieces ? cleric, mage, king, and paladin
? or assassin, if you attribute evil to a game.

?Below the middle board is the underworld region, that
place of caverns and caves. It is checkered deep brown
and red, you will notice. There are positioned the
dwarves, the basilisks, and the counterpart to the dragon
high above, the elemental. I shall show you how to array
these forces, demonstrate the movement of each piece,
and then perhaps we may begin with a few instructional
games??

Gord readily assented, and after some time he was playing
rather well if he did say, or actually think, so himself.
Although he lost all of the first six games played, each new
contest saw him lasting longer and more effectively guarding
and attacking.

?Excellent!? Rexfelis exclaimed as Gord moved his
basilisk into a position where it froze movement of the
pale man?s king. ?You?d have me beaten next move with
that gold thief, but for this . . . checkmate!? Rexfelis finished,
moving his remaining griffon with a swooping motion
to a square diagonally below its upper-board position.
There it captured Gord?s cleric and threatened his king.
Checkmate? Yes, blast it! The griffon was protected by the
scarlet mage, and the game was lost indeed.

?I almost had you that time,? Gord said with frustration
and a trace of bitterness.

Rexfelis looked somewhat smug and superior as he sat
back and stretched languidly. He cocked an eyebrow at
Gord and, with an unwinking gaze fixed upon the young
man, said, ?Perhaps it is the hour, and you are tired ?
although you do seem to have remarkable skill at learning.
Well . . . another day??

?No!? responded Gord, emphatically but still, he
hoped, politely. ?I can manage an eighth game ? and this
time I suggest you be on guard, sir, for I intend to win!?
This was neither bluff nor braggadocio. Gord was an
expert player at other forms of the game, and despite the
difficulties of this more complex version he thought he had
sufficient knowledge of the positions of opening and middle
play to take advantage of weaknesses he had detected
in his opponent?s game. Whatever the case, he and Rexfelis
played an eighth match, and after much maneuvering
and exchange of pieces Gord managed to corner and
checkmate Rexfelis?s king. It was most satisfying!

?Now I must confess that I myself grow weary,? said
Rexfelis after graciously congratulating the victor. ?I bid
you goodnight.?

?But you cannot leave so soon,? said Gord. ?The night
is hardly past midpoint, if that. Let us try a single, last
game. . . .? But Rexfelis was shaking his head and arising,
so Gord added hastily, ?Stay, friend, and I shall supply us
both with a stimulating beverage and a tasty snack. Thus
shall our bodies and our minds be refreshed ? all enjoyable
and at no cost to you, dear sir!?

?Time . . . time is the price,? said Rexfelis, but then he
hesitated, halfway between rising and sitting. Then he
seemed to firm his resolve, for he stood fully and said,
?The offer is kind, and it tempts me, but the prospect of a
ninth game fails to excite my weary brain sufficiently.?

?A wager, then?? asked Gord, desperately desiring a
last game to verify to himself his newly learned skill at
Dragonchess.

?What sort of a stake?? the somber-clad man inquired,
looking at Gord with intensity. ?I am a gambling man,
and that does interest me.?

Gord was always alert to such reactions, for they were
the mark of sharpers, professional gamblers, and thieves.
Being a master of both arts himself, Gord scrutinized
Rexfelis with new respect and suspicion. Was this man
hustling him? No, the adventurous young man thought,
this was unlikely. Gord knew virtually every thief in the
city (although few of them knew him by the name of
Gord). This fellow was no thief. His bearing was aristocratic.
He was a noble, certainly, although one of strange
sort. He wore the finest garments Gord had seen inside or
outside any palace, and his heavy gold jewelry was
adorned with gems. Certainly he was no sharper seeking
an easy victim. Perhaps he was one of those afflicted with
a passion for wagering. . . .

?You choose the stakes we contest for, sir. I too am a
gambler,? Gord replied, his eyes locked on his adversary?s.

The pale man sat down again, smiled, and said, ?Let
us make a small wager, but a dear one nonetheless. I admire
that cat?s-eye ring you wear on your left hand. Let us
play for that ? against this carnelian amulet I wear at my
breast.?

Gord?s first impulse was to decline, for he prized the
ring highly and suspected that it had some hidden
dweomer yet unrevealed to him. But before he could object,
Rexfelis spoke on: ?Yes, yes, I know it is a most
wondrously valuable ring, but I assure you this amulet is
its superior. I shall tell you what power each has, if you
win.?

As Gord was on the verge of standing up and saying
no, the mocking tone and expression of the black-clad
Rexfelis suddenly filled him with a burning desire to wipe
away the mockery with an ignominious defeat, and he was
further infused with a power and confidence he often felt
when he thought fortune was smiling upon him. ?The
stake shall be as you say,? he proclaimed. ?Let us begin!?

Gord?s golden pieces went to the attack quickly ? but
just as quickly they were countered, and all too soon the
scarlet components of his adversary?s force were marshalled
to bear upon him. Rexfelis?s red forces above,
below, and on the board of the mundane were pressing
home an inexorable attack, and some of the nuances of the
position were not apparent to Gord.

?Careless,? remarked Gord as he removed the scarlet
dragon with his hero. Both men were playing quickly, and
Rexfelis was losing more pieces than Gord was.

?Check,? replied his foe matter-of-factly as he made his
following move.

The threat was from a scarlet hero, and Gord was
shocked to find that his king had no safe retreat on high or
middle board. He moved his monarch to the underworld
board without comment. Rexfelis sacrificed two more
pieces, leaving Gord no option but to accept both captures,
and then broke the silence with three chilling words:
?It is over.?

Gord stared at the position with sudden understanding.
He had been maneuvered into a situation where his king
could not return to the middle board. Two more forced
moves, and it was checkmate.

?I agree,? Gord said tonelessly. ?I believe this is now
yours, sir. . . .? he added, removing the gold ring set with
a cabochon cat?s-eye chrysoberyl and extending it across
the table.

?Be not so hasty, my friend,? Rexfelis said with a small
smile. ?Perhaps there is another wager you can agree to
one that will enable you to retain the ring and gain the
amulet as well!?

?I have been gulled once,? Gord said sourly, ?but I am
ever a fool. Say on.?

The black-garbed man couldn?t help smiling more
broadly at Gord?s cynical assessment of his own situation.
?Perhaps you do face a foe with an advantage,? he said.
?I know that you have a certain repute . . . Blackcat.?

Although it was said softly, Gord jumped at the mention
of that name ? his appellation as a burglar! ?Why name
me thus?? he retorted briskly. ?I am not the elusive thief
you identify, one who is sought high and low as the bane
of the city?s wealthy.?

?Are you not? Well, no matter,? Rexfelis said. ?The
reward from the wager is for Gord, although Blackcat
might succeed at its challenge more easily. What say
you??

Gord met the fellow?s steady stare with his own. Of all
the people in Greyhawk, Gord had thought that only
Chert and he himself knew that he was the burglar called
Blackcat ? the name coined by victims who had caught a
glimpse of his inky form disappearing over a rooftop,
running along an impossibly narrow ledge, leaping distances
not thought possible for normal folk. Yet, even
though Rexfelis also had this information, Gord saw no
malice or devious intent in his face, only a cool, quizzical
detachment, as though he were assessing Gord?s courage
and daring. ?Name the terms,? Gord said evenly in reply
to the challenging stare.

?In an hour the moon will set. In another two, the rosy
orb of the sun will push its way heavenward. In that span,
during those two hours of great darkness, a bold and daring
thief might enter the Tower of Rigello and bring back
. . . a small item.?

?Rigello is an arch-mage ? and one of vicious disposition,
I am told,? Gord replied slowly.

?True on both counts,? Rexfelis agreed. ?The one who
dares to enter his domain would have to be exceptionally
skilled, well-prepared, and lucky.?

?What is this small item to be stolen??

?Not stolen,? corrected the dark-clad man. ?Let us say
recovered ? returned to its rightful possessor. It is a statuette
of a tiger carved from a single piece of jacinth, inlaid
with bands of polished, black coral, and bearing eyes of
perfect emerald. A masterwork, a nonesuch, and stolen
from me by Rigello!? The pale man hissed the last words
with such hate that Gord drew back reflexively.

?What preparation is needed?? asked Gord, thoughts
of thievery coming into his head as he implicitly agreed to
undertake the endeavor. ?And what reward for the . . .
return of the property??

Rexfelis smiled contentedly, correctly assuming that he
had found his man, and bent closer to Gord. ?Harken
now,? he said, drawing forth a folded parchment. ?I will
show you the plan of the tower and suggest what might be
useful in penetrating its defenses. My quarters are nearby,
and therein is stored all you will need in the way of gear
and armaments.?

?The reward you spoke of ? is it only my ring and that
amulet??

Rexfelis grinned broadly at this, showing his small,
slightly pointed teeth. ?You refer to my ring, of course,
and the amulet, and you suggest that these are insufficient
for the risk? Ahh, my young friend, if you but knew. . . .
Nevertheless, I will bargain, for the hazards are most
perilous, admittedly, and you are the sole hope I have. If
you return here with the statuette before the sun clears the
horizon, then the ring, the amulet, and one hundred gold
orbs will await. Do we have agreement on that??

?Let us make haste,? said Gord, with a note of urgency
in his voice, as his way of assenting. ?The moon sails
toward its setting even now!?

After a few more minutes of intense conversation to
make final plans, both men left the Ship and Crowns rapidly,
but without obvious haste. Gord was uncertain about
what he had agreed to, but felt he had little choice. If this
man was indeed certain that Gord was the thief called
Blackcat, a single word would suffice to sign Gord?s death
warrant. How Rexfelis came by his knowledge, Gord
would determine later. Now, however, was the time for
action. Regaining his ring, plus the acquisition of both the
amulet and a stack of gold, was more than sufficient cause
for him to accept the challenge ? and besides, this was a
test befitting the greatest burglar Greyhawk had ever
known.

"Here, down this lane and up the stairs at its end,? said
Rexfelis shortly after the two had left the building. ?There
is my apartment and the equippage you will need.?
 

*    *    *

When Rexfelis showed Gord the map of the place, he
had indicated where sentries and guards were likely to be
posted, and had warned him where traps and alarms
might be encountered. This information, just as the pale
man?s knowledge of Gord?s alter-persona of Blackcat, had
been obtained by a mysterious means which Rexfelis had
not revealed despite some prodding by Gord. But it was
accurate, no doubt, for Gord discovered a flint-eyed sentry
lurking in the shadows of the wall surrounding Rigello
?s dwelling, just where he had been told to expect one.

That watcher, a hard-bitten mercenary judging by his
bearing and garb, was the first to die. A thrust through
the neck, quick and clean, and Gord passed quickly to the
garden beyond. There he encountered another guard.
This one, according to Rexfelis, was the chief henchman
of Rigello, an assassin known as Deathspider.

Gord came upon him as the hunched, spidery man was
descending the short, outer stair leading down to the tower
?s base. He had heard of Deathspider even before his
conversation with Rexfelis, and as he struck the cloaked
figure from behind with shortsword and dagger, he whispered,
?Here, Spider, is venom of the sort you like to
inject!?

Despite the two fell blows, the crabbed figure managed
to turn to face his assailant. Long, narrow blade in hand,
the assassin stood, tottering, yet unwilling to die. He
opened his mouth, trying to expel a cry of warning to his
master. But Gord struck again before Spiderdeath could
make a response in word or deed. The burglar plied his
weapons swiftly and surely ? sword into the open mouth,
dagger through the black heart ? and this second dose of
venom was fatal. Gord took a moment to hide the corpse
and then began ascending the same stair his victim had
just come down. When that short pathway expired, he
dug in with fingers and toes and negotiated the roughhewn
outer wall itself. It would have been a treacherous
journey, to say the least, for someone not so well trained.
But for Blackcat, the climb required little more effort than
a stroll down the boulevard.

He stopped and braced himself on a narrow ledge just
below a window. Then, at the sound of approaching footsteps,
he brought a short rope from beneath his outer garb
and uncoiled it, holding the base of the noose close to his
body.

The sentry never knew what happened. One moment
he was idly peering out the window. Then, in the same
instant that he glanced down and spied Gord lurking below,
the noose came up and tightened around his neck.
The rope choked off his cry, and with a flick of the wrist
Gord pulled the guard out and away, sending him pitching
downward to the stone pavement many feet below. After
the solid thud of his victim?s impact, Gord heard no further
sound, assuring him that the incident had gone unnoticed
by other patrollers.

?Taking the silver of a spell-binder can jeopardize your
health,? he murmured over his shoulder, glancing back at
the broken form below. Then he hoisted himself up and
through the window, into a small, unlit room. ?Rigello?s
chambers are just above,? he said softly to himself, ?and
there are bound to be guards ? but three fewer now than
before.? With that, he crept across the room to where a
faint, reddish light limned the narrow doorway separating
it from the central stairwell.

Dark and silent as a shadow, he moved upward on the
worn spiral of stone which pierced the heart of the ancient
keep. Clad in high, soft boots of ebon hue, shirt and hose
of like color, with black leather jack and a hooded cape as
black as the rest, face swathed so that only the eyes
showed, and earlike protrusions mimicking a feline head,
Blackcat was more than a creature of the night ? he was
part of the night.

Two times during his ascent he slipped past watching
guards stationed in chambers adjacent to the stairway.
Then one final twist of the stairs, a deft step over a flagstone
trapped to. release a many-spiked grill of iron suspended
by a strong chain above the entry, and Gord was
within the sanctum sanctorum of the arch-mage Rigello.
By unsheathing his shortsword, a weapon of powerful
dweomer, he was able to see the chamber as well as if it
had been illuminated by a dozen candles.

?There you are, little tiger,? he said softly as his gaze
came to rest upon a statuette. The green eyes of the figurine
seemed to wink knowingly at him as Gord moved
with utmost stealth across the floor to stand before the
pedestal upon which it rested. Gord reached for the exquisitely
carved figure, planning to thrust it within the small
pouch he carried just for that purpose, when a sixth sense
warned him . . . too late!

He sprang backward, but the glowing sigil which had
suddenly burst into life upon the onyx stand seemed to
buffet his very brain with a searing beam of radiance. The
backward leap ended with a sprawl, and Gord lay helpless
on the floor, stunned and barely able to move. The jump
had, however, saved his life. Immediately after the jarring
light from the magic sigil sprang forth, great bolts of
crackling, blue-white energy snapped and spat around the
pedestal. Any living thing within six feet of the stand
would have been burned to a charred heap by such force.
Gord was only vaguely aware of his narrow escape, although
his scattered senses could not fail to register the
hellish light from the arcing strokes of electricity.

The energy bolts faded and then, in the next instant,
the very air of the chamber was rent with inhuman cries of
"Thief! Thief! Thief!" The noise went on as if it would
never end, reverberating throughout the place and reaching
every part of the great cylindrical structure.

In the brief pause between each outcry of the disembodied
voice, Gord could hear the bellowing of a horn
coming from somewhere below him. Both sounds, horrible
though they were, actually seemed to help him gather
his wits. He shook his head and managed to scramble to
his feet in the following few seconds, and then . . .

?Oh, shit!? he exclaimed, for at that very moment
bright lights sprang forth from a quartet of hideous masks
hung around the walls of the chamber. Rigello was indeed
prepared for attempts at burglary! Then the shrill cries of
?Thief!? ceased as abruptly as they had begun, and although
there was still a great noise and confusion audible
from below, no legs could be seen descending the stairs
from above. If Rigello was indeed higher up in the tower,
as Gord suspected, then he had apparently elected to let
his traps, his alarms, and his minions dispose of the intruder
without entering the fray himself.

Darkness was Gord?s only ally, and there would be no
darkness again until the masks were disposed of. With a
bound, Gord reached the nearest wall where one of the
brightly glowing visages was hung, tore it free, and hurled
it through the window. He dashed around the perimeter
of the chamber, pulling each mask from its mooring and
sending it after the first. When the fourth was disposed of,
the room was again in darkness.

?Surrender, thief, and your death will be swift and
merciful!?

Gord ignored this sepulchral-voiced command which
boomed from somewhere above. Whether this was the
voice of Rigello himself, or some form of magical invective,
he did not know ? and it did not really matter.
Now, all his thoughts of gaining the prize were gone. He
could not risk another encounter with the crackling energy
that he suspected the pedestal would still contain, and he
realized that all of his skill would be needed to escape the
tower alive.

Just as he was about to bound down the stairway, Gord
was brought up short by the sound of something ascending
the same passageway. ?What the godsdamned devils
do we do now?? he murmured to himself

?Surrender, thief, and I will give you swift death!? the
hollow, grating voice boomed out, as if in reply to his
question.

?Eat batdung!? Gord cried in response, grabbing a
heavy table and sending it crashing down the stone spiral.
The sound of its progress stopped suddenly, and a terrible
howling roar replaced the rolling thunder of its fall. There
followed a splintering sound, and the clatter of small bits
of wood falling. Whatever was coming up after him had
taken the force of the bronzewood table?s downward
plunge, torn the thing to flinders, and was again climbing
toward him!

The window? Not his first choice ? not unless he
wished to die, for it was surely the place he would be expected
to emerge in his attempt to flee. Then an idea
came to him in a flash. Gord vaulted himself up to a ledge
near the ceiling and adjacent to the entranceway. There he
waited, his enchanted dagger in hand, for his tablesmashing
foe to appear.

A moment later a huge, glowing blue demon of indeterminate
sort appeared in the doorway to the chamber. The
thing paused and looked around the chamber for a second
or two and then spied Gord crouched upon the nearby
ledge, for the moment still out of reach of the squatbodied
monster. As Gord had suspected, the pressure
plate in the floor had been neutralized somehow, so that
the heavy iron frame with its daggerlike spikes did not
drop upon the monster. But . . .

?A poignant climax to your tail!? Gord yelled, swinging
his enchanted blade to sever the chain which held the
iron grate nearly ten feet above the demon?s head. At this
sound, the creature?s baleful gaze turned directly upward,
and it experienced a split-second of stupid amazement
before the half-ton of iron struck it. The demon was
crushed into a howling, gibbering heap beneath the
weight. Gord leaped down from his position near the ceiling,
landing full upon the spiked grate. The iron fangs
drove more deeply into the malignent fiend, and its corresponding
bellow was ear-shattering.

Thanking whoever watched over him for the metalslicing
power of his magical dagger, Gord jumped down
from atop the death-dealing grate and moved noiselessly
down the spiral staircase, taking the steps three at a time.
As he rounded the final curve before coming to the first
landing, he saw a pair of magic-users barring the way,
preparing to cast their spells at him. Gord leaped into a
somersault from the third step above the landing and
vaulted over their heads. His blade lashed out at them
from the rear almost before his feet had touched ground,
and his first blows struck. The nearer of the two spellcasters
screamed and clutched his side, his incantation
ruined. In the cramped space of the landing, Gord could
not get close enough to the second magic-user for an immediate
strike with sword or dagger. His adversary
turned, ready to unleash his magic ? and at that moment,
the other magic-user writhed and lunged into the
path of the magic?s force. In an eye-blink, the screaming
and writhing stopped as the form of the wounded
dweomercraefter was turned into porous, gray stone.

?What are you?? demanded the shocked wizard in an
attempt to distract his enemy as he groped for a wand
amongst the folds of his robes.

As his answer, Gord drew a knife from his belt and
hurled it. But the throw was a hurried one, and the blade
only succeeded in cutting a bloody channel across the
spell-caster?s cheek. The wizard managed to draw forth
his ivory baton as Gord moved around the petrified body
and thrust with his sword, missing but momentarily
throwing the wizard off balance. Then, as Gord pulled
forth his dagger, the magic-user?s wand spat forth a bluish
beam. It passed within a hairsbreadth of Gord?s leg, and
he felt that member grow heavy and numb for just an
instant. He lunged at the spell-caster, scoring with both
blades but not inflicting a mortal wound. The wizard
backed away, circling around the form of his petrified
companion, trying to buy time until he could ply his wand
again. Gord ruined that plan by pushing the petrified
form toward his foe. The sorcerer moved out of the way
nimbly enough, but lost his chance to counterattack. The
statue toppled over, struck the paved floor, and broke into
bits. At this, the wizard voiced a cry of horrified rage, but
this did not deter Gord; he closed upon his foe again,
sword and dagger flashing. The wizard leaped backward
to avoid the weapons, and with a scream tumbled out of
sight down the stairway.

?Another avenue closed,? Gord panted. He knew that
he had to get away immediately now ? otherwise, guards
from below and arch-mage from above would soon crush
him in a fatal vice. He moved through a nearby archway,
and in the room beyond saw a window. He pulled forth a
flat spike of metal, hammered it into place on the window
ledge between two stones, and leaned out to survey the
area.

?Here! Below me! I see him, master!? This cry was
punctuated with a buzzing sound, and Gord felt the wind
of an arrow?s passage as the missile streaked down from
above, barely missing his head. He ignored the threat,
pulled out a thin cord that was looped around his waist,
and leaned farther out the window, holding onto the small
grapnel fastened to one end of the line. He swung the
hook over his head once, twice, and then loosed the line.
The grapnel sped out and down, and Gord jerked himself
back into the room just as another arrow splintered itself
on the ledge.

Gord tugged on the other end of the line with all his
strength, and was glad to find that he could pull it taut.
Hoping that the far end was truly secured, he ran the end
he held through the eye of the spike, tied it fast, and made
sure his weapons were firmly sheathed. He could hear the
sound of feet pounding up the stairs, only a second or two
away from the landing. ?Now or never,? he told himself,
and launched himself out the window.

As he leaped, he caught hold of the line with both
hands. This was the critical moment: Would the grapnel
come free? Should that happen, he would be battered
against the tower side, fully exposed to attack from above,
and would finally drop directly into the clutches of waiting
enemies below. The cord sagged ? and Gord began dropping!

But, in the space of a single, terror-filled heartbeat, his
fall was stopped short. He managed to retain his grip as
the line jerked taut again. Gord swung his legs up and
hooked them around the thin rope, loosened the grip of
his fingers slightly, and slid rapidly away from the tower,
gravity pulling him down and the lifeline carrying him
outward. A flock of shafts flew around him as he began his
descent, but none struck their target. And his chance of
escaping increased with his velocity. He was invisible,
black against black, and traveling swiftly. The cord took 
him into the branches of a tree beyond the wall surrounding
Rigello?s tower. Scant seconds after beginning the trip,
he grabbed a limb of the tree and lithely jumped to the
ground. He could hear the uproar in and around the
tower, and with a quick glance over his shoulder he saw a
troop of men-at-arms scurrying out of the gate in the wall.
Gord, however, was already a hundred paces distant and
gaining speed. So much for success, he thought with a
twinge of disappointment . . . but at least Blackcat had
kept his life.


* * *

For whatever reason, Gord admitted himself into the
Ship and Crowns some quarter-hour before sunrise. The
club was quiet now, most of its clientele having long since
departed. Waving aside the tired little maid who came to
see who was entering at such an hour, Gord headed directly
for the little alcove 2 floors above.

?It is a pleasure to see you,? Rexfelis murmured, barely
glancing up from his study of the Dragonchess game before
him.

?You bastard,? Gord hissed. ?The place was a death
trap ? you knew I couldn?t succeed, didn?t you??

?But you did succeed, in a fashion, anyway,? the pale
man replied with a contented smile.

Gord sneered at him. ?If by being alive I have won,
then I agree. I admit failure, though, in gaining the object
you required of me ? and I must also demand satisfaction
from you for what you set me up for!?

Rexfelis waved languidly and said, ?Why be in such a
hurry to lose what you have fought so hard to retain? To
challenge me is to court death more certainly than you did
in your assault on the tower of Rigello. Wait and hear me
out,? he drawled as Gord started to interject something
uncomplimentary.

?You could have succeeded, but the odds were long, so
I took the trouble to support the mission, as it were, by
insinuating myself into the tower just after you yourself
entered. I witnessed the whole affair, and I must say you
did exceptional . . . work. In any event, during the confusion
which followed your escape, I picked up the prize ?
see?? Rexfelis drew the carved jacinth from beneath his
tunic and displayed it proudly for a moment, then returned
it to a position next to his heart.

?Impossible!? cried Gord. ?No one could have beaten
me back to this place,?

?But obviously I did,? said Rexfelis. ?That is of no
consequence. Here is the ring ? yours again ? but I
shall keep my amulet since you didn?t meet the terms of
our wager.?

Gord caught the casually tossed cat?s-eye, placed it in
his belt for safekeeping, and then looked darkly at the
seated man. ?I think this is insufficient under the circumstances,
Rexfelis. A matter of honor ??

?Don?t even think about showing your sword,? interrupted
Rexfelis. The words were biting and hard, but
tempered by the rest of what he said. ?The hundred gold
orbs, and my favor as well, are yours in addition to the
ring -- but not because I wish to buy you off, rest assured!
Call it a whim; better still, regard it as a gesture of
respect for the talents of one daring to call himself Blackcat.
Agreed??

?I have been used!?


?Have you not done so with others?? the pale man
countered.

Gord found himself hard pressed to reply to that. And,
after all, he had his life, his ring, a small fortune in gold,
and the memories of one hell of an adventure. Why, he
had to honestly ask himself, should he be demanding a
duel to the death with this man? 

?Not only talented, but wise as well,? Rexfelis said
smoothly as Gord sank into the chair opposite him.

?What powers has my ring?? asked the young thief,
curious to know this long-kept secret. 

?No, Gord-Blackcat, that I will not tell you ? not this
night, anyway. The sun is nearly risen, and I must away
now. Another time, and we shall meet again, perhaps. For
now, farewell!?

?Wait!? Gord called out as Rexfelis arose. ?Where will
we meet? When??

?That, dear fellow, is dependent upon the whim of the
fates ? and your need.?

Gord felt absolutely stupid, but he could not help blurting
out yet another question: ?My need?? 

Rexfelis smiled, spoke, and disappeared. The words
seemed to linger after him: "Your need to invoke the Lord
of Cats. . . ."

* * *

?Have a hell of a good time playing games?? Chert
demanded, grumpily from his bed. Gord?s none-too-quiet
entry into their mutual quarters had awakened him from a
sleep made restless by too much ale and whiskey.

?Games?? Gord said before he could stop himself,
wondering why it was that all he could do this night was
reply with questions. ?Of course, games at the Ship and
Crowns. . . .?

?What an asshole,? the barbarian muttered sleepily,
turning over to resume his slumber. ?Don?t you even
remember what you did all night??

?Yes, yes indeed, friend,? Gord answered. ?And I think
I?ll remember the lessons I learned at playing for a long
time to come. Here?s what happened ??

?Would you shut the hell up?? roared the irate Chert.
?Just because you sat on your ass and amused yourself
doesn?t mean I did. I had one hell of an active time ? not
pushing little pieces around . . . or not exactly, anyway. I
don?t give a hop in hell what strategies you used ? I want
to sleep! <WSG>"

?Fine. Go to sleep,? Gord sighed. Some things, he
mused, were perhaps not meant to be shared, no matter
how close the comradeship.