by Gary Gygax
"Can a champion be slain?" This came from Iuz, who was more than a little irritated about being relegated to the role of an ineffectual onlooker in the matter at hand and had decided to ascertain, in a rather obvious way, whether he might be able to influence the course of events.
"Not by the other one, Iuz," Iggwilv replied forcefully. "If such were permissible, the contest would not be a true quest for the object itself, but merely a test of the ability to slay or survive. This will be a duel to the end, but not to the death. Above all, we must not lose sight of the need to gain the object for the Abyss. Of course, we do not preclude acts of violence which do not kill, and duplicity and trickery are not only possible but expected from contestants such as these."
"What of assistants?" Zuggtmoy inquired in her bubbling monotone. "If My champion is to travel a great distance to arrive at the City Out of Mind whole and sound so as to recover the object, he must have guards and servants."
After considerable debate, the demons finally agreed that two assistants could accompany each champion. Each could also hire or otherwise retain up to a dozen mercenaries or other sorts of fighters to serve as guards and escorts. Groups of such size, even if all the members of one side traveled together, were small enough to appear normal, yet strong enough to survive in the hostile wilderness and wastelands that would be crossed in their trek.
The final stipulations are these," Iggwilv said. "The contestants will begin from Hlupallu in the Kingdom of Ket fourteen days hence. From there they will journey overland, by any means they possess or are able to procure, to the Ashen Desert and the City Out of Mind. The journey itself will be taxing, an important part of the contest and not something to be sneered at. If perchance one of the champions comes to an untimely end on the trek, the other must still locate the Theorpart and transport it back to safety. If both champions persevere through the journey to the City Out of Mind, I would not be surprised if Fate should contrive to have them both arrive at the lost metropolis at the same time…" As the witch made that last remark, she allowed a thin smile to play across her face for a moment before concluding.
"And yet, even being the first to locate and hold the item is no guarantee of victory, although such possession is certainly an advantage. The contest does not end until one of the havens is reached. Simply put, whichever champion holds the Theorpart safe within Yolakand or Ocherfort gains it for Graz'zt or Zuggtmoy."
"Agreed!" the assembled demons called in chorus — all except for the cambion. If Iggwilv's plan came to fruition, Iuz stood to gain a great deal… But still, he could not keep a frown from spreading across his face.
Chapter 2
Ten mares, twenty camels, and her height in silver pieces!"
The cry from the Foudhi sheik seemed to go unnoticed. The beautiful, platinum-haired dancer continued to writhe sensuously in the golden light of a score of smoking lamps ringing the stage. Her skin glistened from a film of perfumed oil and perspiration, for the place was hot and her exertions strenuous despite the seeming ease with which she performed. The men in the audience gave forth quick intakes of breath, in unison, as without apparent effort she removed another of her transparent garments. It floated to the marble floor of the stage upon which her little feet moved rhythmically and her shapely body moved in complex and suggestive patterns of incredible grace and muscular control. The three-piece ensemble of musicians twittered on, playing the oddly structured melody to which she danced as the gorgeous woman kept time with finger-held cymbals of polished silver.
The crowd murmured and gasped again, almost as one. Such a response spoke far more eloquently of her performance than any words of praise could have. It was a tribute to the dancer's beauty and skill from men who had seen as many as a thousand such dances performed by an equal number of lovely females. Yet this audience of hard-bitten warriors and jaded aristocrats watched this beauty's every move and voiced their appreciation as they never had before. Gathered together this night in the wine house known as the Dar Peshdwar, one of the most popular such establishments in the city of Hlupallu, were men of both East and West. Mercenaries and merchants from Perrenland, Bissel, and Veluna rubbed elbows with soldiers and traders of Ket. Sprinkled among them were veiled and head-dressed nomads from the Bayomen Plains, turbaned nobles from Jakif, Tusmit, and distant Ekbir, and dark-eyed Baklunish and gray-eyed hillmen from a dozen unknown tribes. All of these men combined to fill the large, brightly tiled, and high-ceilinged place to capacity. Nobles and their servants, ordinary men, and soldiers and guards alike seemed unable to take their rapt gazes from the woman who danced in the center of the crowded court.
This dancer was called The Pearl of Perfection. Such an appellation was not unique; some in the audience had seen that name applied to a dozen different females. But this one truly deserved the title. Men lusted for her, and the richer and more powerful of those in attendance were eager to have her. In as many minutes there were eight offers to purchase the girl, beginning with the unspectacular sum offered by the petty Foudhi sheik. The mountain of fat who owned the establishment, a Kettite of obvious Tusmite heritage named Omar, wrung his hands piteously and bowed at the one presenting this offer. He quavered his sincere regret at having to decline such a generous offer, noting that he was a thousand times a fool for being unable to accept such munificence. A hundred, two hundred, even five hundred gold pieces were not sufficient to acquire this incredible female. The air, already heavy with perfume, incense, smoke, and a score of other odors, grew heavier still with the near-palpable emotions of frustrated purchasers and the concupiscence of the entire audience as her performance neared its conclusion. Then a voice called out above the skirling pipes, twanging strings, and thumping drums of the orchestra.
"I, Kufteer, Shah of Wadlaoo, Vizier of Jakif, do offer a thousand golden dokshees — and this great pearl — for that Pearl of Ultimate Perfection!" The shah reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a huge pearl, perfectly shaped, as large as a pigeon's egg, and glowing with a luster as fair as the dancing-girl's skin. At this sight, the others in the audience buzzed and gasped in a reaction almost as pronounced as their approval of the girl's performance.
After appearing to deliberate for only a few seconds, Omar salaamed thrice and clapped his hands loudly, causing the fat on his arms to jiggle and his gross belly to bounce. "It is done!" he said, holding out his hand to receive the pearl. The gold coin the Jakifi referred to in his offer was scarcely half as large as the eastern coin known as the orb, but the fat Kettite owner acted quickly to seal the bargain when he laid eyes on the pearl. Then, playing his role to the hilt, he began beating his breast once he had the pearl in hand.
"It is agony!" he wailed. "I have been duped! This insignificant pearl seemed much larger from a distance. This is so unfair! I am cursed to forever be a fool… What can I do, what can I do?"
Some of the watchers cursed the fat man for insulting their intelligence, and others laughed at his antics. All knew that he had struck a bargain that made him one of the richest men in Hlupallu. The men aimed jeers and lewd suggestions at both buyer and seller.
Meanwhile, the Pearl of Perfection had continued to gyrate, seemingly unaware of the transaction and the near-tumult mat followed it. As her dancing display reached its frenzied climax, she performed a thrilling series of whirling undulations and shakings during the course of the bargain and the uproar that followed. As the gross proprietor whimpered his last mournful pleadings, the girl slowed her dance and moved toward a young man sitting alone at a low table at the edge of the dancing floor. The room fell silent as she gracefully folded herself into a prostrate and submissive form in front of the man. Then she looked up at him, and with her silver-gray eyes riveted on his return gaze, she smiled and said loudly, "May you hold this Pearl forever in your heart, as I shall hold you, Noble Master."
The audience gasped at this boldness. Omar gave out a shriek and waddled toward the dancer with a furious expression, shaking his fist over his head. Ignorin
g this outburst, the girl removed her single remaining scarf and wrapped it around the young man's neck. She was supine before the lone man, a tall and handsome warrior of the Tusmite people judging from his looks and dress.
The young tribesman smiled. The Pearl of Perfection was covered now only by a gauzy strip of silken cloth at her loins. She was perfection indeed, and her honoring him in this way was singular. The young man reached down, with one swift and powerful motion drew her up so they were both standing, and kissed her. The audience cheered at this and voiced lewd comments — except for the Shah Kufteer, who was livid and scowling, and Omar, who had pushed his way through the crowd to a position next to the pair. The gross Kettite swung his sweating hand toward the girl, but the blow never landed, for the tribesman's hand moved more quickly, stopping the thrust and holding the fat man's wrist in a viselike grip. The young man swung his other hand around, fist balled, and caught Omar flush in his copious gut. The Kettite's knees buckled as he clutched his stomach, and by the time he hit the floor he was nothing more than a mountain of quivering blubber.
Now it was time for Shah Kufteer to take matters into his own hands — or, more properly, put the task into someone else's. "Kill that dog!" shouted the enraged Jakifi. "He dares to defile my chosen concubine, and he must pay with his life!" A dark, evil-looking man at his side leaped up, snarling.
The men between the shah's bodyguard and his target stepped aside, none of them wanting to get in the man's way — all except for a small easterner who not only stood his ground but actually took one step toward the bodyguard, as if to make his intentions unmistakable. The short, tan-skinned fellow was clad entirely in black leather, attire that made his cold, gray eyes stand out as he gazed upon the man who stood less than ten feet in front of him.
Shah Kufteer's lieutenant didn't know, or care, if the shorter man was Velunese or some other sort of foreigner. The glowering killer had only one thing on his mind — skewering the young man who, after recovering the girl's shoulders with her thin scarf, was, embracing her with one arm while his other hand moved toward the dagger he kept at his belt. What the young man had done was tantamount to signing his own death warrant, and the scowling servant of the shah was determined to carry out that sentence. Apparently, though, he would have to take a few seconds to deal with the interloper who stood in his path. With a snakelike movement the Jakifi drew a long, wickedly curved dagger, threatening the black-clad man. The easterner held his ground, simply staring at the angry Jakifi.
"So, foreign dog, you try to impede the progress of Zameer Dey, do you?" the paid assassin snarled, meaning to distract the easterner with sound and motion. As he cried aloud those words, the Jakifi also waved his curved dagger menacingly. However, the assassin had also brought forth a short, perfectly balanced throwing knife in his left hand. This was his real threat, for its blade was coated with deadly venom. As the black-clad foreigner stood still and presented a perfect target for the blade, Zameer Dey raised the knife above his head and loosed it in a downward line toward the man's throat, sneering as he did so. "Then die, insolent whelp!"
His intended victim was not what he seemed.
The instant the poisoned blade left the assassin's fingertips, the easterner became a blur of motion. Where bare throat had been inviting keen-edged death but a split-second before, empty air was now. The blade whistled through the space where its target had been, clattered against the tiled floor a few feet farther away, and skidded harmlessly to a stop. In the instant after the knife was thrown, the lean easterner had thrown himself sideways, knocking a few onlookers off their feet. By the time the blade slid to a stop on the floor, the young man had rolled over to a position flanking the Jakifi killer. When the black-clad man sprang to his feet in the next instant, his right hand was holding a long, needle-pointed dagger and his body was poised for combat.
The easterner had already demonstrated, by action and by his current posture, that he could move with catlike agility and quickness. His face also had a feline aspect — mouth set and expressionless, eyes wide open, flat, and unreadable. The Jakifi assassin, staring back into that face, could not suppress a shudder of fear. Zameer Dey was a murderer, but this man was a model of unfeeling death. The patrons, meanwhile, alerted that the black-clad man was no easy victim for slaughter, backed away to clear a circular space around the antagonists.
The young man with the girl stayed by her side in the background, weapon in hand, still prepared to confront the assassin himself in case this benefactor turned out to be less than he seemed. He did not consider trying to escape the place with the girl, both for the sake of upholding his honor and because he was as interested as the other spectators in seeing how this duel would be resolved. This sort of entertainment spectacle was not one the crowd wished to miss. Mercenary, warrior, and jaded noble alike appreciated such a test of manhood far more than dancing, and these two promised to provide a show of the finest sort — the mysterious, unfeeling easterner with a deadly-looking dagger against the fiercest of Jakifi assassins armed with the curved and razor-edged blade of the west.
"You are fast, pig of the pale-skinned east," the snakelike killer hissed as he readied to face his opponent. "Fear of your imminent death must lend you such quickness, but it only puts off your end for a bit!" Those from Ket, Tusmit, Ekbir, and other parts of the west generally cried their encouragement to the Jakifi at this. Bisselites and Perren-landers growled and spat in answer, while a group of Velunese mercenaries voiced catcalls at the fighting prowess of westerners and their weapons.
The dark-skinned assassin held his weapon blade upward, the curve running along his forearm, as he spun inward to engage the foreigner. This style of fighting was unusual but deadly. Those opposing it were usually sliced to ribbons before they understood that even as the curved dagger parried and caught blows, its wielder was cutting arm and body as he whirled and twisted in tight infighting. The peoples from the westernmost portions of the Caliphate favored this fighting style, but it was seldom seen in the middle western regions such as Ket.
The leather-garbed man made no reply to the taunt and threat. He watched his opponent with hard, unwinking eyes. As the Jakifi spun to close, the easterner moved away, his straight dagger always between him and the assassin. He watched and assessed the movements and style of the Jakifi, but made no attack himself. The man named Zameer Dey wore a brightly striped, short kaftan of the typical Jakifi sort. A broad, cloth-of-gold sash held the tuniclike kaftan tightly around the waistband of the assassin's baggy pants of bright blue satin, the bottoms of which were thrust into the slightly curled, long-toed boots favored by the folk of the Caliphate of Jakif. Over the kaftan, Zameer Dey wore a short, padded and embroidered garment similar to a gambeson but cut away in front.
The smooth line of the chest area of the kaftan suggested that some protective cuirass was beneath it, possibly a leather shirt. The assassin looked impatient and seemed a bit more confident than before.
"Come, Ourmi curl," he said with a false grin etched on his sneering visage. "Do you seek to dance with me? Or are you brave enough to use that silly blade you poke in front of you so warily?"
Zameer Dey crouched forward as he spoke, dagger still held with blade upward, his black, beady eyes watching for the slightest mistake on his opponent's part. The Jakifi was ready to block, cut, slash, or stab as opportunity presented. His movements were difficult to follow, and would be as hard to counter once his weapon went into motion.
There was laughter in the crowd when Zameer Dey spoke his insults, but the black-garbed man seemed totally unaffected. When the assassin began to slowly shuffle in an arc to his left, the young man's only reaction was to edge left so as to keep the Jakifi's eyes and weapon in full view. Although his skin was as dark as that of some of the Kettites who jeered him, and his hair too resembled that of folk with Baklunish heritage, there was no doubt that he was from the east and had Oeridian blood. If the Jakifi thought that referring to him as an Ourmi, the derogatory term fo
r all easterners, would upset him, then Zameer Dey was disappointed. The young foreigner showed the deadly calm and steely caution of an experienced knife-fighter. He had a short, straight-bladed sword at his side, but the stranger made no move for his other weapon. Instead, he held the foot-long blade of his dagger swordlike before him — also a very unusual fighting style.
Tiring of this standoff, or perhaps worried that his master would grow impatient, the dark Jakifi darted in, feigning a sweeping cut. The long dagger met the curved blade, sending the latter slightly downward, but then the straight steel was pulled away before the long dagger could be trapped and the arm holding it sliced by the curved weapon. The Jakifi assassin was fast, and he started to come out of his semi-crouch immediately with an upward stab. The stranger darted back, but only a step, and his long poniard began to thrust out and down.
This first motion was the feint, designed to draw the assassin's dagger farther to the side. The next part of the move did the "damage"; the young man in black simply flicked his wrists and changed the direction of his blade in mid-stroke. He aimed high as Zameer Dey was straightening up, drawing the slender tip of his blade diagonally across the front of the Jakifi's silk turban. The slash, aided by the upward movement of the assassin's body, sliced through several layers of the thin cloth. The easterner sprang backward just as the turban-cut ran its course, apparently content to let matters develop instead of trying to continue the infighting.
The remnants of the turban promptly began to cascade down around Zameer Dey's face, revealing in the process that he wore a spiked tarboosh underneath. That was of no import, but if he did not break off his countermove and get rid of the cloth, the distraction would make him vulnerable to attack. The Jakifi leaped backward, yanking the tattered cloth up and away with his left hand as he did so. His metal cap, no longer fixed firmly by the turban, fell off the side of his head and landed on the floor in front of him. The clattering noise of its fall was drowned out by Zameer Dey's voice.
