[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City

by Gary Gygax - (ebook by Undead)

  “Make a pallet of the cloaks in the bottom of this skiff, Evaleigh, and sleep a bit,” he said. “I’ll steer us carefully so as to avoid contact with any other craft.” The girl started to object, but Gord was firm, and Evaleigh did admit she was very tired indeed. “With you out of sight,” he added, “anyone passing or observing us from the bank will think I am a fisher, alone and of no interest. It is safest this way.”

  Evaleigh remained asleep through the morning and well into the afternoon. When he was sure no other craft were in sight, Gord allowed himself to doze now and again, but he always remained in a sitting position so that he would not sleep long. Serenity, not fatigue, was making him drowsy; he was young and long accustomed to remaining awake for many hours at a stretch when he had to. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, his companion began to stir and make little moaning sounds. Whether they arose from discomfort from the hard bed or from a dream, Gord knew she would soon wake and would be thirsty and hungry, as he was.

  There was a small tributary of the Artonsamay at hand, and he sculled the boat into its waters, working hard to pass through the strong flow where the two streams met. When the girl did awaken a half-hour or so later, he had managed to work their skiff well up the creek to a sheltered bank where willows hung down and hid the boat. As the prow bumped against the shore, Evaleigh sat up and looked around, asking where they were. Gord helped her out of the skiff, and soon both were seated on the soft grass beneath a huge, old weeping willow. They were famished, and the dry and tasteless rations that Gord brought forth from a wallet was not much, but it helped to quell the pangs of hunger when washed down with the clear water from the stream at their feet. Gord closed his eyes for a minute, enjoying the comfortable feelings of a full belly and the yielding grass beneath his tired body. A minute became a few minutes, and…

  “Wake up!” Evaleigh was shaking him gently but urgently.

  Gord’s eyes flew open. It was fully dark—nearly lightless here beneath the willow. He had been asleep for hours!

  “Listen, Gord, someone is coming!” Evaleigh’s tone was filled with fright.

  “Yes, I hear,” he told the girl, taking her arm and squeezing it in reassurance. “We should be safe enough here, if we are quiet.”

  Voices and the clopping sound of horses moving slowly came clearly to them on the night breeze. Peering out from the shelter of the drooping branches, Gord saw several riders outlined against the sky. They were heading for the general area of the copse of willows, but not directly at the place where he and Evaleigh were concealed. Soon Gord could count their number and hear what the riders were saying.

  “Over there, Weasel, see the dead one?”

  “Shit, I ain’t blind, Mossback, I’m going for it!”

  “Shut up, you two,” a fellow at the end of the file of eight horsemen said sharply. “You’ll wake up some wight!”

  “Ah, blow it out your ass, Barl! Nobody or nothing in this godforsaken place to hear,” Weasel retorted.

  They rode past, bickering and bantering. About fifty yards farther on, the men dismounted. Although it was a dark night, Gord could discern the goal they had sought—a large, dead tree on a small knoll. Whatever business they had there was concluded in an hour or so, and they again passed, heading back the way they had come, but traveling silently now.

  Gord and Evaleigh stayed put until morning. Then he arose and instructed her to remain hidden. In the early light, it was an easy matter for him to follow the trail the men had left and see where they had stopped. It appeared to be a camp, with an old, dead fire. Gord knew no such fire had existed the night before, and it immediately occurred to him that the ashes of a “fire” would be a good place to hide something. Some further examination discovered little else in the area, so he decided to play his hunch.

  After a few moments of digging with dagger and knife, one of Gord’s blades struck metal. More digging brought forth a cache of silver and electrum—far more than was practical for himself and Evaleigh to carry. Gord scooped out several dozen of each type of coin, replaced ashes on top of the remainder, and made the whole look as undisturbed as possible.

  This find was truly a boon, in more ways than one. Of the hundred gold orbs that had been Gord’s share of the loot he and Gellor had gained in Holdroon, some had been spent on information and forged documents, and the bulk had been left behind. When he rescued Evaleigh, Gord had with him but ten of the gold coins. Now he could keep the orbs as security, with plenty of other metal to spend first. The spending of gold attracted attention, and he and the girl must do their utmost to remain unnoticed.

  Gord returned to Evaleigh and told her briefly of what he had found while helping her back into her hiding place in the bottom of the boat. Evaleigh accepted the unexpected wealth without comment. Noblewomen thought little of such things, Gord supposed. They took the skiff up the tributary stream for a few more miles, until Gord felt it was safe for them to begin traveling overland. They left the boat moored in a secluded cove on the shore of the stream and followed a rutted dirt track leading due east. Eventually they came to a hamlet where they hitched a ride on a farm cart heading for market in a nearby village. This proved to be a place where they could find horses, so Gord and Evaleigh were soon mounted, well supplied, and traveling on their own again.

  After a week of hard travel, they finally arrived in Mid-meadow, exhausted and dirty, but otherwise happy and in excellent spirits. Gord thought he had never been happier, despite the deprivation they had been through, and Evaleigh was radiant. Although they were still in some danger, it was slight, so after discussion, they decided to find the best inn, rest and restore themselves, and buy new clothes before setting out again for Evaleigh’s homeland in the Blemu Hills.

  Locating a good inn was a simple matter, and new linens and garments were also easy to come by. Soon, the pair were settled in small, clean, and comfortable rooms, luxuriating in great tubs of steaming water provided at considerable cost but deemed by both well worth the coppers. Evaleigh, looking refreshed and even more radiant now that she was again properly attired, joined Gord in his chamber where they were served a hot supper and cool wine. Replete, they both sat back, sipped their wine, and smiled at each other.

  “Gord, at last I feel truly free,” Evaleigh sighed. “Free of that bandit pig who calls himself a noble sovereign, free of his confinement, free of threat of slavery. And I owe it all to you!”

  Evaleigh’s violet eyes were warm. Her long hair, the color of spun platinum, was free, flowing across her shoulders and down her back. The gown she wore this night was new, a simple one of silk and snowy hue, embroidered at neckline, cuffs, and hem with flowery design. She had caught the waist with a satin sash the color of her eyes. It seemed to Gord that no living woman could be this lovely, this unaffected. Her every line and curve he had memorized, and tonight, clad as she was, the memories came rushing back, unbidden but not unwelcomed—a glimpse of bare back and arm as she splashed cold stream water in the morning, a leg revealed in walking or riding… all wonderful memories indeed.

  “My part is small, lady, and for it you owe nothing,” Gord told her sincerely, eyes locked on hers. “What true man could have done otherwise?”

  “Don’t be a fonkin again, Gord. Many men helped to put me in that pig’s toils, others imprisoned me, while still other men sought to use me by trickery, flattery, or sheer purchase. You did risk all for me, Gord, and I owe you my very life.”

  He took her delicate hand in his, saying, “If you insist, I shall accept credit… but only for a duty begun, not completed. We have come fifty leagues, but there are five times that number betwixt you and Knurl—and who can say how many dangers yet to overcome?”

  “You are my saviour, nonetheless, Gord. I happily place my safety and welfare in your hands”—as she spoke, the girl arose from her chair, prompting Gord to do likewise—“just as I place my person in your arms now!”

  She moved to him, and there was no resisting such an offer. Gord e
agerly clasped his arms around her little waist as his lips sought hers. They were indeed as soft and wonderful as their looks had promised, and their kiss lasted and grew more passionate as the two allowed its sensations to fill their beings. Gord’s hands moved of their own volition, going here and there to explore and affirm the girl and the fact that he held her thus. Evaleigh made no protest, only kissing him more passionately than before and allowing her own small hands to discover what they could of Gord. Although neither directed it, both were soon disrobed and prone upon the yielding down of the bed’s expanse. Kisses gave way to nibbles, soft bites, and rapid breathing.

  “Evaleigh—oh, Evaleigh!—I give you my soul!”

  “You have mine already, Gord—my champion! Tell me that you love me….”

  Chapter 20

  The short rest in Midmeadow turned into a week’s hiatus. Both of the lovers were loath to depart the town, for it meant the end of their idyll. They talked little of the journey ahead, nothing of the problem of facing Count Blemu with a thief’s plea for his daughter’s hand. Somehow it would work out. There was time for worrying about that later, but now was for them to enjoy.

  When Gord found that nearly all of the nobles and luckies he had taken from the cached treasure of the incautious bandits were depleted, he knew their time in the town was up, and that he and Evaleigh must press on. He couldn’t ply his profession here without risk to the girl, and the reserve of gold was needed for possible emergencies along the way. Gord didn’t know what to expect when he informed Evaleigh of their need to resume their journey, but he found himself surprised somewhat when she readily agreed. He must have showed some hurt at her ready consent, for she gave him love and told him tenderly that it was longing for her home and family, not a wish to destroy their new-found life together, which made her anxious to go on. That was the end of the discussion, and the next day they were on their way.

  Gord found a caravan of merchants and associated folk heading south for Womtham, a town in distant Nyrond. Such a train would travel slowly, but its mercenary guards would help assure safe arrival. He and Evaleigh posed as newly married gentlefolk traveling to see relatives. A sennight or so after embarking, they reached the carved stones marking the northernmost claim of King Archbold, third of that name to reign as sovereign over all Nyrond. Claims aside, the place was borderland at best, and both Gord and Evaleigh were glad for the security of mail-clad horsemen and foot soldiers, as well as that provided by the strange man in the odd cap, who was certainly a priest of some sort, or a magic-user. Despite the seeming protection afforded by the fellow’s presence, Gord avoided him and made sure never to look at his eyes.

  The composition of the caravan changed from time to time at various stops along the way. As the train reached deeper into Nyrond, it shrank a bit, but its progress continued apace. The travelers had angled a bit eastward at Theekham and were now going directly toward the rising sun. When he inquired as to the reason for this, Gord was informed by one of the merchants that they were aimed now at the Flinty Hills, where the headwaters of the Duntide River were shallow and easy to cross. Thereafter, the caravan would be but two days’ travel from Womtham.

  It proved to be exactly as the trader had said—although he had neglected to predict that in the final leg of their journey, they would have encounters with some savage creatures, and a skirmish with a band of humanoids bent on rapine. The latter incident would have been a serious affair had not the arch-mage (as Gord learned afterward was his status) used his arcane arts to cause a series of fiery blasts to erupt in the midst of the gnoll horde. This resulted in the incineration of their chief and his principal assistants, as well as roasting sundry others of the vicious humanoids, and the survivors turned and fled in rout. Of the contacts with monsters, one had been nothing more than a hungry wyvern, brought down from the sky by a shower of quarrels and arrows, while the other was with a small band of hill giants who never came close to the caravan after seeing its size and soldiery.

  Womtham was a bustling trade center, and both Gord and Evaleigh enjoyed the three days they spent there after taking their leave of the disbanding caravan. A rest from their traveling refreshed them both, and Gord in particular found the place interesting both in form and in populace. Womtham was a typical old Oeridian town, with its architecture and construction showing a great deal of dwarven and gnomish influence. There were, in fact, fair numbers of these sorts of folk, as well as many halflings, going about their business in the town. Evaleigh had seen the place before, but Gord was quite unused to such surroundings, and he greatly enjoyed sightseeing and mingling with the residents.

  During their travels about the town, Gord and Evaleigh made the acquaintance of a group of traders and pilgrims who were bound for the town of Innspa to the southeast. Having discovered nothing better, and being anxious to get on their way again, the two set out with this assemblage. About halfway along the route toward Innspa, Gord and Evaleigh took their leave early one morning and headed for Finton Village, angling northeast away from the track of the caravan.

  A rutted road led in the general direction they desired, and the two had been told that Finton was no more than half a day’s ride. Although it proved to be somewhat more, they came to the pretty little cluster of buildings before darkness fell, and spent a comfortable night at a small inn there. The patrols of Nyrondel cavalry were more frequent here along the eastern border of the realm than along the western frontier, and such places as Finton were quite secure and peaceful.

  A few days more of riding along a rough easterly road brought them to a far wilder area, the worn-down portion of the southern Rakers known as the Flinty Hills. There was no possibility of avoiding the foothills without going far out of their way and through even worse terrain than the Flinty Hills. A path to the north, if such were feasible or necessary, would force them to try to negotiate the jagged peaks of the Raker Mountains, which were set like a wall between the western lands of the Oeridians and the Flannae and the barbarian realms to north and east. A southerly route would require them to pass either through or all the way around the huge Adri Forest; they had neither the strength of arms to do the former, nor the time to do the latter.

  The road, such as it was, bent sharply southward and ran along the edge of the steep uplands, quite the opposite of what Gord had hoped for. If it eventually led to Innspa, following it would take them not less than one hundred leagues out of their way, and a good portion of their subsequent journey would then have to be through the treacherous Adri. To establish where the road would take them, they rode to the top of a great tor nearby, and from its summit surveyed the course of the artery. The road, much to Gord’s dismay, kept southward. From this vantage point, however, Evaleigh spied a path that twisted and turned in a generally northeastward direction, disappearing quickly enough, of course, amidst the rolling terrain. It was obviously no mere game trail, so they chose to take it.

  The going was slow, even following the trail, for the rough ground and steep ascents and descents made any pace above a walk very dangerous for their horses. In many places, both riders were forced to dismount and lead their animals. Gord wished that he had had sufficient foresight to bring mules along. The trail did at least show evidence of human use, and from the signs of sheep and goats, there was hope that small communities would be encountered along the way. While they had food and water with them, Gord did not desire to spend nights camped in the open in such a wild area. A more immediate problem soon arose, however: the path they were following split into two forks, one leading nearly straight east, the other in a more northerly direction. Both showed signs of use.

  “Evaleigh, have you any sense as to which we should take?” Gord asked his companion. “I am unable to detect any difference in the twain.”

  “Left or right, it makes no difference as far as I can see,” she replied after pondering both paths for a minute. “Neither seems to direct us straight toward our goal, so I must ask you to choose.”

 
Eventually Gord opted to follow the northern branch, for it looked somewhat less rough and it showed evidence of more recent usage. They followed it for several hours, and then it divided into three. Gord followed the center trail, for it curved east. This track led them into the very heart of the Flinty Hills, where the steep-sided mounds were highest. The afternoon shadows were lengthening by now, and Gord began to feel concerned about where they would find safety for themselves during the dark hours to come.

  All too soon twilight was upon them, and still no sign of habitation was to be seen. A ravine ahead offered the most promise, so the pair rode in that direction, following a narrow path between two steep mounds. Suddenly, a small boulder came rolling and bounding down the rocky wall to their right, throwing off splinters of stone as it fell and then coming to rest with a crash just ahead of them. Both horses spooked at this, and Gord and Evaleigh had all they could manage to control their mounts as the animals bucked and did their best in the somewhat cramped quarters to turn and gallop in the opposite direction. By the time they succeeded in bringing the frightened creatures under control, the trap had been sprung.

  “Surrender or die!” The booming voice came from behind them. Gord pulled his shortsword out in one swift motion as he wheeled his gelding around to face the challenger. His gaze fell upon not one, but a dozen men standing some fifty or sixty feet away. They were variously clad in studded jacks, sarks of iron rings, and leather coats and skins. Most bore long spears and short-hafted axes. One large fellow who stood slightly ahead of the others leaned on a huge, double-bitted battle-axe. This one again bellowed in a stentorian voice.

  “Cast down that toothpick, fool! Look to your flanks and rear!”

  Without dropping his blade, Gord quickly glanced left and right. On the rim of the cut they were in stood another dozen or so men, similar to those he had first seen but holding crossbows, rocks, javelins, and the like. A rapid look over his shoulder revealed yet more of the hillmen—spearmen and slingers this time, the latter with slings whirling slowly.