The sight of Greyhawk’s high wall and strong towers brought a flood of memories to Gord’s mind. How long since had he left this city, bound for fortune and adventure? Only about eight years of real time, he reckoned… but eight years that seemed to hold a lifetime worth of joy, sadness, fear, and all the experiences between those extremes.
Would the city have changed much? He doubted it. Was his old friend, San, happily wed? Perhaps a ranking thief of the Guild by now? What of the rebellious Teline and Sunray? Gone, he supposed, either to another place or to whatever lay beyond death.
The word “death” brought to mind the Beggarmaster’s bones and a heavy box of plate iron, resting together in a dark cistern below the city. Gord had originally left the city to avoid the suspicious Guildmaster of Thieves, but he thought Arentol would neither recognize him after all these years, changed as Gord was, nor have any particular interest in him. Whether he would even be remembered at all was as much a question as whether or not he cared about such long-past matters of little real import.
What finally struck Gord was that other than during his short episode as a student—a period of time all too brief, it seemed in retrospect—he had never really had a home in Greyhawk. The city had merely been a place where he housed himself, or rather was forced to live, in his miserable youth. Did he hate this metropolis? Or did he love it? Perhaps he was indifferent to it entirely. He would soon discover which, Gord suspected, when he was once again within its walls.
Even if the city had not changed much, Gord knew that he had. Possibly it would mean something entirely different to him, with his perspective altered by years and travel… and much, much more. With the image of Evaleigh’s silvery hair and violet eyes playing across his mind, Gord passed through the massive Southgate and into Greyhawk….
“What is your rede, priest?” asked Curley, trying to keep the anxiety he felt out of his voice.
“It is confused, druid…. But not evil, I think,” the robed cleric replied with some uncertainty.
“And you, magician? What can you tell us?”
The dun-clad magic-user scratched and tugged at his long, scraggly beard before saying hesitantly, “The stuff writ upon the lid of yon coffer is potent, but it is done in runes so ancient I cannot be sure…. Yet I find no fell warding there, no curse, no sigil bringing some dweomer of ill.
“There is a magical aura, certainly, one of the strong sort, which I am prevented from reading by its own might. Beyond this, I am powerless to assist.”
Gord, in an exercise he had become accustomed to of late, counted out gold into one outstretched palm, platinum lozenges into the other waiting hand. The cleric and the magician went their separate ways, departing happily, for they had been quite richly rewarded for their somewhat questionable answers.
“This had better be some treasure indeed!” the young thief said meaningfully to his comrades. “The sums I have had to fork over to suit you and prepare for the discovery of this chest’s contents are easily equal to the value of this antique coffer itself. If it holds aught of value, you two are out of luck, for I claim the box itself as repayment of expense!”
“Oh, of course, Gord,” the rotund druid said with a casual wave of his hand. “I am sure I can speak for Chert too when I say that it is nothing to us… a trantlum justly yours for the gold you have spent to complete our quest.”
The massive barbarian frowned at the druid’s easy manner in giving so expensive an object to repay the costs that Gord had had to stand, but he did not contradict his friend. Perhaps he felt that Gord should turn some profit for his funding of this project, but it did seem excessive, and Gord looked entirely too pleased with Greenleaf’s acquiescence to his claim on the coffer.
“What need for all this talk?” Chert said impatiently. “If we are ever going to open the thing, let us get to it now! No amount of pondering serves further. Spell-binders have been of scant help, and it is time for direct action. If you two are hesitant, I shall brave the unknown and get to the heart of it by going within!” So saying, he walked purposefully toward the small table upon which the gold box rested.
“Wait!” said Curley quickly. “I must bar the door so we do not have unwanted intrusion by some chambermaid or servant. Then we shall all have a hand in unlocking the coffer and lifting its lid.”
Gord knew they had done right in not hastily forcing the box open when they discovered it; caution is always preferable to impulse in such circumstances. Still, it was hard for him not to feel a bit foolish and disappointed—and he supposed the others must feel much the same—when the adventurers finally realized, by judicious application of prying dagger-tip and strong barbarian fingers, that the coffer came open fairly easily and without adverse incident. Apparently the trap on the larger chest that Gord disarmed had been the only real protection on the treasure, save for a stubborn lock or two.
When the coffer of wrought gold was opened, another container of thin, age-darkened silver was revealed nestled within it. This also proved to be fairly easy to breach, and when it too was opened, the druid examined its contents visually for a couple of moments. Then he gingerly took out the extensive array of gems that all but filled the box and arrayed them on a blanket.
“Here,” Curley Greenleaf said, placing down a huge sphere of uncut yellow corundum, “is the great globe of our sun. This emerald orb here is Oerth, I think; that opal represents Luna, and the star-sapphire of smaller size stands for the blue disk of Celene,” he continued, placing each piece in its correct relative position.
“These various stones are the spheres which accompany our world in its circuit of the sun…. These round diamonds are stars, and the little black opals the various moons and other celestial bodies whirling and spinning their pathways through the system,” he concluded, not bothering to specifically place each of the smaller pieces. “What such imitations were used for is lost to us now, lads, but they represent a fortune to us all!”
“What of this?” Gord said, pointing to but not touching a strange object still within the box. The thing was a mesh of twisted wire, made of an unknown metal that shone with a bluish-silvery sheen. Held fast within the roughly spherical mass of wire was an oddly formed and strangely convoluted piece of something that seemed neither natural nor made by human hand.
Chert began to peer closely at it, likewise avoiding actual touch. “The thing inside seems to absorb light, whatever it is, and looking close at it makes my eyes ache and my mind feel wrenched and turned as the shape itself.”
“Stop looking so!” the druid commanded, hastily pushing the barbarian away from his close scrutiny of the object. “Obviously, this is the relic we sought, which, even considering the value of all these gems, is the real treasure here. It has unknown powers, force unguessable. Leave it for those who are more able to understand and contend with such things.”
“Then what are we to do?” queried Gord. “Is it to remain forever an enigma to us?”
“No, no, my good friends,” Greenleaf said as he tucked the weird thing into a small bag of heavy silk, embroidered with the signs of potency to druids. “You shall know of what it is, and be paid handsomely too for its recovery, but this is work I alone must accomplish.”
Now it was Gord’s turn to glower suspiciously at the druid, but the young thief’s unease at Curley’s statement was not shared by Chert.
“What will you do, then?” the hulking barbarian asked mildly.
Curley Greenleaf had noticed Gord’s suspicion, so he chose his words so as to reassure the thief and explain his intentions to them both. “I plan to depart Greyhawk this very day. Once in the countryside, I shall use my powers to travel in other forms, or through the good trees hereabouts, to return to the Celadon and the Archdruid there. He will undoubtedly wish to involve even more powerful ones of our order in this, perhaps even the Great Grand Druid himself—who knows?
“All of this will require some time… weeks, perhaps months. As soon as possible, I shall send word to yo
u both, and whenever I can, I shall return personally to you both the knowledge gained and the rewards you so justly have coming.” Here the druid paused and turned, looking down upon the many gemstones that had been with the true prize.
“Of these baubles, I have no need,” he said. “Gord, if you will give me a few more coins, I shall have sufficient money to see me through to the forest’s precincts where such stuff is un-needed. You and Chert, meanwhile, will certainly find some use for the price these jewels will fetch here in Greyhawk. May I divide them in equal shares for you?”
Readily agreeing to such a pleasant prospect, the two young adventurers watched their husky associate carefully examine and separate the many-colored array into two smaller piles—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and so forth, even a large jacinth that Curley explained must represent the planet of Rao, greatest of the celestial spheres in the family to which Oerth belonged.
Happy and satisfied, the little thief and the big barbarian saw their comrade off, wishing him speed and safety on his journey and saying that they would be looking forward to his return in the days ahead. The druid was not far away before the two eager adventurers were heading for the gem market in the High Quarter of the city, bent on extracting every orb of good yellow gold they could in exchange for the precious stones secured in their purses.
Both were whistling and laughing, happy indeed, as they entered the first of the many shops that traded in precious metal, gemstones, and jewelry meant to please the nobles and rich folk of the great city of Greyhawk.
Chapter 33
A hunchbacked, old beggar, clutching some sort of prize close to his body, picked a colorful path through the ordure and garbage that littered the narrow lane twisting its way through Old City, leading the ragged man out of the far slums district toward the one that sheltered his fellows.
A close inspection would reveal that he cradled an ordinary-looking, rectangular box—perhaps made of some unusual and old wood, but dirty and dry with age and neglect, and cracked and battered too. Perhaps the decrepit thing would fetch a few lowly bronze coins somewhere, and zees were certainly a fortune to a beggar such as this.
He shuffled along, trying to remain inconspicuous with his meager treasure. Then the stooped figure suddenly raised his head, for shadows had fallen across his path.
“No beggar passes without paying tribute, crookback!”
The little old man quivered and peered with watery eyes at the gang of ruffians who stood grinning at his fright. He clutched the box more tightly and shuffled backward. “I have nothing you want! I am old and poor, a diseased beggar—don’t touch me!”
“Old and a beggar, you are…. And a lying old fart, too!” the biggest of the gang said menacingly as he stepped toward the little fellow. “Hand us that object that you prize so, and I might forget your bullshit. After all, I hear it’s good luck to rub a hump such as yours, and just seeing you has brought me and my boys some luck already!”
The handful of men who composed the rest of the gang of ruffians laughed loudly at that, for they knew that their spokesman was about to take the wooden container from the dirty old tramp and then thump his back until he went howling off. That was the way of the slums—the stronger preying upon the weaker. If there was little to be taken, that was as it was. Their band was the law in this small area, and all who dared enter, save men of the Watch or those who could afford armed escort, had to accept their exaction. It had been thus for years now, and only the foolish, stupid, or insane challenged the gang’s right.
“Give me that!” the broken-toothed leader shouted as he tried to grab the box from the hunchback’s grasp. The old man was unusually quick and agile for one so deformed, and he managed to step smartly back and avoid the attempted purloining of his paltry treasure.
“Stay away! Leave me alone! If you don’t, you’ll regret it,” the beggar said in a voice as cracked and ancient as the wood he held so dear.
This infuriated the ruffian and convulsed his associates with laughter. The onlookers laughed and exhorted the old beggar to show his adversary a thing or two, while the big gangster made further futile attempts to grab either the dirty old man or what he held on to.
“You’ve asked for it, dumbshit, an’ now I’m gonna give it to you good!” As he spat these words at the hunchback who had managed to elude his efforts, the burly ruffian whipped a wicked-bladed knife from his shabby jerkin. “I’m gonna carve that hump right offen your back, an’ maybe eat it too! Nobody talks to the leader of the Headsmen like that!”
The bully started forward but then suddenly stopped and stared in amazement. The old man had thrown off his tattered hood and short cape. His hump was gone, a part of the discarded garment, and his appearance had changed too. The aged and shaking beggar had suddenly transformed himself into a straight young man, smallish but tough and capable-looking, despite the rags of clothing that remained on his frame. Gone too was the frightened demeanor, to be replaced by a hard voice, determined face, and spread-legged stance, elbows held wide and hands on hips.
“And I warned you, too! Now what is it to be, Snaggle?” The bigger man paused in his advance to gape in astonishment at the result of the transformation. Recognition slowly dawned across his stupid countenance, and his coarse features lifted in a cruel grin. “I’ll be dipped in boiling batshit! It’s our old playmate Gord the Gutless!” He turned to leer at his friends for their benefit, adding as he turned back, “You come back to piss your pants for us all?…”
Snaggle bit off the rest of what he had to say as he beheld the long, glittering dagger in Gord’s hand and the deadly look in his eyes. Maybe, thought the cowardly ruffian, this was someone to be handled by the whole gang.
“C’mon, boys, let’s get this runt!” he called to his comrades without looking back at them.
His fellows began to move forward slowly. This was an unexpected development, and one that they were uncertain about. It was all well and good to bully and beat the helpless, or even brawl with someone who tried to put up a fight with fists, but the man who defied their leader looked quite ready to kill one and all, and might be able to accomplish such work too, judging by the hard eyes and ready weapon he displayed.
“What’s the matter, you bag of guts? Can’t the leader of the Headsmen handle one smaller man by himself? How can you need help with me? I’m just a gutless pisspants, aren’t I?”
The others stopped and murmured agreement among themselves that there was merit to the words Gord spoke. Snaggle was, after all, the toughest of their gang, and their leader. If there was a fight here, it was his alone. They would watch and see….
“All right by me, you little asshole,” Snaggle said without conviction. Gripping his knife, he came toward Gord alone.
“I recall how you took my little, broken knife from me years ago, Snaggle. Do you think you can manage to get this blade as easily?” Gord taunted, and then he danced back from the lunging rush of the big ruffian, laughing as he did so.
Gord drew the match out as long as he could, careful not to let himself be wounded and to inflict only superficial, painful jabs and small cuts upon the stupid man who vainly sought to come to grips with his elusive opponent. Of course, the stupid ruffian was no match for one so skilled as Gord, and the other members of the big fellow’s pitiful gang were soon quite glad they had not entered this fight. Gord was an adversary capable of taking the whole group on in an encounter such as this, and leaving them all leaking their lives out onto the dirty cobblestones thereafter.
With athletic grace, Gord leaped and tumbled rings around the confused and dismayed Snaggle, playing with him, goading him into blind charges and clumsy assaults that always ended with Gord elsewhere and Snaggle bleeding from yet another small wound.
Panting, trembling, fearful now, the bigger man tried another tactic. “You win, Gord! I quit!” he called to the smiling, flint-eyed fellow who faced him. “You’ve gotten to be pretty good, ol’ pal, so’s I guess you pass the test—right
, guys? You can be a member of our bunch if you wa—”
In a flash, the knife Snaggle had held before himself was gone, and numbness shot from his fingers up his arm. Gord had kicked the blade away with blinding speed, instantly closed to within a foot of the big leader, and lashed out expertly with his own blade.
Snaggle stared down at his belly, gone suddenly cold and painful. The jerkin he wore was cut away, the dirty skin beneath it revealed. A thin line of red traced the path the dagger point had taken across his hairy, bulging belly to where it now rested in his navel. He looked along the weapon’s steely length to the corded hand that grasped it, then up along the arm to the eyes of the man before him. Snaggle saw the threat of death in those eyes.
“No, no, no, no… please don’t kill me…” Snaggle whined, and with that he lost whatever remained of his valor and fainted dead away.
Satisfied at last, Gord casually stooped and tore off part of the slashed and stained jerkin. As he wiped his dagger clean on the strip of cloth, he looked around and studied the stupefied members of the ruffian band. They looked quickly away from his gaze, not wishing him to think a returned stare meant a challenge. They had seen all they ever needed to see of him.
“I am doing Snaggle a favor, and all of you stupid jerks one as well. I’m not going to kill him, or you… this time! But if I ever happen to run into any of you again, you can bet your lives the favor won’t be given a second time.” He idly toed the unconscious Snaggle with his booted foot. “Your big, tough leader seems to have soiled himself—both ways, too, from the stink of it. Drag shitpants, here, away with you when you run along—and, boys, I’d do that right now if I were you!”
With cautious haste, the gang complied, and the last Gord saw of them they were going as fast as they could manage, hauling their still-unconscious leader by his arms, his legs scraping and bouncing along the rough cobbles as they hastened into a narrow alleyway and out of sight.
[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City Page 36