Between the innermost circle of columns and the tower, he found three pathlike rings upon the ground. The rings were made of smooth white pebbles that he fancied had somehow been reclaimed from the ocean, for only its constant tides could have worn away the roughness. Two men could have walked upon them side by side in idle conversation, so wide was each of the rings. As far as he could tell, like the columns, they encircled the dark tower.
Garett clutched his rock as he stepped over the innermost ring and started across an expanse of ground toward what he perceived in the tower’s strange glow was the entrance. Before going far, he walked into a single line of spider’s web, invisible in the darkness. It draped lazily around his face. Utterly repulsed, he wiped at it furiously with his free hand, trying to rid himself of the sticky strand. With a shudder, he continued ahead. Only a few paces on, he blundered into a second line. It wafted over his nose and cheeks, and this time he gave a soft, involuntary cry at the silken touch, and dropped his rock, so desperate was he to wipe it away with both hands.
It embarrassed him to behave so squeamishly, and he was grateful there was no one to see. No one, he reminded himself, except that unseen watcher whose patient gaze had never left him, the one who had brought him here. Garett picked up his rock, swelled out his chest as he lifted his chin, and determined not to react so poorly when he encountered the third web that he knew would certainly be there, and because he looked very carefully, he managed to catch just a glint of moonlight on that final thread. He drew his hand through it, severing it. At least it was only his hand that suffered its contact and not his face. He shuddered anyway.
The entrance was a pair of huge iron-banded doors made of rare but weather-scarred roanwood. Great rings of twisted iron hung upon each door as well. The hinges and bolts were also of iron. Garett gazed at the doors, each twice his height, and up at the tower itself. Immense squares of some dark stone, unknown to Garett, made its walls. The mortar between some of those blocks had crumbled away, and moss and lichen filled the niches. There were no windows that he could see, nor any crenellations at all. It was more than a fortress, he thought. It was a vault. But to keep someone out, or to keep something in?
He reached out, intending to grasp one of the iron rings and try his strength upon the doors, but no sooner did he move his arm than both doors swung slowly and silently open of their own accord. Garett stood at the threshold with his rock in his hand, staring into the torchlit interior. Suddenly, his stone seemed a pitiful weapon indeed. He relaxed his grip and let it fall to the ground. Then he passed between those great doors and went inside. It did not surprise him at all when the doors closed again without ever making the slightest creak or sound.
A ring of ten torches burned in sconces at equal intervals around the room. Garett counted them, noting their regularity, before he glanced up. If he had expected several levels within this tower, he was disappointed. The only ceiling appeared to be the roof itself, in the gloom far above his head. And that was where he knew he must go, the tower’s roof, for the interior was quite empty of anything except the torches and a narrow wooden staircase that twined concentrically up the walls to that high place.
Garett took a torch from one of the sconces and moved toward the stairs. His footsteps left perfect prints in the thick carpet of gray dust on the old stone floor. He wondered how the torches had been lit, for there were no other prints at all, not even around the sconces. Plainly, no one had been here for a very long time. But then he reminded himself of the shortcomings of logic. He had no doubt that someone was at home. He could feel them watching.
He set his foot on the first step. The old wood groaned under his weight. The wooden railing was damp under his palm, slick with wood mold. He moved cautiously up. Two steps. Ten steps. Twenty-five steps. The entire staircase vibrated and shook. The railing trembled like something alive. The higher he went, the greater the danger became. A treacherous groaning and creaking filled the air. The stairs began to buck and sway violently, as if trying to hurl him off. Garett dropped to his knees and clung to one of the steps with his free hand. Pieces of wood came away under his fingers, but he found new purchase and clung on, holding his torch like a shield of light, gritting his teeth and staring at the floor a dizzying distance below, doing his best to keep perfectly still.
Finally the shaking slowed and ceased, and Garret rose from his crouched position. At his smallest movement, the vibration began again, the merest causing shivers deep in the old wood. He sucked his lower lip and lifted himself as gently as possible onto the next step and felt it crack under his weight. He skipped to the next one as quickly as possible, and the shaking began again.
Garett’s heart hammered in his chest. Feeling as desperate as a trapped animal, he shot a glance groundward and another toward the gloom above his head, where the top of the stairs disappeared. With one hand on the railing and the other on the wall for balance, he rose up the steps. The wood under his feet grew soft and spongy. The heavy iron bolts that supported the stairs sawed back and forth in the stone walls and hurled a fine powder downward. The structure’s groaning became a cacophony that fed on its own
echo until its shrieking filled his ears.
Wood snapped suddenly, and Garett’s foot crashed through the next step. With a fearful cry, he snatched at the railing, and his torch went tumbling over the side with a hiss and flutter of flame while the nails of his other hand raked the wall, seeking purchase. For an instant, he seemed to hang over empty space, and the world reeled around him. Then he had his balance again and was racing up the stairs as fast as he could run, uncaring of the danger or the darkness, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes locked steadfastly on the roof, his destination.
The stairs ended on a small, narrow landing. Without even pausing for breath, Garett smashed his hands against what had to be a trapdoor. To his immense relief, a door did indeed fling open, and it crashed backward with a resounding slam. Three more swift steps, and Garett rose into the cool air of the night. A breeze brushed against him, chilling him. For the first time, he noticed how thickly he was sweating.
The roof was not quite what he had expected. It was not precisely even the roof. Another ring of slender white columns, each twice as tall as a man, rose around the top of the tower, supporting the true roof, a shallow, smoothsided dome full of gloom that began to glow with a soft golden color as the captain gazed up at it.
With a start, Garett realized that a tall, heat-blackened brazier near his left side had taken fire. The smell of hot coals and incense wafted into the air. Four more such braziers, placed strategically around the strange, open-aired chamber also began to burn. It was the light they shed that filled the dome above his head.
Quietly he bent and lowered the trapdoor back into place. Then he began to move about. The floor was covered with thick old carpets, woven with odd designs, some of which Garett believed to be magical. They had that look about them. In the center of the chamber was a small table draped with velvet. A crystal ball rested in its center. It refleeted his own face when he leaned down and peered into it. There was another table nearby, littered with glass beakers and tubes. Some were half full of strangely colored liquids. One, in particular, caught his attention. Unstoppered, it gave off a thin wisp of smoke, though there was no source of heat, and the beaker, when he touched it gingerly with a fingertip, proved cool. He sniffed. There was no odor to the smoke it exuded.
He moved to the edge of the roof between a pair of columns and leaned upon the low encircling wall. Far below, the sea waves curled and crashed upon the rocks, but the sound of it was no more than a gentle, distant rush, and the whitecaps might have been small white doves, drowning on the water.
He moved again and found a table against another part of the wall. His fingers brushed over an old astrolabe and sextant. Garett gazed up at the sky. The stars glimmered warmly in the night. Once, when he was younger, he had known all the constellations by name.
Garett turned away from th
e wall and moved back toward the center of the room. There was a soft couch and a plush, stuffed chair with a footstool, and between them a low, round table. A gold goblet shimmered in the firelight from the braziers, and a bottle of red wine stood beside it, casting a ruby reflection.
“Please, drink if you wish.”
Garett turned sharply, startled by the rich, deep voice. But there was no one behind him. There was no one that he could see anywhere. “I would prefer water,” he stated calmly, though his gaze darted to every shadow.
“Then it is water,” the voice answered with the merest hint of amusement.
Garett failed to spot the speaker, so he turned, and the bottle contained a clear, sparkling liquid that he didn’t doubt was water. He tipped the vessel delicately and filled the goblet. He took a sip and found it the freshest, coldest spring water.
“It’s delicious,” Garett commented. “Will my host drink with me?”
Another brazier slowly began to burn on a side of the roof that Garett had not yet explored. It revealed a high-backed chair and a figure reclining there. Garett could not see, though, its still-shadowed face. He saw mostly a lap— where rested a pair of folded, gnarled hands—the hem of a black robe, edged with silver thread embroidery, and soft felt boots, crossed at the ankles.
At the same time that Garett spied the speaker, he realized why the voice had confused him so. The dome that made the second roof played strange tricks with sound.
When the figure didn’t answer, Garett shrugged and sipped his water again. ‘‘You have an interesting place here,” he said conversationally.
There was a pause before the man in the chair answered. “I don’t come here as often as I used to.” There was a vitality in the voice that impressed Garett. He stared at those ancient hands, trying to reconcile his impressions.
“’You have another home?” Garett asked over the gold rim of the goblet.
The shadowed figure seemed to nod. “In the Yaril Mountains,” he answered. Then, stiffly, the figure began to rise, pressing with both hands on the arms of his chair until he finally stood. Once on his feet, though, he seemed to gain vigor. An old man, tall, almost willowy, he stepped out of the shadow. His close-cropped hair and beard, once black, were heavily streaked with gray. The wind set his black robe to fluttering as he moved toward Garett, and the captain of Greyhawk’s night watch could not say for sure if the old man’s feet even touched the floor.
His host stopped beside the couch and peered at Garett. Even in the ruddy glow of the firelight, his old eyes were the keenest, clearest blue.
“’You’ve been watching me for days,” Garett said matter-of-factly. He didn’t doubt that statement at all. He knew the intensity of that blue-eyed gaze. He had felt the weight
of it on his back for too long. “Why?”
The gaze locked with his, and the two regarded each other unyieldingly for a brief moment. “Allow me to provide you with a garment,” his host said finally. Going to an old trunk, he pulled out a soft robe of white silk, which fit Garett perfectly.
“Thank you,” Garett said, feeling the cool slide of the fabric over his skin as he tied the belt. The slightest breeze caused the material to stir and flutter. It almost tickled. His host moved to the wall, leaned his back against a column, and stared out toward the moonlit sea. Garett followed.
Again his host fixed him with that blue-eyed gaze. “I am Mordenkainen,” he said.
Garett’s throat went suddenly dry, and he thought briefly of the goblet of water, which he had left sitting on the low table by the couch. Maybe he could have it changed back to wine again.
He knew the name, of course. Mordenkainen was the legendary leader of the Circle of Eight, a cabal of the most powerful wizards on Oerth. Once, according to many stories, the Circle had held a subtle sway over most of the affairs of the world, carefully balancing matters so that no one force or nation or power ever rose to a position of total dominance. They were neither good nor evil. Or perhaps they were both. Such things always depended on point of view. But they saw that a balance was maintained. No one, however, had heard from the Circle in over fifty years, and Mordenkainen himself had not been seen for longer than that.
Garett regarded the man he saw before him and remembered all the stories he had heard. Then with characteristic bluntness, he asked, “Was it you who killed the seers of Greyhawk?”
The comers of Mordenkainen’s mouth twitched, but whether it was a frown or a grin he put on, Garett couldn’t tell. “You accept my drink and my garment,” Mordenkainen said with a droll lilt, “then you accuse me of murder.” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill the seers.”
“But you know who did,” Garett pushed. Now that he finally had a chance to get some answers, he wanted them all at once. “And the Old Towners. I bet you know what’s going on there, too. Is the Horned Society involved?” Mordenkainen shook his head again, leaned on the wall, and gazed toward the distant waves below. “I can’t help you,” he answered quietly.
That took Garett aback. He stared at the old wizard, whose shoulders seemed to stoop suddenly under the fluttering black robe. “What do you mean you can’t help? You must have brought me here for some reason!”
“I did not bring you here,” Mordenkainen answered stubbornly. He straightened abruptly and thrust a finger, pointing far down the coastline. “I brought you there. You made your own way here.”
Garett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?” The old wizard shrugged and turned away from the wall. “A small distinction, I admit,” he said, almost plaintively. “But small distinctions can be important in the cosmic scheme of things.” Mordenkainen strode toward the low table, picked up Garett’s goblet, and handed it to him. As Garett had silently wished, this time it contained wine.
“Stop that!” Garett snapped as he accepted the vessel and caught a whiff of the fruity aroma.
The wizard shrugged again as Garett, nevertheless, prepared to drink. With his mouth prepared for wine, he found water trickling into his throat and sputtered at the unexpected taste. He set the cup aside, rapidly growing tired of games, and paced around the table.
“You say you can’t help me, though you’ve had me under observation for days. "You must know what’s going on in Greyhawk. Damn, if even half the stories about you are true, you know what’s going on all over Oerth.” He dropped down suddenly into the stuffed chair and glared at his host. “All right, then. Why did you bring me here?” “I cannot help you in this matter,” Mordenkainen answered firmly. “Nor can any member of the Circle of Eight.
I cannot tell you what or who you face. I cannot even tell you what the danger is.”
“But there is a danger?” Garett interrupted eagerly. “A danger to Greyhawk itself?”
“I cannot tell you that,” Mordenkainen snapped, his features turning stern. “Ask me no questions about your city or your killer. I am enjoined by powers and contracts you do not understand from answering such queries. The members of the Circle do not yet feel it is time to take an active part in the affairs of the world again.”
Garett sighed, feeling the heat of anger in his cheeks. So it was politics interfering with his job again. Politics among the directors; politics among the Circle; always politics. He ground his teeth in frustration. “Once more, then, wizard,” he said. “Why am I here? I have honest work to do.” “And it is work you do honestly and well,” Mordenkainen complimented with an almost paternal patience as he turned to regard Garett. “ That is why I brought you here. To reward you.”
Garett looked suspicious, but he listened and watched as the old wizard paced back and forth.
“There are twelve Great Swords,” Mordenkainen explained. The wind swirled about him as he spoke, and the sleeves of his robe rose out like the wings of a bird. “The Pillars of Heaven, they were called in the ancient days. No one knows who forged them or where they came from, but they are blades of tremendous power. That power was used well by many, but also misused, and at a ch
aotic time in Oerth’s history, the decision was made to hide them. For the most part, they are forgotten now.” He paused and tapped his temple with a gnarly index finger. “But not by me.”
Despite himself, Garett leaned forward with interest. Mordenkainen motioned him to rise and follow, and together they went to the crystal ball on the velvet-covered table. “One of these twelve swords is but a half-day’s ride from Greyhawk.” He waved a hand over the crystal. “It lies
in the Mist Marsh,” he continued, “at the very heart of the swamp.”
A thick fog filled the gleaming ball, and through it formed images of water reeds and dripping fronds, of moss-hung trees and lush vines. Then the images turned more sinister. One of the vines stirred and undulated and became a thick, green serpent. A creature with an impossibly long snout and rows of sharp teeth thrust up from under the water and clacked its jaws. Insects buzzed everywhere.
But, next, those images faded. A fog filled the ball again, and when it cleared, a sword floated at its center. At first glance, it was a perfectly plain sword. It bore no special adornment, nothing to distinguish its legendary craftsmanship.
“Now look again,” Mordenkainen said. He brushed Garett’s eyelids with the tips of two fingers and stepped back as the captain bent closer to the crystal.
It was the same sword, Garett knew on some instinctive level, but now the silver blade bore a line of black runes down both its sides, and the tangs on either side of the two-handed grip were fashioned to resemble the necks and heads of fanged tigers. As he watched, the weapon began to glow from point to pommel stone with an emerald radiance so intense that the crystal ball, tabletop, and the chamber itself shimmered with its light.
Mordenkainen leaned close to Garett’s ear as he, too, peered into the crystal ball. “This sword is called ‘Guardian,’ ” the wizard whispered with a note of awe in his deep voice. “According to the oldest legends of Oerth, it was the seventh sword of the twelve to be forged.” He put an arm around Garett’s shoulders as they regarded the blade side by side. “Know you, Garett Starlen, that its razor edges can sever any magic spell, no matter how powerful, no matter who the caster. And if you have been uncomfortable with my observing you, know also that while you carry Guardian, you cannot be seen by magic.”
D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch Page 17