Night Arrant

by Gary Gygax

  "But the test-"

  "Nothing more than a farce," the crone nearly screamed. "A nasty, mean way to get back at me for my having cleverly outwitted that pious old fart and his sexy old faker pal the last couple of times we’ve had a contest, so to speak! You don't have a prayer of succeeding, unless ..." Her voice trailed off.

  Gord was confused. "You know Good Priest Boffly and Court Wizard Phompton well enough to engage in, ah, contests?"

  "Know 'em? We grew up together, the three of us did, about a hundred years back! That namby-pamby Boffly decided to follow the straight and narrow, as they say. Matched his spine and mind, hee, hee, hee! Old Phompy, why, he never was any great shakes at spinning a dweomer, either. I always wondered how he managed to flummox the grand count into appointing him Court Wizard. But then again, those Fizziaks were never known for their brains."

  "What are we to do then?" Gord asked the witch earnestly.

  Quodilde drew Gord closer and began to speak rapidly in a low tone. The young thief nodded now and again, then slapped his knee and gave a loud laugh. "That's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "How can we repay you?"

  Realizing a potential error of serious magnitude, Gord drew back, but the witch only cackled lewdly and said, "No time for that now, handsome. You and your chums have to set things aright here, then get back to castle Fizziak to prove you passed their silly test. Maybe you and I can get together some other time."

  "Errr . . . I'll be sure and drop in if I'm ever in the neighborhood again." Gord volunteered.

  "That'll do." Quodilde said with a leer. "You know, I could apply a little geas of my own to make certain of it...."

  "No need for that!" Gord said quickly. "We'd just be wasting valuable time. The sooner we get going, the sooner Boffly and Phompton will get what's coming to them! You are anxious to see that happen, aren't you?"

  "Let's get going!" the witch cackled excitedly. "But you'd better make sure . .."

  "Yeah, yeah, don't worry!" Gord said quickly.

  Quodilde gave him what she imagined to be a sensuous look. "You seem to be an honest sort," she said. "And anyway, no one can resist my charm forever. I’ve got all the time in the world to wait for you to show up and pay your debt!" And at that the crone cackled madly, sending shivers up and down the young rogue's spine.

  The witch cast a spell and suddenly an ancient coffer appeared on the table before her. She rummaged around in the old trunk until she found the three objects she was looking for. After handing them to Gord, she took him by the arm and steered him downstairs.

  Chert and the former bandits were standing uncomfortably by the front door, weapons drawn and ready, surrounded by seemingly beautiful girls who mocked them and urged the employment of other sorts of weapons than those of steel. From the looks on the men's faces, it was evident that they were having a hard time believing that these lovely lasses were actually magically gulsed witches and hags attempting to lure them to a most terrible fate. Plinkus sat alone at a small corner table, pouting. He had been unable or unwilling to choose one of his two admirers over the other, and he was now being shunned by both of the hags. Gord and the rest of the humans saw them as stunning-looking doxies, but Pinkus, thanks to his innate ogrish powers of resistance to magic, still saw their true forms and lusted and lamented. Gord had to laugh.

  "Let's go, lads," the young thief called merrily to his comrades when he managed to regain his breath and composure. "Our quest is done, and we must now hie back to Castle Fizziak and the grand count!"

  That bit of news delighted Chert and the men-at-arms. Zimp boomed out, "H'ray for Cap'n Gord! I knew he'd do it!" The other outlaws stared at Quodilde, shook their heads, gazed at Gord admiringly, and raised a hurrah.

  Chert pounded Gord on the back. "Nice going, pal. Sometimes you're rather useful to have around."

  Blushing and sputtering in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage at all of this praise, Gord was pushed by the witch and pulled by his companions toward the open door. Plinkus had already stumped through it and was heading off in high dudgeon. Just as the young thief was about to be forced out, however, he realized that something was amiss.

  "Walt!" he shouted, and the shoving and tugging stopped. "Where is Lord Maheal? We can't go off without him."

  Amid cries of "Bugger the fop! Who needs 'im?" and "Let him earn his keep here as a bumboy," Gord walked back into the tavern. "Where's the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe?" he demanded of Quodilde.

  "Roasted if I know," she replied laconically.

  "Oh, no! I forgot all about him! I saw him going above with a tart a while—" Chert volunteered.

  Gord, whose look was one of absolute horror, did not wait for Chert to finish his sentence. He took, the stairs three at a time, his comrades all pounding after him. In a moment they found a room with a closed door and burst in without knocking.

  "Awk!" said Lord Maheal, hastily drawing on his underdrawers.

  "Eeek!" screamed a sultry, feminine voice as satin sheets were pulled quickly over a raven-tressed face of exquisite beauty.

  "That's a witch or hag!" Gord shouted at the furious nobleman.

  "Nonsense!" he retorted hotly while scurrying to don hose and doublet.

  "Double nonsense," Quodilde added. "That happens to be my own dear daughter Dulicia who, despite my half of her parentage, is neither witch nor hag!" So saying, she jerked the bedclothes down to reveal the girl's pale and lovely face.

  Your d— d— daughter?" Maheal stammered, his face turning ghastly pale.

  "How dare you carry on with a dullard like that?" the witch demanded. Ignoring him and addressing her offspring.

  "Dullard?" Maheal puffed with weak indignation. He was still terrified, but of course could not let the insult pass.

  "But, Mother dearest, I am in love with Lord Maheal! From the moment I saw him I knew he was the man for me," the delicious young beauty replied in pleading tones.

  "No accounting for some people's taste," Chert whispered to Gord.

  "Maybe she is more like her mother when she wakes up in the morning than she is the beauty we. see before us now," Gord whispered back. Jabbing his friend in the side with an elbow. The two of them shook with suppressed laughter.

  "Besides, he promised to marry me!" Quodilde's daughter whined.

  Quodilde was rocked back on her heels. "Marry you? He promised to marry you?! Now that's wonderful news indeed, my sweet little flower!"

  "Marry?" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe echoed. But before he could say another word, Quodilde spun around to face him, her beady eyes expressing unmistakable menace.

  "You know it, you smell-smock jackanapes! If the word of a nobleman of the House of Fizziak isn't sufficient — and the grand count shall hear about that, I assure you — then perhaps the sting of my own powers will be enough to make you hold to your troth." she concluded with a hiss as she took a step toward the trembling Maheal.

  "Nay, nay! Contain thine ire, good witch! Of certs I mean to keep my pledge to ... to marry your daughter." he ended lamely, swallowing hard and nearly choking.

  "It's settled then," Quodilde said matter-of-factly. "The bans will be posted next week, and the wedding will take place in Rel Mord in one month's time. Oh, my sweet little daughter," she said, turning once again to the happily bouncing girl, "he does not deserve such a treasure, but I am sure he will do everything possible to make you happy!"

  The look she shot over her shoulder at Lord Maheal left no doubt about the intended consequences if he failed to do just that, and the Nyrondel nobleman shook even more than before as he nodded a dumb affirmation of the statement.

  "Good," the ancient head witch of Grimalkinsham said with pleasure. "Now you can all be on your way. I'm certain your renowned uncle, Lord Fizziak, will wish to meet your bride-to-be as soon as possible. Get up, girl, and get your pretty arse moving! We haven't got all night!"

  An escort of a dozen trolls, provided by Quodilde and enspelled to protect the group they were accompanying, made the return through the G
natmarsh a rapid trip, if uncomfortable for the other travelers. Nothing worse than the loathsome humanoids cared to trouble their passage, certainly. In no time at all they bade the insect-infested morass and the accompanying trolls adieu, and then they headed for Castle Fizziak at a swift pace, guarded by the ex-bandits and whatever dweomer Quodilde the witch of Grimalkinsham had placed over them as an aegis.

  The ogre-magus was silent and stony-faced. Lord Maheal altered between exuberance at having lived through the quest and despair over his coming nuptials. Both Gord and Chert kept a close watch on the nobleman, however, as did the newly created men-at-arms, so he had no opportunity to attempt escape. As they rode, Gord informed the others about the witch Quodilde's revelations and the plan he had agreed upon with her. "I think the best part of this 'quest' is about to begin!" Chert exclaimed happily. The others heartily agreed. Even Maheal's mood seemed to brighten a bit.

  The whole party arrived safe and sound back at the mighty fortress of the grand count in short order. The major domo met them at the gates of the castle and brought them directly to the Grand Count of Fizziak without ado.

  "You have returned, nephew," Lord Fizziak said dryly. "Therefore I assume that you have somehow managed to succeed despite the odds against it. You have found new respect in my eyes." He gazed wonderingly at Maheal.

  "It's all his fault!" the young Szek said, pointing an accusing finger at Gord.

  This puzzled the count. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

  Maheal didn't catch the tone of his uncle's voice, for he was filled with nothing but his own problems.

  This knave, Dear Nuncle, made me do the whole terrible thing - from the awful ride, to the filthy swamp, to agreeing to marry this common trull!"

  That was too much for the gray-bearded grand count. "Just a moment," he said in a steely tone before the nobleman could relate more in his whining voice. "We will hear this from Master Gord of Greyhawk — alone!"

  "But, Uncle, this lying knave is a rogue and a scoundrel! He'll— "

  "Out!"

  Armored guardsmen appeared to carry out the command. They had to drag the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe bodily from the chamber, as he kicked and pleaded to no avail. Chert, Pinkus, and the others went quietly.

  Gord bowed when Lord Fizziak demanded an accounting of events. In rapid succession he related just what had taken place, stage by stage, as the four went to Gnatmarsh, fought the bandits, made men-at-arms of those who surrendered, and so forth. He did not mention the ongoing rivalry between the witch, Quodilde, and Ftzziak's priest and wizard. Neither did Gord bring up what the witch had given him, except to present a small, crystal flask. As he finished his tale, he brought the flask forth with a flourish, saying. "And this, your illustrious lordship, is a special gift from Witch Quodilde. She assures you it will resolve all questions regarding succession to headship of Fizziak."

  "Quaff a small portion," the grand count commanded. He watched Gord with an unwavering gaze as the young thief complied. After several minutes without any apparent ill effects, Lord Fizziak took the flask and tucked it into his girdle. "Well done, Master Gord. I know what Quodilde is aiming at by this — I only doubted her sincerity, as her daughter is about to many that doltish nephew of mine, you know. I suspected that the old bag might have designs of greatness for Dulicia. but I should have known better. Quodilde is too keen of wit to try to place a dullard or a frothbraln upon the seat of this grand county."

  Gord nodded, not fully understanding but wise enough to know when to remain silent. The grand count then asked, "The test — have you and your associates completed all that was demanded?"

  "We have, lord. At your leave, I will deliver to Good Priest Boflly and Wizard Phompton that which I gained from Quodilde. Likewise, I bear the prize demanded by them for King Archbold."

  Lord FIzziak sat quietly for a moment, tugging on his lower lip, lost in deep thought. Slowly his features lightened, and a twinkle began to light his eyes. He smoothed his face with a calloused hand and spoke in a stately manner. "Gord of Greyhawk, you are a commoner no longer. For what you have accomplished, I hereby elevate you to the status of Gentleman and Esquire to the House of Fizziak. Master Chert I elevate to Gentleman as well, and your men-at-arms I pardon for past oflenses and name them Yeomen of Fizziak. I will instruct them to report to the constable tomorrow, to receive assignments in my own army," he said.

  "Thank you, Lordship, for your undeserved generosity," responded Gord with sincerity. "But there is also a matter of the loo— er, jewels, that were held in, ah, safekeeping for Chert and myself. . . ."

  "Ahem! Well, yes, now that you mention those baubles, I do recall something of the matter. We can discuss it further tomorrow after the ceremony welcoming my nephew back and elevating you and your comrade above your current base positions."

  Gord wasn't about to be so easily put oif by mention of a petty honor. "Most gracious! Still. I remember your word about receiving those gems when we successfully fulfilled the trial we so recently underwent and sorely suffered."

  Lord Fizziak's countenance was dark, but Gord remained inflexible. When he was unable to make the young thief blink, the grand count scowled and shifted uneasily. "Very well. After removing sufficient value to assuage the royal displeasure with your lese majeste, replace ruined garments and other finery, and repair damages done here, I believe that a small sum still remains. I shall have the steward of my exchequer account for the whole and give you the exact reckoning on the morrow."

  "How much remains?" Gord asked weakly.

  Lord Fizziak gestured dismissal, saying as he did so, "Oh, a handsome sum, I assure you, for one of your station — no less than a half-score golden orbs, as I recall, along with a considerable balance in luckies, nobles, and lesser coins."

  Although Gord nearly fainted from the shock, he managed to stagger from the hall.

  "What's wrong, Gord?" Chert asked as he noted his friend's condition.

  "We’ve been elevated to Gentlemen," the young adventurer managed to reply. "It must be the joy of such an honor that makes me pale and reeling."

  The hulking barbarian looked somewhat unconvinced but said no more.

  Later that night, Boffiy and Phompton arrived at the chamber the two young men shared. "Give us the object needed to complete the test," the Good Priest of Fizziak said in resonant voice. "And then we will hear an explanation of all that occurred."

  "Welcome to our humble quarters," Gord replied. He graciously showed the two to a pair of chairs, bowed, and then presented Good Priest Boffly with a small, carefully wrapped parcel. Disconcerted, Phompton looked on as his associate unwrapped the package. Chert, unable to extract any information concerning the status of their confiscated treasure, was in ill humor and glowered silently from a reclining position on one of the two cots in the room as the cleric tore the oiled parchment from the box.

  The container that the wrapping had protected was a finery crafted little coffer of silver and mother-of-pearl inlaid in a variety of rich, mixed woods to form an object of great beauty. Good Priest Boflly was somewhat hesitant, but Phompton was eager. "Get it open, Boflly," he urged his fellow official.

  "This doesn't fit the description," the cleric said with a small shrug. Puffing out his cheeks and then emitting a little sigh, he hesitated still. "How came you by this lovely little box?" he asked Gord.

  "I was told there's a vellum square inside, good sir, that relates the whole matter. I am certain it will answer all your questions to the fullest," Gord told him with an ingratiating smile.

  Phompton was getting impatient. "Don't be such a craven, Boflly. There is no fear of any danger here inside the castle — and these two are certainly incapable of harming either of us."

  "Nevertheless, I am troubled," the priest retorted. "You detect for any enspellment, while I seek possible malign power surrounding this coffer." So saying, the cleric began to work a spell to find evil, while the court wizard resignedly went through the ritual for discovery of hid
den dweomer. In a few moments both had finished their passes and stood rapuy concentrating on the box.

  "Not a glimmer of magic," said Phompton.

  "Nor do I find evil," admitted the priest. With that he opened the container and drew forth the sheet of vellum he found therein. As Boffly took the sheet out, there was a muffled whoosh, and a cloud of bright green dust was blown over the startled faces of both men. Boffly dropped the box, and it broke on the hard flags of the stone floor. Phompton, meanwhile, leaped backward, trying to brush the stuff from his visage. All he succeeded in doing was getting his hands stained vivid green so that they matched his face.

  Chert began guffawing at the sight of the green-faced duo, while Gord did his best to appear amazed and shocked. "My good lords!" he exclaimed in mock horror. "What has happened here? Are you all right?"

  Good Priest Boflly ignored all, peering intently at the sheet of parchment. "There's more than one way to skin a pair of old coots!" he said.

  "What are you talking about?" the wizard demanded furiously, wondering if his associate had been unhinged by the shock of being stained in brilliant hue of purest vert.

  "I am reading what is written here, you fool!" Boffly shot back to Phompton. "And it is signed 'Quodilde'," he added with a rising note of disbelief. "She's done it to us again!"

  The court wizard and chief cleric of Fizziak turned in unison toward Gord, terrible things written plainly on their features. Just then there was a banging of halberds outside the door, and after a single knock the strutting Lord Preppyn entered and unknowingly interposed himself between Boffly and Phompton and the object of their revenge.

  "On your feet! The Grand Count of Fizziak comes to honor you with his presence!" the popinjay proclaimed boldly. Then, as he turned slightly to be in better position to be noticed by all entering, he got a look at the green-faced pair. "Yow!" he squawked, trying to get his feet into running motion white holding himself erect by grasping the door.