[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City

by Gary Gygax - (ebook by Undead)

  The formerly one-eyed thief gave Gord a tiny, brief wink with an eye that should not have been there, and replied, “Oh! Sorry, captain. Didn’t mean to ignore you, but Constable Mellard here took a good bit of convincing when I finally caught up with you. He actually didn’t believe that you were one of our best spies, and that His August Supremacy would be quite wroth with the good constable’s master, Count Blemu, if Archbold learned that you were locked up in his dungeons…. Imagine!”

  Constable Sir Mellard’s expression grew sour at this, and then it changed to worry as Gellor continued.

  “After all, think of His Supremacy’s embarrassment if word ever got out that one of his own vassals, and a recently enfeoffed one at that, starved to death in his dungeon a trusted member of Archbold’s personal staff? Then there’s the slight matter of ingratitude, and the noblesse oblige. Not quite right to imprison a chap for saving his daughter and all.”

  “That,” said Gord, seizing upon the mention of the count’s behavior toward him, “I intend to settle in my own way—”

  “Captain! You are out of order!” Gellor interjected sternly. “Such matters are the affairs of your betters. I am certain His August Supremacy will deal with the whole business in his own way… in time.”

  The inference was unmistakable, and the count’s constable grew pale as the impact of the words sunk in. The officials of a noble might become scapegoats in such an affair as this. “I must say, Your Lordship, Captain Gord, there is no need for such bitterness. A mistake—and a father’s natural desire to preserve his daughter’s name and all—which will soon be rectified with none the worse for it.”

  “None the worse?” Gord shot back. “None the worse, you say?”

  “You will be recompensed, sir—and handsomely, never fear,” Sir Mellard interjected hastily. “And of course you shall receive the personal apology of His Lordship of Blemu!”

  “Yes, yes, that’s quite proper and will suffice,” said Gellor before Gord managed another furious word. “But this dungeon is no place for chit-chat. Come, Constable, let us repair to above, where my officer can bathe and be properly attired while you and I exchange a few pleasantries. I would learn of your struggle against the Jebli tribes to the north.”

  Apologizing for not suggesting such a thing himself, Sir Mellard led the way to the castle above, going off to a parlor with the man he called Lord Nalbon Gellor, while Gord was hustled off to a room where a valet de chambre fussed and bustled. In a short time Gord was scrubbed, oiled, barbered, and arrayed in silk and velvet of ebon hue. When he came back from the dressing room to the main chamber of these quarters, he found that his confiscated weapons had been returned, clean and polished, complete with new belt and scabbards. He checked the dagger, found it intact, and noted that it had been lightly oiled to prevent any spot of corrosion on its keen blade. Beside his weapons lay his purse, and examination proved that its contents—eight bright gold orbs and a scattering of lesser coins—had not been tampered with. Gord smiled wryly at all of this—from one extreme of treatment to the other, and all in a matter of minutes!

  Then a knock sounded on the door, and the valet ushered in an officer of the Count’s Guard, come to escort Gord to the chamber where Gellor and Sir Mellard waited. The now-grand young thief strode as an honored guest through the halls of Castle Blemu to find what awaited him next.

  He was shown to a small dining salon whose board had been set for a repast. Gellor was there, along with Sir Mellard and several other of the count’s underlings. After Gord was seated, the constable explained to him that His Lordship of Blemu was indisposed and sent his regrets, but that he, Sir Mellard, would serve as host for this banquet in honor of Captain Gord’s good fortune. Gord let that questionable remark pass, for the smell and sight of the feast laid out before him on the table were overwhelming his senses. He was famished, after having been nearly starved for so long, and all he cared to think about now was eating!

  The banquet commenced immediately, and more vintages and dishes appeared at intervals as the diners fell to. It was some time before Gord’s stomach felt satisfied and he began to pay attention to the conversation. The talk was of the warfare with the humanoid bands still infesting the upper regions of the Blemu Hills, and how the count’s forces were gradually driving these hateful creatures northward. Gord heard that companies of gnomes were assisting, and that the Ratikkans were holding Johnsport and besieging Spinecastle, for they too were desirous of revenge upon the humanoid inhabitants of Bone March. Revenge was a subject dear to his heart, so Gord began to question various persons about the matter.

  He learned that some years previous, hordes of orcs, goblins, and their ilk had taken occupation of the Bone March, a former dependency of the Overking of Aerdy. After that time, this area had been a haven for all sorts of evil and degenerate types, and a base for incursion into the surrounding territories by the humanoids and their human associates. However, when Nyrond managed to take Knurl, and Dunstan was made Lord Blemu, the newly created count began to expand his fief northward, displacing the humanoids by force of arms. This effort was assisted by gnomes, for these demi-humans hated the invaders and were loosely allied with His August Supremacy, Archbold III, King of Nyrond and liege of Lord Blemu.

  The Great Kingdom, as Aerdy styled itself, was in turmoil, as usual, so the Overking was unwilling or unable to make any response to this assault on territory that was technically his to protect. The area beyond the Teesar Torrent had always been much trouble for the Overking anyway, as had been the Bone March. Distant and well-armed marcher lords were always rebellious and bothersome at best, and the Overking undoubtedly reasoned that such troubles were better vested with Rel Mord, the capital of King Archbold’s domain, than with his throne in Rauxes. In addition, the Overking perceived the Herzog of Aerdy’s semi-independent North Province as a worse threat than a Nyrondel county west of the Teesar Torrent’s swift waters. Let the Herzog deal with the matter if he could, reasoned the Overking, thus keeping the Herzog and the King of Nyrond busy with each other.

  The affair had come out somewhat differently, however.

  Smarting over a humiliating defeat by the forces of the Bone March, the Herzog ignored Blemu and marched a newly gathered host of soldiers back into the humanoid-controlled territory to avenge himself. But the Herzog’s host was again defeated, and the broken remnants retreated in disarray all the way to Eastfair, the capital of North Province.

  However, the series of skirmishes and battles that led to this second humiliation also took their toll upon the hordes of humanoids and their human allies. Left in a battered and seriously weakened condition, they were ripe for attack by Ratik. The Lord Baron of that palatinate did just that, desiring to extend his territory southward. One of his armies sallied through the pass leading from Ratikhill to Spinecastle, laying siege to the latter town, while another force came secretly through Loftwood Forest and fell upon Johnsport, taking it almost immediately.

  The current situation was that both Ratik and Blemu were attempting to gobble up as much land as possible before the chiefs of the humanoids and the petty human lords of Bone March were able to regroup, reinforce themselves, and act in concert to prevent further erosion of their holdings. Many of the Bone March’s raiding bands and tribes were still in the North Province, fighting and pillaging. There was some question as to whether these raiders would eventually return to their homeland, or whether the Herzog’s re-assembling army would manage to pick these bands off, one by one.

  There was more, but what struck Gord as most interesting was the distance between Knurl and the Nyrondel capital city, Rel Mord, which was more than one hundred fifty leagues, and the fact that they were separated by the wilderness of the Flinty Hills. Could Dunstan be flirting with ideas of independence for Blemu? Allying with the northern realm of Ratik, and playing off Rel Mord against Rauxes, might enable a clever noble to gain sovereignty.

  If indeed such thoughts were uppermost in the count’s mind, then
he would be dreadfully concerned about the ramifications of Gord’s imprisonment, Gellor’s discovery of the action, and intelligence reaching King Archbold—all supposing that the once one-eyed man actually was the king’s general, and that Gord was one of His August Supremacy’s most valuable agents. Gord knew, of course, that the latter was totally fallacious, but Lord Blemu thought it the truth. If he indeed plotted to renounce his vow of fealty and seize independence, then he would most likely over-react to this minor situation, which would be to Gord’s advantage. Interesting, indeed….

  Eventually the conversation waned to desultory remarks, as full belly and fine wine took blood from brain to stomach. It had grown late besides, and the evening was finally ended by the constable wishing all a good night’s rest and cheerful morrow. As Gord and Gellor made ready to leave, Sir Mellard came to them and assured the two that all would be in readiness for them at dawn, just as the Lord General had directed.

  “It is most regrettable that the officers of His August Supremacy will be unable to remain a few days at the castle,” Sir Mellard said without conviction. “Although the facilities will be strained to capacity with all the wedding guests, personages such as yourselves, representing the Royal Court, would be most welcome and well-quartered for the event.”

  “Wedding guests?” queried Gord.

  “Never mind that, captain,” said Gellor quickly. “I am tired, and we must be away on business of the king by first light! Come along, and I’ll inform you of the happy event that Sir Mellard referred to as we go—you’ve been a bit out of touch, shall we say?”

  Gord was unwilling to let the matter drop, for he did not quite trust Gellor to give him the whole truth, and wished to get to the bottom of it by questioning the obsequious constable then and there. However, he recognized a firmness in Gellor’s urging, despite its friendly tone, and in the way his “general” turned abruptly and headed for the door, expecting Gord to follow. His wisdom told him that silence and patience were the wiser course, so he turned on his heel and also left the dining room swiftly, doing as he was ordered.

  Gellor refused to say anything at all on the matter, however, when they arrived at the small suite assigned to them. Using the Thieves’ Cant, and hand signs, Gellor cautioned Gord to mind his tongue, for walls hid many things, including listeners. Once they were well away from the castle, said Gellor in the secret tongue, he would tell Gord everything he wished to know, but for tonight they must remain stolid officers of the King of Nyrond, here now merely to refresh themselves with a night’s sleep before going on next day to carry out the secret affairs of His August Supremacy. Grudgingly, Gord agreed, and soon both men were tucked in their beds, located in adjoining chambers behind unlocked doors. Gord, unused to anything softer than a bit of mildewed straw scattered on a stone floor, thought the softness of the bed would prevent slumber. He was quite mistaken, for sleep overtook him in a moment, and he barely stirred for the rest of the night.

  A restrained tapping on the door of his room brought Gord awake. This was followed by a rustling sound as someone moved into the chamber. Gord opened his eyes, his muscles tense, his hand going instinctively to the dagger at his bedside even as he turned to see who had intruded upon him. It was merely the fussy valet who had attended to him yesterday, now engrossed in his morning ministrations. It was still dark outside, and the servant carried a candle with him. He had deposited a stack of garments on a nearby stand and was now in the process of setting flame to a half-dozen tapers so as to illuminate the room. When the task was finished, he turned and saw Gord watching him.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the servant. “It is nearly first light, and I have come to assist you in dressing and preparing for your departure.”

  Gord harrumphed but swung his legs out of bed and arose. As the valet fussed with the stack of garments, separating things and laying them out, Gord washed and otherwise went through his unaccustomed morning toilet. In the meantime, the fancy clothing he had been given to wear yesterday, and which he had tossed casually aside when retiring, had been picked up, brushed, and painstakingly folded and stowed in a small leather pack—evidently for Gord to take along when he departed. The valet handed him new linen and then insisted on helping Gord dress.

  The apparel he had been given today was designed for rougher activity: heavy stockings, short breeches of leather, with a like doublet worn over a linen blouse. This ensemble was all in black, and completed with high riding boots, gloves, soft cap, and cloak. Another set of small clothes was packed away as Gord broke his fast with fresh bread, cheese, salty-sour galda fruit, and watered wine. The valet hastened to hand him a napkin as soon as it was evident that he was through, and then whisked away the remains of the meal, leaving Gord alone in the room and wondering what would happen next. He went to his weapons and began buckling the shortsword to his waist when another rap sounded on his bedroom door, this one much more important-sounding than the servant’s taps.

  Gord called for the entrance of the one so knocking, and in came Sir Mellard, followed by a churl bearing several bundles. The constable ordered him to place his burdens gently on the bed, dismissed the fellow, and then spoke to Gord.

  “The busy affairs of the coming celebration again prevent my master, Count Blemu, from personally attending to your wishes ere you depart. He has sent me personally to see that all is satisfactory, however, and I am at your disposal.” At the last portion of his speech, the constable appeared pained indeed. He managed to go on, though, with only a slight grimace and a swallow.

  “Humblest apologies are given you for having… detained you in so unkind a fashion. Had you but mentioned your service to His August Supremacy—but no matter! I am instructed to personally crave your pardon, and humbly beg forgiveness for my part in the… ah… misunderstanding….” Sir Mellard paused expectantly.

  “Get on with it, man!” Gord ordered him, allowing his pent-up anger and general dislike for the fellow to permeate his tone.

  The constable winced and nearly flew into a fury himself at the outrage of a mere soldier speaking to him in such a manner. But then he recalled his mission, the instructions of his lord, and the supposed station of Gord as captain and agent of the King of Nyrond’s personal corps. Composing himself again, Sir Mellard resumed his speech.

  “Lord Blemu, in his generosity, and to emphasize the depth of his regrets, bestows upon you the following gifts.” The constable paused here and turned to the packages, lifting them one by one as he talked. “First, here is a purse of coins to assist you comfortably on your return to Rel Mord.

  “Next, this blade,” the constable continued, unwrapping and holding forth in near-formal presentation a beautifully crafted small sword, “is a prize captured from a brigand chieftain from the northern border. It is wrought from an alloy of steel and adamantite, I am told, and then enchanted so as to pierce dragon’s scale or foeman’s plate without losing any of its point or edge.

  “Last, but by no means least, my Lord Count gifts you with this silver neck-chain, a piece taken from his personal coffer, and set with garnets highly polished to enhance its beauty.” Sir Mellard held it out toward Gord. “See, it bears the arms of Count Blemu himself as its chiefmost decoration! It will show that you have his noble favor.”

  “Is that all?” Gord asked icily.

  “All? AM?” sputtered the constable. “You so dare as to—” and then he again recalled his mission. He took one deep breath, forcing a smile to his lips and calmness into his tone, and then said, “There is one more thing which comes from His Lordship…. May I speak freely as gentleman to… ah…gentleman?”

  “You may, sir,” Gord allowed graciously.

  “In the matter of your… ah… stay here. Need it be emphasized in your report to the king? Lord Blemu has been most generous in making amends, and he is concerned that His August Supremacy might mistake overzealousness for some darker motive….”

  At that moment, Gellor came in from his adjoining chamber. Gord immediat
ely suspected that he had overheard the conversation and was timing his entrance accordingly.

  “It is not a matter worth any further consideration, or note,” Gellor boomed in a hearty voice. “Be a good fellow and tell your good Count just that. General Gellor and Captain Gord understand the whole affair was an error, and who amongst us errs not? It is a trivial thing of history, best forgotten,” he said reassuringly as he guided the constable to the door. “But do relate to His Lordship that his generosity will long be recalled whenever Blemu Castle comes to mind!”

  Beaming, Sir Mellard departed, assuring the two that they would have the swiftest and finest of coursers, with appropriate trappings, awaiting upon their departure. He then hurried away, and Gord looked at Gellor to see if he could determine what the fellow was up to.

  Gellor was dressed in much the same fashion as Gord was, with a belt bearing longsword and dagger girding his loins. Gord noted that he too had a fat purse, and wore a long neck-chain, but Gellor’s chain was of golden links and roundels and bore three deep blue sapphires each flanked by a pair of smaller diamonds. Gord opened his mouth to utter a comment about rank bribery, but his companion stifled it by waving a finger at him and winking with the eye that should not have been there. Gord thought the gesture was growing more than a bit tiresome.

  “Let us be off, Captain Gord!” said Gellor with vigor. “We have far to go, and much to speak of as we ride!”

  Chapter 23

  True to the constable’s promise, a pair of magnificent warhorses awaited Gord and Gellor in the outer bailey of Castle Blemu, saddled and ready, each black stallion held by a liveried groom. These were not the huge and muscled destriers of cavaliers and fully armored men, but the leaner and smaller mounts favored by those who desired swiftness and endurance. Saddlebags of provisions were topped by the leather cases containing the finery each of them had worn the past evening. As Gord was mounting, a small page scurried out of the great hall and ran to stand at his stirrup.