by Gary Gygax
There fell the Marshal of Celene, Lord Parseval. With him many other noble elves and men were slain as well. As spell-caster fought spell-caster, the plying of bow and spear, sword and axe, took the worst toll. Of the "cousins," "nephews," and "brothers" of the Scarlet Sign there was a great slaughter. Afterward, their regiments had no heart and fought fiercely but without direction. So they died. Brigand companies and allied humanoids simply melted away, fleeing this way or that. Those that went east, back to the Welkwood, were ambushed or hunted down and then exterminated. In this manner an assassin sometimes known as Blonk was brought low by Deirdre, a Lady Knight of Hardby, while the great company of outlaws whom he had led was slain to a man by the banner of riders and footmen who served her. Some few managed to remain alive by fleeing north or south. Those who escaped to the south eventually returned to the Pomarj to tell of the terrible battle.
Those who went northward found another fate.
At the northern edge of the Kron Hills, where the fringe of the great Gnarley Forest sent no more of its briars and oaks toward the setting sun, stand the ruins of a large building. Once active, the place is now generally shunned, for another battle was fought near it and its builders slain or gone in defeat. The place is, of course, the Temple of Elemental Evil — its ruin, rather — as any local serf or peasant farm-boy from the neighborhood could tell you. Other than an occasional group of adventurous explorers seeking forgotten treasure, nobody goes to the temple. Bad, evil things haunt the place still.
To this very place came a company of another sort — goodly clerics, stout cavaliers and soldiers too, and a magic-user or two as well. They came because a dire warning said that some being of great evil still lurked there, imprisoned in the temple but about to be loosed. They traveled quickly and with grim purpose.
They were greeted by a mass of fugitives. These evil men and malign humanoids were spoiling for revenge, and they lay in wait for the company. These outlaws had strong and fearsome leaders now, folk from the hidden places beneath the temple and others too. They thought to kill the clerics and knights and all the rest. The evil leaders left them, though, and as most of their fellows had done earlier, these survivors did now. They were killed on the field. The battle, small and brief as it actually was, comparatively speaking, took its toll on the company. There was a delay for meditation and prayer, for healing and rest, to prepare for the entry into the Temple of Elemental Evil.
Time had been purchased at a price held cheap and meaningless by those within the place. A great personage, an ancient magus, a feared and mighty one of eld, had come among the few who still remained within the precincts of the ruin. She it was who set the ambush, brought the delay, and gained the time for her ends. The company came, ready again to face any foe of evil nature. Into the temple they came, driving all before them. Downward they plunged, sending undead things back to the pits from which they came, destroying the lurking monsters who would otherwise prey upon mankind. Deep and deeper they went, seeking what they knew they must find.
Even as they finally discovered the confining place and readied for the great confrontation, a pair of ghastly figures sprang upward, passing through stone and earth as if it were air. Too late had these archclerics and doughty fighters come. Iggwilv, Mother of Evil, had come before them and freed the demoness Zuggtmoy. But as these minions of Good lamented their failure, there were those not allied to Evil who rejoiced at Iggwilv's success. Mordenkainen, one who had secretly aided the plan to free the monstrous demoness, was among them.
Thirteen stone chairs stand above the many lesser seats in the Hall of Dread in Molag. Five to either hand are smaller and lower than the three in the center. Thirteen thrones for the thirteen Hierarchs, the Dread and Awful Presences who rule the Horned Society. Only three of the chairs were empty. The trio of the tallest thrones remained vacant as the Hierarchs took their places — five to the right, five to the left. Officials and military officers filed in to stand below the thrones.
Down the isle left unusually broad by the press of lesser masters of the Horned Society — humanoid chieftains, bandit leaders, all — wafted a terrible stench. As the foul odor came, the ranks compacted tighter still, and a wide space was made wider by this movement. Behind the decaying stink came something from which eyes turned away in revulsion. Before the thrones and the ten Hierarchs came Anthraxus the Decayed, Daemonking of Hades. It is worthy of note that the ten who sat upon the stone chairs did not avert their eyes as the monstrous figure glided toward them.
"Greetings, Lord of Glooms," said the greatest of the remaining ten Hierarchs, acknowledging Anthraxus by the least of his titles as if in challenge.
The Daemonking made no sign that he had noticed the affront. "And to you all," the thing replied in a voice that seemed to issue from an empty chest and a throat choked with maggots. "I am come at the behest of Nerull to assist you in your war."
None of the ten flinched at the mention of the war, even though they had only today received news that masses of Iuz's troops were marching through the northern regions of their realm. Again the greatest spoke.
"We serve Evil and acknowledge Nerull as Overlord. We likewise serve the same ends as Thee, but why is it that Our One Master does not Himself come?"
The great oinodaemon sneered and puffed out a cloud of foetid breath in answer. "Play not fools, you remaining Hierarchs! Isn't the loss of three of your number enough to teach you your place?"
The spokesman seemed totally unaffected by the implication of the question. "You mean as His servants?" he replied in an icy, level tone.
"What else?" Anthraxus shot back in a voice that would sicken any normal listener.
"Of course, Lord of Glooms, just as you come to us…" and the spokesman allowed his voice to trail off but raised a finger and spoke again. "The Three who represented Tar-terus, Hades, and Gehenna are gone. We have not yet had the trials which will elevate three of our own number to these exalted positions — and bring three lessers to sit with the Ten. Until we are Three and Ten once again, our power is insufficient against that rebel who opposes the Unification!"
"You waste My time!" Anthraxus said in a voice that coughed and choked.
"No, Master of Daemonkind, you are wasting your time — and ours too. We Ten erred, but not as did the former Three. It is not my place to question the removal of the offenders by the Master of Us All, but I do state now that unless the Society is given aid, we — and the Unification — are in jeopardy."
"Do not place undue importance on yourselves or your petty realm!" the oinodaemon wheezed angrily.
"Then why did Lord Nerull send you to us?" the speaker asked mildly.
Anthraxus shook his rotting, ramlike head in frustration. "I am come to make certain you make no further errors!"
"And…"
"To aid you against the might of that fungi-fornicating, toad-spawned, whelp of a miserable little demon princeling, Iuz!"
The spokesman nodded, with neither pride nor fear in expression or the voiced statement that followed. "Now we understand fully, Lord of Hades, but there is that which must be spoken. What if the cambion gains the Second Key?"
"Then you will take it from him," the ghastly, diseased voice of the oinodaemon rasped, "and I shall be there to see you do not fail again!"
Bits of decaying matter fell from Anthraxus, dropping here and there as he went. The oinodaemon had been standing before the Ten of the Hierarchs for an extended period, and a small circle of the putrescent matter had accumulated around his filthy greatcloak. As he was about to turn and leave, he saw the faces of the enthroned Ten turn pale, eyes start, hands shake. He followed their staring gaze down to the hem of the garment, where the litter of rotting stuff oozed and stank. The stuff had become a fairy ring of fungi, tiny zygoms sprouting from the rot.
At that moment Anthraxus felt fear crawl through his plagued body.
Obmi and the crazed elf, Keak, moved carefully once they were well beyond Littleberg. They rode sharply west
to gain the no-man's-land between Veluna and Furyondy. Once therein, they veered northward again toward the great forest above. It was dangerous going for them, with patrols to avoid, groups of bandits to dodge or evade, and occasional brushes with feral animals or night-stalking monsters to deal with. Despite all that, Obmi was satisfied with their progress. Keak had told the dwarf about the curious elf, the last probable pursuer they had. But none followed, none knew where he went, and he had the prize!
Scarcely a sennight after leaving Littleberg, they came to the seedy little village of Stump. Obmi sought an agent of Iuz there, but none were to be found. In fact, because of Keak they were virtually treated as untouchables by the folk of the village. The residents of Stump had a reputation for aiding and abetting outlaws and reavers if they were paid. There were places to dispose of stolen goods in the village, brothels and a gambling hall for disposing of excess coin. Elven knights had been to the village just days before. Their men-at-arms (elves-at-arms, to be correct) had searched the whole community and discovered property that could be identified as stolen goods. Villagers were hanged on the spot, and a half-dozen were carried off for questioning. That, Obmi thought, explained why there was no help for them there. They stayed and debauched themselves a day or two anyway, for the dwarf thought a second visit from the knights improbable.
As he had hoped, a scar-faced half-orc and several men appeared in Stump asking for a dwarf. The villagers, thinking that these ruffians had come to kill both Obmi and Keak, cheerfully directed the group to where the dwarf and elf swilled cheap wine and sported. Obmi killed the proprietor of the establishment as he looked expectantly for an attack upon the pair of customers he would have murdered himself if he dared. Laughing, Keak dragged the best-looking of the women from the place. In a few minutes they were riding into the edge of the towering forest, and the low folk of the village quickly forgot that they had ever been in Stump.
The going was slow but steady. The half-orc was the leader and the three men who served him were skilled woodsmen. After seeing the dwarfs hammer in action, none questioned his assumption of leadership. Keak was even more feared than Obmi because of the elfs absolute unpredictability. There were stations — lone huts, tiny thorps, or hidden places — where they found a safe night's rest, food, even fresh mounts. After a few days more men and a handful of arboreal ores joined them as reinforcements. The arboreal ores were new to both Obmi and Keak. The creatures seemed to show a strong strain of ape, and this fascinated both dwarf and elf.
Eventually, Keak gave the woman to the ape-ores and they soon killed her.
By then the band was halfway through the Vesve, and Iuz sent Obmi word that a fitting escort was coming to bring them safely to Dorakaa.
At this same time, almost at the same moment, Mordenkainen himself took the field. With him were his trusted henchmen of old, as well as the gray elf fighter and magic-user, Melf, and several companies of deadly elves and hard foresters. The archmage had waited quietly as the Second Key came ever nearer to him. Now he would strike quickly, take the thing, and return with it to the Citadel. Then let Evil rave and threaten, let the forces of Good demand. He would hold the Key and with it would withstand such threats easily.
As long as the factions of the malign fought and quarreled, as long as men established nations and states and fought among themselves, this long would there be need for those who saw the whole as a slowly turning wheel. Neutral, even though generally despising true evilness, the Obsidian Citadel would remain strong and assist the balance. The possession of the Second Key guaranteed that.
Why then, Mordenkainen wondered as he set about his foray, did the Hierophants of the Cabal not support him? Jealousy, he supposed. That must be the reason.
Chapter 22
"Never have I heard such music," breathed one.
The other sat silently, still hearing the singing perhaps, and made no reply.
"What are your names?" the bard asked quietly.
"I am called Thatcher — or Thatch, as my friends say," the taller of the two lads answered.
"And I am Shad, although the folk of the village make it to be Shadow, for I follow my friend Thatch," the one who had been silent piped.
Gellor nodded and smiled. "We are glad to have you at our fire, Thatch and Shad. Why did you follow us here?"
"Well, sir," the gangling boy said with a nervous swallow, "Shad and I want to be hunters. When we heard you speak of wild boar, we decided to join you… If you slay the devil-pig, you'll be famous hereabouts, and then so will we!"
The boy called Shadow bounced in eager agreement. "We heard where you were going, so we cut through the forest and got ahead of you. When you passed it was easy to follow."
Gord looked at Chert, and the big barbarian shrugged. Gellor had somehow brought the boys into their camp with his singing, that was clear Gord wanted to know if the bard knew when he began the melody that the boys, or somebody, was near. He had heard nothing, and it seemed that Chert had likewise been unaware of the presence of the two. The young thief remained silent, though, allowing Gellor to do all the talking. The one-eyed man was certainly getting answers.
"Why did you come so close?"
"We couldn’t make our own fire, so we had to be near yours for protection. There's things in the night, you know, which would gladly have us for their dinner," Thatch responded. "I am sorry we disturbed you by coming into the circle, but when you sang and played we just had to — .."
"No matter, boys. We're pleased you joined us, aren't we?" and as he spoke the latter he glanced meaningfully at his comrades.
Chert rumbled a greeting, and Gord nodded and smiled.
"There," Gellor said. "We are all friends here. Tell me, what did you hear us talking about?"
"Oh…" Thatch said, and then he looked toward his friend for help. Shad looked away, shifting nervously.
Gellor looked at the bigger youth and prompted him to go on by saying, "It's fine to say whatever you like when you're with boon company!"
"I know, sir, but I am confused. You are hunters, the boldest-looking hunters we have ever seen in Tusham! We know that you've come to slay the tuskers — maybe get the devil-pig himself — and we heard you speak of running from them," Thatch said with a note of betrayal in his voice.
"Shad, did you hear that?" Gellor asked.
Shad grinned. "I'm not a post! I heard everything," and with that he turned to his taller friend and said, "Thatch, I'll wager that it's treasure they're after! Why else get away from pigs when you're a hunter?" Thatch made no reply to that, so the eager-faced lad turned and looked at Chert, Gord, and finally Gellor as he asked, "It is a treasure, isn't it? The key you talked about opens a big chest full of silver and gold, doesn't it? The evil place is where some dragon hides its hoard, right?"
"Hmmm," the bard said, stroking his chin. "You are as keen-eared as an owl. You must not mention any of what you heard ever again. Shad? Thatch? Understood?"
Both lads agreed readily enough, and Thatch added, "We'll help you get it, and that way we won't be around others to tell them the secret." Gellor shook his head at that. "No, my good lads, we could never expose you to the dangers we must face for the journey, let alone the conclusion — the treasure, shall we say. In the morning you must go home.
"Yes, sir," Thatch said with a downcast expression.
"But, Thatch," the smaller lad cried in disbelief, "we can't go back to Tusham without a trophy — and maybe even with one we can't. Clydebo kill us for sure!"
"Now you shut your chop-trap, Shad, or I'll — "
"Enough of that, m'lads!" the bard thundered. Thatch had stood up as he spoke and clenched his fists. Shad had been ready to fight too, when the command came. Both plopped back to the leaf-covered ground, sheepishly looking at their hands. "We're friends here, and we don't squabble and fight like a flock of jackdaws. Mind your manners! Now, what's this about someone harming you?"
"Shad means Clydebo, the Chief Hunter. We… ah… borrowed some o
f his… things so we could come with you."
Gellor looked sternly at the two. "Borrowed? Do you mean you stole something belonging to this Clydebo?"
"I… I guess you'd say that, sir. But we'll bring everything back — won't we, Thatch?" said the small lad in a pleading voice.
Thatch decided to make a clean breast of it. "We knew that you'd kill many boars — even the one that's a devil! We'll never get to be hunters unless someone like you will let us learn. Else I have to be a thatcher, just like my name, and Shad there'll end up as a tailor."
"What did you take?" asked the one-eyed bard gently.
"Boar-spears, some old leggings, a lodencloak, a flatchet, and a rucksack," the tall lad ticked off the list.
"We needn't any of his other stuff, for I'd taken a leather poke full of grub and a big knife from my uncle already," volunteered Shad.
At that Gord had to laugh. Thatch scowled at his small friend. Before he could say anything about this addition, Shad went on.
"Don't be cross, Thatch. I didn't say anything about the stuff you took from your master!"
"Master, you say? Are you a prenticed boy?" interjected Gellor.
"Aye, both Shad and I are. He to his kinfolk, though, and I to old Reed."
Stealing was bad — bad enough to get the boys flogged and bound to their victims to work out twice the value of the stolen goods, recovered or no. Stealing things from a master by an apprentice was worse still. If the master chose, he could sell the thief into slavery in redress for the crime. Worst of all, the theft from Clydebo was of relatively high value, and the goods taken were those of his livelihood. That usually meant hanging. All three of the adventurers looked at the lads in wonderment. What could these boys have been thinking of?
"That won't matter, you see," Thatch said almost as if he had read the men's minds. "The prentice-breaking nor the borrowing of the stuff, that is. You're going to kill wild boars aplenty. The devil-pig that's got everyone in Tusham scared to go into the woods, too! We'll help, and the whole village will call us heroes! We'll give everything back, and Clydebo will have a trophy from us to boot. Then we can be hunters!"
