A near riot had been the result when Ellon Thigpen, himself newly appointed to the office of mayor, named Kentellen Mar to become the new magister, the city’s highest judiciary official and the supreme interpreter of justice. Kentellen had claimed surprise, and no one doubted him. Everyone had expected the post to go to Elmon Kohl, the headmaster of the Guild of Lawyers and Scribes, who already had a seat among the city’s all-powerful directors. In fact, many speculated openly about the politics behind Thigpen’s decision. There was no doubt, however, as to the popularity of his choice, and that alone may have been the reason behind it. After all, no one really liked or cared much for the high-born and haughty Elmon Kohl, except Elmon Kohl himself.
It was as a small reward to himself for years of hard work that Kentellen Mar then decided to take a vacation before assuming the office of magister. His youth and middle age had slipped by, and he had never been farther than the lands surrounding Greyhawk. He had outfitted a small caravan, and in the company of a close band of friends, set out to hunt and explore the lands that surrounded the greatest of all lakes, the Nyr Dyv. A voyage of discovery and self-discovery, he had called it cheerfully in his farewell address to the people who saw him off at Druid’s Gate.
Now Kentellen was camped just a few miles from Duke’s Gate to the northeast of the city, about to return home after an absence of three months. Already the city was going crazy with anticipation. What, Garett wondered worriedly, would the actual day of investiture be like?
Garett spared a glance toward Burge as they came to the end of Horseshoe Road and turned out onto the Processional, where the crowds were thick again. His friend had said not a word since leaving the watch house. His thin, half-elven features were creased with a deep frown, and unconsciously he hugged himself, as if against some chill as he walked.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Garett said as they weaved their way among a line of torch-waving celebrants, who were twining back and forth through the street in a serpentine dance. “Because of Soja and Duncan?”
“Partly that,” Burge admitted after a moment’s pause. He glanced up toward the sky and hugged himself again without seeming to realize he did it. “I don’t know, Cap’n. It’s like I got an itch I can’t quite scratch. Like there’s somethin’ in the air. I don’t know what. But it’s trouble, and it’s big, and somethin’ in me’s whisperin’, ‘Get out, Burge. Get out while you can.’ ” He shut up, looking embarrassed by his admission, and again he rolled his eyes skyward. “’you noticed how many birds are flyin’ around here lately?” he asked, changing the subject. “Big black ones, all at night.”
Garett followed his gaze upward. High above, crows and ravens and all manner of black birds gyred and danced, their wings shining in the reflected light of the street lamps that lined the Processional. Burge was right. There had been a lot of birds lately. But the summer had been hot, and the marshes just beyond the east wall were a fertile breeding ground for insects. It was only natural for the insects to be drawn to the Processional’s brighter street lights, and only natural for the birds to feast upon them.
Still, an odd shiver rippled down his spine as he watched them and listened to their shrill, muted calls. “Let’s get back to the Citadel,” he said suddenly, quickening his step.
But before they got much farther, all the hells broke loose. The air shook with a sound like thunder, and the black heavens transformed. For an instant, Garett thought the sky itself had caught fire, and a true religious terror gripped his heart. It was Burge who spun him around and pointed back in the direction of the Halls.
The last wisps of a huge geyser of fire rocketed into the sky and faded. For a brief moment, the black of night reasserted itself. Then a second geyser shot skyward, as high as a mountain, and another blast of thunder rocked the street as the air super-heated and the night once more burned.
A hot wind rushed unexpectedly over Garett. From somewhere came the groan and crash of timbers as a building or buildings crumpled under its force. Someone screamed, and someone else took it up. The celebrants along the Processional suddenly ran like panicked animals. A woman, her eyes on the fire geyser, blundered into Garett. It was enough to snap him from his own fear and spur him into motion.
“Come on!” he cried, and began running toward the Halls.
“You are seriously out of your mind!” Burge shouted when he realized they were heading for the disturbance, not away from it like all the saner folks around him. Nevertheless, he followed.
The second geyser faded like the first, rocketing into the clouds, and the world turned dark once more. A third time, though, fire fountained upward, crackling. Thunder roared, and a scorching wind whipped savagely over the city. This time, though, a new sound joined the din. It was a cry, a monstrous, bestial trumpeting, a bellow that only one creature on Oerth made.
“It’s a dragon!” Burge cried, catching Garett’s arm and drawing him up short in the middle of the street. “A dragon! ” His grip tightened suddenly, painfully on his captain’s arm. “Look! It’s rising!”
Over the dark outline of the Halls, immense wings slowly spread and flexed, and again the creature bellowed. Up, up into the sky, its long neck gracefully stretched, and its head swept back and forth. The light from a dozen fires flickered and rippled upon its red-scaled hide, upon its splendid, horrifyingly powerful wings. One great pinion twitched and brushed against the stark silhouette of a tall building, sending it toppling. The beast screamed, as if in pain, arched its neck and shot fire at the moon.
The dragon rose into the night. For an instant, it hovered above the city, writhing and shrieking, exhaling blasts of fire, as if in fierce battle with some invisible foe. Finally, with an extended cry of torment, it flew off into the night, northward, leaving Greyhawk behind.
Leaving it to burn! Garett thought suddenly, forcing aside the images of beauty and terror that still filled his head. The dragon was gone, but the danger to the city was greater than ever. Fire! There was no greater threat to any city.
“They’re usually peaceful creatures!” Burge shouted, wondering aloud as he stared after the rapidly vanishing dragon. Bursts of flame punctuated its departure, lighting up the distant clouds. “Who was it, do you think, Cap’n? What made it go mad?”
But Garett wasn’t listening. He glanced hastily around to get his bearings. They were on University Street. He grabbed Burge’s arm and began to run toward the blazes. Already the houses and apartments were emptying as people spilled into the streets. Cries of “fire! ” filled the night. To the credit of Greyhawk’s citizens, most did not run away. With buckets and pans and jars, men and women alike, even some children, surged out into the roads. Like a human wave, they rushed toward the crackling glow, knowing full well what they all stood to lose if the fire spread.
At the edge of the devastation, Garett stopped short again and stared in horror. Two blocks of Bard Street had been leveled. Not a house remained standing. Flames rose from the broken ruins, and from another row of buildings on the next block. An old dormitory for students attending the university was already completely swathed in flame. As Garett watched, it crashed to the ground, sending streamers and sparks in all directions to spread greater destruction.
Already, though, water lines were forming. Hand to hand, buckets and containers were passed down lines extending from the two Clerkburg wells to the south, from the well at University Park to the west, and from the well near the Garden Gate. Men gleamed with sweat from their furious, determined labor, and their bodies reflected the heat and the fire’s glow. Women worked the lines as well, those who were strong enough, passing the heavy buckets with noisy grunts and shouts of encouragement. The weaker ones worked with children, using heavy rags and pieces of scavenged carpet to beat out the smaller fires and sparks before they could blossom into deadlier form.
Nearby, an old man danced and whooped excitedly, beating his arms up and down, hopping from one foot to another. He spied Garett’s red cloak and the gold embroidery
on his tunic that marked him as a watchman and capered nearer.
“Biggest one I ever saw!” the old man sang, his eyes bright with shock or madness. “Biggest one ever! Knew they was here! Everybody said they was one here right amongst us! Whooeee!” He grabbed Garett’s sleeve.
"Did’ja see it, General? Didja?”
“Just how many dragons have you seen before, Grandpa?” Burge asked sarcastically, staring past the old man at the fires. Reflected in his violet eyes, the flames leaped and danced, giving him the appearance of a demon until he turned his head.
“First one!” the old timer cackled. “Always wanted to see one, too! An’ I got to see the biggest!”
Garett pulled his arm free and walked away from the old man. Another man, bald, with the flames reflected on his shiny scalp, caught his eye, a professor, judging from his scholar’s robes. The man was on his knees, weeping, holding his empty hands before him as he stared into the heart of the raging destruction. The captain bent down and put an arm around the bald man’s shoulders.
“Are you all right, sir?” he said as gently as he could over the desperate shoutings that filled the night. “Are you burned? Can I help you?”
The professor turned disbelieving, tear-filled eyes up at him. “My books!” came the barely audible reply. “Oh, my books! My books!”
Garett bent down and embraced him as tightly as he could. He shared the man’s despair and shook his head in sadness. He could read, too, and loved books, loved the feel of them, the smell of them, though he’d never been able to afford to own one. But there was more to think about now.
“Your books are lost,” he whispered sympathetically. “And we can’t save them. But, look, the university’s near. There are books yet to save. The university itself. We need your help, teacher.” Slowly, he urged the weeping man to rise. “Will you help us? We all need each other tonight.” The professor wiped at his eyes and leaned weakly into Garett as he let himself be lifted to his feet. Still the tears came, but he cast a glance toward the university, and a new determination settled over his features as Garett showed him a place in the water line. The first few buckets came to him, and he accepted them with slumped shoulders and a weariness of spirit. But by the third or fourth, curses were spewing surprisingly from his mouth and demands for the buckets and the water to come faster.
Garett glanced around again as he dipped his hand in one of the buckets and rubbed it over his face. His skin stung from the heat, and his eyes burned from the clouds of smoke that hung in the air. Burge had disappeared. He couldn’t see his half-elven friend anywhere.
By now, though, every watchman in the city was here. Red cloaks worked the water lines, and red cloaks beat at the smaller fires. The blue-shirted members of the private Guild of Night Watchmen worked right alongside them. From every corner of the city, more help came. Known thieves worked hand-in-hand with dockers and merchantmen. Pimps and prostitutes, still decked out in the gaudy costumes of their trade, labored good-naturedly beside priests and acolytes from every temple in town.
But, still, through all of it came the whimperings of the burned and the cries of those who had lost loved ones. On the ground not far away, the injured were being laid out on blankets or scraps of cloth in neat lines. The beggars of the city seemed to have taken it on themselves to care for these, though there was precious little comfort they could offer. They wetted thirsty lips, peeled away burned clothing from burned flesh, held in their arms children made suddenly orphans.
“Where are the damned wizards!” a wild-eyed woman shrieked, grabbing Garett’s arm and spinning him about with a strength that belied her tiny size. Her face was a mask of anger and outrage. “We need rain! They could make it rain! Where are the wizards?” Then she let go of him, stomped a few paces away, and shrieked again. Her fingers curled into claws as she whirled about, screaming at the mob, “Where are the wizards?”
Where were the wizards, Garett thought suddenly. Why weren’t they here to help with their spells and magic? They could make it rain. And even if that weren’t enough to extinguish the fires, their enchantments could at least ease the suffering of the injured. He almost found himself shouting, Where are the wizards?
A hand settled on his shoulder, and he turned to find Quisti, the half-giant owner of the Sea Willow pleasure palace standing at his side. Both of the brothel keeper’s huge, meaty hands were reddened with burns, as was his left earlobe, where the big gold loop he wore there had overheated. His bare scalp also looked tender, and the hairs of his mighty mustache were singed. His great body gleamed with sweat and stank of smoke.
“We’re in luck tonight,” Quisti said, and he licked his lower lip.
Garett stared stupidly at him. “How do you figure that?”
“The wind,” Quisti answered reasonably. He licked a finger and held it up. “It’s blowing the fire toward the city wall instead of back into the Halls or down into the Artisans’ Quarter. If it doesn’t shift, we can beat this.” He licked his lip again, and in the shimmer of firelight on the wetness, Garett saw he had been burned there, too. “It’s going to be a long night, though,” Quisti added.
“The dragon,” Garett muttered, realizing he’d never said two words to this man before. He had thought Quisti was just a pimp, albeit a wealthy pimp with high-class ladies and higher-class customers. But, now, Garett saw that he was more, much more. He looked at those burned hands again, and the word “hero” sprang to mind. The night would be full of such heroes. “The dragon,” he repeated, his mind seething with images of the beast. “Have you heard? Does anyone know? Who was it?”
Quisti rubbed a hand under his nose. “Chancreon,” he answered. Despite everything, there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
“The poet?” Garett said in disbelief. “The one who lectured at Greyhawk College? That little old man?”
Quisti tilted his head, and one side of his mouth curled upward in a half-grin. “That’s what they’re all saying. And he lived right in the heart of this mess. And you know dragons. Always so intellectual and artsy. What better disguise to take if one of them decides to live among humans? I mean, who would have suspected Chancreon?”
“What I want to know,” Garett said through clenched teeth as he stared back at the fires, “is what forced him out of that disguise?” As if it were in pain, he remembered thinking as it rose above the city. As if it were in battle against an invisible foe.
“Well, we’d better get back to it,” Quisti said with a sudden shrug. The brothel keeper went toward the line of injuries, surveyed them, and bent down beside a woman who was cradling her left arm but sitting up. They exchanged a few unheard words, then the woman nodded and gave him her blanket. He watched as Quisti carried it to a bucket of water, immersed it, and lifted it out dripping, then went to join a team of workers beating out smaller fires.
Garett let go a sigh and thanked the gods that Greyhawk was flanked by two rivers. It was unlikely the city wells would go dry, and if the wind, indeed, forced the fire up against the city wall, they would be fortunate. Fortunate, he thought with a bitter inward smirk. What a word to use when measuring the size of a disaster.
With a curse and a sigh, Garett unfastened his red cloak and carried it to the nearest bucket to wet it down.
The sun had been up for an hour when Garett dragged himself back to the Citadel. His hands were scorched and reddened from fighting the fire, and his eyes were irritated from the smoke. He itched all over from the dried sweat and soot that clung to his skin. He knew he stank; he could smell himself.
He dreamed of a bath and a bed, but there was still work to do and reports to make. Korbian would want details of the dragon and the fire. And there would be questions about the deaths of the fortune-teller, Duncan, and the River Quarter’s watch house commander, Soja. He put a hand to his forehead and wiped at the sweaty grit stuck to his brow, leaving a filthy smear. The skin was tender from constant exposure to heat, but he ignored that.
Hells, he though
t, remembering suddenly that this was also the morning that Kentellen Mar was due to enter the city. He cast a quick glance around as he entered Grand Plaza. The streets were still relatively empty, at least in the High Quarter. The fire had quelled a good deal of the city’s
enthusiasm for any celebration, but that wouldn’t last for long, he knew. As soon as people had a little rest and a bite of food, they’d be back in the streets again.
Over against the barracks, a group of weary watchmen huddled. Some leaned against the barracks wall while others slumped down to sit on the ground. Their uniforms were tattered and filthy with black ash, and their faces were streaked. Everyone had turned out to save the Halls.
Well, almost everyone, the captain reflected as he went inside and promptly ran into Korbian Arthuran, who was stalking the corridors with a scowl on his face. Garett couldn’t prevent the frown that formed on his face as the man glared at him.
“Come with me,” Korbian ordered without so much as an attempt at a greeting or pleasantry.
Garett shook his head wearily as his superior turned his back, but he followed Korbian up several levels. It took him by surprise, however, when Korbian did not stop at his own office, but continued on to the seldom-used chambers provided in the Citadel for the mayor and the city directors.
Garett nodded a greeting at Ellon Thigpen as Korbian ushered him into the room. Thigpen leaned over a large rectangular table and eyed Garett silently as the door closed. Korbian moved away and went to stand at the mayor’s side. The scowl had not left the officer’s face.
Garett glanced around at the other fourteen directors present. He knew them all, these representatives from the most powerful and influential guilds, unions, and temples of Greyhawk. There was ruddy-faced Sorvesh Kharn, the head of the Thieves’ Guild, whom most of Greyhawk had expected to become mayor, before unexpected political ma-neuverings among the directors gave the post to Thigpen. There was Dak Kasinskaia, the youthful patriarch of the Temple of Rao, and Axen Kilgaren, the silent, brooding master of the Assassins’ Guild. Beside Axen sat Greyhawk’s plump, bejeweled inspector of taxes, Rankin Fasterace, or, as the general citizenry called him, “Fester-face,” for in-deed he had the worst complexion of any man Garett had ever seen.
D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch Page 10
