by Gary Gygax
"The chair," Gord said aloud.
"Quiet! I sit on my special chair, nothing more. How can I think if - my chair!" Zig leaped up and stared, but the seat had vanished even as he arose.
"It was there an instant ago," Chert volunteered.
"Of course! Thought is the answer. I thought of thinking, and to think, I usually seat myself in the very armchair that appeared, so my strongest mental image was unconsciously that of the seat!" The chair popped back into existence.
"Which means?"
"Guard carefully all thoughts, thief, and you too, barbarian! This area is attuned to images of the mind, and carelessness can be deadly. Resume your usual vacuous attitudes, and we will have no such difficulties. Meantime, I shall intelligently experiment and find the wherewithal to defeat this obstacle in my path."
What the wizard commanded brought the opposite results, naturally, as both Gord's and Chert's minds considered the possibilities. First a huge chest filled with gold and jewelry appeared at Gord's feet. Fist-sized gemstones and glittering platinum pieces cascaded from the heaped coffer to roll and clatter around his boots. Then suddenly, rising from the mound of treasure, came the hideous visage of some demonic guardian, smoking forth and assuming corporeal form. There was a female cry from behind Gord, and when he turned a beautiful half-elven girl was there, hand at her throat, her face a mask of fear. "Save me from that monster, Gord!" she begged.
"Evaleigh!" the young thief exclaimed, spinning around in a full circle so as to face the demon again, now with his sword and dagger in hand.
At the same time there appeared before Chert a trio of armored men, Aerdians Toy their dress and armor, cavaliers by bearing and words. "We guard the Overking's jewels, and no filthy barbarian from the Flinty Hills can take them from us!" the middle one boomed, drawing a bastard sword as he spoke. His companions did likewise, but then two other hulking figures, both only slightly smaller than Chert himself, stepped forward to oppose them. It was to be an even contest: three axes against three swords, barbarian hillmen fighting armored knights of Aerdi. Wild-looking, buxom women cheered on Chert and his two fellow hillmen, while sneering nobles in regal finery sat behind their cavaliers and urged them to slay their foes. A pack of shaggy hounds snarled and snapped at leather-mailed war-dogs belonging to the civilized foemen. whose pavilions showed banners of many hues and various devices. Around these tents swirled a battle between a swarm of hillmen with bows, spears, and axes who sought to overcome a well-formed company of uniformed footmen protecting a squadron of mounted cavaliers. Both sides seemed to be calling for reinforcements, and wild shouts, trumpets, and bellowing warhoms sounded in the distance.
"Stop! Are you demented?!"
Somehow the shout managed to draw Gord's attention from his life-and-death battle with the horrible demon. He spun to see who was speaking thus. Chert, too. left off his battle with the plated knight in an attempt to determine who would dare to interfere with this contest. Both young adventurers stared at Eneever Zig, who glanced back at them. The three were alone.
"Look at me. Listen to me," the wizard ordered tonelessly.
"Wha-"
"No. Do not speak, just listen. Both of you were creating things with your thoughts — thoughts you were not to have! All of those phantoms are gone now, but they can return, and they can do real damage if your minds give them form, substance, and power. This place is a deathtrap for the unwary and the untrained; undisciplined minds have no hope of survival. Thank your lucky stars that I am with you. Now," Eneever Zig said, looking at each in turn, "can you count?"
"Of course," Gord said with irritation.
"Can you?" Chert shot back, equally offended.
"Excellent! Thief, you count backward from one thousand. Hillman, you count as high as you can, use your fingers for all I care, and start again at the beginning when you can go no farther — and both of you do your counting silently!"
The wizard seated himself in his strange chair again as the two young adventurers complied with his instructions. Zig's face was a study of concentration, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, hands locked on the arms of his seat. Gord was still counting backward when he noticed a faint rocking motion underfoot. "Seven hundred seventy and nine . . . seven hundred seventy and eight," he murmured under his breath as he carefully looked around to find the cause of the tremors. It took several moments, but then he finally comprehended the situation. They were on the vast, moss-covered back, of the largest turtle ever known. The monster was slowly plodding through the swirling void toward some unguessable destination.
While still counting in his mind, Gord managed to query the wizard. "This great turtle — why ponder it into existence?"
"Cease your jabbering and clear your mind of all save the numbers you count," Eneever Zig said without looking at Gord. "There is a lake we must cross, so this terrapin will take us there, for he senses water."
"Fourteen ... ah ... fifteen — water?" Chert asked aloud. Just after he spoke, Gord noticed a distinct difference in the motion underfoot. "A critter this size will need a big, big pond," the barbarian said with a chortle.
Zig nearly turned purple with rage. "You idiot!" he spat, and then he managed to control himself. The black, lightning-shot cloud that had formed over Chert's head vanished, and the turtle's back solidified again. "Do you think, you bumbling barbarian," Eneever began, obviously having to make an effort to keep his rage under control, "that it would be possible for you to keep your stupid thoughts to yourself?"
"Sure, but can I share a few intelligent ones with you?" Chert spat back sarcastically.
"Just count!" Eneever screeched the command.
"Ya know, Gord, I think he'd be a lot better company if only— "
"Don't think!" Both Gord and the wizard yelled at once.
"Okay, okay. You don't need to tell me twice," Chert said in a highly offended tone of voice. He resumed his counting.
A seemingly long time later Gord again sensed a change in motion. This time, the young thief noticed, they had reached the verge of the formless Realm of Thought and were embarked on a vast expanse of true water, the monstrous turtle swimming stoically upon its placid surface. Unfortunately, Chert had noticed the change too.
"Hey! What if this old mossback decides to dive-"
"Oh, no! Stop- "
It was too late. Even as Eneever Zig attempted to right the situation, the big hillman's thoughts took over. A simple, strong thought proved more powerful than the mental images from the complicated mind set of the wizard. The three found themselves immersed, sinking. Then they were just as suddenly afloat again, each riding an air-filled bladder as if mounted on a horse. The wizard was choking and muttering curses. The water around them began to bubble, and a dark shape began to rise toward them from far beneath the surface.
"That doesn't look like our turtle," Chert observed with consternation in his voice.
"Hopping Hells!" Gord shouted, tipping in his precarious seat upon the floating bag as he saw a terrible sea monster coming at them with jaws agape. Bladders vanished instantly, and all three were sitting instead on a huge square of solid iron. Of course it sank.
Eneever Zig quickly set his mind on an image of a wooden platform, and the three were soon floating on it. The raft was big and its deck was awash, but at least the three were not dunked a second time. Both the iron slab and the ravening monster of the deeps had vanished. Gord, feeling confident now, envisioned a solid line of wooden planks surrounding the edges of the raft, a boxlike work to keep the water from lapping across the planks underfoot. The latter he imagined as dry as he thought of the bulwarks. Sure enough, they were now floating in a huge, rectangular tray, garments dripping on a dry deck of solid oak.
"Not bad." Eneever Zig admitted grudgingly, "but both of you go back to counting again. I'll see that we get across."
Giant seahorses, yoked as a team, appeared and began hauling the boxy barge ahead. "Not bad yourself," Gord returned the compliment. But before Eneever had a chance to ackno
wledge it, mermaids of most beautiful face and form appeared on the backs of the creatures.
"Who did that?" the wizard demanded angrily, for the burdened seahorses could now barely make headway.
Chert looked sheepish. "Sorry," he said, "but those things made me remember the stories i'd heard—"
"Just count," Zig said with resignation.
"One . . ." the barbarian said, and the mermaids were gone.
A rocky cliff was now visible, and a wide beach of black sand could be seen before the precipice. The seahorses were hauling them toward this place with strong motion. In a few minutes the three would be clear of the Realm of Thought and heading toward Eneever Zig's goal — whatever that was. The wizard was elated, and he exclaimed with satisfaction, "Only a handful of assorted monsters stand between us and the Ebon Well now! Be ready to fight stoutly when we land, for I believe that Bocheiris, the fish-bodied daemon, will be lurking near the tunnel we approach."
"Chert," Gord hissed at his comrade, "when you reach seven, think of the most precious thing you can! "
"Huh?Ah, four- okay."
Gord knew now how they could get away from this awful place and safely back, and better yet, he had figured out how to accomplish that and manage to garner some reward as well. Chert would be responsible for that last part of the task. As far as the wizard went, Eneever Zig could fight the lurking daemon with his magic. Gord and the barbarian would be long gone!
Fixing his mind and forming his thoughts carefully, Gord listened with half a mind to the hillman slowly say 'seven'. As Chert spoke the number, the young thief set his thoughts firmly. The clumsy barge grounded on the black sand. Eneever Zig had dispelled the seahorse team a moment before, and the momentum of their work did the rest.
"Now you may think freely — if you can," the wizard called to his two associates. "We have passed the Realm of Thought and my prize is all but won!" Only the waiting Bocheiris, toothy maw agape, was there to hear the wizard speak, however. Gord and Chert had vanished.
"Did it!" Gord exclaimed in triumph. He was standing on the weed-grown paves of the ruined courtyard of Castle Greyhawk. He had hoped he was right, but until now the young thief hadn't been certain if envisioning this place and wishing Chert and himself there would actually work. It had. and now he and the massive hillman could tramp safely back to the city, out of the nightmare realms hidden beneath the castle, with their spoils to be divided.
"Okay, Chert." he said without looking around as he heard the barbarian exclaim with glee at where they now stood, "let's see the treasure you thought up!"
The next sound Gord heard was a sweet, seductive giggle. Then Chert answered him. "Sure, pal, but we'd better think up a tub of water real soon. This pretty little mermaid wants to have a swim before dinner!"
The Weird Occurrence in Odd Alley
"CROSS MY PALM WITH NOBLES, noble youth, and you shall have my best reading." With that the old Rhennee crone cackled and winked suggestively.
Chert snorted derisively, but Gord complied with the request, dropping a half-dozen silver coins into the dirty, dried-up old hand. The crone wrapped her clawlike fingers possessively around the treasured nobles, and the payment quickly disappeared into the folds of her soiled robe.
"Read your rede, woman, and make it clear," Gord snapped. "At such prices, you should predict the future unerringly!"
The old woman's icy glare sought to penetrate the young thiefs soul. "Mind your tongue when you speak to a Wise Woman of the True Folk, young Gord! Remember, you sought out Old Annya, not she you!"
Gord shrugged but said no more. Mollified, the ancient hag brought forth a small leathern container that looked to be as old as its owner. She held the container in her left hand and, while making odd, jerky passes over the top of the antique box with her free hand, mumbled in a high-pitched voice: "Take now the runes and sigils of your fate." Then she solemnly extended the mysterious container and motioned for Gord to reach inside.
The contents of the leather coffer were not visible to the young thief as he reached up and inserted his hand into the box. His fingers carefully scouted the mixed group of small objects that seemed to squirm and twist away at his touch. Gord's forefinger and thumb played a strange game of tag with several of the elusive contents inside the pouch until, having grown tired of the chase, the young thief clamped all five fingers around a jumbled mass of jiggling mystery and extracted the mysterious mess from the box. Before he could examine his catch, however, the crone spoke again. "Now loose them, one by one — if you can!" she commanded.
Gord wanted to obey the old woman's orders, but the task proved to be much more difficult than he imagined. The young rogue fought to suppress a groan as he strained to do as he was instructed. The strange objects worked independently on their own behalf in spite of Gord's obvious wishes, each stngle-mindedly intent on wriggling out of his hand.
Chert perched himself on the edge of the bench he'd been offered as respite and watched with more than casual interest as his friend managed to hold on to all but a few of the squirming things clasped within his sweating hand. Old Annya called out the names of the falling components as Gord slowly spilled them:
"Bauble! Skull and snake. Shoe. Dagger and stinger. Rat. Eye. Nothingness! Coffin, horse, torch — gateway!" Gord shook his now-open hand, but a small object refused the offer of freedom, seemingly glued fast to the startled rogue's palm. Old Annya seized the hand and peered at the last sigil there. The Fool's Cap!" she exclaimed gleefully, and then sat back in her rickety chair and, abandoning what small scrap of propriety she may have possessed, cackled hideously.
"Enough of this!" Chert spat impatiently. "Give the meaning, or return the silver!"
"Oh, yes! You both shall have your glimpse of the future, just as promised," the crone screeched mirthfully. She sat back, a self-satisfied look dominating her prunelike face. "Listen carefully now," she purred, gazing fully into Gord's face.
"You and your overgrown associate" — at this, she paused, to throw a disgusted glance in Chert's direction — "have stolen something that many hold dear." She leaned closer and enunciated the next few words with purposeful emphasis. "It is of evil!" The old hag sat back and let her warning sink in before continuing her soothsaying. "Know now that you are hunted because of this. None you have spoken to will give you gold for the trantle — or at least as much as you two think your prize worth. You have sought a fence throughout most of Greyhawk, and come here as a last resort."
Gord was nodding as she spoke, but his barbarian companion was scowling. "Easy enough to guess, old bag. Get to your rede!" said Chert.
Old Annya gave Chert a look that was sufficient to wither a flower in first bloom, but thereafter ignored him and went on.
"There is a place that is neither here nor there, but if you leave from here and go to Odd Alley, you will realize your fortune from what you have . . . appropriated." The ancient Rhennee wise woman then sat back, gazing from one to the other of the two young men. Her face was impassive, but Old Annya's eyes fairly danced with malign amusement.
Chert stood up and moved toward the crone, his face clouded with growing rage. "If you want to play games, I’ll show you games, you miserable old . . ."
"We leave now!" Gord said, using all his strength to pull the hulking barbarian away from his intended target and out the door of the ramshackle establishment. Peals of crackling laughter followed them out the door, but Gord continued to steer his enraged friend toward Odd Alley.
Odd Alley, an area within Greyhawk's Old City, was so difficult to locate that most citizens of the metropolis were unaware of its existence. Gord, a consummate thief, burglar, and swordsman, had spent many years in the slums of Greyhawk practicing his skills. He knew the people and the city, so many of the places within Odd Alley were not foreign to him. But one thing that was not familiar to him was an inability to dispose of loot.
Chert, on the other hand, was a woodsman from the distant east and as such was not entirely accustomed
to Greyhawk's nooks and crannies. However, as Gord's friend and companion for the past year, he did know quite a bit about hardships in the wilderness, life-and-death battles, and now thievery, as it were.
And he knew Gord's code of ethics where thievery was concerned. The honorable thief took only from takers, swindled the dishonest, and stole from those who gained by foul means. It was a long-standing point of honor with the young rogue, one the huge hillman sometimes found hard to accept.
If there was occasionally a question regarding the line between honesty and fairness, Gord usually allowed his friend to make the decision regarding the prospect. After all, there were more than a few eligible marks in a city the size of Greyhawk.
"What are we going to do now?" Chert asked, his tone implying a sense of despair. "I told you that dark temple was no place for life-loving thieves to rob! If you had listened to me, we wouldn't be in this mess!"
Not wishing to hear yet another lecture in what was becoming a continuous series, Gord thought back. He and Chert had stolen into the Great Temple of Nerull and had taken a reliquary of red gold from the altar of the sanctum sanctorum. This gem-encrusted object was worth a king's ransom — that is, if they could sell it. Gord knew that it contained a substance the priests of the grim deity claimed was ichor shed by Nerull himself. Gord also knew now that no dealer, collector, or fence in the whole of Greyhawk would even willingly lay eyes on the reliquary, let alone pay cash to possess it!
"Are your ears failing you, oaf?" Gord asked his comrade sarcastically. "Didn't I tell you Old Annya would know the answer? You heard her tell us how to be rid of the thing and be rewarded too!"
"I heard her say that dark evil hounds us. I heard her babble gibberish. That is what my good ears heard all too well," Chert responded, his tone a combination of anger and self-pity.
"Ah ha! She fooled you, then, old chum. That biddy is a mean and tricky one, I'll admit,'' Gord said brightly.
"Mean as they come." Chert nodded in agreement "But tricky? How so?"
