by Gary Gygax
The dolt seemed highly impressed. "Most dear!" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Superb selection, sir," the merchant confirmed with emotion as he caressed the dusty green bottle. "This is a 1947 Margeaux Margeaux — are you familiar, then, with the Bordeaux wines of Earth?"
"Ahhmmm," Gord replied noncommittally, peering at the undecipherable inscriptions that covered the parchment glued to portions of the container. "So rare a vintage as this cannot, of course, be sampled. I presume?"
"Impossible." the merchant agreed sadly.
"Ah, but the chateau, the vintage, the bottling are all too well-known to require further exploration of what is already known as gospel, Master Drogo!" Lord Maheal assured the devious would-be connoisseur.
"How many bottles have you?" asked Gord matter-of-factly.
"Just six, noble sir."
"What price for the half dozen, then?"
The plump merchant stammered. "A single bottle sells for" — he paused here to assess Gord's origin — "ten gold orbs. I ... I cannot reduce the price even though you take the lot, for each is a jewel, a treasure!"
"Certainly, my good man, I concur." Gord nodded in agreement. "That comes to sixty orbs, then."
Lord Maheal stared in astonishment as Gord brought forth his purse and counted out twenty plates and thirty-eight orbs. "Do pack them carefully, but leave one separate, for I wish to bestow it as a gift"
The merchant made haste to comply. Chert, meanwhile, was in shock at his companion's extravagant, impulsive purchase. Knowing Gord's devious mind, however, the brawny barbarian managed to remain silent the whole time, playing his role of bodyguard to the hilt He glared at several curious onlookers, and they went away hastily. Then he moved to a position where he could protect Gord's back. Just then a grubby laborer appeared with a cart, and a pair of the wine merchant's assistants placed two wooden casks upon the vehicle.
"Your bottles of Margeaux are crated in straw and awaiting, sir," the fellow said somewhat sadly to Gord, obviously torn between parting with the nectar and making a hefty profit. "And one is wrapped separately as you instructed." Then, turning to Lord Maheal, he said perfunctorily, "And your twin tuns of Yugharian Purple are on that cart there — three luckies, six nobles, and a common for wine and hand truck."
Gord smiled and bent his knee slightly to Lord Maheal. "It is farewell then, Lord Maheal. You must be off, and my purchase is ready. Please accept this small gift as a token of my esteem," he concluded with a flourish and held forth the single bottle of Margeaux.
The nobleman stared fixedly at the proffered bottle for a moment, a mixture of emotions playing across his face. Suddenly Lord Maheal's face lit up, and he spoke warmly to Gord. "So pleasant an acquaintance must not be stifled in its infancy! I can not accept so generous a gift from a gentleman I scarcely yet know. Let us rectify this sorry pass by sharing a draught and viands at the Helix!" And before Gord could reply, Lord Maheal took the young thief smoothly by the arm and began steering him out of the emptying plaza. Your man Furd can handle both of our purchases, I'm sure."
"Just so!" Gord said in hearty comradeship as he strolled haughtily along with the Nyrondel nobleman. Cursing under his breath. Chert hastily placed the crate of wine atop the load on the two-wheeled cart and trundled after the receding pair.
The Helix was an exclusive club, evidently, and, as he feared when he learned the status of the establishment, Chert was relegated to the servant's, dining hall while Gord and Lord Maheal supped in the Grand Salon of the place. They had entered a garden through a plain doorway off the Way. The little space was quite lovely and shielded from view by a two-storey wall separating it from the street it formed the patio for the club building, which was a throne-shaped edifice with low wings and a tower in the middle. After passing through a guarded antechamber and climbing a wide, spiral stair to the second storey, Gord and his new friend marched off to their splendid repast.
Chert had been seated on a bench, given a small beer, and then fed a bowl of turnips and hog jowls swimming in a greasy broth, plus a lump of black bread with which to sop up the mess. He was disgruntled at first but the conversation in the drab chamber was open and lively. The huge hillman ended up making several acquaintances there, and when the meal was finished he and a group of five or six others moved to a corner where they could gamble undisturbed.
"Chert!" The insistence in the call was unmistakable and immediately broke through the barbarian's concentration on the game. He looked around and saw Gord just inside the door of the hall. Gord beckoned urgently, and Chert stood up and strode to where his slight comrade waited.
"Tired of fine fare and noble talk already?"
"Spare me your sarcasm. I have not learned as much as I had hoped, but I am invited to the festivities in Rel Mord. That gets us out of here, for you are coming as well of course."
"Strong backs are always needed for transportation of quantities of potables," Chert mused with thoughtful agreement "So how else could it be? Still, I have not exactly wasted my time either and have gleaned some valuable knowledge."
Gord interrupted impatiently, not allowing his brawny friend to say more. "No time for that now. Maheal excused himself to attend to privy needs but will return momentarily and—"
"Not so fast, Gord. Listen to me for once," Chert said forcefully. "I know now how to enter and exit this place without need of some vain twit from Nyrond to carry us as supercargo in order to gain the wine you squandered a fortune on."
"Squandered? How you talk!" Gord nearly shouted, ignoring the rest of what his towering companion had told him. "With thousands in our purses, no count of ones and tens need be taken!" he exclaimed with derision for such copper-clawing accountancy as the barbarian had suggested. Chert merely stared back at him, his eyes unwavering. After a moment Gord's face registered shock. "You've what?" he asked, grabbing the forearm of the silent hillman. "Did you say you know the ins and outs of Weird Way?"
"Yes, Gord," his friend said smugly. "But tell me, did someone come along in the last few seconds and clean out your ears without me noticing?"
"No need to be a smartass, even though I deserve it. Fill me in."
"What about Lord Maheal? Won't he miss you?" Chert asked innocently.
"Futter that fop. Holding the key to entering and leaving this place at will is of utmost importance to us." Gord replied earnestly.
Moments later, nobleman and game both forgotten, the pair were deep in conversation, hunched over the long board where Chert had recently eaten his unappetizing turnip supper. Chert was doing most of the talking, with Gord occasionally asking a question or interjecting a rueful exclamation. A quarter of an hour, perhaps more, passed before they concluded.
"I should have guessed it all along!" Gord said with anger directed at his lack of discernment.
Chert shook his great head. "Not so, my friend. The answer is not so easily gained without the bits and pieces of the puzzle to put together. You did well enough as it is, for had I not managed to find the key you, at least, had our leaving assured."
With an expression of wry disbelief, Gord arose from the bench and clasped the huge barbarian in an embrace. "Thanks, good friend, for your solid thinking and ever-toiling efforts. It is you who have saved the day, not I. Come on. Let's do what we must and be out of Weird Way for a time. This confined place makes me abridged in mind and spirit, it seems!"
The two were leaving, arm in arm, when Lord Maheal called out "Say, I say there! Master Drogo!"
"Time to give this perfumed popinjay something to bite on," Chert said with a grin as both men turned in his direction.
Gord assented and they walked up to the linen-covered table at which the lily-skinned aristocrat was seated, awaiting the return of the fellow he thought to be Master Drogo of the bottomless purse.
"What droll humor causes you to clasp your manservant's arm?" the noble Szek of Dohou-Yohpe asked crossly. "Furthermore, where have you been, Master Drogo? it is improper to
leave a lord waiting alone while a common gentleman twaddles about with servants."
Chert was fairly beaming in anticipation, and Gord was readying his retort when a burning, itching feeling at the base of his skull distracted him. The young adventurer instinctively turned, and out of the corner of his eye saw two familiar figures. The more noticeable of the two was the ogrish creature they had encountered yesterday. With him, though, was the vampire, Plincourt. The latter figure flashed Gord a white-fanged smile when the slender thiefs eyes met his red-rimmed ones. Gord turned away hurriedly. Chert had failed to notice anything unusual.
"I say there, this appears to be the start of a very fine evening!" Plincourt said loudly to no one in particular and then added, "I do so love the night life!"
"Shit!" Gord exclaimed.
"I await your apology!" Maheal said petulantly.
"My good lord, you have it — and a thousand more!" said Gord.
Chert scratched his head in utter bewilderment, looking down at his comrade as if the darkly handsome young man had gone mad. Gord nudged his friend and tipped his head in Plincourt's direction.
"Double shit!" Chert bellowed, forgetting himself for the moment.
Leaving Maheal standing oaflshly with a strange expression of amazement on his countenance, Gord seated himself and said confidentially to the Nyrond nobleman. You see. Furd was my playmate and whipping boy as well when I was a lad. I allow him such familiarities and breaches of propriety for the sake of old times, as it were."
Shaking his head over the manners and customs of the folk of so rustic a community as Greyhawk, Lord Maheal thought of the five other bottles of Magoo, or whatever it was called, and the favorable impact it would have on his uncle and the king. The matter of impropriety could be settled later — after the wine was gone and the royal guest had departed. "I now understand," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Let us be off. The revel will not wait for dilatory persons!"
"At your service, your lordship." Gord said as he sprang up and assisted the scrawny aristocrat to his fashionably shod feet. As Maheal straightened his stylish hat, Gord gave a sign to Chert, directing the hillman's attention to the pair of diners glaring at them from a booth at the rear of the salon. As Chert now gaped even more foolishly at the sight revealed, Gord was whispering to the Nyrondel Szek. "You will note, my lord, that the poor fellow is not quite right in the head. I had to strike him once for disobedience, and I fear it was too severe a blow. Furd has been a bit hoddy in the peak ere since."
"Oh, ho," Maheal said thoughtfully, eyeing the barbarian as he slowly turned toward them again, his mouth working and a glazed look in his eyes. "It is much clearer now than before!"
"Absolutely, your lordship. As large and oxlike as he is now, I must occasionally humor his childlike mind, or else he might become violent and forget his station."
"Why keep such a dangerous brute then?" Lord Maheal demanded.
"Huh?" Chert grunted.
"He protects me as a mastiff would its master," Gord replied with a wise expression and a wink, and the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe nodded sagely.
"Come on, Furd, be livery now! His Lordship and I require your strong back in a very important matter." So saying, they left without further ado.
Gord had not planned to actually accompany the egotistical nobleman beyond the precincts of the Helix. Upon reaching the lovely garden with its myriad blooms and pattering fountain, however, his sixth sense made him turn and survey the building. For just an instant he saw a figure outlined against the warm light of the candles inside. The shape had been tall and very thin.
"Let us make all haste!" he shouted to the sweating Chert as that worthy strained under his load of wine casks and crate. "It is most inconsiderate to keep Lord Maheal from his appointment. Now hurry along!"
Chert uttered a garbled oath but quickened his pace, noting the direction of Gord's gaze. The noble Szek beamed at the just recognition of his station now being evidenced by the formerly lax Master Drogo, and he thought perhaps he would not be quite as harsh when it came time to set matters aright as he had originally determined.
"Yes, do show a bit of life there . . . Furd," Maheal cried, brushing at his fuchsia velvet pantaloons as if to remove the dust of toil. "Our destination is right over there," Maheal went on, pointing toward a steep flight of narrow stone steps leading to the impenetrable darkness of the rooftops above.
"Up there?" Gord asked. "But the gate is-"
"Yes, dolt up there!" Maheal shot back. "That is where the turret is that leads to my beloved uncle's castle, and that is where we must go. What's this business about a gate?"
Soft footfalls sounded from behind them. Gord grasped Chert's bulging arm and thrust him ahead. "Utter nonsense on my part, of course, my Lord Maheal. Mind me not if my non-noble head sometimes becomes addled by noble doings." With that, he fairly dragged the startled Nyrondel aristocrat up the steps, crying out behind him as he did so. "Get a move on, Furd, or I shall have you caned when we reach our host's fair castle!"
Chert groaned and broke into a lurching run, for his keen hearing had likewise detected the stealthy sounds of approach, and he knew full well that these footsteps came from a rail-thin man and a man-like ogre bent on mischief and foul play, to say the least. "Gladly, Master Drogo!" the sweating barbarian called in reply as he somehow managed to take the steep risers three at a time.
Flustered and annoyed at being handled thus, Lord Maheal was thrust into the opening that he stated was the way to Lord Fizziak's castle in Rel Mord. He made up his mind to double the severity of the eventual lesson in manners he would teach this Drogo. Chert nearly bowled him over as he leaped into place hot on Gord's heels. Despite this, the fellow daintily withdrew a disc of reddish metal from inside his padded doublet and placed it upon the slabs of gneiss upon which all three men stood. "There, we are off to Uncle's!" he declared triumphantly. Just as they were wavering between the "here" of Weird Way and the "there" of Castle Fizziak, however, a snarling vampire and a roaring, ochre-complexioned ogre hurled themselves into the chamber and onto the massive block of stone.
"I say!" the stupefied nobleman managed to utter in a distant, fading voice.
"Oh, shit . . ." Chert swore as his component atoms were dissolving into another plane.
Faintly, as if from a million miles away. Gord's voice began calling out a list of items essential to his predicament. "Holy symbols, blessed water, garlic, sharpened stake, mallet of wood . . ." and then the small room was silent and empty.
The enspelled device was completely overloaded. Somehow its dweomer managed to draw the huge ogre and the vampire, Plincourt, along with the rest, but then its power failed. Objects began to pop into the splendid chateau called Castle Fizziak. The malfunction of the transportation magic was such that these objects were precipitated in an unexpected place. Instead of coming safety into the room that Lord Fizziak's mage had designed for the reception of such travelers, Gord, Chert, Maheal and the rest were suddenly dropped unceremoniously into the Great Hall.
The vaulted ceiling was sufficiently high to allow the sudden materialization without solid objects interfering. Thus, the precipitation involved no devastating explosion. Twenty odd feet beneath the ceiling a throng of nobles and courtiers were assembled to pay formal welcome and homage to the king, A sea of startled faces turned upward at the popping noise of the arriving objects. Startled shouts and screams followed as these objects began to plummet downward.
Casks of Yugharian Purple tumbled, hit, smashed and sent their contents spraying over rich robes and silken gowns. The case of straw-wrapped Mar-geaux struck an oaken table, and its bottles shot out to explode like grenades against walls and pillars. Chert had divested himself of these encumbrances as disintegration occurred, so they rematerialized accordingly, sailing in divergent arcs. Then the barbarian came crashing down upon a trestle laden with cakes and dainty pastries. Covered with icing and spangled with jam tarts, the hillman bounced upward from the spring of the planks and lan
ded amid a half-dozen or so ladies in waiting. His fall brought all of these startled beauties down with him in a heap, appropriate cries and shrieks accompanying the tangle.
". . . and a silver mirror," Gord finished even as he plunged downward. The young thief landed on his feet, knees bending to absorb the shock of the fall, then his entire body balled and he went rolling, striking a file of finely clad fops as if they were ninepins. Gord sprang to his feet, somewhat battered by the unexpected obstacles, reaching for sword and dagger as he came erect He had no idea where he was, and the bedlam around him convinced the young man that there was certainty trouble ahead. He was correct indeed. Gord had a moment to view the remainder of the dweomer's failure to materialize the group in the proper place. It was a stupefying spectacle.
Lord Maheal had landed head first in a great tub of plum pudding borne by four liveried servants. As they dropped the vessel, Maheal, feet kicking wildly, received another thump on the head and then sprawled full-length, bedecked with pudding, while the tub rolled away to crash into a silver cart, utterly ruining the delicate server and tossing its contents, fresh fruits, berries and thick cream, out to roll around and litter the already messy hall floor.
The bellowing ogre had sailed along an arc that sent dozens of noble lords and ladles unceremoniously upon their aristocratic rears before it terminated against a pillar. The sound was solid and meaty as the creature struck the marble post, but he somehow managed to stagger to his feet. Roaring and flailing his massive arms wildly, the monster tried vainly to discover the source of the outrage. This action was more than sufficient to cause a general panic. Velvet-clad courtiers fled screaming in all directions. This simply added to the already chaotic state within the great chamber and prevented the onrushing guardsmen from attacking the ogre. The stupefied creature was no real threat to anyone able to get out of his way. One of his thrashing arms struck the stone pillar, and a fresh bellowing of pain erupted from the ogre's massive chest As he hunched over and nursed the injured member to ease the smarting, Gord sprang into the area and delivered a swift and forceful kick to the monster's exposed rear. The ogre was knocked forward, head first. Again there was a meaty thump as his head struck solid marble. This time the monster stayed down. Feeling triumphant, the young thief spun to see what the fresh noise was all about.
