by Gary Gygax
"Be silent and stop trying to run awayl" the cleric commanded.
A now-speechless Preppyn still thrashed his feet wildly.
"Be still!" the cleric thundered.
Preppyn stood motionless, mouth open.
"You utter imbecile." Phompton said, forgetting in the heat of the moment just who the new object of his anger was. "I am Court Wizard Phompton, and this is Good Priest Botfly. Ignore the momentary discoloration that obscures our otherwise handsome features. And close that door immediately!"
Preppyn's mouth managed to open and shut several times. Then he stammered. "I cannot, Wizard Phompton and Good Priest Boflly. Lord Fizziak even now enters this room!"
With that, the grand count himself stepped into the chamber. "What is all this?" he asked, seeing the barbarian hillman collapsed in helpless mirth and Gord holding his sides with laughter. Then he got a look at his two grand officials and began chuckling. The whole was so infectious that even the stuffy little Preppyn was soon giggling too. Finally, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Lord Fizziak said. "So this time Quodilde has definitely paid you back."
"It would appear so, on the face of it," Phompton admitted.
Boffly drew himself up and said haughtily, "I shall have this silly stuff removed in minutes, my lord, and then we shall see who has gotten whom!"
"Enough of your foolery! I am no longer amused with buffoonery and tricks of this sort. I command you both to set aside this petty squabble with Quodilde and prepare for our upcoming journey to Rel Mord and forget all lesser matters!"
"The capital? Why does my illustrious lord desire to go there?" Boffly said with a bit of remonstratlon evident in his questions.
"If you weren't so busy with your japes, cleric," the grand count said icily, "you would be aware that our beloved nephew, Lord Maheal, is betrothed to Lady Dulicia of Grimalkrnsham."
"Quodilde's brat!?" the cleric snapped before he could restrain himself.
"Your reference to Lady Dulicia, daughter of the Baroness of Grimalkin, is ill-advised." said Lord Fizziak with an icy stare. "I will not remind you again that her ladyship is not to be referred to as a brat — evert She unites the barony with Fizziak lands," the grand count added meaningfully.
"Of course, lord," the deflated priest said humbly. He allowed Phompton to steer him out then, without protest. As these two were making their hasty exit, Lord Preppyn shouted after them, "And never refer to me as an imbecile again! Really, Uncle, you must do something about the manners of your help!"
Lord Fizziak told the two adventurers to prepare for their audience and elevation on the morrow, then departed with Preppyn dithering in his Wake.
It was much like pulling teeth from unwilling monsters, but Gord eventually managed to get a full accounting of the fortune he and Chert had managed to gain, then lose here at Castle Fizziak. The steward presented Gord with a long sheet filled with writing and sums, shoving small stacks of gold, electrum, silver, copper, bronze, and even brass bits along with it. "This is exact and to the last coin." the official said smugly.
Gord went over the reckoning carefully. The steward was taken aback as he saw the young man reading and checking the addition. Surreptitiously, the fellow slipped several more coins into the piles before him. Gord pretended not to notice. "Here! What's this about a 'gift'?" he demanded, coming to the end of the long column.
"For the noble couple on their upcoming day of joy," the steward said smoothly. "Lord Fizziak personally instructed me to extract a generous amount on your behalf to honor the house of the groom."
"Oh," Gord said tonelessly, sighing at the loss of yet another ten gold pieces. All told, he had only forty of the gold coins left to share with Chert. The remainder didn't amount to a single orb. This was going to take some tall storytelling, but what the hells, it was better than nothing, Gord rationalized.
Chert, naturally, was furious at the loss of their fortune, which was perhaps the largest sum ever stolen in Greyhawk. After a day or two he started speaking to his comrade again, if only to threaten to tear him apart for having gotten him into the whole mess in the first place. "I told you we shouldn't have stolen that relic, but no, you had to have your way — and now look where it's gotten us! The next time . . ." and on he went, incessantly stating'his complaints until Gord wondered if he'd even allow his friend to accompany him in an adventure again as long as he lived!
Dealing with the irate and vengeful Boffly and Phompton was another matter altogether. They had made common cause with Pinkus and even Lord Maheal, all somehow blaming Gord and Chert for their troubles. All in all, the next week was miserable, but the young thief managed to survive the ordeal through staunch determination and plenty of ducking. Then it was time to accompany the grand count's vast train on its journey to the royal capital of Nyrond, the city of Rel Mord.
Quodilde's green pigment had taken days to remove, but both Good Priest Boflly and Court Wizard Phompton now appeared normal again — although in a certain type of light the pair tended to appear a bit seasick. The population of County Fizziak turned out in large numbers along the well-kept road to see their lord and his entourage pass on their journey. It was a splendid sight, with the accompanying soldiers arrayed in the tawny and sable of the Grand Count of Fizziak, banners snapping in the breeze, and the panoply of other armorial bearings that dotted the sea of Fizziak colors. Lady Dullcla rode alternately in a palanquin and upon her elaborately decorated palfrey. She looked stunning regardless of whether she wore a gown of silk or velvet, scarlet or azure. Dulicia's conversations tended to center around material possessions or court etiquette, and Gord thought she was likely to be as demanding as she was boring. That was certainly fitting for her groom, and both Gord and Chert enjoyed many a laugh at Lord Maheal's expense.
Naturally, being an esquire to the House of Fizziak entitled Gord to ride near the nobles of the caravan, but whenever possible he stayed back with Chert and the less privileged members of the train. He avoided the very rear, though, for Pinkus was located there. The ehjure had done his best to avoid the pilgrimage, but to the dismay of all involved in the test, they had learned that their enthrallment would continue to operate until the item Gord was charged with carrying was delivered to King Archbold. Besides, Lord Fizziak wished the ogreling to accompany the procession as a nonesuch, so to speak, for he appeared to be a most fearsome monster. In order to highlight this, the grand count had special clothing prepared for Pinkus — exotic-looking pantaloons, a jack of costly oliphant hide, and a cape of lion skin. In fact, Pinkus appeared most grand and ferocious, but he didn't seem to appreciate his finery. His always foul temper grew worse. Even the doughty Chert shunned the ogre-magus whenever possible. Gord watched him carefully, for he was positive that Pinkus was in league with Boffly and the others and plotting some mischief against him and his barbarian companion. It took a full fortnight to reach Rel Mord at the leisurely pace required by so diverse an entourage as that of Lord Fizziak.
Rel Mord was a large city. Gord thought it was nearly as large as Greyhawk itself, although there was little resemblance between the two. Of course, both places were walled, but the barrier surrounding Rel Mord was lower, broader, and covered more area. Actually, the city was ringed by commons, or nearly so anyway. The low wall and jutting bastions were fashioned in such a manner that the ground inside was nearly as high as the top of the wall. The grassy meadows were thronged by small flocks of domestic animals — goats, sheep, geese, and even some small kine. Hamletlike clusters of dwellings gradually gave way to the closely packed structures of more urban sort, and finally, in the center of the city, were the tall buildings and narrow streets typical of a town or city. Most towers were octagonal, and the buildings tended to show many angles. This was very unlike the cities to the west. Similarly, arches were rounded here, not peaked. Gord found the whole scene quite exotic. His travels to the north of Nyrond and its frontier regions had never revealed the true feeling of the kingdom as this place did.
Th
e royal palace was situated on an island in the river that Rel Mord was built around. This at least was an aspect more like Gord's native city. The Duntide River flowed around two islands, and Rel Mord was constructed so that these separate pieces of land were a part of the city, yet remained apart. One island was linked to the mainland by three bridges, the other by a single span. Gord learned that the former was a commercial district, while the latter was a royal demesne reserved for the rulers of Nyrond, their peers, and those who served them directly. A sprawling complex with quadruple walls comprised the palace, with attendant government buildings and quarters for the soldiers of the guard in the outer rings.
The low walls of Rel Mord were set back from a gently sloping park that stretched from the main portion of the city to the wide bridge leading to the royal island. There was a miniature fortress on the landward side of the bridge. Gord supposed that a hundred men could hold the place against an army, with magical assistance, of course. The heavy stones of the bridge provided a broad causeway to the island, and this structure was protected by crenel-lations and squat towers and riverward-facing bartizans. Any enemy attempting to escalate the bridge, or coming along it. would have a difficult time indeed. The island gate was composed of many great towers and a turreted building through which the road to the palace passed. Arrow slits and murder holes in the ceiling of the sixty-foot-long passage were sufficient proof of how well-constructed this place was. The grand count and his train were given royal honors, naturally, and the procession passed through all the guardposts and entered the royal demesne without incident.
The isle of Nyrond was a strange mixture of grim stone fortress and lovely little parks and gardens. The whole area was vaguely oval, about a mile long and half as wide. The palace of His August Supremacy, Archbold III. King of Nyrond, rested squarely in the center of the whole, and two of the four walls of the island's defenses surrounded this complex of buildings. The nobles of the Fizziak entourage were housed within the royal palace, while the rest were parceled out amongst the lesser palaces. Gord and Chert ended up in an outer building reserved for those of military calling but lacking knighthood. Common soldiers went elsewhere, but noncommissioned officers were quartered on the lower floor. Both young adventurers were pleased to be in this place, for it got them away from Phompton, Boflly, and the constant surveillance of the main complex.
After they had spent one day loafing, word came that they were to prepare themselves for a private audience with the king. The special meeting was to take place that very afternoon, the day before the revel celebrating the forthcoming nuptials of the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe and the Lady Dulicia. heiress to the Barony of Grimalkin. Exactly three days after this fete, the wedding itself would take place in the Cathedral of St. Trowbane. Gord wondered if the venerable Quinthup, Chief Cleric of Nyrond, would officiate. And if Dulicia's dear mother, Baroness Quodilde, the witch, would grace the ceremony as well. Gord shuddered at the thought of having to face either of them, let alone Good Priest Boflly, Wizard Phompton, and the redoubtable Pinkus. Fortunately, these worthies would certainty be at odds. If one group could be played off against the other, he was certain that he and Chert could escape the whole affair unscathed. If only he could devise some means of profiting from it as well, everything would be wonderful! As it now stood, they would merely turn over the item required by King Archbold, receive a royal pardon, and be sent on their way after the nuptials. Net loss for the whole adventure would be something in excess of ten thousand gold orbs — or ten million zeesl This was a sad pass indeed.
"Chert, I have a plan," Gord suddenly said.
Chert took another swig from a great tankard of stout that he'd cadged earlier from a storeroom. "If it's like the other ones you've had recently, I think i'd rather not hear it."
"Trust me. pal, you’ll like this one!"
"Something tells me I've heard that line before." Chert snorted, but he listened nonetheless.
"Well done, lads," King Archbold said softly as he stroked the rather ordinary-looking stone that Gord had handed over. His Majesty of Nyrond saw Chert's doubtful look and smiled as he drew forth an ancient broadsword and displayed it, saying. "The pommelstone has been missing from this blade — The Sword of Dunstan, Wisebrand by name, and The Sword of Nyrond — for generations!"
"The ruby set there in its stead appears far more handsome." the big barbarian ventured.
This bauble? Bah! it is yours," the monarch said. He pried it from where it had been loosely placed and tossed the glittering sphere toward the astonished adventurers. "A token of Our pleasure at having so nicely accomplished the test"
Gord restrained an impulsive move to grab the stone before the slow-moving Chert could catch it. As the blood-red gem disappeared into the huge hill-man's girdle, the young thief said. Your majesty's generosity is as expansive as his realm, but we did but little to deserve such honor."
"Little," King Archbold muttered, fitting the dull piece of mottled black and white rock into the pommel of the great sword. "Little? Why, for years and years the kings of Nyrond have been trying to get this stone back. Quodllde's grandmother took it from Dunstan the Second when he spurned her as queen, and it's been held in Grimalkin ever since — those miserable witches have extraordinarily long lives, you know."
"The old battleaxe just handed it over when Gord asked! " Chert said incredulously.
"Well," the thief added. "I did make a promise or two — ones I have no intention of keeping."
"That is your affair!" interjected the tall, gaunt royal mage as he stepped forth and made several mystic passes in the air. "As far as the pommelstone is concerned, my liege, it is fairly dweomered and melds as one with the blade. Nyrond is whole, and your majesty now wields power with wisdom."
Gord tried to find an opportunity to request that he and his companion be given permission to leave Rel Mord immediately, but King Archbold held up his hand just as Gord opened his mouth.
"You are dismissed. Be in attendance at the High Revel three days hence, where We will also bestow royal thanks to confirm the honors given by Our subject. Lord Fizziak." With that, the pair of guards swung the doors of the small audience chamber wide, and the two young adventurers bowed and backed out of the room.
"Now what, my clever friend?" Chert demanded.
"What else save my original plan, which you did not like?" asked his friend sweetly but with a hint of superiority.
Hie brawny hillman stared hard at Gord for a long moment, then nodded once in agreement. "As you wish." And so saying. Chert lashed out a beefy fist so fast that even the nimble young thief was unable to dodge its force. Whack! The sound caused guards to start and stare, while a trio of passersby uttered oaths of surprise.
Gord rolled and made his collision with the corridor wall sound far worse than it was. Then, as the big barbarian advanced as if to finish the affair, Gord sprang erect with dagger in hand. "That was your death warrant, churl," he said, and as he hissed the threat, the young adventurer crouched menacingly, his long dagger poised to stab or disembowel.
The altercation was immediately broken up by alert guards in great number. Gord demanded satisfaction for the insult, and Chert likewise claimed the right to restoration of his honor.
"There shall be no duel, nor any personal combat of honor, fought without royal leave, and His August Supremacy is seldom inclined to grant such on short notice," a richly robed official drawled.
"Now what the hells do we do?" the barbarian stooped and whispered into Gord's ear.
"No plotting to avoid the Royal Strictures!" The official was stern now. "Guards, see that these two 'guests' are confined in separate chambers until further notice — and watch them constantly, or your heads are forfeit!"
Eventually it was King Archbold himself who solved their dilemma. The monarch brought the two miscreants into his presence again. Informants had delved into the matter, and the king knew all — even the nature of Gord's and Chert's recent activities in Greyhawk and elsewhere.
"It seems, gentlemen," King Archbold said with a stern countenance, "that you have brought yourselves to a pass that bodes nothing good for you — or My Royal Court."
Chert stood looking at the polished marble floor at his feet, mumbling half-articulate apologies. Gord was also taken aback and could think of nothing to say. The king sat regally and stared, visage set, eyes unforgiving. This silence on Archbold's part finally prompted the young thief.
"Your August Supremacy is renowned as a fair and just king — some say the most righteous in the Flanaess. I beg your permission to state our case."
"Speak."
Gord told the Nyrondel monarch the gist of things, leaving out whatever he could that was incriminating, ending the monologue with a simple request. "All we seek to do, August Supremacy, is to quietly leave Rel Mord prior to the coming nuptials and return to our home in Greyhawk."
"This is a matter of no difficulty, but what shall we do to right the things you two have discommoded? That is another matter. Quodilde might prove difficult. . . ." Archbold said reflectively.
"Beg pardon, your lordship, but she might prove even more difficult if we stay, for I have no intention in the hells of fulfilling that crone's desires!"
All was quiet for a while until, just as the two really began to lose heart, the king spoke again in a conspiratorial tone.
"Our best interests and obligations are far-reaching, and it just might be that I have thought of a means that will relieve you of your burdens and Nyrond of its own. Attend most carefully, and be prepared to take yet more solemn vows and oaths if this is agreed to by you both."
No more than an hour later, the two adventurers were within sight of the sprawling, clifllike walls of Greyhawk.
"Magical transport has its advantages." Gord said with delight. "If I had such power I could pillage a treasure from distant jakif and be home in the wink of a cat's eye!"
The gigantic hillman spat disgustedly. "Riding a good horse, or even going on shanks' mare," he said, shaking one of his massive legs for emphasis, "is far better than such reeky and dangerous means of travel. I hate this spell-working worse than I hate city-bred fops!"
