by Gary Gygax
South of this busy, commercial artery, the countryside was far different Gentle hills and long valleys lay there, and the huge old trees of the Gnarley thinned and made meadows here and there that were breathtakingly lovely. Little brooks and clear streams ran through the vales and woodlands, and tiny thorps and small hamlets snuggled in dells or among the forest's outflung groves and copses. Verdant fields and fruit-laden orchards hid there, with stretches of virgin forest and wild thickets between and around.
Wars and battles didn't plunge into this land. The armies of Greyhawk and Dyvers had clashed often enough, contesting for the territory that lay be~-tween their metropolises, but they stuck to the open regions bordering the Nyr Dyv. for not only did neither desire to ravage the fertile places from which wealth flowed to each, but the woodlands were no place for formed troops. Besides, the folk who dwelled there were formidable warriors, and their wrath would mean delay and loss to any invader. Bandits, brigands, and outlaws there were aplenty. Should the attention of such men be turned from the flowing traffic above to the communities below, village militia and woodsmen warriors, silent sylvan elves, or the gnomes of the forest — or more than one of these groups in alliance — would cut short the depredations of the foolish raiders. Dangling corpses and displayed heads offered ample discouragement for the wiser of the freebooters.
Into these lands the stallion plunged with Gord astride, still whistling and singing happily. He had been here several times before, and his anticipation was high now, for he found the country charming and the folk hospitable enough if they were treated courteously. After having paused during the hottest hours of the day to eat a lunch of cheese and bread, washed down with the heady green wine of Celene, he had saddled the stallion again and continued on along the side track that ran southwest from the highway. Blue Murder pranced and snorted as he had done at dawn, rested and refreshed from the two hours Gord had allowed him. The horse had torn great clumps of the thick, green grass to feed itself, cropping only the choicest morsels, and drinking as it wished from a nearby rivulet. A whinnying roll, a shake of the great neck, and more grazing. The stallion was ready for anything!
"So, Murder, you are as anxious as I am to get to our destination!" Gord laughed, giving the great horse its head. The stallion had covered forty miles before noon, and here he was ready to gallop on for yet more. "You are a valiant destrier, you are. Blue Murder! Were I a cavalier, you'd have your own chambers within my castle's tower!" The stallion nodded its head, muscular neck rippling, as if in agreement.
The byways and cart tracks that meandered over hill and through woodland led to the little communities of Gnarhrergia. as some named the region. It was large, two or three thousand square miles, in fact with a populace that would bow neither to Greyhawk nor Dyvers. Minstrels, jongleurs, bear-wards, and troupes of other entertainers detoured through the region when going between the free cities, and not a few spent the sweltering months of Midsummer to High Summer's end in the shaded villages and hamlets of Gnartvergia. Along with them came gypsy wagoneers, young wanderers, and well-to-do folk who owned cottages or villas on a stream or lake. The influx of folk made things most interesting. Coupled with the fair lasses of the region, and the excellent ales and stouts brewed there, it was no wonder that Gord was eager to arrive at his destination. Another, lesser steed would have taken a day and a half to reach the village where the young thief planned to holiday. The blue roan made it just as the last, purplish light was fading into the vast expanse of forest to the west.
Gawkes Mere was a busy little village. The lake that accompanied it was quite large and deep, and boasted a score of islands that thrust abruptly from the placid mirror of the mere. These islets, along with a portion of the lake's hauntingfy beautiful shore, served to accommodate dozens of cottages of substantial sort and villas of even larger stature that gave seasonal dwelling to those affluent enough to come to the place and stay. The wealthy of Dyvers and Greyhawk did so. but mingled little. Northward, and along the wilder banks to the west, less desirable folk lived and like sort visited them.
There was superb hunting, and the waters of the area teemed with game fish; so even the most discriminating of visitors occasionally roamed these rougher tracts too. Olgers Bend, the main village in the wild region, stood on the banks of the Silvern Stream, outlet to the lake, and but two or so leagues from Gawkes Mere. Between these two villages was a twisting road, a narrow and rutted lane actually. Halfway along the six miles of this track's length there stood a hostel, the inn of the Brothers of the One and Score, while scattered near the road but tucked from sight were a number of huts and dwellings of those who lived and traded along this quasi-borderland.
Perhaps there had once been some mystic significance to the name of the inn. Possibly it had once been a hostel of benevolent sort to provide food and shelter to weary and needful travelers. Gord didn't know. He did think it an amusing place, though, for one such as he who was weary of crowded cities and the stilted rituals of courtship practiced by the women of Greyhawk. Few were the fine airs, courtly pretense, and stilted conversations at this inn. And it was exactly what Gord intended to visit first. Gord reined Blue Murder to a halt, whistled for a stable boy, and pulled the saddlebags from the stallion's back.
"Cool him down, rub his coat dry. and give him good oats ere you stall and hay him." the young thief admonished the boy. "His name is Blue Murder, but he's a noble stallion with a good, if fiery, disposition when handled right. You treat him that way, bucko, and I'll see you get another of these when I depart!" Gord finished by sailing a bright coin toward the silent lad.
"Bless you, grafting!" the stable boy exclaimed when he peered closely and saw that the coin was a whole copper common instead of just a bronze zee.
He always hoped for the latter but usually got nothing but brass bits, which were a dozen to the zee. This was too good to be real. He was rich! The lad hurried to care for the horse, and Gord strolled toward the inn.
"Grafling ... I'd forgotten that honorific," the young man mused aloud. He'd actually heard it but once or twice, and only in the Gnarhrerge. When he first inquired about it, he'd been told it was an old title of respect that came somewhere between 'sir' and 'lord'. "And he delivered it with blessings, too!" Gord recalled with a smile. "This portends well for me."
As Gord neared the rambling structure, its size became more evident. From the road it appeared rather small and unlmposing. Parts of it ran off unseen, blocked from view by the foremost edifice, and other parts were concealed by downslope and greenery.
The inn of the Brothers of the One and Score, or Score inn, or simply "Score," as it was known to the natives, was actually large and spacious. A visitor came through the front doorway into a small anteroom, a place to doff dusty garments and likewise hat or shield. A long, worn bench, a pair of scarred tables, and several chairs were there, too. These, along with the windows of thick-paned green and amber glass, might lead the uninitiated to believe that this was the tavern area, and that the balance of the rambling building was given over to lodgings for guests, the kitchen, and the proprietor's quarters.
But if that visitor would open the thick, inside door of blackened yew, perhaps faint strains of music and laughter might be heard. Then by strolling into the short hall, past the seldom-used little buttery with its dusty bottles and casks, and proceeding down three steps to where a second, even older and more massive portal stands, the noise can be heard distinctly. Finish by pushing open that trunk-like door, and one is truly seeing the inn.
The common room is a rough rectangle reaching to the right and away from the visitor. A huge fireplace with a long, wide mantle filled with all sorts of odd trophies, curios, and bric-a-brac dominates the far wall. Tables fill all manner of nooks and corners, for the place is by no stretch of the imagination geometric or symmetrical. At the end of the low-roofed room, almost obscured by heavy, blackened beams, dim light, and smoke. Is a wide bar. Here are marshalled high stools aplenty, for the patrons
love to cluster round for the ale and good viands that always stand thereon. Wheels and heads of cheese, cold pies, smoked fish and fowl, haunches of game, and long, fat loaves of fresh bread and crocks of butter too. So trusting was the place that customers tossed coins into a little cask on the other side of the board, each computing the cost of his own meal and paying accordingly. The prices were always modest, and often special dishes were given at no charge whatsoever.
". . . and that's what makes them so godsdamned ferocious!" That snatch of words and the hearty, raucous laughter that followed the end of the yarn assailed Gord's ears as he pushed open the great door and stepped into the room.
A few of the patrons eyed him suspiciously, but a couple of the old-timers recognized him. "Ho there, Gord" one called, while the other nodded a silent greeting.
"House-brewed ale in a big tankard, as I recall," barman Lean Cole said laconically. He was proud of his memory for customers' faces, names, and drinking preferences, "Been a time since you’ve dropped in, Gord."
"Near six years, Lean Cole, and your own ale it is indeed!"
Summer sun went down late, but the Score never grew crowded until well after the night fell. Gord was able to finish his drink, become installed in a cozy back bedroom, wash, and don fresh clothing before the barroom became too crowded to provide him a place at the counter. Because he was well-liked by the barkeeper, the young thief was accorded space in the darkest most inaccessible part of the bar. From there he could see everything, swap tales with the other elite, and occasionally be offered tidbits of things from the kitchen or gills of spirits reserved for special times and special folks.
"Where's Hop?" Gord asked as Lean Cole sauntered over to see what his regulars needed,
"Still serving the trade come for late supper, I think," the barman replied. "He was in fine fettle when he arrived this afternoon, I’ll tell you!"
"How so? Or should I ask why?"
"Gawkes is crowded, and Hop took a load of his nostrums, quack ointments, and phony philters over there in the morning. Sure enough, when he came back he'd peddled the lot for more cash than should have been paid for the real thing — if that could ever be found."
Gord chuckled. "I think I owe him a night on the town — at feast if I can remember straight!"
Now Lean Cole laughed quietly, and cautioned, "Not likely you'll ever be able to get even with Hop, one way or the other, Gord. I'll send him over your way when he comes down."
Because of the special nature of the Score's common room and its patrons, the inn also provided a pleasant room above for dining. The kitchen was midway between the two floors, so that it could serve formal meals to the good folk who came to dine and informal fare for the folk who preferred to quaff first and sup only when absolutely necessary. It seemed startling to consider, but to Gord's own knowledge many of those who stayed annually at the inn never saw its lower regions. The young thief couldn't understand why. of course. To him rubbing elbows with leathery woodsmen, hard-eyed mercenaries, wandering entertainers, and knights of the road was as natural as could be. Not a single one he'd ever met here wasn't a long cut above those of Old City's slums where he'd spent his childhood. Hop. the ofttlmes flamboyant proprietor of the inn, was a good example.
The fellow claimed to have been born in this rustic area, but Gord was never certain of the truth of the assertion. Hop was certainty well-traveled and had been to forlorn and wild places the young thief had only read about.
One night the talk had turned to younger days, and Hop had admitted that he had sought enlightenment in the monastic disciplines of some distant temple. Although he would not say where, Gord guessed that he'd traveled beyond Ket and gone somewhere into the mountains of the West. Since Hop had returned to the inn, he would catch himself occasionally quoting some guru, as spiritual sages were called by Bayomen folk, and once in a while actually recounting some tidbit or another from this episode in his life.
As far as Gord could tell, Hop practiced no martial arts nor embraced any theological belief as a clerical practitioner would. He was a troubador of sorts, though he rarely plied that art, and an ostler. Gord also knew he was a mountebank of exceptional skill. Although the fellow always denied this, Gord admired him all the more for that. At times Gord's own talents verged on mountebankery, and the best of mountebanks had no little skill at thievery and its adjunctive crafts.
When the charismatic proprietor of the Score at last appeared on the scene, Gord needed no warning from Lean Cole, for Hop's entrance was greeted by friendly calls, playful jibes, and inviting smiles from several of the women. As he stopped here and there to give greetings, slap an acquaintance on the back, or suggest to a pretty girl that she raise her skirts for him, Gord had to laugh aloud. What a fellow! If he truly had bardcraft, as some claimed, and some small skills with unusual dweomers, as others asserted, then this man could be the Mountebank of Mountebanks!
"Gord. old friend!" Hop cried when Lean Cole interrupted his lascivious fondling of a smiling young wench to point out who was seated in the dimness of the bar's far portion. He sprang over the bar, strode to where Gord was, ducked under the board, and managed to pull a free stool from somewhere. "How long have you been here? Will you stay long? Oy! Lean Cole, drinks here!"
"I always wondered about your name — now I know." Gord said during the brief pause. "You hop over things and from question to question without pause for reply."
"Well? How are things in the city? Are you here to celebrate? I don't know if I can join you in such excesses, you know. I have responsibilities, many duties!" The drinks came, and Hop quaffed deeply and then slammed his mug down to indicate he wasn't done speaking. "Gord, you are terrible! A bad influence on me. I know I am going to regret this. I can not afford to spend days lost in revelry, drink, and wenching. That is plain truth, you see."
"Set your mind at ease. Revelry is not what I seek. A rest is what I desire," Gord said agreeably "Relaxation from the press of things in Greyhawk."
"Here, let me get us more ale," Hop said, ignoring Gord's previous statement. "Shall I cut out a likely pair of lasses from this crowd? Lean Cole has this throng well in hand, and if we hasten, he'll not notice we're gone!"
"I thought you said . .."
"You are such a silver-tongued devil, Gord! All right I’ll bring a little keg of special brew up to that parlor in the back — you know, the one right near the room you always take. Back in just a trice!"
Hop disappeared into the crowd and then into the precincts of the small kitchen on this floor of the inn. Beneath that room was a deep cellar filled with barrels, tuns, bottles and who knew what else. He was evidently going to fetch the aforementioned keg for later consumption, presumably by a party of four.
Gord shook his head in amused bewilderment "Same old Hop," he said aloud, to no one in particular. He continued to drink and exchanged a few words with another man next to him. A short time later a young woman somehow managed to find space between them, and Gord chatted with her. She was attractive in a wild way, he noted, but somehow too independent and assertive. He didn't feel like taming a shrew — not this evening, at any rate. An hour had passed, and the young thief was growing more than a little woozy-headed from the potent ale, when Hop finally returned with his usual commotion and flurry of chatter. The woman drifted away.
"You've been unbridled in your lusts!" Hop cried when he saw how inebriated Gord was becoming. He clucked his tongue in mock disgust and, reaching into his colorful tunic, pulled out a tiny packet and opened it. Colored powder flew in a cloud as he blew, and Gord nearly choked and sneezed from inhaling it. Hop ignored this, and as the rainbow puff died in tiny motes of bright-hued splendor, the mountebank made several cryptic gestures in the air before Gord's nose. Touching him on the forehead, Hop said, "Clear head, not for bed, thinking straight isnt late!"
Gord wiped tiny remnants of the powder from his visage, then ran his hands over his face again. He felt sober. His brain was no longer muddled. In fact he didn
't even feel the weariness of the hard journey! "But. . . you offer spurious cures for the gullible and credulous, not real, working potions! So how come I feel so ... so lucid?"
"Hop the Savant, sir, offers a wide and amazing range of febrifuges, tonics, simples, restoratives, specifics, cordials, balms, lenitives, philters, elixirs, potions, essences, ointments, salves, and rare oils at prices so ridiculously meager that they cannot be mentioned for fear the sanity of the seller would be questioned. Nostrums and quackery are the tools of those who practice chicanery, but from Hop come the true and potent only. Hop the Savant has a cornucopia of pharmaceutia for those who would be denied because of the price charged by those interested in lining their pockets, not aiding fellow beings!"
"I feel splendid!" Gord exclaimed, still in shock over the success of Hop's remedy.
"Fine! The ladies linger coyly near the door. All we must do is join them, slip out, and go around to the back — where the parlor and the ale are ready and waiting!"
Two days later Gord was sufficiently recovered to begin enjoying the countryside. He left early in the morning to fish with a local guide, or trek through the thick growth of the summer forest to hunt for roebuck, wolf, elk, bear, and rare aurochs. Strings of huge fish and various kinds of fat game went dally to the kitchen of the Score. Gord and Hop and the others favored by them dined on the choicest parts, while the remainder went into the bellies of paying customers, and the young thief was credited for the fare thus furnished. After many glorious days of such superb hunting and excellent angling, the credit for the viands he provided — and such fine provender it was — exceeded his cost of lodging by half again. Good this was too, for the excesses of the night, fees for guides, purchase of equipment, and various gratuities had reduced the contents of Gord's purse alarmingly.
