“Surrender or die!” The booming voice came from behind them. Gord pulled his shortsword out in one swift motion as he wheeled his gelding around to face the challenger. His gaze fell upon not one, but a dozen men standing some fifty or sixty feet away. They were variously clad in studded jacks, sarks of iron rings, and leather coats and skins. Most bore long spears and short-hafted axes. One large fellow who stood slightly ahead of the others leaned on a huge, double-bitted battle-axe. This one again bellowed in a stentorian voice.

“Cast down that toothpick, fool! Look to your flanks and rear!”

Without dropping his blade, Gord quickly glanced left and right. On the rim of the cut they were in stood another dozen or so men, similar to those he had first seen but holding crossbows, rocks, javelins, and the like. A rapid look over his shoulder revealed yet more of the hillmen-spearmen and slingers this time, the latter with slings whirling slowly.

“Why ambush two wayfarers?” Gord called to the head man. “We are peaceful and threaten you not!”

“True, you pose us no threat,” said the tall leader as he strode toward the trapped couple. “It is we who are the danger, and if you do not now surrender, you will be dead shortly.” The men behind him followed closely on his heels as he continued to advance.

Seeing no other course, Gord tossed his sword to the ground and dismounted. He voiced a brief instruction to the terrified Evaleigh to stay where she was. Nearly frozen with fear, she managed to nod her head in compliance. Then, rather than waiting for the hillman to come to him, the young thief walked boldly toward his would-be captor, allowing a bit of swagger to be apparent. As the two closed the distance between them, Gord was surprised to discern that the hillman was fully head and shoulders taller than he was. The leader must have been nearly seven feet tall, and the warriors behind him all easily topped six feet. Gord kept walking, intending to meet his adversary before he and his fellows could get too close to Evaleigh. The hillman cooperated by halting his advance, and Gord strolled up to within a couple of paces of where the leader stood, leaning on his great axe. Determined not to allow his fear to show, Gord spoke just as he came to a halt.

“Well, you’re big enough…. But I had always heard that you hill folk were courageous, not cowards.”

The great fellow stood up straight, grasped the handle of his axe firmly, and glared hard at the smaller man before him. The others behind muttered threats and shot back insults in response to Gord’s disparaging of their bravery. Booming forth a laugh, the hillman chief retorted, “It is no craven act to surround eggs with straw so that they remain unbroken until you’re ready to eat them!”

“And dogs hunt in packs because they desire company,” Gord answered smoothly, never taking his mocking gaze from the man.

“Dogs? You call us dogs?” the huge hillman roared, flashing his battle-axe into motion and preparing to cleave the small man in two for the insult just voiced.

Gord did not flinch. “You are truly a lion to thus bravely slay so fierce an adversary-even unarmed as I am!” This Gord said as loudly and sarcastically as he could, expecting the great curved weapon to slice downward any moment.

The others behind the leader whooped and guffawed at this remark, for Gord indeed appeared to be more like a sheep than a deadly foeman. One of their number called out mockingly, “Don’t dirty your axe, Rendol! I’ll slay the magpie with a blow from my palm!”

“Have your woman nearby to assist you in your recovery, in case I am tougher than the little children you usually bully,” Gord answered in a scathing tone. “Better let the toughest amongst you handle the likes of me!”

Rendol had stood poised with axe held aloft during this brief exchange. He suddenly realized how stupid this posture was, and brought the weapon down to rest again. He made a successful effort to control his ire, and now looked at the slight man he was facing with slight respect rather than the disdain he had shown originally.

“Your mouth is as big as any dragon’s, and your tongue faster than a scorpion’s sting,” began the leader. “I say you are a braggart and a liar, little man. I give you leave to pick up your sword, and then we will fight. When I’ve cut you into pieces small enough to satisfy me, I’ll satisfy my other needs upon your woman there, and then honor will be restored.”

The hillmen had been gathering closer as their chief spoke, and his last statement brought a cheer from them. Here was sport they could all enjoy.

“And if I should triumph?” Gord retorted.

This question nearly collapsed the hillmen with laughter, but one bellow from Rendol and they fell into silence, broken by a smattering of stifled haw-haws and sotto-voiced jests.

Rendol sneered at Gord and said, “Then one of my brothers here will fight you and avenge my death-”

“How many cats it takes to kill a mouse,” Gord interrupted, shaking his head in mock wonderment. “But then, I suppose one mouse such as I would be worth ten cats such as you.”

This brought a new round of scowls and grumbles from the hillmen. Shouts of “Kill ’im now, and let’s get to the fun part!” and “Don’t waste time!” were intermixed with vulgar comments and general jeering. The hulking leader again shouted his men to silence and kept up the dialogue with Gord.

“I am the cat then, and if the mouse escapes my claw”-here Rendol hefted the axe for emphasis-“then he and his mouse-main shall pass freely amongst the other toms as they will!”

At that, the hillmen shouted their dissent, but the chief glared them down. “I, Rendol, have spoken, and my word is law! Would any of you dispute that? If so, I shall settle that matter before this little one is a hacked and bloody corpse.”

None took up the proffered contest. Gord smiled grimly to himself as he turned and walked back to where his small blade lay. At least he had gained them their liberty as their prize; now all that was necessary was for him to be victorious in mortal combat with a giant hillman armed with a battle-axe as large as Gord himself!

As he came near to Evaleigh, Gord murmured under his breath for her to remain mounted and be prepared to ride for her life-scant hope there! He then picked up his shortsword, gazed for a moment at Evaleigh’s pale face, and turned to face Rendol. He was ready.

The hillman was already moving toward Gord, this time not waiting for the smaller man to come to him. Gord only had time to get a couple of paces farther away from Evaleigh and their horses; then Rendol was upon him. The hillman’s axe swept before him in a great arc, and Gord would have been cloven in twain at the waist had he not leapt nimbly aside. He continued moving sideways, circling around Rendol, so as to place himself in the position the huge foeman had held moments before and get clear of the area where Evaleigh and the horses stood. If an ill-aimed blow struck some onlooker, he cared not, but he meant to spare the girl and the animals such hazard. Gord backed slowly now, crouching a little, with his sword held low and ready for stroke or parry.

Rendol spun around quickly for a man of his size, using the momentum of his missed blow to assist the motion. Still whirling the twin-bladed weapon, the chief eyed Gord’s position and tactic. He stepped forward without hesitation, now bringing the battle-axe up and down in a chopping stroke that Gord would find impossible to block with his small sword. Instead of trying to either dodge once again or parry hopelessly, Gord crouched lower and leaped straight at the larger man just as the axe was being brought back up for another chop. As he lunged, Gord lashed out with the sword in his right hand, looping the short blade in a cut aimed at the axeman’s knees.

Rendol heaved mightily to cut short the upward arc of his axe and bring the weapon back down. At the same time he tried to move his legs backward out of harm’s way. As the result of this combination of movements, the hillman overbalanced and fell forward. Gord’s sword bit into Rendol’s leather leggings, an instant before he threw his body to the side to avoid the hillman’s toppling body. The blade drew blood, but the attack did little damage other than to score first wound. In a match where only death meant victory, this made no difference. Gord gave no thought to self-congratulation, but instead somersaulted himself away so as to be well clear of any possible counterattack. He turned and bounced to his feet in time to see Rendol springing upright, battle-axe still clutched in both hairy hands and murder in his eyes.

“I am no joint of beef to be cleaved, oaf!” called Gord in his most mocking tone. “Where are your boasts now, windbag?” Here was a small advantage Gord thought might be built upon. An opponent blind with fury was an easier foe to vanquish-and Gord needed any advantage he could muster.

“I’ll show you boasting-with my steel!” the hillman replied between clenched teeth, and then he moved forward with a blurring windmill of axe-work, the double-headed weapon whining from the force of its passage back and forth through the air. Gord had to skip and dance to keep clear of the whirling death-blade advancing upon him.

Rendol was still calm enough to demonstrate real skill at arms, and Gord knew he must push the man with more than words. The young thief put his Rhennee-learned acrobatics into play, doing a quick back-flip. As his feet rose over his head, and his knees approached his chin, Gord drew his small knife from his boot. As he landed, he reversed his grip so that his left hand palmed the weapon with handle downmost.

The grim axe-wielder, not noticing that his foe now held a second weapon, saw no threat in Gord’s demonstration of gymnastic ability. In fact, he read it as a desperate maneuver to avoid the press he was employing to sunder his opponent’s defense-and then the opponent. The figure-eight of the battle-axe’s pattern flattened so as to become more offensive and less protective to he who wove it. At that moment, Gord let fly the knife-aiming not at the hillman’s vital portions, most of which were shielded by blade or mail anyway, but at an exposed portion of forearm, left free of armor by extension in the attack.

“You foul little bastard!” Rendol roared in anger and surprise as the keen blade sank into his arm.

“Bastard yourself, you bloated windbag!” Gord spat out in reply. “That great axe you use is twice the size of this blade, yet you offered no equalizer-so I merely provided my own.”

The huge hillman made no reply to this, other than to jerk the knife from his arm and hurl it back at Gord.

This hasty tactic gave Gord yet another opportunity. In his desire to use Gord’s own weapon to harm its hurler, Rendol had taken his right hand from the haft of his battle-axe. Although the injured left member still held the weapon firm, it now lacked the strength to use it offensively.

As the hillman threw the knife at his adversary, his wounded arm allowed the head of the axe to drop. Gord darted forward, drawing his dagger from his belt and simultaneously bringing his sword up to knock away the oncoming knife. Then he brought the sword back across his body, in a backhand slash aimed at Rendol’s face. As the hillman instinctively brought his axe up one-handed to ward off the slash, Gord struck out with the dagger he now held in his left hand. The edge of the smaller weapon easily cut through the thick leather bracer shielding Rendol’s left wrist. Again Gord drew blood, and this wound was serious enough to cause the hillman to drop the axe in the bargain.

Rendol had to back away in great haste, his bleeding arm clutched close to his body, to avoid a flurry of thrusts and cuts from Gord. Now the hillman had only his own dagger for a weapon. He drew the blade with his good arm and used it in a vain attempt to defend himself against Gord’s whirling weapons while he tried to circle around to where he could regain his fallen axe.

He tried, Gord gave him that. This big fighter was brave enough, and determined to win. No matter how he moved, however, Gord’s sword was there, keeping him away from the axe. The combat became a terrible game, and soon the hillman was dripping blood from a half-dozen new wounds delivered by Gord’s sword and dagger. Gord’s black garments had several gashes, but his body had only been scratched or nicked two or three times.

The spectators to this grim match had grown ominously quiet now. Gord knew that soon one or more of them would forget about ceremony and come to Rendol’s aid. Then all hell would break loose, and the hillmen would certainly hack him to bits. Time was just about up.

A sudden stab by Rendol gave Gord the opportunity he sought. He purposely over-reacted, leaping backward, seeming to stumble a little, and moving away from the battle-axe at last. Rendol quickly stepped forward and bent over, fingers clawing for his fallen weapon as he took his eyes off his opponent for a split second. When they looked up again, they saw only death. Gord’s sword and dagger struck home, the first hitting his neck and the other piercing the steel mesh protecting his body. The hillman’s huge frame toppled over, coming to rest upon the axe he had so desperately sought, and the combat was over.

“Mouse has bitten cat,” Gord said, looking from face to face around him, choosing words that he hoped would drive home his point without inciting the other hillmen to attack. “The cat is dead and the mouse goes freely with his mouse-main, as this doughty man promised.”

No one moved to stop him as Gord cleaned and sheathed his blades-sword, dagger, and knife. He did not seek to despoil the fallen man, but simply turned his back on Rendol’s corpse and walked slowly to where Evaleigh waited atop her palfrey, holding his own steed’s reins. Her expression showed nothing. She was clever, Gord thought, keeping his own face a mask also. It was still touch-and-go as to whether or not these men would actually honor the promise of their slain leader. One false move or wrong word could set them off.

Gord swung up into the saddle and kneed his mount into a slow walk, heading in the direction he and Evaleigh had been going before the hillmen had surrounded them. There was no attempt to stop him, but he could hear mutterings beginning to grow in volume behind them. Gord slowed his mount and turned his body, allowing his companion to move ahead of him, and called back.

“If I come this way again,” he said, “I’ll bring a hundred-mark or so dogs with me to guarantee safe passage!”

“You will need more than that to escape us again!” a voice called back. There was some laughter at that.

“Scurry, mouse!” another hillman shouted defiantly. “Else we might forget a dead man’s word!”

At that, Gord kicked his horse into a trot and slapped the girl’s mount as he drew parallel with it. Together they cantered around the boulder ahead of them, out of the narrow passage and onto a better path beyond, as the last rays of the sun painted the sky with a sanguine hue.

“You seem unaffected by what just occurred,” Evaleigh said in a small, distant voice.

“What is there to be troubled about, my dear one?” Gord replied casually. “After all, I defeated that fool, took his comrades’ jibes and insults, and we rode free! That is fitting… the way of things in such places as this.”

“I see,” the girl said softly, and then spoke no more.

Gord insisted that they keep going well into the night, for he suspected some of the hillmen would attempt to find them during darkness and gain revenge. He walked ahead, leading both mounts, as Evaleigh dozed in her high-backed saddle.

After they had traveled in this fashion for a couple of miles, the narrow track met another, which grew into a road. Gord was confident that this route must lead to somewhere they could stay, and he wanted to make good time. He woke the sleepy girl and jumped back aboard his mount. The tired horses were brought into a trot by much urging, and within an hour the pair rode into a tiny cluster of huts-a place they later learned was called Owlsthorpe.

Dogs barked frantically as they entered the place, and several lights were visible behind shuttered windows. Someone shouted out, demanding to know who trespassed in the community, and Gord replied simply that friendly and tired travelers sought refuge from the night. The only reply was a slamming noise, indicating that the inquirer had shut and probably barred fast the shutter he had opened to ask. All around them, the lights inside the huts were doused.

“At least we aren’t being attacked this time,” Evaleigh observed ruefully.

Gord shrugged to himself in the dark and moved his gelding ahead, peering at the dark shapes around them. Evaleigh followed, and they advanced to the far edge of the hamlet without further incident. Here they came upon a small farmhouse and barn that were somewhat isolated from the other buildings. Gord dismounted in front of the barn door and used his dagger blade to carve through the simple lock holding it closed. Gord and Evaleigh led their horses inside, Gord barred the door with his sword blade, and soon both weary wayfarers were asleep in the straw therein.

A pounding on the secured door awakened them a few hours later, in the early morning. An outraged owner demanded to know who was in his barn. Gord and Evaleigh roused themselves, brushed off a few bits of clinging straw, and greeted the fellow cordially. After a few bronze zees clinked into his hand, the man was civil, although by no means friendly or informative-that required a few more coins. Eventually they learned where they were, how far away the next community was, and how to get there.

After paying yet more for a meal, the two left Owlsthorpe and rode east through the remainder of the Flinty Hills toward Knurl and Count Blemu’s castle there. They saw a few gnomes, fleetingly, and met no threat during their passage through the region. The land became a series of green, rolling hills then, and travel was swifter.

In two days they came to the ferry across the upper reaches of the Harp River. They crossed the river just as the sun was setting, and Evaleigh told Gord that they were now only half a day’s ride from her home. That night they spent in a hostel near the crossing, making love desperately. Gord wasn’t certain why, but for some reason a deep melancholy had settled over Evaleigh during the last two or three days. She had refused to elaborate on her mood on the few occasions when Gord chanced to bring it up, sometimes passing it off as a fleeting thing and at other times simply ignoring, or pretending not to hear, his questions.

Gord felt himself beginning to be overcome by the same bleak mood, which was frustrating because he did not know its cause and because he had expected both of them to be happy now that they were so close to their goal. Their intimate contact in the hostel on the eve of Evaleigh’s homecoming heightened rather than lessened the mood, and he slept little that night, his brief periods of slumber troubled by evil dreams.

The next morning was bright and clear, and-much to Gord’s surprise and pleasure-Evaleigh seemed to have thrown off her sadness. Smiling and radiant, she urged him to hurry, and the two raced their mounts along the well-kept highway. At a crossroads hamlet, Faselfarm, they spurred left, Evaleigh laughing as stray fowl squawked and flapped as they got out of the path of the thundering horses, and dogs pursued them, barking. Soon Gord saw the towers and battlements marking Castle Blemu. They too were seen, and amidst a sounding of brazen horns, mailed riders came forth to meet them. Evaleigh shouted her name joyously, and the challenging patrol quickly became a guard of honor for the long-lost Lady Evaleigh’s triumphant return.

 

Chapter 21

 

A light shone in the distance, growing brighter as it came nearer. Then a loud rasping split the still, dark air, followed by the groaning creak of rusty metal grating on rusty metal. Torchlight flooded into the cell through the partially opened door and seemed, to the prisoner within its radiance, as bright as noonday sun. Gord shuffled forward to the full extent of the chain binding his left leg to the hasp set in the granite wall farthest from the door, shielding his eyes from the brightness, but eager to get the scant rations promised by this event.

Each day was the same for him, consisting of darkness infested by rodents, insects, and arachnids, broken only by this event-the doling out of a pannikin of water and a bit of food dished into his wooden bowl. This time he received a soupy mixture of vegetable peels and some unidentified stuff. Gord didn’t worry about the ingredients at all, accepting the stuff and swallowing it down quickly. A small piece of hard, black bread was included in his ration, but this he intended to save for later.

The heavy door was slammed shut and the bolt once again shot home with the familiar rasping bang. The torchlight receded, and soon Gord was in total blackness again. He picked up the piece of bread for safekeeping, sat back and, as per his routine, allowed his system to begin digesting the food he had eaten. Soon he would begin his silent exercises, and then came the game of bread and rats. Sometimes the rats won, and carried off their feast, but usually an incautious rodent provided Gord with the protein he needed to stay alive and reasonably healthy in this dungeon.

How he had come to be in this place was something Gord could scarcely believe and understand, no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind….

 

When they had arrived in the outer bailey of Blemu Castle, Evaleigh had been whisked off by the seneschal, with a covey of twittering ladies-in-waiting and maids fluttering after. Gord was taken to a small waiting room of some sort, while grooms led their sweating horses to the stableyard for care and stalling. A servant brought him a flagon of wine and some tidbits for his refreshment during his wait, and Gord settled back and thought about the speech he would give before Count Blemu when the time came for his audience.

After a dozen such mental rehearsals, however, Gord began to wonder was going on. It could have taken an hour for Evaleigh to ready herself to greet her father, and another hour to relate to him the events of her kidnapping, imprisonment, and rescue. But now the purple of twilight was showing through the arrow slit that pierced the wall of the antechamber in which he was cooling his heels, and two hours had dragged into more than twice that length.

Just as Gord was getting up to venture forth to see if he had somehow been forgotten in the excitement of Evaleigh’s return, the door to the room flew open, and armed soldiers filled the opening. An officer of the guard called him forth by name, stating that Gord was to come with him and receive his reward for his part in Lady Evaleigh’s rescue. Gord was somewhat surprised at the stern and official manner of these men-at-arms, but then he knew nothing of nobility and their ways, save what little he had learned through Evaleigh, so he shrugged to himself and complied without question.

The officer and his six soldiers took him to yet another room, somewhere in the interior of the great castle, and there he was ordered to divest himself of weapons. When Gord hesitated, swordpoints pressed against him from behind, and the officer laughed at the consternation Gord evidenced.

“That you are a baseborn thief and masterless villain, our lord knows well. We were warned that you are dangerous with sword and dag, fellow, so this ploy was simply to disarm you without harm to any of His Noble Grace’s loyal guardsmen.”

Gord couldn’t believe his ears. He tried to convince himself that this was not actually happening to him, but was merely another of the fretful dreams that had plagued him of late. “You are going to be in trouble, my good man, when this stupid error is set right,” he said. “I think you should speak with Lady Evaleigh immediately, and save yourself and your fellows further embarrassment.”

“Her Ladyship, knave, was with Count Blemu when he gave the order for your arrest,” the officer sneered.

This statement left Gord dumbfounded, and he allowed himself to be stripped of his weapons, searched, and taken down to the castle’s depths without resistance or further word. There the soldiers turned him over to the warden of the dungeon, and a gaoler thrust him into the small cell he occupied now, manacling him to the back wall as further precaution before locking the iron-bound cell door.

At first, Gord had expected Evaleigh to appear and free him from this imprisonment. Surely, he told himself, this was a terrible mistake. But the days plodded past, one after another, slowly and heavily, without such intercession., Evaleigh did in fact send a message to him after a few days-reassurance that she would soon do something to help him, passed on to Gord in a whisper by one of the servants who brought him his pitiful daily ration of food.

There were a few more such meager reassurances during the following days, and Gord benefited from extra scraps of food sent by the girl to comfort and nourish her confined rescuer and former lover, but nothing else was forthcoming.

After a month or so, even these deliveries stopped, and Gord stopped keeping careful track of days.

In the early stages of his imprisonment, he had allowed himself to languish in depression, not even thinking about trying to escape-though he possessed the means to do so. He simply sat, wasting away mentally and physically in the damp and darkness of the dungeon cell, waiting gloomily for Evaleigh to make good on her promises to help him.

Then, when he realized that the messages from Evaleigh had stopped, Gord’s mood changed abruptly. He resolved to find a way to revenge himself on both Count Blemu and his daughter for this cruel ingratitude.

The guards had searched him thoroughly, but had not thought to make him change his clothes-and it was virtually impossible for a guard to find all of the small tools a thief could conceal about his person. Gord reached inside his boot, pulled forth a length of wire, and quickly had the lock of the leg iron open. Being free of the shackle gave Gord the freedom he needed to commence a regimen of exercise. This he did, always replacing it around his ankle afterward so that no one would suspect what he was up to.

It was impossible for him, however, to open the cell door immediately, for the portal was secured on the outside by a heavy iron bar that dropped down in its locked position and prevented any prisoner from working it back. To move it, the flat bar had to be first lifted from outside and then drawn back-or so the theory went.

When not building his muscles and practicing his acrobatics and similar skills, Gord worked patiently at the wooden door, slowly scratching out an elongated rectangle with the wire he used to pick the manacle’s simple lock. Eventually, he worked a piece of wood out in a long, thick splinter, giving him access to the second layer of wood beneath.

He kept working at flaking away the wood behind the piece he had loosened, using dirt and spit to glue the splinter back in place each day before his food came. It would take a long time, but eventually he would have a hole through the door, a passage large enough to enable manipulation of the bolt. The cell door was three inches thick, but its own substance-the chunk he had worked free-would provide him the tool he needed to lift the bar, and the stiff wire would then push back the metal bolt. Gord would eventually be free of the cell-of this he was sure.

Had Evaleigh pleaded with her father to spare Gord? Recalling how they felt about each other, Gord could not help but think that she had. It was certainly Count Blemu’s knowledge of their intimacy that had caused him to react as he did. Why Evaleigh had told her father about this, or under what circumstances, he could not imagine. That she had told her father too much about Gord was certain, and for this Gord blamed himself. He should not have spoken so freely to Evaleigh about his past, and he should have carefully coached her on what to tell her father about the rescue and journey.

Thoughts such as these, giving Evaleigh the benefit of the doubt, made Gord feel good about himself and provided him some comfort, but did not lessen his desire for evening the score. What became of her promise of undying love? Her pledge of reward for her safe return to her home? And certainly the “gratitude” of Count Blemu was another score to be settled-with interest! Gord came to grips, in a fashion, with the realization that there had never been real hope for him and Evaleigh, although he still thought that some elevation of his station, followed by a test of some sort, should have been allowed him. Success in this test should have been the measure of his actual worth, rather than judging him by artificial standards based on the perceived value of inherited rank that was so prized by these aristocrats. Well, Gord intended to show them the merit of his lowborn station!

More of the long days passed, and Gord finally completed the preparations necessary for his escape. The hole in the door was nearly through to the other side. Between periods of scratching away on the door, Gord had also worked patiently with the wire to pry loose the metal hasp that fastened his leg chain to the stone wall. Now all was in readiness, and he would put his plan into action immediately. Many more days of this confinement would certainly drive him crazy, despite the routine of exercise and work to which he had dedicated himself.

On the eve of his escape attempt, he forced himself to rest for a long time, desiring to be as alert as he could be when the time came. His fitful slumber was interrupted by the arrival of his daily meal, which he knew from experience was the only time anyone would visit him until the following day-and by then, he expected to be long gone. He ate every last bit of the food, drank the water, and went to work.

First, the chain was freed from the wall. The hasp he tucked away in his filthy rags of clothing, for it might be useful for something later. The chain and manacle would be his only weapon, but a deadly one, for the heavy cuff on the end of the long series of iron links would act much as any flail-head. For the last time, he pried up the splinter of wood that concealed the hole he had created, and the final portion of his escape work commenced. Soon this vile cell would hold him captive no longer!

Gord wished fervently that he had been able to make the opening in the door larger, for the iron staple from the wall would have broken through the remaining quarter-inch or so of wood with rapid ease. But he had not dared to make a hole that large, for fear of the place being spotted by his gaolers. Breaking through this last thin barrier would take an hour or more to achieve with the wire, but what had to be, was. Gord bent to the task with diligence and high spirits, rubbing the wire’s point back and forth, up and down, slowly scoring the perimeter of the opening so that eventually he would simply have to push and the plug would pop out against the bolt. Then the splinter, used as a lever, would press the bar down, and the wire would work the bar back from its fast position. Occasionally he had to stop the cutting motions and resharpen the wire tip on the stone next to him, but he didn’t mind.

Perhaps the lord of this place had wished to execute him, Gord speculated as he worked. That was possible, considering his long incarceration: What purpose would the count have had for keeping him here for this much time? Probably, then, Evaleigh did assist him-persuading her father to spare Gord an immediate death in favor of a slow one, rotting for years in this dungeon.

Gord nodded to himself. Father and daughter both were responsible for this wretched situation, although the former far more than the latter. Gord felt a pang still when he thought of Evaleigh’s breathtaking loveliness and their love for each other-or, more accurately, his love and whatever passed for that emotion in her. No… he was being bitter. He had been in love with her, and she had loved him, too. Gord could not force himself to hate her; he reserved that emotion for His Noble Grace Dunstan, Count of Blemu, Lord of Knurl.

The strength of that hate acted upon his muscles, and without realizing it Gord pressed harder as he scored the tough oaken fibers. The force cracked the last bit of wood free on one side, and the sudden giving way surprised the young man. “Damn!” he muttered to himself, almost losing his grip on the wire. He pushed against the loose side with the tip of the wire, and a small piece of wood broke free and dropped away.

The tiny sound of the sliver hitting the flagstone outside his cell brought him joy. He worked feverishly to splinter away the remainder of the plug. Dim light filtered through the opening, showing the iron bolt that held the door shut.

“Now I’ve got you, you bastard!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Come on now, darling, you can do it!” Freedom was just inches away!

The splinter from the door and the wire soon did their duty. It was difficult to manipulate both through the small hole, but Gord was dexterous and nimble of finger, as suited one of his profession. The bolt moved away, little by little, and when it passed from his view off to the side of the hole, Gord brought the wire back inside and carefully bent the end of it at a right angle. Using the splinter for added leverage, he pushed sideways to force the tip of the wire against the end of the bar. Then the bolt moved another inch or so, and Gord knew he had succeeded.

Being careful to remain calm despite his exhilaration, he took time to stand up and spend a couple of minutes stretching and flexing to loosen his strained and tense muscles. Then he pushed gently on the door. It groaned on its hinges and swung outward an inch or so.

“Quiet!” he hissed to the protesting metal. “Do you wish to warn those dirty buggers before I have a chance for revenge?”

But he knew the noise of the hinges could not be helped. Gord shoved the heavy portal open a full foot, quickly, and slid between it and the jamb with equal haste. After looking left and right, peering with squinting eyes into a dimly illuminated passage that seemed to his aching pupils to radiate brightness, Gord ventured forth. No guard had heard the noise, no gaoler was hastening to investigate!

He closed the cell door, shot the bar silently, and scuffed the bits of wood into the shadows; no sense in alerting any passerby to his absence. The right path seemed to lead off to other portions of this subterranean complex, but the route to the left meant freedom. This was the direction he heard his gaolers come from, and in the light given off by a torch in a holder far down the corridor, he could see a door that he hoped would lead to a stairway. Chain held at the ready, Gord crept with utmost stealth toward the light.

As he neared the end of the passage, he heard voices coming from behind the partly opened door of a chamber off to the side. This, he supposed, was the place in which the dungeon warden and possibly a gaoler kept their post. They only did their duty, the escaping thief thought to himself, but that meant nothing to him. Gord thought their jobs lowly and disgusting, and if he could he would slay both without qualm or hint of mercy.

By this time Gord could see very well in the brownish illumination, and before him were the men who stood between him and escape to the world above. He might be able to slip past the chamber and get to the other doorway, only a few paces farther away, without being noticed by them, but with their garments and weapons, he would have a better chance to slip out of the castle-unless he could find the count quickly and settle that matter first! Otherwise, Gord would make for Knurl, gather resources, and work out a sure plan….

Enough thought-it was time for action! Chain ready at his side, he crept up to the doorway leading into the small room where warden and gaoler were sitting and talking idly. By peering slightly around the edge of the portal, he could see the warden in a chair no more than three feet from the door, facing toward the interior of the room. He had them by surprise and would kill them now!

Gord raised the chain over his head. Just as he was about to leap into the place and smash his makeshift weapon upon the unsuspecting head of the warden, the door leading to the castle above was flung open, and four men ran through. “Stop on your life!” one shouted as he saw what was about to transpire. The first soldier through the door was upon Gord an instant later, and used his halberd to intercept the chain.

Gord was caught, and he knew it. He turned to stare defiance at these men who had thwarted his escape-and looked full into both of Gellor’s laughing eyes!

 

Chapter 22

 

“Didn’t I warn you, Constable, that Captain Gord was one of His August Supremacy’s most dangerous agents?” said Gellor to a richly dressed noble accompanying the two guardsmen. “It is a wonder he hasn’t escaped before this-and slain half of your men-at-arms in the process.”

“The word of General Lord Nalbon Gellor is unquestioned,” the constable said unctuously while looking disdainfully at the pale and filthy former prisoner who had just been prevented from braining one of his men. “But how could we have known, Lord Gellor, that he was other than a scheming thief? He claimed no ties to Nyrond or the Urnsts….”

“Come, come, Sir Mellard, don’t be naive!” Gellor said in bluff fashion, slapping the sour-faced official on the back. “Look at him even now. Does he show the slightest hint of understanding our discourse? Does his gaze or expression betray any clue? Nay! That is why he is regarded so highly by King Archbold and the noble rulers of Urnstland too!”

Gord was indeed looking blank, for he understood only that his old associate Gellor, a thief of Stoink, had mysteriously grown an eye, was being treated deferentially by Count Blemu’s henchmen, and was here in this forsaken dungeon evidently freeing him.

“Well, I must admit he has a rather… ahh… dazed look, which could throw off an inquisitor,” said the constable.

“In fact, one might think him an idiot!”

Both men laughed heartily at this, but Gord saw no humor in a remark at his expense. He grew somewhat miffed at the whole conversation, in fact, which excluded him and more or less treated him as a piece of beef. “Just what is going on here, Gellor?” Gord demanded.

The formerly one-eyed thief gave Gord a tiny, brief wink with an eye that should not have been there, and replied, “Oh! Sorry, captain. Didn’t mean to ignore you, but Constable Mellard here took a good bit of convincing when I finally caught up with you. He actually didn’t believe that you were one of our best spies, and that His August Supremacy would be quite wroth with the good constable’s master, Count Blemu, if Archbold learned that you were locked up in his dungeons…. Imagine!”

Constable Sir Mellard’s expression grew sour at this, and then it changed to worry as Gellor continued.

“After all, think of His Supremacy’s embarrassment if word ever got out that one of his own vassals, and a recently enfeoffed one at that, starved to death in his dungeon a trusted member of Archbold’s personal staff? Then there’s the slight matter of ingratitude, and the noblesse oblige. Not quite right to imprison a chap for saving his daughter and all.”

“That,” said Gord, seizing upon the mention of the count’s behavior toward him, “I intend to settle in my own way-”

“Captain! You are out of order!” Gellor interjected sternly. “Such matters are the affairs of your betters. I am certain His August Supremacy will deal with the whole business in his own way… in time.”

The inference was unmistakable, and the count’s constable grew pale as the impact of the words sunk in. The officials of a noble might become scapegoats in such an affair as this. “I must say, Your Lordship, Captain Gord, there is no need for such bitterness. A mistake-and a father’s natural desire to preserve his daughter’s name and all-which will soon be rectified with none the worse for it.”

“None the worse?” Gord shot back. “None the worse, you say?”

“You will be recompensed, sir-and handsomely, never fear,” Sir Mellard interjected hastily. “And of course you shall receive the personal apology of His Lordship of Blemu!”

“Yes, yes, that’s quite proper and will suffice,” said Gellor before Gord managed another furious word. “But this dungeon is no place for chit-chat. Come, Constable, let us repair to above, where my officer can bathe and be properly attired while you and I exchange a few pleasantries. I would learn of your struggle against the Jebli tribes to the north.”

Apologizing for not suggesting such a thing himself, Sir Mellard led the way to the castle above, going off to a parlor with the man he called Lord Nalbon Gellor, while Gord was hustled off to a room where a valet de chambre fussed and bustled. In a short time Gord was scrubbed, oiled, barbered, and arrayed in silk and velvet of ebon hue. When he came back from the dressing room to the main chamber of these quarters, he found that his confiscated weapons had been returned, clean and polished, complete with new belt and scabbards. He checked the dagger, found it intact, and noted that it had been lightly oiled to prevent any spot of corrosion on its keen blade. Beside his weapons lay his purse, and examination proved that its contents-eight bright gold orbs and a scattering of lesser coins-had not been tampered with. Gord smiled wryly at all of this-from one extreme of treatment to the other, and all in a matter of minutes!

Then a knock sounded on the door, and the valet ushered in an officer of the Count’s Guard, come to escort Gord to the chamber where Gellor and Sir Mellard waited. The now-grand young thief strode as an honored guest through the halls of Castle Blemu to find what awaited him next.

He was shown to a small dining salon whose board had been set for a repast. Gellor was there, along with Sir Mellard and several other of the count’s underlings. After Gord was seated, the constable explained to him that His Lordship of Blemu was indisposed and sent his regrets, but that he, Sir Mellard, would serve as host for this banquet in honor of Captain Gord’s good fortune. Gord let that questionable remark pass, for the smell and sight of the feast laid out before him on the table were overwhelming his senses. He was famished, after having been nearly starved for so long, and all he cared to think about now was eating!

The banquet commenced immediately, and more vintages and dishes appeared at intervals as the diners fell to. It was some time before Gord’s stomach felt satisfied and he began to pay attention to the conversation. The talk was of the warfare with the humanoid bands still infesting the upper regions of the Blemu Hills, and how the count’s forces were gradually driving these hateful creatures northward. Gord heard that companies of gnomes were assisting, and that the Ratikkans were holding Johnsport and besieging Spinecastle, for they too were desirous of revenge upon the humanoid inhabitants of Bone March. Revenge was a subject dear to his heart, so Gord began to question various persons about the matter.

He learned that some years previous, hordes of orcs, goblins, and their ilk had taken occupation of the Bone March, a former dependency of the Overking of Aerdy. After that time, this area had been a haven for all sorts of evil and degenerate types, and a base for incursion into the surrounding territories by the humanoids and their human associates. However, when Nyrond managed to take Knurl, and Dunstan was made Lord Blemu, the newly created count began to expand his fief northward, displacing the humanoids by force of arms. This effort was assisted by gnomes, for these demi-humans hated the invaders and were loosely allied with His August Supremacy, Archbold III, King of Nyrond and liege of Lord Blemu.

The Great Kingdom, as Aerdy styled itself, was in turmoil, as usual, so the Overking was unwilling or unable to make any response to this assault on territory that was technically his to protect. The area beyond the Teesar Torrent had always been much trouble for the Overking anyway, as had been the Bone March. Distant and well-armed marcher lords were always rebellious and bothersome at best, and the Overking undoubtedly reasoned that such troubles were better vested with Rel Mord, the capital of King Archbold’s domain, than with his throne in Rauxes. In addition, the Overking perceived the Herzog of Aerdy’s semi-independent North Province as a worse threat than a Nyrondel county west of the Teesar Torrent’s swift waters. Let the Herzog deal with the matter if he could, reasoned the Overking, thus keeping the Herzog and the King of Nyrond busy with each other.

The affair had come out somewhat differently, however.

Smarting over a humiliating defeat by the forces of the Bone March, the Herzog ignored Blemu and marched a newly gathered host of soldiers back into the humanoid-controlled territory to avenge himself. But the Herzog’s host was again defeated, and the broken remnants retreated in disarray all the way to Eastfair, the capital of North Province.

However, the series of skirmishes and battles that led to this second humiliation also took their toll upon the hordes of humanoids and their human allies. Left in a battered and seriously weakened condition, they were ripe for attack by Ratik. The Lord Baron of that palatinate did just that, desiring to extend his territory southward. One of his armies sallied through the pass leading from Ratikhill to Spinecastle, laying siege to the latter town, while another force came secretly through Loftwood Forest and fell upon Johnsport, taking it almost immediately.

The current situation was that both Ratik and Blemu were attempting to gobble up as much land as possible before the chiefs of the humanoids and the petty human lords of Bone March were able to regroup, reinforce themselves, and act in concert to prevent further erosion of their holdings. Many of the Bone March’s raiding bands and tribes were still in the North Province, fighting and pillaging. There was some question as to whether these raiders would eventually return to their homeland, or whether the Herzog’s re-assembling army would manage to pick these bands off, one by one.

There was more, but what struck Gord as most interesting was the distance between Knurl and the Nyrondel capital city, Rel Mord, which was more than one hundred fifty leagues, and the fact that they were separated by the wilderness of the Flinty Hills. Could Dunstan be flirting with ideas of independence for Blemu? Allying with the northern realm of Ratik, and playing off Rel Mord against Rauxes, might enable a clever noble to gain sovereignty.

If indeed such thoughts were uppermost in the count’s mind, then he would be dreadfully concerned about the ramifications of Gord’s imprisonment, Gellor’s discovery of the action, and intelligence reaching King Archbold-all supposing that the once one-eyed man actually was the king’s general, and that Gord was one of His August Supremacy’s most valuable agents. Gord knew, of course, that the latter was totally fallacious, but Lord Blemu thought it the truth. If he indeed plotted to renounce his vow of fealty and seize independence, then he would most likely over-react to this minor situation, which would be to Gord’s advantage. Interesting, indeed….

Eventually the conversation waned to desultory remarks, as full belly and fine wine took blood from brain to stomach. It had grown late besides, and the evening was finally ended by the constable wishing all a good night’s rest and cheerful morrow. As Gord and Gellor made ready to leave, Sir Mellard came to them and assured the two that all would be in readiness for them at dawn, just as the Lord General had directed.

“It is most regrettable that the officers of His August Supremacy will be unable to remain a few days at the castle,” Sir Mellard said without conviction. “Although the facilities will be strained to capacity with all the wedding guests, personages such as yourselves, representing the Royal Court, would be most welcome and well-quartered for the event.”

“Wedding guests?” queried Gord.

“Never mind that, captain,” said Gellor quickly. “I am tired, and we must be away on business of the king by first light! Come along, and I’ll inform you of the happy event that Sir Mellard referred to as we go-you’ve been a bit out of touch, shall we say?”

Gord was unwilling to let the matter drop, for he did not quite trust Gellor to give him the whole truth, and wished to get to the bottom of it by questioning the obsequious constable then and there. However, he recognized a firmness in Gellor’s urging, despite its friendly tone, and in the way his “general” turned abruptly and headed for the door, expecting Gord to follow. His wisdom told him that silence and patience were the wiser course, so he turned on his heel and also left the dining room swiftly, doing as he was ordered.

Gellor refused to say anything at all on the matter, however, when they arrived at the small suite assigned to them. Using the Thieves’ Cant, and hand signs, Gellor cautioned Gord to mind his tongue, for walls hid many things, including listeners. Once they were well away from the castle, said Gellor in the secret tongue, he would tell Gord everything he wished to know, but for tonight they must remain stolid officers of the King of Nyrond, here now merely to refresh themselves with a night’s sleep before going on next day to carry out the secret affairs of His August Supremacy. Grudgingly, Gord agreed, and soon both men were tucked in their beds, located in adjoining chambers behind unlocked doors. Gord, unused to anything softer than a bit of mildewed straw scattered on a stone floor, thought the softness of the bed would prevent slumber. He was quite mistaken, for sleep overtook him in a moment, and he barely stirred for the rest of the night.

A restrained tapping on the door of his room brought Gord awake. This was followed by a rustling sound as someone moved into the chamber. Gord opened his eyes, his muscles tense, his hand going instinctively to the dagger at his bedside even as he turned to see who had intruded upon him. It was merely the fussy valet who had attended to him yesterday, now engrossed in his morning ministrations. It was still dark outside, and the servant carried a candle with him. He had deposited a stack of garments on a nearby stand and was now in the process of setting flame to a half-dozen tapers so as to illuminate the room. When the task was finished, he turned and saw Gord watching him.

“Good morning, sir,” said the servant. “It is nearly first light, and I have come to assist you in dressing and preparing for your departure.”

Gord harrumphed but swung his legs out of bed and arose. As the valet fussed with the stack of garments, separating things and laying them out, Gord washed and otherwise went through his unaccustomed morning toilet. In the meantime, the fancy clothing he had been given to wear yesterday, and which he had tossed casually aside when retiring, had been picked up, brushed, and painstakingly folded and stowed in a small leather pack-evidently for Gord to take along when he departed. The valet handed him new linen and then insisted on helping Gord dress.

The apparel he had been given today was designed for rougher activity: heavy stockings, short breeches of leather, with a like doublet worn over a linen blouse. This ensemble was all in black, and completed with high riding boots, gloves, soft cap, and cloak. Another set of small clothes was packed away as Gord broke his fast with fresh bread, cheese, salty-sour galda fruit, and watered wine. The valet hastened to hand him a napkin as soon as it was evident that he was through, and then whisked away the remains of the meal, leaving Gord alone in the room and wondering what would happen next. He went to his weapons and began buckling the shortsword to his waist when another rap sounded on his bedroom door, this one much more important-sounding than the servant’s taps.

Gord called for the entrance of the one so knocking, and in came Sir Mellard, followed by a churl bearing several bundles. The constable ordered him to place his burdens gently on the bed, dismissed the fellow, and then spoke to Gord.

“The busy affairs of the coming celebration again prevent my master, Count Blemu, from personally attending to your wishes ere you depart. He has sent me personally to see that all is satisfactory, however, and I am at your disposal.” At the last portion of his speech, the constable appeared pained indeed. He managed to go on, though, with only a slight grimace and a swallow.

“Humblest apologies are given you for having… detained you in so unkind a fashion. Had you but mentioned your service to His August Supremacy-but no matter! I am instructed to personally crave your pardon, and humbly beg forgiveness for my part in the… ah… misunderstanding….” Sir Mellard paused expectantly.

“Get on with it, man!” Gord ordered him, allowing his pent-up anger and general dislike for the fellow to permeate his tone.

The constable winced and nearly flew into a fury himself at the outrage of a mere soldier speaking to him in such a manner. But then he recalled his mission, the instructions of his lord, and the supposed station of Gord as captain and agent of the King of Nyrond’s personal corps. Composing himself again, Sir Mellard resumed his speech.

“Lord Blemu, in his generosity, and to emphasize the depth of his regrets, bestows upon you the following gifts.” The constable paused here and turned to the packages, lifting them one by one as he talked. “First, here is a purse of coins to assist you comfortably on your return to Rel Mord.

“Next, this blade,” the constable continued, unwrapping and holding forth in near-formal presentation a beautifully crafted small sword, “is a prize captured from a brigand chieftain from the northern border. It is wrought from an alloy of steel and adamantite, I am told, and then enchanted so as to pierce dragon’s scale or foeman’s plate without losing any of its point or edge.

“Last, but by no means least, my Lord Count gifts you with this silver neck-chain, a piece taken from his personal coffer, and set with garnets highly polished to enhance its beauty.” Sir Mellard held it out toward Gord. “See, it bears the arms of Count Blemu himself as its chiefmost decoration! It will show that you have his noble favor.”

“Is that all?” Gord asked icily.

“All? AM?” sputtered the constable. “You so dare as to-” and then he again recalled his mission. He took one deep breath, forcing a smile to his lips and calmness into his tone, and then said, “There is one more thing which comes from His Lordship…. May I speak freely as gentleman to… ah…gentleman?”

“You may, sir,” Gord allowed graciously.

“In the matter of your… ah… stay here. Need it be emphasized in your report to the king? Lord Blemu has been most generous in making amends, and he is concerned that His August Supremacy might mistake overzealousness for some darker motive….”

At that moment, Gellor came in from his adjoining chamber. Gord immediately suspected that he had overheard the conversation and was timing his entrance accordingly.

“It is not a matter worth any further consideration, or note,” Gellor boomed in a hearty voice. “Be a good fellow and tell your good Count just that. General Gellor and Captain Gord understand the whole affair was an error, and who amongst us errs not? It is a trivial thing of history, best forgotten,” he said reassuringly as he guided the constable to the door. “But do relate to His Lordship that his generosity will long be recalled whenever Blemu Castle comes to mind!”

Beaming, Sir Mellard departed, assuring the two that they would have the swiftest and finest of coursers, with appropriate trappings, awaiting upon their departure. He then hurried away, and Gord looked at Gellor to see if he could determine what the fellow was up to.

Gellor was dressed in much the same fashion as Gord was, with a belt bearing longsword and dagger girding his loins. Gord noted that he too had a fat purse, and wore a long neck-chain, but Gellor’s chain was of golden links and roundels and bore three deep blue sapphires each flanked by a pair of smaller diamonds. Gord opened his mouth to utter a comment about rank bribery, but his companion stifled it by waving a finger at him and winking with the eye that should not have been there. Gord thought the gesture was growing more than a bit tiresome.

“Let us be off, Captain Gord!” said Gellor with vigor. “We have far to go, and much to speak of as we ride!”

 

Chapter 23

 

True to the constable’s promise, a pair of magnificent warhorses awaited Gord and Gellor in the outer bailey of Castle Blemu, saddled and ready, each black stallion held by a liveried groom. These were not the huge and muscled destriers of cavaliers and fully armored men, but the leaner and smaller mounts favored by those who desired swiftness and endurance. Saddlebags of provisions were topped by the leather cases containing the finery each of them had worn the past evening. As Gord was mounting, a small page scurried out of the great hall and ran to stand at his stirrup.

“Your pardon, sir, but my mistress, Lady Evaleigh, bade me fetch you this on your departure,” the page said, and he held up a small casket of engraved and embellished silver for Gord’s taking.

“Where is your mistress?” Gord demanded, accepting the box but not bothering to look at its contents.

“Oh, sir, she went off to His Lordship the Count’s villa in Knurl, yesterday it was…. But before she and her ladies departed, she told me most sternly to see that I deliver this to you,” the lad said, pointing at the silver coffer.

“Very well. It is delivered.” Gord nodded toward the boy, tossed him a copper hastily dug from his purse, and wheeled his horse to follow Gellor, who was already heading for the gate.

The two of them passed through the gate in single file, and Gord held a position slightly behind Gellor as their mounts trotted out onto the road. He wanted a bit of privacy while he examined Evaleigh’s gift, and Gellor seemed to understand this.

The box was quite pretty and valuable. Gord thought that, even being in used condition as it was, it would bring an orb or more in some fine shop. It was old, and had been crafted in a form Gord had never seen before. It took him a couple of minutes to find which petals and carven flowers to press and move to release its catch and allow the lid to slide back. The coffer was lined with velvet material of a deep violet hue, which surrounded a small scroll and something wrapped in silk embroidered with sigils. Gord dropped the reins and took out the scroll. His mount slowed to a walk as his eyes took in what was written thereupon:

 

“My dearest Gord,

“I shall always bear your memory in my heart, just as I shall always remember our time of love together. If troubles surround me, all I needs do is recall your sweet face and brave deeds, and my world brightens. Ours was a love which could not be. Forgive my weakness, I implore. Understand my father’s ill-advised ire. Think of me fondly, with tenderness and affection, now and then as you rise to fortune. As for me, I shall make the best of what sad and cruel fate metes out. I pray for your happiness and safety always, and send my dearest of thoughts with you, My Champion.

“Always, Evaleigh.”

 

These words, soft as they were, did nothing to dilute the bitterness in Gord’s heart; in fact, he reacted in quite the opposite way, and he found himself thinking of Evaleigh as a liar and a bitch as he roughly thrust the scroll back into the box and picked up the parcel of silk. In its folds was the little necklace of silver links with the milky amulet depending from them-Evaleigh’s dearest possession, the dweomered pendant given her by her elven great-great-grandmother.

This gift had an entirely different effect on Gord from the way he had felt just after reading the scroll. His attitude toward Evaleigh softening with every passing heartbeat, he fastened the chain around his neck and tucked the amulet under the stiff leather and padding of his doublet. Then, instead of hurling the missive she had written to him away in a crumpled ball, as he had originally thought to do, Gord flattened it and tucked it into the small inner pocket of this same garment. After placing the silver box within a saddlebag, he spurred his stallion so as to get even with Gellor’s mount, trying his best to put Evaleigh out of his mind for the moment-he had much to learn from his traveling companion, and it was high time to start doing just that!

Gord’s saturnine expression and lugubrious spirits were soon uplifted by Gellor’s tale. He admitted to Gord that while he was indeed a member of Stoink’s guild of thieves, and a well-respected member of that and other bandit communities as well, he had other identities. Yes, Gellor admitted, he did on occasion serve Archbold as an agent and spy; however, his liege was not the King of Nyrond by any means, but rather his cousin, Belissica, Her Noble Brilliancy, Sovereign Countess of Urnst. In fact, Gellor said laughingly, he even performed favors for his more distant cousin, Karll, Most Lordly Grace of Duchy Urnst!

All of this left Gord speechless. Gellor observed his dumbfounded visage, roared with mirth, winked his newly grown eye, and laughed still more at the perturbed reaction this gesture got from his companion.

“I must begin where we parted company,” said Gellor as his chuckling subsided and he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, “and then you will understand better what has transpired.” The thief and noble then began a tale that enthralled Gord so thoroughly that he failed to notice that Gellor was leading the way away from Knurl toward the ferry to the west bank of the Harp River.

He related how the sovereigns of Nyrond and other allied and friendly states spent much in human and monetary resources to be apprised of the plots and politics of their unfriendly and hostile neighbors. The Bandit Kingdoms, as these sovereigns called the lands of the Free Lords, were of particular interest-but then no more so than the doings of the Hierarchs of the Horned Society, the dealings of Tenh and the Theocrat of the Pale, Aerdian schemes (whether those of the Overking or the Malachite Throne of Rauxes), and so forth.

Although Evaleigh’s capture and the subsequent ransom demand from Boss Dhaelhy were not great matters as far as statecraft went, King Archbold desired intelligence on what followed these events, for he suspected that his vassal, Count Dunstan of Blemu, was overweening in ambition. The question was: Would the count send forth to Stoink the ransom required for his daughter’s return? The sum being demanded was so great as to pauperize the count, or so it was thought, and it was well known that he was no doting parent.

If the ransom was not paid, Archbold’s reasoning went, then the king’s suspicions about Dunstan would be allayed; this would mean that he did not have the resources to bring about his daughter’s release, or else he did not possess the desire to see her freed. In either event, this was not the sort of behavior that would engender respect for the count from other heads of state-and such respect was a necessary component of any plan the count might have to assert the sovereignty of his small domain. But if the ransom was handed over to Boss Dhaelhy, the king would do well to heed the warnings he had received about the count’s hubris.

“Then you came along and spoiled things!” Gellor said as they came to the vessel moored beside the river bank. “Let us get aboard this ferry, and I’ll continue my tale.”

“Yes, let us,” urged Gord, now caught up in the story and left in suspense as to how he had intervened in the plots and machinations of crowned heads.

“The problem was, everyone was watching for a company of the count’s men escorting the gold for his daughter’s ransom,” Gellor resumed, skirting the issue of how Gord disrupted any scheme but that of Boss Dhaelhy. Gord urged him to get on to that point, but Gellor simply smiled and continued the line of discourse he had begun.

He explained how the Boss of Stoink, several other interested parties of that ilk, Gellor himself-and even Evaleigh!-had spies watching for ransom-carriers from Blemu. The captive girl, it seemed, had used her charm, and possibly a bit of her magic, to suborn at least two of Lord Mayor Dhaelhy’s hirelings or servants. For the sake of both her peace of mind and her physical safety, she, more than anyone else, wished to know news of her impending rescue.

By the time Gord had appeared on the scene, her hopes were at their lowest ebb, for time would be up soon, and there had been no news of any force of Count Blemu’s, or even one in his employ, heading for Stoink. Had there been, Evaleigh of course would never have risked life and limb in a perilous escape attempt formulated-or unformulated, as was more accurately the case-by a young thief of uncertain origin and questionable motives! Gord had to grin at that last statement.

“Off this scow now, lad,” said Gellor as the ferry was moored on the opposite bank. “Now we ride cross-country for the Flinties and the burrows of gnomekind.”

“Flinties? Gnomes? What is this talk, Gellor?”

“Do you tire of my story already?” said Gellor with a sly grin. “Are you suddenly more interested in what we must do next ere we are free to pursue a more independent course?”

“Oh, no, good sir!” said Gord, a hint of friendly sarcasm in his tone. “The past for now, the future for later.” So Gellor picked up his original tale as their steeds trotted westward.

“Dunstan is a most clever chap,” Gellor began. “Not as wily as he deems himself, by any stretch of the mind, but clever enough to outwit all those watching for his train bearing a virtual king’s ransom in orbs. The Boss was eager to receive the train, of course, and Evaleigh was anxious to learn it was coming so she could be free-but most of those on the lookout for the caravan desired only to loot it. To thwart this last group of road-watchers, the Count of Blemu made arrangements, and sent messengers accordingly, so that the sum was gathered within the walls of Stoink itself.”

“How could that be?” demanded the wondering listener.

“Oh, it isn’t a new idea, only one which is most uncommon and rarely used,” Gellor replied, nodding contemplatively. “Sums are borrowed and lent between certain dealers in jewels, money changers, bankers, and the like. They have devised a means to transfer large amounts by means of written notes. Naturally, these notes are carefully done, and heavily magicked, but once executed are as good as gold!”

This amazed the young thief, for he had imagined that he knew just about all there was to know about wealth. Gellor then explained to him that such instruments had away of taking on a sort of mystical value themselves, becoming as dear as-or even dearer than-the physical things they represented, be they precious metals, gems, silk, spices, or something else.

On the very day and night that Gord had planned and executed his brash rescue of the lady in durance vile, an agent of. her father’s sending was in Stoink, carrying with him a document calling for transfer of metal equivalent to ten thousand gold orbs from certain persons in the town of the lord mayor. The sum was so vast an amount that it took two days to gather.

“Had you acted but one day later,” Gellor pointed out to Gord, “you would have found the lady Evaleigh gone, bound for her homeland under a heavily armed guard furnished by her former captor, Boss Dhaelhy! If anything, a ransomer must be true to his word, or he shall have but a single go at kidnap and payment, you know, so the boss planned to see the girl delivered to the count’s protection with care and safety.”

At that, Gord had to laugh bitterly…. Some hero he had turned out to be! Evaleigh’s journey home would have been faster, easier, and much safer if he had not invaded the lord mayor’s castle-and, more to the point, he would never have laid eyes on the walls of the count’s dungeon!

Gellor agreed, in response to a wry observation from Gord, that things were not always as they seemed. The news, he went on, was soon buzzing through the bandit capital of Gord’s taking of the girl from under the boss’ nose.

“He was furious,” said Gellor, “both at the insult and the loss of a fortune! No amount of searching turned you up, and several powerful spell-casters were required to finally track down your means of escape. But the same magic-users were then unable to locate you anywhere, and they claimed that powerful dweomers protected you two. There was no ransom paid, of course, for word of Evaleigh’s disappearance reached those gathering the gold, and they quickly returned their thousands to vault and strongroom forthwith. That saved Dunstan his coin, but the fact he had agreed to pay alerted me that something was most certainly amiss. There are means of communication that allow near-instantaneous transmission of speech, but these magical communications must be most secret and protected from the many who would overhear or intercept. It required several days, but eventually I managed to pass on the intelligence, and then I came after you two.”

At this point the two riders came to a lane leading northwest. Gellor steered his mount onto the path, saying, “Now I think it best to give my throat a rest until we partake of some refreshment.” Gord followed his lead, of course, and the pair rode in silence. After a short time, they arrived in a rustic little hamlet. There they supped at a local tavern, while their mounts were fed and watered. An hour later the pair cantered on, still following the dirt road as it wound its way toward the first great tors of the Flinty Hills.

Gellor had not desired to resume his narrative during their meal, because the tale was for Gord’s ears alone. Once out of the hamlet, however, he further dealt with his tracing of Evaleigh and her rescuer. It had not been difficult to determine the goal that was set, but the exact route was the question. Boss Dhaelhy’s minions had searched far and wide, but they missed by days locating the fleeing couple. Gellor had picked up the trail in Midmeadow, using the activity of agents of the bandit lord to put him on the scent, as it were. There was a delay, for he had had to eliminate several of these odious fellows, including the assassin who led them. This forced Gellor to spend further time avoiding those who would track him down for daring to handle so roughly the servants of Stoink, and by the time all that blew over, and Boss Dhaelhy called the whole thing off, more than a week had passed.

There was difficulty finding where Gord and Lady Evaleigh had gone from Womtham, and Gellor had ridden all the way to Innspa before eventually discovering that the two had not journeyed all that distance with the pilgrims. Between such delays as those he had recounted, and pauses for passing various sorts of information to one group or another, Gellor said ruefully that nearly a month was frittered away before he caught up with the trail once again.

The hillmen were quite impressed by Gord’s fighting ability, he said parenthetically, for these wild and independent folk thought bravery and self-defense to be paramount virtues. In any event, Gellor went on, it was no task at all to determine thereafter that Gord and Evaleigh had managed to get to her father’s fief without further mishap. However, careful inquiries in Knurl brought no mention of Gord’s name. All that was known was that the count’s daughter had mysteriously reappeared at Castle Blemu.

Finding what had become of Gord was important to him, but Gellor had to state flatly that there were more important matters to clear up first. Dunstan had been sending a stream of communications to Lexnol, His Valorous Prominence of Ratik. These related to a proposed alliance between the baron and the count, and were to be sealed by nuptials between Baron Ratik’s son, Alain, destined to become the fourth Baron Ratik bearing that name, and the count’s fair daughter, Evaleigh.

At this point Gord grew grim and interjected an oath, but Gellor calmed him sufficiently to continue relating the story before long. He helped the young thief to understand that politics and ambition were the moving forces behind what had transpired. Ratik is a backward place, but not so isolated as not to have its own spies and informants. The baron questioned the count as to the matter of Evaleigh’s kidnap and return, delicately inquiring as to her virginity. In this matter a lie will not do, and so it came to pass that the count had to dower his daughter with much gold for the marriage contract to be completed and the secret alliance forged.

In the course of discovering all this, Gellor had also found out that there was a nameless prisoner in the dungeon of Castle Blemu. With this knowledge, Gellor assumed the identity of General Nalbon of the House of Gellor, and Gord knew the rest. The alliance between the Ratikkan ruling dynasty and Dunstan was not in itself undesirable. The King of Nyrond was indeed pleased to have one of his vassals related to a potentially active enemy of Aerdy-so long as that vassal was still loyal to Archbold III.

“A realm stretching from Relmor Bay to Solnor Ocean, bounded by the Teesar Torrent, titillates the ambitions of His August Supremacy,” said Gellor. “When I send word of all I have learned to Rel Mord, it is a good bet that Castle Blemu shall have royal visitors soon, and thereafter certain fortresses containing the king’s own soldiers shall be constructed at the expense of the count, and their upkeep assisted by the loyal Dunstan!”

“Indeed that is a tale for which I thank you, my friend,” Gord said. “So my dear Evaleigh is to become the Palatine Baroness of Ratik… and dwell amidst the chill and barbarous wilds of that place while I roam freely through the warmer climes and am free to love whoever pleases me!” As that revelation came over him, Gord had to laugh. Gellor joined in with fellow feeling.

“Yes, indeed!” Gellor said brightly. “And her visits south to her father’s country shall be from a sovereign state to a part of the Kingdom of Nyrond-not a jaunt through a new realm composed of Ratik, Bone March, and Blemu’s fair hills and dells!”

“Where now?” asked Gord, his mood considerably brighter than it had been a couple of minutes ago.

“To the Gnomeking of these hills, and then what say you to a visit to Rel Mord? From there, who knows… perhaps south to Almor or back to the Bandit Kingdoms.”

“I have never traveled to Nyrond’s great capital,” Gord replied with enthusiasm. “It sounds like a good place to see-and then, I’m ready for any new place in this broad land!”

As they made camp for the night, Gord spoke to his friend. “You are older and wiser than I, Gellor. Tell me how Evaleigh could put aside love such as we shared for a liaison to a petty northern barony, albeit an independent realm.”

“Gord, my young friend, you are not being either realistic or fair. Would you have loved your little part-elven lass half so much had she been not so fair of face and form?” Gord was allowed a moment to ponder that, and then Gellor expanded upon the thought. “Did you pledge her true and faithful love forever? Or was it ardor and amour? What bright future did you paint? How would your children have been cared for?”

“Children? Future? What talk is that?” responded Gord. “We had passion and adventure, romance and excitement.”

“That is the stuff of dalliance and brief affairs, my lad, not a basis for an enduring relationship! Think on it: Evaleigh is young and beautiful, but female. She, as do all of her sex, seeks security, stability, sons and daughters. You, as a male, desire to spread your offspring far and wide, the more the merrier. Thus you gain a measure of immortality, for some will be certain to survive and carry on your line.

“In contrast, Evaleigh is aware that her own heritage must be limited to those children she herself bears. They must be cared for, nourished in mind and body, so that they thrive and grow to adulthood. That is how women gain their continuance, and it is quite the opposite of males!”

“But-”

“But me no buts, Gord. Your sweet Evaleigh did no more than any maid would do under like circumstances. She did no wrong by acquiescing to wedlock with one of like station and the comfort of being sovereign Baroness of Ratik. You would never lead such a life as will her devoted husband, and that is the sort of life she knows and desires. Had she gone off with you it would have been argument and unhappiness. You seek adventure, she the opposite. Eventually, you would have gone off and never returned, and then where would Evaleigh and your children have turned?”

“Children again? Why always that subject? None might have come.”

“And what if your bastard will one day rule Ratik?” Gellor shot back, but then softened his voice and continued. “Come now, Gord, enough of this banter. Let’s examine the bribes given us by the deceitful Count Blemu whilst I still have this cursed ocular in place!”

“What means ocular?” queried Gord.

“This globe here,” said Gellor, suppressing a smile as he tapped his left eyeball with his forefinger.

Gord recoiled at the sight of the nailed digit rapping against tender eye, but as there was no apparent pain or flinch on Gellor’s part, Gord’s reaction abruptly turned to bewilderment.

“You tap your pupil and feel nothing?” said the young thief quizzically.

“Of course not! It is a magical sphere, enchanted to appear to be nothing more than my own eye, but it is far different and quite difficult to get used to-or to wear for long periods, as it boggles my brain.”

Scrutiny revealed nothing magical to Gord, merely a clear gray eye. “You jest. Give me the truth, Gellor!”

“No jest at all,” said Gellor, and with that he reached up and popped the orb out of its socket. A wave of nausea washed over Gord as he watched the process and saw the eye now in Gellor’s palm.

“Now I must put it back,” continued Gellor, “so we can see our gifts in true sight. But at least your nagging doubts are silenced,” he added. And Gord had to admit that that was true.

After peering closely at his and Gord’s neck-chains, Gellor remarked that they were of good craftsmanship, with nothing noteworthy save that the gemstones set in his own were not of the highest quality-Count Blemu had not given as great a bribe as it first seemed.

Their gift blades were then laid out for inspection through the strange and enchanted ocular. Gord watched in fascination as Gellor went through his routine of perusal, first looking from a distance, then at each weapon separately. He informed his young friend that there were strange runes graven on the blade of the shortsword, and then after his minute inspection was over Gellor put both blades aside and in a moment was the Gellor of old, eye patch and grin included, relaxing and further explaining what he had discovered.

“Well, Gord,” he began, “I am surprised at these swords. Magicked weapons are not exactly uncommon, but…” He allowed the rest of this statement to drift off as he considered possible implications. He picked up the scabbard containing the weapon Gord had been given and asked, “Did the constable tell you anything about your blade?”

“He claimed it to be a specially forged alloy of steel and adamantite, difficult to break or dull, which would pierce dragon hide or armor. I think that was the whole of it.”

“It is that indeed,” Gellor confirmed. “Enchantments have been laid upon it to cause it to strike true and bite deep. It seems to have been made for elvenkind and sheds no glow of dweomer when employed, though the glyphs state that you may have its power to see your foes clearly,” and with that Gellor tossed the scabbarded weapon to Gord.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to determine what those signs and sigils portend when the sunlight is bright enough for you to detect them,” he continued. “I could not make them out exactly, and the powers of the blade are unknown to me. I am puzzled where the count got it-and why he bestowed it upon you, for it seems to be a very special weapon.”

“Probably he failed to recognize it as anything more than a small sword with some minor magics placed upon it,” speculated Gord.

“He and his court enchanter both? That is possible, I suppose… and it is well known that Dunstan himself greatly prefers the broadsword.”

Gord snapped his fingers as his memory sharpened. “Sir Mellard mentioned that the blade was taken from some adversary in the fighting on the northern border,” he told Gellor.

“Interesting, but it tells us nothing but that some mercenary, bandit, or humanoid scum picked it from a corpse elsewhere,” Gellor commented.

“What of the sword given you, Gellor?” inquired Gord as he put aside his weapon for further study next day.

“In a bit,” said Gellor through a yawn. “Using that eye for such intense work wearies me. Stand the first watch, captain, while your general dozes.” Several minutes later, after Gellor had settled himself for rest, he spoke again briefly.

“My weapon is another odd one, my friend, and I am uncertain as to the details of its power and purpose, just as I know not all about the one you have there. One thing I discern is that it claims to be invisible, when used, to all save its wielder… but let us discover the truth of that claim on the morrow,” he concluded sleepily. Almost immediately thereafter, Gellor began snoring. Gord strapped on his new sword, more from pride than the suspicion that he would need it, and began his sentry duty.

They had made no fire, as they sought to attract no attention to themselves. Gord moved silently away from the small hollow and began his vigil, occasionally moving his position, for drowsiness crept upon him if he stayed still too long, and always remaining quiet and shadow-wrapped.

Perhaps he did doze for a moment-for the next thing he knew, his sword slapped into his hand, unbidden! Gord’s eyes flew open and met the unwinking gaze of a pair of feral yellow ones watching him from not thirty feet distant.

Oddly, the night seemed to have changed, for Gord could see the terrain in starker relief than he had ever experienced before. In fact, Gord noted that the lupine form from which the yellow glare emanated was brighter than the bush under which it crouched, watching him. It suddenly came upon Gord that his vision now detected heat just as if it were light. That was the seeing of many sorts of demi-humans, and he now had this ability! The sword he grasped in readiness was the answer, of course.

The wolflike creature began to creep ahead almost imperceptibly, and at this Gord quickly drew his long dagger with his left hand. The young man’s rapid unsheathing of that weapon and his tense crouch caused the watcher to flatten its partially raised form and shift itself backward. There was virtually no sound, and the beast seemed to believe itself hidden from Gord’s sight. As it was, Gord could see what happened next even though the tall grass and brush obscured much of his new visual ability.

After withdrawing to a position behind the bush, the creature stood on its hind legs-and its form shifted, rapidly changing into that of a female, with short hair, unclad as far as Gord could tell from where he crouched. Just as Gord was about to slip forward and investigate this weird phenomenon, the female-like creature broke into a soft, lilting song. The low, sweet strains of this melody stole over Gord and prevented his moving.

No, not prevented, he thought, analyzing his changed purpose; the song simply made him wish to stay still so he could listen without anything interfering with his concentration. It was a most wonderful air. He could not quite understand its words, but they promised gentle love and contentment. If he could listen but a little longer, Gord knew that he would understand the lyrics and gain something he had truly desired all his life.

The singing grew no louder, but the naked singer came slowly toward him, moving silently, smiling, and now crooning to him with a voice that promised paradise. This approach caused the sword he had allowed to droop to suddenly rise without any desire on Gord’s part. The blade leapt upward, tip pointing toward the naked breast advancing upon it, the handle sending unpleasant burning through Gord’s hand and along the very nerves of his arm. He tried to drop the weapon, but instead of relaxing their hold, his disobedient fingers grasped it tighter, and the tingling became a sharp pain.

Gord shook his head to clear the sudden onrush of the sensation upon his brain, and as he did so, the sound of the singing changed. He no longer felt lulled by it, his body was not relaxed and heavy, and his mind no longer found unguessed meanings and total joy in the melody. Gord again moved into a crouch, weapon on guard before him.

The naked singer ceased the melody at this, seeing that it was not having the desired effect. She was just beyond the reach of his sword’s thrust, and Gord could see her visage clearly. It was wild-looking and beautiful, but as he looked upon it, her lips drew back into a grimace of hatred and ferocity, and small, sharp teeth were revealed by this snarl. She sprang at Gord, changing into lupine form even as her body launched itself toward him. The sword’s blade was suddenly limned with a faint silvery gleam, and Gord caught the leaping form upon the weapon’s point, using it to both wound and deflect the rush of the attacker. The creature, now a huge wolf, howled with terrible pain, rolled several times after striking the ground beside Gord, and then dashed away uttering mournful yowls.

Gellor was next to him within seconds after this last had happened, his own longsword unsheathed, but the naked steel was unnecessary. The wolfwere, as Gellor called it, was certainly not likely to return this night. Nevertheless, the older man took guard duty thereafter, his magicked ocular back in place, while Gord slept an uneasy sleep.

 

Chapter 24

 

The stone halls and burrows of the Gnomeking’s domain gave Gord a touch of claustrophobia-but not because they were barely tall enough for him to walk through; indeed, some of the chambers were quite large. Rather, the surrounding rock reminded him too much of his former prison in Blemu’s deep dungeon, and also of his flight with Evaleigh through the warren of passages beneath the palace at Stoink.

The little, gnarly demi-humans were friendly enough, and even kind to him. The Gnomeking, Warren apHiller, gave the two humans not only an audience, but a banquet. It was obvious that he knew Gellor from times past, and the king and the one-eyed man soon closeted themselves, covering in private (as Gellor later told Gord) the affairs that were to be relayed to Rel Mord.

Despite the friendliness of the gnomes, Gord was pleased when his friend told him that they would stay no longer than the three days that courtesy demanded, and thereafter they would move on. The grottoes and giant badgers of the gnome kingdom were interesting but for a short time. Even more intriguing to Gord were the gems displayed by these folk, but as a guest he could not ply his professional skills to acquire any of the valuables. Yes, three days was quite enough time to spend with the gnomes.

Instead of heading westward toward Rel Mord when they departed, Gellor said they must go south to the area of Innspa first. Rel Mord could wait, for according to the Gnomeking there was something brewing in the vast reaches of the Adri Forest that needed looking into. The prospect of action excited Gord, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany his friend on this mission, volunteering to do whatever he could to aid Gellor.

They rode through the hills, making excellent time with help from gnomes and hillmen they encountered, coupled with Gellor’s knowledge of the area. Gord was quite surprised to see several large contingents of armed gnomes, as well as some hillmen warbands, marching northward. Gellor told him that Gnomeking Warren had sent out a call the very day the two of them had arrived, and the forces he was gathering would join the troops Nyrond had sent into the Blemu Hills. The ruler of the gnomes of the Flinty Hills desired to reestablish his kinsmen in the Blemus once again, while avenging the slaughter of those clans of the small demi-humans who had dwelt there before the hordes of orcs, gnolls, and others overran the hills. The tough warbands of hillmen would return home after lending their aid, but most of the gnomes would resettle in the northern uplands verged by the Teesar.

With such armed might aswarm, the Flinty Hills were a safe place to be in, for no hostile humanoids or monsters dared to show themselves while soldiers marched everywhere within these tors and vales. In a couple of days the two adventurers descended from the mounds of the Flinties and took a road that ran parallel to the highlands. This was the very route that Gord had decided would not carry him and Evaleigh toward Knurl, and he was gratified to find out now that his decision about the road had been correct. Now he and Gellor followed its course to Innspa some fifty leagues distant.

As befitted the second part of its name, the town was a place of bubbling springs-some cold, some hot, and many of both oddly colored or imbued with strange odors. While a few of these were open and common, most were contained within some edifice or another. Besides these baths and centers that promised various sorts of invigoration, cures, and whatnot, the walled place had more hostels, taverns, and inns than any community Gord had ever experienced-hence the first part of its name. The place also boasted more than a half-hundred religious buildings, ranging from small shrines to large temples and great cathedrals.

Although Gord found one or two of the many sorts of waters offered for drinking to be flavorful or refreshing, he had no interest in mineral-bath immersions, geysering showers, steaming, coating with mud, or any other such activities; and his experience with clericism, such as it was, made him shun the places of devotion and worship. All in all, he was very anxious to move on, just as he had been when with the gnomes a fortnight before.

Fortunately for Gord, Innspa was located just within the edge of the westernmost fringe of the Adri; they were so close to their destination that he suspected they would push on soon. Gellor had a few calls to make in the town and some information to gather, but after a day to rest their coursers and allow them the luxury of stall and grain, the two were pushing into the depths of the timberland.

The trees grew thickly over the last folds of the Flinties here, but his companion told Gord that soon the forest floor would become level. “Soon” turned out to be nearly three days, but then the terrain proved to be as promised. In the heart of the woodland, the trees were all towering giants. Interlaced branches far above their heads and dead leaves under their feet made travel easy, since little underbrush could grow under such conditions. Gellor spent quite a bit of time pointing out different types of trees and animal signs to the city-bred young thief. Gord knew most of the common trees-oak, maple, ipp, and chestnut, for instance. Hornwood and ash were not so familiar to him, and the roan woods and great yews amazed him. He had heard of the yarpick tree but never seen one, and its long and deadly thorns likewise fascinated him when the two wayfarers came across such a tree growing at the verge of a rocky meadow within the forest.

Gord was also treated to his first sight of the gigantically antlered deer that roamed the Adri. He and Gellor remained still when they encountered a herd of about a dozen such animals, and the beasts neither charged nor immediately fled. After the herd did bound away, Gellor said that the game within the woodland was plentiful-all sorts of bears, wild boars and sows, elk, deer, wolves, lions and smaller cats too, aurochs and herds of wild cattle, plus the usual variety of smaller sorts of game.

Although the woodsfolk who lived within the Adri Forest hunted frequently and with much success, they never took more than they needed. Further, Gellor explained, their foresting of certain of the trees was done to provide grassy clearings for grazing and allow new growth as well. This seemed a quite intelligent and civilized way of life to the young thief-but this knowledge in no way prepared him for his first meeting with the forest-dwellers, which came almost immediately thereafter.

They rode past a meadow and along a game trail that wound eastward. At a widening of this path, an arrow suddenly thunked into the bole of a tree beside Gellor, and within seconds men clad in brown and green appeared among the trees all around them. Gord reached instinctively for his sword, but his friend stayed his hand with a gesture just as one of the tall woodsmen stepped forward from the foliage and spoke.

“Gellor, you old bastard! That shaft came near to skewering your nose, and you never flinched!” he shouted.

“I trust your aim too well for flinching, Stalker, but you must be getting old, too. I saw you at least two seconds before you loosed that arrow!”

“What brings you to our fair forest, you miserable minion of the mighty? Hear that there was a hot young dryad new to this place?”

“Hell, no-I wanted to see if you were really as ugly as I remembered you to be!” the grinning, one-eyed man retorted.

“Then climb down off that nag and take a look with that one peeper you still got, ’cause when I get through with you, it’ll be swollen shut but good.”

As Gellor dismounted, Gord did the same, uncertain just what was going to happen. All that took place was a spirited round of hand-clasping and back-thumping between Gellor and the one called Stalker, intermingled with more bad jokes and insults. Then Gord was introduced to the dozen woodsmen headed by Stalker, who all received him warmly. They reminded Gord of the hillfolk that he and Gellor had encountered earlier on their journey-but, to Gord’s mild amazement, these men were even bigger.

One huge fellow named Chert took an instant liking to the small thief and soon was telling him all about the forest, its folk, and the community. Chert said he was not originally from this portion of the forest, having been born and raised by the hill foresters not distant, but he came to like the more civilized amenities offered in this neck of the woods and had joined up with Stalker’s boys. This information made Gord wonder what the hill foresters were like, for a rougher and tougher lot than these woodsmen he could not imagine.

Towering at least two inches above any of the other tall woodsmen, Chert was indeed a sight to behold. His huge shoulders and brawny chest tapered to a still-massive waist, which looked less substantial than it actually was only because its girth was small in relation to his great torso. His upper body was held up by two legs corded with muscles and as large as tree trunks, while his mighty arms exuded the strength that had come from wielding axe and bow since childhood. Chert seemed to be totally unaware of his own stature and power, and Gord thought of him as a massive bear cub who had unknowingly grown into adulthood. A great paw clapped Gord on his shoulder, and a broad, handsome face topped by a tangled heap of curly, brown hair smiled openly down at him.

“Come on,” said the giant. “Stay in my hut while you’re in town. Your pal Gellor will be batting the breeze with Stalker and Ned Horn all night.”

Gord wondered where “town” was, for all he saw was a closely grouped bunch of thirty or forty rude log huts, so positioned and surrounded by growth as to make the cluster of small houses invisible from a hundred yards away. Chert’s own dwelling was built utilizing a partially fallen tree as the roofbeam. The hut was roomier inside than it appeared to be from without, and although it was messy, the place was comfortable enough.

His host casually dropped his huge longbow and quiver of arrows near the door, flipped his axe so that it buried itself in a log on the far wall, divested himself of his thick leather jerkin, and sprawled down on the heap of skins that served as his bed, telling Gord to round up whatever stray hides and pelts he could find-and there were plenty to be had-and relax too.

“I’ve got some good ale there,” Chert said, indicating a small barrel near his feet, “and drinking horns are everywhere. Just find one someplace, shake out whatever’s in it, and help yourself. I want you to tell me what the rest of the country is like.”

Gord couldn’t help but like this big barbarian, yokel though he was. His quaint speech and unusual mannerisms were unaffected and honest. These virtues disarmed Gord by easy stages, being unaccustomed as he was to meeting folk who displayed such straightforward characteristics. So the young thief soon found himself talking about Greyhawk City, Urnst, his foray into the Theocracy, and so on. Between frequent interruptions for a question or some homely comparison to Chert’s own limited scope of adventurous trekking, Gord managed to reveal a fair amount of what he had seen and done during his life. In turn, he discovered that although rustic, the steely-eyed barbarian was no savage, but rather a bold and knowledgeable adventurer in his own realm of woodlands and wilds.

Their conversation was cut short by one of the men from the forest thorp, calling them both to come to the council clearing. Chert jumped up, pulled on his leather jerkin, yanked his axe loose from its resting place, and tucked the weapon into his belt. When Gord asked his young host why he was donning armor and weapons for a meeting, Chert simply told him that everyone did so at such gatherings. So Gord buckled on his own sword just as another head poked into the hut.

“Hey, Chert, let’s go! I’ll walk with you,” the newcomer said. Then he smiled at Gord and introduced himself. “You must be Gellor’s friend, Gord. I’m Greenleaf-your servant, sir.” He smiled more broadly as he added, “Friends call me Curley,” while he passed a hand over his bald pate.

“Sure, Curley,” the barbarian woodsman boomed in reply. “Let’s all three go together. Gord’s all set, and I’ll just get my spear, and we can get moving.”

The gathering place was about half a mile from the camp. As they walked, Curley told the two younger men that there was serious trouble brewing, but he wouldn’t say any more, because it was Stalker, as leader of the community, who had the privilege and duty to bring such things before the people.

Gord liked Curley right away, although he was quite an unusual character. There was no question he was of mixed parentage; his pointed ears and bright green eyes made his elven ancestry obvious. His human heritage was evidenced by his hairless head, broad shoulders, and somewhat rotund build, plus his height of nearly six feet. Although the fellow appeared small next to the towering Chert, he was still bigger than Gord-who was, actually, about the same height as a mature male elf.

Around Curley’s neck was a gold chain from which hung a golden sun with an enameled tree upon it. When Curley noticed Gord’s curiosity about it, the fellow explained that the necklace was his devotional symbol-the sun and the Tree of Life, as he called it, being representations of Nature.

“We’re druidical folk here, you know, and I am presently serving as the spiritual counselor for this little community,” he told Gord earnestly.

“And what of the little gold leaves forming the chain?” inquired Gord. “I see some are enameled green, while others are not.”

The druid said that this was just his particular preference, but Chert interjected that it was because he was proud of being a member of the Eighth Circle-whatever that was-and if Gord could count that high, he’d find that four leaves on each side of the symbol had been colored green. Thus, eight curled green leaves--denoting the druid’s rank, and his name too.

“He’s a show-off, but not a bad guy,” Chert concluded, throwing a smirk in Curley’s direction.

They came to a place in the forest where the surrounding hills formed a small, natural amphitheater. About fifty armed men were present, plus roughly the same number of women, most of them also bearing weapons, and many more children. The assemblage was quiet, and even the youngsters seemed dignified and reserved. As Gord watched, several more family groups and a few lone men drifted in from the trees that ringed the hilltops and moved to places where they sat or stood while exchanging low greetings with those around them.

Curley Greenleaf took his leave of Gord and Chert and headed for a cleared place at the bottom of the bowl-shaped dell where both Stalker and Gellor already stood. In a moment these two were joined by the druid and a tall, handsome woman, clad in a dark green robe, who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Gord asked Chert who she was, and the barbarian replied that she was some sort of spell-binder or something, and he didn’t trust her much.

After looking slowly around the circumference of the dale, the leader of the community began speaking. Stalker’s deep voice carried well, even though he was not shouting; the place was formed such that even those near the top of the low hillsides could hear him clearly. He simply announced that the gathering was summoned so that all could hear the message of Gellor, whom he referred to as an old and trusted friend of the folk who dwelled in Adri Forest. Stalker affirmed, for the sake of those who did not know Gellor, that they could rely upon him for candor and truth.

“Free folk of Adri are not much concerned with the affairs of kings and princes-this I know,” began Gellor. “Aerdy or Nyrond are not masters you wish to serve. Neither is desirable, so you pit one against the other and thus remain free of both, as well Rel Mord and Rauxes understand. There is a difference between the two thrones, though, and you are as able as I to state it. Nyrond and her allies think that their rule would be just and fair, while the Overking of Aerdy cares nothing for such ethical considerations, desiring only tyrannical power.”

There were a few murmurs from the listeners. Several called out agreement, but noted that even a well-meaning oppressor is still nothing more than a despot.

“Do not mistake my purpose!” Gellor cried in reply. “I am not here to apologize for any crown, nor to urge acceptance of any yoke. You are woodsmen, and you bend your knee to no monarch. I serve many crowns, but I also desire nothing less than the right of liberty, which you now hold, and your continued freedom. That is why I stand before you now. Life and liberty are threatened, and it is my duty to give warning. This is a grave matter, and you must decide what course you will follow,” Gellor said somberly.

“The facts are these: What was mistaken for merely an ambitious scheme to create a petty new kingdom to the north is actually a machination of Ivid.” At the mention of the Over-king’s name, several of the audience spat. The one-eyed speaker went on without comment.

“My own initial assessment of the situation was mistaken, and I have been party to this, unwittingly, until now. A Nyrondel army, with many auxiliary forces, is even now assembling to meet in the Blemu Hills. King Archbold himself will lead the force, and its purpose is to finish the destruction of the humanoid state that has ensconced itself in Bone March, secure the new fief for Nyrond, and establish a strong frontier between that state and the advancing Ratikkans.

“Such in itself is of little interest to the free folk of Adri,” Gellor continued as more scattered mutterings arose from the crowd. “But there is more to the story than first seems.”

“The force in the Blemu Hills now gives the Overking a target. If he can defeat the Nyrondel host there, Aerdy would regain the whole of her lost northern frontier, from the Flinty Hills to the mountains that guard Ratik’s southern border. Worse still, if the advancing Nyrondel army is caught in a cauldron between the Harp River and the Teesar Torrent, with Aerdian forces to the south and east and savage tribes of humanoids to the north, then Archbold is between mountain and murder. He and a few could certainly make good an escape, but the rest would die by the thousands, unable to retreat and opposed by overwhelming numbers of foemen.

“Oh, the battle would be bloody on both sides, and the cost to the Malachite Throne high, but what cares the Overking for soldiers? The slaughter of the Nyrondel army and its allied divisions would cripple the capacity of Archbold, even with help from the Prelacy of Almor, to defend his eastern borders. The Overking’s frontier would leap westward in a rush, and all of Adri Forest would be within the Great Kingdom once again! Ivid’s heavy hand would grasp the lands from the Flinty Hills to that branch of the Harp River known as the Lyre. Perhaps Chathold would even fall, perhaps not, but Almor would be hard pressed to retain its lands east of the Harp.”

As Gellor paused briefly to let this sink in, some of those assembled voiced their concern with shouts of “How could all of this happen?” and “What would you have us do?” and similar remarks. When the speaker resumed, he did so by responding to the crowd.

“How came this to pass is unimportant,” Gellor admonished, “for you and I can only speculate fruitlessly. What is happening is that even as we speak, the might of the Great Kingdom is moving toward the goal I have just told you of. One of its armies musters in distant Jalpa, and another in Prymp. Neither is likely to move immediately, but they will be held, waiting victory in the north, and then Herzog Chelor’s host will join that of Ivid to attack Almor.

“Closer to home, the Overking’s own guards, with many others too, have left Edgefield and are within the northern expanse of this great forest.” Here Gellor was forced to pause a full minute while the audience vented its surprise and anger at this revelation.

“That horde is led by renegade woodsmen and forest bandits, who will guide the army swiftly to Woodford. It appears that its objective is to storm Knurl from the west, thus placing itself as an axe across the artery of Archbold’s line of communication and supply. Meanwhile, the supposedly beaten forces of North Province, commanded by the jackal Grenell, have marched from Eastfair. This troop reportedly is bolstered with many mercenary men-at-arms and is picking up contingents of humanoids as it goes. Either at Flosh Crossing or Ongleford, the force will come across Teesar Torrent, thus closing the jaws of the trap upon Archbold.”

“And what can a handful of fighters do about all that?” demanded a bearded fellow at the front of the ringing circle of woodsfolk.

“We are few,” Stalker called back in reply. “The folk are many, however. If we send runners and Sperling here puts out her messages, and we thus gather ourselves, we too become an army.”

“Why should we take arms against the stinking Aerdians to rescue the swine of Nyrond?” came the rejoinder from the bearded man. “It seems we benefit when such scoundrels as these fight each other. The dogs commanded by Ivid dare not come far within these leafy precincts to carry his writ.”

At this, Curley Greenleaf stepped forward. “They do indeed dare entry into our forest,” he said firmly. “I know this, for my brothers and sisters of our Order have brought me word of this boldness. And because of it, we druids have decided to take the side of Nyrond. The advancing army has been wicked. All woodsfolk captured have been put to the sword. The sacred groves have been laid low,” the druid said with clear hatred in his voice.

“The evil force moves swiftly and attempts secrecy, but they cannot hem in all of us-some folk manage to avoid the swarming scouts who go before the horde, and druids have other means of foiling capture. What is dared now will be repeated again and again-unless these trespassers are given a lesson in manners,” Curley concluded.

Those remarks were greeted by general agreement and some cheering from the gathering. The brief debate ended, and the topic became how best to put a plan into action. Eventually the woodsfolk agreed that a handful of the swiftest runners would carry word to the surrounding areas, and the forces of the area would meet at Oddgrave Hill, the place that Curley Greenleaf said was serving as the focal point for all of the woodsfolk willing to bear arms against the marauding army. Then the assembled folk quickly dispersed, each going off to ready his affairs for whatever part each chose in the coming days.

Gellor pulled Gord aside and inquired what the young man planned to do. Gord said he had not thought much about it, but it was likely that he’d join with the woodsmen if they had no objection. A fight such as this promised to be was something he had never experienced, and who could tell what would come out of it? His friend nodded in pleasure at Gord’s decision, wished him well, and told Gord that he hoped to see him again when the bands gathered at Oddgrave Hill for the march to Woodford. Gellor would be briefly occupied by certain things that needed his personal attention, but he said that he would be at the great gathering place before the warbands marched.

It required the rest of that day and all of the next for the members of Stalker’s community to prepare for their journey and to wait for the return of the messengers who had gone out.

Gord busied himself by procuring a piece of tough but supple leather and using his dagger to cut and shape it into a sling, which he thought would be handy in the days to come. Then he searched out a good pouchful of properly sized stones, practiced for a while, and felt satisfied that his sling would be a good addition to the woodsfolk’s large and varied collection of missile weapons.

Counting a scattering of fighters who came from isolated dwellings nearby, the group that had assembled by nightfall of the second day numbered two score, about a third of whom were women. Most carried longbows and short, broad-bladed spears in addition to axes of all sorts, and a very few carried swords at their belts. Most of the women were clad in leathern coats and carried bows only slightly smaller than those of the men. These latter folk were more heavily protected, generally wearing shirts of scale or chain mail under their rough brown and green clothing.

Chert had given his new companion a cloak of olive hue to wear over his black garments, and it was such a great expanse of cloth that Gord had to slice off a broad strip from its hem so that it would not drag on the ground behind him like some cleric’s long ceremonial train. A friendly neighbor gladly plied her needle to make a new hem, and the cut-off strip became a tabard to cover the polished black cuirass of hard leather Gord wore. Save for his black boots and his lack of a bow, he might have been one of the lads from the forest, bent on joining the impending fray.

 

Next morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, the warband led by Stalker went forth, following forest path and game trail in a northeasterly direction, heading for the rendezvous at Oddgrave Hill. Curley Greenleaf was with the company, and rather than take a position of status at the head of the column, he strode merrily along with Gord and Chert near the rear, telling stories, uttering bad jokes and worse puns, and generally making the march seem shorter and easier by his presence.

Gord asked Curley numerous questions about druids and the druidical belief, and the bald fellow was only too pleased to reply at length to such inquiries. Chert grumbled that he cared nothing about such stuff, but he listened all the same and occasionally chimed in himself on one point or another. They covered some thirty miles thus, and picked up another ten fighters along the route, so when evening camp was made, the warband numbered over fifty.

Stalker spoke to the warriors that night, giving them advice on how the enemy was likely to react and fight. The arrows of the woodsfolk must be made to tell, for at close quarters the well-armored Aerdians were certainly likely to give far better than they got. The warband leader then divided his company into five sub-bands. Each of these squads had its own leader who would take instructions from Stalker and see that the fighters in his or her group did precisely what they were told.

Both Gord and Chert were assigned to a woman called Wren, who was nothing like her name, being nearly as tall as Chert and hefting a bardiche heavier than the brawny barbarian’s own great axe. As the two young men were eating their portions of the half-raw, greasy meat provided by a hungry bear that had ventured close to the humans, thinking to find its own dinner, their newly assigned commander came over and joined them. Wren gnawed on a piece of meat, eyed them critically, and addressed Chert first.

“You I know about, big boy,” she said disdainfully but in a jesting tone. “Stay back and don’t go rushing out until I give you a whistle! Now, what about shorty here? He hasn’t got a bow, and he’s too small to go hand-to-hand with those beefy soldiers the Overking favors…. Can he tend wounded?”

This irritated the young thief, so he snapped off a response before the barbarian could swallow the hunk of tough meat he was chewing on and reply to the query, which was actually directed at Chert.

“The name is Gord,” he said angrily. “I answer all questions about myself, and I fight well enough for any to fear-beefy soldier and beefy woodsman alike!”

As soon as he’d said that last statement, Gord regretted his words. What he had said was insulting and unfair-and it was foolish to pick a quarrel with one’s swordmate. Besides, while she was large indeed, the proportions displayed by Wren were by no means beefy. Voluptuous, yes, but not beefy. The woman took no offense; in fact, her reaction was quite the opposite of what Gord had expected to hear.

“Gord it is,” she said, buffeting him on the back in comradely fashion. “If you fight as tough as you talk, then I’ll be glad to have you by my side.”

Gord drew forth his sling, displaying the thonged leather pouch to both Wren and Chert. “This bit of hide can send stony kisses to enemies just as your bows send their shafts,” he said, “although I admit that amidst these trunks it is a more difficult task. I also ply shortsword and dagger with sufficient skill to have brought ruin to one or two foemen. Trust me to fight alongside my fellows as long as there is cause to do so.”

Wren sat with them and proceeded to finish her meal in their company. The three talked, and it soon became obvious to Gord that her purpose was to seek out Chert, not to speak of the coming battle or give instructions. The muscular giant was friendly and talkative in return, but he made no response to the overtures Wren offered, and when she said she thought a walk in the forest would help her to loosen tired muscles and cause sounder sleep, Chert cheerfully wished the brown-haired and buxom warrior an enjoyable stroll and a good slumber. Her hazel eyes snapping, Wren left with a curt nod, her long braids bouncing.

“Are you blind, man?!” Gord hissed at his companion. “That woman is terrific, and she was almost begging you to go off into the woods for some loving!” Chert shrugged, and Gord grew suddenly suspicious. “You’re not…?” He let the thought trail off, reluctant to finish it and sorry that he had brought up the subject.

“No!” Chert asserted hotly, fully aware of what Gord had been getting at. “It’s just that I only like women with golden tresses and eyes of azure…. Some time I’ll tell you about a dark-haired wench who nearly sundered my heart, but not now. The time has come to flush talk of females and get some shuteye.”

Gord was tired from the hard and fast trek, so he readily agreed. Both men slept soundly until morning, ate the meager ration allotted to them, and were once again striding along toward the gathering place at Oddgrave Hill. That day and the next were pretty much the same, and Gord grew used to the marching, so he was less irritable and more lively when dusk fell. Chert and Wren had resumed an easy, bantering relationship the day after he had spurned her advances. Chert himself had broken the standoff by pinching the woman and making a suggestive comment. Soon she was as friendly and cheerful as before, and the barbarian giant was now almost pursuing rather than being pursued.

Gord thought that perhaps Chert was both a bit shy with women and not very experienced with their ways, so that instead of being unresponsive to Wren’s offer of favors, the fellow had simply not understood the intent. Well, it was too late now, for the next day they would be at the great gathering and then off to Woodford, he supposed, to confront the advancing horde.

 

By the time Gord and his companions arrived at Oddgrave Hill, several thousand of the free woodsfolk were gathered there, all armed and preparing for the battle. Stalker’s war-band became a part of a brigade numbering nearly a thousand. This force was to be a flank company with some special mission that would stay undisclosed until the whole army was in position.

More groups came in on the same day that Stalker’s did, and at the leaders’ council held that night it was decided to wait no longer for any others who might be on their way. The army of woodsmen now totaled about six thousand in all, and no more than a few hundred additional fighters could be expected. The time was at hand to march the ten remaining leagues between them and the crossing of the Harp, so that the invading army sent by Overking Ivid of Aerdy would have to fight both river and woodsfolk in order to succeed.

 

Chapter 25

 

The broad waters of the Harp River at Woodford were wide and rippling between tree-lined banks. Save for a deeper channel near the western shore, the depth was nowhere above the knees. At the one deeper place, a stretch of perhaps fifteen yards in width, the waters had managed to dig a place nearly waist-deep, but solid granite bedrock had resisted erosion beyond this, and man, animal, or even cart could ford the river here without difficulty or danger of drowning. A narrow road, one of only a very few indeed within the Adri Forest, led to the shallow place and away from the other side of the river. This set of pleasant circumstances had led to many groups using this ford-the latest of which was to be the army of Overking Ivid, which was advancing toward the river from the east.

The Overking’s force was an impressive one. Ahead of the formations went a swarm of light troops, some afoot and some horsed, to scout and make certain that no men encountered could carry news of the army’s coming to its enemies. These scouts were evil woodsmen, bandits, and the worst of the mercenary companies, and they were like a small army themselves, for they numbered well over a thousand, with a main body of light cavalry ready to charge into battle or carry news swiftly to the horde behind.

Normally, these advance troops were anywhere from half a mile to two miles ahead of the slow-moving army behind. The roadway allowed them to move faster than usual, however, and they were now easily two leagues in advance of their fellows. The advance group’s commander, General Lomor, the Margrave of Uskedge, drove this swarm of murderers and looters far ahead today because he feared that there would be a hostile force barring the ford. Also, for this same reason, he had with him several companies of light mercenary infantry plus a squadron of the Overking’s personal armored lancers. With these reinforcements he felt he could brush aside any resistance and hold the crossing until the bulk of the army came up-General Lomor was pleased to find the place tranquil on the morning he arrived. Several hundred scouts had splashed through the cold water and combed the west bank, sending back word that no sign of an enemy could be found. Now his whole force was past the dangerous ford, while a courier group hastened back to give this happy intelligence to Grand Marshal Dreek.

The Aerdian general was just giving orders to send a small company of mercenary horse and foot farther ahead, while the main body of the advance waited for word from the rear, when a storm of arrows rained upon the troops. The broadheaded shafts bit through armor, killing men and horses as if a giant scythe had passed through the force. Even as the first shouts and screams were being voiced, a second volley of missiles struck, and then a third.

The general, being not a complete fool, understood immediately that a horseshoe-shaped ambush had been laid on this western side of the river, and his soldiers were caught between the offensive and the waters they had just forded. He turned and rode off immediately, his bright gold and red banner bearing the arms of Uskedge signaling the route of the retreat, even as his herald sounded the fact on his horn. The general made good his flight, but no more than a few notes came from the herald’s trumpet before a half-dozen long arrows silenced its owner forever.

Half of the advance force of the Aerdian army escaped the ambush. These survivors were mostly mounted, of course, their horses enabling them to flee the onrush of men that followed the initial arrow storm. General Lomor was at midstream on his way back across the river when the fullness of his disaster came upon him. More cloth yard shafts flew from the supposedly safe bank to the east. His accompanying clerics, and the magic-user near them, began to prepare their spells but, exposed as they were in the middle of the river, none managed anything significant. The Margrave attempted to rally his remaining troops and make a stand where they were, while the spell-binders sheltered behind shields and men to work their desperately needed assistance.

Suddenly, a cloud of biting and stinging insects buzzed around the trapped force. There was a confused scramble among men and mounts, all trying to escape the plague of pests, while still more arrows sped into the cluster of invaders with a sound similar to the hornets that were stinging them with less deadly effect.

The sole surviving magic-user, a warlock calling himself Comet, managed to dispel the magically created insect swarm, but then the enemies from both sides of the river closed on the trapped remnants of the Aerdian advance force. General Lomor threw down his sword and cried for quarter, but no prisoners were being taken. His body fell into the water moments later, across that of his warlock, and the fight was over. Not one of the invaders remained alive, and none had succeeded in breaking through the ambush to get back and warn their fellows.

An hour passed before the lead elements of the Aerdian main battle, as the central division of the army was called, arrived at Woodford. The place was quiet, the waters were still, and no trace of fighting was apparent. The troop of light horse saw a strong body of mercenary infantry spread about on the opposite shore, evidently on guard against any possible foe, but obviously relaxed and awaiting the arrival of the Grand Marshal’s army so they could push forward again to scout. Just visible on the road in the distance was the banner of General Lomor, the ensign surrounded by a small body of cavalry, moving westward away from the river.

Another small body of mounted men appeared from the trees along the east bank and waved to their fellows on the opposite side of the Harp River, signaling that all was well. The cavalry troop came across the ford first, keeping their horses at a slow but steady walk. The head of the Marshal’s long column of soldiers was marching swiftly toward the crossing place, and the horsemen wished to get clear of the ford before the soldiers arrived. There was no love lost between the cavalry, who were mercenaries, and the oncoming imperial and noble contingents.

The blue and gold tabards of the Overking’s Guard proclaimed the coming of the army. Although the noon sun was now being obscured by slowly thickening clouds, the crowned sun on each tabard’s deep blue field seemed to glitter without the aid of beams from the real one above. The leading regiment was of archers, a thousand strong, shortbows slung, short spears shouldered for the march. Behind them came a like regiment of crossbowmen equipped with great arbalests and swords. Together these two units composed the first brigade of heavy foot, for they wore chainmail and stood in close formation.

Behind them came the serried ranks of pole-armed infantry, imperial troops who bore glaive-guisarmes and fauchard-forks. After a suitable interval came the disdainful and haughty riders of Ivid’s Own Cavalry-light horsemen with small crossbows, bucklers, and javelins; then mounted sergeants in plate mail with lances, flails, and shields; and finally the so-called Knights of the Malachite Throne, in even heavier armor, bearing an array of heavy swords and axes in addition to lance and shield.

All of these horsemen held their slender javelins and long lances aloft, pennons astream, to proudly proclaim their presence. Although there were but three thousand of them, they considered themselves to be the finest and best soldiers in the army. In truth, these cavalry were indeed terrible foes in battle, but in a place such as the Adri Forest they were not of much use. They, and the pole-armed phalanxes as well, were much better suited for employment in the open terrain at Knurl and in the Blemu Hills.

At some little distance after the horsemen came a regiment of voulgeers, their long weapons surmounted by cleaverlike steel heads, and also proclaiming their imperial status by their bold colors. Thereafter came the train of artillerists, engineers, and sappers who marched with the baggage and supply.

A small company of mercenary light cavalry served as drab punctuation at the end of the Overking’s main battle.

A quarter of a mile farther back, the rear portion of this host was arrayed. This last division was a motley collection, composed of some two thousand infantry belonging to the noble contingents levied at the Overking’s behest. These footmen displayed a rainbow of colors and armorial devices, marking which lord they served. Weapons and armor likewise varied as widely, ranging from ranseur and halberd to axe and crossbow. There were relatively few infantry in this unit, compared to the total number of men in the force, because their noble masters deemed such troops to be fit mainly for use as a buffer to absorb missiles and even magical attacks prior to the charge of their more numerous mounted troops.

Farther back, a host of pennants, bannerols, and oddly shaped standards marked the noble lords, knights, and esquires who were riding before an even larger group of their mounted men-at-arms. As varied as the foregoing foot soldiers, this group of cavalry was as numerous as the imperial horsemen-although of questionable merit at times due to lack of discipline, for every baron, plar, count, or whatever felt himself a prince and peer to all the others. Nonetheless, once it was in motion, this mixed brigade was formidable in the extreme.

At a respectful interval came the last elements of the army, a tail of mercenary light horse and skirmish infantry totaling perhaps another thousand, placed to absorb any sudden surprise from the rear. This vast force, strung out for miles, was about to receive a blow upon its head that the body and tail would be able to react to in saurian fashion only.

The foremost riders were well across the ford and amidst their supposed counterparts before a sharp-eyed member of the mercenary troop alerted his fellows that the men around them were not friends. The resulting melee decimated the force and sent the survivors in rout, but served to alert the archers who were nearly across the river and the crossbowmen just behind, and thus the whole main battle soon knew what was happening. The Battle at Woodford now commenced.

The longbowmen of the woodsfolk were ranged for three hundred yards along the west bank of the river, hidden in the foliage and sheltered by logs and tree trunks. These archers opened a withering discharge upon their enemy counterparts, the devastation of which was only slightly lessened by the targets’ armor. Despite losses and disadvantage, the imperial troops held firm, slowly spreading out their formation to present a broad front so they could not be as easily hit, and so as to be able to reply in kind to the hail of arrows, bolts, and sling bullets pouring upon their ranks. They were brave, these men, and half were slain or wounded by the time they were stretched the entire length of the shallows of the Harp and were returning their own missiles in hopes of finding targets clad in colors that blended with the forest.

The disciplined sacrifice of the archers was not in vain, for coming at the double was the narrow column of pole-armed infantry. When their bristling mass of glaives and fauchards crossed the ford and struck into the lightly protected archers on the far shore, the sharp edges and points would pierce the woodsmen’s line and spread out along the river edge. Thus the onslaught of flying shafts would be assuaged, and the cruel tormentors plying their deadly bows would be slain.

Although arrows rained in arching fire over the heads of the screening shortbowmen and crossbowmen to fall upon the rushing brigade of infantry, these latter men were more heavily armored, with studded jacks of padded leather over chain-mail, and their front ranks were provided with steel chest plates and greaves as well. A few fell, but most came on unharmed. The screen of bowmen before them parted at their coming, glad at their comrades’ ferocity and lusting for the slaughter that their arrival portended.

This parting enabled the woodsmen to increase the effect of their archery upon the infantry, however, and whole ranks of the pole-armed imperials dropped before a new onslaught of arrows. Still, those behind came grimly on, lowering their weapons as they filled the front of the column, stepping over the fallen in their path. Had the water not slowed their advance, far fewer would have been killed, but this was not the case.

Finally, the ford was crossed by the leading men of the column, but their rush fell onto empty ground, for the woodsmen had fallen back before the imperial charge. A hundred yards away, a company of bowmen continued to stand across the open road, loosing missiles steadily at their foemen, while from the flanking woods came still more shafts.

As the full force of the pole-armed brigade came onto firm ground, its parts were sent left, right, and ahead to clear the trees of snipers. In such conditions, though, shorted axe, morning star, and sword are as good as, or even better than, the long-handled weapons the imperials carried. A raging melee swirled through the trees, as that part of the woodsfolk’s contingent without missile weapons no longer had to stand and watch their fellows work. They fell to with joy. At this point, the defending force had suffered losses numbering only a few hundred, while the invading army sent into the Adri by the Overking had lost thousands. The foresters’ hearts were singing, and their hopes were high.

After serving as the hard place against which the nut of the vanguard of the imperial army had been wiped out, Gord’s unit had recrossed the Harp and rejoined the others. They had not suffered more than a dozen casualties, thanks to Curley Greenleaf’s use of spells and their own hard fighting. They were then sent off to a place on the left flank where they were hidden and kept ready to reinforce either those who held the bank before them or the center, where the hardest blow was sure to fall.

From his unit’s hiding place, Gord was unable to see any of the initial fighting against the main force, but word came that the hated imperial archers and crossbowmen had been cut down by fully two-thirds, and that the brigade of infantry that followed was being mauled by the savage woodsmen. The sounds of the battle were coming closer.

“I’m ready to trash some of those libertines,” Chert said, nervously flipping his great axe.

“Let’s have a contest, you and me,” said Wren. “The one who knocks over the most of those blue-back sissies gets the other as servant for the evening….”

Their banter was interrupted by the voice of a captain who was calling the group into a rough line. Stalker’s band went onto the far right, archers in the front rank and others behind. Both Gord and his hulking friend were thus at the forefront, for Wren was impressed with the aim Gord had displayed while slinging missiles at the Aerdians’ hired soldiery hours earlier. Curley Greenleaf was off somewhere else-probably with the commanders of this unit, Gord theorized, for he now realized just how powerful spell-casters of any nature could be, and druids in particular. He made a mental note to avoid finding out what it was like to be on the wrong end of some hostile spell-binder’s pointing finger.

The sounds of fighting were closer than ever now, and whistles alerted the waiting woodsfolk to be ready. Arrows were nocked, and Gord placed one of his stones in his sling. Almost without warning, a knot of men burst into their view-imperial troops with wicked-looking fauchard-forks chivvying several defenders whose shorter weapons were unable to score damage on the advancing men-at-arms.

Gord loosed the stone from his sling just as the first of a cloud of arrows sped into the confident imperials. Gord’s eye followed the path of the missile he had released and saw his target go down as the stone struck him full on the temple.

Thrown into disarray by a missile attack they had not anticipated, the remainder of the foot soldiers were easy prey for the men they had been preparing to kill. The captain signaled to the members of Gord’s band to move ahead, and they advanced along with similar groups to the right and left, going slowly and using all the cover available. After a few score yards they were halted again, for beyond there was less cover and fewer trees.

In this partial clearing stood hundreds of the Overking’s heavy infantry in blue and gold, forming for an attack toward them. Then woodsmen on the imperial force’s left flank came howling out of the forest. The disciplined formation turned to face this challenge, only to have its new flank assaulted by missiles from Gord’s group and the others on either side. The Overking’s men fell back in confusion, heading for the river, but since there were some two hundred bowmen, slingers, and javelineers along their route of retreat, they were soon forced into an obliquing retrograde.

“That’s three of those bun-blasting imperials I’ve nailed so far this round!” shouted Chert from his post at Gord’s side.

Wren’s voice from the rear called back derisively. “Never mind counting the needlework! Our wager is your axe versus my little chopper here!”

The order came to advance upon the struggling imperials. Gord and his compatriots rushed across the open space and into the trees on the opposite side, in hot pursuit, and soon close work demanded the tossing aside of bows in favor of axe, sword, and like arms. Now the full force of the big woodsfolk was falling on the soldiers of the Overking, and the infantry was being pushed back and crowded into a defensive position at the head of the ford. Then the imperial horse, having finished their crossing, were amongst their own footmen, and in their desire to strike at the enemy, the cavalry were careless as to who they rode down. By the time they got through the lines of pole-armed soldiers and rode toward their adversaries, it was evident that the infantry brigade would not be fit to contest with another foe for some time to come.

Gord was close enough to the river now to see some of the displays of magic that marked where the spell-casters of the opposing forces were trying to gain an advantage for their own side. A horrible-looking thing, seemingly formed from the very waters of the Harp, rose up suddenly and was rushing toward the rear of the long line of horsemen, but it suddenly seemed to lose speed and sag, then rippled into nothingness. Little darts of glowing coral-color leapt from the far shore to strike and slay any woodsman who showed a target.

A great cloud of ghastly, citrine hue formed in a place above the river where no imperials were fighting, and it quickly traveled westward with a roiling, sickening movement. It touched the tree line, and Gord heard screams and coughing cries. Then it was blown downstream by some gust of wind, and the imperial horse recoiled from its edge.

Then came great claps of thunderous noise, and streaks of lightning and explosive flashes of fire were flying back and forth, slaying friend and foe so indiscriminately that the processes were soon stopped.

The imperial cavalry regrouped and came on again. Then the sky, which had grown darker and cloudier by slow degrees, began to release a cold, fine rain.

“Shit! There goes the bows!” grumbled Chert.

“Now it’s time for our contest,” laughed Wren in reply to his remark.

“Stay out of the way of those crazy magicians!” was all that Gord could add as he readied for the horsemen to ride them down.

As the lances lowered and destriers began to move forward at a trot, the heavens were torn by jagged strokes of lightning. These bolts streaked down amidst enemy knights and their attendant riders, making metal glow and crackle, bringing down men and steeds in smoking ruins. In reply, a whirlwind suddenly swooped down out of the lowering sky and tore into the ranks of the waiting woodsfolk.

The cavalry charged ahead to escape the crackling electricity, and their adversaries ran to meet them rather than face the roaring destruction of the tornado that was shredding trees and men alike. Once melee was joined, the dreadful destructions of the deadly dweomers ceased, for bloody work was now the sole purview of fighter and ranger, barbarian and cavalier.

The rain went from drizzle to downpour, augmented by sudden bursts of great, blinding raindrops. These conditions prevented the imperial horsemen from making a slaughter of their unmounted foes. Nevertheless, their lances and great swords took a heavy toll on the brave defenders. Gord fought silently and kept near Chert, who was now nearly berserk, swinging his broad axe with both hands and so powerfully as to sunder steel and flesh in a single stroke. In turn, Chert stayed near the amazonian female who commanded their squad-a unit that now numbered only four.

The ground underfoot became a mire of mud, blood, and bodies. There were screams and howls mixed with banging and clashing, a cacophony that numbed the mind as much as the weapon-work deadened the soul. Gord lost count of how many men he had met. Some were before him one moment, and after stroke and counter were swept away in the press of milling, shouting, struggling humanity. Others remained long enough to thrust or cut and parry until Gord slew them. In the process he had taken many wounds himself, but none were serious. His greatest enemy now was the growing fatigue brought by exertion and tension of battle. How long could this awful melee continue? Until one side or the other was dead, or broke and fled. Either way, he must fight on.

Gord saw that the cavalrymen, most of them dismounted now, were slowly breaking off and falling back, but supporting them were a body of mercenaries and a group of men armed with long voulges. Gord realized that fresh contingents of the Overking’s large force had managed to cross the river and take up formation. Through breaks in the crowd of warriors, he could see that beyond these newly arrived soldiers were a great cluster of men still wading the ford. Then the rain sheeted down again, and his vision was obscured. Gord prepared himself for the end, silently cursing himself for ever wishing to have seen a battle between armies.

“Stop gawking at the frigging enemy and get the hell out of here!” Chert shouted in his ear.

Gord started and looked around. The woodsfolk were sprinting westward into the trees, away from the imperial army. There seemed to be a few hundred newly arrived war-band members there, trying to make a rear guard for the exhausted, beaten remnant now in flight from the ford. A few slingers among these newcomers, augmented by stragglers from the worn groups disengaging from combat, enabled the woodsmen to manage a desultory discharge. Gord was glad he had no missiles left and could pass through this line without feeling cowardly.

In a few minutes the woodsmen were clear of the battle scene, and the rain suddenly stopped. Leaders, chiefs, and captains urged the retreating force to hurry on, away from Woodford and the army that would certainly be in full pursuit. After another hundred yards of retreat Gord understood the reason for this order, for he and his comrades were passing through a formation of carefully concealed sylvan elves, just taking bows from oiled leather cases and setting spears and swords at ready. There would be yet another nasty surprise for the invading horde before this day ended.

Finally, hours later, the scattered remnants of the once-proud assemblage of free forest fighters began rallying in a small valley south of the battle area. Of the thousands who had gone forth, only about half remained. They were all dejected and downcast when Gellor and several other men, accompanied by two women and a slender elf, worked their way through the slumped warriors. Gellor’s presence heartened the fighters, and he soon had their attention. Gord, Chert, and Wren moved closer to where he and the group with him stood. Gellor waved, smiled, and spoke.

“What you have done today will go down in the annals of history!” he said warmly. “Don’t feel defeated-you have won! Six thousand of you have killed or wounded more than that number of the enemy! You have wiped out the advance division of the Overking’s army, mauled his vaunted guardsmen, foot and horse alike, and blunted the edge of Ivid’s invasion. You had no choice but to fall back before an army that numbered twice your strength. You took the worst of clerics’ and magicians’ spells, and held your ground. Only numbers of fresh and heavily armored foes forced you from your slaughter. Now rejoice at this: The Grand Marshal remains in camp at Woodford, afraid to come farther, and he’ll soon turn tail and march home to Edgefield. The invasion is over, and you have won the day for us all!”

 

Chapter 26

 

Patchwall, the month called Brightleaf by elvenkind, was half gone. The first faint pigments of autumn were beginning to paint the green of Adri’s forest giants in gold, scarlet, and russet. It was time to go, and Gord felt a poignancy he had never experienced in similar situations; before now, departure had simply meant he would be placing his boots beneath a new pallet.

Gord tried to identify the reason for his feelings. Did he feel that moving away from this place near the Blemu Hills would finally separate him from Evaleigh? No, that thought was foolish, he decided, for by now she was surely wedded and dwelling far to the north in her new archbaronial state. Then was it because he had grown unusually fond of the woodsfolk? This was quite possible; Gord admired their friendliness, their comradeship, and their fighting skill, and he was still flushed with pride for the small part he had played in the victory at Woodford. One hates to leave the scene of a success, he reasoned, and this last adventure had certainly been a success for him.

Chert felt no such pangs, even though he was leaving the area he knew as home. The big man was whistling merrily as he readied his gear for the journey. But, after all, this was special for him. The giant had never ventured more than a league or two beyond the timberland, and the prospect of a journey into the outside world excited him. Besides, he and Gord were going with Gellor and Curley Greenleaf, bound for the royal court at Rel Mord-great doings indeed!

As Gellor had confidently predicted, the survivors of the Battle at Woodford did indeed hear news that the Grand Marshal of Aerdy had turned his army back toward its starting point, Edgefield-even though the invaders technically had been victorious in the battle. The retreat was an understandable decision; not only was the Overking’s host no longer fit to conduct a long campaign, but the Nyrondel force in and around Knurl would most certainly be alerted and on guard against an attempt to advance farther. With two such marks against him, Grand Marshal Dreek had little choice other than to turn back and face the wrath of Ivid.

In a way, Gord felt sorry for the soldiers of the retreating army. Many of the woodsfolk immediately opted to follow the enemy on its long trek eastward to harass its columns and exact further vengeance for the invasion of their forest. With them went the elves, for they too sought to deliver a lesson to the trespassers that would be long remembered.

Those who remained searched for wounded, cared for their dead, and gathered the spoils of what was a true victory from the field abandoned by the Aerdians. A few prisoners were rounded up from their hiding places in the nearby woods. Renegade woodsmen were given swift justice. Mercenaries were warned and set free, warned to get far away as quickly as they could. A handful of guardsmen, most of whom were Knights of the Malachite Throne, were taken prisoner, and a great debate as to their fate eventually ended in a decision to ransom them, with the money gained thus to be divided among the families of those woodsfolk killed in the fighting.

A week after the great combat, Gord found it difficult to believe such a battle had been fought at the ford. Only the marks of the spells’ destructive forces could be seen, and even these were already being covered by the rampant verdure.

The contingent from Stalker’s warband was burdened with its share of spoils when it began its march homeward, and it took several days longer to return than the march to the battlefield had required. Even with clerical and druidical healing, wounds were evident and painful. Stalker himself had been so badly hurt that Gord marveled he was able to be up and around in only a few days, let alone able to lead the return of his warband.

But lead he did, and eventually the survivors were safely within the precincts of their community, and life returned to the routine. Save for the trophies displayed on log walls and fireplace stones, and the recounting of deeds told at gatherings, Woodford was again nothing more than a convenient place to cross the Harp River, and hunting, foresting, and mundane concerns of life within the Adri Forest were again paramount.

After making his address to the veterans of the battle, Gellor went on some sort of mission, as was his wont. Gord had now grown used to his sudden leave-taking and equally abrupt reappearances. Knowing that he would return in good time, Gord took the opportunity to stay with the woodsmen for a while and learn more of the ways of these people and their environment. He occasionally enjoyed the company of his great barbarian friend, but Chert was not around too much, since he and Wren were keeping company.

Curley Greenleaf soon returned to the place, however, and he often had time to spend with the young thief. Gord found this a most acceptable substitute, for the druid informed him not only of the forest but of his persuasion as well. The idea that all things were a necessary part of life troubled Gord, but he found that he had to agree with many of the plump fellow’s arguments. Without light, who could understand darkness, and vice versa. Thus, badness enabled the concept of good to be understood, and the cycle of birth and death, growth and decay, and each other pair of opposites were all part of a wheel that must forever turn if living things were to exist.

On matters affecting the woodlands, however, the druid was not so neutral. Gord laughed at this, for the young adventurer had an idea that despite everyone’s protests, each had some particular point of view that was held above all others as the ultimate value or truth. Some sought order, others espoused total freedom for the individual. There were groups proclaiming that weal must be brought to all, while their opposites said the strongest must always prevail.

Greenleaf’s moral and ethical views had their strengths, but Gord also noted weaknesses. He was wise enough not to point them out again after doing so once, for the heated debate that followed was quite enough for a lifetime as far as Gord was concerned. Thereafter, he kept such thoughts and opinions to himself. All said and done, the world seemed a place where man and deity put forth laws and ideas, dogma and lore to explain that which simply was. The whys and wherefores of it all were inexplicable to Gord, and as long as he managed to feel good and prosper, he was satisfied enough. If one day he was enlightened as to the mysteries of the multiverse, so much the better-but meanwhile, there was life to live.

Information from Curley regarding the arcane business of invocation of unknown forces and energies interested Gord far more than talk of world-views and philosophies. His days as a student had gained him much knowledge in many fields, but he knew very little of spell-casting and associated arts. While Curley Greenleaf did not actually instruct him in the secrets of druidical dweomercrafting, he did explain much of the theory and practice of the arts and disciplines involved not only with his, but also clerical and magical spells as well.

Gord thought that such lore would be most useful in understanding the workings of magical protections and devices, as well as to measure the potential of an adversary. He candidly told Curley this, and the druid laughed and accepted this observation, for his own philosophy and theology demanded such. Knowledge was part of the necessary whole, after all.

So the days rolled into weeks, and then Gellor returned again. He came to see his friends, and for no other purpose, he said. After the battle he had gone to the Blemu Hills, where King Archbold held court in Dunstan’s castle. Afterward, with all necessary business there accomplished, he had paid his respects to the Gnomeking in the Flinty Hills once again, and then come back to this place in the Adri.

Gellor asked if Gord still cared to accompany him to Rel Mord as the two had once planned. Gord eagerly accepted the invitation, although he subsequently had mild reservations about leaving. Chert, by now, also was desirous of broadening his horizons, for he and the amazonian Wren had come to a parting of the ways, mainly due to the mighty-thewed barbarian’s lack of interest in family life. The situation was uncomfortable, and a trip to a distant place was indeed a bright prospect under such circumstances.

Gord thought the idea of a group journey to Rel Mord grand, as did Curley Greenleaf, who planned on traveling in that direction anyway, having druidical business of some sort in the distant Celadon Forest west and south of Nyrond’s capital city.

So, after the rough farewells and rude adieus customary to a leave-taking between forest folk, the four adventurers rode out of Stalker’s thorp. Gord and Gellor still had the horses they had received from Dunstan. Greenleaf and the big barbarian were mounted on steeds of questionable worth, but ones that could be traded for more suitable animals at Innspa.

Gord wore a shirt of mail of such fine workmanship and lightness that it was undetectable beneath his outer garments. Greenleaf said it was chainmail of elfin make, and Gord was fortunate that he was of a size to be able to don it. The armor had come to him as his part of the spoils of war, just as had Chert’s broadsword, shield, helmet, and mount. The four stayed only briefly within the town of Innspa, and with new horses under their companions, Gord and Gellor rode slightly ahead of the barbarian and the druid on the long highway running westward to Rel Mord. As the Flinty Hills slowly became a dim line on the horizon to his rear, Gord spoke to his companion.

“If you should ever see Evaleigh again in your travels, Gellor, will you tell her that I helped to assure the safety of her father’s fiefdom… and that of her husband’s palatine barony as well?”

The one-eyed man looked at his young friend for a long moment, weighing the statement. “Yes, Gord, I will assuredly tell your Evaleigh that, should a private moment to do so ever present itself.”

Satisfied, Gord nodded and rode on, whistling a little tune.

 

The journey to Rel Mord took just a little over a fortnight to accomplish, for they did not ride hard. During the course of the trip, Gord inquired of Curley Greenleaf as to his mode of transportation. After all, as Curley himself had said on more than one occasion, druids had means of moving about that took only minutes and covered hundreds of leagues.

“There is more to life than earth, tree, and sun, if you will pardon that near blasphemy!” exclaimed the druid. “We do have such ways and means, but druids are human-or partially so, in cases such as myself-and we enjoy good company, too.”

Both of the younger adventurers had to agree to that, as they found the journey most enjoyable, traveling, as they were, in company. Eventually, the four came to the great capital of Nyrond, and outside its walls Curley Greenleaf parted from his friends. He had little love for, and no interest in, the doings of such places of buildings and folk not attuned to Nature. He said he would visit a few small places nearby where the druidical beliefs were still honored, and thereafter use his powers to go swiftly on to the Celadon. He said he would leave word at Woodwych as to his whereabouts, just in case anyone wanted to look him up later. And with that, he left.

Gellor brought Gord and Chert to the Nyrondel Royal Court, where they had an audience with King Archbold. While Gellor was for some reason not mentioned, Gord and Chert were feted properly. Although Gellor never volunteered the information, and Gord never asked, the young thief presumed that Gellor’s value to the king as a diplomat and intermediary would have been seriously compromised if Gellor had been included in the group of celebrities. Anonymity was an ally of one such as Gellor, but Gord and Chert did not need to wear the same cloak.

The celebrated and handsome pair of “heroes from the great battle in the Adri” became desirable guests for the season, and they found themselves responding to a round of invitations to villas and nearby castles that didn’t play itself out until Sunsebb was past and the last chill of Fireseek-month was giving way to the sun’s growing warmth.

When eventually they were no longer novelties for festive display, and the ladies of the court had begun to seek elsewhere for swains, the two were actually glad. It was an exhausting business, this sophisticated routine of banquets, parties, love-making, and intrigue. The barbarian was particularly disgusted with what he referred to as foppery and frippery, stating flatly that this was the reason that his sort were destined to inherit the world. The decadence and soft living of city and town, he proclaimed, would eventually cause the downfall of what these people called civilization, and then true folk would rule a cleaner and more simple Oerth, in which real virtues would be recognized.

While Gord wasn’t ready to agree with his friend as to the merits of what the barbarian held as virtues, Gord wasn’t so certain that the fellow’s predictions about the downfall of the society of kingdom and state would not eventuate. Despite all of his predictions and remonstrances against the lifestyle of Rel Mord, Chert-and Gord, too, for that matter-did enjoy the time, attention, and ministrations of the lovely but fickle ladies of the city.

When, in due course, they were ready to leave, Chert was indifferent as to where they would travel, but Gord decided that he had seen enough of the east to last him for at least some time. The two agreed to head westward toward Woodwych and see if they could pick up some news of Curley Greenleaf. They had known for some time that when they wanted to embark, they would do so without Gellor, for he was involved in more of his own mysterious dealings, and his responsibilities would take him elsewhere.

Gellor gave them his wishes for safe and profitable wayfaring, as well as a map of the territory in which they planned to adventure. Thus equipped, Gord and his great-sized friend set forth again as the month of Coldeven ended and Growfest was being celebrated.

Both young men marveled greatly over the Highbridge, which spanned the Duntide River just below Rel Mord. The way to Woodwych was rather uneventful after that. Both had traveled much in recent months, and familiarity with such a process made the simple matter of going from one place to another less than thrilling. Going as they were through the central portions of the kingdom, there wasn’t even the excitement of an encounter with marauder or monster to enliven things. They did run across some highwaymen, and that brief action broke the monotony, but the brigands soon fled, feeling that the loss of a half-score of their number was sufficient justification for the decision not to press the pair further.

Soon Gord and Chert came to Woodwych, and there they sought out the Chapel of Fharlanghn. There, Gellor had told them, was the place in that town where their friend Curley Greenleaf would leave word as to his whereabouts, whether near or far. Later, both Gord and Chert would look back upon their arrival at the chapel as the beginning of their next great adventure together.

 

Chapter 27

 

Greenleaf had last been at the chapel only a few days before, the brown-robed clerics who tended the place informed the two newly arrived travelers. After Gord and Chert provided sufficient proof of their identities and their past relationship with Curley, one of the priests went off to fetch the message that the druid had entrusted to the keeping of Fharlanghn’s servants before going on his way.

To pass the time while they waited, Gord inquired as to the nature of the deity served by these friendly clerics. He and Chert were not surprised to learn that Fharlanghn was an earthy sort, one venerated by travelers and wanderers, the deity of adventurers who held views not dissimilar to the ethos expressed by druidical faith, if not quite so bound up with Nature. In fact, the curate told them, not a few of both adhered to the tenets with equal respect, so there were druidical followers of Fharlanghn and some of Fharlanghn’s servants who were of druidical sort-a confusing concept at first, the cleric admitted as he noticed Gord and Chert shaking their heads, but not really so hard to grasp when both ethoi were known and understood.

The priest returned with a scroll bearing a seal showing a circle of eight leaves and presented it to Gord. He tucked it into his belt-pouch, correctly sensing and quietly conveying to Chert that it would be highly impolite to examine the message while they were being entertained by the clerics of the chapel.

The conversation grew sufficiently interesting to both men to cause them to accept an invitation to join the clerics for the noon meal. Suppressing their curiosity about Curley’s message, they enjoyed a good repast in the small refectory of the chapel and were treated to a rather unexciting description of the pan theology of the area. From what Gord heard, it seemed pretty much identical to that of the other places he had been. Chert was obviously as bored as his companion, but then the patriarch turned the talk to his deity once again, and this was more to the taste of the two adventurous travelers.

Eventually, other matters called the priests, and they blessed the two and sent them on their way. Gord caught Chert in the act of dropping coins into the contribution box, just as Gord was readying to slip alms in that receptacle himself. Both laughed at that and decided that the symbol of this friend of adventurers might be of benefit one day. Each added even more coins to the offering box, taking in return a pair of wooden discs, each embellished with a horizon line and a colorful inlay of stone and metal. Using the leather thongs provided with the discs, Gord and Chert hung the symbols around their necks and left the chapel.

After returning to the tavern where their steeds were stabled, they ordered bumpers of dark beer and read the message left by Greenleaf. That is, Gord read while his friend listened, for the barbarian was unlettered. When the slight thief began to tease his companion about this ignorance, the reaction he got was sufficient to make him cease the jibes immediately. Then Gord asked sincerely if the woodsman would be interested in learning a bit about the markings called writing, and Chert readily agreed that such knowledge, while paltry compared to woodcraft and weapon play, might be useful at that.

Gord began to teach the big fighter the elements of reading as he worked through Curley’s scroll, and Chert proved himself remarkably intelligent and quick to learn. When the missive’s content was finished, the barbarian put the scroll in his girdle for future study.

In the writing, the druid related a bit of his business in the area and then got down to the point of the message-a vague reason for his departure from Woodwych. His mission was a matter of personal interest, wrote Curley Greenleaf, but if his two friends should care to join him, the druid would be happy to have their company. He would either be in Nellix, or else leave word there if he had reason to move on before they arrived. The destination he had in mind after Nellix was not mentioned, and no reason for the omission was stated or even hinted at. No matter, both Gord and Chert agreed; they had nothing better to do, and the mysterious matters of their strange friend might prove interesting.

They set out for the town of Nellix immediately.

The fastest way to this place skirted the fringe of the Celadon Forest, so their route was a half-circle looping northwest, then southwest, crossing the Nesser River into Urnst after some sixty leagues en route and only ten from their destination. The lands surrounding the place were quite similar to those Gord had seen in his visit to Leukish, and the people of this portion of the Duchy were likewise similar. Chert was interested in experiencing more of this area, but Gord wished only to move on. Nellix was rather dull to him after Rel Mord, and the differences between it and Woodwych were not noteworthy in his view.

The two men were greeted warmly by the clerics of Fharlanghn at the local temple, which was larger and more prosperous than its counterpart in Woodwych; evidently the deity was more revered in these parts than to the east. There was no message for them, save one of a verbal nature: Green-leaf had left word that the two should go to the Society of Sages and Scholars, a place near the colleges of Nellix, and seek out one Savant Iquander there. That was all.

They had no difficulty finding either the building or the man. Iquander was a green-robed, birdlike little fellow, once himself a cleric of Fharlanghn (thus the garment of the pastoral order of the deity), now turned savant. He was most helpful, inviting the two puzzled young men into his messy library, serving them a strange and bitter tea that sharpened their senses, and telling them in rambling fashion of Greenleaf’s undertaking.

The Abbor-Alz, he began, was a long and dangerous line of hills. This rugged highland chain began far to the north at the shore of the Nyr Dyv and was generally known as the Cairn Hills in that -region. A narrow neck of the tors was so rough and high as to actually constitute mountains, and at this point the Cairn Hills become known as the Abbor-Alz, which is the Middle Common translation of “Dreaded Howes,” as the area was called in Elder Suloise.

The eastern and southern portions of these tall mounds and steep valleys were not actually so bad, said the savant, if one discounted hostile hill tribes, monsters dwelling in these wilds, and similar stuff. From the Sea of Gearnat, up the Nesser River past Gnatmarsh to Celadon Forest, the Abbor-Alz penned in the Bright Desert, just as the highland plateaus and tors serve to do the same as the hills turned west to butt into Woolly Bay just below Hardby. Iquander informed them that the fairest portion of this range was within the Celadon Forest proper, and recommended a journey there at some future date if they enjoyed such pastime.

Anyway, the savant went on, it seemed that his old friend Greenleaf-their friend also, of course-had come across a piece of interesting lore while within the part of the Abbor-Alz that reached into the forest. This information had to do with the discovery of an ancient site of some sort, with great monoliths of standing slabs all ringed and set in special ways. A place of power and danger certainly-and one absolutely irresistible to a druid, naturally. Iquander had put together some of the pieces of this puzzle of information for Greenleaf. Now the rash fellow was off into the countryside, bound and determined to find the exact location of the ruin and investigate it.

When the savant sought to launch into a discourse on similar sites, Gord managed to interrupt. Did the good savant know exactly when their friend, Curley, had set out? What route he had taken? Was the druid relying on his and Chert’s assistance? Well, yes, Iquander told them, that was exactly the point. Greenleaf had just departed yesterday, leaving a map for his friends, and urging that they join him on the venture with all haste!

At last they had what they were after. As soon as Iquander came back from wherever he had stuck the map, they grabbed it and a brief note accompanying it, bid the garrulous sage good-bye, and hurried out. He was telling them something about demons, or daemons, or demodands-Gord was never sure which-as they hastened away. Much later on, when he thought about it, Gord wished that he and Chert had been a trifle less precipitant in departing….

The map sketched the territory between Nellix and Mauve Castle, a town at the edge of the Cairn Hills, while the note said simply that they should meet Curley at an inn called the Manticore’s Tail near the southern gate of that latter town.

“This chasing after Curley is getting out of hand,” Gord said sourly. “Why in hell can’t he stay put long enough for us to catch up and find out from him what’s going on? We’ll probably get to the meeting place in Mauve Castle only to find he has flown off to somewhere else. We could end up traversing most of the Flanaess before we find him, and I for one have no desire to follow him across half a continent.”

“Yah, old Curley is getting to be a pain in the ass with all this mysterious stuff,” Chert agreed. “That’s the problem with a druid who likes to play fighter-he won’t stay home and mind his grove. He’s just like Gellor, always going off on some kind of hush-hush business.”

“You mean Greenleaf is more than a druid?”

“From what I understand, he’s a pretty tough ranger. I hear that he and old one-eye were neophytes together up in the Gamboge Forest, and that’s where he took to being a scout and spy. I suppose Gellor’s influence got to him.”

Now Gord was thoroughly puzzled. “What was Gellor doing with druids? You lost me somewhere.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Chert assured him. “Gellor is a bard. Haven’t you ever heard him sing? He’s got a pretty fair voice and plays the harp real good!”

“A bard has something to do with druidical studies?”

“That’s what Curley told me,” said the barbarian.

Gord let it go at that, figuring that he would learn more from Curley Greenleaf… if they ever met him again. He and his big companion rode fast in an attempt to catch up with the druid, hoping that they could make up his one-day head start before he got to his destination and headed off on another tangent. If he decided to employ his power to travel magically, neither Gord nor Chert thought they would ever locate Curley before he went off to find the megalithic ruin he was seeking.

The rotund druid was indeed traveling by conventional means. With Mauve Castle about one day’s ride ahead, they did catch up with him at a roadside tavern, and the three reunited adventurers spent the night there. After they greeted each other and settled down at a table in the tavern, Gord and Chert were finally able to learn just what Greenleaf was questing after.

“I have heard in old epics,” he told them, “that there was a place of great power in the Abbor-Alz, and the Archdruid of Celadon allowed me to read an ancient tablet he possesses. That gave me a clue as to where the place was and what it looked like, so I went to my old friend Iquander. He was able to dig up most everything else I needed to know.”

“That’s fine, Curley,” Gord said sarcastically, “but how about telling us now?”

“Great idea, Gord!” chimed in the barbarian. “Come on, lay it out for us, Greenleaf, or we’ll thump it out of you.”

“Not here,” the druid said seriously. “Too many ears to pick up something as important as what I have to tell you. Let’s find a wench to serve us supper, and afterward we can retire to our chambers and talk. I’ll explain it all then.”

Both young men grumbled, but there was nothing to do but go along with Curley’s plan. He wouldn’t say anything in the common room of the tavern and wouldn’t go elsewhere until he’d eaten. Chert said he was famished-and he did consume vast quantities of chow at every opportunity-and Gord was also feeling pangs of hunger, so they nodded acceptance of Curley’s terms and ordered a meal. Soon the three were busily demolishing a roast capon, some egg and mutton-kidney pie, and various and sundry comestibles delivered in stages by the serving woman. Finally, after the last bones were stripped bare of meat, the pie dish clean, and nothing but a few crumbs of bread to be seen on the table, Greenleaf sat back patting his round belly and Chert belched contentedly as he swigged down another pot of stout. Gord, having finished much sooner than his two companions, had been waiting impatiently for this event.

“If you two gundiguts have finally stopped stuffing yourselves,” he said, “I think it high time we went upstairs so that Chert and I can learn the real meat of our chase halfway across the Flanaess!”

Still beaming with happiness at his repletion, the druid nodded and arose, leading the way to the rooms they had taken above.

“There is a great ring of stones,” Curley began, as they sat in the small parlor adjoining the three bedrooms. “It is near here, within the mountains which split Cairn Hills from Abbor-Alz. There is a hidden valley there, a circular place which is unnatural. Steep walls ring a level plateau, and this ground, in turn, is hemmed by monoliths. Seven circles of different sorts of stones, there are. The size of the stones grows larger as the rings progress inward, from liths no bigger than a milestone to huge ones taller than a giant. These seven rings of stone encircle a cairn at the center. It is that which we must enter and explore!”

“What is inside?” asked Gord. “Gold? Gems?” Chert, not much interested in tales of worthless rocks, perked up at these last two words.

“I think not,” Greenleaf answered slowly, and Chert looked bored again. “But there is possibly something of far greater worth within the barrow… a relic.”

“What sort of relic?” Gord queried.

“What’s a relic?” demanded the barbarian.

“A relic is something ancient, usually of great power, and often associated with the divine in some manner,” the druid explained. “More than that I’m not prepared to say at this time.”

“What’s the sense of going there if there’s no money in it?”

“Chert, my friend, there is more to life than money and fighting,” Greenleaf said with a wry shake of his head.

“There’s women there?” asked the barbarian with candor. “Or a good sword, maybe?”

Gord laughed at this, but Curley’s response was serious. “No, no. But the relic-if there is one-would have value beyond belief. Should we actually find one and manage to get it into the right hands, you’ll both be rewarded with enough money to keep you happy for years-even at the rate you two young rogues spend the stuff!”

That was heartening talk indeed. Searching for this hidden ruin was making a whole lot of sense now. Gord and Chert expressed their eagerness to get going as early as possible.

“Well, there are a few preparations I must make first,” the druid cautioned. “Spells, if you don’t know it, require more than a few mumbling incantations and a wave of the hand, after all.”

“What do we need spells for?” demanded the massive barbarian. “We’ve got swords!”

“If we find a relic, my boy, then we will certainly have to contend with whoever-or whatever-guards it. And such a guardian will require more than brute force, even strength such as yours, to overcome. If we are clever, and lucky too, we should be able to survive its attacks, destroy it, and bear our prize home in triumph!”

Greenleaf would say no more on the subject of the relic or its fearsome guardian, whatever that might be, despite the young men’s wheedling and demanding. Curley bade them to remain patient a bit longer, assuring both that he would apprise them fully, in due time, of just what they were seeking and what they might encounter along the way.

“After all,” he explained, “a slip of the tongue now could alert others as to what we seek, and there’s no need for a contest of getting there first-or having to fight off others after we’ve taken the prize.” Gord and Chert agreed to the sense of this approach, and retired to their chambers for the night.

Next day all three went on to the town of Mauve Castle, and therein the druid went about gathering whatever he needed for his coming work. After spending the following night in the Manticore’s Tail, the trio set forth on their adventure, riding south and west toward the mountains.

 

Chapter 28

 

If the Abbor-Alz was a place where horses could not easily venture, the mountainous head of this area was far worse. The three riders took a southerly route along the edge of the jutting peaks that rose abruptly from the relatively level plain to the east. The entire chain was only some fifty miles long, and about half as wide, but the upthrust bluffs and craggy peaks were an impenetrable wall. Perhaps determined mountaineers could ascend these great mountains and descend on the other side, but no regular traffic, muleback or even afoot, could find a route through them.

Gord wondered out loud why they were riding along the edge in such fashion when it was obvious that they would have to proceed afoot eventually. It would have been better, he suggested, to have left their valuable steeds in some safe stable and have gone on shank’s mare.

The druid assured Gord that he knew what he was doing, and he told both men to keep a sharp eye out for a small tor shaped like an ogre. Chert’s keen gaze spotted this unusual-looking mountain late in the forenoon. It was quite as Curley had described it, once you knew what you were looking for and viewed it from the north. The rough, rocky ground near its base was forbidding, as were the clumps of scrub thorn that sprang from the poor soil between the mineral outcroppings.

“Now we must dismount and begin looking for a dry streambed,” Greenleaf instructed. “There is a way up the range along it, and it passes the valley we seek, too.”

“How do you know that?” Chert asked as the three began leading their horses through the rough terrain.

“A party fleeing the wrath of a Despotrix of Hardby came over these peaks and down into the Duchy. Eventually one of the few who survived ended up telling his tale, and somebody else wrote it down.”

“Fine, I suppose,” allowed Gord. “But how do we know it’s a true account? It could be a yarn spun for fun or profit.”

“We don’t actually know for certain. Iquander stressed that point repeatedly,” Curley answered. “So far, though, everything checks out, and the survivor’s description of the ruin in the depression matched exactly what I’d picked up from other sources. That, my boys, he couldn’t have made up. What we must do now is find the path that he claimed took their fleeing band down into Urnst’s green fields… the place from where we shall travel upward to our goal! A dry streambed heading up toward Ogre Peak is what we must find.”

“That makes sense to me, Curley,” said Chert. “Even though there’s no trees covering the tors ahead, I was raised in country nearly as rough as this. I can find what we’re looking for.”

Gord knew that was not an idle boast, and when the druid said he was fairly adept at such work himself, Gord reconciled himself to tagging along and letting the two of them worry about the matter. However, on Curley’s advice they split up, each staying within hailing distance of another, able to search more ground than if they traveled in a close group.

After less than an hour of walking and looking, Gord got a surprise. Had he not been holding tight to his horse’s reins, he would have tumbled headlong down a steep dropoff screened by weeds and grass. The narrow gully obviously served as a watercourse when rain fell on the mountains above and drained along its channel. Gord walked alongside the dropoff for a hundred yards and saw that its path seemed to curve upward. He called for the others to join him and continued moving along the wash. He called out excitedly several more times before Curley and Chert caught up with him. The city-bred thief had indeed found the purported route into the heart of the mountains-but he saw no need to reveal that he had merely, and quite literally, stumbled upon it.

Whether or not it would eventually take them to the vale of the ringstones, the streambed did enable the adventurers to take their horses upward. The work was slow, however. There were twists and turns at first, and then the gully became a canyon. There were boulders in heaps, and splits that had to be explored. The going was steep and rough, and the three were tired when the sun began to slip behind the jagged mountain-tops ahead of them. They started to look for a suitable place to camp and soon found a broad ledge jutting out from the canyon wall above them.

It took some arduous work for the men and the mounts they led to pick their way along an oblique route that took them gradually up the canyon wall until they reached the outcropping. It turned out to be well worth the trip; the ledge was sheltered on the sides and top, almost as if they were in a shallow cave with a projecting lip at its entrance.

Chert went out to gather forage for the horses, returning with a great armful of coarse grass and other shrubbery he found in the immediate area. The men ate a cold meal from their trail rations, washed down with a little water. When Gord complained about their shortage of drinking water, the druid pointed out that a rain would bring them more water than they might like. Gord shuddered as he considered the prospect of being caught in the big ravine as it flooded-this was a risky venture indeed!

Almost as if on cue, the stars were blanketed by clouds, and rain began to fall around midnight. It was a gentle rain, and it lasted for most of the night; then, when the sun began to rise, the light seemed to dissipate the precipitation.

By now, however, the canyon held a gurgling, rushing torrent of water, and for a few tense minutes the flood slowly mounted higher toward their shelter. Then, as it began to recede, thunder rumbled and another storm broke. This time the rain pelted down in fat drops, accompanied by gusty winds, rippling forks of blue-white lightning, and rumbling bangs of thunder that were intensified and echoed by the mountains around them. Here was a display that made the magic of seem mankind pale stuff indeed.

As quickly as it came, this storm ceased, but the water was again rising. This whole process continued throughout the day, penning the men and animals in their rocky shelter and threatening to sweep them away as the level of rushing water rose higher and higher.

Finally, when the torrent had come up over the floor of their shelter and they were standing in water that was nearly knee-deep, Curley Greenleaf resorted to use of his power. He called up a howling cyclone wind that pushed the flood down and away sufficiently to allow the party to escape with nothing worse than wet feet and a chill. They passed an uncomfortable night marooned on the ledge, but the druid’s enchantment had forced the waters to recede enough for the three to recline and sleep fitfully on the damp stone.

The light of morning revealed only a trickle of water in the canyon below them, and the bedraggled adventurers left their haven and pushed upward again, skirting pools and taking respectful note of the destruction caused by the pouring stream created by runoff from the slopes around them.

“Next time we camp on a higher ledge,” Gord said with finality as he observed the battered and drowned remains of a hill giant somehow caught by the onrush of water. His companions agreed.

With drinking water no longer a problem for some time to come, food became their next concern. They had sufficient quantities of iron rations to last them a week, and some grain for the animals too, but it was safer to augment the former by hunting, while allowing the animals to browse on the sparse vegetation that had survived the flash flood. After the group traveled for the better part of the day and found another likely place to camp, Gord was put in charge of the animals while the barbarian and the druid sought game for their evening meal.

The hobbled mounts knew what to do without direction, but Gord needed to be alert in case of attack by some hungry predator. A mountain lion, drawn by the scent of horses, did make an appearance, but several well-placed stones from the young thief’s sling sent the creature away amidst a great amount of hissing, spitting, and caterwauling. After calming the terrified animals, there was nothing else for Gord to do but wait. His friends eventually came back bearing a small goat, and that night they ate roasted meat instead of cold rations. The partially cooked portions left over from their feast would provide ample food for the following day as well, so at last the party felt confident in moving ahead.

Travel the next day was even more tortuous than it had been before. They were forced to scissor their way up the steeply rising slope, and at day’s end Curley estimated that they had walked five miles while actually only progressing about half that far toward their goal. The area was so barren that not even savage beasts or monsters cared to inhabit these mountains. That, at least, allowed them yet another night of undisturbed rest, although they kept vigilant watch nonetheless; all three still had vivid memories of the dead hill giant, and this made them alert to danger of all sorts.

Another half-day of similar trekking brought them to the virtual summit of the narrow range. Greenleaf made careful observations of the terrain as they struggled upward, and finally, as they approached the highest elevation, he pointed to the left, calling the attention of his companions to what he saw.

“At last! See that defile there, and the notch in the crest above? That’s where we must go,” the druid told them. “The account says that a hidden valley lies beyond, and therein is the depression and the ringstones. If we press on, we can be there before nightfall.”

Hurry they did, and they arrived at the place panting and sweating, but feeling exhilarated by success. Before them was the plateau, a gentle mound of stone and vegetation, surrounded by harsh cliffs and peaks. Gasping in the thin air, they worked their way up the rising ground to see what it hid from their view. When they arrived atop this mound, the last light of the sun showed them the unnaturally circular dell and the rings of stone within it.

“Now you trust my judgment, right, lads?” the exultant druid exclaimed with glee. “I knew it was here!”

“If we really thought you were taking us on a will-o-wisp hunt, Curley, do you think we’d have gone through all this crap?”

“Yah, Gord,” Chert agreed. “Screwing around in mountains is fun, but I came along on this one to get rich.”

While Gord’s opinion about clambering over mountains was at odds with that of his barbarian companion, the intent of both statements was the same. They had accompanied Greenleaf on the strength of his information and his conviction. Even if they had voiced occasional doubts, both adventurers had actually trusted in the druid and expected to find what they were now gazing upon. Gord thought it interesting that Curley seemed more surprised at the actual discovery than his associates were.

This night’s camp was a cheerful one, despite their meager meal of tough dried meat and coarsely ground grain softened with a bit of vinegar and water. Scant supper finished, they discussed the plan of action for the next day.

Curley wished to carefully sketch the whole place from their elevated vantage point before they actually approached it. Then he would make measurements and do more mapping when they went down to the site. The ancient place was an historical discovery, after all, in addition to being the probable repository of a most valuable treasure. The druid said that it would take two full days for this preliminary work, even with both of his companions assisting in the measuring and examination, and only on the third day should they attempt to penetrate the great pile of stone at the center of the rings.

At that, Chert and Gord set up a vehement protest. They demanded no more than one day be spent on scholarly business, and the next for adventure. Curley consented to get along without the sketching, reasoning that he could construct a drawing from memory, and resolved to head for the dale first thing in the morning. That compromise was agreed to, and they settled down to sleep.

But their rest on this night was uneasy. Nightmares and restlessness plagued all three, and a lethargic feeling persisted in each of them as they proceeded down the slope of the plateau, until the warmth of late morning seemed to burn the feeling away.

Each of them discovered these facts about the others as they went about the work that the druid directed. Conversations they had between drawing, pacing, and measurement with rope or hand revealed their mutual experiences of the previous night. It was evident, the druid concluded with a tone of deep concern in his voice, that the cairn was not a deserted ruin, but it contained something malign, and this was what had caused their unease.

Instead of camping near the depression that night, Curley had the group move to a place farther away, and assured Gord and Chert that this would lessen the evil effects of the guardian of the cairn. After another sparse meal, he sat them down and went into a lecture.

“I spoke only vaguely of a guardian,” the druid began, “for I half expected there to be none. Actually, you two had more confidence that this site existed than I did…. I suppose I feared to hope too strongly so as to avoid too great a disappointment if the tale proved to be fictitious. So, if only a part of me thought we would even locate the ringstones, then the existence of a relic and the thing said to protect it could receive still less credence in my mind.”

The druid-ranger paused for a moment to reflect, slowly stroking his chin in meditation. “The mention of a prize within the cairn was made to tempt you two to come along,” he confessed. “You are friends, and I wanted your company. But, what I thought might be only an illusory lure now seems most probable indeed. Unfortunately for all of us, that also indicates that the balance of the story I heard is likely factual as well.”

Before his companions could toss out questions and accusations about what they had just been told, Greenleaf launched into the rest of his tale quickly.

“According to the survivor’s account,” he said, “the fleeing men were much worn from climbing up the western side of this range, and when they accidentally found this place, they rested for a time and allowed their nearly dead steeds to graze and recover as well. Of course, they explored the stone circles and the sealed cairn in the middle, but found no means of easy access to the barrow’s interior. However, being robbers by nature, such a place was irresistible to them. They all voted to remain and find or force entrance one way or another, despite whatever bad occurrences they might encounter.

“The group was haunted by horrible night visions, and on the very first morning afterward one of their number went insane and threw himself off the edge of the slope into the dell, breaking his neck in the fall. That incident was passed off as merely a breakdown of nerves from flight and exhaustion. The next night another of these brigands awoke to find a companion staring at him with glowing, red eyes. The leering fellow attacked madly, and in the following struggle both attacker and attacked were killed. In a mere two days, three of the group had died, but the desire of the rest to find what was buried beneath the great stone slabs of the cairn prevailed over their fear-greed has that sort of power over foolish and evil beings.

“An entrance to the place was discovered the next day, and a number of the brigands were able to move the block concealing it and go in. What they found was not to their taste, however. After their torches gave them the barest glimpse of some sort of fabulous treasure, the flames of their brands were suddenly extinguished, and a terrible fear came over them. They stampeded back along the route they had taken, in a wild and confused rush through the lightless, narrow stone maze.

“Their retreat was even more panicked because of the blood-curdling screams and terrible rending and cracking sounds that echoed past them from behind. Those near the front of the on-rushing group realized that their comrades were being slain and crushed one by one, with incredible brutality and swiftness, by something that was overtaking them even as they wildly sought escape.”

Gord stirred uneasily but did not interrupt Curley’s horrendous tale.

“One of the band was a wicked cleric, a priest of some cursed and malign being or other entity unknown now. That one managed to employ his power to create a bright sphere of glowing light, and its radiance showed what doomed them-a demon of most awful aspect! Somehow, a cataboligne was bound within the cairn. This monstrous guardian, mad with centuries of confinement, was wreaking a hideous vengeance upon the intruders. The cleric attempted to turn the demon, or possibly to treat with it. It was this effort that enabled the front-runners to escape and seal the tomb on the demon and the rest of their fellows-including the hapless priest.”

“And then what?” demanded Chert, unaware that the tale was over.

“Well, at least one lived happily ever after in Urnst,” Curley replied dryly in an attempt to break the tension he felt.

But Gord was not in a humorous mood at all. “We are going where this… demon, named Catabo-something, waits with the shattered skeletons of who knows how many brigands-and some priest of evil’s gnawed remains, too? Are you mad?” Gord said, his voice rising in pitch and volume on the last three words.

Greenleaf responded with calm indignation. “What lurks within the cairn is a cataboligne, which, for your information, is a sort of demon, not the true name of one.”

“So what’s in a name? A demon of any sort smells foul to me! If we are to find treasure, let’s look elsewhere,” said the young thief with a shudder. Gord was now quite set on not going any further with this whole business, and his tone and expression relayed this opinion clearly.

“Aw, come on, Gord,” urged the big barbarian. “A demon is just a bigger, nastier… ogre… or something like that. We’ve got our blades, and Curley here can use his spells and stuff. We can’t come all this way and then turn tail and leave a fortune behind because it’s guarded by some old catabowly demon now, can we?”

The druid interjected his own counter also. “Before you run off, Gord, my lad, ask yourself this: How many fleeing bandits and outlaw brigands are you equal to?”

“I’ll take on a dozen of that sort of scum anytime!” Chert said with steel in his voice.

“Then consider that,” said Greenleaf in an encouraging tone, “and consider this as well: I have more powers than some little cleric serving a malign master-not to mention my skill with weapons.”

The exchange continued for a while in this vein. Gradually, as Gord’s initial shock subsided, he became convinced that he should remain with his comrades. The words of Curley and Chert did help, but in large measure Gord persuaded himself to stay. After all, these were his boon companions with whom he had agreed to adventure. And he would not desert them now, cataboligne demon or no. Tomorrow they would enter the cairn, with weapons and spells ready to counter the evil of its demonic guardian.

 

Chapter 29

 

When Gord woke suddenly, the first thing he saw in the pale light of the pre-dawn sky was an enormous bear biting the arm and shoulder of the druid. Without hesitation, Gord sprang to his feet, sword in hand, shouting for the sleeping barbarian to awaken and help defend their companion. The great ursine jaws released their hold on Greenleaf, the head swung toward the source of the sudden commotion, and a horrible growl rumbled forth from deep within the bear’s body.

“Stop! Stand still!” shouted the druid at his companions.

Both young men froze, obedient but perplexed. Gord remained poised to lunge, and Chert stood with axe in hand, about to charge.

The druid spoke a few soft, growling sounds, and the monstrous cave bear relaxed again. As the druid continued to communicate in this fashion, the animal sat on its ponderous haunches, lolled its tongue, and stretched forth its head. Greenleaf scratched and pounded the place between its ears, and the bear made odd, whining groans of pleasure at this rough petting. Gord looked at Chert quizzically and saw the barbarian break into a knowing grin as he witnessed the interplay between the animal and the druid. The young thief turned his gaze back to Curley, wearing a frown of confusion.

“This bear is Yurgh. Or, at least, that’s as close as human speech can come to pronouncing his name,” the druid said as he continued to administer his scratching and patting, much to the evident delight of the furry creature he spoke about. “It seems that he alone resides in this territory, dwelling in a cave not too far distant.

“During my watch last night,” the druid continued, “I summoned any animals within the area to come to our assistance, but only Yurgh here responded. We are friends now, he and I, and he will aid us in what lies before us. I enlist his service with great regret, for I fear that the cataboligne will treat Yurgh roughly, and the death of such a wonderful creature as this will mark my spirit sorely. I have told him of the adversary, however, and the great old fellow agrees to fight the demon willingly, hating all things such as it represents.”

“You call and speak with bears?” Gord was having trouble grasping what the druid had done.

Chert had no such difficulty, having been around nature priests for all of his life. “Sure thing, Gord,” the barbarian said before Greenleaf could reply. “I’ve seen this pretty often, and it’s no big deal. If I wasn’t still asleep when you started shouting, I’d have known better than to worry about Curley and a bear chumming it up.”

More than a little miffed at Chert’s casual passing off of his efforts, Greenleaf ceased his petting of Yurgh to point out that the huge ursine was a formidable foe and an ally to the death. “Can you bring such help for us?” the druid demanded of the young barbarian. “Even a warrior such as you would find his hug somewhat uncomfortable-no big deal, indeed!” finished the druid with a harrumph, and he resumed his scratching of the now-restless bear.

“Sorry, Curley,” Chert said hastily. “You know I didn’t mean that it was nothing-only that calling bears and stuff is a power all you druids have.”

Gord freely admitted that he, for one, was duly impressed, and Greenleaf was thereby mollified. That settled, the three adventurers and their grizzled pet of monstrous proportion headed for the depression. It was a matter of an hour or so before they came within sight of the bowl containing the circled stones, clambered down the narrow path to its bottom, and advanced to the piled slabs resting at the very center of the inner ring of megaliths.

“Here is what bars the entrance to the barrow,” Greenleaf said, pointing to a large rectangle of rock in front of him. The stone showed marks of tools that had been wielded upon its surface, and it was somewhat askew, wedged in place with other stones obviously added as if by afterthought.

“How do we move it?” asked the muscular barbarian. “I’d say it weighs a couple of tons.”

“The thing pivots, according to the story,” said the druid as he surveyed the slab. “Let’s get the detritus out of the way and give it a try. Yurgh, here, can use his strength to help us pull it open.”

It took a bit of work for the three men to clear away the shards of stone, which had been broken away from the ancient ruins by time and weather and gathered up by the frightened bandits years ago in their efforts to wedge fast the portal. Other stones too, boulders of some size, had been heaped at the base of the slab. The great bear watched the men’s labor with seeming fascination, content to bask in the bright warmth of the morning sun as the two-legged little creatures cleared the rubble.

“Damn that fat lazy bastard of a bear,” Chert muttered as he tugged and pulled away a chunk of splintered megalith from its obstructing position. “Couldn’t you have ordered him to help us, Curley?”

“Yurgh can do a lot, but his claws aren’t fingers, nor his forelegs arms,” the druid said, supervising the last bit of work. “Besides, he enjoys watching and resting,” he added with a grin and a wink in the general direction of the monstrous animal. Then he spoke seriously. “Don’t forget, he has agreed willingly to fight against the guardian, putting his life in jeopardy for no reward other than the encounter itself!”