Artifact of Evil (3 page)

Without hesitation, Gord began a careful examination of the wall to his right. There were traces of blood near it, and he assumed that a hidden door was to be found here. Within a minute he had indeed located a secret stone panel. It was not difficult to release its catch and open it.

The narrow corridor beyond was dark, unlighted save for the faint illumination from the stairs, where an embrasure somewhere above let sunlight filter down. No matter; Gord's vision was not dependent on such light, for he held his dweomered sword, which magically empowered his eyes to see the parts of the spectrum above and below the human norm. Ducking his head, Gord dived into the passageway, his body rolled into a ball that tumbled ahead in a series of fast rolls. The tall, blond man he had been tracking waited within the corridor, holding a crossbow aimed at the rectangle of light revealed by the opening of the secret door.

The thick bolt buzzed harmlessly over Gord's compact rush, clattering into the stairwell beyond. As it did so, Gord sprang to his feet and attacked the wounded man before he could reload the weapon. The red-gowned foe had thought Gord unable to see him lying in ambush in the darkness, and expected to slay Gord thus. With a terrible curse, the man hurled the useless crossbow in Gord's general direction, turned, and fled groaning down the black corridor. He managed to pull open a small, wooden door at its end, but that was all. Gord struck his back with his shoulder, a slamming blow that drove the wounded man into the room beyond and sent him sprawling to the floor, face down.

"Quarter!" the fallen man managed to cry through his bloody lips. "Spare me, and I'll give you a king's ransom!"

Gord pressed his sword point firmly against the prone man's back. "If you move other than to speak, I'll kill you as I would a spider." The hard finality of Gord's voice made the man freeze motionless. "Tell me of your offer – quickly!"

"Do you pledge you'll spare me if I do so?"

"Poisoner! Foul assassin! Lurker in ambush! You dare to plead with me thus? Prepare your spirit for the foul lower planes where demons or devils await with gleeful anticipation!"

"No! Wait… I will show you the treasure, wealth and more! There are plans that your superiors will find most interesting, and you will gain promotion and favor. Surely for such, you will not slay me! I'll be your willing slave, just give me my life."

Gord was disgusted by the man's begging, at his suggestion of intrigue and scheming on Gord's part, and his willing acquiescence to bondage for life. "Silence! Speak again before I tell you, and I'll sever your spine – if you have one. Answer truthfully and exactly: Where is this hoard you yammer of kept?"

"Here, in this very room," the wounded foeman said without inflection. "This is the secret chamber of the Elder Brother."

"Who is this Elder Brother?"

"Our… the… commander of this castle."

Gord leaned gently on his sword, making the man gasp and squirm slightly. "You said 'our.' What is 'our'? And what profession does this Elder Brother have other than being castellan?"

"Our Order holds this fortress, and Elder Brother is a High Priest of Tharizdun, thus high within our Order…" At this pause Gord gave another easy prod, and the prone man hastily added, "The Order is called the Scarlet Brotherhood."

Gord had heard vague stories about the Scarlet Brotherhood, and he mentally filed the information away for later contemplation. "Tell me where the treasure is kept," he barked.

"There is a hidden place, and envenomed darts. Allow me to light candles, and I will show you."

Although he needed no such illumination, Gord permitted the wounded man to rise. The man fumbled in his belt and drew forth a tinderbox. Gord watched carefully, but the fellow appeared to have no thought of trickery or further resistance. He had accepted the situation, and now sought only to obey. Puffing the sparks into a tiny flame, the prisoner took a small taper and caught its wick afire. In a moment a great candelabrum shed the light of three massive candles over the small apartment. Gord could see another secret door, probably leading to a chamber beyond in which the so-called Elder Brother dwelled. The room he was in had little in it besides the candle stand, a small desk and chair, and a wooden chest of no great size.

"Here," the wounded prisoner said, pointing to a cabinet that Gord had overlooked. "I must open this with care, pressing hard on the side panel, else the darts will be loosed upon me when the door is swung outward."

Moving quickly to avoid any possible discharge of such missiles, Gord observed as the fellow opened the cupboard, shortsword aimed to thrust home at the slightest sign of trickery. The space revealed had several shelves. Upon these boards rested a variety of items – scrolls, loose parchment sheets, an array of small containers, and several leather bags.

"Gold!" the fellow said with an obsequious smile, as he picked up a heavy bag. Its contents shifted and clinked. "Platinum plates," he said, patting another, "and this one holds electrum – all these on the lower shelf do."

"The rest?" Gord demanded.

"The flat box here holds a store of precious stones used for bribery. The pots and jars are those things common to priestly powers – the stuff for spell-working. The scrolls are sacred writings of Tharizdun. The other papers are orders and plans… the important documents I told you of… which will bring you much favor with your masters when you hand them the intelligence!"

Without comment, Gord proceeded to take the gems and platinum. This treasure was his by right of conquest and discovery. The remaining wealth he left for the others of his allies. He ordered his captive to carry the scrolls and loose sheets of parchment, and the two returned the way they had come. It was time for Gord to find his friend, Gellor, and report this unsuspected success.

The last of the prisoners were being marched from Strandkeep as files of dwarves and men wearing the colors of the Prince of Ulek entered the castle to garrison the captured stronghold. The short, broad dwarven soldiery bore the red axe on a white field upon their tabards, while their human counterparts displayed the gold and purple of the Prince's quartered arms, signifying them to be his veteran contingents.

Not all would remain here, of course, for with the fortress in his hands, Prince Olinstaad Corond would certainty advance upon Stoneheim to take that city and gain access to the rich mines to the north of it. There, in the mountainous portion of the Drachensgrab Hills called Wormsjaws, gold and gems were wrested from the stony interiors of many deep mines. His Serene Highness of Ulek desired to regain this wealth, so long lost to his realm.

Now that the way had been unlocked, and Strandkeep made secure as a base of operations, the dwarven prince was likely to attain his desired goal. His army was pressing the disorganized humanoid tribes of the Pomarj eastward, while a force of men from allied petty states of the region called the Wild Coast sought revenge upon these same tribes themselves. Although this motley conglomerate of troops was of questionable effectiveness, their presence far to the north, menacing the town of Highport, certainly split the defender's strength. Ulek could hope to seize and hold a strip of the Pomarj from the Jewel River to Stoneheim, fortifying the northern border of this territory with dwarven-built towers within the Drachensgrabs to the peaks of Wormsjaws.

Some of the mercenary companies that had assisted in the taking of the great castle were now being paid off. Others would be signed on as needed, and such sell-swords were easily enlisted in this part of the Flanaess. No major battle would be fought for many weeks, for the fall of Strandkeep dealt the rulers of the Pomarj a severe blow. They would fall back, regroup, and plan some strategy to recoup.

Among the bodies of mercenaries that were fanning outward from the castle, heading west and north, was a company of riders who bore no special insignia. This group of a hundred or so struck due north, heading into the heart of the Drachensgrab Hills, evidently fearing nothing that might molest them in that wilderness. At the head of the assemblage rode Gord, the druid known as Curley Greenleaf, and a grizzled man called Gellor.

"When we reach the Suss," the burly druid was saying, referring to a great band of forest to the north, "I will carry intelligence to all those who must know."

"Excellent, my friend!" the one-eyed Gellor said approvingly. "Gord and I will take the company on to Badwall, avoiding any contact with the host of petty nobles gathered under Elredd's banner to war on Highport. Some of our comrades will undoubtedly wish to sell their lances to Elredd, but we will have some force awaiting in Badwall-town when you return."

"I still say we should take our chinkers," Gord interjected with a shaking of his fat purse for emphasis, "and leave the rest of this dangerous business to others. After all, we have risked our lives aplenty during the last months, and we should be allowed to enjoy the spoils of victory… until the money runs out. Time enough for adventure then!"

Gellor shook his head in mock dismay, while the druid made disapproving clucks on the other hand. "Gord, Gord, will I ever be able to rehabilitate you? Leave your past thievery behind and think as a dedicated agent of those who fight Evil! We must put duty before our personal safety, let alone pleasure, always."

Despite the jesting tone, Gord knew that Gellor meant what he said. The grizzled, one-eyed bard was indeed a devoted agent serving those who sought to prevent the spread of malign powers throughout the whole of Oerth. He had met the one-eyed man, then posing as a mere thief, long ago in the Bandit Kingdoms; adventured and fought by his side in the far-off lands to the east; and probably owed his life to him.

"Leave off, Gellor, you one-eyed conscience!" Gord retorted. "I protest this entire quest, but I am resigned to it – else your nagging will drive me as insane as a rune of madness!"

Greenleaf and Gellor laughed, slapped him on the back in comradely approval, and then fell on to their discussion again. This allowed Gord time to reflect on what had led him to the current pass…

Orphan, beggar, and thief he had been in his childhood, an urchin in the slums of Greyhawk's Old City, then a prisoner indentured to the Beggarmaster Theobald. Seeking his fortune in the wide world beyond the city had brought him experience and skill that enabled him not only to survive but to prosper. Accomplished as a fighter with sword and dagger since his early training in Greyhawk, Gord had used his weapons all too often in the course of his wandering adventures, but he didn't really regret this. Coupled with his skill in the art of acrobatics, thievery had brought him many a fortune – which he lost with much the same ease.

Gord had loved and lost. That was life. His friends – Gellor, Curley Greenleaf, and the hulking barbarian Chert – were true friends and boon companions. Gellor had rescued him from jeopardy when Gord had been imprisoned by his lover's angry father, Count Blemu. Then, along with Curley Greenleaf and Chert, they had survived encounters with predatory monsters and pitched battles too.

He and Chert had eventually come to Cord's home, Greyhawk City, years after Gord had left that place for the first time as a mere stripling. A great fortune in precious gems, part of a prize they had wrested from a frightful demon, was soon converted into coin of the realm – silver nobles, electrum luckies, gold orbs, and platinum plates. Then, for nearly six months, the two young men had lived high.

Chert quickly learned to enjoy the fine life that an unlimited supply of money bought in the city. He wore fine clothes, drank the best of potables, and dined sumptuously. Gord had experienced a brief taste of such living when, as a young, enterprising thief, he would masquerade as a noble wastrel or the son of a rich merchant. Now, he and Chert rented their own villa in Greyhawk's Garden Quarter, gave parties, and were entertained by courtesans. Now? No, that was wrong. Next. That led to rapid depletion of even a treasury as great as the two had, and all too soon the funds were squandered.

The barbarian was growing tired of gaming, wenching, and foppery anyway. Born and bred in the wilderness, Chert was at first awed, then fascinated, by the delights and soft living offered by so sophisticated a city as Greyhawk. All of that paled quickly. The barbarian chafed at inaction and ease, seeking excitement and adventure. Occasional hunts beyond the city walls, even frequent brawls in some rowdy tavern along Greyhawk's notorious Strip, became boring to him. Chert had readily agreed to accompany Gord when the young thief had suggested that they augment their dwindling reserves by relieving the rich of excess wealth.

There was no question that the barbarian was quick and climbed like a cat, but in the urban surroundings his natural skills were otherwise useless, and he stood out far too much. Often, Gord's carefully laid plans were brought to naught by some noise Chert made, his all-too-ready approach to fighting, or simply the fact that he was too large to go where Gord could. This led to mutual frustration and quarreling. They gave up their expensive villa and took lodging in a small inn located in the Foreign Quarter.

Shortly thereafter, Chert announced his intention of joining a caravan bound for Dyvers, stating that as one of its mercenary guards he would be able to escape suffocation in the crowded city and perhaps have a bit of adventure too. Argument was useless, even reminding the barbarian that they awaited both reward and news from Curley Greenleaf did not sway his resolve. They had clasped hands in friendship, pledging to meet again soon, and then Chert had gathered the few belongings he cared about, taken his great axe, Brool, and departed. Gord recalled that he thought Chert looked happy for the first time in months then.

Actually, Gord had agreed with his barbarian friend about the likelihood of Curley Greenleaf ever coming back. When the druid had left them to carry back the strange relic taken from the lair of the slain cataboligne demon, Greenleaf had assured both young men that he would send money and news of the meaning of the prize. Not that either actually needed further reward – the gemstones the druid had given them were a fabulous treasure, but it was not like Greenleaf not to live up to his word. Six months of silence led both Gord and Chert to surmise that some ill fate had befallen their companion, or that the eldritch nature of his burden was such that no reward nor information could be sent.

With his last remaining friend gone, the young thief looked at Greyhawk from a new perspective. After leaving word with several ostlers to be on the lookout for the druid, and explaining that he would check back periodically to renew their stipend for doing this service, Gord moved his quarters to the Low Quarter, accumulated disguises, and set about rebuilding a career.

Soon the thief known only as Blackcat became the talk of the city. Rare glimpses enabled a few to state that this burglar was black of skin and garb, fast as a cat, and as agile too. Some speculated that the cat burglar was a drow, one of the dark elvenfolk of subterranean places. Others said that such a thief could not be human or demi-human at all, but some spawn of supernatural sort entirely.

Blackcat confounded guards, foiled traps, laughed at locks, and eluded all pursuit. Searches and spies could find nothing. Informants had no news to sell to the masters of the city or to their police. Even the Thieves' Guild was mystified, and chagrined, by the success of this daring unknown. The identity of Blackcat became a subject for conversation from the lowest slums to the grand halls of the Lord Mayor's residence. He was, of course, none other than Gord.

Remaining anonymous was out of the question. Gord resumed his role of gambler and thief openly. Eventually, he was recognized by his old companion, San. The boy had grown into manhood and was now a master of high station in the guild and married to the daughter of the aging Guildmaster, Arentol. It was likely, in fact, that San would soon be elected to the exalted office held by his father-in-law.

Neither San nor the old Guildmaster was interested in unearthing past grudges. The skeletons revealed would be bad for son-in-law and embarrassing to Guildmaster. Having such open presence in Greyhawk, Gord was watched with great suspicion for a time, but his activity was judged harmless enough. Where he had gained his fortune was unknown, but it was easy enough to discover that Gord had returned to the city months previously, complete with untold riches and a brawny companion. The latter had recently departed Grey-hawk for parts unknown, but Gord still remained to enjoy his wealth.

He was not a registered thief, but Gord mainly gambled and bet upon sports and like things, doing well enough with such wagering, although hardly in need of the proceeds. The young adventurer sported jewelry and fine clothes that indicated no need for burglaries such as those Blackcat performed. Besides, Cord's skills were known to the guild, which had estimated him a master in his own right – rating disguise, stealth, and lock-picking excellent; pocket-picking, purse-slitting, and sleight of hand superb; and impersonation and confidence schemes masterful. San suggested that he himself, even as inferior to his father-in-law as he was, was certainly a better thief than Gord would ever be. So the members of the guild looked elsewhere in their efforts to discover and end the career of the cat-burglar who was near to destroying their repute in Greyhawk.

Actually, Gord had little to show for his daring exploits at crime. While risking life and limb in feats of balance and gymnastic prowess needed to accomplish his midnight burglaries, Gord gained hardly enough to maintain his high-living style. Victims always claimed their loss from his work to be far more than the young thief actually took from strongbox or secret cache. True, he had a small store of jewelry he dared not fence, a few great pieces carefully kept in the old wooden box that was the only possession he had from his childhood. Otherwise, though, the gold spent in a night's carouse was nearly always a tithe of Gord's total fortune.

He debated changing his habits, even thought seriously of going westward after Chert and seeking adventure in other places, but for whatever reason he stayed and lived his dual existence without alteration. It was, all in all, as exciting and dangerous as could be hoped for. The glamor had faded, the pleasures gained were tarnishing, but there was something keeping him going that Gord could not himself understand. Perhaps dissatisfaction was engendering a death wish.

Gord nearly ceased his periodic inquiries as to Curley Greenleafs possible presence in the city. One day, months later, and on a whim brought on by boredom, he casually entered the Green Dragon Inn. It was a place frequented by foreigners, mercenaries, tough adventurers, and others of less savory aspect. Even as he sought the proprietor to ask if he had news of a druid, he saw the rotund fellow in person. Greenleaf was unmistakable in nearly any crowd – a pudgy, bald-headed half-elf with slightly pointed ears showing his heritage, and clad in druidical garments. The druid did not immediately recognize Gord, however, for his former associate had changed. Dressed in elegant fashion, hair worn in the length currently vogue in the city, and not presently beardless, the young man he saw enter could have been any of hundreds of rakes and other gentry common to Greyhawk.

It took only a moment for Gord to realize this fact, and he thought a good joke to be in order. Floppy hat pulled low and set at roguish angle, gait swaggering, he came to the druid's table and purposely bumped it so as to spill the flagon of dark ale set before its occupant. Greenleaf uttered a most unclerical sounding oath and leaped to his feet, ready to teach the perpetrator of such an offense some manners. The bald man glared angrily at the smirking fop before him for a full second before he finally saw it was none other than his young friend, Gord, playing tricks.

After much exchange of greetings and appropriate toasts, the pair staggered joyfully back to Gord's apartment above a small shop in a better neighborhood of the Low Quarter. Eventually they sobered sufficiently to find supper in a nearby public eating house, return to Gord's quarters once again, and exchange tales of what had happened since their last meeting. Despite Cord's protests, Curley insisted that Gord recount his tale first.