City of Hawks (17 page)

As the snakelike neck began to move forward and down, Gord grabbed the hilt of his sword with both of his small hands. Despite the chill, both of his palms were sweating freely. Holding on with all his might, Gord swung the puny blade to meet the terrible head as it swung down to smash him. Steel met corruption with a disgusting sound. There was a spray of putrid stuff everywhere, and then the head and neck were lying in the water just in front of him.

“Oh, gods!” The boy cried the words so loudly that they nearly deafened him, but at the same time he was comforted by the fact that he could speak-that meant he was still alive!

The horrible body, meanwhile, deprived of its forepart, flapped and writhed. Tendrils and tentacles continued breaking away, or simply dissolved in the waters. Great sections of the unnatural agglomeration of stuff similarly disappeared, falling into bits, washing away; going into nothingness.

Gord watched this, his teeth chattering, eyes bulging, until there was nothing of the horror left to see. It took only a very brief time even in the slow current of the canal. In minutes the black water was as placid as a quiet pool, and even the noisome reek of the monster had wafted away along the great pipeline. Gord shook himself, reached into his shirt, and pulled out the small container of brandy with a trembling hand. Using his teeth to pull the cork, the boy downed the remaining liquor with a gulp and tossed the empty flask away without a thought.

“Hollering hags of Hades!” he uttered with a long, whooshing breath thereafter. Too weak to stand any longer, Gord put his back against the curving rock of the conduit and allowed his knees to buckle. Slowly he sank to a sitting position, the cold flow of the dark water washing his body all the way to his ribcage. He didn’t notice, for his eyes were riveted to something discernible in the water nearby. There, just under the surface, picked out by the light of the enspelled stone of his lantern, was a globular object, white and familiar somehow. Then he recognized it. The thing was a human skull!

With a shriek Gord rose, water flying from him as he stood. He still held his sword, and he used the weapon to strike at the grinning sphere of bone. There wasn’t sufficient water between skull and blade to lessen the force of his blows. The third time the edge struck bone, the thing broke into bits.

“There, Theobald, there!” Gord cried as he delivered the last stroke. “This time you’ll die forever!”

With that, he used his boot to kick the fragments, and they washed away into the deeper channel and out of sight, just as the other parts of the unnatural thing had done but a short time before.

The trauma of what had just transpired was gone. He had proved he was able to stand up to Theobald, both as a human and as a monstrous horror of the worst imaginable sort. The thing he had just fought had to have been fashioned from the remains of the beggarmaster. No other will could have been strong enough and evil enough to collect rottenness and filth into a congealed mass and make it have semblance of life and a purpose.

Oh, yes, the monster had had a purpose. It had lurked there by the treasure, waiting, growing, knowing that some day Gord would come there to find the iron box and take the wealth away. Then the thing that had been Theobald would strike. Revenge, assimilation of his body into its own bulk, and… and what? The thought made him shudder again, mentally and physically: unlife as a conglomerate thing, a lurking horror seeking other lives to consume, a oneness with Theobald.

“It was the lightstone that did it,” Gord said aloud as the realization came to him. The enspelled brilliance of his lantern destroyed the corrupt creation born of hatred, darkness, and vile stuff.

“I did well enough, Theobald, for I struck the blow that finally ended you. But the light weakened you, ate your form away, and made it possible.” He was exhilarated, almost satisfied, by what he had accomplished. He was almost ready to turn away then and there, forget about the treasure, and go back the way he had come. But he stayed-not out of greed, he told himself, but because to leave without the strongbox would be to give the beggarmaster a last triumph. Small it might be in relative terms, but the treasure was what the thing had held dear, and that too must be cleansed.

Hours later, Gord was back In the sunlight. It had taken a long time to find the iron container, even with the help of the light that water didn’t extinguish. When he located it, he fixed his leather thong to one handle and dragged it out of the muck that covered the bottom of the basin and into the channel of the canal that it fed. That finally done, he had broken the lock and seen the contents of the chest for the first time.

It was disappointing. But, all things considered, Gord supposed it had to be. Most of the coins were corroded brass, bronze, or copper-corroded because the chest was not waterproof. But there were some of more precious sort, enough silver, electrum, and gold too to fill one of his small pouches. Like the man, Theobald’s treasure was shabby and mean for the most part. Only cheap jewelry, glass, and valueless stones remained in the chest with the stained coins. Gord left the lot standing in the dark waters of the canal beneath Old City. If any others should ever find it, let them wonder.

Rather than try to climb back up by using the knotted cord, Gord decided to find an easier means of leaving the subterranean realm. He was too tired physically, too drained to face a climb like that, but his mind was still keen. In a short time he found a way upward, just as he remembered seeing depicted on the old plan, and after that it had been an easy matter to get to the clean air above. It was a long slog home, but he managed, cloak pulled around him to hide the bedraggled condition of his garments.

One thing more remained to be done before Gord could go to his apartment and sleep for a whole day. He was determined to accomplish that last thing before allowing exhaustion to have its way…

“What’s this?” The tall cleric was astonished at the glittering coins he had just found in the chapel’s poor box.

His sole acolyte was uncertain. “A young student was here briefly an hour or so ago. I didn’t pay attention, because I had duties to perform… Could he have given so much?”

“If he was a slight, dark-haired lad of about sixteen, I think he just could have,” the priest said, letting it go at that.

What is a city? What makes it singular? Memorable? A place regarded with affection or distaste? Gord knew the city of Greyhawk. Industry and trade made it what it was. Its location and government made it a singular entity, similar to other cities, perhaps, but distinctive too… perhaps.

Gord was beginning to hate the place, hate his existence in it, and the questions in his mind had no final answers. Was it eighteen or nineteen years he had been dwelling within Greyhawk? He didn’t know exactly. What was important was that he had never been farther than a long bowshot from the double walls of the place. What was the city of Dyvers like? He had heard about it, read its history, but beyond that the other great free city of the Flanaess might as well have been on one of the moons for all Gord had experienced of its reality.

“Bring me another bottle of the black wine of Pomarj,” the young man called. There was no friendliness in his tone, and the harassed serving wench shot him a look as dark as the wine he had just demanded. Gord returned her look with hard eyes, and the girl went off quickly to comply. She and Gord had been on other, more pleasant terms not long ago, but she knew he was moody and thought him strange.

“Why do you drink this filthy stuff?” the girl demanded crossly as she banged the heavy bottle down before him.

Gord regretted being sharp. After all, it wasn’t her fault that he was thoroughly discontented. “Because it reminds me of you, dear Meg-dark and tasty,” he replied with a small smile, handing her several large coins as he did so.

“Liar!” Despite the compliment and the overpayment. Black Meggin was having none of Gord’s overtures. “You swill it because of the stuff they put in it. You’re an addict!”

“Keep the change, love,” Gord said as the girl spun around and went to answer the call of another patron. She had a point. At two hundred a bottle, the inky stuff was costly. Its bitter aftertaste did grow on one, and its effects were at least habituating.

“Do I drink to dispel the dark mood? Or is it the drink which cloaks me in such a state?” He asked these questions softly aloud. No one was near enough to his little table to hear. “What does it matter? I like it, and I can easily afford it. Drink it I shall.”

A trio of men sat and conversed among themselves several tables away from Gord. They were strangers to this tavern known as the Man in the Moon, and from their garb it was evident that they came from another place-Urnstmen, possibly, and surely merchants or traders. Without being obvious about it, the three had been keeping a close watch on Gord’s every move. Black Pomarj wine was rare, especially costly since so little was made now due to the humanoid occupation of the territory.

“He gave the wench the value of a full silver piece,” a hawk-nosed man murmured to his two associates.

“That’s nothing,” a man with small eyes next to him said. “I saw the gleam of yellow when he reached in and fetched his payment forth.”

The third fellow, a bull-necked man with a closely trimmed beard that only partially hid a sickle-shaped scar on his cheek, merely nodded and called, “Come, girl, more ale here!”

Sunk as he was in his own mood, Gord gave no indication that he was noticing the men’s attention. Since he had abandoned his studies in favor of a more active life, the young man had changed considerably. Even after his friend and companion, San, had gone off to pursue membership in the Thieves’ Guild, and also to pursue the daughter of a member of that association, Gord had remained pretty much unchanged. For a time he had remained a carefree student, a seemingly normal member of the large group attending one or another of the various colleges of Greyhawk’s university.

Certainly, he was different in that he managed to provide for his living all by himself. He did informally and without the sanction of the guild what San now did with its approval… thievery. By using his considerable talents and skills, Gord earned a comfortable living and put himself through college nicely. Discovery of that knowledge would have shocked the authorities of the august institution. It also would have brought the young man before the tribunals of the city. To practice the trade of thief without guild membership was forbidden.

It was almost six months since he had left his old apartment to begin a new life. Gord still read whatever he could get his hands on-and books were not common-and maintained his active work learning the art of fighting with dagger, sword, and the two weapons in combination. He and San had determined to learn fencing skills as a key to their ultimate survival. Being boys alone in a city filled with predatory adults, their decision had been wise. Now that Gord was away from Grey College, he still took instruction. Currently, he went weekly to learn from a retired mercenary who lived in the Foreign Quarter. That would have to change soon, however. Because Gord actively pursued thievery now, as a gambler, confidence man, and burglar principally, it was necessary to change his identity and residence frequently. Still, he knew he could always find instruction, for the city was filled with capable warriors willing to accept coin in return for lessons in weapon-play.

Tonight would be his last at the Man in the Moon tavern. It was time to relocate his dwelling, change identities, and thus effectively disappear. When it came to being a lone thief in Greyhawk, one couldn’t be too careful. Every hand was against the rogue-city police, guild, and citizen alike. Gord idly twisted the drooping end of one of his moustachios. Although young, he had a heavy beard, and his fast-growing facial hair made changes of appearance easy.

“Will more changing help?” He asked the question mentally. “No,” he mused to himself. “I am what I am.”

He didn’t like that conclusion, inescapable as it was. Whether residing in the slums or the High Quarter, he was still an orphan. He knew not his parents or his heritage, nor did he have a friend. As a student he had used his thievery to maintain himself in the sheltered world of the university. There he had felt a sense of meaning, had believed his life had purpose. That had been a delusion, of course.

Now he was using his larcenous and acrobatic abilities to strike out at the place he grudgingly called home. It was only fair that this city filled with hawks be preyed upon by another. His gains would help to repay him for his own suffering in this place. It was long past time that the score be evened, time for Gord to live high at the expense of the other folks of Grey-hawk. There were, he knew, other young rebels like himself in the city. Perhaps if he joined forces with some of them he would find satisfaction and companionship-and best of all, peace of mind.

The bottle was nearly empty. Gord spilled the last of the ebon wine into his goblet and quaffed it off at a toss. “Shall I wait for you tonight, Meg?” He already knew the answer she would give, but the banter was part of his game, related to the art of vanishing without being thought of as having done so for suspicious motives.

The black-haired Meggin stopped and looked at him without smiling. “Leaving so early, Gord? No wonder, what with the amount of that drink you’ve swilled down! That will keep you warm and content, I’m sure, so as not to be needing my company.” Then she softened a little and came close, looking straight into his eyes as Gord stood up. “There’s no use our being together, you see. You’re unhappy, and I can’t change that no matter how hard I try. Ask me again, Gord, when you know yourself.”

Gord gave her his best boyish grin, grabbed her around her narrow waist, and planted a kiss full on her pretty lips. “I love you, darlin’ girl, but you’re right as always! It’s time I was off to see the lands about this great world. I’ll seek my fortune-and myself, too. When I come back a rich man you’ll marry me, now won’t you, Meg?”

“That’ll be the day,” Meg said, pushing him away with mock anger. “You’ll be back here tomorrow, drinking that nasty wine again and trying to seduce every lass with a well-turned leg,” she snapped, and then hurried off to attend to her work.

Meg didn’t allow Gord to see the moisture in her eyes. She knew he wasn’t just talking-indeed, he wouldn’t be back. That she had sensed the moment Gord had come into the tavern this evening. He was going away, possibly never to return, and Meggin truly cared for the young man, scoundrel though she believed him to be. She would have preferred him to stay, under different circumstances, but Meg was no fool. Gord could never love her, or any other, until he came to some decisions inside, found something he sought after. That was why he drank the black wine of the Pomarj. “Goodbye, Gord,” she whispered as the young man strode out of the Man in the Moon.

A minute later the three nondescript men left the tavern also. They didn’t bother finishing a nearly full pitcher of ale that was at their table. Meggin wondered about that later as she cleared their place, but she thought nothing further of it.

The trio followed the young man as he headed toward the southwestern portion of the quarter, with every step taking him deeper into the dark, quiet byways of the district.

“See, he reels like a sodden sailor,” hissed the pig-eyed man.

“Better still,” the man with the thick neck and the scar on his cheek said with a tone of satisfaction, “he goes to where there will be none to witness what is about to occur!” It was evident that the bull-necked fellow was the leader, and he made a point of letting the other two know this by his words. Scarface had the last and best always.

“As usual?” The query by the hawk-faced member of the trio brought a quick nod in affirmation from Scarface. Without further instruction the questioner strode purposefully across the narrow street. He walked quickly, paralleling the path of their target, and was soon ahead of Gord on the opposite side of the way. The drunken young man paid him not the slightest attention, intent as he was on simply making his journey home without falling.

“As near as I recall…” Gord sang softly to himself as he went, occasionally using his right hand to steady himself against the front of one building or another. “ ’Twas an evenin’…” he caroled out, loudly now, as If pleased with his performance, “…in the fall…”-and at that point he actually lost his balance and toppled to the ground in the darkness beside a building.

“Take him now!” Scarface called out to the man with the hawk face as he and the pig-eyed fellow ran toward the fallen youth. The lead man was already crossing to get to the victim when the command was shouted, for he had been watching and waiting for the right moment. The three thugs converged on the prone victim as vultures swoop down to feast upon the carcass of a dying animal.

The hawk-faced man was the first to arrive, his dagger poised to strike-and an instant after he lunged toward the fallen figure, a scream sounded along the lane. No shutters flew open to shed light on the happenings, no doors cracked to allow the inhabitants of the street to see. Nobody cared to investigate late-night events in the Foreign Quarter. Even the watch patrolled only the main thoroughfares and the streets along the walls. Those who dwelled within or dared to walk through this neighborhood were fair game.

“That blaster is already looting him!” This came from Pig-eyes as he and his companion ran up to where the two shapes were mingled in the deep shadows. They had seen their comrade fall upon the prone fellow, and assumed he must certainly be going for the victim’s purse even now.

“You’ll get yours!” Scarface growled at the hawk-faced man through his panting as he lumbered up to where the assault had taken place. The threat was obvious and certain to be carried out. The thick-necked leader would brook no attempt at grabbing spoils without his approval. Scarface bent over the two bodies, grabbed his comrade by the collar, and flung him off the victim. A second too late, he realized what he had done.

“He’s already gotten It, friend!” Gord said loudly as he lunged upward to a kneeling position and rammed his short sword into the man’s paunchy gut. Now it was Scarface’s turn to yell. He let out a roar of pain, for the blade had sunk into his vitals. Clutching his belly with both hands, the bull-necked man reeled and staggered away, moaning.

Pig-eyes had been a few steps behind when his boss got to the scene, which gave him time to stop and pull out the weapon he hadn’t thought he would need. The momentary delay did Gord some good as well. The man cursed as he ran at Gord and drove a wickedly aimed blow at him-but the curved blade of his knife sank into the back of his dead associate instead. At the last instant, Gord had pulled the hawk-faced fellow’s corpse between himself and his attacker, using it as a shield.

“Gods-” Pig-eyes began to sputter another oath as his blade sank in, but he got no farther, for the body suddenly sailed upward and outward, striking him. As the would-be mugger stumbled backward, trying to get free of the sprawling corpse and pull out his knife at the same time, Gord sprang up and went over to press a full attack.

Drunk he was, but not so much as he had put on. Further, this trio of thugs was inexpert. Gord had figured them for bandits when he had first entered the Man in the Moon, before he had fully sunk into his black mood and black wine. His young age and heavy purse had made the three incautious. That pair of mistakes, taking him for an easy mark and having overconfidence in their own ability, had cost two of them dearly. Now the third member of the group had to face the same possibility. As Gord advanced toward him, sword held before him in his right hand, the man had finally figured out how to get the leverage he needed to yank his curved blade out of his comrade’s body.

“Free your knife,” Gord said to him, “for this must be a fair contest.” He laughed as he said that, for such sport made him forget his own discontent.

“Help me, Baldor!” The fellow called to his bull-necked leader, but that man had no more stomach for the fight… in more ways than one. Seeing that. Pig-eyes crouched low, knife before him. His stance was good; it was evident that he had fought this way often enough to feel comfortable and act instinctively. His renewed confidence showed as he addressed Gord. “Fair? You lying little shit! Sword against knife is never equal.”