D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (29 page)

Two of the parasites clung stubbornly on the back of the half-elfs left thigh. When they finally came away, salted, red oozing weals showed lividly on his flesh. He gave a sudden short scream as a few grains of salt fell down into the wounds, and performed a short, urgent dance. Garett’s other concern for his friend proved less of a worry. Though a trace of blood on Burge’s bandages when they removed them had indicated his cuts had opened, they had sealed again and scabbed over.

Another leech had made itself a comfortable home under the fold of Blossom’s right breast. She gave a little groan at the discovery, then turned her head aside and squeezed her eyes tightly shut and bit down on her lower lip.

“Wait until I tell the boys at the barracks about this!” Rudi laughed as he cupped her breast in one hand, applied the salt, and pealed the viscid creature away.

Blossom didn’t protest, didn’t open her eyes, didn’t say anything at all. She just held herself rigid until the job was done. When Rudi flicked the leech into the fire, where it swiftly sizzled and popped, she wiped a hand over the spot. It came away smeared red.

“Thank you,” she said weakly to Rudi, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. She went straight to her clothing, ran a quick check to make sure nothing else had crawled inside them, and dressed. She shook her boots, too, and ran a hand all the way to the toes before she pulled them on.

There was no reason to stay any longer. Rudi used the instep of his boot to push the remains of the campfire into the water, leaving a blackened, scorched spot on the mangaroo roots, which were far too wet to burn. Garett drew out his old sword and put Guardian in its sheath. He tied the naked blade securely to his saddle and climbed up. The horses looked pathetic and unhappy after standing in water all day with only the short length of their reins to move around on. They were plainly ready to go as their riders turned them and splashed away toward the northwest.

The wetlands took on an almost silvery glow. Both moons floated in the misty sky now, big Kule, so bright, approaching fullness, and smaller blue Raenei, a perfectly round jewel in the heavens. The dew and mist that clung to the grasses reflected the light, and the fog that hovered over the water sparkled.

Riding beside Rudi, Blossom abruptly spoke, breaking the silence that hung like a pall over the surreal landscape. “If you tell anyone that you touched me here,” she said, placing a hand on her breast, “I’ll kill you.” She looked fixedly straight ahead. There was no doubt at all that she meant it.

“It was only a joke,” Rudi assured her apologetically.

She didn’t answer. Indeed, she didn’t speak at all until they reached the edge of the wetlands and stopped to give the area a final look. Then, as they turned their mounts again toward Greyhawk, she brightened somewhat and began to brag about the slingshots that had brought down the monster worm—no matter that Garett and Burge had already filled Rudi in on their adventures. And though their dangers had truly been great, they became even grander in her version.

The walls of Greyhawk loomed starkly in the moonlight. A few watchfires dotted the top of the wall, and a shadow or two shifted here and there as soldiers from the garrison walked their lackadaisical patrols. The wall and all the outer gates were manned, not by watchmen, but by regular soldiers from the garrison. It was considered a soft assignment, since the city hadn’t suffered an invasion in any living person’s memory.

Garett and his companions rode up to the Duke’s Gate. It was long past midnight, and the gates were closed, as were all the outer gates two hours after sundown. It took some shouting before they were able to alert any of the guards above to let them in. Then they were surrounded and held at lance-point and lanterns shined into their faces until a youthful lieutenant finally arrived and vouched that Garett was indeed who he claimed to be.

“Sorry, Captain Starlen,” the lieutenant apologized, gazing up at Garett, who was still mounted, with a firm, controlled gaze. “My men intended no offense. But none of you are in uniform, and there’ve been too many strange goings-on lately. You might have been imposters.”

As tired as he was, Garett was generous. It reassured him that someone with a sense of duty and half a head on his shoulders was keeping an eye on things, at least at this one gate. “No offense taken,” he told the young officer curtly. “And if you ever want a real job, I’d be happy to have someone like you on the night watch.”

The lieutenant knew a compliment when he heard one, even if it was a bit backhanded, and he grinned. “Thank you, sir,” he answered with a polite nod. “But if I ever take a real job, it’s going to have real daytime hours. I’ve got a wife.”

Garett bid all the guards a quiet evening. Then he, Burge, Blossom, and Rudi rode up High Street. He noticed one thing immediately. The streetlights were very dim. Some were extinguished completely. It took no great guesswork to know the reason why. In the High Quarter and much of the Garden Quarter, the Wizards’ Guild maintained the lights with their magic. But something had happened to the wizards, and many of the ornate glass globes were failing without the spells that gave them their glow.

“Welcome home to Necropolis,” Garett muttered.

“I bet the lamplighters are chortling up their sleeves,” Burge commented in a low whisper after Garett explained his remark.

The Lamplighters’ Guild maintained all the normal street lights in the middle quarters of the New City, those that had to be lit by hand with real fire. The guild’s members hadn’t been very happy when the Directorate, at the urging of many of Greyhawk’s nobles, awarded a contract to the wizards to illuminate the more luxurious sections.

They considered it money stolen from their own coffers.

On the other hand, many residents were pleased to see the lamplighters get a comeuppance for their refusal to extend their services to any but the most major streets of the Lower Quarter, the Foreign Quarter, and the Artisans’ Quarter, and not at all to the Slum Quarter or the Thieves’ Quarter. There they bluntly refused to go.

“There are going to be a lot of questions, though,” Blossom warned, staring upward as they passed under one of the dead globes.

Rudi agreed. “Some people might realize that Preste-lan’s fireworks last night were more than just a show for the city’s amusement.”

They fell silent again as they rode past the Sanctum of Heironeous. A low, dark structure set back off the road, it was sometimes called the Temple of the Righteous Warrior. Two burning braziers on either side of a dimly lit entrance invited anyone in, no matter the lateness of the hour. Many of the party’s fellow watchmen worshiped there, as did the garrison soldiers and mercenaries from various lands. Although Garett never worshiped—in fact, paid little attention to any god—he, too, regarded the sanctum as a place of reverence.

Just down the road, the Temple of Zilchus loomed, a squat pyramid, its ugly architecture prettied somewhat by the groves of orange and lemon trees that surrounded it. The trees poured a constant fragrance into the air that Garett had to admit he found pleasing. He had never set foot in the temple, which was favored by moneychangers and merchants, but it was rumored to be the most lavishly decorated and furnished church in all of the western Flanaess.

Beyond the temple, on the north side of the street, stood the Lord Mayor’s Palace. At least that was what people called it. Palace was perhaps stretching the word a bit, but it was indisputably one of the finest residences in the city. Most of the building was dark. Not even a guard stood on the fine marble porch. But in the top window of a high tower at the rear of the house, a lamplight burned. That was the mayor’s private office, and it pleased Garett to see that Ellon Thigpen was getting no more sleep than he or his friends.

He wondered idly if Thigpen would have sought the mayor’s position so eagerly two months ago if he had foreseen the trouble ahead. But he should have foreseen it. Thigpen had already served on the Directorate for several years. He knew well how the game of politics was played in Greyhawk—for keeps. He had had no better chance to learn that lesson than under his predecessor, the former mayor, Nerof Gasgal. Nerof had come to the office as the assistant master of thieves, another in a long line of mayors to come from that guild, and, like his predecessors, he had ruled with subtlety, constantly playing factions against each other, even scheming to create feuds, to maintain his authority.

No one had been too upset when Nerof died suddenly under questionable circumstances. No one except the Thieves’ Guild, which suddenly found its grip on the office broken.

“Cap’n,” Burge whispered suddenly, drawing back on his reins as he reached out to brush Garett’s arm. The watch captain heard the note of warning in his friend’s voice and stopped his horse. Behind Burge, Rudi also stopped, but Blossom rode up to her captain’s left side, putting him between her and the half-elf.

Burge stared intently toward a thick grove of trees, one of several public gardens in this quarter, that grew on the south side of the street, directly opposite the Lord Mayor’s Palace. The lights on that side of the street were dead. Nothing stirred in the darkness that filled the grove.

“Guess it was nothin’,” Burge said a moment later.

Yet, before they could start their horses forward again, six men ran silently out from the trees to block the road. Six more rushed out from a different part of the grove to block the road behind and cut off any retreat. All twelve carried swords, but they held them crudely and hesitated, obviously nervous, before they charged the four watchmen.

Garett saw at once it was no professional killing squad they faced. For one thing, they were young. Surprisingly so. They were dirty, and their clothes were little more than rags. Their rush was that of a mob, not of trained fighters. Still, they had weapons in hand and murder in their eyes, and if they wanted to do their work in silence, Garett was loathe to please them.

With a shout, he drew his old sword from the loop on his saddle and leaped to the ground. He was no mounted fighter. He preferred solid earth under his feet. He clung to his reins just long enough to let the attacker’s front line get close, then he slapped his horse’s rump and sent the beast smashing through them. A pair of shouts sounded behind him, and he took a quick glance over his shoulder as Rudi and Blossom rode straight at the rear line.

Garett slashed at the nearest foe. The boy—for he was no more than that—gripped his blade in both hands and raised it high to block a killing blow. As he did so, Garett kicked him between the legs with all his force. The boy gave a high-pitched scream. The sword fell from his hands as he clutched his ruined groin, and he sagged forward as the night watch captain dealt him a second savage blow to the head with the pommel of his sword. Garett felt bone crack under the impact.

Another youth ran forward, shrieking in anger, but Burge intercepted him. The half-elf had also abandoned his horse to fight on foot beside his captain. He raised his sword like a Slum Quarter stickball player and swung. So swiftly did he strike, his foe never had time to get his sword up, and a shower of blood fountained from a nearly severed neck.

Two more came around on Garett’s right. Swinging wildly, they rushed at him. He jumped quickly to the right, putting one attacker in the other’s way, and lashed out with a backhanded sword stroke. This attacker, though, had better sense or better reflexes than his comrades. He blocked Garett’s strike and managed one of his own that came dangerously near Garett’s face. The watch captain leaned back with an inch to spare, feeling the wind of the attack on his nose. Encouraged, the youth grinned.

Quickly, Garett faced two again, and once more shifted his position so that only one could come at him. At the same time, he freed Guardian from the sheath on his back. As he brought his right-hand sword up to defend his head, he swung the one in his left. The nearest boy gave a scream and sagged to his knees, clutching his guts.

The second youth, watching his partner fall, backed away with fear-widened eyes. The sword became lax in his grip. Of a sudden, he turned and started to run, deserting the fight. A black-hilted dagger abruptly sprouted from his back. The force of the throw lifted the lad off his feet and sent him sprawling into the ditch at the side of the road. Garett turned long enough to observe Rudi take his sword once more in his right hand and rush to Blossom’s side. The tall, blond watchman didn’t need any help, though. She had backed her man across the street and forced him against a tree trunk. Suddenly she opened him, employing an elusive, upward stroke that split him from crotch to sternum.

A sudden quiet fell over the street, broken only by the rough sounds of breathing. Garett whirled, seeking foes. Blossom looked at him from across the street as she wiped an arm across her brow. Rudi spun back toward him, crouched, still ready to fight, not yet perceiving that the battle was all over.

Burge came to Garett’s side. “Two of ’em ran off,” he reported. “What do you think it was all about?”

Garett gazed around in disgust as he wiped the blood from Guardian and sheathed the blade. Ten still forms lay crumpled in the bloody road. It had been butchery. But he couldn’t blame Blossom or Burge or Rudi. They were warriors, and they had been attacked. He couldn’t even blame himself, though he felt a vague guilt gnawing at his middle. What in hell would make twelve unskilled youths attack trained watchmen?

Garett leaned on his old sword for a moment, then thrust it point down into the road and left it there as he bent down beside the nearest corpse. He gazed at the dead boy with some sadness and a sense of regret. There were times he didn’t like his job very much. After a moment, he rolled the body onto its back. Blood spilled all over his hands. Frowning, he wiped them on the youth’s worn and faded tunic, at the same time brushing his knuckles against the youth’s ribs. He lifted up the hem of the tunic. Not even the blood could disguise the signs of slow starvation.

He began to search the body, ripping the tunic away completely. Then he ran his hands down each of the body’s legs. With a grunt, he lifted one bare foot, grabbed the bottom of a pant leg, and turned it inside out. From a small, hidden pocket, he extracted a single silver noble.