D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (36 page)

“Talk about your marriage made in the Abyss,” Graybo muttered, turning to look toward the street as a group of celebrants gave a loud whoop and passed by. “What happened back there?” he called sharply to his men at the alley’s mouth.

“Couple o’ Nyrondians thought they’d step back here an’ give themselves a quiet relief,” one of the watchmen answered with a snort. “I turned ’em properly around.”

Garett looked down as the huge lieutenant turned back to face him. “Keep them on their toes, Graybo,” he cautioned.

“They’re good men, Captain,” Graybo assured him. “Just a little high-spirited, what with all the celebration going on.”

Garett nodded understanding, and Graybo rejoined his

men and led them up the street.

“Do you think it was wise to take him into your confidence?” Rudi asked. “I mean, to tell him everything?”

Garett had debated that himself, but the River Quarter was one of the largest in the city, and tonight, one of the most congested. He trusted Gray bo, and the old soldier was nobody’s fool. More importantly, he had discovered that the other watchmen in the quarter trusted Gray bo, too. That would matter if Graybo had to rally them quickly.

Garett beckoned and led his comrades out of the alley. The crowds on Horseshoe Road forced them to go slowly, but not as slowly as if they had been on foot. People just naturally moved out of a horse’s way when they would not for a man.

As they left Horseshoe Road and entered the Petit Bazaar, which was a smaller version of the High Market, full of booths and small tent shops that even now were open and catering to the throngs of celebrants, the going became even slower. A pair of blue-cloaked escorts from the private Guild of Night Watchmen accompanied a laughing old lady, a noblewoman or a merchant’s wife, who was definitely in the wrong part of town but obviously enjoying herself. She passed close enough to reach out and pat the horses’ noses, but didn’t.

Rudi leaned from his saddle, frowning. “Captain,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and at the same time still be heard over the noise of celebration. “I could swear I saw a sword under that Night Watchman’s cloak.”

Garett nodded. “That’s likely,” he admitted. “I armed them, too.”

Blossom gave a sigh. “I find myself hoping the Horned Society really does have an army hiding in the sewers,” she admitted. “Otherwise, they’re going to hang you for sure in the morning.”

“I’m not sure it’s an army,” Garett conceded as they made their way across the bazaar.

“You’re not sure of much,” Burge reminded him.

They rode a short distance up Craftsman’s Way and into the Artisans’ Quarter. The smells of tanners’ stains and cloth dyes, of potters’ clay and sawed wood, lingered in the air. Garett had grown up in the Artisans’ Quarter, and the odors brought back old memories. He and his group turned up a dark side street called Weavers’ Way. In the middle of the road was another sewer grate.

Burge swung out of the saddle to check the lock on the grate. He slipped his fingers through the narrow bars, grabbed hold, and gave it a tug. “Secure, Cap’n,” he called as he returned to his horse.

Garett was convinced that the invaders would come up from the sewers. He had found the altar and the painted symbols of a Horned Society sect down there. Something in those dark depths had killed two of his men and wounded Burge, though the half-elf had recovered quickly. Five Old Town residents had also died down there.

Burge mounted up again, and they made their way to their next destination.

It was quieter in the shadow of the Black Wail, probably because there were fewer taverns and restaurants this far south. They stopped a block away from the house of Kentellen Mar, and a watchman stepped out of the shadows to greet them.

“Hello, Strevit,” Garett said quietly. “Any news?”

Strevit shook his head. “I’ve got men hiding in nooks and crannies all the way to the other end of the street, Captain Starlen,” he reported. “But he’s not made a move. No one’s come in. No one’s gone out.” He turned around and stared back at the house. A few lamps burned in the upper windows. Otherwise, the place was dark. “Tell me again how you think he’s a traitor? I just can’t believe it, sir. Not of Kentellen Mar.”

“Keep your voice down, watchman,” Garett cautioned sternly. Strevit’s attitude came as no surprise. Kentellen was the people’s hero, the man of the hour. “No charges have been made yet,” he reminded Strevit. “But he spent a lot of

time during his hunt along the Ritensa River in the Shield Lands. We know that for a fact.”

He may have sold out to the Hierarchs ” Rudi interjected.

Strevit shook his head stubbornly. “I still can’t believe it, he said. “But I’ll do my job and keep a sharp eye out. Maybe I’ll be the one to prove you wrong.”

Garett nodded. “I’ll settle for that, watchman.”

The fact that Kentellen’s house was being observed, though, didn’t reassure Garett. A wizard powerful enough to slay five seers and defeat Prestelan Sun and the entire wizards guild would surely have spells to teleport himself anywhere he wanted to go.

Where would he want to go? Garett asked himself.

Let s head for the mayor’s house,” he ordered grimly.

They worked their way northward up side streets, attempting to avoid the largest crowds, and if some citizens were startled by the sight of four fully armored watchmen on horseback, they were too busy with their festivities to make much of it. Through the residential section of the Halls the group went, and past the universities, where Greyhawk’s finest students were trying their best to outdo the excesses of the adults in the River Quarter. As if the alls hadn’t known enough of fire recently, someone had set fire to a wagon in College Square, and scores of drunken youths danced wildly around it, shouting and laughing.

When Garett and his friends reached the Garden Wall, t ey turned westward and headed for the gate. As they followed the wall’s shadow, Burge looked up. The night fairly sparkled with the glint of moonlight off the wings of hundreds of northward-flying birds.

Never seen so many at night before,” he marveled. Garett watched them with an uneasy feeling, recalling t e black feather he’d found in the library of the wizards’ guildhall. The thing that had killed Prestelan Sun had been some kind of bird or bird-shape, too. So, also, had been the creature in the sewers.

The hairs began to prickle on the back of Garett’s neck. He stopped his horse and leaned toward Rudi. “You think you can bring one of those down?” he said.

Rudi looked at him strangely. “Are you serious? If I miss, an arrow’s most likely going to come down in the middle of a crowd.”

But Garett was deadly serious. “Then don’t miss, Sergeant.”

Rudi stared at him but a moment more, then unslung his bow, braced one end of it against his foot in the stirrup, bent it, and slid the string into place. He took an arrow from the quiver on his back and set it against the string. Drawing a deep breath, he aimed upward, pulled back to the corner of his mouth. He held it there, tensed, waiting for his shot. Then, abruptly, he eased off and lowered the bow, trembling.

“It’s too dark,” he insisted. “I’m going to hurt somebody.”

“'bfou can do it, runt,” Blossom urged softly, intending no insult this time. “You picked off a goose with a dagger once. This is easy.”

Rudi raised his bow again. The moonlight caught the tip of the arrow as he drew it back, and frosted the wings of the birds above his head. With his left arm rigid, he held the string at the corner of his lips and waited. And waited. The string hummed suddenly. The arrow flew.

“Got it!” Burge exclaimed, pointing, as Rudi let go a sigh of relief.

A bird plummeted to the street about twenty yards in front of them, where it lay flopping, thrashing with its wings, upon the shaft that impaled its breast. It screamed in a shrill, chirruping voice as it slowly, painfully died. The four watchmen reached it in time to see its final, pitiful twitchings.

When the bird was still, Garett slid from the saddle and went to bend down over it. Then he sprang back, one hand curling around Guardian’s hilt.

“What in the hells?” Burge shouted, leaping down and rushing to his captain’s side. Rudi snatched another arrow from his quiver. Blossom jumped down and caught the reins of the two loose horses as they began to snort and prance.

“Get back!” Garett ordered, pushing Burge away from the bird as it began to change. He drew Guardian. The blade gave an ominous glow, warning of magic.

The bird underwent a slow metamorphosis. The pinfeathers of its outstretched wings began to lengthen and stiffen and took on the semblance of human fingers. The wings themselves began to melt and reform and grow. The small black body rippled suddenly, like a thick liquid, and the feathers gleamed as wet and smooth as tar before they faded away altogether. The tiny, round, staring eyes, as dark as jet, turned pale in the moonlight as the shape continued to shift and swell.

Garett knew it was over when Guardian lost its glow. He and Burge crept forward again and peered down at the body of a human man. He was fully armed and armored, save for a helm, obviously a soldier, though his garments were all of black and devoid of any rank or insignia that might have revealed his origin.

“Good shot,” Blossom muttered over her shoulder to Rudi. “You aim for a black bird and bag us some turkey.”

“It’s not the sewers!” Garett shouted with sudden understanding. “It’s the birds! The damned birds!” He glanced up at the sky. Hundreds of black, moon-frosted shapes winged over the Garden Wall. He could hear them now, hear their high-pitched cries and screeches.

“You were right, Cap’n!” Burge cried, running to his horse and swinging into the saddle. “It’s an invasion, all right.”

“Congratulations,” Blossom added with her usual sarcasm as she handed Garett his reins.

They raced off toward the Garden Gate, but the closer they came to the Processional, the thicker were the crowds that impeded them. “Out of the way!” Garett called uselessly. Few heard or paid any attention. He pushed a man roughly out of the way with his boot. “Move! ” he shouted. “Clear the way!”

At the Garden Gate, Garett stopped and shouted to the six watchmen on sentry duty. “Close the gates!” he ordered. No civilians to go through. We’re under attack!” With his comrades close behind, Garett rode under the wall’s high arch and paused only long enough to make sure the guards carried out his orders. Even as four of the guards labored to push the heavy doors shut, celebrants protested and tried to force their way into the Garden Quarter. Likewise, some of those already on the north side of the gate looked around in alarm when they saw the great doors closing.

“Get off the streets!” Garett shouted to them.

But Blossom steered her horse to the fore, her blond hair flying in a sudden gust of wind. She brandished her sword. “Or, if you’re men enough, take up weapons!” she cried. “The Hierarchs have come to Greyhawk. Show them a fight!”

“Black uniforms!” Burge shouted, raising his own sword. “Know them by black uniforms!”

The music and the dancing went on. Only a few seemed to hear the warning, and they stared back dumbly, as if it were all somehow part of the festivities. Garett wasted no more time. He lashed out with the ends of his reins, cursing loudly, to drive the mob aside. Yelling and screaming curses, Rudi, Blossom, and Burge came after him.

Then a chorus of cries rose over the music, and a surge of human flesh came sweeping south down the Processional. Garett gave out with another curse as he saw the panicked faces that rushed for the closed gate. He grabbed the nearest man by the collar and lifted the frightened fool half off his feet as he bent down from the saddle. ‘‘What is it, man! Tell me!” he demanded.

The man’s eyes were fear-widened. He stuttered to get his words out. “Fighting in the High Market!” he managed. “I saw it! Birds! Birds!” He struck at Garett’s hand and twisted suddenly, freeing himself, and he disappeared in the crowd.

Now the panic was spreading. The songs and cheers that filled the night turned to screams and shrieking. A wave of men and women crashed against the Garden Gate, crying to be let out as more and more people came running down the Processional and the side streets emptied. It was no use trying to hold them all back, he saw, so he raised an arm and signaled the guards to let them through.

Turning his horse, he rode up the Processional. The clang and clamor of battle soared on the night as a force of black-clad warriors clashed with garrison troops. A dark figure ran into his path suddenly, startling Garett’s horse. As the animal reared, the figure raised a sword to strike. In almost the same instant, an arrow sprouted from his chest. The sword tumbled from numbed fingers, and the warrior fell.

“Thanks! ” Garett shouted as Rudi nocked another arrow and held it ready on the string.

In the market square, a tent suddenly went up in flames. Revealed in the fire’s glow, scores of birds landed and began to transform. Garett cursed and whipped his steed up the Processional and onto High Street. In the shadows of the gardens and groves on either side of the fine road, birds settled to the ground and began to metamorphose.

The fighting had already come to the mayor’s house. Garrison troops, stationed there to guard Ellon Thigpen, thanks to Garett’s warning, fought furiously against greater numbers. Already the street was slick with blood. Garett drew Guardian from its sheath. It radiated a dull emerald glow that cast an eerie light upon his face. At full speed, he rode his mount into the rear line of black warriors, smashing them aside as he lashed out to the left with his sword. The downward stroke made a green streak through the air as he cut through the nearest foe.

Then Burge was beside him, swinging his own blade. A warrior rushed up on the half-elf s left side. Burge brought his foot out of the stirrup and crushed the soldier’s face with a solid kick.

Blossom and Rudi charged through the line side by side, riding over black-clads, trampling them. A figure flew through the air and swept Blossom from the saddle. With a cry, she went falling. Almost immediately, though, she rose, tall and beautiful and full of rage. She gripped her sword in both hands and swung it right and left as if it were a scythe and the street a field of black wheat.