Night Arrant

A Revel in Rel Mord

"When I am released you'll pay for this." the noble Szek of Dohou-Yohpe blubbered.

His threat was followed by a few derisive laughs and a muttered command to "Sit on it!"

This response so infuriated Lord Maheal that he forgot about his sniveling. Standing straight, arms at his sides and flsts clenched in anger, he glared at his fellow cellmates and loudly proclaimed. "That will make your punishments more painful, you base-born knaves! I will personally lash you soundly before you are beheaded!"

"Shall I shut the pipsqueak up — or do you want to do it, Gord?" Chert asked his comrade.

"If he says another word, you can have what's left of him when I finish," Gord replied, his voice heavy with malice.

Undaunted, the noble Maheal peered from one enemy to the other, an ugly sneer accompanying his words. That's another damning bit! I recall you claimed to be one Master Drogo while that great churl you just called Chert was masquerading as Furd. Such lies are simply more grist for the mill of revenge," Maheal sniffed in haughty conclusion and then, deciding that he was not quite finished yet, turned to face the third of his cellmates and added, "And this. . thing! How dare mine own dear nuncle incarcerate me with. . with … a monster both menacing and ugly!" His final words were sputtered in a fit of near rage.

The object of Maheal's new tirade bared his large fangs and advanced upon the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe. The rumbling in his throat and the clutching motions of his long, thick fingers made his intent unquestionable; this ogre was about to tear the abusive nobleman limb from limb. One look was sufficient to convey this message to Lord Maheal as well. He uttered a frightened squawk and darted behind the other two humans.

"Save me, save mel" he whined, dropping to a, crouch and groveling in abject terror.

"Don't do something you'll regret, Pinkus!" Gord cautioned the enraged creature as he situated himself, somewhat reluctantly, between the ogre and the cowering Maheal. Although there were three of them against one, if need be, Gord knew they were probably no match for the monster. It would be best to try to reason with him.

"Are you crazy, Pinkus?" Chert said, dispensing with reason and psychology altogether. "Use that horny lump on top of your shoulders for something other than a battering ram," he added, referring to the creature's immediate reaction to their incarceration a day ago. The ogre-magus had then attempted to smash down the bronzewood door of their dungeon cell by butting it. All the fellow had received for his efforts was a bump on his thick cranium.

"Yah, Pinkus." Gord figured if Chert's words had not done any damage, his two cents' worth wasn't going to hurt anything after the fact. "If the Grand Count of Fizziak is determined to blame us for his recent loss of favor with the king, how much more so if we usurp his prerogatives and kill his nephew here!"

The huge enjure stared at Gord with bloodshot, yellow-pupiled eyes, snarled, and ceased his threatening approach. "Sometimes I wish I were of the savage stock of pre-ancestral sort found on this world rather than the enlightened race we have become. Frankly, I don't give us one chance in a hundred regardless of what we do to that little monkey," Pinkus concluded, with a casual sweep of a monstrous arm that dismissed the huddling Lord Maheal as not worthy of consideration.

Gord had to agree in his heart. If Lord Fizziak valued his nephew, the young noble would never have been thrown into the same cell with himself. Chert, and the creature calling himself Pinkus, a seeming ogre-magus. The affair would be laughable if their current situation were not so dire.

The terrible ruin made by their precipitation over the Grand Hall when the transportation device failed was not so easily dealt with. When Gord had been surrounded by guards, and the ogre, Pinkus, knocked unconscious. Chert had done his barbarian best to prevent the guards from putting him hors de combat it was a valiant fight, but eventually Chert, too, had been laid low.

Grand Count Fizziak was humiliated and in his ire quite prepared to put the lot. including Lord Maheal, on the gibbet instantly. But King Archbold, covered from head to foot with the food he had hoped to offer his guests, decreed that punishment would be less swift. He ordered Lord Fizziak to confine the offenders in the dungeon of the castle until further notice. As theirs was an offense against his person, a crime of lese majeste, as it were. Arch-bold III would make it his personal responsibility to decide the eventual sentence to be meted out.

Although beside himself with his own desire for revenge, the grand count had no choice. Stripped of all weapons, the four offenders were tossed into the cell they now inhabited. A full week had passed since, and the bread was more stale and the water more foul than when they began their incarceration. The cell was constructed to hold prisoners of special sort — those capable of employing spells and magic. No dweomer would function within the confines of the place. The walls were solid stone, and the bronzewood door was bound in silvered bands of iron, triple-locked, and watched constantly by a hard-eyed turnkey. The prisoners would remain securely in their cell until the king decided their fate; of that there was no question.

Lord Maheal had alternately wept and cursed the others during the first day or two. Meanwhile, Gord and Chert learned a bit about the ogre-magus. It seemed that this creature was from an alternate world, a place where humans were nothing more than savage, apelike creatures living in forests and jungles. Ogres, too, were animals, but the monsters known on Oerth as ogre-magi were the civilizing-force of that world. The creature introduced himself as Pinkus, claiming that he was an agent for a firm that imported and exported goods from many worlds and planes.

"Why help Plincourt attack us?" Chert had inquired mildly.

"I owed him a favor — besides, I don't like either of you!" Pinkus had said with a snarl. Fortunately, the civilized ogre-magus was not nearly as big or as strong as the monstrous sort that plagued Oerth, although he was large enough to be threatening, being a span more than eight feet in height and weighing about five hundred pounds or so.

For the last few days, the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe had been nagging and threatening his fellow prisoners with terrible punishments. The noble had recovered sufficiently to imagine that somehow he would prove that he was blameless, gain his uncle's forgiveness, and thus be able to visit his wrath upon the heads of those he held responsible for his current pass.

Gord had to laugh at the whole. Childless, Lord Fizziak had shown great favor to his nephew Maheal, and it seemed that for some time all the grand count's court had presumed that Maheal was the heir apparent to all the Fizziak fiefs and holdings. So too, the young Szek of Dohou-Yohpe had aspired. But no longer! The grand count had made a point of sending a page to read a pronouncement naming a distant cousin of Maheal's as chamberlain. This position was the most likely one for the heir of the family to hold, and Maheal fell into a deep depression and was silent for nearly a whole day after hearing the news. Then he had begun his hysterical tirade that culminated in the near-attack by Pinkus. Gord waited for the creature to calm down some before addressing him again.

"Even if you were a real ogre-magus, this cell would prevent you from using magic to escape — or even give that twit the comeuppance he deserves," Gord said to the still angry creature. "But then again, maybe you can do something! What sort of stuff can you civilized ogre-types do. anyway?"

"None of your business, you hairless little monkey," Pinkus said, going back to his own corner of the cell to brood darkly.

"That's no way to talk to your comrades!" Chert admonished the fellow with a grin. "We're willing to let bygones be bygones and help you out, so why not return the favor?"

"Go roll yourself in ryxzotilofuul!" Pinkus countered in triumph. The evident delight on his hideous face spoke volumes, and the humans could only guess at what sort of insult he had delivered, but it pleased him mightily, no doubt.

Any further exchange was cut short just then by the sudden noise of tramping feet. A whole squad of armored guards came marching down the passageway, led by a brightly clad officer and the new chamberlain. Lord Preppyn. The latter had such a smug expression on his round, chubby face that Gord feared the worst. It turned out to be something other than what was expected, however, for the doughlike visage was wearing its look due to the man's station, not his message.

"You are ordered to appear before His Lordship, Grand Count Fizziak, immediately! Maheal — and you other curs, too — come along quietly and smartly. If you cause the least bit of trouble, I am authorized to deal with you in most rude fashion!"

The Szek of Dohou-Yohpe was ashen-faced and shaking with indignant rage at the tone used by Preppyn, who had been a mere thegn of a petty territory before his recent elevation. "How dare you speak to me in such a tone, you. . you. . dearly beloved cousin!" Maheal managed to blurt out. For all he was, the Nyrondel nobleman was not totally stupid. Without any power at the moment, Maheal thought twice and attempted to use family ties to gain favor with this distant relative.

"Don’t mention our kinship, distant as the consanguine ties are. You bring shame to all who have the noble blood of the Fizziaks in their veins!"

Maheal clamped his mouth shut and stepped out of the cell. The other three prisoners followed, each having a trio of guardsmen with ready weapons to assure meek and prompt compliance with the chamberlain's commands. In a few minutes they were out of the dark and dank labyrinth below the castle and were heading for a wide archway that led.

Into one of the lesser chambers of the administrative area of the sprawling chateau. While the four stood in a line, sharply pointed steel held against their spines, the plump Preppyn strutted to a small door in the opposite wall and rapped softly. "Noble nuncle," he cried respectfully, "the prisoners await your disposition."

The door flew open, nearry smacking the unctuous chamberlain's pudgy face, which he jerked back most hurriedly to avoid the panel. Sputtering over the loss of dignity, Preppyn quickly smoothed his doughy features into blandness, the closest he could come to stern authority, as the grand CQunt strode forth, his expression hard and his bearing harsh. Preppyn trailed after Lord Fizziak like a fly trying to catch up with a platter of sweetmeats.

"So!" the grand count thundered. "It is time to determine your punishment."

"My lord uncle- "

"Silence!" Fizziak roared, cutting off the blenching Maheal in midsentence. "I did not give you leave to speak. If you interrupt me again it will go hard with you — and do not call me uncle!"

"You heard mine nuncle!" Preppyn said with a smirk. "Speak only when his grand lordship addresses you!"

"Oh, shut that fat face of yours, Preppyn!" Lord Fizziak muttered angrily in the general direction of the dithering official. "Sometimes I wish that more robust breeding were to be found within our lineage," he added to himself as he eyed the pale chamberlain sourly.

Gord thought that the grand count certainly bore little resemblance to either of his kinsmen. Lord Fizziak was tall, lean, and muscular despite advancing years. At one time he must have led a soldier's life, and Gord imagined that the grand count would happily take the field at the head of an army once again if the opportunity arose. The nobleman tugged absently at one of his drooping, iron-gray mustaches as he glared at his captives.

"Your crimes are great, and were it strictly up to me you all would have been dealt with already," Lord Fizziak snapped. Then, harrumphing, he went on: "I must be ruled by my liege. King Archbold, in this matter, so I now pronounce the sentence of the king." The Lord Fizziak produced a sheet of heavy vellum that bore the Royal Seal of Nyrond at its bottom and began reading. "I, Archbold III, King of Nyrond, Duke of Flinthill, etc., etc., do hereby decree that the prisoners, to wit Lord Maheal, the commoners called Chert and Gord, and the creature named Pinkus, an ogre or ogre-magus of some unknown sort, are charged with numerous crimes against Nyrond. Having been found guilty, the four must either be brought to justice by beheading or accept a test of perilous nature. If the former course is taken, sentence will be carried out instantly. …" -

The grand count ceased reading at this juncture, for Lord Maheal had fainted, and the noise of his sudden fall disturbed the process. "You there!" he said irritably to the officer of the guards. "Stand that lily-livered nephew of mine upright, and slap him smartly until he is again in possession of his senses, such as they are." Then, looking hard at the limp Maheal. he waited until the fellow was again conscious before resuming his reading.

". . sentence will be carried out instantly and in any order Lord Fizziak determines best. However, should the condemned prisoners elect to show mettle and courage and accept the test, sentence is withheld until such time as they complete the trial. Royal Pardon will be bestowed upon all who accept said test and meet death or succeed. Failure in the completion of the test shall mean death — one way or the other."

The grand count looked at each prisoner, then asked. "Is it to be the axe or the test? You have one minute to decide."

Gord and Chert took a step forward without hesitation, signaling their desire for the latter choice. Grumbling about apish barbarism, Pinkus followed. Maheal fell forward in another swoon, a gesture that Fizziak took as concurrence.

"That is that," Lord Fizziak said with a shrug as he toed his nephew's body. "Guards, see that these prisoners are taken to the Tower of Winds. Our Court Wizard Phompton and Good Priest Boffly will take charge of them there." Without another word the grand count stumped back to his private room.

"Awaken!"

At the command, all four prisoners snapped alertly erect in the stiff wooden chairs in which they had slumped moments before. A wizard with bushy, black brows and an even bushier beard was peering at them with his startlingfy blue eyes. Beside the magic-user stood Good, Priest Boffly. smiling benignry upon the quartet.

"You are now charged and properly directed upon your test." the cleric said with a smile. "And my blessing is upon you all," he added.

"What Boffly here means," the Court Wizard of Fizziak said in a gravelly voice, "is that you have been geased, enthralled, and otherwise tampered with to assure that you'll either see the mission through or die in the trying. If you so much as turn aside you'll be stricken with pain, a burning itch, and far worse if you attempt to deviate further!"

"But what is the test?" Gord demanded. "Nobody's bothered to tell us!"

"Oh no, my son," the Good Prtest Boffly said with a tone of hurt fatherliness in his voice. "We have taken great pains to instruct each of you in all matters pertaining to the test. You will recall them as time and circumstances demand."

Bristling beard thrust forth, the Wizard of Fizziak interjected, "What Boffly means is that you'll know what you need to know when you have need to know it — and not a moment sooner! We don't want you wandering about spilling everything in the meantime, so we have used various forms of dweomercraefting and priestly spell-tinkering to lock the knowledge safety away until proper events trigger it forth."

"Unkindly put," the priest said with a long-suffering look upon his benign countenance, "but quite true, nonetheless. By means of my inspired powers and a bit of help from the arcane craft that Wizard Phompton here manages tolerably well, you are safely directed and protected. Go about your test with the blessing of St. Trowbane upon your undeserving heads!"

As the wizard scowled at Boffly, and the cleric returned the glare with mild triumph expressed on his features, Gord, Chert, Pinkus and Maheal looked at each other blankly. It was immediately apparent that none of them had the faintest idea what they were supposed to do next. Before any of them could say so, however, the wizard saw their confusion.

"There, Boffly, is another sign of your incompetence! You failed to give the initial command, see?" Phompton stood with long arms folded in hauteur, stressing his point. Somewhat deflated. Good Priest Boffly allowed a tiny frown to cross his mild countenance. This was instantly replaced by a cheerfulsmile and with a wave of dismissal he said, "Good boys! Go get 'em!"

Resisting the urge to let his tongue hang out of his mouth, Gord turned obediently and headed for the door. The others were following without question. Each of the four knew that they were leaving Castle Fizziak and heading north. There was little else to worry about.

"Coercion of this sort is ignoble!" Maheal said as he scratched vigorously at various parts of his body. As this particular scene had been repeated several times previously, everyone else paid no heed whatsoever to the complaining and rode on in silence. This didn't deter the young nobleman a jot. He kicked his mount to hasten its pace and came alongside the huge horse ridden by the ehjure.

"I say, Pinkus! You have magical powers, I'm sure of it. Do something to remove this blasted compulsion and the base effects of disobeying it!"

The eight-foot-plus ogre looked down his pug nose at Lord Maheal in a manner which the most vain dandies would have been proud to ape. "Get away from me, minimus, or else I'll boot your ass clean over your palfrey's head." As he said this, he swung one leg free of its stirrup and made threatening motions with it.

"Savage!" Maheal cried as he quickly got out of the way. "You must be addlepated, the lot of you! From the way you're all acting, one would suppose you were eager to enter this dismal wilderness and meet a coven of warlocks and witches!"

After getting well clear of the grand count's massive stronghold and the attendant settlements, the four had known suddenly that their course was not northward at all. Maheal had exaggerated when he claimed to dwell in Rel Mord. Fizziak lands bordered Relmor Bay on the south and ran northward about a hundred miles. This was a place quite removed from the capital of Nyrond. And the test was to take place elsewhere — specifically, about forty leagues to the west. They were to cross the Duntide River and enter the Gnatmarsh area. Fortunately, they had been allowed to take all of their possessions when they left — all except Gord's and Chert's fortune in jewels, of course. Weapons, provisions, and horses they had aplenty. Even the reluctant Maheal was bristling with an array of weapons. It was probable the szek would have trouble finding the pointy end of his sword, but that was another matter entirely.

That they had been carefully instructed through mental messages hidden magically and triggered automatically by certain predetermined events was certain. So too was the power of the dweomer that forced compliance with the test if any of their numbers chose not to heed the mental promptings. Pinkus had. in fact, attempted to leave the group and head off on his own. Gord and Chert just ignored the defection, not caring much for the company of the ogre-magus anyway. Pinkus had returned in an hour, groaning from stomach cramps, complaining of a burning rash, and having trouble uncrossing his goggling eyes. Neither Gord nor Chert had considered swerving from the terms of the so-called test. Far more weighty than possible' consequences of the sort the ogreling was suffering was the fact that Lord Fizziak held their wealth!

Both of the young adventurers had guffawed at the sight presented by the errant ogre-magus as he returned. It was made funnier still by anticipation, since the desertion of Pinkus had prompted Maheal to do the same. No sooner had the ogre-magus been out of sight than the Nyrondel nobleman had airily waved a cerise-gloved hand at the two adventurers and said. "Well, so much for all this nonsense — I'm off for Dohou-Yohpe. The grand count will forgive me after a time. Imagine — sending his own flesh and blood off on such a dangerous missionl"

Chert had only stared in distaste at Maheal, but Gord tried to reason with him. "Remember what Good Priest Boffly told us. If you try to shirk your duty, there'll be unpleasant consequences!"

"Nonsense! I am a Peer of the Realm, and no one would dare to inflict such ills upon my noble person!" So saying. Maheal had reined his steed around and galloped off to the northeast.

It was only minutes after Pinkus came back that they heard the sound of another horse approaching. There was Maheal, all right, reeling in his saddle and crying out piteously. At first Gord and Chert laughed, but then they could not help but feel compassion. They helped the feebly moving noble from his mount and laid him carefully down. To have lasted as long as the ogreling under the pangs of enthrallment and geas brought new respect for Maheal in the hearts of both humans. Later, the Nyrondel told them he had passed out from the pain. That, and his combination of whining and continued attempts to break the dweomer sent all high regard from them. It was clear that the young noble was a fool, a coward, and a dolt. They were, however, stuck with him — and Pinkus as well.

"Is it the curse of that benighted artifact we stole from Nerull's temple?" Chert asked crossly, accusation lurking behind the query.

"With the situation as it is," Gord replied, eyeing the foppish Maheal and the ehjure sulking along beside each other, "I'm not certain that this so-called test is anything other than retribution," he admitted grudgingly to the hulking barbarian. "Nonetheless, I am determined to turn the tables and get both our just compensation and revenge!"

"Compensation?" the young nobleman echoed.

"Revenge?" Pinkus growled as he glared at the three humans.

"Curdling curds of catoblepas crap!" Chert expostulated as he turned away and rode off to scout ahead for possible trouble. Gord, suffering from boredom and tired of the company he and his barbarian friend were currently compelled to keep, fervently wished he could go with him, but the young thief knew that it would be most ill-advised to leave Pinkus and Maheal alone together. Hunching his shoulders, Gord resigned himself to a long trek with the ogre and the whiner. It seemed like days before the hillman returned, although he was gone but a few hours.

When a small company of bandits attacked them from the rear the next day, everyone but Maheal welcomed the encounter as a pleasant diversion. The outlaws evidently had a minor spell-weaver in tow, for their assault was preceded by a streak of sizzling fire that impacted squarely upon the ogre-magus. Whatever differences he and his less-civilized kin who dwelled on Oerth had, resistance to magic was certainly one no one in the party would find objectionable. The spell was most likely meant to create a fiery globe to incinerate the group, but when it came in contact with Pinkus, the flames fizzled and went out. The magic-user who cast the spell had no opportunity to attempt further harm.

Where a hot, glowing streak had been a split second before, there now existed a line of pale blue. Icicles appeared along it and fell tinkling to earth in the same moment. A muffled shriek came from a clump of flash-frozen brush, and Gord could see crystalline flakes of snow gently descending on the area. Although the spell-slinger was thereby put out of commission, his associates pressed the attack. As Gord, Chert, and the ogre-magus turned to stand their ground against the outlaws, Maheal spurred his horse on ahead, leaving his traveling companions for behind.

"Mind the arrows!" the barbarian shouted as a dozen barbed missiles buzzed near.

Gord screamed a wild oath as if in reply. One shaft grazed his horse, and several others had come close enough to hear, but the young thief was unscathed. "Surrender or die!" he shouted as he struck right and left at the startled bandits crouching amidst the newly frozen brush.

Chert and the ogre-magus were likewise laying about them with vigor. In fact, as soon as Pinkus was among the outlaws, he threw his huge body from the back of his destrier, sweeping up a trio of brigands as he crashed to the ground. While the hulking hillman whirled his axe, Brool, in bloody arcs, Pinkus discarded outlaws' broken bodies left, up, right, and down as if a cyclone had struck in the midst of these hapless ambushers. It was all over in a few minutes.

"Who is your captain?" Gord demanded of the dozen prisoners.

"Cob the Crazed — but he lies dead there," one wounded outlaw managed to reply.

Chert, meanwhile, was chipping the ice from the frozen corpse of the spell-caster who had foolishly. sent his dweomer at the ogre-magus. It seemed that a backlash had occurred when the spell struck Pinkus, and an opposite effect had been inflicted upon the sender, who was caught off guard and did not act fast enough to avoid it. The fellow's surprised gaze looked blankly forth from a globe of slowly melting ice several feet thick. The barbarian, who thought that the dead Cob might be carrying something worth salvaging, was using his axe to whittle the stuff away to speed the natural process.

"Don't eat those bodies, Pinkus!" Gord called to the ogre-magus. The ogreling growled and grumbled but left off his prodding of the dead bandits and smacking of his lips. Gord wasn't certain if he had been doing this to further intimidate their captives, or whether the ehjure had actually been planning to eat one or more of their fallen attackers. Whatever the case, the effect upon the survivors was amazing.

"Please keep him away from us," the spokesman for the prisoners pleaded to Gord. "We'll tell you anything you want — just keep him from us!"

"Gather up all the valuables, then," Gord ordered, "and be certain that your own wealth is in the pile. If I find so much as an iron drab has been held back. I'll give the offender to Pinkus for his next meal!"

The ogre-magus clicked his fangs fiercely and rolled his goggling eyes. There was a mad scramble to comply, each outlaw attempting to be the first to divest himself of his money and valuables.

"Get the stuff from the bodies too!" Chert shouted, and another rush ensued. Meanwhile, the barbarian had whittled the ice down to where the sun would soon complete the work, so he rested on his axe and watched the captives with a flinty gaze. It took little urging for them to complete the task and meekly return to a huddled group near the two humans.

"What a pitiful treasure!'' Gord said with disgust. There, on a worn and dirty cloak, was the sum of the wealth the brigands had possessed. No more than a hundred coins, and nothing larger than a copper common in the lot. There were a few pieces of cheap jewelry and one silver-studied belt. "No wonder they sought to rob wayfarers. Even a Medeglan pilgrim would be likely to enrich such a poor lot as this!"

"Now can we eat?" Pinkus asked hopefully.

"Cut it out now, pal. If we eat them, we won't be able to enlist them on our quest I think that would be putting them to much better use, don't you? After all. you don't want to have to deal with indigestion in addition to whatever else we might encounter, now do you?" Gord asked condescendingly. Pinkus looked disappointed, but he nodded agreement. Gord turned to the dozen or so survivors of Crazed Cob's corps. "Bury your comrades, and leave a place for the magic-user, too." Meanwhile Chert had finally broken the ice, so to speak, and the body of the sorcerer could now be searched.

"What's he got?" Gord asked, peering over the crouching barbarian's shoulders.

"A fat purse and a gold brooch, I think," Chert called back. "Just a second, and we'll see!"

It turned out that the "gold" was only washed brass, and the purse was a leather pouch filled with the various packets and stuffs of dweomercraefting. So much for that. The now-enlarged band of questers set out for the bandits' encampment, which, as luck would have it, was on the same route the dweomer compelled the quartet to tread. Along the way the group encountered the grazing steed of Lord Maheal, and nearby was that worthy's prone form, asleep in a patch of warm sunlight.

"Boo!" Pinkus barked in the nobleman's ear, and grinned to show his huge teeth as the startled fellow's eyes popped open.

"Yeow!" Maheal shrieked, trying to jump up and run away at the same time. This resulted in a comical heap, with the ogreling and Maheal in a tangle, for all the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe had managed to do was to bound upright and then flop upon the ogre-magus. Pinkus attempted to throw the offending form from his person, and Maheal struggled desperately to get free. The problem was that these efforts seemed to make the two more inextricably entangled than ever. Screams, growls, and other less identifiable sounds emerged from the pile. The captive bandits sniggered and jeered, until Gord ordered them into the frey to assist. Although he was enjoying the spectacle, he feared that the fainthearted Maheal would suffer bodily harm soon unless the pair was untangled.

When they finally managed to straighten things out, Maheal's plum-colored doublet was shredded, and his particolored hose of citrine and puce were ruined. Calling down terrible curses upon everyone in general and Pinkus in particular, the nobleman trudged off with the group. Gord had determined that Lord Maheal would go afoot hereafter, for when horsed, he was always riding away.

There was nothing of value at the outlaw hideout, although they found a fair amount of cold game to eat and enough horses to provide mounts for all of the prisoners. Gord located the slim tomes that contained the writings of the now-deceased spell-user. These books he had tucked away without informing anyone, for he knew that such works had considerable value to certain persons. They didn't linger at the camp, because the effects of the enthrallment made the quartet restless and irritable.

To assure the cooperation of the outlaws, Gord made the twelve of them swear a blood-curdling oath of fealty to their captors as Pinkus looked on with a leering expression of awful sort on his ugly visage. Having Chert nearby with his huge axe was definitely a big plus, and it didn't hurt when the young rogue proclaimed that all of the loot taken from the group would be divided among the survivors who were faithful to their new leaders until the end of their quest.

The former bandits eagerly vowed to serve as men-at-arms for their new masters, casting doubtful looks at both the ogre-magus and Lord Maheal as they did so. Gord made it clear that these new henchmen were to seek direction principally from either Chert or himself. That done, they were again on the trail, Maheal now seated atop his steed once more but this time neatly surrounded by the pack of newly created soldiery.

The Gnatmarsh came all too soon, but despite the swarms of hungry insects and the hazards of trekking through the mire, the party pressed ever deeper into the morass. The former bandits complained less than either Lord Maheal or the ogrish Pinkus. Gord suspected that the bestowing of all the loot taken from them and their former associates was only a part of the reason for this behavior. This suspicion was confirmed shortly.

"Not makin' much speed." a bandit named Zimp said to the young thief.

"Considering this miserable mud." Gord replied, "I think a league a day is exceptional time."

Zimp scratched his beard with dirty fingers — at this point everyone was mud-encrusted, even the meticulous Szek of Dohou-Yohpe. Although Zimp was acknowledged by the others as their noncommissioned officer, more or less, the outlaw wasn't quite sure of his relationship to Gord yet The young adventurer wanted him to understand that he could speak up without fear. "It's right amazin', sir, the way you and Master Chert is makln’ a beeline, as they say, straight toward Grimalkinsham. Ain't none o' us ever seen the likes before!"

"Grimalkinsham? Beeline? Are you telling me you and your men know where we're headed?"

Zimp peered hard at Gord to see if he was angry. When it was clear that he was only surprised. Zimp said. "Me an' the boys have been in an' out o’ this here marsh a few times, and Grimalkinsham ain't a bad place a'tall to spend time in — specialty when things roundabout get hot, so to speak."

"Tell me more, sergeant." Gord said with a grim expression on his face.

Beaming back in relief, Zimp nodded enthusiastically. "First, cap'n, we got to get outta this mess and foller the causeway. … I mean I’ll be a-gittin’ a sergeant's share o' treasure?"

"Yes indeed! Show me the causeway."

A little later the party was wending its way along a relatively dry track that snaked here and there through the marsh. They avoided the bottomless pools, willow thickets, and who knew what else, covering ground at a far more rapid rate and without the mud. Only the swarms of insects reminded them of their presence in the dreaded morass of Gnatmarsh.

"Beware goin' beyond this here hummock 'til nighttime," Zimp told Gord. "That there catoblepas will get us sure otherwise," he added laconically.

"Catoblepas? Here?"

"Yep," Zimp confirmed with determination and then asked, "Ever see un?"

Gord shook his head back and forth and signaled for those following behind to halt.

"Me neither." said Zimp, "and I don't rightly care to, either, sir. It basks in the sun all day, I’m told, then snoozes the dark away. When twilight comes we got t' hurry quick as Tifly Tumbleskln, as they say. That'll get us inta Grimalkinsham afore full dark."

"You mean we have to travel several miles in a mere hour?" Gord asked the outlaw doubtfully.

"Yessir! Who'd want to be on this here track at night? Lessen he was partial to green hags, spooks, and that lot, o'course." Zimp replied, casting an unbelieving glance at his commander.

"Right you are, Sergeant Zimp. Glad we agree there!" Gord said quickly, dismounting and signaling the others to do the same. "Now, as there's a bit of a wait before the sun starts to set. tell me all you know about Grimalkinsham. I hear the place is crawling with witches."

Zimp waved off that observation. "Grimalkinsham is a tad on the tough side, that's sartin," the former bandit said sagely, "but there be no more witches there than in most places."

"How can you be sure of that?" Gord asked, securing his horse to one tree and then sitting down under another a few feet away.

Zimp followed suit before answering the young rogue. "That's an easy un. cap'n," Zimp said with a smile. "I been to the village four, mebee five times. Ain't once seen a lass over thirty, nor a wench that wasn't a looker"

Just then Lord Maheal, who had refused to dismount, interrupted them. "Come along, you fellows! This is no time to be discussing such rude matters — we have a quest to complete!" The narcissistic nobleman managed to add the last few words with sneering accusation, despite the fact that it was he who had been continually trying to dodge the whole affair. Gord gave Maheal a look that failed to convey just how much disgust the young thief was feeling toward the troublesome Szek of Dohou-Yohpe. The cad, who had managed to outfit himself in reasonably fresh clothing he had taken from his seemingly endless store of garments, was a nauseating spectacle. He was decked out in a belted paisley smock of watered silk, high buskins of fawn color, and a deep brown, feathered velvet cap, which complemented the cummerbund that cinched the smock to his waist.

"Why don't you go on ahead?" Gord suggested, winking at Zimp. "The sergeant tells me the village offers excellent accommodations."

"What?! Risk the life of a noble? Utter nonsense! You two louts forge ahead now, and I shall lead the main party after, as is proper. Come along now, let's get cracking!"

Zimp spat, and Gord looked twice but saw no sign of jesting in the nobleman. Maheal was serious! Such temerity, unblushing at that, brought a grudging respect to Gord's heart. What a fine confidence man and swindler this lordling would have made, had he received proper training as a child. Well, no help for that now. Things were as they were. Gord rose to his feet and walked over to the would-be commander. The look in the young thiefs eyes showed that he was in no mood for nonsense. The Szek of Dohou-Yohpe squirmed a bit in the saddle.

"Maheal" — Gord distinctly enunciated each syllable of his name — "I'm only going to tell you this once. Then, if you still insist on being a pompous ass, I’m going to mess up your frilly clothes and smear mud all over your pretty face!" Maheal's face turned a bright shade of crimson. Gord reached up and took the horse's reins from Maheal's now-clammy hands. He then motioned for the humiliated nobleman to step down off his horse and waited while Maheal obediently complied. Then Gord continued. "Now, I want you to stop trying to play commander and get back with the rest!" The young nobleman opened his mouth to argue, but Gord cut him off. "Now! Or should I turn you over to Plinkus for disciplining?"

Maheal hastened to do as he was told but called back angrily over his shoulder as he walked away, "You'll be sorry for this, churl, when things are set aright!" Then he strutted back to where the others rested, pompously straightening his garments and dusting his hands as if he had just performed an heroic feat.

Thanks to Zimp and several of the other former brigands, they negotiated the rest of the way to Grimalklnsham before full dark and without incident. The place lay in the center of a scrubby woodland, but at least the area was dry. The village consisted of forty or fifty huts and hovels sprawled around a score of more substantial buildings. Half of the larger structures were taverns, gaming houses, and inns. It seemed that this place did a brisk business with rogues and outlaws. Totems and ringed stone pillars encircled the community. Gord could just make out some of the marks in the fading light. The symbols were meant to keep certain horrible things out He hoped that these wards were efficacious.

A few dogs barked and snarled as they rode into the village, but no other inhabitant of Grimalkin-sham seemed the least bit interested in their arrival. At Zimp's suggestion, they housed themselves at the smallest of the three inns. For the price of a handful of bronze zees and a couple of brass bits, all sixteen of them were able to get good beds. They bathed and ate while the stablehands cared for their horses and fed the animals.

Gord thought it strange, and disappointing, that all of the servants at the inn were men. "Where are the pretty lasses you mentioned. Zimp?"

"No sense mixing our rest with our romps," the outlaw said slyly. "We'll be meetin' plenty o' likely wenches soon enough, and they'll give us a workout you won't believe! This place is a safe haven after such a storm!"

Chert slammed his fist on the table and cried out, "Now here's a stout lad! Let's drink to a lively time this night," he said, and upended the huge flagon of ale he held in his pawlike hand. The outlaws at the long trestle laughed lasciviously and likewise drained their tankards. Only Plinkus and Maheal demurred.

"I find human females ugly in the extreme," the ehjure muttered.

"Consorting with common trulls is beneath my station!" the Nyrondel lordling sniffed haughtily.

Gord, Chert, and the others ignored them. After a few additional rounds of the thick, amber ale, which was brewed somewhere nearby, they decided it was time to explore the village. Gord and Chert had determined that it was excellent cover to do so with a bunch of roistering bandits. Neither had yet been exposed to whatever it was that would trigger the final bit of information they needed. When this occurred, they would know what "the test" was. They both assumed that it would involve the recovery of some prize, possibly the elimination of some evil enemy of the king, and then a return to Castle Fizziak, The place, thing, or person that would cause the dweomered information to spring into their minds was possibly somewhere here in the village called Grimalktnsham. They hoped to discover the answers this very night.

Gord's eyes nearly popped from his head when they entered an establishment called Rosey's. The sign, appropriately sprinkled with rosebuds, didn't half prepare the young adventurer for what awaited inside. There were only a few patrons, all male. But the proprietress and her staff numbered at least a dozen and a half — and greater beauties Gord had never seen gathered together in a single place! He scarcely had time to wonder why the tavern wasn't jammed to the rafters with panting swains. Then a pair of buxom tarts were upon him, offering him drink and companionship, and before Gord knew it he was being led toward the stairs. He was escorted past the huge ehjure, who was holding a tall, willowy woman on his lap. "Hey, Pinkus! I thought you said humans were ugly," Gord playfully taunted.

The ogreling scowled at Gord, retorting, "They are, niggling — but I didn't know that you went for my type!"

Something clicked in Gord's mind. "Your type?" he asked, the horrifying reality of the situation sinking in at last. The two girls tugged on him, trying to pull the young thief away, but Gord would have none of that. Plinkus was pouring wine down his gullet, but Gord didn't let that put him off either. Pulling free of the pair of wenches, he walked over to the ogre's table and peered closely at the big woman sitting on his lap. Pinkus slammed down his tankard and jumped to his feet.

"Get the hell away from my female!" he roared at Gord.

This action rudely precipitated the object of Gord's scrutiny. As the ogre-magus sprang to his feet with intent to do serious bodily harm to the young thief who was ogling the female of his choice, the beautiful young thing struck the floor — and a strange thing happened. The force of the impact caused her form and features to waver and, for a second, the female's true appearance was revealed. Gord caught the transformation out of the corner of his eye. Springing back, he shouted, "The wench is a hag!"

"Of course she is!" screamed the enraged Pinkus as he advanced menacingly upon the young adventurer. "And you can't have her, you filthy human lecher! Go find your own!"

Gord ducked under a wild swing and danced behind the ogre-magus's back, calling to Chert to beware. He saw that there was a bevy of these seeming lovelies surrounding the big barbarian, and Gord suspected that they were not as they appeared at all. Meanwhile, Zimp and a pair of his comrades had rushed over to assist their young captain, thinking that Pinkus was about to make mincemeat of him. Of course, they did not reckon with Gord's incredible agility and acrobatic skills. Roaring and cursing, the ehjure was attempting to lay his taloned hands upon Gord and rend him limb from limb. Pinkus was both tipsy from wine and naturally slow. Gord was neither, and he easily avoided every attack, causing the ogreling to paw the air and charge bull-like into furniture and patrons alike.

In a minute a general brawl was in progress, with wenches forgotten or else taking part in very unladylike fashion. Suddenly the whole room went dark. It was so black that not a single ray of light could be detected.

Gord always carried his enchanted shortsword at his hip, and as soon as the darkness descended, he grasped the hilt and his eyes were empowered to see in the gloom. In addition to the groping and stumbling motions of the patrons, Gord noted that several of the people in the tavern were moving freely and with purpose. In the strange illumination that his blade enabled him to discern, the women were no longer young and beautiful. In fact, many weren't even women at all! In the shelter of the darkness the hags had dispensed with their magical disguises, and the young thief was able to spot a half-dozen crones heading for the stairway. Nearby were a pair of green hags, a shellycoatm an annis, and a leering night hag. Unfortunately, the latter was looking squarely at Gord as he stared in stupefaction at her.

"Well, well, my pretty," the creature cackled at the young thief, "it happens that you have the power to see in this dark, do you? Now what shall old Auntie Scroddy do with such a naughty boy?" Gord waved his sword at her, for she and her associated horrors were coming toward him.

Just then Pinkus, whose natural resistance to magic made the lightless spell useless against him, stepped between these monsters and their victim. "If you want action, baby, forget that little punk and look for a real male!" he boomed, showing his huge tusks in a suggestive smile. At least Gord assumed that was what the ehjure was doing from the tone of his voice.

The night hag simpered and replied, "Oh, you are a smooth talker, handsome, but right now I have to take care of a little business. Can you wait a couple of minutes?"

The annis, easily as tall as Pinkus, shoved the night hag aside with a snarl. "Find your own lover, you pruneface!" she screeched as she clutched the ogreling's arm possessively.

The night hag flexed her clawed hands and spat. "I'm sick of your pretensions, you bitchy old beanpole! it's time for you and I to get a few things straight!" At that, Auntie Scroddy grabbed Pinkus's other arm and yanked him toward her with surprising strength.

"Don't let that floozy push you around, Ugweelal" said one of the green hags to the annis.

"Mind your own business, Brinlugi, you bitch!" the other green hag said, taking up the cause of the night hag.

Gord took the opportunity to dash over to where Chert was stumbling around in the dark, trying unsuccessfully to do something useful — such as groping one of the serving wenches he imagined to be temptingly nearby. Gord took hold of him and shouted, "Follow me quickly! This place is a den of hags and witches!" Chert obeyed meekly, and the young thief led him through the mess of overturned tables and chairs, benches and milling bodies. The pair had almost made it to the exit when their progress was stopped.

"Not so fast, boys," a cracked, scratchy voice ordered. "If you take one more step toward the door I’ll turn you both into frogbeasts!" The speaker was a witch, human in form but ugly nonetheless.

"What's a frogbeast?" Chert asked.

"A thing created by the wizard Denimarkz,", the crone supplied helpfully.

"Huh?" the barbarian said.

"Shut up and let's go," Gord urged.

"You're asking for it!" screeched the black-clad witch.

With that, Chert lowered his head and moved. Gord held him back. The crone was standing inside the doorway making threatening passes with her hands and squinting balefully at both young men. "Give it up, Chert," his friend advised. "It looks like we're trapped."

"That's more like it" the witch said with a smile that displayed her lone tooth. "Now turn around, and we'll go to someplace private where we can have a little chat. Just as the two of them turned, the altercation between Auntie Scroddy and Ugweela escalated. They were no longer screaming insults at one another; the two were suddenly mixing it up like a pair of furious alley cats. This was enough to bring the two green hags to blows as well. As all of them fell into a scratching, clawing, biting tangle, the witch's attention was distracted just long enough to allow Gord to perform a back-flip. He landed beside the startled witch, his weapons out in an instant.

"Now it's your turn, darling!" he cried, with his sword across her throat and his dagger pressed to her side. "One move, and you're dead meat!" in fact, she smelled pretty much like she was dead already, but Gord tried to ignore the odor.

"Don't be hasty now, my boy!" the crone said, mustering as much sweetness as she could. "I'm sure you and I can reach an arrangement …"

"Cancel the darkness — and be quick," Gord ordered harshly, "or I’ll slice your throat and skewer your shriveled liverl"

"How can I do that?" the witch asked with real concern in her tone. "If I make any motions you'll kill me, but I have to move to dispel the magic!"

"Go ahead," Gord said with suspicion, "but one false move and I’ll wet my blades with your black blood!"

In a moment the deed was done, and the room was again brightly illuminated by lamps and flre-light. As the magically induced blackness was lifted, the hags ceased their brawling and sprang to their feet, scratched and disheveled. Amid a flood of vile comments directed at each other, all four of the former combatants demanded to know what was going on. Meanwhile, seeing things as they actually were, most of the patrons of the tavern screamed and fled, faces ashen, legs rubbery. Only Zimp and a trio of the staunchest outlaws remained, hands on weapons, hovering near the way out, torn between duty to their masters and a desire to run in panic from the horrors they saw.

"Now see what you’ve done!" the ancient crone cried. The whole night is ruined, totally ruined." the witch finished in a whine.

"Shut up," Chert said without force.

Gord was watching the hags and not liking what he saw. The crones were coming in the pair's direction, with murder in their eyes. Worse still, several other hags and witches were coming downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. "Time to get down to business," Gord said matter-of-factly to his hostage. "Have all your friends sit on the floor, hands under their bums, or it's all over for you right now!"

"Do as he says, girls," the crone cackled. "Sit on your hands while this pretty lad and I exchange a few words."

Grumbling, the hags and witches complied, making rude remarks about both Gord and his captive as they did so. Pinkus. meanwhile, clambered out from under the table where he had taken shelter during the brawl. Despite the sheepish manner in which he did so, the ehjure still managed to give Gord a withering look.

"You sit on your thumbs too, Pinkus!" Chert ordered, "or Brool and I will lower your vanity by a foot of ugly head!" As he said this. Chert hefted the huge axe menacingly. Pinkus snarled but sat.

"What are you here for, anyway?" the head witch queried. "Maybe we can work something out."

He didn't trust this crone as far as he could toss the bulging body of the mountainous ogre-magus, but this was one hell of a tight spot. Gord lowered his weapons and said, "All right, let's cut out the forceful crap and have a serious conference on this whole matter."

The ancient witch cocked her head and peered birdlike at him with her beady, black eyes. Then she nodded at the young thief. "It's a deal, m’boy," she screeched so that all assembled could hear. "You and I will go upstairs and get this straight," she added with a salacious cackle.

In a shower of catcalls and ribald comments, Gord and the witch marched to the staircase, the crone clutching his arm smugly. As they passed the hags, Gord heard the annis say, "Come here, Pinky, you big hunk! No sense in letting them have all the fun!" There was a squawk from the ogreling and a string of expletives from the bat-faced night hag. Then, mercifully, Gord and the crone ascended the steps and the sounds were cut off by the door of the room they entered.

"That'll hold 'em," the witch murmured as she slammed the portal.

"What the devil are you doing?" Gord demanded, reaching for his weapons again.

"Calm down, sonny," the old woman said soothingly. "It won't do to let that gaggle of trollops think we ain't doing what we ain't doing — and that's so. After all, a girl's got to have some pride," she finished with a sniff.

"Well, the only reason we're here is to see if we can come to a deal, so let's get to it," Gord said crossly.

"Ah, rejection doesn't get any easier with age, now does it?" The old crone mused sadly. "Ah, well," she sighed and poured two stiff drinks into a pair of pewter goblets on the sideboard, took a swig from each to demonstrate neither was drugged or poisoned, and then dropped glumly down on the bed. Gord sat stiffly on a three-legged stool. Ignoring the proffered drink she held in front of him. After all, she was a witch; there were many poisons she could use to do away with a mortal that would not affect her in the least. The witch shrugged when Gord failed to reach out for the drink and then quickly downed the contents of both goblets. "They call it White lightning' on the plane where the stuff's made," the crone said with an appreciative sigh after draining her vessel. Then she continued in another vein. "So, why don't we begin by addressing the question of why you and your chums have ruined our little scam here?"

"We had no choice," Gord said quickly. "We're under enthrallment and geas, and we had to come here."

"Let's begin at the beginning, sonny, and go until the end comes," the witch said shortly. "I don't like this whole business anymore than you do — unless maybe you'd like the two of us to get it on!"

"No, thanks. I'll settle for spending the time explaining," Gord countered. "Here's the story." The young thief spent the next hour relating the details of their adventure from Weird Way to Castle Fizziak,

"Bugger that old bastard Boffly, and his crony Phompton, too!" the witch said vehemently. "By the way, the name's Quodilde," she said, extending her hand. Gord took it cautiously. The witch continued. "They set you boys up — and the grand count and the king, too, or else I ain't got warts!"

"But the test-"

"Nothing more than a farce," the crone nearly screamed. "A nasty, mean way to get back at me for my having cleverly outwitted that pious old fart and his sexy old faker pal the last couple of times we’ve had a contest, so to speak! You don't have a prayer of succeeding, unless …" Her voice trailed off.

Gord was confused. "You know Good Priest Boffly and Court Wizard Phompton well enough to engage in, ah, contests?"

"Know 'em? We grew up together, the three of us did, about a hundred years back! That namby-pamby Boffly decided to follow the straight and narrow, as they say. Matched his spine and mind, hee, hee, hee! Old Phompy, why, he never was any great shakes at spinning a dweomer, either. I always wondered how he managed to flummox the grand count into appointing him Court Wizard. But then again, those Fizziaks were never known for their brains."

"What are we to do then?" Gord asked the witch earnestly.

Quodilde drew Gord closer and began to speak rapidly in a low tone. The young thief nodded now and again, then slapped his knee and gave a loud laugh. "That's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "How can we repay you?"

Realizing a potential error of serious magnitude, Gord drew back, but the witch only cackled lewdly and said, "No time for that now, handsome. You and your chums have to set things aright here, then get back to castle Fizziak to prove you passed their silly test. Maybe you and I can get together some other time."

"Errr. . I'll be sure and drop in if I'm ever in the neighborhood again." Gord volunteered.

"That'll do." Quodilde said with a leer. "You know, I could apply a little geas of my own to make certain of it…."

"No need for that!" Gord said quickly. "We'd just be wasting valuable time. The sooner we get going, the sooner Boffly and Phompton will get what's coming to them! You are anxious to see that happen, aren't you?"

"Let's get going!" the witch cackled excitedly. "But you'd better make sure.."

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry!" Gord said quickly.

Quodilde gave him what she imagined to be a sensuous look. "You seem to be an honest sort," she said. "And anyway, no one can resist my charm forever. I’ve got all the time in the world to wait for you to show up and pay your debt!" And at that the crone cackled madly, sending shivers up and down the young rogue's spine.

The witch cast a spell and suddenly an ancient coffer appeared on the table before her. She rummaged around in the old trunk until she found the three objects she was looking for. After handing them to Gord, she took him by the arm and steered him downstairs.

Chert and the former bandits were standing uncomfortably by the front door, weapons drawn and ready, surrounded by seemingly beautiful girls who mocked them and urged the employment of other sorts of weapons than those of steel. From the looks on the men's faces, it was evident that they were having a hard time believing that these lovely lasses were actually magically gulsed witches and hags attempting to lure them to a most terrible fate. Plinkus sat alone at a small corner table, pouting. He had been unable or unwilling to choose one of his two admirers over the other, and he was now being shunned by both of the hags. Gord and the rest of the humans saw them as stunning-looking doxies, but Pinkus, thanks to his innate ogrish powers of resistance to magic, still saw their true forms and lusted and lamented. Gord had to laugh.

"Let's go, lads," the young thief called merrily to his comrades when he managed to regain his breath and composure. "Our quest is done, and we must now hie back to Castle Fizziak and the grand count!"

That bit of news delighted Chert and the men-at-arms. Zimp boomed out, "H'ray for Cap'n Gord! I knew he'd do it!" The other outlaws stared at Quodilde, shook their heads, gazed at Gord admiringly, and raised a hurrah.

Chert pounded Gord on the back. "Nice going, pal. Sometimes you're rather useful to have around."

Blushing and sputtering in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage at all of this praise, Gord was pushed by the witch and pulled by his companions toward the open door. Plinkus had already stumped through it and was heading off in high dudgeon. Just as the young thief was about to be forced out, however, he realized that something was amiss.

"Walt!" he shouted, and the shoving and tugging stopped. "Where is Lord Maheal? We can't go off without him."

Amid cries of "Bugger the fop! Who needs 'im?" and "Let him earn his keep here as a bumboy," Gord walked back into the tavern. "Where's the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe?" he demanded of Quodilde.

"Roasted if I know," she replied laconically.

"Oh, no! I forgot all about him! I saw him going above with a tart a while-" Chert volunteered.

Gord, whose look was one of absolute horror, did not wait for Chert to finish his sentence. He took, the stairs three at a time, his comrades all pounding after him. In a moment they found a room with a closed door and burst in without knocking.

"Awk!" said Lord Maheal, hastily drawing on his underdrawers.

"Eeek!" screamed a sultry, feminine voice as satin sheets were pulled quickly over a raven-tressed face of exquisite beauty.

"That's a witch or hag!" Gord shouted at the furious nobleman.

"Nonsense!" he retorted hotly while scurrying to don hose and doublet.

"Double nonsense," Quodilde added. "That happens to be my own dear daughter Dulicia who, despite my half of her parentage, is neither witch nor hag!" So saying, she jerked the bedclothes down to reveal the girl's pale and lovely face.

Your d- d- daughter?" Maheal stammered, his face turning ghastly pale.

"How dare you carry on with a dullard like that?" the witch demanded. Ignoring him and addressing her offspring.

"Dullard?" Maheal puffed with weak indignation. He was still terrified, but of course could not let the insult pass.

"But, Mother dearest, I am in love with Lord Maheal! From the moment I saw him I knew he was the man for me," the delicious young beauty replied in pleading tones.

"No accounting for some people's taste," Chert whispered to Gord.

"Maybe she is more like her mother when she wakes up in the morning than she is the beauty we. see before us now," Gord whispered back. Jabbing his friend in the side with an elbow. The two of them shook with suppressed laughter.

"Besides, he promised to marry me!" Quodilde's daughter whined.

Quodilde was rocked back on her heels. "Marry you? He promised to marry you?! Now that's wonderful news indeed, my sweet little flower!"

"Marry?" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe echoed. But before he could say another word, Quodilde spun around to face him, her beady eyes expressing unmistakable menace.

"You know it, you smell-smock jackanapes! If the word of a nobleman of the House of Fizziak isn't sufficient — and the grand count shall hear about that, I assure you — then perhaps the sting of my own powers will be enough to make you hold to your troth." she concluded with a hiss as she took a step toward the trembling Maheal.

"Nay, nay! Contain thine ire, good witch! Of certs I mean to keep my pledge to … to marry your daughter." he ended lamely, swallowing hard and nearly choking.

"It's settled then," Quodilde said matter-of-factly. "The bans will be posted next week, and the wedding will take place in Rel Mord in one month's time. Oh, my sweet little daughter," she said, turning once again to the happily bouncing girl, "he does not deserve such a treasure, but I am sure he will do everything possible to make you happy!"

The look she shot over her shoulder at Lord Maheal left no doubt about the intended consequences if he failed to do just that, and the Nyrondel nobleman shook even more than before as he nodded a dumb affirmation of the statement.

"Good," the ancient head witch of Grimalkinsham said with pleasure. "Now you can all be on your way. I'm certain your renowned uncle, Lord Fizziak, will wish to meet your bride-to-be as soon as possible. Get up, girl, and get your pretty arse moving! We haven't got all night!"

An escort of a dozen trolls, provided by Quodilde and enspelled to protect the group they were accompanying, made the return through the Gnatmarsh a rapid trip, if uncomfortable for the other travelers. Nothing worse than the loathsome humanoids cared to trouble their passage, certainly. In no time at all they bade the insect-infested morass and the accompanying trolls adieu, and then they headed for Castle Fizziak at a swift pace, guarded by the ex-bandits and whatever dweomer Quodilde the witch of Grimalkinsham had placed over them as an aegis.

The ogre-magus was silent and stony-faced. Lord Maheal altered between exuberance at having lived through the quest and despair over his coming nuptials. Both Gord and Chert kept a close watch on the nobleman, however, as did the newly created men-at-arms, so he had no opportunity to attempt escape. As they rode, Gord informed the others about the witch Quodilde's revelations and the plan he had agreed upon with her. "I think the best part of this 'quest' is about to begin!" Chert exclaimed happily. The others heartily agreed. Even Maheal's mood seemed to brighten a bit.

The whole party arrived safe and sound back at the mighty fortress of the grand count in short order. The major domo met them at the gates of the castle and brought them directly to the Grand Count of Fizziak without ado.

"You have returned, nephew," Lord Fizziak said dryly. "Therefore I assume that you have somehow managed to succeed despite the odds against it. You have found new respect in my eyes." He gazed wonderingly at Maheal.

"It's all his fault!" the young Szek said, pointing an accusing finger at Gord.

This puzzled the count. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Maheal didn't catch the tone of his uncle's voice, for he was filled with nothing but his own problems.

This knave, Dear Nuncle, made me do the whole terrible thing — from the awful ride, to the filthy swamp, to agreeing to marry this common trull!"

That was too much for the gray-bearded grand count. "Just a moment," he said in a steely tone before the nobleman could relate more in his whining voice. "We will hear this from Master Gord of Greyhawk — alone!"

"But, Uncle, this lying knave is a rogue and a scoundrel! He'll- "

"Out!"

Armored guardsmen appeared to carry out the command. They had to drag the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe bodily from the chamber, as he kicked and pleaded to no avail. Chert, Pinkus, and the others went quietly.

Gord bowed when Lord Fizziak demanded an accounting of events. In rapid succession he related just what had taken place, stage by stage, as the four went to Gnatmarsh, fought the bandits, made men-at-arms of those who surrendered, and so forth. He did not mention the ongoing rivalry between the witch, Quodilde, and Ftzziak's priest and wizard. Neither did Gord bring up what the witch had given him, except to present a small, crystal flask. As he finished his tale, he brought the flask forth with a flourish, saying. "And this, your illustrious lordship, is a special gift from Witch Quodilde. She assures you it will resolve all questions regarding succession to headship of Fizziak."

"Quaff a small portion," the grand count commanded. He watched Gord with an unwavering gaze as the young thief complied. After several minutes without any apparent ill effects, Lord Fizziak took the flask and tucked it into his girdle. "Well done, Master Gord. I know what Quodilde is aiming at by this — I only doubted her sincerity, as her daughter is about to many that doltish nephew of mine, you know. I suspected that the old bag might have designs of greatness for Dulicia. but I should have known better. Quodilde is too keen of wit to try to place a dullard or a frothbraln upon the seat of this grand county."

Gord nodded, not fully understanding but wise enough to know when to remain silent. The grand count then asked, "The test — have you and your associates completed all that was demanded?"

"We have, lord. At your leave, I will deliver to Good Priest Boflly and Wizard Phompton that which I gained from Quodilde. Likewise, I bear the prize demanded by them for King Archbold."

Lord FIzziak sat quietly for a moment, tugging on his lower lip, lost in deep thought. Slowly his features lightened, and a twinkle began to light his eyes. He smoothed his face with a calloused hand and spoke in a stately manner. "Gord of Greyhawk, you are a commoner no longer. For what you have accomplished, I hereby elevate you to the status of Gentleman and Esquire to the House of Fizziak. Master Chert I elevate to Gentleman as well, and your men-at-arms I pardon for past oflenses and name them Yeomen of Fizziak. I will instruct them to report to the constable tomorrow, to receive assignments in my own army," he said.

"Thank you, Lordship, for your undeserved generosity," responded Gord with sincerity. "But there is also a matter of the loo- er, jewels, that were held in, ah, safekeeping for Chert and myself. . "

"Ahem! Well, yes, now that you mention those baubles, I do recall something of the matter. We can discuss it further tomorrow after the ceremony welcoming my nephew back and elevating you and your comrade above your current base positions."

Gord wasn't about to be so easily put oif by mention of a petty honor. "Most gracious! Still. I remember your word about receiving those gems when we successfully fulfilled the trial we so recently underwent and sorely suffered."

Lord Fizziak's countenance was dark, but Gord remained inflexible. When he was unable to make the young thief blink, the grand count scowled and shifted uneasily. "Very well. After removing sufficient value to assuage the royal displeasure with your lese majeste, replace ruined garments and other finery, and repair damages done here, I believe that a small sum still remains. I shall have the steward of my exchequer account for the whole and give you the exact reckoning on the morrow."

"How much remains?" Gord asked weakly.

Lord Fizziak gestured dismissal, saying as he did so, "Oh, a handsome sum, I assure you, for one of your station — no less than a half-score golden orbs, as I recall, along with a considerable balance in luckies, nobles, and lesser coins."

Although Gord nearly fainted from the shock, he managed to stagger from the hall.

"What's wrong, Gord?" Chert asked as he noted his friend's condition.

"We’ve been elevated to Gentlemen," the young adventurer managed to reply. "It must be the joy of such an honor that makes me pale and reeling."

The hulking barbarian looked somewhat unconvinced but said no more.

Later that night, Boffiy and Phompton arrived at the chamber the two young men shared. "Give us the object needed to complete the test," the Good Priest of Fizziak said in resonant voice. "And then we will hear an explanation of all that occurred."

"Welcome to our humble quarters," Gord replied. He graciously showed the two to a pair of chairs, bowed, and then presented Good Priest Boffly with a small, carefully wrapped parcel. Disconcerted, Phompton looked on as his associate unwrapped the package. Chert, unable to extract any information concerning the status of their confiscated treasure, was in ill humor and glowered silently from a reclining position on one of the two cots in the room as the cleric tore the oiled parchment from the box.

The container that the wrapping had protected was a finery crafted little coffer of silver and mother-of-pearl inlaid in a variety of rich, mixed woods to form an object of great beauty. Good Priest Boflly was somewhat hesitant, but Phompton was eager. "Get it open, Boflly," he urged his fellow official.

"This doesn't fit the description," the cleric said with a small shrug. Puffing out his cheeks and then emitting a little sigh, he hesitated still. "How came you by this lovely little box?" he asked Gord.

"I was told there's a vellum square inside, good sir, that relates the whole matter. I am certain it will answer all your questions to the fullest," Gord told him with an ingratiating smile.

Phompton was getting impatient. "Don't be such a craven, Boflly. There is no fear of any danger here inside the castle — and these two are certainly incapable of harming either of us."

"Nevertheless, I am troubled," the priest retorted. "You detect for any enspellment, while I seek possible malign power surrounding this coffer." So saying, the cleric began to work a spell to find evil, while the court wizard resignedly went through the ritual for discovery of hidden dweomer. In a few moments both had finished their passes and stood rapuy concentrating on the box.

"Not a glimmer of magic," said Phompton.

"Nor do I find evil," admitted the priest. With that he opened the container and drew forth the sheet of vellum he found therein. As Boffly took the sheet out, there was a muffled whoosh, and a cloud of bright green dust was blown over the startled faces of both men. Boffly dropped the box, and it broke on the hard flags of the stone floor. Phompton, meanwhile, leaped backward, trying to brush the stuff from his visage. All he succeeded in doing was getting his hands stained vivid green so that they matched his face.

Chert began guffawing at the sight of the green-faced duo, while Gord did his best to appear amazed and shocked. "My good lords!" he exclaimed in mock horror. "What has happened here? Are you all right?"

Good Priest Boflly ignored all, peering intently at the sheet of parchment. "There's more than one way to skin a pair of old coots!" he said.

"What are you talking about?" the wizard demanded furiously, wondering if his associate had been unhinged by the shock of being stained in brilliant hue of purest vert.

"I am reading what is written here, you fool!" Boffly shot back to Phompton. "And it is signed 'Quodilde'," he added with a rising note of disbelief. "She's done it to us again!"

The court wizard and chief cleric of Fizziak turned in unison toward Gord, terrible things written plainly on their features. Just then there was a banging of halberds outside the door, and after a single knock the strutting Lord Preppyn entered and unknowingly interposed himself between Boffly and Phompton and the object of their revenge.

"On your feet! The Grand Count of Fizziak comes to honor you with his presence!" the popinjay proclaimed boldly. Then, as he turned slightly to be in better position to be noticed by all entering, he got a look at the green-faced pair. "Yow!" he squawked, trying to get his feet into running motion white holding himself erect by grasping the door.

"Be silent and stop trying to run awayl" the cleric commanded.

A now-speechless Preppyn still thrashed his feet wildly.

"Be still!" the cleric thundered.

Preppyn stood motionless, mouth open.

"You utter imbecile." Phompton said, forgetting in the heat of the moment just who the new object of his anger was. "I am Court Wizard Phompton, and this is Good Priest Botfly. Ignore the momentary discoloration that obscures our otherwise handsome features. And close that door immediately!"

Preppyn's mouth managed to open and shut several times. Then he stammered. "I cannot, Wizard Phompton and Good Priest Boflly. Lord Fizziak even now enters this room!"

With that, the grand count himself stepped into the chamber. "What is all this?" he asked, seeing the barbarian hillman collapsed in helpless mirth and Gord holding his sides with laughter. Then he got a look at his two grand officials and began chuckling. The whole was so infectious that even the stuffy little Preppyn was soon giggling too. Finally, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Lord Fizziak said. "So this time Quodilde has definitely paid you back."

"It would appear so, on the face of it," Phompton admitted.

Boffly drew himself up and said haughtily, "I shall have this silly stuff removed in minutes, my lord, and then we shall see who has gotten whom!"

"Enough of your foolery! I am no longer amused with buffoonery and tricks of this sort. I command you both to set aside this petty squabble with Quodilde and prepare for our upcoming journey to Rel Mord and forget all lesser matters!"

"The capital? Why does my illustrious lord desire to go there?" Boffly said with a bit of remonstratlon evident in his questions.

"If you weren't so busy with your japes, cleric," the grand count said icily, "you would be aware that our beloved nephew, Lord Maheal, is betrothed to Lady Dulicia of Grimalkrnsham."

"Quodilde's brat!?" the cleric snapped before he could restrain himself.

"Your reference to Lady Dulicia, daughter of the Baroness of Grimalkin, is ill-advised." said Lord Fizziak with an icy stare. "I will not remind you again that her ladyship is not to be referred to as a brat — evert She unites the barony with Fizziak lands," the grand count added meaningfully.

"Of course, lord," the deflated priest said humbly. He allowed Phompton to steer him out then, without protest. As these two were making their hasty exit, Lord Preppyn shouted after them, "And never refer to me as an imbecile again! Really, Uncle, you must do something about the manners of your help!"

Lord Fizziak told the two adventurers to prepare for their audience and elevation on the morrow, then departed with Preppyn dithering in his Wake.

It was much like pulling teeth from unwilling monsters, but Gord eventually managed to get a full accounting of the fortune he and Chert had managed to gain, then lose here at Castle Fizziak. The steward presented Gord with a long sheet filled with writing and sums, shoving small stacks of gold, electrum, silver, copper, bronze, and even brass bits along with it. "This is exact and to the last coin." the official said smugly.

Gord went over the reckoning carefully. The steward was taken aback as he saw the young man reading and checking the addition. Surreptitiously, the fellow slipped several more coins into the piles before him. Gord pretended not to notice. "Here! What's this about a 'gift'?" he demanded, coming to the end of the long column.

"For the noble couple on their upcoming day of joy," the steward said smoothly. "Lord Fizziak personally instructed me to extract a generous amount on your behalf to honor the house of the groom."

"Oh," Gord said tonelessly, sighing at the loss of yet another ten gold pieces. All told, he had only forty of the gold coins left to share with Chert. The remainder didn't amount to a single orb. This was going to take some tall storytelling, but what the hells, it was better than nothing, Gord rationalized.

Chert, naturally, was furious at the loss of their fortune, which was perhaps the largest sum ever stolen in Greyhawk. After a day or two he started speaking to his comrade again, if only to threaten to tear him apart for having gotten him into the whole mess in the first place. "I told you we shouldn't have stolen that relic, but no, you had to have your way — and now look where it's gotten us! The next time. ." and on he went, incessantly stating'his complaints until Gord wondered if he'd even allow his friend to accompany him in an adventure again as long as he lived!

Dealing with the irate and vengeful Boffly and Phompton was another matter altogether. They had made common cause with Pinkus and even Lord Maheal, all somehow blaming Gord and Chert for their troubles. All in all, the next week was miserable, but the young thief managed to survive the ordeal through staunch determination and plenty of ducking. Then it was time to accompany the grand count's vast train on its journey to the royal capital of Nyrond, the city of Rel Mord.

Quodilde's green pigment had taken days to remove, but both Good Priest Boflly and Court Wizard Phompton now appeared normal again — although in a certain type of light the pair tended to appear a bit seasick. The population of County Fizziak turned out in large numbers along the well-kept road to see their lord and his entourage pass on their journey. It was a splendid sight, with the accompanying soldiers arrayed in the tawny and sable of the Grand Count of Fizziak, banners snapping in the breeze, and the panoply of other armorial bearings that dotted the sea of Fizziak colors. Lady Dullcla rode alternately in a palanquin and upon her elaborately decorated palfrey. She looked stunning regardless of whether she wore a gown of silk or velvet, scarlet or azure. Dulicia's conversations tended to center around material possessions or court etiquette, and Gord thought she was likely to be as demanding as she was boring. That was certainly fitting for her groom, and both Gord and Chert enjoyed many a laugh at Lord Maheal's expense.

Naturally, being an esquire to the House of Fizziak entitled Gord to ride near the nobles of the caravan, but whenever possible he stayed back with Chert and the less privileged members of the train. He avoided the very rear, though, for Pinkus was located there. The ehjure had done his best to avoid the pilgrimage, but to the dismay of all involved in the test, they had learned that their enthrallment would continue to operate until the item Gord was charged with carrying was delivered to King Archbold. Besides, Lord Fizziak wished the ogreling to accompany the procession as a nonesuch, so to speak, for he appeared to be a most fearsome monster. In order to highlight this, the grand count had special clothing prepared for Pinkus — exotic-looking pantaloons, a jack of costly oliphant hide, and a cape of lion skin. In fact, Pinkus appeared most grand and ferocious, but he didn't seem to appreciate his finery. His always foul temper grew worse. Even the doughty Chert shunned the ogre-magus whenever possible. Gord watched him carefully, for he was positive that Pinkus was in league with Boffly and the others and plotting some mischief against him and his barbarian companion. It took a full fortnight to reach Rel Mord at the leisurely pace required by so diverse an entourage as that of Lord Fizziak.

Rel Mord was a large city. Gord thought it was nearly as large as Greyhawk itself, although there was little resemblance between the two. Of course, both places were walled, but the barrier surrounding Rel Mord was lower, broader, and covered more area. Actually, the city was ringed by commons, or nearly so anyway. The low wall and jutting bastions were fashioned in such a manner that the ground inside was nearly as high as the top of the wall. The grassy meadows were thronged by small flocks of domestic animals — goats, sheep, geese, and even some small kine. Hamletlike clusters of dwellings gradually gave way to the closely packed structures of more urban sort, and finally, in the center of the city, were the tall buildings and narrow streets typical of a town or city. Most towers were octagonal, and the buildings tended to show many angles. This was very unlike the cities to the west. Similarly, arches were rounded here, not peaked. Gord found the whole scene quite exotic. His travels to the north of Nyrond and its frontier regions had never revealed the true feeling of the kingdom as this place did.

The royal palace was situated on an island in the river that Rel Mord was built around. This at least was an aspect more like Gord's native city. The Duntide River flowed around two islands, and Rel Mord was constructed so that these separate pieces of land were a part of the city, yet remained apart. One island was linked to the mainland by three bridges, the other by a single span. Gord learned that the former was a commercial district, while the latter was a royal demesne reserved for the rulers of Nyrond, their peers, and those who served them directly. A sprawling complex with quadruple walls comprised the palace, with attendant government buildings and quarters for the soldiers of the guard in the outer rings.

The low walls of Rel Mord were set back from a gently sloping park that stretched from the main portion of the city to the wide bridge leading to the royal island. There was a miniature fortress on the landward side of the bridge. Gord supposed that a hundred men could hold the place against an army, with magical assistance, of course. The heavy stones of the bridge provided a broad causeway to the island, and this structure was protected by crenel-lations and squat towers and riverward-facing bartizans. Any enemy attempting to escalate the bridge, or coming along it. would have a difficult time indeed. The island gate was composed of many great towers and a turreted building through which the road to the palace passed. Arrow slits and murder holes in the ceiling of the sixty-foot-long passage were sufficient proof of how well-constructed this place was. The grand count and his train were given royal honors, naturally, and the procession passed through all the guardposts and entered the royal demesne without incident.

The isle of Nyrond was a strange mixture of grim stone fortress and lovely little parks and gardens. The whole area was vaguely oval, about a mile long and half as wide. The palace of His August Supremacy, Archbold III. King of Nyrond, rested squarely in the center of the whole, and two of the four walls of the island's defenses surrounded this complex of buildings. The nobles of the Fizziak entourage were housed within the royal palace, while the rest were parceled out amongst the lesser palaces. Gord and Chert ended up in an outer building reserved for those of military calling but lacking knighthood. Common soldiers went elsewhere, but noncommissioned officers were quartered on the lower floor. Both young adventurers were pleased to be in this place, for it got them away from Phompton, Boflly, and the constant surveillance of the main complex.

After they had spent one day loafing, word came that they were to prepare themselves for a private audience with the king. The special meeting was to take place that very afternoon, the day before the revel celebrating the forthcoming nuptials of the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe and the Lady Dulicia. heiress to the Barony of Grimalkin. Exactly three days after this fete, the wedding itself would take place in the Cathedral of St. Trowbane. Gord wondered if the venerable Quinthup, Chief Cleric of Nyrond, would officiate. And if Dulicia's dear mother, Baroness Quodilde, the witch, would grace the ceremony as well. Gord shuddered at the thought of having to face either of them, let alone Good Priest Boflly, Wizard Phompton, and the redoubtable Pinkus. Fortunately, these worthies would certainty be at odds. If one group could be played off against the other, he was certain that he and Chert could escape the whole affair unscathed. If only he could devise some means of profiting from it as well, everything would be wonderful! As it now stood, they would merely turn over the item required by King Archbold, receive a royal pardon, and be sent on their way after the nuptials. Net loss for the whole adventure would be something in excess of ten thousand gold orbs — or ten million zeesl This was a sad pass indeed.

"Chert, I have a plan," Gord suddenly said.

Chert took another swig from a great tankard of stout that he'd cadged earlier from a storeroom. "If it's like the other ones you've had recently, I think i'd rather not hear it."

"Trust me. pal, you’ll like this one!"

"Something tells me I've heard that line before." Chert snorted, but he listened nonetheless.

"Well done, lads," King Archbold said softly as he stroked the rather ordinary-looking stone that Gord had handed over. His Majesty of Nyrond saw Chert's doubtful look and smiled as he drew forth an ancient broadsword and displayed it, saying. "The pommelstone has been missing from this blade — The Sword of Dunstan, Wisebrand by name, and The Sword of Nyrond — for generations!"

"The ruby set there in its stead appears far more handsome." the big barbarian ventured.

This bauble? Bah! it is yours," the monarch said. He pried it from where it had been loosely placed and tossed the glittering sphere toward the astonished adventurers. "A token of Our pleasure at having so nicely accomplished the test"

Gord restrained an impulsive move to grab the stone before the slow-moving Chert could catch it. As the blood-red gem disappeared into the huge hill-man's girdle, the young thief said. Your majesty's generosity is as expansive as his realm, but we did but little to deserve such honor."

"Little," King Archbold muttered, fitting the dull piece of mottled black and white rock into the pommel of the great sword. "Little? Why, for years and years the kings of Nyrond have been trying to get this stone back. Quodllde's grandmother took it from Dunstan the Second when he spurned her as queen, and it's been held in Grimalkin ever since — those miserable witches have extraordinarily long lives, you know."

"The old battleaxe just handed it over when Gord asked! " Chert said incredulously.

"Well," the thief added. "I did make a promise or two — ones I have no intention of keeping."

"That is your affair!" interjected the tall, gaunt royal mage as he stepped forth and made several mystic passes in the air. "As far as the pommelstone is concerned, my liege, it is fairly dweomered and melds as one with the blade. Nyrond is whole, and your majesty now wields power with wisdom."

Gord tried to find an opportunity to request that he and his companion be given permission to leave Rel Mord immediately, but King Archbold held up his hand just as Gord opened his mouth.

"You are dismissed. Be in attendance at the High Revel three days hence, where We will also bestow royal thanks to confirm the honors given by Our subject. Lord Fizziak." With that, the pair of guards swung the doors of the small audience chamber wide, and the two young adventurers bowed and backed out of the room.

"Now what, my clever friend?" Chert demanded.

"What else save my original plan, which you did not like?" asked his friend sweetly but with a hint of superiority.

Hie brawny hillman stared hard at Gord for a long moment, then nodded once in agreement. "As you wish." And so saying. Chert lashed out a beefy fist so fast that even the nimble young thief was unable to dodge its force. Whack! The sound caused guards to start and stare, while a trio of passersby uttered oaths of surprise.

Gord rolled and made his collision with the corridor wall sound far worse than it was. Then, as the big barbarian advanced as if to finish the affair, Gord sprang erect with dagger in hand. "That was your death warrant, churl," he said, and as he hissed the threat, the young adventurer crouched menacingly, his long dagger poised to stab or disembowel.

The altercation was immediately broken up by alert guards in great number. Gord demanded satisfaction for the insult, and Chert likewise claimed the right to restoration of his honor.

"There shall be no duel, nor any personal combat of honor, fought without royal leave, and His August Supremacy is seldom inclined to grant such on short notice," a richly robed official drawled.

"Now what the hells do we do?" the barbarian stooped and whispered into Gord's ear.

"No plotting to avoid the Royal Strictures!" The official was stern now. "Guards, see that these two 'guests' are confined in separate chambers until further notice — and watch them constantly, or your heads are forfeit!"

Eventually it was King Archbold himself who solved their dilemma. The monarch brought the two miscreants into his presence again. Informants had delved into the matter, and the king knew all — even the nature of Gord's and Chert's recent activities in Greyhawk and elsewhere.

"It seems, gentlemen," King Archbold said with a stern countenance, "that you have brought yourselves to a pass that bodes nothing good for you — or My Royal Court."

Chert stood looking at the polished marble floor at his feet, mumbling half-articulate apologies. Gord was also taken aback and could think of nothing to say. The king sat regally and stared, visage set, eyes unforgiving. This silence on Archbold's part finally prompted the young thief.

"Your August Supremacy is renowned as a fair and just king — some say the most righteous in the Flanaess. I beg your permission to state our case."

"Speak."

Gord told the Nyrondel monarch the gist of things, leaving out whatever he could that was incriminating, ending the monologue with a simple request. "All we seek to do, August Supremacy, is to quietly leave Rel Mord prior to the coming nuptials and return to our home in Greyhawk."

"This is a matter of no difficulty, but what shall we do to right the things you two have discommoded? That is another matter. Quodilde might prove difficult. . " Archbold said reflectively.

"Beg pardon, your lordship, but she might prove even more difficult if we stay, for I have no intention in the hells of fulfilling that crone's desires!"

All was quiet for a while until, just as the two really began to lose heart, the king spoke again in a conspiratorial tone.

"Our best interests and obligations are far-reaching, and it just might be that I have thought of a means that will relieve you of your burdens and Nyrond of its own. Attend most carefully, and be prepared to take yet more solemn vows and oaths if this is agreed to by you both."

No more than an hour later, the two adventurers were within sight of the sprawling, clifllike walls of Greyhawk.

"Magical transport has its advantages." Gord said with delight. "If I had such power I could pillage a treasure from distant jakif and be home in the wink of a cat's eye!"

The gigantic hillman spat disgustedly. "Riding a good horse, or even going on shanks' mare," he said, shaking one of his massive legs for emphasis, "is far better than such reeky and dangerous means of travel. I hate this spell-working worse than I hate city-bred fops!"

"Let us use our feet now, and if we hie with vigor, we'll be home in an hour or two."

"With a burden to carry, once we arrive, too," Chert grumbled as he strode along. "One quest after another — I like not this city life!"

"Burden? Quest? Ha, my burly barbarian complainer, no problem at all! We have the exciting prospect of a mission, that's all!"

"I'd prefer the prospect of revelry and sloth," the hillman intoned glumly.

Gord laughed. "You have had enough of revels for some time. Chert! Let's plan for some action as we walk — it's more funds we need, not funning with bawds! Let me see that ruby. …"

At that the barbarian had to shake his head sadly. Their purses were indeed nearly as flat as the mud-banks of the Selintan River. He dug out the gem and handed it to his comrade. The stone was flawed, of course.

Gord saw the barbarian ruefully feeling his broad girdle. "It is always a matter of quickly gained, speedily lost when it comes to riches, hillman. Now this new undertaking that Archbold has proposed for us might prove to bring us sums so vast that we can.."

Chert had his head cocked attentively as he and the young thief trudged along the Hillway Road toward the city. Who, watching and overhearing the pair, could doubt that the hope bound in the breast of youth was unquenchable and bright? Fortunately, no such eavesdroppers existed, for the discussion involved most nefarious activities.