In half an hour the pair departed. Using the less traveled routes, and with hood and cowl raised, they managed to get to a small set of rooms that Gord kept as a second hideaway. They were in the River Quarter, at a place where a fishmonger had his shop in the front of a ramshackle building. The man and his family lived above the store. A small, cluttered storage room was left vacant, though, by terms of the agreement. This place had a concealed entrance that led into a narrow room beyond and from there to the larger basement room below. It was damp and musty, as were the various garments cached there. Such garb suited both men. It would draw no notice.
'Not much in the way of coin,' Gord noted sadly, parceling out the few coppers and silver nobles between himself and his comrade.
'A blind pilgrim and his devoted nephew will have few riches, Gord,' the troubador noted with a smile as he returned the money to his friend. 'You are the master of the purse, for a blind old codger such as I could mistake a zee for a common… or vice versa.'
Just after the fourth hour, at the time of early evening when the streams of visitors to the city began their long treks homeward, Gord and Gellor slipped out of the place and found a ferry to take them across Hook Harbor to the place along River Street outside Greyhawk where pilgrims gathered to make their journey northward to the fabled shrine. Dressed as they were, and haggling over the price of smoked fish and wheat loaves, nobody paid them attention, not even the sharp-eyed men who moved here and there along the quay and wharves searching for wanted men. At sunset the two were camped with a half-hundred folk preparing to begin the march into the hills next day. They did so without molestation when the warm red of the sun's great disc pushed above the horizon a few hours later.
It was a slow and arduous passage. The pilgrims wished it thus. How else could one benefit? The trials and perils were tokens of faith and offerings, as it were. Days later, just short of the shrine that was the object of the pilgrimage, Gord and Gellor disappeared, leaving in the dark when all the good folk, and even the tough and not particularly prayerful soldiers guarding the flock of pilgrims, were sound asleep or nodding by fireside or sentry post.
The slow pace of the train had been beneficial to both men. Bruises and cuts had time to heal, damaged internal portions of the two began to mend. To veterans such as these, twenty miles of walking each day, plain fare, and seven or eight hours sleeping on the ground were both restful and restorative.
Gord worried about the sword. He had wrapped it carefully, but its length made the bundle rather noticeable, he feared. Because the group was large and the champion kept the weapon near his person at all times, nobody took interest in it, and no good priest or faithful paladin sensed its dark dweomer. Many of the members of the long stream of pilgrims undertaking the trek were taciturn, somber, and remote. Those more sociable and garrulous simply steered clear of the few who wished to be left alone. Although Gord and Gellor did not announce such a desire for privacy, their attitudes and introspective silences quickly placed them into the category of those not active in the pilgrim train's social community. Neither outcast nor shunned, for that was unthinkable to such persons as these, their attitude was simply accepted as part of what these men held dear. In fact, a score of others were similarly not a part of the activities. Most of the introspective ones had afflictions that were similar to or worse than that which the bard supposedly suffered from.
'I feel rather shoddy,' Gellor whispered one night. 'How many of these honest men and women are truly in need of help?' It was a rhetorical question. 'It bothers me to pose as another blind one seeking the blessed cure.'
'We are helping them all to live, old comrade,' Gord noted as softly. 'Not one of the truly decent folk here would say aught of it if they were aware of our feigning and the cause thereof.'
'Yes, I know that's true, Gord. Yet it disturbs me nonetheless. I also am forced to wonder why more of such disabilities cannot be cared for by the great clerics.'
'Too few are the priests with the power to heal such needs as these, too many are those with serious deficiencies to be rectified. I would not be a priest for any reason, Gellor. The need and my shortcomings would soon bring dementia to my brain.'
There was more bothering them than either could articulate. Curley Greenleaf had been the bard's oldest and closest friend. The druid had been Gord's mentor for a time and dear comrade since. It was not possible for either man to speak of the loss they felt, not yet. It was too deep, too strong.
So, too, the death of Chert. He and Gord had shared a youthful time together in such fashion as bound man to man in bonds of brotherhood. Gellor had patted the big hillman's curly head when Chert could barely toddle, hunted with him when the lad received his first bow, advised him as a man. The four had undergone desperate adventures together, fought the enemy side by side. Two comrades in arms as well as old friends had gone outward and would be with them no more. The aching void that left within each breast was indescribable. The two kept their own counsel about that feeling and made each day as busy and mundane as possible. It was in all ways a beneficial journey.
When they slipped off into the darkness, each felt a particular tug. It was the poignancy of leaving behind a painful yet needed time of healing. Soon now they would have to deal fully with all that had transpired, undertake new missions without their old comrades there beside them.
It was as if the two were facing manhood again, having to leave the things of a childhood behind. Each sense was in part correct. Yet Gord and Gellor went forth without hesitation, and the mourning for their dead comrades was now something that would be retained in a special, deep place inside each of them, a badge in a place of honor where none but them could ever view it. That sharing was known to both men, but it too was unsaid.
'Mounts,' Gellor said. 'We need them now, and there's not enough coin between us to buy a single old plug!'
'No problem,' Gord rejoined as he dug around in his gear. 'This little pearl necklace should take care of the need nicely.'
'I know that you didn't have any such thing when we began this trip,' the bard said with rising suspicion in his tone.
Gord laughed. 'Too long a thief, perhaps,' he admitted as he admired the string of oddly shaped freshwater pearls. 'The lantern-jawed merchant who purported to be a pilgrim — he was a dealer in stolen goods, too. I recognized him, Gellor, and relieved him of just a little of his ill-gotten gains.'
Sound horses were soon found in a village, and with saddlebags well-provisioned and bedrolls tied behind saddles, the two heroes set off along the narrow trail that wound upward into the high hills and steep bluffs of the northeast. There, lost amid the wild terrain, was the keep of the mage they sought. In but a short while the two were safe within the walls of Tenser's castle.
The great archmage was absent. That surprised neither of them. He would be with the others, of course, working in concert to bring dismay to the hydra-headed gang who sought to free Tharizdun. The venerable Poztif greeted them warmly, however, and after formalities were concluded, Gord and Gellor related all that had transpired.
The high priest was shocked. 'Timmil… the laughing barbarian lad, too… and the others, even Greenleaf,' he said slowly, shaking his head. 'It is a dark victory, but what else can be expected when one contends with the vilest of evils?' He led them to a place where they could rest and refresh themselves, saying. 'I'll prepare immediately for your departure, of course. As soon as you have taken what sustenance you need and rested sufficiently to feel capable, I will have all in readiness for the next step.'
Gord slept only a little, Gellor scarcely more. It was only hours after their arrival at the lonesome stronghold of the lord-mage that both of them were sent elsewhere. Neither of them knew their destination, not exactly. It would be someplace where Balance held sway, but Poztif kept his lips sealed on the subject. That was proof enough of how desperate the time was and how strong the foe.
Chapter 20
The Chiaroscuro Palace. Shadowrealm.
It was so unlikely a setting in so improbable a plane that Gord wondered aloud, 'Have the Lords of Balance lost theirs?'
