never took more than they needed. Further, Gellor explained, their foresting of certain of the trees was done to provide grassy clearings for grazing and allow new growth as well. This seemed a quite intelligent and civilized way of life to the young thief-but this knowledge in no way prepared him for his first meeting with the forest-dwellers, which came almost immediately thereafter.
They rode past a meadow and along a game trail that wound eastward. At a widening of this path, an arrow suddenly thunked into the bole of a tree beside Gellor, and within seconds men clad in brown and green appeared among the trees all around them. Gord reached instinctively for his sword, but his friend stayed his hand with a gesture just as one of the tall woodsmen stepped forward from the foliage and spoke.
“Gellor, you old bastard! That shaft came near to skewering your nose, and you never flinched!” he shouted.
“I trust your aim too well for flinching, Stalker, but you must be getting old, too. I saw you at least two seconds before you loosed that arrow!”
“What brings you to our fair forest, you miserable minion of the mighty? Hear that there was a hot young dryad new to this place?”
“Hell, no-I wanted to see if you were really as ugly as I remembered you to be!” the grinning, one-eyed man retorted.
“Then climb down off that nag and take a look with that one peeper you still got, ’cause when I get through with you, it’ll be swollen shut but good.”
As Gellor dismounted, Gord did the same, uncertain just what was going to happen. All that took place was a spirited round of hand-clasping and back-thumping between Gellor and the one called Stalker, intermingled with more bad jokes and insults. Then Gord was introduced to the dozen woodsmen headed by Stalker, who all received him warmly. They reminded Gord of the hillfolk that he and Gellor had encountered earlier on their journey-but, to Gord’s mild amazement, these men were even bigger.
One huge fellow named Chert took an instant liking to the small thief and soon was telling him all about the forest, its folk, and the community. Chert said he was not originally from this portion of the forest, having been born and raised by the hill foresters not distant, but he came to like the more civilized amenities offered in this neck of the woods and had joined up with Stalker’s boys. This information made Gord wonder what the hill foresters were like, for a rougher and tougher lot than these woodsmen he could not imagine.
Towering at least two inches above any of the other tall woodsmen, Chert was indeed a sight to behold. His huge shoulders and brawny chest tapered to a still-massive waist, which looked less substantial than it actually was only because its girth was small in relation to his great torso. His upper body was held up by two legs corded with muscles and as large as tree trunks, while his mighty arms exuded the strength that had come from wielding axe and bow since childhood. Chert seemed to be totally unaware of his own stature and power, and Gord thought of him as a massive bear cub who had unknowingly grown into adulthood. A great paw clapped Gord on his shoulder, and a broad, handsome face topped by a tangled heap of curly, brown hair smiled openly down at him.
“Come on,” said the giant. “Stay in my hut while you’re in town. Your pal Gellor will be batting the breeze with Stalker and Ned Horn all night.”
Gord wondered where “town” was, for all he saw was a closely grouped bunch of thirty or forty rude log huts, so positioned and surrounded by growth as to make the cluster of small houses invisible from a hundred yards away. Chert’s own dwelling was built utilizing a partially fallen tree as the roofbeam. The hut was roomier inside than it appeared to be from without, and although it was messy, the place was comfortable enough.
His host casually dropped his huge longbow and quiver of arrows near the door, flipped his axe so that it buried itself in a log on the far wall, divested himself of his thick leather jerkin, and sprawled down on the heap of skins that served as his bed, telling Gord to round up whatever stray hides and pelts he could find-and there were plenty to be had-and relax too.
“I’ve got some good ale there,” Chert said, indicating a small barrel near his feet, “and drinking horns are everywhere. Just find one someplace, shake out whatever’s in it, and help yourself. I want you to tell me what the rest of the country is like.”
Gord couldn’t help but like this big barbarian, yokel though he was. His quaint speech and unusual mannerisms were unaffected and honest. These virtues disarmed Gord by easy stages, being unaccustomed as he was to meeting folk who displayed such straightforward characteristics. So the young thief soon found himself talking about Greyhawk City, Urnst, his foray into the Theocracy, and so on. Between frequent interruptions for a question or some homely comparison to Chert’s own limited scope of adventurous trekking, Gord managed to reveal a fair amount of what he had seen and done during his life. In turn, he discovered that although rustic, the steely- eyed barbarian was no savage, but rather a bold and knowledgeable adventurer in his own realm of woodlands and wilds.
Their conversation was cut short by one of the men from the forest thorp, calling them both to come to the council clearing. Chert jumped up, pulled on his leather jerkin, yanked his axe loose from its resting place, and tucked the weapon into his belt. When Gord asked his young host why he was donning armor and weapons for a meeting, Chert simply told him that everyone did so at such gatherings. So Gord buckled on his own sword just as another head poked into the hut.
“Hey, Chert, let’s go! I’ll walk with you,” the newcomer said. Then he smiled at Gord and introduced himself. “You must be Gellor’s friend, Gord. I’m Greenleaf-your servant, sir.” He smiled more broadly as he added, “Friends call me Curley,” while he passed a hand over his bald pate.
“Sure, Curley,” the barbarian woodsman boomed in reply. “Let’s all three go together. Gord’s all set, and I’ll just get my spear, and we can get moving.”
The gathering place was about half a mile from the camp. As they walked, Curley told the two younger men that there was serious trouble brewing, but he wouldn’t say any more, because it was Stalker, as leader of the community, who had the privilege and duty to bring such things before the people.
Gord liked Curley right away, although he was quite an unusual character. There was no question he was of mixed parentage; his pointed ears and bright green eyes made his elven ancestry obvious. His human heritage was evidenced by his hairless head, broad shoulders, and somewhat rotund build, plus his height of nearly six feet. Although the fellow appeared small next to the towering Chert, he was still bigger than Gord-who was, actually, about the same height as a mature male elf.
Around Curley’s neck was a gold chain from which hung a golden sun with an enameled tree upon it. When Curley noticed Gord’s curiosity about it, the fellow explained that the necklace was his devotional symbol-the sun and the Tree of Life, as he called it, being representations of Nature.
“We’re druidical folk here, you know, and I am presently serving as the spiritual counselor for this little community,” he told Gord earnestly.
“And what of the little gold leaves forming the chain?” inquired Gord. “I see some are enameled green, while others are not.”
The druid said that this was just his particular preference, but Chert interjected that it was because he was proud of being a member of the Eighth Circle-whatever that was-and if Gord could count that high, he’d find that four leaves on each side of the symbol had been colored green. Thus, eight curled green leaves-denoting the druid’s rank, and his name too.
“He’s a show-off, but not a bad guy,” Chert concluded, throwing a smirk in Curley’s direction.
They came to a place in the forest where the surrounding hills formed a small, natural amphitheater. About fifty armed men were present, plus roughly the same number of women, most of them also bearing weapons, and many more children. The assemblage was quiet, and even the youngsters seemed dignified and reserved. As Gord watched, several more family groups and a few lone men drifted in from the trees that ringed the hilltops and moved to places where they sat or stood while exchanging low greetings with those around them.
Curley Greenleaf took his leave of Gord and Chert and headed for a cleared place at the bottom of the bowl- shaped dell where both Stalker and Gellor already stood. In a moment these two were joined by the druid and a tall, handsome woman, clad in a dark green robe, who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Gord asked Chert who she was, and the barbarian replied that she was some sort of spell-binder or something, and he didn’t trust her much.
After looking slowly around the circumference of the dale, the leader of the community began speaking. Stalker’s deep voice carried well, even though he was not shouting; the place was formed such that even those near the top of the low hillsides could hear him clearly. He simply announced that the gathering was summoned so
