“First we gather up our prize,” the druid said confidently. “Thereafter, all we need to do is find the exit that dead adder used to go hunting!”
That made perfect sense to both of his young companions, so, greatly heartened, they explored the small cave. It was a small place compared to the caverns they had previously explored in this place, but the space was long and had many side openings.
It took only a little time to locate what the druid sought. Within a recess near the middle of the main cave there was a chest of ancient origin, much discolored by verdigris. Gord was able to examine it and find where an incautious hand would be pierced by poisoned needles, and opening its primitive lock was mere child’s play for him. Within the chest lay yet another coffer, one of gleaming wrought gold. They removed this from the heavy chest with great care, with respect both for its contents and for possible traps laid to protect the prize.
“What think you, lad?” Greenleaf asked the young thief. “Can you open it safely?”
“I am not sure…. See the glyphs graven ’round its top? And there, by its catch, are yet more runes and sigils. I have seen such before-or writings similar, I should say-and they bode ill for any who violate them. It is my thought that we take this out of here unopened, and see what is therein in some place where we have better chance for safety.”
“It is a good plan,” Chert agreed. “This thing fairly reeks of some dweomer I like not.”
“Then let’s take it and find our route to light and clean air!” the druid said cheerily. “I am sick of this dark and gloomy place and long to see sun and trees again.”
Chapter 32
After many wrong turns and retracing of steps, the three eventually managed to find their way to the surface. Greenleaf used his skills as a ranger to follow the route-or, rather, routes-the serpent had used. This in itself was not a difficult task, but locating egress to the outside was time-consuming because of the reptile’s propensity to meander along many subterranean passages that also led to and from the cave. There was no way to tell whether a certain passage actually led up to ground level without trying it, and there were several to choose from; thus, it took a while for the hardy trio to make their escape.
As Gord moved briskly along the tunnel toward the exit, he wondered out loud what had prevented the demon from escaping by this same way. Curley Greenleaf suggested that some eldritch command from ancient days hedged the whole place so as to allow the cataboligne only one means of freedom; otherwise, the demon could surely have used its great powers to move itself by magical means to wherever it chose.
They came into the bright morning through a long, down-slanting tunnel of natural stone, stepping out upon a grassy slope that overlooked a mountain valley far below the cliff they stood on. It was evident from the position of the sun and the roll of the mountain peaks that they were on the western side of the place. Their route back was lost to them, and their horses too, and now their only recourse was to somehow manage to get westward and out of the mountains on foot. Fortunately, all three men were used to climbing, although Gord was by no means the outdoorsman that his comrades were.
Although Chert’s bow had been broken during his final struggle with the demon, both Curley and the young thief still had slings, and finding good stones to use as missiles was no problem at all. They walked and climbed downward, heading in the direction of the setting sun, watered by mountain freshets and fed on small game brought down by slung stones. They had occasional encounters with things far more dangerous than a rabbit or a grouse, but by avoiding some or using spell and weapons to defeat the predatory purpose of others, the trio managed to gain the foothills several days later, with the golden coffer still safe and sound, hidden in a wrapping of old cloak and strapped on Chert’s broad back.
They trudged farther west, seeking an inhabited place where they could refurbish and replenish their clothing and gear, find mounts, and seek what they needed to safely examine what the coffer contained. When they came to a place where a large marsh spread northward as far as the horizon, the druid said that they were near the border between the lands of the city state of Greyhawk and the area controlled by Hardby-a wild territory, but at least one containing communities where they might locate their needs. Moving with great caution, and keeping sharp watch in darkness, the three adventurers managed to walk the next twenty leagues without incident. Early the next morning they saw signs of habitation on the horizon, and when they finally entered the village of Cepentar at midday, all three rejoiced. They had accomplished their quest, and now the matter was all but complete.
Gord provided the coinage for their needs, although not without some grumbling and dark looks. The barbarian and druid had no more than a few copper commons between them, so their companion had to tap his secret cache of orbs and platinum plates. Early on the following day, mounted on good steeds, newly clothed, rearmed, and rested, they rode along the highway that wended its way beside the Selintan River. This watercourse was the western outlet of the great Nyr Dyv, emptying that lake and running southward to pour its waters into Woolly Bay. This way was an artery of commerce, whether waterborne or otherwise, and the road was both well- used and frequently patrolled. Better still, it was dotted with hamlets, villages, and even towns, so that the one hundred and twenty mileposts they passed were not marks of a hard journey, but rather points along a rather comfortable ride between various inns, taverns, and hostels. No one questioned three such men, nor did any highwayman or bandit gang cross their path. They kept to themselves, and likewise were allowed to do this; such hardened and armed riders were let alone by outlaws, and were too few in number to concern soldiers bent on maintaining law and safety, for three apparent mercenaries were of no interest in a land where such were common.
The sight of Greyhawk’s high wall and strong towers brought a flood of memories to Gord’s mind. How long since had he left this city, bound for fortune and adventure? Only about eight years of real time, he reckoned… but eight years that seemed to hold a lifetime worth of joy, sadness, fear, and all the experiences between those extremes.
Would the city have changed much? He doubted it. Was his old friend, San, happily wed? Perhaps a ranking thief of the Guild by now? What of the rebellious Teline and Sunray? Gone, he supposed, either to another place or to whatever lay beyond death.
The word “death” brought to mind the Beggarmaster’s bones and a heavy box of plate iron, resting together in a dark cistern below the city. Gord had originally left the city to avoid the suspicious Guildmaster of Thieves, but he thought Arentol would neither recognize him after all these years, changed as Gord was, nor have any particular interest in him. Whether he would even be remembered at all was as much a question as whether or not he cared about such long-past matters of little real import.
What finally struck Gord was that other than during his short episode as a student-a period of time all too brief, it seemed in retrospect-he had never really had a home in Greyhawk. The city had merely been a place where he housed himself, or rather was forced to live, in his miserable youth. Did he hate this metropolis? Or did he love it? Perhaps he was indifferent to it entirely. He would soon discover which, Gord suspected, when he was once again within its walls.
Even if the city had not changed much, Gord knew that he had. Possibly it would mean something entirely different to him, with his perspective altered by years and travel… and much, much more. With the image of Evaleigh’s silvery hair and violet eyes playing across his mind, Gord passed through the massive Southgate and into Greyhawk….
“What is your rede, priest?” asked Curley, trying to keep the anxiety he felt out of his voice.
“It is confused, druid…. But not evil, I think,” the robed cleric replied with some uncertainty.
“And you, magician? What can you tell us?”
The dun-clad magic-user scratched and tugged at his long, scraggly beard before saying hesitantly, “The stuff writ upon the lid of yon coffer is potent, but it is done in runes so ancient I cannot be sure…. Yet I find no fell warding there, no curse, no sigil bringing some dweomer of ill.
“There is a magical aura, certainly, one of the strong sort, which I am prevented from reading by its own might. Beyond this, I am powerless to assist.”
Gord, in an exercise he had become accustomed to of late, counted out gold into one outstretched palm, platinum lozenges into the other waiting hand. The cleric and the magician went their separate ways, departing
