D& D - Greyhawk - Night Watch (22 page)

“Please, drink if you wish.”

Garett turned sharply, startled by the rich, deep voice. But there was no one behind him. There was no one that he could see anywhere. “I would prefer water,” he stated calmly, though his gaze darted to every shadow.

“Then it is water,” the voice answered with the merest hint of amusement.

Garett failed to spot the speaker, so he turned, and the bottle contained a clear, sparkling liquid that he didn’t doubt was water. He tipped the vessel delicately and filled the goblet. He took a sip and found it the freshest, coldest spring water.

“It’s delicious,” Garett commented. “Will my host drink with me?”

Another brazier slowly began to burn on a side of the roof that Garett had not yet explored. It revealed a high-backed chair and a figure reclining there. Garett could not see, though, its still-shadowed face. He saw mostly a lap— where rested a pair of folded, gnarled hands—the hem of a black robe, edged with silver thread embroidery, and soft felt boots, crossed at the ankles.

At the same time that Garett spied the speaker, he realized why the voice had confused him so. The dome that made the second roof played strange tricks with sound.

When the figure didn’t answer, Garett shrugged and sipped his water again. ‘‘You have an interesting place here,” he said conversationally.

There was a pause before the man in the chair answered. “I don’t come here as often as I used to.” There was a vitality in the voice that impressed Garett. He stared at those ancient hands, trying to reconcile his impressions.

“’You have another home?” Garett asked over the gold rim of the goblet.

The shadowed figure seemed to nod. “In the Yaril Mountains,” he answered. Then, stiffly, the figure began to rise, pressing with both hands on the arms of his chair until he finally stood. Once on his feet, though, he seemed to gain vigor. An old man, tall, almost willowy, he stepped out of the shadow. His close-cropped hair and beard, once black, were heavily streaked with gray. The wind set his black robe to fluttering as he moved toward Garett, and the captain of Greyhawk’s night watch could not say for sure if the old man’s feet even touched the floor.

His host stopped beside the couch and peered at Garett. Even in the ruddy glow of the firelight, his old eyes were the keenest, clearest blue.

“’You’ve been watching me for days,” Garett said matter-of-factly. He didn’t doubt that statement at all. He knew the intensity of that blue-eyed gaze. He had felt the weight

of it on his back for too long. “Why?”

The gaze locked with his, and the two regarded each other unyieldingly for a brief moment. “Allow me to provide you with a garment,” his host said finally. Going to an old trunk, he pulled out a soft robe of white silk, which fit Garett perfectly.

“Thank you,” Garett said, feeling the cool slide of the fabric over his skin as he tied the belt. The slightest breeze caused the material to stir and flutter. It almost tickled. His host moved to the wall, leaned his back against a column, and stared out toward the moonlit sea. Garett followed.

Again his host fixed him with that blue-eyed gaze. “I am Mordenkainen,” he said.

Garett’s throat went suddenly dry, and he thought briefly of the goblet of water, which he had left sitting on the low table by the couch. Maybe he could have it changed back to wine again.

He knew the name, of course. Mordenkainen was the legendary leader of the Circle of Eight, a cabal of the most powerful wizards on Oerth. Once, according to many stories, the Circle had held a subtle sway over most of the affairs of the world, carefully balancing matters so that no one force or nation or power ever rose to a position of total dominance. They were neither good nor evil. Or perhaps they were both. Such things always depended on point of view. But they saw that a balance was maintained. No one, however, had heard from the Circle in over fifty years, and Mordenkainen himself had not been seen for longer than that.

Garett regarded the man he saw before him and remembered all the stories he had heard. Then with characteristic bluntness, he asked, “Was it you who killed the seers of Greyhawk?”

The comers of Mordenkainen’s mouth twitched, but whether it was a frown or a grin he put on, Garett couldn’t tell. “You accept my drink and my garment,” Mordenkainen said with a droll lilt, “then you accuse me of murder.” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill the seers.”

“But you know who did,” Garett pushed. Now that he finally had a chance to get some answers, he wanted them all at once. “And the Old Towners. I bet you know what’s going on there, too. Is the Horned Society involved?” Mordenkainen shook his head again, leaned on the wall, and gazed toward the distant waves below. “I can’t help you,” he answered quietly.

That took Garett aback. He stared at the old wizard, whose shoulders seemed to stoop suddenly under the fluttering black robe. “What do you mean you can’t help? You must have brought me here for some reason!”

“I did not bring you here,” Mordenkainen answered stubbornly. He straightened abruptly and thrust a finger, pointing far down the coastline. “I brought you there. You made your own way here.”

Garett couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?” The old wizard shrugged and turned away from the wall. “A small distinction, I admit,” he said, almost plaintively. “But small distinctions can be important in the cosmic scheme of things.” Mordenkainen strode toward the low table, picked up Garett’s goblet, and handed it to him. As Garett had silently wished, this time it contained wine.

“Stop that!” Garett snapped as he accepted the vessel and caught a whiff of the fruity aroma.

The wizard shrugged again as Garett, nevertheless, prepared to drink. With his mouth prepared for wine, he found water trickling into his throat and sputtered at the unexpected taste. He set the cup aside, rapidly growing tired of games, and paced around the table.

“You say you can’t help me, though you’ve had me under observation for days. "You must know what’s going on in Greyhawk. Damn, if even half the stories about you are true, you know what’s going on all over Oerth.” He dropped down suddenly into the stuffed chair and glared at his host. “All right, then. Why did you bring me here?” “I cannot help you in this matter,” Mordenkainen answered firmly. “Nor can any member of the Circle of Eight.

I cannot tell you what or who you face. I cannot even tell you what the danger is.”

“But there is a danger?” Garett interrupted eagerly. “A danger to Greyhawk itself?”

“I cannot tell you that,” Mordenkainen snapped, his features turning stern. “Ask me no questions about your city or your killer. I am enjoined by powers and contracts you do not understand from answering such queries. The members of the Circle do not yet feel it is time to take an active part in the affairs of the world again.”

Garett sighed, feeling the heat of anger in his cheeks. So it was politics interfering with his job again. Politics among the directors; politics among the Circle; always politics. He ground his teeth in frustration. “Once more, then, wizard,” he said. “Why am I here? I have honest work to do.” “And it is work you do honestly and well,” Mordenkainen complimented with an almost paternal patience as he turned to regard Garett. “ That is why I brought you here. To reward you.”

Garett looked suspicious, but he listened and watched as the old wizard paced back and forth.

“There are twelve Great Swords,” Mordenkainen explained. The wind swirled about him as he spoke, and the sleeves of his robe rose out like the wings of a bird. “The Pillars of Heaven, they were called in the ancient days. No one knows who forged them or where they came from, but they are blades of tremendous power. That power was used well by many, but also misused, and at a chaotic time in Oerth’s history, the decision was made to hide them. For the most part, they are forgotten now.” He paused and tapped his temple with a gnarly index finger. “But not by me.”

Despite himself, Garett leaned forward with interest. Mordenkainen motioned him to rise and follow, and together they went to the crystal ball on the velvet-covered table. “One of these twelve swords is but a half-day’s ride from Greyhawk.” He waved a hand over the crystal. “It lies

in the Mist Marsh,” he continued, “at the very heart of the swamp.”

A thick fog filled the gleaming ball, and through it formed images of water reeds and dripping fronds, of moss-hung trees and lush vines. Then the images turned more sinister. One of the vines stirred and undulated and became a thick, green serpent. A creature with an impossibly long snout and rows of sharp teeth thrust up from under the water and clacked its jaws. Insects buzzed everywhere.

But, next, those images faded. A fog filled the ball again, and when it cleared, a sword floated at its center. At first glance, it was a perfectly plain sword. It bore no special adornment, nothing to distinguish its legendary craftsmanship.

“Now look again,” Mordenkainen said. He brushed Garett’s eyelids with the tips of two fingers and stepped back as the captain bent closer to the crystal.

It was the same sword, Garett knew on some instinctive level, but now the silver blade bore a line of black runes down both its sides, and the tangs on either side of the two-handed grip were fashioned to resemble the necks and heads of fanged tigers. As he watched, the weapon began to glow from point to pommel stone with an emerald radiance so intense that the crystal ball, tabletop, and the chamber itself shimmered with its light.

Mordenkainen leaned close to Garett’s ear as he, too, peered into the crystal ball. “This sword is called ‘Guardian,’ ” the wizard whispered with a note of awe in his deep voice. “According to the oldest legends of Oerth, it was the seventh sword of the twelve to be forged.” He put an arm around Garett’s shoulders as they regarded the blade side by side. “Know you, Garett Starlen, that its razor edges can sever any magic spell, no matter how powerful, no matter who the caster. And if you have been uncomfortable with my observing you, know also that while you carry Guardian, you cannot be seen by magic.”

Garett straightened, but the image of the sword continued to hold his attention. “You’re giving this to me?” he asked.

“I cannot give it to you,” Mordenkainen answered sternly. “That would be help, and I am forbidden to help. If you want it, you will have to go get it yourself. I have merely told you where to find it.” Then his voice softened a bit, and his gaze took on a kindly glint. “But you are sensitive, Garett Starlen, though you don’t realize it. That is why you felt me observing you from afar. That is why you feel the force that threatens your city. If you have the courage to go and claim it, you and this sword will serve each other well.”

“I’ve never been to the Mist Marsh,” Garett said quietly, rubbing his chin. Already he was making a list of the things he would need for the journey. He turned to ask a question of Mordenkainen, but the wizard was beside him no more. Garett looked around and spied his host by the wall facing the sea. As he moved to join the old man, Mordenkainen climbed up on the wall, spread his arms, and issued a sharp whistle.

“Stay back,” Mordenkainen warned as Garett came to the wall. “I’ve done all I can. You must help yourself now, and help Greyhawk.”

A dark, solitary cloud hanging in the sky far down the coastline suddenly changed shape, elongated, and sprouted wings, a long, sweeping tail, and a sinewy neck. It turned toward the tower as Mordenkainen whistled again.

“A cloud dragon!” Garett muttered in disbelief. Such creatures were almost never seen by the eyes of men, preferring as they did, to spend their time in their favorite disguise. A herd of them might fill the sky on a warm summer day, and humans would never know it. But now Garett had seen one. It turned its head only briefly and regarded the watch commander with a disinterested, faceted gaze as Mordenkainen stepped from the top of the tower and settled himself comfortably upon the beast’s neck.

“Good luck to you, Garett Starlen,” Mordenkainen called. Then he touched the cloud dragon’s neck. It turned and swept off across the sea, cut a wide arc across the star-dazzled sky, and flew down the coastline.

One by one, the braziers burned out until the emerald glow from Guardian’s image in the crystal ball was the only light. Even that began to fade, and Garett found himself standing in darkness. He looked around nervously, thinking of the wooden steps he had to take to leave the tower, wishing for a torch, a lantern, anything.

One by one, Oerth’s two moons faded, and, impossibly, one by one, the stars did as well, until the darkness was complete and utter.

Garett turned around and around, confused, uncertain where to go.

Garett woke with a start, sweating and disoriented,

back in his apartment. He sat up in his bed, the

sheet slithering down about his waist. A cooling breeze blew across his chest through the open shutters. His heart still hammered against his ribs, and his breaths were short and rapid.

“That must have been some dream.”

Garett turned toward the voice. Sorvesh Kharn, well-dressed in leather trousers and a black lace-up tunic of fine linen weave, sat in a chair by the door, his booted feet propped up on one of Garett’s trunks. The master of thieves had a small, jeweled dagger out, and he cleaned his nails idly by the light of a candle, which he must have lit. The light glistened in his oiled beard and in his hair, which was blacker than night itself and pulled back in a braid so tight that Garett thought it had to hurt his face.

“How did you get in here?” Garett muttered angrily, wrapping the sheet about his waist as he rose from the bed. He glanced toward the place by his pillow where he usually

kept his sword. It wasn’t there. Then, remembering, he glanced toward his table, where he’d left it.

Sorvesh Kharn put on a smirk as he continued to clean and pare his nails. “Oh, come now, Captain. Let’s not begin with insults.”

Garett admitted to himself it was a stupid question. Sorvesh Kharn hadn’t risen to the leadership of his guild by letting little things like locks stand in his way. The point of that small dagger had probably fitted quite easily into the keyhole on his apartment door. It would have been no obstacle at all to Kharn. And the fact that he had done it so silently and made himself at home while Garett slept was further testament to his skills.