THE RETURN OF THE KING
Together, Tilly and Gardrid managed to haul their dead and wounded back up to the surface once again. To Tilly, this was becoming an all-to-familiar routine. How many more friends was he going to lose to this place? When would it finally be his turn? He missed Salazar more than he’d realized, and he was beginning to feel very alone.
Gardrid bore his Pez across his shoulders in silence. Death didn’t bother him. He’d lost many brothers to past battles. They died with honor…with glory. Death was a fact. But these people weren’t dwarves, and they certainly weren’t Kuldjargh. They had his sympathies, to be sure, especially the little one. He’d been through quite a lot, and his kind weren’t known for their fortitude. Ah well, he thought, this wasn’t his first battle-company, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. They were honorable warriors who weren’t afraid to fight, and that’s all that mattered.
The pair made their way through the darkened city streets, back to the sanctuary of the temple walls. Ruphus, as always, was there to meet them. He shook his head sadly at the tableaux before him, and then led them silently to Jenya.
“Alas, my friends, you have returned in glory, only to find sorrow once again. You are heroes, one and all, but I fear that if you do not give up this quest, you shall end up as martyrs as well.”
“Give up?” Gardrid asked indignantly, “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, and no disrespect intended, but ye couldn’t begin ta understand. Me people…me kin, built that fortress with their own hands. They poured their hearts inta it, and then they gave their very lives ta see that it was defended, and yer city here as well. I’ll not be lettin’ that legacy die so easily, nor will I let it be invaded and claimed by the vermin o’the Underdark.”
“Ah, my good dwarf,” Jenya smiled grimly, “I do indeed understand the nature of sacrifice, and I admire your ambition, but do not let your legacy become your tomb.”
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Oso was laid to rest in the forest below the peak of Cauldron. His gravesite was sanctified in the name of Tyr, and in his name, his portion of the reward money was donated to the Lantern Street orphanage.
Pez healed and resumed his duties, but Jenya informed him that it was against her better judgment for him to attempt another run at the Malachite Fortress.
“High priestess,” he bowed, “I respectfully request that you reconsider. The dwarves intend to continue this mission, with or without our help. I submit that it would be in the best interest of the church to back this undertaking, for it will ultimately aid in the defense of our city, and may help to forge a lasting alliance with a new dwarven community.”
Jenya could not argue with this logic, and she agreed to take the matter under advisement. In the meantime, she had managed to identify the dead human they had found as Gryffon Malek, a barkeep at the Tipped Tankard, who had disappeared two months ago, just days before his planned wedding to a tavern barmaid. The woman had been informed of his death, but it seems she had met someone else in the interim and wasn’t exactly devastated by the news. The man had no other family in town, and so was buried in the common cemetery, overseen by the church of Kelemvor.
A few days later, Pez was summoned to Jenya’s office once more. When he entered, he saw that she was not alone. An elf dressed in drab robes stood before her desk. He wore a circlet of mistletoe in his hair, and a gleaming scimitar hung at his hip. He fixed Pez with a penetrating stare as he entered.
“Pez,” Jenya said rising, “allow me to introduce Wathros, a representative of the Emerald Enclave. He has come here seeking Oso…”
“Oso?” Pez stammered, “How did you know him?”
“Your use of the past tense is duly noted,” the druid said dryly, “Your superior has informed me of his death. A tragedy to be sure. As to our acquaintance, let us just say that my organization made use of his services from time to time. I came to impart information to him, and to advise him on some matters of import to my superiors.”
“Well,” Pez responded, not caring at all for the druid’s condescending tone, “as you have said, his death was a tragedy. I’m sorry you have come all this way for nothing.”
“On the contrary,” the elf replied, “I still have business in this region, and may for some time. Jenya tells me that you plan to return to the place of Oso’s death. I would like to accompany you and understand why he had an interest in this place.”
Pez scowled at the way the elf used the High Priestesses’ name with such familiarity, “I don’t think…” he began, but Jenya interrupted, “I have informed Wathros that you would welcome his company, Pez.” She looked at him meaningfully. Pez was well aware of the influence that the Emerald Enclave held throughout the Vilhon Reach, and to insult one of their emissaries would be a bad political move.
“As you wish, my lady,” he bowed, and then straightened to face the druid eye to eye, “We leave in two days.”
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“Well, here it is,” Pez said, indicating the spot on the floor of the corridor, a dark brown stain still apparent, “This is where he died.”
Wathros bent to the spot and examined it closely, whispering to himself. “I see,” he said finally, “but I still fail to understand what he was doing down here in the first place.”
“I told’ja already, ya idgit!” Gardrid snarled. He was none-to-pleased with the decision to invite the newcomer along on this expedition to reclaim what he was now referring to as ‘his’ fortress. “The elf had a conscience. He helped us rescue them kids and townsfolk, and then, as a friend, he came back with me to recover me peoples’ legacy.”
Wathros rolled his eyes, “Yes, yes, please…I don’t need to hear this entire story again. Why you people insist on making your homes in such dank, closed in places, I’ll never understand.”
“Why ya pointy eared…” Gardrid moved menacingly towards the druid, but Pez intervened, “Now, now my friend. The good druid has graciously come all the way down here to see your clan’s handiwork. I’m sure we could find something down here worthy of his attention.”
Gardrid grinned, hoping against hope that some other deadly trap, or imprisoned monster might still be lurking nearby…
As their search continued, they found two more empty cellblocks, hidden behind massive slabs of stone that had been moved to block their entrances. Tilly determined that the levers the automatons had guarded must have triggered the blockade. Apparently the constructs had been placed there as fail safes against a prison break.
Near the guardroom for the cellblocks, they stumbled upon what was obviously Kazmojen’s private quarters. The room was horridly appointed, the walls carved with tall, narrow niches piled high with skulls and the skinned hides of various monsters hanging on the bare walls between them. A large chair made of monster skins stretched over a framework of bones stood in the middle of the chamber, and a draconic skull surmounted it. Behind the chair, a bed of soft moss and fungi sprouted from a large heap of carrion. Between them, Gardrid and Wathros were able to identify the skins and skulls as belonging to a basilisk, a digester, a displacer beast, an ettercap, a medusa, and a salamander. Gardrid rubbed his hands over some of the trophies in admiration.
As the group examined the contents of the room, Tilly discovered a hidden doorway near the back. On the other side, they found what appeared to be some sort of treasure vault. Three padlocked chests stood in the middle, one bound in iron, one blackened, as if by fire, and with a toothy, crescent-shaped grin painted on it in blood, and the last with copper fittings, bearing a dagger-shaped symbol carved into its lid. Also in the room were three casks brimming with coins, a small stone bowl filled with gems, a heap of armor, and two large shields used as trays to hold more coins. Various other trinkets and trophies added to the trove, including a gem-encrusted horn, an ornate walking cane and an engraved golden gong hanging from an intricately sculpted wooden frame.
Gardrid’s eyes grew wide as saucers at the sight of the horde, and Tilly had to remember to close his mouth, which had somehow fallen open. Wathros merely glanced at the wealth, and then returned his attention to the trophy room. Pez was skeptical. This all looked to good to be true, and to easy.
“Tilly,” he directed, “enter cautiously, and search carefully before touching anything. We will cover and observe you.”
Tilly nodded quickly, and then darted into the treasure chamber. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, he began examining the locks on the first trunk. So intent was he in his work that he failed to sense subtle movement behind him. Gardrid and Pez saw, but it was too late. The gong against the back wall had extruded what looked to be a large, clubbed pseudopod. The appendage whipped out like a snake, and struck the halfling on the back. As it retracted, Tilly stuck fast to it, and was pulled back to the gong, which now sported a fanged maw in its middle.
“Another mimic!” Pez shouted, recalling the creature they had encountered guarding Starbrow, but before he had a chance to warn Gardrid about the glue-like secretions of the creature, the battlerager had charged in and sunk his axe into the ‘wooden’ frame of the monster. The blade bit deep, but when Gardrid tried to free it, he found it was stuck fast.
Wathros’ attention had by now been jerked back to the events in the vault. He shook his head at the greed of these people, and the consequences thereof. Still, it wouldn’t do to let them perish, and it might teach them a valuable lesson if they lived to learn from it. His hands reached to his temples and brushed the mistletoe circlet he wore there. Words came from his mouth that sounded like wind sighing through trees. Suddenly, a flaming ball appeared on the floor next to the gong/mimic. It rolled forward several feet, and came to rest against the beast’s body. The mimic roared in pain, and attempted to shuffle away from the painful sphere.
As the mimic moved, Gardrid gave a mighty tug on his weapon, and managed to jerk the axe-head free. At that moment, Pez stepped past him. For a split-second, Tilly couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The damned fool looked like he was carrying a trumpet, of all things. Pez placed the trumpet to his lips and blew mightily. A clear, silver note rang out, beautiful, but painful to hear. The mimic went rigid and stopped flailing. Tilly twisted and wrenched himself free of its hold.
“Now I gotcha!” Gardrid sneered, then he gripped his axe firmly in both hands, lined up carefully on the mimic’s face, wound his body almost one-hundred-eighty degrees, and swung with all his might. The blade cleaved the creature completely in two, and it collapsed to the floor in pool of amorphous goo.
At last, the Malachite Fortress appeared to be safe. Gardrid insisted that every drop of treasure be hauled to the surface for ‘safe-keeping.’ When they finally returned to the temple of Tyr, the battlerager bowed low before Jenya, and declared himself, with all solemnity, Gardrid I, King Under the Mountain of the Malachite Fortress.
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Time passed in Cauldron. The fame of the heroes waxed in the city, culminating with an audience with the Lord Mayor, where they were publicly acclaimed for services rendered and awarded the key to the city. They were welcomed in every tavern and public house in the town, where the patrons never grew tired of hearing their tales. In truth, Gardrid and Tilly were primarily involved in these displays, and each time the story was told, there seemed to be a newer, bigger monster that was bested, and each of their roles was bolstered in one way or another. Pez returned to his day-to-day church activities, and seldom saw his former companions.
Wathros, for his part, was seen in the city from time to time, but would also disappear, sometimes for weeks before returning.
True to his word, Gardrid returned to the Malachite Fortress and even began living in its halls, coming to the surface through Keygan’s shop on a regular basis. He took with him Sondor Ironfold, the dwarf woman he had helped rescue from Kazmojen’s forge. She assisted him in restoring some semblance of order to the place and making it habitable once again. The battlerager even went so far as to visit Deacon Stormshield, the dwarf lad who had been returned to the Lantern Street orphanage, and requesting permission from Gretchyn to take the boy on outings to the Malachite Fortress so that he could be better acquainted with his heritage. Alas, Rusty’s recovery was more prolonged than any would have guessed. The priest’s injuries had severely weakened him, and Jenya informed Gardrid that he would be in no condition to undertake strenuous activity for several weeks yet.
Tilly had his own little enterprise going. Maple Honeythorn had become quite taken with the little rogue, and soon the pair became quite inseparable. Furthermore, Maple’s professional talents were very much in line with Tilly’s own, and she had many ‘contacts’ throughout the city. She and Tilly managed to make a tidy living for themselves through sleight of hand, gambling, and eager fans willing to pay to hear Tilly’s harrowing tales of heroism. Krylscar, once again returned to his post in the town guard, saw to it that the proper authorities overlooked many of the halflings’ ‘bending’ of the law. He felt that he owed them this much at least.
As is frequently the case, however, fame was fleeting, and reality soon began to set in. It seemed that, in light of Keygan Ghelve’s incarceration, and subsequent sentencing to one year at hard labor, his shop and everything in it was impounded by the city. The self-proclaimed King of the Malachite Fortress was politely informed that he could have first option to either buy or rent the building, but first payment was due immediately, and if it were not paid, he would have to vacate the premises.
It seems being king wasn’t exactly a financial windfall. When all of Kazmojen’s horde had been divided up, most of Gardrid’s share went into outfitting himself with new armor and new weapons. In short order, he had run through every last copper. Needless to say, meeting the one hundred gold galleon monthly rent on the shop was quite beyond his means. He was in a true fix. How could he be king of a kingdom to which he had no access? He couldn’t very well ask the new tenants of the shop to allow him to come and go through their downstairs closet whenever he pleased. No…he needed some source of income.
Gardrid thought hard about where his particular talents lay, and it didn’t take long for him to find his niche. The Tipped Tankard was a rowdy establishment, and in need of a strong bouncer. Gardrid was their man…er…dwarf. Not only did he keep the malcontents in order, but patrons were forever buying him drinks, just to hear how he single-handedly defeated Kazmojen and his rabid horde of two hundred hobgoblins. Still, the battlerager’s wages from his day job was barely half of what he needed to make the rent payment. He was still short…so to speak. The final answer literally fell into his lap. Tilly, as it turned out, had been asked, in no uncertain terms, to vacate his room at the Drowning Morkoth Inn after several wealthy patrons had complained to the management about a questionable poker game the halfling had been running in the common room. As Gardrid was returning home from work one morning, he passed the inn just as the rogue was being unceremoniously ejected through the front door. It seemed Hela Brightaxe had answered his prayers this day. Tilly and Maple needed a place to stay, and he needed extra income. The trio managed to work out a deal where they would pool their resources and rent the shop together. Tilly and Maple would actually live in it, while Gardrid would be free to use its hidden entrance to access his kingdom. Thus Gardrid I became known as the bouncer-monarch…King by day, bouncer by night.
