Gary Gygax: City of Hawks

“Rot yer tongue, you big bag o’ shit!” Slono was not going to go down without a fight. “You were the top dagger, Alby, an’ you tol’ me to go and orf the kid whilst you was checking things out. You took all the loot, too!” The last accusation was the most damning one the little assassin could think of.

A hollow, rasping voice came from the cloaked figure, cutting through the air inside the stone vault where the scene was transpiring. “How long was it after the infant vanished before you came back here?”

“Maybe a half hour,” Alburt stammered out, but almost at the same time Slono also spoke.

“About an hour or so,” the smaller man blurted.

The raspy voice sounded again. “Was it a half hour or more than that?”

“Longer… I guess,” the big assassin admitted, with a murderous look at Slono.

“So,” the strange voice choked out. The figure lurched suddenly, and then, without seeming to traverse the intervening distance, it was standing before the two assassins. Hands covered with rotting flesh shot out of enveloping sleeves and clamped firmly upon the two heads. Alburt was held by the forehead, Slono Spotless atop his pate. “For your actions I give you my special blessing,” the figure said. Then it seemed to convulse again and was suddenly standing back where it had been before. Both Alburt and Slono stood dumb. Then they began trembling as if with the ague.

“No… please…” Alburt whimpered. Then a fit of coughing wracked his big frame and he was unable to speak further.

“Had you reported at once, as you should have,” the sallow-skinned priest of evil said slowly, making certain each word got through to the two assassins, “none of this would have happened to you. I-we-could have known what device was used to remove the child from our ken, and the matter would be a simple one to correct.”

“Dispose of those two carefully, priest,” the hooded figure said in its sickness-tinged voice. “Their infestation is one which could be spread to many weakling humans.”

The maroon-gowned cleric shrugged in indifference. “What is a little disease to me? Still, there are some hereabouts who might be affected.” He stared at the slowly dying assassins thoughtfully for a moment and then said to them, “Remove yourselves to the tunnels and sewers below. You have but a little time left to live, and there is no sense in befouling this place.”

Alburt fell to the floor, blubbering and pleading for mercy. He knew that the priest could remove the plague that was slaying him as easily as the assassin himself could snuff out a life. Slono reacted in a different manner. Despite the terrible disease that was filling him with deadly weakness, the small murderer proved true to himself. Cursing all present, Slono managed to snatch out a handful of wickedly tipped darts and hurl them, broadcast, at those who were serving as the tribunal condemning him to death.

One struck the strange figure, the feathered butt of the dart alone visible, the remainder out of sight within the facial opening of the shadowing hood. The thing reached inside its hood, pulled out the missile, now lacking its metal point, and displayed the headless dart before the gaze of the dying Slono. “Fool! Poison is as honey to me,” the figure said with a laugh as it slowly chewed up the metal and swallowed it.

One struck the wall near the hooded creature and fell harmlessly to the floor. The thing bent down, picked up the dart by its tip, and with a deep chuckle casually flung it back the way it had come.

One sunk its length into the fleshy thigh of the wizard who served Nerull’s house in Greyhawk. That worthy shrieked in pain. “Neutralize this venom,” he called, seeing the reddish flush spreading from the puncture, “else I shall be felled and no use to you!”

One poisoned dart struck the arras and hung there.

One grazed the clean-shaven head of the priest, — leaving a bloody trail on Colvetis Pol’s shining, yellow-tinged scalp. “Be silent, Sigildark,” he called to the mage, “and I shall tend to you in due course.” Even as the priest spoke thus, he was preparing to treat the injury done to him by the missile. Above all, his own life was the most important concern.

One ricocheted off a stone pillar and buried its nose in a nearby chair.

And, scant seconds after he had initiated the attack, Slono Spotless became the only real victim of the outburst as the dart hurled by the otherworldly thing buried itself in the assassin’s chest. It was a cleaner death than that which he would have experienced soon anyway. In the end the small murderer proved to be a bigger and better man than his compatriot Alburt.

Within minutes Colvetis Pol treated the venom in his own system and that of the mage Sigildark so that its toxin was harmless. The corpse of Slono and the gibbering, near-corpse of Alburt were hauled off to a cistern and unceremoniously dumped therein, to be carried off into the labyrinthine system of ducts beneath the city. Rot and rats would soon leave nothing but bare bones. Of course their valuables were first removed. One of the guards found the chrysoberyl ring hidden in Slono’s boot. It was hidden in a hollow heel, so he didn’t see any reason to mention it to anyone.

“The guild will make amends for this, my lords,” promised the city’s chief assassin as his former minions were carted from the chamber.

“That I am certain of,” the priest replied dryly. “You will begin by sending two reliable men of utmost competence to this address late tonight,” he went on, handing the guildmaster a slip of parchment. “All they need do is watch a doorway for a woman coming out, with or without a babe. Both or either are to be slain should they emerge.”

“Consider it done, lord priest.”

“You may leave us now. See that your men go immediately to the place I have indicated.” When the man had departed, Colvetis Pol waved the guards out as well and spoke to the two who remained-the wizard Sigildark and the hooded thing from some other world than Oerth.

“Can we now be certain of success?” Pol asked.

The spell-binder took on a doubtful expression, cocked a thick eyebrow, and gave his head a small shake. The cloak-hidden figure spoke loudly in its hollow voice, however. “I will send one of my own trusted hounds to see that there are no further mistakes made. Mortals are bumbling and untrustworthy, while daemonkin are quite the opposite.”

At that the wizard seemed annoyed. “May I point out to you. Lord of the Pox, that it was I-a mere mortal-who discovered the whole web, who set his spies to work, and magically traced the skein of power which enabled the destination of the babe’s sending to be found!”

“We admire your work, Sigildark.” The voice of the priest was so sardonic that even the hooded creature from the nether planes gave voice to a ghastly chuckle. “The merit of your efforts is well known to Great Nerull… What more could you want?”

Sigildark, steeped in evil as he was, knew that the deity just named was but one of the avatars of the nether emperor, having a form somewhat less repugnant to humans than that of Infestix, for instance. “He knows, or will know, Pol, because you or Poxpanus there will so inform him. Honor to the Image, dedication to Tharizdun.”

Colvetis Pol made a hasty sign. “Be it graven.”

The daemon-thing too made a gesture of formal obeisance. “Each serves and will be measured by his Master,” he intoned In a dead voice. “But now let us deal with what matters remain.”

The priest nodded. “We need information, lord. We are reacting as you instruct, but we will prove more useful Instruments If we are told of things.”

“That is so,” the wizard agreed. “If you will share with us. Lord of All Pox, we can serve you, Nerull, and great Tharizdun better!”