Joseph L. Selby

 

These events take place preceding Dyv5-09 What Know You of Peace.

 

            The shadows of Greyhawk City have many secrets. Among them is The Magic House, a mysterious tavern whose location is known only by an elite few of the city’s population: sinister, duplicitous, and elite. As such, it is not uncommon for someone to appear out of the shadows, as if he had never been there. In the alley behind the tavern, things unfold differently. The lane has little light, except what trails in from the adjacent streets beside the two tall, opposing buildings. The buildings’ girth block out direct sun…and perhaps that was the intention of their construction. A man, naked in every sense of the word, appears out of the shadows and falls to the ground. His body slaps against the stone with a sickening thud followed by an audible crack as two of his ribs break. Ignoring the pain as only a soldier or adventurer could, he looks around frantically. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings, although there is little in the alley to distinguish it from the myriad alleys he has been in before. What he does know is that he’s alone.

            Moments before, he was anything but. He found himself in a small room, an antechamber crowded with an assortment of humans and halflings. There was a coffin with a body…a body that looked very familiar. Confused and disoriented, he had hoped the group was his rescuers. But that hope was quickly dashed as a dwarf-like halfling drew his dagger and made to strike. It was instinct that threw him into the shadows, instinct that saved him from the blade and hurtled him into this alley. Now if instinct could just tell him where he was….

            Whether divine intervention or comedic coincidence, the door at the rear of The Magic House opens at that moment where a rather stocky dwarf waddles out, carrying a can of trash. He stops like a deer sensing a predator, eying the naked man suspiciously. The dwarf’s eyes dart in and out of the shadows, looking for the person using the man as a distraction, but no one is there. Satisfied that he has not just walked into an ambush, the dwarf lifts the can in both hands and throws the refuse onto the naked man without question or provocation. He then turns, and walks back to the door, pulling it shut with his foot as he passes.

            Before the door can close fully, though, the naked man, now covered in filth, forces his forearm in the opening. The door does not close, but neither does it bounce back open like a normal wooden door. He learns quickly that the door is made of iron, and the man wonders whether he has a broken arm to accompany his ribs. Again, he pushes the pain aside.

            “Where am I?” he asks in a desperate tone. His voice rasps from lack of use.

            “In a world of hurt if ye don’ getcher arm outta me door. I gave ye me scraps. Now be off wit ye,” the dwarf growls. He turns and hefts the empty can in one hand, waving it threateningly.

            “My name is Margus.”

            “Yer name could be Daffodil Fairywinkle for all I care. What parta sod off didn’ ye unnerstand?”

            “I am the magister of Dyvers!”

            “By the Mad Archmage, ye be touched!” The dwarf lowers the can and scowls at the stranger. “I not be dealin’ wit the likes of you. Peddle yer sob story at the Temple of the Calm God. They have mercy in spades. I got patrons ter look after.” The dwarf turns to go again.

            “Please,” the man pleads, “just tell me where I am, and I swear I’ll leave you in peace.” The dwarf pauses again. For being insane, the man speaks extremely lucidly. Certainly everyone knows the magister of Dyvers is Larissa Hunter. She made a bit of a spectacle of herself this past year. It was popular tavern-talk all across the Nyr Dyv. Still, the dwarf knows as well how uncaring some spellcasters can be. This would not be the first time he has heard of an evil priest erasing the memories of a man to satisfy his own sadistic humor.

            “Fine then. I tell ye and ye leave me be. Deal?” The naked man nods in agreement, his eyebrows rising anxiously. “Ye be in the Free City of Greyhawk.” The dwarf pushes the man with the empty refuse can, knocking him back a step. “Best leave yer claim a magister behind,” he continues. “Larissa Hunter tain’t the most popular woman in this city.”

            “Captain Hunter? Of the Meadowlands? What does she have to do with this?”

            “We had a deal,” the dwarf barks. He hefts the waste can anew and slams it into the naked man’s head, knocking him to the alley floor. If his arm was not broken before, it most certainly is now. He falls onto it at an awkward angle, and the skin bulges as the bone attempts to pierce its way to freedom. He screams in pain, but cannot let this opportunity pass.

            “Are you saying she’s magister of Dyvers?!” he screams. His eyes are full of tears. The pain is unbearable.

            “Aye, and has been for nigh on a decade!” The door slams shut. There is the loud thunk of a bar being dropped. The alley returns to the shadows.

            “A decade?” the man asks the emptiness. He cradles his arm and rocks back and forth, overwhelmed by the situation.

            “The dwarf speaks the truth,” a voice says from behind him. Margus jerks his head to see who has snuck up behind him, but quickly snaps it back as the pain from his side reminds him of his limited flexibility. He hears a tindertwig spark to life and shortly thereafter, the scent of cigar smoke wafts over his shoulders. “My name is Vincent Fleet, Magister Margus. I am a citizen of Dyvers and at your service.”

            The naked man stands slowly, turning to face whoever is behind him. His eyes widen when he realizes that it is the same deep halfling he saw in the antechamber below The Magic House. “You know me?” he asks cautiously.

            “Well, we’ve never met personally.” The halfling puffs at his cigar. “But I’m old enough to remember when you were magister. I’m old enough to remember when you abdicated the throne and disappeared.”

            “Abdicated? I did no such thing,” he growls at the halfling.

            The smaller halfling pulls his cigar from his mouth and stares at the man unemotionally. “Yes, you did.” He puts the cigar back into his mouth as if that were the end of the debate.

            “Listen you,” Margus commands, his temper flaring, “if you truly are a resident of the Free Lands, then do my bidding now. I need clothing, healing, and transport to Dyvers. A grand deception is at hand, and I believe my throne has been stolen. The Gentry Council must be notified. Derreg Lord Pengallen is a traitor.”

            Margus stands, his back rigid, staring down his nose at the halfling. The rogue bites his cigar and smiles broadly, disarming the deposed magister. “A traitor, eh? You don’t know the half of it.” The halfling walks forward, inspecting the man’s arm and whistles softly under his breath, holding his finger above the bulging flesh. Margus pulls his arm away sharply, feeling pain even though no contact was made. “Listen your Excellency, we have a bit of a problem.”

            “Oh?” There is hesitation in Margus’ voice.

            “You’ve been gone awhile now. A lot has changed…and I mean a lot. …but at the same time, so much is the same,” the halfling muses to himself.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Well, the situation isn’t so easy that I can just take you back to Dyvers, up to the Gentry Council and say, “My lords, look who I found in the back alleys of Greyhawk. It’s Magister Margus. To all of them, you left a long time ago. No one has heard from you since. And now you just show up like this? Are you really Margus? Are you a clone? Are you another one of the Old One’s demonic servants in disguise? The city would not walk so easily into another year of tragedy. There are questions as to who you really are.”

            For a moment, Margus forgets the pain of his damaged arm and ribs. “Those are absurd concerns. I am His Excellency Margus, Magister of the Free and Independent City of Dyvers and Her Free Lands! I am no agent of the Old One or some abomination of foul sorcery. Now, halfling, will you help me or not?”

            Vincent draws in a heavy puff of smoke from his cigar. The blade of the dagger glows read, reflecting the burning tobacco. It cuts through the air like lightning and slips beneath the magister’s left arm, piercing his side and puncturing his heart. His eyes widen again as his body seizes from a mix of pain and disbelief. Life slips away quickly and his weight bears down on the halfling, causing the little man to skip out of the way. “I’ll help you, your Excellency. But first, there are a lot of questions that need answering, and I’m not the one who can go about finding those answers. Lucky for you, I know some people who know some people. They’ll get to the bottom of this.” He looks in either direction, making sure no one saw the unexpected assassination then whistles to the shadows. A door, hidden in the masonry of the adjacent building, opens and a host of humans, halflings, and an elf walk into the alley.

            “I don’t think he’s a demon,” one of the halflings says.

            “Doesn’t appear to be,” Vincent replies. “One questions answered. But there are plenty more. Let’s get him back to Dyvers. I don’t think they expected this to happen when they sent us here.” The elf opens a portable hole and the group shoves Margus’ body into the extra-dimensional space next to a second unmoving body. They look to the alley openings again to make sure there are no unwitting spectators and then make their way home, leaving behind Greyhawk City and all its intrigues.