"Dullard?" Maheal puffed with weak indignation. He was still terrified, but of course could not let the insult pass.
"But, Mother dearest, I am in love with Lord Maheal! From the moment I saw him I knew he was the man for me," the delicious young beauty replied in pleading tones.
"No accounting for some people's taste," Chert whispered to Gord.
"Maybe she is more like her mother when she wakes up in the morning than she is the beauty we. see before us now," Gord whispered back. Jabbing his friend in the side with an elbow. The two of them shook with suppressed laughter.
"Besides, he promised to marry me!" Quodilde's daughter whined.
Quodilde was rocked back on her heels. "Marry you? He promised to marry you?! Now that's wonderful news indeed, my sweet little flower!"
"Marry?" the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe echoed. But before he could say another word, Quodilde spun around to face him, her beady eyes expressing unmistakable menace.
"You know it, you smell-smock jackanapes! If the word of a nobleman of the House of Fizziak isn't sufficient — and the grand count shall hear about that, I assure you — then perhaps the sting of my own powers will be enough to make you hold to your troth." she concluded with a hiss as she took a step toward the trembling Maheal.
"Nay, nay! Contain thine ire, good witch! Of certs I mean to keep my pledge to ... to marry your daughter." he ended lamely, swallowing hard and nearly choking.
"It's settled then," Quodilde said matter-of-factly. "The bans will be posted next week, and the wedding will take place in Rel Mord in one month's time. Oh, my sweet little daughter," she said, turning once again to the happily bouncing girl, "he does not deserve such a treasure, but I am sure he will do everything possible to make you happy!"
The look she shot over her shoulder at Lord Maheal left no doubt about the intended consequences if he failed to do just that, and the Nyrondel nobleman shook even more than before as he nodded a dumb affirmation of the statement.
"Good," the ancient head witch of Grimalkinsham said with pleasure. "Now you can all be on your way. I'm certain your renowned uncle, Lord Fizziak, will wish to meet your bride-to-be as soon as possible. Get up, girl, and get your pretty arse moving! We haven't got all night!"
An escort of a dozen trolls, provided by Quodilde and enspelled to protect the group they were accompanying, made the return through the Gnatmarsh a rapid trip, if uncomfortable for the other travelers. Nothing worse than the loathsome humanoids cared to trouble their passage, certainly. In no time at all they bade the insect-infested morass and the accompanying trolls adieu, and then they headed for Castle Fizziak at a swift pace, guarded by the ex-bandits and whatever dweomer Quodilde the witch of Grimalkinsham had placed over them as an aegis.
The ogre-magus was silent and stony-faced. Lord Maheal altered between exuberance at having lived through the quest and despair over his coming nuptials. Both Gord and Chert kept a close watch on the nobleman, however, as did the newly created men-at-arms, so he had no opportunity to attempt escape. As they rode, Gord informed the others about the witch Quodilde's revelations and the plan he had agreed upon with her. "I think the best part of this 'quest' is about to begin!" Chert exclaimed happily. The others heartily agreed. Even Maheal's mood seemed to brighten a bit.
The whole party arrived safe and sound back at the mighty fortress of the grand count in short order. The major domo met them at the gates of the castle and brought them directly to the Grand Count of Fizziak without ado.
"You have returned, nephew," Lord Fizziak said dryly. "Therefore I assume that you have somehow managed to succeed despite the odds against it. You have found new respect in my eyes." He gazed wonderingly at Maheal.
"It's all his fault!" the young Szek said, pointing an accusing finger at Gord.
This puzzled the count. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.
Maheal didn't catch the tone of his uncle's voice, for he was filled with nothing but his own problems.
This knave, Dear Nuncle, made me do the whole terrible thing - from the awful ride, to the filthy swamp, to agreeing to marry this common trull!"
That was too much for the gray-bearded grand count. "Just a moment," he said in a steely tone before the nobleman could relate more in his whining voice. "We will hear this from Master Gord of Greyhawk — alone!"
"But, Uncle, this lying knave is a rogue and a scoundrel! He'll— "
"Out!"
Armored guardsmen appeared to carry out the command. They had to drag the Szek of Dohou-Yohpe bodily from the chamber, as he kicked and pleaded to no avail. Chert, Pinkus, and the others went quietly.
Gord bowed when Lord Fizziak demanded an accounting of events. In rapid succession he related just what had taken place, stage by stage, as the four went to Gnatmarsh, fought the bandits, made men-at-arms of those who surrendered, and so forth. He did not mention the ongoing rivalry between the witch, Quodilde, and Ftzziak's priest and wizard. Neither did Gord bring up what the witch had given him, except to present a small, crystal flask. As he finished his tale, he brought the flask forth with a flourish, saying. "And this, your illustrious lordship, is a special gift from Witch Quodilde. She assures you it will resolve all questions regarding succession to headship of Fizziak."
"Quaff a small portion," the grand count commanded. He watched Gord with an unwavering gaze as the young thief complied. After several minutes without any apparent ill effects, Lord Fizziak took the flask and tucked it into his girdle. "Well done, Master Gord. I know what Quodilde is aiming at by this — I only doubted her sincerity, as her daughter is about to many that doltish nephew of mine, you know. I suspected that the old bag might have designs of greatness for Dulicia. but I should have known better. Quodilde is too keen of wit to try to place a dullard or a frothbraln upon the seat of this grand county."
Gord nodded, not fully understanding but wise enough to know when to remain silent. The grand count then asked, "The test — have you and your associates completed all that was demanded?"
"We have, lord. At your leave, I will deliver to Good Priest Boflly and Wizard Phompton that which I gained from Quodilde. Likewise, I bear the prize demanded by them for King Archbold."
Lord FIzziak sat quietly for a moment, tugging on his lower lip, lost in deep thought. Slowly his features lightened, and a twinkle began to light his eyes. He smoothed his face with a calloused hand and spoke in a stately manner. "Gord of Greyhawk, you are a commoner no longer. For what you have accomplished, I hereby elevate you to the status of Gentleman and Esquire to the House of Fizziak. Master Chert I elevate to Gentleman as well, and your men-at-arms I pardon for past oflenses and name them Yeomen of Fizziak. I will instruct them to report to the constable tomorrow, to receive assignments in my own army," he said.
"Thank you, Lordship, for your undeserved generosity," responded Gord with sincerity. "But there is also a matter of the loo— er, jewels, that were held in, ah, safekeeping for Chert and myself. . . ."
"Ahem! Well, yes, now that you mention those baubles, I do recall something of the matter. We can discuss it further tomorrow after the ceremony welcoming my nephew back and elevating you and your comrade above your current base positions."
Gord wasn't about to be so easily put oif by mention of a petty honor. "Most gracious! Still. I remember your word about receiving those gems when we successfully fulfilled the trial we so recently underwent and sorely suffered."
Lord Fizziak's countenance was dark, but Gord remained inflexible. When he was unable to make the young thief blink, the grand count scowled and shifted uneasily. "Very well. After removing sufficient value to assuage the royal displeasure with your lese majeste, replace ruined garments and other finery, and repair damages done here, I believe that a small sum still remains. I shall have the steward of my exchequer account for the whole and give you the exact reckoning on the morrow."