My guest for the evening was quite resplendent in his new coat of rustoleum,
in spite of the recent experiences which had tried him. The recounting
of these experiences was his reason for being here tonight, at
my request, that I might add them to my chronicles. I only hoped that
my friend the rust monster would not pick tonight for one of his frequent
visits.

“Just goes to show what a little avarice can do to a fellow,” he was
saying as I replenished his drink.

“You say there were six of them?" I prompted.

He sipped reflectively at his Prestone and replied. “Seven, originally.
There were only the six when I met them, but they often mentioned
some cleric fellow named Teedauf, who had gotten himself killed
trying to muzzle a cobra.”

I raised my eyebrows at this, my mouth being busy sucking the
flame of a taper into the bowl of my pipe.

“Yeah, just the six,” he continued. “A real collection, too. A couple
of cannon-fodder fighters, Bruce the Bold and Evel the Lesser, or some
such. A fellow named Rood, who was supposedly a heavy-duty fighter
from the castle Penncon, and an elf mage named Snafu. He paused
and gave a little laugh. “I imagine that with a few years of hard practice
he could have lived up to his name.”

“That’s four,” I said, reaching for a poker. “What about the other
two?”

He waved me back to my seat and stretched a leg out to the hearth.
“The only two with anything on the ball,” he said, stirring the embers
with a toe. “Moose was a fighter type, kind of a cross between a
lamppost and a battering ram.”

“I know the type,” My thoughts flashed to a fighter named Fred
that I had once heard of. “A door opener.”

“Yeah,” he continued. The other was another elf. A thief, named
Leof. Not too good with traps, but man! Could he pick pockets!”

I pushed the 10W-30 chaser a little closer to him. I find that my
guests are a little more talkative if I keep their tonsils lubricated.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, sucking at the lipid liquid.

“Thanks,” I acknowledged. “But just how did you get involved
with this bunch?’

“Well,” he replied, with a yawn, “the dragon who created me sent
me on a scouting mission after he wiped a passel of goblins. I slipped on
the gore and landed face-down in the goop. Before I know what’s happening,
here’s this fighter fellow, Rood, sitting on my shoulders, wiping
the word off of my forehead. He rewrote the word, with the necessary
change that put me under his control.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m
afraid he didn’t know the language as well as he thought. I had a little
trouble with my motor reflexes, and found that I couldn’t talk. By the
way, thanks for straightening me out.”

“It was nothing,” I declaimed. “Glad to give you the word.”

“Anyway, that’s how I ended up going with those nerds.”

“But what was this business about neutrality and avarice?” I asked.
“And how did all of those dead orcs get in that corridor?’

“I guess I really should have seen that coming,” he frowned. “Of
course, when I met them I didn’t know that they had the Holy Hand
Grenade of Antioch.”

“The what?”

“Oh, I suppose it wasn’t the real Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch,
but that’s what they called it.”

“Oh,” I responded, astutely.

“That’s where the real story starts. You see, we were walking down
this corridor . . .”

* * *
THE TALE OF THE KAMIKAZE ELF
The idea buzzing about in Leof's head was nothing new. In fact,
considering his profession, the thought should have occurred to him
much earlier. It was just a matter of weighing the probable value of
success against the chance of being caught, but, being the character he
was, his logic bowed to his natural inclinations and the practice of his art. 

Cautiously Leof closed with the fighter Rood, and, with every
ounce of elfin stealth at his command, dipped his fingers into that
worthy’s pouch. After all, the prospects of loot had been nil, so far, and
already their leader was dead. It was his duty to the thieves guild to see
that he came out a little ahead of all the others.

As the Holy Hand Grenade disappeared into his jerkin, Leof
caught the eye of Snafu on him. But before the fact could even register
on his conscious mind he saw a smile spread on the mage’s lips, and the
wink of the conspirator in his eye.

“Grin, you son-of-a-balrog,” Leof thought, winking in return.
“Your day will come.”

But his contemplations were interrupted as the party arrived before
one of the ever-present doors. This one, however, was unusual in that it
stood opened wide, inviting entry.

With a mixture of the caution of wisdom and the reticence of
character that pervaded him, Bruce the Bold peered around the empty
jamb. “No one here,” he called to the others in relief. Moose, who took
great pride in his ability to rip the stubbornest of portals from its post,
emitted a great sigh of disappointment as the party passed in.

The room was crowded by a pile of rubble in the middle of the
floor. The remnant, no doubt, of a collapsing ceiling.

“We are not the first to pass this way,” pronounced Snafu, sagely,
staring at the hand that projected from beneath a largish stone.'

“But look here,” cried Moose, kneeling by the block. The others
turned to catch the glint of gold—the hilt of a sword resting beneath the
block.

Recognizing the classic set-up, Leof said, “I think it would be wise
to check for . . .” but got no further. Moose had grabbed the golden hilt,
and Leof's words were drowned by a peal of thunder followed by a
chorus of angelic voices.

“Whoso pulleth out this sword from beneath this stone,” boomed
a great bass voice, “is the true-born dolt of all Britan!”

The group stood flabbergasted, frozen in their steps by these occurrances,
until Leof broke the spell.

“Go ahead, Moose,” rang true the elfin voice. “it’s for you.”

The facile fighter looked at the thief incomprehensibly, and then,
with a grunt and the screech of metal against stone, slid the blade from
beneath the block.

“A blade of much power, methinks,” said Snafu, with the foresight
of yesterday’s newspaper.

“But look here!” called Evel, pointing at the chest he had found.

The others gathered quickly around the oaken herald of fortune.
“Shall I bash it?’ asked Bruce, unlimbering his battle axe.

“I think not,” said Snafu. “Rather, let us see what master elf can do
with the lock.”

“Go ahead,” said Leof. “Let him bash it.”

“It would, perhaps, be wiser to open it as it was designed to be
opened,” said the mage. “It may prove necessary to close it rapidly
again, something which cannot be done once it has been bashed.”

“Bash in leisure, repent in haste,” muttered Rood.

Leof took in the looks of the others, and replied, “Okay, but I still
think it should be bashed. Too many locks have been known to pick
back.” He knelt before the brazen hasp and, spreading his few tools
before him, set to work.

After a few minutes of poking and twisting, Leof was rewarded by a
low ‘click’. “Ah,ha!” cried the elf. “I got it!”

“You have it open? queried the sorcerer.

“No,” said Leof. “The trap.” He raised his hand to show the needle
sticking from a finger. Evel turned his head from the sight of the bead
of blood gathering at the pin-prick, his complexion turning as livid as
that of the elf, who crumpled to the floor.

Rood bent to pull the needle from Leof's finger. “I don’t believe it’s
poisoned,” he said, examining the point. “Or if it was, the vitriol has
long since lost its power.”

“Hey,” cried Bruce, “this sucker’s open!” He flipped back the lid
of the chest to reveal a pile of sacks within. “Gold!” he cried, untying
one of the sacks.

“Well get them out here,” said Snafu with eyes a-glitter. Rood,
meanwhile, was pouring water from a skin over the face of the unconscious
elf, which was fast resuming its normal coloration. His effort was
met by a flutter of Leof's eyelids.

“What happened?” the thief asked.

“You fainted,” was the universal reply. But just then, as Bruce
pulled two sacks from the chest, a small phial which had rested between
them fell to the floor and shattered, releasing a puff of greenish vapor
into Leof's face.

“He’s gone again,” said Rood, leaping to grab the elf's head before
it struck the stone flooring.

“You want any of this? asked Evel, indicating the mounting pile of
s a c k s .

“Damned right!” Rood exclaimed, jumping to the pile. “But what
about him?’ he asked, reminded of the unconscious elf by the ‘thwac’
of his head hitting the floor.

“Here, stuff some of these in his pouch.” Bruce’s hand dripped
drachmas.

While the others were thus occupied in the division of the gold,
Snafu, who had casually slung a couple of the sacks over his shoulder,
approached a table standing across the room. Sliding open the single
drawer he was momentarily blinded by the gleam from within.

The others turned at the startled exclamation from the salacious
sage, and watched as he pulled a dagger from the drawer and examined
its blade — the blade that seemed to emit a light of its own, it being too
whitish for mere reflected torchlight.

“Mithral!” whispered the amazed mage.

“Pretty, too,” said Moose.

“Well, come on,” said Snafu, slipping the dagger into his belt beneath
his robe. “I think we’ve pretty well stripped this place.”

The others didn’t exactly like the mage’s callous confiscation of the
dagger, but no one among them wanted to be the first to risk a fireball by
objecting, and so they laced up their bulging pouches and sacks and,
Rood helping the rousing Leof, followed Snafu through the door.

* * *

The exercise of the trek had brought Leaf’s senses back into his
head, and he quickly came to realize that ought was amiss. The slight
excess of his pouch, in comparison with the bulging sacks that the others
bore, did nothing to sooth his ruffled fur. The occasional glimpse of the
gleaming blade beneath Snafu’s robe as the sage strode along; safe in
the middle of the group, only served to focus his compulsion on that
object.

Thus it was that the elf was prepared for the opportunity that soon
presented itself as the group once more faced a door — tightly closed,
this time.

Leof leaned an ear to the wood and, signing the others to silence,
listened intently for a few moments.

“It is inhabited beyond,” he whispered to the others. “I hear the
scuttle of many feet.”

“Perhaps this is of some import,” whispered Snafu, a wiry finger
tracing the runes engraved upon the door. “I seem to recall the tongue.”

“Well, while you work on it,” Rood responded, “I’ll set up a little
trick I once saw used in a similar situation.” So saying, the fighter confiscated
one of the skins of wine that depended from Bruce’s shoulder and
dumped the contents onto the floor.

“Hey!” cried Bruce in agitation.

“Ssshh!” the others hissed, suffering the distraught warrior to silent
anguish at the sight of the vintage Muscatel running along the cracks of
the floor stones.

Rood, meanwhile, had broached two of the flasks of oil that he
carried for emergencies, and poured their contents into the wineskin.

“Hand me some fire,” he whispered, pointing to the cressets pendant
to the wall by short chains. He inserted the tip of the skin beneath
the door and slowly pressed it flat, injecting the contents beneath the
portal. Pulling out the skin, he dribbled the last few drops in front of the
door, thus forming a small pool that puddled into the room beyond.

“Ah, I have it!” said Snafu, triumphantly, just as Rood touched off
the oil with the cresset.

A ‘whoosh” followed by screams and the sound of running feet
beyond the portal came to the group’s ears. The mage leaped back
from the door, knocking Leof against the wall behind, as a series of
hollow ‘whumpfs’ resounded from within, and the wood began to
smoulder.

“What said the runes?” asked Evel.

“In the tongue of orcs,” replied the magian elf in disgusted tones,
“it reads, ‘main oil stores’.” He looked at Rood and spoke a few words
of power which this author refuses to translate, or even to include.

As the screams died out, the group set off once more, down the
corridor. Taking up a lively pace, the disgusted wizard didn’t notice the
slight lack of weight at his belt. As he had leapt into Leof's arms before
the burning door, deft elfin fingers had slipped into his robe and fished
up the mithral dagger, which rested now beside the hand grenade.

Striding off, the party had assumed a loose marching order, Leof
and Rood in the rear. That worthy fighter approached the thief and,
lowly, said, “Well done, good elf. I witnessed the redistribution of
wealth that took place just now. Would that I could see his haughty face
when the theft is discovered.”

“I felt it only right that I should get something from this trip,” whispered
Leof, leaning close. As Rood smiled in agreement, he failed to
note the fingers in his pouch.

* * *

With each passing door Moose felt more and more as though his
place had been usurped, and so it had. His main attribute of portalpassing
strength had been exceeded by the iron thews of the golem that
accompanied them. However, a slight recompense was to be found in
the mighty sword that he now wielded.

With each door checked, before Rood would release the iron
golem, Moose would use his sword to ascertain the status of the portal,
putting to the test its powers for detection of traps which might befall the
party. It was not certain if he would warn should the golem only be
endangered, but equally uncertain was his competence to recognize
these circumstances.

And so, at last, with Leof riding high and Moose feeling the ebb of
attention, a door was forced to reveal a furnished room.

Two closets containing various robes and cloaks were found in the
first half of the divided room. Atop the one, a headpiece reminiscent of
the classic magian adornment.

As Snafu tried each robe in turn, the others turned to examine the
contents of the second closet. Pulling it opened, Leof noted a fine cloak
of elfin weave hanging above a pair of boots of fine rubbed leather.

“Ah!” cried the thief, reaching for the boots. “Methinks I recognize
the make of these, and I claim them for my own!”

But as Leof sat to pull on the boots, Snafu hurried to examine the
find. Grabbing the cloak, he cast it about his shoulders before the startled
thief could regain his feet.

“Yes,” exclaimed Snafu. “This cloak will do just fine.”

“Not so fast,” demanded Leof, perhaps overstepping himself.
“This find is mine, and I have laid the claim. Return property and get
back to examining your magical vestments!”

For response, Snafu hauled himself up to his full height and, burning
embers in his eyes, recited the spell of charming with weaving fingers
directing the cast at the thief.

“That will avail you naught,” remarked Leof, shaking off the feeble
clutches of the spell. “But as you have decided on the duel, then I will
finish this business.” And so saying, he pulled the mithral dagger from
his jerkin and flung himself upon the surprised mage.

Wrapping his fingers tightly about the elfin neck, Leof pushed the
mage against the wall and hoisted him from his feet. With the point of
the dagger placed against the paling throat, he said, “and now, master
mage, surrender me my property if you would lief as not feel my sting.”

The mage cast bulging eyes about the room, seeking a friend
among the others of the party. But only unsympathetic glares returned
from those faces, until his gaze alit on Moose.

That fighter slowly advanced behind the elf thief, his hand still
wrapped about the grip of his new-found sword. Raising the pommel,
he aimed a vicious blow at the back of Leaf’s head.

“Look out!” shouted Rood, but too late. The thief fell forward with
the blow, incidently forcing the dagger through the mage’s throat.

As he slipped to the floor, the burbling Snafu falling across his
body, Leof knew that the blow had done its work. The sharpness of the
pain was all that stood but momentarily between him and the final
blackness, and he sought to make these last few moments to good advantage.

He struggled with fumbling fingers to free the Holy Hand Grenade
from his trappings. With the last gasp of strength he pulled the pin and
hurled it directly at the brawny fighter’s face. 

The room was suddenly filled with screams and running feet, all
trying for the door — but much too late. As the last of life leaked from
the fallen elf, the expanding shock wave reached the walls and rebounded
back through the room, time and time again. Only through
the opened door did the explosion find relief, hurling the crowded
bodies against the far side of the passage, then to pass with ever diminishing
force, in both directions through the corridor.

Around a nearby corner a contingent of orc guards advanced on
their hourly rounds. But as they reached the turning, those behind saw
the van thrown backwards, instantly gellied by the still expanding
wave-front, only, moments later, to find the selfsame doom.

Eventually the wave died out, much diminished by its travels, spent
by reflection from the walls, diluted by expansion into many rooms and
chambers, and once again quiet reigned.

* * *

“And that’s the story,” my guest was saying. “I was on the other
side of the partition at the time of the fight. In fact, I was just on my way
back to try to attract Roods attention to the flight of descending stairs
that I had found. But when I opened the door, the grenade went off and
knocked me backwards, down the stairs. By the time I climbed back up,
it was over. Everywhere, pulped remains.” He gulped. “Good thing I
have an iron constitution.”

“That’s some story,” I said, ignoring his levity. “Tell me, what do
you think went wrong?’

“Well, they were obviously a badly matched group. After they lost
their leader the natural inclinations of each just oozed out and inhibited
their working as a team.”

“And that’s it?’ I said incredulously, knocking the ashes from my
pipe.

“Not all of it, by any means,” he replied. “Although that did contribute
a good deal to the situation.” He paused for a long pull at his
glass.

“While all of this was building beneath the surface, even then it
may not have come into the open,” he continued. “Had Snafu not so
evinced his greed over that dagger things may not have gone so
poorly."

* * *


MORAL: Keep your hands out of stranger’s drawers.