by Gary Gygax
"This is not so, and I do not believe," Melf said loudly as he observed the effect of the spell. When the last of the greenish streaks struck the houdalike affair, the draperies burst into a sudden fire, a flash followed, and then horse and houda were no more. Only a greasy, brownish cloud of smoke wafted slowly down the path where mount and rider had been. "Bring me true vision," the elven mage uttered as he passed the symbol of Fharlanghn before his eyes. Revealed thus was the same destrier and its odd trappings, proceeding as if nothing had occurred, save for the scorched areas of the canopy where his magic missiles had struck home.
"Now it is time for the final act of this charade," Melf said as he took flight, arrowing directly toward the concealed figure atop the horse. Before him extended a spear that grew magically as he flew, changing from a weapon the height of a tall man to an ashen shaft as long as a horseman's lance. "Behind you, you bastard!" Melf shrieked just before he was upon his target. He saw the wizened visage of a gnome, one eye nearly popping, the other squinted nearly closed. The demi-human was frantically gesturing in order to evoke some dweomer, but only a vague fountain of muddled colors sprang forth before Melf s broad-bladed spear took the creature in the shoulder.
The impact nearly sent Melf spinning, but he managed to continue. The gnome was carried from the houda trailing a ragged tail of draperies. "Quarter!" he screamed, dangling like a speared fish.
Melf ceased his magical flight, using the impaling spear to pin the foe to the ground as his feet jolted upon the turf. One look told him that the illusion-using gnome was in extremis and would die soon indeed. "Your death can be quick and clean, or I can keep you suffering for some time yet — that is the only quarter you will receive from me. Now, your choice?"
The gnome peered desperately around, then he glared hatefully at his slayer. "My curse forever upon your foul, peaked-eared head, elf, for what you have done to me!" he screamed defiantly.
Melf leaned upon the magic spear and twisted the shaft. The malign visage before him crumpled in pain, and the gnome's knotty arms and legs thrashed wildly.
"Mercy! Mercy!" screamed the small creature. "The curse is withdrawn!"
"Demons and devils take your miserable little curse, you stinking creature of woe," spat Melf. "I care not a jot about such mouthings. What is your name? Where is the dwarf who is your leader? Tell me that, and then you have my mercy!"
"Gleed… I am called Gleed, and my leader is… not here."
Melf twisted the weapon again and raised his voice to be heard over the gnome's cries of pain. "What is the name of this fellow, and what have you — or he — done with the object you have stolen from the far Suss Forest?"
"Aahghhh! Stop! I serve Obmi, Obmi the dwarf. He is to be here, awaiting us now — "
"And the ancient item I know you have?" Melf demanded, still leaning heavily on his weapon.
"It… it is with Obmi. He and Keak were to distract pursuit while the rest of us crossed Furyondy and made for the haven of the Hierarch's lands — damn and curse you!"
Pale-faced, Melf slowly eased his pressure and stared unbelievingly at the gnome. Could this Gleed be telling the truth? "You say Obmi, a dwarf, has the item, and that this one is abetted by someone named Keak? Tell me now, and do not try my patience further: Is this Keak a tall and thin elf who is given to hysterical laughter?"
"Yes, yes! No more, elf! Give what you have promised!"
Melf spoke a word softly under his breath, and the ashen spear changed suddenly into a javelin of but three cubits in length, its head a long triangle of steel rather than a leaf-tipped point. With a shuddering sigh, the gnome was released of pain, for the small weapon was no longer impaling him. Before anything else could transpire, however, the sunlight on the meadow suddenly dimmed as if a cloud had passed overhead. "Aid me!" the wounded gnome called as loudly as he could. Raucous cawing and piercing croakings answered his plea. A battering wing struck Melf s shoulder, and a sharp beak as large as a small knife drove at his eyes.
There ensued a whirlwind battle, a melee of elf versus a storm of swooping, croaking ravens the size of eagles. Using javelin and sword, Melf managed to slay a dozen of the vile birds in half as many minutes, but he was bleeding from as many wounds as well. Worse, there seemed to be more of the creatures winging down to join the fray, so that each time one squawked and fell dead, two were there to take the place of their dead flockmate. Then there were cries of anger and rage from the mass of foul ravens, and they flapped upward for a moment, giving Melf a respite. Wiping blood from his face, he glanced around to find the cause of the ravens' retreat.
"They like not Brool," a grinning Chert said, slowly swinging the long axe with mighty arms as gore-stained as the weapon's broad blade. Wounded ravens flopped on the ground at his feet. Several decapitated bodies were spread around him in a welter of inky feathers and crimson splatters.
"Well done!" cried Melf. "Perhaps now lean work up a bit of magic to finish them all."
"Here they come again," said the barbarian, bringing Brool up and enscribing a steely loop overhead to greet the swooping attack of the huge ravens.
A pair of the birds plummeted downward like stones. One had a thick quarrel protruding from its open beak, the other no head at all, for a leaden missile had carried the whole away when it found its mark. Unaware of the slaughter so done, the flock again attacked, giving no time for casting of spells. It was a brief sortie, though. Every bird that flapped up was brought low by bolt or sling bullet. Those within reach fell to axe, sword, and needle-pointed javelin.
"The carrion-eaters flee!" Melf said triumphantly as he sent a burning swarm of magical shafts after the birds. The glowing streaks hit a handful of the ravens and sent them tumbling and falling, dead, to leave sooty bundles of filth on the fair green of the sward.
"What's left of them," Chert agreed laconically, for even as Melf laid several low, another pair fell from quarrel and sling bullet. Only a dozen or so of the ravens lived to voice their mournful caws of hatred from a distance growing ever greater as they winged northward, back from where they had come.
"Well done I say again," said the elven spell-caster, this time not only to Chert, but to his halfling friend and the lean crossbowman who accompanied him.
"No great matter," Lizard said as he and Biff strolled toward the panting pair of combatants. "Strolled" was perhaps not the correct description, for the arbalester limped and Biff walked slowly, favoring his wounded left side.
"Aye, that's so," the halfling concurred as he halted near Melf and Chert. "This mountain and you, Master, would have knocked all those stinking wormbags from the air without us — our shooting merely hastened the process."
Chert patted the halfling gently atop his thick-haired head. "Thanks, nonetheless, minimus. The mountain appreciates the assistance of the mole."
"The contest elsewhere was hot," offered Lizard, "but the cowards at the rear eventually broke and ran, taking their prisoners with them as shields. We saw the circling ravens, so we gave up pursuit and came here instead."
"How many escaped?" Melf asked.
"No more than seven or eight all told. Lizard and I had a small contest, but neither he nor I won," Biff said with a crooked smile.
"Wrong! Halfling, who slew more blackbirds?" Lizard stared unwinkingly at the still grinning Biff as he spoke.
"You did keep count even then, did you?"
"Indeed, as you have."
"Just so," Biff laughed. "And you gain my tithe…"
Chert interrupted the banter. "There!" die barbarian hill-man cried, pointing as he shouted. "What is that?"
Melf spat as he saw the cause for Chert's surprise. A bowshot's distance away, a gray-black horse had appeared suddenly from a clump of scrub. The odd-looking animal was running with impossible speed toward the river. "No matter," the elf said heavily. "It is but the vile little gnome using a phantom steed to escape us. A pity, for he is evil and undeserving of life, but that is of small consequence to us."
"The treasure? What of the artifact he bore?" Biff asked. "I was duped, and led us on the trail of those whom that crafty dwarf wished us to follow. Although I never saw this Obmi, I allowed him to slip through my fingers — and the artifact with him."
"How so?" asked the brawny hillman as he cleaned his great axe.
"At the inn, days ago. Obmi is accompanied by a lieutenant. This miserable, mad elf is called Keak. I met and had converse with him there. The crafty jackal set me on this path while he and his evil master made for safety elsewhere," Melf said with a shake of his head.
Lizard laughed mirthlessly. "Laying low this pack of dogs is righteous work regardless. And now it is time to move on, I think!"
His three companions followed the direction of his steady gaze. They saw a thick, black fog forming on the other shore of the river. Above the gloom flew a score of the nighted ravens.
"This bodes ill indeed," Melf said. "Do what you wish here, but be ready to ride southward soon. I go to see what foulness is being invoked across the Veng; my guess is that it won't stay mere long!"
Melf was back before half an hour had passed. "The black fog is the very essence of Hades itself!" he told the others. "It oozes across the river slowly, but once on this bank it will come as a juggernaut. Get the horses. We ride now!"
The four rode rapidly through the thickening twilight. High above to the north, black specks circled. The keen-eyed ravens watched the progress of the adventurers and conveyed their route to those hidden by the enveloping shroud of vapors. Melf’s group rode on after nightfall, leaving the rutted path and angling cross-country to the west. The pace was easy, for a horse could easily break a leg if ridden hard in such conditions. Every hour they would stop to change horses, walking for a bit, and washing down dry rations with tepid water as they went.
"Let's call a halt here," Melf called softly. "The copse of trees yonder should be suitable for our needs."
Biff, being the least wounded of the party, volunteered to stand watch while the other three slept. Melf had no more than closed his eyes, it seemed, when the halfling's urgent warning brought him to full awareness. "Melf! Come quickly, this way! Something terrible comes this way now… I feel an awful terror in my very bones!"
"Get the others up and armed," Melf replied to the frightened halfling, "while I go to see what the nature of the beast is."
As Melf moved away from the camp, he could hear the quiet sounds of veterans readying for some unknown peril. There were no calls or cursings, only the matter-of-fact noise of armor being donned and weapons unsheathed. Chert and Lizard had been awakened and with Biff were making ready for who knew what. Melf crept to the verge of the grove, staying well within the shadows, peering in the direction they had come. He too sensed a great, malign presence there.
Peering skyward, the elven mage noted that the starry expanse was blackened and blurred. Then he heard a creaking beat, accompanied by groans and a soughing of the air. His knees shook, and it took all of his will to stand and face what came. Terror washed over him in waves, and something deep inside his mind tried to compel him to scream and fall down in despair. Instead, Melf drew forth a slender wand of adamantite. The ancient metal was engraved with curious squiggles, and the tip bore a pale, milky crystal. He stroked the device and whispered, bringing the crystalline point into luminescence.
"Now let us see what you are," he drawled casually, denying his fear. He inscribed a glowing rectangle in the air before him, and as he completed it the phosphors from the tip of the wand flowed to form a plane of palest violet before him. This effect was duplicated instantly in the air before the oncoming thing, as it flapped and groaned and sent terror in driving waves before it.
An ear-splitting roar shook the trees as the thing struck the magical force thrown up before it by the elven dweomercrafter. Melf looked away from the abomination that the interplay of force and malign magic of the lower regions created when they met. The vaguely batlike daemon was elephantine in size and terrible of visage. It struggled against the screen of energy, tearing madly with mindless fury. As the monstrosity broke through, Melf worked quickly, causing another and yet a third plane offered to spring into magical being.
"May you tear yourself to bits fighting such!" he said vehemently to the unhearing monster. Then he turned and ran to where his companions waited. This was a thing to flee from, not to fight.
The group broke from the trees in a rush, reckless now of rough ground. The mounts galloped without urging, spurred on by the malign waves of fear inspired by the flying daemon from the deepest pits of Hades itself. It seemed as if they would actually escape, for the abomination was still battling the last of Melf’s force walls when they rode away. Soon enough, however, the soughing was all around them again, and with it the stench of vilest evil.
"Now we must dismount and make it pay dearly for our souls," Melf said heavily. Even as they prepared, the heavens were shaken by a triumphant bellow, and the beating of monstrous pinions resounded from the hills. The four stood in a line facing the onrushing monster conjured from the depths of woe. Each knew this would be his last battle.
Chapter 14
"Parseval's plan is a sound one," Deirdre concluded. "I say we divide our party as he suggests."
"It is stupid!" Gord retorted angrily. "The brigands are riding northward across the frontier region, and you would divert our strength to turn southward!"
More debate followed, while the elven constable sat back with hauteur fixed upon his countenance. The party had traveled to the Kron Hills riding the hippogriffs of Celene's elite chivalry. Parseval and a score of noble guards had accompanied them. Now another matter had arisen.
Upon alighting near the village of Hommlet, a small settlement set around a crossroads, they had been met by the local lord, Burney, titled Worshipful Magus by the Viscount of Verbobonc, and his lieutenant, Sir Rufus of Skipperton. These stalwarts had given the party intelligence on recent events. The band of hard-bitten riders had called themselves free traders. Their leader was a dwarf, with a squint-eyed gnome and a stick-like elfin company. The strength of the brigand assemblage was no more than three dozen of mixed human and demi-human races, and with this band were a string of pack horses and a few small, two-wheeled wains. This information was almost an aside, however.
"They left the village next morning," Sir Rufus told the group. "They left without disturbance, paying for all they had used — food, lodging, supplies. I had them followed by a pair of scouts… but these ill-looking 'traders' merely went off down the road to Verbobonc, not doing anything other than travel their way. My men turned back in the afternoon, with the train still heading northward."
"You allowed them to simply ride away?" Deirdre said derisively.
Burney shrugged. "Word of their depredations only reached us yesterday. Besides, I doubt what strength we can muster here would have been sufficient…"
"Quite right," Gellor said firmly. "Your duty is to protect this community and to report activities of interest. You have done well by any measure."
"The folk of Welkwood expect us to aid them" Sir Rufus interjected. "But it will take two days to raise the levy and several more to reach the rallying point. Had we attempted to interfere with passersby who made no trouble, where would we be now in this time of need?" he concluded, giving the girl a challenging stare.
Deirdre reacted hotly, her hand upon her sword hilt. "Celebrated as heroes rather than ones who make cautious excuses!" she shot back.
"Dead heroes are unreceptive to celebrations," Curley Greenleaf said dryly. Turning to Parseval and his fellows, the druid inquired, "But you, Lord Constable, might make this your cause."
"The woodsmen of Welkwood are no affair of Celene," said Parseval.
Burney smiled softly and raised a finger. "But it was the elves of that wood who asked our help," he countered.
"What's this?" demanded Lord Parseval.
"As my friend related earlier, Lord Constable, there is a great horde of hu
manoids and men raging through the Welkwood. They gather up the evil hiding within the forest, gaining strength as they come. Their path has been traced from the Suss Forest far south of here, and it seems they intend to traverse the entire woodlands all the way to the Gnarley."
"These are the very ones who followed us from the start," Oscar observed. "If so," Deirdre added, "we must join with those who oppose them, for such is our duty."
The debate that followed divided the party. Gellor pointed out that the enemy was escaping northward, and that the ravaging horde within the forest was merely a diversion. The cavalier would have none of it, for she saw things in another light. In her estimation, this horde had threatened them. Blonk, undoubtedly one of its minions, had slain Jokotai and the three apprentices of Greenleaf without mercy. Possibly they were moving to reinforce the dwarf-led brigands as well, suggested Deirdre, for none knew for certain that the caravan had not veered eastward — to take shelter within the fastness of the Gnarley Forest until their fellow murderers arrived to assist them! The female cavalier insisted that duty required her to ride to the aid of those who opposed this evil horde, and that those who refused to accompany her had neither honor nor courage.
At this point, the elven constable proposed that he make ready to accompany any force that was bent on bringing the ravagers to battle, for subjects of Celene were involved after all. He and his squadron of hippogriff-mounted warriors would be certain to locate the enemy and bring them to bay. There were mounts, after all, for the party as well, and Deirdre's words were befitting a chivalrous noble of Celene as well as a patriot of Hardby.