by Gary Gygax
Thatch was still shamefaced when Gellor came over and examined the wound. The cut wasn't very deep, and Chert had cleaned and cared for it well. Without druidical art, the next step the barbarian would have taken was to sew the wound closed with bone needle and sinew. Fortunately for the lad, the bard was able to bring the parted flesh and skin together in a reddish seam without benefit of such painful process. Chert pretended to shake his head in scorn, calling such means of healing "soft." Thatch did not complain at all.
"Almost as good as new," Gellor told him quietly after touching the wound one last time. "In later years girls will admire the scar, and you'll undoubtedly tell them awful lies about how you gained such a warrior's badge, but let that be as it may. . . ."
He spoke to both of the lads then. "Up and on your way, both of you fledgling warriors. As veterans of battle, you both know that neither of you can help Chert and me now, for worrying about wounded comrades is a hindrance! Thatch, help Shad by carrying part of his gear - he'll want that spear of his in hand, but he mustn’t tote anything more along, for his wound is more severe than yours. Head back to the south as fast as you can. Stay off the path, keep together, and be quiet. Understand?"
When both of the boys nodded solemnly, Gellor added, "Fine. When you've gone not less than a league, find a safe place to hide out. We will come back for you as soon as we can - and we will be back, remember that! Off with you now, lads, and luck be with you."
Thatch and Shadow bobbed their heads and left without a word. Gellor smiled at that, and Chert gave a small chuckle. The two were certainly growing into men, and veteran fighters too, from all this. The massive hillman looked at his friend and asked, "What can I do in this next part?"
"Stay close to me, and keep any enemy at a distance. My spell should do the rest."
Both men were carefully concealed within a few minutes of the boys' departure. The bard had little piles of oak leaves, mistletoe, and holly berries before him. Chert had his great longbow strung and a full quiver of arrows on his hip, while a half-dozen extras were thrust into the ground ready for easy seizure and nocking. They didn't have long to wait.
The hunting pack of humanoids came through the trees with terrible rapidity. They were nearly silent as they trotted along, with only occasional shrill yapping sounds that served for both command and force alignment. A dozen of the gnolls went along the path, while a score flanked them to either hand. Nearly half carried bows, while the remainder had a motley assortment of arms, but all these weapons were terrible - two-handed swords, huge morning stars, glaive-guisarmes, and similar pole arms. Many also had heavy throwing spears in addition to their other weapons, while those carrying the seven-foot bows had axes or broadswords for close combat thrust into their belts.
"At least their master armed them well enough before throwing them to their fate," Chert whispered to the bard when he saw the weapons.
Gellor replied, "That'll do them no good, you'll see. Lively, now! Loose those shafts of yours!"
Chert began drawing and releasing as rapidly and with as much care as the situation allowed. His thickly muscled arms tensed, and the mighty longbow bent into a near half-circle as he drew the arrow back until the broad, razor-edged head touched the hornwood stave and the fletched feathers tickled his cheek. A sharp twang, and forty inches of death flew unerringly toward its target. This all occurred in a single, smooth motion - nocking of arrow, draw, and three-fingered release. Each shaft sunk so that only its feathered tail showed that another gnoll bore the mark of the barbarian's archery. Never had Chert shot faster, and his fingertips, calloused as they were, burned from the exercise.
As soon as the gnolls realized they were under attack, they took cover and began an answering release of arrows. Four were wounded before they understood they were facing their human foes, and another pair were struck even as the first shafts flew from the humanoids' bows. A huge missile nicked the barbarian's ear, another glanced off his chainmail shirt, a third pierced his thigh and went cleanly through, and yet a fourth lodged itself harmlessly between waist and girdle. As he had been told, Chert stood fast, exposed as he was, and continued to send his deadly arrows into the snarling enemy, now only a hundred paces away and slowly creeping nearer.
The gnolls were certain that this was a trap. This lone bowman was but a decoy to draw them nearer so that the other man-things could fall upon them, or so that traps that were certainly nearby could snare them as they had previously. Just as the hyenalike humanoids were certain of this, they also knew that there were but a few humans opposing them.
They, the Nonuz of the Bloody Fangs tribe, were not to be so easily taken by such tricks. Not this time. They had found where the weak humans had laid their traps, and in springing them they had taken losses. That was the way of life. Now they would drive the men away from their prepared place, avoid the traps, and hunt these little creatures down. What joy to harry them, running and panting, through the forest! Soon the men would be helpless and begging for death - those who lived through the chase and capture. Most would fall in the hunt, but the gnolls hoped some would live to provide amusement and entertainment before the feast of victory began. Then there would be much good eating - for, whether roasted or raw and bloody, man-flesh was sweet and tasty!
Trehyeegu, chieftain of the warband, signaled a cautious advance. The lone man had ducked out of sight after another well-sped arrow from one of Trehyeegu's warriors had struck him. Soon the hunt would begin, and he and his warriors would be bounding after men running in fear from their ferocity! Two more arrows arced into the gnoll position, and one lucky shot found a target. The leader of the band snarled and stood up. It was time to charge these men!
A large, black beetle crawled onto the humanoid's foot and up his legging unnoticed. It had large, sharp pincers, and in a second these mandibles were buried in tough hide, drawing blood. With an oath, the hulking humanoid bent to squash the offending bug, but just then he was bitten by a large deerfly and stung by a bumblebee that had alighted on his mangy shoulder.
Trehyeegu, proud chieftain of the Bloody Fangs tribe, let out a yelp suitable for a gnoll whelp and began swatting at himself in an unwarriorlike manner. The frenzied beating of various portions of his own anatomy continued as insects of every type crawled, hopped, and flew around the gnoll. They bit and stung and entered ear and eye without regard for their lives.
Now the chieftain was not alone in his torment, for every one of his fellow warriors was likewise aswarm with a plague of insects. This evidently served as no comfort to the chieftain whatsoever, for a moment later he was running madly through the forest, caroming off trees, trying to swat away the biting things even as he fled in madness from their attack.
Gellor and Chert killed three of the crazed gnolls as they blundered into the place where the men were. Chert was only slightly wounded, and he still had a half-quiver of arrows. He felled two of the humanoid creatures thus. Gellor brought the other down with his hurled spear, and then he finished the job with a swift stroke of his sword. Both adventurers then hastily removed themselves from the area, lest the overflow of insects begin to distress them as they had the gnolls. Chert actually felt a momentary pity for the half-dozen wounded ones who thrashed and howled under coats of crawling death; unable to get clear of die area of infestation, these gnolls had died horribly, bitten and stung to death slowly by hundreds of enraged insects.
As if reading his mind, the bard told him, "They would not have allowed you so easy a death as that, barbarian."
Chert knew that his friend spoke the plain truth, and without further feeling, he left the scene behind.
"What of the others?" he asked Gellor. "Will they rally and come again to hunt us?"
"Those who escaped will bear the marks of their encounter with the little ones of the forest for many days to come," the bard told his friend. "If they rally at all, it will be far away from this place, and the survivors will seek some easier prey to inflict their plundering and cruelty upon
."
Chert shook his head, sorry now that any of the foul creatures had escaped, for they would surely harry and slay men and demi-men elsewhere. As long as they lived, gnolls and their humanoid brethren would fight endlessly to conquer and slay humans and their allies - elves, halflings, and the rest.
When they finally found Thatch and Shad several hours later, the boys demanded to hear all the details of the victory. The two boys kept both men up half the night, retelling and elaborating on the engagement. Even though they were still sore from their previous brush with a lone and wounded gnoll, both boys wished in their hearts that they had been with Gellor and Chert when they brought doom upon the humanoids.
Chapter 27
The soft thudding of hooves came steadily closer. The forest around the well-used track of packed clay was as silent as a tomb. Now the horses and their riders came into view around a turn in the pathway. A pair of man-ores rode in front, small arbalests across their laps, lances and swords slung. They wore dirty cloaks of dull brown that failed to conceal the chainmail that was beneath the cloth.
As tough and vigilant as these half-breeds were, the riders behind were more fearsome in aspect, though smaller in size. A broad and knotty-limbed dwarf in steel plate came with a hammer half as big as he, held casually in one hand. Beside him rode a thin-featured elf whose gaunt face matched his thin form perfectly. This elf was old, but not elderly, as it showed in lines and in the eyes that started forth from his narrow face. The robed demi-human smiled and giggled for no apparent reason, and a terrible madness shone forth from his bulging eyes. Behind this ill-matched pair were two more horsed figures, men in armor and bearing many weapons, but they scarcely mattered. Such riders were insignificant in comparison to the evil power of the two who went before.
Hidden in the boughs above, six or seven keches pressed their green-colored hides closer to the branches they clung to and were silent. The terrible aura that radiated from these riders through the Vesve was sufficient to freeze these predatory fiends of the forest into fearful hiding. What they had thought might be prey was certainly something vastly different, and the keches were not so stupid as to stir an inch until the sound of the hoof-falls was no longer heard. The life of the forest became active and made sounds only then. As fearsome as these distant relatives of trollkind were, the silence had not been because of their presence amidst the trees. Their leader pointed westward, and all of the things swung away through the branches. There was easier prey to be had, and the big female who headed up the band smelled losel in the breeze.
Below, already well distant, the six riders went along the trail. "Those keches were scared silly," Keak giggled.
"Too bad we are pressed for time," the dwarf agreed. "Killing a few of those sort would be great sport, for they are tough and die hard."
"Oh, never fear, Lord Obmi, I'd have softened them up a bit before your hammer knocked them over and spread their contents for fertilizer," the elf cackled.
Obmi frowned at his companion. "You'd dare to spoil my sport? Rot your skinny pizzle, Keak, someday you'll go too far. I'd not be pleased if you did such work, for I wish to know if it will take one blow or two to bring down one of those green squirrelkins!"
Giggling merrily, Keak ran his gaze from the enchanted hammer to the magic girdle the dwarf wore around his thick middle. The elf wondered just how great a power these two things conveyed to this one he had to call his liege lord. No matter - if the time ever came, it would be when he had neither nearby to aid him. . . . Keak gave a series of cackling sounds as he considered the prospects of such a time and then went back to watching the surrounding forest for possible enemies. It wouldn't do at all to be taken by surprise.
Obmi, in the meantime, having a fair idea as to the mind of his long-known associate, made a mental vow never to be in a position where the elf would have the advantage over him.
They had come a full two days away from the useless accumulation of weaklings they had abandoned. Keak had used a simple spell to make Obmi appear to be the half-orc cleric, while the dupe of a priest had been changed to look as if he were Obmi himself. The dwarf had to admit that the alteration was certainly much to the mongrel's physical enhancement, while Obmi could hardly wait to be sufficiently clear of the encampment to have Keak remove the dweomer that had made his marvelous features ugly. The dwarf wondered idly what would become of the fools behind. No good, he knew. The question was how long it would take for the priest to blunder or for some other event to bring the whole group into disaster. Well, no matter. Let even fat old Iuz rant and rave about his precious subjects, losels and the rest be damned. He, Obmi the Great, was responsible for the location and safe delivery of the mighty Second Key of the Artifact of All Evil.
"Let us hope we are not interfered with before we reach our ultimate destination!" Obmi muttered without realizing it.
"What?" the elven mage asked in a startled tone. "Do you sense some danger?"
Obmi, dismayed by his own blunder, shook his iron-gray locks and sent a steady glare at his companion. " No, forget it, I merely referred to having some others sent by Lord Iuz intercept us before we personally brought our prize to the Master."
"What matter a welcoming party to see us safely to Dorakaa?"
"Fonkin! Would you share our glory with undeserving nobodies who only come at the last?"
Keak cackled but said nothing further, knowing he'd get precious little credit for his major role in the whole affair and wishing all the glory could go to him alone.
Behind them came an agent who would interfere, and this one had no thought of stealing glory from either. He sought only their death. He raced through the forest, tail streaming, tongue lolling like a dog. The keches spied him, but the leader saw that this leopard was as large as a lion and unnaturally muscled. The panther stopped to glare at the green-hided things. It spat out the spear it carried in its teeth in order to issue a roaring challenge at them. This cry, so filled with hate for foulness and evil as it was, almost brought the keches into battle, but the old female who led them made the others ignore it. Why fight this dark champion of good? It radiated a power that was different, but just as fell, as that which came from those riders they had so feared. Since it was alone, they might triumph - but at what cost? Besides, cat meat was pungent and bad-tasting.
The keches swung on toward the tempting odor that came from the west, and the great leopard picked up its strange burden and was off through the upper highway again.
Gord was angry at himself for die challenge he had given to the fiendish-looking things he had just encountered. He allowed his antipathy for their obvious evil to be voiced in a roaring cough of pure feline hatred. He must watch it more carefully in the future, this allowing the admixture of man and panther to form an integral mind that was neither human nor animal. It was so natural a melding, though, that he knew he would have to exercise continual control to avoid, or Gord and leopard would be inextricably bound into a new, single entity.
A brief time later his ears detected the drumming sound of a fair number of horses trotting ahead. The noise told him that the animals moved along the path. Gord increased his pace, which he had slackened after meeting the keches, back to a run once more. He hated the feeling of his tongue dangling from the side of his mouth, but it being there cooled and refreshed his tired body, and it was the best he could manage while bearing the magical spear in his teeth. He had tried to make it a part of him, as his other weapons were, but for some reason the transformation from man to cat would not accept the captured spear. This alone made Gord all the more determined to bear it with him when he pursued the hated Obmi.
He stayed well away from the party that rode below, for Gord felt that they would be unnaturally aware of a presence such as his, but he kept them in sight and could pick up occasional snatches of the conversation between the malign dwarf and the unbalanced elf who served him.
Upon hearing the mention of unwanted intrusion, Gord had a flash of inspiration. Slowin
g his pace, he moved perpendicular to the trail for a few dozen bounds, then paralleled it for a much longer time, nearly exhausting himself in the race to get as far ahead of the six riders as possible. Eventually he had to slow down. Moving at a fast walk, Gord allowed his cat lungs to draw great gasps of air, and his tired muscles to un-knot themselves. As he allowed his feline form to slow and cool itself, he mentally reviewed his plan. After a quarter of an hour of pacing thus, he dashed ahead again, then leaped down onto the track in a series of incredible bounds.
A minute later, Gord stepped from behind an ash tree. He went on two legs now, and the feeling was as strange as other changes in his senses that came with man form. Shapeshifting would take much getting used to - not the form differences, for that part was only a matter of understanding how the mind must mesh with the feline instincts of the new body. But the abrupt changes in locomotion and senses were a bitch for sure! No time for useless reflection now, though. Gord began striding purposefully down the pathway, carrying the spear jauntily as he headed south.
In a minute he heard the sound of distant hoofbeats. Gord stopped and whistled a mournful air he'd once heard in a dive near the river in Stoink, the bandit city. He stood stock still, continuing the tune as the sound of the party approaching grew nearer. Suddenly the leading horsemen spurred their mounts toward him at a gallop, lances leveled for the kill. At the very last moment before their points struck, Gord used the spear he held to vault over their heads. The stupid half-breeds thundered on down the trail, wondering what had just occurred, while Gord flipped upright and bowed to the two figures who now stared at him with suspicion and malign intent.