Sea of Death

Whispering their wishes for safety and success, the six adventurers headed back toward their camp, leaving Gord alone with his thoughts.

The night was alive with sounds and smells, each blade of grass starkly outlined against the glowing sky, shadows making only slightly deeper pools of dimness. Insects scuttled and leaped from his path. Little mammals and big ones too crouched down and froze, hearts thudding, hoping not to be the ones sought. Without sound, barely discernible even to the keen senses of the wild creatures around, he paced along the verge of the river's marshy banks, avoiding the wet ground whenever possible. A male leopard out on his night's hunt saw him and considered disputing the passage of this stranger, but only for a moment. The big cat's brain wasn't a marvel of intelligence, but even so dim an intellect as the leopard possessed could note the size and power displayed by the intruder. The cat slunk off in the opposite direction, trusting that tomorrow the stranger would be gone from its territory. Besides, the reek of men was strong in the direction in which the intruder went, and the leopard knew from experience that many men meant danger, even if this one seemed unaware of it.

Crouched in the weeds and tall grass of a low ridge, Gord surveyed the night. The illumination of the waning moon and the stars were all he needed to make the sky seem bright as day to his cat's eyes. The young thief was, of course, in the form of a huge, coal-black panther. None he might possibly encounter this night knew that he could take such shape. He growled softly to himself, and his long tail twitched as he viewed the scene before his eyes.

Nearly four score men, wild tribesmen from marshy regions judging from the smell of them, were scattered in a crescent between the dell and the river bank. Gord had crept on his belly to a point near them. These men had come by boat, probably from downstream, to attack. Their enemies were a mixture of humans and dark elves. His cat's nose related that to him clearly, recalling odors earlier detected by the far less efficient human nose he normally used.

The defenders were encamped in a hidden glen, and the men had apparently been there for several days. The odor of horses and humans was much stronger than would be the case if they had come but recently. There were a dozen men and mounts to begin with, but the attacking marshfolk had killed some of each. The odor of blood and death was clear. The dark elves and their human associates had not suffered alone, certainly. Gord had counted two or three dozen dead marshfolk with his own eyes, so their casualties were undoubtedly greater than that.

Both sides were quiet now. The defenders were alert, and any movement by the tribesmen was sure to draw an unpleasant response from the elves and men they beleaguered. Spell-casting had been used by both forces – the drow having more such power, he supposed, for the more numerous attackers had been kept at bay.

A sour, earthy-smelling scent suddenly came wafting to his black nose. His whiskers twitched and, uncontrollably, his cat's ears flattened along his broad skull. His panther lips drew back, and Gord bared his massive fangs in a snarl. The smell was of dwarf, and an odor both human and feline brain recognized well indeed – Obmi's distinctive scent and none other! Suppressing a nearly overwhelming urge to voice a coughing roar of challenge, Gord brought his cat's body belly-down and slunk forward. He wanted to see the broad-shouldered dwarf with his own eyes.

Keeping to the lowest places and using every bit of vegetation he could find along the way to conceal himself, Gord-panther made his way closer to the river before moving toward the place his nose told him the dwarf was. Something was nagging at his brain; his nose was telling him something else. He shook his great head, tossing the other impression aside. First the dwarf, then he'd concentrate on other things.

It was quite easy to proceed. The warriors were all watching ahead of themselves toward the drow encampment while the big panther-form stole along behind them u

He froze about fifty feet away from the line of men. The dwarf was there all right, accompanied by three tribesmen evidently conferring with him as to what strategy they would follow next. What made Gord's head swim was the other figure sitting with Obmi and the marshfolk leaders. It was a female drow – and both his nose and eyes told Gord that it was Leda!

Gord trusted his senses, even though logical thought screamed at him that this could not be so. It was Leda he saw and smelled, and she was not a captive, either. The dark elf was actually assisting Obmi and the other three in pla

Those filth have depleted their powers," Obmi said to one of the marshmen. "Why aren't your warriors attacking?"

Another of the tribesmen leaned over and whispered something to the one the dwarf had addressed, and then the first man spoke. "Ostarth, our sorcerer, says the dark elves are more powerful than you led us to think, lord. He points out that many of our men have been killed already, and both of his assistants have likewise been slain by drow spells. He joins our priest in advising that we withdraw before the sunrise so that no more Wenhulii will fall."

"What do you say, chief of the Wenhulii?" Leda asked the question with scorn evident.

"Why should my people die uselessly?" the leader responded.

Obmi raised a clenched fist to the marshman. "You are an old woman – and you forget our bargain in your cowardice! I paid you much gold to overcome my enemy – what of that?"

The chief of the marshmen tilted his head back and looked down his nose at the dwarf. "You spoke of a handful of near-helpless ones, easy killing, much loot. Perhaps it was a simple mistake… perhaps not. What does matter is that the few coins you paid are insufficient to compensate the families of those who have died, let alone make the surviving warriors eager to fight on. The drow use strong magic, and their soldiers are well armed and armored too. I think the Wenhulii will go home now."

Obmi cursed and threatened, but the marshmen sat immobile and silent. "All right, you filthy brigand!" roared the dwarf. "I will agree to pay you more, much more! Order your warriors to attack!"

"Show me – us – exactly how much more you will pay. No more will we trust your word."

Leda was expressionless, but the dwarf was scowling darkly as he pulled forth a leather bag from under a pile of cloth nearby. "Here," he said with anger in his voice, "is so much wealth that even the faintest of hearts and palest of livers will be emboldened." With that, the broad-shouldered dwarf spilled the contents of the bag onto the ground in front of the tribal leaders. Coins and gems glittered in the moonlight. The chief made a low whistling noise at the sight.

"I… we… can take this now?"

"If your warriors attack the enemy, yes," Obmi growled in reply. "If you do not, then I will personally flay you alive."

"Think on this, too," Leda added in a low, evil tone. "I too am a drow, and the very magic you fear I also wield. My powers will support you when you attack, or harry you should you think to turn tail and run. Take your payment and go now. I will come with you… magically. I will hear your words and watch your actions, even though you see me not. Treachery will earn only death."