Sea of Death (36 page)
"We must speak with no reservations, and our time is brief. I do read your thoughts, but the amulet around your neck allows me only to scan the very surface of your mind. I tell you this in order to gain your trust – sufficient trust to consider what I have to tell you now. You are thereafter, of course, free to make whatever decision you choose. What I have just done is- "
"Shut your perverted mouth!" This screeching demand came from Eclavdra. The High Priestess of Graz'zt had sprung up at Vuron's last words, her beautiful face contorted in rage. She pointed a finger and glared up into the red eyes of the towering, thin demon without the slightest trace of deference, let alone fear. "You have done too much already, you pale snake, and I will make you answer to My king for what you seek to tell this mortal now!"
Vuron never blinked, but he did smile a cold, dead smile. "My liege and yours, too, and I have served him for eons… Yet this is not the time for such petty matters. You too have to face the prescribed conclusion of your trial, as it were."
"My trial is you, Vuron," Eclavdra shot back with acidity, hatred still written on her every feature. "I have powers too, and I name you a traitor now and always. The human you seek to treat with is not of the Abyss, and you would give over to him that which is Mine by right!"
"Yours?" the alabaster demon lord said expres-sionlessly. "If you claimed it our king's, I must acquiesce in spirit if not avow it a fact. No matter. You have spent the time allowed you uselessly, it would seem. The moment is gone, and they come… Prepare now, drow – and you too, Gord of Grey-hawk – to face your opponents in combat. You see? The two come now, and with them are their supporters."
Both Eclavdra and Gord looked to where the thin, white demon was pointing. At the edge of the dell was the broad-shouldered Obmi, martel in hand, and with him were Leda and a dozen fierce-looking marshmen.
"Eclavdra, you dark bitch!" the dwarf boomed out. "You have put yourself into My hands by violating the rules of the contest, and I'll close my fists and crush you for it!"
The dwarf rushed forward, accelerating at an unbelievable pace thanks to his magical boots. "Gord," said Vuron as Obmi began his charge, "you must face that one. The life of Eclavdra is not his to take or die trying – that opportunity belongs to her clone, the one you named Leda."
Without pausing to consider the veracity of the statement, Gord drew his sword and leaped to intercept Obmi's rush. Behind him, his six friends moved to defend him from any other foe who sought to interfere in the duel. The wild brigands from the Hool marshes gladly went to meet these opponents.
As for Eclavdra, as soon as she laid eyes upon her clone, she paid no attention to any other, even the onrushing dwarf. In fact, had Gord not intervened, Obmi could have struck the dark elf down with a single blow. Their eyes locked, Eclavdra and Leda closed with each other and squared off.
"I should have known!" spat the high priestess.
Leda smiled at the outcry, shouting back, "Yes, you should have, mother, sister, and self," and she laughed at that even as Eclavdra scowled.
"How could it be? You had a telepathic link – I know that now! – and I had none… or did I?"
"You didn't, for all I know," Leda said as the two stood only a few feet apart. It was as if a mirror cast the reflection of the other – they were identical twins, cloned and clone. "You failed because of me. That I do know!"
The triumph evident in Leda's expression was too much for Eclavdra. Her mouth set in a grimace of fury, eyes blazing violet evil, she flew at her twin with nothing more than clawed hands and bared teeth. It was not surprising to any onlooker knowing the circumstances that Leda responded in the same manner. The two dark elves collided, locked, and fell to roll on the ground in a parody of how females battled when they sought to scratch and claw until one or the other surrendered. This fight, however, was not likely to end until one of the combatants was dead.
When the young thief interposed himself between Obmi and the original object of the dwarfs ire, the broad-shouldered servant of the demoness checked his attack. He faced Gord with his pick held ready in both hands. His face bore a sneer of contempt, but there was a crafty gleam in the dwarfs eyes. "I once supposed you a pile of stone, but then I heard you had returned – just as a wart does," rumbled the dwarf, allowing himself a small chuckle at his own joke. "Miracles of that sort don't often happen, lightweight little human. Stand aside and let Me slay the drow, or better still for you, join Me in the killing of that whore, and I will reward you- "
Gord's longsword flicked out in a lunge, and the dwarf had to bite off his sentence and dance backward. "No, you lying and crooked dungheap!" Gord spat back. "No demon-serving dwarf will make bargains with me. After you overcome me, the field is clear to do as you will – but you'll find me no easy foe!"
The reply was too long – just what Obmi had hoped would happen. As the young adventurer was uttering the last two words, Obmi rushed suddenly to his right, darted in, and swung a two-handed, backhand blow with the martel's hammer head. It was aimed at Gord's left kneecap, but it went high and landed with a meaty thud upon his thigh instead. The young thief was unable to stifle a gasp of pain as the force of the blow buckled his leg, but it was because he toppled that he was able to avoid the next stroke.
As Gord was going down, Obmi pivoted on his left heel, executing a full circle with incredible speed and wheeling the martel around as he did so. The long pick was aimed at the left side of the young adventurer's chest. If he had simply dropped in his tracks from the effect of the first wound, the point of the martel would have taken Gord just under the ribs and struck his heart as it hooked upward. However, instead of trying to stand his ground, Gord had used the momentum of the leg-blow to help him move to his right in a motion that turned to a roll and a recovery slightly behind and to the right of where he had been struck. The pick missed its mark by inches, but that was enough. The upswing caught and tore his already tattered smock, exposing the fine mesh of steel he wore beneath it.
"Quick as a mouse," Obmi snarled, "but this cat's claw of mine will pin you down yet!"
Gord had to grit his teeth to stand on his wounded leg and appear unhurt. Not only was the dwarf terribly strong, but the martel's hammer head had small spikes upon it, and the blow it had delivered was very painful. Blood trickled down his leg, and this made Gord both wary and angry. "You are not a cat, dwarf, but a rat! That little nosepicker of yours is no cat's claw – it's just your ratty little teeth!" Then, his longsword ready, Gord came slowly forward. "This is a weapon more fitted to a cat, dungpile, and I'll let you feel it in a moment."
Obmi edged away just as cautiously as his foe approached. He was confident of ultimate victory, especially as he saw the effects of his blow upon the dark-haired, lean human. The fellow might be small and quick, a superb swordsman possibly, but his strength and skill would prove no match for the dwarf if Obmi but took his time and used his vast store of experience to fullest advantage. The human would lunge at him soon, using the length of his arm and sword In hopes of gaining a hit that the shorter martel would be unable to reply to. But he would be unpleasantly surprised when he tried the attack, for Obmi was ready and planning a quick lunge himself. He'd move under the sword and bring the hammer head up from beneath, using it against the arm this time. Then Gord's attack came, and as the lunge began toward his chest, Obmi ducked and began his countermove.
A smaller opponent with a shorter, non-thrusting weapon has limited resources in a duel, and Gord understood this well. His lunge was a feint, in a way. He began the strike high, but as he shot his arm forth he also thrust out his right leg, which lowered his body. The point of the blade went down as it sped out, and the dwarf couldn't duck low enough to escape it. The sword went home cleanly, imbedding six inches of its bright metal in Obmi's right shoulder. Then it darted out, withdrawn in the next instant as Gord managed to back off quickly despite his painfully wounded left thigh. Naturally, the dwarfs countering strike never came off.
"Damn you, man!" Obmi snarled, his huge beard seeming to bristle in fury as he spoke. His left hand clasped over the place where the sword had struck, the dwarf backed away from his opponent, swinging the martel loosely before him with his right hand to guard his retreat.
By concentrating on not yielding to the pain, Gord was slowly bringing his leg back to the point where he could utilize it fully in acrobatic attack maneuvers. The deep wound he had inflicted on Obmi would begin to tell soon in any case, he told himself, so there was no need to hurry. He made careful thrusts that did not land, parried swipes of the martel in turn, and readied for a final series to bring the battle to a close. In preparation for this last rush, Gord drew his dagger. As he moved in, he would use the shorter blade to catch the pick, turn it, and leave the way clear for telling work with the sword.
Upon seeing this second weapon, Obmi merely snorted, grabbed the martel with both hands once again, and stood rock-still with the pick cocked above his big head. Gord's eyes widened, and he drew back a step as he noticed something shocking – no blood came from the place where he had impaled the dwarf!
"You see, do you?" Obmi laughed. Time is on My side, mouse, not yours. Even as I tell you this, the last of the harm done by your sword is healing itself magically. Lay down your weapons now, and I will give you a swift and clean death!"
As the dwarf should well have known, a swift and clean death was not part of Gord's plan for himself. In fact, he preferred no death at all, if he had anything to say about it. Instead of shrinking back or lowering his weapons, Gord burst forward in a flurry of motion, his body and his sword whirling at blurring speed. Obmi backed away only slowly, deflecting each sword strike with his hammer held before him while he waited for an opening through which to strike a killing blow. Impatience got the better of the dwarf, and he decided to end things with an overhead stroke despite two important facts: he needed a second to bring the hammer up before he could use it, and he stood a good two feet shorter than his foe.
As Obmi raised the martel over his head, Gord brought his dagger to the fore. When the hammer came back down, the long-bladed dagger rang against the latten of the pick, and the dagger's quillon caught and held the curved spike high as if it were frozen there. Obmi was strong, stronger by far than Gord, but leverage because of his greater height was in favor of the gray-eyed thief for the moment – and a moment was all he needed.
Before Obmi could utilize his demon-bestowed strength to fully counter the leverage, Gord brought the long blade of his sword in a sweeping blow that struck low. Its half-circle of travel before impact lent it terrible force, and the edge bit through flesh and bone despite the metal and leather that protected it. Obmi managed, somehow, to shove Gord away, for his power was that of a giant despite his small stature. But as Gord tumbled and sprawled backward from the desperate shove, so too fell the dwarf. His left leg had been severed just below the knee.
Tit for tat, rat! Will your magic grow that back?" Gord mocked. Even as he spoke, though, the young thief saw that the stump stopped bleeding almost instantly, and by the time Gord had regained his feet the pain-wracked visage of the dwarf had begun to clear. The young thief stared in amazement as Obmi scrambled back to a standing position, using his hammer to help his still-intact leg support his body – while the leg that Gord had severed seemed to grow longer by the minute.
Gord was not afraid, but quite confused. Was this Obmi some sort of troll? What if the severed leg grew into a second dwarf to fight with him? While he involuntarily considered these questions for a second or two, Gord failed to follow up on his advantage. As he hesitated, Obmi tore an ebon crystal from around his neck and hurled it at Gord. Instinctively, the young man sought to deflect the missile with his sword. The black object struck the blade and shattered, and Gord was engulfed in night.
Gord lunged and struck then at the place where his foe had been but a moment before. It was too late, of course. In the cloaking darkness, Obmi had moved elsewhere. Gord's blade stabbed grass and soil, not flesh. He could hear no sound from the dwarf, but this was not because the blackness surrounding them cloaked noise; there were noises aplenty in the air as men fought and yelled and died nearby. Unfortunately, those sounds masked any noise that the desperate dwarf might make while doing whatever he was doing. Not wishing to be taken by some other trick of Obmi's, Gord stepped backward as rapidly as he dared, feeling the ground as he did so to avoid a misstep. After ten such moves the blackness thinned, and another crabwise step carried him into sunlight.
Paying no heed to the melee around him, Gord began to circle the blot that covered the dwarf. The darkness lay on the land in a hemisphere at least thirty feet across and half as high. As he proceeded to search the perimeter, looking for Obmi if he attempted to escape, Gord's eye happened to fall upon his sword blade. The length of its metal no longer gleamed. The whole was deepest black, and the inky stain was even now spreading downward over the guard and onto the grip toward his hand. With an oath, Gord hurled the weapon from him, fearful that the sooty hue would somehow harm him. As he watched the blackness creep over his weapon, an idea came to him – a way that he could pursue and find Obmi even within the lightless dome he had conjured up…
The odor was strong. Dwarf, dwarven blood, dwarven sweat, dwarven breath too. The huge black leopard waited not an instant to attack. Little motes of light were dancing within the ebony of the blot now, but whether the darkness was somehow evaporating or some other dweomer was transforming it, only one matter was important: Obmi must be slain. The dwarf was taken completely by surprise when Gord-panther pounced upon him from the side. Somehow the broad-shouldered demi-human managed to bring his martel to bear, and the weapon inflicted a few wounds upon the sleek, black-furred cat's body. But the panther's long fangs sank deep, and its claws tore and raked the dwarf.