Artifact of Evil

Chapter 3

The last of the prisoners were being marched from Strandkeep as files of dwarves and men wearing the colors of the Prince of Ulek entered the castle to garrison the captured stronghold. The short, broad dwarven soldiery bore the red axe on a white field upon their tabards, while their human counterparts displayed the gold and purple of the Prince's quartered arms, signifying them to be his veteran contingents.

Not all would remain here, of course, for with the fortress in his hands, Prince Olinstaad Corond would certainty advance upon Stoneheim to take that city and gain access to the rich mines to the north of it. There, in the mountainous portion of the Drachensgrab Hills called Wormsjaws, gold and gems were wrested from the stony interiors of many deep mines. His Serene Highness of Ulek desired to regain this wealth, so long lost to his realm.

Now that the way had been unlocked, and Strandkeep made secure as a base of operations, the dwarven prince was likely to attain his desired goal. His army was pressing the disorganized humanoid tribes of the Pomarj eastward, while a force of men from allied petty states of the region called the Wild Coast sought revenge upon these same tribes themselves. Although this motley conglomerate of troops was of questionable effectiveness, their presence far to the north, menacing the town of Highport, certainly split the defender's strength. Ulek could hope to seize and hold a strip of the Pomarj from the Jewel River to Stoneheim, fortifying the northern border of this territory with dwarven-built towers within the Drachensgrabs to the peaks of Wormsjaws.

Some of the mercenary companies that had assisted in the taking of the great castle were now being paid off. Others would be signed on as needed, and such sell-swords were easily enlisted in this part of the Flanaess. No major battle would be fought for many weeks, for the fall of Strandkeep dealt the rulers of the Pomarj a severe blow. They would fall back, regroup, and plan some strategy to recoup.

Among the bodies of mercenaries that were fanning outward from the castle, heading west and north, was a company of riders who bore no special insignia. This group of a hundred or so struck due north, heading into the heart of the Drachensgrab Hills, evidently fearing nothing that might molest them in that wilderness. At the head of the assemblage rode Gord, the druid known as Curley Greenleaf, and a grizzled man called Gellor.

"When we reach the Suss," the burly druid was saying, referring to a great band of forest to the north, "I will carry intelligence to all those who must know."

"Excellent, my friend!" the one-eyed Gellor said approvingly. "Gord and I will take the company on to Badwall, avoiding any contact with the host of petty nobles gathered under Elredd's banner to war on Highport. Some of our comrades will undoubtedly wish to sell their lances to Elredd, but we will have some force awaiting in Badwall-town when you return."

"I still say we should take our chinkers," Gord interjected with a shaking of his fat purse for emphasis, "and leave the rest of this dangerous business to others. After all, we have risked our lives aplenty during the last months, and we should be allowed to enjoy the spoils of victory… until the money runs out. Time enough for adventure then!"

Gellor shook his head in mock dismay, while the druid made disapproving clucks on the other hand. "Gord, Gord, will I ever be able to rehabilitate you? Leave your past thievery behind and think as a dedicated agent of those who fight Evil! We must put duty before our personal safety, let alone pleasure, always."

Despite the jesting tone, Gord knew that Gellor meant what he said. The grizzled, one-eyed bard was indeed a devoted agent serving those who sought to prevent the spread of malign powers throughout the whole of Oerth. He had met the one-eyed man, then posing as a mere thief, long ago in the Bandit Kingdoms; adventured and fought by his side in the far-off lands to the east; and probably owed his life to him.

"Leave off, Gellor, you one-eyed conscience!" Gord retorted. "I protest this entire quest, but I am resigned to it — else your nagging will drive me as insane as a rune of madness!"

Greenleaf and Gellor laughed, slapped him on the back in comradely approval, and then fell on to their discussion again. This allowed Gord time to reflect on what had led him to the current pass…

Orphan, beggar, and thief he had been in his childhood, an urchin in the slums of Greyhawk's Old City, then a prisoner indentured to the Beggarmaster Theobald. Seeking his fortune in the wide world beyond the city had brought him experience and skill that enabled him not only to survive but to prosper. Accomplished as a fighter with sword and dagger since his early training in Greyhawk, Gord had used his weapons all too often in the course of his wandering adventures, but he didn't really regret this. Coupled with his skill in the art of acrobatics, thievery had brought him many a fortune — which he lost with much the same ease.

Gord had loved and lost. That was life. His friends — Gellor, Curley Greenleaf, and the hulking barbarian Chert — were true friends and boon companions. Gellor had rescued him from jeopardy when Gord had been imprisoned by his lover's angry father, Count Blemu. Then, along with Curley Greenleaf and Chert, they had survived encounters with predatory monsters and pitched battles too.

He and Chert had eventually come to Cord's home, Greyhawk City, years after Gord had left that place for the first time as a mere stripling. A great fortune in precious gems, part of a prize they had wrested from a frightful demon, was soon converted into coin of the realm — silver nobles, electrum luckies, gold orbs, and platinum plates. Then, for nearly six months, the two young men had lived high.

Chert quickly learned to enjoy the fine life that an unlimited supply of money bought in the city. He wore fine clothes, drank the best of potables, and dined sumptuously. Gord had experienced a brief taste of such living when, as a young, enterprising thief, he would masquerade as a noble wastrel or the son of a rich merchant. Now, he and Chert rented their own villa in Greyhawk's Garden Quarter, gave parties, and were entertained by courtesans. Now? No, that was wrong. Next. That led to rapid depletion of even a treasury as great as the two had, and all too soon the funds were squandered.

The barbarian was growing tired of gaming, wenching, and foppery anyway. Born and bred in the wilderness, Chert was at first awed, then fascinated, by the delights and soft living offered by so sophisticated a city as Greyhawk. All of that paled quickly. The barbarian chafed at inaction and ease, seeking excitement and adventure. Occasional hunts beyond the city walls, even frequent brawls in some rowdy tavern along Greyhawk's notorious Strip, became boring to him. Chert had readily agreed to accompany Gord when the young thief had suggested that they augment their dwindling reserves by relieving the rich of excess wealth.

There was no question that the barbarian was quick and climbed like a cat, but in the urban surroundings his natural skills were otherwise useless, and he stood out far too much. Often, Gord's carefully laid plans were brought to naught by some noise Chert made, his all-too-ready approach to fighting, or simply the fact that he was too large to go where Gord could. This led to mutual frustration and quarreling. They gave up their expensive villa and took lodging in a small inn located in the Foreign Quarter.

Shortly thereafter, Chert announced his intention of joining a caravan bound for Dyvers, stating that as one of its mercenary guards he would be able to escape suffocation in the crowded city and perhaps have a bit of adventure too. Argument was useless, even reminding the barbarian that they awaited both reward and news from Curley Greenleaf did not sway his resolve. They had clasped hands in friendship, pledging to meet again soon, and then Chert had gathered the few belongings he cared about, taken his great axe, Brool, and departed. Gord recalled that he thought Chert looked happy for the first time in months then.

Actually, Gord had agreed with his barbarian friend about the likelihood of Curley Greenleaf ever coming back. When the druid had left them to carry back the strange relic taken from the lair of the slain cataboligne demon, Greenleaf had assured both young men that he would send money and news of the meaning of the prize. Not that either actually needed further reward — the gemstones the druid had given them were a fabulous treasure, but it was not like Greenleaf not to live up to his word. Six months of silence led both Gord and Chert to surmise that some ill fate had befallen their companion, or that the eldritch nature of his burden was such that no reward nor information could be sent.

With his last remaining friend gone, the young thief looked at Greyhawk from a new perspective. After leaving word with several ostlers to be on the lookout for the druid, and explaining that he would check back periodically to renew their stipend for doing this service, Gord moved his quarters to the Low Quarter, accumulated disguises, and set about rebuilding a career.

Soon the thief known only as Blackcat became the talk of the city. Rare glimpses enabled a few to state that this burglar was black of skin and garb, fast as a cat, and as agile too. Some speculated that the cat burglar was a drow, one of the dark elvenfolk of subterranean places. Others said that such a thief could not be human or demi-human at all, but some spawn of supernatural sort entirely.

Blackcat confounded guards, foiled traps, laughed at locks, and eluded all pursuit. Searches and spies could find nothing. Informants had no news to sell to the masters of the city or to their police. Even the Thieves' Guild was mystified, and chagrined, by the success of this daring unknown. The identity of Blackcat became a subject for conversation from the lowest slums to the grand halls of the Lord Mayor's residence. He was, of course, none other than Gord.

Remaining anonymous was out of the question. Gord resumed his role of gambler and thief openly. Eventually, he was recognized by his old companion, San. The boy had grown into manhood and was now a master of high station in the guild and married to the daughter of the aging Guildmaster, Arentol. It was likely, in fact, that San would soon be elected to the exalted office held by his father-in-law.

Neither San nor the old Guildmaster was interested in unearthing past grudges. The skeletons revealed would be bad for son-in-law and embarrassing to Guildmaster. Having such open presence in Greyhawk, Gord was watched with great suspicion for a time, but his activity was judged harmless enough. Where he had gained his fortune was unknown, but it was easy enough to discover that Gord had returned to the city months previously, complete with untold riches and a brawny companion. The latter had recently departed Grey-hawk for parts unknown, but Gord still remained to enjoy his wealth.

He was not a registered thief, but Gord mainly gambled and bet upon sports and like things, doing well enough with such wagering, although hardly in need of the proceeds. The young adventurer sported jewelry and fine clothes that indicated no need for burglaries such as those Blackcat performed. Besides, Cord's skills were known to the guild, which had estimated him a master in his own right — rating disguise, stealth, and lock-picking excellent; pocket-picking, purse-slitting, and sleight of hand superb; and impersonation and confidence schemes masterful. San suggested that he himself, even as inferior to his father-in-law as he was, was certainly a better thief than Gord would ever be. So the members of the guild looked elsewhere in their efforts to discover and end the career of the cat-burglar who was near to destroying their repute in Greyhawk.

Actually, Gord had little to show for his daring exploits at crime. While risking life and limb in feats of balance and gymnastic prowess needed to accomplish his midnight burglaries, Gord gained hardly enough to maintain his high-living style. Victims always claimed their loss from his work to be far more than the young thief actually took from strongbox or secret cache. True, he had a small store of jewelry he dared not fence, a few great pieces carefully kept in the old wooden box that was the only possession he had from his childhood. Otherwise, though, the gold spent in a night's carouse was nearly always a tithe of Gord's total fortune.

He debated changing his habits, even thought seriously of going westward after Chert and seeking adventure in other places, but for whatever reason he stayed and lived his dual existence without alteration. It was, all in all, as exciting and dangerous as could be hoped for. The glamor had faded, the pleasures gained were tarnishing, but there was something keeping him going that Gord could not himself understand. Perhaps dissatisfaction was engendering a death wish.

Gord nearly ceased his periodic inquiries as to Curley Greenleafs possible presence in the city. One day, months later, and on a whim brought on by boredom, he casually entered the Green Dragon Inn. It was a place frequented by foreigners, mercenaries, tough adventurers, and others of less savory aspect. Even as he sought the proprietor to ask if he had news of a druid, he saw the rotund fellow in person. Greenleaf was unmistakable in nearly any crowd — a pudgy, bald-headed half-elf with slightly pointed ears showing his heritage, and clad in druidical garments. The druid did not immediately recognize Gord, however, for his former associate had changed. Dressed in elegant fashion, hair worn in the length currently vogue in the city, and not presently beardless, the young man he saw enter could have been any of hundreds of rakes and other gentry common to Greyhawk.

It took only a moment for Gord to realize this fact, and he thought a good joke to be in order. Floppy hat pulled low and set at roguish angle, gait swaggering, he came to the druid's table and purposely bumped it so as to spill the flagon of dark ale set before its occupant. Greenleaf uttered a most unclerical sounding oath and leaped to his feet, ready to teach the perpetrator of such an offense some manners. The bald man glared angrily at the smirking fop before him for a full second before he finally saw it was none other than his young friend, Gord, playing tricks.

After much exchange of greetings and appropriate toasts, the pair staggered joyfully back to Gord's apartment above a small shop in a better neighborhood of the Low Quarter. Eventually they sobered sufficiently to find supper in a nearby public eating house, return to Gord's quarters once again, and exchange tales of what had happened since their last meeting. Despite Cord's protests, Curley insisted that Gord recount his tale first.

Curley was sorry to learn of the barbarian warrior's departure. He clucked reprovingly at Cord's exploits as Blackcat. He hardly glanced at the splendid items of jewelry Gord revealed for his perusal, although the druid did remark on the splendid old box they were in, urging Gord to have it restored. At last it was Greenleafs turn.

The druid related an uneventful and rapid return to the Celadon Forest, the dwelling place of the Great Druid from whom Curley Greenleaf sought counsel. The workings of the strange relic were as mysterious to that personage as they were to his lesser fellow, so the two had eventually gone to the Grand Druid himself. The result was still unsatisfactory, so nothing would do but for all three to seek the assistance of certain Hierophants, an arcane order of druidical priests, which Curley knew but little about. Much was learned thereby.

What the relic actually was, of what nature and origin, who placed it in its underground repository and guarded it with a demon, and the true powers it held Greenleaf refused to enumerate. Perhaps he was himself ignorant. In any event, all the stocky fellow would tell his young friend related to but a single dweomer of the relic — the object could be used to discover events elsewhere and elsewhen, including many other planes of existence, dimensions, and probabilities. It was thus empowered, Greenleaf related, to serve as a counterbalance to another ancient object, an artifact of blackest Evil.

Much more had occurred regarding the strange object before Curley — now given status as Druid, a ranking number of the druidical hierarchy — gained permission to contact his long-separated companions. Thus, he had explained to Gord, a year had slipped away before he was able to come bearing the rewards he had promised for their part in recovering the lost relic.

From his bundle Greenleaf brought forth a long, extraordinarily thin cloak of gray with soft boots to match. These, Gord learned, were of elfin make and bestowed near-invisibility and almost perfect silence to their wearer. Curley also had magical wrist-guards for the massive barbarian; Chert had often expressed contempt for armor and similar protection, so the druids had thought that such bracers would be most appreciated.

Restoring the latter items to his pack, Greenleaf had then asked for the young thief's further assistance. Gord had surprised himself by jumping at the opportunity to find adventure and purpose. He agreed before even asking as to the nature of his friend's mission and needs. The druid seemed somewhat surprised at such ready acquiescence himself, and briefly related the circumstances of the affair to Gord.

Gellor, the veteran agent and spy, participant in many deeds of derring-do and countless skirmishes and battles, was involved! The bard had left off his endless missions for this or that sovereign head of state, abandoned his watch on the Bandit Kingdoms, Aerdy, and all the rest. He had come instantly to the summons of the Cabal.

By the time Curley came from his conclave with the Hierophants, Gellor was already an integral part of the enterprise. He and Greenleaf had sped westward, and even as the druid was speaking with Gord, the one-eyed adventurer was gathering a force of like folk and mercenary soldiers below the city — working his way down the Wild Coast, bound for the Drachensgrab Hills. Would Gord help the effort by lending his skills and fighting abilities?

The force Gellor was raising was to assist the Prince of Ulek in his effort to take Strandkeep Castle and make war upon the men and humanoids of the Pomarj. Of course, Gord was ready, being more interested than ever in the undertaking. The young thief was clever enough to know that there was more to this than a simple military campaign, no matter the worth of that fight. Greenleaf had refused to speak of any other purpose save joining with the dwarven monarch, and this whetted Gord's appetite for the whole business still more! Next day, the pair had quitted the walls of Greyhawk for the countryside and the long journey southward for the Pomarj. Thus had Gord come to the shores of the Azure Sea, helped to take the great fortress of Strandkeep, and dispatched many of its evil garrison, men-at-arms and their masters alike…

"I said, a brass bit for your thoughts!" Gellor nearly shouted in his ear.

Gord snapped out of his reverie, and blinked rather foolishly at the hard-featured bard. "I was reflecting on the past… Sorry."

"You might have no future unless you use your senses," the man replied sarcastically. "Keep the blank expression, and don't look around — keep your eyes on me." Still smiling, Gellor added, "There are at least a score of verbeeg to our rear. I've seen them several times now. Those blasters can run, you know, and they're in a crescent formation behind us. I'd say that they want us to keep moving ahead… into whatever ambuscade their fellows are preparing for us somewhere close ahead!"

Gord wanted to turn and see if he could spot the following verbeeg. He had heard of these giant-sized men, creatures eight or nine feet tall, often gross and deformed, and as mean as they were ugly. He had never actually seen one, for as fierce as verbeeg were, they were hunted by men — an act of self-preservation, of course, for if given opportunity the verbeeg would rape, plunder and destroy the communities of their smaller cousins. In these hills it was not unexpected that such creatures would be found, dwelling in relative harmony with humanoid beasts and savage ogres and giants, as likely as not.

Gord looked quizzically at Gellor. "What are we going to do?" he asked in a low tone.

"Curley, tell that horse of yours to pull up as if he were lame," the one-eyed bard told his other companion. "Be quick!"

Soon Greenleaf was bending forward in his high-backed saddle. He patted the steed's neck, but no distant onlooker would have noticed anything else. Suddenly, the big stallion began moving in an odd gait, limping and favoring its right foreleg, as if some stone had bruised its iron-shod hoof.

"How's that?" the druid asked Gellor.

In reply, the one-eyed adventurer raised his hand, turned in his saddle, and called the column of men to a halt. "Rest!" he called. "Greenleaf s mount is lame. I'll explain what we will do." As he shouted all this, he turned his own courser slowly, riding back to the various and sundry lieutenants and minor spell-workers who rode near the head of the column. After a brief conversation there, these men rode back along the column of lancers and mounted sergeants with crossbows, all the way to the handful of officers and tough adventurers who guarded the company's rear.

The four files of" riders quickly split into two halves, one spreading out casually to the left, the other to the right, while the tail of the column moved forward. This maneuver was not done with seeming precision; horses were reined only loosely, heads low, and allowed to graze. There was certainly a plan behind it, however, and Gord noted that the animals' movements were quietly guided by knees and heels. Everyone seemed quite relaxed, though, even as the former column suddenly shaped itself into a line, two ranks deep, lancers to the rear, crossbowmen and the rest in front.

"What is Gellor doing?" the puzzled young thief asked his friend. "Why are we forming for a charge with our lancers behind? And what reason to charge ahead into some undiscovered ambush?"

"Don't be a noddy peak, my lad! Old Gellor may have only one real eye, but his brain and wits more than make up for it," Curley said bluffly. "Now you pay attention to him and be ready for a rapid change!"

Almost as if that were a cue, the grizzled adventurer suddenly brought forth his longsword and gave it a wave. Without any further orders, the two long lines suddenly wheeled to face to the rear. Now lieutenants barked orders, and as the horsemen began advancing in the direction from which they had come, mounts moving at a slow walk. A slight shift of the rear rank brought the crossbow-armed riders into the intervals between the lancers, and from there they could loose their bolts without fear of hitting their fellows. Greenleaf and Gord were at the center, a sort of third rank, along with Gellor and a pair of veteran mercenary lieutenants. Like groups had taken station on either wing, obviously meant to guard the flanks of the formation.

"Charge!" cried Gellor in a stentorian voice that could have been heard a quarter-mile distant.

The walking horses began to trot, then quickened their gait to a canter. The ground was too uneven for a full gallop, and even a charge such as this was not likely to prove as devastating as one normally would. Nonetheless, Gord was glad he was not standing before the thundering lancers and sergeants of the company as they moved thus.

Without warning, huge men sprang up from behind bushes and other cover that Gord would never have supposed would hide such tall savages. The verbeeg were clad in an odd assortment of armors. Some had fur hides and pelts, others scraps of armor attached to hide coats. Byrnies taken from who knew where were crudely converted into jacks to protect the upper bodies of these lean giants. Some bore shields of human make, others crude ones obviously fashioned by their own hands. Each bore an equally motley assortment of weapons. Most carried crude clubs and rough spears. A few had like weapons of somewhat superior craftsmanship. Here and there were pole arms and great swords recognizable as having once belonged to men. Bardiche and massive, two-handed mace were held with one-handed nonchalance by these behemoths.

Into this suddenly revealed force the horsemen charged without hesitation. A flurry of bolts was sent speeding toward the verbeeg savages, just as the lancers in the front rank lowered their flame-pennoned weapons. The light crossbows carried by the men of the second line were quickly slung on pommels, so that the sergeants could ply other arms in the coming melee — sword, axe, or whatever weapon the soldier chose. Then the charging horsemen struck their enemies with a crash of steel on steel. Not a few of the leading riders, or their steeds, had been brought down by the heavy spears that the human-giants hurled at the closing horsemen. Undaunted, the charge went home, and the lances' impacts tumbled verbeeg and riders too. Maddened stallions bit and sent vicious kicks with skull-crushing force as they reared and came down. Helmets spun through the air, as did severed heads and broken weapons. Sobering blows and vicious thrusts then fell upon those of the human giants who still stood, as the second wave of riders fell upon them. A half-dozen of their most savage members still stood and fought, with bloody bardiche hacking or two-handed sword slashing death, but a score of their fellows lay dead in a matter of minutes.

A rapid check to left and right showed Gord that the flanks were secured. The expert fighting men and lesser magic-users there worked in conjunction to destroy the few towering verbeeg coming at the meleeing company thus. Gellor had been singing a heroic chant ever since the charge began, his voice somehow carrying above the thundering hooves and the din of battle afterward. The druid was also engaged in activity, moving toward the rear to watch for the expected coming of fresh foes, brought from hiding by the shouts and sounds of the struggle. Evidently Greenleaf thought the threat was serious, for two associated druids, the chief magician of the company, and a swarthy Chakyik, a slant-eyed, bandy-legged fighter of great prowess, renowned for his terrible horn bow, went with him as he retraced the route over which the company had just passed.

Virtually left alone, the young adventurer looked for the most likely place where his swordsmanship might be of use. A heavily armored verbeeg, laying bloody bodies in dismembered rows about him, was nearby. This fellow seemed to be inspiring the few remaining giants to rally, and Gord was disconcerted to see that a few more of the monsters were yet uncommitted, hanging back to see if they should fight or flee.

Setting his heels sharply into his warhorse's flanks, Gord rode to attack the giant, his blade held spearlike before him, aiming his course so as to sweep past the verbeeg chieftain and allow the point to drive home. Too busy fending off thrust lances and flashing blades to take the additional threat of a single horseman seriously, the human giant was an easy target for a sword as keen, and an aim as artful, as Gord's.

The impact of delivering the blow spun the young thief sideways, and he almost fell from his seat atop the courser. Only the high cantle of the saddle saved him. The verbeeg was reeling, Gord's sword imbedded in his side but still somehow managing to fight the men before him. Without thinking, Gord vaulted from his steed's back, ran toward the giant, and sprang through the air, leaping high and driving his long, enchanted dagger through the steel plate that protected the chieftain's huge back. The verbeeg gave an awful, bull-like bellow at the attack, then fell dead, for the dagger had struck him a mortal wound.

The skulking remainder of the band was sent flying by well-shot quarrels, and the whole affair was done. Over a score of the company was dead, or soon would die of wounds, and as many were injured. Explosive sounds, deep shouts of giant voices, and then more bangs and crackles sounded from beyond a hill that they would have passed over had the squadrons ridden on unaware of the ambush.

Gord had regained his wits and his sword, found his horse, and remounted. He peered at the hill. Brilliant silvery light sprang up and died as quickly, then a rainbow of jarringly wrong colors shot into the air. An arcing boulder made a momentary appearance in its flight, then fell from vision. More boulders appeared similarly, and their impact could be felt from where Gord watched, as the sound of their crashing and shattering could be heard. With that, the air above the source of these flying stones seemed to become red hot, actually turning a maroon color and shimmering, while waves of tawny flame undulated in it as eels swim in water. Bellowing and titanic howls arose, but no boulders did so.

A full minute elapsed with nothing more. The company was gathering its wounded, readying the horses, stripping (he dead of anything that they, still living, might use. Over the crest of the intervening hill came Curley Greenleaf and his henchmen, riding like the wind although no enemy pursued them.

Gellor galloped his horse pan way out to meet the group. "What happened, Greenleaf, my old friend?" he called as the handful of men brought their horses to a skidding stop. "Are you chased by invisible stalkers and fiends of the ether?"

"Don't attempt poor jests now!" the sweating druid called back. "There must be a hundred hill giants, verbeeg, and ogres back there. We gave them hell, but a couple of bigger ones — probably mountain giants — began tossing rocks at us. We hit them with a lick or two of magic, and that stirred up a hornets' nest. I'd say that there are a dozen of those big bastards back there with the rest."

"What do you think they'll do?" Gellor asked in a worried tone.

"Come boiling after us in a minute!" cried the druid. "Even though we did for a bunch of them, there's more than enough left to do the same for all of us!"

"Then we make a fast detour to the west," the one-eyed man said laconically. He waved to the surviving members of the company to follow, and then trotted his horse to the left, angling slightly southward and bringing the animal to a faster pace as he reached the head of the column that had formed. Gord, Greenleaf, and the rest spurred their mounts to catch up, for huge heads were appearing on the hill crest — giant heads. The rest would soon follow, and not one of the men cared to stay and see if the creatures in this horde were interested in surrendering.