Several times during the next few hours Gord had to scramble madly up a nearby tree in order to avoid other dangerous creatures not accustomed to having a panther intrude on their domain. Not being certain that his immunity to weapons extended to the tusks of a boar or the jaws of a savage brown bear, Gord took flight as the wiser course. He could not run for long periods, but there were many areas where he could safely rest. Luck seemed to ride with him too. He had caught one of the giant squirrels busy eating fungi, made a fast (and delicious) meal of it, and was taking a catnap in the leafy crotch of a galda tree when a dozen bugbears padded past as quietly as great cats.

These giant goblins were heading west and seemed to be no part of the humanoid party still several miles ahead. Gord watched through glowing, green panther eyes as the humanoids passed, and the bugbears never realized he was there. Could these big goblins have actually hurt him? Gord wasn't interested in finding out unless he had to. Another time he was taking a drink from a stream when his feline mind seemed uneasy, so Gord allowed it to have its way without seeking to interpret the cause of the tension. The panther jumped and spat, just avoiding the strike of a huge adder that was lurking at the bank of the watercourse, waiting for unwary prey.

It took the whole day for him to catch up with the collection of humanoids and renegade humans traveling toward the realm of Iuz. The company had halted to rest and forage for food. Gord restrained the cat-urge to attack the losels he saw. He went wide around them and ahead of the humanoids again. No attacks this time, he reasoned. He would see if the dwarf could be lulled into a sense of security and safety, then he would strike.

Then an idea came to him that satisfied both man and panther. He lay in wait and eventually saw a man venture forth to answer the call of nature. Gord wondered why he would go so far from his fellows so close to dark. The brigand drew out a large flask and swigged great gulps of its contents. That explained that. He was a lone drinker who did not care to share his liquor with his associates.

The panther leaped upon the unsuspecting outlaw and tore out his throat before the fellow knew he had been attacked. Gord was appalled at his desire to strike thus, and the panther mind was repulsed at the reek of alcohol and the foul stench of the man. They compromised. Panther carried corpse into a tree and hid it, and man assumed the guise of brigand, using the fellow's cloak as a disguise.

As he returned to his own form it suddenly occurred to Gord that the shape-shift ing was no longer a dreaded thing. The day of integration between cat and man had been beneficial. It made him realize that he had thought in cat-fashion, or as close as a human could come to thinking thus, as long as he could remember. Certainly, when he walked slender lines, balanced on roof ridges, and ran along eaves he was feline, just as his burglar appellation, Blackcat, attested. He could now shift from man to cat and back without hesitation or reservation. There was no sense of ill or unnaturalness in so doing. This made Gord glad, for he had no choice in the matter anyway.

As Gord walked into the encampment, he was surprised at the disordered nature of affairs. When he had spied upon it previously, the dwarven leader had kept order and discipline. But this time Obmi had allowed things to slip. The place was in chaos.

"Whazzup, pal?" a drunken bandit asked as he staggered past Gord to relieve himself against a nearby tree.

"Ah… nothin', pal… Got any sauce?"

The fellow leered at Gord, patted a half-full skin slung around his shoulder, and slurred, "Yep, but I ain't sharin' it unless ya got some ta split with yer ol' pal!" And he emphasized just who the "ol’ pal" was by striking himself hard enough on the chest to send himself stumbling backward a couple of steps.

"Say, I don't rec'nizeya… Waz yer name, anyway?" he said, then laughed at his own joke. "Ya get it? Anyway!" He reeled and laughed more. "I sure wish I could get some, an' I'll take it anyway. Arr, har, har!"

"What?" asked the young thief, confused.

"Who gives a pinch o' coon-crap anyway, Anyway? I be Tick, an' damned happy to meet a man who's got balls enough to admit he'll get it anyway. What outfit ya with, Anyway?"

Gord relaxed. This sot was so stupid with booze that he had asked a question and interpreted it as Gord's name. The dolt was calling him "Anyway" thinking it was his name… Gord realized that this very drunken fellow was his ticket into the camp without questions being asked. Gord handed him the flask he had taken from his earlier victim, watching to see if the brigand called Tick would recognize it. Tick merely took it and swilled brandy.

"Grea' stuff! Both Galley and Pegger got bottles, too… Hey, ya seen ol' Pegger 'round here? He wen' out to take a dump, an I'll bet the wild hogs ate 'im. Ahar, har, arrh!"

"Nah, I ain't seen neither of them," Gord said. "How come the camp is so relaxed tonight? Yesterday it was all that spit-and-polish bit, and now old Obmi's let up on us. You know why?"

Tick puzzled over that a moment, helping himself to think by taking another pull from the flask of fiery liquor. "That buggerin' li'l dwarf is a mean un, an' who can tell what's goin' through that dirty dwarf mind he's got. Yesserday he wuz a jabberin' and cursin' and bossin' us about all the time. Today he jes' sits on his horse and don't talk at all, an' now he's holed up in his fancy-assed tent and lettin' us have some fun for a change… Hey, what's yer outfit again?"

"Loner – just came in and signed up with that skinny elf called Keak."

"Thass funny, I don' recall any loners bein' taken on…"

Gord put his arm around Tick's shoulders. "Come on, old pal! Let's go and see if maybe Keak can explain it to you."

The outlaw jerked away as if Gord were a leper. "You full of crap, boy! I ain't goin' nowhere near that crazy li'l elf bastard. He's yer boss, you go an' talk to "im," Drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, the drunken brigand staggered away, anxious to find better company. Gord let him go. Before he'd gone adozen steps, however, Tick turned and came back.

"Wait a sec, chum! Keak rode off this mornin' with that creepy half-orc priest! Whattin hell ya sayin'?"

Trouble! Drunk as he was, the outlaw was suspicious and not about to let this statement pass as he had the rest. Gord thought fast. "Damn, Tick, yer right! That brandy is potent stuff – want another swig?"

Suspicious or not, Tick couldn't pass that up. "Okay, an' then you an' me better see Cap'n Sawtooth an' get things strai – "

Gord hit him solidly over the head with the pommel of his dagger, and the brigand collapsed without a sound. The brandy spilled out over him, and Gord let him lay where he was. Passed out in drunken stupor from all appearances, Tick would sleep for hours. Gord doubted anyone in the camp would be interested. There was already sufficient commotion to awaken the dead. Singing and shouting, arguing and fighting, and all the rest of the things typical of a disorganized collection of brigands and humanoids, met for a rollicking good time. Something was certainly wrong!

Gord approached the command tent. A motley collection of men and humanoids surrounded it at a distance of about ten paces. A bugbear challenged him in barely intelligible Common speech.

"Get yer ass outta here, man! Not even a dog passes here!"

Putting on his most ferocious scowl, Gord faced the humanoid thing, glaring a challenge up at the towering form. "Yer ass, hairy! Cap'n Sawtooth sent me with a message for Obmi, personal-like."

"Gimme the message, and I'll pass it on," the bugbear said with a truculent sneer.

"Crap too, dumb-ass. Ya think the cap'n wants a big jerk like you knowing important information for the boss?"