The Gully Dwarves Page 7

“Before yesterday, somebody make all places,” Scrib mused aloud, not really caring whether anybody was listening or not. “Rocks an’ dribbles, leafs an’ hills, mud an’ holes … Somebody make all this stuff be. Even make sky, prob’ly Somebody say, ‘be sky,’ an’ sure ’nough, there sky is.”

  Around him his students shuffled their feet and one snapped, “So what? Who needs sky?”

  “Gotta have sky,” Scrib explained, straining at the concept. “All places under sky. ’thout sky, no place for places be under.”

  Impressed with his own logic, Scrib squinted fiercely and wished that somebody might somehow remember what he had just said, so that somebody could repeat it back to him later. He knew he wasn’t likely to stumble upon that bit of exquisite wisdom again.

  As usual when he felt the need to teach, Scrib stood on a high place with his students gathered around him. Today’s high place was a half-buried boulder in a marshy clearing, near the old Tall ruins that the tribe was occupying at the moment. The boulder was a good choice. A previous gathering, just the day before, had been dismissed early when it turned out that Scrib’s rostrum was an active anthill.

  The “students,” as usual, were a dozen or so other gully dwarves who were here because they had nothing better to do at the moment.

  Now one of them—a muscular young Aghar named Bron, who was usually in charge of the legendary Great Stew Bowl and, Scrib recalled vaguely, was related to somebody important—raised a tentative hand. “All that happen before yesterday?”

  “Yep,” Scrib said with a nod. “Sky, places, everything, all made before yesterday.”

  “How long before yesterday?”

  Scrib screwed up his straggly-bearded face in thought. “Long time,” he decided. “Yesterday before yesterday. Long time ago.”

  “What was long time ago?” a curly-bearded citizen named Pook asked.

  “Long time ago somebody make everything,” Scrib repeated patiently. He had noticed that some people’s attention spans were shorter than others.

  “Who did?” Pook wondered.

  “Somebody,” Scrib emphasized.

  “Somebody do all that?” Bron pursued, skeptically. “Make everything? Places, sky, turtles? Even us?”

  “Yep. Somebody.”

  Bron was on a roll now. “Make things, too? Like rats an’ trees an’ stew pots? An’ … an’ mushrooms an’ bashin’ tools … an’ dragons an’ bugs?”

  “Yep,” Scrib assured him. “Make ever’thing, make ever’body.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno,” Scrib admitted. Of all the questions he sometimes heard, that was the toughest one. “Don’ make much sense, does it?”

  “Somebody pretty dumb, do all that for no reason,” another student pointed out. This one was a young female named Pert, one of his regulars. Students came and went, and Scrib never knew who or how many might show up when he began a talk-and-tell. Participation in a talk-and-tell group required thought, and thinking was not high on most Aghars’ lists of things to do.

  But Bron and Pert, and a varying gaggle of others, were there more often than not, and Scrib sometimes felt gratified at their interest. Being a philosopher, probably the only philosopher the tribe of Bulp had ever had, unless one counted the Grand Notioner, was a tough job no matter how you mashed it. But being a philosopher alone would have been worse.

  He didn’t think of himself as a philosopher, of course. Being only a gully dwarf, he wouldn’t have known what such a word meant, or even how to pronounce it. But he was obviously different from most of those around him. All his life, it seemed, he had been mystified by the things that others seemed to take for granted—like why is fire hot, and how come you fall down if you lift both feet at the same time, and what makes salted slugs become grumpy.

  Then, one day, during the tribe’s migration from That Place, which had been This Place until they left it, to the present This Place, which they hadn’t found yet, they were filing across an ancient rope-bound bridge that spanned a wide chasm. The bottom of the chasm was full of ruined, abandoned buildings. Talls had lived in them once, but they were gone now.

  They hadn’t meant to stop. Once they were on the move, it was the way of all Aghar to not stop until the Highbulp said “stop,” and the Highbulp was asleep at the time. Several sturdy gully dwarves had tied a rope around him, run a pole through the rope, and were thus carrying him while he slept.

  But just below the dilapidated bridge was the crumbling shell of a large building with a daggerlike gold spire that still stood, its point only a few feet below the bridge.

  Scrib had leaned over the side for a better look. The next thing he knew, he was dangling from the peak of the gold spire, which had pierced his flapping turkey-skin cloak when he fell.

  It took them most of a day to rescue Scrib, and the Highbulp griped at him when he woke up. But in the process of un-skewering Scrib, they had explored the old village and found a lot of good tunnels and seeps, and a plentiful population of vermin. The Highbulp walked around, peering here and there while old Gandy trailed after him, and decided that this place was as good a This Place as anyplace else might be.

  It had turned out, in fact, to be an excellent This Place. There were holes to scurry into, and water no worse than anyplace else they had been, and for the foragers there were nearby fields and caves where green things, yellow things and mushrooms could be found. The only serious drawbacks were frequent lightning storms, an occasional thundering herd of Talls crossing the bridge, and a one-eyed ogre who lived somewhere nearby and was thus a blight on the neighborhood.

  All things considered, though, this place was a pretty good This Place, and it was Scrib’s inadvertence that had led them to find it.

  From that day, Scrib had been a changed gully dwarf. Life is like a bridge, he felt. Those who cross it without stopping to look wind up living somewhere else. He wasn’t at all sure what that meant, but it sounded very wise. And where an idea that good and that persistent dwelt, there might be a clue as to how ideas can be leashed.

  It was up to him, he decided, to expose his people to the wonders around them, and maybe to show some others how to do the same thing so he could take a nap now and then. Thus it was Scrib who, to the best of his ability, was leading the tribe of Bulp toward the light of reason.

  Scrib had been spired.

  “Somebody make everything,” he continued now, ignoring Pert’s low opinion of the grand maker. “Bound to be a reason. Somebody got somethin’ in mind. Somebody make us, too, so must be a reason for us. Maybe that somebody our leader.”

  “Highbulp our leader,” Bron pointed out.

  “Highbulp really dumb,” Pert said. “Nuisance most times, an’ other times he snores. Highbulp nothin’ but a worthless twit.”

  “Yep,” Bron agreed cheerfully, “that Glitch alright. Glitch th’ Most. Glitch Dragonbasher, my dear ol’ Dad. Pretty good leader.”

  “Only when Lady Lidda runnin’ things,” Pert snapped.

  Unperturbed, Scrib spread his hands, holding them before him about three inches apart. “Highbulp great leader like this,” he explained. “But Highbulp never make anything ’cept noise an’ messes. Maybe somebody leader like this.” He spread his hands to arm’s length. “Big leader, maybe.”

  One of the students shook his head. “If we got leader that big, how come I never notice him aroun’?”

  “You got me, there,” Scrib admitted. The strain of thinking was beginning to wear him down. He decided they had accomplished enough for today. “That about it,” he said. “Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Pook, raising his hand. “When we gonna eat?”

  At that moment an alarmed voice somewhere near shouted, “Incomin’! Run like crazy!”

  Scrib bounded from his boulder and headed for shelter with his assembly at his heels. In a moment the clearing was deserted except for a little cloud of dust and three gully dwarves—one whom had tripped on a root and two others who had tripped over him. They righte
d themselves and scrambled for safety.

  From a hole in a clay bank, Bron peeped out. From the canyon walls above the ruined town came a low, rolling thunder, then Talls on horses appeared—a solid mass of armored humans astride great beasts, charging down on the rickety old bridge. There were dozens of them.

  Just behind Bron, Pert crawled forward, trying to see for herself what was going on. But she was blocked from the entrance by his stocky shoulders. “Talls again?” she asked. Bron nodded, a gesture that was lost on her because she couldn’t see his head. She found a stiff twig and poked him in the ribs with it. “Talls again?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, Talls,” he grunted. “Same as usual.”

  “How many?” Pert demanded.

  “Two,” he said. “Quit that!”

  The armored charge across the old bridge was a drumroll of harsh sound, echoing down the canyon. But it didn’t last long. Within moments the humans and their horses had passed, and were gone beyond the south rim. By ones, threes and fives, gully dwarves crept from hiding all along the canyon’s floor, and went back to what they had been doing.

  The occasional charge of mounted, armored men across the bridge above them had become an accepted occurrence in This Place. Nobody had any idea of who these Talls were, or why they kept galloping over This Place, but it had become just another mystery in a world full of mysteries. When it happened, everybody panicked instantly and dived for cover. But when it was over they stopped worrying about it.

  Out of sight, out of mind—it was the way of gully dwarves.

  It was something that Scrib had pondered on occasion, though. He accepted that armed hordes of formidable creatures might go thundering by above him now and then. But when it began happening every day or so, he couldn’t help but wonder. And now he had an inspiration: maybe someone should go and see who those people were and what they were doing. Squaring his shoulders with determination, Scrib went in search of Gandy. Maybe the Grand Notioner would have a notion about how to solve this mystery.

  His trek up the canyon was interrupted almost before it began. The third building on the row facing the little stream still had a roof of sorts, and Glitch the Most, great Highbulp and Lord Protector of everybody who mattered, had made it his headquarters. Usually, that just meant that he slept there. But now the building was the scene of bustling activity.

  Someone, it seemed, had found a crack in the rear foundation, and squeezed through looking for rats. Instead of rats, though, the explorer had found an old runnel, barely a foot wide, which led deep into the mountainside and emerged somewhere beyond at the bottom of a sinkhole.

  It was a great discovery, and not to be ignored. Now at least half the tribe was gathered around, and there was some serious mining going on in there. Gully dwarves trooped in and out of the building, carrying out loads of broken stone and delved clay, while others within delved the fissure, widening it so that the pudgy Highbulp could get through to see what was beyond.

  While supervising the project, Glitch the Most had gone to sleep and now lay curled up and snoring, right in the old doorway. The lines of miners going in and out bobbled there as each miner either jumped over their glorious leader or simply climbed him and stepped down on the other side.

  But just as Scrib passed, Glitch turned over in his sleep. Two or three miners in transit tumbled through the portal and bumped into those immediately beyond. These in turned collided with others around them, and a moment later Scrib lay facedown in front of the house with a large number of gully dwarves piled on top of him.

  “Rats,” he muttered, finally getting to his feet after the pileup was cleared. He had been on his way to see the Grand Notioner, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he wanted to see him about. So, having nothing better to do, he followed his nose into headquarters. Stew was being prepared, stew so fresh that some of its contents were still squirming.

  Someone working in the tunnel had discovered a vein of pyrite, and the miners now were veering off into a new shaft in pursuit of shiny rocks. In honor of the occasion, the Lady Lidda had ordered the legendary Great Stew Bowl brought out.

  The Great Stew Bowl was rarely used, because it was more than two feet wide, and made of solid iron. Just moving it from place to place required two or three ordinary Aghar, though a few among them—notably Bron—could carry the thing rather easily. For that reason, Bron was usually in charge of the Great Stew Bowl, and the reason Bron was as strong as he was may have been that he routinely carried the Great Stew Bowl when the tribe migrated from one This Place to another This Place.

  But the discovery of pyrite was a special occasion, and the big, shallow bowl had been wrestled to a cook fire, where it brimmed now with bubbling, squirming delicacies.

  It was two days later, when another thundering horde of humans rattled across the old bridge, that Scrib remembered his idea. Someone should go and find out what that was all about. Again he went in search of the Grand Notioner.

  Chapter 10

  The Fang of Orm

  The Thousand Years War, so called because a former ruler of Gelnians—King Systole—had vowed that his people would fight for a thousand years rather than submit to the rule of the Grand Megak of Tarmish, was in its ninth year when the War of the Lance superseded it.

  Dragons had ruled the skies through those dark times, and great armies had swept through every land—armies of humans, armies of elves, armies of dwarves and armies that were difficult to classify. Some in each land were followers of the Highlords and their dragons, recruited to supplement the draconian armies of the goddess Takhisis. But others had arisen in every land to combat the legions of lizardlike creatures that were the shock troops of the evil goddess. It had been a time of mighty battles, of starvation and desperation, a time fraught with great magic and devastation. And it had gone on for years.

  But finally it was over. Wandering skalds and warbling bards proclaimed that the Dark Queen had retreated in defeat, had turned her back on the world she had ruined, and though there still were dragons here and there, no longer were they directed toward a common cause.

  There came years of turmoil, times when empires arose and fell like mullet jumping from a stream. Hordes of homeless, rootless refugees had swarmed across the lands, and nothing was safe, anywhere. The wild, fanatic hordes of yesterday were replaced by a new breed of adventurers—mercenary warriors at the bidding of any who could afford their wages.

  Organized insanity across a ravaged world replaced the random insanity of the turmoil. Now the war was a different kind of war. Both Tarmish and Gelnia had new rulers, and these were people unlike the kings and megaks of old. Somehow, during the chaos following the War of the Lance, both dominions had been infiltrated and claimed by outsiders. In both realms the old dynasties still were evident, but now they were no more than puppets.

  Dominated now by a mysterious figure known as Lord Vulpin, the Tarmites had resurrected their threadbare Grand Megak from a foul cellar somewhere and put him back on his throne at Tarmish. The Gelnians, too, had a different ruler. Chatara Kral, a woman of mysterious background who had come with a private army of mercenary soldiers, named herself as regent over Gelnia. One thing remained as it had been, though. Tarmish and Gelnia, under whatever rule, refused to tolerate the existence of the other. The Vale of Sunder was back to business as usual: all-out war.

  The origins of the disagreement between the city-state of Tarmish and the land surrounding it were lost in antiquity, but not the passions of it. Few wanderers through this land could tell a Tarmite from a Gelnian. They were the same kind of humans, cut from the same cloth. They spoke the same idioms, worshipped by the same rituals and claimed the same ancient ancestry, though each denied that the other had any such claim. Many were, indeed, related to one another by blood and marriage. Yet they were the bitterest of enemies.

  Gelnian and Tarmite, neither would tolerate the other. And, as always, the flames of hatred were fanned by those who stood to gain. Always, in every
land, there were those to whom conflict was the path to power and riches. Behind the tottering Grand Megak of Tarmish, like a towering dark shadow, stood Lord Vulpin, his hand in every intrigue, his thumb on every pulse, dreams of empire swirling in his cunning mind. And among the Gelnians, it was Chatara Kral who guided destinies now, as ward-regent to the infant Prince Quarls.

  The origins of Vulpin and Chatara Kral were obscure. There were whispers in surrounding lands that the two were in fact brother and sister—the spawn of the evil Lord Verminaard, a Dragon Highlord of the recent War of the Lance. But in their own domains, nobody knew or dared to question where either of them came from or why they were here. It was enough, for most, that they spoke to the ancient hatreds of the region.

  Now they faced off for control of all of Sunder. Vulpin stood in his tower overlooking the fortress of Tarmish, Chatara Kral amassed armies of Gelnians and mercenaries in the hills around. For months the Vale had seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the clash.

  It was a standoff, a time of waiting. But Vulpin had made use of the time. Useful artifacts remained from the mighty war, and he had sent agents in search of such things. Even now, one such relic was on its way to him … if one called Clonogh could spirit it through the Gelnian blockade.

  Among the secret documents of Krynn was a collection of scrolls, some very ancient, concerning a relic sometimes called Viperis, sometimes Wishmaker, and most often the Fang of Orm.

  The scrolls once rested in the tombs of Istar, but somehow survived the Cataclysm and found their way to Neraka, and thence to Palanthas. Their last known resting place, prior to the War of the Lance, was the stone vault of the wizard Karathis, who sought immortality through the vesting of arcane powers upon the ambitious in exchange for portions of their lives.

  The scrolls disappeared when Karathis was murdered by one of his customers, but their contents were known to the wizard’s acolytes. They told of the Fang of Orm.

  They say the fang grants wishes, but only for the truly innocent. And in granting wishes, the fang brings doom to its holder.