The Gully Dwarves Page 8

  They say the Fang of Orm is not dead, but only asleep, and there remains a bond between the fang and its original possessor. When awakened, the relic still sends its ancient signal, and on some inconceivable plane of reality the creature from which it was torn still seeks it.

  * * * * *

  The man called Graywing crept silently from boulder to cleft, approaching the naked granite sheer that was the top of a shattered ridge. His senses were pitched to the windy crest, his eyes missing nothing as he moved, his ears sorting out the whispers of wandering wind and the calls of hunting birds soaring high above, his nostrils searching for any slightest scent that might betray enemy presence.

  Such scrutiny was nothing new to Graywing. For most of his life, it seemed, daily survival had depended upon knowing who or what was near, before who or what discovered him. Descendant of Cobar plainsmen, he had come of age fighting Empiremen on the plains east of the Kharolis, then followed Falcon Whitefeather and the elf Pirouenne in their assault on Fe-Tateen.

  Partly through his skill in guerilla combat, but mostly, he felt, through sheer luck, Graywing had become a captain of assault forces with the Palanthan Armies at Throt-Akaan.

  Then that war, which settled many disputes in the northern greatlands, had ended. And now Graywing, like thousands of others whose entire experience was in battle, found himself hiring out as a lone mercenary. Hundreds of little wars had sprung up in the shambles of the great conflict, and there was plenty of employment. Men he had known for years now met on a hundred fields of battle, trying to kill one another for the wages paid by petty realms.

  At least, he thought, I still can choose my jobs.

  Somehow, the idea of doing battle for wages had never appealed to him. So he lived these days, as now, hiring out as guide and bodyguard for travelers.

  At the crest of the ridge he crept to the lip of a stone outcrop and looked beyond. A wide, fertile valley lay before him, a valley that should be lush with ripening fields and rich orchards. Instead, as far as he could see along the lower slopes there were wisps of smoke—smoke from hundreds of separate campfires where little groups of armed men sat idle, waiting for orders. Beyond, in the distance, a squat fortress stood on a hill, and above it, too, hung the smoke of waiting.

  Graywing’s thick, corn silk beard twitched as his lip curled in a sneer. Blood would flow in this valley soon, and most of it would be the blood of fighters not personally involved in whatever conflict was growing here. Those who would bleed and die were mostly just men like himself, veterans with no skill but arms and no trade but war, men who would die for a few coins.

  For long moments he studied the scene, practiced eyes seeking a route through the cordon of warriors. Then he backed out of sight, turned and looked to his own back trail. Again a sneer of distaste curled his lip. His employer was part of all this, of course. Clonogh was some sort of courier, he gathered. His destination was that fortress out there, and Graywing’s job was to take him, and whatever secret thing he carried, there safely.

  He didn’t want to know any more than that about it, but he would be glad when it was done. Something about the courier made Graywing feel a little clammy. Whether it was the man’s furtive manner—like a ferret slinking toward its prey, never straight forward but always at a deceptive angle—or possibly in the way the man’s face seemed always hidden by the cowl of his dark cloak, or possibly the edgy, nervous way he guarded that leather pouch slung to his shoulder, Graywing didn’t know.

  It was as though Clonogh were a relic of another time—a lost, insane age when mages were everywhere and sorcery ran rampant on Krynn. Graywing didn’t know whether Clonogh might be a secret sorcerer, but there was a quality about the man that raised his hackles.

  He simply did not care for Clonogh. He would be glad to be rid of him when this journey was done.

  Now, carefully, he made his way back to the crevice where he had left his employer. “There is a route through the cordon,” he said, “but it won’t be easy. There are sentries, and a dozen places where ambush would be easy. Suppose we have to fight? How are you armed?”

  “You are armed,” the hooded figure indicated the long sword at Graywing’s shoulder. “I pay you for your skills, and for your sword as well,” Clonogh said, his face a shadow within shadows. “You are my guide, and my protection.”

  “Fine,” Graywing rasped. “If we run into trouble, it’s all up to me. Is that how it is?”

  “I pay you well enough,” Clonogh purred. He picked up his walking stick—a fine, short staff of intricately carved ivory, slightly curved and delicately tapered—and got to his feet, hugging his leather pouch close to his side with a protective elbow. “I expect you to do your job.”

  Chapter 11

  A Tall Order

  With his headquarters no longer habitable because of rampant pyrite mining, His Bumptiousness Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Choice and Lord Protector of This Place and Anyplace Else he Happened to Notice, had moved his seat of leadership to an abandoned cistern behind the steeple tower of This Place. He was there, dozing on that ample seat, when Scrib brought Bron to volunteer for duty.

  It wasn’t Bron’s idea. In fact, he had no idea what the idea was. Scrib had found him and said, “c’mon, le’s go see Highbulp,” and Bron had followed obligingly.

  The descent to the bottom of the cistern was a bit harrowing, as the main access—a spiral of stone steps leading downward around the shaft—was temporarily blocked by throngs of gully dwarves with piles of rubble on every step. They were cleaning the gleaming baubles from the lesser stuff by smashing the ore with stones and throwing the rubble from the walls, to be picked up at the bottom after gravity had separated the trinkets from the chaff.

  So Bron took the direct path, straight down the vertiginous wall. Scrib lost his hold on the wall twice, but Bron caught him both times. The second time, the muscular young Aghar flopped his teacher over his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way.

  He still had Scrib on his shoulder, muttering and squirming, when he entered the august presence of Glitch the Most. Glitch was sound asleep, and beginning to snore. Respectfully, Bron pushed through the throng of gully dwarves gathering pyrite and kicked dust in his father’s face to wake him up. The Highbulp snorted, opened grumpy eyes and raised his head. “What you want, Dad?” asked Bron.

  “Want?” Glitch blinked his eyes, and squinted. “Me?”

  “Yep. You. What you want?”

  “Leggo my foot!” Scrib hissed behind him, squirming upside down in the younger gully dwarf’s grip. “Lemme go!”

  “Want stew, I guess,” the Highbulp decided. “An’ maybe a few fried snails.”

  “Okay,” Bron said. He turned away and Scrib pounded on his back.

  “Not why we came!” Scrib shouted, “Bron, leggo! S’pose to report for duty, not for stew!”

  Confused, Bron stopped and dropped Scrib, who landed headfirst on the sandy stone floor. Bron turned and looked down at him. “Report for duty? What duty?”

  Nearby, the Lady Lidda noticed the exchange and went to get Glitch some stew. If the Highbulp didn’t get stew when he asked for stew, he tended to sulk.

  “Highbulp need a scout,” Scrib said, getting his feet under him.

  Glitch blinked again. “I do? What for?”

  “For see why Talls keep goin’ over This Place, up there,” Scrib reminded his lord and master. “Pay ’tention, dummy!”

  “Oh,” Glitch said, sagely. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what Scrib was talking about.

  “That’n easy,” Bron told his mentor. “Talls go ’cross up there ’Cause that where bridge is.”

  “Talls up to somethin’!” Scrib said. “Ought to find out what.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “How find out what?”

  “Find out what?” Glitch asked.

  “Somebody go see,” Scrib explained to Bron.

  “Oh.” Bron scratched his head, then nodded. “Okay. Go �
��head an’ see.”

  “Go see what?” Glitch demanded.

  “Not me.” Scrib shook his head vigorously. “Bron go.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?” Glitch roared, bringing all the gully dwarf activity in the place to a screeching halt.

  “Why not Bron go look at Talls?” Scrib explained. “Highbulp say go look at Talls, see what goin’ on. Right, Highbulp?”

  “Right,” Glitch said, nodding. “Why?”

  “Somebody ought to,” Scrib pursued. “Highbulp say Bron go. Right?”

  “Right, Bron go look at Talls.”

  “Already saw Talls,” Bron reminded them. “See ’em alla time on bridge.”

  “But where Talls goin’?” Scrib pressed, becoming red in the face.

  “Dunno,” Bron answered. “Wan’ me go see?”

  Glitch had had enough. “Go see where Talls go!” he commanded.

  “Okay,” Bron said.

  “Okay,” several others nearby echoed.

  Bron headed for the cistern wall, followed by dozens of other gully dwarves. Those who made it to the top on the first try trekked off toward the far side of the canyon and points beyond. The things they carried with them were whatever they’d had in hand when the order came to leave—a bag of mushrooms, a gourd, some rocks, a dead lizard, an extra shoe, and various other prizes.

  Those who didn’t make it up the wall simply forgot about it and found other things to do.

  At the creek below This Place, Bron and his followers passed a gaggle of females more or less washing things. The wash included various utensils, implements, babies and garments, and the Grand Notioner, who protested loudly as several females scrubbed him down, immersing him repeatedly in the process. Gandy was very old and very wise, but some of the ladies had taken it upon themselves to see that he was bathed now and then, whether he needed it or not.

  Pert was among the crowd washing clothes. At the sight of Bron she dropped the bit of fabric she was scrubbing, and stood. The garment, forgotten, floated away downstream. “Where Bron goin’?” she asked.

  “Gotta look at Talls,” Bron pointed eastward. “Highbulp say see where they go.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Highbulp not real clear ’bout that.”

  “Highbulp not real clear ’bout anything,” she observed.

  “Right,” he said. “Have nice day.” With that he waded into the creek, heading for the other side. The creek was fairly deep midstream, and a number of Bron’s sturdy troop went bobbing away downstream, scrambling for someplace to land. But he still had quite a few with him when he waded up the far bank, climbed the canyon wall there and set off cross-country in the direction the bridge road followed. In the distance ahead were low peaks, with a higher ridge beyond.

  Most of them had no idea where they were going, and none of them knew why, but they were all true gully dwarves. Once set on a course, they would follow that course until either someone told them to stop or something more interesting came along. The strongest driving force of any Aghar was simple inertia.

  * * * * *

  That night, they rested in a shallow cave, making a meal of one scrawny lizard and various roots and berries gathered along the way.

  “We a pretty good scout bunch, Bron. Lot of us here,” said the one named Tag.

  “Yep,” Bron agreed. “Two.”

  “Where we goin’?” Tag wondered.

  “Gotta look at Talls,” Bron explained. “Anybody see any Talls?”

  “Not lately,” several of them said.

  “Well, we keep lookin’.” Chewing a root, Bron frowned. “Oughtta get rats,” he mused. “Could make stew with rats.”

  “Saw a rat,” one of them said. “Couldn’ catch it, though. Need a bashin’ tool.”

  “Maybe find a bashin’ tool someplace,” Bron decided. With that resolved, he lay back, curled himself comfortably and went to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  The Bashing Tool

  Dartimien the Cat raised his head an inch as birds erupted from a treetop a quarter mile up the trail. Concealed in high brush, as nearly invisible as any human could be without the use of magic, he studied the slopes above, only his dark eyes moving. A red fox, its big ears twitching with caution, crept from the shelter of a deadfall log and froze in place, its eyes and nose testing the surroundings. Then, satisfied that it was alone, it scurried past within arm’s reach of the hidden man, unaware that he was there.

  Dartimien saw it pass. He saw everything, from the slightest tremor of pine needles to the wheeling of a hawk in the distant sky. But he wasn’t interested in foxes, hawks or pines. He was looking for people, and the birds up-trail had told him where those people were.

  With a slight movement of his hand he signaled the four Gelnian assassins in cover behind him to be alert, and be silent. Their prey was near.

  Dartimien the Cat was good at his work. A product of the teeming, squalid back streets of South Daltigoth, he had earned his nickname before he was eight years old. Like a hungry cat, he knew every back alley and crawlway, every sewer and garbage heap, and every loose shutter or broken lock within a mile. Fleet of foot, quick and lithe despite the hunger that was his constant companion as a child, he was as crafty and elusive as a stray cat, and so they had called him.

  His skills had been expanded by a time of servitude to Ergothian fur hunters in the wilds of Bal-Maire, and by the time of the Great Turmoil he was a prime candidate for service as a nightraider in the Caergoth Legion.

  Now, like countless others—almost a brotherhood of mercenaries—he did what he did best, in order to live. He was Dartimien the Cat—a hunter. He hunted.

  From what he deduced, the Tarmites—those in the citadel out there in the valley—had found something to help them against the forces of Gelnia. An artifact of great magic, the rumors held. Whatever it was, they were waiting for its arrival. But to arrive, it first had to be smuggled through the Gelnian blockade. The purpose of the assassins was to find the smuggler and stop him. And Dartimien’s job was to help them do that.

  How many ways were there into the Vale of Sunder? Seven or eight, he guessed. Therefore, there must be ambush squads on that many separate trails, and there must be someone like him with each squad, to be its eyes and ears. But none of that mattered to him. This trail was his, and the birds told him that he was in the right place. Within minutes, he should see movement at the bend directly above, and then he would know how many there were for the ambushers to deal with, He would know, too, whether they had pack animals and, knowing that, he would know exactly where they would pass, and when.

  He waited, counting heartbeats, and then there was movement above—exactly where he had known it would be. It was gone in an instant, but Dartimien the Cat had seen what he needed to see. He eased back through the brush, and turned.

  “Two men,” he said. “Both afoot. No escort, no animals. Follow me, silently, if you can! I’ll show you where to wait.”

  “Where will you be?” a scar-faced veteran demanded. Like the others, like most of Chatara Kral’s forces, the man looked out of place in the Gelnian colors he wore. “Can we count on those daggers of yours to—”

  “Count on nothing,” Dartimien snapped. “I hired on to lead you to a smuggler. That’s all. What you do with him is no concern of mine. Now pay me.”

  “We haven’t caught him yet,” the Gelnian said. “You get paid when the job is done.”

  “I get paid now,” the Cat purred. “If you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have hired me.”

  “Then you can blasted well trust us, too!”

  “No, I can’t,” Dartimien said, smiling. “And you know it.”

  With a muttered oath, the Gelnian slapped a handful of arrowheads down in front of him. They were fine, dwarven-crafted points, made of tempered nickel-iron steel—a better currency in trade than the coin of any realm. Dartimien picked them up, counted them,
and put them away.

  “As agreed,” he said. “Now follow me. I won’t give you your smuggler, but I’ll show you where to get him for yourselves.”

  * * * * *

  On the downward trail leading into the Vale of Sunder, Graywing called a momentary halt and crept forward alone to get the lay of the land. The trail ahead wound downward, in and out of stretches of forest so that only a turn here and there was visible to indicate the general direction of it.

  The slopes in both directions were infested with Gelnians. Smoke from their many campsites hung like banners against the sky, and Graywing knew that there was other smoke as well. The blockade of Tarmish was strengthened by countless warriors of every ilk in the pay of the Gelnian regency. He had seen some of them on the roads leading toward the Vale. There were little bands of painted sackmen festooned with their deadly feathered darts, Abanasinian archers, swordsmen and mace-wielders from Estwilde and Nordmaar, little units of Nerakan infantry, plainsland horsemen of a dozen tribes and, among them, here and there, squads of Solamnic heavy cavalry, gaudy with armor and lance. Some still wore the raiment of knighthood, though reduced by circumstance now to the true first rule of chivalry: survive at any cost.

  The orders of knighthood still lived in Solamnia, but there were few vacancies. Most “knights” now were free-lance fighters.

  Graywing studied the smoke, and knew the placement of troops, but it was not those he could see that worried him. It was those he could not see, but knew were there, the Gelnian sentries and ambushers who would be lying in wait for any who tried to pass between the camps.

  Tall and lithe in buckskins and soft boots, his great sword slung at his back with its hilt at his shoulder, Graywing at work was the very picture of the classic Cobar warrior. All that was lacking was his horse. The picture was not deceptive. With plainsman’s eyes now, he studied the trail ahead and knew its secrets.

  Once on the open valley floor, they would be past the blockade. From there, swift feet and a little luck would carry them to the Tarmite stronghold. But here on the slopes, cunning was required.