The Gully Dwarves

Chapter 12

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.

There, his eyes selected a forested crest overshadowing the faint path and there, and there … If assassins lurked, those were the places they might be found.

The most likely ambuscades he discounted. The Gelnians would know that Tarmish awaited outside aid, and they would assume that someone like him-someone the equal of their own best mercenaries-would be with those trying to get through. Therefore, the place of ambush would be selected by a specialist.

His eyes narrowed as he spotted the rock spur only a quarter of a mile away, an innocent-looking little rise beside the trail, so low and innocuous that no one would suspect an ambush there. If assassins awaited, that was where they would be.

Retrieving Clonogh, Graywing headed down the trail, the hooded courier following close behind him, his ivory stick now thrust through his waistband at Graywing’s command. The stick’s faint tapping could alert enemies a hundred yards away.

Graywing glanced back at his charge as the trail bent around the top of a forested ledge. What do you have in that pouch, Clonogh? he wondered absently. What do you carry, that is worth risking your life and mine to deliver?

At the high end of the rock spur, Graywing gestured and veered off the trail, Clonogh following close behind. The slope here was heavily wooded, and they ghosted from tree to tree, angling downward. Then Graywing froze, and halted Clonogh with a hard hand. Immediately to his left, the leaves of a ground-spreader rustled faintly and rhythmically, a tiny, repetitious movement like a man breathing.

They were there, lying in wait above the trail, and their “specialist” was truly expert at his craft. Senses even a hair less honed than Graywing’s would never have found them.

Nothing moving but his eyes and his twitching nostrils, Graywing counted four of them waiting there. The count bothered him. Something told him there should be five, but he could find only the four. The Gelnians were facing the other way, watching the trail beyond the spur, and they were much too close! The nearest hidden assassin, so camouflaged that only his breathing betrayed his presence, was no more than two long strides from where Graywing crouched.

Soundlessly, he edged in front of the cowering Clonogh and eased his sword from its buckler. At that instant Clonogh’s foot slipped. He danced for balance, stones rattled and all fury broke loose.

Like the cat whose name he bore, Dartimien blended effortlessly with his surroundings. Crouched at the toe of the rock spur, he seemed no more than part of the rock beside him. Still as a leaf in a calm, he watched the trail directly above and counted his heartbeats. The smugglers should have stepped into sight by now, should be at the mercy of the Gelnian assassins by now, but moments passed and no one appeared.

He was going to give them a minute more, but sudden intuition-like an extra sense that he had always possessed-raised the hackles on the back of his neck. The prey had somehow outsmarted the predator. The smugglers were not there! His eyes narrowing, he turned and saw them yards away, behind him. With a growl he spun around, daggers appearing in both hands as he stood. And at his movement, the ambushers turned, too.

The first move was so quick that even Dartimien barely saw it. The foremost smuggler-a tall, blond-bearded man with a feathered ornament braided into his hair at one side-leapt forward, his sword flashing downward in a deadly arc, and one of the Gelnians collapsed, spewing gore from a severed neck. Before the others could react, a second fell, gutted by a backswing. The other two scrambled back, got their feet under them and drew bright blades as the buck-skinned warrior whirled full around, darted between them and struck again. One of the Gelnians fell. The remaining one scuttled back, stumbled over his own feet, then turned and ran.

Dartimien shifted one of his daggers and raised it to throw, then stopped himself. “This isn’t my fight,” he muttered, and faded into cover.

Graywing saw the third ambusher fall, and turned to aim a cut at the fourth. But terror seemed to have given wings to the man’s feet. He scrambled backward, dodged the flashing sword, then spun around and fairly flew over the rock spur, onto the open trail and toward the brush beyond. In a moment he would be gone, spreading the alarm, and moments after that they would be up to their necks in enemies.

Graywing spun around, saw Clonogh still trying to get his balance, and ripped the ivory walking stick from the man’s waistband. He heard Clonogh’s gasp and the beginning of his shout, but by then he had acted. The ivory stick was stout, and had good weight. Barely pausing to aim, Graywing hurled it. It whistled through the air, flashed once in open sunlight, and thudded satisfyingly against the skull of the fleeing ambusher. The man fell like a rock, face down, and the stick caromed away into the heavy undergrowth beyond.

“Don’t!” Clonogh shrieked.

“Got him,” Graywing muttered. Then without formality he slung his sword, picked up his employer as one would lift a sack of grain, and sprinted down the trail. There was still a fifth man back there somewhere, and Graywing had no wish to be around when he saw what had become of his companions. That one, his intuition told him, was their “expert,” and an entirely different sort than his fallen henchmen. Dealing with them had been easy. Dealing with him might take time that could not be spared.

Through flickering sunlight and shadow Graywing raced, letting the slope work for him. Within a few steps he was covering twenty feet at a stride, and the wind sang in his ears. Clonogh’s strident wail trailed behind him, lost in the wake of their passage.

For a quarter of a mile he ran, and then another quarter, and the slope beneath him eased toward level ground. He burst from a tree line, through stinging brush and into a tilled field, and kept going until they were out of arrow range before he slowed his stride.

Finally, when he was sure they were in the clear, he stopped and set Clonogh on his own unsteady feet. The man’s cloak had been whipped back, disclosing a totally bald head and a wrinkled, beardless face distorted now by rage.

“You fool!” Clonogh screamed at him. “You bloody, stupid barbarian! You’ve ruined me!”

Graywing stared at him, speechless for a moment, then his eyes narrowed to threatening slits. “What I did was save your life!” he snapped. “And your treasure!” He gestured contemptuously at the leather pouch still slung securely across the robed one’s breast. “I’ve-”

“Idiot!” Clonogh shrieked. “You’ve ruined everything! I was to deliver the Fang of Orm to Lord Vulpin. Now it’s gone!”

“You still have it,” Graywing pointed at the sealed leather pouch, wondering if the man had gone insane. “It’s safe in your pouch.”

“Barbarian!” Clonogh howled at him, dancing about in his rage. “This pouch? This pouch is nothing! It was a ruse! The Fang of Orm is back there! You … you threw it away!”

“I threw it … you mean your walking stick?”

“Walking stick!” Clonogh was almost gibbering now. “That was no walking stick! That was the Fang of Orm, one of the most powerful relics in this pitiful world!”

In the blue of evening, Graywing crept alone up the slope, into the blockaded hills that ringed the Vale of Sunder. Moving like a shadow, he retraced his earlier racing route, looking for the scene of the failed ambush. Ahead he saw the rock spur where the assassins had waited, but there was no sign now that anything had occurred there. The bodies were gone, the trail apparently untouched.

Every sense alert, he moved from cover to cover, his eyes searching. Then a few yards ahead, where there had been no one a moment before, a slim, dark-garbed figure leaned casually against a tree. As Graywing tensed, his hand on his sword hilt, the man straightened and stepped forward. “Don’t bother looking,” a pleasant, musical voice said. “I already searched. It’s gone.”

Graywing squinted, feeling for an instant as though he were looking at a ghost. “Dartimien?” he breathed.

“Of course I’m Dartimien,” the man grinned. “I always was. It’s been a long time, Graywing, though I see you’ve lost none of your deft touch with the big blade. That was quite a mess you left here. Blood all over everything. Took me an hour to cover all the traces.”

“Dartimien,” Graywing repeated. “I thought you were dead, at Neraka.”

“So did those goblins,” Dartimien grinned. “They marched right over me. It was the last mistake they ever made.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Graywing said. “Can’t tolerate goblins. Besides, I always thought if anybody ever killed you, it should be me. What do you mean ‘it’s gone’? What’s gone?”

“That white stick,” the Cat said. “The one you cracked that Gelnian’s skull with. I found everything else, and here you are searching, so I assume that’s what you’re searching for. What is it?”

“None of your business,” Graywing said. Keeping a wary eye on the smaller man, he glanced aside, into the heavy brush, where the ivory stick had gone.

“I looked there,” Dartimien said. “Believe me, it wasn’t to be found.”

With a movement so swift it fooled the eye, Graywing sidestepped and disappeared into the heavy brush. The artifact, the Fang of Orm, should be right there! But nothing was there. The stick had disappeared, as though it had never been. The only trace of any kind was a faint trail, as though rabbits had passed that way.

When he returned to the path, Dartimien the Cat was still there, lounging against a rock.

“I told you,” the Cat purred. “Your stick is gone. I already looked.”

“Those ambushers were yours?”

“They hired me for a job,” Dartimien said. “I did the job. That’s all.”

“I knew there was an expert,” Graywing muttered. Then he arched a brow at the smaller one. “Did you get paid?”

“Of course I got paid,” the Cat snapped. “I always get paid.”

“Well, because of you, I didn’t!”

“A shame,” Dartimien said. “Fortunes of war. Speaking of which, It’s like a war zone around here. But when I was through here before, during the big war, there was a village, just over that hill. Want to have a look? We might find some halfway decent ale.”

“Are you buying?” Graywing scowled.

“I suppose so. It seems only fair, under the circumstances. But tell me, truly. If that thing wasn’t a walking stick, what was it?”

“The Fang of Orm,” Graywing said. “It’s a relic of some kind. A thing of magic. The Tarmites went to a lot of trouble to get it.”

“It must be valuable, then. I guess that’s what the Gelnians were after, too, though they didn’t tell me.” Dartimien cocked his head and raised one eyebrow, a boyish mannerism that made him seem, momentarily, harmless and prankish, though Graywing knew better. Dartimien was one of the most lethal fighters he had ever met. “Maybe we could find it, if we tried,” the Cat mused. “It has to be somewhere.”

Beneath a stone shelf above a human campsite, Bron and his followers were looking at Talls. It was an extremely boring activity. All the Talls had done since nightfall was roast some chickens, eat their supper, then roll up in their blankets and go to sleep. Bron had relieved the boredom by organizing a forage, and now the gully dwarves in their little cave were stuffing themselves on leftover roast chicken, washed down with Tall tea.

“How long Highbulp say we look at Talls?” the chunky Tunk asked now, rubbing sleepy eyes.

“Didn’ say,” Bron said. “But Scrib say see what Talls do, an’ they didn’ do anything yet.”

Tag crept close to peer at Bron’s new bashing tool, a gleaming white stick he had picked up somewhere. It seemed to have pictures carved all over it, but none of the Aghar could figure out what they were pictures of.

“Pretty thing,” Tag allowed, trying again to see into the teardrop openings in the wide end of the stick. The holes were a bit baffling. There didn’t seem to be anything inside, but it was hard to be sure. Even in good light, the little hollow in the stick was as dark as night. It was an inky darkness that defied the eye.

Bron lifted the stick casually, feeling again the solid weight of it, the exquisite balance. “Pretty good bashin’ tool,” he admitted. “Wish I had a rat to bash, test it out.”

The stick in his hand shivered slightly, and a large, beady-eyed rat scurried from cover nearby and ran across the opening of the cave. With a shrug, Bron swung his stick and bashed the rodent.

“Pretty good rat,” Tag allowed, lifting the dead animal by its tail.

“Pretty good bashin’ tool,” said Bron, gazing at his stick fondly. Within the four little teardrop cuts at its heavy end, the blackness had given way to a smoky red glow. Now the glow faded and it was black again.

Somewhere, under a stony crag in a place at once very near and very far away, something stirred and shifted, something huge, massive and sinuous, responding to a momentary, tingling awareness. A great, flat head arose from inky coils, weaving this way and that, searching.

Not in a very long time had his lost fang called to him. The Fang slept, unless awakened by one who could demand its magic. It slept now, and Orm no longer sensed it. But for a moment, it had been awake. And in that moment he had known its direction, and been drawn toward it.

Ageless stone shifted and cracked as Orm moved. Beyond his cold, dry den, stones rattled and great slabs of granite fell away into the abyss below the crag. Where they had been, now was a jagged hole in the rock. And from this hole a great head-a dark, flat head, triangular like a blunt spearhead-emerged in starlight. Scale-circled eyes with slit pupils opened wide, and a long, forked tongue flicked out from the great snout, tasting the air. Dimly, still within the den, great rattles buzzed a dry warning as his tail twitched. The flat, scaly head rose higher and its lower jaw dropped open, hinging back to expose a huge, pale maw where a single, retractable fang as long as a man’s leg flipped forward into striking position.

There was only one fang, the other replaced by misty blackness. The lost fang was still part of him, and in a way was always near, yet separated by a void that was neither distance nor space.

Only when its spirit lived could he sense it, but now he swayed nervously, searching. For a moment it had lived. Maybe it would live again. He knew the direction, and he was hungry. It had been a long time.

The gully dwarves were all sound asleep in their little cave when horns blared at the midnight hour. The bugle calls, repeated from camp to camp all along the line of Gelnian forces ringing the Vale of Sunder, echoed among the hills and became a mighty wail of discordant sound.

Bron awoke abruptly, scrambled upright, banged his head on the stone above him and sat down on Tunk, whose snore became a snort as his arms and legs flailed wildly about. In an instant, two gully dwarves had been kicked entirely out of the cave and were clinging sleepily to the ledge beyond, while the rest rolled and tangled in the darkness above them. It took a while to get it all sorted out, to discover which flailing appendage belonged to whom, but finally they were all awake and untangled, and all peering down in bewilderment at the human camp below.

The Talls were no longer asleep. Now most of them scurried around gathering their weapons, while the rest stoked up the fire and added wood. All along the slopes, other smoldering fires flared to full flame.

“What goin’ on?” Tag asked, of no one in particular.

“Talls wake up,” Swog pointed out. “Musta’ been th’ noise.”

Torches moved in the forest, and a pair of liveried couriers appeared in the firelight below, bright-eyed and panting. “To arms!” one of them shouted. “Hear the words of Her Eminence Chatara Kral, Ward-Regent of Gelnia.” He unrolled a scroll, while the one behind him raised his torch to light the characters on it.

“The Tarmite smugglers have evaded our sentries,” the courier proclaimed. “It is certain that the pretender, the despised Lord Vulpin of Tarmish, now possesses the Fang of Orm. Men of the banner of Gelnia, to arms! Tarmish must be taken, ere the dark evil of the relic is unleashed upon the land.”

The courier stood in silence for a moment, then rolled up his scroll. “This unit is assigned to the Third Regiment. Proceed immediately to your assembly area. We attack the fortress at Chatara Kral’s command.” With that he and his escort raised their torches and hurried off into the forest, bound for the next camp.

Beside the fire, a grizzled veteran of the Solamnic campaigns turned to the man nearest him. “What in thunder does all that mean?”

“Means the opposition has a trinket,” the second answered. “Some kind of magical thing that can wipe us out if they get a chance to use it. So we’re through waiting. Tomorrow we fight.”

“Have you looked at that fortress down there?” the first snorted. “This siege is going to take a while.”

In the little cave above them stood the gully dwarves. “Talls all awake, looks like. They up to somethin’ yet?” asked Swog.

“Dunno,” Bron admitted. “We keep lookin’, I guess. Mebbe fin’ out.”