The Gully Dwarves

Chapter 13

“It isn’t there,” Clonogh said, his desperate eyes gleaming in the shadow of his cowl. “As soon as that … that barbarian Graywing was gone, I cast a far-see spell back where it fell. The effort cost me dearly, but I tried. The Fang was gone.”

“Someone took it, then,” Lord Vulpin growled. “Did you see any who might have found it?”

“There was a man up there,” Clonogh said. “I watched him. He hid the dead assassins, and their weapons, and covered every trace of the fight. And he searched all around. He was thorough.”

Vulpin paced the little tower room. He was a great, dark figure whose steel armor and reticulated helm seemed as much part of him as the relentless ambition in his eyes. His billowing cloak flared with each turn of the wind through the open portals. He paused to look out at the foot of the slopes a mile away. The forces of Chatara Kral were still issuing from the forest, their banners bright under the morning sun. There were hundreds of fighters in the fields already, trooping toward the walls of Tarmish, and it seemed they just kept coming. “Describe him to me,” he said. “The man you saw on the hillside.”

Clonogh squinted. “A young man, though certainly not a child. Not a large man, but strong, as an acrobat is strong. Very slim, very quick in his movements. Dark hair, dark beard but not a full beard. Clean-shaven cheeks, chin beard and mustache, neatly trimmed. Dark breeches and a dark jerkin, high boots, and dagger-hilts everywhere. He must carry a dozen knives.”

“I don’t know him,” Vulpin shook his head. “One of Chatara Kral’s mercenaries, no doubt. You watched him?”

“I watched him as long as I could hold the seeing spell,” Clonogh said, shuddering. “I told you. He searched the entire area. If the relic had been there, he would have found it. And if he had found it, I would have seen.”

“Someone else, then,” Vulpin muttered. He looked again at the armed forces gathering in his valley, preparing to attack. “I need that artifact,” he growled. “And that barbarian of yours? Graywing? Is there any way he might have tricked you?”

“He knew nothing!” Clonogh said. “The man is a superb warrior, but in some ways a dunce. He thought the prize I carried was in my pouch. He thought the Fang no more than a walking stick, and when he needed it he used it as a weapon. He threw it away!”

“Protecting you and your … what he thought was your missive to me,” Vulpin pondered. “Perhaps you should have trusted him, Clonogh.”

“And perhaps it should have rained today,” Clonogh spat. “But it didn’t.” He squared his narrow shoulders defiantly. “At least, whoever has the Fang now, it’s not likely anyone capable of using it.” Shadowed eyes, nervous eyes, glanced up at Lord Vulpin from the depths of his cowl. “If Chatara Kral has the stick, well, your sister is no more an ‘innocent’ than you are, my lord.”

“But she could find one who is!” Vulpin rumbled. “I did.” He strode across to a stone-framed portal overlooking the inner grounds of the fortress. Down there, hundreds of men scurried around, carrying defense ordnance to the outer walls, preparing for the Gelnian attack. Companies and battalions of Tarmites, their ranks swelled by Vulpin’s mercenaries, marched here and there to reinforce the contingents on the walls.

But above all the turmoil, in a walled garden just below the tower of the keep, a young woman with a bucket and dipper was giving water to bedded flowers. Long hair like spun gold hung around her shoulders, and when she glanced upward her eyes reflected the blue of Summer sky.

“Thayla Mesinda,” Lord Vulpin said to Clonogh. “I chose her carefully, and have protected her since first you told me of the Fang of Orm. She is as pure as a rosebud, conjurer, and she will do exactly as I bid.”

“Then so would the Fang, if we had it,” Clonogh rasped. “But we don’t have it. Tell me, my lord, if we get it back …”

“When we get it back,” Vulpin glared at him. “And you, mage, more than anyone, should hope that it is soon.”

“When it is recovered.” Clonogh corrected, “exactly what wish will my lord demand?” He waved nervously toward the west, where Gelnian armies gathered. “Will you wish them all dead?”

“Yes!” Vulpin growled. Then, pausing, “No, not dead. Not all. Mindless slaves, to work my fields, to serve my table, to … to do whatever I demand of them.” The tall man paced impatiently, his eyes glowing with anticipation. “A bodyguard of zombies, Clonogh! An army of zombies, to do my bidding! Tarmish is nothing, Clonogh. Tarmish, and all Gelnia, is but a base. From here I will sweep outward, land after land! An empire! The world for my empire! All I need is that single artifact. The Fang of Orm!”

Vulpin ceased his pacing. Eyes alight with ambition, he gazed out across the fields where armies now shifted into attack position. On a knoll behind the main lines, a bright pavilion was being erected. “She has it,” he growled. “She must have it by now. We’ll just have to get it back.”

The shadows deepened beneath Clonogh’s hood, as though the sorcerer was drawing inward upon himself. The Fang had such powers, and none knew it better than he. For years now he had studied the old scrolls, tracking down the ancient relic. “Wishmaker,” some had called it in ancient times. For the man who controlled it, anything was possible.

Lord Vulpin turned to face the mage, his eyes like points of glitter beneath the elaborate scrollwork of his helm. “You lost it, Clonogh. You will regain it for me. Out there is Chatara Kral. You will go there, and retrieve it.”

Clonogh flinched at the command, as though stung by a whip. “My lord,” he pleaded, “you know the cost of my magic.”

“I know,” Vulpin’s stare held no compassion, no relenting. “Each spell costs you a piece of your life. A year, or three, or five. You made a bad bargain for your magic, Clonogh. But it was your bargain, not mine. Your bargain with me is this.” He drew an amulet from his robe. It was a small, glass sphere with a single, bright speck of light inside it. Teasingly he tossed it upward, caught it in a casual hand and tossed it again. He enjoyed it when the mage whimpered. “Your living spirit, Clonogh. I hold your very existence in my hand and my price for its return is the Fang of Orm.”

“Pray your sister doesn’t have it,” Clonogh muttered. “Or, if she does, that she doesn’t learn its use before we get it back.”

“What if she does?” Vulpin squared his shoulders, seeming to fill the portal where he stood now, looking out at the Gelnian army. “Where is she going to find an innocent among that mob?”

In a hushed voice, Clonogh spoke a transport spell and was gone.

“Another year or so lost, Clonogh?” Vulpin muttered to no one but himself. “My, how time does fly.”

At the forest’s edge, small things moved among the shadows and small, curious faces peered out at the broad fields where armies of humans were doing mysterious things.

“Talls def’nitely up to somethin’,” Tag decided. “Runnin’ ‘roun’ like crazy out there.”

“All keep lookin’ at that big building,” Tunk observed. “Wonder what in there?”

Bron squinted, shading his eyes with a grimy hand. “Wish we had a better look,” he muttered.

The ivory stick in his fist shivered slightly, its wide end radiating a smoky, reddish glow, and abruptly they were no longer there. Where there had been a gaggle of gully dwarves, now there was only the still forest of the slope.

In a place of stone and silence, Orm opened slitted eyes and raised his great, flat head. He peered here and there, weaving impatiently. Again he had sensed his lost fang, but again it was only for a moment. Within the den behind him his mighty tail twitched, and husk-dry rattles buzzed. Someone was playing with him! These quick, taunting tastes of his fang, so brief, too brief for him to gather himself for a strike. Someone or something was goading him!

But whoever it was, would pay. To awaken his fang at all, required at least a vestigial intelligence. Its holder must be capable of wishing. And the weakness of intelligence, he knew, was its tendency to dwell upon its own thoughts. Sooner or later, a test of the fang must linger long enough for him to strike. Angry and hungry, Orm waited.

Scrib the Philosopher was on the verge of a great discovery when the flood came. The thought had started with a thing he noticed about mushrooms. Added to a pot of stew, they could give a pleasant flavor to the stuff, but only if the proper proportions were used. Too little mushroom, and nothing was achieved. Too much, and the stew tasted distinctly like wormwood. It had to be just the correct amount.

Only rarely, though, was that “correct amount” of mushroom achieved. Wouldn’t it be nice, Scrib had pondered, if somebody should happen to remember from one stew to the next how much mushroom should be included?

Like most Aghar, Scrib had almost no concept of numerical comparison. If anyone in the tribe knew how to count past two, no one was aware of it because there was no way to express such a notion. It was the nature of gully dwarves not to count for much.

But they did understand quantity, and Scrib had noticed that truly fine comparisons could be made on this basis. A bear was bigger than a rat, and a bug smaller than a bird. Talls were bigger than gully dwarves, and fire was hotter than sunlight and the Highbulp snored louder than anybody else.

Stew pots were of varying sizes, ranging from half a turtle shell or a dented helmet found on a Tail’s battlefield to the Great Stew Bowl, which was far older than yesterday and had something to do with the Highbulp’s legendary dragon.

Squatting on the sandy floor of the old cistern, Scrib drew doodles in the sand, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he labored with a stick, making circles of various sizes. By a stretch of imagination, the circles might be seen to represent stew pots.

By the time he had his circles completed, he had almost forgotten the rest of the equation, but he hit himself on the head a few times and it returned to him: mushrooms!

Mushrooms, numerically, had the same limitations as anything else. There could be one, or more than one. But in quantity they could be likened to a handful of dirt, or a mouthful, or a spadeful, or a pouchful.

A handful of mushroom would probably be too much for a mouthful of stew, but maybe not too much for a pouchful. Laboriously, Scrib drew squiggles inside his circles, hoping the squiggles might somehow resemble mushrooms.

And as he worked, a great understanding began to dawn upon him. If everybody knew that a circle meant a stew pot and a squiggle was so much mushroom, he thought, then anybody should be able to flavor stew by studying doodles in the sand.

Somehow the idea seemed to just miss the mark, but Scrib felt he was definitely onto something except that now he couldn’t find his doodles because they were under water. So, in fact, were his feet, and the water was rising.

Thus Scrib was well on his way to inventing the cookbook and, incidentally, the written word, when the flood came.

Ever since their arrival at This Place, the tribe of Bulp had been mining a crevice behind one of the old buildings. The crevice had been very narrow, and clogged with rubble, but they had cleaned it out and widened it in their search for pyrite-pretty yellow rock that the Highbulp was convinced must have some value.

The crevice led back into the hillside, to an old sinkhole with a lake at the bottom of it. The fact that the lake became deeper each time it rained in the hills, and it rained often in this season, seemed of no consequence, since the gully dwarves had all the water they needed in the little stream that flowed through the gorge of This Place.

Then, yesterday, there had been a particularly violent storm in the western hills. Lightning had danced a frenzied pattern on the high places, and the thunders had echoed like the roll of great drums. Then the entire western sky, along with the hills, had disappeared behind a slate-gray curtain of rain.

The highlight of the day had been when a huge, one-eyed ogre came stomping and muttering down the canyon, carrying a battered cudgel in one hand and part of a horse in the other. The gully dwarves had fled ahead of him, diving into hidey-holes to watch him go by. His running commentary as he passed indicated that he had been rained out. His cave, up in the hills somewhere, was full of leaks, and he had packed his possessions and was moving to a better climate.

By evening the little stream had become a roaring torrent, but it seemed to have reached its peak.

Today had dawned bright and cheerful, except for some ominous rumblings somewhere nearby. Glitch the Most, Highbulp and Legendary Dragonslayer, had awakened hungry and cranky, and promptly announced that he was tired of living in a cistern and wanted his breakfast out in the sunlight.

The simple demand had turned into a major undertaking. First the heaped pyrite had to be cleaned from the cistern’s stairs, then several dozen gully dwarves were required to get the Highbulp to the top. Somewhere along the line, Glitch had developed vertigo, and he kept blacking out and falling off the stairs.

Directed by his wife and consort-the Lady Lidda-they had finally blindfolded Glitch, then worked in teams to get him to the top. Some pulled, others pushed, while still others swarmed below to catch him if he fell.

“Glitch a real twit,” the Lady Lidda had declared, climbing the sheer wall to meet her lord and master when he emerged. “Still our glorious Highbulp, though.”

Another problem was the Great Stew Bowl, which was still at the bottom of the cistern. The big iron bowl was just plain heavy.

Sometime in the past, in a fit of inspiration, Bron had fashioned a sturdy leather strap for the thing. The stew bowl had protrusions on its rim-a pair of iron rings on one side that might have been half a hinge, and a hook-shaped knob directly across that might once have been part of a catch. The strap, stretched across the mouth of the bowl from one to another of these fixtures, had made the bowl fairly easy to carry … for Bron. Few others among them could even lift the thing.

After several attempts by various people, to hoist the bowl out of the hole, the Lady Lidda went and found the tribe’s burly Chief Basher, Clout.

“Clout,” she ordered, “Go get Great Stew Bowl.”

“Okay,” Clout muttered, yawning and getting to his feet. But before he could start on his errand, his path was blocked by the Lady Bruze, his wife.

Hands on her hips, Lady Bruze glared at Lady Lidda. “Lotta nerve!” she snapped. “How come you boss Clout aroun’, Lady Lidda? You wanna boss somebody, go boss what’s-’is-name. Th’ Highbulp.”

“Go sit on a tack, Lady Bruze,” Lidda suggested graciously. “Need Great Stew Bowl out of hole. Clout can go get it.”

“Okay,” Clout said. Again he started toward the cistern, and again the Lady Bruze blocked his way.

“Tell Bron go get it!” Bruze said, glaring at Lidda. “Great Stew Bowl Bron’s problem, not Clout’s!”

“Bron not here, though. Highbulp send ’im someplace.”

“Where?”

“Dunno, but Highbulp’s orders. So Clout go get stew bowl.”

“Okay,” Clout sighed. He started again for the hole, and his wife grabbed him by the ear.

“Lady Lidda got no business tell Clout what to do,” Bruze insisted. “Clout stay here!”

“Okay.” He sat down, rubbing his sore ear.

“Still need Great Stew Bowl,” Lidda pointed out. “How ’bout Lady Bruze tell Clout go get it?”

“Lot better,” Bruze conceded, backing off a step. She pointed toward the cistern. “Clout, go get Great Stew Bowl.”

With a pained expression, the Chief Basher got to his feet again. “Yes, dear,” he said.

Clout was gone for a time, then finally emerged from the cistern, sweating and puffing, carrying the iron bowl on his shoulders, and several of the ladies set about concocting a batch of stew.

Left alone in the hole, Scrib the Doodler squatted on dry sand, on the verge of inventing a written language.

It was then that the sinkhole up in the hills reached capacity and its walls gave way. The gush of water that roared through the crevice and out into This Place was a mighty torrent, spewing tumbling gully dwarves ahead of it. Within seconds the entirety of This Place was a raging cauldron of cold water, and the cistern was filling up.

The water was almost to the top when Scrib bobbed up and scrambled frantically for solid ground. “Wow!” he panted. “Some kin’ brainstorm.”

Not far away, the Highbulp found himself totally awash in floodwater, which seemed to be everywhere.

“ ’nough of this!” he roared. “This no fun at all! This place no good! All over water! This place uninhab … unliv … a mess! Not fit to live in! All pack up,” he ordered. “This place not This Place anymore. We go someplace else.”

It was a grim, soggy, deserted village that Graywing and Dartimien the Cat found when they reached the chasm.

Scouting around, they found faint traces of recent habitation, though not exactly human habitation. “Gully dwarves!” Dartimien spat, gazing around at the ruins. “Nothing but gully dwarves, and even they have gone.”

Graywing had paused by the bank of the swollen creek. He squatted there on his heels, studying faint traces on the muddy ground. It looked as though rabbits might have passed this way, very much like the sort of trail he had seen in the brush after the Fang of Orm had disappeared.

Scowling, he stood and glanced around at Dartimien. “Do you suppose?” he asked.

“At this point,” the Cat said, “nothing would surprise me.”

“Then I guess we’d better go have a look,” Graywing suggested. “That faint trace … can you follow it?”

“Like you can follow a herd of horses, barbarian,” the Cat grinned. “Or a toothsome wench. I swear, sometimes I believe you plainsmen can’t see your hands in front of your faces.”

“And you alley-crawlers can’t see past the ends of your arms,” Graywing snapped. “So you concentrate on where we’re going, and I’ll concentrate on what’s ahead.”