The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  “Slith! Come on! Wake up!” Kang smacked his second a couple of times in the face.

  Groggily, Slith shook his head. “What hit me?”

  Kang took hold of the book, tucked it heedlessly under his arm, and helped the Sivak to stand. He paused a moment to bare his fangs and growl at the three dwarves, who were racing out of the house.

  At the sight of two draconians, one of them extremely large and muscular, the three dwarves skidded to a halt, with the result that they all bunched up in the doorway.

  “Let me out! Let me through!” shouted a voice from behind the three. “He’s got the book!”

  Slith staggered to his feet. “Ooh!” He put his hand to his forehead.

  “Sorry, old friend, but we have to get moving,” Kang said. “Company’s coming.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slith said, gritting his teeth.

  The two started off down the road. From this point, they could see the woods, where they could lose themselves among the trees. Kang’s concentration was divided between his own running and concern for Slith, who was weaving like a drunken goblin. Thus Kang failed to hear the footsteps behind him. Searing pain flamed along his thigh muscle, pain so severe and so sudden, so unexpected, that Kang let out a howl and dropped the book. Turning, enraged, he confronted a dwarf, holding a bloody knife in his hand.

  The dwarf ignored Kang, made a dive for the book.

  “Save it, sir!” Slith cried. “Don’t lose it!”

  Kang had no idea what was so valuable about this book, but if both Slith and the dwarf wanted it, he guessed there must be something. He caught hold of the book at the same time as the dwarf grabbed it.

  There was a brief tussle. The scrawny little dwarf was stronger than he looked. A strange, unholy light flickered in the dark, frenzied eyes.

  Kang tried to hold on by digging his claws into the leather cover. He pulled, the dwarf pulled. The cover ripped apart and both fell backward. The tug-of-war ended with dwarf hanging onto the book and Kang hanging onto the torn cover.

  The scrawny dwarf was up and running like he’d been shot out of a catapult, the book clutched triumphantly under his arm.

  “Never mind, sir,” Slith said, sighing. “You tried.”

  Torches lit the night. Bells had begun to ring. The entire village was aroused. Kang wondered if the other two Sivaks had escaped; if they’d had any luck.

  “Let’s get the hell outta here,” Kang said.

  He was limping. Slith was wobbling, his hand pressed over his aching head. The maneuver hadn’t exactly turned out as planned.

  The two draconians reached the shelter of the trees safely and took time to rest and examine their wounds. The pursuing dwarves had stopped at the border of the village, unwilling to go farther. For all they knew, the woods might be full of draconians.

  Slith had a bump on his head the size of the egg of a goat-sucker bird. Kang’s knife-slice was deep and painful, having cut into his thigh muscle. The wound bled profusely. He wore no shirt, and he was in desperate need of a bandage. Slith offered the red rag he had worn, but it couldn’t be found. It had probably popped off during his transformation from dwarf back to draconian.

  “What’s that you have in your hand, sir?” Slith asked.

  “I don’t know. Part of that blasted book, I guess.” Kang looked down to find a largish piece of torn leather dangling from a claw.

  “It’s better than nothing. Here, let me help you, sir,” Slith offered.

  Kang, weak and dizzy from loss of blood, handed over the leather.

  Slith was about to slap the book cover over the wound, when he noticed a square piece of white parchment, stuck to the leather.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” Kang demanded, suppressing a groan. “I’m bleeding to death!”

  Slith carefully peeled the parchment from the leather, tucked the parchment inside his belt.

  “If it was hidden in the cover, it must be valuable,” he explained to Kang, who only growled at him.

  “Yes, sir,” Slith said.

  Taking the leather, he pressed it over Kang’s wound and tied the leather secure with a thong torn from his armor.

  The two started out for what was left of their home.

  It was going to be a long walk.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Selquist returned home bruised and battered but otherwise unhurt, the precious book held fast in his arms. Rounding a corner, he saw half the population of Celebundin coming toward him.

  “Drat and bother!” Selquist muttered. First draconians, now his neighbors. All he needed next was a load of kender to drop out of the sky on top of him and it would be a perfect night.

  Selquist stuffed the book into his shirt. Leading the pack were the war chief and the High Thane, the latter armed with a rolling pin.

  Sighting Selquist, Moorthane called a halt. He held out his arms protectively in front of the High Thane. “Watch it, Your Worship. I’ll handle this. It might be one of them! Stop right there!” he bellowed at Selquist.

  Selquist, heaving an exasperated sigh, stopped.

  “Who is that?” Moorthane thrust a torch in Selquist’s face.

  “It’s me, Moorbrain, Selquist,” Selquist said irritably. “Mind that flame! You’ve come near setting my beard on fire!”

  “How can I be sure it’s you?” Moorthane stared hard at the dwarf.

  “Stick a sword into him,” said Vellmer, the brew master and one of Moorthane’s lieutenants. “If he dies, then it’s Selquist. If he turns into a draconian, we’ll know it’s not.”

  “Maybe someone should stick a sword in you, Vellmer,” Selquist said, giving the brew master a nasty look. “I notice you have a sort of greenish cast to your skin. You wouldn’t be sprouting scales, by any chance, would you?”

  Vellmer’s neighbors stared at him in alarm and hastily sidled out of range.

  “For that matter, Moorbrain, how do I know it’s you?” Selquist demanded. He sniffed. “You smell sort of fishy.”

  “He does, you know,” said the High Thane in a low voice.

  The other dwarves began to back away from the war chief.

  Moorthane rounded on his troops. “I ate salted fish for dinner! Now stop it, all of you! This is exactly what those cursed lizard men want to happen. If we lose trust in each other, we might as well burn down this village just like we burned down theirs! Speaking of draconians.” He turned back to Selquist. “I talked to those n’er-do-well friends of yours. They said the draconians broke into your house. Where did they go? Did you see them?”

  Selquist shrugged, looked modest. “I chased them down the road. They got away, but not before I managed to knife one of them.” He exhibited his bloody dagger. “That’s one lizard man who’ll think twice before coming back to Celebundin.”

  The High Thane was regarding Selquist with respect. “I’ve never heard of anything so brave, have you, war chief?”

  Moorthane snorted, glared at Selquist suspiciously. “Since when are you the heroic type?”

  “When my people are threatened,” Selquist said, drawing himself up tall.

  The High Thane and the other dwarves all applauded. The war chief frothed a bit at the mouth.

  “I’ll be going home now,” Selquist added. “I’m extremely tired. Fighting draconians is wearing work, especially when I must fight them alone! Interesting how you show up after the danger is past, Moorbrain!”

  Having left this verbal shaft to rankle in the war chief’s bosom, Selquist bowed respectfully to the High Thane, who slapped him on the back and said he was a stout fellow. The crowd then dispersed, going off to search for more draconians, especially any who might be hiding out in the local taverns.

  Selquist tromped down the road. He was upset, tired, and in a bad temper, all of which combined to cause him to abandon his native sense of caution. He did not look behind him to see if he was being followed, as was his custom. His one thought was to get home and see how badly his pr
ecious book had been damaged.

  He found his house blazing with light, the other three dwarves now convinced that draconians were liable to leap out of the darkness at any moment. Selquist took a moment on entering to study the broken locks. Shaking his head sadly, he entered his house and shut the door behind him.

  “Selquist!” said Pestle, round-eyed. “You’re back!”

  “Selquist!” Auger ran over, embraced his friend, gave him a hug. “I never thought I’d see you alive again!”

  “That was incredibly brave,” said Mortar, gazing at Selquist with awe. “I never saw anything so brave, you running after those draconians with only your knife to defend yourself.”

  “Did you kill them?” Auger asked eagerly.

  “Did you get the book back?” Pestle demanded.

  “Did you hear something in the garden?” Mortar said fearfully, turning toward the window.

  “No and yes and no,” said Selquist. “It’s just the cat. For Reorx’s sake, Mortar, don’t you start letting your imagination run away with you like the rest of those idiots.” Grumbling, he reached into his shirt, drew forth the book and placed it on the table.

  He gave a start, turned pale, made a sort of gasping sound, and clutched at the edge of the table to keep from falling.

  “Are you sure that’s our book?” Auger asked. “It doesn’t look the same.”

  “That’s because the cover’s missing,” said Pestle, opening the book and turning the pages. “What’s the matter, Selquist? The cover’s gone, that’s all. We can still go after the treasure. The rest of the book is not damaged—”

  “The map!” Selquist said, or thought he said. The words came out in an inarticulate gurgle.

  “What?” Auger asked Pestle.

  “I’m positive I heard something in the garden,” said Mortar. He started to stand up, to go over and take a look out the window, when Selquist let out an anguished cry that halted Mortar in his tracks. Fearing the worst, Mortar whipped around, expecting armies of draconians to burst into the room.

  “Where? What?” he gasped.

  Selquist was not being attacked. He had picked up the book, was examining it feverishly, turning it over, upending it, shaking it.

  “Nothing!”

  With a heart-rending moan, he sank down into his chair and buried his head in his arms.

  “Uh, oh,” said Auger, understanding at last. “The map’s gone.”

  “Is that all?” Mortar sniffed. “I thought you were being strangled at the least. As for the map, I remember it clearly. I can draw you a new one like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  Selquist lifted a tear-stained face. “You can?” he whispered, not daring to hope.

  “And the parts I can’t remember, I’m sure Pestle can fill in,” Mortar added.

  “You bet,” Pestle stated. “I’m quite good at maps.”

  “You remember where the treasure is and … and the draconian eggs and everything?” Selquist asked feverishly. “How to get there? All the warnings for the dangerous parts?”

  “There’s that noise again!” Mortar stated. “I tell you, Selquist, something’s out there in your garden!”

  “Oh, Reorx take the blasted garden!” Selquist swore. Leaping to his feet, he lunged at Mortar, grasped him by the collar of his shirt and shook him. “Tell me you can draw me my map!”

  “Well, certainly, I can draw it,” Mortar said with dignity. He pried Selquist’s hands loose from his shirt. “Hand me something to write on.”

  Selquist found a blank page—only slightly charred and blood-stained—in the Daewar book, shoved it over to Mortar. Auger ran to fetch some charcoal. Pestle brought mugs of nut-ale to aid the artistic process.

  Mortar picked up the charcoal, began to draw. The other three dwarves leaned over him, breathing down his neck.

  “No!” said Selquist, shoving a grubby finger in Mortar’s work. “You’ve got that bit wrong. This fork goes off to the left.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Mortar said irritably.

  “Yes, it does. Auger, what do you say?”

  “I thought this was where three roads branched off—”

  “No, this is where the wall was blocked up,” Pestle argued.

  The arguing and the map-drawing continued.

  Mortar didn’t hear any more sounds from the garden.

  * * * * *

  Moorthane did not like Selquist. He didn’t trust Selquist. Moorthane didn’t like or trust Selquist’s friends. Moorthane was well aware that Selquist occasionally made trips away from home, which in itself was highly suspicious. Unlike their kender cousins, who are afflicted with a disease known as Wanderlust and who generally remain in one place only until their sentence is up, dwarves do not like to travel. Dwarves are homebodies. Most are born, live, and die in the same village, probably in the same house, or one nearby.

  Moorthane was himself more widely traveled than most dwarves, having once been to Pax Tharkas by accident during the War of the Lance. He had not intended to go to Pax Tharkas, but, during a battle with the troops of the Dragon Highlord Verminaard, as he was defending the village of Celebundin, a red dragon had swooped down, picked up Moorthane in its claws, flown off with him to the city, where he was interrogated by the Highlord.

  The most Moorthane saw of the city was its dungeons, which are said by kender to be quite nice, but which did not appear to their best advantage at the time, being filthy, smelly and overcrowded. Moorthane had just about given up all hope of escape, when a group of mettlesome adventurers arrived and cut short Verminaard’s promising career as a truly evil dictator. Pax Tharkas was freed from the control of the dragonarmies, and Moorthane was released from prison.

  He walked out the cell door and did not stop walking until he arrived back in his peaceful valley, which he swore never to leave again. The sad experience further convinced him that the only people in this world who traveled were villains and miscreants.

  According to Moorthane’s spies, Selquist traveled. Not only did he travel, but he was gone for entire days and nights. Not only that, but he took other dwarves with him. Further, Selquist encouraged his friends to continue their wandering ways. Moorthane knew for a fact that Pestle and Mortar had been gone from home for almost a week and had only just returned.

  But now, Moorthane had it all figured out. He knew where Selquist had been and what he was up to. His friends, too.

  Selquist was in collusion with the draconians!

  Moorthane hated draconians, hated them with a hatred of which only dwarves are capable, a hatred that can last over centuries. Insults are never forgotten among dwarves, rarely forgiven. Quarrels are handed down through the ages, passed from father to son, mother to daughter. Blood feuds are every dwarf’s birthright. A brother of Moorthane’s had been killed by draconians during the War of the Lance. And though it was not these particular draconians who had done the killing, Moorthane blamed the entire race.

  There was only one other race Moorthane hated more than draconians, not counting kender (who didn’t count, because every sane person alive on Krynn hated kender), and that was the dwarves who lived in Thorbardin. The Hylar had never done anything to Moorthane personally. He just hated them on general principles.

  When the draconians had first moved into the valley, Moorthane had been incensed and had insisted on launching several raids to try to destroy them. His raids had accomplished nothing except to kill a draconian here and there, while losing five dwarves for every dead draco.

  Then the draconians—for reasons unknown, but undoubtedly sinister—had ceased to fight. They had stopped killing dwarves, merely knocked them over their heads instead. The High Thane, with true short-sightedness only to be found in a dough-kneading, flour-sifting baker, had been rather charmed by this turn of events and had flatly refused to even consider Moorthane’s plan to take advantage of this Reorx-sent opportunity and destroy the draconians once and for all.

  It had been Moorthane’s idea—and his alone—to bur
n the draconian village. This time, he’d gone ahead and acted on his own before presenting it the High Thane, who would have probably come up with some lame-brained scheme to move the village poor into the draconians’ comfortable houses.

  And where would the dwarves have been then? Eh?

  Moorthane had known the draconians would come back. He just hadn’t counted on them coming back quite so soon. The war chief had barely escaped with his life, having been in the woods attending to some purely personal business when the draconians came roaring down the hill. Hiking up his britches, Moorthane had sped back to the village. On the way he saw Pestle and Mortar, coming down from the hills, coming from the same the direction as the draconians.

  And this night, what had Moorthane found? Selquist entertaining draconians in his very own house! Oh, sure, when questioned, his thieving friends had claimed that the draconians had burst in on them and that Selquist had valiantly driven them off. Not only that, but he’d actually chased after them and purportedly stabbed one.

  A likely story.

  At last, Selquist had gone too far. At last, Moorthane would have all the evidence he needed in order to bring Selquist to trial and have him Cast Out. Not even Selquist’s mother would stand up for her son once she heard he was in league with the draconians.

  “I’ve got you now, you Daergar runt,” said Moorthane.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Inside Selquist’s house, the dwarves completed the map.

  There were parts of it on which they all agreed, there were parts on which none of them agreed, and there were parts where the vote was split, but, overall, Selquist somewhat moodily pronounced it was “as good as they were probably going to get.”

  “I think it’s quite nice,” said Pestle, admiring his brother’s artistic talent. “Look how he’s drawn the little eggs, just like on the original, and the little draconian females with their stubby little wings—”

  “Hsst!” Selquist whispered. “Did you hear that?”

  “It came from the garden,” said Pestle.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Mortar, exasperated.