by Don Perrin
It became clear to Selquist, as the dwarves trailed along behind, that Mortar’s recollections of the map weren’t all that accurate. Entire sections had been left out, the wrong forks indicated. Without the draconians to guide them, the dwarves would have been hopelessly lost, would have probably wandered around down here for the rest of their natural lives.
And then the bridge! So kind of the draconians. So thoughtful. That chasm would have been the end of the quest for the dwarves.
Feeling quite friendly toward the draconians, Selquist was a bit saddened to think of Moorthane and his band of cut-throats destroying the dragon eggs. Such very profitable eggs, too. The draconians would be certain to pay big …
“To arms!” someone shouted up ahead. “To arms!”
Selquist raised his head. Torchlight flared, glistened off the scales, and shone in the red eyes of three draconians, who were racing frantically back down the tunnel.
The draconians were running straight at the dwarves.
Moorthane lifted his sword, placed himself directly in their path. He crouched in a fighting stance, prepared to sell his life dearly.
The draconians ran around the stout dwarf and kept running. The rest of the dwarves were forced to fall back against the tunnel walls, out of the draconians’ path, or they would have been trampled. The three draconians barely spared the dwarves a glance. They ran on down the tunnel, back toward the bridge.
“Cowards!” Moorthane cried, waving his battle-axe in the air. “Stand and fight!”
“I’ll stand and fight you, Moorbrain, you ninny!” Selquist called, struggling to reach the front. “What do you think you’re doing? You could have wrecked this entire opera—”
The hair—what there was of it—stood up straight on Selquist’s head. He stopped, open-mouthed, and stared, as did the other dwarves in the tunnel.
Auger, grabbing hold of Selquist, began babbling. “What is that? Reorx save us! What is that thing?”
Moorthane sucked in a huge breath and fell back six paces, bumping against Selquist.
“A grell!” he cried, his voice cracking. “It’s a grell!”
Selquist had once been extremely sick as a child. His high fever had prompted him to see all sorts of things, from worms crawling out of the woodwork to giant rats dancing on the foot of his bed and, of course, grells.
These monsters are nearly always a part of dwarven bedtime spook stories, their tales having been passed down from the time when the Niedar had once lived in Thorbardin. Legend has it that the grells had been the original inhabitants of the cavern beneath the mountains and that the first dwarves to inhabit the mountain, led by their Thane, Hamish Ironfist, had been responsible for cleaning them out.
Apparently Hamish had missed one.
The grell was a greenish blob, a gigantic brain that floated off the ground about six feet above the heads of the dwarves. It had green tentacles, a beak like a bird’s, and, as far as Selquist could judge, a nasty disposition. The grell did not appear inclined to chat or pass the time of day or inquire politely if the dwarves couldn’t find some other route through the cavern rather than its living room. The grell swooped down on them, lashing out viciously with its spiny tentacles, gnashing its beak, and obviously intent on killing every one of them.
“No wonder those draconians were running away!” Selquist realized and decided to emulate their excellent example. He turned and ran, pushing and shoving his way back through the crowd.
Moorthane and his soldiers stood their ground, began attacking the grell. They stabbed at the tentacles, which were jabbing out viciously in all directions. Other dwarves thrust their lit torches into the grell’s eyes, hoping to blind it. A few of the less daring were huddled back at a safe distance, pelting the grell with rocks.
With the main body of his comrades now between him and the grell, Selquist stopped running and turned to watch the fight. He wasn’t impressed. The dwarves weren’t making much headway—three were already down, rolling and writhing in agony from the poison of the grell’s paralyzing sting. Selquist was just thinking how smart he had been, bringing along Moorthane to serve as grell-fodder, when Auger, axe in hand, charged straight past Selquist, running headlong for the grell.
“Auger! What are you doing? You’re a coward like me! Remember?” Selquist cried. “Let Moorbrain deal with it!”
His friend didn’t hear him.
Entering the fray, Auger slashed at one of the grell’s tentacles. His sword connected and cut off about a foot of the wriggling arm. Green ooze spurted, splashing over Auger’s head, hitting him in the eyes.
Blinded, he staggered about helplessly, wiping ooze from his face. The infuriated grell struck Auger with one of its undamaged tentacles, hitting him in the shoulder.
Auger shrieked, his body convulsed. He pitched forward onto his face and lay unmoving on the ground.
With Auger down, Mortar and Pestle entered the battle, began hacking at the grell with their axes and doing no good at all that Selquist could see. They appeared to be accomplishing little more than irritating it.
The grell hovered above its victim, beak gnashing. Moorthane was attacking it from behind, whacking at the back tentacles, and the grell was whacking absentmindedly at Moorthane. The grell was plainly more interested in finishing off poor Auger.
Emitting a series of clicking sounds from its beak, the grell lifted a tentacle. An object it held clutched in the tentacle began to glow with an eerie blue light.
Selquist groaned. As if this grell wasn’t nasty enough, it had somehow or another managed to come into possession of a wand, a wand that had every appearance of being magical. The wand was a rod about a foot long, black as night and wound round with the bodies of dragons of various colors. The heads of the five dragons formed the top of the wand.
Selquist guessed that this magical wand wasn’t the kind likely to cause lovely little flowers to spring up out of snowbanks.
Confirming Selquist’s worst foreboding, the grell—having apparently grown tired of Moorthane—whipped about, pointed the wand at Moorthane, and made a loud clicking sound with its beak.
Blue-white light flared from the mouths of the five dragons.
A flash, a bang.
Moorthane made a kind of soggy popping sound, and what was left of him splattered over the walls, the floor, and his fellow dwarves.
Having dealt with this annoyance, the grell turned back to Auger, who still couldn’t see and couldn’t move. The other dwarves had fallen back in panic, the shocking death of Moorthane having effectively taken the fight of them. The grell raised the wand, pointed it at Auger. The monster started clicking.
Selquist thrust his hand in his belt, drew his knife, and threw it over the heads of the dwarves bunched in front of him.
The grell clicked again, but this time in pain. The knife had imbedded itself in the frontal lobe of the brain-like mass. Green ichor began dribbling down from the wound. The grell faltered in its spellcasting, its tentacles twitched.
Taking advantage of the grell’s weakness, Selquist beat and pummeled his way through the crowd. He slipped in beneath the flailing tentacles, grabbed hold of Auger’s shoulder, and began dragging his helpless friend back away from the grell. Selquist’s feet slipped in the remains of Moorthane, slid out from underneath him.
“It figures!” Selquist thought angrily. “Even dead, Moorthane’s out to get me!”
He lay flat on his back, staring up at the grell.
Raising the wand, the grell held it above Selquist. The wand began to glow. The grell began to click.
Selquist knew he was a dead dwarf.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind him, a wave of small crossbow bolts, each one of them outlined in red flame, flew over Selquist and thudded into the grell’s brain.
The grell screamed and writhed; its tentacles jerked wildly. Another wave of red-hot bolts streaked over the dwarves, followed by yet another.
The grell seemed to implode. Its brain looked like a
sponge wringing out blood and puss. The grell sank to the floor of the cavern, its tentacles twitching and writhing. And then the grell ceased to move at all.
Dazed, Selquist picked himself up and looked over his shoulder. A huge Bozak draconian, carrying a small, hand-held crossbow, pounded down the hallway, hopping over the crouched dwarves as he came. The Bozak was followed by about twenty more draconians, swords and crossbows in their hands.
The dwarves nearly crawled up the walls in terror.
But the draconians were not interested in fighting dwarves this day.
The Bozak jumped over Selquist, narrowly missed stepping on Auger. Reaching the body of the grell, the Bozak swooped down, took hold of the magical wand, and—careful to keep from touching the poisonous tentacles—gingerly slid the wand out of the dead grell’s grasp.
His prize safe, the Bozak turned, grinned and snapped his teeth at the dwarves. “Thanks for the nice wand,” he said. “And it was really good of you to take on that grell for us. Such a pleasure doing business with you! Keep in touch.”
The Bozak bowed to Selquist, then waved his hand and shouted orders. The rest of the draconians surged around the dwarves, leapt over the dwarves, ran past the dwarves, and vanished into the darkness.
“Well,” said Selquist, as he picked himself up, “even the best laid plans can go awry, as the kender said right before the griffin bit his head off. And every silver dragon has a cloud. I’m the new leader, it seems.”
He wiped Moorthane off his hands and bent down to help rouse poor Auger.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kang gripped the wand tightly, examined it while he ran. There was no doubt, no doubt at all. This was the wand Huzzad had described to him. It still glowed faintly blue, and he could see by the glow that the wand was a rod made of black onyx, about as long as his forearm, and topped by his Queen’s own five dragons.
The dragons’ heads were crafted of silver, their bodies encrusted with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and black opals. Their five tails wound down around the rod, twining together to form a handle.
It was the most beautiful, the most awful object Kang had ever seen, much less held. He could feel the fey power in the wand, feel it humming through his body.
Kang began to believe. He began to believe that it all might come true. They might find the dragon eggs, they might be able to cast the spell that would free the female draconians. His village might have a future. Their entire race might have a future.
Of course, there were still these fiends of Chaos he had promised Her Dark Majesty to destroy. He had the feeling that this would require more than just knocking off one slimy grell. But with this wondrous wand in his hand, Kang felt equal to facing anything—including Father Chaos himself.
“Good find, sir,” said Slith, running along at Kang’s side.
The Sivak held the dark lantern, and now he flashed the wavering light directly on the wand. Slith’s eyes glistened. “That looks extremely valuable.”
“More than you know, my friend,” Kang said, his voice husky with emotion. “More that you know. Here’s that crossroad we were looking for.” Calling a halt, he reached for the map. The troops bunched up around him.
“What gives, sir?” Slith demanded, his voice harsh and grating.
Kang looked at his second in surprise. This wasn’t like Slith.
The Sivak gestured. “You weren’t going to attack that grell at all, sir. Not at first. You sure as hell weren’t going to risk our lives rescuing those hairy little farts. And then you saw that wand and suddenly went charging forward. You know something, sir? I say you were looking for that wand. You knew it was going to be down here. What’s so special about it? And why’ve you been acting so strangely?”
“You’ve never lied to us before, sir,” Gloth said, joining the discussion. The other draconians gazed at Kang with solemn, grave expressions. “All these years, you’ve told us straight out what we were up against. We’ve seen the change in you the last few days, sir. We just wondered what happened, that’s all.”
“Douse that lantern,” Kang ordered. “No use providing the dwarves back-lit targets.”
Slith obeyed, slid the panel. The light went out.
Concealed by the darkness, Kang smiled sadly, and he sighed. Never lied to them, they said. Hell, a commander always lied to his troops. That was part of a commander’s job.
“I’m sure the general knows what he’s doing.”
“Those elves aren’t as tough as they look!”
“So what if we’re outnumbered eleven to one? We’ve been in tighter spots before.”
“What do you mean, dragonfear? There isn’t a dragon within a hundred miles of this place.”
But Kang knew his men didn’t mean that type of lie. He’d been living a lie these past few days or weeks or however long it was that they’d been in these tunnels. It seemed to Kang as if it had been most of his life. He was mindful of time, mindful of the need to hurry. It wouldn’t take the dwarves long to recover from their shock and to regroup. But this was very important. His men were losing faith in him.
“I’m sorry, boys,” he said, fumbling for words. “It’s just … Something happened to me. I didn’t believe it myself first, and then, when I did, I was afraid no one else would believe me if I spoke about it. Until I knew for certain what had happened was true, I didn’t want to raise your hopes. But this”—he held up the wand—“this is proof. Yes, Slith, I knew about the wand. I was looking for it. Do you remember that knight, Huzzad? I met her, back there when we were going through the mountains. She had a message for me from the Dark Queen. She told me I would find this wand down here.”
The draconians stared at the wand in the darkness, their red eyes faintly gleaming.
“Our Queen told me where to find it,” Kang repeated, his voice clear but hushed. “Huzzad came to me on the mountain. She spoke to me.”
He told them all, told them everything. They listened silently, so silently that it seemed some even held their breath. When he was finished, they gazed at the wand in reverence. A few reached out a tentative claw to touch it, for luck.
“Thank you, sir,” said Slith. “And, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean … It’s just that …”
“I know, Slith,” Kang said. “I know.”
He sighed again, but now it was a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized until this moment how heavy the burden of his secret had been. It fell from his shoulders, and he felt renewed strength, renewed energy.
“Let’s get going. I hear the dwarves behind us. We have to get to the eggs before they do,” he added grimly, “or the wand won’t matter. There won’t be any eggs.”
“Why not just kill the little bastards?” Gloth asked. “We’ll wait here and jump ’em.”
Kang had already thought of this, dismissed it. He knew why he wasn’t going to kill the dwarves, but it was hard to put his thought process into words.
“Our enemies can prove useful to us,” he said, quoting his Queen. “We would have walked smack into that grell if the dwarves hadn’t come along when they did. Plus I don’t want to waste the energy needed to kill them. Remember, men, Her Majesty has asked us to do her a favor in return for this wand. I want us to be fighting fit and ready for action. For now, the dwarves live.”
“For now,” Gloth growled, his tongue flicking over his teeth.
The draconians traveled on through the tunnels. Slith took the lead, shining the lantern light only at intervals. The tunnels were larger here; the draconians could stand straight, for which blessing Kang was most grateful. He had the feeling he’d ruined his back permanently.
They passed a turnoff on their left. Kang paused here, studied the map. The main tunnel went straight on. This turnoff appeared to be a small side shaft which, according to the map, led off from the main tunnel, joined up with it again about a mile farther along.
“This is apparently some sort of siding, used to take the iron carts off the rails, get them out of the
way,” said Slith, returning from a brief investigation. “There’s a bunch of carts shunted off in there.”
“And it’s marked on the map,” said Kang in satisfaction. “We’re going the right way.”
He was about to motion the troop forward, when Gloth stopped. “Listen, sir!”
Sounds came from the tunnel behind them—a clomping, as of many pairs of heavy boots tromping down the hallway.
The draconians fell back into the shadows, waited.
“Remember,” Kang said softly, “no killing unless they start it.”
At length, the dwarves came into their view. The draconians’ night vision saw them as warm, glowing bodies. Warm, glowing bodies that didn’t look nearly as chipper as they had before they ran into the grell.
The dwarves straggled out of line, marched with their shoulders slumped, their heads down, their boots dragging on the floor.
Kang waited until the lead dwarves were within about six paces, then he leapt out of hiding, gave a frightful roar.
Spreading his wings, he bared his teeth and, lifting the glowing wand in his hand, he took to the air. He landed almost on top of the lead dwarf. Shouting a battle cry, Kang stomped his feet and waved his arms. His wings flapped up a gale.
The dwarf stared up at Kang, let out a yelp, turned, and ran headlong back down the tunnel. His yell and his flight spread panic throughout the rest of the party. Unnerved by the attack of the grell and the loss of their leader, the dwarves fled this new, dimly seen terror.
Kang heard one voice at the end of the line expostulating with them, trying to head off the stampede. The one voice wasn’t having much luck.
The dwarves dashed out of sight.
“It’ll be a long time before they have nerve enough to come down here again,” said Slith.
“That’s the plan,” Kang answered.
* * * * *
The draconians continued on through the tunnel at a run.