“Hold it!” Graywing repeated.
“Okay,” several of them said, readily.
“What Tall want?” a bright-eyed little female queried.
They were leaving, they said. Therefore, they might know a way out of this place. On impulse, Graywing said, “I’m going with you. Where’s Clonogh?”
“Where what?”
“Clonogh! Oh, never mind.” Standing, he stepped to the cavern entrance among the tree roots and peered inside. In the dim recess was half of a knight’s long shield, with half a shrouded load strapped on it. The other half of each was buried in gravel and topsoil.
Finding his towline, he heaved at it and brought out his “sled.” He scooped soil from it and knelt to listen. Within his blanket-shroud, Clonogh was still breathing. “Alright,” he said to the crowd of gully dwarves around him. “Which way?”
Before Glitch, or anyone else, could think of a good argument, they were on the move, working their way down the bottom of the dry slough. Graywing walked among them, towering over them even though he was crouched as low as he could to stay out of the sight of Gelnians and mercenaries just beyond the dense brush. Most of the gully dwarves, he had no idea how many there were of them, seemed to have either accepted his presence or forgotten that he was there. They trudged along in true gully dwarf fashion, going this way and that at random but generally following the lead set by their leader. Graywing had to be careful not to step on any of them, or trip over them as they scurried about their line of march. The Cobar’s sharp eyes roamed here and there, looking for any sign of the ivory stick he had seen so often in Clonogh’s hand, the Fang of Orm. But there was no sign of the artifact, nor of any container in which it might be hidden.
Still, each step was taking him farther from the hostile encampment of the Gelnian forces, and he still had Clonogh, or what was left of him. He hurried along, constantly on the alert, dragging the shield-sled after him. But he noticed, after a time, that it seemed to grow heavier with each step.
He turned, stared at his burden, and stifled a cry of anger. At least a dozen gully dwarves had crawled onto the sled, including the one with the big, iron shield. Several of them were now asleep back there, snoozing contentedly atop his loaded sled.
“Gods,” Graywing muttered, gritting his teeth. “How did I get into this?”
Chapter 17
The Tower of Tarmish
In the instant when the dragon swept over Tarmish, Thayla Mesinda’s trio of guardians, carrying the day’s rations in trays and baskets, unbolted the door to her apartment. At the sound of the heavy door opening, Bron hissed, “Ever’body run like crazy!”
Thus it was that the first thing the three robed ancients encountered was a flood of scurrying gully dwarves, sweeping around and under them as they fled for cover. Before the guardians could react, they were bowled over, pummeled by scampering feet and tumbled back into the stairway corridor. Baskets and trays flew everywhere, and one of the guardians disappeared down the stairwell, a tumble of flailing arms, legs, bright robes and clinging gully dwarves.
When the other two got their wits about them and peered into the bright apartment, there wasn’t a gully dwarf in sight. But there was something else. Just past the outside portal, on the balcony, Thayla Mesinda—seeming to have some extra arms and legs now—crouched in terror. And just beyond, low in the sky, was a huge dragon, floating majestically on great, extended wings.
The two guardians goggled at the sight, then turned and fled, back the way they had come.
On the balcony, Bron had been trying to bolt for cover, but everywhere he turned the human girl blocked his way, trying to hide behind him. Cornered and desperate, Bron turned to face the dragon, brandishing his bashing tool.
But the dragon did not attack. Instead, it only looked at them for a moment, then wheeled and soared away.
“Wow!” Bron breathed, watching it go.
“Golly!” Thayla Mesinda echoed, then looked down at her designated hero with approving eyes. “You’re pretty good, for a … for whatever you are,” she said. “You scared it away.”
The dragon circled and wheeled above the amassed Gelnian hordes outside Tarmish, then flapped its wings lazily and soared away toward the forested hills.
When it was out of sight, Bron sighed with relief and looked around, wondering where everybody had gone. He saw Tunk, or at least the rear end of Tunk, squirming and kicking at the base of a low, bronze chest. Tunk had tried to dive under the thing to hide, but the crack was too small. Now his head was stuck, and the rest of him was struggling to free it. Pook peeked from behind a heavy, open door in the interior room, and Swog was climbing out of a flower pot. Around the corner, Tag and a few others emerged from beneath a daybed.
“Two,” Bron counted them, frowning in concentration. “More than two. Thought there were more than that, though. Where ever’body else?”
“Some of ’em went out this door,” Pook said. “Some Talls, too.”
“Don’t need any more Talls,” Bron said, squinting up at the girl beside him. “Already got one. Real nuisance.”
Thayla strode to the open door. Beyond was a narrow, smoky corridor with stone stairs leading upward to the left and downward to the right. “I guess this is the way out,” she said. “Come on.”
Bron frowned at her. “Come on, where?”
“Out,” she explained. “You are here to get me out of this place, aren’t you?”
“Dunno,” he answered.
“Well, you are! That’s what heroes do. So come on, get me out of here.”
“Okay,” Bron said, shrugging again. None of it made any sense to him, but the female Tall seemed to understand the situation. “Ever’body come on,” Bron said. Holding his bashing tool before him like a shield, he peered into the corridor beyond the heavy door, then stepped through. With the others following him, he turned right and started down the winding stone stairs.
But a few steps down he stopped, bracing himself as some of those behind, gawking around at the mosaic of the tower’s stonework, piled into him.
“Why Bron stop?” someone asked.
“Somebody comin’,” he said. “Sh!”
“What?”
“Sh!”
“Why Bron say, ‘sh,’?”
“Shut up!”
“Oh. Okay.” The chattering subsided. Somewhere below, faint noises grew, coming nearer.
“Better go other way,” Bron decided. He turned, tripped over Tunk and sprawled on the stairs, then picked himself up, muttering.
“We can’t go up,” Thayla argued. “I’m sure the way out isn’t up there. It has to be down there.”
“Somebody comin’ down there,” Bron explained. “We go up.”
“I don’t think we’re making much progress toward escaping,” the girl noted. But she turned, lifted the hem of her skirt prettily, and led the way. At the open door they had just come from, two or three gully dwarves veered off, curious, but Bron called them back. “We already been there,” he said. “Le’s go some other place.”
The sounds from below were growing louder. There definitely was somebody coming. A lot of somebodys.
The stairs wound steeply upward, following the interior wall of the tower. At the top was a plank landing, a short passage lighted by guttering torches. At the end of the passage was a large, iron-bound door.
The Aghar pulled up short there, gawking at the closed portal. “Oops,” one of them said. “Dead end.”
“Maybe can dig through,” another suggested. “Or jus’ break it down. Bron pretty strong. Bron, break down door.”
“Okay,” Bron agreed. He backed away, took several running steps, and braced himself. He thudded into the heavy timbers and bounced off. Backpedaling, he took two or three other gully dwarves with him. They skidded to the edge of the landing and rolled down several stairs before overcoming their momentum.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Thayla sighed. With a dainty hand she grasped the door’s ornate ba
r and pulled. The portal opened readily, swinging wide on oiled hinges. Thayla stepped through, the gully dwarves following.
The room they found themselves in was circular in shape, occupying the entire top floor of the great tower. Open portals looked out in all directions, and those on the east wall led to a narrow, railed balcony.
“Lord Vulpin’s quarters,” Thayla murmured, wide eyes darting here and there. The tower loft was richly furnished. The walls between portals were lined with fine trunks and chests of enameled hardwood, some of them bound with gold filigree, some with lustrous leathers. Near the western portal stood a large, brass telescope of the finest mountain dwarf design, set on a silver tripod. Across from it stood a single, elaborately-carved chair of darkwood and bronze and lush satin cushions.
“Wow,” Tunk breathed, climbing to the seat of the tall chair. “Pretty nifty.”
The sounds from the stairwell had grown louder, and now they could hear the distinct echo of angry Tall voices, coming closer.
Thayla turned to the door, but before she could close it a horde of gully dwarves tumbled through.
“Hey, there!” Bron waved at them from the ledge of the west portal. “Where ever’body been?”
“Downstairs,” several of them explained.
“Got company comin’,” Tag said, pointing at the open door, where the echoes of human voices had become a loud babble. Rising through the voices was the distinct clatter of unsheathed weapons. “Which way’s out?”
“Dunno,” Bron admitted. “Maybe not any.”
“Oh,” several of them said.
“Then what we do?” Tag wondered. “Hide, maybe?”
“Why not close the door?” Thayla Mesinda suggested.
“Good idea,” Bron said. “Somebody close door.”
Obediently, half a dozen of them hurried out, and a moment later the door slammed behind them. There was a pause, then the sound of small fists pummeling the planks. Thayla shook her head in disbelief, went to the door and opened it. The gully dwarves piled in, looking sheepish. “Oops,” one of them said.
The human girl slammed the door and dropped its heavy bolt into place, just as the first of Lord Vulpin’s tower guards came into sight on the stairs below. Their shouts were drowned by the closing of the portal.
Bron had dragged a big, wooden chest across to where the telescope stood. Climbing up on the chest, he pressed an eye to the instrument’s glass, then hissed in fright and threw himself back. In an instant he was flat on his back on the floor, his eyes wide with alarm.
Thayla Mesinda stared at him for a moment, then stepped to the glass and looked. The instrument was of the finest quality, crafted by skilled glaziers in the mountain fortress of Thorbardin. Through its lenses, the Gelnian army in the fields below seemed to be only a few feet away.
“It’s only a far-seeing glass,” she told Bron. “Not magic.” Curious, she swiveled the glass here and there, studying the hordes of armed men closing in on the fortress. There were thousands of armed warriors of all kinds, moving in tight, choreographed ranks and files. Closest among them were massed companies of archers and spearmen, flanked by units of heavily armored cavalry, formidable lancers on huge war-horses, and troops of plains raiders on swift mounts. Great companies of footmen, with shields, swords and axes followed the assaulters, and behind them came clusters of men and draft animals, each cluster tending one of the tall siege towers that trundled majestically along, inching their way ever nearer to the walls of Tarmish.
“I believe they’re planning a war,” Thayla said to herself. “I wonder why?”
Bron had clambered onto the chest again, and Thayla stepped back from the telescope. “Here,” she said. “Take a look. It won’t hurt you.”
“Wow,” Bron breathed, scanning the view. “Lotta Talls.”
Someone was pounding at the barred door now, and muffled voices came through. “Gully dwarves,” a human said. “I saw them. They can’t be much of a problem.”
“But they’re in Lord Vulpin’s quarters,” another voice objected. “There’s no telling what kind of mess they might make in there. Somebody should go tell Lord Vulpin.”
“His lordship is busy,” a deep voice growled. “He’s at the walls, setting up his defenses. He has no time for gully dwarves.”
“But the girl is missing, too,” a thin, aged voice piped up. “She must be found!”
“So, we’ll find her,” the gruff voice snapped. “She can’t go far. But first let’s get those little pests out of Lord Vulpin’s chambers! Get that door open!”
“It’s bolted,” another voice pointed out.
“Then unbolt it, imbecile! Get some prying bars up here. If that doesn’t work, we’ll break it down.”
Chapter 18
Fortress Infested
Dartimien the Cat took good advantage of the momentary confusion following Graywing’s flight into the brush. Dashing directly beneath the belly of a knight’s rearing mount, he whirled and pointed back the way he had come. “That way, Sir Knight!” he shouted. “Don’t let that man escape!”
As the armored rider and his followers veered to follow his point, Dartimien scuttled aside, disappeared beneath the flaps of a wares tent and reappeared a moment later swathed in the long, dark robe of a Gelnian priest.
He bowed solemnly as a company of footmen raced by, then swung flat-handed at the officer bringing up the rear of the line. The edge of his hand took the man in the throat, and Dartimien caught him as he fell. In the space of a heartbeat he had dragged the armsman into the wares tent. When he emerged again, a moment later, it was as a platoon officer of the Gelnian guard.
For a moment he watched the wild, blind search in the nearby brush, then he turned away and harshly beckoned to a pair of stragglers. “I want each of these sheds and tents searched, immediately,” he ordered them. “Those thieves may have hidden contraband here. Look for a carved ivory stick, three or four feet in length. It’s tapered and curved, much like a maenog’s horn. Search for it, then report back to me here.”
The guardsmen saluted, and began their search. With that part of the encampment covered, Dartimien marched across to the main armory and searched that himself. The two guards at the gate had hardly noticed his approach, and didn’t notice anything at all thereafter.
There was no sign of the Fang of Orm. The Cat emerged into sunlight, clad now in the bright cloak, plumed helm and light plating of a captain of lancers. Thus attired, he approached the headquarters pavilion of Chatara Kral and confronted the captain of guards at the entrance. “Why was I summoned here?” he demanded.
The huge frostman stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “How should I know?” he rumbled.
“If you don’t know, then who does?” Dartimien pressed, squaring his shoulders and managing to look down his nose at the big Icelander, who towered head and shoulders above him.
“Ask them inside there,” the giant said. “They don’t tell us anything.”
As though the hulking brute didn’t exist, Dartimien strode forward, and the big man hastened to step out of his way. The other guards, seeing their leader pass the visitor, also gave way.
Once inside the great tent, Dartimien ducked aside and disappeared among the bales of provisions stacked there. In the open center of the place, Chatara Kral herself was directing a conference of commanders who were planning their assault on Tarmish. But none of them saw or heard the silent intruder as he made his way around the pavilion, poking here and prodding there.
He was just completing his search of the place when there were shouts and screams outside. “Dragon!” someone shrieked, and other voices joined in. The conference in the pavilion broke up as people there rushed to look outside, then scurried back in, their frostman guards nearly trampling them in their panic.
“Dragon, huh?” Dartimien muttered to himself. “Wonder how the barbarian managed that? Well, one diversion is as good as another.” He crept through an unguarded flap, and straightened his cl
oak. He watched with surprise as a great, green, or almost green, dragon swept away toward the forested hills. “There really was a dragon,” he muttered. “How about that?”
Pausing only long enough to glance toward the wares tents, where his appointed searchers cowered under a tilt-up shed, he turned and went the other way. They hadn’t found the Fang, either. They would have had it in hand if they had found it.
“You, there!” a voice called. Dartimien turned to face the giant from the pavilion, one of the frostmen of Chatara Kral’s personal guard. The huge man wore a long necklace of steel chain over his bearskin jerkin, and held a heavy axe in his hand as lightly as Dartimien might have clutched a dagger. “You didn’t identify yourself,” the frostman growled. “Who are you?”
The encampment around them still was a scene of panic. People and animals were still reacting to the fearful passage of the dragon. But apparently this monster had a one-track mind. It was not at all distracted.
Dartimien gazed up at the brute, curiously. “Did you see a dragon out here?”
“Yeah,” the giant rumbled, frowning. “They didn’t say there’d be dragons when we took this job. If any more of those things show up, I’ll look for work somewhere else.” He paused, and his frown deepened. “Who did you say you are?”
Dartimien was tempted to gull the giant with some elaborate tale, but decided against it. Within a minute or so, the camp would be settling into its routines again, and it wasn’t worth the risk. So he merely shrugged. “I’m an intruder,” he admitted. “I don’t belong here and I’m probably an enemy. But I’m just passing through.”
With an oath, the giant raised his axe and swung it, but it clove only thin air. Dartimien had ducked under the cut. Before the frostman could reverse his swing, the Cat dived between legs the size of tree trunks, catching the giant’s dangling steel necklace as he went. Behind the giant he rolled, sprang to his feet, planted a soft boot against the brute’s buttocks and kicked, at the same time heaving at the necklace. With a roar, the giant did half a somersault and crashed to the ground, headfirst.
The Gully Dwarves Page 14