The Gelnian army had begun its assault on the fortress of Tarmish, and the open courtyard and its alcoves were not healthy places to be.
Chapter 19
The Road To Rune
In a place of shadows, small shadows moved. Here ancient, mildewed granite walls stood half-buried by rubble and silt, somber testament to the antiquity of the unseen structures high above. Great pillars of rough-cut stone towered at intervals along the walls and across the fields of rubble. Dark monoliths stood here and upon their sweeping shoulders rested Tarmish—the fortifications, the habitat, the entire culture of the people of this place. Here in a time long forgotten, generations of human toil had carved foundations from the virgin stone, foundations upon which future generations could build a fortress.
No one remembered now how these monoliths had come about, or who had shaped them. Over time these reminders had been so despised by the people above them that they had been ignored and eventually forgotten. For those ancient people who built such underpinnings had been neither Tarmite nor Gelnian, but the common ancestors of both.
For any Gelnian to admit such ancestry would have been unthinkable, for it would have been an admission of kinship with the hated city dwellers of Tarmish. And of course no Tarmite would even consider that a Gelnian—one of those despised rural folk who were good only for tending the crops that kept the city fed—might be even remotely a relative.
Thus the foundations of Tarmish—a dim catacomb of tunnels, vaulted passages and great chambers among stone foundations—went unnoticed, generation after generation. If anyone thought of the cavernous cellars at all, it was only as the place where storm drains led, and where sewers discharged.
Yet now, suddenly, these nether regions were occupied. The new tenants crept here and there, cautiously, exploring their surroundings by the muted light that came from grates far above. Here and there, little bands of Aghar roved the shadowy corridors, exploring. None of them were quite sure where this place was, or how they came to be here. But such abstract reflection was of little interest. The fact was, they were here, and until somebody told them otherwise, they would stay here.
It was a place. That was enough to know about it. It wasn’t This Place, of course. For any place to be This Place, the Highbulp must designate it as such. But nobody had seen the Highbulp just lately, or anybody else of any authority. The Lady Lidda wasn’t here, any more than the Highbulp was. Nor was Clout, the Chief Basher, or Clout’s wife, the Lady Bruze, who might have taken charge had she been around. It was the nature of the Lady Bruze to take charge every time she had a chance. But she was as absent right now as the rest of Bulp’s notables. Even old Gandy, the Grand Notioner, was among the missing.
Others seemed to be missing, too, but nobody was exactly sure who, or how many. There was a lot to see here, and having nothing better to do, most of the lost tribe of Bulp set out to see it. For a time, Scrib followed along with the general pack, peering here and there, as awed as the rest at the magnitude of the ancient construction. “Big stuff,” he muttered, circling a monolithic stone pillar that rose from rough rubble into the echoing shadows far above. It was like the countless other pillars in this catacomb, but larger, and it captured Scrib’s attention by its sheer size. “Somebody make all this big stuff, sometime,” he said, nodding sagely. “Long time before yesterday.”
Hands clasped behind him, he shuffled around the great, standing cylinder of the monolith.
Though roughly crafted, without the fine work of a column that was intended to be seen, the massive, carved stone fascinated him. Shrouded in centuries of accumulated lime, mildew, fungus and filth, it was nearly a hundred feet in diameter, and at least twice that tall. Though the Aghar had no concept of such architecture, the massive column was the central support for the Tower of Tarmish, high above. It was, in fact, the root of the great tower and its solid core of stone extended to the very floor of the tower’s highest bastion.
At a bulge in the dark, grime-coated surface, Scrib paused, peered more closely, and rubbed the moist, sticky surface with an inquisitive finger, which he then stuck into his mouth. Cocking his head thoughtfully, he smacked his lips. “Not bad,” he decided. “Taste kinda like mushroom.” He took another taste, and was crowded aside by dozens of other curious Aghar, who had been following him around the base of the column, all of them gawking like tourists. Scrib had tasted the mildew, so now they all wanted a taste, and all from the same bulge.
“Nice,” one of them commented. “Pretty good goo.”
“Heady li’l vintage,” another nodded in agreement. “Del’cate arom … boqu … don’ smell too bad, if you hold nose.”
“Hint of musk,” somebody else judged. “Well aged an’ full-bodied.”
“Bit on th’ sandy side,” a string-bearded individual pointed out. “Like raw bird craw.”
“Nothin’ but mildew!” a female grumbled. “Mildew is mildew. Okay for taste, but not food!”
“Some folks got no palate,” somebody observed. “This make pretty good spice for stew.”
“Don’t have stew,” Scrib muttered.
“Got a point there,” somebody agreed. “Anybody got stew stuff?”
Obediently, dozens of gully dwarves searched their pockets and pouches. Among the treasures discovered there were several old bird nests, most of the mummified remains of a lizard, twenty or thirty nice rocks, a forgotten shoe, a fur ball recovered long ago from some cat’s abandoned den, a shriveled ogre-finger, a single scissor and a putrefied pigeon egg. But nobody had any food.
“Rats!” several remarked.
“Oughtta be rats around here,” one suggested. “Anybody got a bashin’ tool?”
“Clout usually has bashin’ tool,” somebody said. “Where Clout?”
“Not here,” several of them reminded him. “Maybe we better find a bashin’ tool.”
“Maybe we better find Clout,” somebody suggested.
“Don’ have any stew pot,” a female complained. “Bron carries stew pot, but Bron not here either. Gettin’ so ya can’t count on anybody anymore. Bron not here, Clout not here, Highbulp not here.”
“Better find Bron, too,” they decided. “Anybody see Bron lately?”
With a purpose established, squads of gully dwarves set off in various directions to begin their search. And a dozen or so of the ladies organized a forage, to see what else they could find that might be useful. Still musing over the mildew-covered bulge on the stone column, Scrib glanced around. “Where everybody goin’?”
“Lookin’ for Clout an’ Bron,” somebody told him. “Need a bashin’ tool.”
“Gonna bash Clout an’ Bron?” Scrib asked, puzzled.
“Need meat for stew.”
“Gonna cook Clout an’ Bron, for stew?”
But there was no answer to that. Most of them had gone off in search of their missing members, and those who remained hadn’t understood the question. With a shrug, Scrib turned his attention again to the bulge on the column. Where the mildew had been scraped away, a metallic surface glowed dully.
“What this?” Scrib mused.
A helpful passerby peered at the metal, then stuck out his tongue to taste it. “Not brass,” he said, his dwarven senses at peak. There were those who speculated that the Aghar—the gully dwarves of Krynn—might be distant cousins of the true dwarves. No true dwarf, of course, would have tolerated such a thought for an instant, and it was unlikely that any gully dwarf had ever thought about it. To the Aghar, true dwarves—or “swatters”—were just as mysterious and unfriendly as Talls. But there were common traits between the dwarven and Aghar races, and one was a taste for metals. “Got zinc in it,” the passerby decided. “Mus’ be bronze. Pretty old, but still bronze.”
Jostling the helpful one aside, Scrib rubbed some more mildew off the surface, and squinted at the metal beneath. There were markings on it—row after row of strange little doodles carefully inscribed.
One of them, repeated several times, resemb
led the squiggles Scrib had drawn earlier, representing mushrooms. And there were squiggles of many other kinds, as well. Intuition crept up Scrib’s spine, making his hair itch.
A few times in his life, Scrib had encountered “Talls,” or humans, and “swatters,” the true dwarves of the mountains and the hills. Both races, to a gully dwarf, were mysterious, dangerous creatures, quite beyond comprehension in most ways. But Scrib recalled vaguely a thing he had noticed before. Both humans and dwarves seemed to be able to make squiggles talk.
“This a message?” he breathed, excitement flooding through him. “Maybe somebody leave instructions.”
“Instructions for what?” several interested Aghar wondered.
“For us!” Scrib snapped. “All kinda squiggles here. All mean somethin’. Been tryin’ to tell you, squiggles mean stuff … See?” He pointed impatiently. “This kin’ squiggle mean ‘mushroom.’ Here, an’ here an’ here. Mushroom.”
“Lotta mushroom,” somebody said. “How many?”
Scrib counted the squiggles that, to him, meant mushroom. There were several of them. “Two,” he decided. “An’ lotsa other kin’ squiggles, too. Like worms an’ trees an’ li’l boxes. An’ this one look like a storm. Somebody tryin’ to tell us somethin’ here.”
“Maybe say it gonna rain,” someone suggested, helpfully.
“Gonna rain worms an’ boxes,” another elaborated.
The voice they heard then seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Though as soft as a disgusted mutter, it was a very big voice, and seemed to fill the shadowy reaches of the cavern. “What a bunch of nitwits!” it said. “Those are runes, you little idiot. Don’t you know about runes?”
Eyes wide, the gully dwarves stared around in the gloom. “Who that?” somebody squeaked.
Little winds stirred the dust of the old cellar and great wings whispered softly in the shadows above. All eyes turned upward, gawking in terror. It looked as though great parts of the shadowed ceiling had detached themselves and were descending—a sinuous, graceful flow of shadow among shadows slowly took form as stunned Aghar eyes traced the outlines of huge movement. With wings spread wide, rippling along their edges, and its great, graceful tail sweeping this way and that, the dragon seemed to fill the recesses above.
“D-d-dragon?” Scrib whispered, terror in his eyes.
“Craze like runny!” a panicked Aghar shrieked.
Frenzied gully dwarves scurried about, running blindly in circles, then froze in place as the big, irritated voice rasped, “Stop that! Stand still! Do you want me to step on you? Gods, what a bunch of little ninnies!”
Huge, reptilian feet, feet with gleaming talons like great, curved blades, touched down as gently as feathers among the fear-frozen Aghar, and the dragon settled its weight and folded its wings. A scale-armored head bristling with spikes swung this way and that on a long, sinuous neck, peering at each of them in turn, as though memorizing them. The little creatures seemed frozen with terror.
“Who’s in charge here?” Verden Leafglow asked, as pleasantly as her natural aversion to the insipid little creatures permitted. Time and experience had brought about profound changes in the green dragon—time, experience and the attention of a god. Reorx had given her a new way of thinking, and she settled more and more into it. Once she would have killed every gully dwarf in sight without giving it a second thought, just for the fun of it. But many things had happened since those times, and a gully dwarf had once shown her a mercy. Now, strangely, she felt inclined to tolerate the despicable creatures—so long as they didn’t irritate her too much.
For a moment none of them responded. Most of them, in fact, were too terrified to move even their lips. Then one of them stuttered, “Wh-what dragon say?”
“I asked who’s in charge here,” Verden repeated.
“Dunno,” the gully dwarf said. “What’s-’is-name usually in charge. Ol’ G-glitch. th’ Highbulp. Highbulp not here now, though.”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno. Someplace else. M-may-maybe dragon go s-someplace else, too? Might fin’ Glitch.”
“I don’t intend to go off searching for some nitwit gully dwarf!” Verden snorted.
“Okay,” the unfrozen one said. “Then we go someplace else. No p-problem. Bye, dragon.” With a shudder he turned, started to run and collided with another gully dwarf. The collision seemed to trigger a chain reaction. By the tens and dozens, fear-frozen Aghar found their feet, running and colliding in all directions. Where there had been silent, still gully dwarves, now abruptly there were noisy, panic-stricken gully dwarves scurrying, colliding, tumbling and falling like dominoes, everywhere.
Verden Leafglow raised her majestic head, shaking it in disgust. “Gully dwarves!” she hissed. The hiss became a roar. “All of you, stop it! Stand still!”
Obediently all the commotion ceased. With a fore-claw the size of a giant’s rapier, Verden singled out Scrib and tapped him on the chest. He goggled at her and nearly fainted. “You,” she said. “How are you called?”
Scrib blinked, swallowed and shrugged. “Any ol’ way,” he said. “Mos’ly jus’, ‘Hey, you!’ that g-good enough.”
“I mean, what is your name?” Verden snapped.
“Oh, that,” Scrib said. “Name S-scri-scr … uh … Scrib. Pleased t’ meet you, dragon. Bye.”
“Come back here!” Verden snapped. “Show me what you have found.”
“Okay.” Scrib began emptying various pouches and pockets in his clothing. “Got a m-m-mar-marble,” he said. “An’ piece of string, an’ a t-t-turtle t-tooth an’ some rocks. Ol’ flat b-black rock an’ sof’ white one. An’ part of a lizard, an’—”
“Gods,” Verden muttered. “I don’t care what’s in your pockets, I want to see the runes you found.”
“See wh-what?”
“The runes! The … the ‘squiggles!’ ”
“Oh.” Scrib brightened. Someone was showing interest in his discovery. And even though that someone happened to be a dragon, still he was pleased. And it didn’t seem as though the dragon meant to kill him, at least not right away. “There,” he pointed a grimy finger at the bronze surface gleaming dully beneath its coating of mildew. “Squiggles,” he pronounced. “In my bes’ judgm … opin … looks to me like stuff ’bout mushrooms.”
“It has nothing to do with mushrooms,” Verden grunted, peering at the ancient inscriptions.
“Not mushrooms?” Scrib was a bit deflated. “What, then?”
“It’s a sign,” Verden said.
“Sign?” Scrib stood on tiptoe, trying to see past the dragon’s huge muzzle. “Yep, mebbe so. Sign is doodles that talk. Swatters got signs in Th’bardin. Say stuff like, ‘Fourth Road,’ ‘No Tresp … tres … keep off,’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ Talls got signs, too. Signs say ‘Solace Three Miles,’ an’ ‘Eat at Otto’s’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ ” Enthralled, he planted a foot on the dragon’s lower jaw, between her jutting fangs, grabbed a great nostril and hauled himself up onto the beast’s snout. There he knelt, leaning precariously to get a closer look at the bronze plate.
“Get off my nose!” Verden snarled. With a yelp Scrib tumbled from the dragon’s snout. He landed on a huge forepaw and cringed between scaled “fingers” the size of tree roots.
Ignoring the little oaf, Verden scanned the ancient inscription:
Upon this rock be balance found. Let harmony reside here, on the fulcrum of the shining stone. Eternal the heritage of high and low.
Verden puzzled over it, then lifted a delicate talon to chip away bits of the mildew-fouled surface below the bronze. The gully dwarf, clinging frantically to her finger, bounced and chattered in terror.
Beneath the ancient coating of the column was pure, white quartz. Unmasked, it seemed to glow with a life of its own.
“It is a sign,” the dragon breathed. “This is the sign Reorx promised.”
Unburdened by any significant attention span, Scrib instantly forgot the terror of a moment before
and clambered up the dragon’s arm for a better view. Perched on her gigantic shoulder, he peered at the ancient column. “What sign say?” he asked.
“It says this is the point of balance,” Verden said, mostly to herself. “The fulcrum. It says the harmonies rest here.”
“What?” Scrib demanded, baffled. In his eagerness he climbed higher, clinging to Verden’s eyelid as he tried to find footing on the scale-slick bridge of her nose.
“It says this is the shining stone!” the dragon thundered. “Get out of my face, you little nitwit!”
With a flip of her head she sent Scrib flying. He lit, tumbled and rolled, and sprawled at the feet of the Highbulp, Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Persuasion and Glorious Defender of Various places, who had just arrived, followed by portions of his scattered tribe, and by some humans.
Most of them were so taken with Scrib’s acrobatics that for a moment they didn’t notice the dragon towering nearby.
But then the three humans, sharp-eyed among the bumbling Aghar, saw the monster and Thayla stifled a shriek. Dartimien and Graywing both moved to protect the girl, Graywing’s sword whistling as he drew it, the Cat’s hands abruptly full of daggers. But before they could shelter Thayla, someone else was there. With a mighty heave, Bron the gully dwarf raised his big, iron shield and brandished his broadsword beside it. “Sh-shoo!” he ordered. “Dragon sh-sh-shoo! Scat, dragon! G-go ’way!”
The little creature’s eyes were the size of Solamnian shoebuttons in a grimy face now pale with fear, but still he stood his ground.
Verden’s great head swung around casually, and she studied the puny creature with interest. Reorx had told her that one day she would meet a gully dwarf hero, but she had never truly believed it. The idea was too preposterous. And yet, here was a gully dwarf, trying to protect another person. The ugly little creature was actually threatening her, ordering her away!
This was indeed the one. The shield he held before him was that same shield that had protected Verden from Flame Searclaw’s dragonfire, long ago in the tunnels of Xak Tsaroth.
The Gully Dwarves Page 16