“Okay,” Bron said. With others helping, he lugged the pole to the top of the mound, and used his broadsword to force a gap between stones there. A half dozen gully dwarves raised the pole upright. It swayed this way and that.
“Other end up,” Scrib said. “Plant big end, not little end.”
“Okay.”
They turned the pole and thrust its butt into the hole Bron had made. It fit tightly, reluctantly, but with six or seven pairs of hands working on it, it finally settled in with a satisfying thunk.
Bron picked up a large stone, it was almost as big as he was, then paused, frowning at the tall shaft. “How fasten rock for throw?”
Scrib puzzled over the problem for a moment, then turned and grasped old Gandy by an arm and a leg. Unceremoniously, he flipped the Grand Notioner upside down and peeled off his robe. “Use this,” he said, holding the empty robe aloft. “Make sack. Rock sack for fling-thing.”
Gandy, naked now except for a tattered rag around his loins, got to his feet, muttering angrily.
With the robe and some bits of thong, Tunk started up the staff. It shivered and swayed, throwing him off. “Need a hand here,” he said.
Having nothing better to do, seven or eight gully dwarves began climbing the upright pole. Others, momentarily losing interest, wandered about the fringes of the battlefield, picking up whatever caught their eyes—a few knives and short swords, an axe of two, a leather boot …
Under the weight of ascending Aghar, the willow staff swayed and began to bend. By the time most of them were halfway up, the pole was bent in a tight arc and its tip was only a few feet from the ground.
Bron grabbed the vibrating tip, clinging with one hand, while the swaying pole swung him this way and that. “High enough!” he barked. “Tie it on!”
Obediently, the gang on the pole clung where they were, and Gandy’s robe was passed up to them. With thongs, they secured its sleeves to the pole, then a brigade of helpers handed up a stone. Those on the staff wrestled the stone into place and dropped it into the open top of the fluttering robe. It fell through, and out the bottom, taking one or two gully dwarves with it.
“Oops,” Tunk said.
“Need more thong, tie up end of sack,” Blip suggested. “Anybody got more thong?”
As one, those crowding the top of the bent pole bailed off, and those dangling from its underside let go, all of them searching for bits of thong.
The pole, released, whistled upright. Bron, still clinging to its very end, found himself flying—tumbling through the air, over the heads of the men locked in mortal combat below, and the great portal of the tower loomed to meet him.
Somewhere behind him, Scrib stared, wide-eyed. “Fling-thing work pretty good,” he said.
“That not rock!” Pert shrilled. “That Bron!”
“Pretty good shot, though,” several of the gully dwarves observed.
Scrib found his chalk and got busy, scrawling doodles on his slate. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he had come to the realization that when something momentous, or at least unusual and interesting, like Bron flying through the air, occurred, squiggles should be drawn to commemorate it.
Making up squiggles as he went along, Scrib wrote it down.
Gandy leaned on his mop handle staff, gazing upward sadly. The breeze was cold on his naked old hide. High above him, his robe whipped and fluttered like a dirty blue flag, and the Grand Notioner didn’t have the slightest notion how to get it back.
Encouraged by their success, Tunk and Blip rounded up several of their reluctant peers and began climbing the fling-pole again. This time when they reached Gandy’s robe, about the time it neared the ground, they tied off the bottom of it with cord and filled it with fifty pounds of gravel. Then they all piled off and the pole snapped upright. The load of rock took the momentum and continued it, arcing toward the base of the tower, where fierce fighting was going on.
The problem was that the load of gravel, once confined to Gandy’s robe, stayed there. When it took flight, propelled by the released pole, it took both robe and pole with it.
“Nice shot,” Scrib said, adding more doodles to his slate. “Can’t do it again, though.”
“Quit foolin’ ’round!” the Lady Bruze demanded. “Le’s go find Clout!”
“Clout a twit,” several around her pointed out.
“Highbulp, though,” the Lady Lidda said. “Okay, ever’body go upstairs.”
“Can’t get in there.” Tunk pointed at the wide portal in the tower’s base. The opening was filled with humans in combat.
“Then climb wall,” Lidda said. “Ever’body come on!”
* * * * *
When Graywing and Dartimien reached the tower they were fighting for their lives. Both Gelnians and Tarmites—interrupted in their attempts to slaughter each other—had turned on the intruders. Now like a pack of raging beasts, the combatants surrounded and harassed the “outsiders.”
Graywing parried a thrusting pike, kicked aside a Gelnian warrior and disarmed a Tarmite right behind him. Beside him Dartimien was a frenzied flurry of lithe motion, stabbing here, slashing there, now and then releasing a dagger to do its deadly work.
“These people are getting mean,” the plainsman panted, whirling to drive back several attackers.
“It’s what we get for butting in,” the Cat snarled. “This is their private war, and I don’t think we’re welcome.”
“Make for the tower gate,” Graywing ordered, indicating the portal which was now behind him. “We’ll take cover in there.”
Dartimien sneered. “We’ll have to get in, first. Look.”
Pivoting, Graywing glanced at their destination, now only a few feet away. In the doorway were icemen—huge, glowering brutes brandishing axes the size of singletrees. “Gods,” he muttered.
But they were committed now. There was no turning back. Clearing a space around them, their blades driving the attackers back, the Cobar and the Cat found themselves face to face with Chatara Kral’s best mercenaries.
“You!” one of the giants rumbled, recognizing Dartimien. “I owe you this, little man.” He grinned, raised his axe … and froze as a thrown dagger blossomed in his throat.
“Only three knives left,” Dartimien muttered, as the iceman pitched forward, blood spurting from beneath his beard. “I’d better start recovering them.”
“Count your toys later,” Graywing growled. His blade rang against another descending axe, barely deflecting it. The shock of impact numbed his arm, and the iceman towering over him growled and struck again. Graywing dodged aside, evading the great blade by inches. He tried to thrust with his sword, but the giant parried it easily with a huge, banded arm.
The axe rose again, and suddenly the iceman stumbled back. His face was covered with disheveled gully dwarf, clinging to his head.
“Oops,” Bron said. “Sorry ’bout that.”
Seeing his opportunity. Graywing ran his sword through the iceman’s brisket, then leaped over him as he fell. “Get in here!” he yelled at Dartimien.
“Okay,” the unexpected gully dwarf said.
Beyond the shadowed opening were stone steps, leading upward. Graywing sprinted for them, with Dartimien right behind. For a moment it seemed they were alone in the dark base of the tower. The Tarmites and Gelnians outside had noticed one another again.
Graywing sped upward, taking the steps three at a time, then stopped so suddenly that Dartimien collided with him from behind. They dodged aside, clinging to the wall, as the limp body of still another iceman tumbled past. A broken spear shaft protruded from the big primitive’s back. Even in the dim light they could see the black markings on its shaft.
“Cave vandals,” the Cat hissed. “Vulpin’s pet assassins.”
Above were the whispers of soft boots on stone, and descending shadows. Dark cloaks swirled and the shadows were men—tall, silent, dark men with painted faces and painted weapons, descending from somewhere above.
As they
saw the assassins, the assassins saw them. The one in the lead didn’t so much as hesitate. Bright steel glinted in shadow and flashed downward, a thrown dart with triad points. The device clanged off the wall where Dartimien had been an instant before, and the lead assassin pulled another from his belt. But before he could throw it, Graywing reached him, a howling fury of lethal Cobar with his razor-edged sword singing its song of death. The lead assassin never knew what hit him.
A second dark cloak shrilled and pitched from the stairs into darkness below, clutching at the hilt of Dartimien’s thrown dagger which stood in his breast.
Then a third assassin screamed, staggered and seemed to shrink abruptly. Graywing blinked in surprise. Neither he nor the foe had noticed the little gully dwarf with the big broadsword, until its blade slashed across the caveman’s knees. It was the same gully dwarf who had sailed out of nowhere moments before, right into the face of an iceman.
“Wow,” Bron said. “Pretty good bash. Real hero stuff.”
“Where did you come from?” Dartimien hissed.
Bron looked puzzled. “Dunno,” he confided. “Guess I was jus’ born. Ol’ Glitch my dad, so Lady Lidda prob’ly my mom.”
“I don’t want your lineage!” Dartimien snapped. “How did you get to this tower?”
“Oh, that,” Bron said. “Fling-thing flang … flu … toss me over here.”
Below them, a faded blue robe full of gravel crashed through the doorway, rattling and scraping as it dragged a long, flexible pole across the stone paving.
“That fling-thing,” Bron pointed. “Guess ever’-body through with it.”
Another cave assassin appeared on the stairs above, and from beyond came the abrupt sounds of fierce combat. Dartimien recognized the rumbling oaths of at least two more icemen and the soft, shuffling footsteps of cave assassins. The last, best forces of Lord Vulpin and Chatara Kral had met, somewhere above.
“Thayla’s up there,” Graywing growled. With a bound, the plainsman dodged the falling, tumbling corpse of a beheaded caveman and charged up the stairway.
“You’re crazy!” Dartimien shouted after him, but Graywing was already gone. “Gods,” the Cat muttered. Relieving a dead cave assassin of a pair of serviceable daggers, he sprinted upward, grumbling.
Chapter 24
Wishmaker, Wishtaker
Chatara Kral, rumored daughter of the mightiest of Dragon Highlords, was a formidable warrior in her own right. Though striking of face and form, the daughter of Verminaard despised and shunned the gentle teachings offered in her childhood by tutors and tenders. She hated them, just as she hated her arrogant brother Vulpin. Since childhood she had trained in the deadly arts, preparing for just this time—when she would face her despised brother and claim the legacy that should be hers alone, a legacy promised by her father when he pledged the dark ways in exchange for power.
From the day in Chatara Kral’s childhood when her father had dedicated his service to Takhisis, goddess of evil, Chatara Kral had known her destiny. She would rule! By any means necessary, she would have everything and anything she wanted, when she wanted it. All around her would be her subjects, and none would dispute her dominance and continue to live.
Pure, unencumbered power would be her inheritance. Her father had bargained with a goddess for such rewards, but something had gone amiss. Takhisis had abandoned her quest and her followers.
But still Chatara Kral blazed with ambition. If she could not inherit absolute power, she would take it for herself. She would have the world, or as much of it as she cared to take, and all its riches. And she did not intend to share.
Chatara Kral had always known that one day her brother Vulpin would be an obstacle. His dreams were like hers, but in the world they both envisioned there could be only one absolute ruler.
Thus Vulpin—now the Lord Vulpin of Tarmish as she was now regent of Gelnia—must be eliminated. With him out of the way, Chatara Kral would be invincible. The Vale of Sunder would be her base. From here, her armies of conquest would march.
Such was her legacy from that shadowy, cruel figure who had sired her. And she knew beyond doubt—none other than Dred the Necromancer, communer with the dead, had told her—that nothing in this world could stop her from claiming it.
She was invincible, and she was without scruple. Thus when she and the last of her elite guard—brutish, stoic icemen from the frozen south—found themselves trapped in the Tower of Tarmish, Chatara Kral did not hesitate. Behind her and ahead of her were cave assassins, the favored instruments of Lord Vulpin. When these met her phalanx of axe-wielders, Chatara Kral committed her icemen to a battle to the death.
She would lose most of them, she knew. She might even lose all of them. It made no difference. She could always entice more followers. Casually she betrayed them, and the chaos that ensued in the murky tower gave her what she wanted. As her faithful savages bled and died for her on the winding stairs, demolishing Vulpin’s assassins even as they fell, Chatara Kral slipped past and headed for the top.
From the shattered portal opening onto Lord Vulpin’s aerie, she saw her goal—Vulpin himself, holding an ivory stick in one hand and a cringing, frightened girl in the other.
The Wishmaker! So Vulpin really had it, and had found someone to activate it!
With a snarl like a serpent’s hiss, Chatara Kral started toward her brother. Two cave assassins came from shadows to confront her, guarding their lord, and she knew that they were the last. Chatara Kral’s gleaming sword glinted in the light. The primitive cave vandals were among the most feared fighters in Ansalon, but for Chatara Kral they would be the work of a moment. Then Vulpin would be alone.
Vulpin saw his sister emerge from the portal, and was not surprised. He had known she would come. But now his haste became frenzied. The girl, Thayla Mesinda, was so terrified that she could hardly speak. Yet the words she must voice, the spoken wish that worked the magic of the Wishmaker, must be exact.
“Listen to me, girl,” Vulpin snapped, impatiently. “You must memorize this! The talisman is a spell-maker. Your wish will shape the spell. You will wish three things! Do you understand?”
“Three … three things,” Thayla whispered.
“Three things. The first is that Chatara Kral must die.”
“Chata … Chatara …”
“Chatara Kral!” Vulpin spat the name.
“Chatara Kral,” Thayla repeated it. “I will wish for Chatara Kral to die.”
Vulpin’s last two assassins were blocking Chatara Kral’s path, their weapons threatening. Somewhere near, Vulpin could hear a scraping sound, like that of metal on stone. He glanced around. The irritated little gully dwarf was out of its cabinet. Stooping and panting, it labored, dragging a wide, iron bowl behind it.
“You will wish that I, Lord Vulpin, never be driven from this place,” Vulpin ordered the girl.
“I will … will wish that Lord Vulpin never leave this place,” Thayla managed.
“And you will wish that I, Lord Vulpin, shall prevail!”
“I will wish that Lord Vulpin pre-pre—”
“Prevail!” Vulpin hissed.
“Prevail,” Thayla whispered, struggling with the word. The big man’s fingers on her throat were an agony, but she was helpless to escape.
“Those are your wishes,” Vulpin said.
Across the stone floor a cave assassin screamed and doubled over, impaled on Chatara Kral’s flashing blade. The remaining assassin dodged aside and attacked. Vulpin raised the Fang of Orm and a tentative voice behind him announced, “Got lotta stew here. Anybody want some?”
“Get out of here!” Vulpin shouted, glancing around. With both hands occupied, he aimed a kick at the annoying gully dwarf. Clout dodged aside, and the man’s booted foot collided with the legendary Great Stew Bowl, throwing sprays and dollops of noisome concoction in all directions.
In Vulpin’s cruel grasp, Thayla squirmed and kicked. “Clout, get away!” she urged. Then the fingers tightened again and sh
e hung silent, half-conscious and struggling for breath.
“The wish!” Vulpin ordered. “Remember the wish!”
“I … remember,” she gasped.
He loosed his hold slightly, set her on her feet and thrust the Fang of Orm into her hands, his angry eyes watching the last assassin fall. Chatara Kral stepped over the body and smiled a cruel, victorious smile. Raising her sword again, she stepped toward Vulpin.
“Wish, girl!” Vulpin hissed. “Wish, now!”
Thayla grasped the Fang of Orm. “I wish …” she said, and the daylight seemed to darken around them. Great, dark clouds sprang into being overhead, swirling and coiling like a massive storm aloft. “I wish that Chatara Kral die,” Thayla gasped. “I wish that the Lord Vulpin never leave this place.”
“Good,” Vulpin whispered. “Very good. Go on.”
Overhead, the dark clouds rolled, forming themselves into a wide ring with darkness at its center—a darkness that was beyond darkness.
“I wish,” Thayla said, gasping, “that the Lord Vulpin pre-pre …”
“Means wind up on top,” a helpful little voice nearby said.
“That Lord Vulpin wind up on top,” Thayla said, obediently.
On the near horizon a dark shadow streaked toward the tower. The shadow grew, revealing wide, graceful wings, a long, sweeping tail and extended talons. “Now,” a voice like distant thunder rumbled. It was the dragon’s own voice, speaking to itself. “Now is the time, Verden Leafglow!”
For a long moment, the humans atop the tower stood frozen, gawking at what was happening in the sky above. Out of the blackness within the ring of clouds, a gigantic head appeared, the sloping, glaring head of a great serpent. A mouth the size of a maize field opened wide, and black vapors drifted about the gleaming, curved luster of a single fang.
“Run like crazy!” Clout gurgled. In panic he upended the legendary Great Stew Bowl and ducked as it fell upside down. It clanged to the stones, with Clout hidden beneath it. Its surface was no longer dull, aged iron. It blazed now, like mirrors in sunlight, and the radiant, complex visage on its surface seemed to hang above it.
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