"Gods!" swore the dwarf, skidding into the cavern wall.
"Let her go, you stinking worm!" Brandishing the rusty blade, he spun around and stumbled toward the retreating monstrosity. With one hand he grabbed a fistful of Perian's jacket and with the other he slashed across the dripping, rubbery tentacles. Gobs of venom and thick, blue blood hissed through the air, thrown from the thrashing limb. It took a third lightning cut by the tarnished knife before the frawl was released. Flint flung the paralyzed but still con scious mountain dwarf over his shoulder and retreated, moving backward to keep his face toward the beast. It seemed momentarily stunned by its injury, though Flint knew it had too little brain to yield to any opponent.
But for the moment, it had something else to think about.
Food, in the form of its own tentacles, had fallen at its feet.
Flint gazed in disbelief as the horror gulped down the grisly bounty of itself. The hill dwarf turned and bolted once more into the cavern, only too aware that so far only luck was keeping him alive.
This might be the last thing I ever do, Flint caught himself thinking as he raced through the darkness. And I'm not do ing it very well, he added as his benumbed ankle crumpled beneath the combined weight of him and Perian. Frantically he pulled himself up on the wall and, dragging both Perian and his own foot, continued deeper into the lair of the crea ture.
Or he would have, had the cavern not abruptly narrowed to a point and then stopped completely. His escape route blocked by solid rock, Flint dropped Perian to the floor. Her eyes, peering helplessly at him, were filled with unaccus tomed terror. Flint looked away, then readied the humble blade he'd picked up. With a rueful chuckle he said aloud, "I'm naming you Happenstance, little knife, for whatever it's worth. You stand between us and perdition. I hope you're up to it."
As he turned to face the approaching carrion crawler, a flash of light from a fissure in the wall caught Flint's eye.
With no hesitation, he hefted Perian's limp form and crammed her head first into the crack in the rock, wherever it led. He pushed her forward as far as possible, but then she wedged in and Flint could not budge her. "Forgive me, Per ian," he muttered as he put his shoulder to her ample seat and heaved with all his might. The frawl inched forward, and then suddenly, as if something ahead was tugging on the other end, she zipped forward and out of sight. Startled,
Flint tried to twist his neck up for a look through the hole, but a pair of hands grabbed him by the red trim on his tunic and dragged him, too, through the breach in the wall.
Flint crawled to his knees and saw Perian laying on the ground before him. He looked up.
Sporting an idiotic grin and a self-important posture was the filthiest pot-bellied creature the hill dwarf had seen in a long time.
"I'll be hanged!" Flint exclaimed. "A gully dwarf!"
"What you doing there? Monster get you," the gully dwarf said simply, scolding them with a click of his tongue.
"No kidding," chuckled Flint. "Where are we now?"
The gully dwarf beamed proudly. "You in Mudhole!"
Chapter 11
Mudhole
When He created the world, Reorx the Forge, a god of neutrality who strove for balance between good and evil, needed men to help Him with His work in this new land. For many years the humans worked happily under the loving guidance of Reorx, the master of creation and invention.
But the men became proud of their skills, as men will, and they used them for their own ends. Early in the Age of Light, four thousand years before the Cataclysm forever altered the face of Krynn, Reorx became angered by this and trans formed some men into a new race. He took from them the crafts He, upon the anvil of His immortal forge, had taught, leaving only their burning desire to tinker and build, invent and construct. He made the stature of this new race, known as gnomes, as small as their goals.
The evil Hiddukel, the patron god of greedy men, was pleased by this because He knew the forging god had worked long and hard to make order out of chaos, and now the balance of god and evil was not being maintained. Hid dukel went to another of the neutral gods, Chislev, and, seeking to make mischief, He convinced Him that neutrality could not be maintained since evil was losing position.
Their only hope, He said, was for neutrality to seize control.
To that end, Hiddukel persuaded Chislev, who in turn per suaded His fellow neutral god, Reorx, to forge a gem that would anchor neutrality to the world of Krynn. A large, clear gray stone of many facets, it was designed to hold and radiate the essence of Lunitari, the red moon of neutral magic. And on that same moon it was placed.
Reorx, although still angry at the gnomes, loved them and could see how they might yet serve Him. He presented to them a plan for a Great Invention that would be powered by a magical stone: the gray gemstone. As only the gnomes could, they built a mechanical ladder that lifted itself into the sky and to the red moon itself. With a magical net given to him by Reorx, a gnome appointed by Reorx climbed to the top of the ladder and captured the Graygem for the
Great Invention. But when he returned to Krynn and opened the net, the stone leaped into the air and floated quickly off to the west. Fascinated, most of the gnomes packed up their belongings and followed it to their western shores and beyond. The gem's passing caused new animals and plants to spring up and old ones to alter form overnight.
Instead of anchoring neutrality, the gem made the pendu lum of good and evil swing more rapidly than before. That is when Reorx knew He and Chislev had been tricked.
During many years of searching for the gem, the gnomes split into two armies. Both armies' searches led them to a barbarian prince named Gargath, who, seeing it.as a gift from his gods, had plucked the marvelous gem from the air and placed it in a high tower for safekeeping. Gargath refused the groups' demands for the gem, so they both de clared war on the barbarian prince.
After many abortive siege attempts, the gnomes finally penetrated Gargath's fortress. Both sides were amazed to see the gem's steel gray light suddenly fill the area with unbear able brightness. When anyone could see again, the two fac tions of gnomes were fighting each other. One side was filled with lust for the gem, the other side was curious about it.
Under the power of the gem, the gnomes changed. Those who coveted wealth became dwarves. Those who were curi ous became the first kender. These new races spread quickly throughout Ansalon.
As their mountain and hill dwarf cousins were always quick to point out, gully dwarves were the result of inter marriage between dwarves and gnomes. Unfortunately, the members of this new race lacked all the better qualities of their ancestors.
Seeing the result, dwarven and gnomish societies banned this sort of intermarriage, and members of the new race were driven out, most vehemently by dwarves. Forced to grub for existence among abandoned ruins and the refuse piles of cities abandoned after the Cataclysm, the gully dwarves were free to develop their own culture — or lack of it. Named Aghar, or "anguished," humans later nicknamed them "gully dwarves," noting their poor living conditions and the general disgust felt toward them by nearly every other race on Krynn.
Such was the lot of some three hundred Aghar living in
Mudhole. Before the Cataclysm, Mudhole had been a thriv ing, productive mine, supplying the forges of Thorbardin above with rich iron. But that continental catastrophe had sent sheets of rock crashing into the shafts, cutting off all but one long tunnel that led back into Thorbardin. Even that one was pitched so that it was now nearly vertical and impossible to climb: it was this that the derro called it the
Beast Pit.
But some good came of the Cataclysm, at least for the Aghar of Mudhole. Most of the dwarven-dug tunnels re mained intact, and in some places actually intersected with stunningly beautiful organic caverns cut by centuries of wa ter that ran through the mountains of Thorbardin.
The three hundred gully dwarves that inhabited Mudhole were broken down into family units; they lived in the ends of abandoned, dead-end sha
fts, but shared the four natural caverns as common space. They had "decorated" their homes with family heirlooms, such as petrified animals, and other bits of treasure garnered from the garbage piles of
Thorbardin above. Thus, Mudhole was at once a natural wonder and an appalling pigsty.
"They can't really expect us to sleep in here, can they?"
Perian moaned, pacing anxiously.
Nomscul, the gully dwarf who had rescued them from the Beast Pit, had led them here and left them, saying he would return shortly with food and some friends. Perian fingered the tattered edges of the filthy woolen blanket that was draped over a legless wooden chair. She disdainfully nudged an old bone on the dirty stone floor with a toe of her boot. Shivering, the mountain dwarf hugged herself and looked around in despair for someplace suitable to sit.
The perfectly square chamber had two doorways and was perhaps twenty feet square. It had been chipped out of solid granite, for the bites the pick-axes had taken could still be seen in the cold, gray-green stone walls. Thick, moldy old support beams crisscrossed the ceiling in no apparent pat tern, or perhaps a few had been removed by the gully dwarves for other purposes. Indeed, some chairs and small tables looked to be hastily constructed of the same stout beams. Small rugs; worn, hairless animal skins; and the oc casional piece of fine silk or rich but filthy lace, all but cov ered the floor.
Broken stoneware pots, sundry rodent skeletons, rusty weapons in various states of ill-repair, dozens of candles burned to an inch, bent utensils, one half of a hand-held fire bellows, a canoe filled with holes, a stringless lute, and a dwarf-high pile of unmatched shoes and boots rounded out the adornments.
Reclining on the big, soft bed of burlap-covered moss,
Flint picked at his teeth absently with a splinter of wood. He chuckled at Perian's discomfiture. "I've slept in worse."
He watched her flit about the room apprehensively, virtu ally tearing off the whites of her nails. "Can't you relax for one moment?" he asked, putting down his toothpick. "I'll admit the accommodations aren't the best, but they're only temporary. Not ten minutes ago I was carrying you and limping for our lives from — well, you know what from. At least we're safe until I can get someone to show us the way out of here."
The first thing Flint intended to do after that was to let his nephew, whom he'd left waiting outside Thorbardin, know he was all right. Basalt would be plenty worried by now.
Perian whirled about, perspiration alluringly curling the ends of her coppery hair. She fixed him with an icy glare.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" The mountain dwarf chewed the end of another nail off with her teeth, her eyes, like daggers, piercing his. "You think just because I suffered a little temporary fright paralysis I can't take care of my self?"
"A little paralysis? You were like a sack of flour!" Flint caught the embarrassed look in her eyes and held up his hands in mock surrender. He laughed. "Sorry if I assumed command. I forgot I was talking to a soldier. I'm used to or dering around youths and barmaids," he explained, thinking of his friends in Solace. He coughed uncomfortably when he saw her bemused face. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded! I have these friends — oh, never mind!" he ex claimed, unused to explaining himself. He rubbed his face, turned onto his side, curled up into the moss bed, and closed his eyes.
"You aren't going to sleep, are you?"
He opened one eye. "I thought I might until that Aghar brought some food, yes." He closed his eye again.
"But how can you sleep after what we've just been through?" she squealed, her fists clenched tight at her sides.
Flint sighed heavily, sat up, and looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "That's precisely why I need the sleep. I'm exhausted! In the last few days I've been pushed and punched and kicked and chased and dropped down a pit.
Every muscle and bone aches; the only thing holding me to gether is my skin! Do you think my face usually looks like this?" he asked, holding a cracked and swollen hand to his puffy lips, nose, and black eye. "Adventures always drag me out." He covered a yawn with the back of his thick, cal lused hand.
Perian looked astounded. "You mean you've had this sort of thing happen to you before?"
He blinked. "Sure, though the situation has become con siderably more complicated than your average dungeon crawl. Don't tell me you haven't?"
"I'm the captain of the thane's guard, for Reorx's sake!" she said despondently. "I train troops for parade maneuvers and theoretical fighting, and I live in the plushest barrack on the richest level of Thorbardin! I am not accustomed to this!" she said, indicating the cluttered room with a wave of her hand.
He scowled. "So that's all it is." Flint punched his fluffy moss pillow and dropped his bushy gray head onto it. "Lay down, take a load off your feet! Mark my words, this place won't look so bad after you've had a good rest."
Perian stopped her fidgeting long enough to run a hand through her damp hair. "That's just it! I can't rest here!" She frowned and looked away, then mumbled, "If you must know, I'm dying for a rolled mossweed!" She resumed pacing.
"I'm sure the gully dwarves have some sort of weed you can smoke if you must," the hill dwarf said in exasperation, his tone telling her what he thought of the habit of smoking dried moss. With that, he turned over again. But he could hear her mumbling behind him.
"I know it's a disgusting habit, but it's the only one — well, one of the only ones I have!" She chewed nervously on a wild hank of her hair. "Some sort of weed, hmm? I'm used to the best dwarven mix from the north warren farms in Thor bardin, and you expect me to smoke any old dried thing?"
Flint yawned. "I don't expect you to do anything on my account but be quiet."
Perian had a retort prepared, when suddenly, from the doorway straight ahead came the sound of clattering glass and metal and some other unidentifiable noises as well. The mountain dwarf whirled around in surprise, and the hill dwarf shot up angrily.
"What in the — ?"
"Nomscul back with eats!" The Aghar popped up in front of Flint, the mud-streaked skin above his scruffy, unshaven chin spread in his usual eager grin.
Nomscul, they had learned, was Mudhole's shaman, the keeper of the clan's relics and lore. He served as its healer and wise man, and was widely regarded as its best cook. He was kind of its beloved leader, more for the cooking than the wisdom perhaps. Nomscul now wore a ratty, smelly wool vest that hung to his knees and was lined with pockets of differing sizes and fabrics. From his belt dangled a red cloth bag cinched with a twine. In his hands was a steaming bowl of something gray and stringy, which he shoved right under the old dwarf's big nose.
Though annoyed at first, Flint was drawn in by the rich, meaty aroma. He took another deep, satisfied breath and accepted the bent spoon Nomscul offered him. "Wonder ful!" Flint sighed, barely pausing to speak between mouth fuls. "What is it?"
"Grotto grubs in mushroom mash," Nomscul answered proudly. Flint's spooning rhythm slowed for just a moment.
He looked over and saw Perian leaning against a table, first mouthful poised near her waiting lips. Her eyes wide circles of disbelief, she set the spoon down and stared into the bowl.
"You like?" the anxious gully dwarf asked Flint.
The hill dwarf set his bowl down on a table, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and hopped from the mossy bed. "Yes,
Nomscul, it's, uh, very tasty."
Pleased, the gully dwarf patted the potbelly that bulged below his plain, dingy shirt. He bounded for the door. "I get more!"
"Wait!" Flint cried. The gully dwarf stopped and turned around, and Flint came to his side. "Look, Nomscul," he be gan, searching for the right words, "thanks for, you know, saving us and all, but I really need to be going now."
Perian stepped up next to Flint quickly. "I'd like to leave, as well." She scowled at the hill dwarf.
Nomscul's fleshy cheeks bunched up in a full smile. "King and queen want two leaf? Stay here, I be right back!" Nod ding to himself, he dashed into the darkness of the sto
ne tunnel beyond.
"Strangely pleasant little fellow," Flint commented.
"Probably went to get an escort for us."
'What was that 'king and queen' stuff?" Perian asked, staring after the gully dwarf.
Flint shrugged. "I don't know, probably Mudhole's hon orary title for guests." Perian nodded absently.
As they waited for Nomscul to return, Flint circled the room, looking into corners, picking up and examining little bits of gully dwarf treasure. He handed Perian a dirty, broken-toothed tortoise shell comb.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the frawl dragged the comb's six remaining teeth through her matted hair.
"Ouch!" she snarled after one particularly stubborn rat's nest. "I can't wait until I get out of these mud-caked clothes — I can barely bend my knees in these pants!"
Flint raised his eyebrows as a thought struck him. "Say, where do you think you'll be heading when we get out of here?"
"Home, of course," Perian said quickly, picking the dried mud from her pants. 'What a question. Where else… 7"
Abruptly she stopped, sucked in her breath, and clapped a hand to her mouth. "I see what you mean! I can't go back to
Thorbardin — Pitrick thinks I'm dead! He'd never let me live now, after what happened at the pit!"
She fell back on the bed in despair. "But where will I go?" she moaned. "Thorbardin is my home, the Theiwar are my clan — I doubt that any other group there would take me!
And I don't know how to live anywhere but underground!"
She bit off the end of another nail.
Watching her torment, Flint smashed his hand down on a table. "But why would you want to live among such cut throats, liars, and murderers?"
Perian bristled. "Not everyone in Theiwar City is like Pit rick, you know," she said. "There are more good half-derro dwarves like me, and even many a fine full-blooded Hylar."
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