"Stay down!" Basalt hissed to the dwarves in the back.
They drew even with the path. "Go past," Basalt muttered to
Hildy, his heart pounding. "Let's not show we're unusually interested."
Without missing a beat, the frawl urged the draft horse along. The small wagon rumbled past the track and was once again surrounded by dark, towering pines.
"Okay, stop here," Basalt ordered after they had rolled several hundred yards beyond the muddy trail. Grayhoof lumbered off the road, pulling the wagon under the thick branches of several overhanging boughs. "Everyone out!
Hurry — the sun's already dropping behind the trees."
The six other hill dwarves piled out of the wagon, hefting their weapons and standing in the darkness beneath the trees. For a moment no one moved, and then Basalt realized that they were waiting for him to give the orders.
"Okay," he offered, his voice a hoarse whisper. "We've got to move quietly. We'll sneak through the woods until we get to the edge of their barn. Then we take them by surprise."
Holding their axes and daggers firmly, the hill dwarves advanced in a file through the woods to the left of the barn,
Basalt leading the way to the clearing.
Suddenly Basalt squatted. His companions followed suit.
"There's still just the one guard, so the others must be in side," Basalt whispered. "And the horses. 111 get the guard quietly. As soon as I do, rush the barn."
The others nodded acceptance of his plan, and Basalt flushed when Hildy kissed him quickly on his freckled cheek. "For good luck," she said.
He crawled forward until he crouched among the last branches of the pine trees before the clearing, watching the listless derro perform his circuit. Finally, the fellow turned away from Basalt, stepping around one of the wagons and disappearing from his sight.
Instantly Basalt started forward, trying to run in a crouch. He winced with each footfall, but soon reached the wagon where he had last seen the guard. Clenching his axe in both hands, he looked toward the barn. No alarm, yet.
No sunlight reached the floor of the clearing, but the sky overhead was still bright. He hoped that would be enough to impair the derro.
Resolutely, Basalt stepped around the corner of the wagon. Before him, with his back to the hill dwarf, was the derro, not ten feet away. Basalt tried to creep soundlessly, but his foot made an audible thunk as he lowered it into a muddy patch of ground.
The derro whirled in surprise. Basalt saw the fellow's wide eyes blink in confusion, and then the mountain dwarf squinted. "Eh?" the Theiwar began. "Is it time, already?" In the bright light he mistook Basalt for one of his own com rades.
"It's time," grunted Basalt. Suddenly all the tragedy, all the frustrations and humiliations inflicted by the mountain dwarves, was focused onto this derro in front of him. Ba salt's silver-bladed axe flew forward, biting into the side of the unsuspecting Theiwar's neck. Soundlessly the dwarf dropped to the ground.
For a moment Basalt froze, listening and thinking. He tried to detect some kind of revulsion or horror in himself.
He had never killed anyone before; shouldn't he feel some remorse? Yet the slaying of the derro seemed like any other task, difficult and dangerous perhaps, but very necessary.
"That was for Moldoon," he whispered to the corpse.
Then he stepped back around the wagon and gestured to the others.
The six hill dwarves rushed from their concealment. Ba salt leaped forward to join them, and the whole band charged through the gaping door into the darkness of the barn.
Their eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. They heard the mountain dwarves cursing, smelled the presence of the heavy draft horses.
Basalt could see several derro, who had been squatting around a low cookfire, leap to their feet and snatch up weapons. Several others were still wrapped in bedrolls.
Now they struggled awkwardly to escape, taken unawares.
Basalt cracked his axe down, hard, against the parry of a derro's short sword. The mountain dwarf staggered back, thrown off balance. Basalt swung again and again, driving him farther back. He attacked with a reckless savagery that surprised even himself.
This Theiwar wore metal armor and used his blade with skill, striking past one of the hill dwarf's blows to scrape Ba salt's leg. But his experience was no match for the hill dwarf's savage onslaught, and in another step the mountain dwarf backed into the wall of the barn.
The derro lunged once more, a desperate stab at Basalt's heart. The hill dwarf skipped nimbly out of the way, and the enemy had no parry for his next blow. The battle-axe sliced into the derro's forehead, driving deep into his brain.
Soundlessly, the mountain dwarf toppled forward.
Basalt wrenched his weapon free, whirling to look around the barn. Several other derro lay motionless, and one of the hill dwarves writhed in pain, sprawled on the ground. He saw Hildy driving her heavy sword at another derro, and Basalt sprinted toward her. She ran the fellow through without any of his help, however.
The Theiwar. who had finally struggled out of their bed rolls wasted no time in fleeing from the barn, casting fright ened backward glances at the hill dwarves. In moments they disappeared into the surrounding forest.
"Let 'em go," Basalt advised when Turq and Horld started after. "We've got the weapons we came for."
Hildy knelt beside Drauf, the wounded young harrn. A chubby lad, he had been cut in the thigh, but the blade had not touched bone. Hildy bound the wound and stopped the bleeding, making Drauf more comfortable. "I'll be okay," he muttered, sitting up weakly.
"Good," Basalt said, clapping him on the back. "Let's be gone from this hole and get back on the road to Hillhome, then. There should be enough moonlight to guide us, but we can stop along the way if we must. We'll take the two wag ons that have weapons in 'em. Turq and Horld, go look un derneath the boxes." He described the compartment as Flint had related it to him. "We'll leave the other two here."
"If we take all of their horses," Hildy suggested, "then even the wagons we leave are useless to the derro who ran away."
"Good idea," Basalt agreed. They identified and hitched up the two wagons that still held a great many weapons, tossing out the inferior plows on top to lighten the load.
With the eight extra draft horses following along, tied to a single line, they started back to Hillhome.
The rest of Flint's day was spent collecting the secret weapon of explosive sludge into every available glass and clay vessel in Mudhole. More than once, Flint was forced to dive and catch a jug that got knocked over, drag a smoking Aghar to the stream, or haul a frantic subject, kicking and thrashing, from the inside of the carrion crawler's carcass.
By the end of the day, his nerves and patience were com pletely worn out. Even the gully dwarves knew enough to leave him alone that night.
The next two days — all the time remaining to them — were devoted to drilling the gully dwarves in the maneuvers of war. Perian's experience in this regard was invaluable.
Unfortunately, the maneuvers and formations used by the House Guard were completely hopeless for the gully dwarves.
"Get in line," screamed Perian. "Get in line!" Eyeing the ragged row of Aghar with disgust, Perian stomped up to the worst offender, who was standing a full four feet in front of everyone else, and walked a slow circle around him.
She stopped in front of him and stared into his eyes.
"What's your name, citizen?"
"Spittul, 0 great and powerful Queen."
Flint, seated at the end of the line, guffawed.
Perian glowered at him, then turned back to Spittul. "Are you really trying to be a soldier, Spittul, or are you playing games with me?"
Spittul's eyes lit up. The queen was talking directly to him! "Oh, yes, Queen Furryend, I want be a solder real bad!"
"And that's what you're doing, Spittul," shouted Flint.
"Keep up the good work." The hill dwarf roared at his joke, and
roared twice as loud as the muscles in Perian's neck bulged.
Through clenched teeth, Perian ordered, "Take two steps back and then don't move." She turned and stomped to where Flint lay in the moss, grabbed him by the belt, and dragged him out of earshot of the troops. "How do you ex pect me to get any kind of discipline into this rabble when you undermine my authority?" she hissed.
"It's hopeless anyway," chuckled Flint, wiping his eyes.
"You can't drill these tunnel apes like veterans. They'll never learn. They're just not made to stand in lines."
Perian turned around to look at the assembled group. "So what do you suggest? We herd them into a pack and yell
'charge!' at the first opportunity? They'll fry themselves with their own sludge bombs."
"Probably," Flint confessed. "I think we need some new tactics, something more suited to their ability."
"Be my guest," snorted Perian.
Flint strolled back past the slowly mingling knots of
Aghar. "The problem, as I see it," he said to them, "is one of getting close enough to the bad guys to lob sludge bombs into them, without getting beaten up first. It's obvious we can't hope to do it as a big group. Maybe we can do it as small groups. Let's try something…
"You harrn over there," Flint shouted, indicating a group of about ten gully dwarves who actually seemed to be pay ing attention. "I want you to move, all together in a bunch, over to the wall and then back here again."
With a good deal of pushing and shoving, they clomped to the wall, turned, and elbowed their way back to where they'd started.
"Very good," declared Flint. "Now we're going to try it again, this way." He positioned the gully dwarves so that those in front were holding their shields in front and those behind were holding their shields overhead, forming good cover.
"OK, walk to the wall and back, and keep your shields where I put them."
The Aghar stumbled to the wall, turned, and jostled back. By the time they reached Flint, several shields had been dropped and the rest were all askew.
"That was pathetic," Perian announced. "This is a dead end."
Flint shook his head. "I disagree. By the time they re turned they were all mixed up, but they reached the wall in pretty good order. I think that with some practice, they could do this."
"Why bother?" Perian shot back.
"I'll show you." Flint turned back to his test group. "Eve rybody pick up a rock and then resume your positions."
General mingling, pushing, rock picking, and swapping broke out until Flint countermanded his order. "Hold it, let's try one thing at a time. Everybody pick up one rock.
"Now everybody put your shield where I showed you.
"Now everybody walk toward where the monster came into the cavern and when I say 'throw,' everybody throw their rock at the wall." The Aghar stumbled along a weaving path toward the wall. When Flint hollered, "Throw!" they dropped their shields and pelted the wall with rocks, then fell on the floor laughing, wrestling, and scratching.
Flint turned back toward Perian. "Maybe the hill dwarves should flee now, before it's too late. This is hopeless."
Perian stared at the tangled mob of Aghar on the floor.
"Nonsense! I see lots of progress. What do you call that maneuver?" she asked.
Flint sighed. "The wedge."
The wedge — which the Aghar quickly renamed the wedgie — the Agharpult, and general target practice made up the bulk of their drills. Perian was cheered to discover the Aghar were excellent shots with a thrown rock or sludge bomb (a skill developed by stoning rodents for food, she discovered later). The Agharpult they enjoyed, and showed a natural proficiency for distance, if not accuracy.
But the wedgie, Flint was convinced, was their real strength. By the end of their training period they could cross the Big Sky Room in a tight clump at a run, hurl their dummy sludge bombs, and run back, all without being prompted with orders every step of the way.
Still, two days was only two days.
"Why king frown every time when we do our army stuff?" asked Nomscul. "Him look worse than old gold funger lompchuter."
Flint only glowered at the gully dwarf shaman. Gritting his teeth, unable to watch the ludicrous marching exhibition for a moment longer, Flint called out, "Listen up you frawls and harrns!" He clapped his hands. After much pushing, shoving, and eye poking, the gully dwarves stood in a mass, at what vaguely resembled attention.
"What you folks need is something to give your work purpose, some driving rhythm that synchronizes and unites you as an unstoppable force." Perian giggled behind her hand, and Flint elbowed her in the ribs. He moved away to pace before them, arms linked behind his back, his eyes on the ground. "That is why I've decided to teach you a very special, sacred, royal dwarven song." A hush fell over the crowd of assembled Aghar.
"King?"
Flint looked up in irritation to see Nomscul waving his hand above his head.
"We know good song," the shaman said proudly.
Nods of agreement fluttered through the crowd. Before
Flint could stop them, the gully dwarves launched into a raucous tune.
Big yellow sun,
No spit in eye,
Die all day,
Leafs up in the sky asleep,
Burning bugs,
Gray, gray, gray,
Sleep, old man, and the trees call us for eats.
The leafs are on fire, but so what, they all gone by snowtime.
"No, no, NO!" Flint roared above their cacophony. He slapped his palm with a thin stick. Eventually their song ground to a halt. "I want you to hear a real song. The Dwar ven Marching Song is part of your heritage as dwarves.
Now, listen up."
Flint cleared his throat and unconsciously straightened his spine. His voice, pleasantly low and rumblingly pitched, began the first strain of the song he had not sung in years, since he had left the dwarves.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier's heart sires and brothers
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal metal on stone.
The soldier's heart contains and dreams
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier's heart lies down, completes
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Flint became aware, sometime around "Out of the moun tains," that Perian, standing at his side, had joined in the song. Their voices mingled and intertwined, his a low bari tone, hers an even, clear alto. When he stumbled over a few forgotten words, Perian was there to fill them in. His heart was full and near to bursting with pride and passion and
… dwarfness, as they finished the anthem of their race.
The song had taken on even greater meaning to him with
Perian singing along; he had never thought he shared any traditions with his mountain cousins. He found his hand in
Perian's, and when he turned to her at the close of the song, he saw her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, through his own misty blue ones.
"Quivalen Sath," she breathed, identifying the song's composer.
"Is there anyone else?" Flint asked rhetorically.
"Sing again!" the gully dwarves chanted. "We learn! Sing!
We sing royal song real good!"
&
nbsp; Flint and Perian hummed the melody over and over for the Aghar, then repeated the words of the song with them at least three times. Practicing, mimicking, stumbling over the refrains, the gully dwarves stayed with the exercise for at least an hour. Flint had never seen them try so hard at any endeavor. A new understanding evolved for everyone. In the end, when the gully dwarves sang it for the first time in a chorus, King Flint and Queen Perian did not even mind that their version came out a bit changed.
Thunder pills the fart of the ox
Erasers for Cindy these still put out the fire, Beated and bammered the hand thunk a thought, the hills are breathing the fish-breath afar.
Soldiers hit brothers, sorry
The battle feels.
Come back, O glowworm
And don't forget your shirt.
What mattered was how hard they tried.
Chapter 19
The Best Gift
Thane Realgar op the Thiewar clan strutted before his six hundred House Guard troops, who were lined up in three ranks on the Central Parade Grounds on Level Two of
Theiwar City East. His posture was ramrod straight as he stretched to his full height of just under four feet, pearly white hair streaming over his shoulders. He marched rigidly along the line of equally rigid derro dwarves who made up the House Guard.
These troops and their costly barracks occupied the entire second level, just one level below the pinnacle of the city, where the thane and his adviser had their own plush resi dences. The superior location, away from the smoke and stench of the forges a level below, was a symbol of the mili tary's prestige with its thane.
The dwarves of the guard stood at attention now, con ceited about their appearance, smug about their discipline, and haughty over their position in the most prestigious, and only pure Theiwar regiment.
They wore glossy black breastplates of the hardest, most refined steel. Their unnaturally white hair was covered with black helmets of the same metal, with tall, feathered plumes sprouting from the top of each, the color designating a sol dier's company, of which there were three. Each dwarf was armed with at least two weapons.
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