The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  The rustling and thumping sound grew louder, followed by a yowl, a spitting and hissing, and a deep voice cursing.

  “Help! Draconians!” Auger bawled. “Help!”

  “Oh, shut up, you blithering idiot.” Moorthane’s head appeared, thrust through the window curtains. “It’s me.”

  “Help! Moorbrain!” Selquist yelled, deftly snatching the map off the table and stuffing it down his pants. “Help!”

  Moorthane’s face reddened in anger. He shook his fist at Selquist.

  Standing up, Selquist walked over to the window. “Excuse me, Moorbrain. Nasty draft in here.” He slammed shut the window, missing Moorthane’s head, but nearly catching his fingers.

  “Do you think he heard?” Auger asked.

  “He heard,” Selquist said, a prey to deep gloom.

  The door crashed open. Moorthane clomped inside.

  “You see?” Selquist said.

  Moorthane stomped over to the table, peered down at it.

  The table was empty, except for some scattered pieces of charcoal and four empty mugs.

  “All right.” Moorthane glared around. “Where is it?”

  “What? Dinner? Oh, we ate hours ago. But thanks for asking,” Selquist said.

  “I’m not talking about dinner,” Moorthane said, with a leering grin. “I’m talking about the treasure map. I want to know a) what treasure? b) where it’s located? and c) what you meant by draconian eggs? Or else”—he held up a hand to halt Selquist’s undoubtedly sarcastic rejoinder—“or else I will call a town meeting and tell every dwarf in Celebundin that you’ve found a treasure map.”

  Selquist paled beneath his scroungy beard. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?” Moorthane gloated.

  “Let him,” said Mortar, thinking he smelled a bluff.

  “What? Are you crazy? Do you know what would happen?” Selquist demanded bitterly. “I couldn’t go to the outhouse without twenty-five dwarves traipsing after me, every one of them convinced that I was going off after the treasure.”

  “Never a moment’s peace,” said Moorthane, fetching up a deep sigh. “Then, of course, there’d be those who’ll figure you’ve already found the treasure and that you have it hidden somewhere.”

  “They’ll ransack the house!” Selquist said, horrified. “Tear up my garden!” His voice hardened. “All right, Moorbrain, you win. But no more talk of my being Cast Out.”

  Moorthane glowered, hesitated.

  “When I get the treasure, I’ll probably move to Palanthas anyway,” said Selquist carelessly. “We’ll cut you in, too, of course. There’s four of us, five, now, with you. Let’s see, five times two is ten. Ten times ten is one hundred. We’ll cut you in for one-hundredth. One-hundredth of a share to keep your mouth shut. I’m too generous, I know. But it’s a fault of mine.”

  Moorthane wasn’t all that good with fractions—something he’d never quite mastered as a lad. One hundred seemed a fine, round figure. Besides, he wasn’t all that interested in gold and steel and jewels anyhow. Well, he was, but all in good time.

  “What about the dragon eggs?” he asked, leaning on the table, glaring around at the other dwarves, his iron-gray beard quivering with the intensity of his hate. “I heard you say something about dragon eggs and female draconians. What was it? What have you found?”

  Selquist sighed. He was extremely tired and discouraged. Tomorrow, after a night’s sleep and a good breakfast, he could deal with Moorthane. Tonight, he was past caring. Then, too, he had the terrifying vision of his neighbors following him about, watching his every move.…

  “Auger, you explain,” he said wearily.

  “The truth?” Auger wasn’t sure what was required of him.

  Selquist sighed again and nodded.

  “All right. I hope you know what you’re doing. This book”—Auger thumped it with his hand—“is an account of a Daewar raiding party into Neraka, back during the War of the Lance. They found all sorts of treasure which the Dragon Highlords had hoarded. Not only that, but they found some eggs that were not hatched. They were female draconians. Apparently the higher powers made the females, then decided that it might be better for all concerned if the draconians didn’t breed. And so the spells to hatch the eggs were left undone.”

  “Thank Reorx!” Moorthane said. He eyed Selquist grimly. “Just what did you intend to do with these eggs?”

  “Sell them, of course,” said Selquist with a shrug. “Why? What would you do with them, Moorbrain? Make omelets?”

  “Damn right, I’m going to make omelets,” Moorthane said viciously. His hand clenched to a fist. He brought his fist down on the table with a blow that nearly shattered it. “I’m going to break every one of those god-cursed eggs! I’ll see to it personally!”

  “What? No! You can’t!” Selquist stared at the man, unable to believe the stupidity. “Do you realize how much we could get, selling these eggs? Maybe not a lot on the open market,” he admitted, “but the draconians would pay anything! Anything, Moorthane! With one-hundredth of a share, you’ll be richer than the High Thane!”

  “You grasping, covetous thief of a Daewar spawn,” Moorthane snarled. “You’d sell your own father if you knew who he was. If these draconian females hatch, they’ll get together with the males and make baby draconians. And the babies will grow up to be big draconians and they’ll take over the world!”

  “Wow!” said Selquist, round-eyed. “Is that where babies come from, Moorbrain? I never knew.”

  “I’m going after them,” Moorthane continued. “Twenty of my finest soldiers and I are going after those eggs to destroy them! What do you say to that?”

  “Good,” Selquist said, nonchalantly. “We need someone to carry all the loot. Of course, you’ll split your share between them, since you’re bringing them with us.”

  “Humpf.” Moorthane grunted. “Who said anything about you coming along. Hand over the map.”

  “It won’t do you much good,” Selquist said with a sweet and innocent smile. “Not unless you plan to ask the Hylar to pretty please open up their mountain and let you in. I’m the only one who knows the secret way into Thorbardin.”

  Moorthane’s snarl slowly untwisted. Frowning, he stood snorting and muttering to himself, trying to figure some way out of this.

  Selquist smoothed his shirt, hitched up his pants by the belt, surreptitiously feeling to see if the map was still there, still hidden. It was. He smiled at the discomfited Moorthane.

  “Are you telling me that this treasure, these eggs are in … in …” He had difficulty speaking the detested name, finally spit it out: “Thorbardin?”

  “Yes, Moorbrain. That’s what I’m telling you. I know the way in. A secret way—not on the map. So I guess that unless you want to go knocking on Southgate, you better take me along with you. And my friends,” he added.

  “I’m not sure I can go,” Mortar said suddenly. “You see, I promised Reorx that if he helped me escape from those dark knights, I would never steal again, and he helped. I mean, I guess he helped. Maybe it was him who sent the draconians—”

  Selquist flashed Mortar a warning look.

  Mortar said, “Oh,” and shut his mouth.

  Moorthane was glaring from one to the other. “So your draco buddies helped you out, did they? And, in return, you gave them the map. I see how it is. They’ll be going after this, too!”

  Selquist’s left eyebrow twitched. He nearly said something, bit his tongue and, to cover the fact that he’d almost spoken, rubbed at his scruffy beard with such intensity it seemed he might rub it off.

  “We’ll just have to get there ahead of them,” Moorthane was saying solemnly. “We’ll leave at first light. And you”—he shook his fist at Selquist—“call me Moorthane! Moorthane! Understand?”

  With that and a parting snarl, he stalked out.

  “Oh, well,” said Auger. “Look at it this way. We’ll have help carrying all that loot back. I was wondering—Erp!”
<
br />   “Oh, shut up,” Selquist said and dumped a mugful of tepid ale over Auger’s head.

  Revealing what he thought of Auger’s philosophical viewpoint, Selquist slammed down the empty mug and stalked off into his bedroom.

  He returned a moment later, wearing his leather armor, his helm, and holding something in his hand. He headed for the front door, what remained of it.

  “Where are you going?” the others demanded, astonished.

  “Out,” he growled. “Don’t wait up.”

  The three pressed their noses to the window. The last they saw of Selquist, he was walking down to the end of the road, leaving the village.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Baaz orderly poured foul-smelling gunk onto a cloth. “This is going to sting, sir,” he warned. The last time he’d administered this remedy to his commander without adding the warning, the Baaz had spent two weeks laid up with a broken jaw.

  Kang gave a curt nod, gritted his teeth, and grabbed hold of the edge of the table.

  The Baaz slapped the gunk-covered cloth over the wound in Kang’s thigh.

  Kang howled. The table shook. His claws made scraping sounds.

  “Sting, he says!” Kang gasped.

  Deftly, the Baaz tied a fresh bandage around the wound. Finally he poured his wincing and swearing commander a cup of dwarf spirits from their dwindling store and made a hasty departure. Kang gulped down the bitter liquid, and for a brief moment the fire in his head successfully competed with the fire burning in his leg. At length, the pain subsided.

  He looked longingly at his cot. He had been up all night and most of the morning. The walk back had been hellish. Every step he took sent slivers of agony through him. Slith had been forced to help him walk; it had taken them six hours to cross the valley.

  Sleep would be wonderful, but Kang didn’t have time. He had to hear Slith’s report on what the other Sivaks had found out. Based on that report, he had to decide what to do. It could be the dwarves were massing for an assault tonight, although from what Kang had seen, he didn’t think it likely.

  “Pass the word for Sub-commander Slith,” he shouted to the orderly.

  Kang turned his gaze firmly away from the cot. What he should do was go out and hobble around the charred parade square, keep his leg from stiffening up past use. He had just about nerved himself for this when Slith entered the command tent.

  “Feeling any better, sir?” Slith drew up another chair, sat down.

  “No,” Kang said bluntly. “Hell-blasted dwarves. I’ve a good mind to go gut the lot of ’em. How about you?”

  “My head feels about the size of a minotaur’s ego, but other than that, I’m all right.”

  “Good.” Kang grunted. “What’s the report? I trust the others had better luck than we did?”

  “Viss didn’t. He had just sat down with his drink in the tavern when the hue and cry after me went up. There was nothing he could do but run out with the others. He managed to lose himself in the crowd, and then someone yelled that they’d found the corpses, and someone else recognized him as being one of them. At that point, Viss figured he wasn’t going to accomplish anything, so he beat a retreat.”

  “What about Glish and Roxl?”

  Slith grinned. “They did better, sir. They fell in with a group of dwarves pulling watch duty on the far side of the village. The dwarves weren’t expecting to be attacked from back there, and so they were keeping company with a jug of dwarf spirits. By the time Glish and Roxl showed up, the dwarves couldn’t have told if they were draconians or elf maidens. Glish and Roxl sat right down and chinned with the dwarves until near sunup.”

  “And what did they find out?”

  “Well, it seems, sir, that the one who burned down the village was the war chief, a dwarf named Moorthane. The High Thane didn’t know anything about it, and he was furious when he found out. Some of the dwarves thought burning the place was a good idea, but most didn’t. Most considered it a terrible waste of good lumber. Now, of course, they’re all scared silly that we’re going to turn around and burn down their houses.”

  “We might at that,” said Kang, rubbing his sore leg. “Any plans to attack us?”

  “This war chief is pushing for it, but the High Thane is against it. Says they’ll lose too many people. So far what the High Thane says goes.”

  “Well, that’s good news. Every day that passes, we grow stronger. We’ll soon have the wall repaired and rubble cleared out. Then we can start rebuilding.” Kang nodded in satisfaction. “I’m glad the night went well for some of us, at least. Remind me next inspection to single those three out for commendation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Instead of leaving, Slith fidgeted in his chair, glanced at his commander out of the corner of his eye.

  “Well, what is it, Slith? You obviously have something else on your mind.”

  “I know you’re tired, but do you feel like talking just a little longer, sir?” Slith asked. “I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s kind of important.”

  “Sure,” said Kang. “You’re saving me from a hike around the parade ground. What is it?”

  Slith reached into his belt, removed the folded square of parchment and carefully spread it out on the table. “Take a look at this, sir. It was inside that book we stole from the dwarves.”

  Kang looked. “It’s a map.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Slith. “I don’t suppose you can read the writing, can you, sir?”

  Kang shook his head. “Looks like some sort of dwarven language, but I can’t make it out.”

  “Too bad.” Slith gazed down at his map with fond affection. “Look at this little drawing up here, sir. What would you say those are?”

  Kang squinted, leaned down. “Eggs. Large eggs, I’d guess, since they’re drawn bigger than anything else.”

  Slith nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought myself, sir. These other drawings might be draconians, sir. Guards, maybe? And these drawings here. What do you say those might be?”

  Kang pointed with a claw. “Those are storage chests. Those are urns. Scroll cases, maybe, or map cases. Books, probably spellbooks, since they’re each marked with a symbol for one of the three moons.”

  “My thoughts exactly, sir.” Slith grinned.

  Kang leaned back in his chair, propped his wounded leg up on a footstool in front of him. “What do you make of this map then, Slith? Obviously something. You look like the dragon that swallowed the kender.”

  “Yes, sir.” Slith paused a moment, then said, in a low voice, “I’m thinking that our luck last night wasn’t all that bad. My guess is that it’s a treasure map, sir! These”—he indicated the chests and urns—“are probably filled with money and jewels. And, like you say, the books and scrolls are magical. I think this map could lead us to a valuable treasure, sir.”

  “What about the eggs?” Kang asked. “What have eggs got to do with treasure? Unless, of course, you’re on short rations.”

  The draconians were themselves on short rations. The only food they had left was what they had brought back from the camp of the dark knights, and that wasn’t going to last long, with two hundred mouths to feed.

  “I don’t know. Unless they’re not eggs at all. Maybe they’re—”

  The Baaz sentry knocked on the tent post.

  “Yes?” Kang eased his leg into a slightly more comfortable position. “What is it?”

  “Something I think you should see, sir.”

  “Very well.” Kang motioned to Slith, who grabbed up the map, folded it, and replaced it in his belt.

  The Baaz entered. In his hand, he held a short-statured, squirming, scruffy figure who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Eh?” Kang said in astonishment. “What’s this?”

  “A dwarf, sir,” said the Baaz.

  “I can see that,” Kang returned irritably. “I mean, what’s he doing here?” He stared hard at the dwarf. He’d seen that face with that wretched growth of beard somewhere before.
He glanced at Slith, who was regarding the dwarf with narrow-eyed interest.

  “He came walking through the picket lines as cool as a white dragon’s breath, sir,” the Baaz explained. “The boys nabbed him and were about to skewer him, figuring him for a spy, when he flashes a medallion and says he’s got to talk to the commander quick.”

  “What medallion?” Kang was suspicious. He had no doubt at all that the dwarf was a spy.

  The Baaz dropped the dwarf to the tent floor, cuffed him on the back of the head. “Show that medallion to the commander.”

  The dwarf opened a grubby palm and held out his hand. As he did so, Kang recognized him.

  “You!” he roared. “You’re the bastard who knifed me!”

  The Baaz drew his own knife. Grabbing the dwarf by the hair, the draconian jerked his head back, ready to slit his throat at the commander’s order. Kang might have given that order, but Slith halted him. The Sivak was bent over the dwarf’s hand, peering at the object.

  “I think you should take a look at this, sir.”

  Reluctantly, Kang swung his leg down from his chair, heaved himself painfully to his feet and hobbled over to see what the dwarf was holding. All this time, the dwarf had not spoken a word.

  “I’ll be a hobgoblin!” Kang said, startled. “It’s my holy symbol! The one … the one that was stolen from me!” He glowered at the dwarf, switched to speaking Common. “You stole this from me! Thief! What are you doing back here with it?”

  The dwarf dropped to his knees and raised his hands in a supplicating manner. “Oh, wise and most glorious leader! I admit freely that I stole this, but I didn’t know I was stealing from you. Not that it matters.” The dwarf bowed his head. “I admit that my actions were wrong, though the same might be said of others who steal things—books especially—that don’t belong to them.”

  Kang snarled. The dwarf gulped and continued on. “I am happy to return this to you, Honored Sir. Very happy!” The dwarf mopped his perspiring face with the sleeve of his tunic. “I ask only one thing in return.” He clasped his hands together. “Take your Queen’s curse off me! Please!”