The shields still in place on the wall depicted six of the nine deities the human monks of Tare had called the “Fundament Triad.” The gods. Solinari was there, flanked by Majere and Paladine. Then Sargonnas, then three open holes, then Lunitari and Gilean. The two inverted shields, hanging below their openings, by their places in the circle she took to be Nuitari and Takhisis. They hung on their hinges, blank ovals with upside-down faces unseen, turned toward the wall. Those, and one hole with no shield.
Again she looked at the “stew bowl” beside her, and recognized it. It was the missing plaque-an oval shield of iron, with an intricate symbol worked into the metal. The symbol of the missing god.
“Reorx,” she whispered, and the iron oval rang softly as though echoing the name.
Glitch the Most awakened abruptly, sat up and yawned mightily. “Time for Highbulp’s breakfast, dragon,” he said, glancing up at her. “You got stew?”
“Shut up!” Verden snapped. “Listen!”
He listened, then shook his head. “Don’ hear a thing,” he said.
But Verden heard something. In her mind now, and near at hand, was another voice, the taunting rasp of Flame Searclaw.
I have found you, green snake, the red dragon’s mind purred viciously. And I see you are still dawdling with those pathetic creatures. Shall I kill you first, green snake? Or might it be amusing to let you watch me fry your little friends before you die? It doesn’t matter to me, green snake. I have found you, at last.
Somewhere within Xak Tsaroth, somewhere not very far away, there was a roar of sound like a hundred dwarven forges, their bellows going full or like flames from a blast furnace whipping through stone corridors.
The Highbulp shrieked, bumped his head on Verden’s chin and scrambled up her face, heading for shelter beyond her. He shrieked again and clung to her rising crest as she flexed massive sinews and stood, spreading her wings.
All of the frustration, the pent-up anger and humiliation within her rose to a crescendo in savage joy as green eyes glittered and slitted. She hissed a battle cry. She had been powerless, powerless to deal with the dim beings around her. But nothing in the curse upon her made her powerless against Flame Searclaw.
An intense joy like waves of wondrous heat flooded over her, and she picked up the Reorx shield and pressed it to her breast, only vaguely aware that she had picked up another gully dwarf with it. That one clung to her glittering scales and climbed, agile as a tree lizard, up her shoulder and along her neck, toward the clinging, burbling Highbulp.
Verden Leafglow pressed the iron shield to her breast, and it clung there, seeming to bond itself to her scales. It rested between massive emerald shoulders like a rust-red iron medallion on a field of green.
I asked for the help of a god, she thought. Reorx, I welcome your presence.
Verden Leafglow didn’t wait for Flame Searclaw to come to her. With a mighty beat of spread wings, she rose and went to meet him.
A gaggle of fleeing, babbling gully dwarves, their shirttails smoldering, issued from the main corridor just as she reached it. With a chorus of shrieks, they hit the floor and skidded aside as the green dragon passed over them, inches above, and arrowed into the tunnel winding upward and away.
Stone surfaces shot past as Verden threw herself into the winding corridor, her swept-back wings whispering against the dark walls at each side, arms folded close and legs trailing alongside her whipping tail.
Atop her head, just at the rise of her great crest, two Aghar clung in wild-eyed desperation, bouncing this way and that as their fingers clenched her crest for dear life. Just past the first turn, the Highbulp almost lost his grasp until Lidda bit him on the ear to make him pay attention.
Another bend, and Flame Searclaw was there, huge and ruby red in the dimness, flames trickling from between his swordlike fangs. Nearly twice the size of the green dragon, he seemed to fill the tunnel. At sight of Verden he opened his mouth wider, readying another blast of fire when she slowed to meet him.
But Verden didn’t slow. Instead she lashed her tail, put on a new burst of speed and, at the last instant, did a barrel roll in the tunnel to shoot directly under the surprised red, upside-down, raking him viciously with razor talons. Deep gashes appeared on his soft underbelly as she passed beneath him. The red roared and spat flames, but they had no target. Smaller, faster and more agile than the great red dragon, Verden Leafglow was now behind him, righting herself and coming around to attack.
Chapter 8
An Act of Mercy
Verden’s thunderous departure from This Place had created a havoc of noise and confusion. Little vortices of wind howled and danced about the great chamber, flinging things here and there, flattening stew fires and raising a thick haze of dust. Clout, Blip and the others who had just entered, their backsides blistered and clothing charred, raised themselves and looked around in confusion. Something very large had passed above them, and now they couldn’t see a thing for all of the dust.
Around them, querulous voices blended: “Wha’ happen?” “Where dragon go?” “Where th’ Highbulp?” “Who ate my stew?”
“Ever’body hush!” Clout shouted. “Big, red dragon chase us in tunnel. Make fire on us! Where Highbulp?”
“Who?”
“What’s-’is-name … th’ Highbulp. Glitch! Where Glitch?”
“Who cares?” a voice whined. “Where my stew?”
A dim figure appeared in the haze, leaning on a mop handle. “Where Clout?”
“Right here. What Gandy want?”
“Clout say ‘red’ dragon. Where?”
“In big tunnel,” Clout repeated. “Big, red dragon. Fire dragon.”
“Gettin’ be way too many dragons roun’ here,” Blip added firmly. “Highbulp oughtta do somethin’.”
The roars of battle came then, echoing down the main corridor to shake the walls of This Place.
With no Highbulp in sight, Gandy took it upon himself to issue the emergency order. “Run like crazy!” he shouted.
Blinded by dust, gully dwarves ran everywhere-mostly into one another-and as the dust began to settle there were piles and tumbles of Aghar all over This Place.
Flame Searclaw was huge, far more massive than Verden Leafglow, and a ruthless and cunning fighter. The instant he realized that the green was behind him, he spread his wings, braked himself and lashed out with his great tail. Verden was just turning to attack, and the tail caught her off-balance. It thudded into her left shoulder below the wing, and her arm went numb. The second blow missed, but she had lost the advantage. She righted herself and saw Flame turning, clawing his way around in the corridor to face her.
Something tugged at her crest, and small feet kicked wildly in front of her right eye. “Get out of my way!” she shouted, shaking her head. High on her neck, Lidda clung and reached to pull the Highbulp up, away from the dragon’s face. “Glitch get outta way!” she ordered. “Dragon busy!”
Almost blind with fright, Glitch accepted the tug and climbed up beside her. “Yes, dear,” he panted.
Verden tried to press her attack on Flame, but now he was facing her, and the mockery in his voice was brutal. “You are soft, green snake,” he chided. “And you have riders! Appropriate masters for one like you-gully dwarves!” With an evil chuckle, he opened his mouth and blinding fire shot out. On impulse, and out of spite, he aimed it high, directly at Verden’s crest and the pair of Aghar clinging there.
Verden saw it coming, and her geas prodded her: they must not be hurt. She must protect them. At the last instant she stretched upward, drawing back her head, exposing her breast to the driving, killing flame. Reorx, she thought, I denounce evil. The dark ways are no longer my allegiance.
The fire struck, a roaring mass of white-hot blaze that crescendoed and mushroomed, filling the corridor. Verden was flung backward by the force of it, stunned and disoriented. She crashed against a wall, staggered for a moment, then straightened herself. Somehow, it seemed that she was unhurt. She
looked down and realized that the iron shield on her breast had deflected the fire, turned it aside and thrown it back. The oval felt as cool as it had before, but now its surface was no longer rusted and stained. As though the ages had been burned away, it gleamed now, a mighty shield of polished iron.
Atop her, clinging to the dragoncrest, Lidda chirped, “What Highbulp say?”
“Wh-what?” Glitch stammered.
“Glitch say, ‘yes. dear,’ ” Lidda reminded him.
“Did not.”
“Did, too! Glitch wanna get marry?”
“Nope.”
“Don’ argue, Glitch!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Reorx,” Verden whispered, new understandings flooding her mind. In that instant of fire, she had rejected the Dark Queen who had punished her. More, she had accepted another god, a god of an entirely different color. Yards away, Flame Searclaw was shaking his head, trying to clear his vision. His reflected fire had nearly blinded him. Verden’s long neck swayed, timing his movements, mimicking him, and her great haunches gathered beneath her, rippling with power. Flame swayed, searching blindly, then raised his head higher, and Verden launched herself at him. Low and fast, she went in for the kill. Even as the red’s head rose, she plunged in under it, fangs and talons seeking his throat.
It was over in a moment. Great jaws closed on the underside of Flame’s neck, the vulnerable area just above his shoulders, and a taloned claw closed a foot above. Fangs pierced scales, talons buried themselves in flesh, and the green dragon wrenched at the writhing neck, tearing it open. Dark blood sprayed and pulsed, and Flame Searclaw choked on his own scream. Bucking and thrashing, he tried to pull away, but Verden clung grimly, shaking him as a dog shakes a snake, ripping his throat wider and wider.
Thrashing red wings created raging storms in the confines of the corridor, then subsided to erratic twitching and went still. Verden drew back and studied the huge corpse sprawled in the dimness of ancient stone arches. “Reorx,” she whispered. “I have stepped aside from the spear. Am I free?”
The iron shield at her breast throbbed. It is for them to say, something told her. Ask mercy of them.
She was aware again of the two gully dwarves, still clinging to her crest. She lowered her head. “Release me,” she said.
For a moment, Glitch clung desperately, then he realized that the commotion was over. “Okay,” he said. Releasing his grip, he clambered down to the floor and stood, trying to remember at least some of what he had just seen. He wasn’t at all sure, but it seemed to him that he had just done battle with a red dragon and won! He began to swell with pride, and by the time he reached the dead dragon he was strutting and grinning. Lidda came after him, and took him by the hand.
“That all settle, then,” she said. “We get marry right away.”
He glanced around at her, puzzled. “We do what?”
“Never mind,” she said, firmly. “It all settled.”
“Highbulp kill a dragon!” he chortled, pointing at Flame Searclaw’s dulling corpse. “Glorious Glitch th’ Most, Highbulp an’… an’ dragon-basher! Get ever’body, come see dragon Highbulp kill!”
He started to climb the corpse, so he could stand atop it and be admired, but Lidda pulled him back. “Highbulp gonna let other dragon go?”
“Already did!” he reminded her. “Turned loose, got off an’ …” he looked around at Verden, frowning. “Jus’ as soon dragon get lost while Highbulp show off dead dragon,” he said. “Don’ need you here! Shoo! Go ’way! Come back later!”
“Glitch don’ need dragon anymore,” Lidda persisted. “Glitch great dragon-basher. Don’ need dragon for keep aroun’.”
“Nope,” he admitted. “Jus’ get in way, prob’ly.”
Lidda gazed at Verden for a moment, something like true understanding shining in her eyes. Then she elbowed Glitch in the ribs. “Go ’head, then,” she demanded. “Highbulp say, ‘dragon is release.’ ”
“Okay,” Glitch said. “Dragon is release! Don’ need dragon anymore! Go ’way!” He waved an imperious hand. “Shoo!”
Verden’s eyes widened. Within her, something fell away and she was unbound. The geas was broken. She was free! Free to do as she pleased. Free even to kill these miserable creatures if she chose! Still, Lidda had given her back her life. The little female gully dwarf-least of the least-had done an act of mercy!
Verden Leafglow turned away. Up the corridor, and beyond other connecting corridors, beyond the buried city of Xak Tsaroth, beyond the Pitt, spread a whole world that she had never seen in this life. It was out there, waiting for her.
Something clattered at her feet, and she looked down. The Shield of Reorx had fallen from her breast. With gentle talons, she picked it up and half-turned, holding it out to the gully dwarves. “Keep this,” the green dragon said. “When you have children, give it to them.”
She didn’t look back again. Somehow, the sight of the Highbulp standing atop a slain dragon, looking smug and arrogant and actually believing that he, personally, had killed the great beast, was a little more than Verden Leafglow really wanted to deal with.
But in her mind as she crept around the upward bend, a silent voice like the voice of iron whispered. The spear seen from aside passes by. But it is still a spear, Verden Leafglow. One day you will see my shield again. A gully dwarf-the unlikeliest of heroes-will bear it. In that time you will see a sign. When you do, you might choose to settle some old debts.
Vengeance? Verden wondered.
Balance, the iron voice corrected. From chaos, order may arise. But first there must be balance.
PART 2
The Vale of Sunder
Chapter 9
The Wonder Of Spiration
“Before yesterday, somebody make all places,” Scrib mused aloud, not really caring whether anybody was listening or not. “Rocks an’ dribbles, leafs an’ hills, mud an’ holes … Somebody make all this stuff be. Even make sky, prob’ly Somebody say, ‘be sky,’ an’ sure ’nough, there sky is.”
Around him his students shuffled their feet and one snapped, “So what? Who needs sky?”
“Gotta have sky,” Scrib explained, straining at the concept. “All places under sky. ’thout sky, no place for places be under.”
Impressed with his own logic, Scrib squinted fiercely and wished that somebody might somehow remember what he had just said, so that somebody could repeat it back to him later. He knew he wasn’t likely to stumble upon that bit of exquisite wisdom again.
As usual when he felt the need to teach, Scrib stood on a high place with his students gathered around him. Today’s high place was a half-buried boulder in a marshy clearing, near the old Tall ruins that the tribe was occupying at the moment. The boulder was a good choice. A previous gathering, just the day before, had been dismissed early when it turned out that Scrib’s rostrum was an active anthill.
The “students,” as usual, were a dozen or so other gully dwarves who were here because they had nothing better to do at the moment.
Now one of them-a muscular young Aghar named Bron, who was usually in charge of the legendary Great Stew Bowl and, Scrib recalled vaguely, was related to somebody important-raised a tentative hand. “All that happen before yesterday?”
“Yep,” Scrib said with a nod. “Sky, places, everything, all made before yesterday.”
“How long before yesterday?”
Scrib screwed up his straggly-bearded face in thought. “Long time,” he decided. “Yesterday before yesterday. Long time ago.”
“What was long time ago?” a curly-bearded citizen named Pook asked.
“Long time ago somebody make everything,” Scrib repeated patiently. He had noticed that some people’s attention spans were shorter than others.
“Who did?” Pook wondered.
“Somebody,” Scrib emphasized.
“Somebody do all that?” Bron pursued, skeptically. “Make everything? Places, sky, turtles? Even us?”
“Yep. Somebody.”
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Bron was on a roll now. “Make things, too? Like rats an’ trees an’ stew pots? An’ … an’ mushrooms an’ bashin’ tools … an’ dragons an’ bugs?”
“Yep,” Scrib assured him. “Make ever’thing, make ever’body.”
“Why?”
“Dunno,” Scrib admitted. Of all the questions he sometimes heard, that was the toughest one. “Don’ make much sense, does it?”
“Somebody pretty dumb, do all that for no reason,” another student pointed out. This one was a young female named Pert, one of his regulars. Students came and went, and Scrib never knew who or how many might show up when he began a talk-and-tell. Participation in a talk-and-tell group required thought, and thinking was not high on most Aghars’ lists of things to do.
But Bron and Pert, and a varying gaggle of others, were there more often than not, and Scrib sometimes felt gratified at their interest. Being a philosopher, probably the only philosopher the tribe of Bulp had ever had, unless one counted the Grand Notioner, was a tough job no matter how you mashed it. But being a philosopher alone would have been worse.
He didn’t think of himself as a philosopher, of course. Being only a gully dwarf, he wouldn’t have known what such a word meant, or even how to pronounce it. But he was obviously different from most of those around him. All his life, it seemed, he had been mystified by the things that others seemed to take for granted-like why is fire hot, and how come you fall down if you lift both feet at the same time, and what makes salted slugs become grumpy.
Then, one day, during the tribe’s migration from That Place, which had been This Place until they left it, to the present This Place, which they hadn’t found yet, they were filing across an ancient rope-bound bridge that spanned a wide chasm. The bottom of the chasm was full of ruined, abandoned buildings. Talls had lived in them once, but they were gone now.
They hadn’t meant to stop. Once they were on the move, it was the way of all Aghar to not stop until the Highbulp said “stop,” and the Highbulp was asleep at the time. Several sturdy gully dwarves had tied a rope around him, run a pole through the rope, and were thus carrying him while he slept.
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