“Nice,” one of them commented. “Pretty good goo.”
“Heady li’l vintage,” another nodded in agreement. “Del’cate arom … boqu … don’ smell too bad, if you hold nose.”
“Hint of musk,” somebody else judged. “Well aged an’ full-bodied.”
“Bit on th’ sandy side,” a string-bearded individual pointed out. “Like raw bird craw.”
“Nothin’ but mildew!” a female grumbled. “Mildew is mildew. Okay for taste, but not food!”
“Some folks got no palate,” somebody observed. “This make pretty good spice for stew.”
“Don’t have stew,” Scrib muttered.
“Got a point there,” somebody agreed. “Anybody got stew stuff?”
Obediently, dozens of gully dwarves searched their pockets and pouches. Among the treasures discovered there were several old bird nests, most of the mummified remains of a lizard, twenty or thirty nice rocks, a forgotten shoe, a fur ball recovered long ago from some cat’s abandoned den, a shriveled ogre-finger, a single scissor and a putrefied pigeon egg. But nobody had any food.
“Rats!” several remarked.
“Oughtta be rats around here,” one suggested. “Anybody got a bashin’ tool?”
“Clout usually has bashin’ tool,” somebody said. “Where Clout?”
“Not here,” several of them reminded him. “Maybe we better find a bashin’ tool.”
“Maybe we better find Clout,” somebody suggested.
“Don’ have any stew pot,” a female complained. “Bron carries stew pot, but Bron not here either. Gettin’ so ya can’t count on anybody anymore. Bron not here, Clout not here, Highbulp not here.”
“Better find Bron, too,” they decided. “Anybody see Bron lately?”
With a purpose established, squads of gully dwarves set off in various directions to begin their search. And a dozen or so of the ladies organized a forage, to see what else they could find that might be useful. Still musing over the mildew-covered bulge on the stone column, Scrib glanced around. “Where everybody goin’?”
“Lookin’ for Clout an’ Bron,” somebody told him. “Need a bashin’ tool.”
“Gonna bash Clout an’ Bron?” Scrib asked, puzzled.
“Need meat for stew.”
“Gonna cook Clout an’ Bron, for stew?”
But there was no answer to that. Most of them had gone off in search of their missing members, and those who remained hadn’t understood the question. With a shrug, Scrib turned his attention again to the bulge on the column. Where the mildew had been scraped away, a metallic surface glowed dully.
“What this?” Scrib mused.
A helpful passerby peered at the metal, then stuck out his tongue to taste it. “Not brass,” he said, his dwarven senses at peak. There were those who speculated that the Aghar-the gully dwarves of Krynn-might be distant cousins of the true dwarves. No true dwarf, of course, would have tolerated such a thought for an instant, and it was unlikely that any gully dwarf had ever thought about it. To the Aghar, true dwarves-or “swatters”-were just as mysterious and unfriendly as Talls. But there were common traits between the dwarven and Aghar races, and one was a taste for metals. “Got zinc in it,” the passerby decided. “Mus’ be bronze. Pretty old, but still bronze.”
Jostling the helpful one aside, Scrib rubbed some more mildew off the surface, and squinted at the metal beneath. There were markings on it-row after row of strange little doodles carefully inscribed.
One of them, repeated several times, resembled the squiggles Scrib had drawn earlier, representing mushrooms. And there were squiggles of many other kinds, as well. Intuition crept up Scrib’s spine, making his hair itch.
A few times in his life, Scrib had encountered “Talls,” or humans, and “swatters,” the true dwarves of the mountains and the hills. Both races, to a gully dwarf, were mysterious, dangerous creatures, quite beyond comprehension in most ways. But Scrib recalled vaguely a thing he had noticed before. Both humans and dwarves seemed to be able to make squiggles talk.
“This a message?” he breathed, excitement flooding through him. “Maybe somebody leave instructions.”
“Instructions for what?” several interested Aghar wondered.
“For us!” Scrib snapped. “All kinda squiggles here. All mean somethin’. Been tryin’ to tell you, squiggles mean stuff … See?” He pointed impatiently. “This kin’ squiggle mean ‘mushroom.’ Here, an’ here an’ here. Mushroom.”
“Lotta mushroom,” somebody said. “How many?”
Scrib counted the squiggles that, to him, meant mushroom. There were several of them. “Two,” he decided. “An’ lotsa other kin’ squiggles, too. Like worms an’ trees an’ li’l boxes. An’ this one look like a storm. Somebody tryin’ to tell us somethin’ here.”
“Maybe say it gonna rain,” someone suggested, helpfully.
“Gonna rain worms an’ boxes,” another elaborated.
The voice they heard then seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Though as soft as a disgusted mutter, it was a very big voice, and seemed to fill the shadowy reaches of the cavern. “What a bunch of nitwits!” it said. “Those are runes, you little idiot. Don’t you know about runes?”
Eyes wide, the gully dwarves stared around in the gloom. “Who that?” somebody squeaked.
Little winds stirred the dust of the old cellar and great wings whispered softly in the shadows above. All eyes turned upward, gawking in terror. It looked as though great parts of the shadowed ceiling had detached themselves and were descending-a sinuous, graceful flow of shadow among shadows slowly took form as stunned Aghar eyes traced the outlines of huge movement. With wings spread wide, rippling along their edges, and its great, graceful tail sweeping this way and that, the dragon seemed to fill the recesses above.
“D-d-dragon?” Scrib whispered, terror in his eyes.
“Craze like runny!” a panicked Aghar shrieked.
Frenzied gully dwarves scurried about, running blindly in circles, then froze in place as the big, irritated voice rasped, “Stop that! Stand still! Do you want me to step on you? Gods, what a bunch of little ninnies!”
Huge, reptilian feet, feet with gleaming talons like great, curved blades, touched down as gently as feathers among the fear-frozen Aghar, and the dragon settled its weight and folded its wings. A scale-armored head bristling with spikes swung this way and that on a long, sinuous neck, peering at each of them in turn, as though memorizing them. The little creatures seemed frozen with terror.
“Who’s in charge here?” Verden Leafglow asked, as pleasantly as her natural aversion to the insipid little creatures permitted. Time and experience had brought about profound changes in the green dragon-time, experience and the attention of a god. Reorx had given her a new way of thinking, and she settled more and more into it. Once she would have killed every gully dwarf in sight without giving it a second thought, just for the fun of it. But many things had happened since those times, and a gully dwarf had once shown her a mercy. Now, strangely, she felt inclined to tolerate the despicable creatures-so long as they didn’t irritate her too much.
For a moment none of them responded. Most of them, in fact, were too terrified to move even their lips. Then one of them stuttered, “Wh-what dragon say?”
“I asked who’s in charge here,” Verden repeated.
“Dunno,” the gully dwarf said. “What’s-’is-name usually in charge. Ol’ G-glitch. th’ Highbulp. Highbulp not here now, though.”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno. Someplace else. M-may-maybe dragon go s-someplace else, too? Might fin’ Glitch.”
“I don’t intend to go off searching for some nitwit gully dwarf!” Verden snorted.
“Okay,” the unfrozen one said. “Then we go someplace else. No p-problem. Bye, dragon.” With a shudder he turned, started to run and collided with another gully dwarf. The collision seemed to trigger a chain reaction. By the tens and dozens, fear-frozen Aghar found their feet, running and
colliding in all directions. Where there had been silent, still gully dwarves, now abruptly there were noisy, panic-stricken gully dwarves scurrying, colliding, tumbling and falling like dominoes, everywhere.
Verden Leafglow raised her majestic head, shaking it in disgust. “Gully dwarves!” she hissed. The hiss became a roar. “All of you, stop it! Stand still!”
Obediently all the commotion ceased. With a fore-claw the size of a giant’s rapier, Verden singled out Scrib and tapped him on the chest. He goggled at her and nearly fainted. “You,” she said. “How are you called?”
Scrib blinked, swallowed and shrugged. “Any ol’ way,” he said. “Mos’ly jus’, ‘Hey, you!’ that g-good enough.”
“I mean, what is your name?” Verden snapped.
“Oh, that,” Scrib said. “Name S-scri-scr … uh … Scrib. Pleased t’ meet you, dragon. Bye.”
“Come back here!” Verden snapped. “Show me what you have found.”
“Okay.” Scrib began emptying various pouches and pockets in his clothing. “Got a m-m-mar-marble,” he said. “An’ piece of string, an’ a t-t-turtle t-tooth an’ some rocks. Ol’ flat b-black rock an’ sof’ white one. An’ part of a lizard, an’-”
“Gods,” Verden muttered. “I don’t care what’s in your pockets, I want to see the runes you found.”
“See wh-what?”
“The runes! The … the ‘squiggles!’ ”
“Oh.” Scrib brightened. Someone was showing interest in his discovery. And even though that someone happened to be a dragon, still he was pleased. And it didn’t seem as though the dragon meant to kill him, at least not right away. “There,” he pointed a grimy finger at the bronze surface gleaming dully beneath its coating of mildew. “Squiggles,” he pronounced. “In my bes’ judgm … opin … looks to me like stuff ’bout mushrooms.”
“It has nothing to do with mushrooms,” Verden grunted, peering at the ancient inscriptions.
“Not mushrooms?” Scrib was a bit deflated. “What, then?”
“It’s a sign,” Verden said.
“Sign?” Scrib stood on tiptoe, trying to see past the dragon’s huge muzzle. “Yep, mebbe so. Sign is doodles that talk. Swatters got signs in Th’bardin. Say stuff like, ‘Fourth Road,’ ‘No Tresp … tres … keep off,’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ Talls got signs, too. Signs say ‘Solace Three Miles,’ an’ ‘Eat at Otto’s’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ ” Enthralled, he planted a foot on the dragon’s lower jaw, between her jutting fangs, grabbed a great nostril and hauled himself up onto the beast’s snout. There he knelt, leaning precariously to get a closer look at the bronze plate.
“Get off my nose!” Verden snarled. With a yelp Scrib tumbled from the dragon’s snout. He landed on a huge forepaw and cringed between scaled “fingers” the size of tree roots.
Ignoring the little oaf, Verden scanned the ancient inscription:
Upon this rock be balance found. Let harmony reside here, on the fulcrum of the shining stone. Eternal the heritage of high and low.
Verden puzzled over it, then lifted a delicate talon to chip away bits of the mildew-fouled surface below the bronze. The gully dwarf, clinging frantically to her finger, bounced and chattered in terror.
Beneath the ancient coating of the column was pure, white quartz. Unmasked, it seemed to glow with a life of its own.
“It is a sign,” the dragon breathed. “This is the sign Reorx promised.”
Unburdened by any significant attention span, Scrib instantly forgot the terror of a moment before and clambered up the dragon’s arm for a better view. Perched on her gigantic shoulder, he peered at the ancient column. “What sign say?” he asked.
“It says this is the point of balance,” Verden said, mostly to herself. “The fulcrum. It says the harmonies rest here.”
“What?” Scrib demanded, baffled. In his eagerness he climbed higher, clinging to Verden’s eyelid as he tried to find footing on the scale-slick bridge of her nose.
“It says this is the shining stone!” the dragon thundered. “Get out of my face, you little nitwit!”
With a flip of her head she sent Scrib flying. He lit, tumbled and rolled, and sprawled at the feet of the Highbulp, Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Persuasion and Glorious Defender of Various places, who had just arrived, followed by portions of his scattered tribe, and by some humans.
Most of them were so taken with Scrib’s acrobatics that for a moment they didn’t notice the dragon towering nearby.
But then the three humans, sharp-eyed among the bumbling Aghar, saw the monster and Thayla stifled a shriek. Dartimien and Graywing both moved to protect the girl, Graywing’s sword whistling as he drew it, the Cat’s hands abruptly full of daggers. But before they could shelter Thayla, someone else was there. With a mighty heave, Bron the gully dwarf raised his big, iron shield and brandished his broadsword beside it. “Sh-shoo!” he ordered. “Dragon sh-sh-shoo! Scat, dragon! G-go ’way!”
The little creature’s eyes were the size of Solamnian shoebuttons in a grimy face now pale with fear, but still he stood his ground.
Verden’s great head swung around casually, and she studied the puny creature with interest. Reorx had told her that one day she would meet a gully dwarf hero, but she had never truly believed it. The idea was too preposterous. And yet, here was a gully dwarf, trying to protect another person. The ugly little creature was actually threatening her, ordering her away!
This was indeed the one. The shield he held before him was that same shield that had protected Verden from Flame Searclaw’s dragonfire, long ago in the tunnels of Xak Tsaroth.
As Verden gazed at the shield the insignia on it seemed to come alive, to realign itself, to take new shapes and patterns. No Aghar would have recognized the elaborate design as a picture of a face. Even humans might have seen it only as an intricate pattern of contours. But to the dragon’s eyes it was a visage. To Verden Leafglow, who had lived twice, the tracery was more than a just a likeness. In the patterns on the ancient shield Verden saw the face of a god, of Reorx himself.
Once again the green dragon, who had once served a darker god, found herself in the presence of a god. But Verden Leafglow was no longer exactly green. Rich, warm hues now tinged the verdant scales of her mighty form. And the god before her now was not that vindictive deity of her first incarnation. In the shield Verden saw the face of Reorx, wielder of the hammer of heavens, Reorx the life-giver, the creator of balances.
Within the dragon’s mind a voice like distant, rolling thunder murmured. You have come to the fulcrum, Verden Leafglow. In this place issues must be resolved. High and low lurk here, awaiting balance. Those less than you will decide the outcome, Verden. But it will be for you to seal the choice when it is made.
“I’ll have my revenge?” the dragon breathed.
Revenge is a dark thing, the silent voice whispered. It really was not a voice at all, just thoughts that came unbidden within her head, and had words of their own. Vengeance creates vengeance but clear retribution can balance scales. You were promised a gift, Verden Leafglow. That gift is what it always was … the freedom to choose.
“I don’t know what I’m expected to do,” the dragon breathed.
This conflict is cluttered, the distant thunder murmured. One might begin by tidying things a bit.
The voice faded. The shield held by the trembling gully dwarf was again only a shield. Behind it, three humans and most of a tribe of Aghar gaped at the huge beast confronting them. But now Verden Leafglow knew her task.
One of the human males-the big one with the sword-was edging aside, crouching to attack. Verden pinned him with her eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” she suggested. But even as she turned toward him, something flashed in the dim cavern and a sleek dagger thumped into her scales, an inch from the softer tissue over her heart. The weapon hung for a moment, suspended from its needle-sharp point, then clattered harmlessly to the floor.
At that moment, the green dragon she had once been would have begun a
slaughter, and its first victim would have been the second human male-the slighter one, with the dark garments. Even now, he was balancing another dagger, ready to throw it.
But she was not the dragon she had been long ago, and she controlled the anger that rose within her. “Stop that!” she hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man hesitated. “Well, ah … I guess I’m throwing knives at you,” he admitted, frankly. “I’m trying to kill you, you see.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He lowered his throwing arm, puzzled. “Well, because that’s what I do. I mean, you’re the enemy, aren’t you? You’re a dragon.”
“And you kill dragons?”
“Of course I do!”
Verden’s eyes narrowed, in what no human would have recognized as mirth. “And how many dragons have you killed so far?”
“Actually,” Dartimien the Cat admitted, “you’re the first dragon I’ve ever met. At least, socially.”
“That’s obvious,” Verden said. “You’re still alive. Do you have a name?”
“Dartimien,” he said.
“I’m Verden Leafglow,” the dragon said. “And you?” Her gaze shifted again to the other man, who was still looking for an opening to use his sword.
“Ah … Graywing,” the warrior said. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes roved over her, and stopped at a chink in her scales, below the left wing. He crouched, raising his blade.
“Forget it,” the dragon warned. “Who is that little dolt with the big shield, and what does he think he’s doing?”
Behind the Aghar, the human girl said, “This is Bron. He’s a hero.”
“My, my,” Verden muttered. “A hero? You don’t say.”
Emboldened by the accolade, Bron raised his shield higher and waved his broadsword over his head. Its weight almost overbalanced him. “Dragon go ’way!” he said. “Scat!”
The Gully Dwarves lh-5 Page 16
