The Gully Dwarves

by Dan Parkinson

  “No! Dark Queen, oh mightiest, I plead—”

  Theirs, the voice said, as though relishing the word.

  Horror grew in Verden’s mind. “Goddess, have mercy! I beg—”

  You are mine no longer. The voice seemed to turn away, cold and indifferent. If you want mercy, ask it of them. Die, Verden Leafglow. Die now, and seek mercy in rebirth from the gully dwarves who will own you.

  The voice faded and only the vision was left in her mind: the egg. Her own egg was deep within a dark place, unguarded and vulnerable. Beating powerful wings, Verden Leafglow turned in the direction of the vision and sped toward it.…

  Sped toward it, and began to die.

  Ahead, mountains rose to meet her, and beyond the mountains was a dimness that grew by the moment. There—just beyond there, yet so far away—was the place. She knew it then. She recognized the place, knew where it was, and fresh horror rose in her dimming mind. Xak Tsaroth. The Pitt.

  Aghar and vermin. Gully dwarves and rats.

  The mountains rose before her, and her sight dimmed to darkness. Her wings faltered, flapped erratically and failed. The mountains were below her now and they rose to meet her, great jagged peaks reaching for her as she spiraled downward, unseeing. In her last moment of life only one thing remained for her to see—a vision of her egg, lost in a place of shadows where small things moved.

  PART 1

  Legacy of the Least

  Chapter 1

  A Throne for Glitch

  A great many things had happened in the seasons since the wandering tribe of Bulp came to This Place. There were a great many things that no one really understood, things that were mostly unpleasant and invariably confusing.

  Other Aghar had been in this place then, but as slaves, tormented and abused by horrible creatures beyond anyone’s understanding. Misery and death had lurked everywhere in the Promised Place, and the newly-arrived followers of the Highbulp Glitch I, Lord Protector of Anyplace He Happened to Be, had spent a long and miserable time hiding in holes and cracks that even the other gully dwarves of This Place had not found.

  It was a time of torment, and of fear, and some had been lost. Then other kinds of people had come and gone. There had been several kinds of humans, whom the Aghar thought of as “Talls,” and various other large animals, creatures and unthinkables. The stink of magic and the clamor of battle had filled This Place and always there were the ugly things that had lizard faces, dry, crackly voices and seemed determined to do harm to every creature they encountered.

  People and things had come to the place some called Xak Tsaroth. They had come, they had fought, and then they had gone away, and the Aghar—the wandering tribe of Bulp and many others who had happened to join them—had suffered through it all the only way they knew how. They hid, cringed and lurked in the darkest places. They fled in panic when they could, and groveled when all else failed, and waited for the turmoil of war to recede from This Place.

  Some other clans—those that had already been there when the Highbulp Glitch I led his people in tumultuous descent into the place long seasons before—had fled the Pitt entirely. Many of those who fled eventually returned, though fewer in number and more confused by what was going on outside of Xak Tsaroth than by what was going on inside.

  Things happened everywhere that defied Aghar understanding.

  Whatever it had all been about, though, it seemed to be over now. Some parts of the Pitt were still littered with fallen weapons, mummifying corpses of various kinds and the odd heaps of dust that had once been the ugly lizard-things. With the return of some normalcy, Glitch I had taken it upon himself—since nobody else seemed to care one way or another—to declare himself Highbulp of all survivors, ruler and lord protector of all the miscellaneous clans.

  It didn’t matter much to anyone else. Any High-whatsit was of little practical use to the Aghar—whom others called gully dwarves—and was generally a nuisance. But somebody had to be the High-whatever, and as long as somebody was willing to be it, everybody else was satisfied.

  How long had it been since the invasions and the fighting had ended? No one knew for sure, except that it was before yesterday, which put it into the distant past along with other things not worth remembering. So most of them had put it out of their minds and gone back to the pressing tasks of today—foraging, scrounging, keeping the stew pot going and now and then considering ways to keep the Highbulp from becoming grumpy.

  At the moment, that involved coming up with a throne for him to sit on.

  Somewhere along the way, Glitch had gotten the idea that he was a great and majestic personage. He had once had a personal dragon—according to him—and had led his people to the Promised Place, which was now This Place. He was therefore a legend, at least in his own mind, and was becoming a real nuisance about it.

  He had already changed his regal designation from “Glitch the First” to “Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Persuasion and Lord Protector of This Place and Everyplace Else that Mattered.” And that was only the beginning.

  He had demanded attention, which he sometimes received if he shouted loud enough. He had demanded a crown, to the point that some of them finally made one for him. He had demanded a personal flag, which he didn’t yet have, and now he was demanding a soft chair. Great rulers of mighty nations sat on soft chairs, he reasoned. Therefore he should sit on a soft chair.

  Now that things were quiet again, and he had nothing else to think about, Glitch had become obsessed with the idea of a special place to sit. He complained constantly, every time he decided to sit down.

  “Rocks!” he would grumble. “Alla time sit on rocks. Anybody can sit on rocks. Glitch th’ Most is Highbulp. Highbulp oughtta have sof’ chair. Other kings an’ stuff got sof’ chairs. Why not Highbulp?”

  He had become such a nuisance about it that even the Grand Notioner, old Gandy with his mop handle staff, had lost patience. “Why don’t Highbulp go find sand dump an’ sit on it?” he confronted his liege. “Ever’body tired of hearin’ you gripe.”

  “Highbulp need th … thro … sof’ chair!” Glitch snapped at his chief counselor, his eyes slitted and his crown of rat’s teeth aslant. “Kings got thro … thr … those things. Highbulp good as kings. Who else ever had personal dragon? Highbulp want a whatsit … a throne!”

  “Highbulp wouldn’ know throne if he saw one,” Gandy pointed out.

  The Lord High Protector of Everybody in This Place glared at him. “Would, too. Throne sof’ chair. Highbulp need sof’ chair.”

  “Rats,” Gandy muttered, turning away.

  “What?”

  “Rats. Stew pot runnin’ low. Need rats an’ stuff. Got no time for Highbulp now. Everybody busy with own rat killin’.” Gandy turned and stomped away, muttering to himself. “One thing then ’nother. Want new name. Got new name. Want crown. Got crown. Now want throne. Highbulp a real nuisance.”

  A hunting expedition had just returned from somewhere. A dozen or so Gully Dwarves carried bundles of whitish roots, some unidentifiable greens, a clutch of freshly-bashed subterranean snails and other odds and ends they had found. All the edible forage was dumped into stew pots, the rest tossed aside for later inspection. At one of the stew pots, Gandy noticed, the Lady Bruze was examining the contents with a frown. “Too much snail,” she muttered. “Need more rat. An’ mushroom. Need mushroom.”

  She searched about for her husband, a sturdy gully dwarf called Clout who was considered Chief Basher for the clan. Finally she found him, sound asleep in the shadows, cradling his bashing tool in his arms.

  She went to him, stood over him for a moment, frowning, then kicked him in the ribs. “Clout wake up,” she demanded.

  Abruptly awake and confused, Clout sat up, flailing about him with his bashing tool. Bruze dodged the swinging stick, got behind him and kicked him again. “Clout!” she snapped. “Wake up! Clout a sleepy lout. Wake up! Go find fresh rats for stew.”

  Clout rubbed his eyes, yawned and got to his feet.
“Yes, dear,” he said. With a longing glance at his sleeping place, he padded off toward the dark caverns where the best rats were usually found.

  Gandy had watched with interest. Now he leaned thoughtfully on his mop handle and muttered, “Sof’ chair not what Highbulp need. Wife what Highbulp need. Somebody keep him in line.”

  However, he did spread the word again. “Anybody find sof’ chair, bring it back for Highbulp. Might shut him up for a while.”

  And those who heard told others. “Some clown gripin’ ’bout need sof’ chair. Anybody see a sof’ chair anyplace?”

  “Nope,” most said. “For who?” some asked.

  “For what’s-’is-name. Th’ Highbulp. He want sof’ chair.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno.”

  Most of them promptly forgot all about it. The whims and notions of High-whatevers were rarely worth remembering. But the idea did persist, vaguely, as they went their various ways.

  * * * * *

  It was some of the ladies who found it, though they didn’t realize right away what they had found.

  The Lady Bruze—wife of the Chief Basher, Clout—and some of the younger females had organized a forage into lower levels of the Pitt in search of mushrooms, fat crawlies and anything else that might be useful for stew. They were creeping furtively through the echoing shadows of what might once have been a vast dungeon, when one of them stopped, squinted and pointed. “What that?”

  Several of them coming up behind her collided with one another, and some fell down. “Sh!” the Lady Bruze hissed. “Wha’ happen?”

  “Somebody see somethin’,” someone said. “Then somebody fall down.”

  “Oh.” The Lady Bruze looked back. “Who see somethin’?”

  “Me,” one said.

  “Lidda? What Lidda see?”

  “Somethin’ there,” Lidda pointed again. “Wasn’ there minute ago.”

  They all squinted in the gloom. There was something there. Just to the left of the path they were following, something vaguely ovoid lay in shadows among fallen stones. Cautiously, they crept closer for a better look.

  “What that thing?” someone whispered.

  “Kinda green,” another observed.

  They gathered around it, looking at it first one way and then another. It was about waist-high to most of them, a dull, featureless thing like a squat globe, resting in the shadows. As they approached, it seemed to radiate softly—a dim, greenish glow coming from within it, barely visible even in the murk of the cavernous ancient place.

  “Big mushroom, maybe?” someone suggested.

  “Looks pretty solid,” another said.

  Lidda crept closer and reached a hand toward the thing. When nothing happened, she prodded it quickly with a curious finger, then ducked back. Again it seemed as though the thing had glowed slightly, dim and greenish.

  “Kinda sof’,” Lidda told them. “Not like mushroom, though. Like, uh, like leather.”

  “Leather mushroom?” the Lady Bruze wondered. “Maybe good for stew?”

  Lidda squatted, peered beneath the thing and shook her head. “No stem.” She leaned close to it, sniffing. “Don’ smell like mushroom, either.”

  They looked at the thing curiously for a minute or two, then began wandering away. Having no idea what it was, and seeing no practical purpose for it, they lost interest in it.

  The Lady Bruze looked around and saw her expedition scattering. “Come on. This not good for anything.”

  Lidda lingered, though, fascinated by the way the thing seemed to glow dimly now and then.

  “Lidda come on!” the Lady Bruze called, sounding angry. “I say come on, you s’pose to come on!”

  Lidda waved absently, ignoring the command. The Lady Bruze could be a real pain sometimes. She repeated her inspection of the green thing. When she looked up, she was alone with it. The others had gone somewhere else. “Lady Bruze prob’ly right,” she told herself. “Thing not good for anything. Not up to her, though. I decide.”

  On impulse, she hoisted herself atop the thing and sat, bouncing a bit to test it. It was soft and springy, and glowed happily as she sat there. “Make nice chair for sit,” she told herself, then recalled something she had heard. Somebody had been looking for a soft chair.

  She looked around again in the eerie gloom of the ancient place. The other ladies were long gone, off on their foraging. She was alone, and not sure where they had gone. She shrugged, got down and took a deep breath. See if thing will move, she decided.

  The thing was heavy, but Lidda was strong. Although she was barely three feet tall, she was sturdy and determined, and after the first hard shove, the thing rolled along handily. She kept pushing and it kept rolling, like a big, squashy ball. Driven by the guiding forces of all gully dwarves—inertia and inadvertence—and keeping a wary eye out for salamanders and other nasties, Lidda rolled her leathery green “chair” back the way the ladies had come, heading for This Place.

  The journey took hours, and Lidda was nearly exhausted when she came into the firelight and clamor of the gully dwarves’ primary caverns. Crowds of the curious gathered around her, wondering what she had, but she fended them off and kept going. “Hands off,” she ordered. “This for What’s-’is-name.”

  “Who?”

  “Th’ Highbulp.”

  “Oh, ol’ Glitch.”

  “Yeah, him. Get outta way.”

  She found the Highbulp where he usually was—in the center of things, demanding attention—and rolled the thing over to him. “Here,” she said. “For you.”

  He stood, pushed his crown of rat’s teeth back from his eyes and squinted at what she had brought. “What this?”

  “Chair,” she explained. “Sof’ chair, for Highbulp.”

  “Chair?” He looked more closely. “This a roun’ thing. What kin’ chair roun’?”

  “This kin’,” she said, irritated at the great leader’s attitude toward her gift.

  Gandy, the Grand Notioner, came shuffling from somewhere, and squinted at the round thing. “What that?” he asked.

  “Chair,” Lidda repeated. “Sof’ chair for Highbulp.”

  Glitch gazed at the thing, beginning to sneer. “What kin’ chair look like that?” he pointed at it, turning to Gandy.

  With the inspiration of his office, Gandy poked at the thing with his mop handle and nodded, looking wise. “Throne,” he declared. “Throne look like that.”

  “Throne?” Glitch’s eyes widened. “This thing a throne? What I do with it?”

  “Sit on it, Highbulp,” Gandy suggested.

  Uncertainly, Glitch climbed atop the “throne” and sat. It felt soft and comfortable, and the fact that it glowed with greenish light as his backside began to warm it only added to the regal picture of himself that came to his mind. “Throne,” he pronounced, feeling very pleased with himself. “Highbulp’s throne.”

  If Lidda had expected even a word of thanks, it was not forthcoming. Gratitude was not generally a primary quality of the Highbulp. Tired, irritated and a bit confused about why she had gone to so much trouble, she turned and wandered away, then paused when someone spoke to her. It was Gandy, leaning on his mop handle. “Who you?” he asked.

  “Lidda,” she reminded him.

  “Sure. Lidda. I ’member. That pretty good thing you bring, Lidda. Oughtta keep Highbulp quiet for day or so.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, starting to turn away.

  “Day or so,” Gandy repeated. “Then he think of somethin’ else, start all over again.”

  “Highbulp a nuisance,” Lidda pointed out.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Goes with bein’ Highbulp. Be better if he had a wife. Keep him in line.”

  “Him?” Lidda stared back at the preening, self-important little figure sitting on the green thing. The green was brighter now, glowing with a contented, pulsing light. “Who be dumb ’nough to marry him?”

  “Dunno,” said Gandy, shrugging. “How ’bout Lidda?”

/>   “Me?” She stared at him, then her eyes brightened with indignation. “No way! You want him married, marry him yourself!”

  With that she stomped away, angry and insulted.

  Gandy watched her go, nodding his approval. “Pretty good choice,” he told himself. There was something about that particular female—something he had forgotten, but that now came back, dimly. She was stubborn, he recalled.

  Chapter 2

  Faces on the Wall

  Though Lidda was young, there were many who had noticed her from time to time. Lidda had a definite stubborn streak. And, such as it was, she tended to have a mind of her own. This in itself was a bit mystifying to most of the gully dwarves. As a rule, the Aghar generally had better things to do than think. But there were occasions, now and then, when thoughts could come in handy.

  There had been a time, in the still-recent torment times, when a group of the lizard-things had almost found the clan. A whole line of the ugly creatures had passed a crack that was the opening to the hiding place, and one had stepped aside and paused, as though to look inside. He had not looked, though. From somewhere above, a fist-sized rock had fallen, striking him on his helmet. It distracted him, and one of the others barked at him, and they had all gone on.

  The Grand Notioner, Gandy, had noticed that incident, and had puzzled over it. The rock had been no accident. He remembered that it had been dropped intentionally, from a high shelf. And the person who dropped it was Lidda.

  It was all very confusing, but somehow, it seemed, little Lidda had kept that bunch of uglies in line.

  “Lidda might keep Highbulp in line, too,” Gandy told himself now. “Keep lizard-things in line, keep anybody in line. Real good choice.”

  Thoughtfully, he looked back at the Highbulp, who was reveling in being the center of attention. Glitch sat straight and proud atop his brand-new throne, his crown slightly askew, the expression on his homely face a study in self-importance. He grandly permitted those who cared to, a chance to come close and admire him.