Then that war, which settled many disputes in the northern greatlands, had ended. And now Graywing, like thousands of others whose entire experience was in battle, found himself hiring out as a lone mercenary. Hundreds of little wars had sprung up in the shambles of the great conflict, and there was plenty of employment. Men he had known for years now met on a hundred fields of battle, trying to kill one another for the wages paid by petty realms.
At least, he thought, I still can choose my jobs.
Somehow, the idea of doing battle for wages had never appealed to him. So he lived these days, as now, hiring out as guide and bodyguard for travelers.
At the crest of the ridge he crept to the lip of a stone outcrop and looked beyond. A wide, fertile valley lay before him, a valley that should be lush with ripening fields and rich orchards. Instead, as far as he could see along the lower slopes there were wisps of smoke-smoke from hundreds of separate campfires where little groups of armed men sat idle, waiting for orders. Beyond, in the distance, a squat fortress stood on a hill, and above it, too, hung the smoke of waiting.
Graywing’s thick, corn silk beard twitched as his lip curled in a sneer. Blood would flow in this valley soon, and most of it would be the blood of fighters not personally involved in whatever conflict was growing here. Those who would bleed and die were mostly just men like himself, veterans with no skill but arms and no trade but war, men who would die for a few coins.
For long moments he studied the scene, practiced eyes seeking a route through the cordon of warriors. Then he backed out of sight, turned and looked to his own back trail. Again a sneer of distaste curled his lip. His employer was part of all this, of course. Clonogh was some sort of courier, he gathered. His destination was that fortress out there, and Graywing’s job was to take him, and whatever secret thing he carried, there safely.
He didn’t want to know any more than that about it, but he would be glad when it was done. Something about the courier made Graywing feel a little clammy. Whether it was the man’s furtive manner-like a ferret slinking toward its prey, never straight forward but always at a deceptive angle-or possibly in the way the man’s face seemed always hidden by the cowl of his dark cloak, or possibly the edgy, nervous way he guarded that leather pouch slung to his shoulder, Graywing didn’t know.
It was as though Clonogh were a relic of another time-a lost, insane age when mages were everywhere and sorcery ran rampant on Krynn. Graywing didn’t know whether Clonogh might be a secret sorcerer, but there was a quality about the man that raised his hackles.
He simply did not care for Clonogh. He would be glad to be rid of him when this journey was done.
Now, carefully, he made his way back to the crevice where he had left his employer. “There is a route through the cordon,” he said, “but it won’t be easy. There are sentries, and a dozen places where ambush would be easy. Suppose we have to fight? How are you armed?”
“You are armed,” the hooded figure indicated the long sword at Graywing’s shoulder. “I pay you for your skills, and for your sword as well,” Clonogh said, his face a shadow within shadows. “You are my guide, and my protection.”
“Fine,” Graywing rasped. “If we run into trouble, it’s all up to me. Is that how it is?”
“I pay you well enough,” Clonogh purred. He picked up his walking stick-a fine, short staff of intricately carved ivory, slightly curved and delicately tapered-and got to his feet, hugging his leather pouch close to his side with a protective elbow. “I expect you to do your job.”
Chapter 11
With his headquarters no longer habitable because of rampant pyrite mining, His Bumptiousness Glitch the Most, Highbulp by Choice and Lord Protector of This Place and Anyplace Else he Happened to Notice, had moved his seat of leadership to an abandoned cistern behind the steeple tower of This Place. He was there, dozing on that ample seat, when Scrib brought Bron to volunteer for duty.
It wasn’t Bron’s idea. In fact, he had no idea what the idea was. Scrib had found him and said, “c’mon, le’s go see Highbulp,” and Bron had followed obligingly.
The descent to the bottom of the cistern was a bit harrowing, as the main access-a spiral of stone steps leading downward around the shaft-was temporarily blocked by throngs of gully dwarves with piles of rubble on every step. They were cleaning the gleaming baubles from the lesser stuff by smashing the ore with stones and throwing the rubble from the walls, to be picked up at the bottom after gravity had separated the trinkets from the chaff.
So Bron took the direct path, straight down the vertiginous wall. Scrib lost his hold on the wall twice, but Bron caught him both times. The second time, the muscular young Aghar flopped his teacher over his shoulder and carried him the rest of the way.
He still had Scrib on his shoulder, muttering and squirming, when he entered the august presence of Glitch the Most. Glitch was sound asleep, and beginning to snore. Respectfully, Bron pushed through the throng of gully dwarves gathering pyrite and kicked dust in his father’s face to wake him up. The Highbulp snorted, opened grumpy eyes and raised his head. “What you want, Dad?” asked Bron.
“Want?” Glitch blinked his eyes, and squinted. “Me?”
“Yep. You. What you want?”
“Leggo my foot!” Scrib hissed behind him, squirming upside down in the younger gully dwarf’s grip. “Lemme go!”
“Want stew, I guess,” the Highbulp decided. “An’ maybe a few fried snails.”
“Okay,” Bron said. He turned away and Scrib pounded on his back.
“Not why we came!” Scrib shouted, “Bron, leggo! S’pose to report for duty, not for stew!”
Confused, Bron stopped and dropped Scrib, who landed headfirst on the sandy stone floor. Bron turned and looked down at him. “Report for duty? What duty?”
Nearby, the Lady Lidda noticed the exchange and went to get Glitch some stew. If the Highbulp didn’t get stew when he asked for stew, he tended to sulk.
“Highbulp need a scout,” Scrib said, getting his feet under him.
Glitch blinked again. “I do? What for?”
“For see why Talls keep goin’ over This Place, up there,” Scrib reminded his lord and master. “Pay ’tention, dummy!”
“Oh,” Glitch said, sagely. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what Scrib was talking about.
“That’n easy,” Bron told his mentor. “Talls go ’cross up there ’Cause that where bridge is.”
“Talls up to somethin’!” Scrib said. “Ought to find out what.”
“How?”
“What?”
“How find out what?”
“Find out
“Somebody go see,” Scrib explained to Bron.
“Oh.” Bron scratched his head, then nodded. “Okay. Go ‘head an’ see.”
“Go see
“Not me.” Scrib shook his head vigorously. “Bron go.”
“Why me?”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?” Glitch roared, bringing all the gully dwarf activity in the place to a screeching halt.
“Why not Bron go look at Talls?” Scrib explained. “Highbulp say go look at Talls, see what goin’ on. Right, Highbulp?”
“Right,” Glitch said, nodding. “Why?”
