The Gully Dwarves

whom, but finally they were all awake and untangled, and all peering down in bewilderment at the human camp below.

The Talls were no longer asleep. Now most of them scurried around gathering their weapons, while the rest stoked up the fire and added wood. All along the slopes, other smoldering fires flared to full flame.

“What goin’ on?” Tag asked, of no one in particular.

“Talls wake up,” Swog pointed out. “Musta’ been th’ noise.”

Torches moved in the forest, and a pair of liveried couriers appeared in the firelight below, bright-eyed and panting. “To arms!” one of them shouted. “Hear the words of Her Eminence Chatara Kral, Ward-Regent of Gelnia.” He unrolled a scroll, while the one behind him raised his torch to light the characters on it.

“The Tarmite smugglers have evaded our sentries,” the courier proclaimed. “It is certain that the pretender, the despised Lord Vulpin of Tarmish, now possesses the Fang of Orm. Men of the banner of Gelnia, to arms! Tarmish must be taken, ere the dark evil of the relic is unleashed upon the land.”

The courier stood in silence for a moment, then rolled up his scroll. “This unit is assigned to the Third Regiment. Proceed immediately to your assembly area. We attack the fortress at Chatara Kral’s command.” With that he and his escort raised their torches and hurried off into the forest, bound for the next camp.

Beside the fire, a grizzled veteran of the Solamnic campaigns turned to the man nearest him. “What in thunder does all that mean?”

“Means the opposition has a trinket,” the second answered. “Some kind of magical thing that can wipe us out if they get a chance to use it. So we’re through waiting. Tomorrow we fight.”

“Have you looked at that fortress down there?” the first snorted. “This siege is going to take a while.”

In the little cave above them stood the gully dwarves. “Talls all awake, looks like. They up to somethin’ yet?” asked Swog.

“Dunno,” Bron admitted. “We keep lookin’, I guess. Mebbe fin’ out.”

Chapter 13

The Pursuers

“It isn’t there,” Clonogh said, his desperate eyes gleaming in the shadow of his cowl. “As soon as that … that barbarian Graywing was gone, I cast a far-see spell back where it fell. The effort cost me dearly, but I tried. The Fang was gone.”

“Someone took it, then,” Lord Vulpin growled. “Did you see any who might have found it?”

“There was a man up there,” Clonogh said. “I watched him. He hid the dead assassins, and their weapons, and covered every trace of the fight. And he searched all around. He was thorough.”

Vulpin paced the little tower room. He was a great, dark figure whose steel armor and reticulated helm seemed as much part of him as the relentless ambition in his eyes. His billowing cloak flared with each turn of the wind through the open portals. He paused to look out at the foot of the slopes a mile away. The forces of Chatara Kral were still issuing from the forest, their banners bright under the morning sun. There were hundreds of fighters in the fields already, trooping toward the walls of Tarmish, and it seemed they just kept coming. “Describe him to me,” he said. “The man you saw on the hillside.”

Clonogh squinted. “A young man, though certainly not a child. Not a large man, but strong, as an acrobat is strong. Very slim, very quick in his movements. Dark hair, dark beard but not a full beard. Clean-shaven cheeks, chin beard and mustache, neatly trimmed. Dark breeches and a dark jerkin, high boots, and dagger-hilts everywhere. He must carry a dozen knives.”

“I don’t know him,” Vulpin shook his head. “One of Chatara Kral’s mercenaries, no doubt. You watched him?”

“I watched him as long as I could hold the seeing spell,” Clonogh said, shuddering. “I told you. He searched the entire area. If the relic had been there, he would have found it. And if he had found it, I would have seen.”

“Someone else, then,” Vulpin muttered. He looked again at the armed forces gathering in his valley, preparing to attack. “I need that artifact,” he growled. “And that barbarian of yours? Graywing? Is there any way he might have tricked you?”

“He knew nothing!” Clonogh said. “The man is a superb warrior, but in some ways a dunce. He thought the prize I carried was in my pouch. He thought the Fang no more than a walking stick, and when he needed it he used it as a weapon. He threw it away!”

“Protecting you and your … what he thought was your missive to me,” Vulpin pondered. “Perhaps you should have trusted him, Clonogh.”

“And perhaps it should have rained today,” Clonogh spat. “But it didn’t.” He squared his narrow shoulders defiantly. “At least, whoever has the Fang now, it’s not likely anyone capable of using it.” Shadowed eyes, nervous eyes, glanced up at Lord Vulpin from the depths of his cowl. “If Chatara Kral has the stick, well, your sister is no more an ‘innocent’ than you are, my lord.”

“But she could find one who is!” Vulpin rumbled. “I did.” He strode across to a stone-framed portal overlooking the inner grounds of the fortress. Down there, hundreds of men scurried around, carrying defense ordnance to the outer walls, preparing for the Gelnian attack. Companies and battalions of Tarmites, their ranks swelled by Vulpin’s mercenaries, marched here and there to reinforce the contingents on the walls.

But above all the turmoil, in a walled garden just below the tower of the keep, a young woman with a bucket and dipper was giving water to bedded flowers. Long hair like spun gold hung around her shoulders, and when she glanced upward her eyes reflected the blue of Summer sky.

“Thayla Mesinda,” Lord Vulpin said to Clonogh. “I chose her carefully, and have protected her since first you told me of the Fang of Orm. She is as pure as a rosebud, conjurer, and she will do exactly as I bid.”

“Then so would the Fang, if we had it,” Clonogh rasped. “But we don’t have it. Tell me, my lord, if we get it back …”

“When we get it back,” Vulpin glared at him. “And you, mage, more than anyone, should hope that it is soon.”

“When it is recovered.” Clonogh corrected, “exactly what wish will my lord demand?” He waved nervously toward the west, where Gelnian armies gathered. “Will you wish them all dead?”

“Yes!” Vulpin growled. Then, pausing, “No, not dead. Not all. Mindless slaves, to work my fields, to serve my table, to … to do whatever I demand of them.” The tall man paced impatiently, his eyes glowing with anticipation. “A bodyguard of zombies, Clonogh! An army of zombies, to do my bidding! Tarmish is nothing, Clonogh. Tarmish, and all Gelnia, is but a base. From here I will sweep outward, land after land! An empire! The world for my empire! All I need is that single artifact. The Fang of Orm!”

Vulpin ceased his pacing. Eyes alight with ambition, he gazed out across the fields where armies now shifted into attack position. On a knoll behind the main lines, a bright pavilion was being erected. “She has it,” he growled. “She must have it by now. We’ll just have to get it back.”

The shadows deepened beneath Clonogh’s hood, as though the sorcerer was drawing inward upon himself. The Fang had such powers, and none knew it better than he. For years now he had studied the old scrolls, tracking down the ancient relic. “Wishmaker,” some had called it in ancient times. For the man who controlled it, anything was possible.

Lord Vulpin turned to face the mage, his eyes like points of glitter beneath the elaborate scrollwork of his helm. “You lost it, Clonogh. You will regain it for me. Out there is Chatara Kral. You will go there, and retrieve it.”

Clonogh flinched at the command, as though stung by a whip. “My lord,” he pleaded, “you know the cost of my magic.”

“I know,” Vulpin’s stare held no compassion, no relenting. “Each spell costs you a piece of your life. A year, or