plainsman, had eyes like a hawk. What seemed too far to see, to Dartimien, Graywing saw clearly.
“I’ll take your word for it,” the Cat conceded. “What’s the best way to get there?”
“Straight through the encampment, I’m afraid,” Graywing said. “There’s a worse problem, though. The gully runs directly behind that big pavilion with the banners atop it. There. Do you see it? Where the lone oak tree stands. That’s probably the tent of someone important.”
“You might say that,” Dartimien sighed. “That’s Chatara Kral’s headquarters.”
The “gully” was actually a fan of little canyons, most of them only a few feet deep. Eroded by years of seasonal rainfall, they carried the rivulets that drained this entire quadrant of the valley, carrying waters away to a little creek that wound across the valley like a meandering ribbon among tilled fields.
Brush and scrub forest screened the gully, with larger trees standing here and there along its shoulders. Beneath some of these, decades of runoff from the fields had eroded away the soil, leaving hidden caves among the roots. The burrowing of animals over the years had enlarged some of these into sizeable holes, and it was in one such opening that the wandering tribe of Bulp had stopped to rest.
Now Scrib and Grand Notioner Gandy peered from screening brush as hordes of grim-looking Talls swarmed as far as they could see. Men tended stock, set stakes, hauled wood and gathered around countless breakfast fires. Teams of foresters and ox-drivers shuttled from the nearby forest, bringing timbers for the shaping of rams and the building of siege engines.
“Where they all come from?” Gandy quavered, clutching his mop handle staff. “Not here last night.”
“Dunno,” Scrib shook his head, then sighed, trying to stretch the aches out of his spine. Trying to see everything that was going on beyond the brush, was becoming a pain in the neck. From his shelter he could see a dozen other gully dwarves (or parts of them) through the matted brush. Fully half the tribe seemed to be awake now, and coming out to gawk at the altered scenery.
But not everyone was awake. Despite the noise of the human encampment all around their hiding place, they could distinctly hear the muffled snores of Glitch echoing from the burrow below them.
“Somebody better pop a gag in Highbulp’s mouth,” Gandy muttered. “Be jus’ like that twit to wake up hollerin’.”
The word was passed back, from gully dwarf to gully dwarf, and abruptly the snoring below went silent. The scuffling sounds that followed were far less intrusive than the Highbulp’s snoring had been.
The Lady Lidda crept up between Gandy and Scrib, followed by a younger female, the one called Pert. They peered with dismay at the countless Talls beyond. For a moment they were as stunned as everyone else had been, as anyone would be, awakening to a world that suddenly swarmed with humans. But then the details of the scene began to fascinate them. So many Talls, with so much armor and so many ominous-looking weapons!
Like all female gully dwarves, they immediately began to think in terms of forage.
Somewhere a trumpet blared, and men near its source formed themselves into rows and ranks, long spears gleaming in the morning sun. Not far from the verge of brush stood a huge, bright-colored structure of seamed fabrics, held upright by ropes and poles. Guards with spears and pikes surrounded it. Just beyond it, men in bright livery paraded great horses in a roped-off enclosure, while other men came from lean-tos, carrying huge loads of varied contrivances of leather and iron.
“Wow!” Lidda breathed. “Lotsa good stuff.”
A flap in the pavilion was opened, and Talls set poles to hold it up, forming a roofed entry. From this issued more Talls, dozens of them all wearing the same bright colors and all carrying wicked-looking blades. They ranked themselves in two lines outside the entrance, all facing outward. Behind them came a coterie of servants, followed by a magnificently-garbed woman whose brilliant robe and kilt were outshone by the exquisitely-polished, embossed steel armor of her bejeweled helm, breast plate, buckler and shin plates. At her side hung a businesslike short sword with gem-encrusted pommel and guard.
“Look,” Scrib whispered. “Lady Tall.”
Nearby, Gandy blinked rheumy eyes and turned toward him. “How you know that a lady?”
Scrib had no good answer for that. “Shape like a lady,” he said finally.
“Rats,” Gandy allowed.
Which reminded them all of breakfast.
The Lady Lidda pursed her lips and squinted, deep in thought. “Wonder what they got in there?” she whispered, pointing at the great pavilion.
“Might be some stuff they don’ need,” Pert said. She edged aside, trying for a better view, and stopped. There was a large, sandaled foot in her way. She gaped at the foot, and turned slowly, looking upward. Beyond the foot was another foot, and just above them the fringes of a dark robe, which extended upward to a shadowed cowl.
A human! An old Tall in a dark cloak, standing right there beside her!
“Uh-oh,” Pert breathed. “Ever’body! Run like crazy!”
In an instant, the brush was full of running, tumbling gully dwarves, scrambling in all directions. Guards near the pavilion gaped at the sudden turmoil, then advanced on the run.
Pert, scuttling away from the old Tall in the cowl, scurried between the legs of a confused piker and dived for cover under the fringes of the pavilion. Several others were right behind her.
Somewhere the Grand Notioner squealed.
“Gully Dwarves! A whole swarm of them!” shouted a deep voice.
“Caught one!” another shouted. “Let’s take ’em … Ow!”
“What happened?” some other human called.
“Little bugger hit me on the nose with a stick! There it goes! Catch it!”
“Well, this is no gully dwarf!” the first voice growled. “You! You in the hood! Let’s see some identification!”
“They’re hard to catch!” a man swore, crashing through a thicket. “Pim! To your left! There goes one!”
“Forget the cursed gully dwarves!” the first voice commanded. “Reassemble. We have a prisoner here!” There was a pause before the same voice began asking questions. “Who are you? What’s your name and how’d you get past the sentries?”
“Clonogh,” a wheezing, ancient voice said. “Please, sir, I’m only a poor traveler. I’ve lost my way.”
“Traveler, huh? Well, we’ll just let the captain of guards decide what to do with you. Come on, move!”
“Would you look at that?” a guard noted. “There were gully dwarves all over, and now there isn’t a one in sight! How do they do that?”
“Forget the gully dwarves, I said! Reassemble! Move this prisoner out of these weeds!”
“Some prisoner,” another guard spat. “That shuffling old geezer is eighty if he’s a day.”
PART 3
Chapter 15
Accompanied by her bodyguard-a matched dozen frost bearded giants from the Ice Mountains-and by her Gelnian officers, Chatara Kral strode through her encampment. Tall, lithe and statuesque, with eyes as black as night and a great mane of raven hair that curled and flowed from the base of her lacquered helm, she was a striking figure. Everywhere she passed, men turned to stare in awe, then lowered their eyes. It was known that Chatara
