Now she saw where the voice came from. Among the pathetic belongings of the tribe of Bulp lay a rusty old iron bowl, with a strap across its rim. It lay facedown, but she knew what it was. Somehow, after all these, years, the little dolts still had the shield of Reorx.
“So what am I supposed to do?” Verden asked the voice within her.
A craggy hillside to the west beckoned her, and she soared toward it on mighty wings. A small herd of elk grazed there in a hidden clearing, and just above was a cozy cavern overlooking the Vale of Sunder. Verden ate her fill of elk, then crept into the cavern and curled herself for sleep. But even with her eyes closed, she could still see every movement of the creatures below, as though she were there among them.
Now that the dragon was out of sight, the humans had reorganized their forces and the battle of Tarmish had begun.
I could put a stop to all that, she thought, sleepily. It would be easy. I could …
Even as Verden dozed, the scanning image in her mind roved the valley below, showing her detail after detail of the puny doings of the lesser creatures. Twice she was roused by surprise, and bitter old memories, memories almost forgotten, came to life again. When the vision scanned the tower keep of Tarmish, she saw the face of Lord Vulpin. And again, when her view roved the trundling ranks approaching the fortress, there was another face, that of Chatara Kral. Thus Verden understood the darkness of the evil that had befallen this embattled realm.
Both of those faces were familiar. Though she had never seen them before, she knew them. Faces of evil reincarnate, they bore the features of their common sire.
“Verminaard!” the dragon hissed.
The dire memories were so livid, it was as though no time had passed at all, as though the dread days of the War of the Lance lived again, and Verden was part of it, as she had been then. Verminaard! Dragon Highlord, liege lord of all the forces of the Dark Queen, next to her the very symbol of evil.
Chatara Kral and Vulpin, the heirs of that evil. But there could be only one heir supreme. So that was what this puny conflict was all about. The children were in contest on this field, to determine which of them should don the mantle of their father. One would live and one would die, and from the victor would spring new evils yet unimagined.
Verden was fully awake now, and in her dragon mind an idea grew. It would be fitting, almost poetic, if both betrayers succeeded, and in succeeding, failed.
Rested now, she studied again the armies in the valley below, and the castle that was their objective.
Infiltration and subversion, she mused, her great, green eyes glowing slightly. Throughout her service to the Dark Queen, these had been the skills of her specialty. In a dozen campaigns with the Dragon Highlords, Verden had become adept at the furtive talents. She had become something of a specialist in infiltration. She had served as a saboteur.
Wouldn’t it be interesting, she mused. And a voice within her-a voice not her own, repeated,
Chapter 16
Pert, Lady Lidda and a gaggle of other females had begun a forage of the big pavilion, where interesting bales and crates were stacked along the walls. But the expedition was cut short when the Lady Tall with the bright attire returned, along with a lot of her followers.
“Prepare to break camp,” she ordered. “Our next sleep will be at the gates of Tarmish.”
Suddenly the pavilion was full of busy Talls, hurrying about, poking here and there, moving packs and bales. The Lady Lidda decided it was a bad time to visit. “Everybody scat,” she whispered. The command was relayed among those behind her. Within moments a dozen gully dwarves had burrowed out, under the sides of the pavilion, and were scurrying through the brush, back to where the tribe waited.
“Lotta good stuff back there,” Pert noted, sadly. “Might be spices an’ corncobs an’ yard goods … an’ maybe shoes an’ ribbons an’ stuff.”
“An’ maybe a comb,” the Lady Bruze mused. “Could use a good comb. Clout been gettin’ fleas a lot lately. Shoulda’ stayed longer.”
“Easy come, easy go,” Lady Lidda said. A troop of mounted Talls thundered past, shouting and pointing, almost on top of them, and the Aghar ladies dived for cover beneath spreading brambles. “We better do our shoppin’ later,” Lidda decided. “After th’ rush.”
At the dugout bank, gully dwarves were bustling around busily, gathering up whatever came to hand-sticks, used bird nests, pieces of fabric, bits of gravel, a surprised tortoise. Pert glanced around, bright-eyed, and asked, “what goin’ on?”
Most of those around her ignored the question, having no answer to it, but two or three paused. “Highbulp say pack up,” one explained. “Didn’ say what to pack, though.”
“Highbulp say time to leave here,” another added. “Say, all these Talls aroun’ here, neighborhood gone to pot.”
The Lady Lidda went in search of Glitch, while other ladies scattered here and there, becoming involved in the collection of whatever was being collected. The legendary Great Stew Bowl went trundling by, on its way to the pile of goods. Its trailing edge almost dragged the ground, and nothing but feet showed beneath it. Pert squatted to peer under it, then turned away, disappointed. She had hoped it might be Bron under there, carrying the big iron thing. But it was only a grumbling Clout. Apparently he had lost his best bashing tool somewhere, and he wasn’t happy about it.
Come to think of it, Pert didn’t recall seeing Bron lately. She wondered now where he was. Vaguely, she recalled Bron saying something about the Highbulp wanting him to go and look at Talls. Cautiously, she climbed a few feet up into a scrub tree and looked around. Just beyond the brush, on all sides, there were Talls everywhere- unimaginable numbers of them, doing all sorts of mysterious things. But she didn’t see Bron anywhere.
Directly below her, Scrib wandered by, carrying a shard of dark slate in one hand and a piece of soft limestone in the other. He had found that when one was rubbed against the other, it left an imprint. Now he strolled happily along, oblivious to anything around him, drawing squiggles on his slate. Pert came down from her tree and fell into step with him, staring at the incomprehensible doodles. “What Scrib doin’?” she asked.
“Makin’ a list,” he said absently.
“List of what?”
“Stuff,” he said, shrugging. “This,”-he indicated a squiggle-“a mushroom.” He pointed at a larger symbol. “This more mushrooms. An’ this a cloud, an’ this a stick, an’ this a whole lotta rats.”
“How much rats?”
“Two,” he explained. “Lotta twos.”
“You see Bron lately?” she asked.
“Nope.” He glanced upward, tilted his head in puzzlement, then drew an elaborate doodle on his slate.
“What that?” Pert wondered aloud.
“Dragon,” he said. Then he seemed to freeze in place. He dropped his slate and chalk, and his eyes bulged out. “Dragon? Dragon!” Scrib pointed at the sky. “Dragon! Ever’body run like crazy!”
Others echoed the alarm, and abruptly the brush was alive with scrambling, scurrying, colliding and tumbling
