This was indeed the one. The shield he held before him was that same shield that had protected Verden from Flame Searclaw’s dragonfire, long ago in the tunnels of Xak Tsaroth.
As Verden gazed at the shield the insignia on it seemed to come alive, to realign itself, to take new shapes and patterns. No Aghar would have recognized the elaborate design as a picture of a face. Even humans might have seen it only as an intricate pattern of contours. But to the dragon’s eyes it was a visage. To Verden Leafglow, who had lived twice, the tracery was more than a just a likeness. In the patterns on the ancient shield Verden saw the face of a god, of Reorx himself.
Once again the green dragon, who had once served a darker god, found herself in the presence of a god. But Verden Leafglow was no longer exactly green. Rich, warm hues now tinged the verdant scales of her mighty form. And the god before her now was not that vindictive deity of her first incarnation. In the shield Verden saw the face of Reorx, wielder of the hammer of heavens, Reorx the life-giver, the creator of balances.
Within the dragon’s mind a voice like distant, rolling thunder murmured.
“I’ll have my revenge?” the dragon breathed.
“I don’t know what I’m expected to do,” the dragon breathed.
The voice faded. The shield held by the trembling gully dwarf was again only a shield. Behind it, three humans and most of a tribe of Aghar gaped at the huge beast confronting them. But now Verden Leafglow knew her task.
One of the human males-the big one with the sword-was edging aside, crouching to attack. Verden pinned him with her eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” she suggested. But even as she turned toward him, something flashed in the dim cavern and a sleek dagger thumped into her scales, an inch from the softer tissue over her heart. The weapon hung for a moment, suspended from its needle-sharp point, then clattered harmlessly to the floor.
At that moment, the green dragon she had once been would have begun a slaughter, and its first victim would have been the second human male-the slighter one, with the dark garments. Even now, he was balancing another dagger, ready to throw it.
But she was not the dragon she had been long ago, and she controlled the anger that rose within her. “Stop that!” she hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The man hesitated. “Well, ah … I guess I’m throwing knives at you,” he admitted, frankly. “I’m trying to kill you, you see.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He lowered his throwing arm, puzzled. “Well, because that’s what I do. I mean, you’re the enemy, aren’t you? You’re a dragon.”
“And you kill dragons?”
“Of course I do!”
Verden’s eyes narrowed, in what no human would have recognized as mirth. “And how many dragons have you killed so far?”
“Actually,” Dartimien the Cat admitted, “you’re the first dragon I’ve ever met. At least, socially.”
“That’s obvious,” Verden said. “You’re still alive. Do you have a name?”
“Dartimien,” he said.
“I’m Verden Leafglow,” the dragon said. “And you?” Her gaze shifted again to the other man, who was still looking for an opening to use his sword.
“Ah … Graywing,” the warrior said. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes roved over her, and stopped at a chink in her scales, below the left wing. He crouched, raising his blade.
“Forget it,” the dragon warned. “Who is that little dolt with the big shield, and what does he think he’s doing?”
Behind the Aghar, the human girl said, “This is Bron. He’s a hero.”
“My, my,” Verden muttered. “A hero? You don’t say.”
Emboldened by the accolade, Bron raised his shield higher and waved his broadsword over his head. Its weight almost overbalanced him. “Dragon go ’way!” he said. “Scat!”
Ignoring him, Verden said, “There’s a war going on around here. Are any of you involved in it?”
“What war?” some of the gully dwarves muttered, mystified.
“Not by design,” Graywing said.
“We’re just passing through,” Dartimien added.
“Then you won’t mind if I simplify things a bit?”
“Help yourself,” Graywing shrugged. “But I warn you, we’ll fight if you-”
“You’ll get your chance,” the dragon assured him.
Dartimien frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’ll see,” the dragon hissed happily. Then the cavern seemed to shimmer as a powerful spell resonated soundlessly, outward to echo in the recesses, then inward upon its source. For an instant Verden Leafglow towered over them, seeming to fill the vaulted cellar with her presence. Her spell was a simple one, that she had used many times. Yet now it seemed slow, as though someone, somewhere, was drawing substance from it. Verden concentrated. She shimmered, became a dim outline in the gloom, and condensed into a drifting vapor. The vapor flowed upward toward an air duct and vanished through it.
Graywing shuddered. “I hate magic,” he rumbled.
“Magic is alright,” Dartimien argued. “Might be handy sometimes. What I hate is dragons.”
Among the goggling gully dwarves, small voices were raised in wonder. “Dragon gone?” “Where dragon go?” “Get off my foot, clumsy!”
A little gully dwarf female stepped forward, gazing proudly at the puzzled Bron, who had lowered his shield and sword and was peering around in bafflement. “No big deal,” Pert assured them all. “Bron tell dragon to go ’way, so dragon go ’way. Bron a hero.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dartimien snorted.
“It is not!” Thayla Mesinda said. “He
Chapter 20
Drained of his strength by the demands of his spells, Clonogh lay alone in the tower of Tarmish, cursing the fates. Hatred coursed through him as he remembered that dim-witted little Aghar who had been so close at hand- almost seeming to offer him the magical relic he so desperately needed-then had run away with it. To Clonogh it had seemed almost that the gully dwarf was taunting him, though he knew that gully dwarves lacked the subtlety to taunt. Taunting was cruelty, and gully dwarves had no cruelty in them. Cruelty was a form of evil, and gully dwarves simply had no capacity for evil. They could no more do an intentional wrong than do an intentional right.
“Gully dwarves just happen,” so the common saying went among other races. Gully dwarves were just gully dwarves. There was little more to say. The creatures operated on simple inertia. Once started, on anything, they were difficult to stop. And once stopped, they were reluctant to start.
A bit of insight presented itself to Clonogh, though he was too weak and tired to give it thought. Gully
