west wall, gouging out chunks of pyrite-laden stone to be delivered to the former Highbulp Glitch, who was happily embarked on his new career as Keeper of Shiny Rocks and Other Good Stuff.
Everybody in the place knew where Glitch was. He was where the shiny rocks were being assembled. But when Sap descended from places above, looking for him, he couldn’t find him.
Even the Lady Lidda, pulled away from supervising the stew by Sap’s complaints, was a bit mystified. Glitch should have been right there with the shiny rocks. That was where she had last seen him. But now there was no sign of him.
Within a few minutes, every gully dwarf in the immediate vicinity was busily searching for the ex-Highbulp, peering into every corner, crevice, crack and shadow in the area. As minutes passed, some of them wandered off, forgetting what they had been doing.
But others kept up the search at the Lady Lidda’s insistence. Having her husband retire from being Highbulp was one thing. Having him simply disappear was another, and she was becoming very concerned until she noticed that the largest pile of fresh pyrite was quivering. She stepped close to it, scratching her head in puzzlement as its top shifted slightly and a few bits of stone rattled down its slopes.
Then, distinctly, she heard a snore. It was a snore she recognized, and it came from the pile of shiny rocks.
“Bron!” she called. “Get over here!”
When Bron was at her side, she pointed at the pile of stones. “Dig,” she said.
“Okay,” Bron said. Using his broadsword like a spade, he began to dig, flinging pyrite pebbles this way and that. He had reduced the pile by a third when the remaining top of it shivered, parted and a disheveled head poked through from beneath.
“What goin’ on here?” Glitch demanded.
“Ol’ Dad!” Bron pointed at the head, then squatted for a better look. “What you doin’ in there, Dad?”
“Dunno,” Glitch admitted. “Sleepin’. I guess.”
Hearing the patriarch’s voice, Sap hurried over from across the cavern. “There Highbulp,” he pointed.
“That not Highbulp,” the Lady Lidda corrected him. “That jus’ Glitch.”
“Glitch not Highbulp?”
“Used to be Highbulp.” Glitch struggled free from the piled pyrites and stood atop them. “Quit, though. Too much responsi … resp … thinkin’. Dumb job. Let somebody else do it.”
“Oh.” Sap thought this over, then asked, “Then who I tell Highbulp stuff to?”
“Got ’nother Highbulp now,” Lidda said. “Go tell him.”
“Okay,” Sap said. He turned away, then turned back. “Who is Highbulp?” he asked.
Several of them scratched their heads, trying to remember, Then Bron snapped his fingers. “Ol’ what’s-’is- name. Uh, Clout. Clout Highbulp now.”
Sap frowned, truly perplexed. “Then how I tell Highbulp ’bout Clout, if Highbulp is Clout?”
“Might write it down,” Scrib offered, but the others ignored him.
“Dunno,” Bron said. “That a real problem. Lotsa luck.” Shouldering his broadsword, the designated Hero wandered off in the direction of the stew.
“What ’bout Clout?” Lidda asked.
“What?”
“What Sap wanna tell Highbulp?”
“Bout Clout,” Sap repeated.
“What ’bout Clout?”
“Nothin’ much. Jus’ know where he is, case anybody want him.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs. Way up high. Heard him.”
“Why Highbulp not in This Place?” a passing gully dwarf wondered. “This place not This Place ’thout Highbulp here.”
“This not This Place?” another said. “Then where This Place?”
“Someplace else, I guess,” Sap reasoned. “Maybe upstairs, where Highbulp is?”
A dozen yards away, thunder erupted and dust rolled as a great gout of loosened stone fell from the vaulted ceiling. Among the rockfall were various screeching miners. All around the shattering blast, gully dwarves scampered for safety. Several of them ran right through the new cook fire, spilling the stew and kicking coals in all directions.
Near the grand column Scrib turned, and ducked back as shards of rock whistled past him.
Out of the roiling dust, disheveled gully dwarves emerged, Glitch among them. “ ’nough minin’!” the ex- Highbulp grumbled. “No fun anymore.”
“Stew all gone,” a gully dwarf lady announced. “Fire, too.”
“This place a mess,” several chorused. “Not fit to live in right now.”
“So what we do now?”
“Better find Highbulp,” the Lady Lidda said. “Highbulp decides stuff like ‘what now.’ ”
Old Gandy, the Grand Notioner, hobbled up, leaning on his mop handle staff. “Guess everybody better pack up,” he sighed. “Highbulp not here, we better go where Highbulp is.”
“Clout only been Highbulp since today,” Scrib the Scholar complained, unhappy at having to leave his squiggles. “Jus’ one day, an’ already gettin’ be a twit. Maybe oughtta have different Highbulp?”
Gandy shrugged philosophically. “One Highbulp jus’ like ’nother. All real nuisance. Anyway, gettin’ hard to keep track of who Highbulp is. Too many Highbulps lately.”
“Always hard to keep track of who Highbulp is,” someone observed. “Who cares, anyway?”
“Prob’ly oughtta write it down,” Scrib said, thoughtfully. All around him, gully dwarves were preparing to migrate.
“Kinda bad upstairs,” Sap warned. Talls havin’ a war or somethin’.”
“No pro’lem,” Pert said, proudly. “Bron take care of us. Bron a hero.”
Bron blinked, considering the enormity of it all. He didn’t want to be a hero anymore. But there didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter. Unhappily, he shouldered his broadsword and headed for the “stairway” to the world above.
“Yes, dear,” he muttered.
The Lady Lidda looked after her son, her head tilted thoughtfully. Little Pert was showing real skill at the care and tending of numbskulls, and it occurred to Lidda that Pert might make a fine consort for a Highbulp. The only problem was, Bron wasn’t Highbulp. Clout was. But Bron had all the makings of a good one. At Pert’s direction, he was leading the tribe.
Gandy was right, Lidda decided. There were too many Highbulps right now.
Chapter 23
Lord Vulpin encountered unexpected resistance in withdrawing the Fang of Orm from the broken cabinet. He pulled the thing halfway out, then blinked and caught his balance as the thing recoiled back into the shadows with unexpected strength. Somebody inside there, someone unseen, was trying to pull the ivory talisman out of his hand.
With a muttered oath, the lord of Tarmish braced himself, firmed his grip and heaved. In an instant the Fang was his, clenched in his steel-gloved fingers. But swinging from the end of it was a babbling, struggling, ugly little person half his height, a raggedly-clothed creature that vaguely resembled a diminutive human but distinctly was not.
“Gully dwarf!” the warlord rumbled. With a vicious shake he dislodged the little creature from his prize. The
