gully dwarf went tumbling into a corner and Vulpin lashed out with a steel-shod foot, barely missing the creature. The gully dwarf skittered aside, shrieked and dashed back into the sanctuary of the broken cabinet.
“Vermin,” Vulpin muttered, then dismissed the imbecillc little creature from his thoughts. Gully dwarves weren’t worth thinking about, beyond a mental note to have exterminators scour the premises when the present task was completed. He held the Fang of Orm high, gazing at it, his eyes glowing with a triumphant light.
“Mine,” he said. “The Wishmaker is mine, and the world is about to be.”
“Mine!” the broken cabinet argued. “My bashin’ tool!”
Ignoring the objections from the furniture, Vulpin strode to the shattered wall above the inner courts. Below, a melee of armed men swept this way and that. Tarmites and Gelnians raged and strove, howling their bloodlust. From above it was impossible to tell one force from another. They all looked the same. Here and there, on the battlefield, the fallen lay in pools of gore. But these were relatively few. Vulpin’s helmed face twitched sardonically. For all their ancient hatreds, the combatants were not very capable fighters. The battle raged, but it produced more noise than blood.
There were exceptions, though. A mismatched pair of warriors, neither Gelnian nor Tarmite-one looked like an urban alley-dweller, the other a tall, rangy plainsman-were making their way through the fray, slashing and countering, scattering combatants like wind-blown leaves. Vulpin recognized the plainsman, and he heard the cry of his prisoner as the girl saw those below. “Graywing!” she called, her cry a plea.
“Graywing,” Vulpin sneered. A Cobar, with that code of honor that the plainsmen cherished. The other man below he did not know, but he knew the type. Thief or assassin, the smaller man was lithe as a cat, quick and deadly. A dagger-wielder. Vulpin peered downward, where the two were headed. At the base of the tower, a pair of axe-wielding icemen held both Gelnians and Tarmites at bay. Those would be seasoned mercenaries, Vulpin realized, part of Chatara Kral’s personal guard. Which meant that Chatara Kral was here, in the tower.
“Your timing is perfect, little sister,” he rumbled. “Come up. Come up now and face your destruction.” To his guard he snapped, “Give me the girl.”
Thayla Mesinda was shoved forward roughly, and Vulpin closed steel-sheathed fingers on her arm. “You have been well-treated, girl,” he said. “You have been fed, made comfortable and protected. Now-”
“You kept me prisoner!” Thayla snapped, then gasped as his iron fingers tightened cruelly on her arm.
“I have kept you safe and pure, for a purpose,” Vulpin said. “Now it is time to pay your debt. I require only one thing of you. You must make a wish.”
“I wish you’d let me alone!” Thayla shouted at him.
“A wish,” Vulpin growled. “But it must be my wish, and no other.” With a sudden movement he released her arm and his steel fingers closed around her throat. “I will tell you what to wish. You will wish exactly as I tell you. If you alter my wish, even in the slightest way, in that instant I will snap your neck. Do you understand?”
She struggled and fought, but to no avail. The man was incredibly strong. Her flailing little fists, her soft slippers and her clawing nails met only metal armor. She saw the light dimming, like a tunnel closing in around her. She could not breathe.
Dimly, beyond the armored lord, Thayla glimpsed movement. A gully dwarf darted furtively from the broken telescope cabinet and peered over the outer wall, waving.
“Hey, ever’body!” the little creature called. “Could use some help up here!”
Vulpin’s fingers relaxed slightly and Thayla gasped for breath. Her throat throbbed and ached.
“Do you understand?” Vulpin demanded.
Defeated and barely conscious, the girl gulped air into her burning lungs. She nodded, trying to speak. “Yes,” she whispered.
Still holding her by the neck, Vulpin raised the Fang of Orm before her eyes. “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” she breathed, unable to use her voice.
“This is the Wishmaker,” Vulpin said. “When I tell you, you will hold this in your hand, and you will speak a wish. You will wish exactly what I say. No more and no less.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I will wish as you say.”
Violent sounds erupted from the stairway. Steel rang against steel and voices clamored. Among them was a woman’s voice, deep and angry.
“Chatara Kral comes,” Vulpin smirked. He gestured to his cave-assassin guards. “Stop them.”
As one the guards turned, drew their weapons and raced through the stairway portal.
“Now I will tell you what to wish,” Vulpin told the barely-conscious girl. “Listen closely, if you want to keep breathing.”
Graywing headed for the battered tower, his sword slashing this way and that, barely visible as it wove a bright pattern around him. Thrust and parry, cut and recover, disarm, slash and stab, the plainsman’s blade was a crimson-and-steel kaleidoscope, opening a path through the throng of howling warriors surging about the lower court.
At his back, covering his every move, was the Cat-dark wrath with daggers for fang and claw.
The two barely slowed as they crossed the courtyard, right through the thick of battle, making for the base of the tower. From high above, Graywing heard the scream of a girl, and redoubled his efforts. Like a great dire wolf with a panther at its side, the pair fairly flew toward the tower’s base.
They were within fifty feet of the structure’s inner gate when the massed combatants parted ahead and they had a clear view of the shadowed opening. It was the same gate they had exited earlier, but now it was occupied. Two huge, glowering icemen barred the entrance. Their great axes dripped gore, and a dozen fallen Tarmites lay about them, hacked to death.
Dartimien grimaced as the plainsman at his side roared a battle cry and charged.
“Oh, gods,” the Cat hissed. “The barbarian’s in love.”
From the narrow grate leading into the courtyard, the scene outside was horrendous. There were Talls everywhere, running and dodging, striving against one another, slashing away with swords, shields, mauls, axes, clubs and scythes. Dead Talls lay among the live ones, and weapons were scattered all over.
“What Talls doin’?” Sap wondered, peering out wide-eyed.
“Fightin’, looks like,” Scrib suggested, looking over Sap’s shoulder.
“Wonder why?”
“Who knows ’bout Talls? Prob’ly ticked off ’bout somethin’,” old Gandy said. “Where Clout?”
Sap scratched his head, trying to remember. Then he snapped his fingers. “Up there,” he pointed, indicating the top of the tower.
“Clout really dumb,” Gandy shook his head. “Coulda picked better place than that to be.”
“Don’ matter,” Bron reminded him. “Clout Highbulp now. Highbulp can be anywhere he wants to.” He peered out at the melee beyond the grate. There were an awful lot of Talls out there, doing an awful lot of fighting. And they were between the gully dwarves and the route to the top of the spire, where the new Highbulp was. “Prob’ly could use a notion ’bout now,” he suggested to Gandy.
Gandy leaned on his mop handle staff, deep in thought. “Maybe better get ’nother Highbulp,” he said, finally. “That one not worth gettin’ to.”
But Scrib was there, crowding others aside to gape through the opening. “Fling-thing,” he said, thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Fling-thing!” The doodler pointed off to one side, at the broken remains of a trebuchet near the west wall. “Talls use fling-things, throw big rocks an’ stuff. Ever’body gets outta way when big rocks come.”
“Maybe good notion,” Bron said. “Anybody know how use fling-thing?”
“Dunno,” a gully dwarf beside him said with a shrug.
With sudden resolution, he and another slipped through the grate, ducked into the shadows of stone rubble near the wall and scampered toward the trebuchet.
“Where Tunk an’ Blip go?” Lidda asked.
“See ’bout fling-thing,” Bron pointed. “Scrib got a notion. Can’t get to Clout, then throw rocks instead.”
“Okay,” Lidda said. She turned to a gaggle of ladies crowded behind her. “Gonna throw rocks at Clout,” she told them.
