Dan Parkinson - The Gully Dwarves

She soared above the mean, scarred bastions of Tarmish and contemplated with casual interest the doings of the small creatures below. Humans and not-quite-humans alike, they were creatures of kinds other than her kind. Yet for an age, it seemed, her life, her lives , had been bound to them.

She had detested them. She had despised them. Yet now she felt no real malice toward them. They were as trapped within their small existences as she had been within hers. Just as she had been bound to gods, they-the little creatures below-had bound themselves by choice or chance to leaders and causes, and they had inherited the grief that came of bondage.

Most of them would do it again. They knew no other way.

Yet they were sentient creatures, and could change. Maybe one day she would see whether any of them had. The humans, some of them, might. But those others down there, burrowing beneath the bastions and scurrying among the shadows, Verden doubted that they ever would. A gully dwarf would always be a gully dwarf.

Forever Aghar, she thought, and there was a touch of wry amusement in the notion. The lowest of the low, most despised of all the demi-human races of Krynn, the gully dwarves had only two things in their favor-inadvertence and a stubborn resistance to change that bordered on being an elemental force.

Twits, she thought. Somewhere deep within her she made a sacred promise to herself. As long as she lived, she would never again associate with gully dwarves.

Nobody, not even a mighty dragon, the greatest of all creatures, could be a match for such absolute simplicity.

Sheer exhaustion had ended the bloodletting between the people of Gelnia and those of Tarmish. Confusion and a sudden shortage of leadership kept it from flaring up again. With both Lord Vulpin and Chatara Kral dead, their followers were at a loss as to what to do next.

It was exactly the kind of situation Dartimien the Cat was born for, and he wasted no time in establishing himself. While sweat still stood on the brows of the warriors and their blades still dripped fresh blood, he went among them, pointing out the error of their ways.

“Men of Tarmish!” he exhorted, “Look about you at the fallen! Your own kinsmen lie at your feet, along with the kin of Gelnian men, and the blood that mingles there on the stones is all the same color. Your comrades and your enemies have joined forces in death. Friend and foe alike, they are gone from you forever. Now who will share a draught with you on a cold evening? And who will fill your granaries? Who will roast your meat, and bake your bread, and who will tend the fields from which these things arise?

“Men of Gelnia!” he continued, “see your comrades where they lie, and see who shares with them this final cold bed! Look about you at what remains of great Tarmish! Only ruin and wreckage. Among your dead lie Tarmite dead. Now who will pay the price of your harvests? Who will craft the plows for your fields and the shoes for you children’s feet? Whose walls will give you refuge when there are invaders?”

So skilled was Dartimien’s persuasion that most of them-Gelnian and Tarmite alike-listened to his words and slowly, hesitantly, put away their weapons.

But not all. Gratt Bolen, a huge Tarmish street-bull with bulging shoulders and hardly any forehead, took exception to the outsider’s interference, as did Melis Shalee of Gelnia. No amount of persuasion would bend such as these, so Dartimien relied on other skills.

Both the challengers eventually recovered, Melis Shalee from a broken shoulder and Gratt Bolen from multiple dagger wounds. Both became captains in the First Sunderian Legion, but that was later.

At Dartimien’s direction, the Tarmites resurrected their doddering old Grand Megak from the dungeons of Tarmish castle, and the Gelnians brought from his hiding place the infant Prince Quarls. These two were displayed with great honor before the gates of Tarmish, and co-rulership of the Vale of Sunder was bestowed upon them, with Dartimien as crown regent.

The Gelnians went back to their fields and villages, and the Tarmites to the rebuilding of their city. Then the plainsman Graywing asked Dartimien, “How long do you honestly expect such harmony to last in this place?”

“Maybe a few months,” the Cat grinned. “But in that time we should see some real progress.”

Dartimien himself-exercising his new, self-proclaimed authorities-performed the wedding ceremony of Graywing and Thayla Mesinda, and only those at the altar heard his muttered comment when the bonding was complete. “What a waste,” he said, “that such a beauty should settle for an unredeemed barbarian when she might have had me.”

Through it all the Combined Clans of Bulp, unperturbed and oblivious, went about their day-to-day business in the catacombs beneath Tarmish.

Glitch the Most, once Highbulp and now Grand Chief of Mines and Stuff Like That, had become disenchanted with the search for pyrite. Four times now he had found himself buried under mountains of the shiny nuggets, simply because he happened to fall asleep at the collecting point during times of peak discovery. The experience was beginning to wear on him. So Glitch was receptive when Scrib the Doodler proposed a new project.

“Signs on shiny rock not much fun anymore,” Scrib complained. “Those all other folks’ squiggles, say other folks’ stuff. We oughtta make squiggles of our own.”

“What for?” Glitch grumped.

“For say stuff ’bout us,” Scrib suggested. “Talls an’ swatters allus make squiggles, for pres … commem … keep track of glorious stuff they did. Aghar oughtta do that, too.”

“Why?” Glitch wondered aloud.

“For keep track,” Scrib said, struggling with the concept. “Make squiggles so someday ever’body know what stuff we did. We do some pretty great stuff. Oughtta write it down.”

“What kin’ great stuff?” Glitch peered at him. “What did we do … did?”

Nearby the Lady Lidda was stirring stew and listening. “Not much,” she muttered,

“Great stuff,” Scrib said. “Like time when Highbulp had own personal dragon.”

“Bron’s dragon?” Glitch frowned. “So what? Bron tell dragon scat, dragon scat. Big deal. Glitch had dragon once. Big green dragon. Glitch’s dragon. Maybe even two dragons. Who knows? Slew red dragon once, too. Glitch did that. Single-handy.”

“Hmph!” Lidda said.

“If make squiggles to chronic … record … keep track, then everybody know Trout all that, even after tomorrow,” Scrib pursued.

“Ever’body know all ’bout glorious Glitch th’ Mos’?”

“Legendary great Highbulp,” Scrib assured him. “Big cheese. Main pain. Highbulp of all Highbulps.”

“Real twit, too,” the Lady Lidda muttered, glancing fondly at her husband.

“ ’bout time great Glitch got some recog … recog … what’s word?”

“ ‘Preciat … notori … respect,” Glitch agreed. “That it, respect! Glitch prob’ly bes’ Highbulp ever was!”

“Right,” Scrib said. “So le’s do squiggles.”

“Right,” Glitch said, nodding enthusiastically. “Le’s do squiggles! Uh, where we do squiggles?”

“Dunno,” Scrib answered. Make a monume … edif … squiggle place, I guess.”

“Right!” Glitch got to his feet and cupped his hands. “All miners!” he shouted. “Front an’ center!”

Instant pandemonium erupted in the area. Gully dwarves of the mining persuasion converged from all corners, all trying to be in the same place at the same time. The resulting collision sent gully dwarves tumbling in all directions.

“No more shiny rocks!” Glitch told them. “Got ’nough shiny rocks. Now gonna build a squig … edit … monument to glory of Glitch!”