Dan Parkinson: The Gully Dwarves

Instantly they fled in gibbering panic along a dark tunnel, just steps ahead of the huge, slithering thing with a mouth bigger than they were and teeth as sharp as needles. Giant salamanders were one of the hazards of life in the Pitt. Although the Talls and the lizard-men had gone, there were many other large, unpleasant things living here and there in the rubble of the Promised Place.

Tunk could feel the thing’s hideous breath on his back by the time someone in the lead found a crevice to dart into, and he left a shoe dangling in the thing’s snapping teeth as he scurried into safety. They could hear the salamander scrabbling behind them, but it was too big to follow, and could not break through the stone that barred its way.

The exploring party had scurried through the crevice, tumbling out the other side into a great, cavernous space that none of them had seen before, a place where balconies lined stone walls beneath an immense, vaulted roof high above, and the central arena had a floor of packed sand.

“Whew!” Tunk declared, looking back at the crevice that had stopped the salamander. “That way too close!”

The danger behind them then, they wandered out into the enclosed arena, gawking at the enormity of it.

“What kin’ place this?” one of them wondered aloud.

“Dunno,” another said. “Big, though. Maybe got good stuff to find?”

Then Tunk saw it, and his eyes widened. “Lookee there!” he pointed. In the center of the arena was a flagstaff with a lanyard, and something came together in Tunk’s simple mind. “That what Highbulp need,” he said. “That shut him up from gripin’ so much.”

When they eventually returned to This Place-by other routes, to avoid the ravenous salamander that had chased them-they were laden with equipment. Among other things, they brought a coil of rope and a pulley with ring clamps. Without ceremony, they marched to the center of This Place-casting worried glances at the throne, which was more than five feet high now and had an alarming tendency to twitch-and dumped their treasures on the floor beside Glitch the Most, who had just landed there himself.

“Here, Highbulp,” Tunk said.

He glared at the pile of things. “What all this?”

“Hoist,” Tunk explained. “For get back on throne.”

Within an hour, the Highbulp’s “flagpole,” which was now within inches of the growing throne, was rigged with a serviceable lanyard, very much like the flagstaff in the arena. A curious crowd gathered as Tunk proudly tied the Highbulp’s rag flag to the pulleyed line, and hoisted it to the top.

“There,” he said, grinning happily.

Beside him, Glitch frowned at the flag atop the great spear. “What good that do?” he snapped. “Take down flag, put up rope, haul flag back up. For what?”

Tunk cast him a baleful glance. “Trial run,” he said. Quickly he lowered the flag, untied it from the lanyard and, before Glitch the Most could object, looped the lanyard around the Highbulp’s chubby middle. “Lend hand here,” he beckoned several of the others. “Haul ’im up!”

Sputtering, cursing and struggling, Glitch the Most found himself rising from the floor, alongside his spear, then dangling above his throne. “Cut that out!” he shrieked.

Gandy had shown up from somewhere, and he studied the situation and nodded. “Pretty good,” he approved. “Now swing him ’round that way.”

Overhead, the Highbulp found himself arcing through the air, out from the pole, then directly over the throne and in free fall as Gandy gave the order to curtail the hoist. Glitch thumped down atop the twitching, glowing throne, and it responded so violently that he almost fell off again. He clung, though, swearing every oath that occurred to him as the throne twitched busily and those below congratulated one another on a job well done.

“Pretty good,” Gandy assured the hoisters. “What about the flag?”

Tunk scratched his head, frowning. “Might haul ’im down again, tie flag to him,” he suggested.

Gandy thought it over, glancing up at the livid face of his Lord Protector. He shook his head. “Better let well enough alone,” he decided.

Vague awareness became tumultuous dreams, disturbing the liquid green comfort of her deep sleep. Then the dreams gave way to annoyance as irritating little presences, presences just beyond awareness, repeatedly jostled and abused the greenness where she slept.

She didn’t want to awaken. Something-some knowledge just beyond the grasp of dreams-told her that she would regret awakening. Still, the presences were there, all around her, and they bumped, jostled and poked at her comforting limbo. They babbled and tumbled, shouted and shoved, drawing her toward angry response. Kill them, she thought and felt again the punishing agony of great, invisible talons raking her mind.

No , something dark said. You will not kill them. You will not injure them. You are powerless against them. It is your fate . Somewhere far off, somewhere not of this world, she sensed cruel, mocking laughter.

She railed against the vicious, ironic cruelty being inflicted on her, railed against the awful feeling of being absolutely powerless, but in the dream-knowledge there was not the slightest lenience. A decree had been issued, and there was no appeal. Once, it seemed, she had dedicated herself to a god. Now that god had renounced her and left her to an eternal punishment. You are theirs , the darkness said. Awaken, sleeping one. Awaken and face the fate you have earned .

The green comforts began to diminish, and awareness grew of the world outside. It was a world where pathetic little creatures waited to torment her, a world where she, to whom power was all, would lack the power to strike back even at them.

Awaken , the dream voice commanded, and gave purpose to the twitching of her body. She turned, rolled over, extended her needle-tipped talons, and raked at the leathery shell beyond the liquid where she grew.

Clout and the dozen or so other rat hunters with him were puzzled. They had hunted for hours in the maze of cells that covered a vast area up the “big tunnel” from This Place, and had not found a single rat. It was unheard of. Ever since any gully dwarf could remember, the Pitt had abounded in vermin. It had always been full of rats. Usually they were everywhere, and the maze of old cells-interconnected cubicles that might once have been sleeping quarters for Talls or lizard-things-was prime rat hunting territory.

Yet today, no matter how they searched, there was not a sign of stew meat anywhere. It was as though every rat in the area had gone into hiding.

“This whole place fulla empty rats.” The chunky, bearded Tote shook his head in disgust. “Where they all go?”

“Dunno why no rats.” Clout muttered. “ ‘No’ one thing. Lady Bruze not gonna like us come back ’thout rats.”

“Plenny sign,” young Blip pointed out, squatting to study the floor. “Rat drops all over. Tracks, too.”

“No rats, though.” Peady gazed around. “Maybe somethin’ eat ’em?”

“What eat rats?” Clout scoffed. “Who hunt rats, ’cept us?”

“Somethin’ scare ’em off, then. All go hide, maybe?”

“What scare rats?” Clout glanced around as a gasp sounded behind him. Tote was staring into the shadows of a tunnel a dozen yards away, his eyes huge, his mouth hanging open. He closed it with a snap and pointed. “That,” he quavered, then spun on his heel and ran.

The rest peered into the shadows, and gaped as something huge moved into view. They had seen giant salamanders before, but the one emerging now from the tunnel was monstrous. It seemed to fill the entire tunnel, and as they saw it, it sensed them, and charged.