Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

He managed to pull both of them up and out. They were so thoroughly coated with the gooey mess they could barely move. He decided it would be faster to carry them and tucked one under each arm. It took great effort to keep them from squirting out, for now he too was thoroughly coated with honey.

“Reorx!” the smaller cried. “We knew you would come save us!”

The sivak urged them to stay still as he scrabbled up into another tunnel chamber and listened for a moment to make sure no bees were in position to bar their way. He edged forward, the terrified and grateful dwarves under his powerful arms. His fingers were tingling almost painfully with the effort.

“You will be all right,” the sivak told them. “Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of Neidarbard, is waiting outside and he will-” He heard something behind him and craned his thick neck around. A bee, a very large one, was laboriously making its way through the tunnel behind him. It lowered its head and buzzed its wings, the sound incredibly loud in the confined space. The boys slipped from his grasp, one managing to scramble forward and out the honeycomb, the other screaming as he slid back toward the great bee.

“Reorx!” the sliding young dwarf called. “Save me!”

Faintly, the draconian heard the townsfolk outside cheer. Obviously the one dwarf had made it to safety. As for the other. . He fixed his jaw determinedly and trundled toward the bee, which was gradually closing distance on the terrified dwarf.

“Mesk!” someone was hollering. The sivak thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the acting mayor. “Mesk! Climb down the ladder! Hurry! While the bees are still stunned.” There were other voices, but the draconian couldn’t make out what they were saying. His ears were ringing with the buzzing of the bee and the beating of his heart. His chest felt so tight.

It was long suspenseful moments after that before the other young dwarf finally clambered out of the honeycomb, coated with honey and trying hard to pull the gooey mass from his beard. Despite the sticky mess, both rescued dwarves were eagerly and noisily embraced by the relieved townspeople.

More suspenseful moments passed, as the townspeople waited.

“Reorx!” Gustin hollered. “Uldred, where’s Reorx?”

Uldred shook his head, trying again to pull the honey out of his short beard, so he could speak properly. “The god saved me-us.” He coughed up a gob of honey. “There was this ferocious bee, though, and he was wrestling with it, rolling back down into the depths. He yelled at me to go ahead. Told me he had to deal with that bee and then go summon all the other gods. That they were waiting for him. Then the bee and he just disappeared.” Uldred added solemnly, “I feel quite confident that he got out and that even now he is busy on his very important mission.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Gustin Stoutbeard with matching solemnity.

“Praise the Forge!” a kender cried. “He saved Uldred and Mesk. Praise Reorx!”

The shouts of gratitude continued as the crowd turned back to the village, where the band had started to strike up a nine again. Uldred paused and stared at something on the ground. A small rag doll.

He oh-so-gently picked it up and cradled it under his arm, slipped away from the crowd, and headed toward the mountains.

“It was nothing personal,” the young dwarf said as he glanced back at the honeycomb. There was a hint of regret on his ruddy face.

It was a stone span, not more than two dozen paces in length. The bridge crossed a chasm carved by a churning stream, a rapid flow of icy water spilling downward from the lofty valleys of the High Kharolis. The roadway was smoothly paved and wide enough to allow the passage of a large wagon, albeit snugly. Low stone walls, no more than knee-high to a grown man, bracketed the right of way.

The bridge was dwarf-made, a fact visible even to a casual observer. No gaps separated the carefully cut stones, and the outer surface was smooth and virtually seamless. The central pillar rising from the gorge was slender and high, far taller than would have been possible for any human or elven construct. The span had a sturdy appearance of permanence, appropriate for a structure that had stood without a single repair for more than a thousand years.

The road to the bridge curled down a steep ridge from the mountains. After crossing the gorge, the route formed the main street of a small village. This was a collection of stone houses, sheltered under low roofs and set into the rocky hillsides on either side of the street. A few dwarves walked down the lane, carrying bundles of firewood, while another squat, bearded figure led a small pony up a trail on the nearby hill. The steady cadence of a blacksmith’s hammer could be heard from the shed attached to a smoking smelter. Other than these signs of activity, and a few plumes of chimney smoke, the town was quiet.

All this could be observed by the watchers atop the nearby ridge. Three dwarves lay there, flat on their bellies as they reconnoitered the road and its lofty crossing. From their vantage they couldn’t see the bottom of the gorge, but they could see enough shadowy cliff to know that the cut was several hundred feet deep.

“And no doubt the river’s frothin’ like dragon breath down there,” muttered Tarn Bellowgranite.

Beside him, Belicia Slateshoulder nodded. “Judging from the current in the highlands, it’ll be deep and too rapid to ford-even if we could get two thousand dwarves down the cliff and back up the other side.”

Tarn nodded, looking over his shoulder at the horde of refugees waiting on the roadway behind them, carefully halted out of sight of the village. He knew they were counting on him to lead them to safety, as they had counted on him to hold them together during four months of exile. The last remnant of Clan Hylar, driven from their home under the mountain by the attacks of ruthless enemies, they had barely endured the summer and early autumn in the barren valleys of the higher elevations. Shaken and demoralized by life under the open sky, they had struggled to survive, followed him as he led them to valleys of game, followed him as he brought them down finally from the high country. They looked weary and exhausted, and as Tarn gazed at the deep gorge he understood that most of the tired, ragged mountain dwarves would never be able to make such a climb.

“It has to be the bridge then,” he said.

He turned his attention once again to the village beyond the span. He studied the stone houses partially buried in the rocky slopes, saw the low garden walls, the sturdy construction and thick, slanting roofs. A large building, the source of the pounding hammer, puffed a column of black smoke from a sooty chimney. Like his own people, the villagers were dwarves-but at the same time they were different, for they were hill dwarves, bred under the sky. His own tribe, for generations, had called the caverns under the mountains their home.

Past the village they could see the promise of their destination: a swath of green fields, bright with sparkling lakes and great stretches of forest that were sure to provide game and forage aplenty. The Hylar refugees would be able to build huts there, maybe find a few snug caves, and with luck the majority would last the coming winter. There would be food in the lakes and forests and some respite from the brutal weather that would soon seize the high altitudes.

Tarn pushed back from the summit, joining his two companions in stretching, then settling down into a squat. He looked over the mass of huddled dwarves awaiting his decision. They had built no fires, made no shelters here beside the narrow road. Instead they lay where they had halted, sipping at waterskins or chewing on thin strips of dried meat. Some were armed, still hale and sturdy, but too many others were gaunt, sunburned, bent with weariness. The eyes that looked to him for some glimmer of hope were haunted and dark.