Chapter 14
The Designated Hero

Almost since the day seven years ago, when the Tarmite slavers had taken her, Thayla Mesinda had led a sheltered life. No more than a scrawny, coltish little girl then, she had been spared the squalid fates of most female Gelnians taken captive by the raiders. It might have been the innocence of her frightened blue eyes, or the flaxen hints in her unwashed hair, or it might have been pure chance that singled her out. But within minutes of her arrival at Tarmish, she had been hustled away by robed celibates and ensconced in her own, private quarters in the tower keep.

She had been selected by Lord Vulpin, they told her, and would say no more. With time and proper nourishment she had blossomed into a lovely young woman. She had been fed and schooled, protected and pampered, and she still had not the slightest idea what she had been selected for.

Her world was a comfortable apartment in the jutting fifth level of the tower, where wide ramparts skirted the upper spire rising to Lord Vulpin’s haunts. The great ramparts gave a wide, walled balcony to Thayla’s chamber, and she spent her waking hours there in good weather. Her companions were the flowers she nourished there, the songbirds that came to trill and twitter and sometimes to rest on her outstretched finger, and the tight-lipped, robed celibates who unbolted her door each day to bring her meals and clean clothing. There were always three of them, all very old, and she had the feeling that each was there to keep a wary eye on the other two.

Beyond the balcony was the rest of the world, vast and intriguing, so near she could almost reach out and touch it, yet impossibly remote—beyond the sheer drop from her balcony, beyond the locked and barred portal of her lonely apartment.

Often she longed for association with the people of the fortress and of the fields and hills beyond—for a chance to go down and mingle with them in the courtyards and on the walls, to hear their voices around her, to feel the warmth of their fires. She wished she knew the names of the sweating men who labored in the stalls and marched to and from the battlements, and the women who came and went among them.

Sometimes she literally ached for companionship—people who were not like the wizened, silent robed ones or the curtailed crones who taught her a smattering of the arts, or that ominous, frightening presence in the tower above.

Often she dreamed of a hero who would come to take her away from all this, though she had very little idea who or what a hero might be. It was a vague word, contained sometimes in the stories of the old women who schooled her: hero.

Heroes, she deduced, were those who came to rescue young maidens from captivity. Heroes were those who fought against evil. The more she dreamed, the more convinced she became that there would be a hero for her, too. There must be.

Yet each day was like those before, filled only with the robed old celibates with their silent glares and their baskets and bundles, the occasional “teachers” and now and then a glimpse of that dark, formidable figure on the tower above—the regent Lord Vulpin. He had spoken to her a few times, through the grillwork in her door, but each time it was only the brief promise: do for me what I command when that hour arrives, and you will be rewarded.

His presence was like a cold wind on a balmy day, and each time she glimpsed him, or heard his voice, she dreamed again of an unknown hero.

Sometimes it seemed that the only real things in her world were the dreams and the flowers that lined her balcony and the birds who came to call. Aside from those, her only companions were loneliness and boredom. But things would change, she assured herself. A time would come when the sameness of the days would be altered, and then her hero would come for her.

Thus it was with a mounting excitement and a sense of destiny that she watched strange armies taking the field beyond the fortress. There were thousands of armed men, some afoot and some mounted on great, prancing beasts, moving to surround the battlements while horns blared and drums rolled in the distance.

Something entirely new was happening, something unforeseen, and Thayla Mesinda watched eagerly. Maybe, somewhere in that threatening horde, was the hero of her dreams. She was standing at the stone railing, gazing outward, when feet scuffed the pavement behind her. She turned, and gasped.

Where there had been no one a moment before, now there were at least a score of little people—short, almost-human creatures not much more than half her size, huddled in a motley mass on her balcony, gaping around with startled eyes.

As she turned, one of them—a fuzzy-bearded little person slightly larger than the rest with sturdy, broad shoulders, and an ornate ivory stick in his grimy hand—gawked at her. “Oops! Ever’body run like crazy!”

With a furious scuffling of small feet, the creatures erupted from their cluster. Some scurried for shelter behind flower vases and benches, some ducked into shadowed corners, and some collided with one another, rolling and tumbling this way and that. At least two squeaked with panic and dived over the edge of the balcony, clinging there high above the courtyard until others could pull them up.

Within seconds, there wasn’t a single one of them in sight, though she knew that every bit of shelter around her was packed with them.

Curious, Thayla Mesinda stepped across to a potted shrub and parted its fronds. “Hello,” she said to the wide-eyed, pudgy face staring back at her from the gap. “Are you a hero?”

Tunk nearly fainted from fright when the Tall girl confronted him. He gulped, went pale and trembled violently. The chattering of his teeth almost drowned out the frantic, muffled whisper just below: “Tunk! Get foot out of my mouth!”

“Well, are you?” Thayla repeated. “Are you a hero?”

“Nope, don’t think so,” Tunk managed. With a sickly, placating grin he pointed toward a rosebush. “Maybe better see Bron ’bout that. Bron might be one.”

Thayla stepped to the rose bush and walked part way around it, peering. Just beyond it, soft, scurrying sounds told her of someone moving, trying to stay out of sight. She paused, then turned quickly and went around the other way. The one with the ivory stick was there, gawking up at her, nose to locket.

“Are you Bron?” she asked.

“Yep, guess so,” he quavered. “Pardon, just passin’ through.”

“You’re the hero, then,” she decided. Somehow she had expected heroes to be larger, and maybe better-dressed. And it had never occurred to her they might be anything other than human. But she was in no position to quibble over details. “How did you get here?”

“Beats me,” he admitted. “There we were, jus’ mindin’ own business, lookin’ at Talls. Then …”

“At what?”

“Talls,” he repeated. “Like you.”

“Oh,” she said, not understanding at all. A suspicion tugged at her mind. “Did Lord Vulpin send you here?”

“Th’ Highbulp send us,” Bron explained. “Highbulp say, ‘Bron, go look at Talls. See if Talls up to somethin’.’ So here we are. You folks up to somethin’?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Uh, you said the … ah, the Highbulp sent you?”

“Yep. Glitch th’ Most. Th’ Highbulp. Real famous person. Ever’body know him.”

It sounded just bizarre enough to be true. No one had ever mentioned where heroes came from, but they must come from somewhere. Somebody must send them. “Then are you here to take me away?”

“Dunno,” Bron admitted. “Highbulp didn’ say.”

“You probably are,” Thayla decided. “You are my hero, here to rescue me from captivity.”

“Oh,” the gully dwarf said. “Okay, if you say so.”

“It won’t be easy,” Thayla reasoned. “How many are with you?”

Bron glanced around at the thoroughly populated balcony. Every conceivable hiding place was occupied by gully dwarves. He had no idea how many there were, but he gave her his best estimate. “Two,” he said.

*  *  *  *  *

From their encampments in the hills, Chatara Kral’s forces moved down into the valley, assembling at staging areas north and west of Tarmish Castle. Most of the commanders and approximately a third of the gathered warriors were Gelnians. The rest were men from many lands, set adrift by the great turmoil of recent years.

By the dozens and hundreds they had come, drawn by the promise of cash and the lure of loot. Companies of barbarian horsemen, squadrons of varied infantry and several entire armed brigades of once Imperial troops answered the call, as well as several platoons of Solamnic heavy cavalry and countless individual warriors of many breeds.

With the end of each new war in the decade of darkness, many had returned to their homes and taken up their plows and their hammers. But many more had not. Mercenaries of all kinds roamed the lands these days, seeking employment or loot, whichever came first.

A lone, armored horseman and his squire paused at the verge of forest fronting the Tarmish fields, and studied the panorama just ahead. By his armor, weapons, the magnificent dark war-horse on which he rode and the practiced ease with which he sat his saddle, the plated one might once have been a knight of one of the great orders, or, more likely, a free-lance candidate for knighthood who had chosen a solitary road instead. No banner flew upon his ensconced lance, and no device of heraldry adorned his attire. But he was no less a formidable figure for all that.

His “squire,” afoot, was a lithe, cloak-wrapped dandy with a trimmed, pointed beard and dark hair that curled in little ringlets above his hooded eyes. His manner, as he attended the reins of his “master,” was brusque and curt, noticeably lacking in subservience.

Dartimien the Cat had played many roles in his time, but this was his first experience as a knight’s steward.

At the forest’s edge he knelt, studying the ground. “They came this way,” he said. “It looks as though they went right into that encampment. Would gully dwarves do that?”

Astride the great horse, Graywing raised the heavy visor of his borrowed helm and scanned the assembling army ahead. “Not if they could help it,” he said. “But maybe they got here first. This is a new camp.”

“Well, if they did,” Dartimien stood, brushing leaves from the knee of his immaculate, dark britches, “they’re up to their necks in humans now. There must be two legions out there.”

“Then I suppose that’s where we must go, too,” Graywing sighed. “I don’t like it much, to tell you the truth. What do you think?”

“Your decision,” Dartimien said, gruffly. “You’re the one with the horse.”

“And three hundred pounds of itching armor,” Graywing snapped. “Remember, you had your chance to be the knight, here. I offered.”

“Some offer,” the Cat sniffed. “You know I can’t stand horses.”

Somewhere behind them, on the slopes above, a confused Solamnian mercenary, naked except for his stained linen undergarment and destitute except for a carefully-written receipt on a scrap of tanned buckskin, was nursing a bump on his head and trying to find his way out of a deep cleft in the rocks. The last thing he remembered before awakening in this predicament was pausing to relieve himself in a laurel thicket. The buckskin receipt itemized all of his belongings and promised their return at some unspecified time.

Neither Graywing nor Dartimien bore the wayward knight-errant any ill will, but they had decided they truly needed his horse, armor, weapons and trappings far more than he did at the moment. A visored knight and his squire might attract less attention in this valley of warriors than two mismatched individuals without credentials.

“There is a little canyon running through the camp,” Graywing pointed. “It isn’t much more than a ditch, but gully dwarves might hide there.”

Dartimien squinted, peering into the distance. His city-bred eyes could read the trail of a beetle or follow the flight of a bee, but he had learned that the Cobar’s sight was far superior when it came to distances. Dartimien’s eyes were like a cat’s eyes. He saw intensely what was near, and his night vision was excellent. But Graywing, the plainsman, had eyes like a hawk. What seemed too far to see, to Dartimien, Graywing saw clearly.

“I’ll take your word for it,” the Cat conceded. “What’s the best way to get there?”

“Straight through the encampment, I’m afraid,” Graywing said. “There’s a worse problem, though. The gully runs directly behind that big pavilion with the banners atop it. There. Do you see it? Where the lone oak tree stands. That’s probably the tent of someone important.”

“You might say that,” Dartimien sighed. “That’s Chatara Kral’s headquarters.”

*  *  *  *  *

The “gully” was actually a fan of little canyons, most of them only a few feet deep. Eroded by years of seasonal rainfall, they carried the rivulets that drained this entire quadrant of the valley, carrying waters away to a little creek that wound across the valley like a meandering ribbon among tilled fields.

Brush and scrub forest screened the gully, with larger trees standing here and there along its shoulders. Beneath some of these, decades of runoff from the fields had eroded away the soil, leaving hidden caves among the roots. The burrowing of animals over the years had enlarged some of these into sizeable holes, and it was in one such opening that the wandering tribe of Bulp had stopped to rest.

Now Scrib and Grand Notioner Gandy peered from screening brush as hordes of grim-looking Talls swarmed as far as they could see. Men tended stock, set stakes, hauled wood and gathered around countless breakfast fires. Teams of foresters and ox-drivers shuttled from the nearby forest, bringing timbers for the shaping of rams and the building of siege engines.

“Where they all come from?” Gandy quavered, clutching his mop handle staff. “Not here last night.”

“Dunno,” Scrib shook his head, then sighed, trying to stretch the aches out of his spine. Trying to see everything that was going on beyond the brush, was becoming a pain in the neck. From his shelter he could see a dozen other gully dwarves (or parts of them) through the matted brush. Fully half the tribe seemed to be awake now, and coming out to gawk at the altered scenery.

But not everyone was awake. Despite the noise of the human encampment all around their hiding place, they could distinctly hear the muffled snores of Glitch echoing from the burrow below them.

“Somebody better pop a gag in Highbulp’s mouth,” Gandy muttered. “Be jus’ like that twit to wake up hollerin’.”

The word was passed back, from gully dwarf to gully dwarf, and abruptly the snoring below went silent. The scuffling sounds that followed were far less intrusive than the Highbulp’s snoring had been.

The Lady Lidda crept up between Gandy and Scrib, followed by a younger female, the one called Pert. They peered with dismay at the countless Talls beyond. For a moment they were as stunned as everyone else had been, as anyone would be, awakening to a world that suddenly swarmed with humans. But then the details of the scene began to fascinate them. So many Talls, with so much armor and so many ominous-looking weapons!

Like all female gully dwarves, they immediately began to think in terms of forage.

Somewhere a trumpet blared, and men near its source formed themselves into rows and ranks, long spears gleaming in the morning sun. Not far from the verge of brush stood a huge, bright-colored structure of seamed fabrics, held upright by ropes and poles. Guards with spears and pikes surrounded it. Just beyond it, men in bright livery paraded great horses in a roped-off enclosure, while other men came from lean-tos, carrying huge loads of varied contrivances of leather and iron.

“Wow!” Lidda breathed. “Lotsa good stuff.”

A flap in the pavilion was opened, and Talls set poles to hold it up, forming a roofed entry. From this issued more Talls, dozens of them all wearing the same bright colors and all carrying wicked-looking blades. They ranked themselves in two lines outside the entrance, all facing outward. Behind them came a coterie of servants, followed by a magnificently-garbed woman whose brilliant robe and kilt were outshone by the exquisitely-polished, embossed steel armor of her bejeweled helm, breast plate, buckler and shin plates. At her side hung a businesslike short sword with gem-encrusted pommel and guard.

“Look,” Scrib whispered. “Lady Tall.”

Nearby, Gandy blinked rheumy eyes and turned toward him. “How you know that a lady?”

Scrib had no good answer for that. “Shape like a lady,” he said finally.

“Rats,” Gandy allowed.

Which reminded them all of breakfast.

The Lady Lidda pursed her lips and squinted, deep in thought. “Wonder what they got in there?” she whispered, pointing at the great pavilion.

“Might be some stuff they don’ need,” Pert said. She edged aside, trying for a better view, and stopped. There was a large, sandaled foot in her way. She gaped at the foot, and turned slowly, looking upward. Beyond the foot was another foot, and just above them the fringes of a dark robe, which extended upward to a shadowed cowl.

A human! An old Tall in a dark cloak, standing right there beside her!

“Uh-oh,” Pert breathed. “Ever’body! Run like crazy!”

In an instant, the brush was full of running, tumbling gully dwarves, scrambling in all directions. Guards near the pavilion gaped at the sudden turmoil, then advanced on the run.

Pert, scuttling away from the old Tall in the cowl, scurried between the legs of a confused piker and dived for cover under the fringes of the pavilion. Several others were right behind her.

Somewhere the Grand Notioner squealed.

“Gully Dwarves! A whole swarm of them!” shouted a deep voice.

“Caught one!” another shouted. “Let’s take ’em … Ow!”

“What happened?” some other human called.

“Little bugger hit me on the nose with a stick! There it goes! Catch it!”

“Well, this is no gully dwarf!” the first voice growled. “You! You in the hood! Let’s see some identification!”

“They’re hard to catch!” a man swore, crashing through a thicket. “Pim! To your left! There goes one!”

“Forget the cursed gully dwarves!” the first voice commanded. “Reassemble. We have a prisoner here!” There was a pause before the same voice began asking questions. “Who are you? What’s your name and how’d you get past the sentries?”

“Clonogh,” a wheezing, ancient voice said. “Please, sir, I’m only a poor traveler. I’ve lost my way.”

“Traveler, huh? Well, we’ll just let the captain of guards decide what to do with you. Come on, move!”

“Would you look at that?” a guard noted. “There were gully dwarves all over, and now there isn’t a one in sight! How do they do that?”

“Forget the gully dwarves, I said! Reassemble! Move this prisoner out of these weeds!”

“Some prisoner,” another guard spat. “That shuffling old geezer is eighty if he’s a day.”