Chapter 15
The “Crownation”

“More fungus?” inquired Nomscul, shoving a platter of the aromatic if chewy shapes under the noses of his newly crowned monarchs.

“I’m stuffed,” Flint replied, holding up both hands and settling back on the soft cushion of moss. “What little room I have left I’m saving for those ribs you’re cooking.”

“Nomscul sorry about meat,” the Aghar apologized, staring at his toes.

Across the great cavern, a huge steel spear rested over a low fire. Large ribs of pork were spitted on the spear, dripping juices into the fire with an appetizing sizzle, barely audible above the raucous noise of the great crownation festival. In his new, official, and royally appointed capacity as Mudhole’s Best Cook and Chief Shaman (the longest, and therefore most important title in Mudhole) Nomscul had sorely neglected his duty when he forgot to light the cooking fire until the feast was well underway, a fact which had slowed the cooking of the meat significantly. It had also made him almost obnoxiously solicitous toward Flint and Perian.

At the moment, however, Flint didn’t notice the absence of the meat—indeed, he couldn’t have eaten another bite. All the food served during the ceremony had been quite good and, what’s more, plentiful. Having lived above ground for all of his life, Flint never knew just how much variety there could be in subterranean dining. The food and drink had thus far included spiced mushrooms, raw and cooked fish, potatoes, and lichen leaves.

“This is the best I’ve felt since we got here,” admitted the king of the gully dwarves, with a frank look at his queen.

“It was all right,” Perian admitted. “I’m used to better, but most of this came from the Theiwar warrens anyway. Still, I’m surprised Nomscul did such a good job with it.

“I just wish Too-thee would get back with my mossweed. I wonder what’s keeping him.”

“He could still be here by the end of the meal,” replied Flint, with a glance at the still raw pork ribs. “That gives him plenty of time.”

Across the room they saw the low fire, with its sizzling rack of ribs impaled on a great, steel-shafted spear. Every few minutes Nomscul skipped over to the fire and rotated the pig slightly. His procedure was apparently mostly guesswork, but the meat sent a delightful aroma whispering around the assembled multitudes.

All of the approximately four hundred Aghar of Mudhole had assembled in the Big Sky Room for the great feast and celebration. By this point in the feast the chamber was pretty well ravaged, blanketed with litter, food and clothing scraps, and sleeping Aghar.

The cavern was divided by the shallow stream that flowed through so much of the gully dwarf lair. Here in the cavern the stream collected into a series of three deep, clear pools. Dozens of young Aghar splashed playfully in the chilly waters of these pools. Unlike virtually every other type of dwarf known to Flint and Perian, the gully dwarves of Mudhole actually liked the water. All of them seemed to be darned good swimmers. This fact amazed Flint, who didn’t know a hill or mountain dwarf that knew how to keep his head above water.

Flint, Perian, and a dozen Aghar—their “court,” which included Nomscul, Ooz, and Fester—sat on one side of the stream. A small, rugged stone footbridge crossed the waterway between two of the pools, connecting up with the larger portion of the cave where the rest of the gully dwarves were gathered.

Fester and Nomscul had been taking turns saluting and toasting their new rulers. Fester had become Perian’s chief handmaiden and lady-in-waiting—or “weighty lady,” as the gully dwarf referred to herself. Nomscul, in addition to his roles as healer, and Best Cook and Chief Shaman, had vowed to become the king’s primary aide.

“You a real kingly king,” said Nomscul, sloshing slightly as he offered yet another salute to his new monarch.

After Nomscul’s toast, the air was filled with mushrooms, lichens, and fishheads flying back and forth. Several near-misses splashed into the water just feet from the king and queen, but a withering look from Nomscul, coupled with a menacing reach toward his magic bag, moved the game to a more comfortable distance.

“Say,” commented Flint, “do you folks play any games down here: Kickball, stick-and-hoop, anything like that?”

Nomscul looked at him quizzically. “Stuck in hoop?”

“You know, sports,” Flint persisted. “Athletic games. You get a bunch of—”

“Two,” corrected Perian.

“… two fellows on one side and two on the other, and they both try to hook a leather hoop over the others’ post—that sort of thing. Or anything to watch that’s more organized than this free-for-all.”

“Agharpult!” yelped Nomscul, jumping up and down. “King wants en … entert … you watch this!”

The excited Aghar turned toward the crowd and shouted, “Agharpulters, get over here! Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Immediately the crowd turned into a shoving, pushing mass as gully dwarves from every corner of the room tried to converge in front of the bridge.

“You like this,” beamed Nomscul. “We learn by watching Theiwar practice war.”

Teams of gully dwarves suddenly began to form pyramids with rows of kneeling bodies, ten dwarves forming a four-tier pile. Other Aghar stood behind, squatting and preparing to charge the pyramids formed by their comrades.

At Nomscul’s command, these others dashed forward, vaulting to the tops of the pyramids, whereupon all of the piled gully dwarves flung themselves face forward toward the floor. The momentum of the fall hurtled the topmost gully dwarf, at significant speed, across the room, eventually to crash into a crowd of gathered spectators.

Flint roared with laughter as the hapless gully dwarves tumbled over one another and sailed through the air, arms and legs flailing, usually screeching at the top of their lungs.

“Someone is going to get hurt doing this,” muttered Perian.

“Oh, lighten up,” retorted Flint. “These little guys have skulls thicker than the thane’s best armor.”

Indeed they must, concluded Perian as she watched a pair of them smack violently into the cavern wall, fall to the ground, and jump up beaming.

Between guffaws, Flint asked Nomscul, “Where did you say you learned this sport?”

Nomscul puffed out his chest. “We sneak teeny-tiny quiet into Big-Big Room and see Theiwar cracking walls with cattle-pult machines. It stupid name, since they fling rocks, not cattle. But it look like fun, so we do Agharpult.”

“He’s talking about the catapult range,” Perian explained, amazed. “The thane’s army trains with some of the heavy siege equipment in an enormous cavern on the second level. They practice hitting targets painted on the walls. I’m surprised any gully dwarf has ever seen it, though. That room is quite a distance from here.” Flint thought he saw a glimmer of admiration in Perian’s eyes as she studied Nomscul, who just grinned back at her ridiculously.

With tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks, Flint watched the beefiest Aghar he’d seen yet, launch off the top of an Agharpult and try to do a somersault in midair. Instead of tucking under, however, he wound up sailing across the room spread-eagled and upside-down, finally splashing against the far wall and sliding down into a pool of muck.

Splashing?

Suddenly alert, Flint peered at the opposite wall, squinting to make out details. Nudging Perian, he pointed and asked, “What’s happening over there? The wall looks … squishy.”

Perian followed his gesture and gasped. She saw the rock wall of the cave suddenly turned to mud and ooze slowly downward. The narrow tunnel to the Beast Pit gaped wider as its framework of rock melted away.

“It’s collapsing!” She was instantly on her feet, shouting, “We’ve got to get everyone out of here now!”

The gully dwarves blithely continued Agharpulting around the room, oblivious to the danger.

Flint, too, sprang to his feet, and grabbed Perian’s elbow, staring in disbelief. “That’s no cave-in!” he growled. “The wall’s turning to mud.”

“The chamber connecting to the Beast Pit is behind that wall,” whispered Perian. Her worried glance told Flint that they both were thinking the same, terrifying thought.

They watched, horror-struck, as the rock oozed onto the cave floor. Soon the narrow tunnel gaped wide, and they both knew that nothing blocked the carrion crawler’s passage into Mudhole.

Then they saw white, flailing tentacles beyond the opening.

“Here it comes!” cried Perian. “These Aghar are helpless. We’ve got to clear the chamber and barricade this thing out of the rest of Mudhole!”

“Hey! Beast go home!” shouted Nomscul, leaping to his feet and scolding the horrifying creature from across the huge cave.

Other Aghar turned and shouted in annoyance, fear, or confusion, as the beast crept forward.

The carrion crawler’s enormous bulk slithered through a round hole perhaps twelve feet in diameter as its tendrils lashed back and forth hungrily.

“If we don’t get the Aghar out of here quickly, they’ll stampede!” Instinctively Flint reached for the axe that would normally be at his waist, but found nothing. He cursed the fates that had placed him in this chamber without so much as Happenstance, the rusty dagger, to defend his “kingdom.”

Screams and shouts rose through the Big Sky Room, and Aghar bolted in every direction. Some, by coincidence more than intent, actually headed toward the Thrown Room—which was the Aghar’s new name for Flint’s and Perian’s quarters—or the rest of Mudhole. Most darted around blindly, screaming, waving their arms, or huddling on the ground, terrified by the approach of the monster.

“Follow me!” shouted Perian. An officer of the House Guard was trained to lead by example, not to mention expected to be followed. She grabbed a carving knife and started for the footbridge at a run, ready to cross it and confront the monster personally.

“Get to the Thrown Room!” Flint’s voice was a thunderous bellow, but even that sound was washed away in the panic-stricken babble of hundreds of Aghar. A few of his closer subjects started toward the exits, but chaos reigned in the cavern. Flint snagged Fester, the nearest Aghar, by her collar. She held a large, bent roasting fork in her hand.

“Fester, look at me!” commanded Flint. “Tell everyone to get into the Thrown Room. Get everyone to the Thrown Room!”

The frawl stared at Flint dumbly for a moment, but he held her arms until he saw the fear fade from her eyes, and then she nodded vigorously. He took the fork from her hand and turned her loose, and immediately she began pushing Aghar toward the exits. One down, thought Flint.

Turning back to the action, Flint saw several Aghar run blindly into the beast, only to be struck and paralyzed by the flailing tentacles. The small forms tumbled to the ground, but thankfully the beast didn’t stop to feed on them immediately. Flint hoped it wouldn’t get a second chance later on.

But how could they stop it? He sprinted after Perian, seeing her reach the footbridge and start across with Nomscul at her heels. The roasting fork in his hand was a pathetic weapon, but anything was better than his bare hands against the huge, segmented monster.

More Aghar fell before the beast, and it crawled over the motionless forms, intent on the great mass of prey before it. Almost gleefully, it surged upward, stretching its bloated body a dozen feet in the air, still lashing with its tentacles.

Suddenly Perian stopped on the bridge and screamed. Nomscul, right behind the queen, ran into her and fell backward onto the approach to the bridge. Flint saw the hideous, hunchbacked figure of Pitrick soaring through the air over her head. The derro was flying straight for Perian!

Raising the long fork, undaunted by the incongruity of the gesture, Flint sprang toward the narrow footbridge. He saw the grotesque Theiwar land near Perian and seize her wrist in his right hand. The frawl twisted back, but Pitrick pinned her against the railing on the side of the bridge. The derro settled to the planks beside her and spoke a sharp word, cancelling his flying spell so that he could place his weight on the ground.

Nomscul climbed to his feet and charged forward, only to be kicked aside by one of Pitrick’s heavy boots. Desperately, Perian pulled away. Flint charged as fast as he could, pushing his way through the Aghar.

“Your smoke weed will be a little delayed—but no worry. You will be leaving with me,” hissed Pitrick to Perian, the thick odor of mushale heavy on his breath.

Pitrick gripped his amulet with one hand, staring into Perian’s eyes. She twisted in his grasp but could not break away.

“Kan-straithian!” he barked. Instantly the blue light flashed. The savant released Perian and turned to face the charging hill dwarf. Nomscul, climbing to his feet behind Perian, seemed momentarily forgotten.

Perian tried to run but her feet refused to move, as if they had been cemented to the bridge. She tried to turn, to open her mouth and speak, and found herself paralyzed by magic. Her eyes wild, she struggled against the spell, but Pitrick’s magic had her frozen in place.

“Now for you,” growled Pitrick, his huge eyes glaring insanely at Flint. The hunchback’s fingers tightened around the amulet, and he raised his hand to point a bony finger at the charging dwarf. Flint knew that he would never reach Pitrick before the derro cast his spell.

“Incinerus … Incinetoria …” Pitrick began his spell, sneering at Flint, preparing to envelop him in an inferno of sorcerous fire. He did not notice Nomscul stepping around Perian’s petrified form.

“In-sin-jin-fin-jin yourself!” challenged Nomscul, aping Pitrick’s wizardly pose. He thrust his magic sack before himself and clapped it sharply between his hands, throwing a cloud of fine dust into the air.

Pitrick recoiled from the insidious powder, but too late to keep it from his nose, eyes, and throat. His fingers stabbed at his burning eyes, and then his whole body doubled over.

“Ah … uhhh … CHOO!” Pitrick’s sneeze almost blasted Nomscul from the bridge.

“Maggot!” Pitrick hissed, stumbling away from the dust cloud. He delivered a vicious kick to Nomscul. The little shaman crashed through the railing of the bridge and splashed into the pool, gasping and wailing.

Then Flint reached the bridge, racing full-tilt toward the derro, his roasting fork poised above his head. Still struggling to regain his senses, Pitrick snatched a long, straight dagger from his belt.

Below them, Nomscul popped to the surface of the pool. “You got my magic stuff all wet!” he whined, paddling toward the bank.

The two dwarves came together. Flint’s momentum carried Pitrick over backward. Locked together, each struggling for an advantage, they rolled over and over toward the shore. Each held his own weapon in one hand, his opponent’s wrist in the other.

As they tumbled onto land, Pitrick thrust out his leg, pinning Flint below him. He threw all his weight behind his weapon, forcing the blade down toward Flint’s unprotected chest. Caught off guard, the hill dwarf strove to straighten his arm, but Pitrick’s blade inched closer. Desperately Flint kicked the derro away and rolled to the side. Both combatants jumped to their feet, stabbing and parrying as they scrambled momentarily to a safe range.

“You thought to escape me, hill dwarf?” cackled Pitrick, breathing heavily. “I admit you surprised me by surviving the Beast Pit.”

Pitrick stabbed at him, but Flint skipped out of the way, driving his own long, pronged weapon into the derro’s chest. As they jumped apart Flint expected to see blood on his enemy’s robe, but instead he saw links of chain mail shining through the ripped fabric. Glancing at his weapon, he saw that the tines of the roasting fork had been bent and twisted—such a feeble weapon would never punch through the derro’s armor.

“I’m full of surprises, too,” taunted the Theiwar. “Here’s another: when I finish with you, your whole town will be next to perish. You’ve shown me that Hillhome and all your sun-dwelling kin are too dangerous to my plans!”

“You should live so long,” growled Flint, feinting toward Pitrick’s left side. Nonetheless, the warning sent shivers along the hill dwarf’s spine. Pitrick had to be stopped, now!

The evil derro sneered as he evaded the attack. “I shall, with Perian at my side. Together we shall destroy Hillhome and make slaves of its people.”

The derro turned and darted along the side of the pool, moving with surprising speed. Flint raced after him. The hill dwarf knew his only hope was to press the derro so closely that he could not cast a spell.

Both figures turned suddenly when they heard Perian shout, “I’m free!” As the last effects of Pitrick’s hold spell finally wore off, the frawl spun and started toward them. She snatched up a long, sharp cooking knife. Grinning, Flint turned back toward Pitrick.

But the savant surprised him. Instead of reaching for his amulet, Pitrick laughed defiantly and touched the ring on his left hand. Instantly the derro disappeared from sight.

Perian’s scream drew Flint’s attention back over his shoulder. Suddenly Pitrick was standing next to her, and the derro seized her left arm with both hands.

“I must leave now,” he taunted Flint. “But I will be back, once I see that my property gets safely home.” He leered at Perian, and icy daggers drove into Flint’s heart.

Snarling, the hill dwarf dashed toward the bridge. He saw Pitrick reach toward the ring, even while holding tightly to Perian.

Neither Flint nor Pitrick could have anticipated Perian’s next move. Just before the derro touched his ring and teleported them away, the frawl’s right hand came around, still holding the carving knife which she had picked up earlier. The hunchback twisted his arm upward, blocking only a blow to his face. He realized too late that was not Perian’s target.

Instead the knife slashed into Pitrick’s hand, slicing through skin and bone. The Theiwar shaman screamed and pulled away, with blood streaming down his arm. Two fingers, sliced cleanly off, splashed into the water.

On one of them gleamed a small circlet of twisted wire.

Gagging and shrieking, Pitrick stumbled backward, cradling his mangled hand. Perian looked in shock at the blood streaking her robe.

The din in the cavern echoed around them. Some Aghar fled from the carrion crawler, while others attacked it with utensils. Their courage was worse than useless against the creature since the beast’s tough hide turned aside their attacks. Its sticky tendrils lashed across the gully dwarves’ skin, dropping them to the ground, helpless and paralyzed.

“Finish him!” shouted Flint, sprinting back onto the bridge, charging the howling derro.

Now Pitrick looked up with real fear in his eyes. He saw Flint charging, saw the murderous rage in the hill dwarf’s eyes, and he staggered off the opposite side of the bridge, desperately fishing in his pouch for something.

Flint didn’t slow down as he saw the Theiwar pull out a small, clear bottle. Pitrick raised the flask to his lips and swallowed the contents in one gulp, just as Flint launched himself toward him.

The hill dwarf plowed into Pitrick, driving him to the ground. Flint raised the fork, ready to plunge it into the squirming mage’s neck.

But suddenly that neck was gone. As Flint watched in disbelief, Pitrick’s entire body dissipated into a pale cloud of vapor. Flint slashed at it futilely with his makeshift weapon. But the cloud drifted away from him, and then passed through the hole in the cavern wall. In moments it disappeared from view entirely.

“Damnation!” hollered Flint, watching the gaseous form of his enemy slip away.

“We still have troubles,” Perian barked urgently. “Look!”

Flint turned to see that the massive carrion crawler had reached the exit to the Thrown Room. He could trace the creature’s path across the cavern by counting the fallen bodies of Aghar. Dozens lay in a twisted line across the cavern floor.

He heard Nomscul’s voice, issuing orders.

“Hey, Agharpulters! Do it do it do it! Agharpult! Stomp that big ugly thing! Pult pult pult!”

Teams of gully dwarves were gathering before the beast. The Aghar formed their pyramids and launched themselves at the carrion crawler, heedless of the danger. What they hoped to accomplish was unclear. But the carrion crawler was clearly distracted by the spectacle of their bodies flying over its head and crashing into the walls behind.

Flint ran through the cavern, frantically encouraging the Agharpulters. If they could distract the beast long enough, he could.…

What could he do? He looked at the roasting fork in his hand, and then at the looming carrion crawler, and tossed the fork aside. At the same time, his eyes passed over the roasting meat, still sizzling on its steel-shafted spear.

Flint hesitated only for a moment. By Reorx, those ribs smelled good. And they were just about done, too. His mouth watered as he hoisted the red hot spear off the fire, then dropped it from his burning hands. He peeled off his robe and wound it round his hands, then grasped the spear again. Several dozen ribs weighted down the shaft, but pulling the meat off would take too many precious minutes.

“Jump! Faster!” He heard Perian commanding the gully dwarves, directing the erratic Agharpults toward their target. More and more of their subjects flew through the air with better aim this time, crashing into the rearing monster. They didn’t harm the beast, but they fully occupied its attention.

Seeing Flint laboring with the heavy weapon, Perian raced to his side. The two of them lifted the spear between them and cautiously moved around to the monster’s side. The thing’s wormlike head remained fixed upon the shrieking, flying Aghar.

“Now!” Flint barked. The two of them rushed forward, holding the meat-laden spear at shoulder height. The steel tip struck the carrion crawler between two of its segments, a few feet back from its head.

Instantly it whirled, but the two dwarves, working smoothly, turned in the same direction, just avoiding those paralyzing tendrils.

“Push!” grunted Perian, and they shoved the spear deep into the monster’s vile insides. Blue pus oozed from the wound, coating the meat that backed up along the shaft as the spear drove deeper and deeper into the monster.

The carrion crawler shivered and twitched, flopping to the ground as its legs collapsed. Its struggles grew weaker as Perian and Flint twisted and probed with the weapon, trying to strike a vital organ. Finally, with one last spasm, it ceased to move.

All around them lay gully dwarves paralyzed by the carrion crawler or stunned by their launch from an Agharpult. Flint was covered by scrapes and bruises from his fight with Pitrick, and by meat juices from the cooking spear. Perian’s hands and robe were splotched red with Pitrick’s blood. Exhausted, they stared at each other for a long moment.

“I was scared … when Pitrick grabbed you, I was scared he’d take you away, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.” Flint glanced at the ground, then looked back into Perian’s face. “I’m so glad.…” He reached out and pulled her into his arms, crushed her to his chest.

“I’m glad, too,” she whispered, pulling his face to hers and kissing him. Flint’s heart thumped harder than it had when Pitrick threatened his life.

And then Flint peeled Perian’s arms loose and stepped away. “We can’t do this,” he growled. “We’re different, inside and out, and there’s no hope for a match like ours.”

“You can’t know that,” she cried, reaching after him.

But he stepped back again. “I know it.”