Movement within the tunnel caught his eye as several figures advanced from the shadows. He heard the cracking of a whip and a sudden yelp of pain.
"Move, you toads!" growled a deep voice-a sound that could rumble only from an ogre chest.
Ash crouched just a few feet outside the still opened doors and observed a number of small figures scrambling and tumbling toward him. The whip snapped again, and the small figures scattered to all sides.
"Get back here! Turn that capstan! Now, by the Dark Queen, or dere'll be no gruel for you!"
Whimpering pathetically, the little fellows gathered, cringing, around one of the curious wheels. Seizing the spokes where they emerged beyond the rim, the dwarflike figures began to pull. With a creaking groan, the nearest door began, very slowly, to move.
Now Ash saw the overseer, who was indeed an ogre. The monster wore a black tunic of stiff leather studded with nails. An old specimen, the brute had lost both his tusks, but his bloodshot eyes still sparked with evil and cunning. He raised a clublike fist, and the elf saw the supple strand of the whip lash back, ready for another strike at the tiny, pathetic slaves.
That blow would never land, as a steel-tipped arrow flew into the cavern mouth with silent accuracy, slicing through the ogre's neck. The brute, retching and gagging, stumbled backward, far too slowly to avoid the tattooed figure that plunged through the door.
Ashtaway raised his axe with cold, deadly efficiency. The ogre, both hamlike fists grasping the shaft that emerged from its throat, gaped stupidly at impending death. The axe swept downward once, and again, leaving the monster as a gory corpse on the tunnel floor.
The slaves, each of whom was as filthy and disheveled an individual as Ash had ever seen, gaped up at him. Slack jaws distended, eyes as wide as saucers, the little fellows looked from the dead ogre to the tall, garishly tattooed elf.
One of the slaves left the wheel and stepped to the side of the corpse. He sniffed the brute, then prodded with his toe. Finally he hauled back and delivered a sharp kick into the monster's unfeeling knee.
In an instant, the rest of the group, which numbered perhaps ten, scrambled all over the body, spitting, kicking, pinching, punching, inflicting all manner of vengeance over what Ash had no trouble believing had been very rough treatment.
"Tanks, Mister!" declared the first of the slaves to inspect the corpse, leaving to his fellows the meting out of revenge. "You kilt ol' No-Teeth, but good!"
"You're welcome," Ash replied, struggling to understand the slave's thick accent. The Kagonesti leaned forward to get a better look at this curious laborer.
The little fellow, as if sensing that he was under inspection, stood up straight and thrust his chest out so far that a seam ripped along the side of his filthy tunic.
Ashtaway had encountered dwarves before, though he had never spoken to one-and never would, if he had a modicum of choice about the matter. He knew there was something vaguely dwarflike about this wretch, but at the same time no dwarf he had ever seen had been as scrawny, as filthy, and as abject as this slave and his fellows. A beard that was really no more than a few straggling hairs curled outward from the runt's receding chin, and he casually picked his nose-even as he continued to stand at attention.
As they finished their gleeful vengeance, the other slaves, one by one, marched over to stand beside their leader. Ash sensed that the fellows actually tried to form a straight line, though the formation assumed more of an S shape as more and more of the slaves joined up.
"Ogres find ol' No-Teeth, they gonna be right mad," one mused, not displeased by the notion.
"Real mad," another declared sagely-or at least, he would have sounded sage if he hadn't belched immediately following his pronouncement.
"You better scram," the leader suggested, winking at Ashtaway. "When more ogres come, we'll tell 'em No- Teeth fell down, say he couldn't git up. They just give us a new boss."
The Kagonesti was touched by the courageous, if misguided, offer to cover for him. He looked at the corpse, with the arrow jutting from beneath its chin, the two gruesome axe wounds that had only now ceased to bleed. "I, um, I think they'll see that No-Teeth didn't just have an accident."
The spokesman for the slaves sniffed, insulted by the suggestion. "I'm Highbulp Toofer-I'm a good liar! You think I'm no-good liar or sumthin'?"
Holding up a placating hand, the elf shook his head. "No! I'm sure you're a very good liar! But tell me, what are you? Are you a dwarf?"
"You betcha! Gully dwarves, all of us is! We the bosses of these tunnels-'til the ogres come, anyway."
"Are there more ogres coming? Do they live down here somewhere?"
The highbulp looked at Ashtaway, apparently wondering if the elf could possibly be as ignorant as he seemed. Deciding, obviously, that he could, the filthy dwarf spoke with great seriousness.
"Nobody lives down in these here caves-they's just roads to here and there. 'Ceptin' us and No-Teeth. We live here, so's we can open da gate."
An idea began to tug at the edge of Ashtaway's consciousness. Perhaps it had started even before he had shot the fateful arrow. "These tunnels-do they go a long way?"
Highbulp Toofer nodded vigorously, causing his dirty braid of hair to flop up and down over his face.
"Do they come out only in Sanction-or do some of them go under the mountain, come out somewhere else?"
"They goes all over the place. Under mountain, over mountain-even to different mountains!"
"You seem like a terribly wise Highbulp-but do you know these paths? Could you show a person the tunnel, say, to the other side of this mountain?"
"I kin show!" boasted one of the gully dwarves, shoving Toofer aside.
"Boodle gets you lost, right quick!" Toofer snapped. "But I knows the ways!"
"Look!" cried another gully dwarf, who had crept toward the still-opened doors and looked out on the plateau beyond. "They're doin' a parade!"
Ash remembered the knights and vividly pictured what the dwarf imagined as a "parade." The elf sprang back to the doorway, stepping out just far enough to get a view of the wide, flat ground to the east of the city.
The first thing that caught his eye was the rank of knights. True to his plan, Sir Kamford had led his company down the trail in the predawn shadows. His stealthy approach had no doubt been aided by the darkness cloaking the west-facing slope of the descent. In any event, the knights had apparently arrived at the foot of the mountain without being detected.
Now, as Ashtaway watched the last of the horsemen take up positions in the center of the line, they formed into a long, single rank. Lances raised, horses prancing anxiously, the Solamnic riders sat straight and proud in their saddles-as if they held themselves aloof from the chaos they were about to bring upon this valley.
An ogre sentry near one of the grain barns shouted, voice shrill with panic, and others took up the cry as the dawn mist parted to reveal the line of steel and flesh. A battle horn brayed somewhere in the midst of the labor camps, and the elf saw small groups of ogres lumbering toward the field. Many more figures-most of them slaves, no doubt-streamed out of the camps, toward shelter in the fiery, tangled city below.