Most of them had no idea where they were going, and none of them knew why, but they were all true gully dwarves. Once set on a course, they would follow that course until either someone told them to stop or something more interesting came along. The strongest driving force of any Aghar was simple inertia.
That night, they rested in a shallow cave, making a meal of one scrawny lizard and various roots and berries gathered along the way.
“We a pretty good scout bunch, Bron. Lot of us here,” said the one named Tag.
“Yep,” Bron agreed. “Two.”
“Where we goin’?” Tag wondered.
“Gotta look at Talls,” Bron explained. “Anybody see any Talls?”
“Not lately,” several of them said.
“Well, we keep lookin’.” Chewing a root, Bron frowned. “Oughtta get rats,” he mused. “Could make stew with rats.”
“Saw a rat,” one of them said. “Couldn’ catch it, though. Need a bashin’ tool.”
“Maybe find a bashin’ tool someplace,” Bron decided. With that resolved, he lay back, curled himself comfortably and went to sleep.
Chapter 12
Dartimien the Cat raised his head an inch as birds erupted from a treetop a quarter mile up the trail. Concealed in high brush, as nearly invisible as any human could be without the use of magic, he studied the slopes above, only his dark eyes moving. A red fox, its big ears twitching with caution, crept from the shelter of a deadfall log and froze in place, its eyes and nose testing the surroundings. Then, satisfied that it was alone, it scurried past within arm’s reach of the hidden man, unaware that he was there.
Dartimien saw it pass. He saw everything, from the slightest tremor of pine needles to the wheeling of a hawk in the distant sky. But he wasn’t interested in foxes, hawks or pines. He was looking for people, and the birds up-trail had told him where those people were.
With a slight movement of his hand he signaled the four Gelnian assassins in cover behind him to be alert, and be silent. Their prey was near.
Dartimien the Cat was good at his work. A product of the teeming, squalid back streets of South Daltigoth, he had earned his nickname before he was eight years old. Like a hungry cat, he knew every back alley and crawlway, every sewer and garbage heap, and every loose shutter or broken lock within a mile. Fleet of foot, quick and lithe despite the hunger that was his constant companion as a child, he was as crafty and elusive as a stray cat, and so they had called him.
His skills had been expanded by a time of servitude to Ergothian fur hunters in the wilds of Bal-Maire, and by the time of the Great Turmoil he was a prime candidate for service as a nightraider in the Caergoth Legion.
Now, like countless others-almost a brotherhood of mercenaries-he did what he did best, in order to live. He was Dartimien the Cat-a hunter. He hunted.
From what he deduced, the Tarmites-those in the citadel out there in the valley-had found something to help them against the forces of Gelnia. An artifact of great magic, the rumors held. Whatever it was, they were waiting for its arrival. But to arrive, it first had to be smuggled through the Gelnian blockade. The purpose of the assassins was to find the smuggler and stop him. And Dartimien’s job was to help them do that.
How many ways were there into the Vale of Sunder? Seven or eight, he guessed. Therefore, there must be ambush squads on that many separate trails, and there must be someone like him with each squad, to be its eyes and ears. But none of that mattered to him. This trail was his, and the birds told him that he was in the right place. Within minutes, he should see movement at the bend directly above, and then he would know how many there were for the ambushers to deal with, He would know, too, whether they had pack animals and, knowing that, he would know exactly where they would pass, and when.
He waited, counting heartbeats, and then there was movement above-exactly where he had known it would be. It was gone in an instant, but Dartimien the Cat had seen what he needed to see. He eased back through the brush, and turned.
“Two men,” he said. “Both afoot. No escort, no animals. Follow me, silently, if you can! I’ll show you where to wait.”
“Where will you be?” a scar-faced veteran demanded. Like the others, like most of Chatara Kral’s forces, the man looked out of place in the Gelnian colors he wore. “Can we count on those daggers of yours to-”
“Count on nothing,” Dartimien snapped. “I hired on to lead you to a smuggler. That’s all. What you do with him is no concern of mine. Now pay me.”
“We haven’t caught him yet,” the Gelnian said. “You get paid when the job is done.”
“I get paid now,” the Cat purred. “If you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have hired me.”
“Then you can blasted well trust us, too!”
“No, I can’t,” Dartimien said, smiling. “And you know it.”
With a muttered oath, the Gelnian slapped a handful of arrowheads down in front of him. They were fine, dwarven-crafted points, made of tempered nickel-iron steel-a better currency in trade than the coin of any realm. Dartimien picked them up, counted them, and put them away.
“As agreed,” he said. “Now follow me. I won’t give you your smuggler, but I’ll show you where to get him for yourselves.”
On the downward trail leading into the Vale of Sunder, Graywing called a momentary halt and crept forward alone to get the lay of the land. The trail ahead wound downward, in and out of stretches of forest so that only a turn here and there was visible to indicate the general direction of it.
The slopes in both directions were infested with Gelnians. Smoke from their many campsites hung like banners against the sky, and Graywing knew that there was other smoke as well. The blockade of Tarmish was strengthened by countless warriors of every ilk in the pay of the Gelnian regency. He had seen some of them on the roads leading toward the Vale. There were little bands of painted sackmen festooned with their deadly feathered darts, Abanasinian archers, swordsmen and mace-wielders from Estwilde and Nordmaar, little units of Nerakan infantry, plainsland horsemen of a dozen tribes and, among them, here and there, squads of Solamnic heavy cavalry, gaudy with armor and lance. Some still wore the raiment of knighthood, though reduced by circumstance now to the true first rule of chivalry: survive at any cost.
The orders of knighthood still lived in Solamnia, but there were few vacancies. Most “knights” now were free-lance fighters.
Graywing studied the smoke, and knew the placement of troops, but it was not those he could see that worried him. It was those he could not see, but knew were there, the Gelnian sentries and ambushers who would be lying in wait for any who tried to pass between the camps.
Tall and lithe in buckskins and soft boots, his great sword slung at his back with its hilt at his shoulder, Graywing at work was the very picture of the classic Cobar warrior. All that was lacking was his horse. The picture was not deceptive. With plainsman’s eyes now, he studied the trail ahead and knew its secrets.
Once on the open valley floor, they would be past the blockade. From there, swift feet and a little luck would carry them to the Tarmite stronghold. But here on the slopes, cunning was required.
There, his eyes selected a forested crest overshadowing the faint path and there, and there … If assassins lurked, those were the places they might be found.
The most likely ambuscades he discounted. The Gelnians would know that Tarmish awaited outside aid, and they would assume that someone like him-someone the equal of their own best mercenaries-would be with those trying to get through. Therefore, the place of ambush would be selected by a specialist.
His eyes narrowed as he spotted the rock spur only a quarter of a mile away, an innocent-looking little rise beside the trail, so low and innocuous that no one would suspect an ambush there. If assassins awaited, that was where they would be.