“So, we’ll find her,” the gruff voice snapped. “She can’t go far. But first let’s get those little pests out of Lord Vulpin’s chambers! Get that door open!”
“It’s bolted,” another voice pointed out.
“Then unbolt it, imbecile! Get some prying bars up here. If that doesn’t work, we’ll break it down.”
Chapter 18
Dartimien the Cat took good advantage of the momentary confusion following Graywing’s flight into the brush. Dashing directly beneath the belly of a knight’s rearing mount, he whirled and pointed back the way he had come. “That way, Sir Knight!” he shouted. “Don’t let that man escape!”
As the armored rider and his followers veered to follow his point, Dartimien scuttled aside, disappeared beneath the flaps of a wares tent and reappeared a moment later swathed in the long, dark robe of a Gelnian priest.
He bowed solemnly as a company of footmen raced by, then swung flat-handed at the officer bringing up the rear of the line. The edge of his hand took the man in the throat, and Dartimien caught him as he fell. In the space of a heartbeat he had dragged the armsman into the wares tent. When he emerged again, a moment later, it was as a platoon officer of the Gelnian guard.
For a moment he watched the wild, blind search in the nearby brush, then he turned away and harshly beckoned to a pair of stragglers. “I want each of these sheds and tents searched, immediately,” he ordered them. “Those thieves may have hidden contraband here. Look for a carved ivory stick, three or four feet in length. It’s tapered and curved, much like a maenog’s horn. Search for it, then report back to me here.”
The guardsmen saluted, and began their search. With that part of the encampment covered, Dartimien marched across to the main armory and searched that himself. The two guards at the gate had hardly noticed his approach, and didn’t notice anything at all thereafter.
There was no sign of the Fang of Orm. The Cat emerged into sunlight, clad now in the bright cloak, plumed helm and light plating of a captain of lancers. Thus attired, he approached the headquarters pavilion of Chatara Kral and confronted the captain of guards at the entrance. “Why was I summoned here?” he demanded.
The huge frostman stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “How should I know?” he rumbled.
“If you don’t know, then who does?” Dartimien pressed, squaring his shoulders and managing to look down his nose at the big Icelander, who towered head and shoulders above him.
“Ask them inside there,” the giant said. “They don’t tell us anything.”
As though the hulking brute didn’t exist, Dartimien strode forward, and the big man hastened to step out of his way. The other guards, seeing their leader pass the visitor, also gave way.
Once inside the great tent, Dartimien ducked aside and disappeared among the bales of provisions stacked there. In the open center of the place, Chatara Kral herself was directing a conference of commanders who were planning their assault on Tarmish. But none of them saw or heard the silent intruder as he made his way around the pavilion, poking here and prodding there.
He was just completing his search of the place when there were shouts and screams outside. “Dragon!” someone shrieked, and other voices joined in. The conference in the pavilion broke up as people there rushed to look outside, then scurried back in, their frostman guards nearly trampling them in their panic.
“Dragon, huh?” Dartimien muttered to himself. “Wonder how the barbarian managed that? Well, one diversion is as good as another.” He crept through an unguarded flap, and straightened his cloak. He watched with surprise as a great, green, or almost green, dragon swept away toward the forested hills. “There really was a dragon,” he muttered. “How about that?”
Pausing only long enough to glance toward the wares tents, where his appointed searchers cowered under a tilt-up shed, he turned and went the other way. They hadn’t found the Fang, either. They would have had it in hand if they had found it.
“You, there!” a voice called. Dartimien turned to face the giant from the pavilion, one of the frostmen of Chatara Kral’s personal guard. The huge man wore a long necklace of steel chain over his bearskin jerkin, and held a heavy axe in his hand as lightly as Dartimien might have clutched a dagger. “You didn’t identify yourself,” the frostman growled. “Who are you?”
The encampment around them still was a scene of panic. People and animals were still reacting to the fearful passage of the dragon. But apparently this monster had a one-track mind. It was not at all distracted.
Dartimien gazed up at the brute, curiously. “Did you see a dragon out here?”
“Yeah,” the giant rumbled, frowning. “They didn’t say there’d be dragons when we took this job. If any more of those things show up, I’ll look for work somewhere else.” He paused, and his frown deepened. “Who did you say you are?”
Dartimien was tempted to gull the giant with some elaborate tale, but decided against it. Within a minute or so, the camp would be settling into its routines again, and it wasn’t worth the risk. So he merely shrugged. “I’m an intruder,” he admitted. “I don’t belong here and I’m probably an enemy. But I’m just passing through.”
With an oath, the giant raised his axe and swung it, but it clove only thin air. Dartimien had ducked under the cut. Before the frostman could reverse his swing, the Cat dived between legs the size of tree trunks, catching the giant’s dangling steel necklace as he went. Behind the giant he rolled, sprang to his feet, planted a soft boot against the brute’s buttocks and kicked, at the same time heaving at the necklace. With a roar, the giant did half a somersault and crashed to the ground, headfirst.
It took the frostman only seconds to recover, but it was enough. Dartimien the Cat had disappeared.
In the rope corrals near the brushland, chaos lingered. Hundreds of horses, still in panic from the dragon’s approach, were racing around, pitching and rearing, breaking their hobbles and charging the ropes. The melee was beyond the capability of a few dozen horse-handlers, so other men from several sub-camps had run to lend a hand.
All around the encampment, mercenaries of all kinds scowled at one another. “Nobody told us there’d be dragons,” several muttered, over and over. “Definite breach of contract, bringing in dragons,” others pointed out.
In the general turmoil, no one noticed one more volunteer, helping with the horses. Dartimien moved among them, carefully selecting a fine pair of plains-bred mounts already wearing saddles and gear. These he collected by their reins. He calmed them by whispering in their ears and breathing in their noses as he had seen plainsmen do. Then he led them away. Once in the heavy brush bordering the sloughs, he turned northwestward, following faint tracks in the sand.
Gully dwarves scattered here and there as he intercepted the Bulp migration, but he ignored them. After a moment, they ignored him, too … or forgot about him. Leading his horses, he rounded a bend in the dry watercourse and found Graywing waiting for him.
“I wondered where you’d gone,” the plainsman said. “I don’t suppose you found the Fang.”
“It isn’t there,” Dartimien shook his head. “I looked.”
“Well, these little Aghar don’t have it, either.” Graywing took the reins of the two horses, looking them over with expert eyes. “Good,” he muttered.
Inside the tower, Tunk fidgeted on Lord Vulpin’s cushy chair. “Talls don’ sound too happy,” he noted.
“I think we’re trapped,” Thayla Mesinda said.
“This a nifty thing!” Bron chortled, still playing with the telescope. “Highbulp ought to see this.” He swung the glass this way and that, then stopped, staring. “Hey!” A wide grin spread across his face. “There Gandy! An’ ol’ Glitch an’ Lady Lidda an’… there Pert, too!” He jumped up and down on the chest, waving his bashing tool. “Hi, Pert! Hi, Dad! Hi, ever’body!”