One of them, repeated several times, resembled the squiggles Scrib had drawn earlier, representing mushrooms. And there were squiggles of many other kinds, as well. Intuition crept up Scrib’s spine, making his hair itch.
A few times in his life, Scrib had encountered “Talls,” or humans, and “swatters,” the true dwarves of the mountains and the hills. Both races, to a gully dwarf, were mysterious, dangerous creatures, quite beyond comprehension in most ways. But Scrib recalled vaguely a thing he had noticed before. Both humans and dwarves seemed to be able to make squiggles talk.
“This a message?” he breathed, excitement flooding through him. “Maybe somebody leave instructions.”
“Instructions for what?” several interested Aghar wondered.
“For us!” Scrib snapped. “All kinda squiggles here. All mean somethin’. Been tryin’ to tell you, squiggles mean stuff … See?” He pointed impatiently. “This kin’ squiggle mean ‘mushroom.’ Here, an’ here an’ here. Mushroom.”
“Lotta mushroom,” somebody said. “How many?”
Scrib counted the squiggles that, to him, meant mushroom. There were several of them. “Two,” he decided. “An’ lotsa other kin’ squiggles, too. Like worms an’ trees an’ li’l boxes. An’ this one look like a storm. Somebody tryin’ to tell us somethin’ here.”
“Maybe say it gonna rain,” someone suggested, helpfully.
“Gonna rain worms an’ boxes,” another elaborated.
The voice they heard then seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Though as soft as a disgusted mutter, it was a very big voice, and seemed to fill the shadowy reaches of the cavern. “What a bunch of nitwits!” it said. “Those are runes, you little idiot. Don’t you know about runes?”
Eyes wide, the gully dwarves stared around in the gloom. “Who that?” somebody squeaked.
Little winds stirred the dust of the old cellar and great wings whispered softly in the shadows above. All eyes turned upward, gawking in terror. It looked as though great parts of the shadowed ceiling had detached themselves and were descending-a sinuous, graceful flow of shadow among shadows slowly took form as stunned Aghar eyes traced the outlines of huge movement. With wings spread wide, rippling along their edges, and its great, graceful tail sweeping this way and that, the dragon seemed to fill the recesses above.
“D-d-dragon?” Scrib whispered, terror in his eyes.
“Craze like runny!” a panicked Aghar shrieked.
Frenzied gully dwarves scurried about, running blindly in circles, then froze in place as the big, irritated voice rasped, “Stop that! Stand still! Do you want me to step on you? Gods, what a bunch of little ninnies!”
Huge, reptilian feet, feet with gleaming talons like great, curved blades, touched down as gently as feathers among the fear-frozen Aghar, and the dragon settled its weight and folded its wings. A scale-armored head bristling with spikes swung this way and that on a long, sinuous neck, peering at each of them in turn, as though memorizing them. The little creatures seemed frozen with terror.
“Who’s in charge here?” Verden Leafglow asked, as pleasantly as her natural aversion to the insipid little creatures permitted. Time and experience had brought about profound changes in the green dragon-time, experience and the attention of a god. Reorx had given her a new way of thinking, and she settled more and more into it. Once she would have killed every gully dwarf in sight without giving it a second thought, just for the fun of it. But many things had happened since those times, and a gully dwarf had once shown her a mercy. Now, strangely, she felt inclined to tolerate the despicable creatures-so long as they didn’t irritate her too much.
For a moment none of them responded. Most of them, in fact, were too terrified to move even their lips. Then one of them stuttered, “Wh-what dragon say?”
“I asked who’s in charge here,” Verden repeated.
“Dunno,” the gully dwarf said. “What’s-’is-name usually in charge. Ol’ G-glitch. th’ Highbulp. Highbulp not here now, though.”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno. Someplace else. M-may-maybe dragon go s-someplace else, too? Might fin’ Glitch.”
“I don’t intend to go off searching for some nitwit gully dwarf!” Verden snorted.
“Okay,” the unfrozen one said. “Then we go someplace else. No p-problem. Bye, dragon.” With a shudder he turned, started to run and collided with another gully dwarf. The collision seemed to trigger a chain reaction. By the tens and dozens, fear-frozen Aghar found their feet, running and colliding in all directions. Where there had been silent, still gully dwarves, now abruptly there were noisy, panic-stricken gully dwarves scurrying, colliding, tumbling and falling like dominoes, everywhere.
Verden Leafglow raised her majestic head, shaking it in disgust. “Gully dwarves!” she hissed. The hiss became a roar. “All of you, stop it! Stand still!”
Obediently all the commotion ceased. With a fore-claw the size of a giant’s rapier, Verden singled out Scrib and tapped him on the chest. He goggled at her and nearly fainted. “You,” she said. “How are you called?”
Scrib blinked, swallowed and shrugged. “Any ol’ way,” he said. “Mos’ly jus’, ‘Hey, you!’ that g-good enough.”
“I mean, what is your name?” Verden snapped.
“Oh, that,” Scrib said. “Name S-scri-scr … uh … Scrib. Pleased t’ meet you, dragon. Bye.”
“Come back here!” Verden snapped. “Show me what you have found.”
“Okay.” Scrib began emptying various pouches and pockets in his clothing. “Got a m-m-mar-marble,” he said. “An’ piece of string, an’ a t-t-turtle t-tooth an’ some rocks. Ol’ flat b-black rock an’ sof’ white one. An’ part of a lizard, an’-”
“Gods,” Verden muttered. “I don’t care what’s in your pockets, I want to see the runes you found.”
“See wh-what?”
“The runes! The … the ‘squiggles!’ ”
“Oh.” Scrib brightened. Someone was showing interest in his discovery. And even though that someone happened to be a dragon, still he was pleased. And it didn’t seem as though the dragon meant to kill him, at least not right away. “There,” he pointed a grimy finger at the bronze surface gleaming dully beneath its coating of mildew. “Squiggles,” he pronounced. “In my bes’ judgm … opin … looks to me like stuff ’bout mushrooms.”
“It has nothing to do with mushrooms,” Verden grunted, peering at the ancient inscriptions.
“Not mushrooms?” Scrib was a bit deflated. “What, then?”
“It’s a sign,” Verden said.
“Sign?” Scrib stood on tiptoe, trying to see past the dragon’s huge muzzle. “Yep, mebbe so. Sign is doodles that talk. Swatters got signs in Th’bardin. Say stuff like, ‘Fourth Road,’ ‘No Tresp … tres … keep off,’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ Talls got signs, too. Signs say ‘Solace Three Miles,’ an’ ‘Eat at Otto’s’ an’ ‘No Aghar Allowed.’ ” Enthralled, he planted a foot on the dragon’s lower jaw, between her jutting fangs, grabbed a great nostril and hauled himself up onto the beast’s snout. There he knelt, leaning precariously to get a closer look at the bronze plate.
“Get off my nose!” Verden snarled. With a yelp Scrib tumbled from the dragon’s snout. He landed on a huge forepaw and cringed between scaled “fingers” the size of tree roots.
Ignoring the little oaf, Verden scanned the ancient inscription:
Upon this rock be balance found. Let harmony reside here, on the fulcrum of the shining stone. Eternal the heritage of high and low.
Verden puzzled over it, then lifted a delicate talon to chip away bits of the mildew-fouled surface below the bronze. The gully dwarf, clinging frantically to her finger, bounced and chattered in terror.
Beneath the ancient coating of the column was pure, white quartz. Unmasked, it seemed to glow with a life of its own.
“It is a sign,” the dragon breathed. “This is the sign Reorx promised.”
Unburdened by any significant attention span, Scrib instantly forgot the terror of a moment before and clambered up the dragon’s arm for a better view. Perched on her gigantic shoulder, he peered at the ancient column. “What sign say?” he asked.