Greyfax Grimwald (29 page)

Dwarf’s mind turned to his cat, Froghorn. Raven had not mentioned the cat.

“What of my Froghorn, Raven? Do you know what’s become of him? Did he escape?”

“You mean the wizard Fairingay? You speak of him as if you didn’t know.” Raven raffled his feathers up and laughed.

“You mean, my cat, Froghorn, was ...” blurted Dwarf, remembering Greyfax’s drawing room, and what he had said about being more closely guarded than he knew. “I’ve heard of thick-headed dwarfs before, but none that can top me,” mused Dwarf, angered at his own blindness which had kept him from seeing through the wizard’s disguise. Moving to an upright position, which put Raven more at ease, he recalled how he had thought the eyes gave him the idea for the name of Froghorn. But now he saw that it had been the magician’s own sense of humor that had tricked him, so that he gave the wizard his own name. Dwarf chuckled, recalling how they had often fought.

“I think perhaps he must have hated that chore,” he started again, laughing. Then his mirth faded, and he yearned for some way to find Fairingay, or Greyfax.

“You didn’t by chance discover where he was going, did you, Raven? I have urgent need of his counsel now.”

“A great swift steed came and bore him away. To where, I fathom not, yet doubtless he was off to wherever wizards go when they are not off somewhere else,” Raven said sagely.

“Where on this side of the River could that possibly be?” complained Dwarf, going over in his thought any mention of places where the two wizards were always going to or coming from. If it were somewhere that could only be readied by the high magical spells of Greyfax, he was lost, but if it were upon some errand among Mankind, he had a slim chance, no more, of finding one of the two, but a slim chance was enough, and Otter and Bear had already gone before him, so they were out there too, somewhere, and with the least particle of dwarf luck at all, he would surely find one or both of them, sooner or later.

This prospect burned brightly within him, and thanking Raven for all he had said, Dwarf gave him one of the last of the tins of honey, stroked his backfeathers courteously, and began once more his long and wandering journey that had brought him so far, across the Great River, into the now destroyed valley where he’d dwelt so long, into the heart of the enemy’s camp, and now farther still, ever onward, toward the dim shapes of the distant mountains.

Raven, too flustered to speak by Dwarf’s great kindness, cast his eyes downward, unable to meet Broco’s gaze as he said his farewell. He was too ashamed to tell Dwarf he had taken the fine, shining bell from the ruins of his house.

“S
tand down, stand down,” went up the excited cry. “Make ready to move within the hour.” The soldier hurried along the company streets of the sprawling camp, repeating his message over and over, and a great noise of men moving purposefully about greeted Otter and Flewingam as they entered the picket lines of General Greymouse’s perimeters. They had been challenged every few miles since entering the mountains, but Flewingam had known one of the men at the first checkpoint they had reached, and found out from him the current password, so they had passed on unhampered until with first light they were in General Greymouse’s large war bivouac, listening to the orderlies raise up their loud cry of tidings.

“It looks as if they are preparing for battle,” said Flewingam. “They usually don’t hold stand down unless a skirmish is close at hand.”

Otter, walking by his side, carried the firearm, for the other man’s arm was still sore and weak from his wound.

“Here, you two,” bellowed a deep, growly voice, “over here and give me a hand with this gun.”

The two men walked on.

“Hey, you men, get over here and help me,” barked the curt voice, and a hand tapped Otter’s shoulder roughly. Seeing Flewingam’s wounded arm, the sergeant who had stopped them softened his voice.

“I didn’t see you was hurt. Get along then, and have it tended, but you,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Otter, “you get over here and give me a hand. You ain’t hurt none, are you?”

“I’m helping this fellow along,” explained Otter sensibly. “I’ve got to get him to where he can get his arm fixed.”

“Oh, you do now, do you? Well, I’m going to tell you a little secret, soldier. I’m going to fix
your
arm if you don’t move it and help me get this piece loaded up.” The man glowered dangerously near Otter’s startled face.

“Go on and help him, Otter. I’ll wait,” said Flewingam softly.

Otter handed him the firearm and went with the sergeant to put the gun up on a pack-harnessed mule. Returning presently, he wiped his hand-paws on his trousers and whistled angrily in his own tongue, then added in man speech, “I can see why you gave up this business, friend. Soldiers certainly seem to have a very grumpy sort of meanness to them. I thought Dwarf was bad with his face forever puffed out, but these fellows make that seem like nothing at all.” Otter took back the weapon, and they continued on.

“I’ll be anxious to meet your Dwarf, if ever I get the chance. From the way .you speak of him, he must be a most jolly sort of comrade.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as jolly, although he does have a few chuckles in him. When he’s not in a huff, or skulking around raving about worrying, he’s quite interesting to chat with. And Bear, dear old fellow, is always full of some yarn or other. I do miss them, you know.”

Flewingam nodded, and pointed his good hand in the direction of a large tent.

“That’ll be the hospital tent. I’ll just go in and get this broken wing patched up, then we’ll see if we can’t see General Greymouse. You come and wait inside so some duty sergeant won’t snap you up.”

The two friends went inside, and a man in a white apron came out and took Flewingam behind a lowered canvas flap, leaving Otter sitting alone to wait. There was nothing to pass the time with, so he fell to listening to the hurrying, noisy sounds of the army outside, preparing itself, for battle. Shouts and curses broke back and forth over the louder clink of weaponry or wagon, and far away, like the promise of a thunderstorm on a hot humid July morning, came the distant thumping of big guns. Otter had heard the noise of bombardments many times on his journey, but this barrage grew louder still, until the very earth trembled from the pounding reply and answer of the huge cannons. Instead of dying away, to be followed by the ragged din of small arms, this bombardment increased its pace. Even the medical orderly who worked at a field desk before Otter halted in his work to listen, whistled, and shook his head.

‘“I’m glad I’m not over there this morning” he mused, half to Otter, half to himself. “But I expect we’ll be busy enough ourselves before the day is out,” he ended cryptically. His pale, thin features contracted into a smile.

Otter walked to the open flap of the hospital tent and peered out. Platoons and squadrons marched by, singing, and the cold air hung heavy with the white breath of many men. Above the mist cloud raised by the soldiers, Otter could make out a distant, brownish gray pillar of smoke that had billowed upward from away in the direction of the enemy lines. The bombardment continued, and the lines of men thinned as they passed the door where Otter watched. Looking off to his right, he saw an unbroken string of men and equipment winding away over the soiled white snow in the direction where the smoke pall hung. The beginning of the long line was almost out of sight now, and reminded Otter of a dark bluish green snake rippling away into some high meadow grass on a faraway summer when he rested by his quiet stream from play.

A sudden whistling grated across the rust-colored edges of the sky, was silenced, then a tall, towering geyser of debris rose up to a great height, and the earth trembled violently. Otter’s ears were buffeted with a deafening, reverberating boom. He regained his balance, and looked out again. Like ants in a disturbed hill, the tiny, faraway figures of men scurried here and there, filling his visions with thousands of crawling small things. Another series of whistle grates, and more muddy brown geysers lifted their heads into the cold morning air. The bursts were still far toward the front of the line of troops, but an occasional explosion fell long, behind the vanguard, ripping apart a tent not half a mile from where Otter watched, an awesome curiosity aroused in him.

A figure raced by Otter, bumping him aside. The medical orderly shouted back over his shoulder at him, “Find cover, you ass. Those are incoming bursts,” and so saying, fled away to the safety of a long, zigzagging trench. Loud whooshing whumps rocked the hospital tent. Otter bolted through the drawn flap where the doctor had taken Flewingam. In his haste, he left the firearm where he had dropped it when the orderly had brushed him aside.

“Friend Flewingam, where are you?” Otter yelled, trying to be heard over the terrible explosions.

Flewingam’s head appeared from beneath an iron bedstead.

“Come here, quickly. Get down here with me. It won’t stop much, but at least the debris won’t get us.” The man pulled Otter brusquely down beside him.

“What does all this mean? Are we attacked?” asked Otter breathlessly, trying hard to hold down the ugly fear that had crept over his heart. Waiting for the sky to split open on top of him wasn’t a way in which Otter would like to face dangers. There was something so terrible about the idea, his limbs began to tremble, and he felt the string, steady hand of Flewingam on his own.

“It’s all right, Otter. These things aren’t very accurate, and .they only shoot them over to try to frighten us.”

“They’re enough to frighten me. And what happens if one of them falls on your head? Does that only frighten you, too?” Otter was beginning to regret bitterly having been led to his destruction by this man.

As quickly as it had begun, it stopped, and the tent flap flew open before six cursing, sweating men. They carried a seventh, covered with dirt and blood, and hastily laid him upon the gleaming white table in the center of the room. Two of the men wore aprons such as the man who had led Flewingam away, and they had white bands tied about their faces.

“Get his shirt off,” shouted one of the masked men. “And get lots of water.”

An orderly burst out, running hard. “And you, get my kit, quickly, lad. I’m afraid he’s taken a grievous hurt” The masked doctor began quickly arranging a number of gleaming sharp instruments on the table beside where the injured man lay. The orderly, bearing a large caldron of water, returned, and soon the six figures moved silently about the man upon the table, hands going rapidly here and there, opening, closing, swabbing, scrubbing, sewing wounds, until after more than half an hour had passed, the masked figures stood away from the table, sighing wearily.

An elegantly uniformed man with silver markings at the shoulders came in and lingered a moment, still holding the flap in his outstretched hand.

“The general?” he asked hesitantly.

“He’s going to make it,” replied a doctor

Flewingam flinched as he heard the word. It was General Greymouse who had been wounded. He advanced toward the table where the silent figure lay.

“You, you there, soldier, what are you men doing in here?” snapped an orderly approaching Otter and Flewingam.

“I was having a hurt mended, when the barrage began. We took shelter here.”

“Well, get on about your duties. Your wound is bandaged.”

Flewingam looked down at the ashen, drawn face of General Greymouse.

“I had intelligence for the general,” said Flewingam.

“It’ll have to wait,” broke in the other doctor, removing his surgical gloves. “The general is in no shape to talk to anyone.”

“Come here, trooper,” the man with silver embroidered on his trousers ordered. “I’m General Greymouse’s next in command. What intelligence do you carry that’s so urgent?”

“Sir,” said Flewingam, forgetting his injured right arm and wincing with pain at the movement.

“That’s all right, soldier, I know you’re wounded. What message have you?”

“I had counted on being able to tell the general sir.”

“You can see for yourself he’s wounded. Come, deliver your message.”

Flewingam quickly told all he knew of the numbers and location of the Gorgolac raiding party they had encountered.

“And this fellow carries dire tidings from his homeland, from whence he’s been upon the road for ‘ almost a hundred days, seeking General Greymouse’s counsel.”

The colonel looked from Flewingam to Otter. “Are you in the service?” he asked.

“No sir, “I’m waterfolk by trade, and come bearing news of a friend of the general’s.”

“A friend of the general’s? How is he called? What army does he command? Is he upon the way to aid us?”

Otter answered each of the questions as best he could.

“He “commands no army, sir, or at least none that I know of, and he is called Froghorn Fairingay, and he’s not on the way here, or at least if he is, he wasn’t when I left him.” Otter paused, gathered his breath, and went on. “He sent me to the aid of Mithra, I mean General Greymouse, for some dark power holds our Dwarf hostage, and General Greymouse might be able to help us get him back.”