her hand. It was a sturdy hardwood branch an inch thick and
about two feet long. “Pretty good bashin’ tool,” she decided.
“Bashin’ tool,” Krog rumbled.
By the time they got back to the others, Drule had three
rodents for the pot and Krog was busy fashioning a bashing
tool of his own. He had found a section of broken tree trunk
about five feet long, and was shaping it to his satisfaction
by beating it against rocks as they passed. It was a noisy
process, but the implement pleased him. It felt right and
natural in his hand. He held the forty-pound club in front of
him, studied it with satisfied eyes, tossed it in the air, caught
it, and studied it again. “Pretty good bashin’ tool,” he said.
By the time the stew was ready, daylight was gone.
“Better stay here for sleep,” the Lady Drule told the others.
“Go on tomorrow.”
“Go where,S Mama?” Krog wondered.
“Find others.”
“These others?” He indicated the crowd around the fire.
“No,” she said. “Other others.”
“Fine,” the Grand Notioner said, picking out a stew
bowl. He dipped it and sat down to eat as others made their
way to the pot. There weren’t enough iron bowls to go
around – much had been lost when the cavern of This Place
had collapsed – but they made do with vessels of tree bark,
cupped shards of stone, and a leather boot that someone had
found and cut down.
Drule had just started eating when she heard a sniffle in
the gloom, a very large sniffle. She looked up. “What matter
with Krog?”
“Want some, too,” the monster explained.
The Lady Drule filled a tree-bark bowl and gave it to
Krog. He sniffed it, opened his mouth, and popped it in,
bowl and all. He swallowed. “Good,” he said. “More?”
Hunch, the Grand Notioner, stared up at the big creature
in disbelief. “Gonna need lots more rats an’ greens,” he said.
“Bark, too, if Krog keep eatin’ th’ bowls.”
“Rats?” Krog’s eyes lit up. “Krog get rats with bashin’
tool”
He stood, picked up his club, and vanished into the
darkness. He was gone for a long time, and most of the
gully dwarves were asleep when he returned.
Drule saw him approaching and held a finger to her
lips. “Sh!” she said.
Quietly, Krog came to the waning fire, found a clear
spot and dropped something on the ground, something very
big. “Rats too quick for Krog,” he whispered. “Can’t catch
’em. This do?”
Drule gaped at the thing. She had seen cave bears
before, but never a dead one, and never up close. It certainly
would make a lot of stew, she decided.
*****
The Highbulp Gorge III was not happy. First to be
snatched up by armed Talls and herded cross-country with
a rope around his neck, lashed with whips and insulted at
every stumble, then to be thrown into a cage with the rest
of his followers and dozens of Tall captives as well – Gorge
was almost certain that his dignity had been offended,
among other things.
“This intoler . . . outra . . . unforgiv . . . this stink!” he
grumbled, pacing back and forth in the comer of the roofed
pen where the gully dwarves were huddled. “Slave, Talls
say. Not slave. I Highbulp!”
“Not slave either,” several of his subjects agreed.
A voice growled, “You gully dwarves pipe down or
you’ll feel the lash.”
“Hmph!” Gorge muttered, but lowered his voice.
“Maybe dig out? Skitt? Where Skitt?”
“Here,” a sleepy voice said. “What Highbulp want?”
“Skitt, you dig hole.”
“Tried it,” Skitt said in the gloom. “Rock underneath.
Need tools, no tools. G’night.”
“Might cut through bars,” another suggested. “Bars are
wood.”
“Cut with what?” still another pointed out. “Same thing.
Got no tools. If had anything for cut, could – ”
“Shut up over there!” a human whispered from the
other side of the pen. “You’ll get us all in trouble!”
“Hmph!” Gorge said, feeling helpless and hopeless.
Armed guards patrolled around the pen. Nearby, the
fires of the slavers’ camp burned bright. They had been
coming in all day, groups of four to eight at a time, most of