the elk antler. “Get stew goin’,” he ordered. ” ‘Bout time to
eat.”
The Lady Drule stepped aside to confer with other
ladies of the clan. There were shrugs and shaking heads.
She paused in thought, gazing into the murky reaches of the
cavern.
“Rats,” she said.
Gorge glanced around. “What?”
“Rats. Need meat for stew. Time for hunt rats.”
Within moments, small figures scurried all around the
cave and into the tunnels leading from it. Their shouts and
chatter, the sounds of scuffing, scrambling feet, the thuds
of people falling down and the oaths of those who
stumbled over them, all receded into the reaches of the
cavern.
Gorge looked distinctly irritated. “Where ever’body
go?”
“Huntin’ rats,” the Lady Drule explained.
“Rats,” Gorge grumbled. No longer the center of
everyone’s attention, he felt abandoned and surly. He
wanted to sulk, but sulking usually put him to sleep, and
he was too hungry to sleep.
It was a characteristic of the race called Aghar, whom
most races called gully dwarves: Once a thing was begun,
simply keep on doing it. When at rest, they tended to stay at
rest. But once in motion, they kept moving. One of the
strongest drives of any gully dwarf was simple inertia.
Thus the rat hunt, once begun, went on and on. The
cave held plenty of rats, the hunting was good, and the
gully dwarves were enjoying the sport . . . and exploring
further and further as they hunted.
Stew, however, was in progress. Seeing that her
husband was becoming more and more testy, the Lady
Drule had rounded up a squadron of other ladies when the
first rats were brought in. Now they had a good fire going,
and a stew of gathered greens, wild onions, turnips and
fresh rat meat was beginning to bubble.
Gorge didn’t wait for the rest to come to supper. He dug
into one of the clan packs, found a stew bowl that once had
been the codpiece on some Tall warrior’s armor, and helped
himself.
He was only halfway through his second serving when
a group of gully dwarves came racing in from the shadows
at the rear of the cave and jostled to a stop before him.
“Highbulp come look!” one said, excitedly. “We find . .
. ah …” He turned to another. “What we find?”
“Other cave,” the second one reminded him.
“Right,” the first continued. “Highbulp come see other
cave. Got good stuff.”
“What kind good stuff?” Gorge demanded, stifling a
belch.
The first turned to the second. “What kind good stuff?”
“Cave stuff,” the second reminded him. “Pretty stuff.”
“Cave stuff, Highbulp,” the first reported.
“Better be good,” Gorge snapped. “Good ‘nough for
inter . . . int . . . butt in when Highbulp tryin’ to eat?”
“Good stuff,” several of them assured him.
“What kind stuff? Gold? Clay? Bats? Pyr . . . pyr . . .
pretty rocks? What?” Another resounding belch caught him,
this one unstifled.
The first among them turned to the second. “What?”
“Pretty rocks,” the second reminded. “Highbulp come
see!”
“Rats,” Gorge muttered. Those around him seemed so
excited – there were dozens of them now – that he set down
his codpiece bowl, picked up his candle, and went to see
what they had found. A parade of small figures carrying
candles headed for the rear of the cavern – the guides
leading, Gorge following them, and a horde of others
following him. Most of them – latecomers on the scene –
didn’t know where they were going or why, but they
followed anyway. Far back in the cavern, a crack in the rock
led into an eroded tunnel, which wound away, curving
upward.
As he entered the crack, Gorge belched mightily. “Too
much turnips in stew,” he muttered.
By ones and threes and fives, the gully dwarves entered
and disappeared from the sight of those remaining.
The Lady Drule and several other ladies were just
coming back from a side chamber, where they had been
preparing sleeping quarters. At sight of the last candles
disappearing into the tunnel, Drule asked, “Now what goin’
on? Where Highbulp?”
Hunch was inspecting the stew. He looked up and