discobel, turning its huge crank inch by inch as the long
throwing arm rose above them. Lying on its side, the
sidearm thing became a slanted pole, its outward end
creeping toward the sky above the sheer walls of rubble
around them.
“No business . . . comin’ this way … in the first place,”
one of them grunted, heaving at the windlass of the crank.
“Nothin’ here . . . just ruins.”
“Shut up!” the other hissed. “Your fault we … fell in
this – canyon . . . now pull. . . harder . . . only way to … get
out of here.”
In the shadows. Clout whispered, “What Talls doin’?”
“Dunno,” Gandy shrugged. “Tall stuff don’ make
sense. Hush.”
Slowly, out in the little clear area (which was, indeed,
like a deep canyon among sheer walls, if one looked at it
as a human would, not seeing the many avenues of exit
that were like highways to gully dwarves), the two men
labored at the discobel’s windlass and the sling arm rose
inch by inch. Several times they had to stop and rest, but
finally the arm stood straight up, its tip only a few feet
from the nearest wall of stone.
The men looked up. “That’ll do,” one of them panted.
“Let’s tie it off. I’d hate to have that thing trigger itself
while we’re climbing up there.”
The other paled at the thought, and trembled. “Gods,”
he muttered. “Splat!”
“Shut up and tie this thing off with something. Here,
what’s this? The set-pin?” He picked up a sturdy cylinder
of worked hardwood, about three feet long, and glanced
from it to the barrel of the discobel. “Yeah, there’s its slot.
Hold that windlass ’til I get this in place.”
With the other bracing the windlass, he set the pin in
its slot and tapped it with a rock to firm it. The other eased
off on the crank, eased a bit more, then stood back,
sighing in relief. The pin held. The machine remained
motionless.
“Let’s get out of here,” one of them said. Gingerly, he
stepped to the base of the cranked-up arm and grasped it.
Using its guy-bars as hand- and foot-holds, he began to
climb. The other followed. From below, they looked like a
pair of squirrels climbing a huge tree trunk, except that
instead of branches, the trunk had triangles of cable
bracings, held outward by heavy wooden guy-bars. They
climbed higher and higher. At the top they hesitated, then
swung from the tip of the arm to the top of the jagged
wall, and disappeared from sight. Their voices faded, and
were gone.
“Wonder what that all about,” Tagg muttered. He
scratched his head and looked around, puzzled. There was
something he was supposed to do, but he had become so
engrossed in watching the Talls that he had forgotten
what it was. The others had, too, but after a moment old
Gandy snapped his fingers. “Find stone for dragon,” he
reminded them. “Stone ’bout this big.”
They stepped out from the “tunnel” and peered
around. “Lotta stones ’bout that big, all over,” Tagg
pointed out. “Which one?”
“Dunno,” Gandy admitted. “Better take ’em all.”
They set to work gathering small stones – all except
Clout, who had lost his bashing tool somewhere and felt
uncomfortable without it. He set about finding a new
bashing tool.
With Gandy selecting rocks, and Tagg, Plit, and
Gogy collecting them, they had a nice pile of stones going
by the time Clout found what he was looking for. It was a
sturdy cylinder of polished hardwood, resting among the
inexplicable vagaries of the great wooden device lying in
the rubble.
It was exactly what he wanted, but it seemed to be
stuck. He pulled at it, heaved at it, and it budged slightly
but would not come free. Frowning with determination,
he clambered out of the maze of timbers, found a good,
heavy stone, and went back in.
Clout had a philosophy of life – only one, but it had
always served him well. His philosophy was: if a thing
won’t move when you want it to move, bash it.
From outside, they heard him hammering in there –