claws and pressed against a dragon’s breast had almost
killed him. A more complex individual probably would
have died from compounded fright and shock. Glitch had
only screamed and passed out.
Since then, though, he had decided that he enjoyed
being carried around by a dragon, and seemed to be doing
everything in his power to maintain the status quo.
Whether by his own doing or by simple luck, Glitch had
kept Verden’s self-stone lodged somewhere inside him for
nearly a week. Through sheer stubborn perversity, it
seemed, Glitch I had become constipated, and seemed
determined to remain that way until Verden delivered him
and his subjects to their Promised Place. She couldn’t kill
him, she couldn’t dispose of him – each time she let go of
him for more than an hour, her wounds began to open
again – and she couldn’t separate him from the rest without
chancing that he would somehow disgorge the stone and
lose it.
The self-stone in his belly was the Highbulp’s
guarantee, and the arrogant little pest knew it. Somehow,
through all the days and all the stews, the self-stone
remained inside Glitch as though it were glued there.
Their Promised Place. They didn’t know where it was,
or even what it was, but Glitch I was basking in his new-
found glory as a dragon owner, and would settle for
nothing less than the perfect spot. He had become
downright obnoxious about it. Into the region of Itzan Nul
she led them, and there – as the Aghar slept under bright
moons – a familiar dragon-voice came again to Verden,
speaking within her mind. “You have survived,” it said. “I
wondered if you would.”
“No thanks to you, Flame Searclaw,” she responded
in kind, hatred riding on the thoughts. “You left me back
there. You knew I was there, and you left me to die.”
“You were injured and useless.” The red dragon’s mind-
voice seemed almost to yawn with disinterest. “There are
uses for you, now, though. The armies are . . .”
“Don’t speak to me of uses,” Verden shot, hot rage
edging the thoughts. “You and I have much to settle … as
soon as I am free to come for you.”
“You have a duty.. ..” Searclaw’s thoughts were
scathing.
“Begone!” Verden thought, blanking out the mind-
talk.
She would not forget her “duty.” But first she must
retrieve her self-stone. She must deliver these useless
gully dwarves to their Promised Place. Visions of
slaughter danced in her mind as she thought of the
moment when her precious talisman was safe once more.
The Highbulp and all the rest . . . how she would make
them suffer when they were no longer needed. But first . .
.
Where might it be – the place they would accept as
their Promised Place? There were many places –
abandoned places, devastated places, places where no one
now lived or might ever want to live again. Such, logic
said, was a fair definition of a Promised Place for gully
dwarves. So Verden led them, on and on, as the days
passed. Past the fortress realm of Thorbardin, through
wilderness and uncharted lands, beyond Pax Tharkas they
journeyed, skirting the beleaguered realms of elf and man.
As she scouted aloft, carrying Glitch I at her breast,
the voice of Flame Searclaw again sought her out. Cruel
and impatient, its tones as fiery as the ruby scales that
flashed when he flew, the red dragon penetrated her mind
with his distant voice. “What are you doing?” he
demanded. “You were told to come, but you are not here.
Report!”
“You should be glad I have not come to you, Flame
Sear-claw,” she shot back, fiercely. “We have a score to
settle, you and I.”
“Any time you like, green snake,” his voice was
contemptuous. “But first, you have a duty. Why are you
not here?”
“I can’t come,” she admitted. “Not just yet. There are
these . . . these creatures. They have a hold on me, and
insist that I lead them . . . somewhere.”
“Creatures?”
In her mind she felt the red dragon’s presence, sensing
beyond what she had said. Then it recoiled in disbelief.