“GULLY DWARVES? You, the great Verden Leafglow, a
hostage to … to gully dwarves?” Cruel laughter echoed in
the mind-talk. “What is it they want of you?”
“To take them to their Promised Place. But they don’t
know where that is!”
“Gully dwarves.” Again the cruel, shadowy laughter.
“Hurry and deal with your . . . with your new masters,
Verden Leafglow. Your presence here is commanded.”
The mind-voice faded and Verden trembled with rage.
“Ouch!”
She glanced down at the struggling Highbulp. “What?”
“You squishin’ me! Don’ squeeze so hard!”
You little twit, she thought. I could squeeze the very
life out of you with no effort at all. Still, she sensed the
self-stone lodged inside the little creature, responding to
his discomfort. HER self-stone. It must be protected.
Reluctantly, she eased her grip.
Everywhere, the dragonarmies were on the move, and
Verden Leafglow ached to join them – to join in the death
and destruction they brought. She itched for the sport of it.
A dozen times, holding the smelly, irritating little
Highbulp to her breast, she led them to dismal, deserted,
unwanted places – splendid places for gully dwarves. But
each time, Glitch I, the Highbulp, took a slow, arrogant
look around and said, “Nope, this not it. Try again.”
Verden thought longingly of how pleasant it would be
to slice the strutting little twit into a thousand bloody
chunks and scatter him all over Ansalon. But for the self-
stone lodged within him . . .
“Not Promised Place,” he insisted, time and again.
“Nope, this place okay for This Place, but not Promised
Place. Dragon promise Promised Place. Try again.”
Beyond the Kharolis’, while her unwanted charges
slept beneath the visible moons, a thoroughly exasperated
Verden Leafglow took Glitch and went scouting. On great
wings, fully healed if only temporarily, she soared high in
the night sky. All her senses at full pitch, she searched,
and where ancient scars creased the shattered land, the
mind-talk came again.
Like a taunting, contemptuous message, hanging in the
air, waiting for her to hear it, it was there. Flame
Searclaw’s voice, from far away. A chuckle of evil mirth,
and words.
“So they still possess you,” it said. “The least among
the least, they search for their heritage. And Verden
Leafglow is their slave. How marvelous. There is an
answer to your riddle, though.”
“Continue.” Verden Leafglow sneered mentally. “You
have my attention.”
“Destiny,” the non-voice snickered. “A Highbulp of
destiny. And one such as you to guide him. How
exquisite.”
Verden growled in fury, but listened.
“Xak Tsaroth,” the dragon voice said. “Xak Tsaroth is
a suitable Promised Place. Xak Tsaroth. The Pitt. They
belong there. Let the Pitt be their destiny. And delivering
them to such a place, at such a time, is your reward.”
With a final chuckle of deep, taunting amusement, the
voice of Flame Searclaw repeated, “Xak Tsaroth . . . the
Pitt . . .” and faded.
Xak Tsaroth. Soaring on wide wings, Verden looked
down at the Highbulp Glitch I, pressed to her breast. The
little twit had, of course, heard none of it. He was sound
asleep. Xak Tsaroth. Despite her hatred of Flame Searclaw
and the murderous rage she felt toward him, an evil
delight grew in Verden. Her reward, indeed. She knew
what was in Xak Tsaroth. There could be no finer revenge
on the gully dwarves than to deliver them there. Others of
their kind were there . . . enslaved, abused and at the
mercy of draconians. These should join them.
The idea was very sweet to her.
Verden Leafglow had returned to the combined clans
by the time they awakened. Like a great, serpentine pillar
of brilliant emerald, she towered above them. Her vast
wings were radiant in the morning sun and her formidable
fangs alight in her dragon mouth. Little Highbulp seemed
a ragged doll clenched at her breast. Huge and malevolent,
Verden Leafglow loomed over the puny creatures – and
shuddered with revulsion when one of them tripped
sleepily over her toe.
Without ceremony, she rousted them out and told
them, “I have found your Promised Place. Get a move on,
and I’ll take you there.”