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Gadlin the dwarf felt the
rope in his hand go taut, suddenly wrenching his arm back behind him. That
stupid, stubborn mule had stopped dead in its tracks again. He turned to
face the creature, murder in his heart and malice in his eye.
"You miserable, smelly, worthless, offspring of a demon
from the deepest hells," he growled, staring malevolently into its
eyes. "I can perfectly understand why you want to die. You are
useless for any purpose under heaven other than to eat and expel toxic
gasses."
The mule stood motionless, responding not at all to the
torrent of verbal abuse unleashed on him by the frustrated dwarf. If it
knew at all that it bore on its back some twenty pounds of gold nuggets
that represented Gadlin's entire fortune, it did not show it with movement
or concern. It knew only that the diminutive miner was shouting, a thing
he did often. The mule knew only that it was thirsty and that no coercion
would move it until that thirst was attended to.
The stalker had as reason to be upset at the intransigent
mule as did Gadlin. He had been up all the previous night and moving quickly in the
dark to get ahead of the dwarf in order to lay his ambush. For more than
three days he had been following Gadlin, since he'd left the diggings.
Patiently he had tracked. Uncomplaining, he had endured the desert heat,
scorpions, and deadly vipers for a chance at the dwarf's treasure. His
ambush was well laid. His camouflage was perfect. That gold was within his
reach. Then the mule stopped in its tracks and refused to move another
inch.
The sun beat down on dwarf and beast. Gadlin's fury spent
itself as
quickly as it ignited. He simply could not sustain his anger under the
onslaught of searing heat from above.
"How about a little bribery?" Gadlin offered,
changing his tone to one of accommodation. He moved around to the mule's
side retrieving a partially filled goatskin and a bowl. He poured a bit of
water into the bowl, returned the skin to its hanger then moved back in
front of the mule. Without uttering another word, he allowed the mule to
drink.
"That's right," the stalker encouraged in a voice
only he could hear.
"That's what that mule needs. Now bring me my gold. Bring me my
treasure, dwarf."
Shade protected the stalker from direct sunlight for now, but
he was by no means comfortable. The outcropping of rock above him would
only be good for another hour or so, more than enough time for him to kill
Gadlin and steal the gold. If only the dwarf would get moving again. The
would be thief fondled his crossbow absent-mindedly. Soon he would be
rich.
The mule, refreshed, responded to Gadlin's rope tug and
obligingly
followed him once more. For his part, the dwarf was now thinking not about
mules, but about the narrow passage of ravine he would be passing through
shortly. There was no other way to go from the high desert plateau on
which he now walked down into the low desert valley wherein awaited cold
beer, a hot meal, a soft bed and maybe a little friendly conversation with
one of the ladies at the Inn of the Crying Lion. Certainly such things
were worth the hardship of the trek, and perhaps even the danger of
ambush.
The mule stopped again. The rope in Gadlin's hand came up
short and spun him around. His anger was instantaneous.
The stalker had already drawn a bead on the dwarf when the
mule stopped. His finger rested lightly against the trigger. He exhaled in
frustration, but otherwise did not move. Long experience told him that the
distance between him and the quarry was just a hair too great for a
killing shot. He growled under his breath. What was with that mule?
Gadlin's tirade lasted fifteen minutes. He introduced the
mule to words and phrases that would have shriveled the creature into a
limp gelatinous mass had it been able to comprehend the language. He
kicked small rocks and raised his hands into the air, appealing to the
gods to strike down the mule with lightning. All to no avail it was.
Finally, he again retrieved the goatskin, this time pouring a generous
amount of water into it.
The mule consumed every drop of the delightful fluid. Quite
of its own
accord it began to move forward toward the entrance to the ravine. Gadlin,
shaking his head followed. Finally catching up, he took the rope in hand
once more.
The stalker was alive with anticipation of the fabulous
reward he would reap from the soon-to-be dead dwarf. Twenty pounds of gold
- enough to feed him for five years - he would eat and drink like a king.
He shifted slightly as Gadlin, disappeared into the one blind spot he
would pass through before becoming the easiest target in all the desert
kingdoms. In a few seconds, the ambush would be consummated.
Out of sight of the stalker, Gadlin had been brought to yet
another dead stop by the mule. His patience was completely gone. He picked
up a medium sized rock fully with the intention of doing the creature in
when he heard a sudden cry of pain burst out from what would have been in
front of him had he not been facing and about to brain the mule.
Sword in one hand, light crossbow in the other, Gadlin
abandoned the mule in place and moved swiftly to investigate. The ambush
would have worked perfectly had it not been for a single scorpion.
Offended by a human occupying its rock, the insect had sunk its stinger
into the back of his neck. It would have escaped too, had it not been for
the swiftness of the stalker's last movement.
Two days later, at the Inn of the Crying Lion, a late evening
traveler
came upon a startling scene. A dwarf stood in front of a water trough next
to a mule unencumbered by any burden. Two burly men emptied the contents
of two beer kegs into the trough, immediately after which the beast began
to imbibe the frothy liquid in great noisy draughts while at the same time
nosily emitting long, obnoxious peals of flatulence.
Because there was no other inn for a hundred miles, the
traveler stopped for the night. He was treated to free beer, free food and
fine music, all commissioned by Gadlin the dwarf, wealthy for the moment,
and quite happy to be alive.
(c) 2001 by Bob Liddil.
All Rights Reserved
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