Flint the King p2-2 Page 2

  The strange dwarf wore a tight chain mail shirt and a well-worn cap of smooth leather. His high boots were light, almost like moccasins, but showed the wear and stain of much travel. Hanak smacked his lips and rubbed his hands together as he looked at the shelves of food.

  "You must be new to Solace," said Flint noncommitally.

  Hanak shrugged. "Just passing through, actually; I'm headed for Haven. I hail from the hills south of here a good ways, almost down to the plains of Tarsis. Never been this far north before," he admitted.

  Flint turned back to his shopping but then felt the other dwarf's eyes on him.

  "You're from the south too, unless I miss my guess."

  "You don't," Flint admitted, facing the stranger again.

  Hanak's inquisitive words made Flint uncomfortable.

  "Not so far south as me, though — east hillcountry'd be my guess," the other hill dwarf said, tapping his chin in thought, squinting at Flint. "Perhaps just north of Thor bardin?"

  "How did you know?" Flint asked brusquely. "I've never met anyone who could pinpoint someone's region so closely!"

  "Well, now, it wasn't too difficult," the dwarf said, his tone implying anything but. "I travel for my living, selling leather work. I detected a slight accent and noticed the black in your hair — nearly every dwarf in my region has red or brown; And that long, loose, blue-green tunic and those baggy leather boots — you've been away from dwarves for some time, haven't you? I haven't seen anyone wearing that style in years, you know. Say, what village are you from, exactly?"

  Flint was a little put off by the clothing comments — he'd gotten the boots as a gift from his mother a few decades before — but he decided the dwarf meant no offense. "I was raised in a little place called Hillhome, smack between Thor bardin and Skullcap."

  "Hillhome! Why, I was there but twenty day ago. Was trading my boots and aprons. Not so little anymore, though. A shame what's happening there, isn't it?" he said sympathetically. "Still, you can't stop progress, now can you? Um, um, um," the dwarf muttered, shaking his head sadly.

  "Progress? In Hillhome?" Flint snorted. "What did they do, raise the hems on the frawl's dresses by half an inch?"

  "I'm talking about the mountain dwarves!" yelled Hanak.

  "Marchin' through town, drivin' their big wagons over the pass. They even stay at hill dwarf inns!"

  "That pass was built by hill dwarf sweat, hill dwarf blood!" cried Flint, appalled at the news. "They'd never let the mountain dwarves use it!" No, never, Flint repeated ve hemently to himself.

  The history of the hill and mountain dwarves was a bitter one, at least during the centuries since the Cataclysm. At that time, when the heavens rained destruction upon

  Krynn, the mountain dwarves withdrew into their great un derground kingdom of Thorbardin and sealed the gates, leaving their hill dwarf cousins to suffer the full force of the gods' punishment.

  The hill dwarves had named the act the Great Betrayal, and Flint was only one of the multitudes who had inherited this legacy of hatred from his forefathers. Indeed, his fa ther's father, Reghar Fireforge, had been a leader of the hill dwarf armies during the tragic, divisive Dwarfgate Wars.

  Flint could not believe that the dwarves of Hillhome would avert their eyes to the undying blood feud.

  "I'm afraid they are," replied Hanak, his tone gentler.

  "Theiwar dwarves at that, the derro dwarves of Thor bardin."

  "Derro? It can't be!" growled Flint. That was even worse.

  Indeed, the derro — the race of dwarves that comprised the bulk of the Theiwar clan — were known to be the most mali cious of mountain dwarves. Their magic-using shamans had been the prime instigators of the Great Betrayal.

  The other dwarf backed a step away this time and held up his hands defensively. "I only know what I saw, friend, and I saw derro strolling merrily among the dwarves of

  Hillhome — and not a one of the hill dwarves was spitting on

  'em, either."

  "I can't believe that," Flint muttered, shaking his head. "I can't believe my brothers would allow it. Our family used to carry some weight in the village. Maybe you heard our name — Fireforge? My brother's name is Aylmar Fireforge."

  A shadow crossed the other dwarf's face fleetingly, and he seemed almost to nod, then think better of it. "No, it doesn't ring a bell," he said, then quickly added, "but I didn't stay long enough to get to know anyone so very well."

  Flint ran a weary hand through his salt-and-pepper mop.

  Could Hanak be right about mountain dwarves infesting

  Hillhome?

  Flint felt a strong hand squeeze his shoulder. "If my kin folk were dealing with devils, I'd go have me a look," Hanak said kindly. "May Reorx guide you." With that, he strolled out the door of the grocery, leaving Flint to his troubled thoughts.

  Amos slammed a brown, wrapped bundle onto the counter before him. "Salt, a bag of apples, four eggs, a slab of bacon, one jar of pickles, two loaves of day-old bread, four pounds of the richest Nordmaarian chicory root known to man — and dwarves — " He snickered "- a vial of tar to fix those creaky shutters before winter sets, and the long-awaited malt rum," he finished with satisfaction.

  Flint reached into the pocket of the vest over his shoulder and said distractedly, "You can leave the tar. I won't be here to see winter reach Solace."

  Noting the dark tone in the dwarf's voice, Amos looked at his friend with concern, but he knew better than to ask ques tions. The shopkeeper had never seen Flint so preoccupied, even when those young, troublemaking friends of his were in town. He took the money for Flint's purchases and word lessly nodded good-bye.

  Chapter 2

  The Trail Home

  Darken Wood. The place certainly earns its name, thought Flint. Tall pines, their needles a green that was al most black, towered over the forest floor-. Huge, musty oaks, draped with thick vines and feathery moss, and even an occasional looming vallenwood trunk that rose to disap pear among the foliage, prevented a single sunbeam from reaching the ground.

  The forest was not huge, but Flint knew that it sheltered a number of dangerous denizens. Some years earlier, a small party of mercenaries had entered Solace bearing an unusual trophy — the head of a troll slain in these woods. Bands of hobgoblins and worse reputedly still dwelled among the an cient trunks of Darken Wood.

  The feeling of potential danger brought Flint a keen sense of awareness even as his mind wandered. The narrow trail twisted among the tree trunks, enveloped by ferns and great, moist growths of mushrooms and other fungus. The scent of warm earth, heavy with decay, overwhelmed the dwarf with a thick, cloying presence.

  Flint did not find the odor unpleasant. Indeed, after his long residence among humans, not to mention the constant presence of kender, elves, and other races, this dominance of nature refreshed his spirit and lightened his step. There was something joyful in this solitude, in this pastoral adven ture, that brought a forgotten delight to Flint's soul.

  For many hours he made slow progress, not from any sense of exhaustion, but instead because of the great ease within him. His hand stroked the smooth, worn haft of his axe. Absently, his ears and eyes probed the woods, alert, al most hoping for a sign of trouble.

  The trail forked and he paused, stark still for a moment, listening, thinking. He sensed the earth, the twists and turns in the surrounding land — as only dwarves could — through his thick-soled boots. Soon he learned what he needed to know, and he chose a direction.

  Toward the south for a while. Flint followed no map and needed no compass to maintain the route he had selected. It would lead him the length of the woods, and avoid both the lands of the Qualinesti elves to the south, and the seeker ruled city of Haven to the northwest.

  The seekers, he thought with a mental grimace, I would walk to the ends of the earth to avoid. Those pesky

  "prophets" had made life in Solace unpleasant enough. But in Haven — the city that was their capitol and the center of their arrogant wo
rship — their presence was sure to be un bearable.

  The region of Qualinesti was different, though. Flint had actually entertained thoughts of going there, into that nest of elves, to see his old — and unlikely — friend, the Speaker of the Suns. Flint remembered fondly the time he had spent in Qualinost some years back. He was still one of the few dwarves who had ever been invited into that elven kingdom — and by the speaker himself! A visiting dignitary had acquired a silver and agate bracelet at a territory fair, which he then gave to the elven leader. The Speaker of the

  Suns had been so impressed by the metalsmith's craftsman ship that he had tracked down the smith, who was none other than Flint Fireforge of Solace, and extended an invita tion for the dwarf to demonstrate his craft in the marble elven city.

  It was during that first trip to Qualinost that Flint had met Tanis Half-Elven, the Speaker of the Sun's ward. Young

  Tanis had stood for hours watching the dwarf's demonstra tions in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint under stood the boy, who seemed unhappy because of his mixed heritage, and the two spent many pleasant hours together whenever the business of selling his crafts brought Flint near Qualinesti.

  The dwarf was tempted now to find the half-elf. On their last night together at the Inn of the Last Home, Tanis had said he was going to go on a quest that would bring him to terms with his heritage at last. Flint presumed Tanis meant he was going back to face the full-blooded elven relatives of his in the city of Qualinost who had never really accepted the half-elf. The dwarf was somewhat concerned about his friend, but he had shrugged off any misgivings. After all, the companions had agreed to separate for five years, and

  Flint would be damned if he'd be the one to break that agree ment.

  So he would give Qualinost a wide berth and follow the forest paths instead. He knew that if he kept a steady pace he would pass from the wood around nightfall.

  Flint began to wonder now, in the quiet of Darken Wood, if he hadn't been fanciful, believing even half of what the dwarf back at Jessab's had said. Mountain dwarves — much less the replusive derro — in Hillhome! Yet why would

  Hanak have invented such a tale? Flint pushed the question away for the time being. The answer would be made clear soon enough.

  He had been getting lazy in Solace — and bored, if the truth be known — without his young friends around. He had been at rest too long. Unconsciously he hefted his axe.

  Flint found himself thinking about Aylmar and wonder ing how long it had been since he had seen his older brother.

  Oh, fifteen, maybe twenty years, he decided with a frown,

  Then a smile dotted his face as he recalled the escapades they had had together, the nick-of-time victories, the grand treasures.

  In particular he remembered the grandest treasure of them all — the Tharkan Axe. His older brother Aylmar and he had stumbled upon the axe on one of his earliest treasure hunting forays into the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains, near Pax Tharkas, to be exact, which was why the brothers had so named it. Typical dwarven greed had driven the two

  Fireforge brothers into the deepest recesses of a hobgoblin lair that was rumored to be filled with riches. Dispatching more than fifteen of the hairy-hided, six-foot monstrosities with blows to their red-skinned heads, Flint and Aylmar had made their way through the last of five interconnected caves to the hobgoblins' treasure chamber. There, atop a four foot-high pile of coins and glittering gems, the beautiful axe gleamed like a beacon. Aylmar had snatched it up first while

  Flint stuffed his pockets and pouches with other riches, then the two had run from the lair before any more hobgoblins appeared.

  Many years later Aylmar, his heart already showing the weakness that would soon force him to retire from the ad venturing life, presented the weapon to Flint on his

  Fullbeard Day — the dwarven coming-of-age celebration.

  Smirking, and using the teasing tone that he knew got Flint's dander up, Aylmar had said, "Considering the girlish way you fight, boy, you need this a lot more'n me!" That had been more than forty years ago.

  The dwarf remembered, with a touch of gruff sentimen tality, the times he had wielded that Tharkan Axe on his travels. The magnificent weapon had gleamed, cutting a sil ver are around Flint in battle. For several good years the weapon had served him. It served to remind him of Aylmar as well.

  His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds where he had lost the axe while on yet another treasure hunt. Amid heaps of coins, a scattering of gems, and the bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains, a figure of cold, sucking blackness had lurked. A wraith of death, it had seized Flint's soul with its terrible grip. A deadly chill had settled in his bones, and he had staggered to his knees, hope less to resist.

  The Tharkan Axe had flashed, then, with a white-hot light that drove the wraith backward and gave Flint the strength to stand. With a mighty heave, the dwarf had bur ied the weapon in the shapeless yet substantial creature be fore him.

  The wraith had twisted away, tearing the axe from Flint's grip. In terror, the dwarf had fled from the barrow, empty handed. Later he returned, but there had been no sign of treasure, wraith, or axe.

  Flint looked forward the most to seeing his older brother again. Aylmar would be disappointed, though, to learn that his younger brother had lost the Tharkan Axe. Flint glanced with barely concealed scorn at the inferior, worn battle-axe now resting in his hands. The weapon bore only the most superficial resemblance to the great Tharkan Axe. Where that enchanted blade had shone with the glow of perfect steel, its edge ever sharp, his current weapon showed the pocks of corrosion. The wooden handle was thin and worn, long overdue for replacement.

  Yes, it would feel good to see the rest of his family, as well,

  Flint had to admit. Aylmar had been patriarch of the clan since Flint was a youth, when their father had died of the

  Fireforge hereditary heart condition, leaving behind a wife and fourteen children. Flint's work-worn mother had passed on some twenty-odd years ago, which was the last time Flint had been to Hillhome, for the funeral.

  Aylmar had a wife, Flint knew, though he could never re member her name. And at least one son, young Basalt. Flint remembered his nephew quite clearly. Basalt had been an enthusiastic youngster, somewhat of a hellion. Aylmar had grown dour with age and responsibilities, and he disap proved of his son's prolific time in the alehouse and gaming hall. As a consequence, Basalt had adopted Flint as his mentor.

  Flint flashed on a collage of faces and names, his own younger brothers and sisters — harrns and frawls, as the dwarven sexes were noted. There was Ruberik, Bernhard,

  Thaxtil — or was that Tybalt? Quiet, demure Glynnis and brash Fidelia emerged from the faces of his sisters. He had left home before the seven youngest siblings had been much more than babes, and he had forgotten most of their names since his last visit.

  It was not unusual for dwarves to loose track of their rela tives, but Flint wondered now if perhaps he should have paid more attention to the younger children — they had been a good bunch, always eager to fetch things for their older brother, willing to give up the extra pastry or bite of meat for the brawny Flint. And there had never been that much to go around.

  With a start, Flint realized that if he did not hurry now, the sun would set before he came to the edge of Darken

  Wood. He stepped up the pace. Even so, it was already early evening on his first day out of Solace when Flint at last came upon the White-rage River. Flint crossed the rushing stream on a high suspension bridge that reminded him of the village in the vallenwoods, and made camp on the eastern bank in the shelter of two red maples. The next day he followed the bank of the White-rage until he reached the Southway Road.

  For a little more than one joyously uneventful week of nearly perfect blue skies, Flint advanced down the Southway Road, which formed the eastern fringes of Qualinesti, avoiding the rare habitations of the elves. On the morning of the eighth day he left the Southway Road
, since it continued southwest to the ancient fortress of Pax Tharkas, and Hillhome lay to the southeast.

  He blazed his own trail through the hillcountry, the thick forests and foothills east of that settlement. Here the vast slopes of dark fir trees surrounded barren chunks of sharp granite. A land of steep gorges and winding valleys, the hills did not achieve the height of true mountains, but their cha otic nature made the trail as rugged as any snowswept al pine ridge.

  This was hill dwarf country, Flint's homeland, and the rough ground was like a smooth path under his feet. He spent the ninth night, a rainy one, in an isolated, warm, and nearly empty dwarven inn in the Hills of Blood, where he rinsed the dusty trail from his body and whetted his appetite for his impending reunion with his dwarven clan.

  His mind lingered less on the rumors of mountain dwarves in Hillhome and more on memories of the village: the cozy stone houses lining the broad main street; the sheep and goats in the surrounding sloping fields; Delwar's forge, where Flint had first seen the shaping of metal by fire. He re called the sense of safety and security that always seemed to linger like smoke around the kitchen hearth of his mother's home. And the scent of the thick-crusted, fresh-baked rolls he and his father would purchase each morning from Frawl

  Quartzen's bakery after the cows had been tended. They were good memories…

  Late in the cold afternoon of the eleventh day, Flint's trip was lengthened by a detour around the Plains of Dergoth.

  Prior to the Cataclysm nearly three hundred fifty years be fore, the plains held many water holes. When the Kingpriest of Istar brought the anger of the gods down upon Krynn, the face of the world was changed, and the land south of Pax

  Tharkas turned to desert. One hundred years later, during the Dwarfgate Wars — which were an attempt by the hill dwarves and their human allies to retake Thorbardin after the Great Betrayal — the magical fortress of Zhaman col lapsed in the Plains under a powerful spell and formed the hideous skull-shaped mound known afterward as Skullcap.