Flint the King p2-2 Read online

  That same explosion tore apart the Plains of Dergoth once again, and marshes crept over the surrounding land.

  Flint had no interest in wading through a swamp — his fear of water was legendary among his friends in Solace. So it was that he chose to climb through the low mountains to the northeast of the narrow pass that cut through the peaks to Hillhome. Flint took his time in finding a clearing just to the east of the pass and off the Passroad, then in collecting and igniting the right logs for a hot, long-lasting fire, and fi nally in sizzling the last of the fat slab of bacon he had brought with him from Solace. As darkness settled, Flint re laxed. I'll miss this solitude, he thought, sighing.

  He looked at the Passroad, just a little below his camp.

  Deep ruts ran along its length. Whereas in the past it had borne only the traffic of.sheep- and goat-herders, or the oc casional farmer's cart, now the road was wide and well worn.

  Flint recalled the building of the Passroad from his child hood, though he had been too young to help with the work.

  The hill dwarves had labored for several years to smooth out the grades, lay a stone foundation over the swampy stretches, and create a route that could, someday, connect

  Hillhome to the not-so-distant shore of the Newsea.

  The immediate purpose of the road had been to open up the valley adjacent to Hillhome to hill dwarf settlements, and this had occurred to a limited extent. Still, in retrospect, the road had not been very profitable, considering all the work.

  Suddenly Flint's thick body tensed like a mandolin string.

  He was not alone.

  The dwarf's first warning was a vague perception, not re ally sight but more sound, of something approaching from the southwest. Wooden wheels crunched over gravel. Flint turned from the low fire to the pass, and his infravision — the natural, temperature-sensing ability of dwarves that al lowed them to see objects in the dark by the heat they radiate — quickly adjusted.

  A heavy, broad-wheeled wagon, looking more like a huge rectangular box, rattled up the rutted Passroad from the di rection of Hillhome. Who would be driving a wagon through the pass in the dark of night?

  Flint stepped from his fire to the edge of the road. Hun kered over intently on the buckboard, the driver snapped a whip over the heads of the four-horse team that was labor ing to pull the wagon up the steep incline toward the pass.

  The steeds snorted and strained, pulling an obviously heavy load. Flint could not determine whether the small figure of the driver was dwarven, human, or something worse. Now he could see two more forms standing several feet behind the buckboard in a guarding stance, holding onto the sides of the lurching wagon. As they drew closer, Flint caught sight of three sets of unnaturally large eyes.

  Derro dwarves. That explained why they were willing to drive through the mountains at night, Flint realized.

  Derro were a degenerate race of dwarves who lived pri marily underground. They hated light and suffered from nausea when in the sun, though they were known to venture from their subterranean homes at night. While normal dwarves looked much like humans, only differently propor tioned, derro dwarves tended toward the grotesque. Their hair was pale tan or yellow, their skin very white with a blu ish undertone, and their large eyes were almost entirely pupil.

  And they were reputedly so evil and malicious that they made hobgoblins seem like good neighbors.

  Flint thought about dashing behind an outcropping, but it was already too late to hide: he had been spotted along the roadside. He was more than curious, anyway, remembering

  Hanak's sighting of derro mountain dwarves in Hillhome.

  The driver's hideous eyes bore into Flint's from about fifty feet away, and the derro stopped the wagon at the crest of the pass with a violent tug on the reins.

  "What are you doing here at this time of night, hill dwarf?" The driver's voice was raspy, and though he spoke

  Common, the words came to him slowly, as if the language were not totally familiar. The derro on the sides of the wagon dropped to the ground, and one circled around the horses to stand protectively below the driver still on the buckboard. Each held a shiny steel-bladed battle-axe casu ally in his hands.

  "Since when do derro claim rights over Hillhome's pass?"

  Flint was not the least bit frightened. He watched the armed guards, whose eyes were focused on the axe hanging from

  Flint's belt. The two derro wore dark metal breastplates and heavy leather gauntlets. They carried themselves with the cocksure attitude of veteran warriors. The driver, who was unarmed and unarmored, held the reins and watched.

  "You hill dwarves know the agreement," the driver growled deep in his throat. "Now get back to the village be fore we are forced to report you as a spy… or worse," he added. The guards took a step toward Flint, gripping their weapons with purpose.

  "Spy!" sputtered Flint, almost amused, and yet his hand moved to his axe. "Great Reorx, why would I be doing that?

  Speak up, dwarf!"

  The horses pranced impatiently on the Passroad, snorting misty breath into the chilly night air. The driver stilled them with a jerk on the reins, then clenched his fists at Flint. "I'm warning you — get out of the way and go back to the vil lage," the driver hissed.

  Flint knew he would get no answers from these derro. He forced his voice to remain level. "You've already caused me to burn my bacon with your nonsensical questions, so pass if you must and I'll return to my charred dinner."

  Flint saw the two armed derro separate as they neared him. Each held his battle-axe at the ready, and Flint looked at the weapons with momentary envy, thinking of his own, trail-worn blade.

  With growing annoyance, Flint hefted his axe. His body tingled with energy, anticipating battle. Though he did not seek a fight with these mountain dwarves, he would be cursed by Reorx before he'd back down from his hereditary enemies.

  "Can you prove you're not a spy?" asked one, taunting.

  Flint stepped to the side, away from the fire. "I could if I thought enough of such wide-eyed derro scum to be both ered with it," he snapped, his patience gone.

  The nearest derro flung himself at Flint, his axe whistling through the air. The hill dwarf darted backward in time to also avoid the second derro, who charged in low. The two mountain dwarves' axes met with a sharp clang of steel.

  A sublime sense of heightened awareness possessed Flint as he turned to parry a blow from his first attacker, then sent the second derro reeling back with a series of sharp blows.

  Hacking viciously, he knocked the fellow's weapon to the ground just as the other one leaped back toward him.

  Whirling away, Flint raised his own axe in a sharp parry.

  The two blades clashed together, but the hill dwarf stared in dismay as the haft of his axe cracked, carrying the head to the ground. Suddenly Flint was holding only the haft of his battle-axe. He stood there, defenseless, as if naked.

  The second guard's pale, blue-tinged face split into a gro tesque grin at Flint's predicament. A sinister light entered his eyes as he raised his axe, ready to crush the hill dwarf's skull.

  Flint moved with all the quickness his years of battle expe rience could muster. He thrust the axe handle forward, us ing it to stab like a sword. The splintered ends of wood struck the derro's nose, and the Theiwar dwarf cried out in agony, blinking away blood.

  Flint struck again, smashing the wooden stick over the derro's knuckles, which gripped his axe. Crying out again, the guard dropped his weapon, stumbling blindly from his bloody nose and eyes. Flint quickly snatched the axe up and swung menacingly at the suddenly retreating derro. He turned on the one who was sprawled on the ground, urging him along as well.

  The two disarmed Theiwar sprang onto the wagon as the driver lashed the horses. Whinnying with fear and snorting white clouds of breath into the night air, the massive beasts struggled to get the heavy wagon rolling. In moments it lurched through the pass and started on the downhill trek to the east and Newsea. As they rumbled away, t
he hill dwarf got a good look at their pale, wide eyes staring back at him around the side of the wagon, their glares full of hatred, and not a little fear.

  Thoroughly disgusted with the needless fight, Flint stomped back to his fire and snatched the pan of burned ba con, tossing the blackened remains into the scrub. No longer hungry, he sat with his back to the flames and pon dered the strange encounter.

  His mind was a jumble of burning questions. What sort of

  "agreement" with these evil dwarves could have caused the hill dwarves to forget centuries of hatred and forced poverty because of the Great Betrayal? And what did the derro have to hide that they were concerned about spies?

  Thorbardin, ancient home of the mountain dwarves, lay some twenty miles to the southwest, past Stonehammer

  Lake. Flint knew that the derro belonged to the Theiwar, one of five clans in the politically divided underground dwarven city. Mountain dwarves as a whole were notori ously clannish, concerned only with their mining and their metalcraft. So of all the clans, why would the derro come to the surface, since they were ones the most sensitive to light?

  Flint examined the axe his attacker had left behind. It was a weapon of exceptional workmanship, hard steel with a sil ver shine and a razor-honed edge. He would have guessed the axe to be of dwarven origin, except that the customary engraving that marked every dwarven blade was missing from the steel.

  Flint shivered, whether from cold or apprehension, he could not be sure. Still, it reminded him the fire needed stok ing. Tossing two small logs onto the coals, he stared into the flames until the fire's mesmerizing effects made his eyelids heavy.

  These mysteries he would take to sleep, unresolved. He moved away from the fire to where he could keep an eye on the camp yet remain concealed. But nothing disturbed him again that night. -

  Flint awoke at first light and at once headed east through the pass toward Hillhome. He stayed with the rutted, mud slick road until he came to the last low ridge before the vil lage, just a quarter-mile away. There he stopped to relish the view.

  He had made the journey in less than two weeks, a re freshing enough adventure until the derro skirmish the pre vious night. But now he felt a peculiar emotion choke his heart as he looked down at the winding, paved road, the ex panse of stone buildings, the blockhouse that was the forge in the village of his youth.

  The rugged valley stretched east to the pass and west to

  Stonehammer Lake, broadening into a grassy vale around

  Hillhome. Several side canyons twisted back into the hills to the north and south.

  Flint's warm feeling chilled somewhat when he realized that a low haze hung in the valley where before the air had been impeccably clear. Of course, there had always been a little smoke from the town forge…

  The town forge! Flint realized the barn beside it was three times or more the size it had been twenty years ago. A great, muddy yard surrounded it, containing several parked wag ons. The wagons, Flint realized with a jolt, were just like the one he had encountered the previous night at the pass.

  And where once a single stack had emitted the smoke of the small forge, now four squat chimneys belched black clouds into the sky. The town itself seemed to have doubled in proportion, stretching farther to the west toward Stone hammer Lake. Indeed, the sleepy village of Flint's memory now bustled with a size and energy the dwarf found unnerv ing. Main Street, which once had been paved with sturdy stone, was now practically churned to mud by the traffic of crowds and vehicles.

  Flint anxiously made his way down the Passroad until it became Main Street. He slowed his steps to search for famil iar faces — familiar anything! — but he recognized not a one, nor did any of the busy dwarves look up from their hurried pace. He paused to get his bearings.

  For a moment he wondered if he had come to the right place. Up close, Hillhome looked even less like the town in his memory than it had from the ridge. The same large buildings — the mayor's mansion, the trading barn, the brewery — still dominated the central area. But around them clustered a mass of lesser structures, tightly packed, as if each was trying to shoulder the other aside.

  Most of these newer buildings were made of wood, and many showed signs of uncharacteristically hasty construc tion and shoddy workmanship. The town square was still a wide open space, but where it had once been a tree-shaded park, now it was a brown and barren place.

  Flint's eyes came to rest on Moldoon's Tavern across the street. A happy sight at last! A young frawl was standing at the back of an ale wagon parked out front, hefting two half kegs onto her shoulders. She struggled her way up the two wooden steps and into the inn, the door of which was held open by a large, middle-aged dwarf.

  Flint well remembered the rugged human, Moldoon, who had opened his inn in quiet Hillhome. The man had been a hard-drinking mercenary who had retired from fighting and carousing. His small alehouse had become a comfortable club for many adult dwarves, including Flint and Aylmar.

  Flint wondered if the human were still about.

  With a sense of relief he started toward the familiar door way. He made his way around the ruts in the street and shouldered his way through the thick crowd in Moldoon's.

  The hill dwarf's eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness, and he saw with relief that the place had not changed all that much.

  When designing his saloon, Moldoon had realized that most of his patrons would be short-statured dwarves, yet he wanted a place that was comfortable for himself as well. He neither made it human-sized (though other people would have gotten sport out of watching dwarves scrabbling for doorknobs and seats), nor did he make it dwarf-sized (he, himself, would look silly on a too-small chair). What he did do was make all tables and chairs adjustable with just a turn of the top; all doors had two knobs on each side. The bar it self had two levels: the right side to the patrons was dwarf height, and the left was human-height. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate all.

  Right now, a haze of greasy smoke hung just below the stained ceiling beams. The spattering of the grill — Moldoon always seemed to get the most succulent cuts of meat — and the familiar low rumble of conversation sounded like the same talk in any tavern in Ansalon.

  Flint saw an old man behind the lower section of the bar.

  White bearded, with an equally full, platinum mane of hair, he stooped slightly with age, but revealed a frame that had once been broad and lanky.

  "Moldoon?" Flint asked in disbelief, his face alight with expectation. The dwarf stepped over to the bar and spun the nearest stool top to his level.

  Recognition dawning, the man's face broke into a crooked grin. "Flint Fireforge, as I live and breath!" With amazing alacrity the man vaulted the bar and gathered up the stout dwarf in an awkward bear hug.

  "How long have you been in town, you old scut?" he asked, shaking the dwarf by the shoulders.

  "First stop." Flint grinned broadly, his whiskers tickling his nose. The human seized Flint up again, and after much back-thumping and hand-pumping, he grabbed a pitcher and personally overfilled a mug for the dwarf, scraping the foam away with a knife.

  "It's good to see you again, old friend," said Flint sincerely, raising his mug and taking a long pull. He wiped his foamy mouth with the back of his hand and said happily, "None better!"

  "Not Flint Fireforge!"

  Flint heard a frawl's voice coming from around Mol doon's right arm. She stepped around to the innkeeper's side, and Flint recognized her as the one he had seen lugging kegs from the wagon outside. Indeed, as Moldoon drew her forward, Flint noticed that she still held one on her left shoulder. Staring unabashedly at Flint, she lowered it to the ground. Her hair was the yellow-orange color of overripe corn, and she wore it in long braids on either side of her full, rose-red cheeks. She wore tight leather pants and a red tu nic, belted tight, revealing an unusually tiny waist for a frawl.

  Flint gave her a friendly, almost apologetic smile. "Yes, I am, but I'm sorry, I don't remember you."

  Moldoo
n threw an arm down around her shoulders.

  "Sure you do! This is Hildy, Brewmaster Bowlderston's daughter. She's taken over his business since he's been ill."

  Hildy thrust her hand forward over the bar and gripped

  Flint's firmly. "I've heard a lot about you, Flint. I'm a… um, friend of your nephew, Basalt." She blushed.

  Flint slapped his thigh. "That's why you looked familiar!

  Haven't you two been friends since you were both in nap pies?" He winked and gave her an approving glance under raised eyebrows. "Although you've grown up some since then."

  She smiled and blushed again, lowering her eyes. "I wish

  Basalt would take notice," she began, but her smile faded.

  "Of course he's not aware of much else but drink these days, though, what with the tragedy and all." She reached out gin gerly and squeezed his arm sympathetically.

  "Tragedy?" Flint's mug of ale froze halfway to his mouth.

  His eyes traveled from the frawl's blue eyes to the innkeep er's rheumy ones and back.

  Suddenly the sound of shattering glass rent the air. Star tled, Flint turned toward the left end of the bar, where he saw the harrn who had held the door for Hildy. This same dwarf was staring at Flint, his face a mask of terror.

  The dwarf seemed stupefied, and he began gesturing wildly at Flint. Flint was stunned.

  "You're dead! Go away! Leave me alone! You're d-d — !"

  The screaming dwarf struggled to get the last of the word out, then finally quit in frustration. He covered his eyes with his arms and sobbed.

  "Garth!" Hildy cried, coming to his side to uncover his eyes. "It's OK. That's not who you think it is!" The big dwarf resisted at first, then slowly allowed one eye to emerge from above his folded limbs:

  Garth was unusually large, well over four and a half feet, and none of it was muscle. His rounded belly poked out be low his tunic, which was too small at every opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at least an inch be low the cuffs.