Flint the King p2-2 Page 4

  "What's going on here?" Flint demanded, both irritated and embarrassed by the strange incident.

  Moldoon looked red-faced as well. "Garth does odd jobs about town for almost everyone. He's a little simple — most people call him the village idiot — and well, you two did look quite a lot alike," Moldoon finished, his voice coming faster.

  "What two? What are talking about? Spit it out, man!"

  Flint was just angry now.

  "The tragedy," Hildy said dully.

  Moldoon wrung his hands and finally said, "I'm sorry,

  Flint. Garth was the one who found Aylmar dead at the forge one month ago."

  Chapter 3

  The Terms

  Thee general looked over the smoldering city below.

  He saw the seaport of Sanction, wracked by forces both ge ological and mystical. Its people were being driven away, the very earth beneath it changed by volcanic eruptions and the rivers of lava flowing down to the Newsea.

  He also saw what the tortured city would become: the heart of an evil empire embracing all of Krynn. Sanction would protect the nerve center of that empire with a barrier of arms and with the awesome barrier formed by the Lords of Doom. These three towering volcanoes stood at three points of the general's view, spewing ash and lava, gradu ally changing the shape of the city and the valley. Active for the past few years, the smoking peaks dominated Sanction and the surrounding chaos of steep mountains.

  The brown waters of the port, and the Newsea beyond, marked the fourth direction, to the west. The Lords smol dered, oozing rockfire and slowly wracking the city below.

  The Newsea beckoned placidly, a route that one day the general's armies would follow on their path to conquering the west. Clasping his heavy gauntlets to his hips, the gen eral peered through the narrow eyeholes in his mask, pleased by the destruction below.

  The general wore ceremonial armor of black, etched in red. Tall boots of polished leather protected his feet and muscular legs. A breastplate of deepest blue-black reflected darkly across his torso, while several large rubies winked crimson around the edges of the plate.

  His face lay entirely concealed behind the grotesque dark helm. A scarlet plume, rising from the crest of the helmet and then trailing below and behind him, enhanced his height even more than his already impressive natural size.

  Heavy, curved plates of the same black steel as his breast plate covered his shoulders and accentuated his imposing physique.

  Now he paced alone, atop a blocky, black-walled tower just south of the city — one of two such prominences on the black fortress known as the Temple of Duerghast. This huge, walled structure squatted low on the slopes of the smallest of the Lords of Doom, Duerghast Mountain. The towers of the temple provided a splendid view of Sanction, and the mountains and sea beyond.

  The Temple of Duerghast was, in fact, more of a fortress than a place of worship. The high black wall surrounded the entire structure. It provided space for barracks, troop train ing, and even an arena for gladiatorial combat.

  The temple and the entire city, now as always, lay under a leaden, overcast sky. The gray blanket was caused by the smoke and ash that spewed from its surrounding summits, and because the valley of Sanction was a windtrap, termi nus of the Newsea.

  A river of steaming lava, glowing cherry red in the eter nally twilit valley, cut through the center of Sanction. An other finger of flaming rock trickled toward it by a different path. Soon the two boiling streams would meet, forming a lava moat around the other temple.

  The general's gaze lingered on that great construction — now a pile of rock, slowly being given form by the lava and ash. The Temple of Luerkhisis, that one was called, after the second of the Lords of Doom. The temple held the keys to so much of the future, for in its bowels were kept the precious eggs of the good dragons. Those gold, silver, brass, and bronze orbs would — when the time was right — force the neutrality of good dragonkind, allowing the empire of dark ness to be born.

  But there was much to be done before that could happen.

  An army had yet to be raised, equipped, and trained. Plans would be drawn, powers marshaled. All of this would take time. But he knew how to put that time to good use.

  The general had begun to organize his forces. Already, thousands of mercenaries had gathered in the scarred city below him, replacing the huge numbers of refugees who had fled to safer lands when the volcanoes first rumbled to life.

  The general had agents crossing the wildest lands of Ansa lon, gathering tribes of hobgoblins and ogres, bribing them with promises of plunder and war. And across the valley, in the temple taking shape over the hiding places of the good dragons' eggs, the spearhead of his army was even now be ing created. Draconians.

  It was the equipping of his massive army that brought the general to this meeting today.

  A great, crackling rumble suddenly reverberated through the valley, like an impossibly loud peal of thunder. The peak of Duerghast, south of the general's temple, pitched mon strous boulders from its cauldera. Idly, the masked figure watched the house-sized pieces of rock crash to earth, tum bling down the mountainsides and adding to the destruction as they fell. The helmet blocked the general's peripheral vi sion, but all of a sudden he detected a presence off to his left.

  He whirled around and saw the new arrival unconsciously finger the steel ring that had allowed him to be teleported here.

  "You are late," said the general, his voice a deep, rasping complaint.

  The newcomer, a dwarf, ignored the rebuke and shuffled toward the figure towering before him. The general's height accented the small stature of this one. When the dwarf threw back his hood, his grotesque face suddenly came into view, a fitting image to counter the general's mask, though the dwarf's features were his own.

  Milky, pale skin covered the dwarf's body, with a bluish cast vaguely reminiscent of a corpse. His eyes were pale, and very, very wide. Now, even under the deep overcast, he squinted against the daylight. A shock of yellow hair on the dwarf's head shot in all directions, bristly and uncontrolled.

  His mouth was concealed by a tangled beard that, despite its length, grew only in sparse, ugly patches from his cheeks, chin, and neck.

  The dwarf was a derro, a race of less pure stock than the hill dwarf or Hylar mountain dwarves, since it reputedly re sulted from an ancient intermixture of human and dwarven blood. Still a mountain dwarf, he was a member of the Theiwar clan.

  He came directly from Thorbardin, the great underground realm of the mountain dwarves, where he served as the ad viser to Thane Realgar, ruler of the Theiwar. The Theiwar was the only clan of derro, and they competed jealously with their rivals of the Hylar, Daergar, and other clans.

  In addition to his derro race, this dwarf differed from the typical mountain dwarf in another important way: he was a magic-using savant. Though all dwarves were resistant to magic, few were able actually to cast spells. Among these, the savants of the derro were most potent; and of these sa vants, Pitrick, adviser to the thane, was the most feared.

  Pitrick moved awkwardly, partially dragging his right foot. He leaned forward in an unnatural stance, his body distorted by the large hump of flesh that deformed his back and right shoulder.

  "You summoned me, and I came," said the dwarf. "Is that not the important thing?" Craning his neck, he looked up at the general. The masked human turned away silently. His expression pensive, the dwarf studied the general's straight, well-armored back.

  "I see you wear my present," the general said, though he looked out over the smoldering city of Sanction. He had given the little derro the amulet, iron forged into the like nesses of five writhing dragon heads, as a token for closing the weapons shipment arrangements. The general himself had received it from his Dark Queen, and he half hoped that

  Her presence in it would further influence the weaselly ad viser to his cause.

  "It has proved quite useful already," Pitrick said offhand edly, yet he offered no thanks. "But to business. My j
ourney, though fast, is not without risk," observed the dwarf, ignor ing the general's shrug. "Should the other clans of Thor bardin gain wind of our transaction, I need not tell you that your source of arms would vanish."

  The general said nothing. The vast horde of men gather ing in the valley below would be nothing more than an an gry mob until outfitted with weapons. Excellent, razor-sharp steel blades — the kind made by the Theiwar mountain dwarves of Thorbardin.

  "That is why we meet today," said the human. "To discuss the shipments."

  "I trust that you have not been dissatisfied with our craftsmanship," remarked the dwarf, his tone smugly confi dent.

  The general ignored the question. They both knew no an swer was required, for dwarven weaponsmiths were the most talented crafters of steel on all of Krynn. Nowhere else could a soldier gain arms of such strength and quality.

  "I shall require an increase in the amount of all types of weapons." The general's voice was a harsh rasp through the mask. "A doubling, to be precise."

  The hunchbacked dwarf turned away, placing a hand to his chin as if deep in thought. The hand concealed a thin smile of pleasure as the dwarf's mind immediately began counting the additional coinage that would flow quickly into his, and his clan's, coffers. That meant more power for the Theiwar, more power to the thane's adviser.

  "Of course, if you should need to speak to your thane about this matter…" The general's tone made it clear that such a delay would be regarded as a major nuisance.

  "Certainly not!" huffed the dwarf. "I am fully empowered to make such a decision. And make it I shall, though of course there are some problems to be worked out."

  The general stood mute, arms crossed at his chest. He looked down at the diminutive derro.

  "The details are manifold," explained the dwarf, turning to pace about the platform atop the tower. He moved awk wardly, dragging his twisted right foot, but the impediment did not seem to slow him down. He spoke slowly, as if deep in thought.

  "Our materials, particularly coal, are in short supply. We can find more, but it will be costly, and, naturally, our price must reflect this. We will be forced to triple the fee."

  The general chuckled, deep within the enclosing confines of his armor and helm. "An amusing thought." The laughter abruptly ceased. "Our fee will be doubled, as the work is doubled. No more."

  After a discreet pause the dwarf nodded his acceptance.

  Still in profile to the general, his hand surreptitiously slipped around the iron amulet that hung at his neck. Eyes shifting, he soundlessly mouthed a word and a soft blue glow suddenly gleamed between his fingers. Turning back to the general, Pitrick raised his other hand in a mysterious gesture. His wide, pale eyes sought the general's through the holes in the human's mask. Mustering his courage, the dwarf began to intone.

  Suddenly, the dwarf felt something strike him, hard, along the right side of his head. He cried out in pain and surprise as he sprawled to the wooden platform, tumbling to lie in the shelter of the parapet wall. He rubbed his cheek, already feel ing a large welt developing there. The derro struggled to his feet and looked around; there was nothing material that could have struck him. He looked at the general with new re spect. Then he felt an unfamiliar sensation: fear.

  The general stood unmoving, watching the dwarf.

  "An amusing diversion, magic," the human said. "I trust you will not attempt to use your pathetic tricks on me again.

  This time, I leave you your life. Next time…"

  "An honest mistake, I assure you," said the dwarf, biting back his anger. No one had bested or humiliated him in dec ades. "A doubling of the fee will be quite satisfactory."

  "These shipments must be increased immediately," in structed the general. "I will have extra ships in the bay within the month, and I want them loaded quickly."

  Pitrick nodded. "It shall be done. The arrangement with the loathesome hill dwarves remains, but I am taking steps toward a more satisfactory solution.

  "Because they built the road through the pass, they think they can control us! True, the road is our only passage from

  Thorbardin to Newsea, but we pay them well for its use. Yet they complain when we stay in their town! They charge ex orbitant prices for goods. If they learned the true nature of our shipments, there would be no end to their extortion!

  "I was forced to kill one of them already, for spying," the derro said, almost in passing. "Fortunately, I was there at the time and was able to strike him down before he had the chance to tell anyone what he'd discovered. The fools think he died of a heart attack!"

  "The hill dwarves are your problem. You are the one who insists the trade remains a secret." The general's tone was dis interested, unsympathetic. He turned away, looking over his smoking, smoldering city. Clearly, he had no curiosity about the petty squabbles that frequently occurred among dwarves.

  The derro fumed at the human's disdain and sought to re gain some measure of his dignity and pride. "Your weapons will be waiting on the shore!" he said stiffly. "Even if I must obliterate Hillhome to get them there!"

  Instinctively bowing to the general, as he would to his thane, the derro once again fondled his steel ring of telepor tation. The circlet of metal was formed by two rings woven together and split at the top, the rough ends bent outward.

  It softly illuminated the dwarf's entire body. Then, a bright spark jumped from one edge of the ring to another. In the space of a blink, the hunchbacked Theiwar was gone.

  Chapter 4

  An Uneasy Reunion

  "That was Aylmar's favorite chair," sighed Bertina, wiping a tear as she gestured to the overstuffed seat in which

  Flint sat. Aylmar's widow drew another mug from the ale keg, sniffling as she passed the foaming goblet to Flint.

  Many a reverent mug had already been raised to Aylmar's memory. And to "good old Flint," and an assortment of other things, as the hour grew late and the guests at this im promptu party grew increasingly besotted.

  "It's a disgrace that my dead brother is dishonored by a night of mourning like this!" Ruberik grumbled disdainfully.

  Third Fireforge son — Aylmar and Flint were first and second — Ruberik stood by the hearth, stiff in his black waistcoat and too-tight tie. He turned up his nose at the mug of ale Bertina held toward him and frowned disapprovingly at the newly empty keg, the pools of ale on the floor, and the sleeping dwarves throughout the large room.

  "Oh, Ruberik," scolded Fidelia, one of the older Fireforge sisters, "don't burst a vein." A buxom, bawdy lass, she tossed back the contents of her mug and held it out for refill ing. "We're not so much mourning Aylmar — we've done that for a month — as celebrating Flint's return."

  Ruberik's work-roughened hand reached out to snatch the mug from her waiting lips. "If you have no respect for your elders, young woman, at least try to summon a bit for the dead!"

  "We grieve differently, that's all," his sister said, used to his pompous outbursts. Hitching her leather skirt to a height improper enough to make her puritanical brother fume, she fetched another drink undisturbed.

  Plain, heavy-set Glynnis, next in line after Ruberik and not the brightest under the best of conditions, giggled sud denly, oblivious to the tension in the room. Letting loose a loud hiccup, she smirked at her older brother. "Fidel is right,

  Rubie. Flint only comesh home onesh every twenty years!

  And when he does, I'm… I'm…" Glynnis squinted in concentration. She hiccupped again, and then her head fell forward. In a second she snored, face down in a pool of ale.

  Ruberik rolled his eyes, as if to say, "There she goes again."

  "His favorite chair," cut in Bertina, continuing as though unaware anyone else had spoken. "He'd sit there for hours."

  She loose wistfully at Flint in the large, wood-framed chair with fluffy, goose-down cushions.

  Flint already felt uncomfortable enough, listening to the squabbles of his family. But his sister-in-law's look made him squirm. He wanted to get up, to sit
somewhere else in the room, but virtually every surface — table, chair, or floor — already held a sleeping Fireforge. Flint winced at the thought of the hangover that would fill the house on the morrow.

  He sat back in Aylmar's favorite chair and sighed, his mood maudlin. This was not the homecoming he'd ex pected; he felt disloyal, but he could not shake the thought that his friends back in Solace felt more like family than this gathering of strangers.

  His reception had started out well enough. Indeed, Flint's homecoming had provided the Fireforge clan with a much needed cause for celebration. Cousins and siblings and old neighbors all gathered at the family home within minutes of his arrival. The large house, home to Flint's parents before their deaths, was now occupied by Aylmar's family and Ru berik, who was a bachelor.

  Set into the hillside, which was common in Hillhome, the house was large by dwarven standards, and it felt spacious.

  The family was now gathered in the "front room," which had a high ceiling and tall doorways to accommodate hu man visitors, which the Fireforge family had more of than the average dwarven family because of their adventuring ways. The walls were of stone, reinforced by dark oak beams. The only room with windows, its two round open ings were now double-shuttered against the autumn chill. A large, spotless hearth was the room's focal point, and the furniture was a dozen or so chairs and a large rectangular ta ble, for meals were taken here.

  The rest of the house spread out behind the front room.

  Five other chambers had been carved into the hillside and shored up with perfectly matched and cut stone, so that not a speck of earth could be seen between cracks. Two rooms had been added to the east side nearest the barn for Ruberik, who made his living as a farmer.

  Glynnis was a housefrawl; Fidelia worked at the grain mill; the next oldest brothers, Tybalt and Bernhard, consta ble and carpenter respectively. They and the remaining seven siblings all lived nearby, having grown up and moved out. To tonight's party they had brought a tumbling mass of nieces and nephews, many of whom had been born since