Flint the King p2-2 Page 6

  "Make sure your hands aren't cold. Daisyeye hates that — won't give you a drop," warned Ruberik.

  Flint just glared at him, then rubbed his hands together fu riously. He reached out quickly and began tugging; in sec onds, he had milk streaming into the pail. Daisyeye chewed contentedly.

  "Not bad," Ruberik said, nodding as he looked over Flint's shoulder, "for a woodcarver."

  Flint ignored the jibe, handing his brother the full pail of creamy milk. "You know," he said, wiping his damp hands on his vest, "I'd forgotten how much the smell of a barn re minds me of Father." He inhaled deeply, and his mind wan dered back to other mornings, when he had been dragged from his warm bed at the crack of dawn to work in this place. He had hated it at the time…

  "You're lucky to have any memories of him," Ruberik said enviously. "He died before I was really of any use to him.

  Aylmar had his smith — and then one day you were gone, too. Had to teach myself to run a dairy farm," he finished, using his cupped hands to scoop more oats into the feeding trough.

  Flint's hands froze under Daisyeye in mid-milking stroke.

  He'd left Hillhome those many years ago, never thinking how it might make his siblings feel. He felt compelled to say something — to offer some explanation — and he tried. "Uh, well, I — " And then he stopped, unable to think of anything.

  He stole a glance at Ruberik.

  His younger brother moved about the barn, whistling softly, oblivious to Flint and his halting response.

  Ruberik finished feeding the animals and clapped his hands to remove grain chaff. "I've got to stir some cheese vats," he said, finally aware of Flint again. "Care to help?"

  "Uh, no thanks," Flint gulped; he hated the overpower ingly sour smell of fermenting cheese. He took the bucket out from under Daisyeye, handing it to his brother. "I'll fin ish up the chores in here, if you'd like me to."

  "You would?" Ruberik said, surprised. Flint nodded, and

  Ruberik listed the remaining morning tasks. With that, he left through a door at the far right of the barn, the scent of cheese billowing in after him.

  Flint covered his nose and began milking his second cow in many decades.

  He finished the chores by late morning. Ruberik had left to deliver cheese, so Flint sat at the edge of the well and looked opposite his family's homestead, through the multi colored autumn foliage and steady green conifers at

  Hillhome below. The Fireforge house was about midway up the south rim of the valley that surrounded the village — the notch known simply as the Pass cut into the eastern end of the valley; the Passroad continued through the town and down the valley to the eastern shore of Stonehammer Lake.

  Flint could see the town beginning to bustle with the ac tivity of a new day, and without really deciding to do so, he found himself walking on the road that snaked down to the center of the village. The stroll stretched his stiff joints and freshened his spirits. He passed many houses like his fami ly's, since most of the buildings here were set into the hills, made of big stone blocks, with timbered roofs and small, round windows.

  The village proper was more or less level, and thus had many wooden structures, certainly more now than Flint ever remembered. As he came around a bend in the road, bringing him within sight of the village, he was again sur prised at the extent of the changes in Hillhome.

  The great wagon yard and forge seemed to serve as a cen tral gathering place for work on the heavy, iron-wheeled freight wagons. The trade route ran east and west, straight through Hillhome on the Passroad. His view of the yard was blocked by a high stone fence. New buildings stood crowded together along the Passroad, extending the town past the brewery building, which Flint remembered as once marking the town's western border. Off Main Street, there were still the neat, stone houses with yards; narrow, smooth streets; little shops. But the pace of life seemed frantic.

  That busyness nettled Flint, for reasons he could not even explain to himself. He had intended to explore Hillhome, to see the new sights, but instead he found himself resenting the changes and heading toward the safety of Moldoon's once again to enjoy the comfortable familiarity of the place.

  "Welcome, my friend!" Moldoon greeted the dwarf pleas antly, wiping his hands on his apron front before he took

  Flint's arm and drew him forward. At this time of day, the place was virtually empty, just a table of three humans in the center of the room before the fire, and a pair of derro drink ing quietly at another.

  "Have you a glass of milk for an old dwarf's touchy stom ach?" Flint asked, spinning a stool at the bar to his height.

  He slipped onto it easily, propping his chin up in his hand.

  Moldoon raised his eyebrows and grinned knowingly.

  "Don't you mean a touchy old dwarf's stomach?" He reached under the bar for a frosty pewter pitcher and poured Flint a mug of the creamy liquid. Flint tossed back half of it in one gulp.

  "I heard your family got together last night," said the bar tender, topping Flint's glass again. "You cost me half my cus tomers!"

  The dwarf smiled wryly, shuffling the mug between his hands on the bar. Then he remembered the one family mem ber who had remained at Moldoon's rather than greet his uncle. "Not Basalt," he said to the barkeep. "He didn't seem any too glad to see me… when he finally got home."

  Moldoon sighed as he filled two mugs with ale. "Aylmar's death really hit him hard, Flint. I don't think it's got any thing to do with you. He blames himself — he was his father's apprentice. But he was here, not at home, when Aylmar went off to the wagon camp."

  "I know how he feels," grumbled Flint into the last of his milk.

  "Barkeep, do we have to wait all day?" A scruffy-looking derro at the table behind Flint waved two empty mugs over his greasy yellow head, smacking his lips and glaring at

  Moldoon.

  Moldoon held up the overflowing mugs in his hands, splitting an apologetic look between the derro and Flint.

  "Right away," he called sheepishly, muttering, "Be back in a moment," to Flint before hurrying to the table.

  "Wagondrivers," he breathed as he returned to the bar.

  The dwarf stared as his old friend absently popped two steel pieces into his cash box.

  "For two mugs?" Flint asked in amazement.

  Moldoon nodded, looking both incredulous and a bit ashamed. "That's the price to them anyway. Apparently they don't get much good ale in Thorbardin, so most of the crews load up on it late in the afternoon before their night time run." He mopped at a sweat ring on the bar. "Business has never been better — for every business in town. Most of us merchants think the return is worth putting up with a few rowdies, now and then." With that, Moldoon excused him self and shuffled into the kitchen to settle a dispute with the village butcher, who had called angrily from the back door.

  Flint walked around the end of the bar and helped himself to a mug of ale. He dropped one steel piece onto the bar.

  Suddenly cold, he shivered and headed for the fire, desper ate to return some warmth to his old bones.

  When the fire failed to lift his spirit, Flint pulled from his belt pouch his sharp whittling knife and a small, rough piece of wood he'd been saving. Sometimes, when ale failed to ease his mind, only carving would help. He would forget everything except the feel of the wood in his hands as he worked life into it. Think of the wood, he told himself as he sat in front of the fire.

  Like most dwarves, Flint was not much given to express ing his feelings. Not like his emotional friend Tanis, who was always tormenting himself about something. For Flint, things either were or they weren't, and there was no point worrying either way. But every now and then something could get under his skin, like the uncomfortable feelings he'd had since returning to Hillhome. Flint shivered in wardly and drew his mind back to the wood. He stayed the afternoon at Moldoon's, slowly, painstakingly shaping his lifeless piece of lumber into the delicate likeness of a hum mingbird. Moldoon refilled his mug now and then, and soon all was forgotten in t
he joy of his creation.

  The tavern filled steadily with more hill dwarves, and more wagondrivers replaced the previous group. Flint scarcely noticed much beyond his sphere, though, so en grossed was he in the finishing details of his bird.

  "So, it's good old Uncle Flint."

  Flint nearly sliced off one of the hummingbird's intri cately detailed wings. The sarcastic voice at his shoulder sounded like animated ice. Basalt. Flint slowly looked up.

  His nephew loomed, glaring at him with a humorless half smile on his red-bearded jaw. "It's a bit early for drink, isn't it?" Hint asked, wishing he could bite his tongue off the sec ond the patronizing words left his mouth.

  Basalt eyed Flint's own mug. "That's not milk you're drinking, either."

  Flint set down his tools and sighed, swallowing the irrita tion he felt because of his ruined good mood. "Look, pup,

  I've always had a soft spot for you." Flint eyed him squarely now. "But if you keep using that tone of voice with me, I'm going to forget you're family."

  Basalt shrugged, taking an empty chair near his uncle's. "I thought you already had."

  Flint had never struck someone for telling the truth, and he was not of a mind to start now. Instead, he grabbed Ba salt by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

  "Look, I feel terrible about your father," he began, search ing his nephew's freckled face. "I'm not one for wishing, but

  I'd give anything to have been here, anything to have known. But I wasn't and I didn't, and that's what is, Bas."

  Trying hard to look unperturbed, Basalt rolled his eyes in disbelief and looked away. "Don't call me that," he whis pered, referring to the affectionate nickname Flint had let slip.

  Flint had seldom seen such suffering as he noted in his nephew's face, and he had felt it only once: after his own fa ther's death. "Aylmar was my big brother — my friend — just like you and I were before I left."

  "You're nothing like my father."

  Flint ran a hand through his hair. "Nor would I try to be. I just wanted you to know I feel his loss, too."

  "Sorry, old man. No consolation." Basalt turned his back on his uncle.

  Flint was getting angry. "I'm still young enough to whip the smartmouthedness out of you, harrn."

  But Flint could see by his nephew's reaction that he no longer heard him. Basalt strutted before his uncle, wearing a patronizing smirk. "I can't blame you for coming back now, you know, when there's real money to be made." He did not even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  It was Flint's turn to poke at his nephew, his thick index finger within an inch of Basalt's bulbous Fireforge nose.

  "I've had about all I'll take from you today. You want some one to be angry at, and you've chosen me, when the two people you're really hopping mad at are your father and yourself!"

  Basalt's ample cheeks burned scarlet, and suddenly his right fist flew out toward Flint's jaw. His uncle quickly blocked the punch, landing a right jab of his own squarely on Basalt's chin. The younger Fireforge's head jerked back, his eyes bulged, and he slithered to the floor.

  Basalt wiped his lip and discovered blood on the back of his hand; he looked up at his uncle at the bar in astonish ment and shame. Flint turned back sourly to his mug, and in a moment Basalt got to his feet and left the inn.

  Flint dropped his care-worn face into his hands. He had fought wolves and zombies, and they'd taken less of a toll on him than the confrontations he'd endured in the last day.

  The clamor of noise surrounded him; the smell of greasy, unwashed bodies began to fill the tavern. These familiar things seemed less comforting and enveloping than before.

  Nothing about Hillhome seemed the same. He resolved at that moment to make his hasty good-byes in the morning and get back to the life he understood in Solace.

  At that moment a party of pale blue-skinned derro dwarves noisily entered Moldoon's. Turning his back to them in disgust, Flint tried to ignore the bustle around him.

  He knew no one in the tavern except Moldoon. And though the barkeep had been joined around dusk by two matronly barmaids, he was too busy with the throng of customers to talk.

  It might have been the ale, his fight with Basalt, or the whole unsettling day combined, but Flint grew suddenly annoyed with the presence of the derro in Moldoon's. Now that it was dusk, a pair of the fair, big-eyed dwarves, al ready drunk, sat down beside the agitated dwarf and rudely bellowed at Moldoon for more ale.

  "Don't they teach you manners in that cave of a city you come from?" demanded Flint, all of a sudden swinging around on his stool to face the two mountain dwarves.

  "It's a grander town than you can claim," sneered one, lurching unsteadily to his feet.

  Flint rose from his stool too, his fists clenching. The sec ond derro stepped up to his companion, and the hill dwarf saw him reach for the haft of a thin dagger. Flint's own knife was in his belt, but he let it be for now. Despite his anger, he sought no fight to the death with two drunks.

  At that moment, luckily, Garth clumped in, carrying a sack of potatoes, and headed for the door to the kitchen be hind the bar. He took one look at Flint's angry face nose-to nose with the derro and he let out a loud, plaintive wail that caused everything else to fall silent. Moldoon looked up from where he was serving patrons across the inn. Garth was alternately pointing at Flint and the derro, babbling, and holding his head and sobbing. The gray-haired inn keeper covered the distance in four strides. Instructing a barmaid to lead Garth into the kitchen to calm down, he planted himself between Flint and the derro.

  'What's the problem here, boys? You're not thinking of rearranging my inn, are you?" Moldoon was looking only at the derro.

  "He insulted us!" one of them claimed, shaking his fist at Flint.

  Flint pushed the pale fingers away. 'Your presence insults everyone in this bar," he muttered.

  "You see!" the derro exclaimed self-righteously.

  Moldoon took the two derro by their elbows and pro pelled the startled dwarves toward the door. "I see that you two need to leave my establishment immediately."

  At the door the derro wrenched away from his grip and turned as if to attack Moldoon, hands on the weapons at their waists. Moldoon stared them down, until at last they dropped their hands and left. Shaking his head, the inn keeper slammed the door behind them and then strolled to ward Flint at the bar.

  Flint sank his face into his ale and gulped half the mug down. "I don't need anyone to fight my battles for me," he grumbled angrily into the foam.

  "And I don't need anyone breaking up my inn!" coun tered Moldoon. He laughed unexpectedly, the lines in his face drawing up. "Gods, you're just like Aylmar was! No wonder Garth went crazy when he saw you about to take a swing at those derro. Probably thought it was Aylmar back from the dead for one more fight."

  Flint looked up intently from his ale. "What are you talk ing about? Aylmar had a set-to with some derro?"

  Moldoon nodded. "At least one that I know of." Moldoon looked puzzled. "Why are you surprised? You, of all people, must have guessed that he detested their presence in Hillhome."

  "Do you remember when the fight was? And what it was about?"

  "Oh I remember all right! It was the day he died, sadly enough. Aylmar didn't frequent here much himself, but he came looking for Basalt. They got into their usual fight about Basalt's drinking and 'working for derro scum,' as Aylmar put it, and then the pup stormed out."

  Flint leaned across the bar on his elbows. "But what about the fight with the derro?"

  "I'm getting to that," Moldoon said, refilling Flint's mug.

  "After Basalt left, Aylmar stewed for a bit here, watching the derro get louder and louder. And he just cracked — launched himself right at three of them, unarmed. They swatted him away like a fly, laughing at 'the old dwarf.' "

  Flint hung his head, and his heart lurched as he imagined his brother's humiliation.

  "Indeed, this conversation makes me remember some thing," Moldoon added suddenly. Flint lo
oked up half heartedly. The bartender's face looked uncharacteristically clouded.

  "Aylmar told me after the fight that he had taken a small smithing job with the derro. Naturally I was surprised.

  Aylmar had leaned forward and whispered — " Moldoon's voice dropped "- that he was suspicious of the derro and had taken the job so that he could get into their walled yard to look into a wagon. He asked what I knew of their security measures, and I told him that I'd overheard that each crew of three slept during the day in shifts, one of them guarding their wagon at all times."

  Flint's interest was piqued. "Why do they need to guard farm implements so closely?"

  "That's just what Aylmar asked," Moldoon said softly, then sighed. "I guess he never found the answer, or if he did, it died with him, since his heart gave out at the forge that same night." He clapped Flint on the shoulder and shook his head sadly, then turned to wait on another customer.

  Flint sat thinking for several minutes before he worked his way through the crowd and left the smoky tavern. The sun was low in the sky. He stood on the stoop outside Mol doon's, but instead of crossing the street and walking back up the south side of the valley to the Fireforge home, the hill dwarf set his sights down Main Street to the east, just sixty yards or so, toward the walled wagon yard.

  Chapter 5

  The Break-in

  In Flint's youth, the wagon yard had been the black smithing shop of a crusty old dwarf named Delwar. While most dwarves, racially inclined toward smithing, made their own weapons, nails, hinges, and other simple objects,

  Delwar had provided the villagers with wagon wheels, large tools and weapons, and other more complicated metal de signs.

  Flint had learned a lot of what he knew about blacksmith ing from the old craftsman, whose burn-scarred arms and chest had both frightened and fascinated the young hill dwarf. Flint and other harrns would sit in the grassy yard outside Delwar's shop and barn to watch the smith through the open end of his three-sided stone shed; Flint enjoyed the smell of smoke and sweat as Delwar hammered hot metal al most as much as he liked the taffy treats and cool apple drinks the smith's robust wife would bring out to them.