“Run home to your mothers, you young whelps!” Flint was unable to resist shouting. My, but it’s a fine day, he thought, looking up into the blue sky before stepping spiritedly into the greengrocer’s.
Amos Cartney, a human of some fifty years, owned and ran Jessab the Greengrocer’s. Flint could not enter the shop without remembering the time he, Tanis, and Tasslehoff had stopped in for some snacks to bring to a night of fellowship before Flint’s hearth, shortly after Tasslehoff’s arrival in Solace, some years ago.
“Hey, Amos, who is Jessab, anyway?” Tasslehoff had blurted out of the blue, plucking at items of interest on the candy counter. “Must be someone important, for you to name your store after him. I mean, your name is Amos Cartney, not Jessab.”
Knowing the answer through local gossip, Flint had tried desperately to clap a hand over the kender’s big mouth. But the quick-footed imp had danced away. “Watch out, Flint! You nearly suffocated me,” he had scolded the dwarf. “Your father, maybe?” he pressed, turning back to the suddenly pale shopkeeper. “Grandfather? Hmm?”
“The man who owned the store before me,” had been Amos’s quiet reply.
“That’s it?” Tas squealed.
“Mind your own business, kender!” Flint had growled low in his throat.
But Amos waved away the dwarf’s concern. “No, he stole my wife and left behind this shop. I leave his name up to remind me how fickle women can be, in case I’m ever tempted to trust one of them again.”
The tender-hearted kender’s eyes had filled with tears, and he came to Amos’s side to pat the human’s shoulder, treasures newly “found” in the shop dropping from his pockets in his haste. “I’m so sorry … I didn’t know.…”
A slight, stoic smile had creased Amos Cartney’s face as he gently slipped his hand from the anxious kender’s. “And you know what else? I haven’t been tempted, all these ten years.”
Flint secretly agreed with Amos’s evaluation of women—he’d had some bad experiences of his own—and from that time forward, the human and the dwarf were friends.
Seeing Flint in his doorway now, the greengrocer wiped his hands on his apron and waved the dwarf inside, a hearty grin on his face.
“Didn’t bring that nosy kender with you, I see!” He snickered, continuing to wave Flint forward. “Hurry on in. I’ve been having some trouble with seekers hanging around the doorway, pestering my good customers. Can’t seem to get rid of ’em.” Amos shook his balding head wearily.
Flint patted his old friend on the back. “Tas has gone exploring for five years. And I don’t think those seekers will be bothering anyone for a while, either.”
Catching the glint in the dwarf’s eye, Amos’s smile was grateful, but it still held a hint of weariness. “My thanks, but they always come back. Maybe not the same troublemakers, but every day there are more seekers to take their places.” Amos dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed.
Flint’s good mood ebbed as he was forced to agree with the shopkeeper. Solace was not the same friendly village it had been before the seekers had encroached on it in the last few years.
“But what am I saying?” Amos forced his mood to brighten. “You didn’t come here to listen to my woes. Where’s your list? I’ll rustle up your goods.” Amos elbowed the dwarf conspiratorially in the ribs. “Got that bottle of malt rum you’ve been waiting for, too.” Taking the scrap of parchment Flint held up in his hand, Amos cackled as he shuffled off to collect the dwarf’s groceries.
“Thanks, Amos,” Flint called softly, absently scanning the shelves around him.
He saw huge clay jars of pickled cucumbers, onions, and other vegetables. The smell of vinegar lingered thick around here, and Flint moved away. The dwarf passed a row of barrels, containing rye and wheat and oat flours, and then smaller bins with sugar and salt. Opposite these was a wall of spices, and he read their odd names with amused curiosity: absynt, bathis, cloyiv, tumeric. What made people add such bizarre things to their food? the dwarf wondered. What was wrong with a plain, sizzling haunch of meat?
Flint was looking at a tin of salted sea snails, a treat he hadn’t had in years, when he heard someone beside him say in a gravelly voice, “So there is another hill dwarf in this town! I was beginning to feel like the proverbial hobgoblin at a kender Sunday picnic,” boomed the stranger, clapping Flint on the back merrily. “Hanak’s the name.”
Flint took a small step sideways and looked at the speaker. He was nearly big nose to big nose with another dwarf, all right. Wild, carrot-red hair sprang from the other dwarf’s head like tight metal coils, and between that and a poker-straight beard and mustache were eyes as clear blue as the sky. Flint tried to judge his age: the lines on his face were not too deep, but he was missing his two front teeth, though whether from aging or fighting Flint could not say.
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 Thorbardin?”
“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 Thorbardin 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 vehemently 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 underground 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 father’s father, Reghar Fireforge, had been a lead
er 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 Thorbardin.”
“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 malicious 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 kinfolk 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 questions. 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 wordlessly 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 almost 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 disappear 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 ancient 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 adventure, 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, almost 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 worship—their presence was sure to be unbearable.
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 craftsmanship that he had tracked down the smith, who was none other than Flint Fireforge of Solace, and extended an invitation 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 demonstrations in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint understood 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 agreement.
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 wondering 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 las
t 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 adventuring 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 sentimentality, the times he had wielded that Tharkan Axe on his travels. The magnificent weapon had gleamed, cutting a silver arc 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, hopeless 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 buried the weapon in the shapeless yet substantial creature before 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.
Flint the King Page 2
