Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

  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 Moldoon’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 tunic, 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.”

  Moldoon 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 nappies?” 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 gingerly 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 innkeeper’s rheumy ones and back.

  Suddenly the sound of shattering glass rent the air. Startled, 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 below his tunic, which was too small at every opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at least an inch below the cuffs.

  “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

  The general looked over the smoldering city below. He saw the seaport of Sanction, wracked by forces both geological 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, gradually 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 smoldered, 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 general 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 breastplate 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 training, 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, terminus of the Newsea.

  A river of steaming lava, glowing cherry red in the eternally twilit valley, cut through the center of Sanction. Another 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 darkness 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 Ansalon, 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 being 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 monstrous boulders from its cauldera. Idly, the masked figure watched the house-sized pieces of rock crash to earth, tumbling down the mountainsides and adding to the destruction as they fell. The helmet blocked the general’s peripheral vision, 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 resulted 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 adviser 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 savants, 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 likenesses 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 adviser to his cause.

  “It has proved quite useful already,” Pitrick said offhandedly, yet he offered no thanks. “But to business. My journey, though fast, is not without risk,” observed the dwarf, ignoring the general’s shrug. “Should the other clans of Thorbardin 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 gathering in the valley below would be nothing more than an angry 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 confident.

  The general ignored the question. They both knew no answer 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 awkwardly, 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 feeling 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 respect. 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 decades. “A doubling of the fee will be quite satisfactory.”

  “These shipments must be increased immediately,” instructed 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 exorbitant 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 disinterested, 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 regain 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 teleportation. 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.