Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

  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 impromptu 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 refilling. “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 suddenly, 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 looked 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 expected; 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 Ruberik, 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 human 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 openings 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 table, 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, constable 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 Flint’s departure, and brothers- and sisters-in-law who seemed to outnumber his siblings.

  Yet Flint wondered about his favorite nephew, Aylmar’s eldest son, Basalt, who was conspicuous by his absence. It seemed odd that the boy was not at his mother’s side during her time of grief. On the other hand, Basalt’s brothers and sisters—Aylmar and Bertina had had more than half a dozen children, by Flint’s best reckoning—had been struggling to outdo each other in offering comforts to their notorious Uncle Flint. He could neither smoke nor drink fast enough to keep up with the refills they offered him. A seemingly endless stream of plates, each loaded with an unusual treat, was placed before him by a niece or nephew. He sampled spiced goose eggs, cream cakes and fruit pies, bits of succulent meat, fish larvae, and other exotic delights.

  A pair of geese had been butchered and an impromptu feast prepared. Flint tore off a bite from a drumstick now and decided to engage Ruberik in a discussion more suited to his brother’s somber mood.

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Flint scrubbed the grease from his mustache and beard. “Please tell me,” he began, “what you know of our brother’s untimely death.”

  Ruberick grew grimmer still. “Aylmar had been laboring at his trade, blacksmithing, and his heart gave out on him.” The dwarf shook his head sadly. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “We told him not to work so hard!” exclaimed Bernhard, who was seated next to Flint in a hard wooden chair. The seventh Fireforge sibling, his soft black hair prematurely balding, leaned forward and knotted his thick, calloused hands. “But that is one of the reasons why he was the best at his craft.”

  “The money was just too much temptation,” interrupted Ruberik. “He couldn’t resist the offer to work for the derro.”

  “Yeah,” Bernhard said vacantly. “Anyway, Aylmar was called to the forge in the derro’s camp—they’ve taken over Delwar’s forge—to fix a wheel late one morning.”

  Flint found it difficult to believe that the Aylmar he’d known would have had anything to do with derro, but he had been gone a long time.… Flint remembered the walled yard near the town smithy.

  “That place has become a blighthole filled with evil derro!” interjected Ruberik again. “A blemish on the face of our hills!”

  Bernhard rocked his chair onto its back legs. “You don’t think it’s such a blemish when you take your cheese there to sell,” he commented wryly, “nor when you build an addition to your abode with the profits.” He squinted up through one eye to glimpse his brother’s angry, red face.

  “That’s business! Mind your elders!” was Ruberik’s stern reply.

  Bernhard rolled his eyes and lowered his chair to the floor with a bang. “Anyway, Aylmar went to the yard that day, ‘an emergency,’ they said. Any smith would’ve taken the job—these derro panic at the thought of missing a night on the road, so they pay real good for day work and such—”

  “And Aylmar, the damned fool, had to take on this one job too many,” Ruberick interrupted yet again, unable to conceal his anguish. “He died beside his forge, among strangers, what is worse.”

  “Garth, the dimwit, found him there all blue,” finished Bernhard matter-of-factly.

  Bertina gasped, and Fidelia elbowed her brother in the head. “Have a care, will you?”

  “Uh, sorry, Berti,” the carpenter said limply, making a hasty exit to help with the tapping of a new keg.

  “But if these are mountain dwarves,” interjected Flint, “why isn’t there a smith among them who can fix their wagons?”

  “I can explain that,” said Tybalt, stepping away from the fire to join the circle. He was a stocky, unsmiling dwarf who had inherited all of the worst Fireforge features: the bulbous nose, their mother’s weight, and their father’s slight chin. Even
when off duty, he wore his constable uniform—shiny leather breastplate and shoulder protectors hardened in boiling oil and dyed blue, gray tunic beneath that to his knees, gray leg wraps, and thick-soled leather shoes. He removed it only once a week to bathe.

  “Mayor Holden wisely made it a condition of the agreement that the mountain dwarves use the services of the hill dwarves when in Hillhome—extra money for our craftsmen.” Tybalt brushed a piece of string from his breastplate. “Besides, the derro hate light so much that they would never station a smith above ground so far from Thorbardin. If it weren’t for Hillhome, they’d have to bring a smith along on every trip just in case of breakdowns, which would be exceedingly costly.” Tybalt struck a ramrod pose. “Everyone says Mayor Holden drove an excellent bargain with the Theiwar.”

  Fidelia snorted indelicately and ruffled Tybalt’s dark hair as she strolled by him. “You tell that to anyone who will listen because you’re bucking for a promotion, Brother!” She took another pull on her mug of ale.

  Hearing an opening to the question that had brought him here, Flint leaned forward intently, his elbows on his knees as his eyes scanned the group. “I came all the way from Solace to find out why Hillhome is dealing with mountain dwarves at all, let alone derro! Can someone give me a good answer?”

  Everyone began talking at once, and Flint was forced to wave his arms above his head and whistle for silence. He looked at his brother the constable. “You seem to know the details of this ‘agreement,’ Tybalt. Why don’t you explain it to me.”

  Looking flattered at his older brother’s attention, Tybalt cleared his throat. “It started about a year ago, them using the pass. They leave Thorbardin and meet up with the Passroad somewhere around the western shore of Stonehammer Lake. They’re taking their cargo to the coast at Newsea. We hear they’ve got a jetty set up in some cove, where they meet ships from the north and transfer their goods.”

  “So, how did it all start?”

  Tybalt paused and scratched his chin. “One day, a short one of these derro, kind of bent over like, showed up and met with the mayor and a bunch of the elders. Offered to pay twenty steel pieces a wagon—twenty steel, mind you—if we’d let them come over our pass.

  “Course there was still some, like Aylmar, who wanted nothing to do with them. But the deal was struck. Then, the wagons started comin’ through,” Tybalt said, punching his hand for emphasis. “They make the run to the coast, and on the way back the derro stock up on grain, beer, cheese, all manner of stuff you can’t get where there’s no sun. Pay in good steel coin, twice or more what anybody could charge before. It started out with only one wagon a day coming and going, a few derro on each. They must be doing twice or more than that, now.”

  “And always derro, the Theiwar?” asked Flint.

  “Yup. Some stay with their wagons, but most sleep at the inns in town during the day. They don’t mix much with townfolk. There’s been a few fights and such, but they don’t try to cause too much trouble … usually.

  “The town’s never had so much in its treasury, and all of us’re doing better than we ever thought possible,” Tybalt concluded defensively.

  “So what you’re saying is, Hillhome is allowing mountain dwarves in the village strictly for the profit,” Flint concluded numbly.

  “Can you think of a better reason?” Bernhard asked innocently.

  Flint’s temper exploded as he jumped to his feet. “I can’t think of any reason to have dealings with mountain dwarves!” He glared angrily into each and every face. “Has everyone here forgotten the Great Betrayal? Or the Dwarfgate Wars, in which Grandfather Reghar gave up his life trying to take back the hill dwarves’ place in Thorbardin—our birthright!—from the mountain dwarves who stole it? Have you forgotten, Tybalt?”

  Tybalt straightened self-righteously, “I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t make the laws. I’m sworn to uphold them. For that matter, I’d toss a hill dwarf in jail as soon as I would a mountain dwarf!”

  Flint scowled and turned on Bernhard. “How about you?”

  His younger brother shrank under his gaze. “I’m just a carpenter …” He tugged on his beard self-consciously, afraid to look at his eldest brother as he struggled with some inner thought. “You can’t forget what you never knew, Flint!” he blurted at last. “I never heard the stories like you did, not from Father. And all that was over three hundred years ago!” Bernhard seemed almost relieved to have said it. Flint’s expression softened somewhat.

  Fidelia did not wait for her brother to get around to her. “Frankly, I’m for whatever makes me money,” she said, sensually running her hands down her tailored leather apron, a far cry from the coarse cloth their mother had been accustomed to wearing. “I like to think that we’re getting back from Thorbardin a little of what’s been owed us—payment for all these years of poverty.”

  Flint rubbed his face wearily. It was obvious that he did not know his family at all. He looked at his closest sibling. “And how about you, Ruberik? At least you don’t seem to think much of derro.”

  Ruberik appeared to be giving the discussion great thought. “No, I don’t, and I haven’t forgotten the Great Betrayal either, Flint. I would not have approved the agreement if asked, but I wasn’t. The council, with the support of the majority of the citizens, made the decision.” He had dropped his usual stuffy tone. “But now that they’re here, I’m not adverse to making a little profit—just so we’re comfortable. I’m not greedy like some others in town,” he added defensively.

  Flint rubbed his face wearily. “These wagons,” he said, changing the subject slightly. “What do they haul? And where are they going?”

  Tybalt spoke up again. “Mayor Holden says that they carry mostly raw iron. Sometimes tools—plows, forges, stuff like that. They cover the twenty or so miles from Thorbardin in one night, arrive before sunup, spend the day in town or sleeping, then set out at night for a dock at Newsea. Usually two days later, they return to Hillhome, and then continue on back to Thorbardin.”

  Flint picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantle, relit it, and took a long draw, squinting through the smoke at his three brothers. “Does anyone know where they’re taking so many farm implements?” he asked suspiciously.

  His brothers looked at each other, puzzled. “Why should we care where they go after Newsea?” Tybalt exclaimed. “The derro pay us in steel—the most valuable commodity on Krynn. And for what?—promising them clearance through the pass and selling them our goods at a slightly elevated price.”

  “It’s almost like free money!” added Bernhard.

  But instead of persuading their brother, their comments made Flint even more irritated. “Nothing is ever free,” he growled softly. Ruberik remained silent, frowning.

  A strange silence crept over the room, taking with it the last drop of the spirit of celebration. One by one, the Fireforge family dispersed. Ruberik finally shuffled off to his private chamber, and only Bertina stayed behind in the main chamber with Flint.

  At last Flint got up and moved to the wooden bench Ruberik had vacated, both to sit closer to Bertina and to—finally—leave Aylmar’s favorite chair.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t get back sooner, Berti.” Flint forced the words out awkwardly. Even with a bellyful of ale, he could not make himself tell her of his feelings of guilt. But he sensed that she understood.

  “It’s enough to have you home now,” she said, patting his thick hand. “This is just what the family needed.”

  Flint’s hands curled into fists. “But maybe I could have helped him … done something!”

  Bertina squeezed her brother-in-law’s arm reassuringly and shook her head. “We went there as soon as we heard, Rubie and me.” Her eyes were far away. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  Suddenly the front door slammed back against the stone wall. “Isn’t it just like ‘Uncle Flint’ to worry about his family?” a new voice snarled sarcastically from the door. Flint recognized it before he even looked up: Basalt
. Their eyes met. His nephew was no longer a youth of fifty. He had a full beard, darker than his bright red hair, and a preponderance of freckles beneath his sea-green eyes. Basalt was tall for a dwarf, but it was more than height that gave him an appearance of haughtiness.

  “Basalt!” cried Bertina, rousing herself to leap to her feet, smiling happily for the first time that evening. “Flint’s here! Your Uncle Flint’s come home!” Flint, too, rose and stepped toward his nephew, smiling warmly.

  “I know.” Something in Basalt’s voice cast a pall over the room. “I heard a few hours ago, down at Moldoon’s.”

  Basalt’s green eyes fixed Flint with a cold stare. Bertina coughed, embarrassed. And Flint felt himself shrinking under that gaze. Though he did not know how he could have done otherwise, Flint realized that he had let the boy down by being elsewhere when Aylmar had died. Though he knew he should, he could not bring himself to rebuke the rudeness of his brother’s son.

  “It’s good to see you, Basalt,” Flint said at last. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Me, too!” the young dwarf snapped, grabbing someone’s half-finished mug of ale from the table and tossing the contents down his throat. It was not his first of the night, Flint realized. “Nice of you to make it back, Uncle, although your brother’s been cold in the ground for nearly a month!”

  “Basalt!” Bertina gasped, finally finding her voice.

  “Let the boy—let Basalt speak his mind,” Flint corrected himself, giving his nephew a pained look. Normally a young dwarf who spoke that way to an older relative would suffer a severe reprimand, if not a punch in the nose or a brief banishment. But somehow, Flint could only feel sorry for Basalt. And angry at himself for his long neglect of his family.

  “I have nothing to say,” Basalt said softly, sorrow, ale, and anger making his eyes flash. “The subject bores me.” With that, he disappeared into the shadows that cloaked the house beyond the firelight.

  Bertina stood clutching her apron, looking with anguish from Flint to where Basalt had retreated. “He doesn’t mean it, Flint,” she said. “He’s just not been the same since … since … It’s the drink talking.” With a soft moan, she hurried after her son.