“Say,” ventured the innkeeper, as Basalt started on the last half of his mug. “Hildy’s got to make her deliveries this evening. I happen to know she could use some help.…”
“Hah! She’d have nuthin’ to do with me!” The scorn in Basalt’s voice, Moldoon sensed, was directed inward, at the dwarf himself.
“Well, she sure won’t if you keep treating her as badly as you do yourself! And neither will I!” snapped Moldoon. He turned to take the orders of other customers while Basalt watched the foam melt along the inside of his mug.
Finally he got up and shuffled to the door, stepping outside to look at the long, brown strip of the Passroad. Snow, colored red and purple by the fading twilight, covered the surrounding hills in a pristine blanket that contrasted sharply with the muddy blotch of Hillhome.
Once the dwarven community might have slumbered peacefully under winter’s cloak, its residents content to await the coming of spring. But now it was just past the early winter sunset, and the town churned with energy in the chill darkness. Hammers pounded at forges, horses hauled their wagons through deep, sticky mud, merchants eagerly readied their wares for sale to the derro preparing to return to Thorbardin.
Basalt thought about going home, but the picture of his stern Uncle Ruberik stopped him. Ruberik never ceased berating Basalt about drinking. In fact, the ruder the young dwarf got, the more persistent the elder became about nagging. The family home, a guilt-ridden shell since his father’s death, seemed like a nest of enemies now, and Basalt couldn’t face it.
So Basalt sat on the wide steps of Moldoon’s, mindless of the icy wind that blew through the valley. In a way, given his bleak mood, the chill wind almost seemed a friend, sharing his troubles and misery.
As Basalt sat with his chin in his hands, staring down the street, he saw a small, familiar wagon churning up the muddy lane. As Moldoon had predicted, Hildy was bringing more kegs from the brewery. For a brief second his mood brightened at the sight of the frawl, but then he sullenly reminded himself of Hildy’s subtle hints and not-too-subtle encouragements to apply himself to some endeavor—any endeavor, to use her own words—more useful than sitting at Moldoon’s bar. Feeling positively childish, Basalt got up from the steps and ducked around the corner so that he would not be seen.
His humiliation told him to slip down the alley and keep walking, but his heart told him something else, something that held his stride in midstep. Closing his eyes, Basalt leaned against the nearest wall and wondered, through his cloud of ale, why he wanted to flee in panic from someone he had known and been friends with all his life. Indeed, he remembered with a twisted smile, Hildy had given him his first—and only—kiss.
“Reorx curse it!” he growled, scowling at the darkness of the world. Shaking his head to clear it, he stepped back around the corner just as Hildy reined in the horses before Moldoon’s.
“Hello, fair brewer’s daughter,” he said with a gallant bow. Straightening into his best cocky pose, he smiled up at her on the buckboard. “Can I give you a hand?”
Hildy reached out and let him lift her down from the wagon. “Excuse my staring,” she teased, “but I once knew someone like you. And a fine fellow he was—or should I say, is?” She gave him a wink. “I’d appreciate the help. Let me just run inside and check Moldoon’s order.”
Basalt watched her pass through the doors. Now he was suddenly happier than he would have believed possible a few minutes earlier. Whistling absently, he prepared to unload the heavy barrels. Two long planks in the wagon served as a ramp, and he lowered one of these, anchoring its base firmly in the muddy street. As he dragged the other plank out the back of the wagon, his fingers slipped and it dropped to the ground, splashing mud and a wave of brown water across his boots and pants. But Hildy’s reaction to him had so lifted Basalt’s spirits that he just chuckled at his own clumsiness.
Someone else on the street was not in such a generous mood.
“Hey! Hill dwarf!”
Basalt looked up, surprised, into the snarling face of a derro guard. His straw-colored hair stuck out of his head at sharp angles, and his pale skin showed a blue vein flexing in his forehead.
“You clumsy sot! You splashed your stinking Hillhome muck all over my boots!” accused the Theiwar.
Basalt straightened, ready to bluster an insult at the belligerent dwarf when he remembered that Hildy would emerge from Moldoon’s in another moment. Wanting nothing more than to avoid trouble and impress Hildy, he muttered, “I’m sorry. It was an accident.” The apology caught in his throat, but at least it was done.
Basalt turned back to the wagon only to be yanked around by a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Accident!” bellowed the derro. “You’re a liar! I saw you take deliberate aim at my boots. Now, you can clean them!”
The derro was stocky and well built, as tall as Basalt and wearing a chain mail shirt, heavy, iron-knuckled gauntlets, and a helmet. A short sword was girded to his waist. By contrast, the hill dwarf was weaponless and unarmored. He knew that the Theiwar, if provoked, could and would slay him with a single thrust.
His face burning, Basalt considered his options. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hildy and Moldoon step from the inn, drawn by the commotion.
“You heard me—clean them!” growled the mountain dwarf.
“Get your mother the hobgoblin to do it!” Hildy piped in, her eyes smoldering with indignation as she stomped toward them.
By now, a small group of dwarves had gathered on the street, watching the confrontation warily.
Basalt saw the derro’s mad, glaring eyes swing toward the young frawl. Suddenly, the most frightening thing in the world was not the threat to himself but the fear that Hildy might step between them, humiliating him beyond all capacity for endurance. Or, even worse, that she might get hurt.
“Not even a mother hobgoblin would claim this lump of flesh,” Basalt growled, commanding the derro’s attention again. Their gazes met, full of hate, and locked like horns.
“A hobgoblin wouldn’t let a woman do his fighting for him, either,” sneered the derro. “Though this one looks like she could distract me for a couple of hours, with the right enticement.”
The derro’s leering face was more than Basalt could stomach. With an animal growl he leaped at the mountain dwarf, his fingers clutching for the arrogant Theiwar’s throat. The derro reacted quickly, crashing his mailed fist into Basalt’s face. The hill dwarf dropped to the street, slumping down in the muddy ruts. His cheek throbbed, and when he pressed a hand to his face it came away covered with blood.
Choking on his rage and frustration, Basalt jumped to his feet and charged the derro again. He lowered his head and drove it into the derro’s gut. The Theiwar stumbled back slightly, surprised by the force of the blow. But then he laughed as Basalt staggered away, clapping his hands to his throbbing scalp where he had just collided with the chain links of the derro’s armor.
“Now get on your knees, hill dwarf, and clean my boots!” cackled the derro, stepping forward.
But the tall figure of Moldoon moved between them.
“That’s more than enough.” The human stared down at the Theiwar, an expression of loathing and anger working across his face.
“What’re you doing, old man?” demanded the derro, stepping backward and glaring.
“Get out of here, before this goes too far,” warned Moldoon. He raised his hands, as if to push the derro away from the fallen Basalt.
But the mountain dwarf’s eyes grew even larger as the man came toward him. In a flash he drew his sword, shouting, “I will decide how far this goes! I will show you how the Theiwar gain respect!”
The keen tip of the short sword shot forward, slicing through the innkeeper’s apron and shirt and punching neatly, deeply between his ribs. Moldoon stepped backward, his hand clutched to his chest. He looked down in disbelief as a crimson flower blossomed on his apron, spreading its life-colored petals beneath his clenched fingers.
Basalt, still
reeling from the blow to his head, watched in a daze as Moldoon wobbled, then collapsed with a splash into the muddy street. Hildy cried out and leaped to his side, cradling the stricken human’s head in her lap.
Seeing Moldoon lying in a heap, his unfocused eyes staring into the sky, his mouth moving without making any sound, turned Basalt’s blood to ice. Snatching up the heavy plank that had set off the whole encounter, he swung it with more strength than he normally possessed. The derro, still holding the steel blade slick with blood, tried to twist away but the board caught him on the hip and sent him sprawling. The short sword sailed from his hand and landed point-down in the muck, with the handle above the water. Basalt dove toward it. But before he could reach it, a heavy body slammed into him from the side and pushed him back down to the street.
“Stop it!” snarled Tybalt, inches from his nephew’s face as Basalt struggled in the mud beneath him. “There’s been enough killing in this town—we don’t need a hanging on top of it all.”
Basalt writhed desperately, still reaching for the leering derro as other hill dwarves helped Tybalt restrain him. He lunged again, spitting sounds that did not resemble words.
“That’s enough!” growled his uncle more firmly. Three other dwarves held Basalt so tightly he could barely move at all, however much he struggled.
The constable turned back to the derro, who was standing again with his hand on the hatchet at his belt. “You’re coming with me,” he said, “as soon as you hand over that weapon. You’ll be staying, courtesy of the town.”
Tybalt indicated the town hall, half a block away, which included Hillhome’s single jail cell.
The derro started to object but, apparently, something in Tybalt’s eyes stopped him. Also, by that time the crowd around them had grown to several dozen or more onlookers, all hill dwarves. Some of them clucked with dismay at the sight of Moldoon’s lifeless body, though none stepped forward to offer comfort to the weeping Hildy.
With a shrug, the Theiwar dwarf picked up his short sword, wiped off the blood, and sheathed his blade. Unbuckling his belt, he handed it to the constable.
“But he … Moldoon …” Basalt choked on the words through his outrage, watching the derro swagger down the street with one of the constables. “By Reorx,” cried Basalt, “give me your axe, let me finish it here!” His voice was a wail of despair.
“Let the law handle it,” Tybalt said curtly. “It was a fight on the street, with plenty of witnesses. A fight that might have been avoided …”
Tybalt didn’t finish the thought, but Basalt understood his meaning. He looked at the crowd, desperately searching for an understanding face, but saw only horror and pity. He looked toward Hildy, saw her cradling Moldoon’s lifeless head and looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
Suddenly Basalt could not face these dwarves of Hillhome.
Twisting free of the crowd, he sprinted away, around a corner and down a side street. He turned again, stumbling into an alley, not at all sure where he was going. Blinded by his own tears, he stumbled around another corner, still fleeing with no direction. Finally, his weakened knees and straining lungs forced him to slow, then stop. Gasping for breath, he leaned against a shed for support.
Suddenly he heard giggling, children’s laughter. Had they witnessed the whole, shameful event and followed him from the inn to mock him? No, it couldn’t be—they must just be playing in the alley. Still, Basalt found their gaiety infuriating. “Go away, you brats!” he hissed through clenched teeth, not turning around.
But that only brought more cruel, haunting giggles.
Basalt whirled, half-crazed and ready to scare the wits out of the little fiends. From the depths of the shadows, two of the ugliest, dirtiest children he had ever seen rushed toward him. They broke into a run, waving twine, thong, and rope over their heads as they charged the startled hill dwarf.
They were on him instantly like rats, wrapping him in the rope and twine even as they scampered around him. One of them charged up his back, knocking him down. His head, still throbbing from the derro’s chain mail, smacked into the packed earth, and the alley, his attackers, and even the ground began to spin uncontrollably.
And then he caught the scent of his assailants. Before he passed out, Basalt knew they were neither children nor rats, but something much worse.
As he lost consciousness, he wondered why he had been kidnapped by gully dwarves.
Chapter 14
A Curious Theft
A cloudy, silty puddle of mushale remained at the bottom of the mug. Pitrick swished it one way, then sloshed it back toward the other, watching its rhythmic, symmetrical motion. He watched the sediment, inevitable in mushale no matter how much it was strained, travel to and fro with the tiny tide. He found little solace in its simple spectacle. The fact that this was his sixth mug in half as many hours was both comforting and galling. For if Pitrick utilized mushale as a transcendental aid, as a step toward relaxation and deeper understanding, rarely did he allow himself to get so completely lost in its more addictive charms. Overuse was an abuse.
The savant was already addicted to power. To become dependent on anything else, to develop an intimacy with anything else like he had with the concept of power, would only serve as a distraction.
Yet, something had already diverted his attention. Perian Cyprium, the flame-haired officer of the thane’s House Guard, was consuming his thoughts. Pitrick swished the mushale dregs around the cup once more, listening for the soft murmur of the liquid. In frustration he dashed the contents into the fire, then smashed the cup on the andiron. The low flame turned bright blue as the fermented potion blazed to life. Swelling not unlike the flame, Pitrick’s melancholy grew to anger.
She had humbugged him, by the gods! He did not know how, or why, but somehow she had conspired with the fates to cheat him. One of his most powerful and potent devices, the “wish” scroll that he had held in reserve for so many years, was gone, shriveled to ashes and blown away by its own magical wind. Its power was unquestionable, un-doubtable, but still it had failed. Pitrick had left no loopholes for the mystical powers. Yet the scroll was consumed, the toll on his life span taken, and Perian was most definitely not at his side.
“I have been a fool!” moaned Pitrick aloud in his empty chamber. “And worse, I have been a blind, manipulated fool. I have squandered one of the most potent magics known and gained nothing.
“How could I allow this to happen? How could this frawl become such an obsession?” With his face buried in his hands, Pitrick limped around the chiseled and polished desk and up several steps toward the chamber in the right corner of the room. His gaze was falling on another place, another time, perhaps another world. He didn’t need to see anything—the details of the room were clearly and perfectly fixed in his mind. Without as much as glancing at his surroundings, he stopped and collapsed into the seat by the hearth, propping his elbows on his knees.
“I loathe her, and yet I must have her. Every denial, every move away only increases my desire. Does fate conspire against me, does the magical fabric of this world seek to frustrate me?” Pitrick’s head snapped back and he howled, “How could it fail me? I made no mistake!”
The sound of rapping at his door stiffened Pitrick in the granite seat. He looked all around the room, at first confused by the sound, until it came again. The cloud of mushale and anguish in his mind cleared away as his focus returned to more immediate surroundings.
Along with the scroll, I have prematurely disposed of Legaer, as well, he mused. The memory of the hapless servant’s soft neck beneath Pitrick’s fingers brought a wry smile to his lips as he stood. Still, a replacement was needed immediately.
The knocking at the door resumed. Pitrick clumped irritably across the room, thoroughly annoyed by the intrusion. He paused, debating whether to answer it at all, but decided a fresh face might be diverting.
“What is it?” he demanded as he yanked open the heavy door, surprising the black-armored harrn of the House
Guard who was standing there. The startled soldier snapped to attention, then just stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do next.
Pitrick reached toward his five-headed amulet but then stopped and withdrew his hand. This guard was here for a reason, after all.
“Have you a message, clod?” Pitrick snapped. He could feel a chill draft blowing across his feet, and knew that his cozy rooms would quickly grow cold.
“I was sent from the North Warren, Excellency. The duty officer there requests that you come at your earliest convenience.”
This is unusual, Pitrick thought. “For what reason?”
“We captured an Aghar, Excellency. The duty officer felt that you should see him.” Pitrick could tell from the dwarf’s tone that he was frightened, probably thinking that bearing such a trivial request to the thane’s unpredictable adviser was flirting with death.
Pitrick enjoyed that part of his reputation. “Why bother me with this? I am not concerned with the comings and goings of thieving gully dwarves. Deal with him in the usual manner and be done with it … unless there’s something more to it that you haven’t told me?”
The messenger was sweating now, rivulets coursing down his neck beneath his close-fitting armor. “Yes, Excellency,” he stammered, “I have yet to tell you that he was stealing something of yours. He was trying to break into your personal warrens.”
Pitrick was puzzled. This incident was of small consequence by any account. The warrens were Thorbardin’s major food production area, and Aghar sneaked in to steal things from time to time. They took garbage, mostly, so stealing food was unusual, but it hardly required his personal attention.
Yet his chambers were growing cold, and his mind was wandering. A bit of sport with an Aghar might be uplifting, Pitrick thought. “You may go,” he said to the guard and slammed the door in his face.
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