Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

  Taking a deep breath, Pitrick touched his ring while picturing the guardpost at the edge of the North Warren. By the time he exhaled, he stood at that very guardpost.

  “Well? Where is the duty officer?” Several startled guards stepped backward, away from the sudden apparition, and snatched up their weapons. Immediately afterward, they recognized the thane’s adviser and snapped to attention. A sergeant stepped forward and waved his hand speechlessly, indicating the direction to the duty officer. Without a nod and dragging his foot, Pitrick advanced down the tunnel.

  The warrens were a gigantic labyrinth of passageways and grottoes wherein huge fields of fungus and mold, the staple foods of the subterranean dwarf, grew in great abundance. The warrens also boasted large pools containing trout and other cold-water fish. Various sorts of compost hills were dispersed throughout the area, providing nutrients for the thin soil. Eternally wrapped in darkness, the warrens were heavy with fetid air, carrying within them a sense of the power and limitless wealth of the earth, in all its living forms.

  Within moments, Pitrick sighted the helpless prisoner bound and laying on the cavern floor.

  “We caught him breaking into one of your rooms, Excellency,” volunteered one of the derro guards.

  Pitrick cut him off. “I know that! Are you the duty officer? If not, summon him here!”

  The guard scurried away and around a corner of the tunnel. Pitrick nonchalantly eyed the frightened Aghar on the ground. He circled around the prisoner, whose gaze followed him like a bird’s. As Pitrick was completing his circuit, the duty officer approached and saluted smartly.

  “Tell me what is so important about this pathetic creature,” Pitrick commanded.

  The duty officer was admirably unshaken. “We caught him trying to get into one of your warrens, Excellency. Normally we wouldn’t think much about catching a gully dwarf, but this one seemed almost to be looking for something specific. Usually they stick to the garbage piles and compost heaps deep in the warrens, and almost never come in this close.”

  Pitrick glared at the Aghar prisoner, inspecting the fellow’s ragged garments. The gully dwarf offered a tentative, gap-toothed smile, prompting Pitrick to slap him across the face.

  “You have done well,” the hunchback said to the guard. The derro reacted to the adviser’s praise, if not with pleasure, at least with a noticeable sense of relief. “Tell me more. What is in that warren.”

  “Mossweed, Excellency. North Warren Blue, specifically. Your personal stock. Him being here in the first place was odd enough, but that he’d try to steal smoke weed instead of food—it just doesn’t add up. That’s why I called you, Excellency. I thought you should know.”

  “Indeed.” Pitrick fixed his eyes on the Aghar and watched the color drain from the little fellow’s face. Why would a gully dwarf try to steal smoke weed? And why this particular smoke weed? Pitrick’s North Warren Blue was renowned as the best in Thorbardin, but only among those aficionados familiar with the finer points of the weed.

  The Aghar groaned and squirmed, looking around for a friendly face. When Pitrick spoke, his voice came out silky smooth, soothing the trembling gully dwarf.

  “So you want some smoke weed, hmmm?” Pitrick smiled. It was more of a grimace, but it was the best he could do. “It is such a pleasure to find a gully dwarf with refined taste. Why do you enjoy it so?”

  The Aghar squinted at him in fright, trying hard to understand the question. “Enjoy what so?” he finally inquired.

  “The North Warren mossweed, of course,” said Pitrick, pretending mild surprise. “You do smoke it, don’t you?” The derro’s mind seethed. He pictured his hands wrapping around the helpless gully dwarf’s throat and squeezing, slowly, as the thing squirmed. He imagined a dozen delicious ends for the useless creature and wondered briefly which he would choose. When the time came, he knew, the answer would provide itself.

  The gap-toothed Aghar looked at him in confusion for a moment longer. Then, like the sun emerging from a dense overcast, a smile of understanding illuminated his features. “Oh,” he chuckled. “Mossweed not for Too-thee!”

  “Oh?” Pitrick’s eyes narrowed. “Who, then?”

  “Mossweed for queen! New queen of Mudhole like good smoke!” the Aghar proclaimed, proudly. “Choose me, Too-thee, to get for her!”

  Mudhole, Pitrick assumed, was one of the pathetic gully dwarf lairs on the fringes of Thorbardin. His outrage grew at the thought of some Aghar sow enjoying his smoke … But why? Why would a gully dwarf, who dined on worms and garbage, be concerned about the quality of her smoke weed?

  “Tell me about this new queen of Mudhole,” prompted Pitrick smoothly. “After all, I represent the thane—the king of the Theiwar. Perhaps he would be interested in meeting your queen.”

  “No, no. Queen already have king. But thane could visit! We throw big party for Queen Furryend and King Flunk and thane!”

  “Have Furryend and Flunk been your rulers for a long time?”

  “Oh, yes! Two days! Maybe more! King and queen, they descend from mud, just like in property! They come down to Mudhole two days ago!” The Aghar spoke freely now, happy to pour out his knowledge for these Theiwar who knew so little.

  “Tell me what Queen Furryend looks like,” Pitrick snapped. His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Is she enormously fat, or covered with warts?”

  “Oh, no, queen beautiful. She big pretty, with right size nose and red hair like iron rust.” Too-thee looked up, hoping the explanation pleased the grotesque derro.

  Pitrick turned away, his eyes bulging, his mind inflamed. The derro guards stepped back, frightened by the look on his face. The pieces of this puzzle were falling together. Queen Furryend—Perian it must be—descended to them two days ago, complete with a king—Flint—red hair, and a taste for North Warren Blue. She obviously thought it would be funny to steal his private stock, as if that would make a fool of him. Indeed, he understood why his wish spell had failed. His wording had been perfect. But he’d asked for Perian to be returned to life, and she’d never died! How they had survived he could not fathom, but he was certain that it was Perian who was queen to these gully dwarves.

  Flecks of spittle trickled from the hunchback derro’s twitching lips. He thought how that red-haired halfbreed wench must be laughing at his failure, and his rage became supreme. Pitrick turned back slowly, his unblinking eyes locked on the Aghar. Too-thee twisted and squirmed backward as the savant crept closer.

  “I will kill you first,” he hissed. “But you are just the beginning. Your entire thieving, conniving clan will be wiped out. I’ll kill every one of them, one at a time, with my own hands if I must. But I will have her! I will have your queen, and she will suffer!”

  Pitrick sprang forward, his powerful hands locking around the throat of the squirming Aghar. The derro guards nervously watched as the berserk savant vented his rage against the hapless prisoner.

  Pitrick shook the Aghar like a rag doll, and then threw the wailing dwarf aside. His hand grasped the medallion at his chest, his other rose to point an accusing finger at the gully dwarf.

  A bolt of magical energy crackled from Pitrick’s finger. It sparked through the air and struck the gully dwarf in the chest. The Aghar screamed and flopped over backward. Again and again, the magic hissed, sending forth crackling missiles that struck the little body with brute force. By the third missile, the Aghar was well and truly dead, its body smoking. Still Pitrick sent two more bolts into the pathetic corpse.

  Appearing slightly calmer, Pitrick stepped back from his victim. “I have important matters to tend to,” he snapped, compelling the attention of the assembled derro of the House Guard. They stood in a nervous circle, listening very carefully indeed. “This incident is not to be reported to anyone. I shall be monitoring this situation personally, and I guarantee that if even the slightest word of this leaks out, I will see to it that all of you—all of you—will pay for that slip of the tongue.”

  “You can count o
n our discretion, Excellency!” exclaimed the duty officer. “No one will know—no one at all!”

  “Very good. Return to your posts, and forget today’s event.”

  Pitrick touched the steel ring on his finger, as he pictured in his mind the chasm where he had last seen Perian and Flint. With the slightest blink, the ring performed its magic, and the hunchbacked derro disappeared from the North Warrens.

  In the same instant, he materialized at the lip of the Beast Pit. His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the deep, dark chasm. Was it possible that both victims had actually survived their plummet into this dank hole? He tended to believe the tale of the dead Aghar. The new king and queen of the gully dwarves had to be the harrn and frawl that Pitrick had presumed dead.

  If so, their new lease on life is about to expire, he thought with some measure of humor.

  Pitrick studied the pit from above. Obviously there must be a connection or passage of some sort that allowed them to escape to “Mudhole.” Pitrick grinned at the name. Perhaps Perian would show him gratitude for being rescued from such a place! As for the hill dwarf, any number of spells would see to his permanent disposal.

  But first, Pitrick needed to find the passage that had led them to temporary safety, and that meant exploring the Beast Pit. His teleportation ring, while perfectly suited for moving about Thorbardin and even carrying him to distant places such as Sanction, was of no use here. It could only take him to places that he had already seen. If he tried to teleport into Mudhole without knowing its exact location, he could materialize in the midst of the mountain somewhere, or worse. For this task he needed some other channel of movement.

  And his spells could provide it. Pitrick reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small feather. He twisted it between his fingers as he mouthed the words to a simple spell. Then, he stepped into the chasm.

  Spreading his arms, Pitrick thrilled to the motion and power of his spell of flying. He swooped down, then darted back up, turning again to dive into the depths of the pit. Below him he saw a black cesspool of mud and slime. Something stirred there, and he knew it was the lair of the beast.

  Curving away, Pitrick darted through the air, along the twisting channel that was the floor of the pit. Somewhere in this cavern was the passage to the gully dwarves’ lair. Pitrick swore he would not rest until he found it.

  A soft, unfamiliar sound came from behind him, and Pitrick paused, hovering for a moment as he looked back toward the mouth of the pit. He saw movement in the depths, and for a moment his heart froze as he got his first good look at the monstrous size of the beast.

  It oozed toward him, pushing part of its segmented form forward, then trailing its other half after. Like a gigantic slug, reaching ahead of itself with those long, lashing tentacles, the beast came on.

  If it were chasing me, I would run this way, Pitrick reasoned. If Perian and Flint found an exit, it should be here, near the furthest extent of the cavern, since this is where they would have had the time to examine the walls. But the flying savant saw nothing.

  Then an idea struck him. His enemies weren’t flying, they were on the ground. Their perspective was different. Pitrick settled to the cavern floor. And there, directly ahead of him, was a crack of light. It was nearly concealed by an overhanging boulder. Approaching it more closely, he could see that it led somewhere. He could even hear, faintly, sounds from the other side.

  This is how they escaped me! he crowed to himself. Leaning closer to listen, the Theiwar could distinguish sounds of cheering and clapping.

  “I’ll give them something to shout about,” he chuckled, flying upward twenty or thirty feet and hovering while he thought. Which of his spells would be most effective? Foremost, he wanted to snatch Perian away, and after that make sure that the hill dwarf, Fireforge, never bothered anyone again. He considered changing Flint into a snail, or blasting him to pieces with a lightning bolt. The more he thought about it, the more he laughed, and as he laughed, the beast crept closer. By the time the bloblike form was beneath him, Pitrick positively howled with glee.

  He would not attack Mudhole alone, when help was so readily at hand.

  The beast’s tentacles lashed upward, and Pitrick shrieked as one dragged across his foot. Quickly darting higher, he examined the cave wall of the Beast Pit. Somewhere beyond that wall, he knew, lay Mudhole and his quarry. The tiny tunnel was the only connecting conduit between the Beast Pit and Mudhole now, but Pitrick could easily expand that.

  Below him the beast lurched again. Its tentacles flailed blindly. Some groped upward while others searched through the tunnel.

  “Allow me,” hissed the deformed dwarf, still hovering. His right hand closed around the amulet at his neck while his eyes stared at the great wall of rock, the wall that divided the beast from the gully dwarves.

  “Gro-ath goe Kratsch-yill!” He barked the magic spell, his voice suddenly firm. The familiar blue glow surged from the amulet, seeping between his fingers.

  Pitrick raised his left hand, gesturing to the wall. The force of his magic reached out, penetrating the stone surface, altering and kneading that stone with the power of its enchantment.

  Beads of moisture gathered on the rock and trickled down its quivering slope. Slowly the rock bulged and grew soft. Suddenly it gave way, splitting open like a tomato. Pitrick cackled as a torrent of mud and stone poured into this cavern and the one beyond. Then the beast, sensing dozens of vulnerable prey, rushed through the gurgling ooze into Mudhole.

  Chapter 15

  The “Crownation”

  “More fungus?” inquired Nomscul, shoving a platter of the aromatic if chewy shapes under the noses of his newly crowned monarchs.

  “I’m stuffed,” Flint replied, holding up both hands and settling back on the soft cushion of moss. “What little room I have left I’m saving for those ribs you’re cooking.”

  “Nomscul sorry about meat,” the Aghar apologized, staring at his toes.

  Across the great cavern, a huge steel spear rested over a low fire. Large ribs of pork were spitted on the spear, dripping juices into the fire with an appetizing sizzle, barely audible above the raucous noise of the great crownation festival. In his new, official, and royally appointed capacity as Mudhole’s Best Cook and Chief Shaman (the longest, and therefore most important title in Mudhole) Nomscul had sorely neglected his duty when he forgot to light the cooking fire until the feast was well underway, a fact which had slowed the cooking of the meat significantly. It had also made him almost obnoxiously solicitous toward Flint and Perian.

  At the moment, however, Flint didn’t notice the absence of the meat—indeed, he couldn’t have eaten another bite. All the food served during the ceremony had been quite good and, what’s more, plentiful. Having lived above ground for all of his life, Flint never knew just how much variety there could be in subterranean dining. The food and drink had thus far included spiced mushrooms, raw and cooked fish, potatoes, and lichen leaves.

  “This is the best I’ve felt since we got here,” admitted the king of the gully dwarves, with a frank look at his queen.

  “It was all right,” Perian admitted. “I’m used to better, but most of this came from the Theiwar warrens anyway. Still, I’m surprised Nomscul did such a good job with it.

  “I just wish Too-thee would get back with my mossweed. I wonder what’s keeping him.”

  “He could still be here by the end of the meal,” replied Flint, with a glance at the still raw pork ribs. “That gives him plenty of time.”

  Across the room they saw the low fire, with its sizzling rack of ribs impaled on a great, steel-shafted spear. Every few minutes Nomscul skipped over to the fire and rotated the pig slightly. His procedure was apparently mostly guesswork, but the meat sent a delightful aroma whispering around the assembled multitudes.

  All of the approximately four hundred Aghar of Mudhole had assembled in the Big Sky Room for the great feast and celebration. By this point in the feast the chamber was pretty well ravaged, bla
nketed with litter, food and clothing scraps, and sleeping Aghar.

  The cavern was divided by the shallow stream that flowed through so much of the gully dwarf lair. Here in the cavern the stream collected into a series of three deep, clear pools. Dozens of young Aghar splashed playfully in the chilly waters of these pools. Unlike virtually every other type of dwarf known to Flint and Perian, the gully dwarves of Mudhole actually liked the water. All of them seemed to be darned good swimmers. This fact amazed Flint, who didn’t know a hill or mountain dwarf that knew how to keep his head above water.

  Flint, Perian, and a dozen Aghar—their “court,” which included Nomscul, Ooz, and Fester—sat on one side of the stream. A small, rugged stone footbridge crossed the waterway between two of the pools, connecting up with the larger portion of the cave where the rest of the gully dwarves were gathered.

  Fester and Nomscul had been taking turns saluting and toasting their new rulers. Fester had become Perian’s chief handmaiden and lady-in-waiting—or “weighty lady,” as the gully dwarf referred to herself. Nomscul, in addition to his roles as healer, and Best Cook and Chief Shaman, had vowed to become the king’s primary aide.

  “You a real kingly king,” said Nomscul, sloshing slightly as he offered yet another salute to his new monarch.

  After Nomscul’s toast, the air was filled with mushrooms, lichens, and fishheads flying back and forth. Several near-misses splashed into the water just feet from the king and queen, but a withering look from Nomscul, coupled with a menacing reach toward his magic bag, moved the game to a more comfortable distance.

  “Say,” commented Flint, “do you folks play any games down here: Kickball, stick-and-hoop, anything like that?”

  Nomscul looked at him quizzically. “Stuck in hoop?”

  “You know, sports,” Flint persisted. “Athletic games. You get a bunch of—”

  “Two,” corrected Perian.

  “… two fellows on one side and two on the other, and they both try to hook a leather hoop over the others’ post—that sort of thing. Or anything to watch that’s more organized than this free-for-all.”