Without pause, the sergeant rushed on. “The hill dwarves have already proven resourceful and treacherous. Who knows what they will do while the sun shines and we are at the disadvantage. Excellency, we are on the verge of a great victory! I urge you to finish the fight now, while this victory is within our grasp!”
Pitrick grew suddenly, ominously calm. Then he spoke. “Very well. We will destroy the enemy first. Now, where is this building that shelters them?”
The derro sergeant, concealing a sigh of relief, described the brewery to the adviser as they walked up Hillhome’s deserted Main Street. Pitrick knew that his savants had expended their most potent spells against the earthwork, and would be of little use in the next battle. They would need to spend many hours studying their spellbooks before they could again cast the volleys of magic missiles or storm of hail that had proven so decisive on the wall.
And Pitrick, too, had employed most of his spells already. One or two might prove useful in breaking into the fortress, and then there were several he saved for his anticipated confrontation with Perian and the insolent Flint Fireforge.
Unconsciously, Pitrick fingered the dark battle-axe at his side. He had not yet used it, but he looked forward with cruel anticipation to the chance to drive it into a hill dwarf body. Perhaps even Flint Fireforge would find himself tasting the bitter steel of that Theiwar blade.
They came to the brewery, and Pitrick quickly took in the formidable nature of the position. The gate was the obvious vulnerable point, but he would also send his forces against the walls, using makeshift ladders, poles, and whatever else they could find. He had no doubt that they would quickly break into the last-ditch fortress.
His subcommanders gathered around, waiting for his orders. “We will take them here. Attack from all sides.
“And as for the gate,” Pitrick said to his sergeant. “Make a battering ram.”
The derro hurled themselves at the stone-walled brewery, assaulting it from every side. They scrambled up the steep wall, they bashed against the gate, and they pressed hard to break through the barricaded windows along the back wall. Everywhere the defenders stood firm.
Some of the Theiwar laid long poles against the top of the wall, and slowly inched up these crude ramps in an attempt to force their way over the barrier. Others found ladders in nearby barns and shops and used them to climb the walls more directly.
But the top was several feet wide, and this made a good platform for the defenders. In several places, mud-slick piles of earth from inside the compound had been used to bolster the walls. The sloping surfaces of these served as easy routes to the top, allowing many hill and gully dwarves to scramble up.
The defenders fought resolutely. The Aghar of the Creeping Wedgie, organized by Nomscul and Fester, found a new use for their shields, conking the derro on the head as the enemy reached the top of the wall. The hill dwarves, inspired by Fidelia Fireforge and Turq Hearthstone, used pitchforks, shovels, and spears to strike at the derro climbing the ladders. They learned to knock the poles aside and drive the ladders toppling to the ground.
To the rear of the compound, more Theiwar hurled themselves with savage abandon against the barricaded windows. They hacked the wooden barriers to pieces, flinging themselves through the narrow openings this created. But, within the vat-house, Basalt and Hildy directed an equally savage defense. Each attacking derro no sooner squirmed through the entrance than was impaled by the weapons of a half-dozen hill dwarves. Soon the bodies of the attackers piled up, creating an additional obstacle to the Theiwar.
The gate was the weakest point of the defense, though behind it stood a sturdy company of hill dwarf fighters. Tybalt Fireforge stood with these, watching the creaking gates. The portals swung farther with each crash of the ram, and the cracking of the beams became more and more visible as dawn’s light diffused through the courtyard.
Then, creaking and splintering, the gates began to collapse.
Flint barely noticed the heavy pounding at the gate. He held Perian’s limp form in his arms. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak.
He had enlisted Fidelia’s and Ruberik’s help to carry her into the storeroom, where he tried to make her comfortable on a bed of hay and blankets.
Ruberik stayed with him. He brought water in a tin cup, though Perian was not aware enough to drink. He stood awkwardly to the side, not wanting to intrude on Flint’s grief, yet offering any help that he could.
Finally, Flint looked up at his brother, after trying to stem the bleeding as best as he could. In his heart, he knew there was nothing more he could do.
The brothers’ eyes met in a pain-filled gaze. “You’d better get out there,” Flint said hoarsely. “I’ll be … following along.” He could say no more, dropping his head to hide his tears.
“I’m sorry, Flint,” replied the gruff farmer. Ruberik shuffled wearily out the door.
Flint turned back to Perian. She looked as beautiful as ever to him. A few strands of coppery hair curled across her forehead, but the skin below that hair was so pale, now—so horribly pale. And at Perian’s too-white throat Flint saw the aspen leaf necklace.
Suddenly her eyes fluttered open, and Flint’s heart leaped. She smiled at him weakly, and her hand closed, ever so faintly, around his. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t have the strength to speak.
“My Perian …” Flint said, choking the words around his tears. Her hand tightened once more, breaking his heart.
And then she was gone. Flint held her long afterward, still unaware of the battle outside. His grief threatened to tear him apart. He felt as though he never wanted to leave, to do anything again.
But as the chaos of the battle grew to a crescendo, his pain slowly changed, burning its way from his heart to his soul. And as it moved, his mourning became anger, developing into a hot, blazing rage that at last compelled him to return to the fight, and to kill those who had slain Perian.
The gates of the brewery splintered open, and even from within the building Flint sensed the urgency of the fight. He reached for the axe Perian had returned to him back in Mudhole, cursing with surprise as the weapon’s haft burned his hand. The white glow of the Tharkan Axe had become tinged with red, as the metal itself heated like an iron bar in a smith’s forge.
Without thinking, Flint looked around the storeroom, quickly spotting a pair of leather gauntlets. He drew these over his hands, and then picked up the gleaming weapon. Its razor sharp blade gleamed clean, ready to drink again.
Flint charged the door of the storeroom and threw it open, looking upon a scene of mass confusion in the courtyard. The derro had smashed open the gate with a heavy battering ram and now poured into the enclosure, where they were met by a sturdy line of hill dwarves.
He concentrated his gaze, looking for one hated form. Finally Flint saw the hunchback, limping along behind the leading mountain dwarves.
“Pitrick!” he bellowed, charging into the courtyard. The force of his voice carried even above the din, and several of the mountain dwarves, including the thane’s adviser, turned toward him.
“Come and die!” Flint challenged. He raised his axe, and though its unnatural light was somewhat mutted in the growing illumination of dawn, it drew the derro’s eyes like a hypnotic token.
“Fireforge,” breathed Pitrick, watching Flint’s advance for just one moment. Then the hunchback seized the five heads of his iron amulet, and that cold blue light poured from the magic token.
“Reorx curse your cowardly skin!” Flint growled, sprinting toward the savant. He knew he would never reach him before Pitrick cast his spell. Oddly, he felt no fear of his own death; just an overwhelming sense of sadness that so much other killing would remain unavenged.
Pitrick’s sneer was all the answer he spared for his victim, then the derro barked the harsh command for his spell. A bolt of lightning suddenly sizzled from his hand, exploding toward Flint in a blast of magical death. The hill dwarf howled his rage, squinting against
the blast of approaching magic, but not faltering in his charge.
Then the Tharkan Axe blinked brightly, and a white burst of light overpowered the pale dawn and caused Pitrick to close his eyes, crying out in pain. The axe shone as the lightning bolt crackled into Flint, and suddenly the spell was gone, inexplicably snuffed. Whatever the reason, Flint dimly realized it had something to do with the axe.
“Now you’ll fight, scum!” hollered Flint in savage exultation. For reasons he did not stop to contemplate, the axe would protect him from Pitrick’s magic!
Other mountain dwarf troops stepped in the way. Suddenly one of these was bashed away by Tybalt. Then Ruberik stepped to Flint’s side, knocking back another of the savant’s protectors.
“Face my blade, you miserable coward!” called the king of the gully dwarves, until only one guard stood between Flint and Pitrick. He was charged by Fidelia, who cut him down with a blow.
“A hill dwarf will never best a mountain dwarf,” Pitrick said, his tone threatening, challenging. Trembling with both fear and joyous anticipation Pitrick raised his axe finally, knowing that he could not defeat this hill dwarf with his spells. Flint raised the Tharkan Axe and the weapon lit up the courtyard.
Resolutely, the two leaders hammered their blades together. The hunchback was surprisingly strong, and both dwarves staggered back from the impact of their combined blow. The ringing noise filled the courtyard, and the hill dwarf found a savage satisfaction in the clash.
Flint pressed quickly forward, feeling the heat of his own weapon through his gloves. They clashed again, and once again fell back from the resounded collision. Scowling in concentration, Flint focused all his strength, his skill, and his hatred against the repugnant derro before him. Again and again he raised the blade high, driving forward with earthshaking blows that Pitrick somehow deflected.
Flint sensed the fight around them stopping, as derro and hill dwarf alike paused to watch the duel between their leaders. A hundred individual combats waned, forgotten in the periphery of this fight to the death.
Flint and Pitrick raged back and forth, axes clashing, fine steel meeting steel, backed by muscle and fury. The thane’s adviser attacked with bestial savagery. Suddenly he flew forward, unleashing a storm of lighting-quick blows. Flint fell back, desperately deflecting the mountain dwarf’s cuts. The Tharkan Axe blocked every assault, the haft growing hotter and hotter under his palms, until even his gloves could not protect him. Ignoring the searing pain, Flint held his axe tighter—he would cling to it until death or victory freed his grip.
Suddenly Pitrick lurched away. The quick retreat caught Flint off guard, and he instantly crouched, watching his opponent warily.
Again the savant seized the iron amulet that hung at his neck and raised his fist toward Flint. With a sharp hiss, like hot rocks dropped into water, a line of blue sparks erupted from the Theiwar’s hand. The embers seemed to hunger for Flint’s flesh as they rushed toward him. Swirling like living things, the sparks formed a ring around him.
Desperately the hill dwarf raised the Tharkan Axe and stumbled backward. The gleaming blade bit into the blue fire as if the flame were a solid body, striking true with the keen, avenging steel. Once, twice, and again Flint chopped, each time with growing force, breaking through the circlet of magic, knocking the stream of sparks to pieces. Slowly the pieces settled to the ground, and the arcane magic of the amulet lay as twisted ringlets of harmless smoke on the ground.
Both dwarves sprang at the other, and once again the fight became a test of physical strength and endurance. Blinking his eyes to clear the sweat away, Flint ignored his fatigue. He saw only the hateful face of his enemy before him, and his own hatred coalesced with Pitrick’s to form a cocoon of berserk rage around them. The derro smashed his axe again and again against Flint’s blade, but suddenly the hill dwarf saw his opening. Ducking backward before the Theiwar swung, Flint waited until the derro’s attack swished harmlessly past his face.
Then he stepped in, putting every bit of the strength in his toughened muscles behind the blow. All his hatred and fury, all of his overpowering grief came together, focused by the driving power of his weapon. Pitrick tried to twist away, to turn or parry the punishing blow, but in his last instant he knew he would not succeed. Finally, for a brief second, Flint saw those mad eyes grow still madder, this time from stark terror.
It was a sight he would savor for a long time.
The Tharkan Axe cut a silver streak through the air, meeting the savant’s neck below his helmet and above his breastplate. The blade made a clean cut, severing the heads of his amulet, then his skin and muscle.
The blade finally came to rest near Pitrick’s heart, jammed tightly into his collarbone and breastplate. The Theiwar commander staggered backward, tugging the weapon out of Flint’s hand. Pitrick’s blood soaked the once shiny blade of the Tharkan Axe, sizzling and scorching from the fiery heat of the metal. As he watched in disbelief, Flint saw the blade grow cherry red.
Pitrick’s body twisted, then sagged to the ground. He dropped to his knees with a groan, looking in disbelief at the blood that spread in a growing circle around him. Finally he collapsed on his face in the mud, the pool of his blood growing ever larger.
And the world went mad.
The first rays of sun crept over the eastern ridge, spilling light into the town. Flint scarcely breathed as he reached to retrieve his weapon. The Tharkan Axe in Pitrick’s chest, nestled against the remains of the five-headed amulet, glowed red, so hot that Flint could not even touch it through his gloves.
Suddenly it burst into flames. White smoke billowed from the fire. The cloud hissed forth, snaking upward and rapidly spreading into the sky.
Simultaneously, the severed heads on the amulet began to writhe like snakes, hissing, spewing a great cloud of black smoke. This dark vapor, too, poured into the air, growing like a living thing, writhing and twisting its way upward. The two clouds met, spuming around each other, but each remained separate in a shocking contrast of light and dark. The dawn sun reflected from the white smoke with a bright glare, but the black vapor seemed to absorb the light, sucking the energy from the air and giving nothing back.
Flint stumbled away from the clouds, stunned by their sudden incarnation. The sight frightened him in some subconscious fashion with a terror he could not articulate but that chilled him to his soul.
The warring dwarves in the courtyard watched in amazement and backed away in fear. The dense trails of smoke, both white and black, grew larger and larger and began to coalesce vaguely into the shapes of humanoid heads: a beautiful, dark-haired human woman with blood red lips and almond-shaped eyes; and a gray-bearded, fierce-looking harrn dwarf, his eyes radiating anger. The two foggy shapes hovered above the brewery.
The clouds writhed together and apart, almost as if in combat—though an eerie, silent, and ephemeral battle it was. They grew still larger, filling the sky above the entire town. At the base of the intermingled black and white clouds, the amulet and the axe crackled with white hot fire, an arc of hissing power sizzling between them. The heat drove Flint still farther back, though he could not avert his eyes from the spectacle.
Suddenly, there came a terrific rumbling sound, and then slowly the earth beneath the dwarves’ feet began to shake and tremble. The ground rippled like water, shaking stones loose from the brewery walls, knocking Flint and every dwarf in view off of their feet. Many of the wooden buildings began to fall like matchstick shelters.
Wisps of the black smoke trailed through the town, touching off fires where they struck the dry timbers of buildings whole, or ruined. In moments the flames roared upward, and Hillhome became a nightmare of hungry, crackling blazes.
The dwarves in the courtyard of the brewery scattered in fear, trampling each other to get through the gate first. The Theiwar were the first out of town, running through the wreckage for the hills. Not a living one of the derro remained to face the rage of the vengeful hill dwarves.
The e
arth shook again, a convulsive tremor that wracked the town from one end to the other. Great cracks appeared in the ground, exploding outward from the white fire of axe and amulet. Flint watched, still stunned to immobilty, as these fissures erupted to either side of him. He saw hill and gully dwarves disappear into the cracks, and he could not move to help them. The stone walls of the brewery crumbled and split, collapsing into heaps of gravel.
Screams of panic shrilled through the air. Mad stampedes erupted, as hill and gully dwarves scrambled through the ruins, seeking an escape from the convulsions that wracked the world around them.
Flint shook off his numbness.
But before Flint could gather his family and escape, the trembling of the earth stopped. The black and white smoky forms cast one more stony glance at each other and then dissipated into thin wisps in the morning air. The hissing fire between the two artifacts slowly faded. There was no sign of Pitrick’s body, nor of his amulet.
Flint’s attention fell upon what remained of the Tharkan Axe. It was now a thin sheet of fragile foil in the shape of the axe. Of the weapon’s original form, only the runes remained.
“The Tharkan Axe,” said a soft voice beside him.
He turned to look at Hildy’s blood- and dirt-streaked face in surprise. “How did you know it’s name?”
“My father taught me the Old Script,” she explained, pointing to the runes. Flint nodded dumbly, watching as the runes themselves started to fade.
“The Axe of Tharkas, it says,” repeated Hildy. “Crafted by the god Reorx in honor of the great peace among dwarves. Its magnificence shall last—” Hildy looked softly at Flint, sympathy welling in her eyes before she concluded, “—until it is used by a dwarf to shed a dwarf’s blood.”
In the courtyard, now full of the stillness and death that follows war, the sheet of foil caught the wind and fluttered away.
Flint the King Page 31
