Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

Realgar’s personal bodyguards stood to either side of him: a pair of hideous gargoyles poised like watching statues. They perched, absolutely motionless except for their eyes, which followed the hunchbacked derro as he advanced. The gargoyles’ skin was a rough-hewn gray, indistinguishable from stone. Their leathery wings, of the same color, spread like menacing, clawed hands behind the throne. Their faces were vaguely human, accented with sharp fangs, tiny, wicked eyes, and a pair of twisted horns growing from their foreheads.

  The hunchback reached the throne, and the gargoyles suddenly hissed. They flapped their wings once and sprang forward to stand to the left and right of the thane. Extending clawed fingers before them and noiselessly working their jaws, they stood in mute warning as the hunchbacked dwarf bowed obsequiously.

  “Ah, Pitrick, it is good of you to return to my city,” said the thane of the Theiwar.

  “How did you fare at the council of thanes?” inquired the adviser.

  “Bah!” The thane clapped his fist into his palm. “It was one Hylar treachery after another! They seek to entangle the Daewar in an alliance, and always to cut us out!” Realgar leaned forward then, a conspiratorial smile upon his lips. He lowered his voice. “But, my dear adviser, I think they are beginning to fear us!” The leader of the Theiwar placed a stubby finger to his bearded lips. “Now, tell me how things fared in my short absence?”

  “You will be pleased,” Pitrick offered eagerly. “Production has nearly doubled and promises to further improve. So it is, too, with the number of wagons running. We have very nearly reached the desired levels of transport.”

  “Splendid.” The thane turned his attention to a scroll in his lap, signaling Pitrick’s dismissal.

  The adviser coughed slightly. “There is one other matter, Excellency.” The thane looked up in surprise and gestured for him to continue.

  Pitrick shifted uncomfortably, nagged by the pain in his crippled foot. “It seems that one of our drivers was slain in Hillhome. The murderer, a hill dwarf, escaped.” Pitrick took a breath. “We have reason to believe that this dwarf broke into the wagons and discovered the nature of our shipments.”

  “When did this happen?” The thane’s voice was quiet, almost bored.

  “Several days ago. I received word from one of the drivers not two hours past.”

  Gold chains clinked slightly, their heavy links sliding as the thane leaned forward. Realgar’s sacklike robe of deep blue ponderously swathed the throne around him. Indeed, whenever he chose to walk he required several attendants to carry the massive train.

  “Solve the problem quickly,” said the thane, his voice still lazy and bored. “You have opened the route for us, and it is your responsibility to keep it both open, and secret.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Pitrick bowed deeply, using the gesture to hide the smile that creased his thin lips. By the time he straightened, his expression was again a featureless mask. “I shall see to the task at once. I have but one favor to ask of Your Greatness.”

  “And what is that?” Realgar asked absently.

  “We must strengthen the guard at the tunnel,” explained Pitrick. “Increase both the number and the quality of the troops we have there.”

  “Specifically?”

  “The Thane’s Guard,” Pitrick supplied quickly. “They are the most reliable of your troops, and they will perform the task alertly. I’ll need two dozen of your guard and a good captain.…”

  The thane squinted. “You would have a captain in mind, of course?”

  Pitrick smiled thinly. “Indeed, Excellency. I believe Perian Cyprium is just the officer for the task.”

  “There wouldn’t be another reason you have selected her?” asked the thane.

  Pitrick coughed again, bowing his head modestly. Staring at his adviser’s bristling yellow hair, the thane pondered for a moment. Perian was a good, loyal captain, one of his best. Both of her parents had served him well before their deaths. She would not be happy with the assignment—her disgust for the adviser was as well known as Pitrick’s lust for her. The thane himself found Pitrick distasteful, but he keenly appreciated the savant’s power and insight.

  Besides which, Pitrick was the architect of the arrangement with Sanction. His diplomatic and magical skills could prove the key to all of the Theiwar’s future grandeur. The thane considered him indispensable if the nation was to achieve the glory that was its rightful destiny. Thus it was that Realgar had no real difficulty assessing Pitrick’s request.

  “Very well. I shall put Captain Cyprium under your orders, effective immediately. We will double the guard, for now.

  “And as for Hillhome,” concluded the thane, “that will require some thought. The hill dwarves’ ungrateful attitude and perpetual greed are beginning to annoy me.”

  Pitrick bowed to conceal his smile.

  Perian marched purposefully through the second level of the city, preparing to climb to the third level, where she knew she would find Pitrick, the thane’s hunchbacked adviser. In her gut she fought a crawling sensation that threatened to overwhelm her with disgust.

  She had been fending off Pitrick’s odious advances for several years, but a summons that required her to call upon the adviser in his apartments put her at a distinct disadvantage. Still, the thane had ordered her to see the adviser, and her duty was to obey.

  The only child of her generation in a long line of dwarven warriors, Perian had buckled on armor and taken up the sword when it was her turn to follow in the family tradition. Her father, mother—until Perian’s birth—and uncles had all served with merit in the thane’s House Guard. That elite legion, dedicated to the racial supremacy of the derro, comprised the most trusted of the Theiwar troops.

  Perian had proven adept both at the physical aspects of combat and at the mental challenges of command, rising quickly through the ranks of the thane’s personal bodyguard. Now she commanded the House Guard, proudly taking her place with the four or five highest ranking officers in the thane’s service.

  Thane Realgar, she knew, was the most powerful king in all Thorbardin, mainly because the magical abilities many Theiwar possessed gave him an edge. Vicariously, she ought to take some pride in that status. Instead, she admitted only to herself, she felt a slight tinge of guilt and discomfort.

  Perhaps it was because, unlike most of the Theiwar dwarves—the inhabitants of Thane Realgar’s two cities—she was only half derro. Full derro always found a savage glee in the dark side of things. But the other half of her dwarven ancestry could be traced to the Hylar dwarves, and Perian often wondered if that aspect did not dominate her private personality.

  She was innately distrustful of magic, and Pitrick was the most powerful savant, or mage, among the Theiwar: grotesque, malicious, and deceitful. His undeniable magic power was just the surface manifestation of many unpleasant features. There was also the matter of his leering and rude sexual proposals, stopping just short of brute force.

  Unfortunately, she could not afford to be entirely indifferent to him. She reflected, with her usual frustration, on the tangled hold Pitrick had over her life.

  Perian’s father and mother had also been loyal, decorated soldiers in the thane’s troop of Huscarles, or House Guards. When Perian was born, her mother retired from active duty and devoted herself to raising her only child. She had been indulgent to Perian, and often wistful around the child. Perian’s father, on the other hand, had been emotionally distant from both of them—a proper dwarf soldier, Perian had always thought. Given her family, she had encountered no difficulty joining the House Guard—about ten percent of its troopers were female—or rising quickly to the rank of sergeant. That was when Pitrick, the oily adviser to the thane, had first entered her life.

  He had confronted her with evidence of her true origin, in the form of letters from her mother to a Hylar soldier—her mother’s secret lover. According to Pitrick, that illicit union had produced Perian. As far as she was aware, no one but her, her mother, and Pitrick knew that s
he was neither a full-blooded derro nor the daughter of the bold warrior whose reputation was known far and wide. It was true that Perian’s ruddy skin and auburn hair were slightly unusual for a full-blooded derro. It was equally true that the House Guard of the Theiwar required its members to be racially pure. Perian dreaded the day Pitrick would use his information as the ultimate blackmail. Perian had no way to confirm her circumstances of birth. But she had to admit the sample of her mother’s handwriting was genuine and, as the rank of captain loomed before her, this information had placed her in Pitrick’s power. So far, she had always managed to call the adviser’s bluff without goading him into action, but he was too unstable and dangerous to be taken for granted.

  Many times Perian had wondered whether her father was naturally distant, or whether he had suspected the truth. She wished her mother had never written those letters, had not been so foolish, just as she often pondered how powerful an emotion love could be, to make someone like her mother risk everything.

  Eventually she reached the lift that would take her into the noble’s quarters, high in the upper level of the city. Pitrick was no noble by birth, but as adviser to the thane he was considered the second most important dwarf in the Theiwar city. An iron cage descended to meet her now, and she stepped inside. With a steady clanking, the chain-and-pulley mechanism carried her up for a hundred feet through a hollow column in the mountain.

  When it stopped she stepped onto the terrace of the noble’s plaza. Perian ignored the view over the wall, where much of the underground Theiwar city could be seen in its splendor—the neatly squared streets, high walls, thick columns, houses and shops, blanketing the floor of the cavern. She strode to the doors and was instantly admitted.

  She was greeted by a disfigured, cloaked servant, but his master quickly came into the antechamber and viciously sent the servant scurrying away. As always, the hunchback’s stare discomforted her.

  “Good news,” said Pitrick, clapping his hands delightedly together. “You are assigned to me, now—I am your commander!”

  Perian felt a chill of apprehension shiver along her spine. “In what capacity?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain level.

  “We are increasing the guards at the mouth of the wagon tunnel! Come now, don’t pretend surprise. You know of its existence. You will be placed in command.” Pitrick’s sparse beard could not hide his leer. The hump on his back forced him to bend forward, and thus he was always looking up at her.

  “I prefer to remain with my old billet, the training of the guard,” she objected.

  Pitrick leaned closer, his dank breath moist against her face. “I grow tired of your game, my dear. Keep in mind that I could have you ruined with a single word!”

  “Then do it!” Perian shot back.

  With a sneer, Pitrick stepped away and looked her up and down. “You know me too well, dear girl. Still, perhaps I shall, someday. Perhaps I shall, if you continue baiting me this way,” Perian noted, his hand clasping the iron amulet that always hung from his neck. Blue light began seeping between his fingers.

  “You will do good work for me,” the hunchback said softly. Perian’s head grew light, and she was surprised at the musical pleasantness of his voice. Perhaps she had misjudged him.

  The blue light grew stronger, occluding her vision until only Pitrick’s face loomed. She felt his hot breath against her face. Her soldier’s training told her, dimly, that she should resist. She felt Pitrick’s hand reach around to the back of her mail shirt. His breath, heavy with nut fungus, pressed moist and smelly around her face.

  Suddenly her head jerked upward. Her left hand shot forward, knocking the amulet from Pitrick’s grasp, as she wrapped her right hand around the small axe at her waist. She clenched her teeth as her head cleared.

  “Wait,” Pitrick urged, his voice still soft.

  But the spell was broken. Perian’s hateful gaze brought the hunchback up short.

  “If you ever try to magic me again, I’ll kill you,” she growled.

  Pitrick looked at her, his moment of surprise quickly turning to amusement. “It’s time for you to go down to your new post now,” he instructed. “Have a look around, establish your guards. I’ll be down soon to inspect your position.

  “If there is any sign of intrusion, or even the hint of a hill dwarf anywhere around there, I want you to tell me personally. And if you catch any intruders, bring them to me immediately!”

  “I will,” said Perian, quickly turning on her heel. Only when the lift cage had taken her down a level did she finally draw a breath easily.

  Chapter 8

  Unexpected Company

  The prominent nostrils twitched, tickled by an unfamiliar, yet tantalizing odor. One great eye, bloodshot and sunk deep within its socket, opened. The lid, of green, leathery skin, blinked several times, and then its counterpart opened. Once again the long green nose moved, seeking confirmation of the scent.

  The body that slowly rose to a sitting position was humanoid, though perhaps half again as tall as a man. But its features were hideous in the extreme.

  Gangly arms, each as long as a man was tall, hung from the creature’s shoulders. Though they were proportionately slender, a wiry cord of muscle showed beneath the mottled green skin, promising great strength. The creatures legs, too, were revealed as long and thin, but they had no difficulty supporting the monster as it rose to stand.

  Its hands and feet each bore three wicked claws, with fingers partially webbed. Blotchy skin, the color of dark moss, covered its whole body. In places it was smooth, but in others the skin lay wrinkled, a rough, warty surface.

  Atop the creature’s head was a thicket of black, stiff-standing hair. Its mouth opened slightly and revealed upper and lower rows of pointed, needle-sharp teeth. Above its mouth, extending more like a tree limb than a nasal aperture, was the creature’s long, pointed nose.

  It was this sensitive proboscis that had caused the monster to awaken, and now it probed the air, sniffing and snuffling for clues. What was that tantalizing scent? Where did it come from?

  The creature’s lair was a cave, and a slight breeze wafted into the cave mouth from the valley below. The source of the scent, obviously, was outside the lair.

  Moving through the dingy cave, the monster passed numerous scattered, well-gnawed bones of previous meals. Skulls of deer, bear, hobgoblin, human, and other victims stood along the wall of the cave, making a crude trophy mound. But now the creature ignored all of these mementos, moving toward the fresh air in search of new food, perhaps a new skull.

  The creature emerged to discover twilight settling over the high valley. The spoor came more clearly now, and the great beast licked its lips with a black, moist tongue. Its dark eyes, almost hidden in the deep recesses of its black sockets, squinted into the darkness, searching for the source of the tantalizing odor.

  An odor, the troll knew, that could only emanate from one of its favorite foods: dwarf.

  Flint’s destination, the mountain dwarves’ kingdom, was twenty or so miles southwest of Hillhome. The wagons’ shipments must have come from there, and Garth had also said the derro he saw was a magic-user; it was common knowledge that only one type of dwarf could muster more than simple spells. That was the Theiwar clan of Thorbardin.

  Flint suspected his older brother had discovered the secret of the derro, and he was determined to make whoever was responsible for his death pay with his life.

  His burning vengeance, he had to admit, was colored by the legacy of bitterness and hatred left by the Dwarfgate Wars, when another Fireforge, the respected dwarven leader Reghar Fireforge, had died at the hands of the mountain dwarves. Those epic conflicts had opened schisms in the dwarven races that seemed likely never to heal.

  Flint had no clear explanation for these arms shipments of the derro, but he knew the reasons must be sinister indeed. Why else would a race that was known for its pride of craftsmanship not sign its work?

  Flint was following the Passroad west
. Traveling in daylight, he felt fairly secure that he would not encounter any derro. The road hugged the northern shore of Stonehammer Lake, whose cold water looked dull gray-green on this overcast late-autumn day. Most of the leaves in this distant arm of the Kharolis Mountains, in the corridor between Thorbardin and the Plains of Dergoth, had already turned brown and scattered across the flat lands, leaving only the olive-colored firs to cover the spiny mountain ridges.

  The terrain grew considerably rougher as the slopes and crests of the southern hillcountry tumbled around Flint. The elevations soared steeply from the valley bottoms, climbing to narrow ridges and fringed with levels of sheer cliffs, bare rock faces, and dark forests of pine. In places, looming knobs of granite overlooked grass-filled valleys, often giving Flint the impression of huge, serene faces looking across the hillcountry. The Passroad twisted around like a snake, never running straight for more than a mile or two.

  Flint had never been to Thorbardin—they didn’t exactly embrace hill dwarves there—but his father had once told him something that was tugging at his mind now. The dwarven capitol city had two entrances: Northgate and Southgate. Originally, a wide, walled ledge edged the mountainside at the entrances, but the Cataclysm had destroyed most of the northern ledge, leaving only a five-foot remnant towering one thousand feet above the valley.

  The Passroad seemed to be leading him toward the northern entrance, and unless his father had been mistaken, that gate into the great city would soar one thousand feet above him. But how could that be? How could the huge, lumbering freight wagons enter Thorbardin from the north?

  Unless the Passroad continued past Northgate and circled the expansive realm to enter at Southgate … If that were the case, Flint had a long walk ahead of him, since the city stretched more than twenty miles in circumference.

  But that didn’t make sense either. The heart of the Kharolis Mountains stood between here and there, and no wagon could cross that tumultuous landscape. It was a puzzle to him.