Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

  Flint had walked nearly a full day before his keen dwarven senses raised the hair on the back of his neck; someone or something was following him. He wasn’t terribly surprised, since he had expected to be pursued. Still whomever it was seemed in no hurry to catch him, nor even to be concerned about being detected. Once he even caught sight of a distant figure trudging through the grassy vale which Flint had passed through a short time earlier.

  Flint continued to look behind him at regular intervals, but never again spotted the figure. Could it have been some hill farmer, going about his business? Flint had been too far away to distinguish if the figure was a human or a dwarf. Still, his trail sense nagged him, warning him to stay on guard.

  His second afternoon out of Hillhome was damp and cold. Flint stopped to rest at the crest of a rocky ridge, and to eat the last of the cold meat sandwiches, rock cheese, and dried apples Bertina had slipped into his hands as he’d left the family house. Shoulders of bare granite loomed around him, and several caves dotted the side of this steep slope. He had discovered a makeshift trail in the base of a narrow ravine and veered off the Passroad to lose his pursuer. Now, at the crest, he looked behind and saw for the second time the stalwart figure on his trail.

  There was just a flash of movement before his pursuer disappeared into a wide belt of pines fringing the base of the ridge. But the glimpse had been enough to convince the crusty dwarf that his suspicions had been well-founded. Flint resolved to wait for whomever followed him, forcing a confrontation on his own terms.

  Flint crept back into the narrow ravine, retracing his steps for a dozen yards down the side of the ridge. He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow as he found a sheltered ledge with a fine view of the ravine below. There he sprawled. Withdrawing his axe from his belt, he laid the weapon beside him on the rock.

  His elevation, coupled with the steepness of the ridge, gave him a significant vantage. He gathered an assortment of rocks, some as big as his head, so that he could lob them using both hands, and some fist-sized stones that he could easily pitch with one hand. Finally, he settled down to wait.

  Long minutes passed with no sign of movement from below, but this did not surprise the dwarf. The belt of forest below the ridge was wide and tangled, and it would take even the fastest of pursuers the better part of an hour to climb the slope.

  Suddenly he tensed, seeing movement below, and very close to him. He grasped his axe, then swallowed a gasp. There was neither human nor dwarf below him, but something ten times worse, for, creeping into the ravine was a mottled-green, wart-covered, large-as-an-ogre troll. He had never fought one before, never even seen one, but he recognized it nonetheless. And he knew their malevolent, ravenous reputation.

  He was momentarily relieved but surprised to see that the troll’s attention was not directed up at him. Indeed, the monster as well, seemed to be staring down the ravine, from a position one hundred feet below Flint. The creature moved its long limbs in a deliberately rigid gait that reminded Flint of a crab—a giant, vicious crab, to be sure.

  The wind, soaring up the ravine, brought the pungent, vaguely fishlike odor of the beast clearly to Flint’s nose. The trolls wicked claws, on hands and feet alike, grasped outcrops of rock as it held itself against an expanse of cliff, leering outward with those black, emotionless eyes.

  Then Flint almost laughed out loud as he realized the creature’s intent. It was laying an ambush for something that crept up the ravine below them—perhaps the same pursuer that Flint had intended to confront!

  Now that’s what I call fair, he thought to himself. Someone follows me through the hills for a few days, and then gets eaten by a troll.

  Still, the nearness of the monster gave Flint some cause for alarm. He resolved to wait, quietly and patiently, for the little drama below to run its course. Then, when the troll was absorbed with its victim, Flint would make a fast and easy escape.

  A clatter of rocks abruptly drew the dwarf’s attention farther down the steep ravine. He could see no movement, but something was obviously charging upward. Whoever’s following me moves with no mind for caution, Flint mused as his pursuer scrambled and scratched up the ridge.

  Another clatter told the dwarf—and the troll, too, no doubt—that the chaser had climbed higher still. Perhaps whomever it was had already come into sight of the troll, for Flint watched the beast grow taut in its rocky niche, preparing to spring. Indeed, he saw movement in the ravine finally and determined that it was a short human or dwarf who was climbing so steadily.

  A brown hood covered the fellow’s head, so Flint could not see his face. He could, in fact, tell little about him. Flint’s pursuer stopped to catch his breath; he peered upward along the ravine that stretched to the top of the ridge, measuring the distance. At last, even in the gathering darkness, Flint got a good look at his young, red-bearded face.

  Flint’s pursuer was not a derro spy, or a human. The dwarf below him, in imminent danger of being attacked by a hungry troll, was none other that Flint’s nephew Basalt.

  “Reorx thump you!” hissed Flint, astonished. He didn’t know what the silly pup was doing here, but the dwarf probed his mind desperately for a way to warn his nephew about the deadly ambush.

  Flint seized one of his smaller rocks and pitched it down the ravine at the monster, watching with satisfaction as it whacked the troll squarely in the back of its grotesque head.

  “Basalt, look out!” Flint cried, springing to his feet. Moaning piteously and rubbing its head, the troll spun to look upward, its jaws widespread in a malicious grimace. Even in the dim light, Flint could see the creature’s long, pointed teeth.

  The troll leaped upward, astonishing Flint with its prodigious bounds. The dwarf sent a large boulder skittering down the chute, but the rock ricochetted past the troll’s head, narrowly missing Basalt, who had begun to scramble up the ravine behind the speedily climbing troll.

  Flint hefted another of his large rocks, holding it over his head as the troll closed in. The creature’s wide, black eye sockets stared at him in a way that was all the more terrifying for their complete lack of expression. Aiming carefully, the dwarf pitched the boulder when the troll was some thirty feet below him. The heavy rock, its momentum aided by the muscles of Flint’s broad shoulders, struck the troll a crushing blow on its left leg.

  “Take that, you ugly, green-bellied goblin-eater!” A taunt worthy of Tasslehoff, Flint thought with satisfaction. He hooted with joy as the monster’s leg snapped from the force of the blow. The troll uttered a sound—a low, cold hiss of dull pain—and tumbled backward. Its leg twisted and flopped.

  Now, for the kill, Flint hoped. Grabbing his axe, the hill dwarf bounded down from his ledge. He raised the blade over his head and closed on the troll as the beast fell between two rocks. Its leg hung to the side, useless.

  But before Flint could reach the brute, the charging hill dwarf halted in astonishment. The monster’s leg twitched slightly, and Flint heard a strange, grating sound, like two jagged rocks scraping together. The troll took its lower leg in both huge, warty hands and arranged it into a proper alignment. Horrified yet fascinated, Flint unconsciously moved closer to watch; the troll looked up through red-veined eyes and hissed at him, slashing out with a jagged claw. Flint drew back only slightly, but the troll returned its attention to its wounded leg.

  Amid the gruesome scraping sound, bubbles and bulges could be seen forming under the troll’s thick, green warty skin. Slowly, the bulges flattened out, and the spine-chilling sound ceased. Before Flint could comprehend the meaning of the macabre scene, the troll became aware of him again. Its eyes locked onto Flint as it leaped to its feet. Dropping to a fighting crouch, the creature danced toward Flint on two good legs! The limb, crushed to bonemeal a moment before, had somehow grown firm and again supported the beast’s weight.

  “Holy gods of old—you can regenerate!” Flint cried, flabbergasted. The troll slashed with its viciously clawed hand again, but Flint came out of his stu
por long enough to knock the digits away with his axe. Striking quickly, he lopped the troll’s hand off. It made a sickening spraying sound, thick green blood spurting in a steady stream. Flint cast an anxious eye down the slope for Basalt. His nephew was vaulting upward as quickly as he could, panting with exertion, short sword extended. But he was still some distance below.

  The monster seemed more stunned than tortured at the loss of its hand. Flint pressed the advantage, hacking with his axe, driving the monster back. Although the beast was more than twice Flint’s height, the dwarf stood above him in the steep ravine. Flint had the initiative, striking, dodging, and striking again.

  Once more his advantage proved illusory. The troll dodged away from him while it held the oozing stump of its hand. Not the squeamish type, even Flint was repulsed as three tiny claws sprouted from the bloody wound with a loud popping sound. He heard the green skin stretch, and the claws grew impossibly fast, revealing fingers and then, in moments, a completely new taloned hand. Fully re-grown, the creature made a gurgling-regurgitating sound in the back of its throat—Flint swore it was snickering—and then the troll crept toward the hill dwarf.

  Flint scrambled backward up the steep chute, struggling to keep his balance in the loose rock. A fall would slide him, helpless, into the slashing maelstrom of tooth and claw below.

  “Uncle Flint!” cried Basalt.

  Flint did not even stop to see where Basalt was. “This is no picnic, Basalt! Run, you hare-brained numbskull!” If the troll turned on his inexperienced nephew, the boy would be devoured before he could raise his blade.

  “I can help!” Basalt gasped, slipping on loose rock as he scrambled closer. Now the troll did turn.

  Powered by fear, Flint sprang forward, hacking the sharp blade of his axe into the monster’s back. The blow sent sticky, gelatinous, pea-green blood showering onto Flint, who gagged and spat furiously. Nearly cleaved in two, the monster writhed away as best it could, hissing in pain and rage, giving Basalt enough time to slip past it.

  “Stay back!” shouted Flint to his nephew, then bounded forward with another swing of his axe.

  But Basalt had a mind of his own, and he delivered a sharp jab with his short sword into the troll’s belly. The monster had begun to regenerate again, but the new blows doubled it over, sending it twisting and rolling down the ravine. Grinning proudly, his right arm covered in green blood, Basalt prepared to leap after it.

  “No!” ordered Flint, grasping his nephew’s shoulder. “You’ve got to learn when to retreat, harrn.”

  “But we’ve got the advantage now!” objected Basalt, looking longingly down the ravine.

  Flint jerked on Basalt’s collar. “Only until it grows back together.” He chuckled suddenly, then pretended to frown. “Never mind that! What are you doing here in the first place? I’d like to know.”

  Basalt began a clumsy explanation, but Flint cut him short with a poke in the chest. “Not now, pup! There’s a troll growing below us! You’ve got a lot to learn about adventuring!”

  Flint leading the way, they raced up the ravine as fast as they could, reaching the top of the ridge in a minute. The troll was out of sight below them, having fallen around a bend in the ravine.

  Basalt followed the older dwarf at a steady trot. Night closed around them, and still the two dwarves maintained a fast pace. They scrambled down the far side of the troll’s ridge and hastened across the valley floor.

  Finally they collapsed, exhausted, in a small clearing among the dark pines. Though it was pitch black, they dared not make a fire.

  In the dim light, Flint leveled his gaze at his nephew. “You’ve got some explaining to do, son. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing here?”

  Basalt fixed him with a sullen glare. “You’ve got some explaining to do yourself, like where do you think you’re going?”

  Flint’s mouth became a tight-lipped line. “I owe answers to no one, least of all a smart-mouthed boy of a dwarf like yourself.”

  “I’m not a boy anymore! You’d know that if you ever came home, or stayed more than a day!” For a moment Basalt gave Flint a look that was so belligerent, so full of Fireforge stubbornness, that Flint’s hands curled involuntarily into fists. But in another moment the older dwarf laughed out loud, clutching his paunch in mirth.

  Puzzled, and a little insulted, Basalt demanded, “What are you laughing about?”

  “You!” said Flint, his laughter slowing to a chuckle. “Aye, pup—you’re a Fireforge, that’s for sure! And what a pair we make!”

  “What do you mean by that?” Basalt growled, unwilling to be teased out of his bad humor.

  “Well, you’re stubborn like me, for starters.” Flint crossed his arms and squinted at his nephew, considering him. “You’re not afraid of standing up to your elders either. You even tell ’em off once in a while, though you’d best watch so that doesn’t become a habit! And you didn’t hesitate one whit before jumping into battle with an honest to goodness troll.”

  Flint looked at his nephew with affection. “And you didn’t come out here to spy on me, anyway, did you?”

  “No!” Basalt said quickly, sitting up. “You were right, Uncle Flint,” the young dwarf said softly. “What you said about me being mad at my dad and at myself was true. I knew it when I threw that punch at Moldoon’s—” He looked away sheepishly “—but I guess I didn’t much like you being the one to point it out.”

  Basalt plucked nervously at his bootlaces. “I didn’t like leaving things the way they were between us.” He looked up now, clearing his throat gruffly. “I’ve done that once before, and it will haunt me for the rest of my days.” Basalt’s voice broke, and he hung his head. Flint sat quietly while his nephew composed himself.

  “Even Ma doesn’t know this,” he began again, his eyes looking far away into the night now, “but Dad and I had a fight the night he died. She wouldn’t be surprised, though—me and Dad argued almost every night. Always about the same thing, too. ‘Stop drinking and get a decent job,’ he’d say.”

  Basalt looked squarely at Flint. “The thing that always stuck in my craw was that, in addition to apprenticing to him, I had a job. He just didn’t like me hauling feed for the derro’s horses, that’s all.” Basalt heaved a huge sigh and shook his head sadly. “He tracked me down at Moldoon’s that night and started up the old argument again, said the derro were up to no good and he would prove it. I told him to stay out of my business, and then I left him at the bar.” Basalt’s eyes misted over as he looked into the dark distance again, focusing on nothing in particular.

  Basalt’s expression turned unexpectedly to puzzlement. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Dad said he hated that the village was working with the mountain dwarves, said he’d never lift a finger to help a derro dying in the street.” Basalt stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So what was he doing smithing for them the day his heart gave out? Why that day?” Basalt turned his face to the heavens.

  Flint heard his nephew’s grief and was wracked with indecision about the secret suspicions he harbored over Aylmar’s death. Basalt’s account of the fight with his father only bolstered his hunch. Could he trust Basalt? He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder.

  “Basalt, I don’t think your father’s death was an accident,” he said.

  Flint’s nephew looked at him strangely. “Are you talking about ‘fate’ or some such hooey?”

  “I wish I were,” Flint said sadly. “No, I think Aylmar was murdered by a derro mage’s spell.”

  “That’s going too far!” Basalt said angrily. “I’ve heard Garth’s mutterings, and I know my father thought the derro were evil. But why would they want to kill him? It doesn’t make sense!”

  “It does if he discovered they were selling and transporting weapons, not farm implements, and enough to start a war!” When Basalt still looked confused, Flint pressed on, telling Basalt how he had searched a derro wagon and what he had found there. He left nothing out, none of his
worst imaginings, and he told him about the derro he killed. “Seemed like I had no choice,” he added.

  Basalt struggled to absorb the news. “You knew all this and yet you didn’t tell anybody? You just left?” Basalt asked, smoldering.

  Flint snorted at the irony. “As Tybalt aptly put it, ‘Who would believe the village idiot?’ That’s all the proof I have so far, Bas: Garth’s ‘mutterings’ and what I saw with my own eyes in that wagon. And when they tie me into that derro I killed, Mayor Holden won’t be likely to order a search of the wagons or a murder investigation on my say-so, either.” He shrugged. “Since these derro come from Thorbardin, there was nothing else I could do but go to the mountain dwarves myself and find the derro scum who killed Aylmar.”

  Basalt no longer looked skeptical. “How are you going to find this one derro, when there must be hundreds of magic-using derro there.”

  Flint gave a devilish grin. “Ah, but how many of them are hunchbacked? Garth, bless his simple heart, kept calling the derro he saw ‘the humped one.’ That’s my only clue, but it’s a good one.”

  Basalt jumped to his feet. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find the Reorx-cursed derro who killed my father!”

  Flint patted the harrn’s hand. “You’re a true Fireforge, like I said. But we aren’t going anywhere in the dark.” He sighed. “I’m not sure that I want any help, but you can’t go back the way you came—a clumsy pup like you’d be troll food for sure,” he teased. “I guess you’ll have to come along, but we’ll leave in the morning.”

  Basalt smiled eagerly. “You won’t be sorry, Uncle Flint!”

  I’m not so sure about that, Flint thought inwardly. What would he do with Basalt when he got to Thorbardin?

  A cold drizzle fell, then turned to light snow. They looked for an overhanging shelf of rock well off the Passroad, since a wagon or two was bound to pass in the dark, and made a crude camp. Uncle and nephew talked long into the night, about Basalt’s father and Flint’s brother, and even Flint’s father, too. Though he hated to see their conversation end, Flint knew they would pay for their indulgences with exhaustion in the morning.