Flint the King

by Mary Kirchoff

  The cage lurched to a halt, and one of the derro swung the gate open. “Out, now,” ordered the captain. She and the guards stepped behind Flint. The captain approached one of the doors, but stopped when Flint called to her.

  “Wait!” the hill dwarf shouted.

  The frawl turned and looked at him curiously. He noticed that several of her coppery curls had fallen over one of her eyes. Impatiently, she pushed the offending locks away.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Might I know your name?” Flint felt compelled to ask the question.

  She hesitated a moment, and Flint thought her face softened in the bare light.

  “You might,” she said, turning on a polished heel. She marched to a gate in one of the walls, which the derro guards hastily opened. They just as hastily closed it behind her, and she disappeared from Flint’s sight.

  “Captain Cyprium to see you, my lord,” intoned the burly derro sergeant who guarded Pitrick’s door.

  “Send her in.” The voice, from within the apartment, sounded to Perian like the rasp of a reptile. She stepped through the door, and it was quickly closed behind her.

  “Do you have news, or is this a visit for pleasure?” Pitrick inquired. Sitting in a hard granite armchair, wearing a robe of golden silk, the adviser looked up with interest at the captain’s entrance.

  “We’ve captured a hill dwarf at the tunnel,” she reported flatly.

  Pitrick sprang to his feet, his grotesque frame moving with surprising agility. “Excellent!” he cried, clapping his hands in delight.

  “He seems pretty harmless,” Perian added.

  “Your opinion is of no interest to me,” sneered Pitrick. “I will decide his status, and his fate.”

  “Shouldn’t you take him to the thane?”

  The hunchback limped over and looked up at her with a cruel grin. Now Pitrick’s face pressed close to hers, and the stench of his breath brought the usual revulsion. “His Excellency has given me control of all matters relating to the tunnel and the trade route. I have no need to consult him. And need I remind you, my warrior pet, that ‘matters relating to the tunnel’ now include you.”

  Pitrick turned away from her. “I will see the prisoner, but not here. Take him to the tunnel beyond the North Warrens—you know the place.” Perian felt sick to her stomach. Yes, she knew the place.

  “Oh,” added Pitrick, twisting to face her again. His grin had eroded to a thin, sly smile. “Catch one of those Aghar that forever raid the garbage dump. Bring him along with the hill dwarf. Have them all at the tunnel in four hours.”

  “A gully dwarf? Why?” The Aghar, or gully dwarves, were common pests in Thorbardin. They were the lowest form of dwarf, so dirty, smelly, and stupid that few of the other dwarves could tolerate their presence. The Aghar lived in secret lairs and often emerged to rummage through garbage dumps and refuse piles, seizing “treasures” that they would hasten back to their lairs. But they’re harmless little creatures, Perian thought.

  “Never mind why!” barked Pitrick, startling her with his vehemence. “You will obey me! Or—” His voice dropped ominously “—or you will pay the price for insubordination.”

  The sudden glow in his wild eyes left no doubt in Perian’s mind as to what that price would be.

  Flint was startled by the look on the Theiwar captain’s face as she emerged from the gate and stomped back to the cage. She would neither meet the hill dwarf’s eyes nor answer any of his questions, except one.

  “My name is Perian Cyprium,” she told him.

  “Flint Fireforge,” he said simply.

  The cage took them back to the street level, where they marched down the avenue, around a corner, and along several smaller streets. Everywhere Flint saw busy derro, moving quickly and silently about their business. Never had he seen a place that was so populous, yet seemed so exceptionally ominous and grim.

  They came to a barracks building where several platoons of purple-plumed guards stood or lounged about a courtyard. Here Flint was thrown into a cell, where he sat idly and undisturbed for several hours.

  When a pair of derro guards eventually pulled him out and prodded him into the street, he was greeted by Perian and a half-dozen guardsmen. The latter, he saw, held in tow a miserable-looking gully dwarf. The little fellow’s nose was running and his wide, staring eyes were red and bloodshot. He looked fearfully from one mountain dwarf to another.

  Flint was surprised to see an Aghar here, but no sooner had Flint joined the gully dwarf than Perian barked, “Follow me,” leaving no room for questions. She led them on a long march, but stayed well to the front so Flint had no chance to talk to her.

  The only sound other than the cadence of their march was the sniffling of the gully dwarf, which persisted even after one of the derro ordered him to stop, slapping his face for emphasis. They left the great cavern of the city to enter the narrow tunnel again, back in the direction where Flint had entered. He had no illusions that they meant to release him, however.

  This thought was confirmed when the silent march turned abruptly into a narrow, forbidding cavern that branched off of the main tunnel.

  You’ve been in worse predicaments than this, Flint told himself, although he was at a loss to remember one.

  The captain stopped at the lip of a dark, yawning chasm. The edge of the pit was stony, like the floor, and dropped away suddenly. Flint wondered briefly what had caused the curious scratches around the lip, but the answers that occurred to him quickly made him drop that line of thinking. The pit opening was quite large, he noted, the far side being hard to distinguish in the darkness, even with his dwarven vision. The sides looked gravelly and crumbly—impossible to climb, Flint concluded. The vertical sides angled slightly, forming a rough chute.

  The derro guards were arrayed in a semicircle around the Aghar and Flint. Perian stood several paces away. Flint got the distinct feeling that she was waiting for something.

  Before long they heard the sound of another approach, though it could hardly be called a march. A footfall was followed by a scraping sound. This pattern was repeated, over and over. Finally, Flint saw why.

  The dwarf who entered the cavern was the most repulsive example of the derro race Flint had ever seen. This grotesqueness came from far more than the derro’s distorted posture, or his thin lips seemingly fixed in a permanent, cruel sneer. It was more than the straggly beard or thin, oily hair.

  It was the eyes.

  Those horrid orbs locked onto Flint, opened wide in a white stare of almost insectlike detachment. But when they flashed with hatred, their intensity blasted Flint like air across a furnace.

  “You are the hill dwarf,” the creature spat, the last two words sounding like a curse.

  Flint maintained his composure, though he knew he could not conceal his revulsion. “And you must be Pitrick,” said Flint.

  The derro guards stepped back, creating a path for Pitrick to Flint. Though the hill dwarf was certain he had never seen this derro before, there was something about the medallion that hung around his neck …

  The humped one sent the blue smoke …

  What had Garth said in the wagon yard?

  … the blue smoke from the stone around his neck.

  The realization struck Flint. It burned in his gut and raced along his limbs like fire. Here was the dwarf who killed Aylmar, the mysterious “humped one” mentioned by Garth! Deliberately, Flint tensed his muscles. He noted the positions of the guards to either side, knowing this might be the only chance he would ever get for vengeance, and that he would have only an instant to make his charge.

  That he would have only moments to kill.

  Uneasily, Pitrick scuttled to the side and two brawny derro stepped between Flint and his enemy. Did he suspect? He’s obviously magical, but can he read my mind? wondered Flint. But Flint saw no fear in his face, only pride and hate. The hill dwarf held his anger in check and resolved to wait for another chance, though every instinct urged him to p
ropel himself forward in a berserk attack.

  The derro stared at Flint for some moments before finally speaking. “I am about to ask you several questions. You must answer them. I have arranged a demonstration, a preview of the future’s potential, shall we say, to ensure that I have your attention.” Pitrick looked to the derro nearest the Aghar and nodded slightly. Sickened, Flint guessed what was coming.

  The guard pitched the little dwarf off the lip of the chasm. Flint heard the Aghar scream and cry, saw him desperately scraping at the steep sides of the pit as he slid downward. Rocks and rubble slipped down with him, bouncing and tumbling along the steep, mud-streaked wall into the darkness below.

  Suddenly, against all odds, the Aghar managed to halt his fall, barely within Flint’s view. The hill dwarf saw the fellows stubby fingers grasp a knob of rock. Slowly, the terrified Aghar pulled himself upward. Adjusting his grip, he braced a foot against the cliff and tried lifting himself ever higher.

  The doomed figure’s brave struggles only seemed to amuse Pitrick, who chortled over each frantic scramble as he toyed with the medallion around his neck. Taking a cue from their leader, the guards, too, seemed greatly amused by the Aghar’s plight. Flint glanced toward Perian and noticed that she alone was not even watching. Her back was toward the pit, her eyes fastened on the floor.

  Something moving in the darkness below wrenched Flint’s attention back to the grisly drama in the pit. A huge, black, undefinable shape moved beneath the gully dwarf. Up from that shape lashed what looked like a living, thrashing rope. It groped upward, striking the Aghar’s back, then quickly encircled his waist.

  The gully dwarf shrieked as the thing yanked him backward down the chute. “Nooooooooo!” he bawled, scratching and grasping desperately at the loose rocks. His frantic eyes met Flint’s for one long, painful moment, then he disappeared into the darkness.

  The scream that rose from the depths was the sound of pure, primeval terror. It reverberated along the chasm, echoing and amplifying in the stone chamber. Flint closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the horrid cry. Abruptly it ceased. To Flint’s horror, what followed was even worse. A snapping, crunching sound rose from the pit. Then, as quickly as they had come, the sounds died away.

  When Flint opened his eyes, Pitrick was standing scant feet in front of him. “You have one chance to answer each of my questions,” he hissed. “Fail to satisfy my curiosity and … I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Flint saw his chance. Bursting between two of the derro guards, he clamped his powerful hands around the hunchback’s throat and both of them tumbled to the ground, rolling to the brink of the pit.

  Flint was startled by the strength in Pitrick’s shriveled arms. Madly they wrestled from side to side, Flint’s grip tightening as Pitrick fought to pry his knotted arms loose. The derro’s jagged nails bit into the flesh of Flint’s arms until blood flowed down his wrists and spread across the adviser’s throat. Flint twisted and rolled across the rock-strewn floor, inches from the precipice, trying to avoid the guards who scrambled back and forth in their attempts to separate the two combatants. Yet every time he tried to roll the squirming derro over the edge, the creature managed to twist away.

  Many hands pulled at Flint’s arms and legs. Something cracked against the back of his head, and Flint nearly blacked out. In that moment he was dragged from Pitrick’s body and flung against the cavern wall, where two derro stood over him with axes, ready to dismember him if he so much as moved.

  Pitrick flopped and writhed on the ground, gagging, his jaw opening and closing wordlessly. At last he rolled over onto his elbows and knees, massaging his throat. Two of the guards bent to help him up, but the savant drove them away with a livid snarl. He stayed like that for several minutes, panting, reveling in the simple sensation of breathing, of blood circulating.

  Eventually Pitrick climbed unsteadily back to his feet, bracing himself on the cavern wall. He wiped Flint’s blood from his neck with the sleeve of his battered bronze-colored robe and nonchalantly examined the medallion hanging there. At last Pitrick hobbled toward Flint, who was still propped up against the cavern wall.

  Pitrick motioned to one of the guards, who slipped off an iron gauntlet and then helped the adviser fasten it on. The last strap was only partially buckled when the derro spun and savagely struck Flint across the face. He struck again and again. Flint could no longer see anything very clearly. Pitrick’s arm was drawn back for another blow when Flint was surprised to hear Perian’s voice.

  She had stepped between them. It was evident in her tone that she knew the danger she was risking. “Adviser, this is my prisoner,” she said stiffly. “He was brought here for questioning, not to be murdered!”

  Pitrick’s face distorted monstrously with the fury that consumed him. His pale eyes nearly popped from his skull as he shifted his attention from one to the other. He didn’t strike Perian, however. The insane rage melted slowly from the adviser’s face, to be replaced by a cruel, cunning smile.

  “Yes, the questions.” He turned back to the prisoner, who was sprawled half against the wall, half on the floor at the derro’s feet. Flint’s eyelids were puffed up, and blood ran from a dozen cuts on his forehead, cheeks, and lips.

  “You are an interesting case, and vaguely familiar,” mused Pitrick. “Such a ferocious assault had to be triggered by something more than the death of one gully dwarf. Who are you? Have we met before?”

  Flint spat through his swollen lips, then croaked, “You killed my brother, you maggot meat.”

  “Your brother …” mused Pitrick. “But I’m sure I’ve killed so many brothers—and sisters, too. Can’t you be more specific?” Pitrick asked.

  “Given your busy schedule, how many hill dwarf smiths have you struck down with magic lately?” Flint growled bitterly.

  “The smith!” Pitrick’s face spread in an evil grin of recognition. “How delightful! Yes, I can see your resemblance to that smith now. But you must understand, the hill dwarf was a spy. He poked into places where he didn’t belong. I did the only thing I could. And I was quite pleased with the effect—you should be happy to hear that he became very colorful toward the end, though the smell was unpleasant.”

  “Murdering animal!” choked Flint, twisting helplessly between two guards. Gradually his wits were returning, though he still had trouble seeing. He found he could force his eyelids up with a manageable amount of pain.

  “So are you here purely on a mission of vengeance, or are you a spy, too?” Pitrick allowed that question to linger for a moment, then cut it off. “That needs no answer—of course you are. No one but a spy could have penetrated our defenses. Are you a murderer as well?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Flint growled.

  “Oh, please.” Pitrick sounded mildly amused. “I’m certain it was you who knifed one of my wagon drivers in Hillhome just days ago. Or if it wasn’t you, you certainly know who it was.” Pitrick bent close to Flint’s ear and whispered, “Give me the murderer’s name, and I shall be merciful. I can be, you know.”

  “I’ve seen your mercy,” sputtered Flint.

  Pitrick struck him across the face again, grinning. “Not the full extent of it, dear harrn. And isn’t it fortunate for me that whatever tidbits of knowledge you have about our exports will die with you?”

  “You just keep believing that,” Flint croaked. “You really think I kept such knowledge to myself? By now, half of Hillhome knows that you’re exporting weapons, not plows.” Flint watched with satisfaction as the hunchback’s eyes widened in alarm at his lie. “The Hylar will know about it soon, and then all of Thorbardin!”

  “Liar!” shrieked Pitrick. “You will die for this!”

  The mad derro grabbed Flint by his jerkin and began dragging him toward the pit. Flint lunged toward Pitrick’s throat, but immediately two guards pinned his arms and helped bring him to the ledge. Pitrick quickly jumped away, out of range of Flint’s burly arms.

  “Thr
ow him in!”

  “Stop!” Perian’s order froze the guards to their spots; they held Flint poised on the lip of the pit.

  “Throw him in!” screamed Pitrick. “I command you to throw him in, now!”

  “You are under my command, you take your orders from me,” Perian noted coldly.

  The guards looked from Perian to Pitrick, unsure who to obey and afraid to take sides.

  With a hiss, Pitrick clutched his amulet. Blue light lanced out between his fingers. In a low voice, he snarled, “Your officer is a traitor. Throw her in with the hill dwarf. Throw them both in!”

  Under the influence of the savant’s charm spell, the guards did not hesitate to comply with the command. The one holding Flint gave him a terrific shove that he could not counter. Dragging his feet along the gravelly ledge, Flint sailed, head first, over the edge. An astonished Perian was hurled over the side, immediately after him.

  The sound of laughter echoed from the walls of the cave.

  Chapter 10

  The Pit

  It was late afternoon, and Basalt continued to crouch in the shadow of the great mountain, waiting for his Uncle Flint. That is all he had been doing for the last two days. Every once in a while he would stretch his limbs and peer down the stream toward the tunnel mouth that was obscured by branches, five hundred paces away, hoping for a glimpse of the older dwarf. Each night he had seen one heavy wagon lumber out of the cave shortly after sunset and continue up the road to Hillhome. Before dawn, another one would pass by on its way into the opening.

  Afternoon stretched into another cold evening. Bored as he was, Basalt dared not leave the niche to explore the surrounding area. Nor could he risk lighting a fire when night in the Kharolis Mountains descended around him. At least he had some food left in the sack Flint had passed to him. He opened the sack now, finding one ripe red apple, a dry butter sandwich, and a roasted goose drumstick. He gnawed on the succulent leg while he pondered what to do.