“Flint had to kill the derro because he was caught spying in their wagons that night.”
It was Bertina’s turn to interrupt now. “But what does your father have to do with any of this?”
Basalt rubbed his face. He was exhausted and flustered. How would he convince the town if he couldn’t make his own family believe? “Uncle Flint became suspicious and got the idea to look in the wagons when Moldoon told him Father had gone to do the same thing just before he died. Flint sneaked over the wall into the wagon yard and ran into Garth, who thought Flint was Dad’s ghost. Garth was frightened out of his wits because he’d been there the night Dad was murdered and saw it all happen. I’m sorry, Ma, but I’ve got to say this. Garth told Flint how an odd-looking derro had struck down Dad with a bolt of blue smoke …”
“… Perian was a captain of the House Guard under this Pitrick’s command until he pushed her into the Beast Pit for trying to save Uncle Flint. She’s absolutely certain that Pitrick will follow through on his threat to wipe out Hillhome.…”
With the long story finally told, Basalt leaned back in the chair he’d taken by the hearth and stared into the fire. I’ve done my best, he thought. At least I tried.
Neither his mother nor Ruberik spoke for a long minute.
“So why doesn’t Flint come back to Hillhome himself and tell us?” Ruberik asked at last.
“Oh, I guess I forgot that part,” answered Basalt, draping the crook of his elbow across his eyes. “The gully dwarves who rescued them have some sort of prophecy that Flint and Perian fulfilled when they were pushed into the pit. They’ve been made king and queen of Mudhole, and had to vow on their honor that they wouldn’t run away.” Basalt’s voice trailed off as he realized that, with all the outrageous events in his story, this last part might well sink his credibility entirely. He dropped the raised arm back into his lap. “You don’t believe me, do you? If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe me, either.”
“That’s the most sensible admission I’ve heard yet,” muttered Ruberik.
But Basalt shot up in the chair and extended his right hand. “But I’ve got the ring! You saw me teleport here—where else would I get something like this? And once I’d got it, why would I come back here just to tell lies? I could go anywhere I want, anywhere at all! Instead, I came back here to warn everyone. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Ruberik rose to his feet and straightened his jacket before addressing his nephew. “When you started this tale, you said you’d go see Uncle Tybalt, whether I believed you or no. Are you ready to go?”
Bertina looked sadly at her brother-in-law. “Would you really turn in my son?” she asked.
“I would if I thought he was lying. But obviously, he’s not. Come on, lad. We’ve some tough persuading ahead of us if we’re going to wake up this town.”
“We have encountered a new problem,” said Pitrick softly.
The thane listened half-interestedly, while his gargoyles leered and flapped their leathery wings behind him. “Yes?” he finally inquired.
“The dwarves of Hillhome are preparing to rise against us,” the adviser said. Pitrick used the story he had devised on his way back to the city. He had decided that the hill dwarf’s warning was too potentially dangerous to ignore.
“Indeed?” Realgar sat forward and fixed Pitrick with an icy gaze. “What do you intend to do about it?”
“There is but one thing to do,” announced the hunchback, his voice an oily hiss.
“The village must be destroyed.”
“What’s the next step?” Ruberik asked Tybalt a little later, after they’d convinced the constable of their story. “We’re all family to start with, and none of us depends on trading with the derro for our livelihood. But what do you think is going to happen when this story starts getting around? A lot of people are going to get real upset, and the rest are just plain not going to believe it.”
“That’s certain,” agreed Tybalt. “There’s just no way we’re going to talk people out of the easy money the derro have been throwing around.”
The small group of Fireforge harrns and frawls lapsed into silence in Tybalt’s sparse office: Basalt, Ruberik, Bertina, and Tybalt. A stout table took up the middle of the chamber. Tybalt, in his sturdy chair, sat with his feet on the table, pipe in mouth. Basalt and Bertina sat on stools pulled up alongside the table, while Ruberik paced between the door and the opposite wall. Despite the tension in the room, Basalt felt a new sense of family unity that he found very warming.
Basalt glanced timidly from Ruberik to Tybalt, then spoke up. “Perhaps if we could get two or three leading citizens on our side, like the Hammerhands or Strikesparks, we would carry a lot more influence. People would listen to someone like that even if they wouldn’t believe me.”
“The problem with that idea,” responded Ruberik, “is that the leading families’ are almost universally the ones who’ve benefitted the most from the derro’s presence. That’s why they’re the ‘leading families.’ ”
“No, the people who are profiting won’t be willing to risk those profits,” stated Tybalt. “Not unless we can demonstrate a clear danger. Then, perhaps, they will admit that dealing with the derro was a bad idea.”
Bertina picked up the train of thought. “But as far as I can see, the only way to demonstrate that there really is danger is to get everyone together and have a look inside one of the wagons. When they see that it’s full of weapons, how could anyone deny that it’s a threat?”
“Precisely,” said Tybalt.
“That’s just fine and dandy,” Ruberik interjected, “but you’ll never get anyone to look inside the wagons. They’ll all be afraid that we might be wrong. If a mass of townspeople marches up and arrests the drivers and searches their wagons and finds nothing but plows and farming tools, we’ll have caused an enormous incident with Thorbardin that could jeopardize the whole trade arrangement.
“No,” he concluded, “this town will need to be handed proof—not just evidence—on a silver platter.”
Suddenly Basalt grew so excited he nearly tumbled off his stool. “That’s the answer, Uncle Ruberik! Let’s hand them the proof. They can’t stop us from searching the wagons.
“If the four of us got into the wagon yard, we could capture the derro inside, search the wagons, and then call in the rest of the town and show them what we found. If we find nothing, then the whole affront is our fault and the town can blame it on a tiny group of troublemakers.”
Silence reigned once again as everyone considered Basalt’s proposal. Finally, Tybalt leaned forward and said, “Here’s what we’ll need.…”
Hillhome was already bustling as the four Fireforges made their way to the wagon yard. They stopped a short way down the street and eyed the open gate.
“Do they ever post a guard?” asked Ruberik.
“One or two of them stay inside, but they don’t come out in the sun,” Tybalt replied. “Anyone can come or go as they please. But the derro keep a pretty close eye on the entrance because they don’t want people who have no reason going inside anyway.”
“So we could just walk in?” Basalt proposed.
“Not without attracting a lot of attention,” explained Tybalt. “That’s where your ring comes in. Remember the plan and what we talked about in my office. Just keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. Now, whenever you’re ready.”
Basalt nodded his head. He peered intently down the street and through the wagon yard gate, concentrating on the forge area. Just beyond the forge was the shop area where tools were kept and the derro slept. To the right of the shop were the stables. Basalt focused mentally on a spot just a few feet from the forge. With his stomach churning slightly, he touched Pitrick’s ring and then, with a slight pop in his ears, he was standing beside the forge. I’m really getting the hang of this, he thought with satisfaction.
Guttoral laughter from inside the shop building reminded Basalt of his dangerous mission. He gl
anced back over his shoulder to see his mother and two uncles standing beneath the trees where he had been only moments earlier, giving him reassuring waves.
Glancing around, Basalt saw the two heavy freight wagons parked to his right, in front of the stables. He spotted a pair of legs moving between the wagons. Quickly he turned back to the door of the forge and flung it open. His keen dwarven eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. He sighted three derro, bolting from their beds in reaction to the sudden crash and light streaming through the door.
“Wake up, you big-eyed, moss-chewing, parasites. I’ve brought you some eggs to suck for breakfast!” shouted the nervous hill dwarf. Immediately he turned and ran as the three enraged derro charged after him. The fourth derro raced around the end of the nearer wagon and joined in the pursuit.
As Basalt ran, he picked out a spot along the wall of the wagon yard, directly off to his right. He slowed down, letting the derro nearly catch up to him, before touching the ring and popping across the open ground to reappear twenty yards away, alongside the wall.
The startled derro skidded to a stop, casting searching glances this way and that for the mysterious dwarf. Basalt waited a few moments, then waved his arm and hollered, “Hey, over here, you stinking sewer rats! Are you blind?”
Furious, the derro tore after Basalt again, drawing daggers from their belts as they ran. Basalt watched them come on, at the same time eyeing the top of a barrel standing near the stables. As the derro closed to within a few yards, he touched the ring and instantly vanished, reappearing again atop the barrel.
The derro crashed into the wall where Basalt had been standing, falling over each other and swearing in their harsh language. Within moments they were back on their feet, choking with rage and scanning the yard for their prey. With a yell, one of them spotted him and the pack was on the attack again.
But this time, as they reached the halfway point to Basalt’s position, one of them paused momentarily. A dagger flashed in his hand and then, with a ringing “thunk,” embedded itself in the stable wall inches from Basalt’s left shoulder. Immediately the others followed suit, and another dagger and two hatchets flew toward the hapless hill dwarf. A split-second later they pierced the wooden wall, dead on target, but their target was not there. Seeing the danger, Basalt had grasped the ring and teleported himself next to the forge, back to where he had first landed in the wagon yard.
Basalt realized he was shaking and paused a moment to catch his breath before turning and sprinting toward the wagons. He had taken only a few steps when the derro, bloodlust showing in their oversized eyes, careened around both sides of the stable. Basalt raced scant yards ahead of them directly between the wagons. As he broke past the back ends of the vehicles, Tybalt, who was standing behind one wagon, tossed a gleaming sword to his nephew. Basalt turned in time to see the derro charge straight into the Fireforge’s trap; two sturdy spear shafts shot out, knee high, from either side of the passage. Tybalt held one, with his shoulder braced against the wagon’s open tailgate, and Ruberik held the other. The derro tumbled headlong over the unexpected hurdles, sliding to a stop in the damp earth.
Seconds later, Tybalt, Ruberik, Basalt, and even Bertina stood over the prone and cursing derro, holding contraband weapons to their throats. “You were right about the weapons and the wagons, lad,” puffed Ruberik.
Bertina’s face was flushed from the excitement and exertion as she beamed at her son. Tybalt shook his spear at one of the derro, commanding, “Bertina, you run and fetch the mayor and anyone else from the council you can find. Meanwhile, let’s get this sorry lot tied up. I’ve a feeling the truly nasty part of this job’s just beginning.”
Hill dwarves from throughout the town quickly gathered as the news of the derro’s betrayal spread. Some, such as the pompous merchant Micah, at first objected to the attacks against their partners in trade. Others, including Hildy, the militia captain, and finally even Mayor Holden, recognized the seriousness of their situation.
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Micah. This council has made its decision.” The speaker, Mayor Holden, stood atop a barrel in the wagon yard, surrounded by the four other members of the council, the village militia master, Axel Broadblade, and a throng of townsfolk. “It’s obvious that the Theiwar lied to us and are using our town to prepare for a war. We’ve all seen the weapons concealed in the wagons and we’ve heard the testimony from these derro prisoners. The council’s vote has gone against you, Micah, and that’s the end of that. If you could pry your nose out of all that Theiwar steel you’ve been collecting, you would see that this is the only decent course of action.
“Now, let’s hear from the master of militia what sort of action we can take.” Mayor Holden clambered down from the barrel and several other dwarves helped Broadblade, a stocky veteran of many ancient campaigns, up. The militia master was considered the epitome of the military dwarf by the citizens of Hillhome. He always dressed in a clean, green overcoat; a ribbed helmet with hinged earflaps; and thigh-high, hard leather boots with the tops turned down. He also carried a long dagger in a scabbard that hung from his belt in the manner of a human cavalry officer. Cavalry was almost nonexistent in dwarven armies, but the scabbard added a certain panache to the uniform. Broadblade cleared his throat, folded his hands behind his back, and addressed the crowd.
“As those of you who are members of the Hillhome Militia—and that’s most of you, even if you don’t show up regularly for drill—are aware, our arsenal of weapons is both small and eclectic, consisting as it does of a mixture of hunting, farming, and carpentry implements. This has proven adequate in the past when dealing with occasional raiding critters and wandering bandit mobs.
“If we are to defend ourselves against the mountain dwarves, however—as we inevitably must, now that their nefarious scheme has been uncovered—we will need quality weapons, of a uniform nature, which can be used in precise formations. Fortunately, a significant stock of such weapons—approximately forty spears, twenty-five swords, and thirty-five axes, or approximately one hundred weapons in all—has just fallen into our hands. Unfortunately, our militia contains just over three-hundred-fifty combatants, leaving us with a shortfall of approximately, uhhmmm, two-hundred-fifty weapons. Some of this can be made up from existing inventory, but a large number of weapons is still needed, desperately.”
Broadblade paused for a moment, letting his math settle on the crowd for effect. Then, with a stern face, he continued.
“Two more wagons should arrive tomorrow, according to the usual schedule. We shall seize these wagons and appropriate their contents. Assuming they, too, contain fifty weapons apiece, that brings our total to two-hundred. It would, however, be imprudent to expect any more shipments after that, as the Theiwar will quickly realize that something is happening to their wagons.”
“So where do we get another one-hundred-fifty weapons?” shouted someone in the crowd.
“That is the significant question,” admitted Broadblade. “The plows and such in these wagons will provide the raw material for a few more, but not nearly enough.”
“We can’t fight without enough weapons,” shouted someone else.
Basalt crowded his way up to the barrel. “Listen, I’ve got an idea,” he yelled as he climbed to the top of the barrel with Broadblade.
The militia master quieted the crowd. “Everyone, this is the young fellow who tipped us off to the whole thing. What’s your idea, Fireforge?”
“Two wagons left for New Sea last night. We know that the trip takes two days; they travel all night and then lay up somewhere during the daylight,” Basalt explained. “If we start right now, with a fast wagon, we should be able to catch them before dark.”
“Use my brewery wagon,” offered Hildy. “It’s smaller and faster than their big carts, and it’s empty right now, waiting for another load.”
Broadblade boomed out over the crowd, “We need volunteers to go with Basalt and Hildy to overtake the two wagons. You can draw weapon
s from the new stock and start immediately. The rest of you, assemble in one hour in the square, ready to start fortifying the town in accordance with the plans Mayor Holden and I will prepare.
“Let’s get to work!”
Chapter 18
The Secret Weapon
“Go for big march!”
“Outside time!”
A chorus of shrieks and whoops erupted as the Aghar danced around Flint and Perian, delighted by the news of their impending campaign.
“It’s not a picnic!” Flint bellowed. “We’re going to war! To fight the mountain dwarves!”
The celebration continued, unaffected by his words of caution.
“Let them enjoy the idea now,” counselled Perian, patting Flint on the shoulder. “They’ll find out soon enough what we mean.”
“I suppose you’re right,” agreed the hill dwarf. He cast another look at the dancing, scampering Aghar. He could not help but wonder how many of them now cavorted in Mudhole for the last time.
“Come on, Grayhoof, pull!” Hildy barked at the heavy draft horse, her blond braids flying behind her. The steed leaned forward into his traces, straining every massive muscle to pull the wagon up the pass.
Basalt pushed back his red locks and leaned forward on the buckboard beside Hildy, as if he could help the struggling creature with his own forward momentum. Behind them, five more hill dwarves—all young, all armed to the teeth—lay low within the wagon’s boxy cargo bed.
“Up, boy! Faster!” The brewer’s daughter coaxed and cajoled the grizzled gelding, and the old horse responded by putting every sinew of his massive body into the task. Basalt noticed that Hildy didn’t use a whip, yet she seemed able to bring every bit of desperate energy out of her faithful steed. Foam flecked Grayhoof’s mouth, and the old horse’s flanks heaved with the effort of its labors.
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