Flint the King p2-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  "Picture the destination in your mind, Basalt," Perian added, her face a mask of concern for what the naive young hill dwarf was about to undertake.

  Basalt nodded wordlessly and began to concentrate on the main room in the family home.

  "Tell them everything we've revealed to you, and that we'll be there in three days, four at the latest. We're count ing on you to make them believe."

  His face scrunched up in concentration, Basalt's image shimmered.

  'You can do it, Basalt!" Flint called out as the last traces of his nephew disappeared before their eyes.

  Flint and Perian stood alone in the beauty of the grotto, enveloped by the rhythmic pounding of the waterfall.

  Chapter 17

  Teleporting We Go

  Flint threw a cracked wooden shield to the side in disgust. "We aren't going to find enough decent weapons here to equip us, let alone three hundred defenseless gully dwarves," he complained bitterly to Perian from atop a six foot-high garbage mound in the Big Sky Room, across the stream and opposite the Thrown Room tunnel.

  They were anxious to begin preparations for the march to

  Hillhome, and since the first item on Perian's list was collect ing weapons, they had made their way back to the Big Sky

  Room shortly after Basalt had teleported away from the grotto. Across the stream and to their left, the gully dwarves continued to work away at filling the hole that Pitrick's spell and the beast had left in the wall.

  As for the beast itself, the Aghar had finished chopping the front half up into little bits. After a stern lecture from their disgusted king about their new game of "beast toss," a number of them had been dispatched to carry wooden crates of the beast out through the crackingrotto, while the rest were now hard at work on the rear.

  Up to her hips in odd shoes, discarded pots, leftover food, and other "treasures" on the far side of the mound, Perian was gazing intently at an old axe she'd found.

  "Finding anything interesting?" Flint called.

  Perian looked up guiltily and, without really thinking, slid the axe into her belt loop, the haft hidden within the folds of her tunic. "What was that? I'm sorry, I wasn't listen ing."

  Flint shook his gray head, climbed off the mound, came around to her side, and stood with his arms crossed deject edly. "Where are we going to find enough weapons? Are we going to send the Aghar off to war with sharpened dinner forks?" he spat.

  Perian slid down the heap to clap him on the shoulder en couragingly. "Don't worry, Nomscul says there are lots more garbage heaps where we may find useful items. Be sides, the Agharpults don't really need weapons."

  Flint snorted in derision. "Great, then we only need two hundred Agharpults." He picked up a brown wooden but ton, the size of his palm, and shuffled it between his hands idly. "We don't stand much of a chance armed against the derro, let alone weaponless."

  Perian jammed her hands on her hips in irritation. "Flint Fireforge, if you're not even going to try to be optimistic, then — then," she sputtered in exasperation, "then — oh, I don't know why I bother with you! You're the crabbiest hill dwarf I've ever met!"

  "And how many hill dwarves have you met?" he teased, his eyes twinkling. He enjoyed getting her dander up.

  "One more than I like!" she shot back, and though her eyes flashed dark hazel below her curly copper hair, the cor ners of her red lips were raised in an almost imperceptibly playful smile.

  Grinning back, Flint thought, how different she is from the frawls I've met in more than a century of life. He nearly reached up to brush a wayward curl from her forehead, then caught himself. Why do my hands seek excuses to touch her? We both know hill dwarves and mountain dwarves don't mix.

  "What, no quick retort?" Perian asked him, suddenly conscious of his stare.

  The hill dwarf's bushy mustache turned down in a frown.

  "We've too much work to do to indulge in verbal jousts," he said irritably, pitching the brown button into the heap again.

  Hurt by his sudden mood shift, Perian bristled. "What ever you say. I'm anxious as well to be done with this

  Hillhome campaign, so I can get on with things in my own life!"

  "There's nothing that says you have to do 'this Hillhome campaign,' " he said coldly.

  Perian's hazel eyes narrowed to slits. "You may not under stand this, but my sense of honor prevents me from reneging on a promise."

  Flint whirled on her. "I never asked for your promise to help."

  Perian trembled with anger. "I was referring to my vow to stay with the gully dwarves," she said quietly.

  "Oh."

  Silence.

  "I have things to do." Averting her face, Perian quickly strode across the bridge that spanned the stream and bolted for the tunnel to the Thrown Room.

  Flint swore silently. Why all of a sudden had he acted like such a proud, stubborn old fool? Go after her, tell her you're sorry, he said to himself. Tell her whatever you have to to take that disgusted look from her eyes!

  "Eeeeeeoooooo!"

  Following the echoing cry of distress, Flint's head snapped to the left, where he saw a crew of ten gully dwarves still dis mantling the carrion crawler. Hissing smoke rose in small clouds around half of the Aghar, who were doing a bizarre dance of pain.

  "How have you boneheads set yourselves afire now?" the hill dwarf groaned, taking the bridge in four strides. He ran the two hundred feet to where they stood around the oozing remains of the giant carrion crawler.

  Though surrounded by choking, putrid-smelling smoke,

  Flint could find no signs of fire. Four of the gully dwarves had drawn into themselves in fear, their big eyes peering now and then over their shoulders at their screaming com rades.

  Those five were covered in varying degrees with a black, tarlike slime, which they were frantically trying to fling from their bodies. Each time they managed to toss a globule to the ground, it exploded on contact with a spark and a loud "bang!" then fizzled into a noxious gray cloud.

  "It burn my skin off!"

  "Black goop make fingers bubble!"

  "It like bomb!"

  "I all sweaddy!" "It eat hole to my brain!"

  "That your ear," Nomscul informed him calmly, looking closely at the side of one Aghar's head. Nomscul had been supervising the task. His shaman status helped him avoid lapsing into hysteria with the rest of the Aghar.

  "Dunk them in the stream!" Perian cried from behind

  Flint. She had been back by the tunnel when she heard the gully dwarves' screams. Running up to the group now, she propelled two of the injured gully dwarves over to the left and into the gently flowing stream. She held their collars while they flailed in the water, washing away the mysteri ous black substance. Finally their wails slowed to sobs. Per ian hauled them out and was happy to see that the affected skin was shiny pink but otherwise unharmed.

  Seeing her success, Flint shoved the other two Aghar in, and soon their symptoms were relieved as well. Teeth chat tering, the soaked Aghar clustered around their king, look ing like drowned rats.

  "Someone had better tell me what's going on here!" Flint demanded of the group. "Nomscul?"

  Nomscul's wispy mustache twitched above his lips. "I use my magic bag to stop yelling, but it not work! It always work before!" Nomscul's eyes narrowed, shifting the bags underneath them. "You put curse on it, O kingly guy?"

  Flint scowled. "Of course it doesn't work — it's just a bag of dir — " He sighed and gathered his patience about him like a cloak. "Nomscul, where did that black stuff come from?"

  "That all king want to know?" Nomscul asked. "It beast guts." He pulled Flint over to the remains of the carrion crawler and pointed. "See sack of yuk, there? They chop ping like you say, and out goop fly!"

  "Must be like a venom sack," Perian suggested. "How are we going to get rid of the rest of this thing without disturb ing that exploding organ?"

  Flint was scratching his beard in thought. "Hand me your dagger," he said to Perian. Puzzled, the mounta
in dwarf pulled it from her belt and placed it into Flint's open palm.

  He bent and stirred it around in the black slime.

  "What do you think you're doing with my blade?" Perian demanded.

  "Just give me a second here," Flint said softly. Flicking the wrist of the hand that held the dagger, Flint sent some slime sizzling on its way to the dirt floor. A loud clap, like a fire cracker, erupted, and then a narrow column of thick, acrid smoke billowed upward. Flint checked the surface of Per ian's blade and saw that it was still smooth and unpocked.

  Apparently, the substance was corrosive to skin, but more durable objects, like metal, and probably glass and clay, were impervious to its caustic effects.

  Flint handed the weapon back to the frawl. "How much of this black venom do you figure there is here?"

  "I don't know, quite a lot. The abdominal sac is very large — and there could be another venom gland, for all we know. What does it matter?" Perian asked.

  Flint was doing some calculations in his mind and did not hear her question.

  "You're not thinking of — ?"

  "I certainly am," he cut in, smiling slyly as he suddenly be came aware of her again. "I think, Perian, that we may have found our secret weapon…"

  Basalt's right hand curled around the ring of teleporta tion. His eyes were squeezed shut in deliberation, his thoughts on the main room of the family homestead. Then, for a brief second, an image of Moldoon's inviting tap room flashed through his mind and he could feel his body waver ing in midair! In panic, he opened his eyes and saw both the family home and Moldoon's, shimmering and distant. In stantly he clamped his eyes shut again and flooded his mind with thoughts of home, his family, the furniture — and in a brief moment that seemed like an eternity, the wavering stopped and he sensed that he was standing on his own feet.

  Somewhere.

  The air was warm on his freckled cheeks. He opened his eyes slowly, and before him stood his Uncle Ruberik's un smiling, astonished countenance. The wooden pails in Ru berik's hands clattered to the floor, creating a small puddle of creamy white milk at his feet.

  "What's the meaning of this? Where did you come from?

  What happened to you? You've got some explaining to do, you foolish young trickster!"

  "Yes, Basalt," he heard his mother chime in from behind,

  "besides this bit of nonsense, where have you been since, well — " She coughed uncomfortably. "Where have you been all night? Tybalt's been looking for you, not to mention the rest of us have been worried."

  Basalt had not moved since the moment of his arrival, and now he stepped back toward the fireplace to get both of them into view, Bertina in the kitchen, Ruberik at the door.

  He saw in their faces their usual reaction to him — his uncle's anger, his mother's distress — and he nearly lost his courage.

  But he reminded himself that there was a good cause for his strange behavior, one far too important to forsake.

  "Milk's a-curdlin', so speak up, harrn! You look harder used than an old anvil — where have you been drinking all night?" Ruberik demanded.

  Basalt pushed words into his throat. "Ma, Uncle Rubie,

  I've got to tell you something," he began, his voice shaking, his eyes darting from one figure to the other. "You're not go ing to want to believe any of this, but you've got to! Dad didn't die of a heart attack, he was murdered with derro magic!"

  Bertina gasped, then bit her knuckles. Ruberik slapped his thigh angrily. "Gods curse you, now you're making up hurtful lies to cover your indulgences! I've tried everything, talking to you, yelling at you, shaming you, trying to help however I could, and this is your response?" He stomped over to Basalt and snatched the young dwarf's wrist.

  "Maybe a day or two in jail — for running from the scene of a murder — will make you dry out and think about your ways!"

  Basalt stood his ground, in spite of his churning stomach and trembling knees, and spoke quickly and intently.

  "Please let me explain," he began again. "I'm sorry if I star tled you, but the derro are planning to attack Hillhome and we have very little time to prepare."

  Ruberik scowled with impatience. "Now what nonsense are you jabbering about?"

  "Basalt, you're not making any sense, but I've never seen you so earnest," said Bertina. "Whatever's got you in this state, you just take your time and explain it."

  Ruberik huffed, "It's obvious what's got him in this state, and I've humored it as much as I care to. It's time to — "

  "Rubie," cut in Bertina, "leave it be. Let him talk."

  The nervous hill dwarf smiled gratefully toward his mother. "I know I haven't been very responsible lately," he said, ignoring his uncle's snort of agreement, "but I am not drunk now, nor am I lying." He took a deep breath.

  "Dad was killed because he discovered that the plows the derro are transporting are just a front for massive weapon shipments to some nation in the north."

  "Basalt," his mother moaned, drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, "how do you know this?"

  "I've been with Uncle Flint. They tried to kill him for learning the same thing."

  Ruberik slapped his head in understanding. "There's a trustworthy source. My infrequent older brother, the twi light derro killer!"

  Basalt frowned. "Uncle Rubie, please let me finish. If you still don't believe me when I'm done, I'll cheerfully hand myself over to Uncle Tybalt and go to jail. It won't matter anyway, because if no one believes me we'll all be dead in five or six days," he said ominously. Even Ruberik felt com pelled to be silent.

  "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 Fa ther 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 Pit rick 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 en tirely. 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 be lieve me, either."

  "That's the most sensible admission I've heard yet," mut tered 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, Ber tina, 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,