Flint the King p2-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  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 citi zens on our side, like the Hammerhand's 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 demon strate 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," Ruherik 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 townspeo ple 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 cap ture 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 Ba salt'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 Ty balt. "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, when ever 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 get ting the hang of this, he thought with satisfaction.

  Guttoral laughter from inside the shop building reminded Basalt of his dangerous mission. He glanced 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 wag ons 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 sud den 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, let ting 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 dag gers 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 Ba salt's position, one of them paused momentarily. A dagger flashed in his hand and then, with a ringing "thunk," embed ded 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 Fire forge'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 Ru berik 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 weap ons and the wagons, lad," puffed Ruberik.

  Bertina's face was flushed from the excitement and exer tion 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 pre pare 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 co
uld 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 al most 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 weap ons in all — has just fallen into our hands. Unfortunately, our militia contains just over three-hundred-fifty combat ants, 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 contin ued.

  "Two more wagons should arrive tomorrow, according to the usual schedule. We shall seize these wagons and appro priate 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 ship ments after that, as the Theiwar will quickly realize that something is happening to their wagons."

  "So where do we get another one-hundred-fifty weap ons?" 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 some one 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 volun teers to go with Basalt and Hildy to overtake the two wag ons. You can draw weapons 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 an other look at the dancing, scampering Aghar. He could not help but wonder how many of them now cavorted in Mud hole 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 mus cle 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 strug gling 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 ca joled 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.

  They were six hours east of Hillhome on the mountainous Passroad. The hill dwarves were headed toward Newsea to ambush the derro wagons that had left Hillhome the night before. None of them knew how far beyond the pass they would find the derro waystation. Soon they would be out of the mountains and into the plains just west of Newsea, and that would make for quicker travel. Sooner or later the light wooden beerwagon, with its single hitch, would catch up to the iron-bound freight wagons of the derro, even with their four-horse teams.

  The hill dwarves looked anxiously at the sun as it sank into the western sky. They had to reach the derro camp be tween Hillhome and Newsea by sunset, or else their quarry would start for the sea. A hundred more weapons that could be used to defend Hillhome would then be lost.

  "How much farther do you figure it is?" asked Turq

  Hearthstone, popping his head up from the box behind Ba salt and Hildy. A heavily muscled lad, he propped his chin up on the edge of the wagon.

  "I don't know," Basalt admitted. "But it's got to be close enough that the Theiwar can get there in one night's travel from Hillhome. We know from Mayor Holden that they get off the road again by daylight."

  Another hill dwarf, Horld, also looked up out of the wagon. "How many of the white-bellied scum do you think we'll find there?"

  Basalt thought for a moment. "Three per wagon, two wagons coming and two going… My best guess is there'll

  'be about twelve of them."

  Horld counted for a moment. "Against seven of us," he calculated.

  "We'll have the element of surprise on our side," Basalt en couraged, adding a silent "I hope." Horld settled back, ap parently satisfied with the answer.

  Basalt saw that the others were looking to him for leader ship now. Horld had always been one of the more promi nent of the younger generation in Hillhome. In some ways he'd been sort of a bully, and Basalt usually tried to avoid him. Now here he was, asking Basalt's opinions.

  "Couldn't you use that ring to go there, find out for sure?" asked Turq, gesturing to the intertwined steel bands on Ba salt's finger.

  Basalt shook his head. "Magic is strange, I guess. I can only use the ring to go places that I've seen and can picture in my mind. I don't know where the derro stop is; they might take shelter anywhere in a cave or the forest." He shrugged helplessly.

  The heavily breathing Grayhoof lumbered through the saddle between two looming hills that marked the summit of the Passroad; it would be downhill from here to the sea.

  "Giddap, now, boy! Run for it!" Hildy cried.

  Sensing the lightening of his burden, the horse broke into an easy trot. The wagon rumbled and jounced behind, and in pla
ces Hildy had to rein Grayhoof in a bit just to keep the wagon from hurrying the horse. Traces squealed in protest, wheels and timbers creaked, and the noise of their descent precluded anything less than shouted conversation.

  Basalt hung on for his life as they rocketed down the nar row, twisting road. He looked over at Hildy, saw her eyes locked on the horse and the route before them, her face fixed in an expression of fierce, teeth-gritting determination. He thought about the five harrns in the back of the wagon, and began to feel all confused again.

  What should we do? They expect me to decide: but I'm no adventurer! I can't do this! Now that we are nearing our goal, the whole plan seems hare-brained. My foolhardy idea is risking the lives of six others, as well as my own!

  Then Basalt remembered his Uncle Flint's words of inspi ration. Maybe together he and his comrades could meet these mountain dwarves and best them. They were seven young hill dwarves, all strong, all well-armed. He sneaked another look at the sun. If they were lucky, they would reach the derro in daylight — and gain a significant advan tage over their subterranean-dwelling cousins.

  Dark pines grew to each side of the rutted track. They passed an occasional farm or forest cottage, inhabited by a few of the hill dwarves who had emigrated over the pass years before. Basalt and Hildy both examined every one of them closely for signs of derro, but saw none. As the length ening shadows of the trees stretched over the road, Basalt began to fear that he and his crew would be too late to find the derro before dark.

  "I see something there!" Hildy whispered suddenly, point ing to a dirt track, deeply rutted, that branched off from the road. At the end of it, some fifty yards away, was a large, dark brown barn of heavy logs. The windowless structure had a large opening on one side, sheltered by an extending, overhanging portion of roof. Four heavy derro wagons, their iron-spoked wheels towering higher than any of the dwarves, stood in the yard. One black-armored derro, standing in the shade beside a wagon, squinted at them as they rolled by. None of the horses was around, and only the single derro was conspicuous, performing a listless circuit of the wagons, obviously bored.