Flint the King p2-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  The first rank, denoted by the red plumes on their hel mets, were the Bloody Blades, axemen chosen especially for their large size and ferocious demeanor. Among the most savage hand-to-hand fighters on all of Krynn, the dwarves of the Bloody Blades were like machines of death on the bat tlefield. Each carried a shield and a short sword, in addition to his axe. They were indoctrinated with fanatical loyalty and fanatical zeal in carrying out the orders of their thane. It was rumored that over twenty-five percent of the Theiwar recruited into the Bloody Blades died during training, so rig orous were their preparations. They were forbidden to marry, so they would have no ties outside the unit. Before battle, each would prepare his funeral song, since planning to live through the battle was a sign of weakness.

  The second rank of derro, sporting ebony plumes, were known as the Black Bolts. They wielded heavy crossbows, which were slow to load and awkward to fire. But a volley of their bolts could strike with enough force to penetrate steel armor and shields. In fact, most dwarves could not fire one of these crossbows without dislocating a shoulder.

  Members of the Black Bolts were required to place three out of three shots into an elf-sized target at a range of two hundred yards. Anyone who failed this test was stricken from the unit.

  The third line of Realgar's troops were the Silver Swords, their symbol a tall, swaying gray feather. These derro, while still wearing steel armor, carried smaller shields than the

  Blades. They were trained in more agile, skirmishing tactics, and could spread out to take advantage of small gaps in an enemy's formation. Individually they were intelligent, moti vated, and aggressive. More than once they had won a bat tle by penetrating the enemy's line and seeking out and killing the enemy general, plunging the opposing army into chaos. They painted their faces with charcoal and ochre be fore a battle to make themselves appear frightening to the enemy.

  Arrayed to the side of these three ranks were the regimen tal banners, trumpeters, drummers, officers, and signalmen. The trophies they carried from previous battles were both grisly and glorious. They included captured ban ners, mummified heads, gleaming helmets, monstrous claws, golden spears, and dozens of other tokens and trap pings of war.

  Actually, there were four ranks of troops, although the fourth was comprised of only six dwarves: the savants. The result of centuries of arcane developments in the deepest bowels of derro civilizations, the savants were the only dwarves who had the unusual ability to cast very powerful spells, ones capable of levitating large objects or even call ing down storms of ice. Their skin was even pastier white than others of their race. They wore black like the other

  House Guard soldiers, though their uniforms were padded robes, not metal armor. Their powers on the battlefield, es pecially against magicless hill dwarves, could not help but prove decisive.

  "Pitrick!" Realgar bellowed, and the hunchbacked dwarf shuffled behind his leader as the thane resumed his inspec tion. "The troops look splendid! Perian Cyprium obviously excelled at her job before her untimely death." The thane stole a glance at his adviser, suspicious as always about Pit rick's explanation concerning the captain's demise. But the savant kept his face bowed and expressionless. The thane al ways chose not to press the issue, since Pitrick was far more valuable to him than any frawl captain could be.

  "It will please me if you command the House Guard in Perian's stead," the thane said, his tone lazy.

  "Yes, my lord," was the adviser's confident response.

  "With troops such as these, we can not fail to wipe the little village of hill dwarves from the face of the continent!"

  Arms crossed, feet spread wide in a powerful stance, the thane considered his adviser. "The latter is the point of this attack, is it not?"

  "Most certainly," Pitrick said quickly. "We shall leave midafternoon this day for the long march through the wagon tunnel, so that we will arrive on the surface at dusk, in familiar darkness. Though I have recently made trips to

  Sanction, the troops have never been outside the lightless ' ness of Thorbardin. I am not sure how well their eyes will adjust, so we will travel at night and sleep in caves or under the protection of thick trees during daylight."

  Realgar nodded his approval. He, himself, had not been on the surface in many decades, lacking the time or the incli nation to go there. "What of snow?" he asked. "Isn't it near ing wintertime above?"

  "Yes," Pitrick agreed, "but the wagon crews tell me it is yet early, and the snow is still traversable. I estimate that, en cumbered by the mass of troops, it will take two nights of steady marching to reach the dreadful little village. We will attack an unsuspecting Hillhome on the third evening. We can rest the afternoon nearby — out of sight of Hillhome so that our attack will come as a complete surprise."

  "What could Perian possibly want in the grotto so late on the night before we leave for battle?" Flint mumbled aloud as he hastened down the final long tunnel leading to the beautiful cavern at the farthest corner of Mudhole. He had been working with Nomscul to pack the explosive sludge into sacks and bottles, as well as clean up some rusty old daggers and sword blades that had been discovered during the searches of the last two days. Nomscul had relayed the message with a giggle: "Queen Furryend say you to meet her at grotto when done. She have big surprise!" With that, the gully dwarf shaman had clamped his hand over his large mouth, refusing to give Flint further clues about the myste rious missive.

  At last Flint came to the opening on the right that marked the entrance to the cavern, and he turned down the enclosed staircase, taking the narrow steps two at a time. He paused at the bottom to draw in a breath, then bounded in.

  Immediately, he was grabbed by a giggling frawl, Perian's self-appointed "weighty lady," Fester.

  "Take off clothes and come with me!" Fester squealed, her fleshy cheeks buckling in a smile as she tugged at Flint's clothing.

  "What are you talking about? Stop that! Don't touch me, you silly frawl! Where's Perian?" Flint demanded, trying to shake off Fester's grip.

  "I'm right here," Perian called. She came around the cor ner of a stalagmite and laughed out loud when she saw

  Flint's stony, red face and Fester's eager tugging. "Stop it,

  Fester." The frawl Aghar dropped away from Flint, sheep ishly regarded the royal family, then scampered up the stair way.

  Flustered, Flint gathered the edges of his clothing that Fes ter had managed to pull down, his face burning. "What's go ing on here? What have you been teaching her, mugging?"

  Perian laughed again. "Unfortunately, she already knew that. Look, I'm sorry," she said, flashing her big, hazel eyes.

  "Fester must have decided that since I've taken off my usual armor, you would want to as well."

  Suddenly Flint became aware that Perian was dressed in a tight-fighting blue-green wrap; his favorite color looked spectacular against her copper hair. She stood silhouetted by the glowing moss behind her near the pool, and for the first time he could really see her shape through the gauzy gown. His eyes traced her form upward, from her surpris ingly slim ankles, to her muscular calves, her broad hips, slightly narrowed waist, her ample… His cheeks grew hot again, and he forced his eyes back up to the safety of her face.

  Perian smiled invitingly and held her hand out to him.

  "Come, your surprise is getting cold."

  Startled, Flint drew back. "What surprise?"

  Perian frowned impatiently. "If I told you here, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? You aren't afraid to be alone with me, are you?"

  "Certainly not!" Flint huffed, snatching up her hand in embarrassment and irritation. But as he followed her around the stone pillar and into the depths of the grotto, he was not so sure. He forgot his humiliation when he saw what awaited him on the bench before the pool.

  Five mismatched pots of steaming food nearly covered the bench and surrounded a single lit candle and two metal plates. Flint clapped his hands and licked his lips as he rushed forward, eyeing the containers.

  "Wha
t's the occasion?"

  "The occasion is our last dinner — a celebration," she said simply, waving him to sit by the plate that faced the pool.

  He dropped to the ground on the fluffy moss and slid his legs under the bench. "Celebration," he snorted. "What have we to celebrate? We're leading a ragtag bunch of gully dwarves off to save a village from a powerful, demented magician, and — "

  "I know all that," she interrupted with a sigh. "Can't we have just a few last peaceful hours?" She folded her legs un der her and gracefully lowered herself to the ground, back to the pool. She took the hilt of an old dagger and stirred it around in one of the pots, then used it to ladle a portion of the pot's contents onto Flint's plate.

  "Sauteed white fungus and onions," she said. Pointing from one pot to the next, she rattled off their contents.

  "There's mushrooms and sprouts, meat — don't ask what kind- in red sauce, turtle soup, and creamed fish."

  "Where did you get all this stuff?" Flint mumbled through a mouthful of delicious fungus and onions.

  Perian propped her chin up on her hands looking proud, yet a little sheepish. "I'm afraid I risked sending two more

  Aghar up to the warrens. It took them long enough, but they managed to find most of what I sent them for without getting caught. You'll be happy to know that I did not send them for mossweed — I've broken that habit… I think.

  And also, gully dwarf hands never touched the food during preparation — I made it all myself."

  "What a catch — brawn, brains, beauty, and she can cook," he muttered unconsciously, busy stuffing his mouth.

  He listened to his own words and gasped, glancing up quickly, but Perian, intent on her plate, showed no signs of having heard him. They ate quickly and in silence, savoring tastes forgotten in the short week they had been consuming a tiresome catch-all called gully dwarf stew.

  When the last bowl was scraped clean, Flint pushed him self back, patting his stomach happily. "Simply marvelous," he sighed.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it," Perian said, standing up. "I hope you like my next surprise as well." She danced past

  Flint and disappeared behind him into the columns of lime stone that ran from floor to ceiling opposite the pool.

  The mountain dwarf quickly returned, holding a long, narrow package wrapped in cotton batting and tied shut with twine. Flint watched expectantly, unable to guess its contents.

  Perian's head was dipped nervously as she untied the par cel with shaky hands. "I've wanted to give you this for a day or two, but the moment just never seemed right. I wish I could have spent a few more days on it…" she mumbled mysteriously as she fumbled with the twine. "Oh, here!" she said, flustered. She flung back the cloth cover and thrust her hands toward him. "A weapon befitting a monarch leading his troops to war."

  Curious, Flint peered beyond the wrapping. His breath caught in his throat and he drew no air, his face paling dan gerously.

  "What's wrong?" Perian asked, concern and dismay crea sing her face. "I–I cleaned it up as best I could. I know it's very old, but it's an excellent axe, dwarven-crafted, no doubt. Don't you like it?"

  But Flint hardly heard his queen as his eyes focused on the thing in her hands. He reminded himself to breathe, and then he willed his hands forward to grasp the axe.

  The haft of smooth oak showed no sign of wear or stress.

  Polished lovingly, it was without blemish or knots. The wood blended so perfectly into the flawless steel blade that the axe looked as if crafted from one material. The steel blade itself was of that immaculate white-silver quality, and its circumference was decorated with the most delicate, faint tracings. Flint ran his hands lovingly over the familiar dwarven runes, not one bit lighter than when last he had felt them.

  For this was no ordinary axe. It was the Tharkan Axe, the weapon he had found, then been given by his brother Aylmar, and then lost again so many years ago.

  "Where did you find this?" he said at last, his eyes still on the wondrous axe. Why was it here? Now?

  Perian was mightily confused. She had hoped he would like it, but his reaction seemed to go beyond that. He held it like he would a lover…

  "I–I found it in the garbage heap in the Big Sky Room, the day we discovered sludge," Perian explained, then chuckled. "You were so sour that day… I don't know what possessed me, but the second I saw this axe I knew I had to hide it away and clean it up so I could surprise you with it."

  "You didn't know it was once my axe?" he asked, looking from the weapon to her with misty eyes. "But how could you?" he asked himself. "I never told you that story."

  "What story? This axe was yours? Did you drop it in the

  Beast Pit?" Perian was very confused, as her voice rose with her agitation.

  Flint shook his shaggy head vigorously, nearly overcome by finding the axe again in, of all places, Mudhole. "No," he whispered softly at last. "My brother, the one who was mur dered by Pitrick, gave me the Tharkan Axe on my Fullbeard

  Day many long years ago. We'd found it together during our dungeon-crawling days, but I lost it in a hobgoblin lair here in the Kharolis Mountains during an adventure several years afterward. I later returned to retrieve it, but it was al ready gone. The Tharkan Axe served me better than any

  I've had since." He ran his hands over the haft again, closing his eyes, remembering. "I thought it was gone forever…"

  "What a strange coincidence, finding it here," Perian mut tered, then shrugged. "Whoever took it from that lair before you returned probably ended up in the Beast Pit, and the gully dwarves just added it to their piles of treasure."

  She pressed her fingertips to the runes. "I've made out a few of the words here, but they are in old dwarven. Do you know what they say'?"

  Flint shook his head, slipping the Tharkan Axe into the loop on his belt. "What with adventuring, I never had the time to have them translated, nor really cared to while the axe worked so beautifully. And then I lost it."

  He realized suddenly that he had been so overwhelmed by the present that he'd forgotten to thank the gifter. Flint leaned back and observed her copper head, her peach-fuzzy cheeks, the warm smile on her red lips. He had come to de pend on her for so much… "I don't know how to thank you, Perian. This axe is the best present — two presents — "

  He laughed "- that I've ever received. You've given me hope for tomorrow."

  Perian blushed. "I'm just glad you like it, and that it was especially special." She turned away to pour two luke-warm cups of weed tea.

  "I have nothing to give you," Flint said sadly, then had a thought. "Wait!" He reached into his tunic and pulled a chain over his head from around his neck.

  "I do have something for you — it's not much," he said, embarrassed. He did not watch Perian's face as he turned his palm over and held his hand out.

  "A leaf!" she cried, setting the cups down on the bench.

  Perian took the delicate carving, linked to an old, silver chain, and held it in the tips of her fingers, inspecting it, touching it. The spade-shaped wooden leaf was dark stained on the bottom, and polished as smooth as silk. The top had been intricately carved away until the wood was white. Each leaf vein, big and small, had been etched with precision, creating a work of perfection.

  Perian looked up at Flint's ruddy face. "You carved this yourself, didn't youl"

  Flint shrugged and wrinkled his big nose. "It's not one of my better pieces — just something I did long ago that I kept for myself because it reminded me of the mountain forests near Hillhome."

  "I love it!" Perian said. "Help me?" she asked, holding the necklace up to him.

  With frigid, nervous fingers, Flint slipped the chain over her head and watched as she tucked it into her wrap, seeing it rise under the fabric between her breasts.

  Flustered, Flint looked away. "You know, the aspen leaf reminds me of you in a way. Aspen wood is strong, but softer than it looks. Each side of an aspen leaf is a different shade of the same color, like black is to gray, and when the
wind catches one, the silver side looks like a shimmering vein in a dwarven mine. It is the most beautiful tree in the

  Kharolis, and it is my favorite anywhere." Flint blushed, re alizing the implication of his words.

  The mountain dwarf simply stared at him, opened mouthed. She reached a hand toward him.

  "Listen, Perian," Flint said, his voice breaking. "I know what I said about a hill dwarf and a mountain dwarf never

  … you know — " Flint gestured vaguely with his hands. "I still believe that." He looked at her squarely, seeing the dis appointment in her eyes.

  "But neither one of us is much like our clan, and life is too short — " He gulped at the appropriateness of the phrase to night. "Life is too short to never take chances. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or even after tomorrow, but — "

  Perian tumbled into his arms and silenced him with two fingers pressed to his hairy lips. "I don't care about any time but now."

  His heart pounding in his ears, his vision spinning dizzily,

  Flint pushed Perian's wrap from her shoulders, and it slipped to the glowing moss. Pulling the beautiful mountain dwarf against his chest, he crushed her moist, parted lips in a kiss that was rooted in his soul.

  Chapter 20

  The Advance

  "Wake up to swords! Wake up to swords!"

  The tumbling mass of Aghar spilled into the royal bed chambers, crawling over and clawing at each other with dirty fingernails in their desperation to be the first to inform their king and queen of the news.

  "What's going on?" mumbled Flint, his arm encircling

  Perian on their mossy bed in the Thrown Room. It was the morning of the fifth day after Pitrick's attack. He and Perian had made their way back from the grotto to the comfort of the moss bed not long before Nomscul arrived. "Stop that!" the hill dwarf ordered, waking up finally.

  For a moment Nomscul ceased his bouncing on the edge of the bed nearest Flint, an act that was sending clumps of dried moss flying. "Mountain dwarves marching! Two of them! They go to war, take swords and stuff! Gully dwarves great spies! We see all and tell all right soon!"