PRELUDES II
    VOLUME TWO

       Flint
      - the-
       King
  Mary Kirchoff and
    Douglas Niles

VERSION 1.1 (Feb 16 00). If you find and correct errors in
the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and
redistribute.

 As always, this book is for
 Steve and Alex for their
 unlimited help, patience, and
 midnight snacks;
 And to Bruce Johnson and
 Peter Fritzell, teachers/
 mentors who knew when to
 encourage and when to
 laugh.
 - MK

 For Lou Niles,
 My mother and first fan.
                      - DN

 Prologue

    The hammer fell rhyththmically against the anvil, oven
 and  over, gradually  returning the  wheelrim to  its circular
 shape.  A  sheen  of  perspiration  glistened  on  the dwarven
 smith's skin when the fire rose, but then he fell into shadows
 as the blaze sank into the  coals. The  smithy around  him was
 empty, dark but for the forge fire.
 As the hill  dwarf's body  labored, so  did his  mind, franti-
 cally.  He  thought about  the secret  he had  learned, scarce
 minutes before. Again  and again  his hammer  fell on  the rim
 as  he  pushed himself  past the  point of  exhaustion. Sparks
 exploded  from each  contact, hissing  through the  air before
 settling to the earthen floor of the shed.
           Indecision tormented him. Should he remain silent?

 Should he speak out? The hammer continued pounding.
   Immersed in his task, the dwarf did not see the grotesque
 figure  moving  through   the  shadowy   doorway.  For   a  mo-
 ment  the  fire  flared,  outlining  a black,  misshapen figure
 shorter even than the dwarven smith.
   This dark  one shuffled  forward, and  again the  blaze rose,
 revealing a hump of flesh  that twisted  the stunted  body half
 sideways.  Still  the  smith  hammered,  eyes  focused  on  the
 wheel,  unaware  of  the  one  who  slowly  limped  toward  him
 from behind.
   The  hunchbacked  figure  raised  a  hand  to  his  chest and
 wrapped  his  blunt  fingers  around a  small object  that hung
 suspended from his neck by a chain.
   Blue  light  glowed  between  those  fingers  as  the  amulet
 sparked  to  life. His  other hand  gestured toward  the smith.
 Softly, the blue  light spread  outward, advancing  slowly like
 an oily, penetrating mist. It reached  forward in  uneven tend-
 rils, closer and closer to the smith.
   For the first time, the hammer faltered slightly in its blow.
 Reflexively, the dwarf raised it again,  ready to  strike. Sud-
 denly his face distorted  in a  grimace of  unimaginable agony,
 and  his  body  convulsed with  a violent  spasm. For  a moment
 his movement ceased, as if he had been frozen in a grip  of ex-
 cruciating pain.
   The  hammer  remained  poised  above him  as his  body stiff-
 ened,  wracked  within  the  blue glow  that outlined  him. The
 gentle, almost  beautiful cocoon  belied the  supernatural grip
 of  its  power.  Only  the  dwarf's  eyes moved,  growing wider
 and  more  desperate  with  the  slowly  increasing, inevitably
 fatal pressure of dark sorcery.
   Abruptly  the  light  vanished,  and  the  hunchback shuffled
 backward, melting into the darkness.
   The  dwarven  smith's  hammer  finally  slid from  his gloved
 hand with a loud clang to  the anvil.  Slowly, the  corpse top-
 pled forward,  the stocky  body splaying  across the  anvil and
 the nearly straightened wheel. It slipped silently to  the cold
 ground.

 Chapter 1

 Autumn Winds

      Watching dead leaves swirl into his windowss, Flint
 Fireforge  threw  back  his mug  and swallowed  the last  of his
 draught.  A  satisfied  belch  ruffled  his thick  mustache. For
 cheap ale, it wasn't half bad,  he concluded.  But it  was gone.
 He held the empty bottle - his  last -  up to  the light  of the
 fire.  The  dwarf  stroked  his  salt-and-pepper  beard  out  of
 habit. After considering  his empty  larder, Flint  decided that
 it was time to see if his ale order was in at the greengrocer's.
 He  was  going  to have  to leave  the comfort  of his  home and
 fire for only the third time in the month since his  friends had
 left the treetop village of Solace.
    The dwarf and his companions - Tanis  Half-Elven, Tas-
 slehoff Burrfoot, Caramon and Raistlin Majere, Kitiara

  Uth-Matar,  and  Sturm  Brightblade  -   had  parted   ways  to
  discover  what  they could  of the  rumors concerning  the true
  clerics, agreeing to meet  again in  exactly five  years. Flint
  had spent much of his time  in the  last few  years adventuring
  with his much younger friends or traveling to fairs to sell his
  metalsmithing   and   woodcarvings.   Truly  he   missed  them,
  now that they were gone. But the  truth of  the matter  was, at
  one  hundred  forty  years,  the  middle-aged  dwarf  was  just
  plain tired. So, being reclusive  by nature,  he had  stayed at
  home and done  little more  than eat,  drink, sleep,  stoke the
  fire, and whittle in the month since their departure.
    Flint's  stomach  rumbled. Patting  the noisy  complainer, he
  reluctantly  eased  his  bulk from  his overstuffed  chair near
  the  fire, brushing  wood shavings  from his  lap as  he stood.
  He  pulled his  woolly vest  closer and  looked about  his home
  for his leather boots.
    The  house  was  small  by  the  measure  of  the human-sized
  buildings up in the trees. But his home, built  in the  base of
  an  old,  hollowed-out  vallenwood,  was  quite large  by dwar-
  ven standards - opulent even, he reflected,  with not  a little
  pride.  Sure,  it  didn't  have  the  large nooks  and crannies
  found in the caves-turned-houses of  his native  foothills near
  the  Kharolis  Mountains,  nor   was  there   the  ever-present
  homey  scent  only  a  white-hot  forge  could produce.  But he
  had carved every inch of the inside of his tree into shelves or
  friezes depicting vivid and nostalgic scenes  from his  home- '
  land.  These  included  a  forging  contest, dwarven  miners at
  work,  and  the  simple  skyline of  his boyhood  village. Such
  carvings  were  not  easily  done  on  the  stone walls  of the
  homes of most hill dwarves.
    The  stroke  of  his  knife  over  a firm  piece of  wood was
  Flint's greatest joy, though the gruff  hill dwarf  would never
  have admitted such  a sentiment.  Idly, he  raised his  hand to
  one of the friezes, touching his fingers to the carved crest of
  a  jagged  ridge, following  the dips  and summits.  He dropped
  his hand to the  carvings of  the dark  pine forests  below the
  crest,  admiring  the  precise bladework  that had  marked each
  tree in individual relief on the wall.
     With a large, shuddering sigh, Flint took his heavy, well-

 worn  leather  boots  from  under  a  bench  by  the  door and
 jammed  them  onto  his thick  feet. There  was nothing  to be
 done about it - he'd put off this errand as long as he could.
   The  massive   vallenwood  front   door  creaked   as  Flint
 opened  it, causing  the shutters  on his  windows to  bang in
 the chill  breeze, their  hinges sagging  like an  old woman's
 stockings.  They  ought  to  be  repaired  -  there  were many
 such tasks to be done before the first snow fell.
   Flint's home was one of the few in  Solace at  ground level,
 since he was one  only of  a handful  of non-humans  living in
 the town, including  dwarves. While  the view  from up  in the
 trees was quite lovely, Flint had no interest  in living  in a
 drafty,   swaying   house.   Wooden   walkways   suspended  by
 strong  cords  attached  to high  branches were  the sidewalks
 of Solace. Probably they had  provided a  useful means  of de-
 fense against the bandit  armies that  had once  ranged across
 the  plains  of  Abanasinia  in  the  wake  of  the Cataclysm.
 Nowadays the trees  served as  an aesthetic  delight, Solace's
 trademark.  People  came  from  many  miles  away   simply  to
 gaze on the city of vallenwood.
   The  day was  cool but  not cold,  and warming  sunshine cut
 through the thick trees in slanted white lines.  The greengro-
 cer's shop rose above the very center of  the eastern  edge of
 the town square, a short distance away. Flint set out  for the
 nearest spiral stair leading to  the bridgewalks  overhead. By
 the time his short legs had pumped him to the top of  the cir-
 cling  thirty-foot  wooden ramp,  his brow  had broken  out in
 beads of sweat. Flint plucked at the furry  edges of  his vest
 and wished he hadn't dressed  so warmly;  he slipped  his arms
 from  it  and  draped the  leather and  wool garment  over one
 shoulder. He saw the grocer's, at the end of a long straighta-
 way.
   For the first time in quite a while, Flint truly noticed his
 surroundings. The village of Solace was  washed in  vivid fall
 colors. But unlike  the maples  or oaks  of other  areas, each
 large vallenwood leaf turned red, green, and gold  in perfect,
 alternating angled stripes of about an  inch wide.  So instead
 of seeing blazing clumps of solid color,  the landscape  was a
 multicolored jumble. The bright sunlight cast the leaves  in a

 shimmering  iridescence  that shifted  in shade  and intensity
 with each passing breeze.
   The  view from  the bridgewalk  allowed him  to see  quite a
 distance. He  looked down  at a  smithy, where  the blacksmith
 Theros Ironfeld  toiled at  shoeing the  lively stallion  of a
 robed human who was pacing with impatience.
   A  seeker, Flint  thought sullenly,  and his  mood darkened.
 It seemed  the seekers  were everywhere  these days.  The sect
 had arisen from the ashes of the  Cataclysm, which  was itself
 caused by the old gods in reaction to the pride  and misdirec-
 tion of the most influential religious leader at the time, the
 Kingpriest of Istar. This  group, calling  themselves seekers,
 loudly  proclaimed  that  the  old  gods had  abandoned Krynn.
 They  sought  new  gods,  and sometime  during the  three cen-
 turies since, the seekers  claimed to  have found  those gods.
 Many of the folk of  Abanasinia had  turned toward  the flick-
 ering promise of the seekers' religion.  Flint, and  many oth-
 ers of a more pragmatic nature, saw the seekers'  doctrine for
 the hollow bunk that it was.
   They  could  be  recognized  by   their  brown   and  golden
 robes,  these seeker  missionaries who  rode about  the plains
 collecting steel coins for their coffers. Most of them  at the
 missionary  level  were  the  young,  bored   malcontents  who
 grew up  in every  town. The  promise of  money and  power, if
 only  over  people  desperate  for a  sign that  gods existed,
 seemed to  lure these  spiritual bullies  like a  magnet. They
 were  molded   into  persuasive   salesmen  by   an  intensive
 "training" session in the seeker capitol of nearby  Haven, and
 they claimed to have converted thousands to their cause.
   The  seekers  were  as  close as  anything to  the governing
 body  of the  plains. A  body with  muscle, of  course: seeker
 followers were  equally divided  between the  zealous acolytes
 who  taught  the  words  and  ways  of the  new gods,  and the
 men-at-arms  who  garrisoned  the  towns  for  no  discernible
 purpose.
   Unfortunately,  groused  the  dwarf  to himself,  their con-
 cept of  governing seems  to involve  little more  than mooch-
 ing off the towns and  villages unlucky  enough to  host their
 temples and guardposts.

   Flint's  mood  dipped  even  farther  when  he noticed  a group
 of   seekers   hovering   around  the   doorway  to   Jessab  the
 Greengrocer's.  He  recognized  this  bunch  as  rude,  belliger-
 ent,  over-postulating  phonies  who couldn't  cure a  split fin-
 ger  any  more  than  they  could  speak  with   their  so-called
 gods.  In  one  of  the  few  times Flint  had ventured  from his
 home  in  the  last  month,  he  had come  upon a  villager chok-
 ing  on  a  bite  of  meat.  This  very  group had  been summoned
 to  help,  and  after  much  desperate  prodding from  the small,
 gathered  crowd,  the  leader  of  the  three,  a   pimply  young
 whelp,  had  sighed  and  gesticulated  uselessly above  his head
 as if casting  a clerical  spell. No  miracle appeared.  The vil-
 lager  had  gasped his  last before  the other  two could  try to
 help  him.  The  three  had  shrugged in  unison and  then headed
 into the nearest inn, unconcerned.
   Flint could feel his  face tighten  with anger  now as  he con-
 sidered  the  cluster  around  the  doorway.  Novices,  he noted,
 from  their  coarse  white  robes  edged  with  embroidered  hem-
 lock  vine  and the  all-too-familiar emblem  of a  lighted torch
 on the left breast.
   "Who are you staring at, little man?" one of them de-
 manded, his arms crossed insolently.
   Flint's eyes narrowed in irritation, but he let a shake  of his
 head  and  a  snort of  disgust suffice  to answer  the question.
 Tipping  his  head  slightly,  he  made  to  squeeze his  way be-
 tween them and into the greengrocer's.
   A  bony  finger  poked  him  in  the shoulder,  scarcely enough
 pressure  for  the dwarf  even to  notice. "I  asked you  a ques-
 tion, gully dwarf." The seeker's friends laughed at the insult.
   Flint stopped  but did  not raise  his eyes.  "And I  believe I
 gave you as much answer as your kind deserves."
   Egged  on  by  his  friends,  the  young  seeker   pressed  his
 point.  "You've  got  an  awfully  smart  mouth  for  an  outnum-
 bered old man,"  he growled,  stepping fully  in front  of Flint.
 He reached down to grab the dwarf's lapels.
   "Teach  him  a lesson,  Gar," a  crony purred  in anticipation.
 Flint's irritation turned to fury. He looked into the face of his
 antagonist.  What  he  saw  was   the  glee-and-fear   mixed  ex-
 pression  of  an animal  who was  closing on  an easy  victim. Or

 so the seeker thought.
   Flint  decided  that  the  fellow needed  a lesson  in humility
 and  manners.  Moving  like  lightning,  he  drove his  fist into
 the   boy's   belly.   Stunned,  the   youth  doubled   over  and
 clutched  at  his  stomach.  The dwarf's  stubby fingers  flew up
 to  pull  the  seeker's  droopy,  coarse hood  down over  his red
 face.  Flint  quickly  drew  the  strings  tight and  knotted the
 hood  shut,  until  only  the  boy's   pimply  nose   poked  out.
 Flailing his arms desperately, the seeker let  out a  screech and
 tumbled to the planks of the bridgewalk.
   Flint  was  dusting  off  his  hands  when  his  sharp  dwarven
 ears  picked  up  the  familiar  "whoosh"  of  blades  being  un-
 sheathed.   Whirling   around   with   stunning   quickness,  the
 stocky   dwarf  knocked   the  small   daggers  from   the  other
 seekers'  hands. The  metal weapons  glinted in  the sun  as they
 flew over opposite sides of the bridgewalk.
   "Daggers! Look  out below!"  Flint called  over the  railing in
 case  anyone  stood  beneath.   Looking  down,   he  saw   a  few
 villagers  scatter without  question, and  the blades  fall harm-
 lessly, point down, into the earth.
   When  Flint  looked up  again, he  saw the  backs of  the seek-
 ers as  they fled,  the two  toadies pulling  their still-hooded,
 stumbling leader after them.
   "Run   home  to   your  mothers,   you  young   whelps!"  Flint
 was  unable  to  resist  shouting. My,  but it's  a fine  day, he
 thought, looking  up into  the blue  sky before  stepping spirit-
 edly into the greengrocer's.
   Amos  Cartney,  a  human  of  some   fifty  years,   owned  and
 ran  Jessab  the Greengrocer's.  Flint could  not enter  the shop
 without  remembering  the  time  he,  Tanis,  and  Tasslehoff had
 stopped in  for some  snacks to  bring to  a night  of fellowship
 before Flint's hearth, shortly after Tasslehoff's arrival in Sol-
 ace, some years ago.
   "Hey,   Amos,   who   is   Jessab,   anyway?"   Tasslehoff  had
 blurted out of the  blue, plucking  at items  of interest  on the
 candy  counter.  "Must   be  someone   important,  for   you  to
 name  your  store  after  him.   I  mean,   your  name   is  Amos
 Cartney, not Jessab."
       Knowing the answer through local gossip, Flint had tried

 desperately  to clap  a hand  over the  kender's big  mouth. But
 the  quick-footed  imp  had  danced  away.  "Watch out,  Flint I
 You  nearly  suffocated  me,"  he had  scolded the  dwarf. "Your
 father,  maybe?"  he  pressed,  turning  back  to  the  suddenly
 pale shopkeeper. "Grandfather? Hmm?"
   "The man who owned the store before me," had been
 Amos's quiet reply.
   "That's it?" Tas squealed.
   "Mind your own business, kender!" Flint had growled
 low in his throat.
   But  Amos  waved  away  the dwarf's  concern. "No,  he stole
 my wife and left behind this shop. I  leave his  name up  to re-
 mind  me  how  fickle  women can  be, in  case I'm  ever tempted
 to trust one of them again."
   The  tender-hearted  kender's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears,
 and  he  came  to  Amos's  side  to  pat  the  human's shoulder,
 treasures  newly  "found"   in  the   shop  dropping   from  his
 pockets in his haste. "I'm so sorry... I didn't know...."
   A  slight,  stoic  smile  had creased  Amos Cartney's  face as
 he  gently  slipped  his  hand from  the anxious  kender's. "And
 you  know  what  else?  I  haven't been  tempted, all  these ten
 years."
   Flint  secretly  agreed  with  Amos's  evaluation  of  women -
 he'd  had  some  bad  experiences  of  his own  - and  from that
 time forward, the human and the dwarf were friends.
   Seeing  Flint  in  his  doorway  now,  the  greengrocer  wiped
 his hands  on his  apron and  waved the  dwarf inside,  a hearty
 grin on his face.
   "Didn't bring that  nosy kender  with you,  I see!"  He snick-
 ered,  continuing  to  wave  Flint forward.  "Hurry on  in. I've
 been  having  some  trouble  with  seekers  hanging  around  the
 doorway,  pestering  my  good  customers.  Can't  seem   to  get
 rid of 'em." Amos shook his balding head wearily.
   Flint patted his old  friend on  the back.  "Tas has  gone ex-
 ploring for five years. And I don't think those seekers  will be
 bothering anyone for a while, either."
   Catching the glint in the dwarf's eye, Amos's smile was
 grateful, but it still held a hint of weariness. "My thanks, but
 they   always   come   back.   Maybe   not  the   same  trouble-

 makers,  but every  day there  are more  seekers to  take their
 places." Amos  dug the  heels of  his palms  into his  eyes and
 rubbed.
   Flint's  good  mood  ebbed  as  he was  forced to  agree with
 the shopkeeper.  Solace was  not the  same friendly  village it
 had been before the seekers had  encroached on  it in  the last
 few years.
   "But   what   am  I   saying?"  Amos   forced  his   mood  to
 brighten.  "You  didn't  come  here  to  listen  to   my  woes.
 Where's your  list? I'll  rustle up  your goods."  Amos elbowed
 the dwarf  conspiratorially in  the ribs.  "Got that  bottle of
 malt rum you've  been waiting  for, too."  Taking the  scrap of
 parchment  Flint  held  up  in  his  hand,  Amos cackled  as he
 shuffled off to collect the dwarf's groceries.
   "Thanks, Amos,"  Flint called  softly, absently  scanning the
 shelves around him.
   He  saw  huge  clay  jars of  pickled cucumbers,  onions, and
 other vegetables. The  smell of  vinegar lingered  thick around
 here, and  Flint moved  away. The  dwarf passed  a row  of bar-
 rels,  containing  rye  and  wheat  and  oat  flours,  and then
 smaller bins with  sugar and  salt. Opposite  these was  a wall
 of  spices, and  he read  their odd  names with  amused curios-
 ity:  absynt,  bathis,  cloyiv, tumeric.  What made  people add
 such bizarre  things to  their food?  the dwarf  wondered. What
 was wrong with a plain, sizzling haunch of meat?
   Flint was looking at a tin of salted sea  snails, a  treat he
 hadn't  had  in  years, when  he heard  someone beside  him say
 in a gravelly voice, "So there  is another  hill dwarf  in this
 town! I  was beginning  to feel  like the  proverbial hobgoblin
 at  a  kender  Sunday  picnic,"  boomed the  stranger, clapping
 Flint on the back merrily. "Hanak's the name."
   Flint  took  a  small  step  sideways   and  looked   at  the
 speaker.  He  was  nearly  big  nose to  big nose  with another
 dwarf, all right. Wild, carrot-red hair  sprang from  the other
 dwarf's head like  tight metal  coils, and  between that  and a
 poker-straight  beard  and  mustache  were  eyes as  clear blue
 as the sky. Flint tried to judge his age: the lines on his face
 were not  too deep,  but he  was missing  his two  front teeth,
 though  whether  from aging  or fighting  Flint could  not say.

   The  strange  dwarf  wore  a  tight chain  mail shirt  and a
 well-worn cap of smooth  leather. His  high boots  were light,
 almost  like  moccasins,  but  showed  the  wear and  stain of
 much  travel.  Hanak  smacked  his lips  and rubbed  his hands
 together as he looked at the shelves of food.
   "You must be new to Solace," said Flint noncommitally.
   Hanak  shrugged.  "Just  passing  through,   actually;  I'm
 headed for Haven. I hail from the hills south  of here  a good
 ways, almost down  to the  plains of  Tarsis. Never  been this
 far north before," he admitted.
   Flint turned back to his  shopping but  then felt  the other
 dwarf's eyes on him.
   "You're from the south too, unless I miss my guess."
   "You  don't,"  Flint admitted,  facing the  stranger again.
 Hanak's inquisitive words made Flint uncomfortable.
   "Not  so far  south as  me, though  - east  hillcountry'd be
 my  guess," the  other hill  dwarf said,  tapping his  chin in
 thought,  squinting  at  Flint. "Perhaps  just north  of Thor-
 bardin?"
   "How  did  you  know?"  Flint  asked brusquely.  "I've never
 met   anyone   who   could   pinpoint   someone's   region  so
 closely!"
   "Well, now, it wasn't  too difficult,"  the dwarf  said, his
 tone implying anything but. "I travel  for my  living, selling
 leather work. I detected a slight accent and noticed the black
 in your hair  - nearly  every dwarf  in my  region has  red or
 brown;  And  that  long,  loose,  blue-green  tunic  and those
 baggy  leather  boots  -  you've  been  away from  dwarves for
 some time,  haven't you?  I haven't  seen anyone  wearing that
 style  in years,  you know.  Say, what  village are  you from,
 exactly?"
   Flint was a little put off by the  clothing comments  - he'd
 gotten  the  boots as  a gift  from his  mother a  few decades
 before - but he  decided the  dwarf meant  no offense.  "I was
 raised in a little place called Hillhome, smack  between Thor-
 bardin and Skullcap."
   "Hillhome! Why, I was there but twenty day ago. Was
 trading my boots and aprons. Not so little anymore,
 though. A  shame what's  happening there,  isn't it?"  he said

 sympathetically.  "Still,  you  can't  stop  progress,  now  can
 you?  Um,  um,  um,"  the  dwarf  muttered,  shaking   his  head
 sadly.
   "Progress?  In  Hillhome?"  Flint  snorted.  "What   did  they
 do, raise the hems on the frawl's dresses by half an inch?"
   "I'm  talking  about  the  mountain  dwarves!"  yelled  Hanak.
 "Marchin'  through  town,  drivin'  their  big  wagons  over the
 pass. They even stay at hill dwarf inns!"
   "That  pass  was  built  by  hill  dwarf  sweat,   hill  dwarf
 blood!" cried  Flint, appalled  at the  news. "They'd  never let
 the  mountain  dwarves use  it!" No,  never, Flint  repeated ve-
 hemently to himself.
   The  history of  the hill  and mountain  dwarves was  a bitter
 one,  at  least  during  the centuries  since the  Cataclysm. At
 that   time,   when   the   heavens   rained   destruction  upon
 Krynn,  the  mountain  dwarves  withdrew  into  their  great un-
 derground   kingdom   of  Thorbardin   and  sealed   the  gates,
 leaving their hill dwarf cousins to suffer the full force of the
 gods' punishment.
   The  hill  dwarves  had  named  the  act  the  Great Betrayal,
 and  Flint  was  only one  of the  multitudes who  had inherited
 this  legacy  of hatred  from his  forefathers. Indeed,  his fa-
 ther's father, Reghar Fireforge, had been a  leader of  the hill
 dwarf  armies  during  the  tragic,  divisive   Dwarfgate  Wars.
 Flint  could  not  believe  that the  dwarves of  Hillhome would
 avert their eyes to the undying blood feud.
   "I'm  afraid  they  are,"  replied  Hanak,  his  tone gentler.
 "Theiwar   dwarves  at   that,  the   derro  dwarves   of  Thor-
 bardin."
   "Derro?  It  can't be!"  growled Flint.  That was  even worse.
 Indeed,  the  derro  - the  race of  dwarves that  comprised the
 bulk  of the  Theiwar clan  - were  known to  be the  most mali-
 cious  of  mountain  dwarves.  Their  magic-using   shamans  had
 been the prime instigators of the Great Betrayal.
   The  other  dwarf backed  a step  away this  time and  held up
 his hands defensively. "I only know  what I  saw, friend,  and I
 saw   derro   strolling   merrily    among   the    dwarves   of
 Hillhome - and not a  one of  the hill  dwarves was  spitting on
 'em, either."

    "I can't believe that," Flint muttered, shaking his head. "I
  can't believe my brothers would allow it.  Our family  used to
  carry  some  weight  in  the  village.  Maybe  you  heard  our
  name - Fireforge? My brother's name is Aylmar Fireforge."
    A shadow crossed the other dwarf's  face fleetingly,  and he
  seemed almost to nod, then think better of it. "No, it doesn't
  ring a bell," he said, then quickly added,  "but I  didn't stay
  long enough to get to know anyone so very well."
       Flint ran a weary hand through his salt-and-pepper mop.
  Could Hanak be right about mountain dwarves infesting
  Hillhome?
    Flint felt a strong hand squeeze his  shoulder. "If  my kin-
  folk were dealing with devils, I'd go have  me a  look," Hanak
  said kindly.  "May Reorx  guide you."  With that,  he strolled
  out the door  of the  grocery, leaving  Flint to  his troubled
  thoughts.
    Amos   slammed   a   brown,   wrapped   bundle    onto   the
  counter before him. "Salt, a bag of apples, four eggs,  a slab
  of bacon, one  jar of  pickles, two  loaves of  day-old bread,
  four   pounds   of  the   richest  Nordmaarian   chicory  root
  known  to  man  - and  dwarves -"  He snickered  "- a  vial of
  tar to fix those creaky shutters before  winter sets,  and the
  long-awaited malt rum," he finished with satisfaction.
    Flint reached into the pocket of the vest over  his shoulder
  and said distractedly, "You can leave the tar. I won't be here
  to see winter reach Solace."
    Noting the dark tone in  the dwarf's  voice, Amos  looked at
  his friend with concern, but he knew better than to  ask ques-
  tions.  The shopkeeper  had never  seen Flint  so preoccupied,
  even  when  those  young,  troublemaking  friends of  his were
  in town. He  took the  money for  Flint's purchases  and word-
  lessly nodded good-bye.

                       Chapter 2

                  The Trail Home

       Darken Wood. The place certainly earns its name,
 thought Flint. Tall pines, their needles a green that was al-
 most  black,  towered  over  the  forest floor-.  Huge, musty
 oaks, draped  with thick  vines and  feathery moss,  and even
 an occasional looming  vallenwood trunk  that rose  to disap-
 pear  among  the  foliage,  prevented  a single  sunbeam from
 reaching the ground.
 The forest was not huge, but Flint knew  that it  sheltered a
 number  of dangerous  denizens. Some  years earlier,  a small
 party of mercenaries  had entered  Solace bearing  an unusual
 trophy - the head of a troll slain in  these woods.  Bands of
 hobgoblins and worse  reputedly still  dwelled among  the an-
 cient trunks of Darken Wood.

   The feeling of potential danger brought  Flint a  keen sense
 of  awareness  even  as  his mind  wandered. The  narrow trail
 twisted  among  the  tree  trunks,  enveloped  by   ferns  and
 great,  moist  growths  of  mushrooms  and  other  fungus. The
 scent  of  warm  earth,  heavy  with  decay,  overwhelmed  the
 dwarf with a thick, cloying presence.
   Flint did not find  the odor  unpleasant. Indeed,  after his
 long  residence  among  humans,  not  to mention  the constant
 presence  of kender,  elves, and  other races,  this dominance
 of nature refreshed his spirit and  lightened his  step. There
 was something joyful in this solitude, in this pastoral adven-
 ture, that brought a forgotten delight to Flint's soul.
   For  many  hours  he  made  slow  progress,  not   from  any
 sense of  exhaustion, but  instead because  of the  great ease
 within  him. His  hand stroked  the smooth,  worn haft  of his
 axe. Absently, his ears and eyes probed the woods,  alert, al-
 most hoping for a sign of trouble.
   The trail forked and he  paused, stark  still for  a moment,
 listening, thinking. He sensed the earth, the twists and turns
 in  the surrounding  land -  as only  dwarves could  - through
 his  thick-soled  boots.  Soon  he learned  what he  needed to
 know, and he chose a direction.
   Toward  the south  for a  while. Flint  followed no  map and
 needed no compass to maintain  the route  he had  selected. It
 would lead him the  length of  the woods,  and avoid  both the
 lands of the Qualinesti elves  to the  south, and  the seeker-
 ruled city of Haven to the northwest.
   The  seekers,  he  thought  with a  mental grimace,  I would
 walk  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid.   Those  pesky
 "prophets"  had  made  life in  Solace unpleasant  enough. But
 in Haven - the city that was their capitol  and the  center of
 their arrogant worship  - their  presence was  sure to  be un-
 bearable.
   The region of  Qualinesti was  different, though.  Flint had
 actually entertained thoughts of going  there, into  that nest
 of elves, to see his old - and unlikely - friend,  the Speaker
 of the Suns.  Flint remembered  fondly the  time he  had spent
 in Qualinost  some years  back. He  was still  one of  the few
 dwarves   who   had   ever  been   invited  into   that  elven

 kingdom  -  and  by  the speaker  himself! A  visiting dignitary
 had acquired a silver and  agate bracelet  at a  territory fair,
 which  he  then gave  to the  elven leader.  The Speaker  of the
 Suns  had  been  so  impressed  by  the  metalsmith's craftsman-
 ship  that  he  had  tracked  down  the  smith,  who   was  none
 other than Flint Fireforge  of Solace,  and extended  an invita-
 tion  for  the  dwarf  to  demonstrate his  craft in  the marble
 elven city.
   It was during that first trip to Qualinost that Flint  had met
 Tanis  Half-Elven,  the  Speaker  of   the  Sun's   ward.  Young
 Tanis  had  stood  for  hours  watching  the  dwarf's demonstra-
 tions in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint under-
 stood  the  boy,  who  seemed  unhappy  because  of   his  mixed
 heritage,  and  the  two  spent  many  pleasant  hours  together
 whenever the business of selling his  crafts brought  Flint near
 Qualinesti.
   The  dwarf  was  tempted now  to find  the half-elf.  On their
 last  night  together at  the Inn  of the  Last Home,  Tanis had
 said he  was going  to go  on a  quest that  would bring  him to
 terms  with  his heritage  at last.  Flint presumed  Tanis meant
 he was going back to  face the  full-blooded elven  relatives of
 his  in  the  city of  Qualinost who  had never  really accepted
 the  half-elf.  The  dwarf  was  somewhat  concerned  about  his
 friend,  but  he  had  shrugged off  any misgivings.  After all,
 the  companions  had  agreed  to  separate  for five  years, and
 Flint would be damned if he'd be  the one  to break  that agree-
 ment.
   So  he  would  give  Qualinost  a  wide  berth and  follow the
 forest paths  instead. He  knew that  if he  kept a  steady pace
 he would pass from the wood around nightfall.
   Flint  began  to  wonder  now,  in the  quiet of  Darken Wood,
 if  he hadn't  been fanciful,  believing even  half of  what the
 dwarf  back  at  Jessab's  had  said.  Mountain  dwarves  - much
 less  the  replusive  derro  -  in   Hillhome!  Yet   why  would
 Hanak  have  invented  such  a tale?  Flint pushed  the question
 away  for  the  time  being.  The  answer  would  be  made clear
 soon enough.
   He  had  been  getting  lazy  in  Solace -  and bored,  if the
 truth  be  known  -  without  his young  friends around.  He had

 been at rest too long. Unconsciously he hefted his axe.
   Flint  found  himself  thinking  about  Aylmar  and wonder-
 ing how long it had been since he had seen his  older brother.
 Oh,  fifteen,  maybe twenty  years, he  decided with  a frown,
 Then  a smile  dotted his  face as  he recalled  the escapades
 they had had together, the  nick-of-time victories,  the grand
 treasures.
   In  particular  he  remembered  the  grandest   treasure  of
 them  all  -  the Tharkan  Axe. His  older brother  Aylmar and
 he had stumbled upon the axe on one of his  earliest treasure-
 hunting forays into the foothills  of the  Kharolis Mountains,
 near  Pax Tharkas,  to be  exact, which  was why  the brothers
 had  so named  it. Typical  dwarven greed  had driven  the two
 Fireforge brothers into  the deepest  recesses of  a hobgoblin
 lair that was rumored  to be  filled with  riches. Dispatching
 more than fifteen of  the hairy-hided,  six-foot monstrosities
 with blows to their  red-skinned heads,  Flint and  Aylmar had
 made their way through the last  of five  interconnected caves
 to  the  hobgoblins'  treasure  chamber.  There, atop  a four-
 foot-high pile of coins and glittering gems, the beautiful axe
 gleamed like a beacon. Aylmar had snatched  it up  first while
 Flint stuffed his pockets and pouches with other  riches, then
 the  two  had  run from  the lair  before any  more hobgoblins
 appeared.
   Many  years  later  Aylmar,  his  heart already  showing the
 weakness  that would  soon force  him to  retire from  the ad-
 venturing  life,  presented  the  weapon   to  Flint   on  his
 Fullbeard  Day  -   the  dwarven   coming-of-age  celebration.
 Smirking, and using the teasing tone that he knew  got Flint's
 dander  up,  Aylmar  had  said,  "Considering the  girlish way
 you  fight,  boy, you  need this  a lot  more'n me!"  That had
 been more than forty years ago.
   The  dwarf  remembered,  with  a  touch  of  gruff sentimen-
 tality,  the  times  he had  wielded that  Tharkan Axe  on his
 travels. The magnificent  weapon had  gleamed, cutting  a sil-
 ver are around  Flint in  battle. For  several good  years the
 weapon  had  served  him. It  served to  remind him  of Aylmar
 as well.
        His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds

  where  he  had  lost  the  axe  while  on  yet  another  treasure
  hunt.  Amid  heaps  of  coins,  a  scattering  of  gems,  and the
  bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains,  a figure  of cold,
  sucking  blackness  had  lurked.  A  wraith  of  death,   it  had
  seized Flint's soul with its  terrible grip.  A deadly  chill had
  settled in his bones, and he  had staggered  to his  knees, hope-
  less to resist.
    The   Tharkan  Axe   had  flashed,   then,  with   a  white-hot
  light  that  drove  the  wraith  backward  and  gave   Flint  the
  strength  to  stand.  With  a  mighty heave,  the dwarf  had bur-
  ied  the  weapon in  the shapeless  yet substantial  creature be-
  fore him.
    The  wraith  had  twisted  away, tearing  the axe  from Flint's
  grip.  In  terror,  the dwarf  had fled  from the  barrow, empty-
  handed.  Later  he  returned,  but  there  had  been  no  sign of
  treasure, wraith, or axe.
    Flint  looked  forward  the  most to  seeing his  older brother
  again.  Aylmar  would  be  disappointed,  though,  to  learn that
  his  younger  brother  had  lost the  Tharkan Axe.  Flint glanced
  with  barely  concealed  scorn at  the inferior,  worn battle-axe
  now  resting  in  his  hands.  The  weapon  bore  only  the  most
  superficial  resemblance   to  the   great  Tharkan   Axe.  Where
  that  enchanted  blade  had  shone  with  the  glow   of  perfect
  steel,  its  edge  ever  sharp,  his  current  weapon  showed the
  pocks  of  corrosion.  The  wooden  handle  was  thin  and  worn,
  long overdue for replacement.
    Yes, it would feel good to see the rest of his family, as well,
  Flint  had  to  admit.  Aylmar  had  been  patriarch of  the clan
  since  Flint  was  a  youth, when  their father  had died  of the
  Fireforge  hereditary  heart  condition,  leaving  behind  a wife
  and  fourteen  children.  Flint's  work-worn  mother  had  passed
  on  some  twenty-odd  years ago,  which was  the last  time Flint
  had been to Hillhome, for the funeral.
    Aylmar  had  a  wife,  Flint  knew, though  he could  never re-
  member  her  name.  And  at  least one  son, young  Basalt. Flint
  remembered  his  nephew  quite  clearly.   Basalt  had   been  an
  enthusiastic  youngster,  somewhat  of  a  hellion.   Aylmar  had
  grown  dour  with  age  and   responsibilities,  and   he  disap-
  proved  of his  son's prolific  time in  the alehouse  and gaming

 hall.  As  a  consequence,  Basalt had  adopted Flint  as his
 mentor.
   Flint  flashed  on  a collage  of faces  and names,  his own
 younger  brothers  and  sisters  - harrns  and frawls,  as the
 dwarven  sexes  were  noted.  There  was   Ruberik,  Bernhard,
 Thaxtil  -  or  was  that  Tybalt?  Quiet, demure  Glynnis and
 brash Fidelia emerged from the  faces of  his sisters.  He had
 left home  before the  seven youngest  siblings had  been much
 more  than babes,  and he  had forgotten  most of  their names
 since his last visit.
   It was not unusual for dwarves to loose track of their rela-
 tives,  but  Flint  wondered  now  if  perhaps he  should have
 paid more attention to the  younger children  - they  had been
 a good bunch,  always eager  to fetch  things for  their older
 brother, willing to give up the extra pastry  or bite  of meat
 for the brawny Flint. And there  had never  been that  much to
 go around.
   With a start, Flint realized that if he  did not  hurry now,
 the  sun  would  set  before  he  came to  the edge  of Darken
 Wood. He stepped up the pace.  Even so,  it was  already early
 evening on his first day out of Solace when Flint at last came
 upon the White-rage  River. Flint  crossed the  rushing stream
 on a high suspension bridge that reminded  him of  the village
 in  the  vallenwoods,  and made  camp on  the eastern  bank in
 the shelter of two red maples.  The next  day he  followed the
 bank  of  the  White-rage  until   he  reached   the  Southway
 Road.
   For  a  little  more  than one  joyously uneventful  week of
 nearly   perfect   blue   skies,   Flint  advanced   down  the
 Southway   Road,   which   formed   the  eastern   fringes  of
 Qualinesti,  avoiding the  rare habitations  of the  elves. On
 the  morning  of  the eighth  day he  left the  Southway Road,
 since it continued southwest  to the  ancient fortress  of Pax
 Tharkas, and Hillhome lay to the southeast.
   He blazed his own trail through  the hillcountry,  the thick
 forests and foothills east of that  settlement. Here  the vast
 slopes of  dark fir  trees surrounded  barren chunks  of sharp
 granite. A land of steep gorges and winding valleys, the hills
 did not achieve the height of true  mountains, but  their cha-

 otic  nature  made  the trail  as rugged  as any  snowswept al-
 pine ridge.
   This  was  hill  dwarf  country,  Flint's  homeland,  and the
 rough  ground  was  like  a  smooth  path  under  his  feet. He
 spent the ninth night, a rainy one, in  an isolated,  warm, and
 nearly  empty  dwarven  inn  in  the Hills  of Blood,  where he
 rinsed the dusty trail from his body  and whetted  his appetite
 for his impending reunion with his dwarven clan.
   His   mind   lingered   less  on   the  rumors   of  mountain
 dwarves  in  Hillhome  and  more  on  memories of  the village:
 the cozy stone houses lining the broad  main street;  the sheep
 and goats in  the surrounding  sloping fields;  Delwar's forge,
 where Flint had first seen the shaping of metal by fire. He re-
 called the sense of safety and security  that always  seemed to
 linger like  smoke around  the kitchen  hearth of  his mother's
 home.  And the  scent of  the thick-crusted,  fresh-baked rolls
 he  and  his  father  would  purchase  each morning  from Frawl
 Quartzen's  bakery  after  the  cows  had  been   tended.  They
 were good memories....
   Late in the cold afternoon of the eleventh day,  Flint's trip
 was  lengthened  by  a  detour  around  the Plains  of Dergoth.
 Prior to  the Cataclysm  nearly three  hundred fifty  years be-
 fore, the  plains held  many water  holes. When  the Kingpriest
 of  Istar  brought  the  anger  of  the  gods down  upon Krynn,
 the face of the world was changed,  and the  land south  of Pax
 Tharkas  turned  to  desert.  One  hundred years  later, during
 the  Dwarfgate  Wars  -  which  were  an  attempt  by  the hill
 dwarves  and  their  human  allies  to retake  Thorbardin after
 the  Great  Betrayal  -  the  magical  fortress of  Zhaman col-
 lapsed  in the  Plains under  a powerful  spell and  formed the
 hideous  skull-shaped  mound   known  afterward   as  Skullcap.
 That  same  explosion  tore  apart the  Plains of  Dergoth once
 again, and marshes crept over the surrounding land.
   Flint  had  no  interest  in  wading  through  a swamp  - his
 fear of water  was legendary  among his  friends in  Solace. So
 it was  that he  chose to  climb through  the low  mountains to
 the northeast of  the narrow  pass that  cut through  the peaks
 to Hillhome. Flint took his time in finding a clearing  just to
 the east of the pass and off the  Passroad, then  in collecting

  and igniting the right logs for a hot, long-lasting fire, and fi-
  nally  in  sizzling  the last  of the  fat slab  of bacon  he had
  brought  with  him from  Solace. As  darkness settled,  Flint re-
  laxed. I'll miss this solitude, he thought, sighing.
    He  looked  at  the  Passroad,  just a  little below  his camp.
  Deep  ruts  ran  along  its length.  Whereas in  the past  it had
  borne only  the traffic  of.sheep- and  goat-herders, or  the oc-
  casional  farmer's  cart,  now  the  road  was  wide   and  well-
  worn.
    Flint recalled  the building  of the  Passroad from  his child-
  hood,  though  he  had  been  too  young to  help with  the work.
  The  hill  dwarves  had  labored  for  several  years  to  smooth
  out  the  grades,  lay  a  stone   foundation  over   the  swampy
  stretches,  and  create  a  route  that  could,  someday, connect
  Hillhome to the not-so-distant shore of the Newsea.
    The  immediate  purpose  of  the  road  had  been  to  open  up
  the  valley  adjacent  to  Hillhome  to  hill  dwarf settlements,
  and this had occurred to a limited extent. Still,  in retrospect,
  the  road  had  not  been  very  profitable, considering  all the
  work.
       Suddenly Flint's thick body tensed like a mandolin string.
    He was not alone.
    The  dwarf's  first  warning  was a  vague perception,  not re-
  ally  sight  but  more  sound,  of  something   approaching  from
  the  southwest.  Wooden  wheels   crunched  over   gravel.  Flint
  turned  from  the low  fire to  the pass,  and his  infravision -
  the  natural,  temperature-sensing  ability  of dwarves  that al-
  lowed  them  to  see  objects  in  the  dark  by  the  heat  they
  radiate - quickly adjusted.
    A  heavy,  broad-wheeled  wagon,  looking  more  like   a  huge
  rectangular  box,  rattled up  the rutted  Passroad from  the di-
  rection   of   Hillhome.   Who   would   be   driving   a   wagon
  through the pass in the dark of night?
    Flint  stepped  from his  fire to  the edge  of the  road. Hun-
  kered  over  intently  on  the  buckboard,  the driver  snapped a
  whip  over  the  heads  of  the four-horse  team that  was labor-
  ing  to  pull the  wagon up  the steep  incline toward  the pass.
  The  steeds  snorted  and  strained,  pulling  an  obviously heavy
  load.  Flint  could  not  determine whether  the small  figure of

 the  driver  was  dwarven,  human,  or  something  worse.  Now
 he  could  see  two  more forms  standing several  feet behind
 the buckboard  in a  guarding stance,  holding onto  the sides
 of  the  lurching  wagon.  As they  drew closer,  Flint caught
 sight of three sets of unnaturally large eyes.
   Derro  dwarves.  That  explained  why  they were  willing to
 drive through the mountains at night, Flint realized.
   Derro  were  a  degenerate  race of  dwarves who  lived pri-
 marily  underground.  They  hated  light  and   suffered  from
 nausea  when in  the sun,  though they  were known  to venture
 from  their   subterranean  homes   at  night.   While  normal
 dwarves  looked  much  like  humans, only  differently propor-
 tioned,  derro  dwarves  tended  toward  the  grotesque. Their
 hair was pale tan or yellow, their skin very white with a blu-
 ish  undertone,  and  their  large  eyes were  almost entirely
 pupil.
   And  they  were reputedly  so evil  and malicious  that they
 made hobgoblins seem like good neighbors.
   Flint thought about  dashing behind  an outcropping,  but it
 was already too late to hide:  he had  been spotted  along the
 roadside.  He  was  more  than  curious,  anyway,  remembering
 Hanak's  sighting  of  derro  mountain  dwarves  in  Hillhome.
 The driver's hideous eyes bore into  Flint's from  about fifty
 feet away, and the  derro stopped  the wagon  at the  crest of
 the pass with a violent tug on the reins.
   "What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time of  night, hill
 dwarf?"  The  driver's voice  was raspy,  and though  he spoke
 Common,  the  words  came to  him slowly,  as if  the language
 were  not  totally  familiar. The  derro on  the sides  of the
 wagon  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  one circled  around the
 horses to  stand protectively  below the  driver still  on the
 buckboard.  Each  held a  shiny steel-bladed  battle-axe casu-
 ally in his hands.
   "Since  when do  derro claim  rights over  Hillhome's pass?"
 Flint was not the least bit frightened.  He watched  the armed
 guards,  whose  eyes  were  focused  on  the axe  hanging from
 Flint's belt. The two derro wore  dark metal  breastplates and
 heavy  leather  gauntlets.  They  carried themselves  with the
 cocksure  attitude of  veteran warriors.  The driver,  who was

 unarmed and unarmored, held the reins and watched.
  "You hill dwarves know the agreement," the driver
 growled deep in his  throat. "Now  get back  to the  village be-
 fore  we are  forced to  report you  as a  spy... or  worse," he
 added.  The  guards  took  a step  toward Flint,  gripping their
 weapons with purpose.
  "Spy!"  sputtered  Flint,  almost  amused,  and  yet  his  hand
 moved  to  his axe.  "Great Reorx,  why would  I be  doing that?
 Speak up, dwarf!"
  The  horses  pranced  impatiently  on  the  Passroad,  snorting
 misty breath into the chilly night air. The driver  stilled them
 with a jerk on the reins, then clenched his fists at Flint. "I'm
 warning  you  -  get  out of  the way  and go  back to  the vil-
 lage," the driver hissed.
  Flint  knew  he  would  get  no  answers  from these  derro. He
 forced  his  voice to  remain level.  "You've already  caused me
 to  burn  my  bacon  with  your  nonsensical questions,  so pass
 if you must and I'll return to my charred dinner."
  Flint  saw  the  two  armed  derro  separate  as   they  neared
 him. Each held  his battle-axe  at the  ready, and  Flint looked
 at  the  weapons  with  momentary  envy,  thinking  of  his own,
 trail-worn blade.
  With  growing  annoyance,  Flint  hefted  his  axe.   His  body
 tingled  with  energy,  anticipating battle.  Though he  did not
 seek  a  fight  with  these  mountain   dwarves,  he   would  be
 cursed  by  Reorx  before  he'd  back  down from  his hereditary
 enemies.
  "Can  you  prove  you're  not  a  spy?"  asked   one,  taunting.
  Flint stepped to the side,  away from  the fire.  "I could  if I
 thought enough of such wide-eyed derro scum to be both-
 ered with it," he snapped, his patience gone.
  The nearest  derro flung  himself at  Flint, his  axe whistling
 through  the  air.  The hill  dwarf darted  backward in  time to
 also  avoid  the  second  derro,  who  charged  in low.  The two
 mountain dwarves' axes met with a sharp clang of steel.
  A  sublime  sense  of  heightened  awareness   possessed  Flint
 as he turned to parry a blow from his first attacker,  then sent
 the  second derro  reeling back  with a  series of  sharp blows.
 Hacking  viciously,  he  knocked  the  fellow's  weapon  to  the

 ground just as the other one leaped back toward him.
   Whirling  away,  Flint  raised his  own axe  in a  sharp parry.
 The two blades  clashed together,  but the  hill dwarf  stared in
 dismay  as  the haft  of his  axe cracked,  carrying the  head to
 the  ground.  Suddenly  Flint was  holding only  the haft  of his
 battle-axe. He stood there, defenseless, as if naked.
   The second  guard's pale,  blue-tinged face  split into  a gro-
 tesque grin at Flint's predicament. A sinister light  entered his
 eyes as he raised his axe, ready to crush the hill dwarf's skull.
   Flint moved with all the  quickness his  years of  battle expe-
 rience  could  muster.  He  thrust  the  axe handle  forward, us-
 ing  it  to  stab  like  a  sword.  The  splintered ends  of wood
 struck  the  derro's  nose, and  the Theiwar  dwarf cried  out in
 agony, blinking away blood.
   Flint  struck  again,  smashing  the  wooden  stick   over  the
 derro's  knuckles,  which  gripped  his  axe.  Crying  out again,
 the  guard  dropped  his  weapon,  stumbling  blindly   from  his
 bloody  nose  and  eyes. Flint  quickly snatched  the axe  up and
 swung   menacingly   at   the   suddenly  retreating   derro.  He
 turned  on  the  one  who  was  sprawled  on  the  ground, urging
 him along as well.
   The  two  disarmed  Theiwar  sprang  onto  the  wagon   as  the
 driver  lashed  the  horses.  Whinnying  with  fear  and snorting
 white clouds of  breath into  the night  air, the  massive beasts
 struggled  to  get  the  heavy  wagon   rolling.  In   moments  it
 lurched  through the  pass and  started on  the downhill  trek to
 the  east  and  Newsea.  As  they  rumbled  away, the  hill dwarf
 got a good  look at  their pale,  wide eyes  staring back  at him
 around the side of the wagon,  their glares  full of  hatred, and
 not a little fear.
   Thoroughly   disgusted   with   the   needless   fight,   Flint
 stomped  back  to his  fire and  snatched the  pan of  burned ba-
 con,   tossing  the   blackened  remains   into  the   scrub.  No
 longer  hungry,  he  sat  with his  back to  the flames  and pon-
 dered the strange encounter.
   His  mind  was  a  jumble  of burning  questions. What  sort of
 "agreement"  with  these  evil  dwarves  could  have  caused  the
 hill dwarves  to forget  centuries of  hatred and  forced poverty
 because  of  the  Great  Betrayal?  And what  did the  derro have

 to hide that they were concerned about spies?
   Thorbardin,  ancient  home  of  the  mountain  dwarves,  lay
 some   twenty   miles  to   the  southwest,   past  Stonehammer
 Lake.  Flint  knew  that  the  derro  belonged to  the Theiwar,
 one  of  five  clans  in  the  politically  divided underground
 dwarven  city.  Mountain  dwarves  as  a  whole   were  notori-
 ously  clannish,  concerned  only with  their mining  and their
 metalcraft. So of all the clans,  why would  the derro  come to
 the surface, since they were ones the most sensitive to light?
   Flint examined the axe his attacker had  left behind.  It was
 a weapon  of exceptional  workmanship, hard  steel with  a sil-
 ver  shine  and  a  razor-honed  edge.  He  would  have guessed
 the  axe to  be of  dwarven origin,  except that  the customary
 engraving  that   marked  every   dwarven  blade   was  missing
 from the steel.
   Flint  shivered,  whether  from  cold  or   apprehension,  he
 could not be sure. Still, it reminded him the fire needed stok-
 ing. Tossing two small logs onto the coals, he stared  into the
 flames until the  fire's mesmerizing  effects made  his eyelids
 heavy.
   These  mysteries  he  would  take  to  sleep,  unresolved. He
 moved  away from  the fire  to where  he could  keep an  eye on
 the  camp  yet  remain  concealed.  But  nothing  disturbed him
 again that night. -

 * * * * *

   Flint awoke at first light  and at  once headed  east through
 the  pass  toward  Hillhome.  He stayed  with the  rutted, mud-
 slick road until he came to the last low ridge before  the vil-
 lage, just a quarter-mile away. There he stopped to  relish the
 view.
   He  had  made  the  journey  in  less than  two weeks,  a re-
 freshing  enough adventure  until the  derro skirmish  the pre-
 vious  night.  But  now he  felt a  peculiar emotion  choke his
 heart as he looked  down at  the winding,  paved road,  the ex-
 panse of  stone buildings,  the blockhouse  that was  the forge
 in the village of his youth.
     The rugged valley stretched east to the pass and west to
       Stonehammer Lake, broadening into a grassy vale around

 Hillhome. Several side canyons twisted back  into the  hills to
 the north and south.
   Flint's  warm  feeling  chilled  somewhat  when  he  realized
 that a low haze hung  in the  valley where  before the  air had
 been  impeccably  clear.  Of  course, there  had always  been a
 little smoke from the town forge....
   The town forge! Flint realized the barn  beside it  was three
 times or more the size it had been twenty  years ago.  A great,
 muddy  yard  surrounded  it,  containing  several  parked  wag-
 ons. The wagons, Flint realized with a jolt, were just like the
 one he had encountered the previous night at the pass.
   And  where  once  a  single  stack had  emitted the  smoke of
 the  small  forge,  now  four  squat  chimneys   belched  black
 clouds into the  sky. The  town itself  seemed to  have doubled
 in  proportion, stretching  farther to  the west  toward Stone-
 hammer  Lake.  Indeed,  the  sleepy  village of  Flint's memory
 now  bustled with  a size  and energy  the dwarf  found unnerv-
 ing.  Main  Street,  which  once  had  been  paved  with sturdy
 stone, was now  practically churned  to mud  by the  traffic of
 crowds and vehicles.
   Flint  anxiously  made  his  way down  the Passroad  until it
 became Main Street. He slowed  his steps  to search  for famil-
 iar faces - familiar anything! - but he  recognized not  a one,
 nor did  any of  the busy  dwarves look  up from  their hurried
 pace. He paused to get his bearings.
   For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  he  had  come to  the right
 place. Up close,  Hillhome looked  even less  like the  town in
 his  memory  than  it  had  from  the  ridge.  The  same  large
 buildings  -  the  mayor's  mansion,  the  trading   barn,  the
 brewery -  still dominated  the central  area. But  around them
 clustered a mass of  lesser structures,  tightly packed,  as if
 each was trying to shoulder the other aside.
   Most  of  these  newer  buildings  were  made  of  wood,  and
 many  showed  signs  of  uncharacteristically  hasty  construc-
 tion  and  shoddy  workmanship.  The  town  square was  still a
 wide  open  space,  but where  it had  once been  a tree-shaded
 park, now it was a brown and barren place.
   Flint's  eyes  came to  rest on  Moldoon's Tavern  across the
 street. A happy sight at last!  A young  frawl was  standing at

 the back of an ale wagon parked out front, hefting  two half-
 kegs onto her  shoulders. She  struggled her  way up  the two
 wooden steps and into  the inn,  the door  of which  was held
 open by a large, middle-aged dwarf.
   Flint  well  remembered  the  rugged  human,  Moldoon,  who
 had opened  his inn  in quiet  Hillhome. The  man had  been a
 hard-drinking  mercenary  who had  retired from  fighting and
 carousing.  His  small  alehouse  had  become  a  comfortable
 club  for  many  adult dwarves,  including Flint  and Aylmar.
 Flint wondered if the human were still about.
   With a sense of relief he started toward the familiar door-
 way.  He  made  his  way around  the ruts  in the  street and
 shouldered  his  way  through the  thick crowd  in Moldoon's.
 The hill dwarf's eyes rapidly adjusted  to the  darkness, and
 he saw with relief that the  place had  not changed  all that
 much.
   When  designing  his  saloon,  Moldoon  had  realized  that
 most of his patrons would be  short-statured dwarves,  yet he
 wanted a place that was comfortable for  himself as  well. He
 neither  made  it  human-sized  (though  other  people  would
 have  gotten  sport  out of  watching dwarves  scrabbling for
 doorknobs and  seats), nor  did he  make it  dwarf-sized (he,
 himself, would look silly on a too-small chair). What  he did
 do was make all tables and chairs adjustable with just a turn
 of the top; all doors had two knobs on each side. The bar it-
 self had two levels: the right side to the patrons was dwarf-
 height, and the left was human-height.  The ceiling  was high
 enough to accommodate all.
   Right  now,  a  haze of  greasy smoke  hung just  below the
 stained ceiling beams. The spattering of the grill  - Moldoon
 always seemed to get the most  succulent cuts  of meat  - and
 the  familiar  low  rumble of  conversation sounded  like the
 same talk in any tavern in Ansalon.
   Flint saw an old man behind the lower  section of  the bar.
 White bearded, with an equally full,  platinum mane  of hair,
 he stooped slightly with age, but revealed  a frame  that had
 once been broad and lanky.
   "Moldoon?" Flint asked in disbelief,  his face  alight with
 expectation. The dwarf stepped over to the  bar and  spun the

 nearest stool top to his level.
  Recognition dawning, the man's face broke into a
 crooked  grin.  "Flint Fireforge,  as I  live and  breath!" With
 amazing  alacrity  the  man  vaulted  the  bar  and  gathered up
 the stout dwarf in an awkward bear hug.
  "How long have you been in town, you old scut?" he
 asked, shaking the dwarf by the shoulders.
  "First  stop."  Flint  grinned  broadly, his  whiskers tickling
 his  nose.  The  human  seized  Flint up  again, and  after much
 back-thumping   and   hand-pumping,   he   grabbed   a   pitcher
 and  personally  overfilled a  mug for  the dwarf,  scraping the
 foam away with a knife.
  "It's good to see you again, old friend," said Flint sincerely,
 raising  his  mug and  taking a  long pull.  He wiped  his foamy
 mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and  said  happily, "None
 better!"
  "Not Flint Fireforge!"
  Flint heard a frawl's voice coming from around Mol-
 doon's  right  arm.  She  stepped  around  to   the  innkeeper's
 side, and Flint recognized her as  the one  he had  seen lugging
 kegs  from  the  wagon  outside.  Indeed,  as  Moldoon  drew her
 forward,  Flint  noticed  that she  still held  one on  her left
 shoulder. Staring unabashedly at  Flint, she  lowered it  to the
 ground.  Her  hair  was  the  yellow-orange  color  of  overripe
 corn, and she wore it in long braids on either side of her full,
 rose-red  cheeks. She  wore tight  leather pants  and a  red tu-
 nic,  belted  tight,  revealing  an unusually  tiny waist  for a
 frawl.
  Flint gave  her a  friendly, almost  apologetic smile.  "Yes, I
 am, but I'm sorry, I don't remember you."
  Moldoon   threw   an   arm    down   around    her   shoulders.
 "Sure   you   do!  This   is  Hildy,   Brewmaster  Bowlderston's
 daughter. She's taken over his business since he's been ill."
  Hildy  thrust  her  hand  forward  over  the  bar  and  gripped
 Flint's firmly. "I've  heard a  lot about  you, Flint.  I'm a...
 um, friend of your nephew, Basalt." She blushed.
  Flint slapped his thigh. "That's why you looked familiar!
 Haven't you two been friends since you were both in nap-
 pies?"  He  winked  and  gave  her  an  approving  glance  under

 raised eyebrows. "Although you've grown up some since
 then."
   She smiled  and blushed  again, lowering  her eyes.  "I wish
 Basalt would  take notice,"  she began,  but her  smile faded.
 "Of course he's not aware of much else  but drink  these days,
 though, what with the tragedy and all."  She reached  out gin-
 gerly and squeezed his arm sympathetically.
   "Tragedy?" Flint's mug of  ale froze  halfway to  his mouth.
 His eyes traveled from the frawl's blue  eyes to  the innkeep-
 er's rheumy ones and back.
   Suddenly the sound of shattering glass  rent the  air. Star-
 tled, Flint turned toward the left  end of  the bar,  where he
 saw  the  harrn  who  had held  the door  for Hildy.  This same
 dwarf was staring at Flint, his face a mask of terror.
   The dwarf seemed stupefied, and he began gesturing
 wildly at Flint. Flint was stunned.
   "You're  dead!  Go  away! Leave  me alone!  You're d-d  - !"
 The  screaming dwarf  struggled to  get the  last of  the word
 out, then  finally quit  in frustration.  He covered  his eyes
 with his arms and sobbed.
   "Garth!"  Hildy  cried, coming  to his  side to  uncover his
 eyes.  "It's  OK. That's  not who  you think  it is!"  The big
 dwarf  resisted  at  first,  then  slowly  allowed one  eye to
 emerge from above his folded limbs:
   Garth was unusually large, well over four  and a  half feet,
 and none of it  was muscle.  His rounded  belly poked  out be-
 low  his  tunic,  which was  too small  at every  opening: the
 neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at  least an  inch be-
 low the cuffs.
   "What's  going  on  here?"  Flint demanded,  both irritated
 and embarrassed by the strange incident.
   Moldoon  looked  red-faced  as  well.  "Garth does  odd jobs
 about town for almost everyone.  He's a  little simple  - most
 people call  him the  village idiot  - and  well, you  two did
 look quite a lot  alike," Moldoon  finished, his  voice coming
 faster.
        "What two? What are talking about? Spit it out, man!"
 Flint was just angry now.
   "The tragedy," Hildy said dully.

   Moldoon wrung his hands and finally said, "I'm sorry,
 Flint. Garth was the one who found  Aylmar dead  at the
 forge one month ago."

                    Chapter 3

                   The Terms

    Thee general looked over the smoldering city below.
 He saw the  seaport of  Sanction, wracked  by forces  both ge-
 ological  and  mystical.  Its people  were being  driven away,
 the very earth beneath  it changed  by volcanic  eruptions and
 the rivers of lava flowing down to the Newsea.
  He  also  saw  what  the  tortured  city  would  become:  the
 heart  of  an  evil  empire embracing  all of  Krynn. Sanction
 would protect the nerve center of that  empire with  a barrier
 of  arms  and  with the  awesome barrier  formed by  the Lords
 of  Doom.  These  three  towering  volcanoes  stood  at  three
 points of  the general's  view, spewing  ash and  lava, gradu-
 ally changing the shape of the city and the valley. Active for
 the  past  few  years,  the  smoking peaks  dominated Sanction

 and the surrounding chaos of steep mountains.
   The  brown  waters  of  the  port,  and the  Newsea beyond,
 marked  the  fourth direction,  to the  west. The  Lords smol-
 dered,  oozing rockfire  and slowly  wracking the  city below.
 The  Newsea  beckoned  placidly,  a  route  that  one  day the
 general's  armies  would  follow on  their path  to conquering
 the west. Clasping his heavy gauntlets to  his hips,  the gen-
 eral  peered  through  the  narrow   eyeholes  in   his  mask,
 pleased by the destruction below.
   The  general  wore  ceremonial  armor  of  black,  etched in
 red. Tall  boots of  polished leather  protected his  feet and
 muscular legs. A breastplate  of deepest  blue-black reflected
 darkly  across his  torso, while  several large  rubies winked
 crimson around the edges of the plate.
   His face lay  entirely concealed  behind the  grotesque dark
 helm. A scarlet  plume, rising  from the  crest of  the helmet
 and  then  trailing  below  and   behind  him,   enhanced  his
 height  even more  than his  already impressive  natural size.
 Heavy, curved plates of the  same black  steel as  his breast-
 plate  covered  his  shoulders  and  accentuated  his imposing
 physique.
   Now  he  paced  alone,  atop  a  blocky,  black-walled tower
 just south of the city - one  of two  such prominences  on the
 black  fortress  known  as  the  Temple  of   Duerghast.  This
 huge,  walled  structure  squatted  low on  the slopes  of the
 smallest  of  the  Lords  of  Doom,  Duerghast  Mountain.  The
 towers of  the temple  provided a  splendid view  of Sanction,
 and the mountains and sea beyond.
   The Temple of  Duerghast was,  in fact,  more of  a fortress
 than a place of worship.  The high  black wall  surrounded the
 entire structure. It provided space for barracks, troop train-
 ing, and even an arena for gladiatorial combat.
   The temple and the entire city, now as  always, lay  under a
 leaden,  overcast  sky.  The  gray blanket  was caused  by the
 smoke  and  ash  that  spewed  from  its  surrounding summits,
 and  because  the valley  of Sanction  was a  windtrap, termi-
 nus of the Newsea.
   A river of steaming lava,  glowing cherry  red in  the eter-
 nally twilit valley, cut through the  center of  Sanction. An-

  other finger of flaming rock  trickled toward  it by  a different
  path.  Soon  the  two  boiling  streams  would  meet,  forming  a
  lava moat around the other temple.
    The  general's  gaze  lingered  on  that  great  construction -
  now  a pile  of rock,  slowly being  given form  by the  lava and
  ash. The Temple  of Luerkhisis,  that one  was called,  after the
  second  of the  Lords of  Doom. The  temple held  the keys  to so
  much of the future, for  in its  bowels were  kept the  precious
  eggs  of  the  good  dragons.  Those  gold,  silver,  brass,  and
  bronze  orbs  would  -  when  the  time  was  right  -  force the
  neutrality  of  good  dragonkind,  allowing  the empire  of dark-
  ness to be born.
    But  there  was  much  to  be  done  before that  could happen.
  An  army  had  yet  to  be raised,  equipped, and  trained. Plans
  would  be  drawn,  powers  marshaled.  All  of  this  would  take
  time. But he knew how to put that time to good use.
    The  general  had  begun  to  organize  his   forces.  Already,
  thousands  of  mercenaries  had  gathered  in  the  scarred  city
  below  him,  replacing  the  huge  numbers  of  refugees  who had
  fled to safer  lands when  the volcanoes  first rumbled  to life.
  The  general  had  agents  crossing  the  wildest lands  of Ansa-
  lon,  gathering  tribes  of  hobgoblins  and ogres,  bribing them
  with  promises  of  plunder and  war. And  across the  valley, in
  the  temple  taking  shape  over  the hiding  places of  the good
  dragons'  eggs,  the  spearhead  of  his  army  was even  now be-
  ing created. Draconians.
    It  was  the  equipping of  his massive  army that  brought the
  general to this meeting today.
    A  great,  crackling   rumble  suddenly   reverberated  through
  the valley, like  an impossibly  loud peal  of thunder.  The peak
  of  Duerghast,  south  of  the  general's  temple,  pitched  mon-
  strous  boulders  from  its  cauldera.  Idly,  the  masked figure
  watched  the  house-sized  pieces  of rock  crash to  earth, tum-
  bling  down  the  mountainsides  and  adding  to  the destruction
  as they  fell. The  helmet blocked  the general's  peripheral vi-
  sion, but all of a sudden he detected a presence off to his left.
  He  whirled  around  and  saw   the  new   arrival  unconsciously
  finger  the  steel  ring that  had allowed  him to  be teleported
  here.

   "You are late," said the general, his voice a  deep, rasping
 complaint.
   The  newcomer,  a  dwarf,  ignored  the rebuke  and shuffled
 toward the figure  towering before  him. The  general's height
 accented  the  small  stature  of  this  one.  When  the dwarf
 threw back  his hood,  his grotesque  face suddenly  came into
 view, a fitting image  to counter  the general's  mask, though
 the dwarf's features were his own.
   Milky, pale  skin covered  the dwarf's  body, with  a bluish
 cast  vaguely  reminiscent of  a corpse.  His eyes  were pale,
 and very, very  wide. Now,  even under  the deep  overcast, he
 squinted against the daylight. A shock of  yellow hair  on the
 dwarf's head shot in all directions, bristly and uncontrolled.
 His mouth was concealed by a tangled  beard that,  despite its
 length, grew  only in  sparse, ugly  patches from  his cheeks,
 chin, and neck.
   The dwarf was a derro, a race  of less  pure stock  than the
 hill dwarf or Hylar mountain dwarves,  since it  reputedly re-
 sulted  from  an  ancient  intermixture  of human  and dwarven
 blood.  Still  a  mountain  dwarf,  he  was  a  member  of the
 Theiwar clan.
   He  came  directly  from  Thorbardin, the  great underground
 realm  of the  mountain dwarves,  where he  served as  the ad-
 viser  to  Thane Realgar,  ruler of  the Theiwar.  The Theiwar
 was the only clan of derro, and  they competed  jealously with
 their rivals of the Hylar, Daergar, and other clans.
   In addition to his derro race, this dwarf differed  from the
 typical  mountain  dwarf in  another important  way: he  was a
 magic-using  savant.  Though  all  dwarves  were  resistant to
 magic, few  were able  actually to  cast spells.  Among these,
 the savants of the derro were  most potent;  and of  these sa-
 vants, Pitrick, adviser to the thane, was the most feared.
   Pitrick  moved  awkwardly,  partially  dragging   his  right
 foot.  He  leaned  forward  in an  unnatural stance,  his body
 distorted by the large hump  of flesh  that deformed  his back
 and right shoulder.
   "You summoned me, and I came," said the dwarf. "Is that
 not the important thing?" Craning his neck, he looked up at
 the  general.  The  masked  human  turned  away  silently. His

  expression pensive, the dwarf studied the general's straight,
  well-armored back.
    "I see you wear my  present," the  general said,  though he
  looked  out  over  the  smoldering city  of Sanction.  He had
  given the little derro the amulet, iron forged into the like-
  nesses of five writhing dragon heads, as a token  for closing
  the  weapons  shipment  arrangements.  The   general  himself
  had received it from his Dark Queen, and  he half  hoped that
  Her presence in it would further  influence the  weaselly ad-
  viser to his cause.
    "It has proved quite useful already," Pitrick said offhand-
  edly, yet he offered no thanks. "But to business. My journey,
  though fast, is not without risk," observed the dwarf, ignor-
  ing the  general's shrug.  "Should the  other clans  of Thor-
  bardin gain wind of our transaction, I need not tell you that
  your source of arms would vanish."
    The general  said nothing.  The vast  horde of  men gather-
  ing in the valley  below would  be nothing  more than  an an-
  gry   mob   until   outfitted   with    weapons.   Excellent,
  razor-sharp  steel  blades  -  the kind  made by  the Theiwar
  mountain dwarves of Thorbardin.
    "That is why we meet  today," said  the human.  "To discuss
  the shipments."
    "I  trust  that  you  have not  been dissatisfied  with our
  craftsmanship," remarked  the dwarf,  his tone  smugly confi-
  dent.
    The general  ignored the  question. They  both knew  no an-
  swer  was  required,  for   dwarven  weaponsmiths   were  the
  most talented crafters of steel on all of Krynn. Nowhere else
  could a soldier gain arms of such strength and quality.
    "I shall require an increase in the amount of all  types of
  weapons." The general's voice  was a  harsh rasp  through the
  mask. "A doubling, to be precise."
    The  hunchbacked  dwarf  turned  away,  placing  a  hand to
  his chin as if  deep in  thought. The  hand concealed  a thin
  smile  of  pleasure  as  the  dwarf's mind  immediately began
  counting  the  additional  coinage  that  would  flow quickly
  into his, and his clan's, coffers. That meant more  power for
  the Theiwar, more power to the thane's adviser.

   "Of  course,  if  you  should  need  to  speak  to  your thane
 about this  matter...." The  general's tone  made it  clear that
 such a delay would be regarded as a major nuisance.
   "Certainly  not!"  huffed  the  dwarf.  "I am  fully empowered
 to  make  such  a  decision.  And  make  it  I shall,  though of
 course there are some problems to be worked out."
   The general stood mute, arms crossed at his chest. He
 looked down at the diminutive derro.
   "The  details  are  manifold,"  explained  the  dwarf, turning
 to  pace  about  the  platform  atop  the  tower. He  moved awk-
 wardly,  dragging  his  twisted right  foot, but  the impediment
 did  not seem  to slow  him down.  He spoke  slowly, as  if deep
 in thought.
   "Our  materials, particularly  coal, are  in short  supply. We
 can find more, but it will be costly, and, naturally,  our price
 must reflect this. We will be forced to triple the fee."
   The  general  chuckled,  deep  within  the  enclosing confines
 of  his  armor  and  helm.  "An  amusing thought."  The laughter
 abruptly  ceased.  "Our  fee  will  be doubled,  as the  work is
 doubled. No more."
   After  a  discreet  pause  the  dwarf  nodded  his acceptance.
 Still  in  profile  to  the  general,  his  hand surreptitiously
 slipped  around  the  iron amulet  that hung  at his  neck. Eyes
 shifting,  he  soundlessly  mouthed  a  word  and  a  soft  blue
 glow  suddenly  gleamed  between  his  fingers. Turning  back to
 the  general,  Pitrick  raised  his other  hand in  a mysterious
 gesture. His wide, pale  eyes sought  the general's  through the
 holes  in  the   human's  mask.   Mustering  his   courage,  the
 dwarf began to intone.
   Suddenly,  the dwarf  felt something  strike him,  hard, along
 the right side of his head. He cried out in pain and surprise as
 he  sprawled  to  the wooden  platform, tumbling  to lie  in the
 shelter of the parapet wall. He rubbed his cheek,  already feel-
 ing a large welt developing  there. The  derro struggled  to his
 feet  and  looked  around;  there  was  nothing   material  that
 could have struck him.  He looked  at the  general with  new re-
 spect. Then he felt an unfamiliar sensation: fear.
   The general stood unmoving, watching the dwarf.
   "An  amusing  diversion,  magic,"  the  human said.  "I trust

  you will not attempt to use  your pathetic  tricks on  me again.
  This time, I leave you your life. Next time..."
    "An  honest  mistake, I  assure you,"  said the  dwarf, biting
  back his  anger. No  one had  bested or  humiliated him  in dec-
  ades. "A doubling of the fee will be quite satisfactory."
    "These   shipments   must   be  increased   immediately,"  in-
  structed  the  general.  "I  will  have extra  ships in  the bay
  within the month, and I want them loaded quickly."
    Pitrick  nodded.  "It  shall  be  done.  The  arrangement with
  the  loathesome  hill  dwarves  remains, but  I am  taking steps
  toward a more satisfactory solution.
    "Because  they  built the  road through  the pass,  they think
  they can control us!  True, the  road is  our only  passage from
  Thorbardin to  Newsea, but  we pay  them well  for its  use. Yet
  they  complain  when  we  stay  in their  town! They  charge ex-
  orbitant prices for goods. If  they learned  the true  nature of
  our shipments, there would be no end to their extortion!
    "I was forced to kill one  of them  already, for  spying," the
  derro  said,  almost in  passing. "Fortunately,  I was  there at
  the  time and  was able  to strike  him down  before he  had the
  chance  to  tell anyone  what he'd  discovered. The  fools think
  he died of a heart attack!"
    "The  hill  dwarves  are  your  problem. You  are the  one who
  insists the trade remains a secret." The general's tone was dis-
  interested,  unsympathetic.  He  turned  away, looking  over his
  smoking,  smoldering city.  Clearly, he  had no  curiosity about
  the petty squabbles that frequently occurred among dwarves.
    The  derro  fumed  at the  human's disdain  and sought  to re-
  gain  some  measure  of  his  dignity  and pride.  "Your weapons
  will be waiting on the shore!" he said stiffly. "Even if I must
  obliterate Hillhome to get them there!"
    Instinctively  bowing  to  the  general,  as  he would  to his
  thane, the derro once again fondled his  steel ring  of telepor-
  tation.  The  circlet  of metal  was formed  by two  rings woven
  together  and split  at the  top, the  rough ends  bent outward.
  It softly illuminated the  dwarf's entire  body. Then,  a bright
  spark  jumped  from  one  edge of  the ring  to another.  In the
  space of a blink, the hunchbacked Theiwar was gone.

 Chapter 4

 An Uneasy Reunion

    "That was Aylmar's favorite chair," sighed Bertina,
 wiping a tear as she gestured to the overstuffed seat in which
 Flint  sat.  Aylmar's  widow  drew  another  mug from  the ale
 keg, sniffling as she passed the foaming goblet to Flint.
 Many  a  reverent  mug  had  already  been raised  to Aylmar's
 memory.  And  to  "good  old  Flint,"  and  an  assortment  of
 other things, as the hour grew late and the guests at this im-
 promptu party grew increasingly besotted.
 "It's  a  disgrace  that my  dead brother  is dishonored  by a
 night of mourning like  this!" Ruberik  grumbled disdainfully.
 Third  Fireforge  son  -  Aylmar  and  Flint  were  first  and
 second  -  Ruberik  stood by  the hearth,  stiff in  his black
 waistcoat and too-tight tie. He turned up his nose at  the mug

  of  ale  Bertina  held  toward  him and  frowned disapprovingly
  at the newly empty keg, the pools of ale on the floor,  and the
  sleeping dwarves throughout the large room.
    "Oh, Ruberik," scolded  Fidelia, one  of the  older Fireforge
  sisters,  "don't  burst  a  vein."  A  buxom,  bawdy  lass, she
  tossed back the contents of her mug and held it out for refill-
  ing.  "We're  not  so  much  mourning   Aylmar  -   we've  done
  that for a month - as celebrating Flint's return."
    Ruberik's   work-roughened   hand   reached  out   to  snatch
  the mug  from her  waiting lips.  "If you  have no  respect for
  your elders,  young woman,  at least  try to  summon a  bit for
  the dead!"
    "We grieve differently, that's all," his sister said, used to
  his pompous outbursts. Hitching her leather  skirt to  a height
  improper  enough  to  make  her  puritanical brother  fume, she
  fetched another drink undisturbed.
    Plain,  heavy-set  Glynnis,  next in  line after  Ruberik and
  not the brightest under  the best  of conditions,  giggled sud-
  denly, oblivious to the tension  in the  room. Letting  loose a
  loud hiccup, she smirked at her older brother. "Fidel is right,
  Rubie.  Flint  only  comesh  home  onesh  every  twenty  years!
  And  when  he   does,  I'm...   I'm..."  Glynnis   squinted  in
  concentration.  She  hiccupped  again, and  then her  head fell
  forward. In a second she snored, face  down in  a pool  of ale.
  Ruberik rolled his eyes, as if to say, "There she goes again."
    "His favorite chair,"  cut in  Bertina, continuing  as though
  unaware anyone  else had  spoken. "He'd  sit there  for hours."
  She loose wistfully at  Flint in  the large,  wood-framed chair
  with fluffy, goose-down cushions.
    Flint  already  felt uncomfortable  enough, listening  to the
  squabbles  of  his  family. But  his sister-in-law's  look made
  him  squirm.  He wanted  to get  up, to  sit somewhere  else in
  the  room,  but  virtually  every  surface  - table,  chair, or
  floor - already held a sleeping Fireforge. Flint winced  at the
  thought  of  the  hangover  that  would fill  the house  on the
  morrow.
    He sat back in Aylmar's favorite chair and sighed, his
  mood maudlin. This was not the homecoming he'd ex-
  pected; he felt disloyal, but  he could  not shake  the thought

  that his friends back in Solace felt more like family than this
  gathering of strangers.
    His reception had  started out  well enough.  Indeed, Flint's
  homecoming  had  provided  the  Fireforge  clan  with  a  much-
  needed  cause  for  celebration. Cousins  and siblings  and old
  neighbors all  gathered at  the family  home within  minutes of
  his arrival. The large  house, home  to Flint's  parents before
  their  deaths,  was  now  occupied by  Aylmar's family  and Ru-
  berik, who was a bachelor.
    Set  into  the hillside,  which was  common in  Hillhome, the
  house was  large by  dwarven standards,  and it  felt spacious.
  The  family  was  now  gathered  in  the  "front  room,"  which
  had  a  high  ceiling  and  tall  doorways  to  accommodate hu-
  man  visitors,  which  the  Fireforge family  had more  of than
  the  average  dwarven  family  because  of   their  adventuring
  ways.  The  walls  were  of  stone,  reinforced  by   dark  oak
  beams.  The  only  room  with  windows,  its  two  round  open-
  ings  were  now  double-shuttered against  the autumn  chill. A
  large,  spotless  hearth was  the room's  focal point,  and the
  furniture was a dozen or so chairs and a large  rectangular ta-
  ble, for meals were taken here.
    The  rest  of  the house  spread out  behind the  front room.
  Five  other  chambers  had  been carved  into the  hillside and
  shored up with  perfectly matched  and cut  stone, so  that not
  a  speck  of  earth  could  be seen  between cracks.  Two rooms
  had been added to the east side nearest  the barn  for Ruberik,
  who made his living as a farmer.
    Glynnis  was  a  housefrawl;  Fidelia  worked  at  the  grain
  mill; the next  oldest brothers,  Tybalt and  Bernhard, consta-
  ble  and  carpenter  respectively.   They  and   the  remaining
  seven  siblings  all lived  nearby, having  grown up  and moved
  out. To tonight's  party they  had brought  a tumbling  mass of
  nieces  and  nephews,  many  of  whom   had  been   born  since
  Flint's  departure,  and   brothers-  and   sisters-in-law  who
  seemed to outnumber his siblings.
    Yet  Flint  wondered  about  his  favorite  nephew,  Aylmar's
  eldest  son,  Basalt, who  was conspicuous  by his  absence. It
  seemed odd that the  boy was  not at  his mother's  side during
  her time of  grief. On  the other  hand, Basalt's  brothers and

 sisters  -  Aylmar  and  Bertina  had  had  more  than  half a
 dozen children, by Flint's  best reckoning  - had  been strug-
 gling to outdo each other in offering comforts to  their noto-
 rious  Uncle  Flint.  He  could neither  smoke nor  drink fast
 enough to keep up with the refills they  offered him.  A seem-
 ingly endless stream of  plates, each  loaded with  an unusual
 treat, was placed before  him by  a niece  or nephew.  He sam-
 pled spiced goose eggs, cream  cakes and  fruit pies,  bits of
 succulent meat, fish larvae, and other exotic delights.
   A  pair  of  geese  had  been  butchered  and  an  impromptu
 feast prepared. Flint  tore off  a bite  from a  drumstick now
 and  decided  to engage  Ruberik in  a discussion  more suited
 to his brother's somber mood.
   Taking a handkerchief  from his  pocket, Flint  scrubbed the
 grease from his mustache and beard. "Please  tell me,"  he be-
 gan, "what you know of our brother's untimely death."
   Ruberick  grew  grimmer  still.  "Aylmar  had  been laboring
 at his trade, blacksmithing, and his heart  gave out  on him."
 The dwarf shook his head sadly. "It's as simple as that."
   "We  told  him  not  to work  so hard!"  exclaimed Bernhard,
 who  was  seated next  to Flint  in a  hard wooden  chair. The
 seventh  Fireforge  sibling, his  soft black  hair prematurely
 balding,  leaned  forward  and  knotted  his  thick, calloused
 hands. "But that is one of the reasons why he was the  best at
 his craft."
   "The  money  was  just  too  much  temptation,"  interrupted
 Ruberik. "He couldn't resist the offer to work for the derro."
   "Yeah,"   Bernhard  said   vacantly.  "Anyway,   Aylmar  was
 called to the forge in the derro's camp  - they've  taken over
 Delwar's forge - to fix a wheel late one morning."
   Flint found  it difficult  to believe  that the  Aylmar he'd
 known  would  have  had  anything  to  do  with derro,  but he
 had   been  gone   a  long   time....  Flint   remembered  the
 walled yard near the town smithy.
   "That place has become  a blighthole  filled with  evil der-
 ro!" interjected Ruberik again. "A blemish on the face  of our
 hills!"
   Bernhard rocked  his chair  onto its  back legs.  "You don't
 think it's such a blemish when you take  your cheese  there to

 sell," he  commented wryly,  "nor when  you build  an addition
 to your abode with the  profits." He  squinted up  through one
 eye to glimpse his brother's angry, red face.
   "That's  business!  Mind your  elders!" was  Ruberik's stern
 reply.
   Bernhard rolled his eyes and lowered his chair to  the floor
 with  a  bang.  "Anyway,  Aylmar  went to  the yard  that day,
 'an  emergency,'  they  said.  Any  smith  would've  taken the
 job - these derro panic at the thought of  missing a  night on
 the road, so they pay real good for day work and such -"
   "And  Aylmar,  the  damned  fool,  had to  take on  this one
 job  too  many,"  Ruberick  interrupted  yet again,  unable to
 conceal his anguish. "He died beside  his forge,  among stran-
 gers, what is worse."
   "Garth,  the  dimwit,  found him  there all  blue," finished
 Bernhard matter-of-factly.
   Bertina  gasped,  and  Fidelia  elbowed  her brother  in the
 head. "Have a care, will you?"
   "Uh,  sorry,  Berti,"  the carpenter  said limply,  making a
 hasty exit to help with the tapping of a new keg.
   "But  if  these  are  mountain dwarves,"  interjected Flint,
 "why  isn't  there  a  smith  among  them  who  can  fix their
 wagons?"
   "I can explain that,"  said Tybalt,  stepping away  from the
 fire to join the circle. He was a stocky, unsmiling  dwarf who
 had inherited all of the worst Fireforge features: the bulbous
 nose, their mother's weight, and  their father's  slight chin.
 Even  when off  duty, he  wore his  constable uniform  - shiny
 leather  breastplate  and  shoulder  protectors   hardened  in
 boiling  oil and  dyed blue,  gray tunic  beneath that  to his
 knees, gray leg wraps, and thick-soled  leather shoes.  He re-
 moved it only once a week to bathe.
   "Mayor  Holden  wisely  made  it a  condition of  the agree-
 ment that the mountain dwarves  use the  services of  the hill
 dwarves  when  in  Hillhome  -  extra  money  for  our crafts-
 men." Tybalt brushed a piece of  string from  his breastplate.
 "Besides, the derro hate light so much  that they  would never
 station a smith  above ground  so far  from Thorbardin.  If it
 weren't for Hillhome, they'd have  to bring  a smith  along on

 every  trip just  in case  of breakdowns,  which would  be ex-
 ceedingly  costly."  Tybalt  struck  a ramrod  pose. "Everyone
 says  Mayor  Holden  drove  an  excellent  bargain   with  the
 Theiwar."
   Fidelia snorted indelicately and ruffled Tybalt's  dark hair
 as she strolled by him. "You tell that to anyone who will lis-
 ten  because  you're  bucking for  a promotion,  Brother!" She
 took another pull on her mug of ale.
   Hearing  an  opening to  the question  that had  brought him
 here, Flint leaned forward intently, his  elbows on  his knees
 as his eyes scanned the group. "I came all  the way  from Sol-
 ace  to  find  out  why  Hillhome  is  dealing  with  mountain
 dwarves at all, let alone derro!  Can someone  give me  a good
 answer 7"
   Everyone  began  talking at  once, and  Flint was  forced to
 wave  his  arms  above his  head and  whistle for  silence. He
 looked at his  brother the  constable. "You  seem to  know the
 details of this 'agreement,' Tybalt. Why don't you  explain it
 to me."
   Looking flattered at his  older brother's  attention, Tybalt
 cleared his throat. "It started about a  year ago,  them using
 the  pass.  They  leave  Thorbardin  and  meet  up   with  the
 Passroad  somewhere  around  the   western  shore   of  Stone-
 hammer  Lake.  They're  taking  their  cargo  to the  coast at
 Newsea.  We  hear they've  got a  jetty set  up in  some cove,
 where  they  meet  ships  from  the  north and  transfer their
 goods."
   "So, how did it all start?"
   Tybalt  paused  and scratched  his chin.  "One day,  a short
 one of  these derro,  kind of  bent over  like, showed  up and
 met  with  the mayor  and a  bunch of  the elders.  Offered to
 pay twenty steel pieces  a wagon  - twenty  steel, mind  you -
 if we'd let them come over our pass.
   "Course  there  was  still  some,  like  Aylmar,  who wanted
 nothing to do with them. But  the deal  was struck.  Then, the
 wagons  started  comin'  through,"  Tybalt said,  punching his
 hand for emphasis. "They  make the  run to  the coast,  and on
 the way back the derro stock  up on  grain, beer,  cheese, all
 manner of stuff you  can't get  where there's  no sun.  Pay in

 good  steel  coin,  twice  or  more  what  anybody  could charge
 before.  It  started  out  with  only  one  wagon  a  day coming
 and going, a  few derro  on each.  They must  be doing  twice or
 more than that, now."
   "And always derro, the Theiwar?" asked Flint.
   "Yup.  Some stay  with their  wagons, but  most sleep  at the
 inns  in  town  during  the  day.  They  don't  mix   much  with
 townfolk. There's been  a few  fights and  such, but  they don't
 try to cause too much trouble... usually.
   "The town's  never had  so much  in its  treasury, and  all of
 us're  doing  better  than  we  ever  thought  possible," Tybalt
 concluded defensively.
   "So  what  you're  saying  is,  Hillhome is  allowing mountain
 dwarves in the village strictly for the profit," Flint concluded
 numbly.
   "Can  you  think  of  a better  reason?" Bernhard  asked inno-
 cently.
   Flint's temper exploded  as he  jumped to  his feet.  "I can't
 think   of   any   reason   to   have  dealings   with  mountain
 dwarves!"  He  glared  angrily  into each  and every  face. "Has
 everyone   here   forgotten   the   Great   Betrayal?   Or   the
 Dwarfgate  Wars,  in  which  Grandfather  Reghar  gave   up  his
 life  trying   to  take   back  the   hill  dwarves'   place  in
 Thorbardin  -  our  birthright!  -  from  the  mountain  dwarves
 who stole it? Have you forgotten, Tybalt?"
   Tybalt  straightened  self-righteously, "I  haven't forgotten,
 but  I  don't  make  the  laws.  I'm sworn  to uphold  them. For
 that matter, I'd toss a hill dwarf in jail as soon as I  would a
 mountain dwarf!"
   Flint  scowled  and  turned  on  Bernhard.  "How  about you?"
   His  younger  brother  shrank  under  his  gaze. "I'm  just a
 carpenter..."   He   tugged   on  his   beard  self-consciously,
 afraid to look at his eldest brother as  he struggled  with some
 inner  thought.  'You   can't  forget   what  you   never  knew,
 Flint!" he blurted at last. "I never heard the stories  like you
 did,  not  from  Father.  And  all that  was over  three hundred
 years ago!" Bernhard seemed  almost relieved  to have  said it.
 Flint's expression softened somewhat.
    Fidelia did not wait for her brother to get around to her.

 "Frankly,  I'm  for whatever  makes me  money," she  said, sen-
 sually running  her hands  down her  tailored leather  apron, a
 far  cry from  the coarse  cloth their  mother had  been accus-
 tomed  to wearing.  "I like  to think  that we're  getting back
 from  Thorbardin  a  little of  what's been  owed us  - payment
 for all these years of poverty."
   Flint rubbed his  face wearily.  It was  obvious that  he did
 not know his family at all. He looked  at his  closest sibling.
 "And  how  about  you,  Ruberik?  At  least  you don't  seem to
 think much of derro."
   Ruberik   appeared   to  be   giving  the   discussion  great
 thought. "No, I don't, and  I haven't  forgotten the  Great Be-
 trayal  either,  Flint. I  would not  have approved  the agree-
 ment if asked, but I wasn't. The council,  with the  support of
 the  majority  of  the  citizens,  made  the decision."  He had
 dropped  his  usual stuffy  tone. "But  now that  they're here,
 I'm not adverse to making a little profit - just so  we're com-
 fortable. I'm not greedy like  some others  in town,"  he added
 defensively.
   Flint  rubbed  his  face  wearily.  "These wagons,"  he said,
 changing  the  subject  slightly.  "What  do  they   haul?  And
 where are they going?"
   Tybalt  spoke  up  again.  "Mayor   Holden  says   that  they
 carry  mostly  raw  iron.  Sometimes  tools  -  plows,  forges,
 stuff like that. They cover the twenty or  so miles  from Thor-
 bardin  one  night,  arrive  before  sunup,  spend  the  day in
 town or sleeping, then set out at night for  a dock  at Newsea.
 Usually  two  days  later,  they return  to Hillhome,  and then
 continue on back to Thorbardin."
   Flint picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantle, relit it,
 and  took  a  long  draw,  squinting through  the smoke  at his
 three  brothers.  "Does  anyone  know  where they're  taking so
 many farm implements?" he asked suspiciously.
   His  brothers  looked  at  each  other, puzzled.  "Why should
 we  care  where  they  go  after  Newsea?"   Tybalt  exclaimed.
 "The  derro  pay  us  in  steel -  the most  valuable commodity
 on   Krynn.   And   for  what?   -  promising   them  clearance
 through the pass and selling them our goods at a  slightly ele-
 vated price."

  "It's almost like free money!" added Bernhard.
 But  instead  of  persuading  their  brother,  their  comments
 made  Flint  even  more  irritated. "Nothing  is ever  free," he
 growled softly. Ruberik remained silent, frowning.
   A  strange  silence  crept  over  the room,  taking with  it the
 last drop of the spirit of  celebration. One  by one,  the Fire-
 forge  family  dispersed.  Ruberik finally  shuffled off  to his
 private  chamber,  and  only  Bertina   stayed  behind   in  the
 main chamber with Flint.
  At  last  Flint  got  up  and  moved  to  the  wooden  bench Ru-
 berik  had  vacated,  both  to sit  closer to  Bertina and  to -
 finally - leave Aylmar's favorite chair.
  "I'm sorry that I didn't get back  sooner, Berti."  Flint forced
 the  words  out  awkwardly.  Even  with  a  bellyful of  ale, he
 could not make himself tell her of his feelings of guilt. But he
 sensed that she understood.
  "It's  enough  to  have  you  home now,"  she said,  patting his
 thick hand. "This is just what the family needed."
 Flint's  hands  curled  into  fists. "But  maybe I  could have
 helped him... done something!"
  Bertina   squeezed   her   brother-in-law's   arm   reassuringly
 and  shook  her  head.  "We  went  there  as  soon as  we heard,
 Rubie  and  me."  Her  eyes  were far  away. "You  mustn't blame
 yourself."
  Suddenly  the  front  door  slammed   back  against   the  stone
 wall. "Isn't it just like 'Uncle Flint' to worry about  his fam-
 ily?" a  new voice  snarled sarcastically  from the  door. Flint
 recognized  it  before  he  even looked  up: Basalt.  Their eyes
 met.  His  nephew  was  no  longer a  youth of  fifty. He  had a
 full beard, darker than his  bright red  hair, and  a preponder-
 ance of  freckles beneath  his sea-green  eyes. Basalt  was tall
 for  a  dwarf,  but it  was more  than height  that gave  him an
 appearance of haughtiness.
  "Basalt!" cried Bertina, rousing  herself to  leap to  her feet,
 smiling happily for the first time that evening.  "Flint's here!
 Your  Uncle  Flint's come  home!" Flint,  too, rose  and stepped
 toward his nephew, smiling warmly.
  "I  know."  Something  in Basalt's  voice cast  a pall  over the
 room. "I heard a few hours ago, down at Moldoon's."

   Basalt's green  eyes fixed  Flint with  a cold  stare. Bertina
 coughed,  embarrassed.  And  Flint  felt  himself  shrinking un-
 der  that  gaze.  Though  he  did  not  know  how he  could have
 done  otherwise, Flint  realized that  he had  let the  boy down
 by   being   elsewhere   when   Aylmar   had  died.   Though  he
 knew  he  should,  he  could  not  bring  himself to  rebuke the
 rudeness of his brother's son.
   "It's good to see you, Basalt," Flint said at last. "I'm sorry
 about your father."
   "Me,  too!"  the  young  dwarf snapped,  grabbing someone's
 half-finished mug of  ale from  the table  and tossing  the con-
 tents down his throat. It was not his first of the  night, Flint
 realized. "Nice of  you to  make it  back, Uncle,  although your
 brother's been cold in the ground for nearly a month!"
   "Basalt!" Bertina gasped, finally finding her voice.
   "Let  the  boy  - let  Basalt speak  his mind,"  Flint corrected
 himself,   giving  his   nephew  a   pained  look.   Normally  a
 young  dwarf  who  spoke  that  way to  an older  relative would
 suffer  a severe  reprimand, if  not a  punch in  the nose  or a
 brief  banishment.  But  somehow,  Flint  could only  feel sorry
 for Basalt. And angry  at himself  for his  long neglect  of his
 family.
   "I have nothing to say," Basalt said softly, sorrow,  ale, and
 anger  making  his  eyes  flash.  "The  subject bores  me." With
 that,  he  disappeared  into  the   shadows  that   cloaked  the
 house beyond the firelight.
   Bertina  stood  clutching  her  apron,  looking  with  anguish
 from  Flint  to  where  Basalt had  retreated. "He  doesn't mean
 it,  Flint," she  said. "He's  just not  been the  same since...
 since... It's the  drink talking."  With a  soft moan,  she hur-
 ried after her son.
   Flint  watched her  go, then  leaned back  in his  seat before
 the fire, deep in morose reflection: A last  bit of  burning log
 dropped  through  the  fire  grate  and  rolled  forward;  Flint
 stood and jabbed it back into the fireplace  with his  toe, then
 watched  sparks fly,  burning from  red to  gray, long  into the
 night.

 * * * * *

   Clumping  through  the   cold  room   in  his   heavy  farming
 boots at first light, Ruberik  brought Flint  to his  senses the
 next  morning.  The   older  dwarf   did  not   remember  having
 fallen  asleep.  Someone  had  covered  him  with  a  rough wool
 blanket  during the  night, which  tumbled to  the ground  as he
 jumped up.
   "No  place  to  make  hot  chicory  in  my  new   rooms,"  Ru-
 berik  grumbled  by  way  of  apology.  Pots banged  and kettles
 clanged  while  he  clumsily  heated water  over the  fire, then
 poured  it through  a length  of coarse  netting that  held some
 fresh ground, roasted root. Taking a  sip of  the brew  he shiv-
 ered. "Nice  and bitter,"  he concluded,  looking as  pleased as
 Ruberik  ever  did.  With  that  he  pulled  on a  heavy leather
 coat  and  grumbled  his  way  into   the  dawn,   slamming  the
 door  behind   him.  A   current  of   damp,  cold   air  rushed
 through the room and fanned the fire in the grate.
   Flint  chuckled  at his  brother's ill  humor despite  his own
 fatigue. He dug his hairy fists into his eye sockets, stretched,
 and smacked  his lips.  Hoping to  douse the  sour taste  in his
 mouth,  he took  the water  kettle from  the fireside  and made
 his way to the  kitchen, across  the room  from the  front door.
 The  area  was small  but well  organized. Using  Ruberik's net-
 ting, Flint managed to rustle up  his own  pot of  brew. Bertina
 kept the cream in  the same  place his  mother had:  against the
 back  of  a low  cupboard along  the cold  north wall,  where it
 stayed fresh longer.
   When   he'd  downed   enough  chicory   to  feel   his  senses
 straighten,  Flint  looked  about  and  noticed  that  the house
 sounded  empty,  its  usual  occupants  apparently   having  al-
 ready  gone  about  their  day.  He  decided  to give  Ruberik a
 hand in the barn.
   Helping  himself  to  two  big  hunks  of  bread  and  cheese,
 Flint slipped his  boots on  and stepped  outside into  a bright
 but  brisk  morning.  He  picked  his  way  along   the  narrow,
 muddy  path  that  led  from the  small front  yard to  the barn
 far off to the right of  the house.  He stopped  at the  well to
 rinse himself, letting the brisk autumn air  dry his  cheeks and
 beard and refresh his tired soul.
   Swallowing the last of his bread in one big bite, Flint cov-

 ered the remaining distance to the barn.
   Pausing at the massive door, Flint grasped the  thick, brass
 ring  that  served  as a  handle. It  was polished  and smooth
 from  centuries of  use. He  remembered the  times when,  as a
 child, he had strained and hauled  on that  ring with  all his
 strength  without  ever  budging  the  massive  door.  Now  he
 gave it a tug and the heavy timbers swung out.
   Even before his eyes had  adjusted to  the dim  light inside
 the barn, its  odors washed  over him.  The hay,  animals, ma-
 nure, rope,  stone, and  beams blended  together into  a smell
 that was unique,  yet each  odor could  be separated  from the
 others and identified individually. Flint  paused there  for a
 moment, savoring that aroma.
   Chickens   roamed   throughout,   flapping   from   beam  to
 beam,  picking  at  the grain  mixed in  with the  fresh straw
 scattered across the floor. Three cows tethered in tidy stalls
 raised their heads from an oat-filled trough to eye Flint dis-
 interestedly. At the rear of the barn,  six goats  jostled and
 clambered over each other to get to the  two buckets  of water
 Ruberick  had  set  inside  their  pen.  A  pair  of  swallows
 swooped down from  the rafters  and out  the open  door, pass-
 ing inches above Flint's  scruffy hair.  The dwarf  ducked re-
 flexively, then chuckled at his reaction.
   Ruberik  stomped  into  the  light  from  the depths  at the
 back of the barn, a shiny milking  pail in  each hand.  He saw
 Flint,  looked surprised,  then seemed  about to  grumble some
 insult. He thrust a pail into Flint's hands.
   "Let's see if you  remember how  to milk  a cow,  city boy,"
 Ruberik said, his tone unexpectedly light.
   "Solace is hardly a city," Flint scoffed,  then rose  to the
 challenge.  "I've  been  milking  cows  since before  you even
 knew  what  one was,  baby brother."  Hitching up  his leather
 pantlegs,  he  lowered  himself  onto  a  three-legged  wooden
 stool next to a brown-spotted cow.
   "Make sure  your hands  aren't cold.  Daisyeye hates  that -
 won't give you a drop," warned Ruberik.
   Flint just glared at him, then rubbed his hands together fu-
 riously. He reached out quickly and began tugging; in sec-
 onds, he  had milk  streaming into  the pail.  Daisyeye chewed

 contentedly.
   "Not bad," Ruberik said, nodding as  he looked  over Flint's
 shoulder, "for a woodcarver."
   Flint ignored the jibe, handing his brother the full pail of
 creamy  milk.  "You  know,"  he  said,  wiping his  damp hands
 on his vest, "I'd forgotten how much the smell  of a  barn re-
 minds  me of  Father." He  inhaled deeply,  and his  mind wan-
 dered  back  to  other  mornings,  when  he  had  been dragged
 from  his  warm  bed  at  the crack  of dawn  to work  in this
 place. He had hated it at the time....
   "You're lucky  to have  any memories  of him,"  Ruberik said
 enviously. "He died before  I was  really of  any use  to him.
 Aylmar  had  his  smith  -  and  then one  day you  were gone,
 too. Had to teach myself to  run a  dairy farm,"  he finished,
 using his cupped  hands to  scoop more  oats into  the feeding
 trough.
   Flint's hands  froze under  Daisyeye in  mid-milking stroke.
 He'd  left  Hillhome  those  many  years  ago,  never thinking
 how it might make his siblings feel. He felt compelled  to say
 something - to  offer some  explanation -  and he  tried. "Uh,
 well, I -" And then he stopped, unable  to think  of anything.
 He stole a glance at Ruberik.
   His younger brother moved about the barn, whistling
 softly, oblivious to Flint and his halting response.
   Ruberik  finished  feeding  the  animals  and   clapped  his
 hands to remove  grain chaff.  "I've got  to stir  some cheese
 vats," he said, finally aware of Flint again. "Care to help?"
   "Uh,  no  thanks,"  Flint  gulped;  he hated  the overpower-
 ingly  sour  smell of  fermenting cheese.  He took  the bucket
 out from under Daisyeye, handing it to his brother. "I'll fin-
 ish up the chores in here, if you'd like me to."
   "You  would?"  Ruberik  said,  surprised. Flint  nodded, and
 Ruberik  listed  the  remaining morning  tasks. With  that, he
 left through a door at the far right of the barn, the scent of
 cheese billowing in after him.
   Flint  covered  his nose  and began  milking his  second cow
 in many decades.

 * * * * *

    He  finished  the  chores  by late  morning. Ruberik  had left
  to deliver cheese,  so Flint  sat at  the edge  of the  well and
  looked  opposite  his  family's  homestead,  through  the multi-
  colored   autumn   foliage   and   steady   green   conifers  at
  Hillhome  below.  The  Fireforge  house  was  about   midway  up
  the south rim of the valley  that surrounded  the village  - the
  notch  known  simply as  the Pass  cut into  the eastern  end of
  the  valley;  the  Passroad  continued  through  the   town  and
  down the valley to the eastern shore of Stonehammer Lake.
    Flint  could see  the town  beginning to  bustle with  the ac-
  tivity of a new day, and without  really deciding  to do  so, he
  found  himself  walking  on  the  road that  snaked down  to the
  center of the village. The stroll stretched his stiff joints and
  freshened  his  spirits. He  passed many  houses like  his fami-
  ly's, since most of the buildings here were set into  the hills,
  made  of  big  stone  blocks,  with  timbered  roofs  and small,
  round windows.
    The  village  proper  was  more  or less  level, and  thus had
  many   wooden   structures,  certainly   more  now   than  Flint
  ever  remembered.  As  he  came  around  a  bend  in  the  road,
  bringing  him within  sight of  the village,  he was  again sur-
  prised at the extent of the changes in Hillhome.
    The  great  wagon yard  and forge  seemed to  serve as  a cen-
  tral  gathering  place  for  work  on  the  heavy,  iron-wheeled
  freight  wagons.  The trade  route ran  east and  west, straight
  through  Hillhome  on  the Passroad.  His view  of the  yard was
  blocked   by   a   high   stone   fence.  New   buildings  stood
  crowded  together  along  the   Passroad,  extending   the  town
  past  the  brewery  building,  which  Flint  remembered  as once
  marking  the  town's  western  border.  Off  Main  Street, there
  were still  the neat,  stone houses  with yards;  narrow, smooth
  streets; little shops. But the pace of life seemed frantic.
    That busyness  nettled Flint,  for reasons  he could  not even
  explain  to  himself. He  had intended  to explore  Hillhome, to
  see  the  new  sights,  but instead  he found  himself resenting
  the  changes  and  heading  toward   the  safety   of  Moldoon's
  once again to enjoy the comfortable familiarity of the place.
    "Welcome,  my  friend!"  Moldoon  greeted  the   dwarf  pleas-
  antly,  wiping  his  hands  on  his apron  front before  he took

  Flint's arm and drew  him forward.  At this  time of  day, the
  place was virtually empty, just a table of three humans in the
  center of the room before the fire, and a pair of derro drink-
  ing quietly at another.
    "Have you a glass of milk  for an  old dwarf's  touchy stom-
  ach?" Flint asked, spinning a stool at the bar to  his height.
  He slipped onto it easily, propping his chin up in his hand.
    Moldoon   raised   his   eyebrows  and   grinned  knowingly.
  "Don't   you   mean   a  touchy   old  dwarf's   stomach?"  He
  reached  under  the  bar  for  a  frosty  pewter  pitcher  and
  poured Flint a  mug of  the creamy  liquid. Flint  tossed back
  half of it in one gulp.
    "I heard your family got together last night," said the bar-
  tender, topping Flint's glass again. "You cost me half my cus-
  tomers!"
    The  dwarf  smiled  wryly,  shuffling  the  mug  between his
  hands  on  the  bar. Then  he remembered  the one  family mem-
  ber  who  had  remained  at  Moldoon's  rather than  greet his
  uncle. "Not Basalt," he said to the  barkeep. "He  didn't seem
  any too glad to see me... when he finally got home."
    Moldoon sighed  as he  filled two  mugs with  ale. "Aylmar's
  death really hit him hard, Flint. I don't think it's  got any-
  thing to do with you. He blames himself - he was  his father's
  apprentice.  But  he  was  here,  not  at  home,  when  Aylmar
  went off to the wagon camp."
    "I know how he feels," grumbled Flint into  the last  of his
  milk.
    "Barkeep, do  we have  to wait  all day?"  A scruffy-looking
  derro  at the  table behind  Flint waved  two empty  mugs over
  his  greasy  yellow  head,  smacking his  lips and  glaring at
  Moldoon.
    Moldoon  held  up  the  overflowing   mugs  in   his  hands,
  splitting  an  apologetic  look between  the derro  and Flint.
  "Right away," he called sheepishly, muttering,  "Be back  in a
  moment," to Flint before hurrying to the table.
    "Wagondrivers,"  he  breathed  as  he  returned to  the bar.
  The dwarf stared as his old friend  absently popped  two steel
  pieces into his cash box.
    "For two mugs?" Flint asked in amazement.

    Moldoon   nodded,   looking   both   incredulous  and   a  bit
  ashamed.   "That's   the  price   to  them   anyway.  Apparently
  they  don't  get much  good ale  in Thorbardin,  so most  of the
  crews load up on it late  in the  afternoon before  their night-
  time  run."  He mopped  at a  sweat ring  on the  bar. "Business
  has never  been better  - for  every business  in town.  Most of
  us merchants think the  return is  worth putting  up with  a few
  rowdies,  now  and  then."  With  that,  Moldoon   excused  him-
  self and shuffled into the kitchen to settle a dispute  with the
  village butcher, who had called angrily from the back door.
    Flint  walked around  the end  of the  bar and  helped himself
  to  a  mug  of ale.  He dropped  one steel  piece onto  the bar.
  Suddenly  cold,  he shivered  and headed  for the  fire, desper-
  ate to return some warmth to his old bones.
    When the fire failed to lift his spirit, Flint pulled from his
  belt pouch his sharp whittling  knife and  a small,  rough piece
  of  wood  he'd  been  saving.  Sometimes,  when  ale  failed  to
  ease  his  mind,  only  carving  would  help.  He  would  forget
  everything  except  the  feel  of the  wood in  his hands  as he
  worked life into it. Think of the  wood, he  told himself  as he
  sat in front of the fire.
    Like  most  dwarves,  Flint  was  not  much given  to express-
  ing  his feelings.  Not  like  his   emotional  friend   Tanis,  who
  was  always  tormenting  himself  about  something.  For  Flint,
  things  either  were  or they  weren't, and  there was  no point
  worrying  either  way.   But  every   now  and   then  something
  could  get  under  his  skin,  like  the  uncomfortable feelings
  he'd  had  since  returning  to  Hillhome.  Flint  shivered  in-
  wardly  and  drew  his  mind  back  to the  wood. He  stayed the
  afternoon  at  Moldoon's,  slowly,  painstakingly   shaping  his
  lifeless piece of lumber into  the delicate  likeness of  a hum-
  mingbird.   Moldoon  refilled   his  mug   now  and   then,  and
  soon all was forgotten in the joy of his creation.
    The  tavern  filled  steadily  with  more  hill  dwarves,  and
  more   wagondrivers   replaced   the   previous   group.   Flint
  scarcely  noticed  much  beyond  his  sphere,  though,   so  en-
  grossed was he in the finishing details of his bird.
    "So, it's good old Uncle Flint."
    Flint  nearly  sliced  off  one  of  the  hummingbird's intri-

  cately  detailed  wings.  The  sarcastic  voice at  his shoulder
  sounded  like  animated  ice.  Basalt.  Flint slowly  looked up.
  His  nephew  loomed,  glaring  at  him  with  a  humorless  half
  smile on his red-bearded jaw. "It's a bit early for drink, isn't
  it?" Hint asked, wishing he could bite his  tongue off  the sec-
  ond the patronizing words left his mouth.
    Basalt eyed Flint's own mug. "That's not milk you're
  drinking, either."
    Flint set down his  tools and  sighed, swallowing  the irrita-
  tion  he  felt  because  of  his ruined  good mood.  "Look, pup,
  I've always had a soft spot  for you."  Flint eyed  him squarely
  now. "But if  you keep  using that  tone of  voice with  me, I'm
  going to forget you're family."
    Basalt shrugged, taking an  empty chair  near his  uncle's. "I
  thought you already had."
    Flint  had  never struck  someone for  telling the  truth, and
  he  was not  of a  mind to  start now.  Instead, he  grabbed Ba-
  salt by the shoulders and shook him, hard.
    "Look, I feel terrible about your  father," he  began, search-
  ing his nephew's freckled face.  "I'm not  one for  wishing, but
  I'd  give  anything  to  have  been   here,  anything   to  have
  known. But I wasn't and I didn't, and that's what is, Bas."
    Trying hard  to look  unperturbed, Basalt  rolled his  eyes in
  disbelief  and  looked  away.  "Don't  call  me that,"  he whis-
  pered,  referring  to  the affectionate  nickname Flint  had let
  slip.
    Flint  had  seldom  seen  such  suffering as  he noted  in his
  nephew's face, and he had felt it only once:  after his  own fa-
  ther's death.  "Aylmar was  my big  brother -  my friend  - just
  like you and I were before I left."
    "You're nothing like my father."
    Flint ran a hand through his  hair. "Nor  would I  try to  be. I
  just wanted you to know I feel his loss, too."
    "Sorry,  old  man.  No  consolation."  Basalt turned  his back
  on his uncle.
    Flint  was  getting  angry.  "I'm still  young enough  to whip
  the smartmouthedness out of you, harrn."
    But  Flint  could  see  by  his nephew's  reaction that  he no
  longer heard him. Basalt  strutted before  his uncle,  wearing a

 patronizing smirk.  "I can't  blame you  for coming  back now,
 you know,  when there's  real money  to be  made." He  did not
 even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
    It was Flint's turn to poke at his nephew, his  thick index
 finger  within  an  inch of  Basalt's bulbous  Fireforge nose.
 "I've had about all I'll take from you  today. You  want some-
 one  to  be  angry  at,  and  you've chosen  me, when  the two
 people  you're  really  hopping  mad  at  are your  father and
 yourself!"
    Basalt's  ample  cheeks  burned  scarlet, and  suddenly his
 right  fist  flew out  toward Flint's  jaw. His  uncle quickly
 blocked the punch,  landing a  right jab  of his  own squarely
 on Basalt's chin.  The younger  Fireforge's head  jerked back,
 his eyes bulged, and he slithered to the floor.
    Basalt wiped his lip and  discovered blood  on the  back of
 his hand; he looked up at his  uncle at  the bar  in astonish-
 ment and shame. Flint turned back  sourly to  his mug,  and in
 a moment Basalt got to his feet and left the inn.
    Flint dropped  his care-worn  face into  his hands.  He had
 fought wolves and  zombies, and  they'd taken  less of  a toll
 on him than the confrontations he'd endured  in the  last day.
 The  clamor  of  noise  surrounded him;  the smell  of greasy,
 unwashed  bodies  began  to  fill  the tavern.  These familiar
 things  seemed  less  comforting  and enveloping  than before.
 Nothing  about  Hillhome  seemed  the  same.  He  resolved  at
 that  moment  to  make  his  hasty  good-byes  in  the morning
 and get back to the life he understood in Solace.
    At  that  moment  a  party   of  pale   blue-skinned  derro
 dwarves  noisily  entered  Moldoon's.  Turning  his   back  to
 them in disgust, Flint tried to ignore the bustle  around him.
 He  knew  no  one  in  the tavern  except Moldoon.  And though
 the  barkeep  had  been  joined  around  dusk by  two matronly
 barmaids,  he was  too busy  with the  throng of  customers to
 talk.
    It might have been the ale, his fight  with Basalt,  or the
 whole  unsettling  day  combined,  but  Flint   grew  suddenly
 annoyed  with  the  presence  of the  derro in  Moldoon's. Now
 that it was dusk, a pair  of the  fair, big-eyed  dwarves, al-
 ready drunk,  sat down  beside the  agitated dwarf  and rudely

 bellowed at Moldoon for more ale.
   "Don't  they  teach you  manners in  that cave  of a  city you
 come from?" demanded Flint, all of a  sudden swinging
 around on his stool to face the two mountain dwarves.
   "It's  a  grander  town  than  you  can  claim,"  sneered one,
 lurching unsteadily to his feet.
   Flint rose from his stool too, his  fists clenching.  The sec-
 ond  derro  stepped  up  to  his companion,  and the  hill dwarf
 saw him reach for the haft of a thin  dagger. Flint's  own knife
 was in his belt, but he let it be for now. Despite his anger, he
 sought no fight to the death with two drunks.
   At  that  moment,  luckily,  Garth  clumped  in,   carrying  a
 sack of potatoes, and  headed for  the door  to the  kitchen be-
 hind the bar. He took one  look at  Flint's angry  face nose-to-
 nose with the derro and he let out a  loud, plaintive  wail that
 caused  everything  else  to  fall  silent.  Moldoon  looked  up
 from  where  he  was  serving  patrons  across  the  inn.  Garth
 was  alternately  pointing  at  Flint  and the  derro, babbling,
 and  holding  his  head  and   sobbing.  The   gray-haired  inn-
 keeper  covered  the  distance  in  four strides.  Instructing a
 barmaid  to  lead  Garth  into  the  kitchen  to calm  down, he
 planted himself between Flint and the derro.
   'What's  the  problem  here,  boys?  You're  not  thinking  of
 rearranging  my  inn,  are  you?"  Moldoon  was looking  only at
 the derro.
   "He insulted us!"  one of  them claimed,  shaking his  fist at
 Flint.
   Flint  pushed the  pale fingers  away. 'Your  presence insults
 everyone in this bar," he muttered.
   "You see!" the derro exclaimed self-righteously.
   Moldoon took the two derro by their elbows and pro-
 pelled the startled  dwarves toward  the door.  "I see  that you
 two need to leave my establishment immediately."
   At  the  door  the  derro  wrenched  away  from  his  grip and
 turned  as  if  to  attack  Moldoon,  hands  on  the  weapons at
 their  waists.  Moldoon  stared  them down,  until at  last they
 dropped  their  hands  and  left.  Shaking  his  head,  the inn-
 keeper  slammed  the  door  behind  them  and then  strolled to-
 ward Flint at the bar.

   Flint sank his face into his  ale and  gulped half  the mug
 down. "I don't need anyone to  fight my  battles for  me," he
 grumbled angrily into the foam.
   "And  I  don't  need  anyone  breaking  up  my  inn!" coun-
 tered  Moldoon.  He  laughed unexpectedly,  the lines  in his
 face  drawing  up.  "Gods,  you're just  like Aylmar  was! No
 wonder  Garth  went crazy  when he  saw you  about to  take a
 swing at  those derro.  Probably thought  it was  Aylmar back
 from the dead for one more fight."
   Flint looked up intently from his ale. "What are  you talk-
 ing about? Aylmar had a set-to with some derro?"
   Moldoon  nodded.  "At least  one that  I know  of." Moldoon
 looked puzzled. "Why are you surprised?  You, of  all people,
 must  have  guessed  that  he  detested  their   presence  in
 Hillhome."
   "Do  you  remember  when the  fight was?  And what  it was
 about?"
   "Oh I remember all  right! It  was the  day he  died, sadly
 enough.  Aylmar  didn't  frequent here  much himself,  but he
 came  looking  for Basalt.  They got  into their  usual fight
 about  Basalt's  drinking  and 'working  for derro  scum,' as
 Aylmar put it, and then the pup stormed out."
   Flint leaned across the bar on his  elbows. "But  what about
 the fight with the derro?"
   "I'm getting to that," Moldoon said, refilling Flint's mug.
 "After Basalt left, Aylmar  stewed for  a bit  here, watching
 the  derro  get  louder  and  louder. And  he just  cracked -
 launched  himself  right  at  three  of  them,  unarmed. They
 swatted him away like a fly, laughing at 'the old dwarf.' "
   Flint hung his head, and his heart  lurched as  he imagined
 his brother's humiliation.
   "Indeed, this conversation makes me remember some-
 thing,"  Moldoon  added  suddenly.  Flint  looked   up  half-
 heartedly. The  bartender's face  looked uncharacteristically
 clouded.
   "Aylmar told me after the fight that he  had taken  a small
 smithing  job  with  the  derro.  Naturally I  was surprised.
 Aylmar  had  leaned  forward   and  whispered   -"  Moldoon's
 voice  dropped "-  that he  was suspicious  of the  derro and

 had taken the job so that he could get  into their  walled yard
 to look into a wagon. He asked  what I  knew of  their security
 measures,  and I  told him  that I'd  overheard that  each crew
 of three slept during the day in shifts,  one of  them guarding
 their wagon at all times."
   Flint's  interest  was  piqued.  "Why do  they need  to guard
 farm implements so closely?"
   "That's  just  what  Aylmar  asked,"  Moldoon   said  softly,
 then sighed. "I guess he never found the answer, or if  he did,
 it died with him, since his heart  gave out  at the  forge that
 same night." He  clapped Flint  on the  shoulder and  shook his
 head sadly, then turned to wait on another customer.
   Flint sat thinking for several minutes  before he  worked his
 way  through  the  crowd  and  left the  smoky tavern.  The sun
 was  low  in  the  sky.  He  stood  on  the stoop  outside Mol-
 doon's, but  instead of  crossing the  street and  walking back
 up the south side of the valley to the Fireforge home, the hill
 dwarf set his sights down Main Street to  the east,  just sixty
 yards or so, toward the walled wagon yard.

                    Chapter 5

                   The Break-in

   In Flint's youth, the wagon yard had been the black-
 smithing  shop  of  a  crusty old  dwarf named  Delwar. While
 most  dwarves,  racially   inclined  toward   smithing,  made
 their own weapons, nails, hinges,  and other  simple objects,
 Delwar had provided  the villagers  with wagon  wheels, large
 tools  and  weapons,  and  other  more complicated  metal de-
 signs.
 Flint had learned  a lot  of what  he knew  about blacksmith-
 ing  from  the  old  craftsman,  whose burn-scarred  arms and
 chest  had  both  frightened  and  fascinated the  young hill
 dwarf. Flint and  other harrns  would sit  in the  grassy yard
 outside Delwar's  shop and  barn to  watch the  smith through
 the open end of his three-sided stone shed; Flint enjoyed the

 smell  of smoke  and sweat  as Delwar  hammered hot  metal al-
 most  as  much as  he liked  the taffy  treats and  cool apple
 drinks the smith's robust wife would bring out to them.
   But  Delwar and  his wife  had long  since passed  away, and
 a  menacing,  seven-foot  high  stone  wall  had   been  built
 around  that  once-friendly  spot.  Someone  had  told  him  -
 Tybalt  perhaps  -  that a  "modern" forge  had been  built on
 the western edge  of town,  and Delmar's  had been  long aban-
 doned  until  the mountain  dwarves had  bought the  rights to
 its yard and forge as part of  their agreement  with Hillhome.
 The derro had built the wall,  which Flint  estimated enclosed
 a  thirty-by-twenty-yard  area.  There  was one  entrance into
 the  yard:  a  sturdy, wooden  ten-foot gate  stretched across
 the  southern  edge  along  Main  Street.  Flint saw  no guard
 posted  on  the outside,  but one  surely supervised  the gate
 from the inside.
   Flint strolled nonchalantly  down the  road, passing  by the
 walled  yard  with scarcely  a look,  focusing instead  on the
 ducks hanging so invitingly across the street in the butcher's
 window. After twenty  or so  yards the  wall turned  a corner.
 A  narrow  alley,  no  wider  than  would  allow  two  dwarves
 abreast, ran the length of the eastern  wall and  the opposite
 building. Flint continued his unhurried pace until he  was out
 of sight of Main Street. He covered the last ten yards  to the
 northeast  corner  in  a  sprint, since  the sun  was dropping
 lower. He could not waste another moment of light.
   The  newly built  wall had  no toeholds  of any  kind. Flint
 went around the  corner to  the northern  wall, but  the stone
 continued on for only five  feet before  the wall  joined with
 and  became  Delwar's  fifteen-foot-tall  barn  and blacksmith
 shop.
   A  skinny  oak  sapling  had  somehow  rooted itself  in the
 small alley. Flint knew it  would not  support his  weight. He
 looked  about  the  alley  desperately,  and farther  down his
 eyes came upon  a discarded  old rain  barrel, several  of its
 slats missing. He clomped up to it and turned it on  its side,
 testing its strength; not so  good, but  the bottom  was still
 solid and  there were  probably enough  slats left  to support
 him for a minute or so.

    Flint dragged the barrel to the corner  near the  sapling and
  stood it on its open top. End to end, the barrel was  nearly as
  tall as he and more than half the height of the  wall. Reaching
  nearly above his head, he  grabbed both  sides of  the barrel's
  metal  rim  and  tried to  haul himself  up. The  rotted barrel
  creaked  and  rocked  dangerously  toward  him.  He  could  get
  no leverage.
    Frowning,  Flint  considered the  sapling again.  Perhaps its
  lower  branches  were  sufficient  to  support  him  just  long
  enough  to  spring  onto the  barrel. He  pushed the  barrel so
  that it stood on his right, between the  sapling and  the wall.
  Hitching up his leather pant legs, he gingerly raised his right
  foot to rest on the strongest of the limbs, about two  feet off
  the  ground. Flint  took a  deep breath,  grabbed the  trunk of
  the  sapling  with both  hands, and  thrust himself  upward. It
  held  him  for  a  split  second,  and  then  he slid  down the
  scrawny trunk of the tree,  snapping every  little twig  on the
  way to the ground.
    Frustrated,  Flint  stroked  his beard  while he  thought. He
  tested the flexibility of the sapling's trunk and  decided that
  its green wood might bend. Taking it firmly  in his  left hand,
  he pushed  it toward  the ground  until it  was low  enough for
  him  to step  on. Counting  to three,  he launched  himself off
  the doubled-over tree,  hearing it  snap and  tear just  as his
  hands closed around the top of the  barrel and  he was  able to
  pull  himself  up.  With  one  more quick  spring, he  was atop
  the stone wall.  Flint dropped  the seven  feet to  the ground,
  landing alongside  the barn  and in  six inches  of mud  with a
  "splooch!"
    "You leave now!"
    Flint  nearly  jumped  out  of  his  boots, which  were stuck
  fast in the mud. He looked up in  the late-afternoon  light and
  espied a big dwarf standing a few  paces away.  His face  was a
  mask of fear, and he  appeared to  be dragging  a sack  full of
  black coal.
    "Garth!"  Flint  hissed,  both  relieved  and   dismayed.  He
  tried to wrestle his booted feet  from the  mud, but  the boots
  would  not  budge.  He  stopped  struggling  and  looked  up at
  Garth pleadingly.

   "Leave  me  alone!"  Garth  said fearfully,  turning away.
 "Why are you haunting me?"
   "Garth,"  Flint  began, trying  to calm  the harrn  before he
 drew attention, "I'm not the dwarf  you found  by the  forge -
 that  was my  brother, Aylmar.  You needn't  be afraid  of me.
 I'm Flint Fireforge, your friend."
   Garth looked at him suspiciously out of  the corners  of his
 eyes, hugging himself protectively. "You  promise to  stay out
 of  my  dreams  now?  I didn't  hurt you."  He shook  his head
 vigorously. "The humped  one sent  the blue  smoke, not  me. I
 just found you."
   "Garth,  it  wasn't me  - what  blue smoke?"  Flint asked,
 suddenly curious.
   "The blue smoke from the stone around his neck!"
   "Whose neck? A derro?"
   "Yes!  You  were  there,  why  are  you  asking  me?"  Garth
 said, angry and flustered by this line of questioning. "I have
 to go to work now. Get out of  here, or  he'll use  his magic,
 wherever he is!"
   With  that  warning,  Garth  hefted  the  sack,   but  Flint
 reached  out  to  stop  him.  "Garth,  you  mustn't  tell your
 bosses I was here again. Promise me, or I'll  - I'll  give you
 more bad dreams!"  Flint winced  at using  such a  cruel trick
 on the terrified harrn. Eyes wide with  dread, face  paler than
 death,  Garth  only  nodded  as  he  lumbered away  around the
 corner of the barn.
   Flint  tried  to  sort  through Garth's  strange mutterings.
 Was  he  merely  spouting  dreams  he'd  had,  ones  caused by
 finding  Aylmar's body,  or had  he been  the only  witness to
 some horrible deed?
   The  hill dwarf  moved to  take a  step and  remembered with
 a soft groan that he was still stuck in the mud.  Flint curled
 his  toes  and  tugged upward,  but his  boots were  buried so
 well  that  his feet  pulled out  instead. Wiggling  the high-
 topped leather boots  back and  forth with  his hands,  he fi-
 nally  managed  to  wrench  them  out  with  a   loud  sucking
 sound.  Each one  had to  weigh over  fifteen pounds  now, and
 he had neither water nor cloth nor grass  to clean  them with,
 since  the  entire  yard  was  churned to  mud. He  would move

 as quietly  as a  squad of  ogres with  these on.  Hardly the
 barefoot  type,  Flint  reluctantly set  them down  along the
 fence anyway, where he could grab them on his way out.
   Flint  poked his  head around  the corner  of the  barn and
 stole a glance at the  wagon yard.  It was  crisscrossed with
 deep, muddy  ruts. Two  of the  flat-bed mountain  dwarf wag-
 ons  were  standing  side-by-side,  their  buckboards pointed
 toward  Flint; he  saw no  guards. Tybalt  had said  that one
 wagon  was  always  coming  from  Thorbardin   while  another
 was returning, never in  tandem. So  which.wagon was  full of
 cargo and on its  way to  Newsea, and  which one  was return-
 ing to the mountain dwarf kingdom? Flint  knew he  had little
 time before the derro crew  awoke or  returned from  the tav-
 erns, and no time to choose wrongly.
   Suddenly he saw a derro emerge  from the  open side  of the
 blacksmithing  shop  in the  middle of  the north  wall, some
 ten yards to his right. The derro guard circled  both wagons,
 bending  down to  look under  the one  on the  left, farthest
 from the shop.
   "We should be  getting on  the road  within the  hour," the
 derro called toward the building. "I'm anxious to get back to
 Thorbardin.  Did  Berl  or  Sithus tell  you when  they'd re-
 turn?"
   "They always stagger back  at the  last minute,"  an uncon-
 cerned voice said  from the  depths of  the shop.  "You worry
 too  much.  Come  on  back and  catch a  few more  minutes of
 sleep before the long haul."
   "You're right," said the derro by the wagons,  striding to-
 ward  the  darkened  shed.  "Everything  looks  OK  out here,
 anyway. That idiot brought the coal for the forge, I  see, so
 at  least tomorrow's  crews won't  run short.  These mountain
 roads cause the wagons to break down too often."
   Flint could barely make out their  conversation as  it con-
 tinued in the shop for a  few more  minutes, then  died away.
 Soon he heard snoring.
   The  guard  had   looked  under   only  one   wagon;  Flint
 locked his gaze  on the  other one,  farthest from  the shop.
 Taking a cautious step around the  barn, Flint's  tender feet
 touched a  deep, cold  mud puddle,  and he  recoiled. Shaking

 globs from his feet, he decided to circle around to  the left,
 where  there  were  less  ruts. His  approach would  be hidden
 by the wagons.
   Forging through the mud, he came at last to the side  of the
 wagon.   The   sturdy   wooden   conveyance  rolled   on  four
 spoked iron  wheels that  were as  tall as  the cargo  box be-
 tween them, at least six  feet off  the ground,  and certainly
 way  above  the  stubby  dwarf's  head.  The  cargo   box  had
 wooden sides reinforced with thick bands of iron.
   The  dwarf  grabbed  onto  the front  right wheel  and began
 pulling himself up from one spoke to the next, until  he stood
 halfway up the massive iron  ring. His  chin just  crested the
 box, and he  saw that  the thick,  dirty canvas  was stretched
 tight over the top of the wagon. He struggled to untie  a cor-
 ner  of  the  canvas,  and  finally he  pulled enough  away to
 climb further up the spokes and crawl inside  the box.  It was
 surprisingly cramped, he noted as he looked around.
   Plows!  By  Reorx,  the  mountain  dwarves  were  indeed go-
 ing to great lengths to ship  plows! And  cheap ones  at that!
 Flint mouthed his astonishment silently.  The interior  of the
 wagon  held  five huge  iron plow-blades.  Each of  the blades
 looked uncorroded, as if it had been  freshly forged,  but the
 metal  was  pitted  and rough  from imperfections  of casting.
 They   should  be   embarrassed  to   have  anyone   see  such
 shoddy workmanship!
   This  was not  what Flint  had expected  to find.  Who cared
 if  the  mountain  dwarves'  notorious  greed allowed  them to
 lower their smithing standards? Flint was curled into  a pain-
 ful ball  to keep  his head  from bulging  the canvas,  but he
 shifted  onto  his  knees  now  and  hunkered  down  to think.
 Suddenly,  his   aching  back   produced  a   most  unexpected
 thought.
   Why was he bent double in a box  that was  at least  as tall
 as he? Unless it was two boxes, not  one, he  concluded excit-
 edly. He examined the floor  of the  wagon and  was frustrated
 in his attempt to find secret compartments.
   Flint poked his head out of the canvas  and looked  and lis-
 tened; the yard was still quiet. He lowered a foot  around the
 wheel and onto a spoke, then slipped down.

   Flint  dropped  from  the  wheel   and  crawled   under  the
 wagon, struggling to  balance in  the deep,  muddy ruts  as he
 slowly  inspected  the  underside  of  the  box.  Brushing mud
 away with  his fingertips,  Flint probed  each crack  with his
 carving knife.
   He  missed  it the  first time,  but as  he doubled  back he
 found  the  concealed  panel.  Mounted  between the  axles was
 a long rectangle made from two of the wagon's floorboards.
   Quickly Flint pried at the door, seeking  a latch.  His fin-
 gers  probed  and  prodded,  and then  he felt  the mechanism,
 hidden in a knothole. After a push of his  blade, he  felt the
 catch release; the narrow panel swung downward.
   He was so close!
   Praying  that  the  shadows under  the wagon  would conceal
 him a few moments longer, Flint raised his head into  the cav-
 ity  the  panel  had  revealed.  Spotting several  long wooden
 crates, he wasted no time in prying the nearest lid off, snap-
 ping the tip of his knife.
   But he paid no  attention to  his weapon  as the  wooden lid
 fell away. Instead he stared at a pair  of steel  longswords -
 weapons of  exceptional quality,  he could  tell at  a glance;
 these were not  like the  pitted plows  above. He  snapped an-
 other  box  open,  finding  a  dozen  steel  spearheads, razor
 sharp  and  wickedly  barbed. He  did not  have time  to check
 any more boxes, but he knew that there was no need.
   Weapons!  And  not  just  any weapons,  but blades  of supe-
 rior craftsmanship, excellent quality. The steel  gleamed with
 purity, proving it to be expensive and rare.
   But they were  without craftsman's  marks, no  artist's sig-
 nature.   Wherever   the  arms   were  headed,   the  mountain
 dwarves  wanted  their  origin  to  remain  a  secret.  Nearly
 every day for at least  a year,  a wagon  full of  weapons had
 left  Thorbardin  for  some  unknown  shore.  What  nation  on
 Krynn needed so many weapons?
   Only war required such numbers.
      The answers Flint had sought left only more questions.
 Had Aylmar  learned of  this before  he died?  Flint swallowed
 a lump in his throat  as he  remembered Garth's  mutterings of
 a  "humped  one  and  magical  blue  smoke."  Had  Aylmar died

 because of what he had stumbled upon?
   Heart pounding, Flint dropped back to the ground and
 was preparing  to dash  for the  south wall  when a  heavy boot
 crushed his left hand into the mud.
   "You  didn't  know  half-derro  could  see in  daylight, eh?"
 Flint looked  up slowly  from under  the wagon  and saw  a der-
 ro  standing  above him,  leering. Flint  shifted his  eyes and
 saw  that,  for  now,  the  guard  was  alone.   Desperate,  he
 grabbed the derro's ankle with  his free  hand and  tugged with
 all his might.  The surprised  mountain dwarf  slid in  the mud
 and  dropped, hard,  on his  back, knocking  the wind  from his
 lungs. Flint could get no traction, so he pulled himself up by
 the  other  one's  elbows  and  pierced  the  thrashing derro's
 windpipe with one quick slash  of his  carving knife.  The der-
 ro stopped struggling.
   Flint  looked  around  quickly,  then  back  under  the wagon
 toward the shop. He could see one  figure shifting  uneasily in
 the  shadows,  calling  out  the  dead  derro's name.  He would
 come looking for his friend any minute.
   Flint  looked at  the surrounding  walls bathed  in twilight,
 including where he  had entered  the yard  and his  boots still
 lay. He had no barrel and sapling to help  him over  the seven-
 foot  barrier  now.  He  looked  to the  vast wooden  gate, di-
 rectly  opposite  the  shop,  the  wagons  obscuring  his view.
 Though  closed,  the  gate  was made  of closely  spaced rails.
 His boots  would never  have fit  in the  spaces, but  his bare
 toes  might... He  had to  make the  fifteen-yard dash  to that
 gate.
   Keeping low, Flint ran as fast as he could, keeping  his eyes
 on the ruts that threatened to trip him.  He hurled  himself at
 the  gate  and  jammed  his  toes into  the spaces  between the
 rails.
   "Hey!"
   The cry came from behind him. Heart pumping wildly,
 Flint hauled  himself up  the gate  by sheer  desperation. Bal-
 anced  on  his  stomach  across  the  top of  the gate,  he was
 swinging his right leg up to prepare to leap off when  the gate
 underneath  him  swept  open.   Flint  looked   down  anxiously
 and saw that two  of the  guards were  returning from  the tav-

 erns, staggering and laughing, oblivious to Flint  clinging to
 the top of the gate above them.
   But the  guard from  the shop  was yelling  a warning  as he
 ran to the gate. His cohorts looked up in time to see the hill
 dwarf's exhilarated expression  as he  threw himself  from the
 top  of the  gate and  crashed into  them. Their  bodies broke
 his fall, and they  were scattered  like bowling  pins, taking
 the other guard down with them. Flint jumped  to his  feet un-
 hurt. The  stunned derro  could only  shake their  foggy heads
 as the barefoot hill dwarf cut  left on  Main Street  and tore
 down the road and out of sight.

                         Chapter 6
                      Hasty Departure

      Flint deliberately avoidea the village, leading his
 muddy  trail  away  from  the  Fireforge  home.  He  would  not
 be able  to explain  his appearance  to his  family -  from his
 head  to  his  toes  he  was   mud-caked  and   spattered  with
 blood.  His  mind  was  in  a  tumult, and  he needed  to think
 things out before he could face anyone with his suspicions.
  His tender bare feet  cold and  sore, Flint  set out  into the
 eastern hills just south of the pass. Using steel and flint, he
 made a fire in the seclusion of a small cave  that had  a moun-
 tain stream trickling past it. He stripped off every  stitch of
 his dirty clothing and washed it  by hand  in the  ice-cold wa-
 ter, laying it out to dry on rocks around  the fire.  The tired
 old hill dwarf  splashed his  face, scrubbed  the mud  from his

  hair, and then, unclothed, he returned to sit by the fire, star-
  ing without thoughts into the flames for a very long time.
    Flint's  blue-green cotton  tunic dried  quickly, and  when he
  slipped it over  his head,  he was  glad for  the long  hem that
  dropped  to  his  knees.  His  leather  pants  would  take  much
  more time to dry. And he dearly missed his boots.
    His   stomach  rumbled   now,  reminding   him  that   he  had
  not  eaten  since  that  morning. Noticing  fish in  the shallow
  stream,  he knelt  beside the  water and  pushed up  his sleeve.
  He  dipped  his hand  in, slowly  herding an  unsuspecting rain-
  bow trout  to where  he could  raise his  hand quickly  and flip
  the fish onto  the shore.  It took  him four  painstaking tries,
  but finally a small  trout, yet  a good  seven inches  long, was
  flopping around on the sandy cave floor. Flint quickly  slit its
  silvery belly  with his  carving knife,  cleaned it,  then skew-
  ered  the  fish  on  a  sharpened  stick.  He  remembered seeing
  some berries on  his way  to the  cave, and  while the  fish was
  roasting  over  the  flames,  he  picked  two  handfuls  of  red
  raspberries by the light of the waxing moon.
    Only  after  his  stomach  was  full  of  succulent  fish  and
  sweet berries did  he feel  capable of  thinking at  all. Though
  he had  only the  ramblings of  a simpleton  to support  the be-
  lief, Flint  knew in  his gut  that Aylmar  must have  been mur-
  dered,  and  likely  because he  knew the  true contents  of the
  mountain  dwarves'  wagons.  He  had  killed  one  of  the derro
  on instinct  - but  on what  evidence? The  word of  the village
  idiot?  Though  his  family  might believe  him, he  would still
  be  imprisoned,  causing  great  humiliation  and  the ruination
  of  the  Fireforge  name  in   Hillhome.  What   bothered  Flint
  more, though,  was that  from jail  he would  be unable  to dis-
  cover Aylmar's killer and avenge his brother's death.
    Flint  was  determined  to do  both, or  die trying.  He would
  keep his suspicions  to himself,  until he  had evidence  no one
  could refute.

 * * * * *

    "This is a fine example you set for the family!" grumbled a
  harsh voice from the barn door when Flint arrived on the
  front  lawn  the  next  morning.  He  had  spent a  fitful night

 sleeping  in  the cave  before setting  out at  dawn, circling
 around  the  south  side of  the village  to reach  the family
 home. Ruberik was in a huff, his milking  pail in  hand. "Dis-
 appear  all  night  and  then  come staggering  home -  a dis-
 grace, that's what it is!"
   Flint's feet were blistered and cold, and he had no patience
 left.  "Listen, Brother,"  he growled,  fixing Ruberik  with a
 glare  that  halted  him  in  his tracks.  "I don't  know what
 branch  of  the  family  could  produce  such  a  tight-faced,
 sneering, pompous sourpuss of a hill dwarf as yourself!"
   Ruberik's eyes bugged out of his  head, and  he was  too as-
 tonished  to  reply  before  Flint continued.  "Whatever quirk
 of  nature   made  you   my  brother,   you  are   my  younger
 brother  and  you've  taken  too  much  advantage  of  my good
 nature.  Now,  I've  had enough  of your  self-important proc-
 lamations.  You  have  no idea  where I've  been or  what I've
 been doing, so I'll expect you to keep your opinions  to your-
 self and show some respect to your elders!"
   Ruberick's  ruddy  face  turned ruddier  still, and  he spun
 about on his heel, clanging his milking  can against  the barn
 door's frame  in his  haste to  leave. Sighing  heavily, Flint
 stepped  into  the  house  and  was  thinking  about  grinding
 some  chicory  root  to make  a hot  morning cup  when Bertina
 scurried out from the depths of  the house  and set  about the
 task herself.
   She gave Flint an appraising glance,  but kept  her opinions
 to herself. "Out a bit  late, weren't  you?" She  glanced down
 at his bare, red feet. "I'll bet Aylmar's old boots  would fit
 you if you're needing a pair," she offered tactfully.  She was
 unfazed. Without  waiting for  an answer,  she fetched  a pair
 of boots very like his own lost  ones from  the depths  of the
 house.
   Flint slipped them on  gratefully. They  were a  little big,
 which  was  good  now, considering  his swollen  feet. "Thanks
 Berti," he said softly, "for the boots... and for not asking."
   His  sister-in-law  knew  what  he  meant and  nodded, beat-
 ing some eggs in  a bowl.  They ate  a breakfast  of scrambled
 eggs,  buttered  bread  with jam,  and pungent  chicory. Flint
 was  about  to  offer  to help  clean up  when the  front door

 burst  open  and  Tybalt stormed  in, holding  a pair  of mud-
 caked boots under his arm.
   The  young  dwarf  was  clearly  agitated  as  he approached
 Flint.  'You  recognize  these?" he  asked, holding  the muddy
 boots up. He looked at Flint's feet.  "Those are  Aylmar's old
 ones! I knew these were yours!"
   "Good  morning  to  you, too,  Brother," Flint  said, trying
 hard  to  sound  nonchalant.  He had  not thought  about being
 traced by his boots! He took a sip of hot chicory and tried to
 keep his hand from shaking.
   "Don't  'good  morning'  me!"  Tybalt  cried,  slamming  his
 fist to  the table.  "What were  you up  to, anyway?  And what
 possessed  you  to  leave  your  boots  behind?"   Tybalt  was
 working himself into a frenzy.
   "What  in  heavens  are  you  talking about,  Tybalt?" asked
 Bertina, handing him a cup of the hot drink.
   He waved  it away  in exasperation.  "It seems  our visiting
 brother took  a  trip  through  the  mountain   dwarves'  wagon
 yard yesterday. They found his muddy boots by the barn."
   Tybalt began to pace before Flint. "That's not the  worst of
 it.  When  I  showed  up  at  the  constabulary for  work this
 morning, I  was told  a derro  had been  stabbed to  death and
 that  the  murderer  had  left  behind his  boots! I  began to
 laugh,  but  then  I  nearly  choked  when  I  saw  them,"  he
 snarled, his hands clenching into fists.
   Tybalt  squinted  at  Flint. "They  have a  good description
 of you, too! The guards  you jumped  got a  good look  at your
 face before you fled. Of course,  the description  could match
 practically anyone - except for the boots."
   He  resumed  pacing,  his hands  behind his  uniformed back.
 "And  then  there's  Garth...  he  heard  the  description and
 began  jabbering  some  nonsense   about  Aylmar   being  back
 from the dead to give  him bad  dreams. Fortunately,  the der-
 ro don't pay much attention to the village idiot,  but there's
 some folk who know  that he's  got you  all confused  with our
 late eldest brother!"
   "Tybalt! I won't have you calling that poor harrn such
 things in this house," Bertina scolded him. "Garth is per-
 fectly pleasant.  He just  got caught  between the  hammer and

 the anvil once too often, is all," she finished softly.
   "Bertina,  who  cares  about  Garth?"  Tybalt  shouted. "Flint
 murdered a derro in the wagon yard!"
   "Aren't  you  convicting  me  without  even  asking if  I did
 it?" asked Flint.
   "Well, did you?" a hesitant Tybalt demanded.
   "Would it matter?" Flint asked cagily.
   "Of  course it  would!" Tybalt  sank into  a chair  and tugged
 at his beard in agitation.  "Don't you  see the  position you're
 putting  me  in  -  and  me  with  my  promotion  coming  up!  I
 should  hand  you over  to Mayor  Holden. I  should, and  I just
 might!"
   Flint  looked  at  him squarely.  "Do what  you must,  but you
 said  yourself that  the description  could fit  practically any
 dwarf   in  Hillhome.   Why  don't   you  just   pretend  you've
 never seen those particular boots before?"
   Tybalt  looked  like  he was  being pulled  in two  pieces. "I
 can't  do  that! I  know those  boots are  yours, and  I'm sworn
 to uphold the law, no matter who breaks it!"
   "Who  says  the  killer  wore  those boots?"  Flint suggested.
 "Perhaps  they  were  thrown  into  the   wagon  yard   by  some
 cruel  young  harrns  playing a  trick on  an old  dwarf sleeping
 off an excess of spirits."
   "Is  that  what  happened?" Tybalt  asked eagerly,  sitting up
 straight.
   "Do you really want to know, Tybalt?"
   Tybalt's  eyes  closed,  and  he shook  his head  quickly. He
 combed  the  fingers  of  both hands  through his  thinning dark
 hair. "I shouldn't even think of doing  this," he  began through
 gritted teeth, "but if you leave town, at least until this blows
 over,  I'll  forget about  the boots."  He frowned  into Flint's
 face.  "You  don't  seem  to  care  about  your  own  fate,  but
 please consider that the rest of us chose  to live  in Hillhome,
 even  if  you  don't  think  our lives  are very  interesting or
 worthwhile!"
   "Stop  it!"  snapped  Bertina  to  Tybalt,  as the  muscles in
 Flint's  jaw  tightened.  "Are  you a  human or  a dwarf?  I de-
 clare,   sometimes   you  and   your  ambitions   embarrass  me,
 Tybalt!"

    "Thanks, Berti,"  Flint said  faintly, a  hand on  her fleshy
  arm, "but Tybalt's right  - I  don't want  to bring  shame down
  on the family. I'll leave right away." He fetched his  pack and
  axe from a small storage room behind the kitchen.
    Smiling  in relief,  Tybalt stepped  up to  Flint as  the old
  dwarf  adjusted his  backpack. "I'm  sorry about  this, really.
  It's nothing personal.  No hard  feelings?" he  said, thrusting
  his hand toward Flint.
    His brother considered the  beefy hand  with its  stubby fin-
  gers,  then  turned  away.  "You're  a hypocrite,  Tybalt Fire-
  forge, and the worst  kind for  asking me  to help  you pretend
  you're being saintly instead of selfish."
    Tybalt leaped back as if struck.  "But you  said I  was right
  about you leaving!"
    Flint gave him a  pitying smile.  "You are,  but not  for the
  reasons  you  think."  He  shook  his head  and then  turned to
  Bertina,  anxious to  be done  with Tybalt.  He could  hear his
  brother rushing out of the house behind him.
    Flint's sister-in-law stood mute, tears filling her eyes. Her
  face  glowed  a  bright  crimson  that  paled all  her previous
  blushes.  "You  can tell  me, Flint.  Why would  you do  such a
  terrible thing?"  she asked,  but there  was no  harsh judgment
  in her voice.
    Flint  felt he  owed her,  wife of  his murdered  brother, as
  much of the truth as he dared. "It  was self-defense,"  he said
  vaguely, measuring his words.
    Bertina  brightened  through  her  tears.  "Then   why  don't
  you stay and tell the mayor that? He'll  take your  word over
  those of the derro!"
    "Do you  think so,  if it  meant he  would lose  the mountain
  dwarves' trade?" Flint shook his head. "No, it's not  that sim-
  ple,  Berti."  He  hugged  her  awkwardly  and  headed  for the
  door.
    "Were are you going?"
    "I don't know," Flint  said evasively.  "But don't  worry, Ber-
  tina,  I'll  be  back some  day.... Soon.  Say good-bye  to ev-
  eryone  for  me."  She  slipped a  sack full  of food  into his
  hands, brushed a kiss across his bristly cheek, then  fled into
  her room at the back of the house.

   Flint stood in the  sorrowful silence  a moment  and looked
 around his family's home one  last time.  He wished  he could
 have settled things  with Basalt,  said good-bye  to Bernhard
 and his sisters - the saucy Fidelia, and naive Glynnis  - but
 they were at work in the town. Ruberik was  out in  the barn,
 he knew, but he could not bring himself to offer  an explana-
 tion  for  his  departure  and  face  the  inevitable tongue-
 lashings.  So,  he  tucked his  shiny axe  into his  belt and
 walked out the door.
   Flint did not notice the small shadow  that cut  across his
 path. Nor  did he  see that  anyone was  following him  as he
 stomped through the hills to the southwest of Hillhome.
   The  hill  dwarf  was  too  preoccupied  with  finding  his
 brother's  murderer  to notice  anything, for  he was  on his
 way to the vast dwarven city of Thorbardin.

                   Chapter 7

                 A Kingdom Of
                    Darkness

     The Kharolis Mountains were not the tallest range
 upon the face  of Krynn,  nor the  most extensive.  They did
 not  contain  smoldering  volcanoes  such  as  the  Lords of
 Doom in Sanction to the north, or  the great  glaciers found
 in the Icewall range. The ruggedness of the range's individ-
 ual  valleys  and  peaks,  however,  could be  surpassed no-
 where on the continent of Ansalon.
  Sheer  canyon  walls  dropped  thousands  of feet  into nar-
 row, twisting  gorges. Streams  poured with  chaotic abandon
 from the heights, slashing their way deeper and  deeper into
 jagged  channels  of  rock, engraving  their mark  with each
 passing day.  Trees survived  only on  the lower  slopes and
 valleys; most of  the Kharolis  range was  too rough  or too

 high to  support anything  more than  sparse patches  of moss
 and lichen.
   The  crests  of the  range never  lost their  snowcaps, the
 hanging teeth of which descended as glaciers into  the circu-
 lar basins of the heights. These twisted and turned  in every
 direction before finally coming to rest  in the  frigid blue-
 green waters of the high lakes.
   The landscape  of the  Kharolis Mountains,  inhospitable in
 the  extreme,  was  the  home  of  a  populous   kingdom  and
 thriving culture that dwelled there quite  comfortably, since
 its members rarely saw the landscape above them.
   They were the dwarves of Thorbardin.
   Thorbardin was a powerful dwarven stronghold, con-
 taining  seven  teeming  cities and  an extensive  network of
 roads  and  subterranean  farming   warrens.  The   whole  of
 Thorbardin  covered  an  area  more  than  twenty  miles long
 and fourteen miles wide.
   Toiling  in  their  vast  underground  domain,  the dwarves
 paid little attention  to occurrences  on the  surface world.
 They had enough space  and enough  intrigue in  their subter-
 ranean lairs to last them many centuries.
   At the heart of Thorbardin lay  the Urkhan  Sea. Not  a sea
 at all, it was actually an underground  lake some  five miles
 long. Cable-drawn boats crisscrossed the lake in an intricate
 network, linking most of the cities of the dwarven  realm. In
 the center of the sea was the most amazing  city of  all: the
 Life Tree of the Hylar. Twenty-eight  levels of  dwarven city
 were carved within a huge stalactite that  hung from  the ca-
 vern roof to dip below the surface of the sea.
   Thorbardin  drew  its  food  supply  from three  great war-
 rens. These  massive caverns  devoted to  sunless agriculture
 were  capable  of producing  huge crops  of fungus  and mold-
 based food.  Each warren  was shared  by several  cities, but
 individual food plots were jealously guarded.
   Despite its size, Thorbardin was historically  connected to
 the surface world by only two gates, at  the north  and south
 boundaries  of  the  kingdom.  The  Northgate  had  been  de-
 stroyed  by  the  Cataclysm.   The  dwarves   had  withdrawn,
 into   their   underground   domain,  sealed   the  Southgate

 against every  form of  attack they  could imagine,  and turned
 their backs on the world.
   Although   considered   one   kingdom   by   outsiders,   the
 mountain  dwarves  of  Thorbardin  actually  consisted   of  no
 less than four identifiable clans, or  nations: the  Hylar, the
 Theiwar,  Daewar,  and  the  Daergar. Each  of these  was ruled
 by a thane, and each had its own interests, goals,  even racial
 tendencies.
   Thorbardin's  schisms  were  aggravated  by  the  absence  of
 one  true  monarch  to  rule  the kingdom  as a  whole. Accord-
 ing   to   ancient  legend,   Thorbardin  would   become  truly
 united   only   when   one   thane   obtained  the   Hammer  of
 Kharas.  That  ancient  artifact,  named  for  the  greatest of
 dwarven  heroes,  had  been missing  for centuries.  Untold ef-
 fort, treasure, and  lives had  been expended,  fruitlessly, in
 attempts to locate it.
   Without  the  hammer  to  unite  them,  the  nations  of  the
 dwarven  kingdom  struggled  against  each  other.  Spies  were
 sent to observe the activities of rival thanes. Treasure stores
 were  jealously  watched, because  riches -  particularly steel
 and gems - were a traditional measure of dwarven status.
   The  Hylar,  the  eldest  of the  mountain dwarf  races, were
 the  traditional masters  of Thorbardin.  Their might  had been
 severely  taxed  by  the  Dwarfgate  Wars,   however,  allowing
 other  nations  to  gain  increased  prominence.  Most  notable
 among  these   was  the   Theiwar  clan,   made  up   of  derro
 dwarves and controlled by their magic-using savants.
   The derro, paler  complected and  of slightly  larger stature
 than  their  Hylar cousins,  lived in  the northern  portion of
 Thorbardin.  They  practiced  dark  magic  and   were  regarded
 with  superstitious  awe  by  other dwarves.  They had  a well-
 earned  reputation  for  treachery,  betrayal,   and  sorcerous
 manipulation.    Other    mountain   dwarves    regarded   them
 with fear and extreme distrust.
   It  was the  derro Theiwar  who had  excavated a  new, secret
 exit  from  northern  Thorbardin, allowing  them to  send their
 wagons  of  weapons  to the  sea without  the knowledge  of the
 other  clans.  Wealth was  power, and  the Theiwar  intended to
 be very powerful, indeed.

 * * * * *

  The  great  throne  room  gave  an  impression  of  unlimited
 space, like a wide clearing beneath  a silent,  nighttime sky.
 Tall  columns  stood  around  the  periphery  of  the chamber,
 rising  into  the  darkness  like  massive  tree  trunks.  Low
 torches flickered in a hundred  locations, cloaking  the cham-
 ber in a warm, yellow light.
  The  vast  chamber,  nevertheless,  lay  more  than  a  thou-
 sand feet below the  surface of  Krynn. Great  halls, shielded
 by  massive  steel-and-gold  doors, led  from the  throne room
 to all parts of Theiwar  City. A  hundred dwarves  stood alert
 at the various doors, clad  in gleaming  plate mail  and armed
 with axes or crossbows.
  Now  one  of  these  doors  swung slowly  open, and  a hunch-
 backed   dwarf   entered  the   chamber.  His   long,  bronze-
 colored  robe  rustled   along  the   floor  behind   him.  He
 hastened toward the center of the room.
  There,  Thane  Realgar  rested   quite  comfortably   in  the
 massive  throne, his  boots extended  and crossed  before him.
 The ruler was an old  dwarf, with  white streaking  his yellow
 beard  and  long,  loose-flowing  hair.   He  had   ruled  the
 Theiwar clan  for many  decades. Most  of the  routine matters
 of the clan were handled by his chief adviser, so that Realgar
 could devote his  own energies  to the  search for  the Hammer
 of  Kharas.  He  regarded  any business  not relating  to that
 hammer as bothersome.
  Realgar's  personal  bodyguards  stood  to  either   side  of
 him:  a  pair  of  hideous  gargoyles  poised   like  watching
 statues.  They  perched,  absolutely  motionless   except  for
 their  eyes,  which  followed  the  hunchbacked  derro  as  he
 advanced.  The  gargoyles'  skin  was  a rough-hewn  gray, in-
 distinguishable  from  stone.  Their  leathery  wings,  of the
 same  color,  spread  like menacing,  clawed hands  behind the
 throne.  Their  faces  were   vaguely  human,   accented  with
 sharp fangs, tiny, wicked eyes,  and a  pair of  twisted horns
 growing from their foreheads.
  The  hunchback   reached  the   throne,  and   the  gargoyles
 suddenly  hissed.  They  flapped their  wings once  and sprang

  forward to stand to the left and right of the thane. Extending
  clawed  fingers  before  them  and  noiselessly  working their
  jaws,  they  stood in  mute warning  as the  hunchbacked dwarf
  bowed obsequiously.
    "Ah, Pitrick, it is good of you to return to my  city," said
  the thane of the Theiwar.
    "How did you fare at  the council  of thanes?"  inquired the
  adviser.
    "Bah!" The thane  clapped his  fist into  his palm.  "It was
  one Hylar treachery after another! They  seek to  entangle the
  Daewar  in an  alliance, and  always to  cut us  out!" Realgar
  leaned  forward then,  a conspiratorial  smile upon  his lips.
  He lowered his voice. "But, my dear adviser, I think  they are
  beginning  to fear  us!" The  leader of  the Theiwar  placed a
  stubby finger to his bearded  lips. "Now,  tell me  how things
  fared in my short absence?"
    "You will be pleased," Pitrick offered  eagerly. "Production
  has  nearly  doubled and  promises to  further improve.  So it
  is,  too,  with  the number  of wagons  running. We  have very
  nearly reached the desired levels of transport."
    "Splendid." The thane turned  his attention  to a  scroll in
  his lap, signaling Pitrick's dismissal.
    The adviser coughed  slightly. "There  is one  other matter,
  Excellency."  The  thane  looked up  in surprise  and gestured
  for him to continue.
    Pitrick  shifted uncomfortably,  nagged by  the pain  in his
  crippled foot. "It seems that one of our drivers was  slain in
  Hillhome. The murderer, a hill  dwarf, escaped."  Pitrick took
  a breath. "We  have reason  to believe  that this  dwarf broke
  into  the  wagons  and  discovered  the  nature  of  our ship-
  ments."
    "When did  this happen?"  The thane's  voice was  quiet, al-
  most bored.
    "Several days ago.  I received  word from  one of  the driv-
  ers not two hours past."
    Gold chains clinked slightly, their  heavy links  sliding as
  the  thane  leaned  forward. Realgar's  sacklike robe  of deep
  blue  ponderously  swathed  the  throne  around  him.  Indeed,
  whenever he chose to  walk he  required several  attendants to

 carry the massive train.
   "Solve the problem quickly,"  said the  thane, his  voice still
 lazy and bored.  "You have  opened the  route for  us, and  it is
 your responsibility to keep it both open, and secret."
   "Of  course,  Excellency,"  Pitrick  bowed  deeply,  using  the
 gesture to  hide the  smile that  creased his  thin lips.  By the
 time  he  straightened,  his expression  was again  a featureless
 mask. "I shall see to the task at once. I have  but one  favor to
 ask of Your-Greatness."
   "And what is that?" Realgar asked absently.
   "We must strengthen the guard at the tunnel," explained
 Pitrick.  "Increase  both  the  number  and  the  quality  of the
 troops we have there."
   "Specifically?"
   "The  Thane's  Guard,"  Pitrick  supplied  quickly.  "They  are
 the  most  reliable  of your  troops, and  they will  perform the
 task  alertly.  I'll  need  two dozen  of your  guard and  a good
 captain...."
   The thane squinted. "You would have a captain in mind,
 of course?"
    Pitrick smiled thinly. "Indeed, Excellency. I believe Perian
 Cyprium is just the officer for the task."
   "There wouldn't be another reason you have selected
 her?" asked the thane.
   Pitrick  coughed  again,  bowing  his  head  modestly.  Staring
 at his adviser's bristling  yellow hair,  the thane  pondered for
 a moment.  Perian was  a good,  loyal captain,  one of  his best.
 Both  of her  parents had  served him  well before  their deaths.
 She  would  not  be  happy  with  the  assignment  -  her disgust
 for the  adviser was  as well  known as  Pitrick's lust  for her.
 The  thane  himself  found  Pitrick  distasteful,  but  he keenly
 appreciated the savant's power and insight.
   Besides  which,  Pitrick  was  the  architect  of  the arrange-
 ment  with  Sanction.  His  diplomatic  and magical  skills could
 prove  the  key  to  all  of the  Theiwar's future  grandeur. The
 thane  considered  him  indispensable  if   the  nation   was  to
 achieve  the glory  that was  its rightful  destiny. Thus  it was
 that  Realgar  had  no  real  difficulty assessing  Pitrick's re-
 quest.

   "Very  well.  I  shall  put Captain  Cyprium under  your or-
 ders,  effective immediately.  We will  double the  guard, for
 now.
   "And as for Hillhome," concluded the  thane, "that  will re-
 quire  some  thought.  The  hill dwarves'  ungrateful attitude
 and perpetual greed are beginning to annoy me."
   Pitrick bowed to conceal his smile.

 * * * * *

   Perian  marched  purposefully  through  the second  level of
 the city, preparing  to climb  to the  third level,  where she
 knew  she  would  find  Pitrick,  the thane's  hunchbacked ad-
 viser. In her gut she fought a crawling sensation that threat-
 ened to overwhelm her with disgust.
   She  had  been  fending  off  Pitrick's odious  advances for
 several  years  a  summons  that  required  her  to  call upon
 the adviser in his apartments put her at a  distinct disadvan-
 tage. Still, the thane had ordered her to see the adviser, and
 her duty was to obey.
   The only child of her generation in a  long line  of dwarven
 warriors,  Perian  had  buckled  on  armor  and  taken  up the
 sword when it was her turn to follow in the  family tradition.
 Her father, mother - until Perian's birth - and uncles had all
 served with merit in the thane's House  Guard. That  elite le-
 gion, dedicated  to the  racial supremacy  of the  derro, com-
 prised the most trusted of the Theiwar troops.
   Perian  had  proven adept  both at  the physical  aspects of
 combat  and  at  the  mental  challenges  of  command,  rising
 quickly  through  the  ranks  of  the  thane's  personal body-
 guard.   Now   she   commanded   the   House   Guard,  proudly
 taking her place with the four or  five highest  ranking offi-
 cers in the thane's service.
   Thane  Realgar,  she  knew,  was the  most powerful  king in
 all  Thorbardin,  mainly  because  the magical  abilities many
 Theiwar  possessed gave  him an  edge. Vicariously,  she ought
 to take some pride in that status. Instead, she  admitted only
 to herself, she felt a slight tinge of guilt and discomfort.
   Perhaps  it  was  because,  unlike   most  of   the  Theiwar
 dwarves  -  the inhabitants  of Thane  Realgar's two  cities -

  she  was  only  half  derro.  Full derro  always found  a savage
  glee in the dark side of things. But the other half of her dwar-
  ven  ancestry could  be traced  to the  Hylar dwarves,  and Per-
  ian  often  wondered  if  that  aspect  did  not   dominate  her
  private personality.
    She was  innately distrustful  of magic,  and Pitrick  was the
  most  powerful  savant,  or  mage,   among  the   Theiwar:  gro-
  tesque,   malicious,   and   deceitful.  His   undeniable  magic
  power  was  just  the  surface  manifestation  of  many unpleas-
  ant  features.  There  was also  the matter  of his  leering and
  rude sexual proposals, stopping just short of brute force.
    Unfortunately,  she  could  not afford  to be  entirely indif-
  ferent to  him. She  reflected, with  her usual  frustration, on
  the tangled hold Pitrick had over her life.
    Perian's  father  and  mother had  also been  loyal, decorated
  soldiers in  the thane's  troop of  Huscarles, or  House Guards.
  When  Perian  was  born,  her  mother  retired from  active duty
  and  devoted herself  to raising  her only  child. She  had been
  indulgent to Perian, and  often wistful  around the  child. Per-
  ian's father, on the  other hand,  had been  emotionally distant
  from  both  of them  - a  proper dwarf  soldier, Perian  had al-
  ways  thought.  Given  her  family,   she  had   encountered  no
  difficulty joining the House Guard  - about  ten percent  of its
  troopers were female -  or rising  quickly to  the rank  of ser-
  geant. That was  when Pitrick,  the oily  adviser to  the thane,
  had first entered her life.
    He had confronted  her with  evidence of  her true  origin, in
  the form of letters from  her mother  to a  Hylar soldier  - her
  mother's secret lover. According to Pitrick, that  illicit union
  had  produced  Perian.  As  far  as  she was  aware, no  one but
  her, her mother, and Pitrick knew that she  was neither  a full-
  blooded  derro  nor  the  daughter  of  the  bold  warrior whose
  reputation was known  far and  wide. It  was true  that Perian's
  ruddy skin and  auburn hair  were slightly  unusual for  a full-
  blooded  derro.  It  was equally  true that  the House  Guard of
  the Theiwar  required its  members to  be racially  pure. Perian
  dreaded the day  Pitrick would  use his  information as  the ul-
  timate  blackmail.  Perian  had  no way  to confirm  her circum-
  stances  of  birth.  But  she  had  to admit  the sample  of her

 mother's  handwriting  was  genuine  and, as  the rank  of cap-
 tain  loomed  before her,  this information  had placed  her in
 Pitrick's power. So  far, she  had always  managed to  call the
 adviser's bluff  without goading  him into  action, but  he was
 too unstable and dangerous to be taken for granted.
   Many  times  Perian  had  wondered  whether  her  father  was
 naturally  distant,  or  whether  he  had suspected  the truth.
 She  wished  her mother  had never  written those  letters, had
 not  been so  foolish, just  as she  often pondered  how power-
 ful  an  emotion  love  could  be,  to  make  someone  like her
 mother risk everything.
   Eventually  she  reached the  lift that  would take  her into
 the noble's quarters, high in the upper level of the city. Pit-
 rick was no  noble by  birth, but  as adviser  to the  thane he
 was  considered  the  second  most   important  dwarf   in  the
 Theiwar  city. An iron  cage  descended  to  meet  her  now,  and
 she  stepped  inside.  With a  steady clanking,  the chain-and-
 pulley  mechanism  carried her  up for  a hundred  feet through
 a hollow column in the mountain.
   When  it  stopped  she stepped  onto the  terrace of  the no-
 ble's  plaza.  Perian  ignored  the view  over the  wall, where
 much  of  the  underground Theiwar  city could  be seen  in its
 splendor  -  the  neatly  squared  streets,  high  walls, thick
 columns,  houses  and shops,  blanketing the  floor of  the ca-
 vern. She strode to the doors and was instantly admitted.
   She was  greeted by  a disfigured,  cloaked servant,  but his
 master  quickly  came  into   the  antechamber   and  viciously
 sent  the  servant  scurrying  away.  As  always,   the  hunch-
 back's stare discomforted her.
   "Good  news,"  said Pitrick,  clapping his  hands delightedly
 together.  "You  are  assigned  to   me,  now   -  I   am  your
 commander!"
   Perian felt a chill of apprehension  shiver along  her spine.
 "In  what  capacity?" she  asked, forcing  her voice  to remain
 level.
   "We  are  increasing  the guards  at the  mouth of  the wagon
 tunnel!  Come  now,  don't  pretend surprise.  You know  of its
 existence.  You will  be placed  in command."  Pitrick's sparse
 beard could  not hide  his leer.  The hump  on his  back forced

 him  to  bend  forward,  and thus  he was  always looking  up at
 her.
   "I prefer to remain with my  old billet,  the training  of the
 guard," she objected.
   Pitrick  leaned  closer,  his  dank  breath moist  against her
 face. "I grow tired of  your game,  my dear.  Keep in  mind that
 I could have you ruined with a single word!"
   "Then do it!" Perian shot back.
   With a sneer, Pitrick stepped  away and  looked her  up and
 down.  "You  know  me  too  well,  dear  girl. Still,  perhaps I
 shall,  someday.  Perhaps I  shall, if  you continue  baiting me
 this  way,"  Perian  noted,  his hand  clasping the  iron amulet
 that always hung  from his  neck. Blue  light began  seeping be-
 tween his fingers.
   "You  will  do  good   work  for   me,"  the   hunchback  said
 softly. Perian's head grew light, and she  was surprised  at the
 musical  pleasantness  of  his  voice.  Perhaps  she   had  mis-
 judged him.
   The  blue  light  grew  stronger,  occluding her  vision until
 only Pitrick's face loomed. She felt his hot breath  against her
 face. Her soldier's training  told her,  dimly, that  she should
 resist. She felt Pitrick's hand reach around to the back  of her
 mail shirt.  His breath,  heavy with  nut fungus,  pressed moist
 and smelly around her face.
   Suddenly  her  head  jerked  upward. Her  left hand  shot for-
 ward,  knocking  the  amulet  from   Pitrick's  grasp,   as  she
 wrapped  her  right  hand  around  the small  axe at  her waist.
 She clenched her teeth as her head cleared.
   "Wait," Pitrick urged, his voice still soft.
   But  the spell  was broken.  Perian's hateful  gaze brought
 the hunchback up short.
   "If  you  ever  try  to magic  me again,  I'll kill  you," she
 growled.
   Pitrick  looked  at  her,  his  moment  of   surprise  quickly
 turning to  amusement. "It's  time for  you to  go down  to your
 new  post  now,"  he  instructed.  "Have  a look  around, estab-
 lish your guards. I'll be down soon to inspect your position.
   "If there is any sign of intrusion, or even the hint of a hill
 dwarf  anywhere  around  there, I  want you  to tell  me person-

 ally.  And  if  you  catch  any  intruders,  bring them  to me
 immediately!"
   "I will,"  said Perian,  quickly turning  on her  heel. Only
 when the lift cage had taken her down a level did  she finally
 draw a breath easily.

 Chapter 8

 Unexpected Company

     The pnominent nostrils twitched, tickled by an un-
 familiar, yet tantalizing odor. One  great eye,  bloodshot and
 sunk deep within its socket, opened. The lid, of green, leath-
 ery  skin,  blinked  several times,  and then  its counterpart
 opened.  Once  again  the  long  green  nose   moved,  seeking
 confirmation of the scent.
 The  body  that  slowly  rose  to a  sitting position  was hu-
 manoid, though perhaps half again as  tall as  a man.  But its
 features were hideous in the extreme.
 Gangly  arms,  each  as  long  as  a man  was tall,  hung from
 the  creature's  shoulders.  Though they  were proportionately
 slender,  a  wiry cord  of muscle  showed beneath  the mottled
 green  skin,  promising great  strength. The  creature's legs,

 too, were  revealed as  long and  thin, but  they had  no diffi-
 culty supporting the monster as it rose to stand.
   Its hands and  feet each  bore three  wicked claws,  with fin-
 gers partially  webbed. Blotchy  skin, the  color of  dark moss,
 covered its whole body.  In places  it was  smooth, but  in oth-
 ers the skin lay wrinkled, a rough, warty surface.
   Atop  the  creature's  head  was  a  thicket of  black, stiff-
 standing  hair.  Its  mouth opened  slightly and  revealed upper
 and  lower  rows  of  pointed,  needle-sharp  teeth.  Above  its
 mouth,  extending  more  like  a  tree limb  than a  nasal aper-
 ture, was the creature's long, pointed nose.
   It  was  this  sensitive  proboscis that  had caused  the mon-
 ster to awaken, and now it  probed the  air, sniffing  and snuf-
 fling for clues. What was that tantalizing  scent? Where  did it
 come from?
   The creature's lair  was a  cave, and  a slight  breeze wafted
 into  the  cave  mouth  from  the  valley  below. The  source of
 the scent, obviously, was outside the lair.
   Moving  through  the  dingy  cave,  the  monster   passed  nu-
 merous   scattered,   well-gnawed   bones  of   previous  meals.
 Skulls  of  deer,  bear,  hobgoblin,  human,  and  other victims
 stood  along  the  wall  of  the  cave,  making  a  crude trophy
 mound.  But  now  the  creature  ignored  all  of  these  memen-
 tos, moving toward the  fresh air  in search  of new  food, per-
 haps a new skull.
   The  creature  emerged  to  discover  twilight  settling  over
 the  high  valley.  The  spoor  came more  clearly now,  and the
 great beast licked its lips with a black, moist tongue. Its dark
 eyes, almost hidden in the deep recesses  of its  black sockets,
 squinted  into  the darkness,  searching for  the source  of the
 tantalizing odor.
   An  odor,  the  troll  knew,  that  could only  emanate from
 one of its favorite foods: dwarf.

 * * * * *

   Flint's  destination,  the  mountain  dwarves'   kingdom,  was
 twenty  or  so   miles  southwest   of  Hillhome.   The  wagons'
 shipments  must  have  come  from  there,  and  Garth  had  also
 said  the  derro  he  saw  was  a  magic-user;  it   was  common

 knowledge  that  only  one  type of  dwarf could  muster more
 than  simple  spells.  That  was  the  Theiwar clan  of Thor-
 bardin.
   Flint suspected his older brother had discovered  the secret
 of  the  derro,  and  he  was determined  to make  whoever was
 responsible for his death pay with his life.
   His  burning  vengeance,  he  had to  admit, was  colored by
 the  legacy  of bitterness  and hatred  left by  the Dwarfgate
 Wars,   when   another   Fireforge,   the   respected  dwarven
 leader Reghar Fireforge, had died  at the  hands of  the moun-
 tain  dwarves.  Those  epic  conflicts  had opened  schisms in
 the dwarven races that seemed likely never to heal.
   Flint had no clear explanation for  these arms  shipments of
 the derro, but he knew  the reasons  must be  sinister indeed.
 Why  else  would  a  race  that  was  known  for its  pride of
 craftsmanship not sign its work?
   Flint  was following  the Passroad  west. Traveling  in day-
 light, he felt fairly secure that he  would not  encounter any
 derro.  The  road  hugged  the  northern shore  of Stonehammer
 Lake, whose cold water  looked dull  gray-green on  this over-
 cast late-autumn day. Most of the leaves  in this  distant arm
 of  the  Kharolis  Mountains,  in  the corridor  between Thor-
 bardin and  the Plains  of Dergoth,  had already  turned brown
 and scattered across the flat lands,  leaving only  the olive-
 colored firs to cover the spiny mountain ridges.
   The  terrain  grew  considerably rougher  as the  slopes and
 crests of the southern hillcountry  tumbled around  Flint. The
 elevations soared  steeply from  the valley  bottoms, climbing
 to narrow ridges and fringed with levels of sheer cliffs, bare
 rock  faces,  and  dark  forests of  pine. In  places, looming
 knobs of granite overlooked  grass-filled valleys,  often giv-
 ing Flint the impression of huge, serene faces  looking across
 the  hillcountry. The  Passroad twisted  around like  a snake,
 never running straight for more than a mile or two.
   Flint had  never been  to Thorbardin  - they  didn't exactly
 embrace  hill dwarves  there -  but his  father had  once told
 him  something that  was tugging  at his  mind now.  The dwar-
 ven   capitol   city   had   two   entrances:   Northgate  and
 Southgate.  Originally,  a  wide,   walled  ledge   edged  the

 mountainside  at  the  entrances,  but  the Cataclysm  had de-
 stroyed most of the northern ledge,  leaving only  a five-foot
 remnant towering one thousand feet above the valley.
   The  Passroad  seemed to  be leading  him toward  the north-
 ern entrance, and unless  his father  had been  mistaken, that
 gate into the great city  would soar  one thousand  feet above
 him.  But  how  could  that  be? How  could the  huge, lumber-
 ing freight wagons enter Thorbardin from the north?
   Unless  the  Passroad continued  past Northgate  and circled
 the  expansive  realm to  enter at  Southgate... If  that were
 the case, Flint had-a long walk ahead of  him, since  the city
 stretched more than twenty miles in circumference.
   But that didn't make sense either. The  heart of  the Kharo-
 lis  Mountains  stood  between  here and  there, and  no wagon
 could  cross  that tumultuous  landscape. It  was a  puzzle to
 him.
   Flint had walked  nearly a  full day  before his  keen dwar-
 ven senses raised the hair on  the back  of his  neck; someone
 or  something  was  following  him.  He  wasn't  terribly sur-
 prised, since he had  expected to  be pursued.  Still whomever
 it was seemed in no hurry to catch  him, nor  even to  be con-
 cerned about being detected. Once  he even  caught sight  of a
 distant figure trudging  through the  grassy vale  which Flint
 had passed through a short time earlier.
   Flint  continued to  look behind  him at  regular intervals,
 but never again spotted the  figure. Could  it have  been some
 hill farmer, going about his business? Flint had been  too far
 away to  distinguish if  the figure  was a  human or  a dwarf.
 Still,  his trail  sense nagged  him, warning  him to  stay on
 guard.
   His  second  afternoon   out  of   Hillhome  was   damp  and
 cold. Flint stopped to rest at the crest of a rocky ridge, and
 to eat the last of the cold meat sandwiches, rock  cheese, and
 dried apples Bertina had slipped into his  hands as  he'd left
 the  family  house.  Shoulders of  bare granite  loomed around
 him, and several caves dotted the side of this steep slope. He
 had discovered a makeshift trail in the base  of a  narrow ra-
 vine and veered off the Passroad to lose his pursuer.  Now, at
 the crest, he looked behind and  saw for  the second  time the

 stalwart figure on his trail.
   There was just a flash  of movement  before his  pursuer dis-
 appeared into a wide  belt of  pines fringing  the base  of the
 ridge.  But  the  glimpse  had  been  enough  to  convince  the
 crusty  dwarf  that  his  suspicions  had   been  well-founded.
 Flint resolved  to wait  for whomever  followed him,  forcing a
 confrontation on his own terms.
   Flint crept back into the narrow ravine, retracing  his steps
 for a dozen  yards down  the side  of the  ridge. He  wiped his
 sleeve across his  sweaty brow  as he  found a  sheltered ledge
 with  a  fine  view  of  the ravine  below. There  he sprawled.
 Withdrawing  his  axe  from his  belt, he  laid the  weapon be-
 side him on the rock.
   His  elevation,  coupled  with  the  steepness of  the ridge,
 gave  him  a  significant  vantage.  He gathered  an assortment
 of rocks, some as big as his head,  so that  he could  lob them
 using  both  hands, and  some fist-sized  stones that  he could
 easily pitch with one hand. Finally, he settled down to wait.
   Long  minutes  passed  with  no  sign  of  movement  from be-
 low, but this did not surprise  the dwarf.  The belt  of forest
 below  the  ridge  was  wide  and  tangled,  and it  would take
 even the  fastest of  pursuers the  better part  of an  hour to
 climb the slope.
   Suddenly  he   tensed,  seeing   movement  below,   and  very
 close  to  him.  He  grasped  his axe,  then swallowed  a gasp.
 There  was  neither  human  nor  dwarf  below  him,  but  some-
 thing  ten times  worse, for,  creeping into  the ravine  was a
 mottled-green,  wart-covered,  large-as-an-ogre  troll.  He had
 never fought one  before, never  even seen  one, but  he recog-
 nized  it  nonetheless.  And he  knew their  malevolent, raven-
 ous reputation.
   He was  momentarily relieved  but surprised  to see  that the
 troll's  attention  was  not  directed up  at him.  Indeed, the
 monster as well,  seemed to  be staring  down the  ravine, from
 a  position  one  hundred  feet   below  Flint.   The  creature
 moved  its long  limbs in  a deliberately  rigid gait  that re-
 minded Flint of a crab - a giant, vicious crab, to be sure.
   The  wind,  soaring  up  the  ravine,  brought  the  pungent,
 vaguely fishlike odor of the beast clearly to Flint's nose. The

  troll's  wicked  claws,  on  hands  and  feet  alike,  grasped out-
  crops of rock as it held itself against an expanse of  cliff, leer-
  ing outward with those black, emotionless eyes.
    Then  Flint  almost  laughed out  loud as  he realized  the crea-
  ture's  intent.  It  was  laying  an  ambush  for   something  that
  crept  up  the  ravine  below  them  -  perhaps  the  same  pursuer
  that Flint had intended to confront!
    Now  that's  what  I  call  fair,  he  thought to  himself. Some-
  one  follows  me  through  the  hills  for  a  few  days,  and then
  gets eaten by a troll. -
    Still,  the  nearness  of  the  monster  gave  Flint  some  cause
  for  alarm. He  resolved to  wait, quietly  and patiently,  for the
  little  drama  below  to  run  its  course.  Then,  when  the troll
  was  absorbed  with  its  victim,  Flint  would  make  a  fast  and
  easy escape.
    A  clatter  of  rocks  abruptly drew  the dwarf's  attention far-
  ther  down  the  steep  ravine.  He  could  see  no  movement,  but
  something   was   obviously   charging   upward.   Whoever's   fol-
  lowing  me  moves  with  no  mind  for  caution,  Flint   mused  as
  his pursuer scrambled and scratched up the ridge.
    Another  clatter  told  the  dwarf  -  and  the  troll,  too,  no
  doubt  -  that  the  chaser  had  climbed  higher   still.  Perhaps
  whomever  it  was  had  already  come  into  sight  of  the  troll,
  for Flint  watched the  beast grow  taut in  its rocky  niche, pre-
  paring  to  spring.  Indeed,  he  saw  movement  in the  ravine fi-
  nally  and  determined  that  it  was  a   short  human   or  dwarf
  who was climbing so steadily.
    A  brown  hood  covered  the  fellow's   head,  so   Flint  could
  not see his face. He could, in fact, tell little about him. Flint's
  pursuer   stopped   to   catch   his   breath;  he   peered  upward
  along  the  ravine that  stretched to  the top  of the  ridge, mea-
  suring  the  distance.  At  last, even  in the  gathering darkness,
  Flint got a good look at his young, red-bearded face.
    Flint's pursuer was  not a  derro spy,  or a  human. The
  dwarf below him, in imminent danger  of being  attacked by
  a hungry troll, was none other that Flint's nephew Basalt.
    "Reorx thump you!" hissed  Flint, astonished.  He didn't
  know  what the  silly pup  was doing  here, but  the dwarf
  probed his mind desperately for a way  to warn  his nephew

 about the deadly ambush.
   Flint seized one  of his  smaller rocks  and pitched  it down
 the ravine  at the  monster, watching  with satisfaction  as it
 whacked the troll squarely in the back of its grotesque head.
   "Basalt,  look  out!"  Flint  cried,  springing to  his feet.
 Moaning  piteously  and  rubbing  its head,  the troll  spun to
 look  upward,  its  jaws  widespread  in  a  malicious grimace.
 Even in the  dim light,  Flint could  see the  creature's long,
 pointed teeth.
   The troll leaped  upward, astonishing  Flint with  its prodi-
 gious  bounds.  The  dwarf  sent  a  large  boulder  skittering
 down  the  chute,  but  the rock  ricochetted past  the troll's
 head,  narrowly  missing  Basalt,  who  had  begun  to scramble
 up the ravine behind the speedily climbing troll.
   Flint hefted another of his large rocks, holding it  over his
 head as the  troll closed  in. The  creature's wide,  black eye
 sockets stared at him in a way that was  all the  more terrify-
 ing for their  complete lack  of expression.  Aiming carefully,
 the  dwarf  pitched  the  boulder  when  the  troll   was  some
 thirty  feet  below  him.  The heavy  rock, its  momentum aided
 by the muscles of Flint's broad shoulders,  struck the  troll a
 crushing blow on its left leg.
   "Take that,  you ugly,  green-bellied goblin-eater!"  A taunt
 worthy  of  Tasslehoff,  Flint  thought  with  satisfaction. He
 hooted with joy  as the  monster's leg  snapped from  the force
 of the blow. The troll uttered a sound  - a  low, cold  hiss of
 dull  pain  -  and  tumbled  backward.  Its  leg   twisted  and
 flopped.
   Now, for the kill, Flint  hoped. Grabbing  his axe,  the hill
 dwarf  bounded  down  from  his  ledge.  He  raised  the  blade
 over his head and closed on the troll as the beast fell between
 two rocks. Its leg hung to the side, useless.
   But before  Flint could  reach the  brute, the  charging hill
 dwarf  halted  in  astonishment.  The  monster's  leg  twitched
 slightly, and Flint heard  a strange,  grating sound,  like two
 jagged rocks scraping together.  The troll  took its  lower leg
 in  both  huge,  warty  hands  and  arranged  it into  a proper
 alignment.  Horrified   yet  fascinated,   Flint  unconsciously
 moved  closer  to  watch;  the  troll  looked  up  through red-

  veined  eyes  and  hissed  at  him, slashing  out with  a jagged
  claw. Flint drew back only slightly, but the troll  returned its
  attention to its wounded leg.
    Amid  the   gruesome  scraping   sound,  bubbles   and  bulges
  could  be  seen  forming  under the  troll's thick,  green warty
  skin. Slowly, the bulges flattened  out, and  the spine-chilling
  sound  ceased.  Before  Flint   could  comprehend   the  meaning
  of  the  macabre  scene, the  troll became  aware of  him again.
  Its eyes locked onto Flint as it leaped to its feet. Dropping to
  a  fighting  crouch,  the  creature danced  toward Flint  on two
  good  legs!  The  limb,  crushed  to  bonemeal a  moment before,
  had  somehow  grown  firm  and   again  supported   the  beast's
  weight.
    "Holy gods of old -  you can  regenerate!" Flint  cried, flab-
  bergasted.  The  troll  slashed with  its viciously  clawed hand
  again, but Flint came  out of  his stupor  long enough  to knock
  the digits away with his  axe. Striking  quickly, he  lopped the
  troll's  hand  off. It  made a  sickening spraying  sound, thick
  green  blood spurting  in a  steady stream.  Flint cast  an anx-
  ious  eye down  the slope  for Basalt.  His nephew  was vaulting
  upward  as  quickly as  he could,  panting with  exertion, short
  sword extended. But he was still some distance below.
    The  monster  seemed  more  stunned   than  tortured   at  the
  loss  of  its hand.  Flint pressed  the advantage,  hacking with
  his  axe,  driving  the  monster  back.  Although the  beast was
  more than twice  Flint's height,  the dwarf  stood above  him in
  the steep ravine. Flint had  the initiative,  striking, dodging,
  and striking again.
    Once   more   his   advantage   proved  illusory.   The  troll
  dodged  away  from him  while it  held the  oozing stump  of its
  hand.  Not  the  squeamish  type,  even  Flint  was  repulsed as
  three  tiny  claws  sprouted  from  the  bloody  wound   with  a
  loud  popping  sound.  He  heard  the  green  skin  stretch, and
  the  claws  grew  impossibly fast,  revealing fingers  and then,
  in   moments,  a   completely  new   taloned  hand.   Fully  re-
  grown,  the  creature  made  a  gurgling-regurgitating  sound in
  the back of its throat  - Flint  swore it  was snickering  - and
  then the troll crept toward the hill dwarf.
         Flint scrambled backward up the steep chute, struggling

  to keep his balance in the loose rock. A fall would slide him,
  helpless,  into  the  slashing  maelstrom  of  tooth  and claw
  below.
    "Uncle Flint!" cried Basalt.
    Flint did not even stop to see where Basalt  was. "This  is no
  picnic,  Basalt!  Run,  you  hare-brained  numbskull!"  If the
  troll turned  on his  inexperienced nephew,  the boy  would be
  devoured before he could raise his blade.
    "I can help!" Basalt gasped,  slipping on  loose rock  as he
  scrambled closer. Now the troll did turn.
    Powered  by fear,  Flint sprang  forward, hacking  the sharp
  blade  of  his  axe  into  the monster's  back. The  blow sent
  sticky,  gelatinous,  pea-green  blood  showering  onto Flint,
  who  gagged  and spat  furiously. Nearly  cleaved in  two, the
  monster writhed away  as best  it could,  hissing in  pain and
  rage, giving Basalt enough time to slip past it.
    "Stay  back!"  shouted  Flint  to  his nephew,  then bounded
  forward with another swing of his axe.
    But  Basalt  had  a  mind  of  his own,  and he  delivered a
  sharp jab with  his short  sword into  the troll's  belly. The
  monster  had  begun  to  regenerate again,  but the  new blows
  doubled it over, sending it twisting and rolling down  the ra-
  vine.  Grinning  proudly,  his  right  arm  covered  in  green
  blood, Basalt prepared to leap after it.
    "No!" ordered Flint, grasping his nephew's shoulder.
  "You've got to learn when to retreat, harrn."
    "But we've got the advantage now!" objected Basalt,
  looking longingly down the ravine.
    Flint jerked on Basalt's collar. "Only  until it  grows back
  together."  He  chuckled  suddenly,  then pretended  to frown.
  "Never  mind  that!  What  are  you  doing  here in  the first
  place? I'd like to know."
    Basalt  began  a  clumsy  explanation,  but  Flint  cut  him
  short  with  a poke  in the  chest. "Not  now, pup!  There's a
  troll  growing  below  us!  You've  got a  lot to  learn about
  adventuring!"
    Flint leading the way, they raced up the ravine as fast as
  they could, reaching the top of the ridge in a minute. The
  troll  was out  of sight  below them,  having fallen  around a

 bend in the ravine.
   Basalt  followed  the  older  dwarf  at  a steady  trot. Night
 closed  around  them,  and  still the  two dwarves  maintained a
 fast  pace.  They  scrambled down  the far  side of  the troll's
 ridge and hastened across the valley floor.
   Finally  they  collapsed,  exhausted,  in a  small clearing
 among  the  dark  pines.  Though  it  was  pitch  black, they
 dared not make a fire.
   In  the  dim  light,  Flint  leveled his  gaze at  his nephew.
 "You've  got some  explaining to  do, son.  Why don't  you start
 by telling me what you're doing here?"
   Basalt fixed him  with a  sullen glare.  "You've got  some ex-
 plaining  to  do  yourself,  like  where  do  you  think  you're
 going?"
   Flint's  mouth  became  a  tight-lipped  line. "I  owe answers
 to no one,  least of  all a  smart-mouthed boy  of a  dwarf like
 yourself."
   "I'm  not  a  boy  anymore!  You'd  know  that  if   you  ever
 came  home,  or  stayed  more  than  a  day!"  For a  moment Ba-
 salt gave Flint a look that was so belligerent, so full of Fire-
 forge  stubbornness,  that  Flint's  hands  curled involuntarily
 into  fists.  But  in  another  moment  the older  dwarf laughed
 out loud, clutching his paunch in mirth.
   Puzzled,  and  a  little  insulted, Basalt  demanded, "What
 are you laughing about?"
   "You!" said Flint, his  laughter slowing  to a  chuckle. "Aye,
 pup - you're a Fireforge, that's for  sure! And  what a  pair we
 make!"
   "What  do  you  mean  by  that?" Basalt  growled, unwilling
 to be teased out of his bad humor.
   "Well, you're stubborn like me,  for starters."  Flint crossed
 his  arms  and   squinted  at   his  nephew,   considering  him.
 "You're not afraid  of standing  up to  your elders  either. You
 even tell 'em off once in a  while, though  you'd best  watch so
 that  doesn't  become  a  habit!  And  you  didn't  hesitate one
 whit  before  jumping  into  battle with  an honest  to goodness
 troll."
   Flint looked at his nephew with affection. "And you
 didn't come out here to spy on me, anyway, did you?"

   "No!" Basalt said quickly,  sitting up.  "You were  right, Un-
 cle Flint," the young dwarf  said softly.  "What you  said about
 me  being  mad  at  my dad  and at  myself was  true. I  knew it
 when  I  threw  that  punch  at  Moldoon's  -"  He  looked  away
 sheepishly  "-  but I  guess I  didn't much  like you  being the
 one to point it out."
   Basalt  plucked  nervously  at his  bootlaces. "I  didn't like
 leaving  things  the  way they  were between  us." He  looked up
 now, clearing his throat gruffly. "I've  done that  once before,
 and it will haunt me for the  rest of  my days."  Basalt's voice
 broke,  and  he  hung  his  head.  Flint  sat quietly  while his
 nephew composed himself.
   "Even  Ma  doesn't  know  this,"  he  began  again,  his  eyes
 looking  far  away  into the  night now,  "but Dad  and I  had a
 fight the night  he died.  She wouldn't  be surprised,  though -
 me  and  Dad  argued  almost  every  night.  Always   about  the
 same  thing, too.  'Stop drinking  and get  a decent  job,' he'd
 say."
   Basalt  looked  squarely  at  Flint.  "The  thing  that always
 stuck  in  my  craw  was  that, in  addition to  apprenticing to
 him, I had a job. He just didn't  like me  hauling feed  for the
 derro's  horses,  that's  all."  Basalt heaved  a huge  sigh and
 shook  his  head  sadly.  "He  tracked  me  down   at  Moldoon's
 that  night  and  started up  the old  argument again,  said the
 derro were  up to  no good  and he  would prove  it. I  told him
 to stay out of my business, and then I left him at the bar." Ba-
 salt's  eyes misted  over as  he looked  into the  dark distance
 again, focusing on nothing in particular.
   Basalt's   expression   turned  unexpectedly   to  puzzlement.
 "There's just one thing I  don't understand.  Dad said  he hated
 that  the  village  was  working  with  the   mountain  dwarves,
 said  he'd never  lift a  finger to  help a  derro dying  in the
 street."  Basalt stroked  his beard  thoughtfully. "So  what was
 he  doing  smithing for  them the  day his  heart gave  out? Why
 that day?" Basalt turned his face to the heavens.
   Flint  heard  his nephew's  grief and  was wracked  with inde-
 cision   about   the   secret   suspicions   he   harbored  over
 Aylmar's death. Basalt's account  of the  fight with  his father
 only   bolstered   his   hunch.  Could   he  trust   Basalt?  He

 squeezed his nephew's shoulder.
   "Basalt, I don't think your father's  death was  an accident,"
 he said.
   Flint's  nephew  looked  at  him  strangely. "Are  you talking
 about 'fate' or some such hooey?"
   "I wish I were,"  Flint said  sadly. "No,  I think  Aylmar was
 murdered by a derro mage's spell."
   "That's  going  too  far!"  Basalt  said angrily.  "I've heard
 Garth's  mutterings,  and  I  know my  father thought  the derro
 were  evil.  But why  would they  want to  kill him?  It doesn't
 make sense!"
   "It does  if he  discovered they  were selling  and transport-
 ing  weapons,  not  farm  implements,  and  enough  to  start  a
 war!"  When  Basalt  still  looked  confused, Flint  pressed on,
 telling  Basalt  how  he  had  searched a  derro wagon  and what
 he  had  found there.  He left  nothing out,  none of  his worst
 imaginings,  and  he  told  him  about  the  derro   he  killed.
 "Seemed like I had no choice," he added.
   Basalt  struggled  to  absorb  the  news.  "You knew  all this
 and  yet  you  didn't  tell  anybody'?  You  just  left?" Basalt
 asked, smoldering.
   Flint  snorted at  the irony.  "As Tybalt  aptly put  it, 'Who
 would believe the village idiot?' That's all the proof I have so
 far,  Bas:  Garth's  'mutterings'  and  what I  saw with  my own
 eyes  in that  wagon. And  when they  tie me  into that  derro I
 killed,  Mayor  Holden  won't  be  likely to  order a  search of
 the  wagons  or a  murder investigation  on my  say-so, either."
 He   shrugged.   "Since  these   derro  come   from  Thorbardin,
 there  was  nothing  else  I  could  do but  go to  the mountain
 dwarves   myself   and   find   the   derro   scum   who  killed
 Aylmar."
   Basalt  no  longer  looked  skeptical. "How  are you  going to
 find  this  one  derro, when  there must  be hundreds  of magic-
 using derro there."
   Flint gave  a devilish  grin. "Ah,  but how  many of  them are
 hunchbacked?  Garth, bless  his simple  heart, kept  calling the
 derro he saw 'the humped one.' That's my only  clue, but  it's a
 good one."
     Basalt jumped to his feet. "Well, what are we waiting for?

  Let's go find the Reorx-cursed derro who killed my father!"
    Flint patted the harrn's hand. "You're a true  Fireforge, like
  I said. But we aren't going anywhere in  the dark."  He sighed.
  "I'm not sure that I want any help, but you  can't go  back the
  way  you  came  - a  clumsy pup  like you'd  be troll  food for
  sure," he teased. "I guess you'll have to come along, but we'll
  leave in the morning."
    Basalt  smiled  eagerly.  "You  won't  be sorry,  Uncle Flint!"
    I'm  not  so sure  about that,  Flint thought  inwardly. What
  would he do with Basalt when he got to Thorbardin?
    A cold drizzle fell, then turned to  light snow.  They looked
  for an overhanging shelf of rock well  off the  Passroad, since
  a  wagon  or two  was bound  to pass  in the  dark, and  made a
  crude  camp.  Uncle  and  nephew  talked  long into  the night,
  about Basalt's father and Flint's brother, and even Flint's fa-
  ther,  too.  Though  he  hated to  see their  conversation end,
  Flint  knew  they  would  pay  for  their indulgences  with ex-
  haustion in the morning.

 * * * * *

    By  late  afternoon  the  next  day,  a  snowy one,  the road
  curved  into  a  narrow  valley  and  began  climbing  steeply.
  Flint  and  Basalt  wondered at  the difficulty  of maneuvering
  heavy  wagons  up  and  down  these  switchbacks, but  the rut-
  ted state of the road proved that it did carry steady traffic.
    They  were  closer  to  the heart  of the  Kharolis Mountains
  now,  and the  surrounding hills  had gained  sharp definition.
  The slopes towered thousands of  feet in  the air,  with jagged
  precipices of bare rock exposed to the wind.
    Flint  groaned  and  struggled  up the  heights made  all the
  more  arduous  by  heavy  snow.  He  cursed the  sedentary life
  that had led him into this physical  decline. He  knew -  or at
  least convinced himself - that  this would  have been  no trou-
  ble for him a short twenty years ago.
    But the hills brought him  a sense  of exhilaration  as well.
  The  view  of  jagged  crests stretching  for a  hundred miles,
  capped  by  the  snows  of  autumn;  the  sweeping  grandeur of
  the  valleys  and the  inexorable crushing  force of  the moun-
  tain rivers - all of these returned a joy to his old heart that

 he hadn't even been aware he was missing.
   The  sun  was  dropping  over their  right shoulders  when the
 road abruptly ended at  a shallow  stream, as  if a  giant broom
 had  descended  and  swept  the  rutted  trail  away.  The  bank
 rose  steeply on  the opposite  side, unmarked  by a  single rut
 or  hoofprint,  while  the  two-foot-deep  stream, so  clear and
 cold  Flint  could see  the gravel  bottom, teemed  across their
 path.  Big,  fluffy  snowflakes  plopped  into the  stream and
 melted into the steady  current. Flint  smiled to  himself; hid-
 ing a trail in a riverbed was one of the oldest tricks in an ad-
 venturer's book.
   Flint  looked   downstream,  then   upstream  to   the  right.
 Kneeling near the edge  of the  water, he  saw an  almost imper-
 ceptible  curve  to  the  right  in  the  tracks leading  to the
 stream.  "See these,  Bas?" he  said, pointing  to the  ruts. "I
 think  the wagons  are turning  off right  here, where  they en-
 ter the water. They follow it upstream."
   Basalt  peered closely,  then smacked  his thigh  in astonish-
 ment. "Why, you're right! Let's  go!" The  young dwarf  took a
 step toward the stream. Flint's hand flew out to stop him.
   Water. Water that was over half as  tall as  Flint's four-foot
 frame.  Flint  shivered  involuntarily,  considering  the  rapid
 icy flow. The  stream had  no bank  to speak  of, what  with the
 severe  pitch  of  the  canyon  walls  that  shaped  it.  It was
 twenty or thirty feet at its widest point.
   "What's  wrong,  Flint?"  Basalt asked.  "Aren't we  going to
 follow the stream?"
   Flint  struggled  to  keep  the color  from draining  from his
 face. He couldn't let Basalt learn that his uncle's  aversion to
 water  went  beyond  normal  dwarven  distaste, to  cold, blind-
 ing fear. Flint  didn't even  like admitting  it to  himself. It
 wasn't  his  fault,  after  all.  It  was  that  damned  lummox,
 Caramon Majere.
   One  fine  day  not  many  years before,  when Flint  had been
 waiting  in  Solace  for  Tanis  to  return   from  a   trip  to
 Qualinesti,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  proposed  that  Sturm, Raist-
 lin, Caramon,  and Flint  take a  ride on  Crystalmir Lake  in a
 boat  the  kender had  "found." They  set out  on the  lake, and
 everyone  was  having  a  grand  time  until  Caramon  tried  to

 catch a fish by hand. He leaned  out too  far, tilting  the boat
 and sending everyone into the water.
   Raistlin,  always  the  clever  one,  had  bobbed  up  beneath
 the overturned  boat and  was quite  safe in  the air  pocket it
 formed. His oafish twin brother  did not  fare so  well, sinking
 like a  stone. Sturm  and Tas,  both fearless,  strong swimmers,
 soon righted the boat and Raistlin with it, while it was left to
 Flint to try to rescue Caramon.
   The  three  in  the boat  waited eagerly  for Flint  and Cara-
 mon,  but  all  they  saw  was  a  immense  amount  of splashing
 and  gurgling,  and  then  the  water  became  ominously silent.
 Frightened,  both  Tas  and  Sturm  plunged  back  into  the wa-
 ter;  the  knight hauled  Caramon, coughing,  into the  boat. It
 was  Tas  who  found  the  dwarf,  half-drowned  and hysterical;
 all four of  his friends  had to  help drag  him into  the boat,
 where  he  lay  shivering,  vowing  to never  set foot  on water
 again.
   "Uncle Flint?"
   "What?  Oh,  yes.  I'm  thinking!"  he  snapped. If  he wanted
 to  avenge  Aylmar, he  had no  choice but  to venture  into the
 stream.
   "Oh, all right!"  he snarled  at last,  hitching up  his belt,
 willing his right foot to take a step into  the stream.  Only it
 would not move.
   "What's the  matter, are  you afraid  of water?"  Basalt asked
 incredulously.
   That  did  it.  Setting  his  chin  firmly, Flint  clomped two
 steps  into  the  swiftly flowing  stream, barely  suppressing a
 scream  as  melted  mountain snow  flowed over  the tops  of his
 leather climbing boots.  He bit  his lip  until it  nearly bled.
 Suddenly  a  strong  eddy grabbed  his legs  and sent  him slid-
 ing off the uneven, slimy rocks under his feet.
   "Whoa!"  Basalt's  strong  arm  reached  out;  he  caught  his
 uncle by the collar and held tight before  the dwarf  fell face-
 first into the frigid water. Flint's  axe clattered  against the
 rocks  on  the  narrow  bank,  and  he  nonchalantly  wiped  wa-
 ter  droplets  from the  weapon's shiny  surface while  he gath-
 ered the courage to make another move.
     "Let go of me - I mean, you can let go of me now, Bas," he

  finished  more  calmly,  twisting  his  damp  tunic  back into
  place.  He  had  one  goal now  that overshadowed  all others:
  he  wanted  only  to  get to  the end  of this  stream-road as
  quickly as possible without falling. And if he should fall, he
  prayed that Reorx would take him quickly.
    Flint set off slowly, concentrating so intently on  his feet
  that his head began  to ache  with the  strain. His  toes were
  numb,  as  were his  legs beneath  his soaked  leather pants.
  Sharp rocks jabbed at the souls of his feet through his boots.
    They  had  progressed  perhaps  one  hundred  feet  upstream
  when Flint heard the sound, though at first he thought  it was
  only  the  blood  banging  through  his  temples.  No,  he de-
  cided,  it sounds  like wagon  wheels. But  why would  a wagon
  be  coming  through  now?  It  was  only  early  evening, just
  heading toward dusk. The  hill dwarf  held up  a hand  to warn
  Basalt,  and  he  concentrated  on  the approaching  noise. It
  was  coming  from  behind  them,  he  determined,  probably an
  empty  wagon  returning  after  a  run  through   Hillhome  to
  Newsea.
    The  hill  dwarves  couldn't  backtrack  and  they  couldn't
  outrun  the wagon.  They had  to hide!  But where?  Flint tore
  his  gaze  from  his  feet  and  spotted  some  aspen branches
  hanging over the stream from the right side of the tiny bank.
  They  would  just  have  to  duck  low  and hope  the branches
 ' covered them.
    Quickly  he  slogged the  ten feet  to the  branches, waving
  Basalt to follow. Flint instinctively  held his  breath before
  dropping to his  knees on  the rocky  stream bed,  letting the
  cold mountain water lap at his shoulders and tear at  his jan-
  gled  nerve  endings  till he  thought he  could endure  it no
  more. He felt Basalt stiffen at his side.
    Hurry,  damn  you!  he  screamed  inwardly at  the approach-
  ing  wagon.  Oh,  how  I  wish I  were on  that dry  wagon and
  the derro  were in  this wretched  water, thought  Flint. That
  image gave him an idea.
    "Bas,"  he  whispered, no  louder than  a breath,  "Wait for
  me  in  the  brush  back where  the road  turns to  river. Two
  days, no more. Then go home."
    "What?  I'm  going  with you!"  Basalt hissed  quickly, then

 he  saw  the  determined  look  on  his  uncle's gray-bearded
 face. "You need me -"
   "Look, Bas, I'm not even sure I can get in this way," Flint
 began almost apologetically, "but two of us  are sure  to get
 nailed. Two days, no morel I'll be OK!"
   The  wagon   was  almost   upon  them.   Approaching  their
 home base, the guards obviously  did not  fear an  attack and
 were asleep  on the  buckboard, and  the driver  nearly dozed
 from  the  tedium,  too.  The  four  horses pulled  the wagon
 steadily  up  the  stream  bed  through the  knee-high water.
 Flint mentally measured the distance  and timed  the rotation
 of the huge wooden wheels with their iron spokes.
   Flint broke his concentration just long enough to  hold Ba-
 salt's gaze. "Watch yourself, son."
   The  wagon  was  smack  in  front  of  them  now,  the four
 horses  churning  the  water  with  their  big  hooves. Flint
 launched  himself  between   the  bone-crushing   wheels  and
 caught the bottom of  the cargo  box with  just three  of the
 thick fingers  of his  right hand.  He quickly  swung himself
 monkey-style  until  his  left hand  connected with  the axle
 brace of the right front  wheel. Wrapping  his arms  and legs
 around it, he held on for dear life  and dangled  beneath the
 wagon  and  just  above  the water,  waiting for  some large,
 pointed rock to impale him from below.
   The  wagon  stopped  abruptly, and  he heard  animated con-
 versation.
   "You clear the tunnel," someone said.
   It's your turn!" another said in  a sleepy  voice. "I  had to
 clear those boulders out of the way by that ridge a  few days
 ago."
   "Oh, all right!" the first one said.
   The front end of  the wagon  bounced slightly  as one  of the
 derro sprang to the  ground and  landed in  the water  with a
 splash.
   Flint hugged the axle and made himself  as small  as possi-
 ble. Lowering  his head  just slightly,  he looked  under the
 front  of  the  wagon and  saw that  thick brush  blocked the
 bank  of  the  stream beside  them. The  hill dwarf  saw only
 branches,  water,  and  the mountain  dwarf's waist  at water

 level until the fellow moved the tree limbs to either  side of
 the wagon, forming an opening in the steep stream bed.
   Deep ruts that  led out  of the  stream were  revealed where
 the branches had  been. With  an oath,  the driver  coaxed the
 horses through a turn to the left, and the poor  creatures la-
 boriously  hauled  the  heavy  wagon  out  of  the  stream and
 onto the concealed portion of the road.
   The  driver  did  not   stop  the   wagon  as   both  guards
 dropped  to  replace the  brush pile,  then climbed  back onto
 the  rear  of  the wagon,  where Flint  could hear  them crawl
 over the hollow  wooden cargo  hold and  take their  places at
 the front again.
   They rolled a short distance, and the  sounds of  the stream
 fell behind. It suddenly grew  dark, and  Flint knew  they had
 entered a tunnel. His arms began to ache so  that he  could no
 longer  hold  onto  the bouncing  axle brace.  Unclenching his
 stiff hands, arms, and legs, he dropped  to the  sandy ground,
 being  careful  to   avoid  the   enormous  iron   wheels.  He
 crouched in  the darkness,  waiting until  the wagon  had rum-
 bled out  of earshot.  His heat-sensing  infravision responded
 only dimly in the cold  tunnel, outlining  the walls  in faint
 red.
   Flint took two short  steps, his  boots crunching  softly on
 the tunnel  floor. Then  he froze.  A second  click, following
 the  sound  of  his own  footstep, came  from the  right. Then
 another,  from  higher up,  and another  even higher.  When he
 heard  something  snap directly  overhead, Flint  twisted des-
 perately and threw himself to the left, but it was too late. A
 cage  of   iron  bars   slammed  down   around  him,   and  he
 crashed into its side. Furiously Flint  grasped the  bars with
 both hands and pushed, pulled, lifted,  and rattled  them, but
 the  cage  was too  heavy to  budge. He  dropped to  his knees
 and scraped at the tunnel floor.  Aside from  a thin  layer of
 loose gravel, it was solid rock.
   The dwarf leaned back against the bars. "Damn!"

                          Chapter 9

                     A Parting of the Ways

    They took his axe immediately - Flint felt naked with-
 out it. Still angered by the ease with which he had been cap-
 tured,  the  hill dwarf  seethed under  the watchful  eyes of
 eight  guards  while  a detachment  proceeded to  alert their
 commander.  The sentries  in the  tunnel were  derro dwarves,
 white-skinned  and  wide-eyed.   They  wore   polished  black
 plate  armor  with  long  purple  plumes trailing  from their
 helms.
 Although  the  cage  had  been  raised  so  that  he  was  no
 longer imprisoned by bars, the derro guards made Flint sit in
 a stone recess in the tunnel wall. As they waited,  the derro
 played  some  kind  of  betting  game  with  pebbles  on  the
 smooth, stone floor at the mouth of  the cramped  alcove. Es-

 cape,  for the  moment anyway,  was clearly  out of  the ques-
 tion. He could only sit and fidget as time crawled by.
   "Who's  in  charge  here, anyway?"  Flint asked  once, after
 more than an hour had passed.
   One  of  the derro  guards looked  up from  the game  with a
 cold gaze. His  large, pale  eyes showed  almost as  much emo-
 tion as the stare of  a dead  fish, Flint  thought. "Shuddup,"
 was the fellow's only reply.
   Sometime  later  Flint heard  the step  of several  pairs of
 heavy  boots.  The guards  hastily put  away their  stones and
 jumped  to  their  feet,   standing  rigidly.   The  footsteps
 tromped  closer, but  Flint could  not see  whoever approached
 through the narrow opening of his niche.
   "Column,  halt!"  The  command,  spoken in  a harsh  yet un-
 deniably  female  voice,  brought  the march  to a  stop. "The
 prisoner?" he heard the same voice inquire.
   "In here, Captain."
   Two  derro hauled  Flint roughly  to his  feet and  pulled him
 from  the  alcove. He  found himself  facing a  frawl mountain
 dwarf, leading  a fresh  detachment of  guards. She  carried a
 small hand axe, unlike the battle-axes hoisted by the  rest of
 the  guards,  and  she  wore  the  golden epaulets  of command
 on her shoulders.
   Her  smooth  face and  warm hazel  eyes set  her immediately
 apart from the others,  all of  whom were  male. She  wore the
 same helmet as her men,  with its  trailing purple  plume, but
 wild copper curls escaped its confines  and danced  across her
 shoulders  every  time  she  moved  her  head. Her  chain mail
 sleeves revealed arms of sinewy muscle, but the  steel breast-
 plate she wore  suggested an  undeniably feminine  fullness of
 shape.
   "Why  am  I  being  held  prisoner?"  Flint  blurted.  "I
 demand -"  He stopped  suddenly, cut  off by  the slap  of a
 guard's meaty hand across his face.
   "Prisoners have no rights here," the frawl said coldly. 'You
 may  speak  when  given   permission.  Otherwise,   keep  your
 tongue  still. You'll  be given  ample opportunity  to confess
 your crimes of spying on the Theiwar. Come along."
     The detachment surrounded him. In silence they tromped

  back  the way  they had  come, deeper  into the  tunnel, toward
  Thorbardin.  Flint  noted  that  the  passageway  had  only re-
  cently  been  widened,  or  perhaps  created anew;  jagged out-
  croppings of  rock still  remained on  the walls  revealing, in
  places on the floor, fresh chisel cuts. Wagon tracks were visi-
  ble, but had not yet scarred the rock floor.
    Eventually  the  tunnel  swung  to the  left and  before long
  opened into a vast cavern.  A pall  of smoke  hung in  the air,
  and  the  clash of  heavy iron  tools rang  constantly, echoing
  around  the  stone  chamber  with  a reverberating  din. Before
  Flint stood huge  mounds of  coal, forming  a black  ridge some
  twenty feet high. This pile blocked his view of the rest of the
  cavern.
    "Looks  like a  pretty big  operation," suggested  Flint art-
  lessly. "Making some farming tools?"
    The  businesslike  frawl  seemed  not to  hear him  at first.
  Then she  turned and  eyed him  sarcastically. "It's  strange -
  you don't seem unintelligent..."
    "Thank you -" he interrupted.
    "... just foolhardy," she finished,  as if  he had  not spoken.
  "You  would  be  well  advised  to  curb  your  curious nature,
  and your clever tongue, if you don't care to lose both."
    He  studied  her  profile  curiously.  What  manner  of dwarf
  was this commander? She  did not  fit his  mental picture  of a
  mountain  dwarf,  and  her  eyes  and  hair  did  not  seem  to
  match the derro  around her.  Yet she  was obviously  a leader,
  and  her  rank  indicated  that she'd  been recognized  and re-
  warded for that ability.
    They  left  the  huge cavern  and entered  a maze  of tunnel-
  like streets. Uncountable side streets led  away from  the ave-
  nue,   and   mountain   dwarves   moved  quickly   and  quietly
  along   them.   Overhead,  perhaps   twenty  feet   above,  the
  street was capped by a stone ceiling.  The buildings  to either
  side  extended  from  floor to  ceiling. Counting  the windows,
  Flint guessed that most of  them contained  three or  even four
  interior floors. Some of these buildings  appeared to  be built
  from  stone  and  brick,  while  others  seemed  to  be  carved
  from  the  solid  mountain.  All of  them, however,  were deco-
  rated  with  the  heavy,  brooding  stonework  that  character-

 ized derro cities. All  dwarven architecture  tended to  be in-
 tricately carved and sculpted,  but the  derro favored  a style
 that seemed almost oppressive, palpably dark, to Flint.
   As  they  wound  along  the  rows  of stone  buildings, Flint
 counted  mostly  shops  and  houses.  He  heard  the  unmistak-
 able  noise  of  rowdy  drinking  from  taverns, the  sounds of
 households  preparing  for  the  day,  the  rumble  of manufac-
 turing houses and craft shops - all the bustle of a major city.
   "So this  is Thorbardin,"  he said,  his wonder  almost over-
 shadowing his predicament.
   "One  of  the  cities  of  Thorbardin," his  escort corrected
 him. "City of the Theiwar of Thane Realgar."
   They  marched  down  a  wide  avenue  in  almost  total dark-
 ness,  the  only  light  coming  from  small wall  torches, and
 shed by fires in hearths and cookstoves  glowing in  the build-
 ings. Flint  had no  trouble seeing  in the  dark, and  he sus-
 pected that the  derro were  even more  at home  in it  than he
 was. This city was as large as any Flint had ever been  in, and
 it was only  one of  many! For  the first  time Flint  began to
 grasp the enormity of the mountain dwarf kingdom.
   Finally they turned off the  avenue into  what looked  like a
 side street.  A clanking  of metal  suddenly drew  Flint's eyes
 upward  in  alarm,  fresh  with  the  memory  of the  cage that
 had  snared  him earlier.  The noise  did come  from a  cage of
 sorts, but this one was  an enclosure  of metal  bars suspended
 from  a  heavy  chain.  With  a  crash the  contraption settled
 into  a  square  frame  of  metal that  stood before  them. The
 frawl stepped forward and opened the cage.
   "What's  this?"  growled  Flint.  "An underground  cell isn't
 good  enough?"  A  derro  prodded  him  forward  sharply  while
 the captain looked at him in surprise. "It's a lift. You really
 are a barbarian,  aren't you?  Step in.  We're riding  to level
 three,  for  an... interview."  She and  two guards  joined him
 in the cage.
   "Then  what?"  Flint  scowled, trying  to cover  his nervous-
 ness  as  the  cage  suddenly  lurched  upward.   The  mountain
 dwarves  seemed  to  be  indifferent  to  the   gently  swaying
 movement.
 "That's up to Pitrick." She looked into his face for the first

 time. "You should have anticipated the consequences of
 your actions," she added angrily.
   "Who is 'Pitrick?' "
   "Chief adviser to Thane Realgar."
   They  rode  upward  in  silence  for  a  few moments.  The cage
 passed  into  a  hollow  cylinder  in  the bedrock,  then emerged
 onto  a  flat  platform,  perfectly  square  and  approximately a
 hundred feet on  each side.  The ceiling  was quite  high, nearly
 at the limit of Flint's vision in the darkness. It appeared to be
 a  natural  cavern  roof,  not an  excavated ceiling,  though how
 it  came  to  be  suspended  atop   four  square   walls  puzzled
 Flint. Each of the walls held a  sturdy gate,  and each  gate was
 guarded  by  a  pair  of  derro wearing  the same  purple plumage
 as the sentries in the tunnel.
   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 soft-
 ened 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 cap-
  tain'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 Excel-
  lency has given me control of all matters relating to  the tun-
  nel 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 stom-
  ach. 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 insubordina-
  tion."

   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 an-
 swer 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 sev-
 eral smaller streets. Everywhere Flint  saw busy  derro, mov-
 ing quickly and silently about their  business. Never  had he
 seen a place that was so populous,  yet seemed  so exception-
 ally ominous and grim.
   They  came to  a barracks  building where  several platoons
 of  purple-plumed  guards  stood  or  lounged about  a court-
 yard. 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 oc-
 curred  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 fol-
 lowed  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 gro-
 tesqueness  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 posi-
 tions 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 der-
 ro  stepped  between  Flint  and  his  enemy. Did  he suspect?
 He's  obviously  magical,  but  can  he  read  my  mind?  won-
 dered 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
 propel 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 pre-
 view 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 dark-
 ness below.
   Suddenly, against all odds,  the Aghar  managed to  halt his
 fall, barely within Flint's view. The hill dwarf saw  the fel-
 low's stubby fingers grasp a knob of rock. Slowly,  the terri-
 fied  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 no-
 ticed  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, thrash-
 ing  rope.  It  groped  upward, striking  the Aghar's  back, then
 quickly encircled his waist.
   The  gully  dwarf  shrieked  as  the  thing  yanked  him  back-
 ward   down   the  chute.   "Nooooooooo!"  he   bawled,  scratch-
 ing  and  grasping desperately  at the  loose rocks.  His frantic
 eyes met Flint's  for one  long, painful  moment, then  he disap-
 peared 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  hunch-
 back's  throat  and  both of  them tumbled  to the  ground, roll-
 ing 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 advis-
 er'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 Hint  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 ques-
 tioning, 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 spe-
 cific?" Pitrick asked.
   "Given  your  busy  schedule,  how  many  hill  dwarf smiths
 have you struck down  with magic  lately?" Flint  growled bit-
 terly.
   "The smith!" Pitrick's face spread in an evil grin of recog-
 nition. "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 be-
 tween  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 de-
 fenses. 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 ex-
 ports 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.
    "Throw 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 of-
 ficer 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.

                               C “‡†¢ˆ 10

                                The Pit

       It was late afternoon, anb 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 ob-
 scured 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, an-
 other 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 sur-
 rounding 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 but-
 ter  sandwich,  and  a  roasted goose  drumstick. He  gnawed on
 the succulent leg while he pondered what to do.
   Shivering,   Basalt   wondered    when   his    uncle   might
 emerge. The moon rose,  and still  there was  no sign.  The sky
 above him was  velvet black  and starry,  and the  air bitterly
 cold.  The mountains  rose so  steeply that  he could  not even
 look  forward  to  daylight  warming  this  place.   The  young
 Fireforge clapped his hands to  his arms  and trotted  in place
 to keep his blood moving.
   Basalt knew  he should  have left  for Hillhome  before dark,
 for he had passed the  two-day limit  his uncle  had set.  If I
 wait just one more hour, he kept  telling himself,  maybe Flint
 will  return.  But  Basalt  grew  more  anxious by  the minute.
 Again  he  looked  down  the  stream   at  the   tunnel  mouth.
 From   it  he   thought  he   heard  the   sound  of   a  wagon
 approaching  -  it  was  about  time  for  one  to   leave  for
 Hillhome  -  but  the  noise grew  louder and  unfamiliar. Puz-
 zled, Basalt cocked his head to listen closely. It was  not the
 steady rolling  rhythm of  the wheels,  but more  like clomping
 feet. Many feet.
   A chill of terror ran up his spine as from  the mouth  of the
 tunnel   marched   no   less   than   one    hundred   mountain
 dwarves in full regalia. Each wore a steel breastplate,  a hel-
 met  topped  with  a  bright  red  plume,  and  sharp  axes and
 daggers at their waists. After a word from the leader  at their
 head,  the  mountain  dwarves  fanned  out  in  all directions.
 Basalt  watched  as  a  detachment  of  twenty   armed  dwarves
 approached,  wading  through  the  two-foot  stream,  right  in
 his direction!
   Petrified,  the  young  dwarf  threw  himself  to  the ground
 and curled  into a  small ball.  What should  I do?  he groaned
 to himself. Should I run? Should I hide? Is this just a routine
 patrol,  or  are  they  looking  for  something?   Or  someone?
 Maybe  they  found  and  tortured  Uncle  Flint  until  he told
 them an  accomplice was  waiting outside!  Even in  his frantic
 state,  Basalt  knew  that  that  was  ridiculous. But  with so

 many dwarves,  they were  sure to  find him.  Will they  kill me
 like they did my father? Uncle Flint! Where are you?
   Basalt  bit  at  his knuckles,  feeling like  he was  about to
 jump out of his skin. He couldn't  just sit  there and  wait for
 them  to  stumble  on  him.  He  turned  and  scrambled  quickly
 up  the narrow  gully at  the back  of his  hiding place.  A few
 rocks  tumbled  down  behind  him,  but  he  bit  his   lip  and
 prayed   to   Reorx   that  the   mountain  dwarves   would  not
 notice.
   'You there! Halt!"
   Basalt heard the  frantic call  behind him,  but he  just kicked
 his legs higher and drove himself faster up the twisting gully.'
 He  was  a  good  climber,  and he  knew he  had some  chance of
 outrunning them over the steep, craggy slopes.
   A loud whistle blew. "The intruder! Get him!"
   Basalt  did  not  stop  to look  back. In  the darkness,  he was
 concentrating  on  finding hand-  and toeholds  in the  dirt and
 rock,  scarcely  aware  of  anything  else  but his  own labored
 breathing.
   He reached a twist in the gully, but instead of  following it,
 he spotted a ledge just above his head that flattened out  for a
 short distance  and led  into the  protection of  some man-sized
 rocks. If he  could just  get to  those rocks,  he might  have a
 chance of losing the patrol.
   Drawing  on  strength  he  did  not  ordinarily  have,  Basalt
 flung  himself  up  and  onto  the  ledge. He  broke into  a run
 across the flat,  gritty limestone  shelf. Legs  pumping wildly,
 he  closed with  the boulders  and threw  himself behind  one to
 catch  his  breath for  just a  moment. He  peered back  down to
 where  he  had  come  from  and  saw no  signs of  pursuit. Hope
 blossomed in his heart, but he could not stop yet.
   Keeping  low,  he  zigzagged  his  way  through  the  boulders
 and  on  up  the  mountain.  The  rocks  gave  way  to  a  thick
 grove  of  pine  trees,  and  he  plunged headlong  through them
 over  a  carpet  of dried  needles, uncaring  of the  low, stiff
 branches  that  slapped  his  face,  leaving  scratches  on  his
 cheeks.   He   could   hear  nothing   but  his   own  footsteps
 crunching  brown  needles and  his heart  pounding in  his ears.
 The  stand  of  trees  ended abruptly,  and Basalt  ran headlong

 into a moonlit clearing. He skidded to a halt in the dewy
 grass, looked around, and then all hope died.
       He had burst into a gathering of mountain dwarves.
   The  armed derro  were equally  surprised to  see a  hill dwarf
 in  their  midst,  but  they  recovered quickly  and surrounded
 him.  Basalt  counted  eight -  a smaller  patrol than  the one
 he'd  dodged  below  -  but, weaponless  himself, he  knew even
 one  derro  guard  was  more  than  he  could  hope   to  over-
 power.
   "What  have  we  here?  said  one of  them, stepping  out of
 the circle toward  Basalt. The  derro's corn-yellow  hair stuck
 out  at  odd angles,  and his  unnaturally large  eyes reminded
 Basalt  of  two  pieces of  cold black  onyx. But  the mountain
 dwarf's skin was what  was most  disconcerting; its  blue pale-
 ness looked translucent in moonlight.
   "Well?" The derro poked Basalt  in the  chest with  the point
 of a spear. "You're obviously a hill dwarf," he said, taking in
 Basalt's  freckle-tanned  face,  thin  leather vest,  and muddy
 old  boots.  "We  don't  like finding  hill dwarves  near Thor-
 bardin. What are you doing way out here?"
   Basalt willed his knees to stop shaking  as he  ransacked his
 mind  for  a  response.  "I,  uh, I  was hunting!"  he finished
 quickly,  latching  onto  the idea.  "I'm near  Thorbardin?" He
 let his eyes go wide with innocence. "I guess I got  so carried
 away that I didn't notice where I'd wandered off to."
   "What  are  you  hunting  at  night?  You hill  dwarves don't
 see that well in darkness," the derro said, eyeing Basalt skep-
 tically. "And no weapons?"
   "Raccoon,"  the  young  hill  dwarf  supplied  hastily.  "You
 have  to trap  'coon at  night, because  that's when  they come
 out of their nests."
   The  derro  appeared  to  be  considering   Basalt's  answer,
 rocking back on his heels, searching the hill dwarf's  face for
 deception. All he detected was fear.
   The  soldier's  eyes  narrowed. "I  saw your  expression when
 you came through those trees; something was after you."
   Basalt nodded. "I was tracking a raccoon when I saw -"
 He thought about making up another lie about a bear, but
 decided to stay close to the truth so he didn't slip up. "I saw

 another,  bigger  patrol of  dwarves coming  my way,  and I
 panicked and ran."
   "He's  lying,  Sergeant  Dolbin!" said  a voice  from behind
 Basalt.
   "Who  cares? Let's  just kill  the hill  scum and  move on!"
 said another.
   "Yeah, we've got a lot of ground to cover tonight!"
   Basalt  could  sense  the circle  drawing tighter  around him.
 Suddenly,  someone  pushed  him  from  behind.   The  startled
 hill dwarf stumbled  forward only  to have  the butt  of some-
 one's spear jammed  into the  pit of  his stomach.  He doubled
 over,  unable  to  breathe,  and  another spear  shaft thudded
 across the back of his neck. Gasping, he fell to the ground.
   The  ring  of  mountain  dwarves  erupted  in  laughter  and
 taunts. "Look out, farm boy, the raccoons are after youl"
   "Oooh, here comes  one now!"  Basalt saw  a shape  step for-
 ward and then felt his rib cage crack as the  mountain dwarf's
 heavy  boot crashed  into him.  The force  of the  blow rolled
 him over in the damp grass.
   "Get  him  up,"  growled  another.  "I  want  to  knock  him
 down  again."  Basalt's  head  cleared  for  a  moment  as two
 pairs of hands  lifted him  to his  feet. Someone  slapped his
 face. He looked up just in time to see a hairy fist smash into
 his nose. Excruciating pain exploded in his  skull as  he tum-
 bled over backward, landing in  a heap  on his  left shoulder.
 The  grass  was  cool and  moist, but  he also  felt something
 warm and thick running across his ravaged face.
   Basalt drew up his knees in an effort  to stand,  when some-
 thing  forced  him  back  to  the  ground. A  muddy, hobnailed
 boot pressed down on the back of his  neck, grinding  the side
 of his face into  the earth.  The night  sky swam  with colors
 before  Basalt's  eyes as  the dwarves  pelted him  with kicks
 and  hammered  his  back  and  legs with  the shafts  of their
 spears. He bit his lip to still his screams, but he  could not
 keep from  squirming as  the blows  only increased.  And then,
 suddenly, they halted.
   Basalt felt someone grab him by the armpit and jerk him
 to his feet. He looked up through the blood streaming down
 his throbbing face and  saw that  it was  the first  derro who

 had questioned him, Dolbin.
    "Now that my men have taught you what happens when
 you  wander  where  you're  not  wanted,"  the   sergeant  said,
 holding fast to  Basalt's arm,  "we're going  to have  some real
 fun."
    Basalt  slumped  against  Dolbin  in  defeat;  he  hoped they
 would  kill  him  quickly,  for he  had no  strength or  will to
 fight left.
    Dolbin  forced  him  to  stand, then  smiled condescendingly.
 "You'll like my game - I'm  going to  give you  a chance  to get
 away!"  Basalt  perked  up  slightly,  which  was  the  response
 the derro sought. "Good, now you're ready to listen.
    "The rules are very simple," he  began. "We  let you  go, and
 then we try  to catch  you again.  We'll give  you a  one minute
 lead, of course, to make it sporting."
    Basalt's  right  eye  was  swollen shut,  but he  looked up
 through  his  good  one. "And  if you  catch me?"  he wheezed,
 agonizing  stabs  of  pain  shooting  through  him   from  his
 bruised ribs.
    The   sergeant  shook   his  head   sadly  and   clucked  his
 tongue.  "You  really shouldn't  dwell on  ugly thoughts.  But I
 will  tell  you  what  happened  to  a  hill  dwarf spy  who got
 caught in Thorbardin just two days ago."
    Basalt's heart lurched, and he felt near to fainting from his
 wounds.  But  he  forced  himself  to  listen  to  Dolbin's next
 words.
    "How  shall  I say  it?" Dolbin  tapped his  chin in  a mock-
 sympathetic way. "I've got it!  He's been  relieved of  the bur-
 den of being a hill dwarf!" His men hooted with laughter.
    Flint's dead.  Dolbin could  only be  speaking of  Flint. The
 news  dashed  Basalt's last  flickering hope  and left  him more
 numb  than  the  pounding  he'd  just  taken.  He  was distantly
 aware that Dolbin was addressing him.
    "-  won't  ruin  the  game  by giving  up already,  will you?
 We'd  make  death  doubly   painful  for   a  poor   sport,"  he
 warned.  The  derro  roughly  shoved  Basalt through  the circle
 of dwarven soldiers. The  hill dwarf  fell, struggling  again to
 his feet while  the soldiers  kicked and  jeered at  him. Dolbin
 squeezed Basalt's  right shoulder  hard and  pointed him  to the

 edge of the clearing opposite where he'd burst in.
    Go!-
   Basalt felt his legs moving with a will of their own,  and he
 found   himself   half-staggering,   half-running   toward  the
 trees.
   "Remember, we'll be right behind youl" Dolbin yelled,
 and his men broke into laughter again.
   Basalt  stumbled  past the  edge of  the clearing  and barely
 avoided  tripping  on  an  overgrown  log.  He  rushed forward,
 heedless  of  his  path,  and  more  than  once crashed  into a
 shadowy tree or lost his feet in a tangle of  creepers. Desper-
 ately  he  wanted  to  stop and  rest, or  stop and  listen for
 sounds  of  his  pursuers, but  he knew  he could  not -  if he
 stopped,  he  might  never  move  again. He  also knew  that he
 would  never  hear  anything over  the sound  of his  own lungs
 heaving against his bruised ribs or the  blood pounding  in his
 ears.
   He  ran  blindly  and  nearly  senseless, until  suddenly the
 ground  gave  way  beneath  him. He  stepped out  into nothing,
 and silvery blackness rushed  past him.  Less than  a heartbeat
 later,  Basalt  splashed  into an  ice-cold stream.  His throat
 wanted  to  scream  even  while  his mind  fought to  keep con-
 trol. His chest felt as if it were wrapped in iron bands.
   In  panic  Basalt  clawed  his  way  up  the  muddy  bank and
 lay  there  shivering,  his  courage  spent.  The  tiny  bit of
 strength  that  remained  was  completely  occupied  in keeping
 Basalt  from weeping  openly. But  he swore  he would  not cry,
 not  even  if  the  derro found  him there  and chopped  him to
 bits on the spot.
   "I   know   Flint   wouldn't   cry,"  he   sputtered  through
 clenched teeth. But he could not stop  the tears  from flowing,
 for  his agony,  for his  fear and  desperation. For  his Uncle
 Flint.
   After a few  minutes, Basalt  hiccupped to  a stop.  He could
 hear the sounds of the  forest again.  His teeth  stopped chat-
 tering, and the ringing subsided in his ears. He crawled  a few
 yards  away  from  the stream  and toward  a thicket.  There he
 lay, waiting for the pursuing derro.
       Basalt listened for several minutes, but heard nothing.

 Could  they  have  lost  my  trail?  he  wondered.  But  he  knew
 that  made  no  sense.  Used  to  life  underground,   the  derro
 could see  even better  than him  in the  dark, and  they weren't
 frightened  out of  their wits  either. He  had certainly  left a
 trail that even a child could follow. So where were they?
   Either  they  are  toying with  me, or...  or they  didn't fol-
 low me at all, Basalt thought.  Strangely, the  first possibility
 did  not  frighten  him, but  the second  made him  angry. Basalt
 reflected   on   the   humiliating   beating,    remembered   his
 bruises  and  shattered  bones,  and  felt  the cuts  and scrapes
 suffered  during  his  wild  flight  through  the forest.  He was
 nothing  but  a joke  to these  derro, first  a punching  bag and
 then a frightened rabbit to be chased off.
   The  shame   was  almost   more  than   he  could   bear.  Ex-
 hausted  beyond  endurance,  broken  in  body  and  spirit,  Ba-
 salt lapsed gratefully into unconsciousness.

 * * * * *

   Flint  plunged  down  the  steeply  angled,  rocky  chute, tum-
 bling  head over  heels, slamming  from side  to side.  He fought
 to  gain  some  control  over  the  plummet,  but   could  barely
 discern  up  from  down.  Jagged  edges  of  granite tore  at his
 flesh  and  clothing  as  his hands  groped desperately  for any-
 thing  to  grip.  Suddenly  his  short  fingers  slapped  against
 something  long,  thin,  and  hard,  and  instantly  they  locked
 around  it.  The dwarf  growled in  pain as  his hand  slid along
 the  knobby  shaft.  Dirt  and rock  rained down  on his  head as
 the  sudden  weight  on  his  handhold  loosened sections  of the
 wall.  Daring  to  glance  up,  Flint  saw he  had caught  an an-
 cient tree root, half buried in the wall of  the pit.  He clamped
 his fist around it  tighter and  clung to  the exposed  root with
 all his might and desperation.
   His feet met  a rocky  outcropping as  he came  to a  stop. Ex-
 pecting  the  rock  beneath him  to tear  lose under  the impact,
 Flint tightened his grip on the root as he tested the size of the
 ledge with his toes. To his alarm, it was  only six  inches deep,
 albeit  three  times  his  girth  in width.  He pressed  his back
 against the wall and tried to think as he caught his breath.
   What now?

   That thought was barely formed in his head when some-
 thing heavy crashed down around his shoulders, flailing
 and thrashing.
   "Help me!"
   Stunned and knocked off balance by the weight, Flint
 nearly lost his grip and tumbled over the  edge, but  blind in-
 stinct locked his fingers around the tree root. In spite of its
 tone of terror, he recognized  the voice  of the  dwarven frawl
 guard, although he didn't dare budge an inch to look up.
   "I  can't  hang on  -" she  squealed as  she began  to tumble
 off of Flint's shoulders, windmilling her arms.
   "Get your feet on the ledge!" Flint  hissed. "Hug  the wall!"
 Flattening  himself  even  more, he  grabbed her  flapping arms
 in  one  hand  and held  them tightly  while she  scrambled for
 footing next to him.  Flint guided  her hands  to the  root and
 together they clung to it, panting from fear and exertion.
   After a moment's rest, Flint peered at  the frawl.  "What are
 you doing here?" he asked  bluntly as  he pressed  his bleeding
 cheek  to  his shoulder.  "Trip?" He  coughed violently  on the
 dirt in his throat.
   "Hardly."  Perian  shot  back,  not  daring  to move.  "I was
 pushed in behind you  by that  swine-son, Pitrick.  He'll roast
 on a slow spit for this."
   "That's  assuming  we  get  unspitted  ourselves,"  Hint  re-
 sponded.  "Do  you  have  any  idea  how  far down  the bottom
 is, or how to get out, or what exactly is at the bottom?"
   "Of course not!" Perian snapped.  "It's a  beast pit.  No one
 comes  down  here  exploring.  No  one comes  down here  at all
 with any hope of getting out."
   A  noise  from  below  froze  her in  place. Her  eyes locked
 onto Flint's.
   "I heard it, too." Flint shifted his position to get a better
 look down into the  pit. The  old mine  shaft twisted  and bent
 as  it  descended.  After  a  few moments  his eyes  focused on
 what  he  thought  must  be  the  earthen  floor  approximately
 thirty  feet below.  As Flint  strained to  pick out  any addi-
 tional details, the noise - a sort of  scuffling, he  thought -
 came again. And a shadow passed below.
         Still peering down, Flint asked, "What in the name of

 Reorx is that?"
   "A  killer,"  Perian  replied.  "Beyond  that, I  couldn't say.
 And  I  really don't  want to  find out.  I want  to wait  for my
 hands to stop shaking and then climb back out of here."
   "I don't  think that's  too likely,"  Flint said,  now scanning
 the tunnel  above. "The  sides of  this pit  are rough  but crum-
 bling.  Trying  to  climb  out  is  likely  to send  you plunging
 even  sooner  to the  bottom. If  we had  something to  dig hand-
 holds with, maybe we could work our way..."
   Flint's idea was cut  off by  a scraping  sound from  below, as
 if  something  of  great  bulk  was  being  dragged  across  damp
 rocks.  Perian  released  the  root  with  one  hand   to  clutch
 Flint's  shoulder  instead.  "I  can  see  it  -  or  something -
 moving down there," she whispered. "There it is again!"
   Flint blinked, trying to focus on the small  patch of  floor at
 the  bottom  of  the  twisting  shaft.  He  could hear  the sound
 plainly now. It  was a  dragging, sloshing  sort of  noise, punc-
 tuated  with  numerous  clicks  and  slaps.  Though  vaguely  fa-
 miliar, he couldn't quite identify it.
   Until  the  smell  reached  them.  With   sickening  thickness,
 the stench of rot and waste  rose around  them, filling  the tun-
 nel. Perian  shrank back  to the  wall as  Flint spat,  trying to
 clear  the  taste  from  his  mouth. "What  is it'/"  groaned the
 frawl.
   "Carrion  crawler,"   answered  the   hill  dwarf.   "They  eat
 most anything, as long as it's dead. If it's not, all the better,
 they have fun killing it.  They can  climb, too,  so I  expect it
 will be coming up." As if on cue,  a section  of pink  and purple
 flesh  passed  across  the pit  floor. A  moment later,  an enor-
 mous  green  eye  stared  up at  the pair.  Glistening tentacles,
 each  more  than  five  feet  long,  circled  a   gnashing  mouth
 filled  with  hundreds  of  grinding   teeth.  The   head  swayed
 back and  forth, into  view and  then out  again. All  the while,
 the stench grew stronger and the noise louder.
   "Look  for  big  rocks,  maybe  we can  drive it  off," advised
 Flint  frantically,  releasing  his  grip  on  the root  to grope
 across the  ledge and  wall. Moments  later he  had a  small pile
 of fist-sized stones at his feet.  "It's not  much, but  we might
 slow  it  down.  Aim  for its  eyes. And  whatever you  do, don't

 let those tentacles touch your skin."
   "What  happens  if  they do?"  whispered Perian,  staring at
 the bobbing head.
   "Its venom will paralyze you so it can dine at leisure later.
 Be careful!"
   Flint hefted a pair of rocks.  Holding them  in one  hand, he
 pried Perian's right  hand from  the tree  root with  his other
 and forced a rock  into it.  "When I  say, give  it a  taste of
 stone!"
   The feel of the  rock in  her hand  gave Perian  something to
 focus on. She hefted it,  turned it  over in  her palm.  A good
 shot from this could split a steel  helmet, the  frawl thought.
 She turned back to the pit, the rock poised above her head.
   At  that  moment  the  carrion crawler  burst into  view from
 behind a twist in the tunnel, its tentacles flashing and writh-
 ing toward the  ledge. Flint  could see  most of  its segmented
 body now, twisting along the contours  of the  wall. A  pair of
 short  but  thick  legs,  white  and   slime-covered,  extended
 from each segment. Each  leg ended  in a  pair of  suction cups
 as big as the dwarf's head. Shreds of  rotted flesh  from past
 meals clung to the beast. Bile rose in Flint's throat as revul-
 sion gripped him. The creature  was far  larger than  any other
 carrion crawler the dwarf had ever seen, or  even heard  of; it
 was  the   grandaddy  of   all  carrion   crawlers.  Swallowing
 hard,  Flint  tightened  his grip  on the  root and  hurled the
 stone. With a crack, it caromed off the  shiny head  and sailed
 down the tunnel, unnoticed by its target.
   Instantly,   Perian's   arm   snapped   forward.   The  stone
 plunged straight into  the crawler's  mouth, disappearing  in a
 tiny  shower  of  tooth  fragments. It  was impossible  to tell
 whether the beast felt any  pain, but  the repulsive  head made
 a  sort  of  roar   and  swung   abruptly  away   from  Perian.
 Though the beast was still at least six feet below  them, three
 tentacles  lashed out  and wrapped  around Flint's  right boot.
 Instantly  the  leather  steamed   and  hissed,   and  blisters
 formed  around  the  ankle.  Though  protected  from  real dam-
 age  by the  leather, Flint  howled with  pain. He  snatched up
 another  rock  and  smashed  at  the  thin,  straining  append-
 ages. First one, then  another, were  severed by  his ferocious

  blows. Blue ichor stained the rock ledge beneath Flint's foot.
    Perian fired a second stone at the beast, hitting just  at the
  rim of one of its eyes. Enraged, the  carrion crawler  swung its
  head out from the wall,  dragging Flint's  foot from  the ledge.
  Desperately  he clung  with one  hand to  the root,  groping for
  any  sort  of hold  with the  other. Perian  grabbed him  by the
  shoulders just as  the monster  reared again,  and both  of them
  flew off the ledge and  out into  space. The  remaining tentacle
  around  Flint's  foot  tightened,  then  snapped  in  two. Still
  clutching  each  other,  Flint  and  Perian bounced  and skidded
  down  the  length  of  the   beast's  segmented   back,  finally
  crashing onto a pile of bones on the ground.
    Flint  groaned  as  he scrambled  to his  feet. He  seemed un-
  hurt,  but  his  foot,  with  the  fragments  of  tentacle still
  wrapped around the boot, seemed to be growing numb.
    He  glanced  around  and  saw  that  they  were  in  a cul-de-
  sac.  He  could not  see how  far that  cavern extended,  but it
  was the only direction out.
    "Quick,  we  need  a weapon  of some  sort," Flint  shouted to
  the  prone  frawl.  "Don't  you  have  a  knife -  some weapon?"
  he gasped.
    "I did," she said in a small voice. "But I dropped it."
    "You dropped it?" he groaned in disbelief.
    "It must have slipped out as  I was  falling down  the chute,"
  she retorted defensively, struggling to her feet.
    "Maybe  we  can  find  it  down  here,  or  anything  else. We
  haven't  got  much -"  Flint's gaze  shot up  to the  wall where
  the  carrion  crawler  should  have  been,  but the  monster had
  already   turned   around   and    was   moving    toward   them
  "-  time!  Come  on!"  He  grabbed  Perian  by  the   wrist  and
  jerked her into motion.
    Scanning the floor as they ran, Flint's  eye caught  the glint
  of  metal  among  the  rocks and  scattered bones  littering the
  carrion crawler's lair. With a kick  he churned  up a  rusty but
  still solid blade about ten inches long. With his free  hand, he
  snatched it on the run.
       "It's gaining!" shrieked Perian. "How fast can that thing
  move?"
    "Faster than us,"  Flint snorted,  glancing backward  at their

  pursuer. He was horrified to see the creature a scant  ten feet
  behind,  and charging  fast! In  spite of  its bulk,  the beast
  moved  with  alarming  grace  and  fluidity, its  numerous legs
  rippling along its  flanks. Then,  as Flint  watched horrified,
  the  whiplike  tentacles  shot  out  and  wrapped  around  Per-
  ian's throat from behind, jerking her to a dead stop.
    "Gods!"  swore  the  dwarf,  skidding  into the  cavern wall.
  "Let  her  go,  you  stinking  worm!"  Brandishing   the  rusty
  blade,  he  spun  around  and  stumbled  toward  the retreating
  monstrosity. With  one hand  he grabbed  a fistful  of Perian's
  jacket  and  with  the  other he  slashed across  the dripping,
  rubbery  tentacles.  Gobs  of  venom  and  thick,   blue  blood
  hissed  through  the air,  thrown from  the thrashing  limb. It
  took a third lightning cut  by the  tarnished knife  before the
  frawl was released. Flint  flung the  paralyzed but  still con-
  scious  mountain  dwarf  over   his  shoulder   and  retreated,
  moving  backward  to  keep  his  face  toward  the   beast.  It
  seemed  momentarily  stunned  by   its  injury,   though  Flint
  knew it had too little brain to yield to any opponent.
    But for the  moment, it  had something  else to  think about.
  Food, in the form of its own tentacles, had fallen at its feet.
  Flint gazed in disbelief as the horror  gulped down  the grisly
  bounty of itself. The hill  dwarf turned  and bolted  once more
  into  the  cavern, only  too aware  that so  far only  luck was
  keeping him alive.
    This might be the last thing I ever do, Flint  caught himself
  thinking  as he  raced through  the darkness.  And I'm  not do-
  ing  it  very  well, he  added as  his benumbed  ankle crumpled
  beneath  the  combined  weight of  him and  Perian. Frantically
  he  pulled himself  up on  the wall  and, dragging  both Perian
  and his own foot, continued deeper into the  lair of  the crea-
  ture.
    Or  he  would  have,  had  the  cavern not  abruptly narrowed
  to  a  point  and  then  stopped  completely. His  escape route
  blocked by solid rock, Flint dropped Perian  to the  floor. Her
  eyes,  peering  helplessly  at him,  were filled  with unaccus-
  tomed  terror.  Flint  looked  away,  then  readied  the humble
  blade  he'd picked  up. With  a rueful  chuckle he  said aloud,
  "I'm  naming  you  Happenstance,  little  knife,  for  whatever

 it's worth. You stand between us and perdition. I hope
 you're up to it."
   As  he  turned  to  face the  approaching carrion  crawler, a
 flash of light from a fissure in the  wall caught  Flint's eye.
 With  no  hesitation,   he  hefted   Perian's  limp   form  and
 crammed her head  first into  the crack  in the  rock, wherever
 it led. He pushed her forward as far as possible, but  then she
 wedged in and Flint could  not budge  her. "Forgive  me, Per-
 ian," he  muttered as  he put  his shoulder  to her  ample seat
 and  heaved  with  all  his  might.  The frawl  inched forward,
 and then suddenly,  as if  something ahead  was tugging  on the
 other  end,  she  zipped  forward and  out of  sight. Startled,
 Flint tried to twist his neck up for a  look through  the hole,
 but a pair of hands grabbed him by  the red  trim on  his tunic
 and dragged him, too, through the breach in the wall.
   Flint  crawled  to  his knees  and saw  Perian laying  on the
 ground before him. He looked up.
    Sporting an idiotic grin and a self-important posture was
 the filthiest pot-bellied creature the hill dwarf had seen in a
 long time.
   "I'll be hanged!" Flint exclaimed. "A gully dwarf!"
   "What  you  doing   there?  Monster   get  you,"   the  gully
 dwarf said simply, scolding them with a click of his tongue.
   "No kidding," chuckled Flint. "Where are we now?"
   The gully dwarf beamed proudly. "You in Mudhole!"

                 Chapter 11

                  Mudhole

      When He created the world, Reorx the Forge, a god
 of neutrality who strove for balance  between good  and evil,
 needed men to help Him with His  work in  this new  land. For
 many  years  the  humans  worked  happily  under  the  loving
 guidance  of  Reorx,  the master  of creation  and invention.
 But the men became proud of  their skills,  as men  will, and
 they used them for their own ends. Early in the Age of Light,
 four  thousand  years  before  the Cataclysm  forever altered
 the face of Krynn, Reorx  became angered  by this  and trans-
 formed  some  men  into  a new  race. He  took from  them the
 crafts He, upon the anvil of His immortal forge,  had taught,
 leaving only their burning desire to tinker and build, invent
 and construct. He made the  stature of  this new  race, known

 as gnomes, as small as their goals.
   The evil Hiddukel, the patron god of greedy men, was
 pleased  by  this  because  He  knew   the  forging   god  had
 worked  long  and hard  to make  order out  of chaos,  and now
 the balance of  god and  evil was  not being  maintained. Hid-
 dukel  went  to  another  of the  neutral gods,  Chislev, and,
 seeking  to make  mischief, He  convinced Him  that neutrality
 could  not  be  maintained  since  evil  was  losing position.
 Their only hope, He said, was for neutrality to seize control.
 To  that  end, Hiddukel  persuaded Chislev,  who in  turn per-
 suaded  His fellow  neutral god,  Reorx, to  forge a  gem that
 would  anchor  neutrality  to  the  world  of Krynn.  A large,
 clear gray stone of many facets, it was  designed to  hold and
 radiate  the  essence  of  Lunitari, the  red moon  of neutral
 magic. And on that same moon it was placed.
   Reorx,  although  still  angry  at  the  gnomes,  loved them
 and  could  see  how they  might yet  serve Him.  He presented
 to them a plan  for a  Great Invention  that would  be powered
 by  a magical  stone: the  gray gemstone.  As only  the gnomes
 could, they built a mechanical ladder that lifted  itself into
 the sky and to the red moon itself. With  a magical  net given
 to  him  by  Reorx,  a  gnome  appointed  by Reorx  climbed to
 the  top  of  the  ladder  and  captured  the Graygem  for the
 Great   Invention.  But   when  he   returned  to   Krynn  and
 opened  the net,  the stone  leaped into  the air  and floated
 quickly  off  to  the  west.  Fascinated,  most of  the gnomes
 packed up their belongings  and followed  it to  their western
 shores  and  beyond.  The  gem's  passing  caused  new animals
 and plants to spring up and old ones to alter  form overnight.
 Instead  of  anchoring  neutrality,  the  gem made  the pendu-
 lum  of good  and evil  swing more  rapidly than  before. That
 is when Reorx knew He and Chislev had been tricked.
   During  many  years  of  searching for  the gem,  the gnomes
 split into two armies.  Both armies'  searches led them  to a
 barbarian  prince  named  Gargath,  who,  seeing it.as  a gift
 from  his gods,  had plucked  the marvelous  gem from  the air
 and  placed  it  in  a  high  tower  for  safekeeping. Gargath
 refused  the groups'  demands for  the gem,  so they  both de-
 clared war on the barbarian prince.

    After  many  abortive  siege  attempts,  the  gnomes finally
  penetrated Gargath's fortress. Both sides  were amazed  to see
  the gem's steel gray light suddenly fill the area with unbear-
  able brightness.  When anyone  could see  again, the  two fac-
  tions of gnomes were fighting each other. One side  was filled
  with lust for the gem, the other side was curious about it.
    Under  the  power  of  the  gem,  the gnomes  changed. Those
  who  coveted  wealth  became  dwarves.  Those  who  were curi-
  ous became the first  kender. These  new races  spread quickly
  throughout Ansalon.
    As  their  mountain  and  hill  dwarf  cousins  were  always
  quick to point out, gully  dwarves were  the result  of inter-
  marriage  between  dwarves  and  gnomes.   Unfortunately,  the
  members of this new race  lacked all  the better  qualities of
  their ancestors.
    Seeing  the  result,  dwarven  and gnomish  societies banned
  this  sort  of  intermarriage,  and  members  of the  new race
  were  driven  out,  most  vehemently  by  dwarves.  Forced  to
  grub  for  existence  among  abandoned  ruins  and  the refuse
  piles  of  cities  abandoned  after  the Cataclysm,  the gully
  dwarves were free to develop their  own culture  - or  lack of
  it.  Named  Aghar,  or  "anguished,"  humans  later  nicknamed
  them  "gully  dwarves,"  noting  their poor  living conditions
  and  the  general  disgust  felt toward  them by  nearly every
  other race on Krynn.
    Such  was  the  lot of  some three  hundred Aghar  living in
  Mudhole.  Before  the  Cataclysm,  Mudhole  had been  a thriv-
  ing,  productive  mine,  supplying  the  forges  of Thorbardin
  above  with rich  iron. But  that continental  catastrophe had
  sent sheets of rock crashing into the shafts, cutting  off all
  but  one  long  tunnel  that  led  back into  Thorbardin. Even
  that one was pitched so that  it was  now nearly  vertical and
  impossible to climb: it was this that the derro called  it the
  Beast Pit.
    But  some  good  came  of  the Cataclysm,  at least  for the
  Aghar  of  Mudhole.  Most  of  the  dwarven-dug   tunnels  re-
  mained intact, and  in some  places actually  intersected with
  stunningly beautiful organic caverns cut  by centuries  of wa-
  ter that ran through the mountains of Thorbardin.

   The  three  hundred  gully   dwarves  that   inhabited  Mudhole
 were  broken  down  into  family  units; they  lived in  the ends
 of  abandoned,  dead-end  shafts,  but  shared  the  four natural
 caverns   as   common   space.   They   had   "decorated"   their
 homes  with  family  heirlooms,  such  as petrified  animals, and
 other  bits  of  treasure  garnered  from  the  garbage  piles of
 Thorbardin   above.  Thus,   Mudhole  was   at  once   a  natural
 wonder and an appalling pigsty.

 * * * * *

   "They  can't  really  expect us  to sleep  in here,  can they?"
 Perian moaned, pacing anxiously.
   Nomscul,  the  gully  dwarf  who  had  rescued  them  from  the
 Beast  Pit,  had led  them here  and left  them, saying  he would
 return  shortly  with  food  and  some  friends.  Perian fingered
 the  tattered  edges  of  the  filthy  woolen  blanket  that  was
 draped   over   a   legless   wooden   chair.   She  disdainfully
 nudged an old bone on the  dirty stone  floor with  a toe  of her
 boot.   Shivering,   the  mountain   dwarf  hugged   herself  and
 looked around in despair for someplace suitable to sit.
   The  perfectly  square  chamber  had   two  doorways   and  was
 perhaps  twenty feet  square. It  had been  chipped out  of solid
 granite, for the  bites the  pick-axes had  taken could  still be
 seen  in  the  cold,  gray-green  stone  walls. Thick,  moldy old
 support  beams  crisscrossed  the  ceiling  in  no  apparent pat-
 tern,  or  perhaps  a  few   had  been   removed  by   the  gully
 dwarves  for  other  purposes.  Indeed,  some  chairs  and  small
 tables  looked  to  be  hastily  constructed  of  the  same stout
 beams.  Small  rugs;  worn,  hairless animal  skins; and  the oc-
 casional piece of fine silk or rich but filthy lace, all but cov-
 ered the floor.
   Broken   stoneware   pots,   sundry  rodent   skeletons,  rusty
 weapons  in  various  states  of  ill-repair,  dozens  of candles
 burned to an inch, bent utensils,  one half  of a  hand-held fire
 bellows,  a canoe  filled with  holes, a  stringless lute,  and a
 dwarf-high  pile  of  unmatched  shoes  and  boots   rounded  out
 the adornments.
         Reclining on the big, soft bed of burlap-covered moss,
 Flint picked at his teeth  absently with  a splinter  of wood. He

 chuckled at Perian's discomfiture. "I've slept in worse."
   He  watched  her  flit about  the room  apprehensively, virtu-
 ally tearing off the whites of her nails.  "Can't you  relax for
 one  moment?"  he  asked,  putting  down  his  toothpick.  "I'll
 admit  the  accommodations  aren't  the  best, but  they're only
 temporary.  Not  ten  minutes  ago  I   was  carrying   you  and
 limping  for  our  lives  from -  well, you  know what  from. At
 least we're safe  until I  can get  someone to  show us  the way
 out of here."
   The first thing Flint intended to do after that was to let his
 nephew,  whom  he'd  left   waiting  outside   Thorbardin,  know
 he was all right. Basalt would be plenty worried by now.
   Perian  whirled  about,  perspiration  alluringly  curling the
 ends  of  her coppery  hair. She  fixed him  with an  icy glare.
 "And  what's  that  supposed  to   mean?"  The   mountain  dwarf
 chewed the end of  another nail  off with  her teeth,  her eyes,
 like daggers, piercing his. "You think  just because  I suffered
 a little temporary  fright paralysis  I can't  take care  of my-
 self?"
   "A little paralysis?  You were  like a  sack of  flour!" Flint
 caught  the  embarrassed  look  in  her  eyes  and  held  up his
 hands  in  mock  surrender.  He  laughed.  "Sorry  if  I assumed
 command. I forgot I was talking to  a soldier.  I'm used  to or-
 dering  around  youths  and  barmaids,"  he  explained, thinking
 of  his  friends  in  Solace. He  coughed uncomfortably  when he
 saw  her  bemused  face.  "I  didn't  mean   that  the   way  it
 sounded!  I  have  these  friends  -  oh,  never  mind!"  he ex-
 claimed,  unused  to  explaining  himself.  He rubbed  his face,
 turned onto his side, curled up  into the  moss bed,  and closed
 his eyes.
   "You aren't going to sleep, are you?"
   He  opened  one  eye.  "I  thought I  might until  that Aghar
 brought some food, yes." He closed his eye again.
   "But how can you sleep after what we've just been
 through?" she squealed, her fists clenched tight at her sides.
   Flint  sighed  heavily,  sat  up,  and  looked at  her through
 half-lidded eyes. "That's precisely  why I  need the  sleep. I'm
 exhausted!  In  the  last   few  days   I've  been   pushed  and
 punched  and  kicked  and  chased  and   dropped  down   a  pit.

 Every  muscle  and  bone aches;  the only  thing holding  me to-
 gether  is  my skin!  Do you  think my  face usually  looks like
 this?"  he  asked,  holding a  cracked and  swollen hand  to his
 puffy  lips,  nose,  and  black  eye.  "Adventures  always  drag
 me out." He  covered a  yawn with  the back  of his  thick, cal-
 lused hand.
   Perian  looked  astounded.  "You  mean  you've  had  this sort
 of thing happen to you before?"
   He  blinked.  "Sure,  though  the  situation  has  become con-
 siderably   more   complicated   than   your   average   dungeon
 crawl. Don't tell me you haven't?"
   "I'm  the  captain of  the thane's  guard, for  Reorx's sake!"
 she  said  despondently.  "I train  troops for  parade maneuvers
 and theoretical fighting, and I live in the plushest  barrack on
 the  richest  level  of  Thorbardin!  I  am  not  accustomed  to
 this!" she said, indicating the  cluttered room  with a  wave of
 her hand.
   He scowled. "So that's all  it is."  Flint punched  his fluffy
 moss  pillow  and  dropped  his  bushy gray  head onto  it. "Lay
 down,  take  a load  off your  feet! Mark  my words,  this place
 won't look so bad after you've had a good rest."
   Perian  stopped  her  fidgeting  long  enough  to  run  a hand
 through her damp hair. "That's just it! I can't rest  here!" She
 frowned   and   looked   away,  then   mumbled,  "If   you  must
 know,   I'm   dying   for  a   rolled  mossweed!"   She  resumed
 pacing.
   "I'm  sure  the  gully  dwarves  have  some  sort of  weed you
 can smoke if  you must,"  the hill  dwarf said  in exasperation,
 his tone telling her  what he  thought of  the habit  of smoking
 dried  moss.  With  that,  he  turned over  again. But  he could
 hear her mumbling behind him.
   "I know it's a disgusting habit, but it's the only one - well,
 one  of  the  only  ones  I  have!"  She  chewed nervously  on a
 wild hank of  her hair.  "Some sort  of weed,  hmm? I'm  used to
 the  best  dwarven  mix  from  the north  warren farms  in Thor-
 bardin, and you expect me to smoke any old dried thing?"
   Flint  yawned.  "I  don't  expect  you  to  do anything  on my
 account but be quiet."
         Perian had a retort prepared, when suddenly, from the

 doorway  straight ahead  came the  sound of  clattering glass
 and metal and some other unidentifiable  noises as  well. The
 mountain  dwarf  whirled  around  in  surprise, and  the hill
 dwarf shot up angrily.
   "What in the - ?"
   "Nomscul  back  with  eats!"  The Aghar  popped up  in front
 of Flint, the mud-streaked skin  above his  scruffy, unshaven
 chin spread in his usual eager grin.
   Nomscul,  they  had  learned,  was  Mudhole's  shaman,  the
 keeper of the clan's relics and lore. He served as its healer
 and wise man, and was widely  regarded as  its best  cook. He
 was kind of  its beloved  leader, more  for the  cooking than
 the  wisdom  perhaps.  Nomscul  now  wore  a   ratty,  smelly
 wool vest that hung to his knees and  was lined  with pockets
 of differing sizes and fabrics. From his  belt dangled  a red
 cloth bag cinched with a twine. In his  hands was  a steaming
 bowl of  something gray  and stringy,  which he  shoved right
 under the old dwarf's big nose.
   Though annoyed at first, Flint  was drawn  in by  the rich,
 meaty  aroma.  He  took  another  deep, satisfied  breath and
 accepted  the  bent  spoon  Nomscul  offered   him.  "Wonder-
 ful!" Flint sighed,  barely pausing  to speak  between mouth-
 fuls. "What is it?"
   "Grotto   grubs   in   mushroom  mash,"   Nomscul  answered
 proudly. Flint's spooning  rhythm slowed  for just  a moment.
 He looked over and saw Perian leaning against a  table, first
 mouthful poised near her waiting lips. Her eyes  wide circles
 of  disbelief, she  set the  spoon down  and stared  into the
 bowl.
   "You like?" the anxious gully dwarf asked Flint.
   The hill  dwarf set  his bowl  down on  a table,  wiped his
 mouth on his  sleeve, and  hopped from  the mossy  bed. "Yes,
 Nomscul, it's, uh, very tasty."
   Pleased, the gully  dwarf patted  the potbelly  that bulged
 below his plain, dingy shirt. He bounded for the door. "I get
 more!"
   "Wait!" Flint cried. The gully dwarf stopped and turned
 around, and Flint came to his side. "Look, Nomscul," he be-
 gan, searching for the  right words,  "thanks for,  you know,

 saving us and all, but I really need to be going now."
   Perian stepped up next to Flint quickly. "I'd like to leave,
 as well." She scowled at the hill dwarf.
   Nomscul's fleshy cheeks bunched  up in  a full  smile. "King
 and queen want two  leaf? Stay  here, I  be right  back!" Nod-
 ding  to himself,  he dashed  into the  darkness of  the stone
 tunnel beyond.
   "Strangely  pleasant   little  fellow,"   Flint  commented.
 "Probably went to get an escort for us."
   'What  was  that  'king  and  queen' stuff?"  Perian asked,
 staring after the gully dwarf.
   Flint  shrugged.  "I  don't  know,  probably  Mudhole's hon-
 orary title for guests." Perian nodded absently.
   As  they  waited for  Nomscul to  return, Flint  circled the
 room, looking into  corners, picking  up and  examining little
 bits  of  gully  dwarf  treasure.  He  handed Perian  a dirty,
 broken-toothed tortoise shell comb.
   Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the bed,  the frawl  dragged the
 comb's   six   remaining  teeth   through  her   matted  hair.
 "Ouch!"  she  snarled  after  one particularly  stubborn rat's
 nest.  "I  can't  wait  until  I  get  out of  these mud-caked
 clothes - I can barely bend my knees in these pants!"
   Flint raised  his eyebrows  as a  thought struck  him. "Say,
 where  do  you  think  you'll be  heading when  we get  out of
 here?"
   "Home, of course,"  Perian said  quickly, picking  the dried
 mud  from  her  pants.  'What  a  question.  Where  else... 7"
 Abruptly  she  stopped, sucked  in her  breath, and  clapped a
 hand to her mouth. "I see what you  mean! I  can't go  back to
 Thorbardin - Pitrick thinks I'm dead! He'd  never let  me live
 now, after what happened at the pit!"
   She fell back on the bed in despair. "But where will  I go?"
 she  moaned.  "Thorbardin  is  my  home,  the  Theiwar  are my
 clan  -  I doubt  that any  other group  there would  take me!
 And  I  don't  know  how  to  live anywhere  but underground!"
 She bit off the end of another nail.
   Watching  her  torment,  Flint  smashed his  hand down  on a
 table.  "But  why  would  you  want  to  live among  such cut-
 throats, liars, and murderers?"

   Perian bristled. "Not everyone in Theiwar City is like Pit-
 rick, you know," she  said. "There  are more  good half-derro
 dwarves like me, and even many a fine full-blooded Hylar."
   "Yeah, the Great Betrayal is a testament to the  charity of
 the  blue-blooded  Hylar  and  mountain dwarves  in general!"
 Flint  sneered, kicking  at a  broken pottery  shard, sending
 shattered pieces into the air.
   Perian  sat  up  and  chuckled  without  humor.  "You think
 the  mountain  dwarves  were  all  snug  and  warm  after the
 Cataclysm?  Thousands   of  dwarves   starved  to   death  in
 Thorbardin,  including  my  grandparents!  At least  the hill
 dwarves,  used  to  being  above-ground,  could   forage  for
 food!" She gave a  patronizing laugh.  "You hill  dwarves are
 such ignorant bigots!"
   "At  least  our  people  have  something  in  common," said
 Flint evenly. The chamber fell uncomfortably silent.
   Perian broke the silence at last, standing up, looking van-
 quished.  "None  of  that  matters anyway,  since I  can't go
 back there."
   "Don't worry, Perian." Flint clapped her on the  back, then
 felt awkward. He cleared his throat. 'You'll probably  fit in
 above-ground  better  than  you  think.  You aren't  like the
 other Theiwar I've met."
   "You don't know the first thing about Theiwar,"  Perian ac-
 cused, her eyes blazing with fire again.
   "I know one  thing -  you're a  half-derro. You  don't look
 like  a  derro,  or  even  other Theiwar,"  he shot  back. He
 crossed  his  arms  smugly.  "And  I  know  that  no  one who
 thought like a Theiwar would  have defended  a hill  dwarf at
 the  Beast Pit."  His eyes  narrowed. "Why  did you  do that,
 anyway?"
   Perian  squirmed  under  his scrutiny.  "I don't  know. For
 years  I've  stood  by and  watched Pitrick  abuse everything
 from  Aghar  to...  to  me,  all for  his own  twisted amuse-
 ment. I guess something  inside me  just snapped  today, when
 I heard what he did to your brother, when I saw  that fright-
 ened Aghar go over the edge... I just  couldn't stand  by and
 let something happen one more time."
      She snorted. "Frankly, it never occurred to me that he

 would  push  me  in."  Her hands  clenched into  fists. "Pitrick
 deserves a long, slow, torturous death."
   "He'll  get  it,  the black-hearted  bast -"  Red-faced, Flint
 glanced up at Perian. "He'll pay for  what he's  done to  all of
 us, but especially for Aylmar."  Flint snapped  a piece  of pot-
 tery between his thumb and forefinger.
   "Who's Aylmar?" Perian asked.
   Bitterly, Flint told the tale of his  brother's murder.  His an-
 ger flared, fueled by the frustration of their  forced inaction.
 "Where is that Bonehead fellow?" he roared impatiently.
   "Nomscul," Perian reminded him.
   "Whatever!" Flint marched to the door and poked his
 head out.
   The little imp abruptly sprang  from a  corridor to  the left,
 staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  large wooden  box. Noms-
 cul  elbowed  his  way  past   the  barrel-chested   dwarf  and
 dropped   his   heavy  load   unceremoniously  onto   the  dirt
 floor.
   Flint looked  in disgust  at the  box. "What  in the  Abyss is
 that?" he bellowed, nearly bowling the smaller dwarf over.
   "That   two  leafs   king  and   queen  want!"   Nomscul  pro-
 nounced,   happily   waving   a   dirt-caked  hand   toward  the
 box. Flint and  Perian squinted  at the  container and  saw that
 it did, indeed, contain a sloppy pile  of dirty,  wet, decompos-
 ing leaves. "King find good grubs  in there  for queen  to eat!"
 Nomscul winked conspiratorially at the hill dwarf.
   Flint  could see  Perian gulp  down her  disgust. It  was with
 the greatest drain on  his limited  patience that  Flint managed
 to  growl,  "We  don't  want  leaves.  We  want  to go  away, to
 get out of here. Please lead us - or if you're too busy collect-
 ing leaves - get an escort to take us to the surface."
   "King  want  a  skirt  for  queen  now?"  Nomscul   was  obvi-
 ously  puzzled  by  this  new  request.  His queen  looked dirty
 enough.  Shrugging,  he  spread  his   hands  wide   to  measure
 her  thick  waist,  resolving  to  find one  of the  skirts that
 helped differentiate Aghar frawls from harrns.
      "Of course, we don't want a skirt, you ridiculous little
 worm!" the hill dwarf exploded.
   Perian  put  a hand  on Flint's  shoulder. "He  doesn't under-

 stand." Turning to Nomscul, she asked, "How many ways
 out of Mudhole are there?"
   The  Aghar  wiped  his  nose  with  his  sleeve.  "There  one
 way  -" He  held up  three fingers  "- to  get out  of Mudhole.
 Beast Pit, garbage run, and big crackingrotto," he said.
   "Garbage run?" Perian asked, with a sinking feeling.
   "Up  in  warrens,"  Nomscul  told  her.  "Get good  food from
 weird-eyed dwarves." The Aghar forced his eyelids open
 wide with his fingers, then crossed them and giggled.
   Seeing  Flint's  puzzled look,  Perian explained.  "The gully
 dwarves  raid  Theiwar  City's  dumps  and  warehouses  in  the
 north warrens all the time."
   Flint  nodded in  understanding. "What  is the  'big crackin-
 grotto,' and where does it lead, Nomscul'!"
   "There big crack in wall of grotto, and it go out," the gully
 dwarf said simply.  Nomscul picked  a bug  from his  scalp, in-
 spected it closely, then popped it into his mouth.
   "Where is the grotto?" Flint demanded.
   "That way." Nomscul chucked a thumb toward the corri-
 dor beyond the room. "Past bedrooms of Aghar - lots of
 Aghar in Mudhole!"
   "That's  good  enough  for me,"  Flint said,  taking Perian's
 arm  and  pulling  her  toward  the  door. "We'll  just explore
 around  until  we  find  something  that  looks like  a grotto;
 Mudhole can't be that big. Come on, Perian."
   "Where  we  go?"  Nomscul  asked,  bouncing  at  their sides.
   Flint  did  not  stop  to look  at him.  "I don't  know where
 you're going, but Perian and I  are gonna  look for  the crack-
 ing grotto."
   Nomscul  looked  crushed.  He  fumbled  in  a  pocket  on his
 right side and pulled out a carved  wooden whistle.  Placing it
 between his  thick lips,  the gully  dwarf blew  so hard  on it
 that his face turned red. Both Perian and  Flint jumped  at the
 unexpected  shrill  noise.  Before either  could turn  or ques-
 tion,  though,  they  were  stampeded  from  both  doorways  by
 running, screaming, jumping Aghar, all talking at once.
   "You can tell he king. He got big nose!"
   "That  your  real  hair,  Queen? Hair  not usually  come that
 color!"

   "Two  chairs  for  king  and  queen! Hip-hop  hurry! Hip-hop
 hurry!"
   The  teeming  masses  of  Aghar  flooded  in   endlessly  from
 the  corridors,  tearing  the  astonished  Flint  from  Perian's
 side.  Where  were  they all  coming from?  the hill  dwarf won-
 dered  as  he  tried  to  make  his  way to  the door  again. On
 every  grubby  face  was  an  adoring  smile,  and  each  one he
 squeezed  past  reached  up  to  touch his  hair, her  hem. What
 on Krynn did they all want?
   "King   getting   away!"   Nomscul  shouted.   Suddenly  every
 gully dwarf within ten feet  launched himself  into the  air and
 onto  Flint's  back and  head, hugging  him, squeezing  his arms
 and  cheeks  as  he  was  crushed  to  the floor.  Someone poked
 him  in  his  black  eye,  but the  right side  of his  face was
 pressed  into the  cold stone  floor and  he couldn't  even move
 his mouth to swear at the perpetrator.
   "What  is  going  on  here?" Perian  screamed over  the din.
 Though  she  had  not been  knocked to  the ground,  ten gully
 dwarves clung to her legs and arms.
   The  Aghar atop  Flint rolled  off into  a mound  of wiggling,
 flailing limbs, as the hill dwarf struggled to his feet, shaking
 his  head.  His  face  was hot  with anger,  and he  swung about
 in a wide circle, his fists raised and ready.
   "King   and  queen   must  stay   in  Mudhole!"   Nomscul  an-
 nounced, standing  on top  one of  the tables  to be  seen. "The
 property say so!"
   "Pro-per-ty!  Pro-per-ty!   Pro-per-ty!"  The   gully  dwarves
 chanted,  dancing  and  whooping  and  gibbering   around  their
 stunned dwarven visitors.
   "What are you talking about?" Perian demanded. "What
 'property?' "
   That  all-too-familiar  puzzled  look  crossed  Nomscul's face
 again.  Suddenly  his  eyes  narrowed  suspiciously.  "You test-
 ing  Shaman  Nomscul  to  see  if  he  know!"  The  gully  dwarf
 squinted in concentration, his eyes sinking into his skull as if
 he would find the answers there. At last he  began to  recite in
 an irritating, singsong falsetto.

 King and Queen descend from mud,
 Land in Beast Pit with a thud.
 Aghar crown them, dance and sing,
 And they be king and queen forever.

  Nomscul  began  to  hop  up  and  down  happily   at  having
 passed  the  test. "That  what property  say!" The  gaggle of
 gully  dwarves  once  again  whooped,  gibbered,  and bounced
 around its newly acclaimed monarchs.
  "That's terrible!"  moaned Perian.  "It doesn't  even rhyme!
 And he must mean prophecy, not property."
  Flint cast her a stony glance.
  "We  touch  king!  We  touch  queen!"  the  Aghar chanted,
 drawing a sloppy circle around the two.
  Flint  batted  away  their  groping  hands. "Stay  back!" he
 growled.  "Keep  your  disgusting  paws off  of me!"  He made
 one last lunge for the door, but the press of bodies  was too
 thick, and they brought him down again.
  "Tie   king   up!"  Nomscul   commanded.  Dozens   of  hands
 lifted Flint from the floor  and stuffed  him into  a rickety
 chair  made  of  beams.  Eight dwarves  sat on  his thrashing
 form  while  Nomscul  and  a frawl  the shaman  called Fester
 ran circles around the chair with two lengths of thick rope.
  "Untie  me  this minute,  you miserable  dirt-eaters!" Flint
 flung himself from side to side,  sending the  chair pitching
 and  making  the  gully dwarves  who clung  to him  hoot with
 glee. But the chair  did not  break, the  Aghar did  not lose
 their grips, and Flint remained tied up.
  Arms  behind  his  back,  Nomscul  leaned  toward  Flint and
 smiled right into the hill dwarf's scowling face.  "Queen not
 running away," he said. Perian stood at the far corner of the
 room, relatively ignored by  the Aghar  since she  offered no
 resistance.  Her  arms were  crossed and  her hazel  eyes re-
 garded  Flint  expectantly,  a  small  smile about  her lips.
 "Promise  to  be  king, and  we cut  you loose,"  Nomscul of-
 fered affably in a singsong voice.
  Flint hung his head over the arm  of the  chair and  spat on
 the  ground.  "Me?  King  of the  gully dwarves?  I'd sooner
 drown!"

                     Chapter 12
                   A Cold Domain

  Pitrick's twisted foot ailed him  mightily; he  had been
 on it far  too long  today, without  the benefit  of numbing
 goldroot salve. The day's events had piled  up unexpectedly,
 leaving him with no time to perform a preventative  spell or
 even to think to use his teleportation ring.
  Dragging  the  clubbed  foot  behind  him  even  more  than
 usual, the adviser to Thane Realgar was relieved to  see the
 iron door to his apartments, with its gleaming  brass hinges
 and  its  embossed image  of a  huge, leering  face, looming
 ahead in the dim torchlight. He hated all torchlight - hated
 the policy of low-burning flares on all of the  public roads
 and levels in Theiwar City.  Through meditation  and height-
 ened magic, he was able to see even  better without  it than

 most   derro.   On   impulse,   he   mumbled  a   single  word,
 "shival!"  and  waved  his arm  impatiently. For  as far  as he
 could  see  - more  than one  hundred feet  - torches  were in-
 stantly extinguished, trailing smoke and hissing.
   Pitrick's  eyes  quickly  adjusted  to the  comfortable total
 darkness.  His  soft,  callus-free,  blue-white hand  came upon
 the  multifaceted   diamond  doorknob   and,  as   always,  its
 cool, perfect surface gave  him a  feeling of  tremendous secu-
 rity.  A  magical  blast  of lightning  struck dead  anyone but
 himself  or of  his choice  who touched  the knob.  Pitrick had
 many  enemies  in  Theiwar  City and  in the  neighboring clans
 who  would  pay  great  sums  to bring  about the  savant's de-
 mise.  A  number  of them  had already  died hideous  deaths at
 that very juncture.
   But  even  those  fond  memories  could  not  lift  his foul
 mood.  He  stepped  into  his  lightless antechamber  and bel-
 lowed for his harrnservant.
   "Legaer?  Damn  you,  why  aren't  you  waiting  at  the door
 for  me?" The  hunchback shifted  his weight  to his  good foot
 and  counted  the  seconds  before  his servant's  shadow scur-
 ried up to him.
   Pitrick  backhanded Legaer's  face, the  points of  his tele-
 port  ring  leaving  a  bloody  trail  on  the  other  mountain
 dwarf's  already  scarred  cheek. "Five  seconds delay!  I must
 think  of  a  punishment  for  such  a  lazy  servant!" Pitrick
 paused to  peer closely  at Legaer.  "I thought  I told  you to
 keep  that veil  on -  it makes  me sick  to see  your deformed
 face!" The savant wrenched his cape  off and  tossed it  at the
 servant. "You are  lucky to  have such  a tolerant  master, for
 no  one  else  would  suffer  your  hideous  presence!" Pitrick
 stormed past the dwarf and into his apartment.
   Legaer  had  Pitrick  to  thank  for  his  repulsiveness. Re-
 cruited shortly after the untimely suicide of Pitrick's twenty-
 third  harrnservant,  Legaer had  felt honored  to be  asked to
 serve as important a person as  the thane's  savant. It  was no
 coincidence that Pitrick always  chose as  his new  servant the
 most  physically  appealing of  the forgeworkers.  Pitrick kept
 them  prisoner  in  his  apartments, using  them as  slaves and
 subjects  in his  magical experiments.  If his  experiments did

 not  succeed  in   "accidentally"  destroying   their  appearance,
 eventually  they  would   be  killed   or  maimed   as  punishment
 for   some  misdeed.   They  never   lasted  long;   Pitrick  grew
 bored with them once he'd broken their spirit.
   "Fetch   me   a  mug   of  mulled   mushale,"  he   ordered  the
 cowed  servant  who  dogged  his  heels.  "And  it  had  better be
 exactly  room  temperature  this  time,  or  you  know   the  pen-
 alty!"  Legaer  bolted  into  the  darkness.  Pitrick made  a men-
 tal note to think of a new torture, since there was little left to
 destroy of Legaer's  face, and  his ears  had already  been sliced
 from his head.
   Pitrick  threw  himself  onto  a  stone  bench before  the unlit
 hearth  in  the  center  of  the  main chamber.  In the  peace and
 total darkness, he began to relax.
   He  loved  his  home.  It  came  as  near  to  meeting  his high
 standards as  anything in  his life  ever had,  though it  had not
 been  without  cost.  Two  decades  before,   when  he   had  come
 into  'power,  he  had  chosen  the  location of  its construction
 for  its  seclusion  -  the third  level had  not been  so popular
 then  -  and  for  the charcoal-gray  hue of  the granite  in that
 part of Thorbardin.  For five  years a  crew of  fifty craftsharrn
 had chipped  and carved  the granite  to Pitrick's  exact specifi-
 cations;  a  sleeping  chamber,  a  small  galley,  an antechamber
 leading  into  the  main  room,  and several  steps above  that an
 efficient  study  and  laboratory.  All  furniture -  the circular
 hearth,  his bed,  the benches  in the  central chamber,  the desk
 and chair in the  study, even  the support  pillars -  were pains-
 takingly  carved  from  the  bedrock  left  intact, so  there were
 no lines or joints to mar the fluidity of the space.
   Another  crew  of  fifty  had  spent  ten  years  working  their
 fingers  to  the  bone,  sanding  and  polishing  every   inch  of
 granite so that it looked like marble and felt like glass.
   Pitrick   reminded   himself   that   there  was   one  occasion
 where  he  liked  light:  when the  hearth was  lit for  heat, the
 orange-yellow   flames   sent   eerie   shadows   dancing   across
 every  shiny  surface  in  his home.  Pitrick snapped  his fingers
 and  flames instantly  licked at  the charcoal  in the  hearth; he
 kept  the  blaze  just  low  enough  to  cast  phantom  shapes  on
 the walls.

   Legaer crept in at last with the mulled drink, his head bent
 as he held the mushale out to his master. Pitrick  snatched it
 from  his  servant's  hands  and  then  dismissed  him  with a
 wave. He was not in a  mood to  enjoy terrifying  the pathetic
 dwarf today.
   Pitrick absently sipped the tepid  brew made  from distilled
 balick mushrooms,  waiting for  its slight  hallucinogenic af-
 fects  to  begin.  The  hunchback believed  mushale heightened
 his  senses  and allowed  him to  focus beyond  petty distrac-
 tions and achieve a level  of true  meditation. Legaer  had to
 be  summoned to  bring three  mugs of  the tasteless  brew be-
 fore Pitrick reached the ethereal state that just  one usually
 accomplished.
   Pitrick reflected on the possible reasons for this.  He knew
 that it had little to do with his physical exhaustion. If any-
 thing, he should require less in  his weakened  condition. No,
 he realized,  the cause  was depression.  The spark  had some-
 how  gone  out  of  his  life,  his  quest for  power suddenly
 seemed less vital. With a start, he pinpointed the cause.
   He  had  been  goaded  into  pushing  Perian   Cyprium  into
 the  Beast  Pit.  Everyone  else  -  including  the  thane, it
 seemed -  bent his  will to  Pitrick's own  so easily.  He had
 clawed  his  way  from  his  lowly heritage  in the  bowels of
 Theiwar City to the exalted position  of the  thane's adviser.
 No one had ever  liked him,  but he  was feared  and respected
 for his power,  and he  found fear  and power  to be  the best
 tools. Except on Perian.
   She  alone  had  resisted him,  had, in  a sense,  bested him.
   The  hunchback  had tried  everything he  could think  of to
 conquer  her  -  physical  abuse,  magic,  blackmail.  But the
 frawl soldier was stronger than he, and  she told  him repeat-
 edly that she would rather die than suffer his touch.  She was
 heavily  resistant  to  magic,  perhaps  because of  her Hylar
 blood;  to  have  her  by  sorcery would  have been  a shallow
 victory anyway.
   He  had been  certain she  would succumb  to his  threats to
 reveal her half-derro heritage to the thane, for she cherished
 her position as captain of the guard. But she had  called Pit-
 rick's bluff time and again; she sensed her value  to him, and

 knew  that  he  would  not  seek her  banishment from  the clan,
 because it  would take  her from  his grasp.  The secret  of her
 power over  him only  fanned the  flames of  his desire  to mas-
 ter her.
   Pitrick  had  never  doubted  he would  win her,  nor realized
 how  much  he  had  lived  only  for   that  day.   The  derro's
 mushale-laden  mind  was  overcome   by  an   unfamiliar  sensa-
 tion. He had heard others speak of  it as  regret. He  had never
 lamented a single action in his  life, but  he was  astounded to
 admit  to  himself that  he actually  regretted being  forced to
 push Perian into the pit and out of his life.
   The responsibility lay  entirely with  the odious  hill dwarf,
 and  with Perian  herself for  going too  far and  being foolish
 enough  to  defend  him.  The  look  of  admiration  she'd given
 the  other  dwarf,  when  she'd never  viewed Pitrick  with any-
 thing but thinly disguised  loathing, had  driven the  savant to
 the brink of insanity. Surely it was all her fault. But for once
 blame  seemed  less  important  to  Pitrick  than the  fact that
 Perian   was  dead,   beyond  his   sphere  of   domination.  He
 would never possess  her, never  see her  shivering at  his feet
 as Legaer did. And never was a long, long time.
   Just  then  the  servant  stole  into  the  room  with another
 mug of spirits. The  disfigured dwarf  treasured these  times of
 meditation,  strove  to  lengthen   them  with   drink,  because
 only  then  did  the  persecution  of logic  cease. Afterward...
 the old pleasures always returned with vigor.
   Legaer  quickly  placed  the mug  under  his   master's  hand,
 careful not to disturb the trance nor to signal his  activity in
 any way.
   But  Pitrick  did  sense  his  loathsome  harrnservant's pres-
 ence, and it gave him an idea. A  brilliantly heinous  idea. His
 hand  flew  out  to grab  the petrified  servant by  the throat.
 Mushale  heightened  Pitrick's  strength,  and he  easily lifted
 the dwarf off the ground, as easily as if he were a bug.
   "Perhaps there is still a way to get Perian back. Yes!  I have
 the  solution.  And  she could  be my  servant. Of  course, that
 position is already filled."
   Legaer's  eyes  bulged  from  his  head  in   terror.  Pitrick
 smiled as he twisted the dwarf's neck until  it snapped  and the

 eyes rolled closed.
    "But now it's vacant."
    The savant  casually dropped  the dead  dwarf onto  the pol-
 ished  floor,  stood, and  stepped around  the body.  He picked
 up the filled mug, then  set it  back on  the table  again; any
 more  ale  and  he  might  have  difficulty concentrating  on a
 spell to raise Perian from the dead.

 * * * *

    Nomscul  took  the  bag  from  his  belt  and slapped  it in
 Flint's face, sending a cloud of dust up the hill dwarf's nose.
 Flint  coughed  and sputtered  and cursed.  "What are  you try-
 ing to do, you darn fool, choke me with dirt?"
    Mudhole's  shaman  looked  surprised.  "That not  dirt, that
 magic!  Why  you  not  be spellstruck  like Aghar?"  He thought
 about  that  for  a  moment.  "I  know,  that  prove  you king!
 Nomscul no can magic king!"
    Flint  considered  Nomscul's  stubbornly   resolved  expres-
 sion with  exasperation. "You  can't force  someone to  be your
 king!" He strained futilely against his bonds.
    But the gully dwarf's square jaw remained set. "It not I. It
 property. It fate. You must give in."
    "But it's not my fate," Flint insisted, "because your proph-
 ecy is not my concern!"
    Nomscul  suddenly  looked  crestfallen.  "You  mean  you  no
 want to be  our king?  It great  honor. We  wait long  time for
 you to come - since before Nomscul be Nomscul!"
    Lower  lip  quivering,  Nomscul  pulled  the   rusted  blade
 from  a  hiltless  dagger  and  a  mold-encrusted  pendant from
 the pockets inside his furry vest and  held them  toward Flint.
 "If you not  king, who  get treasures  Aghar save  since Kitty-
 clawsem?  Who  be  our  saver?"  The room  erupted into  a sym-
 phony  of  wailing,  moaning,  sobbing,  and   shrieking  gully
 dwarves,  who  threw  themselves  to  their  knees  and pounded
 the ground in despair.
    "Oh, for crying  out loud,  stop that  infernal screeching!"
 Flint  yelled.  The  room  fell instantly  quiet, and  all eyes
 turned to him.
    Including Perian's. Flint had all but forgot her in his des-

 peration  to  escape.  Suddenly  the hill  dwarf saw  himself as
 she  must  see  him,  strapped to  the chair,  and he  felt more
 foolish than angry. Enough was enough.
   Flint  regarded  Nomscul,  who  was   tapping  his   chin.  "I
 have an idea. It's so much fun to  be your  king, that  I've de-
 cided  I'd like  you to  have the  fun, too.  I'm going  to make
 you king for a day."
   But  instead  of  whooping  with joy,  the gully  dwarf looked
 insulted.  "Property  no work  that way,"  he said  solemnly. "I
 no drop from mud chute with queen."
   Flint  would have  rubbed his  own face  in frustration  if he
 could  have  reached  it.  He considered  his options.  He could
 stay tied to the chair and try to outlast their attention spans.
 However,  these  Aghar  seemed  a  tenacious  lot,  and patience
 was not one of his virtues. Why can't I be  their king  for just
 a  while?  he  asked  himself.  He  had no  burning commitments,
 except  to  avenge  Aylmar's  death.  It  would take  some plan-
 ning  to infiltrate  Thorbardin and  reach Pitrick;  maybe these
 insufferable Aghar could be some help.
        Was it truly fate that he and Perian had fulfilled the
 Aghar's prophecy? It was certainly one weird coincidence.
   "Let  me  loose,"  he  growled  suddenly,  his   voice  barely
 above a whisper. "I'll be your king."
   "Huh?" said Nomscul, blinking in surprise.
   "I said, I'll be your king," Flint repeated more loudly.
   Nomscul  looked  suspicious.  "You  promise?  You  won't  run
 away?"
   Flint  rolled  his eyes.  "I promise  on my  honor as  a Fire-
 forge that I will be your king and not run away."
       Nomscul squinted in concentration. "For how long?"
   Flint  sighed.  "A  promise  is a  promise! For  as long  as you
 need me."
   "And  I'll  be  your  queen,"  Perian said,  stepping forward,
 smiling  at  Flint  with a  twinkle in  her eye.  He gave  her a
 wink.
   A cheer went up  in the  room and  spread to  the rest  of the
 Aghar waiting in the hall.
   "Get  crown!  Get   crown!"  Flint   saw  the   crowd  passing
 something  forward,  until  the  object   was  placed   in  Nom-

 scul's  hands.  The  gully  dwarf  shaman  held  forth  a jagged
 metal  crown  and  placed  it  proudly  on  Flint's sweat-soaked
 gray  hair.  The cold  metal ring  immediately slipped  over the
 hill dwarf's  eyes, forward  off of  his face,  and fell  with a
 "tink!"  to  the dirt  floor. Nomscul  quickly replaced  it, and
 just as quickly  it slid  down Flint's  head again,  bounced off
 the arm of the chair, and flew through the air.
   "Gee,  a  game!  Crowntoss!"  Nomscul  giggled   into  Flint's
 face.  "You  one  fun  king!" He  jammed the  crown back  on his
 king's head.
   Flint screamed. "Not points down, you moron!" Nomscul
 hastily yanked it off and righted it.
   Not  a  bad  fit. Looked  okay too,  Flint decided.  "Now, un-
 tie  me!"  The  room  was a  flurry of  gully dwarves  trying to
 comply with Flint's wishes, some  pulling on  the ropes,  a fair
 number  trying  to  gnaw  through  them  with  their  teeth.  At
 last  the  bonds  fell  away  and  Flint  stood up,  rubbing his
 wrists and legs.
   The Aghar were in a  delirious frenzy;  their "saver"  had ar-
 rived.  Nomscul  whistled   for  attention.   "Shudduuuuub!"  he
 screamed,  but  no  one was  listening. Frowning  in irritation,
 the shaman snatched the  red bag  from his  belt and  clapped it
 hard,  sending  a  cloud  of  dust over  the gully  dwarves, who
 fell silent, as if under a spell. "See," he said, giving Flint a
 smug look. "I told you it magic."
   He  turned  back  to  the   gathering.  "We   plan  crownation
 party for -" His eyes shifted from left to right as  he searched
 his  mind.  "What  your  names?"  he  whispered  to   Flint  and
 Perian.  They  quickly  told  him.  "Party  someday soon  in Big
 Sky  Room  for  King  Flunk  II,  and  Queen  Furryend!  I  cook
 big  food  and  everyone  dance!"  Most  of  the  gully  dwarves
 streamed  like  lemmings  from  the room  to begin  the prepara-
 tions for the upcoming festivities.
   Though  even  Perian  had  to  laugh  at   Nomscul's  mangling
 of her name, her face fell at  the mention  of his  cooking. She
 quickly pulled Flint to the side. "Let's tell him to  send Aghar
 up  to  the north  warrens for  some decent  food, not  the gar-
 bage pile they usually  raid. I  can tell  them exactly  what to
 get and where  to get  it." Her  face brightened  further. "Say,

        they could even get some mossweed, couldn't they?"
        "Isn't a raid into Thorbardin risky?" asked Flint.
   "The Aghar do it all the time," replied Perian. "I'll  just tell
 them to be a bit more selective."
              Flint decided her suggestion was a good one and had
 Nomscul dispatch two gully dwarves to the warrens with
 Perian's specific instructions in hand.
   It was such a good  idea, in  fact, that  Flint decided  to send
 two  more  Aghar  out,  this  time   through  the   "big  crackin-
 grotto,"   as  Nomscul   pronounced  it,   to  resolve   his  most
 pressing  concern:  Basalt.  His  nephew  must  surely   have  re-
 turned  to  Hillhome  by  how,  and  probably  thought  his  uncle
 was  a  goner.  From  Nomscul,  Flint  had a  rough idea  of where
 the   "big   crackingrotto"   emerged   from   Mudhole   into  the
 Kharolis  range;  probably   about  a   stone's  throw   from  the
 western  tip  of  Stonehammer  Lake.  Flint   personally  selected
 two  young   harrns  named   Cainker  and   Garf,  and   gave  them
 his best  guess for  directions to  Hillhome, as  well as  a thor-
 ough description of Basalt.
   Flint  stuffed  a  hastily  scrawled  note  into  the  pocket of
 Cainker's  vest.  "Bring  this  to  my  nephew," he  instructed as
 he sent them on their way.  "It will  tell him  I'm safe."  He had
 no real hope that they would succeed, but it was worth a try.
   Thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  some  mossweed, Perian  had al-
 lowed   herself   to   be   swept   away   by  some   frawls,  who
 wanted  to  gussy  her up  for the  festivities. Thus,  Flint, his
 first kingly duties attended to, and left  alone, finally  fell to
 undisturbed sleep.

 * * * * *

   Beads  of  perspiration  joined  the  streaks  that  flowed down
 Pitrick's  temples,  pooling  above  his  lips.  His  thick tongue
 licked  the  sweat  away  unconsciously,  since  he was  intent on
 the  heavy,  leather-bound  tome  beneath  his  eyes.  The  savant
 was  seated  behind  the  burnished  granite  desk  that  rose out
 of  the  floor  in his  cozy study  to the  right and  three steps
 above  the  main  chamber. To  his left  and flank  were floor-to-
 ceiling  shelves  filled  with  heavy,  bound books,  faded scroll
 cases,  a  beaker  of  teeth, patches  of fur,  a harpy  skull, an

 ivory ogre tusk, quill pens and ink bottles,  ground toenails,
 a flask containing the breath of seven  babies, and  other as-
 sorted dried ingredients. The  shelves to  his right  were re-
 served  for  bottles  filled  with  raw  components  of  every
 imaginable color, odor, and  viscosity, including  frog glands
 in  phosphorescent  swamp  water,  golden griffon  blood, red-
 hot lava, the sweat glands of a  bugbear, mercury,  giant slug
 spittle, and rendered virgin rattlesnake.
   Pitrick scanned the last  page of  the spellbook,  the soft,
 fleshy tip of his index finger tracing the words. Frowning, he
 slapped the  book shut  on its  front and  looked up  to stare
 into the flames in the hearth.
   He would have to  use his  wish scroll.  The spells  to ani-
 mate the dead, resurrect a  corpse, or  clone someone  all re-
 quired the dead body, or at least part of it. The  savant also
 considered  forcing Perian  to reincarnate,  but there  was no
 way to control or predict the subject's new form,  and Pitrick
 had no use for Perian as an insect. Besides, it, too, required
 the body.
   A half-day's research  had led  the derro  to choose  one of
 the most simple spells  there were.  No bulky,  disgusting, or
 hard-to-find  components,  no   long  incantations   to  memo-
 rize,  no  pyrotechnics  to   awe  observers.   Wishes  seldom
 failed  to  be  incarnated  -  something  always   happened  -
 though  casters  often did  not get  what they  thought they'd
 asked  for.  That  was  because  the  exact  meaning  of their
 words  was  always  carried out,  and they  had not  paused to
 consider the precision of their language.
   A wish also  carried a  heavy price:  it instantly  aged the
 caster  five  years,  whether  he  chose to  summon a  bowl of
 gruel or a  copper-haired frawl  back from  non-existence. But
 that  was  a small  price to  pay for  someone with  a dwarf's
 long life expectancy.
   The  savant  turned to  his shelves  and sorted  through the
 piles of scrolls until he found the one  he wanted:  a fragile
 roll of parchment edged with faded red ink. It was  the great-
 est  treasure  he  had discovered  among his  mentor's belong-
 ings  after  he  had  poisoned  the  old  wizard   many  years
 before. Pitrick had been saving it for a special occasion, and

  his fingers hesitated before he  tugged the  ends of  the satin
  ribbon  that held  it closed.  He had  to carefully  phrase his
  wish before he opened the scroll and unleashed its power.
    Slipping  it  under  his  arm,  he  paced  around  the narrow
  space surrounding his desk to position himself in front  of the
  hearth, the pain of his foot momentarily forgotten.
    "What  exactly  do  I  want?"  he  said  aloud.  "I  want her
  alive,  my prisoner,  and as  beautiful as  she was  before she
  was  devoured  by  the  beast."  He  stopped, and  his eyebrows
  raised with a  fanciful notion.  "I could  bring her  back sub-
  missive,  or  even  adoring  of  me!" He  shook his  head. "No,
  that  would  not  be  Perian, and  I would  not have  the chal-
  lenge of  taming her,  nor enjoy  her hatred  of my  power over
  her. And that is everything!"
    Pitrick stepped  around a  support pillar  and over  the dead
  body  of  his former  servant to  pick up  the mug  filled with
  mushale. He took a only  a sip  to rinse  his mouth,  then spat
  the distilled brew  into the  fire. Tongues  of flame  shot up,
  nearly  licking the  ceiling vent,  sending more  shadows danc-
  ing  in  the  smooth  chamber.  Now  the  formidable  derro sa-
  vant was ready.
    Taking the scroll from under his arm,  he untied  the strings
  and  gently  unfurled  the  parchment.  This  was  a  momentous
  occasion, and  Pitrick stood  as straight  as his  hunched back
  would  allow.  Holding the  scroll open  before him,  he closed
  his  eyes  and  mouthed  the  phrase  he  had practiced  in his
  mind.
    "I  wish  Perian  Cyprium  to  be raised  from the  dead, re-
  stored  to  her  former  beauty, here  before me,  powerless to
  leave my apartments,  and unable  to kill  herself or  me. That
  is my wish." Pitrick opened his eyes.
    A  howling  wind  arose  from   nowhere  and   swept  through
  the  flawlessly  polished  rooms,   dashing  papers   from  the
  desk,   dousing   flames,  sucking   the  parchment   from  his
  hands.  Pitrick  clung to  a nearby  support column  and waited
  for the spell's effects to subside.
    Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  wail  of the  wind dropped  to a
  gentle breeze. And then the air became as still and as  cold as
  death. Then, nothing.

    The  savant  did  not  need  to  look  for  Perian in  the other
  rooms  of  his  apartment.  He  could  sense  -  knew  with chill-
  ing certainty  - that  Perian was  not there.  He stood  rooted to
  the spot, his fists clenched, fingernails slicing the flesh of his
  palms.
    Somehow   Pitrick   knew   that   he   was  indeed   five  years
  older.
    But  for  some  strange  reason  that he  could not  fathom, the
  spell had failed.

                        Chapter 13

                     Death of a Friend

  "Gimme   another   one,"   Basalt   mumbled,    sliding   his
 empty   mug   toward   Moldoon.   The   young    dwarf   smacked
 his lips and reflected that the ale didn't taste as sweet  as it
 once had. But no matter.
  The  human  reluctantly  filled  the  heavy  tankard,  but cast
 a sad, pained looked at  Basalt as  the dwarf  raised it  to his
 lips  and  chugged  noisily,  ignoring  the foam  splashing onto
 his  beard.  Basalt  set  the  mug  down  heavily,  disappointed
 that somehow the draught did not bring him more pleasure.
  "Take it easy with that," cautioned Moldoon.
  The man's normally genial tone carried an undertone of
 genuine rebuke when he spoke to Basalt these days. Mol-
 doon  grew  more  and  more  concerned  by  the behavior  of the

 young hill dwarf. Moody and  irresponsible after  his father's
 death,  the  youth  had  grown  sullen  beyond compare  in the
 weeks since his Uncle Flint had left town.
   Since  his  return  from  the  Theiwar  tunnel,  Basalt  had
 spent all his time drowning  himself in  self-pity. A  new ha-
 tred  of the  mountain dwarves  for the  murder of  his father
 and  uncle, combined  with a  hopeless feeling  of inadequacy,
 had left him feeling trapped. He did not  feel he  could trust
 anyone  and  he  knew  that  no  one  would believe  him, with
 his  cockeyed  story  of  Flint's  disappearance  and Aylmar's
 murder. He was, and always would be, an abject drunk.
   "Say," ventured the innkeeper, as Basalt started on the last
 half of his mug. "Hildy's got to make her deliveries this eve-
 ning. I happen to know she could use some help...."
   "Hah! She'd have nuthin' to do  with me!"  The scorn  in Ba-
 salt's  voice,  Moldoon  sensed, was  directed inward,  at the
 dwarf himself.
   "Well, she sure won't if you keep treating  her as  badly as
 you  do  yourself! And  neither will  I!" snapped  Moldoon. He
 turned  to  take the  orders of  other customers  while Basalt
 watched the foam melt along the inside of his mug.
   Finally he got up and  shuffled to  the door,  stepping out-
 side to look at the long, brown strip  of the  Passroad. Snow,
 colored red  and purple  by the  fading twilight,  covered the
 surrounding  hills  in  a  pristine  blanket  that  contrasted
 sharply with the muddy blotch of Hillhome.
   Once   the   dwarven   community   might    have   slumbered
 peacefully  under  winter's  cloak,  its residents  content to
 await  the  coming of  spring. But  now it  was just  past the
 early  winter  sunset,  and  the town  churned with  energy in
 the  chill  darkness.  Hammers   pounded  at   forges,  horses
 hauled  their  wagons  through  deep,  sticky  mud,  merchants
 eagerly readied their wares for sale to the derro preparing to
 return to Thorbardin.
   Basalt  thought  about going  home, but  the picture  of his
 stern  Uncle  Ruberik  stopped   him.  Ruberik   never  ceased
 berating Basalt about drinking. In fact,  the ruder  the young
 dwarf got,  the more  persistent the  elder became  about nag-
 ging. The family home, a guilt-ridden shell since his father's

 death, seemed like a nest of enemies now, and Basalt
 couldn't face it.
   So Basalt sat on the  wide steps  of Moldoon's,  mindless of
 the icy wind that blew through the valley. In a way, given his
 bleak mood,  the chill  wind almost  seemed a  friend, sharing
 his troubles and misery.
   As Basalt sat with his chin in his  hands, staring  down the
 street,  he  saw  a  small,  familiar  wagon  churning  up the
 muddy  lane.  As  Moldoon  had  predicted,  Hildy  was  bring-
 ing more kegs from the brewery.  For a  brief second  his mood
 brightened at the sight of the frawl, but then he sullenly re-
 minded  himself  of  Hildy's  subtle hints  and not-too-subtle
 encouragements  to  apply  himself  to  some  endeavor  -  any
 endeavor,  to use  her own  words -  more useful  than sitting
 at Moldoon's bar. Feeling positively  childish, Basalt  got up
 from  the  steps  and  ducked  around  the  corner so  that he
 would not be seen.
   His humiliation told  him to  slip down  the alley  and keep
 walking,  but  his  heart told  him something  else, something
 that  held  his stride  in midstep.  Closing his  eyes, Basalt
 leaned  against  the  nearest wall  and wondered,  through his
 cloud of  ale, why  he wanted  to flee  in panic  from someone
 he had known and been friends  with all  his life.  Indeed, he
 remembered  with  a  twisted  smile, Hildy  had given  him his
 first - and only - kiss.
   "Reorx curse it!" he growled, scowling  at the  darkness of
 the  world.  Shaking  his head  to clear  it, he  stepped back
 around the corner just as  Hildy reined  in the  horses before
 Moldoon's.
   "Hello,  fair  brewer's  daughter," he  said with  a gallant
 bow. Straightening into his best cocky pose,  he smiled  up at
 her on the buckboard. "Can I give you a hand?"
   Hildy  reached  out  and  let  him  lift  her down  from the
 wagon.  "Excuse  my  staring,"  she teased,  "but I  once knew
 someone  like you.  And a  fine fellow  he was  - or  should I
 say, is?" She gave him a wink. "I'd  appreciate the  help. Let
 me just run inside and check Moldoon's order."
   Basalt  watched  her  pass  through  the  doors. Now  he was
 suddenly  happier  than  he  would  have  believed  possible a

 few  minutes earlier.  Whistling absently,  he prepared  to un-
 load the heavy  barrels. Two  long planks  in the  wagon served
 as a  ramp, and  he lowered  one of  these, anchoring  its base
 firmly  in  the  muddy street.  As he  dragged the  other plank
 out the back of the wagon, his fingers  slipped and  it dropped
 to  the  ground,  splashing  mud  and  a  wave  of  brown water
 across his boots  and pants.  But Hildy's  reaction to  him had
 so lifted Basalt's  spirits that  he just  chuckled at  his own
 clumsiness.
   Someone else on the street was not in such a generous
 mood.
   "Hey! Hill dwarf!"
   Basalt  looked  up, surprised,  into the  snarling face  of a
 derro guard. His straw-colored hair  stuck out  of his  head at
 sharp angles, and his pale skin showed a  blue vein  flexing in
 his forehead.
   "You clumsy sot! You splashed your stinking Hillhome
 muck all over my boots!" accused the Theiwar.
   Basalt straightened, ready to bluster an  insult at  the bel-
 ligerent   dwarf   when   he   remembered   that   Hildy  would
 emerge  from  Moldoon's  in   another  moment.   Wanting  noth-
 ing  more  than  to avoid  trouble and  impress Hildy,  he mut-
 tered, "I'm sorry. It was an accident."  The apology  caught in
 his throat, but at least it was done.
   Basalt  turned  back  to   the  wagon   only  to   be  yanked
 around  by  a  heavy  hand  on  his shoulder.  "Accident!" bel-
 lowed the derro. "You're a liar! I saw you take deliberate aim
 at my boots. Now, you can clean them!"
   The derro was stocky and well  built, as  tall as  Basalt and
 wearing  a  chain mail  shirt, heavy,  iron-knuckled gauntlets,
 and  a  helmet.  A  short  sword  was girded  to his  waist. By
 contrast,  the  hill  dwarf  was  weaponless and  unarmored. He
 knew  that  the  Theiwar,  if  provoked,  could and  would slay
 him with a single thrust.
   His  face  burning,  Basalt  considered  his options.  Out of
 the  corner  of  his  eye he  saw Hildy  and Moldoon  step from
 the inn, drawn by the commotion.
   "You   heard  me   -  clean   them!"  growled   the  mountain
 dwarf.

   "Get your mother the hobgoblin to do  it!" Hildy  piped in,
 her  eyes  smoldering  with  indignation  as she  stomped to-
 ward them.
   By  now, a  small group  of dwarves  had gathered  on the
 street, watching the confrontation warily.
   Basalt saw the derro's mad, glaring  eyes swing  toward the
 young  frawl.  Suddenly,  the most  frightening thing  in the
 world was not the threat to himself but  the fear  that Hildy
 might  step  between  them,  humiliating  him beyond  all ca-
 pacity  for  endurance. Or,  even worse,  that she  might get
 hurt.
   "Not  even  a  mother  hobgoblin would  claim this  lump of
 flesh,"  Basalt  growled,  commanding  the  derro's attention
 again. Their gazes met, full of hate, and locked like horns.
   "A  hobgoblin  wouldn't  let  a woman  do his  fighting for
 him, either," sneered the derro. "Though this one  looks like
 she could distract me for a couple of  hours, with  the right
 enticement."
   The derro's leering face was more  than Basalt  could stom-
 ach. With an animal growl  he leaped  at the  mountain dwarf,
 his fingers clutching for the arrogant Theiwar's  throat. The
 derro reacted quickly, crashing his mailed fist into Basalt's
 face. The hill dwarf dropped to the street, slumping  down in
 the muddy ruts.  His cheek  throbbed, and  when he  pressed a
 hand to his face it came away covered with blood.
   Choking on his rage and frustration,  Basalt jumped  to his
 feet and charged  the derro  again. He  lowered his  head and
 drove  it  into the  derro's gut.  The Theiwar  stumbled back
 slightly, surprised by  the force  of the  blow. But  then he
 laughed as Basalt staggered away, clapping  his hands  to his
 throbbing scalp  where he  had just  collided with  the chain
 links of the derro's armor.
   "Now get on your knees,  hill dwarf,  and clean  my boots!"
 cackled the derro, stepping forward.
   But the tall figure of Moldoon moved between them.
   "That's  more  than  enough."  The  human stared  down at
 the  Theiwar,  an  expression of  loathing and  anger working
 across his face.
   "What're  you   doing,  old   man?"  demanded   the  derro,

 stepping backward and glaring.
   "Get out of  here, before  this goes  too far,"  warned Mol-
 doon. He raised his hands, as if to push  the derro  away from
 the fallen Basalt.
   But  the  mountain  dwarf's  eyes  grew  even larger  as the
 man came  toward him.  In a  flash he  drew his  sword, shout-
 ing, "I will decide how far this goes! I will show you how the
 Theiwar gain respect!"
   The  keen  tip  of  the  short  sword shot  forward, slicing
 through  the   innkeeper's  apron   and  shirt   and  punching
 neatly,  deeply  between  his  ribs.  Moldoon   stepped  back-
 ward, his hand clutched to his chest. He  looked down  in dis-
 belief   as  a   crimson  flower   blossomed  on   his  apron,
 spreading  its  life-colored   petals  beneath   his  clenched
 fingers.
   Basalt, still reeling from the blow to his head,  watched in
 a  daze  as  Moldoon  wobbled,  then  collapsed with  a splash
 into the muddy street. Hildy cried out and leaped to his side,
 cradling the stricken human's head in her lap.
   Seeing Moldoon  lying in  a heap,  his unfocused  eyes star-
 ing  into  the  sky,  his  mouth  moving  without  making  any
 sound, turned Basalt's blood  to ice.  Snatching up  the heavy
 plank that had set off the whole encounter,  he swung  it with
 more  strength than  he normally  possessed. The  derro, still
 holding the steel blade slick with blood, tried to  twist away
 but the board caught him on  the hip  and sent  him sprawling.
 The  short  sword  sailed  from  his  hand  and  landed point-
 down  in the  muck, with  the handle  above the  water. Basalt
 dove toward it. But  before he  could reach  it, a  heavy body
 slammed  into  him  from  the  side and  pushed him  back down
 to the street.
   "Stop it!" snarled Tybalt, inches from his nephew's  face as
 Basalt  struggled  in  the  mud  beneath  him.  "There's  been
 enough killing in this town - we don't need  a hanging  on top
 of it all."
   Basalt writhed desperately, still  reaching for  the leering
 derro as  other hill  dwarves helped  Tybalt restrain  him. He
 lunged again, spitting sounds that did not resemble words.
   "That's  enough!"  growled  his  uncle  more  firmly.  Three

 other dwarves held Basalt so  tightly he  could barely  move at
 all, however much he struggled.
   The  constable  turned  back  to  the  derro, who  was stand-
 ing again with his  hand on  the hatchet  at his  belt. "You're
 coming  with  me,"  he  said, "as  soon as  you hand  over that
 weapon. You'll be staying, courtesy of the town."
   Tybalt  indicated  the town  hall, half  a block  away, which
 included Hillhome's single jail cell.
   The  derro started  to object  but, apparently,  something in
 Tybalt's  eyes  stopped  him.  Also,  by  that  time  the crowd
 around  them  had  grown  to  several  dozen  or  more  onlook-
 ers,  all hill  dwarves. Some  of them  clucked with  dismay at
 the  sight  of  Moldoon's  lifeless  body, though  none stepped
 forward to offer comfort to the weeping Hildy.
   With a shrug, the Theiwar dwarf  picked up  his short
 sword, wiped off the blood, and sheathed his blade. Un-
 buckling his belt, he handed it to the constable.
   "But   he...   Moldoon..."   Basalt   choked  on   the  words
 through  his  outrage,  watching  the  derro  swagger  down the
 street with one of  the constables.  "By Reorx,"  cried Basalt,
 "give me your axe, let me finish it here!" His voice was a wail
 of despair.
   "Let the law handle it," Tybalt said curtly. "It was  a fight
 on the street,  with plenty  of witnesses.  A fight  that might
 have been avoided..."
   Tybalt  didn't  finish  the  thought,  but  Basalt understood
 his  meaning.  He  looked at  the crowd,  desperately searching
 for an understanding  face, but  saw only  horror and  pity. He
 looked  toward  Hildy,  saw  her  cradling  Moldoon's  lifeless
 head and looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
               Suddenly Basalt could not face these dwarves of
 Hillhome.
   Twisting  free  of  the  crowd,  he  sprinted away,  around a
 corner  and  down  a  side street.  He turned  again, stumbling
 into an alley, not at all sure where he  was going.  Blinded by
 his own tears, he stumbled around  another corner,  still flee-
 ing  with  no  direction.  Finally,  his  weakened   knees  and
 straining  lungs  forced him  to slow,  then stop.  Gasping for
 breath, he leaned against a shed for support.

    Suddenly  he  heard  giggling,  children's laughter.  Had they
  witnessed  the  whole,  shameful  event  and  followed  him from
  the inn to mock  him? No,  it couldn't  be -  they must  just be
  playing in the alley. Still, Basalt found their gaiety infuriat-
  ing.  "Go  away,   you  brats!"   he  hissed   through  clenched
  teeth, not turning around.
    But that only brought more cruel, haunting giggles.
    Basalt  whirled,  half-crazed and  ready to  scare the  wits out
  of the little fiends.  From the  depths of  the shadows,  two of
  the ugliest, dirtiest children  he had  ever seen  rushed toward
  him.  They  broke  into  a  run, waving  twine, thong,  and rope
  over their heads as they charged the startled hill dwarf.
    They  were on  him instantly  like rats,  wrapping him  in the
  rope  and  twine  even  as  they  scampered  around him.  One of
  them  charged  up  his  back,  knocking  him  down.   His  head,
  still throbbing from the  derro's chain  mail, smacked  into the
  packed  earth,  and  the  alley,  his  attackers,  and  even the
  ground began to spin uncontrollably.
    And  then he  caught the  scent of  his assailants.  Before he
  passed out,  Basalt knew  they were  neither children  nor rats,
  but something much worse.
    As  he  lost  consciousness,  he  wondered  why  he  had  been
  kidnapped by gully dwarves.

                       Chapter 14

                    A Curious Theft

      A cloudy silty puddle of mushale remained at the
 bottom of the mug. Pitrick  swished it  one way,  then sloshed
 it  back toward  the other,  watching its  rhythmic, symmetri-
 cal  motion. He  watched the  sediment, inevitable  in mushale
 no matter how much  it was  strained, travel  to and  fro with
 the tiny tide. He found little solace in its simple spectacle.
 The fact that this was  his sixth  mug in  half as  many hours
 was  both  comforting  and  galling.  For if  Pitrick utilized
 mushale as a transcendental aid, as  a step  toward relaxation
 and deeper understanding, rarely did he  allow himself  to get
 so  completely  lost  in  its  more addictive  charms. Overuse
 was an abuse.
      The savant was already addicted to power. To become de-

 pendent on anything else,  to develop  an intimacy  with any-
 thing else like he had with the concept of power,  would only
 serve as a distraction.
   Yet, something had already  diverted his  attention. Perian
 Cyprium,  the  flame-haired  officer  of  the  thane's  House
 Guard,  was  consuming  his  thoughts.  Pitrick  swished  the
 mushale dregs  around the  cup once  more, listening  for the
 soft murmur of the liquid. In frustration he dashed  the con-
 tents into the fire, then smashed the cup on the andiron. The
 low flame turned bright blue as  the fermented  potion blazed
 to life. Swelling not unlike the flame,  Pitrick's melancholy
 grew to anger.
   She  had  humbugged  him,  by  the  gods!  He did  not know
 how, or why,  but somehow  she had  conspired with  the fates
 to cheat him. One of  his most  powerful and  potent devices,
 the "wish" scroll that  he had  held in  reserve for  so many
 years, was gone,  shriveled to  ashes and  blown away  by its
 own  magical   wind.  Its   power  was   unquestionable,  un-
 doubtable, but still it had failed. Pitrick had left no loop-
 holes for the mystical powers. Yet  the scroll  was consumed,
 the toll on his life span taken, and  Perian was  most defin-
 itely not at his side.
   "I have been  a fool!"  moaned Pitrick  aloud in  his empty
 chamber.  "And  worse,  I  have  been  a  blind,  manipulated
 fool.  I  have  squandered  one  of  the  most  potent magics
 known and gained nothing.
   "How could I  allow this  to happen?  How could  this frawl
 become  such  an  obsession?"  With  his  face buried  in his
 hands, Pitrick limped around the  chiseled and  polished desk
 and up several steps toward the chamber  in the  right corner
 of the room. His gaze was falling  on another  place, another
 time,  perhaps  another   world.  He   didn't  need   to  see
 anything - the details of the room were clearly and perfectly
 fixed in his mind. Without as  much as  glancing at  his sur-
 roundings,  he  stopped and  collapsed into  the seat  by the
 hearth, propping his elbows on his knees.
   "I loathe her, and yet I must have her. Every denial, every
 move away only increases my desire. Does fate conspire
 against me, does  the magical  fabric of  this world  seek to

 frustrate  me?"  Pitrick's  head snapped  back and  he howled,
 "How could it fail me? I made no mistake!"
   The sound of rapping at  his door  stiffened Pitrick  in the
 granite seat. He  looked all  around the  room, at  first con-
 fused  by  the  sound,  until  it  came  again.  The  cloud of
 mushale  and anguish  in his  mind cleared  away as  his focus
 returned to more immediate surroundings.
   Along with the scroll,  I have  prematurely disposed  of Le-
 gaer,  as  well,  he  mused.  The memory  of the  hapless ser-
 vant's  soft  neck  beneath  Pitrick's  fingers brought  a wry
 smile to his lips as he stood. Still, a replacement was needed
 immediately.
   The  knocking  at  the door  resumed. Pitrick  clumped irri-
 tably  across  the  room,  thoroughly  annoyed  by  the intru-
 sion. He paused,  debating whether  to answer  it at  all, but
 decided a fresh face might be diverting.
   "What  is  it?"  he  demanded  as he  yanked open  the heavy
 door,  surprising   the  black-armored   harrn  of   the  House
 Guard  who was  standing there.  The startled  soldier snapped
 to attention, then just stood in the  doorway, unsure  of what
 to do next.
   Pitrick  reached  toward  his  five-headed  amulet  but then
 stopped  and  withdrew  his hand.  This guard  was here  for a
 reason, after all.
   "Have  you  a  message,  clod?"  Pitrick  snapped.  He could
 feel a chill draft blowing across his feet, and knew  that his
 cozy rooms would quickly grow cold.
   "I  was  sent from  the North  Warren, Excellency.  The duty
 officer there requests that you come at your  earliest conven-
 ience."
   This is unusual, Pitrick thought. "For what reason?"
   "We  captured  an  Aghar,  Excellency.  The duty  officer felt
 that you should see him." Pitrick could tell from  the dwarf's
 tone that he  was frightened,  probably thinking  that bearing
 such a trivial  request to  the thane's  unpredictable adviser
 was flirting with death.
   Pitrick enjoyed that part of his reputation. "Why bother
 me with this? I am not concerned with the comings and go-
 ings of thieving  gully dwarves.  Deal with  him in  the usual

 manner and be done with it... unless there's something
 more to it that you haven't told me?"
   The   messenger   was   sweating   now,    rivulets   coursing
 down  his  neck  beneath his  close-fitting armor.  "Yes, Excel-
 lency,"  he  stammered,  "I  have yet  to tell  you that  he was
 stealing  something  of  yours.  He  was  trying  to  break into
 your personal warrens."
   Pitrick  was  puzzled.  This  incident  was  of  small  conse-
 quence  by  any  account.  The  warrens  were  Thorbardin's  ma-
 jor  food  production  area,  and  Aghar  sneaked  in  to  steal
 things  from  time  to  time.  They  took  garbage,  mostly,  so
 stealing  food  was  unusual,  but it  hardly required  his per-
 sonal attention.
   Yet  his  chambers  were  growing  cold,  and  his   mind  was
 wandering.  A bit  of sport  with an  Aghar might  be uplifting,
 Pitrick  thought.  "You  may  go,'  he  said  to  the  guard and
 slammed the door in his face.
   Taking  a  deep breath,  Pitrick touched  his ring  while pic-
 turing the guardpost at  the edge  of the  North Warren.  By the
 time he exhaled, he stood at that very guardpost.
   "Well?  Where is  the duty  officer?" Several  startled guards
 stepped  backward,   away  from   the  sudden   apparition,  and
 snatched   up   their   weapons.  Immediately   afterward,  they
 recognized  the  thane's  adviser  and  snapped to  attention. A
 sergeant  stepped  forward  and  waved  his  hand  speechlessly,
 indicating  the  direction to  the duty  officer. Without  a nod
 and dragging his foot, Pitrick advanced down the tunnel.
   The  warrens   were  a   gigantic  labyrinth   of  passageways
 and  grottoes  wherein  huge  fields  of  fungus  and  mold, the
 staple  foods  of the  subterranean dwarf,  grew in  great abun-
 dance.  The   warrens  also   boasted  large   pools  containing
 trout  and  other  cold-water  fish.  Various  sorts  of compost
 hills  were  dispersed  throughout  the  area,  providing nutri-
 ents  for  the  thin  soil. Eternally  wrapped in  darkness, the
 warrens  were heavy  with  fetid  air,  carrying within  them a
 sense of the power and limitless wealth of the earth, in all its
 living forms.
   Within  moments,  Pitrick  sighted  the   helpless  prisoner
 bound and laying on the cavern floor.

   "We  caught  him  breaking  into  one  of your  rooms, Excel-
 lency," volunteered one of the derro guards.
   Pitrick cut  him off.  "I know  that! Are  you the  duty offi-
 cer? If not, summon him here!"
   The  guard  scurried  away  and  around a  corner of  the tun-
 nel.  Pitrick  nonchalantly  eyed  the  frightened Aghar  on the
 ground.  He  circled  around  the  prisoner,  whose   gaze  fol-
 lowed  him like  a bird's.  As Pitrick  was completing  his cir-
 cuit, the duty officer approached and saluted smartly.
   "Tell  me  what  is  so  important  about this  pathetic crea-
 ture," Pitrick commanded.
   The   duty   officer  was   admirably  unshaken.   "We  caught
 him trying to  get into  one of  your warrens,  Excellency. Nor-
 mally   we   wouldn't   think  much   about  catching   a  gully
 dwarf,  but  this  one  seemed  almost to  be looking  for some-
 thing  specific.  Usually they  stick to  the garbage  piles and
 compost  heaps  deep  in  the  warrens,  and  almost  never come
 in this close."
   Pitrick  glared  at  the Aghar  prisoner, inspecting  the fel-
 low's  ragged  garments.  The gully  dwarf offered  a tentative,
 gap-toothed  smile,  prompting  Pitrick to  slap him  across the
 face.
   "You  have  done  well,"  the  hunchback  said  to  the guard.
 The derro reacted  to the  adviser's praise,  if not  with plea-
 sure, at least with a noticeable sense of relief. "Tell me more.
 What is in that warren."
   "Mossweed,  Excellency.   North  Warren   Blue,  specifically.
 Your  personal  stock.  Him being  here in  the first  place was
 odd enough, but that  he'd try  to steal  smoke weed  instead of
 food - it just doesn't add up. That's why  I called  you, Excel-
 lency. I thought you should know."
   "Indeed."  Pitrick  fixed his  eyes on  the Aghar  and watched
 the  color  drain  from the  little fellow's  face. Why  would a
 gully  dwarf  try  to steal  smoke weed?  And why  this particu-
 lar  smoke  weed?  Pitrick's  North  Warren  Blue  was  renowned
 as  the  best in  Thorbardin, but  only among  those aficionados
 familiar with the finer points of the weed.
   The  Aghar  groaned  and  squirmed,   looking  around   for  a
 friendly  face.  When Pitrick  spoke, his  voice came  out silky

 smooth, soothing the trembling gully dwarf.
   "So you want some smoke weed, hmmm?" Pitrick smiled.
 It was more of a grimace, but it was the best he could do. "It
 is such a pleasure to find a gully  dwarf with  refined taste.
 Why do you enjoy it so?"
   The Aghar squinted at him in fright,  trying hard  to under-
 stand the question. "Enjoy what so?" he finally inquired.
   "The  North  Warren  mossweed,  of  course,"  said  Pitrick,
 pretending mild surprise. "You do smoke  it, don't  you?" The
 derro's  mind   seethed.  He   pictured  his   hands  wrapping
 around  the  helpless  gully  dwarf's  throat  and  squeezing,
 slowly,  as  the  thing  squirmed. He  imagined a  dozen deli-
 cious  ends  for  the  useless  creature and  wondered briefly
 which  he  would  choose.  When  the time  came, he  knew, the
 answer would provide itself.
   The  gap-toothed  Aghar  looked  at him  in confusion  for a
 moment  longer.  Then,  like  the  sun  emerging from  a dense
 overcast, a smile of  understanding illuminated  his features.
 "Oh," he chuckled. "Mossweed not for Too-thee."
   "Oh?" Pitrick's eyes narrowed. "Who, then?"
   "Mossweed for queen! New queen of Mudhole like good
 smoke!"  the  Aghar  proclaimed,  proudly.  "Choose  me,  Too-
 thee, to get for herl"
   Mudhole,  Pitrick  assumed,  was one  of the  pathetic gully
 dwarf lairs  on the  fringes of  Thorbardin. His  outrage grew
 at  the  thought  of  some  Aghar  sow  enjoying  his smoke...
 But  why?  Why  would  a  gully  dwarf,  who  dined  on worms
 and  garbage,  be  concerned  about the  quality of  her smoke
 weed?
   "Tell  me  about  this  new  queen  of   Mudhole,"  prompted
 Pitrick smoothly. "After all, I represent the thane - the king
 of  the  Theiwar. Perhaps  he would  be interested  in meeting
 your queen."
   "No, no.  Queen already  have king.  But thane  could visit!
 We  throw  big  party for  Queen Furryend  and King  Flunk and
 thane!"
         "Have Furryend and Flunk been your rulers for a long
 time?"
   "Oh, yes! Two days! Maybe more! King and queen, they

 descend from mud, just like in property! They come down
 to Mudhole two days ago!" The  Aghar spoke  freely now,
 happy to pour out his knowledge  for these  Theiwar who
 knew so little.
   "Tell   me   what   Queen   Furryend   looks    like,"   Pitrick
 snapped.  His  eyes  narrowed  to tiny  slits. "Is  she enormously
 fat, or covered with warts?"
   "Oh,  no,  queen  beautiful.  She  big  pretty, with  right size
 nose  and red  hair like  iron rust."  Too-thee looked  up, hoping
 the explanation pleased the grotesque derro.
   Pitrick  turned  away,  his  eyes  bulging,  his  mind inflamed.
 The  derro  guards  stepped  back,  frightened  by  the   look  on
 his  face.  The  pieces  of  this  puzzle  were  falling together.
 Queen  Furryend  -  Perian  it  must  be   -  descended   to  them
 two days  ago, complete  with a  king -  Flint -  red hair,  and a
 taste   for   North   Warren  Blue.   She  obviously   thought  it
 would  be  funny  to  steal his  private stock,  as if  that would
 make  a  fool  of  him.  Indeed,  he   understood  why   his  wish
 spell  had  failed.  His  wording  had  been  perfect.   But  he'd
 asked for Perian  to be  returned-to life,  and she'd  never died!
 How  they  had  survived  he   could  not   fathom,  but   he  was
 certain  that  it  was  Perian  who  was  queen  to   these  gully
 dwarves.
   Flecks  of  spittle  trickled  from  the   hunchback  derro's
 twitching  lips.  He  thought  how  that  red-haired  halfbreed
 wench  must be  laughing at  his failure,  and his  rage became
 supreme.  Pitrick  turned  back  slowly,  his  unblinking  eyes
 locked  on  the  Aghar.  Too-thee  twisted  and  squirmed back-
 ward as the savant crept closer.
   "I will kill you first," he hissed. "But you are just the begin-
 ning.  Your  entire thieving,  conniving clan  will be  wiped out.
 I'll kill every one  of them,  one at  a time,  with my  own hands
 if I must. But I will have her! I  will have  your queen,  and she
 will suffer!"
   Pitrick   sprang   forward,   his   powerful   hands  locking
 around  the  throat of  the squirming  Aghar. The  derro guards
 nervously  watched  as  the  berserk  savant  vented  his  rage
 against the hapless prisoner.
       Pitrick shook the Aghar like a rag doll, and then threw

 the  wailing  dwarf  aside.  His hand  grasped the  medallion at
 his chest, his other  rose to  point an  accusing finger  at the
 gully dwarf.
   A bolt of magical  energy crackled  from Pitrick's  finger. It
 sparked  through  the  air  and  struck the  gully dwarf  in the
 chest.   The   Aghar   screamed   and  flopped   over  backward.
 Again  and  again,  the  magic  hissed, sending  forth crackling
 missiles that struck the little  body with  brute force.  By the
 third  missile,  the  Aghar was  well and  truly dead,  its body
 smoking. Still  Pitrick sent  two more  bolts into  the pathetic
 corpse.
   Appearing  slightly  calmer,  Pitrick  stepped  back  from his
 victim.  "I  have  important  matters to  tend to,"  he snapped,
 compelling  the  attention  of  the   assembled  derro   of  the
 House  Guard.  They stood  in a  nervous circle,  listening very
 carefully indeed. "This incident is not to  be reported  to any-
 one.  I  shall be  monitoring this  situation personally,  and I
 guarantee that if even the slightest word of  this leaks  out, I
 will see to it that  all of you - all of you - will pay for that
 slip of the tongue."
   "You  can  count  on  our  discretion,  Excellency!" exclaimed
 the duty officer. "No one will know - no one at all!"
   "Very good. Return to your posts, and forget today's
 event."
   Pitrick touched the steel ring on his  finger, as  he pictured
 in  his  mind  the  chasm  where  he  had  last seen  Perian and
 Flint. With the slightest blink, the  ring performed  its magic,
 and   the   hunchbacked   derro   disappeared  from   the  North
 Warrens.
   In the same instant, he materialized at the  lip of  the Beast
 Pit.  His  eyes  narrowed  as  he  gazed  into  the  deep,  dark
 chasm.  Was  it  possible  that both  victims had  actually sur-
 vived  their  plummet  into  this  dank hole?  He tended  to be-
 lieve the tale  of the  dead Aghar.  The new  king and  queen of
 the gully  dwarves had  to be  the harrn  and frawl  that Pitrick
 had presumed dead.
 If so, their new lease on life is about to expire, he thought
 with some measure of humor.
   Pitrick  studied  the  pit  from  above. Obviously  there must

 be  a connection  or passage  of some  sort that  allowed them
 to  escape  to "Mudhole."  Pitrick grinned  at the  name. Per-
 haps  Perian  would  show  him  gratitude  for  being  rescued
 from  such  a  place!  As for  the hill  dwarf, any  number of
 spells would see to his permanent disposal.
   But first, Pitrick needed to find the  passage that  had led
 them  to  temporary  safety,  and  that  meant  exploring  the
 Beast Pit. His teleportation ring, while perfectly  suited for
 moving  about  Thorbardin  and  even  carrying him  to distant
 places such as Sanction,  was of  no use  here. It  could only
 take him to places that he had  already seen.  If he  tried to
 teleport  into  Mudhole  without  knowing its  exact location,
 he  could  materialize  in  the  midst  of the  mountain some-
 where, or worse. For this  task he  needed some  other channel
 of movement.
   And his spells could  provide it.  Pitrick reached  into his
 belt pouch and  withdrew a  small feather.  He twisted  it be-
 tween his fingers as he mouthed the words  to a  simple spell.
 Then, he stepped into the chasm.
   Spreading  his  arms,  Pitrick  thrilled  to the  motion and
 power of' his spell of  flying. He  swooped down,  then darted
 back up, turning again to dive into the depths of the pit. Be-
 low  him  he  saw  a black  cesspool of  mud and  slime. Some-
 thing stirred there, and he knew it was the lair of the beast.
   Curving  away,  Pitrick  darted through  the air,  along the
 twisting channel that was the floor of  the pit.  Somewhere in
 this cavern was the passage to the  gully dwarves'  lair. Pit-
 rick swore he would not rest until he found it.
   A  soft,  unfamiliar sound  came from  behind him,  and Pit-
 rick  paused,  hovering  for a  moment as  he looked  back to-
 ward the  mouth of  the pit.  He saw  movement in  the depths,
 and for a moment his heart froze as he got his first good look
 at the monstrous size of the beast.
   It  oozed  toward him,  pushing part  of its  segmented form
 forward, then trailing its other half  after. Like  a gigantic
 slug, reaching ahead of itself with those long, lashing tenta-
 cles, the beast came on.
   If it were chasing me, I  would run  this way,  Pitrick rea-
 soned. If Perian and Flint found an exit,  it should  be here,

 near  the furthest  extent of  the cavern,  since this  is where
 they  would  have had  the time  to examine  the walls.  But the
 flying savant saw nothing.
   Then  an  idea struck  him. His  enemies weren't  flying, they
 were  on the  ground. Their  perspective was  different. Pitrick
 settled to the cavern floor. And there,  directly ahead  of him,
 was  a  crack  of  light. It  was nearly  concealed by  an over-
 hanging  boulder.  Approaching  it  more  closely, he  could see
 that  it  led  somewhere.  He could  even hear,  faintly, sounds
 from the other side.
   This  is  how  they escaped  me! he  crowed to  himself. Lean-
 ing closer to listen,  the Theiwar  could distinguish  sounds of
 cheering and clapping.
   "I'll  give  them  something  to  shout  about,"  he chuckled,
 flying  upward  twenty  or  thirty  feet  and hovering  while he
 thought.  Which  of his  spells would  be most  effective? Fore-
 most,  he  wanted  to snatch  Perian away,  and after  that make
 sure  that  the  hill  dwarf,  Fireforge, never  bothered anyone
 again. He considered changing  Flint into  a snail,  or blasting
 him  to  pieces  with  a  lightning  bolt.  The more  he thought
 about it,  the more  he laughed,  and as  he laughed,  the beast
 crept closer. By  the time  the bloblike  form was  beneath him,
 Pitrick positively howled with glee.
   He would not attack Mudhole alone, when help was so
 readily at hand.
   The  beast's  tentacles  lashed  upward, and  Pitrick shrieked
 as  one  dragged  across  his foot.  Quickly darting  higher, he
 examined  the  cave  wall  of  the  Beast Pit.  Somewhere beyond
 that  wall,  he  knew,  lay  Mudhole  and  his quarry.  The tiny
 tunnel  was  the  only  connecting  conduit  between  the  Beast
 Pit and Mudhole now, but Pitrick could easily expand that.
   Below  him  the  beast  lurched  again. Its  tentacles flailed
 blindly.    Some   groped    upward   while    others   searched
 through the tunnel.
   "Allow  me,"  hissed  the  deformed  dwarf,   still  hovering.
 His  right  hand  closed  around  the amulet  at his  neck while
 his eyes stared at the great wall of rock, the wall that divided
 the beast from the gully dwarves.
    "Gro-ath goe Kratsch-yill!" He barked the magic spell, his

 voice suddenly firm. The familiar blue glow surged  from the
 amulet, seeping between his fingers.
   Pitrick raised his left hand, gesturing  to the  wall. The
 force of his magic reached out, penetrating the  stone sur-
 face, altering and kneading that stone with the power of its
 enchantment.
   Beads of moisture gathered on the  rock and  trickled down
 its quivering slope. Slowly the rock  bulged and  grew soft.
 Suddenly it gave way, splitting open like a  tomato. Pitrick
 cackled as a torrent of mud and stone  poured into  this ca-
 vern and the one beyond. Then the  beast, sensing  dozens of
 vulnerable  prey,  rushed  through  the  gurgling  ooze into
 Mudhole.

                      Chapter 15

                   The "Crownation"

      "More fungus?- inquired Nomscul, shoving a plat.
 ter of  the aromatic  if chewy  shapes under  the noses  of his
 newly crowned monarchs.
  "I'm stuffed," Flint replied, holding up  both hands  and set-
 tling back on  the soft  cushion of  moss. "What.little  room I
 have left I'm saving for those ribs you're cooking."
  "Nomscul  sorry  about  meat,"  the Aghar  apologized, star-
 ing at his toes.
  Across  the great  cavern, a  huge steel  spear rested  over a
 low fire. Large ribs of pork were spitted  on the  spear, drip-
 ping juices into the fire with an appetizing sizzle, barely au-
 dible  above  the  raucous  noise   of  the   great  crownation
 festival. In his new, official, and royally  appointed capacity

 as  Mudhole's  Best  Cook  and  Chief  Shaman (the  longest, and
 therefore  most   important  title   in  Mudhole)   Nomscul  had
 sorely neglected his duty when  he forgot  to light  the cooking
 fire  until  the  feast  was  well  underway,  a fact  which had
 slowed  the  cooking  of  the  meat  significantly. It  had also
 made  him  almost  obnoxiously   solicitous  toward   Flint  and
 Perian.
   At  the  moment,  however,  Flint  didn't  notice  the absence
 of  the  meat  - indeed,  he couldn't  have eaten  another bite.
 All  the  food  served  during  the  ceremony  had   been  quite
 good   and,   what's   more,   plentiful.  Having   lived  above
 ground for all of his life, Flint never knew  just how  much va-
 riety  there  could  be  in  subterranean  dining. The  food and
 drink  had  thus   far  included   spiced  mushrooms,   raw  and
 cooked fish, potatoes, and lichen leaves.
   "This is the best I've felt since we  got here,"  admitted the
 king of the gully dwarves, with a frank look at his queen.
   "It was all right," Perian admitted. "I'm used to  better, but
 most  of  this  came  from  the  Theiwar warrens  anyway. Still,
 I'm surprised Nomscul did such a good job with it.
   "I  just  wish  Too-thee would  get back  with my  mossweed. I
 wonder what's keeping him."
   "He  could  still be  here by  the end  of the  meal," replied
 Flint, with a glance at the still raw pork ribs. "That gives him
 plenty of time."
   Across  the  room  they saw  the low  fire, with  its sizzling
 rack  of  ribs impaled  on a  great, steel-shafted  spear. Every
 few  minutes  Nomscul  skipped  over  to  the  fire  and rotated
 the  pig slightly.  His procedure  was apparently  mostly guess-
 work,  but  the   meat  sent   a  delightful   aroma  whispering
 around the assembled multitudes.
   All  of  the  approximately  four  hundred  Aghar  of  Mudhole
 had  assembled  in  the  Big Sky  Room for  the great  feast and
 celebration.  By  this  point  in  the  feast  the  chamber  was
 pretty well ravaged,  blanketed with  litter, food  and clothing
 scraps, and sleeping Aghar.
   The cavern was divided by the shallow stream that
 flowed through so much of the gully dwarf lair. Here in the
 cavern the stream collected into a series  of three  deep, clear

 pools.  Dozens  of  young  Aghar  splashed  playfully  in the
 chilly waters of  these pools.  Unlike virtually  every other
 type of dwarf known to  Flint and  Perian, the  gully dwarves
 of Mudhole actually liked the  water. All  of them  seemed to
 be  darned  good  swimmers.  This  fact  amazed   Flint,  who
 didn't  know  a  hill  or  mountain  dwarf  that knew  how to
 keep his head above water.
   Flint, Perian, and a dozen Aghar - their "court," which in-
 cluded Nomscul,  Ooz, and  Fester -  sat on  one side  of the
 stream. A small, rugged stone  footbridge crossed  the water-
 way  between  two  of  the  pools,  connecting  up  with  the
 larger  portion  of  the  cave  where the  rest of  the gully
 dwarves were gathered.
   Fester  and  Nomscul  had  been  taking turns  saluting and
 toasting their new rulers. Fester  had become  Perian's chief
 handmaiden and lady-in-waiting  - or  "weighty lady,"  as the
 gully dwarf referred to herself. Nomscul, in addition  to his
 roles  as  healer,  and  Best  Cook  and  Chief  Shaman,  had
 vowed to become the king's primary aide.
   "You a real kingly king,"  said Nomscul,  sloshing slightly
 as he offered yet another salute to his new monarch.
   After Nomscul's toast, the air  was filled  with mushrooms,
 lichens, and fishheads flying back  and forth.  Several near-
 misses splashed into the water  just feet  from the  king and
 queen,  but  a withering  look from  Nomscul, coupled  with a
 menacing  reach toward  his magic  bag, moved  the game  to a
 more comfortable distance.
        "Say," commented Flint, "do you folks play any games
   down here: Kickball, stick-and-hoop, anything like that?"
      Nomscul looked at him quizzically. "Stuck in hoop?"
   "You know, sports," Flint  persisted. "Athletic  games. You
 get a bunch of -"
   "Two," corrected Perian.
   "... two  fellows on  one side  and two  on the  other, and
 they both try to hook a leather hoop over the others'  post -
 that sort of thing. Or  anything to  watch that's  more orga-
 nized than this free-for-all."
   "Agharpult!"   yelped   Nomscul,   jumping  up   and  down.
 "King wants en... entert... you watch this!"

   The  excited  Aghar  turned  toward  the  crowd  and  shouted,
 "Agharpulters,  get  over  here!  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!"  Imme-
 diately  the  crowd  turned  into  a  shoving,  pushing  mass as
 gully  dwarves  from  every  corner  of the  room tried  to con-
 verge in front of the bridge.
   "You  like  this,"  beamed  Nomscul.  "We learn  by watching
 Theiwar practice war."
   Teams  of  gully  dwarves  suddenly  began  to  form  pyramids
 with  rows  of  kneeling  bodies,  ten  dwarves forming  a four-
 tier  pile.  Other  Aghar  stood  behind, squatting  and prepar-
 ing to charge the pyramids formed by their comrades.
   At   Nomscul's   command,   these   others   dashed   forward,
 vaulting  to  the  tops of  the pyramids,  whereupon all  of the
 piled  gully  dwarves  flung  themselves  face   forward  toward
 the  floor.  The  momentum  of  the  fall  hurtled  the  topmost
 gully  dwarf,  at  significant speed,  across the  room, eventu-
 ally to crash into a crowd of gathered spectators.
   Flint  roared  with  laughter  as  the  hapless  gully dwarves
 tumbled  over  one  another  and  sailed  through the  air, arms
 and legs flailing, usually screeching at the top of their lungs.
   "Someone  is  going  to  get  hurt  doing  '  this,"  muttered
 Perian.
   "Oh,  lighten  up,"  retorted Flint.  "These little  guys have
 skulls thicker than the thane's best armor."
   Indeed  they  must,  concluded  Perian as  she watched  a pair
 of  them  smack  violently  into  the cavern  wall, fall  to the
 ground, and jump up beaming.
   Between guffaws, Flint asked Nomscul, "Where did you
 say you learned this sport?"
   Nomscul  puffed  out  his  chest.  "We sneak  teeny-tiny quiet
 into  Big-Big  Room   and  see   Theiwar  cracking   walls  with
 cattle-pult machines. It  stupid name,  since they  fling rocks,
 not cattle. But it look like fun, so we do Agharpult."
   "He's  talking  about the  catapult range,"  Perian explained,
 amazed.  "The  thane's  army  trains  with  some  of  the  heavy
 siege  equipment  in  an  enormous cavern  on the  second level.
 They practice  hitting targets  painted on  the walls.  I'm sur-
 prised  any  gully  dwarf has  ever seen  it, though.  That room
 is quite a distance  from here."  Flint thought  he saw  a glim-

 mer of admiration in  Perian's eyes  as she  studied Nomscul,
 who just grinned back at her ridiculously.
   With  tears  of  laughter  rolling  down his  cheeks, Flint
 watched the beefiest Aghar he'd seen yet, launch off  the top
 of an Agharpult and  try to  do a  somersault in  midair. In-
 stead of tucking under, however, he  wound up  sailing across
 the  room  spread-eagled  and upside-down,  finally splashing
 against the far wall and sliding down into a pool of muck.
   Splashing?
   Suddenly alert, Flint peered at the opposite  wall, squint-
 ing  to  make  out  details. Nudging  Perian, he  pointed and
 asked,  "What's  happening  over  there?  The  wall  looks...
 squishy."
   Perian followed his gesture  and gasped.  She saw  the rock
 wall  of  the  cave suddenly  turned to  mud and  ooze slowly
 downward.  The  narrow tunnel  to the  Beast Pit  gaped wider
 as its framework of rock melted away.
   "It's collapsing!" She was instantly on her feet, shouting,
 "We've got to get everyone out of here now!"
   The gully dwarves blithely continued Agharpulting
 around the room, oblivious to the danger.
   Flint, too, sprang to his feet, and grabbed Perian's elbow,
 staring in disbelief. "That's no  cave-in!" he  growled. "The
 wall's turning to mud."
   "The chamber  connecting to  the Beast  Pit is  behind that
 wall," whispered Perian. Her worried  glance told  Flint that
 they both were thinking the same, terrifying thought.
   They  watched, horror-struck,  as the  rock oozed  onto the
 cave  floor.  Soon  the  narrow tunnel  gaped wide,  and they
 both  knew that  nothing blocked  the carrion  crawler's pas-
 sage into Mudhole.
   Then they saw  white, flailing  tentacles beyond  the open-
 ing.
   "Here it comes!" cried Perian.  "These Aghar  are helpless.
 We've got to clear the chamber and  barricade this  thing out
 of the rest of Mudhole!"
   "Hey!  Beast  go  home!"  shouted  Nomscul, leaping  to his
 feet  and scolding  the horrifying  creature from  across the
 huge cave.

   Other  Aghar  turned  and  shouted  in annoyance,  fear, or
 confusion, as the beast crept forward.
   The  carrion  crawler's  enormous  bulk  slithered  through a
 round  hole  perhaps twelve  feet in  diameter as  its tendrils
 lashed back and forth hungrily.
   "If  we  don't  get the  Aghar out  of here  quickly, they'll
 stampede!"  Instinctively  Flint  reached  for  the   axe  that
 would  normally  be  at  his  waist,  but  found   nothing.  He
 cursed the fates that had  placed him  in this  chamber without
 so  much  as  Happenstance,  the  rusty  dagger, to  defend his
 "kingdom."
   Screams  and  shouts  rose  through  the  Big  Sky  Room, and
 Aghar  bolted   in  every   direction.  Some,   by  coincidence
 more   than   intent,   actually   headed  toward   the  Thrown
 Room  -  which  was  the  Aghar's  new  name  for  Flint's  and
 Perian's  quarters  -  or  the  rest  of  Mudhole.  Most darted
 around  blindly,  screaming,  waving  their  arms,  or huddling
 on the ground, terrified by the approach of the monster.
   "Follow  me!"  shouted  Perian.  An  officer  of   the  House
 Guard  was  trained  to  lead  by example,  not to  mention ex-
 pected  to  be  followed.  She  grabbed  a  carving  knife  and
 started for the footbridge at a run, ready to cross it and con-
 front the monster personally.
   "Get  to  the  Thrown  Room!"  Flint's  voice was  a thunder-
 ous  bellow,  but  even  that  sound  was  washed  away  in the
 panic-stricken  babble  of  hundreds  of  Aghar.  A few  of his
 closer subjects started toward the exits, but chaos  reigned in
 the cavern.  Flint snagged  Fester, the  nearest Aghar,  by her
 collar. She held a large, bent roasting fork in her hand.
   "Fester,  look  at  me!" commanded  Flint. "Tell  everyone to
 get  into  the  Thrown  Room.  Get   everyone  to   the  Thrown
 Room!"
   The  frawl  stared  at  Flint  dumbly  for  a moment,  but he
 held her arms until he  saw the  fear fade  from her  eyes, and
 then  she nodded  vigorously. He  took the  fork from  her hand
 and  turned  her  loose,  and  immediately  she  began  pushing
 Aghar toward the exits. One down, thought Flint.
   Turning  back  to  the  action, Flint  saw several  Aghar run
 blindly  into the  beast, only  to be  struck and  paralyzed by

 the  flailing  tentacles.  The  small  forms  tumbled   to  the
 ground, but thankfully the beast  didn't stop  to feed  on them
 immediately.  Flint  hoped  it  wouldn't  get  a  second chance
 later on.
   But how could they stop  it? He  sprinted after  Perian, see-
 ing  her  reach the  footbridge and  start across  with Nomscul
 at her  heels. The  roasting fork  in his  hand was  a pathetic
 weapon,   but  anything   was  better   than  his   bare  hands
 against the huge, segmented monster.
   More Aghar fell  before the  beast, and  it crawled  over the
 motionless forms, intent on the great mass  of prey  before it.
 Almost  gleefully,  it  surged  upward, stretching  its bloated
 body a dozen feet in the air, still lashing with its tentacles.
   Suddenly  Perian   stopped  on   the  bridge   and  screamed.
 Nomscul, right behind the queen,  ran into  her and  fell back-
 ward  onto  the  approach  to  the bridge.  Flint saw  the hid-
 eous,  hunchbacked figure  of Pitrick  soaring through  the air
 over her head. The derro was flying straight for Perian!
   Raising  the  long  fork,  undaunted  by  the  incongruity of
 the  gesture,  Flint  sprang toward  the narrow  footbridge. He
 saw  the  grotesque  Theiwar  land  near  Perian and  seize her
 wrist in his right hand.  The frawl  twisted back,  but Pitrick
 pinned her against the railing on the side  of the  bridge. The
 derro  settled  to  the  planks  beside her  and spoke  a sharp
 word, cancelling his flying spell  so that  he could  place his
 weight on the ground.
   Nomscul  climbed  to his  feet and  charged forward,  only to
 be kicked aside by one of  Pitrick's heavy  boots. Desperately,
 Perian pulled away. Flint charged  as fast  as he  could, push-
 ing his way through the Aghar.
   "Your smoke weed will  be a  little delayed  - but  no worry.
 You will be  leaving with  me," hissed  Pitrick to  Perian, the
 thick odor of mushale heavy on his breath.
   Pitrick  gripped  his  amulet  with  one  hand,  staring into
 Perian's eyes. She  twisted in  his grasp  but could  not break
 away.
   "Kan-straithian!" he barked. Instantly the blue light
 flashed. The savant released Perian and turned to face the
 charging  hill  dwarf.  Nomscul,  climbing  to his  feet behind

 Perian, seemed momentarily forgotten.
 Perian tried to run but her feet refused to move, as if they
 had been cemented to  the bridge.  She tried  to turn,  to open
 her   mouth  and   speak,  and   found  herself   paralyzed  by
 magic.  Her  eyes wild,  she struggled  against the  spell, but
 Pitrick's magic had her frozen in place.
     "Now for you," growled Pitrick, his  huge eyes  glaring in-
 sanely  at  Flint.  The  hunchback's  fingers  tightened around
 the amulet, and he raised his hand  to point  a bony  finger at
 the  charging  dwarf.  Flint  knew  that  he would  never reach
 Pitrick before the derro cast his spell.
     "Incinerus...  Incinetoria..."  Pitrick  began  his  spell,
 sneering at Flint, preparing to  envelop him  in an  inferno of
 sorcerous  fire.  He  did  not  notice Nomscul  stepping around
 Perian's petrified form.
     "In-sin-jin-fin-jin  yourself!"  challenged  Nomscul, aping
 Pitrick's wizardly pose. He thrust his  magic sack  before him-
 self  and  clapped  it  sharply between  his hands,  throwing a
 cloud of fine dust into the air.
     Pitrick recoiled from the insidious powder, but too late to
 keep it from his nose,  eyes, and  throat. His  fingers stabbed
 at his burning eyes, and then his whole body doubled over.
     "Ah...    uhhh...    CHOO!"    Pitrick's    sneeze   almost
 blasted Nomscul from the bridge.
     "Maggot!"  Pitrick  hissed,  stumbling  away from  the dust
 cloud.  He  delivered  a  vicious kick  to Nomscul.  The little
 shaman  crashed  through   the  railing   of  the   bridge  and
 splashed into the pool, gasping and wailing.
     Then Flint reached the bridge, racing full-tilt  toward the
 derro, his roasting fork  poised above  his head.  Still strug-
 gling to regain his senses, Pitrick  snatched a  long, straight
 dagger from his belt.
     Below  them,  Nomscul popped  to the  surface of  the pool.
 "You  got  my  magic stuff  all wet!"  he whined,  paddling to-
 ward the bank.
     The  two  dwarves  came  together.  Flint's  momentum  car-
 ried  Pitrick  over  backward.  Locked  together,  each  strug-
 gling  for  an  advantage,  they  rolled  over and  over toward
 the shore.  Each held  his own  weapon in  one hand,  his oppo-

 nent's wrist in the other.
   As  they tumbled  onto land,  Pitrick thrust  out his  leg, pin-
 ning  Flint  below  him.  He  threw  all  his  weight  behind  his
 weapon,  forcing  the  blade   down  toward   Flint's  unprotected
 chest.  Caught  off  guard,  the hill  dwarf strove  to straighten
 his  arm,  but  Pitrick's blade  inched closer.  Desperately Flint
 kicked  the  derro  away  and  rolled  to  the  side.  Both combat-
 ants  jumped  to  their  feet,  stabbing  and  parrying   as  they
 scrambled momentarily to a safe range.
   "You  thought  to  escape  me,  hill  dwarf?"  cackled Pitrick,
 breathing  heavily.  "I  admit  you  surprised  me  by  surviving
 the Beast Pit."
   Pitrick  stabbed  at  him,  but  Flint skipped  out of  the way,
 driving   his   own   long,  pronged   weapon  into   the  derro's
 chest.  As  they  jumped  apart  Flint  expected  to see  blood on
 his  enemy's  robe,  but  instead  he  saw  links  of  chain  mail
 shining  through  the  ripped  fabric.  Glancing  at  his  weapon,
 he  saw that  the tines  of the  roasting fork  had been  bent and
 twisted  -  such  a  feeble  weapon  would  never   punch  through
 the derro's armor.
   "I'm  full  of  surprises,  too,"  taunted the  Theiwar. "Here's
 another:  when  I  finish  with  you,  your  whole  town  will  be
 next  to  perish.  You've  shown  me  that  Hillhome and  all your
 sun-dwelling kin are too dangerous to my plans!"
   "You  should  live  so  long,"  growled  Flint,  feinting toward
 Pitrick's  left  side.  Nonetheless,  the  warning   sent  shivers
 along the hill dwarf's spine. Pitrick had to be stopped, now!
   The  evil  derro  sneered  as  he evaded  the attack.  "I shall,
 with  Perian  at  my  side.  Together  we  shall  destroy Hillhome
 and make slaves of its people."
   The  derro  turned  and  darted  along  the  side  of  the pool,
 moving  with  surprising speed.  Flint raced  after him.  The hill
 dwarf  knew  his  only  hope  was  to press  the derro  so closely
 that he could not cast a spell.
   Both   figures   turned   suddenly   when   they   heard  Perian
 shout, "I'm free!" As the last effects of Pitrick's hold spell fi-
 nally  wore  off,  the  frawl  spun and  started toward  them. She
 snatched  up  a  long,  sharp   cooking  knife.   Grinning,  Flint
 turned back toward Pitrick.

   But the savant surprised  him. Instead  of reaching  for his
 amulet,  Pitrick  laughed  defiantly and  touched the  ring on
 his left hand. Instantly the derro disappeared from sight.
   Perian's scream drew Flint's attention back over  his shoul-
 der. Suddenly Pitrick was standing next to  her, and  the der-
 ro seized her left arm with both hands.
   "I must leave now," he taunted Flint. "But  I will  be back,
 once I see that my property  gets safely  home." He  leered at
 Perian, and icy daggers drove into Flint's heart.
    Snarling, the hill dwarf dashed toward the bridge. He saw
 Pitrick reach toward the ring, even  while holding  tightly to
 Perian.
   Neither Flint  nor Pitrick  could have  anticipated Perian's
 next move. Just before the  derro touched  his ring  and tele-
 ported them away, the  frawl's right  hand came  around, still
 holding the  carving knife  which she  had picked  up earlier.
 The  hunchback  twisted  his  arm  upward,  blocking   only  a
 blow to his face. He realized too late  that was  not Perian's
 target.
   Instead  the  knife  slashed  into  Pitrick's  hand, slicing
 through  skin  and  bone.  The  Theiwar  shaman  screamed  and
 pulled  away,  with  blood  streaming down  his arm.  Two fin-
 gers, sliced cleanly off, splashed into the water.
   On  one  of  them gleamed  a small  circlet of  twisted wire.
   Gagging  and  shrieking,  Pitrick  stumbled  backward,  cra-
 dling his mangled hand. Perian  looked in  shock at  the blood
 streaking her robe.
   The  din  in  the  cavern  echoed  around  them.  Some Aghar
 fled from the carrion crawler, while  others attacked  it with
 utensils.  Their courage  was worse  than useless  against the
 creature since the beast's tough hide  turned aside  their at-
 tacks. Its sticky  tendrils lashed  across the  gully dwarves'
 skin, dropping them to the ground, helpless and paralyzed.
   "Finish  him!"  shouted  Flint,  sprinting  back   onto  the
 bridge, charging the howling derro.
   Now Pitrick looked up  with real  fear in  his eyes.  He saw
 Flint charging,  saw the  murderous rage  in the  hill dwarf's
 eyes, and he staggered off  the opposite  side of  the bridge,
 desperately fishing in his pouch for something.

   Flint didn't  slow down  as he  saw the  Theiwar pull  out a
 small, clear bottle. Pitrick raised the flask to his  lips and
 swallowed the  contents in  one gulp,  just as  Flint launched
 himself toward him.
   The  hill  dwarf  plowed  into Pitrick,  driving him  to the
 ground. Flint raised  the fork,  ready to  plunge it  into the
 squirming mage's neck.
   But suddenly that neck was  gone. As  Flint watched  in dis-
 belief, Pitrick's entire body dissipated into a pale  cloud of
 vapor. Flint slashed at it futilely with his makeshift weapon.
 But  the  cloud  drifted  away  from  him,  and   then  passed
 through  the hole  in the  cavern wall.  In moments  it disap-
 peared from view entirely.
   "Damnation!"  hollered  Flint,  watching  the  gaseous  form
 of his enemy slip away.
   "We  still  have  troubles,"  Perian barked  urgently. "Look!"
   Flint  turned  to  see  that the  massive carrion  crawler had
 reached  the  exit  to  the  Thrown Room.  He could  trace the
 creature's  path  across  the  cavern  by counting  the fallen
 bodies of Aghar. Dozens lay in a twisted  line across  the ca-
 vern floor.
   He heard Nomscul's voice, issuing orders.
   "Hey,  Agharpulters!  Do it  do it  do it!  Agharpult! Stomp
 that big ugly thing! Pult pult pult!"
   Teams  of  gully  dwarves were  gathering before  the beast.
 The  Aghar  formed  their  pyramids  and  launched  themselves
 at  the  carrion crawler,  heedless of  the danger,  What they
 hoped  to  accomplish  was  unclear.  But the  carrion crawler
 was clearly distracted by the spectacle of their bodies flying
 over its head and crashing into the walls behind.
   Flint ran  through the  cavern, frantically  encouraging the
 Agharpulters. If they  could distract  the beast  long enough,
 he could....
   What could  he do?  He looked  at the  roasting fork  in his
 hand,  and  then at  the looming  carrion crawler,  and tossed
 the fork aside. At  the same  time, his  eyes passed  over the
 roasting meat, still sizzling on its steel-shafted spear.
   Flint  hesitated  only for  a moment.  By Reorx,  those ribs
 smelled  good.  And  they  were  just  about  done,  too.  His

 mouth watered as he hoisted the  red hot  spear off  the fire,
 then  dropped it  from his  burning hands.  He peeled  off his
 robe  and wound  it round  his hands,  then grasped  the spear
 again. Several dozen ribs weighted down  the shaft,  but pull-
 ing the meat off would take too many precious minutes.
   "Jump!  Faster!"  He  heard  Perian  commanding   the  gully
 dwarves, directing  the erratic  Agharpults toward  their tar-
 get.  More and  more of  their subjects  flew through  the air
 with better aim this time, crashing into the  rearing monster.
 They didn't harm the beast,  but they  fully occupied  its at-
 tention.
   Seeing  Flint  laboring  with   the  heavy   weapon,  Perian
 raced to his side. The two  of them  lifted the  spear between
 them  and  cautiously  moved  around  to  the  monster's side.
 The  thing's  wormlike  head remained  fixed upon  the shriek-
 ing, flying Aghar.
   "Now!"  Flint  barked.  The  two  of  them  rushed  forward,
 holding  the meat-laden  spear at  shoulder height.  The steel
 tip struck the carrion crawler between two of its  segments, a
 few feet back from its head.
   Instantly  it   whirled,  but   the  two   dwarves,  working
 smoothly, turned in  the same  direction, just  avoiding those
 paralyzing tendrils.
   "Push!"  grunted  Perian,  and  they  shoved the  spear deep
 into  the  monster's  vile  insides. Blue  pus oozed  from the
 wound,  coating the  meat that  backed up  along the  shaft as
 the spear drove deeper and deeper into the monster.
   The  carrion  crawler  shivered  and  twitched,  flopping to
 the ground as its legs collapsed. Its struggles grew weaker as
 Perian  and  Flint twisted  and probed  with the  weapon, try-
 ing to strike a vital organ. Finally, with one last  spasm, it
 ceased to move.
   All  around  them lay  gully dwarves  paralyzed by  the car-
 rion crawler  or stunned  by their  launch from  an Agharpult.
 Flint was covered by scrapes and bruises  from his  fight with
 Pitrick, and by meat juices from  the cooking  spear. Perian's
 hands and robe were  splotched red  with Pitrick's  blood. Ex-
 hausted, they stared at each other for a long moment.
     "I was scared... when Pitrick grabbed you, I was scared

 he'd  take  you away,  and I  wouldn't be  able to  stop him."
 Flint glanced at the  ground, then  looked back  into Perian's
 face. "I'm so  glad...." He  reached out  and pulled  her into
 his arms, crushed her to his chest.
   "I'm glad, too," she whispered, pulling his face to hers and
 kissing him.  Flint's heart  thumped harder  than it  had when
 Pitrick threatened his life.
     And then Flint peeled Perian's arms loose and stepped
 away. "We can't do this," he growled. "We're different, in-
 side and out, and there's no hope for a match like ours."
   "You can't know that," she cried, reaching after him.
   But he stepped back again. "I know it."

                       Chapter 16

                    Misguided Mission

   "Do you really think he'd do it?" Flint asked Perian.
 He  paced  about the  small Thrown  Room several  hours after
 the magical battle with the derro savant during  the "crowna-
 tion" party. "He'd destroy a whole  village of  innocent hill
 dwarves simply for revenge against me?"
  Flint  and  Perian  had  helped the  gully dwarves  begin the
 cleanup  of  the Big  Sky Room,  entombing the  casualties of
 Pitrick's magic in temporary vaults in the wall of a secluded
 mine  shaft.  Fortunately  only  nine of  the Aghar  had suc-
 cumbed  to  the  assault.  Those  brave  Aghar  who  had been
 paralyzed by the carrion crawler's tentacles were  slowly re-
 covering  in  a  makeshift  infirmary under  Shaman Nomscul's
 care.

   Next  Flint had  ordered the  rebuilding of  the hole  in the
 wall  to  discourage  any  further  attacks by  Pitrick, piling
 rocks of all  sizes before  it. Another  crew was  assigned the
 grim  task  of  dismembering the  beast, since  it was  far too
 large to remove intact from Mudhole's narrow egress.
   After  he'd  initiated  these  programs, Flint  had returned,
 exhausted,  to  the  Thrown  Room,   where  Perian   put  salve
 and  a  bandage  over  a magic-inflicted  burn on  Flint's arm.
 They were both too wound up to sleep.
   Sitting  on  the edge  of the  moss bed  now, hunched  over a
 small  table,  quill  in  hand, Perian  nodded her  copper head
 emphatically  in answer  to Flint's  question. "Pitrick  is the
 most  insanely  cruel  and  powerful  dwarf  I've  ever  known.
 Why,  once  I  saw  him  -  never  mind," she  amended, shaking
 away the story when she noted Flint's preoccupied look.
   The hill dwarf smote his open palm angrily. "Blast my
 wicked temper! I  never should  have told  him Hillhome
 knew anything about the weapons or Aylmar. It was a lie
 anyway!" He kicked the wall with the toe of his boot.
   Perian shook  her head.  "You can't  blame yourself  for Pit-
 rick's villainy! He's always hated hill dwarves - it was inevi-
 table  that  his  hatred  would   someday  be   turned  against
 Hillhome."
   Flint snorted and  threw up  his hands.  "But now  I've given
 Hillhome less of a chance! I only hope I  get back  before it's
 too late."
   She  glanced  up  from  the notes  she was  making on  an old
 scrap  of  parchment  and  shook her  head. "But  they wouldn't
 have  had  any  chance  otherwise,  because they  wouldn't have
 known  an  attack  was  coming.  When you  think about  it that
 way,  you've  done  them  a  favor!"  She  propped her  head up
 with a hand on her cheek.
   Flint frowned. "Thanks for saying that, but this is  still my
 fault."
   Perian pushed the  curls on  her forehead  from her  eyes and
 pursed  her lips.  "Pitrick's obsession  with me  hasn't helped
 matters." She shook her head fiercely. "I can't help  but think
 that  this  would  not  have  happened  if  I'd  confronted him
 sooner, or even told  the thane  I thought  he was  crazy. Per-

 haps I should have just given him what he wanted!" She
 shuddered.
   Flint  shuddered,  too.  He  had  no  difficulty  imagining what
 Pitrick  had  desired  from  the  frawl.  He  found  himself look-
 ing  beneath  Perian's  warm  hazel  eyes   to  her   soft,  fuzzy
 cheeks.  He  remembered  the  vision  of  her  in  Pitrick's grasp
 just  a  few  hours  ago,  and  his blood  boiled. 'You  could not
 have given him that. It would have been worse than death."
   Perian   looked   straight  ahead   without  blinking.   "No,  I
 couldn't have done that."
   Flint  looked  brightly  at the  paper beneath  her hand  on the
 rickety table. "What are you doing?"
   She  tapped  her  chin  with  the  end of  the quill.  "Making a
 list  of  the things  we'll need  on the  trail to  Hillhome." She
 scratched a note. "How far do you figure it is to this little vil-
 lage of yours?"
   Astounded, Flint could barely keep the smile from his
 face. "You mean you'd help me - I mean Hillhome?"
   "Just try and stop me!"  she said,  setting her  shoulders defi-
 antly.
   "But  why?  Why  would  you  risk  your life  for strangers?"
   "You're  hardly  a  stranger," she  laughed. "You've  saved my
 life twice in the last, what - five days?"
   Flint  rolled  his eyes.  "Your life  wouldn't have  needed sav-
 ing if it hadn't been for my bumbling in the first place."
   Perian  wrinkled  her  nose   in  disagreement.   "We've  been
 over  that  already.  I  was  at  the  breaking   point  anyway.
 Something  had  to  give."  She  hesitated, then  quickly added,
 watching  his  expression,   "-  and   then  luckily   you  came
 along."
   Uncomfortable   with   the   direction   of   the  conversation,
 the  mountain  dwarf  decided  to  lighten it.  "Does the  king of
 the  gully  dwarves  expect to  leave his  queen and  subjects be-
 hind 7"
   Flint was  stroking his  beard and  fingering the  teleport ring
 Pitrick  had  left  behind along  with his  fingers. He  looked at
 Perian   tentatively,   chewing   the   edge   of   his  mustache.
 "Please  don't  laugh,"  he  said  at  last,  "but I  was actually
 thinking  of  taking  them  along. After  all, I  gave my  vow not

 to leave them. They're  not the  best fighters  I ever  saw -
 actually, they're just about the worst - but I never  saw any
 braver. The way they  went up  against that  carrion crawler,
 well,  it  was  purely  noble.  I don't  imagine well-trained
 mountain dwarves would intimidate them in the slightest."
   Perian's  eyebrows  flew  up,  and  she  slapped  the quill
 down. "That's a great idea! How soon should we -"
   Suddenly, there was a great commotion  in the  hall outside
 their room. Expecting the worst, Flint  and Perian  shot each
 other a look before leaping off the bed for the door.
   "Cainker  back!  Garf   back!"  Nomscul   shouted,  running
 down  the  dark  tunnel  toward  them. He  skidded to  a stop
 just short  of Flint's  nose. "Cainker  and Garf,  they bring
 king's pop!" he explained out of  breath, revealing  that the
 gully dwarves were not totally clear on the  various branches
 of the royal family tree.
   Flint  blinked.  "My  nephew?  I  can't believe  those two
 boneheads  actually found  their way  to Hillhome,  let alone
 located  my  nephew.  But  you  say  they  brought  him here?
 Why?"
   "You  bet  they  did,  O kingly guy!"  proclaimed Nomscul,
 having   misappropriated   new  words   from  his   king  and
 queen.  "You  come  see!"  Nomscul frowned  suddenly. "King's
 father not real happy."
   "Of course he's not! They  were just  supposed to  give him
 my note, not kidnap  him!" Flint  snarled, then  sighed heav-
 ily. "Where is he?"
   "In   grotto,"   Nomscul   explained.   "They   shove   him
 through crackingrotto. I magicked him," he said,  holding up
 the red bag dangling from his waist, "but he no will move."
   Sighing  again,  the  hill  dwarf  splashed  his  face with
 strained puddle water  from a  basin by  the door,  drying it
 with his sleeve. "You'd better take me to him right away." He
 looked over  his shoulder  at Perian  and winked.  "Coming, 0
 queenly gal?" Smirking, she nodded.
   "This way faster than through Big Sky," he explained  as he
 dashed  ahead of  them into  a dark,  narrow mine  shaft. The
 tunnel continued, straight as  an arrow,  for about  six hun-
 dred feet, Flint noted, counting  his steps  by using  an old

 trick  from  his  dungeon-crawling days.  Neither he  nor Per-
 ian had yet visited  this part  of Mudhole,  and he  wanted to
 make sure they could find their way out again.
   Then  the  shaft  dead-ended.  Nomscul  led  them  around  a
 turn, and after  another five  hundred feet  they came  to an-
 other tunnel  on their  right, but  Nomscul ignored  it. "That
 go to Big Sky. We in Upper Tubes area now."
   Two  hundred  fifty  feet  later  the tunnel  ahead narrowed
 by half, and another shaft turned sharply to the left.
   "Have  you  noticed we  seem to  be heading  downhill?" Per-
 ian called back to Flint, who was bringing up the rear.
   "Yeah,"  Flint  panted, winded  by the  walk. "And  I'm glad
 of it, because it's the  only thing  that's keeping  me going.
 How much farther?" he hollered ahead to Nomscul.
   "Grotto  right  here!"  Nomscul  crowed  unexpectedly, stop-
 ping  so  suddenly  that  Perian slammed  into him,  and Flint
 into her, his face buried in her russet curls.  Without think-
 ing, he closed his eyes and inhaled, his hands coming  to rest
 on  her  upper  arms.  Flint  jumped backward  abruptly, flus-
 tered by his own reaction.
   "Uh,  Nomscul  went  down  there,"  Perian said  softly over
 her shoulder, pointing to the right.
   Flint looked around the frawl.  "Steps!" he  said unhappily.
 Indeed, a very  narrow stone  stairway had  been cut  into the
 granite,  curving  and twisting  downward so  that it  was im-
 possible to tell where the bottom  was. Flint  followed Perian
 down the cramped stairs, counting out of habit.
   "Eighty-eight, eight-nine!" he said out loud as his foot hit
 the last one. He could hear  Perian draw  in her  breath ahead
 of him, and he looked up.
   They stood on the threshold of  a beautiful  natural grotto,
 which was dimly lit by some  source that  Flint could  not im-
 mediately  identify.  Though  much  smaller  than the  Big Sky
 Room,  the  ceiling  of  the  underground  cavern was  just as
 high. A waterfall cascaded through a crack at  the top  of the
 far right  wall, forming  a clear  pool, which  in turn  fed a
 stream that  flowed out  under the  left wall.  White, eyeless
 fish frolicked in the  cold depths  of the  pool, disappearing
 beneath an overhanging shelf of  rock above  the water  at the

 dwarves'  approach.  Draped  in  moss, stalactites  and stalag-
 mites had formed  here too,  but so  elaborately that  they re-
 minded Flint of organpipes.
   The  ground before  the pool  was covered  in a  soft blanket
 of  moss.  In  a  moment  Flint realized  that it  provided the
 source of the light in the grotto.  Somehow alive  with energy,
 the  moss  glowed  slightly green  and yellow  and pink  all at
 once. The effect was unbelievably soothing.
   "Isn't it beautiful?" Perian breathed as she  glided silently
 over  the  moss  and headed  for a  natural stone  bench nearer
 the pool;
   "It is that," Flint agreed, unable to think of more appropri-
 ate  or poetic  words. He  shook off  the grotto's  calming ef-
 fects  to  remember  their purpose  for coming  here. "Nomscul,
 where's my nephew?"
   Flint  heard  a  groan  behind him.  Turning, the  hill dwarf
 saw something move  slightly in  the shadows  of the  rock for-
 mations. He was not  prepared for  the sight  of Basalt  on his
 knees, a four-inch length of  leash around  his neck  tying him
 to a stalagtite, arms lashed  to his  sides by  ribbons, belts,
 twine,  and many  other less  identifiable materials.  His face
 was  swollen,  caked  with  dried   blood,  and   covered  with
 Nomscul's "magical" dirt. His  beard and  hair were  as stringy
 as a gully dwarf's.
   "Basalt!" Flint cried, rushing forward to  cut the  length of
 twine that tied the  young Fireforge  like a  dog to  the lime-
 stone  pillar.  Nomscul  bent  over  and  began  gnawing  at  a
 piece  of twine  on Basalt's  wrist. "Not  that way!  Oh, never
 mind!" Flint slit the bonds himself.
   The  delirious Basalt  dropped onto  his face.  Perian rushed
 to  the  pool,  scooped  some  water  up  in her  cupped hands,
 and  splashed  it on  the young  dwarf's puffy  cheeks, causing
 the dirt to turn to muddy streaks.
   Basalt  slowly  came  around,  shaking  his  head  and spray-
 ing water. He rubbed his arms as his  senses returned  with the
 flow of  his blood.  Using the  stalagtite for  support, Basalt
 staggered to his feet and blinked  furiously. His  eyes focused
 first on the hill dwarf's expectant face.
   "Uncle Flint?" He squinted. "But you're dead!"

   Flint  feigned  annoyance.  "First  Garth,  and  now  you!  I
 wish  people  would stop  saying that!"  Laughing, he  tried to
 gather  his  nephew  up in  a hug,  though Basalt's  bonds made
 that difficult.  "You look  like you've  been dragged  behind a
 wild horse, son, but you  sure are  a sight  for my  sore eyes.
 Garf and Cainker didn't  do that  to your  face, did  they)" He
 didn't wait for Basalt's reply.
   "Nomscul!"  he  hollered,  whirling  on  the   shaman  behind
 him.   "Where  are   the  two   reprobates  who   kidnapped  my
 nephew,  hauled  him  here  on  his  face, then  tied him  to a
 stake'?  As  your  king,  I  demand  some  answers!"  Eyes wide
 with  innocence,  the  gully  dwarf  shaman  simply  raised his
 thin shoulders and held his hands palm up in resignation.
   "Now  I  know  you're  alive," Basalt  said, his  weary voice
 laced  with happiness.  "No one  else bellows  like.that. Don't
 be  too  hard  on the  dirt-eaters, though  the gods  know I've
 sworn  at  them  for  dragging  me  through frozen  streams and
 over  mountain roads  for eight-odd  fun-filled hours.  I tried
 not to make it  too easy  for them."  He laughed,  then coughed
 at the pain it inflicted on his sore face.
   Suddenly his expression changed to puzzlement. "Say,
 did I hear you call yourself 'king?' Where are we?" He
 looked at Perian, standing behind Flint. "Who are we'?
 What in the Abyss is going on here?"
   Flint's eyes narrowed  angrily. "I  knew it  was too  much to
 hope that  they would  have given  you my  note. You  see, they
 weren't supposed to bring you here,  just tell  you I  was OK."
 Flint's face turned the color of raw beef. "I'll kill them with
 my  bare  teeth!"  he  stormed,  hungrily  looking   about  the
 room.  But  the  gully dwarves  were nowhere  to be  seen. Even
 Nomscul had skulked out of the room.
   Flint saw the expectant expression on Basalt's face.  The el-
 der  Fireforge ran  his hand  up his  forehead and  through his
 hair, and tried to think of how to explain  this muddle  to Ba-
 salt.  He  looked  into  his nephew's  eyes, so  like Aylmar's.
 "You  heard  me  right:  I'm  king  of  this gully  dwarf city,
 known as Mudhole."
   "Did  you  lose  a  bet,  or did  you have  to fight  for the
 crown?"  Basalt  arched  one  eyebrow.  "You  do have  a crown,

  don't  you?"  With  that,  Flint's  nephew  threw his  head back
  and  laughed   without  restraint,   without  concern   for  his
  bruises. He laughed so hard he held his sides. Flint  rolled his
  eyes  and  waited patiently  while his  nephew got  the hysteri-
  cal laughter out of  his system.  But Basalt  would wheeze  to a
  stop, look at Flint as  if about  to speak,  and then  burst out
  laughing  anew.  Flint  crossed  his arms  and waited.  He twid-
  dled his fingers. Finally he began laughing himself.
    Suddenly  they  both  were  startled  by  the  sound  of some-
  one  clearing  her  throat  loudly.  The  mountain  dwarf thrust
  her  hand  between  the  two  at  the  younger dwarf.  "You must
  be Basalt. I'm Perian Cyprium."
    "My queen,"  Flint added,  his voice  husky. Basalt  gazed re-
  spectfully at the attractive frawl.
    "You may as well know right  off, Basalt,  if you  haven't al-
  ready  guessed  it,"  Perian  said,  hooking  her thumbs  in her
  pants  pockets  in  an  almost   challenging  gesture.   "I'm  a
  mountain dwarf." She watched closely for his reaction.
          As expected, Basalt's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Now
  I'm really confused."
    "I hope to  remedy that  immediately. Perian  comes in  a lit-
  tle later in the story." Flint took him by the  arm and  led him
  to the bench by the pool. "This is going  to be  a long  one, so
  we may as well get comfortable."
    Perian  had  found  a small  clay jug  and fetched  some water
  from the stream. She offered it  to Basalt,  who took  it grate-
  fully  and gulped  most of  the water  down, splashing  the rest
  on  his  face  to  wash  away  the  dried  blood.  The  mountain
  dwarf sat on the  moss near  the hill  dwarves, her  arms linked
  around  her knees,  watching Flint  as he  prepared to  tell his
  tale.
    "I  barely  know  where  to  begin," Flint  said, and  a tense
  muscle twitched in his cheek.
    "You  know  why  I  went  into  Thorbardin   -  to   find  the
  dwarf  who  murdered  your  father."  Flint's  bright  blue-gray
  eyes  held Basalt's.  "And now  I'll tell  you what  happened af-
  ter I stepped inside the Theiwar's secret tunnel and a cage fell
  and imprisoned me...."

 * * * 4' *

  Flint returned to the bench beside  Basalt, for  the retelling
 of the events of the  last week  had agitated  him so  that' he
 could not sit still and had begun to pace.
  "How many days will it take Pitrick to organize the
 troops he'll take to Hillhome?" Flint asked Perian.
  Filled  with  pent-up  energy  herself,  the   mountain  dwarf
 had begun to  pitch flat  stones into  the pool  during Flint's
 story.  She  stopped  now  and  considered the  answer, chewing
 her lip, ticking thoughts off on her fingers.
  "Pitrick  will  use  my  troops,  the thane's  personal guard,
 which are  some five  hundred strong,"  she began.  "He'll want
 to keep the action secret and they are the only force  loyal to
 the  Theiwar  throne.  Besides  being excellent  soldiers, they
 are all derro, and a few of them are spell-casting savants like
 Pitrick. They'll leave at  dusk, since  they will  be virtually
 blind during the day."
  "How long do you think that will take?" Flint pressed
 somewhat impatiently.
  "It's  not  that  simple!"  Perian  cried.  "There   are  many
 things to consider! The troops are  in excellent  parade shape,
 but  we -  they have  not fought  in battle  aboveground, well,
 ever,  during  my  time  in  the Thane's  Guard, which  is more
 than thirty years.
  "He  should  take  a  fortnight,  minimum,"  she   decided  at
 last. Mindful of Flint's grateful nod, she quickly  added, "But
 Pitrick will push them to leave in half that time, maybe less."
  He looked at  her, seated  at his  feet on  the moss,  in sur-
 prise. "Fine. We  can't possibly  be there  in less  than three
 days ourselves." He turned to Basalt.  "You see,  I -  we vowed
 on  our  honor  that  we  would  not  leave the  gully dwarves,
 and  I  will  not break  that vow.  So the  Aghar are  going to
 have to come with us. But it will take me at least two  days to
 find  some  way  to get  three hundred  gully dwarves  all mov-
 ing  in  the  same  direction  for  nearly  twenty  miles.  The
 thought boggles my mind."
  Perian  stood  and  dropped  her  handful  of stones  into the
 pool with a plop!, scattering fish.  "But if  my guess  is even

 nearly  correct,  that won't  give us  more than  one, maybe
 two days to build up the town's defenses."
   "Or  much  time  to  persuade the  townsfolk they  even need
 defending!" Basalt chimed in.
   Perian  dusted  moss  clippings  from  her legs.  "But why
 wouldn't they believe us?" she asked, puzzled.
   Both  Flint  and  Basalt  knew  how good  their word  was in
 Hillhome, and  how enamored  the villagers  were of  the reve-
 nue generated by the derro. As  Flint pictured  himself trying
 to talk to the  hill dwarves,  he absently  fingered Pitrick's
 ring. His hand began  to tingle  strangely, and  the uncomfor-
 table sensation spread  quickly up  his arm  to his  chest and
 the rest of his body. He saw Perian wavering before  his face,
 then was distantly aware of  her snatching  the ring  from his
 finger.
   ."What  were  you  thinking about?"  she demanded.  "I could
 see  from  your  face  that you  were activating  the teleport
 ring!"
   Flint  shook away  the remnants  of the  tingling sensation.
 "You  mean  someone other  than Pitrick  can use  that thing?"
 he gasped.
   "Of course." She shrugged. "It's just like any other magical
 item. Pitrick used it constantly because of his  clubbed foot.
 He explained  it to  me once  when he  was trying  to frighten
 me. He said all he had to do was grasp the ring and picture as
 clearly as possible the place where he wanted to go."
   Anyplace   he  wanted...   Flint  remembered   his  thoughts
 of Hillhome, moments earlier, and  had an  idea. He  turned to
 Basalt. "I can't leave the gully dwarves." He  looked squarely
 into his nephew's face. "But you can. You  could use  the ring
 to teleport back to Hillhome and give them  a couple  of extra
 days to prepare for the derro attack, or at least  gather some
 weapons.  They'll believe  you, Basalt."  Flint took  the ring
 from  Perian's  hand and  thrust it  forward. "I  know Moldoon
 will, anyway, and you can  start by  telling him.  He'll rally
 the rest of 'em."
   Basalt recoiled from the magical band as if struck. "You
 don't understand! I can't tell anyone, least of all Moldoon!"
 the  young  dwarf  cried,  his  face  wracked  with  grief. He

 turned away in shame. "He's dead, and it's my fault!"
   Flint   shook   his   head   uncomprehendingly.   "Moldoon
 dead?  What  are  you talking  about?" Flint  clasped Basalt's
 shoulder and spun his nephew around. "Speak up, harrn!"
   Now  it  was  Basalt's  turn  to  explain.  Hiccupping  with
 sobs, he recounted the  events of  the previous  evening, just
 before the gully dwarves had kidnapped him.
   "...  then  Moldoon stepped  between us  to stop  the fight,
 and the  derro stabbed  him, just  like that!"  Basalt dropped
 his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.
   Flint was stunned and  grieved by  the news  of the  old hu-
 man's death. He saw the  pain in  Basalt's face,  pictured the
 casual cruelty of the derro guard. His  hatred of  the Theiwar
 burned hotter than ever. It had become a fire that  could only
 be doused with blood.
   "Basalt," Perian said, chewing a nail, "it sounds as if this
 Moldoon  was  only  doing  what  he  felt  he  had to  do. You
 can't  be  blamed  because he  came between  you and  the der-
 ro."
   "Don't  you  see?"  Basalt  looked up,  bleary-eyed. "Every-
 one has  been right  about me  - I'm  nothing but  a worthless
 drunk who can't defend himself!  I didn't  tell you  about the
 derro patrol  that found  me outside  of Thorbardin  after you
 left. They chased me off like  a scared  rabbit -  didn't even
 think enough of me to kill  me! Gods,"  he cried,  looking up-
 ward and shaking his fists, "I wish they had!"
   "Stop it" Flint  slapped him  hard across  the face.  He saw
 Perian  flinch  at what  she must  have thought  needless cru-
 elty. Stunned,  Basalt stared  at his  uncle, wiping  away his
 tears with the back of his hand. Flint waited for him  to com-
 pose himself.
   "Now you've grieved," his  uncle said  at last,  his expres-
 sion  determined.  "For  your father.  For Moldoon.  For your-
 self.  Put  it  past  you,  because  there's   something  more
 important at stake here."
   The lines in Flint's face softened, and he grasped Basalt by
 the  shoulders.  "Prove  everybody  wrong,   Basalt.  Starting
 today,  prove  everybody  wrong  by  mustering  every  bit  of
 courage  and  grit  you  have  to  persuade  them  to  believe

 something  they  won't  want  to  hear,"  He  shook   him,  hard.
 "Do  it,  Basalt.  You must,  because it's  the only  real chance
 Hillhome has."
   "Do  you  really think  I can  persuade them?"  he whispered.
   Flint smiled at him encouragingly. "I know you can."
   Basalt  looked  at the  ring in  Flint's palm.  It was  made of
 two  incomplete  bands  of  steel  woven  together  and  split at
 the  top,  so  that  the  two jagged  ends protruded  outward. He
 took  it and  slipped it  tentatively onto  the middle  finger of
 his  left  hand.  An  unfamiliar sense  of energy  surged through
 him, though it  came not  from the  ring, but  from the  glint of
 faith  and  respect  in  his uncle's  eyes. He  stood straighter,
 more sure.
   "Go  to  the  family  first," Flint  advised him.  "Under the
 greed  and  the  pompous  protestations,  they  are Fireforges;
 show  them  how  you've  changed,  and   they'll  give   you  a
 chance. You'll see."
   "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   mountain  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,
 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 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 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 places 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.
   "Stay  down!"  Basalt  hissed  to the  dwarves in  the back.
 They drew even with the  path. "Go  past," Basalt  muttered to

 Hildy,  his heart  pounding. "Let's  not show  we're unusually
 interested."
   Without  missing  a beat,  the frawl  urged the  draft horse
 along.  The  small  wagon  rumbled  past  the  track  and  was
 once again surrounded by dark, towering pines.
   "Okay,  stop  here,"  Basalt ordered  after they  had rolled
 several  hundred  yards  beyond  the  muddy   trail.  Grayhoof
 lumbered  off  the  road,  pulling the  wagon under  the thick
 branches  of  several   overhanging  boughs.   "Everyone  out!
 Hurry - the sun's already dropping behind the trees."
   The six other hill dwarves piled out  of the  wagon, hefting
 their  weapons  and  standing  in  the  darkness  beneath  the
 trees. For a  moment no  one moved,  and then  Basalt realized
 that they were waiting for him to give the orders.
   "Okay," he offered, his voice a  hoarse whisper.  "We've got
 to move quietly. We'll sneak  through the  woods until  we get
 to the edge of their barn. Then we take them by surprise."
   Holding  their  axes  and daggers  firmly, the  hill dwarves
 advanced in a file through the woods to the left of  the barn,
 Basalt leading the way to the clearing.
   Suddenly  Basalt  squatted.  His  companions   followed  suit.
   "There's still just the one guard, so the  others must  be in-
 side," Basalt whispered. "And  the horses.  111 get  the guard
 quietly. As soon as I do, rush the barn."
   The  others  nodded  acceptance  of  his plan,  and Basalt
 flushed  when  Hildy  kissed  him  quickly  on  his freckled
 cheek. "For good luck," she said.
   He  crawled  forward  until  he  crouched  among   the  last
 branches of the pine trees before  the clearing,  watching the
 listless derro perform his circuit. Finally, the fellow turned
 away  from  Basalt,  stepping  around  one  of the  wagons and
 disappearing from his sight.
   Instantly  Basalt  started  forward,  trying  to  run  in  a
 crouch. He  winced with  each footfall,  but soon  reached the
 wagon  where he  had last  seen the  guard. Clenching  his axe
 in  both  hands,  he looked  toward the  barn. No  alarm, yet.
 No sunlight reached  the floor  of the  clearing, but  the sky
 overhead  was  still  bright.  He hoped  that would  be enough
 to impair the derro.

   Resolutely,  Basalt  stepped  around   the  corner   of  the
 wagon. Before him, with his back  to the  hill dwarf,  was the
 derro, not ten feet away. Basalt  tried to  creep soundlessly,
 but his foot made an  audible thunk  as he  lowered it  into a
 muddy patch of ground.
   The  derro  whirled  in  surprise.  Basalt saw  the fellow's
 wide  eyes  blink in  confusion, and  then the  mountain dwarf
 squinted. "Eh?" the Theiwar began. "Is  it time,  already?" In
 the bright light he  mistook Basalt  for one  of his  own com-
 rades.
   "It's time," grunted Basalt. Suddenly  all the  tragedy, all
 the frustrations  and humiliations  inflicted by  the mountain
 dwarves,  was focused  onto this  derro in  front of  him. Ba-
 salt's silver-bladed axe flew forward, biting into the side of
 the  unsuspecting  Theiwar's   neck.  Soundlessly   the  dwarf
 dropped to the ground.
   For  a  moment  Basalt  froze,  listening  and  thinking. He
 tried to detect some kind of revulsion  or horror  in himself.
 He  had  never killed  anyone before;  shouldn't he  feel some
 remorse? Yet the slaying of  the derro  seemed like  any other
 task, difficult and dangerous perhaps, but very necessary.
   "That  was  for  Moldoon,"  he  whispered  to   the  corpse.
 Then  he stepped  back around  the wagon  and gestured  to the
 others.
   The  six  hill  dwarves rushed  from their  concealment. Ba-
 salt  leaped  forward  to  join  them,  and  the   whole  band
 charged  through  the  gaping  door into  the darkness  of the
 barn.
   Their  eyes  struggled  to  adjust to  the sudden  change in
 lighting.  They  heard the  mountain dwarves  cursing, smelled
 the presence of the heavy draft horses.
   Basalt  could  see  several  derro,  who had  been squatting
 around  a  low  cookfire,  leap  to their  feet and  snatch up
 weapons.  Several  others  were  still  wrapped  in  bedrolls.
 Now they struggled awkwardly to escape, taken unawares.
   Basalt cracked his axe down,  hard, against  the parry  of a
 derro's  short  sword.  The  mountain  dwarf  staggered  back,
 thrown  off  balance.  Basalt swung  again and  again, driving
 him farther back. He  attacked with  a reckless  savagery that

 surprised even himself.
   This Theiwar wore metal armor and used his blade with
 skill, striking past one of the hill dwarf's blows to scrape Ba-
 salt's  leg.  But  his  experience  was  no  match for  the hill
 dwarf's  savage  onslaught,  and  in  another step  the mountain
 dwarf backed into the wall of the barn.
   The  derro  lunged  once  more, a  desperate stab  at Basalt's
 heart. The hill dwarf  skipped nimbly  out of  the way,  and the
 enemy  had no  parry for  his next  blow. The  battle-axe sliced
 into  the  derro's  forehead,  driving  deep  into   his  brain.
 Soundlessly, the mountain dwarf toppled forward.
   Basalt   wrenched   his   weapon   free,   whirling   to  look
 around  the  barn.  Several  other  derro  lay  motionless,  and
 one  of  the  hill  dwarves  writhed  in  pain, sprawled  on the
 ground.  He  saw  Hildy  driving  her  heavy  sword  at  another
 derro,  and  Basalt  sprinted  toward  her.  She ran  the fellow
 through without any of his help, however.
   The  Theiwar.  who  had  finally struggled  out of  their bed-
 rolls wasted no time in fleeing from  the barn,  casting fright-
 ened  backward  glances  at  the hill  dwarves. In  moments they
 disappeared into the surrounding forest.
   "Let  'em  go,"  Basalt  advised when  Turq and  Horld started
 after. "We've got the weapons we came for."
   Hildy  knelt  beside   Drauf,  the   wounded  young   harrn.  A
 chubby lad, he  had been  cut in  the thigh,  but the  blade had
 not  touched  bone.  Hildy  bound  the  wound  and  stopped  the
 bleeding,  making  Drauf  more comfortable.  "I'll be  okay," he
 muttered, sitting up weakly.
   "Good,"  Basalt  said,  clapping  him on  the back.  "Let's be
 gone  from  this  hole  and get  back on  the road  to Hillhome,
 then.  There  should  be enough  moonlight to  guide us,  but we
 can  stop  along  the way  if we  must. We'll  take the  two wag-
 ons  that  have  weapons  in 'em.  Turq and  Horld, go  look un-
 derneath  the  boxes."  He  described  the compartment  as Flint
 had related it to him. "We'll leave the other two here."
   "If  we  take  all  of their  horses," Hildy  suggested, "then
 even  the  wagons  we  leave are  useless to  the derro  who ran
 away."
   "Good  idea,"  Basalt  agreed.  They  identified  and  hitched

 up  the  two  wagons  that  still held  a great  many weapons,
 tossing out the  inferior plows  on top  to lighten  the load.
 With the eight extra draft horses following  along, tied  to a
 single line, they started back to Hillhome.

 * * * * *

   The  rest  of Flint's  day was  spent collecting  the secret
 weapon  of  explosive  sludge into  every available  glass and
 clay vessel  in Mudhole.  More than  once, Flint  was forced to
 dive and catch a  jug that  got knocked  over, drag  a smoking
 Aghar to the stream, or  haul a  frantic subject,  kicking and
 thrashing, from the inside of  the carrion  crawler's carcass.
 By  the  end of  the day,  his nerves  and patience  were com-
 pletely  worn  out.  Even  the  gully  dwarves knew  enough to
 leave him alone that night.
   The  next  two  days  -  all  the time  remaining to  them -
 were devoted to drilling  the gully  dwarves in  the maneuvers
 of  war. Perian's  experience in  this regard  was invaluable.
 Unfortunately,  the  maneuvers  and  formations  used  by  the
 House   Guard   were   completely   hopeless  for   the  gully
 dwarves.
   "Get in line," screamed  Perian. "Get  in line!"  Eyeing the
 ragged row of  Aghar with  disgust, Perian  stomped up  to the
 worst offender, who was standing a full four feet in  front of
 everyone else, and walked a slow circle around him.
   She stopped in front of him and stared into his eyes.
   "What's your name, citizen?"
   "Spittul, 0 great and powerful Queen."
   Flint, seated at the end of the line, guffawed.
   Perian glowered at him,  then turned  back to  Spittul. "Are
 you really trying to be a soldier, Spittul, or are you playing
 games with me?"
   Spittul's eyes  lit up.  The queen  was talking  directly to
 him!  "Oh,  yes,  Queen  Furryend,  I  want  be a  solder real
 bad!"
   "And  that's  what  you're  doing, Spittul,"  shouted Flint.
 "Keep up the good work." The  hill dwarf  roared at  his joke,
 and  roared  twice  as loud  as the  muscles in  Perian's neck
 bulged.

   Through  clenched  teeth,  Perian  ordered,  "Take  two steps
 back  and  then  don't  move."  She   turned  and   stomped  to
 where  Flint  lay in  the moss,  grabbed him  by the  belt, and
 dragged  him  out of  earshot of  the troops.  "How do  you ex-
 pect me to get  any kind  of discipline  into this  rabble when
 you undermine my authority?" she hissed.
   "It's  hopeless  anyway,"  chuckled  Flint, wiping  his eyes.
 "You can't drill these tunnel apes like veterans. They'll never
 learn. They're just not made to stand in lines."
   Perian  turned  around to  look at  the assembled  group. "So
 what  do  you  suggest?  We  herd  them  into  a pack  and yell
 'charge!'  at  the  first  opportunity? They'll  fry themselves
 with their own sludge bombs."
   "Probably,"  Flint  confessed.  "I  think  we  need  some new
 tactics, something more suited to their ability."
   "Be my guest," snorted Perian.
   Flint strolled back past the slowly mingling knots of
 Aghar. "The problem, as I see it," he said to them, "is  one of
 getting  close  enough  to  the  bad guys  to lob  sludge bombs
 into them,  without getting  beaten up  first. It's  obvious we
 can't hope to  do it  as a  big group.  Maybe we  can do  it as
 small groups. Let's try something...
   "You  harrn  over  there," Flint  shouted, indicating  a group
 of  about  ten  gully dwarves  who actually  seemed to  be pay-
 ing attention. "I want you to  move, all  together in  a bunch,
 over to the wall and then back here again."
   With  a  good  deal  of  pushing  and  shoving,  they clomped
 to  the  wall,  turned,  and  elbowed their  way back  to where
 they'd started.
   "Very  good,"  declared  Flint.  "Now we're  going to  try it
 again,  this  way."  He  positioned the  gully dwarves  so that
 those in front were holding  their shields  in front  and those
 behind  were  holding  their  shields  overhead,  forming  good
 cover.
   "OK,  walk  to  the  wall  and  back,  and keep  your shields
 where I put them."
   The  Aghar  stumbled  to  the   wall,  turned,   and  jostled
 back.  By  the  time  they reached  Flint, several  shields had
 been dropped and the rest were all askew.

   "That  was  pathetic,"  Perian  announced.  "This is  a dead
 end."
   Flint  shook his  head. "I  disagree. By  the time  they re-
 turned they were all mixed up,  but they  reached the  wall in
 pretty  good  order.  I  think that  with some  practice, they
 could do this."
   "Why bother?" Perian shot back.
   "I'll show you." Flint turned  back to  his test  group. "Eve-
 rybody  pick  up  a  rock  and  then  resume  your positions."
 General   mingling,  pushing,   rock  picking,   and  swapping
 broke out until Flint countermanded his order. "Hold it, let's
 try one thing at a time. Everybody pick up one rock.
   "Now everybody put your shield where I showed you.
   "Now everybody walk toward where the  monster came
 into  the  cavern  and  when  I  say 'throw,'  everybody throw
 their rock at the wall."  The Aghar  stumbled along  a weaving
 path  toward  the  wall.  When  Flint hollered,  "Throw!" they
 dropped their  shields and  pelted the  wall with  rocks, then
 fell on the floor laughing, wrestling, and scratching.
   Flint  turned back  toward Perian.  "Maybe the  hill dwarves
 should flee now, before it's too late. This is hopeless."
   Perian  stared at  the tangled  mob of  Aghar on  the floor.
 "Nonsense!  I  see  lots of  progress. What  do you  call that
 maneuver?" she asked.
   Flint sighed. "The wedge."
   The wedge - which the Aghar quickly renamed the
 wedgie  -  the  Agharpult,  and  general target  practice made
 up the bulk of their  drills. Perian  was cheered  to discover
 the Aghar were excellent shots  with a  thrown rock  or sludge
 bomb  (a  skill  developed  by stoning  rodents for  food, she
 discovered  later).  The  Agharpult  they enjoyed,  and showed
 a natural proficiency for distance, if not accuracy.
   But  the  wedgie,  Flint  was  convinced,  was   their  real
 strength. By the end of their training period they could cross
 the  Big  Sky  Room  in  a tight  clump at  a run,  hurl their
 dummy  sludge  bombs,   and  run   back,  all   without  being
 prompted with orders every step of the way.
   Still, two days was only two days.
   "Why king frown every time when we do our army

 stuff?"  asked  Nomscul.  "Him  look  worse  than  old gold-
 funger lompchuter."
   Flint only glowered  at the  gully dwarf  shaman. Gritting
 his teeth, unable to watch the ludicrous marching exhibition
 for a moment longer, Flint called out, "Listen up you frawls
 and  harrns!"  He  clapped  his  hands.  After  much pushing,
 shoving, and eye poking, the gully dwarves stood in  a mass,
 at what vaguely resembled attention.
   "What  you  folks  need  is  something  to give  your work
 purpose, some  driving rhythm  that synchronizes  and unites
 you  as  an  unstoppable force."  Perian giggled  behind her
 hand, and Flint elbowed her in  the ribs.  He moved  away to
 pace before them, arms linked behind his  back, his  eyes on
 the ground. "That is why I've  decided to  teach you  a very
 special, sacred, royal dwarven song." A  hush fell  over the
 crowd of assembled Aghar.
   "King?"
   Flint  looked  up in  irritation to  see Nomscul  waving his
 hand above his head.
   "We know good song," the shaman said proudly.
   Nods  of  agreement  fluttered  through the  crowd. Before
 Flint could  stop them,  the gully  dwarves launched  into a
 raucous tune.

      Big yellow sun,
      No spit in eye,
                Die all day,
         Leafs up in the sky asleep,
                Burning bugs,
              Gray, gray, gray,
               Sleep, old man,
                and the trees
              call us for eats.
           The leafs are on fire,
                but so what,
         they all gone by snowtime.

   "No, no, NO!" Flint roared above their cacophony. He
 slapped his palm with a thin stick. Eventually their song

 ground to a halt. "I want you to hear a real song.  The Dwar-
 ven  Marching  Song  is  part  of  your heritage  as dwarves.
 Now, listen up."
   Flint  cleared  his  throat and  unconsciously straightened
 his spine. His voice, pleasantly low and  rumblingly pitched,
 began the first strain of the song he had not sung  in years,
 since he had left the dwarves.

            Under the hills the heart of the axe
      Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
      Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
     For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
           The soldier's heart sires and brothers
                      The battlefield.
                     Come back in glory
                   Or on your shield.

      Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
         The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
         Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
             Stone on metal metal on stone.
         The soldier's heart contains and dreams
                    The battlefield.
                   Come back in glory
                   Or on your shield.

           Red of iron imagined from the vein,
             Green of brass green of copper
       Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
      Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
        The soldier's heart lies down, completes
                    The battlefield.
                   Come back in glory
                Or on your shield.

   Flint  became  aware,  sometime  around  "Out of  the moun-
 tains," that Perian, standing at his side, had joined  in the
 song. Their voices mingled and intertwined,  his a  low bari-
 tone, hers an even, clear alto. When he  stumbled over  a few
 forgotten words, Perian was there to fill them in.  His heart

 was  full  and  near  to  bursting with  pride and  passion and
 ...  dwarfness,  as  they  finished the  anthem of  their race.
 The  song  had  taken  on  even  greater  meaning  to  him with
 Perian  singing  along;  he  had  never  thought he  shared any
 traditions  with  his mountain  cousins. He  found his  hand in
 Perian's, and when he turned to her at the  close of  the song,
 he  saw  her  eyes,  brimming  with  unshed tears,  through his
 own misty blue ones.
   "Quivalen Sath," she breathed, identifying the song's
 composer.
   "Is there anyone else?" Flint asked rhetorically.
   "Sing  again!"  the  gully  dwarves  chanted. "We  learn! Sing!
 We sing royal song real good!"
          Flint and Perian hummed the melody over and over for
 the Aghar, then repeated  the words  of the  song with  them at
 least three  times. Practicing,  mimicking, stumbling  over the
 refrains, the  gully dwarves  stayed with  the exercise  for at
 least an hour. Flint had  never seen  them try  so hard  at any
 endeavor.  A  new  understanding   evolved  for   everyone.  In
 the end, when the gully dwarves sang it for the first time in a
 chorus,  King Flint  and Queen  Perian did  not even  mind that
 their version came out a bit changed.

              Thunder pills the fart of the ox
       Erasers for Cindy these still put out the fire,
        Beated and bammered the hand thunk a thought,
        The hills are breathing the fish-breath afar.
                Soldiers hit brothers, sorry
                      The battle feels.
                    Come back, O glowworm
                And don't forget your shirt.

        What mattered was how hard they tried.

                    Chapter 19

                  The Best Gift

     Thane Realgar op the Thiewar clan strutted before
 his  six hundred  House Guard  troops, who  were lined  up in
 three ranks on  the Central  Parade Grounds  on Level  Two of
 Theiwar  City  East. His  posture was  ramrod straight  as he
 stretched to his full height of just under four  feet, pearly
 white hair streaming over his  shoulders. He  marched rigidly
 along the line  of equally  rigid derro  dwarves who  made up
 the House Guard.
 These troops and  their costly  barracks occupied  the entire
 second level, just one level below the pinnacle of  the city,
 where the thane  and his  adviser had  their own  plush resi-
 dences.  The  superior  location,  away  from  the  smoke and
 stench of the forges a level below, was a symbol of the mili-

 tary's prestige with its thane.
   The dwarves of the guard stood at attention now, con-
 ceited  about  their  appearance,  smug about  their discipline,
 and haughty  over their  position in  the most  prestigious, and
 only pure Theiwar regiment.
   They  wore  glossy  black  breastplates  of the  hardest, most
 refined  steel. Their  unnaturally white  hair was  covered with
 black helmets  of the  same metal,  with tall,  feathered plumes
 sprouting from the  top of  each, the  color designating  a sol-
 dier's  company,  of  which  there  were  three. Each  dwarf was
 armed with at least two weapons.
   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.
   "What'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!"
   "OK,  Nomscul,  I  get  the  point."  Flint was  fully awake
 now.  He  grabbed  the  Aghar's  bony  shoulders  to  keep him
 from  jumping  up  and  down.  "How  many   were  -   are  you
 sure it isn't just a patrol?"
   Nomscul  slammed  his  hands  on his  hip bones  and sniffed,
 tossing his head at the insult to his intelligence.
   Flint  reluctantly  rolled  away   from  Perian   and  pushed
 himself  off the  bed. Turning  his back,  he yanked  his pants
 up to his stomach, stuffing his long blue-green tunic  into the
 drawstring waist.
   The   mountain  dwarf   was  waking   up  more   slowly.  "It
 can't be the Theiwar troops - it's  too early,"  she protested,
 stabbing the sleep  from her  eyes with  her fists.  "It's only
 been a couple of days  since the  attack in  the Big  Sky Room;
 Pitrick  couldn't  possibly  have  organized  the  troops  that
 quickly!"
   "Tell that to Pitrick and his army," Flint grumbled, stuffing
 his boots onto his feet. "I just hope Basalt's had  enough time
 to  fortify Hillhome.  We're coming,  whether they're  ready or
 not."
   "We  can   march?  Can   we?"  pleaded   Nomscul,  thrusting
 his  chest  out  and  stomping about  the room  to demonstrate
 his readiness.
   Flint ignored the shaman  as he  finished dressing,  his mind
 on  the  march  ahead  of  them.  He  strapped  on  the Tharkan
 Axe, his gift from Perian  the night  before. His  fingers lin-
 gered over the cool steel blade, while  his mind  traveled back
 to  the  previous  evening.  Sighing,  he slapped  some day-old
 water on his face.
   "Tell every gully dwarf in the place that  the time  has come
 for  the  big  march.  They  must  get  their   weapons,  their
 shields,  supplies,  everything,"  the  king  ordered  Nomscul.
 "Gather  up  the  sludge  bombs  and meet  Queen Perian  in the
 grotto. I'm going  there directly  to have  a look  outside my-
 self."  Nodding  furiously,  Nomscul  dashed  from  the  cavern
 in the direction of the Big Sky Room.

   But Perian shook her head  as she  crawled over  Flint's side
 of the bed and began to dress hastily. "I'm coming with you."
   Flint turned to her in exasperation. "One of  us has  to stay
 here and see  that they  get organized!"  he objected.  "How do
 we  know  they  won't  bring  their  knives and  spoons instead
 of their swords and shields?"
   "We  don't,"  said  Perian.  "But  you  won't  know  which of
 the thane's forces we  face, or  how to  combat them.  I served
 in his guard -"
   "I remember," Flint interrupted.
   "- I'll recognize the  units, their  strengths and  their weak-
 nesses.  I  know  the  thane's officers!  If anyone  stays back
 here, it should be you!"
   Flint  gruffly  assented. He  led them  down the  sloping Up-
 per Tubes, finally finding  the entrance  to the  stairway into
 the grotto.
   They  scrambled  down  the stairway,  Flint taking  the steps
 two at a time.  Both of  them paused  to look  at the  bench by
 the pool, still covered with the containers  of food  and their
 plates from the night before.
   "Come on," Flint said at last, following the pool to its far-
 thest  corner  from  the  stairway, where  a large  but low-to-
 the-ground crack  in the  granite wall  allowed access.  A deep
 channel  had  been  cut  in  the sandy  ground there,  and pre-
 sumably  it  and the  crack had  been formed  by an  old stream
 bed;  now the  water left  the pool  by another,  newer channel
 ten feet beyond the old one.
   "This is it." Flint took  up Perian's  hand and  slipped into
 the jagged fissure, leading the  way. Before  long they  had to
 walk in a crouch, as the top  of the  crack loomed  close over-
 head.  Flint  counted  his  steps  out  of  habit from  his old
 dungeon-crawling   days,   and   on  step   ninety-three,  they
 came  abruptly  into  sunlight  on  a  small  crest  cloaked in
 pines. The crack was cut  slightly at  an angle  and surrounded
 by  trees,  thus it  was almost  unnoticeable to  the untrained
 eye.
   Accustomed to living underground, Perian squinted in
 pain at the sudden light, made worse by reflections off of
 early  snow.  Even  Flint  blinked  at  the  brightness, having

  grown  used  to  the  darkness  below  in  less  than  a  week. A
  cold breeze wafted past his  face, and  the old,  familiar sensa-
  tion invigorated him.
     "I have been to the surface less  than a  dozen times,  but it
  has  never  looked  beautiful  to me  before today,"  Perian con-
  fessed,  shielding  her  eyes  with an  upraised arm.  "The light
  hurts  my  eyes,  but  I'll  grow  accustomed  soon,  because I'm
  half Hylar." She laughed.  "After years  of Pitrick's  threats, I
  never thought I would be happy about that."
     Flint patted her encouragingly on the shoulder; he had the
 '  feeling  that a  lot of  things would  change today.  The hill
  dwarf  knew  that  they  had  emerged  in  the   Kharolis  range
  about a half-day northeast  of the  tunnel by  which he  had en-
  tered Thorbardin. Climbing up the  crest to  get a  better view,
  he  looked  down  at  a  mountain  stream  that he  presumed had
  its origins in the grotto. Flint shielded his eyes and looked to
  the  east.  The  sky  was  crystal-clear, and  he could  see the
  shimmering   shore   of   Stonehammer   Lake   about   a   day's
  march  away.  Looking  down  the  mountain   to  the   west,  he
  could  not  locate  the  Passroad,  nor  see  signs  of mountain
  dwarf troops.
     "This  stream  flows  down  one  of  the  side  valleys toward
  the  lake, which  meets up  with the  Passroad," Flint  said. "We
  should  come  in  sight  of  the  road  if  we follow  the stream
  down."
     They  moved  through  an  open  forest,  following  the gentle
  descent  of  the  valley.  In  less  than  ten minutes  they came
  around  a  shoulder  of  the  ridge;  across  barren, snow-dotted
  slopes  they  saw  the  Passroad, a  thick brown  tendril snaking
  its way through the foothills north of Thorbardin.
     The road was empty for as  far to  the west  as the  eye could
  see.
     Arms  crossed,  Flint  chewed  his  lip.  "Have we  delayed so
  long  that they've  already passed  from sight  ahead of  us?" he
  asked, his voice ragged with concern.
     "I  don't think  so." Perian  shook her  head, not  taking her
  eyes from the general  vicinity of  the road.  "My guess  is that
  they've  camped  somewhere  for  the  day, out  of the  sun. They
  probably  haven't  moved  too  far  off  the  road."  She scanned

  the  horizon,  stopping  to examine  the edge  of a  thicket of
  pines just a little to the west. "See there?" she asked, point-
  ing.  "Under  those  trees?  It's  nearly  at  the  edge  of my
  vision -  they could  almost be  ants!" She  concentrated. "No,
  I'm sure I saw a red plume waving. It's the Bloody Blades."
    Flint  shivered  involuntarily  at  the  name. "What  are the
  Bloody Blades?"
    Perian  pursed  her  lips  while  she  thought.   "The  House
  Guard. The Blades  are just  one regiment  of three,  each con-
  taining  two  hundred  soldiers.  The  other regiments  are the
  Silver  Swords  and the  Black Bolts.  The three  regiments al-
  ways  fight  together  as  a synchronized  force, complementing
  their  strengths  and  weaknesses.  They  form  units  of heavy
  infantry, light infantry, and crossbows."
    "Could you try not to sound so proud of them?" Flint
  grumbled.
    Perian  looked  only  mildly  embarrassed. "Old  habits," she
  said.
    Flint  whistled  through  his  teeth.  "Six  hundred dwarves.
  And  against  'em  we   have  a   couple  hundred   Aghar,"  he
  groaned. "Why don't we just hand Hillhome over?"
    "It could  be worse,"  Perian said,  trying to  sound encour-
  aging.  "The  thane has  thousands of  troops at  his disposal,
  but only the House  Guard bear  fealty to  him alone.  The rest
  defend all of Thorbardin, not just the Theiwar."
    "That's a comfort," Flint said sarcastically, digging  a hole
  in a snowbank with the toe of his boot.
    "You're forgetting Basalt," Perian reminded him softly.
    "I'm  not," the  old hill  dwarf said,  shaking his  gray head.
  "But we're pinning a lot of hopes on that young 'un."
    "Well, we've got to get moving," she said gently.  "We'll get
  ahead  of  them by  a day  while the  House Guard  bivouacs out
  of the sun."
    Flint  nodded,  shaking  off  his melancholia.  Following the
  stream  uphill,  the  pair of  dwarves made  their way  back up
  to the crack in the granite. There they found Nomscul.
      "You were supposed to organize the troops," Flint scolded
  him.
    "Rest  wait  in  there,  all  straight,"  Nomscul  announced,

 pointing  into  the  tunnel,  "like  Nomscul tell  them." Sud-
 denly,  gully  dwarves  began  popping  from  the   opening  -
 Fester, Cainker, Oooz, Garf,  Pooter, and  all the  rest. They
 came  out  in  a  steady  torrent,  carrying  every  manner of
 weapon:  the  one  hundred  fifty  Agharpulters  with  daggers
 slipped into their  robe belts;  one hundred  Creeping Wedgies
 with shields tucked under their arms.
   The  Aghar  milled  about  the  tunnel entrance,  a steadily
 growing  mob. Flint  and Perian  circled them  like sheepdogs,
 trying  to  keep   the  group   together  as   their  comrades
 emerged.
   Last  but  not  least  came  the  Sludge  Bombers,  carrying
 their jugs and bottles and big pots of explosive  venom. Flint
 had cautioned  them repeatedly  about the  need to  handle the
 containers of sludge delicately, so they tiptoed, swinging the
 jugs any which way as they  joined their  friends in  the sun-
 light on the mountainside.
   "Hold  those  carefully -  carefully!" Flint  bellowed. "And
 where are the litters to carry the sludge bombs?" he asked.
   Four  gully  dwarves  trooped  out of  the crack  just then,
 holding  the  handles  of two  makeshift litters,  old leather
 vests each stretched across stout limbs.  The biggest  jugs of
 sludge, several  measuring a  foot across,  had been  set upon
 the litters for gentle transport.
   Flint  and Perian  began to  organize the  three hundred-odd
 members of the army, such as it was, on the mountainside.
   "Assemble  your  units!"  Flint  barked. "Nomscul,  you lead
 the  Agharpults  over  here;  Oooz,  get  the  Sludge  Bombers
 over there; and Fester, put the Creeping Wedgies here,  in the
 middle."
   To their credit, the Aghar tried to  follow the  commands of
 their king. Several minutes of raw chaos  ensued as  the gully
 dwarves  charged  into  a  single  pile  of  squirming  Aghar,
 where only an occasional arm, leg, or  face could  be spotted.
 Somehow the pile  resolved itself  into three  milling groups,
 more or less organized by the categories Flint had detailed.
   Their  king  felt  compelled  to  offer  up  some  inspiring
 words.  "Stand at  attention for  some last  instructions!" he
 bellowed.

    Again, they tried to stand at attention, but their  habit of
  facing every which  way diminished  the military  precision of
  the  maneuver.  Flint  only  sighed.  "Gully  dwarves  of Mud-
  hole!" he began sternly, trying to get as many of them to face
  him  as  possible.  "We  embark  today upon  a great  excurs -
  Oooz, get back here! - a  great excursion,  to face  in combat
  an  enemy  implacable  and  bold,  savage  and  - what  is it,
  Nomscul?"
    The  shaman  was hopping  in agitation,  waving his  hand in
  the air and clenching his lips together as if to forcibly pre-
  vent  himself  from speaking  without royal  permission. "King
  talk too much," explained Nomscul. "We march now?"
    Flint's face flushed, and he aimed a  glare at  Nomscul that
  would  have  transfixed   any  halfway   intelligent  subject.
  Fortunately  - for  himself, at  any rate  - Nomscul  was only
  halfway  intelligent  and simply  mistook his  monarch's stare
  for a warm smile of congratulations.
    "In  a  moment,"  Flint growled  in exasperation.  He turned
  back  to  the  troops, saw  their stupidly  eager expressions.
  "Look, gang, we've got quite a march ahead  of us;  we'll stop
  before  dark  near  Stonehammer  Lake,  then  I  figure  we'll
  make  it  to  Hillhome  midday  tomorrow. It's  vitally impor-
  tant that we stick together  as a  group -  Basalt and  all of
  Hillhome  are  probably  waiting  this very  minute for  us to
  come and help them. Please try to act like soldiers. Do it for
  your king and queen."
    "Two chairs for King Flunk and Queen Furryend!" Nom-
  scul  shouted.  The  troops responded  with resounding
  screeches and caterwauls.
    "Let's go, before they  get tangled  up again,"  Perian sug-
  gested  in  a loud  whisper, watching  them wander  from their
  units.
    "Gully dwarves,  march!" cried  Flint, waving  his arm  in a
  circle over his head.
    The king of  the gully  dwarves led  his troops,  three hun-
  dred   strong,   down  the   mountainside,  heading   for  the
  Passroad  east  of  the  House  Guard  encampment  below. This
  would  allow  him,  with  luck  and speed,  to move  his force
  onto the road somewhere ahead of the thane's troops.

   The  organizing  into  units  represented  a   masterpiece  of
 military  precision  when  compared  to the  march of  the gully
 dwarves  that  ensued.  In  muttered  conversation  with Perian,
 Flint could only compare it  to the  ridiculous task  of herding
 chickens, though  after the  fourth or  fifth effort  at chasing
 down  a  wayward  column   of  Aghar   and  returning   them  to
 the  fold,  he  amended  his  comments  to  the effect  that his
 comparison did a grave disservice to poultry.
   To  make  matters  worse,  dark,  angry  clouds rolled  in and
 it began to snow.  At first  the storm  came as  great, feathery
 Hakes,  gently  wafting  earthward.  Except  for  the disruption
 caused  by  gully  dwarves breaking  file to  catch particularly
 choice snowflakes  with their  tongues, the  light precipitation
 caused no problem for the hardy Aghar.
   But  then  the  wind rose  and the  big, friendly  flakes grew
 small  and  hard,  turning  into  hail.  Blustering  out  of the
 north,  the  weather drove  stinging needles  of ice  into their
 faces,  considerably  slowing  down  the  progress of  the Aghar
 force.  And  as  the  day  progressed,  the dwarves  became more
 widely scattered,  forcing Flint  and Perian  to cover  three or
 four  times  as much  ground as  their charges,  constantly run-
 ning back and forth along the column.
   Still moving into  the teeth  of the  storm, they  finally de-
 scended  into  a  small  valley that  gave them  protection from
 the worst of the wind.
   "I think we'd better stop for a short rest," urged Perian.
   "Why  don't  you  go  ahead  and  look  for  a place  big enough
 to hold all of us?" suggested Flint. "I'll collect the Aghar and
 bring them up."
   Perian  headed  away  toward a  grove of  tall pines  that was
 barely  visible  through  the  storm.  Nomscul  came  up quickly
 with  his  comrades of  the Agharpult,  and Flint  directed them
 toward   the   grove.   Next   came   Oooz   with   the   Sludge
 Bombers, and he urged them in the same direction.
   Flint  waited  behind  for Fester  as the  last of  the sludge
 bomb  team  disappeared  after  Perian.  The   Creeping  Wedgies
 had  been  bringing up  the rear,  but even  for the  Aghar they
 seemed  unusually far  behind. Flint's  concern grew  as several
 more minutes passed.

   Full  darkness  had settled,  giving the  late autumn  wind a
 sharper bite, yet there  was still  no sign  of Fester  and the
 Creeping Wedgies. Flint peered  fruitlessly into  the darkness,
 seeking any sign of  movement, but  all he  saw was  the frigid
 expanse  of  blowing,  drifting  snow.  There  was  no  denying
 the  fact,  now:  Fester  and  the Wedgies  were lost,  or even
 dead, buried in the snowfall.
   Flint  thought  about  backtracking, but  he sensed  that the
 task would be  futile. Instead,  he turned  and plowed  his way
 through  the  snow  toward  the  grove.  He  would have  to in-
 form Perian of the  grave news  that before  they had  even met
 the  enemy  their  army  had  been  tragically  reduced   by  a
 third.
   Only with difficulty  did he  locate the  copse of  trees, so
 completely  did  the  weather cloak  them. Finally  he stumbled
 into a small clearing,  surrounded by  dense pines,  giving the
 area shelter.
   Perian sat  atop a  snow-covered log  near a  small, unfrozen
 pool  of  water. "Where's  Fester and  the Wedgies?"  she asked
 at once, noting the look of concern on Flint's face.
   "They're lost - or worse,"  he said  glumly. "And  I'm afraid
 we'd be running the risk of  weakening ourselves  still further
 if we set out to look for them in this snow."
   "We'll just have to  hope that  they find  their way  to us,"
 Perian  said, thinking  fondly of  Fester, her  "weighty lady."
 The  other  Aghar  seemed  not to  notice the  disappearance of
 their  comrades.  They  focused  instead  on  gaining  the most
 comfortable sleeping spaces in the damp, snowy grove.
   Calculating  that  the  derro  soldiers  would stay  in their
 own  camp  only  until  darkness, Flint  and Perian  decided to
 take  a  chance and  wait for  more than  an hour.  Still there
 was  no  sign  of the  missing Wedgies.  In that  hour, though,
 the  storm began  to abate.  The wind  that had  made traveling
 difficult  was  now  blowing  the  storm  clouds  away.  Though
 visibility was not great, they  could see  a vista  of complete
 whiteness.  The  peaks  and  ridgelines  gleamed   under  their
 pristine frosting,  and the  whole region  was revealed  as one
 of  astounding  natural  beauty.  A  small,   frozen  waterfall
 hung suspended like a great icicle at the head of the valley of

 their camp.
   "We've got to get moving,"  urged Flint  after the  hour had
 passed. "Break  time is  over." He  stepped among  the bundles
 of gully dwarves, discovering that his subjects  had collected
 in groups of four to six. Sharing body  warmth, albeit  with a
 great  deal  of  pushing, shoving,  pinching, and  biting, the
 Aghar had managed to remain warm.
   Blinking,  stretching, and  enjoying an  afternoon nosepick,
 the  Aghar  gathered  in  ragged  bunches at  the edge  of the
 clearing. Here the pool  of water,  fed by  a hot  spring, re-
 mained clear of snow.
   "Come on, you gullies!"  Flint bellowed  at them,  trying to
 get their attention. "Fall in - no! I mean, line up!"
   But it was too late.  For once  the gully  dwarves responded
 to  a command  with alacrity,  dropping into  the pond  like a
 mass of scattered tenpins.
   "Great  Reorx!  Get out  of there  this minute!"  roared the
 king from the edge  of the  pool. Suddenly  the snow  bank be-
 neath  his  feet  gave  way  and he,  too, plummeted  into the
 warm water.
   For  a  few moments  Flint stood  stock-still in  the waist-
 deep water. Realizing that the eyes of his subjects were fixed
 upon  him,  he  desperately stifled  his terror.  With supreme
 willpower he held his tongue,  fearing that  once he  began to
 scream, he would  never be  able to  stop. Slowly,  with great
 deliberation, he dragged himself  out of  the pool.  He pulled
 the hem of  his tunic  out of  his pants  and wrung  the water
 from it, only to find his clothing already freezing.
   "This is going to be a long campaign, even if it's over this
 afternoon,"  he  groaned  to  Perian, who  was dabbing  at his
 face and soaked  clothing with  one of  the rag  bandages from
 a supply pack.
   Slowly,  after  more  frolicking  and  splashing,  the Aghar
 hauled themselves from  the pool  and finally  stood, dripping
 and  shivering.  "We've  got  to get  them moving  before they
 freeze to  death," Perian  urged, trying  vainly to  dry their
 heads.
       The deep snow encouraged the Aghar to remain in file.
 Flint and Perian took turns forcing a trail through the soft

 powder.  When   they  became   exhausted  from   the  grueling
 task,  some  of  the  more  trustworthy gully  dwarves rotated
 the  duty,  though their  trails tended  to zigzag  more often
 than  not.  Throughout the  long afternoon  the file  of Aghar
 waded  through  the  snow,  skirting  the  highest  elevations
 along the route Flint judged the most likely shortcut  to the
 Passroad.
   The  heavy  pace  of  the  march  served  to keep  the Aghar
 warm,  however,  and  the  hardy  gully  dwarves showed  a re-
 markable resilience to the cold.
   They had crested a low rise, Flint again  in the  lead, when
 he heard sounds  before him  and hastened  his steps  to reach
 the summit.  In moments  he stood  atop the  low hill  and saw
 a wide, snow-filled  valley stretching  before him.  The brown
 strip  running  through  the   valley  was   unmistakably  the
 Passroad.  On  the  far  side  of  the  road the  valley floor
 dropped steeply away,  a long,  descending slope  that finally
 reached   Stonehammer   Lake,   below   and   perhaps  another
 mile  distant. But  what Flint  saw on  the Passroad  made him
 groan audibly.
   "We're too  late," he  mumbled, dazed,  then turned  to Per-
 ian. "I thought you said they'd stay camped until dark."
   The  mountain  dwarf  was  standing  next  to him.  She col-
 ored, and her voice  was taut  with bitterness.  "Pitrick must
 have decided to  take advantage  of the  cover the  storm pro-
 vided."
   "I'm afraid  so." Flint  could only  look helplessly  at the
 scene in the valley below.
   Three colors of plumes  - red,  black, and  gray -  waved in
 martial precision, as the thane's guards  moved past  them far
 below,  perhaps  two  miles  ahead.  The  three  companies  of
 mountain  dwarves  maintained  distinct  formations,  but  the
 whole column was a tight, disciplined military grouping.
   The  gully  dwarves  would  never  be  able  to  catch  them
 now,  no  matter  how  hard  Flint  drove them.  Admitting de-
 feat was bitter medicine. It took all of Flint's willpower not
 to collapse dejectedly  in the  snow. They  had come  too late
 and lost a third of their army in  the first  day. How  had he
 ever been so foolish as to think they could win?

 Perian elbowed him. "What's that?" she asked.
  "What?" He was barely paying attention.
  "Look   -   something's   moving  in   the  snow   down  there!"
 she  said,  pointing  in  the general  direction of  the amassed
 mountain  dwarf  troops.  "Your  eyes are  better in  this light
 than mine - tell me what that fuzzy blob is that's on  this side
 of the road near the base of the mountain?"
 "What?"  Flint,  despite  his  dejection,  had   his  interest
 piqued.  He,  too,  squinted  down  the  distant,  snowy  fields
 toward  the  road. He  saw a  length of  rippling snow,  a shim-
 rhering  movement.  Was  that  a  leg I  just saw?  he wondered,
 baffled.  Was  that  a  pack  of  snow-covered   animals  moving
 down the slope?
  Slowly   the   mass   of   movement   became  visible   as  many
 small, individual  forms. Flint  saw a  tightly packed  group of
 creatures,  each  snowy  white  on  top.  The  snow,  he finally
 realized,  was  carried  atop  each  of  the  creatures  upon  a
 shield carried over his head.
  "It  the Wedgies!"  Nomscul   shrieked  suddenly.   Jumping  up
 and down  in his  excitement, he  slipped on  the snow  and top-
 pled to the ground. "It old trick,"  he said  offhandedly, pick-
 ing  himself  up.  "They  hide  under   shields  and   creep  at
 enemy!"
  "But  they'll  be  slaughtered  out  there  alone and  we're too
 far  away  to  help  them  quickly!" Flint  exclaimed, clenching
 and unclenching his fists in helpless frustration.
  "Wait."  Perian  put  a  calming  hand  on  Flint's  arm,  never
 taking  her  eyes  from the  events below.  "The Wedgies  have a
 chance.  The  derro  don't seem  to notice  them yet,  what with
 the snow covering them and the glare."
 Stunned,  king  and  queen  looked  on  from  a   distance  with
 two-thirds  of  their  troops,  as the  Creeping Wedgies,  now a
 rippling  mass  of  shield-and  snow-covered   Aghar,  continued
 to  eke  slowly  forward.  The  Wedgies  reached   the  Passroad
 just  as  the  last  company  of  Theiwar  marched  by, sporting
 gray   plumes,   some  thirty   feet  behind   the  black-plumed
 rank.   Total   disorganization   suddenly  swept   through  the
 gray plumes, as the Wedgies infiltrated them.
        Fully erupting from the snowy surface like jack-in-the-

 boxes  came a  multitude of  white, diminutive  figures. Their
 appearance  in  the   middle  of   the  Theiwar   company  had
 thrown the unit into disarray, but swords  rose and  fell, and
 crimson stains appeared on the distant snow.
   In  confusion,  the  last  company  stopped  and  fell back
 from  the  other  two  regiments,  who continued  on, unaware
 of the distraction.
   "It's  the  Silver Swords,"  observed Perian  bitterly, "the
 thane's light infantry. If  they can  gather their  ranks, the
 Wedgies will be cut down."
   "We've  got to  try to  help them!"  Flint cried,  though he
 knew it would be hard  to reach  them in  time. He  started to
 run down the  slope toward  the distant  road. "Come  on, gul-
 lies! Charge!"
   "We  go,  too!"  A wave  of gully  dwarves started  down the
 gentle, snowbound slope.
   The king kept his eyes glued to the  battle as  he advanced.
 Suddenly  he  saw  a  change.  The   Aghar  of   the  Creeping
 Wedgie  had  turned  and  bolted  from the  road, disappearing
 on the far side of the thoroughfare, over  the slope  that led
 down to Stonehammer Lake.
   "Good,  they're  saving  themselves!"  Flint  cried.  "They
 didn't  have  a  chance  of  stopping  the  mountain dwarves,
 anyway."
   "But,  look!"  pointed Perian.  "They're giving  chase! Per-
 haps the Wedgies have accomplished something after all."
   Before Flint's astonished eyes, the  Silver Swords,  now far
 behind  the  two  other  ranks  of  derro  who  had  continued
 blithely up the road,  abruptly started  down the  slope after
 the  Aghar.  None  of  the   mountain  dwarves,   hampered  by
 their vision, seemed aware of Flint, Perian, and  their troops
 thrashing their way down the snowy slope above.
   "Shush!" Flint ordered his giggling,  whooping charges  in a
 harsh  whisper.  The  retreating  Aghar  had   disappeared  by
 now  down  the  steeper slope  beyond the  road, and  the pur-
 suing Theiwar had all followed.
   After fifteen minutes of frantic plowing, Flint and his fol-
 lowers set foot on the Passroad. Without even stopping for
 a breath, they  rushed across  and down  the next  slope after

 the  Creeping  Wedgies  and  the  Silver  Swords, unconcerned
 about detection now.
   Their  charge  gained  momentum  as  they  slid   down  the
 steep  bank  toward  the  remaining  Wedgies, who  were gath-
 ered  now  with  their  backs  to the  lake. The  Theiwar had
 formed  a  contracting  half-circle  around  them,  and  they
 were tightening it swiftly.
   Overconfident, the Theiwar lunged  in for  the kill,  and a
 number  of  the  Aghar  dropped lifeless  into the  snow. But
 others of  the fleet-footed  Aghar managed  to dart  away and
 pop  up  behind  the  heavily  encumbered  mountain  dwarves.
 Fighting dwarves swirled chaotically about the  field. Shock-
 ing crimson blotches appeared on the white snow.
   Minutes  later,  when  Flint  and  the  rest of  his troops
 reached  the  lakeshore,  the  situation  had  reversed:  the
 mountain dwarves were  enclosed in  a semicircle  of howling,
 growling gully dwarves.
   "Get  lompchuters!"  Without  waiting  for  a  command from
 Flint,   Nomscul   quickly   formed  his   Agharpults.  Flint
 charged  forward,  suddenly  aware  of gully  dwarves soaring
 above  him,   crashing  into   the  Theiwar   beyond.  Pooter
 screamed past,  knocking three  of the  enemy into  the river
 before he lost  altitude and  plunged into  the water  with a
 splash.
   The  rest of  the Aghar  smashed head-on  into the  line of
 Theiwar  at  the  riverbank,  ignoring  the weaponry  and ar-
 mor of their foes in a courageous effort to follow their king
 into battle. Steel weapons  cut cruel  wounds into  the loyal
 Aghar. Flint snapped  the neck  of a  Theiwar captain  and he
 looked around for another target, reaching this time  for his
 magnificent Tharkan Axe.
   Suddenly he felt the very ground shift under his  feet. Ap-
 parently just an overhanging shelf of snow and ice,  it broke
 off  from  the  shore with  a sharp  crack under  the extreme
 weight  of   the  combatants.   Hill,  gully,   and  mountain
 dwarves were thrown into  the deep,  wintry waters  of Stone-
 hammer Lake.  The ice  floe drifted  away from  shore, break-
 ing into smaller pieces that bobbed in the gentle current.
   "Whee!"

   "Yippee!"
   "Go swimming again!"
   The gully dwarves splashed and swam through  the icy
 water like delighted children, dog-paddling toward the
 bank, then slowly scrambling out.
   Not  so  the  Theiwar.  Weighted  down  by  their  chain shirts,
 inherently  distrustful  of  water  and unable  to swim,  the der-
 ro struggled in the water, never  deigning to  call for  help, un-
 til each white head sank, one by one.
   In moments, all that could be seen of the battle on the
 shore and lake were soggy Aghar, climbing from the current
 and  pleading  with  their  king  for  permission to  take another
 dip.
   And a vastness of vacant black steel helmets lapping at
 the shoreline, gray plume-side down.

                          Chapter 21

                       Eye op thle Storm

         Only an occasional beam of sunlight filtered
 through the thick canopy of dark pine boughs. Still, the for-
 est  floor  seemed  an  uncomfortably  bright  place  to the
 dwarves  of  the  Theiwar  army. They  made camp  before full
 daylight, fortunately finding  a dense  patch of  woods where
 the  pale-skinned, underground-dwelling  derro could  all but
 avoid the direct rays of the sun.
 The ground lay  beneath a  blanket of  snow, and  the sticky,
 straight trunks of the trees seemed to merge overhead  into a
 solid  blanket  of  needles  and  snow-covered  branches. The
 dampness and chill of the camp  seemed a  small price  to pay
 for its chief virtue: that same thick canopy that  provided a
 blessed escape from the light.

   Many  of  the  Theiwar  veterans now  tried to  rest, having
 scraped  the  snow  away  from  the  small  patches  of ground
 that served as beds. A damp chill sank  into their  bones from
 the still, cold air.
   One  of  the  dwarves  made  no  attempt to  sleep, however:
 Pitrick  paced  between  several  large trunks,  following the
 tracks  of his  previous pacing,  where he  had worn  the snow
 down  to  bare  ground.  His  hands  were clasped  behind him,
 and the throbbing pain in his foot  put him  into a  foul tem-
 per. Perversely, he  would not  sit and  rest that  foot, even
 though the  dwarves would  be on  the march  again as  soon as
 night fell.
   "Where  are  they?  Where's  Grikk  and  his party?"  he de-
 manded, turning to look at  a nearby  derro, not  expecting an
 answer. "They should have reported back by now!"
   The   hunchback   peered   anxiously  between   the  trunks.
 "They've  deserted  -  that's what  they've done!"  He sneered
 at the imagined  treachery. "I  send them  to find  the Silver
 Swords,  and instead  the miserable  cowards have  likely fled
 back  to  Thorbardin!  They'll  pay  for  this! By  all that's
 mighty, I'll see Grikk flayed alive, slow-roasted! I'll see -"
   "Excellency'" A sergeant approached him tentatively.
   "Eh? What?"
   "Grikk's coming, sir. Returned from the search."
   "What?"  Pitrick  blinked,  confused  by  his  own  tantrum.
 "Very well - send him to me at once."
   The  scout,  Grikk,  a  grizzled veteran  with a  patch over
 one  eye  and  a  beardless  cheek  that had  been permanently
 scarred  by  a  Hylar blade,  clumped up  to the  adviser. "We
 searched the valley along this whole shore of the lake, Excel-
 lency. There is no sign of the Swords - at least, nothing that
 we could see."
   "Then go back and look again!"
   "I'm sorry, sir." Grikk drew himself to  his full  height, his
 unpatched  eye  staring  into  his  commander's face.  "But we
 can't. We were blinded out there - I lost one of my  scouts in
 the lake, simply because he couldn't see a drop-off  under his
 feet!"
           Pitrick saw that Grikk's exposed eye was puffy and

 bloodshot. He knew that the sun reflecting  off the  snow cre-
 ated  an  impossible  brightness.  Frustration gnawed  at him.
 His  body shook  with tension,  and he  made little  effort to
 bring himself under control.
   "Excellency,"  Grikk  said.  "Perhaps we  could go  back and
 search  tonight.  It would  only mean  delaying the  attack on
 Hillhome for one day."
   Pitrick's thoughts immediately turned to that nest  of inso-
 lent hill dwarves, little more than a mile away.  His decision
 was easy.
   "No!"  he  cried.  "Tonight  we  attack   Hillhome!  Nothing
 can  be  allowed to  delay our  vengeance!" He  stared through
 the woods, in the direction of the  village filled  with those
 loathsome enemies, the hill dwarves.
   "When  the  sun  rises  tomorrow, it  must shine  upon Hill-
 home's ruined remains."

 * * * * *

   When  they  finally  crested  a low  ridge and  Hillhome lay
 before them, Flint and  Perian anxiously  looked for  signs of
 smoke  or  massive  destruction. To  their relief,  they found
 neither. Instead,  they saw  that a  large earthwork  had been
 erected along the south border of the town - right  across the
 Passroad, Flint noted with satisfaction.
   "So  that's  Hillhome," Perian  breathed, picturing  a young
 Flint in that setting. She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "It
 would appear they're expecting an army."
   Flint let his  arm fall  around her  shoulder for  a moment,
 pride  making  his  eyes  sparkle. "The  young harrn  pulled it
 off. Basalt actually did it. We did it.
   "Double  time,  you  bug-eating,  belching bunch  of Aghar!"
 Flint  bellowed,  using  their  favorite  pet names,  and they
 started down the long ridge.
   At the bottom of the slope, the  gully dwarves,  sensing the
 importance  of  the  moment, marched  in the  precise military
 formation Flint  had dubbed  the "mob  of chaos."  Its success
 could be said to be achieved  when the  majority of  the gully
 dwarves  were  moving  rather  quickly  in  approximately  the
 same direction.

   This  was   easily  accomplished   now  because   the  Aghar
 were  universally  fascinated  by  the small  community before
 them.  They  climbed  over  each  other  and  pushed  one  an-
 other in their haste to enter Hillhome.
   For all of the Aghar, this was their first experience with a
 hill  dwarf  community,  or  any  above-ground  community  for
 that  matter.  As  they approached  Hillhome, they  stared to
 the  right and  left, awestruck  by the  architectural marvels
 around them.
   "What  in  the name  of all  the gods  is this?"  said Mayor
 Holden,  witnessing  the  gully  dwarf  stampede  as  he stood
 with a shovel at the outskirts of town.  "Oh, it's  you, Fire-
 forge," he added,  recognizing Flint  at the  lead. He  cast a
 scornful  gaze  at  the  whooping  gully  dwarves.  "What  are
 those slugs doing here, and at a time like this?"
   Flint grabbed  the mayor,  whom he  had never  really liked,
 by  the  lapels.  "Nobody  calls  my  troops slugs  except me!
 Show some  respect to  the Aghar  who are  willing to  give up
 their lives protecting your town!"
   "Uncle  Flint!"  cried  Basalt  from  nearby,  throwing down
 his shovel  and racing  toward his  uncle. Flint  released the
 mayor,  who  muttered  some  sort  of  apology  as  he skulked
 back to his digging.
   "You really came through,"  said Flint.  "I'm proud  of you,
 pup."  He  gestured  at  the  wide  earthwork,   the  bustling
 dwarves extending it to either side.
   "We've  gathered  some  weapons,  too,"  said   Basalt,  his
 pride  obvious  in  his  voice.  "A  couple hundred,  anyway -
 enough for half the town."
   "You mean  four hundred  hill dwarves  are willing  to fight
 for this old town?" Flint said, honestly surprised.
   "Yup!" Basalt was clearly  proud of  his kinsmen,  and Flint
 enjoyed  the  change  in his  nephew. "And  even the  ones who
 can't fight are busy  sewing leather  right now.  They're mak-
 ing  padded leather  breastplates for  as many  of us  as they
 can."
     "Excellent," Flint pronounced. "But what'll they do when
 the fighting starts?"
   "We've  got  provisions  stored  in  some  caves, up  in the

 hills. At first  sign of  the mountain  dwarves, the  old folks
 and youngsters will head out of town," Basalt explained.
   Tybalt,  Ruberik,  and  Bertina  joined  them,  together with
 an  attractive  young  dwarf  maid  whom  Flint  recognized  as
 Hildy,  the  daughter of  the town's  brewer. They  greeted him
 warmly, and even Ruberik unbent his spine - just a  little, for
 a  brief  moment  -  to  nod  his  respect toward  his brother.
 Flint, in turn,  introduced them  to Perian,  who stood  at his
 side. Bertina gave her a scrutinizing glance, but was satisfied
 enough  with  the  mountain  dwarf  to  give  her   a  cheerful
 hello.
   "What  about  the  mountain  dwarves?"  asked   Tybalt.  "Ba-
 salt told us that  they're on  the move  already. How  far have
 they gotten?"
   Flint looked to Basalt in  surprise and  the young  harrn held
 up his hand, showing the steel-banded ring on his finger. "It
 was  easy,  with this,"  he explained.  "I teleported  down the
 road  until  I  saw  'em  marching toward  the shore  of Stone-
 hammer Lake. That  was early  last night.  I was  afraid they'd
 attack this morning, before you could get here."
   "Hey - cut that out!" At the sound of the irate  voice, Flint
 looked  around to  see another  young dwarf  chasing a  pair of
 Aghar  who had  snatched his  shovel while  he rested  from the
 rigors of excavation. "Give that back to me, you  little runts,
 or I'll rip yer ears off!"
   Somehow,  Flint  wasn't  surprised to  find gully  dwarves at
 the other end of the rebuke. If  the Aghar  were ever  going to
 work  with  the  hill  dwarves,  some  ground  rules had  to be
 established.
   "Limper!  Wet-nose!  Stop  that  right now!"  Flint bellowed.
 Each  of  the  gully dwarves  actually stopped  to look  at him
 before they went on to  make insulting  gestures at  their pur-
 suer with their feet.
   Groaning,  Flint  turned  back  to  his comrades.  "The moun-
 tain dwarves, yes. We lost sight of them  before dawn.  For all
 I  know  they could  be coming  around the  bend of  the valley
 in ten minutes."
   "I don't think so,"  Perian disagreed.  "I'm sure  they won't
 be moving during the day. We have till at least sunset  to pre-

 pare, but I'll be surprised if we don't see them  right around
 then."
   "Well,  that's  something,  anyway  -  a  few  hours,"  said
 Flint, pleased both at Hillhome's farsightedness and  the fact
 that  his   Aghar  had   marched  considerably   faster,  over
 rougher country, than had the dwarves of Pitrick's army.
   Basalt  took the  arms of  both Flint  and Perian.  "Why are
 we talking in this dusty street?  We'll be  here by  need soon
 enough.  Let's  go  to  Moldoon's -  Turq Hearthstone  is run-
 ning it now - to discuss the details."
   Everyone   agreed.   Admonishing   Nomscul  to   behave  and
 make sure his fellow Aghar did  the same,  Flint and  the rest
 set out through the village and past the brewery to  the north
 edge  of  town,  where  Moldoon's  Inn   beckoned  invitingly.
 For  a  moment  the dwarf  almost believed  that his  old com-
 panion would come to the door of  his inn  to greet  them. The
 truth brought a thick lump to his  throat, and  he made  a si-
 lent vow to avenge Moldoon's death tenfold.
   It  was  early  afternoon,  and Flint  and Perian  were fam-
 ished.  Turq brought  them heaping  plates of  fresh, buttered
 bread and stew. The  innkeeper noted  their noses  wrinkled in
 distaste.
   "The  bread's  great,  Turq,  but  have you  something other
 than stew?" At the dwarf's puzzled  expression, Flint  held up
 a hand and shook his head ruefully. "Don't ask; it's  too com-
 plicated and not worth the  bother to  explain. But  some meat
 would be most welcome, if you have it."
   Turq  brought  two  steaks  back  within minutes.  Flint and
 Perian dug in like starving dwarves, while the bulk of Flint's
 family looked on,  waiting for  them to  finish. The  pair ate
 with great relish, with much smacking of  lips and  licking of
 fingers.  The steak,  Flint swore,  was the  best food  he had
 ever eaten. Finally, some time later,  Perian pushed  back her
 chair. "I'm stuffed," she admitted. "And one of us  had better
 check on the Aghar." She quickly got up to go.
   "Mmmph,"  Flint agreed,  still shoveling  in the  tender meat.
   Only after Flint popped the last  bite into  his mouth  did he
 even  stop to  notice where  he was.  Something about  the inn
 felt different than the last time he'd been here.

   "I  know  what's changed!"  he cried,  slamming his  fist to
 the bar. "No derro!" Flint  nodded his  approval. At  the same
 time,  he  realized  how  much  he  missed  Moldoon,  and  his
 earlier melancholy returned.
   "The ones we caught  are still  in jail,"  Basalt explained.
 "Maybe we'll let 'em out after the battle."
   "Yeah,"  Flint agreed,  suddenly serious.  The few  hours of
 peace  remaining  to  Hillhome  could  be  counted in  the low
 angle of the sun to the  horizon. "Well,  I'd better  check on
 Perian," he said.
   The  others  accompanied   him  from   the  inn,   and  they
 started  back  toward  the  earthen  wall  defending Hillhome.
 From  some  distance  away they  heard Perian  castigating her
 charges, and Flint unconsciously picked up his pace.
   "No!  Higher!  Make  the wall  higher!" Perian  shouted. Her
 voice came out as more of a pale croak than a command.
   "But  look,  Queen  Furryend!  We  make  nice   notch  right
 here!" A  dirt-caked Fester  protested, indicating  with pride
 the  deep  cut  the  gully  dwarves had  gouged in  the earth-
 work. "Pretty soon road go right through, no problem!"
   'Yes,  problem  -  big  problem!  Road go  - damn!  Look, if
 the road  goes right  through, then  the mountain  dwarves can
 go right through. Do you understand?"
   "Sure!" beamed Fester. "No problem!"
   "We  don't  want  the  mountain dwarves  to go  through. We
 want to stop them here, stop them with the  wall that  used to
 cross the road!" Perian felt her  temperature rising,  and was
 frustrated that the woeful state of  her overworked  voice did
 not allow her more effective vent of her displeasure.
   "Oh," said Fester, crestfallen. For a  moment she  looked at
 the pile of dirt they had moved, then  turned back  to Perian.
 "Why 7"
   The queen  had been  trying to  supervise the  gully dwarves
 while they learned the art of  military fortification.  In the
 few short minutes she'd been at  it, she  had decided  that it
 was an unrewarding pipe dream.
   She was spared the further rigors of instruction by  the ar-
 rival of Flint, Hildy, and Basalt. Flint chuckled in sympathy,
 taking her hand.

   The hill dwarf turned his attention  to the  growing earth-
 work  project.  "Looks  impressive,"  he   complimented.  In-
 deed,  the  redoubt  was  now a  great, curving  wall, shaped
 roughly  like  a horseshoe,  with western  Hillhome protected
 by its  dirt shelter.  It aueraged  perhaps eight  feet high,
 though  of course  with gully  dwarf craftsmanship  there was
 no excess of precision.
   "We'll  have  about  four  hundred  hill dwarves  and three
 hundred  gully  dwarves.  At least  the thane's  troops won't
 have us outnumbered too badly."
   Flint's heartiness seemed forced. The disciplined  ranks of
 Realgar's elite guards, with their metal armor, deadly cross-
 bows,  and  well-practiced  combat  formations,  were  a more
 formidable  force than  the rabble  of armed,  but unarmored,
 unpracticed,  and  wholly  undisciplined  Hillhome  folk  and
 gully dwarves.
   "What's the plan?" Mayor Holden  called to  them as  he ap-
 proached from the  center of  town. They  turned to  see Turq
 and the mayor climbing the wall.
   Holden  seemed  eager  to  inspect  the  fortification. Now
 that the evidence  of mountain  dwarf treachery  was inescap-
 able, Flint reflected sourly, the mayor  had become  a devout
 patriot to the cause of Hillhome.  Perhaps I'm  being unfair,
 Flint chided himself.  The mayor  only reflected  the consen-
 sus  of  the  majority of  the hill  dwarves. The  dwarves of
 Hillhome  had simply  grown comfortable  in their  good life.
 Anyone  would be  reluctant to  rashly reject  his prosperity
 when confronted with claims of an unseen, secret enemy.
   And, Flint  reminded himself,  when the  fact of  the enemy
 had  been  made plain  finally, the  dwarves of  Hillhome had
 jumped  to  the  defense  of their  community. The  four hun-
 dred  harrn  and  frawl  who  had  taken  up arms  ranged from
 young adults to venerable grandfathers,  and all  were strong
 and  dedicated.  And  those who  were not  physically capable
 of battle had been busy, too.
   "Splendid,  splendid!"  crowed  the   mayor  unnecessarily,
 looking  around  the  graceful  curve  of  the  earthen wall.
 "Now, what is our strategy?"
   Flint, Perian, Basalt, Hildy,  and Turq  looked at  one an-

 other over the stupidity of the question, as if they  were di-
 viding up for a game of  luggerball. But  the mayor  had inad-
 vertently  revealed  one  thing:   they  had   not  officially
 appointed a commander over their force.
 "I suggest that Flint Fireforge be given the task of assign-
 ing the plan of defense," proposed Turq Hearthstone quietly.
   "Aye," echoed Basalt and Hildy.
   "Yes," piped up Perian.
   Flint  looked  around  at  his  companions. He  tried ration-
 ally to consider the alternatives. Basalt  and Hildy  were too
 young.  Mayor  Holden  was not  a harrn  of action.  Perian was
 an outsider - a mountain dwarf, to  boot -  though it  did not
 matter to him in the least.  She would  fight loyally  for the
 town's cause, but she was not the choice  to be  its champion.
 Tybalt,  Ruberik -  his brothers  - he  now sensed,  looked to
 him for leadership.
   "We'll meet them  here," Flint  began, indicating  the wall.
 He looked self-consciously at the others to gauge  their reac-
 tions,  but when  he saw  that they  listened unquestioningly,
 his confidence rose, and so did the strength of his voice.
   "I'll manage  the Sludge  Bombers right  in the  middle," he
 decided.  "That  should  break the  cohesion of  their attack.
 Then,  we'll  try  to hold  them... where?"  He looked  at the
 line,  evaluating  the  ground  and  finding what  he desired.
 "There." He pointed at the right side of the  horseshoe, where
 it curved almost to the bank of the river.
   "Basalt,  you'll  command  a small  company of  hill dwarves
 over there, enough to  stop them  when they  try to  climb the
 redoubt. Perian can back you up with the Wedgies."
   His followers listened  attentively. He  and Perian  had al-
 ready  explained the  gully dwarf  formations, and  indeed the
 Aghar   had   demonstrated   the   creeping   wedge   and  the
 Aghazpult.  They  had  come  dangerously  close  also  to  ac-
 quainting the  hill dwarves  with the  dread sludge  bomb, but
 fortunately  Perian  had  come  upon the  bombers in  the nick
 of time.
   "Then, over here," Flint continued, turning to the left,
 where the wing of the earthwork extended into a field be-
 yond  the  Passroad.  Perhaps  a hundred  feet beyond  the end

 of the barrier began the tree line, but there was no  time to
 carry the redoubt that much farther.  "Tybalt and  Hildy will
 take the rest of the hill dwarves and the Agharpults."
   He  surveyed  the  expanse of  the line,  satisfied. "Then,
 when  the  enemy  line  is broken  by the  bombs and  half of
 them are  occupied over  here, Tybalt  and Hildy,  you charge
 forward  and  attack  with  your  company  of  dwarves.  With
 luck - and lots of that - we  can carry  half of  the thane's
 forces away  before sweeping  around to  catch the  others in
 the rear. With those trees blocking them from  too wide  of a
 movement, we might  have the  chance to  hit 'em  hard, cause
 them some real confusion.
   "Now, Ruberik," he said, turning to  his brother.  "Are you
 still a dead shot with that crossbow?"
   "I've been keeping my hand in," the farmer admitted.
   "Good. I have a job  for you."  Briefly he  explained another
 idea he had, and  Ruberik gave  his hearty  approval. Flint's
 brother headed into town, seeking the two large, clay jars he
 needed to put the plan into operation.
   "Now,  we'll  need some  bonfires out  there in  the field.
 That'll at least give  us a  picture of  where they  are when
 they're  advancing."  He  stopped to  think while  Tybalt and
 Hildy organized a score of hill  dwarves. The  group gathered
 dry wood and quickly started to form  several large  piles in
 the field before the redoubt. These bonfires would be  lit as
 soon as the derro came into view, providing the  hill dwarves
 some view of their advancing enemy.
   Soon Flint turned  to the  others. "Now,  how are  we fixed
 for straw? Can we get fifty  bales? A  hundred would  be even
 better."
   Tybalt nodded.
   "Good. And lamp oil? How many kegs do you have in
 your store?" he asked Mayor Holden.
   "Well, there's not, that is, it's my most expensive item! I
 can't...."
   Conscious of the stares of all the other hill  dwarves, the
 mayor  stopped  speaking  and  flushed   with  embarrassment.
 "Well, I guess I've got a couple of kegs.  But what  on Krynn
 do you need them for?"

   Flint  explained  his  plans, assigning  dwarves to  gather the
 necessary  ingredients  and   make  the   required  preparations.
 Slowly,  the  various  elements  of  Hillhome's defense  came to-
 gether.
   The defensive strategy sounds good, Flint realized with
 satisfaction.
   Even   as   they  were   speaking  Flint   noticed  that   it  grew
 steadily   darker.  The   sun  dipped   beyond  the   western  hills,
 and  twilight  settled  over  the  town and  its valley.  They've got
 to be coming soon now, he told himself.
   "If  they  break  the  line  here,   everyone  fall   back  through
 the  town,"  he   added,  developing   a  contingency   plan.  "We'll
 make  a  final  stand in  the brewery,  if it  comes to  that." Hildy
 had  already  offered  the  building  -  the  largest   structure  in
 Hillhome - for that purpose.
   "Look!"  cried  Perian  suddenly,  turning  toward  the  south.
 The  others  squinted  into  the  distance.  The  movement  along
 the  Passroad  was  painfully obvious  to them  all, even  in the
 fading  light.  A  long  column  snaked   its  way   through  the
 mud.
   The   armored   mountain  dwarf   troops  of   Pitrick's  legion.
   "They  must  have  started  right  at  sunset,"  Basalt  guessed.
 "And they're coming fast."
   "They'll  be  here  in  an  hour,"  Flint  judged,  "maybe sooner
 if  they  hurry.  That  doesn't give  us a  lot of  time. Everybody
 spread   out!"   Flint   ordered.  "Pass   the  word   through  the
 town  -  every  dwarf  with   a  weapon   should  get   down  here.
 The rest should take shelter in the hills if  they're not  gone al-
 ready!
   "Basalt,  Hildy  -  get  your  crews  out  there and  light those
 fires.  I  want  them  blazing  high  by the  time the  Theiwar get
 down  to  the  field.  And   then  hurry   back  -   remember,  the
 battle's to be fought here, not out there!"
   Basalt  grinned  as  he trotted  off with  the fire  brigade. The
 others,  too,  turned   toward  the   stations  for   the  imminent
 battle.
   Perian turned to leave, and Flint caught her by the shoul-
 ders. "Not you," he whispered hoarsely. "Not yet." Flint
 clasped  her  to  him,  and  tucked  her face  into his  throat be-

 neath his beard.
   He  smelled  of  salty  perspiration  and  soap,  an honest,
 good scent. Flint's scent. She  nuzzled him  for the  first time
 since they had left Mudhole.
   "Don't  tease  me,  you  heartless  wench!" he  growled, gath-
 ering her up tightly. He pulled back  abruptly, taking  her face
 in his thick, callused hands.  "I've grown  quite fond  of you,"
 he grumbled. "For Reorx's sake be careful!"
   Perian tilted her head back  slightly and  gave him  a linger-
 ing,  bittersweet  kiss  that  was  salty  with tears.  "I'll be
 careful  -  but  only  if you  promise that  you will,  too." He
 nodded  somberly,  and  she kissed  him on  the nose  this time,
 reluctantly wiggling out of his arms.
   Perian  gave  him a  playful pat  and a  smile. "Mind  you re-
 member  that  promise."  Then  she  was  gone  to  her  assigned
 post.
   Flint watched her go,  and then  got caught  up in  the frenzy
 of  activity  that  swirled across  Hillhome. Dusk  settled over
 the town. Looking to  the field,  Flint saw  one fire,  then an-
 other, then several more spark to life.
   And   the   Theiwar   troops   marched  onward   to  Hillhome.
 Twilight faded to  night as  Basalt, Hildy,  and the  other hill
 dwarves kindled the bonfires laid  in the  field before  the re-
 doubt.  These  blazes  crackled  quickly   upward  as   the  dry
 wood ignited, sending pillars of sparks into the dark sky.
   These  dwarves  scurried  back  to  the  safety of  their com-
 panions as  Pitrick's forces  neared the  town. The  bright yel-
 low  firelight  soon  reflected  off  of   rank  upon   rank  of
 black-armored, steel-tipped death.
   Darkness  grew  as  the  mountain  dwarf  wave  started for-
 ward  again,  marching  inexorably  toward  the  confrontation
 with their dwarven kin on the dirt embankment.
   In the next instant, as if from a single throat, Pitrick's le-
 gion raised a hoarse  cry. With  a clash  of their  arms against
 their shields, they surged forward into a charge.

                      Chapter 22

                 Fire in Theit Eyes

     The din of the Thiewar charge crested over the de-
 fenders  in  a  wave  of  sound.  The mountain  dwarves voiced
 hoarse  challenges; they  beat their  swords and  axes against
 their  shields;  and  they  pounded  the  ground   with  their
 heavy, rhythmic tread.
 The  sound  rolled  forward  from  the  darkness,  though  the
 bonfires spotted throughout the field gave Flint and  the oth-
 ers a rough idea of the derro's location. Flint saw the flames
 glinting from steel axeblades, and  dark, shiny  shields. Even
 at this distance, the horrid eyes of the derro seemed to catch
 and reflect the light. Flint thought, incongruously,  of fire-
 flies glimpsed across a summer meadow.
       For a moment he wondered if the volume of sound alone

 would  be  enough  to  sweep  the  defenders  from  the breast-
 work,  but  a  quick  look  around  showed  him  that  the hill
 dwarves  were  ready  to  stand firm.  The gully  dwarves actu-
 ally  contributed  to  the  din,  most  of them  sticking their
 tongues out or shrieking insults.
   Flint  looked  nervously  over  his  shoulder  into Hillhome,
 now sheltered behind  this semicircular  barrier of  earth. The
 darkened  town seemed  lifeless under  the overcast  night sky,
 especially in contrast to the fires scattered about  the field.
 The  town,  in  fact,  was  virtually  abandoned.   Some  three
 hundred and fifty of its citizens stood with Flint, Perian, and
 the  Aghar  along  the  redoubt.  The  others, almost  one hun-
 dred and sixty hill  dwarves -  the very  old, very  young, and
 otherwise infirm - had retreated to caves  in the  hills, wait-
 ing fearfully for the outcome of the battle.
   "Ready the  sludge bombs!"  cried the  king, turning  back to
 the  charging  Theiwar.  The  Aghar  in the  center reluctantly
 ceased their rude noises and took up the  small, glass  and ce-
 ramic vessels that contained their weapons.
   "The  torches,  too,"  Flint  added.  "Light them  now!" Sev-
 eral  dozen  hill  dwarves  touched  matches to  the oil-soaked
 torches they had prepared. "We'll give the little grubs  a sur-
 prise  when  they  get  close  enough,"  he  remarked   to  his
 brother  Ruberik as  the farmer  came up  to him.  Ruberik nod-
 ded grimly as they stood  silently for  a moment,  peering into
 the darkness.
   The thane's  ranks swept  closer. The  charge, begun  at sev-
 eral hundred yards distance,  swiftly closed  the gap.  Now, in
 the glaring light of the bonfires, Flint could discern individ-
 ual derro. He saw faces distorted  by battlelust,  eyes squint-
 ing   murderously,   seeking   victims.   Most  of   the  derro
 advanced  at an  easy trot,  their shields  on their  left arms
 while their right hands held axes or short swords.
   Some  of  the  fires  vanished  from  sight, trampled  by the
 dark line in its implacable advance, but  closer pyres  now il-
 luminated  the  army.  Flint  wished  for  a  rank  of longbow-
 men,  or  a catapult  - any  kind of  missile with  long range.
 The  sludge  bombs,  unfortunately, would  only carry  the dis-
 tance of an  Aghar toss  - anywhere  from one  to fifty  feet -

 and he wouldn't  risk the  gully dwarves  in the  Agharpult un-
 til he was ready to attack.
   "Stand  firm,  there!"  Flint  bellowed at  a nearby  pair of
 young  hill  dwarves  who  had  started looking  anxiously over
 their shoulders.
   He  heard   Perian  shout   similar  encouragements   on  the
 right  flank,  where  she stood  with Basalt  and a  small com-
 pany  of  hill  dwarves,  supported  by  a reserve  of Creeping
 Wedgies.
   Flint cast a  quick glance  to the  left, where  Tybalt stood
 with the  majority of  the hill  dwarves, concealed  behind the
 wall.  Somewhere  in that  group, Flint  knew, were  Hildy, his
 brother Bernhard, and  his sister  Fidelia. He  thought briefly
 of  Bertina  and Glynnis,  who were  both persuaded  over their
 loud  objections  to  help  supervise  the  young  dwarves  who
 had been sent to safety in the hills.
   Tybalt  gave him  a casual  wave, and  Flint chuckled  at the
 constable's cool  and easy  demeanor. It  surprised him  to no-
 tice the warm feeling he got from having  his family  near dur-
 ing  these  hours  of  crisis.  They're a  good bunch,  he told
 himself with not a little pride.
   "How  soon?"  Flint  turned  as  Ruberik asked  the question.
 The  farmer  was  still standing  beside him  atop the  wall of
 earth.
   "Close," Flint replied. He  looked at  the large  crossbow in
 his  brother's  hands.  The  weapon's  hilt,  of weatherbeaten
 oak, was smoothed  by long  usage. Its  steel crossbar  did not
 shine, but  nevertheless tensed  with unconcealed  strength. It
 had once been their father's weapon. "You ready?"
   In  answer,  Ruberik  raised  the  heavy  weapon and  held it
 firm, drawing a bead on his target in the field - a target that
 was not the charging derro, but instead a large clay jar in the
 Theiwars' path.
   "Can  you  see  well   enough?"  inquired   Flint,  dubiously
 peering  into  the  darkness. Flashes  of yellow  light rippled
 across  the  ground, but  quickly died  back to  shadows. "This
 seemed like a better idea in the daylight."
   "No  need  to  worry,"  grunted  Ruberik,  squinting  in con-
 centration.  "I did  manage to  learn a  little of  what Father

 thought    most    important    -    weaponry."    The   farmer
 crouched,  as immobile  as a  rock, and  waited for  his broth-
 er's command.
   "Another few  seconds," Flint  said, his  voice taut.  He saw
 the  target,  standing motionless  in the  path of  the charge.
 The derro swept closer. "Wait a minute... wait..."
    Now, shoot!
   With  a  sharp  crack, the  crossbow released  its steel-headed
 shaft. The missile flashed into the night, then was lost in the
 darkness.
   But in the next instant a  sharply defined  cloud -  a billow
 of  smoke  that  was  so  dark  it  showed clearly  against the
 moderate blackness of the night - erupted from the clay jar.
   "Nice  shot!"  shouted  Flint,  clapping  his brother  on the
 back.  Ruberik  paid  no  attention,  already  concentrating on
 the  laborious  recocking  of  his  powerful weapon.  He loaded
 another  shaft,  sweat  popping  from  his  brow as  he quickly
 turned the powerful crank.
   Flint  growled,  unconsciously  voicing  his delight,  as the
 sludge smoke spread across the field.  He saw  the rank  of the
 derro  split  and  waver  as  the  dwarves  stumbled  away from
 the  noxious  fumes.  He  couldn't see  their reactions  in the
 darkness, but he took savage pleasure  in imagining  their dis-
 comfort.  The  derro  swept  around  the  growing   cloud,  but
 their advance had been temporarily interrupted.
   "Ready  the  torches!"  Flint  cried  as the  Theiwar swept
 closer.  "And  the  sludge  bombs!"  Nearby,  Ooz  and Pooter
 hefted their small vials and shook them vigorously.
   "Careful!"  Flint warned.  All we  need is  to have  one of
 those  pop open  back here,  he thought  with a  shudder. The
 battle would be over before it began.
   Behind  the  wall,  several dozen  hill dwarves  held burning
 torches. They kept the flames hot,  but held  them low,  out of
 sight  of  the  advancing  derro,  awaiting Flint's  command to
 put them to use.
   Ruberik finally  raised his  weapon, taking  aim at  the sec-
 ond of the great pots. This one was much closer than  his first
 target.  With  another sharp  thunk, the  weapon fired  and the
 bolt shattered the jar, releasing another cloud of  the noxious

 sludge smoke.
   The  derro  were  less than  a hundred  feet away.  Now Flint
 and Ruberik could see  the wrinkles  in their  grotesque faces,
 the links of their chain armor.
   Flint turned to  the Aghar  gathered to  either side  of him-
 self. "Sludge Bombers, throw!" he cried.
   "Eat sludge!" Ooz cried  as he  tossed his  vial up  and out-
 ward. It crashed to the ground  among the  first rank  of derro
 troops and  broke, releasing  a smaller  cloud of  the stinking
 black smoke.
   With a volley  of exuberant  cries, the  Aghar in  the center
 of  the  line pitched  their sloshing  missiles. The  jars were
 small  and  the  hurlers enthusiastic.  As they  had practiced,
 each gully dwarf cocked  back his  arm and  then flung  the jar
 as far as he could in  the general  direction of  the attacking
 derro.  Some  could  not  help  but  tumble  forward  from  the
 momentum of their toss.
   Several  of  the  vials  plopped  right on  the front  of the
 earthen barrier before rolling  into the  ditch at  the bottom,
 between  the  attackers  and  defenders.  Most  of  the bottles
 sailed  a  couple  of  dozen  feet,  and  some had  the forward
 thrust to soar through the air and burst among the feet  of the
 first rank of approaching Theiwar.
   Instantly a thick, black  cloud rose  from the  exploded ves-
 sels. The smoke burst upward  from the  force of  its explosive
 release, then it hung thickly in the air, a moist, oily blanket
 of vapor. Some of  this smoke  rolled up  and over  the breast-
 work, and Flint caught a whiff of it before  he could  duck out
 of the  way. Instantly  he doubled  over, gagging  and choking.
 He tripped and rolled to the  bottom of  the sloping  wall, the
 Tharkan  Axe  bouncing  heavily  against  his  thigh.  There he
 lay, helplessly, retching.
   "King  not  like  sludge  bomb,"  Ooz  said,   looking  sadly
 down  from  the  redoubt.  Some  of   the  smoke   had  drifted
 around  his boots,  rising to  tickle his  face, but  the gully
 dwarf merely wiped his nose and blinked a few times.
   Flint crawled from the last vestiges of the mist that had
 seeped over the wall. He shook his head a few times to clear
 it, praying that  the derro  found the  sludge bomb  effects as

 obnoxious as he did.
   Indeed,  most  of  the  smoke  had  spilled against  the re-
 doubt,  and  rolled  back  into  the  onrushing  wave  of  the
 Theiwar.  It  crept  like  a  living  thing along  the ground,
 clutching at skin, pouring into boots and clothes, forcing its
 way into every available crevice.
   Flint's reaction to  a small  whiff of  the sludge  bomb, in
 fact,  was mild  when compared  to the  extreme effect  of the
 gas upon the Theiwar. The derro caught the  full brunt  of the
 oily, noxious mist. The vapor was so heavy  that it  spread in
 a cloud barely higher than the head of  a tall  dwarf, flowing
 like liquid across the battlefield.
   The  first  rank  in  the  center  of  the  charging Theiwar
 dropped  like  felled  pigeons.  The  next rank  staggered and
 stopped  as  the sludge  gas enveloped  it; the  dwarves stum-
 bled and fell, senseless, coughing and retching.
   The gas dissipated the farther it spread, and  its intensity
 diminished.  But  it  reduced any  Theiwar luckless  enough to
 be caught within its oily folds to  paroxysms and  gagging. As
 Flint had intended, the noxious  mist spread  into a  wedge in
 the  center of  the Theiwar  formation. By  the time  the king
 climbed  back  up  to  the redoubt  - now  clear of  the heavy
 gas - he could see that the thane's forces  had been  split in
 two by the creeping stench.
   Many  of  the  derro  stopped,  looking   around  anxiously.
 Others  behind  them  stumbled  to a  halt. Through  the dark-
 ness, Flint  saw the  neat formation  of the  Theiwar dissolve
 into a collection of surprised, confused soldiers.  The charge
 had been effectively delayed.
   "Flint - over here!" He heard Perian's  urgent cry,  and saw
 her running in his direction. He quickly raced along  the wall
 to meet her.
   "Pitrick's savants!" she said, pointing to a half-dozen der-
 ro  that  had  worked  their  way forward  from the  far rank.
 "We're going to get hit by magic in a minute or two."
   Flint  saw  the  savants,  clearly  illuminated by  a nearby
 bonfire. Their hair seemed  bleached almost  to white,  but it
 flashed red as  the fire  flared upward.  They wore  long dark
 robes  that  seemed  strangely  incongruous  among  the gleam-

 ing black armor of their fellows.
   Flint  considered  the  savants.  "Here come  the fireworks."
   "I've got an idea," Ruberik mused.  "The torches  are ready.
 What do you say we wait till the derro get a little closer, and
 then give them something to look at?" He  gestured to  the oil-
 soaked bales of straw before  the breastwork.  Privately, Flint
 hoped that the idea he had had  during the  calm of  the after-
 noon would prove  as effective  as he'd  imagined, now  that it
 was the dark of night amid the raging chaos of battle.
   ."That's a  great idea!"  Perian exclaimed,  clapping Flint's
 brother on the back. Ruberik blushed.
   "Let's hope it works," said Flint.
   "Of  course  it'll  work,"  Perian  replied, her  tone surpris-
 ingly jaunty. For the first  time, Flint  became aware  of just
 how  much  of  a  warrior  this  frawl  was.  "When  that light
 flares up in front of them, they'll be blinded for a long time.
 They'll find that more frightening than  facing cold  steel and
 close range!"
   Flint  looked  at her  quietly for  a moment,  noticing again
 the  curl  of  her  auburn  hair,  the  smooth softness  of her
 cheek.  By  Reorx,  he wished  this battle  was done  with! She
 sensed his look and turned, surprising him with a soft blush.
   Then  they  heard  derro  sergeants  barking   commands,  and
 saw  the  derro ranks  gather again.  The foot  soldiers surged
 forward  behind  the  spellcasting savants,  the whole  mass of
 derro approaching the ditch at the foot of the earthwork.
   "Torches, now!" Flint shouted.
   Dozens of hill dwarves  raced to  the top  of the  wall, pitch-
 ing their blazing torches down the other  side, onto  the bales
 of  hay  that  had  been  thoroughly soaked  with lamp  oil and
 placed along the edge of the ditch.
   With a loud rush of  air, each  oil-soaked bale  erupted into
 a high column  of flame,  an explosion  of bright  yellow light
 in the darkness.
   With  howls  of agony,  the savants  clutched their  eyes and
 stumbled  backward.  They  rolled  on  the   ground,  shrieking
 and   moaning,  their   wide,  full-pupiled   eyes  temporarily
 blinded.
      The savants closest to the blaze had been most seriously

 affected.  But  the  warriors  behind  them blinked  in uncom-
 fortable  surprise,  forced  to  turn  away  from  the painful
 glare.  Once  again  Flint  heard  the  sergeants  cursing and
 growling, and the derro  started slowly  toward the  middle of
 the hill dwarf line.
   "I've got to get back to my post at center!" he  called, and
 Perian ran back to her own position by Basalt. "Good luck!"
   The  towering columns  of fire  marked the  entire periphery
 of the semicircular redoubt. In the  center, the  black sludge
 smoke  still  obscured  the  field,  preventing any  derro ad-
 vance. To Flint's left, the mountain dwarves hesitated in dis-
 array and confusion, but to his right,  where the  savants had
 led  the  way,  the  Theiwar  officers  whipped  their  savage
 troops forward.
   Flint scrutinized the lightly held  right flank.  Perian and
 Basalt had a  thin force  - barely  one hundred  hill dwarves,
 and half that many Aghar.  But all  they had  to do  was hold,
 since  the  steep  river  bank  beyond the  breastwork blocked
 the derro advance.to that side. The wall of the  earthwork it-
 self  would  then  force  the  Theiwar  to attack  upward, and
 give the defenders a significant advantage.
   The   first   rank   of   black-armored   mountain   dwarves
 reached  the ditch  at the  foot of  the redoubt.  The Theiwar
 ranks  quickly  scrambled  through  the  shallow  trench.  The
 glowing  piles  of  the  haybales,  mostly'  consumed  by now,
 collapsed into cinders, but even so the  derro were  forced to
 march  around  the  hot  coals.  They  were  armed  with  two-
 handed battle-axes,  but they  held the  weapons in  one hand,
 using the other  to help  them scramble  up the  steep breast-
 work.
   Flint  saw  Perian  leap  forward  and  drive  her  axe down
 through the iron helmet of a Theiwar.  Basalt, too,  swung his
 blade  and  sent  an attacking  mountain dwarf  tumbling back-
 ward into the  ditch. All  along the  line, the  dwarves stood
 atop  the low  wall, hacking  and chopping  at the  derro com-
 ing up beneath them.
   The Aghar of the Creeping Wedgie surged along the top
 of the redoubt, bashing their shields onto the heads of
 climbing    Theiwar,    causing   more    confusion.   Weapons

 struck,  and  blood  flowed.  Flint's  heart  lurched as  he saw
 several defending hill dwarves fall and lie still.
   The  king  of  Mudhole  held  his  breath,  wondering  if  the
 line would  hold. He  saw a  derro scramble  over the  wall, but
 then Basalt cut him down  with a  swift blow  to the  neck. Per-
 ian  led a  band of  dwarves in  a sharp  counterattack, batter-
 ing and smashing the Theiwar, knocking them off the wall.
   He  heard her  hoarse battle  cry, saw  the hill  dwarves leap
 to follow her. She attacked  like a  banshee, laying  about with
 heavy  blows,  darting  away  before a  return blow  could land.
 Flint's heart faltered as a derro struck at her back; she sensed
 the  attack  with  some kind  of prescience  and whirled  to cut
 the leering Theiwar down.
   Finally  Flint  exhaled,  seeing  the  hill  dwarves  not only
 hold,  but  continue  to  drive the  mountain dwarves  back into
 the   ditch.   Disorganized,   confused,   and   dismayed,   the
 Theiwar crowded together at the foot of the redoubt.
   "Smoke's  still  keeping  'em  away  from  here,"  grunted Ru-
 berik, indicating the oily fog in the center of the battlefield.
 Flint  looked at  his brother  in surprise,  sensing disappoint-
 ment in his voice.
   "You want a chance to shoot a few of 'em, don't you?"
 Flint asked.
   Ruberik cleared  his throat,  nodding. "I  guess I  would like
 to personally see that a few of 'em don't get back home."
   The brothers  turned their  attention to  the left,  where the
 mountain   dwarves   had  resumed   their  advance.   They  were
 swinging  wide  of  the  redoubt  through  the  open  field. Be-
 cause of the black  cloud that  still lay  across the  center of
 their  line,  these mountain  dwarves could  not see  their com-
 patriots who had been halted on the right flank.
   "Keep an eye on things here!" Flint barked at Ruberik.
   "Wait!  What  do you  mean? What  should I  -" Ruberik
 shouted as Flint darted away.
   Privately, the king felt misgivings about leaving his
 brother  in  charge  of  the  rambunctious  Sludge   Bombers.  A
 quick  look  at  the  black  smoke  gave  him   assurance,  how-
 ever, for it seemed like it would linger  for some  time, block-
 ing access to the middle of the redoubt.

   Flint ran along the top of the  breastwork until  he reached
 Tybalt, who stood among a group  of hill  dwarves on  the left
 wing  of  the semicircular  barrier. They  looked down  as the
 charging  Theiwar  suddenly  veered  away,  turning  and  run-
 ning past the  front of  the breastwork  instead of  trying to
 climb it. The open end of the wall beckoned out in  the field,
 offering its easy route past the defenders.
   Around  the  hill  dwarves  crowded  Nomscul  and  the gully
 dwarves  of  his  Agharpult  wing.  They  hopped  and  jumped,
 attempting  to  observe   the  enemy   over  and   around  the
 slightly larger hill dwarves.
   "Agharpults, get  ready!" Flint  shouted as  soon as  he was
 in earshot.
   "For what?" asked Nomscul,  turning to  his king  in puzzle-
 ment.
   "To shoot, you numbskull!"
   "Me Nomscul!" beamed the Aghar. 'You king!"
   Flint  restrained  his  tongue  for a  moment, and  then was
 pleased  to  see  Nomscul  and his  crews quickly  spring into
 action; they even remembered which way to aim!
   "Good,  good!" he  encouraged them,  slightly out  of breath
 as he reached Tybalt.
   "They're  sweeping  around  quickly,"  said  the  constable,
 with just a touch of alarm.
   Flint  looked  across  the  field   and  saw   the  mountain
 dwarves  advancing  at  a  fast  march  past the  redoubt from
 right to  left. Soon  they would  be in  position to  turn and
 charge into the rear of the fortification, past the end of the
 wall.
   "We can't waste any time!"  snapped Flint.  He saw  that the
 hill dwarves were ready for the counterattack.
   "Agharpults,   shoot!  Shoot   two  times!"   That  command,
 he  hoped, would  keep them  launching until  they ran  out of
 Aghar. Then he turned back to the enemy.
   The  pyramids  of  the  Agharpult  tilted  atop  the earthen
 wall  as  the  lone  gully  dwarves  who  served  as  missiles
 sprinted up the sloping  inner side  of the  barrier. Vaulting
 onto  their  comrades,  the  whole  mass  of  dwarfdom toppled
 forward,  momentum   hurling  the   topmost  Aghar   into  the

 teeming ranks  of the  Theiwar. They  struck like  balls crash-
 ing  into  tenpins,  knocking  the  derro  formations  asunder,
 toppling dozens of mountain dwarves to the ground.
   "Hill  dwarves,  charge!"  Flint   raised  the   Tharkan  Axe
 above  his head  as he  shouted, and  then stopped  in surprise
 as a cool  white light  suddenly sprang  from the  axe, washing
 over the field. It spilled brightly across the derro ranks, and
 the  mountain  dwarves,  to  a  harrn,  turned their  faces from
 the painful brightness. Flint stared at the  axe for  a moment,
 surprised  by  the  rush   of  power.   Around  him   the  hill
 dwarves raised a hoarse cheer.
   "To victory!" bellowed Tybalt.
   With a ragged roar that almost matched their enemy's
 challenge  in  volume,  the  hill  dwarves  swarmed   down  and
 into the side  of the  mountain dwarf  force. Flint  saw Hildy,
 her face a  mask of  grim determination,  race down  the earth-
 work. His  brother Bernhard  and his  sister Fidelia  were also
 charging  with  the  frenzied  mob, though  he didn't  know ex-
 actly where they were.
   "For  the  Great  Betrayal!"  howled  Turq  Hearthstone.  The
 big hill dwarf flew past Flint and crushed  a derro  skull with
 his heavy iron hammer.
   The  charge came  so quickly,  and was  such a  stunning sur-
 prise,  that  the  advancing  Theiwar  quickly broke  in confu-
 sion.   Desperately,  in   ones  and   twos  and   threes,  the
 mountain  dwarves  met  the  rushing   hill  dwarves.   A  con-
 fused  melee  erupted  as weapons  clanged against  shields and
 dwarves cried out in the tumult.
   Overhead  flew  the  bodies  of  many brave,  tightly bundled
 gully  dwarves.  The  Agharpults   were  being   launched  with
 remarkably  accuracy  after  the  days  of  training,  and  the
 Aghar  were  crashing  effectively  into  the  tight   rows  of
 Theiwar soldiers.
   Flint was  surrounded by  the mysterious  circle of  light as
 he led the onslaught  of his  kin. He  wielded the  Tharkan Axe
 with brutal force, striking  to his  right and  his left  as he
 waded  into  the  Theiwar  army.  His  blade  smashed   a  dent
 into the black steel of a mountain dwarf's breastplate, felling
 the fighter in one blow.  He parried  a barrage  of assailants,

 dropping two more with crushing blows  that split  their hel-
 mets and shattered their skulls.
   A  derro  screamed  and  ducked  away,  his eyes  seared by
 the brightness of the blade. Others squinted and  rushed for-
 ward, faces twisted by  hatred. But  they had  trouble facing
 the light, and Flint killed those that did not turn and flee.
   The great din of battle rang in his ears, a constant disso-
 nant  clash  of  metal  against  metal,  mixed more  and more
 with the shrill screams and dull groans of the wounded. Flint
 saw  a  dazzling  array of  bristly-headed derro  around him,
 their faces a constantly shifting pattern of cruelty, hatred,
 and fear.
   He caught a  glimpse of  Fidelia, wearing  an old  shirt of
 leather armor and wielding a long  pitchfork with  deadly ef-
 fect, pinning a squirming derro to the ground by  driving the
 makeshift weapon through his stomach.
   Around him he felt the  weight of  the hill  dwarves crack-
 ing  the  precision of  the mountain  dwarves' ranks.  In the
 growing confusion Flint surged ever forward, dragging,  as if
 by the force of his will, those hill  dwarves who  fought be-
 side him.
   He heard Tybalt's throaty roar as the constable  slashed to
 the  right  and  left  with a  huge two-handed  sword. Almost
 unconscious of  the sound,  Flint, too,  howled a  battle cry
 and  jumped  forward  to  drive  another Theiwar  back. Flint
 noticed that his axe glowed as brightly as ever, and  now the
 steel  haft  had  begun  to  grow warm  under his  palms. The
 blood of dead mountain dwarves darkened the blade.
   He came upon Garf, one of  the Agharpult  missiles, sitting
 on  top  of  an  unconscious mountain  dwarf and  rubbing his
 head.
   "Hard shirt!" complained the Aghar. He  thumped the
 metal breastplate of the warrior to show where he had
 landed after being fired from his weapon.
   "Hard  head!"  Flint  pointed  out, patting  the courageous
 gully dwarf on the back and indicating the fallen Theiwar.
   Suddenly  Garf's  eyes  widened  in  surprise.  "No!" Flint
 cried,  seeing  the  bloody tip  of a  sword emerge  from the
 Aghar's  chest.  Stabbed  from  behind,  Garf fell  and Flint

 stared  into  the wide,  maddened eyes  of the  sneering derro
 who had slain him.
   Those eyes widened  farther as  Flint leaped  forward, driv-
 ing the still-glowing axe through  the mountain  dwarf's fore-
 head.  The enemy  fell across  the body  of his  small victim,
 and Flint blinked back tears of anguish and anger.
   Then  a  mountain  dwarf  surged  at  him, and  Flint barely
 had time to parry the blow. He left Garf's body as  he slashed
 and  then  backed  away,  thrown  off-balance by  the savagery
 of the axe-wielding Theiwar's assault.
   He heard Hildy  cry out  beside him,  but he  couldn't break
 away  from  the aggressive  derro. A  small handaxe  flew past
 Flint's head, embedding itself into the derro's skull.  A hill
 dwarf suddenly stood beside Flint,  and he  turned to  nod his
 thanks  at  his  brother  Bernhard. He  turned to  help Hildy,
 only to see that  she had  dropped her  opponent with  a sharp
 stab of her sword.
   But the derro pressed all around, and he felt  himself back-
 ing  up  to  keep  from being  surrounded. Bernhard  and Hildy
 fought  beside  him,  desperately  holding  the  renewed derro
 attack at bay. From somewhere, a  swordblade bit  into Flint's
 forearm,  and  he  shouted  in  pain.  Two more  derro lunged,
 their faces twisted by cruel grins.
   Before Flint could raise his axe,  another form  stepped be-
 tween  them.  He   saw  Bernhard   drop  one   mountain  dwarf
 with a sharp blow to the neck, but  then his  brother's weapon
 stuck in the armor plate of  his victim.  Desperately Bernhard
 struggled to pull the axeblade free, but  the other  derro was
 too quick.
   Flint  stared  in horror  as Theiwar  steel sliced  into his
 brother's throat.  Blood -  more blood  than Flint  could have
 imagined  -  spilled  down  Bernhard's  chest. The  hill dwarf
 spun,  giving Flint  a look  of uncomprehending  surprise, and
 then he slumped to the ground.
   "Bastard!"  growled  Hildy,  lunging  at  the still-grinning
 derro.  The mountain  dwarf raised  his blade,  deflecting her
 attack, but he could not guard against two at once. Flint, his
 whole  body  trembling  with   rage,  attacked.   The  Tharkan
 Axe   flashed,   and   the  Theiwar's   head  flew   from  his

 shoulders.
   Through  his  shock, Flint  sensed a  change in  the tangled
 melee;  the  elite  mountain  dwarf  fighters  were recovering
 their equilibrium.
   "Back!" ordered Flint. "Back to the wall!"
   The order was unnecessary because the defenders of
 Hillhome  were  being  forced back  to the  breastwork through
 no  choice  of  their  own.  Soon,  as  the  mountain  dwarves
 pushed their renewed attack, it was all Flint could do to pre-
 vent their fallback from becoming a rout.
   The  hill  dwarves  desperately scrambled  back up  the wall
 and  into  their  redoubt, but  the mountain  dwarves followed
 their advantage aggressively.
   "Hold at the top!"  shouted Flint,  turning and  bashing one
 more  of  the  mountain  dwarves. Once  again his  axe crushed
 metal  armor, killing  the foe  without penetrating  the rigid
 barrier of his steel plate. His victim  tumbled back  down the
 breastwork, knocking two of his fellows over as he fell. Flint
 noticed  that the  still-glowing Tharkan  Axe was  growing un-
 comfortably  warm  to  the touch,  and the  blood of  his ene-
 mies now sizzled on its blade.
   Along the crest of the wall, Tybalt  and other  hill dwarves
 stopped  their  retreat.  Gasping and  panting from  the exer-
 tion of the combat, the defenders nevertheless stood firm.
   The Theiwar, exhausted  from their  long charge,  still dis-
 organized by the  disruptive attack,  suddenly fell  back from
 the wall to catch their breath and  regroup. Flint  sensed the
 near-collapse of  the hill  dwarves around  him and  knew that
 the respite had come none too soon.
   Then he looked over his shoulder and saw disaster.

                       Chapter 23

                  The Last Bastion

      "Damn your filthy cowardiance!" Pitrick exploded at
 the two sergeants who stood before him.
 At first, things had seemed to develop fairly well.  His reg-
 iments  had  formed with  parade-ground precision,  and their
 advance  had  proceeded  with apparently  irresistible momen-
 tum. It seemed certain that the hill  dwarves would  be over-
 whelmed by the first rush!
 His  eagerness  for  battle had  increased with  a conclusion
 he had gradually drawn over the  preceeding day's  forced en-
 campment.  He  had  brooded  and  cursed  and  schemed, still
 tormented by Perian's existence,  out of  his reach.  But the
 more  he  thought,  the more  he believed  that she  would be
 here, in Hillhome, once again within his grasp.

    After  all,  had  she not  dwelled in  Mudhole with  the very
  hill  dwarf who,  to Pitrick,  embodied the  pestilential stub-
  borness  of  Hillhome? And  would not  Flint Fireforge  be cer-
  tain to race to his village's defense? It therefore seemed very
  likely that Perian would be here, too, and  this added  heat to
  Pitrick's  hatred,  made  him  more  determined  than  ever  to
  wipe out the town and all its inhabitants.
    But  the  first  wave of  his assault  had been  thrown back,
  and  now  these  two  craven warriors  stood before  him, stam-
  mering their pathetic excuses.
    "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  were beaten  by hill
  dwarves!"   the  hunchback   continued,  turning   his  savage,
  penetrating   gaze   on   each   of  the   frightened  mountain
  dwarves  in  turn.  Good,  he  thought. They  face the  odds of
  battle willingly enough,  but when  I speak  to them,  they are
  still afraid.
    Pitrick paced back and  forth before  the cringing  derro. He
  limped  awkwardly  on  his  throbbing  foot,  and the  pain mo-
  mentarily  distracted  him from  the matter  at hand.  He shook
  his head to clear it.
    The  Theiwar  commander  trembled   with  rage.   Angrily  he
  looked  at his  shaking hands,  too unsteady  to bear  a weapon
  or  cast  a spell.  Every nerve  in his  body screamed  that he
  should kill these two failures before him,  vent his  fury upon
  their miserable lives.
    But he could not do that.  Pitrick faced  the fact  that this
  battle  would  not  be so  easily won.  Slowly, he  brought his
  anger under  control, until  he could  speak normally.  Then he
  turned back to the pair of veterans who had  led his  first at-
  tack against the breastwork.
    Around  him,  the  bonfires  set  by  the  hill  dwarves  had
  mostly  burned  themselves  out. The  darkness, thick  and pro-
  tecting,  settled  around his  army again,  broken only  by the
  hot  piles  of  red coals.  Many derro  stood in  small groups,
  gathering  around  their  sergeants,  waiting for  further com-
  mands.  Others  tended  their  comrades  who  had   been  over-
  come by the vile  gas. The  night was  a blanket  of protection
  and security back here, away from the defenders.
    Before them, however, in the ditch along the fortification,

 the great, oily bundles of hay  still smoldered,  glowing with
 painful  brightness  in  the  cool night.  The bales  had been
 soaked with oil,  Pitrick recognized,  and their  ignition had
 been a cruelly successful trick. But, very soon now,  the hill
 dwarves would pay for their cleverness.
   The stench of the black smoke wafted  past his  nostrils. He
 grimaced at the cloud, which still blocked  the center  of the
 hill dwarf defenses.  No matter,  he would  break them  to the
 left and to the right. He would destroy them!
   His  ambitions  called  his  mind  back  to  the  two black-
 plated  derro  who  stood  before him.  They watched  his face
 anxiously,  contorted  as  it was  by his  all-consuming rage.
 Hesitantly, one of them opened his mouth.
   "But,  Excellency," stammered  the grizzled  battle veteran.
 "They   fight   like  demons,   madly  possessed!   They  have
 weapons  and  discipline.  You,  yourself,  have  smelled  the
 noxious gasses they  cast -  and they  hide behind  that wall,
 out of our reach!"
   "And  the  fires!"  chimed  in  his  comrade.  "The  savants
 were totally blinded  - and  the rest  of the  troops suffered
 great pain!"
   "You fools! I will tolerate no further delay! Attack again!"
 Pitrick sputtered, his voice a shrill scream.
   "But -" A  sergeant opened  his mouth  to object,  then shut
 it when he saw the look in his commander's eyes.
   "No delay," Pitrick said, his voice  dropping to  a sinister
 hiss.  Unconsciously,  his hand  grasped the  five-headed iron
 amulet than hung at his chest. Blue  light seeped  between his
 fingers, and the eyes of his sergeants grew wide  with terror.
 The  light  seethed  like  thick  smoke  in  a  growing  cloud
 around  him, slowly  reaching toward  the cringing  figures of
 his warriors.
   Pitrick's vision vanished in the red blur of his  hatred. He
 clenched his teeth, his breath coming in hissing gasps,  as he
 again struggled to retain his self-control.
   "We  attack  now,  Excellency!"  stammered  one of  the ser-
 geants. They turned,  stumbling in  their eagerness  to escape
 their maddened leader.
   Pitrick took a pace after them, still tempted to  sizzle one

 of  them  into  nothingness  as a  lesson against  the conse-
 quences of failure. But that single  step sent  throbbing ar-
 rows of agony darting up his leg,  and he  winced, forgetting
 for the moment his recalcitrant subcommanders.
   By the dark  powers, his  foot hurt!  He screeched  his ag-
 ony, a sound of fury that frightened those troops within ear-
 shot. Then Pitrick limped after the  two sergeants.  He would
 find  the  savants, speak  to them  himself. Then  they would
 know the folly of retreat!
   He located, after long and painful minutes of  walking, the
 six robed figures of his spellcasting savants.  They squatted
 on the muddy ground  of the  field, pressing  cold compresses
 of slushy grass to their seared eyes.
   "Fools!  Idiots!  Morons!"   he  shrieked,   walking  among
 them and kicking the startled derro to their feet. "You can't
 stop now! The enemy strikes us  a blow,  then we  must strike
 him back - harder!"
   "But, Master," screeched  one, groveling  on his  knees and
 holding  his  eyes  downcast.  "Our  eyes...  we  can  barely
 see!"
   "Damn your eyes if you  don't get  up and  attack!" sneered
 the  hunchback.  "Come  with me!  We will  lay them  low with
 fire and sorcery! Stand up, you blathering  idiots -  we must
 lead the attack!"
   Slowly, reluctantly, the savants  rose. They  followed Pit-
 rick as he  limped forward,  forcing his  way over  the muddy
 ground, closer to the hill dwarf redoubt.
   As Pitrick marched, the pain  in his  foot became  worse, a
 driving,  pounding  awareness  that  threatened  to overwhelm
 every  other  sensation.  But the  hunchback used  that pain,
 turning it into a kind of brutal example to show his  men the
 true measure of their race. He marched harder and faster, in-
 tentionally punishing  himself, sneering  at the  weakness of
 those around him.
   His own vision suffered from the  flaring fires  across the
 field, but he forced himself to look  past those,  toward the
 enemy on top of the  low, sloping  wall. He  saw a  long rank
 of motley  hill dwarves  there, and  growled inwardly  at the
 thought that these puny specimens had  repulsed an  attack of

 the vaunted House Guard.
    They would not do so again.
    As  he  approached,  Pitrick  saw the  struggle that  was rag-
 ing  on  top of  the wall.  The Theiwar  were advancing  in small
 groups,  rushing  up  the sloping  wall, only  to meet  the sharp
 weapons  of  the  resolute  hill  dwarves  when they  reached the
 top. Each  attack broke  as the  derro died  atop the  wall, sur-
 vivors forced  backward to  fall, roll,  or run  to the  ditch at
 the bottom.
    "Now," Pitrick snapped, his shrill voice  calling for  the sa-
 vants'  undivided  attention.  "I  will show  you how  to attack!
 Without mercy - without hesitation!"
    He  grasped  the  iron  amulet  and  looked  along the  top of
 the redoubt, trying to identify the hill  dwarf leader.  The bat-
 tle  raging  between the  charging Theiwar  and the  staunch hill
 dwarves  made  it  difficult  to  see.  Once  again   he  watched
 some  of  his  elite  troops   thrown  back,   pushed  physically
 from the top of the wall by the tenacious enemy.
    Still, he only  needed to  find their  captain. Then  he would
 cast a single,  very potent  spell, and  all cohesion  would van-
 ish from his enemy's formation.
    Suddenly  he  froze, his  eyes locked  on a  long-haired dwarf
 near  the  center  of the  enemy position.  He blinked,  but then
 he  looked  again,  growing more  and more  certain of  his iden-
 tification. He  saw that  it was  a frawl,  and that  she chopped
 about  her  with an  axe, savagely  skillful. Her  auburn tresses
 burst free to swirl past her face.
    Perian Cyprium!
    "She  is  here!" Pitrick  cried aloud,  uncaring of  the sur-
 prised  looks  from   the  savants   behind  him.   Instantly  he
 raised  his  hand,  pointing his  index finger  right at  her. He
 could almost taste the effect of the fireball spell on this frawl
 he had come to both desire and hate so much.
    But  something  stayed  his  hand.  The  savants   waited  ex-
 pectantly as  he stared  at her.  The yearning  for her  was once
 again surging through his pain-racked body.
    Pitrick reached a decision. He would not burn her - yet.
 A fireball seemed too fast, too impersonal a way for Perian
 to die.  Far better  she saw  that it  was he  who took  her, and

 that   death   should  come   slowly...  afterward.   There  was
 even  the  chance  she  would  yet come  to appreciate  him, and
 for  a  moment  his  mind thrilled  to the  image of  Perian, on
 her  knees,  begging  for  mercy. A  part of  his mind  began to
 imagine  his  response.   Suddenly,  violently,   his  attention
 turned back to the battle.
   "Sound the fallback!" he shouted  to the  bugler, and,  to his
 savants: "Prepare your spells!"
   The  brass notes  of the  horn sounded  across the  field, and
 the  derro atop  the earthwork  quickly fell  back to  the rela-
 tive safety of the ditch at the bottom of the wall.
   At the same time his  eyes flickered  to Perian  again. Later,
 he told himself. Later I will have her. I will find her  and, by
 magic or might, claim her.
   "Now!" cried Pitrick. "Destroy them!"
   His  hand  clasped  the  medallion.  Blue  light  spilled forth,
 illuminating the hunchbacked derro with a chilling outline
 as he launched his spell.
   Violent magic exploded.

 * * * * *

   Basalt stood atop the redoubt on the right  side of  the posi-
 tion,  raising  his  axe, bashing  the mountain  dwarves, stand-
 ing firm. The battle had lasted less than an hour so far, yet it
 felt  as  though  his  life  had always  consisted of  this same
 muscle-aching  combat,  the  ringing   cacophony  of   pain  and
 death.
   At  first,  terror  had  consumed  him,  and  every   blow  he
 struck  had  been  a matter  of insuring  his own  personal sur-
 vival.  But,  with each  victory over  an individual  derro, his
 confidence  had  grown,  and  with  it his  rage. Now  he struck
 with  cold,  deadly anger,  slaying to  avenge his  father, Mol-
 doon,  and  all  the   other  unnamed   dwarves  that   he  knew
 were dying around him.
   Perian  fought  nearby,  astonishing  the  young   hill  dwarf
 with  her  skill  and  tenacity.  She  shouted  hoarsely  at her
 former    comrades.    The   black-armored    mountain   dwarves
 who  recognized  their former  captain hesitated  for but  a mo-
 ment before they tried to close with  her. But  their hesitation

 was  crucial. Swinging  her axe  with bone-crushing  force, she
 managed to fend off all their attacks.
   Basalt  saw  a  mountain dwarf  gain the  top of  the rampart
 between  himself  and  Perian.  The  warrior raised  his bloody
 axe and turned  toward the  frawl. Basalt  twisted to  his rear
 and  swept  the  Theiwar  from the  breastwork with  the savage
 cut of his axe.
   "Fine  work!"  said  Perian  with a  grin. Her  face, flushed
 with exertion, showed a glow of  exhilaration at  the intensity
 of the fight.
   Suddenly   a   bugle  sounded,   and  the   mountain  dwarves
 fell  back  from  the  breastwork. We  stopped them  again! Ba-
 salt cried inwardly with relief. But Perian spotted six figures
 moving  forward  through  the  ranks  of  the  thane's  troops.
 Then,  beside  them  she saw  the dark,  twisted figure  of her
 worst  nemesis  -  it could  only be  Pitrick. She  stared, mo-
 mentarily uncertain of the threat,  but then  she saw  the wash
 of  blue  light  and  her panic  galvanized her  into desperate
 action.
   "Get  down!"  Perian  cried,  throwing  herself flat  on the
 rampart.
   "What?" grunted Basalt,  even as  he, too,  flattened himself
 to the earth.
   He squinted into the night,  seeing a  tiny globule  of flame
 drift slowly  through the  air. It  danced forward,  toward the
 redoubt, to a place just to the right of Basalt's  and Perian's
 position. Basalt thought that the tiny ball was  rather pretty,
 though that instantly struck him as incongruous.
   But  nothing  could  have  prepared him  for the  horror that
 happened next.
   The  dot  of  fire  drifted  onto the  top of  the breastwork
 among  a  huddled  group  of   dwarves.  Then   it  instantane-
 ously erupted into a huge, globelike  inferno of  death. Basalt
 felt  the heat  from the  nearby explosion  singe his  skin and
 hair.  He heard  screams of  terror and  pain, yet  saw nothing
 for precious moments against the brightness of the fireball.
   But then the fire faded, and he stared in  dull shock  at the
 charred  bodies  of  the hill  and gully  dwarves who  had been
 unfortunate enough to  be within  the fireball's  killing zone.

 The  stench of  burned flesh  carried past  him on  the breeze,
 sickening  him.  He  could  not bring  himself to  believe that
 those  blackened, stiff  shapes had  ever been  living dwarves.
 The corpses looked like statues carved from charcoal.
   Then  Basalt  saw  more  sparks,  more  light,  explode  from
 the  dark-robed  dwarves.  The  hill dwarf  looked up  in shock
 as  crackling  bolts  of  energy hissed  and exploded  over his
 head. With  horror he  saw a  pair of  hill dwarves  - lifelong
 neighbors - fall lifeless, slain instantly by the strike of the
 magic.  Screams  erupted  from  the  line,  and  Basalt  sensed
 panic arising in his own heart.
   The  savants  chanted  a  new  sound,  and hail  erupted from
 the  clear  skies  overhead  to  pummel  those  on  the breast-
 work.  Basalt  clapped  his  hands  over  his head  and pressed
 his face into the dirt, waiting for this nightmare to end.
   Large  round  stones  of  ice  hammered  his  body,  smashing
 against  his  skin, numbing  his hands,  pounding a  savage ca-
 dence of pain  into his  skull. He  cried out  with agony  as a
 large  ice  ball cracked  his elbow,  and when  another pounded
 him brutally  in the  kidney. Holding  his breath  and gritting
 his teeth,  Basalt struggled  to maintain  consciousness, know-
 ing  that he  could not  stand another  minute of  this punish-
 ment.
   The unnatural  storm ceased  as suddenly  as it  had started.
 For a moment a low, rumbling  stillness fell  over the  field -
 not  exactly  silence,   for  many   Aghar  and   hill  dwarves
 groaned  in  pain  along   the  ice-hammered   redoubt.  Basalt
 winced  as  he  struggled  to his  knees, seeing  other dwarves
 slowly climbing to their feet. We've got to  hold them  off, he
 told himself.
   "Wait!" hissed Perian, pushing him back down.
   Now  the hill  dwarf heard  the sharp  clunk of  heavy cross-
 bow fire. Metal  bolts raked  the top  of the  breastwork where
 many  battered,  exhausted  hill dwarves  gasped for  breath. A
 few,  like  Perian  and Basalt,  had dropped  to the  ground in
 time. Most still stood, fully exposed to the lethal volley.

 * * * * *

 "To the brewery!" shouted Flint, Tybalt, Hildy, and ev-

 eryone  else  who  knew  the  plan.  The  stone  walls  of  that
 structure  would  provide  a  last  bastion of  security, though
 they all realized that it meant  leaving the  town in  the hands
 of their rapacious enemy.
   Flint  stopped  in  the  center  of  town,  watching  the hill
 dwarves  stream  past.  Small  bands  of  gully  dwarves  scram-
 bled  along  with  the  larger   brethren.  Perian   and  Tybalt
 joined  him  while  Hildy and  Basalt went  to organize  the de-
 fense of the brewery.
   "Damn!"  the  constable  cursed.  "I  thought  we  were  going
 to hold them!"
   "We tried," said Flint. "Now it's up to the stone walls of the
 brewery. We've got to stop them there!"
   "Basalt  all  right?"  Tybalt  asked  Perian.  The  blossoming
 fireballs and hissing  magic missiles  had been  clearly visible
 to the other hill dwarf defenders.
   "Fine - he's getting the defenses  organized at  the brewery,"
 she replied. "The magic really  raked us  on the  right, though.
 I'm afraid we lost two score or  more." She  turned to  Flint as
 Tybalt started off to join the defenders at the brewery.
   "That  many,  maybe  a  few  more,  fell  on the  other side,"
 said  Flint,  trying  to keep  his voice  level. The  picture of
 Garf's  surprised  look and  Bernhard's valiant  charge lingered
 in his mind.
   Perian's  soft   smile  showed   that  she   understood.  "And
 you,  with  that axe!  I could  see you  clear across  the wall,
 swinging it like you were blazing a trail."
   "Wasn't I?" Flint asked, grimly.
   "Yes.  But  so many  of our  own have  fallen, too,"  Perian ob-
 served quietly as most of the rest of their force moved past.
   The last few hill dwarves trotted by.  Up the  road, Pitrick's
 marching  Theiwar  could  be  heard  plainly, still  an interval
 away   but   resolutely   advancing   through   the  defenseless
 town.
   "Let's get to cover," Flint suggested.
   "Wait," said Perian. "I want to check for more of the
 Wedgies - I saw Fester leading a group into the village."
   "There's  no  time!"  Flint  objected,  groaning. Yet  he knew
 they could not leave their  charges in  the village,  exposed to

 the  Theiwar  attackers,  if  there  was  any chance  of getting
 them to safety.
   "I'll just be a minute," Perian said. "Keep the gate  open for
 me."
   Swallowing  his  further  objections,  since  they  would just
 waste  time,  Flint  said,  "Hurry!"  Then  he  watched  as  she
 darted  between  a  pair  of  buildings  toward   the  direction
 taken  by  Fester.  With  an anxious  look up  the road,  he was
 mildly relieved to  see no  sign yet  of the  advancing mountain
 dwarves.  Flint broke  into a  run, and  soon rounded  the curve
 in the road that took him toward the brewery.
   The  stone wall  of that  enclave now  loomed ahead,  the last
 battlement  of  the  defenders  of Hillhome.  But a  strong bas-
 tion it  might prove  to be;  only one  gate provided  access to
 the  courtyard within  that wall,  which was  six to  eight feet
 thick at its base. The brewery consisted  of three  buildings: a
 barn,  the  vat  house,  and  an  office  and  storage building.
 Each  of  these  three  structures  was  placed inside  the com-
 pound, against one of the courtyard's four walls.
   At  the  gate  he found  Ruberik and  Tybalt, together  with a
 dozen  armed  hill  dwarves.  This group  waited in  the street,
 holding the gate  open while  they tried  to ascertain  that all
 the defenders had passed inside.
   "The  vat  house  windows   are  blocked,"   reported  Tybalt.
 "There's  a  hundred  of us  in there,  with swords,  spears and
 pitchforks - and also, the Wedgies. I  don't think  the derro'll
 be coming in that way."
   "Is everyone inside now?" asked Flint.
   "This  is  most of  us," said  Ruberik as  a dozen  more hill
 dwarves,  led  by  Turq  Hearthstone,  sprinted around  a corner
 and joined the group at the gate.
   "I didn't see anyone back  there," Turq  gasped. "I  think ev-
 eryone's  gotten  away  -  at  least,  everyone who  could still
 walk," he added grimly.
   "I'll stand at the gate," said Flint. "We can hold it open for
 another  minute.  At  least  until  we  can  see  them  coming."
 Hurry,  Perian,  he  urged silently.  "Can you  go into  the vat
 house?"  Flint  asked  Tybalt  and  Ruberik.  "See   how  Basalt
 and  Hildy  are  faring.  We've got  to be  ready for  an attack

 from behind."
   The two  Fireforge brothers  nodded at  Flint. Each  of them
 clasped  one  of his  hands and  for a  moment they  stood to-
 gether  in  silence.  "You  and Basalt  have given  Hillhome a
 chance,"  Ruberik  said  quietly to  Flint. "And  whatever the
 outcome, we're all grateful for that."
   Flint  cleared  his  throat awkwardly  and winked.  "What do
 you  mean,  'whatever  the outcome'?"  His brothers  smiled at
 his forced joviality, then turned to pass through the gate.
   Looking up at the high  stone wall,  Flint thought  that his
 village just might  have a  chance. True,  they would  be sur-
 rounded, cut off  from escape  or food  supply. But  the moun-
 tain  dwarves would  have difficulty  attacking them.  If they
 could  hold  the Theiwar  off for  a while  - though  how long
 such a while might be,  he had  no idea  - they  might outlast
 their dark-dwelling foe.
   Then  Flint  turned  and  looked  up  the  street.  He heard
 sounds  of  the  enemy approaching,  but as  yet he  could see
 nothing in the distant darkness.
   Where was Perian?

 * * * * *

   Darting  around  the  corner  of  an  old  warehouse, Perian
 looked up and down the side street.  When she  saw no  sign of
 Aghar, she didn't know whether to be relieved or worried.
   Then  she  heard  a  sound coming  from the  open door  of a
 darkened  greengrocer's  shop.  Crouching, she  slipped across
 the street and looked into the store.
   "Hi,  Queen  Furryend!  Get food  for fort!"  'Fester beamed
 at her, looking up from her efforts at collecting bacon, pick-
 les,  and  other  provisions. The  Aghar's mouth  was outlined
 in  white sugar  - apparently  some of  her supplies  would be
 transported  internally  -  but  her  apron bulged  with food.
 Other  gully  dwarves  moved  forward  from  the   shadows  at
 the rear of  the store,  laden with  pork, cheese,  bread, and
 melons.
     "Good, Fester - that's great! But you've got to hurry,
 now! Are there more of you near here?"
   Fester  nodded  her head.  "More get  hungry and  get food."

   "Good!  Now,  run to  the fort  as fast  as you  can!" Perian
 barked the command sharply.
   Fester  looked   momentarily  puzzled,   but  then   dashed  for
 the  door.  The  other  Aghar, nearly  a dozen  in all,  raced be-
 hind the "weighty lady."
   Perian  followed   them  from   the  store,   looking  anxiously
 up the  side street.  She heard  the tromp  of heavy  footsteps to
 the  west,  though  the  derro  were  still  some  distance  away.
 With  relief,  she  saw  Fester  and  her companions  disappear in
 the direction of the brewery.
   Were  there  any  more  stragglers?   She  looked   around,  her
 sensitive  eyes  seeing  well  in  the  darkness;  she  spotted no
 Aghar.  The  sounds  of   armored  dwarves   on  the   march  came
 closer  on  Main Street,  but still  there were  no derro  on this
 side avenue.
   Pivoting   smoothly,   she  turned   toward  the   brewery.  The
 structure was visible at the limits of her vision, its  tall, fea-
 tureless  wall  offering  protection.  The  gate  lay  just around
 the  corner,  and  there  she  would  find  Flint.  A  quick,  low
 dash,  and she  would reach  the shelter  of that  fortress before
 the attacking Theiwar.
   A  blue wash  of light  spilled through  the street,  and Perian
 knew that Pitrick was near.
   "Come!"  The  lone  word  echoed  through   the  night   out  of
 nowhere.  She  heard  the  savant's  voice as  she tried  to break
 into a  run, but  something in  the power  of his  voice -  in the
 power of his word - held her step.
   Perian  whirled  to  face him,  ready to  shriek her  hatred and
 revulsion.  Instead,  she  took  a  step  toward  him.  Gaping  in
 astonishment,  she  looked  down  at  her  feet  even as  she took
 another step toward the repulsive hunchback.
   "I knew I'd find you!" he crowed.
   Perian tried to articulate  a challenge,  or to  raise her  axe in
 defense.  But  her  mouth  clamped   shut,  beyond   her  control,
 while  her  arms  hung  slack at  her sides.  She felt,  but could
 not  stop,   her  axe   slipping  from   her  numb   fingers.  The
 weapon dropped to the ground.
   Again that blue light surged, and she saw its reflection in
 Pitrick's eyes. He leered at her, all but licking his lips, as she

 stumbled   forward   another  step.   Perian  thought   of  the
 walled fort, of Flint waiting for her at  the gate.  The knowl-
 edge halted  her advance  as she  resolutely planted  her feet,
 ignoring the compelling power of Pitrick's spell.
   But the derro raised his  hand and  curtly gestured  her for-
 ward.  Once  again  she took  a step  toward him,  fighting the
 impulse  with  every ounce  of her  will, but  helpless against
 the grip of  his power.  Perian stared  at the  hideous figure,
 cocky  in  his  deformed  stance,  the grotesque  hump pressing
 him   into   his  forward-stooping   posture.  His   huge  eyes
 gleamed at her, glowing like dire beacons in the night.
   Flint! She wanted to  cry his  name, to  fall into  his arms,
 but instead there was only the  grinning apparition  of Pitrick
 before  her,  growing  larger  with  each  inevitable footstep.
 The hunchback planted his  fists on  his hips,  sneering confi-
 dently as Perian stumbled  closer still.  In moments  she would
 be within his reach; he seemed to take  a perverse  pleasure in
 bringing   her   toward  him,   while  he   remained  immobile,
 waiting.
   Her attention riveted to  that hateful  face, Perian  felt as
 though she and Pitrick w, re the only beings in  the world  - a
 world  that  had  become  very   forlorn  indeed.   Blue  light
 seeped from his amulet,  and it  was the  only light  she knew.
 Blindly,  helplessly, she  stepped toward  him again,  and once
 more.
   A  few  more paces  would take  her to  his side.  She strug-
 gled to speak, to cry out,  but her  mouth remained  slack, her
 arms frozen at her  sides. Only  her feet  moved in  that slow,
 doomful cadence.
   "Come,  spiteful  wench.  Come,  and feel  the touch  of your
 master!  Come,  and meet  your death!"  Pitrick threw  back his
 head and laughed into the night.
   Perian took a  final step  and then  stood before  him. Waves
 of  despair tormented  her soul.  Pitrick reached  forward with
 a  clenched,  clawlike  hand,  raising  his fingers  toward her
 face.
   He touched her cheek.
   Pain  flashed  through  her skin  as he  made contact.  His ca-
 ress was like a shot of vile sickness, far worse than the clean

 wound  of  a  steel  blade.  Sheets of  agony wracked  her body,
 bringing hot tears to her eyes.
   And, finally, the pain broke the thrall of  his magic.  With a
 groan,  Perian crumpled  to her  knees, clasping  a hand  to the
 cheek  he  had  touched.  She  twisted  away  from  Pitrick. She
 was free.
   "You disgust me!" she spat, leaping back to her feet.
   Pitrick  stepped  backward  in  momentary  surprise.  At  the
 same time, blue  magic erupted  from his  amulet, but  the light
 diffused through the night, out of its master's control.
   "Stop!" he cried, groping for his axe.
   But  Perian,  too,  was  beyond  his control  now. She  felt for
 her  own  weapon,  remembering  that  her  axe had  fallen from
 her   hands.  The   march  of   the  advancing   derro  sounded
 around  her,  and  she  knew  that   the  Theiwar   would  soon
 come to their commander's rescue.
   Desperately,  her   fingers  reached   toward  her   belt  and
 closed about  the hilt  of the  small knife  - her  only weapon.
 She raised it and slashed wildly, feeling a grim satisfaction as
 the  blade  drove  into  Pitrick's  hastily  raised  forearm. He
 screamed   and   slumped  backward,   tearing  the   blade  from
 her grip.
   Perian  jerked  away  and  saw  the  charging forms  of black-
 armored  mountain  dwarves  in  the  darkness   beyond  Pitrick.
 Some animal instinct  in her  wanted to  stay, to  keep striking
 him until  he was  dead, but  her rational  side told  her there
 wasn't time.
   She  turned  and  sprinted  toward  the  brewery,  hearing the
 savant's  hysterical  shrieks  of  hatred. She  did not  see him
 reach for his amulet, though  the blue  light flared  before she
 could  dart  around  the  corner.  Lightning   crackled  through
 the night.

 * * * * *

   "Hurry!"  Flint cried,  overcome with  relief as  Perian stum-
 bled  toward  him.   The  Theiwar   troops  advanced   down  the
 road behind her, but  he swept  her into  his arms  and together
 they  tumbled  through  the  gate.  Other  hill  dwarves slammed
 the  heavy  portals  shut  and  dropped the  bars to  lock them.

   "You made it!" he grinned, gasping for breath and rolling
 over to look at Perian. "I was so worried!"
   She smiled weakly and took his hand in hers. He  was sur-
 prised to see that it was covered with blood. Then his eyes
 widened in horror as he saw the  deep wounds,  blistered by
 hot magic, in her back and along her left side.
   "Perian!" he cried in disbelief.
   Her smile slowly faded.

                       Chapter 24

                    When Gods Collide

    "She's - they're getting away!" Pitnick's voice ex-
 ploded in a  shrill screech  of outrage.  "Incompetent fools!
 You're letting them escape!"
   Watching  Perian  slip  away,   the  hunchback   limped  into
 the main street, his hand clasped over the wound in  his arm.
 His hatred of Perian and all that she stood for flared to new
 heights,  causing him  to tremble  beyond control.  Flecks of
 spit drooled, unnoticed, from his lips as  he raved.  Her es-
 cape only served to  inflame him  further. Through  the smoke
 of the lightning bolt  he'd cast,  he had  seen that  she was
 mightily  wounded.  Despite  this  knowledge,  Pitrick  could
 think only of total, mindless destruction.
  "Excellency, please!" pleaded one of his battle-weary ser-

  geants.  The  leader of  the derro  looked up  at him,  smoke and
  grime smeared across the white  skin of  his face.  His bristling
  beard  and  hair  had  many   scorched  patches,   singed  during
  the battle.
    "The  hill  dwarves  have  gathered  in  one  large  building -
  they  have  not   gotten  away!"   The  warrior   spoke  quickly,
  fearful  of  his  commander's  wrath.  "They  are  trapped there,
  waiting for us to draw tight the noose!"
    Pitrick  dropped  his  fist,  a  thin  smile creasing  his gro-
  tesque face. "Trapped? All of them?"
    "All that  we could  see, sir.  It's a  stout building,  with a
  heavy gate. But I think we can bash it down."
    "Good.  Very  good."  The  hunchback   abruptly  sat   down  on
  the street, thinking. His face lightened still further as an idea
  occurred to him.
    "Let the  hill dwarf  scum sit  and watch  while we  burn their
  village!" Pitrick ordered, springing to his feet. "Put  the torch
  to   every   building,  every   barn,  every   pile  of   hay  in
  Hillhome!"   He   imagined   the   conflagration   consuming  the
  town around him, and the thought gave him much pleasure.
    "Excellency,  I  have  a suggestion,"  said the  sergeant, with
  unusual courage.
    Pitrick looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then
  gestured for the derro to speak.
    "It  will  be  dawn  soon  -  no  more  than  an hour  to first
  light, and in another  hour the  sun will  drive us  under cover.
  I  urge  that  we  attack the  hill dwarves  immediately, destroy
  them  now,  while  darkness  still  surrounds  us.  Then  we  can
  destroy their town at our leisure.
    "But,  if  we  stop  to  burn  now,"  the  sergeant  continued,
  knowing  he  risked  his  life  by  daring  to  suggest   a  plan
  counter  to  the  idea  of  his  temperamental   commander,  "the
  sun will rise before the battle  is concluded,  and we  will have
  given the hill dwarves another day of life."
    Without  pause,  the  sergeant  rushed  on.  "The  hill dwarves
  have   already   proven   resourceful   and    treacherous.   Who
  knows  what  they  will do  while the  sun shines  and we  are at
  the  disadvantage. Excellency,  we are  on the  verge of  a great
  victory! I urge you to finish the fight  now, while  this victory

 is within our grasp!"
   Pitrick  grew  suddenly,  ominously  calm. Then  he spoke.
 "Very well. We  will destroy  the enemy  first. Now,  where is
 this building that shelters them?"
   The derro sergeant, concealing a  sigh of  relief, described
 the brewery to the adviser  as they  walked up  Hillhome's de-
 serted  Main  Street. Pitrick  knew that  his savants  had ex-
 pended  their most  potent spells  against the  earthwork, and
 would be of little use in the next battle. They would  need to
 spend  many  hours  studying  their  spellbooks   before  they
 could again cast  the volleys  of magic  missiles or  storm of
 hail that had proven so decisive on the wall.
   And  Pitrick,  too,  had  employed  most  of his  spells al-
 ready.  One or  two might  prove useful  in breaking  into the
 fortress, and then there were several he saved for his antici-
 pated confrontation with Perian and  the insolent  Flint Fire-
 forge.
   Unconsciously, Pitrick fingered the  dark battle-axe  at his
 side.  He  had not  yet used  it, but  he looked  forward with
 cruel anticipation to the chance to drive it into a hill dwarf
 body. Perhaps even  Flint Fireforge  would find  himself tast-
 ing the bitter steel of that Theiwar blade.
   They came to the brewery,  and Pitrick  quickly took  in the
 formidable nature of the  position. The  gate was  the obvious
 vulnerable point, but he  would also  send his  forces against
 the walls, using makeshift ladders,  poles, and  whatever else
 they  could  find.  He had  no doubt  that they  would quickly
 break into the last-ditch fortress.
   His  subcommanders  gathered  around,  waiting  for  his or-
 ders. "We will take them here. Attack from all sides.
   "And as for the gate," Pitrick said to his sergeant. "Make a
 battering ram."

 * * * * *

   The  derro  hurled themselves  at the  stone-walled brewery,
 assaulting it  from every  side. They  scrambled up  the steep
 wall, they bashed against the gate, and  they pressed  hard to
 break  through  the  barricaded windows  along the  back wall.
 Everywhere the defenders stood firm.

   Some of the Theiwar laid long  poles against  the top  of the
 wall,  and slowly  inched up  these crude  ramps in  an attempt
 to force their way over  the barrier.  Others found  ladders in
 nearby  barns  and  shops  and  used  them  to climb  the walls
 more directly.
   But  the  top was  several feet  wide, and  this made  a good
 platform for the defenders. In several places,  mud-slick piles
 of  earth from  inside the  compound had  been used  to bolster
 the walls. The sloping surfaces of these served as  easy routes
 to  the top,  allowing many  hill and  gully dwarves  to scram-
 ble up.
   The  defenders  fought  resolutely. The  Aghar of  the Creep-
 ing  Wedgie,  organized  by  Nomscul  and  Fester, found  a new
 use for their shields, conking the derro on the head as the en-
 emy reached the  top of  the wall.  The hill  dwarves, inspired
 by  Fidelia  Fireforge and  Turq Hearthstone,  used pitchforks,
 shovels, and spears to strike  at the  derro climbing  the lad-
 ders.  They  learned  to knock  the poles  aside and  drive the
 ladders toppling to the ground.
   To  the  rear  of  the  compound,  more Theiwar  hurled them-
 selves  with  savage  abandon   against  the   barricaded  win-
 dows.  They  hacked  the  wooden  barriers to  pieces, flinging
 themselves  through  the  narrow  openings  this  created. But,
 within  the  vat-house,  Basalt and  Hildy directed  an equally
 savage  defense.  Each  attacking  derro  no   sooner  squirmed
 through  the  entrance  than was  impaled by  the weapons  of a
 half-dozen  hill  dwarves.  Soon  the  bodies of  the attackers
 piled up, creating an additional obstacle to the Theiwar.
   The gate was  the weakest  point of  the defense,  though be-
 hind it stood a sturdy company of  hill dwarf  fighters. Tybalt
 Fireforge stood with  these, watching  the creaking  gates. The
 portals  swung  farther  with each  crash of  the ram,  and the
 cracking  of  the  beams  became  more  and  more   visible  as
 dawn's light diffused through the courtyard.
   Then, creaking and splintering, the gates began to
 collapse.

 * * * * *

 Flint barely noticed the heavy pounding at the gate. He

 held  Perian's  limp  form  in his  arms. She  was unconscious,
 her breathing shallow and weak.
   He had  enlisted Fidelia's  and Ruberik's  help to  carry her
 into  the  storeroom, where  he tried  to make  her comfortable
 on a bed of hay and blankets.
   Ruberik  stayed  with  him. He  brought water  in a  tin cup,
 though  Perian  was  not  aware  enough  to  drink.   He  stood
 awkwardly  to  the  side,  not  wanting  to intrude  on Flint's
 grief, yet offering any help that he could.
   Finally, Flint looked up at his brother, after trying to stem
 the bleeding as best as he could. In his  heart, he  knew there
 was nothing more he could do.
   The brothers' eyes met in a  pain-filled gaze.  "You'd better
 get  out  there,"  Flint said  hoarsely. "I'll  be... following
 along." He could say  no more,  dropping his  head to  hide his
 tears.
   "I'm sorry, Flint," replied the  gruff farmer.  Ruberik shuf-
 fled wearily out the door.
   Flint  turned  back  to  Perian. She  looked as  beautiful as
 ever to him. A few strands  of coppery  hair curled  across her
 forehead, but the skin below that hair  was so  pale, now  - so
 horribly pale. And at Perian's too-white  throat Flint  saw the
 aspen leaf necklace.
   Suddenly her eyes fluttered open,  and Flint's  heart leaped.
 She  smiled  at  him  weakly,  and  her  hand  closed,  ever so
 faintly, around his. Her lips parted  slightly, but  she didn't
 have the strength to speak.
   "My  Perian..."  Flint  said,  choking  the words  around his
 tears. Her hand tightened once more, breaking his heart.
   And then she was gone. Flint held  her long  afterward, still
 unaware of  the battle  outside. His  grief threatened  to tear
 him apart. He felt as though he  never wanted  to leave,  to do
 anything again.
   But as the chaos of the battle grew to a crescendo,  his pain
 slowly changed, burning  its way  from his  heart to  his soul.
 And  as  it  moved,  his  mourning  became   anger,  developing
 into a hot, blazing rage that at last  compelled him  to return
 to the fight, and to kill those who had slain Perian.
      The gates of the brewery splintered open, and even from

  within the building Flint sensed  the urgency  of the  fight. He
  reached for  the axe  Perian had  returned to  him back  in Mud-
  hole,  cursing  with surprise  as the  weapon's haft  burned his
  hand.   The   white  glow   of  the   Tharkan  Axe   had  become
  tinged with red, as the metal itself heated like an iron  bar in
  a smith's forge.
    Without   thinking,   Flint   looked  around   the  storeroom,
  quickly  spotting  a pair  of leather  gauntlets. He  drew these
  over  his  hands,  and  then  picked  up  the  gleaming  weapon.
  Its razor sharp blade gleamed clean, ready to drink again.
    Flint  charged  the  door  of  the  storeroom  and   threw  it
  open,  looking  upon  a scene  of mass  confusion in  the court-
  yard.  The  derro  had  smashed  open  the  gate  with  a  heavy
  battering  ram  and  now  poured   into  the   enclosure,  where
  they were met by a sturdy line of hill dwarves.
    He  concentrated  his gaze,  looking for  one hated  form. Fi-
  nally  Flint  saw  the  hunchback,  limping  along   behind  the
  leading mountain dwarves.
    "Pitrick!"  he  bellowed,  charging  into  the  courtyard. The
  force of his voice carried even  above the  din, and  several of
  the  mountain  dwarves,  including  the thane's  adviser, turned
  toward him.
    "Come  and  die!"  Flint  challenged. He  raised his  axe, and
  though  its  unnatural   light  was   somewhat  mutted   in  the
  growing illumination of dawn, it  drew the  derro's eyes  like a
  hypnotic token.
    "Fireforge,"  breathed Pitrick,  watching Flint's  advance for
  just  one  moment.  Then  the  hunchback  seized the  five heads
  of his iron amulet,  and that  cold blue  light poured  from the
  magic token.
    "Reorx  curse  your  cowardly  skin!"  Flint  growled, sprint-
  ing  toward  the  savant.  He  knew  he  would  never  reach him
  before Pitrick cast his spell. Oddly, he felt no fear of his own
  death;  just  an  overwhelming  sense  of  sadness that  so much
  other killing would remain unavenged.
    Pitrick's sneer was all the answer he  spared for  his victim,
  then  the  derro  barked  the  harsh  command  for his  spell. A
  bolt  of  lightning  suddenly sizzled  from his  hand, exploding
  toward  Flint  in  a  blast  of  magical  death. The  hill dwarf

 howled  his rage,  squinting against  the blast  of approaching
 magic, but not faltering in his charge.
   Then  the  Tharkan Axe  blinked brightly,  and a  white burst
 of  light  overpowered  the  pale  dawn  and caused  Pitrick to
 close his eyes, crying out in pain. The axe shone as the light-
 ning  bolt  crackled  into  Flint, and  suddenly the  spell was
 gone,   inexplicably  snuffed.   Whatever  the   reason,  Flint
 dimly realized it had something to do with the axe.
   "Now you'll fight,  scum!" hollered  Flint in  savage exulta-
 tion.  For  reasons  he did  not stop  to contemplate,  the axe
 would protect him from Pitrick's magic!
   Other  mountain  dwarf  troops  stepped  in  the   way.  Sud-
 denly  one  of  these  was  bashed  away  by  Tybalt.  Then Ru-
 berik stepped  to Flint's  side, knocking  back another  of the
 savant's protectors.
   "Face  my  blade,  you  miserable  coward!"  called  the king
 of  the  gully  dwarves,  until  only  one guard  stood between
 Flint  and  Pitrick.  He was  charged by  Fidelia, who  cut him
 down with a blow.
   "A  hill  dwarf will  never best  a mountain  dwarf," Pitrick
 said, his  tone threatening,  challenging. Trembling  with both
 fear and joyous  anticipation Pitrick  raised his  axe finally,
 knowing  that  he  could not  defeat this  hill dwarf  with his
 spells.  Flint raised  the Tharkan  Axe and  the weapon  lit up
 the courtyard.
   Resolutely,  the  two  leaders  hammered  their   blades  to-
 gether.  The  hunchback  was  surprisingly  strong,   and  both
 dwarves  staggered  back  from  the  impact  of  their combined
 blow.  The  ringing noise  filled the  courtyard, and  the hill
 dwarf found a savage satisfaction in the clash.
   Flint pressed quickly forward,  feeling the  heat of  his own
 weapon  through  his  gloves.  They  clashed  again,  and  once
 again  fell  back  from  the  resounded collision.  Scowling in
 concentration, Flint focused all his  strength, his  skill, and
 his  hatred  against  the  repugnant  derro  before  him. Again
 and  again  he  raised  the  blade  high, driving  forward with
 earthshaking blows that Pitrick somehow deflected.
   Flint sensed  the fight  around them  stopping, as  derro and
 hill dwarf alike paused to watch the  duel between  their lead-

 ers.  A  hundred  individual combats  waned, forgotten  in the
 periphery of this fight to the death.
   Flint and Pitrick raged back and forth, axes  clashing, fine
 steel meeting steel, backed  by muscle  and fury.  The thane's
 adviser  attacked  with  bestial  savagery.  Suddenly  he flew
 forward,  unleashing  a storm  of lighting-quick  blows. Flint
 fell back, desperately deflecting  the mountain  dwarf's cuts.
 The  Tharkan  Axe  blocked  every  assault,  the  haft growing
 hotter  and  hotter  under  his palms,  until even  his gloves
 could not protect him. Ignoring the  searing pain,  Flint held
 his axe tighter - he would cling to it until death  or victory
 freed his grip.
   Suddenly  Pitrick  lurched  away.  The quick  retreat caught
 Flint off guard, and he instantly  crouched, watching  his op-
 ponent warily.
   Again the savant  seized the  iron amulet  that hung  at his
 neck and raised his fist toward Flint. With a sharp hiss, like
 hot rocks dropped into water,  a line  of blue  sparks erupted
 from  the  Theiwar's  hand.  The embers  seemed to  hunger for
 Flint's flesh as they rushed toward him. Swirling  like living
 things, the sparks formed a ring around him.
   Desperately  the  hill  dwarf  raised  the  Tharkan  Axe and
 stumbled  backward.  The  gleaming  blade  bit  into  the blue
 fire as if the flame were a solid body, striking true with the
 keen, avenging steel.  Once, twice,  and again  Flint chopped,
 each  time with  growing force,  breaking through  the circlet
 of  magic,  knocking the  stream of  sparks to  pieces. Slowly
 the pieces settled to the ground, and the arcane magic  of the
 amulet  lay  as  twisted  ringlets  of  harmless smoke  on the
 ground.
   Both  dwarves  sprang  at  the  other,  and  once  again the
 fight  became  a  test  of  physical  strength  and endurance.
 Blinking his eyes to clear the sweat  away, Flint  ignored his
 fatigue.  He saw  only the  hateful face  of his  enemy before
 him, and his  own hatred  coalesced with  Pitrick's to  form a
 cocoon  of  berserk rage  around them.  The derro  smashed his
 axe again and again  against Flint's  blade, but  suddenly the
 hill  dwarf  saw  his  opening.  Ducking  backward  before the
 Theiwar swung, Flint waited until  the derro's  attack swished

 harmlessly past his face.
   Then he stepped in, putting every bit of the strength in his
 toughened muscles behind the  blow. All  his hatred  and fury,
 all of his overpowering  grief came  together, focused  by the
 driving power of his weapon. Pitrick tried  to twist  away, to
 turn or parry the punishing blow, but in  his last  instant he
 knew he would not succeed. Finally, for a brief  second, Flint
 saw those mad  eyes grow  still madder,  this time  from stark
 terror.
   It was a sight he would savor for a long time.
   The Tharkan Axe  cut a  silver streak  through the  air, meet-
 ing the savant's neck below his helmet  and above  his breast-
 plate. The blade made a clean cut, severing  the heads  of his
 amulet, then his skin and muscle.
   The  blade  finally  came  to  rest  near  Pitrick's  heart,
 jammed  tightly  into  his  collarbone  and  breastplate.  The
 Theiwar    commander    staggered   backward,    tugging   the
 weapon out of Flint's  hand. Pitrick's  blood soaked  the once
 shiny blade of the  Tharkan Axe,  sizzling and  scorching from
 the fiery heat of the metal. As he watched in disbelief, Flint
 saw the blade grow cherry red.
   Pitrick's  body  twisted,  then  sagged  to  the  ground. He
 dropped to his knees with a groan, looking in disbelief at the
 blood that spread in a growing circle  around him.  Finally he
 collapsed on his face in the mud, the pool of his  blood grow-
 ing ever larger.
   And the world went mad.
   The first rays of sun crept over  the eastern  ridge, spilling
 light into the town. Flint scarcely breathed as he  reached to
 retrieve  his  weapon.  The  Tharkan  Axe in  Pitrick's chest,
 nestled  against  the  remains  of  the   five-headed  amulet,
 glowed red, so hot that Flint could not even touch  it through
 his gloves.
   Suddenly  it  burst  into   flames.  White   smoke  billowed
 from  the  fire. The  cloud hissed  forth, snaking  upward and
 rapidly spreading into the sky.
   Simultaneously, the severed heads on the amulet began to
 writhe like snakes, hissing, spewing a great cloud of black
 smoke.  This  dark vapor,  too, poured  into the  air, growing

 like a living thing,  writhing and  twisting its  way upward.
 The  two  clouds met,  spuming around  each other,  but each
 remained separate in a shocking contrast  of light  and dark.
 The dawn sun  reflected from  the white  smoke with  a bright
 glare, but the black vapor seemed to absorb the  light, suck-
 ing the energy from the air and giving nothing back.
   Flint  stumbled  away  from  the  clouds, stunned  by their
 sudden  incarnation. The  sight frightened  him in  some sub-
 conscious fashion with a terror he  could not  articulate but
 that chilled him to his soul.
   The  warring  dwarves  in the  courtyard watched  in amaze-
 ment  and backed  away in  fear. The  dense trails  of smoke,
 both white and  black, grew  larger and  larger and  began to
 coalesce  vaguely  into  the  shapes  of  humanoid  heads:  a
 beautiful,  dark-haired  human  woman  with  blood  red  lips
 and   almond-shaped   eyes;   and  a   gray-bearded,  fierce-
 looking  harrn  dwarf,  his  eyes  radiating  anger.  The  two
 foggy shapes hovered above the brewery.
   The  clouds  writhed together  and apart,  almost as  if in
 combat -  though an  eerie, silent,  and ephemeral  battle it
 was. They grew still larger, filling the sky above the entire
 town.  At  the  base  of  the  intermingled  black  and white
 clouds, the amulet and the axe crackled with white  hot fire,
 an  arc  of  hissing  power sizzling  between them.  The heat
 drove Flint still farther back, though he could not avert his
 eyes from the spectacle.
   Suddenly, there came  a terrific  rumbling sound,  and then
 slowly the  earth beneath  the dwarves'  feet began  to shake
 and tremble. The  ground rippled  like water,  shaking stones
 loose  from  the  brewery  walls,  knocking  Flint  and every
 dwarf in view off of their  feet. Many  of the  wooden build-
 ings began to fall like matchstick shelters.
   Wisps  of  the  black  smoke  trailed  through   the  town,
 touching  off  fires  where  they struck  the dry  timbers of
 buildings  whole,  or  ruined. In  moments the  flames roared
 upward,   and   Hillhome  became   a  nightmare   of  hungry,
 crackling blazes.
   The dwarves in the  courtyard of  the brewery  scattered in
 fear, trampling each other to get through the gate first. The

 Theiwar  were  the  first  out  of  town,  running  through  the
 wreckage  for  the  hills.  Not a  living one  of the  derro re-
 mained to face the rage of the vengeful hill dwarves.
   The  earth  shook  again,  a  convulsive  tremor  that wracked
 the  town  from  one  end  to the  other. Great  cracks appeared
 in  the ground,  exploding outward  from the  white fire  of axe
 and  amulet.  Flint  watched,  still  stunned  to  immobilty, as
 these fissures erupted to either side  of him.  He saw  hill and
 gully  dwarves  disappear  into  the  cracks,  and he  could not
 move  to  help  them.  The  stone  walls  of  the  brewery crum-
 bled and split, collapsing into heaps of gravel.
   Screams  of  panic  shrilled  through  the air.  Mad stampedes
 erupted,  as  hill  and  gully  dwarves  scrambled  through  the
 ruins,  seeking  an  escape  from  the convulsions  that wracked
 the world around them.
   Flint shook off his numbness.
   But  before  Flint could  gather his  family and  escape, the
 trembling  of  the  earth  stopped.  The  black and  white smoky
 forms cast one more  stony glance  at each  other and  then dis-
 sipated into thin  wisps in  the morning  air. The  hissing fire
 between  the  two  artifacts  slowly  faded.  There was  no sign
 of Pitrick's body, nor of his amulet.
   Flint's  attention  fell  upon what  remained of  the Tharkan-
 Axe. It was now a thin sheet of fragile foil in the shape of the
 axe. Of the weapon's original form, only the runes remained.
   "The Tharkan Axe," said a soft voice beside him.
   He turned  to look  at Hildy's  blood- and  dirt-streaked face
 in surprise. "How did you know it's name?"
   "My  father  taught  me  the   Old  Script,"   she  explained,
 pointing  to  the runes.  Flint nodded  dumbly, watching  as the
 runes themselves started to fade.
   "The  Axe  of  Tharkas,  it  says,"  repeated  Hildy. "Crafted
 by  the  god   Reorx  in   honor  of   the  great   peace  among
 dwarves.  Its  magnificence  shall last  -" Hildy  looked softly
 at Flint,  sympathy welling  in her  eyes before  she concluded,
 "- until it is used by a dwarf to shed a dwarf's blood."
   In the courtyard,  now full  of the  stillness and  death that
 follows war, the  sheet of  foil caught  the wind  and fluttered
 away.

                          Epilogue

      Hillhome became a ghost town in less than a week
 What the battle  had left  standing had  been leveled  by the
 earthquake. Not a single family had  escaped losing  at least
 one  member  in  the  Battle  of Hillhome,  and most  of them
 wanted to start anew elsewhere in the hillcountry,  where the
 memories would fade more easily with time.
   Diehards,  like the  Fireforges, whose  families had  been in
 the village since before  the Cataclysm  and whose  homes had
 been at least partially spared from the devastation, chose to
 stay  around  and  rebuild  their  town  as best  they could.
 Though  her  brewery  was  destroyed,  Hildy   stayed  behind
 with Basalt and the promise of a life together.
     And so with much dignity and tears the Fireforge family

 buried  its  dead,  among  them  brother  Bernhard,  the valiant
 Aghar Garf. And Perian.
   After the short service offering their  souls to  Reorx, Flint
 had  wandered alone  with his  thoughts to  a small  crest over-
 looking  Stonehammer  Lake  to  the  west  and  the  remains  of
 Hillhome  to  the  east.  The  sky  seemed  too blue,  the early
 winter  air  too  crisp  and...  ordinary  for  a  day  when his
 heart  was near  to bursting,  His memories  of Perian  were few
 but  sweet;  he  prayed  they  would  not  fade with  time. Sud-
 denly he became aware of shuffling behind him.
   "Old  queen  gone,"  Cainker  said  sadly,  coming  up  behind
 the  gray-haired  dwarf,  a  tear   dripping  down   his  filthy
 cheek. In his grief Flint had lost track of his subjects and was
 now  reminded  that  they  were  likely  waiting  upon  him  for
 the direction of their lives.
   "Yes,"  Flint  said softly.  He looked  with affection  at the
 gully   dwarf,   but   then  he   thought  of   something.  "Old
 queen?" he asked.
   "Sure.  New  queen  Fester,  she  just  fine!"  Cainker bobbed
 his head enthusiastically.
   "Hi,  kingly  guy."  said  Nomscul  as  he joined  them. "Good
 fight!"
   "Thanks," Flint muttered, growing more confused.
   "What's this about Fester being queen?"
   "Yup. She my queen! Me new king, you know."
   "New king?" Flint was too surprised to immediately do
 the sensible thing, which was to heartily endorse the idea.
   "Sure.  Now  that  you  got  no  queen,  it good  idea." Noms-
 cul  sighed,  apparently with  real regret.  "You one  nice guy,
 though,"  he  amended.  "But  just  not work  out as  king. Real
 nice guy, all right!"
   Flint  chuckled,  feeling  a  lump growing  in his  throat. He
 wanted  to  laugh  aloud,  and  he  wanted  to  cry, so  he just
 stared in bemused wonder at the new king of Mudhole.
   "Just not work out," Nomscul said with a shrug.

 * * * * *

   The general stood high upon the temple platform, look-
 ing over the still-smoldering city. Sanction was not so empty

 as  before,  as  thousands  of  ogres and  human mercenaries
 gathered.  Legions of  hobgoblins formed  vast camps  on the
 ashen slopes around the city.
   Across  the  valley,  beneath   the  seething   Temple  of
 Luerkhisis,  the  rest  of  the  general's  army was  born -
 draconians,  hatched by  a corrupting  process from  the se-
 cretly hoarded eggs of good dragonkind.
   The draconians pleased the  general greatly,  gathering as
 they did in well-disciplined  companies of  savage warriors,
 eager for bloodshed and war.
   Indeed, his army grew daily, and this  made the  matter of
 armaments all  the more  vexing. One  day, the  shipments to
 the hidden cove had simply stopped, and  they had  never re-
 sumed.  All  of  his  attempts  to  contact   the  grotesque
 Theiwar, Pitrick, had failed, and the general disliked fail-
 ure.  He  would  not  fail his  Dark Queen,  the five-headed
 dragon-goddess, Takhisis.
   Yet  the  preparations  would  go on.  He had  enough good
 steel to arm many  of his  troops, and  the rest  would find
 other sources for blades, and shields, and armor. Still, the
 general knew, his army would be strong.
   And soon, it would be ready.