Flint the King

Mary Kirchoff, Douglas Niles
Flint the King
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.