Flint the King

Chapter 12

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.