Flint the King

Chapter 13

"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.