Flint the King

Chapter 14

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.