Flint the King

Chapter 6

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.