PRELUDES II
	 VOLUME TWO

   Flint - the- King  
Mary Kirchoff and Douglas Niles
VERSION 1.1 (Feb 16 00). 
If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and re-distribute. As always, this book is for Steve and Alex for their unlimited help, patience, and midnight snacks; And to Bruce Johnson and Peter Fritzell, teachers/ mentors who knew when to encourage and when to laugh. - MK For Lou Niles, My mother and first fan.
	                   - DN 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, frantically.  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  moment  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 tendrils, 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. Suddenly 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 excruciating pain.
	The  hammer  remained  poised  above him  as his  body stiffened,  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 toppled forward,  the stocky  body splaying  across the  anvil and the nearly straightened wheel. It slipped silently to  the cold ground. Chapter 1 Autumn Winds

  Watching dead leaves swirl into his windowss, Flint Fireforge  threw  back  his mug  and swallowed  the last  of his draught.  A  satisfied  belch  ruffled  his thick  mustache. For cheap ale, it wasn't half bad,  he concluded.  But it  was gone. He held the empty bottle - his  last -  up to  the light  of the fire.  The  dwarf  stroked  his  salt-and-pepper  beard  out  of habit. After considering  his empty  larder, Flint  decided that it was time to see if his ale order was in at the greengrocer's. He  was  going  to have  to leave  the comfort  of his  home and fire for only the third time in the month since his  friends had left the treetop village of Solace.
	 The dwarf and his companions - Tanis  Half-Elven, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Caramon and Raistlin Majere, Kitiara  Uth-Matar,  and  Sturm  Brightblade  -   had  parted   ways  to  discover  what  they could  of the  rumors concerning  the true  clerics, agreeing to meet  again in  exactly five  years. Flint  had spent much of his time  in the  last few  years adventuring  with his much younger friends or traveling to fairs to sell his  metalsmithing   and   woodcarvings.   Truly  he   missed  them,  now that they were gone. But the  truth of  the matter  was, at  one  hundred  forty  years,  the  middle-aged  dwarf  was  just  plain tired. So, being reclusive  by nature,  he had  stayed at  home and done  little more  than eat,  drink, sleep,  stoke the  fire, and whittle in the month since their departure.
	 Flint's  stomach  rumbled. Patting  the noisy  complainer, he  reluctantly  eased  his  bulk from  his overstuffed  chair near  the  fire, brushing  wood shavings  from his  lap as  he stood.  He  pulled his  woolly vest  closer and  looked about  his home  for his leather boots.
	 The  house  was  small  by  the  measure  of  the human-sized  buildings up in the trees. But his home, built  in the  base of  an  old,  hollowed-out  vallenwood,  was  quite large  by dwar ven standards - opulent even, he reflected,  with not  a little  pride.  Sure,  it  didn't  have  the  large nooks  and crannies  found in the caves-turned-houses of  his native  foothills near  the  Kharolis  Mountains,  nor   was  there   the  ever-present  homey  scent  only  a  white-hot  forge  could produce.  But he  had carved every inch of the inside of his tree into shelves or  friezes depicting vivid and nostalgic scenes  from his  home- '  land.  These  included  a  forging  contest, dwarven  miners at  work,  and  the  simple  skyline of  his boyhood  village. Such  carvings  were  not  easily  done  on  the  stone walls  of the  homes of most hill dwarves.
	 The  stroke  of  his  knife  over  a firm  piece of  wood was  Flint's greatest joy, though the gruff  hill dwarf  would never  have admitted such  a sentiment.  Idly, he  raised his  hand to  one of the friezes, touching his fingers to the carved crest of  a  jagged  ridge, following  the dips  and summits.  He dropped  his hand to the  carvings of  the dark  pine forests  below the  crest,  admiring  the  precise bladework  that had  marked each  tree in individual relief on the wall.
	  With a large, shuddering sigh, Flint took his heavy, well- worn  leather  boots  from  under  a  bench  by  the  door and jammed  them  onto  his thick  feet. There  was nothing  to be done about it - he'd put off this errand as long as he could.
	The  massive   vallenwood  front   door  creaked   as  Flint opened  it, causing  the shutters  on his  windows to  bang in the chill  breeze, their  hinges sagging  like an  old woman's stockings.  They  ought  to  be  repaired  -  there  were many such tasks to be done before the first snow fell.
	Flint's home was one of the few in  Solace at  ground level, since he was one  only of  a handful  of non-humans  living in the town, including  dwarves. While  the view  from up  in the trees was quite lovely, Flint had no interest  in living  in a drafty,   swaying   house.   Wooden   walkways   suspended  by strong  cords  attached  to high  branches were  the sidewalks of Solace. Probably they had  provided a  useful means  of defense against the bandit  armies that  had once  ranged across the  plains  of  Abanasinia  in  the  wake  of  the Cataclysm. Nowadays the trees  served as  an aesthetic  delight, Solace's trademark.  People  came  from  many  miles  away   simply  to gaze on the city of vallenwood.
	The  day was  cool but  not cold,  and warming  sunshine cut through the thick trees in slanted white lines.  The greengrocer's shop rose above the very center of  the eastern  edge of the town square, a short distance away. Flint set out  for the nearest spiral stair leading to  the bridgewalks  overhead. By the time his short legs had pumped him to the top of  the circling  thirty-foot  wooden ramp,  his brow  had broken  out in beads of sweat. Flint plucked at the furry  edges of  his vest and wished he hadn't dressed  so warmly;  he slipped  his arms from  it  and  draped the  leather and  wool garment  over one shoulder. He saw the grocer's, at the end of a long straightaway.
	For the first time in quite a while, Flint truly noticed his surroundings. The village of Solace was  washed in  vivid fall colors. But unlike  the maples  or oaks  of other  areas, each large vallenwood leaf turned red, green, and gold  in perfect, alternating angled stripes of about an  inch wide.  So instead of seeing blazing clumps of solid color,  the landscape  was a multicolored jumble. The bright sunlight cast the leaves  in a shimmering  iridescence  that shifted  in shade  and intensity with each passing breeze.
	The  view from  the bridgewalk  allowed him  to see  quite a distance. He  looked down  at a  smithy, where  the blacksmith Theros Ironfeld  toiled at  shoeing the  lively stallion  of a robed human who was pacing with impatience.
	A  seeker, Flint  thought sullenly,  and his  mood darkened. It seemed  the seekers  were everywhere  these days.  The sect had arisen from the ashes of the  Cataclysm, which  was itself caused by the old gods in reaction to the pride  and misdirection of the most influential religious leader at the time, the Kingpriest of Istar. This  group, calling  themselves seekers, loudly  proclaimed  that  the  old  gods had  abandoned Krynn. They  sought  new  gods,  and sometime  during the  three centuries since, the seekers  claimed to  have found  those gods. Many of the folk of  Abanasinia had  turned toward  the flickering promise of the seekers' religion.  Flint, and  many others of a more pragmatic nature, saw the seekers'  doctrine for the hollow bunk that it was.
	They  could  be  recognized  by   their  brown   and  golden robes,  these seeker  missionaries who  rode about  the plains collecting steel coins for their coffers. Most of them  at the missionary  level  were  the  young,  bored   malcontents  who grew up  in every  town. The  promise of  money and  power, if only  over  people  desperate  for a  sign that  gods existed, seemed to  lure these  spiritual bullies  like a  magnet. They were  molded   into  persuasive   salesmen  by   an  intensive "training" session in the seeker capitol of nearby  Haven, and they claimed to have converted thousands to their cause.
	The  seekers  were  as  close as  anything to  the governing body  of the  plains. A  body with  muscle, of  course: seeker followers were  equally divided  between the  zealous acolytes who  taught  the  words  and  ways  of the  new gods,  and the men-at-arms  who  garrisoned  the  towns  for  no  discernible purpose.
	Unfortunately,  groused  the  dwarf  to himself,  their concept of  governing seems  to involve  little more  than mooching off the towns and  villages unlucky  enough to  host their temples and guardposts.
	Flint's  mood  dipped  even  farther  when  he noticed  a group of   seekers   hovering   around  the   doorway  to   Jessab  the Greengrocer's.  He  recognized  this  bunch  as  rude,  belligerent,  over-postulating  phonies  who couldn't  cure a  split finger  any  more  than  they  could  speak  with   their  so-called gods.  In  one  of  the  few  times Flint  had ventured  from his home  in  the  last  month,  he  had come  upon a  villager choking  on  a  bite  of  meat.  This  very  group had  been summoned to  help,  and  after  much  desperate  prodding from  the small, gathered  crowd,  the  leader  of  the  three,  a   pimply  young whelp,  had  sighed  and  gesticulated  uselessly above  his head as if casting  a clerical  spell. No  miracle appeared.  The villager  had  gasped his  last before  the other  two could  try to help  him.  The  three  had  shrugged in  unison and  then headed into the nearest inn, unconcerned.
	Flint could feel his  face tighten  with anger  now as  he considered  the  cluster  around  the  doorway.  Novices,  he noted, from  their  coarse  white  robes  edged  with  embroidered  hemlock  vine  and the  all-too-familiar emblem  of a  lighted torch on the left breast.
	"Who are you staring at, little man?" one of them demanded, his arms crossed insolently.
	Flint's eyes narrowed in irritation, but he let a shake  of his head  and  a  snort of  disgust suffice  to answer  the question. Tipping  his  head  slightly,  he  made  to  squeeze his  way between them and into the greengrocer's.
	A  bony  finger  poked  him  in  the shoulder,  scarcely enough pressure  for  the dwarf  even to  notice. "I  asked you  a question, gully dwarf." The seeker's friends laughed at the insult.
	Flint stopped  but did  not raise  his eyes.  "And I  believe I gave you as much answer as your kind deserves."
	Egged  on  by  his  friends,  the  young  seeker   pressed  his point.  "You've  got  an  awfully  smart  mouth  for  an  outnumbered old man,"  he growled,  stepping fully  in front  of Flint. He reached down to grab the dwarf's lapels.
	"Teach  him  a lesson,  Gar," a  crony purred  in anticipation. Flint's irritation turned to fury. He looked into the face of his antagonist.  What  he  saw  was   the  glee-and-fear   mixed  expression  of  an animal  who was  closing on  an easy  victim. Or so the seeker thought.
	Flint  decided  that  the  fellow needed  a lesson  in humility and  manners.  Moving  like  lightning,  he  drove his  fist into the   boy's   belly.   Stunned,  the   youth  doubled   over  and clutched  at  his  stomach.  The dwarf's  stubby fingers  flew up to  pull  the  seeker's  droopy,  coarse hood  down over  his red face.  Flint  quickly  drew  the  strings  tight and  knotted the hood  shut,  until  only  the  boy's   pimply  nose   poked  out. Flailing his arms desperately, the seeker let  out a  screech and tumbled to the planks of the bridgewalk.
	Flint  was  dusting  off  his  hands  when  his  sharp  dwarven ears  picked  up  the  familiar  "whoosh"  of  blades  being  unsheathed.   Whirling   around   with   stunning   quickness,  the stocky   dwarf  knocked   the  small   daggers  from   the  other seekers'  hands. The  metal weapons  glinted in  the sun  as they flew over opposite sides of the bridgewalk.
	"Daggers! Look  out below!"  Flint called  over the  railing in case  anyone  stood  beneath.   Looking  down,   he  saw   a  few villagers  scatter without  question, and  the blades  fall harmlessly, point down, into the earth.
	When  Flint  looked up  again, he  saw the  backs of  the seekers as  they fled,  the two  toadies pulling  their still-hooded, stumbling leader after them.
	"Run   home  to   your  mothers,   you  young   whelps!"  Flint was  unable  to  resist  shouting. My,  but it's  a fine  day, he thought, looking  up into  the blue  sky before  stepping spiritedly into the greengrocer's.
	Amos  Cartney,  a  human  of  some   fifty  years,   owned  and ran  Jessab  the Greengrocer's.  Flint could  not enter  the shop without  remembering  the  time  he,  Tanis,  and  Tasslehoff had stopped in  for some  snacks to  bring to  a night  of fellowship before Flint's hearth, shortly after Tasslehoff's arrival in Solace, some years ago.
	"Hey,   Amos,   who   is   Jessab,   anyway?"   Tasslehoff  had blurted out of the  blue, plucking  at items  of interest  on the candy  counter.  "Must   be  someone   important,  for   you  to name  your  store  after  him.   I  mean,   your  name   is  Amos Cartney, not Jessab."
	    Knowing the answer through local gossip, Flint had tried desperately  to clap  a hand  over the  kender's big  mouth. But the  quick-footed  imp  had  danced  away.  "Watch out,  Flint I You  nearly  suffocated  me,"  he had  scolded the  dwarf. "Your father,  maybe?"  he  pressed,  turning  back  to  the  suddenly pale shopkeeper. "Grandfather? Hmm?"
	"The man who owned the store before me," had been Amos's quiet reply.
	"That's it?" Tas squealed.
	"Mind your own business, kender!" Flint had growled low in his throat.
	But  Amos  waved  away  the dwarf's  concern. "No,  he stole my wife and left behind this shop. I  leave his  name up  to remind  me  how  fickle  women can  be, in  case I'm  ever tempted to trust one of them again."
	The  tender-hearted  kender's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears, and  he  came  to  Amos's  side  to  pat  the  human's shoulder, treasures  newly  "found"   in  the   shop  dropping   from  his pockets in his haste. "I'm so sorry... I didn't know...."
	A  slight,  stoic  smile  had creased  Amos Cartney's  face as he  gently  slipped  his  hand from  the anxious  kender's. "And you  know  what  else?  I  haven't been  tempted, all  these ten years."
	Flint  secretly  agreed  with  Amos's  evaluation  of  women he'd  had  some  bad  experiences  of  his own  - and  from that time forward, the human and the dwarf were friends.
	Seeing  Flint  in  his  doorway  now,  the  greengrocer  wiped his hands  on his  apron and  waved the  dwarf inside,  a hearty grin on his face.
	"Didn't bring that  nosy kender  with you,  I see!"  He snickered,  continuing  to  wave  Flint forward.  "Hurry on  in. I've been  having  some  trouble  with  seekers  hanging  around  the doorway,  pestering  my  good  customers.  Can't  seem   to  get rid of 'em." Amos shook his balding head wearily.
	Flint patted his old  friend on  the back.  "Tas has  gone exploring for five years. And I don't think those seekers  will be bothering anyone for a while, either."
	Catching the glint in the dwarf's eye, Amos's smile was grateful, but it still held a hint of weariness. "My thanks, but they   always   come   back.   Maybe   not  the   same  trouble- makers,  but every  day there  are more  seekers to  take their places." Amos  dug the  heels of  his palms  into his  eyes and rubbed.
	Flint's  good  mood  ebbed  as  he was  forced to  agree with the shopkeeper.  Solace was  not the  same friendly  village it had been before the seekers had  encroached on  it in  the last few years.
	"But   what   am  I   saying?"  Amos   forced  his   mood  to brighten.  "You  didn't  come  here  to  listen  to   my  woes. Where's your  list? I'll  rustle up  your goods."  Amos elbowed the dwarf  conspiratorially in  the ribs.  "Got that  bottle of malt rum you've  been waiting  for, too."  Taking the  scrap of parchment  Flint  held  up  in  his  hand,  Amos cackled  as he shuffled off to collect the dwarf's groceries.
	"Thanks, Amos,"  Flint called  softly, absently  scanning the shelves around him.
	He  saw  huge  clay  jars of  pickled cucumbers,  onions, and other vegetables. The  smell of  vinegar lingered  thick around here, and  Flint moved  away. The  dwarf passed  a row  of barrels,  containing  rye  and  wheat  and  oat  flours,  and then smaller bins with  sugar and  salt. Opposite  these was  a wall of  spices, and  he read  their odd  names with  amused curiosity:  absynt,  bathis,  cloyiv, tumeric.  What made  people add such bizarre  things to  their food?  the dwarf  wondered. What was wrong with a plain, sizzling haunch of meat?
	Flint was looking at a tin of salted sea  snails, a  treat he hadn't  had  in  years, when  he heard  someone beside  him say in a gravelly voice, "So there  is another  hill dwarf  in this town! I  was beginning  to feel  like the  proverbial hobgoblin at  a  kender  Sunday  picnic,"  boomed the  stranger, clapping Flint on the back merrily. "Hanak's the name."
	Flint  took  a  small  step  sideways   and  looked   at  the speaker.  He  was  nearly  big  nose to  big nose  with another dwarf, all right. Wild, carrot-red hair  sprang from  the other dwarf's head like  tight metal  coils, and  between that  and a poker-straight  beard  and  mustache  were  eyes as  clear blue as the sky. Flint tried to judge his age: the lines on his face were not  too deep,  but he  was missing  his two  front teeth, though  whether  from aging  or fighting  Flint could  not say.
	The  strange  dwarf  wore  a  tight chain  mail shirt  and a well-worn cap of smooth  leather. His  high boots  were light, almost  like  moccasins,  but  showed  the  wear and  stain of much  travel.  Hanak  smacked  his lips  and rubbed  his hands together as he looked at the shelves of food.
	"You must be new to Solace," said Flint noncommitally.
	Hanak  shrugged.  "Just  passing  through,   actually;  I'm headed for Haven. I hail from the hills south  of here  a good ways, almost down  to the  plains of  Tarsis. Never  been this far north before," he admitted.
	Flint turned back to his  shopping but  then felt  the other dwarf's eyes on him.
	"You're from the south too, unless I miss my guess."
	"You  don't,"  Flint admitted,  facing the  stranger again. Hanak's inquisitive words made Flint uncomfortable.
	"Not  so far  south as  me, though  - east  hillcountry'd be my  guess," the  other hill  dwarf said,  tapping his  chin in thought,  squinting  at  Flint. "Perhaps  just north  of Thorbardin?"
	"How  did  you  know?"  Flint  asked brusquely.  "I've never met   anyone   who   could   pinpoint   someone's   region  so closely!"
	"Well, now, it wasn't  too difficult,"  the dwarf  said, his tone implying anything but. "I travel  for my  living, selling leather work. I detected a slight accent and noticed the black in your hair  - nearly  every dwarf  in my  region has  red or brown;  And  that  long,  loose,  blue-green  tunic  and those baggy  leather  boots  -  you've  been  away from  dwarves for some time,  haven't you?  I haven't  seen anyone  wearing that style  in years,  you know.  Say, what  village are  you from, exactly?"
	Flint was a little put off by the  clothing comments  - he'd gotten  the  boots as  a gift  from his  mother a  few decades before - but he  decided the  dwarf meant  no offense.  "I was raised in a little place called Hillhome, smack  between Thorbardin and Skullcap."
	"Hillhome! Why, I was there but twenty day ago. Was trading my boots and aprons. Not so little anymore, though. A  shame what's  happening there,  isn't it?"  he said sympathetically.  "Still,  you  can't  stop  progress,  now  can you?  Um,  um,  um,"  the  dwarf  muttered,  shaking   his  head sadly.
	"Progress?  In  Hillhome?"  Flint  snorted.  "What   did  they do, raise the hems on the frawl's dresses by half an inch?"
	"I'm  talking  about  the  mountain  dwarves!"  yelled  Hanak. "Marchin'  through  town,  drivin'  their  big  wagons  over the pass. They even stay at hill dwarf inns!"
	"That  pass  was  built  by  hill  dwarf  sweat,   hill  dwarf blood!" cried  Flint, appalled  at the  news. "They'd  never let the  mountain  dwarves use  it!" No,  never, Flint  repeated vehemently to himself.
	The  history of  the hill  and mountain  dwarves was  a bitter one,  at  least  during  the centuries  since the  Cataclysm. At that   time,   when   the   heavens   rained   destruction  upon Krynn,  the  mountain  dwarves  withdrew  into  their  great underground   kingdom   of  Thorbardin   and  sealed   the  gates, leaving their hill dwarf cousins to suffer the full force of the gods' punishment.
	The  hill  dwarves  had  named  the  act  the  Great Betrayal, and  Flint  was  only one  of the  multitudes who  had inherited this  legacy  of hatred  from his  forefathers. Indeed,  his father's father, Reghar Fireforge, had been a  leader of  the hill dwarf  armies  during  the  tragic,  divisive   Dwarfgate  Wars. Flint  could  not  believe  that the  dwarves of  Hillhome would avert their eyes to the undying blood feud.
	"I'm  afraid  they  are,"  replied  Hanak,  his  tone gentler. "Theiwar   dwarves  at   that,  the   derro  dwarves   of  Thorbardin."
	"Derro?  It  can't be!"  growled Flint.  That was  even worse. Indeed,  the  derro  - the  race of  dwarves that  comprised the bulk  of the  Theiwar clan  - were  known to  be the  most malicious  of  mountain  dwarves.  Their  magic-using   shamans  had been the prime instigators of the Great Betrayal.
	The  other  dwarf backed  a step  away this  time and  held up his hands defensively. "I only know  what I  saw, friend,  and I saw   derro   strolling   merrily    among   the    dwarves   of Hillhome - and not a  one of  the hill  dwarves was  spitting on 'em, either."

"I can't believe that," Flint muttered, shaking his head. "I  can't believe my brothers would allow it.  Our family  used to  carry  some  weight  in  the  village.  Maybe  you  heard  our  name - Fireforge? My brother's name is Aylmar Fireforge."
	 A shadow crossed the other dwarf's  face fleetingly,  and he  seemed almost to nod, then think better of it. "No, it doesn't  ring a bell," he said, then quickly added,  "but I  didn't stay  long enough to get to know anyone so very well."
	    Flint ran a weary hand through his salt-and-pepper mop.  Could Hanak be right about mountain dwarves infesting  Hillhome?
	 Flint felt a strong hand squeeze his  shoulder. "If  my kin folk were dealing with devils, I'd go have  me a  look," Hanak  said kindly.  "May Reorx  guide you."  With that,  he strolled  out the door  of the  grocery, leaving  Flint to  his troubled  thoughts.
	 Amos   slammed   a   brown,   wrapped   bundle    onto   the  counter before him. "Salt, a bag of apples, four eggs,  a slab  of bacon, one  jar of  pickles, two  loaves of  day-old bread,  four   pounds   of  the   richest  Nordmaarian   chicory  root  known  to  man  - and  dwarves -"  He snickered  "- a  vial of  tar to fix those creaky shutters before  winter sets,  and the  long-awaited malt rum," he finished with satisfaction.
	 Flint reached into the pocket of the vest over  his shoulder  and said distractedly, "You can leave the tar. I won't be here  to see winter reach Solace."
	 Noting the dark tone in  the dwarf's  voice, Amos  looked at  his friend with concern, but he knew better than to  ask ques tions.  The shopkeeper  had never  seen Flint  so preoccupied,  even  when  those  young,  troublemaking  friends of  his were  in town. He  took the  money for  Flint's purchases  and word lessly nodded good-bye.

                   Chapter 2

              The Trail Home

   Darken Wood. The place certainly earns its name, thought Flint. Tall pines, their needles a green that was almost  black,  towered  over  the  forest floor-.  Huge, musty oaks, draped  with thick  vines and  feathery moss,  and even an occasional looming  vallenwood trunk  that rose  to disappear  among  the  foliage,  prevented  a single  sunbeam from reaching the ground. The forest was not huge, but Flint knew  that it  sheltered a number  of dangerous  denizens. Some  years earlier,  a small party of mercenaries  had entered  Solace bearing  an unusual trophy - the head of a troll slain in  these woods.  Bands of hobgoblins and worse  reputedly still  dwelled among  the ancient trunks of Darken Wood.
	The feeling of potential danger brought  Flint a  keen sense of  awareness  even  as  his mind  wandered. The  narrow trail twisted  among  the  tree  trunks,  enveloped  by   ferns  and great,  moist  growths  of  mushrooms  and  other  fungus. The scent  of  warm  earth,  heavy  with  decay,  overwhelmed  the dwarf with a thick, cloying presence.
	Flint did not find  the odor  unpleasant. Indeed,  after his long  residence  among  humans,  not  to mention  the constant presence  of kender,  elves, and  other races,  this dominance of nature refreshed his spirit and  lightened his  step. There was something joyful in this solitude, in this pastoral adventure, that brought a forgotten delight to Flint's soul.
	For  many  hours  he  made  slow  progress,  not   from  any sense of  exhaustion, but  instead because  of the  great ease within  him. His  hand stroked  the smooth,  worn haft  of his axe. Absently, his ears and eyes probed the woods,  alert, almost hoping for a sign of trouble.
	The trail forked and he  paused, stark  still for  a moment, listening, thinking. He sensed the earth, the twists and turns in  the surrounding  land -  as only  dwarves could  - through his  thick-soled  boots.  Soon  he learned  what he  needed to know, and he chose a direction.
	Toward  the south  for a  while. Flint  followed no  map and needed no compass to maintain  the route  he had  selected. It would lead him the  length of  the woods,  and avoid  both the lands of the Qualinesti elves  to the  south, and  the seekerruled city of Haven to the northwest.
	The  seekers,  he  thought  with a  mental grimace,  I would walk  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid.   Those  pesky "prophets"  had  made  life in  Solace unpleasant  enough. But in Haven - the city that was their capitol  and the  center of their arrogant worship  - their  presence was  sure to  be unbearable.
	The region of  Qualinesti was  different, though.  Flint had actually entertained thoughts of going  there, into  that nest of elves, to see his old - and unlikely - friend,  the Speaker of the Suns.  Flint remembered  fondly the  time he  had spent in Qualinost  some years  back. He  was still  one of  the few dwarves   who   had   ever  been   invited  into   that  elven kingdom  -  and  by  the speaker  himself! A  visiting dignitary had acquired a silver and  agate bracelet  at a  territory fair, which  he  then gave  to the  elven leader.  The Speaker  of the Suns  had  been  so  impressed  by  the  metalsmith's craftsmanship  that  he  had  tracked  down  the  smith,  who   was  none other than Flint Fireforge  of Solace,  and extended  an invitation  for  the  dwarf  to  demonstrate his  craft in  the marble elven city.
	It was during that first trip to Qualinost that Flint  had met Tanis  Half-Elven,  the  Speaker  of   the  Sun's   ward.  Young Tanis  had  stood  for  hours  watching  the  dwarf's demonstrations in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint understood  the  boy,  who  seemed  unhappy  because  of   his  mixed heritage,  and  the  two  spent  many  pleasant  hours  together whenever the business of selling his  crafts brought  Flint near Qualinesti.
	The  dwarf  was  tempted now  to find  the half-elf.  On their last  night  together at  the Inn  of the  Last Home,  Tanis had said he  was going  to go  on a  quest that  would bring  him to terms  with  his heritage  at last.  Flint presumed  Tanis meant he was going back to  face the  full-blooded elven  relatives of his  in  the  city of  Qualinost who  had never  really accepted the  half-elf.  The  dwarf  was  somewhat  concerned  about  his friend,  but  he  had  shrugged off  any misgivings.  After all, the  companions  had  agreed  to  separate  for five  years, and Flint would be damned if he'd be  the one  to break  that agreement.
	So  he  would  give  Qualinost  a  wide  berth and  follow the forest paths  instead. He  knew that  if he  kept a  steady pace he would pass from the wood around nightfall.
	Flint  began  to  wonder  now,  in the  quiet of  Darken Wood, if  he hadn't  been fanciful,  believing even  half of  what the dwarf  back  at  Jessab's  had  said.  Mountain  dwarves  - much less  the  replusive  derro  -  in   Hillhome!  Yet   why  would Hanak  have  invented  such  a tale?  Flint pushed  the question away  for  the  time  being.  The  answer  would  be  made clear soon enough.
	He  had  been  getting  lazy  in  Solace -  and bored,  if the truth  be  known  -  without  his young  friends around.  He had been at rest too long. Unconsciously he hefted his axe.
	Flint  found  himself  thinking  about  Aylmar  and wondering how long it had been since he had seen his  older brother. Oh,  fifteen,  maybe twenty  years, he  decided with  a frown, Then  a smile  dotted his  face as  he recalled  the escapades they had had together, the  nick-of-time victories,  the grand treasures.
	In  particular  he  remembered  the  grandest   treasure  of them  all  -  the Tharkan  Axe. His  older brother  Aylmar and he had stumbled upon the axe on one of his  earliest treasurehunting forays into the foothills  of the  Kharolis Mountains, near  Pax Tharkas,  to be  exact, which  was why  the brothers had  so named  it. Typical  dwarven greed  had driven  the two Fireforge brothers into  the deepest  recesses of  a hobgoblin lair that was rumored  to be  filled with  riches. Dispatching more than fifteen of  the hairy-hided,  six-foot monstrosities with blows to their  red-skinned heads,  Flint and  Aylmar had made their way through the last  of five  interconnected caves to  the  hobgoblins'  treasure  chamber.  There, atop  a fourfoot-high pile of coins and glittering gems, the beautiful axe gleamed like a beacon. Aylmar had snatched  it up  first while Flint stuffed his pockets and pouches with other  riches, then the  two  had  run from  the lair  before any  more hobgoblins appeared.
	Many  years  later  Aylmar,  his  heart already  showing the weakness  that would  soon force  him to  retire from  the adventuring  life,  presented  the  weapon   to  Flint   on  his Fullbeard  Day  -   the  dwarven   coming-of-age  celebration. Smirking, and using the teasing tone that he knew  got Flint's dander  up,  Aylmar  had  said,  "Considering the  girlish way you  fight,  boy, you  need this  a lot  more'n me!"  That had been more than forty years ago.
	The  dwarf  remembered,  with  a  touch  of  gruff sentimentality,  the  times  he had  wielded that  Tharkan Axe  on his travels. The magnificent  weapon had  gleamed, cutting  a silver are around  Flint in  battle. For  several good  years the weapon  had  served  him. It  served to  remind him  of Aylmar as well.
	     His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds  where  he  had  lost  the  axe  while  on  yet  another  treasure  hunt.  Amid  heaps  of  coins,  a  scattering  of  gems,  and the  bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains,  a figure  of cold,  sucking  blackness  had  lurked.  A  wraith  of  death,   it  had  seized Flint's soul with its  terrible grip.  A deadly  chill had  settled in his bones, and he  had staggered  to his  knees, hope less to resist.
	 The   Tharkan  Axe   had  flashed,   then,  with   a  white-hot  light  that  drove  the  wraith  backward  and  gave   Flint  the  strength  to  stand.  With  a  mighty heave,  the dwarf  had bur ied  the  weapon in  the shapeless  yet substantial  creature be fore him.
	 The  wraith  had  twisted  away, tearing  the axe  from Flint's  grip.  In  terror,  the dwarf  had fled  from the  barrow, empty handed.  Later  he  returned,  but  there  had  been  no  sign of  treasure, wraith, or axe.
	 Flint  looked  forward  the  most to  seeing his  older brother  again.  Aylmar  would  be  disappointed,  though,  to  learn that  his  younger  brother  had  lost the  Tharkan Axe.  Flint glanced  with  barely  concealed  scorn at  the inferior,  worn battle-axe  now  resting  in  his  hands.  The  weapon  bore  only  the  most  superficial  resemblance   to  the   great  Tharkan   Axe.  Where  that  enchanted  blade  had  shone  with  the  glow   of  perfect  steel,  its  edge  ever  sharp,  his  current  weapon  showed the  pocks  of  corrosion.  The  wooden  handle  was  thin  and  worn,  long overdue for replacement.
	 Yes, it would feel good to see the rest of his family, as well,  Flint  had  to  admit.  Aylmar  had  been  patriarch of  the clan  since  Flint  was  a  youth, when  their father  had died  of the  Fireforge  hereditary  heart  condition,  leaving  behind  a wife  and  fourteen  children.  Flint's  work-worn  mother  had  passed  on  some  twenty-odd  years ago,  which was  the last  time Flint  had been to Hillhome, for the funeral.
	 Aylmar  had  a  wife,  Flint  knew, though  he could  never re member  her  name.  And  at  least one  son, young  Basalt. Flint  remembered  his  nephew  quite  clearly.   Basalt  had   been  an  enthusiastic  youngster,  somewhat  of  a  hellion.   Aylmar  had  grown  dour  with  age  and   responsibilities,  and   he  disap proved  of his  son's prolific  time in  the alehouse  and gaming hall.  As  a  consequence,  Basalt had  adopted Flint  as his mentor.
	Flint  flashed  on  a collage  of faces  and names,  his own younger  brothers  and  sisters  - harrns  and frawls,  as the dwarven  sexes  were  noted.  There  was   Ruberik,  Bernhard, Thaxtil  -  or  was  that  Tybalt?  Quiet, demure  Glynnis and brash Fidelia emerged from the  faces of  his sisters.  He had left home  before the  seven youngest  siblings had  been much more  than babes,  and he  had forgotten  most of  their names since his last visit.
	It was not unusual for dwarves to loose track of their relatives,  but  Flint  wondered  now  if  perhaps he  should have paid more attention to the  younger children  - they  had been a good bunch,  always eager  to fetch  things for  their older brother, willing to give up the extra pastry  or bite  of meat for the brawny Flint. And there  had never  been that  much to go around.
	With a start, Flint realized that if he  did not  hurry now, the  sun  would  set  before  he  came to  the edge  of Darken Wood. He stepped up the pace.  Even so,  it was  already early evening on his first day out of Solace when Flint at last came upon the White-rage  River. Flint  crossed the  rushing stream on a high suspension bridge that reminded  him of  the village in  the  vallenwoods,  and made  camp on  the eastern  bank in the shelter of two red maples.  The next  day he  followed the bank  of  the  White-rage  until   he  reached   the  Southway Road.
	For  a  little  more  than one  joyously uneventful  week of nearly   perfect   blue   skies,   Flint  advanced   down  the Southway   Road,   which   formed   the  eastern   fringes  of Qualinesti,  avoiding the  rare habitations  of the  elves. On the  morning  of  the eighth  day he  left the  Southway Road, since it continued southwest  to the  ancient fortress  of Pax Tharkas, and Hillhome lay to the southeast.
	He blazed his own trail through  the hillcountry,  the thick forests and foothills east of that  settlement. Here  the vast slopes of  dark fir  trees surrounded  barren chunks  of sharp granite. A land of steep gorges and winding valleys, the hills did not achieve the height of true  mountains, but  their cha- otic  nature  made  the trail  as rugged  as any  snowswept alpine ridge.
	This  was  hill  dwarf  country,  Flint's  homeland,  and the rough  ground  was  like  a  smooth  path  under  his  feet. He spent the ninth night, a rainy one, in  an isolated,  warm, and nearly  empty  dwarven  inn  in  the Hills  of Blood,  where he rinsed the dusty trail from his body  and whetted  his appetite for his impending reunion with his dwarven clan.
	His   mind   lingered   less  on   the  rumors   of  mountain dwarves  in  Hillhome  and  more  on  memories of  the village: the cozy stone houses lining the broad  main street;  the sheep and goats in  the surrounding  sloping fields;  Delwar's forge, where Flint had first seen the shaping of metal by fire. He recalled the sense of safety and security  that always  seemed to linger like  smoke around  the kitchen  hearth of  his mother's home.  And the  scent of  the thick-crusted,  fresh-baked rolls he  and  his  father  would  purchase  each morning  from Frawl Quartzen's  bakery  after  the  cows  had  been   tended.  They were good memories....
	Late in the cold afternoon of the eleventh day,  Flint's trip was  lengthened  by  a  detour  around  the Plains  of Dergoth. Prior to  the Cataclysm  nearly three  hundred fifty  years before, the  plains held  many water  holes. When  the Kingpriest of  Istar  brought  the  anger  of  the  gods down  upon Krynn, the face of the world was changed,  and the  land south  of Pax Tharkas  turned  to  desert.  One  hundred years  later, during the  Dwarfgate  Wars  -  which  were  an  attempt  by  the hill dwarves  and  their  human  allies  to retake  Thorbardin after the  Great  Betrayal  -  the  magical  fortress of  Zhaman collapsed  in the  Plains under  a powerful  spell and  formed the hideous  skull-shaped  mound   known  afterward   as  Skullcap. That  same  explosion  tore  apart the  Plains of  Dergoth once again, and marshes crept over the surrounding land.
	Flint  had  no  interest  in  wading  through  a swamp  - his fear of water  was legendary  among his  friends in  Solace. So it was  that he  chose to  climb through  the low  mountains to the northeast of  the narrow  pass that  cut through  the peaks to Hillhome. Flint took his time in finding a clearing  just to the east of the pass and off the  Passroad, then  in collecting  and igniting the right logs for a hot, long-lasting fire, and fi nally  in  sizzling  the last  of the  fat slab  of bacon  he had  brought  with  him from  Solace. As  darkness settled,  Flint re laxed. I'll miss this solitude, he thought, sighing.
	 He  looked  at  the  Passroad,  just a  little below  his camp.  Deep  ruts  ran  along  its length.  Whereas in  the past  it had  borne only  the traffic  of.sheep- and  goat-herders, or  the oc casional  farmer's  cart,  now  the  road  was  wide   and  well worn.
	 Flint recalled  the building  of the  Passroad from  his child hood,  though  he  had  been  too  young to  help with  the work.  The  hill  dwarves  had  labored  for  several  years  to  smooth  out  the  grades,  lay  a  stone   foundation  over   the  swampy  stretches,  and  create  a  route  that  could,  someday, connect  Hillhome to the not-so-distant shore of the Newsea.
	 The  immediate  purpose  of  the  road  had  been  to  open  up  the  valley  adjacent  to  Hillhome  to  hill  dwarf settlements,  and this had occurred to a limited extent. Still,  in retrospect,  the  road  had  not  been  very  profitable, considering  all the  work.
	    Suddenly Flint's thick body tensed like a mandolin string.
	 He was not alone.
	 The  dwarf's  first  warning  was a  vague perception,  not re ally  sight  but  more  sound,  of  something   approaching  from  the  southwest.  Wooden  wheels   crunched  over   gravel.  Flint  turned  from  the low  fire to  the pass,  and his  infravision  the  natural,  temperature-sensing  ability  of dwarves  that al lowed  them  to  see  objects  in  the  dark  by  the  heat  they  radiate - quickly adjusted.
	 A  heavy,  broad-wheeled  wagon,  looking  more  like   a  huge  rectangular  box,  rattled up  the rutted  Passroad from  the di rection   of   Hillhome.   Who   would   be   driving   a   wagon  through the pass in the dark of night?
	 Flint  stepped  from his  fire to  the edge  of the  road. Hun kered  over  intently  on  the  buckboard,  the driver  snapped a  whip  over  the  heads  of  the four-horse  team that  was labor ing  to  pull the  wagon up  the steep  incline toward  the pass.  The  steeds  snorted  and  strained,  pulling  an  obviously heavy  load.  Flint  could  not  determine whether  the small  figure of the  driver  was  dwarven,  human,  or  something  worse.  Now he  could  see  two  more forms  standing several  feet behind the buckboard  in a  guarding stance,  holding onto  the sides of  the  lurching  wagon.  As they  drew closer,  Flint caught sight of three sets of unnaturally large eyes.
	Derro  dwarves.  That  explained  why  they were  willing to drive through the mountains at night, Flint realized.
	Derro  were  a  degenerate  race of  dwarves who  lived primarily  underground.  They  hated  light  and   suffered  from nausea  when in  the sun,  though they  were known  to venture from  their   subterranean  homes   at  night.   While  normal dwarves  looked  much  like  humans, only  differently proportioned,  derro  dwarves  tended  toward  the  grotesque. Their hair was pale tan or yellow, their skin very white with a bluish  undertone,  and  their  large  eyes were  almost entirely pupil.
	And  they  were reputedly  so evil  and malicious  that they made hobgoblins seem like good neighbors.
	Flint thought about  dashing behind  an outcropping,  but it was already too late to hide:  he had  been spotted  along the roadside.  He  was  more  than  curious,  anyway,  remembering Hanak's  sighting  of  derro  mountain  dwarves  in  Hillhome. The driver's hideous eyes bore into  Flint's from  about fifty feet away, and the  derro stopped  the wagon  at the  crest of the pass with a violent tug on the reins.
	"What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time of  night, hill dwarf?"  The  driver's voice  was raspy,  and though  he spoke Common,  the  words  came to  him slowly,  as if  the language were  not  totally  familiar. The  derro on  the sides  of the wagon  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  one circled  around the horses to  stand protectively  below the  driver still  on the buckboard.  Each  held a  shiny steel-bladed  battle-axe casually in his hands.
	"Since  when do  derro claim  rights over  Hillhome's pass?" Flint was not the least bit frightened.  He watched  the armed guards,  whose  eyes  were  focused  on  the axe  hanging from Flint's belt. The two derro wore  dark metal  breastplates and heavy  leather  gauntlets.  They  carried themselves  with the cocksure  attitude of  veteran warriors.  The driver,  who was unarmed and unarmored, held the reins and watched.  "You hill dwarves know the agreement," the driver growled deep in his  throat. "Now  get back  to the  village before  we are  forced to  report you  as a  spy... or  worse," he added.  The  guards  took  a step  toward Flint,  gripping their weapons with purpose.  "Spy!"  sputtered  Flint,  almost  amused,  and  yet  his  hand moved  to  his axe.  "Great Reorx,  why would  I be  doing that? Speak up, dwarf!"  The  horses  pranced  impatiently  on  the  Passroad,  snorting misty breath into the chilly night air. The driver  stilled them with a jerk on the reins, then clenched his fists at Flint. "I'm warning  you  -  get  out of  the way  and go  back to  the village," the driver hissed.  Flint  knew  he  would  get  no  answers  from these  derro. He forced  his  voice to  remain level.  "You've already  caused me to  burn  my  bacon  with  your  nonsensical questions,  so pass if you must and I'll return to my charred dinner."  Flint  saw  the  two  armed  derro  separate  as   they  neared him. Each held  his battle-axe  at the  ready, and  Flint looked at  the  weapons  with  momentary  envy,  thinking  of  his own, trail-worn blade.  With  growing  annoyance,  Flint  hefted  his  axe.   His  body tingled  with  energy,  anticipating battle.  Though he  did not seek  a  fight  with  these  mountain   dwarves,  he   would  be cursed  by  Reorx  before  he'd  back  down from  his hereditary enemies.  "Can  you  prove  you're  not  a  spy?"  asked   one,  taunting.  Flint stepped to the side,  away from  the fire.  "I could  if I thought enough of such wide-eyed derro scum to be bothered with it," he snapped, his patience gone.  The nearest  derro flung  himself at  Flint, his  axe whistling through  the  air.  The hill  dwarf darted  backward in  time to also  avoid  the  second  derro,  who  charged  in low.  The two mountain dwarves' axes met with a sharp clang of steel.  A  sublime  sense  of  heightened  awareness   possessed  Flint as he turned to parry a blow from his first attacker,  then sent the  second derro  reeling back  with a  series of  sharp blows. Hacking  viciously,  he  knocked  the  fellow's  weapon  to  the ground just as the other one leaped back toward him.
	Whirling  away,  Flint  raised his  own axe  in a  sharp parry. The two blades  clashed together,  but the  hill dwarf  stared in dismay  as  the haft  of his  axe cracked,  carrying the  head to the  ground.  Suddenly  Flint was  holding only  the haft  of his battle-axe. He stood there, defenseless, as if naked.
	The second  guard's pale,  blue-tinged face  split into  a grotesque grin at Flint's predicament. A sinister light  entered his eyes as he raised his axe, ready to crush the hill dwarf's skull.
	Flint moved with all the  quickness his  years of  battle experience  could  muster.  He  thrust  the  axe handle  forward, using  it  to  stab  like  a  sword.  The  splintered ends  of wood struck  the  derro's  nose, and  the Theiwar  dwarf cried  out in agony, blinking away blood.
	Flint  struck  again,  smashing  the  wooden  stick   over  the derro's  knuckles,  which  gripped  his  axe.  Crying  out again, the  guard  dropped  his  weapon,  stumbling  blindly   from  his bloody  nose  and  eyes. Flint  quickly snatched  the axe  up and swung   menacingly   at   the   suddenly  retreating   derro.  He turned  on  the  one  who  was  sprawled  on  the  ground, urging him along as well.
	The  two  disarmed  Theiwar  sprang  onto  the  wagon   as  the driver  lashed  the  horses.  Whinnying  with  fear  and snorting white clouds of  breath into  the night  air, the  massive beasts struggled  to  get  the  heavy  wagon   rolling.  In   moments  it lurched  through the  pass and  started on  the downhill  trek to the  east  and  Newsea.  As  they  rumbled  away, the  hill dwarf got a good  look at  their pale,  wide eyes  staring back  at him around the side of the wagon,  their glares  full of  hatred, and not a little fear.
	Thoroughly   disgusted   with   the   needless   fight,   Flint stomped  back  to his  fire and  snatched the  pan of  burned bacon,   tossing  the   blackened  remains   into  the   scrub.  No longer  hungry,  he  sat  with his  back to  the flames  and pondered the strange encounter.
	His  mind  was  a  jumble  of burning  questions. What  sort of "agreement"  with  these  evil  dwarves  could  have  caused  the hill dwarves  to forget  centuries of  hatred and  forced poverty because  of  the  Great  Betrayal?  And what  did the  derro have to hide that they were concerned about spies?
	Thorbardin,  ancient  home  of  the  mountain  dwarves,  lay some   twenty   miles  to   the  southwest,   past  Stonehammer Lake.  Flint  knew  that  the  derro  belonged to  the Theiwar, one  of  five  clans  in  the  politically  divided underground dwarven  city.  Mountain  dwarves  as  a  whole   were  notoriously  clannish,  concerned  only with  their mining  and their metalcraft. So of all the clans,  why would  the derro  come to the surface, since they were ones the most sensitive to light?
	Flint examined the axe his attacker had  left behind.  It was a weapon  of exceptional  workmanship, hard  steel with  a silver  shine  and  a  razor-honed  edge.  He  would  have guessed the  axe to  be of  dwarven origin,  except that  the customary engraving  that   marked  every   dwarven  blade   was  missing from the steel.
	Flint  shivered,  whether  from  cold  or   apprehension,  he could not be sure. Still, it reminded him the fire needed stoking. Tossing two small logs onto the coals, he stared  into the flames until the  fire's mesmerizing  effects made  his eyelids heavy.
	These  mysteries  he  would  take  to  sleep,  unresolved. He moved  away from  the fire  to where  he could  keep an  eye on the  camp  yet  remain  concealed.  But  nothing  disturbed him again that night. - * * * * *
	Flint awoke at first light  and at  once headed  east through the  pass  toward  Hillhome.  He stayed  with the  rutted, mudslick road until he came to the last low ridge before  the village, just a quarter-mile away. There he stopped to  relish the view.
	He  had  made  the  journey  in  less than  two weeks,  a refreshing  enough adventure  until the  derro skirmish  the previous  night.  But  now he  felt a  peculiar emotion  choke his heart as he looked  down at  the winding,  paved road,  the expanse of  stone buildings,  the blockhouse  that was  the forge in the village of his youth.
	  The rugged valley stretched east to the pass and west to
	    Stonehammer Lake, broadening into a grassy vale around Hillhome. Several side canyons twisted back  into the  hills to the north and south.
	Flint's  warm  feeling  chilled  somewhat  when  he  realized that a low haze hung  in the  valley where  before the  air had been  impeccably  clear.  Of  course, there  had always  been a little smoke from the town forge....
	The town forge! Flint realized the barn  beside it  was three times or more the size it had been twenty  years ago.  A great, muddy  yard  surrounded  it,  containing  several  parked  wagons. The wagons, Flint realized with a jolt, were just like the one he had encountered the previous night at the pass.
	And  where  once  a  single  stack had  emitted the  smoke of the  small  forge,  now  four  squat  chimneys   belched  black clouds into the  sky. The  town itself  seemed to  have doubled in  proportion, stretching  farther to  the west  toward Stonehammer  Lake.  Indeed,  the  sleepy  village of  Flint's memory now  bustled with  a size  and energy  the dwarf  found unnerving.  Main  Street,  which  once  had  been  paved  with sturdy stone, was now  practically churned  to mud  by the  traffic of crowds and vehicles.
	Flint  anxiously  made  his  way down  the Passroad  until it became Main Street. He slowed  his steps  to search  for familiar faces - familiar anything! - but he  recognized not  a one, nor did  any of  the busy  dwarves look  up from  their hurried pace. He paused to get his bearings.
	For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  he  had  come to  the right place. Up close,  Hillhome looked  even less  like the  town in his  memory  than  it  had  from  the  ridge.  The  same  large buildings  -  the  mayor's  mansion,  the  trading   barn,  the brewery -  still dominated  the central  area. But  around them clustered a mass of  lesser structures,  tightly packed,  as if each was trying to shoulder the other aside.
	Most  of  these  newer  buildings  were  made  of  wood,  and many  showed  signs  of  uncharacteristically  hasty  construction  and  shoddy  workmanship.  The  town  square was  still a wide  open  space,  but where  it had  once been  a tree-shaded park, now it was a brown and barren place.
	Flint's  eyes  came to  rest on  Moldoon's Tavern  across the street. A happy sight at last!  A young  frawl was  standing at the back of an ale wagon parked out front, hefting  two halfkegs onto her  shoulders. She  struggled her  way up  the two wooden steps and into  the inn,  the door  of which  was held open by a large, middle-aged dwarf.
	Flint  well  remembered  the  rugged  human,  Moldoon,  who had opened  his inn  in quiet  Hillhome. The  man had  been a hard-drinking  mercenary  who had  retired from  fighting and carousing.  His  small  alehouse  had  become  a  comfortable club  for  many  adult dwarves,  including Flint  and Aylmar. Flint wondered if the human were still about.
	With a sense of relief he started toward the familiar doorway.  He  made  his  way around  the ruts  in the  street and shouldered  his  way  through the  thick crowd  in Moldoon's. The hill dwarf's eyes rapidly adjusted  to the  darkness, and he saw with relief that the  place had  not changed  all that much.
	When  designing  his  saloon,  Moldoon  had  realized  that most of his patrons would be  short-statured dwarves,  yet he wanted a place that was comfortable for  himself as  well. He neither  made  it  human-sized  (though  other  people  would have  gotten  sport  out of  watching dwarves  scrabbling for doorknobs and  seats), nor  did he  make it  dwarf-sized (he, himself, would look silly on a too-small chair). What  he did do was make all tables and chairs adjustable with just a turn of the top; all doors had two knobs on each side. The bar itself had two levels: the right side to the patrons was dwarfheight, and the left was human-height.  The ceiling  was high enough to accommodate all.
	Right  now,  a  haze of  greasy smoke  hung just  below the stained ceiling beams. The spattering of the grill  - Moldoon always seemed to get the most  succulent cuts  of meat  - and the  familiar  low  rumble of  conversation sounded  like the same talk in any tavern in Ansalon.
	Flint saw an old man behind the lower  section of  the bar. White bearded, with an equally full,  platinum mane  of hair, he stooped slightly with age, but revealed  a frame  that had once been broad and lanky.
	"Moldoon?" Flint asked in disbelief,  his face  alight with expectation. The dwarf stepped over to the  bar and  spun the nearest stool top to his level.  Recognition dawning, the man's face broke into a crooked  grin.  "Flint Fireforge,  as I  live and  breath!" With amazing  alacrity  the  man  vaulted  the  bar  and  gathered up the stout dwarf in an awkward bear hug.  "How long have you been in town, you old scut?" he asked, shaking the dwarf by the shoulders.  "First  stop."  Flint  grinned  broadly, his  whiskers tickling his  nose.  The  human  seized  Flint up  again, and  after much back-thumping   and   hand-pumping,   he   grabbed   a   pitcher and  personally  overfilled a  mug for  the dwarf,  scraping the foam away with a knife.  "It's good to see you again, old friend," said Flint sincerely, raising  his  mug and  taking a  long pull.  He wiped  his foamy mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and  said  happily, "None better!"  "Not Flint Fireforge!"  Flint heard a frawl's voice coming from around Moldoon's  right  arm.  She  stepped  around  to   the  innkeeper's side, and Flint recognized her as  the one  he had  seen lugging kegs  from  the  wagon  outside.  Indeed,  as  Moldoon  drew her forward,  Flint  noticed  that she  still held  one on  her left shoulder. Staring unabashedly at  Flint, she  lowered it  to the ground.  Her  hair  was  the  yellow-orange  color  of  overripe corn, and she wore it in long braids on either side of her full, rose-red  cheeks. She  wore tight  leather pants  and a  red tunic,  belted  tight,  revealing  an unusually  tiny waist  for a frawl.  Flint gave  her a  friendly, almost  apologetic smile.  "Yes, I am, but I'm sorry, I don't remember you."  Moldoon   threw   an   arm    down   around    her   shoulders. "Sure   you   do!  This   is  Hildy,   Brewmaster  Bowlderston's daughter. She's taken over his business since he's been ill."  Hildy  thrust  her  hand  forward  over  the  bar  and  gripped Flint's firmly. "I've  heard a  lot about  you, Flint.  I'm a... um, friend of your nephew, Basalt." She blushed.  Flint slapped his thigh. "That's why you looked familiar! Haven't you two been friends since you were both in nappies?"  He  winked  and  gave  her  an  approving  glance  under raised eyebrows. "Although you've grown up some since then."
	She smiled  and blushed  again, lowering  her eyes.  "I wish Basalt would  take notice,"  she began,  but her  smile faded. "Of course he's not aware of much else  but drink  these days, though, what with the tragedy and all."  She reached  out gingerly and squeezed his arm sympathetically.
	"Tragedy?" Flint's mug of  ale froze  halfway to  his mouth. His eyes traveled from the frawl's blue  eyes to  the innkeeper's rheumy ones and back.
	Suddenly the sound of shattering glass  rent the  air. Startled, Flint turned toward the left  end of  the bar,  where he saw  the  harrn  who  had held  the door  for Hildy.  This same dwarf was staring at Flint, his face a mask of terror.
	The dwarf seemed stupefied, and he began gesturing wildly at Flint. Flint was stunned.
	"You're  dead!  Go  away! Leave  me alone!  You're d-d  - !" The  screaming dwarf  struggled to  get the  last of  the word out, then  finally quit  in frustration.  He covered  his eyes with his arms and sobbed.
	"Garth!"  Hildy  cried, coming  to his  side to  uncover his eyes.  "It's  OK. That's  not who  you think  it is!"  The big dwarf  resisted  at  first,  then  slowly  allowed one  eye to emerge from above his folded limbs:
	Garth was unusually large, well over four  and a  half feet, and none of it  was muscle.  His rounded  belly poked  out below  his  tunic,  which was  too small  at every  opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at  least an  inch below the cuffs.
	"What's  going  on  here?"  Flint demanded,  both irritated and embarrassed by the strange incident.
	Moldoon  looked  red-faced  as  well.  "Garth does  odd jobs about town for almost everyone.  He's a  little simple  - most people call  him the  village idiot  - and  well, you  two did look quite a lot  alike," Moldoon  finished, his  voice coming faster.
	     "What two? What are talking about? Spit it out, man!" Flint was just angry now.
	"The tragedy," Hildy said dully.
	Moldoon wrung his hands and finally said, "I'm sorry, Flint. Garth was the one who found  Aylmar dead  at the forge one month ago."

                Chapter 3

               The Terms

Thee general looked over the smoldering city below. He saw the  seaport of  Sanction, wracked  by forces  both geological  and  mystical.  Its people  were being  driven away, the very earth beneath  it changed  by volcanic  eruptions and the rivers of lava flowing down to the Newsea.  He  also  saw  what  the  tortured  city  would  become:  the heart  of  an  evil  empire embracing  all of  Krynn. Sanction would protect the nerve center of that  empire with  a barrier of  arms  and  with the  awesome barrier  formed by  the Lords of  Doom.  These  three  towering  volcanoes  stood  at  three points of  the general's  view, spewing  ash and  lava, gradually changing the shape of the city and the valley. Active for the  past  few  years,  the  smoking peaks  dominated Sanction and the surrounding chaos of steep mountains.
	The  brown  waters  of  the  port,  and the  Newsea beyond, marked  the  fourth direction,  to the  west. The  Lords smoldered,  oozing rockfire  and slowly  wracking the  city below. The  Newsea  beckoned  placidly,  a  route  that  one  day the general's  armies  would  follow on  their path  to conquering the west. Clasping his heavy gauntlets to  his hips,  the general  peered  through  the  narrow   eyeholes  in   his  mask, pleased by the destruction below.
	The  general  wore  ceremonial  armor  of  black,  etched in red. Tall  boots of  polished leather  protected his  feet and muscular legs. A breastplate  of deepest  blue-black reflected darkly  across his  torso, while  several large  rubies winked crimson around the edges of the plate.
	His face lay  entirely concealed  behind the  grotesque dark helm. A scarlet  plume, rising  from the  crest of  the helmet and  then  trailing  below  and   behind  him,   enhanced  his height  even more  than his  already impressive  natural size. Heavy, curved plates of the  same black  steel as  his breastplate  covered  his  shoulders  and  accentuated  his imposing physique.
	Now  he  paced  alone,  atop  a  blocky,  black-walled tower just south of the city - one  of two  such prominences  on the black  fortress  known  as  the  Temple  of   Duerghast.  This huge,  walled  structure  squatted  low on  the slopes  of the smallest  of  the  Lords  of  Doom,  Duerghast  Mountain.  The towers of  the temple  provided a  splendid view  of Sanction, and the mountains and sea beyond.
	The Temple of  Duerghast was,  in fact,  more of  a fortress than a place of worship.  The high  black wall  surrounded the entire structure. It provided space for barracks, troop training, and even an arena for gladiatorial combat.
	The temple and the entire city, now as  always, lay  under a leaden,  overcast  sky.  The  gray blanket  was caused  by the smoke  and  ash  that  spewed  from  its  surrounding summits, and  because  the valley  of Sanction  was a  windtrap, terminus of the Newsea.
	A river of steaming lava,  glowing cherry  red in  the eternally twilit valley, cut through the  center of  Sanction. An-  other finger of flaming rock  trickled toward  it by  a different  path.  Soon  the  two  boiling  streams  would  meet,  forming  a  lava moat around the other temple.
	 The  general's  gaze  lingered  on  that  great  construction  now  a pile  of rock,  slowly being  given form  by the  lava and  ash. The Temple  of Luerkhisis,  that one  was called,  after the  second  of the  Lords of  Doom. The  temple held  the keys  to so  much of the future, for  in its  bowels were  kept the  precious  eggs  of  the  good  dragons.  Those  gold,  silver,  brass,  and  bronze  orbs  would  -  when  the  time  was  right  -  force the  neutrality  of  good  dragonkind,  allowing  the empire  of dark ness to be born.
	 But  there  was  much  to  be  done  before that  could happen.  An  army  had  yet  to  be raised,  equipped, and  trained. Plans  would  be  drawn,  powers  marshaled.  All  of  this  would  take  time. But he knew how to put that time to good use.
	 The  general  had  begun  to  organize  his   forces.  Already,  thousands  of  mercenaries  had  gathered  in  the  scarred  city  below  him,  replacing  the  huge  numbers  of  refugees  who had  fled to safer  lands when  the volcanoes  first rumbled  to life.  The  general  had  agents  crossing  the  wildest lands  of Ansa lon,  gathering  tribes  of  hobgoblins  and ogres,  bribing them  with  promises  of  plunder and  war. And  across the  valley, in  the  temple  taking  shape  over  the hiding  places of  the good  dragons'  eggs,  the  spearhead  of  his  army  was even  now be ing created. Draconians.
	 It  was  the  equipping of  his massive  army that  brought the  general to this meeting today.
	 A  great,  crackling   rumble  suddenly   reverberated  through  the valley, like  an impossibly  loud peal  of thunder.  The peak  of  Duerghast,  south  of  the  general's  temple,  pitched  mon strous  boulders  from  its  cauldera.  Idly,  the  masked figure  watched  the  house-sized  pieces  of rock  crash to  earth, tum bling  down  the  mountainsides  and  adding  to  the destruction  as they  fell. The  helmet blocked  the general's  peripheral vi sion, but all of a sudden he detected a presence off to his left.  He  whirled  around  and  saw   the  new   arrival  unconsciously  finger  the  steel  ring that  had allowed  him to  be teleported  here.
	"You are late," said the general, his voice a  deep, rasping complaint.
	The  newcomer,  a  dwarf,  ignored  the rebuke  and shuffled toward the figure  towering before  him. The  general's height accented  the  small  stature  of  this  one.  When  the dwarf threw back  his hood,  his grotesque  face suddenly  came into view, a fitting image  to counter  the general's  mask, though the dwarf's features were his own.
	Milky, pale  skin covered  the dwarf's  body, with  a bluish cast  vaguely  reminiscent of  a corpse.  His eyes  were pale, and very, very  wide. Now,  even under  the deep  overcast, he squinted against the daylight. A shock of  yellow hair  on the dwarf's head shot in all directions, bristly and uncontrolled. His mouth was concealed by a tangled  beard that,  despite its length, grew  only in  sparse, ugly  patches from  his cheeks, chin, and neck.
	The dwarf was a derro, a race  of less  pure stock  than the hill dwarf or Hylar mountain dwarves,  since it  reputedly resulted  from  an  ancient  intermixture  of human  and dwarven blood.  Still  a  mountain  dwarf,  he  was  a  member  of the Theiwar clan.
	He  came  directly  from  Thorbardin, the  great underground realm  of the  mountain dwarves,  where he  served as  the adviser  to  Thane Realgar,  ruler of  the Theiwar.  The Theiwar was the only clan of derro, and  they competed  jealously with their rivals of the Hylar, Daergar, and other clans.
	In addition to his derro race, this dwarf differed  from the typical  mountain  dwarf in  another important  way: he  was a magic-using  savant.  Though  all  dwarves  were  resistant to magic, few  were able  actually to  cast spells.  Among these, the savants of the derro were  most potent;  and of  these savants, Pitrick, adviser to the thane, was the most feared.
	Pitrick  moved  awkwardly,  partially  dragging   his  right foot.  He  leaned  forward  in an  unnatural stance,  his body distorted by the large hump  of flesh  that deformed  his back and right shoulder.
	"You summoned me, and I came," said the dwarf. "Is that not the important thing?" Craning his neck, he looked up at the  general.  The  masked  human  turned  away  silently. His  expression pensive, the dwarf studied the general's straight,  well-armored back.
	 "I see you wear my  present," the  general said,  though he  looked  out  over  the  smoldering city  of Sanction.  He had  given the little derro the amulet, iron forged into the like nesses of five writhing dragon heads, as a token  for closing  the  weapons  shipment  arrangements.  The   general  himself  had received it from his Dark Queen, and  he half  hoped that  Her presence in it would further  influence the  weaselly ad viser to his cause.
	 "It has proved quite useful already," Pitrick said offhand edly, yet he offered no thanks. "But to business. My journey,  though fast, is not without risk," observed the dwarf, ignor ing the  general's shrug.  "Should the  other clans  of Thor bardin gain wind of our transaction, I need not tell you that  your source of arms would vanish."
	 The general  said nothing.  The vast  horde of  men gather ing in the valley  below would  be nothing  more than  an an gry   mob   until   outfitted   with    weapons.   Excellent,  razor-sharp  steel  blades  -  the kind  made by  the Theiwar  mountain dwarves of Thorbardin.
	 "That is why we meet  today," said  the human.  "To discuss  the shipments."
	 "I  trust  that  you  have not  been dissatisfied  with our  craftsmanship," remarked  the dwarf,  his tone  smugly confi dent.
	 The general  ignored the  question. They  both knew  no an swer  was  required,  for   dwarven  weaponsmiths   were  the  most talented crafters of steel on all of Krynn. Nowhere else  could a soldier gain arms of such strength and quality.
	 "I shall require an increase in the amount of all  types of  weapons." The general's voice  was a  harsh rasp  through the  mask. "A doubling, to be precise."
	 The  hunchbacked  dwarf  turned  away,  placing  a  hand to  his chin as if  deep in  thought. The  hand concealed  a thin  smile  of  pleasure  as  the  dwarf's mind  immediately began  counting  the  additional  coinage  that  would  flow quickly  into his, and his clan's, coffers. That meant more  power for  the Theiwar, more power to the thane's adviser.
	"Of  course,  if  you  should  need  to  speak  to  your thane about this  matter...." The  general's tone  made it  clear that such a delay would be regarded as a major nuisance.
	"Certainly  not!"  huffed  the  dwarf.  "I am  fully empowered to  make  such  a  decision.  And  make  it  I shall,  though of course there are some problems to be worked out."
	The general stood mute, arms crossed at his chest. He looked down at the diminutive derro.
	"The  details  are  manifold,"  explained  the  dwarf, turning to  pace  about  the  platform  atop  the  tower. He  moved awkwardly,  dragging  his  twisted right  foot, but  the impediment did  not seem  to slow  him down.  He spoke  slowly, as  if deep in thought.
	"Our  materials, particularly  coal, are  in short  supply. We can find more, but it will be costly, and, naturally,  our price must reflect this. We will be forced to triple the fee."
	The  general  chuckled,  deep  within  the  enclosing confines of  his  armor  and  helm.  "An  amusing thought."  The laughter abruptly  ceased.  "Our  fee  will  be doubled,  as the  work is doubled. No more."
	After  a  discreet  pause  the  dwarf  nodded  his acceptance. Still  in  profile  to  the  general,  his  hand surreptitiously slipped  around  the  iron amulet  that hung  at his  neck. Eyes shifting,  he  soundlessly  mouthed  a  word  and  a  soft  blue glow  suddenly  gleamed  between  his  fingers. Turning  back to the  general,  Pitrick  raised  his other  hand in  a mysterious gesture. His wide, pale  eyes sought  the general's  through the holes  in  the   human's  mask.   Mustering  his   courage,  the dwarf began to intone.
	Suddenly,  the dwarf  felt something  strike him,  hard, along the right side of his head. He cried out in pain and surprise as he  sprawled  to  the wooden  platform, tumbling  to lie  in the shelter of the parapet wall. He rubbed his cheek,  already feeling a large welt developing  there. The  derro struggled  to his feet  and  looked  around;  there  was  nothing   material  that could have struck him.  He looked  at the  general with  new respect. Then he felt an unfamiliar sensation: fear.
	The general stood unmoving, watching the dwarf.
	"An  amusing  diversion,  magic,"  the  human said.  "I trust  you will not attempt to use  your pathetic  tricks on  me again.  This time, I leave you your life. Next time..."
	 "An  honest  mistake, I  assure you,"  said the  dwarf, biting  back his  anger. No  one had  bested or  humiliated him  in dec ades. "A doubling of the fee will be quite satisfactory."
	 "These   shipments   must   be  increased   immediately,"  in structed  the  general.  "I  will  have extra  ships in  the bay  within the month, and I want them loaded quickly."
	 Pitrick  nodded.  "It  shall  be  done.  The  arrangement with  the  loathesome  hill  dwarves  remains, but  I am  taking steps  toward a more satisfactory solution.
	 "Because  they  built the  road through  the pass,  they think  they can control us!  True, the  road is  our only  passage from  Thorbardin to  Newsea, but  we pay  them well  for its  use. Yet  they  complain  when  we  stay  in their  town! They  charge ex orbitant prices for goods. If  they learned  the true  nature of  our shipments, there would be no end to their extortion!
	 "I was forced to kill one  of them  already, for  spying," the  derro  said,  almost in  passing. "Fortunately,  I was  there at  the  time and  was able  to strike  him down  before he  had the  chance  to  tell anyone  what he'd  discovered. The  fools think  he died of a heart attack!"
	 "The  hill  dwarves  are  your  problem. You  are the  one who  insists the trade remains a secret." The general's tone was dis interested,  unsympathetic.  He  turned  away, looking  over his  smoking,  smoldering city.  Clearly, he  had no  curiosity about  the petty squabbles that frequently occurred among dwarves.
	 The  derro  fumed  at the  human's disdain  and sought  to re gain  some  measure  of  his  dignity  and pride.  "Your weapons  will be waiting on the shore!" he said stiffly. "Even if I must  obliterate Hillhome to get them there!"
	 Instinctively  bowing  to  the  general,  as  he would  to his  thane, the derro once again fondled his  steel ring  of telepor tation.  The  circlet  of metal  was formed  by two  rings woven  together  and split  at the  top, the  rough ends  bent outward.  It softly illuminated the  dwarf's entire  body. Then,  a bright  spark  jumped  from  one  edge of  the ring  to another.  In the  space of a blink, the hunchbacked Theiwar was gone. Chapter 4 An Uneasy Reunion

"That was Aylmar's favorite chair," sighed Bertina, wiping a tear as she gestured to the overstuffed seat in which Flint  sat.  Aylmar's  widow  drew  another  mug from  the ale keg, sniffling as she passed the foaming goblet to Flint. Many  a  reverent  mug  had  already  been raised  to Aylmar's memory.  And  to  "good  old  Flint,"  and  an  assortment  of other things, as the hour grew late and the guests at this impromptu party grew increasingly besotted. "It's  a  disgrace  that my  dead brother  is dishonored  by a night of mourning like  this!" Ruberik  grumbled disdainfully. Third  Fireforge  son  -  Aylmar  and  Flint  were  first  and second  -  Ruberik  stood by  the hearth,  stiff in  his black waistcoat and too-tight tie. He turned up his nose at  the mug  of  ale  Bertina  held  toward  him and  frowned disapprovingly  at the newly empty keg, the pools of ale on the floor,  and the  sleeping dwarves throughout the large room.
	 "Oh, Ruberik," scolded  Fidelia, one  of the  older Fireforge  sisters,  "don't  burst  a  vein."  A  buxom,  bawdy  lass, she  tossed back the contents of her mug and held it out for refill ing.  "We're  not  so  much  mourning   Aylmar  -   we've  done  that for a month - as celebrating Flint's return."
	 Ruberik's   work-roughened   hand   reached  out   to  snatch  the mug  from her  waiting lips.  "If you  have no  respect for  your elders,  young woman,  at least  try to  summon a  bit for  the dead!"
	 "We grieve differently, that's all," his sister said, used to  his pompous outbursts. Hitching her leather  skirt to  a height  improper  enough  to  make  her  puritanical brother  fume, she  fetched another drink undisturbed.
	 Plain,  heavy-set  Glynnis,  next in  line after  Ruberik and  not the brightest under  the best  of conditions,  giggled sud denly, oblivious to the tension  in the  room. Letting  loose a  loud hiccup, she smirked at her older brother. "Fidel is right,  Rubie.  Flint  only  comesh  home  onesh  every  twenty  years!  And  when  he   does,  I'm...   I'm..."  Glynnis   squinted  in  concentration.  She  hiccupped  again, and  then her  head fell  forward. In a second she snored, face  down in  a pool  of ale.  Ruberik rolled his eyes, as if to say, "There she goes again."
	 "His favorite chair,"  cut in  Bertina, continuing  as though  unaware anyone  else had  spoken. "He'd  sit there  for hours."  She loose wistfully at  Flint in  the large,  wood-framed chair  with fluffy, goose-down cushions.
	 Flint  already  felt uncomfortable  enough, listening  to the  squabbles  of  his  family. But  his sister-in-law's  look made  him  squirm.  He wanted  to get  up, to  sit somewhere  else in  the  room,  but  virtually  every  surface  - table,  chair, or  floor - already held a sleeping Fireforge. Flint winced  at the  thought  of  the  hangover  that  would fill  the house  on the  morrow.
	 He sat back in Aylmar's favorite chair and sighed, his  mood maudlin. This was not the homecoming he'd ex pected; he felt disloyal, but  he could  not shake  the thought  that his friends back in Solace felt more like family than this  gathering of strangers.
	 His reception had  started out  well enough.  Indeed, Flint's  homecoming  had  provided  the  Fireforge  clan  with  a  much needed  cause  for  celebration. Cousins  and siblings  and old  neighbors all  gathered at  the family  home within  minutes of  his arrival. The large  house, home  to Flint's  parents before  their  deaths,  was  now  occupied by  Aylmar's family  and Ru berik, who was a bachelor.
	 Set  into  the hillside,  which was  common in  Hillhome, the  house was  large by  dwarven standards,  and it  felt spacious.  The  family  was  now  gathered  in  the  "front  room,"  which  had  a  high  ceiling  and  tall  doorways  to  accommodate hu man  visitors,  which  the  Fireforge family  had more  of than  the  average  dwarven  family  because  of   their  adventuring  ways.  The  walls  were  of  stone,  reinforced  by   dark  oak  beams.  The  only  room  with  windows,  its  two  round  open ings  were  now  double-shuttered against  the autumn  chill. A  large,  spotless  hearth was  the room's  focal point,  and the  furniture was a dozen or so chairs and a large  rectangular ta ble, for meals were taken here.
	 The  rest  of  the house  spread out  behind the  front room.  Five  other  chambers  had  been carved  into the  hillside and  shored up with  perfectly matched  and cut  stone, so  that not  a  speck  of  earth  could  be seen  between cracks.  Two rooms  had been added to the east side nearest  the barn  for Ruberik,  who made his living as a farmer.
	 Glynnis  was  a  housefrawl;  Fidelia  worked  at  the  grain  mill; the next  oldest brothers,  Tybalt and  Bernhard, consta ble  and  carpenter  respectively.   They  and   the  remaining  seven  siblings  all lived  nearby, having  grown up  and moved  out. To tonight's  party they  had brought  a tumbling  mass of  nieces  and  nephews,  many  of  whom   had  been   born  since  Flint's  departure,  and   brothers-  and   sisters-in-law  who  seemed to outnumber his siblings.
	 Yet  Flint  wondered  about  his  favorite  nephew,  Aylmar's  eldest  son,  Basalt, who  was conspicuous  by his  absence. It  seemed odd that the  boy was  not at  his mother's  side during  her time of  grief. On  the other  hand, Basalt's  brothers and sisters  -  Aylmar  and  Bertina  had  had  more  than  half a dozen children, by Flint's  best reckoning  - had  been struggling to outdo each other in offering comforts to  their notorious  Uncle  Flint.  He  could neither  smoke nor  drink fast enough to keep up with the refills they  offered him.  A seemingly endless stream of  plates, each  loaded with  an unusual treat, was placed before  him by  a niece  or nephew.  He sampled spiced goose eggs, cream  cakes and  fruit pies,  bits of succulent meat, fish larvae, and other exotic delights.
	A  pair  of  geese  had  been  butchered  and  an  impromptu feast prepared. Flint  tore off  a bite  from a  drumstick now and  decided  to engage  Ruberik in  a discussion  more suited to his brother's somber mood.
	Taking a handkerchief  from his  pocket, Flint  scrubbed the grease from his mustache and beard. "Please  tell me,"  he began, "what you know of our brother's untimely death."
	Ruberick  grew  grimmer  still.  "Aylmar  had  been laboring at his trade, blacksmithing, and his heart  gave out  on him." The dwarf shook his head sadly. "It's as simple as that."
	"We  told  him  not  to work  so hard!"  exclaimed Bernhard, who  was  seated next  to Flint  in a  hard wooden  chair. The seventh  Fireforge  sibling, his  soft black  hair prematurely balding,  leaned  forward  and  knotted  his  thick, calloused hands. "But that is one of the reasons why he was the  best at his craft."
	"The  money  was  just  too  much  temptation,"  interrupted Ruberik. "He couldn't resist the offer to work for the derro."
	"Yeah,"   Bernhard  said   vacantly.  "Anyway,   Aylmar  was called to the forge in the derro's camp  - they've  taken over Delwar's forge - to fix a wheel late one morning."
	Flint found  it difficult  to believe  that the  Aylmar he'd known  would  have  had  anything  to  do  with derro,  but he had   been  gone   a  long   time....  Flint   remembered  the walled yard near the town smithy.
	"That place has become  a blighthole  filled with  evil derro!" interjected Ruberik again. "A blemish on the face  of our hills!"
	Bernhard rocked  his chair  onto its  back legs.  "You don't think it's such a blemish when you take  your cheese  there to sell," he  commented wryly,  "nor when  you build  an addition to your abode with the  profits." He  squinted up  through one eye to glimpse his brother's angry, red face.
	"That's  business!  Mind your  elders!" was  Ruberik's stern reply.
	Bernhard rolled his eyes and lowered his chair to  the floor with  a  bang.  "Anyway,  Aylmar  went to  the yard  that day, 'an  emergency,'  they  said.  Any  smith  would've  taken the job - these derro panic at the thought of  missing a  night on the road, so they pay real good for day work and such -"
	"And  Aylmar,  the  damned  fool,  had to  take on  this one job  too  many,"  Ruberick  interrupted  yet again,  unable to conceal his anguish. "He died beside  his forge,  among strangers, what is worse."
	"Garth,  the  dimwit,  found him  there all  blue," finished Bernhard matter-of-factly.
	Bertina  gasped,  and  Fidelia  elbowed  her brother  in the head. "Have a care, will you?"
	"Uh,  sorry,  Berti,"  the carpenter  said limply,  making a hasty exit to help with the tapping of a new keg.
	"But  if  these  are  mountain dwarves,"  interjected Flint, "why  isn't  there  a  smith  among  them  who  can  fix their wagons?"
	"I can explain that,"  said Tybalt,  stepping away  from the fire to join the circle. He was a stocky, unsmiling  dwarf who had inherited all of the worst Fireforge features: the bulbous nose, their mother's weight, and  their father's  slight chin. Even  when off  duty, he  wore his  constable uniform  - shiny leather  breastplate  and  shoulder  protectors   hardened  in boiling  oil and  dyed blue,  gray tunic  beneath that  to his knees, gray leg wraps, and thick-soled  leather shoes.  He removed it only once a week to bathe.
	"Mayor  Holden  wisely  made  it a  condition of  the agreement that the mountain dwarves  use the  services of  the hill dwarves  when  in  Hillhome  -  extra  money  for  our craftsmen." Tybalt brushed a piece of  string from  his breastplate. "Besides, the derro hate light so much  that they  would never station a smith  above ground  so far  from Thorbardin.  If it weren't for Hillhome, they'd have  to bring  a smith  along on every  trip just  in case  of breakdowns,  which would  be exceedingly  costly."  Tybalt  struck  a ramrod  pose. "Everyone says  Mayor  Holden  drove  an  excellent  bargain   with  the Theiwar."
	Fidelia snorted indelicately and ruffled Tybalt's  dark hair as she strolled by him. "You tell that to anyone who will listen  because  you're  bucking for  a promotion,  Brother!" She took another pull on her mug of ale.
	Hearing  an  opening to  the question  that had  brought him here, Flint leaned forward intently, his  elbows on  his knees as his eyes scanned the group. "I came all  the way  from Solace  to  find  out  why  Hillhome  is  dealing  with  mountain dwarves at all, let alone derro!  Can someone  give me  a good answer 7"
	Everyone  began  talking at  once, and  Flint was  forced to wave  his  arms  above his  head and  whistle for  silence. He looked at his  brother the  constable. "You  seem to  know the details of this 'agreement,' Tybalt. Why don't you  explain it to me."
	Looking flattered at his  older brother's  attention, Tybalt cleared his throat. "It started about a  year ago,  them using the  pass.  They  leave  Thorbardin  and  meet  up   with  the Passroad  somewhere  around  the   western  shore   of  Stonehammer  Lake.  They're  taking  their  cargo  to the  coast at Newsea.  We  hear they've  got a  jetty set  up in  some cove, where  they  meet  ships  from  the  north and  transfer their goods."
	"So, how did it all start?"
	Tybalt  paused  and scratched  his chin.  "One day,  a short one of  these derro,  kind of  bent over  like, showed  up and met  with  the mayor  and a  bunch of  the elders.  Offered to pay twenty steel pieces  a wagon  - twenty  steel, mind  you if we'd let them come over our pass.
	"Course  there  was  still  some,  like  Aylmar,  who wanted nothing to do with them. But  the deal  was struck.  Then, the wagons  started  comin'  through,"  Tybalt said,  punching his hand for emphasis. "They  make the  run to  the coast,  and on the way back the derro stock  up on  grain, beer,  cheese, all manner of stuff you  can't get  where there's  no sun.  Pay in good  steel  coin,  twice  or  more  what  anybody  could charge before.  It  started  out  with  only  one  wagon  a  day coming and going, a  few derro  on each.  They must  be doing  twice or more than that, now."
	"And always derro, the Theiwar?" asked Flint.
	"Yup.  Some stay  with their  wagons, but  most sleep  at the inns  in  town  during  the  day.  They  don't  mix   much  with townfolk. There's been  a few  fights and  such, but  they don't try to cause too much trouble... usually.
	"The town's  never had  so much  in its  treasury, and  all of us're  doing  better  than  we  ever  thought  possible," Tybalt concluded defensively.
	"So  what  you're  saying  is,  Hillhome is  allowing mountain dwarves in the village strictly for the profit," Flint concluded numbly.
	"Can  you  think  of  a better  reason?" Bernhard  asked innocently.
	Flint's temper exploded  as he  jumped to  his feet.  "I can't think   of   any   reason   to   have  dealings   with  mountain dwarves!"  He  glared  angrily  into each  and every  face. "Has everyone   here   forgotten   the   Great   Betrayal?   Or   the Dwarfgate  Wars,  in  which  Grandfather  Reghar  gave   up  his life  trying   to  take   back  the   hill  dwarves'   place  in Thorbardin  -  our  birthright!  -  from  the  mountain  dwarves who stole it? Have you forgotten, Tybalt?"
	Tybalt  straightened  self-righteously, "I  haven't forgotten, but  I  don't  make  the  laws.  I'm sworn  to uphold  them. For that matter, I'd toss a hill dwarf in jail as soon as I  would a mountain dwarf!"
	Flint  scowled  and  turned  on  Bernhard.  "How  about you?"
	His  younger  brother  shrank  under  his  gaze. "I'm  just a carpenter..."   He   tugged   on  his   beard  self-consciously, afraid to look at his eldest brother as  he struggled  with some inner  thought.  'You   can't  forget   what  you   never  knew, Flint!" he blurted at last. "I never heard the stories  like you did,  not  from  Father.  And  all that  was over  three hundred years ago!" Bernhard seemed  almost relieved  to have  said it. Flint's expression softened somewhat.
	 Fidelia did not wait for her brother to get around to her. "Frankly,  I'm  for whatever  makes me  money," she  said, sensually running  her hands  down her  tailored leather  apron, a far  cry from  the coarse  cloth their  mother had  been accustomed  to wearing.  "I like  to think  that we're  getting back from  Thorbardin  a  little of  what's been  owed us  - payment for all these years of poverty."
	Flint rubbed his  face wearily.  It was  obvious that  he did not know his family at all. He looked  at his  closest sibling. "And  how  about  you,  Ruberik?  At  least  you don't  seem to think much of derro."
	Ruberik   appeared   to  be   giving  the   discussion  great thought. "No, I don't, and  I haven't  forgotten the  Great Betrayal  either,  Flint. I  would not  have approved  the agreement if asked, but I wasn't. The council,  with the  support of the  majority  of  the  citizens,  made  the decision."  He had dropped  his  usual stuffy  tone. "But  now that  they're here, I'm not adverse to making a little profit - just so  we're comfortable. I'm not greedy like  some others  in town,"  he added defensively.
	Flint  rubbed  his  face  wearily.  "These wagons,"  he said, changing  the  subject  slightly.  "What  do  they   haul?  And where are they going?"
	Tybalt  spoke  up  again.  "Mayor   Holden  says   that  they carry  mostly  raw  iron.  Sometimes  tools  -  plows,  forges, stuff like that. They cover the twenty or  so miles  from Thorbardin  one  night,  arrive  before  sunup,  spend  the  day in town or sleeping, then set out at night for  a dock  at Newsea. Usually  two  days  later,  they return  to Hillhome,  and then continue on back to Thorbardin."
	Flint picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantle, relit it, and  took  a  long  draw,  squinting through  the smoke  at his three  brothers.  "Does  anyone  know  where they're  taking so many farm implements?" he asked suspiciously.
	His  brothers  looked  at  each  other, puzzled.  "Why should we  care  where  they  go  after  Newsea?"   Tybalt  exclaimed. "The  derro  pay  us  in  steel -  the most  valuable commodity on   Krynn.   And   for  what?   -  promising   them  clearance through the pass and selling them our goods at a  slightly elevated price."  "It's almost like free money!" added Bernhard. But  instead  of  persuading  their  brother,  their  comments made  Flint  even  more  irritated. "Nothing  is ever  free," he growled softly. Ruberik remained silent, frowning.
	A  strange  silence  crept  over  the room,  taking with  it the last drop of the spirit of  celebration. One  by one,  the Fireforge  family  dispersed.  Ruberik finally  shuffled off  to his private  chamber,  and  only  Bertina   stayed  behind   in  the main chamber with Flint.  At  last  Flint  got  up  and  moved  to  the  wooden  bench Ruberik  had  vacated,  both  to sit  closer to  Bertina and  to finally - leave Aylmar's favorite chair.  "I'm sorry that I didn't get back  sooner, Berti."  Flint forced the  words  out  awkwardly.  Even  with  a  bellyful of  ale, he could not make himself tell her of his feelings of guilt. But he sensed that she understood.  "It's  enough  to  have  you  home now,"  she said,  patting his thick hand. "This is just what the family needed." Flint's  hands  curled  into  fists. "But  maybe I  could have helped him... done something!"  Bertina   squeezed   her   brother-in-law's   arm   reassuringly and  shook  her  head.  "We  went  there  as  soon as  we heard, Rubie  and  me."  Her  eyes  were far  away. "You  mustn't blame yourself."  Suddenly  the  front  door  slammed   back  against   the  stone wall. "Isn't it just like 'Uncle Flint' to worry about  his family?" a  new voice  snarled sarcastically  from the  door. Flint recognized  it  before  he  even looked  up: Basalt.  Their eyes met.  His  nephew  was  no  longer a  youth of  fifty. He  had a full beard, darker than his  bright red  hair, and  a preponderance of  freckles beneath  his sea-green  eyes. Basalt  was tall for  a  dwarf,  but it  was more  than height  that gave  him an appearance of haughtiness.  "Basalt!" cried Bertina, rousing  herself to  leap to  her feet, smiling happily for the first time that evening.  "Flint's here! Your  Uncle  Flint's come  home!" Flint,  too, rose  and stepped toward his nephew, smiling warmly.  "I  know."  Something  in Basalt's  voice cast  a pall  over the room. "I heard a few hours ago, down at Moldoon's."
	Basalt's green  eyes fixed  Flint with  a cold  stare. Bertina coughed,  embarrassed.  And  Flint  felt  himself  shrinking under  that  gaze.  Though  he  did  not  know  how he  could have done  otherwise, Flint  realized that  he had  let the  boy down by   being   elsewhere   when   Aylmar   had  died.   Though  he knew  he  should,  he  could  not  bring  himself to  rebuke the rudeness of his brother's son.
	"It's good to see you, Basalt," Flint said at last. "I'm sorry about your father."
	"Me,  too!"  the  young  dwarf snapped,  grabbing someone's half-finished mug of  ale from  the table  and tossing  the contents down his throat. It was not his first of the  night, Flint realized. "Nice of  you to  make it  back, Uncle,  although your brother's been cold in the ground for nearly a month!"
	"Basalt!" Bertina gasped, finally finding her voice.
	"Let  the  boy  - let  Basalt speak  his mind,"  Flint corrected himself,   giving  his   nephew  a   pained  look.   Normally  a young  dwarf  who  spoke  that  way to  an older  relative would suffer  a severe  reprimand, if  not a  punch in  the nose  or a brief  banishment.  But  somehow,  Flint  could only  feel sorry for Basalt. And angry  at himself  for his  long neglect  of his family.
	"I have nothing to say," Basalt said softly, sorrow,  ale, and anger  making  his  eyes  flash.  "The  subject bores  me." With that,  he  disappeared  into  the   shadows  that   cloaked  the house beyond the firelight.
	Bertina  stood  clutching  her  apron,  looking  with  anguish from  Flint  to  where  Basalt had  retreated. "He  doesn't mean it,  Flint," she  said. "He's  just not  been the  same since... since... It's the  drink talking."  With a  soft moan,  she hurried after her son.
	Flint  watched her  go, then  leaned back  in his  seat before the fire, deep in morose reflection: A last  bit of  burning log dropped  through  the  fire  grate  and  rolled  forward;  Flint stood and jabbed it back into the fireplace  with his  toe, then watched  sparks fly,  burning from  red to  gray, long  into the night. * * * * *
	Clumping  through  the   cold  room   in  his   heavy  farming boots at first light, Ruberik  brought Flint  to his  senses the next  morning.  The   older  dwarf   did  not   remember  having fallen  asleep.  Someone  had  covered  him  with  a  rough wool blanket  during the  night, which  tumbled to  the ground  as he jumped up.
	"No  place  to  make  hot  chicory  in  my  new   rooms,"  Ruberik  grumbled  by  way  of  apology.  Pots banged  and kettles clanged  while  he  clumsily  heated water  over the  fire, then poured  it through  a length  of coarse  netting that  held some fresh ground, roasted root. Taking a  sip of  the brew  he shivered. "Nice  and bitter,"  he concluded,  looking as  pleased as Ruberik  ever  did.  With  that  he  pulled  on a  heavy leather coat  and  grumbled  his  way  into   the  dawn,   slamming  the door  behind   him.  A   current  of   damp,  cold   air  rushed through the room and fanned the fire in the grate.
	Flint  chuckled  at his  brother's ill  humor despite  his own fatigue. He dug his hairy fists into his eye sockets, stretched, and smacked  his lips.  Hoping to  douse the  sour taste  in his mouth,  he took  the water  kettle from  the fireside  and made his way to the  kitchen, across  the room  from the  front door. The  area  was small  but well  organized. Using  Ruberik's netting, Flint managed to rustle up  his own  pot of  brew. Bertina kept the cream in  the same  place his  mother had:  against the back  of  a low  cupboard along  the cold  north wall,  where it stayed fresh longer.
	When   he'd  downed   enough  chicory   to  feel   his  senses straighten,  Flint  looked  about  and  noticed  that  the house sounded  empty,  its  usual  occupants  apparently   having  already  gone  about  their  day.  He  decided  to give  Ruberik a hand in the barn.
	Helping  himself  to  two  big  hunks  of  bread  and  cheese, Flint slipped his  boots on  and stepped  outside into  a bright but  brisk  morning.  He  picked  his  way  along   the  narrow, muddy  path  that  led  from the  small front  yard to  the barn far off to the right of  the house.  He stopped  at the  well to rinse himself, letting the brisk autumn air  dry his  cheeks and beard and refresh his tired soul.
	Swallowing the last of his bread in one big bite, Flint cov- ered the remaining distance to the barn.
	Pausing at the massive door, Flint grasped the  thick, brass ring  that  served  as a  handle. It  was polished  and smooth from  centuries of  use. He  remembered the  times when,  as a child, he had strained and hauled  on that  ring with  all his strength  without  ever  budging  the  massive  door.  Now  he gave it a tug and the heavy timbers swung out.
	Even before his eyes had  adjusted to  the dim  light inside the barn, its  odors washed  over him.  The hay,  animals, manure, rope,  stone, and  beams blended  together into  a smell that was unique,  yet each  odor could  be separated  from the others and identified individually. Flint  paused there  for a moment, savoring that aroma.
	Chickens   roamed   throughout,   flapping   from   beam  to beam,  picking  at  the grain  mixed in  with the  fresh straw scattered across the floor. Three cows tethered in tidy stalls raised their heads from an oat-filled trough to eye Flint disinterestedly. At the rear of the barn,  six goats  jostled and clambered over each other to get to the  two buckets  of water Ruberick  had  set  inside  their  pen.  A  pair  of  swallows swooped down from  the rafters  and out  the open  door, passing inches above Flint's  scruffy hair.  The dwarf  ducked reflexively, then chuckled at his reaction.
	Ruberik  stomped  into  the  light  from  the depths  at the back of the barn, a shiny milking  pail in  each hand.  He saw Flint,  looked surprised,  then seemed  about to  grumble some insult. He thrust a pail into Flint's hands.
	"Let's see if you  remember how  to milk  a cow,  city boy," Ruberik said, his tone unexpectedly light.
	"Solace is hardly a city," Flint scoffed,  then rose  to the challenge.  "I've  been  milking  cows  since before  you even knew  what  one was,  baby brother."  Hitching up  his leather pantlegs,  he  lowered  himself  onto  a  three-legged  wooden stool next to a brown-spotted cow.
	"Make sure  your hands  aren't cold.  Daisyeye hates  that won't give you a drop," warned Ruberik.
	Flint just glared at him, then rubbed his hands together furiously. He reached out quickly and began tugging; in seconds, he  had milk  streaming into  the pail.  Daisyeye chewed contentedly.
	"Not bad," Ruberik said, nodding as  he looked  over Flint's shoulder, "for a woodcarver."
	Flint ignored the jibe, handing his brother the full pail of creamy  milk.  "You  know,"  he  said,  wiping his  damp hands on his vest, "I'd forgotten how much the smell  of a  barn reminds  me of  Father." He  inhaled deeply,  and his  mind wandered  back  to  other  mornings,  when  he  had  been dragged from  his  warm  bed  at  the crack  of dawn  to work  in this place. He had hated it at the time....
	"You're lucky  to have  any memories  of him,"  Ruberik said enviously. "He died before  I was  really of  any use  to him. Aylmar  had  his  smith  -  and  then one  day you  were gone, too. Had to teach myself to  run a  dairy farm,"  he finished, using his cupped  hands to  scoop more  oats into  the feeding trough.
	Flint's hands  froze under  Daisyeye in  mid-milking stroke. He'd  left  Hillhome  those  many  years  ago,  never thinking how it might make his siblings feel. He felt compelled  to say something - to  offer some  explanation -  and he  tried. "Uh, well, I -" And then he stopped, unable  to think  of anything. He stole a glance at Ruberik.
	His younger brother moved about the barn, whistling softly, oblivious to Flint and his halting response.
	Ruberik  finished  feeding  the  animals  and   clapped  his hands to remove  grain chaff.  "I've got  to stir  some cheese vats," he said, finally aware of Flint again. "Care to help?"
	"Uh,  no  thanks,"  Flint  gulped;  he hated  the overpoweringly  sour  smell of  fermenting cheese.  He took  the bucket out from under Daisyeye, handing it to his brother. "I'll finish up the chores in here, if you'd like me to."
	"You  would?"  Ruberik  said,  surprised. Flint  nodded, and Ruberik  listed  the  remaining morning  tasks. With  that, he left through a door at the far right of the barn, the scent of cheese billowing in after him.
	Flint  covered  his nose  and began  milking his  second cow in many decades. * * * * *

He  finished  the  chores  by late  morning. Ruberik  had left  to deliver cheese,  so Flint  sat at  the edge  of the  well and  looked  opposite  his  family's  homestead,  through  the multi colored   autumn   foliage   and   steady   green   conifers  at  Hillhome  below.  The  Fireforge  house  was  about   midway  up  the south rim of the valley  that surrounded  the village  - the  notch  known  simply as  the Pass  cut into  the eastern  end of  the  valley;  the  Passroad  continued  through  the   town  and  down the valley to the eastern shore of Stonehammer Lake.
	 Flint  could see  the town  beginning to  bustle with  the ac tivity of a new day, and without  really deciding  to do  so, he  found  himself  walking  on  the  road that  snaked down  to the  center of the village. The stroll stretched his stiff joints and  freshened  his  spirits. He  passed many  houses like  his fami ly's, since most of the buildings here were set into  the hills,  made  of  big  stone  blocks,  with  timbered  roofs  and small,  round windows.
	 The  village  proper  was  more  or less  level, and  thus had  many   wooden   structures,  certainly   more  now   than  Flint  ever  remembered.  As  he  came  around  a  bend  in  the  road,  bringing  him within  sight of  the village,  he was  again sur prised at the extent of the changes in Hillhome.
	 The  great  wagon yard  and forge  seemed to  serve as  a cen tral  gathering  place  for  work  on  the  heavy,  iron-wheeled  freight  wagons.  The trade  route ran  east and  west, straight  through  Hillhome  on  the Passroad.  His view  of the  yard was  blocked   by   a   high   stone   fence.  New   buildings  stood  crowded  together  along  the   Passroad,  extending   the  town  past  the  brewery  building,  which  Flint  remembered  as once  marking  the  town's  western  border.  Off  Main  Street, there  were still  the neat,  stone houses  with yards;  narrow, smooth  streets; little shops. But the pace of life seemed frantic.
	 That busyness  nettled Flint,  for reasons  he could  not even  explain  to  himself. He  had intended  to explore  Hillhome, to  see  the  new  sights,  but instead  he found  himself resenting  the  changes  and  heading  toward   the  safety   of  Moldoon's  once again to enjoy the comfortable familiarity of the place.
	 "Welcome,  my  friend!"  Moldoon  greeted  the   dwarf  pleas antly,  wiping  his  hands  on  his apron  front before  he took  Flint's arm and drew  him forward.  At this  time of  day, the  place was virtually empty, just a table of three humans in the  center of the room before the fire, and a pair of derro drink ing quietly at another.
	 "Have you a glass of milk  for an  old dwarf's  touchy stom ach?" Flint asked, spinning a stool at the bar to  his height.  He slipped onto it easily, propping his chin up in his hand.
	 Moldoon   raised   his   eyebrows  and   grinned  knowingly.  "Don't   you   mean   a  touchy   old  dwarf's   stomach?"  He  reached  under  the  bar  for  a  frosty  pewter  pitcher  and  poured Flint a  mug of  the creamy  liquid. Flint  tossed back  half of it in one gulp.
	 "I heard your family got together last night," said the bar tender, topping Flint's glass again. "You cost me half my cus tomers!"
	 The  dwarf  smiled  wryly,  shuffling  the  mug  between his  hands  on  the  bar. Then  he remembered  the one  family mem ber  who  had  remained  at  Moldoon's  rather than  greet his  uncle. "Not Basalt," he said to the  barkeep. "He  didn't seem  any too glad to see me... when he finally got home."
	 Moldoon sighed  as he  filled two  mugs with  ale. "Aylmar's  death really hit him hard, Flint. I don't think it's  got any thing to do with you. He blames himself - he was  his father's  apprentice.  But  he  was  here,  not  at  home,  when  Aylmar  went off to the wagon camp."
	 "I know how he feels," grumbled Flint into  the last  of his  milk.
	 "Barkeep, do  we have  to wait  all day?"  A scruffy-looking  derro  at the  table behind  Flint waved  two empty  mugs over  his  greasy  yellow  head,  smacking his  lips and  glaring at  Moldoon.
	 Moldoon  held  up  the  overflowing   mugs  in   his  hands,  splitting  an  apologetic  look between  the derro  and Flint.  "Right away," he called sheepishly, muttering,  "Be back  in a  moment," to Flint before hurrying to the table.
	 "Wagondrivers,"  he  breathed  as  he  returned to  the bar.  The dwarf stared as his old friend  absently popped  two steel  pieces into his cash box.
	 "For two mugs?" Flint asked in amazement.

Moldoon   nodded,   looking   both   incredulous  and   a  bit  ashamed.   "That's   the  price   to  them   anyway.  Apparently  they  don't  get much  good ale  in Thorbardin,  so most  of the  crews load up on it late  in the  afternoon before  their night time  run."  He mopped  at a  sweat ring  on the  bar. "Business  has never  been better  - for  every business  in town.  Most of  us merchants think the  return is  worth putting  up with  a few  rowdies,  now  and  then."  With  that,  Moldoon   excused  him self and shuffled into the kitchen to settle a dispute  with the  village butcher, who had called angrily from the back door.
	 Flint  walked around  the end  of the  bar and  helped himself  to  a  mug  of ale.  He dropped  one steel  piece onto  the bar.  Suddenly  cold,  he shivered  and headed  for the  fire, desper ate to return some warmth to his old bones.
	 When the fire failed to lift his spirit, Flint pulled from his  belt pouch his sharp whittling  knife and  a small,  rough piece  of  wood  he'd  been  saving.  Sometimes,  when  ale  failed  to  ease  his  mind,  only  carving  would  help.  He  would  forget  everything  except  the  feel  of the  wood in  his hands  as he  worked life into it. Think of the  wood, he  told himself  as he  sat in front of the fire.
	 Like  most  dwarves,  Flint  was  not  much given  to express ing  his feelings.  Not  like  his   emotional  friend   Tanis,  who  was  always  tormenting  himself  about  something.  For  Flint,  things  either  were  or they  weren't, and  there was  no point  worrying  either  way.   But  every   now  and   then  something  could  get  under  his  skin,  like  the  uncomfortable feelings  he'd  had  since  returning  to  Hillhome.  Flint  shivered  in wardly  and  drew  his  mind  back  to the  wood. He  stayed the  afternoon  at  Moldoon's,  slowly,  painstakingly   shaping  his  lifeless piece of lumber into  the delicate  likeness of  a hum mingbird.   Moldoon  refilled   his  mug   now  and   then,  and  soon all was forgotten in the joy of his creation.
	 The  tavern  filled  steadily  with  more  hill  dwarves,  and  more   wagondrivers   replaced   the   previous   group.   Flint  scarcely  noticed  much  beyond  his  sphere,  though,   so  en grossed was he in the finishing details of his bird.
	 "So, it's good old Uncle Flint."
	 Flint  nearly  sliced  off  one  of  the  hummingbird's intri-  cately  detailed  wings.  The  sarcastic  voice at  his shoulder  sounded  like  animated  ice.  Basalt.  Flint slowly  looked up.  His  nephew  loomed,  glaring  at  him  with  a  humorless  half  smile on his red-bearded jaw. "It's a bit early for drink, isn't  it?" Hint asked, wishing he could bite his  tongue off  the sec ond the patronizing words left his mouth.
	 Basalt eyed Flint's own mug. "That's not milk you're  drinking, either."
	 Flint set down his  tools and  sighed, swallowing  the irrita tion  he  felt  because  of  his ruined  good mood.  "Look, pup,  I've always had a soft spot  for you."  Flint eyed  him squarely  now. "But if  you keep  using that  tone of  voice with  me, I'm  going to forget you're family."
	 Basalt shrugged, taking an  empty chair  near his  uncle's. "I  thought you already had."
	 Flint  had  never struck  someone for  telling the  truth, and  he  was not  of a  mind to  start now.  Instead, he  grabbed Ba salt by the shoulders and shook him, hard.
	 "Look, I feel terrible about your  father," he  began, search ing his nephew's freckled face.  "I'm not  one for  wishing, but  I'd  give  anything  to  have  been   here,  anything   to  have  known. But I wasn't and I didn't, and that's what is, Bas."
	 Trying hard  to look  unperturbed, Basalt  rolled his  eyes in  disbelief  and  looked  away.  "Don't  call  me that,"  he whis pered,  referring  to  the affectionate  nickname Flint  had let  slip.
	 Flint  had  seldom  seen  such  suffering as  he noted  in his  nephew's face, and he had felt it only once:  after his  own fa ther's death.  "Aylmar was  my big  brother -  my friend  - just  like you and I were before I left."
	 "You're nothing like my father."
	 Flint ran a hand through his  hair. "Nor  would I  try to  be. I  just wanted you to know I feel his loss, too."
	 "Sorry,  old  man.  No  consolation."  Basalt turned  his back  on his uncle.
	 Flint  was  getting  angry.  "I'm still  young enough  to whip  the smartmouthedness out of you, harrn."
	 But  Flint  could  see  by  his nephew's  reaction that  he no  longer heard him. Basalt  strutted before  his uncle,  wearing a patronizing smirk.  "I can't  blame you  for coming  back now, you know,  when there's  real money  to be  made." He  did not even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
	 It was Flint's turn to poke at his nephew, his  thick index finger  within  an  inch of  Basalt's bulbous  Fireforge nose. "I've had about all I'll take from you  today. You  want someone  to  be  angry  at,  and  you've chosen  me, when  the two people  you're  really  hopping  mad  at  are your  father and yourself!"
	 Basalt's  ample  cheeks  burned  scarlet, and  suddenly his right  fist  flew out  toward Flint's  jaw. His  uncle quickly blocked the punch,  landing a  right jab  of his  own squarely on Basalt's chin.  The younger  Fireforge's head  jerked back, his eyes bulged, and he slithered to the floor.
	 Basalt wiped his lip and  discovered blood  on the  back of his hand; he looked up at his  uncle at  the bar  in astonishment and shame. Flint turned back  sourly to  his mug,  and in a moment Basalt got to his feet and left the inn.
	 Flint dropped  his care-worn  face into  his hands.  He had fought wolves and  zombies, and  they'd taken  less of  a toll on him than the confrontations he'd endured  in the  last day. The  clamor  of  noise  surrounded him;  the smell  of greasy, unwashed  bodies  began  to  fill  the tavern.  These familiar things  seemed  less  comforting  and enveloping  than before. Nothing  about  Hillhome  seemed  the  same.  He  resolved  at that  moment  to  make  his  hasty  good-byes  in  the morning and get back to the life he understood in Solace.
	 At  that  moment  a  party   of  pale   blue-skinned  derro dwarves  noisily  entered  Moldoon's.  Turning  his   back  to them in disgust, Flint tried to ignore the bustle  around him. He  knew  no  one  in  the tavern  except Moldoon.  And though the  barkeep  had  been  joined  around  dusk by  two matronly barmaids,  he was  too busy  with the  throng of  customers to talk.
	 It might have been the ale, his fight  with Basalt,  or the whole  unsettling  day  combined,  but  Flint   grew  suddenly annoyed  with  the  presence  of the  derro in  Moldoon's. Now that it was dusk, a pair  of the  fair, big-eyed  dwarves, already drunk,  sat down  beside the  agitated dwarf  and rudely bellowed at Moldoon for more ale.
	"Don't  they  teach you  manners in  that cave  of a  city you come from?" demanded Flint, all of a  sudden swinging around on his stool to face the two mountain dwarves.
	"It's  a  grander  town  than  you  can  claim,"  sneered one, lurching unsteadily to his feet.
	Flint rose from his stool too, his  fists clenching.  The second  derro  stepped  up  to  his companion,  and the  hill dwarf saw him reach for the haft of a thin  dagger. Flint's  own knife was in his belt, but he let it be for now. Despite his anger, he sought no fight to the death with two drunks.
	At  that  moment,  luckily,  Garth  clumped  in,   carrying  a sack of potatoes, and  headed for  the door  to the  kitchen behind the bar. He took one  look at  Flint's angry  face nose-tonose with the derro and he let out a  loud, plaintive  wail that caused  everything  else  to  fall  silent.  Moldoon  looked  up from  where  he  was  serving  patrons  across  the  inn.  Garth was  alternately  pointing  at  Flint  and the  derro, babbling, and  holding  his  head  and   sobbing.  The   gray-haired  innkeeper  covered  the  distance  in  four strides.  Instructing a barmaid  to  lead  Garth  into  the  kitchen  to calm  down, he planted himself between Flint and the derro.
	'What's  the  problem  here,  boys?  You're  not  thinking  of rearranging  my  inn,  are  you?"  Moldoon  was looking  only at the derro.
	"He insulted us!"  one of  them claimed,  shaking his  fist at Flint.
	Flint  pushed the  pale fingers  away. 'Your  presence insults everyone in this bar," he muttered.
	"You see!" the derro exclaimed self-righteously.
	Moldoon took the two derro by their elbows and propelled the startled  dwarves toward  the door.  "I see  that you two need to leave my establishment immediately."
	At  the  door  the  derro  wrenched  away  from  his  grip and turned  as  if  to  attack  Moldoon,  hands  on  the  weapons at their  waists.  Moldoon  stared  them down,  until at  last they dropped  their  hands  and  left.  Shaking  his  head,  the innkeeper  slammed  the  door  behind  them  and then  strolled toward Flint at the bar.
	Flint sank his face into his  ale and  gulped half  the mug down. "I don't need anyone to  fight my  battles for  me," he grumbled angrily into the foam.
	"And  I  don't  need  anyone  breaking  up  my  inn!" countered  Moldoon.  He  laughed unexpectedly,  the lines  in his face  drawing  up.  "Gods,  you're just  like Aylmar  was! No wonder  Garth  went crazy  when he  saw you  about to  take a swing at  those derro.  Probably thought  it was  Aylmar back from the dead for one more fight."
	Flint looked up intently from his ale. "What are  you talking about? Aylmar had a set-to with some derro?"
	Moldoon  nodded.  "At least  one that  I know  of." Moldoon looked puzzled. "Why are you surprised?  You, of  all people, must  have  guessed  that  he  detested  their   presence  in Hillhome."
	"Do  you  remember  when the  fight was?  And what  it was about?"
	"Oh I remember all  right! It  was the  day he  died, sadly enough.  Aylmar  didn't  frequent here  much himself,  but he came  looking  for Basalt.  They got  into their  usual fight about  Basalt's  drinking  and 'working  for derro  scum,' as Aylmar put it, and then the pup stormed out."
	Flint leaned across the bar on his  elbows. "But  what about the fight with the derro?"
	"I'm getting to that," Moldoon said, refilling Flint's mug. "After Basalt left, Aylmar  stewed for  a bit  here, watching the  derro  get  louder  and  louder. And  he just  cracked launched  himself  right  at  three  of  them,  unarmed. They swatted him away like a fly, laughing at 'the old dwarf.' "
	Flint hung his head, and his heart  lurched as  he imagined his brother's humiliation.
	"Indeed, this conversation makes me remember something,"  Moldoon  added  suddenly.  Flint  looked   up  halfheartedly. The  bartender's face  looked uncharacteristically clouded.
	"Aylmar told me after the fight that he  had taken  a small smithing  job  with  the  derro.  Naturally I  was surprised. Aylmar  had  leaned  forward   and  whispered   -"  Moldoon's voice  dropped "-  that he  was suspicious  of the  derro and had taken the job so that he could get  into their  walled yard to look into a wagon. He asked  what I  knew of  their security measures,  and I  told him  that I'd  overheard that  each crew of three slept during the day in shifts,  one of  them guarding their wagon at all times."
	Flint's  interest  was  piqued.  "Why do  they need  to guard farm implements so closely?"
	"That's  just  what  Aylmar  asked,"  Moldoon   said  softly, then sighed. "I guess he never found the answer, or if  he did, it died with him, since his heart  gave out  at the  forge that same night." He  clapped Flint  on the  shoulder and  shook his head sadly, then turned to wait on another customer.
	Flint sat thinking for several minutes  before he  worked his way  through  the  crowd  and  left the  smoky tavern.  The sun was  low  in  the  sky.  He  stood  on  the stoop  outside Moldoon's, but  instead of  crossing the  street and  walking back up the south side of the valley to the Fireforge home, the hill dwarf set his sights down Main Street to  the east,  just sixty yards or so, toward the walled wagon yard.

                Chapter 5

               The Break-in
	In Flint's youth, the wagon yard had been the blacksmithing  shop  of  a  crusty old  dwarf named  Delwar. While most  dwarves,  racially   inclined  toward   smithing,  made their own weapons, nails, hinges,  and other  simple objects, Delwar had provided  the villagers  with wagon  wheels, large tools  and  weapons,  and  other  more complicated  metal designs. Flint had learned  a lot  of what  he knew  about blacksmithing  from  the  old  craftsman,  whose burn-scarred  arms and chest  had  both  frightened  and  fascinated the  young hill dwarf. Flint and  other harrns  would sit  in the  grassy yard outside Delwar's  shop and  barn to  watch the  smith through the open end of his three-sided stone shed; Flint enjoyed the smell  of smoke  and sweat  as Delwar  hammered hot  metal almost  as  much as  he liked  the taffy  treats and  cool apple drinks the smith's robust wife would bring out to them.
	But  Delwar and  his wife  had long  since passed  away, and a  menacing,  seven-foot  high  stone  wall  had   been  built around  that  once-friendly  spot.  Someone  had  told  him  Tybalt  perhaps  -  that a  "modern" forge  had been  built on the western edge  of town,  and Delmar's  had been  long abandoned  until  the mountain  dwarves had  bought the  rights to its yard and forge as part of  their agreement  with Hillhome. The derro had built the wall,  which Flint  estimated enclosed a  thirty-by-twenty-yard  area.  There  was one  entrance into the  yard:  a  sturdy, wooden  ten-foot gate  stretched across the  southern  edge  along  Main  Street.  Flint saw  no guard posted  on  the outside,  but one  surely supervised  the gate from the inside.
	Flint strolled nonchalantly  down the  road, passing  by the walled  yard  with scarcely  a look,  focusing instead  on the ducks hanging so invitingly across the street in the butcher's window. After twenty  or so  yards the  wall turned  a corner. A  narrow  alley,  no  wider  than  would  allow  two  dwarves abreast, ran the length of the eastern  wall and  the opposite building. Flint continued his unhurried pace until he  was out of sight of Main Street. He covered the last ten yards  to the northeast  corner  in  a  sprint, since  the sun  was dropping lower. He could not waste another moment of light.
	The  newly built  wall had  no toeholds  of any  kind. Flint went around the  corner to  the northern  wall, but  the stone continued on for only five  feet before  the wall  joined with and  became  Delwar's  fifteen-foot-tall  barn  and blacksmith shop.
	A  skinny  oak  sapling  had  somehow  rooted itself  in the small alley. Flint knew it  would not  support his  weight. He looked  about  the  alley  desperately,  and farther  down his eyes came upon  a discarded  old rain  barrel, several  of its slats missing. He clomped up to it and turned it on  its side, testing its strength; not so  good, but  the bottom  was still solid and  there were  probably enough  slats left  to support him for a minute or so.

Flint dragged the barrel to the corner  near the  sapling and  stood it on its open top. End to end, the barrel was  nearly as  tall as he and more than half the height of the  wall. Reaching  nearly above his head, he  grabbed both  sides of  the barrel's  metal  rim  and  tried to  haul himself  up. The  rotted barrel  creaked  and  rocked  dangerously  toward  him.  He  could  get  no leverage.
	 Frowning,  Flint  considered the  sapling again.  Perhaps its  lower  branches  were  sufficient  to  support  him  just  long  enough  to  spring  onto the  barrel. He  pushed the  barrel so  that it stood on his right, between the  sapling and  the wall.  Hitching up his leather pant legs, he gingerly raised his right  foot to rest on the strongest of the limbs, about two  feet off  the  ground. Flint  took a  deep breath,  grabbed the  trunk of  the  sapling  with both  hands, and  thrust himself  upward. It  held  him  for  a  split  second,  and  then  he slid  down the  scrawny trunk of the tree,  snapping every  little twig  on the  way to the ground.
	 Frustrated,  Flint  stroked  his beard  while he  thought. He  tested the flexibility of the sapling's trunk and  decided that  its green wood might bend. Taking it firmly  in his  left hand,  he pushed  it toward  the ground  until it  was low  enough for  him  to step  on. Counting  to three,  he launched  himself off  the doubled-over tree,  hearing it  snap and  tear just  as his  hands closed around the top of the  barrel and  he was  able to  pull  himself  up.  With  one  more quick  spring, he  was atop  the stone wall.  Flint dropped  the seven  feet to  the ground,  landing alongside  the barn  and in  six inches  of mud  with a  "splooch!"
	 "You leave now!"
	 Flint  nearly  jumped  out  of  his  boots, which  were stuck  fast in the mud. He looked up in  the late-afternoon  light and  espied a big dwarf standing a few  paces away.  His face  was a  mask of fear, and he  appeared to  be dragging  a sack  full of  black coal.
	 "Garth!"  Flint  hissed,  both  relieved  and   dismayed.  He  tried to wrestle his booted feet  from the  mud, but  the boots  would  not  budge.  He  stopped  struggling  and  looked  up at  Garth pleadingly.
	"Leave  me  alone!"  Garth  said fearfully,  turning away. "Why are you haunting me?"
	"Garth,"  Flint  began, trying  to calm  the harrn  before he drew attention, "I'm not the dwarf  you found  by the  forge that  was my  brother, Aylmar.  You needn't  be afraid  of me. I'm Flint Fireforge, your friend."
	Garth looked at him suspiciously out of  the corners  of his eyes, hugging himself protectively. "You  promise to  stay out of  my  dreams  now?  I didn't  hurt you."  He shook  his head vigorously. "The humped  one sent  the blue  smoke, not  me. I just found you."
	"Garth,  it  wasn't me  - what  blue smoke?"  Flint asked, suddenly curious.
	"The blue smoke from the stone around his neck!"
	"Whose neck? A derro?"
	"Yes!  You  were  there,  why  are  you  asking  me?"  Garth said, angry and flustered by this line of questioning. "I have to go to work now. Get out of  here, or  he'll use  his magic, wherever he is!"
	With  that  warning,  Garth  hefted  the  sack,   but  Flint reached  out  to  stop  him.  "Garth,  you  mustn't  tell your bosses I was here again. Promise me, or I'll  - I'll  give you more bad dreams!"  Flint winced  at using  such a  cruel trick on the terrified harrn. Eyes wide with  dread, face  paler than death,  Garth  only  nodded  as  he  lumbered away  around the corner of the barn.
	Flint  tried  to  sort  through Garth's  strange mutterings. Was  he  merely  spouting  dreams  he'd  had,  ones  caused by finding  Aylmar's body,  or had  he been  the only  witness to some horrible deed?
	The  hill dwarf  moved to  take a  step and  remembered with a soft groan that he was still stuck in the mud.  Flint curled his  toes  and  tugged upward,  but his  boots were  buried so well  that  his feet  pulled out  instead. Wiggling  the hightopped leather boots  back and  forth with  his hands,  he finally  managed  to  wrench  them  out  with  a   loud  sucking sound.  Each one  had to  weigh over  fifteen pounds  now, and he had neither water nor cloth nor grass  to clean  them with, since  the  entire  yard  was  churned to  mud. He  would move as quietly  as a  squad of  ogres with  these on.  Hardly the barefoot  type,  Flint  reluctantly set  them down  along the fence anyway, where he could grab them on his way out.
	Flint  poked his  head around  the corner  of the  barn and stole a glance at the  wagon yard.  It was  crisscrossed with deep, muddy  ruts. Two  of the  flat-bed mountain  dwarf wagons  were  standing  side-by-side,  their  buckboards pointed toward  Flint; he  saw no  guards. Tybalt  had said  that one wagon  was  always  coming  from  Thorbardin   while  another was returning, never in  tandem. So  which.wagon was  full of cargo and on its  way to  Newsea, and  which one  was returning to the mountain dwarf kingdom? Flint  knew he  had little time before the derro crew  awoke or  returned from  the taverns, and no time to choose wrongly.
	Suddenly he saw a derro emerge  from the  open side  of the blacksmithing  shop  in the  middle of  the north  wall, some ten yards to his right. The derro guard circled  both wagons, bending  down to  look under  the one  on the  left, farthest from the shop.
	"We should be  getting on  the road  within the  hour," the derro called toward the building. "I'm anxious to get back to Thorbardin.  Did  Berl  or  Sithus tell  you when  they'd return?"
	"They always stagger back  at the  last minute,"  an unconcerned voice said  from the  depths of  the shop.  "You worry too  much.  Come  on  back and  catch a  few more  minutes of sleep before the long haul."
	"You're right," said the derro by the wagons,  striding toward  the  darkened  shed.  "Everything  looks  OK  out here, anyway. That idiot brought the coal for the forge, I  see, so at  least tomorrow's  crews won't  run short.  These mountain roads cause the wagons to break down too often."
	Flint could barely make out their  conversation as  it continued in the shop for a  few more  minutes, then  died away. Soon he heard snoring.
	The  guard  had   looked  under   only  one   wagon;  Flint locked his gaze  on the  other one,  farthest from  the shop. Taking a cautious step around the  barn, Flint's  tender feet touched a  deep, cold  mud puddle,  and he  recoiled. Shaking globs from his feet, he decided to circle around to  the left, where  there  were  less  ruts. His  approach would  be hidden by the wagons.
	Forging through the mud, he came at last to the side  of the wagon.   The   sturdy   wooden   conveyance  rolled   on  four spoked iron  wheels that  were as  tall as  the cargo  box between them, at least six  feet off  the ground,  and certainly way  above  the  stubby  dwarf's  head.  The  cargo   box  had wooden sides reinforced with thick bands of iron.
	The  dwarf  grabbed  onto  the front  right wheel  and began pulling himself up from one spoke to the next, until  he stood halfway up the massive iron  ring. His  chin just  crested the box, and he  saw that  the thick,  dirty canvas  was stretched tight over the top of the wagon. He struggled to untie  a corner  of  the  canvas,  and  finally he  pulled enough  away to climb further up the spokes and crawl inside  the box.  It was surprisingly cramped, he noted as he looked around.
	Plows!  By  Reorx,  the  mountain  dwarves  were  indeed going to great lengths to ship  plows! And  cheap ones  at that! Flint mouthed his astonishment silently.  The interior  of the wagon  held  five huge  iron plow-blades.  Each of  the blades looked uncorroded, as if it had been  freshly forged,  but the metal  was  pitted  and rough  from imperfections  of casting. They   should  be   embarrassed  to   have  anyone   see  such shoddy workmanship!
	This  was not  what Flint  had expected  to find.  Who cared if  the  mountain  dwarves'  notorious  greed allowed  them to lower their smithing standards? Flint was curled into  a painful ball  to keep  his head  from bulging  the canvas,  but he shifted  onto  his  knees  now  and  hunkered  down  to think. Suddenly,  his   aching  back   produced  a   most  unexpected thought.
	Why was he bent double in a box  that was  at least  as tall as he? Unless it was two boxes, not  one, he  concluded excitedly. He examined the floor  of the  wagon and  was frustrated in his attempt to find secret compartments.
	Flint poked his head out of the canvas  and looked  and listened; the yard was still quiet. He lowered a foot  around the wheel and onto a spoke, then slipped down.
	Flint  dropped  from  the  wheel   and  crawled   under  the wagon, struggling to  balance in  the deep,  muddy ruts  as he slowly  inspected  the  underside  of  the  box.  Brushing mud away with  his fingertips,  Flint probed  each crack  with his carving knife.
	He  missed  it the  first time,  but as  he doubled  back he found  the  concealed  panel.  Mounted  between the  axles was a long rectangle made from two of the wagon's floorboards.
	Quickly Flint pried at the door, seeking  a latch.  His fingers  probed  and  prodded,  and then  he felt  the mechanism, hidden in a knothole. After a push of his  blade, he  felt the catch release; the narrow panel swung downward.
	He was so close!
	Praying  that  the  shadows under  the wagon  would conceal him a few moments longer, Flint raised his head into  the cavity  the  panel  had  revealed.  Spotting several  long wooden crates, he wasted no time in prying the nearest lid off, snapping the tip of his knife.
	But he paid no  attention to  his weapon  as the  wooden lid fell away. Instead he stared at a pair  of steel  longswords weapons of  exceptional quality,  he could  tell at  a glance; these were not  like the  pitted plows  above. He  snapped another  box  open,  finding  a  dozen  steel  spearheads, razor sharp  and  wickedly  barbed. He  did not  have time  to check any more boxes, but he knew that there was no need.
	Weapons!  And  not  just  any weapons,  but blades  of superior craftsmanship, excellent quality. The steel  gleamed with purity, proving it to be expensive and rare.
	But they were  without craftsman's  marks, no  artist's signature.   Wherever   the  arms   were  headed,   the  mountain dwarves  wanted  their  origin  to  remain  a  secret.  Nearly every day for at least  a year,  a wagon  full of  weapons had left  Thorbardin  for  some  unknown  shore.  What  nation  on Krynn needed so many weapons?
	Only war required such numbers.
	   The answers Flint had sought left only more questions. Had Aylmar  learned of  this before  he died?  Flint swallowed a lump in his throat  as he  remembered Garth's  mutterings of a  "humped  one  and  magical  blue  smoke."  Had  Aylmar died because of what he had stumbled upon?
	Heart pounding, Flint dropped back to the ground and was preparing  to dash  for the  south wall  when a  heavy boot crushed his left hand into the mud.
	"You  didn't  know  half-derro  could  see in  daylight, eh?" Flint looked  up slowly  from under  the wagon  and saw  a derro  standing  above him,  leering. Flint  shifted his  eyes and saw  that,  for  now,  the  guard  was  alone.   Desperate,  he grabbed the derro's ankle with  his free  hand and  tugged with all his might.  The surprised  mountain dwarf  slid in  the mud and  dropped, hard,  on his  back, knocking  the wind  from his lungs. Flint could get no traction, so he pulled himself up by the  other  one's  elbows  and  pierced  the  thrashing derro's windpipe with one quick slash  of his  carving knife.  The derro stopped struggling.
	Flint  looked  around  quickly,  then  back  under  the wagon toward the shop. He could see one  figure shifting  uneasily in the  shadows,  calling  out  the  dead  derro's name.  He would come looking for his friend any minute.
	Flint  looked at  the surrounding  walls bathed  in twilight, including where he  had entered  the yard  and his  boots still lay. He had no barrel and sapling to help  him over  the sevenfoot  barrier  now.  He  looked  to the  vast wooden  gate, directly  opposite  the  shop,  the  wagons  obscuring  his view. Though  closed,  the  gate  was made  of closely  spaced rails. His boots  would never  have fit  in the  spaces, but  his bare toes  might... He  had to  make the  fifteen-yard dash  to that gate.
	Keeping low, Flint ran as fast as he could, keeping  his eyes on the ruts that threatened to trip him.  He hurled  himself at the  gate  and  jammed  his  toes into  the spaces  between the rails.
	"Hey!"
	The cry came from behind him. Heart pumping wildly, Flint hauled  himself up  the gate  by sheer  desperation. Balanced  on  his  stomach  across  the  top of  the gate,  he was swinging his right leg up to prepare to leap off when  the gate underneath  him  swept  open.   Flint  looked   down  anxiously and saw that two  of the  guards were  returning from  the tav- erns, staggering and laughing, oblivious to Flint  clinging to the top of the gate above them.
	But the  guard from  the shop  was yelling  a warning  as he ran to the gate. His cohorts looked up in time to see the hill dwarf's exhilarated expression  as he  threw himself  from the top  of the  gate and  crashed into  them. Their  bodies broke his fall, and they  were scattered  like bowling  pins, taking the other guard down with them. Flint jumped  to his  feet unhurt. The  stunned derro  could only  shake their  foggy heads as the barefoot hill dwarf cut  left on  Main Street  and tore down the road and out of sight.

                     Chapter 6
	                   Hasty Departure

  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 mountain stream trickling past it. He stripped off every  stitch of his dirty clothing and washed it  by hand  in the  ice-cold water, 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. "Disappear  all  night  and  then  come staggering  home -  a disgrace, 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 astonished  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 proclamations.  You  have  no idea  where I've  been or  what I've been doing, so I'll expect you to keep your opinions  to yourself 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, beating 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 mudcaked 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 derro 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 perfectly 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 declare,   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 explanation  for  his  departure  and  face  the  inevitable tonguelashings.  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.

               Chapter 7

             A Kingdom Of
	                 Darkness

 The Kharolis Mountains were not the tallest range upon the face  of Krynn,  nor the  most extensive.  They did not  contain  smoldering  volcanoes  such  as  the  Lords of Doom in Sanction to the north, or  the great  glaciers found in the Icewall range. The ruggedness of the range's individual  valleys  and  peaks,  however,  could be  surpassed nowhere on the continent of Ansalon.  Sheer  canyon  walls  dropped  thousands  of feet  into narrow, twisting  gorges. Streams  poured with  chaotic abandon from the heights, slashing their way deeper and  deeper into jagged  channels  of  rock, engraving  their mark  with each passing day.  Trees survived  only on  the lower  slopes and valleys; most of  the Kharolis  range was  too rough  or too high to  support anything  more than  sparse patches  of moss and lichen.
	The  crests  of the  range never  lost their  snowcaps, the hanging teeth of which descended as glaciers into  the circular basins of the heights. These twisted and turned  in every direction before finally coming to rest  in the  frigid bluegreen waters of the high lakes.
	The landscape  of the  Kharolis Mountains,  inhospitable in the  extreme,  was  the  home  of  a  populous   kingdom  and thriving culture that dwelled there quite  comfortably, since its members rarely saw the landscape above them.
	They were the dwarves of Thorbardin.
	Thorbardin was a powerful dwarven stronghold, containing  seven  teeming  cities and  an extensive  network of roads  and  subterranean  farming   warrens.  The   whole  of Thorbardin  covered  an  area  more  than  twenty  miles long and fourteen miles wide.
	Toiling  in  their  vast  underground  domain,  the dwarves paid little attention  to occurrences  on the  surface world. They had enough space  and enough  intrigue in  their subterranean lairs to last them many centuries.
	At the heart of Thorbardin lay  the Urkhan  Sea. Not  a sea at all, it was actually an underground  lake some  five miles long. Cable-drawn boats crisscrossed the lake in an intricate network, linking most of the cities of the dwarven  realm. In the center of the sea was the most amazing  city of  all: the Life Tree of the Hylar. Twenty-eight  levels of  dwarven city were carved within a huge stalactite that  hung from  the cavern roof to dip below the surface of the sea.
	Thorbardin  drew  its  food  supply  from three  great warrens. These  massive caverns  devoted to  sunless agriculture were  capable  of producing  huge crops  of fungus  and moldbased food.  Each warren  was shared  by several  cities, but individual food plots were jealously guarded.
	Despite its size, Thorbardin was historically  connected to the surface world by only two gates, at  the north  and south boundaries  of  the  kingdom.  The  Northgate  had  been  destroyed  by  the  Cataclysm.   The  dwarves   had  withdrawn, into   their   underground   domain,  sealed   the  Southgate against every  form of  attack they  could imagine,  and turned their backs on the world.
	Although   considered   one   kingdom   by   outsiders,   the mountain  dwarves  of  Thorbardin  actually  consisted   of  no less than four identifiable clans, or  nations: the  Hylar, the Theiwar,  Daewar,  and  the  Daergar. Each  of these  was ruled by a thane, and each had its own interests, goals,  even racial tendencies.
	Thorbardin's  schisms  were  aggravated  by  the  absence  of one  true  monarch  to  rule  the kingdom  as a  whole. According   to   ancient  legend,   Thorbardin  would   become  truly united   only   when   one   thane   obtained  the   Hammer  of Kharas.  That  ancient  artifact,  named  for  the  greatest of dwarven  heroes,  had  been missing  for centuries.  Untold effort, treasure, and  lives had  been expended,  fruitlessly, in attempts to locate it.
	Without  the  hammer  to  unite  them,  the  nations  of  the dwarven  kingdom  struggled  against  each  other.  Spies  were sent to observe the activities of rival thanes. Treasure stores were  jealously  watched, because  riches -  particularly steel and gems - were a traditional measure of dwarven status.
	The  Hylar,  the  eldest  of the  mountain dwarf  races, were the  traditional masters  of Thorbardin.  Their might  had been severely  taxed  by  the  Dwarfgate  Wars,   however,  allowing other  nations  to  gain  increased  prominence.  Most  notable among  these   was  the   Theiwar  clan,   made  up   of  derro dwarves and controlled by their magic-using savants.
	The derro, paler  complected and  of slightly  larger stature than  their  Hylar cousins,  lived in  the northern  portion of Thorbardin.  They  practiced  dark  magic  and   were  regarded with  superstitious  awe  by  other dwarves.  They had  a wellearned  reputation  for  treachery,  betrayal,   and  sorcerous manipulation.    Other    mountain   dwarves    regarded   them with fear and extreme distrust.
	It  was the  derro Theiwar  who had  excavated a  new, secret exit  from  northern  Thorbardin, allowing  them to  send their wagons  of  weapons  to the  sea without  the knowledge  of the other  clans.  Wealth was  power, and  the Theiwar  intended to be very powerful, indeed. * * * * *  The  great  throne  room  gave  an  impression  of  unlimited space, like a wide clearing beneath  a silent,  nighttime sky. Tall  columns  stood  around  the  periphery  of  the chamber, rising  into  the  darkness  like  massive  tree  trunks.  Low torches flickered in a hundred  locations, cloaking  the chamber in a warm, yellow light.  The  vast  chamber,  nevertheless,  lay  more  than  a  thousand feet below the  surface of  Krynn. Great  halls, shielded by  massive  steel-and-gold  doors, led  from the  throne room to all parts of Theiwar  City. A  hundred dwarves  stood alert at the various doors, clad  in gleaming  plate mail  and armed with axes or crossbows.  Now  one  of  these  doors  swung slowly  open, and  a hunchbacked   dwarf   entered  the   chamber.  His   long,  bronzecolored  robe  rustled   along  the   floor  behind   him.  He hastened toward the center of the room.  There,  Thane  Realgar  rested   quite  comfortably   in  the massive  throne, his  boots extended  and crossed  before him. The ruler was an old  dwarf, with  white streaking  his yellow beard  and  long,  loose-flowing  hair.   He  had   ruled  the Theiwar clan  for many  decades. Most  of the  routine matters of the clan were handled by his chief adviser, so that Realgar could devote his  own energies  to the  search for  the Hammer of  Kharas.  He  regarded  any business  not relating  to that hammer as bothersome.  Realgar's  personal  bodyguards  stood  to  either   side  of him:  a  pair  of  hideous  gargoyles  poised   like  watching statues.  They  perched,  absolutely  motionless   except  for their  eyes,  which  followed  the  hunchbacked  derro  as  he advanced.  The  gargoyles'  skin  was  a rough-hewn  gray, indistinguishable  from  stone.  Their  leathery  wings,  of the same  color,  spread  like menacing,  clawed hands  behind the throne.  Their  faces  were   vaguely  human,   accented  with sharp fangs, tiny, wicked eyes,  and a  pair of  twisted horns growing from their foreheads.  The  hunchback   reached  the   throne,  and   the  gargoyles suddenly  hissed.  They  flapped their  wings once  and sprang  forward to stand to the left and right of the thane. Extending  clawed  fingers  before  them  and  noiselessly  working their  jaws,  they  stood in  mute warning  as the  hunchbacked dwarf  bowed obsequiously.
	 "Ah, Pitrick, it is good of you to return to my  city," said  the thane of the Theiwar.
	 "How did you fare at  the council  of thanes?"  inquired the  adviser.
	 "Bah!" The thane  clapped his  fist into  his palm.  "It was  one Hylar treachery after another! They  seek to  entangle the  Daewar  in an  alliance, and  always to  cut us  out!" Realgar  leaned  forward then,  a conspiratorial  smile upon  his lips.  He lowered his voice. "But, my dear adviser, I think  they are  beginning  to fear  us!" The  leader of  the Theiwar  placed a  stubby finger to his bearded  lips. "Now,  tell me  how things  fared in my short absence?"
	 "You will be pleased," Pitrick offered  eagerly. "Production  has  nearly  doubled and  promises to  further improve.  So it  is,  too,  with  the number  of wagons  running. We  have very  nearly reached the desired levels of transport."
	 "Splendid." The thane turned  his attention  to a  scroll in  his lap, signaling Pitrick's dismissal.
	 The adviser coughed  slightly. "There  is one  other matter,  Excellency."  The  thane  looked up  in surprise  and gestured  for him to continue.
	 Pitrick  shifted uncomfortably,  nagged by  the pain  in his  crippled foot. "It seems that one of our drivers was  slain in  Hillhome. The murderer, a hill  dwarf, escaped."  Pitrick took  a breath. "We  have reason  to believe  that this  dwarf broke  into  the  wagons  and  discovered  the  nature  of  our ship ments."
	 "When did  this happen?"  The thane's  voice was  quiet, al most bored.
	 "Several days ago.  I received  word from  one of  the driv ers not two hours past."
	 Gold chains clinked slightly, their  heavy links  sliding as  the  thane  leaned  forward. Realgar's  sacklike robe  of deep  blue  ponderously  swathed  the  throne  around  him.  Indeed,  whenever he chose to  walk he  required several  attendants to carry the massive train.
	"Solve the problem quickly,"  said the  thane, his  voice still lazy and bored.  "You have  opened the  route for  us, and  it is your responsibility to keep it both open, and secret."
	"Of  course,  Excellency,"  Pitrick  bowed  deeply,  using  the gesture to  hide the  smile that  creased his  thin lips.  By the time  he  straightened,  his expression  was again  a featureless mask. "I shall see to the task at once. I have  but one  favor to ask of Your-Greatness."
	"And what is that?" Realgar asked absently.
	"We must strengthen the guard at the tunnel," explained Pitrick.  "Increase  both  the  number  and  the  quality  of the troops we have there."
	"Specifically?"
	"The  Thane's  Guard,"  Pitrick  supplied  quickly.  "They  are the  most  reliable  of your  troops, and  they will  perform the task  alertly.  I'll  need  two dozen  of your  guard and  a good captain...."
	The thane squinted. "You would have a captain in mind, of course?"
	 Pitrick smiled thinly. "Indeed, Excellency. I believe Perian Cyprium is just the officer for the task."
	"There wouldn't be another reason you have selected her?" asked the thane.
	Pitrick  coughed  again,  bowing  his  head  modestly.  Staring at his adviser's bristling  yellow hair,  the thane  pondered for a moment.  Perian was  a good,  loyal captain,  one of  his best. Both  of her  parents had  served him  well before  their deaths. She  would  not  be  happy  with  the  assignment  -  her disgust for the  adviser was  as well  known as  Pitrick's lust  for her. The  thane  himself  found  Pitrick  distasteful,  but  he keenly appreciated the savant's power and insight.
	Besides  which,  Pitrick  was  the  architect  of  the arrangement  with  Sanction.  His  diplomatic  and magical  skills could prove  the  key  to  all  of the  Theiwar's future  grandeur. The thane  considered  him  indispensable  if   the  nation   was  to achieve  the glory  that was  its rightful  destiny. Thus  it was that  Realgar  had  no  real  difficulty assessing  Pitrick's request.
	"Very  well.  I  shall  put Captain  Cyprium under  your orders,  effective immediately.  We will  double the  guard, for now.
	"And as for Hillhome," concluded the  thane, "that  will require  some  thought.  The  hill dwarves'  ungrateful attitude and perpetual greed are beginning to annoy me."
	Pitrick bowed to conceal his smile. * * * * *
	Perian  marched  purposefully  through  the second  level of the city, preparing  to climb  to the  third level,  where she knew  she  would  find  Pitrick,  the thane's  hunchbacked adviser. In her gut she fought a crawling sensation that threatened to overwhelm her with disgust.
	She  had  been  fending  off  Pitrick's odious  advances for several  years  a  summons  that  required  her  to  call upon the adviser in his apartments put her at a  distinct disadvantage. Still, the thane had ordered her to see the adviser, and her duty was to obey.
	The only child of her generation in a  long line  of dwarven warriors,  Perian  had  buckled  on  armor  and  taken  up the sword when it was her turn to follow in the  family tradition. Her father, mother - until Perian's birth - and uncles had all served with merit in the thane's House  Guard. That  elite legion, dedicated  to the  racial supremacy  of the  derro, comprised the most trusted of the Theiwar troops.
	Perian  had  proven adept  both at  the physical  aspects of combat  and  at  the  mental  challenges  of  command,  rising quickly  through  the  ranks  of  the  thane's  personal bodyguard.   Now   she   commanded   the   House   Guard,  proudly taking her place with the four or  five highest  ranking officers in the thane's service.
	Thane  Realgar,  she  knew,  was the  most powerful  king in all  Thorbardin,  mainly  because  the magical  abilities many Theiwar  possessed gave  him an  edge. Vicariously,  she ought to take some pride in that status. Instead, she  admitted only to herself, she felt a slight tinge of guilt and discomfort.
	Perhaps  it  was  because,  unlike   most  of   the  Theiwar dwarves  -  the inhabitants  of Thane  Realgar's two  cities -  she  was  only  half  derro.  Full derro  always found  a savage  glee in the dark side of things. But the other half of her dwar ven  ancestry could  be traced  to the  Hylar dwarves,  and Per ian  often  wondered  if  that  aspect  did  not   dominate  her  private personality.
	 She was  innately distrustful  of magic,  and Pitrick  was the  most  powerful  savant,  or  mage,   among  the   Theiwar:  gro tesque,   malicious,   and   deceitful.  His   undeniable  magic  power  was  just  the  surface  manifestation  of  many unpleas ant  features.  There  was also  the matter  of his  leering and  rude sexual proposals, stopping just short of brute force.
	 Unfortunately,  she  could  not afford  to be  entirely indif ferent to  him. She  reflected, with  her usual  frustration, on  the tangled hold Pitrick had over her life.
	 Perian's  father  and  mother had  also been  loyal, decorated  soldiers in  the thane's  troop of  Huscarles, or  House Guards.  When  Perian  was  born,  her  mother  retired from  active duty  and  devoted herself  to raising  her only  child. She  had been  indulgent to Perian, and  often wistful  around the  child. Per ian's father, on the  other hand,  had been  emotionally distant  from  both  of them  - a  proper dwarf  soldier, Perian  had al ways  thought.  Given  her  family,   she  had   encountered  no  difficulty joining the House Guard  - about  ten percent  of its  troopers were female -  or rising  quickly to  the rank  of ser geant. That was  when Pitrick,  the oily  adviser to  the thane,  had first entered her life.
	 He had confronted  her with  evidence of  her true  origin, in  the form of letters from  her mother  to a  Hylar soldier  - her  mother's secret lover. According to Pitrick, that  illicit union  had  produced  Perian.  As  far  as  she was  aware, no  one but  her, her mother, and Pitrick knew that she  was neither  a full blooded  derro  nor  the  daughter  of  the  bold  warrior whose  reputation was known  far and  wide. It  was true  that Perian's  ruddy skin and  auburn hair  were slightly  unusual for  a full blooded  derro.  It  was equally  true that  the House  Guard of  the Theiwar  required its  members to  be racially  pure. Perian  dreaded the day  Pitrick would  use his  information as  the ul timate  blackmail.  Perian  had  no way  to confirm  her circum stances  of  birth.  But  she  had  to admit  the sample  of her mother's  handwriting  was  genuine  and, as  the rank  of captain  loomed  before her,  this information  had placed  her in Pitrick's power. So  far, she  had always  managed to  call the adviser's bluff  without goading  him into  action, but  he was too unstable and dangerous to be taken for granted.
	Many  times  Perian  had  wondered  whether  her  father  was naturally  distant,  or  whether  he  had suspected  the truth. She  wished  her mother  had never  written those  letters, had not  been so  foolish, just  as she  often pondered  how powerful  an  emotion  love  could  be,  to  make  someone  like her mother risk everything.
	Eventually  she  reached the  lift that  would take  her into the noble's quarters, high in the upper level of the city. Pitrick was no  noble by  birth, but  as adviser  to the  thane he was  considered  the  second  most   important  dwarf   in  the Theiwar  city. An iron  cage  descended  to  meet  her  now,  and she  stepped  inside.  With a  steady clanking,  the chain-andpulley  mechanism  carried her  up for  a hundred  feet through a hollow column in the mountain.
	When  it  stopped  she stepped  onto the  terrace of  the noble's  plaza.  Perian  ignored  the view  over the  wall, where much  of  the  underground Theiwar  city could  be seen  in its splendor  -  the  neatly  squared  streets,  high  walls, thick columns,  houses  and shops,  blanketing the  floor of  the cavern. She strode to the doors and was instantly admitted.
	She was  greeted by  a disfigured,  cloaked servant,  but his master  quickly  came  into   the  antechamber   and  viciously sent  the  servant  scurrying  away.  As  always,   the  hunchback's stare discomforted her.
	"Good  news,"  said Pitrick,  clapping his  hands delightedly together.  "You  are  assigned  to   me,  now   -  I   am  your commander!"
	Perian felt a chill of apprehension  shiver along  her spine. "In  what  capacity?" she  asked, forcing  her voice  to remain level.
	"We  are  increasing  the guards  at the  mouth of  the wagon tunnel!  Come  now,  don't  pretend surprise.  You know  of its existence.  You will  be placed  in command."  Pitrick's sparse beard could  not hide  his leer.  The hump  on his  back forced him  to  bend  forward,  and thus  he was  always looking  up at her.
	"I prefer to remain with my  old billet,  the training  of the guard," she objected.
	Pitrick  leaned  closer,  his  dank  breath moist  against her face. "I grow tired of  your game,  my dear.  Keep in  mind that I could have you ruined with a single word!"
	"Then do it!" Perian shot back.
	With a sneer, Pitrick stepped  away and  looked her  up and down.  "You  know  me  too  well,  dear  girl. Still,  perhaps I shall,  someday.  Perhaps I  shall, if  you continue  baiting me this  way,"  Perian  noted,  his hand  clasping the  iron amulet that always hung  from his  neck. Blue  light began  seeping between his fingers.
	"You  will  do  good   work  for   me,"  the   hunchback  said softly. Perian's head grew light, and she  was surprised  at the musical  pleasantness  of  his  voice.  Perhaps  she   had  misjudged him.
	The  blue  light  grew  stronger,  occluding her  vision until only Pitrick's face loomed. She felt his hot breath  against her face. Her soldier's training  told her,  dimly, that  she should resist. She felt Pitrick's hand reach around to the back  of her mail shirt.  His breath,  heavy with  nut fungus,  pressed moist and smelly around her face.
	Suddenly  her  head  jerked  upward. Her  left hand  shot forward,  knocking  the  amulet  from   Pitrick's  grasp,   as  she wrapped  her  right  hand  around  the small  axe at  her waist. She clenched her teeth as her head cleared.
	"Wait," Pitrick urged, his voice still soft.
	But  the spell  was broken.  Perian's hateful  gaze brought the hunchback up short.
	"If  you  ever  try  to magic  me again,  I'll kill  you," she growled.
	Pitrick  looked  at  her,  his  moment  of   surprise  quickly turning to  amusement. "It's  time for  you to  go down  to your new  post  now,"  he  instructed.  "Have  a look  around, establish your guards. I'll be down soon to inspect your position.
	"If there is any sign of intrusion, or even the hint of a hill dwarf  anywhere  around  there, I  want you  to tell  me person- ally.  And  if  you  catch  any  intruders,  bring them  to me immediately!"
	"I will,"  said Perian,  quickly turning  on her  heel. Only when the lift cage had taken her down a level did  she finally draw a breath easily. Chapter 8 Unexpected Company

 The pnominent nostrils twitched, tickled by an unfamiliar, yet tantalizing odor. One  great eye,  bloodshot and sunk deep within its socket, opened. The lid, of green, leathery  skin,  blinked  several times,  and then  its counterpart opened.  Once  again  the  long  green  nose   moved,  seeking confirmation of the scent. The  body  that  slowly  rose  to a  sitting position  was humanoid, though perhaps half again as  tall as  a man.  But its features were hideous in the extreme. Gangly  arms,  each  as  long  as  a man  was tall,  hung from the  creature's  shoulders.  Though they  were proportionately slender,  a  wiry cord  of muscle  showed beneath  the mottled green  skin,  promising great  strength. The  creature's legs, too, were  revealed as  long and  thin, but  they had  no difficulty supporting the monster as it rose to stand.
	Its hands and  feet each  bore three  wicked claws,  with fingers partially  webbed. Blotchy  skin, the  color of  dark moss, covered its whole body.  In places  it was  smooth, but  in others the skin lay wrinkled, a rough, warty surface.
	Atop  the  creature's  head  was  a  thicket of  black, stiffstanding  hair.  Its  mouth opened  slightly and  revealed upper and  lower  rows  of  pointed,  needle-sharp  teeth.  Above  its mouth,  extending  more  like  a  tree limb  than a  nasal aperture, was the creature's long, pointed nose.
	It  was  this  sensitive  proboscis that  had caused  the monster to awaken, and now it  probed the  air, sniffing  and snuffling for clues. What was that tantalizing  scent? Where  did it come from?
	The creature's lair  was a  cave, and  a slight  breeze wafted into  the  cave  mouth  from  the  valley  below. The  source of the scent, obviously, was outside the lair.
	Moving  through  the  dingy  cave,  the  monster   passed  numerous   scattered,   well-gnawed   bones  of   previous  meals. Skulls  of  deer,  bear,  hobgoblin,  human,  and  other victims stood  along  the  wall  of  the  cave,  making  a  crude trophy mound.  But  now  the  creature  ignored  all  of  these  mementos, moving toward the  fresh air  in search  of new  food, perhaps a new skull.
	The  creature  emerged  to  discover  twilight  settling  over the  high  valley.  The  spoor  came more  clearly now,  and the great beast licked its lips with a black, moist tongue. Its dark eyes, almost hidden in the deep recesses  of its  black sockets, squinted  into  the darkness,  searching for  the source  of the tantalizing odor.
	An  odor,  the  troll  knew,  that  could only  emanate from one of its favorite foods: dwarf. * * * * *
	Flint's  destination,  the  mountain  dwarves'   kingdom,  was twenty  or  so   miles  southwest   of  Hillhome.   The  wagons' shipments  must  have  come  from  there,  and  Garth  had  also said  the  derro  he  saw  was  a  magic-user;  it   was  common knowledge  that  only  one  type of  dwarf could  muster more than  simple  spells.  That  was  the  Theiwar clan  of Thorbardin.
	Flint suspected his older brother had discovered  the secret of  the  derro,  and  he  was determined  to make  whoever was responsible for his death pay with his life.
	His  burning  vengeance,  he  had to  admit, was  colored by the  legacy  of bitterness  and hatred  left by  the Dwarfgate Wars,   when   another   Fireforge,   the   respected  dwarven leader Reghar Fireforge, had died  at the  hands of  the mountain  dwarves.  Those  epic  conflicts  had opened  schisms in the dwarven races that seemed likely never to heal.
	Flint had no clear explanation for  these arms  shipments of the derro, but he knew  the reasons  must be  sinister indeed. Why  else  would  a  race  that  was  known  for its  pride of craftsmanship not sign its work?
	Flint  was following  the Passroad  west. Traveling  in daylight, he felt fairly secure that he  would not  encounter any derro.  The  road  hugged  the  northern shore  of Stonehammer Lake, whose cold water  looked dull  gray-green on  this overcast late-autumn day. Most of the leaves  in this  distant arm of  the  Kharolis  Mountains,  in  the corridor  between Thorbardin and  the Plains  of Dergoth,  had already  turned brown and scattered across the flat lands,  leaving only  the olivecolored firs to cover the spiny mountain ridges.
	The  terrain  grew  considerably rougher  as the  slopes and crests of the southern hillcountry  tumbled around  Flint. The elevations soared  steeply from  the valley  bottoms, climbing to narrow ridges and fringed with levels of sheer cliffs, bare rock  faces,  and  dark  forests of  pine. In  places, looming knobs of granite overlooked  grass-filled valleys,  often giving Flint the impression of huge, serene faces  looking across the  hillcountry. The  Passroad twisted  around like  a snake, never running straight for more than a mile or two.
	Flint had  never been  to Thorbardin  - they  didn't exactly embrace  hill dwarves  there -  but his  father had  once told him  something that  was tugging  at his  mind now.  The dwarven   capitol   city   had   two   entrances:   Northgate  and Southgate.  Originally,  a  wide,   walled  ledge   edged  the mountainside  at  the  entrances,  but  the Cataclysm  had destroyed most of the northern ledge,  leaving only  a five-foot remnant towering one thousand feet above the valley.
	The  Passroad  seemed to  be leading  him toward  the northern entrance, and unless  his father  had been  mistaken, that gate into the great city  would soar  one thousand  feet above him.  But  how  could  that  be? How  could the  huge, lumbering freight wagons enter Thorbardin from the north?
	Unless  the  Passroad continued  past Northgate  and circled the  expansive  realm to  enter at  Southgate... If  that were the case, Flint had-a long walk ahead of  him, since  the city stretched more than twenty miles in circumference.
	But that didn't make sense either. The  heart of  the Kharolis  Mountains  stood  between  here and  there, and  no wagon could  cross  that tumultuous  landscape. It  was a  puzzle to him.
	Flint had walked  nearly a  full day  before his  keen dwarven senses raised the hair on  the back  of his  neck; someone or  something  was  following  him.  He  wasn't  terribly surprised, since he had  expected to  be pursued.  Still whomever it was seemed in no hurry to catch  him, nor  even to  be concerned about being detected. Once  he even  caught sight  of a distant figure trudging  through the  grassy vale  which Flint had passed through a short time earlier.
	Flint  continued to  look behind  him at  regular intervals, but never again spotted the  figure. Could  it have  been some hill farmer, going about his business? Flint had been  too far away to  distinguish if  the figure  was a  human or  a dwarf. Still,  his trail  sense nagged  him, warning  him to  stay on guard.
	His  second  afternoon   out  of   Hillhome  was   damp  and cold. Flint stopped to rest at the crest of a rocky ridge, and to eat the last of the cold meat sandwiches, rock  cheese, and dried apples Bertina had slipped into his  hands as  he'd left the  family  house.  Shoulders of  bare granite  loomed around him, and several caves dotted the side of this steep slope. He had discovered a makeshift trail in the base  of a  narrow ravine and veered off the Passroad to lose his pursuer.  Now, at the crest, he looked behind and  saw for  the second  time the stalwart figure on his trail.
	There was just a flash  of movement  before his  pursuer disappeared into a wide  belt of  pines fringing  the base  of the ridge.  But  the  glimpse  had  been  enough  to  convince  the crusty  dwarf  that  his  suspicions  had   been  well-founded. Flint resolved  to wait  for whomever  followed him,  forcing a confrontation on his own terms.
	Flint crept back into the narrow ravine, retracing  his steps for a dozen  yards down  the side  of the  ridge. He  wiped his sleeve across his  sweaty brow  as he  found a  sheltered ledge with  a  fine  view  of  the ravine  below. There  he sprawled. Withdrawing  his  axe  from his  belt, he  laid the  weapon beside him on the rock.
	His  elevation,  coupled  with  the  steepness of  the ridge, gave  him  a  significant  vantage.  He gathered  an assortment of rocks, some as big as his head,  so that  he could  lob them using  both  hands, and  some fist-sized  stones that  he could easily pitch with one hand. Finally, he settled down to wait.
	Long  minutes  passed  with  no  sign  of  movement  from below, but this did not surprise  the dwarf.  The belt  of forest below  the  ridge  was  wide  and  tangled,  and it  would take even the  fastest of  pursuers the  better part  of an  hour to climb the slope.
	Suddenly  he   tensed,  seeing   movement  below,   and  very close  to  him.  He  grasped  his axe,  then swallowed  a gasp. There  was  neither  human  nor  dwarf  below  him,  but  something  ten times  worse, for,  creeping into  the ravine  was a mottled-green,  wart-covered,  large-as-an-ogre  troll.  He had never fought one  before, never  even seen  one, but  he recognized  it  nonetheless.  And he  knew their  malevolent, ravenous reputation.
	He was  momentarily relieved  but surprised  to see  that the troll's  attention  was  not  directed up  at him.  Indeed, the monster as well,  seemed to  be staring  down the  ravine, from a  position  one  hundred  feet   below  Flint.   The  creature moved  its long  limbs in  a deliberately  rigid gait  that reminded Flint of a crab - a giant, vicious crab, to be sure.
	The  wind,  soaring  up  the  ravine,  brought  the  pungent, vaguely fishlike odor of the beast clearly to Flint's nose. The  troll's  wicked  claws,  on  hands  and  feet  alike,  grasped out crops of rock as it held itself against an expanse of  cliff, leer ing outward with those black, emotionless eyes.
	 Then  Flint  almost  laughed out  loud as  he realized  the crea ture's  intent.  It  was  laying  an  ambush  for   something  that  crept  up  the  ravine  below  them  -  perhaps  the  same  pursuer  that Flint had intended to confront!
	 Now  that's  what  I  call  fair,  he  thought to  himself. Some one  follows  me  through  the  hills  for  a  few  days,  and then  gets eaten by a troll. -
	 Still,  the  nearness  of  the  monster  gave  Flint  some  cause  for  alarm. He  resolved to  wait, quietly  and patiently,  for the  little  drama  below  to  run  its  course.  Then,  when  the troll  was  absorbed  with  its  victim,  Flint  would  make  a  fast  and  easy escape.
	 A  clatter  of  rocks  abruptly drew  the dwarf's  attention far ther  down  the  steep  ravine.  He  could  see  no  movement,  but  something   was   obviously   charging   upward.   Whoever's   fol lowing  me  moves  with  no  mind  for  caution,  Flint   mused  as  his pursuer scrambled and scratched up the ridge.
	 Another  clatter  told  the  dwarf  -  and  the  troll,  too,  no  doubt  -  that  the  chaser  had  climbed  higher   still.  Perhaps  whomever  it  was  had  already  come  into  sight  of  the  troll,  for Flint  watched the  beast grow  taut in  its rocky  niche, pre paring  to  spring.  Indeed,  he  saw  movement  in the  ravine fi nally  and  determined  that  it  was  a   short  human   or  dwarf  who was climbing so steadily.
	 A  brown  hood  covered  the  fellow's   head,  so   Flint  could  not see his face. He could, in fact, tell little about him. Flint's  pursuer   stopped   to   catch   his   breath;  he   peered  upward  along  the  ravine that  stretched to  the top  of the  ridge, mea suring  the  distance.  At  last, even  in the  gathering darkness,  Flint got a good look at his young, red-bearded face.
	 Flint's pursuer was  not a  derro spy,  or a  human. The  dwarf below him, in imminent danger  of being  attacked by  a hungry troll, was none other that Flint's nephew Basalt.
	 "Reorx thump you!" hissed  Flint, astonished.  He didn't  know  what the  silly pup  was doing  here, but  the dwarf  probed his mind desperately for a way  to warn  his nephew about the deadly ambush.
	Flint seized one  of his  smaller rocks  and pitched  it down the ravine  at the  monster, watching  with satisfaction  as it whacked the troll squarely in the back of its grotesque head.
	"Basalt,  look  out!"  Flint  cried,  springing to  his feet. Moaning  piteously  and  rubbing  its head,  the troll  spun to look  upward,  its  jaws  widespread  in  a  malicious grimace. Even in the  dim light,  Flint could  see the  creature's long, pointed teeth.
	The troll leaped  upward, astonishing  Flint with  its prodigious  bounds.  The  dwarf  sent  a  large  boulder  skittering down  the  chute,  but  the rock  ricochetted past  the troll's head,  narrowly  missing  Basalt,  who  had  begun  to scramble up the ravine behind the speedily climbing troll.
	Flint hefted another of his large rocks, holding it  over his head as the  troll closed  in. The  creature's wide,  black eye sockets stared at him in a way that was  all the  more terrifying for their  complete lack  of expression.  Aiming carefully, the  dwarf  pitched  the  boulder  when  the  troll   was  some thirty  feet  below  him.  The heavy  rock, its  momentum aided by the muscles of Flint's broad shoulders,  struck the  troll a crushing blow on its left leg.
	"Take that,  you ugly,  green-bellied goblin-eater!"  A taunt worthy  of  Tasslehoff,  Flint  thought  with  satisfaction. He hooted with joy  as the  monster's leg  snapped from  the force of the blow. The troll uttered a sound  - a  low, cold  hiss of dull  pain  -  and  tumbled  backward.  Its  leg   twisted  and flopped.
	Now, for the kill, Flint  hoped. Grabbing  his axe,  the hill dwarf  bounded  down  from  his  ledge.  He  raised  the  blade over his head and closed on the troll as the beast fell between two rocks. Its leg hung to the side, useless.
	But before  Flint could  reach the  brute, the  charging hill dwarf  halted  in  astonishment.  The  monster's  leg  twitched slightly, and Flint heard  a strange,  grating sound,  like two jagged rocks scraping together.  The troll  took its  lower leg in  both  huge,  warty  hands  and  arranged  it into  a proper alignment.  Horrified   yet  fascinated,   Flint  unconsciously moved  closer  to  watch;  the  troll  looked  up  through red-  veined  eyes  and  hissed  at  him, slashing  out with  a jagged  claw. Flint drew back only slightly, but the troll  returned its  attention to its wounded leg.
	 Amid  the   gruesome  scraping   sound,  bubbles   and  bulges  could  be  seen  forming  under the  troll's thick,  green warty  skin. Slowly, the bulges flattened  out, and  the spine-chilling  sound  ceased.  Before  Flint   could  comprehend   the  meaning  of  the  macabre  scene, the  troll became  aware of  him again.  Its eyes locked onto Flint as it leaped to its feet. Dropping to  a  fighting  crouch,  the  creature danced  toward Flint  on two  good  legs!  The  limb,  crushed  to  bonemeal a  moment before,  had  somehow  grown  firm  and   again  supported   the  beast's  weight.
	 "Holy gods of old -  you can  regenerate!" Flint  cried, flab bergasted.  The  troll  slashed with  its viciously  clawed hand  again, but Flint came  out of  his stupor  long enough  to knock  the digits away with his  axe. Striking  quickly, he  lopped the  troll's  hand  off. It  made a  sickening spraying  sound, thick  green  blood spurting  in a  steady stream.  Flint cast  an anx ious  eye down  the slope  for Basalt.  His nephew  was vaulting  upward  as  quickly as  he could,  panting with  exertion, short  sword extended. But he was still some distance below.
	 The  monster  seemed  more  stunned   than  tortured   at  the  loss  of  its hand.  Flint pressed  the advantage,  hacking with  his  axe,  driving  the  monster  back.  Although the  beast was  more than twice  Flint's height,  the dwarf  stood above  him in  the steep ravine. Flint had  the initiative,  striking, dodging,  and striking again.
	 Once   more   his   advantage   proved  illusory.   The  troll  dodged  away  from him  while it  held the  oozing stump  of its  hand.  Not  the  squeamish  type,  even  Flint  was  repulsed as  three  tiny  claws  sprouted  from  the  bloody  wound   with  a  loud  popping  sound.  He  heard  the  green  skin  stretch, and  the  claws  grew  impossibly fast,  revealing fingers  and then,  in   moments,  a   completely  new   taloned  hand.   Fully  re grown,  the  creature  made  a  gurgling-regurgitating  sound in  the back of its throat  - Flint  swore it  was snickering  - and  then the troll crept toward the hill dwarf.
	      Flint scrambled backward up the steep chute, struggling  to keep his balance in the loose rock. A fall would slide him,  helpless,  into  the  slashing  maelstrom  of  tooth  and claw  below.
	 "Uncle Flint!" cried Basalt.
	 Flint did not even stop to see where Basalt  was. "This  is no  picnic,  Basalt!  Run,  you  hare-brained  numbskull!"  If the  troll turned  on his  inexperienced nephew,  the boy  would be  devoured before he could raise his blade.
	 "I can help!" Basalt gasped,  slipping on  loose rock  as he  scrambled closer. Now the troll did turn.
	 Powered  by fear,  Flint sprang  forward, hacking  the sharp  blade  of  his  axe  into  the monster's  back. The  blow sent  sticky,  gelatinous,  pea-green  blood  showering  onto Flint,  who  gagged  and spat  furiously. Nearly  cleaved in  two, the  monster writhed away  as best  it could,  hissing in  pain and  rage, giving Basalt enough time to slip past it.
	 "Stay  back!"  shouted  Flint  to  his nephew,  then bounded  forward with another swing of his axe.
	 But  Basalt  had  a  mind  of  his own,  and he  delivered a  sharp jab with  his short  sword into  the troll's  belly. The  monster  had  begun  to  regenerate again,  but the  new blows  doubled it over, sending it twisting and rolling down  the ra vine.  Grinning  proudly,  his  right  arm  covered  in  green  blood, Basalt prepared to leap after it.
	 "No!" ordered Flint, grasping his nephew's shoulder.  "You've got to learn when to retreat, harrn."
	 "But we've got the advantage now!" objected Basalt,  looking longingly down the ravine.
	 Flint jerked on Basalt's collar. "Only  until it  grows back  together."  He  chuckled  suddenly,  then pretended  to frown.  "Never  mind  that!  What  are  you  doing  here in  the first  place? I'd like to know."
	 Basalt  began  a  clumsy  explanation,  but  Flint  cut  him  short  with  a poke  in the  chest. "Not  now, pup!  There's a  troll  growing  below  us!  You've  got a  lot to  learn about  adventuring!"
	 Flint leading the way, they raced up the ravine as fast as  they could, reaching the top of the ridge in a minute. The  troll  was out  of sight  below them,  having fallen  around a bend in the ravine.
	Basalt  followed  the  older  dwarf  at  a steady  trot. Night closed  around  them,  and  still the  two dwarves  maintained a fast  pace.  They  scrambled down  the far  side of  the troll's ridge and hastened across the valley floor.
	Finally  they  collapsed,  exhausted,  in a  small clearing among  the  dark  pines.  Though  it  was  pitch  black, they dared not make a fire.
	In  the  dim  light,  Flint  leveled his  gaze at  his nephew. "You've  got some  explaining to  do, son.  Why don't  you start by telling me what you're doing here?"
	Basalt fixed him  with a  sullen glare.  "You've got  some explaining  to  do  yourself,  like  where  do  you  think  you're going?"
	Flint's  mouth  became  a  tight-lipped  line. "I  owe answers to no one,  least of  all a  smart-mouthed boy  of a  dwarf like yourself."
	"I'm  not  a  boy  anymore!  You'd  know  that  if   you  ever came  home,  or  stayed  more  than  a  day!"  For a  moment Basalt gave Flint a look that was so belligerent, so full of Fireforge  stubbornness,  that  Flint's  hands  curled involuntarily into  fists.  But  in  another  moment  the older  dwarf laughed out loud, clutching his paunch in mirth.
	Puzzled,  and  a  little  insulted, Basalt  demanded, "What are you laughing about?"
	"You!" said Flint, his  laughter slowing  to a  chuckle. "Aye, pup - you're a Fireforge, that's for  sure! And  what a  pair we make!"
	"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" Basalt  growled, unwilling to be teased out of his bad humor.
	"Well, you're stubborn like me,  for starters."  Flint crossed his  arms  and   squinted  at   his  nephew,   considering  him. "You're not afraid  of standing  up to  your elders  either. You even tell 'em off once in a  while, though  you'd best  watch so that  doesn't  become  a  habit!  And  you  didn't  hesitate one whit  before  jumping  into  battle with  an honest  to goodness troll."
	Flint looked at his nephew with affection. "And you didn't come out here to spy on me, anyway, did you?"
	"No!" Basalt said quickly,  sitting up.  "You were  right, Uncle Flint," the young dwarf  said softly.  "What you  said about me  being  mad  at  my dad  and at  myself was  true. I  knew it when  I  threw  that  punch  at  Moldoon's  -"  He  looked  away sheepishly  "-  but I  guess I  didn't much  like you  being the one to point it out."
	Basalt  plucked  nervously  at his  bootlaces. "I  didn't like leaving  things  the  way they  were between  us." He  looked up now, clearing his throat gruffly. "I've  done that  once before, and it will haunt me for the  rest of  my days."  Basalt's voice broke,  and  he  hung  his  head.  Flint  sat quietly  while his nephew composed himself.
	"Even  Ma  doesn't  know  this,"  he  began  again,  his  eyes looking  far  away  into the  night now,  "but Dad  and I  had a fight the night  he died.  She wouldn't  be surprised,  though me  and  Dad  argued  almost  every  night.  Always   about  the same  thing, too.  'Stop drinking  and get  a decent  job,' he'd say."
	Basalt  looked  squarely  at  Flint.  "The  thing  that always stuck  in  my  craw  was  that, in  addition to  apprenticing to him, I had a job. He just didn't  like me  hauling feed  for the derro's  horses,  that's  all."  Basalt heaved  a huge  sigh and shook  his  head  sadly.  "He  tracked  me  down   at  Moldoon's that  night  and  started up  the old  argument again,  said the derro were  up to  no good  and he  would prove  it. I  told him to stay out of my business, and then I left him at the bar." Basalt's  eyes misted  over as  he looked  into the  dark distance again, focusing on nothing in particular.
	Basalt's   expression   turned  unexpectedly   to  puzzlement. "There's just one thing I  don't understand.  Dad said  he hated that  the  village  was  working  with  the   mountain  dwarves, said  he'd never  lift a  finger to  help a  derro dying  in the street."  Basalt stroked  his beard  thoughtfully. "So  what was he  doing  smithing for  them the  day his  heart gave  out? Why that day?" Basalt turned his face to the heavens.
	Flint  heard  his nephew's  grief and  was wracked  with indecision   about   the   secret   suspicions   he   harbored  over Aylmar's death. Basalt's account  of the  fight with  his father only   bolstered   his   hunch.  Could   he  trust   Basalt?  He squeezed his nephew's shoulder.
	"Basalt, I don't think your father's  death was  an accident," he said.
	Flint's  nephew  looked  at  him  strangely. "Are  you talking about 'fate' or some such hooey?"
	"I wish I were,"  Flint said  sadly. "No,  I think  Aylmar was murdered by a derro mage's spell."
	"That's  going  too  far!"  Basalt  said angrily.  "I've heard Garth's  mutterings,  and  I  know my  father thought  the derro were  evil.  But why  would they  want to  kill him?  It doesn't make sense!"
	"It does  if he  discovered they  were selling  and transporting  weapons,  not  farm  implements,  and  enough  to  start  a war!"  When  Basalt  still  looked  confused, Flint  pressed on, telling  Basalt  how  he  had  searched a  derro wagon  and what he  had  found there.  He left  nothing out,  none of  his worst imaginings,  and  he  told  him  about  the  derro   he  killed. "Seemed like I had no choice," he added.
	Basalt  struggled  to  absorb  the  news.  "You knew  all this and  yet  you  didn't  tell  anybody'?  You  just  left?" Basalt asked, smoldering.
	Flint  snorted at  the irony.  "As Tybalt  aptly put  it, 'Who would believe the village idiot?' That's all the proof I have so far,  Bas:  Garth's  'mutterings'  and  what I  saw with  my own eyes  in that  wagon. And  when they  tie me  into that  derro I killed,  Mayor  Holden  won't  be  likely to  order a  search of the  wagons  or a  murder investigation  on my  say-so, either." He   shrugged.   "Since  these   derro  come   from  Thorbardin, there  was  nothing  else  I  could  do but  go to  the mountain dwarves   myself   and   find   the   derro   scum   who  killed Aylmar."
	Basalt  no  longer  looked  skeptical. "How  are you  going to find  this  one  derro, when  there must  be hundreds  of magicusing derro there."
	Flint gave  a devilish  grin. "Ah,  but how  many of  them are hunchbacked?  Garth, bless  his simple  heart, kept  calling the derro he saw 'the humped one.' That's my only  clue, but  it's a good one."
	  Basalt jumped to his feet. "Well, what are we waiting for?  Let's go find the Reorx-cursed derro who killed my father!"
	 Flint patted the harrn's hand. "You're a true  Fireforge, like  I said. But we aren't going anywhere in  the dark."  He sighed.  "I'm not sure that I want any help, but you  can't go  back the  way  you  came  - a  clumsy pup  like you'd  be troll  food for  sure," he teased. "I guess you'll have to come along, but we'll  leave in the morning."
	 Basalt  smiled  eagerly.  "You  won't  be sorry,  Uncle Flint!"
	 I'm  not  so sure  about that,  Flint thought  inwardly. What  would he do with Basalt when he got to Thorbardin?
	 A cold drizzle fell, then turned to  light snow.  They looked  for an overhanging shelf of rock well  off the  Passroad, since  a  wagon  or two  was bound  to pass  in the  dark, and  made a  crude  camp.  Uncle  and  nephew  talked  long into  the night,  about Basalt's father and Flint's brother, and even Flint's fa ther,  too.  Though  he  hated to  see their  conversation end,  Flint  knew  they  would  pay  for  their indulgences  with ex haustion in the morning. * * * * *

By  late  afternoon  the  next  day,  a  snowy one,  the road  curved  into  a  narrow  valley  and  began  climbing  steeply.  Flint  and  Basalt  wondered at  the difficulty  of maneuvering  heavy  wagons  up  and  down  these  switchbacks, but  the rut ted state of the road proved that it did carry steady traffic.
	 They  were  closer  to  the heart  of the  Kharolis Mountains  now,  and the  surrounding hills  had gained  sharp definition.  The slopes towered thousands of  feet in  the air,  with jagged  precipices of bare rock exposed to the wind.
	 Flint  groaned  and  struggled  up the  heights made  all the  more  arduous  by  heavy  snow.  He  cursed the  sedentary life  that had led him into this physical  decline. He  knew -  or at  least convinced himself - that  this would  have been  no trou ble for him a short twenty years ago.
	 But the hills brought him  a sense  of exhilaration  as well.  The  view  of  jagged  crests stretching  for a  hundred miles,  capped  by  the  snows  of  autumn;  the  sweeping  grandeur of  the  valleys  and the  inexorable crushing  force of  the moun tain rivers - all of these returned a joy to his old heart that he hadn't even been aware he was missing.
	The  sun  was  dropping  over their  right shoulders  when the road abruptly ended at  a shallow  stream, as  if a  giant broom had  descended  and  swept  the  rutted  trail  away.  The  bank rose  steeply on  the opposite  side, unmarked  by a  single rut or  hoofprint,  while  the  two-foot-deep  stream, so  clear and cold  Flint  could see  the gravel  bottom, teemed  across their path.  Big,  fluffy  snowflakes  plopped  into the  stream and melted into the steady  current. Flint  smiled to  himself; hiding a trail in a riverbed was one of the oldest tricks in an adventurer's book.
	Flint  looked   downstream,  then   upstream  to   the  right. Kneeling near the edge  of the  water, he  saw an  almost imperceptible  curve  to  the  right  in  the  tracks leading  to the stream.  "See these,  Bas?" he  said, pointing  to the  ruts. "I think  the wagons  are turning  off right  here, where  they enter the water. They follow it upstream."
	Basalt  peered closely,  then smacked  his thigh  in astonishment. "Why, you're right! Let's  go!" The  young dwarf  took a step toward the stream. Flint's hand flew out to stop him.
	Water. Water that was over half as  tall as  Flint's four-foot frame.  Flint  shivered  involuntarily,  considering  the  rapid icy flow. The  stream had  no bank  to speak  of, what  with the severe  pitch  of  the  canyon  walls  that  shaped  it.  It was twenty or thirty feet at its widest point.
	"What's  wrong,  Flint?"  Basalt asked.  "Aren't we  going to follow the stream?"
	Flint  struggled  to  keep  the color  from draining  from his face. He couldn't let Basalt learn that his uncle's  aversion to water  went  beyond  normal  dwarven  distaste, to  cold, blinding fear. Flint  didn't even  like admitting  it to  himself. It wasn't  his  fault,  after  all.  It  was  that  damned  lummox, Caramon Majere.
	One  fine  day  not  many  years before,  when Flint  had been waiting  in  Solace  for  Tanis  to  return   from  a   trip  to Qualinesti,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  proposed  that  Sturm, Raistlin, Caramon,  and Flint  take a  ride on  Crystalmir Lake  in a boat  the  kender had  "found." They  set out  on the  lake, and everyone  was  having  a  grand  time  until  Caramon  tried  to catch a fish by hand. He leaned  out too  far, tilting  the boat and sending everyone into the water.
	Raistlin,  always  the  clever  one,  had  bobbed  up  beneath the overturned  boat and  was quite  safe in  the air  pocket it formed. His oafish twin brother  did not  fare so  well, sinking like a  stone. Sturm  and Tas,  both fearless,  strong swimmers, soon righted the boat and Raistlin with it, while it was left to Flint to try to rescue Caramon.
	The  three  in  the boat  waited eagerly  for Flint  and Caramon,  but  all  they  saw  was  a  immense  amount  of splashing and  gurgling,  and  then  the  water  became  ominously silent. Frightened,  both  Tas  and  Sturm  plunged  back  into  the water;  the  knight hauled  Caramon, coughing,  into the  boat. It was  Tas  who  found  the  dwarf,  half-drowned  and hysterical; all four of  his friends  had to  help drag  him into  the boat, where  he  lay  shivering,  vowing  to never  set foot  on water again.
	"Uncle Flint?"
	"What?  Oh,  yes.  I'm  thinking!"  he  snapped. If  he wanted to  avenge  Aylmar, he  had no  choice but  to venture  into the stream.
	"Oh, all right!"  he snarled  at last,  hitching up  his belt, willing his right foot to take a step into  the stream.  Only it would not move.
	"What's the  matter, are  you afraid  of water?"  Basalt asked incredulously.
	That  did  it.  Setting  his  chin  firmly, Flint  clomped two steps  into  the  swiftly flowing  stream, barely  suppressing a scream  as  melted  mountain snow  flowed over  the tops  of his leather climbing boots.  He bit  his lip  until it  nearly bled. Suddenly  a  strong  eddy grabbed  his legs  and sent  him sliding off the uneven, slimy rocks under his feet.
	"Whoa!"  Basalt's  strong  arm  reached  out;  he  caught  his uncle by the collar and held tight before  the dwarf  fell facefirst into the frigid water. Flint's  axe clattered  against the rocks  on  the  narrow  bank,  and  he  nonchalantly  wiped  water  droplets  from the  weapon's shiny  surface while  he gathered the courage to make another move.
	  "Let go of me - I mean, you can let go of me now, Bas," he  finished  more  calmly,  twisting  his  damp  tunic  back into  place.  He  had  one  goal now  that overshadowed  all others:  he  wanted  only  to  get to  the end  of this  stream-road as  quickly as possible without falling. And if he should fall, he  prayed that Reorx would take him quickly.
	 Flint set off slowly, concentrating so intently on  his feet  that his head began  to ache  with the  strain. His  toes were  numb,  as  were his  legs beneath  his soaked  leather pants.  Sharp rocks jabbed at the souls of his feet through his boots.
	 They  had  progressed  perhaps  one  hundred  feet  upstream  when Flint heard the sound, though at first he thought  it was  only  the  blood  banging  through  his  temples.  No,  he de cided,  it sounds  like wagon  wheels. But  why would  a wagon  be  coming  through  now?  It  was  only  early  evening, just  heading toward dusk. The  hill dwarf  held up  a hand  to warn  Basalt,  and  he  concentrated  on  the approaching  noise. It  was  coming  from  behind  them,  he  determined,  probably an  empty  wagon  returning  after  a  run  through   Hillhome  to  Newsea.
	 The  hill  dwarves  couldn't  backtrack  and  they  couldn't  outrun  the wagon.  They had  to hide!  But where?  Flint tore  his  gaze  from  his  feet  and  spotted  some  aspen branches  hanging over the stream from the right side of the tiny bank.  They  would  just  have  to  duck  low  and hope  the branches ' covered them.
	 Quickly  he  slogged the  ten feet  to the  branches, waving  Basalt to follow. Flint instinctively  held his  breath before  dropping to his  knees on  the rocky  stream bed,  letting the  cold mountain water lap at his shoulders and tear at  his jan gled  nerve  endings  till he  thought he  could endure  it no  more. He felt Basalt stiffen at his side.
	 Hurry,  damn  you!  he  screamed  inwardly at  the approach ing  wagon.  Oh,  how  I  wish I  were on  that dry  wagon and  the derro  were in  this wretched  water, thought  Flint. That  image gave him an idea.
	 "Bas,"  he  whispered, no  louder than  a breath,  "Wait for  me  in  the  brush  back where  the road  turns to  river. Two  days, no more. Then go home."
	 "What?  I'm  going  with you!"  Basalt hissed  quickly, then he  saw  the  determined  look  on  his  uncle's gray-bearded face. "You need me -"
	"Look, Bas, I'm not even sure I can get in this way," Flint began almost apologetically, "but two of us  are sure  to get nailed. Two days, no morel I'll be OK!"
	The  wagon   was  almost   upon  them.   Approaching  their home base, the guards obviously  did not  fear an  attack and were asleep  on the  buckboard, and  the driver  nearly dozed from  the  tedium,  too.  The  four  horses pulled  the wagon steadily  up  the  stream  bed  through the  knee-high water. Flint mentally measured the distance  and timed  the rotation of the huge wooden wheels with their iron spokes.
	Flint broke his concentration just long enough to  hold Basalt's gaze. "Watch yourself, son."
	The  wagon  was  smack  in  front  of  them  now,  the four horses  churning  the  water  with  their  big  hooves. Flint launched  himself  between   the  bone-crushing   wheels  and caught the bottom of  the cargo  box with  just three  of the thick fingers  of his  right hand.  He quickly  swung himself monkey-style  until  his  left hand  connected with  the axle brace of the right front  wheel. Wrapping  his arms  and legs around it, he held on for dear life  and dangled  beneath the wagon  and  just  above  the water,  waiting for  some large, pointed rock to impale him from below.
	The  wagon  stopped  abruptly, and  he heard  animated conversation.
	"You clear the tunnel," someone said.
	It's your turn!" another said in  a sleepy  voice. "I  had to clear those boulders out of the way by that ridge a  few days ago."
	"Oh, all right!" the first one said.
	The front end of  the wagon  bounced slightly  as one  of the derro sprang to the  ground and  landed in  the water  with a splash.
	Flint hugged the axle and made himself  as small  as possible. Lowering  his head  just slightly,  he looked  under the front  of  the  wagon and  saw that  thick brush  blocked the bank  of  the  stream beside  them. The  hill dwarf  saw only branches,  water,  and  the mountain  dwarf's waist  at water level until the fellow moved the tree limbs to either  side of the wagon, forming an opening in the steep stream bed.
	Deep ruts that  led out  of the  stream were  revealed where the branches had  been. With  an oath,  the driver  coaxed the horses through a turn to the left, and the poor  creatures laboriously  hauled  the  heavy  wagon  out  of  the  stream and onto the concealed portion of the road.
	The  driver  did  not   stop  the   wagon  as   both  guards dropped  to  replace the  brush pile,  then climbed  back onto the  rear  of  the wagon,  where Flint  could hear  them crawl over the hollow  wooden cargo  hold and  take their  places at the front again.
	They rolled a short distance, and the  sounds of  the stream fell behind. It suddenly grew  dark, and  Flint knew  they had entered a tunnel. His arms began to ache so  that he  could no longer  hold  onto  the bouncing  axle brace.  Unclenching his stiff hands, arms, and legs, he dropped  to the  sandy ground, being  careful  to   avoid  the   enormous  iron   wheels.  He crouched in  the darkness,  waiting until  the wagon  had rumbled out  of earshot.  His heat-sensing  infravision responded only dimly in the cold  tunnel, outlining  the walls  in faint red.
	Flint took two short  steps, his  boots crunching  softly on the tunnel  floor. Then  he froze.  A second  click, following the  sound  of  his own  footstep, came  from the  right. Then another,  from  higher up,  and another  even higher.  When he heard  something  snap directly  overhead, Flint  twisted desperately and threw himself to the left, but it was too late. A cage  of   iron  bars   slammed  down   around  him,   and  he crashed into its side. Furiously Flint  grasped the  bars with both hands and pushed, pulled, lifted,  and rattled  them, but the  cage  was too  heavy to  budge. He  dropped to  his knees and scraped at the tunnel floor.  Aside from  a thin  layer of loose gravel, it was solid rock.
	The dwarf leaned back against the bars. "Damn!"

                      Chapter 9

                 A Parting of the Ways

They took his axe immediately - Flint felt naked without it. Still angered by the ease with which he had been captured,  the  hill dwarf  seethed under  the watchful  eyes of eight  guards  while  a detachment  proceeded to  alert their commander.  The sentries  in the  tunnel were  derro dwarves, white-skinned  and  wide-eyed.   They  wore   polished  black plate  armor  with  long  purple  plumes trailing  from their helms. Although  the  cage  had  been  raised  so  that  he  was  no longer imprisoned by bars, the derro guards made Flint sit in a stone recess in the tunnel wall. As they waited,  the derro played  some  kind  of  betting  game  with  pebbles  on  the smooth, stone floor at the mouth of  the cramped  alcove. Es- cape,  for the  moment anyway,  was clearly  out of  the question. He could only sit and fidget as time crawled by.
	"Who's  in  charge  here, anyway?"  Flint asked  once, after more than an hour had passed.
	One  of  the derro  guards looked  up from  the game  with a cold gaze. His  large, pale  eyes showed  almost as  much emotion as the stare of  a dead  fish, Flint  thought. "Shuddup," was the fellow's only reply.
	Sometime  later  Flint heard  the step  of several  pairs of heavy  boots.  The guards  hastily put  away their  stones and jumped  to  their  feet,   standing  rigidly.   The  footsteps tromped  closer, but  Flint could  not see  whoever approached through the narrow opening of his niche.
	"Column,  halt!"  The  command,  spoken in  a harsh  yet undeniably  female  voice,  brought  the march  to a  stop. "The prisoner?" he heard the same voice inquire.
	"In here, Captain."
	Two  derro hauled  Flint roughly  to his  feet and  pulled him from  the  alcove. He  found himself  facing a  frawl mountain dwarf, leading  a fresh  detachment of  guards. She  carried a small hand axe, unlike the battle-axes hoisted by the  rest of the  guards,  and  she  wore  the  golden epaulets  of command on her shoulders.
	Her  smooth  face and  warm hazel  eyes set  her immediately apart from the others,  all of  whom were  male. She  wore the same helmet as her men,  with its  trailing purple  plume, but wild copper curls escaped its confines  and danced  across her shoulders  every  time  she  moved  her  head. Her  chain mail sleeves revealed arms of sinewy muscle, but the  steel breastplate she wore  suggested an  undeniably feminine  fullness of shape.
	"Why  am  I  being  held  prisoner?"  Flint  blurted.  "I demand -"  He stopped  suddenly, cut  off by  the slap  of a guard's meaty hand across his face.
	"Prisoners have no rights here," the frawl said coldly. 'You may  speak  when  given   permission.  Otherwise,   keep  your tongue  still. You'll  be given  ample opportunity  to confess your crimes of spying on the Theiwar. Come along."
	  The detachment surrounded him. In silence they tromped  back  the way  they had  come, deeper  into the  tunnel, toward  Thorbardin.  Flint  noted  that  the  passageway  had  only re cently  been  widened,  or  perhaps  created anew;  jagged out croppings of  rock still  remained on  the walls  revealing, in  places on the floor, fresh chisel cuts. Wagon tracks were visi ble, but had not yet scarred the rock floor.
	 Eventually  the  tunnel  swung  to the  left and  before long  opened into a vast cavern.  A pall  of smoke  hung in  the air,  and  the  clash of  heavy iron  tools rang  constantly, echoing  around  the  stone  chamber  with  a reverberating  din. Before  Flint stood huge  mounds of  coal, forming  a black  ridge some  twenty feet high. This pile blocked his view of the rest of the  cavern.
	 "Looks  like a  pretty big  operation," suggested  Flint art lessly. "Making some farming tools?"
	 The  businesslike  frawl  seemed  not to  hear him  at first.  Then she  turned and  eyed him  sarcastically. "It's  strange  you don't seem unintelligent..."
	 "Thank you -" he interrupted.
	 "... just foolhardy," she finished,  as if  he had  not spoken.  "You  would  be  well  advised  to  curb  your  curious nature,  and your clever tongue, if you don't care to lose both."
	 He  studied  her  profile  curiously.  What  manner  of dwarf  was this commander? She  did not  fit his  mental picture  of a  mountain  dwarf,  and  her  eyes  and  hair  did  not  seem  to  match the derro  around her.  Yet she  was obviously  a leader,  and  her  rank  indicated  that she'd  been recognized  and re warded for that ability.
	 They  left  the  huge cavern  and entered  a maze  of tunnel like streets. Uncountable side streets led  away from  the ave nue,   and   mountain   dwarves   moved  quickly   and  quietly  along   them.   Overhead,  perhaps   twenty  feet   above,  the  street was capped by a stone ceiling.  The buildings  to either  side  extended  from  floor to  ceiling. Counting  the windows,  Flint guessed that most of  them contained  three or  even four  interior floors. Some of these buildings  appeared to  be built  from  stone  and  brick,  while  others  seemed  to  be  carved  from  the  solid  mountain.  All of  them, however,  were deco rated  with  the  heavy,  brooding  stonework  that  character- ized derro cities. All  dwarven architecture  tended to  be intricately carved and sculpted,  but the  derro favored  a style that seemed almost oppressive, palpably dark, to Flint.
	As  they  wound  along  the  rows  of stone  buildings, Flint counted  mostly  shops  and  houses.  He  heard  the  unmistakable  noise  of  rowdy  drinking  from  taverns, the  sounds of households  preparing  for  the  day,  the  rumble  of manufacturing houses and craft shops - all the bustle of a major city.
	"So this  is Thorbardin,"  he said,  his wonder  almost overshadowing his predicament.
	"One  of  the  cities  of  Thorbardin," his  escort corrected him. "City of the Theiwar of Thane Realgar."
	They  marched  down  a  wide  avenue  in  almost  total darkness,  the  only  light  coming  from  small wall  torches, and shed by fires in hearths and cookstoves  glowing in  the buildings. Flint  had no  trouble seeing  in the  dark, and  he suspected that the  derro were  even more  at home  in it  than he was. This city was as large as any Flint had ever been  in, and it was only  one of  many! For  the first  time Flint  began to grasp the enormity of the mountain dwarf kingdom.
	Finally they turned off the  avenue into  what looked  like a side street.  A clanking  of metal  suddenly drew  Flint's eyes upward  in  alarm,  fresh  with  the  memory  of the  cage that had  snared  him earlier.  The noise  did come  from a  cage of sorts, but this one was  an enclosure  of metal  bars suspended from  a  heavy  chain.  With  a  crash the  contraption settled into  a  square  frame  of  metal that  stood before  them. The frawl stepped forward and opened the cage.
	"What's  this?"  growled  Flint.  "An underground  cell isn't good  enough?"  A  derro  prodded  him  forward  sharply  while the captain looked at him in surprise. "It's a lift. You really are a barbarian,  aren't you?  Step in.  We're riding  to level three,  for  an... interview."  She and  two guards  joined him in the cage.
	"Then  what?"  Flint  scowled, trying  to cover  his nervousness  as  the  cage  suddenly  lurched  upward.   The  mountain dwarves  seemed  to  be  indifferent  to  the   gently  swaying movement. "That's up to Pitrick." She looked into his face for the first time. "You should have anticipated the consequences of your actions," she added angrily.
	"Who is 'Pitrick?' "
	"Chief adviser to Thane Realgar."
	They  rode  upward  in  silence  for  a  few moments.  The cage passed  into  a  hollow  cylinder  in  the bedrock,  then emerged onto  a  flat  platform,  perfectly  square  and  approximately a hundred feet on  each side.  The ceiling  was quite  high, nearly at the limit of Flint's vision in the darkness. It appeared to be a  natural  cavern  roof,  not an  excavated ceiling,  though how it  came  to  be  suspended  atop   four  square   walls  puzzled Flint. Each of the walls held a  sturdy gate,  and each  gate was guarded  by  a  pair  of  derro wearing  the same  purple plumage as the sentries in the tunnel.
	The cage lurched  to a  halt, and  one of  the derro  swung the gate  open.  "Out,  now,"  ordered  the  captain.  She   and  the guards  stepped  behind  Flint.  The  captain  approached  one of the doors, but stopped when Flint called to her.
	"Wait!" the hill dwarf shouted.
	The  frawl  turned  and  looked  at  him curiously.  He noticed that several  of her  coppery curls  had fallen  over one  of her eyes. Impatiently, she pushed the offending locks away.
	"What is it?" she asked.
	"Might  I  know  your name?"  Flint felt  compelled to  ask the question.
	She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  Flint  thought her  face softened in the bare light.
	"You  might,"  she  said,  turning  on  a  polished  heel.  She marched  to  a  gate  in  one  of  the  walls,  which  the  derro guards  hastily  opened. They  just as  hastily closed  it behind her, and she disappeared from Flint's sight. * * * * *
	"Captain  Cyprium  to  see  you,  my  lord," intoned  the burly derro sergeant who guarded Pitrick's door.
	"Send  her  in."  The  voice,   from  within   the  apartment, sounded  to  Perian  like  the  rasp  of  a reptile.  She stepped through the door, and it was quickly closed behind her.
	"Do you have news, or is  this a  visit for  pleasure?" Pitrick  inquired. Sitting in a  hard granite  armchair, wearing  a robe  of golden silk, the adviser looked up with interest at the cap tain's entrance.
	 "We've captured  a hill  dwarf at  the tunnel,"  she reported  flatly.
	 Pitrick  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  grotesque  frame moving  with surprising  agility. "Excellent!"  he cried,  clapping his  hands in delight.
	 "He seems pretty harmless," Perian added.
	 "Your opinion is of no  interest to  me," sneered  Pitrick. "I  will decide his status, and his fate."
	 "Shouldn't you take him to the thane?"
	 The  hunchback  limped  over  and  looked  up  at her  with a  cruel grin. Now Pitrick's face pressed close  to hers,  and the  stench of his breath brought the  usual revulsion.  "His Excel lency has given me control of all matters relating to  the tun nel and the trade route.  I have  no need  to consult  him. And  need I remind you, my  warrior pet,  that 'matters  relating to  the tunnel' now include you."
	 Pitrick turned away from her. "I will  see the  prisoner, but  not   here.   Take  him   to  the   tunnel  beyond   the  North  Warrens - you know the place."  Perian felt  sick to  her stom ach. Yes, she knew the place.
	 "Oh," added  Pitrick, twisting  to face  her again.  His grin  had eroded  to a  thin, sly  smile. "Catch  one of  those Aghar  that  forever  raid  the  garbage  dump.  Bring him  along with  the hill dwarf. Have them all at the tunnel in four hours."
	 "A  gully  dwarf?   Why?"  The   Aghar,  or   gully  dwarves,  were  common  pests  in  Thorbardin.   They  were   the  lowest  form of dwarf, so  dirty, smelly,  and stupid  that few  of the  other  dwarves  could  tolerate   their  presence.   The  Aghar  lived in'  secret lairs  and often  emerged to  rummage through  garbage dumps and refuse piles,  seizing "treasures"  that they  would hasten back to their lairs.  But they're  harmless little  creatures, Perian thought.
	 "Never  mind  why!"  barked Pitrick,  startling her  with his  vehemence.  "You  will  obey  me!  Or  -"  His   voice  dropped  ominously  "-  or  you  will  pay  the  price  for insubordina tion."
	The sudden glow in his wild eyes left no doubt in Perian's mind as to what that price would be. * * *                        * *
	Flint was  startled by  the look  on the  Theiwar captain's face as she emerged  from the  gate and  stomped back  to the cage. She would neither meet  the hill  dwarf's eyes  nor answer any of his questions, except one.
	"My name is Perian Cyprium," she told him.
	"Flint Fireforge," he said simply.
	The cage took  them back  to the  street level,  where they marched  down  the avenue,  around a  corner, and  along several smaller streets. Everywhere Flint  saw busy  derro, moving quickly and silently about their  business. Never  had he seen a place that was so populous,  yet seemed  so exceptionally ominous and grim.
	They  came to  a barracks  building where  several platoons of  purple-plumed  guards  stood  or  lounged about  a courtyard. Here Flint was thrown into  a cell,  where he  sat idly and undisturbed for several hours.
	When  a  pair  of  derro guards  eventually pulled  him out and prodded him  into the  street, he  was greeted  by Perian and a half-dozen guardsmen. The latter, he  saw, held  in tow a miserable-looking gully dwarf. The little fellow's nose was running and his wide,  staring eyes  were red  and bloodshot. He looked fearfully from one mountain dwarf to another.
	Flint was surprised  to see  an Aghar  here, but  no sooner had Flint joined the gully dwarf than Perian  barked, "Follow me," leaving no room for questions.  She led  them on  a long march, but stayed well to the front so Flint had no chance to talk to her.
	The only sound other than  the cadence  of their  march was the sniffling of the gully dwarf, which persisted  even after one of the derro ordered him to stop,  slapping his  face for emphasis. They left the great cavern of the city to enter the narrow tunnel again, back  in the  direction where  Flint had entered. He had no illusions that they meant to  release him, however.
	 This thought was confirmed when the silent march turned abruptly  into  a  narrow, forbidding  cavern that  branched off of the main tunnel.
	You've  been  in  worse  predicaments  than  this,  Flint told himself, although he was at a loss to remember one.
	The  captain  stopped  at the  lip of  a dark,  yawning chasm. The  edge  of the  pit was  stony, like  the floor,  and dropped away  suddenly.  Flint  wondered  briefly  what  had  caused the curious  scratches  around  the  lip, but  the answers  that occurred  to  him  quickly made  him drop  that line  of thinking. The pit opening was quite large,  he noted,  the far  side being hard  to  distinguish  in  the darkness,  even with  his dwarven vision.  The  sides  looked  gravelly  and crumbly  - impossible to climb, Flint concluded. The  vertical sides  angled slightly, forming a rough chute.
	The  derro  guards  were  arrayed in  a semicircle  around the Aghar  and  Flint. Perian  stood several  paces away.  Flint got the distinct feeling that she was waiting for something.
	Before  long  they  heard  the  sound  of   another  approach, though it could hardly be called  a march.  A footfall  was followed  by  a  scraping  sound. This  pattern was  repeated, over and over. Finally, Flint saw why.
	The  dwarf  who  entered  the cavern  was the  most repulsive example  of  the  derro  race  Flint  had  ever seen.  This grotesqueness  came  from  far  more  than  the  derro's  distorted posture,  or  his  thin  lips  seemingly  fixed in  a permanent, cruel sneer. It was more than the straggly  beard or  thin, oily hair.
	It was the eyes.
	Those horrid orbs locked onto Flint, opened wide in a white  stare  of  almost  insectlike  detachment. But  when they flashed  with  hatred,  their intensity  blasted Flint  like air across a furnace.
	"You  are the  hill dwarf,"  the creature  spat, the  last two words sounding like a curse.
	Flint  maintained  his  composure,  though  he  knew  he could not  conceal  his  revulsion.  "And you  must be  Pitrick," said Flint.
	The derro  guards stepped  back, creating  a path  for Pitrick to Flint. Though the hill dwarf  was certain  he had  never seen this derro before, there was something about the medallion that hung around his neck...
	The humped one sent the blue smoke...
	What had Garth said in the wagon yard?
	... the blue smoke from the stone around his neck.
	The realization struck Flint. It burned in his gut and raced along  his  limbs  like fire.  Here was  the dwarf  who killed Aylmar,  the  mysterious  "humped  one"  mentioned  by  Garth! Deliberately,  Flint tensed  his muscles.  He noted  the positions of the guards to either side, knowing this might  be the only  chance  he  would ever  get for  vengeance, and  that he would have only an instant to make his charge.
	That he would have only moments to kill.
	Uneasily, Pitrick  scuttled to  the side  and two  brawny derro  stepped  between  Flint  and  his  enemy. Did  he suspect? He's  obviously  magical,  but  can  he  read  my  mind?  wondered Flint. But Flint saw no fear in his face, only pride and hate. The hill dwarf held his anger in  check and  resolved to wait for another chance,  though every  instinct urged  him to propel himself forward in a berserk attack.
	The derro stared at  Flint for  some moments  before finally speaking.  "I  am  about  to  ask  you several  questions. You must  answer  them. I  have arranged  a demonstration,  a preview of the future's potential, shall we say, to ensure that I have your attention." Pitrick looked to the derro  nearest the Aghar  and  nodded  slightly.  Sickened,  Flint  guessed  what was coming.
	The guard pitched the little dwarf off the lip of the chasm. Flint  heard  the Aghar  scream and  cry, saw  him desperately scraping at the steep sides of  the pit  as he  slid downward. Rocks  and  rubble  slipped  down   with  him,   bouncing  and tumbling  along the  steep, mud-streaked  wall into  the darkness below.
	Suddenly, against all odds,  the Aghar  managed to  halt his fall, barely within Flint's view. The hill dwarf saw  the fellow's stubby fingers grasp a knob of rock. Slowly,  the terrified  Aghar  pulled  himself  upward.  Adjusting his  grip, he braced a foot against the cliff and tried lifting himself ever higher.
	The   doomed   figure's   brave   struggles   only   seemed  to amuse  Pitrick,  who  chortled  over  each  frantic  scramble  as he  toyed  with  the  medallion  around  his  neck. Taking  a cue from  their  leader,  the  guards,  too,  seemed  greatly  amused by  the  Aghar's  plight.  Flint  glanced  toward Perian  and noticed  that  she  alone  was  not  even  watching.  Her  back was toward the pit, her eyes fastened on the floor.
	Something    moving    in    the   darkness    below   wrenched Flint's attention back to the grisly  drama in  the pit.  A huge, black,  undefinable   shape  moved   beneath  the   gully  dwarf. Up  from that  shape lashed  what looked  like a  living, thrashing  rope.  It  groped  upward, striking  the Aghar's  back, then quickly encircled his waist.
	The  gully  dwarf  shrieked  as  the  thing  yanked  him  backward   down   the  chute.   "Nooooooooo!"  he   bawled,  scratching  and  grasping desperately  at the  loose rocks.  His frantic eyes met Flint's  for one  long, painful  moment, then  he disappeared into the darkness.
	The  scream  that  rose  from  the  depths  was  the  sound  of pure,  primeval   terror.  It   reverberated  along   the  chasm, echoing  and  amplifying  in  the  stone  chamber.  Flint  closed his  eyes  and  gritted  his  teeth   against  the   horrid  cry. Abruptly  it  ceased.  To  Flint's  horror,  what   followed  was even  worse.  A  snapping,  crunching  sound  rose from  the pit. Then, as quickly as they had come, the sounds died away.
	When  Flint  opened  his  eyes,  Pitrick  was   standing  scant feet in front  of him.  "You have  one chance  to answer  each of my  questions,"  he  hissed.  "Fail to  satisfy my  curiosity and ... I'm sure you can imagine."
	Flint  saw  his  chance.  Bursting  between  two  of  the derro guards,  he  clamped  his  powerful   hands  around   the  hunchback's  throat  and  both of  them tumbled  to the  ground, rolling to the brink of the pit.
	Flint  was  startled  by  the  strength in  Pitrick's shriveled arms.  Madly  they  wrestled  from  side  to  side,  Flint's grip tightening  as  Pitrick  fought  to pry  his knotted  arms loose. The derro's jagged nails bit into the flesh of Flint's arms until blood  flowed  down  his  wrists  and  spread  across  the adviser's  throat.  Flint  twisted and  rolled across  the rock-strewn floor, inches from the precipice, trying  to avoid  the guards who scrambled  back and  forth in  their attempts  to separate the  two  combatants.  Yet  every  time he  tried to  roll the squirming  derro  over  the  edge,  the  creature  managed  to twist away.
	Many  hands  pulled  at  Flint's  arms  and  legs. Something cracked  against  the  back  of  his  head,  and  Flint nearly blacked  out.  In that  moment he  was dragged  from Pitrick's body  and  flung  against  the  cavern  wall, where  two derro stood over  him with  axes, ready  to dismember  him if  he so much as moved.
	Pitrick  flopped  and  writhed on  the ground,  gagging, his jaw opening  and closing  wordlessly. At  last he  rolled over onto his elbows and knees,  massaging his  throat. Two  of the guards bent to help  him up,  but the  savant drove  them away with a livid snarl. He stayed like  that for  several minutes, panting,  reveling in  the simple  sensation of  breathing, of blood circulating.
	Eventually  Pitrick  climbed  unsteadily  back to  his feet, bracing himself  on the  cavern wall.  He wiped  Flint's blood from his neck with the sleeve  of his  battered bronze-colored robe   and   nonchalantly   examined  the   medallion  hanging there. At  last Pitrick  hobbled toward  Flint, who  was still propped up against the cavern wall.
	Pitrick motioned to one of  the guards,  who slipped  off an iron gauntlet and then helped  the adviser  fasten it  on. The last  strap  was only  partially buckled  when the  derro spun and  savagely  struck Hint  across the  face. He  struck again and again. Flint could  no longer  see anything  very clearly. Pitrick's  arm  was  drawn  back for  another blow  when Flint was surprised to hear Perian's voice.
	She had stepped  between them.  It was  evident in  her tone that she knew the danger  she was  risking. "Adviser,  this is my prisoner," she said stiffly. "He was brought here for questioning, not to be murdered!"
	Pitrick's  face  distorted  monstrously  with the  fury that consumed  him.  His  pale  eyes nearly  popped from  his skull as he shifted his attention from one to  the other.  He didn't strike  Perian, however.  The insane  rage melted  slowly from the adviser's face, to be replaced by a cruel, cunning smile.
	"Yes, the questions." He  turned back  to the  prisoner, who was sprawled half against the wall, half on  the floor  at the derro's feet. Flint's eyelids  were puffed  up, and  blood ran from a dozen cuts on his forehead, cheeks, and lips.
	"You are an interesting case,  and vaguely  familiar," mused Pitrick.  "Such  a ferocious  assault had  to be  triggered by something  more than  the death  of one  gully dwarf.  Who are you? Have we met before?"
	Flint  spat  through  his swollen  lips, then  croaked, "You killed my brother, you maggot meat."
	"Your brother..." mused Pitrick. "But  I'm sure  I've killed so many brothers - and sisters,  too. Can't  you be  more specific?" Pitrick asked.
	"Given  your  busy  schedule,  how  many  hill  dwarf smiths have you struck down  with magic  lately?" Flint  growled bitterly.
	"The smith!" Pitrick's face spread in an evil grin of recognition. "How delightful! Yes,  I can  see your  resemblance to that  smith  now.  But  you  must  understand, the  hill dwarf was a  spy. He  poked into  places where  he didn't  belong. I did the only thing I could. And I was  quite pleased  with the effect  -  you should  be happy  to hear  that he  became very colorful toward the end, though the smell was unpleasant."
	"Murdering  animal!" choked  Flint, twisting  helplessly between  two   guards.  Gradually   his  wits   were  returning, though he still had trouble  seeing. He  found he  could force his eyelids up with a manageable amount of pain.
	"So are you here purely on  a mission  of vengeance,  or are you a spy, too?" Pitrick allowed that question to linger for a moment, then cut it  off. "That  needs no  answer -  of course you  are.  No  one  but a  spy could  have penetrated  our defenses. Are you a murderer as well?"
	"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking about,"  Flint growled.
	"Oh,  please."  Pitrick  sounded  mildly amused.  "I'm certain it was  you who  knifed one  of my  wagon drivers  in Hillhome just days ago. Or if it wasn't you, you certainly know  who it was." Pitrick bent close to Flint's  ear and  whispered, "Give me the murderer's name,  and I  shall be  merciful. I  can be, you know."
	 "I've seen your mercy," sputtered Flint.
	 Pitrick  struck  him  across the  face again,  grinning. "Not the full extent of it, dear harrn. And isn't it fortunate  for me that  whatever  tidbits  of  knowledge  you  have about  our exports will die with you?"
	 "You just keep  believing that,"  Flint croaked.  "You really think  I  kept  such  knowledge  to  myself?  By  now,  half  of Hillhome    knows   that    you're   exporting    weapons,   not plows."  Flint  watched  with  satisfaction  as  the hunchback's eyes widened in alarm  at his  lie. "The  Hylar will  know about it soon, and then all of Thorbardin!"
	 "Liar!" shrieked Pitrick. 'You will die for this!"
	 The mad derro grabbed Flint by his jerkin and began dragging  him  toward  the  pit.  Flint lunged  toward Pitrick's throat,  but  immediately  two  guards   pinned  his   arms  and helped  bring  him to  the ledge.  Pitrick quickly  jumped away, out of range of Flint's burly arms.
	 "Throw him in!"
	 "Stop!" Perian's order froze  the guards  to their  spots; they held Flint poised on the lip of the pit.
	 "Throw him in!" screamed Pitrick. "I command you to throw him in, now!"
	 "You are under my command, you take your orders from me," Perian noted coldly.
	 The  guards  looked  from  Perian to  Pitrick, unsure  who to obey and afraid to take sides.
	 With a hiss, Pitrick clutched his  amulet. Blue  light lanced out between his fingers. In a low voice,  he snarled,  "Your officer is  a traitor.  Throw her  in with  the hill  dwarf. Throw them both in!"
	 Under  the  influence  of  the  savant's  charm   spell,  the guards  did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  the  command.  The one holding Flint gave him a  terrific shove  that he  could not counter.  Dragging  his  feet  along  the gravelly  ledge, Flint sailed,  head  first, over  the edge.  An astonished  Perian was hurled over the side, immediately after him.
	    The sound of laughter echoed from the walls of the cave.

                           C “‡†¢ˆ 10

                            The Pit

   It was late afternoon, anb Basalt continued to crouch in the shadow of the great mountain, waiting  for his Uncle Flint. That is all he had been doing for the  last two days. Every once in a while he would  stretch his  limbs and peer down the stream toward  the tunnel  mouth that  was obscured by branches, five  hundred paces  away, hoping  for a glimpse  of  the  older dwarf.  Each night  he had  seen one heavy  wagon  lumber out  of the  cave shortly  after sunset and  continue  up  the  road to  Hillhome. Before  dawn, another one would pass by on its way into the opening. Afternoon stretched into another cold evening. Bored as he was, Basalt dared not leave the niche to explore the surrounding area. Nor could he risk lighting a fire  when night in  the  Kharolis  Mountains  descended  around  him.  At least he had some food left in the sack Flint had  passed to  him. He opened the sack now,  finding one  ripe red  apple, a  dry butter  sandwich,  and  a  roasted goose  drumstick. He  gnawed on the succulent leg while he pondered what to do.
	Shivering,   Basalt   wondered    when   his    uncle   might emerge. The moon rose,  and still  there was  no sign.  The sky above him was  velvet black  and starry,  and the  air bitterly cold.  The mountains  rose so  steeply that  he could  not even look  forward  to  daylight  warming  this  place.   The  young Fireforge clapped his hands to  his arms  and trotted  in place to keep his blood moving.
	Basalt knew  he should  have left  for Hillhome  before dark, for he had passed the  two-day limit  his uncle  had set.  If I wait just one more hour, he kept  telling himself,  maybe Flint will  return.  But  Basalt  grew  more  anxious by  the minute. Again  he  looked  down  the  stream   at  the   tunnel  mouth. From   it  he   thought  he   heard  the   sound  of   a  wagon approaching  -  it  was  about  time  for  one  to   leave  for Hillhome  -  but  the  noise grew  louder and  unfamiliar. Puzzled, Basalt cocked his head to listen closely. It was  not the steady rolling  rhythm of  the wheels,  but more  like clomping feet. Many feet.
	A chill of terror ran up his spine as from  the mouth  of the tunnel   marched   no   less   than   one    hundred   mountain dwarves in full regalia. Each wore a steel breastplate,  a helmet  topped  with  a  bright  red  plume,  and  sharp  axes and daggers at their waists. After a word from the leader  at their head,  the  mountain  dwarves  fanned  out  in  all directions. Basalt  watched  as  a  detachment  of  twenty   armed  dwarves approached,  wading  through  the  two-foot  stream,  right  in his direction!
	Petrified,  the  young  dwarf  threw  himself  to  the ground and curled  into a  small ball.  What should  I do?  he groaned to himself. Should I run? Should I hide? Is this just a routine patrol,  or  are  they  looking  for  something?   Or  someone? Maybe  they  found  and  tortured  Uncle  Flint  until  he told them an  accomplice was  waiting outside!  Even in  his frantic state,  Basalt  knew  that  that  was  ridiculous. But  with so many dwarves,  they were  sure to  find him.  Will they  kill me like they did my father? Uncle Flint! Where are you?
	Basalt  bit  at  his knuckles,  feeling like  he was  about to jump out of his skin. He couldn't  just sit  there and  wait for them  to  stumble  on  him.  He  turned  and  scrambled  quickly up  the narrow  gully at  the back  of his  hiding place.  A few rocks  tumbled  down  behind  him,  but  he  bit  his   lip  and prayed   to   Reorx   that  the   mountain  dwarves   would  not notice.
	'You there! Halt!"
	Basalt heard the  frantic call  behind him,  but he  just kicked his legs higher and drove himself faster up the twisting gully.' He  was  a  good  climber,  and he  knew he  had some  chance of outrunning them over the steep, craggy slopes.
	A loud whistle blew. "The intruder! Get him!"
	Basalt  did  not  stop  to look  back. In  the darkness,  he was concentrating  on  finding hand-  and toeholds  in the  dirt and rock,  scarcely  aware  of  anything  else  but his  own labored breathing.
	He reached a twist in the gully, but instead of  following it, he spotted a ledge just above his head that flattened out  for a short distance  and led  into the  protection of  some man-sized rocks. If he  could just  get to  those rocks,  he might  have a chance of losing the patrol.
	Drawing  on  strength  he  did  not  ordinarily  have,  Basalt flung  himself  up  and  onto  the  ledge. He  broke into  a run across the flat,  gritty limestone  shelf. Legs  pumping wildly, he  closed with  the boulders  and threw  himself behind  one to catch  his  breath for  just a  moment. He  peered back  down to where  he  had  come  from  and  saw no  signs of  pursuit. Hope blossomed in his heart, but he could not stop yet.
	Keeping  low,  he  zigzagged  his  way  through  the  boulders and  on  up  the  mountain.  The  rocks  gave  way  to  a  thick grove  of  pine  trees,  and  he  plunged headlong  through them over  a  carpet  of dried  needles, uncaring  of the  low, stiff branches  that  slapped  his  face,  leaving  scratches  on  his cheeks.   He   could   hear  nothing   but  his   own  footsteps crunching  brown  needles and  his heart  pounding in  his ears. The  stand  of  trees  ended abruptly,  and Basalt  ran headlong into a moonlit clearing. He skidded to a halt in the dewy grass, looked around, and then all hope died.
	    He had burst into a gathering of mountain dwarves.
	The  armed derro  were equally  surprised to  see a  hill dwarf in  their  midst,  but  they  recovered quickly  and surrounded him.  Basalt  counted  eight -  a smaller  patrol than  the one he'd  dodged  below  -  but, weaponless  himself, he  knew even one  derro  guard  was  more  than  he  could  hope   to  overpower.
	"What  have  we  here?  said  one of  them, stepping  out of the circle toward  Basalt. The  derro's corn-yellow  hair stuck out  at  odd angles,  and his  unnaturally large  eyes reminded Basalt  of  two  pieces of  cold black  onyx. But  the mountain dwarf's skin was what  was most  disconcerting; its  blue paleness looked translucent in moonlight.
	"Well?" The derro poked Basalt  in the  chest with  the point of a spear. "You're obviously a hill dwarf," he said, taking in Basalt's  freckle-tanned  face,  thin  leather vest,  and muddy old  boots.  "We  don't  like finding  hill dwarves  near Thorbardin. What are you doing way out here?"
	Basalt willed his knees to stop shaking  as he  ransacked his mind  for  a  response.  "I,  uh, I  was hunting!"  he finished quickly,  latching  onto  the idea.  "I'm near  Thorbardin?" He let his eyes go wide with innocence. "I guess I got  so carried away that I didn't notice where I'd wandered off to."
	"What  are  you  hunting  at  night?  You hill  dwarves don't see that well in darkness," the derro said, eyeing Basalt skeptically. "And no weapons?"
	"Raccoon,"  the  young  hill  dwarf  supplied  hastily.  "You have  to trap  'coon at  night, because  that's when  they come out of their nests."
	The  derro  appeared  to  be  considering   Basalt's  answer, rocking back on his heels, searching the hill dwarf's  face for deception. All he detected was fear.
	The  soldier's  eyes  narrowed. "I  saw your  expression when you came through those trees; something was after you."
	Basalt nodded. "I was tracking a raccoon when I saw -" He thought about making up another lie about a bear, but decided to stay close to the truth so he didn't slip up. "I saw another,  bigger  patrol of  dwarves coming  my way,  and I panicked and ran."
	"He's  lying,  Sergeant  Dolbin!" said  a voice  from behind Basalt.
	"Who  cares? Let's  just kill  the hill  scum and  move on!" said another.
	"Yeah, we've got a lot of ground to cover tonight!"
	Basalt  could  sense  the circle  drawing tighter  around him. Suddenly,  someone  pushed  him  from  behind.   The  startled hill dwarf stumbled  forward only  to have  the butt  of someone's spear jammed  into the  pit of  his stomach.  He doubled over,  unable  to  breathe,  and  another spear  shaft thudded across the back of his neck. Gasping, he fell to the ground.
	The  ring  of  mountain  dwarves  erupted  in  laughter  and taunts. "Look out, farm boy, the raccoons are after youl"
	"Oooh, here comes  one now!"  Basalt saw  a shape  step forward and then felt his rib cage crack as the  mountain dwarf's heavy  boot crashed  into him.  The force  of the  blow rolled him over in the damp grass.
	"Get  him  up,"  growled  another.  "I  want  to  knock  him down  again."  Basalt's  head  cleared  for  a  moment  as two pairs of hands  lifted him  to his  feet. Someone  slapped his face. He looked up just in time to see a hairy fist smash into his nose. Excruciating pain exploded in his  skull as  he tumbled over backward, landing in  a heap  on his  left shoulder. The  grass  was  cool and  moist, but  he also  felt something warm and thick running across his ravaged face.
	Basalt drew up his knees in an effort  to stand,  when something  forced  him  back  to  the  ground. A  muddy, hobnailed boot pressed down on the back of his  neck, grinding  the side of his face into  the earth.  The night  sky swam  with colors before  Basalt's  eyes as  the dwarves  pelted him  with kicks and  hammered  his  back  and  legs with  the shafts  of their spears. He bit his lip to still his screams, but he  could not keep from  squirming as  the blows  only increased.  And then, suddenly, they halted.
	Basalt felt someone grab him by the armpit and jerk him to his feet. He looked up through the blood streaming down his throbbing face and  saw that  it was  the first  derro who had questioned him, Dolbin.
	 "Now that my men have taught you what happens when you  wander  where  you're  not  wanted,"  the   sergeant  said, holding fast to  Basalt's arm,  "we're going  to have  some real fun."
	 Basalt  slumped  against  Dolbin  in  defeat;  he  hoped they would  kill  him  quickly,  for he  had no  strength or  will to fight left.
	 Dolbin  forced  him  to  stand, then  smiled condescendingly. "You'll like my game - I'm  going to  give you  a chance  to get away!"  Basalt  perked  up  slightly,  which  was  the  response the derro sought. "Good, now you're ready to listen.
	 "The rules are very simple," he  began. "We  let you  go, and then we try  to catch  you again.  We'll give  you a  one minute lead, of course, to make it sporting."
	 Basalt's  right  eye  was  swollen shut,  but he  looked up through  his  good  one. "And  if you  catch me?"  he wheezed, agonizing  stabs  of  pain  shooting  through  him   from  his bruised ribs.
	 The   sergeant  shook   his  head   sadly  and   clucked  his tongue.  "You  really shouldn't  dwell on  ugly thoughts.  But I will  tell  you  what  happened  to  a  hill  dwarf spy  who got caught in Thorbardin just two days ago."
	 Basalt's heart lurched, and he felt near to fainting from his wounds.  But  he  forced  himself  to  listen  to  Dolbin's next words.
	 "How  shall  I say  it?" Dolbin  tapped his  chin in  a mocksympathetic way. "I've got it!  He's been  relieved of  the burden of being a hill dwarf!" His men hooted with laughter.
	 Flint's dead.  Dolbin could  only be  speaking of  Flint. The news  dashed  Basalt's last  flickering hope  and left  him more numb  than  the  pounding  he'd  just  taken.  He  was distantly aware that Dolbin was addressing him.
	 "-  won't  ruin  the  game  by giving  up already,  will you? We'd  make  death  doubly   painful  for   a  poor   sport,"  he warned.  The  derro  roughly  shoved  Basalt through  the circle of dwarven soldiers. The  hill dwarf  fell, struggling  again to his feet while  the soldiers  kicked and  jeered at  him. Dolbin squeezed Basalt's  right shoulder  hard and  pointed him  to the edge of the clearing opposite where he'd burst in.
	 Go!-
	Basalt felt his legs moving with a will of their own,  and he found   himself   half-staggering,   half-running   toward  the trees.
	"Remember, we'll be right behind youl" Dolbin yelled, and his men broke into laughter again.
	Basalt  stumbled  past the  edge of  the clearing  and barely avoided  tripping  on  an  overgrown  log.  He  rushed forward, heedless  of  his  path,  and  more  than  once crashed  into a shadowy tree or lost his feet in a tangle of  creepers. Desperately  he  wanted  to  stop and  rest, or  stop and  listen for sounds  of  his  pursuers, but  he knew  he could  not -  if he stopped,  he  might  never  move  again. He  also knew  that he would  never  hear  anything over  the sound  of his  own lungs heaving against his bruised ribs or the  blood pounding  in his ears.
	He  ran  blindly  and  nearly  senseless, until  suddenly the ground  gave  way  beneath  him. He  stepped out  into nothing, and silvery blackness rushed  past him.  Less than  a heartbeat later,  Basalt  splashed  into an  ice-cold stream.  His throat wanted  to  scream  even  while  his mind  fought to  keep control. His chest felt as if it were wrapped in iron bands.
	In  panic  Basalt  clawed  his  way  up  the  muddy  bank and lay  there  shivering,  his  courage  spent.  The  tiny  bit of strength  that  remained  was  completely  occupied  in keeping Basalt  from weeping  openly. But  he swore  he would  not cry, not  even  if  the  derro found  him there  and chopped  him to bits on the spot.
	"I   know   Flint   wouldn't   cry,"  he   sputtered  through clenched teeth. But he could not stop  the tears  from flowing, for  his agony,  for his  fear and  desperation. For  his Uncle Flint.
	After a few  minutes, Basalt  hiccupped to  a stop.  He could hear the sounds of the  forest again.  His teeth  stopped chattering, and the ringing subsided in his ears. He crawled  a few yards  away  from  the stream  and toward  a thicket.  There he lay, waiting for the pursuing derro.
	    Basalt listened for several minutes, but heard nothing. Could  they  have  lost  my  trail?  he  wondered.  But  he  knew that  made  no  sense.  Used  to  life  underground,   the  derro could see  even better  than him  in the  dark, and  they weren't frightened  out of  their wits  either. He  had certainly  left a trail that even a child could follow. So where were they?
	Either  they  are  toying with  me, or...  or they  didn't follow me at all, Basalt thought.  Strangely, the  first possibility did  not  frighten  him, but  the second  made him  angry. Basalt reflected   on   the   humiliating   beating,    remembered   his bruises  and  shattered  bones,  and  felt  the cuts  and scrapes suffered  during  his  wild  flight  through  the forest.  He was nothing  but  a joke  to these  derro, first  a punching  bag and then a frightened rabbit to be chased off.
	The  shame   was  almost   more  than   he  could   bear.  Exhausted  beyond  endurance,  broken  in  body  and  spirit,  Basalt lapsed gratefully into unconsciousness. * * * * *
	Flint  plunged  down  the  steeply  angled,  rocky  chute, tumbling  head over  heels, slamming  from side  to side.  He fought to  gain  some  control  over  the  plummet,  but   could  barely discern  up  from  down.  Jagged  edges  of  granite tore  at his flesh  and  clothing  as  his hands  groped desperately  for anything  to  grip.  Suddenly  his  short  fingers  slapped  against something  long,  thin,  and  hard,  and  instantly  they  locked around  it.  The dwarf  growled in  pain as  his hand  slid along the  knobby  shaft.  Dirt  and rock  rained down  on his  head as the  sudden  weight  on  his  handhold  loosened sections  of the wall.  Daring  to  glance  up,  Flint  saw he  had caught  an ancient tree root, half buried in the wall of  the pit.  He clamped his fist around it  tighter and  clung to  the exposed  root with all his might and desperation.
	His feet met  a rocky  outcropping as  he came  to a  stop. Expecting  the  rock  beneath him  to tear  lose under  the impact, Flint tightened his grip on the root as he tested the size of the ledge with his toes. To his alarm, it was  only six  inches deep, albeit  three  times  his  girth  in width.  He pressed  his back against the wall and tried to think as he caught his breath.
	What now?
	That thought was barely formed in his head when something heavy crashed down around his shoulders, flailing and thrashing.
	"Help me!"
	Stunned and knocked off balance by the weight, Flint nearly lost his grip and tumbled over the  edge, but  blind instinct locked his fingers around the tree root. In spite of its tone of terror, he recognized  the voice  of the  dwarven frawl guard, although he didn't dare budge an inch to look up.
	"I  can't  hang on  -" she  squealed as  she began  to tumble off of Flint's shoulders, windmilling her arms.
	"Get your feet on the ledge!" Flint  hissed. "Hug  the wall!" Flattening  himself  even  more, he  grabbed her  flapping arms in  one  hand  and held  them tightly  while she  scrambled for footing next to him.  Flint guided  her hands  to the  root and together they clung to it, panting from fear and exertion.
	After a moment's rest, Flint peered at  the frawl.  "What are you doing here?" he asked  bluntly as  he pressed  his bleeding cheek  to  his shoulder.  "Trip?" He  coughed violently  on the dirt in his throat.
	"Hardly."  Perian  shot  back,  not  daring  to move.  "I was pushed in behind you  by that  swine-son, Pitrick.  He'll roast on a slow spit for this."
	"That's  assuming  we  get  unspitted  ourselves,"  Hint  responded.  "Do  you  have  any  idea  how  far down  the bottom is, or how to get out, or what exactly is at the bottom?"
	"Of course not!" Perian snapped.  "It's a  beast pit.  No one comes  down  here  exploring.  No  one comes  down here  at all with any hope of getting out."
	A  noise  from  below  froze  her in  place. Her  eyes locked onto Flint's.
	"I heard it, too." Flint shifted his position to get a better look down into the  pit. The  old mine  shaft twisted  and bent as  it  descended.  After  a  few moments  his eyes  focused on what  he  thought  must  be  the  earthen  floor  approximately thirty  feet below.  As Flint  strained to  pick out  any additional details, the noise - a sort of  scuffling, he  thought came again. And a shadow passed below.
	      Still peering down, Flint asked, "What in the name of Reorx is that?"
	"A  killer,"  Perian  replied.  "Beyond  that, I  couldn't say. And  I  really don't  want to  find out.  I want  to wait  for my hands to stop shaking and then climb back out of here."
	"I don't  think that's  too likely,"  Flint said,  now scanning the tunnel  above. "The  sides of  this pit  are rough  but crumbling.  Trying  to  climb  out  is  likely  to send  you plunging even  sooner  to the  bottom. If  we had  something to  dig handholds with, maybe we could work our way..."
	Flint's idea was cut  off by  a scraping  sound from  below, as if  something  of  great  bulk  was  being  dragged  across  damp rocks.  Perian  released  the  root  with  one  hand   to  clutch Flint's  shoulder  instead.  "I  can  see  it  -  or  something moving down there," she whispered. "There it is again!"
	Flint blinked, trying to focus on the small  patch of  floor at the  bottom  of  the  twisting  shaft.  He  could hear  the sound plainly now. It  was a  dragging, sloshing  sort of  noise, punctuated  with  numerous  clicks  and  slaps.  Though  vaguely  familiar, he couldn't quite identify it.
	Until  the  smell  reached  them.  With   sickening  thickness, the stench of rot and waste  rose around  them, filling  the tunnel. Perian  shrank back  to the  wall as  Flint spat,  trying to clear  the  taste  from  his  mouth. "What  is it'/"  groaned the frawl.
	"Carrion  crawler,"   answered  the   hill  dwarf.   "They  eat most anything, as long as it's dead. If it's not, all the better, they have fun killing it.  They can  climb, too,  so I  expect it will be coming up." As if on cue,  a section  of pink  and purple flesh  passed  across  the pit  floor. A  moment later,  an enormous  green  eye  stared  up at  the pair.  Glistening tentacles, each  more  than  five  feet  long,  circled  a   gnashing  mouth filled  with  hundreds  of  grinding   teeth.  The   head  swayed back and  forth, into  view and  then out  again. All  the while, the stench grew stronger and the noise louder.
	"Look  for  big  rocks,  maybe  we can  drive it  off," advised Flint  frantically,  releasing  his  grip  on  the root  to grope across the  ledge and  wall. Moments  later he  had a  small pile of fist-sized stones at his feet.  "It's not  much, but  we might slow  it  down.  Aim  for its  eyes. And  whatever you  do, don't let those tentacles touch your skin."
	"What  happens  if  they do?"  whispered Perian,  staring at the bobbing head.
	"Its venom will paralyze you so it can dine at leisure later. Be careful!"
	Flint hefted a pair of rocks.  Holding them  in one  hand, he pried Perian's right  hand from  the tree  root with  his other and forced a rock  into it.  "When I  say, give  it a  taste of stone!"
	The feel of the  rock in  her hand  gave Perian  something to focus on. She hefted it,  turned it  over in  her palm.  A good shot from this could split a steel  helmet, the  frawl thought. She turned back to the pit, the rock poised above her head.
	At  that  moment  the  carrion crawler  burst into  view from behind a twist in the tunnel, its tentacles flashing and writhing toward the  ledge. Flint  could see  most of  its segmented body now, twisting along the contours  of the  wall. A  pair of short  but  thick  legs,  white  and   slime-covered,  extended from each segment. Each  leg ended  in a  pair of  suction cups as big as the dwarf's head. Shreds of  rotted flesh  from past meals clung to the beast. Bile rose in Flint's throat as revulsion gripped him. The creature  was far  larger than  any other carrion crawler the dwarf had ever seen, or  even heard  of; it was  the   grandaddy  of   all  carrion   crawlers.  Swallowing hard,  Flint  tightened  his grip  on the  root and  hurled the stone. With a crack, it caromed off the  shiny head  and sailed down the tunnel, unnoticed by its target.
	Instantly,   Perian's   arm   snapped   forward.   The  stone plunged straight into  the crawler's  mouth, disappearing  in a tiny  shower  of  tooth  fragments. It  was impossible  to tell whether the beast felt any  pain, but  the repulsive  head made a  sort  of  roar   and  swung   abruptly  away   from  Perian. Though the beast was still at least six feet below  them, three tentacles  lashed out  and wrapped  around Flint's  right boot. Instantly  the  leather  steamed   and  hissed,   and  blisters formed  around  the  ankle.  Though  protected  from  real damage  by the  leather, Flint  howled with  pain. He  snatched up another  rock  and  smashed  at  the  thin,  straining  appendages. First one, then  another, were  severed by  his ferocious  blows. Blue ichor stained the rock ledge beneath Flint's foot.
	 Perian fired a second stone at the beast, hitting just  at the  rim of one of its eyes. Enraged, the  carrion crawler  swung its  head out from the wall,  dragging Flint's  foot from  the ledge.  Desperately  he clung  with one  hand to  the root,  groping for  any  sort  of hold  with the  other. Perian  grabbed him  by the  shoulders just as  the monster  reared again,  and both  of them  flew off the ledge and  out into  space. The  remaining tentacle  around  Flint's  foot  tightened,  then  snapped  in  two. Still  clutching  each  other,  Flint  and  Perian bounced  and skidded  down  the  length  of  the   beast's  segmented   back,  finally  crashing onto a pile of bones on the ground.
	 Flint  groaned  as  he scrambled  to his  feet. He  seemed un hurt,  but  his  foot,  with  the  fragments  of  tentacle still  wrapped around the boot, seemed to be growing numb.
	 He  glanced  around  and  saw  that  they  were  in  a cul-de sac.  He  could not  see how  far that  cavern extended,  but it  was the only direction out.
	 "Quick,  we  need  a weapon  of some  sort," Flint  shouted to  the  prone  frawl.  "Don't  you  have  a  knife -  some weapon?"  he gasped.
	 "I did," she said in a small voice. "But I dropped it."
	 "You dropped it?" he groaned in disbelief.
	 "It must have slipped out as  I was  falling down  the chute,"  she retorted defensively, struggling to her feet.
	 "Maybe  we  can  find  it  down  here,  or  anything  else. We  haven't  got  much -"  Flint's gaze  shot up  to the  wall where  the  carrion  crawler  should  have  been,  but the  monster had  already   turned   around   and    was   moving    toward   them  "-  time!  Come  on!"  He  grabbed  Perian  by  the   wrist  and  jerked her into motion.
	 Scanning the floor as they ran, Flint's  eye caught  the glint  of  metal  among  the  rocks and  scattered bones  littering the  carrion crawler's lair. With a kick  he churned  up a  rusty but  still solid blade about ten inches long. With his free  hand, he  snatched it on the run.
	    "It's gaining!" shrieked Perian. "How fast can that thing  move?"
	 "Faster than us,"  Flint snorted,  glancing backward  at their  pursuer. He was horrified to see the creature a scant  ten feet  behind,  and charging  fast! In  spite of  its bulk,  the beast  moved  with  alarming  grace  and  fluidity, its  numerous legs  rippling along its  flanks. Then,  as Flint  watched horrified,  the  whiplike  tentacles  shot  out  and  wrapped  around  Per ian's throat from behind, jerking her to a dead stop.
	 "Gods!"  swore  the  dwarf,  skidding  into the  cavern wall.  "Let  her  go,  you  stinking  worm!"  Brandishing   the  rusty  blade,  he  spun  around  and  stumbled  toward  the retreating  monstrosity. With  one hand  he grabbed  a fistful  of Perian's  jacket  and  with  the  other he  slashed across  the dripping,  rubbery  tentacles.  Gobs  of  venom  and  thick,   blue  blood  hissed  through  the air,  thrown from  the thrashing  limb. It  took a third lightning cut  by the  tarnished knife  before the  frawl was released. Flint  flung the  paralyzed but  still con scious  mountain  dwarf  over   his  shoulder   and  retreated,  moving  backward  to  keep  his  face  toward  the   beast.  It  seemed  momentarily  stunned  by   its  injury,   though  Flint  knew it had too little brain to yield to any opponent.
	 But for the  moment, it  had something  else to  think about.  Food, in the form of its own tentacles, had fallen at its feet.  Flint gazed in disbelief as the horror  gulped down  the grisly  bounty of itself. The hill  dwarf turned  and bolted  once more  into  the  cavern, only  too aware  that so  far only  luck was  keeping him alive.
	 This might be the last thing I ever do, Flint  caught himself  thinking  as he  raced through  the darkness.  And I'm  not do ing  it  very  well, he  added as  his benumbed  ankle crumpled  beneath  the  combined  weight of  him and  Perian. Frantically  he  pulled himself  up on  the wall  and, dragging  both Perian  and his own foot, continued deeper into the  lair of  the crea ture.
	 Or  he  would  have,  had  the  cavern not  abruptly narrowed  to  a  point  and  then  stopped  completely. His  escape route  blocked by solid rock, Flint dropped Perian  to the  floor. Her  eyes,  peering  helplessly  at him,  were filled  with unaccus tomed  terror.  Flint  looked  away,  then  readied  the humble  blade  he'd picked  up. With  a rueful  chuckle he  said aloud,  "I'm  naming  you  Happenstance,  little  knife,  for  whatever it's worth. You stand between us and perdition. I hope you're up to it."
	As  he  turned  to  face the  approaching carrion  crawler, a flash of light from a fissure in the  wall caught  Flint's eye. With  no  hesitation,   he  hefted   Perian's  limp   form  and crammed her head  first into  the crack  in the  rock, wherever it led. He pushed her forward as far as possible, but  then she wedged in and Flint could  not budge  her. "Forgive  me, Perian," he  muttered as  he put  his shoulder  to her  ample seat and  heaved  with  all  his  might.  The frawl  inched forward, and then suddenly,  as if  something ahead  was tugging  on the other  end,  she  zipped  forward and  out of  sight. Startled, Flint tried to twist his neck up for a  look through  the hole, but a pair of hands grabbed him by  the red  trim on  his tunic and dragged him, too, through the breach in the wall.
	Flint  crawled  to  his knees  and saw  Perian laying  on the ground before him. He looked up.
	 Sporting an idiotic grin and a self-important posture was the filthiest pot-bellied creature the hill dwarf had seen in a long time.
	"I'll be hanged!" Flint exclaimed. "A gully dwarf!"
	"What  you  doing   there?  Monster   get  you,"   the  gully dwarf said simply, scolding them with a click of his tongue.
	"No kidding," chuckled Flint. "Where are we now?"
	The gully dwarf beamed proudly. "You in Mudhole!"

             Chapter 11

              Mudhole

  When He created the world, Reorx the Forge, a god of neutrality who strove for balance  between good  and evil, needed men to help Him with His  work in  this new  land. For many  years  the  humans  worked  happily  under  the  loving guidance  of  Reorx,  the master  of creation  and invention. But the men became proud of  their skills,  as men  will, and they used them for their own ends. Early in the Age of Light, four  thousand  years  before  the Cataclysm  forever altered the face of Krynn, Reorx  became angered  by this  and transformed  some  men  into  a new  race. He  took from  them the crafts He, upon the anvil of His immortal forge,  had taught, leaving only their burning desire to tinker and build, invent and construct. He made the  stature of  this new  race, known as gnomes, as small as their goals.
	The evil Hiddukel, the patron god of greedy men, was pleased  by  this  because  He  knew   the  forging   god  had worked  long  and hard  to make  order out  of chaos,  and now the balance of  god and  evil was  not being  maintained. Hiddukel  went  to  another  of the  neutral gods,  Chislev, and, seeking  to make  mischief, He  convinced Him  that neutrality could  not  be  maintained  since  evil  was  losing position. Their only hope, He said, was for neutrality to seize control. To  that  end, Hiddukel  persuaded Chislev,  who in  turn persuaded  His fellow  neutral god,  Reorx, to  forge a  gem that would  anchor  neutrality  to  the  world  of Krynn.  A large, clear gray stone of many facets, it was  designed to  hold and radiate  the  essence  of  Lunitari, the  red moon  of neutral magic. And on that same moon it was placed.
	Reorx,  although  still  angry  at  the  gnomes,  loved them and  could  see  how they  might yet  serve Him.  He presented to them a plan  for a  Great Invention  that would  be powered by  a magical  stone: the  gray gemstone.  As only  the gnomes could, they built a mechanical ladder that lifted  itself into the sky and to the red moon itself. With  a magical  net given to  him  by  Reorx,  a  gnome  appointed  by Reorx  climbed to the  top  of  the  ladder  and  captured  the Graygem  for the Great   Invention.  But   when  he   returned  to   Krynn  and opened  the net,  the stone  leaped into  the air  and floated quickly  off  to  the  west.  Fascinated,  most of  the gnomes packed up their belongings  and followed  it to  their western shores  and  beyond.  The  gem's  passing  caused  new animals and plants to spring up and old ones to alter  form overnight. Instead  of  anchoring  neutrality,  the  gem made  the pendulum  of good  and evil  swing more  rapidly than  before. That is when Reorx knew He and Chislev had been tricked.
	During  many  years  of  searching for  the gem,  the gnomes split into two armies.  Both armies'  searches led them  to a barbarian  prince  named  Gargath,  who,  seeing it.as  a gift from  his gods,  had plucked  the marvelous  gem from  the air and  placed  it  in  a  high  tower  for  safekeeping. Gargath refused  the groups'  demands for  the gem,  so they  both declared war on the barbarian prince.

After  many  abortive  siege  attempts,  the  gnomes finally  penetrated Gargath's fortress. Both sides  were amazed  to see  the gem's steel gray light suddenly fill the area with unbear able brightness.  When anyone  could see  again, the  two fac tions of gnomes were fighting each other. One side  was filled  with lust for the gem, the other side was curious about it.
	 Under  the  power  of  the  gem,  the gnomes  changed. Those  who  coveted  wealth  became  dwarves.  Those  who  were curi ous became the first  kender. These  new races  spread quickly  throughout Ansalon.
	 As  their  mountain  and  hill  dwarf  cousins  were  always  quick to point out, gully  dwarves were  the result  of inter marriage  between  dwarves  and  gnomes.   Unfortunately,  the  members of this new race  lacked all  the better  qualities of  their ancestors.
	 Seeing  the  result,  dwarven  and gnomish  societies banned  this  sort  of  intermarriage,  and  members  of the  new race  were  driven  out,  most  vehemently  by  dwarves.  Forced  to  grub  for  existence  among  abandoned  ruins  and  the refuse  piles  of  cities  abandoned  after  the Cataclysm,  the gully  dwarves were free to develop their  own culture  - or  lack of  it.  Named  Aghar,  or  "anguished,"  humans  later  nicknamed  them  "gully  dwarves,"  noting  their poor  living conditions  and  the  general  disgust  felt toward  them by  nearly every  other race on Krynn.
	 Such  was  the  lot of  some three  hundred Aghar  living in  Mudhole.  Before  the  Cataclysm,  Mudhole  had been  a thriv ing,  productive  mine,  supplying  the  forges  of Thorbardin  above  with rich  iron. But  that continental  catastrophe had  sent sheets of rock crashing into the shafts, cutting  off all  but  one  long  tunnel  that  led  back into  Thorbardin. Even  that one was pitched so that  it was  now nearly  vertical and  impossible to climb: it was this that the derro called  it the  Beast Pit.
	 But  some  good  came  of  the Cataclysm,  at least  for the  Aghar  of  Mudhole.  Most  of  the  dwarven-dug   tunnels  re mained intact, and  in some  places actually  intersected with  stunningly beautiful organic caverns cut  by centuries  of wa ter that ran through the mountains of Thorbardin.
	The  three  hundred  gully   dwarves  that   inhabited  Mudhole were  broken  down  into  family  units; they  lived in  the ends of  abandoned,  dead-end  shafts,  but  shared  the  four natural caverns   as   common   space.   They   had   "decorated"   their homes  with  family  heirlooms,  such  as petrified  animals, and other  bits  of  treasure  garnered  from  the  garbage  piles of Thorbardin   above.  Thus,   Mudhole  was   at  once   a  natural wonder and an appalling pigsty. * * * * *
	"They  can't  really  expect us  to sleep  in here,  can they?" Perian moaned, pacing anxiously.
	Nomscul,  the  gully  dwarf  who  had  rescued  them  from  the Beast  Pit,  had led  them here  and left  them, saying  he would return  shortly  with  food  and  some  friends.  Perian fingered the  tattered  edges  of  the  filthy  woolen  blanket  that  was draped   over   a   legless   wooden   chair.   She  disdainfully nudged an old bone on the  dirty stone  floor with  a toe  of her boot.   Shivering,   the  mountain   dwarf  hugged   herself  and looked around in despair for someplace suitable to sit.
	The  perfectly  square  chamber  had   two  doorways   and  was perhaps  twenty feet  square. It  had been  chipped out  of solid granite, for the  bites the  pick-axes had  taken could  still be seen  in  the  cold,  gray-green  stone  walls. Thick,  moldy old support  beams  crisscrossed  the  ceiling  in  no  apparent pattern,  or  perhaps  a  few   had  been   removed  by   the  gully dwarves  for  other  purposes.  Indeed,  some  chairs  and  small tables  looked  to  be  hastily  constructed  of  the  same stout beams.  Small  rugs;  worn,  hairless animal  skins; and  the occasional piece of fine silk or rich but filthy lace, all but covered the floor.
	Broken   stoneware   pots,   sundry  rodent   skeletons,  rusty weapons  in  various  states  of  ill-repair,  dozens  of candles burned to an inch, bent utensils,  one half  of a  hand-held fire bellows,  a canoe  filled with  holes, a  stringless lute,  and a dwarf-high  pile  of  unmatched  shoes  and  boots   rounded  out the adornments.
	      Reclining on the big, soft bed of burlap-covered moss, Flint picked at his teeth  absently with  a splinter  of wood. He chuckled at Perian's discomfiture. "I've slept in worse."
	He  watched  her  flit about  the room  apprehensively, virtually tearing off the whites of her nails.  "Can't you  relax for one  moment?"  he  asked,  putting  down  his  toothpick.  "I'll admit  the  accommodations  aren't  the  best, but  they're only temporary.  Not  ten  minutes  ago  I   was  carrying   you  and limping  for  our  lives  from -  well, you  know what  from. At least we're safe  until I  can get  someone to  show us  the way out of here."
	The first thing Flint intended to do after that was to let his nephew,  whom  he'd  left   waiting  outside   Thorbardin,  know he was all right. Basalt would be plenty worried by now.
	Perian  whirled  about,  perspiration  alluringly  curling the ends  of  her coppery  hair. She  fixed him  with an  icy glare. "And  what's  that  supposed  to   mean?"  The   mountain  dwarf chewed the end of  another nail  off with  her teeth,  her eyes, like daggers, piercing his. "You think  just because  I suffered a little temporary  fright paralysis  I can't  take care  of myself?"
	"A little paralysis?  You were  like a  sack of  flour!" Flint caught  the  embarrassed  look  in  her  eyes  and  held  up his hands  in  mock  surrender.  He  laughed.  "Sorry  if  I assumed command. I forgot I was talking to  a soldier.  I'm used  to ordering  around  youths  and  barmaids,"  he  explained, thinking of  his  friends  in  Solace. He  coughed uncomfortably  when he saw  her  bemused  face.  "I  didn't  mean   that  the   way  it sounded!  I  have  these  friends  -  oh,  never  mind!"  he exclaimed,  unused  to  explaining  himself.  He rubbed  his face, turned onto his side, curled up  into the  moss bed,  and closed his eyes.
	"You aren't going to sleep, are you?"
	He  opened  one  eye.  "I  thought I  might until  that Aghar brought some food, yes." He closed his eye again.
	"But how can you sleep after what we've just been through?" she squealed, her fists clenched tight at her sides.
	Flint  sighed  heavily,  sat  up,  and  looked at  her through half-lidded eyes. "That's precisely  why I  need the  sleep. I'm exhausted!  In  the  last   few  days   I've  been   pushed  and punched  and  kicked  and  chased  and   dropped  down   a  pit. Every  muscle  and  bone aches;  the only  thing holding  me together  is  my skin!  Do you  think my  face usually  looks like this?"  he  asked,  holding a  cracked and  swollen hand  to his puffy  lips,  nose,  and  black  eye.  "Adventures  always  drag me out." He  covered a  yawn with  the back  of his  thick, callused hand.
	Perian  looked  astounded.  "You  mean  you've  had  this sort of thing happen to you before?"
	He  blinked.  "Sure,  though  the  situation  has  become considerably   more   complicated   than   your   average   dungeon crawl. Don't tell me you haven't?"
	"I'm  the  captain of  the thane's  guard, for  Reorx's sake!" she  said  despondently.  "I train  troops for  parade maneuvers and theoretical fighting, and I live in the plushest  barrack on the  richest  level  of  Thorbardin!  I  am  not  accustomed  to this!" she said, indicating the  cluttered room  with a  wave of her hand.
	He scowled. "So that's all  it is."  Flint punched  his fluffy moss  pillow  and  dropped  his  bushy gray  head onto  it. "Lay down,  take  a load  off your  feet! Mark  my words,  this place won't look so bad after you've had a good rest."
	Perian  stopped  her  fidgeting  long  enough  to  run  a hand through her damp hair. "That's just it! I can't rest  here!" She frowned   and   looked   away,  then   mumbled,  "If   you  must know,   I'm   dying   for  a   rolled  mossweed!"   She  resumed pacing.
	"I'm  sure  the  gully  dwarves  have  some  sort of  weed you can smoke if  you must,"  the hill  dwarf said  in exasperation, his tone telling her  what he  thought of  the habit  of smoking dried  moss.  With  that,  he  turned over  again. But  he could hear her mumbling behind him.
	"I know it's a disgusting habit, but it's the only one - well, one  of  the  only  ones  I  have!"  She  chewed nervously  on a wild hank of  her hair.  "Some sort  of weed,  hmm? I'm  used to the  best  dwarven  mix  from  the north  warren farms  in Thorbardin, and you expect me to smoke any old dried thing?"
	Flint  yawned.  "I  don't  expect  you  to  do anything  on my account but be quiet."
	      Perian had a retort prepared, when suddenly, from the doorway  straight ahead  came the  sound of  clattering glass and metal and some other unidentifiable  noises as  well. The mountain  dwarf  whirled  around  in  surprise, and  the hill dwarf shot up angrily.
	"What in the - ?"
	"Nomscul  back  with  eats!"  The Aghar  popped up  in front of Flint, the mud-streaked skin  above his  scruffy, unshaven chin spread in his usual eager grin.
	Nomscul,  they  had  learned,  was  Mudhole's  shaman,  the keeper of the clan's relics and lore. He served as its healer and wise man, and was widely  regarded as  its best  cook. He was kind of  its beloved  leader, more  for the  cooking than the  wisdom  perhaps.  Nomscul  now  wore  a   ratty,  smelly wool vest that hung to his knees and  was lined  with pockets of differing sizes and fabrics. From his  belt dangled  a red cloth bag cinched with a twine. In his  hands was  a steaming bowl of  something gray  and stringy,  which he  shoved right under the old dwarf's big nose.
	Though annoyed at first, Flint  was drawn  in by  the rich, meaty  aroma.  He  took  another  deep, satisfied  breath and accepted  the  bent  spoon  Nomscul  offered   him.  "Wonderful!" Flint sighed,  barely pausing  to speak  between mouthfuls. "What is it?"
	"Grotto   grubs   in   mushroom  mash,"   Nomscul  answered proudly. Flint's spooning  rhythm slowed  for just  a moment. He looked over and saw Perian leaning against a  table, first mouthful poised near her waiting lips. Her eyes  wide circles of  disbelief, she  set the  spoon down  and stared  into the bowl.
	"You like?" the anxious gully dwarf asked Flint.
	The hill  dwarf set  his bowl  down on  a table,  wiped his mouth on his  sleeve, and  hopped from  the mossy  bed. "Yes, Nomscul, it's, uh, very tasty."
	Pleased, the gully  dwarf patted  the potbelly  that bulged below his plain, dingy shirt. He bounded for the door. "I get more!"
	"Wait!" Flint cried. The gully dwarf stopped and turned around, and Flint came to his side. "Look, Nomscul," he began, searching for the  right words,  "thanks for,  you know, saving us and all, but I really need to be going now."
	Perian stepped up next to Flint quickly. "I'd like to leave, as well." She scowled at the hill dwarf.
	Nomscul's fleshy cheeks bunched  up in  a full  smile. "King and queen want two  leaf? Stay  here, I  be right  back!" Nodding  to himself,  he dashed  into the  darkness of  the stone tunnel beyond.
	"Strangely  pleasant   little  fellow,"   Flint  commented. "Probably went to get an escort for us."
	'What  was  that  'king  and  queen' stuff?"  Perian asked, staring after the gully dwarf.
	Flint  shrugged.  "I  don't  know,  probably  Mudhole's honorary title for guests." Perian nodded absently.
	As  they  waited for  Nomscul to  return, Flint  circled the room, looking into  corners, picking  up and  examining little bits  of  gully  dwarf  treasure.  He  handed Perian  a dirty, broken-toothed tortoise shell comb.
	Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the bed,  the frawl  dragged the comb's   six   remaining  teeth   through  her   matted  hair. "Ouch!"  she  snarled  after  one particularly  stubborn rat's nest.  "I  can't  wait  until  I  get  out of  these mud-caked clothes - I can barely bend my knees in these pants!"
	Flint raised  his eyebrows  as a  thought struck  him. "Say, where  do  you  think  you'll be  heading when  we get  out of here?"
	"Home, of course,"  Perian said  quickly, picking  the dried mud  from  her  pants.  'What  a  question.  Where  else... 7" Abruptly  she  stopped, sucked  in her  breath, and  clapped a hand to her mouth. "I see what you  mean! I  can't go  back to Thorbardin - Pitrick thinks I'm dead! He'd  never let  me live now, after what happened at the pit!"
	She fell back on the bed in despair. "But where will  I go?" she  moaned.  "Thorbardin  is  my  home,  the  Theiwar  are my clan  -  I doubt  that any  other group  there would  take me! And  I  don't  know  how  to  live anywhere  but underground!" She bit off the end of another nail.
	Watching  her  torment,  Flint  smashed his  hand down  on a table.  "But  why  would  you  want  to  live among  such cutthroats, liars, and murderers?"
	Perian bristled. "Not everyone in Theiwar City is like Pitrick, you know," she  said. "There  are more  good half-derro dwarves like me, and even many a fine full-blooded Hylar."
	"Yeah, the Great Betrayal is a testament to the  charity of the  blue-blooded  Hylar  and  mountain dwarves  in general!" Flint  sneered, kicking  at a  broken pottery  shard, sending shattered pieces into the air.
	Perian  sat  up  and  chuckled  without  humor.  "You think the  mountain  dwarves  were  all  snug  and  warm  after the Cataclysm?  Thousands   of  dwarves   starved  to   death  in Thorbardin,  including  my  grandparents!  At least  the hill dwarves,  used  to  being  above-ground,  could   forage  for food!" She gave a  patronizing laugh.  "You hill  dwarves are such ignorant bigots!"
	"At  least  our  people  have  something  in  common," said Flint evenly. The chamber fell uncomfortably silent.
	Perian broke the silence at last, standing up, looking vanquished.  "None  of  that  matters anyway,  since I  can't go back there."
	"Don't worry, Perian." Flint clapped her on the  back, then felt awkward. He cleared his throat. 'You'll probably  fit in above-ground  better  than  you  think.  You aren't  like the other Theiwar I've met."
	"You don't know the first thing about Theiwar,"  Perian accused, her eyes blazing with fire again.
	"I know one  thing -  you're a  half-derro. You  don't look like  a  derro,  or  even  other Theiwar,"  he shot  back. He crossed  his  arms  smugly.  "And  I  know  that  no  one who thought like a Theiwar would  have defended  a hill  dwarf at the  Beast Pit."  His eyes  narrowed. "Why  did you  do that, anyway?"
	Perian  squirmed  under  his scrutiny.  "I don't  know. For years  I've  stood  by and  watched Pitrick  abuse everything from  Aghar  to...  to  me,  all for  his own  twisted amusement. I guess something  inside me  just snapped  today, when I heard what he did to your brother, when I saw  that frightened Aghar go over the edge... I just  couldn't stand  by and let something happen one more time."
	   She snorted. "Frankly, it never occurred to me that he would  push  me  in."  Her hands  clenched into  fists. "Pitrick deserves a long, slow, torturous death."
	"He'll  get  it,  the black-hearted  bast -"  Red-faced, Flint glanced up at Perian. "He'll pay for  what he's  done to  all of us, but especially for Aylmar."  Flint snapped  a piece  of pottery between his thumb and forefinger.
	"Who's Aylmar?" Perian asked.
	Bitterly, Flint told the tale of his  brother's murder.  His anger flared, fueled by the frustration of their  forced inaction. "Where is that Bonehead fellow?" he roared impatiently.
	"Nomscul," Perian reminded him.
	"Whatever!" Flint marched to the door and poked his head out.
	The little imp abruptly sprang  from a  corridor to  the left, staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  large wooden  box. Nomscul  elbowed  his  way  past   the  barrel-chested   dwarf  and dropped   his   heavy  load   unceremoniously  onto   the  dirt floor.
	Flint looked  in disgust  at the  box. "What  in the  Abyss is that?" he bellowed, nearly bowling the smaller dwarf over.
	"That   two  leafs   king  and   queen  want!"   Nomscul  pronounced,   happily   waving   a   dirt-caked  hand   toward  the box. Flint and  Perian squinted  at the  container and  saw that it did, indeed, contain a sloppy pile  of dirty,  wet, decomposing leaves. "King find good grubs  in there  for queen  to eat!" Nomscul winked conspiratorially at the hill dwarf.
	Flint  could see  Perian gulp  down her  disgust. It  was with the greatest drain on  his limited  patience that  Flint managed to  growl,  "We  don't  want  leaves.  We  want  to go  away, to get out of here. Please lead us - or if you're too busy collecting leaves - get an escort to take us to the surface."
	"King  want  a  skirt  for  queen  now?"  Nomscul   was  obviously  puzzled  by  this  new  request.  His queen  looked dirty enough.  Shrugging,  he  spread  his   hands  wide   to  measure her  thick  waist,  resolving  to  find one  of the  skirts that helped differentiate Aghar frawls from harrns.
	   "Of course, we don't want a skirt, you ridiculous little worm!" the hill dwarf exploded.
	Perian  put  a hand  on Flint's  shoulder. "He  doesn't under- stand." Turning to Nomscul, she asked, "How many ways out of Mudhole are there?"
	The  Aghar  wiped  his  nose  with  his  sleeve.  "There  one way  -" He  held up  three fingers  "- to  get out  of Mudhole. Beast Pit, garbage run, and big crackingrotto," he said.
	"Garbage run?" Perian asked, with a sinking feeling.
	"Up  in  warrens,"  Nomscul  told  her.  "Get good  food from weird-eyed dwarves." The Aghar forced his eyelids open wide with his fingers, then crossed them and giggled.
	Seeing  Flint's  puzzled look,  Perian explained.  "The gully dwarves  raid  Theiwar  City's  dumps  and  warehouses  in  the north warrens all the time."
	Flint  nodded in  understanding. "What  is the  'big crackingrotto,' and where does it lead, Nomscul'!"
	"There big crack in wall of grotto, and it go out," the gully dwarf said simply.  Nomscul picked  a bug  from his  scalp, inspected it closely, then popped it into his mouth.
	"Where is the grotto?" Flint demanded.
	"That way." Nomscul chucked a thumb toward the corridor beyond the room. "Past bedrooms of Aghar - lots of Aghar in Mudhole!"
	"That's  good  enough  for me,"  Flint said,  taking Perian's arm  and  pulling  her  toward  the  door. "We'll  just explore around  until  we  find  something  that  looks like  a grotto; Mudhole can't be that big. Come on, Perian."
	"Where  we  go?"  Nomscul  asked,  bouncing  at  their sides.
	Flint  did  not  stop  to look  at him.  "I don't  know where you're going, but Perian and I  are gonna  look for  the cracking grotto."
	Nomscul  looked  crushed.  He  fumbled  in  a  pocket  on his right side and pulled out a carved  wooden whistle.  Placing it between his  thick lips,  the gully  dwarf blew  so hard  on it that his face turned red. Both Perian and  Flint jumped  at the unexpected  shrill  noise.  Before either  could turn  or question,  though,  they  were  stampeded  from  both  doorways  by running, screaming, jumping Aghar, all talking at once.
	"You can tell he king. He got big nose!"
	"That  your  real  hair,  Queen? Hair  not usually  come that color!"
	"Two  chairs  for  king  and  queen! Hip-hop  hurry! Hip-hop hurry!"
	The  teeming  masses  of  Aghar  flooded  in   endlessly  from the  corridors,  tearing  the  astonished  Flint  from  Perian's side.  Where  were  they all  coming from?  the hill  dwarf wondered  as  he  tried  to  make  his  way to  the door  again. On every  grubby  face  was  an  adoring  smile,  and  each  one he squeezed  past  reached  up  to  touch his  hair, her  hem. What on Krynn did they all want?
	"King   getting   away!"   Nomscul  shouted.   Suddenly  every gully dwarf within ten feet  launched himself  into the  air and onto  Flint's  back and  head, hugging  him, squeezing  his arms and  cheeks  as  he  was  crushed  to  the floor.  Someone poked him  in  his  black  eye,  but the  right side  of his  face was pressed  into the  cold stone  floor and  he couldn't  even move his mouth to swear at the perpetrator.
	"What  is  going  on  here?" Perian  screamed over  the din. Though  she  had  not been  knocked to  the ground,  ten gully dwarves clung to her legs and arms.
	The  Aghar atop  Flint rolled  off into  a mound  of wiggling, flailing limbs, as the hill dwarf struggled to his feet, shaking his  head.  His  face  was hot  with anger,  and he  swung about in a wide circle, his fists raised and ready.
	"King   and  queen   must  stay   in  Mudhole!"   Nomscul  announced, standing  on top  one of  the tables  to be  seen. "The property say so!"
	"Pro-per-ty!  Pro-per-ty!   Pro-per-ty!"  The   gully  dwarves chanted,  dancing  and  whooping  and  gibbering   around  their stunned dwarven visitors.
	"What are you talking about?" Perian demanded. "What 'property?' "
	That  all-too-familiar  puzzled  look  crossed  Nomscul's face again.  Suddenly  his  eyes  narrowed  suspiciously.  "You testing  Shaman  Nomscul  to  see  if  he  know!"  The  gully  dwarf squinted in concentration, his eyes sinking into his skull as if he would find the answers there. At last he  began to  recite in an irritating, singsong falsetto. King and Queen descend from mud, Land in Beast Pit with a thud. Aghar crown them, dance and sing, And they be king and queen forever.  Nomscul  began  to  hop  up  and  down  happily   at  having passed  the  test. "That  what property  say!" The  gaggle of gully  dwarves  once  again  whooped,  gibbered,  and bounced around its newly acclaimed monarchs.  "That's terrible!"  moaned Perian.  "It doesn't  even rhyme! And he must mean prophecy, not property."  Flint cast her a stony glance.  "We  touch  king!  We  touch  queen!"  the  Aghar chanted, drawing a sloppy circle around the two.  Flint  batted  away  their  groping  hands. "Stay  back!" he growled.  "Keep  your  disgusting  paws off  of me!"  He made one last lunge for the door, but the press of bodies  was too thick, and they brought him down again.  "Tie   king   up!"  Nomscul   commanded.  Dozens   of  hands lifted Flint from the floor  and stuffed  him into  a rickety chair  made  of  beams.  Eight dwarves  sat on  his thrashing form  while  Nomscul  and  a frawl  the shaman  called Fester ran circles around the chair with two lengths of thick rope.  "Untie  me  this minute,  you miserable  dirt-eaters!" Flint flung himself from side to side,  sending the  chair pitching and  making  the  gully dwarves  who clung  to him  hoot with glee. But the chair  did not  break, the  Aghar did  not lose their grips, and Flint remained tied up.  Arms  behind  his  back,  Nomscul  leaned  toward  Flint and smiled right into the hill dwarf's scowling face.  "Queen not running away," he said. Perian stood at the far corner of the room, relatively ignored by  the Aghar  since she  offered no resistance.  Her  arms were  crossed and  her hazel  eyes regarded  Flint  expectantly,  a  small  smile about  her lips. "Promise  to  be  king, and  we cut  you loose,"  Nomscul offered affably in a singsong voice.  Flint hung his head over the arm  of the  chair and  spat on the  ground.  "Me?  King  of the  gully dwarves?  I'd sooner drown!"

                 Chapter 12
	                A Cold Domain  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 heightened 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 instantly 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 security.  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 demise.  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 bellowed 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 scurried up to him.
	Pitrick  backhanded Legaer's  face, the  points of  his teleport  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. Recruited shortly after the untimely suicide of Pitrick's twentythird  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  penalty!"  Legaer  bolted  into  the  darkness.  Pitrick made  a mental 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 specifications;  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 painstakingly  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 affects  to  begin.  The  hunchback believed  mushale heightened his  senses  and allowed  him to  focus beyond  petty distractions and achieve a level  of true  meditation. Legaer  had to be  summoned to  bring three  mugs of  the tasteless  brew before 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 anything, he should require less in  his weakened  condition. No, he realized,  the cause  was depression.  The spark  had somehow  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 repeatedly 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 Pitrick'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 master 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  sensation. 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 anything 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 presence, 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 polished  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 trying 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  expression 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 prophecy 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 Kittyclawsem?  Who  be  our  saver?"  The room  erupted into  a symphony  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 decided  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 planning  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 Fireforge 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, untie  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 arrived.  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 preparations 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 garbage 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  crackingrotto,"   as  Nomscul   pronounced  it,   to  resolve   his  most pressing  concern:  Basalt.  His  nephew  must  surely   have  returned  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 thorough 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 allowed   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-toceiling  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 assorted dried ingredients. The  shelves to  his right  were reserved  for  bottles  filled  with  raw  components  of  every imaginable color, odor, and  viscosity, including  frog glands in  phosphorescent  swamp  water,  golden griffon  blood, redhot 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 animate the dead, resurrect a  corpse, or  clone someone  all required 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  memorize,  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 greatest  treasure  he  had discovered  among his  mentor's belongings  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.

                    Chapter 13

                 Death of a Friend  "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. Moldoon  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 hatred  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 evening. I happen to know she could use some help...."
	"Hah! She'd have nuthin' to do  with me!"  The scorn  in Basalt'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 outside 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 nagging. 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  bringing more kegs from the brewery.  For a  brief second  his mood brightened at the sight of the frawl, but then he sullenly reminded  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 unload 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 belligerent   dwarf   when   he   remembered   that   Hildy  would emerge  from  Moldoon's  in   another  moment.   Wanting  nothing  more  than  to avoid  trouble and  impress Hildy,  he muttered, "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!" bellowed 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 toward 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 capacity  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 stomach. 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 Moldoon. 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, shouting, "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  backward, his hand clutched to his chest. He  looked down  in disbelief   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 staring  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 pointdown  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 standing 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  onlookers,  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. Unbuckling 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 fleeing  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.

                   Chapter 14

                A Curious Theft

  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, symmetrical  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 anything 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 contents 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,  undoubtable, but still it had failed. Pitrick had left no loopholes for the mystical powers. Yet  the scroll  was consumed, the toll on his life span taken, and  Perian was  most definitely 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 surroundings,  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 confused  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 Legaer,  as  well,  he  mused.  The memory  of the  hapless servant'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 irritably  across  the  room,  thoroughly  annoyed  by  the intrusion. 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 convenience."
	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 goings 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, Excellency,"  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  consequence  by  any  account.  The  warrens  were  Thorbardin's  major  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 personal 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 picturing 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 abundance.  The   warrens  also   boasted  large   pools  containing trout  and  other  cold-water  fish.  Various  sorts  of compost hills  were  dispersed  throughout  the  area,  providing nutrients  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, Excellency," volunteered one of the derro guards.
	Pitrick cut  him off.  "I know  that! Are  you the  duty officer? If not, summon him here!"
	The  guard  scurried  away  and  around a  corner of  the tunnel.  Pitrick  nonchalantly  eyed  the  frightened Aghar  on the ground.  He  circled  around  the  prisoner,  whose   gaze  followed  him like  a bird's.  As Pitrick  was completing  his circuit, the duty officer approached and saluted smartly.
	"Tell  me  what  is  so  important  about this  pathetic creature," Pitrick commanded.
	The   duty   officer  was   admirably  unshaken.   "We  caught him trying to  get into  one of  your warrens,  Excellency. Normally   we   wouldn't   think  much   about  catching   a  gully dwarf,  but  this  one  seemed  almost to  be looking  for something  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 fellow'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 pleasure, 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, Excellency. 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 particular  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 understand 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 delicious  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,  Toothee, 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 backward as the savant crept closer.
	"I will kill you first," he hissed. "But you are just the beginning.  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 anyone.  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 survived  their  plummet  into  this  dank hole?  He tended  to believe 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. Perhaps  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 somewhere, 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 between 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. Below  him  he  saw  a black  cesspool of  mud and  slime. Something 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. Pitrick swore he would not rest until he found it.
	A  soft,  unfamiliar sound  came from  behind him,  and Pitrick  paused,  hovering  for a  moment as  he looked  back toward 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 tentacles, the beast came on.
	If it were chasing me, I  would run  this way,  Pitrick reasoned. 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 overhanging  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. Leaning 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? Foremost,  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 surface, 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 cavern and the one beyond. Then the  beast, sensing  dozens of vulnerable  prey,  rushed  through  the  gurgling  ooze into Mudhole.

                  Chapter 15

               The "Crownation"

  "More fungus?- inquired Nomscul, shoving a plat. ter of  the aromatic  if chewy  shapes under  the noses  of his newly crowned monarchs.  "I'm stuffed," Flint replied, holding up  both hands  and settling back on  the soft  cushion of  moss. "What.little  room I have left I'm saving for those ribs you're cooking."  "Nomscul  sorry  about  meat,"  the Aghar  apologized, staring at his toes.  Across  the great  cavern, a  huge steel  spear rested  over a low fire. Large ribs of pork were spitted  on the  spear, dripping juices into the fire with an appetizing sizzle, barely audible  above  the  raucous  noise   of  the   great  crownation festival. In his new, official, and royally  appointed capacity as  Mudhole's  Best  Cook  and  Chief  Shaman (the  longest, and therefore  most   important  title   in  Mudhole)   Nomscul  had sorely neglected his duty when  he forgot  to light  the cooking fire  until  the  feast  was  well  underway,  a fact  which had slowed  the  cooking  of  the  meat  significantly. It  had also made  him  almost  obnoxiously   solicitous  toward   Flint  and Perian.
	At  the  moment,  however,  Flint  didn't  notice  the absence of  the  meat  - indeed,  he couldn't  have eaten  another bite. All  the  food  served  during  the  ceremony  had   been  quite good   and,   what's   more,   plentiful.  Having   lived  above ground for all of his life, Flint never knew  just how  much variety  there  could  be  in  subterranean  dining. The  food and drink  had  thus   far  included   spiced  mushrooms,   raw  and cooked fish, potatoes, and lichen leaves.
	"This is the best I've felt since we  got here,"  admitted the king of the gully dwarves, with a frank look at his queen.
	"It was all right," Perian admitted. "I'm used to  better, but most  of  this  came  from  the  Theiwar warrens  anyway. Still, I'm surprised Nomscul did such a good job with it.
	"I  just  wish  Too-thee would  get back  with my  mossweed. I wonder what's keeping him."
	"He  could  still be  here by  the end  of the  meal," replied Flint, with a glance at the still raw pork ribs. "That gives him plenty of time."
	Across  the  room  they saw  the low  fire, with  its sizzling rack  of  ribs impaled  on a  great, steel-shafted  spear. Every few  minutes  Nomscul  skipped  over  to  the  fire  and rotated the  pig slightly.  His procedure  was apparently  mostly guesswork,  but  the   meat  sent   a  delightful   aroma  whispering around the assembled multitudes.
	All  of  the  approximately  four  hundred  Aghar  of  Mudhole had  assembled  in  the  Big Sky  Room for  the great  feast and celebration.  By  this  point  in  the  feast  the  chamber  was pretty well ravaged,  blanketed with  litter, food  and clothing scraps, and sleeping Aghar.
	The cavern was divided by the shallow stream that flowed through so much of the gully dwarf lair. Here in the cavern the stream collected into a series  of three  deep, clear pools.  Dozens  of  young  Aghar  splashed  playfully  in the chilly waters of  these pools.  Unlike virtually  every other type of dwarf known to  Flint and  Perian, the  gully dwarves of Mudhole actually liked the  water. All  of them  seemed to be  darned  good  swimmers.  This  fact  amazed   Flint,  who didn't  know  a  hill  or  mountain  dwarf  that knew  how to keep his head above water.
	Flint, Perian, and a dozen Aghar - their "court," which included Nomscul,  Ooz, and  Fester -  sat on  one side  of the stream. A small, rugged stone  footbridge crossed  the waterway  between  two  of  the  pools,  connecting  up  with  the larger  portion  of  the  cave  where the  rest of  the gully dwarves were gathered.
	Fester  and  Nomscul  had  been  taking turns  saluting and toasting their new rulers. Fester  had become  Perian's chief handmaiden and lady-in-waiting  - or  "weighty lady,"  as the gully dwarf referred to herself. Nomscul, in addition  to his roles  as  healer,  and  Best  Cook  and  Chief  Shaman,  had vowed to become the king's primary aide.
	"You a real kingly king,"  said Nomscul,  sloshing slightly as he offered yet another salute to his new monarch.
	After Nomscul's toast, the air  was filled  with mushrooms, lichens, and fishheads flying back  and forth.  Several nearmisses splashed into the water  just feet  from the  king and queen,  but  a withering  look from  Nomscul, coupled  with a menacing  reach toward  his magic  bag, moved  the game  to a more comfortable distance.
	     "Say," commented Flint, "do you folks play any games
	down here: Kickball, stick-and-hoop, anything like that?"
	   Nomscul looked at him quizzically. "Stuck in hoop?"
	"You know, sports," Flint  persisted. "Athletic  games. You get a bunch of -"
	"Two," corrected Perian.
	"... two  fellows on  one side  and two  on the  other, and they both try to hook a leather hoop over the others'  post that sort of thing. Or  anything to  watch that's  more organized than this free-for-all."
	"Agharpult!"   yelped   Nomscul,   jumping  up   and  down. "King wants en... entert... you watch this!"
	The  excited  Aghar  turned  toward  the  crowd  and  shouted, "Agharpulters,  get  over  here!  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry!"  Immediately  the  crowd  turned  into  a  shoving,  pushing  mass as gully  dwarves  from  every  corner  of the  room tried  to converge in front of the bridge.
	"You  like  this,"  beamed  Nomscul.  "We learn  by watching Theiwar practice war."
	Teams  of  gully  dwarves  suddenly  began  to  form  pyramids with  rows  of  kneeling  bodies,  ten  dwarves forming  a fourtier  pile.  Other  Aghar  stood  behind, squatting  and preparing to charge the pyramids formed by their comrades.
	At   Nomscul's   command,   these   others   dashed   forward, vaulting  to  the  tops of  the pyramids,  whereupon all  of the piled  gully  dwarves  flung  themselves  face   forward  toward the  floor.  The  momentum  of  the  fall  hurtled  the  topmost gully  dwarf,  at  significant speed,  across the  room, eventually to crash into a crowd of gathered spectators.
	Flint  roared  with  laughter  as  the  hapless  gully dwarves tumbled  over  one  another  and  sailed  through the  air, arms and legs flailing, usually screeching at the top of their lungs.
	"Someone  is  going  to  get  hurt  doing  '  this,"  muttered Perian.
	"Oh,  lighten  up,"  retorted Flint.  "These little  guys have skulls thicker than the thane's best armor."
	Indeed  they  must,  concluded  Perian as  she watched  a pair of  them  smack  violently  into  the cavern  wall, fall  to the ground, and jump up beaming.
	Between guffaws, Flint asked Nomscul, "Where did you say you learned this sport?"
	Nomscul  puffed  out  his  chest.  "We sneak  teeny-tiny quiet into  Big-Big  Room   and  see   Theiwar  cracking   walls  with cattle-pult machines. It  stupid name,  since they  fling rocks, not cattle. But it look like fun, so we do Agharpult."
	"He's  talking  about the  catapult range,"  Perian explained, amazed.  "The  thane's  army  trains  with  some  of  the  heavy siege  equipment  in  an  enormous cavern  on the  second level. They practice  hitting targets  painted on  the walls.  I'm surprised  any  gully  dwarf has  ever seen  it, though.  That room is quite a distance  from here."  Flint thought  he saw  a glim- mer of admiration in  Perian's eyes  as she  studied Nomscul, who just grinned back at her ridiculously.
	With  tears  of  laughter  rolling  down his  cheeks, Flint watched the beefiest Aghar he'd seen yet, launch off  the top of an Agharpult and  try to  do a  somersault in  midair. Instead of tucking under, however, he  wound up  sailing across the  room  spread-eagled  and upside-down,  finally splashing against the far wall and sliding down into a pool of muck.
	Splashing?
	Suddenly alert, Flint peered at the opposite  wall, squinting  to  make  out  details. Nudging  Perian, he  pointed and asked,  "What's  happening  over  there?  The  wall  looks... squishy."
	Perian followed his gesture  and gasped.  She saw  the rock wall  of  the  cave suddenly  turned to  mud and  ooze slowly downward.  The  narrow tunnel  to the  Beast Pit  gaped wider as its framework of rock melted away.
	"It's collapsing!" She was instantly on her feet, shouting, "We've got to get everyone out of here now!"
	The gully dwarves blithely continued Agharpulting around the room, oblivious to the danger.
	Flint, too, sprang to his feet, and grabbed Perian's elbow, staring in disbelief. "That's no  cave-in!" he  growled. "The wall's turning to mud."
	"The chamber  connecting to  the Beast  Pit is  behind that wall," whispered Perian. Her worried  glance told  Flint that they both were thinking the same, terrifying thought.
	They  watched, horror-struck,  as the  rock oozed  onto the cave  floor.  Soon  the  narrow tunnel  gaped wide,  and they both  knew that  nothing blocked  the carrion  crawler's passage into Mudhole.
	Then they saw  white, flailing  tentacles beyond  the opening.
	"Here it comes!" cried Perian.  "These Aghar  are helpless. We've got to clear the chamber and  barricade this  thing out of the rest of Mudhole!"
	"Hey!  Beast  go  home!"  shouted  Nomscul, leaping  to his feet  and scolding  the horrifying  creature from  across the huge cave.
	Other  Aghar  turned  and  shouted  in annoyance,  fear, or confusion, as the beast crept forward.
	The  carrion  crawler's  enormous  bulk  slithered  through a round  hole  perhaps twelve  feet in  diameter as  its tendrils lashed back and forth hungrily.
	"If  we  don't  get the  Aghar out  of here  quickly, they'll stampede!"  Instinctively  Flint  reached  for  the   axe  that would  normally  be  at  his  waist,  but  found   nothing.  He cursed the fates that had  placed him  in this  chamber without so  much  as  Happenstance,  the  rusty  dagger, to  defend his "kingdom."
	Screams  and  shouts  rose  through  the  Big  Sky  Room, and Aghar  bolted   in  every   direction.  Some,   by  coincidence more   than   intent,   actually   headed  toward   the  Thrown Room  -  which  was  the  Aghar's  new  name  for  Flint's  and Perian's  quarters  -  or  the  rest  of  Mudhole.  Most darted around  blindly,  screaming,  waving  their  arms,  or huddling on the ground, terrified by the approach of the monster.
	"Follow  me!"  shouted  Perian.  An  officer  of   the  House Guard  was  trained  to  lead  by example,  not to  mention expected  to  be  followed.  She  grabbed  a  carving  knife  and started for the footbridge at a run, ready to cross it and confront the monster personally.
	"Get  to  the  Thrown  Room!"  Flint's  voice was  a thunderous  bellow,  but  even  that  sound  was  washed  away  in the panic-stricken  babble  of  hundreds  of  Aghar.  A few  of his closer subjects started toward the exits, but chaos  reigned in the cavern.  Flint snagged  Fester, the  nearest Aghar,  by her collar. She held a large, bent roasting fork in her hand.
	"Fester,  look  at  me!" commanded  Flint. "Tell  everyone to get  into  the  Thrown  Room.  Get   everyone  to   the  Thrown Room!"
	The  frawl  stared  at  Flint  dumbly  for  a moment,  but he held her arms until he  saw the  fear fade  from her  eyes, and then  she nodded  vigorously. He  took the  fork from  her hand and  turned  her  loose,  and  immediately  she  began  pushing Aghar toward the exits. One down, thought Flint.
	Turning  back  to  the  action, Flint  saw several  Aghar run blindly  into the  beast, only  to be  struck and  paralyzed by the  flailing  tentacles.  The  small  forms  tumbled   to  the ground, but thankfully the beast  didn't stop  to feed  on them immediately.  Flint  hoped  it  wouldn't  get  a  second chance later on.
	But how could they stop  it? He  sprinted after  Perian, seeing  her  reach the  footbridge and  start across  with Nomscul at her  heels. The  roasting fork  in his  hand was  a pathetic weapon,   but  anything   was  better   than  his   bare  hands against the huge, segmented monster.
	More Aghar fell  before the  beast, and  it crawled  over the motionless forms, intent on the great mass  of prey  before it. Almost  gleefully,  it  surged  upward, stretching  its bloated body a dozen feet in the air, still lashing with its tentacles.
	Suddenly  Perian   stopped  on   the  bridge   and  screamed. Nomscul, right behind the queen,  ran into  her and  fell backward  onto  the  approach  to  the bridge.  Flint saw  the hideous,  hunchbacked figure  of Pitrick  soaring through  the air over her head. The derro was flying straight for Perian!
	Raising  the  long  fork,  undaunted  by  the  incongruity of the  gesture,  Flint  sprang toward  the narrow  footbridge. He saw  the  grotesque  Theiwar  land  near  Perian and  seize her wrist in his right hand.  The frawl  twisted back,  but Pitrick pinned her against the railing on the side  of the  bridge. The derro  settled  to  the  planks  beside her  and spoke  a sharp word, cancelling his flying spell  so that  he could  place his weight on the ground.
	Nomscul  climbed  to his  feet and  charged forward,  only to be kicked aside by one of  Pitrick's heavy  boots. Desperately, Perian pulled away. Flint charged  as fast  as he  could, pushing his way through the Aghar.
	"Your smoke weed will  be a  little delayed  - but  no worry. You will be  leaving with  me," hissed  Pitrick to  Perian, the thick odor of mushale heavy on his breath.
	Pitrick  gripped  his  amulet  with  one  hand,  staring into Perian's eyes. She  twisted in  his grasp  but could  not break away.
	"Kan-straithian!" he barked. Instantly the blue light flashed. The savant released Perian and turned to face the charging  hill  dwarf.  Nomscul,  climbing  to his  feet behind Perian, seemed momentarily forgotten. Perian tried to run but her feet refused to move, as if they had been cemented to  the bridge.  She tried  to turn,  to open her   mouth  and   speak,  and   found  herself   paralyzed  by magic.  Her  eyes wild,  she struggled  against the  spell, but Pitrick's magic had her frozen in place.
	  "Now for you," growled Pitrick, his  huge eyes  glaring insanely  at  Flint.  The  hunchback's  fingers  tightened around the amulet, and he raised his hand  to point  a bony  finger at the  charging  dwarf.  Flint  knew  that  he would  never reach Pitrick before the derro cast his spell.
	  "Incinerus...  Incinetoria..."  Pitrick  began  his  spell, sneering at Flint, preparing to  envelop him  in an  inferno of sorcerous  fire.  He  did  not  notice Nomscul  stepping around Perian's petrified form.
	  "In-sin-jin-fin-jin  yourself!"  challenged  Nomscul, aping Pitrick's wizardly pose. He thrust his  magic sack  before himself  and  clapped  it  sharply between  his hands,  throwing a cloud of fine dust into the air.
	  Pitrick recoiled from the insidious powder, but too late to keep it from his nose,  eyes, and  throat. His  fingers stabbed at his burning eyes, and then his whole body doubled over.
	  "Ah...    uhhh...    CHOO!"    Pitrick's    sneeze   almost blasted Nomscul from the bridge.
	  "Maggot!"  Pitrick  hissed,  stumbling  away from  the dust cloud.  He  delivered  a  vicious kick  to Nomscul.  The little shaman  crashed  through   the  railing   of  the   bridge  and splashed into the pool, gasping and wailing.
	  Then Flint reached the bridge, racing full-tilt  toward the derro, his roasting fork  poised above  his head.  Still struggling to regain his senses, Pitrick  snatched a  long, straight dagger from his belt.
	  Below  them,  Nomscul popped  to the  surface of  the pool. "You  got  my  magic stuff  all wet!"  he whined,  paddling toward the bank.
	  The  two  dwarves  came  together.  Flint's  momentum  carried  Pitrick  over  backward.  Locked  together,  each  struggling  for  an  advantage,  they  rolled  over and  over toward the shore.  Each held  his own  weapon in  one hand,  his oppo- nent's wrist in the other.
	As  they tumbled  onto land,  Pitrick thrust  out his  leg, pinning  Flint  below  him.  He  threw  all  his  weight  behind  his weapon,  forcing  the  blade   down  toward   Flint's  unprotected chest.  Caught  off  guard,  the hill  dwarf strove  to straighten his  arm,  but  Pitrick's blade  inched closer.  Desperately Flint kicked  the  derro  away  and  rolled  to  the  side.  Both combatants  jumped  to  their  feet,  stabbing  and  parrying   as  they scrambled momentarily to a safe range.
	"You  thought  to  escape  me,  hill  dwarf?"  cackled Pitrick, breathing  heavily.  "I  admit  you  surprised  me  by  surviving the Beast Pit."
	Pitrick  stabbed  at  him,  but  Flint skipped  out of  the way, driving   his   own   long,  pronged   weapon  into   the  derro's chest.  As  they  jumped  apart  Flint  expected  to see  blood on his  enemy's  robe,  but  instead  he  saw  links  of  chain  mail shining  through  the  ripped  fabric.  Glancing  at  his  weapon, he  saw that  the tines  of the  roasting fork  had been  bent and twisted  -  such  a  feeble  weapon  would  never   punch  through the derro's armor.
	"I'm  full  of  surprises,  too,"  taunted the  Theiwar. "Here's another:  when  I  finish  with  you,  your  whole  town  will  be next  to  perish.  You've  shown  me  that  Hillhome and  all your sun-dwelling kin are too dangerous to my plans!"
	"You  should  live  so  long,"  growled  Flint,  feinting toward Pitrick's  left  side.  Nonetheless,  the  warning   sent  shivers along the hill dwarf's spine. Pitrick had to be stopped, now!
	The  evil  derro  sneered  as  he evaded  the attack.  "I shall, with  Perian  at  my  side.  Together  we  shall  destroy Hillhome and make slaves of its people."
	The  derro  turned  and  darted  along  the  side  of  the pool, moving  with  surprising speed.  Flint raced  after him.  The hill dwarf  knew  his  only  hope  was  to press  the derro  so closely that he could not cast a spell.
	Both   figures   turned   suddenly   when   they   heard  Perian shout, "I'm free!" As the last effects of Pitrick's hold spell finally  wore  off,  the  frawl  spun and  started toward  them. She snatched  up  a  long,  sharp   cooking  knife.   Grinning,  Flint turned back toward Pitrick.
	But the savant surprised  him. Instead  of reaching  for his amulet,  Pitrick  laughed  defiantly and  touched the  ring on his left hand. Instantly the derro disappeared from sight.
	Perian's scream drew Flint's attention back over  his shoulder. Suddenly Pitrick was standing next to  her, and  the derro seized her left arm with both hands.
	"I must leave now," he taunted Flint. "But  I will  be back, once I see that my property  gets safely  home." He  leered at Perian, and icy daggers drove into Flint's heart.
	 Snarling, the hill dwarf dashed toward the bridge. He saw Pitrick reach toward the ring, even  while holding  tightly to Perian.
	Neither Flint  nor Pitrick  could have  anticipated Perian's next move. Just before the  derro touched  his ring  and teleported them away, the  frawl's right  hand came  around, still holding the  carving knife  which she  had picked  up earlier. The  hunchback  twisted  his  arm  upward,  blocking   only  a blow to his face. He realized too late  that was  not Perian's target.
	Instead  the  knife  slashed  into  Pitrick's  hand, slicing through  skin  and  bone.  The  Theiwar  shaman  screamed  and pulled  away,  with  blood  streaming down  his arm.  Two fingers, sliced cleanly off, splashed into the water.
	On  one  of  them gleamed  a small  circlet of  twisted wire.
	Gagging  and  shrieking,  Pitrick  stumbled  backward,  cradling his mangled hand. Perian  looked in  shock at  the blood streaking her robe.
	The  din  in  the  cavern  echoed  around  them.  Some Aghar fled from the carrion crawler, while  others attacked  it with utensils.  Their courage  was worse  than useless  against the creature since the beast's tough hide  turned aside  their attacks. Its sticky  tendrils lashed  across the  gully dwarves' skin, dropping them to the ground, helpless and paralyzed.
	"Finish  him!"  shouted  Flint,  sprinting  back   onto  the bridge, charging the howling derro.
	Now Pitrick looked up  with real  fear in  his eyes.  He saw Flint charging,  saw the  murderous rage  in the  hill dwarf's eyes, and he staggered off  the opposite  side of  the bridge, desperately fishing in his pouch for something.
	Flint didn't  slow down  as he  saw the  Theiwar pull  out a small, clear bottle. Pitrick raised the flask to his  lips and swallowed the  contents in  one gulp,  just as  Flint launched himself toward him.
	The  hill  dwarf  plowed  into Pitrick,  driving him  to the ground. Flint raised  the fork,  ready to  plunge it  into the squirming mage's neck.
	But suddenly that neck was  gone. As  Flint watched  in disbelief, Pitrick's entire body dissipated into a pale  cloud of vapor. Flint slashed at it futilely with his makeshift weapon. But  the  cloud  drifted  away  from  him,  and   then  passed through  the hole  in the  cavern wall.  In moments  it disappeared from view entirely.
	"Damnation!"  hollered  Flint,  watching  the  gaseous  form of his enemy slip away.
	"We  still  have  troubles,"  Perian barked  urgently. "Look!"
	Flint  turned  to  see  that the  massive carrion  crawler had reached  the  exit  to  the  Thrown Room.  He could  trace the creature's  path  across  the  cavern  by counting  the fallen bodies of Aghar. Dozens lay in a twisted  line across  the cavern floor.
	He heard Nomscul's voice, issuing orders.
	"Hey,  Agharpulters!  Do it  do it  do it!  Agharpult! Stomp that big ugly thing! Pult pult pult!"
	Teams  of  gully  dwarves were  gathering before  the beast. The  Aghar  formed  their  pyramids  and  launched  themselves at  the  carrion crawler,  heedless of  the danger,  What they hoped  to  accomplish  was  unclear.  But the  carrion crawler was clearly distracted by the spectacle of their bodies flying over its head and crashing into the walls behind.
	Flint ran  through the  cavern, frantically  encouraging the Agharpulters. If they  could distract  the beast  long enough, he could....
	What could  he do?  He looked  at the  roasting fork  in his hand,  and  then at  the looming  carrion crawler,  and tossed the fork aside. At  the same  time, his  eyes passed  over the roasting meat, still sizzling on its steel-shafted spear.
	Flint  hesitated  only for  a moment.  By Reorx,  those ribs smelled  good.  And  they  were  just  about  done,  too.  His mouth watered as he hoisted the  red hot  spear off  the fire, then  dropped it  from his  burning hands.  He peeled  off his robe  and wound  it round  his hands,  then grasped  the spear again. Several dozen ribs weighted down  the shaft,  but pulling the meat off would take too many precious minutes.
	"Jump!  Faster!"  He  heard  Perian  commanding   the  gully dwarves, directing  the erratic  Agharpults toward  their target.  More and  more of  their subjects  flew through  the air with better aim this time, crashing into the  rearing monster. They didn't harm the beast,  but they  fully occupied  its attention.
	Seeing  Flint  laboring  with   the  heavy   weapon,  Perian raced to his side. The two  of them  lifted the  spear between them  and  cautiously  moved  around  to  the  monster's side. The  thing's  wormlike  head remained  fixed upon  the shrieking, flying Aghar.
	"Now!"  Flint  barked.  The  two  of  them  rushed  forward, holding  the meat-laden  spear at  shoulder height.  The steel tip struck the carrion crawler between two of its  segments, a few feet back from its head.
	Instantly  it   whirled,  but   the  two   dwarves,  working smoothly, turned in  the same  direction, just  avoiding those paralyzing tendrils.
	"Push!"  grunted  Perian,  and  they  shoved the  spear deep into  the  monster's  vile  insides. Blue  pus oozed  from the wound,  coating the  meat that  backed up  along the  shaft as the spear drove deeper and deeper into the monster.
	The  carrion  crawler  shivered  and  twitched,  flopping to the ground as its legs collapsed. Its struggles grew weaker as Perian  and  Flint twisted  and probed  with the  weapon, trying to strike a vital organ. Finally, with one last  spasm, it ceased to move.
	All  around  them lay  gully dwarves  paralyzed by  the carrion crawler  or stunned  by their  launch from  an Agharpult. Flint was covered by scrapes and bruises  from his  fight with Pitrick, and by meat juices from  the cooking  spear. Perian's hands and robe were  splotched red  with Pitrick's  blood. Exhausted, they stared at each other for a long moment.
	  "I was scared... when Pitrick grabbed you, I was scared he'd  take  you away,  and I  wouldn't be  able to  stop him." Flint glanced at the  ground, then  looked back  into Perian's face. "I'm so  glad...." He  reached out  and pulled  her into his arms, crushed her to his chest.
	"I'm glad, too," she whispered, pulling his face to hers and kissing him.  Flint's heart  thumped harder  than it  had when Pitrick threatened his life.
	  And then Flint peeled Perian's arms loose and stepped away. "We can't do this," he growled. "We're different, inside and out, and there's no hope for a match like ours."
	"You can't know that," she cried, reaching after him.
	But he stepped back again. "I know it."

                   Chapter 16

                Misguided Mission
	"Do you really think he'd do it?" Flint asked Perian. He  paced  about the  small Thrown  Room several  hours after the magical battle with the derro savant during  the "crownation" party. "He'd destroy a whole  village of  innocent hill dwarves simply for revenge against me?"  Flint  and  Perian  had  helped the  gully dwarves  begin the cleanup  of  the Big  Sky Room,  entombing the  casualties of Pitrick's magic in temporary vaults in the wall of a secluded mine  shaft.  Fortunately  only  nine of  the Aghar  had succumbed  to  the  assault.  Those  brave  Aghar  who  had been paralyzed by the carrion crawler's tentacles were  slowly recovering  in  a  makeshift  infirmary under  Shaman Nomscul's care.
	Next  Flint had  ordered the  rebuilding of  the hole  in the wall  to  discourage  any  further  attacks by  Pitrick, piling rocks of all  sizes before  it. Another  crew was  assigned the grim  task  of  dismembering the  beast, since  it was  far too large to remove intact from Mudhole's narrow egress.
	After  he'd  initiated  these  programs, Flint  had returned, exhausted,  to  the  Thrown  Room,   where  Perian   put  salve and  a  bandage  over  a magic-inflicted  burn on  Flint's arm. They were both too wound up to sleep.
	Sitting  on  the edge  of the  moss bed  now, hunched  over a small  table,  quill  in  hand, Perian  nodded her  copper head emphatically  in answer  to Flint's  question. "Pitrick  is the most  insanely  cruel  and  powerful  dwarf  I've  ever  known. Why,  once  I  saw  him  -  never  mind," she  amended, shaking away the story when she noted Flint's preoccupied look.
	The hill dwarf smote his open palm angrily. "Blast my wicked temper! I  never should  have told  him Hillhome knew anything about the weapons or Aylmar. It was a lie anyway!" He kicked the wall with the toe of his boot.
	Perian shook  her head.  "You can't  blame yourself  for Pitrick's villainy! He's always hated hill dwarves - it was inevitable  that  his  hatred  would   someday  be   turned  against Hillhome."
	Flint snorted and  threw up  his hands.  "But now  I've given Hillhome less of a chance! I only hope I  get back  before it's too late."
	She  glanced  up  from  the notes  she was  making on  an old scrap  of  parchment  and  shook her  head. "But  they wouldn't have  had  any  chance  otherwise,  because they  wouldn't have known  an  attack  was  coming.  When you  think about  it that way,  you've  done  them  a  favor!"  She  propped her  head up with a hand on her cheek.
	Flint frowned. "Thanks for saying that, but this is  still my fault."
	Perian pushed the  curls on  her forehead  from her  eyes and pursed  her lips.  "Pitrick's obsession  with me  hasn't helped matters." She shook her head fiercely. "I can't help  but think that  this  would  not  have  happened  if  I'd  confronted him sooner, or even told  the thane  I thought  he was  crazy. Per- haps I should have just given him what he wanted!" She shuddered.
	Flint  shuddered,  too.  He  had  no  difficulty  imagining what Pitrick  had  desired  from  the  frawl.  He  found  himself looking  beneath  Perian's  warm  hazel  eyes   to  her   soft,  fuzzy cheeks.  He  remembered  the  vision  of  her  in  Pitrick's grasp just  a  few  hours  ago,  and  his blood  boiled. 'You  could not have given him that. It would have been worse than death."
	Perian   looked   straight  ahead   without  blinking.   "No,  I couldn't have done that."
	Flint  looked  brightly  at the  paper beneath  her hand  on the rickety table. "What are you doing?"
	She  tapped  her  chin  with  the  end of  the quill.  "Making a list  of  the things  we'll need  on the  trail to  Hillhome." She scratched a note. "How far do you figure it is to this little village of yours?"
	Astounded, Flint could barely keep the smile from his face. "You mean you'd help me - I mean Hillhome?"
	"Just try and stop me!"  she said,  setting her  shoulders defiantly.
	"But  why?  Why  would  you  risk  your life  for strangers?"
	"You're  hardly  a  stranger," she  laughed. "You've  saved my life twice in the last, what - five days?"
	Flint  rolled  his eyes.  "Your life  wouldn't have  needed saving if it hadn't been for my bumbling in the first place."
	Perian  wrinkled  her  nose   in  disagreement.   "We've  been over  that  already.  I  was  at  the  breaking   point  anyway. Something  had  to  give."  She  hesitated, then  quickly added, watching  his  expression,   "-  and   then  luckily   you  came along."
	Uncomfortable   with   the   direction   of   the  conversation, the  mountain  dwarf  decided  to  lighten it.  "Does the  king of the  gully  dwarves  expect to  leave his  queen and  subjects behind 7"
	Flint was  stroking his  beard and  fingering the  teleport ring Pitrick  had  left  behind along  with his  fingers. He  looked at Perian   tentatively,   chewing   the   edge   of   his  mustache. "Please  don't  laugh,"  he  said  at  last,  "but I  was actually thinking  of  taking  them  along. After  all, I  gave my  vow not to leave them. They're  not the  best fighters  I ever  saw actually, they're just about the worst - but I never  saw any braver. The way they  went up  against that  carrion crawler, well,  it  was  purely  noble.  I don't  imagine well-trained mountain dwarves would intimidate them in the slightest."
	Perian's  eyebrows  flew  up,  and  she  slapped  the quill down. "That's a great idea! How soon should we -"
	Suddenly, there was a great commotion  in the  hall outside their room. Expecting the worst, Flint  and Perian  shot each other a look before leaping off the bed for the door.
	"Cainker  back!  Garf   back!"  Nomscul   shouted,  running down  the  dark  tunnel  toward  them. He  skidded to  a stop just short  of Flint's  nose. "Cainker  and Garf,  they bring king's pop!" he explained out of  breath, revealing  that the gully dwarves were not totally clear on the  various branches of the royal family tree.
	Flint  blinked.  "My  nephew?  I  can't believe  those two boneheads  actually found  their way  to Hillhome,  let alone located  my  nephew.  But  you  say  they  brought  him here? Why?"
	"You  bet  they  did,  O kingly guy!"  proclaimed Nomscul, having   misappropriated   new  words   from  his   king  and queen.  "You  come  see!"  Nomscul frowned  suddenly. "King's father not real happy."
	"Of course he's not! They  were just  supposed to  give him my note, not kidnap  him!" Flint  snarled, then  sighed heavily. "Where is he?"
	"In   grotto,"   Nomscul   explained.   "They   shove   him through crackingrotto. I magicked him," he said,  holding up the red bag dangling from his waist, "but he no will move."
	Sighing  again,  the  hill  dwarf  splashed  his  face with strained puddle water  from a  basin by  the door,  drying it with his sleeve. "You'd better take me to him right away." He looked over  his shoulder  at Perian  and winked.  "Coming, 0 queenly gal?" Smirking, she nodded.
	"This way faster than through Big Sky," he explained  as he dashed  ahead of  them into  a dark,  narrow mine  shaft. The tunnel continued, straight as  an arrow,  for about  six hundred feet, Flint noted, counting  his steps  by using  an old trick  from  his  dungeon-crawling days.  Neither he  nor Perian had yet visited  this part  of Mudhole,  and he  wanted to make sure they could find their way out again.
	Then  the  shaft  dead-ended.  Nomscul  led  them  around  a turn, and after  another five  hundred feet  they came  to another tunnel  on their  right, but  Nomscul ignored  it. "That go to Big Sky. We in Upper Tubes area now."
	Two  hundred  fifty  feet  later  the tunnel  ahead narrowed by half, and another shaft turned sharply to the left.
	"Have  you  noticed we  seem to  be heading  downhill?" Perian called back to Flint, who was bringing up the rear.
	"Yeah,"  Flint  panted, winded  by the  walk. "And  I'm glad of it, because it's the  only thing  that's keeping  me going. How much farther?" he hollered ahead to Nomscul.
	"Grotto  right  here!"  Nomscul  crowed  unexpectedly, stopping  so  suddenly  that  Perian slammed  into him,  and Flint into her, his face buried in her russet curls.  Without thinking, he closed his eyes and inhaled, his hands coming  to rest on  her  upper  arms.  Flint  jumped backward  abruptly, flustered by his own reaction.
	"Uh,  Nomscul  went  down  there,"  Perian said  softly over her shoulder, pointing to the right.
	Flint looked around the frawl.  "Steps!" he  said unhappily. Indeed, a very  narrow stone  stairway had  been cut  into the granite,  curving  and twisting  downward so  that it  was impossible to tell where the bottom  was. Flint  followed Perian down the cramped stairs, counting out of habit.
	"Eighty-eight, eight-nine!" he said out loud as his foot hit the last one. He could hear  Perian draw  in her  breath ahead of him, and he looked up.
	They stood on the threshold of  a beautiful  natural grotto, which was dimly lit by some  source that  Flint could  not immediately  identify.  Though  much  smaller  than the  Big Sky Room,  the  ceiling  of  the  underground  cavern was  just as high. A waterfall cascaded through a crack at  the top  of the far right  wall, forming  a clear  pool, which  in turn  fed a stream that  flowed out  under the  left wall.  White, eyeless fish frolicked in the  cold depths  of the  pool, disappearing beneath an overhanging shelf of  rock above  the water  at the dwarves'  approach.  Draped  in  moss, stalactites  and stalagmites had formed  here too,  but so  elaborately that  they reminded Flint of organpipes.
	The  ground before  the pool  was covered  in a  soft blanket of  moss.  In  a  moment  Flint realized  that it  provided the source of the light in the grotto.  Somehow alive  with energy, the  moss  glowed  slightly green  and yellow  and pink  all at once. The effect was unbelievably soothing.
	"Isn't it beautiful?" Perian breathed as she  glided silently over  the  moss  and headed  for a  natural stone  bench nearer the pool;
	"It is that," Flint agreed, unable to think of more appropriate  or poetic  words. He  shook off  the grotto's  calming effects  to  remember  their purpose  for coming  here. "Nomscul, where's my nephew?"
	Flint  heard  a  groan  behind him.  Turning, the  hill dwarf saw something move  slightly in  the shadows  of the  rock formations. He was not  prepared for  the sight  of Basalt  on his knees, a four-inch length of  leash around  his neck  tying him to a stalagtite, arms lashed  to his  sides by  ribbons, belts, twine,  and many  other less  identifiable materials.  His face was  swollen,  caked  with  dried   blood,  and   covered  with Nomscul's "magical" dirt. His  beard and  hair were  as stringy as a gully dwarf's.
	"Basalt!" Flint cried, rushing forward to  cut the  length of twine that tied the  young Fireforge  like a  dog to  the limestone  pillar.  Nomscul  bent  over  and  began  gnawing  at  a piece  of twine  on Basalt's  wrist. "Not  that way!  Oh, never mind!" Flint slit the bonds himself.
	The  delirious Basalt  dropped onto  his face.  Perian rushed to  the  pool,  scooped  some  water  up  in her  cupped hands, and  splashed  it on  the young  dwarf's puffy  cheeks, causing the dirt to turn to muddy streaks.
	Basalt  slowly  came  around,  shaking  his  head  and spraying water. He rubbed his arms as his  senses returned  with the flow of  his blood.  Using the  stalagtite for  support, Basalt staggered to his feet and blinked  furiously. His  eyes focused first on the hill dwarf's expectant face.
	"Uncle Flint?" He squinted. "But you're dead!"
	Flint  feigned  annoyance.  "First  Garth,  and  now  you!  I wish  people  would stop  saying that!"  Laughing, he  tried to gather  his  nephew  up in  a hug,  though Basalt's  bonds made that difficult.  "You look  like you've  been dragged  behind a wild horse, son, but you  sure are  a sight  for my  sore eyes. Garf and Cainker didn't  do that  to your  face, did  they)" He didn't wait for Basalt's reply.
	"Nomscul!"  he  hollered,  whirling  on  the   shaman  behind him.   "Where  are   the  two   reprobates  who   kidnapped  my nephew,  hauled  him  here  on  his  face, then  tied him  to a stake'?  As  your  king,  I  demand  some  answers!"  Eyes wide with  innocence,  the  gully  dwarf  shaman  simply  raised his thin shoulders and held his hands palm up in resignation.
	"Now  I  know  you're  alive," Basalt  said, his  weary voice laced  with happiness.  "No one  else bellows  like.that. Don't be  too  hard  on the  dirt-eaters, though  the gods  know I've sworn  at  them  for  dragging  me  through frozen  streams and over  mountain roads  for eight-odd  fun-filled hours.  I tried not to make it  too easy  for them."  He laughed,  then coughed at the pain it inflicted on his sore face.
	Suddenly his expression changed to puzzlement. "Say, did I hear you call yourself 'king?' Where are we?" He looked at Perian, standing behind Flint. "Who are we'? What in the Abyss is going on here?"
	Flint's eyes narrowed  angrily. "I  knew it  was too  much to hope that  they would  have given  you my  note. You  see, they weren't supposed to bring you here,  just tell  you I  was OK." Flint's face turned the color of raw beef. "I'll kill them with my  bare  teeth!"  he  stormed,  hungrily  looking   about  the room.  But  the  gully dwarves  were nowhere  to be  seen. Even Nomscul had skulked out of the room.
	Flint saw the expectant expression on Basalt's face.  The elder  Fireforge ran  his hand  up his  forehead and  through his hair, and tried to think of how to explain  this muddle  to Basalt.  He  looked  into  his nephew's  eyes, so  like Aylmar's. "You  heard  me  right:  I'm  king  of  this gully  dwarf city, known as Mudhole."
	"Did  you  lose  a  bet,  or did  you have  to fight  for the crown?"  Basalt  arched  one  eyebrow.  "You  do have  a crown,  don't  you?"  With  that,  Flint's  nephew  threw his  head back  and  laughed   without  restraint,   without  concern   for  his  bruises. He laughed so hard he held his sides. Flint  rolled his  eyes  and  waited patiently  while his  nephew got  the hysteri cal laughter out of  his system.  But Basalt  would wheeze  to a  stop, look at Flint as  if about  to speak,  and then  burst out  laughing  anew.  Flint  crossed  his arms  and waited.  He twid dled his fingers. Finally he began laughing himself.
	 Suddenly  they  both  were  startled  by  the  sound  of some one  clearing  her  throat  loudly.  The  mountain  dwarf thrust  her  hand  between  the  two  at  the  younger dwarf.  "You must  be Basalt. I'm Perian Cyprium."
	 "My queen,"  Flint added,  his voice  husky. Basalt  gazed re spectfully at the attractive frawl.
	 "You may as well know right  off, Basalt,  if you  haven't al ready  guessed  it,"  Perian  said,  hooking  her thumbs  in her  pants  pockets  in  an  almost   challenging  gesture.   "I'm  a  mountain dwarf." She watched closely for his reaction.
	       As expected, Basalt's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Now  I'm really confused."
	 "I hope to  remedy that  immediately. Perian  comes in  a lit tle later in the story." Flint took him by the  arm and  led him  to the bench by the pool. "This is going  to be  a long  one, so  we may as well get comfortable."
	 Perian  had  found  a small  clay jug  and fetched  some water  from the stream. She offered it  to Basalt,  who took  it grate fully  and gulped  most of  the water  down, splashing  the rest  on  his  face  to  wash  away  the  dried  blood.  The  mountain  dwarf sat on the  moss near  the hill  dwarves, her  arms linked  around  her knees,  watching Flint  as he  prepared to  tell his  tale.
	 "I  barely  know  where  to  begin," Flint  said, and  a tense  muscle twitched in his cheek.
	 "You  know  why  I  went  into  Thorbardin   -  to   find  the  dwarf  who  murdered  your  father."  Flint's  bright  blue-gray  eyes  held Basalt's.  "And now  I'll tell  you what  happened af ter I stepped inside the Theiwar's secret tunnel and a cage fell  and imprisoned me...." * * * 4' *  Flint returned to the bench beside  Basalt, for  the retelling of the events of the  last week  had agitated  him so  that' he could not sit still and had begun to pace.  "How many days will it take Pitrick to organize the troops he'll take to Hillhome?" Flint asked Perian.  Filled  with  pent-up  energy  herself,  the   mountain  dwarf had begun to  pitch flat  stones into  the pool  during Flint's story.  She  stopped  now  and  considered the  answer, chewing her lip, ticking thoughts off on her fingers.  "Pitrick  will  use  my  troops,  the thane's  personal guard, which are  some five  hundred strong,"  she began.  "He'll want to keep the action secret and they are the only force  loyal to the  Theiwar  throne.  Besides  being excellent  soldiers, they are all derro, and a few of them are spell-casting savants like Pitrick. They'll leave at  dusk, since  they will  be virtually blind during the day."  "How long do you think that will take?" Flint pressed somewhat impatiently.  "It's  not  that  simple!"  Perian  cried.  "There   are  many things to consider! The troops are  in excellent  parade shape, but  we -  they have  not fought  in battle  aboveground, well, ever,  during  my  time  in  the Thane's  Guard, which  is more than thirty years.  "He  should  take  a  fortnight,  minimum,"  she   decided  at last. Mindful of Flint's grateful nod, she quickly  added, "But Pitrick will push them to leave in half that time, maybe less."  He looked at  her, seated  at his  feet on  the moss,  in surprise. "Fine. We  can't possibly  be there  in less  than three days ourselves." He turned to Basalt.  "You see,  I -  we vowed on  our  honor  that  we  would  not  leave the  gully dwarves, and  I  will  not break  that vow.  So the  Aghar are  going to have to come with us. But it will take me at least two  days to find  some  way  to get  three hundred  gully dwarves  all moving  in  the  same  direction  for  nearly  twenty  miles.  The thought boggles my mind."  Perian  stood  and  dropped  her  handful  of stones  into the pool with a plop!, scattering fish.  "But if  my guess  is even nearly  correct,  that won't  give us  more than  one, maybe two days to build up the town's defenses."
	"Or  much  time  to  persuade the  townsfolk they  even need defending!" Basalt chimed in.
	Perian  dusted  moss  clippings  from  her legs.  "But why wouldn't they believe us?" she asked, puzzled.
	Both  Flint  and  Basalt  knew  how good  their word  was in Hillhome, and  how enamored  the villagers  were of  the revenue generated by the derro. As  Flint pictured  himself trying to talk to the  hill dwarves,  he absently  fingered Pitrick's ring. His hand began  to tingle  strangely, and  the uncomfortable sensation spread  quickly up  his arm  to his  chest and the rest of his body. He saw Perian wavering before  his face, then was distantly aware of  her snatching  the ring  from his finger.
	."What  were  you  thinking about?"  she demanded.  "I could see  from  your  face  that you  were activating  the teleport ring!"
	Flint  shook away  the remnants  of the  tingling sensation. "You  mean  someone other  than Pitrick  can use  that thing?" he gasped.
	"Of course." She shrugged. "It's just like any other magical item. Pitrick used it constantly because of his  clubbed foot. He explained  it to  me once  when he  was trying  to frighten me. He said all he had to do was grasp the ring and picture as clearly as possible the place where he wanted to go."
	Anyplace   he  wanted...   Flint  remembered   his  thoughts of Hillhome, moments earlier, and  had an  idea. He  turned to Basalt. "I can't leave the gully dwarves." He  looked squarely into his nephew's face. "But you can. You  could use  the ring to teleport back to Hillhome and give them  a couple  of extra days to prepare for the derro attack, or at least  gather some weapons.  They'll believe  you, Basalt."  Flint took  the ring from  Perian's  hand and  thrust it  forward. "I  know Moldoon will, anyway, and you can  start by  telling him.  He'll rally the rest of 'em."
	Basalt recoiled from the magical band as if struck. "You don't understand! I can't tell anyone, least of all Moldoon!" the  young  dwarf  cried,  his  face  wracked  with  grief. He turned away in shame. "He's dead, and it's my fault!"
	Flint   shook   his   head   uncomprehendingly.   "Moldoon dead?  What  are  you talking  about?" Flint  clasped Basalt's shoulder and spun his nephew around. "Speak up, harrn!"
	Now  it  was  Basalt's  turn  to  explain.  Hiccupping  with sobs, he recounted the  events of  the previous  evening, just before the gully dwarves had kidnapped him.
	"...  then  Moldoon stepped  between us  to stop  the fight, and the  derro stabbed  him, just  like that!"  Basalt dropped his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.
	Flint was stunned and  grieved by  the news  of the  old human's death. He saw the  pain in  Basalt's face,  pictured the casual cruelty of the derro guard. His  hatred of  the Theiwar burned hotter than ever. It had become a fire that  could only be doused with blood.
	"Basalt," Perian said, chewing a nail, "it sounds as if this Moldoon  was  only  doing  what  he  felt  he  had to  do. You can't  be  blamed  because he  came between  you and  the derro."
	"Don't  you  see?"  Basalt  looked up,  bleary-eyed. "Everyone has  been right  about me  - I'm  nothing but  a worthless drunk who can't defend himself!  I didn't  tell you  about the derro patrol  that found  me outside  of Thorbardin  after you left. They chased me off like  a scared  rabbit -  didn't even think enough of me to kill  me! Gods,"  he cried,  looking upward and shaking his fists, "I wish they had!"
	"Stop it" Flint  slapped him  hard across  the face.  He saw Perian  flinch  at what  she must  have thought  needless cruelty. Stunned,  Basalt stared  at his  uncle, wiping  away his tears with the back of his hand. Flint waited for him  to compose himself.
	"Now you've grieved," his  uncle said  at last,  his expression  determined.  "For  your father.  For Moldoon.  For yourself.  Put  it  past  you,  because  there's   something  more important at stake here."
	The lines in Flint's face softened, and he grasped Basalt by the  shoulders.  "Prove  everybody  wrong,   Basalt.  Starting today,  prove  everybody  wrong  by  mustering  every  bit  of courage  and  grit  you  have  to  persuade  them  to  believe something  they  won't  want  to  hear,"  He  shook   him,  hard. "Do  it,  Basalt.  You must,  because it's  the only  real chance Hillhome has."
	"Do  you  really think  I can  persuade them?"  he whispered.
	Flint smiled at him encouragingly. "I know you can."
	Basalt  looked  at the  ring in  Flint's palm.  It was  made of two  incomplete  bands  of  steel  woven  together  and  split at the  top,  so  that  the  two jagged  ends protruded  outward. He took  it and  slipped it  tentatively onto  the middle  finger of his  left  hand.  An  unfamiliar sense  of energy  surged through him, though it  came not  from the  ring, but  from the  glint of faith  and  respect  in  his uncle's  eyes. He  stood straighter, more sure.
	"Go  to  the  family  first," Flint  advised him.  "Under the greed  and  the  pompous  protestations,  they  are Fireforges; show  them  how  you've  changed,  and   they'll  give   you  a chance. You'll see."
	"Picture  the  destination  in   your  mind,   Basalt,"  Perian added,  her  face  a  mask of  concern for  what the  naive young hill dwarf was about to undertake.
	Basalt nodded wordlessly and began to concentrate on the main room in the family home.
	"Tell  them  everything  we've  revealed   to  you,   and  that we'll be there in three days,  four at  the latest.  We're counting on you to make them believe."
	His  face  scrunched  up   in  concentration,   Basalt's  image shimmered.
	'You can do it, Basalt!" Flint called out as the last traces of his nephew disappeared before their eyes.
	Flint  and  Perian  stood alone  in the  beauty of  the grotto, enveloped by the rhythmic pounding of the waterfall.

                      Chapter 17

                    Teleporting We Go

  Flint threw a cracked wooden shield to the side in disgust.  "We  aren't  going  to  find  enough   decent  weapons here  to  equip us,  let alone  three hundred  defenseless gully dwarves,"  he  complained bitterly  to Perian  from atop  a sixfoot-high  garbage  mound  in  the  Big  Sky  Room,  across  the stream and opposite the Thrown Room tunnel.  They  were  anxious  to  begin  preparations  for the  march to Hillhome, and since the first item on Perian's list was collecting  weapons,  they  had  made  their  way back  to the  Big Sky Room  shortly  after  Basalt  had   teleported  away   from  the grotto. Across the stream and to their  left, the  gully dwarves continued to work away at filling the hole that  Pitrick's spell and the beast had left in the wall.

As  for  the beast  itself, the  Aghar had  finished chopping  the front half up into little bits. After a stern  lecture from  their disgusted king about their  new game  of "beast  toss," a  number   of   them   had  been   dispatched  to   carry  wooden  crates of the beast  out through  the crackingrotto,  while the  rest were now hard at work on the rear.
	 Up to her hips in odd shoes,  discarded pots,  leftover food,  and  other "treasures"  on the  far side  of the  mound, Perian  was gazing intently at an old axe she'd found.
	 "Finding anything interesting?" Flint called.
	 Perian  looked  up  guiltily  and,  without  really thinking,  slid the axe into  her belt  loop, the  haft hidden  within the  folds of her tunic. "What was that? I'm sorry, I wasn't listen ing."
	 Flint  shook  his  gray  head,  climbed  off the  mound, came  around to her  side, and  stood with  his arms  crossed deject edly.  "Where  are  we  going  to find  enough weapons?  Are we  going  to  send  the  Aghar  off to  war with  sharpened dinner  forks?" he spat.
	 Perian slid down the  heap to  clap him  on the  shoulder en couragingly.  "Don't  worry,  Nomscul   says  there   are  lots  more  garbage  heaps  where  we  may  find  useful  items.  Be sides, the Agharpults don't really need weapons."
	 Flint snorted  in derision.  "Great, then  we only  need two hundred  Agharpults."  He  picked  up   a  brown   wooden  but ton, the size of his palm,  and shuffled  it between  his hands  idly.  "We  don't  stand  much  of a  chance armed  against the  derro, let alone weaponless."
	 Perian jammed  her hands  on her  hips in  irritation. "Flint  Fireforge, if you're not even  going to  try to  be optimistic,  then  - then,"  she sputtered  in exasperation,  "then -  oh, I  don't know why  I bother  with you!  You're the  crabbiest hill  dwarf I've ever met!"
	 "And how many hill dwarves have you met?" he teased,  his eyes twinkling. He enjoyed getting her dander up.
	 "One  more  than  I  like!"  she  shot  back, and  though her  eyes flashed dark hazel below her curly  copper hair,  the cor ners of her  red lips  were raised  in an  almost imperceptibly  playful smile.
	Grinning  back,  Flint  thought,  how  different  she  is from the frawls I've met in more than  a century  of life.  He nearly reached  up  to  brush  a  wayward   curl  from   her  forehead, then  caught  himself.  Why   do  my   hands  seek   excuses  to touch   her?   We   both   know   hill   dwarves   and  mountain dwarves don't mix.
	"What, no quick retort?" Perian asked him, suddenly conscious of his stare.
	The  hill  dwarf's  bushy  mustache  turned  down in  a frown. "We've too  much work  to do  to indulge  in verbal  jousts," he said  irritably,  pitching  the  brown  button  into   the  heap again.
	Hurt  by  his  sudden  mood  shift,  Perian  bristled.  "Whatever  you  say.  I'm  anxious  as  well  to  be  done  with this Hillhome  campaign,  so  I  can  get  on with  things in  my own life!"
	"There's  nothing  that  says  you have  to do  'this Hillhome campaign,' " he said coldly.
	Perian's hazel  eyes narrowed  to slits.  "You may  not understand  this, but  my sense  of honor  prevents me  from reneging on a promise."
	Flint  whirled  on  her. "I  never asked  for your  promise to help."
	Perian  trembled with  anger. "I  was referring  to my  vow to stay with the gully dwarves," she said quietly.
	"Oh."
	Silence.
	"I  have  things  to  do." Averting  her face,  Perian quickly strode  across  the bridge  that spanned  the stream  and bolted for the tunnel to the Thrown Room.
	Flint swore silently. Why all of  a sudden  had he  acted like such a proud, stubborn old fool? Go after  her, tell  her you're sorry, he  said to  himself. Tell  her whatever  you have  to to take that disgusted look from her eyes!
	"Eeeeeeoooooo!"
	Following  the  echoing  cry of  distress, Flint's  head snapped to the left, where he saw a crew of ten gully dwarves still dismantling  the  carrion  crawler.  Hissing  smoke  rose  in small clouds  around  half  of  the  Aghar, who  were doing  a bizarre dance of pain.
	"How  have  you  boneheads set  yourselves afire  now?" the hill dwarf groaned, taking the bridge in four strides. He ran the two hundred feet to  where they  stood around  the oozing remains of the giant carrion crawler.
	Though  surrounded   by  choking,   putrid-smelling  smoke, Flint could find no signs of fire. Four of the  gully dwarves had drawn  into themselves  in fear,  their big  eyes peering now and  then over  their shoulders  at their  screaming comrades.
	Those five were covered  in varying  degrees with  a black, tarlike slime, which  they were  frantically trying  to fling from their bodies. Each time they managed  to toss  a globule to the  ground, it  exploded on  contact with  a spark  and a loud "bang!" then fizzled into a noxious gray cloud.
	"It burn my skin off!"
	"Black goop make fingers bubble!"
	"It like bomb!"
	"I all sweaddy!"-
	"It eat hole to my brain!"
	"That  your  ear,"  Nomscul  informed  him  calmly, looking closely at the  side of  one Aghar's  head. Nomscul  had been supervising  the  task.  His shaman  status helped  him avoid lapsing into hysteria with the rest of the Aghar.
	"Dunk  them  in  the  stream!"  Perian  cried  from  behind Flint. She had been  back by  the tunnel  when she  heard the gully  dwarves'  screams. Running  up to  the group  now, she propelled two of the injured gully dwarves  over to  the left and into the gently  flowing stream.  She held  their collars while they flailed in  the water,  washing away  the mysterious black substance. Finally their wails slowed to sobs. Perian hauled them out and was  happy to  see that  the affected skin was shiny pink but otherwise unharmed.
	Seeing her success, Flint  shoved the  other two  Aghar in, and soon their symptoms  were relieved  as well.  Teeth chattering, the soaked Aghar clustered  around their  king, looking like drowned rats.
	"Someone had better tell  me what's  going on  here!" Flint demanded of the group. "Nomscul?"
	Nomscul's  wispy  mustache  twitched  above  his lips.  "I use my  magic  bag  to  stop  yelling,  but it  not work!  It always work  before!"  Nomscul's  eyes  narrowed,  shifting   the  bags underneath them. "You put curse on it, O kingly guy?"
	Flint scowled. "Of course it doesn't  work -  it's just  a bag of dir -" He  sighed and  gathered his  patience about  him like a cloak. "Nomscul, where did that black stuff come from?"
	"That  all  king  want  to  know?"  Nomscul  asked.  "It beast guts."  He  pulled  Flint  over  to the  remains of  the carrion crawler  and  pointed.  "See  sack  of  yuk, there?  They chopping like you say, and out goop fly!"
	"Must  be  like  a  venom  sack,"  Perian suggested.  "How are we going to get rid of the rest of  this thing  without disturbing that exploding organ?"
	Flint  was  scratching  his  beard in  thought. "Hand  me your dagger,"  he  said  to  Perian.  Puzzled,  the   mountain  dwarf pulled it from her belt and  placed it  into Flint's  open palm. He bent and stirred it around in the black slime.
	"What  do  you  think  you're doing  with my  blade?" Perian demanded.
	"Just give me a second here," Flint said softly.  Flicking the wrist of the hand that held  the dagger,  Flint sent  some slime sizzling on its way to the dirt floor. A loud clap, like a firecracker,  erupted,  and  then  a narrow  column of  thick, acrid smoke  billowed  upward.  Flint  checked  the  surface  of  Perian's  blade  and  saw that  it was  still smooth  and unpocked. Apparently,  the  substance  was  corrosive  to  skin,  but more durable  objects,  like  metal,  and  probably  glass  and clay, were impervious to its caustic effects.
	Flint handed the weapon back to the frawl. "How much of this black venom do you figure there is here?"
	"I  don't  know,  quite  a  lot.  The  abdominal  sac  is very large  -  and there  could be  another venom  gland, for  all we know. What does it matter?" Perian asked.
	 Flint was doing some calculations in his mind and did not hear her question.
	"You're not thinking of - ?"
	"I certainly am," he cut in, smiling slyly as he  suddenly became aware  of her  again. "I  think, Perian,  that we  may have found our secret weapon...." * * * * *

Basalt's  right hand  curled around  the ring  of teleportation.  His  eyes  were  squeezed  shut  in   deliberation,  his thoughts  on  the  main  room  of  the family  homestead. Then, for a brief  second, an  image of  Moldoon's inviting  tap room flashed  through his  mind and  he could  feel his  body wavering in midair! In panic, he opened  his eyes  and saw  both the family  home  and  Moldoon's,   shimmering  and   distant.  Instantly he clamped  his eyes  shut again  and flooded  his mind with thoughts of home,  his family,  the furniture  - and  in a brief  moment  that  seemed  like  an  eternity,  the wavering stopped and he sensed  that he  was standing  on his  own feet. Somewhere.
	 The  air  was  warm on  his freckled  cheeks. He  opened his eyes  slowly,  and  before  him stood  his Uncle  Ruberik's unsmiling,  astonished  countenance.  The  wooden  pails  in  Ruberik's hands clattered to the floor,  creating a  small puddle of creamy white milk at his feet.
	 "What's  the  meaning  of  this? Where  did you  come from? What  happened  to  you?  You've  got  some explaining  to do, you foolish young trickster!"
	 "Yes, Basalt,"  he heard  his mother  chime in  from behind, "besides  this  bit  of  nonsense, where  have you  been since, well  -"  She  coughed  uncomfortably.  "Where  have  you  been all night? Tybalt's been looking  for you,  not to  mention the rest of us have been worried."
	 Basalt  had  not  moved  since  the  moment of  his arrival, and now he stepped  back toward  the fireplace  to get  both of them into view, Bertina in  the kitchen,  Ruberik at  the door. He saw in their faces their usual reaction to him - his uncle's anger, his mother's distress - and he nearly lost  his courage. But he reminded himself  that there  was a  good cause  for his strange behavior, one far too important to forsake.
	 "Milk's  a-curdlin',  so  speak  up,  harrn! You  look harder used  than  an old  anvil -  where have  you been  drinking all night?" Ruberik demanded.
	 Basalt  pushed  words  into  his  throat. "Ma,  Uncle Rubie,  I've got to tell you  something," he  began, his  voice shaking,  his eyes darting from one figure to the  other. "You're  not go ing  to want  to believe  any of  this, but  you've got  to! Dad  didn't  die  of  a  heart  attack,  he  was murdered  with derro  magic!"
	 Bertina  gasped,  then  bit  her  knuckles.   Ruberik  slapped  his  thigh  angrily.  "Gods  curse  you,  now  you're  making up  hurtful lies to cover your  indulgences! I've  tried everything,  talking  to you,  yelling at  you, shaming  you, trying  to help  however  I  could,  and  this  is  your  response?"  He  stomped  over   to  Basalt   and  snatched   the  young   dwarf's  wrist.  "Maybe a day  or two  in jail - for  running from  the scene  of a  murder  -  will  make  you   dry  out   and  think   about  your  ways!"
	 Basalt  stood  his ground,  in spite  of his  churning stomach  and trembling knees, and spoke quickly and intently.
	 "Please let me explain," he began again. "I'm sorry if I star tled  you, but  the derro  are planning  to attack  Hillhome and  we have very little time to prepare."
	 Ruberik scowled with impatience. "Now what nonsense  are you jabbering about?"
	 "Basalt,  you're  not making  any sense,  but I've  never seen  you  so  earnest,"  said  Bertina. "Whatever's  got you  in this  state, you just take your time and explain it."
	 Ruberik huffed, "It's obvious  what's got  him in  this state,  and I've humored it as much as I care to. It's time to -"
	 "Rubie," cut in Bertina, "leave it be. Let him talk."
	 The nervous hill dwarf  smiled gratefully  toward his  mother.  "I  know I  haven't been  very responsible  lately," he  said, ignoring his  uncle's snort  of agreement,  "but I  am not  drunk now, nor am I lying." He took a deep breath.
	 "Dad  was  killed  because  he discovered  that the  plows the  derro  are  transporting  are  just a  front for  massive weapon  shipments to some nation in the north."
	         "Basalt," his mother moaned, drawing a handkerchief  from her sleeve, "how do you know this?"
	 "I've  been  with  Uncle  Flint.  They tried  to kill  him for  learning the same thing."
	 Ruberik  slapped  his  head   in  understanding.   "There's  a trustworthy  source.  My  infrequent  older brother,  the twilight derro killer!"
	 Basalt frowned. "Uncle Rubie, please let me finish.  If you still don't  believe me  when I'm  done, I'll  cheerfully hand myself over to Uncle Tybalt and  go to  jail. It  won't matter anyway, because if no  one believes  me we'll  all be  dead in five or six days," he said ominously.  Even Ruberik  felt compelled to be silent.
	 "Flint had to kill the derro because  he was  caught spying in their wagons that night."
	 It  was  Bertina's turn  to interrupt  now. "But  what does "your father have to do with any of this?"
	 Basalt  rubbed his  face. He  was exhausted  and flustered. How  would  he  convince  the  town  if  he couldn't  make his own  family believe?  "Uncle Flint  became suspicious  and got the  idea  to look  in the  wagons when  Moldoon told  him Father had gone to do the same thing just before he  died. Flint sneaked  over  the  wall  into  the  wagon  yard and  ran into Garth,  who  thought   Flint  was   Dad's  ghost.   Garth  was frightened out of his wits because he'd  been there  the night Dad was murdered and  saw it  all happen.  I'm sorry,  Ma, but I've  got to  say this.  Garth told  Flint how  an odd-looking derro  had  struck  down  Dad  with a  bolt of  blue smoke..." * * * * *
	"...  Perian was  a captain  of the  House Guard  under this Pitrick's command until he pushed her into  the Beast  Pit for trying to save Uncle Flint. She's absolutely certain that Pitrick  will  follow  through   on  his   threat  to   wipe  out Hillhome...."
	With the long story finally told, Basalt leaned back  in the chair he'd taken by the hearth and stared into the  fire. I've done my best, he thought. At least I tried.
	Neither his  mother nor  Ruberik spoke  for a  long minute.
	"So why  doesn't Flint  come back  to Hillhome  himself and tell us?" Ruberik asked at last.
	"Oh, I guess I forgot that  part," answered  Basalt, draping the crook of  his elbow  across his  eyes. "The  gully dwarves who rescued them  have some  sort of  prophecy that  Flint and  Perian fulfilled  when they  were pushed  into the  pit. They've  been  made  king  and  queen  of  Mudhole,  and  had  to  vow on  their  honor  that  they  wouldn't  run  away."  Basalt's  voice  trailed off as he realized that, with all the  outrageous events  in his story, this last part might well sink his credibility en tirely.  He  dropped  the  raised  arm back  into his  lap. "You  don't believe me, do you? If I  hadn't seen  it, I  wouldn't be lieve me, either."
	 "That's  the  most  sensible admission  I've heard  yet," mut tered Ruberik.
	 But  Basalt  shot  up  in  the  chair  and extended  his right  hand.  "But I've  got the  ring! You  saw me  teleport here  - '  where else would I  get something  like this?  And once  I'd got  it, why would I come back  here just  to tell  lies? I  could go  anywhere  I want,  anywhere at  all! Instead,  I came  back here  to warn everyone. Doesn't that count for anything?"
	 Ruberik rose to his  feet and  straightened his  jacket before  addressing  his  nephew.  "When  you  started  this   tale,  you  said  you'd  go  see  Uncle  Tybalt, whether  I believed  you or  no. Are you ready to go?"
	 Bertina  looked  sadly  at  her  brother-in-law.   "Would  you  really turn in my son?" she asked.
	 "I would if I thought he was lying.  But obviously,  he's not.  Come  on,  lad.  We've  some  tough  persuading  ahead of  us if  we're going to wake up this town." * * * * *

   "We have encountered a new problem," said Pitrick softly.
	    The thane listened half-interestedly, while his gargoyles
	   leered and flapped their leathery wings behind him. "Yes?"
	                                         he finally inquired.
	 "The  dwarves  of  Hillhome  are  preparing  to  rise  against  us," the adviser  said. Pitrick  used the  story he  had devised  on  his  way  back to  the city.  He had  decided that  the hill  dwarf's warning was too potentially dangerous to ignore.
	 "Indeed?"  Realgar  sat  forward  and  fixed  Pitrick  with an  icy gaze. "What do you intend to do about it?"
	 "There  is  but  one  thing to  do," announced  the hunchback,  his voice an oily hiss. "The village must be destroyed." * * * * *

"What's the next step?" Ruberik asked Tybalt a  little later, after they'd convinced the constable of their story.  "We're all family to start with,  and none  of us  depends on  trading with the derro for our  livelihood. But  what do  you think  is going to  happen  when  this  story  starts getting  around? A  lot of people are going to get real upset, and the rest are  just plain not going to believe it."
	 "That's certain," agreed Tybalt. "There's  just no  way we're going  to  talk  people  out of  the easy  money the  derro have been throwing around."
	 The  small  group  of  Fireforge  harrns  and   frawls  lapsed into silence in  Tybalt's sparse  office: Basalt,  Ruberik, Bertina,  and  Tybalt.  A  stout table  took up  the middle  of the chamber. Tybalt, in his sturdy chair, sat with  his feet  on the table, pipe in mouth. Basalt  and Bertina  sat on  stools pulled up  alongside  the  table,  while  Ruberik  paced   between  the door and the  opposite wall.  Despite the  tension in  the room, Basalt  felt  a new  sense of  family unity  that he  found very warming.
	 Basalt  glanced   timidly  from   Ruberik  to   Tybalt,  then spoke up. "Perhaps if we could  get two  or three  leading citizens  on  our side,  like the  Hammerhand's or  Strikesparks, we would  carry  a  lot  more  influence.  People  would  listen to someone like that even if they wouldn't believe me."
	 "The  problem with  that idea,"  responded Ruberik,  "is that the 'leading families'  are almost  universally the  ones who've benefitted  the  most  from  the  derro's  presence.  That's why they're the 'leading families.' "
	 "No, the people who are  profiting won't  be willing  to risk those  profits,"  stated  Tybalt.  "Not  unless  we  can  demonstrate  a  clear  danger.  Then, perhaps,  they will  admit that dealing with the derro was a bad idea."
	 Bertina picked up the train of thought. "But as far as  I can see, the only  way to  demonstrate that  there really  is danger is to get everyone together and have  a look  inside one  of the wagons.  When  they  see that  it's full  of weapons,  how could anyone deny that it's a threat?"
	 "Precisely," said Tybalt.
	 "That's  just  fine and  dandy," Ruherik  interjected, "but you'll never  get anyone  to look  inside the  wagons. They'll all be afraid that we might be wrong. If  a mass  of townspeople  marches  up and  arrests the  drivers and  searches their wagons  and  finds  nothing  but  plows  and   farming  tools, we'll  have  caused  an  enormous  incident   with  Thorbardin that could jeopardize the whole trade arrangement.
	 "No,"  he  concluded,  "this  town will  need to  be handed proof - not just evidence - on a silver platter."
	 Suddenly Basalt grew so excited he  nearly tumbled  off his stool.  "That's  the  answer, Uncle  Ruberik! Let's  hand them the proof. They can't stop us from searching the wagons.
	 "If the four of us got into the wagon  yard, we  could capture the derro inside, search the wagons, and then call in the rest  of the  town and  show them  what we  found. If  we find nothing,  then the  whole affront  is our  fault and  the town can blame it on a tiny group of troublemakers."
	 Silence  reigned  once  again  as  everyone  considered Basalt's  proposal.  Finally,  Tybalt  leaned forward  and said, "Here's what we'll need...."

               * * * * *

Hillhome  was  already  bustling  as  the  four  Fireforges made  their  way  to  the  wagon  yard.  They stopped  a short way down the street and eyed the open gate.
	 "Do they ever post a guard?" asked Ruberik.
	 "One or  two of  them stay  inside, but  they don't  come out in the sun," Tybalt replied. "Anyone  can come  or go  as they please. But the derro keep a pretty close eye on  the entrance because  they  don't  want  people  who  have no  reason going inside anyway."
	 "So we could just walk in?" Basalt proposed.
	 "Not without attracting  a lot  of attention,"  explained Tybalt.  "That's  where your  ring comes  in. Remember  the plan and what we talked  about in  my office.  Just keep  your wits about you and you'll be fine.  We'll all  be fine.  Now, whenever you're ready."

Basalt  nodded  his  head.  He   peered  intently   down  the  street  and  through  the  wagon  yard  gate,  concentrating on  the  forge  area.  Just  beyond  the  forge  was the  shop area  where tools were kept and the derro slept. To the right  of the  shop were the stables. Basalt focused mentally  on a  spot just  a  few  feet  from  the  forge.   With  his   stomach  churning  slightly, he touched Pitrick's ring and then, with a slight pop  in his ears, he was standing beside the forge. I'm  really get ting the hang of this, he thought with satisfaction.
	 Guttoral  laughter  from  inside  the shop  building reminded  Basalt  of  his  dangerous  mission. He  glanced back  over his  shoulder  to  see his  mother and  two uncles  standing beneath  the  trees  where  he  had  been  only moments  earlier, giving  him reassuring waves.
	 Glancing  around,  Basalt  saw  the  two  heavy  freight wag ons parked to his right, in front of the stables. He  spotted a  pair  of  legs  moving  between the  wagons. Quickly  he turned  back to  the door  of the  forge and  flung it  open. His keen  dwarven  eyes  adjusted  quickly  to  the darkness.  He sighted  three derro, bolting from their  beds in  reaction to  the sud den crash and light streaming through the door.
	 "Wake  up,  you   big-eyed,  moss-chewing,   parasites.  I've  brought  you  some  eggs  to suck  for breakfast!"  shouted the  nervous  hill  dwarf.  Immediately  he  turned  and ran  as the  three  enraged  derro  charged  after  him.  The  fourth  derro  raced around  the end  of the  nearer wagon  and joined  in the  pursuit.
	 As Basalt ran, he picked  out a  spot along  the wall  of the  wagon yard, directly  off to  his right.  He slowed  down, let ting  the derro  nearly catch  up to  him, before  touching the  ring   and  popping   across  the   open  ground   to  reappear  twenty yards away, alongside the wall.
	 The  startled  derro  skidded  to  a stop,  casting searching  glances  this  way and  that for  the mysterious  dwarf. Basalt  waited  a  few  moments,  then  waved  his  arm  and  hollered,  "Hey, over here, you stinking sewer rats! Are you blind?"
	 Furious,  the  derro  tore after  Basalt again,  drawing dag gers from their  belts as  they ran.  Basalt watched  them come  on, at the same time eyeing the top of  a barrel  standing near the  stables.  As  the  derro closed  to within  a few  yards, he touched  the  ring  and  instantly  vanished,  reappearing  again atop the barrel.
	The  derro  crashed  into  the  wall  where  Basalt   had  been standing, falling  over each  other and  swearing in  their harsh language.  Within  moments   they  were   back  on   their  feet, choking  with  rage  and  scanning  the  yard  for   their  prey. With  a  yell,  one  of  them  spotted  him and  the pack  was on the attack again.
	But  this  time,  as  they  reached  the  halfway point  to Basalt's  position,  one  of  them  paused  momentarily.  A  dagger flashed  in his  hand and  then, with  a ringing  "thunk," embedded itself in the stable wall inches from Basalt's left shoulder. Immediately  the  others  followed   suit,  and   another  dagger and two hatchets  flew toward  the hapless  hill dwarf.  A splitsecond  later  they  pierced  the  wooden  wall, dead  on target, but their target  was not  there. Seeing  the danger,  Basalt had grasped  the  ring  and  teleported  himself  next to  the forge, back to where he had first landed in the wagon yard.
	Basalt  realized  he  was  shaking  and  paused  a   moment  to catch  his  breath  before  turning  and  sprinting   toward  the wagons.  He  had  taken  only  a  few   steps  when   the  derro, bloodlust  showing  in  their  oversized  eyes,  careened  around both  sides  of  the stable.  Basalt raced  scant yards  ahead of them  directly  between  the  wagons.  As   he  broke   past  the back  ends  of  the  vehicles,  Tybalt,  who was  standing behind one  wagon,  tossed  a  gleaming  sword  to  his  nephew.  Basalt turned in time to see the  derro charge  straight into  the Fireforge's  trap;  two  sturdy  spear  shafts  shot out,  knee high, from  either  side  of  the  passage. Tybalt  held one,  with his shoulder  braced  against  the  wagon's  open  tailgate,  and Ruberik  held  the  other.  The  derro  tumbled  headlong  over the unexpected hurdles, sliding to a stop in the damp earth.
	Seconds  later,  Tybalt,  Ruberik,  Basalt,  and  even  Bertina stood  over  the  prone  and  cursing  derro,  holding contraband weapons  to  their  throats.  "You  were  right  about  the weapons and the wagons, lad," puffed Ruberik.
	Bertina's  face  was  flushed  from  the  excitement  and exertion as she  beamed at  her son.  Tybalt shook  his spear  at one  of  the  derro,  commanding,  "Bertina, you  run and  fetch the  mayor  and  anyone  else  from  the   council  you   can  find.  Meanwhile, let's get this sorry lot tied up. I've a feeling the  truly nasty part of this job's just beginning." * * * * *

Hill  dwarves  from  throughout  the  town  quickly  gathered  as the news of the derro's betrayal spread.  Some, such  as the  pompous  merchant  Micah,  at  first  objected  to  the attacks  against their partners in trade.  Others, including  Hildy, the  militia  captain,  and  finally  even Mayor  Holden, recognized  the seriousness of their situation.
	 "It  doesn't  matter  what  you  think,  Micah.  This council  has  made  its  decision."  The  speaker,  Mayor  Holden, stood  atop  a  barrel  in  the  wagon  yard,  surrounded by  the four  other  members  of  the  council,  the village  militia master,  Axel  Broadblade,  and  a  throng  of townsfolk.  "It's obvious  that the Theiwar  lied to  us and  are using  our town  to pre pare for a war.  We've all  seen the  weapons concealed  in the  wagons  and  we've  heard  the   testimony  from   these  derro  prisoners.  The  council's  vote has  gone against  you, Micah,  and that's the end of that. If you could pry  your nose  out of  all that Theiwar steel  you've been  collecting, you  would see  that this is the only decent course of action.
	 "Now,  let's hear  from the  master of  militia what  sort of  action  we  can  take."  Mayor   Holden  clambered   down  from  the  barrel  and  several  other  dwarves helped  Broadblade, a  stocky  veteran  of  many  ancient  campaigns, up.  The militia  master  was  considered the  epitome of  the military  dwarf by  the citizens of Hillhome. He always dressed  in a  clean, green  overcoat;  a  ribbed  helmet with  hinged earflaps;  and thigh high, hard leather  boots with  the tops  turned down.  He also  carried a long dagger  in a  scabbard that  hung from  his belt  in  the  manner  of a  human cavalry  officer. Cavalry  was al most   nonexistent   in  dwarven   armies,  but   the  scabbard  added  a  certain  panache to  the uniform.  Broadblade cleared  his throat,  folded his  hands behind  his back,  and addressed  the crowd.
	            "As those of you who are members of the Hillhome  Militia - and that's most  of you,  even if  you don't  show up  regularly  for drill  - are  aware, our  arsenal of  weapons is  both small and eclectic, consisting as it does of a  mixture of  hunting,   farming,   and   carpentry   implements.   This  has  proven  adequate  in  the  past  when  dealing  with occasional  raiding critters and wandering bandit mobs.
	 "If we are to defend ourselves against the mountain  dwarves, however - as we inevitably must, now that their  nefarious  scheme  has been  uncovered -  we will  need quality . weapons, of a  uniform nature,  which can  be used  in precise formations.   Fortunately,   a   significant   stock   of   such weapons  -  approximately  forty  spears,   twenty-five  swords, and  thirty-five  axes,  or  approximately  one   hundred  weapons  in all  - has  just fallen  into our  hands. Unfortunately, our  militia  contains  just  over  three-hundred-fifty  combatants,   leaving   us   with   a   shortfall   of  approximately, uhhmmm,  two-hundred-fifty   weapons.  Some   of  this   can  be made  up  from  existing  inventory,  but  a  large   number  of weapons is still needed, desperately."
	Broadblade  paused  for  a  moment,  letting  his  math settle on the crowd for  effect. Then,  with a  stern face,  he continued.
	"Two  more  wagons  should   arrive  tomorrow,   according  to the  usual  schedule.  We  shall seize  these wagons  and appropriate  their  contents.  Assuming  they,  too,   contain  fifty weapons  apiece,  that  brings  our  total  to  two-hundred.  It would,  however,  be   imprudent  to   expect  any   more  shipments  after  that,  as  the Theiwar  will quickly  realize that something is happening to their wagons."
	"So where do we get another one-hundred-fifty weapons?" shouted someone in the crowd.
	"That  is  the  significant  question,"  admitted  Broadblade. "The  plows  and  such  in  these  wagons  will provide  the raw material for a few more, but not nearly enough."
	"We  can't  fight  without  enough  weapons,"   shouted  someone else.
	Basalt crowded his  way up  to the  barrel. "Listen,  I've got an idea," he yelled as he climbed to the top of the  barrel with Broadblade.
	The  militia master  quieted the  crowd. "Everyone,  this is the  young  fellow  who  tipped  us  off  to the  whole thing. What's your idea, Fireforge?"
	"Two  wagons  left  for  New  Sea last  night. We  know that the trip takes two days; they travel all night and then lay up somewhere  during  the  daylight,"  Basalt  explained.  "If we start  right  now, with  a fast  wagon, we  should be  able to catch them before dark."
	"Use  my brewery  wagon," offered  Hildy. "It's  smaller and faster than their big carts, and it's empty right now, waiting for another load."
	Broadblade  boomed  out  over  the  crowd,  "We  need volunteers to go with  Basalt and  Hildy to  overtake the  two wagons.  You  can  draw  weapons  from  the  new stock  and start immediately.  The rest  of you,  assemble in  one hour  in the square,  ready  to  start  fortifying  the town  in accordance with the plans Mayor Holden and I will prepare.
	"Let's get to work!"

                     Chapter 18

                 The Secret Weapon  "Go for big march!"  "Outside time!"  A  chorus  of  shrieks  and  whoops  erupted  as  the  Aghar danced  around  Flint and  Perian, delighted  by the  news of their impending campaign.  "It's not a picnic!" Flint bellowed. "We're going to war! To fight the mountain dwarves!"  The  celebration  continued,  unaffected  by  his  words  of caution.  "Let them enjoy  the idea  now," counselled  Perian, patting Flint on  the shoulder.  "They'll find  out soon  enough what we mean."  "I suppose you're right," agreed the hill dwarf. He cast an- other  look  at the  dancing, scampering  Aghar. He  could not help  but  wonder  how  many  of  them  now  cavorted  in Mudhole for the last time. * * * * *
	"Come  on,  Grayhoof,  pull!"  Hildy  barked  at  the  heavy draft horse,  her blond  braids flying  behind her.  The steed leaned forward into his traces,  straining every  massive muscle to pull the wagon up the pass.
	Basalt  pushed  back  his  red locks  and leaned  forward on the buckboard beside  Hildy, as  if he  could help  the struggling  creature   with  his   own  forward   momentum.  Behind them, five more hill  dwarves -  all young,  all armed  to the teeth - lay low within the wagon's boxy cargo bed.
	"Up,  boy!  Faster!"  The brewer's  daughter coaxed  and cajoled the  grizzled gelding,  and the  old horse  responded by putting every sinew of his massive body into the  task. Basalt noticed that Hildy didn't use a whip, yet  she seemed  able to bring every bit of desperate energy out of her faithful steed. Foam  flecked  Grayhoof's  mouth, and  the old  horse's flanks heaved with the effort of its labors.
	They  were  six hours  east of  Hillhome on  the mountainous Passroad.  The  hill  dwarves  were  headed  toward  Newsea to ambush  the  derro  wagons  that had  left Hillhome  the night before.  None  of  them  knew  how  far  beyond the  pass they would find the  derro waystation.  Soon they  would be  out of the mountains and  into the  plains just  west of  Newsea, and that would make for quicker travel. Sooner or later  the light wooden beerwagon,  with its  single hitch,  would catch  up to the iron-bound freight wagons  of the  derro, even  with their four-horse teams.
	The  hill dwarves  looked anxiously  at the  sun as  it sank into the western sky.  They had  to reach  the derro  camp between  Hillhome  and Newsea  by sunset,  or else  their quarry would start for  the sea.  A hundred  more weapons  that could be used to defend Hillhome would then be lost.
	"How much farther do you figure it is?" asked Turq Hearthstone, popping his head up from the box behind Basalt and Hildy.  A heavily  muscled lad,  he propped  his chin up on the edge of the wagon.
	 "I don't know," Basalt admitted. "But it's  got to  be close enough that the  Theiwar can  get there  in one  night's travel from  Hillhome.  We  know  from  Mayor  Holden  that  they  get off the road again by daylight."
	 Another  hill  dwarf,  Horld,  also  looked  up out  of the wagon.  "How  many  of  the  white-bellied  scum do  you think we'll find there?"
	 Basalt  thought  for  a  moment.   "Three  per   wagon,  two wagons  coming  and  two  going.... My  best guess  is there'll 'be about twelve of them."
	 Horld  counted  for  a  moment. "Against  seven of  us," he calculated.
	 "We'll have the element of surprise on our side," Basalt encouraged, adding  a silent  "I hope."  Horld settled  back, apparently satisfied with the answer.
	 Basalt saw that the others were looking  to him  for leadership  now.  Horld  had  always  been  one  of  the  more prominent  of  the  younger  generation  in  Hillhome. In  some ways he'd been sort of a bully,  and Basalt  usually tried  to avoid him. Now here he was, asking Basalt's opinions.
	 "Couldn't you use that ring to go there, find out for sure?" asked Turq,  gesturing to  the intertwined  steel bands  on Basalt's finger.
	 Basalt shook his  head. "Magic  is strange,  I guess.  I can only use the ring to go places that I've  seen and  can picture in  my  mind.  I  don't  know  where  the  derro stop  is; they might  take  shelter  anywhere  in  a cave  or the  forest." He shrugged helplessly.
	 The   heavily  breathing   Grayhoof  lumbered   through  the saddle  between  two  looming  hills  that  marked  the  summit of the Passroad; it  would be  downhill from  here to  the sea. "Giddap, now, boy! Run for it!" Hildy cried.
	 Sensing the lightening of his burden,  the horse  broke into an  easy  trot.  The  wagon  rumbled  and  jounced  behind, and in places Hildy had to rein Grayhoof in a bit just to  keep the wagon  from  hurrying  the horse.  Traces squealed  in protest, wheels  and  timbers creaked,  and the  noise of  their descent precluded anything less than shouted conversation.
	Basalt hung on for his life as they  rocketed down  the narrow,  twisting road.  He looked  over at  Hildy, saw  her eyes locked on the horse and the route before them, her  face fixed in an expression of  fierce, teeth-gritting  determination. He thought about the five  harrns in  the back  of the  wagon, and began to feel all confused again.
	What  should  we  do?  They  expect  me  to  decide:but  I'm no adventurer! I can't do this!  Now that  we are  nearing our goal,  the  whole  plan   seems  hare-brained.   My  foolhardy idea is risking the lives of six others, as well as my own!
	Then  Basalt remembered  his Uncle  Flint's words  of inspiration.  Maybe  together  he  and  his  comrades   could  meet these  mountain  dwarves  and  best  them.  They   were  seven young  hill dwarves,  all strong,  all well-armed.  He sneaked another  look  at  the  sun.  If they  were lucky,  they would reach the derro in daylight  - and  gain a  significant advantage over their subterranean-dwelling cousins.
	Dark  pines  grew  to each  side of  the rutted  track. They passed an occasional farm  or forest  cottage, inhabited  by a few  of  the  hill  dwarves  who had  emigrated over  the pass years  before.  Basalt and  Hildy both  examined every  one of them closely for signs of derro, but saw none. As  the lengthening shadows  of the  trees stretched  over the  road, Basalt began to fear that he and his crew would be  too late  to find the derro before dark.
	"I see  something there!"  Hildy whispered  suddenly, pointing to a dirt track, deeply rutted, that branched off from the road. At the end of it, some  fifty yards  away, was  a large, dark  brown  barn  of  heavy  logs.  The  windowless structure had a large opening on  one side,  sheltered by  an extending, overhanging  portion  of  roof.   Four  heavy   derro  wagons, their  iron-spoked  wheels  towering  higher  than any  of the dwarves,  stood   in  the   yard.  One   black-armored  derro, standing  in the  shade beside  a wagon,  squinted at  them as they rolled by. None of the  horses was  around, and  only the single derro was conspicuous, performing a listless circuit of the wagons, obviously bored.
	"Stay  down!"  Basalt  hissed  to the  dwarves in  the back. They drew even with the  path. "Go  past," Basalt  muttered to Hildy,  his heart  pounding. "Let's  not show  we're unusually interested."
	Without  missing  a beat,  the frawl  urged the  draft horse along.  The  small  wagon  rumbled  past  the  track  and  was once again surrounded by dark, towering pines.
	"Okay,  stop  here,"  Basalt ordered  after they  had rolled several  hundred  yards  beyond  the  muddy   trail.  Grayhoof lumbered  off  the  road,  pulling the  wagon under  the thick branches  of  several   overhanging  boughs.   "Everyone  out! Hurry - the sun's already dropping behind the trees."
	The six other hill dwarves piled out  of the  wagon, hefting their  weapons  and  standing  in  the  darkness  beneath  the trees. For a  moment no  one moved,  and then  Basalt realized that they were waiting for him to give the orders.
	"Okay," he offered, his voice a  hoarse whisper.  "We've got to move quietly. We'll sneak  through the  woods until  we get to the edge of their barn. Then we take them by surprise."
	Holding  their  axes  and daggers  firmly, the  hill dwarves advanced in a file through the woods to the left of  the barn, Basalt leading the way to the clearing.
	Suddenly  Basalt  squatted.  His  companions   followed  suit.
	"There's still just the one guard, so the  others must  be inside," Basalt whispered. "And  the horses.  111 get  the guard quietly. As soon as I do, rush the barn."
	The  others  nodded  acceptance  of  his plan,  and Basalt flushed  when  Hildy  kissed  him  quickly  on  his freckled cheek. "For good luck," she said.
	He  crawled  forward  until  he  crouched  among   the  last branches of the pine trees before  the clearing,  watching the listless derro perform his circuit. Finally, the fellow turned away  from  Basalt,  stepping  around  one  of the  wagons and disappearing from his sight.
	Instantly  Basalt  started  forward,  trying  to  run  in  a crouch. He  winced with  each footfall,  but soon  reached the wagon  where he  had last  seen the  guard. Clenching  his axe in  both  hands,  he looked  toward the  barn. No  alarm, yet. No sunlight reached  the floor  of the  clearing, but  the sky overhead  was  still  bright.  He hoped  that would  be enough to impair the derro.
	Resolutely,  Basalt  stepped  around   the  corner   of  the wagon. Before him, with his back  to the  hill dwarf,  was the derro, not ten feet away. Basalt  tried to  creep soundlessly, but his foot made an  audible thunk  as he  lowered it  into a muddy patch of ground.
	The  derro  whirled  in  surprise.  Basalt saw  the fellow's wide  eyes  blink in  confusion, and  then the  mountain dwarf squinted. "Eh?" the Theiwar began. "Is  it time,  already?" In the bright light he  mistook Basalt  for one  of his  own comrades.
	"It's time," grunted Basalt. Suddenly  all the  tragedy, all the frustrations  and humiliations  inflicted by  the mountain dwarves,  was focused  onto this  derro in  front of  him. Basalt's silver-bladed axe flew forward, biting into the side of the  unsuspecting  Theiwar's   neck.  Soundlessly   the  dwarf dropped to the ground.
	For  a  moment  Basalt  froze,  listening  and  thinking. He tried to detect some kind of revulsion  or horror  in himself. He  had  never killed  anyone before;  shouldn't he  feel some remorse? Yet the slaying of  the derro  seemed like  any other task, difficult and dangerous perhaps, but very necessary.
	"That  was  for  Moldoon,"  he  whispered  to   the  corpse. Then  he stepped  back around  the wagon  and gestured  to the others.
	The  six  hill  dwarves rushed  from their  concealment. Basalt  leaped  forward  to  join  them,  and  the   whole  band charged  through  the  gaping  door into  the darkness  of the barn.
	Their  eyes  struggled  to  adjust to  the sudden  change in lighting.  They  heard the  mountain dwarves  cursing, smelled the presence of the heavy draft horses.
	Basalt  could  see  several  derro,  who had  been squatting around  a  low  cookfire,  leap  to their  feet and  snatch up weapons.  Several  others  were  still  wrapped  in  bedrolls. Now they struggled awkwardly to escape, taken unawares.
	Basalt cracked his axe down,  hard, against  the parry  of a derro's  short  sword.  The  mountain  dwarf  staggered  back, thrown  off  balance.  Basalt swung  again and  again, driving him farther back. He  attacked with  a reckless  savagery that surprised even himself.
	This Theiwar wore metal armor and used his blade with skill, striking past one of the hill dwarf's blows to scrape Basalt's  leg.  But  his  experience  was  no  match for  the hill dwarf's  savage  onslaught,  and  in  another step  the mountain dwarf backed into the wall of the barn.
	The  derro  lunged  once  more, a  desperate stab  at Basalt's heart. The hill dwarf  skipped nimbly  out of  the way,  and the enemy  had no  parry for  his next  blow. The  battle-axe sliced into  the  derro's  forehead,  driving  deep  into   his  brain. Soundlessly, the mountain dwarf toppled forward.
	Basalt   wrenched   his   weapon   free,   whirling   to  look around  the  barn.  Several  other  derro  lay  motionless,  and one  of  the  hill  dwarves  writhed  in  pain, sprawled  on the ground.  He  saw  Hildy  driving  her  heavy  sword  at  another derro,  and  Basalt  sprinted  toward  her.  She ran  the fellow through without any of his help, however.
	The  Theiwar.  who  had  finally struggled  out of  their bedrolls wasted no time in fleeing from  the barn,  casting frightened  backward  glances  at  the hill  dwarves. In  moments they disappeared into the surrounding forest.
	"Let  'em  go,"  Basalt  advised when  Turq and  Horld started after. "We've got the weapons we came for."
	Hildy  knelt  beside   Drauf,  the   wounded  young   harrn.  A chubby lad, he  had been  cut in  the thigh,  but the  blade had not  touched  bone.  Hildy  bound  the  wound  and  stopped  the bleeding,  making  Drauf  more comfortable.  "I'll be  okay," he muttered, sitting up weakly.
	"Good,"  Basalt  said,  clapping  him on  the back.  "Let's be gone  from  this  hole  and get  back on  the road  to Hillhome, then.  There  should  be enough  moonlight to  guide us,  but we can  stop  along  the way  if we  must. We'll  take the  two wagons  that  have  weapons  in 'em.  Turq and  Horld, go  look underneath  the  boxes."  He  described  the compartment  as Flint had related it to him. "We'll leave the other two here."
	"If  we  take  all  of their  horses," Hildy  suggested, "then even  the  wagons  we  leave are  useless to  the derro  who ran away."
	"Good  idea,"  Basalt  agreed.  They  identified  and  hitched up  the  two  wagons  that  still held  a great  many weapons, tossing out the  inferior plows  on top  to lighten  the load. With the eight extra draft horses following  along, tied  to a single line, they started back to Hillhome. * * * * *
	The  rest  of Flint's  day was  spent collecting  the secret weapon  of  explosive  sludge into  every available  glass and clay vessel  in Mudhole.  More than  once, Flint  was forced to dive and catch a  jug that  got knocked  over, drag  a smoking Aghar to the stream, or  haul a  frantic subject,  kicking and thrashing, from the inside of  the carrion  crawler's carcass. By  the  end of  the day,  his nerves  and patience  were completely  worn  out.  Even  the  gully  dwarves knew  enough to leave him alone that night.
	The  next  two  days  -  all  the time  remaining to  them were devoted to drilling  the gully  dwarves in  the maneuvers of  war. Perian's  experience in  this regard  was invaluable. Unfortunately,  the  maneuvers  and  formations  used  by  the House   Guard   were   completely   hopeless  for   the  gully dwarves.
	"Get in line," screamed  Perian. "Get  in line!"  Eyeing the ragged row of  Aghar with  disgust, Perian  stomped up  to the worst offender, who was standing a full four feet in  front of everyone else, and walked a slow circle around him.
	She stopped in front of him and stared into his eyes.
	"What's your name, citizen?"
	"Spittul, 0 great and powerful Queen."
	Flint, seated at the end of the line, guffawed.
	Perian glowered at him,  then turned  back to  Spittul. "Are you really trying to be a soldier, Spittul, or are you playing games with me?"
	Spittul's eyes  lit up.  The queen  was talking  directly to him!  "Oh,  yes,  Queen  Furryend,  I  want  be a  solder real bad!"
	"And  that's  what  you're  doing, Spittul,"  shouted Flint. "Keep up the good work." The  hill dwarf  roared at  his joke, and  roared  twice  as loud  as the  muscles in  Perian's neck bulged.
	Through  clenched  teeth,  Perian  ordered,  "Take  two steps back  and  then  don't  move."  She   turned  and   stomped  to where  Flint  lay in  the moss,  grabbed him  by the  belt, and dragged  him  out of  earshot of  the troops.  "How do  you expect me to get  any kind  of discipline  into this  rabble when you undermine my authority?" she hissed.
	"It's  hopeless  anyway,"  chuckled  Flint, wiping  his eyes. "You can't drill these tunnel apes like veterans. They'll never learn. They're just not made to stand in lines."
	Perian  turned  around to  look at  the assembled  group. "So what  do  you  suggest?  We  herd  them  into  a pack  and yell 'charge!'  at  the  first  opportunity? They'll  fry themselves with their own sludge bombs."
	"Probably,"  Flint  confessed.  "I  think  we  need  some new tactics, something more suited to their ability."
	"Be my guest," snorted Perian.
	Flint strolled back past the slowly mingling knots of Aghar. "The problem, as I see it," he said to them, "is  one of getting  close  enough  to  the  bad guys  to lob  sludge bombs into them,  without getting  beaten up  first. It's  obvious we can't hope to  do it  as a  big group.  Maybe we  can do  it as small groups. Let's try something...
	"You  harrn  over  there," Flint  shouted, indicating  a group of  about  ten  gully dwarves  who actually  seemed to  be paying attention. "I want you to  move, all  together in  a bunch, over to the wall and then back here again."
	With  a  good  deal  of  pushing  and  shoving,  they clomped to  the  wall,  turned,  and  elbowed their  way back  to where they'd started.
	"Very  good,"  declared  Flint.  "Now we're  going to  try it again,  this  way."  He  positioned the  gully dwarves  so that those in front were holding  their shields  in front  and those behind  were  holding  their  shields  overhead,  forming  good cover.
	"OK,  walk  to  the  wall  and  back,  and keep  your shields where I put them."
	The  Aghar  stumbled  to  the   wall,  turned,   and  jostled back.  By  the  time  they reached  Flint, several  shields had been dropped and the rest were all askew.
	"That  was  pathetic,"  Perian  announced.  "This is  a dead end."
	Flint  shook his  head. "I  disagree. By  the time  they returned they were all mixed up,  but they  reached the  wall in pretty  good  order.  I  think that  with some  practice, they could do this."
	"Why bother?" Perian shot back.
	"I'll show you." Flint turned  back to  his test  group. "Everybody  pick  up  a  rock  and  then  resume  your positions." General   mingling,  pushing,   rock  picking,   and  swapping broke out until Flint countermanded his order. "Hold it, let's try one thing at a time. Everybody pick up one rock.
	"Now everybody put your shield where I showed you.
	"Now everybody walk toward where the  monster came into  the  cavern  and  when  I  say 'throw,'  everybody throw their rock at the wall."  The Aghar  stumbled along  a weaving path  toward  the  wall.  When  Flint hollered,  "Throw!" they dropped their  shields and  pelted the  wall with  rocks, then fell on the floor laughing, wrestling, and scratching.
	Flint  turned back  toward Perian.  "Maybe the  hill dwarves should flee now, before it's too late. This is hopeless."
	Perian  stared at  the tangled  mob of  Aghar on  the floor. "Nonsense!  I  see  lots of  progress. What  do you  call that maneuver?" she asked.
	Flint sighed. "The wedge."
	The wedge - which the Aghar quickly renamed the wedgie  -  the  Agharpult,  and  general target  practice made up the bulk of their  drills. Perian  was cheered  to discover the Aghar were excellent shots  with a  thrown rock  or sludge bomb  (a  skill  developed  by stoning  rodents for  food, she discovered  later).  The  Agharpult  they enjoyed,  and showed a natural proficiency for distance, if not accuracy.
	But  the  wedgie,  Flint  was  convinced,  was   their  real strength. By the end of their training period they could cross the  Big  Sky  Room  in  a tight  clump at  a run,  hurl their dummy  sludge  bombs,   and  run   back,  all   without  being prompted with orders every step of the way.
	Still, two days was only two days.
	"Why king frown every time when we do our army stuff?"  asked  Nomscul.  "Him  look  worse  than  old goldfunger lompchuter."
	Flint only glowered  at the  gully dwarf  shaman. Gritting his teeth, unable to watch the ludicrous marching exhibition for a moment longer, Flint called out, "Listen up you frawls and  harrns!"  He  clapped  his  hands.  After  much pushing, shoving, and eye poking, the gully dwarves stood in  a mass, at what vaguely resembled attention.
	"What  you  folks  need  is  something  to give  your work purpose, some  driving rhythm  that synchronizes  and unites you  as  an  unstoppable force."  Perian giggled  behind her hand, and Flint elbowed her in  the ribs.  He moved  away to pace before them, arms linked behind his  back, his  eyes on the ground. "That is why I've  decided to  teach you  a very special, sacred, royal dwarven song." A  hush fell  over the crowd of assembled Aghar.
	"King?"
	Flint  looked  up in  irritation to  see Nomscul  waving his hand above his head.
	"We know good song," the shaman said proudly.
	Nods  of  agreement  fluttered  through the  crowd. Before Flint could  stop them,  the gully  dwarves launched  into a raucous tune.

  Big yellow sun,
	   No spit in eye,
	             Die all day,
	      Leafs up in the sky asleep,
	             Burning bugs,
	           Gray, gray, gray,
	            Sleep, old man,
	             and the trees
	           call us for eats.
	        The leafs are on fire,
	             but so what,
	      they all gone by snowtime.
	"No, no, NO!" Flint roared above their cacophony. He slapped his palm with a thin stick. Eventually their song ground to a halt. "I want you to hear a real song.  The Dwarven  Marching  Song  is  part  of  your heritage  as dwarves. Now, listen up."
	Flint  cleared  his  throat and  unconsciously straightened his spine. His voice, pleasantly low and  rumblingly pitched, began the first strain of the song he had not sung  in years, since he had left the dwarves.

        Under the hills the heart of the axe
	   Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
	   Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
	  For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
	        The soldier's heart sires and brothers
	                   The battlefield.
	                  Come back in glory
	                Or on your shield.

  Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
	      The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
	      Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
	          Stone on metal metal on stone.
	      The soldier's heart contains and dreams
	                 The battlefield.
	                Come back in glory
	                Or on your shield.

       Red of iron imagined from the vein,
	          Green of brass green of copper
	    Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
	   Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
	     The soldier's heart lies down, completes
	                 The battlefield.
	                Come back in glory
	             Or on your shield.
	Flint  became  aware,  sometime  around  "Out of  the mountains," that Perian, standing at his side, had joined  in the song. Their voices mingled and intertwined,  his a  low baritone, hers an even, clear alto. When he  stumbled over  a few forgotten words, Perian was there to fill them in.  His heart was  full  and  near  to  bursting with  pride and  passion and ...  dwarfness,  as  they  finished the  anthem of  their race. The  song  had  taken  on  even  greater  meaning  to  him with Perian  singing  along;  he  had  never  thought he  shared any traditions  with  his mountain  cousins. He  found his  hand in Perian's, and when he turned to her at the  close of  the song, he  saw  her  eyes,  brimming  with  unshed tears,  through his own misty blue ones.
	"Quivalen Sath," she breathed, identifying the song's composer.
	"Is there anyone else?" Flint asked rhetorically.
	"Sing  again!"  the  gully  dwarves  chanted. "We  learn! Sing! We sing royal song real good!"
	       Flint and Perian hummed the melody over and over for the Aghar, then repeated  the words  of the  song with  them at least three  times. Practicing,  mimicking, stumbling  over the refrains, the  gully dwarves  stayed with  the exercise  for at least an hour. Flint had  never seen  them try  so hard  at any endeavor.  A  new  understanding   evolved  for   everyone.  In the end, when the gully dwarves sang it for the first time in a chorus,  King Flint  and Queen  Perian did  not even  mind that their version came out a bit changed.

          Thunder pills the fart of the ox
	    Erasers for Cindy these still put out the fire,
	     Beated and bammered the hand thunk a thought,
	     The hills are breathing the fish-breath afar.
	             Soldiers hit brothers, sorry
	                   The battle feels.
	                 Come back, O glowworm
	             And don't forget your shirt.

    What mattered was how hard they tried.

                Chapter 19

              The Best Gift

 Thane Realgar op the Thiewar clan strutted before his  six hundred  House Guard  troops, who  were lined  up in three ranks on  the Central  Parade Grounds  on Level  Two of Theiwar  City  East. His  posture was  ramrod straight  as he stretched to his full height of just under four  feet, pearly white hair streaming over his  shoulders. He  marched rigidly along the line  of equally  rigid derro  dwarves who  made up the House Guard. These troops and  their costly  barracks occupied  the entire second level, just one level below the pinnacle of  the city, where the thane  and his  adviser had  their own  plush residences.  The  superior  location,  away  from  the  smoke and stench of the forges a level below, was a symbol of the mili- tary's prestige with its thane.
	The dwarves of the guard stood at attention now, conceited  about  their  appearance,  smug about  their discipline, and haughty  over their  position in  the most  prestigious, and only pure Theiwar regiment.
	They  wore  glossy  black  breastplates  of the  hardest, most refined  steel. Their  unnaturally white  hair was  covered with black helmets  of the  same metal,  with tall,  feathered plumes sprouting from the  top of  each, the  color designating  a soldier's  company,  of  which  there  were  three. Each  dwarf was armed with at least two weapons.
	The  first  rank,  denoted  by  the red  plumes on  their helmets,  were  the  Bloody  Blades,  axemen chosen  especially for their  large  size  and  ferocious  demeanor.  Among   the  most savage  hand-to-hand  fighters  on  all  of  Krynn,  the dwarves of the Bloody Blades  were like  machines of  death on  the battlefield. Each carried a shield and a  short sword,  in addition to  his  axe.  They  were  indoctrinated with  fanatical loyalty and fanatical zeal in carrying out the orders of their thane. It was  rumored  that  over  twenty-five  percent  of  the  Theiwar recruited into the Bloody Blades died  during training,  so rigorous   were   their  preparations.   They  were   forbidden  to marry,  so  they  would have  no ties  outside the  unit. Before battle,  each  would  prepare his  funeral song,  since planning to live through the battle was a sign of weakness.
	The  second  rank  of  derro,  sporting  ebony   plumes,  were known  as  the  Black  Bolts.  They  wielded   heavy  crossbows, which  were  slow  to  load and  awkward to  fire. But  a volley of  their  bolts  could  strike with  enough force  to penetrate steel armor and shields. In  fact, most  dwarves could  not fire one  of   these  crossbows   without  dislocating   a  shoulder. Members  of the  Black Bolts  were required  to place  three out of  three  shots into  an elf-sized  target at  a range  of twohundred  yards.  Anyone  who  failed  this  test   was  stricken from the unit.
	The third  line of  Realgar's troops  were the  Silver Swords, their symbol a tall,  swaying gray  feather. These  derro, while still  wearing  steel  armor, carried  smaller shields  than the Blades. They were  trained in  more agile,  skirmishing tactics, and could spread out  to take  advantage of  small gaps  in an enemy's formation. Individually  they were  intelligent, motivated,  and aggressive.  More than  once they  had won  a battle  by  penetrating  the  enemy's  line  and seeking  out and killing  the enemy  general, plunging  the opposing  army into chaos. They painted their  faces with  charcoal and  ochre before a  battle to  make themselves  appear frightening  to the enemy.
	Arrayed to the side of these three  ranks were  the regimental    banners,    trumpeters,    drummers,    officers,   and signalmen.  The  trophies they  carried from  previous battles were  both grisly  and glorious.  They included  captured banners,   mummified    heads,   gleaming    helmets,   monstrous claws, golden  spears, and  dozens of  other tokens  and trappings of war.
	Actually,  there  were  four ranks  of troops,  although the fourth was  comprised of  only six  dwarves: the  savants. The result  of  centuries  of arcane  developments in  the deepest bowels  of  derro  civilizations,  the  savants were  the only dwarves  who  had the  unusual ability  to cast  very powerful spells, ones capable of levitating large objects or even calling  down storms  of ice.  Their skin  was even  pastier white than  others of  their race.  They wore  black like  the other House  Guard  soldiers,  though  their  uniforms  were  padded robes, not metal armor. Their powers  on the  battlefield, especially against magicless  hill dwarves,  could not  help but prove decisive.
	"Pitrick!"  Realgar  bellowed,  and  the  hunchbacked  dwarf shuffled behind his leader  as the  thane resumed  his inspection.  "The  troops  look  splendid! Perian  Cyprium obviously excelled  at  her job  before her  untimely death."  The thane stole a glance at his adviser, suspicious as always about Pitrick's explanation  concerning the  captain's demise.  But the savant kept his face bowed and  expressionless. The  thane always chose not to press the issue, since Pitrick was  far more valuable to him than any frawl captain could be.
	      "It will please me if you command the House Guard in Perian's stead," the thane said, his tone lazy.
	"Yes,  my  lord,"  was  the  adviser's  confident  response.  "With troops such as these, we can not fail to wipe  the little  village of hill dwarves from the face of the continent!"
	 Arms  crossed,  feet spread  wide in  a powerful  stance, the  thane considered his adviser. "The latter is the point  of this  attack, is it not?"
	 "Most  certainly,"  Pitrick  said  quickly.  "We  shall leave  midafternoon  this  day   for  the   long  march   through  the  wagon tunnel, so that we will  arrive on  the surface  at dusk,  in  familiar  darkness. Though  I have  recently made  trips to  Sanction,  the troops  have never  been outside  the lightless' ness of Thorbardin. I am not  sure how  well their  eyes will  adjust, so we will travel at night and sleep in caves or under  the protection of thick trees during daylight."
	 Realgar  nodded  his  approval.  He,  himself,  had  not been  on the surface in many decades, lacking the time or  the incli nation to go there. "What of snow?" he  asked. "Isn't  it near ing wintertime above?"
	 "Yes," Pitrick agreed, "but the wagon crews tell me it is yet  early, and the snow is still traversable. I estimate  that, en cumbered by  the mass  of troops,  it will  take two  nights of  steady marching to reach the dreadful  little village.  We will  attack  an  unsuspecting  Hillhome  on  the  third  evening. We  can rest the afternoon  nearby -  out of  sight of  Hillhome so  that our attack will come as a complete surprise." * * * * *
	"What could Perian  possibly want  in the  grotto so  late on the  night  before we  leave for  battle?" Flint  mumbled aloud as  he  hastened  down  the  final long  tunnel leading  to the beautiful  cavern  at the  farthest corner  of Mudhole.  He had been  working  with  Nomscul  to  pack  the   explosive  sludge into sacks  and bottles,  as well  as clean  up some  rusty old daggers  and  sword  blades  that  had  been  discovered during the  searches of  the last  two days.  Nomscul had  relayed the message  with a  giggle: "Queen  Furryend say  you to  meet her at grotto when  done. She  have big  surprise!" With  that, the gully  dwarf  shaman  had  clamped  his  hand  over  his  large mouth, refusing to give  Flint further  clues about  the mysterious missive.
	At last Flint came to the  opening on  the right  that marked the entrance to  the cavern,  and he  turned down  the enclosed staircase, taking the  narrow steps  two at  a time.  He paused at the bottom to draw in a breath, then bounded in.
	Immediately,  he was  grabbed by  a giggling  frawl, Perian's self-appointed "weighty lady," Fester.
	"Take off  clothes and  come with  me!" Fester  squealed, her fleshy  cheeks buckling  in a  smile as  she tugged  at Flint's clothing.
	"What  are  you  talking  about? Stop  that! Don't  touch me, you  silly frawl!  Where's Perian?"  Flint demanded,  trying to shake off Fester's grip.
	"I'm right  here," Perian  called. She  came around  the corner  of  a  stalagmite  and  laughed  out  loud  when  she  saw Flint's stony, red face and Fester's  eager tugging.  "Stop it, Fester."  The  frawl  Aghar  dropped  away  from  Flint, sheepishly regarded the royal family, then  scampered up  the stairway.
	Flustered, Flint gathered the edges of his clothing that Fester had managed  to pull  down, his  face burning.  "What's going on here? What have you been teaching her, mugging?"
	Perian  laughed  again.  "Unfortunately,  she   already  knew that. Look, I'm sorry," she said, flashing her big, hazel eyes. "Fester must have decided that  since I've  taken off  my usual armor, you would want to as well."
	Suddenly  Flint  became aware  that Perian  was dressed  in a tight-fighting  blue-green  wrap;  his  favorite  color  looked spectacular  against  her  copper  hair. She  stood silhouetted by  the  glowing moss  behind her  near the  pool, and  for the first  time he  could really  see her  shape through  the gauzy gown.  His  eyes  traced  her  form  upward, from  her surprisingly  slim  ankles, to  her muscular  calves, her  broad hips, slightly  narrowed  waist,  her  ample...  His cheeks  grew hot again, and he  forced his  eyes back  up to  the safety  of her face.
	    Perian smiled invitingly and held her hand out to him. "Come, your surprise is getting cold."
	Startled, Flint drew back. "What surprise?"
	Perian frowned impatiently. "If I told you here, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? You aren't afraid  to be alone with me, are you?"
	"Certainly  not!"  Flint  huffed, snatching  up her  hand in embarrassment  and   irritation.  But   as  he   followed  her around the stone pillar and into the depths of the  grotto, he was  not  so  sure.  He  forgot  his  humiliation when  he saw what awaited him on the bench before the pool.
	Five  mismatched  pots  of  steaming  food   nearly  covered the bench and  surrounded a  single lit  candle and  two metal plates.  Flint clapped  his hands  and licked  his lips  as he rushed forward, eyeing the containers.
	"What's the occasion?"
	"The occasion is our last  dinner -  a celebration,"  she said simply, waving him to sit by the plate that faced the pool.
	He dropped to the  ground on  the fluffy  moss and  slid his legs under the  bench. "Celebration,"  he snorted.  "What have we  to  celebrate?  We're  leading  a  ragtag  bunch  of gully dwarves  off  to  save  a  village  from a  powerful, demented magician, and -"
	"I know all that," she  interrupted with  a sigh.  "Can't we have just a few last peaceful hours?" She folded her  legs under her  and gracefully  lowered herself  to the  ground, back to the pool. She took the hilt of an old dagger and stirred it around in one of the pots, then used it to ladle a  portion of the pot's contents onto Flint's plate.
	"Sauteed  white  fungus  and  onions,"  she  said.  Pointing from  one pot  to the  next, she  rattled off  their contents. "There's  mushrooms  and  sprouts,  meat  -  don't   ask  what kind- - in red sauce, turtle soup, and creamed fish."
	"Where did you get  all this  stuff?" Flint  mumbled through a mouthful of delicious fungus and onions.
	Perian  propped  her  chin  up on  her hands  looking proud, yet a little sheepish. "I'm afraid I  risked sending  two more Aghar  up  to  the  warrens.  It  took  them long  enough, but they managed  to find  most of  what I  sent them  for without getting caught. You'll be happy to  know that  I did  not send them  for  mossweed  -  I've  broken  that  habit...  I think. And  also,  gully dwarf  hands never  touched the  food during preparation - I made it all myself."
	"What  a  catch  -   brawn,  brains,   beauty,  and   she  can cook,"  he  muttered  unconsciously,  busy  stuffing  his mouth. He  listened  to  his   own  words   and  gasped,   glancing  up quickly, but Perian,  intent on  her plate,  showed no  signs of having  heard  him. They  ate quickly  and in  silence, savoring tastes  forgotten  in  the  short week  they had  been consuming a tiresome catch-all called gully dwarf stew.
	When  the  last  bowl  was  scraped  clean, Flint  pushed himself  back,  patting  his  stomach happily.  "Simply marvelous," he sighed.
	"I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  it,"  Perian  said, standing  up. "I hope  you  like  my  next  surprise  as  well." She  danced past Flint  and  disappeared  behind  him into  the columns  of limestone that ran from floor to ceiling opposite the pool.
	The  mountain   dwarf  quickly   returned,  holding   a  long, narrow  package  wrapped  in  cotton   batting  and   tied  shut with  twine.  Flint  watched  expectantly,  unable to  guess its contents.
	Perian's  head  was dipped  nervously as  she untied  the parcel with shaky hands. "I've wanted to  give you  this for  a day or  two,  but  the  moment  just  never seemed  right. I  wish I could  have  spent  a  few  more  days  on  it..."  she  mumbled mysteriously  as  she fumbled  with the  twine. "Oh,  here!" she said, flustered. She flung back the cloth  cover and  thrust her hands  toward  him.  "A  weapon  befitting  a   monarch  leading his troops to war."
	Curious,  Flint  peered  beyond   the  wrapping.   His  breath caught in his throat and he drew  no air,  his face  paling dangerously.
	"What's  wrong?"  Perian  asked,  concern  and   dismay  creasing her face. "I - I cleaned it up as best I could. I know it's very  old,  but  it's  an  excellent  axe,  dwarven-crafted,  no doubt. Don't you like it?"
	But Flint hardly heard his queen  as his  eyes focused  on the thing  in  her  hands.  He  reminded  himself  to  breathe,  and then he willed his hands forward to grasp the axe.
	The haft of smooth oak showed no sign of wear or stress. Polished lovingly, it was without blemish or knots. The wood blended  so perfectly  into the  flawless steel  blade that  the  axe  looked  as  if  crafted from  one material.  The steel  blade itself was  of that  immaculate white-silver  quality, and  its  circumference  was  decorated   with  the   most  delicate,  faint tracings. Flint ran his hands  lovingly over  the familiar  dwarven runes, not one bit lighter  than when  last he  had felt  them.
	 For this  was no  ordinary axe.  It was  the Tharkan  Axe, the  weapon  he   had  found,   then  been   given  by   his  brother  Aylmar, and then lost again so many years ago.
	 "Where did you find this?" he said at last, his eyes  still on  the wondrous axe. Why was it here? Now?
	 Perian  was  mightily  confused.  She   had  hoped   he  would  like it, but his reaction seemed to go beyond  that. He  held it  like he would a lover....
	 "I -  I found  it in  the garbage  heap in  the Big  Sky Room,  the   day   we  discovered   sludge,"  Perian   explained,  then  chuckled.  "You  were  so  sour  that day...  I don't  know what  possessed me, but the  second I  saw this  axe I  knew I  had to  hide it away and clean it up so I could surprise you with it."
	 "You  didn't  know  it  was  once my  axe?" he  asked, looking  from  the  weapon  to  her  with  misty  eyes.  "But  how  could  you?" he asked himself. "I never told you that story."
	 "What  story?  This  axe  was yours?  Did you  drop it  in the  Beast Pit?" Perian  was very  confused, as  her voice  rose with  her agitation.
	 Flint  shook  his  shaggy  head  vigorously,  nearly  overcome  by finding the axe again in,  of all  places, Mudhole.  "No," he  whispered  softly at  last. "My  brother, the  one who  was mur dered  by  Pitrick,  gave  me  the Tharkan  Axe on  my Fullbeard  Day  many  long  years  ago.  We'd  found  it   together  during  our dungeon-crawling days,  but I  lost it  in a  hobgoblin lair  here  in  the  Kharolis  Mountains  during an  adventure several  years afterward. I later returned to retrieve it, but it was al ready  gone.  The  Tharkan  Axe  served   me  better   than  any  I've had since." He ran his hands over  the haft  again, closing  his eyes, remembering. "I thought it was gone forever...."
	 "What  a strange  coincidence, finding  it here,"  Perian mut tered, then  shrugged. "Whoever  took it  from that  lair before  you  returned  probably  ended  up  in  the  Beast Pit,  and the gully dwarves just added it to their piles of treasure."
	She pressed her fingertips to the runes.  "I've made  out a few of the words here, but they  are in  old dwarven.  Do you know what they say'?"
	Flint shook  his head,  slipping the  Tharkan Axe  into the loop on his  belt. "What  with adventuring,  I never  had the time to have them translated, nor really  cared to  while the axe worked so beautifully. And then I lost it."
	He realized  suddenly that  he had  been so  overwhelmed by the present that he'd  forgotten to  thank the  gifter. Flint leaned  back and  observed her  copper head,  her peach-fuzzy cheeks, the warm smile on her red  lips. He  had come  to depend  on  her  for  so much....  "I don't  know how  to thank you, Perian. This axe is the best present  - two  presents -" He laughed "- that I've ever received.  You've given  me hope for tomorrow."
	Perian blushed. "I'm just glad you like it, and that it was especially special." She  turned away  to pour  two luke-warm cups of weed tea.
	"I have nothing to give you," Flint said sadly, then  had a thought.  "Wait!"  He  reached  into his  tunic and  pulled a chain over his head from around his neck.
	"I do have something  for you  - it's  not much,"  he said, embarrassed. He did not watch Perian's face as he  turned his palm over and held his hand out.
	"A leaf!" she cried, setting  the cups  down on  the bench. Perian took the delicate  carving, linked  to an  old, silver chain, and held it in the tips of her fingers, inspecting it, touching  it.   The  spade-shaped   wooden  leaf   was  darkstained on the bottom, and  polished as  smooth as  silk. The top  had  been  intricately  carved away  until the  wood was white. Each leaf vein, big  and small,  had been  etched with precision, creating a work of perfection.
	Perian looked up at  Flint's ruddy  face. "You  carved this yourself, didn't youl"
	Flint shrugged and wrinkled his big nose. "It's not  one of my better pieces - just something I did long ago that  I kept for myself  because it  reminded me  of the  mountain forests near Hillhome."
	"I love it!" Perian said. "Help me?"  she asked,  holding the necklace up to him.
	With frigid, nervous  fingers, Flint  slipped the  chain over her head and watched  as she  tucked it  into her  wrap, seeing it rise under the fabric between her breasts.
	Flustered,  Flint  looked  away.  "You  know, the  aspen leaf reminds  me  of  you  in  a  way.  Aspen  wood  is  strong, but softer than it looks. Each side of an aspen leaf is a different shade of the same color, like black  is to  gray, and  when the wind  catches  one,  the  silver side  looks like  a shimmering vein in a dwarven mine. It is  the most  beautiful tree  in the Kharolis, and it is my favorite  anywhere." Flint  blushed, realizing the implication of his words.
	The mountain dwarf simply stared at him, openedmouthed. She reached a hand toward him.
	"Listen,  Perian," Flint  said, his  voice breaking.  "I know what  I  said about  a hill  dwarf and  a mountain  dwarf never ...  you  know  -" Flint  gestured vaguely  with his  hands. "I still believe that." He looked at her squarely, seeing the disappointment in her eyes.
	"But neither one of us is much like our clan, and life is too short -" He  gulped at  the appropriateness  of the  phrase tonight. "Life is too short to never take  chances. I  don't know what   will   happen   tomorrow,   or   even   after  tomorrow, but -"
	Perian  tumbled  into  his  arms  and  silenced him  with two fingers pressed to his hairy lips. "I don't care about any time but now."
	His heart pounding in his ears, his vision  spinning dizzily, Flint  pushed  Perian's  wrap  from   her  shoulders,   and  it slipped  to the  glowing moss.  Pulling the  beautiful mountain dwarf against his chest, he crushed her  moist, parted  lips in a kiss that was rooted in his soul.

                     Chapter 20

                    The Advance

     "Wake up to swords! Wake up to swords!"  The  tumbling  mass  of  Aghar  spilled  into  the   royal  bedchambers,  crawling  over   and  clawing   at  each   other  with dirty fingernails in their desperation to be the first  to inform their king and queen of the news.  "What's   going   on?"   mumbled   Flint,  his   arm  encircling Perian  on  their  mossy  bed  in  the  Thrown  Room. It  was the morning of the fifth day  after Pitrick's  attack. He  and Perian had  made  their  way  back  from  the grotto  to the  comfort of the  moss  bed  not  long  before  Nomscul arrived.  "Stop that!" the hill dwarf ordered, waking up finally.  For  a  moment  Nomscul   ceased  his   bouncing  on   the  edge of  the  bed nearest  Flint, an  act that  was sending  clumps of dried  moss   flying.  "Mountain   dwarves  marching!   Two  of them!  They go  to war,  take swords  and stuff!  Gully dwarves great spies! We see all and tell all right soon!"
	"OK,  Nomscul,  I  get  the  point."  Flint was  fully awake now.  He  grabbed  the  Aghar's  bony  shoulders  to  keep him from  jumping  up  and  down.  "How  many   were  -   are  you sure it isn't just a patrol?"
	Nomscul  slammed  his  hands  on his  hip bones  and sniffed, tossing his head at the insult to his intelligence.
	Flint  reluctantly  rolled  away   from  Perian   and  pushed himself  off the  bed. Turning  his back,  he yanked  his pants up to his stomach, stuffing his long blue-green tunic  into the drawstring waist.
	The   mountain  dwarf   was  waking   up  more   slowly.  "It can't be the Theiwar troops - it's  too early,"  she protested, stabbing the sleep  from her  eyes with  her fists.  "It's only been a couple of days  since the  attack in  the Big  Sky Room; Pitrick  couldn't  possibly  have  organized  the  troops  that quickly!"
	"Tell that to Pitrick and his army," Flint grumbled, stuffing his boots onto his feet. "I just hope Basalt's had  enough time to  fortify Hillhome.  We're coming,  whether they're  ready or not."
	"We  can   march?  Can   we?"  pleaded   Nomscul,  thrusting his  chest  out  and  stomping about  the room  to demonstrate his readiness.
	Flint ignored the shaman  as he  finished dressing,  his mind on  the  march  ahead  of  them.  He  strapped  on  the Tharkan Axe, his gift from Perian  the night  before. His  fingers lingered over the cool steel blade, while  his mind  traveled back to  the  previous  evening.  Sighing,  he slapped  some day-old water on his face.
	"Tell every gully dwarf in the place that  the time  has come for  the  big  march.  They  must  get  their   weapons,  their shields,  supplies,  everything,"  the  king  ordered  Nomscul. "Gather  up  the  sludge  bombs  and meet  Queen Perian  in the grotto. I'm going  there directly  to have  a look  outside myself."  Nodding  furiously,  Nomscul  dashed  from  the  cavern in the direction of the Big Sky Room.
	But Perian shook her head  as she  crawled over  Flint's side of the bed and began to dress hastily. "I'm coming with you."
	Flint turned to her in exasperation. "One of  us has  to stay here and see  that they  get organized!"  he objected.  "How do we  know  they  won't  bring  their  knives and  spoons instead of their swords and shields?"
	"We  don't,"  said  Perian.  "But  you  won't  know  which of the thane's forces we  face, or  how to  combat them.  I served in his guard -"
	"I remember," Flint interrupted.
	"- I'll recognize the  units, their  strengths and  their weaknesses.  I  know  the  thane's officers!  If anyone  stays back here, it should be you!"
	Flint  gruffly  assented. He  led them  down the  sloping Upper Tubes, finally finding  the entrance  to the  stairway into the grotto.
	They  scrambled  down  the stairway,  Flint taking  the steps two at a time.  Both of  them paused  to look  at the  bench by the pool, still covered with the containers  of food  and their plates from the night before.
	"Come on," Flint said at last, following the pool to its farthest  corner  from  the  stairway, where  a large  but low-tothe-ground crack  in the  granite wall  allowed access.  A deep channel  had  been  cut  in  the sandy  ground there,  and presumably  it  and the  crack had  been formed  by an  old stream bed;  now the  water left  the pool  by another,  newer channel ten feet beyond the old one.
	"This is it." Flint took  up Perian's  hand and  slipped into the jagged fissure, leading the  way. Before  long they  had to walk in a crouch, as the top  of the  crack loomed  close overhead.  Flint  counted  his  steps  out  of  habit from  his old dungeon-crawling   days,   and   on  step   ninety-three,  they came  abruptly  into  sunlight  on  a  small  crest  cloaked in pines. The crack was cut  slightly at  an angle  and surrounded by  trees,  thus it  was almost  unnoticeable to  the untrained eye.
	Accustomed to living underground, Perian squinted in pain at the sudden light, made worse by reflections off of early  snow.  Even  Flint  blinked  at  the  brightness, having  grown  used  to  the  darkness  below  in  less  than  a  week. A  cold breeze wafted past his  face, and  the old,  familiar sensa tion invigorated him.
	  "I have been to the surface less  than a  dozen times,  but it  has  never  looked  beautiful  to me  before today,"  Perian con fessed,  shielding  her  eyes  with an  upraised arm.  "The light  hurts  my  eyes,  but  I'll  grow  accustomed  soon,  because I'm  half Hylar." She laughed.  "After years  of Pitrick's  threats, I  never thought I would be happy about that."
	  Flint patted her encouragingly on the shoulder; he had the '  feeling  that a  lot of  things would  change today.  The hill  dwarf  knew  that  they  had  emerged  in  the   Kharolis  range  about a half-day northeast  of the  tunnel by  which he  had en tered Thorbardin. Climbing up the  crest to  get a  better view,  he  looked  down  at  a  mountain  stream  that he  presumed had  its origins in the grotto. Flint shielded his eyes and looked to  the  east.  The  sky  was  crystal-clear, and  he could  see the  shimmering   shore   of   Stonehammer   Lake   about   a   day's  march  away.  Looking  down  the  mountain   to  the   west,  he  could  not  locate  the  Passroad,  nor  see  signs  of mountain  dwarf troops.
	  "This  stream  flows  down  one  of  the  side  valleys toward  the  lake, which  meets up  with the  Passroad," Flint  said. "We  should  come  in  sight  of  the  road  if  we follow  the stream  down."
	  They  moved  through  an  open  forest,  following  the gentle  descent  of  the  valley.  In  less  than  ten minutes  they came  around  a  shoulder  of  the  ridge;  across  barren, snow-dotted  slopes  they  saw  the  Passroad, a  thick brown  tendril snaking  its way through the foothills north of Thorbardin.
	  The road was empty for as  far to  the west  as the  eye could  see.
	  Arms  crossed,  Flint  chewed  his  lip.  "Have we  delayed so  long  that they've  already passed  from sight  ahead of  us?" he  asked, his voice ragged with concern.
	  "I  don't think  so." Perian  shook her  head, not  taking her  eyes from the general  vicinity of  the road.  "My guess  is that  they've  camped  somewhere  for  the  day, out  of the  sun. They  probably  haven't  moved  too  far  off  the  road."  She scanned  the  horizon,  stopping  to examine  the edge  of a  thicket of  pines just a little to the west. "See there?" she asked, point ing.  "Under  those  trees?  It's  nearly  at  the  edge  of my  vision -  they could  almost be  ants!" She  concentrated. "No,  I'm sure I saw a red plume waving. It's the Bloody Blades."
	 Flint  shivered  involuntarily  at  the  name. "What  are the  Bloody Blades?"
	 Perian  pursed  her  lips  while  she  thought.   "The  House  Guard. The Blades  are just  one regiment  of three,  each con taining  two  hundred  soldiers.  The  other regiments  are the  Silver  Swords  and the  Black Bolts.  The three  regiments al ways  fight  together  as  a synchronized  force, complementing  their  strengths  and  weaknesses.  They  form  units  of heavy  infantry, light infantry, and crossbows."
	 "Could you try not to sound so proud of them?" Flint  grumbled.
	 Perian  looked  only  mildly  embarrassed. "Old  habits," she  said.
	 Flint  whistled  through  his  teeth.  "Six  hundred dwarves.  And  against  'em  we   have  a   couple  hundred   Aghar,"  he  groaned. "Why don't we just hand Hillhome over?"
	 "It could  be worse,"  Perian said,  trying to  sound encour aging.  "The  thane has  thousands of  troops at  his disposal,  but only the House  Guard bear  fealty to  him alone.  The rest  defend all of Thorbardin, not just the Theiwar."
	 "That's a comfort," Flint said sarcastically, digging  a hole  in a snowbank with the toe of his boot.
	 "You're forgetting Basalt," Perian reminded him softly.
	 "I'm  not," the  old hill  dwarf said,  shaking his  gray head.  "But we're pinning a lot of hopes on that young 'un."
	 "Well, we've got to get moving," she said gently.  "We'll get  ahead  of  them by  a day  while the  House Guard  bivouacs out  of the sun."
	 Flint  nodded,  shaking  off  his melancholia.  Following the  stream  uphill,  the  pair of  dwarves made  their way  back up  to the crack in the granite. There they found Nomscul.
	   "You were supposed to organize the troops," Flint scolded  him.
	 "Rest  wait  in  there,  all  straight,"  Nomscul  announced, pointing  into  the  tunnel,  "like  Nomscul tell  them." Suddenly,  gully  dwarves  began  popping  from  the   opening  Fester, Cainker, Oooz, Garf,  Pooter, and  all the  rest. They came  out  in  a  steady  torrent,  carrying  every  manner of weapon:  the  one  hundred  fifty  Agharpulters  with  daggers slipped into their  robe belts;  one hundred  Creeping Wedgies with shields tucked under their arms.
	The  Aghar  milled  about  the  tunnel entrance,  a steadily growing  mob. Flint  and Perian  circled them  like sheepdogs, trying  to  keep   the  group   together  as   their  comrades emerged.
	Last  but  not  least  came  the  Sludge  Bombers,  carrying their jugs and bottles and big pots of explosive  venom. Flint had cautioned  them repeatedly  about the  need to  handle the containers of sludge delicately, so they tiptoed, swinging the jugs any which way as they  joined their  friends in  the sunlight on the mountainside.
	"Hold  those  carefully -  carefully!" Flint  bellowed. "And where are the litters to carry the sludge bombs?" he asked.
	Four  gully  dwarves  trooped  out of  the crack  just then, holding  the  handles  of two  makeshift litters,  old leather vests each stretched across stout limbs.  The biggest  jugs of sludge, several  measuring a  foot across,  had been  set upon the litters for gentle transport.
	Flint  and Perian  began to  organize the  three hundred-odd members of the army, such as it was, on the mountainside.
	"Assemble  your  units!"  Flint  barked. "Nomscul,  you lead the  Agharpults  over  here;  Oooz,  get  the  Sludge  Bombers over there; and Fester, put the Creeping Wedgies here,  in the middle."
	To their credit, the Aghar tried to  follow the  commands of their king. Several minutes of raw chaos  ensued as  the gully dwarves  charged  into  a  single  pile  of  squirming  Aghar, where only an occasional arm, leg, or  face could  be spotted. Somehow the pile  resolved itself  into three  milling groups, more or less organized by the categories Flint had detailed.
	Their  king  felt  compelled  to  offer  up  some  inspiring words.  "Stand at  attention for  some last  instructions!" he bellowed.

Again, they tried to stand at attention, but their  habit of  facing every which  way diminished  the military  precision of  the  maneuver.  Flint  only  sighed.  "Gully  dwarves  of Mud hole!" he began sternly, trying to get as many of them to face  him  as  possible.  "We  embark  today upon  a great  excurs  Oooz, get back here! - a  great excursion,  to face  in combat  an  enemy  implacable  and  bold,  savage  and  - what  is it,  Nomscul?"
	 The  shaman  was hopping  in agitation,  waving his  hand in  the air and clenching his lips together as if to forcibly pre vent  himself  from speaking  without royal  permission. "King  talk too much," explained Nomscul. "We march now?"
	 Flint's face flushed, and he aimed a  glare at  Nomscul that  would  have  transfixed   any  halfway   intelligent  subject.  Fortunately  - for  himself, at  any rate  - Nomscul  was only  halfway  intelligent  and simply  mistook his  monarch's stare  for a warm smile of congratulations.
	 "In  a  moment,"  Flint growled  in exasperation.  He turned  back  to  the  troops, saw  their stupidly  eager expressions.  "Look, gang, we've got quite a march ahead  of us;  we'll stop  before  dark  near  Stonehammer  Lake,  then  I  figure  we'll  make  it  to  Hillhome  midday  tomorrow. It's  vitally impor tant that we stick together  as a  group -  Basalt and  all of  Hillhome  are  probably  waiting  this very  minute for  us to  come and help them. Please try to act like soldiers. Do it for  your king and queen."
	 "Two chairs for King Flunk and Queen Furryend!" Nom scul  shouted.  The  troops responded  with resounding  screeches and caterwauls.
	 "Let's go, before they  get tangled  up again,"  Perian sug gested  in  a loud  whisper, watching  them wander  from their  units.
	 "Gully dwarves,  march!" cried  Flint, waving  his arm  in a  circle over his head.
	 The king of  the gully  dwarves led  his troops,  three hun dred   strong,   down  the   mountainside,  heading   for  the  Passroad  east  of  the  House  Guard  encampment  below. This  would  allow  him,  with  luck  and speed,  to move  his force  onto the road somewhere ahead of the thane's troops.
	The  organizing  into  units  represented  a   masterpiece  of military  precision  when  compared  to the  march of  the gully dwarves  that  ensued.  In  muttered  conversation  with Perian, Flint could only compare it  to the  ridiculous task  of herding chickens, though  after the  fourth or  fifth effort  at chasing down  a  wayward  column   of  Aghar   and  returning   them  to the  fold,  he  amended  his  comments  to  the effect  that his comparison did a grave disservice to poultry.
	To  make  matters  worse,  dark,  angry  clouds rolled  in and it began to snow.  At first  the storm  came as  great, feathery Hakes,  gently  wafting  earthward.  Except  for  the disruption caused  by  gully  dwarves breaking  file to  catch particularly choice snowflakes  with their  tongues, the  light precipitation caused no problem for the hardy Aghar.
	But  then  the  wind rose  and the  big, friendly  flakes grew small  and  hard,  turning  into  hail.  Blustering  out  of the north,  the  weather drove  stinging needles  of ice  into their faces,  considerably  slowing  down  the  progress of  the Aghar force.  And  as  the  day  progressed,  the dwarves  became more widely scattered,  forcing Flint  and Perian  to cover  three or four  times  as much  ground as  their charges,  constantly running back and forth along the column.
	Still moving into  the teeth  of the  storm, they  finally descended  into  a  small  valley that  gave them  protection from the worst of the wind.
	"I think we'd better stop for a short rest," urged Perian.
	"Why  don't  you  go  ahead  and  look  for  a place  big enough to hold all of us?" suggested Flint. "I'll collect the Aghar and bring them up."
	Perian  headed  away  toward a  grove of  tall pines  that was barely  visible  through  the  storm.  Nomscul  came  up quickly with  his  comrades of  the Agharpult,  and Flint  directed them toward   the   grove.   Next   came   Oooz   with   the   Sludge Bombers, and he urged them in the same direction.
	Flint  waited  behind  for Fester  as the  last of  the sludge bomb  team  disappeared  after  Perian.  The   Creeping  Wedgies had  been  bringing up  the rear,  but even  for the  Aghar they seemed  unusually far  behind. Flint's  concern grew  as several more minutes passed.
	Full  darkness  had settled,  giving the  late autumn  wind a sharper bite, yet there  was still  no sign  of Fester  and the Creeping Wedgies. Flint peered  fruitlessly into  the darkness, seeking any sign of  movement, but  all he  saw was  the frigid expanse  of  blowing,  drifting  snow.  There  was  no  denying the  fact,  now:  Fester  and  the Wedgies  were lost,  or even dead, buried in the snowfall.
	Flint  thought  about  backtracking, but  he sensed  that the task would be  futile. Instead,  he turned  and plowed  his way through  the  snow  toward  the  grove.  He  would have  to inform Perian of the  grave news  that before  they had  even met the  enemy  their  army  had  been  tragically  reduced   by  a third.
	Only with difficulty  did he  locate the  copse of  trees, so completely  did  the  weather cloak  them. Finally  he stumbled into a small clearing,  surrounded by  dense pines,  giving the area shelter.
	Perian sat  atop a  snow-covered log  near a  small, unfrozen pool  of  water. "Where's  Fester and  the Wedgies?"  she asked at once, noting the look of concern on Flint's face.
	"They're lost - or worse,"  he said  glumly. "And  I'm afraid we'd be running the risk of  weakening ourselves  still further if we set out to look for them in this snow."
	"We'll just have to  hope that  they find  their way  to us," Perian  said, thinking  fondly of  Fester, her  "weighty lady." The  other  Aghar  seemed  not to  notice the  disappearance of their  comrades.  They  focused  instead  on  gaining  the most comfortable sleeping spaces in the damp, snowy grove.
	Calculating  that  the  derro  soldiers  would stay  in their own  camp  only  until  darkness, Flint  and Perian  decided to take  a  chance and  wait for  more than  an hour.  Still there was  no  sign  of the  missing Wedgies.  In that  hour, though, the  storm began  to abate.  The wind  that had  made traveling difficult  was  now  blowing  the  storm  clouds  away.  Though visibility was not great, they  could see  a vista  of complete whiteness.  The  peaks  and  ridgelines  gleamed   under  their pristine frosting,  and the  whole region  was revealed  as one of  astounding  natural  beauty.  A  small,   frozen  waterfall hung suspended like a great icicle at the head of the valley of their camp.
	"We've got to get moving,"  urged Flint  after the  hour had passed. "Break  time is  over." He  stepped among  the bundles of gully dwarves, discovering that his subjects  had collected in groups of four to six. Sharing body  warmth, albeit  with a great  deal  of  pushing, shoving,  pinching, and  biting, the Aghar had managed to remain warm.
	Blinking,  stretching, and  enjoying an  afternoon nosepick, the  Aghar  gathered  in  ragged  bunches at  the edge  of the clearing. Here the pool  of water,  fed by  a hot  spring, remained clear of snow.
	"Come on, you gullies!"  Flint bellowed  at them,  trying to get their attention. "Fall in - no! I mean, line up!"
	But it was too late.  For once  the gully  dwarves responded to  a command  with alacrity,  dropping into  the pond  like a mass of scattered tenpins.
	"Great  Reorx!  Get out  of there  this minute!"  roared the king from the edge  of the  pool. Suddenly  the snow  bank beneath  his  feet  gave  way  and he,  too, plummeted  into the warm water.
	For  a  few moments  Flint stood  stock-still in  the waistdeep water. Realizing that the eyes of his subjects were fixed upon  him,  he  desperately stifled  his terror.  With supreme willpower he held his tongue,  fearing that  once he  began to scream, he would  never be  able to  stop. Slowly,  with great deliberation, he dragged himself  out of  the pool.  He pulled the hem of  his tunic  out of  his pants  and wrung  the water from it, only to find his clothing already freezing.
	"This is going to be a long campaign, even if it's over this afternoon,"  he  groaned  to  Perian, who  was dabbing  at his face and soaked  clothing with  one of  the rag  bandages from a supply pack.
	Slowly,  after  more  frolicking  and  splashing,  the Aghar hauled themselves from  the pool  and finally  stood, dripping and  shivering.  "We've  got  to get  them moving  before they freeze to  death," Perian  urged, trying  vainly to  dry their heads.
	    The deep snow encouraged the Aghar to remain in file. Flint and Perian took turns forcing a trail through the soft powder.  When   they  became   exhausted  from   the  grueling task,  some  of  the  more  trustworthy gully  dwarves rotated the  duty,  though their  trails tended  to zigzag  more often than  not.  Throughout the  long afternoon  the file  of Aghar waded  through  the  snow,  skirting  the  highest  elevations along the route Flint judged the most likely shortcut  to the Passroad.
	The  heavy  pace  of  the  march  served  to keep  the Aghar warm,  however,  and  the  hardy  gully  dwarves showed  a remarkable resilience to the cold.
	They had crested a low rise, Flint again  in the  lead, when he heard sounds  before him  and hastened  his steps  to reach the summit.  In moments  he stood  atop the  low hill  and saw a wide, snow-filled  valley stretching  before him.  The brown strip  running  through  the   valley  was   unmistakably  the Passroad.  On  the  far  side  of  the  road the  valley floor dropped steeply away,  a long,  descending slope  that finally reached   Stonehammer   Lake,   below   and   perhaps  another mile  distant. But  what Flint  saw on  the Passroad  made him groan audibly.
	"We're too  late," he  mumbled, dazed,  then turned  to Perian. "I thought you said they'd stay camped until dark."
	The  mountain  dwarf  was  standing  next  to him.  She colored, and her voice  was taut  with bitterness.  "Pitrick must have decided to  take advantage  of the  cover the  storm provided."
	"I'm afraid  so." Flint  could only  look helplessly  at the scene in the valley below.
	Three colors of plumes  - red,  black, and  gray -  waved in martial precision, as the thane's guards  moved past  them far below,  perhaps  two  miles  ahead.  The  three  companies  of mountain  dwarves  maintained  distinct  formations,  but  the whole column was a tight, disciplined military grouping.
	The  gully  dwarves  would  never  be  able  to  catch  them now,  no  matter  how  hard  Flint  drove them.  Admitting defeat was bitter medicine. It took all of Flint's willpower not to collapse dejectedly  in the  snow. They  had come  too late and lost a third of their army in  the first  day. How  had he ever been so foolish as to think they could win? Perian elbowed him. "What's that?" she asked.  "What?" He was barely paying attention.  "Look   -   something's   moving  in   the  snow   down  there!" she  said,  pointing  in  the general  direction of  the amassed mountain  dwarf  troops.  "Your  eyes are  better in  this light than mine - tell me what that fuzzy blob is that's on  this side of the road near the base of the mountain?" "What?"  Flint,  despite  his  dejection,  had   his  interest piqued.  He,  too,  squinted  down  the  distant,  snowy  fields toward  the  road. He  saw a  length of  rippling snow,  a shimrhering  movement.  Was  that  a  leg I  just saw?  he wondered, baffled.  Was  that  a  pack  of  snow-covered   animals  moving down the slope?  Slowly   the   mass   of   movement   became  visible   as  many small, individual  forms. Flint  saw a  tightly packed  group of creatures,  each  snowy  white  on  top.  The  snow,  he finally realized,  was  carried  atop  each  of  the  creatures  upon  a shield carried over his head.  "It  the Wedgies!"  Nomscul   shrieked  suddenly.   Jumping  up and down  in his  excitement, he  slipped on  the snow  and toppled to the ground. "It old trick,"  he said  offhandedly, picking  himself  up.  "They  hide  under   shields  and   creep  at enemy!"  "But  they'll  be  slaughtered  out  there  alone and  we're too far  away  to  help  them  quickly!" Flint  exclaimed, clenching and unclenching his fists in helpless frustration.  "Wait."  Perian  put  a  calming  hand  on  Flint's  arm,  never taking  her  eyes  from the  events below.  "The Wedgies  have a chance.  The  derro  don't seem  to notice  them yet,  what with the snow covering them and the glare." Stunned,  king  and  queen  looked  on  from  a   distance  with two-thirds  of  their  troops,  as the  Creeping Wedgies,  now a rippling  mass  of  shield-and  snow-covered   Aghar,  continued to  eke  slowly  forward.  The  Wedgies  reached   the  Passroad just  as  the  last  company  of  Theiwar  marched  by, sporting gray   plumes,   some  thirty   feet  behind   the  black-plumed rank.   Total   disorganization   suddenly  swept   through  the gray plumes, as the Wedgies infiltrated them.
	     Fully erupting from the snowy surface like jack-in-the- boxes  came a  multitude of  white, diminutive  figures. Their appearance  in  the   middle  of   the  Theiwar   company  had thrown the unit into disarray, but swords  rose and  fell, and crimson stains appeared on the distant snow.
	In  confusion,  the  last  company  stopped  and  fell back from  the  other  two  regiments,  who continued  on, unaware of the distraction.
	"It's  the  Silver Swords,"  observed Perian  bitterly, "the thane's light infantry. If  they can  gather their  ranks, the Wedgies will be cut down."
	"We've  got to  try to  help them!"  Flint cried,  though he knew it would be hard  to reach  them in  time. He  started to run down the  slope toward  the distant  road. "Come  on, gullies! Charge!"
	"We  go,  too!"  A wave  of gully  dwarves started  down the gentle, snowbound slope.
	The king kept his eyes glued to the  battle as  he advanced. Suddenly  he  saw  a  change.  The   Aghar  of   the  Creeping Wedgie  had  turned  and  bolted  from the  road, disappearing on the far side of the thoroughfare, over  the slope  that led down to Stonehammer Lake.
	"Good,  they're  saving  themselves!"  Flint  cried.  "They didn't  have  a  chance  of  stopping  the  mountain dwarves, anyway."
	"But,  look!"  pointed Perian.  "They're giving  chase! Perhaps the Wedgies have accomplished something after all."
	Before Flint's astonished eyes, the  Silver Swords,  now far behind  the  two  other  ranks  of  derro  who  had  continued blithely up the road,  abruptly started  down the  slope after the  Aghar.  None  of  the   mountain  dwarves,   hampered  by their vision, seemed aware of Flint, Perian, and  their troops thrashing their way down the snowy slope above.
	"Shush!" Flint ordered his giggling,  whooping charges  in a harsh  whisper.  The  retreating  Aghar  had   disappeared  by now  down  the  steeper slope  beyond the  road, and  the pursuing Theiwar had all followed.
	After fifteen minutes of frantic plowing, Flint and his followers set foot on the Passroad. Without even stopping for a breath, they  rushed across  and down  the next  slope after the  Creeping  Wedgies  and  the  Silver  Swords, unconcerned about detection now.
	Their  charge  gained  momentum  as  they  slid   down  the steep  bank  toward  the  remaining  Wedgies, who  were gathered  now  with  their  backs  to the  lake. The  Theiwar had formed  a  contracting  half-circle  around  them,  and  they were tightening it swiftly.
	Overconfident, the Theiwar lunged  in for  the kill,  and a number  of  the  Aghar  dropped lifeless  into the  snow. But others of  the fleet-footed  Aghar managed  to dart  away and pop  up  behind  the  heavily  encumbered  mountain  dwarves. Fighting dwarves swirled chaotically about the  field. Shocking crimson blotches appeared on the white snow.
	Minutes  later,  when  Flint  and  the  rest of  his troops reached  the  lakeshore,  the  situation  had  reversed:  the mountain dwarves were  enclosed in  a semicircle  of howling, growling gully dwarves.
	"Get  lompchuters!"  Without  waiting  for  a  command from Flint,   Nomscul   quickly   formed  his   Agharpults.  Flint charged  forward,  suddenly  aware  of gully  dwarves soaring above  him,   crashing  into   the  Theiwar   beyond.  Pooter screamed past,  knocking three  of the  enemy into  the river before he lost  altitude and  plunged into  the water  with a splash.
	The  rest of  the Aghar  smashed head-on  into the  line of Theiwar  at  the  riverbank,  ignoring  the weaponry  and armor of their foes in a courageous effort to follow their king into battle. Steel weapons  cut cruel  wounds into  the loyal Aghar. Flint snapped  the neck  of a  Theiwar captain  and he looked around for another target, reaching this time  for his magnificent Tharkan Axe.
	Suddenly he felt the very ground shift under his  feet. Apparently just an overhanging shelf of snow and ice,  it broke off  from  the  shore with  a sharp  crack under  the extreme weight  of   the  combatants.   Hill,  gully,   and  mountain dwarves were thrown into  the deep,  wintry waters  of Stonehammer Lake.  The ice  floe drifted  away from  shore, breaking into smaller pieces that bobbed in the gentle current.
	"Whee!"
	"Yippee!"
	"Go swimming again!"
	The gully dwarves splashed and swam through  the icy water like delighted children, dog-paddling toward the bank, then slowly scrambling out.
	Not  so  the  Theiwar.  Weighted  down  by  their  chain shirts, inherently  distrustful  of  water  and unable  to swim,  the derro struggled in the water, never  deigning to  call for  help, until each white head sank, one by one.
	In moments, all that could be seen of the battle on the shore and lake were soggy Aghar, climbing from the current and  pleading  with  their  king  for  permission to  take another dip.
	And a vastness of vacant black steel helmets lapping at the shoreline, gray plume-side down.

                      Chapter 21

                   Eye op thle Storm

     Only an occasional beam of sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of dark pine boughs. Still, the forest  floor  seemed  an  uncomfortably  bright  place  to the dwarves  of  the  Theiwar  army. They  made camp  before full daylight, fortunately finding  a dense  patch of  woods where the  pale-skinned, underground-dwelling  derro could  all but avoid the direct rays of the sun. The ground lay  beneath a  blanket of  snow, and  the sticky, straight trunks of the trees seemed to merge overhead  into a solid  blanket  of  needles  and  snow-covered  branches. The dampness and chill of the camp  seemed a  small price  to pay for its chief virtue: that same thick canopy that  provided a blessed escape from the light.
	Many  of  the  Theiwar  veterans now  tried to  rest, having scraped  the  snow  away  from  the  small  patches  of ground that served as beds. A damp chill sank  into their  bones from the still, cold air.
	One  of  the  dwarves  made  no  attempt to  sleep, however: Pitrick  paced  between  several  large trunks,  following the tracks  of his  previous pacing,  where he  had worn  the snow down  to  bare  ground.  His  hands  were clasped  behind him, and the throbbing pain in his foot  put him  into a  foul temper. Perversely, he  would not  sit and  rest that  foot, even though the  dwarves would  be on  the march  again as  soon as night fell.
	"Where  are  they?  Where's  Grikk  and  his party?"  he demanded, turning to look at  a nearby  derro, not  expecting an answer. "They should have reported back by now!"
	The   hunchback   peered   anxiously  between   the  trunks. "They've  deserted  -  that's what  they've done!"  He sneered at the imagined  treachery. "I  send them  to find  the Silver Swords,  and instead  the miserable  cowards have  likely fled back  to  Thorbardin!  They'll  pay  for  this! By  all that's mighty, I'll see Grikk flayed alive, slow-roasted! I'll see -"
	"Excellency'" A sergeant approached him tentatively.
	"Eh? What?"
	"Grikk's coming, sir. Returned from the search."
	"What?"  Pitrick  blinked,  confused  by  his  own  tantrum. "Very well - send him to me at once."
	The  scout,  Grikk,  a  grizzled veteran  with a  patch over one  eye  and  a  beardless  cheek  that had  been permanently scarred  by  a  Hylar blade,  clumped up  to the  adviser. "We searched the valley along this whole shore of the lake, Excellency. There is no sign of the Swords - at least, nothing that we could see."
	"Then go back and look again!"
	"I'm sorry, sir." Grikk drew himself to  his full  height, his unpatched  eye  staring  into  his  commander's face.  "But we can't. We were blinded out there - I lost one of my  scouts in the lake, simply because he couldn't see a drop-off  under his feet!"
	        Pitrick saw that Grikk's exposed eye was puffy and bloodshot. He knew that the sun reflecting  off the  snow created  an  impossible  brightness.  Frustration gnawed  at him. His  body shook  with tension,  and he  made little  effort to bring himself under control.
	"Excellency,"  Grikk  said.  "Perhaps we  could go  back and search  tonight.  It would  only mean  delaying the  attack on Hillhome for one day."
	Pitrick's thoughts immediately turned to that nest  of insolent hill dwarves, little more than a mile away.  His decision was easy.
	"No!"  he  cried.  "Tonight  we  attack   Hillhome!  Nothing can  be  allowed to  delay our  vengeance!" He  stared through the woods, in the direction of the  village filled  with those loathsome enemies, the hill dwarves.
	"When  the  sun  rises  tomorrow, it  must shine  upon Hillhome's ruined remains." * * * * *
	When  they  finally  crested  a low  ridge and  Hillhome lay before them, Flint and  Perian anxiously  looked for  signs of smoke  or  massive  destruction. To  their relief,  they found neither. Instead,  they saw  that a  large earthwork  had been erected along the south border of the town - right  across the Passroad, Flint noted with satisfaction.
	"So  that's  Hillhome," Perian  breathed, picturing  a young Flint in that setting. She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "It would appear they're expecting an army."
	Flint let his  arm fall  around her  shoulder for  a moment, pride  making  his  eyes  sparkle. "The  young harrn  pulled it off. Basalt actually did it. We did it.
	"Double  time,  you  bug-eating,  belching bunch  of Aghar!" Flint  bellowed,  using  their  favorite  pet names,  and they started down the long ridge.
	At the bottom of the slope, the  gully dwarves,  sensing the importance  of  the  moment, marched  in the  precise military formation Flint  had dubbed  the "mob  of chaos."  Its success could be said to be achieved  when the  majority of  the gully dwarves  were  moving  rather  quickly  in  approximately  the same direction.
	This  was   easily  accomplished   now  because   the  Aghar were  universally  fascinated  by  the small  community before them.  They  climbed  over  each  other  and  pushed  one  another in their haste to enter Hillhome.
	For all of the Aghar, this was their first experience with a hill  dwarf  community,  or  any  above-ground  community  for that  matter.  As  they approached  Hillhome, they  stared to the  right and  left, awestruck  by the  architectural marvels around them.
	"What  in  the name  of all  the gods  is this?"  said Mayor Holden,  witnessing  the  gully  dwarf  stampede  as  he stood with a shovel at the outskirts of town.  "Oh, it's  you, Fireforge," he added,  recognizing Flint  at the  lead. He  cast a scornful  gaze  at  the  whooping  gully  dwarves.  "What  are those slugs doing here, and at a time like this?"
	Flint grabbed  the mayor,  whom he  had never  really liked, by  the  lapels.  "Nobody  calls  my  troops slugs  except me! Show some  respect to  the Aghar  who are  willing to  give up their lives protecting your town!"
	"Uncle  Flint!"  cried  Basalt  from  nearby,  throwing down his shovel  and racing  toward his  uncle. Flint  released the mayor,  who  muttered  some  sort  of  apology  as  he skulked back to his digging.
	"You really came through,"  said Flint.  "I'm proud  of you, pup."  He  gestured  at  the  wide  earthwork,   the  bustling dwarves extending it to either side.
	"We've  gathered  some  weapons,  too,"  said   Basalt,  his pride  obvious  in  his  voice.  "A  couple hundred,  anyway enough for half the town."
	"You mean  four hundred  hill dwarves  are willing  to fight for this old town?" Flint said, honestly surprised.
	"Yup!" Basalt was clearly  proud of  his kinsmen,  and Flint enjoyed  the  change  in his  nephew. "And  even the  ones who can't fight are busy  sewing leather  right now.  They're making  padded leather  breastplates for  as many  of us  as they can."
	  "Excellent," Flint pronounced. "But what'll they do when the fighting starts?"
	"We've  got  provisions  stored  in  some  caves, up  in the hills. At first  sign of  the mountain  dwarves, the  old folks and youngsters will head out of town," Basalt explained.
	Tybalt,  Ruberik,  and  Bertina  joined  them,  together with an  attractive  young  dwarf  maid  whom  Flint  recognized  as Hildy,  the  daughter of  the town's  brewer. They  greeted him warmly, and even Ruberik unbent his spine - just a  little, for a  brief  moment  -  to  nod  his  respect toward  his brother. Flint, in turn,  introduced them  to Perian,  who stood  at his side. Bertina gave her a scrutinizing glance, but was satisfied enough  with  the  mountain  dwarf  to  give  her   a  cheerful hello.
	"What  about  the  mountain  dwarves?"  asked   Tybalt.  "Basalt told us that  they're on  the move  already. How  far have they gotten?"
	Flint looked to Basalt in  surprise and  the young  harrn held up his hand, showing the steel-banded ring on his finger. "It was  easy,  with this,"  he explained.  "I teleported  down the road  until  I  saw  'em  marching toward  the shore  of Stonehammer Lake. That  was early  last night.  I was  afraid they'd attack this morning, before you could get here."
	"Hey - cut that out!" At the sound of the irate  voice, Flint looked  around to  see another  young dwarf  chasing a  pair of Aghar  who had  snatched his  shovel while  he rested  from the rigors of excavation. "Give that back to me, you  little runts, or I'll rip yer ears off!"
	Somehow,  Flint  wasn't  surprised to  find gully  dwarves at the other end of the rebuke. If  the Aghar  were ever  going to work  with  the  hill  dwarves,  some  ground  rules had  to be established.
	"Limper!  Wet-nose!  Stop  that  right now!"  Flint bellowed. Each  of  the  gully dwarves  actually stopped  to look  at him before they went on to  make insulting  gestures at  their pursuer with their feet.
	Groaning,  Flint  turned  back  to  his comrades.  "The mountain dwarves, yes. We lost sight of them  before dawn.  For all I  know  they could  be coming  around the  bend of  the valley in ten minutes."
	"I don't think so,"  Perian disagreed.  "I'm sure  they won't be moving during the day. We have till at least sunset  to pre- pare, but I'll be surprised if we don't see them  right around then."
	"Well,  that's  something,  anyway  -  a  few  hours,"  said Flint, pleased both at Hillhome's farsightedness and  the fact that  his   Aghar  had   marched  considerably   faster,  over rougher country, than had the dwarves of Pitrick's army.
	Basalt  took the  arms of  both Flint  and Perian.  "Why are we talking in this dusty street?  We'll be  here by  need soon enough.  Let's  go  to  Moldoon's -  Turq Hearthstone  is running it now - to discuss the details."
	Everyone   agreed.   Admonishing   Nomscul  to   behave  and make sure his fellow Aghar did  the same,  Flint and  the rest set out through the village and past the brewery to  the north edge  of  town,  where  Moldoon's  Inn   beckoned  invitingly. For  a  moment  the dwarf  almost believed  that his  old companion would come to the door of  his inn  to greet  them. The truth brought a thick lump to his  throat, and  he made  a silent vow to avenge Moldoon's death tenfold.
	It  was  early  afternoon,  and Flint  and Perian  were famished.  Turq brought  them heaping  plates of  fresh, buttered bread and stew. The  innkeeper noted  their noses  wrinkled in distaste.
	"The  bread's  great,  Turq,  but  have you  something other than stew?" At the dwarf's puzzled  expression, Flint  held up a hand and shook his head ruefully. "Don't ask; it's  too complicated and not worth the  bother to  explain. But  some meat would be most welcome, if you have it."
	Turq  brought  two  steaks  back  within minutes.  Flint and Perian dug in like starving dwarves, while the bulk of Flint's family looked on,  waiting for  them to  finish. The  pair ate with great relish, with much smacking of  lips and  licking of fingers.  The steak,  Flint swore,  was the  best food  he had ever eaten. Finally, some time later,  Perian pushed  back her chair. "I'm stuffed," she admitted. "And one of us  had better check on the Aghar." She quickly got up to go.
	"Mmmph,"  Flint agreed,  still shoveling  in the  tender meat.
	Only after Flint popped the last  bite into  his mouth  did he even  stop to  notice where  he was.  Something about  the inn felt different than the last time he'd been here.
	"I  know  what's changed!"  he cried,  slamming his  fist to the bar. "No derro!" Flint  nodded his  approval. At  the same time,  he  realized  how  much  he  missed  Moldoon,  and  his earlier melancholy returned.
	"The ones we caught  are still  in jail,"  Basalt explained. "Maybe we'll let 'em out after the battle."
	"Yeah,"  Flint agreed,  suddenly serious.  The few  hours of peace  remaining  to  Hillhome  could  be  counted in  the low angle of the sun to the  horizon. "Well,  I'd better  check on Perian," he said.
	The  others  accompanied   him  from   the  inn,   and  they started  back  toward  the  earthen  wall  defending Hillhome. From  some  distance  away they  heard Perian  castigating her charges, and Flint unconsciously picked up his pace.
	"No!  Higher!  Make  the wall  higher!" Perian  shouted. Her voice came out as more of a pale croak than a command.
	"But  look,  Queen  Furryend!  We  make  nice   notch  right here!" A  dirt-caked Fester  protested, indicating  with pride the  deep  cut  the  gully  dwarves had  gouged in  the earthwork. "Pretty soon road go right through, no problem!"
	'Yes,  problem  -  big  problem!  Road go  - damn!  Look, if the road  goes right  through, then  the mountain  dwarves can go right through. Do you understand?"
	"Sure!" beamed Fester. "No problem!"
	"We  don't  want  the  mountain dwarves  to go  through. We want to stop them here, stop them with the  wall that  used to cross the road!" Perian felt her  temperature rising,  and was frustrated that the woeful state of  her overworked  voice did not allow her more effective vent of her displeasure.
	"Oh," said Fester, crestfallen. For a  moment she  looked at the pile of dirt they had moved, then  turned back  to Perian. "Why 7"
	The queen  had been  trying to  supervise the  gully dwarves while they learned the art of  military fortification.  In the few short minutes she'd been at  it, she  had decided  that it was an unrewarding pipe dream.
	She was spared the further rigors of instruction by  the arrival of Flint, Hildy, and Basalt. Flint chuckled in sympathy, taking her hand.
	The hill dwarf turned his attention  to the  growing earthwork  project.  "Looks  impressive,"  he   complimented.  Indeed,  the  redoubt  was  now a  great, curving  wall, shaped roughly  like  a horseshoe,  with western  Hillhome protected by its  dirt shelter.  It aueraged  perhaps eight  feet high, though  of course  with gully  dwarf craftsmanship  there was no excess of precision.
	"We'll  have  about  four  hundred  hill dwarves  and three hundred  gully  dwarves.  At least  the thane's  troops won't have us outnumbered too badly."
	Flint's heartiness seemed forced. The disciplined  ranks of Realgar's elite guards, with their metal armor, deadly crossbows,  and  well-practiced  combat  formations,  were  a more formidable  force than  the rabble  of armed,  but unarmored, unpracticed,  and  wholly  undisciplined  Hillhome  folk  and gully dwarves.
	"What's the plan?" Mayor Holden  called to  them as  he approached from the  center of  town. They  turned to  see Turq and the mayor climbing the wall.
	Holden  seemed  eager  to  inspect  the  fortification. Now that the evidence  of mountain  dwarf treachery  was inescapable, Flint reflected sourly, the mayor  had become  a devout patriot to the cause of Hillhome.  Perhaps I'm  being unfair, Flint chided himself.  The mayor  only reflected  the consensus  of  the  majority of  the hill  dwarves. The  dwarves of Hillhome  had simply  grown comfortable  in their  good life. Anyone  would be  reluctant to  rashly reject  his prosperity when confronted with claims of an unseen, secret enemy.
	And, Flint  reminded himself,  when the  fact of  the enemy had  been  made plain  finally, the  dwarves of  Hillhome had jumped  to  the  defense  of their  community. The  four hundred  harrn  and  frawl  who  had  taken  up arms  ranged from young adults to venerable grandfathers,  and all  were strong and  dedicated.  And  those who  were not  physically capable of battle had been busy, too.
	"Splendid,  splendid!"  crowed  the   mayor  unnecessarily, looking  around  the  graceful  curve  of  the  earthen wall. "Now, what is our strategy?"
	Flint, Perian, Basalt, Hildy,  and Turq  looked at  one an- other over the stupidity of the question, as if they  were dividing up for a game of  luggerball. But  the mayor  had inadvertently  revealed  one  thing:   they  had   not  officially appointed a commander over their force. "I suggest that Flint Fireforge be given the task of assigning the plan of defense," proposed Turq Hearthstone quietly.
	"Aye," echoed Basalt and Hildy.
	"Yes," piped up Perian.
	Flint  looked  around  at  his  companions. He  tried rationally to consider the alternatives. Basalt  and Hildy  were too young.  Mayor  Holden  was not  a harrn  of action.  Perian was an outsider - a mountain dwarf, to  boot -  though it  did not matter to him in the least.  She would  fight loyally  for the town's cause, but she was not the choice  to be  its champion. Tybalt,  Ruberik -  his brothers  - he  now sensed,  looked to him for leadership.
	"We'll meet them  here," Flint  began, indicating  the wall. He looked self-consciously at the others to gauge  their reactions,  but when  he saw  that they  listened unquestioningly, his confidence rose, and so did the strength of his voice.
	"I'll manage  the Sludge  Bombers right  in the  middle," he decided.  "That  should  break the  cohesion of  their attack. Then,  we'll  try  to hold  them... where?"  He looked  at the line,  evaluating  the  ground  and  finding what  he desired. "There." He pointed at the right side of the  horseshoe, where it curved almost to the bank of the river.
	"Basalt,  you'll  command  a small  company of  hill dwarves over there, enough to  stop them  when they  try to  climb the redoubt. Perian can back you up with the Wedgies."
	His followers listened  attentively. He  and Perian  had already  explained the  gully dwarf  formations, and  indeed the Aghar   had   demonstrated   the   creeping   wedge   and  the Aghazpult.  They  had  come  dangerously  close  also  to  acquainting the  hill dwarves  with the  dread sludge  bomb, but fortunately  Perian  had  come  upon the  bombers in  the nick of time.
	"Then, over here," Flint continued, turning to the left, where the wing of the earthwork extended into a field beyond  the  Passroad.  Perhaps  a hundred  feet beyond  the end of the barrier began the tree line, but there was no  time to carry the redoubt that much farther.  "Tybalt and  Hildy will take the rest of the hill dwarves and the Agharpults."
	He  surveyed  the  expanse of  the line,  satisfied. "Then, when  the  enemy  line  is broken  by the  bombs and  half of them are  occupied over  here, Tybalt  and Hildy,  you charge forward  and  attack  with  your  company  of  dwarves.  With luck - and lots of that - we  can carry  half of  the thane's forces away  before sweeping  around to  catch the  others in the rear. With those trees blocking them from  too wide  of a movement, we might  have the  chance to  hit 'em  hard, cause them some real confusion.
	"Now, Ruberik," he said, turning to  his brother.  "Are you still a dead shot with that crossbow?"
	"I've been keeping my hand in," the farmer admitted.
	"Good. I have a job  for you."  Briefly he  explained another idea he had, and  Ruberik gave  his hearty  approval. Flint's brother headed into town, seeking the two large, clay jars he needed to put the plan into operation.
	"Now,  we'll  need some  bonfires out  there in  the field. That'll at least give  us a  picture of  where they  are when they're  advancing."  He  stopped to  think while  Tybalt and Hildy organized a score of hill  dwarves. The  group gathered dry wood and quickly started to form  several large  piles in the field before the redoubt. These bonfires would be  lit as soon as the derro came into view, providing the  hill dwarves some view of their advancing enemy.
	Soon Flint turned  to the  others. "Now,  how are  we fixed for straw? Can we get fifty  bales? A  hundred would  be even better."
	Tybalt nodded.
	"Good. And lamp oil? How many kegs do you have in your store?" he asked Mayor Holden.
	"Well, there's not, that is, it's my most expensive item! I can't...."
	Conscious of the stares of all the other hill  dwarves, the mayor  stopped  speaking  and  flushed   with  embarrassment. "Well, I guess I've got a couple of kegs.  But what  on Krynn do you need them for?"
	Flint  explained  his  plans, assigning  dwarves to  gather the necessary  ingredients  and   make  the   required  preparations. Slowly,  the  various  elements  of  Hillhome's defense  came together.
	The defensive strategy sounds good, Flint realized with satisfaction.
	Even   as   they  were   speaking  Flint   noticed  that   it  grew steadily   darker.  The   sun  dipped   beyond  the   western  hills, and  twilight  settled  over  the  town and  its valley.  They've got to be coming soon now, he told himself.
	"If  they  break  the  line  here,   everyone  fall   back  through the  town,"  he   added,  developing   a  contingency   plan.  "We'll make  a  final  stand in  the brewery,  if it  comes to  that." Hildy had  already  offered  the  building  -  the  largest   structure  in Hillhome - for that purpose.
	"Look!"  cried  Perian  suddenly,  turning  toward  the  south. The  others  squinted  into  the  distance.  The  movement  along the  Passroad  was  painfully obvious  to them  all, even  in the fading  light.  A  long  column  snaked   its  way   through  the mud.
	The   armored   mountain  dwarf   troops  of   Pitrick's  legion.
	"They  must  have  started  right  at  sunset,"  Basalt  guessed. "And they're coming fast."
	"They'll  be  here  in  an  hour,"  Flint  judged,  "maybe sooner if  they  hurry.  That  doesn't give  us a  lot of  time. Everybody spread   out!"   Flint   ordered.  "Pass   the  word   through  the town  -  every  dwarf  with   a  weapon   should  get   down  here. The rest should take shelter in the hills if  they're not  gone already!
	"Basalt,  Hildy  -  get  your  crews  out  there and  light those fires.  I  want  them  blazing  high  by the  time the  Theiwar get down  to  the  field.  And   then  hurry   back  -   remember,  the battle's to be fought here, not out there!"
	Basalt  grinned  as  he trotted  off with  the fire  brigade. The others,  too,  turned   toward  the   stations  for   the  imminent battle.
	Perian turned to leave, and Flint caught her by the shoulders. "Not you," he whispered hoarsely. "Not yet." Flint clasped  her  to  him,  and  tucked  her face  into his  throat be- neath his beard.
	He  smelled  of  salty  perspiration  and  soap,  an honest, good scent. Flint's scent. She  nuzzled him  for the  first time since they had left Mudhole.
	"Don't  tease  me,  you  heartless  wench!" he  growled, gathering her up tightly. He pulled back  abruptly, taking  her face in his thick, callused hands.  "I've grown  quite fond  of you," he grumbled. "For Reorx's sake be careful!"
	Perian tilted her head back  slightly and  gave him  a lingering,  bittersweet  kiss  that  was  salty  with tears.  "I'll be careful  -  but  only  if you  promise that  you will,  too." He nodded  somberly,  and  she kissed  him on  the nose  this time, reluctantly wiggling out of his arms.
	Perian  gave  him a  playful pat  and a  smile. "Mind  you remember  that  promise."  Then  she  was  gone  to  her  assigned post.
	Flint watched her go,  and then  got caught  up in  the frenzy of  activity  that  swirled across  Hillhome. Dusk  settled over the town. Looking to  the field,  Flint saw  one fire,  then another, then several more spark to life.
	And   the   Theiwar   troops   marched  onward   to  Hillhome. Twilight faded to  night as  Basalt, Hildy,  and the  other hill dwarves kindled the bonfires laid  in the  field before  the redoubt.  These  blazes  crackled  quickly   upward  as   the  dry wood ignited, sending pillars of sparks into the dark sky.
	These  dwarves  scurried  back  to  the  safety of  their companions as  Pitrick's forces  neared the  town. The  bright yellow  firelight  soon  reflected  off  of   rank  upon   rank  of black-armored, steel-tipped death.
	Darkness  grew  as  the  mountain  dwarf  wave  started forward  again,  marching  inexorably  toward  the  confrontation with their dwarven kin on the dirt embankment.
	In the next instant, as if from a single throat, Pitrick's legion raised a hoarse  cry. With  a clash  of their  arms against their shields, they surged forward into a charge.

                  Chapter 22

             Fire in Theit Eyes

 The din of the Thiewar charge crested over the defenders  in  a  wave  of  sound.  The mountain  dwarves voiced hoarse  challenges; they  beat their  swords and  axes against their  shields;  and  they  pounded  the  ground   with  their heavy, rhythmic tread. The  sound  rolled  forward  from  the  darkness,  though  the bonfires spotted throughout the field gave Flint and  the others a rough idea of the derro's location. Flint saw the flames glinting from steel axeblades, and  dark, shiny  shields. Even at this distance, the horrid eyes of the derro seemed to catch and reflect the light. Flint thought, incongruously,  of fireflies glimpsed across a summer meadow.
	    For a moment he wondered if the volume of sound alone would  be  enough  to  sweep  the  defenders  from  the breastwork,  but  a  quick  look  around  showed  him  that  the hill dwarves  were  ready  to  stand firm.  The gully  dwarves actually  contributed  to  the  din,  most  of them  sticking their tongues out or shrieking insults.
	Flint  looked  nervously  over  his  shoulder  into Hillhome, now sheltered behind  this semicircular  barrier of  earth. The darkened  town seemed  lifeless under  the overcast  night sky, especially in contrast to the fires scattered about  the field. The  town,  in  fact,  was  virtually  abandoned.   Some  three hundred and fifty of its citizens stood with Flint, Perian, and the  Aghar  along  the  redoubt.  The  others, almost  one hundred and sixty hill  dwarves -  the very  old, very  young, and otherwise infirm - had retreated to caves  in the  hills, waiting fearfully for the outcome of the battle.
	"Ready the  sludge bombs!"  cried the  king, turning  back to the  charging  Theiwar.  The  Aghar  in the  center reluctantly ceased their rude noises and took up the  small, glass  and ceramic vessels that contained their weapons.
	"The  torches,  too,"  Flint  added.  "Light them  now!" Several  dozen  hill  dwarves  touched  matches to  the oil-soaked torches they had prepared. "We'll give the little grubs  a surprise  when  they  get  close  enough,"  he  remarked   to  his brother  Ruberik as  the farmer  came up  to him.  Ruberik nodded grimly as they stood  silently for  a moment,  peering into the darkness.
	The thane's  ranks swept  closer. The  charge, begun  at several hundred yards distance,  swiftly closed  the gap.  Now, in the glaring light of the bonfires, Flint could discern individual derro. He saw faces distorted  by battlelust,  eyes squinting   murderously,   seeking   victims.   Most  of   the  derro advanced  at an  easy trot,  their shields  on their  left arms while their right hands held axes or short swords.
	Some  of  the  fires  vanished  from  sight, trampled  by the dark line in its implacable advance, but  closer pyres  now illuminated  the  army.  Flint  wished  for  a  rank  of longbowmen,  or  a catapult  - any  kind of  missile with  long range. The  sludge  bombs,  unfortunately, would  only carry  the distance of an  Aghar toss  - anywhere  from one  to fifty  feet - and he wouldn't  risk the  gully dwarves  in the  Agharpult until he was ready to attack.
	"Stand  firm,  there!"  Flint  bellowed at  a nearby  pair of young  hill  dwarves  who  had  started looking  anxiously over their shoulders.
	He  heard   Perian  shout   similar  encouragements   on  the right  flank,  where  she stood  with Basalt  and a  small company  of  hill  dwarves,  supported  by  a reserve  of Creeping Wedgies.
	Flint cast a  quick glance  to the  left, where  Tybalt stood with the  majority of  the hill  dwarves, concealed  behind the wall.  Somewhere  in that  group, Flint  knew, were  Hildy, his brother Bernhard, and  his sister  Fidelia. He  thought briefly of  Bertina  and Glynnis,  who were  both persuaded  over their loud  objections  to  help  supervise  the  young  dwarves  who had been sent to safety in the hills.
	Tybalt  gave him  a casual  wave, and  Flint chuckled  at the constable's cool  and easy  demeanor. It  surprised him  to notice the warm feeling he got from having  his family  near during  these  hours  of  crisis.  They're a  good bunch,  he told himself with not a little pride.
	"How  soon?"  Flint  turned  as  Ruberik asked  the question. The  farmer  was  still standing  beside him  atop the  wall of earth.
	"Close," Flint replied. He  looked at  the large  crossbow in his  brother's  hands.  The  weapon's  hilt,  of weatherbeaten oak, was smoothed  by long  usage. Its  steel crossbar  did not shine, but  nevertheless tensed  with unconcealed  strength. It had once been their father's weapon. "You ready?"
	In  answer,  Ruberik  raised  the  heavy  weapon and  held it firm, drawing a bead on his target in the field - a target that was not the charging derro, but instead a large clay jar in the Theiwars' path.
	"Can  you  see  well   enough?"  inquired   Flint,  dubiously peering  into  the  darkness. Flashes  of yellow  light rippled across  the  ground, but  quickly died  back to  shadows. "This seemed like a better idea in the daylight."
	"No  need  to  worry,"  grunted  Ruberik,  squinting  in concentration.  "I did  manage to  learn a  little of  what Father thought    most    important    -    weaponry."    The   farmer crouched,  as immobile  as a  rock, and  waited for  his brother's command.
	"Another few  seconds," Flint  said, his  voice taut.  He saw the  target,  standing motionless  in the  path of  the charge. The derro swept closer. "Wait a minute... wait..."
	 Now, shoot!
	With  a  sharp  crack, the  crossbow released  its steel-headed shaft. The missile flashed into the night, then was lost in the darkness.
	But in the next instant a  sharply defined  cloud -  a billow of  smoke  that  was  so  dark  it  showed clearly  against the moderate blackness of the night - erupted from the clay jar.
	"Nice  shot!"  shouted  Flint,  clapping  his brother  on the back.  Ruberik  paid  no  attention,  already  concentrating on the  laborious  recocking  of  his  powerful weapon.  He loaded another  shaft,  sweat  popping  from  his  brow as  he quickly turned the powerful crank.
	Flint  growled,  unconsciously  voicing  his delight,  as the sludge smoke spread across the field.  He saw  the rank  of the derro  split  and  waver  as  the  dwarves  stumbled  away from the  noxious  fumes.  He  couldn't see  their reactions  in the darkness, but he took savage pleasure  in imagining  their discomfort.  The  derro  swept  around  the  growing   cloud,  but their advance had been temporarily interrupted.
	"Ready  the  torches!"  Flint  cried  as the  Theiwar swept closer.  "And  the  sludge  bombs!"  Nearby,  Ooz  and Pooter hefted their small vials and shook them vigorously.
	"Careful!"  Flint warned.  All we  need is  to have  one of those  pop open  back here,  he thought  with a  shudder. The battle would be over before it began.
	Behind  the  wall,  several dozen  hill dwarves  held burning torches. They kept the flames hot,  but held  them low,  out of sight  of  the  advancing  derro,  awaiting Flint's  command to put them to use.
	Ruberik finally  raised his  weapon, taking  aim at  the second of the great pots. This one was much closer than  his first target.  With  another sharp  thunk, the  weapon fired  and the bolt shattered the jar, releasing another cloud of  the noxious sludge smoke.
	The  derro  were  less than  a hundred  feet away.  Now Flint and Ruberik could see  the wrinkles  in their  grotesque faces, the links of their chain armor.
	Flint turned to  the Aghar  gathered to  either side  of himself. "Sludge Bombers, throw!" he cried.
	"Eat sludge!" Ooz cried  as he  tossed his  vial up  and outward. It crashed to the ground  among the  first rank  of derro troops and  broke, releasing  a smaller  cloud of  the stinking black smoke.
	With a volley  of exuberant  cries, the  Aghar in  the center of  the  line pitched  their sloshing  missiles. The  jars were small  and  the  hurlers enthusiastic.  As they  had practiced, each gully dwarf cocked  back his  arm and  then flung  the jar as far as he could in  the general  direction of  the attacking derro.  Some  could  not  help  but  tumble  forward  from  the momentum of their toss.
	Several  of  the  vials  plopped  right on  the front  of the earthen barrier before rolling  into the  ditch at  the bottom, between  the  attackers  and  defenders.  Most  of  the bottles sailed  a  couple  of  dozen  feet,  and  some had  the forward thrust to soar through the air and burst among the feet  of the first rank of approaching Theiwar.
	Instantly a thick, black  cloud rose  from the  exploded vessels. The smoke burst upward  from the  force of  its explosive release, then it hung thickly in the air, a moist, oily blanket of vapor. Some of  this smoke  rolled up  and over  the breastwork, and Flint caught a whiff of it before  he could  duck out of the  way. Instantly  he doubled  over, gagging  and choking. He tripped and rolled to the  bottom of  the sloping  wall, the Tharkan  Axe  bouncing  heavily  against  his  thigh.  There he lay, helplessly, retching.
	"King  not  like  sludge  bomb,"  Ooz  said,   looking  sadly down  from  the  redoubt.  Some  of   the  smoke   had  drifted around  his boots,  rising to  tickle his  face, but  the gully dwarf merely wiped his nose and blinked a few times.
	Flint crawled from the last vestiges of the mist that had seeped over the wall. He shook his head a few times to clear it, praying that  the derro  found the  sludge bomb  effects as obnoxious as he did.
	Indeed,  most  of  the  smoke  had  spilled against  the redoubt,  and  rolled  back  into  the  onrushing  wave  of  the Theiwar.  It  crept  like  a  living  thing along  the ground, clutching at skin, pouring into boots and clothes, forcing its way into every available crevice.
	Flint's reaction to  a small  whiff of  the sludge  bomb, in fact,  was mild  when compared  to the  extreme effect  of the gas upon the Theiwar. The derro caught the  full brunt  of the oily, noxious mist. The vapor was so heavy  that it  spread in a cloud barely higher than the head of  a tall  dwarf, flowing like liquid across the battlefield.
	The  first  rank  in  the  center  of  the  charging Theiwar dropped  like  felled  pigeons.  The  next rank  staggered and stopped  as  the sludge  gas enveloped  it; the  dwarves stumbled and fell, senseless, coughing and retching.
	The gas dissipated the farther it spread, and  its intensity diminished.  But  it  reduced any  Theiwar luckless  enough to be caught within its oily folds to  paroxysms and  gagging. As Flint had intended, the noxious  mist spread  into a  wedge in the  center of  the Theiwar  formation. By  the time  the king climbed  back  up  to  the redoubt  - now  clear of  the heavy gas - he could see that the thane's forces  had been  split in two by the creeping stench.
	Many  of  the  derro  stopped,  looking   around  anxiously. Others  behind  them  stumbled  to a  halt. Through  the darkness, Flint  saw the  neat formation  of the  Theiwar dissolve into a collection of surprised, confused soldiers.  The charge had been effectively delayed.
	"Flint - over here!" He heard Perian's  urgent cry,  and saw her running in his direction. He quickly raced along  the wall to meet her.
	"Pitrick's savants!" she said, pointing to a half-dozen derro  that  had  worked  their  way forward  from the  far rank. "We're going to get hit by magic in a minute or two."
	Flint  saw  the  savants,  clearly  illuminated by  a nearby bonfire. Their hair seemed  bleached almost  to white,  but it flashed red as  the fire  flared upward.  They wore  long dark robes  that  seemed  strangely  incongruous  among  the gleam- ing black armor of their fellows.
	Flint  considered  the  savants.  "Here come  the fireworks."
	"I've got an idea," Ruberik mused.  "The torches  are ready. What do you say we wait till the derro get a little closer, and then give them something to look at?" He  gestured to  the oilsoaked bales of straw before  the breastwork.  Privately, Flint hoped that the idea he had had  during the  calm of  the afternoon would prove  as effective  as he'd  imagined, now  that it was the dark of night amid the raging chaos of battle.
	."That's a  great idea!"  Perian exclaimed,  clapping Flint's brother on the back. Ruberik blushed.
	"Let's hope it works," said Flint.
	"Of  course  it'll  work,"  Perian  replied, her  tone surprisingly jaunty. For the first  time, Flint  became aware  of just how  much  of  a  warrior  this  frawl  was.  "When  that light flares up in front of them, they'll be blinded for a long time. They'll find that more frightening than  facing cold  steel and close range!"
	Flint  looked  at her  quietly for  a moment,  noticing again the  curl  of  her  auburn  hair,  the  smooth softness  of her cheek.  By  Reorx,  he wished  this battle  was done  with! She sensed his look and turned, surprising him with a soft blush.
	Then  they  heard  derro  sergeants  barking   commands,  and saw  the  derro ranks  gather again.  The foot  soldiers surged forward  behind  the  spellcasting savants,  the whole  mass of derro approaching the ditch at the foot of the earthwork.
	"Torches, now!" Flint shouted.
	Dozens of hill dwarves  raced to  the top  of the  wall, pitching their blazing torches down the other  side, onto  the bales of  hay  that  had  been  thoroughly soaked  with lamp  oil and placed along the edge of the ditch.
	With a loud rush of  air, each  oil-soaked bale  erupted into a high column  of flame,  an explosion  of bright  yellow light in the darkness.
	With  howls  of agony,  the savants  clutched their  eyes and stumbled  backward.  They  rolled  on  the   ground,  shrieking and   moaning,  their   wide,  full-pupiled   eyes  temporarily blinded.
	   The savants closest to the blaze had been most seriously affected.  But  the  warriors  behind  them blinked  in uncomfortable  surprise,  forced  to  turn  away  from  the painful glare.  Once  again  Flint  heard  the  sergeants  cursing and growling, and the derro  started slowly  toward the  middle of the hill dwarf line.
	"I've got to get back to my post at center!" he  called, and Perian ran back to her own position by Basalt. "Good luck!"
	The  towering columns  of fire  marked the  entire periphery of the semicircular redoubt. In the  center, the  black sludge smoke  still  obscured  the  field,  preventing any  derro advance. To Flint's left, the mountain dwarves hesitated in disarray and confusion, but to his right,  where the  savants had led  the  way,  the  Theiwar  officers  whipped  their  savage troops forward.
	Flint scrutinized the lightly held  right flank.  Perian and Basalt had a  thin force  - barely  one hundred  hill dwarves, and half that many Aghar.  But all  they had  to do  was hold, since  the  steep  river  bank  beyond the  breastwork blocked the derro advance.to that side. The wall of the  earthwork itself  would  then  force  the  Theiwar  to attack  upward, and give the defenders a significant advantage.
	The   first   rank   of   black-armored   mountain   dwarves reached  the ditch  at the  foot of  the redoubt.  The Theiwar ranks  quickly  scrambled  through  the  shallow  trench.  The glowing  piles  of  the  haybales,  mostly'  consumed  by now, collapsed into cinders, but even so the  derro were  forced to march  around  the  hot  coals.  They  were  armed  with  twohanded battle-axes,  but they  held the  weapons in  one hand, using the other  to help  them scramble  up the  steep breastwork.
	Flint  saw  Perian  leap  forward  and  drive  her  axe down through the iron helmet of a Theiwar.  Basalt, too,  swung his blade  and  sent  an attacking  mountain dwarf  tumbling backward into the  ditch. All  along the  line, the  dwarves stood atop  the low  wall, hacking  and chopping  at the  derro coming up beneath them.
	The Aghar of the Creeping Wedgie surged along the top of the redoubt, bashing their shields onto the heads of climbing    Theiwar,    causing   more    confusion.   Weapons struck,  and  blood  flowed.  Flint's  heart  lurched as  he saw several defending hill dwarves fall and lie still.
	The  king  of  Mudhole  held  his  breath,  wondering  if  the line would  hold. He  saw a  derro scramble  over the  wall, but then Basalt cut him down  with a  swift blow  to the  neck. Perian  led a  band of  dwarves in  a sharp  counterattack, battering and smashing the Theiwar, knocking them off the wall.
	He  heard her  hoarse battle  cry, saw  the hill  dwarves leap to follow her. She attacked  like a  banshee, laying  about with heavy  blows,  darting  away  before a  return blow  could land. Flint's heart faltered as a derro struck at her back; she sensed the  attack  with  some kind  of prescience  and whirled  to cut the leering Theiwar down.
	Finally  Flint  exhaled,  seeing  the  hill  dwarves  not only hold,  but  continue  to  drive the  mountain dwarves  back into the   ditch.   Disorganized,   confused,   and   dismayed,   the Theiwar crowded together at the foot of the redoubt.
	"Smoke's  still  keeping  'em  away  from  here,"  grunted Ruberik, indicating the oily fog in the center of the battlefield. Flint  looked at  his brother  in surprise,  sensing disappointment in his voice.
	"You want a chance to shoot a few of 'em, don't you?" Flint asked.
	Ruberik cleared  his throat,  nodding. "I  guess I  would like to personally see that a few of 'em don't get back home."
	The brothers  turned their  attention to  the left,  where the mountain   dwarves   had  resumed   their  advance.   They  were swinging  wide  of  the  redoubt  through  the  open  field. Because of the black  cloud that  still lay  across the  center of their  line,  these mountain  dwarves could  not see  their compatriots who had been halted on the right flank.
	"Keep an eye on things here!" Flint barked at Ruberik.
	"Wait!  What  do you  mean? What  should I  -" Ruberik shouted as Flint darted away.
	Privately, the king felt misgivings about leaving his brother  in  charge  of  the  rambunctious  Sludge   Bombers.  A quick  look  at  the  black  smoke  gave  him   assurance,  however, for it seemed like it would linger  for some  time, blocking access to the middle of the redoubt.
	Flint ran along the top of the  breastwork until  he reached Tybalt, who stood among a group  of hill  dwarves on  the left wing  of  the semicircular  barrier. They  looked down  as the charging  Theiwar  suddenly  veered  away,  turning  and  running past the  front of  the breastwork  instead of  trying to climb it. The open end of the wall beckoned out in  the field, offering its easy route past the defenders.
	Around  the  hill  dwarves  crowded  Nomscul  and  the gully dwarves  of  his  Agharpult  wing.  They  hopped  and  jumped, attempting  to  observe   the  enemy   over  and   around  the slightly larger hill dwarves.
	"Agharpults, get  ready!" Flint  shouted as  soon as  he was in earshot.
	"For what?" asked Nomscul,  turning to  his king  in puzzlement.
	"To shoot, you numbskull!"
	"Me Nomscul!" beamed the Aghar. 'You king!"
	Flint  restrained  his  tongue  for a  moment, and  then was pleased  to  see  Nomscul  and his  crews quickly  spring into action; they even remembered which way to aim!
	"Good,  good!" he  encouraged them,  slightly out  of breath as he reached Tybalt.
	"They're  sweeping  around  quickly,"  said  the  constable, with just a touch of alarm.
	Flint  looked  across  the  field   and  saw   the  mountain dwarves  advancing  at  a  fast  march  past the  redoubt from right to  left. Soon  they would  be in  position to  turn and charge into the rear of the fortification, past the end of the wall.
	"We can't waste any time!"  snapped Flint.  He saw  that the hill dwarves were ready for the counterattack.
	"Agharpults,   shoot!  Shoot   two  times!"   That  command, he  hoped, would  keep them  launching until  they ran  out of Aghar. Then he turned back to the enemy.
	The  pyramids  of  the  Agharpult  tilted  atop  the earthen wall  as  the  lone  gully  dwarves  who  served  as  missiles sprinted up the sloping  inner side  of the  barrier. Vaulting onto  their  comrades,  the  whole  mass  of  dwarfdom toppled forward,  momentum   hurling  the   topmost  Aghar   into  the teeming ranks  of the  Theiwar. They  struck like  balls crashing  into  tenpins,  knocking  the  derro  formations  asunder, toppling dozens of mountain dwarves to the ground.
	"Hill  dwarves,  charge!"  Flint   raised  the   Tharkan  Axe above  his head  as he  shouted, and  then stopped  in surprise as a cool  white light  suddenly sprang  from the  axe, washing over the field. It spilled brightly across the derro ranks, and the  mountain  dwarves,  to  a  harrn,  turned their  faces from the painful brightness. Flint stared at the  axe for  a moment, surprised  by  the  rush   of  power.   Around  him   the  hill dwarves raised a hoarse cheer.
	"To victory!" bellowed Tybalt.
	With a ragged roar that almost matched their enemy's challenge  in  volume,  the  hill  dwarves  swarmed   down  and into the side  of the  mountain dwarf  force. Flint  saw Hildy, her face a  mask of  grim determination,  race down  the earthwork. His  brother Bernhard  and his  sister Fidelia  were also charging  with  the  frenzied  mob, though  he didn't  know exactly where they were.
	"For  the  Great  Betrayal!"  howled  Turq  Hearthstone.  The big hill dwarf flew past Flint and crushed  a derro  skull with his heavy iron hammer.
	The  charge came  so quickly,  and was  such a  stunning surprise,  that  the  advancing  Theiwar  quickly broke  in confusion.   Desperately,  in   ones  and   twos  and   threes,  the mountain  dwarves  met  the  rushing   hill  dwarves.   A  confused  melee  erupted  as weapons  clanged against  shields and dwarves cried out in the tumult.
	Overhead  flew  the  bodies  of  many brave,  tightly bundled gully  dwarves.  The  Agharpults   were  being   launched  with remarkably  accuracy  after  the  days  of  training,  and  the Aghar  were  crashing  effectively  into  the  tight   rows  of Theiwar soldiers.
	Flint was  surrounded by  the mysterious  circle of  light as he led the onslaught  of his  kin. He  wielded the  Tharkan Axe with brutal force, striking  to his  right and  his left  as he waded  into  the  Theiwar  army.  His  blade  smashed   a  dent into the black steel of a mountain dwarf's breastplate, felling the fighter in one blow.  He parried  a barrage  of assailants, dropping two more with crushing blows  that split  their helmets and shattered their skulls.
	A  derro  screamed  and  ducked  away,  his eyes  seared by the brightness of the blade. Others squinted and  rushed forward, faces twisted by  hatred. But  they had  trouble facing the light, and Flint killed those that did not turn and flee.
	The great din of battle rang in his ears, a constant dissonant  clash  of  metal  against  metal,  mixed more  and more with the shrill screams and dull groans of the wounded. Flint saw  a  dazzling  array of  bristly-headed derro  around him, their faces a constantly shifting pattern of cruelty, hatred, and fear.
	He caught a  glimpse of  Fidelia, wearing  an old  shirt of leather armor and wielding a long  pitchfork with  deadly effect, pinning a squirming derro to the ground by  driving the makeshift weapon through his stomach.
	Around him he felt the  weight of  the hill  dwarves cracking  the  precision of  the mountain  dwarves' ranks.  In the growing confusion Flint surged ever forward, dragging,  as if by the force of his will, those hill  dwarves who  fought beside him.
	He heard Tybalt's throaty roar as the constable  slashed to the  right  and  left  with a  huge two-handed  sword. Almost unconscious of  the sound,  Flint, too,  howled a  battle cry and  jumped  forward  to  drive  another Theiwar  back. Flint noticed that his axe glowed as brightly as ever, and  now the steel  haft  had  begun  to  grow warm  under his  palms. The blood of dead mountain dwarves darkened the blade.
	He came upon Garf, one of  the Agharpult  missiles, sitting on  top  of  an  unconscious mountain  dwarf and  rubbing his head.
	"Hard shirt!" complained the Aghar. He  thumped the metal breastplate of the warrior to show where he had landed after being fired from his weapon.
	"Hard  head!"  Flint  pointed  out, patting  the courageous gully dwarf on the back and indicating the fallen Theiwar.
	Suddenly  Garf's  eyes  widened  in  surprise.  "No!" Flint cried,  seeing  the  bloody tip  of a  sword emerge  from the Aghar's  chest.  Stabbed  from  behind,  Garf fell  and Flint stared  into  the wide,  maddened eyes  of the  sneering derro who had slain him.
	Those eyes widened  farther as  Flint leaped  forward, driving the still-glowing axe through  the mountain  dwarf's forehead.  The enemy  fell across  the body  of his  small victim, and Flint blinked back tears of anguish and anger.
	Then  a  mountain  dwarf  surged  at  him, and  Flint barely had time to parry the blow. He left Garf's body as  he slashed and  then  backed  away,  thrown  off-balance by  the savagery of the axe-wielding Theiwar's assault.
	He heard Hildy  cry out  beside him,  but he  couldn't break away  from  the aggressive  derro. A  small handaxe  flew past Flint's head, embedding itself into the derro's skull.  A hill dwarf suddenly stood beside Flint,  and he  turned to  nod his thanks  at  his  brother  Bernhard. He  turned to  help Hildy, only to see that  she had  dropped her  opponent with  a sharp stab of her sword.
	But the derro pressed all around, and he felt  himself backing  up  to  keep  from being  surrounded. Bernhard  and Hildy fought  beside  him,  desperately  holding  the  renewed derro attack at bay. From somewhere, a  swordblade bit  into Flint's forearm,  and  he  shouted  in  pain.  Two more  derro lunged, their faces twisted by cruel grins.
	Before Flint could raise his axe,  another form  stepped between  them.  He   saw  Bernhard   drop  one   mountain  dwarf with a sharp blow to the neck, but  then his  brother's weapon stuck in the armor plate of  his victim.  Desperately Bernhard struggled to pull the axeblade free, but  the other  derro was too quick.
	Flint  stared  in horror  as Theiwar  steel sliced  into his brother's throat.  Blood -  more blood  than Flint  could have imagined  -  spilled  down  Bernhard's  chest. The  hill dwarf spun,  giving Flint  a look  of uncomprehending  surprise, and then he slumped to the ground.
	"Bastard!"  growled  Hildy,  lunging  at  the still-grinning derro.  The mountain  dwarf raised  his blade,  deflecting her attack, but he could not guard against two at once. Flint, his whole  body  trembling  with   rage,  attacked.   The  Tharkan Axe   flashed,   and   the  Theiwar's   head  flew   from  his shoulders.
	Through  his  shock, Flint  sensed a  change in  the tangled melee;  the  elite  mountain  dwarf  fighters  were recovering their equilibrium.
	"Back!" ordered Flint. "Back to the wall!"
	The order was unnecessary because the defenders of Hillhome  were  being  forced back  to the  breastwork through no  choice  of  their  own.  Soon,  as  the  mountain  dwarves pushed their renewed attack, it was all Flint could do to prevent their fallback from becoming a rout.
	The  hill  dwarves  desperately scrambled  back up  the wall and  into  their  redoubt, but  the mountain  dwarves followed their advantage aggressively.
	"Hold at the top!"  shouted Flint,  turning and  bashing one more  of  the  mountain  dwarves. Once  again his  axe crushed metal  armor, killing  the foe  without penetrating  the rigid barrier of his steel plate. His victim  tumbled back  down the breastwork, knocking two of his fellows over as he fell. Flint noticed  that the  still-glowing Tharkan  Axe was  growing uncomfortably  warm  to  the touch,  and the  blood of  his enemies now sizzled on its blade.
	Along the crest of the wall, Tybalt  and other  hill dwarves stopped  their  retreat.  Gasping and  panting from  the exertion of the combat, the defenders nevertheless stood firm.
	The Theiwar, exhausted  from their  long charge,  still disorganized by the  disruptive attack,  suddenly fell  back from the wall to catch their breath and  regroup. Flint  sensed the near-collapse of  the hill  dwarves around  him and  knew that the respite had come none too soon.
	Then he looked over his shoulder and saw disaster.

                   Chapter 23

              The Last Bastion

  "Damn your filthy cowardiance!" Pitrick exploded at the two sergeants who stood before him. At first, things had seemed to develop fairly well.  His regiments  had  formed with  parade-ground precision,  and their advance  had  proceeded  with apparently  irresistible momentum. It seemed certain that the hill  dwarves would  be overwhelmed by the first rush! His  eagerness  for  battle had  increased with  a conclusion he had gradually drawn over the  preceeding day's  forced encampment.  He  had  brooded  and  cursed  and  schemed, still tormented by Perian's existence,  out of  his reach.  But the more  he  thought,  the more  he believed  that she  would be here, in Hillhome, once again within his grasp.

After  all,  had  she not  dwelled in  Mudhole with  the very  hill  dwarf who,  to Pitrick,  embodied the  pestilential stub borness  of  Hillhome? And  would not  Flint Fireforge  be cer tain to race to his village's defense? It therefore seemed very  likely that Perian would be here, too, and  this added  heat to  Pitrick's  hatred,  made  him  more  determined  than  ever  to  wipe out the town and all its inhabitants.
	 But  the  first  wave of  his assault  had been  thrown back,  and  now  these  two  craven warriors  stood before  him, stam mering their pathetic excuses.
	 "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  were beaten  by hill  dwarves!"   the  hunchback   continued,  turning   his  savage,  penetrating   gaze   on   each   of  the   frightened  mountain  dwarves  in  turn.  Good,  he  thought. They  face the  odds of  battle willingly enough,  but when  I speak  to them,  they are  still afraid.
	 Pitrick paced back and  forth before  the cringing  derro. He  limped  awkwardly  on  his  throbbing  foot,  and the  pain mo mentarily  distracted  him from  the matter  at hand.  He shook  his head to clear it.
	 The  Theiwar  commander  trembled   with  rage.   Angrily  he  looked  at his  shaking hands,  too unsteady  to bear  a weapon  or  cast  a spell.  Every nerve  in his  body screamed  that he  should kill these two failures before him,  vent his  fury upon  their miserable lives.
	 But he could not do that.  Pitrick faced  the fact  that this  battle  would  not  be so  easily won.  Slowly, he  brought his  anger under  control, until  he could  speak normally.  Then he  turned back to the pair of veterans who had  led his  first at tack against the breastwork.
	 Around  him,  the  bonfires  set  by  the  hill  dwarves  had  mostly  burned  themselves  out. The  darkness, thick  and pro tecting,  settled  around his  army again,  broken only  by the  hot  piles  of  red coals.  Many derro  stood in  small groups,  gathering  around  their  sergeants,  waiting for  further com mands.  Others  tended  their  comrades  who  had   been  over come by the vile  gas. The  night was  a blanket  of protection  and security back here, away from the defenders.
	 Before them, however, in the ditch along the fortification, the great, oily bundles of hay  still smoldered,  glowing with painful  brightness  in  the  cool night.  The bales  had been soaked with oil,  Pitrick recognized,  and their  ignition had been a cruelly successful trick. But, very soon now,  the hill dwarves would pay for their cleverness.
	The stench of the black smoke wafted  past his  nostrils. He grimaced at the cloud, which still blocked  the center  of the hill dwarf defenses.  No matter,  he would  break them  to the left and to the right. He would destroy them!
	His  ambitions  called  his  mind  back  to  the  two blackplated  derro  who  stood  before him.  They watched  his face anxiously,  contorted  as  it was  by his  all-consuming rage. Hesitantly, one of them opened his mouth.
	"But,  Excellency," stammered  the grizzled  battle veteran. "They   fight   like  demons,   madly  possessed!   They  have weapons  and  discipline.  You,  yourself,  have  smelled  the noxious gasses they  cast -  and they  hide behind  that wall, out of our reach!"
	"And  the  fires!"  chimed  in  his  comrade.  "The  savants were totally blinded  - and  the rest  of the  troops suffered great pain!"
	"You fools! I will tolerate no further delay! Attack again!" Pitrick sputtered, his voice a shrill scream.
	"But -" A  sergeant opened  his mouth  to object,  then shut it when he saw the look in his commander's eyes.
	"No delay," Pitrick said, his voice  dropping to  a sinister hiss.  Unconsciously,  his hand  grasped the  five-headed iron amulet than hung at his chest. Blue  light seeped  between his fingers, and the eyes of his sergeants grew wide  with terror. The  light  seethed  like  thick  smoke  in  a  growing  cloud around  him, slowly  reaching toward  the cringing  figures of his warriors.
	Pitrick's vision vanished in the red blur of his  hatred. He clenched his teeth, his breath coming in hissing gasps,  as he again struggled to retain his self-control.
	"We  attack  now,  Excellency!"  stammered  one of  the sergeants. They turned,  stumbling in  their eagerness  to escape their maddened leader.
	Pitrick took a pace after them, still tempted to  sizzle one of  them  into  nothingness  as a  lesson against  the consequences of failure. But that single  step sent  throbbing arrows of agony darting up his leg,  and he  winced, forgetting for the moment his recalcitrant subcommanders.
	By the dark  powers, his  foot hurt!  He screeched  his agony, a sound of fury that frightened those troops within earshot. Then Pitrick limped after the  two sergeants.  He would find  the  savants, speak  to them  himself. Then  they would know the folly of retreat!
	He located, after long and painful minutes of  walking, the six robed figures of his spellcasting savants.  They squatted on the muddy ground  of the  field, pressing  cold compresses of slushy grass to their seared eyes.
	"Fools!  Idiots!  Morons!"   he  shrieked,   walking  among them and kicking the startled derro to their feet. "You can't stop now! The enemy strikes us  a blow,  then we  must strike him back - harder!"
	"But, Master," screeched  one, groveling  on his  knees and holding  his  eyes  downcast.  "Our  eyes...  we  can  barely see!"
	"Damn your eyes if you  don't get  up and  attack!" sneered the  hunchback.  "Come  with me!  We will  lay them  low with fire and sorcery! Stand up, you blathering  idiots -  we must lead the attack!"
	Slowly, reluctantly, the savants  rose. They  followed Pitrick as he  limped forward,  forcing his  way over  the muddy ground, closer to the hill dwarf redoubt.
	As Pitrick marched, the pain  in his  foot became  worse, a driving,  pounding  awareness  that  threatened  to overwhelm every  other  sensation.  But the  hunchback used  that pain, turning it into a kind of brutal example to show his  men the true measure of their race. He marched harder and faster, intentionally punishing  himself, sneering  at the  weakness of those around him.
	His own vision suffered from the  flaring fires  across the field, but he forced himself to look  past those,  toward the enemy on top of the  low, sloping  wall. He  saw a  long rank of motley  hill dwarves  there, and  growled inwardly  at the thought that these puny specimens had  repulsed an  attack of the vaunted House Guard.
	 They would not do so again.
	 As  he  approached,  Pitrick  saw the  struggle that  was raging  on  top of  the wall.  The Theiwar  were advancing  in small groups,  rushing  up  the sloping  wall, only  to meet  the sharp weapons  of  the  resolute  hill  dwarves  when they  reached the top. Each  attack broke  as the  derro died  atop the  wall, survivors forced  backward to  fall, roll,  or run  to the  ditch at the bottom.
	 "Now," Pitrick snapped, his shrill voice  calling for  the savants'  undivided  attention.  "I  will show  you how  to attack! Without mercy - without hesitation!"
	 He  grasped  the  iron  amulet  and  looked  along the  top of the redoubt, trying to identify the hill  dwarf leader.  The battle  raging  between the  charging Theiwar  and the  staunch hill dwarves  made  it  difficult  to  see.  Once  again   he  watched some  of  his  elite  troops   thrown  back,   pushed  physically from the top of the wall by the tenacious enemy.
	 Still, he only  needed to  find their  captain. Then  he would cast a single,  very potent  spell, and  all cohesion  would vanish from his enemy's formation.
	 Suddenly  he  froze, his  eyes locked  on a  long-haired dwarf near  the  center  of the  enemy position.  He blinked,  but then he  looked  again,  growing more  and more  certain of  his identification. He  saw that  it was  a frawl,  and that  she chopped about  her  with an  axe, savagely  skillful. Her  auburn tresses burst free to swirl past her face.
	 Perian Cyprium!
	 "She  is  here!" Pitrick  cried aloud,  uncaring of  the surprised  looks  from   the  savants   behind  him.   Instantly  he raised  his  hand,  pointing his  index finger  right at  her. He could almost taste the effect of the fireball spell on this frawl he had come to both desire and hate so much.
	 But  something  stayed  his  hand.  The  savants   waited  expectantly as  he stared  at her.  The yearning  for her  was once again surging through his pain-racked body.
	 Pitrick reached a decision. He would not burn her - yet. A fireball seemed too fast, too impersonal a way for Perian to die.  Far better  she saw  that it  was he  who took  her, and that   death   should  come   slowly...  afterward.   There  was even  the  chance  she  would  yet come  to appreciate  him, and for  a  moment  his  mind thrilled  to the  image of  Perian, on her  knees,  begging  for  mercy. A  part of  his mind  began to imagine  his  response.   Suddenly,  violently,   his  attention turned back to the battle.
	"Sound the fallback!" he shouted  to the  bugler, and,  to his savants: "Prepare your spells!"
	The  brass notes  of the  horn sounded  across the  field, and the  derro atop  the earthwork  quickly fell  back to  the relative safety of the ditch at the bottom of the wall.
	At the same time his  eyes flickered  to Perian  again. Later, he told himself. Later I will have her. I will find her  and, by magic or might, claim her.
	"Now!" cried Pitrick. "Destroy them!"
	His  hand  clasped  the  medallion.  Blue  light  spilled forth, illuminating the hunchbacked derro with a chilling outline as he launched his spell.
	Violent magic exploded. * * * * *
	Basalt stood atop the redoubt on the right  side of  the position,  raising  his  axe, bashing  the mountain  dwarves, standing firm. The battle had lasted less than an hour so far, yet it felt  as  though  his  life  had always  consisted of  this same muscle-aching  combat,  the  ringing   cacophony  of   pain  and death.
	At  first,  terror  had  consumed  him,  and  every   blow  he struck  had  been  a matter  of insuring  his own  personal survival.  But,  with each  victory over  an individual  derro, his confidence  had  grown,  and  with  it his  rage. Now  he struck with  cold,  deadly anger,  slaying to  avenge his  father, Moldoon,  and  all  the   other  unnamed   dwarves  that   he  knew were dying around him.
	Perian  fought  nearby,  astonishing  the  young   hill  dwarf with  her  skill  and  tenacity.  She  shouted  hoarsely  at her former    comrades.    The   black-armored    mountain   dwarves who  recognized  their former  captain hesitated  for but  a moment before they tried to close with  her. But  their hesitation was  crucial. Swinging  her axe  with bone-crushing  force, she managed to fend off all their attacks.
	Basalt  saw  a  mountain dwarf  gain the  top of  the rampart between  himself  and  Perian.  The  warrior raised  his bloody axe and turned  toward the  frawl. Basalt  twisted to  his rear and  swept  the  Theiwar  from the  breastwork with  the savage cut of his axe.
	"Fine  work!"  said  Perian  with a  grin. Her  face, flushed with exertion, showed a glow of  exhilaration at  the intensity of the fight.
	Suddenly   a   bugle  sounded,   and  the   mountain  dwarves fell  back  from  the  breastwork. We  stopped them  again! Basalt cried inwardly with relief. But Perian spotted six figures moving  forward  through  the  ranks  of  the  thane's  troops. Then,  beside  them  she saw  the dark,  twisted figure  of her worst  nemesis  -  it could  only be  Pitrick. She  stared, momentarily uncertain of the threat,  but then  she saw  the wash of  blue  light  and  her panic  galvanized her  into desperate action.
	"Get  down!"  Perian  cried,  throwing  herself flat  on the rampart.
	"What?" grunted Basalt,  even as  he, too,  flattened himself to the earth.
	He squinted into the night,  seeing a  tiny globule  of flame drift slowly  through the  air. It  danced forward,  toward the redoubt, to a place just to the right of Basalt's  and Perian's position. Basalt thought that the tiny ball was  rather pretty, though that instantly struck him as incongruous.
	But  nothing  could  have  prepared him  for the  horror that happened next.
	The  dot  of  fire  drifted  onto the  top of  the breastwork among  a  huddled  group  of   dwarves.  Then   it  instantaneously erupted into a huge, globelike  inferno of  death. Basalt felt  the heat  from the  nearby explosion  singe his  skin and hair.  He heard  screams of  terror and  pain, yet  saw nothing for precious moments against the brightness of the fireball.
	But then the fire faded, and he stared in  dull shock  at the charred  bodies  of  the hill  and gully  dwarves who  had been unfortunate enough to  be within  the fireball's  killing zone. The  stench of  burned flesh  carried past  him on  the breeze, sickening  him.  He  could  not bring  himself to  believe that those  blackened, stiff  shapes had  ever been  living dwarves. The corpses looked like statues carved from charcoal.
	Then  Basalt  saw  more  sparks,  more  light,  explode  from the  dark-robed  dwarves.  The  hill dwarf  looked up  in shock as  crackling  bolts  of  energy hissed  and exploded  over his head. With  horror he  saw a  pair of  hill dwarves  - lifelong neighbors - fall lifeless, slain instantly by the strike of the magic.  Screams  erupted  from  the  line,  and  Basalt  sensed panic arising in his own heart.
	The  savants  chanted  a  new  sound,  and hail  erupted from the  clear  skies  overhead  to  pummel  those  on  the breastwork.  Basalt  clapped  his  hands  over  his head  and pressed his face into the dirt, waiting for this nightmare to end.
	Large  round  stones  of  ice  hammered  his  body,  smashing against  his  skin, numbing  his hands,  pounding a  savage cadence of pain  into his  skull. He  cried out  with agony  as a large  ice  ball cracked  his elbow,  and when  another pounded him brutally  in the  kidney. Holding  his breath  and gritting his teeth,  Basalt struggled  to maintain  consciousness, knowing  that he  could not  stand another  minute of  this punishment.
	The unnatural  storm ceased  as suddenly  as it  had started. For a moment a low, rumbling  stillness fell  over the  field not  exactly  silence,   for  many   Aghar  and   hill  dwarves groaned  in  pain  along   the  ice-hammered   redoubt.  Basalt winced  as  he  struggled  to his  knees, seeing  other dwarves slowly climbing to their feet. We've got to  hold them  off, he told himself.
	"Wait!" hissed Perian, pushing him back down.
	Now  the hill  dwarf heard  the sharp  clunk of  heavy crossbow fire. Metal  bolts raked  the top  of the  breastwork where many  battered,  exhausted  hill dwarves  gasped for  breath. A few,  like  Perian  and Basalt,  had dropped  to the  ground in time. Most still stood, fully exposed to the lethal volley. * * * * * "To the brewery!" shouted Flint, Tybalt, Hildy, and ev- eryone  else  who  knew  the  plan.  The  stone  walls  of  that structure  would  provide  a  last  bastion of  security, though they all realized that it meant  leaving the  town in  the hands of their rapacious enemy.
	Flint  stopped  in  the  center  of  town,  watching  the hill dwarves  stream  past.  Small  bands  of  gully  dwarves  scrambled  along  with  the  larger   brethren.  Perian   and  Tybalt joined  him  while  Hildy and  Basalt went  to organize  the defense of the brewery.
	"Damn!"  the  constable  cursed.  "I  thought  we  were  going to hold them!"
	"We tried," said Flint. "Now it's up to the stone walls of the brewery. We've got to stop them there!"
	"Basalt  all  right?"  Tybalt  asked  Perian.  The  blossoming fireballs and hissing  magic missiles  had been  clearly visible to the other hill dwarf defenders.
	"Fine - he's getting the defenses  organized at  the brewery," she replied. "The magic really  raked us  on the  right, though. I'm afraid we lost two score or  more." She  turned to  Flint as Tybalt started off to join the defenders at the brewery.
	"That  many,  maybe  a  few  more,  fell  on the  other side," said  Flint,  trying  to keep  his voice  level. The  picture of Garf's  surprised  look and  Bernhard's valiant  charge lingered in his mind.
	Perian's  soft   smile  showed   that  she   understood.  "And you,  with  that axe!  I could  see you  clear across  the wall, swinging it like you were blazing a trail."
	"Wasn't I?" Flint asked, grimly.
	"Yes.  But  so many  of our  own have  fallen, too,"  Perian observed quietly as most of the rest of their force moved past.
	The last few hill dwarves trotted by.  Up the  road, Pitrick's marching  Theiwar  could  be  heard  plainly, still  an interval away   but   resolutely   advancing   through   the  defenseless town.
	"Let's get to cover," Flint suggested.
	"Wait," said Perian. "I want to check for more of the Wedgies - I saw Fester leading a group into the village."
	"There's  no  time!"  Flint  objected,  groaning. Yet  he knew they could not leave their  charges in  the village,  exposed to the  Theiwar  attackers,  if  there  was  any chance  of getting them to safety.
	"I'll just be a minute," Perian said. "Keep the gate  open for me."
	Swallowing  his  further  objections,  since  they  would just waste  time,  Flint  said,  "Hurry!"  Then  he  watched  as  she darted  between  a  pair  of  buildings  toward   the  direction taken  by  Fester.  With  an anxious  look up  the road,  he was mildly relieved to  see no  sign yet  of the  advancing mountain dwarves.  Flint broke  into a  run, and  soon rounded  the curve in the road that took him toward the brewery.
	The  stone wall  of that  enclave now  loomed ahead,  the last battlement  of  the  defenders  of Hillhome.  But a  strong bastion it  might prove  to be;  only one  gate provided  access to the  courtyard within  that wall,  which was  six to  eight feet thick at its base. The brewery consisted  of three  buildings: a barn,  the  vat  house,  and  an  office  and  storage building. Each  of  these  three  structures  was  placed inside  the compound, against one of the courtyard's four walls.
	At  the  gate  he found  Ruberik and  Tybalt, together  with a dozen  armed  hill  dwarves.  This group  waited in  the street, holding the gate  open while  they tried  to ascertain  that all the defenders had passed inside.
	"The  vat  house  windows   are  blocked,"   reported  Tybalt. "There's  a  hundred  of us  in there,  with swords,  spears and pitchforks - and also, the Wedgies. I  don't think  the derro'll be coming in that way."
	"Is everyone inside now?" asked Flint.
	"This  is  most of  us," said  Ruberik as  a dozen  more hill dwarves,  led  by  Turq  Hearthstone,  sprinted around  a corner and joined the group at the gate.
	"I didn't see anyone back  there," Turq  gasped. "I  think everyone's  gotten  away  -  at  least,  everyone who  could still walk," he added grimly.
	"I'll stand at the gate," said Flint. "We can hold it open for another  minute.  At  least  until  we  can  see  them  coming." Hurry,  Perian,  he  urged silently.  "Can you  go into  the vat house?"  Flint  asked  Tybalt  and  Ruberik.  "See   how  Basalt and  Hildy  are  faring.  We've got  to be  ready for  an attack from behind."
	The two  Fireforge brothers  nodded at  Flint. Each  of them clasped  one  of his  hands and  for a  moment they  stood together  in  silence.  "You  and Basalt  have given  Hillhome a chance,"  Ruberik  said  quietly to  Flint. "And  whatever the outcome, we're all grateful for that."
	Flint  cleared  his  throat awkwardly  and winked.  "What do you  mean,  'whatever  the outcome'?"  His brothers  smiled at his forced joviality, then turned to pass through the gate.
	Looking up at the high  stone wall,  Flint thought  that his village just might  have a  chance. True,  they would  be surrounded, cut off  from escape  or food  supply. But  the mountain  dwarves would  have difficulty  attacking them.  If they could  hold  the Theiwar  off for  a while  - though  how long such a while might be,  he had  no idea  - they  might outlast their dark-dwelling foe.
	Then  Flint  turned  and  looked  up  the  street.  He heard sounds  of  the  enemy approaching,  but as  yet he  could see nothing in the distant darkness.
	Where was Perian? * * * * *
	Darting  around  the  corner  of  an  old  warehouse, Perian looked up and down the side street.  When she  saw no  sign of Aghar, she didn't know whether to be relieved or worried.
	Then  she  heard  a  sound coming  from the  open door  of a darkened  greengrocer's  shop.  Crouching, she  slipped across the street and looked into the store.
	"Hi,  Queen  Furryend!  Get food  for fort!"  'Fester beamed at her, looking up from her efforts at collecting bacon, pickles,  and  other  provisions. The  Aghar's mouth  was outlined in  white sugar  - apparently  some of  her supplies  would be transported  internally  -  but  her  apron bulged  with food. Other  gully  dwarves  moved  forward  from  the   shadows  at the rear of  the store,  laden with  pork, cheese,  bread, and melons.
	  "Good, Fester - that's great! But you've got to hurry, now! Are there more of you near here?"
	Fester  nodded  her head.  "More get  hungry and  get food."
	"Good!  Now,  run to  the fort  as fast  as you  can!" Perian barked the command sharply.
	Fester  looked   momentarily  puzzled,   but  then   dashed  for the  door.  The  other  Aghar, nearly  a dozen  in all,  raced behind the "weighty lady."
	Perian  followed   them  from   the  store,   looking  anxiously up the  side street.  She heard  the tromp  of heavy  footsteps to the  west,  though  the  derro  were  still  some  distance  away. With  relief,  she  saw  Fester  and  her companions  disappear in the direction of the brewery.
	Were  there  any  more  stragglers?   She  looked   around,  her sensitive  eyes  seeing  well  in  the  darkness;  she  spotted no Aghar.  The  sounds  of   armored  dwarves   on  the   march  came closer  on  Main Street,  but still  there were  no derro  on this side avenue.
	Pivoting   smoothly,   she  turned   toward  the   brewery.  The structure was visible at the limits of her vision, its  tall, featureless  wall  offering  protection.  The  gate  lay  just around the  corner,  and  there  she  would  find  Flint.  A  quick,  low dash,  and she  would reach  the shelter  of that  fortress before the attacking Theiwar.
	A  blue wash  of light  spilled through  the street,  and Perian knew that Pitrick was near.
	"Come!"  The  lone  word  echoed  through   the  night   out  of nowhere.  She  heard  the  savant's  voice as  she tried  to break into a  run, but  something in  the power  of his  voice -  in the power of his word - held her step.
	Perian  whirled  to  face him,  ready to  shriek her  hatred and revulsion.  Instead,  she  took  a  step  toward  him.  Gaping  in astonishment,  she  looked  down  at  her  feet  even as  she took another step toward the repulsive hunchback.
	"I knew I'd find you!" he crowed.
	Perian tried to articulate  a challenge,  or to  raise her  axe in defense.  But  her  mouth  clamped   shut,  beyond   her  control, while  her  arms  hung  slack at  her sides.  She felt,  but could not  stop,   her  axe   slipping  from   her  numb   fingers.  The weapon dropped to the ground.
	Again that blue light surged, and she saw its reflection in Pitrick's eyes. He leered at her, all but licking his lips, as she stumbled   forward   another  step.   Perian  thought   of  the walled fort, of Flint waiting for her at  the gate.  The knowledge halted  her advance  as she  resolutely planted  her feet, ignoring the compelling power of Pitrick's spell.
	But the derro raised his  hand and  curtly gestured  her forward.  Once  again  she took  a step  toward him,  fighting the impulse  with  every ounce  of her  will, but  helpless against the grip of  his power.  Perian stared  at the  hideous figure, cocky  in  his  deformed  stance,  the grotesque  hump pressing him   into   his  forward-stooping   posture.  His   huge  eyes gleamed at her, glowing like dire beacons in the night.
	Flint! She wanted to  cry his  name, to  fall into  his arms, but instead there was only the  grinning apparition  of Pitrick before  her,  growing  larger  with  each  inevitable footstep. The hunchback planted his  fists on  his hips,  sneering confidently as Perian stumbled  closer still.  In moments  she would be within his reach; he seemed to take  a perverse  pleasure in bringing   her   toward  him,   while  he   remained  immobile, waiting.
	Her attention riveted to  that hateful  face, Perian  felt as though she and Pitrick w, re the only beings in  the world  - a world  that  had  become  very   forlorn  indeed.   Blue  light seeped from his amulet,  and it  was the  only light  she knew. Blindly,  helplessly, she  stepped toward  him again,  and once more.
	A  few  more paces  would take  her to  his side.  She struggled to speak, to cry out,  but her  mouth remained  slack, her arms frozen at her  sides. Only  her feet  moved in  that slow, doomful cadence.
	"Come,  spiteful  wench.  Come,  and feel  the touch  of your master!  Come,  and meet  your death!"  Pitrick threw  back his head and laughed into the night.
	Perian took a  final step  and then  stood before  him. Waves of  despair tormented  her soul.  Pitrick reached  forward with a  clenched,  clawlike  hand,  raising  his fingers  toward her face.
	He touched her cheek.
	Pain  flashed  through  her skin  as he  made contact.  His caress was like a shot of vile sickness, far worse than the clean wound  of  a  steel  blade.  Sheets of  agony wracked  her body, bringing hot tears to her eyes.
	And, finally, the pain broke the thrall of  his magic.  With a groan,  Perian crumpled  to her  knees, clasping  a hand  to the cheek  he  had  touched.  She  twisted  away  from  Pitrick. She was free.
	"You disgust me!" she spat, leaping back to her feet.
	Pitrick  stepped  backward  in  momentary  surprise.  At  the same time, blue  magic erupted  from his  amulet, but  the light diffused through the night, out of its master's control.
	"Stop!" he cried, groping for his axe.
	But  Perian,  too,  was  beyond  his control  now. She  felt for her  own  weapon,  remembering  that  her  axe had  fallen from her   hands.  The   march  of   the  advancing   derro  sounded around  her,  and  she  knew  that   the  Theiwar   would  soon come to their commander's rescue.
	Desperately,  her   fingers  reached   toward  her   belt  and closed about  the hilt  of the  small knife  - her  only weapon. She raised it and slashed wildly, feeling a grim satisfaction as the  blade  drove  into  Pitrick's  hastily  raised  forearm. He screamed   and   slumped  backward,   tearing  the   blade  from her grip.
	Perian  jerked  away  and  saw  the  charging forms  of blackarmored  mountain  dwarves  in  the  darkness   beyond  Pitrick. Some animal instinct  in her  wanted to  stay, to  keep striking him until  he was  dead, but  her rational  side told  her there wasn't time.
	She  turned  and  sprinted  toward  the  brewery,  hearing the savant's  hysterical  shrieks  of  hatred. She  did not  see him reach for his amulet, though  the blue  light flared  before she could  dart  around  the  corner.  Lightning   crackled  through the night. * * * * *
	"Hurry!"  Flint cried,  overcome with  relief as  Perian stumbled  toward  him.   The  Theiwar   troops  advanced   down  the road behind her, but  he swept  her into  his arms  and together they  tumbled  through  the  gate.  Other  hill  dwarves slammed the  heavy  portals  shut  and  dropped the  bars to  lock them.
	"You made it!" he grinned, gasping for breath and rolling over to look at Perian. "I was so worried!"
	She smiled weakly and took his hand in hers. He  was surprised to see that it was covered with blood. Then his eyes widened in horror as he saw the  deep wounds,  blistered by hot magic, in her back and along her left side.
	"Perian!" he cried in disbelief.
	Her smile slowly faded.

                   Chapter 24

                When Gods Collide

"She's - they're getting away!" Pitnick's voice exploded in a  shrill screech  of outrage.  "Incompetent fools! You're letting them escape!"
	Watching  Perian  slip  away,   the  hunchback   limped  into the main street, his hand clasped over the wound in  his arm. His hatred of Perian and all that she stood for flared to new heights,  causing him  to tremble  beyond control.  Flecks of spit drooled, unnoticed, from his lips as  he raved.  Her escape only served to  inflame him  further. Through  the smoke of the lightning bolt  he'd cast,  he had  seen that  she was mightily  wounded.  Despite  this  knowledge,  Pitrick  could think only of total, mindless destruction.  "Excellency, please!" pleaded one of his battle-weary ser-  geants.  The  leader of  the derro  looked up  at him,  smoke and  grime smeared across the white  skin of  his face.  His bristling  beard  and  hair  had  many   scorched  patches,   singed  during  the battle.
	 "The  hill  dwarves  have  gathered  in  one  large  building  they  have  not   gotten  away!"   The  warrior   spoke  quickly,  fearful  of  his  commander's  wrath.  "They  are  trapped there,  waiting for us to draw tight the noose!"
	 Pitrick  dropped  his  fist,  a  thin  smile creasing  his gro tesque face. "Trapped? All of them?"
	 "All that  we could  see, sir.  It's a  stout building,  with a  heavy gate. But I think we can bash it down."
	 "Good.  Very  good."  The  hunchback   abruptly  sat   down  on  the street, thinking. His face lightened still further as an idea  occurred to him.
	 "Let the  hill dwarf  scum sit  and watch  while we  burn their  village!" Pitrick ordered, springing to his feet. "Put  the torch  to   every   building,  every   barn,  every   pile  of   hay  in  Hillhome!"   He   imagined   the   conflagration   consuming  the  town around him, and the thought gave him much pleasure.
	 "Excellency,  I  have  a suggestion,"  said the  sergeant, with  unusual courage.
	 Pitrick looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then  gestured for the derro to speak.
	 "It  will  be  dawn  soon  -  no  more  than  an hour  to first  light, and in another  hour the  sun will  drive us  under cover.  I  urge  that  we  attack the  hill dwarves  immediately, destroy  them  now,  while  darkness  still  surrounds  us.  Then  we  can  destroy their town at our leisure.
	 "But,  if  we  stop  to  burn  now,"  the  sergeant  continued,  knowing  he  risked  his  life  by  daring  to  suggest   a  plan  counter  to  the  idea  of  his  temperamental   commander,  "the  sun will rise before the battle  is concluded,  and we  will have  given the hill dwarves another day of life."
	 Without  pause,  the  sergeant  rushed  on.  "The  hill dwarves  have   already   proven   resourceful   and    treacherous.   Who  knows  what  they  will do  while the  sun shines  and we  are at  the  disadvantage. Excellency,  we are  on the  verge of  a great  victory! I urge you to finish the fight  now, while  this victory is within our grasp!"
	Pitrick  grew  suddenly,  ominously  calm. Then  he spoke. "Very well. We  will destroy  the enemy  first. Now,  where is this building that shelters them?"
	The derro sergeant, concealing a  sigh of  relief, described the brewery to the adviser  as they  walked up  Hillhome's deserted  Main  Street. Pitrick  knew that  his savants  had expended  their most  potent spells  against the  earthwork, and would be of little use in the next battle. They would  need to spend  many  hours  studying  their  spellbooks   before  they could again cast  the volleys  of magic  missiles or  storm of hail that had proven so decisive on the wall.
	And  Pitrick,  too,  had  employed  most  of his  spells already.  One or  two might  prove useful  in breaking  into the fortress, and then there were several he saved for his anticipated confrontation with Perian and  the insolent  Flint Fireforge.
	Unconsciously, Pitrick fingered the  dark battle-axe  at his side.  He  had not  yet used  it, but  he looked  forward with cruel anticipation to the chance to drive it into a hill dwarf body. Perhaps even  Flint Fireforge  would find  himself tasting the bitter steel of that Theiwar blade.
	They came to the brewery,  and Pitrick  quickly took  in the formidable nature of the  position. The  gate was  the obvious vulnerable point, but he  would also  send his  forces against the walls, using makeshift ladders,  poles, and  whatever else they  could  find.  He had  no doubt  that they  would quickly break into the last-ditch fortress.
	His  subcommanders  gathered  around,  waiting  for  his orders. "We will take them here. Attack from all sides.
	"And as for the gate," Pitrick said to his sergeant. "Make a battering ram." * * * * *
	The  derro  hurled themselves  at the  stone-walled brewery, assaulting it  from every  side. They  scrambled up  the steep wall, they bashed against the gate, and  they pressed  hard to break  through  the  barricaded windows  along the  back wall. Everywhere the defenders stood firm.
	Some of the Theiwar laid long  poles against  the top  of the wall,  and slowly  inched up  these crude  ramps in  an attempt to force their way over  the barrier.  Others found  ladders in nearby  barns  and  shops  and  used  them  to climb  the walls more directly.
	But  the  top was  several feet  wide, and  this made  a good platform for the defenders. In several places,  mud-slick piles of  earth from  inside the  compound had  been used  to bolster the walls. The sloping surfaces of these served as  easy routes to  the top,  allowing many  hill and  gully dwarves  to scramble up.
	The  defenders  fought  resolutely. The  Aghar of  the Creeping  Wedgie,  organized  by  Nomscul  and  Fester, found  a new use for their shields, conking the derro on the head as the enemy reached the  top of  the wall.  The hill  dwarves, inspired by  Fidelia  Fireforge and  Turq Hearthstone,  used pitchforks, shovels, and spears to strike  at the  derro climbing  the ladders.  They  learned  to knock  the poles  aside and  drive the ladders toppling to the ground.
	To  the  rear  of  the  compound,  more Theiwar  hurled themselves  with  savage  abandon   against  the   barricaded  windows.  They  hacked  the  wooden  barriers to  pieces, flinging themselves  through  the  narrow  openings  this  created. But, within  the  vat-house,  Basalt and  Hildy directed  an equally savage  defense.  Each  attacking  derro  no   sooner  squirmed through  the  entrance  than was  impaled by  the weapons  of a half-dozen  hill  dwarves.  Soon  the  bodies of  the attackers piled up, creating an additional obstacle to the Theiwar.
	The gate was  the weakest  point of  the defense,  though behind it stood a sturdy company of  hill dwarf  fighters. Tybalt Fireforge stood with  these, watching  the creaking  gates. The portals  swung  farther  with each  crash of  the ram,  and the cracking  of  the  beams  became  more  and  more   visible  as dawn's light diffused through the courtyard.
	Then, creaking and splintering, the gates began to collapse. * * * * * Flint barely noticed the heavy pounding at the gate. He held  Perian's  limp  form  in his  arms. She  was unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak.
	He had  enlisted Fidelia's  and Ruberik's  help to  carry her into  the  storeroom, where  he tried  to make  her comfortable on a bed of hay and blankets.
	Ruberik  stayed  with  him. He  brought water  in a  tin cup, though  Perian  was  not  aware  enough  to  drink.   He  stood awkwardly  to  the  side,  not  wanting  to intrude  on Flint's grief, yet offering any help that he could.
	Finally, Flint looked up at his brother, after trying to stem the bleeding as best as he could. In his  heart, he  knew there was nothing more he could do.
	The brothers' eyes met in a  pain-filled gaze.  "You'd better get  out  there,"  Flint said  hoarsely. "I'll  be... following along." He could say  no more,  dropping his  head to  hide his tears.
	"I'm sorry, Flint," replied the  gruff farmer.  Ruberik shuffled wearily out the door.
	Flint  turned  back  to  Perian. She  looked as  beautiful as ever to him. A few strands  of coppery  hair curled  across her forehead, but the skin below that hair  was so  pale, now  - so horribly pale. And at Perian's too-white  throat Flint  saw the aspen leaf necklace.
	Suddenly her eyes fluttered open,  and Flint's  heart leaped. She  smiled  at  him  weakly,  and  her  hand  closed,  ever so faintly, around his. Her lips parted  slightly, but  she didn't have the strength to speak.
	"My  Perian..."  Flint  said,  choking  the words  around his tears. Her hand tightened once more, breaking his heart.
	And then she was gone. Flint held  her long  afterward, still unaware of  the battle  outside. His  grief threatened  to tear him apart. He felt as though he  never wanted  to leave,  to do anything again.
	But as the chaos of the battle grew to a crescendo,  his pain slowly changed, burning  its way  from his  heart to  his soul. And  as  it  moved,  his  mourning  became   anger,  developing into a hot, blazing rage that at last  compelled him  to return to the fight, and to kill those who had slain Perian.
	   The gates of the brewery splintered open, and even from  within the building Flint sensed  the urgency  of the  fight. He  reached for  the axe  Perian had  returned to  him back  in Mud hole,  cursing  with surprise  as the  weapon's haft  burned his  hand.   The   white  glow   of  the   Tharkan  Axe   had  become  tinged with red, as the metal itself heated like an iron  bar in  a smith's forge.
	 Without   thinking,   Flint   looked  around   the  storeroom,  quickly  spotting  a pair  of leather  gauntlets. He  drew these  over  his  hands,  and  then  picked  up  the  gleaming  weapon.  Its razor sharp blade gleamed clean, ready to drink again.
	 Flint  charged  the  door  of  the  storeroom  and   threw  it  open,  looking  upon  a scene  of mass  confusion in  the court yard.  The  derro  had  smashed  open  the  gate  with  a  heavy  battering  ram  and  now  poured   into  the   enclosure,  where  they were met by a sturdy line of hill dwarves.
	 He  concentrated  his gaze,  looking for  one hated  form. Fi nally  Flint  saw  the  hunchback,  limping  along   behind  the  leading mountain dwarves.
	 "Pitrick!"  he  bellowed,  charging  into  the  courtyard. The  force of his voice carried even  above the  din, and  several of  the  mountain  dwarves,  including  the thane's  adviser, turned  toward him.
	 "Come  and  die!"  Flint  challenged. He  raised his  axe, and  though  its  unnatural   light  was   somewhat  mutted   in  the  growing illumination of dawn, it  drew the  derro's eyes  like a  hypnotic token.
	 "Fireforge,"  breathed Pitrick,  watching Flint's  advance for  just  one  moment.  Then  the  hunchback  seized the  five heads  of his iron amulet,  and that  cold blue  light poured  from the  magic token.
	 "Reorx  curse  your  cowardly  skin!"  Flint  growled, sprint ing  toward  the  savant.  He  knew  he  would  never  reach him  before Pitrick cast his spell. Oddly, he felt no fear of his own  death;  just  an  overwhelming  sense  of  sadness that  so much  other killing would remain unavenged.
	 Pitrick's sneer was all the answer he  spared for  his victim,  then  the  derro  barked  the  harsh  command  for his  spell. A  bolt  of  lightning  suddenly sizzled  from his  hand, exploding  toward  Flint  in  a  blast  of  magical  death. The  hill dwarf howled  his rage,  squinting against  the blast  of approaching magic, but not faltering in his charge.
	Then  the  Tharkan Axe  blinked brightly,  and a  white burst of  light  overpowered  the  pale  dawn  and caused  Pitrick to close his eyes, crying out in pain. The axe shone as the lightning  bolt  crackled  into  Flint, and  suddenly the  spell was gone,   inexplicably  snuffed.   Whatever  the   reason,  Flint dimly realized it had something to do with the axe.
	"Now you'll fight,  scum!" hollered  Flint in  savage exultation.  For  reasons  he did  not stop  to contemplate,  the axe would protect him from Pitrick's magic!
	Other  mountain  dwarf  troops  stepped  in  the   way.  Suddenly  one  of  these  was  bashed  away  by  Tybalt.  Then Ruberik stepped  to Flint's  side, knocking  back another  of the savant's protectors.
	"Face  my  blade,  you  miserable  coward!"  called  the king of  the  gully  dwarves,  until  only  one guard  stood between Flint  and  Pitrick.  He was  charged by  Fidelia, who  cut him down with a blow.
	"A  hill  dwarf will  never best  a mountain  dwarf," Pitrick said, his  tone threatening,  challenging. Trembling  with both fear and joyous  anticipation Pitrick  raised his  axe finally, knowing  that  he  could not  defeat this  hill dwarf  with his spells.  Flint raised  the Tharkan  Axe and  the weapon  lit up the courtyard.
	Resolutely,  the  two  leaders  hammered  their   blades  together.  The  hunchback  was  surprisingly  strong,   and  both dwarves  staggered  back  from  the  impact  of  their combined blow.  The  ringing noise  filled the  courtyard, and  the hill dwarf found a savage satisfaction in the clash.
	Flint pressed quickly forward,  feeling the  heat of  his own weapon  through  his  gloves.  They  clashed  again,  and  once again  fell  back  from  the  resounded collision.  Scowling in concentration, Flint focused all his  strength, his  skill, and his  hatred  against  the  repugnant  derro  before  him. Again and  again  he  raised  the  blade  high, driving  forward with earthshaking blows that Pitrick somehow deflected.
	Flint sensed  the fight  around them  stopping, as  derro and hill dwarf alike paused to watch the  duel between  their lead- ers.  A  hundred  individual combats  waned, forgotten  in the periphery of this fight to the death.
	Flint and Pitrick raged back and forth, axes  clashing, fine steel meeting steel, backed  by muscle  and fury.  The thane's adviser  attacked  with  bestial  savagery.  Suddenly  he flew forward,  unleashing  a storm  of lighting-quick  blows. Flint fell back, desperately deflecting  the mountain  dwarf's cuts. The  Tharkan  Axe  blocked  every  assault,  the  haft growing hotter  and  hotter  under  his palms,  until even  his gloves could not protect him. Ignoring the  searing pain,  Flint held his axe tighter - he would cling to it until death  or victory freed his grip.
	Suddenly  Pitrick  lurched  away.  The quick  retreat caught Flint off guard, and he instantly  crouched, watching  his opponent warily.
	Again the savant  seized the  iron amulet  that hung  at his neck and raised his fist toward Flint. With a sharp hiss, like hot rocks dropped into water,  a line  of blue  sparks erupted from  the  Theiwar's  hand.  The embers  seemed to  hunger for Flint's flesh as they rushed toward him. Swirling  like living things, the sparks formed a ring around him.
	Desperately  the  hill  dwarf  raised  the  Tharkan  Axe and stumbled  backward.  The  gleaming  blade  bit  into  the blue fire as if the flame were a solid body, striking true with the keen, avenging steel.  Once, twice,  and again  Flint chopped, each  time with  growing force,  breaking through  the circlet of  magic,  knocking the  stream of  sparks to  pieces. Slowly the pieces settled to the ground, and the arcane magic  of the amulet  lay  as  twisted  ringlets  of  harmless smoke  on the ground.
	Both  dwarves  sprang  at  the  other,  and  once  again the fight  became  a  test  of  physical  strength  and endurance. Blinking his eyes to clear the sweat  away, Flint  ignored his fatigue.  He saw  only the  hateful face  of his  enemy before him, and his  own hatred  coalesced with  Pitrick's to  form a cocoon  of  berserk rage  around them.  The derro  smashed his axe again and again  against Flint's  blade, but  suddenly the hill  dwarf  saw  his  opening.  Ducking  backward  before the Theiwar swung, Flint waited until  the derro's  attack swished harmlessly past his face.
	Then he stepped in, putting every bit of the strength in his toughened muscles behind the  blow. All  his hatred  and fury, all of his overpowering  grief came  together, focused  by the driving power of his weapon. Pitrick tried  to twist  away, to turn or parry the punishing blow, but in  his last  instant he knew he would not succeed. Finally, for a brief  second, Flint saw those mad  eyes grow  still madder,  this time  from stark terror.
	It was a sight he would savor for a long time.
	The Tharkan Axe  cut a  silver streak  through the  air, meeting the savant's neck below his helmet  and above  his breastplate. The blade made a clean cut, severing  the heads  of his amulet, then his skin and muscle.
	The  blade  finally  came  to  rest  near  Pitrick's  heart, jammed  tightly  into  his  collarbone  and  breastplate.  The Theiwar    commander    staggered   backward,    tugging   the weapon out of Flint's  hand. Pitrick's  blood soaked  the once shiny blade of the  Tharkan Axe,  sizzling and  scorching from the fiery heat of the metal. As he watched in disbelief, Flint saw the blade grow cherry red.
	Pitrick's  body  twisted,  then  sagged  to  the  ground. He dropped to his knees with a groan, looking in disbelief at the blood that spread in a growing circle  around him.  Finally he collapsed on his face in the mud, the pool of his  blood growing ever larger.
	And the world went mad.
	The first rays of sun crept over  the eastern  ridge, spilling light into the town. Flint scarcely breathed as he  reached to retrieve  his  weapon.  The  Tharkan  Axe in  Pitrick's chest, nestled  against  the  remains  of  the   five-headed  amulet, glowed red, so hot that Flint could not even touch  it through his gloves.
	Suddenly  it  burst  into   flames.  White   smoke  billowed from  the  fire. The  cloud hissed  forth, snaking  upward and rapidly spreading into the sky.
	Simultaneously, the severed heads on the amulet began to writhe like snakes, hissing, spewing a great cloud of black smoke.  This  dark vapor,  too, poured  into the  air, growing like a living thing,  writhing and  twisting its  way upward. The  two  clouds met,  spuming around  each other,  but each remained separate in a shocking contrast  of light  and dark. The dawn sun  reflected from  the white  smoke with  a bright glare, but the black vapor seemed to absorb the  light, sucking the energy from the air and giving nothing back.
	Flint  stumbled  away  from  the  clouds, stunned  by their sudden  incarnation. The  sight frightened  him in  some subconscious fashion with a terror he  could not  articulate but that chilled him to his soul.
	The  warring  dwarves  in the  courtyard watched  in amazement  and backed  away in  fear. The  dense trails  of smoke, both white and  black, grew  larger and  larger and  began to coalesce  vaguely  into  the  shapes  of  humanoid  heads:  a beautiful,  dark-haired  human  woman  with  blood  red  lips and   almond-shaped   eyes;   and  a   gray-bearded,  fiercelooking  harrn  dwarf,  his  eyes  radiating  anger.  The  two foggy shapes hovered above the brewery.
	The  clouds  writhed together  and apart,  almost as  if in combat -  though an  eerie, silent,  and ephemeral  battle it was. They grew still larger, filling the sky above the entire town.  At  the  base  of  the  intermingled  black  and white clouds, the amulet and the axe crackled with white  hot fire, an  arc  of  hissing  power sizzling  between them.  The heat drove Flint still farther back, though he could not avert his eyes from the spectacle.
	Suddenly, there came  a terrific  rumbling sound,  and then slowly the  earth beneath  the dwarves'  feet began  to shake and tremble. The  ground rippled  like water,  shaking stones loose  from  the  brewery  walls,  knocking  Flint  and every dwarf in view off of their  feet. Many  of the  wooden buildings began to fall like matchstick shelters.
	Wisps  of  the  black  smoke  trailed  through   the  town, touching  off  fires  where  they struck  the dry  timbers of buildings  whole,  or  ruined. In  moments the  flames roared upward,   and   Hillhome  became   a  nightmare   of  hungry, crackling blazes.
	The dwarves in the  courtyard of  the brewery  scattered in fear, trampling each other to get through the gate first. The Theiwar  were  the  first  out  of  town,  running  through  the wreckage  for  the  hills.  Not a  living one  of the  derro remained to face the rage of the vengeful hill dwarves.
	The  earth  shook  again,  a  convulsive  tremor  that wracked the  town  from  one  end  to the  other. Great  cracks appeared in  the ground,  exploding outward  from the  white fire  of axe and  amulet.  Flint  watched,  still  stunned  to  immobilty, as these fissures erupted to either side  of him.  He saw  hill and gully  dwarves  disappear  into  the  cracks,  and he  could not move  to  help  them.  The  stone  walls  of  the  brewery crumbled and split, collapsing into heaps of gravel.
	Screams  of  panic  shrilled  through  the air.  Mad stampedes erupted,  as  hill  and  gully  dwarves  scrambled  through  the ruins,  seeking  an  escape  from  the convulsions  that wracked the world around them.
	Flint shook off his numbness.
	But  before  Flint could  gather his  family and  escape, the trembling  of  the  earth  stopped.  The  black and  white smoky forms cast one more  stony glance  at each  other and  then dissipated into thin  wisps in  the morning  air. The  hissing fire between  the  two  artifacts  slowly  faded.  There was  no sign of Pitrick's body, nor of his amulet.
	Flint's  attention  fell  upon what  remained of  the TharkanAxe. It was now a thin sheet of fragile foil in the shape of the axe. Of the weapon's original form, only the runes remained.
	"The Tharkan Axe," said a soft voice beside him.
	He turned  to look  at Hildy's  blood- and  dirt-streaked face in surprise. "How did you know it's name?"
	"My  father  taught  me  the   Old  Script,"   she  explained, pointing  to  the runes.  Flint nodded  dumbly, watching  as the runes themselves started to fade.
	"The  Axe  of  Tharkas,  it  says,"  repeated  Hildy. "Crafted by  the  god   Reorx  in   honor  of   the  great   peace  among dwarves.  Its  magnificence  shall last  -" Hildy  looked softly at Flint,  sympathy welling  in her  eyes before  she concluded, "- until it is used by a dwarf to shed a dwarf's blood."
	In the courtyard,  now full  of the  stillness and  death that follows war, the  sheet of  foil caught  the wind  and fluttered away.

                      Epilogue

  Hillhome became a ghost town in less than a week What the battle  had left  standing had  been leveled  by the earthquake. Not a single family had  escaped losing  at least one  member  in  the  Battle  of Hillhome,  and most  of them wanted to start anew elsewhere in the hillcountry,  where the memories would fade more easily with time.
	Diehards,  like the  Fireforges, whose  families had  been in the village since before  the Cataclysm  and whose  homes had been at least partially spared from the devastation, chose to stay  around  and  rebuild  their  town  as best  they could. Though  her  brewery  was  destroyed,  Hildy   stayed  behind with Basalt and the promise of a life together.
	  And so with much dignity and tears the Fireforge family buried  its  dead,  among  them  brother  Bernhard,  the valiant Aghar Garf. And Perian.
	After the short service offering their  souls to  Reorx, Flint had  wandered alone  with his  thoughts to  a small  crest overlooking  Stonehammer  Lake  to  the  west  and  the  remains  of Hillhome  to  the  east.  The  sky  seemed  too blue,  the early winter  air  too  crisp  and...  ordinary  for  a  day  when his heart  was near  to bursting,  His memories  of Perian  were few but  sweet;  he  prayed  they  would  not  fade with  time. Suddenly he became aware of shuffling behind him.
	"Old  queen  gone,"  Cainker  said  sadly,  coming  up  behind the  gray-haired  dwarf,  a  tear   dripping  down   his  filthy cheek. In his grief Flint had lost track of his subjects and was now  reminded  that  they  were  likely  waiting  upon  him  for the direction of their lives.
	"Yes,"  Flint  said softly.  He looked  with affection  at the gully   dwarf,   but   then  he   thought  of   something.  "Old queen?" he asked.
	"Sure.  New  queen  Fester,  she  just  fine!"  Cainker bobbed his head enthusiastically.
	"Hi,  kingly  guy."  said  Nomscul  as  he joined  them. "Good fight!"
	"Thanks," Flint muttered, growing more confused.
	"What's this about Fester being queen?"
	"Yup. She my queen! Me new king, you know."
	"New king?" Flint was too surprised to immediately do the sensible thing, which was to heartily endorse the idea.
	"Sure.  Now  that  you  got  no  queen,  it good  idea." Nomscul  sighed,  apparently with  real regret.  "You one  nice guy, though,"  he  amended.  "But  just  not work  out as  king. Real nice guy, all right!"
	Flint  chuckled,  feeling  a  lump growing  in his  throat. He wanted  to  laugh  aloud,  and  he  wanted  to  cry, so  he just stared in bemused wonder at the new king of Mudhole.
	"Just not work out," Nomscul said with a shrug. * * * * *
	The general stood high upon the temple platform, looking over the still-smoldering city. Sanction was not so empty as  before,  as  thousands  of  ogres and  human mercenaries gathered.  Legions of  hobgoblins formed  vast camps  on the ashen slopes around the city.
	Across  the  valley,  beneath   the  seething   Temple  of Luerkhisis,  the  rest  of  the  general's  army was  born draconians,  hatched by  a corrupting  process from  the secretly hoarded eggs of good dragonkind.
	The draconians pleased the  general greatly,  gathering as they did in well-disciplined  companies of  savage warriors, eager for bloodshed and war.
	Indeed, his army grew daily, and this  made the  matter of armaments all  the more  vexing. One  day, the  shipments to the hidden cove had simply stopped, and  they had  never resumed.  All  of  his  attempts  to  contact   the  grotesque Theiwar, Pitrick, had failed, and the general disliked failure.  He  would  not  fail his  Dark Queen,  the five-headed dragon-goddess, Takhisis.
	Yet  the  preparations  would  go on.  He had  enough good steel to arm many  of his  troops, and  the rest  would find other sources for blades, and shields, and armor. Still, the general knew, his army would be strong.
	And soon, it would be ready.