Flint the King

Chapter 8

The pnominent nostrils twitched, tickled by an un familiar, yet tantalizing odor. One great eye, bloodshot and sunk deep within its socket, opened. The lid, of green, leath ery 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 hu manoid, 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 diffi culty supporting the monster as it rose to stand.

Its hands and feet each bore three wicked claws, with fin gers partially webbed. Blotchy skin, the color of dark moss, covered its whole body. In places it was smooth, but in oth ers the skin lay wrinkled, a rough, warty surface.

Atop the creature's head was a thicket of black, stiff standing 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 aper ture, was the creature's long, pointed nose.

It was this sensitive proboscis that had caused the mon ster to awaken, and now it probed the air, sniffing and snuf fling 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 nu merous 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 memen tos, moving toward the fresh air in search of new food, per haps 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 Thor bardin.

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 moun tain 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 day light, 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 over cast late-autumn day. Most of the leaves in this distant arm of the Kharolis Mountains, in the corridor between Thor bardin and the Plains of Dergoth, had already turned brown and scattered across the flat lands, leaving only the olive colored 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 giv ing 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 dwar ven capitol city had two entrances: Northgate and

Southgate. Originally, a wide, walled ledge edged the mountainside at the entrances, but the Cataclysm had de stroyed 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 north ern 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, lumber ing 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 Kharo lis 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 dwar ven senses raised the hair on the back of his neck; someone or something was following him. He wasn't terribly sur prised, since he had expected to be pursued. Still whomever it was seemed in no hurry to catch him, nor even to be con cerned 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 ra vine 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 dis appeared 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 be side 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 be low, 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 some thing 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 recog nized it nonetheless. And he knew their malevolent, raven ous 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 re minded 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 prodi gious 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 terrify ing 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 ex plaining 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 Ba salt gave Flint a look that was so belligerent, so full of Fire forge 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, Un cle 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." Ba salt'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 inde cision 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 transport ing 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 magic using 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; hid ing a trail in a riverbed was one of the oldest tricks in an ad venturer's book.

Flint looked downstream, then upstream to the right.

Kneeling near the edge of the water, he saw an almost imper ceptible 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 en ter the water. They follow it upstream."

Basalt peered closely, then smacked his thigh in astonish ment. "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, blind ing 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, Raist lin, 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 Cara mon, 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 wa ter; 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 slid ing 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 face first into the frigid water. Flint's axe clattered against the rocks on the narrow bank, and he nonchalantly wiped wa ter droplets from the weapon's shiny surface while he gath ered 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 Ba salt'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 con versation.

"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 possi ble. 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 la boriously 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 rum bled 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 des perately 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!"