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 refilling. “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 suddenly, 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 looked 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 expected; 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 Ruberik, 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 human 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 openings 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 table, 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, constable 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?”

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 in 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 covered 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 multicolored 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 activity 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 family’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 surprised at the extent of the changes in Hillhome.

The great wagon yard and forge seemed to serve as a central 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 pleasantly, 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 drinking quietly at another.

“Have you a glass of milk for an old dwarf’s touchy stomach?” 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 bartender, topping Flint’s glass again. “You cost me half my customers!”

The dwarf smiled wryly, shuffling the mug between his hands on the bar. Then he remembered the one family member 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 anything 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 nighttime 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 himself 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, desperate 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 expressing 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 inwardly 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 hummingbird. 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 engrossed 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 intricately 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?” Flint asked, wishing he could bite his tongue off the second the patronizing words left his mouth.

Basalt eyed Flint’s own mug. “That’s not milk you’re drinking, either.”

Hint set down his tools and sighed, swallowing the irritation 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 Basalt by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

“Look, I feel terrible about your father,” he began, searching 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 whispered, 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 father’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-to-nose 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.