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. Perhaps 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?”

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, O 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 hysterical 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 twiddled his fingers. Finally he began laughing himself.

Suddenly they both were startled by the sound of someone 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 respectfully at the attractive frawl.

“You may as well know right off, Basalt, if you haven’t already 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 little 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 gratefully 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 after I stepped inside the Theiwar’s secret tunnel and a cage fell and imprisoned me.…”

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.