Mary Kirchoff - Flint the King

The rugged valley stretched east to the pass and west to

Stonehammer Lake, broadening into a grassy vale around

Hillhome. Several side canyons twisted back into the hills to the north and south.

Flint's warm feeling chilled somewhat when he realized that a low haze hung in the valley where before the air had been impeccably clear. Of course, there had always been a little smoke from the town forge…

The town forge! Flint realized the barn beside it was three times or more the size it had been twenty years ago. A great, muddy yard surrounded it, containing several parked wag ons. The wagons, Flint realized with a jolt, were just like the one he had encountered the previous night at the pass.

And where once a single stack had emitted the smoke of the small forge, now four squat chimneys belched black clouds into the sky. The town itself seemed to have doubled in proportion, stretching farther to the west toward Stone hammer Lake. Indeed, the sleepy village of Flint's memory now bustled with a size and energy the dwarf found unnerv ing. Main Street, which once had been paved with sturdy stone, was now practically churned to mud by the traffic of crowds and vehicles.

Flint anxiously made his way down the Passroad until it became Main Street. He slowed his steps to search for famil iar faces — familiar anything! — but he recognized not a one, nor did any of the busy dwarves look up from their hurried pace. He paused to get his bearings.

For a moment he wondered if he had come to the right place. Up close, Hillhome looked even less like the town in his memory than it had from the ridge. The same large buildings — the mayor's mansion, the trading barn, the brewery — still dominated the central area. But around them clustered a mass of lesser structures, tightly packed, as if each was trying to shoulder the other aside.

Most of these newer buildings were made of wood, and many showed signs of uncharacteristically hasty construc tion and shoddy workmanship. The town square was still a wide open space, but where it had once been a tree-shaded park, now it was a brown and barren place.

Flint's eyes came to rest on Moldoon's Tavern across the street. A happy sight at last! A young frawl was standing at the back of an ale wagon parked out front, hefting two half kegs onto her shoulders. She struggled her way up the two wooden steps and into the inn, the door of which was held open by a large, middle-aged dwarf.

Flint well remembered the rugged human, Moldoon, who had opened his inn in quiet Hillhome. The man had been a hard-drinking mercenary who had retired from fighting and carousing. His small alehouse had become a comfortable club for many adult dwarves, including Flint and Aylmar.

Flint wondered if the human were still about.

With a sense of relief he started toward the familiar door way. He made his way around the ruts in the street and shouldered his way through the thick crowd in Moldoon's.

The hill dwarf's eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness, and he saw with relief that the place had not changed all that much.

When designing his saloon, Moldoon had realized that most of his patrons would be short-statured dwarves, yet he wanted a place that was comfortable for himself as well. He neither made it human-sized (though other people would have gotten sport out of watching dwarves scrabbling for doorknobs and seats), nor did he make it dwarf-sized (he, himself, would look silly on a too-small chair). What he did do was make all tables and chairs adjustable with just a turn of the top; all doors had two knobs on each side. The bar it self had two levels: the right side to the patrons was dwarf height, and the left was human-height. The ceiling was high enough to accommodate all.

Right now, a haze of greasy smoke hung just below the stained ceiling beams. The spattering of the grill — Moldoon always seemed to get the most succulent cuts of meat — and the familiar low rumble of conversation sounded like the same talk in any tavern in Ansalon.

Flint saw an old man behind the lower section of the bar.

White bearded, with an equally full, platinum mane of hair, he stooped slightly with age, but revealed a frame that had once been broad and lanky.

"Moldoon?" Flint asked in disbelief, his face alight with expectation. The dwarf stepped over to the bar and spun the nearest stool top to his level.

Recognition dawning, the man's face broke into a crooked grin. "Flint Fireforge, as I live and breath!" With amazing alacrity the man vaulted the bar and gathered up the stout dwarf in an awkward bear hug.

"How long have you been in town, you old scut?" he asked, shaking the dwarf by the shoulders.

"First stop." Flint grinned broadly, his whiskers tickling his nose. The human seized Flint up again, and after much back-thumping and hand-pumping, he grabbed a pitcher and personally overfilled a mug for the dwarf, scraping the foam away with a knife.

"It's good to see you again, old friend," said Flint sincerely, raising his mug and taking a long pull. He wiped his foamy mouth with the back of his hand and said happily, "None better!"

"Not Flint Fireforge!"

Flint heard a frawl's voice coming from around Mol doon's right arm. She stepped around to the innkeeper's side, and Flint recognized her as the one he had seen lugging kegs from the wagon outside. Indeed, as Moldoon drew her forward, Flint noticed that she still held one on her left shoulder. Staring unabashedly at Flint, she lowered it to the ground. Her hair was the yellow-orange color of overripe corn, and she wore it in long braids on either side of her full, rose-red cheeks. She wore tight leather pants and a red tu nic, belted tight, revealing an unusually tiny waist for a frawl.

Flint gave her a friendly, almost apologetic smile. "Yes, I am, but I'm sorry, I don't remember you."

Moldoon threw an arm down around her shoulders.

"Sure you do! This is Hildy, Brewmaster Bowlderston's daughter. She's taken over his business since he's been ill."

Hildy thrust her hand forward over the bar and gripped

Flint's firmly. "I've heard a lot about you, Flint. I'm a… um, friend of your nephew, Basalt." She blushed.

Flint slapped his thigh. "That's why you looked familiar!

Haven't you two been friends since you were both in nap pies?" He winked and gave her an approving glance under raised eyebrows. "Although you've grown up some since then."

She smiled and blushed again, lowering her eyes. "I wish

Basalt would take notice," she began, but her smile faded.

"Of course he's not aware of much else but drink these days, though, what with the tragedy and all." She reached out gin gerly and squeezed his arm sympathetically.

"Tragedy?" Flint's mug of ale froze halfway to his mouth.

His eyes traveled from the frawl's blue eyes to the innkeep er's rheumy ones and back.

Suddenly the sound of shattering glass rent the air. Star tled, Flint turned toward the left end of the bar, where he saw the harrn who had held the door for Hildy. This same dwarf was staring at Flint, his face a mask of terror.

The dwarf seemed stupefied, and he began gesturing wildly at Flint. Flint was stunned.

"You're dead! Go away! Leave me alone! You're d-d — !"

The screaming dwarf struggled to get the last of the word out, then finally quit in frustration. He covered his eyes with his arms and sobbed.

"Garth!" Hildy cried, coming to his side to uncover his eyes. "It's OK. That's not who you think it is!" The big dwarf resisted at first, then slowly allowed one eye to emerge from above his folded limbs:

Garth was unusually large, well over four and a half feet, and none of it was muscle. His rounded belly poked out be low his tunic, which was too small at every opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at least an inch be low the cuffs.