Mary Kirchoff - Flint the King

Her presence in it would further influence the weaselly ad viser to his cause.

"It has proved quite useful already," Pitrick said offhand edly, yet he offered no thanks. "But to business. My journey, though fast, is not without risk," observed the dwarf, ignor ing the general's shrug. "Should the other clans of Thor bardin gain wind of our transaction, I need not tell you that your source of arms would vanish."

The general said nothing. The vast horde of men gather ing in the valley below would be nothing more than an an gry mob until outfitted with weapons. Excellent, razor-sharp steel blades — the kind made by the Theiwar mountain dwarves of Thorbardin.

"That is why we meet today," said the human. "To discuss the shipments."

"I trust that you have not been dissatisfied with our craftsmanship," remarked the dwarf, his tone smugly confi dent.

The general ignored the question. They both knew no an swer was required, for dwarven weaponsmiths were the most talented crafters of steel on all of Krynn. Nowhere else could a soldier gain arms of such strength and quality.

"I shall require an increase in the amount of all types of weapons." The general's voice was a harsh rasp through the mask. "A doubling, to be precise."

The hunchbacked dwarf turned away, placing a hand to his chin as if deep in thought. The hand concealed a thin smile of pleasure as the dwarf's mind immediately began counting the additional coinage that would flow quickly into his, and his clan's, coffers. That meant more power for the Theiwar, more power to the thane's adviser.

"Of course, if you should need to speak to your thane about this matter…" The general's tone made it clear that such a delay would be regarded as a major nuisance.

"Certainly not!" huffed the dwarf. "I am fully empowered to make such a decision. And make it I shall, though of course there are some problems to be worked out."

The general stood mute, arms crossed at his chest. He looked down at the diminutive derro.

"The details are manifold," explained the dwarf, turning to pace about the platform atop the tower. He moved awk wardly, dragging his twisted right foot, but the impediment did not seem to slow him down. He spoke slowly, as if deep in thought.

"Our materials, particularly coal, are in short supply. We can find more, but it will be costly, and, naturally, our price must reflect this. We will be forced to triple the fee."

The general chuckled, deep within the enclosing confines of his armor and helm. "An amusing thought." The laughter abruptly ceased. "Our fee will be doubled, as the work is doubled. No more."

After a discreet pause the dwarf nodded his acceptance.

Still in profile to the general, his hand surreptitiously slipped around the iron amulet that hung at his neck. Eyes shifting, he soundlessly mouthed a word and a soft blue glow suddenly gleamed between his fingers. Turning back to the general, Pitrick raised his other hand in a mysterious gesture. His wide, pale eyes sought the general's through the holes in the human's mask. Mustering his courage, the dwarf began to intone.

Suddenly, the dwarf felt something strike him, hard, along the right side of his head. He cried out in pain and surprise as he sprawled to the wooden platform, tumbling to lie in the shelter of the parapet wall. He rubbed his cheek, already feel ing a large welt developing there. The derro struggled to his feet and looked around; there was nothing material that could have struck him. He looked at the general with new re spect. Then he felt an unfamiliar sensation: fear.

The general stood unmoving, watching the dwarf.

"An amusing diversion, magic," the human said. "I trust you will not attempt to use your pathetic tricks on me again.

This time, I leave you your life. Next time…"

"An honest mistake, I assure you," said the dwarf, biting back his anger. No one had bested or humiliated him in dec ades. "A doubling of the fee will be quite satisfactory."

"These shipments must be increased immediately," in structed the general. "I will have extra ships in the bay within the month, and I want them loaded quickly."

Pitrick nodded. "It shall be done. The arrangement with the loathesome hill dwarves remains, but I am taking steps toward a more satisfactory solution.

"Because they built the road through the pass, they think they can control us! True, the road is our only passage from

Thorbardin to Newsea, but we pay them well for its use. Yet they complain when we stay in their town! They charge ex orbitant prices for goods. If they learned the true nature of our shipments, there would be no end to their extortion!

"I was forced to kill one of them already, for spying," the derro said, almost in passing. "Fortunately, I was there at the time and was able to strike him down before he had the chance to tell anyone what he'd discovered. The fools think he died of a heart attack!"

"The hill dwarves are your problem. You are the one who insists the trade remains a secret." The general's tone was dis interested, unsympathetic. He turned away, looking over his smoking, smoldering city. Clearly, he had no curiosity about the petty squabbles that frequently occurred among dwarves.

The derro fumed at the human's disdain and sought to re gain some measure of his dignity and pride. "Your weapons will be waiting on the shore!" he said stiffly. "Even if I must obliterate Hillhome to get them there!"

Instinctively bowing to the general, as he would to his thane, the derro once again fondled his steel ring of telepor tation. The circlet of metal was formed by two rings woven together and split at the top, the rough ends bent outward.

It softly illuminated the dwarf's entire body. Then, a bright spark jumped from one edge of the ring to another. In the space of a blink, the hunchbacked Theiwar was gone.

"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 im promptu party grew increasingly besotted.

"It's a disgrace that my dead brother is dishonored by a night of mourning like this!" Ruberik grumbled disdainfully.

Third Fireforge son — Aylmar and Flint were first and second — Ruberik stood by the hearth, stiff in his black waistcoat and too-tight tie. He turned up his nose at the mug of ale Bertina held toward him and frowned disapprovingly at the newly empty keg, the pools of ale on the floor, and the sleeping dwarves throughout the large room.

"Oh, Ruberik," scolded Fidelia, one of the older Fireforge sisters, "don't burst a vein." A buxom, bawdy lass, she tossed back the contents of her mug and held it out for refill ing. "We're not so much mourning Aylmar — we've done that for a month — as celebrating Flint's return."

Ruberik's work-roughened hand reached out to snatch the mug from her waiting lips. "If you have no respect for your elders, young woman, at least try to summon a bit for the dead!"

"We grieve differently, that's all," his sister said, used to his pompous outbursts. Hitching her leather skirt to a height improper enough to make her puritanical brother fume, she fetched another drink undisturbed.

Plain, heavy-set Glynnis, next in line after Ruberik and not the brightest under the best of conditions, giggled sud denly, oblivious to the tension in the room. Letting loose a loud hiccup, she smirked at her older brother. "Fidel is right,

Rubie. Flint only comesh home onesh every twenty years!