The two disarmed Theiwar sprang onto the wagon as the driver lashed the horses. Whinnying with fear and snorting white clouds of breath into the night air, the massive beasts struggled to get the heavy wagon rolling. In moments it lurched through the pass and started on the downhill trek to the east and Newsea. As they rumbled away, the hill dwarf got a good look at their pale, wide eyes staring back at him around the side of the wagon, their glares full of hatred, and not a little fear.
Thoroughly disgusted with the needless fight, Flint stomped back to his fire and snatched the pan of burned bacon, tossing the blackened remains into the scrub. No longer hungry, he sat with his back to the flames and pondered the strange encounter.
His mind was a jumble of burning questions. What sort of "agreement" with these evil dwarves could have caused the hill dwarves to forget centuries of hatred and forced poverty because of the Great Betrayal? And what did the derro have to hide that they were concerned about spies?
Thorbardin, ancient home of the mountain dwarves, lay some twenty miles to the southwest, past Stonehammer Lake. Flint knew that the derro belonged to the Theiwar, one of five clans in the politically divided underground dwarven city. Mountain dwarves as a whole were notoriously clannish, concerned only with their mining and their metalcraft. So of all the clans, why would the derro come to the surface, since they were ones the most sensitive to light?
Flint examined the axe his attacker had left behind. It was a weapon of exceptional workmanship, hard steel with a silver shine and a razor-honed edge. He would have guessed the axe to be of dwarven origin, except that the customary engraving that marked every dwarven blade was missing from the steel.
Flint shivered, whether from cold or apprehension, he could not be sure. Still, it reminded him the fire needed stoking. Tossing two small logs onto the coals, he stared into the flames until the fire's mesmerizing effects made his eyelids heavy.
These mysteries he would take to sleep, unresolved. He moved away from the fire to where he could keep an eye on the camp yet remain concealed. But nothing disturbed him again that night. - * * * * *
Flint awoke at first light and at once headed east through the pass toward Hillhome. He stayed with the rutted, mudslick road until he came to the last low ridge before the village, just a quarter-mile away. There he stopped to relish the view.
He had made the journey in less than two weeks, a refreshing enough adventure until the derro skirmish the previous night. But now he felt a peculiar emotion choke his heart as he looked down at the winding, paved road, the expanse of stone buildings, the blockhouse that was the forge in the village of his youth.
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 wagons. 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 Stonehammer Lake. Indeed, the sleepy village of Flint's memory now bustled with a size and energy the dwarf found unnerving. 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 familiar 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 construction 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 halfkegs 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 doorway. 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 itself had two levels: the right side to the patrons was dwarfheight, 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 Moldoon'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 tunic, 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 nappies?" 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 gingerly 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 innkeeper's rheumy ones and back.
Suddenly the sound of shattering glass rent the air. Startled, 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 below his tunic, which was too small at every opening: the neck was too tight, and his wrists hung at least an inch below the cuffs.
"What's going on here?" Flint demanded, both irritated and embarrassed by the strange incident.
Moldoon looked red-faced as well. "Garth does odd jobs about town for almost everyone. He's a little simple - most people call him the village idiot - and well, you two did look quite a lot alike," Moldoon finished, his voice coming faster.
"What two? What are talking about? Spit it out, man!" Flint was just angry now.
"The tragedy," Hildy said dully.
Moldoon wrung his hands and finally said, "I'm sorry, Flint. Garth was the one who found Aylmar dead at the forge one month ago."
Chapter 3
The Terms
Thee general looked over the smoldering city below. He saw the seaport of Sanction, wracked by forces both geological and mystical. Its people were being driven away, the very earth beneath it changed by volcanic eruptions and the rivers of lava flowing down to the Newsea. He also saw what the tortured city would become: the heart of an evil empire embracing all of Krynn. Sanction would protect the nerve center of that empire with a barrier of arms and with the awesome barrier formed by the Lords of Doom. These three towering volcanoes stood at three points of the general's view, spewing ash and lava, gradually changing the shape of the city and the valley. Active for the past few years, the smoking peaks dominated Sanction and the surrounding chaos of steep mountains.
The brown waters of the port, and the Newsea beyond, marked the fourth direction, to the west. The Lords smoldered, oozing rockfire and slowly wracking the city below. The Newsea beckoned placidly, a route that one day the general's armies would follow on their path to conquering the west. Clasping his heavy gauntlets to his hips, the general peered through the narrow eyeholes in his mask, pleased by the destruction below.
The general wore ceremonial armor of black, etched in red. Tall boots of polished leather protected his feet and muscular legs. A breastplate of deepest blue-black reflected darkly across his torso, while several large rubies winked crimson around the edges of the plate.
His face lay entirely concealed behind the grotesque dark helm. A scarlet plume, rising from the crest of the helmet and then trailing below and behind him, enhanced his height even more than his already impressive natural size. Heavy, curved plates of the same black steel as his breastplate covered his shoulders and accentuated his imposing physique.
Now he paced alone, atop a blocky, black-walled tower just south of the city - one of two such prominences on the black fortress known as the Temple of Duerghast. This huge, walled structure squatted low on the slopes of the smallest of the Lords of Doom, Duerghast Mountain. The towers of the temple provided a splendid view of Sanction, and the mountains and sea beyond.
The Temple of Duerghast was, in fact, more of a fortress than a place of worship. The high black wall surrounded the entire structure. It provided space for barracks, troop training, and even an arena for gladiatorial combat.
The temple and the entire city, now as always, lay under a leaden, overcast sky. The gray blanket was caused by the smoke and ash that spewed from its surrounding summits, and because the valley of Sanction was a windtrap, terminus of the Newsea.
A river of steaming lava, glowing cherry red in the eternally twilit valley, cut through the center of Sanction. An- other finger of flaming rock trickled toward it by a different path. Soon the two boiling streams would meet, forming a lava moat around the other temple.
The general's gaze lingered on that great construction now a pile of rock, slowly being given form by the lava and ash. The Temple of Luerkhisis, that one was called, after the second of the Lords of Doom. The temple held the keys to so much of the future, for in its bowels were kept the precious eggs of the good dragons. Those gold, silver, brass, and bronze orbs would - when the time was right - force the neutrality of good dragonkind, allowing the empire of dark ness to be born.
