Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Preludes II - Vol 2 - Flint,the King

Mary Kirchoff, Douglas Niles. Flint, the King

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("Dragonlance Preludes II" #2).

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PRELUDES II

VOLUME TWO

Flint

- the-

King

Mary Kirchoff and

Douglas Niles

As always, this book is for

Steve and Alex for their

unlimited help, patience, and

midnight snacks;

And to Bruce Johnson and

Peter Fritzell, teachers/

mentors who knew when to

encourage and when to

laugh.

- MK

For Lou Niles,

My mother and first fan.

- DN

Prologue

The hammer fell rhyththmically against the anvil, oven

and over, gradually returning the wheelrim to its circular

shape. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the dwarven

smith's skin when the fire rose, but then he fell into shadows

as the blaze sank into the coals. The smithy around him was

empty, dark but for the forge fire.

As the hill dwarf's body labored, so did his mind, franti-

cally. He thought about the secret he had learned, scarce

minutes before. Again and again his hammer fell on the rim

as he pushed himself past the point of exhaustion. Sparks

exploded from each contact, hissing through the air before

settling to the earthen floor of the shed.

Indecision tormented him. Should he remain silent?

Should he speak out? The hammer continued pounding.

Immersed in his task, the dwarf did not see the grotesque

figure moving through the shadowy doorway. For a mo-

ment the fire flared, outlining a black, misshapen figure

shorter even than the dwarven smith.

This dark one shuffled forward, and again the blaze rose,

revealing a hump of flesh that twisted the stunted body half

sideways. Still the smith hammered, eyes focused on the

wheel, unaware of the one who slowly limped toward him

from behind.

The hunchbacked figure raised a hand to his chest and

wrapped his blunt fingers around a small object that hung

suspended from his neck by a chain.

Blue light glowed between those fingers as the amulet

sparked to life. His other hand gestured toward the smith.

Softly, the blue light spread outward, advancing slowly like

an oily, penetrating mist. It reached forward in uneven tend-

rils, closer and closer to the smith.

For the first time, the hammer faltered slightly in its blow.

Reflexively, the dwarf raised it again, ready to strike. Sud-

denly his face distorted in a grimace of unimaginable agony,

and his body convulsed with a violent spasm. For a moment

his movement ceased, as if he had been frozen in a grip of ex-

cruciating pain.

The hammer remained poised above him as his body stiff-

ened, wracked within the blue glow that outlined him. The

gentle, almost beautiful cocoon belied the supernatural grip

of its power. Only the dwarf's eyes moved, growing wider

and more desperate with the slowly increasing, inevitably

fatal pressure of dark sorcery.

Abruptly the light vanished, and the hunchback shuffled

backward, melting into the darkness.

The dwarven smith's hammer finally slid from his gloved

hand with a loud clang to the anvil. Slowly, the corpse top-

pled forward, the stocky body splaying across the anvil and

the nearly straightened wheel. It slipped silently to the cold

ground.

Chapter 1

Autumn Winds

Watching dead leaves swirl into his windowss, Flint

Fireforge threw back his mug and swallowed the last of his

draught. A satisfied belch ruffled his thick mustache. For

cheap ale, it wasn't half bad, he concluded. But it was gone.

He held the empty bottle - his last - up to the light of the

fire. The dwarf stroked his salt-and-pepper beard out of

habit. After considering his empty larder, Flint decided that

it was time to see if his ale order was in at the greengrocer's.

He was going to have to leave the comfort of his home and

fire for only the third time in the month since his friends had

left the treetop village of Solace.

The dwarf and his companions - Tanis Half-Elven, Tas-

slehoff Burrfoot, Caramon and Raistlin Majere, Kitiara

Uth-Matar, and Sturm Brightblade - had parted ways to

discover what they could of the rumors concerning the true

clerics, agreeing to meet again in exactly five years. Flint

had spent much of his time in the last few years adventuring

with his much younger friends or traveling to fairs to sell his

metalsmithing and woodcarvings. Truly he missed them,

now that they were gone. But the truth of the matter was, at

one hundred forty years, the middle-aged dwarf was just

plain tired. So, being reclusive by nature, he had stayed at

home and done little more than eat, drink, sleep, stoke the

fire, and whittle in the month since their departure.

Flint's stomach rumbled. Patting the noisy complainer, he

reluctantly eased his bulk from his overstuffed chair near

the fire, brushing wood shavings from his lap as he stood.

He pulled his woolly vest closer and looked about his home

for his leather boots.

The house was small by the measure of the human-sized

buildings up in the trees. But his home, built in the base of

an old, hollowed-out vallenwood, was quite large by dwar-

ven standards - opulent even, he reflected, with not a little

pride. Sure, it didn't have the large nooks and crannies

found in the caves-turned-houses of his native foothills near

the Kharolis Mountains, nor was there the ever-present

homey scent only a white-hot forge could produce. But he

had carved every inch of the inside of his tree into shelves or

friezes depicting vivid and nostalgic scenes from his home- '

land. These included a forging contest, dwarven miners at

work, and the simple skyline of his boyhood village. Such

carvings were not easily done on the stone walls of the

homes of most hill dwarves.

The stroke of his knife over a firm piece of wood was

Flint's greatest joy, though the gruff hill dwarf would never

have admitted such a sentiment. Idly, he raised his hand to

one of the friezes, touching his fingers to the carved crest of

a jagged ridge, following the dips and summits. He dropped

his hand to the carvings of the dark pine forests below the

crest, admiring the precise bladework that had marked each

tree in individual relief on the wall.

With a large, shuddering sigh, Flint took his heavy, well-

worn leather boots from under a bench by the door and

jammed them onto his thick feet. There was nothing to be

done about it - he'd put off this errand as long as he could.

The massive vallenwood front door creaked as Flint

opened it, causing the shutters on his windows to bang in

the chill breeze, their hinges sagging like an old woman's

stockings. They ought to be repaired - there were many

such tasks to be done before the first snow fell.

Flint's home was one of the few in Solace at ground level,

since he was one only of a handful of non-humans living in

the town, including dwarves. While the view from up in the

trees was quite lovely, Flint had no interest in living in a

drafty, swaying house. Wooden walkways suspended by

strong cords attached to high branches were the sidewalks

of Solace. Probably they had provided a useful means of de-

fense against the bandit armies that had once ranged across

the plains of Abanasinia in the wake of the Cataclysm.

Nowadays the trees served as an aesthetic delight, Solace's

trademark. People came from many miles away simply to

gaze on the city of vallenwood.

The day was cool but not cold, and warming sunshine cut

through the thick trees in slanted white lines. The greengro-

cer's shop rose above the very center of the eastern edge of

the town square, a short distance away. Flint set out for the

nearest spiral stair leading to the bridgewalks overhead. By

the time his short legs had pumped him to the top of the cir-

cling thirty-foot wooden ramp, his brow had broken out in

beads of sweat. Flint plucked at the furry edges of his vest

and wished he hadn't dressed so warmly; he slipped his arms

from it and draped the leather and wool garment over one

shoulder. He saw the grocer's, at the end of a long straighta-

way.

For the first time in quite a while, Flint truly noticed his

surroundings. The village of Solace was washed in vivid fall

colors. But unlike the maples or oaks of other areas, each

large vallenwood leaf turned red, green, and gold in perfect,

alternating angled stripes of about an inch wide. So instead

of seeing blazing clumps of solid color, the landscape was a

multicolored jumble. The bright sunlight cast the leaves in a

shimmering iridescence that shifted in shade and intensity

with each passing breeze.

The view from the bridgewalk allowed him to see quite a

distance. He looked down at a smithy, where the blacksmith

Theros Ironfeld toiled at shoeing the lively stallion of a

robed human who was pacing with impatience.

A seeker, Flint thought sullenly, and his mood darkened.

It seemed the seekers were everywhere these days. The sect

had arisen from the ashes of the Cataclysm, which was itself

caused by the old gods in reaction to the pride and misdirec-

tion of the most influential religious leader at the time, the

Kingpriest of Istar. This group, calling themselves seekers,

loudly proclaimed that the old gods had abandoned Krynn.

They sought new gods, and sometime during the three cen-

turies since, the seekers claimed to have found those gods.

Many of the folk of Abanasinia had turned toward the flick-

ering promise of the seekers' religion. Flint, and many oth-

ers of a more pragmatic nature, saw the seekers' doctrine for

the hollow bunk that it was.

They could be recognized by their brown and golden

robes, these seeker missionaries who rode about the plains

collecting steel coins for their coffers. Most of them at the

missionary level were the young, bored malcontents who

grew up in every town. The promise of money and power, if

only over people desperate for a sign that gods existed,

seemed to lure these spiritual bullies like a magnet. They

were molded into persuasive salesmen by an intensive

"training" session in the seeker capitol of nearby Haven, and

they claimed to have converted thousands to their cause.

The seekers were as close as anything to the governing

body of the plains. A body with muscle, of course: seeker

followers were equally divided between the zealous acolytes

who taught the words and ways of the new gods, and the

men-at-arms who garrisoned the towns for no discernible

purpose.

Unfortunately, groused the dwarf to himself, their con-

cept of governing seems to involve little more than mooch-

ing off the towns and villages unlucky enough to host their

temples and guardposts.

Flint's mood dipped even farther when he noticed a group

of seekers hovering around the doorway to Jessab the

Greengrocer's. He recognized this bunch as rude, belliger-

ent, over-postulating phonies who couldn't cure a split fin-

ger any more than they could speak with their so-called

gods. In one of the few times Flint had ventured from his

home in the last month, he had come upon a villager chok-

ing on a bite of meat. This very group had been summoned

to help, and after much desperate prodding from the small,

gathered crowd, the leader of the three, a pimply young

whelp, had sighed and gesticulated uselessly above his head

as if casting a clerical spell. No miracle appeared. The vil-

lager had gasped his last before the other two could try to

help him. The three had shrugged in unison and then headed

into the nearest inn, unconcerned.

Flint could feel his face tighten with anger now as he con-

sidered the cluster around the doorway. Novices, he noted,

from their coarse white robes edged with embroidered hem-

lock vine and the all-too-familiar emblem of a lighted torch

on the left breast.

"Who are you staring at, little man?" one of them de-

manded, his arms crossed insolently.

Flint's eyes narrowed in irritation, but he let a shake of his

head and a snort of disgust suffice to answer the question.

Tipping his head slightly, he made to squeeze his way be-

tween them and into the greengrocer's.

A bony finger poked him in the shoulder, scarcely enough

pressure for the dwarf even to notice. "I asked you a ques-

tion, gully dwarf." The seeker's friends laughed at the insult.

Flint stopped but did not raise his eyes. "And I believe I

gave you as much answer as your kind deserves."

Egged on by his friends, the young seeker pressed his

point. "You've got an awfully smart mouth for an outnum-

bered old man," he growled, stepping fully in front of Flint.

He reached down to grab the dwarf's lapels.

"Teach him a lesson, Gar," a crony purred in anticipation.

Flint's irritation turned to fury. He looked into the face of his

antagonist. What he saw was the glee-and-fear mixed ex-

pression of an animal who was closing on an easy victim. Or

so the seeker thought.

Flint decided that the fellow needed a lesson in humility

and manners. Moving like lightning, he drove his fist into

the boy's belly. Stunned, the youth doubled over and

clutched at his stomach. The dwarf's stubby fingers flew up

to pull the seeker's droopy, coarse hood down over his red

face. Flint quickly drew the strings tight and knotted the

hood shut, until only the boy's pimply nose poked out.

Flailing his arms desperately, the seeker let out a screech and

tumbled to the planks of the bridgewalk.

Flint was dusting off his hands when his sharp dwarven

ears picked up the familiar "whoosh" of blades being un-

sheathed. Whirling around with stunning quickness, the

stocky dwarf knocked the small daggers from the other

seekers' hands. The metal weapons glinted in the sun as they

flew over opposite sides of the bridgewalk.

"Daggers! Look out below!" Flint called over the railing in

case anyone stood beneath. Looking down, he saw a few

villagers scatter without question, and the blades fall harm-

lessly, point down, into the earth.

When Flint looked up again, he saw the backs of the seek-

ers as they fled, the two toadies pulling their still-hooded,

stumbling leader after them.

"Run home to your mothers, you young whelps!" Flint

was unable to resist shouting. My, but it's a fine day, he

thought, looking up into the blue sky before stepping spirit-

edly into the greengrocer's.

Amos Cartney, a human of some fifty years, owned and

ran Jessab the Greengrocer's. Flint could not enter the shop

without remembering the time he, Tanis, and Tasslehoff had

stopped in for some snacks to bring to a night of fellowship

before Flint's hearth, shortly after Tasslehoff's arrival in Sol-

ace, some years ago.

"Hey, Amos, who is Jessab, anyway?" Tasslehoff had

blurted out of the blue, plucking at items of interest on the

candy counter. "Must be someone important, for you to

name your store after him. I mean, your name is Amos

Cartney, not Jessab."

Knowing the answer through local gossip, Flint had tried

desperately to clap a hand over the kender's big mouth. But

the quick-footed imp had danced away. "Watch out, Flint I

You nearly suffocated me," he had scolded the dwarf. "Your

father, maybe?" he pressed, turning back to the suddenly

pale shopkeeper. "Grandfather? Hmm?"

"The man who owned the store before me," had been

Amos's quiet reply.

"That's it?" Tas squealed.

"Mind your own business, kender!" Flint had growled

low in his throat.

But Amos waved away the dwarf's concern. "No, he stole

my wife and left behind this shop. I leave his name up to re-

mind me how fickle women can be, in case I'm ever tempted

to trust one of them again."

The tender-hearted kender's eyes had filled with tears,

and he came to Amos's side to pat the human's shoulder,

treasures newly "found" in the shop dropping from his

pockets in his haste. "I'm so sorry... I didn't know...."

A slight, stoic smile had creased Amos Cartney's face as

he gently slipped his hand from the anxious kender's. "And

you know what else? I haven't been tempted, all these ten

years."

Flint secretly agreed with Amos's evaluation of women -

he'd had some bad experiences of his own - and from that

time forward, the human and the dwarf were friends.

Seeing Flint in his doorway now, the greengrocer wiped

his hands on his apron and waved the dwarf inside, a hearty

grin on his face.

"Didn't bring that nosy kender with you, I see!" He snick-

ered, continuing to wave Flint forward. "Hurry on in. I've

been having some trouble with seekers hanging around the

doorway, pestering my good customers. Can't seem to get

rid of 'em." Amos shook his balding head wearily.

Flint patted his old friend on the back. "Tas has gone ex-

ploring for five years. And I don't think those seekers will be

bothering anyone for a while, either."

Catching the glint in the dwarf's eye, Amos's smile was

grateful, but it still held a hint of weariness. "My thanks, but

they always come back. Maybe not the same trouble-

makers, but every day there are more seekers to take their

places." Amos dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and

rubbed.

Flint's good mood ebbed as he was forced to agree with

the shopkeeper. Solace was not the same friendly village it

had been before the seekers had encroached on it in the last

few years.

"But what am I saying?" Amos forced his mood to

brighten. "You didn't come here to listen to my woes.

Where's your list? I'll rustle up your goods." Amos elbowed

the dwarf conspiratorially in the ribs. "Got that bottle of

malt rum you've been waiting for, too." Taking the scrap of

parchment Flint held up in his hand, Amos cackled as he

shuffled off to collect the dwarf's groceries.

"Thanks, Amos," Flint called softly, absently scanning the

shelves around him.

He saw huge clay jars of pickled cucumbers, onions, and

other vegetables. The smell of vinegar lingered thick around

here, and Flint moved away. The dwarf passed a row of bar-

rels, containing rye and wheat and oat flours, and then

smaller bins with sugar and salt. Opposite these was a wall

of spices, and he read their odd names with amused curios-

ity: absynt, bathis, cloyiv, tumeric. What made people add

such bizarre things to their food? the dwarf wondered. What

was wrong with a plain, sizzling haunch of meat?

Flint was looking at a tin of salted sea snails, a treat he

hadn't had in years, when he heard someone beside him say

in a gravelly voice, "So there is another hill dwarf in this

town! I was beginning to feel like the proverbial hobgoblin

at a kender Sunday picnic," boomed the stranger, clapping

Flint on the back merrily. "Hanak's the name."

Flint took a small step sideways and looked at the

speaker. He was nearly big nose to big nose with another

dwarf, all right. Wild, carrot-red hair sprang from the other

dwarf's head like tight metal coils, and between that and a

poker-straight beard and mustache were eyes as clear blue

as the sky. Flint tried to judge his age: the lines on his face

were not too deep, but he was missing his two front teeth,

though whether from aging or fighting Flint could not say.

The strange dwarf wore a tight chain mail shirt and a

well-worn cap of smooth leather. His high boots were light,

almost like moccasins, but showed the wear and stain of

much travel. Hanak smacked his lips and rubbed his hands

together as he looked at the shelves of food.

"You must be new to Solace," said Flint noncommitally.

Hanak shrugged. "Just passing through, actually; I'm

headed for Haven. I hail from the hills south of here a good

ways, almost down to the plains of Tarsis. Never been this

far north before," he admitted.

Flint turned back to his shopping but then felt the other

dwarf's eyes on him.

"You're from the south too, unless I miss my guess."

"You don't," Flint admitted, facing the stranger again.

Hanak's inquisitive words made Flint uncomfortable.

"Not so far south as me, though - east hillcountry'd be

my guess," the other hill dwarf said, tapping his chin in

thought, squinting at Flint. "Perhaps just north of Thor-

bardin?"

"How did you know?" Flint asked brusquely. "I've never

met anyone who could pinpoint someone's region so

closely!"

"Well, now, it wasn't too difficult," the dwarf said, his

tone implying anything but. "I travel for my living, selling

leather work. I detected a slight accent and noticed the black

in your hair - nearly every dwarf in my region has red or

brown; And that long, loose, blue-green tunic and those

baggy leather boots - you've been away from dwarves for

some time, haven't you? I haven't seen anyone wearing that

style in years, you know. Say, what village are you from,

exactly?"

Flint was a little put off by the clothing comments - he'd

gotten the boots as a gift from his mother a few decades

before - but he decided the dwarf meant no offense. "I was

raised in a little place called Hillhome, smack between Thor-

bardin and Skullcap."

"Hillhome! Why, I was there but twenty day ago. Was

trading my boots and aprons. Not so little anymore,

though. A shame what's happening there, isn't it?" he said

sympathetically. "Still, you can't stop progress, now can

you? Um, um, um," the dwarf muttered, shaking his head

sadly.

"Progress? In Hillhome?" Flint snorted. "What did they

do, raise the hems on the frawl's dresses by half an inch?"

"I'm talking about the mountain dwarves!" yelled Hanak.

"Marchin' through town, drivin' their big wagons over the

pass. They even stay at hill dwarf inns!"

"That pass was built by hill dwarf sweat, hill dwarf

blood!" cried Flint, appalled at the news. "They'd never let

the mountain dwarves use it!" No, never, Flint repeated ve-

hemently to himself.

The history of the hill and mountain dwarves was a bitter

one, at least during the centuries since the Cataclysm. At

that time, when the heavens rained destruction upon

Krynn, the mountain dwarves withdrew into their great un-

derground kingdom of Thorbardin and sealed the gates,

leaving their hill dwarf cousins to suffer the full force of the

gods' punishment.

The hill dwarves had named the act the Great Betrayal,

and Flint was only one of the multitudes who had inherited

this legacy of hatred from his forefathers. Indeed, his fa-

ther's father, Reghar Fireforge, had been a leader of the hill

dwarf armies during the tragic, divisive Dwarfgate Wars.

Flint could not believe that the dwarves of Hillhome would

avert their eyes to the undying blood feud.

"I'm afraid they are," replied Hanak, his tone gentler.

"Theiwar dwarves at that, the derro dwarves of Thor-

bardin."

"Derro? It can't be!" growled Flint. That was even worse.

Indeed, the derro - the race of dwarves that comprised the

bulk of the Theiwar clan - were known to be the most mali-

cious of mountain dwarves. Their magic-using shamans had

been the prime instigators of the Great Betrayal.

The other dwarf backed a step away this time and held up

his hands defensively. "I only know what I saw, friend, and I

saw derro strolling merrily among the dwarves of

Hillhome - and not a one of the hill dwarves was spitting on

'em, either."

"I can't believe that," Flint muttered, shaking his head. "I

can't believe my brothers would allow it. Our family used to

carry some weight in the village. Maybe you heard our

name - Fireforge? My brother's name is Aylmar Fireforge."

A shadow crossed the other dwarf's face fleetingly, and he

seemed almost to nod, then think better of it. "No, it doesn't

ring a bell," he said, then quickly added, "but I didn't stay

long enough to get to know anyone so very well."

Flint ran a weary hand through his salt-and-pepper mop.

Could Hanak be right about mountain dwarves infesting

Hillhome?

Flint felt a strong hand squeeze his shoulder. "If my kin-

folk were dealing with devils, I'd go have me a look," Hanak

said kindly. "May Reorx guide you." With that, he strolled

out the door of the grocery, leaving Flint to his troubled

thoughts.

Amos slammed a brown, wrapped bundle onto the

counter before him. "Salt, a bag of apples, four eggs, a slab

of bacon, one jar of pickles, two loaves of day-old bread,

four pounds of the richest Nordmaarian chicory root

known to man - and dwarves -" He snickered "- a vial of

tar to fix those creaky shutters before winter sets, and the

long-awaited malt rum," he finished with satisfaction.

Flint reached into the pocket of the vest over his shoulder

and said distractedly, "You can leave the tar. I won't be here

to see winter reach Solace."

Noting the dark tone in the dwarf's voice, Amos looked at

his friend with concern, but he knew better than to ask ques-

tions. The shopkeeper had never seen Flint so preoccupied,

even when those young, troublemaking friends of his were

in town. He took the money for Flint's purchases and word-

lessly nodded good-bye.

Chapter 2

The Trail Home

Darken Wood. The place certainly earns its name,

thought Flint. Tall pines, their needles a green that was al-

most black, towered over the forest floor-. Huge, musty

oaks, draped with thick vines and feathery moss, and even

an occasional looming vallenwood trunk that rose to disap-

pear among the foliage, prevented a single sunbeam from

reaching the ground.

The forest was not huge, but Flint knew that it sheltered a

number of dangerous denizens. Some years earlier, a small

party of mercenaries had entered Solace bearing an unusual

trophy - the head of a troll slain in these woods. Bands of

hobgoblins and worse reputedly still dwelled among the an-

cient trunks of Darken Wood.

The feeling of potential danger brought Flint a keen sense

of awareness even as his mind wandered. The narrow trail

twisted among the tree trunks, enveloped by ferns and

great, moist growths of mushrooms and other fungus. The

scent of warm earth, heavy with decay, overwhelmed the

dwarf with a thick, cloying presence.

Flint did not find the odor unpleasant. Indeed, after his

long residence among humans, not to mention the constant

presence of kender, elves, and other races, this dominance

of nature refreshed his spirit and lightened his step. There

was something joyful in this solitude, in this pastoral adven-

ture, that brought a forgotten delight to Flint's soul.

For many hours he made slow progress, not from any

sense of exhaustion, but instead because of the great ease

within him. His hand stroked the smooth, worn haft of his

axe. Absently, his ears and eyes probed the woods, alert, al-

most hoping for a sign of trouble.

The trail forked and he paused, stark still for a moment,

listening, thinking. He sensed the earth, the twists and turns

in the surrounding land - as only dwarves could - through

his thick-soled boots. Soon he learned what he needed to

know, and he chose a direction.

Toward the south for a while. Flint followed no map and

needed no compass to maintain the route he had selected. It

would lead him the length of the woods, and avoid both the

lands of the Qualinesti elves to the south, and the seeker-

ruled city of Haven to the northwest.

The seekers, he thought with a mental grimace, I would

walk to the ends of the earth to avoid. Those pesky

"prophets" had made life in Solace unpleasant enough. But

in Haven - the city that was their capitol and the center of

their arrogant worship - their presence was sure to be un-

bearable.

The region of Qualinesti was different, though. Flint had

actually entertained thoughts of going there, into that nest

of elves, to see his old - and unlikely - friend, the Speaker

of the Suns. Flint remembered fondly the time he had spent

in Qualinost some years back. He was still one of the few

dwarves who had ever been invited into that elven

kingdom - and by the speaker himself! A visiting dignitary

had acquired a silver and agate bracelet at a territory fair,

which he then gave to the elven leader. The Speaker of the

Suns had been so impressed by the metalsmith's craftsman-

ship that he had tracked down the smith, who was none

other than Flint Fireforge of Solace, and extended an invita-

tion for the dwarf to demonstrate his craft in the marble

elven city.

It was during that first trip to Qualinost that Flint had met

Tanis Half-Elven, the Speaker of the Sun's ward. Young

Tanis had stood for hours watching the dwarf's demonstra-

tions in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint under-

stood the boy, who seemed unhappy because of his mixed

heritage, and the two spent many pleasant hours together

whenever the business of selling his crafts brought Flint near

Qualinesti.

The dwarf was tempted now to find the half-elf. On their

last night together at the Inn of the Last Home, Tanis had

said he was going to go on a quest that would bring him to

terms with his heritage at last. Flint presumed Tanis meant

he was going back to face the full-blooded elven relatives of

his in the city of Qualinost who had never really accepted

the half-elf. The dwarf was somewhat concerned about his

friend, but he had shrugged off any misgivings. After all,

the companions had agreed to separate for five years, and

Flint would be damned if he'd be the one to break that agree-

ment.

So he would give Qualinost a wide berth and follow the

forest paths instead. He knew that if he kept a steady pace

he would pass from the wood around nightfall.

Flint began to wonder now, in the quiet of Darken Wood,

if he hadn't been fanciful, believing even half of what the

dwarf back at Jessab's had said. Mountain dwarves - much

less the replusive derro - in Hillhome! Yet why would

Hanak have invented such a tale? Flint pushed the question

away for the time being. The answer would be made clear

soon enough.

He had been getting lazy in Solace - and bored, if the

truth be known - without his young friends around. He had

been at rest too long. Unconsciously he hefted his axe.

Flint found himself thinking about Aylmar and wonder-

Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Preludes II - Vol 2 - Flint, the King

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