Basalt's ample cheeks burned scarlet, and suddenly his right fist flew out toward Flint's jaw. His uncle quickly blocked the punch, landing a right jab of his own squarely on Basalt's chin. The younger Fireforge's head jerked back, his eyes bulged, and he slithered to the floor.
Basalt wiped his lip and discovered blood on the back of his hand; he looked up at his uncle at the bar in astonish ment and shame. Flint turned back sourly to his mug, and in a moment Basalt got to his feet and left the inn.
Flint dropped his care-worn face into his hands. He had fought wolves and zombies, and they'd taken less of a toll on him than the confrontations he'd endured in the last day.
The clamor of noise surrounded him; the smell of greasy, unwashed bodies began to fill the tavern. These familiar things seemed less comforting and enveloping than before.
Nothing about Hillhome seemed the same. He resolved at that moment to make his hasty good-byes in the morning and get back to the life he understood in Solace.
At that moment a party of pale blue-skinned derro dwarves noisily entered Moldoon's. Turning his back to them in disgust, Flint tried to ignore the bustle around him.
He knew no one in the tavern except Moldoon. And though the barkeep had been joined around dusk by two matronly barmaids, he was too busy with the throng of customers to talk.
It might have been the ale, his fight with Basalt, or the whole unsettling day combined, but Flint grew suddenly annoyed with the presence of the derro in Moldoon's. Now that it was dusk, a pair of the fair, big-eyed dwarves, al ready drunk, sat down beside the agitated dwarf and rudely bellowed at Moldoon for more ale.
"Don't they teach you manners in that cave of a city you come from?" demanded Flint, all of a sudden swinging around on his stool to face the two mountain dwarves.
"It's a grander town than you can claim," sneered one, lurching unsteadily to his feet.
Flint rose from his stool too, his fists clenching. The sec ond derro stepped up to his companion, and the hill dwarf saw him reach for the haft of a thin dagger. Flint's own knife was in his belt, but he let it be for now. Despite his anger, he sought no fight to the death with two drunks.
At that moment, luckily, Garth clumped in, carrying a sack of potatoes, and headed for the door to the kitchen be hind the bar. He took one look at Flint's angry face nose-to nose with the derro and he let out a loud, plaintive wail that caused everything else to fall silent. Moldoon looked up from where he was serving patrons across the inn. Garth was alternately pointing at Flint and the derro, babbling, and holding his head and sobbing. The gray-haired inn keeper covered the distance in four strides. Instructing a barmaid to lead Garth into the kitchen to calm down, he planted himself between Flint and the derro.
'What's the problem here, boys? You're not thinking of rearranging my inn, are you?" Moldoon was looking only at the derro.
"He insulted us!" one of them claimed, shaking his fist at Flint.
Flint pushed the pale fingers away. 'Your presence insults everyone in this bar," he muttered.
"You see!" the derro exclaimed self-righteously.
Moldoon took the two derro by their elbows and pro pelled the startled dwarves toward the door. "I see that you two need to leave my establishment immediately."
At the door the derro wrenched away from his grip and turned as if to attack Moldoon, hands on the weapons at their waists. Moldoon stared them down, until at last they dropped their hands and left. Shaking his head, the inn keeper slammed the door behind them and then strolled to ward Flint at the bar.
Flint sank his face into his ale and gulped half the mug down. "I don't need anyone to fight my battles for me," he grumbled angrily into the foam.
"And I don't need anyone breaking up my inn!" coun tered Moldoon. He laughed unexpectedly, the lines in his face drawing up. "Gods, you're just like Aylmar was! No wonder Garth went crazy when he saw you about to take a swing at those derro. Probably thought it was Aylmar back from the dead for one more fight."
Flint looked up intently from his ale. "What are you talk ing about? Aylmar had a set-to with some derro?"
Moldoon nodded. "At least one that I know of." Moldoon looked puzzled. "Why are you surprised? You, of all people, must have guessed that he detested their presence in Hillhome."
"Do you remember when the fight was? And what it was about?"
"Oh I remember all right! It was the day he died, sadly enough. Aylmar didn't frequent here much himself, but he came looking for Basalt. They got into their usual fight about Basalt's drinking and 'working for derro scum,' as Aylmar put it, and then the pup stormed out."
Flint leaned across the bar on his elbows. "But what about the fight with the derro?"
"I'm getting to that," Moldoon said, refilling Flint's mug.
"After Basalt left, Aylmar stewed for a bit here, watching the derro get louder and louder. And he just cracked — launched himself right at three of them, unarmed. They swatted him away like a fly, laughing at 'the old dwarf.' "
Flint hung his head, and his heart lurched as he imagined his brother's humiliation.
"Indeed, this conversation makes me remember some thing," Moldoon added suddenly. Flint looked up half heartedly. The bartender's face looked uncharacteristically clouded.
"Aylmar told me after the fight that he had taken a small smithing job with the derro. Naturally I was surprised.
Aylmar had leaned forward and whispered — " Moldoon's voice dropped "- that he was suspicious of the derro and had taken the job so that he could get into their walled yard to look into a wagon. He asked what I knew of their security measures, and I told him that I'd overheard that each crew of three slept during the day in shifts, one of them guarding their wagon at all times."
Flint's interest was piqued. "Why do they need to guard farm implements so closely?"
"That's just what Aylmar asked," Moldoon said softly, then sighed. "I guess he never found the answer, or if he did, it died with him, since his heart gave out at the forge that same night." He clapped Flint on the shoulder and shook his head sadly, then turned to wait on another customer.
Flint sat thinking for several minutes before he worked his way through the crowd and left the smoky tavern. The sun was low in the sky. He stood on the stoop outside Mol doon's, but instead of crossing the street and walking back up the south side of the valley to the Fireforge home, the hill dwarf set his sights down Main Street to the east, just sixty yards or so, toward the walled wagon yard.
Chapter 5
In Flint's youth, the wagon yard had been the black smithing shop of a crusty old dwarf named Delwar. While most dwarves, racially inclined toward smithing, made their own weapons, nails, hinges, and other simple objects,
Delwar had provided the villagers with wagon wheels, large tools and weapons, and other more complicated metal de signs.
Flint had learned a lot of what he knew about blacksmith ing from the old craftsman, whose burn-scarred arms and chest had both frightened and fascinated the young hill dwarf. Flint and other harrns would sit in the grassy yard outside Delwar's shop and barn to watch the smith through the open end of his three-sided stone shed; Flint enjoyed the smell of smoke and sweat as Delwar hammered hot metal al most as much as he liked the taffy treats and cool apple drinks the smith's robust wife would bring out to them.
But Delwar and his wife had long since passed away, and a menacing, seven-foot high stone wall had been built around that once-friendly spot. Someone had told him -
Tybalt perhaps — that a "modern" forge had been built on the western edge of town, and Delmar's had been long aban doned until the mountain dwarves had bought the rights to its yard and forge as part of their agreement with Hillhome.