An odor, the troll knew, that could only emanate from one of its favorite foods: dwarf.
Flint's destination, the mountain dwarves' kingdom, was twenty or so miles southwest of Hillhome. The wagons' shipments must have come from there, and Garth had also said the derro he saw was a magic-user; it was common knowledge that only one type of dwarf could muster more than simple spells. That was the Theiwar clan of Thor bardin.
Flint suspected his older brother had discovered the secret of the derro, and he was determined to make whoever was responsible for his death pay with his life.
His burning vengeance, he had to admit, was colored by the legacy of bitterness and hatred left by the Dwarfgate Wars, when another Fireforge, the respected dwarven leader Reghar Fireforge, had died at the hands of the moun tain dwarves. Those epic conflicts had opened schisms in the dwarven races that seemed likely never to heal.
Flint had no clear explanation for these arms shipments of the derro, but he knew the reasons must be sinister indeed.
Why else would a race that was known for its pride of craftsmanship not sign its work?
Flint was following the Passroad west. Traveling in day light, he felt fairly secure that he would not encounter any derro. The road hugged the northern shore of Stonehammer
Lake, whose cold water looked dull gray-green on this over cast late-autumn day. Most of the leaves in this distant arm of the Kharolis Mountains, in the corridor between Thor bardin and the Plains of Dergoth, had already turned brown and scattered across the flat lands, leaving only the olive colored firs to cover the spiny mountain ridges.
The terrain grew considerably rougher as the slopes and crests of the southern hillcountry tumbled around Flint. The elevations soared steeply from the valley bottoms, climbing to narrow ridges and fringed with levels of sheer cliffs, bare rock faces, and dark forests of pine. In places, looming knobs of granite overlooked grass-filled valleys, often giv ing Flint the impression of huge, serene faces looking across the hillcountry. The Passroad twisted around like a snake, never running straight for more than a mile or two.
Flint had never been to Thorbardin — they didn't exactly embrace hill dwarves there — but his father had once told him something that was tugging at his mind now. The dwar ven capitol city had two entrances: Northgate and
Southgate. Originally, a wide, walled ledge edged the mountainside at the entrances, but the Cataclysm had de stroyed most of the northern ledge, leaving only a five-foot remnant towering one thousand feet above the valley.
The Passroad seemed to be leading him toward the north ern entrance, and unless his father had been mistaken, that gate into the great city would soar one thousand feet above him. But how could that be? How could the huge, lumber ing freight wagons enter Thorbardin from the north?
Unless the Passroad continued past Northgate and circled the expansive realm to enter at Southgate… If that were the case, Flint had-a long walk ahead of him, since the city stretched more than twenty miles in circumference.
But that didn't make sense either. The heart of the Kharo lis Mountains stood between here and there, and no wagon could cross that tumultuous landscape. It was a puzzle to him.
Flint had walked nearly a full day before his keen dwar ven senses raised the hair on the back of his neck; someone or something was following him. He wasn't terribly sur prised, since he had expected to be pursued. Still whomever it was seemed in no hurry to catch him, nor even to be con cerned about being detected. Once he even caught sight of a distant figure trudging through the grassy vale which Flint had passed through a short time earlier.
Flint continued to look behind him at regular intervals, but never again spotted the figure. Could it have been some hill farmer, going about his business? Flint had been too far away to distinguish if the figure was a human or a dwarf.
Still, his trail sense nagged him, warning him to stay on guard.
His second afternoon out of Hillhome was damp and cold. Flint stopped to rest at the crest of a rocky ridge, and to eat the last of the cold meat sandwiches, rock cheese, and dried apples Bertina had slipped into his hands as he'd left the family house. Shoulders of bare granite loomed around him, and several caves dotted the side of this steep slope. He had discovered a makeshift trail in the base of a narrow ra vine and veered off the Passroad to lose his pursuer. Now, at the crest, he looked behind and saw for the second time the stalwart figure on his trail.
There was just a flash of movement before his pursuer dis appeared into a wide belt of pines fringing the base of the ridge. But the glimpse had been enough to convince the crusty dwarf that his suspicions had been well-founded.
Flint resolved to wait for whomever followed him, forcing a confrontation on his own terms.
Flint crept back into the narrow ravine, retracing his steps for a dozen yards down the side of the ridge. He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty brow as he found a sheltered ledge with a fine view of the ravine below. There he sprawled.
Withdrawing his axe from his belt, he laid the weapon be side him on the rock.
His elevation, coupled with the steepness of the ridge, gave him a significant vantage. He gathered an assortment of rocks, some as big as his head, so that he could lob them using both hands, and some fist-sized stones that he could easily pitch with one hand. Finally, he settled down to wait.
Long minutes passed with no sign of movement from be low, but this did not surprise the dwarf. The belt of forest below the ridge was wide and tangled, and it would take even the fastest of pursuers the better part of an hour to climb the slope.
Suddenly he tensed, seeing movement below, and very close to him. He grasped his axe, then swallowed a gasp.
There was neither human nor dwarf below him, but some thing ten times worse, for, creeping into the ravine was a mottled-green, wart-covered, large-as-an-ogre troll. He had never fought one before, never even seen one, but he recog nized it nonetheless. And he knew their malevolent, raven ous reputation.
He was momentarily relieved but surprised to see that the troll's attention was not directed up at him. Indeed, the monster as well, seemed to be staring down the ravine, from a position one hundred feet below Flint. The creature moved its long limbs in a deliberately rigid gait that re minded Flint of a crab — a giant, vicious crab, to be sure.
The wind, soaring up the ravine, brought the pungent, vaguely fishlike odor of the beast clearly to Flint's nose. The troll's wicked claws, on hands and feet alike, grasped out crops of rock as it held itself against an expanse of cliff, leer ing outward with those black, emotionless eyes.
Then Flint almost laughed out loud as he realized the crea ture's intent. It was laying an ambush for something that crept up the ravine below them — perhaps the same pursuer that Flint had intended to confront!
Now that's what I call fair, he thought to himself. Some one follows me through the hills for a few days, and then gets eaten by a troll. -
Still, the nearness of the monster gave Flint some cause for alarm. He resolved to wait, quietly and patiently, for the little drama below to run its course. Then, when the troll was absorbed with its victim, Flint would make a fast and easy escape.
A clatter of rocks abruptly drew the dwarf's attention far ther down the steep ravine. He could see no movement, but something was obviously charging upward. Whoever's fol lowing me moves with no mind for caution, Flint mused as his pursuer scrambled and scratched up the ridge.
Another clatter told the dwarf — and the troll, too, no doubt — that the chaser had climbed higher still. Perhaps whomever it was had already come into sight of the troll, for Flint watched the beast grow taut in its rocky niche, pre paring to spring. Indeed, he saw movement in the ravine fi nally and determined that it was a short human or dwarf who was climbing so steadily.