The humped one sent the blue smoke…
What had Garth said in the wagon yard?
… the blue smoke from the stone around his neck.
The realization struck Flint. It burned in his gut and raced along his limbs like fire. Here was the dwarf who killed
Aylmar, the mysterious "humped one" mentioned by Garth!
Deliberately, Flint tensed his muscles. He noted the posi tions of the guards to either side, knowing this might be the only chance he would ever get for vengeance, and that he would have only an instant to make his charge.
That he would have only moments to kill.
Uneasily, Pitrick scuttled to the side and two brawny der ro stepped between Flint and his enemy. Did he suspect?
He's obviously magical, but can he read my mind? won dered Flint. But Flint saw no fear in his face, only pride and hate. The hill dwarf held his anger in check and resolved to wait for another chance, though every instinct urged him to propel himself forward in a berserk attack.
The derro stared at Flint for some moments before finally speaking. "I am about to ask you several questions. You must answer them. I have arranged a demonstration, a pre view of the future's potential, shall we say, to ensure that I have your attention." Pitrick looked to the derro nearest the Aghar and nodded slightly. Sickened, Flint guessed what was coming.
The guard pitched the little dwarf off the lip of the chasm.
Flint heard the Aghar scream and cry, saw him desperately scraping at the steep sides of the pit as he slid downward.
Rocks and rubble slipped down with him, bouncing and tumbling along the steep, mud-streaked wall into the dark ness below.
Suddenly, against all odds, the Aghar managed to halt his fall, barely within Flint's view. The hill dwarf saw the fel low's stubby fingers grasp a knob of rock. Slowly, the terri fied Aghar pulled himself upward. Adjusting his grip, he braced a foot against the cliff and tried lifting himself ever higher.
The doomed figure's brave struggles only seemed to amuse Pitrick, who chortled over each frantic scramble as he toyed with the medallion around his neck. Taking a cue from their leader, the guards, too, seemed greatly amused by the Aghar's plight. Flint glanced toward Perian and no ticed that she alone was not even watching. Her back was toward the pit, her eyes fastened on the floor.
Something moving in the darkness below wrenched
Flint's attention back to the grisly drama in the pit. A huge, black, undefinable shape moved beneath the gully dwarf.
Up from that shape lashed what looked like a living, thrash ing rope. It groped upward, striking the Aghar's back, then quickly encircled his waist.
The gully dwarf shrieked as the thing yanked him back ward down the chute. "Nooooooooo!" he bawled, scratch ing and grasping desperately at the loose rocks. His frantic eyes met Flint's for one long, painful moment, then he disap peared into the darkness.
The scream that rose from the depths was the sound of pure, primeval terror. It reverberated along the chasm, echoing and amplifying in the stone chamber. Flint closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the horrid cry.
Abruptly it ceased. To Flint's horror, what followed was even worse. A snapping, crunching sound rose from the pit.
Then, as quickly as they had come, the sounds died away.
When Flint opened his eyes, Pitrick was standing scant feet in front of him. "You have one chance to answer each of my questions," he hissed. "Fail to satisfy my curiosity and
… I'm sure you can imagine."
Flint saw his chance. Bursting between two of the derro guards, he clamped his powerful hands around the hunch back's throat and both of them tumbled to the ground, roll ing to the brink of the pit.
Flint was startled by the strength in Pitrick's shriveled arms. Madly they wrestled from side to side, Flint's grip tightening as Pitrick fought to pry his knotted arms loose.
The derro's jagged nails bit into the flesh of Flint's arms until blood flowed down his wrists and spread across the advis er's throat. Flint twisted and rolled across the rock-strewn floor, inches from the precipice, trying to avoid the guards who scrambled back and forth in their attempts to separate the two combatants. Yet every time he tried to roll the squirming derro over the edge, the creature managed to twist away.
Many hands pulled at Flint's arms and legs. Something cracked against the back of his head, and Flint nearly blacked out. In that moment he was dragged from Pitrick's body and flung against the cavern wall, where two derro stood over him with axes, ready to dismember him if he so much as moved.
Pitrick flopped and writhed on the ground, gagging, his jaw opening and closing wordlessly. At last he rolled over onto his elbows and knees, massaging his throat. Two of the guards bent to help him up, but the savant drove them away with a livid snarl. He stayed like that for several minutes, panting, reveling in the simple sensation of breathing, of blood circulating.
Eventually Pitrick climbed unsteadily back to his feet, bracing himself on the cavern wall. He wiped Flint's blood from his neck with the sleeve of his battered bronze-colored robe and nonchalantly examined the medallion hanging there. At last Pitrick hobbled toward Flint, who was still propped up against the cavern wall.
Pitrick motioned to one of the guards, who slipped off an iron gauntlet and then helped the adviser fasten it on. The last strap was only partially buckled when the derro spun and savagely struck Hint across the face. He struck again and again. Flint could no longer see anything very clearly.
Pitrick's arm was drawn back for another blow when Flint was surprised to hear Perian's voice.
She had stepped between them. It was evident in her tone that she knew the danger she was risking. "Adviser, this is my prisoner," she said stiffly. "He was brought here for ques tioning, not to be murdered!"
Pitrick's face distorted monstrously with the fury that consumed him. His pale eyes nearly popped from his skull as he shifted his attention from one to the other. He didn't strike Perian, however. The insane rage melted slowly from the adviser's face, to be replaced by a cruel, cunning smile.
"Yes, the questions." He turned back to the prisoner, who was sprawled half against the wall, half on the floor at the derro's feet. Flint's eyelids were puffed up, and blood ran from a dozen cuts on his forehead, cheeks, and lips.
"You are an interesting case, and vaguely familiar," mused
Pitrick. "Such a ferocious assault had to be triggered by something more than the death of one gully dwarf. Who are you? Have we met before?"
Flint spat through his swollen lips, then croaked, "You killed my brother, you maggot meat."
"Your brother…" mused Pitrick. "But I'm sure I've killed so many brothers — and sisters, too. Can't you be more spe cific?" Pitrick asked.
"Given your busy schedule, how many hill dwarf smiths have you struck down with magic lately?" Flint growled bit terly.
"The smith!" Pitrick's face spread in an evil grin of recog nition. "How delightful! Yes, I can see your resemblance to that smith now. But you must understand, the hill dwarf was a spy. He poked into places where he didn't belong. I did the only thing I could. And I was quite pleased with the effect — you should be happy to hear that he became very colorful toward the end, though the smell was unpleasant."
"Murdering animal!" choked Flint, twisting helplessly be tween two guards. Gradually his wits were returning, though he still had trouble seeing. He found he could force his eyelids up with a manageable amount of pain.
"So are you here purely on a mission of vengeance, or are you a spy, too?" Pitrick allowed that question to linger for a moment, then cut it off. "That needs no answer — of course you are. No one but a spy could have penetrated our de fenses. Are you a murderer as well?"