Basalt of two pieces of cold black onyx. But the mountain dwarf's skin was what was most disconcerting; its blue pale ness looked translucent in moonlight.
"Well?" The derro poked Basalt in the chest with the point of a spear. "You're obviously a hill dwarf," he said, taking in
Basalt's freckle-tanned face, thin leather vest, and muddy old boots. "We don't like finding hill dwarves near Thor bardin. What are you doing way out here?"
Basalt willed his knees to stop shaking as he ransacked his mind for a response. "I, uh, I was hunting!" he finished quickly, latching onto the idea. "I'm near Thorbardin?" He let his eyes go wide with innocence. "I guess I got so carried away that I didn't notice where I'd wandered off to."
"What are you hunting at night? You hill dwarves don't see that well in darkness," the derro said, eyeing Basalt skep tically. "And no weapons?"
"Raccoon," the young hill dwarf supplied hastily. "You have to trap 'coon at night, because that's when they come out of their nests."
The derro appeared to be considering Basalt's answer, rocking back on his heels, searching the hill dwarf's face for deception. All he detected was fear.
The soldier's eyes narrowed. "I saw your expression when you came through those trees; something was after you."
Basalt nodded. "I was tracking a raccoon when I saw — "
He thought about making up another lie about a bear, but decided to stay close to the truth so he didn't slip up. "I saw another, bigger patrol of dwarves coming my way, and I panicked and ran."
"He's lying, Sergeant Dolbin!" said a voice from behind Basalt.
"Who cares? Let's just kill the hill scum and move on!" said another.
"Yeah, we've got a lot of ground to cover tonight!"
Basalt could sense the circle drawing tighter around him.
Suddenly, someone pushed him from behind. The startled hill dwarf stumbled forward only to have the butt of some one's spear jammed into the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, unable to breathe, and another spear shaft thudded across the back of his neck. Gasping, he fell to the ground.
The ring of mountain dwarves erupted in laughter and taunts. "Look out, farm boy, the raccoons are after youl"
"Oooh, here comes one now!" Basalt saw a shape step for ward and then felt his rib cage crack as the mountain dwarf's heavy boot crashed into him. The force of the blow rolled him over in the damp grass.
"Get him up," growled another. "I want to knock him down again." Basalt's head cleared for a moment as two pairs of hands lifted him to his feet. Someone slapped his face. He looked up just in time to see a hairy fist smash into his nose. Excruciating pain exploded in his skull as he tum bled over backward, landing in a heap on his left shoulder.
The grass was cool and moist, but he also felt something warm and thick running across his ravaged face.
Basalt drew up his knees in an effort to stand, when some thing forced him back to the ground. A muddy, hobnailed boot pressed down on the back of his neck, grinding the side of his face into the earth. The night sky swam with colors before Basalt's eyes as the dwarves pelted him with kicks and hammered his back and legs with the shafts of their spears. He bit his lip to still his screams, but he could not keep from squirming as the blows only increased. And then, suddenly, they halted.
Basalt felt someone grab him by the armpit and jerk him to his feet. He looked up through the blood streaming down his throbbing face and saw that it was the first derro who had questioned him, Dolbin.
"Now that my men have taught you what happens when you wander where you're not wanted," the sergeant said, holding fast to Basalt's arm, "we're going to have some real fun."
Basalt slumped against Dolbin in defeat; he hoped they would kill him quickly, for he had no strength or will to fight left.
Dolbin forced him to stand, then smiled condescendingly.
"You'll like my game — I'm going to give you a chance to get away!" Basalt perked up slightly, which was the response the derro sought. "Good, now you're ready to listen.
"The rules are very simple," he began. "We let you go, and then we try to catch you again. We'll give you a one minute lead, of course, to make it sporting."
Basalt's right eye was swollen shut, but he looked up through his good one. "And if you catch me?" he wheezed, agonizing stabs of pain shooting through him from his bruised ribs.
The sergeant shook his head sadly and clucked his tongue. "You really shouldn't dwell on ugly thoughts. But I will tell you what happened to a hill dwarf spy who got caught in Thorbardin just two days ago."
Basalt's heart lurched, and he felt near to fainting from his wounds. But he forced himself to listen to Dolbin's next words.
"How shall I say it?" Dolbin tapped his chin in a mock sympathetic way. "I've got it! He's been relieved of the bur den of being a hill dwarf!" His men hooted with laughter.
Flint's dead. Dolbin could only be speaking of Flint. The news dashed Basalt's last flickering hope and left him more numb than the pounding he'd just taken. He was distantly aware that Dolbin was addressing him.
"— won't ruin the game by giving up already, will you?
We'd make death doubly painful for a poor sport," he warned. The derro roughly shoved Basalt through the circle of dwarven soldiers. The hill dwarf fell, struggling again to his feet while the soldiers kicked and jeered at him. Dolbin squeezed Basalt's right shoulder hard and pointed him to the edge of the clearing opposite where he'd burst in.
Go! Basalt felt his legs moving with a will of their own, and he found himself half-staggering, half-running toward the trees.
"Remember, we'll be right behind youl" Dolbin yelled, and his men broke into laughter again.
Basalt stumbled past the edge of the clearing and barely avoided tripping on an overgrown log. He rushed forward, heedless of his path, and more than once crashed into a shadowy tree or lost his feet in a tangle of creepers. Desper ately he wanted to stop and rest, or stop and listen for sounds of his pursuers, but he knew he could not — if he stopped, he might never move again. He also knew that he would never hear anything over the sound of his own lungs heaving against his bruised ribs or the blood pounding in his ears.
He ran blindly and nearly senseless, until suddenly the ground gave way beneath him. He stepped out into nothing, and silvery blackness rushed past him. Less than a heartbeat later, Basalt splashed into an ice-cold stream. His throat wanted to scream even while his mind fought to keep con trol. His chest felt as if it were wrapped in iron bands.
In panic Basalt clawed his way up the muddy bank and lay there shivering, his courage spent. The tiny bit of strength that remained was completely occupied in keeping
Basalt from weeping openly. But he swore he would not cry, not even if the derro found him there and chopped him to bits on the spot.
"I know Flint wouldn't cry," he sputtered through clenched teeth. But he could not stop the tears from flowing, for his agony, for his fear and desperation. For his Uncle Flint.
After a few minutes, Basalt hiccupped to a stop. He could hear the sounds of the forest again. His teeth stopped chat tering, and the ringing subsided in his ears. He crawled a few yards away from the stream and toward a thicket. There he lay, waiting for the pursuing derro.
Basalt listened for several minutes, but heard nothing.
Could they have lost my trail? he wondered. But he knew that made no sense. Used to life underground, the derro could see even better than him in the dark, and they weren't frightened out of their wits either. He had certainly left a trail that even a child could follow. So where were they?
Either they are toying with me, or… or they didn't fol low me at all, Basalt thought. Strangely, the first possibility did not frighten him, but the second made him angry. Basalt reflected on the humiliating beating, remembered his bruises and shattered bones, and felt the cuts and scrapes suffered during his wild flight through the forest. He was nothing but a joke to these derro, first a punching bag and then a frightened rabbit to be chased off.