He came upon Garf, one of the Agharpult missiles, sitting on top of an unconscious mountain dwarf and rubbing his head.
"Hard shirt!" complained the Aghar. He thumped the metal breastplate of the warrior to show where he had landed after being fired from his weapon.
"Hard head!" Flint pointed out, patting the courageous gully dwarf on the back and indicating the fallen Theiwar.
Suddenly Garf's eyes widened in surprise. "No!" Flint cried, seeing the bloody tip of a sword emerge from the
Aghar's chest. Stabbed from behind, Garf fell and Flint stared into the wide, maddened eyes of the sneering derro who had slain him.
Those eyes widened farther as Flint leaped forward, driv ing the still-glowing axe through the mountain dwarf's fore head. The enemy fell across the body of his small victim, and Flint blinked back tears of anguish and anger.
Then a mountain dwarf surged at him, and Flint barely had time to parry the blow. He left Garf's body as he slashed and then backed away, thrown off-balance by the savagery of the axe-wielding Theiwar's assault.
He heard Hildy cry out beside him, but he couldn't break away from the aggressive derro. A small handaxe flew past
Flint's head, embedding itself into the derro's skull. A hill dwarf suddenly stood beside Flint, and he turned to nod his thanks at his brother Bernhard. He turned to help Hildy, only to see that she had dropped her opponent with a sharp stab of her sword.
But the derro pressed all around, and he felt himself back ing up to keep from being surrounded. Bernhard and Hildy fought beside him, desperately holding the renewed derro attack at bay. From somewhere, a swordblade bit into Flint's forearm, and he shouted in pain. Two more derro lunged, their faces twisted by cruel grins.
Before Flint could raise his axe, another form stepped be tween them. He saw Bernhard drop one mountain dwarf with a sharp blow to the neck, but then his brother's weapon stuck in the armor plate of his victim. Desperately Bernhard struggled to pull the axeblade free, but the other derro was too quick.
Flint stared in horror as Theiwar steel sliced into his brother's throat. Blood — more blood than Flint could have imagined — spilled down Bernhard's chest. The hill dwarf spun, giving Flint a look of uncomprehending surprise, and then he slumped to the ground.
"Bastard!" growled Hildy, lunging at the still-grinning derro. The mountain dwarf raised his blade, deflecting her attack, but he could not guard against two at once. Flint, his whole body trembling with rage, attacked. The Tharkan
Axe flashed, and the Theiwar's head flew from his shoulders.
Through his shock, Flint sensed a change in the tangled melee; the elite mountain dwarf fighters were recovering their equilibrium.
"Back!" ordered Flint. "Back to the wall!"
The order was unnecessary because the defenders of Hillhome were being forced back to the breastwork through no choice of their own. Soon, as the mountain dwarves pushed their renewed attack, it was all Flint could do to pre vent their fallback from becoming a rout.
The hill dwarves desperately scrambled back up the wall and into their redoubt, but the mountain dwarves followed their advantage aggressively.
"Hold at the top!" shouted Flint, turning and bashing one more of the mountain dwarves. Once again his axe crushed metal armor, killing the foe without penetrating the rigid barrier of his steel plate. His victim tumbled back down the breastwork, knocking two of his fellows over as he fell. Flint noticed that the still-glowing Tharkan Axe was growing un comfortably warm to the touch, and the blood of his ene mies now sizzled on its blade.
Along the crest of the wall, Tybalt and other hill dwarves stopped their retreat. Gasping and panting from the exer tion of the combat, the defenders nevertheless stood firm.
The Theiwar, exhausted from their long charge, still dis organized by the disruptive attack, suddenly fell back from the wall to catch their breath and regroup. Flint sensed the near-collapse of the hill dwarves around him and knew that the respite had come none too soon.
Then he looked over his shoulder and saw disaster.
Chapter 23
"Damn your filthy cowardiance!" Pitrick exploded at the two sergeants who stood before him.
At first, things had seemed to develop fairly well. His reg iments had formed with parade-ground precision, and their advance had proceeded with apparently irresistible momen tum. It seemed certain that the hill dwarves would be over whelmed by the first rush!
His eagerness for battle had increased with a conclusion he had gradually drawn over the preceeding day's forced en campment. He had brooded and cursed and schemed, still tormented by Perian's existence, out of his reach. But the more he thought, the more he believed that she would be here, in Hillhome, once again within his grasp.
After all, had she not dwelled in Mudhole with the very hill dwarf who, to Pitrick, embodied the pestilential stub borness of Hillhome? And would not Flint Fireforge be cer tain to race to his village's defense? It therefore seemed very likely that Perian would be here, too, and this added heat to
Pitrick's hatred, made him more determined than ever to wipe out the town and all its inhabitants.
But the first wave of his assault had been thrown back, and now these two craven warriors stood before him, stam mering their pathetic excuses.
"Do you mean to tell me that you were beaten by hill dwarves!" the hunchback continued, turning his savage, penetrating gaze on each of the frightened mountain dwarves in turn. Good, he thought. They face the odds of battle willingly enough, but when I speak to them, they are still afraid.
Pitrick paced back and forth before the cringing derro. He limped awkwardly on his throbbing foot, and the pain mo mentarily distracted him from the matter at hand. He shook his head to clear it.
The Theiwar commander trembled with rage. Angrily he looked at his shaking hands, too unsteady to bear a weapon or cast a spell. Every nerve in his body screamed that he should kill these two failures before him, vent his fury upon their miserable lives.
But he could not do that. Pitrick faced the fact that this battle would not be so easily won. Slowly, he brought his anger under control, until he could speak normally. Then he turned back to the pair of veterans who had led his first at tack against the breastwork.
Around him, the bonfires set by the hill dwarves had mostly burned themselves out. The darkness, thick and pro tecting, settled around his army again, broken only by the hot piles of red coals. Many derro stood in small groups, gathering around their sergeants, waiting for further com mands. Others tended their comrades who had been over come by the vile gas. The night was a blanket of protection and security back here, away from the defenders.
Before them, however, in the ditch along the fortification, the great, oily bundles of hay still smoldered, glowing with painful brightness in the cool night. The bales had been soaked with oil, Pitrick recognized, and their ignition had been a cruelly successful trick. But, very soon now, the hill dwarves would pay for their cleverness.
The stench of the black smoke wafted past his nostrils. He grimaced at the cloud, which still blocked the center of the hill dwarf defenses. No matter, he would break them to the left and to the right. He would destroy them!
His ambitions called his mind back to the two black plated derro who stood before him. They watched his face anxiously, contorted as it was by his all-consuming rage.
Hesitantly, one of them opened his mouth.
"But, Excellency," stammered the grizzled battle veteran.