Dwarfgate Wars, in which Grandfather Reghar gave up his life trying to take back the hill dwarves' place in
Thorbardin — our birthright! — from the mountain dwarves who stole it? Have you forgotten, Tybalt?'
Tybalt straightened self-righteously, 'I haven't forgotten, but I don't make the laws. I'm sworn to uphold them. For that matter, I'd toss a hill dwarf in jail as soon as I would a mountain dwarf!'
Flint scowled and turned on Bernhard. 'How about you?'
His younger brother shrank under his gaze. 'I'm just a carpenter…' He tugged on his beard self-consciously, afraid to look at his eldest brother as he struggled with some inner thought. 'You can't forget what you never knew,
Flint!' he blurted at last. 'I never heard the stories like you did, not from Father. And all that was over three hundred years ago!' Bernhard seemed almost relieved to have said it.
Flint's expression softened somewhat.
Fidelia did not wait for her brother to get around to her.
'Frankly, I'm for whatever makes me money,' she said, sen sually running her hands down her tailored leather apron, a far cry from the coarse cloth their mother had been accus tomed to wearing. 'I like to think that we're getting back from Thorbardin a little of what's been owed us — payment for all these years of poverty.'
Flint rubbed his face wearily. It was obvious that he did not know his family at all. He looked at his closest sibling.
'And how about you, Ruberik? At least you don't seem to think much of derro.'
Ruberik appeared to be giving the discussion great thought. 'No, I don't, and I haven't forgotten the Great Be trayal either, Flint. I would not have approved the agree ment if asked, but I wasn't. The council, with the support of the majority of the citizens, made the decision.' He had dropped his usual stuffy tone. 'But now that they're here,
I'm not adverse to making a little profit — just so we're com fortable. I'm not greedy like some others in town,' he added defensively.
Flint rubbed his face wearily. 'These wagons,' he said, changing the subject slightly. 'What do they haul? And where are they going?'
Tybalt spoke up again. 'Mayor Holden says that they carry mostly raw iron. Sometimes tools — plows, forges, stuff like that. They cover the twenty or so miles from Thor bardin one night, arrive before sunup, spend the day in town or sleeping, then set out at night for a dock at Newsea.
Usually two days later, they return to Hillhome, and then continue on back to Thorbardin.'
Flint picked up his pipe from the fireplace mantle, relit it, and took a long draw, squinting through the smoke at his three brothers. 'Does anyone know where they're taking so many farm implements?' he asked suspiciously.
His brothers looked at each other, puzzled. 'Why should we care where they go after Newsea?' Tybalt exclaimed.
'The derro pay us in steel — the most valuable commodity on Krynn. And for what? — promising them clearance through the pass and selling them our goods at a slightly ele vated price.'
'It's almost like free money!' added Bernhard.
But instead of persuading their brother, their comments made Flint even more irritated. 'Nothing is ever free,' he growled softly. Ruberik remained silent, frowning.
A strange silence crept over the room, taking with it the last drop of the spirit of celebration. One by one, the Fire forge family dispersed. Ruberik finally shuffled off to his private chamber, and only Bertina stayed behind in the main chamber with Flint.
At last Flint got up and moved to the wooden bench Ru berik had vacated, both to sit closer to Bertina and to — finally — leave Aylmar's favorite chair.
'I'm sorry that I didn't get back sooner, Berti.' Flint forced the words out awkwardly. Even with a bellyful of ale, he could not make himself tell her of his feelings of guilt. But he sensed that she understood.
'It's enough to have you home now,' she said, patting his thick hand. 'This is just what the family needed.'
Flint's hands curled into fists. 'But maybe I could have helped him… done something!'
Bertina squeezed her brother-in-law's arm reassuringly and shook her head. 'We went there as soon as we heard,
Rubie and me.' Her eyes were far away. 'You mustn't blame yourself.'
Suddenly the front door slammed back against the stone wall. 'Isn't it just like 'Uncle Flint' to worry about his fam ily?' a new voice snarled sarcastically from the door. Flint recognized it before he even looked up: Basalt. Their eyes met. His nephew was no longer a youth of fifty. He had a full beard, darker than his bright red hair, and a preponder ance of freckles beneath his sea-green eyes. Basalt was tall for a dwarf, but it was more than height that gave him an appearance of haughtiness.
'Basalt!' cried Bertina, rousing herself to leap to her feet, smiling happily for the first time that evening. 'Flint's here!
Your Uncle Flint's come home!' Flint, too, rose and stepped toward his nephew, smiling warmly.
'I know.' Something in Basalt's voice cast a pall over the room. 'I heard a few hours ago, down at Moldoon's.'
Basalt's green eyes fixed Flint with a cold stare. Bertina coughed, embarrassed. And Flint felt himself shrinking un der that gaze. Though he did not know how he could have done otherwise, Flint realized that he had let the boy down by being elsewhere when Aylmar had died. Though he knew he should, he could not bring himself to rebuke the rudeness of his brother's son.
'It's good to see you, Basalt,' Flint said at last. 'I'm sorry about your father.'
'Me, too!' the young dwarf snapped, grabbing someone's half-finished mug of ale from the table and tossing the con tents down his throat. It was not his first of the night, Flint realized. 'Nice of you to make it back, Uncle, although your brother's been cold in the ground for nearly a month!'
'Basalt!' Bertina gasped, finally finding her voice.
'Let the boy — let Basalt speak his mind,' Flint corrected himself, giving his nephew a pained look. Normally a young dwarf who spoke that way to an older relative would suffer a severe reprimand, if not a punch in the nose or a brief banishment. But somehow, Flint could only feel sorry for Basalt. And angry at himself for his long neglect of his family.
'I have nothing to say,' Basalt said softly, sorrow, ale, and anger making his eyes flash. 'The subject bores me.' With that, he disappeared into the shadows that cloaked the house beyond the firelight.
Bertina stood clutching her apron, looking with anguish from Flint to where Basalt had retreated. 'He doesn't mean it, Flint,' she said. 'He's just not been the same since… since… It's the drink talking.' With a soft moan, she hur ried after her son.
Flint watched her go, then leaned back in his seat before the fire, deep in morose reflection: A last bit of burning log dropped through the fire grate and rolled forward; Flint stood and jabbed it back into the fireplace with his toe, then watched sparks fly, burning from red to gray, long into the night.
Clumping through the cold room in his heavy farming boots at first light, Ruberik brought Flint to his senses the next morning. The older dwarf did not remember having fallen asleep. Someone had covered him with a rough wool blanket during the night, which tumbled to the ground as he jumped up.
'No place to make hot chicory in my new rooms,' Ru berik grumbled by way of apology. Pots banged and kettles clanged while he clumsily heated water over the fire, then poured it through a length of coarse netting that held some fresh ground, roasted root. Taking a sip of the brew he shiv ered. 'Nice and bitter,' he concluded, looking as pleased as
Ruberik ever did. With that he pulled on a heavy leather coat and grumbled his way into the dawn, slamming the door behind him. A current of damp, cold air rushed through the room and fanned the fire in the grate.
Flint chuckled at his brother's ill humor despite his own fatigue. He dug his hairy fists into his eye sockets, stretched, and smacked his lips. Hoping to douse the sour taste in his mouth, he took the water kettle from the fireside and made his way to the kitchen, across the room from the front door.
