The only sound other than the cadence of their march was the sniffling of the gully dwarf, which persisted even after one of the derro ordered him to stop, slapping his face for emphasis. They left the great cavern of the city to enter the narrow tunnel again, back in the direction where Flint had entered. He had no illusions that they meant to release him, however.
This thought was confirmed when the silent march turned abruptly into a narrow, forbidding cavern that branched off of the main tunnel.
You've been in worse predicaments than this, Flint told himself, although he was at a loss to remember one.
The captain stopped at the lip of a dark, yawning chasm.
The edge of the pit was stony, like the floor, and dropped away suddenly. Flint wondered briefly what had caused the curious scratches around the lip, but the answers that oc curred to him quickly made him drop that line of thinking.
The pit opening was quite large, he noted, the far side being hard to distinguish in the darkness, even with his dwarven vision. The sides looked gravelly and crumbly — impossible to climb, Flint concluded. The vertical sides angled slightly, forming a rough chute.
The derro guards were arrayed in a semicircle around the Aghar and Flint. Perian stood several paces away. Flint got the distinct feeling that she was waiting for something.
Before long they heard the sound of another approach, though it could hardly be called a march. A footfall was fol lowed by a scraping sound. This pattern was repeated, over and over. Finally, Flint saw why.
The dwarf who entered the cavern was the most repulsive example of the derro race Flint had ever seen. This gro tesqueness came from far more than the derro's distorted posture, or his thin lips seemingly fixed in a permanent, cruel sneer. It was more than the straggly beard or thin, oily hair.
It was the eyes.
Those horrid orbs locked onto Flint, opened wide in a white stare of almost insectlike detachment. But when they flashed with hatred, their intensity blasted Flint like air across a furnace.
'You are the hill dwarf,' the creature spat, the last two words sounding like a curse.
Flint maintained his composure, though he knew he could not conceal his revulsion. 'And you must be Pitrick,' said Flint.
The derro guards stepped back, creating a path for Pitrick to Flint. Though the hill dwarf was certain he had never seen this derro before, there was something about the medallion that hung around his neck…
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.
