Darken Wood. The place certainly earns its name, thought Flint. Tall pines, their needles a green that was al most black, towered over the forest floor-. Huge, musty oaks, draped with thick vines and feathery moss, and even an occasional looming vallenwood trunk that rose to disap pear among the foliage, prevented a single sunbeam from reaching the ground.
The forest was not huge, but Flint knew that it sheltered a number of dangerous denizens. Some years earlier, a small party of mercenaries had entered Solace bearing an unusual trophy — the head of a troll slain in these woods. Bands of hobgoblins and worse reputedly still dwelled among the an cient trunks of Darken Wood.
The feeling of potential danger brought Flint a keen sense of awareness even as his mind wandered. The narrow trail twisted among the tree trunks, enveloped by ferns and great, moist growths of mushrooms and other fungus. The scent of warm earth, heavy with decay, overwhelmed the dwarf with a thick, cloying presence.
Flint did not find the odor unpleasant. Indeed, after his long residence among humans, not to mention the constant presence of kender, elves, and other races, this dominance of nature refreshed his spirit and lightened his step. There was something joyful in this solitude, in this pastoral adven ture, that brought a forgotten delight to Flint's soul.
For many hours he made slow progress, not from any sense of exhaustion, but instead because of the great ease within him. His hand stroked the smooth, worn haft of his axe. Absently, his ears and eyes probed the woods, alert, al most hoping for a sign of trouble.
The trail forked and he paused, stark still for a moment, listening, thinking. He sensed the earth, the twists and turns in the surrounding land — as only dwarves could — through his thick-soled boots. Soon he learned what he needed to know, and he chose a direction.
Toward the south for a while. Flint followed no map and needed no compass to maintain the route he had selected. It would lead him the length of the woods, and avoid both the lands of the Qualinesti elves to the south, and the seeker ruled city of Haven to the northwest.
The seekers, he thought with a mental grimace, I would walk to the ends of the earth to avoid. Those pesky
'prophets' had made life in Solace unpleasant enough. But in Haven — the city that was their capitol and the center of their arrogant worship — their presence was sure to be un bearable.
The region of Qualinesti was different, though. Flint had actually entertained thoughts of going there, into that nest of elves, to see his old — and unlikely — friend, the Speaker of the Suns. Flint remembered fondly the time he had spent in Qualinost some years back. He was still one of the few dwarves who had ever been invited into that elven kingdom — and by the speaker himself! A visiting dignitary had acquired a silver and agate bracelet at a territory fair, which he then gave to the elven leader. The Speaker of the
Suns had been so impressed by the metalsmith's craftsman ship that he had tracked down the smith, who was none other than Flint Fireforge of Solace, and extended an invita tion for the dwarf to demonstrate his craft in the marble elven city.
It was during that first trip to Qualinost that Flint had met Tanis Half-Elven, the Speaker of the Sun's ward. Young
Tanis had stood for hours watching the dwarf's demonstra tions in the elven city, staying afterward to talk. Flint under stood the boy, who seemed unhappy because of his mixed heritage, and the two spent many pleasant hours together whenever the business of selling his crafts brought Flint near Qualinesti.
The dwarf was tempted now to find the half-elf. On their last night together at the Inn of the Last Home, Tanis had said he was going to go on a quest that would bring him to terms with his heritage at last. Flint presumed Tanis meant he was going back to face the full-blooded elven relatives of his in the city of Qualinost who had never really accepted the half-elf. The dwarf was somewhat concerned about his friend, but he had shrugged off any misgivings. After all, the companions had agreed to separate for five years, and
Flint would be damned if he'd be the one to break that agree ment.
So he would give Qualinost a wide berth and follow the forest paths instead. He knew that if he kept a steady pace he would pass from the wood around nightfall.
Flint began to wonder now, in the quiet of Darken Wood, if he hadn't been fanciful, believing even half of what the dwarf back at Jessab's had said. Mountain dwarves — much less the replusive derro — in Hillhome! Yet why would
Hanak have invented such a tale? Flint pushed the question away for the time being. The answer would be made clear soon enough.
He had been getting lazy in Solace — and bored, if the truth be known — without his young friends around. He had been at rest too long. Unconsciously he hefted his axe.
Flint found himself thinking about Aylmar and wonder ing how long it had been since he had seen his older brother.
Oh, fifteen, maybe twenty years, he decided with a frown,
Then a smile dotted his face as he recalled the escapades they had had together, the nick-of-time victories, the grand treasures.
In particular he remembered the grandest treasure of them all — the Tharkan Axe. His older brother Aylmar and he had stumbled upon the axe on one of his earliest treasure hunting forays into the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains, near Pax Tharkas, to be exact, which was why the brothers had so named it. Typical dwarven greed had driven the two
Fireforge brothers into the deepest recesses of a hobgoblin lair that was rumored to be filled with riches. Dispatching more than fifteen of the hairy-hided, six-foot monstrosities with blows to their red-skinned heads, Flint and Aylmar had made their way through the last of five interconnected caves to the hobgoblins' treasure chamber. There, atop a four foot-high pile of coins and glittering gems, the beautiful axe gleamed like a beacon. Aylmar had snatched it up first while
Flint stuffed his pockets and pouches with other riches, then the two had run from the lair before any more hobgoblins appeared.
Many years later Aylmar, his heart already showing the weakness that would soon force him to retire from the ad venturing life, presented the weapon to Flint on his
Fullbeard Day — the dwarven coming-of-age celebration.
Smirking, and using the teasing tone that he knew got Flint's dander up, Aylmar had said, 'Considering the girlish way you fight, boy, you need this a lot more'n me!' That had been more than forty years ago.
The dwarf remembered, with a touch of gruff sentimen tality, the times he had wielded that Tharkan Axe on his travels. The magnificent weapon had gleamed, cutting a sil ver are around Flint in battle. For several good years the weapon had served him. It served to remind him of Aylmar as well.
His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds where he had lost the axe while on yet another treasure hunt. Amid heaps of coins, a scattering of gems, and the bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains, a figure of cold, sucking blackness had lurked. A wraith of death, it had seized Flint's soul with its terrible grip. A deadly chill had settled in his bones, and he had staggered to his knees, hope less to resist.
The Tharkan Axe had flashed, then, with a white-hot light that drove the wraith backward and gave Flint the strength to stand. With a mighty heave, the dwarf had bur ied the weapon in the shapeless yet substantial creature be fore him.
The wraith had twisted away, tearing the axe from Flint's grip. In terror, the dwarf had fled from the barrow, empty handed. Later he returned, but there had been no sign of treasure, wraith, or axe.
Flint looked forward the most to seeing his older brother again. Aylmar would be disappointed, though, to learn that his younger brother had lost the Tharkan Axe. Flint glanced with barely concealed scorn at the inferior, worn battle-axe now resting in his hands. The weapon bore only the most superficial resemblance to the great Tharkan Axe. Where that enchanted blade had shone with the glow of perfect steel, its edge ever sharp, his current weapon showed the pocks of corrosion. The wooden handle was thin and worn, long overdue for replacement.
Yes, it would feel good to see the rest of his family, as well,
Flint had to admit. Aylmar had been patriarch of the clan since Flint was a youth, when their father had died of the
Fireforge hereditary heart condition, leaving behind a wife and fourteen children. Flint's work-worn mother
