had passed on some twenty-odd years ago, which was the last time Flint had been to Hillhome, for the funeral.
Aylmar had a wife, Flint knew, though he could never re member her name. And at least one son, young Basalt. Flint remembered his nephew quite clearly. Basalt had been an enthusiastic youngster, somewhat of a hellion. Aylmar had grown dour with age and responsibilities, and he disap proved of his son's prolific time in the alehouse and gaming hall. As a consequence, Basalt had adopted Flint as his mentor.
Flint flashed on a collage of faces and names, his own younger brothers and sisters — harrns and frawls, as the dwarven sexes were noted. There was Ruberik, Bernhard,
Thaxtil — or was that Tybalt? Quiet, demure Glynnis and brash Fidelia emerged from the faces of his sisters. He had left home before the seven youngest siblings had been much more than babes, and he had forgotten most of their names since his last visit.
It was not unusual for dwarves to loose track of their rela tives, but Flint wondered now if perhaps he should have paid more attention to the younger children — they had been a good bunch, always eager to fetch things for their older brother, willing to give up the extra pastry or bite of meat for the brawny Flint. And there had never been that much to go around.
With a start, Flint realized that if he did not hurry now, the sun would set before he came to the edge of Darken
Wood. He stepped up the pace. Even so, it was already early evening on his first day out of Solace when Flint at last came upon the White-rage River. Flint crossed the rushing stream on a high suspension bridge that reminded him of the village in the vallenwoods, and made camp on the eastern bank in the shelter of two red maples. The next day he followed the bank of the White-rage until he reached the Southway Road.
For a little more than one joyously uneventful week of nearly perfect blue skies, Flint advanced down the Southway Road, which formed the eastern fringes of Qualinesti, avoiding the rare habitations of the elves. On the morning of the eighth day he left the Southway Road, since it continued southwest to the ancient fortress of Pax Tharkas, and Hillhome lay to the southeast.
He blazed his own trail through the hillcountry, the thick forests and foothills east of that settlement. Here the vast slopes of dark fir trees surrounded barren chunks of sharp granite. A land of steep gorges and winding valleys, the hills did not achieve the height of true mountains, but their cha otic nature made the trail as rugged as any snowswept al pine ridge.
This was hill dwarf country, Flint's homeland, and the rough ground was like a smooth path under his feet. He spent the ninth night, a rainy one, in an isolated, warm, and nearly empty dwarven inn in the Hills of Blood, where he rinsed the dusty trail from his body and whetted his appetite for his impending reunion with his dwarven clan.
His mind lingered less on the rumors of mountain dwarves in Hillhome and more on memories of the village: the cozy stone houses lining the broad main street; the sheep and goats in the surrounding sloping fields; Delwar's forge, where Flint had first seen the shaping of metal by fire. He re called the sense of safety and security that always seemed to linger like smoke around the kitchen hearth of his mother's home. And the scent of the thick- crusted, fresh-baked rolls he and his father would purchase each morning from Frawl
Quartzen's bakery after the cows had been tended. They were good memories…
Late in the cold afternoon of the eleventh day, Flint's trip was lengthened by a detour around the Plains of Dergoth.
Prior to the Cataclysm nearly three hundred fifty years be fore, the plains held many water holes. When the Kingpriest of Istar brought the anger of the gods down upon Krynn, the face of the world was changed, and the land south of Pax
Tharkas turned to desert. One hundred years later, during the Dwarfgate Wars — which were an attempt by the hill dwarves and their human allies to retake Thorbardin after the Great Betrayal — the magical fortress of Zhaman col lapsed in the Plains under a powerful spell and formed the hideous skull-shaped mound known afterward as Skullcap.
That same explosion tore apart the Plains of Dergoth once again, and marshes crept over the surrounding land.
Flint had no interest in wading through a swamp — his fear of water was legendary among his friends in Solace. So it was that he chose to climb through the low mountains to the northeast of the narrow pass that cut through the peaks to Hillhome. Flint took his time in finding a clearing just to the east of the pass and off the Passroad, then in collecting and igniting the right logs for a hot, long-lasting fire, and fi nally in sizzling the last of the fat slab of bacon he had brought with him from Solace. As darkness settled, Flint re laxed. I'll miss this solitude, he thought, sighing.
He looked at the Passroad, just a little below his camp.
Deep ruts ran along its length. Whereas in the past it had borne only the traffic of.sheep- and goat-herders, or the oc casional farmer's cart, now the road was wide and well worn.
Flint recalled the building of the Passroad from his child hood, though he had been too young to help with the work.
The hill dwarves had labored for several years to smooth out the grades, lay a stone foundation over the swampy stretches, and create a route that could, someday, connect
Hillhome to the not-so-distant shore of the Newsea.
The immediate purpose of the road had been to open up the valley adjacent to Hillhome to hill dwarf settlements, and this had occurred to a limited extent. Still, in retrospect, the road had not been very profitable, considering all the work.
Suddenly Flint's thick body tensed like a mandolin string.
He was not alone.
The dwarf's first warning was a vague perception, not re ally sight but more sound, of something approaching from the southwest. Wooden wheels crunched over gravel. Flint turned from the low fire to the pass, and his infravision — the natural, temperature-sensing ability of dwarves that al lowed them to see objects in the dark by the heat they radiate — quickly adjusted.
A heavy, broad-wheeled wagon, looking more like a huge rectangular box, rattled up the rutted Passroad from the di rection of Hillhome. Who would be driving a wagon through the pass in the dark of night?
Flint stepped from his fire to the edge of the road. Hun kered over intently on the buckboard, the driver snapped a whip over the heads of the four-horse team that was labor ing to pull the wagon up the steep incline toward the pass.
The steeds snorted and strained, pulling an obviously heavy load. Flint could not determine whether the small figure of the driver was dwarven, human, or something worse. Now he could see two more forms standing several feet behind the buckboard in a guarding stance, holding onto the sides of the lurching wagon. As they drew closer, Flint caught sight of three sets of unnaturally large eyes.
Derro dwarves. That explained why they were willing to drive through the mountains at night, Flint realized.
Derro were a degenerate race of dwarves who lived pri marily underground. They hated light and suffered from nausea when in the sun, though they were known to venture from their subterranean homes at night. While normal dwarves looked much like humans, only differently propor tioned, derro dwarves tended toward the grotesque. Their hair was pale tan or yellow, their skin very white with a blu ish undertone, and their large eyes were almost entirely pupil.
And they were reputedly so evil and malicious that they made hobgoblins seem like good neighbors.
Flint thought about dashing behind an outcropping, but it was already too late to hide: he had been spotted along the roadside. He was more than curious, anyway, remembering
Hanak's sighting of derro mountain dwarves in Hillhome.
The driver's hideous eyes bore into Flint's from about fifty feet away, and the derro stopped the wagon at the crest of the pass with a violent tug on the reins.
'What are you doing here at this time of night, hill dwarf?' The driver's voice was raspy, and though he spoke
Common, the words came to him slowly, as if the language were not totally familiar. The derro on the sides of the wagon dropped to the ground, and one circled around the horses to stand protectively below the driver still
