Dragonlance - Preludes 5 - Flint the King by Mary Kirchoff & Douglas Niles

Author:Mary Kirchoff & Douglas Niles [Kirchoff, Mary & Niles, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Dragons, Monsters, Magic, Heroes
ISBN: 9780786930210
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Published: 2003-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Death of a Friend

"Gimme another one," Basalt mumbled, sliding his empty mug toward Moldoon. The young dwarf smacked his lips and reflected that the ale didn't taste as sweet as it once had. But no matter.

The human reluctantly filled the heavy tankard, but cast a sad, pained looked at Basalt as the dwarf raised it to his lips and chugged noisily, ignoring the foam splashing onto his beard. Basalt set the mug down heavily, disappointed that somehow the draught did not bring him more pleasure.

"Take it easy with that," cautioned Moldoon. The man's normally genial tone carried an undertone of genuine rebuke when he spoke to Basalt these days. Mol-doon grew more and more concerned by the behavior of the young hill dwarf. Moody and irresponsible after his father's death, the youth had grown sullen beyond compare in the weeks since his Uncle Flint had left town.

Since his return from the Theiwar tunnel, Basalt had spent all his time drowning himself in self-pity. A new ha-tred of the mountain dwarves for the murder of his father and uncle, combined with a hopeless feeling of inadequacy, had left him feeling trapped. He did not feel he could trust anyone and he knew that no one would believe him, with his cockeyed story of Flint's disappearance and Aylmar's murder. He was, and always would be, an abject drunk.

"Say," ventured the innkeeper, as Basalt started on the last half of his mug. "Hildy's got to make her deliveries this eve-ning. I happen to know she could use some help...."

"Hah! She'd have nuthin' to do with me!" The scorn in Ba-salt's voice, Moldoon sensed, was directed inward, at the dwarf himself.

"Well, she sure won't if you keep treating her as badly as you do yourself! And neither will I!" snapped Moldoon. He turned to take the orders of other customers while Basalt watched the foam melt along the inside of his mug.

Finally he got up and shuffled to the door, stepping out-side to look at the long, brown strip of the Passroad. Snow, colored red and purple by the fading twilight, covered the surrounding hills in a pristine blanket that contrasted sharply with the muddy blotch of Hillhome.

Once the dwarven community might have slumbered peacefully under winter's cloak, its residents content to await the coming of spring. But now it was just past the early winter sunset, and the town churned with energy in the chill darkness. Hammers pounded at forges, horses hauled their wagons through deep, sticky mud, merchants eagerly readied their wares for sale to the derro preparing to return to Thorbardin.

Basalt thought about going home, but the picture of his stern Uncle Ruberik stopped him. Ruberik never ceased berating Basalt about drinking. In fact, the ruder the young dwarf got, the more persistent the elder became about nag-ging. The family home, a guilt-ridden shell since his father's death, seemed like a nest of enemies now, and Basalt

couldn't face it.

So Basalt sat on the wide steps of Moldoon's, mindless of the icy wind that blew through the valley.

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