Flint the King

Начало книги

The hammer fell rhyththmically against the anvil, oven and over, gradually returning the wheelrim to its circular shape. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the dwarven smith's skin when the fire rose, but then he fell into shadows as the blaze sank into the coals. The smithy around him was empty, dark but for the forge fire.

As the hill dwarf's body labored, so did his mind, franti cally. He thought about the secret he had learned, scarce minutes before. Again and again his hammer fell on the rim as he pushed himself past the point of exhaustion. Sparks exploded from each contact, hissing through the air before settling to the earthen floor of the shed.

Indecision tormented him. Should he remain silent?

Should he speak out? The hammer continued pounding.

Immersed in his task, the dwarf did not see the grotesque figure moving through the shadowy doorway. For a mo ment the fire flared, outlining a black, misshapen figure shorter even than the dwarven smith.

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