Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Chapter 1 Prince Grallen Returns. The Gates of Thorbardin. Now what?

Led by Sturm under the magical influence of the enchanted helm, the companions wended their way up Cloudseeker, climbing along a steep defile that cut into the side of the mountain wall. The defile was one among many, and without the prince to guide them, they would have either never found it or would have chosen it by merest accident.

Tanis continued to mark the trail for the refugees, wondering more than once as he did so if he was wasting his time. He often looked back the way they had come, hoping to see some sign that they were safe, but the pass was often shrouded in fog or low hanging clouds, and he could see nothing.

The climb proved to be relatively easy. Whenever they came to a part of the defile that was steep and could have been hard to traverse, crude stairs carved into the rock wall provided safe passage. Not even Raistlin found the going difficult. A night’s rest had allowed him to recover his strength. He said that the pure, chill mountain air opened his lungs. He coughed less and was actually in a relatively good mood.

The sun was bright, the sky cloudless. They could see the desolate plains spread out beneath them and far off in the distance the ruined fortress, looking, as Caramon said, like a skull on a platter. They made good time, at least as far as Tanis was able to judge, considering he had no idea where they were going. He asked Sturm more than once to point out their destination, but the knight only shook his helmed head, refusing to answer, and continued to climb. Tanis looked to Flint, but the dwarf shrugged. He was obviously highly skeptical about all this.

“If there is a gate in the side of the mountain, I don’t see it,” he huffed. As they climbed higher, the air grew colder and thinner. The humans, the half-elf, and the kender began to feel dizzy. Their breathing grew labored.

“I hope we don’t have much further to go,” Tanis said, catching up to Sturm. “If we do, I’m afraid some of us aren’t going to make it.”

He looked back at Raistlin, who had slumped down to the ground. So much for pure mountain air. Caramon leaned against a boulder. Tasslehoff was wobbly on his feet. Even Flint was breathing hard, though he refused to admit anything was wrong.

Sturm raised his head and peered through the helm’s eyeslits. “Almost there.” He pointed to a stone ledge about five feet wide jutting out from the side of the mountain. The defile ended here. Tanis looked back at Flint, and to his surprise, the old dwarf’s eyes were bright, his face flushed. He stood smoothing his beard with his hand.

“I think this is it, lad,” he said softly. “I think we’re close!”

“Why? Do you see something?” Tanis asked.

“Just a feeling I have,” said Flint. “It feels right to me.” Tanis looked around. “I feel nothing. I see nothing, no sign of any gate.”

“You won’t,” Flint said proudly, “not with those half-elf, half-human eyes of yours. Admit it, my friend. You would have never found the way.”

“I readily admit it,” said Tanis, adding with a smile, “Would you?”

“I would have,” Flint insisted, “if I’d been interested in finding it, which I wasn’t up until now.” Tanis’s gaze scanned the vast gray expanse of rock before them. “If we do find the gate, will the mountain dwarves let us in?”

“That’s not what I’m asking myself,” Flint returned.

Tanis gave him a questioning glance.

“What I’m asking is if there are any dwarves beneath the mountain to say ‘yeah’ or ‘nay’ to the matter. Perhaps the reason the gate has remained shut for three hundred years is that there is no one left alive to open it.”

Sturm was already on the move, and Flint hiked after him. Tanis looked back at the others.

“We’re coming,” said Caramon.

Raistlin nodded, and aided by his staff and his brother, he began to climb. Tasslehoff trailed along after.

They left the defile and walked onto the rock ledge.

“Dwarves built this,” said Flint, stamping on the ledge. “We’re here, Half-Elven. We’re here!” The ledge was smooth and level. It had once been much wider, but parts of it had either fallen off or crumbled away over time. They had not gone far along the ledge, perhaps thirty feet, when Sturm came a halt and turned to face the rock wall. Flint eagerly scanned the stone. The dwarf’s eyes grew moist. He gave a long, tremulous sigh. When he spoke, his voice was husky.

“We have found it, Tanis. The Gate to Thorbardin.”

“We have?” Tanis looked up and he looked down and saw nothing but smooth rock. Sturm approached the wall, his hand outstretched.

“Watch this!” Flint said softly.

Raistlin elbowed Tanis out of his way in his eagerness to see what was about to happen. Tasslehoff hurried to Sturm’s side and stared expectantly at the blank wall.

“I would not stand there if I were you,” Sturm warned.

“I don’t want to miss anything,” Tas protested.

Sturm shrugged and turned to face the mountain. Raising his hands, he cried out words in dwarven.

“I am Grallen, son of Duncan, King Beneath the Mountain. My spirit returns to the halls of my fathers. In the name of Reorx, I call upon the gate to open.”

At the mention of the god’s name, Flint snatched off his helm and held it close to his chest. He bowed his head.

A beam of light blazed from the ruby in the center of Sturm’s helm. Red and bright as the flame of Reorx’s fire, the light illuminated the side of the mountain.

The ground rumbled, knocking Tanis to his hands and knees. The mountain shook and trembled. Raistlin balanced himself with his staff. Caramon lost his footing and slid part way down the trail. An enormous gate some sixty feet in height and thirty feet wide appeared in the side of the mountain. A grinding, screeching sound came from somewhere inside.

“Get out of the way!” Flint roared. He seized hold of Tasslehoff by the scuff of his neck and dragged him to one side.

Like a cork in an ale barrel, the gigantic block of stone burst out of the side of the mountain and went rumbling over the ledge right where the kender had been standing.

Now that the gate was open, they could see the enormous screw mechanism that was shoving the huge block of granite forward. The gate grated along the ledge and continued on, past the edge. The mechanism that operated the gate whined and groaned, pushing the gate farther and farther until the heavy stone block hung out over the side of the mountain.

The shaft that propelled the gate was made of oak, massive and strong, but it could not withstand the strain and snapped. The stone block broke off and went plunging down the side of the mountain, landing with a crash on the rocks below. They stared at the ruins in shocked silence. Then Raistlin spoke.

“The Gate to Thorbardin is open,” he said, “and it cannot now be closed.” Tanis checked to see that everyone was all right. Caramon was making his way back up the defile. Flint was fending off Tasslehoff, who was trying to give the dwarf a hug, claiming that he’d saved his life.

“Where’s Sturm?” Tanis asked in alarm, fearing he’d been crushed.

“He went inside,” said Raistlin, “shortly after the gate opened.”

“Damn and blast it!” muttered Tanis.

They peered inside, but they could see nothing, hear nothing. Warm air with a strong earthy smell to it wafted out of the cavern.

“It smells of darkness,” Caramon muttered.

Tanis drew his sword, as did Caramon. Raistlin reached into his pouch. Flint, his expression grave, hefted his battle-axe. They started to move inside slowly and cautiously. All except Tasslehoff.

“I’ll bet I’m the first kender to set foot in Thorbardin in three hundred years!” he cried, and waving his hoopak, he dashed inside shouting, “Hello, dwarves! I’m here!”

“Three hundred centuries is more like it,” said Flint irately. “No kender were ever permitted underneath the mountain. With good reason, I might add!”

The dwarf went lumbering after Tas. Tanis and the others were hurrying after him when, from out of the darkness, came Tasslehoff’s voice, making the most dreaded sound anyone can hear when dealing with kender.

“Oops!”

“Tas!” Tanis yelled, but there was no answer.

Pale sunlight streamed inside the gate, lighting their way for a short distance. The companions soon left the light behind, however, and were swallowed up in impenetrable and endless night.

“I can’t see my nose in front of my face,” Caramon grumbled. “Raist, light your staff.”

“No, don’t!” Tanis cautioned. “Not yet. We don’t want to give ourselves away. And keep your voices down.”

“The dwarves already know we’re here,” Caramon pointed out irritably, “unless they’re deaf.”

“Maybe so,” said Tanis, “but let’s err on the side of caution.”

“The dwarves can see us in the dark,” Caramon muttered to his twin. “Tanis can see in the dark! We’re the ones left blind.”

From out of the darkness came the sound of running footfalls and the clanking and rattling of armor. Caramon raised his sword, but Tanis shook his head.

“It’s Flint,” he told them. “Did you find Tas?” he called to the dwarf as Flint came up to them.

“And Sturm,” Flint reported grimly. “Look! There. See for yourselves. The fool kender’s got himself in a fix this time. They’ve been captured by Theiwar!”

“I can’t see a thing!” Caramon muttered.

“Hush, my brother,” said Raistlin softly.

Tanis with his elven sight saw Sturm lying on the floor, either dead or unconscious. Tasslehoff was crouched at the knight’s side, holding the helm of Prince Grallen in his hands. By the looks of it, he had been about to put the helm on, when he was interrupted.

Six dwarves, clad in chain mail that came to their knees and armed with swords, stood around the kender. At least, Tanis assumed they were dwarves. He wasn’t certain, for he’d never seen any dwarves quite like them. They were thin and looked undernourished, with long unkempt black hair and scraggly black beards. Their skin was not the nut-brown complexion of most dwarves but was a sickly white, pale as a fish’s underbelly. He could smell the stench of their unwashed bodies. Three of the dwarves were pointing their swords at Tasslehoff. The other three had gathered around Sturm with the apparent intent of stealing his armor.

“What’s happening?” Caramon demanded in a loud whisper. “What’s going on? I can’t see!”

“Shirak,” said Raistlin, and the crystal on his staff burst into bright white light. Tanis rounded him angrily. “I thought I told you—”

Piercing shrieks interrupted him. He turned in astonishment to see the dwarves fling their swords to the ground in order to shield their eyes with their hands. They moaned in pain and cursed in rage.

Flint looked back at Raistlin. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.

“Why do you stare at me?” the mage demanded. “You said these were Theiwar dwarves. Theiwar are known to be extremely sensitive to light.”

“Known by dwarves, maybe,” Flint countered, glowering. “I never met the human who ever heard of Theiwar.”

“Well, now you have,” Raistlin returned coldly.

Flint glanced sidelong at Tanis, who shook his head. The half-elf had never heard of Theiwar dwarves, and he’d been friends with Flint for years. Raistlin was certainly acting strangely this trip—even for Raistlin.

“Be gone, Theiwar scum!” Flint commanded in Dwarvish. He strode forward, his axe raised menacingly.

“Hill dwarf dung!” snarled one of the Theiwar, and he began to mumble to himself and wiggle his fingers.

“Stop him!” Raistlin warned. “He’s casting a magic spell!” Flint skidded to a halt. “You’re the mage!” he bellowed at Raistlin. “You stop him!”

“Then get out of my way.”

Flint flung himself flat on the floor as lightning bolts streaked overhead. The bolts struck the Theiwar in the chest, and a shattering concussion shook the chamber. The Theiwar’s smoldering body crumpled. His fellows quit trying to rob Sturm and ran off down the corridor. The rattling of their chain mail and their pounding boots could be heard for a short time, then abruptly stopped.

“They haven’t gone far,” Tanis warned.

“Filthy Theiwar!” Flint fumed. He glared at Tanis. “I said it was a mistake to come back! I’ll go on down the corridor and keep watch. You see to the knight.” He started off, then added in a roar, “And take that helm away from the kender!”

Raistlin stood over Sturm, shining his light on the knight, as Caramon examined him. “He’s alive. His life-beat is strong. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I can’t find any wounds…” Tanis looked sternly at Tas.

“I didn’t do it!” Tas said immediately. “I found him on the floor, unconscious. The helm was next to him. I think he must have dropped it.”

“The helm dropped him, so to speak,” said Raistlin. “Since Prince Grallen is once more in the hall of his fathers, the magic of the helm has released the knight. When Sturm wakes, he will be himself—more’s the pity.”

Tanis held out his hand to the kender. “I think you’d better give me the helm.” Tasslehoff clutched the helm to his chest. “Those ugly dwarves were going to steal it! I saved it! Couldn’t I try it on just once? I’d love to be a dwarf—”

“Over my dead body!” Flint hollered from out of the darkness.

“Sturm!” Caramon was shaking his friend by the shoulder. “Sturm! Wake up!” The knight groaned and opened his eyes. He stared at Caramon in confusion for a moment, then he recognized his friend.

“Why did you let me sleep so long? You should have wakened me. It must be well past my turn to stand watch.” Sturm sat up and then put his hand to his head, assailed by a sudden dizziness. “I was having the strangest dream…”

Tanis motioned Raistlin off to one side. “Will he remember anything of this?”

“I doubt it,” said Raistlin. “In fact, he may have difficulty believing us when we tell him what happened to him.”

“Sturm, I swear it’s true!” Caramon was saying. “You put the helm on your head and suddenly you weren’t you. You were a dwarf, Prince Grallen. We’re not in Skullcap anymore. You brought us here to Thorbardin. No, really, Sturm. I’m not lying. It happened, I swear it. If you don’t believe me, ask Tanis.”

Sturm turned to Tanis, recoiled from him in shock. “What are you doing here in Skullcap? You went with Flint.”

He paused, stared about in confusion. “Is it true then, what Caramon tells me? That I was under… some sort of enchantment? That we are here, inside Thorbardin? And that I led you?” He looked truly perplexed. “I don’t know how that can be! I have no idea where we are, or how we came here!”

“Perhaps next time I warn you to leave an object alone, you will heed my advice,” Raistlin remarked.

Sturm looked at Raistlin, and his face flushed in anger. Then his gaze went to the helm, which Tasslehoff had reluctantly and with much protesting handed over to Tanis. Sturm looked at the helm for a long time. His anger faded. He glanced again at Raistlin and said gruffly, “Perhaps I will.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked off, out of the light and into the darkness.

“He needs time alone,” Raistlin said, stopping Tanis, who would have gone to speak to him.

“Sturm has to come to terms with this himself. You have other matters to think about, HalfElven.”

“Yeah,” said Caramon. “Here we are. In Thorbardin.” He looked at Tanis. “Now what?” Good question.

The gate opened into a hallway littered with bits and pieces of armor, broken weapons, remnants of some past battle. Tanis, looking about, guessed by the accumulated dust and cobwebs that no one had been here since the end of the war three hundred years ago. Tasslehoff, to console himself over the matter of the helm, was rummaging through the debris and Raistlin was poking at some of it with his staff, when Flint came running out of the darkness.

“Someone’s coming! Hylar dwarves, by the looks of them,” he added. “They’re tangling with the Theiwar.”

Light shone in the distance. They could not yet see the dwarves, but they could hear the sounds of heavy boots clomping on stone, the clank of armor, the jingle of chain mail, and the rattle of weapons. A deep voice spoke in a commanding tone. The voice was answered with curses, and there was the sound of running feet.

The tromp of boots continued, heading their way.

“Stand your ground,” Flint told them, “and let me do the talking.” He glared very hard at Tasslehoff as he said this.

“What are Hylar dwarves?” Caramon asked in an undertone. “What’s the difference between them and the Theiwar?”

“Theiwar are known as dark dwarves, for they hate the light. They’re not to be trusted. They have long wanted to rule beneath the mountain, and for all I know, perhaps they do now.”

“Theiwar are also the only dwarves who know how to use magic,” said Raistlin. Flint cast a baleful glance at the mage. “Like I said, the Theiwar are not to be trusted.”

“The Hylar used to be the rulers in Thorbardin,” Flint continued. “It was their king, Duncan, who shut the gates against us and left us to starve.”

“That was long ago, my friend,” said Tanis quietly. “Time to let bygones be bygones.” Flint said nothing. The tromping boots came closer. Sturm had put on his own helm, which Caramon had brought with them, and he had drawn his sword. Raistlin was readying another spell. Tasslehoff twirled his hoopak in his hands. Tanis looked around at all of them.

“We are here to ask the dwarves for a favor,” he reminded them. “Remember those who are counting on us.”

“You had best give me the Helm of Grallen,” Flint said.

Tanis handed the helm to him. Flint took it, brushed off some of the grime, and polished the rubies with his shirt sleeve. Then he tucked it under his arm and stood waiting.

“Are these Hylar dwarves afraid of light?” Caramon asked.

“No,” said Flint. “The Hylar are not afraid of anything.”

Chapter 2 Hero Reborn. An Unforeseen Complication

A contingent of twelve Hylar dwarves walked abreast down the corridor. All but one were clad in chain mail and wore heavy plate armor over that. The exception was a dwarf who was filthy and sickly looking and wore manacles on his wrists. While the Hylar dwarves confronted the strangers, this dwarf sank down onto the floor as though worn out. One of the dwarves paused to put his hand on this dwarf’s shoulder, saying something to him. The sickly dwarf nodded, as though assuring his companion that he was all right.

Some of the Hylar held swords; other carried spears in addition to war hammers slung in harnesses on their backs. Several held lanterns that shone with an odd greenish light that illuminated a vast area. The dwarves walked slowly but steadily down the corridor. As they came near, one dwarf moved out ahead. He was accoutered in armor as were his fellows, but unlike them, he wore a tabard over his armor. The tabard bore a hammer on it, and he carried a hammer in his hand—an extremely large war hammer—far larger than a hammer a dwarf would normally carry. Runes praising Reorx, God of the Forge Fire, Creator of the World, were etched up and down the handle and even extended onto the hammer’s head.

Sturm stared at the hammer and drew near Tanis.

“That is the Hammer of Kharas!” Sturm said in a low voice. “I recognize it from the old paintings!”

“You have a good eye, human,” said the dwarf, speaking Common. He lifted the hammer, regarding it fondly. “This is not the true hammer. It is a replica. I had the hammer made when I took my name, for I am Kharas,” he said proudly, “Arman Kharas. The lesser Kharas. Kharas reborn. One day, I will be given the knowledge of how to find the true hammer. Until that day, I carry this with me as a reminder to all that I am destined for greatness.”

“Good gods!” Sturm muttered. He did not dare catch Tanis’s eye.

Arman Kharas was taller than the other dwarves. He was the tallest dwarf Tanis had ever seen and his physique and stature rivaled Caramon’s. His shoulders were massive, his chest broad, his legs thick and well-muscled. Long black hair streamed down his shoulders. His plaited black beard extended past his waist. He wore a helm studded with jewels and marked with the symbol of the hammer.

Arman and his soldiers halted about twenty paces from the companions. The other Hylar were staring at the companions in astonishment mingled with suspicion. Arman regarded them calmly. He motioned to some of his men.

“Go see what that noise was.”

The soldiers departed, running past the companions, casting them distrustful looks.

“That noise you heard was the opening of Northgate,” said Flint, shifting to Dwarvish. Arman cast him a brief glance then looked away, waiting for his men to return. They came hastening back, reporting that the Northgate was open and could not be closed; the gate lay in ruins at the base of the mountain.

“You did this?” Arman asked, frowning.

“We didn’t break the gate, if that’s what you mean,” Flint stated. Tasslehoff, who had been staring hard at the lanterns carried by the dwarves, said suddenly, “There are worms inside there! Worms that glow! Caramon, look—”

“Four humans, a Neidar, and a kender.” Arman spoke the last word as though it tasted bad.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Tasslehoff, starting forward, his hand outstretched. Caramon caught hold of the kender and yanked him back. He kept a firm hold on Tas’s shoulder, and Raistlin assisted by planting his staff in front of the kender.

“I was only being polite,” Tas said, aggrieved.

“How did four humans, a Neidar, and a kender enter the sealed gate?” Arman demanded. Flint opened his mouth to answer, but Arman raised his hand in a commanding gesture. “Where did you come by this helm you hold? It is of ancient Hylar design and worth a king’s ransom by the looks of it. How did a Neidar come into possession of such a helm?”

“We found it,” Tas answered, reciting the kender mantra. “I think you must have dropped it.” Caramon sighed and clapped his large hand over the kender’s mouth.

Flint had been slowly seething ever since Arman Kharas spoke. He could stand it no longer. His rage boiled over.

“I see the dwarves beneath the mountain have learned no manners in three hundred years!” Flint said angrily. “You stand in the presence of an elder, young man, yet you do not have the courtesy to ask my name, or why we are here, before you start in with your accusations.” Arman’s face flushed. “I am a Hylar prince. I ask the questions, and I give the commands. Still,” he said, after a pause which indicated that perhaps he was not quite as confident of himself as he let on, “I will permit you to explain, if you can. Introduce yourselves.”

“I am Flint, son of Durgar, son of Reghar Fireforge. A hill dwarf,” Flint added, almost shouting the words, “as were my father and grandfather before me. Who is your father, Arman Kharas, that you claim to be a prince?”

“I am, as I said, Arman Kharas, the son of Hornfel, Thane of the Hylar. I am the hero of the dwarves reborn. When I was given this name, a hallowed light surrounded me—the spirit of Kharas entered my body. I am the living embodiment of him, and as such, I am destined to find the Hammer, unify the dwarven nations, and make my father, Hornfel, king.” As Arman was proclaiming his grand legacy, Tanis noticed some of his men roll their eyes. Several appeared embarrassed. One muttered something in a low voice and those near him grinned. Their amusement vanished swiftly when Arman happened to glance their way. Flint stroked his beard. He did not know what to say to this and at last decided to return to the subject of the gate.

“As I told you, Arman Kharas, the gate opened for us. We had no part in its destruction. The ledge on which the block should have come to rest has crumbled with time. The mechanism pushed the gate out beyond the end. The shaft could not bear the heavy weight of the stone block, and it broke off and fell into the ravine below.”

“How did you find the gate that has been concealed for three hundred years, Flint Fireforge?” Arman Kharas demanded, frowning. He continued to use Common, so that they could all understand. “And by what means did you enter, you and your human companions?”

“And kender,” Tasslehoff mumbled behind Caramon’s hand. “He keeps leaving me out!”

“Wishful thinking,” Caramon muttered.

“We were guided by this,” Flint replied, and he held up the Helm of Grallen. “My friends found the helm in Skullcap—”

“I found the helm in Skullcap,” Raistlin corrected. He gave a slight bow to Arman Kharas. “I am Raistlin Majere, and this is my brother, Caramon.”

Caramon made an awkward, bobbing bow.

“I knew immediately the helm was magical,” Raistlin continued. “It was possessed by the spirit of its late owner, who died in that battle. His name was Grallen, son of Duncan—

Arman gave a cry, and placing his hand on his sword, he took a step backward. His men crowded around him, shouting and clamoring, their deep voices booming.

Caramon clapped his hand to his sword, as did Sturm. They looked at Flint, who appeared as confused as any of them. This was not the reaction they had expected. They had assumed that they would be lauded as heroes for returning the helm of the dead prince. Instead it seemed more likely that they were going to be forced to fight for their lives.

Arman silenced the tumult with a commanding gesture. He stared at the helm, his expression dark and grim, then looked back at Raistlin.

“A human wizard. I might have known. Was it you who brought the helm here?” he demanded.

“I found it,” said Raistlin. “This noble knight”—he indicated Sturm—“volunteered to wear the helm, thus permitting the spirit of the dwarven prince to take control of his body. Under the helm’s enchantment, Prince Grallen asked us to accompany him to the hall of his fathers. The spirit of the prince opened the gate. We are glad to have been able to fulfill his soul’s request, aren’t we, Sturm?” Raistlin said pointedly.

“I am Sturm, son of Angor Brightblade,” Sturm said, not moving his hand from his sword. “I am honored to have been able to serve the fallen prince.”

Arman gazed at each of them, his dark eyes glinting beneath lowering brows.

“Your turn, Tanis,” said Raistlin softly.

Tanis glanced at Flint, who shrugged. He was as confused as the rest.

“Your Highness,” Tanis said, addressing Arman Kharas, “Raistlin is being diplomatic when he says that we came here with the helm voluntarily. The truth is that we had no choice in the matter. The helm took our friend, Sturm Brightblade, hostage, as it were, and forced him to come to Thorbardin. He did not know what he was doing. He was held in thrall by a prince who died three hundred years ago. We had no idea who this prince was. None of us have ever heard of him, except Flint, who knows the history of your people.”

“I know it well. I know how King Duncan shut us out of the mountain, left us to starve—”

“You’re not helping,” Tanis murmured.

Flint muttered something into his beard.

Kharas shook his head.

“If I believe your tale, and you did bring the helm back to us in all innocence, that is worse.” He gazed at the helm, and his expression darkened. “The helm of Prince Grallen is cursed, and, if this is the helm of the prince, you have brought the curse on us. You bring the doom of the dwarves upon us!”

Tanis sighed. “I’m sorry. We had no way of knowing.” His apology was lame, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Perhaps you did, perhaps you did not,” said Arman Kharas. “I must report this matter of the destruction of the gate to the Council of Thanes. You will have a chance to tell your story to them. If they believe it—”

“What do you mean ‘if’?” Flint said, bristling. “Do you have the nerve to tell me to my beard that my friends and I are lying?”

“We have only your word that this helm is what you claim it to be. It might be a fraud, a fake.” Flint seemed to swell in rage. Before he could, speak, Raistlin said coldly, “There is a simple way to find out if we are telling the truth, Your Highness.”

“What would that be?” Kharas demanded, suspicious.

“Put the helm on your head,” said Raistlin.

Kharas cast the helm an appalled glance. “No dwarf would dare! The Council will judge how best to proceed.”

“I’ll put it on!” Tasslehoff offered, but no one took him up on it.

“I have no need to prove to this Council or anyone that I am not a liar!” Flint was so angry he could barely speak. He whipped around to face his friends. “I told all of you it was a mistake to come here! I don’t know what the rest of you plan to do, but I’m leaving! And seeing as how this helm is not wanted here, I’m taking it with me!”

Flint tucked the helm under his arm and stalked off down the corridor, heading toward the ruined gate.

“Stop him!” ordered Arman Kharas. He made a commanding gesture. “Seize them!” His soldiers were already on the move. Sturm looked down at a dwarven spear tickling his throat. Tanis felt something sharp jab him in the back. Caramon raised his fists. Raistlin said something to him, and Caramon, glowering at the dwarves, let his arms fall to his sides. Tasslehoff made a swipe with his hoopak, but a dwarf kicked the weapon out of the kender’s hand, and grasping Tas by the hair, put his knife to Tas’s neck.

Hearing the commotion behind him, Flint turned around. He was red-faced with fury, the veins in his head popping. Placing the Helm of Grallen at his feet, he stood over it protectively, and raised his battle axe.

“I’ll send the soul of the first dwarf who comes near me to the hall of his fathers, Reorx take me if I don’t!”

Arman Kharas spoke a sharp command, and four dwarves went after Flint, weapons drawn.

“He’s going to get us all killed, Tanis!” Raistlin warned.

Tanis shouted for Flint to stop, but the outraged hill dwarf was cursing, swearing, and swinging his axe in vicious arcs, and either he could not hear or he was ignoring Tanis’s command. The dwarf soldiers prodded at him with their spears. Flint struck at them with his axe. All the while, another solider had slipped up behind him. The soldier thrust out his foot, tripping Flint, who went over backward. The other soldiers jumped on him. One snatched away his axe. The others pinned his hand and feet.

“Thorbardin treachery! I expected it! I warned you of this, Tanis!” Flint bellowed, struggling to free himself, to no avail. “I told you they would treat us this way!” Once Flint’s hands were bound, the soldiers hoisted him to his feet, still cursing and raving. All of them, Kharas included, eyed the Helm of Grallen that stood on the floor where Flint had placed it. None of them made any move to go near it, much less touch it.

“I will carry it,” Raistlin offered.

Kharas appeared tempted to accept, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “If this curse is come to Thorbardin, let it fall on me.” He reached down for the helm. The other dwarves backed away from him, watching in dread anticipation, certain something dire was about to happen.

Kharas clasped the helm, involuntarily wincing as he touched it.

Nothing happened.

He lifted the helm, placed it under his arm, wiped the sweat from his face. He gestured to the companions. “Take their weapons and tie them up securely.”

Dwarves bound their hands, all except Raistlin, who forbade them to touch him. They glanced at him askance, glanced at each other, and let him be. Arman stopped to gently assist the sickly dwarf to his feet then led the way through the darkened hall.

Tanis, prodded from behind by a spear, followed.

“I don’t suppose this would be a good time to ask them to provide shelter for eight hundred humans,” Raistlin murmured, coming up behind him.

Tanis flashed him a grim glance.

The dwarf behind Tanis prodded him again in the back. “Keep moving, scum!” he ordered in Dwarvish.

They kept moving deeper into the mountain, bearing the doom of the dwarves—and most likely their own—along with them.

Chapter 3 Faith. Hope. And Hederick.

The refugees trekked through the narrow pass. The going was slow and wearisome, for they had to pick their way among the rocks and crags, always keeping one eye on the gray and cloudchoked sky above them. They could see no dragons, but they could feel their constant presence. The dragonfear that radiated from the beasts was not strong, for the dragons flew high overhead, hidden by the clouds, but the fear was an added weight on their hearts, an added burden on their souls and slowed the people down.

“The pass is too dangerous for the dragons to enter. Why should they bother?” Riverwind said to Elistan, “They have only to wait for us to emerge from this pass, which we must do sooner or later, for we do not have the supplies to remain here long. Once we move out into the open, they will attack us, and we have no idea how far we are from Thorbardin, or even if there will be a refuge for us when we get there.”

“I feel the fear,” Elistan replied, “like a shadow over my heart, yet, my friend, shadows are caused by sunlight behind them. Other eyes look down on us and watch over us. It might be well to remind the people of that.”

“Then you’d first better remind me,” Riverwind said. “My faith in the gods is being sorely tested. I admit it.”

“Mine, as well,” said Elistan calmly, and Riverwind regarded the cleric in astonishment. Elistan smiled. “You seem surprised to hear me say that. Faith in the gods does not come easily, my friend. We cannot see them or hear them. They do not walk beside us, like overprotective parents, coddling and cosseting us, holding us by the hand lest we trip and fall. I think we would soon grow angry and rebellious if they did.”

“Isn’t it wrong to doubt them?”

“Doubt is natural. We are mortal. Our minds are the size of this small pebble compared to the minds of the gods that are as large as all heaven. The gods know that we have no way to comprehend their vision. They are patient with us and forbearing.”

“Yet they hurled a fiery mountain down on the world as punishment,” said Riverwind.

“Thousands died and thousands more suffered as a result. How are we to account for that?”

“We cannot,” said Elistan simply. “We can feel sorrow and anger. That is perfectly natural. I am angry when I think back on it. I do not understand why the gods did this. I question them constantly.”

“Yet you remain faithful to them.” Riverwind marveled. “You love them.”

“When you have children, will they never grow angry at you? Never doubt you or defy you? Do you want your children to be meek and submissive, always look to you for answers, obey you without question?”

“Of course not,” said Riverwind. “Such weak children would never be able to make their own way in the world.”

“Would you love your children if they defied you, rebelled against you?”

“I would be angry with them, but I would love them,” said Riverwind quietly, and his gaze went to Goldmoon, moving among the people, speaking to them softly, bringing them comfort and ease, “for they are my children.”

“So do the gods of light love us.”

One of the Plainsmen was hovering near, not wanting to break in on their conversation, yet obviously the bearer of important news. Riverwind turned to him, signing to Elistan that he was to remain.

“Yes, Nighthawk, what is it?”

“The trail marked by the half-elf and the dwarf continues down this mountain into a pine forest, then ascends into the mountain along a narrow defile. The elf, Gilthanas, who has the eyes of the eagle, can see a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. He believes this could be the fabled gate of Thorbardin.”

“Or a cave… or a dragon’s lair,” said Riverwind.

Even as he spoke his doubts, he smiled ruefully at Elistan.

Nighthawk shook his head. “According to Gilthanas, the hole is rectangular with squared-off edges. Nature did not form it, nor a dragon.”

“What kind of terrain lies between us and this gate, should it prove to be a gate?” Riverwind asked.

“Open to the wind and sky,” Nighthawk replied.

“And to the eyes of dragons,” said Riverwind, “and the eyes of a draconian army.”

“Yes, Chieftain,” Nighthawk replied. “The enemy is out there and on the move. We saw what looked to be draconian troops leaving the foothills and heading into the mountains.”

“They know we are here. The dragons have told them.”

“We can defend this pass,” suggested Nighthawk.

“We cannot stay here forever, though. We have supplies enough for a few days, and soon the snows will start. What is this ancient road like?”

“Well built. Two can walk side-by-side with room to spare, but there is no cover until we reach the tree line at the bottom, nor is there cover when we start back up the mountain. Not a tree or a bush in sight.”

Riverwind shook his head gloomily.

“Return and keep watch on the enemy and on that hole in the side of the mountain. Let me know if anyone comes out, or goes in. This might tell us if we have truly found the gate. Riverwind turned back to Elistan.

“Now what do I do, Revered Son? It looks as though we may have found the Gate of Thorbardin, but we cannot reach it. The gods give us their blessing with one hand and smack us in the face with the other.”

Elistan was about to say something in response, when Goldmoon walked up.

“My turn,” she said. She looked angry clear through. Her lips were compressed, her blue eyes glinting Riverwind sighed. “What new problem do you bring me, wife?”

“An old problem—Hederick. Why Mishakal didn’t yank his feet out from under him while he was crossing that cliff face—” Goldmoon saw Elistan standing there, and she flushed. “I’m sorry, Revered Son. I know such thoughts are wicked…”

“Hederick is enough to try even a god’s patience,” Elistan said dryly. “I’m sure Mishakal must have been tempted to do just that. What mischief is he causing now?”

“He’s going among the people saying that Riverwind has led us to our deaths. Riverwind caused the rockslide, and now we cannot return to the caves. We are trapped in this pass, where we will die of cold and hunger.”

“What else?” Riverwind asked, for Goldmoon had hesitated. “Tell me the worst.”

“Hederick is advocating that we should surrender, give ourselves up to Verminaard.”

“Hederick was the one who led the dragons to us!” Riverwind said angrily. “I was forced to start the rock slide because he put us in danger! I should have left him to his fate!”

“Are the people listening to him?” Elistan asked, his expression grave.

“I’m afraid so, Revered Son.” Goldmoon rested her hand on her husband’s arm in sympathy. “It is not your fault. The people know that, but they are cold, tired, and weighed down by the dragonfear. They can’t go back to the caves, and they are terrified of going forward.”

“They know what Verminaard will do to them! He’ll send them back to the mines.”

“I very much doubt it,” said Elistan. “He came to the caves with the intention of killing, not capturing.”

“The people won’t believe that. A man lost and wandering in the wilderness sees even a prison cell as a refuge,” Goldmoon said. “You must talk to them, husband. Reassure them. Nighthawk told me that the scouts may have found the gate—”

“For all the good it will do us,” Riverwind muttered. “There is a draconian army between us and the gate, and we’re not even sure this hole in the mountain is the gate. It might just be a hole in the mountain. If it is the gate, there may be a dwarven army massed inside waiting to slaughter us!”

Riverwind sat down dejectedly on a boulder. His shoulders slumped. “Tanis chose the wrong man. I do not know what to do.”

“At least you know what not to do,” said Goldmoon spiritedly. “Don’t pay attention to Hederick!”

Riverwind smiled at this and even gave a low chuckle, though his laughter faded away. He put his arm around Goldmoon and drew her close.

“What do you advise me to do, wife?”

“Tell the people the truth.” She put her hands on his face, looked lovingly into his eyes. “Be honest with them. That’s all they ask. We will give our prayers to the gods, ask them to help us through the long night. The dawn brings a new day and fresh hope.”

Riverwind kissed her. “You are my joy and my salvation. The gods know what I would do without you.”

“And there is a small blessing,” said Goldmoon, nestling in her husband’s arms. “The dragons know we are here. There is no longer any need to hide from them. We can light fires for warmth.”

“Indeed, we can,” said Riverwind. “We will light the fires not only for warmth but for defiance, and instead of begging the gods to save us, we will offer them our grateful thanks for our deliverance. We will not even think of surrendering!”

The refugees lit the fires in defiance of the dragons, and when the fires were burning brightly, bringing warmth and cheer, the people sent their prayers to the gods in thanksgiving. The dragonfear seemed to melt and spirits lifted. Everyone spoke hopefully of the dawn of a new tomorrow.

Hederick saw that he had lost his audience, and he ceased talking of surrender and gave his prayers of thanks piously with the rest. He had no faith at all in these new gods, though he pretended he did because it was politically expedient. He had unbounded faith in himself, however, and he truly believed that if they surrendered to Verminaard, as he advocated, he could worm his way into the Highlord’s good graces. To give Hederick credit, he did not believe they had any chance at all of escape. He was convinced that Riverwind was an ignorant brute who would rather see them all perish than bow to his enemy.

Hederick was not dismayed. As a politician, he knew the masses were fickle. All he had to do was bide his time, and they would come around to his point of view. He went to sleep that night thinking complacently of tomorrow when Riverwind, Elistan and their cohorts must finally admit defeat.

The next day dawned and brought change. Unfortunately the change was not for the good. The dragons flew nearer, the dragonfear was stronger, the air was colder, and the day bleaker. Hederick walked up to Riverwind and spoke loudly, so that as many as possible could hear him.

“What will you do now, Chieftain? Our people are starting to sicken, and soon they will begin to die. You know as well as I do that we cannot stay here. Your gods have failed you. Admit that this venture was foolishly undertaken. Our only hope is to surrender to the Dragon Highlord—an unpleasant and dangerous task, but one I offer to undertake.”

“And you will receive Verminaard’s reward for handing us over to him,” said Riverwind.

“Unlike you, I am thinking of the people’s welfare,” said Hederick. “You would see all us all perish rather than admit you were wrong!”

Riverwind could have cheerfully seen at least one of them perish, but he kept silent.

“Perhaps you are waiting for the gods to perform a miracle?” Hederick said, scoffing.

“Perhaps I am,” Riverwind muttered, and he turned on his heel and walked off.

“The people will no longer follow you!” Hederick warned. “You will see.” Riverwind thought this very likely. As he walked among the refugees, he saw them huddled together for warmth, their faces pale and pinched. The fire’s glow that had warmed hearts last night was cold ash this morning. They had food and water enough for a few days more, and they were at least that far from the gate—if gate it was and if the dwarves would let them in. If, if, if. So many ifs.

“We could use a miracle,” Riverwind said somberly, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “I’m not asking for a big one, not like moving the mountain—just a small one.”

Something cold and wet stung Riverwind’s skin. He put his hand to his cheek and felt a snowflake melting on his skin. Another snow-flake landed in his eye; another splattered on his nose. He gazed up into the gray clouds, into masses of white flakes drifting lazily from the sky. Instead of a miracle, the gods had sent yet more to test them. The snow would clog the pass. They would have to leave or risk becoming trapped here for good.

Even as despair settled over Riverwind, he felt his heart lift. He did not understand why at first, then the reason came to him. The dragonfear was gone. The dragons were no longer in the skies. He stared at the snow falling thick around him and he would have fallen to his knees to give thanks, but he had no time to waste.

Riverwind had been given his miracle. It was up to him to make use of it.

Chapter 4 Arman’s Destiny. Anvil’s Echo. Murder holes and worm Meat.

Flint had described the wonders of the dwarven realm of Thorbardin many times to Tanis, always with a touch of bitterness, for although no hill dwarf would ever trade his place in the world “above” to live beneath the mountain, every hill dwarf was deeply offended that the choice had been taken away from him. Tanis had always secretly believed that Flint had exaggerated his tales of the amazing sights to be found in mountain kingdom. Flint actually had never seen any of these sights. He was merely recounting tales that had been told him by his father, who had heard them from his grandfather, and so on back several generations. Flint was convinced that there was immense wealth in Thorbardin that was being denied him and his people, so when he told the tale of a city built entirely inside a gigantic stalactite, Tanis was always careful to hide his smile.

Now, walking the roads beneath the mountain, Tanis was starting to think he’d done his old friend an injustice. Whereas humans constructed buildings out of stone by mounting blocks one atop the other, the dwarves had carved their buildings out of the mountain’s interior, taking away rock rather than adding it, so that all the structures seemed to flow together in beautiful and entrancing formations.

Leaving the gate, they entered an immense hall supported by round pillars. The light of the strange green glowing worms and the gleaming crystal atop Raistlin’s staff shone on wonderfully carved stone work portraying scenes from dwarven life.

Although now the hall was deserted, it had apparently been constructed so as to take advantage of the traffic that had once moved in and out of the great gate. Wagons with iron wheels once ran along rails embedded in the floor, ferrying goods and visitors deeper into the mountain’s interior. Looking around in awe, Tanis imagined the vast hall bustling with dwarves and people of other races who came to Thorbardin. Elves had once walked here, as had humans, for dwarven goods and dwarven craftsmanship were much in demand. Gold and silver had flowed into Thorbardin then. Iron, steel, and rare and precious gems dug from the mountain had flowed out. Now the iron rails were rusted. The wagons lay on their sides, their wheels frozen in time. The shops that had once sold pots and kettles, rims for wagon wheels, wooden toys, swords, armor and glittering jewels now catered only to the sad and empty dreams of ghosts. Houses had been boarded up, their shutters falling off; wooden doors hung on rusted hinges.

“Tanis,” said Caramon quietly. “Take a look at Flint. Something’s wrong.” Tanis looked back at the dwarf in concern. Caramon was right. Flint did not look well. He had ceased to swear at his captors and quit struggling, all of which was a bad sign. His face was mottled, ashen gray with red spots. His breathing seemed labored. Their guards were urging them on a rapid pace. The dwarven soldiers held their weapons at the ready, keeping a keen watch.

“Your Highness,” Tanis called out, “would it be possible for us to stop to rest or at least slow down?”

“Not here,” Arman replied. “We have already been in this part of the realm too long. We came here to free my brother, Pick,” he added, gesturing to the sickly dwarf, who walked along at his side. “We heard the noise of the gate and came to investigate, and now we must leave before more Theiwar come.”

“So this part of the realm is ruled by the Theiwar?” Tanis asked, glancing at Flint. The dwarf barely seemed to be listening. “Are the Theiwar and the Hylar at war?”

“Not yet,” Arman said grimly, “but it is only a matter of time.”

“Just our luck,” Sturm muttered. “War beneath the ground as well as above.” Tanis was thinking the same and wondering how this fighting among the dwarves would affect his own cause, when he became aware, with a start, that Raistlin was walking quite close beside him. Tanis could smell the disquieting odor of rose petal and decay, and he drew back slightly.

“A word with you, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said. “Speaking of the Theiwar, don’t you find it odd that they did not appear surprised to see us? Compare their reaction to that of Arman Kharas and his soldiers.”

“To be honest, I don’t recall the Theiwar’s reaction,” Tanis said, “other than the swords in their hands, of course.”

“This is not a matter for levity,” said Raistlin reprovingly, and before Tanis could say anything else the mage left in a huff, going back to walk alongside his brother.

Tanis sighed. He had some idea what Raistlin was getting at, but it was one more worry he didn’t need and he put it out of his mind. He looked again at Flint. His jaw was clenched, perhaps in anger, or perhaps against pain—with the stubborn old dwarf, it was hard to tell. Caramon asked him if he was hurt or ill, but Flint paid him no heed. He stomped along, deaf to his friends’ concerns.

To Tanis’s surprise, Arman Kharas left his place in the lead and dropped back to walk beside his prisoners. Arman seemed to find them fascinating, for he kept staring at them, especially at Tanis.

“You are not a human,” he said at last.

“I have elven blood,” Tanis acknowledged.

Arman nodded, as if he had guessed as much.

“This hall once must have been very beautiful,” said Tanis. “Perhaps now that the gate is open, this deserted part of Thorbardin can be rebuilt. Bring back the old prosperity.”

“This now belongs to the Theiwar and they have small interest in building, being more concerned with their own dark plots and schemes. And this part of the realm is not deserted,” Arman said, adding ominously, “The Theiwar are out there, watching us from the shadows, making certain that we do not linger in their kingdom.”

“Why don’t they attack us?” Tanis asked, pleased that the Hylar prince was at least talking to him.

“The Theiwar prefer opponents who travel alone and are not armed, like my half-brother. He accidentally stumbled into Theiwar holdings and was taken prisoner. They made a ransom demand, but my father rightly refused to pay off thugs and murderers. Our spies informed me where Pick was being held, and my father sent his troops under my command to free him.” They left the hall and entered an area that appeared to be an ancient temple, for there were symbols for the various gods carved on the walls.

“A great many people must have come to Thorbardin in the old days,” Tanis remarked.

“They came from all over Ansalon,” said Arman proudly, “even from as far away as Istar. They came to buy or barter. They came to hire our iron workers and our stone masons. They brought wealth and prosperity to our people.” His voice grew hard, his words bitter. “They brought the Cataclysm, and after that the war, and all our prosperity ended.”

“It need not have ended if those beneath the mountain had not closed the gate, keeping out their cousins who had a right to enter,” Flint stated, the first words he’d spoken in a long while. Tanis was relieved to see some color starting to return to Flint’s face. That and the fact that he was bringing up this old argument was an indication the dwarf was recovering from whatever had ailed him.

“We don’t need to go into all that now,” Tanis admonished, but he might have saved his breath.

“King Duncan—or Derkin as you Neidar named him—had no choice in the matter,” Arman stated. “We were also affected by the Cataclysm. Many of our farming warrens were destroyed. Our food supplies were limited. If we had allowed your people to come inside, we would not have saved you. We would have all starved to death together.”

“So you say.” Flint snorted, but he didn’t speak with his usual outrage and conviction. He kept darting glances about at the ruins of the once great city, and though he was trying his best to hide it, he was obviously shocked and depressed by what he saw. The wonders of Thorbardin were wrecked wagons and rusted door hinges.

Tanis decided to change the subject before Flint started some new tirade.

“If Northgate remains open, the Theiwar will control it. How will that affect the Hylar?”

“The gate will not remain open,” Kharas said flatly. “Unless something happens to prevent it, the Council of Thanes will send soldiers to guard the gate and keep out intruders until it can be closed and sealed once more.”

“You think the gate should be remain open, don’t you?” Tanis said, hoping he had found an ally.

“I believe it is my destiny, once I have obtained the Hammer of Kharas, to rule the united Dwarven Nations,” said Arman. “To do that, the gate must remain open.”

“Why are you so sure you’re the one who will find the hammer?” Flint asked. Arman lifted his head and raised his voice. His words reverberated throughout the cavern. “Thus spake Kharas: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’” He placed his hand on his chest. “I am that dwarf.”

A rude noise came out of the darkness. Some of the soldiers were sniggering into their beards. If Kharas heard, he pretended he hadn’t.

“Ask him more about the Hammer of Kharas,” Sturm urged Tanis, who shook his head. Flint had once more lapsed into silence. The old dwarf would never admit to being tired, but Tanis noted that walking was costing him an effort.

“How much farther do we have to go until we are out of Theiwar territory?” Tanis asked.

“We have to cross that bridge,” Arman replied, gesturing ahead. “Once we are on the other side, in the West Warrens, we will be safe. Then we can stop to rest.”

A vast cavern opened up before them, spanned by a stone bridge of curious make. Small figures of dwarves carved out of stone lined the bridge on either side. The stone dwarves stood about three feet in height, forming a barricade to keep people crossing the bridge from tumbling off. Iron tracks ran down the middle of the bridge, with walkways for pedestrians on either side. The bridge, like everything else in this part of Thorbardin, showed signs of neglect. Some of the dwarven statues were missing heads or arms, while others had been destroyed completely, leaving gaps in their ranks.

“This cave is known as Anvil’s Echo, for it is said that the sound of a dwarven hammer striking an anvil in this cave will echo for all eternity,” Arman Kharas told them.

“An excellent defensive measure,” said Sturm, looking on the bridge with approval. He stared overhead, but could see nothing for the darkness. “I take it there are murder holes in the ceiling?” Arman Kharas was pleased by the knight’s praise. “The enemy never made it past this bridge. The defenders of Northgate dropped down boulders, molten lead, and boiling oil on those who tried to cross. Few did, and their skeletons still lie at the bottom of the cave.” Flint glowered at the mention of this. He halted, frowning. “I won’t cross,” he stated. Arman misunderstood. “No one ever goes up there now. You need have no fear—” he began in patronizing tones.

“Fear?” Flint went red in the face. “It’s not fear! It’s respect. My people died on this bridge and you tell me they lie there unburied, their souls lost and wandering.”

“My people lie there, as well,” said Arman. “When the blessed day comes when I unify the kingdoms, I will give orders that the dead of both sides are given proper respect.” Flint was considerably taken aback by this statement, which appeared to leave him at a loss for words. He muttered something to the effect that he guessed he would cross, but he kept giving Arman strange looks.

Arman sent some of his soldiers on ahead, to make certain the bridge was secure. He followed with the prisoners, and the rest of his soldiers closed in behind, as they began the long trek from one side of Anvil’s Echo to the other.

“Mad as a marmot,” muttered Flint.

“This is certainly a long bridge,” stated Tasslehoff, with a gusty sigh. Caramon grunted in agreement.

Tasslehoff had been keeping out of mischief mainly due to the fact that the dwarves had trussed up the kender so efficiently he had not been able to slip free. Every time Tas saw something interesting and started to wander off, the soldier would poke him in the back with a spear. Caramon wondered how long this would go on before either the kender found some way to escape, or the dwarf grew so frustrated he skewered him.

“I thought crossing a bridge with murder holes would be extremely interesting, but it isn’t. It’s boring.”

“And never a mention of dinner,” Caramon grumbled. “My stomach’s so empty it’s flapping around my backbone. What do Thorbardin dwarves eat anyway?”

“Worms,” said Tasslehoff. “Like the ones inside the lanterns.”

“No!” Caramon said, shocked.

“Oh, yes,” said Tas. “The dwarves have huge farms where they raise these gigantic worms, and butcher shops where they cut them into worm steak and worm stew and worm chops—” Caramon was appalled. “Raist, Tas says that dwarves eat worms. Is that true?” Raistlin was eavesdropping on Tanis’s conversation with Arman, and he cast Caramon a look that said plain as words that he was not to be bothered with stupid questions. Caramon suddenly found he wasn’t as hungry as he had been. The kender was leaning over the barricade, trying to see the bottom.

“If I fell off, would I keep falling until I came out on the other side of the world?” Tas asked.

“If you fell, you’d fall until you hit bottom and ended up splattered all over the rocks,” said Caramon.

“I guess you’re right,” said Tas. He looked up ahead to where Flint, Tanis, and Arman Kharas were walking together. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

“Naw,” said Caramon. “I can’t hear anything over all the tromping, rattling, and clanging. These dwarves make noise enough for an ogre feast day!”

“Not to mention the thunder,” said Tas.

Caramon glanced at him, puzzled. “What thunder?”

“A moment ago I heard thunder,” said the kender. “Must be a storm coming.”

“If there was, you couldn’t hear thunder down here.” Caramon’s brow crinkled. “Are you making this up?”

“No, Caramon,” said Tas. “Why should I do that? I heard thunder, and I felt it in my feet like you do when the thunder falls out of the sky…”

Caramon heard it too now. He stared up into the darkness. “That’s not thunder… Raistlin! Look out!”

Hurling himself forward, Caramon knocked his brother down and flung his body across him protectively just as an enormous boulder struck the bridge where Raistlin had been standing. The boulder crushed two of the dwarven statues and opened a large hole in the barricade before it went bounding off into the darkness.

The Hylar scattered as another boulder came hurtling after the first. This one missed its mark, going wide of the bridge. They heard the first boulder land down below, smashing into pieces.

“Raistlin! Douse that light!” Tanis shouted. “Everyone get down, hug the floor!”

“Dulak!” Raistlin gasped, and the light atop his staff went out. The dwarves shuttered their lanterns, and they were plunged into darkness.

“Not that this will do much good,” Flint growled. “The Theiwar can see in the darkness better than they can in the light. It is only a matter of finding their aim.”

“I thought you said the way to the murder holes was impassable,” Tanis said to Arman.

“It used to be.” The dwarf leader alone remained on his feet, staring upward in astonished outrage. “The Theiwar must have repaired it, though that is odd…”

His voice broke off as another boulder came down, striking the bridge some distance ahead of him, cracking the stone and causing the bridge to shake alarmingly.

“Caramon,” said Raistlin testily, “move your great bulk off me! I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry, Raist,” said Caramon, shifting his weight. “Are you all right?”

“I am lying on my back on a bridge in pitch darkness with someone hurling boulders at me. No, I am not all right,” Raistlin retorted.

Another boulder smashed into the railing, crumbling more dwarven statues and causing everyone to flinch.

“That one just missed me!” Sturm reported grimly. “We can’t stay here and wait to be smashed into jelly!”

“How far to go until we reach cover?” Tanis asked Arman in a low voice.

“Not far. Only about another forty feet.”

“We should run for it,” Tanis urged.

“Some of us can’t see in the dark like you can, Half-elf,” Caramon pointed out. “I think I’d rather get flattened by boulders than fall off this bridge.”

They all ducked as another boulder thudded somewhere nearby.

Arman gestured to his men. “Unshutter the lanterns!”

The soldiers did as they were ordered, working quickly, and everyone started running.

“This bridge didn’t turn out to be as boring as I thought,” said Tasslehoff cheerfully. “Do you think they’ll pour boiling oil on us next?”

“Just run, damn it!” Tanis ordered.

Tasslehoff ran, and being extremely nimble and accustomed to fleeing all sorts of dangers, from irate sheriffs to angry housewives, the kender soon outdistanced everyone. Caramon lumbered along, keeping near his brother. Raistlin hiked up the skirts of his robes, and staff in hand, ran swiftly. Sturm brought up the rear. It was awkward going, trying to run with their hands bound, but the hurtling boulders gave them an excellent incentive to keep moving.

Suddenly, a cry sounded behind them. Pick, the sickly dwarf, had stumbled and fallen to his knees. Arman turned around. Seeing his brother’s plight, he started to hand the Helm of Grallen to one of his soldiers. The soldier cringed, shook his head, and kept running.

“I’ll take it!” offered Flint. “You’ll have to cut my hands loose.” Another boulder whistled past, and they all ducked involuntarily. Pick cried out in terror as the boulder struck the bridge close to him, showering him with stone fragments. Kharas hesitated only a moment then whipped out a knife, sliced Flint’s bonds, and tossed him the helm. Arman dashed back along the bridge, dodging a boulder as it struck the rail and bounded off. Clasping his brother’s hands, Arman lifted him up, and slung him over his back.

They continued to run across the bridge. The green light from the worm-lanterns flared first in one place, then another, as the lanterns swung back and forth. The wildly flashing lights made the dwarven statues appear to be capering in some sort of mad dance that added to the macabre terror of their race against death.

Tanis kept near Flint, who was now encumbered with the helm, thinking he might need help. The old dwarf ran strongly, however, his head down, legs pumping. He held the Helm of Grallen clasped fast in his arms and even running for his life, he wore a grim smile of satisfaction that boded ill for anyone who might try to take the helm from him again.

More boulders sailed down through the green-lit darkness, whistling past so close they could feel the rush of air on their cheeks. Tanis could see the end of the span now, sheltered beneath a large entry way. The light shone on the bars and the wicked points of a portcullis that, fortunately, was raised.

The sight spurred them on, giving those who were flagging their second wind. Tasslehoff reached the entrance first, followed by the dwarven soldiers in a thundering rush. The rest of the companions came after. Raistlin collapsed just short of the opening and had to be dragged inside by his brother. Arman Kharas, carrying Pick on his back, came last. Once they were off the bridge, the boulders ceased to fall.

“The Theiwar targeted us,” said Sturm, gasping for breath.

“They targeted Raistlin,” Tanis pointed out.

Flint snorted. “I said the Theiwar were evil. I never said they didn’t have good sense.”

Chapter 5 The Temple of Reorx. The Hammer of Kharas. A Strange Encounter.

All of them, even the stalwart dwarves, who generally make light of any physical exertion, sank to the floor and lay there gasping for air. Tanis had a great many questions, but he lacked the breath to ask them.

Raistlin leaned back against the wall of the gatehouse. His golden skin took on an odd greenish cast in the lantern light. His eyes were closed. Every so often, his breath rasped.

“He’s not hurt, just exhausted,” Caramon informed them.

“We are all exhausted, not just your brother,” Sturm said testily, trying to rub a cramp out of his leg. “We spent the first half the day climbing a mountain. My throat is parched. We need water and rest—”

“—and food,” said Caramon, then added hurriedly, “vegetables or something.”

“This area is still inside Theiwar territory and is not safe. A short distance ahead is a temple to Reorx,” Arman told them: “We can rest there in safety.”

“Raist, can you make it?” Caramon eyed his twin dubiously.

Raistlin, eyes closed, grimaced. “I suppose I will have to.”

“I am afraid I must ask you to continue to carry the helm,” Arman said to Flint. “Poor Pick cannot go on without my aid, and none of my men wants anything to do with it.”

“If they think this helm’s that terrible, why don’t they just toss it off that bridge and have done with it?” Caramon asked Flint.

“Would you toss your dead father’s bones off that bridge?” Flint asked, glaring at him. “Cursed or no, the spirit of the prince has come back to his people and must be laid to rest.” Arman insisted they leave, and groaning and grunting, they started off, crossing a drawbridge that did not appear to have been raised in years. Fearing pursuit from behind, Sturm suggested they might attempt to raise this bridge, but Arman said that the mechanism was rusted and would not work.

“The Theiwar will not pursue us,” he added.

“You said they wouldn’t attack us either,” Flint remarked.

“My father will be angry to hear of this assault on me and my men,” Arman stated. “This might lead to war.”

Leaving the gatehouse, they emerged onto a main road lined with more abandoned buildings and shops. Streets and alleys led off the road in various directions. There were no lights, no sounds, no signs of habitation.

Raistlin was limping. He was being helped by his brother. Flint marched with his head down, holding fast to the helm. Tasslehoff’s footsteps were starting to flag. Arman left the main street, and taking a turn to the left, he led them down a side road.

A large building rose in front of them. Doors of bronze, marked with the sign of a hammer, stood open.

“The Temple of Reorx,” said Arman.

The Hylar soldiers removed their helms as they went, but they seemed to do this more out of habit than true reverence or respect. Once inside, the dwarves relaxed and felt free to make themselves at home, stretching out on the floor where the altar had once stood, taking long pulls from their ale skins, and rummaging in their knapsacks for food.

Arman conferred with his soldiers, then sent one on ahead to carry news to his father. He detailed another to keep watch at the door and ordered two more to stand guard on the companions.

Tanis could have pointed out that they weren’t likely to try to escape, since none of them had any desire to cross Anvil’s Echo a second time. He was too weary to argue, however.

“We will spend the night here,” Arman announced. “Pick is not strong enough to travel. We will be safe enough, I think. The Theiwar don’t usually venture this far, but just in case, I have sent one of my men to bring up reinforcements from the West Warrens.”

Tanis considered this an excellent idea.

“Could you at least untie us?” he asked Arman. “You have our weapons. We have no intention of attacking you. We want to have our say before the Council.”

Arman eyed him speculatively, then gave a nod. “Untie them,” he ordered his soldiers. The Hylar did not appear happy about this, but they did as he said. Arman fussed over his brother, making sure he had something to eat and was resting comfortably. Tanis gazed curiously around the temple. He wondered if Reorx had made himself known to the dwarves, as the other gods had made themselves known. Judging by the dilapidated state of the temple and the casual attitude of the dwarves as they set up housekeeping for the night, Tanis assumed the god, for whatever reasons, had not yet informed the dwarves of his return.

According to the wise, the creation of the world began when Reorx, a friend of the God of Balance, Gilean, struck his hammer on the Anvil of Time, forcing Chaos to slow his cycle of destruction. The sparks that flew from the god’s hammer became the stars. The light from these stars was transformed into spirits, who were given mortal bodies by the gods, and the world of Krynn, in which they could dwell. Although the creation of the dwarves had always been in dispute (dwarves believing they were formed by Reorx in his image, while others maintain dwarves were brought into being by the passing of the chaotic Graygem of Gargath), dwarves were firm in their belief that they were the chosen people of Reorx.

The dwarves were devastated when Reorx departed along with the other gods after the Cataclysm. Most refused to believe it and clung to their faith in the god, even though their prayers were answered with silence. Thus while most other people on Krynn forgot the old gods, the dwarves still remembered and revered Reorx, telling the old tales about him, confident that someday he would return to his people.

The Thorbardin dwarves still swore oaths in Reorx’s name; Tanis had heard swearing enough on the bridge to know that. Flint had done the same all the years Tanis had known him, though Reorx had been absent for hundreds of years. According to Flint, the clerics of Reorx vanished from the world just prior to the Cataclysm, leaving the same time the other clerics of the true gods mysteriously departed. But were there now any new clerics beneath the mountain?

His friends were also looking around the temple, and Tanis guessed they were thinking along the same lines, some of them, at least. Caramon was staring wistfully at the food, as Arman came by, offering everyone a share.

The dwarves were munching on hunks of some sort of salted meat. Caramon eyed it hungrily then glanced at Tasslehoff, thinking of worms, and with a deep sigh, shook his head. Arman shrugged and gave some to Flint, who accepted a large portion with muttered thanks. Raistlin had refused any nourishment and gone straight to his bed. Tasslehoff sat cross-legged in front of one of the lanterns, munching on his meal and watching the worm inside. Flint had told him the worm was the larva of gigantic worms that chewed through solid stone. Tas was fascinated, and he kept tapping on the glass panel to see the larva wriggle.

“Should we say anything about the return of the gods?” Sturm asked, coming to sit down beside Tanis.

Tanis shook his head emphatically. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“We will have to bring up the gods,” Sturm insisted, “when we ask about the Hammer of Kharas.”

“We’re not going to talk about the hammer,” said Tanis shortly. “We’re going to try to keep out of a dwarven dungeon!”

Sturm considered this. “You’re right. Speaking of the gods would be awkward, especially if Reorx has not returned to them. Still, I don’t see why we should not ask Arman about the hammer. It shows we have a knowledge of their history.”

“Just drop it, Sturm,” Tanis said sharply, and he went over to have a talk with Flint. He sat down beside the dwarf and accepted some of the food. “What’s wrong with Caramon? I never before saw him turn down a meal.”

“The kender told him it was worm meat.”

Tanis spit the meat out his mouth.

“It’s dried beef,” said Flint with a low chuckle.

“Did you tell Caramon?”

“No,” the dwarf returned with a sly grin. “Do him good to lose some weight.” Tanis went over to assuage Caramon’s fears. He left the big man chewing voraciously on the tough and stringy beef, swearing he would tear off the kender’s pointy ears and stuff them into his boots. The half-elf went back to finish his talk with Flint.

“Have you heard these dwarves mention Reorx, other than swearing by him?” Tanis asked.

“No.” Flint held the Helm of Grallen in his lap, his hands resting protectively on top of it. “You won’t either.”

“Then you don’t think Reorx has returned to them?”

“As if he would!” Flint snorted. “The mountain dwarves shut Reorx out of the mountain when they sealed the doors on us.”

“Sturm was asking me… do you think we should tell the dwarves about the gods’ return?”

“I wouldn’t tell a mountain dwarf how to find his beard in a snowstorm!” Flint said scornfully. His hands on the helm, Flint propped himself up against a wall and settled himself for sleep.

“Keep one eye open, my friend,” said Tanis softly.

Flint grunted and nodded.

Tanis made the rounds. Sturm lay on the floor, staring up into the darkness. Tasslehoff had fallen asleep beside the worm lantern.

“Drat all kender anyway,” Caramon said, pulling a blanket over Tas. “I could have starved to death!” He glanced surreptitiously around. “I don’t trust these dwarves, Tanis,” he said quietly.

“Should one of us stand watch?”

Tanis shook his head. “We’re all exhausted and we have to appear before this Council tomorrow. We need to have our wits about us.”

He stretched out on the cold stone floor of the abandoned temple and thought he had never been so tired in his life, yet he couldn’t sleep. He had visions of them all being cast into the dwarven dungeons, never to see the light of day again. Already he was starting to feel closed in; the stone walls pressed down on him. As large as this temple was, it was not large enough to hold all the air Tanis needed. He felt himself being smothered, and he tried to shake off the panicked feeling that came over him whenever he was in dark and closed-up places.

His body ached with fatigue, and he was starting to relax and drift off when Sturm’s voice jolted him wide awake.

“Your hero, Kharas, was present at the final battle, was he not?”

Tanis swore softly and sat up.

Sturm and Arman were seated together on the opposite side of the chamber. The dwarven soldiers were making the walls shake with their snoring, but Tanis could hear their conversation quite clearly.

“The knights of Solamnia gave Kharas his name,” Sturm was saying, “Kharas being the word in my language for ‘knight’.”

Arman nodded several times and stroked his beard proudly, as though Sturm were speaking of him, not his famous ancestor.

“That is true,” Arman stated. “The Solamnic knights were much impressed with his honor and courage.”

“Did he carry the legendary Hammer with him during the final battle?” Sturm asked. Tanis gave an inward groan. He would have intervened, for he did not want the dwarves to begin to suspect they had come here to steal the Hammer, but it was too late. It would do more harm than good. He kept silent.

“Kharas fought courageously,” Arman told the story, enjoying himself immensely, “even though he was bitterly opposed to the war, for he said brother should not be slaying brother. Kharas even went so far as to shave off his beard to mark his opposition to the war, shocking the people. A clean-shaven chin is the mark of a coward.

“And so some called Kharas, for when he saw that dwarves on both sides had lost all reason and were killing each other out of hatred and vengeance, he left the field of battle, bearing with him the bodies of two of King Duncan’s sons, who had died fighting side-by-side. Thus Kharas survived the terrible explosion that took the lives of thousands of dwarves and men.

“King Duncan saw the bodies of his sons, and when word came to him of the blast and he knew that countless dwarves lay dead on the Plains of Dergoth, he ordered the gates of Thorbardin sealed. He vowed in his grief that no more would die in this dreadful war.”

“You say Duncan had two sons and they died on the field of battle and Kharas returned their bodies. What, then, of Prince Grallen?” Sturm paled; he seemed troubled. “I do not know how I know this, but the prince did not die on the field of battle. His body was never found.” Arman cast a dark glance at the helm. Flint had fallen asleep, but even in sleep he kept fast hold of the relict.

“The Council will decide if that story will be told,” Arman said sternly. “For now, we will not speak of it.”

“Then let us talk of more pleasant subjects,” said Sturm. His voice grew husky with reverence.

“All my life, I have heard the stories of the fabled Hammer of Kharas, the sacred hammer wielded by Huma Dragonbane himself. I would like very much be able to see the Hammer and do it honor.”

“So would we all,” said Arman.

Sturm frowned, as if he thought the dwarf was making fun of him. “I do not understand,” he said stiffly.

“The Hammer of Kharas is lost. We have spent three hundred years searching for it. Without the sacred Hammer, no dwarf can be named High King, and without a High King, the dwarven people will never be unified.”

“Lost?” Sturm repeated, shocked. “How could the dwarves misplace such a valuable artifact?”

“It was not misplaced,” Arman Kharas returned angrily. “After the gates were sealed, the clans began to plot to overthrow King Duncan, whom they now deemed to be weak. Each thane came to Kharas seeking support for his claim to the throne. Kharas wanted nothing to do with any of them, so he left Thorbardin by secret means and went into self-imposed exile. He stayed away many years. Finally, growing weary of his travels and longing for his home and his people, Kharas returned to Thorbardin, only to find the situation had worsened.

“The kingdoms were embroiled in civil war. Kharas was able to talk with Duncan one final time before he died. Grief-stricken, Kharas carried the king’s body to the magnificent tomb Duncan had built for himself. Kharas took with him the famous hammer. I told you what he said,” Arman added. “The prophecy that I will fulfill.”

Sturm gave a polite nod, but he was not interested in prophecies. “So the Hammer is in King Duncan’s Tomb.”

“We can only assume so. Kharas never returned to tell us. None know his fate.”

“Where is the tomb located?”

“In the final resting place of all dwarves, the Valley of Thanes.” Sturm tugged on his long mustache, a sign that he was disturbed. Tanis could guess the cause. No true knight would ever disturb the sacred sleep of the noble dead, yet his desire for the Hammer was great.

“Perhaps,” he said after a moment, “I might be permitted to enter the tomb. I would do so with reverence and respect, of course. Why do you shake your head? Is this forbidden?”

“So it would seem,” said Arman. “When Kharas did not return, the thanes and their followers raced to the tomb, each hoping to be the one to lay claim to the hammer. Fighting broke out in the sacred valley and it was then, when the battle was at its height, that a powerful force ripped the tomb from the ground and carried it into the sky.”

“The tomb vanished?” Sturm was dismayed.

“It did not vanish. We can see it, but we cannot reach it. Duncan’s Tomb floats hundreds of feet above the Valley of the Thanes.”

Sturm’s brow darkened.

“Do not look so downhearted, Sir Knight,” said Arman complacently. “You will yet have a chance to see the wondrous Hammer.”

“What do you mean?” Sturm asked.

“As I said, I am the dwarf of whom the prophecy speaks. I am the one destined to find the Hammer of Kharas. When the time is right, Kharas himself will guide me to it, and I am certain the time is almost upon us.”

“How can you tell?”

Arman would not say. Stating that he was tired, he went over to check on his brother then took himself to his bed.

Deeply disappointed, Sturm lapsed into gloomy silence. Tanis stared into the impenetrable darkness. The Hammer they needed to forge the dragonlances was lost, or if not lost, out of reach.

Nothing was going right it seemed.

Flint was doing as Tanis suggested, sleeping with one eye open, and that eye opened wide when he saw a strange dwarf come strolling into the temple as nonchalantly and confidently as if he owned the place. The dwarf was like no dwarf Flint had ever seen in his life. The stranger had a magnificent beard, glossy and luxuriant, and long curling hair that flowed down his back. He wore a blue coat with golden buttons, high boots that came to his thighs, a ruffled shirt, and a wide brimmed hat topped by a red plume. At this astonishing sight, Flint he sat bolt upright. He was about to shout a warning, but something in the cocky attitude of the dwarf stopped him, that and the fact that the dwarf walked right up to Flint and stared at him rudely.

“Here now,” said Flint, frowning. “Who are you?”

“You know my name,” said the dwarf, continuing to stare down at him, “just as I know yours. I’m an old friend of yours, Flint Fireforge.”

Flint sputtered in protest. “You’re no such thing! I never in my life had a friend who wore such frippery. Feathers and ruffles! You put a Palanthas dandy to shame!”

“Still, you know me. You call on me often. You swear by my beard and you ask me to take your soul if you’re lying.” The dwarf reached into the darkness and pulled out a jug. Removing the stopper, he sniffed at it and smiled expansively and offered it to Flint.

The redolent odor of the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits filled the air.

“Care for a swallow?” the stranger asked.

A terrible suspicion entered Flint’s mind. He felt in need of support. Taking the jug, he put it to his mouth and took a gulp. The fiery liquor burned his tongue, took him by the throat, wrung his neck, then sizzled down his gullet to his stomach where it exploded.

Flint gave a moist sigh and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Good, eh? It’s my own home brew,” said the dwarf, adding proudly, “I’ll wager you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Flint nodded and coughed.

The dwarf snatched back the jug, took a pull himself, then corked it up and tossed it back into the air where it vanished. He squatted down on his haunches in front of Flint, who squirmed under the intense gaze of the stranger’s black eyes.

“Figured out my name yet?” the dwarf asked.

Flint knew the dwarf’s name as well as he knew his own, but the realization was so stupefying that he didn’t want to believe it, and so he shook his head.

“I won’t make an issue of it,” the dwarf said with a shrug and a good natured grin. “Suffice it to say, I know you, Flint Fireforge. I know you very well. I knew your father and your grandfather, too, and they knew me, just like you know me, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it. That gratifies me. It gratifies me highly.

“Therefore,” said the dwarf, and he leaned forward and jabbed Flint rudely in the breastbone.

“I’m going to do something for you. I’m going to give you the chance to be a hero. I’m going to give you the chance to find the Hammer of Kharas and save the world by forging the dragonlances. Your name, Flint Fireforge, will echo in halls and palaces throughout Ansalon.” Flint was suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

The dwarf guffawed, doubling over with laughter. Oddly, no one else in the temple seemed to hear him. No one else stirred.

“You don’t have much time left, Flint Fireforge. You know that, don’t you? You have trouble catching your breath sometimes, pain in your jaw and your left arm… same symptoms your father had right near the end.”

“I do not!” Flint stated indignantly. “I’m fit as you or any dwarf here. Fitter, if I say so myself!” The stranger shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you need to think of the legacy you will leave behind. Will your name be sung by the bards after you are gone, or will you die an ignominious death, alone and forgotten?”

“Like I said, what’s the catch?” Flint asked, frowning.

“All you have to do is put on the Helm of Grallen,” said the dwarf.

“Hah!” Flint said loudly. He thumped his knuckles on the helm that rested beneath his hands. “I knew it! A trap!”

“It’s not a trap,” said the dwarf, and he smoothed his beard complacently. “Prince Grallen knows where the Hammer can be found. He knows how to reach it.”

“What of the curse?” Flint challenged.

The dwarf shrugged. “There is danger. I don’t deny it, but then, life is a gamble, Flint Fireforge. You have to risk all to gain all.”

Flint mulled this over, absently rubbing his left arm. Then he caught the dwarf regarding him with a sly smile and stopped.

“I’ll think about it,” Flint said.

“You do that,” said the dwarf, and he rose to his feet and stretched and yawned. Flint rose, too, out of respect. “Have you… uh… have you made this offer to anyone else?” The dwarf winked slyly. “That’s for me to know.”

Flint grunted. “Do they… these dwarves… know you’re here?”

The dwarf glared about the temple. “Does it look like they know? Spoiled brats! ‘Do this! Do that! Give me this. Give me that. Favor me over him. Heed my prayers; don’t listen to his. I’m worthy. He’s not.’ Bah!”

The dwarf gave a great roar. He raised his hands to heaven and shook his fists and roared again and again. The mountain trembled and Flint fell, cowering, to his knees.

The dwarf lowered his arms. He smoothed out his coat, settled his lace, and retrieved his plumed hat.

“I may come back to Thorbardin,” he said with a wink and a sly smile. “I may not. It all depends.”

He put his hat on his head, cast Flint a piercing glance, and strolled out of the temple, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

Flint remained on his knees.

Arman Kharas, waking, saw him crouched on the floor.

“Ah, you felt the quake,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. It was a small one. A rattler we call it—rattles a few dishes. Nothing more. Go back to sleep.”

Arman lay back down and rolled over and was soon snoring again.

Flint stood up shakily and wiped the sweat from his brow. He eyed the Helm of Grallen and thought—not for the first time—of what it would be like to be a hero. He thought of the pain in his arm, and he thought of death, and he thought of no one remembering. He thought of dishes rattling in Thorbardin.

Flint lay back down, but he did not go to sleep. He put the helm to one side and took care not to touch it.

Chapter 6 Frozen Ambitions. Plans For a Thaw.

Dray-yan paced the room, waiting for Grag to come with his report. Pacing, like shrugging, was another mannerism the aurak had picked up from humans. When he’d first witnessed Dragon Highlord Verminaard think out problems by walking the length of the room, Dray-yan had viewed the practice with disdain, a lamentable waste of physical energy. That was before Dray-yan had been faced with problems of his own. Now the aurak paced. When the knock came at his door, Dray-yan recognized Grag’s rapping and barked out a command to enter using Verminaard’s voice.

Grag came inside and swiftly shut the door behind him.

“Well?” Dray-yan demanded, seeing the glum look on Grag’s face. “What news?”

“The gate to Thorbardin is open, and it is snowing in the mountains. We had to give up our pursuit of the slaves.”

“A pity,” said Dray-yan.

“The snow is heavy and wet, and it blots out everything!” Grag said in his defense. “The dragons, both red and blue, refuse to fly in the stuff. They say that it builds up on their wings. They can’t see in it, they become disoriented, and they’re afraid of blundering into the side of the mountain. If we want dragons who are accustomed to snow, we should send for the white dragons who are in the south.”

“They are being used in the Ice Wall campaign. Even if they agreed to come, it would take weeks of negotiation with Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, and I don’t have the time to spare.”

“You don’t appear much interested in the slaves,” Grag observed, “after going to all that trouble to attack them.”

“I’m not. The slaves can go to the Abyss.” Dray-yan scowled, gesturing at a scroll bound by a black ribbon that lay on his desk. “I have received a commendation from Ariakas for doubling the iron output.”

“You should be pleased, Dray-yan,” Grag said, wondering why the aurak wasn’t.

“Let me put it another way. Lord Verminaard has received the commendation,” said Dray-yan, grinding his teeth on the name, then spitting it out.

“Ah,” said Grag, understanding.

“Entering Thorbardin was my doing!” Dray-yan raved. “My idea! My time spent dealing with those hairy, squinty-eyed Theiwar rodents! And who gets the credit? Verminaard! He has received a summons from the emperor inviting him to Neraka to receive Ariakas’s grateful thanks and a promotion! What am I to do, Grag? I cannot walk into Her Dark Majesty’s temple wearing this illusion, nor do I want to! I—Dray-yan! I deserve that commendation, the thanks, the promotion!”

“You could always send a message to Ariakas to say that Verminaard was killed.”

“Ariakas would dispatch another human Highlord here so fast my scales would fly off, that female they call the Blue Lady. She’d like nothing better than to take command of the Red Army, and from what I’ve heard, she despises draconians. You and I would both end up working in the iron mines if she took over!”

Dray-yan began to pace the floor again. His claws had torn large holes in the carpeting and he was now leaving scratch marks on the tiles beneath.

“The emperor is asking again about the escaped slaves and about that artifact, that dwarf hammer. He seems obsessed over it. He wants me, or rather Verminaard, to find it and bring it to Neraka when I come. How am I supposed to unearth some moldy old hammer? The emperor also wants assurances the slaves have all been killed. There are dangerous people hiding among them, elf assassins or some such thing.”

Grag watched the aurak pace in silence. He really didn’t give a damn about the aurak’s personal ambitions to become Dragon Highlord, but Dray-yan did have a point. Grag had heard a few rumors about the Blue Lady himself. Grag had a good life here, and he knew it.

“What are we going to do about these slaves?” Grag asked. “They will likely take advantage of the snow to try sneak past us and gain entrance to Thorbardin.”

Dray-yan turned to face him. “Do we have troops in the area?”

“Some, but most of them are being positioned around the southern part of Thorbardin. They couldn’t reach the north in time. It’s too bad Lord Verminaard bungled that attack in the valley.” Dray-yan swore beneath his breath. His plan of attack—bringing in draconian troops on the back of dragons—had been a brilliant one. He’d supervised the battle himself in the guise of Dragon Highlord Verminaard. He didn’t like to be reminded that his plan had failed. He wasn’t pleased with Grag for bringing it up.

“The humans knew we were coming!” he snarled. “It’s the only explanation. I’d like to know how they found out.”

“Don’t you understand, Dray-yan? The fault is Lord Verminaard’s,” said Grag, laying emphasis on the name. “The Highlord could not keep his mouth shut. He blabbed about his brilliant idea of putting draconians on dragons and sending them after the humans. Their spies heard about it and managed to warn the humans, so that they had time to escape. At least, that is what you will tell the emperor, if he should ask.”

Dray-yan caught the glint in the bozak’s eye.

“You are right, Grag!” Dray-yan said, intrigued. “The fault was Lord Verminaard’s. Go on. You were speaking of our troops in the area. What about the forces at Skullcap?”

“They failed to show up at the rendezvous site. Either they deserted, or they’re dead.”

“So,” said Dray-yan, “because of Lord Verminaard’s bungling, we don’t have enough men in the area to stop these humans from reaching Thorbardin.”

“Lord Verminaard has really managed this very badly. It is a shame,” Grag continued, “because Her Dark Majesty knows that it was your idea to put draconian troops on the backs of dragons. Her Dark Majesty is pleased with you.”

“Is she?” Dray-yan asked skeptically “Then why is she making my life difficult? Why not clear the skies of snowclouds so that her dragons can fly?”

“The lesser gods do what they can to fight her,” Grag said dismissively “Her Dark Majesty pays them small heed. She is giving you a chance to prove yourself, Dray-yan, and while I still don’t like you—”

“So you keep telling me,” Dray-yan sneered.

“—your success bodes well for all draconians. If you were to become a Dragon Highlord, all of us would benefit.”

“Yes, go on,” said Dray-yan.

“Lord Verminaard is already in trouble for having let the refugees escape in the first place. He is now in trouble for failing to recapture them.”

“But Verminaard is being commended by Emperor Ariakas for negotiating with the dwarves.”

“Negotiations he turned over to you, while he went chasing after the slaves.”

“Brilliant…” murmured Dray-yan.

“If Lord Verminaard were to fail yet again and then follow up that failure by dying an ignoble and ignominious death, and if you were to spring to the fore and save the day, the emperor could hardly fail to reward you. Her Dark Majesty would see to that.”

Dray-yan was silent, mulling this over. The more he thought about this scheme, the more he liked it. All his mistakes could be attributed to Lord Verminaard. The triumphs would be his own. Grinning broadly, he clapped the bozak on his scaly shoulder.

“Well, done, Grag! We make a good team!”

“I hope you will keep that in mind when you are a Dragon Highlord,” Grag said stiffly, his scales clicking in irritation. He disliked being touched.

“I will! I will. What do you want in reward, Grag?” Dray-yan asked magnanimously.

“Command of a regiment,” said Grag at once, “a regiment of humans.” Dray-yan grinned. “I think that could be arranged. Now, in regard to these slaves—”

“We could attack them with the forces we have,” Grag said. “The troops who wiped out that nest of gully dwarves are still in the area.”

“Gully dwarves?” Dray-yan had forgotten.

“The ones who discovered our secret tunnels.”

“Ah, those. No,” Dray-yan replied after a moment’s thought. “Lord Verminaard is going to botch this yet again. He’s going to allow the humans to reach Thorbardin.” The aurak shook his head in sorrow. “A fatal error on his lordship’s part, don’t you agree, Grag?”

“Fatal,” said Grag, with a snap of his teeth.

“Fortunately for Her Dark Majesty,” Dray-yan continued, reaching for pen and ink and parchment, “the brilliant aurak draconian who is Verminaard’s second-in-command will be on hand to save the day.”

Chapter 7 Bad Dreams. Giant mushrooms. Private Thoughts.

Flint woke up to find his hand resting on the Helm of Grallen.

He snatched his hand off, eyeing the helm uneasily. He remembered last night’s dream vividly, so vividly that it seemed almost real. Ridiculous, of course. Oh, it was all very well for Goldmoon and Elistan to have encounters with gods. They were human, after all, and humans were forever speaking about their gods in familiar terms, almost if they were buddies, then going about proselytizing, sharing their religious beliefs with everyone they met. Not so Flint Fireforge. Religion was a deep and private matter for the dwarf. Oh, he might swear by Reorx’s beard on occasion, but that was out of respect, and Flint did not go around extolling the god’s virtues to perfect strangers. Why, if he did that, the kender might decide to worship Reorx!

Reorx wasn’t a god to go poking his nose into a dwarf’s own private affairs. Likewise, a dwarf shouldn’t go about badgering the god to intervene. Those were Flint’s feelings on the subject. It sounded to him as if some of his fellow dwarves didn’t agree with that notion. All that talk about dwarves demanding Reorx do this for them and fix that…

If he believed some fancy-pants stranger who had nothing better to do than disturb a fellow’s sleep.

Flint eyed the helm. He’d taken it from Arman because he’d been furious that Arman had taken it away from him. Otherwise, Flint was forced to admit, he wouldn’t have touched the accursed thing. That it was cursed, he had no doubt.

The helm was magic, which meant that it must have been made by Theiwar, the only dwarves who were skilled in magic. True, the helm was of ancient make, and by all accounts, the Theiwar had not always been as devious and dark-souled in the old days as they were now. The helm had brought him and his friends here and showed them how to enter the gate, though whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. The helm hadn’t done anything bad to Sturm. As far as Flint was concerned, being transformed from a human into a dwarf was a step up. Still, the helm was magic, and to Flint’s mind there was no such thing as good magic. He had no intention of putting it on.

Flint looked over at Tanis, still sleeping, though not soundly or peacefully to judge by his sighs and mutterings.

“I wonder if I should tell him about my dream.”

Of all of his friends, Tanis was the only one the dwarf would even consider telling. He knew what the others would say if they found out that Reorx had promised him a chance to find the Hammer of Kharas. Once they heard that all he had to do was put on the helm, Raistlin and Sturm would be dragging it down around his ears. Telling Caramon was out of the question. He’d just tell his twin. Flint didn’t even consider Tasslehoff.

“No,” Flint decided. “I can’t tell Tanis, either. He’s got all those refugees on his hands. He’d never do anything to cause me harm, but if it came right down to it and he had to make a choice, he’d ask me to put on the helm…”

Flint sighed, then said gruffly to himself. “It was a dream! A stupid dream. As if I could ever be a hero… or even want to be!”

Arman woke them for an early start the next morning—at least, they assumed it was morning; there was no way to tell what time it was. They continued walking through the dwarven realm, the vastness of which amazed them, for it seemed to go on and on, and as Tasslehoff said, “went up and down and sideways.”

“Thorbardin encompasses three hundred square miles beneath the mountain,” Arman bragged.

“We have built dwellings, shops, and businesses on every level, level upon level, all of them laid out in orderly fashion. You can go into any city in any part of Thorbardin, and you will always know exactly what to find where.”

You could not have proven that by Tanis. He was lost in the maze; all the streets, shops, and dwellings looked alike to him, until they came to what Arman termed “transport shafts”—large holes bored in the rock that connected all the levels. Buckets attached to huge chains clanked up and down between the levels. Those wanting to go from one level to another (and not wanting to climb the chain ladders suspended between levels) could enter one of the buckets and ride to their destination.

Tanis peered over the edge of one of these shafts, and he was astounded to see how many levels there were. Arman Kharas considered these buckets a marvel of dwarven engineering, and he expected the companions to be impressed. He was disappointed to find that they’d seen a similar device at use in the ruined city of Xak Tsaroth, and said dismissively that dwarven engineers must have designed it.

They did not ride in the buckets, for which Caramon was grateful; his last experience with dwarven transportation having been one he’d just as soon forget. They continued walking on what Arman called the Road of the Thanes. Their journey took them from the abandoned city delvings of the Theiwar to a forest—a strange and wondrous forest located in a large natural cavern dubbed the “West Warrens.” Here the companions were impressed enough to suit even Arman Kharas.

“The trees are all mushrooms!” cried Tasslehoff.

The kender clapped his hands in delight and inadvertently let fall a small knife which Tanis recognized as belonging to Arman Kharas. Tanis swiftly retrieved the knife, and when the dwarf was busy showing off the wonders of the mushroom forest, he slipped it deftly into the top of the dwarf’s boot.

Raistlin, who had long made a study of herbs and plants, was eager to inspect the gigantic mushrooms towering over their heads. The mushrooms, other fungi, and strange darkness-thriving plants sprouted up out of rich loam that filled the area with an earthy, pungent odor. The smell was not unpleasant, but served to remind Tanis that he was deep underground, buried alive. He suddenly had the terrible feeling that if he didn’t get out of here, he was going to smother to death. His chest constricted. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was strongly tempted to break away and run back to the gate. Even the thought of boulders raining down on him didn’t deter him. He licked dry lips and looked about for an escape route.

Then there was Flint, solid and reassuring beside him.

“The old trouble?” asked the dwarf softly.

“Yes!” Tanis tugged on the collar of his tunic that, though loose, wasn’t loose enough. Flint brought out a water skin he had filled from a public well near the temple. “Here, take a drink. Try to think of something else.”

“Something other than being sealed up in a tomb!” Tanis said, swallowing the cool water and laving it on his forehead and neck.

“I had a dream last night,” Flint said gruffly. “Reorx came to me and offered to give me the Hammer of Kharas. All I have to do is put on this helm.”

“Then put it on,” said Sturm. “Why do you hesitate?”

Flint scowled and glanced around behind him to see the knight breathing down his neck. “I wasn’t talking to you, Sturm Brightblade. I was talking to Tanis.”

“The god of the dwarves comes to you and tells you to put on the helm and in return he will guide you to the Hammer of Kharas, and you weren’t going to tell me!”

“It was a dream!” Flint said loudly.

“What was a dream?” Caramon asked, coming up.

Sturm explained.

“Hey, Raist,” Caramon called. “You’d better come hear this.”

“Come hear what?” cried Tasslehoff, dashing over.

Raistlin reluctantly pulled himself away from studying the fungi and joined them. Sturm told the story, and Flint again stated testily that it was nothing but a dream and he was sorry he’d ever brought it up.

“Are you sure about it being a dream?” Tanis asked. “We were in Reorx’s temple, after all.”

“So you’re saying that now you believe in the gods?” Flint demanded.

“No,” said Tanis.

Sturm gave him a reproachful look.

“But I do think…” Tanis stopped.

“You think I should put on the helm?” Flint said.

“Yes!” Sturm said firmly and Raistlin echoed him.

Tanis did not answer.

“The helm didn’t tell Sturm where the Hammer was,” Flint pointed out.

“Sturm isn’t a dwarf,” Caramon said.

Flint glowered at him. “Would you put on this helm, you big lummox?”

“I will!’ Tasslehoff cried.

Caramon shook his head.

“I thought not,” Flint grunted. “Well, Half-Elven?”

“If you found the Hammer of Kharas and returned it to the dwarves, you would be a hero,” Tanis said. “The Thanes would be willing to grant you anything you asked for, maybe even open up their kingdom to the refugees.”

“Oh, bosh!” said Flint, and he stomped off in high dudgeon.

“You have to make him put on that helm, Tanis,” Sturm said. “One of the soldiers speaks Common, and I asked him about the Hammer. He told me outright that it never existed; it is only a myth. According to him, Arman Kharas has been up and down the Valley of the Thanes for years searching for the way inside the tomb. But if Flint knows how to find the hammer…”

“He’s right, Tanis,” said Raistlin. “You have to convince Flint to put on the helm. It won’t hurt him. It didn’t hurt Sturm.”

“Just enslaved him, taking over his body,” Tanis returned, “changing him into another person and forcing him to come here.”

“But it brought him back,” said Raistlin, spreading his hands, as though he couldn’t understand the fuss.

“You know Flint. You know how stubborn he can be. How do you suggest we get the helm on him if he refuses to even consider it? Tie him up and hold him down and jam it on his head?”

“I have rope in my pouch!” Tas offered helpfully.

“It has to be his choice,” Tanis stated. “You know that the more you badger him, the more he’ll get his back up and the less likely he’ll be to do anything. I suggest you two leave him alone. Let him make his own decisions.”

Raistlin and Sturm exchanged glances. Both did know Flint, and they both knew Tanis was right. Raistlin inclined his head and went back to his fungus. Sturm stalked off, tugging on his mustaches. Tanis wished the dwarf had kept his mouth shut. “Damn it to the Abyss,” he muttered. Arman came up. “We have spent enough time here. I have received word that the Council of Thanes will meet with you.”

“That’s big of them,” said Caramon. “I’ll go pry Raistlin loose.” Caramon went off to find his brother, locating him at last down on his hands and knees studying a grotesque looking plant that had black leaves and a purple stem which gave off an odor like cow dung. They eventually persuaded Raistlin to leave, but only by promising that he could return at some point to continue his studies.

Raistlin waxed voluble over the wonders he’d seen and endeared himself to Arman by asking the dwarf countless questions about the cultivation process of the mushrooms, the type of soil they preferred, how the dwarven farmers kept the ground moist, and so on, as they proceeded along the Road of the Thanes.

At least, thought Tanis, the dwarf’s startling revelation had taken his own mind off the notion that he was trapped miles beneath ground.

Tanis supposed he should be grateful.

The mushroom forest gave way to fields of tended mushrooms, other fungi and more odd-looking plants. Arman hurried them along now, not allowing time for any more stops. The dwarves in the fields halted their work to stare at them. Even the small ponies who pulled the plows lifted their heads to take a look. More than one dwarf threw down his rake or hoe and went racing off over the fields, presumably to spread the news that for the first time in three hundred years “Talls” had found their way beneath the mountain.

In the more populated parts of Thorbardin, the wagon and rail system still worked. Arman’s guards commandeered several wagons, ordering out the dwarves who had been riding in them and telling them to wait for another. None of these dwarves had ever seen a human and probably thought them myths, like the Hammer. They stood rooted to the spot, staring. Children burst into wails of terror.

For the most part, no one said anything but were simply content to gape. Here and there, however, a few dwarves had comments to make and these were all directed at Flint, who, by his clothes and the manner in which he wore his beard, was clearly a hill dwarf. He obviously did not belong beneath the mountain and soon the word went around that he was a Neidar, one of the enemy.

Tanis was well aware that Flint and all his people had nursed a three-hundred-year-old grudge against Thorbardin. He’d been hoping that the dwarves of Thorbardin would be more generous. After all, they’d won the war—if one could call it winning—when thousands on both sides had perished. But by the dark looks and muttered remarks, neither side was prepared to forget, much less forgive.

Not all the insults were aimed at the outsiders, nor were the rocks, one of which struck one of the soldier’s shoulders between his shoulder blades. The rock wasn’t very big, and it bounced harmlessly off the soldier’s breastplate. The Hylar soldiers were irate, however, and wanted to chase after the malefactors, who had vanished into the throng.

Arman reminded his men sternly that the Council would be in session that afternoon, and they must not arrive late. The soldiers grumbled but did as they were ordered. Tanis had the feeling this was just an excuse. Looking around at the gathering crowd of dwarves and seeing the grim expressions on their faces, he saw what Arman Kharas was seeing—his forces were outnumbered, and the crowd was in an ugly mood. What was astonishing and troubling was that these dwarves were not Theiwar.

“Trouble beneath the mountain,” said Flint, and he couldn’t help but look a bit smug.

“Find out what’s going on,” Tanis said. “It might affect what the Council decides to do with us.” Flint didn’t feel all that inclined to have a conversation with Arman Kharas, but he conceded that Tanis was right. They needed to know something of the political situation of Thorbardin before they faced the Council. He waited to speak to Arman until they were all inside the wagon and it was trundling along the tracks, heading still deeper into the mountain’s interior. Flint was not used to prying information out of people. He was uncomfortable and didn’t know where to start. Fortunately, Arman was given to conversation, and he turned to Flint.

“For some the war has not ended,” he stated, and Flint could not tell whether the dwarf meant this as some sort of apology or an accusation.

“For some it will never end,” Flint replied dourly, “not so long as those beneath the mountain live in safety and comfort, while my people work the land and fight off goblins and ogres to defend it.”

Arman snorted. “Do you think we live well here?”

“Don’t you?” Flint challenged, and he gestured at the farm fields, snug homes and businesses gliding past them.

“This looks prosperous,” said Arman, “but what you do not see are the hundreds of miners who have no work because the iron mines have closed, or rather,” he added, “you saw them—those who threw the rocks at us.”

“The mines closed!” Flint was astonished. “Why? Are they played out?”

“Oh, we have iron ore aplenty,” said Arman, “just no one to buy it. If every dwarf who lived in Thorbardin needed ten swords or fourteen kettles or thirty-six stew pots our iron mongers would have business enough, but no one does. The owners of the mines could not pay the miners. Dwarves who have no work cannot pay their butchers, who in turn cannot pay their landlords, who cannot pay the farmers…”

“Our children are being killed by dragons, goblins, and lizard-men,” Flint said heatedly. “War rages above, and you complain about not being able to pay a butcher’s bill! But there, I’ve said more than I should. The half-elf will tell our tale when he’s before the Council.” Arman’s eyes flickered. “Tell me more about what is happening on the surface.” Flint shook his head.

“There will be war down here as well,” Arman said, when it was apparent the dwarf would not elaborate. “You saw those dwarves back there. You heard the names they called us. The Council still rules in Thorbardin, but the people are growing more and more discontented. A year ago, no Theiwar would have dared attack a Hylar. Now with the increasing unrest among the population, our enemies, the Theiwar and the Daegar, view us as weak and vulnerable.” Arman was silent, then he said abruptly. “You asked me what sign I was given that my destiny is near. I will tell you. I believe it was the opening of Northgate.”

“What about the Helm of Grallen?” Flint asked.

Arman’s face darkened. “I don’t know. I don’t quite understand that part.” He shrugged, and his expression cleared. “Still, I have faith in Kharas. He will guide me. My time is at hand.” Flint squirmed in his seat. He felt unaccountably guilty about his dream, as though he and Reorx were somehow plotting behind Arman’s back.

“Don’t be an old fool,” Flint scolded himself.

Arman Kharas fell silent. He wore a rapt look, dreaming of his destiny.

The companions continued the journey along the Road of the Thanes, all of them absorbed in their own thoughts and dreams.

Caramon hung on to the side of the wagon that was swaying perilously back and forth along the track, thinking of Tika, berating himself for letting her go off alone, praying she was all right, and knowing he would blame himself if anything had happened to her. He hoped she would forgive him, hoped she did understand, as she had told him.

“Raistlin needs me, Tika,” Caramon said silently over and over, his big hand gripping the side of the wagon. “I can’t leave him.”

Raistlin was thinking over the strange events that had happened to him in Skullcap. How had he known his way around a place he’d never been? Why had he called Caramon by a strange name that wasn’t entirely strange? Why had the wraiths protected him? He had no idea, yet there was the nagging feeling deep within him that he did know why. The feeling was unpleasant and uncomfortable, and it irritated him, like the feeling you have when you need to recall something vitally important, and it is on the tip of your mind, yet you cannot remember.

“The Master bids us…” the wraiths had said to him. What Master?

“Not my master,” Raistlin said firmly. “No matter what he does for me, no one will ever be my master!”

Sturm was thinking of the Hammer of Kharas and its long and glorious history. Originally known as the Hammer of Honor, it had been forged centuries ago in memory of the hammer of Reorx and had been given by the dwarves to the humans of Ergoth as a sign of peace. At one point, the great elven ruler, Kith-Kanan, was said to have had the Hammer in his possession. Always it had been used for peaceful and honorable purposes, never to shed blood. Thus it was that Huma Dragonbane had sought out the Hammer, giving it into the hands of a famous dwarf smith and bidding him forge the first dragonlances. Armed with these, blessed by the gods, Huma had been able to drive the Queen of Darkness and her evil dragons back into the Abyss. After that, the Hammer had disappeared, only to reappear again in the hands of a hero worthy of it—Kharas, who had used the Hammer to try to forge peace, but had failed and now the Hammer was lost.

“If only I could be the one to bring it back to the knights!” said Sturm to himself. “I would stand before the Lord of the Rose and I would say, ‘Take this, my lord, and use it to forge the blessed dragonlances!’ The Hammer would help the knights defeat evil, and it would absolve me of my guilt, making up for all the evil that I have done.”

Tasslehoff’s thoughts were less easy to relate, being rather like a tipsy bee buzzing erratically from one flower to another. They went something like this:

“Caramon needn’t hang on to me so tightly. (Indignant) I’m not to going to fall out. Oh! Look at that! (Excited) I’ll have a closer look. No, I guess I won’t. (Wistful) There it goes. See there! More dwarves! Hullo dwarves! My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Was that a turnip? (Thrilled) Arman, was that a turnip they chunked at you? It certainly is a funny color for a turnip. (Intrigued) I never saw a black one before. Mind if I look at it? Well, you needn’t be so cross. (Hurt) It didn’t hit you that hard. Whew, boy! Would you look at that! (Excited)…” Tanis’s thoughts were on Riverwind and the refugees, wondering if they had survived the draconian attack, wondering if they were on their way to Thorbardin. If they were, they were counting on him to find them a safe haven here in the dwarven kingdom.

Tanis looked back on the moment last autumn when he’d met Flint on the hilltop near Solace and he wondered, not for the first time, how he’d come from that point to this—riding along in a dwarf-made wagon over rusted wheels miles beneath the surface of the earth, carrying eight hundred men, women, and children on his back. How he had found himself embroiled in a war he’d never meant to fight. How he had helped bring back gods he didn’t believe in.

“When all I ever did was go into the bar to have a drink with old friends,” he said with a smile and a sigh.

Flint sat in the wagon, holding onto the Helm of Grallen, and he heard the wheels clicking out the words, “Not much time. Not much time. Not much time…”

Chapter 8 The Old Dwarven Road. Tracks in The snow.

The refugees trudged through the snow, which Riverwind considered a blessing from the gods. The snow fell in huge flakes that came drifting straight down from the gray sky. The air was calm, the wind still. All was silence, for the snow muffled every sound. He feared that the snow, though a blessing, would also be a curse, for it would make the road slippery and dangerous to travel. Hederick, finding the gods had once again outfoxed him, spoke ominously of compound fractures and people slipping on the ice and falling to their deaths, for of course this ancient road would be in bad repair, cracked and broken.

Hederick did not know dwarves. When dwarves build a road, they build it to last. Though narrow, the road was intact and safe to walk, for the dwarves had taken into account the fact that those traveling the road would be doing so in bad weather and good, in winter and summer, through rain and snow, hail and fog, sleet and wind. They had carved grooves in the stone where the road was steepest, to prevent slipping, and they had built walls to prevent people from falling off the mountain side.

While the snow hid them from their enemies, it also hid them from each other. The people stayed close together, not daring to lose sight of those ahead of them for fear they would end up lost. At times, when the snow fell so thickly that no one could see anything except the woolly flakes, they were forced to halt to wait until the flurries passed and they could once again move on. Still, they were making good time and Riverwind was hopeful that everyone would be off the mountain by nightfall.

Thus far, they had not been attacked, and Riverwind couldn’t help but wonder why. He feared his enemy would be waiting for them in the forest, but his scouts had thus far found no trace of draconians, whose tracks would have been easy to spot in the snow.

“Perhaps, like lizards, draconian blood runs sluggish in the cold,” he suggested to Gilthanas. The two walked near the front of the line. The pine forest was directly ahead of them; they could see the trees, so dark green as to be almost blue, through the breaks in the snow. Some of the refugees had already reached the forest and were setting up camp. Riverwind’s plan was that they would remain here, sheltered beneath the trees, while he ventured up the mountain to investigate the opening to find out if it was the gate to the dwarven kingdom.

“Or else our enemy is waiting until night falls,” Gilthanas remarked.

“You’re such a comfort,” said Riverwind.

“You are the one who insists on looking the gods’ blessing in the mouth,” Gilthanas returned.

“This is too easy,” Riverwind muttered.

At that moment, Gilthanas lost his footing in a slushy mix of snow and ice and would have taken a nasty fall if Riverwind hadn’t caught hold of him.

“If this is easy, I would hate to see what you consider hard, Plainsman,” Gilthanas grumbled.

“My clothes are soaked through. My feet are so cold I can no longer feel them. I’d almost welcome a dragon for his fire.”

Riverwind shivered suddenly, not from cold but from some unnamed foreboding. He turned to look back up the mountain, blinking away the snow that settled on his eyelashes. When the snow lifted for a moment, he could see the people spread out along the trail, slogging along the road.

“The snow will be ending soon,” Gilthanas predicted.

Riverwind agreed. He could feel change coming. The wind was picking up, blowing the snow in swirling circles. The air was growing warmer. The snow would end, and dragons could fly once more.

By the time he and Gilthanas reached the pines, some of the refugees had built a large bonfire in a cleared area. Riverwind was pleased with the location his scouts had chosen for their campsite. The pine branches were thickly intertwined, forming a canopy that even dragon eyes would have a difficult time penetrating. Women were hanging wet blankets and clothes from the branches near the fire to dry, and some, led by Tika, were considering what they might cook for supper. Gilthanas forget his complaints about the cold and spoke of forming a hunting party. He went off to find men to join him.

Tika had recovered from her wounds, but Riverwind was still concerned about her. She stood among the group of women talking of stews, soups, and roast venison. Ordinarily, her infectious laughter would have shaken the snow from the tree limbs and caused all around to smile or join in her merriment. She still spoke her piece, giving her opinion, but she was subdued and quiet. Goldmoon came up to stand beside her husband. She clasped her hands over his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her gaze, too, was fixed on Tika.

“She is not herself,” he said. “Perhaps she is not fully healed. You should speak to Mishakal about her.”

Goldmoon shook her head. “The gods can heal wounds made to flesh and bone. They cannot heal those of the heart. She is in love with Caramon. He loves her, or rather he would if he if were free to love her.”

“He is free,” said Riverwind grimly. “All he has to do is tell that brother of his to let him live his own life for a change.”

“Caramon can’t do that.”

“He could if he wanted. Raistlin is powerful in magic, more powerful than he lets on. He’s clever and intelligent. He can make his way in this world. He doesn’t need his brother.”

“You don’t understand. Caramon knows all that. It is his greatest fear,” said Goldmoon softly, “the day his brother does not need him.”

Riverwind snorted. His wife was right; he didn’t understand. He turned to Eagle Talon, who had been standing patiently at his elbow.

“We have found something you should come see,” said the scout in quiet tones. “Just you,” he added with a glance at Goldmoon.

Riverwind followed. The snow had fallen more lightly in this area, barely covering the ground with a white feathery powder. After walking about two miles deeper among the trees, they came to the ruin of the village and the charred bodies of the gully dwarves.

“Poor, miserable wretches,” Riverwind said, his brow furrowed in anger.

“They tried to flee. They had no thought of fighting,” Eagle Talon said.

“No, gully dwarves would not,” Riverwind agreed.

“They were cut down trying to run from their attackers. Look at this—arrows in the back, heads sliced off. Children hacked to. bits. And here.” He pointed to clawed footprints in the frozen mud. “Draconians did this.”

“Any recent signs of them?”

“No. The attack took place days ago,” Eagle Talon said. “The ashes are cold. The attackers are long gone. But come see what else we have found.”

“Here,” he said, indicating footprints. “And here. And here and here. And this.” He pointed to a bent pewter spoon that had been gently laid upon the body of a gully dwarf child, along with a little sprig of pine and a white feather.

“A gift to the dead,” he said quietly. “These footprints are those of the kender.” Riverwind looked from the spoon to the small body and shook his head. “I recognize the spoon. It belongs to Hederick.”

“He must have dropped it,” said Eagle Talon, and they both smiled.

“You can see Tasslehoff’s footprints are all over the place, and there is more—two sets of prints that keep together—large feet and small. Here the butt of a staff has left its mark.”

“Caramon and Raistlin. So they made it this far,” said Riverwind.

“Here the half-elf has left his customary trail marker, and there are the tracks of hob-nailed boots for the dwarf and these for the knight, Sturm Brightblade. As you can see, they stood here for some time talking. Their tracks sank deep in the mud. Then they went off together in that direction, heading up the mountain.”

“Our friends are alive and they are together, unless,” Riverwind said, his expression darkening, “they were here when the draconians attacked.”

“I think not. They came after. You can see where their feet trod in the ashes. Whatever reasons the draconians had for committing this slaughter, it was not because of our friends. My guess is they did it for the love of killing.”

“Perhaps,” said Riverwind, unconvinced. He did not want to speak his thoughts aloud, for though he did not know it, they tended along the same line as Raistlin’s speculations—the gully dwarves had died for a reason. “Keep this to ourselves, no need to worry the others. As you say, whoever did this is long gone.”

Eagle Talon agreed, and he and the other scouts returned to camp, there to eat and rest. They would head out early in the morning, making their way up the mountain.

The snow quit during the night. The air grew warmer as the wind shifted, blowing from the ocean waters to the west. The snow began to melt and Riverwind, before he fell asleep, worried that on the morrow the sun would shine and the dragons would return.

The gods had not forgotten them. When dawn came, the sun was not to be seen. A thick layer of fog rolled off the snow and over the pine trees. Wrapped in the gray blanket, the people waited in the forest as Gilthanas and Riverwind, and two of the scouts climbed the face of the mountain, heading for the gaping hole that might or might not be the Gates of Thorbardin.

Chapter 9 The Life Tree. The Council of Thanes. Bad To Worse

The rattling wagon on wheels rocked along the metal tracks, carrying the companions to the heart of Thorbardin—an enormous cavern. Before them was a gigantic underground lake, and rising out of the lake was one of the wonders of the world.

So astonishing was the sight that for long moments no one could neither move nor speak. Caramon gulped. Raistlin breathed a soft sigh. Tasslehoff was struck dumb, an amazing occurrence in itself. Tanis could only stare. Flint was moved to the depths of his soul. He had heard stories of this all his life and the thought that he was here, the first of his people in three hundred years to view this fabled place, stirred him profoundly.

Arman Kharas stepped out of the wagon.

“The Life Tree of the Hylar,” he said, gesturing like a showman. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen the like,” said Tanis, awed.

“Nor ever will,” Flint said huskily, his heart swelling with pride. “Only dwarves could have built this.”

The Life Tree of the Hylar was a gigantic stalactite rising up out of the lake known as the Urkhan Sea. Narrow at the bottom, the stalactite widened gradually as it soared upward to the ceiling so far above them they had to crane their necks to see the upper levels. A strange sort of iridescent coral found in the sea had grown up the outside of the stalactite, and the warm glow pulsing from its myriad branches lit the vast cavern almost as bright as day. In addition, lights twinkled from all parts of the Life Tree, for the dwarves had built an enormous city complex in the stalactite. This was the fabled Life Tree, home of the Hylar dwarves for many centuries. Boats drawn by cables crossed the lake at different points, carrying dwarves of all the clans back and forth from the Life Tree, for as implied by its name, it was the beating heart of Thorbardin. The Hylar dwarves might claim it as their city, but dwarves from all the other clans did business here and took advantage of the inns, taverns, and ale houses that could be found on every level. The boat docks were busy places. Dock workers tromped about loading and unloading cargo from the boats, while the boat passengers stood patiently in long lines, waiting their turn to cross. Word had spread from the West Warrens that the gate had been opened, and the Talls who had entered were prisoners and were going to be taken before the Council of Thanes. A large crowd of dwarves had gathered on the docks to see the strangers. There were no disturbances here as there had been in the outlying district. A few dwarves scowled at the sight, with Flint, the kender, and the wizard coming in for the majority of their enmity. Flint noted, however, that many dwarven eyes were fixed on what he carried—the Helm of Grallen. Word of that had spread, too. The looks were dark, bitter, and accusing. Many dwarves made the ancient sign to ward off evil.

Flint juggled the helm nervously. Whatever curse this helm carried must be a potent one. These dwarves were not the ignorant, superstitious Theiwar or the wild-eyed Klar. They were Hylar for the most part, well educated and practical-minded. Flint would have chosen shouted insults over the heavy, ominous silence that lay like on a pall on the crowd.

As Arman Kharas sent soldiers ahead to commandeer a cable boat, Caramon cast Tanis a troubled glance.

“What are we going to do about the dwarf?” he said.

“What about him?” Tanis asked, not understanding.

Caramon jerked a thumb at the boat. “He swore he’d never set foot in one again.” Tanis remembered. Flint was terrified of boats. He claimed it was because Caramon had once nearly drowned him during a fishing expedition. Tanis glanced with trepidation at his friend, expecting a scene. To his surprise, Flint regarded the boats with quiet equanimity and did not seem in the least bothered. After a moment, Tanis realized why.

The dwarf has not been born who can swim. A dwarf in the water sinks like a rock—like a whole sack of rocks. No dwarf feels comfortable on the water, and they had designed their boats with this in mind. The boats were flat-bottomed, long, wide, and solidly built, with never a thought of rocking, swaying, or bobbing in the water. Low seats lined high, windowless, wooden sides that blocked out all sight of the water gurgling beneath.

Arman hustled the companions into the boat, saying they had a long way to go yet before they reached the Court of Thanes, which was located on one of the upper levels. The dwarves on the docks continued to stare after them as they departed. Then one voice called out.

“Throw the cursed helm in the lake and Marman Arman along with it.” Marman Arman. “Marman” was Dwarvish slang for “crazy.” Flint glanced at Arman, curious to see what he would do. All he could see was his back. Arman stood in the prow, staring straight ahead. His back was rigid, his shoulders braced, his chin jutting in the air. He acted as if he hadn’t heard the insulting play on words.

Flint shifted slightly so that he could see Arman’s face. The young dwarf was flushed, his jaw set. His fists were clenched, nails digging into his palms.

“I will find it,” he swore. His eyes blinked rapidly, and tears glittered on his lashes. “I will!” Flint looked away in embarrassment, wishing he hadn’t seen. He did not like Arman, considering him a boaster and a braggart, but he found himself feeling sorry for him, as he had once felt sorry for a half-elf who could not find a home among either elves or humans, as he’d felt sorry for orphaned twins left to fend for themselves at an early age, and for a young Solamnic boy separated from his father and forced to live in exile.

Flint did not consciously equate Arman with the others. He certainly had no intention of coming to the aid of this young dwarf who had put them under arrest, but by the same token, Flint had never intended to come to the aid of Tanis, Sturm, Raistlin, or Caramon. If anyone had accused him of such a thing, he would have vehemently denied it. The twins happened to be neighbors; Tanis happened to need a business partner. That was all.

Still, at that moment, Flint felt extremely sorry for Arman Kharas. If the old dwarf could have found who shouted out the insult, he would have slugged him.

The cable boat landed on the Life Tree dock. There were larger crowds here, a mixture of all the clans. Soldiers had cordoned off an area and were holding back the gawkers. The companions met with the same scowls, the same dark looks, the same ominous silence that was broken only by the cheerful voice of the kender, who was constantly trying to stop to introduce himself and shake hands, only to be dragged away by a grim-faced Caramon.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd’s midst, a low rumbling sound started, like the growl of a gigantic beast with many throats. The growling grew louder and more menacing and suddenly the mob surged forward, straining against the soldiers, who held them in place with by locking arms and bracing their feet firmly on the stone floor.

“You’d better get them out of here, Your Highness!” a captain cried in dwarven to Arman. “Some are Klar dock workers, and you know the Klar, crazy as rabid bats. I can’t hold them back for long.”

Arman pointed to a transport shaft that carried the dwarves up and down the levels of the Life Tree. The companions raced for it, with Hylar soldiers closing in behind them, prodding those who came too close with the ends of the spears.

They scrambled into the large bucket-like carriers, which, Caramon was thankful to see, were far more stable than the crude kettle-turned-bucket-turned-carrier they’d encountered at Xak Tsaroth. Crammed inside the bucket along with Arman Kharas, the companions stared out at the thwarted mob. The car gave a lurch and began to clank upward, jolting everyone.

They made the clanking, clattering, jerking ascent in tense silence. The strange world in which they found themselves, the oppressive darkness, the dangers they had already faced, and the hostile reception were beginning to tell on all of them.

“I wish you’d never found this helm,” Flint said suddenly, glaring at Raistlin. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“Do not blame me,” Raistlin retorted. “If the fool knight had heeded my warning and not stuck his nose in the helm—”

“—we wouldn’t be here in Thorbardin now,” Sturm countered in icy tones.

“No,” Flint returned caustically, “we’d be someplace else, someplace where people didn’t want to slit our throats!”

“Just get off Raistlin’s back, will you, Flint?” Caramon said heatedly. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I do not need you to defend me, Caramon,” Raistlin said, adding bitterly, “You can all go to the Abyss for all I care.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to the Abyss,” Tasslehoff said. “Wouldn’t you like to go there, Raistlin? It must horrible! Wonderfully horrible, that is.”

“Oh, just shut up, you doorknob!” Flint thundered.

“Good advice for us all,” said Tanis quietly.

He stood braced against the side of the lurching carrier, his arms crossed, his head bowed. Everyone knew immediately what he was thinking—of the refugees who were their responsibility, and of the people counting on them to find safety. Perhaps the refugees were fleeing for their lives this moment, running from their enemies, putting all their hopes for survival on them, and this would be their welcome: angry mobs, swords and spears, boulders hurled at them from the darkness.

Sturm, frustrated, twisted his mustache. Caramon flushed guiltily. Tasslehoff opened his mouth, only to shut it again when Raistlin rested his hand in gentle remonstrance on the kender’s shoulder. Flint kept his glowering gaze fixed on the floor of the bucket, refusing to look at any of them, for he guessed rightly that they were all looking at him.

And the Helm of Grallen. The cursed Helm of Grallen.

The bucket clanked its way up the transport, rising higher and higher inside the shaft. When the bucket finally shuddered to a stop, they found themselves on one of the very top levels of the stalactite. Here, according to Arman, was the Court of Thanes, where the Council of Thanes would be meeting this day to consider the destruction of the gate and the return of a ghost.

Chapter 10 The Thanes Of Thorbardin. Dark Allies.

Tanis and the others had no way of knowing that by walking into the Court of Thanes, they were walking into a trap. For unbeknownst to any of them, including the other Thanes, Queen Takhisis had seduced one of their number and convinced him to join her evil cause. The Council of Thanes ruled Thorbardin and had done so for centuries. Each of the eight dwarven kingdoms had a seat on the Council: Hylar, Theiwar, Neidar, Klar, Daewar, Daergar, and Aghar.

The Hylar, due to their education and innate skills in diplomacy and leadership, had long been the dominant clan of Thorbardin. Although there was currently no High King, the Hylar, under the leadership of their Thane, Hornfel, maintained nominal control over the kingdoms and were working hard to keep civil war from breaking out beneath the mountain. With the closing of the mines, Hornfel understood that the dwarves’ only salvation was to rejoin the world, unseal the gates. Unfortunately, the Hylar themselves were divided on this, with some wanting to venture into the world and others maintaining that the world was a dangerous place, best to keep the gates shut.

The Neidar were the only clan who might have, long ago, challenged the Hylar for ascendancy in Thorbardin, but the Neidar’s restless nature found the caverns beneath the mountain too cramped and small for their liking. Long before the Cataclysm, the Neidar had left Thorbardin to travel the world, hiring out as craftsmen, farming the land, raising crops, and tending the beasts that could not live in the perpetual darkness beneath the mountain. The Neidar and the other clans had remained on good terms with each other, until the Cataclysm struck and the world changed forever.

As famine and plague stalked the mountain kingdom, the High King, Duncan, believed the Neidar could survive on their own, and he made the agonizing decision to shut the gates. The Neidar were furious. They, too, faced starvation and sickness, and worse, they were being attacked by goblins, ogres and desperate humans. They broke with the dwarves beneath the mountain and went to war against them with disastrous results. The Neidar still claimed a seat on the Council, though the seat has been empty for centuries.

The Klar were an afflicted people, whispered by some to have been cursed by Reorx when a Klar was caught trying to cheat the god at a game of bones. A streak of madness ran through the clan. Every Klar family had at least one member who was either wholly or partially insane. The Klar tended to keep to themselves, therefore, and this suited them well, for they were skilled in handling the tunnel-digging Urkhan worms and in tending the farms and herding beasts. The Hylar considered themselves protectors of the Klar, who in turn pledged to support the Hylar in everything they did.

If the Klar were cursed by Reorx, the Daewar were the beloved of Reorx—or so the Daewar maintained. With a tendency to fanaticism in any of their chosen pursuits, the Daewar saw themselves as the chosen of the god and many of their clan became clerics dedicated to Reorx. They built grand temples with rich furnishings. Daewar priests charged high fees for their services and used this money to build even grander temples.

When the gods left the world, the Daewar were crushed and bewildered. Some of their people, true clerics, vanished at this time. Those who remained no longer had any power to heal the plagues that swept through the realm or cast nurturing spells on the crops. The other dwarves began to blame their misery on the Daewar and attacked their temples. Fearing their beautiful temples would be destroyed, the Daewar desperately maintained that Reorx and the other gods were still around; they were just keeping to themselves.

The Daewar priests went about their daily routines, keeping the fires burning in the temples of Reorx, begging for him to hear their prayers and in some instances, creating their own “miracles” to try to prove he had answered. The fierce Daewar soldiers—as fanatical in battle as their clerics were in their beliefs—saw to it that other clans kept out of their kingdom.

As time passed, all but the most fanatical ceased to believe in the gods. Some turned to cults that worshipped everything from a sacred albino rat to an unusual rock formation. Many Daewar went in for soldiering, and the Daewar had the best-trained, fiercest, and most dedicated fighting force beneath the mountain.

Though superb warriors, the Daewar were not particularly intelligent or creative. “Their beards grew into their brains,” as the saying went.

The Daergar were an offshoot of the Theiwar clan and were still considered “dark” dwarves by their cousins. The Daergar were accused of having conspired against the Hylar during the Dwarfgate Wars and were banished by King Duncan to the deepest parts of the mountain. This was not a great hardship on the Daergar, for they had long been miners by trade, skilled at finding and digging out the valuable ore, be it iron, gold, or silver.

The loss of the mining revenues hit the Daergar hard, and the Daergar had sunk into squalor and degradation. Thugs and gangs ruled the streets of their realm, as the poverty-stricken dwarves scrounged a living by any means they could, most often dishonest.

The Daergar blamed the Hylar for their trouble, believing the closing of the mines was a plot to destroy them. The Hylar Thane, Hornfel, feared the Daergar and Theiwar were planning to join together with the intent of overthrowing the Council and seizing control of Thorbardin. Hornfel was doing his best to try to be conciliatory to both, with the unfortunate result that he had made himself appear weak.

As it turned out, Hornfel was already too late. The Theiwar and the Daergar weren’t planning to ally. They had already done so, and they’d found powerful new friends to assist them in their cause.

The Aghar, known as gully dwarves, also held a seat on the Council, to the general mystification of the rest of Krynn. Universally reviled, woefully ignorant, and notorious cowards, gully dwarves were not even true dwarves—at least so the dwarves had always claimed. Gully dwarves were said to have gnome blood in them. (Gnomes, of course, dispute this.) As to the reason why the Aghar had been given a seat on the Council, this dates back to the very early days when Thorbardin was in the process of being built.

At that time, the Theiwar were the leading clan of mountain dwarves. They could see, however, that the Hylar were gaining in power and the Theiwar wanted to insure they would maintain a majority on the Council. Having long terrorized and intimidated the gully dwarves, the Theiwar believed they could continue to coerce them and force them to support any measure they proposed. The Theiwar insisted that the Aghar be given a seat and full voting privileges on the Council.

The Hylar saw through the Theiwar’s scheme and tried to prevent it, but the Theiwar cleverly put it out that if the Aghar were banned from the Council, other clans would be next to go. This enraged the hot-headed Daergar and frightened the insecure Klar. The Hylar had no choice but to give in and thus, though the gully dwarves had no city beneath the mountain, but infested all parts of it like the rats that were the staple of their diet, they were awarded a seat on the Council. Unfortunately for the Theiwar, the gully dwarves ended up supporting the Hylar cause more often than not, simply because the Hylar felt sorry for them and were good to them (at least by gully dwarf standards).

The eighth seat was held by the Kingdom of the Dead. The dwarves revered their ancestors, and although this seat was always vacant, the dwarves felt strongly that their dead were an integral part of dwarven life and should not be forgotten.

The ninth seat was for the High King, one of their own as chosen by the Council. This seat was also vacant and had been so for three hundred years. According to Arman Kharas, there could be no High King unless the Hammer of Kharas was found. This, perhaps, was just an excuse. There had been High Kings in times before the Hammer. Given the current state of unrest, no clan was currently strong enough to claim the kingship. One Thane was positioning himself to remedy this situation.

Realgar of the Theiwar was an extremely dangerous dwarf, far more dangerous than anyone suspected. This had partly to do with his appearance, for he was scrawny and under-sized. His family had been among the poorest of the poor, to the point where they envied gully dwarves. Hunger had stunted his growth, but it had also sharpened his mind.

He had escaped poverty by selling himself to a Theiwar warlock, performing various degrading acts for the warlock, including robbery and murder. In between beatings, Realgar eagerly picked up what scraps of spell-casting knowledge the warlock let fall. Clever and cunning, Realgar soon became more skilled in dark magic than his master. He took his revenge upon the warlock, moved into his late master’s dwelling, and worked hard to become the most feared and consequently the most powerful dwarf in the Theiwar realm. He declared himself Thane, but he was not content with that. Realgar was determined to be crowned High King. Once more, the Theiwar would rule beneath the mountain.

He had no way to accomplish this lofty goal, however. The Theiwar were not skilled warriors. They knew nothing of discipline and could never be made to band together in a cohesive fighting unit. Nor could the self-serving Theiwar fathom the concept of sacrificing one’s life for a cause. The Theiwar were further handicapped by their inability to tolerate light. Shine a light in their eyes, and they were essentially blind.

The Theiwar were good at stabbing people in the back, using their dark magic against enemies, kidnapping, and thieving. While such skills were useful in helping the Theiwar survive and maintain control over their own realm, they would never defeat the powerful Hylar or the fierce Daewar. It seemed that the Theiwar must live beneath the boot heel of the detested Hornfel forever.

Realgar brooded over the ruin of his ambition for years, until at last his whining reached the ears of one who was seeking out dark and discontented souls. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, came to Realgar and he prostrated himself before her. Takhisis offered to help Realgar achieve his goal in return for a few favors. The favors were not difficult to perform and actually benefited the Theiwar. Realgar had no problems keeping his end of the bargain, and thus far Takhisis had kept hers.

Realgar had approached the Thane of the Daergar, a dwarf known as Rance, and made him a proposition. Realgar had found a buyer for the iron ore in the closed Daergar mines. He wanted a few of mines, those that were hidden deep within the labyrinthine caverns of the Daergar realm, to reopen. The miners would go back to work, but they would do so in secret. In return for this and for a promised share in the power when Realgar should become High King, Rance promised to build a secret tunnel through the mountains leading to Pax Tharkas, currently under the rulership of the Dragon Highlord, Verminaard. All this had to be done without the knowledge of any of the other Thanes.

Rance was a large dwarf of no particular intelligence who had become Thane because his gang of thugs was currently the gang in power. He didn’t care much who was High King, so long as he received a cut of the profits. Accordingly, he built the secret tunnels that led to Pax Tharkas. Unknown to Hornfel, Realgar and Rance were the first to open the gates of Thorbardin, and the first person to enter was the Dragon Highlord Verminaard.

The deal was finalized. In return for sending in an army of draconians to help defeat the Hylar, the Theiwar and Daergar agreed to sell iron ore to Pax Tharkas, along with swords and maces, battle hammers and axes, steel arrow-and spear-heads. All this came at a fortunate time for Lord Verminaard, though he did not live to realize it.

As it was, Dray-yan was able to keep the iron ore flowing, and provided the Dragonarmies with excellent weapons.

The draconian army had already entered the secret tunnel. Realgar had been about ready to launch his attack when the opening of Northgate and the arrival of outsiders derailed his plot. He had tried to kill the Talls himself, hoping to get rid of them before anyone else found out. Draconian engineers had repaired and rebuilt the murder holes above Anvil’s Echo. Their work was supposed to be secret, for the draconian commander intended to use the murder holes in case the Hylar army invaded.

Realgar had no time for secrets. He sent his Theiwar up there with orders to roll the boulders down on the bridge.

This turned out to be not nearly as easy as Realgar had imagined. The Theiwar are not physically strong, and they had difficulty wrestling the boulders into position. They could not see their targets—the magical light of the wizard’s staff blinded them whenever they peered over the edge of the murder holes—and they let the boulders fall rather than trying to aim them. The Talls escaped, and Realgar found himself in trouble with the draconian commander, a detestable lizard named Grag, who railed at him that he had given away one of their best strategic advantages.

“You may have cost us the war,” Grag said to him coldly. “Why did you not summon me and my men? We would have dealt swiftly with this scum. In fact, you would have been rewarded. These criminals were the instigators in the revolt of the human slaves. There is a bounty on their heads. Because of your bungling, they are now deep in the heart of Thorbardin, beyond our reach. Who knows what mischief they will cause?”

Realgar cursed himself for not having summoned the draconians to help him kill the Talls. He had not known that there was money to be made out of these Talls or he most certainly would have.

“These slaves are coming to Thorbardin,” Grag had gone on, fuming “They plan to seek a way inside. There are eight hundred humans out there, practically on your doorstep!”

“Not eight hundred warriors?” Realgar asked in alarm.

“No. About half are children and old people, but the men and some of the women are stout fighters, and they have a god or two on their side. Weak gods, of course, but they have proven a nuisance to us in the past.”

“I hope you are not saying you are afraid of a few hundred human slaves and their puny gods?” Realgar asked with a sneer.

“I can deal with them,” Grag returned grimly, “but it will mean dividing my forces, fighting a battle on two fronts with the possibility of being flanked on both.”

“They have not yet entered the mountain,” Realgar said. “They would need the permission of the Council to do so, and that will not be easily granted. I have heard it said that they have brought with them a cursed artifact known as the Helm of Grallen. Not even Hornfel is so soft or so stupid as to permit eight hundred humans to come traipsing inside Thorbardin, especially when they’re cursed! Do not worry, Grag. I will be in attendance at the Council meeting. I will do what must be done to insure that our plans go forward.”

Realgar had sent out his informants to spread the word that the strangers brought with them the cursed helm of a dead prince. Everyone knew the dark tale, though speaking about it in public had been outlawed by the Hylar for three centuries. Having done what he could to turn the people against these strangers, Realgar went to the meeting of the Council.

The Theiwar wizard did not wear robes. Realgar was a renegade, as were most dwarven wizards. He knew nothing of the Orders of High Sorcery. He did not even know that his magic came to him as a gift of the dark god, Nuitari, who had taken a liking to these dwarven savants. Realgar had no spellbook, for he could neither read nor write. He cast the spells his master had cast before him, having learned them from his master before him, and so on back through time. Realgar wore armor to the Council meeting, and his was excellent armor, for the Theiwar had a gift for crafting steel. His helm was made of leather specially fitted with smoked glass over the eyeslits to protect his light-sensitive eyes. The mask had the additional advantage of preventing anyone from seeing his face, which resembled that of a weasel, for he had a long narrow nose, small squinty eyes, and a weak chin covered with a scraggly beard.

Realgar had not even entered the Court of Thanes before Rance accosted him.

“What do you know about these Talls?” Rance demanded.

“Not so loud!” Realgar hissed, and he drew Rance off to one side.

“I hear that these Talls entered the Northgate and came through your realm! They have with them the accursed helm. There is a wizard among them and a Neidar! Why did you let them in the gate? Why did you allow them to get this far? What will this do to our plans?”

“If you’ll shut up for a moment, I’ll tell you,” said Realgar. “I didn’t ‘let’ them in. They destroyed the gate, which already marks them as criminals. As for the helm, it may be a curse for the Hylar and a blessing for us. Keep your mouth shut, and follow my lead.”

Rance did not like this, for he did not trust his Theiwar brother in the slightest. Had they been alone, he would have hounded Realgar until he had answers, but Hornfel had arrived and he was casting suspicious glances in their direction. They could not be seen to be too cozy. Muttering beneath his breath, Rance stomped into the Court and went to take his seat on the Throne of the Daergar. Realgar went to take his place on his throne.

The Council of Thanes was about to convene.

Chapter 11 The Helm Of Grallen speaks. Flint Makes a wager.

The Court of Thanes was an imposing structure located on an outer wall of the Life Tree. Hylar soldiers in full regalia marched the companions through double doors of bronze and into a long, imposing hallway lined with columns. At the end of the hall was a curved dais on which stood nine thrones. The thrones were carved of striated marble, each a different color, ranging from white to gray, reddish brown to green. The throne belonging to the Dead was carved of black obsidian. The ninth throne, standing in the center, was larger than the rest, and it was carved of pure white marble and adorned with gold and silver.

The soldiers formed two rows along the line of columns. Arman Kharas brought the companions forward to stand beneath a rotunda in front of the thrones. So placed, a person addressing the Council would address the High King, whose throne stood in front, with the other Thanes looking on from either side. Since there was no High King, the speaker was relegated to the middle of the hall in order to face all the Thanes at once or he had to constantly turn this way and that to talk to all the Thanes, thus putting the speaker at a considerable disadvantage. Flint walked in front of his comrades. He carried the Helm of Grallen in his hands. There had been a brief altercation between him and Arman outside the Court as to which of them should carry the Helm. Truthfully, Flint didn’t want anything to do with the cursed thing and he would have been glad to relinquish it, but his pride had been hurt and he wasn’t about to let the Hylar have it. Then, too, the promise of Reorx was always at the back of Flint’s mind. Arman Kharas did not want the helm either. He had asked to carry it because he felt honor bound to do so and he graciously did not press the issue, stating that he feared an altercation might lead to bloodshed.

Tanis came behind Flint with Sturm at his side. Raistlin and Caramon followed, keeping Tasslehoff between them. Raistlin had threatened to cast a sleep spell on the kender if he opened his mouth, and while ordinarily Tasslehoff would have found being “magicked” quite a charming prospect, he didn’t want to miss anything that might happen with the dwarves and thus he was torn. He eventually decided that he could be magicked any day, while appearing before the Council of Thanes was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so he determined to make a heroic effort to keep his mouth shut.

The Thanes sat on their thrones, maintaining an outwardly calm demeanor, though the unsealing of the gate and the arrival of the accursed helm had been a shock. The only one who was truly unfazed was the Thane of the Aghar, Highbluph Bluph of the Bluph clan, who was sound asleep. He continued to sleep through most of the proceedings, rousing only a when a particularly prodigious snore shook him awake. When that happened, he blinked, yawned, scratched himself, and went back to sleep.

Flint took note of the Thanes, as Arman Kharas introduced them, marking which might be friendly and which were dangerous. Hornfel of the Hylar was a dwarf of stately mien and noble bearing, grave and dignified. His intelligent gaze fixed intently upon each one of the companions. His expression grew troubled as he looked at Flint and went grim at the sight of the helm.

The Theiwar, Realgar, whose throne stood in the darkest of the dark shadows, eyed them with frowning dislike, as did the Daergar Thane, Rance. Flint was not surprised by this—dark dwarves hate everyone. What made him uneasy was an air of smugness about the Theiwar. Flint could not see Realgar’s eyes behind the smoked glass of his helm, but there was a sneering curl to the lips which Flint found unsettling, as though Realgar knew something others did not. Flint determined to keep his own eyes on the Theiwar.

The leader of the Daewar, Gneiss, was a very imposing figure, decked out in his war panoply, but that seemed about all that could be said for him. Tufa, of the Klar, had the same wild-eyed look that characterized all the Klar, even those who were sane. Tufa kept flicking uncertain glances at Hornfel, as though waiting to be told what to think. Rance of the Daergar would be the Neidar’s enemy just because that was how it had always been and always would be. The question was whether the Daergar were allied with the Theiwar in whatever mischief they were plotting. When all the Thanes had been introduced, Flint made a respectful bow to the empty throne of the Kingdom of the Dead, and he bowed defiantly before the other empty throne, that belonging to the Neidar. Hornfel looked grave at this. Realgar snorted loudly, waking the Highbluph and causing him to grumble before curling back on his throne and dozing off again. Flint began his own introductions. “I am Flint Fireforge.” He turned to Tanis. “This is—” Realgar rudely interrupted. “Why aren’t these criminals in chains and leg irons? They destroyed the Northgate. They are assassins and spies. Why aren’t they in the dungeon?”

“We are not spies,” said Flint angrily. “We bring urgent news and a warning from the world beyond the mountain. Queen Takhisis, whom we dwarves know as False Metal, has returned from the Abyss and brought her evil dragons with her. She has created dragon-men, fearsome warriors led by Dragon Highlords, who are waging war on the world. Many realms have already fallen to the darkness, including Qualinesti. Thorbardin may be next.”

All the Thanes began talking at once, shouting and gesticulating, jabbing fingers at each other and at Flint, who shouted and jabbed right back.

“Our priests would have certainly known if False Metal had returned,” Gneiss said scornfully.

“We have seen no signs.”

“As for this claim of dragons and dragon-men, are we children to believe such tales?” Rance cried.

The Highbluph, jolted out of his nap, looked around in bewilderment.

“What’s going on?” Sturm asked Tanis, who was the only one beside Flint who spoke Dwarvish. The knight was accustomed to the stately formalities of the Solamnics, and he was shocked at the turmoil. “This is a drunken brawl, not a meeting of kings!”

“Dwarves do not stand on ceremony,” said Tanis. “Flint told them that Takhisis has returned. They’re disputing his claim.”

“I will prove they are spies!” Realgar’s voice was thin and rasping and had a whining quality to it, as though he considered himself perpetually ill-used. “My people tried to arrest this lot, but they were driven off by Arman Kharas and his thugs, who had no right to be in our realm.”

“I had every right to deliver my brother from your dungeons,” Arman countered hotly.

“He broke our laws,” Realgar said sullenly.

“He broke no law. You kidnapped him in order to try to extort ransom—”

“That is a lie!” Realgar jumped to his feet.

“Is it also a lie that we had to run for our lives across Anvil’s Echo?” Arman Kharas thundered.

“Your people dropped boulders down through the murder holes in an effort to crush us to death!”

“What is this?” Hornfel also rose from his throne. He fixed a baleful gaze on the Theiwar Thane.

“I had not heard of this until now!”

Tanis translated the Dwarvish for his friends. Flint did not take his attention from the Theiwar. He had been trying to steer the conversation back to the reason why he and his friends had come but was not making much headway. Suddenly Flint knew what the Theiwar was going to say and he realized in dismay that he and Arman had both been cleverly manipulated.

“I admit that we did attack our Hylar cousins,” said Realgar. “My people were trying to stop these criminals from entering our realm. The Talls are spies. They tried to sneak into Thorbardin unseen, bringing with them the accursed helm in order to destroy us. They would have succeeded, but their crime was foiled by my people.”

“Spies? Criminals?” Hornfel repeated, exasperated. “You keep saying this, Realgar, but what basis do you have for such accusations?” His voice took on an edge. “That also does not explain why you tried to kill my son and Hylar soldiers.”

Flint knew what was coming. He saw the pit before him, but by the time he saw it, he was already lying helpless at the bottom.

“Yes, we tried to kill them, in order to protect Thorbardin. These Talls”—Realgar jabbed a finger at Tanis and the others—“and their Neidar toady opened the gate in order that an army of humans, which now lies hidden in the foothills, can launch at attack against us!” The Thanes were stunned into silence. All of them, Hornfel included, cast dark, suspicious glances at Flint and his friends.

Realgar sat back on his throne. “I hate to tell you this, Hornfel, but your son is part of the plot. My people were going to place the Talls under arrest. Your son rescued them. He has revealed our defenses to them.” Realgar paused, then said smoothly, “Or perhaps you already know all this, Hornfel. Perhaps you are in on the plot as well.”

“That’s a lie!” Arman shouted angrily. He lunged at Realgar. The soldiers, weapons drawn, quickly surrounded him and, for good measure, also surrounded the companions.

“This is how Hornfel plans to become High King,” Realgar cried, “by selling Thorbardin to the humans!”

The Highbluph was now adding to the confusion by standing on his throne and shrieking at the top of his lungs that they were all about to murdered by the Talls. Geniss, the Daewar thane, was on his feet, pompously declaiming rules of order to which no one was listening. The Klar Thane was on his feet, too, with a knife in his hand.

Tanis gave up translating. He simply told everyone what was going on.

“This is terrible!” Sturm said grimly. “Now they will never let the refugees inside!”

“The question is: how did he know about the refugees?” Raistlin hissed. “Tell Flint to ask him that.”

“I don’t see how that matters?” Sturm said impatiently.

“Of course, you don’t,” Raistlin returned caustically “Ask him, Flint.” The dwarf shook his head.

“They won’t listen,” he said grimly. “We walked into Realgar’s trap. Not much I can do about it now.”

Hornfel was forced to defend himself, strenuously denying the charges leveled at him by Realgar. Arman Kharas denied them, too, stating that he had come upon the companions by accident, adding that he himself had placed them under arrest and brought them before the council.

“Along with the curse of Grallen,” Realgar shouted.

“Silence, all of you,” Hornfel roared and, finally, the other Thanes ceased arguing. He glared at them until they all resumed their seats. The soldiers released Arman, who smoothed his beard and glowered at Realgar, who regarded the young dwarf with a leer.

Turning to Flint, Hornfel said in grim tones, “Answer me, Flint Fireforge of the Neidar. Are these charges true?”

“No, the charges are not true, great Thane.”

“Ask him about the humans hiding in the valley!” Realgar snarled.

“We do come in the name of a group of humans,” Flint said.

“He admits it!” Realgar cried in triumph.

“But they are not soldiers. They are refugees!” Flint countered angrily. “Men, women, and children. Not an army! And we did not try to sneak into Thorbardin. The Northgate opened for us.”

“How?” Hornfel asked. “How did you find the gate that has been hidden these three hundred years?”

Flint answered reluctantly, knowing this was exactly the wrong thing to say, for it played right into the Theiwar’s hands, yet there was no other explanation he could offer. “The Helm of Grallen led us here and opened the gate for us.”

Raistlin was at Tanis’s side, his hand closed over Tanis’s arm.

“Tell Flint to ask the Theiwar how he knew about the refugees,” Raistlin urged.

“What does it matter?” Tanis shrugged. “Once the gate was open, his people probably went to investigate.”

“Impossible,” Raistlin countered. “The Theiwar cannot abide sunlight!” Tanis stared at him. “That’s true…”

“Hush, both of you!” Sturm cautioned.

Hornfel had taken a step forward. He raised his hand for silence.

“The charges made against you and your friends are very serious, Flint Fireforge,” he stated.

“You have entered our realm without permission. You have destroyed the gate.”

“That wasn’t our fault,” cried Tasslehoff, and he was immediately half-smothered by Caramon’s large hand.

“You bring among us the accursed helm—”

“The Helm of Grallen is not cursed,” Flint said wrathfully, “and I can prove it.” Lifting the helm, he jammed it onto his head.

The Thanes, one and all, leapt to their feet, even the Aghar, who mistakenly thought that since everyone was standing it was time to adjourn.

Raistlin dug his nails into Tanis’s arm. “This could be very bad, my friend.”

“You were the one who wanted him to put the damn thing on!” Tanis said.

“This is not the time or the place I would have chosen,” Raistlin returned. Sturm instinctively put his hand to his scabbard, forgetting the dwarves had taken his sword. The dwarves had deposited the confiscated weapons near the entrance. Sturm calculated the distance, wondering if he could reach his sword before the soldiers reached him. Tanis saw the knight’s look and knew what he was thinking. He cast Sturm a warning glance. The knight gave an oblique nod, but he also edged a couple of steps nearer the door.

Flint stood in the middle of the Court, the helm on his head, and for long, tense moments, nothing happened. Tanis started to breathe easier, then the gem on the helm flared red, flooding the court with bright red-orange light—a holy fire blazing in their midst. The helm covered Flint’s face; only his beard showed, flowing from beneath, and his eyes.

Tanis did not recognize Flint in those eyes, nor, it seemed, did Flint recognize him or anyone else. He stared around as if he had walked into a room filled with strangers. The Thanes were silent, their silence grim and foreboding. All laid hand to hammer, sword, or both. The soldiers held their weapons ready.

Flint paid no attention to the Thanes or the soldiers. He studied his surroundings; his gaze, filtered through the helm’s eyeslits, taking in everything, like someone returning to a loved place after a long journey.

“I am home…” Flint said in a voice that was not his.

Hornfel’s angry expression softened to doubt, uncertainty. He looked at his son, who shook his head and shrugged. Realgar smirked, as though he’d expected nothing less.

“He’s play-acting,” he muttered.

Flint walked over to the dais, climbed the stairs, and sat down on an empty throne—the black throne, the throne sacred to the Kingdom of the Dead. He gazed defiantly upon the Thanes as though daring them to do anything about it.

The Thanes one and all stared at him in paralyzing shock.

“No one sits on the Throne of the Dead!” cried Gneiss. Grabbing hold of Flint’s arm, he tried to drag him bodily from the sacred throne.

Flint did not stir hand or foot, but suddenly the Daewar Thane reeled backward, as though he’d been struck a blow by an unseen hammer. He fell off the dais and lay, trembling with fear and astonishment, on the floor.

Flint, seated on the Throne of the Kingdom of the Dead, wearing the helm of a dead man, spoke.

“I am Prince Grallen,” he said, and his voice was stern and cold and not Flint’s own. “I have returned to the hall of my fathers. Is this how I am welcomed?”

The other Thanes were eyeing the Daewar, who was still on the floor. No one went to help him. No one was leering or scoffing now.

Rance turned to Hornfel and said nervously, “You are his descendant. Your family brought the curse upon us. You are the one who should speak to him.”

Hornfel removed his helm, a mark of respect, and approached the throne with dignity. Arman would have gone with his father, but Hornfel made a sign with his hand, indicating his son was to remain behind.

“You are welcome to the hall of your fathers, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said, and he was polite but proud and unafraid, as became a Thane of the Hylar. “We ask your forgiveness for the wrong that was done you.”

“We Daergar had nothing to do with it, Prince Grallen,” Rance said in a loud voice. “Just so you know.”

“It is not fair that we should be cursed,” added Gneiss, heaving himself to his feet. “Our father’s fathers knew nothing about the plot against you.”

“Your curse should fall on the Hylar alone,” said Rance.

“What a farce!” said Realgar.

“Peace, all of you,” said Hornfel, glowering around at them. “Let us hear what the prince has to say.”

Tanis understood. Hornfel was clever. He was testing Flint, trying to discover if he was acting all this out, or if he really had been taken over by the spirit of Prince Grallen.

“There was a time when I would have cursed you,” Flint told them. His voice grew hard and terrible. “There was a time when my rage would have brought down this mountain.” His anger flared. “How dare you bandy words with me, Hornfel of the Hylar? How dare you further affront my ghost, untimely murdered, my life cut off by my own kin!”

Flint brought his fist down, hard, on the arm of the throne.

The mountain shivered. The Life Tree shuddered. The floor shook, and the thrones of the Thanes rattled on the dais. A crack appeared in the ceiling. Columns creaked and groaned. The Aghar Highbluph let out a piercing shriek and fell over in a dead faint.

Hornfel sank to his knees. He was afraid now. They were all afraid. One by one, the soldiers in the hall went down on their knees onto the stone floor. The Thanes followed, until only Realgar was standing, and at last, even he knelt, though it was obvious he hated every moment of it. The tremor ceased. The mountain was still.

Tanis glanced around swiftly to make sure everyone was all right. Sturm knelt on one knee, his arm raised in salute, as knight to royalty. Raistlin remained standing, balancing on his staff, his face and his thoughts hidden in the shadows of his cowl. Caramon had whipped off his helm. He was still keeping hold of Tasslehoff, who was saying wistfully, “I wish Fizban was here to see this!” Tanis shifted his attention back to Flint, wondering what was going to come of this. Nothing good, he thought grimly.

The silence was so absolute it seemed that Tanis could hear the sound of the rock dust sifting to the floor.

Hornfel spoke again, his voice unsteady. “Your brothers confessed their crime before they died, Prince Grallen. Though they did not kill you, they held themselves responsible for your death.”

“And so they were,” said the prince balefully. “I was the youngest, my father’s favorite. They feared he would overlook them, leaving the rulership of Thorbardin to me. While it is true their hands did not deal my death blow, yet by their hands I died.

“I was young. I was fighting in my first battle. My elder brothers vowed to watch over and protect me. Instead they sent me to my doom. They ordered me to march with a small force on the fortress of Zhaman, the evil wizard’s stronghold. I did what they told me. How not? I loved them and admired them. I longed to impress them. My own men tried to warn me. They told me the mission was suicidal, but I would not heed them. I trusted my brothers, who said that my men lied, the battle was as good as won. I was to have the honor of capturing the wizard and bringing him back in chains.

“They gifted me with this helm, saying that it would make me invincible. They knew the truth—the helm would not make me invincible. Crafted by the Theiwar, the magic of the gem would capture my soul and keep it imprisoned so that even my vengeful ghost would not return to tell the truth of what happened.”

“Your brothers were ashamed of what they had done, noble prince,” said Hornfel. “They admitted their guilt to Kharas and then hurled themselves to their death in battle. Your father grieved when the bitter news was brought to him. He did what he could to make amends. He raised a statue in your honor and built a tomb for you. He buried your brothers in an unmarked grave.”

“And yet, my father never again spoke my name,” said Prince Grallen.

“Your noble father blamed himself, Your Highness. He could not bear to be reminded of the tragedy. ‘Three sons I lost,’ he said. ‘One in battle and two to darkness.’

“In truth, you have no need to curse us, great prince,” Hornfel added bitterly. “The throne where once your father sat as High King has been empty since his death. The Hammer of Kharas is lost to us. We do not even have the solace of paying homage at your father’s tomb, for some terrible force wrenched it out of the earth, and now it hangs suspended high above the Valley of the Thanes. There the tomb of our High King floats, out of reach, forever a punishment and a reproach to us.

“Our nation is divided and soon, I fear, we must end up in a civil war. I do not know what more harm you can do to us, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said, “unless you bring the mountain down on top of us.”

“Whew, boy!” Tasslehoff whistled. “Could Flint really do that? Bring down the mountain?”

“Shush!” Tanis ordered, and his expression was so very fierce that Tasslehoff shushed.

“There was a time when I would have taken out my vengeance upon you, but my soul has learned much over the centuries.”

Flint’s voice softened. He gave a sigh, and the hand that was clenched in a fist relaxed. “I have learned to forgive.”

Flint rose slowly to his feet.

“My brothers’ spirits have gone on to the next part of their life’s journey. My father’s soul has done the same, and with him traveled the soul of the noble Kharas. Soon I will join them, for I am now free of the cruel enchantment that bound me.

“Before I leave, I give you a gift—a warning. False Metal has returned, but so have Reorx and the other gods. The gate of Thorbardin is once more open. The light of the sun shines into the mountain. Shut the gate again, shut out the light, and the darkness will consume you.”

“This is an act,” Realgar muttered. “Can’t you fools see that?”

“Shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you!” said Tufa. The Klar still held his knife in his hand.

“We thank you, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said respectfully. “We will take heed of your words.” Arman Kharas rose to his feet. “Is this all you have to tell us, Prince Grallen? Do you not have some word for me?”

“My son, be silent!” Hornfel admonished.

“The prince has said the gods are with us again! This is the time of which Kharas spoke: ‘When the power of the gods returns, then shall the Hammer go forth to forge once again the freedom of Krynn.’”

Arman Kharas came to stand before the Throne of the Kingdom of the Dead. “Tell me how to enter Duncan’s Tomb. Tell me where to the Hammer of Kharas, noble prince, for such is my destiny!”

The gem’s light dwindled and diminished, flickered and died out.

“Wait, Prince Grallen!” Arman shouted. “You cannot leave without telling me!” Slowly Flint lifted his hands and slowly removed the helm from his head. He didn’t look triumphant or elated. He looked tired. His face was drawn and pale. He seemed to have aged as many years as the prince had been dead.

“You know!” Arman cried suddenly, pointing at Flint. The young dwarf’s voice burned with fury.

“He told you!”

Flint walked away from the throne of the Dead, holding the Helm of Grallen underneath one arm.

Realgar laughed. “This is sham, a fraud! He is lying. He has been lying all along. He has no idea where to find the Hammer!”

“He knew the details of Prince Grallen’s life and death,” Hornfel said. “The mountain shook when we doubted him. Perhaps Reorx and the other gods have returned.”

“I agree with Realgar,” said Rance. “Cloudseeker has shaken before now, and none of us claimed it was anything more than the way of the mountain. Why should this time be different?” Flint pushed past the Thanes, only to be confronted by Arman.

“Tell me where to find the Hammer! I am a prince. It is my destiny!”

“Why should I?” Flint flared. “So you can take the Hammer, and throw my friends and me in your dungeons?”

“Hold his friends as hostage for the Hammer’s return,” the Daewar suggested.

“Do that and the Hammer can stay lost for another three hundred years!” Flint said angrily. Realgar’s squinting eyes had been observing Flint narrowly. He smiled, then said, “I propose a wager.”

The other Thanes looked intrigued. Like their god, dwarves loved to gamble.

“What wager?” asked Hornfel.

“If this Neidar finds the Hammer of Kharas and returns it to us, then we will consider permitting these humans safe entry into our realm—provided they are not an army, of course. If he fails, then he and his friends remain our prisoners, and we seal up the gate.” Hornfel stroked his beard and eyed Flint speculatively. The Daewar nodded in satisfaction and the Klar gave a low chuckle and scratched his chin with the knife blade.

“You can’t mean they are actually considering doing this!” Sturm said, when Tanis translated. “I cannot believe they would gamble on something this serious! Of course, Flint will have no part of it.”

“I agree with the knight,” Raistlin said. “Something’s not right about this.”

“Maybe so,” Flint muttered, “but sometimes you have to risk all to gain all. I’ll take that bet,” he called out loudly, “on one condition. You can do what you like with me, but if I lose, my friends go free.”

“He can’t do this, Tanis!” Sturm protested, shocked and outraged. “Flint cannot gamble with the sacred Hammer of Kharas!”

“Calm down, Sturm,” Tanis said testily. “The Hammer is not anybody’s to do anything with yet.”

“I won’t stand for this!” Sturm stated. “If you will do nothing, then I must. This is sacrilege!”

“Let Flint handle this his way, Sturm,” Tanis warned. He gripped the knight’s arm as he would have turned away, forced him to listen. “We’re not in Solamnia. We’re in the realm of the dwarves. We know nothing about their rules, their laws and their customs. Flint does. He took an enormous risk, putting on that helm. We owe him our trust.”

Sturm hesitated. For a moment, he seemed prepared to defy Tanis. Then he thought better of it and gave a grudging nod.

“We will make the wager,” Hornfel said, speaking for the rest of the Thanes, “with these conditions: We make no terms regarding your friends, Flint Fireforge of the Neidar. Their fate is bound up in yours. If you do indeed find the Hammer of Kharas and return it to us, we will consider allowing the humans you represent to enter Thorbardin, based on our assessment of them. If they are, as you claim, families and not soldiers, they will be welcome. Is this agreeable?”

“The gods help us!” Sturm murmured.

Flint spit into his palm and extended his hand. Hornfel spit into his palm. The two shook on it, and the wager was done.

Hornfel turned to Tanis.

“You will be our guests in your friend’s absence. You will stay in guest quarters in the Life Tree. We will provide guards for your safety.”

“Thank you,” said Tanis, “but we’re going with our friend. He can’t undertake what may be a dangerous quest alone.”

“Your friend will not go alone,” Hornfel replied with a slight smile. “My son, Arman, will accompany him.”

“This is madness, Flint!” Raistlin said in his soft voice. “Let us say you find the Hammer. What is to prevent this dwarf from turning on you and murdering you and stealing it?”

“I’m there to prevent it,” stated Flint, glowering.

“You are not so young as you once were,” Raistlin countered, “nor as strong, whereas Arman is both.”

“My son would never do such a thing,” said Hornfel angrily.

“Indeed, I would not,” said Arman, insulted. “You have my word as my father’s son and as a Hylar that I will consider the life of your friend as a sacred charge.”

“For that matter, Flint could murder Kharas and steal the Hammer,” Tasslehoff piped up cheerfully. “Couldn’t you, Flint?”

Flint went red in the face. Caramon, heaving a sigh, put his hand the kender’s shoulder and marched him toward the door.

“Flint, don’t agree to this!” Sturm urged.

“There is no agreement to be made,” said Hornfel in tones of finality. “No human or half-human, and certainly no kender, will defile the sacred tomb of our High King. The Council of the Thanes is ended. My son will escort you to your quarters.” Hornfel turned on his heel and left. The soldiers closed in around the companions. They had no choice but to go along. Flint walked at Tanis’s side. The old dwarf’s head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He held tightly to the Helm of Grallen.

“Do you really know where to find the Hammer?” Tanis asked in a low undertone.

“Maybe,” Flint muttered.

Tanis scratched his beard. “You realize you agreed to gamble the lives of eight hundred people on that ‘maybe?’”

Flint cocked an eye at his friend. “You got a better idea?”

Tanis shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” Flint grunted.

Chapter 12 The Inn of The Talls. Sturm argues. Flint Whittles.

The quarters provided the companions by the dwarves were located on the ground floor of the Life Tree in a part of the city that was older than the rest and little used. All the buildings were abandoned and boarded up. Flint pointed out why.

“Everything is human height—the doors and the windows. This part of the Life Tree was built to house humans.”

“It used to be known as Tall Town,” Arman informed them. “This was the area set aside for the human and elven merchants who once lived and worked here. We are giving you quarters in one of the inns built specially for your race.”

Caramon in particular was relieved. He had already squeezed his big body into dwarf-size wagons and buckets, and he’d been worried about having to spend the night in a bed built for short dwarven legs.

The inn was in better repair than most of the buildings, for some enterprising dwarf was currently using it as a warehouse. It was two stories tall with lead-paned glass windows and a solid oak door.

“Before the Cataclysm, this inn was filled every night,” said Arman, ushering his “guests” inside.

“Merchants came from all over Ansalon, from Istar, Solamnia, and Ergoth. Once this common room rang with the sounds of laughter and the clink of gold. Now you hear nothing.”

“Except the screeching of rats.” Raistlin drew his robes close to him in disgust as several rodents, startled by the sudden light shed by a larva lantern, went racing across the floor.

“At least the beds are our size,” Caramon said thankfully, “and so are the tables and chairs. Now if we just had something to eat and drink…”

“My men will bring you meat, ale, and clean bedding,” Arman said, then turned to Flint. “I suggest we both get a good night’s sleep. We set out for the Valley of the Thanes first thing on the morrow.” Arman hesitated, then said, “I assume that is where we will be going?” Flint’s only response was a grunt. He walked over to a chair, plunked himself down, and took out a stick of wood and his whittling knife. Arman Kharas remained standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Flint, apparently hoping the dwarf would reveal more.

Flint obviously had nothing to say. Tanis and the rest stood looking around the dark and gloomy inn, not knowing what to do with themselves.

Arman frowned. He clearly wanted to order Flint to talk, but he was hardly in a position to do so. At last he said, “I will post guards outside so that your rest is not disturbed.” Raistlin gave a sardonic laugh. Tanis flashed him a warning glance, and he turned away. Sturm stalked off and went to work dragging down some wood bed frame that had been stacked together in a corner along with barrels, boxes, and crates. Caramon offered to help, as did Tasslehoff, though the first thing the kender did was to start poking holes in a crate to see if he could tell what was inside. Arman stood watching them. Flint continued to whittle. At length, Arman tugged on his beard and asked if they had questions.

“Yeah,” said Caramon, holding one of the heavy bed frames above his head, preparatory to placing it on the floor. “When’s dinner?”

The food they were given was plain and simple, washed down with ale from one of the casks. Arman Kharas finally wrenched himself away. Tanis felt sorry for the young dwarf, and he was annoyed at Flint, who could have at least been nice to Arman, whose life-long dreams had just been shattered. Flint was in a dark mood, however, and Tanis kept quiet, figuring anything he said would only make matters worse. Flint ate in silence, shoveling his food in his mouth rapidly, and when he was finished, he walked away from the table and went back to his whittling. Sturm sat bolt upright all through dinner, disapproval evident in his bristling mustaches and the ice blue glint in his eyes. Raistlin picked at his food, eating little, his gaze abstracted, his thoughts turned inward. Caramon drank more ale than was good for him and fell asleep with his head on the table. The only person talking was Tasslehoff, who prattled away happily about the exciting events of the day, never seeming to mind that no one was listening to him. Raistlin suddenly shoved his plate aside and rose to his feet. “I am going to study my spells. I do not want to be disturbed.” He appropriated the only comfortable chair and dragged it near the large stone fireplace, where Tanis had managed to coax a small fire into burning. Raistlin cast a disgusted glance at his twin, who lay sprawled on the table, exhaling beery breath.

“I trust someone will put that great lump to bed,” Raistlin said. He took out his spellbook and was soon absorbed in his reading.

Sturm and Tanis hauled the sodden Caramon to the stoutest bed and dumped him down onto the mattress. Sturm then walked over and stood beside Flint, staring down at him.

“Flint, you can’t do this,” said Sturm.

Flint’s knife scraped against the wood, and a particularly large chip flew off, nearly hitting Tasslehoff, who was engaged in attempting to pick a lock on a large chest.

“You can’t go off on a quest of this importance with that Arman Kharas. In the first place, I’m none too certain of his sanity. In the second, it is too dangerous. You should refuse to go unless one of us goes with you.”

Small curls of wood flowed out from under Flint’s knife, landing at his feet. Sturm’s face reddened. “The Thanes cannot refuse you, Flint. Simply tell them that you will not fetch the hammer without proper protection! I myself would be glad to serve as your escort.” Flint looked up. “Bah!” he said, and looked back down. Another chip flew. “You’d escort the hammer right out of Thorbardin and back to Solamnia!”

Sturm smashed his fist on the table, setting the pewter plates dancing, and startling Tas, who dropped his lock pick. “Hey!” the kender said sternly. “Be quiet. Raistlin and I are trying to concentrate.”

“The hammer is vital to our cause!” Sturm said angrily.

“Keep your voice down, Sturm,” Tanis cautioned. “The walls are thick, but that door is not, and the guards are right outside.”

“They speak nothing but Dwarvish,” Sturm said, but he did lower his voice. He walked a couple of times around the room, trying to calm himself, then went back to confront Flint.

“I apologize for shouting, but I do not think you understand the importance of your undertaking. The dragonlance is the only weapon known to us that can slay these evil dragons, and the Hammer of Kharas is the only hammer that can be used in the making of the dragonlances. If you bring the hammer to the knights you will be a hero, Flint. You will be honored in legend and song for all time. Most important, you will save thousands of lives!”

Flint did not look at him, though he appeared to be interested in what the knight had to say. His whittling slowed. Only very small shavings fell now. Tanis didn’t like the way the conversation was tending.

“Have you forgotten the reason we came here, Sturm?” Tanis asked. “We came seeking a safe haven for eight hundred men, women, and children. Flint has promised to give the dwarves the hammer if he finds it. In return, Hornfel has promised that the refugees can enter Thorbardin. He won’t do that if we try to walk off with the dwarves’ sacred hammer. In fact, we probably wouldn’t get out of here alive. Face facts, Sturm. The dragonlance is a dream, a legend, a myth. We are not certain such a weapon even existed.”

“Some of us are,” Sturm said.

“The refugees are real and their peril is real,” Tanis countered. “I agree with Sturm that you should not go alone tomorrow, Flint, but I should be the one to go with you.”

“You do not trust me, Half-Elven, is that it?” Sturm’s face blanched, his eyes dilated.

“I trust you, Sturm,” said Tanis, sighing. “I know that you would give your life for me, or Flint, or any of us. I do not doubt your courage, your honor, or your friendship. It’s just… I worry that you are being impractical! You have traded common sense for some wishful dream of saving mankind.”

Sturm shook his head. “I honor and respect you, Tanis, as I would have honored and respected the father I never knew. In this matter, however, I cannot give way. What if we save eight hundred lives now, only to lose thousands as the evil queen moves to conquer and enslave all of Ansalon? The dragonlance may be a dream now, but we have it in our power to make that dream reality! The gods brought me here to seek the Hammer of Kharas, Tanis. I believe that with all my heart.”

“The gods told me where to find it, Sturm Brightblade.” Flint thrust his knife in his belt, stood up, and tossed the chunk of wood he’d been whittling into the fire. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sturm is right about one thing, Flint,” said Tanis. “You should tell the Thanes that you want one of us to accompany you. I don’t care who it is. Take Sturm, take Caramon. Just take someone! Will you do that?”

“No.” Flint stalked off toward a dwarf-size bed he’d found for himself in a distant corner of the room.

“Be logical, my friend,” Tanis was growing exasperated at the dwarf’s stubbornness. “You can’t go off alone with Arman Kharas! You can’t trust him.”

“Actually, Flint, if you want a companion who will be truly useful, you would choose me,” said Raistlin from his place by the fire.

“As if anyone trusts you!” Sturm gave the mage a baleful glance. “I should be the one to go.” Flint halted half-way across the room and turned to face them. His face was livid with rage.

“I’d sooner take the kender than any one of you lot. So there!” He stomped off to bed. Tasslehoff jumped to his feet. “Me? You’re taking me, Flint?” he cried in excitement.

“I’m not taking anyone,” Flint growled.

He marched over to his bed, climbed in it, pulled the blanket up over his head, and rolled over, his back to them all.

“But Flint,” Tas wailed, “you just said you were—”

“Tas, leave him alone,” said Tanis.

“He said he was taking me!” Tas argued.

“Flint’s tired. We’re all tired. I think we should go to bed. Perhaps matters will look different in the morning.”

“Flint said he was taking me,” Tasslehoff muttered. “I should sharpen my sword.” He rummaged about in his pouches, searching for his knife. He located Rabbitslayer then began looking in his pouches for a whetstone. He didn’t find that, but he did come across several other objects that were so interesting he completely forgot about the knife.

Raistlin closed his book with a snap.

“I hope you two are pleased with yourselves,” the mage said, as he walked past Sturm and Tanis on his way to his bed.

“He’ll think better of it by morning,” said Sturm.

“I’m not so sure.” Tanis glanced at the dwarf. “You know how stubborn he can be.”

“We’ll reason with him,” Sturm said.

Tanis, who had tried on occasion to reason with the irascible old dwarf, did not hold out much hope.

Flint lay staring into the darkness. Sturm was right. Tanis was right. Even Raistlin was right!

Logic dictated he should take one of them with him on the morrow. Hornfel would let him if he made an issue of it. The Thanes wouldn’t have much choice.

Yet as he continued to think things over, Flint came to realize he’d made the right decision. He’d made it for the wrong reasons, but that didn’t make it less right.

“The Hammer of Honor doesn’t belong to the knights and their dreams of glory,” Flint said to himself. “It doesn’t belong to elves. It doesn’t belong to humans, no matter how much trouble they’re in. The hammer was made by dwarves, and it belongs to dwarves. Dwarves should be the ones who decide what to do with it, and if that means using it to save ourselves, then so be it.” This was a good reason and sounded very fine, but it wasn’t the only reason Flint was going off on his own.

“This time, the hero is going to be me.”

Of course, there was always the possibility that the hero would be Arman Kharas, but Flint didn’t think that likely. Reorx had promised him that if he put on the helm, the hammer would be his reward.

Flint Fireforge, Savior of the People, Unifier of the Dwarven Nations. Perhaps even Flint Fireforge, High King.

Flint smiled to himself. That last wasn’t likely to come true, but an old dwarf could dream, couldn’t he?

Chapter 13 False Metal. Strange Bedfellows. Flint’s Promise.

It seemed to the companions that they had only just gone to bed when they were awakened by Arman Kharas banging on the door. Being deep underground, bereft of sunlight, they had no way to tell the time, but Arman assured them that in the world outside, the sun’s first rays were gilding the snow on the mountain peaks.

“How do you know?” Caramon grumbled. He was not happy about being wakened “in the middle of the night,” as he termed it, especially when suffering from the effects of drinking too much ale.

“There are parts of Thorbardin where one can see the sun, and we regulate our water clocks by it. You will view one of those places today,” he added in solemn tones, speaking to Flint. “The light of the sun shines always upon the Kalil S’rith—the Valley of Thanes.”

Sturm looked grimly at Tanis, who shook his head and looked at Flint, who very carefully did not look at anyone. The old dwarf clumped about the room, busy over various tasks—putting on his armor, putting on his helm with the “griffin’s mane,” and strapping the Helm of Grallen to his belt.

Tanis saw Sturm’s expression alter. He knew what the knight was going to say before he said it, and he tried to stop him, but he was too late.

“Flint,” Sturm said sternly, “be reasonable. Take one of us.” Flint turned to Arman.

“I’ll need a weapon. I’m not going to face whatever hauled that tomb out of the ground without my battle-axe in my hands.”

Arman Kharas removed the ornate hammer from the harness on his back. He looked at it regretfully for a moment then held it out to Flint.

“That’s yours,” said Flint, “I’ll take my battle-axe.”

Arman frowned at this refusal. “You have been given the knowledge of how to find the true Hammer. You should be the one to carry the replica. I had it made especially for this moment. It’s my homage to Kharas. You will carry it to the Tomb of the King in Kharas’s honor.” Flint didn’t know what to say. He would have been much more comfortable with his battle-axe, but he didn’t want to hurt the young dwarf anymore than he’d already been hurt. Flint reached out, took hold of the hammer, and nearly dropped it. He suspected he knew now why Arman had given it to him. The hammer was heavy and unwieldy, well-crafted, but not well-designed. He gave it an experimental swing or two, and the thing nearly broke his wrist. He glanced suspiciously at Arman to see if he was smiling. Arman stood looking grave, however, and Flint realized the young dwarf had meant what he said. -

Flint held out his hand to Arman. “I accept this in the name of friendship.” Arman hesitated, then stiffly shook hands.

“Perhaps we misjudged Arman,” said Tanis.

Sturm snorted. “He walks around carrying a fake magical hammer. I think that merely confirms the fact that he is crazy.”

Raistlin seemed about to say something, then stopped. He regarded Flint and the hammer thoughtfully.

“What?” Tanis asked the mage.

“You should try once more to talk to Flint.”

Tanis could have told him it was a waste of time, but he walked over to where Flint was continuing to gather up his gear. Tasslehoff had offered his assistance, with the result that Flint came up missing his favorite knife. He immediately rounded on the kender, seized hold of him and began to shake out his pouches, ignoring Tas’s cries of protest.

“Sturm, a word with you,” said Raistlin.

Sturm did not trust the strange gleam in Raistlin’s hourglass eyes, but he accompanied him to the window.

“Is that hammer an exact replica of the real one?” Raistlin asked softly.

“I have only ever seen the Hammer in paintings,” Sturm replied, “but from what I can judge it is identical.”

“How can a person distinguish between the real and the false?”

“The Hammer is reputed to be light in weight, yet when it strikes it does so with the force of the god behind it, and when the true Hammer hits the sacred Anvil of Thorbardin, it sounds a note that can be heard throughout the earth and heavens.”

Raistlin cast a sharp glance at the false hammer. Folding his hands in his sleeves, he leaned near to whisper, “Flint could switch hammers.”

Sturm stared at him, either uncomprehending or refusing to comprehend.

“Flint has the false hammer,” Raistlin explained. “He has only to replace the true Hammer with the false. He keeps the true one and gives the dwarves the other.”

“They will know the difference,” said Sturm.

Raistlin smiled. “I think not. I can cast a spell on the false hammer, recreating the effects you described—or close enough so that the dwarves will not be able to tell the difference for a long time. Once Arman has the hammer in his possession—the hammer he’s been searching for all his life—he won’t look very hard to find fault with it. I can do this,” he added, “but I need your help.”

Sturm shook his head. “I won’t be a party to this.”

“But it solves all our problems!” Raistlin said insistently, placing his hand on Sturm’s arm. The knight flinched beneath the touch, but he remained to listen. “We give the dwarves what they want. We have what we want. Once the dragonlances are forged, you can bring the Hammer back to them. No harm done—and much good.”

“It is… not honorable,” said Sturm.

“Oh, well, if honor is what you want, then by all means, say an honorable prayer over the little children as the dragons of the Dark Queen sear the flesh from their bones.” Raistlin’s grip on the knight tightened. “You may have the right to choose honor over life, but think of those who have no choice, those who will suffer and die under the Dark Queen’s rule. And she will rule, Sturm. You know as well as I that the forces of good—what paltry forces of good there are—cannot do anything to stop her.”

Sturm was silent. Raistlin could both see and feel the conflict raging inside the knight. Sturm’s arm muscles tensed and hardened. His eyes glinted, his fists clenched. He was thinking not only of the innocents, but also of himself. He would bring the Hammer to the knighthood. He would be the one to forge the fabled dragonlances. He would be the savior of the Solamnic people, of all people everywhere.

Raistlin could guess much of what the knight was thinking, and he almost guessed right. Raistlin assumed that Sturm was being seduced by a dream of glory when, in truth, the thought of those innocents who would suffer in the coming war affected the knight profoundly. He could see again the smoldering ruins and the butchered children of Que-shu.

“What do you want me to do?” Sturm asked, the words falling reluctantly from his lips. He had never imagined agreeing to help Raistlin weave one of his webs. Sturm reminded himself, again, of the innocents.

“You must talk to Flint,” said Raistlin. “Tell him the plan. He will not listen to me.”

“I’m not convinced he will listen to me,” Sturm said.

“At least we must try! Put the idea into his head.” Raistlin paused, then said softly, “Say nothing to Tanis.”

Sturm understood. Tanis would oppose such a scheme. Not only was it dishonest, it was dangerous. If the dwarves found out, it could be the death of them all, yet the dragonlances were their best hope for winning the war—something the half-elf stubbornly refused to understand. Sturm gave a stiff nod. Raistlin smiled to himself from within the darkness of his cowl. He had won a victory over the virtuous knight, knocking him off his lofty pedestal. In the future, whenever Sturm’s lectures on morality grew too tedious, all Raistlin would have to do would be to murmur, “The Hammer of Kharas.”

“I will draw Tanis aside. You talk to Flint.”

Tanis had recovered Flint’s whittling knife and sent Tasslehoff off to investigate a strange sound he claimed to have heard in the back of the building. He and Flint were discussing the journey; that is, Tanis was discussing it, and Flint wasn’t saying a word, when Raistlin asked Tanis if he could speak to him.

“I am concerned about Caramon’s health,” Raistlin said gravely. “He is not well this morning.”

“He just drank too much, that’s all,” said Tanis. “He has a hangover. This isn’t the first time. I should think you’d be used to it, by now.”

“I think it is more serious than that,” Raistlin persisted. “Some sickness. Please come look at him.”

“You know more about illness than I do, Raistlin—”

“I would like your opinion, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said. “You know how much I respect you.” Tanis didn’t, not really, but on the off-chance that Caramon had truly fallen ill, Tanis accompanied Raistlin over to the bed where Caramon lay with a cold rag over his eyes. Raistlin hovered solicitously near his brother as Tanis looked Caramon over. Raistlin’s gaze focused on Sturm and Flint. Raistlin could not hear their conversation, but he did not need to. He knew exactly when Sturm told the dwarf about switching the hammers, for Flint’s jaw dropped. He stared at Sturm in astonishment, then, frowning, he gave a violent shake of his head. Sturm continued to talk, pressing harder. The knight was earnest, serious. He was talking about the innocents. Flint shook his head again, but less forcefully. Sturm kept talking, and now Flint was starting to listen. He was thinking it over. Flint glanced at Arman, then glanced at the false hammer. His brow furrowed. He looked at Raistlin, who regarded him with an unblinking, unwavering stare. Flint averted his gaze. He said something to Sturm, who turned away and walked in studied nonchalance back to Raistlin.

“How is poor Caramon?” Sturm asked in the somber tones of one keeping watch at a deathbed. Raistlin shook his head and sighed.

“He drank too much, that’s all,” said Tanis, exasperated.

“Perhaps it was the worm meat,” Raistlin suggested.

“Oh, gods!” Caramon groaned. Clutching his gut, he rolled out of bed, dashed over to the corner, and threw up in the slop bucket.

“You see, Tanis,” said Raistlin reproachfully. “My brother is gravely ill! I leave him in your care. I must have a word with Flint before he departs.”

“And I would like a word with you, Raistlin,” said Sturm. “If you could spare me a moment.” The two walked off, leaving Tanis staring after them in wonder, scratching his beard. “What are those two up to? Ganging up on Flint, I suppose. Well, good luck to them.” He went over to assure Caramon that he had not been fed worms.

“Flint has promised to at least consider it,” said Sturm.

“He must consider quickly, then,” Raistlin said. “I need time to cast the spell, and our young friend grows impatient to be gone.”

Arman stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often he would frown deeply, heave a loud sigh, and tap the toe of his boot on the floor. “Once we send it, we are to take the Hammer to the Temple of the Stars,” Arman declared. “I told my father we would be there by sunset, if not before.”

Flint stared at him. “What do you think? That we’re going to just stroll into the tomb, pick up the Hammer, and stroll back out?”

“I do not know,” Arman replied coldly. “You are the one who knows how to find it.” Flint grunted and shook his head. He closed his pack, lifted it off the floor, and slung it over his shoulder. His eyes met Raistlin’s. Flint gave a very slight nod.

“He’ll do it!” Raistlin said exultantly to Sturm. “There is one problem. The spell I am going to cast is a transmutation spell. It is designed to shrink an object.”

“Shrink?” Sturm repeated, aghast. “We don’t want to shrink the hammer!”

“I am aware of that,” Raistlin said irritably. “I plan to modify the spell so it will reduce the hammer’s weight but not the size. There is a small chance that I might make a mistake. If so, our plot will be discovered.”

Sturm glowered. “Then we should not proceed.”

“A small chance, I said,” Raistlin remarked. “Very small.” He went over to Flint, who gave him a dark glance from beneath lowered brows.

“This replica is an object of fine craftsmanship,” said Raistlin. “Could I hold it to examine it more closely?”

Flint looked around. Arman had left off haunting the doorway and gone outside to try to walk off his mounting frustration. Tanis was across the room talking to Caramon. Slowly, Flint reached for the hammer. He drew it awkwardly from the harness and handed it over.

“It’s heavy,” he said pointedly.

Raistlin took the hammer, hefted it to test the weight, then affected to study the runes.

“It would be easier to carry,” Flint said, fidgeting nervously with the straps on his armor, “if it was lighter in weight.”

“Anyone watching?” Raistlin murmured.

“No,” said Sturm, smoothing his mustaches. “Arman is outside. Tanis is with your brother.” Raistlin closed his eyes. He gripped the hammer with one hand, running the other over the runeetched metal. He drew in a soft breath, then whispered strange words that Flint thought sounded like it feels when a bug crawls up your leg. He regretted his decision and started to reach for the hammer, to take it away.

Then Raistlin gave a sigh and opened his eyes.

“It is heavy,” he said, as he handed it back. “Remember to be careful when you use it.” Obviously, the spell had failed. Flint was relieved. He grabbed hold of the hammer and nearly went over backward. The hammer was as light as the kender’s chicken feather. Raistlin’s eyes glittered. He slid his hands inside the sleeves of his robes. Flint looked the hammer up and down, but he could not see any change. He started to put it back into the harness, then he caught Raistlin’s eye and remembered just in time that the hammer was heavy. Flint wasn’t very good at play-acting. He was doubly sorry he’d agreed to go along with this scheme, but it was too late now.

“Well, I’m away,” he announced. He stood hunched over, as if bowed down by the weight of the hammer, which was, in truth, weighing on him.

“I wish you would reconsider,” said Tanis, walking over to say good-bye. “You still have time to change your mind.”

“Yeah, I know.” Flint rubbed his nose. He paused, cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Do this old dwarf a favor, will you, Tanis? Give him a chance to find glory at least once in his dull life. I know it sounds foolish—”

“No,” said Tanis, and he laid his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “It is far from foolish. Walk with Reorx.”

“Don’t go praying to gods you don’t believe in, half-elf,” Flint returned, glowering. “It’s bad luck.”

Straightening his shoulders, Flint walked out to join Arman Kharas, who told him in no uncertain terms it was time to depart. The two walked off, escorted by Hylar soldiers. Two Hylar guards remained behind, taking up their posts outside the inn’s door.

“I hope they haven’t forgotten breakfast,” said Caramon, sitting up in bed.

“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” said Raistlin in withering tones.

“I feel better now that I threw up. Hey!” Caramon walked over, opened the door, and stuck his head out. “When do we eat?”

Tasslehoff stared out the window until Flint had disappeared around the corner of a building. Then the kender plunked down on a chair.

“Flint promised me I could go with him to the Floating Tomb,” Tas said, kicking the rungs. Tanis knew it would be hopeless to try to convince the kender that Flint had made no such promise, so Tanis left Tas alone, confident that he would forget all about going in another five minutes, once he found something else of interest.

Sturm was also staring out the window. “We could handle the guards at the door. Tanis. There are only two of them.”

“Then what?” Raistlin demanded caustically. “How do we slip through Thorbardin unnoticed? Pass ourselves off as dwarves? The kender might do it, but the rest of us would have to put on false beards and walk on our knees.”

Sturm’s face flushed at the mage’s sarcasm. “We could at least speak to Hornfel. Tell him of our concern for our friend. He might reconsider.”

“I suppose we could request an audience,” said Tanis, “but I doubt we’d succeed. He made it very clear that only dwarves can enter the sacred tomb.”

Sturm continued to stare gloomily out the window.

“Flint is on his way to the Valley of Thanes,” said Tanis, “the Kingdom of the Dead, with a mad dwarf to watch his back and the spirit of a dead prince to guide him. Fretting over him won’t help.”

“Praying for him will,” said Sturm, and the knight went down on his knees. Raistlin shrugged. “I’m going back to bed.”

“At least ’til breakfast comes,” said Caramon.

There was nothing else to do. Tanis went to his bed, lay down and stared at the ceiling. Sturm began to pray silently. “I know what I did was wrong, but I did it for the greater good,” he told Paladine. He closed his hands and clenched his hands. “As I have always done…”

Tasslehoff stopped kicking the rungs of the chair. He waited until Sturm was caught up in the rapture of his communion with the god, waited until Tanis’s eyes closed and his breathing evened out, waited until he heard Caramon’s loud snore and Raistlin’s rasping coughing cease.

“Flint promised I could go,” Tas muttered. “‘I’d sooner take the kender.’ That’s what he said. Tanis is worried about him, and he wouldn’t worry half so much if I was with him.” Tasslehoff divested himself of his pouches. Leaving them behind was a wrench. He felt positively naked without them, but he would make this sacrifice for his friend. Sliding off the chair, moving silently as only a kender can move when he puts his mind to it, Tas opened the door and slipped quietly outside.

The two soldiers had their backs to him. They were talking and didn’t hear him.

“Hullo!” Tas said loudly.

The guards drew their swords and whipped around a lot faster than Tas would have given dwarves credit for. He did not know dwarves were so agile, especially decked out in all the metal.

“What do you want?” snarled the soldier.

“Get back in there!” said his friend, and pointed at the inn.

Tas spoke a few words in Dwarvish. He spoke a few words of many languages, since it’s always handy to be able to say, “But you dropped it!” to strangers you might meet along the way.

“I want my hoopak,” said Tas politely.

The dwarves stared at him and one made a threatening gesture with his blade.

“Not ‘sword’,” said Tas, misunderstanding the nature of the gesture. “Hoopak. That’s spelled ‘hoo’ and ‘pak’ and in kender it means ‘hoopak’.”

The soldiers still didn’t get it. They were starting to grow annoyed, but then so was Tasslehoff.

“Hoopak!” he repeated loudly. “That’s it, standing there beside you.” He pointed to Sturm’s sword. The soldiers turned to look.

“Oops! My mistake,” said Tasslehoff. “This is what I meant.” A leap, a bound, and a grab, and he had hold of his hoopak. A leap and a thwack, and he’d cracked one of the guards in the face with the butt end of the staff, then used the pronged end to jab the other guard in his gut. Tas rapped each of them over the head, just to make sure they weren’t going to be getting up too soon and be a bother. Choosing the smaller of the two, he plucked the helm off the dwarf.

“That was a good idea Raistlin had. I’ll disguise myself as a dwarf!” The helm was too big and wobbled around on his head. The dwarf’s chain mail nearly swallowed the kender, and it weighed at least six tons. He ditched the chain mail and put on the dwarf’s leather vest instead. He considered the false beard idea a good one, and he gazed thoughtfully at the dwarf’s beard, but he didn’t have anything to use to cut it. Tas took off the helm, shook out his top knot, dragged his hair in front of his face, and put on the helm again. His long hair flowed out from underneath.

Unfortunately, all the hair that was bunched up in front of his eyes was a little troublesome because he couldn’t see through it all that well, and it kept tickling his nose, so that he had to stop every so often to sneeze. Any sacrifice for a friend, however.

Tasslehoff paused to admire himself in a cracked window. He was quite taken with the results. He didn’t see how any one could possibly tell the difference between him and a dwarf. He set off quickly down the street. Flint and Arman Kharas had a pretty good head start, but Tas was confident he’d catch up.

After all, Flint had promised.

Chapter 14 Three Hundred Years Of Hate. The Valley Of the Thanes.

Flint had hoped to be able to make his way to the Kalil S’rith, the Valley of the Thanes, quietly and quickly, avoiding fuss, bother and gawking crowds. But the Thanes had not kept quiet. Word had spread throughout the dwarven realms that a Neidar was going to seek the Hammer of Kharas.

Flint, Arman, and their escorts left the city of the Talls and walked into a hostile mob. At the sight of Flint, dwarves shook their fists and shouted insults, yelling at him to go back to his hills or take himself off to other places not so nice. Arman came in for his share of abuse, the dwarves calling him traitor and the old insulting nickname, “Mad Arman.”

Flint’s ears burned, and so did his hatred. He was suddenly glad Raistlin had come up with the idea of sneaking the true Hammer out of Thorbardin and leaving the dwarves the false. He would take the Hammer with him and let his loathsome cousins remained sealed up inside their mountain forever.

The mob was so incensed that Flint and Arman might have ended up in the Valley of the Thanes as permanent residents, but Hornfel, receiving word of the near riot, sent his soldiers out in force. The soldiers ordered the crowds to disperse and used their spears and the flats of their swords to enforce their commands. They closed and sealed off the Eighth Road that led to the Valley. This took some time. Arman and Flint had to wait while the soldiers cleared the road of pedestrians and ordered passengers out of the wagons. If Flint had been paying attention, he would have noticed a very odd-looking dwarf pushing and shoving his way through the crowd: a dwarf of slender (one might say anemic) build, whose helm wobbled about on his head and whose beard poked out of the helm’s eye slits. Flint was nearly blind with rage, however. He held the hammer in his hand, longing to use it to bash in a few mountain dwarf heads.

Just when the odd-looking dwarf had almost caught up with them, the soldiers announced that the Eighth Road was clear. Arman Kharas and Flint climbed inside the lead wagon. Flint was taking his seat when he thought he heard a familiar voice cry out in shrill tones, “Hey, Flint! Wait for me!”

Flint’s head jerked up. He turned around, but the wagon rattled away before he could see anything.

Tasslehoff fought, pushed, shoved, kicked, and slithered his way through the angry crowds of dwarves. He had just managed to get near enough to Flint to yell at him to wait up, when the wagon carrying his friend gave a lurch and began to roll down the rails. Tas thought he’d failed. Then Tas remembered he was on a Mission. His friends were all worried about Flint going off alone. Sturm was even praying over it. They would be sorely disappointed in him—Tasslehoff—if he let a small thing like a regiment of dwarves armed with spears stop him. Arman and Flint had entered the first wagon in a series of six wagons hooked together; the soldiers in Arman’s escort had been going to accompany him. Arman ordered them to stay behind, however, which left the other five wagons empty.

The wagons were gathering speed. The dwarven soldiers stood arm-in-arm, their feet planted wide apart, forming a human barricade to keep the mob from rushing the mechanism that controlled the wagons. Tas saw an opening. He dropped down on all fours and crawled between the legs of a guard, who was so preoccupied with forcing back the heaving press of bodies that he never noticed the kender.

Tas sprinted down the rail line and caught up with the last wagon. He threw his hoopak inside, then he leapt onto the back of the wagon and clung there as tight as a tick. After a tense moment when he nearly lost his grip, Tas hoisted one leg up over the side. The rest of him followed, and he tumbled down to join his hoopak at the bottom of the wagon. Tasslehoff lay on his back, admiring the view of passing stalactites on his way to the Valley and thinking how pleased Flint was going to be to see him.

The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Roads led to the Kalil S’rith, the Valley of the Thanes. Each road ended at an entrance known as Guardian Hall, though no dwarves ever stood guard there. There was no need. Reverence and respect were the guardians of the Valley. Dwarves coming to bury their dead were the only ones who ever entered, and they stayed only long enough to pay their homage to the fallen.

It was not like that in the old days, at least so Flint had heard. Before the Cataclysm, the priests of Reorx tended the Valley, keeping all neat and trim. Dwarves came to celebrate family anniversaries with their ancestors. Pilgrims came to visit the resting places of ancient Thanes. After the clerics departed, the dwarves continued to come to the Valley, but without the clerics to tend to it, the grass grew long and wild, the tombs fell into disrepair, and soon the dwarves quit coming. Although dwarves revered their ancestors and thought enough of them to include them in their politics and in their daily lives, asking them for guidance or assistance, the dwarves were now reluctant to disturb the slumbers of the dead. Once a dwarf was laid in tomb or cairn, his family bid farewell and departed, returning to the Valley only when it was time to bury another family member.

The Valley of the Thanes was hallowed ground, blessed centuries ago by Reorx. Once the valley had been a place of quiet and peace. Now it was a place of sorrow. The valley was also a place of sun and wind, cloud and stars, for the valley was the only area in Thorbardin on which the sunlight shone. This was another reason the dwarves rarely went there. They were like babes in the womb, who cry at the light. Living all their lives in the snug darkness beneath the mountain, the dwarves of Thorbardin felt uncomfortable—vulnerable and exposed—when they entered the wind-swept, sun-drenched emptiness of the valley.

The huge bronze doors of the Guardian Hall were marked with the symbol of the Eighth Kingdom—a hammer prone, lying at rest; the warrior’s hand having put it down.

Neither Flint nor Arman spoke during the journey down the Eighth Road. Neither spoke as they walked toward the bronze doors. The noise of the chaotic scene behind them had faded away in the distance. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, hopes, dreams, desires, and fears. They came to the double doors, and by unspoken, mutual consent, they put their hands to opposite sides—Flint taking the left and Arman Kharas the right. Removing their helms and bowing their heads, they pushed open the great doors of the Kilil S’rith.

Sunlight—bright, brilliant, blinding—struck them full in the face. Arman Kharas squinted his eyes half-shut and held up his hand to blot out the dazzling light. Flint blinked rapidly, then drew in a huge gulp of crisp mountain air and lifted his face to the warmth of the sunshine.

“By Reorx!” Flint breathed. “I did not know how much I missed this! It is like I have come back to life!”

Ironic, he thought, in a valley of death.

Arman shielded his eyes. He could not look into the wide, blue sky.

“For me it is like death,” he said grimly. “No walls, no borders, no boundaries, no beginning, and no end. I see the vast expanse of the universe above me, and I am nothing in it, less than nothing, and I do not like that.”

It was then Flint truly understood, for the first time, the vast gulf that lay between his people and those beneath the mountain. Long ago, both clans had been comfortable walking in sunlight and in darkness. Now what was life to one was death to the other.

Flint wondered if his people could ever go back to what had once been, as Arman Kharas dreamed. Hearing again the curses, the insults, the words of hate—sharper, harder, and more lethal than missiles—feeling the burning of anger in his own heart, Flint did not consider it likely hammer or no hammer. Though his anger burned, he felt a sorrow at that, as though he’d misplaced something treasured.

The two dwarves stood waiting for their eyes to grow accustomed to the bright light before they proceeded. Neither could see very well, thus neither of them noticed Tasslehoff climb out of the wagon. He had thrown off the bulky helm and removed his smelly and itchy leather vest, and he hurried toward the bronze door intending to take Flint by surprise, for it was always fun to see the old dwarf jump into the air and go red in the face.

Tas ran inside the doors, and the sun hit him smack in the face. The sunlight was bright and completely unexpected. Clapping his hands over his eyes, the kender went reeling backward through the bronze doors. The glare jabbed right into his brain, and all he could see was a huge red splash streaked with blue and decorated with little yellow speckles. When this admittedly entertaining and interesting phenomenon had passed, Tas opened his eyes and saw, to his dismay, that the bronze doors had swung shut, leaving him stranded in darkness that was worse than ever.

“I’m going to an awful lot of trouble,” Tas grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I hope Flint appreciates it.”

The Valley of the Thanes had been a cavern that had collapsed thousands of years ago, leaving it open to the air. The dead lay in small burial mounds rising up out of the rustling brown grass, or in large cairns marked by stone doors, or in the instances of very wealthy and powerful dwarves, the dead were entombed inside mausoleums. Each site was marked with a stone in which the family name had been carved at the top, with the names of the individual family members added in rows underneath. Some families had several such stones, for their generations extended back through time. Flint kept an eye out for Neidar names as he went, including his own, Fireforge. Another point of contention between the clans when Duncan sealed up the mountain was that the Neidar who came back to Thorbardin to be buried were now barred from their traditional resting place.

No paths or trails circled the mounds. The feet of mortals rarely walked here. Flint and Arman wended their way among the mounds, their destination visible to them the moment their eyes grew accustomed to the light—Duncan’s Tomb.

The ornate and elaborate structure, more like a small palace than a tomb, floated majestically many hundred feet above a still blue lake in the center of the valley. The lake had been formed by run-off from the mountain snows flowing into the hole left behind when the tomb was wrenched out of the earth.

Flint could not take his eyes from the marvelous sight. He stared at the tomb in awe. He had seen many dwarven-built monuments before, but none to rival this. Weighing tons upon tons, the tomb floated among the clouds as if it were as light as any of them. Towers and turrets made of white marble adorned with flame red tile shone in the sunlight. Stained glass windows opened onto balconies. Steep stairs led from one level to another, crisscrossing up and down and circling round the edifice.

A deep musical note resonated from the tomb and echoed throughout the valley. The note sounded once, then the music faded away.

“What was that?” Flint asked, astonished.

Arman Kharas gazed up at the miracle of the floating tomb.

“Some say it is Kharas wielding the hammer. None know for sure.”

The note sounded again, and Flint was forced to admit, it did sound very much like a hammer striking metal. He thought about what might be waiting for them in that tomb—should they ever manage to reach it—and he wished he had taken Sturm’s advice and insisted that Hornfel allow his friends to come with him.

“King Duncan began building his tomb in his lifetime,” Arman stated. “It was to be a grand monument where his children and their children and those who would come after him would all be laid to rest. Alas, his vision of a Hylar dynasty was not to be. His two sons he buried in a plain, unmarked cairn. The tomb of his third son will forever remain empty.

“When the king died, Kharas, disgusted by the fighting among the clans, bore the body to the tomb himself. Fearing that the king’s funeral would be marred by unseemly behavior on the parts of the feuding Thanes, Kharas banned all of them from attending. It is said that they sought to enter, but the great bronze doors slammed shut upon them. Kharas never returned. The Thanes pounded on the doors, trying to force them open. The earth began to shake with such violence that buildings toppled, the Life Tree cracked, and the lake overflowed and flooded the surrounding land.

“When the mountain ceased trembling, the bronze doors swung open. Each eager to find the hammer and claim it for his own, the Thanes fought over who would be the first to enter the Valley. Bloody and battered, they surged inside, only to discover, to their horror, that the king’s tomb had been torn from the ground by some dread force and set floating in the air far above their heads.

“Down through the years, many have searched for the means that would gain us entry, but to this day, none have found it, and now”—Arman turned his dark gaze from the tomb to Flint—“you, a Neidar, claim to know the secret.” Arman stroked his long black beard. “I, for one, doubt it.” Flint took the bait. “Where is Prince Grallen’s tomb?” He was suddenly eager to have this over and done with.

“Not far.” Arman pointed. “The obelisk of black marble you see by the lake. Once the obelisk stood in front of Duncan’s Tomb, but that was before it was torn out of the earth. A statue of the prince stands at the site, and beyond it are the remains of a marble archway that crumbled when the mountain shook.”

Arman cast a glance at Flint. “What do we do once we reach the prince’s tomb? Unless you would rather not tell me,” he added stiffly.

Flint felt he owed the young dwarf something. Arman had given him his hammer, after all.

“I’m to take the helm to his tomb,” said Flint.

Arman stared, astonished. “That is all? Nothing about the Hammer?”

“Not in so many words,” Flint said evasively.

There had been a feeling, an impression, but nothing specific. That was the main reason he hadn’t said more to his friends and yet another reason he had decided to leave them behind.

“But you agreed to make the wager with Realgar—”

“Ah, now,” said Flint, walking among the mounds of the dead, “what dwarf who calls himself a dwarf ever turned down a bet?”

Tasslehoff stared at the bronze doors, then he went over and gave one of the doors a swift kick, not so much because he thought he could kick the door open, but because he was so profoundly annoyed with them. Tas’s toes tingled all the way up to his shoulders, and he became more annoyed than ever.

Dropping his hoopak onto the ground, Tas put both hands on one of the doors and pushed. He pushed and pushed, and nothing happened. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face and thought to himself that he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone except Flint. He also thought that he’d felt the door give just a little, so he pushed again, this time throwing all his weight into it.

“You know who would come in handy about now?” Tas said to himself, pushing with all his might on the door. “Fizban. If he were here, he would hurl one of his fireballs at this door, and it would just pop open.”

Which is exactly what the door did at that moment.

Pop open. With the result that Tas found himself pushing against nothing but air and sunlight, and he landed flat on his face on the ground. Landing flat on his face reminded Tas of something else Fizban would have done—given the absence of flame, smoke, and general destruction that usually accompanied the daft old wizard’s spells. Tas spent a moment lying in the grass, sighing over his friend’s demise. Then, remembering his Mission, he jumped to his feet and looked about.

It was then he realized that the bronze door was swinging shut behind him. Tas made a leap for his hoopak and managed to haul it inside at the last moment before the door boomed shut. Turning around, he looked up into the sky and saw the floating tomb, and he heard what sounded like a hammer striking a gong. The kender was enthralled.

Tas lost several moments staring at the tomb in dumbfounded wonder. The hammer was up there in that tomb that was floating in the sky, and Flint was going up there to get it. Tas gave a moist sigh.

“I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, Queen Takhisis, when I say this,” he said solemnly, “and I want to assure you that I still plan to visit the Abyss someday, but right now the place I most want to be in all the world is up there in Duncan’s Tomb.”

Tasslehoff trudged off in search of his friend.

The tomb of Prince Grallen was one of many cairns, tombs, and burial mounds that had been constructed around the lake in the center of the valley. Here, around the lake, Thanes and their families had been buried for centuries. Grallen’s tomb was the only empty tomb, however; left open to receive the body that would never be found. The tomb was marked by a black obelisk and a life-size statue of the prince. The statue was of the prince in full battle regalia, but it held no weapons. The hands were empty as the tomb, the head bare.

Kharas stood before the statue of the prince, his head bowed in respect, his own helm in his hand. Flint, his mouth dry, walked slowly forward, carrying the Helm of Grallen. He was at loss to know what to do. Was he supposed to place the helm in the empty tomb? He started to turn away, when he felt a chill touch on his flesh. The stone hands of the statue were resting on his own.

Flint’s stomach lurched. His hands shook, and he nearly dropped the helm. He tried to move, but the stone hands held him fast. He looked into the statue’s face, into the eyes, and they were not empty stone. They shone bright with life.

The stone lips moved. “My head has been bare to the sun and the wind, the rain and the snow these many long years.”

Flint shuddered and wished he’d never come. He hesitated, nerving himself, and then, quaking in fear, he placed the helm on the statue’s head. Metal scraped against stone. The helm slid over the cold face and covered the eyes. The red gem flared.

“I go to join my brothers. Long have they waited for me that we could make this next journey together.”

A feeling of peace flowed through Flint, and he was no longer afraid. He felt overwhelming love, love that forgave all. He let go of the helm almost reluctantly and stepped back and bowed his head. The feeling of peace faded away. He heard Arman gasp, and when he could see through the mist that covered his eyes, Flint saw the prince now wore a helm of stone. He choked back the lump in his throat, rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and looked about. Finding what he sought, he circled around the obelisk.

“What do we do now?” Arman asked, following after him. “Where are you going?”

“That arch over there,” Flint said, pointing.

“The arch was a monument to Kharas,” said Arman. “It fell down when the tomb was torn from the earth. It lay in ruins for many years. My father had it rebuilt and rededicated in hopes that it would lead us to the Hammer, but nothing came of it.”

Flint nodded. “We have to walk through the arch.”

Arman was skeptical. “Bah! I’ve walked through the arch countless times and nothing happened.”

Flint made no reply, saving his breath for walking. As Raistlin had so unkindly reminded him, he was not getting any younger. The fracas with the mob, the hike through the valley, and the encounter with the statue had taken its toll on his strength. For all he knew, he was a long way from the hammer.

The arch was made of the same black marble as the obelisk. It was very plain with nothing carved on it except the words, “I wait and watch. He will not return. Alas, I mourn for Kharas.” Flint halted. He rocked back and forth on his feet, making up his mind, then, sucking in a huge breath and shutting his eyes, he ran through the arch. As he did so, he shouted out loudly, “I mourn for Kharas!”

Flint’s run should have taken him to the brown grass on other side of the arch. Instead, his boots clattered on rickety wooden floor boards. Shocked, he opened his eyes and found himself in a shadowy room lit by a single ray of sunlight shining through a narrow arrow slit in a stone wall. Flint sucked in a breath and let it out in awe. He turned around, and there was the arch, far, far behind him. He heard a distant voice cry, “I mourn for Kharas” and Arman appeared in the archway. He stared around in wonder.

“We are here!” he cried. “Inside the tomb!” He sank to his knees. “My destiny is about to be fulfilled.”

Flint stumped over to the arrow slit and peered out. He looked down on brown grass and a sun-lit lake and a small obelisk. His eyes widened. He took a hasty step backward.

“Quick! Block the entrance!” he bellowed, but he was too late.

“I mourn for Kharas,” cried a shrill voice.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, hoopak in hand, burst through the arch.

“You promised you were going to take me, Flint,” he said, “but I guess you forgot and I didn’t want you to feel bad, so I came along myself.”

“A kender!” Arman exclaimed in horror. “In the tomb of the High King! This cannot be permitted! He must go back.”

He rushed at Tasslehoff, who was so astonished he forgot to run. Arman grabbed hold of the kender and was about to hurl him back through the arch when he suddenly let go.

“The arch is gone!” Arman gasped.

“Say,” said Tas, picking himself up off the floor, “if the arch is gone, how do we get back down on the ground?”

“Maybe we don’t,” Flint said grimly.

Chapter 15 Lizards. Fleas. Vermin.

“Tell me more about this hammer,” said Dray-yan.

“It is a moldy old dwarven relic,” Realgar replied. He eyed the lizard-men suspiciously. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

“According to what His Lordship has heard, the dwarf who finds the hammer will determine who is to be High King,” said Dray-yan, “and now we have found out that two dwarves have set off in search of it. You failed to mention this to Lord Verminaard.”

Realgar scowled. “I did not think his lordship would interested.”

“On the contrary,” said Dray-yan, his long tongue flicking out from between his teeth. He sucked it back in. “His lordship is interested in everything that happens here in Thorbardin.” The aurak draconian and his commander, Grag, were deep inside Thorbardin meeting with the Thane of the Theiwar. One of Dray-yan’s paid informants had taken the information about the hammer to a draconian message bearer, who deemed it important enough to travel swiftly through the secret tunnels and wake Grag in the middle of the night. Grag had deemed it important enough to wake Dray-yan. The same messenger had also brought information about the escaped slaves and the gang of assassins who led them.

Dray-yan and Grag traveled swiftly to Thorbardin to discuss these matters with Realgar. Dray-yan had met with the Theiwar leader before, but then he had been in the guise of Lord Verminaard. Dray-yan decided to appear as his true scaly self when he met with Realgar today. Lord Verminaard was on his way to Thorbardin, Dray-yan told Realgar. His Lordship would be present when the hammer was found.

Realgar sneered. “As for determining who will be High King, axes, swords, and spears will do that, not some rusty hunk of metal.” The Thane scratched his neck, plucked off a flea and squeezed it between his fingers. He tossed it aside.

Dray-yan was patient, as he continued his questioning. Emperor Ariakas was vitally interested in obtaining this hammer. Dray-yan doubted very much if the emperor cared who was king of the dwarves. “But the hammer is reputed to possess magical powers.”

Realgar gave the draconians a sharp glance. He thought he knew what this was about now. “The dragonlances. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “I can see where that might interest Verminaard.”

Dray-yan and Grag exchanged glances. Grag shook his head.

“His Lordship knows nothing about dragonlances,” said Dray-yan.

“They’re lances used to kill dragons—and other lizards,” Realgar added with an ugly grin. Dray-yan looked grimly at the Theiwar. He would have liked to have throttled the stinking little maggot. He had to be conciliatory, however. Their plans depended on him.

“I will inform His Lordship about these dragonlances,” Dray-yan said. “In the meantime, the hammer is said to be located in the…” He forgot the name and glanced at Grag for the information.

“Valley of the Thanes,” Grag supplied.

“Two dwarves have gone seeking it—”

“Let two hundred go. They won’t find it. Even if they do, what will it matter?” Realgar leered at Dray-yan. “Or perhaps you see yourself as King Beneath the Mountain, Lizard?” The aurak answered in draconian for the benefit of Grag. “Trust me, you filthy little weasel, I have no plans to become High King of a bunch of hairy, vermin-infested rodents. Being slavemaster will be punishment enough. Still we all must make sacrifices for the cause.” Grag’s tail twitched in agreement.

Realgar, who didn’t understand draconian, looked irritably from one to the other. “What did you say to him?”

“I told Grag I dare not dream of rising to such exalted heights, Thane,” said Dray-yan. “To serve my Lord Verminaard is the extent of my humble ambitions.” He paused, “I cannot say the same for Lord Verminaard, however.”

Realgar’s bushy brows came together over his squinty eyes, causing them to nearly vanish from sight. “What do you mean?”

Dray-yan looked at Grag. “Should we tell him?”

Grag nodded solemnly. “The Thane has been of great help to us. It is right that he should know.”

“Know what?” Realgar demanded.

“Let us consider what might happen if Lord Verminaard obtained the Hammer of Kharas and became High King of Thorbardin. He would control the iron ore production. He would receive the profits.”

“No human can be High King!” cried Realgar, swelling with fury. “The hammer is a hunk of metal. Nothing more.”

“Her Dark Majesty does not consider the hammer a ‘hunk of metal,’” said Dray-yan. “She might also have an interest in these spears.”

“Lances,” said Grag. “Dragonlances.”

Dray-yan shrugged. “If, as you say, the hammer is nothing but a ‘hunk of metal,’ then you have nothing to fear. If the hammer does truly possess magical powers, then Emperor Ariakas, in the name of Her Dark Majesty, will reward the person who brings it to him and make that person High King of Thorbardin. And that person will be Lord Verminaard.”

“Verminaard has no right to rule us!” Realgar declared sulkily.

Dray-yan sighed deeply. “His Lordship’s ambition is vast, as are his appetites. Not that this in any way diminishes his greatness,” he added hastily.

“I asked for his help in making me king,” Realgar stated. “If I had known he planned to claim the throne himself, I would have never brought him in on this deal. I will be king, no one else, especially no human.”

He brooded awhile, then regarded Dray-yan with speculative interest. “You seem to be intelligent—for a lizard, that is.”

Dray-yan didn’t dare glance at Grag, for fear they’d both burst out laughing.

“I am grateful for your good opinion, Thane,” said Dray-yan. He added, with a sigh, “I wish His Lordship shared it.”

“You speak as though you were willing to switch allegiance,” said Realgar, “serve a new master.”

“Grag and I might consider it,” said Dray-yan, “depending on what was in it for us.”

“Your own share of the profits.”

Dray-yan and Grag discussed this proposition.

“The weasel has taken the bait,” said the aurak in draconian. “As we discussed, when this hammer is recovered I will keep the Thanes distracted—or rather, ‘His Lordship’ will keep them distracted. Your troops will enter Thorbardin, take over and occupy key dwarven fortifications.” Grag nodded. “The troops are assembled in the tunnel, awaiting my command. If the hammer is found, the dwarves will take it to the location they call the Temple of the Stars. Once the Thanes have assembled, we can seal the exits, trapping them and the hammer inside.”

“After his lordship has met his sad end,” Dray-yan said, “and the hammer is safely in my hands, I will have a little talk with the Thanes. I will let them know who is going to be in charge from now on.” He cast a baleful glance at Realgar.

“We draconians will be the first in the Dark Queen’s service to conquer a nation of Ansalon,” Grag observed. “Emperor Ariakas cannot choose but to grant us the respect we deserve. Perhaps someday a draconian will be the one to wear the Crown of Power.”

Dray-yan could almost feel that crown upon his own scaly head. He reluctantly tore himself away from his dream and returned to business.

“Grag and I have spoken,” said Dray-yan to the Theiwar. “We agree to your terms.”

“I thought you lizards might,” said Realgar with a sneer.

“We have devised a plan to deal with His Lordship,” Dray-yan continued, “but first, Grag and I are concerned about these six assassins who have entered your realm. These men are in the pay of the elves. They were sent into Pax Tharkas to try to kill His Lordship. He survived the attack, but they managed to escape.”

“You sound as though you’re afraid of these criminals,” said Realgar. Dray-yan’s claws twitched. He had something very special in mind for Realgar once he took over.

“I do not fear them,” Dray-yan said. “I do respect them, however, as should you. They are clever, and they are skilled, and they have the blessings of their gods.”

“And they are dead,” said Realgar smugly. “You need not worry about them.” Dray-yan’s tongue flicked in and out. He didn’t believe Realgar.

“Dead? How?” he asked sharply.

He was interrupted by a dwarf, who came running into the Thane’s sinkhole of a dwelling place. The dwarf began gabbling in his own language. Realgar listened with interest. His scraggly beard parted in a rotted-toothed grin. At almost the same moment, a baaz draconian entered. He saluted and waited for Grag to acknowledge him.

The baaz made his report, who relayed the news to Dray-yan.

“A small band of humans are approaching the Northgate. It looks like a scouting party.”

“My fugitive slaves?”

“Almost certainly. One of them is that extremely tall Plainsman who fought Verminaard. He leads others like him, all dressed in animal skins—six total. An elf lord travels with them. He was also seen at Pax Tharkas.”

“I take it we have received the same news,” said Realgar, who was watching the draconians closely. “Human warriors have arrived at Northgate.”

“Yes,” Dray-yan responded. “The same criminals who escaped us in Pax Tharkas.”

“Praise Her Dark Majesty,” said Realgar, rubbing his dirty hands together in satisfaction. “They will not escape us here.”

“1 will send my forces to destroy them,” Grag began.

“No, wait!” Realgar interposed. “They’re not to be slain. I want at least two of them captured alive.”

“A live enemy is a dangerous enemy,” said Grag. “Kill them and be done with it.”

“Normally, I would agree,” said Realgar, “but I need this scum as proof to Hornfel and the other Council members that a human army is planning to invade us. I will bring these spies before the Council, exhibit them, and make them confess. Hornfel will have no choice but to close the Northgate, which will ensure that our secret dealings with the dragonarmy will continue. The Theiwar will grow rich and powerful. The Hylar will starve. I will soon be ruler under the mountain—hammer or no hammer.”

“You know, of course, that there is no human army,” Grag said. “They are merely desperate slaves. Why should these humans say otherwise?”

“When I am finished with them, they will not only claim they are leaders of an army sent here to attack us, they will believe their confessions, and so will all who hear them. In the meantime, you and your troops will go down into the forest, track down these other humans, and kill them.”

“I do not take my orders from you—” Grag began, his clawed hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Patience, Commander,” Dray-yan counseled, adding in their own language, “This Realgar may be a weasel, but he is a cunning weasel. Do as he commands in regard to the slaves. Take them alive. We will let him think he is in control for the time being. Meanwhile, I want you to make certain he is telling the truth. Find out if the assassins have been slain, as he claims. If not, you deal with them.”

“Stop hissing at each other! From now on, you’ll speak Common when you’re in my presence. What did you just say to him?” Realgar demanded suspiciously.

“What you told me to say, Thane,” Dray-yan replied humbly. “I relayed your orders to Grag, telling him his men are to capture the Plainsmen alive.”

Realgar grunted. “Take them to the dungeons once you have them. I will be there to question them.”

“Commander, you heard the Thane’s orders,” said Dray-yan in Common. He glanced back at Realgar. “You have no objection, I take it, to allowing Commander Grag to view the bodies of the six assassins?”

“Nothing easier,” said Realgar. “I will send some of my people to escort him.” He gestured to a couple of Theiwar, who stood lurking in the shadows.

“I suppose this Grag is capable of handling my orders?” Realgar added, casting the draconian commander a disparaging glance.

“He’s very intelligent,” Dray-yan replied dryly, “for a lizard.”

Chapter 16 Duncan’s Tomb. Yet Another Kharas.

“The helm was cursed,” Arman said, his voice trembling with anger and fear. He rounded on Flint. “You have lured us to our doom!”

Flint’s gut twisted. He imagined for one terrible moment what it would be like to be imprisoned here, left to die, then he remembered touching the stone hand of the Prince, the feeling of peace that had stolen over him.

“You didn’t expect to walk in and find the Hammer lying on the floor, did you?” he asked Arman. “We’ll be tested, like as not, before we find it. We might well die, but we weren’t sent here to die.”

Arman considered this. “You are probably right,” he said more calmly. “I should have thought of that. A test, of course, to see which of us is worthy.”

Sunlight edged in through the slit windows. Arman reached into a leather pouch he wore on his belt and drew out a folded piece of yellowed parchment. He carefully opened the folds, then walked over to the light to study it.

“What have you got there?” Flint asked curiously.

Arman did not reply.

“It’s a map,’ said Tasslehoff, crowding close beside the dwarf, peering over his elbow. “I love maps. What’s it a map of?”

Arman shifted his position so that his back was to the kender.

“The tomb,” he answered. “It was drawn up by the original architect. It has been in our family for generations.”

“Then all we have to do is use the map to find the Hammer!” said Tas excitedly.

“No, we can’t, you doorknob,” said Flint. “The Hammer was placed in the tomb after Duncan was buried here. It wouldn’t be on the map.” He eyed Arman. “Would it?”

“No,” said Arman, studying the map, then glancing around at their surroundings, then going back to the map.

“Mind if I take a look?” Flint asked.

“The map is very old and fragile,” said Arman. “It should not be handled.” He folded the map and slid it back into his belt.

“But at least it will show us the way out,” said Tas. “There must be a front door.”

“And what good will that do when we’re a mile in the air, you doorknob?” Flint demanded.

“Oh,” said Tas. “Yeah, right.”

The magical archway through which they had passed would also have been added after Duncan’s death, undoubtedly put there by the same powerful force that had ripped the tomb out of the ground and hoisted it into the clouds. The same force that might still be lurking inside the tomb, waiting for them.

Arman paced the chamber, peering into shadowy corners and glancing out the arrow slits to the ground far below. He turned to Flint. “The first thing you should do is search for the exit.”

“I’ll search,” said Flint grimly, “for what I came for—the Hammer.” As if conjured up by the word, the musical note sounded again. The note was no longer faint as it had been below, but rich and melodious. Long after the sound ceased, the vibrations lingered on the air.

“That noise goes all the way through me. I can even feel it in my teeth,” said Tas, charmed. He stared at the ceiling and pointed. “It’s coming from up there.”

“There are stairs over here, leading up,” Arman reported from the far side of the chamber. He paused, then said stiffly, “I’m sorry I lost my nerve. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” Flint nodded noncommittally. He intended to conduct his own inspection of the room. “Where does the map say we are?”

“This is the Hall of Enemies,” said Arman. “These trophies honor King Duncan’s battles.” Various weapons, shields, and other implements of war were on display, along with etched silver plaques relating the triumphs of King Duncan over his enemies, including his exploits in the famous war against the ogres. There were no trophies from the last war, however, the most bitter and terrible war fought against his own kind.

Flint caught the kender in the act of trying to pick up a large ogre battle-axe.

“Put that down!” Flint said, incensed. “What else have you stuck in your pouches—”

“I don’t have any pouches,” Tas pointed out sadly. “I had to leave them behind to put on the dwarf armor.”

“Your pockets, then,” Flint spluttered, “and if I find that you’ve stolen something—”

“I never stole in my life!” Tas protested. “Stealing is wrong.” Flint sucked in a breath. “Well, then if I find that you’ve ‘borrowed’ anything or picked up something that someone’s dropped—”

“Stealing from the dead is extremely wrong,” Tas said solemnly. “Cursed, even.”

“Would you let me finish a sentence?” Flint roared.

“Yes, Flint,” said Tas meekly. “What was it you wanted to say?” Flint glared. “I forget. Come with me.”

He turned on his heel and walked to the corner where Arman had reported finding the stairs. Tas sidled over to one of the displays and put down a small bone-handled knife that had somehow managed to make its way up his shirt sleeve. He gave the knife a pat and sighed, then went to join Flint, who was staring intently at several hammers stacked up against a wall.

“I guess it’s all right if you steal from the dead,” said Tas.

“Me?” Flint said, incensed. “I’m not—”

He paused, not sure what to say.

“What about the Hammer?” Tas asked.

“That’s not stealing,” said Flint. “It’s .. .finding. There’s a difference.”

“So if I ‘find’ something I can take it?” Tas asked. He had, after all, found that bone-handled knife.

“I didn’t say that!”

“Yes, you did.”

“Where’s Arman?” Flint realized suddenly that he and Tas were alone.

“I think he’s gone up those stairs,” said Tas, pointing. “When you’re not shouting, I can hear him talking to someone.”

“Who in blazes could he be talking to?” Flint wondered uneasily. He cocked an ear, and sure enough, he heard what sounded like two voices, one of which was definitely Arman’s.

“A ghost!” Tas guessed, and he started to race up the stairs.

Flint seized hold of the kender’s shirttail. “Not so fast.”

“But if there is a ghost, I don’t want to miss it!” Tas cried, wriggling in Flint’s grasp.

“Shush! I want to hear what they’re talking about.”

Flint crept up the narrow stairs. Tas sneaked along behind him. The staircase was steep, and they couldn’t see where the steps led. Soon, Flint’s breath began to come in gasps and his leg muscles started to cramp. He pressed on and suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Two of the stone stairs jutted outward at an odd angle, leaving an opening about the size of a large human. Light glimmered from within.

“Huh,” Flint grunted. “Secret passage.”

“I love secret passages!” Tas started to crawl inside.

Flint grabbed hold of his ankle and dragged him out.

“Me first.”

Flint crawled into the passage. At the other end, a small wooden door stood open a crack. Flint peeked through. Tas couldn’t see for the dwarf’s bulk, and he squirmed and wriggled to wedge his head in beside him.

“The burial chamber,” said Flint softly. “The king lies here.” He removed his helm. An ornate marble sarcophagus stood in the center of the room. A carven figure of the king graced the top. At the far end two immense doors of bronze and gold were sealed shut. The great bronze doors would have been opened only on special occasions, such as the yearly anniversary of the High King’s death. Statues of dwarven warriors ranged around the tomb, standing silent and eternal guard. Light gleamed off a golden anvil placed in front of the tomb and on a stand of armor made of gold and steel.

Arman was on his knees, his own helm beside him on the floor.

Standing over him, gazing down at him, was a dwarf with white hair and a long, white beard. The dwarf was stooped with age, but even stooped, he was taller than Flint and massively built.

“It’s not a ghost,” Tas whispered, disappointed. “It’s just an old dwarf. No offense, Flint.” Flint gave the kender a kick. “Quiet!”

“I am honored to be in your presence, Great Kharas,” Arman said, his voice choked with emotion.

Flint’s eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up to his hair line.

“Kharas? Did he say Kharas?” Tas asked. “We’ve already got two Kharases—Arman and the dead one. Is this another? How many are there?”

Flint kicked him again and Tas subsided, rubbing bruised ribs.

“Rise up, young man,” said the ancient dwarf. “You should not bow before me. I am not a king. I am merely one who guards the rest of the king.”

“All these centuries you have stayed here,” said Arman, awed. “Why did you not come back to your people, Great Kharas? We are in sore need of your guidance.”

“I offered guidance to my people,” said the ancient dwarf bitterly, “but it wasn’t wanted. I am not in this tomb of my own choosing. You could say I was exiled to this place, sent here by the folly of my people.”

Flint’s eyes narrowed. He tugged on his beard. “Funny way of talking,” he muttered. Arman bowed his head in shame. “We have been foolish, Kharas, but all that will change now. You will come back to us. You will bring the Hammer to us. We will be united under one king.” The ancient dwarf regarded the younger. “Why have you come here, Arman Kharas?”

“To… to pay homage to King Duncan,” Arman stammered.

Kharas smiled sadly. “You came for the Hammer, I think.”

Arman flushed. “We need the Hammer!” he said defensively. “Our people are suffering. The clans are divided. The Northgate, closed for centuries, has been opened. There is talk of war in the world above, and I fear there will be war beneath the mountain. If I could bring back the Hammer to Thorbardin, my father would be High King and he would—” He paused.

“He would do what?” Kharas asked mildly.

“He would unite the clans. Welcome our Neidar cousins back to the mountain. Open the gates to humans and elves, and reestablish trade and commerce.”

“Laudable goals,” Kharas said, nodding his head sagely. “Why do you need the hammer to accomplish them?”

Arman looked confused. “You said yourself long ago, before you left: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’”

“Are you that dwarf?” Kharas asked.

Arman lifted his head and stood straight and tall. “I am Arman Kharas,” he said proudly. “I found the way here when no one could find it for three hundred years.”

Flint scowled. “He found the way here!”

Now it was Tas who kicked him. “Shush!”

“Why name yourself after Kharas?” the ancient dwarf asked.

“Because you are a great hero, of course!”

“He didn’t mean to be a hero,” said Kharas softly. “He was only a man who held true to his beliefs and did what he thought was right.”

He regarded Arman intently, then said, “What is your name?”

“Arman Kharas,” answered the young dwarf.

“No, that is what you call yourself. What is your name?” Kharas persisted. Arman frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. That is my name.”

“The name given to you at birth,” said Kharas.

Arman flushed an ugly red. “What does that matter? My name is what I say it is. I chose my name and when I did so, a blessed red light flashed—”

“Yes, yes.” Kharas said impatiently. “I know all about that. What is your name?” Arman opened his mouth. He shut it again and swallowed. His face went even redder. He mumbled something.

“What?” Kharas leaned toward him.

“Pike,” said Arman in sulky tones. “My name was Pike, but Pike is not the name of a hero!”

“It might be,” said Kharas.

Arman shook his head.

Flint grunted. At the sound, the ancient dwarf turned his head, casting a sharp glance in the direction of the secret passage. Flint ducked back into the shadows and hauled the kender with him.

Kharas smiled and ran his fingers through his white beard. Then he turned back to Arman.

“You did not come alone, did you?” he said.

“Two others came with me,” Arman, adding carelessly, “My servants.”

“Servants!” Tas gasped. “Did you hear that, Flint?”

He expected Flint to explode in anger, or rush out and bash Arman with the hammer, or burst into flame, or maybe all three at once.

Flint just sat there, tugging on his beard.

“Did you hear him, Flint?” Tas whispered loudly. “He called you his servant!”

“I heard,” said Flint. He quit tugging on his beard and smoothed it with his hand.

“Servants, huh. I guess they don’t need to be tested then,” stated Kharas. A gust of wind blew the wooden door shut, nearly catching the kender’s topknot in it.

“How rude!” Tasslehoff exclaimed, twitching his hair back just in time.

“Open it!” said Flint, frowning.

Tasslehoff gave the door handle a jiggle, and it came off in his hand. “Oops.”

“You have a lock pick, don’t you?” Flint growled. “For once, it might prove useful.” Tas felt through all his pockets.

“I must have left it in one of my pouches.”

“Oh, for the love of Reorx!” Flint grumbled. “The only reason you’re any use to anyone is for picking the occasional lock, and now you can’t even do that!”

He put his ear to the keyhole.

“Can you hear anything?” Tas asked.

“No.”

“We’d better go!” Tas urged, tugging on Flint’s sleeve. “The really, really old Kharas will probably lead our Kharas to the hammer! We have to beat him to it!”

“It’s not a race,” Flint said, but he suddenly turned around and began to clump rapidly down the stairs, moving so fast that he caught the kender flat-footed. Tas had to scramble to catch up.

“Arman’s real name is Pike, and his brother is Pick. Pick and Pike!” The kender giggled. “That’s funny!”

Flint had no comment. Reaching the floor of the Hall of Enemies, he began searching the room, poking at walls and stomping on the floor to see if there might be a trap door. “Blast it! How do we get out of here?”

Tas fished about in his pocket. “Would this help?” He brought forth a piece of parchment. “It’s Arman’s map. I found it,” he added, with emphasis.

He held out the map to Flint.

The dwarf hesitated, then seized hold of it.

“Arman must have dropped it,” Flint muttered.

Chapter 17 Caramon Skips Breakfast. Grag Is Late For Lunch.

Listening to Sturm’s prayer, Tanis felt suddenly soothed and restful. His worries left him alone for a moment, and he drifted off to sleep. Raistlin’s coughing woke him.

Raistlin had not suffered a bad coughing spell in some time. He ordered Caramon out of bed to fix his special herbal brew. This involved stirring up the fire and searching about for a kettle, and then boiling the water, all of which, thankfully, kept Caramon occupied and caused him to at least quit talking about food. The dwarves had not yet brought them anything to eat, and Caramon was growing worried.

Raistlin sipped at the tea, and his cough eased. He sat dozing in the chair, huddled as close to the fire as he could get. Sturm remained on his knees, finding solace in his prayers. Tanis envied his friend. He wanted to believe, he truly did. How comforting it would be to put Flint’s fate into the hands of the gods, having faith that they would watch over him and guide him. The same faith would reassure him that Hornfel would be made to see the truth, causing him to have a change of heart and open the gates to the refugees.

Instead of faith, Tanis was walking each step of the way with Flint in his mind and seeing darkness and danger at every turn. He stirred restlessly and rolled over, and he was about to try to go back to sleep, when Caramon asked a question that jolted Tanis to alarmed wakefulness.

“Hey, has anyone seen Tas?”

Tanis was on the move as soon his feet hit the floor, searching the room. To no avail. “Damn it! He was here only moments ago!”

“I dunno,” said Caramon, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen him in a while, not since Flint left. But then I’ve been fixing Raist’s tea…”

“Sturm,” said Tanis, breaking in on the knight’s prayers, “have you seen Tasslehoff?” Sturm rose stiffly to his feet. He cast a swift glance around the room. “No. I have not been watching over him. I saw him last before Flint left.”

“Search upstairs,” Tanis ordered.

“Why?” Raistlin asked in a whispered gasp. “You know where he has gone! He went after Flint.”

“Search anyway,” said Tanis grimly.

They looked under crates, inside cupboards, and in the upstairs rooms, but there was no sign of the kender. Sturm took the opportunity, when Tanis and Caramon were roaming about the second level, to speak to Raistlin.

“Tas could ruin our plan! What do we do?”

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Raistlin said with a grimace.

“The only nuisances up there are rats,” Caramon reported as he and Tanis came back down the stairs. “We could question the guards to see if they saw him.”

“And we draw attention to the fact that he’s gone missing,” Tanis said. “We’re already in enough trouble without telling Hornfel we’ve unleashed a kender on his unsuspecting populace. Besides, Tas might come back on his own.”

“And I might walk through this solid stone wall,” said Sturm, “but I doubt it.” Raistlin was about to say something but was interrupted by a dwarf opening the door. They froze, waiting for the dire news that Tasslehoff had been found and tossed in the lake, or the dungeons, or worse.

“Breakfast,” the dwarf announced.

The guard held the door while two more dwarves walked in bearing trays laden with heavy wooden bowls. Caramon sniffed the fragrant aroma and immediately took his seat at the table. The others exchanged glances, wondering if the guards would notice they were one person short. The guards did not take a head count, however. They unloaded the bowls from the tray and handed them about, laid out two loaves of dark bread, and a couple of pitchers of ale, then departed, shutting the door behind them.

Everyone breathed a sigh.

“Those were different guards,” said Tanis. “They’re not the same ones who were here when Flint left. They must have changed shifts. Apparently none of them noticed Tas is missing. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can.”

Sturm sat at the table. Tanis did the same. Caramon was already ladling out the food.

“Smells good,” he said hungrily. He picked up a bowl and took it over to his brother. “Here, Raist. It’s mushrooms in brown gravy. I think there’s onions in there, too.” Raistlin averted his head.

“You need to eat, Raist,” said Caramon.

“Put it there,” said Raistlin, indicating a table near his chair.

Caramon set the bowl down. Raistlin glanced at it and started to turn away. Then he looked at it more intently.

The meal did smell good. Tanis had not thought he was hungry, but he picked up his spoon. Sturm was praying to Paladine to bless this meal. Caramon, tearing off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the gravy and was bringing it, dripping, to his mouth when the staff of Magius lashed out, struck his hand, and knocked the bread to the floor.

“Don’t eat that!’ Raistlin gasped. “Any of you!”

He swung the staff again and struck Sturm’s bowl, sending it to the floor, and then smashed Tanis’s bowl just as he was digging his spoon into it.

Crockery broke. Gravy splattered. Mushrooms went sliding across the table and fell to the floor. Everyone stared at Raistlin.

“It’s poison! Those mushrooms! Deadly poison! Look!” He pointed.

Attracted by the food on the floor, rats had come slinking out of their holes to take their share. One started to lap up the spilled gravy. It took no more than a couple of slurps before its small body quivered, then stiffened. The rat flopped over sideways, its limbs writhing. Froth bubbled on its mouth, and after a moment’s agony, it went limp. The other rats either took warning from their comrade’s terrible fate, or they didn’t like the smell, for they skittered back to their holes. Caramon went white, and jumping from the table, he made another trip to the slop bucket. Sturm stared, transfixed, at the dead rat.

Tanis dropped his spoon. His hands were shaking. “How did you know?”

“If you remember, I studied the mushrooms when we passed through the forest,” said Raistlin.

“Some of you thought my interest quite amusing, as I recall. Arman and I were discussing dwarf spirits, which, you know, are made of mushrooms. What I found most interesting is that the mushrooms used to make dwarf spirits are safe to ingest if allowed to ferment but poisonous if eaten either raw or cooked. I’d never come across any other plant or fungi with this characteristic, and I took special note of it. I recognized the dwarf spirit mushrooms in the stew. Whoever tried to kill us assumed we would not know the difference.”

“And we wouldn’t have,” Tanis admitted. “We are grateful, Raistlin.”

“Indeed,” Sturm murmured. He was still staring at the dead rat.

“Who tried to kill us, I wonder?” Tanis said.

“Those dwarves who brought the food!” Sturm cried, jumping to his feet. He ran to the door, yanked it open, and darted out. He returned, bringing with him his sword and Caramon’s.

“They’re gone,” he reported, “and so are the guards. At least we can now retrieve our weapons. We’ll be ready if they come back.”

“Our first concern should be about Flint,” said Raistlin sharply. “Has it not occurred to you that if we came seeking the hammer, then others might be seeking it as well, others such as the Dark Queen and her minions?”

“The dragonlance was responsible for driving Takhisis back into the Abyss,” Sturm said. “You may be sure she would try to keep them from being forged again.”

“They tried to kill us. Flint might already be dead,” Tanis said quietly.

“I do not think so. They would wait to kill him until after he’s found the hammer,” said Raistlin.

“Perhaps all the dwarves are in league with darkness,” Sturm said grimly.

“Once the dark dwarves worshipped Takhisis, or so it is written,” Raistlin said, “and if you remember, Tanis, I asked you how the Theiwar knew the refugees were in the forest. You brushed it off at the time, but I think we have to look no farther than the Theiwar thane. What is his name—”

“Realgar. I agree,” said Tanis. “Hornfel may not trust us or like us, but he doesn’t seem the type to stoop to murder. I don’t see how we prove it, or how we catch them.”

“Easy,” said Caramon, coming back to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Whoever did this will return to make sure it worked. When they come, they’ll get a surprise.” Raistlin, Tanis, and Sturm looked at Caramon, then looked at each other.

“I am impressed, my brother,” said Raistlin. “Sometimes you show glimmerings of intelligence.” Caramon flushed with pleasure. “Thanks, Raist.”

“So we pretend we’re dead, and when the murderer enters—”

“We grab him and then we make him talk,” said Caramon.

“It could work,” Sturm conceded. “We take the murderer to Hornfel, and this provides proof that Flint is in danger.”

“And Tas,” Caramon reminded them.

“Wherever he is,” Tanis sighed. He’d momentarily forgotten the missing kender.

“Hornfel will have to let us go after Flint,” Sturm concluded.

Tanis wasn’t sure about that, but at least this attempt on their lives would put the Thanes on the defensive, unless the Thanes were all in on this together.

“The murderer will be expecting to find our bodies. How would we look if we’d been poisoned?”

“Too bad the bowls are broken,” Sturm said. “That will give it away.”

“Not at all,” Raistlin said coolly. “We would have knocked the bowls about in our death throes. Now, if you will allow me, I will arrange your corpses for best effect.”

The more Realgar thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Grag traipsing off to the Life Tree to see the bodies of the murdered assassins. The Theiwar Thane had argued long, vehemently and quite logically that Grag—being a “lizard” as Realgar termed him, complete with wings and tail—would stand out in a crowd. The bodies weren’t going anywhere. Grag could wait to view them once the hammer was safely in Theiwar hands.

Dray-yan insisted, however. He did not trust these assassins, nor did he trust the Theiwar. He wanted to make certain the assassins were dead as promised. Grag would go in disguise, cloaked and hooded. The dwarves would notice the tall bozak; that couldn’t be helped. The word had spread that humans were in Thorbardin. Grag would be taken for one of them.

Realgar gave in because he had to give in. He detested the “lizards,” but he needed them and their army to conquer and subdue the other clans. Grag’s lizard-warriors had already proven their worth by ambushing a party of human barbarians who had entered Northgate. Not only had the draconians captured the humans, they’d taken an elf lord prisoner as well.

The captives had been given to the Theiwar for interrogation. Grag would have liked to have been present, but Dray-yan had told him there was no need. He knew all he needed to know about these humans. Realgar had only to convince one or two to tell the “truth,” forcing the humans to admit they had come to Thorbardin with the intention of invading the dwarven kingdom, and that would be the end of them. Having spent a moment or two watching the dwarves’ “questioning” methods, Grag had to admit the Theiwar knew what they were about when it came to torture. He had no doubt they would soon have a confession.

Realgar was going to a lot of trouble for nothing, Grag reflected. Once Thorbardin was secure, he and his troops were going to kill the slaves anyway. Still, as Dray-yan pointed out, fostering distrust between humans and dwarves could only aid their cause. Let the Hylar believe that humans had been about to invade their kingdom. They would far less likely to trust any human after that.

Satisfied that all was proceeding as planned, Grag accompanied four dark dwarves to the inn. Realgar himself did not go along. Realgar had asked for a meeting of the Council of Thanes on an emergency matter. He was planning to take two of the captives with him and exhibit them to the other Thanes.

“This revelation will throw the Thanes into turmoil,” Dray-yan told Grag, “giving you time to marshal your forces and bring them into position. We will have the Thanes all neatly trapped in the same bottle.”

“Including Realgar,” said Grag, his claws twitching.

“Including that filthy maggot, and when the hammer of Kharas is brought forth, ‘His Lordship’ will be there to receive it.”

“Verminaard has thought up an excellent plan,” said Grag, grinning. “Too bad he’s going to bungle it. Fortunately, his two brilliant subcommanders will be there to save the day.”

“Here’s to his brilliant subcommanders.” Dray-yan raised a mug of dwarf spirits. Grag raised his own mug. They toasted each other, then both drank deeply. The draconians had only recently discovered this potent liquor made by the dwarves, and both agreed that while dwarves might be a race of loathsome, hairy cretins, they could do two things right: forge steel and brew a fine drink.

Grag could still taste the spirits on his tongue and feel the fire burning in his belly as he left the boat that had carried him and his Theiwar companions across the lake to the Life Tree of the Hylar. Realgar and his two captives—both battered and bloody—traveled in the same boat. The captives were wrapped in burlap bags to keep their identities concealed until Realgar’s big moment before the Thanes. The two men lay unconscious in the boat’s bow, though occasionally one would moan, at which sound one of the Theiwar would kick him into silence. One of the captives was a barbarian, an extremely tall man, identified as the leader of the refugees. The other was the elf lord. Grag’s scales clicked at the stink of elf blood. Grag hoped Realgar didn’t kill him. Grag hated all the people of Ansalon, but there was a special place in his heart for elves. Grag noted that blood was starting to seep through the burlap bag. He wondered how Realgar planned to haul the captives through the city up to the Court without attracting too much attention.

Realgar wasn’t worried about such details, apparently. Peering out from the eye slits in his mask at the Life Tree, the thane talked in smug tones about the day his clan would leave their dank caves and move to this choice location. He pointed to certain prime businesses already marked for take-over by his people. As for his dwelling place, he would live in the home in which Hornfel was currently residing. Hornfel wouldn’t need it. He’d be dwelling in the Valley of the Thanes.

Grag listened to the dark dwarf boast and brag, and the draconian smiled inwardly. Few dark dwarves made the crossing from the Theiwar realm to the Life Tree, for there was little trade carried on between the Theiwar and the Hylar these days. The dock where the Theiwar usually landed was empty. Realgar and his men hauled the captives out of the boat without notice. Once they entered the streets, however, they ran into crowds of dwarves stilling milling about, talking in heated tones about the detested Neidar seeking “their” hammer. Few paid any attention to the Theiwar or the blood-stained burlap bags. Those who did were told that the Theiwar had been “butchering hogs.”

Grag and his guides took their leave of Realgar. The dwarves who were out in the streets stared balefully at Grag, and as a Tall, he came in for his share of verbal abuse. Grag paid no attention. He just kept walking, his clawed feet—wrapped in rags—shuffling over the cobblestones, and he just kept smiling.

The Theiwar led Grag to the part of the city where the Talls resided. They had not gone far before two shadowy figures detached themselves from a building and hastened over to talk to the Theiwar. They all jabbered in dwarven for long moments, the two Theiwar gesturing at the inn, smirking and chortling. They pointed out two Hylar dwarves lying in an alley, bound hand and foot, with bags over their heads.

Grag waited impatiently for someone to tell him what was going on. Finally one of the Theiwar turned to him.

“It’s done. You can report back to your master that the Talls are dead.”

“My orders are to see for myself,” said Grag. “Where are the bodies?” The Theiwar scowled. “In an inn at the end of the street, but it’s a waste of time, and we might be discovered. The Hylar could come at any moment.”

“I’ll run the risk,” said Grag. He started to walk toward the building, then stopped and pointed to the Hylar dwarves. “What about them? Are they dead?”

“Of course not,” said the Theiwar scornfully. “We’re going to take them back with us.”

“Easier to kill them,” Grag pointed out.

“But less profitable,” said the Theiwar with a grin.

Grag rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure the Talls inside are dead,” he asked grimly, “or are you planning to hold them for ransom?”

“See for yourself, lizard,” the Theiwar sneered, and he pointed to a cracked window. Grag peered inside. He recognized the humans from Pax Tharkas. There was the Solamnic knight, not looking so knightly anymore, sprawled under the table. The half-elf lay alongside him. The wizard was slumped over in a chair. Grag was glad to see the mage was among the dead. He’d been a weak and sickly fellow, as Grag remembered, but wizards were always trouble. The big, muscle-bound warrior lay by the door. The poison had probably been slower to work on him. Perhaps he’d tried to go for help.

“They look dead,” he admitted, “but I need to check the bodies to make certain.” He started for the door and suddenly found all the Theiwar lined up in front of him, their squinty little eyes glaring at him.

“What’s the matter now?” Grag demanded.

One of the Theiwar jabbed a filthy finger at him. “Don’t go looting the bodies. Anything of value on them is ours.”

The other Theiwar all nodded emphatically.

Grag regarded them with disgust and started to push past them. The Theiwar seemed inclined to argue, but Grag made it clear that he was not going to put up with any nonsense. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and the Theiwar, grumbling, moved away from the door. As Grag opened it, two of the Theiwar dashed in immediately. They crouched beside the big fellow by the door and began tugging on his leather boots. The other two hurried inside after them, heading straight for the dead wizard.

Grag entered more slowly, keeping his eyes on the knight. The damned Solamnics were hard to kill. In fact, it seemed to Grag that the Solamnic looked a little too healthy for a corpse. Grag had drawn his sword and was bending over the knight to feel for a life-beat when squeals of terror erupted from behind him; squeals cut short by a sickening sound like the squishing of over-ripe melons—two Theiwar heads being bashed together.

This was followed almost immediately by a dazzling flash, a shriek, and a curse. The knight and the half-elf both leaped to their feet. Half-blinded by the flash of light, Grag slashed at them with his sword. The half-elf overturned the table, effectively blocking the blow.

“It’s a draconian!” the knight shouted, swinging his sword.

Grag ducked the blow.

“Don’t kill him! Take him alive!” someone yelled.

Grag guessed he was on his own in this battle and a glance out the window proved him right. Two surviving Theiwar, their hair and beards singed, were running as fast as they could down the street.

Grag swore at them beneath his breath. He had two competent and skilled warriors in front of him, but he was more worried about the wizard behind him. Grag was just about to overpower the half-elf, when he heard chanting. He felt suddenly drowsy and staggered on his feet. Grag knew a magic spell when he heard one and he fought against it, but the magic overcame him. The last thing he remembered, as he slumped to the floor, was rose petals drifting down around his head.

“This is how the dark dwarves knew about us and about the refugees,” said Raistlin. He was standing over the comatose draconian, watching as Sturm and Caramon bound the creature’s clawed hands and feet. “I told you at the Council meeting, Tanis, that it was important to find out.”

“I’ve said twice I was sorry,” Tanis said impatiently. “Next time I will listen to you, I promise. The question is now—what does this mean? What are draconians doing in Thorbardin?”

“What it means is that Verminaard and his troops are in league with the dwarves,” said Sturm. Tanis shook his head. Turning away, he kicked suddenly and viciously at a table leg. “Damn it all! I urged the refugees to leave the valley where they were safe and led them right into a trap! How could I have been so stupid?”

“Some of the dwarves may be in league with the Dark Queen,” said Raistlin slowly, thinking out loud, “but I do not believe Thorbardin has fallen. We would not have been brought before the Council if that were the case. I doubt if Hornfel or the other Thanes have any knowledge of this, and if you want further proof, Tanis, this draconian wears a disguise. If the draconians were in control of Thorbardin, he would not try to conceal his identity. My guess is that Verminaard is allied with the dark dwarves. That means Realgar and possibly that other Thane, Rance.”

“That would make sense, Tanis,” said Sturm. “Hornfel and the others probably know nothing about this.”

“Which is why the Theiwar tossed those boulders at us when we came into Thorbardin,” said Caramon, “and why they tried to poison us now. They’re afraid we’ll tell Hornfel!”

“Which is exactly what we must do,” said Raistlin. “We must show him this specimen—one reason I urged you to keep the draconian alive.”

“I agree we have to get word to Hornfel,” Tanis said, “but how?”

“That part will be easy,” Sturm said grimly. “Simply walk out that door. The dwarves who catch you will take you immediately to the Thanes.”

“Provided they don’t kill him first,” Raistlin observed.

“I’ll go,” Sturm offered.

“You don’t speak Dwarvish,” Tanis said. “Give me enough time to find Hornfel. Wait here a short time, then bring the draconian to the Court of the Thanes.”

He looked down at the bozak, who was starting to stir. “I think he’s waking up. You should cast another sleep spell on him.”

“I must conserve my strength,” Raistlin said. “A bash over the head would take less toll on me.” Caramon flexed his big hands. “He won’t cause any trouble, Tanis. Don’t worry.” Tanis nodded. He climbed over the broken furniture and the bodies of the two dark dwarves who lay on the floor, then paused at the door.

“What about Flint? And Tas?”

“They are beyond our reach,” said Raistlin quietly. “There is nothing we can do to help them now.”

“Except pray,” added Sturm.

“I’ll leave that up to you,” said Tanis, and he walked out of the inn to get himself arrested.

Chapter 18 Tasslehoff’s Find. Flint’s Wall. More Stairs.

Flint and Tas squatted on the floor of the Hall of Enemies, the map spread out before them. The bright sunlight that had been shining through the arrow slits had dimmed, submerged in an eerie fog that had an odd reddish tinge to it. Flint had the strange feeling that he was wrapped up in a sunset. Wisps of fog seeped into the chamber, making it difficult to see.

“I wish I could read Dwarvish,” said Tas, holding up a lantern that Flint had brought with him from the inn and shining the light down on the map. “What does that squiggle mean?” Flint slapped the kender’s hand away. “Don’t touch! And quit jiggling. You’re jostling the light about.”

Tas put his hand in his pocket so that it would behave itself and tried hard not to jiggle.

“Why do you think Arman called you a servant, Flint? That wasn’t very nice, especially after all you’ve done for him.”

Flint grumbled something beneath his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” Tas said, but before Flint could repeat himself, the musical note sounded again, ringing loudly throughout the room.

Tas waited until the reverberations had died away, then he tried again, “What do you think, Flint?”

“I think the Hammer is here.” Flint put his stubby finger on the map.

“Where?” Tas asked eagerly, bending over.

“You’re jiggling again!” Flint glowered at him.

“Sorry. Where?”

“The very top. What they call the Ruby Chamber. At least, that’s where I’d put a hammer if I wanted to put it somewhere where no one could find it.” Rising stiffly to his feet, Flint massaged his aching knees. Carefully folding the map, he tucked it into his belt. “We’ll go there after we search for Arman.”

“Arman?” Tas repeated in astonishment. “Why are we looking for him?”

“Because he’s a young fool,” said Flint gruffly, “and someone needs to look after him.”

“But he’s with Kharas, and Kharas is a good and honorable dwarf, at least that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“I agree with the kender,” said a voice from out of the shadows. “Why are you worried about the Hylar? He is your long-time enemy, after all.”

Flint snatched the hammer from its harness, forgetting, in his haste, that he was supposed to pretend it was heavy.

“Step into the light,” Flint called, “Where I can see you.”

“Certainly. You don’t need your weapon,” said the dwarf, moving into the lantern light. He had a long white beard and white hair. His face was wrinkled as a shriveled apple. His eyes were dark and penetrating, clear as the eyes of a newborn babe. His voice was strong, deep, and youthful.

“Remarkable hammer you’ve got there.” The ancient dwarf squinted at it in the bright light. “I seem to remember one just like it.”

“You’ll feel this hammer on your head if you come any closer,” Flint warned. “Who are you?”

“He’s another Kharas, like the one in the tomb with Arman!” Tasslehoff said. “How many does this make? Three or four?”

The ancient dwarf took a step nearer.

Flint raised the hammer. “Stop right there.”

“I’m not carrying any weapons,” Kharas said mildly.

“Ghosts don’t need weapons,” said Flint.

“He looks awfully substantial for a ghost, Flint,” Tas said in a whisper.

“The kender is right. What makes you think I’m not who I say I am?”

“Humpf!” Flint snorted. “What do you take me for? A gully dwarf?”

“No, I take you for a Neidar by the name of Flint Fireforge. I know a lot about you. I had a chat with a friend of yours.”

“Arman isn’t a friend,” Flint said dourly. “No mountain dwarf is my friend, and I’m not his servant either!”

“I never thought that, and I wasn’t referring to Arman.”

Flint snorted again.

“Never mind that now,” said the latest Kharas. A smile caused all the wrinkles in his face to crinkle. “I’m still interested to know why you are going to search for Arman. You came here to find the Hammer of Kharas.”

“And I’ll leave here with the Hammer of Kharas,” stated Flint stoutly, “and with young Arman. Now you tell me what you’ve done with him.”

“I haven’t done anything to him.” Kharas shrugged. “I told him where to find the Hammer. It may take him awhile, however. It seems he’s lost his map.”

“He dropped it,” Tas said sadly.

“Yes, that’s what I thought might have happened,” Kharas said with a slight smile. “What if I told you, Flint Fireforge, that I can take you straight to the Hammer?”

“And throw us into a pit or shove us off the top of some tower? No thanks.” Flint shook the hammer at the dwarf. “If you truly mean us no harm, go on about your business and leave us alone, and you leave Arman alone, too. He’s a not a bad sort, just misguided.”

“He needs to be taught a lesson,” said Kharas. “The mountain dwarves all need to be taught a lesson, don’t they? Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking?”

“Never you mind what I’m thinking!” Flint said, scowling. “Just take yourself off and do whatever it is you do around here.”

“I will, but first I’ll make you a wager. I’ll bet you your soul that Arman ends up with the Hammer.”

“I’ll take your bet,” said Flint. “It’s all nonsense, anyway.”

“We’ll see,” Kharas said, his smile broadening. “Remember, I offered to show you where to find the Hammer, and you turned me down.”

The ancient dwarf stepped backward into the red swirling mists and vanished. Flint shivered all over. “Is he gone?”

Tas walked over to where the dwarf had been standing and flapped his hands about in the mists.

“I don’t see him. Say, if he does take your soul, Flint, can I watch?”

“You’re a fine friend!” Flint lowered the hammer, but he kept it in his hand, just in case.

“I hope he doesn’t,” said Tas politely, and he truly meant it. Well, he mostly truly meant it. “But if he does—”

“Oh, just shut your mouth. We’ve wasted enough time palavering with that thing, whatever it was. We have to find Arman.”

“No, we have to find the Hammer,” Tas argued, “otherwise Kharas will win the bet and take your soul.”

Flint shook his head and walked off, heading for the stairs again.

“Are we going back inside the secret passage?” Tas asked as they were climbing. “Say, you know, we never went all the way to the top of these stairs. Where do you suppose they lead? What do you think is up there? Was it on the map?”

Flint stopped on one of the stairs, turned around and raised his fist. “If you ask me another question, I’ll… I’ll gag you with your own hoopak!”

He began to clump up the stairs again, stifling a groan as he did so. The stairs were steep, and as Raistlin had reminded him, Flint wasn’t a young dwarf anymore.

Tas hurried along after, wondering how someone could be gagged with a hoopak. He’d have to remember to ask.

They arrived at the place where the secret passage had been, only to find that it wasn’t there any longer. The stairs behind which it was hidden had been shoved back into place, and try as he might, Flint could not open them again. He wondered how Arman had discovered the passage. The ancient dwarf who claimed to know Kharas probably had something to do with it. Glowering and muttering to himself, Flint climbed the stairs to the top.

Once there, he consulted the map. They’d reached the second level of the tomb. Here were galleries, antechambers, a Promenade of Nobles, and a banquet hall.

“The Thanes would have attended a grand feast in honor of the fallen king,” Flint murmured. “At least, that was what Duncan intended, but his burial feast was never held. The Thanes were fighting for the crown. Kharas was the king’s sole mourner.” Flint glanced about the darkness and added grimly, “And whoever lifted up the tomb and set it floating among the clouds.”

“If they didn’t hold the feast, maybe there’s some food left,” said Tas. “I’m starving. Which way’s the banquet hall? This way?”

Before Flint could answer, the kender was off, racing down the hall.

“Wait! Tas! You doorknob! You’ve got the lantern!” Flint shouted into the fog-ridden gloom, but the kender was out of sight.

Heaving a sigh, Flint stamped off in pursuit.

“Drat,” said Tas, looking over the banquet table that was empty of everything except dust.

“Nothing. I suppose mice ate it, or maybe that Kharas did. Oh well. After three hundred years, the food probably wouldn’t have tasted that good anyhow.”

Tas wished again he’d brought his pouches. He could generally find something to snack on in there—the odd meat pie, muffin, or grapes that weren’t bad once you removed the bits of fluff. Thinking of food made him hungrier, however, and so he put the thought out of his mind. The banquet table held nothing interesting. Tas wandered about, searching for a forgotten crumb or two. He could hear Flint bellowing in the distance.

“I’m in the banquet hall!” Tas called out. “There’s no food, so don’t hurry!” That prompted more bellowing, but Tas couldn’t understand what Flint was saying. Something about Arman.

“I guess I’m supposed to look for him,” Tas said, so he did call out his name a couple of times, though not with much enthusiasm. He peered under the table and poked about in a couple of corners.

He didn’t find Arman, but he did find something, and it was a lot more interesting than an arrogant young dwarf who always said the word “kender” as though he’d bitten down on a rotten fig. In a corner of the room was a chair, and beside the chair was a table. On the table was a book, pen, and ink, and a pair of spectacles.

Tas held the lantern close to the book, which had squiggles on the cover. He guessed it was something else written in Dwarvish. Then it occurred to him that maybe the writing was magic and this might be a magic spellbook, like those Raistlin kept with him that Tas was never allowed to even get a little tiny peek at, no matter that he promised he would be extra, extra careful, and not crease the pages, or spill tarbean tea on it. As for the spectacles, they were ordinary looking, or would have been ordinary if the glass inside them had been clear like other spectacles the kender had seen and not ruby-colored.

The kender was torn. He started to pick up the book, then his hand hovered over the spectacles, then went back to the book. At last it occurred to him that he could do both—he could put on the spectacles and look at the book.

He picked up the spectacles and slid them over his ears, noting, as he did so, that they appeared to have been made just for him. Most spectacles were way too big and slid down his nose. These stayed put. Pleased, he looked out through the glass and saw that the ruby glass made the redtinged fog even redder than it had been before. Other than that, the spectacles didn’t really do anything. They didn’t make his eyes go all blurry as did other spectacles. Thinking that these spectacles weren’t good for much, Tas picked up the book.

He scrutinized the title. “‘Being a History of Duncan, High King of Thorbardin, with Full and Complete Accounts of the Ogre Battles, the Dwarfgate Wars, and Subsequent Tragic Ramifications Involving Civil Unrest.’ Whew!” Tas paused to straighten out his tongue that had gotten all tangled up over that last bit.

Flint came peering through the fog. “Tasslehoff, you rattle-brain, where have you gotten to?” Tas snatched off the spectacles and thrust them in one of his pockets. He had found them lying about, which made them fair game, but he wasn’t certain Flint would see it that way, and Tas didn’t want to waste time arguing.

“I’m over here,” he called.

“Doing what?” Flint demanded, seeing the light and bearing down on him.

“Nothing,” Tas said, hurt. “Just taking a look at this old book. I can read Dwarvish, Flint. I can’t speak it or understand it, but I can read it. Isn’t that interesting?”

Flint took away the lantern and glanced at the book. “That’s not Dwarvish, you ninny. I don’t know what it is. Any sign of Arman?”

“Who? Oh, him. No, but take a look at this book. It’s about King Duncan. The title says so, along with a bunch of other stuff about rams and civil unrest.”

He stopped talking, because suddenly he couldn’t read the title. The words had gone back to being squiggles, whorls, dots, dashes and curlicues. When he’d seen them through the spectacles, they had been words. When he looked at them now, with the spectacles tucked in his pocket, they weren’t. Tas had a sneaking hunch he knew what was going on.

He glanced about to see if Flint was watching. The dwarf was calling out Arman’s name, but no one answered.

“I don’t like this,” Flint muttered.

“If he is out there searching for the Hammer, he wouldn’t be likely to tell us where, would he?” Tas pointed out. “He wants to beat us to it.”

Flint grunted and rubbed his nose, then muttered again and pulled out the map. Holding it in his hand, he went over to stare and poke at a wall. He looked at the map, then looked back, frowning, at the wall. “Must be a hidden door here somewhere.” He started to tap the wall with his hammer. “According to the map, the Promenade of Nobles is on the other side, but I can’t figure out how to get to it.”

Tas took out the spectacles and held them to his eyes and looked down at the book. Sure enough, the Ramifications and Subesquents were back. Tas peered through the spectacles at Flint, to see if they made the dwarf look different.

Flint looked the same, rather to Tas’s disappointment. The wall, however, had changed a good deal. In fact, it wasn’t a wall at all.

“There’s no wall, Flint,” Tas told him. “Just keep walking and you’ll be inside a dark hall with statues all lined up in a row.”

“What do you mean there’s no wall? Of course, there’s a wall! Look at it!” As Flint turned to glare at him, Tas whipped off the spectacles and held them behind his back. This was more fun than he’d had in a long time. The wall was there once again. A solid stone wall.

“Whoa!” breathed Tas, awed.

“Quit wasting time,” Flint snapped, “and come over and help me look for the secret door. On the other side of this wall is the Promenade. We walk down it, go up some stairs and then go up some more stairs, and we’re at the entrance to the Ruby Chamber with the Hammer!” He rubbed his hands. “We’re close. Really close! We just have to find some way past this blasted wall!” He went back to tapping at the stone work. Tas held up the spectacles, took one last look, then, secreting them in his pocket, he walked boldly up to the wall, closed his eyes—in case the spectacles might be wrong and he was going to smash his nose—and walked straight into the stones.

He heard Flint bellow, then he heard the bellow get stuck in the dwarf’s windpipe so that it turned into a choke, and then Flint was yelling. “Tas! You rattle-brain! Where did you go?” Tas turned around. He could see Flint quite clearly, but apparently the dwarf couldn’t see him, because Flint was running up and down in front of a stone wall that wasn’t there.

“I’m on the other side,” Tas called. “I told you. There’s no wall. It just looks like there’s a wall. You can walk through it!”

Flint hesitated, dithered a little bit, then he put the hammer back in its harness and set down the lantern on the floor. Holding one hand over his eyes and thrusting the other hand in front of him, he walked forward slowly and gingerly.

Nothing happened. Flint took away his hand from his eyes. He found himself, just as Tas had said, in a long, dark hallway lined with statues of dwarves, each standing in its own niche.

“You forgot the lantern,” said Tas, and he went back to fetch it.

Flint stared at the kender in wonder. “How did you know that wall wasn’t real?”

“It was marked on the map,” Tas said. He handed Flint the lantern. “Where does this corridor lead?”

Flint looked back at the map. “No, it isn’t.”

“Bah!” Tas said. “What do you know about maps? I’m the expert. Are we going down this hall or not?”

Flint looked at the map and scratched his head. He looked back at the wall that wasn’t there, then stared at the kender. Tas smiled at him brightly. Flint frowned, then walked off down the corridor, flashing the light over the statues and muttering to himself, something he tended to do a lot when he was around the kender.

Tasslehoff put his hand into his pocket, patted the spectacles, and sighed with bliss. They were magic! Not even Raistlin had such a wonderful pair of spectacles as this.

Tas meant to keep these marvelous spectacles forever and ever, or at least for the next couple of weeks, which, to a kender, amounts to roughly the same thing.

As Flint walked the Grand Promenade, flashing the lantern light here and there, he forgot Tasslehoff and the mystery of the vanishing stone wall. The Hammer was as good as his. In each niche he passed stood a statue of a dwarven warrior clad in the armor of the time of King Duncan. Moving down the long row, Flint imagined himself surrounded by an honor guard of dwarven soldiers, clad in their ceremonial finery, assembled to pay him homage. He could hear their cheers: Flint Fireforge, the Hammer-Finder! Flint Fireforge, the Unifier! Flint Fireforge, the Bringer of the Dragonlance! Flint Fireforge, High King!

No, Flint decided. He didn’t want to be High King. Being king would mean he’d have to live under the mountain, and he was too fond of fresh air, blue sky, and sunshine to do that. But the other titles sounded fine to him, especially the Bringer of the Dragonlance. He came to the end of the rows of dwarven soldiers and there was Sturm, splendid in his armor, saluting him. Next to him stood Caramon, looking very solemn, and Raistlin, meek and humble in the great dwarf’s presence.

Laurana was there, too, smiling on him and giving him a kiss, and Tika was there, and Otik, promising him a life-time supply of free ale if he would honor the inn with his presence. Tasslehoff popped up, grinning and waving, but Flint banished him. No kender in this dream. He passed Hornfel, who bowed deeply, and came to Tanis, who regarded his old friend with pride. There, at the end of the row, was the flashily dressed dwarf from his dream. The dwarf winked at him.

“Not much time…” said Reorx.

Flint went cold all over. He came to a halt and wiped chill sweat from his brow.

“Serves me right. Daydreaming when I should be keeping an eye out for danger.” He turned around to yell at the kender. “What do you think you’re doing, lolly-gagging about when we’re on an important quest!”

“I’m not lolly-gagging,” Tas protested. “I’m looking for Arman. I don’t think he’s been here. We’d see his footprints in the dust. He probably didn’t know that wall wasn’t a wall.”

“Most likely,” said Flint, feeling a jab of conscience. In his dream of glory, he’d forgotten all about the young dwarf.

“Should we turn around and go back?” Tas asked.

The line of statues came to an end. A short corridor branched off from the promenade to the left. According to the map, this corridor led to one set of stairs that led to a second set of stairs. Hidden stairs. Secret stairs. Young Arman would never find them. He could manage to make his way to the Ruby Tower without climbing up these stairs, but the route was longer and more complicated. Unless, of course, that dwarf claiming to be Kharas showed him the way.

“We’ll find the Hammer first,” Flint decided. “We’ve come this far, after all, and we’re close to where it might be, according to the map. Once we have the Hammer safe, then we’ll search for Arman.”

He hurried down the corridor, with the kender at his heels, and there were the stairs. Flint started climbing, and the aches came back to his leg muscles, and the pain returned to his knees, and there was that annoying shortness of breath in his chest again. He distracted himself by trying to decide what he was going to do with the Hammer once he found it.

He knew what Sturm and Raistlin wanted him to do. He knew what Tanis wanted him to do. What he didn’t know yet was what he, Flint, wanted to do, though the ancient dwarf that called himself Kharas had been pretty near the mark.

Teach them a lesson. Yeah, that sounded good to him, really good. He’d teach them all a lesson—dwarves, Sturm, Raistlin… everyone.

He reached the top of this first flight of stairs and emerged into a very small, very dark, and very empty chamber. Flint held up the lantern and shone it along the wall until he found a narrow archway that had been marked on the map. He peered inside, holding the lantern high. Tasslehoff, peering with him, gave a sigh. “More stairs. I’m getting awfully tired of stairs. Aren’t you, Flint? When they build my tomb, I hope they make it all one level so that I won’t have to climb up and down all the time.”

“Your tomb!” Flint scoffed. “As if anyone would build a tomb for you! You’ll most likely end up in the belly of a bugbear, and if you’re dead you won’t be climbing up and down anything.”

“I might,” said Tas. “I don’t plan to stay dead. That’s boring. I plan to come back as a lich or a wraith or a relevant, or something.”

“Revenant,” Flint corrected.

He was putting off the evil moment when he would have to make his aching legs climb this next staircase which, according to the map, was about three times as long as any of those they had climbed previously.

“Maybe I won’t die at all,” Tasslehoff said, giving the matter some thought. “Maybe everyone will think I’m dead, but I won’t be dead, not really, and I’ll come back and give everyone a big surprise. You’d be surprised, wouldn’t you, Flint?”

Deciding that the pain of climbing stairs was not nearly so bad as the pain of listening to the kender’s yammering, Flint heaved a sigh, grit his teeth, and once more began to climb.

Chapter 19 Prisoners Of the Theiwar. Tanis Warns The Thanes.

Riverwind regained consciousness when the cold water slapped his face. He sputtered, gasped, then groaned, as the pain twisted inside him. Opening his eyes and seeing himself surrounded by enemies, he clamped his teeth down on the groan, unwilling to let them see how much he was suffering.

Bright light lanced through his aching head. He longed to shut his eyes against it, but he needed to find out what was going on and he forced himself to look.

He was in a large chamber with stone walls, lined with columns, with the feel of an assembly room about it, for there were nine large throne-like chairs arranged in a semi-circle on a dais near where he lay, bound hand and foot, on the floor.

Several dwarves stood over him, arguing loudly in their deep voices. Riverwind recognized one of the dwarves—a skinny little runt who wore a helm with a smoked glass visor, who was doing most of the talking. He’d been the one asking the questions, the same questions, over and over. Then, when he didn’t get the answers he wanted, he had ordered them to make the pain come again.

Hearing another groan, Riverwind turned his gaze from the dwarves. Gilthanas lay beside him. Riverwind wondered if he looked as bad as the elf lord. If so, he must be close to death. Gilthanas’s face was streaked with blood from cuts on his forehead and his lip. One eye was swollen shut, he had a lump on his jaw and a massive bruise on one side of his face. His clothes were torn, and his skin was burned and blistered from where they’d pressed red hot irons into his flesh.

They had treated the elf worse than they’d treated the humans. Riverwind had the feeling that the filthy dwarves had tormented Gilthanas more for the fun of it than because they wanted information from him. A gully dwarf of grandiose appearance was now throwing cold water in the elf’s face and slapping him solicitously on the cheek, but he still remained unconscious. Riverwind lay back and cursed himself. He’d taken precautions. He and his men—six all told—had entered the gate armed and wary, intending to look about, trying to determine if this was, in truth, the fabled gate to Thorbardin. He and his cohorts had never seen the attack coming. The draconians had emerged from the shadows, disarmed them and disabled them swiftly and efficiently.

The next thing Riverwind knew, he woke in pitch darkness, in a dungeon cell, with a hairy and foul-breathed dwarf bending over him, asking him in Common how many men were in the army, where they were hiding, and when did they mean to invade Thorbardin?

Riverwind said over and over there was no army, they weren’t planning to invade. The dwarf told him to prove it, to tell him where the people were hiding so he could go see for himself. Riverwind saw through that ploy and told the hairy little runt to go throw himself off the mountain. They then tried to loosen his tongue, beating and kicking him until he’d lost consciousness, when they woke him up, put a bag over him, and carted him off. He rode first in a wagon, then in a boat, then he’d lost consciousness again and had awakened here. He wondered how his comrades were faring. He’d heard their screams and their moans, and he knew proudly that the other four Plainsmen were not giving the dwarves the answers they wanted. His head was starting to clear, and he decided that he wasn’t going to lie here at the feet of these dwarves like a criminal.

“Paladine, give me strength,” Riverwind prayed and, gritting his teeth, he struggled to sit up. The scrawny dwarf said something to him and kicked him in the side. Riverwind stifled a groan, but refused to lie back down. Another dwarf, this one tall with gray in his beard, said something angrily to the dwarf in the helm. Riverwind took a good look at this dwarf. He had a noble bearing and a proud mien, and though he was not regarding Riverwind with a friendly eye, he appeared to be outraged by the human’s beaten and bloody condition.

This dwarf barked an order and beckoned to one of the guards. The guard left the Court, returning a short time later bearing a mug of some foul-smelling liquid. He held it to Riverwind’s lips. Riverwind looked up at the noble looking dwarf, who gave a reassuring nod.

“Drink it,” he said in Common. “It will not hurt you.” To prove it, he took a drink himself. Riverwind sipped at the brew, spluttering and coughing as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. Warmth flooded his body, and he felt better. The throbbing pain eased. He shook his head when offered another drink, however.

The noble looking dwarf did not waste time on pleasantries. “I am Hornfel,” he said, “Thane of the Hylar. Realgar, Thane of the Theiwar, the dwarf who took you and the others prisoner, says that you arrived here with an army of humans and elves prepared to invade us. Is that true?”

“No, lord, it is not true,” said Riverwind, talking slowly through swollen lips.

“He lies!” Realgar snarled. “He admitted the truth to me himself not an hour ago!”

“He lies,” said Riverwind, fixing the Theiwar with a baleful stare. “I am the leader of a group of refugees, former slaves of the evil Dragon Highlord of Pax Tharkas. We have women and children with us. We were sheltering in a valley not far from here, but then dragons and dragonmen attacked us and we were forced to flee.”

He watched the Thane’s expression, and when he spoke of the dragons and dragonmen, he saw Hornfel’s face harden into disbelief.

“We have heard such lies before, Hornfel,” Realgar said, “the exact same tale told to us by the other Talls.”

Riverwind lifted his head. Other Talls. That could only mean his friends. He wondered where they were, if they were safe, what was going on. The questions were on his tongue, but he did not ask them.

He would find out more from the dwarves before saying something that might be entirely the wrong thing to say.

The dwarves went back to arguing among themselves, however, and Riverwind could not understand a word. He had the impression the dwarf known as Hornfel did not trust or like the dwarf he called Realgar. Unfortunately, Hornfel did not trust Riverwind either. One other Thane appeared to be siding with Realgar, and another with Hornfel. The rest seemed to be having trouble making up their minds.

Gilthanas stirred and groaned, but the dwarves ignored him. Riverwind could do nothing to help the elf. He could do nothing to help anyone. He sat, watched, and waited.

Tanis had no trouble getting himself apprehended, though he first had to free his captors to do so. He was walking down the street near the inn when he came upon two Hylar guards bound hand and foot, with gags over their mouths. He cut their bonds and helped them stand, then told the guards he needed to speak to Hornfel on a matter of the utmost urgency. The dwarves were clearly furious, but not at Tanis. They, too, wanted to talk to their Thane, and after a moment’s deliberation, they decided to take Tanis with them.

The dwarven guards hustled him into one of the lifts. Other dwarves stared at him and scowled, and several called out, wanting to know what was going on. His guards had neither the time nor the inclination to answer. They kept fast hold of him, though he assured them he wasn’t going to try to escape; he wanted to see Hornfel. When the lift stopped, the guards stopped to question other guards, asking where Hornfel could be found.

“The Court of Thanes,” was the answer.

Tanis was in no very good humor. He’d had little sleep and nothing to eat. He was outraged at the attempt on their lives, deeply concerned about Flint and Tas and the knowledge that draconians were in Thorbardin. He entered the Court of Thanes determined to make Hornfel understand his peril. He planned to have his say first and give the Thanes time to digest his words. When his friends arrived with the draconian prisoner, he would use the monster to emphasize his point. He would demand that he and his friends be allowed to seek out Flint and Tas in the Valley of the Thanes. Tanis was convinced Flint had been, or was going to be, lured into some sort of trap. These words were in his head and on his tongue, and he forgot them all in dismay and amazement when he walked into the Court of the Thanes to find Riverwind bound, bruised, and bleeding, and Gilthanas barely conscious.

Tanis stopped and stared at his friends. The Thanes stopped and stared at him, wondering what he was doing here. The most astonished was Realgar, who had been convinced Tanis and the rest were dead. Realgar foresaw trouble, but he didn’t know how to combat it, for he had no idea what had gone wrong.

Tanis tried to speak, but the guards launched into their grievances. Hornfel grimly asked for an explanation for why the prisoner was loose. The guards explained with furious gestures at Realgar, while the other Thanes added to the confusion by loudly demanding to know what was going on.

Tanis saw that for the moment, his guards were defending him better than he could. He hastened over to Riverwind, who was sitting up, his back propped against a column. Gilthanas lay on the floor beside him, more dead than alive.

“What happened? Who did this?”

“An ambush,” Riverwind answered, grimacing in pain. He drew breath haltingly. “Draconians. Waiting for us at the gate. Don’t worry. The refugees are safely hidden. I left Elistan in charge…”

“Hush, don’t talk. I’ll sort this out.”

Riverwind seized hold of him with a bloody hand. “That dwarf, the one in the helm, he tried to make us admit we were here to invade…” Riverwind sank back, breathing hard. Sweat beaded his brow and ran down his face.

Tanis put his hand to Gilthanas’s neck, felt for the life beat. The elf lord needed care. Hornfel managed to shout down the other Thanes and obtain some semblance of order. The dwarf guards started their tale by relating first how the kender had escaped and knocked them out (they glossed over this fairly quickly), then, in mounting rage, they stated that when they’d regained consciousness, they were set upon by four Theiwar. The next thing they knew, the Tall (Tanis) was cutting loose their bonds and insisting on seeing Hornfel.

Hornfel glowered at Realgar. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I will tell you, Thane,” said Tanis, rising to his feet. “The Theiwar wanted our guards out of the way so they could poison us.”

“That’s a lie,” Realgar snarled. “If someone tried to poison you, human, it was not me or my people. As for these guards, my men caught them drunk on their watch and decided to teach them a lesson.”

The guards were vehement in denial. One leaped at Realgar, and his companion had to drag him back.

“We have evidence to prove our claim,” said Tanis. “We have the poisoned mushrooms and the bodies of two Theiwar who came to gloat over their handiwork, and we have further evidence of an even more serious matter than the attempt on our lives, great Thanes.”

“What of our evidence?” Realgar demanded, pointing at Riverwind. “This human and those with him admit that they are with an army of humans and elves planning to invade our realm.”

“If he or any of those with him said this, they did so to escape the pain of their torment. Look what has been done to them!” Tanis said. “Is this how men of honor of any race treat their captives?

“I bring you this warning, Thanes of Thorbardin,” Tanis continued grimly, “there is an army prepared to invade your realm, but it is not an army of humans. It is an army of the Dark Queen’s dragonmen.”

“He would have us believe this wild tale to distract us so that he and his humans can take us unaware! I, for one, will not waste my time by staying around to listen to this human’s lies. I must go prepare my forces to repel the human army’s invasion—”

Realgar started walking toward the door.

“Stop him, Thanes!” Tanis warned. “He has betrayed you. He is in league with these dragonmen and their evil master, Lord Verminaard. He has opened the gates of Thorbardin to them.”

“Realgar,” said Hornfel sternly, “you must remain to answer these charges—”

“You are not High King, Hornfel!” Realgar retorted. “You can’t order me about!”

“Guards, detain him!” Hornfel commanded.

Realgar opened his palm, exhibited a ring of black jet, and slipped it on his finger. Foul-smelling smoke billowed out from the ring, driving back the soldiers, who began to gasp and cough. Realgar disappeared.

“The Theiwar is telling the truth, Hornfel,” Rance stated. “These humans and their friends the elves are the real danger. Don’t listen to the lies of this Tall.”

“I have proof!” Tanis countered. “My friends and I have captured one of the dragonmen. They are bringing the monster here so that you can see for yourselves!”

“I will not wait,” said Hornfel decisively. “I will go see for myself. You will come with me, Half-Elven.”

“I will come, Thane,” Tanis answered, “but first I must see to my friends. Their injuries are serious. They need healing care.”

“I have already summoned physicians,” Hornfel said. “Your friends will be taken to the Houses of Healing, but,” he added in grim tones, “you will all remain prisoners until I have determined the truth of what is going on.”

He left the Court of the Thanes, and Tanis had no choice but to accompany him. The other Thanes decided to go with them, including Rance, who was starting to think that he, too, had been betrayed by Realgar.

The Highbluph came along, but only because he was under the mistaken impression they were all going to lunch.

Chapter 20 Flight. A swim. War Beneath The Mountain.

The draconian lay sprawled on the floor. Caramon stood over him, sucking on his bruised knuckles.

“That thing has a hard skull,” he complained. “What I want to know is why we just don’t kill it and show the dwarves the body? It would be a lot easier.”

“I take back everything I said about your intelligence, my brother,” Raistlin said. He was feeling sick and weak, the aftereffects of his spell casting, and that put him in a bad temper.

“Huh?” Caramon was puzzled.

“There wouldn’t be a body to show,” Sturm explained patiently. “You remember what happens if we kill one of these things. They either blow up, turn to dust, or—”

“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot.” Caramon thumped himself good-naturedly on the head.

“We should go now,” Raistlin said. “Tanis has had time enough to speak to the Thanes.”

“The sight of this beauty should make the Thanes sit up and take notice,” Sturm said. “Bring over the table, Caramon, and help me hoist him onto it.”

They had tried to lift the draconian, but the monster’s wings made carrying the creature awkward. Caramon came up with the idea of knocking the legs off the table and turning the wooden board into a make-shift litter. He now hauled it over and set it down next to the unconscious draconian. Grunting at the effort, he shoved the draconian over on his belly, so that the wings would not be an impediment. The draconian had kept his wings close to his body in order to cover them with the robes, but when he’d been hit by the sleep spell, the wings had relaxed and now flopped out on either side. Between Caramon and Sturm, they heaved and wrestled the creature onto the wooden table top.

“This thing weighs as much as a small house!” Sturm gasped.

Caramon, who could probably have picked up a small house had he been inclined to do so, nodded in agreement and wiped sweat from his face. Not only was the draconian heavy, it was wearing armor beneath its robes, as well as a sword. Sturm removed the weapon and tossed it aside.

“We have to haul this demon-spawn clear to the top of the Life Tree?” Caramon asked, shaking his head. “Uh, Raist, I don’t suppose you could—”

“No, I could not,” Raistlin snapped. “I am already weakened from the spells I’ve cast this day. You must do the best you can.”

“You take the head,” said Sturm to Caramon.

The big man bent down, took hold of the table with the monster on top of it and, with a grunt, lifted it off the floor. Sturm took hold of his end, and they managed to maneuver table and draconian out the door.

“Wait!” Raistlin ordered. “We should cover it with a blanket. We’ll draw enough attention to ourselves as it is, without being seen hauling a monster through the streets.”

“Hurry up!” Sturm gasped.

Raistlin grabbed up two blankets and draped them over the draconian.

“I’ll walk ahead of you,” Raistlin offered, “to clear the way.”

“You’re sure that won’t take too much out of you?” Sturm said bitterly. Either Raistlin did not hear him, or he chose to ignore him. He preceeded them through the street, the light of his staff shining brightly.

Sturm and Caramon had to stop every so often to rest and shift position to ease cramps in their backs and shoulders. They made relatively good time until they reached the populated parts of Thorbardin. At the sight of the Talls, dwarves immediately surrounded them and demanded to know where they were going and why.

Raistlin managed to find a dwarf who spoke enough Common to carry on a limited conversation. Raistlin explained that one of their number had been taken ill, and they wanted to transport him to the upper levels, where he said they had been told there were Houses of Healing. The dwarf wanted to take a look at the sick Tall, and he reached for the blanket. Raistlin laid his hand on the blanket-covered head.

“You don’t want to touch him,” he said softly, in his whispering voice. “We fear it might be the plague.”

The dwarf fell back, glaring darkly at the companions, and crying out a warning to the other dwarves, who regarded them with even more distrust than before, if that were possible.

“What did you tell them?” Sturm demanded. “By the looks of them, they mean to kill us all!”

“Never mind,” said Raistlin. “We’ll sort it out later. For the moment they’ll stay clear of us. Keep moving.”

The dwarves gave them a clear path, but they fell in behind them, forming a grim and silent escort. The companions arrived at the lift, and this presented their next problem.

“The table won’t fit in the bucket,” Caramon pointed out.

“Dump the draconian into the bottom,” said Sturm.

“They are watching us,” Raistlin warned. He gestured to the crowd of dwarves growing larger by the moment. “Be careful to keep the monster covered.”

He climbed into the lift. Sturm and Caramon tilted the table and the draconian slid off, landing in a heap at the bottom of the bucket. Raistlin hurriedly arranged the blanket over him. As many dwarves as could fit crowded into a second lift and rode up alongside them, keeping an eye on them.

Sturm sank back against the side of the bucket, massaging his shoulders. Caramon flexed his hands and then arched his back, trying to ease a kink in his muscles. Raistlin kept watch on the dwarves in the lift. The dwarves kept their eyes fixed on him.

None of them noticed the faint quivering of the blanket covering the draconian until it was too late.

Grag had come to his senses to find himself being hauled off to some unknown destination by his enemies. He had continued to feign unconsciousness, biding his time, and cursing the Theiwar, who had managed to bungle everything. The draconian would have to reveal himself for what he was, and that was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. Grag had to return to his command and let Dray-yan know what had happened, so they could alter their plans accordingly. Being dumped into the bottom of the bucket gave Grag his chance. Flinging off the blanket, he leapt to his feet. His first care was to fell the wizard. An elbow to the gut rendered him harmless. The wizard gasped in agony and crumpled. The two warriors were reaching for their swords. Grag whirled about, catching both of them with his lashing tail, knocking the knight backward and nearly flipping the other out of the lift.

Grag would have liked to have settled the score and finished off these three humans, especially the knight, but he didn’t have time. He jumped onto the edge of the bucket and perched there for a moment, getting his bearings. He looked down the lift shaft to see the base of the Life Tree far, far below. His idea had been to try to coast down on his wings, but the shaft was narrow, and he feared he might strike his wings on the stone sides and damage them.

The dwarves in the second lift were raising a ruckus, pointing and shouting and bellowing in horror at the sight of the monster. Those dwarves waiting for the lift on the next level, hearing the commotion echoing up the shaft, saw the draconian poised on the edge of the bucket, wings spread, tail twitching. One quick-thinking dwarf seized the control lever, shoved it in place, halting the lift.

Grag jumped out of the bucket when it was still swinging. He landed on his feet on the ground and came face-to-face with Hornfel and Tanis.

Hornfel took one look at the monster, drew his sword and ran to the attack. Tanis looked into the lift, saw Caramon helping Raistlin to his feet, and Sturm trying to extricate himself. Seeing they were all right, Tanis went with Hornfel. The Daewar Thane, Gneiss, was slower off the mark, but soon caught up with the Hylar and the wild-eyed Klar. Shouting a piercing battle cry and swinging an enormous axe, he ran to join them. The soldiers were startled at the sight of the monster, but inspired by their Thanes’ courageous example, they rallied and raced after them. Grag had no intention of fighting. He was outnumbered, and besides, this was neither the time nor the place. He cast a quick look around and saw what appeared to be a garden with a balcony overlooking the lake. Grag took to his heels. Using his wings to skim over the ground and any obstacles in his way, he easily outdistanced the pursuing dwarves.

Arriving at the balcony, he leapt on it and teetered there a moment, while he figured out where he was in relation to where he wanted to be. He glanced back at his pursuers, spread his wings, and jumped off.

Grag was at the top level of the Life Tree when he leaped, and his training in jumping from the back of a dragon proved invaluable. He could not fly, but as he had learned when jumping off the dragon, he could use his wings to slow his descent. He located the Theiwar wharf from the air, and though it was far off to his left, he could maneuver a little in the air in order to land in the water as near the Theiwar realm as possible.

Glancing up, Grag saw the dwarves peering over the edge of the balcony. More dwarves—hundreds of dwarves—were down below, staring up at him.

So much for their plans for secrecy.

Grag shrugged and gave his wings a twitch. As a commander, he was accustomed to sudden and unexpected shifts in battle. He couldn’t waste time bemoaning mistakes made in the past. He had to think about the future, decide what to do and how to do it, and he had determined his next course of action by the time he was half-way down. He struck the water with a large splash. Draconians don’t like water, but they can swim if they have to. Grag set out for the Theiwar side of the lake, propelling his scaly body through the cold lake with powerful strokes of his strong legs and using his arms to dog-paddle.

Grag reached the wharf and pulled himself, dripping, out of the water. He tore off his robes, leaving them in a sodden heap on the dock.

Then, loping and flying, he headed for the secret tunnels where his army waited for him.

“Is that one of the monsters of which you spoke?” Hornfel leaned over the balcony, watching the draconian drift through the air as gently as a falling feather.

“These draconians are powerful beings,” said Tanis, “capable of using magic as well as steel. Their armies have conquered large sections of Ansalon. They have driven the Qualinesti from their lands and seized Pax Tharkas and our land of Abanasinia.”

“Where did these fiends come from?” Hornfel asked, horrified. “I have never seen or heard of the like of them before!”

“They are new to Ansalon,” Tanis replied, shaking his head. “We do not know what spawned this evil. All we know is that their numbers are great. They are intelligent and fierce warriors, as dangerous dead as they are alive.”

“And you believe they have invaded Thorbardin? Perhaps there is only this one…”

“They are like mice,” said Sturm. “If you see one, there are twenty more hiding in the walls.”

“You’re bleeding,” said Tanis.

“Am I?” Sturm lifted his hand to his face, bringing it back smeared with blood. “The creature’s tail hit me.” He shook his head ruefully. “I am sorry he got away, Tanis. He fooled us completely.”

“How are Raistlin and Caramon?” Tanis asked, looking worriedly about.

“Raistlin had the worst of it. He took an elbow to the gut. He’ll have a belly ache for awhile, but he’ll be all right. The draconian nearly knocked Caramon out of the lift. He’s more shaken than hurt, I think.”

Tanis turned to see the twins coming toward him. Raistlin was slightly stooped and his breathing was ragged. His expression was one of grim determination.

“Are you all right?” Tanis asked in concern.

“Never mind me,” Raistlin returned impatiently. “What are we going to do about Flint and the hammer?”

Tanis shook his head. He’d seen Raistlin grow faint and nearly pass out over a stubbed toe, yet after suffering a blow that would have sent stronger men to their beds, he could brush it off as though nothing had happened.

Caramon came trialing up after his twin. He looked at Tanis and winced.

“Sorry we lost him,” he said, chagrined.

“No harm done, and maybe some good. We accomplished what we set out to do. The dwarves have seen the truth for themselves. However, we now have new problems.” As Tanis was telling his friends about Riverwind and Gilthanas, Hornfel was deep in discussion with the Thanes of the Daewar and Klar. The Highbluph was nowhere to be found. The draconian had, unfortunately, leapt straight at him when making his escape, leading the terrified Highbluph to think his last moments had come. He had turned and fled, running to the darkest, deepest pit he could find, and there he would remain until the supply of rats ran low and he was obliged to come out of hiding.

The absence of the Aghar Thane concerned no one. It is doubtful if they noticed. They did take note—grimly—of the absence of Rance, the Thane of the Daergar. No one had witnessed his departure. There was little doubt in Hornfel’s mind that his worst fears were realized. His hopes for unification of the clans beneath the mountain were dashed. A Theiwar and Daergar alliance would have been bad enough, but now there was evidence the renegade dwarves had secretly opened the gates of Thorbardin to forces of darkness. The very tragedy he had worked so hard to avoid—civil war—appeared inevitable.

The Daewar Thane, who had been the most reluctant to think ill of his cousins, was now the most militant, ready to summon his army and battle them on the spot. The wild-eyed Klar would follow Hornfel’s lead and do whatever he was commanded to do. Klar military forces were not entirely reliable, however. They were vicious fighters, but undisciplined and chaotic. The Theiwar were not warriors, but the dark Daergar were. Their numbers were plentiful, and they were fierce, loyal, and consumed with hatred for their cousins, especially the Hylar. If they were joined by an army of monstrous beings, Hornfel foresaw ruin and disaster. After discussing the situation with the Thanes and making what plans they could, Hornfel walked over to speak to Tanis, to offer his apologies for his earlier treatment.

“I would be glad to provide safe haven for the refugees in your care, Half-Elven,” Hornfel said, adding grimly, “but I fear there will be no safe haven for anyone beneath the mountain—humans or dwarves.”

“Perhaps all is not as dire as you think, Thane,” Tanis said. “What if the Daergar have not allied with the Theiwar? I saw Rance’s face when he first set eyes on the draconian, and he did not look smug. He looked as shocked and horrified as the rest of you.”

“When I saw him, he wore a look of fury,” said Raistlin. “He passed us on the way to the lift, and his expression was dark with rage. His brows were lowered and his fists were clenched, and he was muttering to himself. My guess is that he had no knowledge that the Theiwar had brought in these terrible new allies and that he is not happy about it.”

Hornfel looked grateful. “You give me hope, friends, and food for thought. Much now depends on the recovery of the Hammer of Kharas. If the hammer is returned to us, along with proof that Reorx has also returned, the Daergar would, I think, refuse to side with the Theiwar. The Daergar are not evil and twisted, as the Theiwar have become. Their clan was hurt badly by the mine closings and many have sunk to crime, but deep inside they are loyal to Thorbardin. They could be convinced to listen to reason and they would be as glad as any to welcome Reorx back to his shrines. The reemergence of the true hammer would be a most fortuitous event now!”

“Not fortuitous,” said Sturm. “Divine intervention. The gods brought us here for this reason.” Did they? Tanis found himself wondering. Or did we come here through stumblings and missteps, wrong turns and right choices, accidents and failures, and here and there a triumph? I wish I knew.

“We have to reach Flint and Arman,” he said, “for the very reasons you stated, Thane.”

“Impossible, I fear,” Hornfel returned gravely. “My people reported to me that the bronze doors to the Valley of the Thanes have closed and no matter what we do, they will not reopen.”

Chapter 21 A Hero’s Death. Flint Makes Up His mind.

Flint sat on the steps in the dark, rubbing his thighs and his poor old creaking knees. His legs had given out, refusing to climb one more stair. He’d climbed the last few half-blinded by tears from the pain that burned through his muscles like liquid fire. He was hurting and in a bad mood, and he took it as a personal affront that Tasslehoff was so cheerful. The kender came clattering down the stairs.

“The staircase ends right up there—What are you doing sitting here?” the kender asked, amazed.

“Hurry up! We’re almost at the top.”

At about that time, the gong struck, and it did sound quite loud, much louder than before. The musical tone resonated through the stairwell and seemed to jar right through Flint’s head.

“I’m not budging,” he grumbled. “Arman can have the hammer. I’ll not take one more step.”

“It’s only about twenty stairs and then you’re there,” Tasslehoff urged. He tried to slide his arms underneath Flint’s shoulders with the intent of dragging him. “If you scoot along on your bottom—”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Flint cried, outraged. He batted the kender away. “Let go of me!”

“Well, then, if you won’t go up, let’s go back down,” Tas said, exasperated. “The map shows other ways to reach the top—”

“I’m not going down either. I’m not moving.”

Secretly, Flint was afraid he couldn’t move. He didn’t have the strength, and that dull ache was back in his chest.

Tas eyed him thoughtfully then plunked himself down on the steps.

“I guess staying here forever won’t be so bad,” said Tas. “I’ll have a chance to tell you all my very best stories. Did you hear about the time I found a woolly mammoth? I was walking along the road one day, and I heard a ferocious bellowing coming out of the woods. I went to see what the bellowing was, and it turned out to be—”

“I’m going!” said Flint. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and, groaning, hauled himself upright. His head spun, and he tottered on his feet and had to steady himself with a hand on the kender.

“Put your arm around my shoulder,” Tas suggested. “No, like this. There you go. You can lean on me. We’ll go up together. One stair at a time.”

This was highly undignified. Flint would have refused, but he feared he could not make it without assistance, and he was driven not so much by the hammer but by the terrifying prospect of hearing the woolly mammoth story for the umpteenth time. Assisted by the kender, Flint began to stagger up the stairs.

“I don’t mind you leaning on me, Flint,” said Tas after a moment, “but could you not lean quite so heavily? I’m practically walking on my knees!”

“I thought you said there were only twenty stairs!” Flint growled, but he eased up on the kender.

“I’ve counted thirty and I still don’t see the end.”

“What’s a few stairs more or less?” Tas asked lightly, then, feeling Flint’s arm tighten around his neck in a choking manner, Tas added hurriedly, “I see light! Don’t you see light, Flint? We’re near the top.”

Flint raised his head, and he had to admit that the stairwell was much lighter than it had been before. They could almost dispense with the lantern. Flint was forced to practically crawl up the last few stairs, but he managed it.

An arched wooden door banded with iron stood at the top of the stairs. Sunlight gleaming through the slats lit their way. Tas pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He jiggled the handle, then shook his head.

“It’s locked,” he reported. “Drat! That will teach me never to leave my pouches behind again!” The kender slumped down. “All these stairs for nothing!”

Flint couldn’t believe it. His aching legs didn’t want to believe it. He gave the door an irritated shove and it swung open.

“Locked!” Flint said, glaring in disgust at the kender.

“1 tell you it was!” Tas insisted. “I may not know much about fighting, politics, the return of the gods, or all that other stuff, but I do know locks, and that lock was locked.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Flint. “You don’t know how to work a door handle, that’s all.”

“I do so, too,” Tas said indignantly “I’m an expert on door handles, door knobs, and door locks. That door was bolted shut, I tell you.”

“No, it wasn’t!” Flint shouted angrily.

Because if the door had been locked, that meant that someone—or some thing—had opened it when he pushed on it, and he didn’t want to think about that.

Flint walked out into the sunshine. Tasslehoff followed, giving the offending door an irritated kick in passing.

They had reached the battlements at the top of the tomb. Across from them was a crenellated stone wall. A tower lined with rows of windows rose to Flint’s left. A short, squat tower was to his right. Beyond the towers and the stone wall was azure blue sky.

“I don’t want to hear anymore about it—Great Reorx’s beard!” He gasped.

“Oh, Flint!” Tasslehoff let out a soft breath.

The sunlight gleamed off a cone-shaped roof made of faceted panels of ruby-colored transparent glass. The pain in Flint’s legs and the burning in his chest were subsumed in wonder and in awe. He pressed his nose to the glass, and so did the kender, both of them trying to see inside.

“Is that it?” asked Tas softly.

“That’s it,” said Flint, and his voice was choked.

A bronze hammer attached to what appeared to be a thin rope hung suspended from the apex of the cone. The hammer swung slowly from one side of the chamber to the other. Around the ceiling were twenty-four enormous gongs made of bronze. Each of the gongs was inscribed with a rune. Each rune represented the hours of a day from Waking Hour to First Eating Hour; First Working Hour to Second Eating Hour; and around to the Sleep Hours. The Hammer swung back and forth, shifting position with each swing, timed so that it struck a gong at the start of the hour, then continued on in a never ending circle.

Flint had never seen anything so wonderful.

“That’s truly remarkable,” said Tasslehoff, sighing. He drew his head back and rubbed his nose, which had been pressed flat against the glass. “Did dwarves set the Hammer to swinging like that?”

“No,” said Flint, adding hoarsely. “It’s magic. Powerful magic.” Though the sun was uncomfortably hot on the back of his neck, he shivered at the thought.

“Magic!” Tas was thrilled. “That makes it even better. I didn’t know dwarves could do magic like that.”

“They can’t!” Flint said crossly. He waved his hand at the swinging Hammer. “No self-respecting dwarf would even dream up something like that, much less do it. The same magic that yanked this tomb out of the ground and set it floating in the sky has turned the Hammer of Kharas into a Palanthian cuckoo clock and—” he sighed glumly and peered up again at the Hammer—

“whoever wants the Hammer has to find out a way to get inside there, then stop it from swinging, and then haul it down from the ceiling. From where I stand, it can’t be done. All this way for nothing.”

The moment he said it, he was suddenly, secretly, vastly relieved.

The decision whether or not to switch hammers had been taken out of his hands. He could go back to Sturm, Raistlin and Tanis and tell them the Hammer was out of reach. He’d tried. He’d done his best. It wasn’t meant to be. Sturm would have to get along without his drag-onlances. Tanis would have to find some other way to persuade the dwarves to let the refugees inside the mountain. He, Flint Fireforge, was never cut out to be a hero.

At least, he thought with a certain amount of grim satisfaction, Arman Kharas won’t be able to get to the Hammer either.

Flint was about to start back down the stairs, when he looked about and realized he was alone. He felt a twinge of panic. He’d forgotten the first rules of traveling with a kender. Rule Number One: never allow the kender to grow bored. Rule Number Two: never let a bored kender out of your sight.

Flint groaned again. This was all he needed. A kender loose in a magic-infested tomb! He let out a roar: “Tasslehoff Burrfoot—Oh, there you are!”

The kender popped out from around the corner of the small, squat tower.

“Don’t go running off like that!” Flint scolded. “We’re going back down to find Arman.”

“You’re standing in the wrong place, Flint,” Tas announced.

“What?” Flint stared at him.

“You said that from where you stood, you couldn’t reach the hammer, and you’re right. From where you are standing, you can’t reach the hammer. You’re standing in the wrong place. But if you walk around to the other side of this tower, there’s a way. Here, look inside again.” Tas pressed his nose to the glass and, reluctantly, yet feeling a twinge of excitement, Flint did the same.

“See that ledge over there, the one sticking out of the wall above the gongs.” Flint squinted. He thought he could make out what Tas was talking about. A long stone ledge thrust out into the chamber.

“If it is a ledge, it’s not much of one,” he muttered.

Tas pretended he hadn’t heard. Flint was such a pessimist! “I figured if there was a ledge, there had to be some way to reach the ledge, and I found it. Come with me!”

Tas dashed around the squat tower. Flint followed more slowly, still searching for a way off this tomb. He looked out over the crenellations, but all he could see down below were curls and whorls of red-tinged mist.

“Not there, Flint. Over here!” Tas called.

The kender stood in front of a double door made of wood banded with iron.

“They’re locked,” Tas said, and he fixed the doors with a stern eye. Flint walked up, pushed on one of the doors, and it swung silently open.

“How do you keep doing that!” Tasslehoff wailed.

Sunlight poured eagerly inside, as though it had been waiting all these centuries to illuminate the darkness.

Flint took a few steps and came to a sudden halt. Tasslehoff, coming behind, stumbled right into him.

“What is it?” the kender asked, trying to see around him in the narrow hall.

“A body,” said Flint, shaken. He’d nearly trod on it.

“Whose?” said Tas in a smothered whisper.

Flint had trouble speaking for a moment. “I think it’s Kharas.”

The body had been sealed in a windowless vestibule shut off by two sets of double-doors and was well-preserved. The body was intact, the skin like parchment or old leather, drawn tight over the bones. It was that of a dwarven male, unusually tall, with long flowing hair, but only a very short scruff of a beard. Flint remembered hearing that Kharas had shaved his beard in grief over the Dwarfgate Wars and had never allowed it to grow back. The corpse was clad in ornate, ceremonial armor, as befitted the warrior who had borne the king to his final rest. The harness that had held the hammer for which he was famous was empty. He had no weapons in his hands. There was no sign of a wound on his body, yet he appeared to have died in agony, for his hand clasped his throat, the mummified mouth gaped wide.

“Here’s the killer,” said Tas, squatting down by the body. He pointed to the remains of a scorpion. “He was stung to death.”

“That’s no way for a hero to die,” Flint stated angrily. “Kharas should have died fighting ogres, giants, dragons, or something.”

Not felled by a bug.

Not felled by a weak heart…

“But if this is Kharas and he’s dead,” said Tas, “who’s that other Kharas? The one who told Arman he’d show him how to find the Hammer?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Flint grimly.

At the end of the vestibule was another set of double doors. Beyond the two doors was the Ruby Chamber and inside the chamber was the Hammer of Kharas. Flint knew those doors were locked and he also knew the locked doors would open for him, as the other locked doors had opened. Having seen the ledge, he had figured out a way to obtain the Hammer. He looked down at the corpse of Kharas, the great hero, who had died an ignoble and meaningless death.

“May his soul be with Reorx,” Flint said softly. “Though I’m guessing the god took him to his rest a long, long time ago.”

Flint gazed down at the corpse and made a sudden resolve.

By Reorx, I won’t go out like this, he vowed to himself.

“Hey,” he said aloud. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tasslehoff was standing impatiently in front of doors at the end of the vestibule, waiting for Flint to come open them. “I’m going to help you get the Hammer.”

“No, you’re not,” said Flint gruffly. “You’re going to find Arman.”

“I am?” Tas was amazed, pleased but amazed. “Finding Arman is awfully important, Flint. No one ever lets me do anything awfully important.”

“I’m going to this time. I don’t have much choice. You’re going to find Arman and warn him that the thing he thinks is Kharas isn’t Kharas, and you’re going to tell Arman you know where the Hammer is. Then you’re going to bring him back here.”

“But if I do that, he’ll find the Hammer,” Tas argued. “I thought you wanted to be the one to find the Hammer.”

“I have found it,” said Flint imperturbably. “No more arguments. There isn’t time. Off you go.” Tas thought it over. “Warning Arman is awfully important, but I guess I’ll pass. I really don’t like him all that much. I’d rather stay here with you.”

“You’re going,” said Flint firmly, “one way or another.” Tas shook his head and took hold of the door handle and held on tight. After a brief tussle, Flint managed to pry the kender’s fingers loose. He got a good grip on Tas’s shirt collar and dragged the wriggling, protesting kender across the floor and tossed him bodily out the door.

“And,” Flint added, “I’ll need this.”

He deftly twitched the hoopak out of the kender’s hand, then slammed the door in his face.

“Flint!” Tas’s voice sounded muffled and far away through the bronze doors. “Open up! Let me in!”

Flint heard him rattling the door handle, kicking the door and beating on it with his fists. Hefting the hoopak, Flint turned and walked off. Tas would get bored with the door soon enough, and for lack of anything better to do, he’d go in search of Arman.

Flint did feel a twinge of guilt at sending the kender off to encounter that ghost, ghoul, or whatever it was that was claiming it was Kharas, He quickly banished the guilt by reminding himself that the kender had a remarkable talent for survival.

“He just gets other people killed. If anything,” Flint muttered, “I should be worried for the ghost.”

The truth was that Flint could not risk having the kender witness what he was about to do. Tasslehoff Burrfoot had never ever kept a secret. He would solemnly swear on his topknot that he would never ever tell, and five minutes later he would be blabbing it to everyone and his dog, and this secret had to be kept. Lives depended on the keeping of it. Countless thousands of lives…

Flint struck the double doors with his hand, and they opened with a resounding boom, and he walked inside the Ruby Chamber.

Chapter 22 Flint’s Secret. The Hammer. Tas Makes An Amazing Discovery.

Inside the Ruby Chamber, sunlight gleamed red through the ruby-colored glass ceiling, filling the room with a warm glow.

Flint walked out onto the ledge and marveled that he was here. He was humble, overwhelmed, triumphant.

He watched the Hammer swing back and forth in a slow arc, as it had done for three hundred years. Had Kharas suspended it from the ceiling? Flint craned his neck to see. The rope on which the Hammer was suspended hung from a simple iron hook. Flint had the impression that perhaps Kharas had suspended the Hammer, but that other hands had added the magic. Other hands had fashioned the gongs that struck the hour and had crafted the beautiful ruby ceiling. The same hands had dragged the tomb out of the Valley of the Thanes and set it floating in the sky, hands that were somewhere around here still, perhaps waiting to close around Flint’s throat. He watched the Hammer count the minutes as they passed, as the Hammer had counted all the minutes of Flint’s life as they had passed, from birth to this moment, as it counted the beating of his weak old heart.

Each dwarf dreams that he or she will be the one to find the fabled Hammer of Kharas. They talk of it over their mugs of ale. They tell the story to their children, who make hammers out of wood and play at being the dwarven hero. Flint had dreamed of it, but he’d been pragmatic enough to know that his was nothing more than a dream. How could he, metal-smith, toy-maker and wanderer, alienated from his own kind, ever be the hero of his race?

But he had. Somehow. By some miracle, the gods had brought him here. They had brought him for a reason, and he was certain he knew what that reason was.

The Hammer swinging above him made a gentle whooshing sound as it sailed through the air. He could feel the breath of its passing on his face, and he fancied it was the breath of Reorx. Moving stiffly, grimacing at the pain, Flint knelt down awkwardly on the ledge. His old knees creaked in protest. He hoped he could get up again.

“Reorx,” he said, gazing into the ruby glow, “you’re not one of the Gods of Light, like Paladine and Mishakal. You’re a god who sees both the light and the darkness in a man’s soul. You know why I’m here, I guess. You know what I mean to do. Paladine would frown at it, if he were here. Mishakal would throw up her pretty hands in horror.

“I am being dishonest, I suppose,” Flint added, stirring uncomfortably, “and what I propose to do is not honorable, though Sturm did go along with it and he’s the most honorable person I know.

“You see, Reorx,” Flint explained, “I’m only borrowing the Hammer. I’m not stealing it. I’ll make sure the dwarves get it back. I just want to use it to forge the dragonlances, and once that’s done and we win the battle against the Dark Queen, I’ll return the Hammer, switch the true one for the false. The dwarves will never know the difference. Because they think they have the real Hammer, they’ll choose a High King, open the gates to the Thorbardin to the world, bring in the refugees and all will be well. There’s no harm to anyone and much good.

“That’s my plan,” said Flint, struggling to stand again. He managed, but only by propping himself up with the kender’s hoopak. “I guess if you don’t like it, you’ll knock me off this ledge or deliver some such punishment.”

Flint waited, but nothing happened. The double doors shut behind him, but so slowly and so softly that he never noticed.

Taking silence for a sign that he could proceed with the god’s sanction if not his blessing, Flint walked out to the very end of the ledge. He stared down into the shaft below. All he could see was red light. He wondered how far the drop was then, shrugging, put the thought out of his mind. He gazed up at the Hammer and calculated the distance from the Hammer to the ledge. He eyed the hoopak, then eyed the Hammer again, and thought his plan just might work. Flint stretched out flat on his belly on the ledge. Grasping the hoopak, he held out his arm as far as it would go and made a swipe at the rope with the forked end of the hoopak as the Hammer whistled past.

He missed, but he was close. He had to scoot out over the ledge just another couple of inches. He clutched the end of the stone ledge with his hand and waited for the Hammer to pass him again. Flint swung his arm with all his might, and his momentum almost carried him off the ledge. For a heart stopping moment, he feared he was going to fall, but then the hoopak snagged the rope, and like an angler with a fish on the line, Flint gave the hoopak a sharp jerk. The leather sling dangling from the end of the hoopak tangled itself around the rope, and Flint, his heart beating fast and wild, slowly and carefully drew in the hoopak and the rope attached to the Hammer.

Dropping the hoopak, Flint grabbed the Hammer and hauled it up onto the ledge. At that point he had to pause, for he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He was light-headed and dizzy, and strange swirling lights were dancing in front of his eyes. The sensation passed quickly, however, and he was able to sit up and take the blessed Hammer in his lap and gaze at it in reverence and awe.

“Thank you, Reorx,” said Flint softly. “I’ll do good with it. I’ll use the hammer to bring honor to your name. I swear it by your beard and mine.”

The Hammer was a wonder and a marvel. He could not stop looking at it. The false hammer was like the true but did not feel like it. He put his hand on the Hammer of Kharas, and he felt it quiver with life. He felt himself connected to an intelligence that was good, wise and benevolent, grieving over the weaknesses of mankind, yet understanding of them and forgiving. Some dwarves swore Kharas had carried the Hammer for so long that it was imbued with his spirit, and Flint could almost believe it.

He realized, then, that any dwarf who had ever touched the real Hammer of Kharas could never mistake the false for the true. Fortunately, no dwarf now living had ever touched the real Hammer. Not even Hornfel would know the difference. The counterfeit looked the same, and it weighed about the same, since Raistlin had magicked it. Both hammers were light-weight, easy to carry. The runes were same on both. The color was nearly the same. The true Hammer had a golden sheen that the other did not. He’d just have to keep the real one concealed in his harness. As for other differences, the false hammer would probably not strike as hard or hit its mark as surely as this Hammer would do. Flint longed to test it, for he had heard that the Hammer of Kharas fused with the dwarf who wielded it, reacting to mind, more than touch; however, Flint would have to wait until he and his friends had put the dwarven kingdom far behind them before he could try it out.

Remembering that Arman might show up at any moment. Flint took the false hammer from his harness—thinking, as he did so, how cheap and shoddy it looked in comparison to the true. He slid the Hammer of Kharas into the harness on his back, tied the false hammer onto the end of the rope then, pulling back the rope as far as it would go, he let loose of the hammer and set it swinging again.

The false hammer swung back and forth as its momentum carried it. But then, slowly, it came to a stop and hung motionless from the ceiling. Flint experienced a moment of panic. Now that it had quit swinging, the hammer might well be out of reach!

He lay down and extended the hoopak. He couldn’t touch it, and for a moment he despaired. Then he remembered that Arman’s arms were far longer than his, and Flint breathed easier. This was actually good, for it provided him with an excuse for why he’d failed.

Flint walked over to the double doors and opened one and peeped out into the vestibule. No sign of Arman. Just the body of Kharas. The empty eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly. Flint didn’t like that, so he shut the door and went to sit down on the ledge. The Hammer of Kharas pressed against his spine, sending a glow of warmth through his body that eased his aches and pains.

Flint waited.

After Flint had so very rudely banished him from the Ruby Chamber, Tasslehoff wasted several moments trying every trick he knew to open the doors, with no result. He then spent a few moments lamenting the loss of his hoopak, the crankiness of dwarves, and the general unfairness of life. Then, seeing as how the doors were not going to open, Tas decided he’d do as Flint had told him and go off to find Arman.

The kender did not have far to look. He had only to turn around, in fact, and there was Arman emerging from a tower to the kender’s right.

“Arman!” Tas greeted him with joy.

“Kender,” said Arman.

Tas sighed. Liking Arman was hard work.

“Where is Flint?” Arman demanded.

“He’s in there,” said Tas, pointing at the doors. “We’ve made the most wonderful discovery! The Hammer of Kharas is inside.”

“And Flint is in there?” Arman asked, alarmed.

“Yes, but—”

“Get out of my way!” Arman gave the kender a shove that sent him sprawling on the flagstones.

“He must not get the Hammer! It is mine!”

Tas stood up grumpily, rubbing a bruised elbow.

“There’s a body in there, too,” he said. “The body of Kharas!” He laid emphasis on that. “Kharas is dead. Quite dead. Been dead a long time, I should imagine.”

Arman either wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t catch the connection, or maybe it didn’t bother him that he’d been hobnobbing with a Kharas who was lying in a mummified state in the vestibule. Arman walked up to the double doors and put his hand on the handle.

“They’re locked,” Tas started to tell him.

Arman flung the doors open wide and walked in.

“How do they keep doing that?” Tas demanded, frustrated.

He made a spring at the door, just as Arman Kharas shut it in his face.

Tasslehoff gave a dismal wail and pulled on the handles and pushed on the doors. They wouldn’t budge. He slumped down disconsolately on the door stoop and sulked. Dwarves opening doors left and right, and he, a kender, shut out. Tas vowed from then on that he would carry his lock picks in his smalls if he had to.

After a moment, he realized that even if he couldn’t be present, he could at least see what was happening inside the chamber. He ran over to the roof and pressed his nose against the ruby glass. There was Arman and there was Flint, standing off to one side, and there was the hammer hanging from the rope that wasn’t swinging anymore. Arman had something in his hand.

“My hoopak!” Tas cried indignantly. He beat on the glass. “Hey! You put that down!”

“I don’t think he can hear you,” said Kharas.

Kender are not subject to fear, so it couldn’t have been fear that made Tasslehoff leap several feet into the air. It must have been because he felt like leaping. He gave a few more light-hearted leaps after that, just to prove it.

Tas turned to confront the white-haired, white-bearded, stooped-shouldered dwarf. The kender raised a scolding finger. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings when I say this, but I don’t believe you are Kharas. He’s dead inside that vestibule. I saw his corpse. He was stung to death by a scorpion, and it’s been my experience that a person can’t be alive here and dead there at the same time.”

“Perhaps I’m the ghost of Kharas,” suggested the dwarf.

“I thought you might be, at first,” Tas poked his finger into the dwarf’s arm, “but ghosts are insubstantial, and you’re substantial.”

He was quite proud of those long words. They ranked right up there with Ramification and Speculation.

That gave him an idea. His glasses! The ruby glasses had let him read writing he couldn’t read and see through a wall that wasn’t there. Perhaps they would reveal the truth about this mysterious dwarf.

“Hey! Look behind you! What’s that?” Tas cried, and pointed past the dwarf’s left shoulder. The dwarf turned to look.

Tas whipped out his spectacles and put them on his nose and stared through the ruby glass. He was so amazed by what he saw that he forgot to take them off again. He stood staring, his body going limp, his mind stumbling about in a foggy daze.

“You’re…” he began weakly. “You’re a…” He swallowed hard, and the word came out.

“Dragon.”

The dragon was an enormous dragon, the biggest Tasslehoff had ever seen, bigger even than the horrible red dragon of Pax Tharkas. This dragon was also the most beautiful. His scales glittered gold in the sunlight. He held his head proudly, his body was powerful, yet his movements were made with studied grace. He didn’t appear to be a ferocious dragon, the kind who considered kender a toothsome midday snack. Although Tas had a feeling this dragon could look very fierce when he wanted to. Right now the dragon only looked troubled and disturbed.

“Ah,” said the dragon, his gaze fixed on the ruby spectacles perched on the kender’s nose, “I wondered where I’d put those.”

“I found them,” said Tas immediately. “I think you must have dropped them. Are you going to kill me?”

Tas wasn’t really afraid. He just needed to be informed. While he didn’t want to be killed by a dragon, if he was going to, he didn’t want to miss it.

“I should kill you, you know,” the golden dragon said sternly. “You’ve seen what you’re not meant to see. There’ll be hell to pay over this, I suppose.”

The dragon’s expression hardened. “Still, I don’t much care. Queen Takhisis and her foul minions have returned to the world, haven’t they?”

“Does this mean that you’re not a foul minion?” Tas asked.

“You could say that,” said the dragon, with the hint of smile in his wise, shining eyes.

“Then I will say that.” Tas was relieved. “Yes, the Dark Queen is back, and she’s causing a great deal of trouble. She’s driven the poor elves out of their beautiful homeland and killed a lot of them, and she and her dragons killed Goldmoon’s family and all her people, even the little children. That was really sad.” The kender’s eyes filled with tears. “And there are these creatures called draconians who look like dragons except they don’t, because they walk on two legs like people, but they have wings, tails, and scales like dragons and they’re really nasty. There are red dragons who set people on fire, and black dragons who boil the flesh off your bones, and I don’t know how many other kinds.”

“But no dragons like myself,” said the dragon. “No gold dragons or silver…” Tasslehoff had a squirmy feeling then. He had seen gold and silver dragons somewhere. He couldn’t quite place it. It had something to do with a tapestry and Fizban… The memory almost came back, but then it was gone. Disappeared in a puff ball.

“Sorry, but I’ve never seen anyone like you before.” Tas brightened. “I saw a woolly mammoth once, though. Would you like to hear about it?”

“Perhaps some other time,” said the dragon politely. He looked even more troubled and very grim.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot, by the way,” said Tas.

“I am called Evenstar,” said the dragon.

“What are you doing here?” Tas asked curiously.

“I am the guardian of the Hammer of Kharas. I have kept it safe until the gods returned and a dwarven hero of honor and righteousness came to claim it. Now my duty is done, my punishment is ended. They cannot keep me here.”

“You talk like this was a prison,” said Tas.

“It was,” Evenstar replied gravely.

“But,” Tasslehoff spread his arms, looked up at the wide blue sky—“you could fly anywhere!”

“I was bound to my promise, a promise I’ve kept for three hundred years. Now I am free to go.”

“You could fight alongside us,” Tas suggested eagerly. “Why, I’ll bet you could tie one of those red dragons in knots and make him swallow his tail!”

Evenstar smiled.

“I wish I could help you, little friend. I would like nothing better. I cannot, however. We dragons took a vow, and although I opposed it and advised against it, I will not break the vow. Though I cannot fight at your side, I will do what I can to aid you. These draconian creatures you describe trouble me greatly.”

“What are you going to do? Make them swallow their tails?”

“That would spoil my surprise. Farewell, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Evenstar. “I would ask you to keep my secret, for the world must not yet know that my kind exists, but I understand that secrets can be a great burden on one with such a light and merry heart. Therefore it is a burden I will not inflict.”

Tas didn’t understand. He barely heard. He was wrestling with a choke in his throat that wouldn’t go away. The dragon was so wonderful and beautiful, and he looked so unhappy, that Tasslehoff took off the ruby spectacles and held them out in his small hand.

“I guess these belong to you.”

The dragon reached down an enormous claw, a claw that could have engulfed the kender, and gently snagged the spectacles with a tip.

“Oh, before I forget,” Tas said, sadly watching the spectacles disappear in the dragon’s grasp, “how do we get off this tomb? Not that I’m not enjoying my stay here,” he added quickly, thinking the dragon might be offended, “but I left Tanis and Caramon and the others on their own, and they tend to get into trouble when I’m not there to watch over them.”

“Ah, yes,” said Evenstar gravely. “I understand.”

The dragon drew a large rune on the flagstones. He breathed on the rune and it began to glow with a shimmering golden light.

“When you are ready to depart, step onto this rune, and it will take you to the Temple of the Stars where the dwarven Thanes are gathered to await the Hammer’s return.”

“Thank you, Evenstar,” said Tas. “Will I see you again?”

“Who knows? The gods hold the fates of all in their hands.”

Evenstar’s body began to shimmer with the same golden light. The light grew dim, then faint, then vanished altogether in a radiant haze. Tas had to blink several times and snort a great deal to clear some snuffles from his eyes and nose. He was still not seeing all that well, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

A white-bearded, stoop-shouldered dwarf stood in front of him. The dwarf held a pair of rubycolored spectacles in his hand.

“Here,” said the dwarf, “you dropped these. And mind that you don’t lose them! Spectacles like this don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Tas started to say he would treasure them forever, but he didn’t, because the dwarf wasn’t there to say it to. The dwarf wasn’t anywhere.

“Oh, well,” Tas said, cheering up, “I have the spectacles back! I’ll be very careful of them. Very careful.”

He tucked the spectacles into his pocket, made sure they were safe and secure, then went back to the red glass roof.

Flint and Arman were gone, and so was the Hammer. Tas was wondering what could have happened to them and was seriously considering trying to break the glass, so he could crawl inside and find out, when the double doors flew open.

Arman walked into the sunlight. “I have the Hammer of Kharas!” he proclaimed in triumph. He was so pleased with himself, he even smiled at Tas. “Look, kender! I have the sacred Hammer.”

“I’m glad for you,” said Tas politely, and he was, in a way; Arman did look very proud and happy. If he was happy for Arman, he was sad for Flint, who came trailing out the door after Arman. Flint looked subdued, but not as crushed and disappointed as Tas had feared.

“I’m sorry, Flint,” said Tas, resting a consoling hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, a hand the dwarf promptly removed. “I think you should have been the one to take the Hammer. Oh, by the way, can I have my hoopak back?”

Flint handed it over. “The gods made their choice,” he said.

Tas didn’t quite see how the gods had anything to do with finding the Hammer, but he didn’t like to argue with Flint in his unhappy state. Tas changed the subject.

“I met a golden woolly mammoth, Flint! He showed me the way out,” he said. Flint glared at him. “No more woolly mammoths. Not now. Not ever.”

“What?” Tasslehoff was confused. “I didn’t say woolly mammoth. There’s no such thing as a golden woolly mammoth. I met a golden… woolly mammoth.”

Tasslehoff clapped his hands over his mouth.

“Why did I say that? I didn’t see a woolly mammoth. I saw a golden… woolly mammoth.” Tas slapped himself on the head, hoping to jolt his brain. “It was big, it was gold, it had wings and a tail, and it was a… woolly mammoth.”

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to say the word… woolly mammoth. Tas heaved a deep sigh. He’d been looking forward to telling Flint, Tanis and all the rest how he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had spoken to a golden… woolly mammoth, and now he couldn’t. His brain knew what he wanted to say. It was his tongue that kept confusing things.

Flint had walked off in disgust. Arman Kharas was marching about the battlements, holding the hammer and shouting to the world that he, Arman Kharas, had discovered it. Tas trailed after Flint.

“I did find the way out,” he said. “I met a… er… someone who showed me. All we have to do is step on that golden rune over there, and it will take us to someplace or other. I forget.” He pointed to the brightly glowing rune, glistening on the flagstones.

“Oh, yes! The Temple of the Stars. Your father’s there,” Tas said to Arman, “waiting the return of the Hammer.”

Flint looked astonished and skeptical. Arman was tempted, but suspicious.

“Where did this rune come from?” he demanded.

“I told you. I met someone. The guardian of the tomb. He was a…” Tas tried his very best to say it. The word “dragon” was in his throat, but he knew perfectly well what it would come out as “woolly mammoth,” and so he swallowed it. “I met Kharas. He showed me the rune.” Arman’s face darkened, and so did Flint’s.

“Kharas is dead,” said Arman. “I paid homage to his spirit. I will return when I may and see to it that he is entombed with honor. I do not know who or what that apparition was—”

“It was his restless, roving spirit,” said Tas, now enjoying himself, “doomed to wander the tomb of his king in unhappy torment, weeping, wailing, and wringing his hands, unable to depart until a true hero of the dwarves returns to free him. That hero is you,” Tas said to Arman. “The spirit of Kharas is now free. He left me with a blessing and floated up into the air like a soap bubble. Poof, he was gone.”

Flint knew the kender was lying through his teeth. He didn’t dare say a word, however, because Arman had listened to the outlandish tale with reverent respect.

“We will honor the last wishes of the spirit of Kharas.” Removing his helm, Arman walked over and stood with bowed head on the golden rune.

“Where did this rune really come from?” Flint asked in a harsh whisper, adding indignantly, “No dwarf ever went ‘poof’!”

“I’d tell you the truth, Flint,” said Tas, sighing, “but I can’t. My tongue won’t let me.” Flint glared at him. “And you expect me to stand on a strange rune and let it magic me to Reorx knows where?”

“The Temple of the Stars, where they’re awaiting the return of the Hammer.”

“Make haste!” called Arman impatiently. “This is my moment of triumph.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Flint muttered into his beard, but he stomped off and went to stand beside Arman on the golden rune.

Tasslehoff joined them. He was the keeper of a marvelous secret, one of the biggest secrets of the past couple of centuries, a secret that would astound and amaze everyone… and he couldn’t tell a soul. Life was very unfair.

The rune began to glow. Tas’s hand went to his pocket and closed over the ruby spectacles and felt something tickle his fingers. He fished it out. The rune began to shine bright gold, and the red mist closed in around them, and he couldn’t see the tomb anymore. All he could see was Flint, Arman, and a white chicken feather. Then Tas understood.

Hope. That was the secret, and it was one he could share. Even if he couldn’t say a word to anyone about there being golden… woolly mammoths.

When word spread through the dwarven realms that the doors leading to the Valley of the Thanes had closed and would not open, the dwarves of Thorbardin came at last to believe that some momentous event was at hand. The Eighth Road was reopened, and dwarves traveled by wagon and on foot to take up their vigil outside the Guardian Hall.

The day was drawing to close when suddenly the great doors swung open. A solitary dwarf appeared, an elderly dwarf with long white hair and a long white beard. He was not Arman Kharas, nor was he the Neidar dwarf, and the assembled dwarves regarded him warily. The elderly dwarf stood before them. He raised his hands, calling for silence, and silence fell.

“The Hammer of Kharas has been found,” the dwarf announced. “It is being carried to the Temple of the Stars to dedicate it to Reorx, who has returned and now walks among you.” The dwarves stared at him in suspicion and amazement. Some shook their heads. The elderly dwarf raised his voice, his tone stern.

“The Hammer hung suspended from a thin piece of rope. It swung back and forth, counting out the minutes of your lives. The rope has been cut, the Hammer freed. It is you, the dwarven clans of Thorbardin, who hang suspended from that same fragile lifeline, swinging between darkness and light. Reorx grant that you choose well.”

The strange dwarf turned and walked back inside the great bronze doors. Some of the bolder dwarves followed him into the Valley of the Thanes, hoping to be able to speak to him, ask questions, demand answers. But upon entering the doors, the dwarves were momentarily dazzled by the sunlight shining into the Valley, and they lost sight of the dwarf in the glare. When they could see again, the strange dwarf was nowhere to be found.

It was then they saw the miracle.

The Tomb of Duncan no longer floated among the clouds. The tomb stood on the site where it had been built three hundred years before. The sunshine gleamed on white towers and glowed on a turret crafted of ruby glass. The lake was gone, as though it had never been. The dwarves knew then the identity of the strange dwarf who had appeared to them, and they took off their helms and sank to their knees and praised Reorx, asking his forgiveness and his blessing.

The statue of Grallen stood guard before the tomb, where, inside, they would find the final resting place of King Duncan and the remains of the hero, Kharas. A stone helm was on the statue’s stone head, and an expression of infinite peace was on the stone face.

Chapter 23 The Temple Of The Stars. The Hammer Returns. The Dead Walk.

Tanis and his companions were with Riverwind and Gilthanas in the dwarven House of Healing when Hornfel brought them word that the Hammer had been found.

Riverwind and Gilthanas were now both conscious and feeling somewhat better. Raistlin had made a study of the healing arts in his youth, and not entirely trusting the dwarven physicians, he examined their injuries and found that none were serious. He advised them both to remain in bed and to refrain from drinking any of the potions the dwarven healers wanted to feed them.

“Drink only this water,” Raistlin cautioned them. “Caramon fetched it from the well himself, and I can attest to its purity.”

Hornfel was impatient to leave for the Temple of the Stars, but he was gracious enough, and perhaps feeling guilty enough, to take time to ask after the health of the two captives and to offer his apologies for the rough way in which they had been treated. He posted members of his own personal guard beside their beds with orders to watch over the human and the elf with as much care as they would guard him. Only then did Tanis feel comfortable leaving his friends.

“Do you think that Flint has really found the Hammer of Kharas?” Gilthanas asked.

“I don’t know what to think,” Tanis returned. “I don’t know what to hope—that he has found the Hammer, or he that he hasn’t. It seems to me that finding the Hammer will cause more problems than it solves.”

“You walk in darkness, Half-Elven,” said Riverwind quietly. “Look to the light.”

“I tried it,” Tanis said quietly. “It hurt my eyes.”

He left his friends, not without some misgivings, but he couldn’t be in two places at once, and he and the others needed to be at the Temple of the Stars to witness, and perhaps defend, Flint’s return. If he had found the Hammer of Kharas, there were many who would try to take it from him.

The Temple of the Stars was the most holy site in all of Thorbardin, which, for the dwarves, meant all the world. For the dwarves believed that in this temple was a shaft that led to the city where dwelt Reorx.

The shaft was a natural phenomenon discovered during the construction of Thorbardin. None could plumb its depths or determine how far below the earth it went. Rocks tossed into it never hit bottom. Thinking perhaps that they just couldn’t hear them, the dwarves had thrown an anvil into the pit, knowing that when it hit, they would hear a resounding crash.

The dwarves listened. They listened for hours. They listened for days. Weeks went by, followed by months, and they still heard no sound. It was then the dwarven priests decreed that the shaft was a holy site, for it obviously connected this world to the realm of Reorx. It was also said that if you had nerve enough to look straight down into the pit, you would see the lights of Reorx’s magnificent city sparkling like stars far below. The dwarves built a grand temple around the pit and named it Temple of the Stars.

A platform extended out over the pit and here the dwarves placed an altar dedicated to Reorx. They built a waist-high wall around the pit, though no dwarf would have ever dreamed of committing the sacrilege of either climbing or jumping into it. Dwarf priests conducted their most sacred rituals here, including marriage and naming ceremonies. Here the High Kings were crowned.

The dwarves held the temple in reverence and awe, going there to offer humble prayers to Reorx, to ask for his blessing and praise him. But as time passed and the might of Thorbardin grew, the dwarves thought better of themselves. Who were they, powerful and mighty, to beg to a god?

They came to demand, rather than ask, often writing down their demands on stones and tossing these into the pit. Some dwarven priests found this practice reprehensible and preached against it. The dwarves refused to listen, and thus Reorx was pelted with demands that he give his people everything from wealth to eternal youth to an unfailing supply of dwarf spirits. Apparently Reorx grew weary of this, for when the Cataclysm struck, the ceiling of the temple caved in, blocking all the entrances. The dwarves attempted to remove the rubble, but every time they shifted a boulder or a beam, another crashed down, and eventually they gave up. It was Duncan, High King, who reopened the temple. He hoped to find Reorx by doing so, and he devised a plan to use the great Ukhar worms to chew through the rubble. His detractors said the worms would not stop there but would chew through the temple walls as well, and the worms did in some places before the worm wranglers could stop them. These holes were easily repaired, however, and dwarves could once more enter the temple.

King Duncan did not find Reorx there, as he had hoped. Legend has it that the king flattened himself on his belly and peered into the pit, hoping to see the famed stars. He saw nothing but darkness. Still, he held that the temple was a sacred place and the memory of the god was here, even if the god himself was gone. He banned the tossing of stones into the pit. Once again, important ceremonies and functions were held in the Temple of the Stars and thus it was deemed to be the most suitable place for the Thanes to witness the recovery of the Hammer of Kharas. Hornfel prayed it might happen soon, for already the mountain kingdom was in turmoil. Word of the monstrous winged lizard-man had spread rapidly throughout all the realms, creating a sensation. A laconic race, dwarves are not given to rumor-mongering. They do not embellish stories or exaggerate the facts, leaving that to humans. A dwarf caught dressing up a tale is not to be trusted. One lone draconian leaping off the lift in a human community would have turned into six hundred fire-breathing dragons invading the kingdom. The dwarves who had seen the draconian jump off the Life Tree and fly over the lake told the astonishing tale to their neighbors and relatives, and they told it accurately None of the dwarves knew what to make of this creature, except that it was undoubtedly evil, and each dwarf had his or her own idea on what it was and how it came to be in Thorbardin. All agreed on one thing—no monster like this had been seen in Thorbardin as long as the gate was sealed. This was what came of opening their doors to the world beyond. Tanis and the other “Talls” were viewed with even more suspicion than before.

Hundreds of dwarves were already clogging the Ninth Road in an effort to reach the Temple. There had already been several fistfights, and Hornfel feared that worse would happen. Riots would break out and dwarves would be hurt if they were allowed to crowd into the temple and its environs. Hornfel decided to close the Temple to the public. Only the Thanes and their guards would be present to witness the Hammer’s return.

Having seen the draconian for himself, Hornfel came to believe that Tanis had been telling the truth—the Theiwar had betrayed Thorbardin to the forces of the Dark Queen. Hornfel feared that Realgar, knowing his perfidy had been discovered, would choose this time to attack. The Theiwar army, being little more than an armed mob, did not overly concern Hornfel, whose troops were highly trained and well disciplined. But the half-elf had warned Hornfel that an army of these dragon-men might well be prepared to invade. If that happened, they would likely attack the Temple first, in an effort to seize the Hammer. Hornfel wanted armed troops surrounding the temple, not an unruly crowd.

Hornfel was also worried about the Daergar. If Rance sided with Realgar, and they were backed up by the forces of darkness, Hornfel despaired that even the Hammer of Kharas could save his people.

The Thane of the Hylar was a dwarf of courage and nobility, whose worth was proven in these dark hours. Hornfel readily admitted that he had been taken in by Realgar’s lies. He had misjudged Tanis and the others.

“I have lived too long sealed up inside the mountain,” Hornfel said sadly. “I need to see the sunshine once again, breathe fresh air.”

“What you need,” Sturm advised, “is to look for Reorx. You won’t find him at the bottom of a pit.”

Hornfel thought this over. Like most dwarves, he had sworn many an oath by Reorx. The Thane had never before prayed to Reorx, however, and he wasn’t certain what to say. He had been told of the words of the strange dwarf who had appeared in the entrance to the Valley, how the fate of Thorbardin hung by a slender rope. In the end, Hornfel’s prayer was simple and heartfelt, “Reorx, grant me the wisdom and the strength to do what is right.”

He held his troops in readiness, as did the Thane of the Daewar, Gneiss, whose thinking had agreed with Hornfel on all points except Reorx’s return. If the god had come back, he would have made himself known to the Daewar first, since they had been the ones to build and tend his shrines. As of yet, Gneiss had seen no sign of him.

Tufa, the Thane of the Klar, had seen the draconian and been eager to kill it. He envisioned these monsters creeping into Thorbardin along dark and secret paths, and he sent his people, who knew their way around the darkness and the labyrinthine tunnels, to investigate.

The Thanes assembled in the Temple of the Stars, each bringing with him heavily armed guards. Hornfel had also invited the Talls to join them in the Temple. A large square building, the Temple had four entrances, one at each of the four compass points. Wide halls ran straight from the four doors to intersect in the inner chamber. This was the altar room and it was circular in shape, for it had been built around the pit—a round pool of starlit darkness beneath a domed ceiling. A hole in the ceiling was placed directly above the pit, matching it in shape and size and symbolizing the idea that the realm of the god had no beginning and no end.

The altar of Reorx, which had been considered ancient in King Duncan’s time, had never been removed. Made of red granite carved in the shape of an anvil, the altar stood at the end of the platform that extended out into the pit. The dwarven Thanes eyed the altar uncomfortably, wondering if they should make some offering to acknowledge the god’s return. None knew what they were supposed to do or say, so rather than risk offending the god, who was known to be touchy, they stood before it, doffed their helms, and then looked uncomfortable. The rest of the large altar room was empty. There were no thrones, chairs, or benches. Those was entered the altar room were in the presence of the god and were meant to stand in respect. Hornfel, Gneiss, Tufa and Klar were the four Thanes in attendance. They came together, talking in low and worried voices. Tanis and his friends stood apart, saying little. The dwarves had placed torches in sconces around the walls, but the flames did little to light the vast room. Darkness seemed to flow out of the pit and drown them, for though the air was still and calm, the torches constantly flickered and went out. Even the light cast by the staff of Magius seemed dimmer than usual, shedding its light only on Raistlin, illuminating nothing else.

“Two of the Thanes are missing,” said Sturm, “those of the Theiwar and the Daergar.”

“The fact that Realgar is absent is no surprise,” said Tanis, “but it is beginning to look as though the Daergar have joined forces with their dark cousins.”

The Aghar Thane was also missing, but no one noticed.

The tension mounted as everyone waited for the Hammer. Nerves stretched taut. Conversation dwindled. No one had any idea what was going to happen, but most believed it was going to be bad. The strain proved too much for the leader of the Klar, who suddenly threw back his head and let out a hideous shriek—a feral, heart-stopping howl that echoed throughout the chamber and caused the dwarven guards to draw their weapons. Sturm, Caramon, and Tanis clapped their hands to their swords. The Klar merely snarled and waved his hand, indicating that he’d meant nothing by it, he was simply easing the tension.

“I hope he doesn’t do that again,” said Caramon, thrusting his sword back into its sheathe.

“I wonder what is taking so long,” said Sturm. “Perhaps they were waylaid—”

“We don’t even know for certain that the news about the Hammer is true,” Raistlin observed.

“For all we know, this may be a trap. We might have been sent here to keep us away from the Hammer.”

“I don’t like this any better than the rest of you,” said Tanis. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“I say that Tanis and I should go to Valley of the Thanes and look for Flint,” said Sturm.

“No, you and I should go, Sturm,” said Raistlin.

Sturm hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes, Raistlin and I should Tanis was so amazed at this sudden strange alliance that he nearly forgot what he was about to say. He had started to suggest that perhaps they should all go to the Valley when suddenly there was Tasslehoff, right in front of him.

Tanis had never been so glad to see anyone. Risking the loss of his personal possessions, he gave Tas a hug. The others greeted the kender warmly, then immediately bombarded him with questions.

“How did you get here? Where’s Flint? Does he have the Hammer of Kharas?”

“A magical rune made by a golden woolly mammoth,” Tas answered them all in jumble. “Flint’s here and no, he doesn’t have the Hammer. Arman has it.”

Tas pointed to Flint standing on the platform before the altar of Reorx. Arman Kharas stood beside him, holding the bronze hammer in triumph over his head.

“1, Arman Kharas, have found the Hammer of Kharas!” he thundered. “I return it to my people!” Tanis sighed. He was glad the Hammer had been recovered, but he was concerned for his old friend. “I hope Flint’s not taking this too hard.”

“I was worried about that, too,” said Tas. “But Flint seems really chipper. You’d almost think he found the Hammer.”

Sturm and Raistlin exchanged glances.

“The gods be praised—” Sturm began, but his prayer was cut short.

Hot flame erupted from the pit and exploded in their midst. The dazzling light blinded them, the concussive blast jarred the senses and knocked many to the floor.

Half-blind and dazed, Tanis staggered to his feet, fumbling for his sword and trying to see what had happened. He had a vague impression of something monstrous crawling out of the pit. When his dazzled vision cleared, Tanis saw it was a man, fearsome in blue armor and horned helm, pulling himself with ease over the edge of the platform.

Lord Verminaard. Very much alive.

Chapter 24 Seeing Is Believing. True Metal and False.

“Verminaard was dead!” Sturm shouted hoarsely. “I stabbed him through the heart!”

“Something’s not right!” Raistlin gasped.

“Yeah, the bastard can’t be killed,” Caramon said.

“Not that!” Raistlin whispered, felled by a fit of coughing. He tried desperately to speak, his lips were flecked with blood. “The light… blinded… a magic spell…” He doubled over, struggling to breathe. The coughing spasms tore at his frail body, and he could say no more.

“Where’s Flint?” Tanis asked worriedly. “Can you see him?”

“The altar is in the way,” said Sturm, craning his neck. “The last I saw, he was standing beside Arman.”

The helmed head turned in their direction. Verminaard was aware of them; perhaps he had even heard them. He did not appear overly concerned. His attention was fixed on the Hammer of Kharas, and the dwarf who held it.

Arman Kharas had not been felled by the magical blast. He stood stalwart and firm, the hammer clasped tightly in his hands, facing the terrible foe who towered over him, a foe who commanded the elements, who wielded fire and blinding light. A foe who had risen from the holy site that was the dwelling place of Reorx, mocking the power of the god.

“Who dares defile our sacred Temple?” Arman cried. He was pale beneath his long black beard, but resolute and determined, and he faced his enemy without fear.

“Verminaard, Highlord of the Red Dragonarmies. In the name of Ariakas, Emperor of Ansalon, and of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, I have conquered Qualinesti, Abanasinia and the Plains of Dust. I now add Thorbardin to the list. Bring me the Hammer and bow down before me and proclaim me High King or perish where you stand.”

Sturm said softly, “We should rush him. He can’t fight all of us.” The Dragon Highlord shifted his hand and pointed at the knight. A ray of light shot out from the Highlord’s hand, streaked through the air and struck Sturm on his metal breastplate. Lightning sizzled around the knight. He collapsed to the floor and lay writhing in agony. All the time, Verminaard had not taken his gaze from Arman, who was staring at the stricken knight in horror, his hands clasping the hammer in a convulsive grip.

“Witness my power,” Verminaard said to the young dwarf. “Bring me the Hammer, or you will be next!”

Tanis saw Caramon’s hand close over the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” Tanis said softly. “Go see to Sturm.” Caramon glanced at his twin. Raistlin sagged against his staff. He was weak from coughing, his hand pressed over his mouth. He shook his head, and Caramon reluctantly released his hold on his weapon. He knelt beside the stricken knight.

Flint had been knocked off his feet by the power of the blast. He staggered back to the platform, coming up behind Arman. Flint could feel something sticky on his face, probably blood. He ignored it. The other Thanes were more or less on their feet, as were their guards. Between them all, they outnumbered the Dragon Highlord, but after seeing the damage inflicted on the knight, no one dared attack Verminaard.

“Give him the Hammer,” Hornfel said to his son. “It is not worth your life.”

“The Hammer is mine!” Arman cried defiantly. “I am Kharas!” He shook free of the terror that had seemed to paralyze the others. Swinging the hammer, Arman Kharas sprang at the Dragon Highlord.

As the dwarf bore down on him, the Dragon Highlord fell back a step in order to bring himself into better position to repel the dwarf’s attack. His foot went too close to the edge. He slipped and nearly fell, managing to save himself only by dropping his mace and grabbing hold of the granite altar.

At about this time, Tasslehoff Burrfoot reached into his pocket in search of his spectacles. Kender, unlike humans, never doubt. Verminaard was dead. Tanis and the others had killed him, and yet here he was alive, and this made no sense, as far as Tas was concerned. Raistlin had said that something was wrong, and if anyone should know it would be him. Raistlin might not be the nicest person Tas had ever met, but the mage was the smartest.

“I think I’ll just take a quick look,” said Tas to himself.

He reached down into his pocket and pulled out something that might once have been a kumquat. This not being of much use, he tossed it away and after retrieving a prune pit and thimble, he located the ruby-colored spectacles and put them on his nose.

Arman Kharas struck. The blow from the hammer broke Verminaard’s grip on the altar. Another blow knocked him backward. The Dragon Highlord tried desperately to save himself, but he overbalanced, and bellowing in terror and in fury, the Dragon Highlord fell into the pit. No one moved or spoke. Arman Kharas stared into the pit in dazed disbelief. Then the realization of his triumph burst upon him. He lifted the hammer and, crying out praise to Reorx, swung the hammer joyfully through the air. The Thanes and the soldiers began to cheer wildly. Caramon was propping up Sturm, who was dazed and in pain but alive. Caramon whooped and hollered. Sturm smiled weakly.

Raistlin stared at the pit, his eyes hard and glittering. “Something is wrong with this…”

“Raistlin’s right, Tanis!” Tasslehoff clutched at his friend. “That’s not Verminaard!”

“Not now, Tas!” Tanis said, trying to shake loose the kender. “I have to see to Sturm…”

“It wasn’t Verminaard, I tell you!” Tas cried. “It was a draconian who looked like Verminaard!”

“Tas—”

“An illusion!” Raistlin breathed. “Now it makes sense. Verminaard was a cleric, a follower of Queen Takhisis. The spell that blinded us and the spell that felled Sturm were both spells that only a wizard could cast.”

The dwarven Thanes were cheering Arman Kharas, who stood on the platform cradling the hammer in his arms and basking in his glory.

“A draconian?” said Tanis, glancing back at the altar. “Why would a draconian pretend to be Verminaard?”

“I don’t know,” said Raistlin softly, “but this victory was too easy.”

“Look!” Caramon cried.

Clawed hands were reaching up out of the pit and grabbing hold of the edge of the platform. A draconian emerged from the pit, effortlessly pulling himself up onto the platform. Unlike other draconians, this one had no wings. His scales were a dull greenish gold. He was tall and thin with a short, stubby tail. He wore black robes decorated in whorls and runes. The draconian lifted his head, looked up at the ceiling, and raised arms as though signaling. Then he crept toward the unsuspecting young dwarf.

Arman had his back turned. He did not see his danger. The Thanes saw it and cried out in alarm. Flint did more than that. He took hold of his Hammer and ran toward the pit.

“Flint! Stop!” Tanis shouted, and he started to run to his friend’s aid, when he heard Sturm cry out a warning.

“Tanis! Above you!”

Tanis looked up to see armed draconians dropping down on top of them, leaping through the hole in the ceiling. At the same time, additional draconian troops entered from the south door. A group of Theiwar, armed to the teeth, ran in through the door to the east. Sturm, pale and shivering, was on his feet, sword in hand. Caramon positioned himself next to Sturm, in case the knight faltered. Raistlin’s lips were moving. Magic crackled on his fingertips. Tasslehoff, calling out jeers and insults and jumping up and down, waved his hoopak and yelled for the draconians to come and get him.

Confusion swirled about the temple as the draconians, swords slashing, hit the floor fighting. Hornfel lifted a ram’s horn to his lips, and at his call, Hylar soldiers swept into the Temple from the north. The Daewar thronged in from the west, and friend and foe met in the center in a thunderous crash. Battle swirled around the pit. Steel hit steel, draconians shrieked their battle cries, angry dwarves bellowed theirs, and the dying and the wounded screamed. Tanis looked desperately for Flint, trying to spot him in the chaos, but he could not find him. Then Tanis was forced to forget about his friend and fight for his life.

Arman Kharas was exalted. He held the hammer high, and he shook it defiantly in the beards of those who had sneered at him over the years, those who had called him Mad Kharas, those who had doubted him. He was vindicated. He had found the Hammer, and with it, he had slain the fearsome Dragon Highlord. Arman was a hero, as he had always dreamed. He gave a fierce cry of joy. In his heady elation, he did not see the monster crawling up out of the pit. The Thanes saw the danger. Arman’s father saw it and ran to help his son, but at that moment dragonmen fell out of the skies, a draconian army stormed the Temple from the south, and a rampaging mob of Theiwar burst in from the east.

Thanks to Tanis and his friends, the Theiwar and the draconians did not take the Thanes by surprise, as they had planned. The Hylar, the Daewar, and the Klar were prepared. Horn calls sounded, and their armies swarmed into the Temple to attack their foes. The battle was fierce, desperate, and furious. The Temple was soon jammed with combatants, heaving, pushing, shoving, and hacking. The floor fast became slippery with blood.

Hornfel, his battle-axe red with gore, was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the enemy and lost sight of his son in the confusion.

Flint had been blown off the platform when Verminaard appeared. Flint had been appalled at the sight, but there was not much he could do. The old dwarf was well nigh finished. His legs were stiff and sore, his back hurt, and his shoulders ached. He was in pain from his injuries, and he was consumed with guilt.

Arman had been duped. He thought he held in his hands a blessed weapon. He did not know the hammer he wielded was nothing more than a hunk of metal magicked up by Raistlin. When Arman had charged at Verminaard, Flint had tried to stop him, but Arman had ignored him. Flint had turned his head, unable to watch the young dwarf’s certain death. Then he’d heard Verminaard give a shout of fury and Arman yell in triumph.

Flint looked up in time to see the Dragon Highlord tumble into the pit.

“Humpf,” Flint had said to himself, unknowingly echoing Raistlin, “something’s not right.” Then the draconian appeared, crawling out of the pit.

Flint had stared, astounded. So far as he knew, draconians were leagues away, nowhere near Thorbardin. He had no idea how this draconian came to be here or what the monster was doing in the pit. Astonishment swiftly gave way to outrage. Draconians had no right to be in the dwarven homeland. Outrage changed to consternation, as Flint saw the greenish-gold monster pull himself with slithering grace up onto the platform behind the unsuspecting young dwarf. The draconian wanted the hammer. Flint could see the creature’s eyes fixed on it. He shouted a warning and reached for his weapon, completely forgetting in his fear for the young dwarf that he was the one who carried the blessed Hammer.

Dray-yan was nearing his moment of triumph. His charade had fooled everyone, his own draconians included. They had all seen the vaunted Lord Verminaard fall to an ignominious doom. Cloaked in the illusion of the Dragon Highlord, Dray-yan had pretended to fall off the platform. As he fell, he had caught hold of the ledge with his hands, and had hung there, waiting for Grag and his forces to storm the Temple. With the confusion of the battle covering his movements, the aurak discarded the illusion of the Dragon Highlord and pulled himself up onto the platform.

The fool young dwarf stood there all alone, his back to Dray-yan, the hammer in his hand, shouting to the world about how he’d killed the Dragon Highlord.

Dray-yan was tempted to use his powerful magicks to slay Arman, but the aurak had to be cautious. If he killed in haste, the hammer might slip out of the dwarf’s hands and fall into the pit and be forever lost. While Queen Takhisis would enjoy this outcome, it would not suit Dray-yan. He envisioned himself entering the Temple at Neraka and presenting the hammer to Lord Ariakas.

Dray-yan was hampered by the fact that he did not carry a sword. Auraks generally disdained the use of weapons, preferring to rely on their magic in battle. He did, however, have a knife strapped to his leg beneath his robes.

The dwarf wore heavy armor, but that didn’t faze Dray-yan. The aurak had no need to penetrate armor or hit a vital organ. A scratch on the arm would do. The knife was smeared with poison, a lethal trick he’d learned from his kapak cousins.

Blade in hand, Dray-yan crept up on Arman.

Flint took hold of the Hammer of Kharas, yanked it from the harness, and raced toward the pit, bellowing all the while at Arman to look behind him. As Flint ran, he realized suddenly that his aches and pains had vanished. Fatigue lifted from him. His arms were strong, his legs powerful. His heart beat steady and true. He was filled with life and energy. Flint was a young dwarf once more, powerful, invincible.

Arman Kharas finally heard Flint’s warning shouts. The young dwarf had been about to join in the battle, but now he turned around to see, to his shock, a monstrous foe closing on him from behind.

Flint was only steps from the platform when a baaz draconian landed squarely in front of him. The baaz attacked, swinging a curved-bladed sword. Flint didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had to reach Arman before the youngster got himself into serious trouble. Flint swung the Hammer with the might of his fury, and struck the baaz in the head.

The draconian disintegrated; its body changing from flesh to stone and from stone to dust so rapidly that Flint was covered in the foul mess. Flint jumped onto the platform where Arman and the draconian were locked in mortal combat, grappling for the hammer.

Steel flashed in the draconian’s hand. Dray-yan tried to stab Arman with a knife with one hand and get a grip on the hammer with the other. Arman was bleeding from a few cuts on his arm, but the dwarf’s heavy armor protected his body and he was not concerned about the feeble blows of his foe.

Arman was about to raise the hammer and bring it down on his enemy, when a shudder shook the young dwarf. His face went deathly pale. His eyes widened. A sheen of chill sweat covered his forehead. Pain like a thousand steel blades slicing into his vitals drove him to his knees. Dray-yan seized hold of the hammer, intending to wrench it from the dwarf’s grip. Weakened as he was, his body splintered by pain, Arman closed his hands tightly over the hammer, refusing to give it up. He fought against the monster, but his strength was failing. The poison burned through his veins. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. His hands went limp and slid off the hammer, and Dray-yan snatched it.

His prize in hand, Dray-yan started to leap over the writhing body. He planned to flee the temple, but he found his way blocked.

Flint stood over Arman, facing the draconian. Flint gestured at the hammer in Dray-yan’s hands.

“You’ve got the wrong one,” Flint told the aurak with grim satisfaction. Dray-yan’s startled gaze went from the hammer in his hand to the Hammer the dwarf was holding. He realized immediately he’d been duped. The Hammer the dwarf held blazed with a wrathful, holy light. Dray-yan could not even bear to look at it. If he’d been thinking, he should have known at once the hammer he held was a fake. No magical life flowed through it. No magic guarded it.

Cursing dwarves for shabby little tricksters, Dray-yan flung the false hammer to the floor. He lifted his hands, his fingers flaring with magic, and lunged at Flint.

“Reorx, help me,” Flint prayed and, swinging the true Hammer, he hit the draconian in the chest. Bones cracked and snapped. Dray-yan shrieked and collapsed onto the platform. He almost rolled off, but he managed to save himself with a twist of his short, stubby tail. Flint was about to finish the aurak, when he remembered that draconians have the power to inflict harm even after they are dead. He had no idea what this strange greenish gold draconian would do, for he’d never seen one like it before, so instead he kicked the draconian, intending to push it off the platform. Desperate, Dray-yan grabbed hold of Flint’s boot and tried to yank the dwarf off his feet, hoping to grab the Hammer on the dwarf’s way down, then fling him into the pit.

Flint twisted, turned and kicked frantically at the draconian. He could have slain the fiend with a single Hammer blow, but he didn’t dare, for he had no idea if the creature’s corpse would blow up, turn into deadly acid, or what would happen.

Then Flint realized that he might not have a choice. The draconian had managed to drag Flint near the edge of the pit. If Flint fell, the Hammer would fall with him, and that must not happen. To save the Hammer, he was going to have to kill this monster, though he himself would likely die in the process.

Flint aimed a blow at the draconian’s ugly head, but before he could strike, the Hammer twisted in his hand and hit the draconian’s right arm at the wrist. Bone cracked. Blood spurted. Dray-yan’s hand on Flint’s boot went limp. Flint shoved the draconian, shrieking and cursing, off the platform.

His strength flagging, Flint went down on his hands and knees and stared into the darkness watching until the monster was lost to sight. Even then, Flint could still hear him screaming. Dray-yan’s cries continued for a long time and never truly ended. They simply dwindled away.

“I failed…” said Arman, his eyes fluttering.

He lay on his back on the platform. His face was livid and contorted in pain. He shuddered and gasped for breath.

Flint, his heart wrung, crawled over to kneel beside the dwarf.

“I failed…” Arman murmured again. “The Hammer… lost.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Flint. “You were victorious. Your foe is dead. You defeated him and saved the Hammer of Kharas. Here, I will show you.”

The two hammers, one true and one false, lay side-by-side on the platform.

Flint picked up one of the hammers and thrust it into the dwarf’s hands. Gently, he closed Arman’s limp fingers over it. The Hammer shone with a soft and radiant light that spread over Arman.

His tortured body relaxed. His pain-twisted grimace eased. His eyes grew clear. He clasped the Hammer to his breast.

“I am a hero,” he breathed, his lips barely moving. “Arman… Kharas.” He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and let it out in a sigh. He did not take another. Flint’s eyes filled with tears. He was suddenly very old, weak, and tired, and he loathed himself. He stroked the young dwarf’s hands that even in death still clasped the Hammer. He recalled something the ancient, white-haired dwarf had said in the tomb.

“You’re not ‘Arman’—a lesser Kharas,” Flint told the departing soul. “You are Pike, son of Hornfel, the hero who saved the Hammer of Kharas, and that is how you will be remembered.” Flint picked up the false hammer. He held it for a moment, long enough to beg the god’s forgiveness and say goodbye to his dreams. Then he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Dwarves and draconians were stabbing and slashing, bleeding and dying. No one was watching Flint except for one. Tasslehoff was staring, wide-eyed, straight at him.

“Ah, well,” Flint grunted. “No one will believe him anyway.” He flung the hammer into the pit.

The radiant light from the Hammmer of Kharas spread throughout the Temple, emboldening the dwarves and demoralizing their foes. But just when Hornfel began to think the day would be won, an army of heavily armed dwarves hundreds strong marched inside. He recognized the emblems of the Daergar on their flags, and he nearly despaired, for the Theiwar were cheering on their dark dwarf allies.

The Hammer’s light did not dim, however, and Hornfel watched in astonishment as the Daegar turned on the Theiwar, cutting off the welcoming arms and trampling Theiwar bodies beneath their feet.

Hornfel had become separated from his son in the confusion of battle, but his heart swelled with pride, for he knew that somewhere Arman and the Hammer of Kharas were fighting gloriously.

Chapter 25 The End Of A Dream.

Even as he fought the dwarves, Grag kept an eye on Dray-yan.

Generally, Grag loved nothing more than a good fight, but he was taking no pleasure in today’s battle. He had enjoyed watching Dray-yan’s play-acting, grinning widely at the sight of Lord Verminaard falling into a pit, listening to the hisses and chortles of his soldiers who were not in on the secret, and who thought they had truly witnessed the detested human’s pitiful end. Grag had watched Dray-yan crawl out of the pit, then he’d been forced to turn his full attention to the dwarves. It was at this point when his pleasure started to diminish.

The battle was not turning out as Grag had planned. He’d expected the dwarves to be caught completely off guard by the attack. Instead, he was the one who was shocked and surprised. True, he’d been unmasked, forced to reveal the fact that a “lizard” was inside their stinking mountain, but one lizard did not an army make, and the dwarves should not have figured out that they were going to be coming under attack. Somehow, they had foreseen it. Probably tipped off by those blasted humans.

Grag found himself and his troops badly outnumbered. He had anticipated slicing up a few dwarven guards, but he was now facing four strong dwarven armies: Hylar, Daewar, Klar, and the Daergar. Grag had planned for a swift take-over, not having to fight every damn dwarf beneath the mountain.

His dubious allies, the Theiwar, proved to be even more inept fighters than Grag had expected, and he hadn’t expected much. First, because of Theiwar carelessness, the Klar had discovered the secret passages and sealed up many of them with their accursed stone-chewing worms, trapping some of Grag’s best men inside. During the battle, the Theiwar did more looting than fighting, leaving the fighting to swarm over the bodies of the fallen, yanking off gold rings and silver chains. The moment the Theiwar were loaded up with booty, they deserted the field, fled the temple, and ran off to skulk in their rat holes.

As Grag fought dwarves, he waited impatiently for Dray-yan to seize the blasted hammer and force the dwarves to surrender. At one point, Dray-yan had the hammer, or so Grag thought. He took his eyes away for a moment to stab his opponent in the throat. When he looked back, Dray-yan was on the platform, struggling with a single dwarf wielding a hammer that blazed with a fierce red light. Seeing the aurak was in trouble, Grag tried to make his way to him, but he found himself surrounded on all sides, fighting for his life. The next thing he knew, the dwarf with the accursed hammer had shoved Dray-yan into the pit!

As Grag listened to the aurak’s terrified howls, the thought came to him that he was now the commander of the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Dragon Highlord Verminaard was, finally, dead. Dray-yan was also dead. Grag was the survivor, and he saw immediately how he could lay the blame for this unfortunate debacle in Thorbardin on both his superiors.

Unlike Dray-yan, Grag had no aspirations to be a Dragon Highlord. He wanted nothing to do with politics. His one ambition was to be a good commander and win battles for the glory of his Dark Queen. He knew when he was beaten. There was no shame in giving up the field, no sense in wasting the lives of good men in a futile cause. Grag let out a piercing call that rose above the din of battle. His draconians heard it and knew what it meant, and they slowly began an orderly retreat.

Marshalling his forces, keeping them in good order, Grag led his draconians back the way they had entered, through the south door.

A few courageous dwarves, led by two human warriors, chased after them but didn’t catch them. Draconians could cover ground far more rapidly than either dwarves or humans. Grag took his forces to one of the few secret tunnels the Klar had not discovered. He left them there, while he made a small detour to take care of some unfinished business having to do with Realgar. This done, he led those troops who had survived the battle into the deep tunnels that led to Pax Tharkas. Once all were inside, Grag ordered the tunnels sealed up behind them. After praying to Takhisis and mending their hurts, the draconians began the long trek back to Pax Tharkas. Someday Grag would return to Thorbardin.

Someday, when his queen was triumphant.

The battle in the temple ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Seeing the draconians retreating, the Theiwar, who’d had little stomach for the fighting anyway, either fled or surrendered. Realgar, as it turned out, was not among them. He had been leading from the rear, and when it looked as though he was losing, the Thane had disappeared.

When the Temple was secure, the fighting ended and the prisoners had been hauled away, Hornfel sent soldiers with orders to search every crack, crevice, and cranny in Thorbardin, until they found Realgar. Hornfel wanted the Thane alive, intending to bring him before the Council to answer for his crimes. All the while, as he was issuing commands, Hornfel asked everyone he encountered about his son. No one had seen Arman or knew what had become of him. All anyone knew was that the hammer’s light had shone undimmed throughout the fight, bolstering hearts and lending strength to dwarven hands.

Hornfel was thinking with pleasure of a celebratory victory dinner with his son, when he turned to find the Neidar, Flint Fireforge, standing silently and respectfully at his side. One look at the aged dwarf’s sorrowful expression, and Hornfel’s heart constricted with pain. He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then, lifting his head, he said quietly, “Take me to my son.”

Flint led the Thane to the altar of Reorx. Arman lay on the platform, his hands clasped over the hammer, his eyes closed.

The companions were grouped nearby. Tanis had a jagged cut on his arm. Sturm had a cut over one eye and was still suffering from the effects of the magical blast. Caramon had a broken hand from having punched a draconian in the jaw. Raistlin was apparently unhurt, though no one could really tell, for he refused to answer questions and kept his cowl pulled low over his face. Tasslehoff had a torn shirt and a bloody nose. The blood mixed with the kender’s tears as he looked down at the body of the dwarf.

“What happened?” Hornfel asked, grieving. “I could not see in all the turmoil.”

“Your son lived as a hero and he died as a hero,” said Flint simply. “A draconian who had been hiding in the pit attacked your son and tried to take the sacred hammer from him. The draconian stabbed him with a poisoned knife. Even though he knew he was dying, your son continued to fight, and he killed the draconian and flung the body into the pit.”

Tasslehoff gaped at Flint in wonder at the lie. Tas opened his mouth to tell the truth about what had really happened, but Flint fixed the kender with a look so very stern and piercing that Tas’s mouth shut all by itself.

The body of Arman Kharas lay in state in the Life Tree for three days. On the fourth day, Hornfel and the Thanes of the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, and Flint Fireforge, their Neidar cousin, carried Arman Kharas to his final rest. His body was placed next to that of the sarcophagus that held the body of his hero, Kharas, and both were placed in the tomb of King Duncan inside the Valley of the Thanes. The plaque on the tomb of the young dwarf was chiseled out of stone by Flint Fireforge. It read:

Another body was disposed of at about the same time, though with much less ceremony. Realgar had been found murdered, his throat slit from ear to ear. Clawed footprints, discovered near the body, were the only clue to the identity of his killer.

Hornfel agreed to honor the wager made by Realgar, though Hornfel added that he would have welcomed the refugees into the safety of Thorbardin even if no wager been made. Tanis and the others were free to leave Thorbardin, to take the glad news to the refugees, and guide them to the Southgate, which would be open to receive them.

“Open to them and to the world,” Hornfel promised.

The night after the battle, Flint was unusually grim and dour. He kept apart form the others, refused to answer any questions, stating that he was worn out and telling everybody to leave him alone. He would not eat any dinner but went straight to his bed.

Raistlin was also in a bad temper. He shoved the plate from him, claiming that food turned his stomach. Sturm tried to eat but eventually dropped his spoon and sat with his head in his hands, his face hidden. Only Caramon was in a good mood. After assuring himself there were no mushrooms in the stew, he not only ate his meal, but he finished off his brother’s and Sturm’s. Tasslehoff was also subdued. Though he was reunited with his pouches, he didn’t even bother to sort through them. He sat on a chair, kicking at the legs, and fiddling with something in his pocket.

Tanis tapped the kender on the shoulder. “I’d like to have a talk with you.” Tas sighed. “I thought you might.”

“Come outside, so we don’t disturb Flint,” said Tanis.

Feet dragging, Tas followed the half-elf out of the inn. As Tanis shut the door behind them, he saw Sturm and Raistlin rise from the table and walk over to Flint’s bed.

Tanis turned to the kender.

“Tell me what happened in the Tomb of Duncan. What really happened,” Tanis emphasized. Tas shuffled uncomfortably. “If I tell you, Flint will be mad.”

“I won’t say a word to him,” Tanis promised. “He’ll never know.”

“Well, all right.” Tas gave another sigh, but this was one of relief. “It will be a burden off my mind. You can’t think how hard it is to keep secrets! I found this golden woolly mammoth—”

“Not the mammoth!” said Tanis.

“But that’s a very important part,” Tas argued.

“The Hammer,” Tanis insisted. “Flint was the one who found the Hammer of Kharas, wasn’t he?”

“We both found the Hammer,” Tas tried to explain, “and the body of the real Kharas and a scorpion, then Flint took my hoopak and told me to go away. That was when I met the golden woolly mammoth named Evenstar, but I won’t say another word about him. I promised, you see…”

Sturm and Raistlin stood by the side of Flint’s bed. The dwarf lay with his face to the wall, his back to them.

“Flint,” said Sturm, “are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Flint growled. “Go away!”

“You had the true Hammer of Kharas, didn’t you?” said Raistlin. “You had it in your possession when you entered the Temple of the Stars.

Flint lay still a moment, then he reared up in bed. He faced them, his face red. “I did,” he said through clenched teeth, “to my everlasting shame!”

Raistlin’s mouth twisted. “And you left it in the hands of a corpse! You sentimental old fool!”

“Stop it, Raistlin” ordered Sturm angrily. “Leave Flint alone. You and I were wrong. What Flint did was honorable and noble.”

“How many thousands will pay for that noble gesture with their lives?” Raistlin thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes. He cast the knight a grim glance. “Nobility and honor do not slay dragons, Sturm Brightblade.”

Raistlin stalked off. Encountering his brother, he snapped at him. “Caramon, make me my tea! I feel nauseated.”

Caramon looked from Sturm to Flint—hunched up on the bed—to his twin, who was as furious as he had ever seen him.

“Uh, sure, Raist,” said Caramon unhappily, and he hurried to do as he was told. Sturm rested his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “You did right,” he said. “I am proud of you and deeply ashamed of myself.”

Sturm cast Raistlin a dark glance, then went to confess his sins and ask forgiveness in prayer. Tasslehoff and Tanis came back inside to find the room silent, except for Sturm’s whispered words to Paladine. Tas felt so much better, now that he’d unburdened himself, that he dumped out the contents of his pouches and sorted through all his treasure, finally falling asleep in the midst of the mess.

Flint was exhausted, but he could find no solace in sleep, for sleep would not come. He lay in his bed in the darkness, sometimes drifting off, only to jerk fearfully to wakefulness, thinking that the aurak again had hold of his boot and was dragging him into the pit. At last Flint could stand it no longer. He rose from his bed, slipped out the door, and sat down upon the door stoop. He gazed into the night. Lights sparked, but they were not the sharp, cold crystalline glitter of the stars, whose beauty never failed to pierce his heart. They were the lights of Thorbardin—larvae trapped inside lanterns until they grew old enough to chew through solid rock. Flint heard the door open and he jumped to his feet, fearing it might be Sturm or Raistlin come to plague him. Seeing it was Tanis, Flint sat back down.

The half-elf sat beside him in silence that was comfortable between the two of them. Flint said at last, “I had the Hammer, Tanis, the true Hammer.” He paused a moment, then added gruffly, “I switched them. I let Arman think he’d found the real one, when, in truth, he found the false.

“I guessed as much,” said Tanis quietly after a moment. “But in the end, you did what was right.”

“I don’t know. If Arman had been holding the true Hammer, maybe he wouldn’t be dead.”

“The Hammer couldn’t have saved him from the aurak’s poison. And if you had not been in possession of the Hammer when you fought the draconian, the Hammer of Kharas would now be in the hands of the Dark Queen,” said Tanis.

Flint thought this over. Perhaps his friend was right. That didn’t make what he’d done any better, but maybe, in time, he could forgive himself.

“Reorx told me the dwarf who found the Hammer would be a hero, Tanis. His name would live forever.” Flint snorted. “I guess that only goes to show the gods don’t know everything.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Tanis.