Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  “It’s narrow,” he said, thinking of the refugees that might have to use it, “and steep.”

  “It is that,” Flint agreed. “It was meant to be trod by dwarven feet, not human.” He pointed ahead. “See that cleft in the walls up ahead? That’s where this path leads. That’s how we cross the mountains.”

  The cut was so narrow that it formed almost a perfect V shape. Tanis could not tell how wide it was, for they were yet some distance away, but from this vantage point, it looked as if two humans walking side-by-side would be a tight squeeze. The path on which he stood could accommodate two humans at some points, but he could see plainly that in other places people would need to walk single-file.

  He and Flint had been climbing steadily since they left the foothills. The path had the solid backing of the mountain on one side, with nothing on the other except a long drop. Traversing such terrain did not bother dwarves in the least. Flint claimed that so long as they had rock beneath their feet, dwarven boots did not slip. Tanis thought of Goldmoon, who was terrified of heights, walking this path, and he wished for a moment that he believed in these new-found gods, so that he could pray to them to spare her and the people the necessity of making this terrible journey. As it was, he could only hope, and his hope was bleak.

  He and Flint continued, their pace slowing, for though the dwarf marched with confidence along the trail, Tanis had to take more care. Fortunately, the mountain had sheltered the path from the snow, so that the trail wasn’t icy. Even so, Tanis had to watch his step, and though heights didn’t bother him, every time he looked over the edge to the boulders below, certain parts of him shriveled.

  By late afternoon, he and Flint had reached the cut that was every bit as narrow and difficult to cross as it had looked from a distance.

  “We’ll camp here for the night where the walls protect us from the wind,” said Flint. “We cross in the morning.”

  As Tanis scouted out the best of a bad place in which to spend a cold night in a rock-strewn ravine, Flint stood with his hands on his hips, his lips pursed, staring up at the peak that towered above them. At length, after a good long perusal, he grunted in satisfaction.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “We need to leave Riverwind a sign.”

  “I have been leaving signs,” Tanis pointed out. “You’ve seen me. He’ll have no trouble finding the path.”

  “It’s not the path I’m wanting to show him. Come take a look.” Flint pointed at a large boulder. “What do you make of that, lad?”

  “It’s a rock,” said Tanis. “Like every other rock around here.”

  “Aye, but it’s not!” Flint said triumphantly. “That rock is striped—red and orange. The rocks around it are gray.”

  “Then it must have tumbled down the side of the mountain. There’s lots of loose rocks and boulders up there.”

  “That boulder didn’t fall. Someone put it there. Now why do you suppose someone would do that?” Flint grinned. He was enjoying himself.

  Tanis shook his head.

  “It’s a keystone,” Flint stated. “Knock it out and it takes out that boulder, and that boulder takes out that one, and before you know it the whole shebang comes cascading down on your head.”

  “So you want me to warn Riverwind that no one should disturb this boulder,” said Tanis.

  Flint snorted. “The cold has frozen your brain, HalfElf. I want you to tell him that if he’s being pursued, once all the people have safely crossed, he should knock it out. It will block the pass behind him.

  “Bring pick-axes, you advised.” Tanis recalled their conversation that morning. He gazed thoughtfully at the rock and shook his head. “Explaining something this complicated is going to be difficult, short of leaving him a written note. You should have said something to him this morning.”

  “I wasn’t certain I would find it. For all I knew, if my people had left a keystone, and sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t, it might have already been triggered or tumbled down on its own.”

  “Which would have meant that this cut was impassable,” said Tanis. “We would have come all this way for nothing, unless there is another way out.”

  Flint shrugged. “From the signs my people left, this is the only pass there is. There was no way of knowing if it was open without coming to see for ourselves.”

  “Still, you should have told Riverwind about the keystone.”

  Flint glowered at him. “I’m breaking faith with my people by showing it to you, Half-Elven, much less going around blabbing secrets to a pack of humans.”

  Irate, he stomped off, leaving Tanis to solve the problem. At length, the half-elf picked up Flint’s pickaxe and laid it down beside the keystone with its point facing the boulder. Anyone happening upon it would think they had either dropped it or abandoned it. Riverwind, he hoped, would remember that Flint had specifically mentioned pick-axes and would realize that this was a clue. Whether he realized it was a clue to blocking the trail behind them if they were being pursued was another matter.

  He found Flint comfortably ensconced among the rocks, chewing on strips of dried venison.

  “I was thinking about what you said, about dwarves sharing their secrets with humans. It seems to me that if we could all see ourselves as one ‘people’, this would be a better world,”

  “What are you grousing about, Half-Elven?” Flint demanded.

  “I was saying it’s a damn shame we can’t trust each other.”

  “Ah, if we all trusted each other, we’d all be kender,” Flint said. “Then where would we be? I’m going to sleep. You take first watch.”

  Flint finished his meal, then wrapped himself in his blanket, and lay down on his back among the rocks.

  Tanis propped himself up against a sloping wall, and, unable to get comfortable, he gazed into the starlit night.

  “If there is no other way out of the valley, how will Raistlin reach Skullcap?” he asked.

  “Fly there on his broomstick, most likely,” Flint muttered, and giving a great yawn, he shoved a stone out from beneath his shoulders, closed his eyes, and sighed in deep contentment.

  “This feels like home,” he said, lacing his fingers over his chest. He was soon snoring.

  Raistlin, Caramon, and Sturm continued their trek across the valley, walking all through the afternoon. Raistlin seemed infused with an unnatural energy that would not permit him to rest but kept driving him on. Caramon often insisted that they stop, but he wasted his time, for Raistlin would sit down for only a few moments, then he would be back on his feet, pacing restlessly, his gaze going to the sun now starting its descent into afternoon.

  “Sunset,” was all he would say and kept walking.

  The forested part of the valley ended. Open grassland spread before them. The trail they had been following through the trees disappeared, yet Raistlin kept going, moving out onto the snow-covered grass. He walked with his head down, leaning heavily on his staff. He looked neither to the right nor the left but kept his gaze fixed on his feet, as though all his will was bent on placing one foot in front of the other. His hand pressed against his chest. His breath rattled in his lungs.

  Sturm expected the mage to collapse at any moment. He knew better than to say anything, however, knowing that any attempt to try to make Raistlin rest would result in a venomous look and a sarcastic gibe.

  “This will be the death of your brother,” Sturm warned Caramon in a low voice.

  “I know,” said Caramon, worried, “but he won’t stop. I’ve tried to talk to him. He just gets mad.”

  “Where is he going in such a hurry? There’s nothing ahead of us but a solid stone wall!”

  The grass lands, smooth and trackless, stretched on for about two miles, coming to an abrupt end at a sheer wall of rock jutting up from the valley floor. The rock wall formed a span, like a natural bridge, between two mountains.

  “Once we step out from under the cover of the trees and onto the empty grasslands, a blind gully dwarf could spot u
s.”

  Caramon acknowledged the truth of this with a slow nod and kept walking.

  “I don’t like this, Caramon,” Sturm continued. “There’s something strange at work here.” He had been going to say “evil,” but he changed it at the last moment, fearing to upset Caramon, who nodded again and kept walking.

  Sturm halted to draw breath. Gazing after the twins, he shook his head.

  “I think Raistlin could order Caramon to follow him into the Abyss and he’d never hesitate,” he said to himself. Loyalty to a brother was admirable, but loyalty should see with clear eyes, not stumble along blind.

  Caramon peered around over his shoulder. “Sturm? You coming?”

  Sturm hefted his pack and walked on. Loyalty to friends went unquestioned.

  9

  Pheragas who?

  Wake me if you see a ghost.

  s the sun waned and Flint and Tanis bedded down for the night on the mountain, Sturm, Caramon and Raistlin reached the end of their day’s journey—a blank wall.

  Both Caramon and Sturm could see quite clearly their sojourn across a snow-covered meadow was headed straight for a dead end. The rays of the setting sun struck the immense stone wall full on. Caramon thought they might climb it, but the bright sunlight revealed that the wall was smooth-sided with nary a hand or foot-hold in sight. The wall was slightly curved, like the side of a bowl, and so high that the tallest siege engines ever constructed would have reached only to its midpoint. There were no caves, no cracks, no way through it or over it, yet Raistlin made for the wall with dogged determination.

  Caramon said nothing about the fact that they were on a journey to nowhere, for he was loathe to cross his brother. Sturm said nothing to Raistlin aloud, though he said plenty beneath his breath. Caramon could hear the knight muttering to himself as he slogged along behind him. Caramon knew Sturm was angry with him as well as his brother. Sturm believed Caramon should call a halt to this and force Raistlin to turn back. Sturm assumed that Caramon didn’t because he feared his twin.

  Sturm was only half-right. Caramon did fear his brother’s anger, but he would have willingly risked his twin’s snide comments and disparaging remarks if he thought that Raistlin was doing something wrong or putting himself in danger. Caramon was not so sure that was the case. Raistlin was acting very strangely, but he was also acting with purpose and resolve. Caramon felt compelled to respect his brother’s decisions.

  If it turns out he’s wrong and we’ve come all this way for nothing, Caramon reflected wryly, Sturm will at least have the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.”

  They continued to march across the grassland. Raistlin increased his pace as the shadows of coming night spread across the valley. They came at last to the base of the great gray wall.

  The land was silent with that eerie, heavy silence that comes with a blanket of snow. The sky was empty, as was the land around them. They might have been the only living beings in the world.

  Raistlin shoved back the cowl so that it fell around his shoulders and stared at the wall before him. He blinked and looked vaguely astonished, very much like he was seeing it for the first time, with no clear idea how he came to be here.

  His confusion was not lost on Sturm.

  The knight dropped his pack containing his armor with a clang and a clatter that echoed off the mountainside and jarred every tooth in Caramon’s head.

  “Your brother has no idea where he is, does he?” Sturm said flatly. “Or what he’s doing here?” He glanced over shoulder. “It will be dark soon. We can make camp back in the woods. If we start now—”

  He stopped talking because no one was listening to him. Raistlin had begun to walk along the base of the wall, his gaze intently scanning the gray rock that glimmered orange in the light of a flaring sunset. He walked several paces in one direction, then, not finding what he was seeking, he turned around and walked back. His gaze never left the wall. At length he paused. He brushed off snow that had stuck to the wall and smiled.

  “This is it,” he said.

  Caramon walked over to look. His brother had uncovered a mark chiseled into stone at about waist-height. Caramon recognized the mark as a rune, one of the letters of the language of magic. His gut twisted, and his flesh crawled. He longed to ask his brother how he had known to trek miles across an unfamiliar, desolate valley and walk up to this vast wall of stone at precisely this location. He did not ask, however, perhaps because he feared Raistlin might tell him.

  “What … what does it mean?” Caramon asked instead.

  Sturm shoved forward. He saw the mark and said grimly, “Evil, that’s what it means.”

  “It’s not evil; it’s magic,” Caramon said, though he knew he was wasting his breath. In the mind of the Solamnic knight, they amounted to the same thing.

  Raistlin paid no attention to either of them. The mage’s long, delicate fingers rested lightly, caressingly, on the rune.

  “Don’t you know where you are, Pheragas?” Raistlin said suddenly. “This was to be our supply route in case we were besieged, and this was to have been our means of escape if the battle went awry. I know that you are dull-witted sometimes, Pheragas, but even you could not have forgotten something this important.”

  Caramon glanced around in perplexity, then stared at his brother. “Who are you talking to, Raist? Who’s Pheragas?”

  “You are, of course,” returned Raistlin irritably. “Pheragas …”

  He looked at Caramon and blinked. Raistlin put his hand to his forehead. His eyes lost their focus. “Why did I say that?” Seeing the rune beneath his fingers, he suddenly snatched his hand away. He looked up the wall and down, looked side to side. Turning to Caramon, Raistlin asked in a low voice. “Where are we, my brother?”

  “Paladine save us,” said Sturm. “He’s gone mad.”

  Caramon licked dry lips, then said hesitantly, “Don’t you know? You brought us here, Raist.”

  Raistlin made an impatient gesture. “Just tell me where we are!”

  “The eastern end of the valley.” Caramon peered at their surroundings. “By my reckoning, Skullcap must be somewhere on the other side of this wall. You said something about an ‘escape route’. ‘In case the battle went awry.’ What … uh … did you mean by that?”

  “I have no idea,” Raistlin replied. He gazed at the wall and at the rune, his brow furrowed. “Yet I do seem to remember …”

  Caramon laid a solicitous hand on his brother’s arm. “Never mind, Raist. You’re exhausted. You should rest.”

  Raistlin wasn’t listening. He stared at the wall, and his expression cleared. “Yes, that’s right.” He spoke softly. “If I touch this rune …”

  “Raist, don’t!” Caramon grabbed hold of his brother’s arm.

  Raistlin whipped his staff around, giving Caramon a crack on the wrist. Caramon yelped and drew back his hand. Raistlin touched the rune and pressed on it hard.

  The portion of the wall on which the rune was etched depressed, sliding into the wall about three inches. A grinding sound emanated from inside the stone wall, followed by loud snapping and groaning. The outline of a doorway, about five feet in height and rectangular, appeared etched into the wall. The door shivered, displacing the snow sticking to the side of the wall, then the noise stopped. Nothing else happened.

  Raistlin stood, frowning at it.

  “Something must be wrong with the mechanism. Pheragas, put your shoulder to the door and push on it. You, too, Denubis. It will take both of you to force it.”

  Neither man moved.

  Raistlin glanced irritably at them both. “What are you waiting for? Your brains to come back? Trust me. It will not happen. Pheragas, quit standing there gaping like a gutted fish and do as I command you.”

  Caramon simply stared at his twin, his mouth wide open. Sturm frowned deeply and took a step backward.

  “I’ll have nothing to do with evil magic,” he said.

  Raistlin gave a mirthless laugh.

  �
��Magic? Are you daft? This is not magic. If this door was magic, it would be reliable! This mark is not a magical rune. It is the dwarven rune for the word ‘Door’. The mechanism is three hundred years old and it is stuck, that’s all.”

  He eyed his brother. “Pheragas—”

  “I’m not Pheragas, Raist,” said Caramon quietly.

  Raistlin stared at him. His eyes flickered, and he said quietly, “No, no, you’re not. I don’t know why I keep calling you that. Caramon, please, you have nothing to fear. Just put your shoulder to the door—”

  “Wait a minute, Caramon.” Sturm halted the big man as he was about to obey. “This door might not be magic, as you say—” though he gave the doorway a dark glance— “but I for one want to know how your brother knew it was here.”

  Raistlin glared at the knight and Caramon cringed, expecting him to lash out at Sturm. Caramon was always getting caught in the middle between his brother and his friends, and he hated it. Their fighting made his stomach twist. He cast Sturm a pleading glance, begging him to let the subject drop. After all, it was just a door …

  His brother did not lash out. The explosion of rage Caramon feared did not happen. Raistlin’s lips compressed. He looked at the door, looked at the trail they had left through the snow, the trail that stretched back to the woods and across the valley. His gaze went to Sturm, and there came a ghost of a smile to the thin lips.

  “You have never trusted me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin said quietly, “and I do not know why. To my knowledge, I have never betrayed you. I have never lied to you. If I have kept certain information to myself from time to time, I suppose that is my right. To be honest,” Raistlin added with a shrug, “I do not know how I found this door. I do not know how I knew it was here. I do not know how I knew to open it. I did, and that is all I can say.”

  He raised his hand, as Sturm would have spoken. “I also know this. Inside the door we will find a tunnel that will lead us directly into the fortress of Zhaman, what is now known as Skullcap.”