Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  Hederick found himself alone without an audience. The night was quiet, unbelievably quiet. He was accustomed to the noise and bustle of the campsite, accustomed to walking around the camp being important. All that was gone now. Though he had taken care not to show it, he was irate that so few people had trusted him enough to stay, choosing instead to go off into the unknown with a crude, uneducated savage. Hederick told himself they would be sorry.

  Now that he was alone with time to think, he was the one who was sorry. He sat in the darkness and wondered uneasily what would happen to him if that silly barmaid should turn out to be right.

  17

  No shadows. Too Many shadows.

  A dwarf’s dreams.

  he same sunshine that warmed the hearts and spirits of the refugees shone in the sky above Caramon, Raistlin, Sturm, and Tas. The sun brought no warmth or cheer to any of these four, however. They walked a land barren and wasted, a devastated land, bleak, empty, and desolate. They walked the Plains of Dergoth.

  They had all thought nothing could be worse than wading through the swamp surrounding Skullcap. The water stank of rot and decay. They had no idea what sort of creatures could live beneath the slime-covered water, but something did. They could tell by the ripples on the surface, or sudden dartings around their feet, that they had disturbed some species of swampy denizen. They had to keep close together or lose sight of each other in the thick mists. They were forced to move slowly, with a shuffling gait, to avoid snags and dead branches hidden beneath the water.

  Fortunately, the swamp was not large, and they soon left it, emerging from the murk onto ground that was dry, flat, and hard. The mists grasped at them with wispy fingers, but a cold wind soon blew them apart. They could see the sun again, and they thought well of themselves, believing they’d survived the worst. Sturm pointed to a distant mountain range.

  “Beneath that peak known as Cloudseeker lies Thorbardin,” Prince Grallen told them, and Raistlin cast Caramon a triumphant look.

  After a short rest, they continued on, entering the Plains of Dergoth. Soon each one of them began to wish he was somewhere else, even back in the foul miasma they had just left. At least the swamp was alive. The life within was green and slimy, scaly and sinuous, creepy and slithering, but it was life.

  Death ruled the Plains of Dergoth. Nothing lived here anymore. Once there had been grasslands and forest, populated by birds and animals. Three hundred years ago, this had been a battlefield, with dwarf battling dwarf in bitter contest. The field had been soaked in blood, the deer slaughtered, the birds fled. The grass was trampled and trees cut down to make funeral biers on which to burn the corpses. Still, life remained. The trees would have grown back. The grass would have flourished, the birds and animals returned.

  Then came the horrific blast that brought down a mighty fortress and killed all those on both sides. The blast destroyed all living things, tearing life apart with such fury that no little bit of it survived. No trees, no grass, no beasts, no bugs. No lichen, no moss. Nothing but death. Grotesque piles of twisted, blackened, melted armor and mounds of ash littered the fire-swept ground—all that was left of two great armies whose struggles had ended in a single terrible moment, as the fire devoured their flesh, boiled their blood, and consumed them utterly.

  The Plains of Dergoth, standing between Skullcap and Thorbardin, were plains of despair. The sun shone in the blue sky, but its light was cold, like the light of the faraway stars, and held no warmth for any of those forced to cross this dread place that was so horrible it even quenched the spirits of the kender.

  Tasslehoff was marching along, staring down at his ash-covered boots, for staring at his boots was better than looking ahead and seeing nothing except nothing, when he noticed something odd. He looked up at the sky and back down at the ground and then said in a tense voice, “Caramon, I’ve lost my shadow.”

  Caramon heard the kender, but he pretended he hadn’t. He had enough to do worrying about his brother. Raistlin was having a difficult time of it. Whatever strange energy had sustained and strengthened him on the trip to Skullcap appeared to have deserted him at their departure. The trip through the swamp had left him exhausted. He walked slowly, leaning on his staff, every step seeming to cost him an effort.

  He refused to stop to rest, however. He insisted that they continue their journey, pointing out that Prince Grallen would not allow them to stop, which was probably true. Caramon was constantly having to reign in Sturm, who marched along at a rapid pace, his gaze fixed on the mountains, or he would have left the slow-moving mage far behind.

  “Look, Caramon, you’ve lost yours, too,” said Tas, relieved. “I don’t feel so bad.”

  “Lost what?” Caramon asked, only half-listening.

  “Your shadow,” Tas said, pointing.

  “It is probably near noon time,” returned Caramon wearily. “You can’t see your shadow when the sun’s directly over head.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Tas, “but look at the sun. It’s almost on the horizon. Only a couple of hours ’til dark. Nope.” He sighed. “Our shadows are gone.”

  Caramon, feeling silly, actually turned to look for his shadow. Tas was right. The sun was before him, but no shadow stretched out behind him. He could not even see his footprints, which should have shown up clearly in the fine, gray ash. He had the terrible feeling suddenly that he’d ceased to exist.

  “We walk a land of death. The living do not belong here,” Raistlin said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We cast no shadows. We leave no marks.”

  Caramon shuddered. “I hate this place.”

  He balefully eyed Sturm, who had stopped to wait for them and was tapping his foot impatiently. “Raist, what if that accursed helm he’s wearing is leading us into a death trap? Maybe we should turn back.”

  Raistlin thought longingly of returning to Skullcap. He could not account for it, but while he’d been there he’d felt strong and healthy, almost whole again. Out here, he had to force himself to take each step, when what he longed to do was to drop down to the ash-gray ground and sleep in the dust of the dead. He coughed, shook his head, and made a feeble gesture toward the knight.

  Caramon understood. Sturm, under the influence of the helm, was bound to go to Thorbardin. If they turned back, he would go on without them.

  Raistlin plucked at Caramon’s sleeve.

  “We must keep moving!” he gasped. “We must not find ourselves benighted in this terrible place!”

  “Amen to that, brother!” said Caramon feelingly. He placed his strong arm supportively under his twin’s arm, aiding his faltering footsteps, and caught up with Sturm.

  “I hope I get my shadow back,” said Tasslehoff, trailing behind. “I was fond of it. It used to go everywhere with me.”

  They slogged on.

  Tanis could see his shadow lengthening, sliding across the trail. Only a few hours of daylight left. They had descended the mountain, moving rapidly on the old dwarven road that led down among the pine trees. A few more miles and they would reach the forest. A bed of pine needles sounded very good after the uncomfortable and cheerless nights on the mountain, with rock for a mattress and a boulder for a pillow.

  “I smell smoke,” said Flint, coming to a sudden halt.

  Tanis sniffed the air. He, too, smelled smoke. He had not noticed it particularly. Back in camp, the smell of smoke from the cook fires had been pervasive. He was tired from walking all day and didn’t fully appreciate what this might mean. When he did, he lifted his head and searched the sky.

  “There it is,” he said, spotting a few tendrils of black drifting up out of the pine trees not far from them. He eyed the smoke. “Maybe it’s a forest fire.”

  Flint shook his head. “It smells like burnt meat.”

  He scowled and cast the smoke a gloom-ridden glance from beneath his heavy brows. “Naw, it’s no forest fire.” He jabbed the pick-axe into the ground and stated dourly, “It’s gully dwarf. That’s the village I was te
lling you about.” He glanced about. “I should have recognized where we were, but I’ve not come at it from this direction before.”

  “I’ve been wondering, is this the village where you were held prisoner?”

  Flint gave an explosive snort. His face went very red. “As if I would go near that place in a hundred thousand years!”

  “No, of course not,” said Tanis, hiding his smile. He changed the subject. “We’ve always encountered gully dwarves in cities before. Seems strange to find them living out here in the wilds.”

  “They’re waiting for the gates to open,” said Flint.

  Tanis stared at the dwarf in perplexity. “How long have they been here?”

  “Three hundred years.” Flint waved his hand. “You’ll find nests of them all over these parts. The day the gates closed, shutting them out, the gully dwarfs squatted in front of the mountain and waited, certain the gate would open again. They’re still waiting.”

  “At least this proves gully dwarves are optimists,” Tanis remarked. He turned from the road onto a trail that veered off in the direction of the smoke.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Flint demanded, standing stock still.

  “To talk to them,” Tanis replied.

  Flint grunted. “The kender’s not about, so you’re missing your daily dose of foolishness for the week.”

  “Gully dwarves have a knack for locating that which is hidden,” Tanis returned. “As we saw in Xak Tsaroth, they worm their way into secret passages and tunnels. Who knows? They may have discovered some way inside the mountain.”

  “If so, why are they living outside it?” Flint asked, but he trudged along after his friend.

  “Maybe they don’t know what they’ve found.”

  Flint shook his head. “Even if they have found the way into Thorbardin, you’ll never make sense of what they tell you, and don’t let the wretches talk you into staying for supper.” He wrinkled his nose. “Phew! What a stink! Not even roast rat smells as bad as this!”

  The smoke was thick here and the stench particularly foul. If it was a cook fire, Tanis couldn’t imagine what it was the gully dwarves were cooking.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, and covered his nose and mouth with his hand, trying to breathe as little as possible.

  The trail brought them to a break in the trees. Here Flint and Tanis stopped abruptly, gazing in grim silence at the terrible scene. Every building had been set ablaze, every gully dwarf slaughtered, their bodies burned. All that was left were charred skeletons and smoldering lumps of blackened flesh.

  “Not roasted rat,” said Flint gruffly. “Roasted gully dwarf.”

  Tying rags over their noses and mouths, their eyes stinging from the smoke, Tanis and Flint walked through the destroyed village, searching for any who might still be alive. Their search proved hopeless.

  Whoever had done this had struck swiftly and ruthlessly. Gully dwarves—noted cowards—had been caught flat-footed apparently, without any time to flee. They had been cut down where they stood. Some of the bodies had gaping holes in them; some were hacked to pieces. Others had half-burned arrow shafts sticking out from between their ribs. Some bore no wounds at all, but were dead just the same.

  “Foul magic was at work here,” said Tanis grimly.

  “That’s not all that was at work.”

  Flint reached down and gingerly picked up the hilt of a broken sword lying beside the body of gully dwarf who had been wearing an overturned soup kettle on his head. The improvised helm had saved his life for a short while perhaps, long enough for him to have made it to the very edge of camp before his attacker caught him and made him pay for breaking the sword. The gully dwarf, the kettle still on his head, lay in a twisted heap, his neck broken.

  “Draconian,” said Flint, eyeing the sword.

  Though he had only half of it, he could easily identify the strange, serrated blades used by the servants of the Queen of Darkness.

  “So they’re on this side of the mountain,” said Tanis grimly.

  “Maybe they’re out there watching us right now,” said Flint and he dropped the broken sword and drew his battle axe.

  Tanis drew his sword from its sheathe, and both of them stared hard into the shadows.

  The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the mountains. Already it was dark beneath the pine trees. The shadows of coming night mingled with the smoke, made seeing anything difficult.

  “There’s nothing more we can do for these poor wretches,” said Tanis. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Agreed,” said Flint, but then both froze.

  “Did you hear that?” Tanis asked softly.

  He could barely see Flint in the gloom.

  The dwarf moved closer, put his back to Tanis’s back, and whispered, “Sounds like armor rattling, something big sneaking through the trees.”

  Tanis recalled the enormous draconians with their large wing span, their heavy limbs encased in plate armor and chain mail. He could picture the monsters trying to slink through the pines, rustling the undergrowth, stepping on dry leaves and breaking branches—exactly the sounds they were hearing. Suddenly the noise ceased.

  “They’ve seen us!” Flint hissed.

  Feeling vulnerable and exposed out in the open, Tanis was tempted to tell Flint to make a run for the trees. He restrained himself. With the dusk and the smoke, whatever was out there might have heard them, but not yet seen them. If they ran, they would draw attention to themselves, give away their location.

  “Don’t move,” Tanis cautioned. “Wait!”

  The enemy in the forest had the same idea apparently. They heard no more sounds of movement, but they knew it was still out there, also waiting.

  “Bugger this!” muttered Flint. “We can’t stand here all night.” Before Tanis could stop him, the dwarf raised his voice. “Lizard-slime! Quit skulking about and come out and fight!”

  They heard a yelp, quickly stifled. Then a voice said cautiously, “Flint? Is that you?”

  Flint lowered his sword. “Caramon?” he called out.

  “And me, Flint!” cried a voice. “Tasslehoff!”

  Flint groaned and shook his head.

  There was a great crashing noise in the forest. Torches flared and Caramon emerged from the trees, half-carrying Raistlin, who could barely walk. Tasslehoff came running toward them, leading Sturm by the hand, tugging him along.

  “Wait until you see who I found!” Tas cried.

  Tanis and Flint stared at the knight, wearing the strange helm that was much too big for him. Tanis walked over to embrace Sturm. The knight drew back, bowed, then stood aloof. His gaze fixed on Flint, and it was not friendly.

  “He doesn’t know you, Tanis,” said Tasslehoff, barely able to contain his excitement. “He doesn’t know any of us!”

  “He didn’t get hit on the head again, did he?” Tanis asked, turning to Caramon. “Naw. He’s enchanted.” Tanis glanced at Raistlin.

  “Not me,” said the mage, sinking down wearily onto a tree stump that had escaped the fire. “It was the knight’s own doing.”

  “It’s a long story, Tanis. What happened here?” Caramon asked, looking grimly at the destruction of the village.

  “Draconians,” said Tanis. “The monsters have crossed the mountain apparently.”

  “Yeah, we ran into some draconians ourselves,” said Caramon. “Back in Skullcap. Do you think they’re still around?”

  “We haven’t seen any. So you managed to reach the fortress?” Tanis asked.

  “Yeah, and are we ever glad to be out of that horrible place and off those accursed plains.” He gave a jerk of his head in the direction from which they’d come.

  “How did you find us?”

  Raistlin coughed and glanced at his brother. Caramon’s face flushed red. He shuffled his big feet.

  “He thought he smelled food,” Raistlin said caustically.

  Caramon gave a sheepish grin and shrugged.

  Flint, meanwhile, had b
een staring at Sturm and at Tasslehoff, who was wriggling with suppressed delight. “What’s wrong with Sturm?” Flint asked. “Why is he glaring at me like that? Where’d he get that helm? And why’s he wearing it? It doesn’t fit him. The helm is—” Flint drew closer, squinting to see the helm in the twilight— “it’s dwarven!”

  “He’s not Sturm!” Tasslehoff burst out. “He’s Prince Grallen from under the mountain! Isn’t it wonderful, Flint? Sturm thinks he’s a dwarf. Just ask him!”

  Flint’s mouth gaped. Then his jaw shut with a snap. “I don’t believe it.” He walked up to the knight. “Here now, Sturm. I won’t be made sport of—”

  Sturm clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes, beneath the helm, were cold and hard. He said something in dwarven, stumbling over the words, as though his tongue had trouble forming them, but there was no mistaking the language.

  Flint stood staring, dumbfounded.

  “What’d he say?” Tas asked.

  “‘Keep your distance, hill dwarf scum,’” Flint translated, “or words to that effect.” The dwarf glowered around at Caramon and particularly Raistlin. “Someone had better tell me what’s going on!”

  “It was the knight’s own fault,” Raistlin repeated, giving Flint a cold look. “I had nothing to do with it. I warned him the helm was magical, and he should leave it alone. He refused to listen. He put the helm on, and this is the result. He believes he is Prince Grallen, whoever that is.”

  “A prince of Thorbardin,” said Flint. “One of the three sons of King Duncan. Grallen lived over three hundred years ago.” Not entirely trusting Raistlin, he drew near to inspect the helm.

  “Truly it is a helm fit for royalty,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen the like!” He reached out his hand. “If I could just—”

  Sturm drew his sword and held it to Flint’s breast.

  “Do not go nearer!” Raistlin cautioned. “You must understand, Flint. You are a hill dwarf. Prince Grallen takes you for the enemy he died fighting.”