Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  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 a human who ever heard of Theiwar.”

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

  Flint glanced sidelong at Tanis, who shoo
k 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, Half-Elven.”

  “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.”

  2

  Hero reborn.

  An unforeseen complication.

  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 p
raising 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 North-gate,” 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—”