“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.”
7
Bad dreams. Giant mushrooms.
Private thoughts.
lint 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 “Tails” 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.”
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 29
