Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  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 Daergar, 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 …”

  8

  The old dwarven road.

  Tracks in the snow.

  he 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.

  9

  The Life Tree. The Council of

  Thanes. Bad to worse.

  he 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 w
arm 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.