The Thanes, one and all, leapt to their feet, even the Aghar, who mistakenly thought that since everyone was standing it was time to adjourn.
Raistlin dug his nails into Tanis’s arm. “This could be very bad, my friend.”
“You were the one who wanted him to put the damn thing on!” Tanis said.
“This is not the time or the place I would have chosen,” Raistlin returned.
Sturm instinctively put his hand to his scabbard, forgetting the dwarves had taken his sword. The dwarves had deposited the confiscated weapons near the entrance. Sturm calculated the distance, wondering if he could reach his sword before the soldiers reached him. Tanis saw the knight’s look and knew what he was thinking. He cast Sturm a warning glance. The knight gave an oblique nod, but he also edged a couple of steps nearer the door.
Flint stood in the middle of the Court, the helm on his head, and for long, tense moments, nothing happened. Tanis started to breathe easier, then the gem on the helm flared red, flooding the court with bright red-orange light—a holy fire blazing in their midst. The helm covered Flint’s face; only his beard showed, flowing from beneath, and his eyes.
Tanis did not recognize Flint in those eyes, nor, it seemed, did Flint recognize him or anyone else. He stared around as if he had walked into a room filled with strangers.
The Thanes were silent, their silence grim and foreboding. All laid hand to hammer, sword, or both. The soldiers held their weapons ready.
Flint paid no attention to the Thanes or the soldiers. He studied his surroundings; his gaze, filtered through the helm’s eyeslits, taking in everything, like someone returning to a loved place after a long journey.
“I am home …” Flint said in a voice that was not his.
Hornfel’s angry expression softened to doubt, uncertainty. He looked at his son, who shook his head and shrugged. Realgar smirked, as though he’d expected nothing less.
“He’s play-acting,” he muttered.
Flint walked over to the dais, climbed the stairs, and sat down on an empty throne—the black throne, the throne sacred to the Kingdom of the Dead. He gazed defiantly upon the Thanes as though daring them to do anything about it.
The Thanes one and all stared at him in paralyzing shock.
“No one sits on the Throne of the Dead!” cried Gneiss. Grabbing hold of Flint’s arm, he tried to drag him bodily from the sacred throne.
Flint did not stir hand or foot, but suddenly the Daewar Thane reeled backward, as though he’d been struck a blow by an unseen hammer. He fell off the dais and lay, trembling with fear and astonishment, on the floor.
Flint, seated on the Throne of the Kingdom of the Dead, wearing the helm of a dead man, spoke.
“I am Prince Grallen,” he said, and his voice was stern and cold and not Flint’s own. “I have returned to the hall of my fathers. Is this how I am welcomed?”
The other Thanes were eyeing the Daewar, who was still on the floor. No one went to help him. No one was leering or scoffing now.
Rance turned to Hornfel and said nervously, “You are his descendant. Your family brought the curse upon us. You are the one who should speak to him.”
Hornfel removed his helm, a mark of respect, and approached the throne with dignity. Arman would have gone with his father, but Hornfel made a sign with his hand, indicating his son was to remain behind.
“You are welcome to the hall of your fathers, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said, and he was polite but proud and unafraid, as became a Thane of the Hylar. “We ask your forgiveness for the wrong that was done you.”
“We Daergar had nothing to do with it, Prince Grallen,” Rance said in a loud voice. “Just so you know.”
“It is not fair that we should be cursed,” added Gneiss, heaving himself to his feet. “Our father’s fathers knew nothing about the plot against you.”
“Your curse should fall on the Hylar alone,” said Rance.
“What a farce!” said Realgar.
“Peace, all of you,” said Hornfel, glowering around at them. “Let us hear what the prince has to say.”
Tanis understood. Hornfel was clever. He was testing Flint, trying to discover if he was acting all this out, or if he really had been taken over by the spirit of Prince Grallen.
“There was a time when I would have cursed you,” Flint told them. His voice grew hard and terrible. “There was a time when my rage would have brought down this mountain.” His anger flared. “How dare you bandy words with me, Hornfel of the Hylar? How dare you further affront my ghost, untimely murdered, my life cut off by my own kin!”
Flint brought his fist down, hard, on the arm of the throne.
The mountain shivered. The Life Tree shuddered. The floor shook, and the thrones of the Thanes rattled on the dais. A crack appeared in the ceiling. Columns creaked and groaned. The Aghar Highbluph let out a piercing shriek and fell over in a dead faint.
Hornfel sank to his knees. He was afraid now. They were all afraid. One by one, the soldiers in the hall went down on their knees onto the stone floor. The Thanes followed, until only Realgar was standing, and at last, even he knelt, though it was obvious he hated every moment of it.
The tremor ceased. The mountain was still.
Tanis glanced around swiftly to make sure everyone was all right. Sturm knelt on one knee, his arm raised in salute, as knight to royalty. Raistlin remained standing, balancing on his staff, his face and his thoughts hidden in the shadows of his cowl. Caramon had whipped off his helm. He was still keeping hold of Tasslehoff, who was saying wistfully, “I wish Fizban was here to see this!” Tanis shifted his attention back to Flint, wondering what was going to come of this.
Nothing good, he thought grimly.
The silence was so absolute it seemed that Tanis could hear the sound of the rock dust sifting to the floor.
Hornfel spoke again, his voice unsteady. “Your brothers confessed their crime before they died, Prince Grallen. Though they did not kill you, they held themselves responsible for your death.”
“And so they were,” said the prince balefully. “I was the youngest, my father’s favorite. They feared he would overlook them, leaving the rulership of Thorbardin to me. While it is true their hands did not deal my death blow, yet by their hands I died.
“I was young. I was fighting in my first battle. My elder brothers vowed to watch over and protect me. Instead they sent me to my doom. They ordered me to march with a small force on the fortress of Zhaman, the evil wizard’s stronghold. I did what they told me. How not? I loved them and admired them. I longed to impress them. My own men tried to warn me. They told me the mission was suicidal, but I would not heed them. I trusted my brothers, who said that my men lied, the battle was as good as won. I was to have the honor of capturing the wizard and bringing him back in chains.
“They gifted me with this helm, saying that it would make me invincible. They knew the truth—the helm would not make me invincible. Crafted by the Theiwar, the magic of the gem would capture my soul and keep it imprisoned so that even my vengeful ghost would not return to tell the truth of what happened.”
“Your brothers were ashamed of what they had done, noble prince,” said Hornfel. “They admitted their guilt to Kharas and then hurled themselves to their death in battle. Your father grieved when the bitter news was brought to him. He did what he could to make amends. He raised a statue in your honor and built a tomb for you. He buried your brothers in an unmarked grave.”
“And yet, my father never again spoke my name,” said Prince Grallen.
“Your noble father blamed himself, Your Highness. He could not bear to be reminded of the tragedy. ‘Three sons I lost,’ he said. ‘One in battle and two to darkness.’
“In truth, you have no need to curse us, great prince,” Hornfel added bitterly. “The throne where once your father sat as High King has been empty since his death. The Hammer of Kharas is lost to us. We do not even have the solace of paying homage at your father’s tomb, for some terrible f
orce wrenched it out of the earth, and now it hangs suspended high above the Valley of the Thanes. There the tomb of our High King floats, out of reach, forever a punishment and a reproach to us.
“Our nation is divided and soon, I fear, we must end up in a civil war. I do not know what more harm you can do to us, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said, “unless you bring the mountain down on top of us.”
“Whew, boy!” Tasslehoff whistled. “Could Flint really do that? Bring down the mountain?”
“Shush!” Tanis ordered, and his expression was so very fierce that Tasslehoff shushed.
“There was a time when I would have taken out my vengeance upon you, but my soul has learned much over the centuries.”
Flint’s voice softened. He gave a sigh, and the hand that was clenched in a fist relaxed. “I have learned to forgive.”
Flint rose slowly to his feet.
“My brothers’ spirits have gone on to the next part of their life’s journey. My father’s soul has done the same, and with him traveled the soul of the noble Kharas. Soon I will join them, for I am now free of the cruel enchantment that bound me.
“Before I leave, I give you a gift—a warning. False Metal has returned, but so have Reorx and the other gods. The gate of Thorbardin is once more open. The light of the sun shines into the mountain. Shut the gate again, shut out the light, and the darkness will consume you.”
“This is an act,” Realgar muttered. “Can’t you fools see that?”
“Shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you!” said Tufa. The Klar still held his knife in his hand.
“We thank you, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said respectfully. “We will take heed of your words.”
Arman Kharas rose to his feet. “Is this all you have to tell us, Prince Grallen? Do you not have some word for me?”
“My son, be silent!” Hornfel admonished.
“The prince has said the gods are with us again! This is the time of which Kharas spoke: ‘When the power of the gods returns, then shall the Hammer go forth to forge once again the freedom of Krynn.’”
Arman Kharas came to stand before the Throne of the Kingdom of the Dead. “Tell me how to enter Duncan’s Tomb. Tell me where to the Hammer of Kharas, noble prince, for such is my destiny!”
The gem’s light dwindled and diminished, flickered and died out.
“Wait, Prince Grallen!” Arman shouted. “You cannot leave without telling me!”
Slowly Flint lifted his hands and slowly removed the helm from his head. He didn’t look triumphant or elated. He looked tired. His face was drawn and pale. He seemed to have aged as many years as the prince had been dead.
“You know!” Arman cried suddenly, pointing at Flint. The young dwarf’s voice burned with fury. “He told you!”
Flint walked away from the throne of the Dead, holding the Helm of Grallen underneath one arm.
Realgar laughed. “This is sham, a fraud! He is lying. He has been lying all along. He has no idea where to find the Hammer!”
“He knew the details of Prince Grallen’s life and death,” Hornfel said. “The mountain shook when we doubted him. Perhaps Reorx and the other gods have returned.”
“I agree with Realgar,” said Rance. “Cloudseeker has shaken before now, and none of us claimed it was anything more than the way of the mountain. Why should this time be different?”
Flint pushed past the Thanes, only to be confronted by Arman.
“Tell me where to find the Hammer! I am a prince. It is my destiny!”
“Why should I?” Flint flared. “So you can take the Hammer, and throw my friends and me in your dungeons?”
“Hold his friends as hostage for the Hammer’s return,” the Daewar suggested.
“Do that and the Hammer can stay lost for another three hundred years!” Flint said angrily.
Realgar’s squinting eyes had been observing Flint narrowly. He smiled, then said, “I propose a wager.”
The other Thanes looked intrigued. Like their god, dwarves loved to gamble.
“What wager?” asked Hornfel.
“If this Neidar finds the Hammer of Kharas and returns it to us, then we will consider permitting these humans safe entry into our realm—provided they are not an army, of course. If he fails, then he and his friends remain our prisoners, and we seal up the gate.”
Hornfel stroked his beard and eyed Flint speculatively. The Daewar nodded in satisfaction and the Klar gave a low chuckle and scratched his chin with the knife blade.
“You can’t mean they are actually considering doing this!” Sturm said, when Tanis translated. “I cannot believe they would gamble on something this serious! Of course, Flint will have no part of it.”
“I agree with the knight,” Raistlin said. “Something’s not right about this.”
“Maybe so,” Flint muttered, “but sometimes you have to risk all to gain all. I’ll take that bet,” he called out loudly, “on one condition. You can do what you like with me, but if I lose, my friends go free.”
“He can’t do this, Tanis!” Sturm protested, shocked and outraged. “Flint cannot gamble with the sacred Hammer of Kharas!”
“Calm down, Sturm,” Tanis said testily. “The Hammer is not anybody’s to do anything with yet.”
“I won’t stand for this!” Sturm stated. “If you will do nothing, then I must. This is sacrilege!”
“Let Flint handle this his way, Sturm,” Tanis warned. He gripped the knight’s arm as he would have turned away, forced him to listen. “We’re not in Solamnia. We’re in the realm of the dwarves. We know nothing about their rules, their laws and their customs. Flint does. He took an enormous risk, putting on that helm. We owe him our trust.”
Sturm hesitated. For a moment, he seemed prepared to defy Tanis. Then he thought better of it and gave a grudging nod.
“We will make the wager,” Hornfel said, speaking for the rest of the Thanes, “with these conditions: We make no terms regarding your friends, Flint Fireforge of the Neidar. Their fate is bound up in yours. If you do indeed find the Hammer of Kharas and return it to us, we will consider allowing the humans you represent to enter Thorbardin, based on our assessment of them. If they are, as you claim, families and not soldiers, they will be welcome. Is this agreeable?”
“The gods help us!” Sturm murmured.
Flint spit into his palm and extended his hand. Hornfel spit into his palm. The two shook on it, and the wager was done.
Hornfel turned to Tanis.
“You will be our guests in your friend’s absence. You will stay in guest quarters in the Life Tree. We will provide guards for your safety.”
“Thank you,” said Tanis, “but we’re going with our friend. He can’t undertake what may be a dangerous quest alone.”
“Your friend will not go alone,” Hornfel replied with a slight smile. “My son, Arman, will accompany him.”
“This is madness, Flint!” Raistlin said in his soft voice. “Let us say you find the Hammer. What is to prevent this dwarf from turning on you and murdering you and stealing it?”
“I’m there to prevent it,” stated Flint, glowering.
“You are not so young as you once were,” Raistlin countered, “nor as strong, whereas Arman is both.”
“My son would never do such a thing,” said Hornfel angrily.
“Indeed, I would not,” said Arman, insulted. “You have my word as my father’s son and as a Hylar that I will consider the life of your friend as a sacred charge.”
“For that matter, Flint could murder Kharas and steal the Hammer,” Tasslehoff piped up cheerfully. “Couldn’t you, Flint?”
Flint went red in the face. Caramon, heaving a sigh, put his hand the kender’s shoulder and marched him toward the door.
“Flint, don’t agree to this!” Sturm urged.
“There is no agreement to be made,” said Hornfel in tones of finality. “No human or half-human, and certainly no kender, will defile the sacred tomb of our High King. The Council of the Thanes is ende
d. My son will escort you to your quarters.” Hornfel turned on his heel and left.
The soldiers closed in around the companions. They had no choice but to go along.
Flint walked at Tanis’s side. The old dwarf’s head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He held tightly to the Helm of Grallen.
“Do you really know where to find the Hammer?” Tanis asked in a low undertone.
“Maybe,” Flint muttered.
Tanis scratched his beard. “You realize you agreed to gamble the lives of eight hundred people on that ‘maybe?’”
Flint cocked an eye at his friend. “You got a better idea?”
Tanis shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Flint grunted.
12
The Inn of the Tails.
Sturm argues. Flint whittles.
he quarters provided the companions by the dwarves were located on the ground floor of the Life Tree in a part of the city that was older than the rest and little used. All the buildings were abandoned and boarded up. Flint pointed out why.
“Everything is human height—the doors and the windows. This part of the Life Tree was built to house humans.”
“It used to be known as Tall Town,” Arman informed them. “This was the area set aside for the human and elven merchants who once lived and worked here. We are giving you quarters in one of the inns built specially for your race.”
Caramon in particular was relieved. He had already squeezed his big body into dwarf-size wagons and buckets, and he’d been worried about having to spend the night in a bed built for short dwarven legs.
The inn was in better repair than most of the buildings, for some enterprising dwarf was currently using it as a warehouse. It was two stories tall with lead-paned glass windows and a solid oak door.
“Before the Cataclysm, this inn was filled every night,” said Arman, ushering his “guests” inside. “Merchants came from all over Ansalon, from Istar, Solamnia, and Ergoth. Once this common room rang with the sounds of laughter and the clink of gold. Now you hear nothing.”
“Except the screeching of rats.” Raistlin drew his robes close to him in disgust as several rodents, startled by the sudden light shed by a larva lantern, went racing across the floor.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 33
