Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  Arman was on his knees, his own helm beside him on the floor. Standing over him, gazing down at him, was a dwarf with white hair and a long, white beard. The dwarf was stooped with age, but even stooped, he was taller than Flint and massively built.

  “It’s not a ghost,” Tas whispered, disappointed. “It’s just an old dwarf. No offense, Flint.”

  Flint gave the kender a kick. “Quiet!”

  “I am honored to be in your presence, Great Kharas,” Arman said, his voice choked with emotion.

  Flint’s eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up to his hair line.

  “Kharas? Did he say Kharas?” Tas asked. “We’ve already got two Kharases—Arman and the dead one. Is this another? How many are there?”

  Flint kicked him again and Tas subsided, rubbing bruised ribs.

  “Rise up, young man,” said the ancient dwarf. “You should not bow before me. I am not a king. I am merely one who guards the rest of the king.”

  “All these centuries you have stayed here,” said Arman, awed. “Why did you not come back to your people, Great Kharas? We are in sore need of your guidance.”

  “I offered guidance to my people,” said the ancient dwarf bitterly, “but it wasn’t wanted. I am not in this tomb of my own choosing. You could say I was exiled to this place, sent here by the folly of my people.”

  Flint’s eyes narrowed. He tugged on his beard. “Funny way of talking,” he muttered.

  Arman bowed his head in shame. “We have been foolish, Kharas, but all that will change now. You will come back to us. You will bring the Hammer to us. We will be united under one king.”

  The ancient dwarf regarded the younger. “Why have you come here, Arman Kharas?”

  “To … to pay homage to King Duncan,” Arman stammered.

  Kharas smiled sadly. “You came for the Hammer, I think.”

  Arman flushed. “We need the Hammer!” he said defensively. “Our people are suffering. The clans are divided. The Northgate, closed for centuries, has been opened. There is talk of war in the world above, and I fear there will be war beneath the mountain. If I could bring back the Hammer to Thorbardin, my father would be High King and he would—” He paused.

  “He would do what?” Kharas asked mildly.

  “He would unite the clans. Welcome our Neidar cousins back to the mountain. Open the gates to humans and elves, and reestablish trade and commerce.”

  “Laudable goals,” Kharas said, nodding his head sagely. “Why do you need the hammer to accomplish them?”

  Arman looked confused. “You said yourself long ago, before you left: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’”

  “Are you that dwarf?” Kharas asked.

  Arman lifted his head and stood straight and tall. “I am Arman Kharas,” he said proudly. “I found the way here when no one could find it for three hundred years.”

  Flint scowled. “He found the way here!”

  Now it was Tas who kicked him. “Shush!”

  “Why name yourself after Kharas?” the ancient dwarf asked.

  “Because you are a great hero, of course!”

  “He didn’t mean to be a hero,” said Kharas softly. “He was only a man who held true to his beliefs and did what he thought was right.”

  He regarded Arman intently, then said, “What is your name?”

  “Arman Kharas,” answered the young dwarf.

  “No, that is what you call yourself. What is your name?” Kharas persisted.

  Arman frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. That is my name.”

  “The name given to you at birth,” said Kharas.

  Arman flushed an ugly red. “What does that matter? My name is what I say it is. I chose my name and when I did so, a blessed red light flashed—”

  “Yes, yes.” Kharas said impatiently. “I know all about that. What is your name?”

  Arman opened his mouth. He shut it again and swallowed. His face went even redder. He mumbled something.

  “What?” Kharas leaned toward him.

  “Pike,” said Arman in sulky tones. “My name was Pike, but Pike is not the name of a hero!”

  “It might be,” said Kharas.

  Arman shook his head.

  Flint grunted. At the sound, the ancient dwarf turned his head, casting a sharp glance in the direction of the secret passage. Flint ducked back into the shadows and hauled the kender with him.

  Kharas smiled and ran his fingers through his white beard. Then he turned back to Arman.

  “You did not come alone, did you?” he said.

  “Two others came with me,” Arman, adding carelessly, “My servants.”

  “Servants!” Tas gasped. “Did you hear that, Flint?”

  He expected Flint to explode in anger, or rush out and bash Arman with the hammer, or burst into flame, or maybe all three at once.

  Flint just sat there, tugging on his beard.

  “Did you hear him, Flint?” Tas whispered loudly. “He called you his servant!”

  “I heard,” said Flint. He quit tugging on his beard and smoothed it with his hand.

  “Servants, huh. I guess they don’t need to be tested then,” stated Kharas.

  A gust of wind blew the wooden door shut, nearly catching the kender’s topknot in it.

  “How rude!” Tasslehoff exclaimed, twitching his hair back just in time.

  “Open it!” said Flint, frowning.

  Tasslehoff gave the door handle a jiggle, and it came off in his hand. “Oops.”

  “You have a lock pick, don’t you?” Flint growled. “For once, it might prove useful.”

  Tas felt through all his pockets.

  “I must have left it in one of my pouches.”

  “Oh, for the love of Reorx!” Flint grumbled. “The only reason you’re any use to anyone is for picking the occasional lock, and now you can’t even do that!”

  He put his ear to the keyhole.

  “Can you hear anything?” Tas asked.

  “No.”

  “We’d better go!” Tas urged, tugging on Flint’s sleeve. “The really, really old Kharas will probably lead our Kharas to the hammer! We have to beat him to it!”

  “It’s not a race,” Flint said, but he suddenly turned around and began to clump rapidly down the stairs, moving so fast that he caught the kender flat-footed. Tas had to scramble to catch up.

  “Arman’s real name is Pike, and his brother is Pick. Pick and Pike!” The kender giggled. “That’s funny!”

  Flint had no comment. Reaching the floor of the Hall of Enemies, he began searching the room, poking at walls and stomping on the floor to see if there might be a trap door. “Blast it! How do we get out of here?”

  Tas fished about in his pocket. “Would this help?” He brought forth a piece of parchment. “It’s Arman’s map. I found it,” he added, with emphasis.

  He held out the map to Flint.

  The dwarf hesitated, then seized hold of it.

  “Arman must have dropped it,” Flint muttered.

  17

  Caramon skips breakfast.

  Grag is late for lunch.

  istening to Sturm’s prayer, Tanis felt suddenly soothed and restful. His worries left him alone for a moment, and he drifted off to sleep. Raistlin’s coughing woke him.

  Raistlin had not suffered a bad coughing spell in some time. He ordered Caramon out of bed to fix his special herbal brew. This involved stirring up the fire and searching about for a kettle, and then boiling the water, all of which, thankfully, kept Caramon occupied and caused him to at least quit talking about food. The dwarves had not yet brought them anything to eat, and Caramon was growing worried.

  Raistlin sipped at the tea, and his cough eased. He sat dozing in the chair, huddled as close to the fire as he could get. Sturm remained on his knees, finding solace in his prayers. Tanis envied his friend. He wanted to believe, he truly did. How comforting it would be
to put Flint’s fate into the hands of the gods, having faith that they would watch over him and guide him. The same faith would reassure him that Hornfel would be made to see the truth, causing him to have a change of heart and open the gates to the refugees.

  Instead of faith, Tanis was walking each step of the way with Flint in his mind and seeing darkness and danger at every turn. He stirred restlessly and rolled over, and he was about to try to go back to sleep, when Caramon asked a question that jolted Tanis to alarmed wakefulness.

  “Hey, has anyone seen Tas?”

  Tanis was on the move as soon his feet hit the floor, searching the room. To no avail. “Damn it! He was here only moments ago!”

  “I dunno,” said Caramon, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen him in a while, not since Flint left. But then I’ve been fixing Raist’s tea….”

  “Sturm,” said Tanis, breaking in on the knight’s prayers, “have you seen Tasslehoff?”

  Sturm rose stiffly to his feet. He cast a swift glance around the room. “No. I have not been watching over him. I saw him last before Flint left.”

  “Search upstairs,” Tanis ordered.

  “Why?” Raistlin asked in a whispered gasp. “You know where he has gone! He went after Flint.”

  “Search anyway,” said Tanis grimly.

  They looked under crates, inside cupboards, and in the upstairs rooms, but there was no sign of the kender. Sturm took the opportunity, when Tanis and Caramon were roaming about the second level, to speak to Raistlin.

  “Tas could ruin our plan! What do we do?”

  “Nothing we can do about it now,” Raistlin said with a grimace.

  “The only nuisances up there are rats,” Caramon reported as he and Tanis came back down the stairs. “We could question the guards to see if they saw him.”

  “And we draw attention to the fact that he’s gone missing,” Tanis said. “We’re already in enough trouble without telling Hornfel we’ve unleashed a kender on his unsuspecting populace. Besides, Tas might come back on his own.”

  “And I might walk through this solid stone wall,” said Sturm, “but I doubt it.”

  Raistlin was about to say something but was interrupted by a dwarf opening the door.

  They froze, waiting for the dire news that Tasslehoff had been found and tossed in the lake, or the dungeons, or worse.

  “Breakfast,” the dwarf announced.

  The guard held the door while two more dwarves walked in bearing trays laden with heavy wooden bowls. Caramon sniffed the fragrant aroma and immediately took his seat at the table.

  The others exchanged glances, wondering if the guards would notice they were one person short. The guards did not take a head count, however. They unloaded the bowls from the tray and handed them about, laid out two loaves of dark bread, and a couple of pitchers of ale, then departed, shutting the door behind them.

  Everyone breathed a sigh.

  “Those were different guards,” said Tanis. “They’re not the same ones who were here when Flint left. They must have changed shifts. Apparently none of them noticed Tas is missing. Let’s keep it that way as long as we can.”

  Sturm sat at the table. Tanis did the same. Caramon was already ladling out the food.

  “Smells good,” he said hungrily. He picked up a bowl and took it over to his brother. “Here, Raist. It’s mushrooms in brown gravy. I think there’s onions in there, too.”

  Raistlin averted his head.

  “You need to eat, Raist,” said Caramon.

  “Put it there,” said Raistlin, indicating a table near his chair.

  Caramon set the bowl down. Raistlin glanced at it and started to turn away. Then he looked at it more intently.

  The meal did smell good. Tanis had not thought he was hungry, but he picked up his spoon. Sturm was praying to Paladine to bless this meal. Caramon, tearing off a hunk of bread, dipped it in the gravy and was bringing it, dripping, to his mouth when the staff of Magius lashed out, struck his hand, and knocked the bread to the floor.

  “Don’t eat that!’ Raistlin gasped. “Any of you!”

  He swung the staff again and struck Sturm’s bowl, sending it to the floor, and then smashed Tanis’s bowl just as he was digging his spoon into it.

  Crockery broke. Gravy splattered. Mushrooms went sliding across the table and fell to the floor.

  Everyone stared at Raistlin.

  “It’s poison! Those mushrooms! Deadly poison! Look!” He pointed.

  Attracted by the food on the floor, rats had come slinking out of their holes to take their share. One started to lap up the spilled gravy. It took no more than a couple of slurps before its small body quivered, then stiffened. The rat flopped over sideways, its limbs writhing. Froth bubbled on its mouth, and after a moment’s agony, it went limp. The other rats either took warning from their comrade’s terrible fate, or they didn’t like the smell, for they skittered back to their holes.

  Caramon went white, and jumping from the table, he made another trip to the slop bucket.

  Sturm stared, transfixed, at the dead rat.

  Tanis dropped his spoon. His hands were shaking. “How did you know?”

  “If you remember, I studied the mushrooms when we passed through the forest,” said Raistlin. “Some of you thought my interest quite amusing, as I recall. Arman and I were discussing dwarf spirits, which, you know, are made of mushrooms. What I found most interesting is that the mushrooms used to make dwarf spirits are safe to ingest if allowed to ferment but poisonous if eaten either raw or cooked. I’d never come across any other plant or fungi with this characteristic, and I took special note of it. I recognized the dwarf spirit mushrooms in the stew. Whoever tried to kill us assumed we would not know the difference.”

  “And we wouldn’t have,” Tanis admitted. “We are grateful, Raistlin.”

  “Indeed,” Sturm murmured. He was still staring at the dead rat.

  “Who tried to kill us, I wonder?” Tanis said.

  “Those dwarves who brought the food!” Sturm cried, jumping to his feet. He ran to the door, yanked it open, and darted out. He returned, bringing with him his sword and Caramon’s.

  “They’re gone,” he reported, “and so are the guards. At least we can now retrieve our weapons. We’ll be ready if they come back.”

  “Our first concern should be about Flint,” said Raistlin sharply. “Has it not occurred to you that if we came seeking the hammer, then others might be seeking it as well, others such as the Dark Queen and her minions?”

  “The dragonlance was responsible for driving Takhisis back into the Abyss,” Sturm said. “You may be sure she would try to keep them from being forged again.”

  “They tried to kill us. Flint might already be dead,” Tanis said quietly.

  “I do not think so. They would wait to kill him until after he’s found the hammer,” said Raistlin.

  “Perhaps all the dwarves are in league with darkness,” Sturm said grimly.

  “Once the dark dwarves worshipped Takhisis, or so it is written,” Raistlin said, “and if you remember, Tanis, I asked you how the Theiwar knew the refugees were in the forest. You brushed it off at the time, but I think we have to look no farther than the Theiwar thane. What is his name—”

  “Realgar. I agree,” said Tanis. “Hornfel may not trust us or like us, but he doesn’t seem the type to stoop to murder. I don’t see how we prove it, or how we catch them.”

  “Easy,” said Caramon, coming back to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whoever did this will return to make sure it worked. When they come, they’ll get a surprise.”

  Raistlin, Tanis, and Sturm looked at Caramon, then looked at each other.

  “I am impressed, my brother,” said Raistlin. “Sometimes you show glimmerings of intelligence.”

  Caramon flushed with pleasure. “Thanks, Raist.”

  “So we pretend we’re dead, and when the murderer enters—”

  “We grab him and then we make him talk,” sai
d Caramon.

  “It could work,” Sturm conceded. “We take the murderer to Hornfel, and this provides proof that Flint is in danger.”

  “And Tas,” Caramon reminded them.

  “Wherever he is,” Tanis sighed. He’d momentarily forgotten the missing kender.

  “Hornfel will have to let us go after Flint,” Sturm concluded.

  Tanis wasn’t sure about that, but at least this attempt on their lives would put the Thanes on the defensive, unless the Thanes were all in on this together.

  “The murderer will be expecting to find our bodies. How would we look if we’d been poisoned?”

  “Too bad the bowls are broken,” Sturm said. “That will give it away.”

  “Not at all,” Raistlin said coolly. “We would have knocked the bowls about in our death throes. Now, if you will allow me, I will arrange your corpses for best effect.”

  The more Realgar thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Grag traipsing off to the Life Tree to see the bodies of the murdered assassins. The Theiwar Thane had argued long, vehemently and quite logically that Grag—being a “lizard” as Realgar termed him, complete with wings and tail—would stand out in a crowd. The bodies weren’t going anywhere. Grag could wait to view them once the hammer was safely in Theiwar hands.

  Dray-yan insisted, however. He did not trust these assassins, nor did he trust the Theiwar. He wanted to make certain the assassins were dead as promised. Grag would go in disguise, cloaked and hooded. The dwarves would notice the tall bozak; that couldn’t be helped. The word had spread that humans were in Thorbardin. Grag would be taken for one of them.

  Realgar gave in because he had to give in. He detested the “lizards,” but he needed them and their army to conquer and subdue the other clans. Grag’s lizard-warriors had already proven their worth by ambushing a party of human barbarians who had entered Northgate. Not only had the draconians captured the humans, they’d taken an elf lord prisoner as well.

  The captives had been given to the Theiwar for interrogation. Grag would have liked to have been present, but Dray-yan had told him there was no need. He knew all he needed to know about these humans. Realgar had only to convince one or two to tell the “truth,” forcing the humans to admit they had come to Thorbardin with the intention of invading the dwarven kingdom, and that would be the end of them. Having spent a moment or two watching the dwarves’ “questioning” methods, Grag had to admit the Theiwar knew what they were about when it came to torture. He had no doubt they would soon have a confession.