Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  Realgar was going to a lot of trouble for nothing, Grag reflected. Once Thorbardin was secure, he and his troops were going to kill the slaves anyway. Still, as Dray-yan pointed out, fostering distrust between humans and dwarves could only aid their cause. Let the Hylar believe that humans had been about to invade their kingdom. They would far less likely to trust any human after that.

  Satisfied that all was proceeding as planned, Grag accompanied four dark dwarves to the inn. Realgar himself did not go along. Realgar had asked for a meeting of the Council of Thanes on an emergency matter. He was planning to take two of the captives with him and exhibit them to the other Thanes.

  “This revelation will throw the Thanes into turmoil,” Dray-yan told Grag, “giving you time to marshal your forces and bring them into position. We will have the Thanes all neatly trapped in the same bottle.”

  “Including Realgar,” said Grag, his claws twitching.

  “Including that filthy maggot, and when the hammer of Kharas is brought forth, ‘His Lordship’ will be there to receive it.”

  “Verminaard has thought up an excellent plan,” said Grag, grinning. “Too bad he’s going to bungle it. Fortunately, his two brilliant subcommanders will be there to save the day.”

  “Here’s to his brilliant subcommanders.” Dray-yan raised a mug of dwarf spirits.

  Grag raised his own mug. They toasted each other, then both drank deeply. The draconians had only recently discovered this potent liquor made by the dwarves, and both agreed that while dwarves might be a race of loathsome, hairy cretins, they could do two things right: forge steel and brew a fine drink.

  Grag could still taste the spirits on his tongue and feel the fire burning in his belly as he left the boat that had carried him and his Theiwar companions across the lake to the Life Tree of the Hylar. Realgar and his two captives—both battered and bloody—traveled in the same boat.

  The captives were wrapped in burlap bags to keep their identities concealed until Realgar’s big moment before the Thanes. The two men lay unconscious in the boat’s bow, though occasionally one would moan, at which sound one of the Theiwar would kick him into silence. One of the captives was a barbarian, an extremely tall man, identified as the leader of the refugees. The other was the elf lord. Grag’s scales clicked at the stink of elf blood. Grag hoped Realgar didn’t kill him. Grag hated all the people of Ansalon, but there was a special place in his heart for elves.

  Grag noted that blood was starting to seep through the burlap bag. He wondered how Realgar planned to haul the captives through the city up to the Court without attracting too much attention.

  Realgar wasn’t worried about such details, apparently. Peering out from the eye slits in his mask at the Life Tree, the thane talked in smug tones about the day his clan would leave their dank caves and move to this choice location. He pointed to certain prime businesses already marked for take-over by his people. As for his dwelling place, he would live in the home in which Hornfel was currently residing. Hornfel wouldn’t need it. He’d be dwelling in the Valley of the Thanes.

  Grag listened to the dark dwarf boast and brag, and the draconian smiled inwardly.

  Few dark dwarves made the crossing from the Theiwar realm to the Life Tree, for there was little trade carried on between the Theiwar and the Hylar these days. The dock where the Theiwar usually landed was empty. Realgar and his men hauled the captives out of the boat without notice. Once they entered the streets, however, they ran into crowds of dwarves stilling milling about, talking in heated tones about the detested Neidar seeking “their” hammer. Few paid any attention to the Theiwar or the blood-stained burlap bags. Those who did were told that the Theiwar had been “butchering hogs.”

  Grag and his guides took their leave of Realgar. The dwarves who were out in the streets stared balefully at Grag, and as a Tall, he came in for his share of verbal abuse. Grag paid no attention. He just kept walking, his clawed feet—wrapped in rags—shuffling over the cobblestones, and he just kept smiling.

  The Theiwar led Grag to the part of the city where the Talls resided. They had not gone far before two shadowy figures detached themselves from a building and hastened over to talk to the Theiwar. They all jabbered in dwarven for long moments, the two Theiwar gesturing at the inn, smirking and chortling. They pointed out two Hylar dwarves lying in an alley, bound hand and foot, with bags over their heads.

  Grag waited impatiently for someone to tell him what was going on. Finally one of the Theiwar turned to him.

  “It’s done. You can report back to your master that the Talls are dead.”

  “My orders are to see for myself,” said Grag. “Where are the bodies?”

  The Theiwar scowled. “In an inn at the end of the street, but it’s a waste of time, and we might be discovered. The Hylar could come at any moment.”

  “I’ll run the risk,” said Grag. He started to walk toward the building, then stopped and pointed to the Hylar dwarves. “What about them? Are they dead?”

  “Of course not,” said the Theiwar scornfully. “We’re going to take them back with us.”

  “Easier to kill them,” Grag pointed out.

  “But less profitable,” said the Theiwar with a grin.

  Grag rolled his eyes.

  “Are you sure the Talls inside are dead,” he asked grimly, “or are you planning to hold them for ransom?”

  “See for yourself, lizard,” the Theiwar sneered, and he pointed to a cracked window.

  Grag peered inside. He recognized the humans from Pax Tharkas. There was the Solamnic knight, not looking so knightly anymore, sprawled under the table. The half-elf lay alongside him. The wizard was slumped over in a chair. Grag was glad to see the mage was among the dead. He’d been a weak and sickly fellow, as Grag remembered, but wizards were always trouble. The big, muscle-bound warrior lay by the door. The poison had probably been slower to work on him. Perhaps he’d tried to go for help.

  “They look dead,” he admitted, “but I need to check the bodies to make certain.”

  He started for the door and suddenly found all the Theiwar lined up in front of him, their squinty little eyes glaring at him.

  “What’s the matter now?” Grag demanded.

  One of the Theiwar jabbed a filthy finger at him. “Don’t go looting the bodies. Anything of value on them is ours.”

  The other Theiwar all nodded emphatically.

  Grag regarded them with disgust and started to push past them. The Theiwar seemed inclined to argue, but Grag made it clear that he was not going to put up with any nonsense. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and the Theiwar, grumbling, moved away from the door. As Grag opened it, two of the Theiwar dashed in immediately. They crouched beside the big fellow by the door and began tugging on his leather boots. The other two hurried inside after them, heading straight for the dead wizard.

  Grag entered more slowly, keeping his eyes on the knight. The damned Solamnics were hard to kill. In fact, it seemed to Grag that the Solamnic looked a little too healthy for a corpse. Grag had drawn his sword and was bending over the knight to feel for a life-beat when squeals of terror erupted from behind him; squeals cut short by a sickening sound like the squishing of over-ripe melons—two Theiwar heads being bashed together.

  This was followed almost immediately by a dazzling flash, a shriek, and a curse. The knight and the half-elf both leaped to their feet. Half-blinded by the flash of light, Grag slashed at them with his sword. The half-elf overturned the table, effectively blocking the blow.

  “It’s a draconian!” the knight shouted, swinging his sword.

  Grag ducked the blow.

  “Don’t kill him! Take him alive!” someone yelled.

  Grag guessed he was on his own in this battle and a glance out the window proved him right. Two surviving Theiwar, their hair and beards singed, were running as fast as they could down the street.

  Grag swore at them beneath his breath. He had two competent and skilled warriors in front of him, b
ut he was more worried about the wizard behind him. Grag was just about to overpower the half-elf, when he heard chanting. He felt suddenly drowsy and staggered on his feet. Grag knew a magic spell when he heard one and he fought against it, but the magic overcame him.

  The last thing he remembered, as he slumped to the floor, was rose petals drifting down around his head.

  “This is how the dark dwarves knew about us and about the refugees,” said Raistlin.

  He was standing over the comatose draconian, watching as Sturm and Caramon bound the creature’s clawed hands and feet. “I told you at the Council meeting, Tanis, that it was important to find out.”

  “I’ve said twice I was sorry,” Tanis said impatiently. “Next time I will listen to you, I promise. The question is now—what does this mean? What are draconians doing in Thorbardin?”

  “What it means is that Verminaard and his troops are in league with the dwarves,” said Sturm.

  Tanis shook his head. Turning away, he kicked suddenly and viciously at a table leg. “Damn it all! I urged the refugees to leave the valley where they were safe and led them right into a trap! How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Some of the dwarves may be in league with the Dark Queen,” said Raistlin slowly, thinking out loud, “but I do not believe Thorbardin has fallen. We would not have been brought before the Council if that were the case. I doubt if Hornfel or the other Thanes have any knowledge of this, and if you want further proof, Tanis, this draconian wears a disguise. If the draconians were in control of Thorbardin, he would not try to conceal his identity. My guess is that Verminaard is allied with the dark dwarves. That means Realgar and possibly that other Thane, Rance.”

  “That would make sense, Tanis,” said Sturm. “Hornfel and the others probably know nothing about this.”

  “Which is why the Theiwar tossed those boulders at us when we came into Thorbardin,” said Caramon, “and why they tried to poison us now. They’re afraid we’ll tell Hornfel!”

  “Which is exactly what we must do,” said Raistlin. “We must show him this specimen—one reason I urged you to keep the draconian alive.”

  “I agree we have to get word to Hornfel,” Tanis said, “but how?”

  “That part will be easy,” Sturm said grimly. “Simply walk out that door. The dwarves who catch you will take you immediately to the Thanes.”

  “Provided they don’t kill him first,” Raistlin observed.

  “I’ll go,” Sturm offered.

  “You don’t speak Dwarvish,” Tanis said. “Give me enough time to find Hornfel. Wait here a short time, then bring the draconian to the Court of the Thanes.”

  He looked down at the bozak, who was starting to stir. “I think he’s waking up. You should cast another sleep spell on him.”

  “I must conserve my strength,” Raistlin said. “A bash over the head would take less toll on me.”

  Caramon flexed his big hands. “He won’t cause any trouble, Tanis. Don’t worry.”

  Tanis nodded. He climbed over the broken furniture and the bodies of the two dark dwarves who lay on the floor, then paused at the door.

  “What about Flint? And Tas?”

  “They are beyond our reach,” said Raistlin quietly. “There is nothing we can do to help them now.”

  “Except pray,” added Sturm.

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” said Tanis, and he walked out of the inn to get himself arrested.

  18

  Tasslehoff’s find.

  Flint’s wall. More stains.

  lint and Tas squatted on the floor of the Hall of Enemies, the map spread out before them. The bright sunlight that had been shining through the arrow slits had dimmed, submerged in an eerie fog that had an odd reddish tinge to it. Flint had the strange feeling that he was wrapped up in a sunset. Wisps of fog seeped into the chamber, making it difficult to see.

  “I wish I could read Dwarvish,” said Tas, holding up a lantern that Flint had brought with him from the inn and shining the light down on the map. “What does that squiggle mean?”

  Flint slapped the kender’s hand away. “Don’t touch! And quit jiggling. You’re jostling the light about.”

  Tas put his hand in his pocket so that it would behave itself and tried hard not to jiggle.

  “Why do you think Arman called you a servant, Flint? That wasn’t very nice, especially after all you’ve done for him.”

  Flint grumbled something beneath his breath.

  “I didn’t catch that,” Tas said, but before Flint could repeat himself, the musical note sounded again, ringing loudly throughout the room.

  Tas waited until the reverberations had died away, then he tried again, “What do you think, Flint?”

  “I think the Hammer is here.” Flint put his stubby finger on the map.

  “Where?” Tas asked eagerly, bending over.

  “You’re jiggling again!” Flint glowered at him.

  “Sorry. Where?”

  “The very top. What they call the Ruby Chamber. At least, that’s where I’d put a hammer if I wanted to put it somewhere where no one could find it.” Rising stiffly to his feet, Flint massaged his aching knees. Carefully folding the map, he tucked it into his belt. “We’ll go there after we search for Arman.”

  “Arman?” Tas repeated in astonishment. “Why are we looking for him?”

  “Because he’s a young fool,” said Flint gruffly, “and someone needs to look after him.”

  “But he’s with Kharas, and Kharas is a good and honorable dwarf, at least that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

  “I agree with the kender,” said a voice from out of the shadows. “Why are you worried about the Hylar? He is your long-time enemy, after all.”

  Flint snatched the hammer from its harness, forgetting, in his haste, that he was supposed to pretend it was heavy.

  “Step into the light,” Flint called. “Where I can see you.”

  “Certainly. You don’t need your weapon,” said the dwarf, moving into the lantern light.

  He had a long white beard and white hair. His face was wrinkled as a shriveled apple. His eyes were dark and penetrating, clear as the eyes of a newborn babe. His voice was strong, deep, and youthful.

  “Remarkable hammer you’ve got there.” The ancient dwarf squinted at it in the bright light. “I seem to remember one just like it.”

  “You’ll feel this hammer on your head if you come any closer,” Flint warned. “Who are you?”

  “He’s another Kharas, like the one in the tomb with Arman!” Tasslehoff said. “How many does this make? Three or four?”

  The ancient dwarf took a step nearer.

  Flint raised the hammer. “Stop right there.”

  “I’m not carrying any weapons,” Kharas said mildly.

  “Ghosts don’t need weapons,” said Flint.

  “He looks awfully substantial for a ghost, Flint,” Tas said in a whisper.

  “The kender is right. What makes you think I’m not who I say I am?”

  “Humpf!” Flint snorted. “What do you take me for? A gully dwarf?”

  “No, I take you for a Neidar by the name of Flint Fireforge. I know a lot about you. I had a chat with a friend of yours.”

  “Arman isn’t a friend,” Flint said dourly. “No mountain dwarf is my friend, and I’m not his servant either!”

  “I never thought that, and I wasn’t referring to Arman.”

  Flint snorted again.

  “Never mind that now,” said the latest Kharas. A smile caused all the wrinkles in his face to crinkle. “I’m still interested to know why you are going to search for Arman. You came here to find the Hammer of Kharas.”

  “And I’ll leave here with the Hammer of Kharas,” stated Flint stoutly, “and with young Arman. Now you tell me what you’ve done with him.”

  “I haven’t done anything to him.” Kharas shrugged. “I told him where to find the Hammer. It may take him awhile, however. It seems he’s lost his map.”

  “He
dropped it,” Tas said sadly.

  “Yes, that’s what I thought might have happened,” Kharas said with a slight smile. “What if I told you, Flint Fireforge, that I can take you straight to the Hammer?”

  “And throw us into a pit or shove us off the top of some tower? No thanks.” Flint shook the hammer at the dwarf. “If you truly mean us no harm, go on about your business and leave us alone, and you leave Arman alone, too. He’s a not a bad sort, just misguided.”

  “He needs to be taught a lesson,” said Kharas. “The mountain dwarves all need to be taught a lesson, don’t they? Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking?”

  “Never you mind what I’m thinking!” Flint said, scowling. “Just take yourself off and do whatever it is you do around here.”

  “I will, but first I’ll make you a wager. I’ll bet you your soul that Arman ends up with the Hammer.”

  “I’ll take your bet,” said Flint. “It’s all nonsense, anyway.”

  “We’ll see,” Kharas said, his smile broadening. “Remember, I offered to show you where to find the Hammer, and you turned me down.”

  The ancient dwarf stepped backward into the red swirling mists and vanished.

  Flint shivered all over. “Is he gone?”

  Tas walked over to where the dwarf had been standing and flapped his hands about in the mists. “I don’t see him. Say, if he does take your soul, Flint, can I

  watch?”

  “You’re a fine friend!” Flint lowered the hammer, but he kept it in his hand, just in case.

  “I hope he doesn’t,” said Tas politely, and he truly meant it. Well, he mostly truly meant it. “But if he does—”