As Laurana stared curiously at this plate, Theros came over to stand beside her.
“What do you suppose this is?” she wondered. “A well?”
“Let’s see,” grunted the smith. Bending over, he lifted the ring on top of the plate in his huge, silver hand and pulled. At first nothing happened. Theros placed both hands on the ring and heaved with all his strength. The iron plate gave a great groan and slid across the floor with a scraping, squeaking sound that set their teeth on edge.
“What have you done?” Silvara, who had been standing near the tomb regarding it sadly, whirled to face them.
Theros stood up in astonishment at the shrill sound of her voice. Laurana involuntarily backed away from the gaping hole in the floor. Both of them stared at Silvara.
“Do not go near that!” Silvara warned, her voice shaking. “Stand clear! It is dangerous!”
“How do you know?” Laurana said coolly, recovering herself. “No one’s come here for hundreds of years. Or have they?”
“No!” Silvara said, biting her lip. “I—I know from the … legends of my people …”
Ignoring the girl, Laurana stepped to the edge of the hole and peered inside. It was dark. Even holding the torch Flint brought her from the wall, she could see nothing down there. A faint musty odor drifted from the hole, but that was all.
“I don’t think it’s a well,” said Tas, crowding to see.
“Stay away from it! Please!” Silvara begged.
“She’s right, little thief!” Theros grabbed Tas and pulled him away from the hole. “If you fell in there, you might tumble through to the other side of the world.”
“Really?” asked Tasslehoff breathlessly. “Would I really fall through to the other side, Theros? I wonder what it would be like? Would there be people there? Like us?”
“Not like kenders hopefully!” Flint grumbled. “Or they’d all be dead of idiocy by now. Besides, everyone knows that the world rests on the Anvil of Reorx. Those falling to the other side are caught between his hammer blows and the world still being forged. People on the other side indeed!” He snorted as he watched Theros unsuccessfully try to replace the plate. Tasslehoff was still staring at it curiously. Finally Theros was forced to give up, but he glared at the kender until Tas heaved a sigh and wandered away to the stone bier to stare with longing eyes at the shield and sword.
Flint tugged Laurana’s sleeve.
“What is it?” she asked absently, her thoughts elsewhere.
“I know stonework,” the dwarf said softly, “and there’s something strange about all this.” He paused, glancing to see if Laurana might laugh. But she was paying serious attention to him. “The tomb and the statues built outside are the work of men. It is old.…”
“Old enough to be Huma’s tomb?” Laurana interrupted.
“Every bit of it.” The dwarf nodded emphatically. “But yon great beast outside”—he gestured in the direction of the huge stone dragon—“was never built by the hands of man or elf or dwarf.”
Laurana blinked, uncomprehending.
“And it is older still,” the dwarf said, his voice growing husky. “So old it makes this”—he waved his hand at the tomb—“modern.”
Laurana began to understand. Flint, seeing her eyes widen, nodded slowly and solemnly.
“No hand of any being that walks upon Krynn with two legs carved the side out of that cliff,” he said.
“It must have been a creature with awesome strength,” Laurana murmured. “A huge creature—”
“With wings—”
“With wings,” Laurana murmured.
Suddenly she stopped talking, her blood chilled in fear as she heard words being chanted, words she recognized as the strange, spidery language of magic.
“No!” Turning, she lifted her hand instinctively to ward off the spell, knowing as she did so that it was futile.
Silvara stood beside the altar, crumbling rose petals in her hand, chanting softly.
Laurana fought the enchanted drowsiness that crept over her. She fell to her knees, cursing herself for a fool, clinging to the stone bench for support. But it did no good. Lifting her sleep-glazed eyes, she saw Theros topple over and Gilthanas slump to the ground. Beside her, the dwarf was snoring even before his head hit the bench.
Laurana heard a clattering sound, the sound of a shield crashing to the floor, then the air was filled with the fragrance of roses.
9
The kender’s startling discovery.
Tasslehoff heard Silvara chanting. Recognizing the words of a magic spell, he reacted instinctively, grabbed hold of the shield that lay on the bier, and pulled. The heavy shield fell on top of him, striking the floor with a ringing clang, flattening the kender. The shield covered Tas completely.
He lay still beneath it until he heard Silvara finish her chant. Even then, he waited a few moments to see if he was going to turn into a frog or go up in flames or something interesting like that. He didn’t—rather to his disappointment. He couldn’t even hear Silvara. Finally, growing bored lying in the darkness on the cold stone floor, Tas crept out from beneath the heavy shield with the silence of a falling feather.
All his friends were asleep! So that was the spell she cast. But where was Silvara? Gone somewhere to get a horrible monster to come back and devour them?
Cautiously, Tas raised his head and peered over the bier. To his astonishment, he saw Silvara crouched on the floor, near the tomb entrance. As Tas watched, she rocked back and forth, making small, moaning sounds.
“How can I go through with it?” Tas heard her say to herself. “I’ve brought them here. Isn’t that enough? No!” She shook her head in misery. “No, I’ve sent the orb away. They don’t know how to use it. I must break the oath. It is as you said, sister—the choice is mine. But it is hard! I love him—”
Sobbing, muttering to herself like one possessed, Silvara buried her face in her knees. The tender-hearted kender had never seen such sorrow, and he longed to go comfort her. Then he realized what she was talking about didn’t sound good. “Choice is a hard one, break the oath …”
No, Tas thought, I better find a way out of here before she realizes her spell didn’t work on me.
But Silvara blocked the entrance to the tomb. He might try to sneak past her.… Tas shook his head. Too risky.
The hole! He brightened. He’d wanted to examine it more carefully anyway. He just hoped the lid was still off.
The kender tiptoed around the bier until he came to the altar. There was the hole, still gaping open. Theros lay beside it, sound asleep, his head pillowed upon his silver arm. Glancing back at Silvara, Tas sneaked silently to the edge.
It would certainly be a better place to hide than where he was now. There were no stairs, but he could see handholds on the wall. A deft kender—such as himself—should have no trouble at all climbing down. Perhaps it led outside. Suddenly Tas heard a noise behind him. Silvara sighing and stirring.…
Without another thought, Tas lowered himself silently into the hole and began his descent. The walls were slick with moisture and moss, the handholds were spaced far apart. Built for humans, he thought irritably. No one ever considered little people!
He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the gems until he was practically on top of them.
“Reorx’s beard!” he swore. (He was fond of this oath, having borrowed it from Flint.) Six beautiful jewels—each as big around as his hand—were spaced in a horizontal ring around the walls of the shaft. They were covered with moss, but Tas could tell at a glance how valuable they were.
“Now why would anyone put such wonderful jewels down here?” he asked aloud. “I’ll bet it was some thief. If I can pry them loose, I’ll return them to their rightful owner.” His hand closed over a jewel.
A tremendous blast of wind filled the shaft, pulling the kender off the wall as easily as a winter gale rips a leaf off a tree. Falling, Tas looked back up, watching the light at the top of the shaft grow smaller a
nd smaller. He wondered briefly just how big the Hammer of Reorx was, and then he stopped falling.
For a moment, the wind tumbled him end over end. Then it switched directions, blowing him sideways. I’m not going to the other side of the world after all, he thought sadly. Sighing, he sailed along through another tunnel. Then he suddenly felt himself start to rise! A great wind was wafting him up the shaft! It was an unusual sensation, quite exhilarating. Instinctively, he spread his arms to see if he could touch the sides of whatever it was he was in. As he spread his arms, he noticed that he rose faster, borne gently upward on swift currents of air.
Perhaps I’m dead, Tas thought. I’m dead and now I’m lighter than air. How can I tell? Putting his arms down, he felt frantically for his pouches. He wasn’t certain, the kender had very vague ideas as to the afterlife—but he had a feeling they wouldn’t let him take his things with him. No, everything was there. Tas breathed a sigh of relief that turned into a gulp when he discovered himself slowing down and even starting to fall!
What? he thought wildly, then realized he had pulled both his arms in close to his body. Hurriedly he thrust his arms out again and, sure enough, he began to rise. Convinced that he wasn’t dead, he gave himself up to enjoying the flight.
Fluttering his hands, the kender rolled over on his back in midair, and stared up to see where he was going.
Ah, there was a light far above him, growing brighter and brighter. Now he could see that he was in a shaft, but it was much longer than the shaft he had tumbled down.
“Wait until Flint hears about this!” he said wistfully. Then he caught a glimpse of six jewels, like the ones he’d seen in the other shaft. The rushing wind began to lessen.
Just as he decided that he could really enjoy taking up flying as a way of life, Tas reached the top of the shaft. The air currents held him even with the stone floor of a torch-lit chamber. Tas waited a moment to see if he might start flying again, and he even flapped his arms a bit to help, but nothing happened. Apparently his flight had ended.
I might as well explore while I’m up here, the kender thought with a sigh. Jumping out of the air currents, he landed lightly on the stone floor, then began to look around.
Several torches flared on the walls, illuminating the chamber with a bright white radiance. This room was certainly much larger than the tomb! He was standing at the bottom of a great curving staircase. The huge flagstones of each step—as well as all the other stones in the room—were pure white, much different from the black stone of the tomb. The staircase curved to the right, leading up to what appeared to be another level of the chamber. Above him, he could see a railing overlooking the stairs, apparently there was some sort of balcony up there. Nearly breaking his neck trying to see, Tas thought he could make out swirls and splotches of bright colors shining in the torchlight from the opposite wall.
Who lit the torches, he wondered? What is this place? Part of Huma’s tomb? Or did I fly up into the Dragon Mountain? Who lives here? Those torches didn’t light themselves!
At that thought—just to be safe—Tas reached into his tunic and drew out his little knife. Holding it in his hand, he climbed the grand stairs and came out onto the balcony. It was a huge chamber, but he could see little of it in the flickering torchlight. Gigantic pillars supported the massive ceiling overhead. Another great staircase rose from this balcony level to yet another floor. Tas turned around, leaning against the railing to look at the walls behind him.
“Reorx’s beard!” he said softly. “Look at that!”
That was a painting. A mural, to be more precise. It began opposite where Tas was standing, at the head of the stairs, and extended on around the balcony in foot after foot of shimmering color. The kender was not much interested in artwork, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing anything quite so beautiful. Or had he? Somehow, it seemed familiar. Yes, the more he looked at it, the more he thought he’d seen it before.
Tas studied the painting, trying to remember. On the wall directly across from him was pictured a horrible scene of dragons of every color and description descending upon the land. Towns blazed in flames—like Tarsis—buildings crumbled, people were fleeing. It was a terrible sight, and the kender hurried past it.
He continued walking along the balcony, his eyes on the painting. He had just reached the central portion of the mural when he gasped.
“The Dragon Mountain! That’s it—there, on the wall!” he whispered to himself and was startled to hear his whisper come echoing back to him. Glancing around hastily, he crept closer to the other edge of the balcony. Leaning over the rail, he stared closely at the painting. It indeed showed the Dragon Mountain, where he was now. Only this showed a view of the mountain as if some giant sword had chopped it completely in half vertically!
“How wonderful!” The map-loving kender sighed. “Of course,” he said. “It is a map! And that’s where I am! I’ve gone up into the mountain.” He looked around the room in sudden realization. “I’m in the throat of the dragon. That’s why this room is such a funny shape.” He turned back to the map. “There’s the painting on the wall and there’s the balcony I’m standing on. And the pillars …” He turned completely around. “Yes, there’s the grand staircase.” He turned back. “It leads up into the head! And there’s how I came up. Some sort of wind chamber. But who built this … and why?”
Tasslehoff continued on around the balcony, hoping to find a clue in the painting. On the right-hand side of the gallery, another battle was portrayed. But this one didn’t fill him with horror. There were red dragons, and black, and blue, and white—breathing fire and ice—but fighting them were other dragons, dragons of silver and of gold.…
“I remember!” shouted Tasslehoff.
The kender begin jumping up and down, yelling like a wild thing. “I remember! I remember! It was in Pax Tharkas. Fizban showed me. There are good dragons in the world. They’ll help us fight the evil ones! We just have to find them. And there are the dragonlances!”
“Confound it!” snarled a voice below the kender. “Can’t a person get some sleep? What is all this racket? You’re making noise enough to wake the dead!”
Tasslehoff whirled around in alarm, his knife in his hand. He could have sworn he was alone up here. But no. Rising up off a stone bench that stood in a shadowy area out of the torchlight was a dark, robed figure. It shook itself, stretched, then got up and began to climb the stairs, moving swiftly toward the kender. Tas could not have gotten away, even if he had wanted to, and the kender found himself intensely curious about who was up here. He opened his mouth to ask this strange creature what it was and why it had chosen the throat of a Dragon Mountain to nap in, when the figure emerged into the light. It was an old man. It was—
Tasslehoff’s knife clattered to the floor. The kender sagged back against the railing. For the first, last, and only time in his life, Tasslehoff Burrfoot was struck speechless.
“F-F-F …” Nothing came out of his throat, only a croak.
“Well, what is it? Speak up!” snapped the old man, looming over him. “You were making enough noise a minute ago. What’s the matter? Something go down the wrong way?”
“F-F-F …” stuttered Tas weakly.
“Ah, poor boy. Afflicted, eh? Speech impediment. Sad, sad. Here—”The old man fumbled in his robes, opening numerous pouches while Tasslehoff stood trembling before him.
“There,” the figure said. Drawing forth a coin, he put it in the kender’s numb palm and closed his small, lifeless fingers over it. “Now, run along. Find a cleric …”
“Fizban!” Tasslehoff was finally able to gasp.
“Where?” The old man whirled around. Raising his staff, he peered fearfully into the darkness. Then something seemed to occur to him. Turning back around, he asked Tas in a loud whisper, “I say, are you sure you saw this Fizban? Isn’t he dead?”
“I know I thought so …” Tas said miserably.
“Then he shouldn’t be wandering around, scaring people!
” the old man declared angrily. “I’ll have a talk with him. Hey, you!” he began to shout.
Tas reached out a trembling hand and tugged at the old man’s robe. “I—I’m not sure, b-but I think you’re Fizban.”
“No, really?” the old man said, taken aback. “I was feeling a bit under the weather this morning, but I had no idea it was as bad as all that.” His shoulders sagged. “So I’m dead. Done for. Bought the farm. Kicked the bucket.” He staggered to a bench and plopped down. “Was it a nice funeral?” he asked. “Did lots of people come? Was there a twenty-one gun salute? I always wanted a twenty-one gun salute.”
“I—uh,” Tas stammered, wondering what a gun was. “Well, it was … more of a … memorial service you might say. You see, we—uh—couldn’t find your—how shall I put this?”
“Remains?” the old man said helpfully.
“Uh … remains.” Tas flushed. “We looked, but there were all these chicken feathers … and a dark elf … and Tanis said we were lucky to have escaped alive.…”
“Chicken feathers!” said the old man indignantly. “What have chicken feathers got to do with my funeral?”
“We—uh—you and me and Sestun. Do you remember Sestun, the gully dwarf? Well, there was that great, huge chain in Pax Tharkas. And that big red dragon. We were hanging onto the chain and the dragon breathed fire on it and the chain broke and we were falling”—Tas was warming up to his story; it had become one of his favorites—“and I knew it was all over. We were going to die. There must have been a seventy-foot drop” (this increased every time Tas told the tale) “and you were beneath me and I heard you chanting a spell—”
“Yes, I’m quite a good magician, you know.”
“Uh, right,” Tas stammered, then continued hurriedly. “You chanted this spell, Featherfall or something like that. Anyway, you only said the first word, ‘feather’ and suddenly”—the kender spread his hands, a look of awe on his face as he remembered what happened then—“there were millions and millions and millions of chicken feathers.…”
Dragons of Winter Night Page 26
