by Mark Anthony
But as Flint took his favorite wooden-handled hammer from a selection in his bench, he had another thought.
“Have you heard of the Graystone?”
From his position at the bellows, Tanis looked surprised at the turn of the conversation. “The Graystone of Gargath? Of course. Every elf child has to memorize the tale.”
“Miral mentioned it to me just today.” Flint’s voice was distracted, most of his attention on the forge. “Tell me the story as the elves know it,” Flint urged.
Tanis cast his friend a curious glance, but—careful to keep the bellows operating regularly—launched into the tale that Miral had made him learn by rote years earlier.
“Before the neutral god Reorx forged the world, the gods fought over the various races’ spirits, which at that time were still dancing among the stars.” He repositioned his hands on the wooden handles of the bellows.
Flint nodded, as if that checked out with the story the dwarves told. From a pile on a table next to the forge, he drew out a rod of iron about as long as a man’s hand and as thick as a little finger, and heated the rod in the coals.
The half-elf continued to recite. “The gods of good wanted the races to have power over the physical world. The gods of evil wanted to make the races slaves. And the gods of neutrality wanted the races to have physical power over the world plus the freedom to choose between good and evil—which was the course eventually decided upon.”
“Reorx thump you, lad, keep pumping that bellows!” the dwarf ordered. Tanis, stepping up the tempo, watched as Flint used iron tongs to retrieve the piece of metal from the coals and pound it into a rectangle with the hammer.
“Three races were born: elves, ogres, and humans—in that order, according to the elves,” Tanis said with a wouldn’t-you-know-it glance at the ceiling, his shoulder-length hair swinging as he kept pace with the bellows. “And so Reorx forged the world with the help of some human volunteers. But four thousand years before the Cataclysm, the humans angered Reorx by becoming proud of the skills Reorx had taught them and using them for their own ends. The god took back their skills but left their desire to tinker, and the gnomish race was born.”
The half-elf drew in a breath almost as great as the one the bellows was forcing across the coals. “Eventually, Reorx forged a gem to anchor neutrality to the world of Krynn. It would hold and radiate the essence of Lunitari, the red—neutral—moon. Reorx placed the Graystone on Lunitari.
Tanis broke off. “Does that match what you know?” Flint nodded, concentrating on placing the rectangle against the edge of the anvil and using the hammer to draw out a small finger at one end of the metal. Deftly, he rapped against the metal finger to make it cylindrical again. Then he turned it over and fashioned the finger into a ring at the end of the rectangle. As usual, Flint felt himself get caught up in the rhythm of the process: four raps on the metal, one on the anvil, four on metal, one on anvil.
Tanis broke in. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Pound the hammer on the anvil,” the half-elf said, pausing the bellows to look more closely. “It seems intentional—not as though you’ve missed the metal.”
“Keep pumping! Reorx above, lad, am I going to have to hire a gully dwarf to take your place?” Flint complained. “Of course I’m intentionally hitting the anvil. The metal of the hammer picks up heat as I tap it against this gate latch I’m making for Fleetfoot’s stall. Banging the hammer against the anvil every so often cools the hammer. See?” He demonstrated. “Now, go on.”
Tanis grinned at his friend. “The gnomes built a mechanical ladder that reached to the red moon, and they captured the Graystone, which some call the Graygem.”
Flint quickly rapped the other end of the rod into a point, and forced it perpendicular to the rod.
“But the gem escaped and floated away.” Tanis’s voice lost its recitation note and took on more enthusiasm. “The stone caused havoc on Krynn. As it passed by, it caused new animals and plants to spring up; old ones changed form.”
Flint reheated the rod, which was now recognizable as a gate latch with a loop at one end and a catch at the other.
“Finally,” Tanis said, “the gnomes split into two armies to search for the gem. They found it in the high tower of a barbarian prince named Gargath.”
Holding a pair of strong tongs at each end of the squared-off rod, the dwarf put his considerable strength into the operation and twisted the latch one full turn. The four edges of the rod swirled into a four-lined decoration at the middle of the latch. Flint thrust the latch into a half-barrel of cool water and then held it up for Tanis to see.
The half-elf raised his eyebrows, but kept pumping and talking. “The prince refused to hand over the stone, and the two groups declared war on him. When they finally penetrated the fortress, the stone’s light exploded through the area. And when the gnomes could see again, the two factions had changed.”
Flint was looking proudly at the latch. “I could sell this for a good price in Solace,” he told the half-elf.
“The curious gnomes,” Tanis said, “became kender. The ones who lusted for wealth became … uh … became …” Tanis stopped and blushed.
“Became …?” Flint prompted, still displaying the latch.
“… dwarves,” Tanis concluded, a bit shamefacedly.
“Ah,” said the dwarf. “You can stop the bellows now.”
Tanis bit his lower lip and studied the dwarf. “Is it the same story you knew?” he asked.
Flint smiled and nodded. “Same old story,” he said.
That night, Miral tossed on his pallet and drifted in and out of the same dream that had plagued him almost nightly since reports of the tylor had come in from the countryside.
He was very small, the size of a child, cowering in a crevice of an enormous cave. He knew that he was far underground, yet light from somewhere provided dim illumination.
Enough light penetrated the murk of the chamber that the tiny Miral could see the beaklike, open maw of the tylor that ranged this way and that as though seeking his scent.
“Come out,” the creature boomed. “I will not hurt you.”
Miral shuddered and pulled still farther into the opening, knowing he was dreaming and knowing, also, that he could do nothing to stop what was coming in this nightmare.
The dragonlike beast thrust one clawed foreleg into the crevice. Miral the child cringed back as far as he could go and, to his embarrassment, cried for his mother. He moved sideways and pressed his right side farther back, against the converging walls of the crevice.
Once again, as always in this dream, he felt cool air against his right arm—where there should have been nothing but dead, unmoving air. Miral knew that the worst part of the nightmare was ahead, the part that shocked him into wakefulness and the realization that he’d sleep no more.
As Miral shoved still harder against the angle of the crevice, a hand clutched his right arm.
Chapter 9
An Adventure
The next day got off to a good start, dawning fine and clear. Although frost sparkled on the green leaves in the first light of the morning, within an hour it vanished, and the day promised to be warm and gentle.
It had been Tanis’s suggestion to go looking for the sla-mori; the half-elf craved an adventure. Flint, after looking at his forge and considering what duties he could put off, finally accepted. Other groups of armed elves were out searching for the tylor, especially since the Speaker of the Sun had offered a considerable award to the hunter who downed the rare beast.
Tanis raided the larder of the palace kitchens, appearing at Flint’s door shortly after dawn, bearing a sack containing a loaf of brown bread, a yellow cheese, a flask of wine for himself, and a clay jug of ale for the dwarf.
Armed with battle-axe and short sword, Flint led Tanis, grumbling and carrying his longbow, across the five-hundred-foot bridge spanning the ravine that guarded the city to the west. The dwarf had heard that an anc
ient race of air elementals, creatures composed of air itself, guarded the regions above the rivers, prohibiting anything from crossing over it into Qualinost by any way except the bridge. Knowing that a peeved elemental was waiting for him to poke an arm or a leg over the bridge’s side so that it could blow him into the ravine five hundred feet below didn’t improve Flint’s opinion of the situation at all.
Tanis pointed to the north. “I’ve never been to the Kentommenai-kath,” Tanis said. “Let’s go.”
“I thought we were hunting for the tylor,” Flint said.
“We’re just as likely to find the lizard at the Kentommenai-kath as anywhere else. From what I hear, the lizard is more likely to find us than the other way around.”
“That’s reassuring,” Flint groused, trudging along behind Tanis and staying well away from the edge of the ravine. “And what in Krynn is a Kentommenai-kath?”
“When an elf undergoes a Kentommen, a close relative, one who has not yet undergone the ceremony himself, goes to an open area overlooking the River of Hope to keep vigil alone all night.”
“Don’t make me work so hard, boy,” Flint huffed. “What’s a Kentommen?”
“It’s a ceremony that elves undergo when they reach their ninety-ninth birthday—when they become adults. Porthios will have his Kentommen in a few months. Gilthanas, I imagine, will perform the Kentommenai-kath.”
The trail wound through the dense forest of aspen and pine, occasionally following the edge so closely that Flint felt his palms grow sweaty, and sometimes swerving upward back into the forest, to his relief. Finally, after more than an hour, they arrived at the Kentommenai-kath. The path opened into a sun-bathed outcropping of purple granite, dotted with white, green, and black lichens and looking east over the ravine. Flint could see the Tower of the Sun shining in the distance; the homes of the elves looked like pink stumps of branchless trees. The Grove, the forest in the center of Qualinost, was visible just north of the open area that must have been the Hall of the Sky.
The cries of birds carried faintly through the air. In the center of the Kentommenai-kath was a huge outcropping of purple granite, nearly flat but dotted with hand-size depressions that cradled clear water. The outcropping inclined gently toward the ravine’s edge.
“This is where the relative of the Kentommen elf kneels to pray to Habbakuk, to ask the god’s blessing on the young man or woman, to keep them in harmony with nature throughout their centuries,” Tanis said reverentially.
Flint wandered around the Kentommenai-kath, scuffing the rock with his traveling boots and admiring the purples, greens, and whites of the glade, surrounded by aspen, oak, and spruce. A sense of peace permeated the area. He looked over at Tanis and continued to stroll.
“Flint, no!” Tanis yelled, his face horrified.
Flint looked ahead … out … and down. The outcropping, which had a gentle grade on three sides, ended sharply at the edge on this side. The dwarf was a scant foot away from a drop of at least six hundred feet, maybe more.
He felt his blood freeze. Then a strong hand clamped down on his collar and jerked him back. Tanis and the dwarf lost their balance together on the uneven rocks and landed with a “hoof!” on the safe, solid granite. The half-elf was pale, and Flint patted the rock appreciatively with one clammy hand while his brain whirled.
“I …” Flint paused.
“You …” Tanis paused.
They stared at each other for a protracted moment, until Flint drew a shuddery breath. “The edge comes up a bit sudden there,” he said.
A crooked smile stirred faintly on the half-elf’s face. “A bit,” he agreed.
Flint, recovering his grumpiness, sat up and recovered his money-pouch, which had fallen from his tunic in the tumble. “Not that I was ever in any real danger of falling, though,” he reassured himself.
“Oh, no,” Tanis said, a little too quickly. “Certainly not.”
“Perhaps this would be a good time to stop to recov—ah, to stop for lunch,” the dwarf added.
Tanis nodded and retrieved their lunch sack. By unspoken agreement, they moved back from the edge another ten feet or so.
“I’m not worried for myself, mind you,” Flint said. “I just don’t know how I’d tell the Speaker you’d gone and dropped yourself off a cliff.” Tanis said nothing.
They broke bread in the bright sun of midmorning, with Flint pressing on Tanis the largest slices of cheese, the tastiest chunks of bread, and the finest pieces of fruit. Then they sat for a short time enjoying the view from a decent space back from the cliff, and decided to head back to Qualinost; Flint had work to do at the forge.
The problems began as the adventurers started the way back. The path must have forked as they came to the Kentommenai-kath, and neither had noticed. When they returned, they took the wrong path. Then the weather entered the picture. First a single dark cloud drifted past the sun.
“As my mother used to say, ‘One cloud gets lonely,’ ” Flint pointed out to the half-elf. Within a short time, a gray phalanx of clouds had crossed the sky overhead. The cloudy sky seemed to lower at an alarming rate, so that Tanis half thought it would drop right onto their heads, but the only thing that did was the rain—big, cold drops. Before long, half-elf and dwarf were soaked and chilled, and Flint had taken to grumbling the words “No more adventures … no more adventures …” over and over again.
All this might not have been so bad had it not been for the shortcut. Tanis expressed reluctance, but Flint only glared challengingly at him as the dwarf pointed down a barely visible footpath that cut off from the main trail.
“I thought I was the one who had traveled the face of Krynn,” Flint griped. “I suppose I was just mistaken.”
Tanis spent the next ten minutes assuring the dwarf that, indeed, Flint was the one who had had the experience on the road, that Flint was the one who knew forests like the back of his hand, and, yes, that he was the one who had been paying enough attention to practical matters on the way up to have seen the shortcut. Furthermore, he had fought off a rampaging tylor the previous day, practically unarmed. And so they plunged through the undergrowth onto the faint footpath leading into the rain-soaked woods.
They plunged deeper into the woods, watching worriedly for the tylor and growing soggier with each moment.
Two hours later, as the rain continued unabated, they ran into a tylor-hunting party and accompanied the group of unsuccessful hunters home. But Flint was coughing by the time they reached the outskirts of Qualinost, and feverish by the time Tanis pulled off his friend’s waterlogged tunic, breeches, and boots. Tanis wrapped him in a blanket, pushed him into a chair, and fired the forge for extra heat.
Now, in late afternoon, as Tanis stirred a pot of venison stew over the fire, the force of Flint’s sneeze sent the chair tilting backward so precariously that Tanis leaped to grab it before it tumbled over.
“Oof!” Tanis grunted, his knees nearly buckling as he pushed against the big wooden chair. “I know you aren’t terribly tall, Flint, but you are a bit on the dense side.” With a good deal of effort, he righted the chair, but the dwarf seemed less than grateful.
“Ah, what does it matter if I fall, seeing as I’m dying anyway?” the dwarf said glumly. He blew his nose into his linen handkerchief, a gift from the Speaker of the Sun, with a sound like a badly tuned trumpet. “At least that way I’ll be all laid out and ready for my coffin.” Flint huddled deeper into his woolen blanket and stuck his big-toed feet back in a steaming pail of water. Close as he was to the glowing coals of the forge, the heat couldn’t drive the chill from his dwarven bones, and his teeth chattered as he shivered.
“As it is, I’m practically frigid with cold anyway. Might as well be officially dead,” Flint complained.
“I could mull you some elvenblossom wine.”
Flint glared. “Why not take your sword and end my pain quickly? I’ll not go to Reorx embalmed in elven perfume!”
“Flint,” Tanis said gravely, “I kno
w you’ll be terribly disappointed. But you’ve only got a cold. You’re not dying.”
“Well, how would you know?” Flint growled. “Have you ever died?” Flint let out another monumental sneeze, his bulbous nose glowing red, a complement to the glow of the setting sun. Tanis could only shake his head. There was an odd sort of logic to the dwarf’s statement.
“No more adventures,” Flint roared. “No more tylors. Give me ogres any day. No more sla-mori. No more walks in the rain on the edge of the elven version of the Abyss.” He paused to gather strength for another volley. “This is all because I took that bath. Dwarves were not meant to be immersed in water two days in a row!” That last sentence, Tanis noted, sounded more like “Dwarvz were dod bed du be ibbersed id wadder du days idda row.”
It’s hard to believe the two had been sitting comfortably here at the forge only a day earlier, the half-elf thought.
Flint sniffled and blew his nose again. He set a warm washcloth on the top of his head, and, draped as he was in his dark blanket, he looked almost like some cheap mystic at a petty fair. “That’s the last time I’ll make the mistake of listening to you,” he grumbled for the umpteenth time.
Tanis did his best to hide his smile as he poured hot tea for the dwarf and set the mug in his stubby hands. “The rain has stopped. I should go practice with Tyresian.”
“This late? Fine, leave me to die alone,” Flint said. “But don’t come back and expect me to say, ‘Hullo, Tanis, how are you? Come inside and ruin an old dwarf’s day, won’t you?’ After all, I’ll be dead. You’ve got an hour or two left of daylight. See you later,” he said, waving his hand at Tanis. “Or then, probably not,” he added glumly.
Tanis shook his head. When Flint was like this, it was simply best to leave him to enjoy his misery. Tanis made sure the kettle was in the dwarf’s reach and that the water in the bucket was hot enough. He spooned a healthy portion of stew into a wooden trencher for Flint, then gathered his longbow and arrows and prepared to abandon the dwarf.
