Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

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Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 12

by Margaret Weis


  Raistlin glanced at the door and sighed. “At least, it used to. The tunnel might have been destroyed in the blast.”

  “Now that you’re being so open and honest,” said Sturm grimly, “I suppose you assume we’ll walk right in.”

  “Either that or spend the next several days searching for a way over these mountains, and more days after that in crossing them,” Raistlin replied. “It is up to you, Sir Knight. Which would you rather do? In the interests of saving time, Caramon and I will take this route. Won’t we, my brother?”

  “Sure, Raist,” said Caramon.

  Sturm was still frowning at the door.

  “C’mon, Sturm,” said Caramon in low tones. “You don’t want to go traipsing over these mountains. You might never find a way. Like Raist says, the door’s not magic. Dwarves built it. We saw doors that worked like this in Pax Tharkas. As for how Raist knew it was here, it doesn’t matter. Maybe he read about it in a book and just forgot.”

  Sturm regarded his friend thoughtfully. Then he smiled and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “If all mankind were as loyal and trusting as you are, Caramon, the world would be a better place. Unhappily—” his gaze shifted to Raistlin— “such is not the case. Still, as you say, this saves us time and effort.”

  Sturm walked over to the door and put his shoulder against the stone. Caramon joined him, and both shoved on the rock. At first, they made no progress. They might have been pushing on the side of the mountain. They gave it another shove, digging their heels into the ground, and suddenly the block of stone slid backward, moving so fast on steel tracks that Caramon lost his footing and fell flat. Sturm stumbled too, barely catching himself.

  The sun had vanished. The afterglow was all the light in the sky, and that would be gone soon.

  “Shirak,” said Raistlin, raising his staff. The crystal on top, held fast in the golden claw, burst into light. He walked past his brother, and Sturm, who stood hesitantly near the opening in the stone wall, and entered the tunnel.

  Light gleamed on a steel rail about six feet in length, running straight into the passage until, at this juncture, the rail line split, part of it curving around to the left to come up against a wall, The rest continued on down the tunnel, disappearing in the darkness. Raistlin examined the mechanism with interest.

  “Look at this,” he said, pointing. “The door is mounted on wheels that run along the rail. The door can then be pushed against this wall, so that it is out of the way.”

  Four carts mounted on rails stood in a row. The carts were still in good condition, for the passage beneath the mountain had been sealed up tight. The floor and walls were dry. Raistlin glanced inside the carts. They were empty. By the looks of them, they had never been used.

  “Supply wagons could be driven up to the tunnel, their contents unloaded onto these carts. The carts were either pushed or pulled along the rails, down the tunnel, and into Zhaman. Thus, even besieged, the fortress could still be resupplied, and in case defeat was imminent, those inside the fortress could use this route to escape.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” stated Caramon, entering and peering around.

  “What doesn’t?” asked his brother impatiently.

  “According to Flint, when the wizard saw that he was about to be defeated, he decided to destroy himself and kill thousands of his own troops.” Caramon gestured to the tunnel. “Why would he do that when he could have fled to safety?”

  “You have a point, my brother,” Raistlin said thoughtfully. “It is strange. I wonder …”

  “Wonder what?” asked Caramon.

  “Nothing.” Raistlin shook his head, yet he remained thoughtful.

  “Bah! The wizard was mad,” said Sturm flatly, “consumed by his own evil.”

  “Fistandantilus was many things,” said Raistlin softly, “but he was not mad.” He shrugged himself out of his reverie. “We waste our time in idle speculation. It is unlikely that anyone will ever know the truth of what happened in Zhaman at the end.”

  Further exploration of the tunnel revealed a cache of weapons and armor of dwarven make, torches and lanterns, pick axes, and other tools, stores of food and casks of ale. The food had all been devoured by rodents. The casks were also empty, much to Caramon’s disappointment, though his brother pointed out that any ale left sitting around for three centuries would hardly be drinkable.

  Sturm lit one of the torches and set to out examine the area, searching for tracks or other signs that this tunnel might be inhabited. He explored the passage for about a mile and returned to report that he could find no indication that other living beings had walked the tunnel. He laid grim emphasis on the word “living,” reminding them all that Skullcap was supposed to be haunted.

  Raistlin smiled and said nothing.

  Caramon proposed they spend the night at the entrance and proceed down the tunnel the next day. Raistlin would have pushed on, even though he knew he could not go far before he collapsed. Though weary to the point of dropping, he was restless, incapable of settling down.

  He ate little and drank his tea. Caramon and Sturm sat at their ease, discussing what they knew of the Dwarfgate Wars, which knowledge came mostly from Flint’s stories of the conflict. Raistlin roamed about the tunnel, staring intently into the darkness, wishing he was capable of piercing it and drawing forth its secrets. When he finally was so exhausted he could not take another step, he lay down on his bedroll and fell immediately into a deep slumber.

  Caramon and Sturm debated whether or not to close and seal the tunnel by shoving the stone door back into place. They decided to leave it open, in case they needed to make a quick escape.

  As Sturm said, rolling himself up in his blanket, “We know what’s out there. We don’t know what’s in here.”

  “And we know we’re not being followed,” said Caramon with a yawn.

  As it turned out, they were both wrong. Tas and Tika were out there, and they were following them.

  Midway through the day, Tasslehoff and Tika had finally managed to sneak away from laundry detail. When it came time to spread the sopping wet clothes and bedding over bushes to dry, Tika had eagerly volunteered for the task. A quick poke in the ribs had caused Tas to volunteer as well. Tas had managed to retrieve their packs and hide them beneath a rotted log. Snagging these, the two of them had dumped the laundry they were supposed to be hanging and slipped away from camp.

  They’d picked up the trail of the three men with ease. They could see in the snow the print of Raistlin’s narrow feet, the brush-marks left by the hem of his robes, and indentations made by his staff. Caramon’s large footprints were always near the smaller prints of his brother, and Sturm’s heavy prints came behind, guarding the rear.

  Well aware that they’d lost valuable time and that they had only half the day left before darkness overtook them, Tika tried her best to hurry along. This proved difficult, for Tasslehoff was constantly being distracted by something he saw and continually starting to venture off to investigate. Tika had to either argue him out of it, forcibly restrain him, or if she happened to be looking the other way, go chase him down.

  When night fell, the two were still inside the forest.

  “We have to stop,” Tika said, dispirited. “If we go on, we might miss their tracks in the dark. Does this clearing look like a good place to camp?”

  “As good as any,” said Tas. “There are probably wolves out there ready to tear us apart, but if we build a fire we can keep them away.”

  “Wolves?” Tika glanced nervously around the dark forest.

  She had traveled far from Solace and the Inn of the Last Home, where she had worked as a barmaid, going on a journey she had never expected to take. Neither had she expected to fall in love on this journey and certainly not with Caramon Majere, who had teased her unmercifully when she was a little girl, calling her “Carrot-top,” “Freckle-face” and “Skinny Butt.”

  He didn’t call her those names now, of course. No one did. Tika had
filled out nicely; too nicely, she thought, when she compared herself to the graceful, sylph-like Laurana. Buxom and broad-shouldered, with strong, muscular arms, gleaned from years of carrying heavy trays of food and hefting mugs of ale, Tika was always amused when someone termed her “pretty”. Her red curls, green eyes and flashing smile had captured more than one heart back in Solace, and now Caramon’s was among them, his the most treasured.

  Here she was, far from home, far from anything resembling a home, if you came down to it, spending the night in a dark—extremely dark—forest, her only companion a kender. While Tasslehoff was her best friend and she was very glad he was with her, she couldn’t help wishing he wouldn’t talk quite so much or so loudly and especially that he wouldn’t keep jumping up at every strange noise and crying out eagerly, “Did you hear that, Tika? It sounded like a bear!”

  Tika had spent many nights in the wilderness on this trip but always in company with skilled warriors who knew how to defend themselves. Tika had been in a few fights, but thus far the only weapon she had ever wielded with élan was a heavy iron skillet. She had found a sword, but she knew quite well, for she’d been told often enough, that when she wielded it, she was dangerous only to herself.

  Tika had not meant to be spending this night alone. She’d meant to be spending the night with Caramon. She knew that once she’d caught up with them, neither Sturm nor Caramon would send her back alone and unprotected, no matter what Raistlin might say. They would have to take her and Tas along with them, and she would be able to keep Caramon out of whatever trouble his brother was likely to get him into.

  A snapping sound nearby caused her heart to stop.

  “What was that?” she gasped.

  Tas had grown sleepy by this time and gone to bed.

  “Probably a goblin,” he said drowsily. “You’re taking first watch.”

  Tika gave a muffled shriek and grabbed her sword.

  “Don’t worry,” said Tas, yawning and pulling his blanket up over his head. “Goblins almost never attack by night. Ghosts and ghouls attack by night.”

  Tika, who had been reassured, wasn’t anymore.

  “You don’t think there are ghosts here?” she asked, dismayed.

  “There aren’t any burial grounds around, at least that we’ve found, so I expect not,” said Tas, after giving the matter some thought. He added, with another jaw-cracking yawn, “If a ghost does show up, Tika, be sure to wake me. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  Tika told herself that the snapping noise she had heard was a deer, not a bear or a wolf, but she quickly threw more wood on the fire until she realized that the fire would reveal them to their enemies. Then she wondered in a panic if she should put it out.

  Before she could decide, the fire began to die and there was no more fuel. Tika was afraid to go out to gather wood, and when the last flickering light from the last ember disappeared, she sat in the darkness, clutching her sword and hating Tasslehoff with all her might for sleeping so soundly and peacefully when there were ghosts, goblins, wolves, and other horrible things all around them.

  Terror is exhausting, however, not to mention she’d spent half the day hauling water and wringing out wet clothes and the other half traipsing through the woods. Tika’s head sank onto her chest. The hand holding the sword relaxed its grip.

  Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was that one was never ever supposed to fall asleep on watch.

  10

  A memory of the past.

  Hope for the future. Mumblety-peg.

  turm took first watch for their group that night. Caramon took second. They did not ask Raistlin to stand watch. Sturm would not have trusted him, and Caramon proclaimed his brother too weak; Raist needed his sleep.

  The night passed in such profound peace and quiet that Sturm found it difficult to stay awake. He was at length forced to march up and down along the tunnel to fight off the longing to close his eyes. As he marched, his mind went, as it generally did when he was alone, to the time he’d spent in Solamnia, a bittersweet time, with more bitter than sweet.

  The knighthood that had once been so revered in Solamnia had long since fallen into disrepute. The reasons for this were numerous. The Cataclysm brought death and destruction to all parts Krynn, not excluding the nation of Solamnia. Shortly after the disaster struck, rumors began to spread throughout Solamnia that the knights had been given the power by the gods to prevent the Cataclysm and had failed to stop it.

  People who had lost everything—homes, livelihood, friends and family—were glad to have someone to blame, and the knights were easy targets. Add to this volatile situation those who had always been jealous of the power wielded by the knights, and those who believed, rightly or wrongly, that the knights had grown wealthy at the expense of the poor, and it was small wonder the mixture exploded.

  Mobs attacked the knights’ halls and castles. The knights could not win under such circumstances. If they defended themselves against the mobs and killed people, they were called murderers. If they did not stand up to the mobs, they risked losing everything, including their lives. The turmoil in Solamnia would abate for a time, then again rear its monstrous head. The knights continued to try desperately to bring stability and peace to the land, and in some places they would succeed, but because their Order was fractured, individual knights could never hold onto power for long.

  Sturm’s family had worked hard to maintain peace in their ancestral holding, and they had succeeded longer than most, for the Brightblades were revered and honored by those they governed. Outsiders came to the villages and towns under their control, however, and began stirring up trouble, as they were now doing over much of Solamnia. This was, in truth, a concerted effort by the forces of the Dark Queen to undermine the power of her most implacable enemies. None knew this at the time, however. Angriff Brightblade, foreseeing trouble, sent his wife and son south to the tree-top town of Solace, long known as a safe haven for those in desperate straits.

  Sturm grew up in Solace, raised on his mother’s tales of the past glories of the knighthood. He read and studied the Measure—the code of laws devised by the knights—and he lived by the Oath Est sularus et mithas, “My honor is my life.” He and his mother heard little news from the north, and what they did hear was bad. Then the time came that they heard no news at all. When Sturm’s mother died, he determined to seek out his father and he traveled north to Solamnia.

  Sturm discovered his family’s hall in ruins, for it had not only been ransacked, it had also been burned and razed. He could not find his father, nor could he discover what had happened to Angriff Brightblade. Some said this; some said that. No one knew for certain. Sturm believed his father must be dead; otherwise nothing would have kept him from returning to claim the castle of his ancestors.

  While his father might be dead, his father’s debts were very much alive. Angriff had borrowed heavily on his lands in order to keep them up and provide aid to the poor and destitute under his protection. The bitter irony of the fact that those who had attacked the hall were those who were alive to do so because of his father’s help was not lost upon Sturm. He was forced to sell off the lands of his forefathers in order to settle the debts. All that was left when he was finished was his father’s sword and armor. And his honor.

  Sturm thought back to all this as he walked his watch in the darkness of the tunnel, his pacing lit by the feeble light of a lantern. The night before he left to return to Solace, the only home he had ever known, he had entered the Brightblade vault where the dead lay in repose. Located in the ruins of the family chapel, the burial chamber was accessible only by a sealed bronze door, the key to which was hidden in the chapel. There was evidence that the mob had attempted to batter down the door, probably hoping to find wealth inside. The door held firm, as had the Brightblades, down through the centuries.

  Sturm found the hidden key and opened the door and went, hushed and reverent, into the vault, his eyes half-blinded by his tears. The tombs holdin
g his fore-bearers stood in the gloom. Stone knights lay atop upon the sarcophagi, their graven hands holding graven swords. Sturm’s father had no tomb, for none knew where his body lay buried. Sturm placed on the floor a living rose in memory of his father, and he went down on his knees and asked his ancestors for forgiveness for having failed them.

  Sturm kept vigil all that night. When the light of dawn crept into the chamber, he rose stiffly to his feet and made a solemn vow on the sword, which was all he had left, that he would restore the honor and glory of the Brightblade family. He left the vault, shutting and sealing the bronze door. He kept the key with him until he was on board ship back to Abanasinia. Standing on the deck in the silver light of Solinari, Sturm consigned the key to the ocean’s depths.

  As yet, he’d done nothing to fulfill that oath.

  He walked the tunnel with measured tread, thinking his melancholy thoughts, when he was interrupted.

  “Will you stop that pacing!” Raistlin demanded peevishly. “I cannot sleep with you stomping about.”

  Sturm halted, turned to confront the mage.

  “What is it you hope to find in this accursed place, Raistlin? What is so important that you risk all our lives to find it?”

  All Sturm could see of Raistlin were his strange hourglass eyes gleaming in the lantern light. Sturm had not really expected an answer, and he was startled when Raistlin said, his voice cool and clear in the darkness, “What is it you are hoping to find in Skullcap?”

  When Sturm made no reply, Raistlin continued, “You did not choose to go with us for love of me certainly. You know that both Caramon and I are capable of taking care of ourselves, so why did you come?”

  “I see no need to bandy words with you, Raistlin,” Sturm returned. “My reasons are my own.”

  “The Hammer of Kharas,” said Raistlin. He drew out the last syllable into a sibilant hiss.

  Sturm was startled. He had spoken of the Hammer only to Tanis. His first impulse was to turn away, but he could not resist the challenge.

 

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