Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  “Four humans, a Neidar, and a kender.” Arman spoke the last word as though it tasted bad.

  “Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Tasslehoff, starting forward, his hand outstretched.

  Caramon caught hold of the kender and yanked him back. He kept a firm hold on Tas’s shoulder, and Raistlin assisted by planting his staff in front of the kender.

  “I was only being polite,” Tas said, aggrieved.

  “How did four humans, a Neidar, and a kender enter the sealed gate?” Arman demanded.

  Flint opened his mouth to answer, but Arman raised his hand in a commanding gesture. “Where did you come by this helm you hold? It is of ancient Hylar design and worth a king’s ransom by the looks of it. How did a Neidar come into possession of such a helm?”

  “We found it,” Tas answered, reciting the kender mantra. “I think you must have dropped it.”

  Caramon sighed and clapped his large hand over the kender’s mouth.

  Flint had been slowly seething ever since Arman Kharas spoke. He could stand it no longer. His rage boiled over.

  “I see the dwarves beneath the mountain have learned no manners in three hundred years!” Flint said angrily. “You stand in the presence of an elder, young man, yet you do not have the courtesy to ask my name, or why we are here, before you start in with your accusations.”

  Arman’s face flushed. “I am a Hylar prince. I ask the questions, and I give the commands. Still,” he said, after a pause which indicated that perhaps he was not quite as confident of himself as he let on, “I will permit you to explain, if you can. Introduce yourselves.”

  “I am Flint, son of Durgar, son of Reghar Fireforge. A hill dwarf,” Flint added, almost shouting the words, “as were my father and grandfather before me. Who is your father, Arman Kharas, that you claim to be a prince?”

  “I am, as I said, Arman Kharas, the son of Hornfel, Thane of the Hylar. I am the hero of the dwarves reborn. When I was given this name, a hallowed light surrounded me—the spirit of Kharas entered my body. I am the living embodiment of him, and as such, I am destined to find the Hammer, unify the dwarven nations, and make my father, Hornfel, king.”

  As Arman was proclaiming his grand legacy, Tanis noticed some of his men roll their eyes. Several appeared embarrassed. One muttered something in a low voice and those near him grinned. Their amusement vanished swiftly when Arman happened to glance their way.

  Flint stroked his beard. He did not know what to say to this and at last decided to return to the subject of the gate.

  “As I told you, Arman Kharas, the gate opened for us. We had no part in its destruction. The ledge on which the block should have come to rest has crumbled with time. The mechanism pushed the gate out beyond the end. The shaft could not bear the heavy weight of the stone block, and it broke off and fell into the ravine below.”

  “How did you find the gate that has been concealed for three hundred years, Flint Fireforge?” Arman Kharas demanded, frowning. He continued to use Common, so that they could all understand. “And by what means did you enter, you and your human companions?”

  “And kender,” Tasslehoff mumbled behind Caramon’s hand. “He keeps leaving me out!”

  “Wishful thinking,” Caramon muttered.

  “We were guided by this,” Flint replied, and he held up the Helm of Grallen. “My friends found the helm in Skullcap—”

  “I found the helm in Skullcap,” Raistlin corrected. He gave a slight bow to Arman Kharas. “I am Raistlin Majere, and this is my brother, Caramon.”

  Caramon made an awkward, bobbing bow.

  “I knew immediately the helm was magical,” Raistlin continued. “It was possessed by the spirit of its late owner, who died in that battle. His name was Grallen, son of Duncan—

  Arman gave a cry, and placing his hand on his sword, he took a step backward. His men crowded around him, shouting and clamoring, their deep voices booming.

  Caramon clapped his hand to his sword, as did Sturm. They looked at Flint, who appeared as confused as any of them. This was not the reaction they had expected. They had assumed that they would be lauded as heroes for returning the helm of the dead prince. Instead it seemed more likely that they were going to be forced to fight for their lives.

  Arman silenced the tumult with a commanding gesture. He stared at the helm, his expression dark and grim, then looked back at Raistlin.

  “A human wizard. I might have known. Was it you who brought the helm here?” he demanded.

  “I found it,” said Raistlin. “This noble knight”—he indicated Sturm—“volunteered to wear the helm, thus permitting the spirit of the dwarven prince to take control of his body. Under the helm’s enchantment, Prince Grallen asked us to accompany him to the hall of his fathers. The spirit of the prince opened the gate. We are glad to have been able to fulfill his soul’s request, aren’t we, Sturm?” Raistlin said pointedly.

  “I am Sturm, son of Angriff Brightblade,” Sturm said, not moving his hand from his sword. “I am honored to have been able to serve the fallen prince.”

  Arman gazed at each of them, his dark eyes glinting beneath lowering brows.

  “Your turn, Tanis,” said Raistlin softly.

  Tanis glanced at Flint, who shrugged. He was as confused as the rest.

  “Your Highness,” Tanis said, addressing Arman Kharas, “Raistlin is being diplomatic when he says that we came here with the helm voluntarily. The truth is that we had no choice in the matter. The helm took our friend, Sturm Brightblade, hostage, as it were, and forced him to come to Thorbardin. He did not know what he was doing. He was held in thrall by a prince who died three hundred years ago. We had no idea who this prince was. None of us have ever heard of him, except Flint, who knows the history of your people.”

  “I know it well. I know how King Duncan shut us out of the mountain, left us to starve—”

  “You’re not helping,” Tanis murmured.

  Flint muttered something into his beard.

  Kharas shook his head.

  “If I believe your tale, and you did bring the helm back to us in all innocence, that is worse.” He gazed at the helm, and his expression darkened. “The helm of Prince Grallen is cursed, and if this is the helm of the prince, you have brought the curse on us. You bring the doom of the dwarves upon us!”

  Tanis sighed. “I’m sorry. We had no way of knowing.” His apology was lame, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Perhaps you did, perhaps you did not,” said Arman Kharas. “I must report this matter of the destruction of the gate to the Council of Thanes. You will have a chance to tell your story to them. If they believe it—”

  “What do you mean ‘if’?” Flint said, bristling. “Do you have the nerve to tell me to my beard that my friends and I are lying?”

  “We have only your word that this helm is what you claim it to be. It might be a fraud, a fake.”

  Flint seemed to swell in rage. Before he could, speak, Raistlin said coldly, “There is a simple way to find out if we are telling the truth, Your Highness.”

  “What would that be?” Kharas demanded, suspicious.

  “Put the helm on your head,” said Raistlin.

  Kharas cast the helm an appalled glance. “No dwarf would dare! The Council will judge how best to proceed.”

  “I’ll put it on!” Tasslehoff offered, but no one took him up on it.

  “I have no need to prove to this Council or anyone that I am not a liar!” Flint was so angry he could barely speak. He whipped around to face his friends. “I told all of you it was a mistake to come here! I don’t know what the rest of you plan to do, but I’m leaving! And seeing as how this helm is not wanted here, I’m taking it with me!”

  Flint tucked the helm under his arm and stalked off down the corridor, heading toward the ruined gate.

  “Stop him!” ordered Arman Kharas. He made a commanding gesture. “Seize them!”

  His soldiers were already on the move. Sturm looked down at a dwarven spear tickl
ing his throat. Tanis felt something sharp jab him in the back. Caramon raised his fists. Raistlin said something to him, and Caramon, glowering at the dwarves, let his arms fall to his sides. Tasslehoff made a swipe with his hoopak, but a dwarf kicked the weapon out of the kender’s hand, and grasping Tas by the hair, put his knife to Tas’s neck.

  Hearing the commotion behind him, Flint turned around. He was red-faced with fury, the veins in his head popping. Placing the Helm of Grallen at his feet, he stood over it protectively, and raised his battle axe.

  “I’ll send the soul of the first dwarf who comes near me to the hall of his fathers, Reorx take me if I don’t!”

  Arman Kharas spoke a sharp command, and four dwarves went after Flint, weapons drawn.

  “He’s going to get us all killed, Tanis!” Raistlin warned.

  Tanis shouted for Flint to stop, but the outraged hill dwarf was cursing, swearing, and swinging his axe in vicious arcs, and either he could not hear or he was ignoring Tanis’s command. The dwarf soldiers prodded at him with their spears. Flint struck at them with his axe. All the while, another solider had slipped up behind him. The soldier thrust out his foot, tripping Flint, who went over backward. The other soldiers jumped on him. One snatched away his axe. The others pinned his hand and feet.

  “Thorbardin treachery! I expected it! I warned you of this, Tanis!” Flint bellowed, struggling to free himself, to no avail. “I told you they would treat us this way!”

  Once Flint’s hands were bound, the soldiers hoisted him to his feet, still cursing and raving. All of them, Kharas included, eyed the Helm of Grallen that stood on the floor where Flint had placed it. None of them made any move to go near it, much less touch it.

  “I will carry it,” Raistlin offered.

  Kharas appeared tempted to accept, but he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “If this curse is come to Thorbardin, let it fall on me.”

  He reached down for the helm. The other dwarves backed away from him, watching in dread anticipation, certain something dire was about to happen.

  Kharas clasped the helm, involuntarily wincing as he touched it.

  Nothing happened.

  He lifted the helm, placed it under his arm, wiped the sweat from his face. He gestured to the companions. “Take their weapons and tie them up securely.”

  Dwarves bound their hands, all except Raistlin, who forbade them to touch him. They glanced at him askance, glanced at each other, and let him be. Arman stopped to gently assist the sickly dwarf to his feet then led the way through the darkened hall.

  Tanis, prodded from behind by a spear, followed.

  “I don’t suppose this would be a good time to ask them to provide shelter for eight hundred humans,” Raistlin murmured, coming up behind him.

  Tanis flashed him a grim glance.

  The dwarf behind Tanis prodded him again in the back. “Keep moving, scum!” he ordered in Dwarvish.

  They kept moving deeper into the mountain, bearing the doom of the dwarves—and most likely their own—along with them.

  3

  Faith. Hope. And Hederick.

  he refugees trekked through the narrow pass. The going was slow and wearisome, for they had to pick their way among the rocks and crags, always keeping one eye on the gray and cloud-choked sky above them. They could see no dragons, but they could feel their constant presence. The dragonfear that radiated from the beasts was not strong, for the dragons flew high overhead, hidden by the clouds, but the fear was an added weight on their hearts, an added burden on their souls and slowed the people down.

  “The pass is too dangerous for the dragons to enter. Why should they bother?” Riverwind said to Elistan, “They have only to wait for us to emerge from this pass, which we must do sooner or later, for we do not have the supplies to remain here long. Once we move out into the open, they will attack us, and we have no idea how far we are from Thorbardin, or even if there will be a refuge for us when we get there.”

  “I feel the fear,” Elistan replied, “like a shadow over my heart, yet, my friend, shadows are caused by sunlight behind them. Other eyes look down on us and watch over us. It might be well to remind the people of that.”

  “Then you’d first better remind me,” Riverwind said. “My faith in the gods is being sorely tested. I admit it.”

  “Mine, as well,” said Elistan calmly, and Riverwind regarded the cleric in astonishment.

  Elistan smiled. “You seem surprised to hear me say that. Faith in the gods does not come easily, my friend. We cannot see them or hear them. They do not walk beside us, like overprotective parents, coddling and cosseting us, holding us by the hand lest we trip and fall. I think we would soon grow angry and rebellious if they did.”

  “Isn’t it wrong to doubt them?”

  “Doubt is natural. We are mortal. Our minds are the size of this small pebble compared to the minds of the gods that are as large as all heaven. The gods know that we have no way to comprehend their vision. They are patient with us and forbearing.”

  “Yet they hurled a fiery mountain down on the world as punishment,” said Riverwind. “Thousands died and thousands more suffered as a result. How are we to account for that?”

  “We cannot,” said Elistan simply. “We can feel sorrow and anger. That is perfectly natural. I am angry when I think back on it. I do not understand why the gods did this. I question them constantly.”

  “Yet you remain faithful to them.” Riverwind marveled. “You love them.”

  “When you have children, will they never grow angry at you? Never doubt you or defy you? Do you want your children to be meek and submissive, always look to you for answers, obey you without question?”

  “Of course not,” said Riverwind. “Such weak children would never be able to make their own way in the world.”

  “Would you love your children if they defied you, rebelled against you?”

  “I would be angry with them, but I would love them,” said Riverwind quietly, and his gaze went to Goldmoon, moving among the people, speaking to them softly, bringing them comfort and ease, “for they are my children.”

  “So do the gods of light love us.”

  One of the Plainsmen was hovering near, not wanting to break in on their conversation, yet obviously the bearer of important news. Riverwind turned to him, signing to Elistan that he was to remain.

  “Yes, Nighthawk, what is it?”

  “The trail marked by the half-elf and the dwarf continues down this mountain into a pine forest, then ascends into the mountain along a narrow defile. The elf, Gilthanas, who has the eyes of the eagle, can see a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. He believes this could be the fabled gate of Thorbardin.”

  “Or a cave … or a dragon’s lair,” said Riverwind.

  Even as he spoke his doubts, he smiled ruefully at Elistan.

  Nighthawk shook his head. “According to Gilthanas, the hole is rectangular with squared-off edges. Nature did not form it, nor a dragon.”

  “What kind of terrain lies between us and this gate, should it prove to be a gate?” Riverwind asked.

  “Open to the wind and sky,” Nighthawk replied.

  “And to the eyes of dragons,” said Riverwind, “and the eyes of a draconian army.”

  “Yes, Chieftain,” Nighthawk replied. “The enemy is out there and on the move. We saw what looked to be draconian troops leaving the foothills and heading into the mountains.”

  “They know we are here. The dragons have told them.”

  “We can defend this pass,” suggested Nighthawk.

  “We cannot stay here forever, though. We have supplies enough for a few days, and soon the snows will start. What is this ancient road like?”

  “Well built. Two can walk side-by-side with room to spare, but there is no cover until we reach the tree line at the bottom, nor is there cover when we start back up the mountain. Not a tree or a bush in sight.”

  Riverwind shook his head gloomily.

  “Return a
nd keep watch on the enemy and on that hole in the side of the mountain. Let me know if anyone comes out, or goes in. This might tell us if we have truly found the gate.

  Riverwind turned back to Elistan.

  “Now what do I do, Revered Son? It looks as though we may have found the Gate of Thorbardin, but we cannot reach it. The gods give us their blessing with one hand and smack us in the face with the other.”

  Elistan was about to say something in response, when Goldmoon walked up.

  “My turn,” she said. She looked angry clear through. Her lips were compressed, her blue eyes glinting

  Riverwind sighed. “What new problem do you bring me, wife?”

  “An old problem—Hederick. Why Mishakal didn’t yank his feet out from under him while he was crossing that cliff face—” Goldmoon saw Elistan standing there, and she flushed. “I’m sorry, Revered Son. I know such thoughts are wicked…”

  “Hederick is enough to try even a god’s patience,” Elistan said dryly. “I’m sure Mishakal must have been tempted to do just that. What mischief is he causing now?”

  “He’s going among the people saying that Riverwind has led us to our deaths. Riverwind caused the rockslide, and now we cannot return to the caves. We are trapped in this pass, where we will die of cold and hunger.”

  “What else?” Riverwind asked, for Goldmoon had hesitated. “Tell me the worst.”

  “Hederick is advocating that we should surrender, give ourselves up to Verminaard.”

  “Hederick was the one who led the dragons to us!” Riverwind said angrily. “I was forced to start the rock slide because he put us in danger! I should have left him to his fate!”

  “Are the people listening to him?” Elistan asked, his expression grave.

  “I’m afraid so, Revered Son.” Goldmoon rested her hand on her husband’s arm in sympathy. “It is not your fault. The people know that, but they are cold, tired, and weighed down by the dragonfear. They can’t go back to the caves, and they are terrified of going forward.”

  “They know what Verminaard will do to them! He’ll send them back to the mines.”

  “I very much doubt it,” said Elistan. “He came to the caves with the intention of killing, not capturing.”