Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  “The people won’t believe that. A man lost and wandering in the wilderness sees even a prison cell as a refuge,” Goldmoon said. “You must talk to them, husband. Reassure them. Nighthawk told me that the scouts may have found the gate—”

  “For all the good it will do us,” Riverwind muttered. “There is a draconian army between us and the gate, and we’re not even sure this hole in the mountain is the gate. It might just be a hole in the mountain. If it is the gate, there may be a dwarven army massed inside waiting to slaughter us!”

  Riverwind sat down dejectedly on a boulder. His shoulders slumped. “Tanis chose the wrong man. I do not know what to do.”

  “At least you know what not to do,” said Goldmoon spiritedly. “Don’t pay attention to Hederick!”

  Riverwind smiled at this and even gave a low chuckle, though his laughter faded away. He put his arm around Goldmoon and drew her close.

  “What do you advise me to do, wife?”

  “Tell the people the truth.” She put her hands on his face, looked lovingly into his eyes. “Be honest with them. That’s all they ask. We will give our prayers to the gods, ask them to help us through the long night. The dawn brings a new day and fresh hope.”

  Riverwind kissed her. “You are my joy and my salvation. The gods know what I would do without you.”

  “And there is a small blessing,” said Goldmoon, nestling in her husband’s arms. “The dragons know we are here. There is no longer any need to hide from them. We can light fires for warmth.”

  “Indeed, we can,” said Riverwind. “We will light the fires not only for warmth but for defiance, and instead of begging the gods to save us, we will offer them our grateful thanks for our deliverance. We will not even think of surrendering!”

  The refugees lit the fires in defiance of the dragons, and when the fires were burning brightly, bringing warmth and cheer, the people sent their prayers to the gods in thanksgiving. The dragonfear seemed to melt and spirits lifted. Everyone spoke hopefully of the dawn of a new tomorrow.

  Hederick saw that he had lost his audience, and he ceased talking of surrender and gave his prayers of thanks piously with the rest. He had no faith at all in these new gods, though he pretended he did because it was politically expedient. He had unbounded faith in himself, however, and he truly believed that if they surrendered to Verminaard, as he advocated, he could worm his way into the Highlord’s good graces. To give Hederick credit, he did not believe they had any chance at all of escape. He was convinced that Riverwind was an ignorant brute who would rather see them all perish than bow to his enemy.

  Hederick was not dismayed. As a politician, he knew the masses were fickle. All he had to do was bide his time, and they would come around to his point of view. He went to sleep that night thinking complacently of tomorrow when Riverwind, Elistan and their cohorts must finally admit defeat.

  The next day dawned and brought change. Unfortunately the change was not for the good. The dragons flew nearer, the dragonfear was stronger, the air was colder, and the day bleaker.

  Hederick walked up to Riverwind and spoke loudly, so that as many as possible could hear him.

  “What will you do now, Chieftain? Our people are starting to sicken, and soon they will begin to die. You know as well as I do that we cannot stay here. Your gods have failed you. Admit that this venture was foolishly undertaken. Our only hope is to surrender to the Dragon Highlord—an unpleasant and dangerous task, but one I offer to undertake.”

  “And you will receive Verminaard’s reward for handing us over to him,” said Riverwind.

  “Unlike you, I am thinking of the people’s welfare,” said Hederick. “You would see all us all perish rather than admit you were wrong!”

  Riverwind could have cheerfully seen at least one of them perish, but he kept silent.

  “Perhaps you are waiting for the gods to perform a miracle?” Hederick said, scoffing.

  “Perhaps I am,” Riverwind muttered, and he turned on his heel and walked off.

  “The people will no longer follow you!” Hederick warned. “You will see.”

  Riverwind thought this very likely. As he walked among the refugees, he saw them huddled together for warmth, their faces pale and pinched. The fire’s glow that had warmed hearts last night was cold ash this morning. They had food and water enough for a few days more, and they were at least that far from the gate—if gate it was and if the dwarves would let them in.

  If, if, if. So many ifs.

  “We could use a miracle,” Riverwind said somberly, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “I’m not asking for a big one, not like moving the mountain—just a small one.”

  Something cold and wet stung Riverwind’s skin. He put his hand to his cheek and felt a snowflake melting on his skin. Another snowflake landed in his eye; another splattered on his nose. He gazed up into the gray clouds, into masses of white flakes drifting lazily from the sky.

  Instead of a miracle, the gods had sent yet more to test them. The snow would clog the pass. They would have to leave or risk becoming trapped here for good.

  Even as despair settled over Riverwind, he felt his heart lift. He did not understand why at first, then the reason came to him. The dragonfear was gone. The dragons were no longer in the skies.

  He stared at the snow falling thick around him and he would have fallen to his knees to give thanks, but he had no time to waste.

  Riverwind had been given his miracle. It was up to him to make use of it.

  4

  Arman’s destiny. Anvil’s echo.

  Murder holes and worm meat.

  lint had described the wonders of the dwarven realm of Thorbardin many times to Tanis, always with a touch of bitterness, for although no hill dwarf would ever trade his place in the world “above” to live beneath the mountain, every hill dwarf was deeply offended that the choice had been taken away from him.

  Tanis had always secretly believed that Flint had exaggerated his tales of the amazing sights to be found in mountain kingdom. Flint actually had never seen any of these sights. He was merely recounting tales that had been told him by his father, who had heard them from his grandfather, and so on back several generations. Flint was convinced that there was immense wealth in Thorbardin that was being denied him and his people, so when he told the tale of a city built entirely inside a gigantic stalactite, Tanis was always careful to hide his smile.

  Now, walking the roads beneath the mountain, Tanis was starting to think he’d done his old friend an injustice. Whereas humans constructed buildings out of stone by mounting blocks one atop the other, the dwarves had carved their buildings out of the mountain’s interior, taking away rock rather than adding it, so that all the structures seemed to flow together in beautiful and entrancing formations.

  Leaving the gate, they entered an immense hall supported by round pillars. The light of the strange green glowing worms and the gleaming crystal atop Raistlin’s staff shone on wonderfully carved stone work portraying scenes from dwarven life.

  Although now the hall was deserted, it had apparently been constructed so as to take advantage of the traffic that had once moved in and out of the great gate. Wagons with iron wheels once ran along rails embedded in the floor, ferrying goods and visitors deeper into the mountain’s interior.

  Looking around in awe, Tanis imagined the vast hall bustling with dwarves and people of other races who came to Thorbardin. Elves had once walked here, as had humans, for dwarven goods and dwarven craftsmanship were much in demand. Gold and silver had flowed into Thorbardin then. Iron, steel, and rare and precious gems dug from the mountain had flowed out.

  Now the iron rails were rusted. The wagons lay on their sides, their wheels frozen in time. The shops that had once sold pots and kettles, rims for wagon wheels, wooden toys, swords, armor and glittering jewels now catered only to the sad and empty dreams of ghosts.

  Houses had been boarded up, their shutters falling off; wooden doors hung on rusted hinges.

 
“Tanis,” said Caramon quietly. “Take a look at Flint. Something’s wrong.”

  Tanis looked back at the dwarf in concern. Caramon was right. Flint did not look well. He had ceased to swear at his captors and quit struggling, all of which was a bad sign. His face was mottled, ashen gray with red spots. His breathing seemed labored. Their guards were urging them on a rapid pace. The dwarven soldiers held their weapons at the ready, keeping a keen watch.

  “Your Highness,” Tanis called out, “would it be possible for us to stop to rest or at least slow down?”

  “Not here,” Arman replied. “We have already been in this part of the realm too long. We came here to free my brother, Pick,” he added, gesturing to the sickly dwarf, who walked along at his side. “We heard the noise of the gate and came to investigate, and now we must leave before more Theiwar come.”

  “So this part of the realm is ruled by the Theiwar?” Tanis asked, glancing at Flint. The dwarf barely seemed to be listening. “Are the Theiwar and the Hylar at war?”

  “Not yet,” Arman said grimly, “but it is only a matter of time.”

  “Just our luck,” Sturm muttered. “War beneath the ground as well as above.”

  Tanis was thinking the same and wondering how this fighting among the dwarves would affect his own cause, when he became aware, with a start, that Raistlin was walking quite close beside him. Tanis could smell the disquieting odor of rose petal and decay, and he drew back slightly.

  “A word with you, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said. “Speaking of the Theiwar, don’t you find it odd that they did not appear surprised to see us? Compare their reaction to that of Arman Kharas and his soldiers.”

  “To be honest, I don’t recall the Theiwar’s reaction,” Tanis said, “other than the swords in their hands, of course.”

  “This is not a matter for levity,” said Raistlin reprovingly, and before Tanis could say anything else the mage left in a huff, going back to walk alongside his brother.

  Tanis sighed. He had some idea what Raistlin was getting at, but it was one more worry he didn’t need and he put it out of his mind. He looked again at Flint. His jaw was clenched, perhaps in anger, or perhaps against pain—with the stubborn old dwarf, it was hard to tell.

  Caramon asked him if he was hurt or ill, but Flint paid him no heed. He stomped along, deaf to his friends’ concerns.

  To Tanis’s surprise, Arman Kharas left his place in the lead and dropped back to walk beside his prisoners. Arman seemed to find them fascinating, for he kept staring at them, especially at Tanis.

  “You are not a human,” he said at last.

  “I have elven blood,” Tanis acknowledged.

  Arman nodded, as if he had guessed as much.

  “This hall once must have been very beautiful,” said Tanis. “Perhaps now that the gate is open, this deserted part of Thorbardin can be rebuilt. Bring back the old prosperity.”

  “This now belongs to the Theiwar and they have small interest in building, being more concerned with their own dark plots and schemes. And this part of the realm is not deserted,” Arman said, adding ominously, “The Theiwar are out there, watching us from the shadows, making certain that we do not linger in their kingdom.”

  “Why don’t they attack us?” Tanis asked, pleased that the Hylar prince was at least talking to him.

  “The Theiwar prefer opponents who travel alone and are not armed, like my half-brother. He accidentally stumbled into Theiwar holdings and was taken prisoner. They made a ransom demand, but my father rightly refused to pay off thugs and murderers. Our spies informed me where Pick was being held, and my father sent his troops under my command to free him.”

  They left the hall and entered an area that appeared to be an ancient temple, for there were symbols for the various gods carved on the walls.

  “A great many people must have come to Thorbardin in the old days,” Tanis remarked.

  “They came from all over Ansalon,” said Arman proudly, “even from as far away as Istar. They came to buy or barter. They came to hire our iron workers and our stone masons. They brought wealth and prosperity to our people.” His voice grew hard, his words bitter. “They brought the Cataclysm, and after that the war, and all our prosperity ended.”

  “It need not have ended if those beneath the mountain had not closed the gate, keeping out their cousins who had a right to enter,” Flint stated, the first words he’d spoken in a long while.

  Tanis was relieved to see some color starting to return to Flint’s face. That and the fact that he was bringing up this old argument was an indication the dwarf was recovering from whatever had ailed him.

  “We don’t need to go into all that now,” Tanis admonished, but he might have saved his breath.

  “King Duncan—or Derkin as you Neidar named him—had no choice in the matter,” Arman stated. “We were also affected by the Cataclysm. Many of our farming warrens were destroyed. Our food supplies were limited. If we had allowed your people to come inside, we would not have saved you. We would have all starved to death together.”

  “So you say.” Flint snorted, but he didn’t speak with his usual outrage and conviction.

  He kept darting glances about at the ruins of the once great city, and though he was trying his best to hide it, he was obviously shocked and depressed by what he saw. The wonders of Thorbardin were wrecked wagons and rusted door hinges.

  Tanis decided to change the subject before Flint started some new tirade.

  “If Northgate remains open, the Theiwar will control it. How will that affect the Hylar?”

  “The gate will not remain open,” Arman said flatly. “Unless something happens to prevent it, the Council of Thanes will send soldiers to guard the gate and keep out intruders until it can be closed and sealed once more.”

  “You think the gate should be remain open, don’t you?” Tanis said, hoping he had found an ally.

  “I believe it is my destiny, once I have obtained the Hammer of Kharas, to rule the united Dwarven Nations,” said Arman. “To do that, the gate must remain open.”

  “Why are you so sure you’re the one who will find the hammer?” Flint asked.

  Arman lifted his head and raised his voice. His words reverberated throughout the cavern. “Thus spake Kharas: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’” He placed his hand on his chest. “I am that dwarf.”

  A rude noise came out of the darkness. Some of the soldiers were sniggering into their beards. If Arman Kharas heard, he pretended he hadn’t.

  “Ask him more about the Hammer of Kharas,” Sturm urged Tanis, who shook his head.

  Flint had once more lapsed into silence. The old dwarf would never admit to being tired, but Tanis noted that walking was costing him an effort.

  “How much farther do we have to go until we are out of Theiwar territory?” Tanis asked.

  “We have to cross that bridge,” Arman replied, gesturing ahead. “Once we are on the other side, in the West Warrens, we will be safe. Then we can stop to rest.”

  A vast cavern opened up before them, spanned by a stone bridge of curious make. Small figures of dwarves carved out of stone lined the bridge on either side. The stone dwarves stood about three feet in height, forming a barricade to keep people crossing the bridge from tumbling off. Iron tracks ran down the middle of the bridge, with walkways for pedestrians on either side. The bridge, like everything else in this part of Thorbardin, showed signs of neglect. Some of the dwarven statues were missing heads or arms, while others had been destroyed completely, leaving gaps in their ranks.

  “This cave is known as Anvil’s Echo, for it is said that the sound of a dwarven hammer striking an anvil in this cave will echo for all eternity,” Arman Kharas told them.

  “An excellent defensive measure,” said Sturm, looking on the bridge with approval. He stared overhead, but could see nothing for the darkness. “I take it there are murder holes in th
e ceiling?”

  Arman Kharas was pleased by the knight’s praise. “The enemy never made it past this bridge. The defenders of Northgate dropped down boulders, molten lead, and boiling oil on those who tried to cross. Few did, and their skeletons still lie at the bottom of the cave.”

  Flint glowered at the mention of this. He halted, frowning. “I won’t cross,” he stated.

  Arman misunderstood. “No one ever goes up there now. You need have no fear—” he began in patronizing tones.

  “Fear?” Flint went red in the face. “It’s not fear! It’s respect. My people died on this bridge and you tell me they lie there unburied, their souls lost and wandering.”

  “My people lie there, as well,” said Arman. “When the blessed day comes when I unify the kingdoms, I will give orders that the dead of both sides are given proper respect.”

  Flint was considerably taken aback by this statement, which appeared to leave him at a loss for words. He muttered something to the effect that he guessed he would cross, but he kept giving Arman strange looks.

  Arman sent some of his soldiers on ahead, to make certain the bridge was secure. He followed with the prisoners, and the rest of his soldiers closed in behind, as they began the long trek from one side of Anvil’s Echo to the other.

  “Mad as a marmot,” muttered Flint.

  “This is certainly a long bridge,” stated Tasslehoff, with a gusty sigh.

  Caramon grunted in agreement.

  Tasslehoff had been keeping out of mischief mainly due to the fact that the dwarves had trussed up the kender so efficiently he had not been able to slip free. Every time Tas saw something interesting and started to wander off, the soldier would poke him in the back with a spear. Caramon wondered how long this would go on before either the kender found some way to escape, or the dwarf grew so frustrated he skewered him.

  “I thought crossing a bridge with murder holes would be extremely interesting, but it isn’t. It’s boring.”