“And never a mention of dinner,” Caramon grumbled. “My stomach’s so empty it’s flapping around my backbone. What do Thorbardin dwarves eat anyway?”
“Worms,” said Tasslehoff. “Like the ones inside the lanterns.”
“No!” Caramon said, shocked.
“Oh, yes,” said Tas. “The dwarves have huge farms where they raise these gigantic worms, and butcher shops where they cut them into worm steak and worm stew and worm chops—”
Caramon was appalled. “Raist, Tas says that dwarves eat worms. Is that true?”
Raistlin was eavesdropping on Tanis’s conversation with Arman, and he cast Caramon a look that said plain as words that he was not to be bothered with stupid questions.
Caramon suddenly found he wasn’t as hungry as he had been. The kender was leaning over the barricade, trying to see the bottom.
“If I fell off, would I keep falling until I came out on the other side of the world?” Tas asked.
“If you fell, you’d fall until you hit bottom and ended up splattered all over the rocks,” said Caramon.
“I guess you’re right,” said Tas. He looked up ahead to where Flint, Tanis, and Arman Kharas were walking together. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“Naw,” said Caramon. “I can’t hear anything over all the tromping, rattling, and clanging. These dwarves make noise enough for an ogre feast day!”
“Not to mention the thunder,” said Tas.
Caramon glanced at him, puzzled. “What thunder?”
“A moment ago I heard thunder,” said the kender. “Must be a storm coming.”
“If there was, you couldn’t hear thunder down here.” Caramon’s brow crinkled. “Are you making this up?”
“No, Caramon,” said Tas. “Why should I do that? I heard thunder, and I felt it in my feet like you do when the thunder falls out of the sky …”
Caramon heard it too now. He stared up into the darkness. “That’s not thunder … Raistlin! Look out!”
Hurling himself forward, Caramon knocked his brother down and flung his body across him protectively just as an enormous boulder struck the bridge where Raistlin had been standing. The boulder crushed two of the dwarven statues and opened a large hole in the barricade before it went bounding off into the darkness.
The Hylar scattered as another boulder came hurtling after the first. This one missed its mark, going wide of the bridge. They heard the first boulder land down below, smashing into pieces.
“Raistlin! Douse that light!” Tanis shouted. “Everyone get down, hug the floor!”
“Dulak!” Raistlin gasped, and the light atop his staff went out. The dwarves shuttered their lanterns, and they were plunged into darkness.
“Not that this will do much good,” Flint growled. “The Theiwar can see in the darkness better than they can in the light. It is only a matter of finding their aim.”
“I thought you said the way to the murder holes was impassable,” Tanis said to Arman.
“It used to be.” The dwarf leader alone remained on his feet, staring upward in astonished outrage. “The Theiwar must have repaired it, though that is odd …”
His voice broke off as another boulder came down, striking the bridge some distance ahead of him, cracking the stone and causing the bridge to shake alarmingly.
“Caramon,” said Raistlin testily, “move your great bulk off me! I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry, Raist,” said Caramon, shifting his weight. “Are you all right?”
“I am lying on my back on a bridge in pitch darkness with someone hurling boulders at me. No, I am not all right,” Raistlin retorted.
Another boulder smashed into the railing, crumbling more dwarven statues and causing everyone to flinch.
“That one just missed me!” Sturm reported grimly. “We can’t stay here and wait to be smashed into jelly!”
“How far to go until we reach cover?” Tanis asked Arman in a low voice.
“Not far. Only about another forty feet.”
“We should run for it,” Tanis urged.
“Some of us can’t see in the dark like you can, Half-elf,” Caramon pointed out. “I think I’d rather get flattened by boulders than fall off this bridge.”
They all ducked as another boulder thudded somewhere nearby.
Arman gestured to his men. “Unshutter the lanterns!”
The soldiers did as they were ordered, working quickly, and everyone started running.
“This bridge didn’t turn out to be as boring as I thought,” said Tasslehoff cheerfully. “Do you think they’ll pour boiling oil on us next?”
“Just run, damn it!” Tanis ordered.
Tasslehoff ran, and being extremely nimble and accustomed to fleeing all sorts of dangers, from irate sheriffs to angry housewives, the kender soon outdistanced everyone. Caramon lumbered along, keeping near his brother. Raistlin hiked up the skirts of his robes, and staff in hand, ran swiftly. Sturm brought up the rear. It was awkward going, trying to run with their hands bound, but the hurtling boulders gave them an excellent incentive to keep moving.
Suddenly, a cry sounded behind them. Pick, the sickly dwarf, had stumbled and fallen to his knees. Arman turned around. Seeing his brother’s plight, he started to hand the Helm of Grallen to one of his soldiers. The soldier cringed, shook his head, and kept running.
“I’ll take it!” offered Flint. “You’ll have to cut my hands loose.”
Another boulder whistled past, and they all ducked involuntarily. Pick cried out in terror as the boulder struck the bridge close to him, showering him with stone fragments. Kharas hesitated only a moment then whipped out a knife, sliced Flint’s bonds, and tossed him the helm. Arman dashed back along the bridge, dodging a boulder as it struck the rail and bounded off. Clasping his brother’s hands, Arman lifted him up, and slung him over his back.
They continued to run across the bridge. The green light from the worm-lanterns flared first in one place, then another, as the lanterns swung back and forth. The wildly flashing lights made the dwarven statues appear to be capering in some sort of mad dance that added to the macabre terror of their race against death.
Tanis kept near Flint, who was now encumbered with the helm, thinking he might need help. The old dwarf ran strongly, however, his head down, legs pumping. He held the Helm of Grallen clasped fast in his arms and even running for his life, he wore a grim smile of satisfaction that boded ill for anyone who might try to take the helm from him again.
More boulders sailed down through the green-lit darkness, whistling past so close they could feel the rush of air on their cheeks. Tanis could see the end of the span now, sheltered beneath a large entry way. The light shone on the bars and the wicked points of a portcullis that, fortunately, was raised.
The sight spurred them on, giving those who were flagging their second wind. Tasslehoff reached the entrance first, followed by the dwarven soldiers in a thundering rush. The rest of the companions came after. Raistlin collapsed just short of the opening and had to be dragged inside by his brother. Arman Kharas, carrying Pick on his back, came last. Once they were off the bridge, the boulders ceased to fall.
“The Theiwar targeted us,” said Sturm, gasping for breath.
“They targeted Raistlin,” Tanis pointed out. Flint snorted. “I said the Theiwar were evil. I never said they didn’t have good sense.”
5
The Temple of Reorx. The Hammer
of Kharas. A strange encounter.
ll of them, even the stalwart dwarves, who generally make light of any physical exertion, sank to the floor and lay there gasping for air. Tanis had a great many questions, but he lacked the breath to ask them.
Raistlin leaned back against the wall of the gatehouse. His golden skin took on an odd greenish cast in the lantern light. His eyes were closed. Every so often, his breath rasped.
“He’s not hurt, just exhausted,” Caramon informed them.
“We are all exhausted, not just your brother,�
�� Sturm said testily, trying to rub a cramp out of his leg. “We spent the first half the day climbing a mountain. My throat is parched. We need water and rest—”
“—and food,” said Caramon, then added hurriedly, “vegetables or something.”
“This area is still inside Theiwar territory and is not safe. A short distance ahead is a temple to Reorx,” Arman told them. “We can rest there in safety.”
“Raist, can you make it?” Caramon eyed his twin dubiously.
Raistlin, eyes closed, grimaced. “I suppose I will have to.”
“I am afraid I must ask you to continue to carry the helm,” Arman said to Flint. “Poor Pick cannot go on without my aid, and none of my men wants anything to do with it.”
“If they think this helm’s that terrible, why don’t they just toss it off that bridge and have done with it?” Caramon asked Flint.
“Would you toss your dead father’s bones off that bridge?” Flint asked, glaring at him. “Cursed or no, the spirit of the prince has come back to his people and must be laid to rest.”
Arman insisted they leave, and groaning and grunting, they started off, crossing a drawbridge that did not appear to have been raised in years. Fearing pursuit from behind, Sturm suggested they might attempt to raise this bridge, but Arman said that the mechanism was rusted and would not work.
“The Theiwar will not pursue us,” he added.
“You said they wouldn’t attack us either,” Flint remarked.
“My father will be angry to hear of this assault on me and my men,” Arman stated. “This might lead to war.”
Leaving the gatehouse, they emerged onto a main road lined with more abandoned buildings and shops. Streets and alleys led off the road in various directions. There were no lights, no sounds, no signs of habitation.
Raistlin was limping. He was being helped by his brother. Flint marched with his head down, holding fast to the helm. Tasslehoff’s footsteps were starting to flag. Arman left the main street, and taking a turn to the left, he led them down a side road.
A large building rose in front of them. Doors of bronze, marked with the sign of a hammer, stood open.
“The Temple of Reorx,” said Arman.
The Hylar soldiers removed their helms as they went, but they seemed to do this more out of habit than true reverence or respect. Once inside, the dwarves relaxed and felt free to make themselves at home, stretching out on the floor where the altar had once stood, taking long pulls from their ale skins, and rummaging in their knapsacks for food.
Arman conferred with his soldiers, then sent one on ahead to carry news to his father. He detailed another to keep watch at the door and ordered two more to stand guard on the companions.
Tanis could have pointed out that they weren’t likely to try to escape, since none of them had any desire to cross Anvil’s Echo a second time. He was too weary to argue, however.
“We will spend the night here,” Arman announced. “Pick is not strong enough to travel. We will be safe enough, I think. The Theiwar don’t usually venture this far, but just in case, I have sent one of my men to bring up reinforcements from the West Warrens.”
Tanis considered this an excellent idea.
“Could you at least untie us?” he asked Arman. “You have our weapons. We have no intention of attacking you. We want to have our say before the Council.”
Arman eyed him speculatively, then gave a nod. “Untie them,” he ordered his soldiers.
The Hylar did not appear happy about this, but they did as he said. Arman fussed over his brother, making sure he had something to eat and was resting comfortably. Tanis gazed curiously around the temple. He wondered if Reorx had made himself known to the dwarves, as the other gods had made themselves known. Judging by the dilapidated state of the temple and the casual attitude of the dwarves as they set up housekeeping for the night, Tanis assumed the god, for whatever reasons, had not yet informed the dwarves of his return.
According to the wise, the creation of the world began when Reorx, a friend of the God of Balance, Gilean, struck his hammer on the Anvil of Time, forcing Chaos to slow his cycle of destruction. The sparks that flew from the god’s hammer became the stars. The light from these stars was transformed into spirits, who were given mortal bodies by the gods, and the world of Krynn, in which they could dwell. Although the creation of the dwarves had always been in dispute (dwarves believing they were formed by Reorx in his image, while others maintain dwarves were brought into being by the passing of the chaotic Graygem of Gargath), dwarves were firm in their belief that they were the chosen people of Reorx.
The dwarves were devastated when Reorx departed along with the other gods after the Cataclysm. Most refused to believe it and clung to their faith in the god, even though their prayers were answered with silence. Thus while most other people on Krynn forgot the old gods, the dwarves still remembered and revered Reorx, telling the old tales about him, confident that someday he would return to his people.
The Thorbardin dwarves still swore oaths in Reorx’s name; Tanis had heard swearing enough on the bridge to know that. Flint had done the same all the years Tanis had known him, though Reorx had been absent for hundreds of years. According to Flint, the clerics of Reorx vanished from the world just prior to the Cataclysm, leaving the same time the other clerics of the true gods mysteriously departed. But were there now any new clerics beneath the mountain?
His friends were also looking around the temple, and Tanis guessed they were thinking along the same lines, some of them, at least. Caramon was staring wistfully at the food, as Arman came by, offering everyone a share.
The dwarves were munching on hunks of some sort of salted meat. Caramon eyed it hungrily then glanced at Tasslehoff, thinking of worms, and with a deep sigh, shook his head. Arman shrugged and gave some to Flint, who accepted a large portion with muttered thanks.
Raistlin had refused any nourishment and gone straight to his bed. Tasslehoff sat cross-legged in front of one of the lanterns, munching on his meal and watching the worm inside. Flint had told him the worm was the larva of gigantic worms that chewed through solid stone. Tas was fascinated, and he kept tapping on the glass panel to see the larva wriggle.
“Should we say anything about the return of the gods?” Sturm asked, coming to sit down beside Tanis.
Tanis shook his head emphatically. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“We will have to bring up the gods,” Sturm insisted, “when we ask about the Hammer of Kharas.”
“We’re not going to talk about the hammer,” said Tanis shortly. “We’re going to try to keep out of a dwarven dungeon!”
Sturm considered this. “You’re right. Speaking of the gods would be awkward, especially if Reorx has not returned to them. Still, I don’t see why we should not ask Arman about the hammer. It shows we have a knowledge of their history.”
“Just drop it, Sturm,” Tanis said sharply, and he went over to have a talk with Flint.
He sat down beside the dwarf and accepted some of the food. “What’s wrong with Caramon? I never before saw him turn down a meal.”
“The kender told him it was worm meat.”
Tanis spit the meat out his mouth.
“It’s dried beef,” said Flint with a low chuckle.
“Did you tell Caramon?”
“No,” the dwarf returned with a sly grin. “Do him good to lose some weight.”
Tanis went over to assuage Caramon’s fears. He left the big man chewing voraciously on the tough and stringy beef, swearing he would tear off the kender’s pointy ears and stuff them into his boots. The half-elf went back to finish his talk with Flint.
“Have you heard these dwarves mention Reorx, other than swearing by him?” Tanis asked.
“No.” Flint held the Helm of Grallen in his lap, his hands resting protectively on top of it. “You won’t either.”
“Then you don’t think Reorx has returned to them?”
“As if he would!” Flint snort
ed. “The mountain dwarves shut Reorx out of the mountain when they sealed the doors on us.”
“Sturm was asking me … do you think we should tell the dwarves about the gods’ return?”
“I wouldn’t tell a mountain dwarf how to find his beard in a snowstorm!” Flint said scornfully.
His hands on the helm, Flint propped himself up against a wall and settled himself for sleep.
“Keep one eye open, my friend,” said Tanis softly.
Flint grunted and nodded.
Tanis made the rounds. Sturm lay on the floor, staring up into the darkness. Tasslehoff had fallen asleep beside the worm lantern.
“Drat all kender anyway,” Caramon said, pulling a blanket over Tas. “I could have starved to death!” He glanced surreptitiously around. “I don’t trust these dwarves, Tanis,” he said quietly. “Should one of us stand watch?”
Tanis shook his head. “We’re all exhausted and we have to appear before this Council tomorrow. We need to have our wits about us.”
He stretched out on the cold stone floor of the abandoned temple and thought he had never been so tired in his life, yet he couldn’t sleep. He had visions of them all being cast into the dwarven dungeons, never to see the light of day again. Already he was starting to feel closed in; the stone walls pressed down on him. As large as this temple was, it was not large enough to hold all the air Tanis needed. He felt himself being smothered, and he tried to shake off the panicked feeling that came over him whenever he was in dark and closed-up places.
His body ached with fatigue, and he was starting to relax and drift off when Sturm’s voice jolted him wide awake.
“Your hero, Kharas, was present at the final battle, was he not?”
Tanis swore softly and sat up.
Sturm and Arman were seated together on the opposite side of the chamber. The dwarven soldiers were making the walls shake with their snoring, but Tanis could hear their conversation quite clearly.
“The knights of Solamnia gave Kharas his name,” Sturm was saying, “Kharas being the word in my language for ‘knight’.”
Arman nodded several times and stroked his beard proudly, as though Sturm were speaking of him, not his famous ancestor.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 27