Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  “That is true,” Arman stated. “The Solamnic knights were much impressed with his honor and courage.”

  “Did he carry the legendary Hammer with him during the final battle?” Sturm asked.

  Tanis gave an inward groan. He would have intervened, for he did not want the dwarves to begin to suspect they had come here to steal the Hammer, but it was too late. It would do more harm than good. He kept silent.

  “Kharas fought courageously,” Arman told the story, enjoying himself immensely, “even though he was bitterly opposed to the war, for he said brother should not be slaying brother. Kharas even went so far as to shave off his beard to mark his opposition to the war, shocking the people. A clean-shaven chin is the mark of a coward.

  “And so some called Kharas, for when he saw that dwarves on both sides had lost all reason and were killing each other out of hatred and vengeance, he left the field of battle, bearing with him the bodies of two of King Duncan’s sons, who had died fighting side-by-side. Thus Kharas survived the terrible explosion that took the lives of thousands of dwarves and men.

  “King Duncan saw the bodies of his sons, and when word came to him of the blast and he knew that countless dwarves lay dead on the Plains of Dergoth, he ordered the gates of Thorbardin sealed. He vowed in his grief that no more would die in this dreadful war.”

  “You say Duncan had two sons and they died on the field of battle and Kharas returned their bodies. What, then, of Prince Grallen?” Sturm paled; he seemed troubled. “I do not know how I know this, but the prince did not die on the field of battle. His body was never found.”

  Arman cast a dark glance at the helm. Flint had fallen asleep, but even in sleep he kept fast hold of the relict.

  “The Council will decide if that story will be told,” Arman said sternly. “For now, we will not speak of it.”

  “Then let us talk of more pleasant subjects,” said Sturm. His voice grew husky with reverence. “All my life, I have heard the stories of the fabled Hammer of Kharas, the sacred hammer wielded by Huma Dragon-bane himself. I would like very much be able to see the Hammer and do it honor.”

  “So would we all,” said Arman.

  Sturm frowned, as if he thought the dwarf was making fun of him. “I do not understand,” he said stiffly.

  “The Hammer of Kharas is lost. We have spent three hundred years searching for it. Without the sacred Hammer, no dwarf can be named High King, and without a High King, the dwarven people will never be unified.”

  “Lost?” Sturm repeated, shocked. “How could the dwarves misplace such a valuable artifact?”

  “It was not misplaced,” Arman Kharas returned angrily. “After the gates were sealed, the clans began to plot to overthrow King Duncan, whom they now deemed to be weak. Each thane came to Kharas seeking support for his claim to the throne. Kharas wanted nothing to do with any of them, so he left Thorbardin by secret means and went into self-imposed exile. He stayed away many years. Finally, growing weary of his travels and longing for his home and his people, Kharas returned to Thorbardin, only to find the situation had worsened.

  “The kingdoms were embroiled in civil war. Kharas was able to talk with Duncan one final time before he died. Grief-stricken, Kharas carried the king’s body to the magnificent tomb Duncan had built for himself. Kharas took with him the famous hammer. I told you what he said,” Arman added. “The prophecy that I will fulfill.”

  Sturm gave a polite nod, but he was not interested in prophecies. “So the Hammer is in King Duncan’s Tomb.”

  “We can only assume so. Kharas never returned to tell us. None know his fate.” “Where is the tomb located?”

  “In the final resting place of all dwarves, the Valley of Thanes.”

  Sturm tugged on his long mustache, a sign that he was disturbed. Tanis could guess the cause. No true knight would ever disturb the sacred sleep of the noble dead, yet his desire for the Hammer was great.

  “Perhaps,” he said after a moment, “I might be permitted to enter the tomb. I would do so with reverence and respect, of course. Why do you shake your head? Is this forbidden?”

  “So it would seem,” said Arman. “When Kharas did not return, the thanes and their followers raced to the tomb, each hoping to be the one to lay claim to the hammer. Fighting broke out in the sacred valley and it was then, when the battle was at its height, that a powerful force ripped the tomb from the ground and carried it into the sky.”

  “The tomb vanished?” Sturm was dismayed.

  “It did not vanish. We can see it, but we cannot reach it. Duncan’s Tomb floats hundreds of feet above the Valley of the Thanes.”

  Sturm’s brow darkened.

  “Do not look so downhearted, Sir Knight,” said Arman complacently. “You will yet have a chance to see the wondrous Hammer.”

  “What do you mean?” Sturm asked.

  “As I said, I am the dwarf of whom the prophecy speaks. I am the one destined to find the Hammer of Kharas. When the time is right, Kharas himself will guide me to it, and I am certain the time is almost upon us.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Arman would not say. Stating that he was tired, he went over to check on his brother then took himself to his bed.

  Deeply disappointed, Sturm lapsed into gloomy silence. Tanis stared into the impenetrable darkness. The Hammer they needed to forge the dragonlances was lost, or if not lost, out of reach.

  Nothing was going right it seemed.

  Flint was doing as Tanis suggested, sleeping with one eye open, and that eye opened wide when he saw a strange dwarf come strolling into the temple as nonchalantly and confidently as if he owned the place. The dwarf was like no dwarf Flint had ever seen in his life. The stranger had a magnificent beard, glossy and luxuriant, and long curling hair that flowed down his back. He wore a blue coat with golden buttons, high boots that came to his thighs, a ruffled shirt, and a wide brimmed hat topped by a red plume. At this astonishing sight, Flint he sat bolt upright.

  He was about to shout a warning, but something in the cocky attitude of the dwarf stopped him, that and the fact that the dwarf walked right up to Flint and stared at him rudely.

  “Here now,” said Flint, frowning. “Who are you?”

  “You know my name,” said the dwarf, continuing to stare down at him, “just as I know yours. I’m an old friend of yours, Flint Fireforge.”

  Flint sputtered in protest. “You’re no such thing! I never in my life had a friend who wore such frippery. Feathers and ruffles! You put a Palanthas dandy to shame!”

  “Still, you know me. You call on me often. You swear by my beard and you ask me to take your soul if you’re lying.” The dwarf reached into the darkness and pulled out a jug. Removing the stopper, he sniffed at it and smiled expansively and offered it to Flint.

  The redolent odor of the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits filled the air.

  “Care for a swallow?” the stranger asked.

  A terrible suspicion entered Flint’s mind. He felt in need of support. Taking the jug, he put it to his mouth and took a gulp. The fiery liquor burned his tongue, took him by the throat, wrung his neck, then sizzled down his gullet to his stomach where it exploded.

  Flint gave a moist sigh and wiped tears from his eyes.

  “Good, eh? It’s my own home brew,” said the dwarf, adding proudly, “I’ll wager you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  Flint nodded and coughed.

  The dwarf snatched back the jug, took a pull himself, then corked it up and tossed it back into the air where it vanished. He squatted down on his haunches in front of Flint, who squirmed under the intense gaze of the stranger’s black eyes.

  “Figured out my name yet?” the dwarf asked.

  Flint knew the dwarf’s name as well as he knew his own, but the realization was so stupefying that he didn’t want to believe it, and so he shook his head.

  “I won’t make an issue of it,” the dwarf said with a shrug and a good natured grin. “Suffice it to say
, I know you, Flint Fireforge. I know you very well. I knew your father and your grandfather, too, and they knew me, just like you know me, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it. That gratifies me. It gratifies me highly.

  “Therefore,” said the dwarf, and he leaned forward and jabbed Flint rudely in the breastbone. “I’m going to do something for you. I’m going to give you the chance to be a hero. I’m going to give you the chance to find the Hammer of Kharas and save the world by forging the dragonlances. Your name, Flint Fireforge, will echo in halls and palaces throughout Ansalon.”

  Flint was suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

  The dwarf guffawed, doubling over with laughter. Oddly, no one else in the temple seemed to hear him. No one else stirred.

  “You don’t have much time left, Flint Fireforge. You know that, don’t you? You have trouble catching your breath sometimes, pain in your jaw and your left arm … same symptoms your father had right near the end.”

  “I do not!” Flint stated indignantly. “I’m fit as you or any dwarf here. Fitter, if I say so myself!”

  The stranger shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you need to think of the legacy you will leave behind. Will your name be sung by the bards after you are gone, or will you die an ignominious death, alone and forgotten?”

  “Like I said, what’s the catch?” Flint asked, frowning.

  “All you have to do is put on the Helm of Grallen,” said the dwarf.

  “Hah!” Flint said loudly. He thumped his knuckles on the helm that rested beneath his hands. “I knew it! A trap!”

  “It’s not a trap,” said the dwarf, and he smoothed his beard complacently. “Prince Grallen knows where the Hammer can be found. He knows how to reach it.”

  “What of the curse?” Flint challenged.

  The dwarf shrugged. “There is danger. I don’t deny it, but then, life is a gamble, Flint Fireforge. You have to risk all to gain all.”

  Flint mulled this over, absently rubbing his left arm. Then he caught the dwarf regarding him with a sly smile and stopped.

  “I’ll think about it,” Flint said.

  “You do that,” said the dwarf, and he rose to his feet and stretched and yawned.

  Flint rose, too, out of respect. “Have you … uh … have you made this offer to anyone else?”

  The dwarf winked slyly. “That’s for me to know.”

  Flint grunted. “Do they … these dwarves … know you’re here?”

  The dwarf glared about the temple. “Does it look like they know? Spoiled brats! ‘Do this! Do that! Give me this. Give me that. Favor me over him. Heed my prayers; don’t listen to his. I’m worthy. He’s not.’ Bah!”

  The dwarf gave a great roar. He raised his hands to heaven and shook his fists and roared again and again. The mountain trembled and Flint fell, cowering, to his knees.

  The dwarf lowered his arms. He smoothed out his coat, settled his lace, and retrieved his plumed hat.

  “I may come back to Thorbardin,” he said with a wink and a sly smile. “I may not. It all depends.”

  He put his hat on his head, cast Flint a piercing glance, and strolled out of the temple, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

  Flint remained on his knees.

  Arman Kharas, waking, saw him crouched on the floor.

  “Ah, you felt the quake,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. It was a small one. A rattler we call it—rattles a few dishes. Nothing more. Go back to sleep.”

  Arman lay back down and rolled over and was soon snoring again.

  Flint stood up shakily and wiped the sweat from his brow. He eyed the Helm of Grallen and thought—not for the first time—of what it would be like to be a hero. He thought of the pain in his arm, and he thought of death, and he thought of no one remembering. He thought of dishes rattling in Thorbardin.

  Flint lay back down, but he did not go to sleep. He put the helm to one side and took care not to touch it.

  6

  Frozen ambitions.

  Plans for a thaw.

  ray-yan paced the room, waiting for Grag to come with his report. Pacing, like shrugging, was another mannerism the aurak had picked up from humans. When he’d first witnessed Dragon Highlord Verminaard think out problems by walking the length of the room, Dray-yan had viewed the practice with disdain, a lamentable waste of physical energy. That was before Dray-yan had been faced with problems of his own. Now the aurak paced.

  When the knock came at his door, Dray-yan recognized Grag’s rapping and barked out a command to enter using Verminaard’s voice.

  Grag came inside and swiftly shut the door behind him.

  “Well?” Dray-yan demanded, seeing the glum look on Grag’s face. “What news?”

  “The gate to Thorbardin is open, and it is snowing in the mountains. We had to give up our pursuit of the slaves.”

  “A pity,” said Dray-yan.

  “The snow is heavy and wet, and it blots out everything!” Grag said in his defense. “The dragons, both red and blue, refuse to fly in the stuff. They say that it builds up on their wings. They can’t see in it, they become disoriented, and they’re afraid of blundering into the side of the mountain. If we want dragons who are accustomed to snow, we should send for the white dragons who are in the south.”

  “They are being used in the Ice Wall campaign. Even if they agreed to come, it would take weeks of negotiation with Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, and I don’t have the time to spare.”

  “You don’t appear much interested in the slaves,” Grag observed, “after going to all that trouble to attack them.”

  “I’m not. The slaves can go to the Abyss.” Dray-yan scowled, gesturing at a scroll bound by a black ribbon that lay on his desk. “I have received a commendation from Ariakas for doubling the iron output.”

  “You should be pleased, Dray-yan,” Grag said, wondering why the aurak wasn’t.

  “Let me put it another way. Lord Verminaard has received the commendation,” said Dray-yan, grinding his teeth on the name, then spitting it out.

  “Ah,” said Grag, understanding.

  “Entering Thorbardin was my doing!” Dray-yan raved. “My idea! My time spent dealing with those hairy, squinty-eyed Theiwar rodents! And who gets the credit? Verminaard! He has received a summons from the emperor inviting him to Neraka to receive Ariakas’s grateful thanks and a promotion! What am I to do, Grag? I cannot walk into Her Dark Majesty’s temple wearing this illusion, nor do I want to! I—Dray-yan! I deserve that commendation, the thanks, the promotion!”

  “You could always send a message to Ariakas to say that Verminaard was killed.”

  “Ariakas would dispatch another human Highlord here so fast my scales would fly off, that female they call the Blue Lady. She’d like nothing better than to take command of the Red Army, and from what I’ve heard, she despises draconians. You and I would both end up working in the iron mines if she took over!”

  Dray-yan began to pace the floor again. His claws had torn large holes in the carpeting and he was now leaving scratch marks on the tiles beneath.

  “The emperor is asking again about the escaped slaves and about that artifact, that dwarf hammer. He seems obsessed over it. He wants me, or rather Verminaard, to find it and bring it to Neraka when I come. How am I supposed to unearth some moldy old hammer? The emperor also wants assurances the slaves have all been killed. There are dangerous people hiding among them, elf assassins or some such thing.”

  Grag watched the aurak pace in silence. He really didn’t give a damn about the aurak’s personal ambitions to become Dragon Highlord, but Dray-yan did have a point. Grag had heard a few rumors about the Blue Lady himself. Grag had a good life here, and he knew it.

  “What are we going to do about these slaves?” Grag asked. “They will likely take advantage of the snow to try sneak past us and gain entrance to Thorbardin.”

  Dray-yan turned to face him. “Do we have troops in the area?”

  “Some, but most of them are being positioned around the
southern part of Thorbardin. They couldn’t reach the north in time. It’s too bad Lord Verminaard bungled that attack in the valley.”

  Dray-yan swore beneath his breath. His plan of attack—bringing in draconian troops on the back of dragons—had been a brilliant one. He’d supervised the battle himself in the guise of Dragon Highlord Verminaard. He didn’t like to be reminded that his plan had failed. He wasn’t pleased with Grag for bringing it up.

  “The humans knew we were coming!” he snarled. “It’s the only explanation. I’d like to know how they found out.”

  “Don’t you understand, Dray-yan? The fault is Lord Verminaard’s,” said Grag, laying emphasis on the name. “The Highlord could not keep his mouth shut. He blabbed about his brilliant idea of putting draconians on dragons and sending them after the humans. Their spies heard about it and managed to warn the humans, so that they had time to escape. At least, that is what you will tell the emperor, if he should ask.”

  Dray-yan caught the glint in the bozak’s eye.

  “You are right, Grag!” Dray-yan said, intrigued. “The fault was Lord Verminaard’s. Go on. You were speaking of our troops in the area. What about the forces at Skullcap?”

  “They failed to show up at the rendezvous site. Either they deserted, or they’re dead.”

  “So,” said Dray-yan, “because of Lord Verminaard’s bungling, we don’t have enough men in the area to stop these humans from reaching Thorbardin.”

  “Lord Verminaard has really managed this very badly. It is a shame,” Grag continued, “because Her Dark Majesty knows that it was your idea to put draconian troops on the backs of dragons. Her Dark Majesty is pleased with you.”

  “Is she?” Dray-yan asked skeptically. “Then why is she making my life difficult? Why not clear the skies of snowclouds so that her dragons can fly?”

  “The lesser gods do what they can to fight her,” Grag said dismissively. “Her Dark Majesty pays them small heed. She is giving you a chance to prove yourself, Dray-yan, and while I still don’t like you—”