“At least the beds are our size,” Caramon said thankfully, “and so are the tables and chairs. Now if we just had something to eat and drink …”
“My men will bring you meat, ale, and clean bedding,” Arman said, then turned to Flint. “I suggest we both get a good night’s sleep. We set out for the Valley of the Thanes first thing on the morrow.” Arman hesitated, then said, “I assume that is where we will be going?”
Flint’s only response was a grunt. He walked over to a chair, plunked himself down, and took out a stick of wood and his whittling knife. Arman Kharas remained standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Flint, apparently hoping the dwarf would reveal more.
Flint obviously had nothing to say. Tanis and the rest stood looking around the dark and gloomy inn, not knowing what to do with themselves.
Arman frowned. He clearly wanted to order Flint to talk, but he was hardly in a position to do so. At last he said, “I will post guards outside so that your rest is not disturbed.”
Raistlin gave a sardonic laugh. Tanis flashed him a warning glance, and he turned away. Sturm stalked off and went to work dragging down some wood bed frame that had been stacked together in a corner along with barrels, boxes, and crates. Caramon offered to help, as did Tasslehoff, though the first thing the kender did was to start poking holes in a crate to see if he could tell what was inside. Arman stood watching them. Flint continued to whittle.
At length, Arman tugged on his beard and asked if they had questions.
“Yeah,” said Caramon, holding one of the heavy bed frames above his head, preparatory to placing it on the floor. “When’s dinner?”
The food they were given was plain and simple, washed down with ale from one of the casks. Arman Kharas finally wrenched himself away. Tanis felt sorry for the young dwarf, and he was annoyed at Flint, who could have at least been nice to Arman, whose life-long dreams had just been shattered. Flint was in a dark mood, however, and Tanis kept quiet, figuring anything he said would only make matters worse. Flint ate in silence, shoveling his food in his mouth rapidly, and when he was finished, he walked away from the table and went back to his whittling.
Sturm sat bolt upright all through dinner, disapproval evident in his bristling mustaches and the ice blue glint in his eyes. Raistlin picked at his food, eating little, his gaze abstracted, his thoughts turned inward. Caramon drank more ale than was good for him and fell asleep with his head on the table. The only person talking was Tasslehoff, who prattled away happily about the exciting events of the day, never seeming to mind that no one was listening to him.
Raistlin suddenly shoved his plate aside and rose to his feet. “I am going to study my spells. I do not want to be disturbed.” He appropriated the only comfortable chair and dragged it near the large stone fireplace, where Tanis had managed to coax a small fire into burning.
Raistlin cast a disgusted glance at his twin, who lay sprawled on the table, exhaling beery breath.
“I trust someone will put that great lump to bed,” Raistlin said. He took out his spellbook and was soon absorbed in his reading.
Sturm and Tanis hauled the sodden Caramon to the stoutest bed and dumped him down onto the mattress. Sturm then walked over and stood beside Flint, staring down at him.
“Flint, you can’t do this,” said Sturm.
Flint’s knife scraped against the wood, and a particularly large chip flew off, nearly hitting Tasslehoff, who was engaged in attempting to pick a lock on a large chest.
“You can’t go off on a quest of this importance with that Arman Kharas. In the first place, I’m none too certain of his sanity. In the second, it is too dangerous. You should refuse to go unless one of us goes with you.”
Small curls of wood flowed out from under Flint’s knife, landing at his feet.
Sturm’s face reddened. “The Thanes cannot refuse you, Flint. Simply tell them that you will not fetch the hammer without proper protection! I myself would be glad to serve as your escort.”
Flint looked up. “Bah!” he said, and looked back down. Another chip flew. “You’d escort the hammer right out of Thorbardin and back to Solamnia!”
Sturm smashed his fist on the table, setting the pewter plates dancing, and startling Tas, who dropped his lock pick. “Hey!” the kender said sternly. “Be quiet. Raistlin and I are trying to concentrate.”
“The hammer is vital to our cause!” Sturm said angrily.
“Keep your voice down, Sturm,” Tanis cautioned. “The walls are thick, but that door is not, and the guards are right outside.”
“They speak nothing but Dwarvish,” Sturm said, but he did lower his voice. He walked a couple of times around the room, trying to calm himself, then went back to confront Flint.
“I apologize for shouting, but I do not think you understand the importance of your undertaking. The dragonlance is the only weapon known to us that can slay these evil dragons, and the Hammer of Kharas is the only hammer that can be used in the making of the dragonlances. If you bring the hammer to the knights you will be a hero, Flint. You will be honored in legend and song for all time. Most important, you will save thousands of lives!”
Flint did not look at him, though he appeared to be interested in what the knight had to say. His whittling slowed. Only very small shavings fell now. Tanis didn’t like the way the conversation was tending.
“Have you forgotten the reason we came here, Sturm?” Tanis asked. “We came seeking a safe haven for eight hundred men, women, and children. Flint has promised to give the dwarves the hammer if he finds it. In return, Hornfel has promised that the refugees can enter Thorbardin. He won’t do that if we try to walk off with the dwarves’ sacred hammer. In fact, we probably wouldn’t get out of here alive. Face facts, Sturm. The dragonlance is a dream, a legend, a myth. We are not certain such a weapon even existed.” “Some of us are,” Sturm said.
“The refugees are real and their peril is real,” Tanis countered. “I agree with Sturm that you should not go alone tomorrow, Flint, but I should be the one to go with you.”
“You do not trust me, Half-Elven, is that it?” Sturm’s face blanched, his eyes dilated.
“I trust you, Sturm,” said Tanis, sighing. “I know that you would give your life for me, or Flint, or any of us. I do not doubt your courage, your honor, or your friendship. It’s just … I worry that you are being impractical! You have traded common sense for some wishful dream of saving mankind.”
Sturm shook his head. “I honor and respect you, Tanis, as I would have honored and respected the father I never knew. In this matter, however, I cannot give way. What if we save eight hundred lives now, only to lose thousands as the evil queen moves to conquer and enslave all of Ansalon? The dragonlance may be a dream now, but we have it in our power to make that dream reality! The gods brought me here to seek the Hammer of Kharas, Tanis. I believe that with all my heart.”
“The gods told me where to find it, Sturm Bright-blade.” Flint thrust his knife in his belt, stood up, and tossed the chunk of wood he’d been whittling into the fire. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sturm is right about one thing, Flint,” said Tanis. “You should tell the Thanes that you want one of us to accompany you. I don’t care who it is. Take Sturm, take Caramon. Just take someone! Will you do that?”
“No.” Flint stalked off toward a dwarf-size bed he’d found for himself in a distant corner of the room.
“Be logical, my friend,” Tanis was growing exasperated at the dwarf’s stubbornness. “You can’t go off alone with Arman Kharas! You can’t trust him.”
“Actually, Flint, if you want a companion who will be truly useful, you would choose me,” said Raistlin from his place by the fire.
“As if anyone trusts you!” Sturm gave the mage a baleful glance. “I should be the one to go.”
Flint halted half-way across the room and turned to face them. His face was livid with rage.
“I’d sooner take the kender than any one of you lot. So there!” He stomped
off to bed.
Tasslehoff jumped to his feet. “Me? You’re taking me, Flint?” he cried in excitement.
“I’m not taking anyone,” Flint growled.
He marched over to his bed, climbed in it, pulled the blanket up over his head, and rolled over, his back to them all.
“But Flint,” Tas wailed, “you just said you were—”
“Tas, leave him alone,” said Tanis.
“He said he was taking me!” Tas argued.
“Flint’s tired. We’re all tired. I think we should go to bed. Perhaps matters will look different in the morning.”
“Flint said he was taking me,” Tasslehoff muttered. “I should sharpen my sword.”
He rummaged about in his pouches, searching for his knife. He located Rabbitslayer then began looking in his pouches for a whetstone. He didn’t find that, but he did come across several other objects that were so interesting he completely forgot about the knife.
Raistlin closed his book with a snap.
“I hope you two are pleased with yourselves,” the mage said, as he walked past Sturm and Tanis on his way to his bed.
“He’ll think better of it by morning,” said Sturm.
“I’m not so sure.” Tanis glanced at the dwarf. “You know how stubborn he can be.”
“We’ll reason with him,” Sturm said.
Tanis, who had tried on occasion to reason with the irascible old dwarf, did not hold out much hope.
Flint lay staring into the darkness. Sturm was right. Tanis was right. Even Raistlin was right! Logic dictated he should take one of them with him on the morrow. Hornfel would let him if he made an issue of it. The Thanes wouldn’t have much choice.
Yet as he continued to think things over, Flint came to realize he’d made the right decision. He’d made it for the wrong reasons, but that didn’t make it less right.
“The Hammer of Honor doesn’t belong to the knights and their dreams of glory,” Flint said to himself. “It doesn’t belong to elves. It doesn’t belong to humans, no matter how much trouble they’re in. The hammer was made by dwarves, and it belongs to dwarves. Dwarves should be the ones who decide what to do with it, and if that means using it to save ourselves, then so be it.”
This was a good reason and sounded very fine, but it wasn’t the only reason Flint was going off on his own.
“This time, the hero is going to be me.”
Of course, there was always the possibility that the hero would be Arman Kharas, but Flint didn’t think that likely. Reorx had promised him that if he put on the helm, the hammer would be his reward.
Flint Fireforge, Savior of the People, Unifier of the Dwarven Nations. Perhaps even Flint Fireforge, High King.
Flint smiled to himself. That last wasn’t likely to come true, but an old dwarf could dream, couldn’t he?
13
False metal. Strange bedfellows. Flint’s promise.
t seemed to the companions that they had only just gone to bed when they were awakened by Arman Kharas banging on the door. Being deep underground, bereft of sunlight, they had no way to tell the time, but Arman assured them that in the world outside, the sun’s first rays were gilding the snow on the mountain peaks.
“How do you know?” Caramon grumbled. He was not happy about being wakened “in the middle of the night,” as he termed it, especially when suffering from the effects of drinking too much ale.
“There are parts of Thorbardin where one can see the sun, and we regulate our water clocks by it. You will view one of those places today,” he added in solemn tones, speaking to Flint. “The light of the sun shines always upon the Kalil S’rith—the Valley of Thanes.” Sturm looked grimly at Tanis, who shook his head and looked at Flint, who very carefully did not look at anyone. The old dwarf clumped about the room, busy over various tasks—putting on his armor, putting on his helm with the “griffin’s mane,” and strapping the Helm of Grallen to his belt.
Tanis saw Sturm’s expression alter. He knew what the knight was going to say before he said it, and he tried to stop him, but he was too late.
“Flint,” Sturm said sternly, “be reasonable. Take one of us.”
Flint turned to Arman.
“I’ll need a weapon. I’m not going to face whatever hauled that tomb out of the ground without my battle-axe in my hands.”
Arman Kharas removed the ornate hammer from the harness on his back. He looked at it regretfully for a moment then held it out to Flint.
“That’s yours,” said Flint, “I’ll take my battle-axe.”
Arman frowned at this refusal. “You have been given the knowledge of how to find the true Hammer. You should be the one to carry the replica. I had it made especially for this moment. It’s my homage to Kharas. You will carry it to the Tomb of the King in Kharas’s honor.”
Flint didn’t know what to say. He would have been much more comfortable with his battle-axe, but he didn’t want to hurt the young dwarf anymore than he’d already been hurt.
Flint reached out, took hold of the hammer, and nearly dropped it. He suspected he knew now why Arman had given it to him. The hammer was heavy and unwieldy, well-crafted, but not well-designed. He gave it an experimental swing or two, and the thing nearly broke his wrist.
He glanced suspiciously at Arman to see if he was smiling. Arman stood looking grave, however, and Flint realized the young dwarf had meant what he said.
Flint held out his hand to Arman. “I accept this in the name of friendship.”
Arman hesitated, then stiffly shook hands.
“Perhaps we misjudged Arman,” said Tanis.
Sturm snorted. “He walks around carrying a fake magical hammer. I think that merely confirms the fact that he is crazy.”
Raistlin seemed about to say something, then stopped. He regarded Flint and the hammer thoughtfully.
“What?” Tanis asked the mage.
“You should try once more to talk to Flint.”
Tanis could have told him it was a waste of time, but he walked over to where Flint was continuing to gather up his gear. Tasslehoff had offered his assistance, with the result that Flint came up missing his favorite knife. He immediately rounded on the kender, seized hold of him and began to shake out his pouches, ignoring Tas’s cries of protest.
“Sturm, a word with you,” said Raistlin.
Sturm did not trust the strange gleam in Raistlin’s hourglass eyes, but he accompanied him to the window.
“Is that hammer an exact replica of the real one?” Raistlin asked softly.
“I have only ever seen the Hammer in paintings,” Sturm replied, “but from what I can judge it is identical.”
“How can a person distinguish between the real and the false?”
“The Hammer is reputed to be light in weight, yet when it strikes it does so with the force of the god behind it, and when the true Hammer hits the sacred Anvil of Thorbardin, it sounds a note that can be heard throughout the earth and heavens.”
Raistlin cast a sharp glance at the false hammer. Folding his hands in his sleeves, he leaned near to whisper, “Flint could switch hammers.”
Sturm stared at him, either uncomprehending or refusing to comprehend.
“Flint has the false hammer,” Raistlin explained. “He has only to replace the true Hammer with the false. He keeps the true one and gives the dwarves the other.”
“They will know the difference,” said Sturm.
Raistlin smiled. “I think not. I can cast a spell on the false hammer, recreating the effects you described—or close enough so that the dwarves will not be able to tell the difference for a long time. Once Arman has the hammer in his possession—the hammer he’s been searching for all his life—he won’t look very hard to find fault with it. I can do this,” he added, “but I need your help.”
Sturm shook his head. “I won’t be a party to this.”
“But it solves all our problems!” Raistlin said insistently, placing his hand on Sturm’s arm. The knight flinched beneath the
touch, but he remained to listen. “We give the dwarves what they want. We have what we want. Once the dragonlances are forged, you can bring the Hammer back to them. No harm done—and much good.”
“It is … not honorable,” said Sturm.
“Oh, well, if honor is what you want, then by all means, say an honorable prayer over the little children as the dragons of the Dark Queen sear the flesh from their bones.” Raistlin’s grip on the knight tightened. “You may have the right to choose honor over life, but think of those who have no choice, those who will suffer and die under the Dark Queen’s rule. And she will rule, Sturm. You know as well as I that the forces of good—what paltry forces of good there are—cannot do anything to stop her.”
Sturm was silent. Raistlin could both see and feel the conflict raging inside the knight. Sturm’s arm muscles tensed and hardened. His eyes glinted, his fists clenched. He was thinking not only of the innocents, but also of himself. He would bring the Hammer to the knighthood. He would be the one to forge the fabled dragonlances. He would be the savior of the Solamnic people, of all people everywhere.
Raistlin could guess much of what the knight was thinking, and he almost guessed right. Raistlin assumed that Sturm was being seduced by a dream of glory when, in truth, the thought of those innocents who would suffer in the coming war affected the knight profoundly. He could see again the smoldering ruins and the butchered children of Que-shu.
“What do you want me to do?” Sturm asked, the words falling reluctantly from his lips. He had never imagined agreeing to help Raistlin weave one of his webs. Sturm reminded himself, again, of the innocents.
“You must talk to Flint,” said Raistlin. “Tell him the plan. He will not listen to me.”
“I’m not convinced he will listen to me,” Sturm said.
“At least we must try! Put the idea into his head.” Raistlin paused, then said softly, “Say nothing to Tanis.”
Sturm understood. Tanis would oppose such a scheme. Not only was it dishonest, it was dangerous. If the dwarves found out, it could be the death of them all, yet the dragonlances were their best hope for winning the war—something the half-elf stubbornly refused to understand.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 34