Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  After the clerics departed, the dwarves continued to come to the Valley, but without the clerics to tend to it, the grass grew long and wild, the tombs fell into disrepair, and soon the dwarves quit coming. Although dwarves revered their ancestors and thought enough of them to include them in their politics and in their daily lives, asking them for guidance or assistance, the dwarves were now reluctant to disturb the slumbers of the dead. Once a dwarf was laid in tomb or cairn, his family bid farewell and departed, returning to the Valley only when it was time to bury another family member.

  The Valley of the Thanes was hallowed ground, blessed centuries ago by Reorx. Once the valley had been a place of quiet and peace. Now it was a place of sorrow. The valley was also a place of sun and wind, cloud and stars, for the valley was the only area in Thorbardin on which the sunlight shone. This was another reason the dwarves rarely went there. They were like babes in the womb, who cry at the light. Living all their lives in the snug darkness beneath the mountain, the dwarves of Thorbardin felt uncomfortable—vulnerable and exposed—when they entered the wind-swept, sundrenched emptiness of the valley.

  The huge bronze doors of the Guardian Hall were marked with the symbol of the Eighth Kingdom—a hammer prone, lying at rest; the warrior’s hand having put it down.

  Neither Flint nor Arman spoke during the journey down the Eighth Road. Neither spoke as they walked toward the bronze doors. The noise of the chaotic scene behind them had faded away in the distance. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, hopes, dreams, desires, and fears.

  They came to the double doors, and by unspoken, mutual consent, they put their hands to opposite sides—Flint taking the left and Arman Kharas the right. Removing their helms and bowing their heads, they pushed open the great doors of the Kilil S’rith.

  Sunlight—bright, brilliant, blinding—struck them full in the face. Arman Kharas squinted his eyes half-shut and held up his hand to blot out the dazzling light. Flint blinked rapidly, then drew in a huge gulp of crisp mountain air and lifted his face to the warmth of the sunshine.

  “By Reorx!” Flint breathed. “I did not know how much I missed this! It is like I have come back to life!”

  Ironic, he thought, in a valley of death.

  Arman shielded his eyes. He could not look into the wide, blue sky.

  “For me it is like death,” he said grimly. “No walls, no borders, no boundaries, no beginning, and no end. I see the vast expanse of the universe above me, and I am nothing in it, less than nothing, and I do not like that.”

  It was then Flint truly understood, for the first time, the vast gulf that lay between his people and those beneath the mountain. Long ago, both clans had been comfortable walking in sunlight and in darkness. Now what was life to one was death to the other.

  Flint wondered if his people could ever go back to what had once been, as Arman Kharas dreamed. Hearing again the curses, the insults, the words of hate—sharper, harder, and more lethal than missiles— feeling the burning of anger in his own heart, Flint did not consider it likely, hammer or no hammer. Though his anger burned, he felt a sorrow at that, as though he’d misplaced something treasured.

  The two dwarves stood waiting for their eyes to grow accustomed to the bright light before they proceeded. Neither could see very well, thus neither of them noticed Tasslehoff climb out of the wagon. He had thrown off the bulky helm and removed his smelly and itchy leather vest, and he hurried toward the bronze door intending to take Flint by surprise, for it was always fun to see the old dwarf jump into the air and go red in the face.

  Tas ran inside the doors, and the sun hit him smack in the face. The sunlight was bright and completely unexpected. Clapping his hands over his eyes, the kender went reeling backward through the bronze doors. The glare jabbed right into his brain, and all he could see was a huge red splash streaked with blue and decorated with little yellow speckles. When this admittedly entertaining and interesting phenomenon had passed, Tas opened his eyes and saw, to his dismay, that the bronze doors had swung shut, leaving him stranded in darkness that was worse than ever.

  “I’m going to an awful lot of trouble,” Tas grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I hope Flint appreciates it.”

  The Valley of the Thanes had been a cavern that had collapsed thousands of years ago, leaving it open to the air. The dead lay in small burial mounds rising up out of the rustling brown grass, or in large cairns marked by stone doors, or in the instances of very wealthy and powerful dwarves, the dead were entombed inside mausoleums. Each site was marked with a stone in which the family name had been carved at the top, with the names of the individual family members added in rows underneath. Some families had several such stones, for their generations extended back through time. Flint kept an eye out for Neidar names as he went, including his own, Fireforge. Another point of contention between the clans when Duncan sealed up the mountain was that the Neidar who came back to Thorbardin to be buried were now barred from their traditional resting place.

  No paths or trails circled the mounds. The feet of mortals rarely walked here. Flint and Arman wended their way among the mounds, their destination visible to them the moment their eyes grew accustomed to the light—Duncan’s Tomb.

  The ornate and elaborate structure, more like a small palace than a tomb, floated majestically many hundred feet above a still blue lake in the center of the valley. The lake had been formed by run-off from the mountain snows flowing into the hole left behind when the tomb was wrenched out of the earth.

  Flint could not take his eyes from the marvelous sight. He stared at the tomb in awe. He had seen many dwarven-built monuments before, but none to rival this. Weighing tons upon tons, the tomb floated among the clouds as if it were as light as any of them. Towers and turrets made of white marble adorned with flame red tile shone in the sunlight. Stained glass windows opened onto balconies. Steep stairs led from one level to another, crisscrossing up and down and circling round the edifice.

  A deep musical note resonated from the tomb and echoed throughout the valley. The note sounded once, then the music faded away.

  “What was that?” Flint asked, astonished.

  Arman Kharas gazed up at the miracle of the floating tomb.

  “Some say it is Kharas wielding the hammer. None know for sure.”

  The note sounded again, and Flint was forced to admit, it did sound very much like a hammer striking metal. He thought about what might be waiting for them in that tomb—should they ever manage to reach it—and he wished he had taken Sturm’s advice and insisted that Hornfel allow his friends to come with him.

  “King Duncan began building his tomb in his lifetime,” Arman stated. “It was to be a grand monument where his children and their children and those who would come after him would all be laid to rest. Alas, his vision of a Hylar dynasty was not to be. His two sons he buried in a plain, unmarked cairn. The tomb of his third son will forever remain empty.

  “When the king died, Kharas, disgusted by the fighting among the clans, bore the body to the tomb himself. Fearing that the king’s funeral would be marred by unseemly behavior on the parts of the feuding Thanes, Kharas banned all of them from attending. It is said that they sought to enter, but the great bronze doors slammed shut upon them. Kharas never returned. The Thanes pounded on the doors, trying to force them open. The earth began to shake with such violence that buildings toppled, the Life Tree cracked, and the lake overflowed and flooded the surrounding land.

  “When the mountain ceased trembling, the bronze doors swung open. Each eager to find the hammer and claim it for his own, the Thanes fought over who would be the first to enter the Valley. Bloody and battered, they surged inside, only to discover, to their horror, that the king’s tomb had been torn from the ground by some dread force and set floating in the air far above their heads.

  “Down through the years, many have searched for the means that would gain us entry, but to this day, none have found it, and now”—Arman turned his dark gaze from the tomb to F
lint—“you, a Neidar, claim to know the secret.” Arman stroked his long black beard. “I, for one, doubt it.”

  Flint took the bait. “Where is Prince Grallen’s tomb?” He was suddenly eager to have this over and done with.

  “Not far.” Arman pointed. “The obelisk of black marble you see by the lake. Once the obelisk stood in front of Duncan’s Tomb, but that was before it was torn out of the earth. A statue of the prince stands at the site, and beyond it are the remains of a marble archway that crumbled when the mountain shook.”

  Arman cast a glance at Flint. “What do we do once we reach the prince’s tomb? Unless you would rather not tell me,” he added stiffly.

  Flint felt he owed the young dwarf something. Arman had given him his hammer, after all.

  “I’m to take the helm to his tomb,” said Flint.

  Arman stared, astonished. “That is all? Nothing about the Hammer?”

  “Not in so many words,” Flint said evasively.

  There had been a feeling, an impression, but nothing specific. That was the main reason he hadn’t said more to his friends and yet another reason he had decided to leave them behind.

  “But you agreed to make the wager with Realgar—”

  “Ah, now,” said Flint, walking among the mounds of the dead, “what dwarf who calls himself a dwarf ever turned down a bet?”

  Tasslehoff stared at the bronze doors, then he went over and gave one of the doors a swift kick, not so much because he thought he could kick the door open, but because he was so profoundly annoyed with them. Tas’s toes tingled all the way up to his shoulders, and he became more annoyed than ever.

  Dropping his hoopak onto the ground, Tas put both hands on one of the doors and pushed. He pushed and pushed, and nothing happened. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face and thought to himself that he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone except Flint. He also thought that he’d felt the door give just a little, so he pushed again, this time throwing all his weight into it.

  “You know who would come in handy about now?” Tas said to himself, pushing with all his might on the door. “Fizban. If he were here, he would hurl one of his fireballs at this door, and it would just pop open.”

  Which is exactly what the door did at that moment.

  Pop open. With the result that Tas found himself pushing against nothing but air and sunlight, and he landed flat on his face on the ground. Landing flat on his face reminded Tas of something else Fizban would have done—given the absence of flame, smoke, and general destruction that usually accompanied the daft old wizard’s spells. Tas spent a moment lying in the grass, sighing over his friend’s demise. Then, remembering his Mission, he jumped to his feet and looked about.

  It was then he realized that the bronze door was swinging shut behind him. Tas made a leap for his hoopak and managed to haul it inside at the last moment before the door boomed shut. Turning around, he looked up into the sky and saw the floating tomb, and he heard what sounded like a hammer striking a gong. The kender was enthralled.

  Tas lost several moments staring at the tomb in dumbfounded wonder. The hammer was up there in that tomb that was floating in the sky, and Flint was going up there to get it. Tas gave a moist sigh.

  “I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, Queen Takhisis, when I say this,” he said solemnly, “and I want to assure you that I still plan to visit the Abyss someday, but right now the place I most want to be in all the world is up there in Duncan’s Tomb.”

  Tasslehoff trudged off in search of his friend.

  The tomb of Prince Grallen was one of many cairns, tombs, and burial mounds that had been constructed around the lake in the center of the valley. Here, around the lake, Thanes and their families had been buried for centuries. Grallen’s tomb was the only empty tomb, however; left open to receive the body that would never be found. The tomb was marked by a black obelisk and a life-size statue of the prince. The statue was of the prince in full battle regalia, but it held no weapons. The hands were empty as the tomb, the head bare.

  Kharas stood before the statue of the prince, his head bowed in respect, his own helm in his hand. Flint, his mouth dry, walked slowly forward, carrying the Helm of Grallen. He was at loss to know what to do. Was he supposed to place the helm in the empty tomb? He started to turn away, when he felt a chill touch on his flesh. The stone hands of the statue were resting on his own.

  Flint’s stomach lurched. His hands shook, and he nearly dropped the helm. He tried to move, but the stone hands held him fast. He looked into the statue’s face, into the eyes, and they were not empty stone. They shone bright with life.

  The stone lips moved. “My head has been bare to the sun and the wind, the rain and the snow these many long years.”

  Flint shuddered and wished he’d never come. He hesitated, nerving himself, and then, quaking in fear, he placed the helm on the statue’s head. Metal scraped against stone. The helm slid over the cold face and covered the eyes. The red gem flared.

  “I go to join my brothers. Long have they waited for me that we could make this next journey together.”

  A feeling of peace flowed through Flint, and he was no longer afraid. He felt overwhelming love, love that forgave all. He let go of the helm almost reluctantly and stepped back and bowed his head. The feeling of peace faded away. He heard Arman gasp, and when he could see through the mist that covered his eyes, Flint saw the prince now wore a helm of stone.

  He choked back the lump in his throat, rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and looked about. Finding what he sought, he circled around the obelisk.

  “What do we do now?” Arman asked, following after him. “Where are you going?”

  “That arch over there,” Flint said, pointing.

  “The arch was a monument to Kharas,” said Arman. “It fell down when the tomb was torn from the earth. It lay in ruins for many years. My father had it rebuilt and rededicated in hopes that it would lead us to the Hammer, but nothing came of it.”

  Flint nodded. “We have to walk through the arch.”

  Arman was skeptical. “Bah! I’ve walked through the arch countless times and nothing happened.”

  Flint made no reply, saving his breath for walking. As Raistlin had so unkindly reminded him, he was not getting any younger. The fracas with the mob, the hike through the valley, and the encounter with the statue had taken its toll on his strength. For all he knew, he was a long way from the hammer.

  The arch was made of the same black marble as the obelisk. It was very plain with nothing carved on it except the words, “I wait and watch. He will not return. Alas, I mourn for Kharas.”

  Flint halted. He rocked back and forth on his feet, making up his mind, then, sucking in a huge breath and shutting his eyes, he ran through the arch. As he did so, he shouted out loudly, “I mourn for Kharas!”

  Flint’s run should have taken him to the brown grass on other side of the arch. Instead, his boots clattered on rickety wooden floor boards. Shocked, he opened his eyes and found himself in a shadowy room lit by a single ray of sunlight shining through a narrow arrow slit in a stone wall.

  Flint sucked in a breath and let it out in awe. He turned around, and there was the arch, far, far behind him. He heard a distant voice cry, “I mourn for Kharas” and Arman appeared in the archway. He stared around in wonder.

  “We are here!” he cried. “Inside the tomb!” He sank to his knees. “My destiny is about to be fulfilled.”

  Flint stumped over to the arrow slit and peered out. He looked down on brown grass and a sun-lit lake and a small obelisk. His eyes widened. He took a hasty step backward.

  “Quick! Block the entrance!” he bellowed, but he was too late.

  “I mourn for Kharas,” cried a shrill voice. Tasslehoff Burrfoot, hoopak in hand, burst through the arch.

  “You promised you were going to take me, Flint,” he said, “but I guess you forgot and I didn’t want you to feel bad, so I came along myself.”

  “A kender!” Arman excl
aimed in horror. “In the tomb of the High King! This cannot be permitted! He must go back.”

  He rushed at Tasslehoff, who was so astonished he forgot to run. Arman grabbed hold of the kender and was about to hurl him back through the arch when he suddenly let go.

  “The arch is gone!” Arman gasped.

  “Say,” said Tas, picking himself up off the floor, “if the arch is gone, how do we get back down on the ground?”

  “Maybe we don’t,” Flint said grimly.

  15

  Lizards. Fleas. Vermin.

  ell me more about this hammer,” said Dray-yan.

  “It is a moldy old dwarven relic,” Realgar replied. He eyed the lizard-men suspiciously. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “According to what His Lordship has heard, the dwarf who finds the hammer will determine who is to be High King,” said Dray-yan, “and now we have found out that two dwarves have set off in search of it. You failed to mention this to Lord Verminaard.”

  Realgar scowled. “I did not think his lordship would interested.”

  “On the contrary,” said Dray-yan, his long tongue flicking out from between his teeth. He sucked it back in. “His lordship is interested in everything that happens here in Thorbardin.”

  The aurak draconian and his commander, Grag, were deep inside Thorbardin meeting with the Thane of the Theiwar. One of Dray-yan’s paid informants had taken the information about the hammer to a draconian message bearer, who deemed it important enough to travel swiftly through the secret tunnels and wake Grag in the middle of the night. Grag had deemed it important enough to wake Dray-yan. The same messenger had also brought information about the escaped slaves and the gang of assassins who led them.

  Dray-yan and Grag traveled swiftly to Thorbardin to discuss these matters with Realgar. Dray-yan had met with the Theiwar leader before, but then he had been in the guise of Lord Verminaard. Dray-yan decided to appear as his true scaly self when he met with Realgar today. Lord Verminaard was on his way to Thorbardin, Dray-yan told Realgar. His Lordship would be present when the hammer was found.