“Oh, just shut your mouth. We’ve wasted enough time palavering with that thing, whatever it was. We have to find Arman.”
“No, we have to find the Hammer,” Tas argued, “otherwise Kharas will win the bet and take your soul.”
Flint shook his head and walked off, heading for the stairs again.
“Are we going back inside the secret passage?” Tas asked as they were climbing. “Say, you know, we never went all the way to the top of these stairs. Where do you suppose they lead? What do you think is up there? Was it on the map?”
Flint stopped on one of the stairs, turned around and raised his fist. “If you ask me another question, I’ll … I’ll gag you with your own hoopak!”
He began to clump up the stairs again, stifling a groan as he did so. The stairs were steep, and as Raistlin had reminded him, Flint wasn’t a young dwarf anymore.
Tas hurried along after, wondering how someone could be gagged with a hoopak. He’d have to remember to ask.
They arrived at the place where the secret passage had been, only to find that it wasn’t there any longer. The stairs behind which it was hidden had been shoved back into place, and try as he might, Flint could not open them again. He wondered how Arman had discovered the passage. The ancient dwarf who claimed to know Kharas probably had something to do with it. Glowering and muttering to himself, Flint climbed the stairs to the top.
Once there, he consulted the map. They’d reached the second level of the tomb. Here were galleries, antechambers, a Promenade of Nobles, and a banquet hall.
“The Thanes would have attended a grand feast in honor of the fallen king,” Flint murmured. “At least, that was what Duncan intended, but his burial feast was never held. The Thanes were fighting for the crown. Kharas was the king’s sole mourner.” Flint glanced about the darkness and added grimly, “And whoever lifted up the tomb and set it floating among the clouds.”
“If they didn’t hold the feast, maybe there’s some food left,” said Tas. “I’m starving. Which way’s the banquet hall? This way?”
Before Flint could answer, the kender was off, racing down the hall.
“Wait! Tas! You doorknob! You’ve got the lantern!” Flint shouted into the fog-ridden gloom, but the kender was out of sight.
Heaving a sigh, Flint stamped off in pursuit.
“Drat,” said Tas, looking over the banquet table that was empty of everything except dust. “Nothing. I suppose mice ate it, or maybe that Kharas did. Oh well. After three hundred years, the food probably wouldn’t have tasted that good anyhow.”
Tas wished again he’d brought his pouches. He could generally find something to snack on in there—the odd meat pie, muffin, or grapes that weren’t bad once you removed the bits of fluff. Thinking of food made him hungrier, however, and so he put the thought out of his mind.
The banquet table held nothing interesting. Tas wandered about, searching for a forgotten crumb or two. He could hear Flint bellowing in the distance.
“I’m in the banquet hall!” Tas called out. “There’s no food, so don’t hurry!”
That prompted more bellowing, but Tas couldn’t understand what Flint was saying. Something about Arman.
“I guess I’m supposed to look for him,” Tas said, so he did call out his name a couple of times, though not with much enthusiasm. He peered under the table and poked about in a couple of corners.
He didn’t find Arman, but he did find something, and it was a lot more interesting than an arrogant young dwarf who always said the word “kender” as though he’d bitten down on a rotten fig. In a corner of the room was a chair, and beside the chair was a table. On the table was a book, pen, and ink, and a pair of spectacles.
Tas held the lantern close to the book, which had squiggles on the cover. He guessed it was something else written in Dwarvish. Then it occurred to him that maybe the writing was magic and this might be a magic spellbook, like those Raistlin kept with him that Tas was never allowed to even get a little tiny peek at, no matter that he promised he would be extra, extra careful, and not crease the pages, or spill tarbean tea on it. As for the spectacles, they were ordinary looking, or would have been ordinary if the glass inside them had been clear like other spectacles the kender had seen and not ruby-colored.
The kender was torn. He started to pick up the book, then his hand hovered over the spectacles, then went back to the book. At last it occurred to him that he could do both—he could put on the spectacles and look at the book.
He picked up the spectacles and slid them over his ears, noting, as he did so, that they appeared to have been made just for him. Most spectacles were way too big and slid down his nose. These stayed put. Pleased, he looked out through the glass and saw that the ruby glass made the red-tinged fog even redder than it had been before. Other than that, the spectacles didn’t really do anything. They didn’t make his eyes go all blurry as did other spectacles. Thinking that these spectacles weren’t good for much, Tas picked up the book.
He scrutinized the title. “‘Being a History of Duncan, High King of Thorbardin, with Full and Complete Accounts of the Ogre Battles, the Dwarfgate Wars, and Subsequent Tragic Ramifications Involving Civil Unrest.’ Whew!” Tas paused to straighten out his tongue that had gotten all tangled up over that last bit.
Flint came peering through the fog. “Tasslehoff, you rattle-brain, where have you gotten to?”
Tas snatched off the spectacles and thrust them in one of his pockets. He had found them lying about, which made them fair game, but he wasn’t certain Flint would see it that way, and Tas didn’t want to waste time arguing.
“I’m over here,” he called.
“Doing what?” Flint demanded, seeing the light and bearing down on him.
“Nothing,” Tas said, hurt. “Just taking a look at this old book. I can read Dwarvish, Flint. I can’t speak it or understand it, but I can read it. Isn’t that interesting?”
Flint took away the lantern and glanced at the book. “That’s not Dwarvish, you ninny. I don’t know what it is. Any sign of Arman?”
“Who? Oh, him. No, but take a look at this book. It’s about King Duncan. The title says so, along with a bunch of other stuff about rams and civil unrest.”
He stopped talking, because suddenly he couldn’t read the title. The words had gone back to being squiggles, whorls, dots, dashes and curlicues. When he’d seen them through the spectacles, they had been words. When he looked at them now, with the spectacles tucked in his pocket, they weren’t. Tas had a sneaking hunch he knew what was going on.
He glanced about to see if Flint was watching. The dwarf was calling out Arman’s name, but no one answered.
“I don’t like this,” Flint muttered.
“If he is out there searching for the Hammer, he wouldn’t be likely to tell us where, would he?” Tas pointed out. “He wants to beat us to it.”
Flint grunted and rubbed his nose, then muttered again and pulled out the map. Holding it in his hand, he went over to stare and poke at a wall. He looked at the map, then looked back, frowning, at the wall. “Must be a hidden door here somewhere.” He started to tap the wall with his hammer. “According to the map, the Promenade of Nobles is on the other side, but I can’t figure out how to get to it.”
Tas took out the spectacles and held them to his eyes and looked down at the book. Sure enough, the Ramifications and Subesquents were back. Tas peered through the spectacles at Flint, to see if they made the dwarf look different.
Flint looked the same, rather to Tas’s disappointment. The wall, however, had changed a good deal. In fact, it wasn’t a wall at all.
“There’s no wall, Flint,” Tas told him. “Just keep walking and you’ll be inside a dark hall with statues all lined up in a row.”
“What do you mean there’s no wall? Of course, there’s a wall! Look at it!”
As Flint turned to glare at him, Tas whipped off the spectacles and held them behind his back. This was more fun than he’d had in a long t
ime. The wall was there once again. A solid stone wall.
“Whoa!” breathed Tas, awed.
“Quit wasting time,” Flint snapped, “and come over and help me look for the secret door. On the other side of this wall is the Promenade. We walk down it, go up some stairs and then go up some more stairs, and we’re at the entrance to the Ruby Chamber with the Hammer!” He rubbed his hands. “We’re close. Really close! We just have to find some way past this blasted wall!”
He went back to tapping at the stone work. Tas held up the spectacles, took one last look, then, secreting them in his pocket, he walked boldly up to the wall, closed his eyes—in case the spectacles might be wrong and he was going to smash his nose—and walked straight into the stones.
He heard Flint bellow, then he heard the bellow get stuck in the dwarf’s windpipe so that it turned into a choke, and then Flint was yelling. “Tas! You rattle-brain! Where did you go?”
Tas turned around. He could see Flint quite clearly, but apparently the dwarf couldn’t see him, because Flint was running up and down in front of a stone wall that wasn’t there.
“I’m on the other side,” Tas called. “I told you. There’s no wall. It just looks like there’s a wall. You can walk through it!”
Flint hesitated, dithered a little bit, then he put the hammer back in its harness and set down the lantern on the floor. Holding one hand over his eyes and thrusting the other hand in front of him, he walked forward slowly and gingerly.
Nothing happened. Flint took away his hand from his eyes. He found himself, just as Tas had said, in a long, dark hallway lined with statues of dwarves, each standing in its own niche.
“You forgot the lantern,” said Tas, and he went back to fetch it.
Flint stared at the kender in wonder. “How did you know that wall wasn’t real?”
“It was marked on the map,” Tas said. He handed Flint the lantern. “Where does this corridor lead?”
Flint looked back at the map. “No, it isn’t.”
“Bah!” Tas said. “What do you know about maps? I’m the expert. Are we going down this hall or not?”
Flint looked at the map and scratched his head. He looked back at the wall that wasn’t there, then stared at the kender. Tas smiled at him brightly. Flint frowned, then walked off down the corridor, flashing the light over the statues and muttering to himself, something he tended to do a lot when he was around the kender.
Tasslehoff put his hand into his pocket, patted the spectacles, and sighed with bliss. They were magic! Not even Raistlin had such a wonderful pair of spectacles as this.
Tas meant to keep these marvelous spectacles forever and ever, or at least for the next couple of weeks, which, to a kender, amounts to roughly the same thing.
As Flint walked the Grand Promenade, flashing the lantern light here and there, he forgot Tasslehoff and the mystery of the vanishing stone wall. The Hammer was as good as his.
In each niche he passed stood a statue of a dwarven warrior clad in the armor of the time of King Duncan. Moving down the long row, Flint imagined himself surrounded by an honor guard of dwarven soldiers, clad in their ceremonial finery, assembled to pay him homage. He could hear their cheers: Flint Fireforge, the Hammer-Finder! Flint Fireforge, the Unifier! Flint Fireforge, the Bringer of the Dragonlance! Flint Fire-forge, High King!
No, Flint decided. He didn’t want to be High King. Being king would mean he’d have to live under the mountain, and he was too fond of fresh air, blue sky, and sunshine to do that. But the other titles sounded fine to him, especially the Bringer of the Dragonlance. He came to the end of the rows of dwarven soldiers and there was Sturm, splendid in his armor, saluting him. Next to him stood Caramon, looking very solemn, and Raistlin, meek and humble in the great dwarf’s presence.
Laurana was there, too, smiling on him and giving him a kiss, and Tika was there, and Otik, promising him a lifetime supply of free ale if he would honor the inn with his presence. Tasslehoff popped up, grinning and waving, but Flint banished him. No kender in this dream. He passed Hornfel, who bowed deeply, and came to Tanis, who regarded his old friend with pride. There, at the end of the row, was the flashily dressed dwarf from his dream. The dwarf winked at him.
“Not much time …” said Reorx.
Flint went cold all over. He came to a halt and wiped chill sweat from his brow.
“Serves me right. Daydreaming when I should be keeping an eye out for danger.” He turned around to yell at the kender. “What do you think you’re doing, lollygagging about when we’re on an important quest!”
“I’m not lollygagging,” Tas protested. “I’m looking for Arman. I don’t think he’s been here. We’d see his footprints in the dust. He probably didn’t know that wall wasn’t a wall.”
“Most likely,” said Flint, feeling a jab of conscience. In his dream of glory, he’d forgotten all about the young dwarf.
“Should we turn around and go back?” Tas asked.
The line of statues came to an end. A short corridor branched off from the promenade to the left. According to the map, this corridor led to one set of stairs that led to a second set of stairs. Hidden stairs. Secret stairs. Young Arman would never find them. He could manage to make his way to the Ruby Tower without climbing up these stairs, but the route was longer and more complicated. Unless, of course, that dwarf claiming to be Kharas showed him the way.
“We’ll find the Hammer first,” Flint decided. “We’ve come this far, after all, and we’re close to where it might be, according to the map. Once we have the Hammer safe, then we’ll search for Arman.”
He hurried down the corridor, with the kender at his heels, and there were the stairs. Flint started climbing, and the aches came back to his leg muscles, and the pain returned to his knees, and there was that annoying shortness of breath in his chest again. He distracted himself by trying to decide what he was going to do with the Hammer once he found it.
He knew what Sturm and Raistlin wanted him to do. He knew what Tanis wanted him to do. What he didn’t know yet was what he, Flint, wanted to do, though the ancient dwarf that called himself Kharas had been pretty near the mark.
Teach them a lesson. Yeah, that sounded good to him, really good. He’d teach them all a lesson—dwarves, Sturm, Raistlin … everyone.
He reached the top of this first flight of stairs and emerged into a very small, very dark, and very empty chamber. Flint held up the lantern and shone it along the wall until he found a narrow archway that had been marked on the map. He peered inside, holding the lantern high.
Tasslehoff, peering with him, gave a sigh. “More stairs. I’m getting awfully tired of stairs. Aren’t you, Flint? When they build my tomb, I hope they make it all one level so that I won’t have to climb up and down all the time.”
“Your tomb!” Flint scoffed. “As if anyone would build a tomb for you! You’ll most likely end up in the belly of a bugbear, and if you’re dead you won’t be climbing up and down anything.”
“I might,” said Tas. “I don’t plan to stay dead. That’s boring. I plan to come back as a lich or a wraith or a relevant, or something.”
“Revenant,” Flint corrected.
He was putting off the evil moment when he would have to make his aching legs climb this next staircase which, according to the map, was about three times as long as any of those they had climbed previously.
“Maybe I won’t die at all,” Tasslehoff said, giving the matter some thought. “Maybe everyone will think I’m dead, but I won’t be dead, not really, and I’ll come back and give everyone a big surprise. You’d be surprised, wouldn’t you, Flint?”
Deciding that the pain of climbing stairs was not nearly so bad as the pain of listening to the kender’s yammering, Flint heaved a sigh, grit his teeth, and once more began to climb.
19
Prisoners of the Theiwar.
Tanis warns the Thanes.
iverwind regained consciousness when the cold water slapped his face. He sputtered, gaspe
d, then groaned, as the pain twisted inside him. Opening his eyes and seeing himself surrounded by enemies, he clamped his teeth down on the groan, unwilling to let them see how much he was suffering.
Bright light lanced through his aching head. He longed to shut his eyes against it, but he needed to find out what was going on and he forced himself to look.
He was in a large chamber with stone walls, lined with columns, with the feel of an assembly room about it, for there were nine large throne-like chairs arranged in a semi-circle on a dais near where he lay, bound hand and foot, on the floor.
Several dwarves stood over him, arguing loudly in their deep voices. Riverwind recognized one of the dwarves—a skinny little runt who wore a helm with a smoked glass visor, who was doing most of the talking. He’d been the one asking the questions, the same questions, over and over. Then, when he didn’t get the answers he wanted, he had ordered them to make the pain come again.
Hearing another groan, Riverwind turned his gaze from the dwarves. Gilthanas lay beside him. Riverwind wondered if he looked as bad as the elf lord. If so, he must be close to death.
Gilthanas’s face was streaked with blood from cuts on his forehead and his lip. One eye was swollen shut, he had a lump on his jaw and a massive bruise on one side of his face. His clothes were torn, and his skin was burned and blistered from where they’d pressed red hot irons into his flesh.
They had treated the elf worse than they’d treated the humans. Riverwind had the feeling that the filthy dwarves had tormented Gilthanas more for the fun of it than because they wanted information from him. A gully dwarf of grandiose appearance was now throwing cold water in the elf’s face and slapping him solicitously on the cheek, but he still remained unconscious.
Riverwind lay back and cursed himself. He’d taken precautions. He and his men—six all told—had entered the gate armed and wary, intending to look about, trying to determine if this was, in truth, the fabled gate to Thorbardin. He and his cohorts had never seen the attack coming. The draconians had emerged from the shadows, disarmed them and disabled them swiftly and efficiently.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 40