Flint squinted. He thought he could make out what Tas was talking about. A long stone ledge thrust out into the chamber.
“If it is a ledge, it’s not much of one,” he muttered.
Tas pretended he hadn’t heard. Flint was such a pessimist! “I figured if there was a ledge, there had to be some way to reach the ledge, and I found it. Come with me!”
Tas dashed around the squat tower. Flint followed more slowly, still searching for a way off this tomb. He looked out over the crenellations, but all he could see down below were curls and whorls of red-tinged mist.
“Not there, Flint. Over here!” Tas called.
The kender stood in front of a double door made of wood banded with iron.
“They’re locked,” Tas said, and he fixed the doors with a stern eye.
Flint walked up, pushed on one of the doors, and it swung silently open.
“How do you keep doing that!” Tasslehoff wailed.
Sunlight poured eagerly inside, as though it had been waiting all these centuries to illuminate the darkness.
Flint took a few steps and came to a sudden halt. Tasslehoff, coming behind, stumbled right into him.
“What is it?” the kender asked, trying to see around him in the narrow hall.
“A body,” said Flint, shaken. He’d nearly trod on it. “Whose?” said Tas in a smothered whisper. Flint had trouble speaking for a moment. “I think it’s Kharas.”
The body had been sealed in a windowless vestibule shut off by two sets of double-doors and was well-preserved. The body was intact, the skin like parchment or old leather, drawn tight over the bones. It was that of a dwarven male, unusually tall, with long flowing hair, but only a very short scruff of a beard. Flint remembered hearing that Kharas had shaved his beard in grief over the Dwarfgate Wars and had never allowed it to grow back. The corpse was clad in ornate, ceremonial armor, as befitted the warrior who had borne the king to his final rest. The harness that had held the hammer for which he was famous was empty. He had no weapons in his hands. There was no sign of a wound on his body, yet he appeared to have died in agony, for his hand clasped his throat, the mummified mouth gaped wide.
“Here’s the killer,” said Tas, squatting down by the body. He pointed to the remains of a scorpion. “He was stung to death.”
“That’s no way for a hero to die,” Flint stated angrily. “Kharas should have died fighting ogres, giants, dragons, or something.”
Not felled by a bug.
Not felled by a weak heart …
“But if this is Kharas and he’s dead,” said Tas, “who’s that other Kharas? The one who told Arman he’d show him how to find the Hammer?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Flint grimly.
At the end of the vestibule was another set of double doors. Beyond the two doors was the Ruby Chamber and inside the chamber was the Hammer of Kharas. Flint knew those doors were locked and he also knew the locked doors would open for him, as the other locked doors had opened. Having seen the ledge, he had figured out a way to obtain the Hammer.
He looked down at the corpse of Kharas, the great hero, who had died an ignoble and meaningless death.
“May his soul be with Reorx,” Flint said softly. “Though I’m guessing the god took him to his rest a long, long time ago.”
Flint gazed down at the corpse and made a sudden resolve.
By Reorx, I won’t go out like this, he vowed to himself.
“Hey,” he said aloud. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Tasslehoff was standing impatiently in front of doors at the end of the vestibule, waiting for Flint to come open them. “I’m going to help you get the Hammer.”
“No, you’re not,” said Flint gruffly. “You’re going to find Arman.”
“I am?” Tas was amazed, pleased but amazed. “Finding Arman is awfully important, Flint. No one ever lets me do anything awfully important.”
“I’m going to this time. I don’t have much choice. You’re going to find Arman and warn him that the thing he thinks is Kharas isn’t Kharas, and you’re going to tell Arman you know where the Hammer is. Then you’re going to bring him back here.”
“But if I do that, he’ll find the Hammer,” Tas argued. “I thought you wanted to be the one to find the Hammer.”
“I have found it,” said Flint imperturbably. “No more arguments. There isn’t time. Off you go.”
Tas thought it over. “Warning Arman is awfully important, but I guess I’ll pass. I really don’t like him all that much. I’d rather stay here with you.”
“You’re going,” said Flint firmly, “one way or another.”
Tas shook his head and took hold of the door handle and held on tight. After a brief tussle, Flint managed to pry the kender’s fingers loose. He got a good grip on Tas’s shirt collar and dragged the wriggling, protesting kender across the floor and tossed him bodily out the door.
“And,” Flint added, “I’ll need this.”
He deftly twitched the hoopak out of the kender’s hand, then slammed the door in his face.
“Flint!” Tas’s voice sounded muffled and far away through the bronze doors. “Open up! Let me in!”
Flint heard him rattling the door handle, kicking the door and beating on it with his fists. Hefting the hoopak, Flint turned and walked off. Tas would get bored with the door soon enough, and for lack of anything better to do, he’d go in search of Arman.
Flint did feel a twinge of guilt at sending the kender off to encounter that ghost, ghoul, or whatever it was that was claiming it was Kharas. He quickly banished the guilt by reminding himself that the kender had a remarkable talent for survival.
“He just gets other people killed. If anything,” Flint muttered, “I should be worried for the ghost.”
The truth was that Flint could not risk having the kender witness what he was about to do. Tasslehoff Burrfoot had never ever kept a secret. He would solemnly swear on his topknot that he would never ever tell, and five minutes later he would be blabbing it to everyone and his dog, and this secret had to be kept. Lives depended on the keeping of it. Countless thousands of lives …
Flint struck the double doors with his hand, and they opened with a resounding boom, and he walked inside the Ruby Chamber.
22
Flint’s secret. The hammer.
Tas makes an amazing discovery.
nside the Ruby Chamber, sunlight gleamed red through the ruby-colored glass ceiling, filling the room with a warm glow. Flint walked out onto the ledge and marveled that he was here. He was humble, overwhelmed, triumphant.
He watched the Hammer swing back and forth in a slow arc, as it had done for three hundred years. Had Kharas suspended it from the ceiling? Flint craned his neck to see. The rope on which the Hammer was suspended hung from a simple iron hook. Flint had the impression that perhaps Kharas had suspended the Hammer, but that other hands had added the magic. Other hands had fashioned the gongs that struck the hour and had crafted the beautiful ruby ceiling. The same hands had dragged the tomb out of the Valley of the Thanes and set it floating in the sky, hands that were somewhere around here still, perhaps waiting to close around Flint’s throat.
He watched the Hammer count the minutes as they passed, as the Hammer had counted all the minutes of Flint’s life as they had passed, from birth to this moment, as it counted the beating of his weak old heart.
Each dwarf dreamed that he or she would be the one to find the fabled Hammer of Kharas. They talked of it over their mugs of ale. They told the story to their children, who made hammers out of wood and played at being the dwarven hero. Flint had dreamed of it, but he’d been pragmatic enough to know that his was nothing more than a dream. How could he, metal-smith, toy-maker and wanderer, alienated from his own kind, ever be the hero of his race?
But he had. Somehow. By some miracle, the gods had brought him here. They had brought him for a reason, and he was certain he knew what that reason was.
The Hammer
swinging above him made a gentle whooshing sound as it sailed through the air. He could feel the breath of its passing on his face, and he fancied it was the breath of Reorx. Moving stiffly, grimacing at the pain, Flint knelt down awkwardly on the ledge. His old knees creaked in protest. He hoped he could get up again.
“Reorx,” he said, gazing into the ruby glow, “you’re not one of the Gods of Light, like Paladine and Mishakal. You’re a god who sees both the light and the darkness in a man’s soul. You know why I’m here, I guess. You know what I mean to do. Paladine would frown at it, if he were here. Mishakal would throw up her pretty hands in horror.
“I am being dishonest, I suppose,” Flint added, stirring uncomfortably, “and what I propose to do is not honorable, though Sturm did go along with it and he’s the most honorable person I know.
“You see, Reorx,” Flint explained, “I’m only borrowing the Hammer. I’m not stealing it. I’ll make sure the dwarves get it back. I just want to use it to forge the dragonlances, and once that’s done and we win the battle against the Dark Queen, I’ll return the Hammer, switch the true one for the false. The dwarves will never know the difference. Because they think they have the real Hammer, they’ll choose a High King, open the gates to the Thorbardin to the world, bring in the refugees and all will be well. There’s no harm to anyone and much good.
“That’s my plan,” said Flint, struggling to stand again. He managed, but only by propping himself up with the kender’s hoopak. “I guess if you don’t like it, you’ll knock me off this ledge or deliver some such punishment.”
Flint waited, but nothing happened. The double doors shut behind him, but so slowly and so softly that he never noticed.
Taking silence for a sign that he could proceed with the god’s sanction if not his blessing, Flint walked out to the very end of the ledge. He stared down into the shaft below. All he could see was red light. He wondered how far the drop was then, shrugging, put the thought out of his mind. He gazed up at the Hammer and calculated the distance from the Hammer to the ledge. He eyed the hoopak, then eyed the Hammer again, and thought his plan just might work.
Flint stretched out flat on his belly on the ledge. Grasping the hoopak, he held out his arm as far as it would go and made a swipe at the rope with the forked end of the hoopak as the Hammer whistled past.
He missed, but he was close. He had to scoot out over the ledge just another couple of inches. He clutched the end of the stone ledge with his hand and waited for the Hammer to pass him again.
Flint swung his arm with all his might, and his momentum almost carried him off the ledge. For a heart stopping moment, he feared he was going to fall, but then the hoopak snagged the rope, and like an angler with a fish on the line, Flint gave the hoopak a sharp jerk.
The leather sling dangling from the end of the hoopak tangled itself around the rope, and Flint, his heart beating fast and wild, slowly and carefully drew in the hoopak and the rope attached to the Hammer.
Dropping the hoopak, Flint grabbed the Hammer and hauled it up onto the ledge. At that point he had to pause, for he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He was light-headed and dizzy, and strange swirling lights were dancing in front of his eyes. The sensation passed quickly, however, and he was able to sit up and take the blessed Hammer in his lap and gaze at it in reverence and awe.
“Thank you, Reorx,” said Flint softly. “I’ll do good with it. I’ll use the hammer to bring honor to your name. I swear it by your beard and mine.”
The Hammer was a wonder and a marvel. He could not stop looking at it. The false hammer was like the true but did not feel like it. He put his hand on the Hammer of Kharas, and he felt it quiver with life. He felt himself connected to an intelligence that was good, wise and benevolent, grieving over the weaknesses of mankind, yet understanding of them and forgiving. Some dwarves swore Kharas had carried the Hammer for so long that it was imbued with his spirit, and Flint could almost believe it.
He realized, then, that any dwarf who had ever touched the real Hammer of Kharas could never mistake the false for the true. Fortunately, no dwarf now living had ever touched the real Hammer. Not even Hornfel would know the difference. The counterfeit looked the same, and it weighed about the same, since Raistlin had magicked it. Both hammers were light-weight, easy to carry. The runes were same on both. The color was nearly the same. The true Hammer had a golden sheen that the other did not. He’d just have to keep the real one concealed in his harness.
As for other differences, the false hammer would probably not strike as hard or hit its mark as surely as this Hammer would do. Flint longed to test it, for he had heard that the Hammer of Kharas fused with the dwarf who wielded it, reacting to mind, more than touch; however, Flint would have to wait until he and his friends had put the dwarven kingdom far behind them before he could try it out.
Remembering that Arman might show up at any moment. Flint took the false hammer from his harness— thinking, as he did so, how cheap and shoddy it looked in comparison to the true. He slid the Hammer of Kharas into the harness on his back, tied the false hammer onto the end of the rope then, pulling back the rope as far as it would go, he let loose of the hammer and set it swinging again.
The false hammer swung back and forth as its momentum carried it. But then, slowly, it came to a stop and hung motionless from the ceiling. Flint experienced a moment of panic. Now that it had quit swinging, the hammer might well be out of reach!
He lay down and extended the hoopak. He couldn’t touch it, and for a moment he despaired. Then he remembered that Arman’s arms were far longer than his, and Flint breathed easier. This was actually good, for it provided him with an excuse for why he’d failed.
Flint walked over to the double doors and opened one and peeped out into the vestibule. No sign of Arman. Just the body of Kharas. The empty eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly. Flint didn’t like that, so he shut the door and went to sit down on the ledge. The Hammer of Kharas pressed against his spine, sending a glow of warmth through his body that eased his aches and pains.
Flint waited.
After Flint had so very rudely banished him from the Ruby Chamber, Tasslehoff wasted several moments trying every trick he knew to open the doors, with no result. He then spent a few moments lamenting the loss of his hoopak, the crankiness of dwarves, and the general unfairness of life. Then, seeing as how the doors were not going to open, Tas decided he’d do as Flint had told him and go off to find Arman.
The kender did not have far to look. He had only to turn around, in fact, and there was Arman emerging from a tower to the kender’s right.
“Arman!” Tas greeted him with joy.
“Kender,” said Arman.
Tas sighed. Liking Arman was hard work.
“Where is Flint?” Arman demanded.
“He’s in there,” said Tas, pointing at the doors. “We’ve made the most wonderful discovery! The Hammer of Kharas is inside.”
“And Flint is in there?” Arman asked, alarmed.
“Yes, but—”
“Get out of my way!” Arman gave the kender a shove that sent him sprawling on the flagstones. “He must not get the Hammer! It is mine!”
Tas stood up grumpily, rubbing a bruised elbow.
“There’s a body in there, too,” he said. “The body of Kharas!” He laid emphasis on that. “Kharas is dead. Quite dead. Been dead a long time, I should imagine.”
Arman either wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t catch the connection, or maybe it didn’t bother him that he’d been hobnobbing with a Kharas who was lying in a mummified state in the vestibule. Arman walked up to the double doors and put his hand on the handle.
“They’re locked,” Tas started to tell him.
Arman flung the doors open wide and walked in.
“How do they keep doing that?” Tas demanded, frustrated.
He made a spring at the door, just as Arman Kharas shut it in his face.
Tasslehoff gave a dismal wail and pulled on the
handles and pushed on the doors. They wouldn’t budge. He slumped down disconsolately on the door stoop and sulked. Dwarves opening doors left and right, and he, a kender, shut out. Tas vowed from then on that he would carry his lock picks in his smalls if he had to.
After a moment, he realized that even if he couldn’t be present, he could at least see what was happening inside the chamber. He ran over to the roof and pressed his nose against the ruby glass. There was Arman and there was Flint, standing off to one side, and there was the hammer hanging from the rope that wasn’t swinging anymore. Arman had something in his hand.
“My hoopak!” Tas cried indignantly. He beat on the glass. “Hey! You put that down!”
“I don’t think he can hear you,” said Kharas.
Kender are not subject to fear, so it couldn’t have been fear that made Tasslehoff leap several feet into the air. It must have been because he felt like leaping. He gave a few more light-hearted leaps after that, just to prove it.
Tas turned to confront the white-haired, white-bearded, stooped-shouldered dwarf. The kender raised a scolding finger. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings when I say this, but I don’t believe you are Kharas. He’s dead inside that vestibule. I saw his corpse. He was stung to death by a scorpion, and it’s been my experience that a person can’t be alive here and dead there at the same time.”
“Perhaps I’m the ghost of Kharas,” suggested the dwarf.
“I thought you might be, at first,” Tas poked his finger into the dwarf’s arm, “but ghosts are insubstantial, and you’re substantial.”
He was quite proud of those long words. They ranked right up there with Ramification and Speculation.
That gave him an idea. His glasses! The ruby glasses had let him read writing he couldn’t read and see through a wall that wasn’t there. Perhaps they would reveal the truth about this mysterious dwarf.
“Hey! Look behind you! What’s that?” Tas cried, and pointed past the dwarf’s left shoulder.
The dwarf turned to look.
Tas whipped out his spectacles and put them on his nose and stared through the ruby glass.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 43