Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  He was so amazed by what he saw that he forgot to take them off again. He stood staring, his body going limp, his mind stumbling about in a foggy daze.

  “You’re …” he began weakly. “You’re a …” He swallowed hard, and the word came out. “Dragon.”

  The dragon was an enormous dragon, the biggest Tasslehoff had ever seen, bigger even than the horrible red dragon of Pax Tharkas. This dragon was also the most beautiful. His scales glittered gold in the sunlight. He held his head proudly, his body was powerful, yet his movements were made with studied grace. He didn’t appear to be a ferocious dragon, the kind who considered kender a toothsome midday snack. Although Tas had a feeling this dragon could look very fierce when he wanted to. Right now the dragon only looked troubled and disturbed.

  “Ah,” said the dragon, his gaze fixed on the ruby spectacles perched on the kender’s nose, “I wondered where I’d put those.”

  “I found them,” said Tas immediately. “I think you must have dropped them. Are you going to kill me?”

  Tas wasn’t really afraid. He just needed to be informed. While he didn’t want to be killed by a dragon, if he was going to, he didn’t want to miss it.

  “I should kill you, you know,” the golden dragon said sternly. “You’ve seen what you’re not meant to see. There’ll be hell to pay over this, I suppose.”

  The dragon’s expression hardened. “Still, I don’t much care. Queen Takhisis and her foul minions have returned to the world, haven’t they?”

  “Does this mean that you’re not a foul minion?” Tas asked.

  “You could say that,” said the dragon, with the hint of smile in his wise, shining eyes.

  “Then I will say that.” Tas was relieved. “Yes, the Dark Queen is back, and she’s causing a great deal of trouble. She’s driven the poor elves out of their beautiful homeland and killed a lot of them, and she and her dragons killed Goldmoon’s family and all her people, even the little children. That was really sad.” The kender’s eyes filled with tears. “And there are these creatures called draconians who look like dragons except they don’t, because they walk on two legs like people, but they have wings, tails, and scales like dragons and they’re really nasty. There are red dragons who set people on fire, and black dragons who boil the flesh off your bones, and I don’t know how many other kinds.”

  “But no dragons like myself,” said the dragon. “No gold dragons or silver …”

  Tasslehoff had a squirmy feeling then. He had seen gold and silver dragons somewhere. He couldn’t quite place it. It had something to do with a tapestry and Fizban … The memory almost came back, but then it was gone. Disappeared in a puff ball.

  “Sorry, but I’ve never seen anyone like you before.” Tas brightened. “I saw a woolly mammoth once, though. Would you like to hear about it?”

  “Perhaps some other time,” said the dragon politely. He looked even more troubled and very grim.

  “I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot, by the way,” said Tas.

  “I am called Evenstar,” said the dragon.

  “What are you doing here?” Tas asked curiously.

  “I am the guardian of the Hammer of Kharas. I have kept it safe until the gods returned and a dwarven hero of honor and righteousness came to claim it. Now my duty is done, my punishment is ended. They cannot keep me here.”

  “You talk like this was a prison,” said Tas.

  “It was,” Evenstar replied gravely.

  “But,” Tasslehoff spread his arms, looked up at the wide blue sky— “you could fly anywhere!”

  “I was bound to my promise, a promise I’ve kept for three hundred years. Now I am free to go.”

  “You could fight alongside us,” Tas suggested eagerly. “Why, I’ll bet you could tie one of those red dragons in knots and make him swallow his tail!”

  Evenstar smiled.

  “I wish I could help you, little friend. I would like nothing better. I cannot, however. We dragons took a vow, and although I opposed it and advised against it, I will not break the vow. Though I cannot fight at your side, I will do what I can to aid you. These draconian creatures you describe trouble me greatly.”

  “What are you going to do? Make them swallow their tails?”

  “That would spoil my surprise. Farewell, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Evenstar. “I would ask you to keep my secret, for the world must not yet know that my kind exists, but I understand that secrets can be a great burden on one with such a light and merry heart. Therefore it is a burden I will not inflict.”

  Tas didn’t understand. He barely heard. He was wrestling with a choke in his throat that wouldn’t go away. The dragon was so wonderful and beautiful, and he looked so unhappy, that Tasslehoff took off the ruby spectacles and held them out in his small hand.

  “I guess these belong to you.”

  The dragon reached down an enormous claw, a claw that could have engulfed the kender, and gently snagged the spectacles with a tip.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Tas said, sadly watching the spectacles disappear in the dragon’s grasp, “how do we get off this tomb? Not that I’m not enjoying my stay here,” he added quickly, thinking the dragon might be offended, “but I left Tanis and Caramon and the others on their own, and they tend to get into trouble when I’m not there to watch over them.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Evenstar gravely. “I understand.”

  The dragon drew a large rune on the flagstones. He breathed on the rune and it began to glow with a shimmering golden light.

  “When you are ready to depart, step onto this rune, and it will take you to the Temple of the Stars where the dwarven Thanes are gathered to await the Hammer’s return.”

  “Thank you, Evenstar,” said Tas. “Will I see you again?”

  “Who knows? The gods hold the fates of all in their hands.”

  Evenstar’s body began to shimmer with the same golden light. The light grew dim, then faint, then vanished altogether in a radiant haze. Tas had to blink several times and snort a great deal to clear some snuffles from his eyes and nose. He was still not seeing all that well, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  A white-bearded, stoop-shouldered dwarf stood in front of him. The dwarf held a pair of ruby-colored spectacles in his hand.

  “Here,” said the dwarf, “you dropped these. And mind that you don’t lose them! Spectacles like this don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  Tas started to say he would treasure them forever, but he didn’t, because the dwarf wasn’t there to say it to. The dwarf wasn’t anywhere.

  “Oh, well,” Tas said, cheering up, “I have the spectacles back! I’ll be very careful of them. Very careful.”

  He tucked the spectacles into his pocket, made sure they were safe and secure, then went back to the red glass roof.

  Flint and Arman were gone, and so was the Hammer. Tas was wondering what could have happened to them and was seriously considering trying to break the glass, so he could crawl inside and find out, when the double doors flew open.

  Arman walked into the sunlight. “I have the Hammer of Kharas!” he proclaimed in triumph. He was so pleased with himself, he even smiled at Tas. “Look, kender! I have the sacred Hammer.”

  “I’m glad for you,” said Tas politely, and he was, in a way; Arman did look very proud and happy. If he was happy for Arman, he was sad for Flint, who came trailing out the door after Arman. Flint looked subdued, but not as crushed and disappointed as Tas had feared.

  “I’m sorry, Flint,” said Tas, resting a consoling hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, a hand the dwarf promptly removed. “I think you should have been the one to take the Hammer. Oh, by the way, can I have my hoopak back?”

  Flint handed it over. “The gods made their choice,” he said.

  Tas didn’t quite see how the gods had anything to do with finding the Hammer, but he didn’t like to argue with Flint in his unhappy state. Tas changed the subject.

  “I met a golden woolly mammoth, Flint! He showed me the way out,” h
e said.

  Flint glared at him. “No more woolly mammoths. Not now. Not ever.”

  “What?” Tasslehoff was confused. “I didn’t say woolly mammoth. There’s no such thing as a golden woolly mammoth. I met a golden … woolly mammoth.”

  Tasslehoff clapped his hands over his mouth.

  “Why did I say that? I didn’t see a woolly mammoth. I saw a golden … woolly mammoth.”

  Tas slapped himself on the head, hoping to jolt his brain. “It was big, it was gold, it had wings and a tail, and it was a … woolly mammoth.”

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to say the word … woolly mammoth.

  Tas heaved a deep sigh. He’d been looking forward to telling Flint, Tanis and all the rest how he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had spoken to a golden … woolly mammoth, and now he couldn’t. His brain knew what he wanted to say. It was his tongue that kept confusing things.

  Flint had walked off in disgust. Arman Kharas was marching about the battlements, holding the hammer and shouting to the world that he, Arman Kharas, had discovered it. Tas trailed after Flint.

  “I did find the way out,” he said. “I met a … er … someone who showed me. All we have to do is step on that golden rune over there, and it will take us to someplace or other. I forget.”

  He pointed to the brightly glowing rune, glistening on the flagstones.

  “Oh, yes! The Temple of the Stars. Your father’s there,” Tas said to Arman, “waiting the return of the Hammer.”

  Flint looked astonished and skeptical. Arman was tempted, but suspicious.

  “Where did this rune come from?” he demanded.

  “I told you. I met someone. The guardian of the tomb. He was a …” Tas tried his very best to say it. The word “dragon” was in his throat, but he knew perfectly well what it would come out as “woolly mammoth,” and so he swallowed it. “I met Kharas. He showed me the rune.”

  Arman’s face darkened, and so did Flint’s.

  “Kharas is dead,” said Arman. “I paid homage to his spirit. I will return when I may and see to it that he is entombed with honor. I do not know who or what that apparition was—”

  “It was his restless, roving spirit,” said Tas, now enjoying himself, “doomed to wander the tomb of his king in unhappy torment, weeping, wailing, and wringing his hands, unable to depart until a true hero of the dwarves returns to free him. That hero is you,” Tas said to Arman. “The spirit of Kharas is now free. He left me with a blessing and floated up into the air like a soap bubble. Poof, he was gone.”

  Flint knew the kender was lying through his teeth. He didn’t dare say a word, however, because Arman had listened to the outlandish tale with reverent respect.

  “We will honor the last wishes of the spirit of Kharas.” Removing his helm, Arman walked over and stood with bowed head on the golden rune.

  “Where did this rune really come from?” Flint asked in a harsh whisper, adding indignantly, “No dwarf ever went ‘poof’!”

  “I’d tell you the truth, Flint,” said Tas, sighing, “but I can’t. My tongue won’t let me.”

  Flint glared at him. “And you expect me to stand on a strange rune and let it magic me to Reorx knows where?”

  “The Temple of the Stars, where they’re awaiting the return of the Hammer.”

  “Make haste!” called Arman impatiently. “This is my moment of triumph.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Flint muttered into his beard, but he stomped off and went to stand beside Arman on the golden rune.

  Tasslehoff joined them. He was the keeper of a marvelous secret, one of the biggest secrets of the past couple of centuries, a secret that would astound and amaze everyone … and he couldn’t tell a soul. Life was very unfair.

  The rune began to glow. Tas’s hand went to his pocket and closed over the ruby spectacles and felt something tickle his fingers. He fished it out. The rune began to shine bright gold, and the red mist closed in around them, and he couldn’t see the tomb anymore. All he could see was Flint, Arman, and a white chicken feather. Then Tas understood.

  Hope. That was the secret, and it was one he could share. Even if he couldn’t say a word to anyone about there being golden … woolly mammoths.

  When word spread through the dwarven realms that the doors leading to the Valley of the Thanes had closed and would not open, the dwarves of Thorbardin came at last to believe that some momentous event was at hand. The Eighth Road was reopened, and dwarves traveled by wagon and on foot to take up their vigil outside the Guardian Hall.

  The day was drawing to close when suddenly the great doors swung open. A solitary dwarf appeared, an elderly dwarf with long white hair and a long white beard. He was not Arman Kharas, nor was he the Neidar dwarf, and the assembled dwarves regarded him warily.

  The elderly dwarf stood before them. He raised his hands, calling for silence, and silence fell.

  “The Hammer of Kharas has been found,” the dwarf announced. “It is being carried to the Temple of the Stars to dedicate it to Reorx, who has returned and now walks among you.”

  The dwarves stared at him in suspicion and amazement. Some shook their heads. The elderly dwarf raised his voice, his tone stern.

  “The Hammer hung suspended from a thin piece of rope. It swung back and forth, counting out the minutes of your lives. The rope has been cut, the Hammer freed. It is you, the dwarven clans of Thorbardin, who hang suspended from that same fragile lifeline, swinging between darkness and light. Reorx grant that you choose well.”

  The strange dwarf turned and walked back inside the great bronze doors. Some of the bolder dwarves followed him into the Valley of the Thanes, hoping to be able to speak to him, ask questions, demand answers. But upon entering the doors, the dwarves were momentarily dazzled by the sunlight shining into the Valley, and they lost sight of the dwarf in the glare. When they could see again, the strange dwarf was nowhere to be found.

  It was then they saw the miracle.

  The Tomb of Duncan no longer floated among the clouds. The tomb stood on the site where it had been built three hundred years before. The sunshine gleamed on white towers and glowed on a turret crafted of ruby glass. The lake was gone, as though it had never been.

  The dwarves knew then the identity of the strange dwarf who had appeared to them, and they took off their helms and sank to their knees and praised Reorx, asking his forgiveness and his blessing.

  The statue of Grallen stood guard before the tomb, where, inside, they would find the final resting place of King Duncan and the remains of the hero, Kharas. A stone helm was on the statue’s stone head, and an expression of infinite peace was on the stone face.

  23

  The Temple of the Stairs.

  The Hammer Returns. The dead walk.

  anis and his companions were with Riverwind and Gilthanas in the dwarven House of Healing when Hornfel brought them word that the Hammer had been found.

  Riverwind and Gilthanas were now both conscious and feeling somewhat better. Raistlin had made a study of the healing arts in his youth, and not entirely trusting the dwarven physicians, he examined their injuries and found that none were serious. He advised them both to remain in bed and to refrain from drinking any of the potions the dwarven healers wanted to feed them.

  “Drink only this water,” Raistlin cautioned them. “Caramon fetched it from the well himself, and I can attest to its purity.”

  Hornfel was impatient to leave for the Temple of the Stars, but he was gracious enough, and perhaps feeling guilty enough, to take time to ask after the health of the two captives and to offer his apologies for the rough way in which they had been treated. He posted members of his own personal guard beside their beds with orders to watch over the human and the elf with as much care as they would guard him. Only then did Tanis feel comfortable leaving his friends.

  “Do you think that Flint has really found the Hammer of Kharas?” Gilthanas asked.

  “I don’t know what to think,�
� Tanis returned. “I don’t know what to hope—that he has found the Hammer, or that he hasn’t. It seems to me that finding the Hammer will cause more problems than it solves.”

  “You walk in darkness, Half-Elven,” said Riverwind quietly. “Look to the light.”

  “I tried it,” Tanis said quietly. “It hurt my eyes.”

  He left his friends, not without some misgivings, but he couldn’t be in two places at once, and he and the others needed to be at the Temple of the Stars to witness, and perhaps defend, Flint’s return. If he had found the Hammer of Kharas, there were many who would try to take it from him.

  The Temple of the Stars was the most holy site in all of Thorbardin, which, for the dwarves, meant all the world. For the dwarves believed that in this temple was a shaft that led to the city where dwelt Reorx.

  The shaft was a natural phenomenon discovered during the construction of Thorbardin. None could plumb its depths or determine how far below the earth it went. Rocks tossed into it never hit bottom. Thinking perhaps that they just couldn’t hear them, the dwarves had thrown an anvil into the pit, knowing that when it hit, they would hear a resounding crash.

  The dwarves listened. They listened for hours. They listened for days. Weeks went by, followed by months, and they still heard no sound. It was then the dwarven priests decreed that the shaft was a holy site, for it obviously connected this world to the realm of Reorx. It was also said that if you had nerve enough to look straight down into the pit, you would see the lights of Reorx’s magnificent city sparkling like stars far below. The dwarves built a grand temple around the pit and named it Temple of the Stars.

  A platform extended out over the pit and here the dwarves placed an altar dedicated to Reorx. They built a waist-high wall around the pit, though no dwarf would have ever dreamed of committing the sacrilege of either climbing or jumping into it. Dwarf priests conducted their most sacred rituals here, including marriage and naming ceremonies. Here the High Kings were crowned.

  The dwarves held the temple in reverence and awe, going there to offer humble prayers to Reorx, to ask for his blessing and praise him. But as time passed and the might of Thorbardin grew, the dwarves thought better of themselves. Who were they, powerful and mighty, to beg to a god? They came to demand, rather than ask, often writing down their demands on stones and tossing these into the pit. Some dwarven priests found this practice reprehensible and preached against it. The dwarves refused to listen, and thus Reorx was pelted with demands that he give his people everything from wealth to eternal youth to an unfailing supply of dwarf spirits.