Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  Confusion swirled about the temple as the draconians, swords slashing, hit the floor fighting. Hornfel lifted a ram’s horn to his lips, and at his call, Hylar soldiers swept into the Temple from the north. The Daewar thronged in from the west, and friend and foe met in the center in a thunderous crash. Battle swirled around the pit. Steel hit steel, draconians shrieked their battle cries, angry dwarves bellowed theirs, and the dying and the wounded screamed.

  Tanis looked desperately for Flint, trying to spot him in the chaos, but he could not find him. Then Tanis was forced to forget about his friend and fight for his life.

  Arman Kharas was exalted. He held the hammer high, and he shook it defiantly in the beards of those who had sneered at him over the years, those who had called him Mad Kharas, those who had doubted him. He was vindicated. He had found the Hammer, and with it, he had slain the fearsome Dragon Highlord. Arman was a hero, as he had always dreamed. He gave a fierce cry of joy. In his heady elation, he did not see the monster crawling up out of the pit.

  The Thanes saw the danger. Arman’s father saw it and ran to help his son, but at that moment dragon-men fell out of the skies, a draconian army stormed the Temple from the south, and a rampaging mob of Theiwar burst in from the east.

  Thanks to Tanis and his friends, the Theiwar and the draconians did not take the Thanes by surprise, as they had planned. The Hylar, the Daewar, and the Klar were prepared. Horn calls sounded, and their armies swarmed into the Temple to attack their foes. The battle was fierce, desperate, and furious. The Temple was soon jammed with combatants, heaving, pushing, shoving, and hacking. The floor fast became slippery with blood.

  Hornfel, his battle-axe red with gore, was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the enemy and lost sight of his son in the confusion.

  Flint had been blown off the platform when Verminaard appeared. Flint had been appalled at the sight, but there was not much he could do. The old dwarf was well nigh finished. His legs were stiff and sore, his back hurt, and his shoulders ached. He was in pain from his injuries, and he was consumed with guilt.

  Arman had been duped. He thought he held in his hands a blessed weapon. He did not know the hammer he wielded was nothing more than a hunk of metal magicked up by Raistlin.

  When Arman had charged at Verminaard, Flint had tried to stop him, but Arman had ignored him. Flint had turned his head, unable to watch the young dwarf’s certain death. Then he’d heard Verminaard give a shout of fury and Arman yell in triumph.

  Flint looked up in time to see the Dragon Highlord tumble into the pit.

  “Humpf,” Flint had said to himself, unknowingly echoing Raistlin, “something’s not right.”

  Then the draconian appeared, crawling out of the pit.

  Flint had stared, astounded. So far as he knew, draconians were leagues away, nowhere near Thorbardin. He had no idea how this draconian came to be here or what the monster was doing in the pit. Astonishment swiftly gave way to outrage. Draconians had no right to be in the dwarven homeland. Outrage changed to consternation, as Flint saw the greenish-gold monster pull himself with slithering grace up onto the platform behind the unsuspecting young dwarf.

  The draconian wanted the hammer. Flint could see the creature’s eyes fixed on it. He shouted a warning and reached for his weapon, completely forgetting in his fear for the young dwarf that he was the one who carried the blessed Hammer.

  Dray-yan was nearing his moment of triumph. His charade had fooled everyone, his own draconians included. They had all seen the vaunted Lord Verminaard fall to an ignominious doom. Cloaked in the illusion of the Dragon Highlord, Dray-yan had pretended to fall off the platform. As he fell, he had caught hold of the ledge with his hands, and had hung there, waiting for Grag and his forces to storm the Temple. With the confusion of the battle covering his movements, the aurak discarded the illusion of the Dragon Highlord and pulled himself up onto the platform.

  The fool young dwarf stood there all alone, his back to Dray-yan, the hammer in his hand, shouting to the world about how he’d killed the Dragon Highlord.

  Dray-yan was tempted to use his powerful magicks to slay Arman, but the aurak had to be cautious. If he killed in haste, the hammer might slip out of the dwarf’s hands and fall into the pit and be forever lost. While Queen Takhisis would enjoy this outcome, it would not suit Dray-yan. He envisioned himself entering the Temple at Neraka and presenting the hammer to Lord Ariakas.

  Dray-yan was hampered by the fact that he did not carry a sword. Auraks generally disdained the use of weapons, preferring to rely on their magic in battle. He did, however, have a knife strapped to his leg beneath his robes.

  The dwarf wore heavy armor, but that didn’t faze Dray-yan. The aurak had no need to penetrate armor or hit a vital organ. A scratch on the arm would do. The knife was smeared with poison, a lethal trick he’d learned from his kapak cousins.

  Blade in hand, Dray-yan crept up on Arman.

  Flint took hold of the Hammer of Kharas, yanked it from the harness, and raced toward the pit, bellowing all the while at Arman to look behind him. As Flint ran, he realized suddenly that his aches and pains had vanished. Fatigue lifted from him. His arms were strong, his legs powerful. His heart beat steady and true. He was filled with life and energy. Flint was a young dwarf once more, powerful, invincible.

  Arman Kharas finally heard Flint’s warning shouts. The young dwarf had been about to join in the battle, but now he turned around to see, to his shock, a monstrous foe closing on him from behind.

  Flint was only steps from the platform when a baaz draconian landed squarely in front of him. The baaz attacked, swinging a curved-bladed sword. Flint didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had to reach Arman before the youngster got himself into serious trouble. Flint swung the Hammer with the might of his fury, and struck the baaz in the head.

  The draconian disintegrated; its body changing from flesh to stone and from stone to dust so rapidly that Flint was covered in the foul mess. Flint jumped onto the platform where Arman and the draconian were locked in mortal combat, grappling for the hammer.

  Steel flashed in the draconian’s hand. Dray-yan tried to stab Arman with a knife with one hand and get a grip on the hammer with the other. Arman was bleeding from a few cuts on his arm, but the dwarf’s heavy armor protected his body and he was not concerned about the feeble blows of his foe.

  Arman was about to raise the hammer and bring it down on his enemy, when a shudder shook the young dwarf. His face went deathly pale. His eyes widened. A sheen of chill sweat covered his forehead. Pain like a thousand steel blades slicing into his vitals drove him to his knees.

  Dray-yan seized hold of the hammer, intending to wrench it from the dwarf’s grip. Weakened as he was, his body splintered by pain, Arman closed his hands tightly over the hammer, refusing to give it up. He fought against the monster, but his strength was failing. The poison burned through his veins. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. His hands went limp and slid off the hammer, and Dray-yan snatched it.

  His prize in hand, Dray-yan started to leap over the writhing body. He planned to flee the temple, but he found his way blocked.

  Flint stood over Arman, facing the draconian. Flint gestured at the hammer in Dray-yan’s hands.

  “You’ve got the wrong one,” Flint told the aurak with grim satisfaction.

  Dray-yan’s startled gaze went from the hammer in his hand to the Hammer the dwarf was holding. He realized immediately he’d been duped. The Hammer the dwarf held blazed with a wrathful, holy light. Dray-yan could not even bear to look at it. If he’d been thinking, he should have known at once the hammer he held was a fake. No magical life flowed through it. No magic guarded it.

  Cursing dwarves for shabby little tricksters, Dray-yan flung the false hammer to the floor. He lifted his hands, his fingers flaring with magic, and lunged at Flint.

  “Reorx, help me,” Flint prayed and, swinging the true Hammer, he hit the draconian in the chest.

  Bones cracked
and snapped. Dray-yan shrieked and collapsed onto the platform. He almost rolled off, but he managed to save himself with a twist of his short, stubby tail. Flint was about to finish the aurak, when he remembered that draconians have the power to inflict harm even after they are dead. He had no idea what this strange greenish gold draconian would do, for he’d never seen one like it before, so instead he kicked the draconian, intending to push it off the platform.

  Desperate, Dray-yan grabbed hold of Flint’s boot and tried to yank the dwarf off his feet, hoping to grab the Hammer on the dwarf’s way down, then fling him into the pit.

  Flint twisted, turned and kicked frantically at the draconian. He could have slain the fiend with a single Hammer blow, but he didn’t dare, for he had no idea if the creature’s corpse would blow up, turn into deadly acid, or what would happen.

  Then Flint realized that he might not have a choice. The draconian had managed to drag Flint near the edge of the pit. If Flint fell, the Hammer would fall with him, and that must not happen. To save the Hammer, he was going to have to kill this monster, though he himself would likely die in the process.

  Flint aimed a blow at the draconian’s ugly head, but before he could strike, the Hammer twisted in his hand and hit the draconian’s right arm at the wrist. Bone cracked. Blood spurted. Dray-yan’s hand on Flint’s boot went limp.

  Flint shoved the draconian, shrieking and cursing, off the platform.

  His strength flagging, Flint went down on his hands and knees and stared into the darkness watching until the monster was lost to sight. Even then, Flint could still hear him screaming. Dray-yan’s cries continued for a long time and never truly ended. They simply dwindled away.

  “I failed …” said Arman, his eyes fluttering.

  He lay on his back on the platform. His face was livid and contorted in pain. He shuddered and gasped for breath.

  Flint, his heart wrung, crawled over to kneel beside the dwarf.

  “I failed …” Arman murmured again. “The Hammer … lost.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Flint. “You were victorious. Your foe is dead. You defeated him and saved the Hammer of Kharas. Here, I will show you.”

  The two hammers, one true and one false, lay side-by-side on the platform.

  Flint picked up one of the hammers and thrust it into the dwarf’s hands. Gently, he closed Arman’s limp fingers over it. The Hammer shone with a soft and radiant light that spread over Arman.

  His tortured body relaxed. His pain-twisted grimace eased. His eyes grew clear. He clasped the Hammer to his breast.

  “I am a hero,” he breathed, his lips barely moving. “Arman … Kharas.”

  He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and let it out in a sigh. He did not take another.

  Flint’s eyes filled with tears. He was suddenly very old, weak, and tired, and he loathed himself. He stroked the young dwarf’s hands that even in death still clasped the Hammer. He recalled something the ancient, white-haired dwarf had said in the tomb.

  “You’re not ‘Arman’—a lesser Kharas,” Flint told the departing soul. “You are Pike, son of Hornfel, the hero who saved the Hammer of Kharas, and that is how you will be remembered.”

  Flint picked up the false hammer. He held it for a moment, long enough to beg the god’s forgiveness and say goodbye to his dreams. Then he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Dwarves and draconians were stabbing and slashing, bleeding and dying. No one was watching Flint except for one. Tasslehoff was staring, wide-eyed, straight at him.

  “Ah, well,” Flint grunted. “No one will believe him anyway.”

  He flung the hammer into the pit.

  The radiant light from the Hammmer of Kharas spread throughout the Temple, emboldening the dwarves and demoralizing their foes. But just when Hornfel began to think the day would be won, an army of heavily armed dwarves hundreds strong marched inside. He recognized the emblems of the Daergar on their flags, and he nearly despaired, for the Theiwar were cheering on their dark dwarf allies.

  The Hammer’s light did not dim, however, and Hornfel watched in astonishment as the Daegar turned on the Theiwar, cutting off the welcoming arms and trampling Theiwar bodies beneath their feet.

  Hornfel had become separated from his son in the confusion of battle, but his heart swelled with pride, for he knew that somewhere Arman and the Hammer of Kharas were fighting gloriously.

  25

  The end of a dream.

  ven as he fought the dwarves, Grag kept an eye on Dray-yan. Generally, Grag loved nothing more than a good fight, but he was taking no pleasure in today’s battle. He had enjoyed watching Dray-yan’s play-acting, grinning widely at the sight of Lord Verminaard falling into a pit, listening to the hisses and chortles of his soldiers who were not in on the secret, and who thought they had truly witnessed the detested human’s pitiful end. Grag had watched Dray-yan crawl out of the pit, then he’d been forced to turn his full attention to the dwarves. It was at this point when his pleasure started to diminish.

  The battle was not turning out as Grag had planned. He’d expected the dwarves to be caught completely off guard by the attack. Instead, he was the one who was shocked and surprised. True, he’d been unmasked, forced to reveal the fact that a “lizard” was inside their stinking mountain, but one lizard did not an army make, and the dwarves should not have figured out that they were going to be coming under attack. Somehow, they had foreseen it. Probably tipped off by those blasted humans.

  Grag found himself and his troops badly outnumbered. He had anticipated slicing up a few dwarven guards, but he was now facing four strong dwarven armies: Hylar, Daewar, Klar, and the Daergar. Grag had planned for a swift take-over, not having to fight every damn dwarf beneath the mountain.

  His dubious allies, the Theiwar, proved to be even more inept fighters than Grag had expected, and he hadn’t expected much. First, because of Theiwar carelessness, the Klar had discovered the secret passages and sealed up many of them with their accursed stone-chewing worms, trapping some of Grag’s best men inside. During the battle, the Theiwar did more looting than fighting, leaving the fighting to swarm over the bodies of the fallen, yanking off gold rings and silver chains. The moment the Theiwar were loaded up with booty, they deserted the field, fled the temple, and ran off to skulk in their rat holes.

  As Grag fought dwarves, he waited impatiently for Dray-yan to seize the blasted hammer and force the dwarves to surrender. At one point, Dray-yan had the hammer, or so Grag thought. He took his eyes away for a moment to stab his opponent in the throat. When he looked back, Dray-yan was on the platform, struggling with a single dwarf wielding a hammer that blazed with a fierce red light. Seeing the aurak was in trouble, Grag tried to make his way to him, but he found himself surrounded on all sides, fighting for his life. The next thing he knew, the dwarf with the accursed hammer had shoved Dray-yan into the pit!

  As Grag listened to the aurak’s terrified howls, the thought came to him that he was now the commander of the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Dragon Highlord Verminaard was, finally, dead. Dray-yan was also dead. Grag was the survivor, and he saw immediately how he could lay the blame for this unfortunate debacle in Thorbardin on both his superiors.

  Unlike Dray-yan, Grag had no aspirations to be a Dragon Highlord. He wanted nothing to do with politics. His one ambition was to be a good commander and win battles for the glory of his Dark Queen. He knew when he was beaten. There was no shame in giving up the field, no sense in wasting the lives of good men in a futile cause. Grag let out a piercing call that rose above the din of battle. His draconians heard it and knew what it meant, and they slowly began an orderly retreat.

  Marshalling his forces, keeping them in good order, Grag led his draconians back the way they had entered, through the south door. A few courageous dwarves, led by two human warriors, chased after them but didn’t catch them. Draconians could cover ground far more rapidly than either dwarves or humans. Grag took his forces to one of the few secret tunnels the Klar ha
d not discovered. He left them there, while he made a small detour to take care of some unfinished business having to do with Realgar. This done, he led those troops who had survived the battle into the deep tunnels that led to Pax Tharkas. Once all were inside, Grag ordered the tunnels sealed up behind them. After praying to Takhisis and mending their hurts, the draconians began the long trek back to Pax Tharkas.

  Someday Grag would return to Thorbardin.

  Someday, when his queen was triumphant.

  The battle in the temple ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Seeing the draconians retreating, the Theiwar, who’d had little stomach for the fighting anyway, either fled or surrendered. Realgar, as it turned out, was not among them. He had been leading from the rear, and when it looked as though he was losing, the Thane had disappeared.

  When the Temple was secure, the fighting ended and the prisoners had been hauled away, Hornfel sent soldiers with orders to search every crack, crevice, and cranny in Thorbardin, until they found Realgar. Hornfel wanted the Thane alive, intending to bring him before the Council to answer for his crimes. All the while, as he was issuing commands, Hornfel asked everyone he encountered about his son. No one had seen Arman or knew what had become of him. All anyone knew was that the hammer’s light had shone undimmed throughout the fight, bolstering hearts and lending strength to dwarven hands.

  Hornfel was thinking with pleasure of a celebratory victory dinner with his son, when he turned to find the Neidar, Flint Fireforge, standing silently and respectfully at his side. One look at the aged dwarf’s sorrowful expression, and Hornfel’s heart constricted with pain.

  He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then, lifting his head, he said quietly, “Take me to my son.”