Dragons of the Dwarven Depths

by Margaret Weis

  Flint led the Thane to the altar of Reorx. Arman lay on the platform, his hands clasped over the hammer, his eyes closed.

  The companions were grouped nearby. Tanis had a jagged cut on his arm. Sturm had a cut over one eye and was still suffering from the effects of the magical blast. Caramon had a broken hand from having punched a draconian in the jaw. Raistlin was apparently unhurt, though no one could really tell, for he refused to answer questions and kept his cowl pulled low over his face. Tasslehoff had a torn shirt and a bloody nose. The blood mixed with the kender’s tears as he looked down at the body of the dwarf.

  “What happened?” Hornfel asked, grieving. “I could not see in all the turmoil.”

  “Your son lived as a hero and he died as a hero,” said Flint simply. “A draconian who had been hiding in the pit attacked your son and tried to take the sacred hammer from him. The draconian stabbed him with a poisoned knife. Even though he knew he was dying, your son continued to fight, and he killed the draconian and flung the body into the pit.”

  Tasslehoff gaped at Flint in wonder at the lie. Tas opened his mouth to tell the truth about what had really happened, but Flint fixed the kender with a look so very stern and piercing that Tas’s mouth shut all by itself.

  The body of Arman Kharas lay in state in the Life Tree for three days. On the fourth day, Hornfel and the Thanes of the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, and Flint Fireforge, their Neidar cousin, carried Arman Kharas to his final rest. His body was placed next to that of the sarcophagus that held the body of his hero, Kharas, and both were placed in the tomb of King Duncan inside the Valley of the Thanes. The plaque on the tomb of the young dwarf was chiseled out of stone by Flint Fireforge. It read:

  Hero of the Battle of the Temple, he recovered the Hammer of Kharas and slew the evil Dragon Highlord Verminaard. All honor to his name Pike, son of Hornfel

  Another body was disposed of at about the same time, though with much less ceremony. Realgar had been found murdered, his throat slit from ear to ear. Clawed footprints, discovered near the body, were the only clue to the identity of his killer.

  Hornfel agreed to honor the wager made by Realgar, though Hornfel added that he would have welcomed the refugees into the safety of Thorbardin even if no wager been made. Tanis and the others were free to leave Thorbardin, to take the glad news to the refugees, and guide them to the Southgate, which would be open to receive them.

  “Open to them and to the world,” Hornfel promised.

  The night after the battle, Flint was unusually grim and dour. He kept apart form the others, refused to answer any questions, stating that he was worn out and telling everybody to leave him alone. He would not eat any dinner but went straight to his bed.

  Raistlin was also in a bad temper. He shoved the plate from him, claiming that food turned his stomach. Sturm tried to eat but eventually dropped his spoon and sat with his head in his hands, his face hidden. Only Caramon was in a good mood. After assuring himself there were no mushrooms in the stew, he not only ate his meal, but he finished off his brother’s and Sturm’s.

  Tasslehoff was also subdued. Though he was reunited with his pouches, he didn’t even bother to sort through them. He sat on a chair, kicking at the legs, and fiddling with something in his pocket.

  Tanis tapped the kender on the shoulder. “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  Tas sighed. “I thought you might.”

  “Come outside, so we don’t disturb Flint,” said Tanis.

  Feet dragging, Tas followed the half-elf out of the inn. As Tanis shut the door behind them, he saw Sturm and Raistlin rise from the table and walk over to Flint’s bed.

  Tanis turned to the kender.

  “Tell me what happened in the Tomb of Duncan. What really happened,” Tanis emphasized.

  Tas shuffled uncomfortably. “If I tell you, Flint will be mad.”

  “I won’t say a word to him,” Tanis promised. “He’ll never know.”

  “Well, all right.” Tas gave another sigh, but this was one of relief. “It will be a burden off my mind. You can’t think how hard it is to keep secrets! I found this golden woolly mammoth—”

  “Not the mammoth!” said Tanis.

  “But that’s a very important part,” Tas argued.

  “The Hammer,” Tanis insisted. “Flint was the one who found the Hammer of Kharas, wasn’t he?”

  “We both found the Hammer,” Tas tried to explain, “and the body of the real Kharas and a scorpion, then Flint took my hoopak and told me to go away. That was when I met the golden woolly mammoth named Evenstar, but I won’t say another word about him. I promised, you see …”

  Sturm and Raistlin stood by the side of Flint’s bed. The dwarf lay with his face to the wall, his back to them.

  “Flint,” said Sturm, “are you asleep?”

  “Yes,” Flint growled. “Go away!”

  “You had the true Hammer of Kharas, didn’t you?” said Raistlin. “You had it in your possession when you entered the Temple of the Stars.

  Flint lay still a moment, then he reared up in bed. He faced them, his face red. “I did,” he said through clenched teeth, “to my everlasting shame!”

  Raistlin’s mouth twisted. “And you left it in the hands of a corpse! You sentimental old fool!”

  “Stop it, Raistlin” ordered Sturm angrily. “Leave Flint alone. You and I were wrong. What Flint did was honorable and noble.”

  “How many thousands will pay for that noble gesture with their lives?” Raistlin thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes. He cast the knight a grim glance. “Nobility and honor do not slay dragons, Sturm Brightblade.”

  Raistlin stalked off. Encountering his brother, he snapped at him. “Caramon, make me my tea! I feel nauseated.”

  Caramon looked from Sturm to Flint—hunched up on the bed—to his twin, who was as furious as he had ever seen him.

  “Uh, sure, Raist,” said Caramon unhappily, and he hurried to do as he was told.

  Sturm rested his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “You did right,” he said. “I am proud of you and deeply ashamed of myself.”

  Sturm cast Raistlin a dark glance, then went to confess his sins and ask forgiveness in prayer.

  Tasslehoff and Tanis came back inside to find the room silent, except for Sturm’s whispered words to Paladine. Tas felt so much better, now that he’d unburdened himself, that he dumped out the contents of his pouches and sorted through all his treasure, finally falling asleep in the midst of the mess.

  Flint was exhausted, but he could find no solace in sleep, for sleep would not come. He lay in his bed in the darkness, sometimes drifting off, only to jerk fearfully to wakefulness, thinking that the aurak again had hold of his boot and was dragging him into the pit. At last Flint could stand it no longer. He rose from his bed, slipped out the door, and sat down upon the door stoop.

  He gazed into the night. Lights sparked, but they were not the sharp, cold crystalline glitter of the stars, whose beauty never failed to pierce his heart. They were the lights of Thorbardin—larvae trapped inside lanterns until they grew old enough to chew through solid rock.

  Flint heard the door open and he jumped to his feet, fearing it might be Sturm or Raistlin come to plague him. Seeing it was Tanis, Flint sat back down.

  The half-elf sat beside him in silence that was comfortable between the two of them.

  Flint said at last, “I had the Hammer, Tanis, the true Hammer.” He paused a moment, then added gruffly, “I switched them. I let Arman think he’d found the real one, when, in truth, he found the false.

  “I guessed as much,” said Tanis quietly after a moment. “But in the end, you did what was right.”

  “I don’t know. If Arman had been holding the true Hammer, maybe he wouldn’t be dead.”

  “The Hammer couldn’t have saved him from the aurak’s poison. And if you had not been in possession of the Hammer when you fought the draconian, the Hammer of Kharas would now be in the hands of the Dark Queen,” said Ta
nis.

  Flint thought this over. Perhaps his friend was right. That didn’t make what he’d done any better, but maybe, in time, he could forgive himself.

  “Reorx told me the dwarf who found the Hammer would be a hero, Tanis. His name would live forever.” Flint snorted. “I guess that only goes to show the gods don’t know everything.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Tanis.

  AN EXCERPT

  Dragons of the

  Highlord Skies

  I

  Grag Reports to the Emperor.

  The Blue Lady Receives a shock.

  Not all was going well for the emperor.

  He had been planning to spend the winter in his headquarters in Sanction, when he had received disturbing reports that his campaign in the west was not going as intended. The goal had been to wipe out the elves of Qualinesti and then to seize and occupy the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin by year’s end. First there came word that Verminaard, Dragon Highlord of the Red Army, who had conducted such a brilliant campaign in the land of Abanasinia, had met an untimely death at the hands of his own slaves. Then came the news that the Qualinesti elves had managed to escape and flee into exile, then the emperor was informed that Thorbardin was lost.

  This was the first real setback the dragonarmies had suffered, and Ariakas was forced to travel across the continent to his headquarters in Neraka to find out what had gone wrong. He ordered the commander currently in charge of the fortress of Pax Tharkas to come to Neraka to make his report. Unfortunately, there was some confusion over who was in charge now that Verminaard was dead.

  A hobgoblin—one Fewmaster Toede—claimed the late Verminaard had made him second in command. Toede was packing his bags for the trip when word reached the hob that Ariakas was in a towering rage over the loss of Thorbardin and that someone was going to be made to pay. At this, the Fewmaster suddenly remembered he had urgent business elsewhere. He ordered the draconian commander of Pax Tharkas to report to the Emperor, then Toede promptly decamped.

  Commander Grag did not have to enter Neraka proper to make his way to the Blue Army’s barracks where Ariakas had established his headquarters, and that was fortunate for the draconian. The city’s narrow streets were clogged with people, most of them human, with no love for the likes of Grag. He would have been in a fight before he walked a block. He kept to the byways and even then ran into a slaver leading a clanking row of chained slaves to market, who said something to his companion in a loud voice about slimy “lizard-men,” adding they should crawl back into the swamp out of which they’d emerged. Grag would have liked to have broken the man’s neck, but he was already late and he kept walking.

  Ariakas had ordered Grag to meet him in the Blue Quarter, where the Blue Wing of the dragonarmy resided when they were in the city. Currently, the Blue Wing was in the west, preparing for the invasion of Solamnia in the spring. Their commander, a Dragon Highlord known as the Blue Lady, had been ordered back to Neraka to meet with Commander Grag.

  Two of the largest ogres Grag had ever seen stood guard outside the door to Ariakas’ headquarters. The ogres were clad in plate and chain mail armor and were heavily armed. The draconian detested ogres as being thick-skulled and brutish, and the feeling was mutual, for ogres considered draconians arrogant upstarts and interlopers. Grag tensed, expecting trouble, but the two ogres were members of Ariakas’s own personal bodyguard and they went about their business in a professional manner.

  “Weapons,” growled one, and held out a huge, hairy hand.

  No one entered the presence of the emperor armed. Grag knew that, yet he had worn a sword from practically the moment he’d been able to shake the eggshell out of his eyes, and he felt naked and vulnerable without it.

  The ogre’s yellow eyes narrowed at Grag’s hesitation. Grag unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to the ogre, also turning over a long-bladed knife. He was not completely defenseless. He had his magic after all.

  One ogre kept an eye on Grag while the other went in to report to Ariakas that the bozak he was expecting had arrived. Grag paced nervously outside the door. From inside came a human male’s booming laughter and a human female’s voice, not quite as deep as the man’s, but deeper than that of most women, rich and husky.

  The ogre returned and jerked a sausage-like thumb, indicating Grag was to enter. He had a feeling this interview was not going to go well when he saw the gleam in the ogre’s squinty yellow eyes and saw the ogre’s comrade show all his rotting teeth in a wide grin.

  Bracing himself, folding his wings as tightly as possible, his bronze-colored scales twitching, his clawed hands flexing nervously, Grag entered the presence of the most powerful and most dangerous man in all of Ansalon.

  Ariakas was a large and imposing human male, with long black hair, and though clean-shaven, the dark stubble of a black beard. He was somewhere near the age of forty, which made him middle-aged among humans, but he was in superb condition. Stories about his legendary physical prowess circulated among the ranks of his men, the most famous being that he had once hurled a spear clean through a man’s body.

  Ariakas was wearing a fur-lined cloak, tossed casually over one broad shoulder, revealing a hand-tooled, heavy leather vest beneath. The vest was intended to protect against a knife in the back, for even in Neraka there were those who be glad to see Ariakas relieved of both his command and his life. A sword hung from a belt around his waist. Bags of spell components and a scroll case were also suspended from his sword belt, something remarkable, for most wizards were prohibited by their gods from wearing armor or carrying steel weapons.

  Ariakas had no care for the laws of the gods of magic. He received his spells directly from the Dark Queen herself, and in this he and Grag shared something in common. It had not occurred to Grag until this moment that Ariakas actually made use of his spellcasting abilities, but the fact that he carried magical paraphernalia alongside his weapons proved he was as comfortable with magic as with steel.

  Ariakas had his back to Grag, merely glancing at the draconian over his shoulder, then turning back to his conversation with the woman. Grag shifted his attention to her, for she was as famous among the soldiers of the dragonarmies as was Ariakas—if not more so.

  Her name was Kitiara uth Matar. She was in her early thirties, with black curly hair worn short for ease and convenience. She had dark eyes and an odd habit of quirking her lips when she smiled, making her smile slightly crooked. Grag knew nothing about her background. He was a reptile, related to dragons, who had crawled out of an eggshell himself, and he had no idea who his parents were, nor did he care about the parentage of others. All he had heard about Kitiara was that she had been born a warrior and Grag believed it. She wore her sword with jaunty ease and she was not the least bit intimidated by the size and strength and physical presence of Ariakas.

  Grag wondered if there was truth to the rumor that the two were lovers.

  At length, their conversation ended and Ariakas deigned to give Grag an audience. The emperor turned around and looked straight into the draconian’s eyes. Grag flinched. It was like looking into the Abyss, or rather, it was like entering the Abyss, for Grag felt himself drawn in, skinned, dissected, pulled apart, and tossed aside—all in an instant.

  Grag was so shaken he forgot to salute. He did so belatedly when he saw Ariakas’s heavy black brows contract in frowning displeasure. Kitiara, standing behind Ariakas, folded her arms across her chest and smiled her crooked smile at the draconian’s discomfiture, as though she knew and understood what Grag was feeling. She had evidently just arrived, for she still wore her blue dragon armor, and it was dusty from her journey.

  Ariakas was not one to mince words or waste time in pleasantries. “I have heard many different versions of how Lord Verminaard died,” he stated in cold and measured tones, “and how Thorbardin came to be lost. I ordered you here, Commander, to tell me the truth.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Grag.

  “Swear by Takhisis
,” said Ariakas.

  “I swear by my allegiance to her Dark Majesty that my words are true,” said Grag. “May she wither my sword hand if they are not.”

  Ariakas appeared to find this satisfactory, for he indicated with a gesture that Grag was to proceed. He did not sit down, nor did he invite the draconian to be seated. Kitiara could not sit down either, since her commander was still upright, but she made herself at ease by leaning back against a table.

  Grag related the tale of how Verminaard had died at the hands of assassins; how the aurak, Dray-yan, had conceived the idea of masquerading as Verminaard in order to keep up the pretence that the Dragon Highlord was still alive; how Grag and Dray-yan had plotted the downfall of Thorbardin; how they would have been successful, but their plans were thwarted by magic, treachery, and the gods of Light.

  Grag could see Ariakas growing more and more enraged as he went on with his report. When Grag reluctantly reached the part where Dray-yan toppled into the pit, Ariakas, infuriated, drew his sword from its sheathe and began to advance on the draconian. Kitiara burst out laughing.

  Grag ceased talking abruptly and backed up a step. His clawed fingers twitched; he was readying a magic spell. He might die, but by Takhisis, he would not die alone.

  Still chuckling, Kitiara casually reached out her hand and laid it restrainingly on Ariakas’s massive forearm.

  “At least do not slay Commander Grag until he has finished his report, my lord,” Kitiara said. “I, for one, am curious to hear the rest of the story.”

  “I’m glad you find it so damn amusing,” Ariakas snarled, seething. He slammed his sword back into its sheathe, though he kept his hand on the hilt and eyed Grag grimly. “I do not see anything funny about it. Thorbardin remains in the control of the Hylar dwarves, who are now stronger than ever, since they have recovered that magical hammer, and they have opened their long-sealed gates to the world. The iron, steel and wealth of the dwarven kingdom which should be flowing into our coffers is flowing into the hands of our enemies! All because that idiot Verminaard managed to get himself assassinated and then some fool aurak with delusions of grandeur takes a dive into a bottomless pit!”