by Dragon Lance
“My sword?” The gray man might have asked for his arm.
“Your sword. I always assumed the acoustics in here were fairly good. Am I wrong, then?” At the moment, the mage’s face was as unreadable as Rennard’s had always been.
“Why?” Huma did not care for this suspicious move. The gray man was a servant of the Dragonqueen after all. It must be that the gods now feared Huma’s power – and why not?
“That thing there is not allowed within these chambers. It should not be allowed anywhere.”
“This?” The knight held aloft the magnificent sword, admiring the way it glowed so strongly. He had thought it well-made before, but the radiance of its fully awakened beauty was something to behold. Give it up? Huma would fight first!
“That ‘wonderful’ blade you bear is known as the Sword of Tears. It’s a relic from the Age of Dreams. Through it, Takhisis seduced the ogre race, twisted them from beauty, until all but a handful strayed from the path. It is said to be the weapon with which the champion of darkness will challenge light on that final battle before the last day. It is pure evil, and should be banished. If there is any true choice.”
“You’re wrong. This is the key to our victory. Look at it!”
The gray man shaded his eyes. “I have. Many times. Its wicked travesty of illumination still irritates after all these centuries.”
Huma lowered the blade, but only so he could point it toward the man barring his way. “Is it that? Or are you one who shuns the light in general? I think it is you who are the danger.”
“If you could only see your face.”
“My face?” Huma laughed arrogantly. “The Sword of Tears, you say. Could it actually be called that because of the tears that the Dragonqueen will shed when at last faced with a power stronger than she?”
The gray man’s face screwed into an expression of disgust. “I see the horrid blade has not lost any of its charm.”
Holding his sword possessively, Huma folded his arms. “I’ve listened to your little tirade long enough. Will you let me pass now?”
The guardian brought his staff up to eye level. “Not with the sword.”
Huma only smiled and thrust the sword into the rocky wall to his left. The blade sank in as if the tunnel were made of curdled milk rather than stone, and the weapon flared with emerald light. With similar ease, the knight drew it out. The blade looked unscratched, while that portion of the wall had lost its natural glow.
The gray man only curled his lip and said mockingly, “You had better strike it again. It may have some fight left in it.”
Huma glared at him. “Your last chance. Will you yield?”
“Not unless the sword is forfeited.”
“Then I shall slice a path through your body.”
“If you can.”
The knight raised the Sword of Tears, which seemed to glow more brilliantly – as if in anticipation – and stepped forward. The gray man stepped out of his defensive position and – threw his staff on the tunnel floor. Huma stood there, arm raised, momentarily stunned.
“Have you surrendered, then?”
The hooded figure shook his head. “If you would continue, you must strike me down.”
Strike him down! a voice shouted in Huma’s mind. The green glow of the Sword of Tears dominated the tunnel now. Strike him down! the voice repeated.
“This is —” Huma struggled to complete the thought. The voice became insistent. Strike him down and gain your prize!
“— wrong!”
“Give up the sword, Huma. Only then will you be free.”
“No!” The word issued from the knight’s mouth, but it was not he who had spoken. Instead, the source seemed to have been the blade itself, which now caused Huma’s arm to rise as if he were intending to smote the gray mage.
“No!” This time, it was Huma who spoke. He collapsed against the side of the passageway and regarded with sudden disgust and horror the thing he held in his hand, despite the brilliance that caused even the gray man to turn away.
Take me! Wield me! I was meant to glory in blood! I was meant to rend the world for my mistress!
“No!” The denial came more firmly now as the shock in Huma’s eyes gave way to anger. He had torn free from the malevolent artifact’s spell. The blade had asked the impossible of him – to purposefully strike down one who neither deserved it nor sought to defend himself. Huma had not been able to do so with Rennard, and he could not do so now with the dun-colored guardian.
Power surged from the sword, and Huma screamed. The Shockwaves threw the knight to the floor. It felt as if every fiber of his body were being torn apart. He could see only green, could feel only the pain, and could hear only the incessant command of the Sword of Tears as it sought to overcome his will.
“Huma!” Another voice, familiar, sought to assert its influence on him. He took the lifeline and concentrated.
“You must be willing to part from it – totally – or the demon sword will have your body and soul!”
Totally? Huma struggled against the pain. He saw now that the Sword of Tears worked only for its own wily purposes and would never truly be anyone’s servant. That realization gave Huma the willpower he had lacked.
“I deny you!” He held the sword at arm’s length, sickened by it. “I will have no part of you and, therefore, you have no power over me!”
The pain diminished and Huma pressed his advantage. Slowly, he forced the outside presence from his head, reviling it, confident now that it had no true power. The presence seemed to shrink back from his determination, and the emerald brilliance diminished dramatically.
Master, it called. You are truly master.
It cowed before his mind. Huma’s confidence grew, until a thought flashed through his head. Now that he had defeated it, could he not use it safely?
No! Huma pushed the thought away. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His skin had gone white.
Huma threw the demonic blade wildly across the corridor. As he did, he thought he heard, or felt, a maddened cry. The sword clattered against the opposite wall and dropped to the ground. The glow had all but vanished.
“Never,” Huma panted. He leaned against the wall, his hands on his knees. “Not for all the power in the world.”
Slow footsteps indicated the near presence of the gray man. A strong hand fell on Huma’s shoulder. “There is no more reason to fear. The Sword of Tears is nothing. No more than smoke in the wind. See?”
Huma looked up. The demon sword was wavering and beginning to fade, to sink through the stone to nothingness. Within seconds, there was no trace of its physical form or the sinister presence within.
“Where is it?”
“Hopefully, back where it belongs. The thing has a mind of its own, but you know that. I think I’ve put it in a place where it will take some doing for it to break free.”
The knight looked up. “You saved me – and my soul.”
“I?” The gray man looked slightly amused. “I did nothing but make a few friendly suggestions. It was you who had to face the real battle. You persevered, though.”
“What happens now?” Huma stood slowly. His body ached. His head ached. He did not think he was capable of anything just yet. Huma slumped against the wall.
“Now?” The gray man sounded amused. Huma could not see what was so funny. “Now … you step through and claim your prize. You have defeated all three challenges.”
“Defeated —” The knight shook his head sadly. “You’re mistaken. I barely escaped with my life, much less my soul.”
“You live. Yes. That is the purpose of everything. To strive for life, for purpose.”
“Wyrmfather. The Sword of Tears. That makes only two challenges. Unless —” The truth struck Huma forcefully.
The gray man smiled a sad, gray smile. “Your trip through the mirror was no accident. A dark stain had spread itself deep within the fabric of the knighthood, and who better to cleanse the knighthood of that foulness than one of its
own? Most, I think, would have been pleased to slay Rennard without permitting him a chance to surrender. You wanted to save him, even then. That – the passion for life – is what the knighthood truly strives for, above all else.”
Huma straightened, stared at the seemingly endless tunnel behind the gray man, and then turned back to the hooded figure.
“Are you Paladine?”
The gray mage smiled mischievously and tapped the side of his nose. “I could say I am, but I won’t. Let us just say that the balance between good and evil must be maintained and I am one of those chosen to see to it – much like yourself, though I fear my part is small compared to your own.” He gave Huma no opportunity to reply. “It is time you went through this last tunnel and claimed your reward. As I said before, you must go weaponless. Weaponless, save your faith.”
As Huma stared, the gray man raised a hand, which held two daggers, gingerly, by the tips. Huma reached instinctively to his own belt, but his daggers were gone. They belonged to the gray man now, only the gray man was gone, too. Only the gaping tunnel stood before Huma.
He took a step toward the darkened passageway.
Huma said two prayers – one to Paladine and the second to Gilean, Lord of Neutrality – and walked into the darkness.
Huma could not judge time, but he was sure that he had been walking for a long period when the first echoes of the hammer reached him. They seemed neither far nor near, and the intensity never changed. It was not as it had been in the great chamber, where the towering, maddened leviathan had shrieked out at such torment. Rather, the familiar sounds of a smith at work put the knight at ease as he recalled a point in his training where he was taught the basics of the trade. All knights had some knowledge of the craft, for each might be called upon to mend armor or shoe a horse. A good smith, as the knighthood dictated, could do virtually anything with an anvil, a hammer, and fire-red metal.
Whoever worked at the anvil had to be a mighty man, Huma decided, for the fall of the hammer went on with such regular rhythm and for such a great length of time that most men would have fallen to their knees by now. At that, who said it must be a man? Might it not be Reorx himself? Here, he knew, was a place of gods and power. Anything might lie ahead.
Then, when he had not noticed it somehow, Huma found himself standing in the massive armory.
Countless implements of war and peace hung, stood or lay from wall to wall, as far as he could see in the dim light, and even from the ceiling high above. A sickle whose blade, if straightened, would be at least the length of Huma’s body. Swords of all shapes and sizes, some curved, some straight, some thin, and some heavy. Jeweled and plain. One-handed and two-handed.
Here he saw even more suits of armor than in the chambers below. The suits ranged from the most primitive breastplates to the latest full armor as worn by the Ergothian emperor. Shields hung above the suits, representing every crest ever created, including that of the Knights of Solamnia.
There was so much more, and Huma longed to see all of it. He felt as if he had stepped into the lost tomb of some great warrior. Yet this was no lost resting place of the dead, for the weaponry and artifacts here were devoid of dust or any sign of age. Each piece he inspected might have been made only yesterday, so sharp were the edges and smooth were the sides. No rust infected the armor; the wooden handle of the sickle had not rotted. Huma knew, however, that these creations were even older than the chambers below, that before all else in this mountain maze, this set of chambers had been first. He could not say how he knew, just that he knew.
The fall of the hammer had become a pattern in his ears, and he did not notice at first when it stopped. When he did, he had already wandered midway through the armory, his gaze flickering back and forth. Huma paused then, momentarily unsure. It was at that moment that he saw the flicker of light from ahead and heard the unknown smith resume his work. Only two massive doors barred his way.
Huma reached forward to knock upon one of the doors, even as it swung open. The slight movement was accompanied by a tremendous squeak, and it amazed the knight that the hammer kept falling as if its wielder had heard nothing or did not care.
It was a smithy of godlike proportions. A huge tank of water that could only be for cooling the product. A massive forge where – Huma had to squint – shadowy figures stoked the furnace with might and gusto.
The hammering ceased with finality. He wrenched his eyes from the sun-hot forge and turned.
The anvil stood as high as Huma’s waist and would have weighed half a dozen times his weight in full armor. The soot-covered figure that stood beside it, a two-handed hammer held easily in one hand and raised high above his head, turned to study the newcomer. The figures at the forge ceased their activity, as did two others near the anvil. The smith lowered his arm and stepped forward. Huma’s eyes did not go immediately to the face but were riveted instead by that arm. It was metal, a metal that gleamed like the material that Wyrmfather had become.
Then Huma looked into the face of the smith. Like the body, it was soot-covered, but Huma could see that the smith claimed no one race as his own, for the features were a blend of elf, human, dwarf, and something … unidentifiable.
The smith studied him from head to toe and, in a voice surprisingly quiet, asked, “Have you come at last for the Dragonlance?”
Chapter 21
Huma gave the towering smith a confused look and said, “The what?”
“The Dragonlance. Are you at last the one?” The dwarven features pinched together in outright anxiousness. The smith’s eyes narrowed as he waited for a response and his thin, elven mouth was no more than a flat line across his mostly human face. That “other” gave him a frightening yet handsome appearance that was not common to any of the other three races.
“I have faced the challenges, or so I am told. That is what the gray man said.”
“The gray man said it, did he? Even ancient Wyrmfather?” The hulking figure did not wait for a response. “Yes, I suppose you did, for he has been rather quiet of late. It seems so strange not to hear his rantings and ravings anymore. I cannot recall a day when he was so quiet. I shall have to adjust, I suppose.” He shrugged.
“Have I answered your question to your satisfaction?” Though Huma’s confidence had not yet recovered, his dignity had. He did not want to appear overwhelmed.
“Indeed you have,” the smith whispered, more to himself than to the knight. “Indeed you have.”
The smith let out a strong, hearty laugh. “Great Reorx! Never did I think to see the day! At last, someone will be able to properly appreciate my handiwork. Do you know how long it has been since I’ve spoken to someone qualified?”
“What about them?” Huma pointed at the spectral figures behind the smith. They seemed unoffended.
“Them? They are my assistants. They have to like my work. They would not understand the true use of the Dragonlance as a knight would. Paladine, I’ve waited so long!” The huge man’s voice echoed through the chambers.
“I forget myself.” The smith’s voice faded abruptly, and his face became dour. Huma noted that the other’s mood changes were as abrupt as his features were unique. “I am Duncan Ironweaver, master smith, armorer, and student of Reorx himself. I have waited far longer than I wish to remember for your coming. For many a year, I worried that you might never set foot near here, but I should have known better.” Duncan Ironweaver reached out a hand to Huma, who took it without thinking and found himself grasping warm metal.
The smith noticed him staring at the device and grinned. “Wyrmfather himself took my arm years ago, when I was a foolish young man. Though it pained me, I have never regretted its loss. This works so much better that I have often wondered what it might be to have an entire forged body.” He seemed to consider this for several seconds before realizing he had drifted from his subject. “Of course, without the silver arm, I would lack the strength and resistance necessary to forge the great dragonsilver into a finely crafted Dragonlan
ce.”
Again, the Dragonlance. “What is the Dragonlance? If it is what I have come for, can I see it?”
Ironweaver blinked. “I’ve not shown you?” He put a hand to his head, unheedful of the soot spread on both. “Of course not! My mind is addled. Come then. Follow me, and we shall gaze together on a wonder that encompasses more than my simple skills and your daring.”
The smith turned and wound a path into the darkest depths of the chamber. The four shadowy assistants made way for their master and the knight. The helpers seemed to melt into the darkness itself by the time Huma was near enough, and the only things he could glimpse were four pairs of eyes that seemed to stare straight through him.
Several yards ahead of him, Ironweaver was whistling a tune that vaguely resembled a Solamnic marching song. That made Huma relax a little, though he did wonder just what connection the smith had with the Knights of Solamnia and how far back it went. By this point, the knight would not have been surprised if he had awakened back at Vingaard Keep and discovered that all of this was a dream.
They came to another door, and the huge smith stopped and turned to Huma. “Beyond that door, only you will go. I have much work to get back to. Another will lead you back to the outside world and your friends.”
Friends? How did Duncan Ironweaver know about Kaz and Magius? “And the Dragonlance?”
“You will know it when you see it, my little friend.”
“Where do —?” Huma started to ask something else but stopped abruptly when he found himself talking to air. He quickly turned back in the direction they had come, but the smithy itself was no longer visible. Only darkness. Huma took a few tentative steps in that direction and then retreated in disgust as his face came in contact with a spider’s web of incredible size and thickness.
He spat the foul substance from his mouth and examined the web. It was old, the culmination of generations and generations. Dust lay thick on its surface. Here and there, it connected to rusting implements, swords, old metalworking equipment – things forgotten by their creators and users since long before Huma had been born.