Dragons of The Dwarven Depths Part 29

Raistlin was limping. He was being helped by his brother. Flint marched with his head down, holding fast to the helm. Ta.s.slehoff's footsteps were starting to flag. Arman left the main street, and taking a turn to the left, he led them down a side road.

A large building rose in front of them. Doors of bronze, marked with the sign of a hammer, stood open.

"The Temple of Reorx," said Arman.

The Hylar soldiers removed their helms as they went, but they seemed to do this more out of habit than true reverence or respect. Once inside, the dwarves relaxed and felt free to make themselves at home, stretching out on the floor where the altar had once stood, taking long pulls from their ale skins, and rummaging in their knapsacks for food.

Arman conferred with his soldiers, then sent one on ahead to carry news to his father. He detailed another to keep watch at the door and ordered two more to stand guard on the companions.

Tanis could have pointed out that they weren't likely to try to escape, since none of them had any desire to cross Anvil's Echo a second time. He was too weary to argue, however.

"We will spend the night here," Arman announced. "Pick is not strong enough to travel. We will be safe enough, I think. The Theiwar don't usually venture this far, but just in case, I have sent one of my men to bring up reinforcements from the West Warrens."

Tanis considered this an excellent idea.

"Could you at least untie us?" he asked Arman. "You have our weapons. We have no intention of attacking you. We want to have our say before the Council."

Arman eyed him speculatively, then gave a nod. "Untie them," he ordered his soldiers.

The Hylar did not appear happy about this, but they did as he said. Arman fussed over his brother, making sure he had something to eat and was resting comfortably. Tanis gazed curiously around the temple. He wondered if Reorx had made himself known to the dwarves, as the other G.o.ds had made themselves known. Judging by the dilapidated state of the temple and the casual att.i.tude of the dwarves as they set up housekeeping for the night, Tanis a.s.sumed the G.o.d, for whatever reasons, had not yet informed the dwarves of his return.

According to the wise, the creation of the world began when Reorx, a friend of the G.o.d of Balance, Gilean, struck his hammer on the Anvil of Time, forcing Chaos to slow his cycle of destruction. The sparks that flew from the G.o.d's hammer became the stars. The light from these stars was transformed into spirits, who were given mortal bodies by the G.o.ds, and the world of Krynn, in which they could dwell. Although the creation of the dwarves had always been in dispute (dwarves believing they were formed by Reorx in his image, while others maintain dwarves were brought into being by the pa.s.sing of the chaotic Graygem of Gargath), dwarves were firm in their belief that they were the chosen people of Reorx.

The dwarves were devastated when Reorx departed along with the other G.o.ds after the Cataclysm. Most refused to believe it and clung to their faith in the G.o.d, even though their prayers were answered with silence. Thus while most other people on Krynn forgot the old G.o.ds, the dwarves still remembered and revered Reorx, telling the old tales about him, confident that someday he would return to his people.

The Thorbardin dwarves still swore oaths in Reorx's name; Tanis had heard swearing enough on the bridge to know that. Flint had done the same all the years Tanis had known him, though Reorx had been absent for hundreds of years. According to Flint, the clerics of Reorx vanished from the world just prior to the Cataclysm, leaving the same time the other clerics of the true G.o.ds mysteriously departed. But were there now any new clerics beneath the mountain?

His friends were also looking around the temple, and Tanis guessed they were thinking along the same lines, some of them, at least. Caramon was staring wistfully at the food, as Arman came by, offering everyone a share.

The dwarves were munching on hunks of some sort of salted meat. Caramon eyed it hungrily then glanced at Ta.s.slehoff, thinking of worms, and with a deep sigh, shook his head. Arman shrugged and gave some to Flint, who accepted a large portion with muttered thanks.

Raistlin had refused any nourishment and gone straight to his bed. Ta.s.slehoff sat cross-legged in front of one of the lanterns, munching on his meal and watching the worm inside. Flint had told him the worm was the larva of gigantic worms that chewed through solid stone. Tas was fascinated, and he kept tapping on the gla.s.s panel to see the larva wriggle.

"Should we say anything about the return of the G.o.ds?" Sturm asked, coming to sit down beside Tanis.

Tanis shook his head emphatically. "We're in enough trouble as it is."

"We will have to bring up the G.o.ds," Sturm insisted, "when we ask about the Hammer of Kharas."

"We're not going to talk about the hammer," said Tanis shortly. "We're going to try to keep out of a dwarven dungeon!"

Sturm considered this. "You're right. Speaking of the G.o.ds would be awkward, especially if Reorx has not not returned to them. Still, I don't see why we should not ask Arman about the hammer. It shows we have a knowledge of their history." returned to them. Still, I don't see why we should not ask Arman about the hammer. It shows we have a knowledge of their history."

"Just drop it, Sturm," Tanis said sharply, and he went over to have a talk with Flint.

He sat down beside the dwarf and accepted some of the food. "What's wrong with Caramon? I never before saw him turn down a meal."

"The kender told him it was worm meat."

Tanis spit the meat out his mouth.

"It's dried beef," said Flint with a low chuckle.

"Did you tell Caramon?"

"No," the dwarf returned with a sly grin. "Do him good to lose some weight."

Tanis went over to a.s.suage Caramon's fears. He left the big man chewing voraciously on the tough and stringy beef, swearing he would tear off the kender's pointy ears and stuff them into his boots. The half-elf went back to finish his talk with Flint.

"Have you heard these dwarves mention Reorx, other than swearing by him?" Tanis asked.

"No." Flint held the Helm of Grallen in his lap, his hands resting protectively on top of it. "You won't either."

"Then you don't think Reorx has returned to them?"

"As if he would!" Flint snorted. "The mountain dwarves shut Reorx out of the mountain when they sealed the doors on us."

"Sturm was asking me... do you think we should tell the dwarves about the G.o.ds' return?"

"I wouldn't tell a mountain dwarf how to find his beard in a snowstorm!" Flint said scornfully.

His hands on the helm, Flint propped himself up against a wall and settled himself for sleep.

"Keep one eye open, my friend," said Tanis softly.

Flint grunted and nodded.

Tanis made the rounds. Sturm lay on the floor, staring up into the darkness. Ta.s.slehoff had fallen asleep beside the worm lantern.

"Drat all kender anyway," Caramon said, pulling a blanket over Tas. "I could have starved to death!" He glanced surrept.i.tiously around. "I don't trust these dwarves, Tanis," he said quietly. "Should one of us stand watch?"

Tanis shook his head. "We're all exhausted and we have to appear before this Council tomorrow. We need to have our wits about us."

He stretched out on the cold stone floor of the abandoned temple and thought he had never been so tired in his life, yet he couldn't sleep. He had visions of them all being cast into the dwarven dungeons, never to see the light of day again. Already he was starting to feel closed in; the stone walls pressed down on him. As large as this temple was, it was not large enough to hold all the air Tanis needed. He felt himself being smothered, and he tried to shake off the panicked feeling that came over him whenever he was in dark and closed-up places.

His body ached with fatigue, and he was starting to relax and drift off when Sturm's voice jolted him wide awake.

"Your hero, Kharas, was present at the final battle, was he not?"

Tanis swore softly and sat up.

Sturm and Arman were seated together on the opposite side of the chamber. The dwarven soldiers were making the walls shake with their snoring, but Tanis could hear their conversation quite clearly.

"The knights of Solamnia gave Kharas his name," Sturm was saying, "Kharas being the word in my language for 'knight'." being the word in my language for 'knight'."

Arman nodded several times and stroked his beard proudly, as though Sturm were speaking of him, not his famous ancestor.

"That is true," Arman stated. "The Solamnic knights were much impressed with his honor and courage."

"Did he carry the legendary Hammer with him during the final battle?" Sturm asked.

Tanis gave an inward groan. He would have intervened, for he did not want the dwarves to begin to suspect they had come here to steal the Hammer, but it was too late. It would do more harm than good. He kept silent.

"Kharas fought courageously," Arman told the story, enjoying himself immensely, "even though he was bitterly opposed to the war, for he said brother should not be slaying brother. Kharas even went so far as to shave off his beard to mark his opposition to the war, shocking the people. A clean-shaven chin is the mark of a coward.

"And so some called Kharas, for when he saw that dwarves on both sides had lost all reason and were killing each other out of hatred and vengeance, he left the field of battle, bearing with him the bodies of two of King Duncan's sons, who had died fighting side-by-side. Thus Kharas survived the terrible explosion that took the lives of thousands of dwarves and men.

"King Duncan saw the bodies of his sons, and when word came to him of the blast and he knew that countless dwarves lay dead on the Plains of Dergoth, he ordered the gates of Thorbardin sealed. He vowed in his grief that no more would die in this dreadful war."

"You say Duncan had two sons and they died on the field of battle and Kharas returned their bodies. What, then, of Prince Grallen?" Sturm paled; he seemed troubled. "I do not know how I know this, but the prince did not die on the field of battle. His body was never found."

Arman cast a dark glance at the helm. Flint had fallen asleep, but even in sleep he kept fast hold of the relict.

"The Council will decide if that story will be told," Arman said sternly. "For now, we will not speak of it."

"Then let us talk of more pleasant subjects," said Sturm. His voice grew husky with reverence. "All my life, I have heard the stories of the fabled Hammer of Kharas, the sacred hammer wielded by Huma Dragonbane himself. I would like very much be able to see the Hammer and do it honor."

"So would we all," said Arman.

Sturm frowned, as if he thought the dwarf was making fun of him. "I do not understand," he said stiffly.

"The Hammer of Kharas is lost. We have spent three hundred years searching for it. Without the sacred Hammer, no dwarf can be named High King, and without a High King, the dwarven people will never be unified."

"Lost?" Sturm repeated, shocked. "How could the dwarves misplace such a valuable artifact?"

"It was not not misplaced," Arman Kharas returned angrily. "After the gates were sealed, the clans began to plot to overthrow King Duncan, whom they now deemed to be weak. Each thane came to Kharas seeking support for his claim to the throne. Kharas wanted nothing to do with any of them, so he left Thorbardin by secret means and went into self-imposed exile. He stayed away many years. Finally, growing weary of his travels and longing for his home and his people, Kharas returned to Thorbardin, only to find the situation had worsened. misplaced," Arman Kharas returned angrily. "After the gates were sealed, the clans began to plot to overthrow King Duncan, whom they now deemed to be weak. Each thane came to Kharas seeking support for his claim to the throne. Kharas wanted nothing to do with any of them, so he left Thorbardin by secret means and went into self-imposed exile. He stayed away many years. Finally, growing weary of his travels and longing for his home and his people, Kharas returned to Thorbardin, only to find the situation had worsened.

"The kingdoms were embroiled in civil war. Kharas was able to talk with Duncan one final time before he died. Grief-stricken, Kharas carried the king's body to the magnificent tomb Duncan had built for himself. Kharas took with him the famous hammer. I told you what he said," Arman added. "The prophecy that I will fulfill."

Sturm gave a polite nod, but he was not interested in prophecies. "So the Hammer is in King Duncan's Tomb."

"We can only a.s.sume so. Kharas never returned to tell us. None know his fate."

"Where is the tomb located?"

"In the final resting place of all dwarves, the Valley of Thanes."

Sturm tugged on his long mustache, a sign that he was disturbed. Tanis could guess the cause. No true knight would ever disturb the sacred sleep of the n.o.ble dead, yet his desire for the Hammer was great.

"Perhaps," he said after a moment, "I might be permitted to enter the tomb. I would do so with reverence and respect, of course. Why do you shake your head? Is this forbidden?"

"So it would seem," said Arman. "When Kharas did not return, the thanes and their followers raced to the tomb, each hoping to be the one to lay claim to the hammer. Fighting broke out in the sacred valley and it was then, when the battle was at its height, that a powerful force ripped the tomb from the ground and carried it into the sky."

"The tomb vanished?" Sturm was dismayed.

"It did not vanish. We can see it, but we cannot reach it. Duncan's Tomb floats hundreds of feet above the Valley of the Thanes."

Sturm's brow darkened.

"Do not look so downhearted, Sir Knight," said Arman complacently. "You will yet have a chance to see the wondrous Hammer."

"What do you mean?" Sturm asked.

"As I said, I am the dwarf of whom the prophecy speaks. I am the one destined to find the Hammer of Kharas. When the time is right, Kharas himself will guide me to it, and I am certain the time is almost upon us."

"How can you tell?"

Arman would not say. Stating that he was tired, he went over to check on his brother then took himself to his bed.

Deeply disappointed, Sturm lapsed into gloomy silence. Tanis stared into the impenetrable darkness. The Hammer they needed to forge the dragonlances was lost, or if not lost, out of reach.

Nothing was going right it seemed.

Flint was doing as Tanis suggested, sleeping with one eye open, and that eye opened wide when he saw a strange dwarf come strolling into the temple as nonchalantly and confidently as if he owned the place. The dwarf was like no dwarf Flint had ever seen in his life. The stranger had a magnificent beard, glossy and luxuriant, and long curling hair that flowed down his back. He wore a blue coat with golden b.u.t.tons, high boots that came to his thighs, a ruffled shirt, and a wide brimmed hat topped by a red plume. At this astonishing sight, Flint he sat bolt upright.

He was about to shout a warning, but something in the c.o.c.ky att.i.tude of the dwarf stopped him, that and the fact that the dwarf walked right up to Flint and stared at him rudely.

"Here now," said Flint, frowning. "Who are you?"

"You know my name," said the dwarf, continuing to stare down at him, "just as I know yours. I'm an old friend of yours, Flint Fireforge."

Flint sputtered in protest. "You're no such thing! I never in my life had a friend who wore such frippery. Feathers and ruffles! You put a Palanthas dandy to shame!"

"Still, you know me. You call on me often. You swear by my beard and you ask me to take your soul if you're lying." The dwarf reached into the darkness and pulled out a jug. Removing the stopper, he sniffed at it and smiled expansively and offered it to Flint.

The redolent odor of the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits filled the air.

"Care for a swallow?" the stranger asked.

A terrible suspicion entered Flint's mind. He felt in need of support. Taking the jug, he put it to his mouth and took a gulp. The fiery liquor burned his tongue, took him by the throat, wrung his neck, then sizzled down his gullet to his stomach where it exploded.

Flint gave a moist sigh and wiped tears from his eyes.

"Good, eh? It's my own home brew," said the dwarf, adding proudly, "I'll wager you've never tasted anything like it."

Flint nodded and coughed.

The dwarf s.n.a.t.c.hed back the jug, took a pull himself, then corked it up and tossed it back into the air where it vanished. He squatted down on his haunches in front of Flint, who squirmed under the intense gaze of the stranger's black eyes.

"Figured out my name yet?" the dwarf asked.

Flint knew the dwarf's name as well as he knew his own, but the realization was so stupefying that he didn't want to believe it, and so he shook his head.

"I won't make an issue of it," the dwarf said with a shrug and a good natured grin. "Suffice it to say, I know you, Flint Fireforge. I know you very well. I knew your father and your grandfather, too, and they knew me, just like you know me, even if you're too stubborn to admit it. That gratifies me. It gratifies me highly.

"Therefore," said the dwarf, and he leaned forward and jabbed Flint rudely in the breastbone. "I'm going to do something for you. I'm going to give you the chance to be a hero. I'm going to give you the chance to find the Hammer of Kharas and save the world by forging the dragonlances. Your name, Flint Fireforge, will echo in halls and palaces throughout Ansalon."