Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“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.

Tanis 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 he 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.