Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Perhaps it’s the most important task you’ll undertake in your lifetime.”

“The lives of eight hundred people—”

Sturm brushed those aside with a wave of his hand. “The Hammer is the only chance we have to win this war, and it is in Thorbardin.” His grip on Tanis’s arm tightened. Tanis could feel him shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “You must ask the dwarves to lend it to us. You must!”

“I will, Sturm, I promise,” said Tanis, taken aback by his friend’s intensity. “Now, about Riverwind—”

But Sturm’s gaze had shifted. He was looking at Raistlin and Caramon.

Caramon was talking to his twin in low tones. The big man’s expression was troubled. Raistlin made an impatient gesture and then, leaning close, he said something to his twin.

“Raistlin is plotting something,” Sturm said, frowning. “I wonder what? Why did he bring up Skullcap?”

Tanis tried again. “In my absence, I named Riverwind as leader—”

“A good choice, Tanis,” said Sturm absently.

The twins ended their conversation. Raist was striding out of the cave, walking swiftly, with more energy than usual, leaving Caramon to stare unhappily after his brother. He shook his head and then he, too, left.

“Excuse me, Tanis,” said Sturm, and he hurried off.

“What was all that about?” Flint asked.

“Beats me. Do you know anything about this hammer?”

“Hammer, schmammer,” said Flint, glowering. “I’ll not set foot beneath the mountain.” Tanis sighed and was about to try to make good his own escape from the stifling cavern when he saw Riverwind and Goldmoon standing near the entrance. He felt that he owed them both an explanation.

“A fine snare you laid for me, Half-Elven,” Riverwind remarked. “I am caught in your trap and not even my wife will set me free.”

“You made a wise choice,” Goldmoon said.

Riverwind shook his head.

“ 1 need you, my friend,” said Tanis earnestly. “If I am to undertake this journey, I need to know that I have someone here I can trust. Hederick is a dunce who will plunge us into disaster if given half a chance. Elistan is a good man, but he knows nothing of battle. If Verminaard and his forces attack, the people can’t rely on prayers and platinum disks to save them.” Goldmoon looked grave. “Tanis, you should not speak lightly of such things.”

“I’m sorry, Goldmoon,” Tanis said as gently as he could, “but I don’t have time for sermons now. This is the hard truth, as I see it. If you and your tribesmen go off on your own, you abandon these people to their doom.”

Riverwind still looked doubtful, but Tanis could see the man was weakening. “I must discuss this with my people,” he said at last.

“Do that,” Tanis said. “I need your answer soon. Flint and I leave in the morning.”

“ You leave in the morning!” Flint muttered.

“You will have my answer before you sleep,” Riverwind promised, and he and his wife departed, Goldmoon casting Tanis a troubled glance as she left.

He pushed open the lattice-work screen of branches, walked outside, and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Snowflakes tingled cold on his skin. He stood a moment, breathing in the cold, pure air, then walked off along the path that led down the mountainside.

“Where are you going?” Flint demanded.

“To set Tasslehoff free. Unless he’s gnawed the leg off the table by now…”

“Leave him tied up,” Flint advised. “Less trouble for us all.” Snowflakes continued to drift down, but here and there Tanis could see stars through the clouds. The snow fall would not be heavy this night, just enough to whiten the ground, make tracking the deer easier for the hunters. Deer were getting scarcer and scarcer in the valley, more difficult to find.

“After we placate Tas,” Tanis continued, hearing the dwarf’s heavy boots thump behind him, “you and I have to pack. I want to leave as soon as it’s daylight.” The thumping came to a halt. The dwarf crossed his arms over his chest. He looked as if he intended to stand on that rock until he put down roots.

“I’m not going. I’ve told you, Tanis, I’ll not set foot—”

“—beneath the mountain. Yes, I heard you the first twenty times.” Tanis halted, turned to face the dwarf. “You know I can’t do this on my own, Flint. You know I need your help. I speak the dwarven tongue, and I suppose I understand dwarves about as much as any elf or human can, but I don’t understand them as well as one of their own.”

“I’m not one of their own!” Flint snarled. “I’m a hill dwarf—”

“Which means you’ll be the first hill dwarf to set foot beneath the mountain in three hundred years. You’ll make history, Flint. Have you thought of that? You might even be responsible for the unification of the dwarven nations! Then there’s this hammer. If you were to find this Hammer of Kharas and bring it back—”

“Hammer of Kharas! Some wild tale Sturm’s granny told him,” Flint scoffed. Tanis shrugged.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he said. “If you decide to stay, you’ll be the one who has to take charge of Tasslehoff.”

Flint sucked in a horrified breath. “You wouldn’t!”

“Who else can I trust? Caramon?”

Tanis resumed his walking. He heard behind him a muttering, a shuffling and the occasional huffing breath.

Then came the clump of heavy boots.

“I guess I’ll go,” Flint called out with ill grace. “You’ll never find the gate without me.”

“I wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Tanis.

He smiled to himself in the darkness as the snow fell in lazy circles around him.

Fistandantilus. Caramon knew that name. He had tensed when he heard his brother speak it and he remained tense during the remainder of the meeting, completely losing track of the discussion that followed. He was recalling another discussion with his twin in the ruined city of Xak Tsaroth.

Raistlin had told him that among the treasure in the dragon’s hoard in that accursed city was a magical spellbook of immense value. If they managed to defeat the dragon, Raistlin had ordered Caramon to search for this book and retrieve it for him.

“What does the book look like?” Caramon had asked.

“The pages are bone-white parchment bound in night-blue leather with runes of silver stamped on the front,” Raistlin had told him. “The book will feel deathly cold to the touch.”

“What do the runes say?” Caramon had been suspicious. He hadn’t liked the way Raistlin had described the book.

“You do not want to know…” Raistlin had smiled to himself, a secret smile.

“Whose book was it?”

Though Caramon was not a mage himself, he knew a great deal about the ways of mages from having been around his twin. A mage’s most valued possession was his book of magical spells compiled over a lifetime of work. Written in the language of magic, each spell was recorded in detail using the precise wording, with notations as to the proper pronunciation of each word, the precise inflections and intonations, what gestures should be used, and what components might be required.

“You have never heard of this wizard, my brother,” Raistlin had told Caramon after one of those strange lapses when he seemed to move inside himself, seemed to be searching for something lost, “yet he was one of the greatest who ever lived. His name was Fistandantilus.” Caramon had been reluctant to ask the next question, afraid of what he might hear in answer. Looking back, he realized now he’d known exactly what he was going to hear. He wished he’d kept silent.