Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

They had been traveling for several hours when the dwarf suddenly veered to the right. Leaving the foothills, he began to climb a steep grade.

Tanis followed. He had been searching for some sign that Raistlin, Caramon, and Sturm had come this way, but he’d found none.

“Flint,” said Tanis, as they started to ascend, “which way is Skullcap from here?” Flint paused to get his bearings then pointed to the east. “That way. On the other side of that mountain. If they’ve gone in that direction, they won’t get far. I guess we were worried for nothing.”

“There’s no pass in that direction?”

“Use your eyes, lad! Do you see a pass?”

Tanis shook his head, then smiled. “I don’t see a pass in this direction either.”

“Ah, that’s because you’re not a dwarf!” said Flint and continued the ascent.

Caramon, Sturm, and Raistlin were down in the valley, following a trail that was faint, overgrown, and occasionally impassable, forcing them to make detours into the forest. No matter how far they ventured from the trail, Raistlin always led them unerringly back. The stream that ran near their campsite wound through the valley like a gleaming snake, cutting across the trail at several points. Up until now, whenever they’d been forced to cross the stream, it was shallow enough that they could wade through it. They had come to a place where the stream flowed deep and swift, and they could not cross it. Raistlin struck off to the north, following the bank, and eventually found a place where the water was only ankle deep. Once they were on the other side, Raistlin led the way along the bank until they once more picked up the trail.

“How did he know where to find the ford?” Sturm asked in a low voice.

“Lucky guess,” Caramon returned.

Sturm regarded Raistlin grimly. “He seems to make a lot of those.”

“A good thing, too,” Caramon muttered, “otherwise we’d be wandering around here lost.” Caramon increased his pace to catch up with his far-ranging twin.

“Don’t you think you should rest, Raist?” Caramon asked solicitously as he caught up. Caramon was worried at the pace his frail twin was setting. They’d walked for hours without a break.

“You’ve really pushed yourself this morning.”

“No time,” Raistlin said, walking faster. He glanced at the sky. “We must be there by sunset.”

“We must be where by sunset?” Caramon asked, puzzled.

Raistlin appeared momentarily confused then brushed the question aside. “You will—” His words were interrupted by a coughing spasm. He choked, gasping for breath. Caramon hovered nearby, watching helplessly as Raistlin wiped his mouth then quickly crumpled the handkerchief, thrusting it back into a pocket, though not before Caramon had seen spots on the white cloth that were as red as the mage’s robes.

“We’re stopping,” said Caramon.

Raistlin tried to protest, but he lacked the breath to argue. Glancing up at the sun, which had yet to reach its zenith, he gave in and slumped down on a fallen log. His breath came in wheezes. Caramon removed the stopper from the water skin, and as he held it out for his brother to drink, saw that Raistlin’s golden-tinged skin had a feverish flush. Knowing better than to say anything about this, fearing to draw his brother’s ire, Caramon took the opportunity as he handed over the water to brush his hand against his brother’s. Raistlin’s skin always seemed unnaturally warm to the touch, but Caramon fancied that it was hotter than normal.

“Sturm, could you gather some wood? I want to start a fire,” Caramon said. “I’ll brew your tea, Raist. You can take a nap.”

Raistlin flashed his twin a look that caused the words to dry up in Caramon’s mouth.

“A nap!” Raistlin said scathingly. “Do you think we are on a kender outing, brother?”

“No,” said Caramon, unhappy. “It’s just that you—”

Raistlin rose to his feet. His eyes glinted from the shadow of his cowl. “Go ahead, Caramon. Start a fire. You and the knight have your picnic. Perhaps you can go fishing, catch a trout. When the two of you are finished, you might consider catching up with me!” He pointed with his staff to his tracks in the snow. “You will have no difficulty following my trail.” He started to cough, but he managed to stifle it in the sleeve of his robes. Leaning on his staff, he strode off.

“By the gods, for a bent copper I would go fishing,” Sturm said vehemently. “Let him end up in a wolf’s belly!”

Caramon did not answer but silently gathered up his gear and that of his brother and started off in pursuit of his twin.

“For a bent copper,” Sturm muttered.

Since there was no one around to offer him such an incentive, the knight hefted his own equipment and stalked grimly after them.

Tanis was not the least bit surprised when Flint found the old dwarven trail, hidden from sight, carved out of the side of the mountain. Flint had been walking with one eye fixed on the ground and the other searching the mountain walls, looking for signs only he could see, secret marks left by his people who had lived in and around the Kharolis mountains since the time of the forging of the world by the dwarven god, Reorx.

Tanis pretended to be surprised, however, swearing he’d been certain they were lost past recovery. Flint flushed with pride, though he pretended he’d done nothing special. Tanis eyed the route of path that stretched ahead of them, meandering across the face of the mountain.

“It’s narrow,” he said, thinking of the refugees that might have to use it, “and steep.”

“It is that,” Flint agreed. “It was meant to be trod by dwarven feet, not human.” He pointed ahead. “See that cleft in the walls up ahead? That’s where this path leads. That’s how we cross the mountains.”

The cut was so narrow that it formed almost a perfect V shape. Tanis could not tell how wide it was, for they were yet some distance away, but from this vantage point, it looked as if two humans walking side-by-side would be a tight squeeze. The path on which he stood could accommodate two humans at some points, but he could see plainly that in other places people would need to walk single-file.

He and Flint had been climbing steadily since they left the foothills. The path had the solid backing of the mountain on one side, with nothing on the other except a long drop. Traversing such terrain did not bother dwarves in the least. Flint claimed that so long as they had rock beneath their feet, dwarven boots did not slip. Tanis thought of Goldmoon, who was terrified of heights, walking this path, and he wished for a moment that he believed in these new-found gods, so that he could pray to them to spare her and the people the necessity of making this terrible journey. As it was, he could only hope, and his hope was bleak.

He and Flint continued, their pace slowing, for though the dwarf marched with confidence along the trail, Tanis had to take more care.

Fortunately, the mountain had sheltered the path from the snow, so that the trail wasn’t icy. Even so, Tanis had to watch his step, and though heights didn’t bother him, every time he looked over the edge to the boulders below, certain parts of him shriveled.

By late afternoon, he and Flint had reached the cut that was every bit as narrow and difficult to cross as it had looked from a distance.

“We’ll camp here for the night where the walls protect us from the wind,” said Flint. “We cross in the morning.”

As Tanis scouted out the best of a bad place in which to spend a cold night in a rock-strewn ravine, Flint stood with his hands on his hips, his lips pursed, staring up at the peak that towered above them. At length, after a good long perusal, he grunted in satisfaction.