Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

He raised his hand, as Sturm would have spoken. “I also know this. Inside the door we will find a tunnel that will lead us directly into the fortress of Zhaman, what is now known as Skullcap.” Raistlin glanced at the door and sighed. “At least, it used to. The tunnel might have been destroyed in the blast.”

“Now that you’re being so open and honest,” said Sturm grimly, “I suppose you assume we’ll walk right in.”

“Either that or spend the next several days searching for a way over these mountains, and more days after that in crossing them,” Raistlin replied. “It is up to you, Sir Knight. Which would you rather do? In the interests of saving time, Caramon and I will take this route. Won’t we, my brother?”

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon.

Sturm was still frowning at the door.

“C’mon, Sturm,” said Caramon in low tones. “You don’t want to go traipsing over these mountains. You might never find a way. Like Raist says, the door’s not magic. Dwarves built it. We saw doors that worked like this in Pax Tharkas. As for how Raist knew it was here, it doesn’t matter. Maybe he read about it in a book and just forgot.”

Sturm regarded his friend thoughtfully. Then he smiled and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“If all mankind were as loyal and trusting as you are, Caramon, the world would be a better place. Unhappily—” his gaze shifted to Raistlin—“such is not the case. Still, as you say, this saves us time and effort.”

Sturm walked over to the door and put his shoulder against the stone. Caramon joined him, and both shoved on the rock. At first, they made no progress. They might have been pushing on the side of the mountain. They gave it another shove, digging their heels into the ground, and suddenly the block of stone slid backward, moving so fast on steel tracks that Caramon lost his footing and fell flat. Sturm stumbled too, barely catching himself.

The sun had vanished. The afterglow was all the light in the sky, and that would be gone soon.

“ Shirak ,” said Raistlin, raising his staff. The crystal on top, held fast in the golden claw, burst into light. He walked past his brother, and Sturm, who stood hesitantly near the opening in the stone wall, and entered the tunnel.

Light gleamed on a steel rail about six feet in length, running straight into the passage until, at this juncture, the rail line split, part of it curving around to the left to come up against a wall, The rest continued on down the tunnel, disappearing in the darkness. Raistlin examined the mechanism with interest.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing. “The door is mounted on wheels that run along the rail. The door can then be pushed against this wall, so that it is out of the way.” Four carts mounted on rails stood in a row. The carts were still in good condition, for the passage beneath the mountain had been sealed up tight. The floor and walls were dry. Raistlin glanced inside the carts. They were empty. By the looks of them, they had never been used.

“Supply wagons could be driven up to the tunnel, their contents unloaded onto these carts. The carts were either pushed or pulled along the rails, down the tunnel, and into Zhaman. Thus, even besieged, the fortress could still be resupplied, and in case defeat was imminent, those inside the fortress could use this route to escape.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” stated Caramon, entering and peering around.

“What doesn’t?” asked his brother impatiently.

“According to Flint, when the wizard saw that he was about to be defeated, he decided to destroy himself and kill thousands of his own troops.” Caramon gestured to the tunnel. “Why would he do that when he could have fled to safety?”

“And we know we’re not being followed,” said Caramon with a yawn.

As it turned out, they were both wrong. Tas and Tika were out there, and they were following them.

Midway through the day, Tasslehoff and Tika had finally managed to sneak away from laundry detail. When it came time to spread the sopping wet clothes and bedding over bushes to dry, Tika had eagerly volunteered for the task. A quick poke in the ribs had caused Tas to volunteer as well. Tas had managed to retrieve their packs and hide them beneath a rotted log. Snagging these, the two of them had dumped the laundry they were supposed to be hanging and slipped away from camp.

They’d picked up the trail of the three men with ease. They could see in the snow the print of Raistlin’s narrow feet, the brush-marks left by the hem of his robes, and indentations made by his staff. Caramon’s large footprints were always near the smaller prints of his brother, and Sturm’s heavy prints came behind, guarding the rear.

Well aware that they’d lost valuable time and that they had only half the day left before darkness overtook them, Tika tried her best to hurry along. This proved difficult, for Tasslehoff was constantly being distracted by something he saw and continually starting to venture off to investigate. Tika had to either argue him out of it, forcibly restrain him, or if she happened to be looking the other way, go chase him down.

When night fell, the two were still inside the forest.

“We have to stop,” Tika said, dispirited. “If we go on, we might miss their tracks in the dark. Does this clearing look like a good place to camp?”

“As good as any,” said Tas. “There are probably wolves out there ready to tear us apart, but if we build a fire we can keep them away.”

“Wolves?” Tika glanced nervously around the dark forest.

She had traveled far from Solace and the Inn of the Last Home, where she had worked as a barmaid, going on a journey she had never expected to take. Neither had she expected to fall in love on this journey and certainly not with Caramon Majere, who had teased her unmercifully when she was a little girl, calling her “Carrot-top.”

“Freckle-face” and “Skinny Butt.”

He didn’t call her those names now, of course. No one did. Tika had filled out nicely; too nicely, she thought, when she compared herself to the graceful, sylph-like Laurana. Buxom and broadshouldered, with strong, muscular arms, gleaned from years of carrying heavy trays of food and hefting mugs of ale, Tika was always amused when someone termed her “pretty”. Her red curls, green eyes and flashing smile had captured more than one heart back in Solace, and now Caramon’s was among them, his the most treasured.

Here she was, far from home, far from anything resembling a home, if you came down to it, spending the night in a dark—extremely dark—forest, her only companion a kender. While Tasslehoff was her best friend and she was very glad he was with her, she couldn’t help wishing he wouldn’t talk quite so much or so loudly and especially that he wouldn’t keep jumping up at every strange noise and crying out eagerly, “Did you hear that, Tika? It sounded like a bear!” Tika had spent many nights in the wilderness on this trip but always in company with skilled warriors who knew how to defend themselves. Tika had been in a few fights, but thus far the only weapon she had ever wielded with elan was a heavy iron skillet. She had found a sword, but she knew quite well, for she’d been told often enough, that when she wielded it, she was dangerous only to herself.

Tika had not meant to be spending this night alone. She’d meant to be spending the night with Caramon. She knew that once she’d caught up with them, neither Sturm nor Caramon would send her back alone and unprotected, no matter what Raistlin might say. They would have to take her and Tas along with them, and she would be able to keep Caramon out of whatever trouble his brother was likely to get him into.

A snapping sound nearby caused her heart to stop.