Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

All Sturm could see of Raistlin were his strange hourglass eyes gleaming in the lantern light. Sturm had not really expected an answer, and he was startled when Raistlin said, his voice cool and clear in the darkness, “What is it you are hoping to find in Skullcap?” When Sturm made no reply, Raistlin continued, “You did not choose to go with us for love of me certainly. You know that both Caramon and I are capable of taking care of ourselves, so why did you come?”

“I see no need to bandy words with you, Raistlin,” Sturm returned. “My reasons are my own.”

“The Hammer of Kharas,” said Raistlin. He drew out the last syllable into a sibilant hiss. Sturm was startled. He had spoken of the Hammer only to Tanis. His first impulse was to turn away, but he could not resist the challenge.

“What do you know of the Hammer?” he asked in a low voice.

Raistlin made a hoarse, rasping sound that might have been a bitter chuckle, or else he was clearing his throat. “While you and my brother were smashing each other over the head with wooden swords, I pursued my studies, something for which you mocked me. Now you come running to me for answers.”

“I never mocked you, Raistlin,” Sturm said quietly. “Whatever else you may think of me, you must at least give me credit for that. I often protected you, as in the time the mob was about to turn you into a burnt offering to that snake god. If you must know, my dislike of you stems from the miserable way you treat your brother.”

“What is between my brother and me is between my brother and me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin returned. “You cannot possibly understand.”

“You are right. I do not understand,” Sturm replied coolly. “Caramon loves you. He would lay down his life for you, and you treat him like garbage. Now I must get some sleep, so I will bid you good-night—”

“That which is now known as the Hammer of Kharas was originally known as the Hammer of Honor,” said Raistlin. “The hammer was made to honor the Hammer of Reorx, used by the god to forge the world. The Hammer of Honor was a symbol of peace between the humans of Ergoth, the elves of Qualinesti, and the dwarves of Thorbardin. During the Third Dragon War, the Hammer was given to the great knight, Huma Dragonbane, to be used along with the magical Silver Arm to forge the first dragonlances. They drove the Dark Queen back into the Abyss, where she has been ever since, or rather, up until now.

“In the time of the High King Duncan and the Dwarfgate Wars, the Hammer of Honor was given into the hands of the hero, Kharas, a dwarf so revered that the Hammer’s name was changed in his honor. The Hammer was last seen during the war being wielded by Kharas, but he departed the field of battle early, grieved at being forced to fight his own kind. He carried the Hammer with him back into Thorbardin, and there it has been lost to all knowledge, for the gates of the mountain kingdom were sealed shut and hidden from the world.”

Raistlin paused to draw breath then added, “The one who recovers the Hammer and uses it to forge dragonlances will be lauded a hero. He will find fame and fortune, honor, and glory.” Sturm cast Raistlin an uneasy glance. Was the mage speaking in generalities, or he had been prying into the knight’s innermost thoughts?

“I must get some sleep,” Sturm said, and he walked over to wake up the loudly snoring Caramon.

“The Hammer is not in Skullcap,” Raistlin told him. “If it still exists, it is in Thorbardin. If you are seeking the Hammer, you should have gone with Tanis and Flint.”

“You said the key to Thorbardin lies in Skullcap,” said Sturm.

“I did,” Raistlin replied, “but since when does anyone ever listen to me?”

“Tanis listens,” said Sturm, “and that is why he sent me with you and your brother, to make sure that if you do find the key, you deliver it.”

The mage had nothing to say to that, for which Sturm was grateful. Conversations with Raistlin always upset him, left him with feeling that all his sterling notions of the world were in reality blackened and tarnished.

Sturm woke Caramon. The big man, yawning and stretching, took up the watch. Sturm was weary, and he sank almost immediately into a deep sleep. In his dreams, he used the Hammer of Kharas to batter down the bronze door of his family’s vault.

The night passed without event for all those who wandered. Those who kept watch saw nothing and heard nothing. Those who did not keep watch—Tika and Tasslehoff—slept undisturbed. Allseeing eyes kept watch over them. Day dawned slowly and reluctantly. The sun struggled to pierce thick, gray clouds and ended up failing miserably and eventually went, sulking, into hiding. The sky threatened rain or snow, though it did neither.

When a gray and feeble sun lit the tunnel entrance, Sturm, Caramon, and Raistlin resumed their journey. They discussed shutting the entrance behind them, shoving the stone door back in place. Upon examination, none of them, not even Raistlin, could determine how to operate the mechanism and open the door once it was shut. Even if they did finally figure it out, the mechanism had broken down once. It might do so again. Then they would be trapped, and they had no idea what they would find farther on. The tunnel might be blocked, in which case they would have to admit defeat and retrace their steps. They agreed to leave the door open. The three proceeded down the tunnel, the light of the crystal atop Raistlin’s staff illuminating their way. Sturm carried a lantern, for he disliked intensely the idea that Raistlin could suddenly, with a single word, plunge them into darkness.

The tunnel, constructed by dwarven engineers, cut straight through the mountain. The walls were rough hewn, the floor relatively smooth. There were no signs that anyone had ever been inside it.

“If the dwarves had been fleeing their besieged fortress, we’d find discarded armor, broken weapons, bodies,” said Caramon. “This was never used.”

“Which proves the theory that Fistandantilus did not bring down Zhaman deliberately,” Raistlin stated. “The blast was accidental.”

“Then what caused it?” Caramon asked, interested.

“Foul magic,” Sturm stated.

Raistlin shook his head. “I know of no magic, foul or otherwise, that has the power to level such a mighty fortress. According to Flint, the blast laid waste to the land for miles around Zhaman. The wise have long wondered what really happened in that fortress. Perhaps we will be the ones to discover the truth.”

“You will write a treatise on the subject, no doubt,” said Sturm, “and read it aloud at the next Wizard’s Conclave.”

“I might at that,” Raistlin said with a smile.

The three walked on.

Tasslehoff woke Tika by scolding her for having fallen asleep. She had undoubtedly missed any number of ghosts that could have visited them in the night.

Tika scolded herself, flushing to think how Caramon would have berated her for sleeping on watch. Tika told Tas irritably to shut up and get a move on. They picked up the trail of the three ahead of them and set out in dogged pursuit.

She and Tas also got an early start to their day; making up for lost time. Lack of sleep and the knowledge that she was far from home and help put Tika in a bad mood. She was grumpy with Tas and did not want to chat, even about such interesting tidbits of gossip as the fact that Tasslehoff had discovered Hederick the High Seeker had his own secret stash of food hidden away.

Tika stalked along the trail, keeping her gaze on the ground, following the tracks in the snow and fighting the strong urge to turn around and run back to the settlement. If she’d been able to think of a way to sneak back without anyone knowing she’d been gone, she would have. Tika could have come up with a plausible tale, but she knew that Tasslehoff would never be able to keep from blurting out the truth, and she dreaded the idea that people would laugh at her and say she’d gone running after Caramon like some infatuated school girl.