Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Flint flushed in pleasure, but he only said gruffly that Tanis was a silly ass and he shouldn’t talk in such a flippant manner about things beyond his understanding.

“I think we should keep going,” Tanis said. “Raistlin may find the key to the gate in Skullcap.”

“Do you think he’s planning to bring it to us if he does?” Flint snorted in derision. “And you claim you don’t believe in miracles.”

The two started what Tanis feared would be a slow and laborious journey down the side of the mountain when Flint came to a sudden halt.

“Would you look at this,” he said.

Tanis looked and marveled. It wasn’t a miracle. It was a road. Built by dwarves, centuries old, the road had been carved out of the side of the mountain. Winding back and forth across the face of the mountain, the road led down and into the foothills then climbed back up the other side. All the refugees had to do was make it this far, and the way after that would be smooth.

“Provided this road leads to the gate,” said Flint, reading Tanis’s thoughts.

“It must,” said Tanis. “Where else would it go?”

“Just what people have been asking themselves these last three hundred years,” Flint remarked dryly.

Sturm, Caramon, and Raistlin, traveling beneath the mountain, found their journey long, tedious and uneventful. The area was prone to earthquakes, but the dwarf-built tunnel had survived hundreds of these shocks almost unscathed. Occasionally they noticed places where the walls had cracks, and here and there a small rock slide impeded their path, but that was all. The tunnel ran straight, no twists or turns. It was neither haunted nor otherwise inhabited. They walked for several hours and made good time. Raistlin was again strangely energized. He set a swift pace, ranging ahead of his brother and Sturm, his staff thumping the tunnel floor, his red robes swirling about his ankles. When the other two called a halt to take a breather, Raistlin would caustically remind them that lives depended on their progress.

Down here in the darkness, with no way to tell time, none of them had any idea how long they walked or how many miles they traveled. Every so often, they came upon marks on the wall that appeared to be some type of indicator of distance. The marks were in dwarven, however, and none of them knew what they meant.

They traveled so long that Caramon began to secretly wonder if they might not have missed Skullcap altogether. Perhaps they had walked across the continent and would emerge to find themselves in some distant realm—the far southern reaches of Ice Wall, maybe. He was deep in his imaginings, dreaming of vast expanses of white wastes, when Sturm called their attention to the increased amount of debris and rubble in the passage.

“We must be nearing the end,” said Raistlin. “The destruction we see is a result of the blast that leveled the fortress.”

“What do we do if the blast destroyed the tunnel?” Sturm asked.

“We must hope that it was protected,” Raistlin said. “As you can see, the beams shoring up the ceiling have not been damaged. That is a good sign.”

They trudged wearily on. The light of Sturm’s torch and Raistlin’s staff did not extend far, and Raistlin almost walked headlong into a stone wall before he realized it was there. He came to an abrupt halt, shining the light this way and that.

“I hope this is a hidden door like that other one,” said Caramon. “Otherwise we’ve come all this way for nothing.”

“You have no faith in me, do you, Pheragas?” Raistlin murmured. Holding his staff to light his task, he began to search the wall for marks.

“Who is this Pheragas?” Caramon muttered.

“Probably better you don’t know,” Sturm said grimly.

“Found it!” Raistlin announced. He pointed, and there was the same mark that they had seen on the door at the other end—the dwarven rune for ‘door.’

He pressed on the rune. As before, the mark depressed, sliding into the wall. There came a grinding sound, then a cracking sound as the stone separated, forming the outline of a doorway. This time the mechanism worked. The heavy door rumbled back so fast that it almost ran Raistlin down, and he was forced to scramble out of its way in a flurry of red robes, causing Sturm to pull at his mustaches to hide his smile.

The heavy door rumbled and screeched on the rusted tracks and flattened itself against the wall with a resounding boom that echoed back down the passageway.

“Nothing like announcing our arrival,” Sturm remarked.

“Hush!” Raistlin held up his hand.

“It’s a little late for that,” Caramon said, with a wink at Sturm. Raistlin glared at him. “Take off your helm and you might find your brain inside! The sounds I hear are coming from out there.” He pointed through the opening of the tunnel and, now that the echoes had faded, they could hear harsh shouts and the clash of arms.

Caramon and Sturm both drew their swords. Raistlin reached into his pouch.

“ Dulak ,” he murmured, and the glow from his staff blinked out, leaving only Sturm’s torch to light the way.

“What did you do that for?” Sturm demanded, adding grudgingly, “Much as I hate to admit it, we could use that light of yours.”

“It is never wise to proclaim to your enemies that you are a wizard,” Raistlin said quietly.

“Magic works best by stealth and darkness, is that it?” Sturm said.

“C’mon, you two, cut it out,” Caramon said.

They stood unmoving, listening to the sounds of battle that were distant, far away.

“Someone else is interested in the secrets of Skullcap,” Sturm said at last. Raistlin stirred at this. “I’m going to go find out what is happening. You two can stay here.”

“No,” said Sturm. “We all go together.”

Moving cautiously, holding his torch in one hand and his sword in the other, Sturm walked through the door. Raistlin came after him and Caramon brought up the rear, keeping a look-out over his shoulder.

Traveling down the dark tunnel, Tasslehoff Burrfoot reached the conclusion that if he never saw another rock in his life, it would be too soon. At first, tramping along a secret tunnel underneath a mountain was exciting. A skeletal warrior might be lurking just around the corner, ready to leap out and throttle them. A wight might decide to try to suck out their souls, or whatever it was that wights did to people.

Tika, on the other hand, didn’t appear to find the tunnel in the least exciting. She was nervous and unhappy.

Tas considered it his duty to try keep up her spirits and so he livened the journey by telling her all the gruesome, creepy, scary stories he’d ever heard about the things that lived in secret tunnels underneath mountains. Far from having the desired effect, the stories seemed to simply plunge Tika deeper in gloom. Once she actually turned around and tried to smack the kender. Accustomed to this sort of behavior in his companions, Tas ducked in time. He decided to change the subject.

“How long do you suppose we’ve been walking, Tika?”

“Weeks, I should imagine,” she said glumly.

“I think it’s only been a few hours,” Tas said.

“Oh, what do you know?” she snapped.

“I know it certainly is boring,” said the kender. He kicked at a rock, sent it bounding over the stone floor. “Do we have any more food left?”

“You just ate!”

“That seems like days ago!” Tas waved his arms. “You said yourself we’ve been walking for weeks…”

“Oh, shut up—” Tika began then froze in place.

A hideous sound thundered down the passageway—a loud rumbling, accompanied by shrill screeching. The ground shook, and dust fell from the walls. The rumbling and screeching lasted for several heart-thudding moments, then ended abruptly.