Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

He was thinking of the wraith’s words. You have found what you seek . What had he come here seeking? Raistlin hardly knew. He had told Tanis he was searching for the key to the Thorbardin. Was that true? Or had it been an excuse? Or did the truth lie somewhere in between…

“Entertaining guests?” Raistlin repeated, the knight’s strange remark having suddenly penetrated the fog of his thought. “What do you mean? He’s not in trouble.”

“That depends on what you mean by trouble,” Sturm replied, and he gave a low chuckle. Concerned, Raistlin started to go to his twin’s aid, only to find Caramon standing in the doorway. His brother’s face was flushed red.

“Hey, Raist,” he said, with a sheepish grin, “look who’s here.” Tika appeared at Caramon’s side. She gave Raistlin a smile that quickly evaporated beneath the mage’s cold stare.

He opened his mouth but was interrupted by Tasslehoff bounding into the room, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.

“Hullo, Raistlin! We came to rescue you, but I guess you don’t need rescuing. Caramon thought we were draconians and nearly skewered us. Wow, is that a dragon? Is it dead? Poor thing! Can I touch it?”

Raistlin fixed his brother with a piercing glare.

“Caramon,” he said in frozen tones, “we need to talk.”

Sturm ran his hands over the helm, marveling at the crafts-manship. He was vaguely aware of the tension in the room, of Raistlin berating his brother in low and angry tones, of Caramon’s feet shuffling and his aggrieved replies that it wasn’t his fault, of Tika grabbing Tasslehoff by the collar and yanking him out of the room, muttering something about searching for the way out of this horrible place. Sturm was conscious of all that was going on, but he paid no attention to any of it. He could not take his eyes and his thoughts from the helm.

His fingertips carefully brushed the grime off the gemstones so that they gleamed more brightly. One in particular caught his eye—a ruby as large a child’s fist, set in the center of the helm. Sturm pictured what the helm would look like polished, shining. He was tempted, suddenly, to try it on.

He did not know where this notion came from. He would not, of course, have traded his own helm that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before him for all the steel coins in Krynn, and this helm would not fit him anyway. It had been made for a dwarf and was therefore too large for a human. His head would rattle around inside like a pea in a walnut shell, yet Sturm wanted to put it on. Perhaps he wanted to see what it felt like to wear a king’s ransom, perhaps he wanted to judge the quality of the craftsmanship, or perhaps the helm was speaking to him, urging him to place it over his head, draw it down over his long fair hair that was already starting to gray, though he was not more than twenty-nine years old.

He took off his father’s helm and rested it on floor at his feet. Holding the helm, admiring it, Sturm seemed to recall Raistlin saying something to the effect that the helm was magical. The knight discounted that notion. No true warrior such as this dwarven warrior must have been would have ever allowed a wizard anywhere near his armor. Raistlin was just trying to ward Sturm off. Raistlin wanted the helm for himself.

Sturm put the helm over his head. To his amazement and gratification, it fit him as if it had been made for him and him alone.

“So, Raist, what kind of dragon do you think that is?” Caramon asked, with a desperate attempt to change the subject he knew was coming. “It’s a strange color. Maybe it’s a mute dragon.”

“You mean mutant dragon, you dolt,” Raistlin said coldly. “The beast was perfectly capable of speech, and right at the moment I don’t give a damn what it was!” He drew in a seething breath.

“I think we’ll go look for a way out, Caramon,” said Tika, speaking the first desperate thought that came into her mind. “C’mon, Tas. Let’s go find an exit.” She collared the kender.

“But we know how to get out!” Tas argued. “The same way we got in!”

“We’re going to find a different way,” said Tika grimly, and she hauled him out of the room. Raistlin fixed Caramon with a withering stare. Caramon wilted beneath it, seeming to shrivel to half his size.

“What is she doing here?” Raistlin demanded. “Did you tell her to come? You did, didn’t you?”

“No, Raist, I swear it!” Caramon stood with his head hanging, his unhappy gaze on his boots. “I had no idea.”

“Of all the stupid stunts you have pulled, this takes the biscuit. Do you realize what danger you have put her in? And the kender. Ye gods, the kender!”

Raistlin was forced to pause to draw in air enough to continue speaking and that made him cough. He could not speak for long moments and fumbled for his handkerchief. Caramon regarded his twin in anguish, but he dared not say a word of sympathy or try to help him. He was in trouble enough already, trouble that was not in any way, shape, or form his fault. Though some part of him was secretly thrilled that Tika had thought enough of him to come after him, another part wished her on the other side of the continent.

“She won’t be a problem, Raist,” said Caramon, “or Tas either. Sturm can take them back to camp. You and me—we’ll go on to Thorbardin or wherever you want to go.” Raistlin finally caught his breath. He dabbed his lips and eyed his brother with grudging approval. Caramon’s plan would not only rid him of Tika and Tasslehoff, it would also rid of him of the knight.

“They leave immediately,” Raistlin said, his words rasping in his throat.

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon, relief washing over him. “I’ll go talk to Sturm—Sturm? Oh, here you are.”

He turned to find Sturm right behind him. Caramon gave his friend a puzzled look. The knight had removed his own helm, a helm that he valued above his life, and in its place he wore a helm that was dirty, stained with blood, and far too big for him. The visor came to his throat. His eyes were barely visible through the top portion of the eye slits.

“Uh, that’s a nice helm you found, Sturm,” Caramon said.

“I am properly addressed as ‘Your Highness’,” Sturm intoned, his voice sounding odd coming from inside the helm. “I would ask your names and where you are from, but we have no time to waste on pleasantries. We must ride immediately for Thorbardin!”

Caramon flashed his brother a startled glance. He had no idea what Sturm was doing. It was not like the serious-minded knight to play the fool.

Raistlin was regarding Sturm with narrow, glittering eyes. “I warned him the helm was magical,” he said softly.

“Come on, Sturm,” said Caramon, now frightened. “Quit horsing around. I’ve been talking to Raist, and we’ve decided that you should escort Tas and Tika back to camp.”

“I do not know this Sturm person of whom you keep speaking.”

Sturm interrupted impatiently. “I am Grallen, son of Duncan, King Beneath the Mountain. We must return to Thorbardin at once.” His voice grew sad. “My brothers are dead. I fear all is lost. The king must be informed.”

Caramon’s jaw dropped. “Grallen? Son of Duncan? Huh? Raist, do you know what he’s talking about?”

“How very interesting,” murmured Raistlin, regarding Sturm as though he were some sort of experiment inside a laboratory jar. “I warned him. He would not listen.”

“What’s happened to him?” Caramon demanded.

“The helm has seized hold of him. Such magic is not uncommon. There is the famous elven Brooch of Adoration, crafted by a wizard to hold the spirit of his dead wife. Then there was Leonora’s Singing Flute, which—”