Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Raist!” said Caramon. “Stop the history lessons! What about Sturm?”

“Apparently the helm belonged to a dwarven prince named Grallen,” Raistlin explained. “He died, either on the field of battle or here in the fortress. I’m not sure of the nature of the enchantment, but my guess is that the prince’s soul had some strong reason to remain in this world, a reason so important he refused to relinquish it, even unto death. His soul became part of the helm, hoping that someone would be fool enough to pick it up and put it on. Enter Sturm Brightblade.”

“So this dwarven prince is now Sturm?” Caramon asked, dazed.

“The other way around. Sturm is now the dwarven prince, Grallen.”

Caramon cast a stricken glance at his friend. “Will he ever go back to being Sturm?”

“Probably,” said Raistlin, “if the helm is removed.”

“Well, then, we’ll remove it!”

“I wouldn’t—” Raistlin began, but Caramon had already taken hold of the helm and started jerking on it, trying to drag it off Sturm’s head.

Sturm gave a cry of pain and outrage and shoved Caramon away. “How dare you lay rough hands on me, human!” He reached for his sword.

“We beg your pardon, Your Highness,” said Raistlin, hurriedly intervening. “My brother is not himself. The heat of battle has left him confused…”

Sturm sheathed his sword.

“The helm’s stuck tight, Raist,” Caramon reported. “I couldn’t budge it!”

“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “I wonder…” He lapsed into thought.

“What do we mean you’re not surprised? This is Sturm! You have to break this enchantment, lift it, or do something to it!”

Raistlin shook his head. “The spell cannot be broken until the soul of Prince Grallen frees him.”

“When will that be? Will Sturm be a dwarf forever?”

“Unlikely,” Raistlin said, adding irritably, “Stop shouting! You’ll have every draconian in the place down on us! The prince’s soul is intent upon completing some mission. Perhaps something as simple as returning to give news of the death of his brothers.”

Raistlin paused. He stared at the helm in thoughtful silence.

“Perhaps this is what the messenger meant…” he murmured.

Caramon ran his ran through his hair. He looked desperately unhappy. “Sturm thinking he’s a dwarf! This is terrible! What are we going to do?”

“Your Highness,” said Raistlin, ignoring his brother and addressing Sturm, “we would be glad to escort you back to Thorbardin, but as you see, we are humans. We do not know the way.”

“I will guide you, of course,” Sturm said at once. “There will be rich reward for you in return for your service to me. The king must hear this terrible news!”

Caramon turned to face his brother, who was looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“You wouldn’t use him like this!” Caramon growled.

“Why not? We have found what we sought.” Raistlin pointed to Sturm. “Behold the key to Thorbardin.”

Tika sat on a broken column and heaved a mournful sigh.

“I wish this whole fortress would just crash down on my head. Bury me in the rubble and have done with it.”

“I think you’re too late,” said Tas, wandering around the debris-strewn corridor, shining the light of his torch and poking his hoopak into murky corners in the hopes of finding something interesting. “The fortress has crashed down as much as it’s going to.”

“Well then, maybe I’ll fall into a pit,” said Tika. “Tumble down the stairs and break my neck. Anything so I don’t have to face Caramon again. Why, why, why did I ever come?” She buried her head in her hands.

“He didn’t look very pleased to see us, did he?” Tas admitted. “Which is strange, considering all the trouble we went to just to rescue him from that man-eating Stalig Mite.” Tika had told a small lie when she said that she and Tas were going to search for the way out. The fortress was dark and eerie, and though Tas would have been happy to explore, Tika was not feeling all that adventurous. She had only wanted to get away from Caramon. She and Tas remained in the corridor, not far from the room where Caramon was arguing with this twin. The light from their torches and Raistlin’s staff filtered out into the hallway. Tika could hear their angry voices, especially Raistlin’s, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Undoubtedly bad things about her. Her cheeks burned. Sick at heart, she rocked back and forth and groaned. Tasslehoff was patting her soothingly on her shoulder, when suddenly he gave a great sniff.

“ 1 smell fresh air,” he said, and he wrinkled his nose. “Well, maybe not fresh air, but at least it smells like air that’s outside, not inside.”

“So what?” Tika returned in muffled tones.

“You told Caramon we were going to find the way out. I think we have. Let’s go see!”

“I didn’t mean a way out,” said Tika, sighing. “I meant a way out—of this stupid situation.”

“But if we did find a way out that was better than the way in, then you could tell Caramon and he could tell Raistlin and he wouldn’t be mad at us anymore. We’d be making ourselves useful.” Tika lifted her head. That was true. If they proved they could be useful, Raistlin couldn’t stay mad at them. Caramon would be glad that she’d come. She sniffed the air. At first, all she could smell was the musty, dank smell of some place that has been deep underground for a long, long time. Then she knew what Tas meant. The whiff of air was damp and tinged with decay, but at least, as Tas said, it smelled different from the air trapped down here.

“I think it’s coming from up there,” Tika said, peering up overhead. “I can’t see. Hold the torch higher.”

Tas climbed nimbly on top of the fallen column, and from there clamored onto another part of the fallen column that lay on the column beneath it. He now stood head and shoulders above Tika. He held his torch as high as he could, stretching his arm nearly out of the socket. The light revealed the underside of a rickety-looking cat walk constructed of iron.

“The fresh air smell is definitely coming from up there,” Tas announced, though, in truth, he couldn’t really tell much difference. He wanted to take Tika’s mind off her troubles. “Maybe if we climbed onto that cat walk, we’d find a door or something. Do you have any rope?”

“You know perfectly well I don’t have any rope,” returned Tika, and she sighed again. “It’s hopeless.”

“No, it’s not!” Tas cried. He peered overhead, twisting his neck to see. “I think that if you stood on this column then hoisted me onto your shoulders, I could reach the bottom of the cat walk. You know what I mean?” He looked back at Tika. “Like those tumblers we saw at the faire last year. There was the guy who tied himself in a knot and—”

“We’re not tumblers,” Tika pointed out. “We’d likely break our necks.”

“You were just saying you wanted to break your neck,” Tas said. “Come on, Tika, we can at least try!”

Tika shook her head.

Tas shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to go back and tell Caramon we failed.” Tika mulled things over. “Do you really think we could do it?”

“Of course, we can!” Tas balanced the torch on the rock, carefully, so as not to put it out. “You stand here. Brace your feet. Hold very still. I’m going to climb up your back onto your shoulders. Oops, wait! You should take off your sword…”

Tika unbuckled her sword belt and set it down on the rock beside the torch. She and Tas tried several different ways of hoisting the kender onto her shoulders, but climbing a person turned out not to be as easy as the tumblers had made it look. After a few failed attempts, Tas finally figured out how to do it.