Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

They ate sparingly, for they had a long journey ahead of them—no matter which way they decided to go. Sturm ate what was given him then fell immediately into a deep slumber from which he could not be wakened.

Caramon was so unhappy he almost couldn’t eat. Tika wouldn’t talk to him or even look at him. She sat with her back against the stone wall, moodily chewing on dried meat. Raistlin ate very little, as always, then went to study his spells, ordering everyone to leave him in peace. He sat on the floor, his robes wrapped around him for warmth, bathed in the pale glow of the staff, his book propped on his knees.

Tasslehoff was fascinated by Sturm-turned-dwarf. The kender sat talking to the prince as long as the prince would talk to him, and when Sturm fell asleep, Tasslehoff continued to sit beside him, watching him.

“He even snores different from Sturm!” Tas reported, when Caramon walked over to see how the knight was faring.

Caramon glanced at his brother, then bent down to take hold of the helm.

“Are you going to yank it off? Here, let me help!” Tas offered, adding excitedly, “Can I put it on next? Can I be the prince?”

Caramon only grunted. He tugged on the helm, twisted it, and when that wouldn’t work, he gave it a thump to see if he could loosen it.

The helm was stuck fast.

“The only way you’re going to get it off is to take Sturm’s head with it,” Tas said. “I guess that’s not an option, huh?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Caramon.

“That’s too bad,” said Tas, disappointed but philosophical. “Oh, well, if I can’t be a dwarf, at least I have the fun of watching Sturm be a dwarf.”

“Fun!” Caramon snorted.

He slumped back against the wall, folded his arms over his chest, and settled himself comfortably on the floor. He had offered to take the first watch. Tika stood up, wiped off her hands, and started to walk toward him. Caramon groaned inwardly and braced himself.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, rising nervously to his feet. Tika glanced over her shoulder at Raistlin. Seeing him absorbed in his reading, she said softly, “You’ve made up your mind. You’re going with your brother, aren’t you?”

“Look, Tika, I’ve been thinking,” said Caramon. “What if we all go to Thorbardin tomorrow? We’ll meet up with Flint and Tanis, then Raistlin can stay with them, and you and I will go back to warn the others—”

“We’ll go back to bury them, you mean,” said Tika. She turned on her heel and returned to her place by the wall.

“She doesn’t understand,” Caramon said to himself. “She doesn’t understand how weak Raistlin is, how sick he gets. He needs me. I can’t leave him. The refugees will be all right. Riverwind is smart. He’ll know what to do.”

Raistlin, who had been only pretending to study his spells, smiled to himself in satisfaction when he saw Tika walk off. He shut the spell-book, put it back in his pack that his brother always carried for him, and feeling suddenly weary from the day’s exertions, he doused the light of his staff and went to sleep.

The night deepened. The darkness in the tunnel was impenetrable. Tika sat awake, listening to the various sounds: Sturm’s rumbling snore, Caramon’s shuffling, Tasslehoff’s twitches and whiffles, and other noises that were maybe rats and maybe not.

Tika knew what she had to do. She just had to find the courage to do it.

Caramon gave a jaw-cracking yawn. Fumbling about in the dark, he located Tas and shook him.

“I can’t stay awake any longer,” he said softly. “You take over.”

“Sure, Caramon,” said Tas sleepily. “Is it all right if I sit by Sturm? He might wake up and then I can ask the prince if I could wear the helm, just for a little while.”

Caramon muttered something to the effect that the prince and the helm could all go straight to the Abyss as far as he was concerned. Tika heard him walking over by her, and she swiftly lay down and closed her eyes, though he probably couldn’t see her in the darkness. He called out her name.

“Tika,” he whispered loudly, hesitantly.

She didn’t answer.

“Tika, try to understand,” he said plaintively. “I have to go with Raist. He needs me.” She kept quiet. Caramon heaved a huge sigh then, tripping over Sturm’s feet, he groped about until he found his blanket and lay down. When he was snoring, Tika rose to her feet. She found her pack and a torch and crept over to where Tasslehoff was keeping himself entertained by poking at Sturm with his hoopak in an effort to make him wake up.

“Tas,” said Tika in a smothered voice. “I need you to light this torch for me.” Always glad to oblige, Tas fumbled about in one of his pouches. He produced flint and a tinderbox and soon the torch was burning brightly. Tika held her breath, waiting for the light to wake the sleepers. Raistlin muttered something and pulled his cowl over his eyes and rolled over. Sturm did not so much as twitch. Caramon, who had overslept through an ogre attack and kept on snoring.

Tika gave a little sigh. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, but a part of her was disappointed.

“Do you remember what I did with my sword?” she asked Tas.

The kender gave the matter some thought. “You took it off when we climbed up to the cat walk. I guess you forgot it in all the excitement. It’s probably still lying on that rock back in the fortress.” Tika gave an inward sigh. No true warrior was likely to forgot where she’d put her sword.

“Should I go back to get it?” Tas asked eagerly.

“No, of course not!” Tika returned. “Who knows what awful things are lurking about there at night? Look what happened to Sturm.”

Now it was Tas who gave the inward sigh. Some people had all the luck. It wasn’t fair.

“Let me borrow Rabbitslayer then,” said Tika.

Tas gave his knife a fond pat and handed it over.

“Don’t lose it. Where are you going?” Tas asked.

“Back to camp, to warn the others.”

“I’ll come with you!” Tas jumped up.

“No.” Tika shook her red curls. “You’re on watch, remember? You can’t leave.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” Tas agreed, more easily than Tika had expected. She’d feared she would have an argument on this point.

“I’ll go if you really need me,” Tas told her. “But if you don’t, I’d rather stay here. I don’t want to miss out on Sturm being a dwarf. That’s something you just don’t see every day. I’ll wake up Caramon.”

“No, you won’t,” Tika said grimly. “He’ll try to stop me.” She thrust Tas’s knife in her belt and slung her pack over shoulder.

“Are you really going by yourself?” Tas asked, impressed.

“Yes,” said Tika, “and don’t you say a word to anyone. Understand? Not until morning. Promise?”

“I promise,” Tas said glibly.

Tika knew Tas, and she also knew that promises were like lint to kender—easily brushed off. She eyed him sternly.

“You must swear to me by every object you have in your pouches,” she said. “May they all change into roaches and crawl off in the night if you break your vow.”

Tas’s eyes went round at this terrible prospect. “Do I have to?” he asked, squirming. “I already promised—”

“Swear!” said Tika in a terrible voice.

“I swear.” Tas gulped.

Fairly certain this fearful oath would be good for at least a few hours, long enough for her to get a good start, Tika walked off down the tunnel. She’d gone only a short distance, however, before she remembered something and turned around.

“Tas, give Caramon a message for me, will you?”

Tasslehoff nodded.

“Tell him I do understand. I do.”

“I’ll tell him. Bye, Tika,” Tas said, waving.