Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Not roasted rat,” said Flint gruffly. “Roasted gully dwarf.” Tying rags over their noses and mouths, their eyes stinging from the smoke, Tanis and Flint walked through the destroyed village, searching for any who might still be alive. Their search proved hopeless. Whoever had done this had struck swiftly and ruthlessly. Gully dwarves—noted cowards—had been caught flat-footed apparently, without any time to flee. They had been cut down where they stood. Some of the bodies had gaping holes in them; some were hacked to pieces. Others had half-burned arrow shafts sticking out from between their ribs. Some bore no wounds at all, but were dead just the same. “Foul magic was at work here,” said Tanis grimly. “That’s not all that was at work.”

Flint reached down and gingerly picked up the hilt of a broken sword lying beside the body of gully dwarf who had been wearing an overturned soup kettle on his head. The improvised helm had saved his life for a short while perhaps, long enough for him to have made it to the very edge of camp before his attacker caught him and made him pay for breaking the sword. The gully dwarf, the kettle still on his head, lay in a twisted heap, his neck broken. “Draconian,” said Flint, eyeing the sword.

Though he had only half of it, he could easily identify the strange, serrated blades used by the servants of the Queen of Darkness. “So they’re on this side of the mountain,” said Tanis grimly.

“Maybe they’re out there watching us right now,” said Flint and he dropped the broken sword and drew his battle axe.

Tanis drew his sword from its sheathe, and both of them stared hard into the shadows. The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the mountains. Already it was dark beneath the pine trees. The shadows of coming night mingled with the smoke, made seeing anything difficult.

“There’s nothing more we can do for these poor wretches,” said Tanis. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed,” said Flint, but then both froze. “Did you hear that?” Tanis asked softly. He could barely see Flint in the gloom.

The dwarf moved closer, put his back to Tanis’s back, and whispered, “Sounds like armor rattling, something big sneaking through the trees.”

Tanis recalled the enormous draconians with their large wing span, their heavy limbs encased in plate armor and chain mail. He could picture the monsters trying to slink through the pines, rustling the undergrowth, stepping on dry leaves and breaking branches—exactly the sounds they were hearing. Suddenly the noise ceased.

“They’ve seen us!” Flint hissed.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed out in the open, Tanis was tempted to tell Flint to make a run for the trees. He restrained himself. With the dusk and the smoke, whatever was out there might have heard them, but not yet seen them. If they ran, they would draw attention to themselves, give away their location.

“Don’t move,” Tanis cautioned. “Wait!”

The enemy in the forest had the same idea apparently. They heard no more sounds of movement, but they knew it was still out there, also waiting.

“Bugger this!” muttered Flint. “We can’t stand here all night.” Before Tanis could stop him, the dwarf raised his voice. “Lizard-slime! Quit skulking about and come out and fight!” They heard a yelp, quickly stifled. Then a voice said cautiously, “Flint? Is that you?” Flint lowered his sword. “Caramon?” he called out.

“And me, Flint!” cried a voice. “Tasslehoff!”

Flint groaned and shook his head.

There was a great crashing noise in the forest. Torches flared and Caramon emerged from the trees, half-carrying Raistlin, who could barely walk. Tasslehoff came running toward them, leading Sturm by the hand, tugging him along.

“Wait until you see who I found!” Tas cried.

Tanis and Flint stared at the knight, wearing the strange helm that was much too big for him. Tanis walked over to embrace Sturm. The knight drew back, bowed, then stood aloof. His gaze fixed on Flint, and it was not friendly “He doesn’t know you, Tanis,” said Tasslehoff, barely able to contain his excitement. “He doesn’t know any of us!”

“He didn’t get hit on the head again, did he?” Tanis asked, turning to Caramon.

“Naw. He’s enchanted.”

Tanis glanced at Raistlin.

“Not me,” said the mage, sinking down wearily onto a tree stump that had escaped the fire. “It was the knight’s own doing.”

“It’s a long story, Tanis. What happened here?” Caramon asked, looking grimly at the destruction of the village.

“Draconians,” said Tanis. “The monsters have crossed the mountain apparently.”

“Yeah, we ran into some draconians ourselves,” said Caramon. “Back in Skullcap. Do you think they’re still around?”

“We haven’t seen any. So you managed to reach the fortress?” Tanis asked.

“Yeah, and are we ever glad to be out of that horrible place and off those accursed plains.” He gave a jerk of his head in the direction from which they’d come.

“How did you find us?”

Raistlin coughed and glanced at his brother. Caramon’s face flushed red. He shuffled his big feet.

“He thought he smelled food,” Raistlin said caustically.

Caramon gave a sheepish grin and shrugged.

Flint, meanwhile, had been staring at Sturm and at Tasslehoff, who was wriggling with suppressed delight. “What’s wrong with Sturm?” Flint asked. “Why is he glaring at me like that? Where’d he get that helm? And why’s he wearing it? It doesn’t fit him. The helm is—” Flint drew closer, squinting to see the helm in the twilight—“it’s dwarven!”

“He’s not Sturm!” Tasslehoff burst out. “He’s Prince Grallen from under the mountain! Isn’t it wonderful, Flint? Sturm thinks he’s a dwarf. Just ask him!”

Flint’s mouth gaped. Then his jaw shut with a snap. “I don’t believe it.” He walked up to the knight. “Here now, Sturm. I won’t be made sport of—”

Sturm clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes, beneath the helm, were cold and hard. He said something in dwarven, stumbling over the words, as though his tongue had trouble forming them, but there was no mistaking the language.

Flint stood staring, dumbfounded.

“What’d he say?” Tas asked.

“‘Keep your distance, hill dwarf scum,’” Flint translated, “or words to that effect.” The dwarf glowered around at Caramon and particularly Raistlin. “Someone had better tell me what’s going on!”

“It was the knight’s own fault,” Raistlin repeated, giving Flint a cold look. “I had nothing to do with it. I warned him the helm was magical, and he should leave it alone. He refused to listen. He put the helm on, and this is the result. He believes he is Prince Grallen, whoever that is.”

“A prince of Thorbardin,” said Flint. “One of the three sons of King Duncan. Grallen lived over three hundred years ago.” Not entirely trusting Raistlin, he drew near to inspect the helm.

“Truly it is a helm fit for royalty,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen the like!” He reached out his hand. “If I could just—”

Sturm drew his sword and held it to Flint’s breast.

“Do not go nearer!” Raistlin cautioned. “You must understand, Flint. You are a hill dwarf. Prince Grallen takes you for the enemy he died fighting.”

“Understand!” Flint repeated angrily. Keeping a wary eye on Sturm, he raised his hands and backed away. “I don’t understand any of this.” He glowered at Raistlin. “I agree with Tanis. This smacks of mage-work!”

“So it is,” said Raistlin coolly, “but not mine.”

He explained that he had come across the helm quite by accident and how Sturm had seen him holding it and become enamored of it.