Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Perhaps next time I warn you to leave an object alone, you will heed my advice,” Raistlin remarked.

Sturm looked at Raistlin, and his face flushed in anger. Then his gaze went to the helm, which Tasslehoff had reluctantly and with much protesting handed over to Tanis. Sturm looked at the helm for a long time. His anger faded. He glanced again at Raistlin and said gruffly, “Perhaps I will.” Shaking his head, he turned and walked off, out of the light and into the darkness.

“He needs time alone,” Raistlin said, stopping Tanis, who would have gone to speak to him.

“Sturm has to come to terms with this himself. You have other matters to think about, HalfElven.”

“Yeah,” said Caramon. “Here we are. In Thorbardin.” He looked at Tanis. “Now what?” Good question.

The gate opened into a hallway littered with bits and pieces of armor, broken weapons, remnants of some past battle. Tanis, looking about, guessed by the accumulated dust and cobwebs that no one had been here since the end of the war three hundred years ago. Tasslehoff, to console himself over the matter of the helm, was rummaging through the debris and Raistlin was poking at some of it with his staff, when Flint came running out of the darkness.

“Someone’s coming! Hylar dwarves, by the looks of them,” he added. “They’re tangling with the Theiwar.”

Light shone in the distance. They could not yet see the dwarves, but they could hear the sounds of heavy boots clomping on stone, the clank of armor, the jingle of chain mail, and the rattle of weapons. A deep voice spoke in a commanding tone. The voice was answered with curses, and there was the sound of running feet.

The tromp of boots continued, heading their way.

“Stand your ground,” Flint told them, “and let me do the talking.” He glared very hard at Tasslehoff as he said this.

“What are Hylar dwarves?” Caramon asked in an undertone. “What’s the difference between them and the Theiwar?”

“Theiwar are known as dark dwarves, for they hate the light. They’re not to be trusted. They have long wanted to rule beneath the mountain, and for all I know, perhaps they do now.”

“Theiwar are also the only dwarves who know how to use magic,” said Raistlin. Flint cast a baleful glance at the mage. “Like I said, the Theiwar are not to be trusted.”

“The Hylar used to be the rulers in Thorbardin,” Flint continued. “It was their king, Duncan, who shut the gates against us and left us to starve.”

“That was long ago, my friend,” said Tanis quietly. “Time to let bygones be bygones.” Flint said nothing. The tromping boots came closer. Sturm had put on his own helm, which Caramon had brought with them, and he had drawn his sword. Raistlin was readying another spell. Tasslehoff twirled his hoopak in his hands. Tanis looked around at all of them.

“We are here to ask the dwarves for a favor,” he reminded them. “Remember those who are counting on us.”

“You had best give me the Helm of Grallen,” Flint said.

Tanis handed the helm to him. Flint took it, brushed off some of the grime, and polished the rubies with his shirt sleeve. Then he tucked it under his arm and stood waiting.

“Are these Hylar dwarves afraid of light?” Caramon asked.

“No,” said Flint. “The Hylar are not afraid of anything.”

A contingent of twelve Hylar dwarves walked abreast down the corridor. All but one were clad in chain mail and wore heavy plate armor over that. The exception was a dwarf who was filthy and sickly looking and wore manacles on his wrists. While the Hylar dwarves confronted the strangers, this dwarf sank down onto the floor as though worn out. One of the dwarves paused to put his hand on this dwarf’s shoulder, saying something to him. The sickly dwarf nodded, as though assuring his companion that he was all right.

Some of the Hylar held swords; other carried spears in addition to war hammers slung in harnesses on their backs. Several held lanterns that shone with an odd greenish light that illuminated a vast area. The dwarves walked slowly but steadily down the corridor. As they came near, one dwarf moved out ahead. He was accoutered in armor as were his fellows, but unlike them, he wore a tabard over his armor. The tabard bore a hammer on it, and he carried a hammer in his hand—an extremely large war hammer—far larger than a hammer a dwarf would normally carry. Runes praising Reorx, God of the Forge Fire, Creator of the World, were etched up and down the handle and even extended onto the hammer’s head.

Sturm stared at the hammer and drew near Tanis.

“That is the Hammer of Kharas!” Sturm said in a low voice. “I recognize it from the old paintings!”

“You have a good eye, human,” said the dwarf, speaking Common. He lifted the hammer, regarding it fondly. “This is not the true hammer. It is a replica. I had the hammer made when I took my name, for I am Kharas,” he said proudly, “Arman Kharas. The lesser Kharas. Kharas reborn. One day, I will be given the knowledge of how to find the true hammer. Until that day, I carry this with me as a reminder to all that I am destined for greatness.”

“Good gods!” Sturm muttered. He did not dare catch Tanis’s eye.

Arman Kharas was taller than the other dwarves. He was the tallest dwarf Tanis had ever seen and his physique and stature rivaled Caramon’s. His shoulders were massive, his chest broad, his legs thick and well-muscled. Long black hair streamed down his shoulders. His plaited black beard extended past his waist. He wore a helm studded with jewels and marked with the symbol of the hammer.

Arman and his soldiers halted about twenty paces from the companions. The other Hylar were staring at the companions in astonishment mingled with suspicion. Arman regarded them calmly. He motioned to some of his men.

“Go see what that noise was.”

The soldiers departed, running past the companions, casting them distrustful looks.

“That noise you heard was the opening of Northgate,” said Flint, shifting to Dwarvish. Arman cast him a brief glance then looked away, waiting for his men to return. They came hastening back, reporting that the Northgate was open and could not be closed; the gate lay in ruins at the base of the mountain.

“You did this?” Arman asked, frowning.

“We didn’t break the gate, if that’s what you mean,” Flint stated. Tasslehoff, who had been staring hard at the lanterns carried by the dwarves, said suddenly, “There are worms inside there! Worms that glow! Caramon, look—”

“Four humans, a Neidar, and a kender .” Arman spoke the last word as though it tasted bad.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Tasslehoff, starting forward, his hand outstretched. Caramon caught hold of the kender and yanked him back. He kept a firm hold on Tas’s shoulder, and Raistlin assisted by planting his staff in front of the kender.

“I was only being polite,” Tas said, aggrieved.

“How did four humans, a Neidar, and a kender enter the sealed gate?” Arman demanded. Flint opened his mouth to answer, but Arman raised his hand in a commanding gesture. “Where did you come by this helm you hold? It is of ancient Hylar design and worth a king’s ransom by the looks of it. How did a Neidar come into possession of such a helm?”

“We found it,” Tas answered, reciting the kender mantra. “I think you must have dropped it.” Caramon sighed and clapped his large hand over the kender’s mouth.

Flint had been slowly seething ever since Arman Kharas spoke. He could stand it no longer. His rage boiled over.

“I see the dwarves beneath the mountain have learned no manners in three hundred years!” Flint said angrily. “You stand in the presence of an elder, young man, yet you do not have the courtesy to ask my name, or why we are here, before you start in with your accusations.” Arman’s face flushed. “I am a Hylar prince. I ask the questions, and I give the commands. Still,” he said, after a pause which indicated that perhaps he was not quite as confident of himself as he let on, “I will permit you to explain, if you can. Introduce yourselves.”