Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“The Council will decide if that story will be told,” Arman said sternly. “For now, we will not speak of it.”

“Then let us talk of more pleasant subjects,” said Sturm. His voice grew husky with reverence.

“All my life, I have heard the stories of the fabled Hammer of Kharas, the sacred hammer wielded by Huma Dragonbane himself. I would like very much be able to see the Hammer and do it honor.”

“So would we all,” said Arman.

Sturm frowned, as if he thought the dwarf was making fun of him. “I do not understand,” he said stiffly.

“The Hammer of Kharas is lost. We have spent three hundred years searching for it. Without the sacred Hammer, no dwarf can be named High King, and without a High King, the dwarven people will never be unified.”

“Lost?” Sturm repeated, shocked. “How could the dwarves misplace such a valuable artifact?”

“It was not misplaced,” Arman Kharas returned angrily. “After the gates were sealed, the clans began to plot to overthrow King Duncan, whom they now deemed to be weak. Each thane came to Kharas seeking support for his claim to the throne. Kharas wanted nothing to do with any of them, so he left Thorbardin by secret means and went into self-imposed exile. He stayed away many years. Finally, growing weary of his travels and longing for his home and his people, Kharas returned to Thorbardin, only to find the situation had worsened.

“The kingdoms were embroiled in civil war. Kharas was able to talk with Duncan one final time before he died. Grief-stricken, Kharas carried the king’s body to the magnificent tomb Duncan had built for himself. Kharas took with him the famous hammer. I told you what he said,” Arman added. “The prophecy that I will fulfill.”

Sturm gave a polite nod, but he was not interested in prophecies. “So the Hammer is in King Duncan’s Tomb.”

“We can only assume so. Kharas never returned to tell us. None know his fate.”

“Where is the tomb located?”

“In the final resting place of all dwarves, the Valley of Thanes.” Sturm tugged on his long mustache, a sign that he was disturbed. Tanis could guess the cause. No true knight would ever disturb the sacred sleep of the noble dead, yet his desire for the Hammer was great.

“Perhaps,” he said after a moment, “I might be permitted to enter the tomb. I would do so with reverence and respect, of course. Why do you shake your head? Is this forbidden?”

“So it would seem,” said Arman. “When Kharas did not return, the thanes and their followers raced to the tomb, each hoping to be the one to lay claim to the hammer. Fighting broke out in the sacred valley and it was then, when the battle was at its height, that a powerful force ripped the tomb from the ground and carried it into the sky.”

“The tomb vanished?” Sturm was dismayed.

“It did not vanish. We can see it, but we cannot reach it. Duncan’s Tomb floats hundreds of feet above the Valley of the Thanes.”

Sturm’s brow darkened.

“Do not look so downhearted, Sir Knight,” said Arman complacently. “You will yet have a chance to see the wondrous Hammer.”

“What do you mean?” Sturm asked.

“As I said, I am the dwarf of whom the prophecy speaks. I am the one destined to find the Hammer of Kharas. When the time is right, Kharas himself will guide me to it, and I am certain the time is almost upon us.”

“How can you tell?”

Arman would not say. Stating that he was tired, he went over to check on his brother then took himself to his bed.

Deeply disappointed, Sturm lapsed into gloomy silence. Tanis stared into the impenetrable darkness. The Hammer they needed to forge the dragonlances was lost, or if not lost, out of reach.

Nothing was going right it seemed.

Flint was doing as Tanis suggested, sleeping with one eye open, and that eye opened wide when he saw a strange dwarf come strolling into the temple as nonchalantly and confidently as if he owned the place. The dwarf was like no dwarf Flint had ever seen in his life. The stranger had a magnificent beard, glossy and luxuriant, and long curling hair that flowed down his back. He wore a blue coat with golden buttons, high boots that came to his thighs, a ruffled shirt, and a wide brimmed hat topped by a red plume. At this astonishing sight, Flint he sat bolt upright. He was about to shout a warning, but something in the cocky attitude of the dwarf stopped him, that and the fact that the dwarf walked right up to Flint and stared at him rudely.

“Here now,” said Flint, frowning. “Who are you?”

“You know my name,” said the dwarf, continuing to stare down at him, “just as I know yours. I’m an old friend of yours, Flint Fireforge.”

Flint sputtered in protest. “You’re no such thing! I never in my life had a friend who wore such frippery. Feathers and ruffles! You put a Palanthas dandy to shame!”

“Still, you know me. You call on me often. You swear by my beard and you ask me to take your soul if you’re lying.” The dwarf reached into the darkness and pulled out a jug. Removing the stopper, he sniffed at it and smiled expansively and offered it to Flint.

The redolent odor of the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits filled the air.

“Care for a swallow?” the stranger asked.

A terrible suspicion entered Flint’s mind. He felt in need of support. Taking the jug, he put it to his mouth and took a gulp. The fiery liquor burned his tongue, took him by the throat, wrung his neck, then sizzled down his gullet to his stomach where it exploded.

Flint gave a moist sigh and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Good, eh? It’s my own home brew,” said the dwarf, adding proudly, “I’ll wager you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Flint nodded and coughed.

The dwarf snatched back the jug, took a pull himself, then corked it up and tossed it back into the air where it vanished. He squatted down on his haunches in front of Flint, who squirmed under the intense gaze of the stranger’s black eyes.

“Figured out my name yet?” the dwarf asked.

Flint knew the dwarf’s name as well as he knew his own, but the realization was so stupefying that he didn’t want to believe it, and so he shook his head.

“I won’t make an issue of it,” the dwarf said with a shrug and a good natured grin. “Suffice it to say, I know you, Flint Fireforge. I know you very well. I knew your father and your grandfather, too, and they knew me, just like you know me, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it. That gratifies me. It gratifies me highly.

“Therefore,” said the dwarf, and he leaned forward and jabbed Flint rudely in the breastbone.

“I’m going to do something for you. I’m going to give you the chance to be a hero. I’m going to give you the chance to find the Hammer of Kharas and save the world by forging the dragonlances. Your name, Flint Fireforge, will echo in halls and palaces throughout Ansalon.” Flint was suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

The dwarf guffawed, doubling over with laughter. Oddly, no one else in the temple seemed to hear him. No one else stirred.

“You don’t have much time left, Flint Fireforge. You know that, don’t you? You have trouble catching your breath sometimes, pain in your jaw and your left arm… same symptoms your father had right near the end.”

“I do not!” Flint stated indignantly. “I’m fit as you or any dwarf here. Fitter, if I say so myself!” The stranger shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you need to think of the legacy you will leave behind. Will your name be sung by the bards after you are gone, or will you die an ignominious death, alone and forgotten?”

“Like I said, what’s the catch?” Flint asked, frowning.

“All you have to do is put on the Helm of Grallen,” said the dwarf.