Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Hah!” Flint said loudly. He thumped his knuckles on the helm that rested beneath his hands. “I knew it! A trap!”

“It’s not a trap,” said the dwarf, and he smoothed his beard complacently. “Prince Grallen knows where the Hammer can be found. He knows how to reach it.”

“What of the curse?” Flint challenged.

The dwarf shrugged. “There is danger. I don’t deny it, but then, life is a gamble, Flint Fireforge. You have to risk all to gain all.”

Flint mulled this over, absently rubbing his left arm. Then he caught the dwarf regarding him with a sly smile and stopped.

“I’ll think about it,” Flint said.

“You do that,” said the dwarf, and he rose to his feet and stretched and yawned. Flint rose, too, out of respect. “Have you… uh… have you made this offer to anyone else?” The dwarf winked slyly. “That’s for me to know.”

Flint grunted. “Do they… these dwarves… know you’re here?”

The dwarf glared about the temple. “Does it look like they know? Spoiled brats! ‘Do this! Do that! Give me this. Give me that. Favor me over him. Heed my prayers; don’t listen to his. I’m worthy. He’s not.’ Bah!”

The dwarf gave a great roar. He raised his hands to heaven and shook his fists and roared again and again. The mountain trembled and Flint fell, cowering, to his knees.

The dwarf lowered his arms. He smoothed out his coat, settled his lace, and retrieved his plumed hat.

“I may come back to Thorbardin,” he said with a wink and a sly smile. “I may not. It all depends.”

He put his hat on his head, cast Flint a piercing glance, and strolled out of the temple, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

Flint remained on his knees.

Arman Kharas, waking, saw him crouched on the floor.

“Ah, you felt the quake,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. It was a small one. A rattler we call it—rattles a few dishes. Nothing more. Go back to sleep.”

Arman lay back down and rolled over and was soon snoring again.

Flint stood up shakily and wiped the sweat from his brow. He eyed the Helm of Grallen and thought—not for the first time—of what it would be like to be a hero. He thought of the pain in his arm, and he thought of death, and he thought of no one remembering. He thought of dishes rattling in Thorbardin.

Flint lay back down, but he did not go to sleep. He put the helm to one side and took care not to touch it.

Dray-yan paced the room, waiting for Grag to come with his report. Pacing, like shrugging, was another mannerism the aurak had picked up from humans. When he’d first witnessed Dragon Highlord Verminaard think out problems by walking the length of the room, Dray-yan had viewed the practice with disdain, a lamentable waste of physical energy. That was before Dray-yan had been faced with problems of his own. Now the aurak paced. When the knock came at his door, Dray-yan recognized Grag’s rapping and barked out a command to enter using Verminaard’s voice.

Grag came inside and swiftly shut the door behind him.

“Well?” Dray-yan demanded, seeing the glum look on Grag’s face. “What news?”

“The gate to Thorbardin is open, and it is snowing in the mountains. We had to give up our pursuit of the slaves.”

“A pity,” said Dray-yan.

“The snow is heavy and wet, and it blots out everything!” Grag said in his defense. “The dragons, both red and blue, refuse to fly in the stuff. They say that it builds up on their wings. They can’t see in it, they become disoriented, and they’re afraid of blundering into the side of the mountain. If we want dragons who are accustomed to snow, we should send for the white dragons who are in the south.”

“They are being used in the Ice Wall campaign. Even if they agreed to come, it would take weeks of negotiation with Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, and I don’t have the time to spare.”

“You don’t appear much interested in the slaves,” Grag observed, “after going to all that trouble to attack them.”

“I’m not. The slaves can go to the Abyss.” Dray-yan scowled, gesturing at a scroll bound by a black ribbon that lay on his desk. “I have received a commendation from Ariakas for doubling the iron output.”

“You should be pleased, Dray-yan,” Grag said, wondering why the aurak wasn’t.

“Let me put it another way. Lord Verminaard has received the commendation,” said Dray-yan, grinding his teeth on the name, then spitting it out.

“Ah,” said Grag, understanding.

“Entering Thorbardin was my doing!” Dray-yan raved. “ My idea! My time spent dealing with those hairy, squinty-eyed Theiwar rodents! And who gets the credit? Verminaard! He has received a summons from the emperor inviting him to Neraka to receive Ariakas’s grateful thanks and a promotion! What am I to do, Grag? I cannot walk into Her Dark Majesty’s temple wearing this illusion, nor do I want to! I —Dray-yan! I deserve that commendation, the thanks, the promotion!”

“You could always send a message to Ariakas to say that Verminaard was killed.”

“Ariakas would dispatch another human Highlord here so fast my scales would fly off, that female they call the Blue Lady. She’d like nothing better than to take command of the Red Army, and from what I’ve heard, she despises draconians. You and I would both end up working in the iron mines if she took over!”

Dray-yan began to pace the floor again. His claws had torn large holes in the carpeting and he was now leaving scratch marks on the tiles beneath.

“The emperor is asking again about the escaped slaves and about that artifact, that dwarf hammer. He seems obsessed over it. He wants me, or rather Verminaard, to find it and bring it to Neraka when I come. How am I supposed to unearth some moldy old hammer? The emperor also wants assurances the slaves have all been killed. There are dangerous people hiding among them, elf assassins or some such thing.”

Grag watched the aurak pace in silence. He really didn’t give a damn about the aurak’s personal ambitions to become Dragon Highlord, but Dray-yan did have a point. Grag had heard a few rumors about the Blue Lady himself. Grag had a good life here, and he knew it.

“What are we going to do about these slaves?” Grag asked. “They will likely take advantage of the snow to try sneak past us and gain entrance to Thorbardin.”

Dray-yan turned to face him. “Do we have troops in the area?”

“Some, but most of them are being positioned around the southern part of Thorbardin. They couldn’t reach the north in time. It’s too bad Lord Verminaard bungled that attack in the valley.” Dray-yan swore beneath his breath. His plan of attack—bringing in draconian troops on the back of dragons—had been a brilliant one. He’d supervised the battle himself in the guise of Dragon Highlord Verminaard. He didn’t like to be reminded that his plan had failed. He wasn’t pleased with Grag for bringing it up.

“The humans knew we were coming!” he snarled. “It’s the only explanation. I’d like to know how they found out.”

“Don’t you understand, Dray-yan? The fault is Lord Verminaard’s ,” said Grag, laying emphasis on the name. “The Highlord could not keep his mouth shut. He blabbed about his brilliant idea of putting draconians on dragons and sending them after the humans. Their spies heard about it and managed to warn the humans, so that they had time to escape. At least, that is what you will tell the emperor, if he should ask.”

Dray-yan caught the glint in the bozak’s eye.

“You are right, Grag!” Dray-yan said, intrigued. “The fault was Lord Verminaard’s. Go on. You were speaking of our troops in the area. What about the forces at Skullcap?”