Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Tanis looked back on the moment last autumn when he’d met Flint on the hilltop near Solace and he wondered, not for the first time, how he’d come from that point to this—riding along in a dwarf-made wagon over rusted wheels miles beneath the surface of the earth, carrying eight hundred men, women, and children on his back. How he had found himself embroiled in a war he’d never meant to fight. How he had helped bring back gods he didn’t believe in.

“When all I ever did was go into the bar to have a drink with old friends,” he said with a smile and a sigh.

Flint sat in the wagon, holding onto the Helm of Grallen, and he heard the wheels clicking out the words, “Not much time. Not much time. Not much time…”

The refugees trudged through the snow, which Riverwind considered a blessing from the gods. The snow fell in huge flakes that came drifting straight down from the gray sky. The air was calm, the wind still. All was silence, for the snow muffled every sound. He feared that the snow, though a blessing, would also be a curse, for it would make the road slippery and dangerous to travel. Hederick, finding the gods had once again outfoxed him, spoke ominously of compound fractures and people slipping on the ice and falling to their deaths, for of course this ancient road would be in bad repair, cracked and broken.

Hederick did not know dwarves. When dwarves build a road, they build it to last. Though narrow, the road was intact and safe to walk, for the dwarves had taken into account the fact that those traveling the road would be doing so in bad weather and good, in winter and summer, through rain and snow, hail and fog, sleet and wind. They had carved grooves in the stone where the road was steepest, to prevent slipping, and they had built walls to prevent people from falling off the mountain side.

While the snow hid them from their enemies, it also hid them from each other. The people stayed close together, not daring to lose sight of those ahead of them for fear they would end up lost. At times, when the snow fell so thickly that no one could see anything except the woolly flakes, they were forced to halt to wait until the flurries passed and they could once again move on. Still, they were making good time and Riverwind was hopeful that everyone would be off the mountain by nightfall.

Thus far, they had not been attacked, and Riverwind couldn’t help but wonder why. He feared his enemy would be waiting for them in the forest, but his scouts had thus far found no trace of draconians, whose tracks would have been easy to spot in the snow.

“Perhaps, like lizards, draconian blood runs sluggish in the cold,” he suggested to Gilthanas. The two walked near the front of the line. The pine forest was directly ahead of them; they could see the trees, so dark green as to be almost blue, through the breaks in the snow. Some of the refugees had already reached the forest and were setting up camp. Riverwind’s plan was that they would remain here, sheltered beneath the trees, while he ventured up the mountain to investigate the opening to find out if it was the gate to the dwarven kingdom.

“Or else our enemy is waiting until night falls,” Gilthanas remarked.

“You’re such a comfort,” said Riverwind.

“You are the one who insists on looking the gods’ blessing in the mouth,” Gilthanas returned.

“This is too easy,” Riverwind muttered.

At that moment, Gilthanas lost his footing in a slushy mix of snow and ice and would have taken a nasty fall if Riverwind hadn’t caught hold of him.

“If this is easy, I would hate to see what you consider hard, Plainsman,” Gilthanas grumbled.

“My clothes are soaked through. My feet are so cold I can no longer feel them. I’d almost welcome a dragon for his fire.”

Riverwind shivered suddenly, not from cold but from some unnamed foreboding. He turned to look back up the mountain, blinking away the snow that settled on his eyelashes. When the snow lifted for a moment, he could see the people spread out along the trail, slogging along the road.

“The snow will be ending soon,” Gilthanas predicted.

Riverwind agreed. He could feel change coming. The wind was picking up, blowing the snow in swirling circles. The air was growing warmer. The snow would end, and dragons could fly once more.

By the time he and Gilthanas reached the pines, some of the refugees had built a large bonfire in a cleared area. Riverwind was pleased with the location his scouts had chosen for their campsite. The pine branches were thickly intertwined, forming a canopy that even dragon eyes would have a difficult time penetrating. Women were hanging wet blankets and clothes from the branches near the fire to dry, and some, led by Tika, were considering what they might cook for supper. Gilthanas forget his complaints about the cold and spoke of forming a hunting party. He went off to find men to join him.

Tika had recovered from her wounds, but Riverwind was still concerned about her. She stood among the group of women talking of stews, soups, and roast venison. Ordinarily, her infectious laughter would have shaken the snow from the tree limbs and caused all around to smile or join in her merriment. She still spoke her piece, giving her opinion, but she was subdued and quiet. Goldmoon came up to stand beside her husband. She clasped her hands over his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her gaze, too, was fixed on Tika.

“She is not herself,” he said. “Perhaps she is not fully healed. You should speak to Mishakal about her.”

Goldmoon shook her head. “The gods can heal wounds made to flesh and bone. They cannot heal those of the heart. She is in love with Caramon. He loves her, or rather he would if he if were free to love her.”

“He is free,” said Riverwind grimly. “All he has to do is tell that brother of his to let him live his own life for a change.”

“Caramon can’t do that.”

“He could if he wanted. Raistlin is powerful in magic, more powerful than he lets on. He’s clever and intelligent. He can make his way in this world. He doesn’t need his brother.”

“You don’t understand. Caramon knows all that. It is his greatest fear,” said Goldmoon softly, “the day his brother does not need him.”

Riverwind snorted. His wife was right; he didn’t understand. He turned to Eagle Talon, who had been standing patiently at his elbow.

“We have found something you should come see,” said the scout in quiet tones. “Just you,” he added with a glance at Goldmoon.

Riverwind followed. The snow had fallen more lightly in this area, barely covering the ground with a white feathery powder. After walking about two miles deeper among the trees, they came to the ruin of the village and the charred bodies of the gully dwarves.

“Poor, miserable wretches,” Riverwind said, his brow furrowed in anger.

“They tried to flee. They had no thought of fighting,” Eagle Talon said.

“No, gully dwarves would not,” Riverwind agreed.

“They were cut down trying to run from their attackers. Look at this—arrows in the back, heads sliced off. Children hacked to. bits. And here.” He pointed to clawed footprints in the frozen mud. “Draconians did this.”

“Any recent signs of them?”

“No. The attack took place days ago,” Eagle Talon said. “The ashes are cold. The attackers are long gone. But come see what else we have found.”

“Here,” he said, indicating footprints. “And here. And here and here. And this.” He pointed to a bent pewter spoon that had been gently laid upon the body of a gully dwarf child, along with a little sprig of pine and a white feather.

“A gift to the dead,” he said quietly. “These footprints are those of the kender.” Riverwind looked from the spoon to the small body and shook his head. “I recognize the spoon. It belongs to Hederick.”