Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“He must have dropped it,” said Eagle Talon, and they both smiled.

“You can see Tasslehoff’s footprints are all over the place, and there is more—two sets of prints that keep together—large feet and small. Here the butt of a staff has left its mark.”

“Caramon and Raistlin. So they made it this far,” said Riverwind.

“Here the half-elf has left his customary trail marker, and there are the tracks of hob-nailed boots for the dwarf and these for the knight, Sturm Brightblade. As you can see, they stood here for some time talking. Their tracks sank deep in the mud. Then they went off together in that direction, heading up the mountain.”

“Our friends are alive and they are together, unless,” Riverwind said, his expression darkening, “they were here when the draconians attacked.”

“I think not. They came after. You can see where their feet trod in the ashes. Whatever reasons the draconians had for committing this slaughter, it was not because of our friends. My guess is they did it for the love of killing.”

“Perhaps,” said Riverwind, unconvinced. He did not want to speak his thoughts aloud, for though he did not know it, they tended along the same line as Raistlin’s speculations—the gully dwarves had died for a reason. “Keep this to ourselves, no need to worry the others. As you say, whoever did this is long gone.”

Eagle Talon agreed, and he and the other scouts returned to camp, there to eat and rest. They would head out early in the morning, making their way up the mountain.

The snow quit during the night. The air grew warmer as the wind shifted, blowing from the ocean waters to the west. The snow began to melt and Riverwind, before he fell asleep, worried that on the morrow the sun would shine and the dragons would return.

The gods had not forgotten them. When dawn came, the sun was not to be seen. A thick layer of fog rolled off the snow and over the pine trees. Wrapped in the gray blanket, the people waited in the forest as Gilthanas and Riverwind, and two of the scouts climbed the face of the mountain, heading for the gaping hole that might or might not be the Gates of Thorbardin.

The rattling wagon on wheels rocked along the metal tracks, carrying the companions to the heart of Thorbardin—an enormous cavern. Before them was a gigantic underground lake, and rising out of the lake was one of the wonders of the world.

So astonishing was the sight that for long moments no one could neither move nor speak. Caramon gulped. Raistlin breathed a soft sigh. Tasslehoff was struck dumb, an amazing occurrence in itself. Tanis could only stare. Flint was moved to the depths of his soul. He had heard stories of this all his life and the thought that he was here, the first of his people in three hundred years to view this fabled place, stirred him profoundly.

Arman Kharas stepped out of the wagon.

“The Life Tree of the Hylar,” he said, gesturing like a showman. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen the like,” said Tanis, awed.

“Nor ever will,” Flint said huskily, his heart swelling with pride. “Only dwarves could have built this.”

The Life Tree of the Hylar was a gigantic stalactite rising up out of the lake known as the Urkhan Sea. Narrow at the bottom, the stalactite widened gradually as it soared upward to the ceiling so far above them they had to crane their necks to see the upper levels. A strange sort of iridescent coral found in the sea had grown up the outside of the stalactite, and the warm glow pulsing from its myriad branches lit the vast cavern almost as bright as day. In addition, lights twinkled from all parts of the Life Tree, for the dwarves had built an enormous city complex in the stalactite. This was the fabled Life Tree, home of the Hylar dwarves for many centuries. Boats drawn by cables crossed the lake at different points, carrying dwarves of all the clans back and forth from the Life Tree, for as implied by its name, it was the beating heart of Thorbardin. The Hylar dwarves might claim it as their city, but dwarves from all the other clans did business here and took advantage of the inns, taverns, and ale houses that could be found on every level. The boat docks were busy places. Dock workers tromped about loading and unloading cargo from the boats, while the boat passengers stood patiently in long lines, waiting their turn to cross. Word had spread from the West Warrens that the gate had been opened, and the Talls who had entered were prisoners and were going to be taken before the Council of Thanes. A large crowd of dwarves had gathered on the docks to see the strangers. There were no disturbances here as there had been in the outlying district. A few dwarves scowled at the sight, with Flint, the kender, and the wizard coming in for the majority of their enmity. Flint noted, however, that many dwarven eyes were fixed on what he carried—the Helm of Grallen. Word of that had spread, too. The looks were dark, bitter, and accusing. Many dwarves made the ancient sign to ward off evil.

Flint juggled the helm nervously. Whatever curse this helm carried must be a potent one. These dwarves were not the ignorant, superstitious Theiwar or the wild-eyed Klar. They were Hylar for the most part, well educated and practical-minded. Flint would have chosen shouted insults over the heavy, ominous silence that lay like on a pall on the crowd.

As Arman Kharas sent soldiers ahead to commandeer a cable boat, Caramon cast Tanis a troubled glance.

“What are we going to do about the dwarf?” he said.

“What about him?” Tanis asked, not understanding.

Caramon jerked a thumb at the boat. “He swore he’d never set foot in one again.” Tanis remembered. Flint was terrified of boats. He claimed it was because Caramon had once nearly drowned him during a fishing expedition. Tanis glanced with trepidation at his friend, expecting a scene. To his surprise, Flint regarded the boats with quiet equanimity and did not seem in the least bothered. After a moment, Tanis realized why.

The dwarf has not been born who can swim. A dwarf in the water sinks like a rock—like a whole sack of rocks. No dwarf feels comfortable on the water, and they had designed their boats with this in mind. The boats were flat-bottomed, long, wide, and solidly built, with never a thought of rocking, swaying, or bobbing in the water. Low seats lined high, windowless, wooden sides that blocked out all sight of the water gurgling beneath.

Arman hustled the companions into the boat, saying they had a long way to go yet before they reached the Court of Thanes, which was located on one of the upper levels. The dwarves on the docks continued to stare after them as they departed. Then one voice called out.

“Throw the cursed helm in the lake and Marman Arman along with it.” Marman Arman. “Marman” was Dwarvish slang for “crazy.” Flint glanced at Arman, curious to see what he would do. All he could see was his back. Arman stood in the prow, staring straight ahead. His back was rigid, his shoulders braced, his chin jutting in the air. He acted as if he hadn’t heard the insulting play on words.

Flint shifted slightly so that he could see Arman’s face. The young dwarf was flushed, his jaw set. His fists were clenched, nails digging into his palms.

“I will find it,” he swore. His eyes blinked rapidly, and tears glittered on his lashes. “I will!” Flint looked away in embarrassment, wishing he hadn’t seen. He did not like Arman, considering him a boaster and a braggart, but he found himself feeling sorry for him, as he had once felt sorry for a half-elf who could not find a home among either elves or humans, as he’d felt sorry for orphaned twins left to fend for themselves at an early age, and for a young Solamnic boy separated from his father and forced to live in exile.