Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Flint smiled to himself. That last wasn’t likely to come true, but an old dwarf could dream, couldn’t he?

It seemed to the companions that they had only just gone to bed when they were awakened by Arman Kharas banging on the door. Being deep underground, bereft of sunlight, they had no way to tell the time, but Arman assured them that in the world outside, the sun’s first rays were gilding the snow on the mountain peaks.

“How do you know?” Caramon grumbled. He was not happy about being wakened “in the middle of the night,” as he termed it, especially when suffering from the effects of drinking too much ale.

“There are parts of Thorbardin where one can see the sun, and we regulate our water clocks by it. You will view one of those places today,” he added in solemn tones, speaking to Flint. “The light of the sun shines always upon the Kalil S’rith—the Valley of Thanes.”

Sturm looked grimly at Tanis, who shook his head and looked at Flint, who very carefully did not look at anyone. The old dwarf clumped about the room, busy over various tasks—putting on his armor, putting on his helm with the “griffin’s mane,” and strapping the Helm of Grallen to his belt.

Tanis saw Sturm’s expression alter. He knew what the knight was going to say before he said it, and he tried to stop him, but he was too late.

“Flint,” Sturm said sternly, “be reasonable. Take one of us.” Flint turned to Arman.

“I’ll need a weapon. I’m not going to face whatever hauled that tomb out of the ground without my battle-axe in my hands.”

Arman Kharas removed the ornate hammer from the harness on his back. He looked at it regretfully for a moment then held it out to Flint.

“That’s yours,” said Flint, “I’ll take my battle-axe.”

Arman frowned at this refusal. “You have been given the knowledge of how to find the true Hammer. You should be the one to carry the replica. I had it made especially for this moment. It’s my homage to Kharas. You will carry it to the Tomb of the King in Kharas’s honor.” Flint didn’t know what to say. He would have been much more comfortable with his battle-axe, but he didn’t want to hurt the young dwarf anymore than he’d already been hurt. Flint reached out, took hold of the hammer, and nearly dropped it. He suspected he knew now why Arman had given it to him. The hammer was heavy and unwieldy, well-crafted, but not well-designed. He gave it an experimental swing or two, and the thing nearly broke his wrist. He glanced suspiciously at Arman to see if he was smiling. Arman stood looking grave, however, and Flint realized the young dwarf had meant what he said. -

Flint held out his hand to Arman. “I accept this in the name of friendship.” Arman hesitated, then stiffly shook hands.

“Perhaps we misjudged Arman,” said Tanis.

Sturm snorted. “He walks around carrying a fake magical hammer. I think that merely confirms the fact that he is crazy.”

Raistlin seemed about to say something, then stopped. He regarded Flint and the hammer thoughtfully.

“What?” Tanis asked the mage.

“You should try once more to talk to Flint.”

Tanis could have told him it was a waste of time, but he walked over to where Flint was continuing to gather up his gear. Tasslehoff had offered his assistance, with the result that Flint came up missing his favorite knife. He immediately rounded on the kender, seized hold of him and began to shake out his pouches, ignoring Tas’s cries of protest.

“Sturm, a word with you,” said Raistlin.

Sturm did not trust the strange gleam in Raistlin’s hourglass eyes, but he accompanied him to the window.

“Is that hammer an exact replica of the real one?” Raistlin asked softly.

“I have only ever seen the Hammer in paintings,” Sturm replied, “but from what I can judge it is identical.”

“How can a person distinguish between the real and the false?”

“The Hammer is reputed to be light in weight, yet when it strikes it does so with the force of the god behind it, and when the true Hammer hits the sacred Anvil of Thorbardin, it sounds a note that can be heard throughout the earth and heavens.”

Raistlin cast a sharp glance at the false hammer. Folding his hands in his sleeves, he leaned near to whisper, “Flint could switch hammers.”

Sturm stared at him, either uncomprehending or refusing to comprehend.

“Flint has the false hammer,” Raistlin explained. “He has only to replace the true Hammer with the false. He keeps the true one and gives the dwarves the other.”

“They will know the difference,” said Sturm.

Raistlin smiled. “I think not. I can cast a spell on the false hammer, recreating the effects you described—or close enough so that the dwarves will not be able to tell the difference for a long time. Once Arman has the hammer in his possession—the hammer he’s been searching for all his life—he won’t look very hard to find fault with it. I can do this,” he added, “but I need your help.”

Sturm shook his head. “I won’t be a party to this.”

“But it solves all our problems!” Raistlin said insistently, placing his hand on Sturm’s arm. The knight flinched beneath the touch, but he remained to listen. “We give the dwarves what they want. We have what we want. Once the dragonlances are forged, you can bring the Hammer back to them. No harm done—and much good.”

“It is… not honorable,” said Sturm.

“Oh, well, if honor is what you want, then by all means, say an honorable prayer over the little children as the dragons of the Dark Queen sear the flesh from their bones.” Raistlin’s grip on the knight tightened. “ You may have the right to choose honor over life, but think of those who have no choice, those who will suffer and die under the Dark Queen’s rule. And she will rule, Sturm. You know as well as I that the forces of good—what paltry forces of good there are—cannot do anything to stop her.”

Sturm was silent. Raistlin could both see and feel the conflict raging inside the knight. Sturm’s arm muscles tensed and hardened. His eyes glinted, his fists clenched. He was thinking not only of the innocents, but also of himself. He would bring the Hammer to the knighthood. He would be the one to forge the fabled dragonlances. He would be the savior of the Solamnic people, of all people everywhere.

Raistlin could guess much of what the knight was thinking, and he almost guessed right. Raistlin assumed that Sturm was being seduced by a dream of glory when, in truth, the thought of those innocents who would suffer in the coming war affected the knight profoundly. He could see again the smoldering ruins and the butchered children of Que-shu.

“What do you want me to do?” Sturm asked, the words falling reluctantly from his lips. He had never imagined agreeing to help Raistlin weave one of his webs. Sturm reminded himself, again, of the innocents.

“You must talk to Flint,” said Raistlin. “Tell him the plan. He will not listen to me.”

“I’m not convinced he will listen to me,” Sturm said.

“At least we must try! Put the idea into his head.” Raistlin paused, then said softly, “Say nothing to Tanis.”

Sturm understood. Tanis would oppose such a scheme. Not only was it dishonest, it was dangerous. If the dwarves found out, it could be the death of them all, yet the dragonlances were their best hope for winning the war—something the half-elf stubbornly refused to understand. Sturm gave a stiff nod. Raistlin smiled to himself from within the darkness of his cowl. He had won a victory over the virtuous knight, knocking him off his lofty pedestal. In the future, whenever Sturm’s lectures on morality grew too tedious, all Raistlin would have to do would be to murmur, “The Hammer of Kharas.”