Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

A deep musical note resonated from the tomb and echoed throughout the valley. The note sounded once, then the music faded away.

“What was that?” Flint asked, astonished.

Arman Kharas gazed up at the miracle of the floating tomb.

“Some say it is Kharas wielding the hammer. None know for sure.”

The note sounded again, and Flint was forced to admit, it did sound very much like a hammer striking metal. He thought about what might be waiting for them in that tomb—should they ever manage to reach it—and he wished he had taken Sturm’s advice and insisted that Hornfel allow his friends to come with him.

“King Duncan began building his tomb in his lifetime,” Arman stated. “It was to be a grand monument where his children and their children and those who would come after him would all be laid to rest. Alas, his vision of a Hylar dynasty was not to be. His two sons he buried in a plain, unmarked cairn. The tomb of his third son will forever remain empty.

“When the king died, Kharas, disgusted by the fighting among the clans, bore the body to the tomb himself. Fearing that the king’s funeral would be marred by unseemly behavior on the parts of the feuding Thanes, Kharas banned all of them from attending. It is said that they sought to enter, but the great bronze doors slammed shut upon them. Kharas never returned. The Thanes pounded on the doors, trying to force them open. The earth began to shake with such violence that buildings toppled, the Life Tree cracked, and the lake overflowed and flooded the surrounding land.

“When the mountain ceased trembling, the bronze doors swung open. Each eager to find the hammer and claim it for his own, the Thanes fought over who would be the first to enter the Valley. Bloody and battered, they surged inside, only to discover, to their horror, that the king’s tomb had been torn from the ground by some dread force and set floating in the air far above their heads.

“Down through the years, many have searched for the means that would gain us entry, but to this day, none have found it, and now”—Arman turned his dark gaze from the tomb to Flint—“you, a Neidar, claim to know the secret.” Arman stroked his long black beard. “I, for one, doubt it.” Flint took the bait. “Where is Prince Grallen’s tomb?” He was suddenly eager to have this over and done with.

“Not far.” Arman pointed. “The obelisk of black marble you see by the lake. Once the obelisk stood in front of Duncan’s Tomb, but that was before it was torn out of the earth. A statue of the prince stands at the site, and beyond it are the remains of a marble archway that crumbled when the mountain shook.”

Arman cast a glance at Flint. “What do we do once we reach the prince’s tomb? Unless you would rather not tell me,” he added stiffly.

Flint felt he owed the young dwarf something. Arman had given him his hammer, after all.

“I’m to take the helm to his tomb,” said Flint.

Arman stared, astonished. “That is all? Nothing about the Hammer?”

“Not in so many words,” Flint said evasively.

There had been a feeling, an impression, but nothing specific. That was the main reason he hadn’t said more to his friends and yet another reason he had decided to leave them behind.

“But you agreed to make the wager with Realgar—”

“Ah, now,” said Flint, walking among the mounds of the dead, “what dwarf who calls himself a dwarf ever turned down a bet?”

Tasslehoff stared at the bronze doors, then he went over and gave one of the doors a swift kick, not so much because he thought he could kick the door open, but because he was so profoundly annoyed with them. Tas’s toes tingled all the way up to his shoulders, and he became more annoyed than ever.

Dropping his hoopak onto the ground, Tas put both hands on one of the doors and pushed. He pushed and pushed, and nothing happened. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face and thought to himself that he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone except Flint. He also thought that he’d felt the door give just a little, so he pushed again, this time throwing all his weight into it.

“You know who would come in handy about now?” Tas said to himself, pushing with all his might on the door. “Fizban. If he were here, he would hurl one of his fireballs at this door, and it would just pop open.”

Which is exactly what the door did at that moment.

Pop open. With the result that Tas found himself pushing against nothing but air and sunlight, and he landed flat on his face on the ground. Landing flat on his face reminded Tas of something else Fizban would have done—given the absence of flame, smoke, and general destruction that usually accompanied the daft old wizard’s spells. Tas spent a moment lying in the grass, sighing over his friend’s demise. Then, remembering his Mission, he jumped to his feet and looked about.

It was then he realized that the bronze door was swinging shut behind him. Tas made a leap for his hoopak and managed to haul it inside at the last moment before the door boomed shut. Turning around, he looked up into the sky and saw the floating tomb, and he heard what sounded like a hammer striking a gong. The kender was enthralled.

Tas lost several moments staring at the tomb in dumbfounded wonder. The hammer was up there in that tomb that was floating in the sky, and Flint was going up there to get it. Tas gave a moist sigh.

“I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, Queen Takhisis, when I say this,” he said solemnly, “and I want to assure you that I still plan to visit the Abyss someday, but right now the place I most want to be in all the world is up there in Duncan’s Tomb.”

Tasslehoff trudged off in search of his friend.

The tomb of Prince Grallen was one of many cairns, tombs, and burial mounds that had been constructed around the lake in the center of the valley. Here, around the lake, Thanes and their families had been buried for centuries. Grallen’s tomb was the only empty tomb, however; left open to receive the body that would never be found. The tomb was marked by a black obelisk and a life-size statue of the prince. The statue was of the prince in full battle regalia, but it held no weapons. The hands were empty as the tomb, the head bare.

Kharas stood before the statue of the prince, his head bowed in respect, his own helm in his hand. Flint, his mouth dry, walked slowly forward, carrying the Helm of Grallen. He was at loss to know what to do. Was he supposed to place the helm in the empty tomb? He started to turn away, when he felt a chill touch on his flesh. The stone hands of the statue were resting on his own.

Flint’s stomach lurched. His hands shook, and he nearly dropped the helm. He tried to move, but the stone hands held him fast. He looked into the statue’s face, into the eyes, and they were not empty stone. They shone bright with life.

The stone lips moved. “My head has been bare to the sun and the wind, the rain and the snow these many long years.”

Flint shuddered and wished he’d never come. He hesitated, nerving himself, and then, quaking in fear, he placed the helm on the statue’s head. Metal scraped against stone. The helm slid over the cold face and covered the eyes. The red gem flared.

“I go to join my brothers. Long have they waited for me that we could make this next journey together.”

A feeling of peace flowed through Flint, and he was no longer afraid. He felt overwhelming love, love that forgave all. He let go of the helm almost reluctantly and stepped back and bowed his head. The feeling of peace faded away. He heard Arman gasp, and when he could see through the mist that covered his eyes, Flint saw the prince now wore a helm of stone. He choked back the lump in his throat, rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and looked about. Finding what he sought, he circled around the obelisk.