Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Arman considered this. “You are probably right,” he said more calmly. “I should have thought of that. A test, of course, to see which of us is worthy.”

Sunlight edged in through the slit windows. Arman reached into a leather pouch he wore on his belt and drew out a folded piece of yellowed parchment. He carefully opened the folds, then walked over to the light to study it.

“What have you got there?” Flint asked curiously.

Arman did not reply.

“It’s a map,’ said Tasslehoff, crowding close beside the dwarf, peering over his elbow. “I love maps. What’s it a map of?”

Arman shifted his position so that his back was to the kender.

“The tomb,” he answered. “It was drawn up by the original architect. It has been in our family for generations.”

“Then all we have to do is use the map to find the Hammer!” said Tas excitedly.

“No, we can’t, you doorknob,” said Flint. “The Hammer was placed in the tomb after Duncan was buried here. It wouldn’t be on the map.” He eyed Arman. “Would it?”

“No,” said Arman, studying the map, then glancing around at their surroundings, then going back to the map.

“Mind if I take a look?” Flint asked.

“The map is very old and fragile,” said Arman. “It should not be handled.” He folded the map and slid it back into his belt.

“But at least it will show us the way out,” said Tas. “There must be a front door.”

“And what good will that do when we’re a mile in the air, you doorknob?” Flint demanded.

“Oh,” said Tas. “Yeah, right.”

The magical archway through which they had passed would also have been added after Duncan’s death, undoubtedly put there by the same powerful force that had ripped the tomb out of the ground and hoisted it into the clouds. The same force that might still be lurking inside the tomb, waiting for them.

Arman paced the chamber, peering into shadowy corners and glancing out the arrow slits to the ground far below. He turned to Flint. “The first thing you should do is search for the exit.”

“I’ll search,” said Flint grimly, “for what I came for—the Hammer.” As if conjured up by the word, the musical note sounded again. The note was no longer faint as it had been below, but rich and melodious. Long after the sound ceased, the vibrations lingered on the air.

“That noise goes all the way through me. I can even feel it in my teeth,” said Tas, charmed. He stared at the ceiling and pointed. “It’s coming from up there.”

“There are stairs over here, leading up,” Arman reported from the far side of the chamber. He paused, then said stiffly, “I’m sorry I lost my nerve. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” Flint nodded noncommittally. He intended to conduct his own inspection of the room. “Where does the map say we are?”

“This is the Hall of Enemies,” said Arman. “These trophies honor King Duncan’s battles.” Various weapons, shields, and other implements of war were on display, along with etched silver plaques relating the triumphs of King Duncan over his enemies, including his exploits in the famous war against the ogres. There were no trophies from the last war, however, the most bitter and terrible war fought against his own kind.

Flint caught the kender in the act of trying to pick up a large ogre battle-axe.

“Put that down!” Flint said, incensed. “What else have you stuck in your pouches—”

“I don’t have any pouches,” Tas pointed out sadly. “I had to leave them behind to put on the dwarf armor.”

“Your pockets, then,” Flint spluttered, “and if I find that you’ve stolen something—”

“I never stole in my life!” Tas protested. “Stealing is wrong.” Flint sucked in a breath. “Well, then if I find that you’ve ‘borrowed’ anything or picked up something that someone’s dropped—”

“Stealing from the dead is extremely wrong,” Tas said solemnly. “Cursed, even.”

“Would you let me finish a sentence?” Flint roared.

“Yes, Flint,” said Tas meekly. “What was it you wanted to say?” Flint glared. “I forget. Come with me.”

He turned on his heel and walked to the corner where Arman had reported finding the stairs. Tas sidled over to one of the displays and put down a small bone-handled knife that had somehow managed to make its way up his shirt sleeve. He gave the knife a pat and sighed, then went to join Flint, who was staring intently at several hammers stacked up against a wall.

“I guess it’s all right if you steal from the dead,” said Tas.

“Me?” Flint said, incensed. “I’m not—”

He paused, not sure what to say.

“What about the Hammer?” Tas asked.

“That’s not stealing,” said Flint. “It’s .. .finding . There’s a difference.”

“So if I ‘find’ something I can take it?” Tas asked. He had, after all, found that bone-handled knife.

“I didn’t say that!”

“Yes, you did.”

“Where’s Arman?” Flint realized suddenly that he and Tas were alone.

“I think he’s gone up those stairs,” said Tas, pointing. “When you’re not shouting, I can hear him talking to someone.”

“Who in blazes could he be talking to?” Flint wondered uneasily. He cocked an ear, and sure enough, he heard what sounded like two voices, one of which was definitely Arman’s.

“A ghost!” Tas guessed, and he started to race up the stairs.

Flint seized hold of the kender’s shirttail. “Not so fast.”

“But if there is a ghost, I don’t want to miss it!” Tas cried, wriggling in Flint’s grasp.

“Shush! I want to hear what they’re talking about.”

Flint crept up the narrow stairs. Tas sneaked along behind him. The staircase was steep, and they couldn’t see where the steps led. Soon, Flint’s breath began to come in gasps and his leg muscles started to cramp. He pressed on and suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Two of the stone stairs jutted outward at an odd angle, leaving an opening about the size of a large human. Light glimmered from within.

“Huh,” Flint grunted. “Secret passage.”

“I love secret passages!” Tas started to crawl inside.

Flint grabbed hold of his ankle and dragged him out.

“Me first.”

Flint crawled into the passage. At the other end, a small wooden door stood open a crack. Flint peeked through. Tas couldn’t see for the dwarf’s bulk, and he squirmed and wriggled to wedge his head in beside him.

“The burial chamber,” said Flint softly. “The king lies here.” He removed his helm. An ornate marble sarcophagus stood in the center of the room. A carven figure of the king graced the top. At the far end two immense doors of bronze and gold were sealed shut. The great bronze doors would have been opened only on special occasions, such as the yearly anniversary of the High King’s death. Statues of dwarven warriors ranged around the tomb, standing silent and eternal guard. Light gleamed off a golden anvil placed in front of the tomb and on a stand of armor made of gold and steel.

Arman was on his knees, his own helm beside him on the floor.

Standing over him, gazing down at him, was a dwarf with white hair and a long, white beard. The dwarf was stooped with age, but even stooped, he was taller than Flint and massively built.

“It’s not a ghost,” Tas whispered, disappointed. “It’s just an old dwarf. No offense, Flint.” Flint gave the kender a kick. “Quiet!”

“I am honored to be in your presence, Great Kharas,” Arman said, his voice choked with emotion.

Flint’s eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up to his hair line.

“Kharas? Did he say Kharas?” Tas asked. “We’ve already got two Kharases—Arman and the dead one. Is this another? How many are there?”