Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Flint kicked him again and Tas subsided, rubbing bruised ribs.

“Rise up, young man,” said the ancient dwarf. “You should not bow before me. I am not a king. I am merely one who guards the rest of the king.”

“All these centuries you have stayed here,” said Arman, awed. “Why did you not come back to your people, Great Kharas? We are in sore need of your guidance.”

“I offered guidance to my people,” said the ancient dwarf bitterly, “but it wasn’t wanted. I am not in this tomb of my own choosing. You could say I was exiled to this place, sent here by the folly of my people.”

Flint’s eyes narrowed. He tugged on his beard. “Funny way of talking,” he muttered. Arman bowed his head in shame. “We have been foolish, Kharas, but all that will change now. You will come back to us. You will bring the Hammer to us. We will be united under one king.” The ancient dwarf regarded the younger. “Why have you come here, Arman Kharas?”

“To… to pay homage to King Duncan,” Arman stammered.

Kharas smiled sadly. “You came for the Hammer, I think.”

Arman flushed. “We need the Hammer!” he said defensively. “Our people are suffering. The clans are divided. The Northgate, closed for centuries, has been opened. There is talk of war in the world above, and I fear there will be war beneath the mountain. If I could bring back the Hammer to Thorbardin, my father would be High King and he would—” He paused.

“He would do what?” Kharas asked mildly.

“He would unite the clans. Welcome our Neidar cousins back to the mountain. Open the gates to humans and elves, and reestablish trade and commerce.”

“Laudable goals,” Kharas said, nodding his head sagely. “Why do you need the hammer to accomplish them?”

Arman looked confused. “You said yourself long ago, before you left: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’”

“Are you that dwarf?” Kharas asked.

Arman lifted his head and stood straight and tall. “I am Arman Kharas,” he said proudly. “I found the way here when no one could find it for three hundred years.”

Flint scowled. “ He found the way here!”

Now it was Tas who kicked him. “Shush!”

“Why name yourself after Kharas?” the ancient dwarf asked.

“Because you are a great hero, of course!”

“He didn’t mean to be a hero,” said Kharas softly. “He was only a man who held true to his beliefs and did what he thought was right.”

He regarded Arman intently, then said, “What is your name?”

“Arman Kharas,” answered the young dwarf.

“No, that is what you call yourself. What is your name?” Kharas persisted. Arman frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. That is my name.”

“The name given to you at birth,” said Kharas.

Arman flushed an ugly red. “What does that matter? My name is what I say it is. I chose my name and when I did so, a blessed red light flashed—”

“Yes, yes.” Kharas said impatiently. “I know all about that. What is your name?” Arman opened his mouth. He shut it again and swallowed. His face went even redder. He mumbled something.

“What?” Kharas leaned toward him.

“Pike,” said Arman in sulky tones. “My name was Pike, but Pike is not the name of a hero!”

“It might be,” said Kharas.

Arman shook his head.

Flint grunted. At the sound, the ancient dwarf turned his head, casting a sharp glance in the direction of the secret passage. Flint ducked back into the shadows and hauled the kender with him.

Kharas smiled and ran his fingers through his white beard. Then he turned back to Arman.

“You did not come alone, did you?” he said.

“Two others came with me,” Arman, adding carelessly, “My servants.”

“Servants!” Tas gasped. “Did you hear that, Flint?”

He expected Flint to explode in anger, or rush out and bash Arman with the hammer, or burst into flame, or maybe all three at once.

Flint just sat there, tugging on his beard.

“Did you hear him, Flint?” Tas whispered loudly. “He called you his servant!”

“I heard,” said Flint. He quit tugging on his beard and smoothed it with his hand.

“Servants, huh. I guess they don’t need to be tested then,” stated Kharas. A gust of wind blew the wooden door shut, nearly catching the kender’s topknot in it.

“How rude!” Tasslehoff exclaimed, twitching his hair back just in time.

“Open it!” said Flint, frowning.

Tasslehoff gave the door handle a jiggle, and it came off in his hand. “Oops.”

“You have a lock pick, don’t you?” Flint growled. “For once, it might prove useful.” Tas felt through all his pockets.

“I must have left it in one of my pouches.”

“Oh, for the love of Reorx!” Flint grumbled. “The only reason you’re any use to anyone is for picking the occasional lock, and now you can’t even do that!”

He put his ear to the keyhole.

“Can you hear anything?” Tas asked.

“No.”

“We’d better go!” Tas urged, tugging on Flint’s sleeve. “The really, really old Kharas will probably lead our Kharas to the hammer! We have to beat him to it!”

“It’s not a race,” Flint said, but he suddenly turned around and began to clump rapidly down the stairs, moving so fast that he caught the kender flat-footed. Tas had to scramble to catch up.

“Arman’s real name is Pike, and his brother is Pick. Pick and Pike!” The kender giggled. “That’s funny!”

Flint had no comment. Reaching the floor of the Hall of Enemies, he began searching the room, poking at walls and stomping on the floor to see if there might be a trap door. “Blast it! How do we get out of here?”

Tas fished about in his pocket. “Would this help?” He brought forth a piece of parchment. “It’s Arman’s map. I found it,” he added, with emphasis.

He held out the map to Flint.

The dwarf hesitated, then seized hold of it.

“Arman must have dropped it,” Flint muttered.

Listening to Sturm’s prayer, Tanis felt suddenly soothed and restful. His worries left him alone for a moment, and he drifted off to sleep. Raistlin’s coughing woke him.

Raistlin had not suffered a bad coughing spell in some time. He ordered Caramon out of bed to fix his special herbal brew. This involved stirring up the fire and searching about for a kettle, and then boiling the water, all of which, thankfully, kept Caramon occupied and caused him to at least quit talking about food. The dwarves had not yet brought them anything to eat, and Caramon was growing worried.

Raistlin sipped at the tea, and his cough eased. He sat dozing in the chair, huddled as close to the fire as he could get. Sturm remained on his knees, finding solace in his prayers. Tanis envied his friend. He wanted to believe, he truly did. How comforting it would be to put Flint’s fate into the hands of the gods, having faith that they would watch over him and guide him. The same faith would reassure him that Hornfel would be made to see the truth, causing him to have a change of heart and open the gates to the refugees.

Instead of faith, Tanis was walking each step of the way with Flint in his mind and seeing darkness and danger at every turn. He stirred restlessly and rolled over, and he was about to try to go back to sleep, when Caramon asked a question that jolted Tanis to alarmed wakefulness.

“Hey, has anyone seen Tas?”

Tanis was on the move as soon his feet hit the floor, searching the room. To no avail. “Damn it! He was here only moments ago!”