Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“The murderer will be expecting to find our bodies. How would we look if we’d been poisoned?”

“Too bad the bowls are broken,” Sturm said. “That will give it away.”

“Not at all,” Raistlin said coolly. “We would have knocked the bowls about in our death throes. Now, if you will allow me, I will arrange your corpses for best effect.”

The more Realgar thought about it, the less he liked the idea of Grag traipsing off to the Life Tree to see the bodies of the murdered assassins. The Theiwar Thane had argued long, vehemently and quite logically that Grag—being a “lizard” as Realgar termed him, complete with wings and tail—would stand out in a crowd. The bodies weren’t going anywhere. Grag could wait to view them once the hammer was safely in Theiwar hands.

Dray-yan insisted, however. He did not trust these assassins, nor did he trust the Theiwar. He wanted to make certain the assassins were dead as promised. Grag would go in disguise, cloaked and hooded. The dwarves would notice the tall bozak; that couldn’t be helped. The word had spread that humans were in Thorbardin. Grag would be taken for one of them.

Realgar gave in because he had to give in. He detested the “lizards,” but he needed them and their army to conquer and subdue the other clans. Grag’s lizard-warriors had already proven their worth by ambushing a party of human barbarians who had entered Northgate. Not only had the draconians captured the humans, they’d taken an elf lord prisoner as well.

The captives had been given to the Theiwar for interrogation. Grag would have liked to have been present, but Dray-yan had told him there was no need. He knew all he needed to know about these humans. Realgar had only to convince one or two to tell the “truth,” forcing the humans to admit they had come to Thorbardin with the intention of invading the dwarven kingdom, and that would be the end of them. Having spent a moment or two watching the dwarves’ “questioning” methods, Grag had to admit the Theiwar knew what they were about when it came to torture. He had no doubt they would soon have a confession.

Realgar was going to a lot of trouble for nothing, Grag reflected. Once Thorbardin was secure, he and his troops were going to kill the slaves anyway. Still, as Dray-yan pointed out, fostering distrust between humans and dwarves could only aid their cause. Let the Hylar believe that humans had been about to invade their kingdom. They would far less likely to trust any human after that.

Satisfied that all was proceeding as planned, Grag accompanied four dark dwarves to the inn. Realgar himself did not go along. Realgar had asked for a meeting of the Council of Thanes on an emergency matter. He was planning to take two of the captives with him and exhibit them to the other Thanes.

“This revelation will throw the Thanes into turmoil,” Dray-yan told Grag, “giving you time to marshal your forces and bring them into position. We will have the Thanes all neatly trapped in the same bottle.”

“Including Realgar,” said Grag, his claws twitching.

“Including that filthy maggot, and when the hammer of Kharas is brought forth, ‘His Lordship’ will be there to receive it.”

“Verminaard has thought up an excellent plan,” said Grag, grinning. “Too bad he’s going to bungle it. Fortunately, his two brilliant subcommanders will be there to save the day.”

“Here’s to his brilliant subcommanders.” Dray-yan raised a mug of dwarf spirits. Grag raised his own mug. They toasted each other, then both drank deeply. The draconians had only recently discovered this potent liquor made by the dwarves, and both agreed that while dwarves might be a race of loathsome, hairy cretins, they could do two things right: forge steel and brew a fine drink.

Grag could still taste the spirits on his tongue and feel the fire burning in his belly as he left the boat that had carried him and his Theiwar companions across the lake to the Life Tree of the Hylar. Realgar and his two captives—both battered and bloody—traveled in the same boat. The captives were wrapped in burlap bags to keep their identities concealed until Realgar’s big moment before the Thanes. The two men lay unconscious in the boat’s bow, though occasionally one would moan, at which sound one of the Theiwar would kick him into silence. One of the captives was a barbarian, an extremely tall man, identified as the leader of the refugees. The other was the elf lord. Grag’s scales clicked at the stink of elf blood. Grag hoped Realgar didn’t kill him. Grag hated all the people of Ansalon, but there was a special place in his heart for elves. Grag noted that blood was starting to seep through the burlap bag. He wondered how Realgar planned to haul the captives through the city up to the Court without attracting too much attention.

Realgar wasn’t worried about such details, apparently. Peering out from the eye slits in his mask at the Life Tree, the thane talked in smug tones about the day his clan would leave their dank caves and move to this choice location. He pointed to certain prime businesses already marked for take-over by his people. As for his dwelling place, he would live in the home in which Hornfel was currently residing. Hornfel wouldn’t need it. He’d be dwelling in the Valley of the Thanes.

Grag listened to the dark dwarf boast and brag, and the draconian smiled inwardly. Few dark dwarves made the crossing from the Theiwar realm to the Life Tree, for there was little trade carried on between the Theiwar and the Hylar these days. The dock where the Theiwar usually landed was empty. Realgar and his men hauled the captives out of the boat without notice. Once they entered the streets, however, they ran into crowds of dwarves stilling milling about, talking in heated tones about the detested Neidar seeking “their” hammer. Few paid any attention to the Theiwar or the blood-stained burlap bags. Those who did were told that the Theiwar had been “butchering hogs.”

Grag and his guides took their leave of Realgar. The dwarves who were out in the streets stared balefully at Grag, and as a Tall, he came in for his share of verbal abuse. Grag paid no attention. He just kept walking, his clawed feet—wrapped in rags—shuffling over the cobblestones, and he just kept smiling.

The Theiwar led Grag to the part of the city where the Talls resided. They had not gone far before two shadowy figures detached themselves from a building and hastened over to talk to the Theiwar. They all jabbered in dwarven for long moments, the two Theiwar gesturing at the inn, smirking and chortling. They pointed out two Hylar dwarves lying in an alley, bound hand and foot, with bags over their heads.

Grag waited impatiently for someone to tell him what was going on. Finally one of the Theiwar turned to him.

“It’s done. You can report back to your master that the Talls are dead.”

“My orders are to see for myself,” said Grag. “Where are the bodies?” The Theiwar scowled. “In an inn at the end of the street, but it’s a waste of time, and we might be discovered. The Hylar could come at any moment.”

“I’ll run the risk,” said Grag. He started to walk toward the building, then stopped and pointed to the Hylar dwarves. “What about them? Are they dead?”

“Of course not,” said the Theiwar scornfully. “We’re going to take them back with us.”

“Easier to kill them,” Grag pointed out.

“But less profitable,” said the Theiwar with a grin.

Grag rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure the Talls inside are dead,” he asked grimly, “or are you planning to hold them for ransom?”

“See for yourself, lizard,” the Theiwar sneered, and he pointed to a cracked window. Grag peered inside. He recognized the humans from Pax Tharkas. There was the Solamnic knight, not looking so knightly anymore, sprawled under the table. The half-elf lay alongside him. The wizard was slumped over in a chair. Grag was glad to see the mage was among the dead. He’d been a weak and sickly fellow, as Grag remembered, but wizards were always trouble. The big, muscle-bound warrior lay by the door. The poison had probably been slower to work on him. Perhaps he’d tried to go for help.