Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Flint snatched the hammer from its harness, forgetting, in his haste, that he was supposed to pretend it was heavy.

“Step into the light,” Flint called, “Where I can see you.”

“Certainly. You don’t need your weapon,” said the dwarf, moving into the lantern light. He had a long white beard and white hair. His face was wrinkled as a shriveled apple. His eyes were dark and penetrating, clear as the eyes of a newborn babe. His voice was strong, deep, and youthful.

“Remarkable hammer you’ve got there.” The ancient dwarf squinted at it in the bright light. “I seem to remember one just like it.”

“You’ll feel this hammer on your head if you come any closer,” Flint warned. “Who are you?”

“He’s another Kharas, like the one in the tomb with Arman!” Tasslehoff said. “How many does this make? Three or four?”

The ancient dwarf took a step nearer.

Flint raised the hammer. “Stop right there.”

“I’m not carrying any weapons,” Kharas said mildly.

“Ghosts don’t need weapons,” said Flint.

“He looks awfully substantial for a ghost, Flint,” Tas said in a whisper.

“The kender is right. What makes you think I’m not who I say I am?”

“Humpf!” Flint snorted. “What do you take me for? A gully dwarf?”

“No, I take you for a Neidar by the name of Flint Fireforge. I know a lot about you. I had a chat with a friend of yours.”

“Arman isn’t a friend,” Flint said dourly. “No mountain dwarf is my friend, and I’m not his servant either!”

“I never thought that, and I wasn’t referring to Arman.”

Flint snorted again.

“Never mind that now,” said the latest Kharas. A smile caused all the wrinkles in his face to crinkle. “I’m still interested to know why you are going to search for Arman. You came here to find the Hammer of Kharas.”

“And I’ll leave here with the Hammer of Kharas,” stated Flint stoutly, “ and with young Arman. Now you tell me what you’ve done with him.”

“I haven’t done anything to him.” Kharas shrugged. “I told him where to find the Hammer. It may take him awhile, however. It seems he’s lost his map.”

“He dropped it,” Tas said sadly.

“Yes, that’s what I thought might have happened,” Kharas said with a slight smile. “What if I told you, Flint Fireforge, that I can take you straight to the Hammer?”

“And throw us into a pit or shove us off the top of some tower? No thanks.” Flint shook the hammer at the dwarf. “If you truly mean us no harm, go on about your business and leave us alone, and you leave Arman alone, too. He’s a not a bad sort, just misguided.”

“He needs to be taught a lesson,” said Kharas. “The mountain dwarves all need to be taught a lesson, don’t they? Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking?”

“Never you mind what I’m thinking!” Flint said, scowling. “Just take yourself off and do whatever it is you do around here.”

“I will, but first I’ll make you a wager. I’ll bet you your soul that Arman ends up with the Hammer.”

“I’ll take your bet,” said Flint. “It’s all nonsense, anyway.”

“We’ll see,” Kharas said, his smile broadening. “Remember, I offered to show you where to find the Hammer, and you turned me down.”

The ancient dwarf stepped backward into the red swirling mists and vanished. Flint shivered all over. “Is he gone?”

Tas walked over to where the dwarf had been standing and flapped his hands about in the mists.

“I don’t see him. Say, if he does take your soul, Flint, can I watch?”

“You’re a fine friend!” Flint lowered the hammer, but he kept it in his hand, just in case.

“I hope he doesn’t,” said Tas politely, and he truly meant it. Well, he mostly truly meant it. “But if he does—”

“Oh, just shut your mouth. We’ve wasted enough time palavering with that thing, whatever it was. We have to find Arman.”

“No, we have to find the Hammer,” Tas argued, “otherwise Kharas will win the bet and take your soul.”

Flint shook his head and walked off, heading for the stairs again.

“Are we going back inside the secret passage?” Tas asked as they were climbing. “Say, you know, we never went all the way to the top of these stairs. Where do you suppose they lead? What do you think is up there? Was it on the map?”

Flint stopped on one of the stairs, turned around and raised his fist. “If you ask me another question, I’ll… I’ll gag you with your own hoopak!”

He began to clump up the stairs again, stifling a groan as he did so. The stairs were steep, and as Raistlin had reminded him, Flint wasn’t a young dwarf anymore.

Tas hurried along after, wondering how someone could be gagged with a hoopak. He’d have to remember to ask.

They arrived at the place where the secret passage had been, only to find that it wasn’t there any longer. The stairs behind which it was hidden had been shoved back into place, and try as he might, Flint could not open them again. He wondered how Arman had discovered the passage. The ancient dwarf who claimed to know Kharas probably had something to do with it. Glowering and muttering to himself, Flint climbed the stairs to the top.

Once there, he consulted the map. They’d reached the second level of the tomb. Here were galleries, antechambers, a Promenade of Nobles, and a banquet hall.

“The Thanes would have attended a grand feast in honor of the fallen king,” Flint murmured. “At least, that was what Duncan intended, but his burial feast was never held. The Thanes were fighting for the crown. Kharas was the king’s sole mourner.” Flint glanced about the darkness and added grimly, “And whoever lifted up the tomb and set it floating among the clouds.”

“If they didn’t hold the feast, maybe there’s some food left,” said Tas. “I’m starving. Which way’s the banquet hall? This way?”

Before Flint could answer, the kender was off, racing down the hall.

“Wait! Tas! You doorknob! You’ve got the lantern!” Flint shouted into the fog-ridden gloom, but the kender was out of sight.

Heaving a sigh, Flint stamped off in pursuit.

“Drat,” said Tas, looking over the banquet table that was empty of everything except dust.

“Nothing. I suppose mice ate it, or maybe that Kharas did. Oh well. After three hundred years, the food probably wouldn’t have tasted that good anyhow.”

Tas wished again he’d brought his pouches. He could generally find something to snack on in there—the odd meat pie, muffin, or grapes that weren’t bad once you removed the bits of fluff. Thinking of food made him hungrier, however, and so he put the thought out of his mind. The banquet table held nothing interesting. Tas wandered about, searching for a forgotten crumb or two. He could hear Flint bellowing in the distance.

“I’m in the banquet hall!” Tas called out. “There’s no food, so don’t hurry!” That prompted more bellowing, but Tas couldn’t understand what Flint was saying. Something about Arman.

“I guess I’m supposed to look for him,” Tas said, so he did call out his name a couple of times, though not with much enthusiasm. He peered under the table and poked about in a couple of corners.

He didn’t find Arman, but he did find something, and it was a lot more interesting than an arrogant young dwarf who always said the word “kender” as though he’d bitten down on a rotten fig. In a corner of the room was a chair, and beside the chair was a table. On the table was a book, pen, and ink, and a pair of spectacles.

Tas held the lantern close to the book, which had squiggles on the cover. He guessed it was something else written in Dwarvish. Then it occurred to him that maybe the writing was magic and this might be a magic spellbook, like those Raistlin kept with him that Tas was never allowed to even get a little tiny peek at, no matter that he promised he would be extra, extra careful, and not crease the pages, or spill tarbean tea on it. As for the spectacles, they were ordinary looking, or would have been ordinary if the glass inside them had been clear like other spectacles the kender had seen and not ruby-colored.