Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“Realgar,” said Hornfel sternly, “you must remain to answer these charges—”

“You are not High King, Hornfel!” Realgar retorted. “You can’t order me about!”

“Guards, detain him!” Hornfel commanded.

Realgar opened his palm, exhibited a ring of black jet, and slipped it on his finger. Foul-smelling smoke billowed out from the ring, driving back the soldiers, who began to gasp and cough. Realgar disappeared.

“The Theiwar is telling the truth, Hornfel,” Rance stated. “These humans and their friends the elves are the real danger. Don’t listen to the lies of this Tall.”

“I have proof!” Tanis countered. “My friends and I have captured one of the dragonmen. They are bringing the monster here so that you can see for yourselves!”

“I will not wait,” said Hornfel decisively. “I will go see for myself. You will come with me, Half-Elven.”

“I will come, Thane,” Tanis answered, “but first I must see to my friends. Their injuries are serious. They need healing care.”

“I have already summoned physicians,” Hornfel said. “Your friends will be taken to the Houses of Healing, but,” he added in grim tones, “you will all remain prisoners until I have determined the truth of what is going on.”

He left the Court of the Thanes, and Tanis had no choice but to accompany him. The other Thanes decided to go with them, including Rance, who was starting to think that he, too, had been betrayed by Realgar.

The Highbluph came along, but only because he was under the mistaken impression they were all going to lunch.

The draconian lay sprawled on the floor. Caramon stood over him, sucking on his bruised knuckles.

“That thing has a hard skull,” he complained. “What I want to know is why we just don’t kill it and show the dwarves the body? It would be a lot easier.”

“I take back everything I said about your intelligence, my brother,” Raistlin said. He was feeling sick and weak, the aftereffects of his spell casting, and that put him in a bad temper.

“Huh?” Caramon was puzzled.

“There wouldn’t be a body to show,” Sturm explained patiently. “You remember what happens if we kill one of these things. They either blow up, turn to dust, or—”

“Oh, yeah, right. I forgot.” Caramon thumped himself good-naturedly on the head.

“We should go now,” Raistlin said. “Tanis has had time enough to speak to the Thanes.”

“The sight of this beauty should make the Thanes sit up and take notice,” Sturm said. “Bring over the table, Caramon, and help me hoist him onto it.”

They had tried to lift the draconian, but the monster’s wings made carrying the creature awkward. Caramon came up with the idea of knocking the legs off the table and turning the wooden board into a make-shift litter. He now hauled it over and set it down next to the unconscious draconian. Grunting at the effort, he shoved the draconian over on his belly, so that the wings would not be an impediment. The draconian had kept his wings close to his body in order to cover them with the robes, but when he’d been hit by the sleep spell, the wings had relaxed and now flopped out on either side. Between Caramon and Sturm, they heaved and wrestled the creature onto the wooden table top.

“This thing weighs as much as a small house!” Sturm gasped.

Caramon, who could probably have picked up a small house had he been inclined to do so, nodded in agreement and wiped sweat from his face. Not only was the draconian heavy, it was wearing armor beneath its robes, as well as a sword. Sturm removed the weapon and tossed it aside.

“We have to haul this demon-spawn clear to the top of the Life Tree?” Caramon asked, shaking his head. “Uh, Raist, I don’t suppose you could—”

“No, I could not,” Raistlin snapped. “I am already weakened from the spells I’ve cast this day. You must do the best you can.”

“You take the head,” said Sturm to Caramon.

The big man bent down, took hold of the table with the monster on top of it and, with a grunt, lifted it off the floor. Sturm took hold of his end, and they managed to maneuver table and draconian out the door.

“Wait!” Raistlin ordered. “We should cover it with a blanket. We’ll draw enough attention to ourselves as it is, without being seen hauling a monster through the streets.”

“Hurry up!” Sturm gasped.

Raistlin grabbed up two blankets and draped them over the draconian.

“I’ll walk ahead of you,” Raistlin offered, “to clear the way.”

“You’re sure that won’t take too much out of you?” Sturm said bitterly. Either Raistlin did not hear him, or he chose to ignore him. He preceeded them through the street, the light of his staff shining brightly.

Sturm and Caramon had to stop every so often to rest and shift position to ease cramps in their backs and shoulders. They made relatively good time until they reached the populated parts of Thorbardin. At the sight of the Talls, dwarves immediately surrounded them and demanded to know where they were going and why.

Raistlin managed to find a dwarf who spoke enough Common to carry on a limited conversation. Raistlin explained that one of their number had been taken ill, and they wanted to transport him to the upper levels, where he said they had been told there were Houses of Healing. The dwarf wanted to take a look at the sick Tall, and he reached for the blanket. Raistlin laid his hand on the blanket-covered head.

“You don’t want to touch him,” he said softly, in his whispering voice. “We fear it might be the plague.”

The dwarf fell back, glaring darkly at the companions, and crying out a warning to the other dwarves, who regarded them with even more distrust than before, if that were possible.

“What did you tell them?” Sturm demanded. “By the looks of them, they mean to kill us all!”

“Never mind,” said Raistlin. “We’ll sort it out later. For the moment they’ll stay clear of us. Keep moving.”

The dwarves gave them a clear path, but they fell in behind them, forming a grim and silent escort. The companions arrived at the lift, and this presented their next problem.

“The table won’t fit in the bucket,” Caramon pointed out.

“Dump the draconian into the bottom,” said Sturm.

“They are watching us,” Raistlin warned. He gestured to the crowd of dwarves growing larger by the moment. “Be careful to keep the monster covered.”

He climbed into the lift. Sturm and Caramon tilted the table and the draconian slid off, landing in a heap at the bottom of the bucket. Raistlin hurriedly arranged the blanket over him. As many dwarves as could fit crowded into a second lift and rode up alongside them, keeping an eye on them.

Sturm sank back against the side of the bucket, massaging his shoulders. Caramon flexed his hands and then arched his back, trying to ease a kink in his muscles. Raistlin kept watch on the dwarves in the lift. The dwarves kept their eyes fixed on him.

None of them noticed the faint quivering of the blanket covering the draconian until it was too late.

Grag had come to his senses to find himself being hauled off to some unknown destination by his enemies. He had continued to feign unconsciousness, biding his time, and cursing the Theiwar, who had managed to bungle everything. The draconian would have to reveal himself for what he was, and that was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped. Grag had to return to his command and let Dray-yan know what had happened, so they could alter their plans accordingly. Being dumped into the bottom of the bucket gave Grag his chance. Flinging off the blanket, he leapt to his feet. His first care was to fell the wizard. An elbow to the gut rendered him harmless. The wizard gasped in agony and crumpled. The two warriors were reaching for their swords. Grag whirled about, catching both of them with his lashing tail, knocking the knight backward and nearly flipping the other out of the lift.