Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“I would be glad to provide safe haven for the refugees in your care, Half-Elven,” Hornfel said, adding grimly, “but I fear there will be no safe haven for anyone beneath the mountain—humans or dwarves.”

“Perhaps all is not as dire as you think, Thane,” Tanis said. “What if the Daergar have not allied with the Theiwar? I saw Rance’s face when he first set eyes on the draconian, and he did not look smug. He looked as shocked and horrified as the rest of you.”

“When I saw him, he wore a look of fury,” said Raistlin. “He passed us on the way to the lift, and his expression was dark with rage. His brows were lowered and his fists were clenched, and he was muttering to himself. My guess is that he had no knowledge that the Theiwar had brought in these terrible new allies and that he is not happy about it.”

Hornfel looked grateful. “You give me hope, friends, and food for thought. Much now depends on the recovery of the Hammer of Kharas. If the hammer is returned to us, along with proof that Reorx has also returned, the Daergar would, I think, refuse to side with the Theiwar. The Daergar are not evil and twisted, as the Theiwar have become. Their clan was hurt badly by the mine closings and many have sunk to crime, but deep inside they are loyal to Thorbardin. They could be convinced to listen to reason and they would be as glad as any to welcome Reorx back to his shrines. The reemergence of the true hammer would be a most fortuitous event now!”

“Not fortuitous,” said Sturm. “Divine intervention. The gods brought us here for this reason.” Did they? Tanis found himself wondering. Or did we come here through stumblings and missteps, wrong turns and right choices, accidents and failures, and here and there a triumph? I wish I knew.

“We have to reach Flint and Arman,” he said, “for the very reasons you stated, Thane.”

“Impossible, I fear,” Hornfel returned gravely. “My people reported to me that the bronze doors to the Valley of the Thanes have closed and no matter what we do, they will not reopen.”

Flint sat on the steps in the dark, rubbing his thighs and his poor old creaking knees. His legs had given out, refusing to climb one more stair. He’d climbed the last few half-blinded by tears from the pain that burned through his muscles like liquid fire. He was hurting and in a bad mood, and he took it as a personal affront that Tasslehoff was so cheerful. The kender came clattering down the stairs.

“The staircase ends right up there—What are you doing sitting here?” the kender asked, amazed.

“Hurry up! We’re almost at the top.”

At about that time, the gong struck, and it did sound quite loud, much louder than before. The musical tone resonated through the stairwell and seemed to jar right through Flint’s head.

“I’m not budging,” he grumbled. “Arman can have the hammer. I’ll not take one more step.”

“It’s only about twenty stairs and then you’re there,” Tasslehoff urged. He tried to slide his arms underneath Flint’s shoulders with the intent of dragging him. “If you scoot along on your bottom—”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Flint cried, outraged. He batted the kender away. “Let go of me!”

“Well, then, if you won’t go up, let’s go back down,” Tas said, exasperated. “The map shows other ways to reach the top—”

“I’m not going down either. I’m not moving.”

Secretly, Flint was afraid he couldn’t move. He didn’t have the strength, and that dull ache was back in his chest.

Tas eyed him thoughtfully then plunked himself down on the steps.

“I guess staying here forever won’t be so bad,” said Tas. “I’ll have a chance to tell you all my very best stories. Did you hear about the time I found a woolly mammoth? I was walking along the road one day, and I heard a ferocious bellowing coming out of the woods. I went to see what the bellowing was, and it turned out to be—”

“I’m going!” said Flint. Gritting his teeth, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and, groaning, hauled himself upright. His head spun, and he tottered on his feet and had to steady himself with a hand on the kender.

“Put your arm around my shoulder,” Tas suggested. “No, like this. There you go. You can lean on me. We’ll go up together. One stair at a time.”

This was highly undignified. Flint would have refused, but he feared he could not make it without assistance, and he was driven not so much by the hammer but by the terrifying prospect of hearing the woolly mammoth story for the umpteenth time. Assisted by the kender, Flint began to stagger up the stairs.

“I don’t mind you leaning on me, Flint,” said Tas after a moment, “but could you not lean quite so heavily? I’m practically walking on my knees!”

“I thought you said there were only twenty stairs!” Flint growled, but he eased up on the kender.

“I’ve counted thirty and I still don’t see the end.”

“What’s a few stairs more or less?” Tas asked lightly, then, feeling Flint’s arm tighten around his neck in a choking manner, Tas added hurriedly, “I see light! Don’t you see light, Flint? We’re near the top.”

Flint raised his head, and he had to admit that the stairwell was much lighter than it had been before. They could almost dispense with the lantern. Flint was forced to practically crawl up the last few stairs, but he managed it.

An arched wooden door banded with iron stood at the top of the stairs. Sunlight gleaming through the slats lit their way. Tas pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He jiggled the handle, then shook his head.

“It’s locked,” he reported. “Drat! That will teach me never to leave my pouches behind again!” The kender slumped down. “All these stairs for nothing!”

Flint couldn’t believe it. His aching legs didn’t want to believe it. He gave the door an irritated shove and it swung open.

“Locked!” Flint said, glaring in disgust at the kender.

“ 1 tell you it was!” Tas insisted. “I may not know much about fighting, politics, the return of the gods, or all that other stuff, but I do know locks, and that lock was locked .”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Flint. “You don’t know how to work a door handle, that’s all.”

“I do so, too,” Tas said indignantly “I’m an expert on door handles, door knobs, and door locks. That door was bolted shut, I tell you.”

“No, it wasn’t!” Flint shouted angrily.

Because if the door had been locked, that meant that someone—or some thing—had opened it when he pushed on it, and he didn’t want to think about that.

Flint walked out into the sunshine. Tasslehoff followed, giving the offending door an irritated kick in passing.

They had reached the battlements at the top of the tomb. Across from them was a crenellated stone wall. A tower lined with rows of windows rose to Flint’s left. A short, squat tower was to his right. Beyond the towers and the stone wall was azure blue sky.

“I don’t want to hear anymore about it—Great Reorx’s beard!” He gasped.

“Oh, Flint!” Tasslehoff let out a soft breath.

The sunlight gleamed off a cone-shaped roof made of faceted panels of ruby-colored transparent glass. The pain in Flint’s legs and the burning in his chest were subsumed in wonder and in awe. He pressed his nose to the glass, and so did the kender, both of them trying to see inside.

“Is that it?” asked Tas softly.

“That’s it,” said Flint, and his voice was choked.

A bronze hammer attached to what appeared to be a thin rope hung suspended from the apex of the cone. The hammer swung slowly from one side of the chamber to the other. Around the ceiling were twenty-four enormous gongs made of bronze. Each of the gongs was inscribed with a rune. Each rune represented the hours of a day from Waking Hour to First Eating Hour; First Working Hour to Second Eating Hour; and around to the Sleep Hours. The Hammer swung back and forth, shifting position with each swing, timed so that it struck a gong at the start of the hour, then continued on in a never ending circle.