Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Flint had never seen anything so wonderful.

“That’s truly remarkable,” said Tasslehoff, sighing. He drew his head back and rubbed his nose, which had been pressed flat against the glass. “Did dwarves set the Hammer to swinging like that?”

“No,” said Flint, adding hoarsely. “It’s magic. Powerful magic.” Though the sun was uncomfortably hot on the back of his neck, he shivered at the thought.

“Magic!” Tas was thrilled. “That makes it even better. I didn’t know dwarves could do magic like that.”

“They can’t!” Flint said crossly. He waved his hand at the swinging Hammer. “No self-respecting dwarf would even dream up something like that, much less do it. The same magic that yanked this tomb out of the ground and set it floating in the sky has turned the Hammer of Kharas into a Palanthian cuckoo clock and—” he sighed glumly and peered up again at the Hammer—

“whoever wants the Hammer has to find out a way to get inside there, then stop it from swinging, and then haul it down from the ceiling. From where I stand, it can’t be done. All this way for nothing.”

The moment he said it, he was suddenly, secretly, vastly relieved.

The decision whether or not to switch hammers had been taken out of his hands. He could go back to Sturm, Raistlin and Tanis and tell them the Hammer was out of reach. He’d tried. He’d done his best. It wasn’t meant to be. Sturm would have to get along without his drag-onlances. Tanis would have to find some other way to persuade the dwarves to let the refugees inside the mountain. He, Flint Fireforge, was never cut out to be a hero.

At least, he thought with a certain amount of grim satisfaction, Arman Kharas won’t be able to get to the Hammer either.

Flint was about to start back down the stairs, when he looked about and realized he was alone. He felt a twinge of panic. He’d forgotten the first rules of traveling with a kender. Rule Number One: never allow the kender to grow bored. Rule Number Two: never let a bored kender out of your sight.

Flint groaned again. This was all he needed. A kender loose in a magic-infested tomb! He let out a roar: “Tasslehoff Burrfoot—Oh, there you are!”

The kender popped out from around the corner of the small, squat tower.

“Don’t go running off like that!” Flint scolded. “We’re going back down to find Arman.”

“You’re standing in the wrong place, Flint,” Tas announced.

“What?” Flint stared at him.

“You said that from where you stood, you couldn’t reach the hammer, and you’re right. From where you are standing, you can’t reach the hammer. You’re standing in the wrong place. But if you walk around to the other side of this tower, there’s a way. Here, look inside again.” Tas pressed his nose to the glass and, reluctantly, yet feeling a twinge of excitement, Flint did the same.

“See that ledge over there, the one sticking out of the wall above the gongs.” Flint squinted. He thought he could make out what Tas was talking about. A long stone ledge thrust out into the chamber.

“If it is a ledge, it’s not much of one,” he muttered.

Tas pretended he hadn’t heard. Flint was such a pessimist! “I figured if there was a ledge, there had to be some way to reach the ledge, and I found it. Come with me!”

Tas dashed around the squat tower. Flint followed more slowly, still searching for a way off this tomb. He looked out over the crenellations, but all he could see down below were curls and whorls of red-tinged mist.

“Not there, Flint. Over here!” Tas called.

The kender stood in front of a double door made of wood banded with iron.

“They’re locked,” Tas said, and he fixed the doors with a stern eye. Flint walked up, pushed on one of the doors, and it swung silently open.

“How do you keep doing that!” Tasslehoff wailed.

Sunlight poured eagerly inside, as though it had been waiting all these centuries to illuminate the darkness.

Flint took a few steps and came to a sudden halt. Tasslehoff, coming behind, stumbled right into him.

“What is it?” the kender asked, trying to see around him in the narrow hall.

“A body,” said Flint, shaken. He’d nearly trod on it.

“Whose?” said Tas in a smothered whisper.

Flint had trouble speaking for a moment. “I think it’s Kharas.”

The body had been sealed in a windowless vestibule shut off by two sets of double-doors and was well-preserved. The body was intact, the skin like parchment or old leather, drawn tight over the bones. It was that of a dwarven male, unusually tall, with long flowing hair, but only a very short scruff of a beard. Flint remembered hearing that Kharas had shaved his beard in grief over the Dwarfgate Wars and had never allowed it to grow back. The corpse was clad in ornate, ceremonial armor, as befitted the warrior who had borne the king to his final rest. The harness that had held the hammer for which he was famous was empty. He had no weapons in his hands. There was no sign of a wound on his body, yet he appeared to have died in agony, for his hand clasped his throat, the mummified mouth gaped wide.

“Here’s the killer,” said Tas, squatting down by the body. He pointed to the remains of a scorpion. “He was stung to death.”

“That’s no way for a hero to die,” Flint stated angrily. “Kharas should have died fighting ogres, giants, dragons, or something.”

Not felled by a bug.

Not felled by a weak heart…

“But if this is Kharas and he’s dead,” said Tas, “who’s that other Kharas? The one who told Arman he’d show him how to find the Hammer?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Flint grimly.

At the end of the vestibule was another set of double doors. Beyond the two doors was the Ruby Chamber and inside the chamber was the Hammer of Kharas. Flint knew those doors were locked and he also knew the locked doors would open for him, as the other locked doors had opened. Having seen the ledge, he had figured out a way to obtain the Hammer. He looked down at the corpse of Kharas, the great hero, who had died an ignoble and meaningless death.

“May his soul be with Reorx,” Flint said softly. “Though I’m guessing the god took him to his rest a long, long time ago.”

Flint gazed down at the corpse and made a sudden resolve.

By Reorx, I won’t go out like this, he vowed to himself.

“Hey,” he said aloud. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tasslehoff was standing impatiently in front of doors at the end of the vestibule, waiting for Flint to come open them. “I’m going to help you get the Hammer.”

“No, you’re not,” said Flint gruffly. “You’re going to find Arman.”

“I am?” Tas was amazed, pleased but amazed. “Finding Arman is awfully important, Flint. No one ever lets me do anything awfully important.”

“I’m going to this time. I don’t have much choice. You’re going to find Arman and warn him that the thing he thinks is Kharas isn’t Kharas, and you’re going to tell Arman you know where the Hammer is. Then you’re going to bring him back here.”

“But if I do that, he’ll find the Hammer,” Tas argued. “I thought you wanted to be the one to find the Hammer.”

“I have found it,” said Flint imperturbably. “No more arguments. There isn’t time. Off you go.” Tas thought it over. “Warning Arman is awfully important, but I guess I’ll pass. I really don’t like him all that much. I’d rather stay here with you.”

“You’re going,” said Flint firmly, “one way or another.” Tas shook his head and took hold of the door handle and held on tight. After a brief tussle, Flint managed to pry the kender’s fingers loose. He got a good grip on Tas’s shirt collar and dragged the wriggling, protesting kender across the floor and tossed him bodily out the door.