Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“And,” Flint added, “I’ll need this.”

He deftly twitched the hoopak out of the kender’s hand, then slammed the door in his face.

“Flint!” Tas’s voice sounded muffled and far away through the bronze doors. “Open up! Let me in!”

Flint heard him rattling the door handle, kicking the door and beating on it with his fists. Hefting the hoopak, Flint turned and walked off. Tas would get bored with the door soon enough, and for lack of anything better to do, he’d go in search of Arman.

Flint did feel a twinge of guilt at sending the kender off to encounter that ghost, ghoul, or whatever it was that was claiming it was Kharas, He quickly banished the guilt by reminding himself that the kender had a remarkable talent for survival.

“He just gets other people killed. If anything,” Flint muttered, “I should be worried for the ghost.”

The truth was that Flint could not risk having the kender witness what he was about to do. Tasslehoff Burrfoot had never ever kept a secret. He would solemnly swear on his topknot that he would never ever tell, and five minutes later he would be blabbing it to everyone and his dog, and this secret had to be kept. Lives depended on the keeping of it. Countless thousands of lives…

Flint struck the double doors with his hand, and they opened with a resounding boom, and he walked inside the Ruby Chamber.

Inside the Ruby Chamber, sunlight gleamed red through the ruby-colored glass ceiling, filling the room with a warm glow.

Flint walked out onto the ledge and marveled that he was here. He was humble, overwhelmed, triumphant.

He watched the Hammer swing back and forth in a slow arc, as it had done for three hundred years. Had Kharas suspended it from the ceiling? Flint craned his neck to see. The rope on which the Hammer was suspended hung from a simple iron hook. Flint had the impression that perhaps Kharas had suspended the Hammer, but that other hands had added the magic. Other hands had fashioned the gongs that struck the hour and had crafted the beautiful ruby ceiling. The same hands had dragged the tomb out of the Valley of the Thanes and set it floating in the sky, hands that were somewhere around here still, perhaps waiting to close around Flint’s throat. He watched the Hammer count the minutes as they passed, as the Hammer had counted all the minutes of Flint’s life as they had passed, from birth to this moment, as it counted the beating of his weak old heart.

Each dwarf dreams that he or she will be the one to find the fabled Hammer of Kharas. They talk of it over their mugs of ale. They tell the story to their children, who make hammers out of wood and play at being the dwarven hero. Flint had dreamed of it, but he’d been pragmatic enough to know that his was nothing more than a dream. How could he, metal-smith, toy-maker and wanderer, alienated from his own kind, ever be the hero of his race?

But he had. Somehow. By some miracle, the gods had brought him here. They had brought him for a reason, and he was certain he knew what that reason was.

The Hammer swinging above him made a gentle whooshing sound as it sailed through the air. He could feel the breath of its passing on his face, and he fancied it was the breath of Reorx. Moving stiffly, grimacing at the pain, Flint knelt down awkwardly on the ledge. His old knees creaked in protest. He hoped he could get up again.

“Reorx,” he said, gazing into the ruby glow, “you’re not one of the Gods of Light, like Paladine and Mishakal. You’re a god who sees both the light and the darkness in a man’s soul. You know why I’m here, I guess. You know what I mean to do. Paladine would frown at it, if he were here. Mishakal would throw up her pretty hands in horror.

“I am being dishonest, I suppose,” Flint added, stirring uncomfortably, “and what I propose to do is not honorable, though Sturm did go along with it and he’s the most honorable person I know.

“You see, Reorx,” Flint explained, “I’m only borrowing the Hammer. I’m not stealing it. I’ll make sure the dwarves get it back. I just want to use it to forge the dragonlances, and once that’s done and we win the battle against the Dark Queen, I’ll return the Hammer, switch the true one for the false. The dwarves will never know the difference. Because they think they have the real Hammer, they’ll choose a High King, open the gates to the Thorbardin to the world, bring in the refugees and all will be well. There’s no harm to anyone and much good.

“That’s my plan,” said Flint, struggling to stand again. He managed, but only by propping himself up with the kender’s hoopak. “I guess if you don’t like it, you’ll knock me off this ledge or deliver some such punishment.”

Flint waited, but nothing happened. The double doors shut behind him, but so slowly and so softly that he never noticed.

Taking silence for a sign that he could proceed with the god’s sanction if not his blessing, Flint walked out to the very end of the ledge. He stared down into the shaft below. All he could see was red light. He wondered how far the drop was then, shrugging, put the thought out of his mind. He gazed up at the Hammer and calculated the distance from the Hammer to the ledge. He eyed the hoopak, then eyed the Hammer again, and thought his plan just might work. Flint stretched out flat on his belly on the ledge. Grasping the hoopak, he held out his arm as far as it would go and made a swipe at the rope with the forked end of the hoopak as the Hammer whistled past.

He missed, but he was close. He had to scoot out over the ledge just another couple of inches. He clutched the end of the stone ledge with his hand and waited for the Hammer to pass him again. Flint swung his arm with all his might, and his momentum almost carried him off the ledge. For a heart stopping moment, he feared he was going to fall, but then the hoopak snagged the rope, and like an angler with a fish on the line, Flint gave the hoopak a sharp jerk. The leather sling dangling from the end of the hoopak tangled itself around the rope, and Flint, his heart beating fast and wild, slowly and carefully drew in the hoopak and the rope attached to the Hammer.

Dropping the hoopak, Flint grabbed the Hammer and hauled it up onto the ledge. At that point he had to pause, for he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He was light-headed and dizzy, and strange swirling lights were dancing in front of his eyes. The sensation passed quickly, however, and he was able to sit up and take the blessed Hammer in his lap and gaze at it in reverence and awe.

“Thank you, Reorx,” said Flint softly. “I’ll do good with it. I’ll use the hammer to bring honor to your name. I swear it by your beard and mine.”

The Hammer was a wonder and a marvel. He could not stop looking at it. The false hammer was like the true but did not feel like it. He put his hand on the Hammer of Kharas, and he felt it quiver with life. He felt himself connected to an intelligence that was good, wise and benevolent, grieving over the weaknesses of mankind, yet understanding of them and forgiving. Some dwarves swore Kharas had carried the Hammer for so long that it was imbued with his spirit, and Flint could almost believe it.

He realized, then, that any dwarf who had ever touched the real Hammer of Kharas could never mistake the false for the true. Fortunately, no dwarf now living had ever touched the real Hammer. Not even Hornfel would know the difference. The counterfeit looked the same, and it weighed about the same, since Raistlin had magicked it. Both hammers were light-weight, easy to carry. The runes were same on both. The color was nearly the same. The true Hammer had a golden sheen that the other did not. He’d just have to keep the real one concealed in his harness. As for other differences, the false hammer would probably not strike as hard or hit its mark as surely as this Hammer would do. Flint longed to test it, for he had heard that the Hammer of Kharas fused with the dwarf who wielded it, reacting to mind, more than touch; however, Flint would have to wait until he and his friends had put the dwarven kingdom far behind them before he could try it out.