Jean Rabe - Downfall

Sitting down in front of the pillar, he traced the outline of an ugly harridan who must have had more muscles than brains to be able to carry all the others on top of her shoulders. He took one more glance down the alcoves, then started humming, a magical tune Maldred had taught him-the first spell Maldred had ever taught him, in fact. And it was his favorite. He searched for the spark within him, that essence of magic Maldred said he sensed when he met the kobold in the wilderness. Feeling it, his tune increased and was cut through with a gargling noise that wasn't part of the enchantment but which the kobold added for effect. He felt the energy flow from his chest into his arms, into his fingers, and into the face of the carved dwarven woman.

"Make us a little light," he told the carving. Then a heartbeat later the carved figure started to burn. It was slow at first, the flames difficult to catch on because the wood was so dense, old, and dry. But Fetch was persistent. He puffed on the flames-he was extremely accomplished at setting fires. Then he sat back, satisfied, as the pillar became engulfed with flames.

It's just one pillar, he thought, although it was burning fast and merrily. There were still five left to pay homage to the departed dwarven god. What was the name Dhamon said? Rocks? No. Rork? The kobold paced around the pillar, warming his hands and tipping his face to catch the welcome heat. His gaze roamed to the far wall, where the light was catching the other faces carved in stone. The dancing flames made it look as if the faces were laughing. Fetch joined in their revelry, cackling and snorting and dancing and pretending to pray to Rork, god of the carved dwarves. The kobold liked to dance- though not when Maldred was around. Dancing was frivolous, and the kobold did his best to present a serious and studious image to his master and mentor. But Maldred wasn't here, so he danced faster and wilder until his chest burned from the exertion and the altitude.

Panting, he approached the laughing stone faces, his shadow darkening some and turning them sad. Running his fingers around their features he created another game to occupy himself. He began naming each face he touched. "Laughing Lars, Laughing Dretch, Laughing Riki, Crying Mo"-this for one who seemed to be looking directly at him, sorrowfully.

Then he skated over to the black altar. He worked at his other magic, the spell that allowed him to take on the form of various creatures. Within the span of several minutes, he looked like Laughing Lars, though he gave his face the healthy ruddy red color he imagined the dwarf would have if he were alive. For more fun, he took on Laughing Dretch's image and left his skin stony gray. But Fetch quickly tired of this game, too, and returned to the burning pillar. The flames had reached the topmost carved dwarf and was burning very quickly.

He thought the scent almost pleasant-much better, at least, than the troll flesh and the perfume Rikali had drenched herself with. He sniffed and tried to imagine what a young wild pig would taste like roasted on the pillar fire. Not quite able to decide, he gave up and returned to simply staring at the fire, mesmerized by it.

"Maldred says I play with you too much," he told the flames. "But I don't think so. I really like fire."

A moment later he was standing inches from another pillar, then sitting in front of the face of an old male dwarf, who had deeply carved wrinkles and squinting eyes- another that hadn't yielded any valuable gems. "Don't look at me like that," Fetch said. "Oh, won't listen to me, huh? Well, I'll just have to burn you, too."

He started humming, searching for the spark, and grinning wide when the old carving caught fire.

Maldred and Fiona carefully picked their way down a staircase that was at times winding and circular, then sharply angled and steep. It seemed to stretch downward into the darkness forever. The steps were smooth with age, and they were shiny from the numerous feet that must have traipsed over them. For more than an hour they'd been heading down, pausing at alcoves where wood and stone statues of Reorx were nestled. Beneath the statues were ceramic bowls with offerings so ancient and brittle that they were unidentifiable. As they continued on, they tried to gauge just how far beneath the great chamber they were.

"I wonder how old this is?" Fiona mused. She was running her fingers along the wall, where she'd found more carvings of dwarven faces. Many of the mouths were «O» shaped, and she took the torch from Maldred and inserted it into one of the mouths, which was obviously meant to serve as a sconce.

Then she tugged the last torch free from her satchel and lit it. "I'll carry it for a while," she said to Maldred. "But we can't be gone much longer or we'll have to find our way back up in the dark. So… how old do you think?"

"Hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe. Perhaps a thousand," he said finally, stopping also to examine a face similar to one he'd spotted on a pillar above. "Donnag and his people have claimed this land for a very long time. He is keenly aware of what comprises his holdings, like a greedy dragon who can account for every coin in his horde, but I'm certain he does not know about this. Else I would have heard of it, too. We will make him aware when we return, perhaps taking one of the smaller wooden statues of the god for proof, and he will be most happy with the knowledge. And you're right. We should think about returning to Fetch. It'll take us a while to make the climb back."

"A thousand years," she repeated. "The gods were very active then."

"Krynn is better off without them." Maldred looked down. They should head back. They had been gone more than an hour. Maybe two. And it would take them longer to climb up than it had to go down. But it seemed like the steps didn't go much farther. "Maybe just a little more." Then he laughed. "Wonder if this'll take us to the foot of the mountains-or beneath them. I wouldn't be surprised." He gestured for her to follow him. "Maybe we'll emerge near Bloten! I'll take you straight to Grim's and he'll mend your face in…"

"What about Rig? And Fetch is above…"

He touched her chin. "They're grown-ups. They'll be all right, and if need be they can find their own way back. Besides, Dhamon and Rig are together. And I know for certain that Dhamon will be returning to Donnag's."

Then he headed down the steps.

She followed, one hand holding the torch, the other feeling along the wall and touching the images carved there.

A disturbing question tugged at her mind, and she finally voiced it. "How can you say that Krynn is better without her gods? The gods gave us so much. And Vinus Solam-nus who founded my order…"

"The gods never did anything for me," Maldred said evenly. "In truth, I'm glad they're gone." He stopped when a shrill noise echoed up from below, and he drew his hand back over his shoulder, gripping the pommel of his sword. He relaxed when a large bat flew by. "Though I suppose the gods kept the dragons in check."

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, and he turned. Fiona, two steps above, was eye to eye with him.

"I don't like the way you talk, Maldred. The gods are important to Krynn, and I believe they will come back," she said, thrusting her chin forward. "Maybe they won't return in my lifetime. But it will happen. And dwarves will use this temple again. I would certainly like to think so, anyway. I can imagine their deep voices echoing in prayers to Reorx." Suddenly she blinked and shook her head. "Where's Rig, anyway?"

He brushed the tip of her nose with his fingers, locked his eyes onto hers. "Rig is of no concern, and you should abandon all thoughts of marrying him," Maldred said, his voice sonorous and melodic, enchantingly pleasant. "Lady Knight, you need be concerned only with me, and with seeing what's at the bottom of these never-ending steps."