Chapter 30
Flint was suspicious. "What's the catch?"
The dwarf guffawed, doubling over with laughter. Oddly, no one else in the temple seemed to hear him. No one else stirred.
"You don't have much time left, Flint Fireforge. You know that, don't you? You have trouble catching your breath sometimes, pain in your jaw and your left arm... same symptoms your father had right near the end."
"I do not!" Flint stated indignantly. "I'm fit as you or any dwarf here. Fitter, if I say so myself!"
The stranger shrugged. "All I'm saying is that you need to think of the legacy you will leave behind. Will your name be sung by the bards after you are gone, or will you die an ignominious death, alone and forgotten?"
"Like I said, what's the catch?" Flint asked, frowning.
"All you have to do is put on the Helm of Grallen," said the dwarf.
"Hah!" Flint said loudly. He thumped his knuckles on the helm that rested beneath his hands. "I knew it! A trap!"
"It's not a trap," said the dwarf, and he smoothed his beard complacently. "Prince Grallen knows where the Hammer can be found. He knows how to reach it."
"What of the curse?" Flint challenged.
The dwarf shrugged. "There is danger. I don't deny it, but then, life is a gamble, Flint Fireforge. You have to risk all to gain all."
Flint mulled this over, absently rubbing his left arm. Then he caught the dwarf regarding him with a sly smile and stopped.
"I'll think about it," Flint said.
"You do that," said the dwarf, and he rose to his feet and stretched and yawned.
Flint rose, too, out of respect. "Have you... uh... have you made this offer to anyone else?"
The dwarf winked slyly. "That's for me to know."
Flint grunted. "Do they... these dwarves... know you're here?"
The dwarf glared about the temple. "Does it look like they know? Spoiled brats! 'Do this! Do that! Give me this. Give me that. Favor me over him. Heed my prayers; don't listen to his. I'm worthy. He's not.' Bah!"
The dwarf gave a great roar. He raised his hands to heaven and shook his fists and roared again and again. The mountain trembled and Flint fell, cowering, to his knees.
The dwarf lowered his arms. He smoothed out his coat, settled his lace, and retrieved his plumed hat.
"I may come back to Thorbardin," he said with a wink and a sly smile. "I may not. It all depends."
He put his hat on his head, cast Flint a piercing glance, and strolled out of the temple, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.
Flint remained on his knees.
Arman Kharas, waking, saw him crouched on the floor.
"Ah, you felt the quake," he said. "Don't be alarmed. It was a small one. A rattler we call it-rattles a few dishes. Nothing more. Go back to sleep."
Arman lay back down and rolled over and was soon snoring again.
Flint stood up shakily and wiped the sweat from his brow. He eyed the Helm of Grallen and thought-not for the first time-of what it would be like to be a hero. He thought of the pain in his arm, and he thought of death, and he thought of no one remembering. He thought of dishes rattling in Thorbardin.
Flint lay back down, but he did not go to sleep. He put the helm to one side and took care not to touch it.
Chapter 6.
Frozen Ambitions. Plans For a Thaw.
Dray-yan paced the room, waiting for Grag to come with his report. Pacing, like shrugging, was another mannerism the aurak had picked up from humans. When he'd first witnessed Dragon Highlord Verminaard think out problems by walking the length of the room, Dray-yan had viewed the practice with disdain, a lamentable waste of physical energy. That was before Dray-yan had been faced with problems of his own. Now the aurak paced.
When the knock came at his door, Dray-yan recognized Grag's rapping and barked out a command to enter using Verminaard's voice.
Grag came inside and swiftly shut the door behind him.
"Well?" Dray-yan demanded, seeing the glum look on Grag's face. "What news?"
"The gate to Thorbardin is open, and it is snowing in the mountains. We had to give up our pursuit of the slaves."
"A pity," said Dray-yan.
"The snow is heavy and wet, and it blots out everything!" Grag said in his defense. "The dragons, both red and blue, refuse to fly in the stuff. They say that it builds up on their wings. They can't see in it, they become disoriented, and they're afraid of blundering into the side of the mountain. If we want dragons who are accustomed to snow, we should send for the white dragons who are in the south."
"They are being used in the Ice Wall campaign. Even if they agreed to come, it would take weeks of negotiation with Dragon Highlord Feal-Thas, and I don't have the time to spare."
"You don't appear much interested in the slaves," Grag observed, "after going to all that trouble to attack them."
"I'm not. The slaves can go to the Abyss." Dray-yan scowled, gesturing at a scroll bound by a black ribbon that lay on his desk. "I have received a commendation from Ariakas for doubling the iron output."
"You should be pleased, Dray-yan," Grag said, wondering why the aurak wasn't.
"Let me put it another way. Lord Verminaard Lord Verminaard has received the commendation," said Dray-yan, grinding his teeth on the name, then spitting it out. has received the commendation," said Dray-yan, grinding his teeth on the name, then spitting it out.
"Ah," said Grag, understanding.
"Entering Thorbardin was my my doing!" Dray-yan raved. "
"You could always send a message to Ariakas to say that Verminaard was killed."
"Ariakas would dispatch another human Highlord here so fast my scales would fly off, that female they call the Blue Lady. She'd like nothing better than to take command of the Red Army, and from what I've heard, she despises draconians. You and I would both end up working in the iron mines if she took over!"
Dray-yan began to pace the floor again. His claws had torn large holes in the carpeting and he was now leaving scratch marks on the tiles beneath.
"The emperor is asking again about the escaped slaves and about that artifact, that dwarf hammer. He seems obsessed over it. He wants me, or rather Verminaard, to find it and bring it to Neraka when I come. How am I supposed to unearth some moldy old hammer? The emperor also wants a.s.surances the slaves have all been killed. There are dangerous people hiding among them, elf a.s.sa.s.sins or some such thing."
Grag watched the aurak pace in silence. He really didn't give a d.a.m.n about the aurak's personal ambitions to become Dragon Highlord, but Dray-yan did have a point. Grag had heard a few rumors about the Blue Lady himself. Grag had a good life here, and he knew it.
"What are we going to do about these slaves?" Grag asked. "They will likely take advantage of the snow to try sneak past us and gain entrance to Thorbardin."
Dray-yan turned to face him. "Do we have troops in the area?"
"Some, but most of them are being positioned around the southern part of Thorbardin. They couldn't reach the north in time. It's too bad Lord Verminaard bungled that attack in the valley."
Dray-yan swore beneath his breath. His plan of attack - bringing in draconian troops on the back of dragons - had been a brilliant one. He'd supervised the battle himself in the guise of Dragon Highlord Verminaard. He didn't like to be reminded that his plan had failed. He wasn't pleased with Grag for bringing it up.
"The humans knew we were coming!" he snarled. "It's the only explanation. I'd like to know how they found out."
"Don't you understand, Dray-yan? The fault is Lord Verminaard's Lord Verminaard's," said Grag, laying emphasis on the name. "The Highlord could not keep his mouth shut. He blabbed about his brilliant idea of putting draconians on dragons and sending them after the humans. Their spies heard about it and managed to warn the humans, so that they had time to escape. At least, that is what you will tell the emperor, if he should ask."
Dray-yan caught the glint in the bozak's eye.
"You are right, Grag!" Dray-yan said, intrigued. "The fault was Lord Verminaard's. Go on. You were speaking of our troops in the area. What about the forces at Skullcap?"
"They failed to show up at the rendezvous site. Either they deserted, or they're dead."
"So," said Dray-yan, "because of Lord Verminaard's bungling, we don't have enough men in the area to stop these humans from reaching Thorbardin."
"Lord Verminaard has really managed this very badly. It is a shame," Grag continued, "because Her Dark Majesty knows that it was your your idea to put draconian troops on the backs of dragons. Her Dark Majesty is pleased with you." idea to put draconian troops on the backs of dragons. Her Dark Majesty is pleased with you."
"Is she?" Dray-yan asked skeptically "Then why is she making my life difficult? Why not clear the skies of snowclouds so that her dragons can fly?"
"The lesser G.o.ds do what they can to fight her," Grag said dismis-sively "Her Dark Majesty pays them small heed. She is giving you a chance to prove yourself, Dray-yan, and while I still don't like you-"
"So you keep telling me," Dray-yan sneered.
"-your success bodes well for all draconians. If you were to become a Dragon Highlord, all of us would benefit."
"Yes, go on," said Dray-yan.
"Lord Verminaard is already in trouble for having let the refugees escape in the first place. He is now in trouble for failing to recapture them."
"But Verminaard is being commended by Emperor Ariakas for negotiating with the dwarves."
"Negotiations he turned over to you, while he went chasing after the slaves."
"Brilliant..." murmured Dray-yan.
"If Lord Verminaard were to fail yet again and then follow up that failure by dying an ign.o.ble and ignominious death, and if you were to spring to the fore and save the day, the emperor could hardly fail to reward you. Her Dark Majesty would see to that."
Dray-yan was silent, mulling this over. The more he thought about this scheme, the more he liked it. All his mistakes could be attributed to Lord Verminaard. The triumphs would be his own. Grinning broadly, he clapped the bozak on his scaly shoulder.
"Well, done, Grag! We make a good team!"
"I hope you will keep that in mind when you are a Dragon Highlord," Grag said stiffly, his scales clicking in irritation. He disliked being touched.
"I will! I will. What do you want in reward, Grag?" Dray-yan asked magnanimously.
"Command of a regiment," said Grag at once, "a regiment of humans."
Dray-yan grinned. "I think that could be arranged. Now, in regard to these slaves-"
"We could attack them with the forces we have," Grag said. "The troops who wiped out that nest of gully dwarves are still in the area."
"Gully dwarves?" Dray-yan had forgotten.
"The ones who discovered our secret tunnels."
"Ah, those. No," Dray-yan replied after a moment's thought. "Lord Verminaard is going to botch this yet again. He's going to allow the humans to reach Thorbardin." The aurak shook his head in sorrow. "A fatal error on his lords.h.i.+p's part, don't you agree, Grag?"
"Fatal," said Grag, with a snap of his teeth.
"Fortunately for Her Dark Majesty," Dray-yan continued, reaching for pen and ink and parchment, "the brilliant aurak draconian who is Verminaard's second-in-command will be on hand to save the day."
Chapter 7.
Bad Dreams. Giant mushrooms. Private Thoughts.
Flint woke up to find his hand resting on the Helm of Grallen.
He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand off, eyeing the helm uneasily. He remembered last night's dream vividly, so vividly that it seemed almost real. Ridiculous, of course. Oh, it was all very well for Goldmoon and Elistan to have encounters with G.o.ds. They were human, after all, and humans were forever speaking about their G.o.ds in familiar terms, almost if they were buddies, then going about proselytizing, sharing their religious beliefs with everyone they met.
Not so Flint Fireforge. Religion was a deep and private matter for the dwarf. Oh, he might swear by Reorx's beard on occasion, but that was out of respect, and Flint did not go around extolling the G.o.d's virtues to perfect strangers. Why, if he did that, the kender might decide to wors.h.i.+p Reorx!
Reorx wasn't a G.o.d to go poking his nose into a dwarf's own private affairs. Likewise, a dwarf shouldn't go about badgering the G.o.d to intervene. Those were Flint's feelings on the subject. It sounded to him as if some of his fellow dwarves didn't agree with that notion. All that talk about dwarves demanding Reorx do this for them and fix that...
If he believed some fancy-pants stranger who had nothing better to do than disturb a fellow's sleep.
Flint eyed the helm. He'd taken it from Arman because he'd been furious that Arman had taken it away from him. Otherwise, Flint was forced to admit, he wouldn't have touched the accursed thing. That it was was cursed, he had no doubt. cursed, he had no doubt.
The helm was magic, which meant that it must have been made by Theiwar, the only dwarves who were skilled in magic. True, the helm was of ancient make, and by all accounts, the Theiwar had not always been as devious and dark-souled in the old days as they were now. The helm had brought him and his friends here and showed them how to enter the gate, though whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. The helm hadn't done anything bad to Sturm. As far as Flint was concerned, being transformed from a human into a dwarf was a step up.
Still, the helm was magic, and to Flint's mind there was no such thing as good magic. He had no intention of putting it on.
Flint looked over at Tanis, still sleeping, though not soundly or peacefully to judge by his sighs and mutterings.
"I wonder if I should tell him about my dream."