The shaft that propelled the gate was made of oak, massive and strong, but it could not withstand the strain and snapped. The stone block broke off and went plunging down the side of the mountain, landing with a crash on the rocks below. They stared at the ruins in shocked silence. Then Raistlin spoke.
“The Gate to Thorbardin is open,” he said, “and it cannot now be closed.” Tanis checked to see that everyone was all right. Caramon was making his way back up the defile. Flint was fending off Tasslehoff, who was trying to give the dwarf a hug, claiming that he’d saved his life.
“Where’s Sturm?” Tanis asked in alarm, fearing he’d been crushed.
“He went inside,” said Raistlin, “shortly after the gate opened.”
“Damn and blast it!” muttered Tanis.
They peered inside, but they could see nothing, hear nothing. Warm air with a strong earthy smell to it wafted out of the cavern.
“It smells of darkness,” Caramon muttered.
Tanis drew his sword, as did Caramon. Raistlin reached into his pouch. Flint, his expression grave, hefted his battle-axe. They started to move inside slowly and cautiously. All except Tasslehoff.
“I’ll bet I’m the first kender to set foot in Thorbardin in three hundred years!” he cried, and waving his hoopak, he dashed inside shouting, “Hello, dwarves! I’m here!”
“Three hundred centuries is more like it,” said Flint irately. “No kender were ever permitted underneath the mountain. With good reason, I might add!”
The dwarf went lumbering after Tas. Tanis and the others were hurrying after him when, from out of the darkness, came Tasslehoff’s voice, making the most dreaded sound anyone can hear when dealing with kender.
“Oops!”
“Tas!” Tanis yelled, but there was no answer.
Pale sunlight streamed inside the gate, lighting their way for a short distance. The companions soon left the light behind, however, and were swallowed up in impenetrable and endless night.
“I can’t see my nose in front of my face,” Caramon grumbled. “Raist, light your staff.”
“No, don’t!” Tanis cautioned. “Not yet. We don’t want to give ourselves away. And keep your voices down.”
“The dwarves already know we’re here,” Caramon pointed out irritably, “unless they’re deaf.”
“Maybe so,” said Tanis, “but let’s err on the side of caution.”
“The dwarves can see us in the dark,” Caramon muttered to his twin. “Tanis can see in the dark! We’re the ones left blind.”
From out of the darkness came the sound of running footfalls and the clanking and rattling of armor. Caramon raised his sword, but Tanis shook his head.
“It’s Flint,” he told them. “Did you find Tas?” he called to the dwarf as Flint came up to them.
“And Sturm,” Flint reported grimly. “Look! There. See for yourselves. The fool kender’s got himself in a fix this time. They’ve been captured by Theiwar!”
“I can’t see a thing!” Caramon muttered.
“Hush, my brother,” said Raistlin softly.
Tanis with his elven sight saw Sturm lying on the floor, either dead or unconscious. Tasslehoff was crouched at the knight’s side, holding the helm of Prince Grallen in his hands. By the looks of it, he had been about to put the helm on, when he was interrupted.
Six dwarves, clad in chain mail that came to their knees and armed with swords, stood around the kender. At least, Tanis assumed they were dwarves. He wasn’t certain, for he’d never seen any dwarves quite like them. They were thin and looked undernourished, with long unkempt black hair and scraggly black beards. Their skin was not the nut-brown complexion of most dwarves but was a sickly white, pale as a fish’s underbelly. He could smell the stench of their unwashed bodies. Three of the dwarves were pointing their swords at Tasslehoff. The other three had gathered around Sturm with the apparent intent of stealing his armor.
“What’s happening?” Caramon demanded in a loud whisper. “What’s going on? I can’t see!”
“Shirak,” said Raistlin, and the crystal on his staff burst into bright white light. Tanis rounded him angrily. “I thought I told you—”
Piercing shrieks interrupted him. He turned in astonishment to see the dwarves fling their swords to the ground in order to shield their eyes with their hands. They moaned in pain and cursed in rage.
Flint looked back at Raistlin. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.
“Why do you stare at me?” the mage demanded. “You said these were Theiwar dwarves. Theiwar are known to be extremely sensitive to light.”
“Known by dwarves, maybe,” Flint countered, glowering. “I never met the human who ever heard of Theiwar.”
“Well, now you have,” Raistlin returned coldly.
Flint glanced sidelong at Tanis, who shook his head. The half-elf had never heard of Theiwar dwarves, and he’d been friends with Flint for years. Raistlin was certainly acting strangely this trip—even for Raistlin.
“Be gone, Theiwar scum!” Flint commanded in Dwarvish. He strode forward, his axe raised menacingly.
“Hill dwarf dung!” snarled one of the Theiwar, and he began to mumble to himself and wiggle his fingers.
“Stop him!” Raistlin warned. “He’s casting a magic spell!” Flint skidded to a halt. “You’re the mage!” he bellowed at Raistlin. “You stop him!”
“Then get out of my way.”
Flint flung himself flat on the floor as lightning bolts streaked overhead. The bolts struck the Theiwar in the chest, and a shattering concussion shook the chamber. The Theiwar’s smoldering body crumpled. His fellows quit trying to rob Sturm and ran off down the corridor. The rattling of their chain mail and their pounding boots could be heard for a short time, then abruptly stopped.
“They haven’t gone far,” Tanis warned.
“Filthy Theiwar!” Flint fumed. He glared at Tanis. “I said it was a mistake to come back! I’ll go on down the corridor and keep watch. You see to the knight.” He started off, then added in a roar, “And take that helm away from the kender!”
Raistlin stood over Sturm, shining his light on the knight, as Caramon examined him. “He’s alive. His life-beat is strong. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I can’t find any wounds…” Tanis looked sternly at Tas.
“I didn’t do it!” Tas said immediately. “I found him on the floor, unconscious. The helm was next to him. I think he must have dropped it.”
“The helm dropped him, so to speak,” said Raistlin. “Since Prince Grallen is once more in the hall of his fathers, the magic of the helm has released the knight. When Sturm wakes, he will be himself—more’s the pity.”
Tanis held out his hand to the kender. “I think you’d better give me the helm.” Tasslehoff clutched the helm to his chest. “Those ugly dwarves were going to steal it! I saved it! Couldn’t I try it on just once? I’d love to be a dwarf—”
“Over my dead body!” Flint hollered from out of the darkness.
“Sturm!” Caramon was shaking his friend by the shoulder. “Sturm! Wake up!” The knight groaned and opened his eyes. He stared at Caramon in confusion for a moment, then he recognized his friend.
“Why did you let me sleep so long? You should have wakened me. It must be well past my turn to stand watch.” Sturm sat up and then put his hand to his head, assailed by a sudden dizziness. “I was having the strangest dream…”
Tanis motioned Raistlin off to one side. “Will he remember anything of this?”
“I doubt it,” said Raistlin. “In fact, he may have difficulty believing us when we tell him what happened to him.”