“We found it,” Tas answered, reciting the kender mantra. “I think you must have dropped it.” Caramon sighed and clapped his large hand over the kender’s mouth.
Flint had been slowly seething ever since Arman Kharas spoke. He could stand it no longer. His rage boiled over.
“I see the dwarves beneath the mountain have learned no manners in three hundred years!” Flint said angrily. “You stand in the presence of an elder, young man, yet you do not have the courtesy to ask my name, or why we are here, before you start in with your accusations.” Arman’s face flushed. “I am a Hylar prince. I ask the questions, and I give the commands. Still,” he said, after a pause which indicated that perhaps he was not quite as confident of himself as he let on, “I will permit you to explain, if you can. Introduce yourselves.”
“I am Flint, son of Durgar, son of Reghar Fireforge. A hill dwarf,” Flint added, almost shouting the words, “as were my father and grandfather before me. Who is your father, Arman Kharas, that you claim to be a prince?”
“I am, as I said, Arman Kharas, the son of Hornfel, Thane of the Hylar. I am the hero of the dwarves reborn. When I was given this name, a hallowed light surrounded me—the spirit of Kharas entered my body. I am the living embodiment of him, and as such, I am destined to find the Hammer, unify the dwarven nations, and make my father, Hornfel, king.” As Arman was proclaiming his grand legacy, Tanis noticed some of his men roll their eyes. Several appeared embarrassed. One muttered something in a low voice and those near him grinned. Their amusement vanished swiftly when Arman happened to glance their way. Flint stroked his beard. He did not know what to say to this and at last decided to return to the subject of the gate.
“As I told you, Arman Kharas, the gate opened for us. We had no part in its destruction. The ledge on which the block should have come to rest has crumbled with time. The mechanism pushed the gate out beyond the end. The shaft could not bear the heavy weight of the stone block, and it broke off and fell into the ravine below.”
“How did you find the gate that has been concealed for three hundred years, Flint Fireforge?” Arman Kharas demanded, frowning. He continued to use Common, so that they could all understand. “And by what means did you enter, you and your human companions?”
“And kender,” Tasslehoff mumbled behind Caramon’s hand. “He keeps leaving me out!”
“Wishful thinking,” Caramon muttered.
“We were guided by this,” Flint replied, and he held up the Helm of Grallen. “My friends found the helm in Skullcap—”
“I found the helm in Skullcap,” Raistlin corrected. He gave a slight bow to Arman Kharas. “I am Raistlin Majere, and this is my brother, Caramon.”
Caramon made an awkward, bobbing bow.
“I knew immediately the helm was magical,” Raistlin continued. “It was possessed by the spirit of its late owner, who died in that battle. His name was Grallen, son of Duncan—
Arman gave a cry, and placing his hand on his sword, he took a step backward. His men crowded around him, shouting and clamoring, their deep voices booming.
Caramon clapped his hand to his sword, as did Sturm. They looked at Flint, who appeared as confused as any of them. This was not the reaction they had expected. They had assumed that they would be lauded as heroes for returning the helm of the dead prince. Instead it seemed more likely that they were going to be forced to fight for their lives.
Arman silenced the tumult with a commanding gesture. He stared at the helm, his expression dark and grim, then looked back at Raistlin.
“A human wizard. I might have known. Was it you who brought the helm here?” he demanded.
“I found it,” said Raistlin. “This noble knight”—he indicated Sturm—“volunteered to wear the helm, thus permitting the spirit of the dwarven prince to take control of his body. Under the helm’s enchantment, Prince Grallen asked us to accompany him to the hall of his fathers. The spirit of the prince opened the gate. We are glad to have been able to fulfill his soul’s request, aren’t we, Sturm?” Raistlin said pointedly.
“I am Sturm, son of Angor Brightblade,” Sturm said, not moving his hand from his sword. “I am honored to have been able to serve the fallen prince.”
Arman gazed at each of them, his dark eyes glinting beneath lowering brows.
“Your turn, Tanis,” said Raistlin softly.
Tanis glanced at Flint, who shrugged. He was as confused as the rest.
“Your Highness,” Tanis said, addressing Arman Kharas, “Raistlin is being diplomatic when he says that we came here with the helm voluntarily. The truth is that we had no choice in the matter. The helm took our friend, Sturm Brightblade, hostage, as it were, and forced him to come to Thorbardin. He did not know what he was doing. He was held in thrall by a prince who died three hundred years ago. We had no idea who this prince was. None of us have ever heard of him, except Flint, who knows the history of your people.”
“I know it well. I know how King Duncan shut us out of the mountain, left us to starve—”
“You’re not helping,” Tanis murmured.
Flint muttered something into his beard.
Kharas shook his head.
“If I believe your tale, and you did bring the helm back to us in all innocence, that is worse.” He gazed at the helm, and his expression darkened. “The helm of Prince Grallen is cursed, and, if this is the helm of the prince, you have brought the curse on us. You bring the doom of the dwarves upon us!”
Tanis sighed. “I’m sorry. We had no way of knowing.” His apology was lame, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“Perhaps you did, perhaps you did not,” said Arman Kharas. “I must report this matter of the destruction of the gate to the Council of Thanes. You will have a chance to tell your story to them. If they believe it—”
“What do you mean ‘if’?” Flint said, bristling. “Do you have the nerve to tell me to my beard that my friends and I are lying?”
“We have only your word that this helm is what you claim it to be. It might be a fraud, a fake.” Flint seemed to swell in rage. Before he could, speak, Raistlin said coldly, “There is a simple way to find out if we are telling the truth, Your Highness.”
“What would that be?” Kharas demanded, suspicious.
“Put the helm on your head,” said Raistlin.
Kharas cast the helm an appalled glance. “No dwarf would dare! The Council will judge how best to proceed.”
“I’ll put it on!” Tasslehoff offered, but no one took him up on it.
“I have no need to prove to this Council or anyone that I am not a liar!” Flint was so angry he could barely speak. He whipped around to face his friends. “I told all of you it was a mistake to come here! I don’t know what the rest of you plan to do, but I’m leaving! And seeing as how this helm is not wanted here, I’m taking it with me!”
Flint tucked the helm under his arm and stalked off down the corridor, heading toward the ruined gate.
“Stop him!” ordered Arman Kharas. He made a commanding gesture. “Seize them!” His soldiers were already on the move. Sturm looked down at a dwarven spear tickling his throat. Tanis felt something sharp jab him in the back. Caramon raised his fists. Raistlin said something to him, and Caramon, glowering at the dwarves, let his arms fall to his sides. Tasslehoff made a swipe with his hoopak, but a dwarf kicked the weapon out of the kender’s hand, and grasping Tas by the hair, put his knife to Tas’s neck.
Hearing the commotion behind him, Flint turned around. He was red-faced with fury, the veins in his head popping. Placing the Helm of Grallen at his feet, he stood over it protectively, and raised his battle axe.
“I’ll send the soul of the first dwarf who comes near me to the hall of his fathers, Reorx take me if I don’t!”
Arman Kharas spoke a sharp command, and four dwarves went after Flint, weapons drawn.