“He’s going to get us all killed, Tanis!” Raistlin warned.
Tanis shouted for Flint to stop, but the outraged hill dwarf was cursing, swearing, and swinging his axe in vicious arcs, and either he could not hear or he was ignoring Tanis’s command. The dwarf soldiers prodded at him with their spears. Flint struck at them with his axe. All the while, another solider had slipped up behind him. The soldier thrust out his foot, tripping Flint, who went over backward. The other soldiers jumped on him. One snatched away his axe. The others pinned his hand and feet.
“Thorbardin treachery! I expected it! I warned you of this, Tanis!” Flint bellowed, struggling to free himself, to no avail. “I told you they would treat us this way!” Once Flint’s hands were bound, the soldiers hoisted him to his feet, still cursing and raving. All of them, Kharas included, eyed the Helm of Grallen that stood on the floor where Flint had placed it. None of them made any move to go near it, much less touch it.
“I will carry it,” Raistlin offered.
Kharas appeared tempted to accept, but he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “If this curse is come to Thorbardin, let it fall on me.” He reached down for the helm. The other dwarves backed away from him, watching in dread anticipation, certain something dire was about to happen.
Kharas clasped the helm, involuntarily wincing as he touched it.
Nothing happened.
He lifted the helm, placed it under his arm, wiped the sweat from his face. He gestured to the companions. “Take their weapons and tie them up securely.”
Dwarves bound their hands, all except Raistlin, who forbade them to touch him. They glanced at him askance, glanced at each other, and let him be. Arman stopped to gently assist the sickly dwarf to his feet then led the way through the darkened hall.
Tanis, prodded from behind by a spear, followed.
“I don’t suppose this would be a good time to ask them to provide shelter for eight hundred humans,” Raistlin murmured, coming up behind him.
Tanis flashed him a grim glance.
The dwarf behind Tanis prodded him again in the back. “Keep moving, scum!” he ordered in Dwarvish.
They kept moving deeper into the mountain, bearing the doom of the dwarves—and most likely their own—along with them.
Chapter 3
Faith. Hope. And Hederick.
The refugees trekked through the narrow pass. The going was slow and wearisome, for they had to pick their way among the rocks and crags, always keeping one eye on the gray and cloudchoked sky above them. They could see no dragons, but they could feel their constant presence. The dragonfear that radiated from the beasts was not strong, for the dragons flew high overhead, hidden by the clouds, but the fear was an added weight on their hearts, an added burden on their souls and slowed the people down.
“The pass is too dangerous for the dragons to enter. Why should they bother?” Riverwind said to Elistan, “They have only to wait for us to emerge from this pass, which we must do sooner or later, for we do not have the supplies to remain here long. Once we move out into the open, they will attack us, and we have no idea how far we are from Thorbardin, or even if there will be a refuge for us when we get there.”
“I feel the fear,” Elistan replied, “like a shadow over my heart, yet, my friend, shadows are caused by sunlight behind them. Other eyes look down on us and watch over us. It might be well to remind the people of that.”
“Then you’d first better remind me,” Riverwind said. “My faith in the gods is being sorely tested. I admit it.”
“Mine, as well,” said Elistan calmly, and Riverwind regarded the cleric in astonishment. Elistan smiled. “You seem surprised to hear me say that. Faith in the gods does not come easily, my friend. We cannot see them or hear them. They do not walk beside us, like overprotective parents, coddling and cosseting us, holding us by the hand lest we trip and fall. I think we would soon grow angry and rebellious if they did.”
“Isn’t it wrong to doubt them?”
“Doubt is natural. We are mortal. Our minds are the size of this small pebble compared to the minds of the gods that are as large as all heaven. The gods know that we have no way to comprehend their vision. They are patient with us and forbearing.”
“Yet they hurled a fiery mountain down on the world as punishment,” said Riverwind.
“Thousands died and thousands more suffered as a result. How are we to account for that?”
“We cannot,” said Elistan simply. “We can feel sorrow and anger. That is perfectly natural. I am angry when I think back on it. I do not understand why the gods did this. I question them constantly.”
“Yet you remain faithful to them.” Riverwind marveled. “You love them.”
“When you have children, will they never grow angry at you? Never doubt you or defy you? Do you want your children to be meek and submissive, always look to you for answers, obey you without question?”
“Of course not,” said Riverwind. “Such weak children would never be able to make their own way in the world.”
“Would you love your children if they defied you, rebelled against you?”
“I would be angry with them, but I would love them,” said Riverwind quietly, and his gaze went to Goldmoon, moving among the people, speaking to them softly, bringing them comfort and ease, “for they are my children.”
“So do the gods of light love us.”
One of the Plainsmen was hovering near, not wanting to break in on their conversation, yet obviously the bearer of important news. Riverwind turned to him, signing to Elistan that he was to remain.
“Yes, Nighthawk, what is it?”
“The trail marked by the half-elf and the dwarf continues down this mountain into a pine forest, then ascends into the mountain along a narrow defile. The elf, Gilthanas, who has the eyes of the eagle, can see a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. He believes this could be the fabled gate of Thorbardin.”
“Or a cave… or a dragon’s lair,” said Riverwind.
Even as he spoke his doubts, he smiled ruefully at Elistan.
Nighthawk shook his head. “According to Gilthanas, the hole is rectangular with squared-off edges. Nature did not form it, nor a dragon.”
“What kind of terrain lies between us and this gate, should it prove to be a gate?” Riverwind asked.
“Open to the wind and sky,” Nighthawk replied.
“And to the eyes of dragons,” said Riverwind, “and the eyes of a draconian army.”
“Yes, Chieftain,” Nighthawk replied. “The enemy is out there and on the move. We saw what looked to be draconian troops leaving the foothills and heading into the mountains.”
“They know we are here. The dragons have told them.”
“We can defend this pass,” suggested Nighthawk.
“We cannot stay here forever, though. We have supplies enough for a few days, and soon the snows will start. What is this ancient road like?”
“Well built. Two can walk side-by-side with room to spare, but there is no cover until we reach the tree line at the bottom, nor is there cover when we start back up the mountain. Not a tree or a bush in sight.”
Riverwind shook his head gloomily.
“Return and keep watch on the enemy and on that hole in the side of the mountain. Let me know if anyone comes out, or goes in. This might tell us if we have truly found the gate. Riverwind turned back to Elistan.
“Now what do I do, Revered Son? It looks as though we may have found the Gate of Thorbardin, but we cannot reach it. The gods give us their blessing with one hand and smack us in the face with the other.”
Elistan was about to say something in response, when Goldmoon walked up.
“My turn,” she said. She looked angry clear through. Her lips were compressed, her blue eyes glinting Riverwind sighed. “What new problem do you bring me, wife?”
“An old problem—Hederick. Why Mishakal didn’t yank his feet out from under him while he was crossing that cliff face—” Goldmoon saw Elistan standing there, and she flushed. “I’m sorry, Revered Son. I know such thoughts are wicked…”