“Just run, damn it!” Tanis ordered.
Tasslehoff ran, and being extremely nimble and accustomed to fleeing all sorts of dangers, from irate sheriffs to angry housewives, the kender soon outdistanced everyone. Caramon lumbered along, keeping near his brother. Raistlin hiked up the skirts of his robes, and staff in hand, ran swiftly. Sturm brought up the rear. It was awkward going, trying to run with their hands bound, but the hurtling boulders gave them an excellent incentive to keep moving.
Suddenly, a cry sounded behind them. Pick, the sickly dwarf, had stumbled and fallen to his knees. Arman turned around. Seeing his brother’s plight, he started to hand the Helm of Grallen to one of his soldiers. The soldier cringed, shook his head, and kept running.
“I’ll take it!” offered Flint. “You’ll have to cut my hands loose.” Another boulder whistled past, and they all ducked involuntarily. Pick cried out in terror as the boulder struck the bridge close to him, showering him with stone fragments. Kharas hesitated only a moment then whipped out a knife, sliced Flint’s bonds, and tossed him the helm. Arman dashed back along the bridge, dodging a boulder as it struck the rail and bounded off. Clasping his brother’s hands, Arman lifted him up, and slung him over his back.
They continued to run across the bridge. The green light from the worm-lanterns flared first in one place, then another, as the lanterns swung back and forth. The wildly flashing lights made the dwarven statues appear to be capering in some sort of mad dance that added to the macabre terror of their race against death.
Tanis kept near Flint, who was now encumbered with the helm, thinking he might need help. The old dwarf ran strongly, however, his head down, legs pumping. He held the Helm of Grallen clasped fast in his arms and even running for his life, he wore a grim smile of satisfaction that boded ill for anyone who might try to take the helm from him again.
More boulders sailed down through the green-lit darkness, whistling past so close they could feel the rush of air on their cheeks. Tanis could see the end of the span now, sheltered beneath a large entry way. The light shone on the bars and the wicked points of a portcullis that, fortunately, was raised.
The sight spurred them on, giving those who were flagging their second wind. Tasslehoff reached the entrance first, followed by the dwarven soldiers in a thundering rush. The rest of the companions came after. Raistlin collapsed just short of the opening and had to be dragged inside by his brother. Arman Kharas, carrying Pick on his back, came last. Once they were off the bridge, the boulders ceased to fall.
“The Theiwar targeted us,” said Sturm, gasping for breath.
“They targeted Raistlin,” Tanis pointed out.
Flint snorted. “I said the Theiwar were evil. I never said they didn’t have good sense.”
Chapter 5
The Temple of Reorx. The Hammer of Kharas. A Strange Encounter.
All of them, even the stalwart dwarves, who generally make light of any physical exertion, sank to the floor and lay there gasping for air. Tanis had a great many questions, but he lacked the breath to ask them.
Raistlin leaned back against the wall of the gatehouse. His golden skin took on an odd greenish cast in the lantern light. His eyes were closed. Every so often, his breath rasped.
“He’s not hurt, just exhausted,” Caramon informed them.
“We are all exhausted, not just your brother,” Sturm said testily, trying to rub a cramp out of his leg. “We spent the first half the day climbing a mountain. My throat is parched. We need water and rest—”
“—and food,” said Caramon, then added hurriedly, “vegetables or something.”
“This area is still inside Theiwar territory and is not safe. A short distance ahead is a temple to Reorx,” Arman told them: “We can rest there in safety.”
“Raist, can you make it?” Caramon eyed his twin dubiously.
Raistlin, eyes closed, grimaced. “I suppose I will have to.”
“I am afraid I must ask you to continue to carry the helm,” Arman said to Flint. “Poor Pick cannot go on without my aid, and none of my men wants anything to do with it.”
“If they think this helm’s that terrible, why don’t they just toss it off that bridge and have done with it?” Caramon asked Flint.
“Would you toss your dead father’s bones off that bridge?” Flint asked, glaring at him. “Cursed or no, the spirit of the prince has come back to his people and must be laid to rest.” Arman insisted they leave, and groaning and grunting, they started off, crossing a drawbridge that did not appear to have been raised in years. Fearing pursuit from behind, Sturm suggested they might attempt to raise this bridge, but Arman said that the mechanism was rusted and would not work.
“The Theiwar will not pursue us,” he added.
“You said they wouldn’t attack us either,” Flint remarked.
“My father will be angry to hear of this assault on me and my men,” Arman stated. “This might lead to war.”
Leaving the gatehouse, they emerged onto a main road lined with more abandoned buildings and shops. Streets and alleys led off the road in various directions. There were no lights, no sounds, no signs of habitation.
Raistlin was limping. He was being helped by his brother. Flint marched with his head down, holding fast to the helm. Tasslehoff’s footsteps were starting to flag. Arman left the main street, and taking a turn to the left, he led them down a side road.
A large building rose in front of them. Doors of bronze, marked with the sign of a hammer, stood open.
“The Temple of Reorx,” said Arman.
The Hylar soldiers removed their helms as they went, but they seemed to do this more out of habit than true reverence or respect. Once inside, the dwarves relaxed and felt free to make themselves at home, stretching out on the floor where the altar had once stood, taking long pulls from their ale skins, and rummaging in their knapsacks for food.
Arman conferred with his soldiers, then sent one on ahead to carry news to his father. He detailed another to keep watch at the door and ordered two more to stand guard on the companions.
Tanis could have pointed out that they weren’t likely to try to escape, since none of them had any desire to cross Anvil’s Echo a second time. He was too weary to argue, however.
“We will spend the night here,” Arman announced. “Pick is not strong enough to travel. We will be safe enough, I think. The Theiwar don’t usually venture this far, but just in case, I have sent one of my men to bring up reinforcements from the West Warrens.”
Tanis considered this an excellent idea.
“Could you at least untie us?” he asked Arman. “You have our weapons. We have no intention of attacking you. We want to have our say before the Council.”
Arman eyed him speculatively, then gave a nod. “Untie them,” he ordered his soldiers. The Hylar did not appear happy about this, but they did as he said. Arman fussed over his brother, making sure he had something to eat and was resting comfortably. Tanis gazed curiously around the temple. He wondered if Reorx had made himself known to the dwarves, as the other gods had made themselves known. Judging by the dilapidated state of the temple and the casual attitude of the dwarves as they set up housekeeping for the night, Tanis assumed the god, for whatever reasons, had not yet informed the dwarves of his return.
According to the wise, the creation of the world began when Reorx, a friend of the God of Balance, Gilean, struck his hammer on the Anvil of Time, forcing Chaos to slow his cycle of destruction. The sparks that flew from the god’s hammer became the stars. The light from these stars was transformed into spirits, who were given mortal bodies by the gods, and the world of Krynn, in which they could dwell. Although the creation of the dwarves had always been in dispute (dwarves believing they were formed by Reorx in his image, while others maintain dwarves were brought into being by the passing of the chaotic Graygem of Gargath), dwarves were firm in their belief that they were the chosen people of Reorx.