“—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 ignoble 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 lordship’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 snatched 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 gods. They were human, after all, and humans were forever speaking about their gods 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 god’s virtues to perfect strangers. Why, if he did that, the kender might decide to worship Reorx!
Reorx wasn’t a god to go poking his nose into a dwarf’s own private affairs. Likewise, a dwarf shouldn’t go about badgering the god 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 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.”
Of all of his friends, Tanis was the only one the dwarf would even consider telling. He knew what the others would say if they found out that Reorx had promised him a chance to find the Hammer of Kharas. Once they heard that all he had to do was put on the helm, Raistlin and Sturm would be dragging it down around his ears. Telling Caramon was out of the question. He’d just tell his twin. Flint didn’t even consider Tasslehoff.
“No,” Flint decided. “I can’t tell Tanis, either. He’s got all those refugees on his hands. He’d never do anything to cause me harm, but if it came right down to it and he had to make a choice, he’d ask me to put on the helm…”
Flint sighed, then said gruffly to himself. “It was a dream! A stupid dream. As if I could ever be a hero… or even want to be!”
Arman woke them for an early start the next morning—at least, they assumed it was morning; there was no way to tell what time it was. They continued walking through the dwarven realm, the vastness of which amazed them, for it seemed to go on and on, and as Tasslehoff said, “went up and down and sideways.”
“Thorbardin encompasses three hundred square miles beneath the mountain,” Arman bragged.
“We have built dwellings, shops, and businesses on every level, level upon level, all of them laid out in orderly fashion. You can go into any city in any part of Thorbardin, and you will always know exactly what to find where.”
You could not have proven that by Tanis. He was lost in the maze; all the streets, shops, and dwellings looked alike to him, until they came to what Arman termed “transport shafts”—large holes bored in the rock that connected all the levels. Buckets attached to huge chains clanked up and down between the levels. Those wanting to go from one level to another (and not wanting to climb the chain ladders suspended between levels) could enter one of the buckets and ride to their destination.
Tanis peered over the edge of one of these shafts, and he was astounded to see how many levels there were. Arman Kharas considered these buckets a marvel of dwarven engineering, and he expected the companions to be impressed. He was disappointed to find that they’d seen a similar device at use in the ruined city of Xak Tsaroth, and said dismissively that dwarven engineers must have designed it.
They did not ride in the buckets, for which Caramon was grateful; his last experience with dwarven transportation having been one he’d just as soon forget. They continued walking on what Arman called the Road of the Thanes. Their journey took them from the abandoned city delvings of the Theiwar to a forest—a strange and wondrous forest located in a large natural cavern dubbed the “West Warrens.” Here the companions were impressed enough to suit even Arman Kharas.
“The trees are all mushrooms!” cried Tasslehoff.
The kender clapped his hands in delight and inadvertently let fall a small knife which Tanis recognized as belonging to Arman Kharas. Tanis swiftly retrieved the knife, and when the dwarf was busy showing off the wonders of the mushroom forest, he slipped it deftly into the top of the dwarf’s boot.
Raistlin, who had long made a study of herbs and plants, was eager to inspect the gigantic mushrooms towering over their heads. The mushrooms, other fungi, and strange darkness-thriving plants sprouted up out of rich loam that filled the area with an earthy, pungent odor. The smell was not unpleasant, but served to remind Tanis that he was deep underground, buried alive. He suddenly had the terrible feeling that if he didn’t get out of here, he was going to smother to death. His chest constricted. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He was strongly tempted to break away and run back to the gate. Even the thought of boulders raining down on him didn’t deter him. He licked dry lips and looked about for an escape route.