Then there was Flint, solid and reassuring beside him.
“The old trouble?” asked the dwarf softly.
“Yes!” Tanis tugged on the collar of his tunic that, though loose, wasn’t loose enough. Flint brought out a water skin he had filled from a public well near the temple. “Here, take a drink. Try to think of something else.”
“Something other than being sealed up in a tomb!” Tanis said, swallowing the cool water and laving it on his forehead and neck.
“I had a dream last night,” Flint said gruffly. “Reorx came to me and offered to give me the Hammer of Kharas. All I have to do is put on this helm.”
“Then put it on,” said Sturm. “Why do you hesitate?”
Flint scowled and glanced around behind him to see the knight breathing down his neck. “I wasn’t talking to you, Sturm Brightblade. I was talking to Tanis.”
“The god of the dwarves comes to you and tells you to put on the helm and in return he will guide you to the Hammer of Kharas, and you weren’t going to tell me!”
“It was a dream!” Flint said loudly.
“What was a dream?” Caramon asked, coming up.
Sturm explained.
“Hey, Raist,” Caramon called. “You’d better come hear this.”
“Come hear what?” cried Tasslehoff, dashing over.
Raistlin reluctantly pulled himself away from studying the fungi and joined them. Sturm told the story, and Flint again stated testily that it was nothing but a dream and he was sorry he’d ever brought it up.
“Are you sure about it being a dream?” Tanis asked. “We were in Reorx’s temple, after all.”
“So you’re saying that now you believe in the gods?” Flint demanded.
“No,” said Tanis.
Sturm gave him a reproachful look.
“But I do think…” Tanis stopped.
“You think I should put on the helm?” Flint said.
“Yes!” Sturm said firmly and Raistlin echoed him.
Tanis did not answer.
“The helm didn’t tell Sturm where the Hammer was,” Flint pointed out.
“Sturm isn’t a dwarf,” Caramon said.
Flint glowered at him. “Would you put on this helm, you big lummox?”
“I will!’ Tasslehoff cried.
Caramon shook his head.
“I thought not,” Flint grunted. “Well, Half-Elven?”
“If you found the Hammer of Kharas and returned it to the dwarves, you would be a hero,” Tanis said. “The Thanes would be willing to grant you anything you asked for, maybe even open up their kingdom to the refugees.”
“Oh, bosh!” said Flint, and he stomped off in high dudgeon.
“You have to make him put on that helm, Tanis,” Sturm said. “One of the soldiers speaks Common, and I asked him about the Hammer. He told me outright that it never existed; it is only a myth. According to him, Arman Kharas has been up and down the Valley of the Thanes for years searching for the way inside the tomb. But if Flint knows how to find the hammer…”
“He’s right, Tanis,” said Raistlin. “You have to convince Flint to put on the helm. It won’t hurt him. It didn’t hurt Sturm.”
“Just enslaved him, taking over his body,” Tanis returned, “changing him into another person and forcing him to come here.”
“But it brought him back,” said Raistlin, spreading his hands, as though he couldn’t understand the fuss.
“You know Flint. You know how stubborn he can be. How do you suggest we get the helm on him if he refuses to even consider it? Tie him up and hold him down and jam it on his head?”
“I have rope in my pouch!” Tas offered helpfully.
“It has to be his choice,” Tanis stated. “You know that the more you badger him, the more he’ll get his back up and the less likely he’ll be to do anything. I suggest you two leave him alone. Let him make his own decisions.”
Raistlin and Sturm exchanged glances. Both did know Flint, and they both knew Tanis was right. Raistlin inclined his head and went back to his fungus. Sturm stalked off, tugging on his mustaches. Tanis wished the dwarf had kept his mouth shut. “Damn it to the Abyss,” he muttered. Arman came up. “We have spent enough time here. I have received word that the Council of Thanes will meet with you.”
“That’s big of them,” said Caramon. “I’ll go pry Raistlin loose.” Caramon went off to find his brother, locating him at last down on his hands and knees studying a grotesque looking plant that had black leaves and a purple stem which gave off an odor like cow dung. They eventually persuaded Raistlin to leave, but only by promising that he could return at some point to continue his studies.
Raistlin waxed voluble over the wonders he’d seen and endeared himself to Arman by asking the dwarf countless questions about the cultivation process of the mushrooms, the type of soil they preferred, how the dwarven farmers kept the ground moist, and so on, as they proceeded along the Road of the Thanes.
At least, thought Tanis, the dwarf’s startling revelation had taken his own mind off the notion that he was trapped miles beneath ground.
Tanis supposed he should be grateful.
The mushroom forest gave way to fields of tended mushrooms, other fungi and more odd-looking plants. Arman hurried them along now, not allowing time for any more stops. The dwarves in the fields halted their work to stare at them. Even the small ponies who pulled the plows lifted their heads to take a look. More than one dwarf threw down his rake or hoe and went racing off over the fields, presumably to spread the news that for the first time in three hundred years “Talls” had found their way beneath the mountain.
In the more populated parts of Thorbardin, the wagon and rail system still worked. Arman’s guards commandeered several wagons, ordering out the dwarves who had been riding in them and telling them to wait for another. None of these dwarves had ever seen a human and probably thought them myths, like the Hammer. They stood rooted to the spot, staring. Children burst into wails of terror.
For the most part, no one said anything but were simply content to gape. Here and there, however, a few dwarves had comments to make and these were all directed at Flint, who, by his clothes and the manner in which he wore his beard, was clearly a hill dwarf. He obviously did not belong beneath the mountain and soon the word went around that he was a Neidar, one of the enemy.
Tanis was well aware that Flint and all his people had nursed a three-hundred-year-old grudge against Thorbardin. He’d been hoping that the dwarves of Thorbardin would be more generous. After all, they’d won the war—if one could call it winning—when thousands on both sides had perished. But by the dark looks and muttered remarks, neither side was prepared to forget, much less forgive.
Not all the insults were aimed at the outsiders, nor were the rocks, one of which struck one of the soldier’s shoulders between his shoulder blades. The rock wasn’t very big, and it bounced harmlessly off the soldier’s breastplate. The Hylar soldiers were irate, however, and wanted to chase after the malefactors, who had vanished into the throng.
Arman reminded his men sternly that the Council would be in session that afternoon, and they must not arrive late. The soldiers grumbled but did as they were ordered. Tanis had the feeling this was just an excuse. Looking around at the gathering crowd of dwarves and seeing the grim expressions on their faces, he saw what Arman Kharas was seeing—his forces were outnumbered, and the crowd was in an ugly mood. What was astonishing and troubling was that these dwarves were not Theiwar.