“How?” Hornfel asked. “How did you find the gate that has been hidden these three hundred years?”
Flint answered reluctantly, knowing this was exactly the wrong thing to say, for it played right into the Theiwar’s hands, yet there was no other explanation he could offer. “The Helm of Grallen led us here and opened the gate for us.”
Raistlin was at Tanis’s side, his hand closed over Tanis’s arm.
“Tell Flint to ask the Theiwar how he knew about the refugees,” Raistlin urged.
“What does it matter?” Tanis shrugged. “Once the gate was open, his people probably went to investigate.”
“Impossible,” Raistlin countered. “The Theiwar cannot abide sunlight!” Tanis stared at him. “That’s true…”
“Hush, both of you!” Sturm cautioned.
Hornfel had taken a step forward. He raised his hand for silence.
“The charges made against you and your friends are very serious, Flint Fireforge,” he stated.
“You have entered our realm without permission. You have destroyed the gate.”
“That wasn’t our fault,” cried Tasslehoff, and he was immediately half-smothered by Caramon’s large hand.
“You bring among us the accursed helm—”
“The Helm of Grallen is not cursed,” Flint said wrathfully, “and I can prove it.” Lifting the helm, he jammed it onto his head.
The Thanes, one and all, leapt to their feet, even the Aghar, who mistakenly thought that since everyone was standing it was time to adjourn.
Raistlin dug his nails into Tanis’s arm. “This could be very bad, my friend.”
“You were the one who wanted him to put the damn thing on!” Tanis said.
“This is not the time or the place I would have chosen,” Raistlin returned. Sturm instinctively put his hand to his scabbard, forgetting the dwarves had taken his sword. The dwarves had deposited the confiscated weapons near the entrance. Sturm calculated the distance, wondering if he could reach his sword before the soldiers reached him. Tanis saw the knight’s look and knew what he was thinking. He cast Sturm a warning glance. The knight gave an oblique nod, but he also edged a couple of steps nearer the door.
Flint stood in the middle of the Court, the helm on his head, and for long, tense moments, nothing happened. Tanis started to breathe easier, then the gem on the helm flared red, flooding the court with bright red-orange light—a holy fire blazing in their midst. The helm covered Flint’s face; only his beard showed, flowing from beneath, and his eyes.
Tanis did not recognize Flint in those eyes, nor, it seemed, did Flint recognize him or anyone else. He stared around as if he had walked into a room filled with strangers. The Thanes were silent, their silence grim and foreboding. All laid hand to hammer, sword, or both. The soldiers held their weapons ready.
Flint paid no attention to the Thanes or the soldiers. He studied his surroundings; his gaze, filtered through the helm’s eyeslits, taking in everything, like someone returning to a loved place after a long journey.
“I am home…” Flint said in a voice that was not his.
Hornfel’s angry expression softened to doubt, uncertainty. He looked at his son, who shook his head and shrugged. Realgar smirked, as though he’d expected nothing less.
“He’s play-acting,” he muttered.
Flint walked over to the dais, climbed the stairs, and sat down on an empty throne—the black throne, the throne sacred to the Kingdom of the Dead. He gazed defiantly upon the Thanes as though daring them to do anything about it.
The Thanes one and all stared at him in paralyzing shock.
“No one sits on the Throne of the Dead!” cried Gneiss. Grabbing hold of Flint’s arm, he tried to drag him bodily from the sacred throne.
Flint did not stir hand or foot, but suddenly the Daewar Thane reeled backward, as though he’d been struck a blow by an unseen hammer. He fell off the dais and lay, trembling with fear and astonishment, on the floor.
Flint, seated on the Throne of the Kingdom of the Dead, wearing the helm of a dead man, spoke.
“I am Prince Grallen,” he said, and his voice was stern and cold and not Flint’s own. “I have returned to the hall of my fathers. Is this how I am welcomed?”
The other Thanes were eyeing the Daewar, who was still on the floor. No one went to help him. No one was leering or scoffing now.
Rance turned to Hornfel and said nervously, “You are his descendant. Your family brought the curse upon us. You are the one who should speak to him.”
Hornfel removed his helm, a mark of respect, and approached the throne with dignity. Arman would have gone with his father, but Hornfel made a sign with his hand, indicating his son was to remain behind.
“You are welcome to the hall of your fathers, Prince Grallen,” Hornfel said, and he was polite but proud and unafraid, as became a Thane of the Hylar. “We ask your forgiveness for the wrong that was done you.”
“We Daergar had nothing to do with it, Prince Grallen,” Rance said in a loud voice. “Just so you know.”
“It is not fair that we should be cursed,” added Gneiss, heaving himself to his feet. “Our father’s fathers knew nothing about the plot against you.”
“Your curse should fall on the Hylar alone,” said Rance.
“What a farce!” said Realgar.
“Peace, all of you,” said Hornfel, glowering around at them. “Let us hear what the prince has to say.”
Tanis understood. Hornfel was clever. He was testing Flint, trying to discover if he was acting all this out, or if he really had been taken over by the spirit of Prince Grallen.
“There was a time when I would have cursed you,” Flint told them. His voice grew hard and terrible. “There was a time when my rage would have brought down this mountain.” His anger flared. “How dare you bandy words with me, Hornfel of the Hylar? How dare you further affront my ghost, untimely murdered, my life cut off by my own kin!”
Flint brought his fist down, hard, on the arm of the throne.
The mountain shivered. The Life Tree shuddered. The floor shook, and the thrones of the Thanes rattled on the dais. A crack appeared in the ceiling. Columns creaked and groaned. The Aghar Highbluph let out a piercing shriek and fell over in a dead faint.
Hornfel sank to his knees. He was afraid now. They were all afraid. One by one, the soldiers in the hall went down on their knees onto the stone floor. The Thanes followed, until only Realgar was standing, and at last, even he knelt, though it was obvious he hated every moment of it. The tremor ceased. The mountain was still.
Tanis glanced around swiftly to make sure everyone was all right. Sturm knelt on one knee, his arm raised in salute, as knight to royalty. Raistlin remained standing, balancing on his staff, his face and his thoughts hidden in the shadows of his cowl. Caramon had whipped off his helm. He was still keeping hold of Tasslehoff, who was saying wistfully, “I wish Fizban was here to see this!” Tanis shifted his attention back to Flint, wondering what was going to come of this. Nothing good, he thought grimly.
The silence was so absolute it seemed that Tanis could hear the sound of the rock dust sifting to the floor.
Hornfel spoke again, his voice unsteady. “Your brothers confessed their crime before they died, Prince Grallen. Though they did not kill you, they held themselves responsible for your death.”
“And so they were,” said the prince balefully. “I was the youngest, my father’s favorite. They feared he would overlook them, leaving the rulership of Thorbardin to me. While it is true their hands did not deal my death blow, yet by their hands I died.
“I was young. I was fighting in my first battle. My elder brothers vowed to watch over and protect me. Instead they sent me to my doom. They ordered me to march with a small force on the fortress of Zhaman, the evil wizard’s stronghold. I did what they told me. How not? I loved them and admired them. I longed to impress them. My own men tried to warn me. They told me the mission was suicidal, but I would not heed them. I trusted my brothers, who said that my men lied, the battle was as good as won. I was to have the honor of capturing the wizard and bringing him back in chains.