“The hammer is vital to our cause!” Sturm said angrily.
“Keep your voice down, Sturm,” Tanis cautioned. “The walls are thick, but that door is not, and the guards are right outside.”
“They speak nothing but Dwarvish,” Sturm said, but he did lower his voice. He walked a couple of times around the room, trying to calm himself, then went back to confront Flint.
“I apologize for shouting, but I do not think you understand the importance of your undertaking. The dragonlance is the only weapon known to us that can slay these evil dragons, and the Hammer of Kharas is the only hammer that can be used in the making of the dragonlances. If you bring the hammer to the knights you will be a hero, Flint. You will be honored in legend and song for all time. Most important, you will save thousands of lives!”
Flint did not look at him, though he appeared to be interested in what the knight had to say. His whittling slowed. Only very small shavings fell now. Tanis didn’t like the way the conversation was tending.
“Have you forgotten the reason we came here, Sturm?” Tanis asked. “We came seeking a safe haven for eight hundred men, women, and children. Flint has promised to give the dwarves the hammer if he finds it. In return, Hornfel has promised that the refugees can enter Thorbardin. He won’t do that if we try to walk off with the dwarves’ sacred hammer. In fact, we probably wouldn’t get out of here alive. Face facts, Sturm. The dragonlance is a dream, a legend, a myth. We are not certain such a weapon even existed.”
“Some of us are,” Sturm said.
“The refugees are real and their peril is real,” Tanis countered. “I agree with Sturm that you should not go alone tomorrow, Flint, but I should be the one to go with you.”
“You do not trust me, Half-Elven, is that it?” Sturm’s face blanched, his eyes dilated.
“I trust you, Sturm,” said Tanis, sighing. “I know that you would give your life for me, or Flint, or any of us. I do not doubt your courage, your honor, or your friendship. It’s just… I worry that you are being impractical! You have traded common sense for some wishful dream of saving mankind.”
Sturm shook his head. “I honor and respect you, Tanis, as I would have honored and respected the father I never knew. In this matter, however, I cannot give way. What if we save eight hundred lives now, only to lose thousands as the evil queen moves to conquer and enslave all of Ansalon? The dragonlance may be a dream now, but we have it in our power to make that dream reality! The gods brought me here to seek the Hammer of Kharas, Tanis. I believe that with all my heart.”
“The gods told me where to find it, Sturm Brightblade.” Flint thrust his knife in his belt, stood up, and tossed the chunk of wood he’d been whittling into the fire. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sturm is right about one thing, Flint,” said Tanis. “You should tell the Thanes that you want one of us to accompany you. I don’t care who it is. Take Sturm, take Caramon. Just take someone! Will you do that?”
“No.” Flint stalked off toward a dwarf-size bed he’d found for himself in a distant corner of the room.
“Be logical, my friend,” Tanis was growing exasperated at the dwarf’s stubbornness. “You can’t go off alone with Arman Kharas! You can’t trust him.”
“Actually, Flint, if you want a companion who will be truly useful, you would choose me,” said Raistlin from his place by the fire.
“As if anyone trusts you!” Sturm gave the mage a baleful glance. “I should be the one to go.” Flint halted half-way across the room and turned to face them. His face was livid with rage.
“I’d sooner take the kender than any one of you lot. So there!” He stomped off to bed. Tasslehoff jumped to his feet. “Me? You’re taking me, Flint?” he cried in excitement.
“I’m not taking anyone,” Flint growled.
He marched over to his bed, climbed in it, pulled the blanket up over his head, and rolled over, his back to them all.
“But Flint,” Tas wailed, “you just said you were—”
“Tas, leave him alone,” said Tanis.
“He said he was taking me!” Tas argued.
“Flint’s tired. We’re all tired. I think we should go to bed. Perhaps matters will look different in the morning.”
“Flint said he was taking me,” Tasslehoff muttered. “I should sharpen my sword.” He rummaged about in his pouches, searching for his knife. He located Rabbitslayer then began looking in his pouches for a whetstone. He didn’t find that, but he did come across several other objects that were so interesting he completely forgot about the knife.
Raistlin closed his book with a snap.
“I hope you two are pleased with yourselves,” the mage said, as he walked past Sturm and Tanis on his way to his bed.
“He’ll think better of it by morning,” said Sturm.
“I’m not so sure.” Tanis glanced at the dwarf. “You know how stubborn he can be.”
“We’ll reason with him,” Sturm said.
Tanis, who had tried on occasion to reason with the irascible old dwarf, did not hold out much hope.
Flint lay staring into the darkness. Sturm was right. Tanis was right. Even Raistlin was right!
Logic dictated he should take one of them with him on the morrow. Hornfel would let him if he made an issue of it. The Thanes wouldn’t have much choice.
Yet as he continued to think things over, Flint came to realize he’d made the right decision. He’d made it for the wrong reasons, but that didn’t make it less right.
“The Hammer of Honor doesn’t belong to the knights and their dreams of glory,” Flint said to himself. “It doesn’t belong to elves. It doesn’t belong to humans, no matter how much trouble they’re in. The hammer was made by dwarves, and it belongs to dwarves. Dwarves should be the ones who decide what to do with it, and if that means using it to save ourselves, then so be it.” This was a good reason and sounded very fine, but it wasn’t the only reason Flint was going off on his own.
“This time, the hero is going to be me.”
Of course, there was always the possibility that the hero would be Arman Kharas, but Flint didn’t think that likely. Reorx had promised him that if he put on the helm, the hammer would be his reward.
Flint Fireforge, Savior of the People, Unifier of the Dwarven Nations. Perhaps even Flint Fireforge, High King.
Flint smiled to himself. That last wasn’t likely to come true, but an old dwarf could dream, couldn’t he?
Chapter 13
False Metal. Strange Bedfellows. Flint’s Promise.
It seemed to the companions that they had only just gone to bed when they were awakened by Arman Kharas banging on the door. Being deep underground, bereft of sunlight, they had no way to tell the time, but Arman assured them that in the world outside, the sun’s first rays were gilding the snow on the mountain peaks.
“How do you know?” Caramon grumbled. He was not happy about being wakened “in the middle of the night,” as he termed it, especially when suffering from the effects of drinking too much ale.
“There are parts of Thorbardin where one can see the sun, and we regulate our water clocks by it. You will view one of those places today,” he added in solemn tones, speaking to Flint. “The light of the sun shines always upon the Kalil S’rith—the Valley of Thanes.”
Sturm looked grimly at Tanis, who shook his head and looked at Flint, who very carefully did not look at anyone. The old dwarf clumped about the room, busy over various tasks—putting on his armor, putting on his helm with the “griffin’s mane,” and strapping the Helm of Grallen to his belt.
Tanis saw Sturm’s expression alter. He knew what the knight was going to say before he said it, and he tried to stop him, but he was too late.
“Flint,” Sturm said sternly, “be reasonable. Take one of us.” Flint turned to Arman.
“I’ll need a weapon. I’m not going to face whatever hauled that tomb out of the ground without my battle-axe in my hands.”