“There are stairs over here, leading up,” Arman reported from the far side of the chamber. He paused, then said stiffly, “I’m sorry I lost my nerve. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” Flint nodded noncommittally. He intended to conduct his own inspection of the room. “Where does the map say we are?”
“This is the Hall of Enemies,” said Arman. “These trophies honor King Duncan’s battles.” Various weapons, shields, and other implements of war were on display, along with etched silver plaques relating the triumphs of King Duncan over his enemies, including his exploits in the famous war against the ogres. There were no trophies from the last war, however, the most bitter and terrible war fought against his own kind.
Flint caught the kender in the act of trying to pick up a large ogre battle-axe.
“Put that down!” Flint said, incensed. “What else have you stuck in your pouches—”
“I don’t have any pouches,” Tas pointed out sadly. “I had to leave them behind to put on the dwarf armor.”
“Your pockets, then,” Flint spluttered, “and if I find that you’ve stolen something—”
“I never stole in my life!” Tas protested. “Stealing is wrong.” Flint sucked in a breath. “Well, then if I find that you’ve ‘borrowed’ anything or picked up something that someone’s dropped—”
“Stealing from the dead is extremely wrong,” Tas said solemnly. “Cursed, even.”
“Would you let me finish a sentence?” Flint roared.
“Yes, Flint,” said Tas meekly. “What was it you wanted to say?” Flint glared. “I forget. Come with me.”
He turned on his heel and walked to the corner where Arman had reported finding the stairs. Tas sidled over to one of the displays and put down a small bone-handled knife that had somehow managed to make its way up his shirt sleeve. He gave the knife a pat and sighed, then went to join Flint, who was staring intently at several hammers stacked up against a wall.
“I guess it’s all right if you steal from the dead,” said Tas.
“Me?” Flint said, incensed. “I’m not—”
He paused, not sure what to say.
“What about the Hammer?” Tas asked.
“That’s not stealing,” said Flint. “It’s .. .finding. There’s a difference.”
“So if I ‘find’ something I can take it?” Tas asked. He had, after all, found that bone-handled knife.
“I didn’t say that!”
“Yes, you did.”
“Where’s Arman?” Flint realized suddenly that he and Tas were alone.
“I think he’s gone up those stairs,” said Tas, pointing. “When you’re not shouting, I can hear him talking to someone.”
“Who in blazes could he be talking to?” Flint wondered uneasily. He cocked an ear, and sure enough, he heard what sounded like two voices, one of which was definitely Arman’s.
“A ghost!” Tas guessed, and he started to race up the stairs.
Flint seized hold of the kender’s shirttail. “Not so fast.”
“But if there is a ghost, I don’t want to miss it!” Tas cried, wriggling in Flint’s grasp.
“Shush! I want to hear what they’re talking about.”
Flint crept up the narrow stairs. Tas sneaked along behind him. The staircase was steep, and they couldn’t see where the steps led. Soon, Flint’s breath began to come in gasps and his leg muscles started to cramp. He pressed on and suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Two of the stone stairs jutted outward at an odd angle, leaving an opening about the size of a large human. Light glimmered from within.
“Huh,” Flint grunted. “Secret passage.”
“I love secret passages!” Tas started to crawl inside.
Flint grabbed hold of his ankle and dragged him out.
“Me first.”
Flint crawled into the passage. At the other end, a small wooden door stood open a crack. Flint peeked through. Tas couldn’t see for the dwarf’s bulk, and he squirmed and wriggled to wedge his head in beside him.
“The burial chamber,” said Flint softly. “The king lies here.” He removed his helm. An ornate marble sarcophagus stood in the center of the room. A carven figure of the king graced the top. At the far end two immense doors of bronze and gold were sealed shut. The great bronze doors would have been opened only on special occasions, such as the yearly anniversary of the High King’s death. Statues of dwarven warriors ranged around the tomb, standing silent and eternal guard. Light gleamed off a golden anvil placed in front of the tomb and on a stand of armor made of gold and steel.
Arman was on his knees, his own helm beside him on the floor.
Standing over him, gazing down at him, was a dwarf with white hair and a long, white beard. The dwarf was stooped with age, but even stooped, he was taller than Flint and massively built.
“It’s not a ghost,” Tas whispered, disappointed. “It’s just an old dwarf. No offense, Flint.” Flint gave the kender a kick. “Quiet!”
“I am honored to be in your presence, Great Kharas,” Arman said, his voice choked with emotion.
Flint’s eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up to his hair line.
“Kharas? Did he say Kharas?” Tas asked. “We’ve already got two Kharases—Arman and the dead one. Is this another? How many are there?”
Flint kicked him again and Tas subsided, rubbing bruised ribs.
“Rise up, young man,” said the ancient dwarf. “You should not bow before me. I am not a king. I am merely one who guards the rest of the king.”
“All these centuries you have stayed here,” said Arman, awed. “Why did you not come back to your people, Great Kharas? We are in sore need of your guidance.”
“I offered guidance to my people,” said the ancient dwarf bitterly, “but it wasn’t wanted. I am not in this tomb of my own choosing. You could say I was exiled to this place, sent here by the folly of my people.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. He tugged on his beard. “Funny way of talking,” he muttered. Arman bowed his head in shame. “We have been foolish, Kharas, but all that will change now. You will come back to us. You will bring the Hammer to us. We will be united under one king.” The ancient dwarf regarded the younger. “Why have you come here, Arman Kharas?”
“To… to pay homage to King Duncan,” Arman stammered.
Kharas smiled sadly. “You came for the Hammer, I think.”
Arman flushed. “We need the Hammer!” he said defensively. “Our people are suffering. The clans are divided. The Northgate, closed for centuries, has been opened. There is talk of war in the world above, and I fear there will be war beneath the mountain. If I could bring back the Hammer to Thorbardin, my father would be High King and he would—” He paused.
“He would do what?” Kharas asked mildly.
“He would unite the clans. Welcome our Neidar cousins back to the mountain. Open the gates to humans and elves, and reestablish trade and commerce.”
“Laudable goals,” Kharas said, nodding his head sagely. “Why do you need the hammer to accomplish them?”
Arman looked confused. “You said yourself long ago, before you left: ‘Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.’”
“Are you that dwarf?” Kharas asked.
Arman lifted his head and stood straight and tall. “I am Arman Kharas,” he said proudly. “I found the way here when no one could find it for three hundred years.”
Flint scowled. “He found the way here!”
Now it was Tas who kicked him. “Shush!”
“Why name yourself after Kharas?” the ancient dwarf asked.
“Because you are a great hero, of course!”
“He didn’t mean to be a hero,” said Kharas softly. “He was only a man who held true to his beliefs and did what he thought was right.”
He regarded Arman intently, then said, “What is your name?”
“Arman Kharas,” answered the young dwarf.
“No, that is what you call yourself. What is your name?” Kharas persisted. Arman frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. That is my name.”