“Here’s to his brilliant subcommanders.” Dray-yan raised a mug of dwarf spirits. Grag raised his own mug. They toasted each other, then both drank deeply. The draconians had only recently discovered this potent liquor made by the dwarves, and both agreed that while dwarves might be a race of loathsome, hairy cretins, they could do two things right: forge steel and brew a fine drink.
Grag could still taste the spirits on his tongue and feel the fire burning in his belly as he left the boat that had carried him and his Theiwar companions across the lake to the Life Tree of the Hylar. Realgar and his two captives—both battered and bloody—traveled in the same boat. The captives were wrapped in burlap bags to keep their identities concealed until Realgar’s big moment before the Thanes. The two men lay unconscious in the boat’s bow, though occasionally one would moan, at which sound one of the Theiwar would kick him into silence. One of the captives was a barbarian, an extremely tall man, identified as the leader of the refugees. The other was the elf lord. Grag’s scales clicked at the stink of elf blood. Grag hoped Realgar didn’t kill him. Grag hated all the people of Ansalon, but there was a special place in his heart for elves. Grag noted that blood was starting to seep through the burlap bag. He wondered how Realgar planned to haul the captives through the city up to the Court without attracting too much attention.
Realgar wasn’t worried about such details, apparently. Peering out from the eye slits in his mask at the Life Tree, the thane talked in smug tones about the day his clan would leave their dank caves and move to this choice location. He pointed to certain prime businesses already marked for take-over by his people. As for his dwelling place, he would live in the home in which Hornfel was currently residing. Hornfel wouldn’t need it. He’d be dwelling in the Valley of the Thanes.
Grag listened to the dark dwarf boast and brag, and the draconian smiled inwardly. Few dark dwarves made the crossing from the Theiwar realm to the Life Tree, for there was little trade carried on between the Theiwar and the Hylar these days. The dock where the Theiwar usually landed was empty. Realgar and his men hauled the captives out of the boat without notice. Once they entered the streets, however, they ran into crowds of dwarves stilling milling about, talking in heated tones about the detested Neidar seeking “their” hammer. Few paid any attention to the Theiwar or the blood-stained burlap bags. Those who did were told that the Theiwar had been “butchering hogs.”
Grag and his guides took their leave of Realgar. The dwarves who were out in the streets stared balefully at Grag, and as a Tall, he came in for his share of verbal abuse. Grag paid no attention. He just kept walking, his clawed feet—wrapped in rags—shuffling over the cobblestones, and he just kept smiling.
The Theiwar led Grag to the part of the city where the Talls resided. They had not gone far before two shadowy figures detached themselves from a building and hastened over to talk to the Theiwar. They all jabbered in dwarven for long moments, the two Theiwar gesturing at the inn, smirking and chortling. They pointed out two Hylar dwarves lying in an alley, bound hand and foot, with bags over their heads.
Grag waited impatiently for someone to tell him what was going on. Finally one of the Theiwar turned to him.
“It’s done. You can report back to your master that the Talls are dead.”
“My orders are to see for myself,” said Grag. “Where are the bodies?” The Theiwar scowled. “In an inn at the end of the street, but it’s a waste of time, and we might be discovered. The Hylar could come at any moment.”
“I’ll run the risk,” said Grag. He started to walk toward the building, then stopped and pointed to the Hylar dwarves. “What about them? Are they dead?”
“Of course not,” said the Theiwar scornfully. “We’re going to take them back with us.”
“Easier to kill them,” Grag pointed out.
“But less profitable,” said the Theiwar with a grin.
Grag rolled his eyes.
“Are you sure the Talls inside are dead,” he asked grimly, “or are you planning to hold them for ransom?”
“See for yourself, lizard,” the Theiwar sneered, and he pointed to a cracked window. Grag peered inside. He recognized the humans from Pax Tharkas. There was the Solamnic knight, not looking so knightly anymore, sprawled under the table. The half-elf lay alongside him. The wizard was slumped over in a chair. Grag was glad to see the mage was among the dead. He’d been a weak and sickly fellow, as Grag remembered, but wizards were always trouble. The big, muscle-bound warrior lay by the door. The poison had probably been slower to work on him. Perhaps he’d tried to go for help.
“They look dead,” he admitted, “but I need to check the bodies to make certain.” He started for the door and suddenly found all the Theiwar lined up in front of him, their squinty little eyes glaring at him.
“What’s the matter now?” Grag demanded.
One of the Theiwar jabbed a filthy finger at him. “Don’t go looting the bodies. Anything of value on them is ours.”
The other Theiwar all nodded emphatically.
Grag regarded them with disgust and started to push past them. The Theiwar seemed inclined to argue, but Grag made it clear that he was not going to put up with any nonsense. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, and the Theiwar, grumbling, moved away from the door. As Grag opened it, two of the Theiwar dashed in immediately. They crouched beside the big fellow by the door and began tugging on his leather boots. The other two hurried inside after them, heading straight for the dead wizard.
Grag entered more slowly, keeping his eyes on the knight. The damned Solamnics were hard to kill. In fact, it seemed to Grag that the Solamnic looked a little too healthy for a corpse. Grag had drawn his sword and was bending over the knight to feel for a life-beat when squeals of terror erupted from behind him; squeals cut short by a sickening sound like the squishing of over-ripe melons—two Theiwar heads being bashed together.
This was followed almost immediately by a dazzling flash, a shriek, and a curse. The knight and the half-elf both leaped to their feet. Half-blinded by the flash of light, Grag slashed at them with his sword. The half-elf overturned the table, effectively blocking the blow.
“It’s a draconian!” the knight shouted, swinging his sword.
Grag ducked the blow.
“Don’t kill him! Take him alive!” someone yelled.
Grag guessed he was on his own in this battle and a glance out the window proved him right. Two surviving Theiwar, their hair and beards singed, were running as fast as they could down the street.
Grag swore at them beneath his breath. He had two competent and skilled warriors in front of him, but he was more worried about the wizard behind him. Grag was just about to overpower the half-elf, when he heard chanting. He felt suddenly drowsy and staggered on his feet. Grag knew a magic spell when he heard one and he fought against it, but the magic overcame him. The last thing he remembered, as he slumped to the floor, was rose petals drifting down around his head.
“This is how the dark dwarves knew about us and about the refugees,” said Raistlin. He was standing over the comatose draconian, watching as Sturm and Caramon bound the creature’s clawed hands and feet. “I told you at the Council meeting, Tanis, that it was important to find out.”
“I’ve said twice I was sorry,” Tanis said impatiently. “Next time I will listen to you, I promise. The question is now—what does this mean? What are draconians doing in Thorbardin?”
“What it means is that Verminaard and his troops are in league with the dwarves,” said Sturm. Tanis shook his head. Turning away, he kicked suddenly and viciously at a table leg. “Damn it all! I urged the refugees to leave the valley where they were safe and led them right into a trap! How could I have been so stupid?”