Sunlight poured eagerly inside, as though it had been waiting all these centuries to illuminate the darkness.
Flint took a few steps and came to a sudden halt. Tasslehoff, coming behind, stumbled right into him.
“What is it?” the kender asked, trying to see around him in the narrow hall.
“A body,” said Flint, shaken. He’d nearly trod on it.
“Whose?” said Tas in a smothered whisper.
Flint had trouble speaking for a moment. “I think it’s Kharas.”
The body had been sealed in a windowless vestibule shut off by two sets of double-doors and was well-preserved. The body was intact, the skin like parchment or old leather, drawn tight over the bones. It was that of a dwarven male, unusually tall, with long flowing hair, but only a very short scruff of a beard. Flint remembered hearing that Kharas had shaved his beard in grief over the Dwarfgate Wars and had never allowed it to grow back. The corpse was clad in ornate, ceremonial armor, as befitted the warrior who had borne the king to his final rest. The harness that had held the hammer for which he was famous was empty. He had no weapons in his hands. There was no sign of a wound on his body, yet he appeared to have died in agony, for his hand clasped his throat, the mummified mouth gaped wide.
“Here’s the killer,” said Tas, squatting down by the body. He pointed to the remains of a scorpion. “He was stung to death.”
“That’s no way for a hero to die,” Flint stated angrily. “Kharas should have died fighting ogres, giants, dragons, or something.”
Not felled by a bug.
Not felled by a weak heart…
“But if this is Kharas and he’s dead,” said Tas, “who’s that other Kharas? The one who told Arman he’d show him how to find the Hammer?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Flint grimly.
At the end of the vestibule was another set of double doors. Beyond the two doors was the Ruby Chamber and inside the chamber was the Hammer of Kharas. Flint knew those doors were locked and he also knew the locked doors would open for him, as the other locked doors had opened. Having seen the ledge, he had figured out a way to obtain the Hammer. He looked down at the corpse of Kharas, the great hero, who had died an ignoble and meaningless death.
“May his soul be with Reorx,” Flint said softly. “Though I’m guessing the god took him to his rest a long, long time ago.”
Flint gazed down at the corpse and made a sudden resolve.
By Reorx, I won’t go out like this, he vowed to himself.
“Hey,” he said aloud. “Where do you think you’re going?” Tasslehoff was standing impatiently in front of doors at the end of the vestibule, waiting for Flint to come open them. “I’m going to help you get the Hammer.”
“No, you’re not,” said Flint gruffly. “You’re going to find Arman.”
“I am?” Tas was amazed, pleased but amazed. “Finding Arman is awfully important, Flint. No one ever lets me do anything awfully important.”
“I’m going to this time. I don’t have much choice. You’re going to find Arman and warn him that the thing he thinks is Kharas isn’t Kharas, and you’re going to tell Arman you know where the Hammer is. Then you’re going to bring him back here.”
“But if I do that, he’ll find the Hammer,” Tas argued. “I thought you wanted to be the one to find the Hammer.”
“I have found it,” said Flint imperturbably. “No more arguments. There isn’t time. Off you go.” Tas thought it over. “Warning Arman is awfully important, but I guess I’ll pass. I really don’t like him all that much. I’d rather stay here with you.”
“You’re going,” said Flint firmly, “one way or another.” Tas shook his head and took hold of the door handle and held on tight. After a brief tussle, Flint managed to pry the kender’s fingers loose. He got a good grip on Tas’s shirt collar and dragged the wriggling, protesting kender across the floor and tossed him bodily out the door.
“And,” Flint added, “I’ll need this.”
He deftly twitched the hoopak out of the kender’s hand, then slammed the door in his face.
“Flint!” Tas’s voice sounded muffled and far away through the bronze doors. “Open up! Let me in!”
Flint heard him rattling the door handle, kicking the door and beating on it with his fists. Hefting the hoopak, Flint turned and walked off. Tas would get bored with the door soon enough, and for lack of anything better to do, he’d go in search of Arman.
Flint did feel a twinge of guilt at sending the kender off to encounter that ghost, ghoul, or whatever it was that was claiming it was Kharas, He quickly banished the guilt by reminding himself that the kender had a remarkable talent for survival.
“He just gets other people killed. If anything,” Flint muttered, “I should be worried for the ghost.”
The truth was that Flint could not risk having the kender witness what he was about to do. Tasslehoff Burrfoot had never ever kept a secret. He would solemnly swear on his topknot that he would never ever tell, and five minutes later he would be blabbing it to everyone and his dog, and this secret had to be kept. Lives depended on the keeping of it. Countless thousands of lives…
Flint struck the double doors with his hand, and they opened with a resounding boom, and he walked inside the Ruby Chamber.
Chapter 22
Flint’s Secret. The Hammer. Tas Makes An Amazing Discovery.
Inside the Ruby Chamber, sunlight gleamed red through the ruby-colored glass ceiling, filling the room with a warm glow.
Flint walked out onto the ledge and marveled that he was here. He was humble, overwhelmed, triumphant.
He watched the Hammer swing back and forth in a slow arc, as it had done for three hundred years. Had Kharas suspended it from the ceiling? Flint craned his neck to see. The rope on which the Hammer was suspended hung from a simple iron hook. Flint had the impression that perhaps Kharas had suspended the Hammer, but that other hands had added the magic. Other hands had fashioned the gongs that struck the hour and had crafted the beautiful ruby ceiling. The same hands had dragged the tomb out of the Valley of the Thanes and set it floating in the sky, hands that were somewhere around here still, perhaps waiting to close around Flint’s throat. He watched the Hammer count the minutes as they passed, as the Hammer had counted all the minutes of Flint’s life as they had passed, from birth to this moment, as it counted the beating of his weak old heart.
Each dwarf dreams that he or she will be the one to find the fabled Hammer of Kharas. They talk of it over their mugs of ale. They tell the story to their children, who make hammers out of wood and play at being the dwarven hero. Flint had dreamed of it, but he’d been pragmatic enough to know that his was nothing more than a dream. How could he, metal-smith, toy-maker and wanderer, alienated from his own kind, ever be the hero of his race?
But he had. Somehow. By some miracle, the gods had brought him here. They had brought him for a reason, and he was certain he knew what that reason was.
The Hammer swinging above him made a gentle whooshing sound as it sailed through the air. He could feel the breath of its passing on his face, and he fancied it was the breath of Reorx. Moving stiffly, grimacing at the pain, Flint knelt down awkwardly on the ledge. His old knees creaked in protest. He hoped he could get up again.
“Reorx,” he said, gazing into the ruby glow, “you’re not one of the Gods of Light, like Paladine and Mishakal. You’re a god who sees both the light and the darkness in a man’s soul. You know why I’m here, I guess. You know what I mean to do. Paladine would frown at it, if he were here. Mishakal would throw up her pretty hands in horror.
“I am being dishonest, I suppose,” Flint added, stirring uncomfortably, “and what I propose to do is not honorable, though Sturm did go along with it and he’s the most honorable person I know.
“You see, Reorx,” Flint explained, “I’m only borrowing the Hammer. I’m not stealing it. I’ll make sure the dwarves get it back. I just want to use it to forge the dragonlances, and once that’s done and we win the battle against the Dark Queen, I’ll return the Hammer, switch the true one for the false. The dwarves will never know the difference. Because they think they have the real Hammer, they’ll choose a High King, open the gates to the Thorbardin to the world, bring in the refugees and all will be well. There’s no harm to anyone and much good.