“That’s my plan,” said Flint, struggling to stand again. He managed, but only by propping himself up with the kender’s hoopak. “I guess if you don’t like it, you’ll knock me off this ledge or deliver some such punishment.”
Flint waited, but nothing happened. The double doors shut behind him, but so slowly and so softly that he never noticed.
Taking silence for a sign that he could proceed with the god’s sanction if not his blessing, Flint walked out to the very end of the ledge. He stared down into the shaft below. All he could see was red light. He wondered how far the drop was then, shrugging, put the thought out of his mind. He gazed up at the Hammer and calculated the distance from the Hammer to the ledge. He eyed the hoopak, then eyed the Hammer again, and thought his plan just might work. Flint stretched out flat on his belly on the ledge. Grasping the hoopak, he held out his arm as far as it would go and made a swipe at the rope with the forked end of the hoopak as the Hammer whistled past.
He missed, but he was close. He had to scoot out over the ledge just another couple of inches. He clutched the end of the stone ledge with his hand and waited for the Hammer to pass him again. Flint swung his arm with all his might, and his momentum almost carried him off the ledge. For a heart stopping moment, he feared he was going to fall, but then the hoopak snagged the rope, and like an angler with a fish on the line, Flint gave the hoopak a sharp jerk. The leather sling dangling from the end of the hoopak tangled itself around the rope, and Flint, his heart beating fast and wild, slowly and carefully drew in the hoopak and the rope attached to the Hammer.
Dropping the hoopak, Flint grabbed the Hammer and hauled it up onto the ledge. At that point he had to pause, for he couldn’t quite catch his breath. He was light-headed and dizzy, and strange swirling lights were dancing in front of his eyes. The sensation passed quickly, however, and he was able to sit up and take the blessed Hammer in his lap and gaze at it in reverence and awe.
“Thank you, Reorx,” said Flint softly. “I’ll do good with it. I’ll use the hammer to bring honor to your name. I swear it by your beard and mine.”
The Hammer was a wonder and a marvel. He could not stop looking at it. The false hammer was like the true but did not feel like it. He put his hand on the Hammer of Kharas, and he felt it quiver with life. He felt himself connected to an intelligence that was good, wise and benevolent, grieving over the weaknesses of mankind, yet understanding of them and forgiving. Some dwarves swore Kharas had carried the Hammer for so long that it was imbued with his spirit, and Flint could almost believe it.
He realized, then, that any dwarf who had ever touched the real Hammer of Kharas could never mistake the false for the true. Fortunately, no dwarf now living had ever touched the real Hammer. Not even Hornfel would know the difference. The counterfeit looked the same, and it weighed about the same, since Raistlin had magicked it. Both hammers were light-weight, easy to carry. The runes were same on both. The color was nearly the same. The true Hammer had a golden sheen that the other did not. He’d just have to keep the real one concealed in his harness. As for other differences, the false hammer would probably not strike as hard or hit its mark as surely as this Hammer would do. Flint longed to test it, for he had heard that the Hammer of Kharas fused with the dwarf who wielded it, reacting to mind, more than touch; however, Flint would have to wait until he and his friends had put the dwarven kingdom far behind them before he could try it out.
Remembering that Arman might show up at any moment. Flint took the false hammer from his harness—thinking, as he did so, how cheap and shoddy it looked in comparison to the true. He slid the Hammer of Kharas into the harness on his back, tied the false hammer onto the end of the rope then, pulling back the rope as far as it would go, he let loose of the hammer and set it swinging again.
The false hammer swung back and forth as its momentum carried it. But then, slowly, it came to a stop and hung motionless from the ceiling. Flint experienced a moment of panic. Now that it had quit swinging, the hammer might well be out of reach!
He lay down and extended the hoopak. He couldn’t touch it, and for a moment he despaired. Then he remembered that Arman’s arms were far longer than his, and Flint breathed easier. This was actually good, for it provided him with an excuse for why he’d failed.
Flint walked over to the double doors and opened one and peeped out into the vestibule. No sign of Arman. Just the body of Kharas. The empty eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly. Flint didn’t like that, so he shut the door and went to sit down on the ledge. The Hammer of Kharas pressed against his spine, sending a glow of warmth through his body that eased his aches and pains.
Flint waited.
After Flint had so very rudely banished him from the Ruby Chamber, Tasslehoff wasted several moments trying every trick he knew to open the doors, with no result. He then spent a few moments lamenting the loss of his hoopak, the crankiness of dwarves, and the general unfairness of life. Then, seeing as how the doors were not going to open, Tas decided he’d do as Flint had told him and go off to find Arman.
The kender did not have far to look. He had only to turn around, in fact, and there was Arman emerging from a tower to the kender’s right.
“Arman!” Tas greeted him with joy.
“Kender,” said Arman.
Tas sighed. Liking Arman was hard work.
“Where is Flint?” Arman demanded.
“He’s in there,” said Tas, pointing at the doors. “We’ve made the most wonderful discovery! The Hammer of Kharas is inside.”
“And Flint is in there?” Arman asked, alarmed.
“Yes, but—”
“Get out of my way!” Arman gave the kender a shove that sent him sprawling on the flagstones.
“He must not get the Hammer! It is mine!”
Tas stood up grumpily, rubbing a bruised elbow.
“There’s a body in there, too,” he said. “The body of Kharas!” He laid emphasis on that. “Kharas is dead. Quite dead. Been dead a long time, I should imagine.”
Arman either wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t catch the connection, or maybe it didn’t bother him that he’d been hobnobbing with a Kharas who was lying in a mummified state in the vestibule. Arman walked up to the double doors and put his hand on the handle.
“They’re locked,” Tas started to tell him.
Arman flung the doors open wide and walked in.
“How do they keep doing that?” Tas demanded, frustrated.
He made a spring at the door, just as Arman Kharas shut it in his face.
Tasslehoff gave a dismal wail and pulled on the handles and pushed on the doors. They wouldn’t budge. He slumped down disconsolately on the door stoop and sulked. Dwarves opening doors left and right, and he, a kender, shut out. Tas vowed from then on that he would carry his lock picks in his smalls if he had to.
After a moment, he realized that even if he couldn’t be present, he could at least see what was happening inside the chamber. He ran over to the roof and pressed his nose against the ruby glass. There was Arman and there was Flint, standing off to one side, and there was the hammer hanging from the rope that wasn’t swinging anymore. Arman had something in his hand.
“My hoopak!” Tas cried indignantly. He beat on the glass. “Hey! You put that down!”