He tucked the spectacles into his pocket, made sure they were safe and secure, then went back to the red glass roof.
Flint and Arman were gone, and so was the Hammer. Tas was wondering what could have happened to them and was seriously considering trying to break the glass, so he could crawl inside and find out, when the double doors flew open.
Arman walked into the sunlight. “I have the Hammer of Kharas!” he proclaimed in triumph. He was so pleased with himself, he even smiled at Tas. “Look, kender! I have the sacred Hammer.”
“I’m glad for you,” said Tas politely, and he was, in a way; Arman did look very proud and happy. If he was happy for Arman, he was sad for Flint, who came trailing out the door after Arman. Flint looked subdued, but not as crushed and disappointed as Tas had feared.
“I’m sorry, Flint,” said Tas, resting a consoling hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, a hand the dwarf promptly removed. “I think you should have been the one to take the Hammer. Oh, by the way, can I have my hoopak back?”
Flint handed it over. “The gods made their choice,” he said.
Tas didn’t quite see how the gods had anything to do with finding the Hammer, but he didn’t like to argue with Flint in his unhappy state. Tas changed the subject.
“I met a golden woolly mammoth, Flint! He showed me the way out,” he said. Flint glared at him. “No more woolly mammoths. Not now. Not ever.”
“What?” Tasslehoff was confused. “I didn’t say woolly mammoth. There’s no such thing as a golden woolly mammoth. I met a golden… woolly mammoth.”
Tasslehoff clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Why did I say that? I didn’t see a woolly mammoth. I saw a golden… woolly mammoth.” Tas slapped himself on the head, hoping to jolt his brain. “It was big, it was gold, it had wings and a tail, and it was a… woolly mammoth.”
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to say the word… woolly mammoth. Tas heaved a deep sigh. He’d been looking forward to telling Flint, Tanis and all the rest how he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had spoken to a golden… woolly mammoth, and now he couldn’t. His brain knew what he wanted to say. It was his tongue that kept confusing things.
Flint had walked off in disgust. Arman Kharas was marching about the battlements, holding the hammer and shouting to the world that he, Arman Kharas, had discovered it. Tas trailed after Flint.
“I did find the way out,” he said. “I met a… er… someone who showed me. All we have to do is step on that golden rune over there, and it will take us to someplace or other. I forget.” He pointed to the brightly glowing rune, glistening on the flagstones.
“Oh, yes! The Temple of the Stars. Your father’s there,” Tas said to Arman, “waiting the return of the Hammer.”
Flint looked astonished and skeptical. Arman was tempted, but suspicious.
“Where did this rune come from?” he demanded.
“I told you. I met someone. The guardian of the tomb. He was a…” Tas tried his very best to say it. The word “dragon” was in his throat, but he knew perfectly well what it would come out as “woolly mammoth,” and so he swallowed it. “I met Kharas. He showed me the rune.” Arman’s face darkened, and so did Flint’s.
“Kharas is dead,” said Arman. “I paid homage to his spirit. I will return when I may and see to it that he is entombed with honor. I do not know who or what that apparition was—”
“It was his restless, roving spirit,” said Tas, now enjoying himself, “doomed to wander the tomb of his king in unhappy torment, weeping, wailing, and wringing his hands, unable to depart until a true hero of the dwarves returns to free him. That hero is you,” Tas said to Arman. “The spirit of Kharas is now free. He left me with a blessing and floated up into the air like a soap bubble. Poof, he was gone.”
Flint knew the kender was lying through his teeth. He didn’t dare say a word, however, because Arman had listened to the outlandish tale with reverent respect.
“We will honor the last wishes of the spirit of Kharas.” Removing his helm, Arman walked over and stood with bowed head on the golden rune.
“Where did this rune really come from?” Flint asked in a harsh whisper, adding indignantly, “No dwarf ever went ‘poof’!”
“I’d tell you the truth, Flint,” said Tas, sighing, “but I can’t. My tongue won’t let me.” Flint glared at him. “And you expect me to stand on a strange rune and let it magic me to Reorx knows where?”
“The Temple of the Stars, where they’re awaiting the return of the Hammer.”
“Make haste!” called Arman impatiently. “This is my moment of triumph.”
“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Flint muttered into his beard, but he stomped off and went to stand beside Arman on the golden rune.
Tasslehoff joined them. He was the keeper of a marvelous secret, one of the biggest secrets of the past couple of centuries, a secret that would astound and amaze everyone… and he couldn’t tell a soul. Life was very unfair.
The rune began to glow. Tas’s hand went to his pocket and closed over the ruby spectacles and felt something tickle his fingers. He fished it out. The rune began to shine bright gold, and the red mist closed in around them, and he couldn’t see the tomb anymore. All he could see was Flint, Arman, and a white chicken feather. Then Tas understood.
Hope. That was the secret, and it was one he could share. Even if he couldn’t say a word to anyone about there being golden… woolly mammoths.
When word spread through the dwarven realms that the doors leading to the Valley of the Thanes had closed and would not open, the dwarves of Thorbardin came at last to believe that some momentous event was at hand. The Eighth Road was reopened, and dwarves traveled by wagon and on foot to take up their vigil outside the Guardian Hall.
The day was drawing to close when suddenly the great doors swung open. A solitary dwarf appeared, an elderly dwarf with long white hair and a long white beard. He was not Arman Kharas, nor was he the Neidar dwarf, and the assembled dwarves regarded him warily. The elderly dwarf stood before them. He raised his hands, calling for silence, and silence fell.
“The Hammer of Kharas has been found,” the dwarf announced. “It is being carried to the Temple of the Stars to dedicate it to Reorx, who has returned and now walks among you.” The dwarves stared at him in suspicion and amazement. Some shook their heads. The elderly dwarf raised his voice, his tone stern.
“The Hammer hung suspended from a thin piece of rope. It swung back and forth, counting out the minutes of your lives. The rope has been cut, the Hammer freed. It is you, the dwarven clans of Thorbardin, who hang suspended from that same fragile lifeline, swinging between darkness and light. Reorx grant that you choose well.”
The strange dwarf turned and walked back inside the great bronze doors. Some of the bolder dwarves followed him into the Valley of the Thanes, hoping to be able to speak to him, ask questions, demand answers. But upon entering the doors, the dwarves were momentarily dazzled by the sunlight shining into the Valley, and they lost sight of the dwarf in the glare. When they could see again, the strange dwarf was nowhere to be found.
It was then they saw the miracle.
The Tomb of Duncan no longer floated among the clouds. The tomb stood on the site where it had been built three hundred years before. The sunshine gleamed on white towers and glowed on a turret crafted of ruby glass. The lake was gone, as though it had never been. The dwarves knew then the identity of the strange dwarf who had appeared to them, and they took off their helms and sank to their knees and praised Reorx, asking his forgiveness and his blessing.
The statue of Grallen stood guard before the tomb, where, inside, they would find the final resting place of King Duncan and the remains of the hero, Kharas. A stone helm was on the statue’s stone head, and an expression of infinite peace was on the stone face.