Chapter Five
Twenty-five. generations of Hammerfells have passed since the Founderstone was stolen from Balgard and Brimbar Hammerfell,” the dwarf growled as he tugged angrily at his snowy beard. Cael smiled wearily across the table. He’d heard this tale many times before. “We were never paid for it,” the dwarf finished.
“Not that they would have sold it,” the elf said in his gentlest voice.
“Not that we would have sold it!” the dwarf shouted, his fist striking the table so hard that their two mugs jumped into the air. Foam leaped on high and washed across the dinted wooden surface of the table. “Never! Not for any price!”
“So tell me, Grandfather, why does the world not know this remarkable tale? Why do the minstrels not sing it at every festival?” the elf asked as he sat back in his chair and gestured at the players singing in the corner of the tavern Outside the streets were alive with the noise of festivities, but inside the small common room of the Dwarven Spring, a group of minstrels played and sang a lively air to a nearly empty room. Other than the elf and the dwarf, the tavern’s only occupants were a pair of off-duty Knights of Takhisis, a young man wearing the red robes of a mage, and an Ergothian silk merchant who snored with his head on the bar. Behind the bar, the barkeep carefully stacked a pyramid of crockery mugs. Windows set high in the walls provided the room’s only illumination. These looked out at street level, presenting a fascinating view of the latest fashions in Palanthian footwear.
“Because, young Cael,” the dwarf explained, “it was forgotten. Yes, forgotten! Having stolen from Balgard and Brimbar Hammerfell their only treasure, the citizens of Palanthas promptly forgot how they came by the stone or what it meant or why it was taken from the dwarves in the first place. You see, thieves stole it from the city treasury not long afterwards, and it was never recovered. The city forgot about it, because to remember it was to remember their failure. History was rewritten and the stone forgotten.”
“Until now,” Cael commented.
“We never forgot it!” the dwarf roared. “We knew where it was all along. We tried to get it back, but we failed. Meanwhile, the city gave us a pittance in return for our ‘gift.’ To this day, we pay no taxes, though I am sure not half the fools in the Senate know why. Nor would they question it. No, the Hammerfells have always been exempt from taxation, and so it shall remain.”
“Surely, Grandfather, over the centuries your family has saved in taxes many times the value of the stone,” Cael remarked.
“That is not the point, as you well know!” the dwarf growled. “You young rapscallion, you always seem to steer me to the subject of the Founderstone. Why is that? You know how it makes my blood boil.”
“I enjoy the telling of the tale,” Cael answered. “I am an elf, after all. I never weary of remembrances.”
“Aye, that you are, my boy,” the dwarf smiled. “You and I, we are as unlike as wood and stone, yet we understand one another better than we do these humans, wouldn’t you say?” The elf nodded in agreement as he sipped from his mug.
The minstrels finished their song and set aside their instruments. One wandered over to the bar and eased himself atop a stool, while the rest stepped outside, rapidly ascending the stairs to the street and vanishing into the crowd. Meanwhile, the two Knights of Takhisis paid their bill and staggered to the door. Turning, they waved to the dwarf. “Good morrow to you, Mashter Hammerfell!” they shouted drunkenly.
“So long, boys. See you tomorrow.” The dwarf waved and turned back to his elf companion. “They keep the rings on my fingers,” he said, shrugging.
The barkeep approached the table, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He was a slovenly man, with heavy unshaved jowls and a nap of hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. He stopped at their table and slid two coins before the dwarf. “They paid their tab in steel coin, marster,” he said.
“If nothing else, the Dark Knights can be counted on for steel coin,” the dwarf commented as he swept the coins from the table and into the pouch at his belt. “You can go now, if you like. The ceremonies will begin soon, I imagine.”
“My boy is right keen to see them,” the barkeep said, smiling with his brown teeth.
“Go on, then. I’ll close up here. Just make sure you are back by dark. There’ll be a crowd in here tonight, once the official festivities are over.”
“Thank you, sire,” the barkeep said. He left them, tossing his apron on the bar as he hurried out the door. The last minstrel finished his drink and followed him up the stairs.
“Now where was I?” the dwarf asked when they had gone.
“The Founderstone,” Cael offered.
The old dwarf stroked his long white beard while he eyed the elf with some curiosity. He seemed a mere youth, a lad of no more than twenty summers but reckoned handsome as far as elves go.
“The Founderstone,” the dwarf continued after a pause. “Your talk always seems to come round to that, young Cael. You’ve ideas better forgotten.”
“I only wanted to hear the story again, since we are about to go and see the precious thing,” Cael protested innocently.
“Well, you know the rest as well as I. It was stolen by the Thieves’ Guild not long after Bright Horizon was renamed Palanthas, a long time ago even for dwarves. The city thought it better to forget that the stone had ever existed than admit its greatest treasure had passed beyond its grasp. The Guild, damn their greedy fingers, were untouchable. No one knew where to find them, no one knew how to stop them. Every attempt to recover the stone failed, and offers to purchase it back were ignored. So the city pretended it didn’t exist, and in time it was forgotten by everyone… except the Hammerfells.”
“And now it has reappeared,” Cael said, finishing the story. “Found amongst the ruins of a Guild House when it was destroyed by the Knights of Takhisis four years ago. And the city has suddenly remembered the heritage of its greatest treasure, thanks to the researches of Bertrem, head of the Aesthetics of the Great Library. And today…”
“Today it sees the light of day once more, after over two thousand years of darkness,” the dwarf said. “The Founderstone of Palanthas shall flower again. Though it grieves me to see it in the hands of another, I shouldn’t miss this for the world. Shall we go?”
As the two rose from their chairs, the young mage in the corner dropped a couple of coins on his table. Nodding to dwarf and elf, he strolled out the door and up the stairs to the street. The old dwarf locked the door behind him, while outside, a fanfare of trumpets resounded above the city. “There’s the signal,” the dwarf said excitedly. “We’d better hurry.”
“What about him?” Cael asked of the Ergothian silk merchant still snoring with his head on the bar.
“Let him sleep it off,” the dwarf said, dismissing the fellow with a wave of his hand. “Come along. We’ll go out through the smithy.”
They passed through a low door behind the bar, the elderly dwarf waddling ahead, the young elf limping behind, leaning heavily on his black staff with each step. They entered a storeroom filled with barrels and burgeoning sacks. A few candles in sconces near the door provided a dim light. In the center of the room there stood a wide pool, like the walls of a well, but it was filled to the brim with crystalline water that rolled and bubbled. Set into the water was a pair of tall wooden kegs, with their taps dangling over the pool’s lip. This was the Dwarven Spring, which gave the tavern its name. The water was not boiling but icy cold and rolling with a current that brought it up through one crack in the floor and out through another. The carefully joined stone walls of the pool captured the water for a brief moment on its subterranean journey and cooled the keg of beer and tun of wine set in it.