“Guards! Take them away!” Duncan snarled. Spinning around on his heel, he looked at Kharas coldly. “You gave me your word. I’ll expect to see you in the War Council room in ten minutes.”
“But, Thane! If he truly knows General Caramon—”
“Enough!” Duncan was in a rage. “War is coming, Kharas. All your honor and all your noble yammering about slaying kinsmen can’t stop it l And you will be out there on the field of battle or you can take your face that shames us all and hide it in the dungeons along with the rest of the traitors to our people the Dewar! Which will it be?”
“I serve you, of course, Thane,” Kharas said, his face rigid. “I have pledged my life.”
“See you remember that!” Duncan snapped. “And to keep your thoughts from wandering, I am ordering that you be confined to your quarters except to attend the War Council meetings and that, further, these two”—he waved at Tas and Gnimsh—“are to be imprisoned and their whereabouts kept secret until after the war has ended. Death come upon the head of any who defy this command.”
The thanes glanced at each other, nodding approvingly, though one muttered that it was too late. The guards grabbed hold of Gnimsh and Tas, the kender still protesting volubly as they led him away.
“I was telling the truth,” he wailed. “You’ve got to believe me! I know it sounds funny, but, you see, I—I’m not quite used to—uh—telling the truth! But give me a while. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it someday... .”
Tasslehoff wouldn’t have believed it was possible to go down so far beneath the surface of the world as the guards were taking them if his own feet hadn’t walked it. He remembered once Flint telling him once that Reorx lived down here, forging the world with his great hammer.
“A nice, cheerful sort of person he must be,” Tas grumbled, shivering in the cold until his teeth chattered. “At least if Reorx was forging the world, you’d think it’d be warmer.”
“Trustdwarves,” muttered Gnimsh.
“What?” It seemed to the kender that he’d spent the last half of his life beginning every sentence he spoke to the gnome with “what?”
“I said trust dwarves!” Gnimsh returned loudly. “Instead of building their homes in active volcanoes, which, though slightly unstable, provide an excellent source of heat, they build theirs in old dead mountains.” He shook his wispy-haired head. “Hard to believe we’re cousins.”
Tas didn’t answer, being preoccupied with other matters like how do we get out of this one, where do we go if we do get out, and when are they likely to serve dinner? There seeming to be no immediate answers to any of these (including dinner), the kender lapsed into a gloomy silence.
Oh, there was one rather exciting moment—when they were lowered down a narrow rocky tunnel that had been bored straight down into the mountain. The device they used to lower people down this tunnel was called a “lift” by the gnomes, according to Gnimsh. (“Isn’t ‘lift’ an inappropriate name for it when it’s going down?” Tas pointed out, but the gnome ignored him.)
Since no immediate solution to his problems appeared forthcoming, Tas decided not to waste his time in this interesting place moping about. He therefore enjoyed the journey in the lift thoroughly, though it was rather uncomfortable in spots when the rickety, wooden device—operated by muscular dwarves pulling on huge lengths of rope—bumped against the side of the rocky tunnel as it was being lowered, jouncing the occupants about and inflicting numerous cuts and bruises on those inside.
This proved highly entertaining, especially as the dwarven guards accompanying Tas and Gnimsh shook their fists, swearing roundly in dwarven at the operators up above them.
As for the gnome, Gnimsh was plunged into a state of excitement impossible to believe. Whipping out a stub of charcoal and borrowing one of Tas’s handkerchiefs, he plopped himself down on the floor of the lift and immediately began to draw plans for a New Improved Lift.
“Pulleyscablessteam,” he yammered to himself happily, busily sketching what looked to Tas like a giant lobster trap on wheels. “Updownupdown. Whatfloor? Steptotherear. Capacity:thirtytwo. Stuck? Alarms! Bellswhistleshorns.”
When they eventually reached ground level, Tas tried to watch carefully to see where they were going (so that they could leave, even if he didn’t have a map), but Gnimsh was hanging onto him, pointing to his sketch and explaining it to him in detail.
“Yes, Gnimsh. Isn’t that interesting?” Tas said, only half listening to the gnome as his heart sank even lower than where they were standing. “Soothing music by a piper in the corner? Yes, Gnimsh, that’s a great idea.”
Gazing around as their guards prodded them forward, Tas sighed. Not only did this place look as boring as the Abyss, it had the added disadvantage of smelling even worse. Row after row of large, crude prison cells lined the rocky walls. Lit by torches that smoked in the foul, thin air, the cells were filled to capacity with dwarves.
Tas gazed at them in growing confusion as they walked down the narrow aisle between cellblocks. These dwarves didn’t look like criminals. There were males, females, even children crammed inside the cells. Crouched on filthy blankets, huddled on battered stools, they stared glumly out from behind the bars.
“Hey!” Tas said, tugging at the sleeve of a guard. The kender spoke some dwarven, having picked it up from Flint. “What is all this?” he asked, waving his hand. “Why are all these people in here?” (At least that’s what he hoped he said. There was every possibility he might have inadvertently asked the way to the nearest alehouse.)
But the guard, glowering at him, only said, “Dewar.”
11
“Dewar?” Tas repeated blankly.
The guard, however, refused to elaborate but prodded Tas on ahead with a vicious shove. Tas stumbled, then kept walking, glancing about, trying to figure out what was going on. Gnimsh, meanwhile, apparently seized by another fit of inspiration, was going on about “hydraulics.”
Tas pondered. Dewar, he thought, trying to remember where he’d heard that word. Suddenly, he came up with the answer. “The dark dwarves!” he said. “Of course! I remember! They fought for the Dragon Highlord. But, they didn’t live down here the last time—or I suppose it will be the next time—we were here. Or will come here. Drat, what a muddle. Surely they don’t live in prison cells, though. Hey”—Tas tapped the dwarf again—“what did they do? I mean, to get thrown in jail?”
“Traitors!” the dwarf snapped. Reaching a cell at the far end of the aisle, he drew out a key, inserted it into the lock, and swung the door open.
Peering inside, Tas saw about twenty or thirty Dewar crowded into the cell. Some lay lethargically on the floor, others sat against the wall, sleeping. One group, crouched together off in a corner, were talking in low voices when the guard arrived. They quit immediately as soon as the cell door opened. There were no women or children in this cell, only males; and they regarded Tas, the gnome, and the guard with dark, hate-filled eyes.
Tas grabbed Gnimsh just as the gnome—still yammering about people getting stuck between floors—was just about to walk absent-mindedly into the cell.
“Well, well;” Tas said to the dwarven guard as he dragged Gnimsh back to stand beside him, “this tour was quite—er entertaining. Now, if you’ll just take us back to our cells, which were, I must say, very nice cells—so light and airy and roomy—I think I can safely promise that my partner and I won’t be taking any more unauthorized excursions into your city, though it is an extremely interesting place and I’d like to see more of it. I—”
But the dwarf, with a rough shove of his hand, pushed the kender into the cell, sending him sprawling.
“I wish you’d make up your mind;” Gnimsh snapped irritably, stumbling inside after Tas. “Are we going in or out?”