He was going to stand up, but his legs apparently preferred to be back in bed because Tas suddenly found himself sitting down again.
“This won’t do!” Tas said, glaring at the offending parts of his body. “You’re nowhere without me! Just remember that! I’m boss and when I say move—you’ll move! Now, I’m going to stand up again,” Tas warned his legs sternly. “And I expect some cooperation.”
This speech had some effect. His legs behaved a bit better this time and the kender, though still somewhat wobbly, managed to make his way across the dark room toward the torch lit corridor he could see beyond the door.
Reaching it, he peeped cautiously up and down the hall, but no one was in sight. Creeping out into corridor, he saw nothing but dark, closed-up cells—like the one he’d been in—and a staircase at one end, leading up. Looking down the other end, he saw nothing but dark shadows.
“I wonder where I am?” Tas made his way down the corridor toward the staircase—that being, as far as he could tell, the only way up. “Oh, well”—the kender reflected philosophically—“I don’t suppose it matters. One good thing about having been in the Abyss is that every place else, no matter how dismal, looks congenial by comparison.”
He had to stop a moment for a brief argument with his legs they still seemed much inclined to return to bed—but this momentary weakness passed, and the kender reached the bottom of the staircase. Listening, he could hear voices.
“Drat,” he muttered, coming to a halt and ducking back into the shadows. “Someone’s up there. Guards, I suppose. Sounds like dwarves. Those whatcha’ma call-ems—Dewar.” Tas stood, quietly, trying to make out what the deep voices were saying. “You’d think they could speak a civilized language,” he snapped irritably. “One a fellow could understand. They sound excited, though.”
Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Tas crept up the first flight of stone steps and peered around the corner. He ducked back quickly with a sigh. “Two of ’em. Both blocking the stair. And there’s no way around them.”
His pouches with his tools and weapons were gone, left behind in the mountain dungeon of Thorbardin. But he still had his knife. “Not that it will do much good against those!” Tas reflected, envisioning once again the huge battle-axes he’d seen the dwarves holding.
He waited a few more moments, hoping the dwarves would leave. They certainly seemed worked up, but they also appeared rooted to the spot.
“I can’t stay here all night or day, whichever it is,” the kender grumbled. “Well, as dad said, ‘always try talk before the lock pick.’ The very worst they could do to me, I suppose—not counting killing me, of course—would be to lock me back up. And, if I’m any judge of locks, I could probably be out again in about half-an-hour.” He began to climb the stairs. “Was it dad who said that,” he pondered as he climbed, “or Uncle Trapspringer?”
Rounding the corner, he confronted two Dewar, who appeared considerably startled to see him. “Hello!” the kender said cheerfully. “My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” He extended a hand. “And your names are? Oh, you’re not going to tell me. Well, that’s all right. I probably couldn’t pronounce them anyway. Say, I’m a prisoner and I’m looking for the fellow who was keeping me locked up in that cell back there. You probably know him—a black-robed magic-user. He was interrogating me, when something I said took him by surprise, I think, because he had a sort of a fit and ran out of the room. And he forgot to lock the door behind him. Did either of you see which way he—Well!” Tas blinked. “How rude.”
This in response to the actions of the Dewar who, after regarding the kender with growing looks of alarm on their faces, shouted one word, turned, and bolted.
“Antarax, “Tas repeated, looking after them, puzzled. “Let’s see. That sounds like dwarven for... for... Oh, of course! Burning death. Ah—they think I’ve still got the plague! Mmmmm, that’s handy. Or is it?”
The kender found himself alone in another long corridor, every bit as bleak and dismal as the one he’d just left. “I still don’t know where I am, and no one seems inclined to tell me. The only way out is that staircase down there and those two are heading for it so I guess the best thing to do is just tag along. Caramon’s bound to be around here somewhere.”
But Tas’s legs, which had already registered a protest against walking, informed the kender in no uncertain terms that running was out of the question. He stumbled along as fast as possible after the dwarves, but they had dashed up the stairs and were out of sight by the time he had made it half-way down the corridor. Puffing along, feeling a bit dizzy but determined to find Caramon, Tas climbed the stairs after them. As he rounded a corner, he came to a sudden halt.
“Oops,” he said, and hurriedly ducked into the shadows. Clapping a hand over mouth, he severely reprimanded himself. “Shut up, Burrfoot! It’s the whole Dewar army!”
It certainly seemed like it. The two he had been following had met up with about twenty other dwarves. Crouching in the shadows, Tas could hear them yelping excitedly, and he expected them to come tromping down after him any moment... . But nothing happened.
He waited, listening to the conversation, then, risking a peep, he saw that some of the dwarves present didn’t look like Dewar. They were clean, their beards were brushed, and they were dressed in bright armor. And they didn’t appear pleased. They glared grimly at one of the Dewar, as though they’d just as soon skin him as not.
“Mountain dwarves!” Tas muttered to himself in astonishment, recognizing the armor. “And, from what Raistlin said, they’re the enemy. Which means they’re supposed to be in their mountain, not in ours. Provided we’re in a mountain, of course, which I’m beginning to think likely from the looks of it. But, I wonder—”
As one of the mountain dwarves began speaking, Tas brightened. “Finally, someone who knows how to talk!” The kender sighed in relief. Because of the mixture of races, the dwarf was speaking a crude version of Common and dwarven.
The gist of the conversation, as near as Tas could follow, was that the mountain dwarf didn’t give a cracked stone about a crazed wizard or a wandering, plague-ridden kender.
“We came here to get the head of this General Caramon,” the mountain dwarf growled. “You said that the wizard promised it would be arranged. If it is, we can dispense with the wizard. I’d just as soon not deal with a Black Robe anyway. And now answer me this, Argat. Are your people ready to attack the army from within? Are you prepared to kill this general? Or was this just a trick? If so, you will find it will go hard with your people back in Thorbardin!”
“It no trick!” Argat growled, his fist clenching. “We ready to move. The general is in the War Room. The wizard said he make sure him alone with just bodyguard. Our people get the hill dwarves to attack. When you keep your part bargain, when scouts give signal that great gates to Thorbardin are open—”
“The signal is sounding, even as we speak,” the mountain dwarf snapped. “If we were above ground level, you could hear the trumpets. The army rides forth!”
“Then we go!” Argat said. Bowing, he added with a sneer, “If your lordship dares, come with us—we take General Caramon’s head right now!”
“I will join you,” the mountain dwarf said coldly, “if only to make certain you plot no further treachery!”
What else the two said was lost on Tas, who leaned back against the wall. His legs had gone all prickly-feeling, and there was a buzzing noise in his ears.
“Caramon!” he whispered, clutching at his head, trying to think. “They’re going to kill him! And Raistlin’s done this!” Tas shuddered. “Poor Caramon. His own twin. If he knew that, it would probably just kill him dead on the spot. The dwarves wouldn’t need axes.”