Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (2 page)

T
he Hammer of Kharas!”

The great Hall of Audience of the King of the Mountain Dwarves echoed with the triumphal announcement. It was followed by wild cheering, the deep booming voices of the dwarves mingling with the slightly higher-pitched shouts of the humans as the huge doors at the rear of the Hall were thrown open and Elistan, cleric of Paladine, entered.

Although the bowl-shaped Hall was large, even by dwarven standards, it was crammed to capacity. Nearly all of the eight hundred refugees from Pax Tharkas lined the walls, while the dwarves packed onto the carved stone benches below.

Elistan appeared at the foot of a long central aisle, the giant warhammer held reverently in his hands. The shouts increased at the sight of the cleric of Paladine in his white robes, the sound booming against the great vault of the ceiling and reverberating through the hall until it seemed that the ground shook with the vibrations.

Tanis winced as the noise made his head throb. He was stifled in the crowd. He didn’t like being underground anyway and, although the ceiling was so high that the top soared beyond the blazing torchlight and disappeared into shadow, the half-elf felt enclosed, trapped.

“I’ll be glad when this is over,” he muttered to Sturm, standing next to him.

Sturm, always melancholy, seemed even darker and more brooding than usual. “I don’t approve of this, Tanis,” he muttered, folding his arms across the bright metal of his antique breastplate.

“I know,” said Tanis irritably. “You’ve said it—not once, but several times. It’s too late now. There’s nothing to be done but make the best of it.”

The end of his sentence was lost in another resounding cheer as Elistan raised the Hammer above his head, showing it to the crowd before beginning the walk down the aisle. Tanis put his hand on his forehead. He was growing dizzy as the cool underground cavern heated up from the mass of bodies.

Elistan started to walk down the aisle. Rising to greet him on a dais in the center of the Hall was Hornfel, Thane of the Hylar dwarves. Spaced behind the dwarf were seven carved stone thrones, all of them now empty. Hornfel stood before the seventh throne—the most magnificent, the throne for the King of Thorbardin. Long empty, it would be occupied once more, as Hornfel accepted the Hammer of Kharas. The return of this ancient relic was a singular triumph for Hornfel. Since his thanedom was now in possession of the coveted Hammer, he could unite the rival dwarven thanes under his leadership.

“We fought to recover that Hammer,” Sturm said slowly, his eyes upon the gleaming weapon. “The legendary Hammer of Kharas. Used to forge the dragonlances. Lost for hundreds of years, found again, and lost once more. And now given to the dwarves!” he said in disgust.

“It was given to the dwarves once before,” Tanis reminded him wearily, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead. “Have Flint tell you the tale, if you’ve forgotten. At any rate, it is truly theirs now.” Elistan had arrived at the foot of the stone dais where the Thane, dressed in the heavy robes and massive gold chains dwarves loved, awaited him. Elistan knelt at the foot of the dais, a politic gesture, for otherwise the tall, muscular cleric would stand face-to-face with the dwarf, despite the fact that the dais was a good three feet off the ground. The dwarves cheered mightily at this. The humans were, Tanis noticed, more subdued, some muttering among themselves, not liking the sight of their leader abasing himself.

“Accept this gift of our people—” Elistan’s words were lost in another cheer from the dwarves.

“Gift!” Sturm snorted. “Ransom is nearer the mark.”

“In return for which,” Elistan continued when he could be heard, “we thank the dwarves for their generous gift of a place to live within their kingdom.”

“For the right to be sealed in a tomb …” Sturm muttered.

“And we pledge our support to the dwarves if the war should come upon us!” Elistan shouted.

Cheering resounded throughout the chamber, increasing as Thane Hornfel bent to receive the Hammer. The dwarves stamped and whistled, most climbing up on the stone benches.

Tanis began to feel nauseated. He glanced around. They would never be missed. Hornfel would speak; so would each
of the other six Thanes, not to mention the members of the Highseekers Council. The half-elf touched Sturm on the arm, motioning to the knight to follow him. The two walked silently from the Hall, bending low to get through a narrow archway. Although still underground in the massive dwarven city, at least they were away from the noise, out in the cool night air.

“Are you all right?” Sturm asked, noticing Tanis’s pallor beneath his beard. The half-elf gulped draughts of cool air.

“I am now,” Tanis said, flushing in shame at his weakness. “It was the heat … and the noise.”

“Well, we’ll be out of here soon,” Sturm said. “Depending, of course, on whether or not the Council of Highseekers votes to let us go to Tarsis.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt how they’ll vote,” Tanis said, shrugging. “Elistan is clearly in control, now that he’s led the people to a place of safety. None of the Highseekers dares oppose him—at least to his face. No, my friend, within a month’s time perhaps, we’ll be setting sail in one of the white-winged ships of Tarsis the Beautiful.”

“Without the Hammer of Kharas,” Sturm added bitterly. Softly, he began to quote.
“ ‘And so it was told that the Knights took the golden Hammer, the Hammer blessed by the great god Paladine and given to the One of the Silver Arm so that he might forge the Dragonlance of Huma, Dragonbane, and gave the Hammer to the dwarf they called Kharas, or Knight, for his extraordinary valor and honor in battle. And he kept Kharas for his name. And the Hammer of Kharas passed into the dwarven kingdom with assurances from the dwarves that it should be brought forth again at need—”

“It
has
been brought forth,” Tanis said, struggling to contain his rising anger. He had heard that quotation entirely too many times!

“It has been brought forth and will be left behind!” Sturm bit the words. “We might have taken it to Solamnia, used it to forge our own dragonlances—”

“And you would be another Huma, riding to glory, the Dragonlance in your hand!” Tanis’s control snapped. “Meanwhile you’d let eight hundred people die—”

“No, I would not have let them die!” Sturm shouted in a towering rage. “The first clue we have to the dragonlances and you sell it for—”

Both men stopped arguing abruptly, suddenly aware of a shadow creeping from the darker shadows surrounding them.

“Shirak,”
whispered a voice, and a bright light flared, gleaming from a crystal ball clutched in the golden, disembodied claw of a dragon atop a plain, wooden staff. The light illuminated the red robes of a magic-user. The young mage walked toward the two, leaning upon his staff, coughing slightly. The light from his staff shone upon a skeletal face, with glistening metallic gold skin drawn tightly over fine bones. His eyes gleamed golden.

“Raistlin,” said Tanis, his voice tight. “Is there something you want?”

Raistlin did not seem at all bothered by the angry looks both men cast him, apparently well accustomed to the fact that few felt comfortable in his presence or wanted him around.

He stopped before the two. Stretching forth his frail hand, the mage spoke,
“Akular-alan suh Tagolann Jistrathar
,” and a pale image of a weapon shimmered into being as Tanis and Sturm watched in astonishment.

It was a footman’s lance, nearly twelve feet long. The point was made of pure silver, barbed and gleaming, the shaft crafted of polished wood. The tip was steel, designed to be thrust into the ground.

“It’s beautiful!” Tanis gasped. “What is it?”

“A dragonlance,” Raistlin answered. Holding the lance in his hand, the mage stepped between the two, who stood aside to let him pass as if unwilling to be touched by him. Their eyes were on the lance. Then Raistlin turned and held it out to Sturm.

“There is your dragonlance, knight,” Raistlin hissed, “without benefit of the Hammer or the Silver Arm. Will you ride with it into glory, remembering that, for Huma, with glory came death?”

Sturm’s eyes flashed. He caught his breath in awe as he reached out to take hold of the dragonlance. To his amazement, his hand passed right through it! The dragonlance vanished, even as he touched it.

“More of your tricks!” he snarled. Spinning on his heel, he stalked away, choking in anger.

“If you meant that as a joke, Raistlin,” Tanis said quietly, “it wasn’t funny.”

“A joke?” the mage whispered. His strange golden eyes followed the knight as Sturm walked into the thick blackness of the dwarven city beneath the mountain. “You should know me better, Tanis.”

The mage laughed—the weird laughter Tanis had heard only once before. Then, bowing sardonically to the half-elf, Raistlin disappeared, following the knight into the shadows.

BOOK 1

T
anis Half-Elven sat in the meeting of the Council of Highseekers and listened, frowning. Though officially the false religion of the Seekers was now dead, the group that made up the political leadership of the eight hundred refugees from Pax Tharkas was still called that.

“It isn’t that we’re not grateful to the dwarves for allowing us to live here,” stated Hederick expansively, waving his scarred hand. “We are all grateful, I’m certain. Just as we’re grateful to those whose heroism in recovering the Hammer of Kharas made our move here possible.” Hederick bowed to Tanis, who returned the bow with a brief nod of his head. “But we are not dwarves!” This emphatic statement brought murmurs of approval, causing Hederick to warm to his audience.

“We
humans
were never meant to live underground!” Loud calls of approval and some clapping of hands.

“We are farmers. We cannot grow food on the side of a mountain! We want lands like the ones we were forced to leave behind. And I say that those who forced us to leave our old homeland should provide us with new!”

“Does he mean the Dragon Highlords?” Sturm whispered sarcastically to Tanis. “I’m certain they’d be happy to oblige.”

“The fools ought to be thankful they’re alive!” Tanis muttered. “Look at them, turning to Elistan—as if it were
his
doing!” The cleric of Paladine—and leader of the refugees—rose to his feet to answer Hederick.

“It is because we need new homes,” Elistan said, his strong baritone resounding through the cavern, “that I propose we send a delegation south, to the city of Tarsis the Beautiful.”

Tanis had heard Elistan’s plan before. His mind wandered over the month since he and his companions had returned from Derkin’s Tomb with the sacred Hammer.

The dwarven Thanes, now consolidated under the leadership of Hornfel, were preparing to battle the evil coming from the north. The dwarves did not greatly fear this evil. Their mountain kingdom seemed impregnable. And they had kept the promise they made Tanis in return for the Hammer: the refugees from Pax Tharkas could settle in Southgate, the southernmost part of the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin.

Elistan brought the refugees to Thorbardin. They began trying to rebuild their lives, but the arrangement was not totally satisfactory.

They were safe, to be sure, but the refugees, mostly farmers, were not happy living underground in the huge dwarven caverns. In the spring they could plant crops on the mountainside, but the rocky soil would produce only a bare living. The people wanted to live in the sunshine and fresh air. They did not want to be dependent on the dwarves.

It was Elistan who recalled the ancient legends of Tarsis the Beautiful and its gull-winged ships. But that’s all they were—legends, as Tanis had pointed out when Elistan first mentioned his idea. No one on this part of Ansalon had heard anything about the city of Tarsis since the Cataclysm three hundred years ago. At that time, the dwarves had closed off the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin, effectively shutting off all communication between the south and north, since the only way through the Kharolis Mountains was through Thorbardin.