Arman had been duped. He thought he held in his hands a blessed weapon. He did not know the hammer he wielded was nothing more than a hunk of metal magicked up by Raistlin. When Arman had charged at Verminaard, Flint had tried to stop him, but Arman had ignored him. Flint had turned his head, unable to watch the young dwarf’s certain death. Then he’d heard Verminaard give a shout of fury and Arman yell in triumph.
Flint looked up in time to see the Dragon Highlord tumble into the pit.
“Humpf,” Flint had said to himself, unknowingly echoing Raistlin, “something’s not right.” Then the draconian appeared, crawling out of the pit.
Flint had stared, astounded. So far as he knew, draconians were leagues away, nowhere near Thorbardin. He had no idea how this draconian came to be here or what the monster was doing in the pit. Astonishment swiftly gave way to outrage. Draconians had no right to be in the dwarven homeland. Outrage changed to consternation, as Flint saw the greenish-gold monster pull himself with slithering grace up onto the platform behind the unsuspecting young dwarf. The draconian wanted the hammer. Flint could see the creature’s eyes fixed on it. He shouted a warning and reached for his weapon, completely forgetting in his fear for the young dwarf that he was the one who carried the blessed Hammer.
Dray-yan was nearing his moment of triumph. His charade had fooled everyone, his own draconians included. They had all seen the vaunted Lord Verminaard fall to an ignominious doom. Cloaked in the illusion of the Dragon Highlord, Dray-yan had pretended to fall off the platform. As he fell, he had caught hold of the ledge with his hands, and had hung there, waiting for Grag and his forces to storm the Temple. With the confusion of the battle covering his movements, the aurak discarded the illusion of the Dragon Highlord and pulled himself up onto the platform.
The fool young dwarf stood there all alone, his back to Dray-yan, the hammer in his hand, shouting to the world about how he’d killed the Dragon Highlord.
Dray-yan was tempted to use his powerful magicks to slay Arman, but the aurak had to be cautious. If he killed in haste, the hammer might slip out of the dwarf’s hands and fall into the pit and be forever lost. While Queen Takhisis would enjoy this outcome, it would not suit Dray-yan. He envisioned himself entering the Temple at Neraka and presenting the hammer to Lord Ariakas.
Dray-yan was hampered by the fact that he did not carry a sword. Auraks generally disdained the use of weapons, preferring to rely on their magic in battle. He did, however, have a knife strapped to his leg beneath his robes.
The dwarf wore heavy armor, but that didn’t faze Dray-yan. The aurak had no need to penetrate armor or hit a vital organ. A scratch on the arm would do. The knife was smeared with poison, a lethal trick he’d learned from his kapak cousins.
Blade in hand, Dray-yan crept up on Arman.
Flint took hold of the Hammer of Kharas, yanked it from the harness, and raced toward the pit, bellowing all the while at Arman to look behind him. As Flint ran, he realized suddenly that his aches and pains had vanished. Fatigue lifted from him. His arms were strong, his legs powerful. His heart beat steady and true. He was filled with life and energy. Flint was a young dwarf once more, powerful, invincible.
Arman Kharas finally heard Flint’s warning shouts. The young dwarf had been about to join in the battle, but now he turned around to see, to his shock, a monstrous foe closing on him from behind.
Flint was only steps from the platform when a baaz draconian landed squarely in front of him. The baaz attacked, swinging a curved-bladed sword. Flint didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had to reach Arman before the youngster got himself into serious trouble. Flint swung the Hammer with the might of his fury, and struck the baaz in the head.
The draconian disintegrated; its body changing from flesh to stone and from stone to dust so rapidly that Flint was covered in the foul mess. Flint jumped onto the platform where Arman and the draconian were locked in mortal combat, grappling for the hammer.
Steel flashed in the draconian’s hand. Dray-yan tried to stab Arman with a knife with one hand and get a grip on the hammer with the other. Arman was bleeding from a few cuts on his arm, but the dwarf’s heavy armor protected his body and he was not concerned about the feeble blows of his foe.
Arman was about to raise the hammer and bring it down on his enemy, when a shudder shook the young dwarf. His face went deathly pale. His eyes widened. A sheen of chill sweat covered his forehead. Pain like a thousand steel blades slicing into his vitals drove him to his knees. Dray-yan seized hold of the hammer, intending to wrench it from the dwarf’s grip. Weakened as he was, his body splintered by pain, Arman closed his hands tightly over the hammer, refusing to give it up. He fought against the monster, but his strength was failing. The poison burned through his veins. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. His hands went limp and slid off the hammer, and Dray-yan snatched it.
His prize in hand, Dray-yan started to leap over the writhing body. He planned to flee the temple, but he found his way blocked.
Flint stood over Arman, facing the draconian. Flint gestured at the hammer in Dray-yan’s hands.
“You’ve got the wrong one,” Flint told the aurak with grim satisfaction. Dray-yan’s startled gaze went from the hammer in his hand to the Hammer the dwarf was holding. He realized immediately he’d been duped. The Hammer the dwarf held blazed with a wrathful, holy light. Dray-yan could not even bear to look at it. If he’d been thinking, he should have known at once the hammer he held was a fake. No magical life flowed through it. No magic guarded it.
Cursing dwarves for shabby little tricksters, Dray-yan flung the false hammer to the floor. He lifted his hands, his fingers flaring with magic, and lunged at Flint.
“Reorx, help me,” Flint prayed and, swinging the true Hammer, he hit the draconian in the chest. Bones cracked and snapped. Dray-yan shrieked and collapsed onto the platform. He almost rolled off, but he managed to save himself with a twist of his short, stubby tail. Flint was about to finish the aurak, when he remembered that draconians have the power to inflict harm even after they are dead. He had no idea what this strange greenish gold draconian would do, for he’d never seen one like it before, so instead he kicked the draconian, intending to push it off the platform. Desperate, Dray-yan grabbed hold of Flint’s boot and tried to yank the dwarf off his feet, hoping to grab the Hammer on the dwarf’s way down, then fling him into the pit.
Flint twisted, turned and kicked frantically at the draconian. He could have slain the fiend with a single Hammer blow, but he didn’t dare, for he had no idea if the creature’s corpse would blow up, turn into deadly acid, or what would happen.
Then Flint realized that he might not have a choice. The draconian had managed to drag Flint near the edge of the pit. If Flint fell, the Hammer would fall with him, and that must not happen. To save the Hammer, he was going to have to kill this monster, though he himself would likely die in the process.
Flint aimed a blow at the draconian’s ugly head, but before he could strike, the Hammer twisted in his hand and hit the draconian’s right arm at the wrist. Bone cracked. Blood spurted. Dray-yan’s hand on Flint’s boot went limp. Flint shoved the draconian, shrieking and cursing, off the platform.
His strength flagging, Flint went down on his hands and knees and stared into the darkness watching until the monster was lost to sight. Even then, Flint could still hear him screaming. Dray-yan’s cries continued for a long time and never truly ended. They simply dwindled away.
“I failed…” said Arman, his eyes fluttering.