He lay on his back on the platform. His face was livid and contorted in pain. He shuddered and gasped for breath.
Flint, his heart wrung, crawled over to kneel beside the dwarf.
“I failed…” Arman murmured again. “The Hammer… lost.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Flint. “You were victorious. Your foe is dead. You defeated him and saved the Hammer of Kharas. Here, I will show you.”
The two hammers, one true and one false, lay side-by-side on the platform.
Flint picked up one of the hammers and thrust it into the dwarf’s hands. Gently, he closed Arman’s limp fingers over it. The Hammer shone with a soft and radiant light that spread over Arman.
His tortured body relaxed. His pain-twisted grimace eased. His eyes grew clear. He clasped the Hammer to his breast.
“I am a hero,” he breathed, his lips barely moving. “Arman… Kharas.” He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and let it out in a sigh. He did not take another. Flint’s eyes filled with tears. He was suddenly very old, weak, and tired, and he loathed himself. He stroked the young dwarf’s hands that even in death still clasped the Hammer. He recalled something the ancient, white-haired dwarf had said in the tomb.
“You’re not ‘Arman’—a lesser Kharas,” Flint told the departing soul. “You are Pike, son of Hornfel, the hero who saved the Hammer of Kharas, and that is how you will be remembered.” Flint picked up the false hammer. He held it for a moment, long enough to beg the god’s forgiveness and say goodbye to his dreams. Then he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Dwarves and draconians were stabbing and slashing, bleeding and dying. No one was watching Flint except for one. Tasslehoff was staring, wide-eyed, straight at him.
“Ah, well,” Flint grunted. “No one will believe him anyway.” He flung the hammer into the pit.
The radiant light from the Hammmer of Kharas spread throughout the Temple, emboldening the dwarves and demoralizing their foes. But just when Hornfel began to think the day would be won, an army of heavily armed dwarves hundreds strong marched inside. He recognized the emblems of the Daergar on their flags, and he nearly despaired, for the Theiwar were cheering on their dark dwarf allies.
The Hammer’s light did not dim, however, and Hornfel watched in astonishment as the Daegar turned on the Theiwar, cutting off the welcoming arms and trampling Theiwar bodies beneath their feet.
Hornfel had become separated from his son in the confusion of battle, but his heart swelled with pride, for he knew that somewhere Arman and the Hammer of Kharas were fighting gloriously.
Chapter 25
The End Of A Dream.
Even as he fought the dwarves, Grag kept an eye on Dray-yan.
Generally, Grag loved nothing more than a good fight, but he was taking no pleasure in today’s battle. He had enjoyed watching Dray-yan’s play-acting, grinning widely at the sight of Lord Verminaard falling into a pit, listening to the hisses and chortles of his soldiers who were not in on the secret, and who thought they had truly witnessed the detested human’s pitiful end. Grag had watched Dray-yan crawl out of the pit, then he’d been forced to turn his full attention to the dwarves. It was at this point when his pleasure started to diminish.
The battle was not turning out as Grag had planned. He’d expected the dwarves to be caught completely off guard by the attack. Instead, he was the one who was shocked and surprised. True, he’d been unmasked, forced to reveal the fact that a “lizard” was inside their stinking mountain, but one lizard did not an army make, and the dwarves should not have figured out that they were going to be coming under attack. Somehow, they had foreseen it. Probably tipped off by those blasted humans.
Grag found himself and his troops badly outnumbered. He had anticipated slicing up a few dwarven guards, but he was now facing four strong dwarven armies: Hylar, Daewar, Klar, and the Daergar. Grag had planned for a swift take-over, not having to fight every damn dwarf beneath the mountain.
His dubious allies, the Theiwar, proved to be even more inept fighters than Grag had expected, and he hadn’t expected much. First, because of Theiwar carelessness, the Klar had discovered the secret passages and sealed up many of them with their accursed stone-chewing worms, trapping some of Grag’s best men inside. During the battle, the Theiwar did more looting than fighting, leaving the fighting to swarm over the bodies of the fallen, yanking off gold rings and silver chains. The moment the Theiwar were loaded up with booty, they deserted the field, fled the temple, and ran off to skulk in their rat holes.
As Grag fought dwarves, he waited impatiently for Dray-yan to seize the blasted hammer and force the dwarves to surrender. At one point, Dray-yan had the hammer, or so Grag thought. He took his eyes away for a moment to stab his opponent in the throat. When he looked back, Dray-yan was on the platform, struggling with a single dwarf wielding a hammer that blazed with a fierce red light. Seeing the aurak was in trouble, Grag tried to make his way to him, but he found himself surrounded on all sides, fighting for his life. The next thing he knew, the dwarf with the accursed hammer had shoved Dray-yan into the pit!
As Grag listened to the aurak’s terrified howls, the thought came to him that he was now the commander of the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Dragon Highlord Verminaard was, finally, dead. Dray-yan was also dead. Grag was the survivor, and he saw immediately how he could lay the blame for this unfortunate debacle in Thorbardin on both his superiors.
Unlike Dray-yan, Grag had no aspirations to be a Dragon Highlord. He wanted nothing to do with politics. His one ambition was to be a good commander and win battles for the glory of his Dark Queen. He knew when he was beaten. There was no shame in giving up the field, no sense in wasting the lives of good men in a futile cause. Grag let out a piercing call that rose above the din of battle. His draconians heard it and knew what it meant, and they slowly began an orderly retreat.
Marshalling his forces, keeping them in good order, Grag led his draconians back the way they had entered, through the south door.
A few courageous dwarves, led by two human warriors, chased after them but didn’t catch them. Draconians could cover ground far more rapidly than either dwarves or humans. Grag took his forces to one of the few secret tunnels the Klar had not discovered. He left them there, while he made a small detour to take care of some unfinished business having to do with Realgar. This done, he led those troops who had survived the battle into the deep tunnels that led to Pax Tharkas. Once all were inside, Grag ordered the tunnels sealed up behind them. After praying to Takhisis and mending their hurts, the draconians began the long trek back to Pax Tharkas. Someday Grag would return to Thorbardin.
Someday, when his queen was triumphant.
The battle in the temple ended almost as quickly as it had begun. Seeing the draconians retreating, the Theiwar, who’d had little stomach for the fighting anyway, either fled or surrendered. Realgar, as it turned out, was not among them. He had been leading from the rear, and when it looked as though he was losing, the Thane had disappeared.
When the Temple was secure, the fighting ended and the prisoners had been hauled away, Hornfel sent soldiers with orders to search every crack, crevice, and cranny in Thorbardin, until they found Realgar. Hornfel wanted the Thane alive, intending to bring him before the Council to answer for his crimes. All the while, as he was issuing commands, Hornfel asked everyone he encountered about his son. No one had seen Arman or knew what had become of him. All anyone knew was that the hammer’s light had shone undimmed throughout the fight, bolstering hearts and lending strength to dwarven hands.
Hornfel was thinking with pleasure of a celebratory victory dinner with his son, when he turned to find the Neidar, Flint Fireforge, standing silently and respectfully at his side. One look at the aged dwarf’s sorrowful expression, and Hornfel’s heart constricted with pain. He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then, lifting his head, he said quietly, “Take me to my son.”