“Thank you,” said Tanis, “but we’re going with our friend. He can’t undertake what may be a dangerous quest alone.”
“Your friend will not go alone,” Hornfel replied with a slight smile. “My son, Arman, will accompany him.”
“This is madness, Flint!” Raistlin said in his soft voice. “Let us say you find the Hammer. What is to prevent this dwarf from turning on you and murdering you and stealing it?”
“I’m there to prevent it,” stated Flint, glowering.
“You are not so young as you once were,” Raistlin countered, “nor as strong, whereas Arman is both.”
“My son would never do such a thing,” said Hornfel angrily.
“Indeed, I would not,” said Arman, insulted. “You have my word as my father’s son and as a Hylar that I will consider the life of your friend as a sacred charge.”
“For that matter, Flint could murder Kharas and steal the Hammer,” Tasslehoff piped up cheerfully. “Couldn’t you, Flint?”
Flint went red in the face. Caramon, heaving a sigh, put his hand the kender’s shoulder and marched him toward the door.
“Flint, don’t agree to this!” Sturm urged.
“There is no agreement to be made,” said Hornfel in tones of finality. “No human or half-human, and certainly no kender, will defile the sacred tomb of our High King. The Council of the Thanes is ended. My son will escort you to your quarters.” Hornfel turned on his heel and left. The soldiers closed in around the companions. They had no choice but to go along. Flint walked at Tanis’s side. The old dwarf’s head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He held tightly to the Helm of Grallen.
“Do you really know where to find the Hammer?” Tanis asked in a low undertone.
“Maybe,” Flint muttered.
Tanis scratched his beard. “You realize you agreed to gamble the lives of eight hundred people on that ‘maybe?’”
Flint cocked an eye at his friend. “You got a better idea?”
Tanis shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Flint grunted.
Chapter 12
The Inn of The Talls. Sturm argues. Flint Whittles.
The quarters provided the companions by the dwarves were located on the ground floor of the Life Tree in a part of the city that was older than the rest and little used. All the buildings were abandoned and boarded up. Flint pointed out why.
“Everything is human height—the doors and the windows. This part of the Life Tree was built to house humans.”
“It used to be known as Tall Town,” Arman informed them. “This was the area set aside for the human and elven merchants who once lived and worked here. We are giving you quarters in one of the inns built specially for your race.”
Caramon in particular was relieved. He had already squeezed his big body into dwarf-size wagons and buckets, and he’d been worried about having to spend the night in a bed built for short dwarven legs.
The inn was in better repair than most of the buildings, for some enterprising dwarf was currently using it as a warehouse. It was two stories tall with lead-paned glass windows and a solid oak door.
“Before the Cataclysm, this inn was filled every night,” said Arman, ushering his “guests” inside.
“Merchants came from all over Ansalon, from Istar, Solamnia, and Ergoth. Once this common room rang with the sounds of laughter and the clink of gold. Now you hear nothing.”
“Except the screeching of rats.” Raistlin drew his robes close to him in disgust as several rodents, startled by the sudden light shed by a larva lantern, went racing across the floor.
“At least the beds are our size,” Caramon said thankfully, “and so are the tables and chairs. Now if we just had something to eat and drink…”
“My men will bring you meat, ale, and clean bedding,” Arman said, then turned to Flint. “I suggest we both get a good night’s sleep. We set out for the Valley of the Thanes first thing on the morrow.” Arman hesitated, then said, “I assume that is where we will be going?” Flint’s only response was a grunt. He walked over to a chair, plunked himself down, and took out a stick of wood and his whittling knife. Arman Kharas remained standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Flint, apparently hoping the dwarf would reveal more.
Flint obviously had nothing to say. Tanis and the rest stood looking around the dark and gloomy inn, not knowing what to do with themselves.
Arman frowned. He clearly wanted to order Flint to talk, but he was hardly in a position to do so. At last he said, “I will post guards outside so that your rest is not disturbed.” Raistlin gave a sardonic laugh. Tanis flashed him a warning glance, and he turned away. Sturm stalked off and went to work dragging down some wood bed frame that had been stacked together in a corner along with barrels, boxes, and crates. Caramon offered to help, as did Tasslehoff, though the first thing the kender did was to start poking holes in a crate to see if he could tell what was inside. Arman stood watching them. Flint continued to whittle. At length, Arman tugged on his beard and asked if they had questions.
“Yeah,” said Caramon, holding one of the heavy bed frames above his head, preparatory to placing it on the floor. “When’s dinner?”
The food they were given was plain and simple, washed down with ale from one of the casks. Arman Kharas finally wrenched himself away. Tanis felt sorry for the young dwarf, and he was annoyed at Flint, who could have at least been nice to Arman, whose life-long dreams had just been shattered. Flint was in a dark mood, however, and Tanis kept quiet, figuring anything he said would only make matters worse. Flint ate in silence, shoveling his food in his mouth rapidly, and when he was finished, he walked away from the table and went back to his whittling. Sturm sat bolt upright all through dinner, disapproval evident in his bristling mustaches and the ice blue glint in his eyes. Raistlin picked at his food, eating little, his gaze abstracted, his thoughts turned inward. Caramon drank more ale than was good for him and fell asleep with his head on the table. The only person talking was Tasslehoff, who prattled away happily about the exciting events of the day, never seeming to mind that no one was listening to him. Raistlin suddenly shoved his plate aside and rose to his feet. “I am going to study my spells. I do not want to be disturbed.” He appropriated the only comfortable chair and dragged it near the large stone fireplace, where Tanis had managed to coax a small fire into burning. Raistlin cast a disgusted glance at his twin, who lay sprawled on the table, exhaling beery breath.
“I trust someone will put that great lump to bed,” Raistlin said. He took out his spellbook and was soon absorbed in his reading.
Sturm and Tanis hauled the sodden Caramon to the stoutest bed and dumped him down onto the mattress. Sturm then walked over and stood beside Flint, staring down at him.
“Flint, you can’t do this,” said Sturm.
Flint’s knife scraped against the wood, and a particularly large chip flew off, nearly hitting Tasslehoff, who was engaged in attempting to pick a lock on a large chest.
“You can’t go off on a quest of this importance with that Arman Kharas. In the first place, I’m none too certain of his sanity. In the second, it is too dangerous. You should refuse to go unless one of us goes with you.”
Small curls of wood flowed out from under Flint’s knife, landing at his feet. Sturm’s face reddened. “The Thanes cannot refuse you, Flint. Simply tell them that you will not fetch the hammer without proper protection! I myself would be glad to serve as your escort.” Flint looked up. “Bah!” he said, and looked back down. Another chip flew. “You’d escort the hammer right out of Thorbardin and back to Solamnia!”
Sturm smashed his fist on the table, setting the pewter plates dancing, and startling Tas, who dropped his lock pick. “Hey!” the kender said sternly. “Be quiet. Raistlin and I are trying to concentrate.”