Part 36 (1/2)
”Flint said he was taking me,” Ta.s.slehoff muttered. ”I should sharpen my sword.”
He rummaged about in his pouches, searching for his knife. He located Rabbitslayer then began looking in his pouches for a whetstone. He didn't find that, but he did come across several other objects that were so interesting he completely forgot about the knife.
Raistlin closed his book with a snap.
”I hope you two are pleased with yourselves,” the mage said, as he walked past Sturm and Tanis on his way to his bed.
”He'll think better of it by morning,” said Sturm.
”I'm not so sure.” Tanis glanced at the dwarf. ”You know how stubborn he can be.”
”We'll reason with him,” Sturm said.
Tanis, who had tried on occasion to reason with the irascible old dwarf, did not hold out much hope.
Flint lay staring into the darkness. Sturm was right. Tanis was right. Even Raistlin was right! Logic dictated he should take one of them with him on the morrow. Hornfel would let him if he made an issue of it. The Thanes wouldn't have much choice.
Yet as he continued to think things over, Flint came to realize he'd made the right decision. He'd made it for the wrong reasons, but that didn't make it less right.
”The Hammer of Honor doesn't belong to the knights and their dreams of glory,” Flint said to himself. ”It doesn't belong to elves. It doesn't belong to humans, no matter how much trouble they're in. The hammer was made by dwarves, and it belongs to dwarves. Dwarves should be the ones who decide what to do with it, and if that means using it to save ourselves, then so be it.”
This was a good reason and sounded very fine, but it wasn't the only reason Flint was going off on his own.
”This time, the hero is going to be me.”
Of course, there was always the possibility that the hero would be Arman Kharas, but Flint didn't think that likely. Reorx had promised him that if he put on the helm, the hammer would be his reward.
Flint Fireforge, Savior of the People, Unifier of the Dwarven Nations. Perhaps even Flint Fireforge, High King.
Flint smiled to himself. That last wasn't likely to come true, but an old dwarf could dream, couldn't he?
Chapter 13.
False Metal. Strange Bedfellows. Flint's Promise.
It seemed to the companions that they had only just gone to bed when they were awakened by Arman Kharas banging on the door. Being deep underground, bereft of sunlight, they had no way to tell the time, but Arman a.s.sured them that in the world outside, the sun's first rays were gilding the snow on the mountain peaks.
”How do you know?” Caramon grumbled. He was not happy about being wakened ”in the middle of the night,” as he termed it, especially when suffering from the effects of drinking too much ale.
”There are parts of Thorbardin where one can see the sun, and we regulate our water clocks by it. You will view one of those places today,” he added in solemn tones, speaking to Flint. ”The light of the sun s.h.i.+nes always upon the Kalil S'rith-the Valley of Thanes.”
Sturm looked grimly at Tanis, who shook his head and looked at Flint, who very carefully did not look at anyone. The old dwarf clumped about the room, busy over various tasks-putting on his armor, putting on his helm with the ”griffin's mane,” and strapping the Helm of Grallen to his belt.
Tanis saw Sturm's expression alter. He knew what the knight was going to say before he said it, and he tried to stop him, but he was too late.
”Flint,” Sturm said sternly, ”be reasonable. Take one of us.”
Flint turned to Arman.
”I'll need a weapon. I'm not going to face whatever hauled that tomb out of the ground without my battle-axe in my hands.”
Arman Kharas removed the ornate hammer from the harness on his back. He looked at it regretfully for a moment then held it out to Flint.
”That's yours,” said Flint, ”I'll take my battle-axe.”
Arman frowned at this refusal. ”You have been given the knowledge of how to find the true Hammer. You should be the one to carry the replica. I had it made especially for this moment. It's my homage to Kharas. You will carry it to the Tomb of the King in Kharas's honor.”
Flint didn't know what to say. He would have been much more comfortable with his battle-axe, but he didn't want to hurt the young dwarf anymore than he'd already been hurt.
Flint reached out, took hold of the hammer, and nearly dropped it. He suspected he knew now why Arman had given it to him. The hammer was heavy and unwieldy, well-crafted, but not well-designed. He gave it an experimental swing or two, and the thing nearly broke his wrist.
He glanced suspiciously at Arman to see if he was smiling. Arman stood looking grave, however, and Flint realized the young dwarf had meant what he said. - Flint held out his hand to Arman. ”I accept this in the name of friends.h.i.+p.”
Arman hesitated, then stiffly shook hands.
”Perhaps we misjudged Arman,” said Tanis.
Sturm snorted. ”He walks around carrying a fake magical hammer. I think that merely confirms the fact that he is crazy.”
Raistlin seemed about to say something, then stopped. He regarded Flint and the hammer thoughtfully.
”What?” Tanis asked the mage.
”You should try once more to talk to Flint.”
Tanis could have told him it was a waste of time, but he walked over to where Flint was continuing to gather up his gear. Ta.s.slehoff had offered his a.s.sistance, with the result that Flint came up missing his favorite knife. He immediately rounded on the kender, seized hold of him and began to shake out his pouches, ignoring Tas's cries of protest.
”Sturm, a word with you,” said Raistlin.
Sturm did not trust the strange gleam in Raistlin's hourgla.s.s eyes, but he accompanied him to the window.
”Is that hammer an exact replica of the real one?” Raistlin asked softly.
”I have only ever seen the Hammer in paintings,” Sturm replied, ”but from what I can judge it is identical.”
”How can a person distinguish between the real and the false?”
”The Hammer is reputed to be light in weight, yet when it strikes it does so with the force of the G.o.d behind it, and when the true Hammer hits the sacred Anvil of Thorbardin, it sounds a note that can be heard throughout the earth and heavens.”
Raistlin cast a sharp glance at the false hammer. Folding his hands in his sleeves, he leaned near to whisper, ”Flint could switch hammers.”
Sturm stared at him, either uncomprehending or refusing to comprehend.
”Flint has the false hammer,” Raistlin explained. ”He has only to replace the true Hammer with the false. He keeps the true one and gives the dwarves the other.”
”They will know the difference,” said Sturm.