Part 36 (2/2)
Raistlin smiled. ”I think not. I can cast a spell on the false hammer, recreating the effects you described-or close enough so that the dwarves will not be able to tell the difference for a long time. Once Arman has the hammer in his possession-the hammer he's been searching for all his life-he won't look very hard to find fault with it. I can do this,” he added, ”but I need your help.”
Sturm shook his head. ”I won't be a party to this.”
”But it solves all our problems!” Raistlin said insistently, placing his hand on Sturm's arm. The knight flinched beneath the touch, but he remained to listen. ”We give the dwarves what they want. We have what we want. Once the dragonlances are forged, you can bring the Hammer back to them. No harm done-and much good.”
”It is... not honorable,” said Sturm.
”Oh, well, if honor is what you want, then by all means, say an honorable prayer over the little children as the dragons of the Dark Queen sear the flesh from their bones.” Raistlin's grip on the knight tightened. ”You may have the right to choose honor over life, but think of those who have no choice, those who will suffer and die under the Dark Queen's rule. And she will rule, Sturm. You know as well as I that the forces of good-what paltry forces of good there are-cannot do anything to stop her.” may have the right to choose honor over life, but think of those who have no choice, those who will suffer and die under the Dark Queen's rule. And she will rule, Sturm. You know as well as I that the forces of good-what paltry forces of good there are-cannot do anything to stop her.”
Sturm was silent. Raistlin could both see and feel the conflict raging inside the knight. Sturm's arm muscles tensed and hardened. His eyes glinted, his fists clenched. He was thinking not only of the innocents, but also of himself. He would bring the Hammer to the knighthood. He would be the one to forge the fabled dragon-lances. He would be the savior of the Solamnic people, of all people everywhere.
Raistlin could guess much of what the knight was thinking, and he almost guessed right. Raistlin a.s.sumed that Sturm was being seduced by a dream of glory when, in truth, the thought of those innocents who would suffer in the coming war affected the knight profoundly. He could see again the smoldering ruins and the butchered children of Que-shu.
”What do you want me to do?” Sturm asked, the words falling reluctantly from his lips. He had never imagined agreeing to help Raistlin weave one of his webs. Sturm reminded himself, again, of the innocents.
”You must talk to Flint,” said Raistlin. ”Tell him the plan. He will not listen to me.”
”I'm not convinced he will listen to me,” Sturm said.
”At least we must try! Put the idea into his head.” Raistlin paused, then said softly, ”Say nothing to Tanis.”
Sturm understood. Tanis would oppose such a scheme. Not only was it dishonest, it was dangerous. If the dwarves found out, it could be the death of them all, yet the dragonlances were their best hope for winning the war-something the half-elf stubbornly refused to understand.
Sturm gave a stiff nod. Raistlin smiled to himself from within the darkness of his cowl. He had won a victory over the virtuous knight, knocking him off his lofty pedestal. In the future, whenever Sturm's lectures on morality grew too tedious, all Raistlin would have to do would be to murmur, ”The Hammer of Kharas.”
”I will draw Tanis aside. You talk to Flint.”
Tanis had recovered Flint's whittling knife and sent Ta.s.slehoff off to investigate a strange sound he claimed to have heard in the back of the building. He and Flint were discussing the journey; that is, Tanis was discussing it, and Flint wasn't saying a word, when Raistlin asked Tanis if he could speak to him.
”I am concerned about Caramon's health,” Raistlin said gravely. ”He is not well this morning.”
”He just drank too much, that's all,” said Tanis. ”He has a hangover. This isn't the first time. I should think you'd be used to it, by now.”
”I think it is more serious than that,” Raistlin persisted. ”Some sickness. Please come look at him.”
”You know more about illness than I do, Raistlin-”
”I would like your opinion, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said. ”You know how much I respect you.”
Tanis didn't, not really, but on the off-chance that Caramon had truly fallen ill, Tanis accompanied Raistlin over to the bed where Caramon lay with a cold rag over his eyes.
Raistlin hovered solicitously near his brother as Tanis looked Caramon over. Raistlin's gaze focused on Sturm and Flint. Raistlin could not hear their conversation, but he did not need to. He knew exactly when Sturm told the dwarf about switching the hammers, for Flint's jaw dropped. He stared at Sturm in astonishment, then, frowning, he gave a violent shake of his head.
Sturm continued to talk, pressing harder. The knight was earnest, serious. He was talking about the innocents. Flint shook his head again, but less forcefully. Sturm kept talking, and now Flint was starting to listen. He was thinking it over. Flint glanced at Arman, then glanced at the false hammer. His brow furrowed. He looked at Raistlin, who regarded him with an unblinking, unwavering stare. Flint averted his gaze. He said something to Sturm, who turned away and walked in studied nonchalance back to Raistlin.
”How is poor Caramon?” Sturm asked in the somber tones of one keeping watch at a deathbed.
Raistlin shook his head and sighed.
”He drank too much, that's all,” said Tanis, exasperated.
”Perhaps it was the worm meat,” Raistlin suggested.
”Oh, G.o.ds!” Caramon groaned. Clutching his gut, he rolled out of bed, dashed over to the corner, and threw up in the slop bucket.
”You see, Tanis,” said Raistlin reproachfully. ”My brother is gravely ill! I leave him in your care. I must have a word with Flint before he departs.”
”And I would like a word with you, Raistlin,” said Sturm. ”If you could spare me a moment.”
The two walked off, leaving Tanis staring after them in wonder, scratching his beard. ”What are those two up to? Ganging up on Flint, I suppose. Well, good luck to them.”
He went over to a.s.sure Caramon that he had not been fed worms.
”Flint has promised to at least consider it,” said Sturm.
”He must consider quickly, then,” Raistlin said. ”I need time to cast the spell, and our young friend grows impatient to be gone.”
Arman stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often he would frown deeply, heave a loud sigh, and tap the toe of his boot on the floor. ”Once we send it, we are to take the Hammer to the Temple of the Stars,” Arman declared. ”I told my father we would be there by sunset, if not before.”
Flint stared at him. ”What do you think? That we're going to just stroll into the tomb, pick up the Hammer, and stroll back out?”
”I do not know,” Arman replied coldly. ”You are the one who knows how to find it.”
Flint grunted and shook his head. He closed his pack, lifted it off the floor, and slung it over his shoulder. His eyes met Raistlin's. Flint gave a very slight nod.
”He'll do it!” Raistlin said exultantly to Sturm. ”There is one problem. The spell I am going to cast is a trans.m.u.tation spell. It is designed to shrink an object.”
”Shrink?” Sturm repeated, aghast. ”We don't want to shrink the hammer!”
”I am aware of that,” Raistlin said irritably. ”I plan to modify the spell so it will reduce the hammer's weight but not the size. There is a small chance that I might make a mistake. If so, our plot will be discovered.”
Sturm glowered. ”Then we should not proceed.”
”A small chance, I said,” Raistlin remarked. ”Very small.”
He went over to Flint, who gave him a dark glance from beneath lowered brows.
”This replica is an object of fine craftsmans.h.i.+p,” said Raistlin. ”Could I hold it to examine it more closely?”
Flint looked around. Arman had left off haunting the doorway and gone outside to try to walk off his mounting frustration. Tanis was across the room talking to Caramon. Slowly, Flint reached for the hammer. He drew it awkwardly from the harness and handed it over.
”It's heavy,” he said pointedly.
<script>