Part 40 (1/2)
”Huh,” Flint grunted. ”Secret pa.s.sage.”
”I love secret pa.s.sages!” Tas started to crawl inside.
Flint grabbed hold of his ankle and dragged him out.
”Me first.”
Flint crawled into the pa.s.sage. At the other end, a small wooden door stood open a crack. Flint peeked through. Tas couldn't see for the dwarf's bulk, and he squirmed and wriggled to wedge his head in beside him.
”The burial chamber,” said Flint softly. ”The king lies here.” He removed his helm.
An ornate marble sarcophagus stood in the center of the room. A carven figure of the king graced the top. At the far end two immense doors of bronze and gold were sealed shut. The great bronze doors would have been opened only on special occasions, such as the yearly anniversary of the High King's death. Statues of dwarven warriors ranged around the tomb, standing silent and eternal guard. Light gleamed off a golden anvil placed in front of the tomb and on a stand of armor made of gold and steel.
Arman was on his knees, his own helm beside him on the floor.
Standing over him, gazing down at him, was a dwarf with white hair and a long, white beard. The dwarf was stooped with age, but even stooped, he was taller than Flint and ma.s.sively built.
”It's not a ghost,” Tas whispered, disappointed. ”It's just an old dwarf. No offense, Flint.”
Flint gave the kender a kick. ”Quiet!”
”I am honored to be in your presence, Great Kharas,” Arman said, his voice choked with emotion.
Flint's eyes opened wide. His eyebrows shot up to his hair line.
”Kharas? Did he say Kharas?” Tas asked. ”We've already got two Kharases-Arman and the dead one. Is this another? How many are there?”
Flint kicked him again and Tas subsided, rubbing bruised ribs.
”Rise up, young man,” said the ancient dwarf. ”You should not bow before me. I am not a king. I am merely one who guards the rest of the king.”
”All these centuries you have stayed here,” said Arman, awed. ”Why did you not come back to your people, Great Kharas? We are in sore need of your guidance.”
”I offered guidance to my people,” said the ancient dwarf bitterly, ”but it wasn't wanted. I am not in this tomb of my own choosing. You could say I was exiled to this place, sent here by the folly of my people.”
Flint's eyes narrowed. He tugged on his beard. ”Funny way of talking,” he muttered.
Arman bowed his head in shame. ”We have been foolish, Kharas, but all that will change now. You will come back to us. You will bring the Hammer to us. We will be united under one king.”
The ancient dwarf regarded the younger. ”Why have you come here, Arman Kharas?”
”To... to pay homage to King Duncan,” Arman stammered.
Kharas smiled sadly. ”You came for the Hammer, I think.”
Arman flushed. ”We need the Hammer!” he said defensively. ”Our people are suffering. The clans are divided. The Northgate, closed for centuries, has been opened. There is talk of war in the world above, and I fear there will be war beneath the mountain. If I could bring back the Hammer to Thorbardin, my father would be High King and he would-” He paused.
”He would do what?” Kharas asked mildly.
”He would unite the clans. Welcome our Neidar cousins back to the mountain. Open the gates to humans and elves, and reestablish trade and commerce.”
”Laudable goals,” Kharas said, nodding his head sagely. ”Why do you need the hammer to accomplish them?”
Arman looked confused. ”You said yourself long ago, before you left: 'Only when a good and honorable dwarf comes to unite the nations shall the Hammer of Kharas return. It will be his badge of righteousness.'”
”Are you that dwarf?” Kharas asked.
Arman lifted his head and stood straight and tall. ”I am Arman Kharas,” he said proudly. ”I found the way here when no one could find it for three hundred years.”
Flint scowled. ”He found the way here!” found the way here!”
Now it was Tas who kicked him. ”Shus.h.!.+”
”Why name yourself after Kharas?” the ancient dwarf asked.
”Because you are a great hero, of course!”
”He didn't mean to be a hero,” said Kharas softly. ”He was only a man who held true to his beliefs and did what he thought was right.”
He regarded Arman intently, then said, ”What is your name?”
”Arman Kharas,” answered the young dwarf.
”No, that is what you call yourself. What is your name?” Kharas persisted.
Arman frowned. ”I don't know what you mean. That is my name.”
”The name given to you at birth,” said Kharas.
Arman flushed an ugly red. ”What does that matter? My name is what I say it is. I chose my name and when I did so, a blessed red light flashed-”
”Yes, yes.” Kharas said impatiently. ”I know all about that. What is your name?”
Arman opened his mouth. He shut it again and swallowed. His face went even redder. He mumbled something.
”What?” Kharas leaned toward him.
”Pike,” said Arman in sulky tones. ”My name was Pike, but Pike is not the name of a hero!”
”It might be,” said Kharas.
Arman shook his head.
Flint grunted. At the sound, the ancient dwarf turned his head, casting a sharp glance in the direction of the secret pa.s.sage. Flint ducked back into the shadows and hauled the kender with him.
Kharas smiled and ran his fingers through his white beard. Then he turned back to Arman.