Out of the plain they come, from the mothering earth,
Defining the sky before them.
Nine they were, under the three moons,
Under the autumn twilight:
As the world declined, they arose
Into the heart of the story.
The Hammer
“The Hammer of Kharas!”
The great Hall of Audience of the King of the Mountain Dwarves echoed with the triumphal announcement. It was followed by wild cheering, the deep booming voices of the dwarves mingling with the slightly higher-pitched shouts of the humans as the huge doors at the rear of the Hall were thrown open and Elistan, cleric of Paladine, entered.
Although the bowl-shaped Hall was large, even by dwarven standards, it was crammed to capacity. Nearly all of the eight hundred refugees from Pax Tharkas lined the walls, while the dwarves packed onto the carved stone benches below.
Elistan appeared at the foot of a long central aisle, the giant war hammer held reverently in his hands. The shouts increased at the sight of the cleric of Paladine in his white robes, the sound booming against the great vault of the ceiling and reverberating through the hall until it seemed that the ground shook with the vibrations.
Tanis winced as the noise made his head throb. He was stifled in the crowd. He didn’t like being underground anyway and, although the ceiling was so high that the top soared beyond the blazing torchlight and disappeared into shadow, the half-elf felt enclosed, trapped.
“I’ll be glad when this is over;” he muttered to Sturm, standing next to him.
Sturm, always melancholy, seemed even darker and more brooding than usual. “I don’t approve of this, Tanis,” he muttered, folding his arms across the bright metal of his antique breastplate.
“I know;” said Tanis irritably. “You’ve said it, not once, but several times. It’s too late now. There’s nothing to be done but make the best of it.”
The end of his sentence was lost in another resounding cheer as Elistan raised the Hammer above his head, showing it to the crowd before beginning the walk down the aisle. Tanis put his hand on his forehead. He was growing dizzy as the cool underground cavern heated up from the mass of bodies.
Elistan started to walk down the aisle. Rising to greet him on a dais in the center of the Hall was Hornfel, Thane of the Hylar dwarves. Spaced behind the dwarf were seven carved stone thrones, all of them now empty. Hornfel stood before the seventh throne, the most magnificent, the throne for the King of Thorbardin. Lang empty, it would be occupied once more, as Hornfel accepted the Hammer of Kharas. The return of this ancient relic was a singular triumph for Hornfel. Since his thanedom was now in possession of the coveted Hammer, he could unite the rival dwarven thanes under his leadership.
” We fought to recover that Hammer,” Sturm said slowly, his eyes upon the gleaming weapon. “The legendary Hammer of Kharas. Used to forge the dragonlances. Lost for hundreds of years, found again, and lost once more. And now given to the dwarves” he said in disgust.
“It was given to the dwarves once before,” Tanis reminded him wearily, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead. “Have Flint tell you the tale, if you’ve forgotten. At any rate, it is truly theirs now.”
Elistan had arrived at the foot of the stone dais where the Thane, dressed in the heavy robes and massive gold chains dwarves loved, awaited him. Elistan knelt at the foot of the dais, a politic gesture, for otherwise the tall, muscular cleric would stand face-to-face with the dwarf, despite the fact that the dais was a good three feet off the ground. The dwarves cheered mightily at this. The humans were, Tanis noticed, more subdued, some muttering among themselves, not liking the sight of their leader abasing himself.
“Accept this gift of our people-” Elistan’s words were lost in another cheer from the dwarves.
“Gift!” Sturm snorted. “Ransom is nearer the mark.”
“In return for which,” Elistan continued when he could be heard, “we thank the dwarves for their generous gift of a place to live within their kingdom.”
“For the right to be sealed in a tomb…” Sturm muttered.
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