looked like molten silver that gave off a most beautiful
light. It reminded me of Silvara’s hair in the light of
Solinari, the silver moon. That silver light was the only
light in the forge and it seemed to coat everything with
silver, even Flints beard. Theros’s black skin shone like
he’d been standing out in the moonlight. And his silver
arm gleamed and glistened and it was so lovely and
wonderful that I felt a snuffle come up on me again.
“Shhhh!” Fizban whispered.
I couldn’t have talked now anyhow, what with the
snuffle, and he knew that, I guess, because he let loose of
me. We stood quietly in the shadows and watched. All the
time Fizban was muttering that we shouldn’t be here.
While Fizban muttered to himself – trying to
remember his spell, I suppose – I fought the snuffle and
listened to Flint and Theros talk. For awhile I was too
busy with the snuffle to pay much attention to what they
were saying, but then it occurred to me that neither of
them looked very happy, which was odd, considering that
they were down here with this wonderful pool of silver. I
listened to find out why.
“This is what I’m to use to forge the dragonlances?”
asked Theros, and he stared into the pool with a very a
grim expression.
“Yes, lad,” said Flint, and he sighed.
“Dragonmetal. Magical silver.”
Theros bent down and picked up something from a
pile of somethings lying on the floor. It was a lance, and it
gleamed in the light of the silver pool, and it certainly
seemed very fine to me. He held it in his hand and it was
well-balanced and the light glinted off its sharp spearlike
point. Suddenly, Theros’s big arm muscle bunched up and
he threw the lance, hard as he could, straight in to the rock
wall.
The lance broke.
“You didn’t see that!” Fizban gasped and clapped his
hand over my eyes, but, of course, it was too late, which
he must have realized, cause he let me look again after I
started squirming.
“There’s your magical dragonlances 1” Theros
snarled, glaring at the pieces of the shattered lance.
He squatted down at the edge of the pool, his big arms
hanging between his knees and his head bowed low. He
looked defeated, finished, beaten. I had never seen Theros
look that way, not even when the draconians had cut off
his arm and he was near dying.
“Steel,” he said. “Fair quality. Certainly not the best.
Look how it shattered. Plain ordinary steel.” Standing up,
he walked over and picked up the pieces of the broken
lance. “I’ll have to tell the others, of course.”
Flint looked at him and wiped his hand over his face
and beard, the way he does when he’s thinking pretty hard
and pretty deep. Going over to Theros, the dwarf laid a
hand on the big man’s arm.
“No, you won’t, lad,” he said. “You’ll go on making
more of these. You’ll use your silver arm and say they’re
made of dragonmetal. And you won’t say a word about the
steel.”
Theros stared at him, startled. Then he frowned. “I
can’t lie to them.”
“You won’t be,” Flint said, and he had That Look on
his face.
I knew That Look. It was like a mountain had plunked
down right in the middle of the path you want to walk on.
(I heard that actually happened, during the Cataclysm.)
You can say what you like to it, but the mountain won’t
move. And when the mountain won’t move it has That
Look on its face.
I said to Theros, under my breath, YOU MIGHT AS
WELL GIVE UP RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE YOU’LL
NEVER BUDGE HIM.
Flint was going on. “We’ll take these lances to the
knights and we’ll say, ‘Here, lads, Paladine has sent these
to you. He hasn’t forgotten you. He’s fighting here with
you, right now.’ And the faith will fill their hearts and that
faith will flow into their arms and into their bright eyes
and when they throw those lances it will be the strength of
that faith and the power of their arms and the vision of