The War Of The Lance (36 page)

“Fizban!” I said and this time I was stern AND firm. “Did you mean to do that?”

“Yes,” he said, twisting the dish towel in his hands and sneaking peeks around the room.
“Got us right where I wanted. Uh, do you happen to know where that might be? Just testing
you,” he added quickly.

I'm afraid I shouted. “We're in Huma's Tomb!” “Oh, dear,” he said. Well, by this time I'd
had enough. "I hate to hurt your

feelings, Fizban, but I don't think you're much of a wizard and - "

I didn't finish that because Fizban's eyebrows (HE still had eyebrows) came together and
got real bristly and stuck out over his nose and he looked suddenly very fierce and angry.
I was afraid he was angry at me, but as it turned out, he wasn't.

“Enchantment!” he cried. “What?” I didn't know what we were talking about. “Enchantment!”
he said again. "We're under an

enchantment! We're cursed!“ ”How marvelou - I m-mean, how awful," I

stammered, seeing his fierce look grow even fiercer. “Who . . . who would put us under an
enchantment?” I asked in very polite tones.

“Who else? The Dark Queen.” He glared at me and stomped around the tomb. "She knows I'm
after the dragon

orb and she's trying to thwart me. I'll fix her. I'll . . . (mumble, mumble, mumble)."

I put the mumbles in because I really couldn't make out what Fizban said he was going to
do to the Dark Queen if he ever got his hands on her. Or if I did at the time I can't
remember now.

“Well,” I said briskly, hopping up. “Now that we know we're cursed and under an
enchantment, let's leave and get on with our journey.”

Fizban bristled at me. “That's just it, you see. We can't leave.”

“Can't leave?!” My heart sank down to the hole in my sock. “You mean . . . we're ...”

Trapped,“ said Fizban gloomily. ”Doomed forever to wander in the fog and always come back
here, where we started. Huma's Tomb."

“Forever!”

My heart oozed right out of the hole in my sock and ended up in my shoe. A snuffle rose up
in my throat and choked me. “I'm very glad you're not dead anymore, Fizban, and I'm truly
quite fond of you, but I don't want to be trapped in a cursed enchantment in a tomb with
you forever! Why, what would Flint do without me? And Tanis? I'm his advisor, you know.
You have to get us out of here!”

I'm afraid I went a bit wild, just because I was so tired of being in this Tomb and of the
fog and everything. I grabbed hold of Fizban's robes and the snuffle turned into a
whimper, then into a wail, and I lost control of myself for a fairly good stretch of time.

Fizban patted my topknot and let me cry into his robes, then he slapped me on the back and
said to brace myself and keep a stiff upper torso. He was going to offer me his
handkerchief to wipe my nose only he couldn't find it. Fortunately, I found it and so I
used it and felt some better. Funny, the way getting those snuffles and wails out of your
insides makes you feel better.

And I was so much better that I had an Idea.

“Fizban,” I said, after giving the matter thought, “if the Dark Queen has put us under an
enchantment, it must mean she's watching us - right?”

“You betcha!” he said, and he looked around quite fierce again.

It occurred to me then that maybe I shouldn't talk so loud because if she was watching us
she might be listening to us, too. So I crept over to Fizban and, once I found his ear
under all that hair, I whispered into it, “If she's watching the front door, why don't we
sneak out the back?”

He looked sort of stunned, then he blinked and said, “By George! I have an idea. If the
Dark Queen's watching the front door, why don't we sneak out the back?!”

“That was my idea,” I pointed out.

“Don't be a ninny!” he said, miffed. “Are you a great and powerful wizard?”

“No,” I was forced to admit. “Then it was my idea,” he said. “Hang on.” He grabbed hold of
my topknot and I grabbed hold of

his robes and he spoke some more of those spider-leg words. The Tomb got blurry and wind
rushed around me and I was dizzy and turned every which way. All in all quite a delightful
sensation. And then everything settled down and I heard Fizban say “oops” in a kind of way
that I didn't like much, having said it myself a time or two on occasion and knowing what
it meant.

I opened my eyes kind of cautiously, thinking that if I saw Huma's Tomb again I'd be
upset. But I didn't. See Huma's Tomb, that is. I opened my eyes wide and my mouth opened
at the same time to ask where we were, when suddenly a hand clapped over my mouth.

“Shush!” said Fizban.

His whiskers tickled my cheek, and, before I knew what was happening, he'd lifted me clean
off my feet and was dragging me backward into a really dark part of wherever it was we
were.

“Mish, muckgup, whursh blimp,” I said. What I meant to say was, “But, Fizban, that's
Flint!” only it sounded like the other since he had his hand over my mouth.

“Quiet! We're not supposed to be here!” he hissed back at me, and he looked incredibly
angry and not at all pleased with either me or himself and probably the Dark Queen, too.
So I kept quiet.

Though of course what I really wanted to do was to shout, “Hey, Flint! It's me, Tas!”
'cause I knew the dwarf'd be really glad to see me.

He always is, though he pretends he isn't, because

that's the way dwarves are. And Theros Ironfeld was with Flint, too, and I knew Theros
would be glad to see me because just a while back up in Huma's Tomb he'd saved me from
falling into a hole and ending up on the other side of the world.

With Fizban's hand clapped tight over my mouth and his whiskers tickling me I didn't have
much else to do except look. So I looked. We were in what appeared to be a blacksmith's
shop, only it was the largest and finest blacksmith's shop I'd ever seen in my entire
life. And I guessed then that this blacksmith's shop must be making Theros happy because
he is the finest blacksmith I'd ever known in my life. He and this shop just seemed to go
together.

There was an anvil bigger than me and a forge with a bellows and a lake of cold water that
you put the hot metal in to hear it hiss and see steam rise up and when the metal comes
out it's not hot anymore.

But the most wonderful thing was a huge pool of what 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 their bright eyes that will guide
these lances into the evil dragons' dark hearts. And who's to say that this isn't magic,
perhaps the greatest magic of all?”

“But it isn't true,” argued Theros, glowering.

“And how do you know what is true and what is not?” Flint demanded, glowering right back,
though he only came up to Theros's waist. "Here you stand, alive and well with the silver
arm, when you should - if you want truth - be lying dead and moldering in the ground with
worms eating you.

"And here we are, inside the Silver Dragon Mountain, brought here by that beautiful
creature who gave up everything, even love itself, for the sake of us all, and broke her
oath and doomed herself, when - if you want truth - she could have magicked us all away
and never said a word.

“Now I'll tell you what we're going to do, Theros Ironfeld,” Flint went on, the stubborn
look on his face getting stubborner. He rolled up his sleeves and hitched up his pants.
“We're going to get to work, you and I. And we're going to make these dragonlances. And
we're going to let the truth each man and woman carries in his or her own heart be the
magic that guides it.”

Well, at this point Fizban got the snuffles. He was dabbing his eyes with the end of his
beard. I guess I wasn't much better. We both stood there and snuffled together and shared
a handkerchief that I happened to have with me and by the time we were over the snuffles
Flint and Theros had gone away.

“What do we do now?” I asked. “Do we go help Flint and Theros?”

“A lot of help you'd be,” Fizban snapped. "Probably

fall into the dragonmetal well. No,“ he said, after chewing on the end of his beard, which
must have been quite salty from his tears, ”I think I know how to break the enchantment."

“You do?” I was truly glad.

“We've got to grab a couple of those lances.” He pointed to the pile of lances lying by
the pool.

“But those don't work,” I reminded him. “Theros said they don't.”

“What do you use these for?” Fizban demanded, grabbing hold of my ears and giving them a
tug that brought water to my eyes. “Doorknobs? Weren't you listening?”

Well, of course, I had been. I'd heard every word and if some of it wasn't exactly clear
that wasn't my fault and I don't know why he had to go and pull my ears nearly off my
head, especially after he'd already almost broken my nose and burned off my eyebrows.

“If you ask Theros nicely I'm sure he'd lend you a couple of lances,” I said, rubbing my
ears and trying not to be mad. After all, Fizban had gotten me caught in an enchantment
and, while it was a dull and boring enchantment, it was an enchantment nonetheless and I
felt I owed him something. “Especially since they don't work.”

“No, no!” Fizban muttered, and his eyes sparkled in quite a cunning and sneaky manner. “We
won't bother Theros. He's over firing up the forge. You and I'll just sneak in and borrow
a lance or two. He'll never notice.”

Now if there's one thing I'm good at, it's borrowing. You won't find a better borrower
than me, except maybe Uncle Trapspringer, but that's another story.

Fizban and I sneaked out of the shadows where we'd been hiding and crept quiet as mice
over to where the lances lay by the shining pool of silver. Once I got close to the
lances, I had to admit they were beautiful things, whether they worked or not. I wanted
one very badly and I was glad Fizban had decided he wanted one, too. I was a bit
uncertain, at first, as to how we were going to make off with them, for they were long and
big and heavy, and I couldn't very well stuff one in my pouch.

“I'll carry the butt-end,” said Fizban, “and you carry the spear-end. Balance it on our
shoulders, like this.”

I saw that would work, though I couldn't quite balance