Downfall

Dhamon moved down slowly now, ignoring the half-elf's request to hurry so they could clean the dirt off themselves and find the valuables that must surely be somewhere in this place. And he pushed aside Rig's complaint that this was all very interesting but wasn't getting them back to Bloten any faster and that they would be late rejoining Fiona in the chamber so very high above.

"Here," Dhamon pointed. "This is the last of the carvings, and they're etched deeper, not as old, definitely. Carved about eight hundred years later than the last ones I showed you-if I understand the history." There were images of dwarves and a forge, a replica of a great hammer. "The Hammer of Reorx," Dhamon whispered. "That's the forging of it, about two thousand years before the cataclysm. The Time of Light, I think it was called. The hammer shown here was used a thousand years after its forging to make Huma's dragonlance."

Rig was honestly interested now, as weapons of any kind were a passion of the mariner's. "It was later called the Hammer of Kharas, right? After a hero of the Dwarf-gate War."

"How can you two talk so much about dwarves? I've had my fill of them."

"Maybe it was forged somewhere down here," Rig said. There was a tinge of excitement to his voice.

"I just want to find me some pretty baubles, something valuable, and have me a nice bath."

"Riki, this entire mountain is valuable."

"But I can't fit it in my pocket now, can I lover? I can't hang it around my neck."

Dhamon let out a deep breath. "To the dwarves, this would be priceless. To historians, too."

"To Palin," Rig added.

"Thought you wanted to get back to Bloten." The half-elf harumphed. "I know I certainly do. I'm tired of… Wait." Rikali put a hand on Dhamon's shoulder. "I smell somethin'. Thought I smelled somethin' before, smells stronger now." She turned and glanced up the steps, the top of which she hadn't been able to see a few minutes ago. But now the stairs were faintly visible to her oh-so-keen eyesight because of a soft light streaming down from high above. "I think I smell fire!"

"Fire?" Rig said, turning and squinting to see whatever it was she was looking at. He saw only darkness in the distance. "The trolls were done burning before we started down."

Dhamon sniffed the air. "I think she's right."

"But what could be burnin'?" the half-elf asked. Then her eyes grew wide. "Fetch!" she cried. She started up the steps, then stopped as the cavern rocked with a tremor. This time the quake wasn't coming from below, as all the others had. This one originated from above.

* * * * * * *

Fetch wasn't certain how he'd done it-managing to set all six pillars on fire. They were too far apart for the blaze to have spread on its own accord, so he must have done something to help.

He scratched his head. He remembered setting two or three on fire, maybe it was four, picking out the heads on the bottom to roast. But certainly not all of the pillars. Or had he? Perhaps he'd simply lost track of the time.

Maybe he'd merely gotten so caught up with the new dance he'd created-his flame dance he'd dubbed it- that he'd just let everything else slip his mind.

Not that it mattered. The fires would burn themselves out eventually, or maybe the wind would pick up and blow some rain inside and the water would put the fires out. It definitely was raining harder, he could hear the rain clearly, and the wind was blowing.

The fires would burn out-and in the process everyone would be done a great favor. Why, if there were gems or gold hidden inside those carved columns, he'd surely find them when he sifted through the ashes. Maldred would be exceedingly pleased.

"No, he won't," the kobold muttered to himself. "He'll tell me to stop playing with fire spells." He sat and watched the flaming pillars, trying hard to be ashamed of the whole incident, though actually he was awed by the great blaze he had birthed.

All around him the dwarven faces laughed, the shadows and the light playing across their grotesque features. The kobold mused to himself that Maldred would have to admit he'd breathed life into the carvings.

He glanced up and saw the flames dance along the very roof of the cavern, where the tops of the pillars rested, their crowned dwarven kings nothing more than kindling now. It was incredibly beautiful. The red and orange, the white and yellow.

Such intense color and all of it was his doing. Fetch grinned, then frowned, remembering he was trying to scold himself for his bad behavior.

Then his mouth dropped open as the first pillar collapsed, sending embers everywhere and sending him scurrying behind the forge-altar for cover. With a «whoosh» and a «pop» the second came down, the fallen chunks burning on the floor. Fetch poked his head above the altar and his eyes grew wide. It looked as if the god-image on the floor was lit up with smiles, pleased with Fetch's fiery magic.