Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [110]
Silvara lit more torches along the wall, and the companions walked past the bier, gazing around the tomb curiously. It was not large. The bier stood in the center and stone benches lined the walls, presumably for the mourners to rest upon while paying their respects. At the far end stood a small stone altar. Carved in its surface were the symbols of the orders of the Knights, the crown, the rose, the kingfisher. Dried rose petals and herbs lay scattered on the top, their fragrance still lingering sweetly in the air after hundreds of years. Below the altar, sunk into the stone floor, was a large iron plate.
As Laurana stared curiously at this plate, Theros came over to stand beside her.
“What do you suppose this is?” she wondered. “A well?”
“Let’s see,” grunted the smith. Bending over, he lifted the ring on top of the plate in his huge, silver hand and pulled. At first nothing happened. Theros placed both hands on the ring and heaved with all his strength. The iron plate gave a great groan and slid across the floor with a scraping, squeaking sound that set their teeth on edge.
“What have you done?” Silvara, who had been standing near the tomb regarding it sadly, whirled to face them.
Theros stood up in astonishment at the shrill sound of her voice. Laurana involuntarily backed away from the gaping hole in the floor. Both of them stared at Silvara.
“Do not go near that!” Silvara warned, her voice shaking. “Stand clear! It is dangerous!”
“How do you know?” Laurana said coolly, recovering herself. “No one’s come here for hundreds of years. Or have they?”
“No!” Silvara said, biting her lip. “I—I know from the … legends of my people …”
Ignoring the girl, Laurana stepped to the edge of the hole and peered inside. It was dark. Even holding the torch Flint brought her from the wall, she could see nothing down there. A faint musty odor drifted from the hole, but that was all.
“I don’t think it’s a well,” said Tas, crowding to see.
“Stay away from it! Please!” Silvara begged.
“She’s right, little thief!” Theros grabbed Tas and pulled him away from the hole. “If you fell in there, you might tumble through to the other side of the world.”
“Really?” asked Tasslehoff breathlessly. “Would I really fall through to the other side, Theros? I wonder what it would be like? Would there be people there? Like us?”
“Not like kenders hopefully!” Flint grumbled. “Or they’d all be dead of idiocy by now. Besides, everyone knows that the world rests on the Anvil of Reorx. Those falling to the other side are caught between his hammer blows and the world still being forged. People on the other side indeed!” He snorted as he watched Theros unsuccessfully try to replace the plate. Tasslehoff was still staring at it curiously. Finally Theros was forced to give up, but he glared at the kender until Tas heaved a sigh and wandered away to the stone bier to stare with longing eyes at the shield and sword.
Flint tugged Laurana’s sleeve.
“What is it?” she asked absently, her thoughts elsewhere.
“I know stonework,” the dwarf said softly, “and there’s something strange about all this.” He paused, glancing to see if Laurana might laugh. But she was paying serious attention to him. “The tomb and the statues built outside are the work of men. It is old.…”
“Old enough to be Huma’s tomb?” Laurana interrupted.
“Every bit of it.” The dwarf nodded emphatically. “But yon great beast outside”—he gestured in the direction of the huge stone dragon—“was never built by the hands of man or elf or dwarf.”
Laurana blinked, uncomprehending.
“And it is older still,” the dwarf said, his voice growing husky. “So old it makes this”—he waved his hand at the tomb—“modern.”
Laurana began to understand. Flint, seeing her eyes widen, nodded slowly and solemnly.
“No hand of any being that walks upon Krynn with two legs carved the side out of that cliff,” he said.
“It must have been a creature with awesome strength,” Laurana murmured. “A huge creature—”
“With wings—”
“With wings,” Laurana murmured.
Suddenly she stopped talking,