Dark Thane Page 18
"Well get sick somewhere else," Marith yelled as she opened the door to her apartment. Zen heard the groan of the heavy door on its hinge and reacted immediately.
The swiftness of his attack caught Marith Darkforge by surprise. She had just turned to enter her apartment when Zen bowled into the backs of her legs, throwing her face first into the carpet. In an instant, she had rolled to her feet, two long, wickedly curved daggers in her fists.
Still in gully dwarf form, Zen closed the door and put his back to it Marith gazed at him, her dark eyes sparkling with hate. "Why you miserable little gully dwarf!" she snarled. "What can you possibly hope to… "
Her sneering bravura died as she watched the gully dwarf swiftly transform into the gleaming, silver-gray body of a sivak draconian nearly seven feet tall. Zen towered over her, each of his fists nearly as large as her whole head, the muscles of his thighs thicker than her entire body.
His clawed feet dug into the black carpet covering the floor as he readied himself for her attack. He knew Marith Darkforge. He had studied her for weeks, had followed her through every routine of her life. He had watched her eat, watched her go about her daily duties, watched her train; he had followed her while she worked the gully dwarf warrens searching for him. He knew her reputation, her preference for two daggers, the way she always led with high right-handed feint while the left hand drove in low to the groin. She liked to spill the bowels of those she killed. Her martial skills were excellent if predictable. Surely she was one of the better opponents Zen had faced in his long and violent career; plus, he was weaponless and wore no armor, which meant this would be an interesting encounter.
She recognized her advantage, but she had not yet gotten over the shock of the draconian's sudden appearance. She had been hunting for this very one for the better part of a year. "You!" Marith hissed in surprise.
Zen smiled, parting his reptilian jaws to reveal long rows of back-curved fangs. This was one of the most alluring dwarf women he had seen in his eighteen months here. Adult female dwarves were mostly stocky and stout as though built out of bricks with too much mortar by a careless mason, neither handsome, nor ugly nor particularly well made. Utterly unremarkable. Human males lusted after female elves, but no one lusted after dwarf women. Not even dwarf men.
This one was different. There was something positively coltish about her legs. Her smooth, bare arms were muscular without being overwrought. Her black hair gleamed like the feather of a raven. Her chest, encased in its hardened busty torso of leather armor, heaved with excitement.
"My master has been searching for you," she said. Her lips, a moist dusky rose, parted in a nervous smile. "He urgently needs to talk to you."
Her right hand flicked up and forward, the blade winking in the dim light of the room. Zen ignored the feint and struck down with all his force, snapping the bones of her left wrist as she sought his belly with her blade. Her dagger clattered to the floor as Marith sank to one knee. Biting back her agony, she lashed out with her remaining weapon at the draconian's exposed knee. But her blow went astray as his claws sank into the back of her neck. He lifted her bodily from the floor, legs kicking, no longer silent, shrieking in agony and panic, dangling like a doll from his fist. Her small, wiry frame felt like a toy in his hands. He flung her across the small apartment, headfirst into the stone wall. She struck with a dull thud and slid between her bed and the wall, her screams cut short. She lay folded behind the bed, stunned and moaning.
Zen jerked the bed away from her, and she fell forward. She lifted one arm as though to ward off his next blow, but her hand hung limp and at an impossible angle from the jagged bones of her wrist. Blood tricked down her forearm to her elbow. He caught her around the throat and lifted her into the air again. Still dazed, she clawed weakly at the hard fingers tightening around her windpipe. Holding her aloft by the throat, he bent over and righted the bed, then flung her down on it. He stood over her a moment, admiring the awkward beauty of her limbs, even the shattered one with its bones sticking out of her flesh.
Glancing around the chamber, Zen spotted a bottle of dark brandy standing on a bookshelf. He jerked the cork loose with his teeth, poured half its contents down his own throat, then knelt beside her on the creaking bed. He pried open her jaws and slopped some of the brandy into her mouth. She gagged, coughed, then swallowed. Revived somewhat by the fiery Daergar brew, she glared up at her captor, all the pain and shame distilled to boiling hate in her dark eyes.
"Why don't you kill me?" she asked.
"In time," Zen said, his voice as cold as a wind off the Urkhan Sea. "But first, we shall have a talk. Look at your beautiful broken wrist, how delicately it hangs from the last tattered strands of your flesh. Your wrist and I will have a conversation. I shall ask it questions, and it will answer. If it doesn't answer, you must answer for it. Do you understand?"
With a snarl, she tried to rise, her lank legs kicking wildly. Frowning, he pressed her back into the bed and then gave her wrist a tweak that instantly stilled her protests. "That was not the correct answer," Zen said. "I shall ask it again."
"Brandy!" Marith gasped. A dribble of blood trickled down her chin; she had bitten through her lip. Zen obliged, pouring a gout of dark brandy into her open mouth, then emptied the remainder into his own. The empty bottle thumped on the floor.
"More," Marith said. "I need more. There's another bottle… " Zen retrieved it from the bookshelf, pulled the cork, and held the bottle to her bloodied lips. She drank its contents greedily, her throat rising and falling with each swallow, then flopped back on the bed, sated and exhausted.
"Now," Zen said, setting aside the half-empty bottle, "let us talk about you. Let us talk about Ferro Dunskull. But most of all, let us talk about you and Ferro Dunskull."
"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" she asked, writhing on the bed. The blood from her wrist soaked the sheet. Zen watched in undisguised admiration. This sweet morsel would wash the last vestiges of gully dwarf from his mouth.
"I am going to kill him, with your help," the sivak draconian corrected.
"I wish I could be there to see you spill his rotten guts, she moaned.
"You will be, my dear," Zen said, reaching for the bottle of brandy. He took a long pull, then wiped his reptilian mouth with a bloody corner of the bed sheet. "You will be."
24
Tarn sat up in bed, hearing the last echoes of a cry. "Tor?" he wondered aloud. "Crystal, did you hear…" But Crystal was not beside him on her side of the bed. Maybe she was with the baby. He swung his legs out from the covers and stood, feeling the cold stone floor beneath this feet.
"Where's the carpet?"
"Where are my slippers?"
Tarn glared around the room, all his senses suddenly alert. He reached for the dagger beneath his pillow, but it, too, was not there. And this wasn't his pillow. It wasn't even his bed! And this wasn't his bedchamber either.
Or was it? It looked vaguely familiar, like something out of a dream. It was his bedchamber after all, for there in the corner hung a suit of chain mail that he had worn when he was a young lad of only twenty years. His old battle axe hung on the wall by the door, too. But the door was on the wrong side of the room, as was his bed. The bed was too small.
It suddenly dawned on him that he was in his old room, the bedchamber of his childhood, in his mother's house in Daerbardin. But that was impossible. His mother's house was a heap of slag and ruin, destroyed by the Chaos dragon. Yet everything here was exactly as he remembered it. He walked to the door and opened it, half expecting to see the old familiar servants bustling about their morning duties, or his mother come to scold him for sleeping late again.
Instead, the hall was empty. But not silent. He heard someone hammering, somewhere deep within the house. Somewhere else, he heard a childish voice humming a wordless song, a busy song without meaning or end, just a series of notes repeated to no purpose. Da da dee da dum da dee, la dum la dee, da lee da dum.
The hammerin
g matched the rhythm of the song, as though the same person were producing both sounds. But the singing came from somewhere to the right, while the hammering was somewhere to the left. Tarn chose the singing. It sounded strangely familiar.
The hall outside his bedroom was barren and dusty, as though no one had ever lived here. Its clean rectangular lines stretched into infinity before him, but doors lined the hall to right and left. He stopped at each door to listen, then moved on, for the singing always seemed to be just ahead of him somehow. He wondered if it would lead him forever to nowhere.
But finally, he found the source. He opened the door to his old nursery. It was as barren as the hall, but in the middle of the square chamber sat a boy with his back to the door, dressed in pajamas, leaning over something with his long golden hair hanging down over his face, and humming the tuneless song. As Tarn entered, the boy stopped singing and looked over his shoulder. He looked familiar, like someone he had once seen in a crowd.
"Who are you?" Tarn asked him.
"Who are you?" the boy parroted.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for you," Tarn said.
The boy smiled a familiar smile, a familiar twinkle in his gray eyes. He turned away. "There is a crack in the floor here," the boy said.
"Really? Let me see." Tarn was interested in spite of himself. He approached and knelt beside the boy. Between his small, knobby knees was a small, black crack in the stone of the floor. The boy put his fingers over it and it began to whistle. As he moved his fingers, the whistling became the tuneless song. Da da dee da dum da dee, la dum la dee, da lee da dum.
"That's very good," Tarn laughed. "Where did you learn to do that?" The boy shrugged. Tarn placed his hand over the crack and felt a stiff, hot wind rising from it. In the deep earth, a hot wind is a sign of trouble. Cold wind you can expect. Hot wind means fire.
"We had better get out of here," Tarn said urgently. He stood and took the boy's hand. Together, they left the nursery and started back the way Tarn had come. The sound of hammering grew nearer, the closer they got to Tarn's old bedroom. It sounded like someone carving stone, like a hammer tapping a chisel. He had left his bedroom door open, and as he neared the door, it sounded like the hammerer was inside his room. He approached the door cautiously, keeping the boy well behind him, in case it was dangerous.
As he peered into the room, he saw that it wasn't his bedroom at all. It was the nursery again, and in the center of the nursery an old, red-bearded dwarf was busy widening the crack. The hot air rose up around him, blowing his beard into his eyes so that every few moments he stopped to brush it back down. But it was a pointless gesture, for as soon as he bent to his work again, the wind blew his beard up into his eyes again.
During one of his pauses, the old dwarf spotted Tarn standing at the door. "Ah, there you are, my lord. There is something wrong here. I have to get to the bottom of it."
"You fool! Who told you dig up this floor. Don't you feel that hot air coming?"
The old dwarf nodded as he removed a bright red handkerchief from the pocket of his coveralls and mopped his sweaty brow. "There's something wrong here, and I have to get to the bottom of it."
"Stop digging, I say. Wait…" Tarn turned and saw that the boy had slipped away. "Wait Let me see where that boy went to. Don't widen that hole any more until I get back!" Tarn ordered.
The worker tucked his handkerchief into his pocket and said as Tarn hurried away, "There's something wrong here, and I have to get to the bottom of it."
Tarn moaned as he heard the tap-tap-taptap of the hammer resume behind him. There was nothing for it, however. He had to find the boy first He couldn't let Tor get lost here.
He stopped. Tor? Was that his son, Tor? He hurried on, his panic growing. He began to call his name, "Tor! Tor! Answer me. Don't hide from me, boy. Tell me where you are!" But there was no sound, nothing, not even the sound of hammering this time. He hurried down the dark, empty, echoing hall, his footsteps stirring the dust but leaving no footprints. He stopped to open every door, but found all the rooms empty, barren, silent.
Ahead, he saw an open door, and he knew as he approached it, that it was the nursery again. He felt a cold dread come over him, but forced himself to the door. Inside, the worker was gone but the crack remained. It was wide enough for a child to fall into. His throat constricted in terror. What would he see lying at its bottom? His dead son? He forced his feet to keep moving, and when he was beside the crack, bent his quivering neck.
A long sigh escaped his lips. The hole was empty, and only a few feet deep. But a hot wind blew up in his face, tinged with the smell of sulfur. "Tor!" Tarn cried, turning on his heel and heading for the door again.
A tinkle of laughter brought him short. He heard it again, mocking, snickering, like a child pleased to have fooled his father. Tarn looked over his shoulder and saw there was a window in the wall opposite the door. He remembered that his nursery had had just such a window. Why hadn't he noticed it until now?
"Tor?" Tarn cried.
A titter of laughter answered him, and a small, goldenhaired head passed beneath the window on the outside.
Tarn rushed to the window. Outside lay the streets of Daerbardin, thronging with Daergar dressed for battle. At the far end of the street was some commotion. Tarn saw halberds waving, the glint of steel. A banner, black with a golden ring upon it, wavered and fell.
The Daergar began to retreat. Retreat turned to panic, and then to rout. Dwarves flew wildly down the street, casting aside their weapons, horror etched into their faces. And behind them marched a mob of shadows, an army of fear. Tarn knew them. He'd fought them in the Chaos War forty years ago and in his nightmares ever since. They were shadow wights, beings of pure chaos whose touch ruptured the bonds of life and flesh and memory, obliterating not only the life but all memory of that life from those who knew it.
And then Tarn saw Tor, giggling and looking over his shoulder, dart from behind a pillar and rush into the street. The mob of terrified Daergar swept over him and the shadow wights descended upon his tiny broken body. Tarn screamed and threw himself against the window.
The floor beneath his feet lifted, then dropped away. The crack opened into a gaping black maw. At its bottom lay a swirling pool of fire. Tarn clutched the window ledge, his legs dangling over the pit, bellowing Tor's name so that he would not forget, so he would never ever forget.
25
Tarn sat up in bed, hearing the last echoes of a cry. "Tor?" he wondered aloud.
Crystal grabbed his shoulder. "What was that?" she asked, her voice tight with fear. "Did we just have a groundquake?"
Without answering, Tarn leaped from the bed and threw back the door. Light spilled into the bedroom from the antechamber beyond. Mog's replacement, a young captain named Ghash Grisbane, stood in the doorway, his face wild with excitement. "My king, there's been a groundquake!" Ignoring him, Tarn thrust past, running naked out into the hall.
The servants were all awake and stumbling out of doors, half dressed, fuzzy-headed from bed. Tarn raced past them, his beard flying, naked feet slapping the floor. Around the corner, startled faces flashing by in his vision, he slid to a stop at the nursery door, his feet squeaking across the slick marble floor.
Aunt Needlebone awaited him, blocking the doorway with her body. "He's fine," she whispered. "He slept through the whole thing."
"Let me see him," Tarn demanded in a low voice.
"You'll wake him up, and then who will have to rock him hack to sleep?" Auntie said. "Let him sleep."
Crystal trotted to a stop behind Tarn. Her long, auburn tresses hung almost to her waist, framing her face in molten bronze. She had thrown a robe around her shoulders, and carried one for Tarn. "Put this on," she scolded her husband.
That is when Auntie noticed Tarn was naked, turning her face away with a shriek. "Reorx's bones! I didn't need to see that!" she exclaimed. "Mountain dwarves have no shame."
Tarn thrust his arms through the sleeves of the robe and tied its belt in a quick knot around his waist, all while peering into the darkened nursery. His darkvision only slowly adjusted, hampered by the lights in the hall. Everything seemed to be fine, though, just as Aunt Needlebone had said. Tor slept soundly on his belly with his little bottom hiked up in the air and fists tucked at his sides. His toys, ranged along shelves on the wall, were only slightly disordered; one or two had fallen harmlessly to the floor.
Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Tarn shoved past Tor's nanny and entered anyway. Crystal angrily whispered after him, "Don't you wake him, Tarn Bellowgranite!" swiftly echoed by Aunt Needlebone, who was busy collecting her bruised dignity.
Tarn ran his hands along the wall behind Tor's crib until he felt what his eyes had seen—a small dark crack. He followed it to the floor, where it widened to a finger's width beneath the crib. "What's the matter?" Crystal whispered from the doorway. Like the Hylar and Daewar, their closest cousins, the hill dwarves did not have the gift of darkvision and could not see the danger. Tarn appeared suddenly before them, the sleeping baby in his arms.
"Now wait just a damned minute," Aunt Needlebone protested.
"Where are you going?" Crystal asked.
"I'm taking Tor to our bed," Tarn said, elbowing his way past them. "There's a crack in the wall and floor."
Alarmed, Aunt Needlebone stepped across the hall and snatched a candle from its wall sconce. She entered the nursery with Crystal at her heels. Together, they examined the crack. It seemed harmless enough, a weakness of the masonry, nothing that couldn't be repaired with a slap of mortar. Aunt Needlebone shrugged. "He's a mountain dwarf. Maybe those weird eyes of his saw something we cannot."
Crystal sat back on her heels and ran a hand wearily though her hair, pushing a loose strand out of her face. "Auntie," she said in a soft voice. "I don't know what's come over him of late. Ever since that accident during the Festival of Lights, when Mog was killed, he hasn't been the same. He's afraid of shadows, and all he seems to want to do is be with Tor."