Dark Thane Read online

  The dwarf king sagged against the bole of an enormous tree and glanced around at the horrified faces of his companions. Some stood as though struck blind, no longer even seeing what was before them. Others, like Tarn, could no longer bear to look and had turned away, beards trembling with the anger, horror, fear. Only Mog continued to stare out across the lake. The dwarf captain moved slowly up to the edge of the bank and glanced warily down at the shore. With a cry, he leaped. Tarn feared Mog had been driven out of his mind by the horror of the lake. He rushed after him, but as he reached the lip of the bank, he saw that Mog had only climbed down to the water's edge. Some piece of flotsam had caught his eye, and now he was dragging it out of the greasy water.

  "Mog!" Tarn hissed. Even though there was no one around to hear, he felt reluctant to shout. "Let the dead lie. Come back at once!"

  The dwarf continued to struggle with his prize. Finally, he wrested it free from an entangling mass that Tarn realized had once been a fine carpet in some noble elf's home. The object that Mog dragged from the lake was nearly as big as the dwarf and a dull olive in color. Its outer surface was pitted and cracked like weathered stone, but the underside was a soft pearly pink. It took a few moments for Tarn to realize what the thing was, but Mog had known as soon as he had spotted it at the water's edge.

  "It's a dragon scale!" the Klar captain said as he struggled up the slope, dragging it behind him.

  "It can't be," Tarn said. "It's too big." Even as he said it, he knew that he was wrong. It was, indeed, an enormous dragon's scale, many times larger than the scale of any dragon native to Krynn. Tarn had only seen a few loose dragon scales in his life, but none were anything like this one.

  The captain clambered up next to him and flung the thing on the ground. Tarn knelt and ran his hand along the rough, cracked edge, feeling the stonelike texture.

  "It must have come from her!" Mog hissed. He flipped it over, revealing the pink underside. A ragged bit of bloodless flesh clung to the upper flattened edge of the scale. Mog drew a dagger from his boot and sliced off a piece of the stringy, waterlogged flesh. He held it up to his nose then tested it with his teeth. He turned and spat.

  "Dragonflesh!"

  A hissed warning sounded from the trees. Looking up, Tarn saw one of the guards pointing across the lake. He crouched lower, peering through the haze rising off the horror-filled water. Something had crept out of the forest on the far side and stood at the water's edge. Something else joined it. The two began to creep along the shore, bending low as though sniffing the ground. Batlike wings rose from their backs, and long tails snaked behind them.

  "Draconians," Tarn said.

  "Looks like someone survived after all. Probably looking for something to eat," Mog growled then shuddered at the thought of the scavengers' banquet floating in the lake. "We should leave."

  Tarn gazed around at the woods, the hills, the broken crystal spires rising from the lake. He was reluctant to depart without first discovering the fate of his army. Maybe some dwarves had survived. He couldn't allow himself to believe that everyone had perished. If any did survive, they would head for the dwarves' nearest stronghold, the fortress straddling the pass between the elven and dwarven lands.

  "To Pax Tharkas, then," he said.

  Mog nodded. As Tarn scurried back to the relative safety of the trees, Mog heaved the huge dragon scale onto his back. Staggering for a moment to balance its weight, he followed his companions up the slope into the wooded hills.

  Tarn paused to wait for him at the edge of the trees. "Are you going to carry that all the way back to Thorbardin?" he asked grimly.

  Mog nodded under his burden. "This is proof of Beryl's death," he said.

  "You don't know that," Tarn said. "We can't assume anything."

  "I'll make a shield out of it, then," Mog grunted as he started off, pushing his way through the forest undergrowth. "Dragonscale armor is worth its weight in steel."

  "Reorx knows, we paid enough for that one," Tarn muttered into his beard as he stared back at the lake. More bodies than he could count filled the water as far as he could see.

  3

  Crystal Heathstone paused and set aside her hammer, pushed down the leather mask protecting her face from the heat, and dragged the heavy leather gloves from her hands. Behind her, red coals pulsed and waned from the air pushed by a bellows pumped by a young male dwarf of her household. He leaned over to check the quality of her work then shook his head ruefully. He let the bellows fall, exhaling a last gasp into the forge coals.

  She flung her gloves on the floor. "My forge skills never were much to brag about," she said, "but no one here in Thorbardin knows how to make a decent pair of shears. I promised Aunt Needlebone I'd make her some shears, but these will never work." She dragged a battered pair of tongs out of a barrel and lifted the still glowing but hopelessly warped shears from the anvil.

  "This is pathetic," she said laughing as she plopped them steaming into a bucket of water. "How many is that I've ruined, Haruk?"

  The apprentice thoughtfully stroked his wispy blond beard. "Eleven? Or is it twelve? I forget, Mistress. Why don't you just send me to the Hylar market to buy a pair?"

  Crystal untied her leather apron and folded it lovingly before stowing it in a wooden chest. "Everything there is made for cutting leather, heavy wool, or mushroom fiber. Auntie needs something with a finer edge for delicate work. As she says, 'leave it to a mountain dwarf to chop wood with a battle-axe.' "

  "What sort of delicate work?" Haruk asked. He shut the cover on the portable forge Crystal had set up, then he screwed down the damper to cool the fire within. The chamber grew dark, lit only by a single candle burning on a side table.

  "Just some frilly things she wants to finish," Crystal answered quickly as she bent over and fished the cooled shears from the cooling bucket. She flung them onto a heap of scrap metal. "You know the kind of things she wears. It's not important. Her heavy shears will have to suffice until my forge skills improve."

  "Aye, Mistress," Haruk said. He untied the leather cord binding his hair and shook out his full golden mane. Younger than Crystal by thirty years and not yet considered an adult, he was a fine specimen of dwarf youth, already come into his full growth and able to hold his own with more mature fighters in the sparring ring. He sighed and stretched, flexing the muscles of his bare sweaty arms. Crystal smiled appreciatively and crossed the room. In the corner by the door stood two stout lengths of ash wood, polished and ready for fitting with spearheads. She snatched them up and tossed one to the young dwarf. He caught it, his lips peeling back in a fierce grin.

  "How about a few rounds before dinner?" Crystal asked.

  "Gladly!"

  Crystal stabbed the end of her staff into a pile of charcoal, coating it with thick black dust. Haruk did the same, then the two dwarves backed several paces across the chamber to give themselves room to work.

  "Spear practice," Crystal said. "Black touch wins the round. How many rounds?"

  "Best of five," Haruk said.

  Grasping her pole at the low quarter, Crystal presented her blackened end, spear-fashion. Haruk dropped into a low guard, the charcoal-dusted end of his staff weaving tight figure eights in the air. Crystal stamped toward him three steps, her staff licking out in rapid feints, which he blocked effectively with the tip of his staff. The two wooden dowels clacked together in a brief staccato that left a cloud of charcoal dust hanging in the air between them. Crystal withdrew, smiling, then shifted to her left and took up a defensive posture.

  Suddenly, Haruk bellowed a charge and leaped across the room. She quickly sidestepped his headlong rush, knocked aside the tip of his staff, and dragged her own weapon across his naked bicep as he passed, leaving a black streak across the bulging muscle.

  The younger dwarf swore mightily as he returned to his position.

  "You fall for that every time, Haruk," Crystal admonished. "An injury like that is as good as a killing blow. If that had been a real spear, yo
ur bicep would be severed and your arm useless."

  "I know, Mistress," Haruk answered sullenly. He assumed a guarded stance.

  Crystal advanced to within a spear's distance and presented her own weapon, crossing his at the tip. "Begin!" she snapped.

  Slowly, they began to circle one another, staff tips crossed and touching at the axis of their circle. Their soft boots scratched on the dusty floor. Haruk lunged, but Crystal pressed the attack aside and countered, driving Haruk back to his original position. They crossed staves again and continued their circle. Haruk's green eyes danced in the light of the single candle as he sought some weakness in her defense. The tip of her staff dropped almost imperceptibly, and Haruk immediately seized the opportunity, thrusting past it. Crystal slipped below his attack and punched him squarely in the solar plexus with the end of her pole.

  Haruk staggered back, gasping for air and nearly dropping his weapon. When he had gathered his breath, Crystal said, "I did that because I know you so well. We've practiced together many times, and I knew you would bite the bait I dangled before your nose. It's easy to draw you into a foolish attack with a simple feint, like a mother bird pretending to have a broken wing. Be still when you fight. Calm your emotions."

  "Uncle Jungor says I should cultivate my emotions," Haruk said as he rested on his staff. "He says anger and fear will make my reactions quicker and my attacks stronger."

  "Your uncle, the Hylar thane, is a great arena fighter, true," Crystal said, "but those he faces in the pit are his equals, at the height of their fighting ability, and there are few who could trick him into exposing himself. Yet a great warrior must respect every opponent. You must also learn to fight those who have little military training, for their movements will be unorthodox and unexpected. A great fighter might try to trick you with a feint, but a gully dwarf could do the same by accident and just as easily. Either way, you're just as dead."

  "Yes, Mistress," Hurok said.

  "Ready?"

  Haruk nodded. The smile was gone from his face now. He circled her warily, and Crystal could see her lessons turning over in his mind. He was alert now but relaxed. His movements slipped fluidly from one moment to the next. He was no longer fixed, rigid in his stances. His eyes no longer darted nervously from her weapon to her face and her feet. When he attacked, he almost caught her by surprise. Only a slight shifting of his feet betrayed his intention.

  What did surprise her was his method of attack—the same blind spear charge she had beaten a thousand times before. Slipping to the side, she blocked his jab and… a blow to her stomach staggered her. Haruk had reversed it in mid-charge, hiding the movement with a shouting leap. The charcoal-blackened end thudded against her belly even as she, once again, dragged her own weapon across his biceps.

  "Mistress!" Haruk cried in surprise, dropping his staff and falling to his knees.

  Crystal rubbed her stomach, momentarily frightened by what had happened. Haruk's blow hadn't been a hard one, but if it had been a spear, it would have spilled her belly's contents onto the floor. Haruk kneeled before her in abject apology.

  "I never taught you that," she complained.

  "My uncle, Jungor Stonesinger taught it to me. He said I should try it on you. Please forgive my impertinence," he said, head bowed almost to the floor.

  "Stand up," she said, touching him on the shoulder. "No harm done, I think." She crossed the chamber and seated herself on an upturned keg. Haruk rose to his feet. "Shall I fetch Auntie?"

  "I'm fine," Crystal sighed. "Come, tell me what your uncle said. You didn't even try to defend yourself. Yet what you did would have killed me, even as I killed you, had this been a real battle."

  "That's what Uncle Jungor said," Haruk said, nodding. "He said that if you cannot defeat your opponent, you should consider sacrificing yourself in order to get close enough to kill him. Thus many a dwarf has bravely died in defense of his homeland."

  "When he has no other choice," Crystal countered sternly. "When his sacrifice may save the lives of his family or companions. It is the height of folly to throw away your life needlessly. A good fighter also knows when not to fight"

  "I understand, Mistress," Haruk said.

  "I'm glad you do, Haruk. Your uncle is wise in his way, and I would not speak against anyone from your family, but he is a hard, uncompromising individual, and he holds with ancient ways and ancient traditions that are no longer always best. The world has changed, as King Tarn has said many times. New times demand new ways."

  "Any word from the king?" Haruk asked.

  "No word yet," Crystal sighed. "A messenger arrived from Pax Tharkas two days ago saying that the evacuation of the elves was proceeding well." She rose to her feet and picked up her staff. "Now, I believe the score is two to one in my favor."

  "Are you certain you are recovered, Mistress?" Haruk asked in concern. "Perhaps it would be better—"

  "I'm fine," Crystal snapped. "It is you who must beware. I intend to give you a good drubbing. On your guard, sir dwarf." With that, she gripped her staff and swung.

  Desperately avoiding her blows, Haruk hopped across the dusty floor and retrieved his weapon just in time to block a thrust that would have unhinged his jaw. He tumbled across the floor, thrusting wildly at her feet to give himself time and room to maneuver. Crystal seemed to dance atop his weapon, nimbly avoiding his blows while shouting, "Good! Good! Just what I would do."

  He rolled to his feet and began to backpedal as the blackened end of her staff flicked again and again in his face, mere inches from his nose. He blocked each thrust only by the most heroic effort, and he knew he couldn't keep up with her much longer. He tried to force the charcoal tip of her staff over his head so that he could step inside the range of her weapon and grapple. At that instant, she hammered his instep with the butt of her staff then leaped back, on guard once again.

  Howling in pain, Haruk hopped on one foot while clutching the other injured one.

  "A spear is but a staff with one end sharpened. The blunt end can be just as dangerous," she shouted. She twirled the staff humming through the air, passing it from hand to hand. Haruk noted that she wasn't even breathing hard. He shook his head in disbelief.

  "You should fight in the arena," the young dwarf said with undisguised admiration.

  Crystal laughed, tossing her staff into a corner. "The king would flay my hide and hang it from his wall," she said as she took Haruk by the hand and helped him to a seat atop a barrel.

  "If he didn't, I surely would!" An elderly female dwarf stumped into the room and pointed one quivering finger in Crystal's face. "I thought I heard staff work in here. You should have better sense than this, Crystal Heathstone. Frolicking around like you are still a girl in your father's army!"

  "Oh, Auntie, I was just teaching my pupil his staves and spears."

  "Pupil? He's supposed to be your personal guard," Aunt Needlebone snarled then turned on Haruk. "And you, young fellow. What have you to say for yourself? Haven't you better sense? You might have injured your queen."

  "No disrespect, Aunt Galena, but I doubt I could seriously injure Mistress. Not on purpose, anyway," the young dwarf answered sheepishly.

  The old woman glared at him then back at Crystal, but there was a twinkle in her rheumy gray eye.

  "You're probably right at that, lad," she cackled suddenly, slapping him on the shoulder. "Ouch! Hard as stone, that is. Why, if I was a hundred years younger… "

  Haruk flushed a deep scarlet up to his ears, to the delight of both women.

  4

  Alone dwarf strode up the earthen ramp to the towering outer gate of Pax Tharkas. The night was dark as the deep earth, with not a star in the sky, and the warriors guarding the ancient dwarven fortress had set up dozens of torches along the ramp to illuminate anyone approaching in the night. Huge stone walls rose more than a hundred feet in the air before him, bone white in the light of the torches lining the ramp. The walls stretched away in a gentle curve on either side of the ramp, di
sappearing into darkness long before they reached the stony slopes of the mountain pass that Pax Tharkas guarded.

  The dwarf wore a ragged assortment of plate and chain-mail armor, heavily weathered. He stopped just inside the circle of the torchlight and lifted his hands palm up to show they were empty. He couldn't see the gate's defenders because of the glow of the torches, but he knew they were watching him, probably down the length of a cocked crossbow.

  After a few moments, he pushed back the chain-mail hood covering his head, loosing an unruly mass of greasy black hair and a jutting nest of beard. Flecks of some white substance clung to the ends of his beard hairs, while the deeper crevasses of his weathered face showed white with the same substance.

  He thrust out his chest and shouted, "Open the gates!"

  "Who are you, and what do you want?" a harsh voice answered from atop the battlements high above him.

  "I am Mog Bonecutter, captain of the High Thane's personal guard. The thane desires entrance," Mog answered.

  "If the king is with you, why doesn't he show himself?" the voice asked sharply.

  "He doesn't want to be shot by accident in the dark by you night-blind Daewar dogs. I know your voice, Mason Axeblade, and you know me better than you'd like. So open this door before I hew it down!" Mog roared.

  "It'll take more than one motherless iron-throated Klar to breach the gates of Pax Tharkas," the voice shouted in answer. "Open the gates! Wake up, you sluggards. The king has returned. Open the gates for your king, blast your hides!"

  As Tarn and the remainder of his guards climbed the ramp to the outer gate of Pax Tharkas, one of the massive, ironbound valves slowly and silently swung open on its well-greased hinges. Torches appeared in the gap, held aloft by grim-faced dwarves dressed in mail. Half held loaded crossbows at the ready, the others clutched spears, and they all formed a lane to welcome Tarn into the fortress.