Dark Thane Page 27

  Not a few recalled that the Council Hall was once a temple dedicated to the god Reorx, father of the dwarven race. No one dared to guess how Reorx might have viewed the fratricide in his own hallowed halls. Tarn walked among the carnage for nearly an hour, horrorstruck by the depth and ferocity of the Daergar vengeance; the sweetness of his rescue and victory was forever tainted. The death skald, Ogduan Bloodspike, sat on the temple steps and wept so pitifully that even Mog had tried to comfort him.

  Little now remained of Jungor's resistance, however. The last remaining Theiwar had fled their defenses at the transportation shaft Here, Tarn found more bodies piled up—the bodies of those who had followed him into the trap. And here also he met Otaxx Shortbeard. The old general looked worn with care and grief, for he bore ill news. Something had happened at the fortress—an attack of some sort. He wasn't sure, and he dared not speculate before the king, for the reports he had were merely rumors. Some said that Crystal was dead, others that Tor had been killed.

  The Hammer of Kharas swung forgotten in Tarn's fist as he strode up the short street from the transportation shaft to the southeast entrance of the fortress. Crowds thronged both sides of the street, though they were silent for the most part. A few tried to rouse a cheer for the king's return, but these were met with frowns. This, more than anything else, confirmed Tarn's deepest misgivings. The gates swung wide in greeting, the way lined with his warriors. Otaxx Shortbeard trudged along behind Tarn, his chin nearly on his chest, while Mog Bonecutter and his Klar silently brought up the rear. They passed though the tall entrance, through a wood gate and beneath a massive iron grate into a courtyard flanked by towers. An archway led a short distance into another court beyond. Here, they found dwarves carrying something on a litter from the gate's armory.

  Stumbling forward, Tarn ordered the litter bearers to a halt. They set their burden on the ground and stood back. Tarn glanced at them without recognition as he knelt beside the litter and flipped back its covering sheet.

  The powers that had set themselves against him were indeed cruel, he now knew. There was no reckoning with them. He rose to his feet and noticed that the Hammer of Kharas was still in his hand. The Hammer created in recognition of the gallantry of the heroic dwarf Kharas had come to represent all that was good and noble about the dwarves. It was the symbol of his right to rule Thorbardin. Only the Hammer could forge a true dragonlance, a blessed weapon of the gods. It had never been used for evil purposes.

  But now, Tarn felt the blood well in his heart and burn like the fires of the molten earth bursting up through rents in the stone, searing through reason and sanity. Even his fears of the chaos dragon sleeping in its chamber beneath the city vanished in his lust for revenge. One thought remained to him. He would see Jungor Stonesinger dead for the murder of his wife. He would crush the Hylar thane's skull with the Hammer of Kharas, even if the blood of a fellow mountain dwarf defiled the holy weapon beyond any atonement.

  "Death to Jungor Stonesinger!" he roared. "Death to all traitors!" He started toward the gate, outside of which a huge mob of dwarves waited for him to lead them on a rampage of revenge through Norbardin. Forty years of unresolved feuds boiled just beneath the surface, awaiting any excuse to explode.

  But Ogduan Bloodspike stepped into his path. The old dwarf laid a restraining hand on the king's arm. And at his touch the red haze of battle evaporated from his vision, as though icy water had been dashed into his face. Tarn stepped back, fear and wonder in his eyes.

  "That's not your wife," the old dwarf said. "I've been trying to tell you, but you are possessed."

  "Wha… ?" Tarn glanced at the faces of the dwarves around him, noticing that one of the litter bearers was Haruk Mastersword.

  "Haruk? What are you doing here?"

  "This is not your wife," the young dwarf said. "This is a draconian that she and I killed. It was trying to murder her, and took her form in death."

  "Draconian?" Tarn exclaimed. "Then Crystal is still alive?"

  Haruk nodded, but his face was etched with lines of grief too deep for someone so young. His eyes, once so youthful, had the look of someone betrayed.

  "Where is she?" Tarn demanded.

  "Inside the residence."

  "With Tor?"

  No one answered. Haruk hung his head, his face flushed scarlet with shame. Tarn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook the young dwarf violently. "Tell me. What has happened to my son?" he cried.

  40

  The Hall of Thanes stood empty, its great echoing dome rising into the shadows high above. Tarn paused at the entrance and gazed around the rows of benches. In all his years, he had never seen this place not filled to capacity, the air thick with torch smoke and the reek of unwashed bodies. Now, the halls and balconies outside were vacant and dark.

  A pall of fear hung over Norbardin. Its streets were silent save for the tramp of Jungor's soldiers. Patrols of Hylar and Theiwar warriors were scorning the streets and alleys, enforcing martial law with brutal efficiency. His people cowered in darkened rooms with their families gathered about them, behind bolted doors and shuttered windows, fearful of looking out and violating the laws of the new king of Thorbardin.

  Tarn had doomed his people to this fate by agreeing to Jungor's terms. The Hylar thane had wasted no time seizing power, even before the Hammer of Kharas was delivered into his greedy hands. Martial law was ordered, dissenters and troublemakers imprisoned "for their own safety." From the ranks of dwarves still loyal to him, Jungor chose new thanes for the Hylar, Klar, Daergar, and Daewar clans. Dwarves who had always enjoyed the privilege of voting for their thanes or seeing them chosen in trials of combat learned of their new leaders by way of official proclamation.

  Tomorrow, Jungor had promised, martial law would be rescinded and the normal daily activities of Thorbardin would resume, but Tarn didn't deceive himself that the new king would be a just ruler, nor that those already imprisoned would ever be released. The Council was filled with his puppets, the streets crowded with his soldiers.

  Many of Tarn's own house guards had been "recruited" into Jungor's service. Less than a score of dwarves had volunteered to accompany Tarn to the empty Council Hall to complete the act that would hand over final power to the new king of Thorbardin.

  His wife, Crystal Heathstone, was at his side, of course. Her face was stricken with grief and worry, so that he hardly recognized the beautiful young Neidar princess whom he had married not that many years ago. Though Jungor promised that Tor would not be harmed and would be handed over in exchange for the Hammer, she no longer trusted the decency or honor of any mountain dwarf, not after the brutal way they murdered Aunt Needlebone while kidnapping her son.

  Mog Bonecutter carried the Hammer of Kharas before him, wrapped in a cloth of gold that had been stained black with the blood of Tor's nanny. Also in Tarn's small party was the ever-loyal Daewar general, Otaxx Shortbeard, whose own fortunes had risen and fallen with his king's. Haruk Mastersword escorted them as the representative of Jungor's new government. The others in their party consisted of a mixed dozen of Klar, Daergar, and Daewar warriors. Shahar Bellowsmoke, former thane of the Daergar and cousin of the king, walked at their rear beside the death skald, Ogduan Bloodspike.

  This was all that was left of the thousands who had marched just two days ago through Norbardin, following the Hammer of Kharas to victory over Jungor Stonesinger's fanatic rebels. Tarn believed that, with the Hammer in his hands, he could have swept into Jungor's palace and killed the rebellious Hylar thane, and his people would have cheered him for it. But Tor would have been killed. Without the Hammer, he could never again be king, but without his son he didn't know that he could continue living. The choice was easy for him. He only delayed in order to try to win concessions for his followers and for the people he would leave behind. But he had failed in this as well. Jungor considered it an even bargain—the Hammer of Kharas for the life of his son, and in the end, Tarn was forced to accept.

  Now, as Tarn bega
n to descend the stairs toward the center of the empty Council Hall, a light flared to life on the floor below, a brilliant white glow that emanated from the stone atop Jungor's staff.

  The new king of Thorbardin sat upon the throne of the dead, a seemly chair, Tarn deemed. The golden crown of the king looked small and preposterous on his skull-like head. Beside his throne stood the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring, a large basket resting at her feet. To their right and left sat the new thanes chosen by Jungor to lend an illusion of legitimacy to his dictates. Tarn didn't even recognize most of them—petty functionaries or merchants of minor wealth who had somehow wormed their way into Jungor's graces. However, he was not surprised to see Hextor Ironhaft occupying the seat of the Hylar thane. Tarn silently hoped he enjoyed his new position, for he had probably paid enough for it. Of the thane of the gully dwarves, there was no sign. Even her chair had been removed.

  Haruk Mastersword paused at the door to allow the others to enter, for Jungor had ordered that no one be allowed to witness what transpired in the Council Hall this day. As Crystal passed him, the look of shame on his face nearly tore her heart from her chest. But she said nothing, knowing all too well that Jungor Stonesinger was keenly watching his nephew and would punish any sign of weakness. She touched his arm for a moment before moving on. The young dwarf turned away and fled to hide his tears.

  As they neared the floor of the Council Hall, Tarn kept a keen eye on his captain. Mog was the only armed member of their group, and this only because he had been chosen to carry the Hammer of Kharas. Tarn feared that Mog might be planning some final act of defiance. Yet he could not deny his captain the honor of carrying the weapon he had brought back from oblivion, even if his job today was to hand it over to their worst enemy.

  He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when, as they reached the floor, the Klar captain stepped to his right, unwrapped the Hammer of Kharas from its gruesome shroud, and presented it to Tarn. Tarn took it in his grasp and stepped up onto the dais.

  A greedy hiss escaped Jungor's lips when he saw the fabled weapon in Tarn's hands. No dwarf of the mountain could look upon the Hammer of Kharas and not feel his soul stirring. They drank its legend with their mother's milk and dreamed of its power into their last doddering years. No other icon so perfectly symbolized their ties to their mountain home, to their history, to their god, and to everything that made them dwarves. The Hammer represented honor, might, righteousness, and the covenant of the dwarves as the chosen people of Reorx.

  Jungor rose to his feet and pushed the glowing staff into Brecha's hands, while his own hands curled into claws that began to twitch in anticipation. Biting back the column of bile that rose in his throat, Tarn started toward him.

  "Stop!" Jungor shrieked, holding up one claw-like finger. "Come no closer, Tarn Bellowgranite. I do not trust you." Tarn grabbed Mog, who had started forward, too. Crystal stepped onto the dais, fiercely whispering Tarn's name.

  "Be quiet!" Tarn hissed over his shoulder. "No one move."

  "Lay the Hammer on the ground," Jungor ordered.

  "First, where is my son?" Tarn demanded in return.

  "He is here, and unharmed," Brecha Quickspring answered with an evil smile. Holding one hand above the basket, she closed her eyes and chanted a brief spell. A disk of greenish light formed beneath the basket, then rose, lifting it into the air.

  "Such a noisy boy, like his disagreeable nanny," she sighed. "I am glad to give him back."

  "Now put the Hammer on the ground," Jungor said. Tarn laid the weapon on the ground at his feet, then rose up and glared at Jungor across the dais.

  "Step away from it," Jungor ordered.

  "My son," Tarn said firmly, refusing to move. Jungor nodded to Brecha, who sent the glowing disk of green light floating toward Tarn. He stepped away from the Hammer and grabbed the basket as it passed near to him. Setting it quickly on the ground, he threw back the blankets to reveal his infant son, soundly asleep in a deep nest of rich blankets. A shudder of relief passed through his frame. He moved aside as Crystal plunged her hands into the basket and swept her son to her breast, sobbing hysterically.

  When Tarn turned back to the council, he saw that Hextor Ironhaft had already grabbed the Hammer. The new Hylar thane knelt and ceremoniously presented the holy weapon to his new king. As Jungor's fingers closed around its haft, he seemed to stagger under its weight. But he quickly regained his composure, glaring triumphantly at the other thanes. Last of all, his hawklike visage turned to the king he had finally replaced.

  "Before I go," Tarn said. "I want to warn you one more time. I want to warn all of you that you are in great danger." Several of the new thanes rolled their eyes and shook their beards in disbelief. Even defeated, the halfbreed would not give up.

  Infuriated, Tarn continued. "No! You will listen to me this one last time. There is a chaos dragon asleep beneath the new Council Hall being built. Captain Grisbane and I saw it with our own eyes. I beg you to take the architect and make an investigation. The creature is a monstrous—"

  "Gaul Quarrystone is dead," Jungor interrupted, laughing as he spoke. "As is Captain Grisbane. Conveniently, no one other than you has seen this creature."

  "The creature is there. Go and look for yourself, if you have the courage," Tarn angrily fired back.

  "I have looked," Jungor responded patronizingly. "There is nothing there but an old lava tube, which will, unfortunately, force us to abandon the construction of the new Council Hall. Like all your other machinations, Tarn Bellowgranite, the new Council Hall was ill-planned and poorly executed. Its empty shell will serve as a monument to your rule."

  "Nothing there?" Tarn asked disbelievingly. "You saw no dragon?"

  "The lava tube was empty and quite cool," Jungor said.

  "Don't you see what this means?" Tarn cried. "The dragon is awake and on the move! You must abandon the city at once, before it attacks!"

  "Begone from this city, you babbling fool!" Jungor shouted, pointing with the Hammer of Kharas toward the north. "No longer will we listen to your gibbering cries of danger. The dwarves of Thorbardin shall return to their former homes and rebuild our kingdom under my rule. As king of Thorbardin, I banish you from the mountain and the realm of the dwarves forever. You and all your ilk! If ever I see your beard again, I shall order it, and the head that grows it, spitted on a pike atop the Isle of the Dead!"

  41

  Carrying his son on one arm, Tarn led his group through the silent streets of Norbardin. No soldiers accompanied them, no curious onlookers hung out their windows to watch him pass. If not for the occasional thump or muffled cry that they heard behind doors, they might have thought they were passing through a realm long abandoned by its dwarven occupants.

  Tor was awake now and clung to his father's beard and shoulder. He peered about curiously with his wide gray eyes. As he was still only an infant, the little boy scarcely understood what was happening to him. For a few moments, Tarn felt a sudden pang of grief that Tor would never know this place except in the stories of his father and mother. Thorbardin was the birthright of all dwarves, he truly believed, and as much pain and grief as this place had brought him, it only caused him to love it the more.

  When they reached the North Gate, Tarn was surprised to find more than three hundred dwarves had gathered. There were whole families from every different clan, except the gully dwarves. They had gathered their belongings and stood in the North Gate plaza with their carts pulled by lowing cave oxen, loaded with such boxes and bundles that they could gather on short notice. These were all the dwarves of Thorbardin who had chosen to follow Tarn into exile. But he knew that for every dwarf here, there were several hundred more who might have followed him, but were more afraid of leaving Thorbardin than of dying in their mountain home.

  Several hundred of Jungor's most fanatical Hylar warriors stood nearby in close ranks, weapons at the ready, watching the crowd of exiles with wary disgust. At Tarn's arrival, their captain ordered the North Gate opened. T
he huge mechanism began to turn and the door, a great plug of stone shaped to be undetectable from the outside, slowly revolved backward on its great steel screw. Finally, it tilted and rolled into an alcove, opening the way to the outside. Sunlight streamed into the mountain for the first time in nearly two years.

  Slowly, the exiles began to file out under the close watch of Jungor's troops. As he waited his turn in line, Tarn glanced around one last time at the city he had rebuilt out of the ruins of the Chaos War. Somewhere among the many blank windows that looked down upon the plaza, he knew Jungor Stonesinger was probably watching, gloating, hunched over the Hammer of Kharas as though it were a prize he had won in the Arena.

  Now, he truly felt sorrow for those he was leaving behind to suffer under Jungor's rule, however long it might last. The chaos dragon would bring all that to an end, probably more quickly than any of them dared imagine. He deeply regretted his many failures, but none more so than to have disappointed his people and allowed Jungor Stonesinger to wrest the throne from him. That Hylar fool would lead the dwarves of Thorbardin to no good end.

  His followers went first. Tarn and his close companions were the last to exit through the gate. They stopped to watch the door slowly screw back into place. Then Tarn turned and looked north toward the wide sodden plains that stretched between Thorbardin and the former elven realm of Qualinost. The other exiles continued to file down the narrow path away from their homeland. Reaching up, Crystal tickled Tor under the chin and said, "Look! The sun is setting. Tor has never seen the sun before."

  Tarn smiled to see the look of wonder and delight on his son's face as he gazed at the brilliant reds and golds painting the western sky. He himself had not seen the sun for two years, had scarcely given a thought, he was ashamed to admit, to the world outside Thorbardin. What had happened to the elven nation, and to all the troubles of the realms above ground?