Douglas Niles: The Last Thane

Stunned and dismayed, the half-breed shambled through the remains of the city of his birth, his youth, and his home. Hybardin had been ravaged beyond recognition. Guilt tore at him; anger clouded his eyes. With a growl of fury he kicked at a broken beam and looked around for some enemy he could smite with steel. But there was no one, nothing but this seemingly endless devastation.

"We're losing the city from below as the dark dwarves advance into the levels that the dragon has already burned," Belicia said gently, bringing him back to his senses. "Our only hope is to get ahead of them and mount a concerted counterattack."

"What if the Klar are attacking Level Twenty-eight again?" groaned Tarn, who had learned of that incident from Belicia. "What if the top of the city has suffered as much as the lower levels?"

She didn't answer. There wasn't really any answer, the half-breed realized.

Smoke was thick in the air, and not the clean coal smoke of a roaring forge. Instead, it was a choking vapor of thick, reddish hue, like nothing the half-breed had ever experienced before. They found a few Hylar warriors picking through the rubble. These battered veterans looked up as the newcomers approached. They were dazed, though they showed no sign of fear. But neither did they have the air of dwarves who were ready for a fight. Tarn sensed that these Hylar had already admitted defeat.

One grizzled dwarf, a veteran who had a wooden peg in place of his left leg, stood with a large battle-axe near a hole in the floor. "The dragon went on upward an hour ago. No telling how many levels are bored straight through."

"And the dark dwarves?" Belicia asked.

"Haven't made it this far yet. I heard there was a young warrior called Farran Thornwhistle who somehow got a few Hylar dwarves into a shield wall across the mouth of the cave one level down. He held for a long time, but last I heard they'd been overrun and killed to the last dwarf. Now we're trying to get the rest of these Hylar up to safety."

Belicia drew a sharp gasp at the news, and Tarn remembered a young recruit, freshly knocked in the shins by his stern teacher.

"What word of the thane?" asked Tarn.

"Came through here before on the main lift shaft. He and Axel Slateshoulders were with the last group to take the lift." The dwarf cleared his throat, shaking his head in awe.

"What is it? What happened?" demanded Tarn.

"The lift jammed fifty feet below. There was a bunch of them shadows crawling up after it and then the whole tunnel collapsed. Cage was pinched tight, but Baker Whitegranite held off the shadows with his sword until everyone got off. They called him a hero, those survivors. Now you can see even the lift station is buried. They had to climb up like you did. Word was they barely got away!" he concluded.

"Let's get to the Thane's Atrium," Tarn said urgently.

"A lot of the stairways are still open," advised the axeman. "They'll be less crowded farther from the lift stations, I'm guessing."

"Hurry!" Tarn shouted for the attention of the gully dwarves, a few of whom had already wandered off. Together with about eight or ten of his original crew of Aghar, they ran along the street, dodging blocks of stone, broken timbers and beams, and a tragic number of bodies. Several stairwells were nearby, but each of these was thronged by dwarves seeking to flee upward, so they kept running, making their way into the emptier reaches on the periphery.

"Here's one!" Belicia cried, finally discovering an entrance to a servants' stair in an alley behind several great houses. Kicking stones out of the way, she got the Aghar to help move a heavy beam, and finally they cleared enough space to get into the constricted passageway.

They rushed upward, gasping for breath as they emerged onto the street again at Level Ten and made their way toward the thane's headquarters. Even here, the avenues were filled with smoke and flame. Most were abandoned and empty. The few live Hylar they saw were running, stricken by panic, hastening to find escape still higher in the Life-Tree.

A great smoking cave gaped in the floor of a broad intersection, clear sign that the fire dragon had bored through here as well. There was no corresponding hole above them, Tarn pointed out. "That could mean the daemon warrior and the dragon are still around here somewhere."

There was no immediate sign of the horrific invaders, nor was there any indication that the dark dwarf vanguard had made it this far. Nevertheless, Tarn suspected the next phase of the invasion would only be a short time in coming. Trotting despite their fatigue, they hurried toward the Thane's Atrium which stood intact with several grim Hylar on guard outside the doors to the ceremonial chambers.

"Is my father the thane here?" asked Tarn.

"Aye. And he'll be glad to see you," replied the guard captain who stood aside to let them enter. The Aghar, meanwhile, willingly took up positions with the guards outside the atrium, though the Hylar sentries seemed less than thrilled at the these grubby reinforcements.

Belicia and Tarn started down the wide hall at a trot, not noticing at first that Regal Everwise had tagged along. They raced toward the large office where Baker had spent most of his time. Even before they got there, two elder dwarves emerged, shouting aloud in astonishment and relief.

"Father!" cried Belicia, stumbling into the welcoming embrace of Axel Slateshoulders. The old warrior's eyes were shut, but they leaked streams of tears.

"Tarn! My son, you're alive!" Baker's eyes were moist as well, but his features were chiseled, hardened in a way Tarn had never seen. His father's glasses were missing, but he was alert and clearly overjoyed. "My son!" he repeated, as if he couldn't believe the evidence before him.

Tarn clasped his father in a warm hug. "By Reorx, Father, I'm glad to see you. And I'm sorry!"

"Me, too-but enough of that. There's been too much sorrow."

"But our city… it's dying!" Tarn declared despairingly as he broke free from his father's embrace. He halted, dimly realizing that only days before he had been ready to turn his back on the Life-Tree and all things Hylar. How long ago had it been? He didn't know, couldn't even begin to reckon. If anything, the recollections seemed like a memory from another epoch.

"I'm afraid you're right," the thane concurred sadly. "We're encouraging the survivors to move upward to the highest levels of the city, but I don't know what else we can do. We could fight the dark dwarves alone-but with the army of Chaos? I fear they are too much for us."

"But Father, listen. I have this!" Tarn declared, pulling the Helm of Tongues from the bag. "In Daerforge I watched Mother use it to control the creature who rides the fire dragon."

Baker's eyes lit up at the sight of the artifact, but then he shook his head as he looked at Tarn. "I don't think so, not with this. At most, the creature was toying with her, perhaps attracted by the magic of the artifact. No, no. She could perhaps communicate, but never control. But tell me, what did you see?"

Tarn described the scene he had observed on the balcony of Garimeth's Daerforge manor house. "I swear the daemon bowed to her! And after that he left them alone, unharmed, and then flew away when Mother gestured with her hand."

"I see why you would think it was influenced by Garimeth, but that story doesn't shake my certainty that such a daemon creature would never allow itself to be controlled by a mortal being. These dark and shadowy manifestations come from Chaos, we know that now. And Chaos cannot be commanded or disciplined. I'm afraid this daemon creature was merely having fun at Garimeth's expense and doing just what it intended all along."

"Then you can't use it to stop the attack?"

Sighing, Baker shook his head. "Certainly not." He brightened again almost immediately. "However, there is something that it might be able to do to help!"