Douglas Niles: The Last Thane

"Please accept our humble gratitude," she began, looking into those feral eyes of fire, seeking some hint of the previous pleasures that had flickered there before. "And please know me, remember me, hear me, all-powerful one."

"Of course I hear you. I have always heard you. But I see you now with different eyes, and I think that you no longer entertain me." The daemon warrior's reply had come in perfect mountain dwarven, right down to the tone of insolent contempt.

"Zarak Thuul, look at me, know me!" Garimeth protested, throwing herself on the ground before the monstrous black being and reaching out her hands. She dared to touch the massive, taloned feet. "Please, grant me your favor once more."

"I shall do one thing for you, dwarfwoman. Rise."

Slowly, tremulously, she lifted herself to her knees, then stood staring upward at the immaculate beauty of his dark form. She thrilled as those fiery eyes dropped to regard her, shivered as that consuming gaze once again washed over her flesh.

"I am yours, mighty lord!" she cried, throwing her arms wide, offering herself willingly to this creature of Chaos.

"It pleases me to touch you again, to give you the stroke of my greatness." Zarak Thuul flicked a great claw, slicing into Garimeth's neck.

"I don't understand!" she cried, stumbling back, recoiling more from disappointment than from the force of the blow. Her vision blurred, light swam before her eyes, and she looked down in disbelief, watching as her lifeblood spilled into the street before Baker Whitegranite's house.

Interlude of Chaos

What did 1 ever see in that insect? Zarak Thuul was angry at the dwarfwoman and angry at himself for allowing himself to be deceived, to think that she was something mightier than she really had been. Without that strange helmet, she was pathetic-a silly mortal like all the rest.

Then Zarak Thuul threw back his head and laughed, knowing the deception didn't matter, that nothing mattered. And now it was time to finish this dwarven city and proceed to all the other cities of Thorbardin, to reduce them to rubble.

In truth, the female had been an interesting diversion, nothing more. She had intrigued him for a time, and it had pleased him to do the work that she desired. Something about her had touched him briefly, but that was gone. Instead, she had been proved feeble, just as utterly useless as any other mortal.

And now his power would be truly unleashed. This realm of dwarves would suffer as it had never suffered before. There was much for him to do, and he would continue until all this realm of shadow was reduced to a place of death, horror, chaos.

"It feels like solid rock." Tarn said, stepping back from the wall with the hilt of his sword still humming in his hand. "There's no hollow sound."

"Get a hammer," his father said without hesitation. "This is the place where the waters of the light garden are born. I ought to know that well enough!"

"What does that mean?" asked the son, still unsure of Baker Whitegranite's intentions.

"The words on the scroll told me to seek the Grotto where the waters of light were born! It's the fountain in my own garden! Don't you see?"

Tarn saw the connection, though he still wondered how they could break through such a thick wall of stone. Still, the half-breed went down to the cellar hallway and into his father's small smithy-a standard fixture in most dwarf homes. In seconds he returned with a large hammer.

A solid swing smashed into the stone wall and Tarn-who had braced himself for the recoil-nearly tumbled forward as the hammer punched right through. Pulling it back, he pounded several more times, quickly opening a hole big enough for a dwarf's head.

"Keep going," Baker urged quietly. "Make it big enough that we can crawl through and get in there."

In another minute Tarn had worked up a sheen of sweat and the hole leading into darkness was roughly three feet in diameter. Stale air wafted out, and he speculated that this was a chamber that hadn't been opened to the outside for many thousands of years.

Baker was eager to advance, ducking and pushing his way through the opening to land with an "oof." In moments Tarn, Belica, and Regal had followed. They found themselves perched atop a slope of rubble at the base of the wall in a surprisingly large chamber. They scrambled down to join the thane on the floor. Tarn looked up to see a ceiling, studded with jagged stalactites, that arched high over their heads.

"It was here that it began thousands and thousands of years ago."

Baker spoke softly, his eyes bright with emotion. The thane of the Hylar looked around slowly, reverently, as he paced the circumference of the circular cavern. Tarn was vaguely aware of soft light, and he realized that a glow was emanating from the top of a mound near the chamber's center.

"The good dragons were here in the Age of Dreams. Here they hatched and grew and learned from Chisel Loremaster."

"Wait," Tarn interrupted. "Chisel was a dwarf, you said. And there were no dwarves during the Age of Dreams, were there?"

But his father wasn't listening. Instead, he bustled around exclaiming about this, whistling in amazement as he searched the chamber.

To Tarn, except for the gentle illumination, the cave looked unremarkable, an ordinary hollow in the limestone rock that probably had been forged by water. Once it had been slick with moisture. Perhaps this dusty rock had once been crystalline and bright, but now it was old and mummified-dead.

"It's odd to think that it was under your house all along," Belicia observed.

"Not really," Baker replied. "In fact, I've long deduced that it was somewhere around here. That's one reason I chose to live in this quarter of Level Twenty-eight. And yet we never would have suspected where exactly I believe there is a reason Reorx has revealed this to me now."

"Why didn't the wall sound hollow?" Tarn wondered.

"I assume that's part of the ancient protection of this place: a magical enchantment. This was once the lair of wondrous dragons, you know-great beasts of powerful magic and even a scion. It was sealed so that it wouldn't be discovered until the right time-until now."

Tarn looked skeptical. He still wondered what use this place could be now, but his father was too moved for him to interrupt. For Baker Whitegranite, this was the culmination of a lifetime's searching.

Instead, it was Regal who spoke up. "What's this stuff about a scion?"

Baker smiled. "All wise, he was, the recorder of our dwarven lore. The records call him Chisel Loremaster. He wrote the greatest histories of our race. But I have a theory: I don't think he was a dwarf. No. I believe he was one of the ageless wise ones of the sort that have ever lurked around the fringes of Krynn's history."

"Uh-huh. No doubt," Regal replied modestly. "Though I prefer to think of him as 'Ever Wise.'"

"Wait. Regal?" Tarn asked, alerted to a sudden change in the gully dwarf's manner. All of a sudden the Aghar didn't look so filthy, so plump, nor so ill-mannered. All of a sudden, he looked solemn, and maybe even wise. "Hey, what's happening?"

"Huh?" Regal asked, picking his nose. "To me?"

"It's you! The chronicler of the dwarves!" gasped Baker. "You're Chisel Loremaster!"

"Again, correct," replied the diminutive Regal, who suddenly transformed into clothes that, if not fine, were at least well cut, nicely adorned, and neatly maintained.

"The honor of this moment… I can't explain." The thane tried to speak, but Regal made a deprecating gesture with his hand. Tarn looked on with mouth agape.

"However, there is a job to do, if you are ready," the gully dwarf scion said.

"Yes, of course. The egg. Now, let's see. This was the nest-it must have been," Baker said, suddenly animated as he moved toward the large mound in the center of the large cavern. The white light was rising from an unseen source atop this domed shape. Tarn and Belicia followed, a little dazed.