Douglas Niles: The Last Thane

Brilliant white light burst from the egg, shining from the rock, from Baker himself. Yet he felt somehow outside of the experience, watching proudly as if from a distance, cherishing this moment, this place, his people.

And he became the light, streaming outward, rushing through the rock of the Life-Tree.

Wherever that light touched, the shadows of Chaos ceased to exist, wisping back to the nothingness that was their origin. Fire dragons sizzled to ashes; slithering creatures spasmed and vanished.

Where dwarves lay wounded or cowering in terror the light caressed them, and as they died the folk of the under-mountain felt the tender embrace of their god.

The light rained downward, streaming through all the levels of the great city, probing into each ruined chamber, seeking, finding the beings of Chaos wherever they tried to hide. It found the suffering dwarves as well and carried them away more gently.

In the air over the Urkhan Sea, Zarak Thuul was shocked by the first wave of light. He emitted a long, tortured wail, screaming his defiance. The power of the light seared his flesh and burned hotter even than the fires of his eyes. The daemon warrior writhed under the onslaught of that magical assault, shaking his fists, howling in fury as the power of Chaos tore at him and drove him down, surrounding him and quenching his power. Primus, too, cried in surreal pain. The white light embraced the fire dragon, drowning the brightness of his pure flame and tearing him into shreds of chaos that settled toward the lake waters in a flurry of dying sparks.

The daemon warrior tumbled through space, still howling, striking out against nothing and everything as the power of the platinum artifact swept him away. The dark waters of the lake were all around him. And then they were gone. Still the magic drove him, smashing and pounding, irresistible and overwhelming. The planes of darkness whirled past, and shreds of aether tore at his burning flesh until once more Zarak Thuul tumbled into the bleak-prison of the Abyss.

All of Thorbardin was illuminated as if it had been opened to the sky on a sunny day. In their cities on the shores of the underground sea the surviving Daewar gazed in awe while the Theiwar and Daergar howled, clasping hands to blinded eyes. Baker Whitegranite, who was the light, continued to expand outward. Knowing he was the tool of the gods and the ancient dragons, he embraced his destiny, spreading across the cool, dark waters of the Urkhan Sea.

When those waters finally took him, Baker accepted his end. The darkness that closed over his head brought him a renewed sense of calm.

And at last, peace.

Tarn had expected that his first daylight in two decades would be painful or, at the very least, uncomfortable to his dark-tuned eyes. Instead, he and Belicia emerged into the Valley of Thanes during the ghostly blue of pre-dawn, with the sight of the sky overhead the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.

There were thousands of other dwarves here, Hylar and Aghar and even many Klar, all of whom had escaped the Life-Tree and found their way through the mountain to the surface. This was only a percentage of those who had lived and died in Hybardin, but these dwarves were safe-at least for now.

He and Belicia had walked and crawled for a long time. Sometimes they had been alone, other times with nameless others, all seeking refuge. They had followed instinct and guesswork as they sought escape out of the mountain. And finally they had come here, to the ancient burial grounds of the kingdom, the lofty valley cradled among vastly higher summits.

Tarn was startled as a wild-eyed Klar rose to his feet from behind a nearby rock. The half-breed's hand went to his weapon, but something in the other dwarf's manner held his hand from the instinctive attack.

"What do you want?" he growled, stepping protectively in front of Belicia.

"Here," said the fellow, his gaze flashing between the two refugees. He extended a small object, and Tarn heard the splashing of water. "Drink," suggested the Klar.

"Thank you." At once Tarn noticed that he was terribly thirsty. He uncapped the flask and sniffed the odor of sweet water before taking a small drink. He then passed the drink to Belicia. She took a sip, then he slaked his own thirst before handing it back. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Tufa Bloodeye, thane of the Klar," declared the bedraggled dwarf, allowing a hint of pride to creep into his voice.

Tarn noticed that his eyes were shot through with crimson, so stark and red that they might in fact have been filled with blood.

"We're at peace again, your clan and mine?" asked Tarn hesitantly.

"Peace with you. You Hylar, right?"

"Yes, we're Hylar," Tarn replied. For the first time in his life he felt he really belonged to his father's clan. He and Belicia left Tufa Bloodeye, continuing into the vast valley and looking at the dwarves who were huddled everywhere.

"Did any of the Daergar survive?" asked Belicia numbly. "What about your mother?"

Tarn shook his head sadly. "I doubt it."

"And Regal-or Chisel. What about him?"

Tarn forced a rueful smile. "Him I wouldn't be so sure about."

"What is left of Thorbardin? What do we do now?" asked Belicia, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow and pulling him close. She was numb and grieving, but her eyes were dry and her chin strong, high, firm. "The hill dwarves will help us," Tarn said, with more confidence than he felt. "The time for war between the clans has passed."

"And Hybardin-will we go back there some day?" "Perhaps we shall; certainly our children will." "Until then, we'll have each other," his beloved concluded. And from the sky, low on the horizon after sunset, there came the gleaming twinkle of a lone red star.