Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

Suddenly, the door banged open. Astar started out of his study of the thane’s face, his sword already in his fist. Ferro Dunskull ducked aside as the captain of the guard came leaping around the door.

“It’s me!” he shrieked, lifting his hands defensively.

“What do you want here, Daergar?” Captain Trueshield demanded harshly as he sheathed his blade. Outside the door, dozens of dwarves huddled in the hall, awaiting some word of Jungor’s fate. Astar blocked their view with his body, filling the narrow doorway, but the look on his face discouraged their efforts as much as the breadth of his shoulders. Many turned away and pretended interest in the quality of the floor’s stonework.

“Let him in, Captain,” Jungor sighed from the table.

Astar closed the door and resumed his post. Ferro sneered at him and approached the examination table. When he saw Jungor’s face, his sneer changed to a pained smile. He glanced quickly at Hextor, who merely shook his head as though still trying to recover from his bout of nausea.

“What passes above, in Norbardin?” Jungor asked. “Do they think me dying?”

“Quite the opposite, my lord,” Ferro answered without looking the thane in his remaining eye. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from that milky white orb resting in its bruised flower of flesh. “The testimony of… um… of Thane Quickspring… that is to say… ”

“Spit it out!” Jungor barked impatiently.

“Does it hurt?” Ferro asked, edging closer. He reached out one hand and gingerly touched the ruined flesh of Jungor’s cheek.

The thane jerked away as though touched by a snake. “Like the unholy blazes of the Abyss. Now get on with your report!” he shouted.

Composing himself, Ferro continued. “Thane Quickspring continues to spread word of her vision.”

“Who asked her to meddle in this affair?” Jungor asked, his gaze turning to Hextor.

“Her staff proved quite useful,” Ferro remarked. Jungor scowled at him, but then his face grew thoughtful.

“This vision of hers may prove more useful still,” Hextor said in a soft voice.

Jungor nodded slowly and motioned for Ferro to continue.

The Daergar cleared his throat. “All known accomplices, acquaintances, and family of Vault Forgesmoke are being rounded up as we speak.”

“Find them. Hunt them down to the last dwarf,” Jungor said through clenched teeth. “I want to question them myself. Tarn Bellowgranite arranged this, mark my words. He arranged it to happen while he is away, to remove any possible link back to himself. That link is there, and I want you to find it!” In his fury, he sat up on the table, eliciting vehement protestations from the physician.

Jungor turned his rage against his healer. “Dig this thing out of my face or I’ll have you replaced. Permanently!”

Shrugging, the doctor picked up a black pottery bottle and removed its stopper. He tipped its liquid contents onto a handkerchief. Jungor’s nose wrinkled at the pungent aroma. “What is that?” he demanded.

“Something to make you sleep while I operate,” the doctor said.

“Put away your potions. You won’t use any magic on me,” Jungor said. Shrugging, the doctor set aside his anesthesia and picked up a long, narrow-bladed knife and a pair of thin tongs from the table. Climbing up on the table beside the thane, he set one knee across Jungor’s thigh and commenced probing the ruined orb’s socket.

After a few moments of watching, Hextor’s knees buckled. He sank beside a washbasin. Astar closed his eyes, but Ferro continued to observe the procedure with professional fascination.

Meanwhile, Jungor sat stoically under the doctor’s ungentle ministrations. He said through gritted teeth, “The people love me, they look to me for leadership, not Tarn Bellowgranite—that half-breed whelp of a Daergar bitch, may his father’s bones rot.”

The doctor popped Jungor’s ruined eye from its socket and dropped in with a wet plink into a bucket beside the table. The thane didn’t even wince, but Hextor gripped the edge of the washbasin as though the room were turning over. Astar shook his head in disbelief, and Ferro giggled nervously. Jungor snatched a rag from the table and began toweling out the empty socket.

“I should cleanse the wound with dwarf spirits,” the doctor said.

“I’ll do it myself,” Jungor growled.

“I’m sure you will,” the doctor responded as he began to gather his instruments. “Have a care that you don’t pour the dwarf spirits directly into your brain pan.”

“Thank you. You’ve done quite enough,” Jungor sneered. “You have other patients, I’m sure.”

“The king couldn’t have arranged this without the aid of Thane Shahar Bellowsmoke,” Ferro said.

“What do you know of Vault Forgesmoke’s family?” Jungor asked. “Is there a connection to the thane?”

Ferro tugged his chin whiskers in thought, slowly massaging his thick lower lip. “The Forgesmoke clan are cousins to the Bellowsmoke, so there is the familial connection. Thane Bellowsmoke is cousin to the king… but if Tarn ordered this, it will be difficult to prove. It is dangerous to challenge us Daergar at this time. Most of our warriors refused to go with Tarn on his mad adventure to save the elves, but Shahar is said to be loyal, if any Daergar can be called loyal.”

“Present company excluded,” Jungor interjected.

Ferro smiled, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. “Of course!”

Somewhat recovered, Hextor said, “Thane Bellowsmoke has little love for you, my lord, and that makes him a friend of the king. If a confession were arranged, it could be used to overthrow Tarn Bellowgranite.”

The doctor dropped one of his metal instruments in surprise, its sharp metal clatter punctuating the look of horror on his face. He quickly gathered it up and stuffed it into his bag.

Jungor leaped down from the table and accosted the Hylar merchant angrily. “Who said anything about overthrowing the king?” he shouted. “Did anyone here even mention rebellion? May the gods forgive me for saying so—if Tarn Bellowgranite is behind this murderous attack on me, the evidence will be presented before the full council, in accordance with the law. I am a loyal thane of Thorbardin. My well-known dispute with Tarn Bellowgranite is restricted to the Council Hall. Let no one speak treason before me.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Hextor cried, bowing low, almost to the floor.

Jungor turned to the doctor, smiling with his face like a mask of death. “Again, I thank you for your services. Forgive me if I was impatient.”

“Not at all, my thane,” the doctor answered nervously. He clutched his surgeon’s bag to his chest as Astar led him to the door.

When the doctor had gone and the door was shut, Jungor spun back to face Hextor. “Fool!” he hissed. “Do you want to give everything away? Leave us! Astar, clear those people away from the door and await me at the stair.”

Grudgingly, the two Hylar departed, leaving the thane alone with Ferro Dunskull.

Jungor returned to the examination table. Kicking over the bucket that still contained his lost eye, he sat down wearily and leaned his head against the leg of the table. A few drops of blood trickled down his face like teardrops from his gaping socket. Ferro came closer and stooped beside him, his hand nervously fluttering over Jungor’s shoulder as though he were afraid to touch him.

“Is everything prepared?” Jungor asked in a low, tired voice.

“It is, my lord,” Ferro whispered eagerly. “My scouts on the plains report that Tarn has left Pax Tharkas with a small party of guards. Everything is in readiness.”

“Be careful,” Jungor cautioned. “If anything should go awry, you know what must be done. It cannot be traced back to me.”