Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

Hearing the clank of armor approaching through the fog, the captain stopped his company and searched the road for a dry spot in which to kneel before the king. There wasn’t one, and he supposed that a sweeping bow would have to satisfy the demands of protocol. He planted himself in the center of the road, his warriors arranged in a line behind him, their weapons held in salute, while he twitched his cloak out of a puddle and tried to brush the mud from his leather vest.

Looking up with a broad smile splitting his beard, he saw a large group of shadowy figures approaching through the mist. Being Daewar, he did not share his Daergar and Theiwar cousins’ ability to see the outline of heat that surrounded any living body, and at first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but then it occurred to him that they were too tall, considerably taller than most dwarves.

“Elves!” he muttered in disgust. “I hope the king hasn’t brought a bunch of elves along. He’s too generous, really.”

His warriors shuffled nervously. One of them cleared his throat and said, “Captain, I’m not so sure…”

His voice trailed off as the mist parted, revealing a rank of armored reptilian creatures with leering faces and loaded crossbows poised for firing. At sight of the dwarves, they loosed a volley, cutting down half of Ilbars’s force in one swipe.

“Draconians!” the Daewar captain shouted, stumbling over one of his fallen guards.

He fell facedown in the muck as another volley of crossbow bolts shrieked over his head. He struggled to his knees and tore frantically at his sheathed sword. Suddenly, a silver-scaled, clawed foot sank into the mud between his knees. Ilbars looked up, his sword half drawn, blinking through the muddy water running into his eyes, as the screams of his dying comrades shrilled in his ears.

Ferro turned and watched the faces of his Theiwar soldiers as the first cries of battle sounded through the thick mist. He was pleased to see sly grins spread across many of their faces, though a few looked as though they suffered a bad taste in their mouths. He had selected this band because he knew they could be trusted so long as they were sufficiently compensated. Among his own clan, Ferro couldn’t be sure who might be on the payroll of their thane, Shahar Bellowsmoke. Shahar would not approve of what he was doing this day, not that the thane had a weak stomach for assassination. He was Daergar, after all, and Daergar drank intrigue with their mothers’ milk.

No, Shahar would oppose it because Tarn’s premature death would help Jungor Stonesinger. Jungor wanted to return Thorbardin to its old ways, to its old hierarchies of the clans. For centuries, the Hylar had been the lords of Thorbardin. With the support of their Daewar lackeys, they had relegated the powerful and ancient Daergar clan to an inferior status, even calling them “dark dwarves,” along with the magic-using Theiwar.

Two things had changed all that. The Chaos War had so decimated the population of Thorbardin that no clan was powerful enough to rule over the others, and had any tried, they might have warred their race into oblivion. The Daewar revolt and exodus back to the ancient dwarf home of Thoradin, led by Severus Stonehand several years after the Chaos War, had left the remaining Hylar without their strongest allies. Historically, the Theiwar and Daergar had been too suspicious of one another to band together against the Hylar and Daewar. With most of the Daewar gone, the Hylar were left even more vulnerable than before.

After the Daewar exodus, Tarn had welcomed dwarves of all clans to join him in the new city he was carving from the ruins of the North Gate complex—the least-damaged portion of Thorbardin after the destruction of the forces of Chaos. Most dwarves had gladly accepted. The Chaos dragons that had attacked their mountain stronghold had so undermined the foundations of all the dwarven cities that they were literally crumbling around their ears. Even Hybardin, the great city of the Hylar, carved from a huge stalactite that hung over the Urkhan Sea, had been abandoned after large sections had broken off and fallen, taking hundreds of Hylar to their deaths—including Belicia Slateshoulders, Tarn’s betrothed.

Ferro knew that his thane would oppose his actions on behalf of Jungor Stonesinger. He also knew that with Jungor Stonesinger as high thane of Thorbardin, there might be a new thane of the Daergar. He nodded to his Theiwar mercenaries and drew his own blade before turning back to the road.

In the misty distance, the horrible sound of slaughter gradually diminished. Soon, dark figures appeared on the road, crouching and slinking forward through the fog. In a low voice, Ferro ordered the Theiwar to hold their ground but take no further action. After a few seconds, the draconian scouts disappeared. Silent minutes passed, during which the dwarves could only hear the dripping of water or the sigh and gurgle of marsh gas escaping from the mud.

A shadow appeared from the mist, followed by another, then a dozen. Tall, gangly creatures, reptilian, with batlike wings and long, powerful tails, the draconians approached the dwarves’ camp warily, curved swords in their hands and crossbows at the ready. They were a mixed group wearing a motley collection of armor, shields, and helms scavenged from a dozen battlefields. Their weapons represented nearly every race on Krynn, from a straightbladed Solamnic broadsword, to a dwarfs heavy battleaxe, to a massive club once wielded by an ogre. A few even wore remnants of blue dragonarmor of a style not seen since the War of the Lance.

Their leader stood out among his lesser companions. Unlike the darker-scaled draconians, this one was covered in silvery-gray scales that looked almost white in the foggy twilight. He was taller than any of the others by more than a head, powerfully built, with the scars of countless battles visible on his arms and nightmarish reptilian face. He was dressed in black armor, with an ironblack breastplate covering his chest, but his armor had obviously been made at great cost to fit him snugly. Interlocking leaves of black steel protected his flanks and back while allowing full range of movement for his large silvery wings. He was a sivak, one of the most dangerous of the five races of draconians.

Ferro warily watched the draconian brigade approach, softly encouraging his warriors to hold their positions and to make no sudden moves. As they neared the camp, several of the smaller draconians disappeared into the swamp to either side of the road. Ferro guessed that they were good swimmers, as these wore no armor and carried daggers clamped between their razor-sharp teeth.

This rendezvous was extremely dangerous for the dwarves. The draconians outnumbered the dwarves by almost three to one, and Ferro had no way of knowing how many draconians there truly were. Perhaps there were many others out there in the bog watching them. The foul creatures might decide to go back on their agreement, in which case Ferro and his dwarves would likely be killed to the last dwarf for their armor, weapons, and clothes. Or one of his dwarves might speak something out of place, offend one of the draconians, and start a battle that had no end. He was thankful he’d had the forethought to hire Theiwar mercenaries, who did not share the hotheaded nature of their Daergar cousins.

The sivak leader of the draconians stopped a spear’s throw from the camp and peered ahead with his black, soulless eyes. No one spoke, and the draconians made no move to approach closer. Finally, Ferro sheathed his sword and swallowed in a throat suddenly parched dry as the Plains of Dust then stepped toward the draconians, empty hands raised palms outward. At his movement, a dozen crossbows were turned to train their sights on him. His step hesitated for only a moment before he muttered, “Ah, to the Abyss with it,” and walked boldly forward.