Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

The first half of the journey from Pax Tharkas had been uneventful.

An hour or so ahead of their baggage train, Tarn, Otaxx, and Mog had reached an ancient well near the ruined fortress of Zhaman, halfway between Thorbardin and Pax Tharkas. Otaxx had been collecting supplies for Thorbardin for some months, and their train of mules and ox-drawn wagons carried a small fortune in iron ore, Abanasinian grain, timber, and bolts of close-woven woolen cloth.

The dwarves did not approach the ruins any nearer than the well. Zhaman was said to be haunted. Long ago, it had been a fortress of the Conclave of Wizards, one of their places of study and training. Zhaman was far removed from human lands, and so the wizards found it a convenient laboratory for their more arcane and bizarre experiments, ones too dangerous to conduct near populated areas.

In the years before the Cataclysm, the wizards abandoned their fortress as they retreated from the persecution of the Kingpriest of Istar. For a hundred years after the Cataclysm, Zhaman had stood empty, until the archmage Fistandantilus led an army against Thorbardin during a time later known as the Dwarfgate Wars. While hill dwarves and humans battled the armies of Thorbardin on the Plains of Dergoth, Fistandantilus loosed powerful magic that not only destroyed both armies, but also Zhaman, and himself along with it. So mighty was this magical explosion that the plains had sunken and become The Bog, while the towers of Zhaman collapsed upon themselves and melted into the fearful skull-like visage that it now bore.

Tarn and his company had made camp an hour before sundown near the large ancient well in the hills north of The Bog. From their campfire, they could see Zhaman in the middle distance, while some distance behind it loomed the great profile of their mountain home. Even before they had finished setting up tents around the well, a runner arrived with news that the wagon train was under attack. The king and his company of more than a hundred dwarf warriors grabbed their weapons and arrived in time to drive off a party of goblin archers who had pinned down the trains in a narrow defile, killing most of the mules and oxen while the dwarves took cover under their wagons. Mog led a band of Klar into the hills and easily drove the goblins away without further losses, but the attack left them without the means to transport their supplies. Otaxx was loath to leave such valuable goods behind, but Tarn was moody and impatient to hasten his return to Thorbardin. He wouldn’t allow the general to send to Pax Tharkas for more beasts of burden, and in the end, the dwarves themselves took the supplies and divided them up to carry on their backs. Only the timber was abandoned, along with the wagons.

This added burden severely slowed their progress through The Bog the next day. Tarn had originally planned to traverse it in a single march and arrive back at Thorbardin before nightfall, but storms had soaked the perpetually waterlogged ground and turned some sections of the road into an oozing morass. With their heavy burdens, the dwarves were forced to slog forward at a snail’s pace, further deepening Tarn’s black mood. They were still some distance from the foothills when the sun began to sink into the mists above the swamp.

Already deeply concerned about the risk of passing through The Bog, Mog watched the sun fade into the fog with growing alarm. He had no desire to make camp in the swamp, but traveling through this place after dark was more dangerous. With the majority of Beryl’s forces still unaccounted for, there was no telling what might be lying in ambush on the road ahead.

Not for the first time that day, Mog said, “You run far too great a risk, my king. Let me scout ahead.”

“We’re almost home, Mog,” Tarn growled. “There’s nothing to worry about here. Soon there’ll be good stone beneath our feet and you’ll feel better.”

“That is what concerns me,” his captain said. “They always hit you just when your guard is down.”

“They? Who are they?” Tarn asked. “You are paranoid, my old friend.”

“It’s my job to be paranoid where the king’s safety is concerned. The road here is more muddy than any we’ve seen so far, and I wonder if perhaps some large force has passed this way already. We’re almost home now, and if I were lying in ambush, this is where I’d set my trap. Look how the road narrows up ahead. At least allow me to scout there.”

“There is no need. Someone has already scouted it for us.” As Tarn said this, a lone dwarf emerged from the fog and strode briskly toward them. “Maybe this stranger knows who churned the mud,” he said.

Mog called a halt to await the newcomer’s approach. Because he was a dwarf, Tarn’s guards kept their weapons sheathed but ready. Mog’s axe, however, never left his hand. He held it at his side and watched the stranger struggle and stumble through the mud, curses exploding from his lips every time he nearly fell. Finally he was close enough for all to see his face.

“Ilbars Bleakfell,” Mog said in surprise. “How did they get you to stick your nose outside the Gates of Thorbardin? This is a rare day!”

Ilbars nodded curtly to Mog and continued his approach. “I was sent to welcome the king back to Thorbardin and to ease his journey,” he said to Tarn, stopping a moment to deliver a sweeping bow. “Our camp is not far ahead.”

“Ah, very good,” Tarn said. He extended his hand to the Daewar captain. Ilbars strode forward to greet him, but suddenly Mog stepped in front of him, blocking the Daewar’s progress with his axe.

“Mog, what—” Tarn barked as the Klar seized him and pushed him to his knees. Ilbars stopped short, a snarl of anger forming on his face.

At that moment, bowstrings twanged from either side of the road, and Mog pushed Ilbars away.

“Draconians!” the Klar shouted as arrows and crossbow bolts clanged and pinged off the dwarves’ armor and shields. Two of Tarn’s guards dropped immediately, the swarm of arrows having found chinks in their armor. The others quickly formed into a circle around the thane, their round shields locked together, as more arrows poured into them.

Mog shielded Tarn with his own body, grunting as arrows pummeled his mailed back. Tarn swore and cursed at him to let him up, to let him fight, but the captain maintained his protective position. Another volley of arrows tore through their ranks, dropping three more dwarves. The others closed up the spaces, drawing back to tighten their circle around the thane. They hunkered behind their shields beneath the relentless rain of arrows. Scrambling to find protection, Ilbars picked up a shield from a fallen dwarf and crouched behind it, swearing furiously as he inched closer to the king.

Under cover of their missile fire, draconians began to climb up out of the bog onto the road, crawling up through the mud with their swords in their teeth. These were the smallest of their kind, known as baaz, a race of cruel and rapacious fighters. Without even waiting to form ranks, they assaulted the dwarves’ defensive circle, throwing themselves into the chaotic fray. As the first baaz crashed into the dwarven circle of shields, the last volley of arrows fell among both friend and foe, and kapak draconians appeared from the swamp to join in the assault. This species of draconians poisoned their blades with spittle before entering battle.

Quietly, Mog loosed his hold on the thane, pointing. A dwarf to their right fell, his head split to the teeth by a draconian sword, opening a space in their ranks. With a nod to the king, Mog threw himself into the empty space, his axe flashing out, separating the draconian’s head from its neck in one blow. Its body slumped to the ground and immediately turned to stone.