Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

But at times of extreme emotion, the curdled flesh flushed with blood and seemed almost to pulse. As the servants hurried forward to clean up the mess, Jungor grabbed the edges of the table and flipped it onto its side. Hextor sighed and stood, crossed the chamber to the fireplace, and took a crystal decanter from the mantle.

“That fool of a Daergar has failed me for the last time,” Jungor swore. He sank into his chair while servants scuttled all around him, collecting broken crockery and mopping up the mess. He watched them for a few moments, a sneer curling the left side of his face. Most took care not to come within his reach, but one young maid made the mistake of forgetting where she was. Jungor’s boot lashed out, smashing into her hip and sending her flying across the room.

Hextor stepped over her prostrate body on his way to the couch. A servant quickly dragged the weeping maid from the room so as not to disturb the thane any further. The others finished cleaning up and hurried away. As the last one exited the dining chamber, Astar Trueshield entered, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm.

“Bad news. I hear that Ferro Dunskull was captured,” he blurted out.

Hextor winced and placed a finger to his lips. Astar paused, then bowed in gratitude for the warning. “Our troops are nearly all in their positions,” he said, swiftly changing the subject to more positive matters. “Once word of Tarn’s demise… oh!” His face flushed red. “I mean…”

“Oh, he says,” Jungor snarled. “Yes, it finally dawns on him that we can hardly move to take control of the city if the king is still alive and in command. And Ferro might betray us after all. He is Daergar.”

“I warned you not to take any dark dwarves into your confidence,” Hextor said as he sipped his brandy.

“Your tongue will cost you your head one day, Hextor Ironhaft,” Thane Brecha Quickspring cautioned from the dark corner where she had been sitting the entire time, a spellbook open upon her lap. “Just as Thane Delvestone’s cost him his.”

“My lord, are you going to allow this Theiwar witch to threaten me, a Hylar of your own clan?” Hextor protested.

“This Theiwar witch is a thane of the Council,” Brecha haughtily responded. “For forty years, we Theiwar have scraped and scratched for our rightful place here. We will not be ignored.”

“Fine words,” Hextor snapped back. “How much did Tarn Bellowgranite pay you to say them?”

“Do you dare accuse me of double-dealing?” the Theiwar thane cried as she leaped to her feet. She turned to Jungor. “My lord, I demand—!”

“You will demand nothing!” Jungor roared, leaping to his feet. With one swipe of his long arm, he sent her crashing back into her dark corner, her spellbook flying from her grasp to land in a disordered heap. Two long strides brought him to the couch. Hextor Ironhaft cowered before him.

Jungor bent over him and shrieked into his face, “Shut up! Shut up! The both of you must end your bickering, or I will end it for you! I cannot think clearly for all your endless prattle!” He spun and stalked away. Nursing a bruised jaw, Brecha climbed to her feet and righted her chair. Neither she nor Hextor dared to speak, much less apologize.

“None of you seem to realize our imminent danger,” Jungor said as he walked to the window and looked out over his garden. As swiftly as it had flared, his anger disappeared. He realized what he must do, and now spoke calmly, rationally.

“Shahar Bellowsmoke will demand the right to question Ferro, once he is informed of the attempt on Tarn’s life. If he is allowed to exercise the full talents of his interrogators, Ferro will confess everything that he knows and probably much that he doesn’t know. We cannot let that happen. The problem of Ferro must be solved.”

“Of course,” Hextor Ironhaft said.

“We cannot rescue him,” Brecha said cautiously. “That would only incriminate us in the assassination attempt.”

“Who said anything about a rescue?” Jungor asked with a shrug.

“What, then? We can’t kill him, for the same reasons. And if he has already confessed, it won’t matter what we do,” Astar said.

“Exactly!” Jungor exclaimed. “We must assume that he has already told everything. I want you to concentrate your efforts on securing the dungeon where they are keeping him. We’ll need those cells. But do not touch him yet. He has disappointed me for the last time. I want that miserable Daergar for myself.”

Astar’s face grew pale and he dropped the sheaf of reports he’d been holding. “Take the dungeons? Now? But that means…”

“War,” Jungor said, his scars flushing red. “The time of Daergar plots is ended. We fight now for control of Thorbardin. Our soldiers were trained to quell a civil war, not start one. But they are ready and willing, and the populace supports us. After Tarn is defeated and dead, or driven from our sacred home, the people will embrace my rule. Those who do not love us will learn to fear us. But they will embrace our rule.”

The third watch of the morning had just been called when Tarn strode into the courtyard. Fully armored now, his sword at his hip, long golden beard brushed and braided for battle, he looked every bit a king. A roaring cheer went up from his soldiers gathered along the walls and mustered in the courtyard.

Tarn greeted them with a joyfulness that he did not feel in his heart. Word had come within the hour of fighting in the Daergar quarter of the Anvil’s Echo, in the Hylar and Daewar markets of the first and second levels, in the Klar quarter of the second level, around the Council Hall, and at all forges and dungeons on the first and second levels. Jungor’s followers had struck everywhere at once, it seemed, in a marvelously coordinated assault that achieved many of their objectives with little or no loss of life.

Tarn reviewed his maps as the reports came in. Jungor had moved to cut off the third level at all the transportation shafts, isolating Tarn from his food supplies and his armories. The Council Hall had fallen without a fight, the majority of its guards being loyal solely to the Council of Thanes. Since the majority of the Council were allied with Jungor, the guards had merely turned over control of the Hall to Astar Trueshield. Now, Jungor’s captain was using it as a base of operations and communications center to coordinate the takeover on the southern half of the second level. The northern half-containing the largest concentration of Hylar and Daewar in Norbardin—was already under control. Those council guards still loyal to Tarn had slipped away before Astar’s appearance on the scene and now had joined their king at the fortress. Among them was General Otaxx Shortbeard.

Tarn was heartily glad to see his old friend, even under such difficult circumstances. They greeted one another with a boisterous embrace before Tarn pulled him aside for a brief exchange beneath an arch. “Old friend, I honor your loyalty, but you risk much in defying your own clan in this.”

The old general burst out laughing, shaking his gray beard. “You should know that the Daewar are divided now that Rughar Delvestone is dead,” he said. “Some remain loyal to Jungor and would have him select the next Daewar thane. How that can be considered loyalty, I’ll never know. Others have sided with you, but they are scattered and confused. It will take some time for them to gather their wits and come along here. Some fool has even suggested that I would make a good thane! Hah! So now my fortunes rise or fall with you, my king. If you fail, then so do I.”

Tarn greeted this news with a fierce smile. “Good! I knew I could count on you,” he said. “Ever have you come to my aid in time of need, Otaxx Shortbeard.”