Jeff Crook: Dark Thane

Despite surprise and a valiant effort, the king would quickly have been overcome where it not for the simultaneous assault led by Mog Bonecutter and Glint Ettinhammer. As Tarn slashed a path toward the Theiwar spellcaster, the contingent of Klar rescuers slammed into the hastily erected barrier and cast it aside. For a few brief moments, seasoned Hylar veterans grappled beard to beard with half-mad Klar shock troops, before the rescuer’s momentum and superior numbers overwhelmed the Hylar guards. Those who could broke and ran, sweeping past the remaining Theiwar, who quickly followed them into the dead end of the prison section. Their passage jostled the sorcerer just as he was about to cast another spell. Before he could recover, Tarn felled him with a blow to the jaw; as the sorcerer dropped to the floor, a handful of glistening black powder spilled from his fingers.

A dozen Klar warriors pelted after the guards, Glint Ettinhammer in their lead. Half mad with battle lust, Tarn cast about for another foe. What confronted him chilled his blood—a dwarf wearing the mask of the death skald and bearing a gleaming warhammer in his scarred fists. Feeling the ancient dread of the skald, Tarn backed away from this new enemy, war axe warily lowered. But then the dwarf dropped to one knee and tore aside the mask, revealing the tear-streaked face of his old captain of the guard, dead these two months and thought buried under the ruins of the Isle of the Dead.

“Mog?” Tarn asked, his hackles bristling in horror. “Have you returned to haunt me?”

“I am sorry flesh, my king,” Mog wept with joy. “I live. So long as you have need of my sword, I will smite your enemies, even unto my own death.” These were words from the ritual that Tarn used to induct new members into his personal guard. Hearing them now struck him to the soul.

“My old friend, I did not believe miracles possible anymore,” Tarn said, his voice cracking with emotion.

“There’s still one or two miracles left to this old world,” one of the Klar warriors said with a laugh. He was older than any of the others by more than a century, and Tarn wondered why they had even bothered to bring him along.

At his look of bafflement, Mog answered the king’s unspoken question. “My lord, this is Ogduan Bloodspike, the true death skald of the Isle of the Dead. He saved my life,” he said with a barely suppressed sneer. “How he came to follow us here, I don’t know.”

Glint strode down the narrow prison hall toward the sound of fighting. As he passed each cell door, he stopped and peered through the narrow grate. So far, all the cells were empty. But as he turned a corner and saw his warriors cutting down the last of the resisting Hylar guards, he found one cell that still contained an occupant. He stared through the tiny metal grate into the lightless cell. A small, weak voice spoke from the far corner.

“Help me. I am a loyal dwarf wrongfully imprisoned.”

“Loyal to who?” Glint asked as he stepped back. With a single swipe of his war axe, he shattered the rusty lock. He shot back the bolt and pulled the door open on its ancient creaking hinges, then stepped inside.

Flickering light from torches in the hall illuminated the interior of the tiny cell and its miserable occupant. Beaten and battered, his pale skin bruised purple around his lips and eyes, Ferro Dunskull blinked painfully.

“Ah, here’s the traitor now!” Glint said with glee. “How I’ve longed to cleave your scrawny neck.” He strode across the floor of the cell in two steps and jerked the cringing Daergar to his feet.

Ferro slumped against him, mewling in terror and clinging to the Klar thane’s arms. “Please, have mercy on me,” he whined.

Furious, Glint tried to untangle himself. “Stand up, you coward! Stand up and take it like a dwarf. I want to get a clear swing at your neck. Ah!” Glint leaped hack in surprise, his eyes nearly popping from their sockets as he stared at the hilt of a small dagger protruding from between the overlapping plates of his chest armor. “Ah, you dog! You stabbed me!”

Lifting his axe, the Klar thane intended to end the life of this miserable traitor at once, but his weapon felt strangely heavy in his hand. His fingers grew numb and his vision began to narrow and darken. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, his axe clattering on the stones. “Damn it all to hell!” he swore thickly. “And such a pitifully small dagger.” He toppled back, his great shaggy head smacking the hard stone floor.

Zen picked up the dead thane’s war axe even as his arms lengthened and grew more muscular, his pale skin flushed with a healthy glow. His lank black hair became bushy and red, his beard full and bristling. Prison rags changed to gleaming plate armor. Hefting the axe, he stepped into the hall and closed the cell door just as the Klar warriors were returning from the slaughter. A few bore evidence of the valor of Hylar arms.

“Did you get them all?” Zen asked in Glint’s jovial booming voice.

“Aye, Thane Ettinhammer. Not a one escaped!” one of the Klar soldiers answered.

“Good. There’s nothing in there but a Theiwar, dead more than a week,” Zen said, pointing with his thumb. “Gods, what a smell! Let’s find the king.”

Striding ahead, the draconian led them back along the prison hall and into the small chamber. The Klar loosed a thundering cheer when they saw Tarn alive. The king smiled to hear them and welcomed them with open arms. They surged around him and tried to lift him onto their shoulders, despite his protests. Angrily, Mog began to lay about with his fists, driving them back. Half the group were feral Klar, and he barely trusted them more than their enemies. The Theiwar sorcerer glowered from a chair in the corner, his hands tightly bound behind his back with mushroomfiber cords, a rag stuffed in his mouth. A large purple knot rose from the side of his face. Zen stepped past him quickly, in case the wizard still had some spell in effect that might reveal that the draconian was now disguised as Glint.

“Thane Ettinhammer!” Tarn shouted. “Where are you going?”

Zen stopped short, just within the exit. Remembering Glint’s excitement at finding him in his cell, he quickly responded, “Ferro Dunskull is not here. I hasten to search the other dungeons for that miserable traitor.”

“Leave off. We have larger concerns than him,” Tarn answered. But the Klar thane had already gone.

Brecha Quickspring, thane of the Theiwar dwarves, stood on a rooftop overlooking the North Gate plaza. This high vantage point gave her an excellent view of the situation, which was deteriorating. Below her, a hundred or so Hylar and Theiwar warriors faced a mob of two thousand dwarf citizens of every clan. Most of those in the crowd were well armed. Here and there a spear or halberd pricked angrily above the sea of bearded faces. The dwarves of Thorbardin had a long history of maintaining a well-armed populace. It was a dangerous world and each dwarf was expected to be ready to defend his home and homeland at a moment’s notice.

Brecha made a mental note to speak to Jungor about changing the law, once his position as king was firmly established. An armed populace was a dangerous populace, independent and difficult to govern, as amply demonstrated by the scene unfolding below her. Word had spread that Tarn Bellowgranite had been captured and taken to the guard tower on the north side of the plaza. The tower lay conveniently near the Hylar district on the first level of Norbardin. It seemed that the crowd had formed largely without any express purpose—curiosity more than anything else. And no one knew yet how to react to the sudden seizure of power by Jungor Stonesinger and his allies. But in some quarters of the city, Jungor’s forces had not yet gained control, especially in the fortress area of the king’s residence. There were also pockets of resistance in Klar and Daergar neighborhoods.