Jeff Crook: Dark Thane

This large mob filled Brecha with misgivings. Normally content to allow their leaders to lead them, they could turn dangerous if sufficiently provoked. Brecha didn’t think it was word of Tarn’s capture that had stirred them up. The king was too unpopular. Some other power was at work here, and she had quickly sent word to Jungor of the crowd gathering. She stood on the roof, her hands folded into the sleeves of her black robes, while she waited for her agents to return with their reports. Jungor was still in his home on the second level, where he and a dozen loyal Hylar leaders had gathered before coming to pay their “respects” to the captured king.

A movement of the crowd below brought Brecha to the roofs edge. A party of armed dwarves had suddenly poured out of the guard tower, joining the Hylar and Theiwar guards ringing the tower’s base. As the crowd drew back, Brecha swore bitterly and slammed her fist against the stone ledge. “Fools! What idiot ordered a sortie? Surely they don’t mean to force… ”

Her voice dwindled away as the noise swelled up from the plaza below. The dwarves from the tower weren’t joining the guards; they were attacking them! Brecha quickly spotted in their midst the unmistakable golden mane and towering frame of Tarn Bellowgranite. A massive silver warhammer gleamed in his fist as he struck right and left. Now the crowd had reversed its direction and was sweeping toward the guards battling for their lives. In moments, the Hylar and Theiwar were overwhelmed.

Brecha clutched the roof battlements to steady herself. The words to a teleportation spell came unbidden to her mind, but she hesitated. The news of Tarn’s escape needed to be delivered to Jungor without delay. Yet at the same time, she was in a perfect position to strike him down from above. She knew several spells that could kill the king from this distance. But would Jungor mind if Tarn died thusly? Was it the wise thing to do?

While she hesitated, she saw that the battle was already over. Surrounded by the cheering mob, Tarn crossed the plaza and climbed the steps to the building whose roof Brecha occupied. The Theiwar thane peered between the battlements, unseen by the fickle crowd, now celebrating wildly. Brecha spotted numerous Hylar and Daewar in the crowd, even a few of her own Theiwar. Had how Tarn pulled off this unlikely resurgence?

A fireball would kill him, the Theiwar thane decided. By the time the people in the crowd recovered from the explosion, she would be long gone, lofted away on the wings of a teleport spell, and safely at Jungor’s side, explaining everything. Digging a ball of bat guano from her pouch of spell components, she mouthed the words to the spell, silently rehearsing to make sure she recalled the proper cadences and pronunciations. She leaned out over the battlements, holding the ball of dung mixed with sulfur aloft, looking down contemptuously as Tarn lifted his silver warhammer above his head, drawing yet another thunderous cheer.

With her mind now focused on the magic, Brecha almost didn’t hear the surprising words shouted by those below her. “The Hammer! The Hammer of Kharas!” Tarn thrust the mighty weapon over his head, holding it to its full height so that everyone in the mob could see it in his hand.

The ball of dung fell from Brecha’s fingertips, the words of the spell slipped from her mind. She staggered back from the battlements, silently thanking every god that she could name that she hadn’t cast that spell. The Hammer of Kharas! He who wielded that famed dwarven relic was the true king, and no dwarf would dare challenge his rule. Its powers were many and little understood. In all likelihood, her fireball would have slain everyone around Tarn but left the one holding the Hammer unharmed. She had no way of knowing, and the main thing now was that Jungor must know this news.

Whispering a quick word of magic, she brought to mind an image of Jungor Stonesinger and vanished, just as another thunderous roar swept over the battlements.

“To the Hall of Thanes!”

Crystal paced the wall that ran along the north entrances of her fortress home. A cap of steel on her head and a spear in her fist, she looked no different than the hundreds of other dwarves lining the battlements or filling the courtyards. Yet the silent dwarves defending the fortress snapped to attention as she passed, returning to their vigilant watch when she moved on.

Tarn had been gone what seemed an eternity when Glint Ettinhammer returned with a handful of Klar and the news of her husband’s capture. Despite their failure to capture the transportation shaft on the second level, Otaxx Shortbeard had managed to take the third-level shaft, and to hold it against the Theiwar sent to dislodge him. The general was a veteran warrior and had fought the Theiwar during the Chaos War. He knew how to battle magic, and his foothold was enough to secure the southern half of the third level. Right now, though, she had no reserves to relieve him. And she must hold the north gate of the king’s fortress, as this was the other major entry to this district. As yet, they had not been attacked. But with Tarn captured, Crystal knew it was only a matter of time before Jungor challenged her.

She was still numb to the dire reality of her predicament. Whenever she thought of Tarn being held prisoner in a cell somewhere, she could barely stand to bring that image of him to her mind. Her heart refused to accept such a defeat. She felt as though he were merely away on an errand, and more than once caught herself thinking, “When Tarn returns, I need to speak to him about…”

The idea that Tarn might never return lurked at the edge of her thoughts. She knew that if she seriously entertained that notion, she would break down utterly and be unable to continue. And she couldn’t allow herself that luxury. Tor needed her, and so did the forces watching her as she paced nervously amidst them. She was the last thing standing between her baby and Jungor Stonesinger’s fanatic minions. What they would do to the son of the king, she didn’t dare to guess. She only knew that they would reach him only over her own dead body. Perhaps, if she held out long enough, she could strike a bargain that would allow their escape into exile… .

She went cold at that desperate thought, her heart hammering in her chest. Sooner or later, she knew, she would have to accept that Tarn was doomed if he was in Jungor’s hands. He was probably already dead. She had no hope that Glint Ettinhammer and Mog Bonecutter would succeed in their mad scheme to rescue the king, but she hadn’t dared to try to stop them.

The appearance of their old captain of the guard, believed dead since the Festival of Lights celebration, had surprised her when she thought she could no longer feel any emotion. And for a few brief moments, she had felt hope rekindled. True to his character, the Klar thane had tried to encourage her by pointing out that Jungor’s forces had merely captured Tarn, while they had slaughtered everyone else. They must therefore want Tarn alive for a reason.

But ever since Mog, Glint, and their company had departed, the bleak reality had returned to shadow her. The Hammer of Kharas already seemed a figment of her imagination. The Hammer was not a relic as much revered by the hill dwarves and so she placed little faith in its powers anyway. Nor was she particularly comforted by the assurances of the strange old Klar who had gone off with the rescue party. Before leaving, he had patted her hand and said in a gentle voice, “Don’t you worry, lass. He won’t go and get himself killed just yet.” She wasn’t sure if the old dwarf had been talking about Tarn or someone else, and he had slipped away before she could reproach him.

At least Tor was safe. Right now, he was deep inside the fortress with hundreds of feet of stone between his room and their enemies. And he could have no more formidable bodyguard than Aunt Needlebone, though Crystal had been sure also to place her most trusted guards outside the door to the nursery—dwarves she had trained herself in the years since her marriage to Tarn.