Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

“Death to Jungor Stonesinger!” he roared. “Death to all traitors!” He started toward the gate, outside of which a huge mob of dwarves waited for him to lead them on a rampage of revenge through Norbardin. Forty years of unresolved feuds boiled just beneath the surface, awaiting any excuse to explode.

But Ogduan Bloodspike stepped into his path. The old dwarf laid a restraining hand on the king’s arm. And at his touch the red haze of battle evaporated from his vision, as though icy water had been dashed into his face. Tarn stepped back, fear and wonder in his eyes.

“That’s not your wife,” the old dwarf said. “I’ve been trying to tell you, but you are possessed.”

“Wha… ?” Tarn glanced at the faces of the dwarves around him, noticing that one of the litter bearers was Haruk Mastersword.

“Haruk? What are you doing here?”

“This is not your wife,” the young dwarf said. “This is a draconian that she and I killed. It was trying to murder her, and took her form in death.”

“Draconian?” Tarn exclaimed. “Then Crystal is still alive?”

Haruk nodded, but his face was etched with lines of grief too deep for someone so young. His eyes, once so youthful, had the look of someone betrayed.

“Where is she?” Tarn demanded.

“Inside the residence.”

“With Tor?”

No one answered. Haruk hung his head, his face flushed scarlet with shame. Tarn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook the young dwarf violently. “Tell me. What has happened to my son?” he cried.

The Hall of Thanes stood empty, its great echoing dome rising into the shadows high above. Tarn paused at the entrance and gazed around the rows of benches. In all his years, he had never seen this place not filled to capacity, the air thick with torch smoke and the reek of unwashed bodies. Now, the halls and balconies outside were vacant and dark.

A pall of fear hung over Norbardin. Its streets were silent save for the tramp of Jungor’s soldiers. Patrols of Hylar and Theiwar warriors were scorning the streets and alleys, enforcing martial law with brutal efficiency. His people cowered in darkened rooms with their families gathered about them, behind bolted doors and shuttered windows, fearful of looking out and violating the laws of the new king of Thorbardin.

Tarn had doomed his people to this fate by agreeing to Jungor’s terms. The Hylar thane had wasted no time seizing power, even before the Hammer of Kharas was delivered into his greedy hands. Martial law was ordered, dissenters and troublemakers imprisoned “for their own safety.” From the ranks of dwarves still loyal to him, Jungor chose new thanes for the Hylar, Klar, Daergar, and Daewar clans. Dwarves who had always enjoyed the privilege of voting for their thanes or seeing them chosen in trials of combat learned of their new leaders by way of official proclamation.

Tomorrow, Jungor had promised, martial law would be rescinded and the normal daily activities of Thorbardin would resume, but Tarn didn’t deceive himself that the new king would be a just ruler, nor that those already imprisoned would ever be released. The Council was filled with his puppets, the streets crowded with his soldiers.

Many of Tarn’s own house guards had been “recruited” into Jungor’s service. Less than a score of dwarves had volunteered to accompany Tarn to the empty Council Hall to complete the act that would hand over final power to the new king of Thorbardin.

His wife, Crystal Heathstone, was at his side, of course. Her face was stricken with grief and worry, so that he hardly recognized the beautiful young Neidar princess whom he had married not that many years ago. Though Jungor promised that Tor would not be harmed and would be handed over in exchange for the Hammer, she no longer trusted the decency or honor of any mountain dwarf, not after the brutal way they murdered Aunt Needlebone while kidnapping her son.

Mog Bonecutter carried the Hammer of Kharas before him, wrapped in a cloth of gold that had been stained black with the blood of Tor’s nanny. Also in Tarn’s small party was the ever-loyal Daewar general, Otaxx Shortbeard, whose own fortunes had risen and fallen with his king’s. Haruk Mastersword escorted them as the representative of Jungor’s new government. The others in their party consisted of a mixed dozen of Klar, Daergar, and Daewar warriors. Shahar Bellowsmoke, former thane of the Daergar and cousin of the king, walked at their rear beside the death skald, Ogduan Bloodspike.

This was all that was left of the thousands who had marched just two days ago through Norbardin, following the Hammer of Kharas to victory over Jungor Stonesinger’s fanatic rebels. Tarn believed that, with the Hammer in his hands, he could have swept into Jungor’s palace and killed the rebellious Hylar thane, and his people would have cheered him for it. But Tor would have been killed. Without the Hammer, he could never again be king, but without his son he didn’t know that he could continue living. The choice was easy for him. He only delayed in order to try to win concessions for his followers and for the people he would leave behind. But he had failed in this as well. Jungor considered it an even bargain—the Hammer of Kharas for the life of his son, and in the end, Tarn was forced to accept.

Now, as Tarn began to descend the stairs toward the center of the empty Council Hall, a light flared to life on the floor below, a brilliant white glow that emanated from the stone atop Jungor’s staff.

The new king of Thorbardin sat upon the throne of the dead, a seemly chair, Tarn deemed. The golden crown of the king looked small and preposterous on his skull-like head. Beside his throne stood the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring, a large basket resting at her feet. To their right and left sat the new thanes chosen by Jungor to lend an illusion of legitimacy to his dictates. Tarn didn’t even recognize most of them—petty functionaries or merchants of minor wealth who had somehow wormed their way into Jungor’s graces. However, he was not surprised to see Hextor Ironhaft occupying the seat of the Hylar thane. Tarn silently hoped he enjoyed his new position, for he had probably paid enough for it. Of the thane of the gully dwarves, there was no sign. Even her chair had been removed.

Haruk Mastersword paused at the door to allow the others to enter, for Jungor had ordered that no one be allowed to witness what transpired in the Council Hall this day. As Crystal passed him, the look of shame on his face nearly tore her heart from her chest. But she said nothing, knowing all too well that Jungor Stonesinger was keenly watching his nephew and would punish any sign of weakness. She touched his arm for a moment before moving on. The young dwarf turned away and fled to hide his tears.

As they neared the floor of the Council Hall, Tarn kept a keen eye on his captain. Mog was the only armed member of their group, and this only because he had been chosen to carry the Hammer of Kharas. Tarn feared that Mog might be planning some final act of defiance. Yet he could not deny his captain the honor of carrying the weapon he had brought back from oblivion, even if his job today was to hand it over to their worst enemy.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when, as they reached the floor, the Klar captain stepped to his right, unwrapped the Hammer of Kharas from its gruesome shroud, and presented it to Tarn. Tarn took it in his grasp and stepped up onto the dais.

A greedy hiss escaped Jungor’s lips when he saw the fabled weapon in Tarn’s hands. No dwarf of the mountain could look upon the Hammer of Kharas and not feel his soul stirring. They drank its legend with their mother’s milk and dreamed of its power into their last doddering years. No other icon so perfectly symbolized their ties to their mountain home, to their history, to their god, and to everything that made them dwarves. The Hammer represented honor, might, righteousness, and the covenant of the dwarves as the chosen people of Reorx.