Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

Jungor rose to his feet and pushed the glowing staff into Brecha’s hands, while his own hands curled into claws that began to twitch in anticipation. Biting back the column of bile that rose in his throat, Tarn started toward him.

“Stop!” Jungor shrieked, holding up one claw-like finger. “Come no closer, Tarn Bellowgranite. I do not trust you.” Tarn grabbed Mog, who had started forward, too. Crystal stepped onto the dais, fiercely whispering Tarn’s name.

“Be quiet!” Tarn hissed over his shoulder. “No one move.”

“Lay the Hammer on the ground,” Jungor ordered.

“First, where is my son?” Tarn demanded in return.

“He is here, and unharmed,” Brecha Quickspring answered with an evil smile. Holding one hand above the basket, she closed her eyes and chanted a brief spell. A disk of greenish light formed beneath the basket, then rose, lifting it into the air.

“Such a noisy boy, like his disagreeable nanny,” she sighed. “I am glad to give him back.”

“Now put the Hammer on the ground,” Jungor said. Tarn laid the weapon on the ground at his feet, then rose up and glared at Jungor across the dais.

“Step away from it,” Jungor ordered.

“My son,” Tarn said firmly, refusing to move. Jungor nodded to Brecha, who sent the glowing disk of green light floating toward Tarn. He stepped away from the Hammer and grabbed the basket as it passed near to him. Setting it quickly on the ground, he threw back the blankets to reveal his infant son, soundly asleep in a deep nest of rich blankets. A shudder of relief passed through his frame. He moved aside as Crystal plunged her hands into the basket and swept her son to her breast, sobbing hysterically.

When Tarn turned back to the council, he saw that Hextor Ironhaft had already grabbed the Hammer. The new Hylar thane knelt and ceremoniously presented the holy weapon to his new king. As Jungor’s fingers closed around its haft, he seemed to stagger under its weight. But he quickly regained his composure, glaring triumphantly at the other thanes. Last of all, his hawklike visage turned to the king he had finally replaced.

“Before I go,” Tarn said. “I want to warn you one more time. I want to warn all of you that you are in great danger.” Several of the new thanes rolled their eyes and shook their beards in disbelief. Even defeated, the half-breed would not give up.

Infuriated, Tarn continued. “No! You will listen to me this one last time. There is a chaos dragon asleep beneath the new Council Hall being built. Captain Grisbane and I saw it with our own eyes. I beg you to take the architect and make an investigation. The creature is a monstrous—”

“Gaul Quarrystone is dead,” Jungor interrupted, laughing as he spoke. “As is Captain Grisbane. Conveniently, no one other than you has seen this creature.”

“The creature is there. Go and look for yourself, if you have the courage,” Tarn angrily fired back.

“I have looked,” Jungor responded patronizingly. “There is nothing there but an old lava tube, which will, unfortunately, force us to abandon the construction of the new Council Hall. Like all your other machinations, Tarn Bellowgranite, the new Council Hall was ill-planned and poorly executed. Its empty shell will serve as a monument to your rule.”

“Nothing there?” Tarn asked disbelievingly. “You saw no dragon?”

“The lava tube was empty and quite cool,” Jungor said.

“Don’t you see what this means?” Tarn cried. “The dragon is awake and on the move! You must abandon the city at once, before it attacks!”

“Begone from this city, you babbling fool!” Jungor shouted, pointing with the Hammer of Kharas toward the north. “No longer will we listen to your gibbering cries of danger. The dwarves of Thorbardin shall return to their former homes and rebuild our kingdom under my rule. As king of Thorbardin, I banish you from the mountain and the realm of the dwarves forever. You and all your ilk! If ever I see your beard again, I shall order it, and the head that grows it, spitted on a pike atop the Isle of the Dead!”

Carrying his son on one arm, Tarn led his group through the silent streets of Norbardin. No soldiers accompanied them, no curious onlookers hung out their windows to watch him pass. If not for the occasional thump or muffled cry that they heard behind doors, they might have thought they were passing through a realm long abandoned by its dwarven occupants.

Tor was awake now and clung to his father’s beard and shoulder. He peered about curiously with his wide gray eyes. As he was still only an infant, the little boy scarcely understood what was happening to him. For a few moments, Tarn felt a sudden pang of grief that Tor would never know this place except in the stories of his father and mother. Thorbardin was the birthright of all dwarves, he truly believed, and as much pain and grief as this place had brought him, it only caused him to love it the more.

When they reached the North Gate, Tarn was surprised to find more than three hundred dwarves had gathered. There were whole families from every different clan, except the gully dwarves. They had gathered their belongings and stood in the North Gate plaza with their carts pulled by lowing cave oxen, loaded with such boxes and bundles that they could gather on short notice. These were all the dwarves of Thorbardin who had chosen to follow Tarn into exile. But he knew that for every dwarf here, there were several hundred more who might have followed him, but were more afraid of leaving Thorbardin than of dying in their mountain home.

Several hundred of Jungor’s most fanatical Hylar warriors stood nearby in close ranks, weapons at the ready, watching the crowd of exiles with wary disgust. At Tarn’s arrival, their captain ordered the North Gate opened. The huge mechanism began to turn and the door, a great plug of stone shaped to be undetectable from the outside, slowly revolved backward on its great steel screw. Finally, it tilted and rolled into an alcove, opening the way to the outside. Sunlight streamed into the mountain for the first time in nearly two years.

Slowly, the exiles began to file out under the close watch of Jungor’s troops. As he waited his turn in line, Tarn glanced around one last time at the city he had rebuilt out of the ruins of the Chaos War. Somewhere among the many blank windows that looked down upon the plaza, he knew Jungor Stonesinger was probably watching, gloating, hunched over the Hammer of Kharas as though it were a prize he had won in the Arena.

Now, he truly felt sorrow for those he was leaving behind to suffer under Jungor’s rule, however long it might last. The chaos dragon would bring all that to an end, probably more quickly than any of them dared imagine. He deeply regretted his many failures, but none more so than to have disappointed his people and allowed Jungor Stonesinger to wrest the throne from him. That Hylar fool would lead the dwarves of Thorbardin to no good end.

His followers went first. Tarn and his close companions were the last to exit through the gate. They stopped to watch the door slowly screw back into place. Then Tarn turned and looked north toward the wide sodden plains that stretched between Thorbardin and the former elven realm of Qualinost. The other exiles continued to file down the narrow path away from their homeland. Reaching up, Crystal tickled Tor under the chin and said, “Look! The sun is setting. Tor has never seen the sun before.”

Tarn smiled to see the look of wonder and delight on his son’s face as he gazed at the brilliant reds and golds painting the western sky. He himself had not seen the sun for two years, had scarcely given a thought, he was ashamed to admit, to the world outside Thorbardin. What had happened to the elven nation, and to all the troubles of the realms above ground?