Jeff Crook: Dark Thane

Shnatz maintained his hold long enough to be assured of his opponent’s death then slipped the steel wire free and turned grandly to accept the accolades of the crowd. The two female gully dwarves rushed out and swept under his arms, helping to support him on his injured leg even as they wantonly lavished kisses on his filthy face and beard.

Ferro turned and gaped at Jungor Stonesinger, his mouth champing soundlessly.

“They aren’t his daughters, I assure you,” the Hylar thane chuckled.

Jungor bellowed with laughter at his Daergar companion’s mute bewilderment. Ferro could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. Gully dwarves were universally stupid, cowardly, and craven, utterly worthless for anything but the most menial of tasks. As warriors, they were more dangerous to their allies than their enemies. The only thing that kept the gully dwarf population under control was their inability to maintain even the most rudimentary hygienic habits. If a gully dwarf infant somehow managed to survive his own parents through the first year, he was considered unusual. Many died within a few months of birth from a variety of maladies and accidents, from smothering in their family’s communal bed to being devoured by the rats that shared most gully dwarves’ warrens.

To see a gully dwarf defeat a skilled Daewar warrior in single combat beggared belief, even for Ferro Dunskull. Words evaded him as he glared at Jungor Stonesinger’s smirking face. At the same time, a new dwarf entered the box and took the empty seat next to Jungor and opposite Ferro.

“Will these young fools never learn?” the new dwarf gloated as he rattled a bag of coins hanging at his belt. “I made quite a haul on that last fight, my thane.”

“Uurk Straightsword won’t be the last dwarf to underestimate The Flea,” Jungor answered. He turned back to Ferro. “Isn’t that right?”

“You fooled me!” the Daergar spluttered.

“You fooled yourself,” Jungor countered seriously. The change in his tone was familiar to those who knew him well. The Hylar thane was fond of instructing those around him, and they did well to listen, for he was both wise and cunning.

“Uurk Straightbeard underestimated his opponent,” Jungor continued, “because he was a gully dwarf. There are more than three thousand dwarves in this arena tonight, and if he had bothered to ask even one of them, they would have advised him to be wary of tricks and to never turn his back on The Flea.

“But Shnatz knew Uurk, knew the weakness of his arrogance, and he waited patiently to use it against him. That’s why The Flea is one of the best fighters the arena has ever known. He’s never lost a bout, and I’ve never lost money on him, while I’ve made a fortune on those who, like Uurk Straightbeard, believed that when they’d seen one gully dwarf, they’d seen them all.”

“It only took once for me, my thane,” the newcomer dwarf admitted with a rueful smile. Captain Trueshield snorted appreciatively.

Jungor nodded solemnly and peered from beneath his bushy brows at his Daergar companion. “Ferro, I believe you know Hextor Ironhaft?” he asked.

Ferro tilted his head in acknowledgement “Everyone in my profession knows Master Ironhaft. He is one of Norbardin’s wealthiest merchants, a scion of the Hylar families.”

Hextor Ironhaft accepted this compliment by stroking his long, blond beard. “What is Master Dunskull’s profession, if I may be so impudent?”

“Ferro is a merchant of information, shall we say,” Jungor answered for the Daergar. “Though he bears the brand of the thief…”

Ferro unconsciously lifted his hand to cover the small scar above his left eyebrow.

“Still, he has recently turned his talents to more profitable ends,” Jungor finished.

“Most commendable,” Hextor said with undisguised conceit.

“Moreover, he is our eyes and ears in the court of Shahar Bellowsmoke, thane of the Daergar clans,” Jungor added. “On our behalf, he spends most of his time in the service of his thane. Thus his knowledge of the arena and its most successful combatants was incomplete. I am confident he will not be so easily misled in the future.”

Jungor clapped one large, heavily scarred hand on the Daergar’s shoulder, drawing him closer in a gesture of friendliness.

Ferro bowed his head. “I am in the thane’s debt. I fear I do not have the means at present to honor to our wager,” he said.

“There are other coins of the realm,” Jungor said in a low voice. “Now, tell me, what passes with my cousin, the thane? Is his loyalty to Tarn firm, or—”

His questioning was cut short by a bellowing roar.

“Jungor Stonesinger!”

The Hylar thane paused and peered through the smoke toward the source of the disturbance. The arena grew nervously silent as hundreds of bearded faces also craned to see. On the floor of the arena near the exit door, a lone dwarf stood with his hands on his hips and his pale face turned arrogantly toward Jungor’s private box high above. His beard, split into two plaits, lay over his belly almost to his belt, and he wore a vest of fine silver scales over his barrelchested frame. A heavy curved sword hung at his hip. His sallow, well-muscled arms were bare except for a pair of jeweled bracers protecting his forearms.

“I see you, Jungor Stonesinger,” the Daergar warrior roared. “You can’t avoid me any longer. I demand justice!”

“Vault Forgesmoke!” Hextor Ironhaft exclaimed. “What’s he doing here?”

“If you are not a coward, come down here and face me!” the dwarf shouted in derision, eliciting an excited roar from the previously silent crowd.

“I should have warned you,” Ferro said quickly as Jungor rose to his feet, “he’s been talking about challenging you for weeks.”

Seeing the Hylar thane rise, the crowd roared its approval. It wasn’t every day that the formidable Jungor Stonesinger returned to the arena. A veteran of its bloody floor, he had never been defeated in the five years since its construction. He was its undisputed ruler, judge of all contests of arms under the council’s laws. Almost a hundred warriors had tested his skill in the wild early days of the arena, before Tarn Bellowgranite usurped its forms and traditions in an effort to limit the clan battles and blood feuds that had reigned in dwarven society since the first dwarf carved stone.

“Allow me to deal with this rogue, my lord,” Astar Trueshield snarled as he drew his sword and pushed toward the stair.

Jungor jerked him back. “In this place, I fight my own battles,” he barked.

“But you are our thane,” Hextor Ironhaft pleaded and clutched at the hem of Jungor’s cloak. “If you should fall to this Daergar’s treachery…”

Ferro glowered at the wealthy Hylar merchant, before turning to Jungor in concern.

“He’s a dangerous foe,” he admitted.

“Not as dangerous as I,” Jungor growled obstinately. He pushed past his guard and tore free of the merchant’s grasp, then quickly descended the stair to the arena floor, accompanied by the shouts and whistles and thunderous stamping of the gathered dwarves. As news of the challenge raced upward to the inhabited areas of Norbardin, dwarves began to pour into the arena to witness what promised to he a momentous battle. The leadership of the Hylar clan hung in the balance, and as its sworn protector, Astar Trueshield hurried down the stairs after his battle-fey thane, his face a blond-bearded knot of worry.

Jungor slid over the outer wall and dropped to the hard-packed dirt floor. He slipped out of his black, fur-lined cloak of office and stripped off the golden silk shirt, baring a back rippling with well-toned muscles. His frame was longer and narrower than that of most dwarves, which made him look weak by comparison to his stouter compatriots. One look at the whipcord muscles of his arms spoke of hidden energies and deceptive power, however. His movements seemed slow and fluid, almost languid, but when he struck, it was like the strike of an adder. His hands were narrow and long, like a magician’s hands, with long expressive fingers. He preferred a lighter sword to the heavy metal weapons favored by most of his opponents—axes, hammers, heavy maces, and broadswords. Yet his great reach gave him a distinct advantage.