by Jeff Crook
Mog battled valiantly to keep them away from his injured thane. There seemed no end to the draconians. They swept around the surviving dwarves, cutting off their retreat. At last there were only four dwarves, drawn together shoulder to shoulder, Mog, Tarn, and two young Klar warriors barely into their beards. Their swords and axes wove a deadly net of steel that piled stony baaz corpses about their feet. Tarn thrust his blade through the chest of one and failed to withdraw it quickly enough. As the draconian fell, its body turned to stone, trapping Tarn's sword and yanking it from his grasp. He quickly picked up a curved draconian blade.
After the initial onslaught, the baaz draconians fell back a pace from the four dwarves. Then several kapaks came forward, armed with crossbows. Neither Tarn nor Mog had a shield, and of their two young companions, one's life was quickly escaping through a spear wound in his thigh. Yet this young one grimly stood his ground and raised his shield to protect his king with the last of his strength. Tarn gripped the unfamiliar sword, all the dark rage of his mother's Daergar blood rising in him. His chest wound forgotten, his neck muscles standing out like cords, he prepared himself for his last moments on Krynn. Unbidden, the memory of his wife, Crystal Heathstone, came to his mind. Her face seemed to float before him, smiling in that particular way of hers. He laughed suddenly, emboldened.
Mog joined him, a sudden bellow of unbridled mirth erupting from his lips, as though somehow he had shared Tarn's vision. Tarn looked at him as though the Klar warrior had lost his mind. Then he heard what Mog had heard, and now the king's laughter changed to a cry of challenge. The draconians paused and with furrowed brows, looked north.
11
Ferro's face drained of blood, leaving his pale skin an even more sickly shade than before. He watched in utter horror, unable to tear his gaze away. The slaughter was terrible to behold.
The draconians had slain all but four of the dwarves— unfortunately not Tarn, nor his captain, and two Klar guards wearing the livery of Pax Tharkas. They had the four surrounded, and kapaks were just about to end the king's life in a hail of heavy crossbow bolts. But then… !
Disaster was too small a word to describe it. Ferro turned to the Theiwar scout who had just brought the bad news and, drawing his dagger, plunged it furiously into the scout's throat. The other Theiwar warriors shifted uncomfortably as one of their own was murdered before their eyes.
Ferro turned to the others, hissing, "Why didn't anyone warn me that Otaxx Shortbeard was following with half the warriors in Pax Tharkas? What do I pay you people for?"
There was no time for any reply.
The roar of the charging dwarves shook droplets of water from the surrounding trees. As quickly as Tarn's small band of dwarves had been decimated by the larger draconian force, now the draconians were falling back in disarray. Leaderless, baaz joined with baaz and kapak with kapak, fighting as two separate forces against the united might of Otaxx’s Hylar and Daewar force. A wedge of dwarf fighters drove between the two groups of draconians. The baaz were forced into the swamp, where they were quickly slaughtered or drowned, dragged down by their armor. The kapaks managed to hold together and retreat along the road, directly toward Ferro and his Theiwar mercenaries.
"We're in a tight place!" the Daergar exclaimed in frustration. He removed his helm and ran his fingers through his oily black hair, pushing the dank locks back from his face before settling the helm securely on his pate. "If Tarn and the others catch us here, they're sure to suspect we were involved."
"We could run," one of the Theiwar said, voicing the opinion of his fellows.
Ferro looked at him as though he were a stone that had suddenly found its voice and spoken. The fellow shrugged nervously and glanced toward the fighting. "Or we could hunker down and try to hide here."
"Great god below, can you be any more stupid?" Ferro almost shrieked. "Be my guest, run for it. If you aren't seen, our campsite certainly will be found, whether we run for it or hide. They'll wonder who was camped there, and as soon as they reach Thorbardin, they'll know. The plan was for us to arrive too late to save Tarn and then to barely escape with our lives." He looked back up the road toward the fighting, which was drawing ever closer. "We're in a tight spot for sure," he muttered.
The kapaks were holding together, and they fought valiantly. Wherever one fell beneath a dwarven weapon, its body quickly dissolved into a large pool of acid, which slowed the dwarves' assault somewhat, since the road was extremely narrow here. Ferro and his band of Theiwar crouched in the underbrush at the road's margin, watching hopelessly.
"There's nothing for it," Ferro said. "We can't just sit here. When the draconians draw near, we'll rush out and attack them from behind. I'll deal with Tarn's questions afterwards. I should be able handle him. Make sure you leave no draconian alive. There can't even be one survivor to expose us. Do you understand?"
The Theiwar nodded, faces set in grim lines as they watched the retreating draconian line. Ferro glared at them, looking for any sign of weakness or second thoughts. He saw none but added for good measure, "I certainly hope you do understand. If Tarn finds out about us, I hate to think what his Klar will do to your families."
Ferro smiled to see the look of desperate determination on their faces now. The Klar clan had been fiercely loyal to Tarn ever since the days after the Chaos War, when he had forgiven the very people who had slaughtered so many of his father's clan. In the ruins of the war's aftermath, a great and lasting friendship had blossomed between Tarn and the Klar thane, Tufa Bloodeye. The new Klar thane, Glint Ettinhammer, had renewed that friendship when he took his seat on the Council eight years ago. The Klar were among Tarn's most resolute supporters.
As a race, though, the Klar were also known to be unstable at times. It was as though Reorx had formed their brains of different stuff than the other clans. Even Tarn could not control them completely. They were known to avenge him even against those he himself had already forgiven. The thought of their families falling into the hands of blood-mad Klar slayers caused the Theiwar mercenaries to take their task with utmost seriousness. An hour ago they had shared dwarf spirits with some of those draconians. Now they were ready to stab them in the backs without mercy.
Tarn's powerful voice rose above the din of battle, shouting for the surviving draconians' surrender. The kapaks continued to fight as they retreated. Ferro realized that the creatures might see the futility of their situation and throw down their weapons at any moment, something he couldn't allow to happen. Drawing his short sword, he leaped into the road, his Theiwar troops silently pouring out behind him. Ferro plunged his weapon into the nearest kapak's back and ripped upwards, shearing through muscle and bone. The creature fell and immediately began to dissolve into a pool of acid. Ferro jumped back as his Theiwar slammed into the rear ranks of the astonished draconians. In seconds, all met similar fates.
Ferro and his Theiwar warriors picked a path through the steaming pools of acid left behind wherever a kapak had died, slogging forward to meet Otaxx’ss surprised force. He saw Tarn at the rear being tended by a healer, and Tarn's captain, Mog Bonecutter, crawling through the mud and the bodies, looking for survivors. Other dwarves were busy clearing the road or retrieving weapons from the stony corpses of slain baaz draconians.
Then, to Ferro's amazement, Ilbars Bleakfell appeared, his shaggy hair and beard matted with white spiderwebs. Ilbars strode purposely toward Ferro, an axe dripping with draconian blood in his fist. Ferro stepped back in alarm, knowing the draconian general would be furious at his apparent double-cross. He hesitated, unable to figure out how to expose the sivak without explaining how he could see through the draconian's disguise.
"Ferro Dunskull!" Zen shouted in Ilbars's voice. Tarn looked up from the bandages being wound about his chest wound.
"What took you so long?" Ilbars demanded. "They very nearly killed the king!"
Ferro's eyes narrowed suspiciously. What kind of game was this sivak playing?
Mog hurried up, his fac
e curious. "How did you survive, Captain Ilbars?" the Klar captain asked. "I saw you engulfed in webs and hacked to pieces with the others."
"I tripped as the spell was cast. Dead bodies piled on top of me before I could rise. The draconians must have assumed I was already dead. I only just managed to extricate myself," Ilbars said as he brushed spiderwebs from his beard.
"You were very lucky," Ferro said in a voice dripping with menace.
"Yes, I am blessed with an abundance of luck," Ilbars/Zen responded. "That's how I've survived this long in such a hostile world."
Mog watched this exchange with curiosity, but he had no time to give it deep thought. Day was swiftly turning to night, and the fog was growing thicker by the minute. He didn't know how many more draconians might be out there in the swamp, and he would shave his beard before he'd allow the thane to spend the night here. He hurried away, shouting orders for the bodies of the fallen dwarves to be gathered and prepared for transport home to the mountain. Otaxx already had a dozen dwarves lashing spears together to make stretchers for the dead and injured.
Behind his back, Ilbars and Ferro exchanged venomous glances. The draconian seemed to be daring the Daergar to betray him. Knowing there was nothing he could do, at least not at the moment, Ferro bit his tongue and stalked away.
12
Tarn refused to be carried into Thorbardin, though Mog and Otaxx argued all the way to the mountain's door. The entrance into Thorbardin was made to look like the rock surrounding it, so that when it was closed, it was invisible to those who did not know its secret. The morning of Tarn's return, the massive valve, several feet thick, had already been opened. Hundreds of dwarves crowded the streets near the gate, awaiting their king. A drum and pipe band stood just within the entrance. Their enormous bronze kettledrums looked more like weapons of war than instruments of music.
But though they had come prepared for a celebration, the mood swiftly darkened upon Tarn's approach. Tarn had insisted that those slain in the battle with the draconians, and those too wounded to walk, should proceed ahead of him into the mountain. These long lines of litters dampened the spirits of the crowd, and so did the walking wounded. They were followed by the soldiers from Pax Tharkas, many of them returning home for the first time in years.
Last of all came Tarn, walking slowly and grimly, with Mog, Otaxx, Ferro, and Ilbars in attendance. Tarn's face was pale from the wound to his chest, but also from the deeper wound to his soul. The people had come expecting a triumphant return, with the king leading his army of thousands. Fewer than a hundred actually passed through the gates of Thorbardin, and most of those returning were either wounded or carrying some wounded or dead member of their party. Many of those waiting at the gate shook their heads in dismay. "So few?" some muttered. Others hoped that the majority of the army was still in the forest, helping the elves hunt down the last of Beryl's army. But most realized that to be a vain and empty hope. They began to grumble among themselves.
Once through the gate, the survivors entered a broad hall carved into the heart of the mountain. Streets, alleys, and doors opened into it at regular intervals, and windows lined the way, filled with dwarven faces staring down at them anxiously. Tarn ordered the gate closed, while the various groups quickly split up—the wounded toward the houses of healing, those bearing the dead toward the clan centers where their families were already gathering to claim them. Otaxx led the soldiers from Pax Tharkas to temporary guard quarters on the third level. Tarn, accompanied by Mog and a small squad of guards, followed the wounded. Ilbars stuck close to Tarn. Ferro was not far behind.
Tarn's new city of Norbardin was not so grand and humbling as the cities it sought to replace. Before the Chaos War, all the different clans had had their own cities scattered around the great cavern and underground sea that lay at the heart of the mountain. The Daergar had lived in Daerbardin, far to the south across the black Urkhan Sea, while the Daewar inhabited Daebardin on the sea's eastern shore. The Hylar, hereditary rulers of Thorbardin, lived in a magnificent city carved from an enormous stalactite that hung over the Urkhan Sea. Called the Life Tree of the Hylar, it had been one of the marvels and wonders of all Krynn. But now the Life Tree was dead, most of it having broken off and fallen into the sea following the Chaos War. Chaos dragons of fire had burned tunnels through the solid rock, weakening it structurally until it could no longer hold its own weight.
Tarn had carved his new city from the area known as the North Gate complex. Once its halls and galleries had served to house those guarding the North Gate of Thorbardin, and for hundreds of years it had remained largely unoccupied except for a few soldiers, for once the massive gate of Thorbardin was closed, the mountain was virtually impregnable to assault. Under Tarn's direction, the dwarves had expanded the halls and houses, built shops and markets, and carved new tunnels into the stone. But most of the new construction consisted of filling the vast area known as the Anvil's Echo with new warehouses, barracks, strongholds, residences, and butteries. The Echo had once been a vast pit crossed by a narrow bridge. But the dwarves' immediate need following the Chaos War was for living space, and the Anvil's Echo had first served as a refugee camp, then gradually the temporary structures were replaced with permanent ones. The soaring bridge had fallen during the war and was never rebuilt. The Anvil's Echo was now the location of the Daergar and Theiwar quarters of the city, a dark region with close alleys and narrow streets, and high defensive walls separating the people of the two clans. The son of a Daergar mother, Tarn felt as much or more at home here as in the lamplit, glittering marble-paved boulevards of the Hylar section.
There was a new Council Hall to replace the one lost in the ruins of the South Gate complex. New mines had been sunk, providing the dwarves with the metals they needed for their crafts, new caverns opened and cultivated with the mushrooms that were the staple of the mountain dwarf diet.
Such as it was, it was home, but it wasn't Hybardin, and those who lived here knew it. They knew that they were living in a diminished age, in a time when glories of the past were becoming fading memories. They were comfortable, they were safe, and after the terrible destruction of the Chaos War, that was enough for most.
There were dwarf children playing in the streets as Tarn made his way toward the new Council of Thanes, after seeing that his wounded soldiers were being properly settled in the houses of healing. He refused medical care for himself, for he had one final duty to perform before he found the rest he so sorely craved. But the sight of the children made Tarn smile, for here was the future of his people. Traditionally, dwarves were slow to reproduce; some dwarves never even married—not because of a shortage of mates, but because their standards were often above their stations. In the past, dwarf marriages had been conducted like business dealings, the merger of two families arranged for mutual profit, and no dwarf wished to marry below his or her station, as this was seen as a loss, both of wealth and honor. Naturally, this system produced a disappointing number of marriages and therefore few children, though no one had ever seemed to mind. It helped to keep the dwarves from outgrowing their mountain home.
But so very many dwarves had died in the Chaos War; whole extended families were destroyed in the breath of one dragon, whole clans and all memories of them annihilated by the touch of the horrid shadow wights. Tarn's mother and father had died, fighting on opposite sides of the battle—Garimeth Bellowsmoke was slain by the daemon warrior leading the forces of Chaos; Baker Whitegranite had been consumed by the magical gem he used to destroy the Chaos armies invading their home. Even after the war, die dying and destruction had continued, as Tarn led the surviving Hylar and Klar back into the mountain and found it held by the survivors of the Daergar and Theiwar clans, who were not ready to quickly give up what they felt :hey had won during the war.
And then, the damage wrought by the chaos dragons continued to take its toll on those still living in the cities. Walls collapsed and floors gave way, killing dozens. Tarn lost that which he held most
dear. His fiancee, Belicia Slateshoulders, had died when a section of Hybardin that she and several hundred workers were trying to restore broke off and plunged hundreds of feet to the Urkhan Sea below. It was this incident that prompted Tarn to abandon the old cities and start building a new one out of the North Gate complex. He called his new city Norbardin. Norbardin was everyone's home now, dwarves of all the clans, but at the same time it never really felt like home, not even after forty years.
So many had died that in the years after the Chaos War, the clans could no longer afford the luxury of hating and distrusting one another. They needed one another just to survive, especially after Severus Stonehand led most of the remaining Daewar on a mad exodus to the ancient dwarven homeland of Thoradin. Now, after nearly forty years, the population of Thorbardin was finally beginning to grow. Dwarves had continued to marry largely within their own clans, but many dwarves were glad to find any eligible mate. The realm had begun to prosper.
There was a whole new generation of young dwarves who had never known the former glory of Thorbardin, however. They experienced it only through the tales of their parents and grandparents. They were strong, having been forged during a time of great hardship, and they were eager to win new glories.
It was this generation that Tarn had led to disaster beneath the elven city of Qualinost. Once more, as he approached the Council of Thanes, the enormity of his failure descended upon him. A generation lost, all because he had been too eager to win honor and glory, too hasty to build a new alliance between the elves and the dwarves. He had abandoned caution when caution might have served him best. He had accepted the swiftest course as the wisest, decided that he who hesitated was lost, for this philosophy had served him well in the past. He had agreed to help the elven king because he was eager to forge new ties with the elves.