Dark Thane

by Jeff Crook

  With almost the entire Council of Thanes against him, Tarn could not follow his best instincts—not again, not after what had happened in Qualinost. With a deep sigh, he ordered guards away to close the North Gate at once. Then, with the business of the Council completed, the assembly began to break up. Crystal rose from her seat and rushed to Tarn's side, slipping an arm around him to help the weary dwarf king stand. He leaned against her gratefully, feeling old, sad, and defeated even at home.

  As they left the Council Hall, they passed Jungor Stonesinger surrounded by a mob of freshly admiring dwarves. "Now that my will has prevailed and the North Gate is closed, we'll be safe," Jungor pronounced.

  "It didn't stop the armies of Chaos," Tarn muttered under his breath.

  15

  Tarn held on to his wife's arm while they were waiting for a column of wagons to pass in the street. The wagons were laden with ingots of raw iron newly smelted in the forges two levels below. They still smelled warm from the forge fire, the scent of hot metal lingering about them. The wagons, pulled by teams of shaggy, gray cave oxen and driven by Daergar teamsters, passed slowly with much shouting and cracking of whips and creaking of wheels. It did Tarn's heart good to see them. The cycle of life continued, and the dwarves of Thorbardin were still earning fair coin. He'd spent far too much time lately living with war, with fear constantly plucking at his sleeves, with the need to hurry and finish, with the sadness of the elven refugees fleeing their homes, with his grief over the dwarves he'd led to their doom.

  He had almost forgotten what it was like to stand quietly with his wife, to nod to the people he met on the street, to not be in a hurry to go anywhere, or to do anything. He could not remember when he'd last had time to sit and enjoy a truly fine horn of ale, or to eat a home-cooked meal. He was sick to death of elf food. He wanted a good beefy ox steak, something that would bleed when he cut it, and a platter smoking with mushrooms swimming in butter. He wanted bread that he could tear with his teeth. He wanted to be able to sit at his own table and eat and slurp his beer and belch, and not have to worry about offending some elf's delicate sensibilities.

  He clung to his wife's arm as though she were a rock in the stream that threatened to sweep him away. She bore him well and gladly, smiling to feel his hand gripping her elbow. Crystal was a good, stout dwarf woman, hardy, tough as horn, soft as butter, sweet as elf wine, regal as a queen of old, shrewd as a witch, with eyes like diamonds and a smile to melt the ice from the coldest greed-bitten dwarven heart. As the daughter of the hill dwarf king, she'd been trained to fulfill a variety of roles, from housewife to councilor to warrior to queen. Whether seeing to the domestic affairs of her husband's household, or advising the king in his war councils, she had long ago proven herself an invaluable companion. She hadn't replaced Belicia Slateshoulders in Tarn's heart, but then again she had never tried to. Tarn loved Crystal, and standing there at the roadside listening to the teamsters cursing at their recalcitrant beasts, and seeing her smile, he was reminded why.

  Tarn leaned over and kissed his wife on her soft cheek, drinking in the smell of her hair. Crystal patted his cheek indulgently and let her fingertips linger in his beard for a moment. "There, the way is clear," she said. "We can cross the street now."

  Tarn's residence was located on the third level of Norbardin within an area known as the Fortress, for it was, quite literally, a fortress built as the last line of defense against invaders of the North Gate. Tarn had chosen this location for his residence in the years before his marriage. There were finer homes elsewhere in the city, homes of greater beauty and luxury than his dark, windowless castle. He might have moved to one of these after his marriage and made a better home for his young bride. But Crystal had taken to the fortress almost from the start. Having grown up in a castle herself, she seemed to prefer cold stone walls, battlements, cavernous fireplaces, and paved courtyards that rang constantly with marching dwarfboots and the shouts of weapons instructors.

  As the king and his wife made their way home along the streets of the third level of Norbardin, though, Tarn was taken aback by the signs of mourning already being displayed—doors glistening with fresh black paint, windows of houses and shops with dark curtains drawn, or the sight of a single candle gleaming in a black room. They encountered other reminders: dwarves with freshly shorn beards going about their daily business, and orphaned children being led to their new homes by aunts and cousins. Yet only a few of those they met on the streets cast dark glances their way. Most nodded respectfully and continued on their way; a few even stopped to greet their king and warmly welcome him home.

  One young widow, her face streaked with tears, stopped to speak to him. "I know my husband died bravely," she said in a voice trembling with emotion. "I am glad he was with you, and that his sacrifice was not in vain." Tarn found himself without words to respond. He took the widow's head in his hands and pulled her close, kissing her on the forehead to still the trembling of his own lips. Relatives gathered her in their arms and led her away, fresh tears on her face, but now a smile shining through her grief. As Tarn turned to continue on his way, Crysal slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze.

  "Who was she?" his wife asked.

  "I… I don't know," Tarn answered, choking.

  There were other such scenes before they reached the gates to their home. Though weary to the marrow of his bones, Tarn diligently stopped and paid his respects to everyone who approached, hearing their stories of grief, or answering their questions about how their husbands, sons, and daughters had died.

  Mog Bonecutter and Tarn's other guards, ever near, watched the supplicants warily, but there were no incidents, no angry accusations. As they neared the castle, Crystal pressed close to Tarn and whispered, "Thee people seem genuinely happy to see you." Tarn nodded, his jaw muscles tightening, and she knew that he was exerting all his will just to hold himself together for public view. But he would not allow her to hurry him, nor to keep his people away, and the crowds at their gate were larger than any they had seen since leaving the Council Hall. It took nearly an hour for them to work their way through the throng of well-wishers and grieving families.

  Finally inside the castle, they then had to run the gauntlet of the castle's guard. The soldiers, many of them too young or too old to have accompanied Tarn on his mission to Qualinost, had turned out in all their finery to welcome him home. With weapons polished and armor gleaming, they awaited his inspection in the courtyard. The king dutifully walked their lines, stopping occasionally to speak to an old friend, with Crystal remaining at his side, gently and inconspicuously supporting him by one arm. She was most pleased to find her apprentice, Haruk Mastersword, standing at the head of his squadron of young trainees, his beard brushed and gleaming like spun gold, his brilliant green eyes watching her intently through the slits in his helm. He looked the epitome of fierce dwarf warrior pride. Tarn clapped the young dwarf on the shoulder and asked him how his lessons were going.

  "My master grants no quarter, nor expects any," the young Hylar warrior answered crisply.

  "Good! Very good!" Tarn laughed before moving on. Haruk had missed being old enough to join the king's expedition by only a year, a mere puff of time for the long-lived dwarves but an eon for those who felt left behind. Tarn was now heartily glad for this quirk of fate. Crystal winked at her favorite student as she passed him, but Haruk maintained his formal warrior's countenance. It would not have been seemly to smile in the king's presence.

  Next, they had to make their way past the welcoming servants. Here, too, Tarn saw signs of mourning in the form of black armbands and black ribbons tied in beards, for some of his servants had boasted sons and nephews in Tarn's army. Each symbol of grief that he saw plucked Tarn's own heartstrings all the more. But he was the king, and the king couldn't allow himself the luxury of showing weakness or vulnerability; he must appear strong for his people. So he greeted them heartily as they led him through the stately halls of his home to his family chapel.<
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  Here, a family priest awaited them. As was his custom, Tarn lit candles to his father and mother, as he did whenever he returned from a journey away from Thorbardin. He also lit a candle to the spirit of Belicia Slateshoulders, his first love, the woman he had planned to marry before her untimely death more than thirty years ago. Crystal lit a candle to her grandfather, Connor Heathstone, while the priest chanted a hymn to the dead. It was one of the Hylar dwarves' oldest and most beloved songs, recalling those who had died in the long march from Thoradin to Thorbardin back during the Age of Light. Its refrains mourned anyone so unlucky to have died before setting eyes on their beloved mountain.

  When the priest had done singing, Tarn and Crystal rose and left the chapel by way of their private entrance. A long candlelit hall led them to their living quarters. Though a warm fire and a delicious repast awaited them in the private dining room, Tarn entered their bedchamber. Crystal closed the door. When she turned, she found her husband had sunk to the floor, his head slumped against a bedpost, his back heaving with silent sobs. She knelt by his side and gathered him into her arms. He moaned garbled words, but she did not need to decipher them to know what was in his broken heart. She responded by rocking slowly, crooning a wordless tune and stroking his long golden hair.

  They huddled together in this manner for what seemed hours. When Tarn's grief had poured itself out, they then spoke together in low voices for quite some time longer. He told her in detail what had happened and how he blamed himself for the deaths of so many noble young dwarves. She did her best to comfort him, but his heartache was still too fresh to be salved by mere words.

  When, finally, Crystal saw that nothing she could say or do could make his pain any less, she rose and sat on the edge of the bed. Holding out her arms, she drew him to herself. He wrapped his arms around her and rested there, listening to the sound of her breathing. That is when he felt her grow suddenly tense, and the hand stroking his hair became awkward and heavy. He wondered what was bothering his wife, but he had little energy to inquire. She needed her own time to say what she was about to say.

  Finally, Crystal sighed and said, "Even in times of great sorrow, great joy is born."

  Tarn was silent for a moment, then asked, "What do you mean?"

  She laughed nervously. He sat back and looked up into her cool gray eyes. They were moist, but not with tears. Her lips trembled with a smile. "What is wrong?" he asked. "What did you mean?"

  "Just this," she said, her voice catching in her throat. She touched her fingers to her lips to calm herself, then continued, "By this time next year, you shall hold your son in your arms."

  16

  Thane Jungor Stonesinger sat in his private study, his eyes roaming among the battle trophies he'd won over the years. Behind him, a broad window stood with its shutters thrown wide, while outside the window, twin gouts of water shot from the nostrils of a marble dragon's head, filling a deep granite bowl before spilling over into a stream. The stream flowed though the private gardens of Jungor's second level residence near the old temple of Reorx. A skylight cut through the living rock of the mountain let light in from the outside, filling his garden with sunlight and allowing his exotic collection of plants and trees to grow.

  But at the moment, night ruled outside the mountain and moonlight was too wan to illuminate his garden. Instead, torches burned in golden sconces strapped to the trunks of the trees, flickering gaily in the pools formed by the stream and throwing their light in an ever-changing pattern against the white marble walls of his home.

  Jungor sat facing the window, slowly removing the bandage from his empty eye socket, blind to the beauty of what lay before him. Behind him, his loyal guard captain, Astar Trueshield, and the Daewar thane, Rughar Delvestone, shared a couch near the fireplace. Thane Delvestone was sampling Jungor's brandy, while Astar contemplated the flames dancing in the grate, a dour look on his face.

  Jungor tossed the used bandage onto his desk and turned to face his guests. They looked up at the movement, then recoiled in horror at what they saw. Jungor laughed. "Don't you like it?" he asked, pointing to the polished round agate resting in the bruised empty socket of his right eye. The gleaming black stone gave his already hellish visage an even more diabolical look.

  "As you wish, my lord thane," Rughar said with obvious uncertainty. He sipped at his brandy nervously. But Astar had no such compunctions.

  "Reorx's bones! Take it out, thane, before someone sees you," Captain Trueshield exclaimed.

  Jungor laughed again, tilting his head forward until the stone rolled out of his face and dropped to the desk. It rolled slowly across the polished mahogany surface before dropping soundlessly to the soft carpet. "I am thinking of having a golden orb made," the Hylar thane stated with a jolliness that seemed incongruous with his recent defeat in the Council Hall. "Of course, I'd want it etched to look like a real eye, perhaps even with a blue enamel iris and a bit of black onyx set into the gold for a pupil. What do you think?"

  "I think Tarn Bellowgranite should have died in those tunnels with his army," Rughar said grumpily, then tossed back the last of his brandy. His face flushed with the heat of the strong liquor.

  "Naturally, my new eye shouldn't appear too real," Jungor said as he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "I think gold is just the thing. It won't tarnish or rust or crack, and it can be polished to the smoothness of butter."

  "I don't see how you can sit here and make jokes at a time like this, Thane Jungor!" Rughar exclaimed. "Tarn defied the Council and look what has happened—the loss of an entire army. What was gained by this sacrifice? A rumor of Beryl's death? A piece of loose dragon scale that may have fallen off as she razed the city of Qualinost down to its foundations?"

  "It would take ten armies and more elves than there are in all Krynn to kill Beryl," Astar Trueshield scoffed. "What galls me is that Tarn was defeated and lost his entire army almost to the last dwarf, and yet we have practically begged him to remain as king!"

  Jungor leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows atop his desk. He pointed languidly at the Daewar thane. "You asked how I could make jokes at a time like this. How can you not? This has been a banner day in dwarven history. A spectacle, a well-written play, memorable theater if you like! I thought I'd continue the celebration with a little levity among conspirators."

  "Thane Stonesinger, you go too far!" Rughar exclaimed.

  "Oh, I haven't even begun, and you've no idea how far I'll go," Jungor said, his voice deadly calm. "I say this was a day of high theater. So masterful was the director that we all played our unwitting parts in Tarn's little play. It is as you say, Astar. Tarn returned in defeat and should have been stripped of his crown and tossed from the North Gate in disgrace, yet in the end we begged him to remain as our king! What inspired drama!"

  He burst out in such a mad fit of laughter that it was some minutes before Jungor could catch his breath. His two companions looked at him as though he had gone completely insane. This only made him laugh the harder to see the foolish looks on their faces. "Oh, are your hearts so cold that you cannot admire him? Hate him, yes, for what he has done to us, for what we have become under his rule— a diminished people of diminished expectations. But still, you must admire his boldness. I could not have scripted a more sensational drama, and the people were mightily pleased by it. His confession and redemption before the Council were worthy of the Palanthian stage. Did you not want to applaud?"

  "I must admit that I did not see it in that light before now," Thane Delvestone said skeptically.

  "That is only because you are such a fool," Jungor laughed. "But I need such fools as you, Rughar. Please do not take offense."

  "None taken, my lord," the Daewar thane conceded with a bow of his head.

  "But what are we to do now?" Astar cried, slamming his fist down on the arm of the couch. "Have we lost everything? Has all this been for naught?"

  "Have a care with the furniture, Captain Trueshi
eld," Jungor chided. "Do not worry about the future. Nothing has changed, except perhaps that we are in a better position than we were before. Yes, even better!"

  At his companions' dubious looks, Jungor shook his head in dismay. Could they be so blind? Like a teacher instructing children, he said, "The people needed comfort today. Any upheaval coming on the heels of their tremendous loss would only have made our jobs more difficult in the long run. But mark my words in stone, they will not always feel so kindly toward the king who led their sons and daughters, wives and husbands to their deaths. Give them time to mourn their dead, and to brood. In a few months, they will begin to wonder if the elves' rescue was worth the price we paid. And if they should not begin to wonder, then we shall remind them. We shall renew their grief, keep it fresh."

  Rughar smiled as he began to understand where Jungor was leading them. The Hylar thane nodded. "Yes, you see now, don't you? I never expected Tarn to lose his entire army. Defeat seemed inevitable, but who could have imagined that so many should die so suddenly? We were going to have to create a crisis to exploit, but now a disaster has been dropped into our laps—and like a gift of the gods, greater than anything we could have arranged."

  Jungor rose from his chair and stood looking out the window. His gaze was not on the beauty of his garden or the light of his torches. He was gazing into the future and its many possible paths. "And though I have lost my eye in the arena, this too has only added to our chances, enhanced my mystique. With all the things we have already arranged, plus with Thane Quickspring leading my cult, my power and influence will continue to grow while Tarn's erodes under our ceaseless campaign of propaganda. He will not even know that it is happening until it is too late."