The Last Thane
( Chaos Wars - 1 )
Douglas Niles
Douglas Niles
The Last Thane
Prologue
A melon swelled at the end of a twisted vine. The moist orb grew rapidly, as emerald darkened to shadowed purple. The sphere distended, bulging oblong, finally bursting into a soft pile of stinking viscera. The fetid stuff was momentarily black on the colorless soil, but the stain faded quickly.
The garden was in bloom, a checkerboard of colored swaths mounding the ghost-white terrain. But this was not the white of purity, of clean linen and bleached paper. Instead this terrain was like colorless death, maggots crawling in vile ordure or blind eyeballs milked by disease. It was a shade lacking in beauty, vibrancy, or any kind of vitality.
Even so, to the lone observer the garden was a place of sublime beauty and marvelous, chaotic perfection. Zarak Thuul's eyes were red, the hot crimson of deep-seated coals fanned by a breath of air, and they now flared brightly as the cycle of corrupt life was enacted again, as hideous fruit once more swelled and writhed upon the land.
Now the garden was also claimed by twisted, flailing trees. Leafless and bleak, the trunks curled through grotesque gyrations until limbs drooped, laden with obscene fruit. Dropping like overripe plums, the growths splatted onto ground that was soon covered in a layer of soft muck. Then the trees turned against each other, reaching with tortured, lashing limbs, branches landing vicious blows. One trunk shrieked as it was splintered by the pull of two neighboring trees. Another, roots breaking free of the yielding turf, toppled into the rot and trembled as the effluent seared the bark and hissed with caustic fury into the fleshy timber.
Zarak Thuul was pleased, for rarely did his garden produce two gratifying harvests in such rapid succession. For moments such as this did he endure the rest of his bleak existence, surviving until his life could once again have meaning. For this he would tolerate the nothingness of the Abyss, the enforced idleness that had already spanned millennia. No matter how great the interval, he reminded himself, his was a confinement that one day must end.
And then fire blazed through the dark sky, and the daemon warrior threw back his head, laughing in pure exultation. The meteoric blaze curled in a wide arc, trailing sparks, embers, and a churning maelstrom of overheated air, spiraling downward in a graceful path, gliding closer and closer to the red-eyed watcher. As the aerial flames descended, broad wings became visible, gossamer foils outlined in shimmers of heat, widespread and uptilted to catch the draft raised by their own infernal presence. The roaring swelled, like a furnace cast open to admit the sudden force of the bellows, and now Zarak Thuul felt the fire on his face, on the perfect black skin of his chest and belly and sexless groin. He raised his hands in greeting, but only as the blaze halted before him did he fully discern the creature within that cloud of fire.
A crocodilian head, with skull and skin outlined in living flame, rose on a serpentine neck. Liquid skin flowed, a surface of oily fire. Vast wings were folded against monstrous flanks as a tail of crackling blaze curled-inward, casting sparks onto the daemon's naked feet. Zarak Thuul felt the heat as the kiss of a hungry lover.
"Ah, Primus, my pet. I fear you are too late to enjoy a splendid blooming."
The fire dragon snorted, smoke and embers bursting over the mouldering landscape. "Gardens are too. tame for me. Can we not take to the air and cast fire through the Abyss?" The statement began contemptuously but closed on a note of pleading.
Zarak Thuul laid a coal-black hand upon the silky neck. Tendrils of flame curled through his fingers, caressing his wrist and forearm as he allowed his touch to soothe the creature. Yet as he contemplated his answer, his thoughts were far from content.
"You know I must remain… that I am bidden," he whispered, the sound a harsh growl.
"Bah! The queen has other things to concern her. She knows not whether you stay in your cage or depart to relish the breadth of our dark domain. Come-come with me, now!" The fire dragon lowered the broad wedge of his head, staring at the daemon warrior's face from the haunted, lightless sockets of its eyes.
"We are a curious pair, you and I," demurred the daemon, his own eyes firing into hot yellow as he met the beseeching gaze. "You, all fire and light, except for those eyes."
"And you the black of lightless death," the fire dragon responded ironically, "except for those eyes."
Their gaze held for timeless moments, and in that interval the daemon warrior knew a power of emotion that, surprisingly, was even more gratifying than a rush of pure hatred or the thrill that inevitably followed the spilling of hot, fresh blood. Companions for as many eras as Krynn had ever known, the pair spoke to each other with expressions of fire and shadow, and for a long time they had no need for words.
"But the queen does not forget," Zarak Thuul said finally, knowing that the dragon already understood the anguish in his words. "She remains the mistress of the Abyss, and so long as I am here, to her rule I must submit."
Primus snorted again, his mighty wings partially unfurling with a swath of dry, baking heat. The mulch on the ground steamed, and where it lay beneath the span of those wings it bubbled and burned into a sooty black. Quickly that darkness faded, ashes whisked away by an otherwise unnoticed breeze, until the ground underneath the great serpent was again washed in dead white, slightly rosy here and there from the reflection of seething flame.
"They say the queen has other matters, forces that draw her attention away from the Abyss. They say she makes another campaign upon Krynn, this time with a legion of knights who fight in her name-"
"And they say this time she will win." Zarak Thuul completed the statement with stark bitterness. "Her enemies are reeling before her. Even here in my exile I know that Palanthas has fallen to her armies. And they have taken as well that tower the Solamnics thought they could hold forever."
Zarak Thuul spit, his acidic drool landing with a hiss upon the mouldering rot. Though he felt no affection for the enemies of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, he knew her ultimate triumph would inevitably leave her bored again. And when she was bored, she took an overly intrusive view into the lives of her minions-and of those, such as the daemon warrior, who were not her minions, but who had the misfortune to exist in the Abyss, the place where above all others the queen's will held sway.
"It may be that she will not be the victor in this war," suggested Primus, with a shadowy squint of his fire-rimmed eyes. "For there is word that the Father of Us All has awakened and will take a role."
The daemon stiffened, forcing his fingers into the hot flesh of the fire dragon's neck. With a grunt of annoyance Primus tried to twist away, but Zarak Thuul pulled the great head downward to stare commandingly into the serpent's eyes.
"It may be that you have heard something, some news you would do well to impart."
Primus snorted softly, taking pleasure in his advantage. Zarak Thuul tightened his grip, and the fire dragon's exhalation sharpened, tinged by annoyance.
"I am not a dog to be hauled about by a master's hand." The serpent's voice was a low growl, like a bonfire roaring in the distance.
His black face expressionless, the daemon warrior released his grip and took a step backward. "Nor am I a pawn to be toyed with, like some court fool. If you have knowledge, speak it to me. Now!"
Primus exhaled enough heat to bubble another swath of the decaying garden. Fumes swirled around his broad nostrils as he drew another breath, stretching his wings to a majestic pose. Only then did he speak.
"The mortals of Krynn are ever foolish, and now they strive to master their own gods. They think Paladine and the queen will be their saviors, one pitted against the other. But I tell you now: the Father of Chaos himse
lf has been awakened, and his wrath is mighty."
"And he will go to war against his children!" Zarak Thuul saw the promise clearly, clenching a rock hard fist into the palm of his other hand. "Perhaps then may all the legions of Chaos fly to his name!"
"Too, surely the lesser gods must fail in strife against their own father,"' Primus suggested. "For he who gave them life is able to take it away."
"You are right, my fiery pet," the daemon concluded, touching the great wyrm again in affection. "The queen will be occupied with matters elsewhere."
"And thus we, my lord, are free to fly where we wish."
Now the decision was easy.
Zarak Thuul swung gracefully onto the back of the great creature. Tendrils of flame swirled to form a depression, and the daemon sank easily into a comfortable recline. He needed neither saddle nor bridle, for the supple back of the monster shifted obligingly to accommodate the rider. The black of Zarak Thuul's obsidian skin reflected eerily in the cradle of flame, and his eyes glowed like twin spots of burning death, steady and focused and bright even against the inferno that was his monstrous mount.
With a sweep of fire and wing, Primus took to the air. Zarak Thuul crowed aloud, shrieking the wild joy he felt, exulting in the power of the fire dragon's flight, in the speed of ascent. Below lay the tortured domain of the Abyss, realm of the Dark Queen and, for countless eons, the daemon warrior's prison.
But now the mists of ether were a tenuous barrier. He would wait only a little longer, and then he knew that the barrier would part and all the planes of existence would lie open and inviting beyond.
Chapter One
A Thane's House
"Where's my helmet?" Baker Whitegranite whispered to himself. Despite his ill temper, a mood that grew darker with each heartbeat, he kept his voice low. He was not so irritated that he was ready to start a fight with Garimeth, who so far as he knew was napping in the next room.
Instead the dwarf stomped around his spacious study, moving scrolls and parchments, pushing a stack of musty tomes aside, looking under his desk, behind his chair, even in the wooden cabinet that stood near the door. All the while he was cognizant of the steady trickle of the water clock, knowing he had to get down to the Thane's Atrium within two hours. Since it would take nearly half that interval just to descend eighteen levels in the lift, his time was limited.
Exhausting all the crannies in his study, he decided he had no choice but to step through the door to the sitting room, where-predictably-his wife broke from her light slumber and sat bolt upright on the divan beside the cold hearth.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Gari, but I've looked everywhere," he began, watching her carefully but unable to gauge her reaction. He felt the familiar burning in his gut. "Have you seen the Helm of Tongues?"
Garimeth's wide, pale eyes stared at him, and he was once again reminded of the walleyed coldness that was a dark dwarf's gaze. Why it had never bothered him when he was courting her was a question he had long since ceased to ponder. Now he shrugged, nonplussed by her silence.
"I said, I was-"
"I heard you," she snapped, then snorted wryly. "And I wish I had seen the damn thing. I'd enjoy watching you hunt through all the wrong places."
Baker sighed, removing his spectacles to polish them on the hem of his overshirt, letting his watery eyes fasten on his wife's round, pale face, now comfortably blurred.
"It might be in the cedar wardrobe," he declared, ignoring her taunt and moved by a sudden remembrance.
"To the Abyss with your stupid toy!" Garimeth cried, rising to her feet and fixing him with those wide, milky eyes. She stepped closer so that her glare was no longer softened by his astigmatism, "Sometimes I think you would sit there and play with your scrolls and your translations even if the city were falling down around you!"
The words stung, probably because they resonated very close to the truth. Quickly Baker felt the cold, hard shell close around his heart. It was a shield he wore too often, yet even now a trace of the old hurt, the pain that used to wrack his days and torment his nights, broke through the defenses and rose into his voice. He shoved his glasses back onto his face.
"I will be treated with respect!" he declared carefully. "I am the acting thane of the Hylar, and I will not allow you to scorn me!"
"Acting thane? Then why do you spend so much time looking into the past, seeking ancient lairs and forgotten legends?" sneered Garimeth. "It's as though you were afraid of your throne!"
"It is a seat of high honor," Baker snapped. "Until my cousin returns I shall treat it with the respect it deserves-as will my wife!"
"For me to honor the chair I would have to honor the dwarf who holds it." Her tone was as cold as her eyes.
"Why then are you here?" demanded the thane bluntly. "What brought you from the home of your own clan to join me in Hybardin?"
"You had a certain style back then, something I admired." Her tone made it clear that the "something" was no longer a consideration. "And even Hybardin had its appeals for me."
"And still does," he goaded, "compared to the lightless hole of Daerforge."
Her laugh was dry and derisive. "Light is overrated. Besides, I have received word from Daerbardin-where my own brother soon will take hold of a real throne!"
He knew she had her spies and didn't ask how she had gained the information. "Your brother is undoubtedly dead, or he will be soon," he retorted instead, feeling a guilty flush of pleasure as the remark brought a momentary twinge of fear to his wife's small, tight mouth. The throne of Clan Daergar could only be won through a series of deadly duels, and they both knew the odds of a candidate's survival were slim.
Her features twisted, and he saw he had provoked her into a rage. Wildly she looked around, and Baker quickly snatched up her decanter of wine, depriving her of the only ready weapon. And at the same time he felt his own rage erupt. He raised the bottle, ready to throw, and then slowly the emotion faded. Though still burning beneath the power of his self-control, it was no longer a lethal force.
"Why don't you go to your brother now?" he growled. "Leave me, leave the city of the Hylar, and return to the darkness!"
"In a heartbeat, 'my lord thane,' " she mocked. "But for the fact that here I have made my life, and here lives my son!"
The last words broke his shell to pieces and left Baker drained and numb, with no spirit for war with his wife. He turned toward his own dressing chamber, anxious for nothing now but to put distance between himself and his enemy.
He decided to go down to the Thane's Atrium even before he had to. The helm was forgotten as he collected his royal stamp, donned his robe, and departed his house.
Partly to avoid his wife and partly because he needed a touch of serenity, he left through the side door into the garden. Here he took time to relish the cool damp air, the mist swirling along the ceiling that domed up to fifteen feet overhead. As always, the soothing presence of his dark-bred ferns and the clumps of round mushrooms cooled his agitation and steadied his nerves.
The centerpiece of his garden was the fountain that surged gently upward, trickling steadily under natural pressure, waters gathering in a bowl to spill through fluted spouts across a variety of small pools. They were not just any waters, for this was a fountain of phosphorescence, clear liquid that possessed a soft, innate brightness. The streams ran from pool to pool like pathways of pale lights, creating a glowing spiderweb on the floor of the wide garden chamber.
By the time he passed through the gate from the garden onto the street he was in fairly high spirits. The lift station was quite a few blocks away, and as he walked he met and greeted many Hylar on the uncrowded streets. Yet he moved without a bodyguard or an escort of any kind; mountain dwarves at peace were an unpretentious people.
But were they in fact at peace? He allowed his worries to intrude into his thoughts, wondering about his cousin Glade Hornfel Kytil. How fared the true thane and his mighty army? Had they encountered the enemy they had marched forth to fac
e? And when would they be back?
These questions bothered him as he rode the smooth mechanism down the shaft bored through the bedrock of the Life-Tree.
As if in answer to his silent fears, at the Level Ten lift station he met a messenger, a young dwarf on his way from the Thane's Atrium to Baker's residence far above.
"My lord! There is a missive, from Thane Hornfel! He sent a courier on dragonback, and he arrived in the Life-Tree but this past hour!"
In a few more minutes Baker had hurried to the Atrium where he learned that a brave Hylar courier had in fact risked many dangers to bring this letter to Thorbardin. After insuring that the weary and travel-stained dwarf was getting a hot meal and a much-needed bath, Baker took his seat on the royal throne. A servant handed him a parchment and then respectfully withdrew.
Baker Whitegranite looked at the parchment and drew a deep breath, certain that he wasn't going to like what he was about to read. He removed his crystal spectacles, polishing them carefully as he stared around the blurred surroundings of the thane's royal receiving room. Puffing on the lenses, he made sure they were meticulously clean before perching them once more on the bridge of his large nose. For a moment he stared at the wall, at the display of weapons and shields that had snapped back into focus.
But he knew there was nothing to be gained by delay.
My Dearest Cousin,
I will be blunt: We arrived too late in Palanthas. Blame it on the storms that hampered our passage around the Cape of Caergoth, or curse the blue dragons that struck our fleet on the approaches to the Bay of Branchala. Or say it was the fault of fractious Thorbardin, if you will, because the mountain dwarves of all the clans cried the danger to the world but in the end allowed the Hylar to march alone to face the legions of the Dark Queen. (I am still aggrieved that even the Daewar, a clan I had come to trust almost as our own kin, could not find a way to think beyond the stone walls that enclose them.)
The Last Thane cw-1 Page 1