by Doug Niles
Baker felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold hearth. “Storms of Chaos? Did he really say that?”
Gneiss scrutinized the Hylar thane. “Yes, over and over until I’m hearing it in my sleep! Why?”
In a rush Baker explained about the letter from Glade Hornfel. “He used those exact words to describe the strange sky, the portents that seemed terrifying even to him!”
“I have to get back to my city at once,” Gneiss declared, rising to leave.
It was with difficulty that Baker brought up the subject he had wanted to discuss with the Daewar thane. “Hornfel took every able-bodied warrior we have. There are some among us who fear that the dark dwarves will take advantage of our weakness to seize the power they have coveted for centuries.”
“It is a danger,” Gneiss agreed cautiously.
“I need to know about your army if the dark dwarves strike. Can you aid us in the defense of Hybardin?” Baker suspected he already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid my army is as divided as the rest of my clan,” said Gneiss sadly. “It grieves me to say it, but you Hylar will have to fend for yourselves.”
“I understand.”
The two thanes parted as they had greeted each other, friends over the span of a century. Each burdened with problems that were his alone to bear.
As soon as Truesilver was gone, Baker felt a rising surge of melancholy. He longed for nothing more than a chance to light a bright reading lamp and to sit in his favorite chair with the Helm of Tongues over his head. But of course, there was no time.
Unless he made time. Suddenly decisive, Baker made his way out of the Thane’s Atrium and through the gate of the King’s Wall that divided Level Ten into defensible blocks. He walked steadily to the lift station at the center of the level, where four broad avenues came together, and there the thane stood aside to allow a flock of noble Hylar ladies to enter before him.
These dwarven matrons were dressed in fine gowns of spun flax, and each wore a dazzling array of golden chains and bracelets, as well as rings and brooches that winked brightly with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The buzz of their conversation quickly faded as they recognized the thane. From the looks of pity and speculative appraisal he received Baker guessed they had been discussing the recent departure of his wife. Nevertheless, they curtsied in unison as he stepped into the wide cage of the lift, and he managed to bow with proper decorum. They rode in awkward silence to the next level, where the females departed. Baker flushed to the sound of giggling laughter as the lift carried him up and out of sight.
At Level Twenty-eight, Baker got off the lift. The station was a wide gallery, lined with stone columns and alive with the sounds of running water. Two fountains, one at each end of the hall, spumed a constant shower of spray, while a long reflecting pool divided the gallery down the middle. Bright lanterns washed the area in light, and the scent of dark-thriving mossblossoms sweetened the air. Baker had always thought this one of the most beautiful places in Hybardin though now he might as well have been blind for all the notice he took of the splendor.
Wrapped in the cloak of his gloom he crossed the gallery and plodded down the connecting avenues, passing the gates to many other noble manors as he walked the blocks leading to his own house, on the outer fringe of the level. It was equipped with a cherished balcony overlooking the sea. But that balcony was not his destination now. Instead he went to the side door, into the coolness of his garden, and for a short time he walked the pathway among the ferns. He let the glowing waters surround his feet, soothing his spirit as they always did. For a short time even his stomach felt a little better.
The double doors in the outer wall whisked open a fraction of a heartbeat before Baker could reach for the latch. Unsurprised, the thane stepped across the threshold and stood in the entryway of the house.
“Greetings, my lord.” Vale stepped out from behind the door and bowed. Blinking his watery eyes, the servant took Baker’s woolen cloak.
“Thank you, Vale.” There was some comfort in the loyal attendant’s familiar alertness. In tunic and boots, Baker moved toward his own office. “And Vale, send for my son.”
“Right away, lord.” The servant’s eyes widened before he nodded in eager acceptance. “I’ll send a courier to his apartments and another to the dock. I know he spends a lot of time there.”
“Good, yes. Do what needs to be done,” the thane replied, feeling a twinge of chagrin at the thought that he himself seemed to know less about the activities of his son then everyone else.
Baker closed the door to his study and let the familiar atmosphere of his own private chamber comfort him. The fire in his belly still seethed, as it always seemed to do, but there was peace in the silence, the cool stillness, of his abode. He was glad to be back on Level Twenty-eight, far above the thane’s official quarters. Here at least it was possible for him to imagine he was far away from the thane’s problems as well. For the first time he felt the absence of his wife as a relief, and he took some pleasure in walking from room to room without fearing the sound of her harping voice or brittle sarcasm.
The matters of government would rise up again, but for now Baker could comfort himself with a few pleasant hours spent amid his ancient scrolls. He found them on the desk in his study, the frail parchments protected by tubes of ivory. They had come from an ancient cavern recently discovered and excavated between Levels Nineteen and Twenty. The miner who had uncovered them had suggested they might have been there for a thousand years or more.
Baker’s first investigations had confirmed these were indeed the work of Chisel Loremaster, the cherished chronicler of dwarven history. The words were written in the ancient script of the scions. Fortunately, the Helm of Tongues had untangled the arcane language, magically laying it out for Baker in words as clear as modern Hylar. He had learned that the site of the Grotto did in fact lay somewhere within the Life-Tree. Particularly intriguing had been a new piece of information, a suggestion that the ancient dragon lair was not empty. He remembered the text vividly:
The Graygem’s power of Chaos is caught within the Platinum Egg and such power shall be unleashed when the egg is raised by the true ruler of the dwarves.
There was more, much more. Now he went to the wardrobe where he had recalled leaving the helm, then frowned as he saw with surprise that the closet was empty. Not only was the helm missing; he realized that Garimeth’s cloaks and boots had been removed. Of course, he had not yet become used to her absence.
Returning to the study, Baker wondered if, in spite of his intentions, he had absently taken the helm down to the thane’s quarters. But he was certain that it had been here, just a few days ago when he had been reading the scroll that was still flattened on his desk.
And then he understood.
“Garimeth!” He spat her name with the full awareness of this monstrous betrayal, a theft that struck at more than his person—it reached out to wound his family, to threaten his very legacy. She had taken the artifact out of spite, for she knew that her husband treasured it above all things. And doubtless she knew it could be useful to herself as well.
More significant to Baker than Garimeth’s reasons for taking the artifact was the simple fact that the Helm of Tongues was gone. He collapsed wearily into his chair, completely unready to face the task of getting it back. Somehow he would possess it again, but for now he didn’t see how. All the scrolls, the secrets of the ancients waiting only for his perusal, would have to wait.
He sat in silent misery for some time. His stomach ached badly enough to double him over in the chair.
“My lord?” Vale’s deferential voice gently penetrated Baker’s pensive gloom. “Young Master Tarn is here.”
“Send him in, please.” Baker sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts.
“Hello, Father.” Tarn stood in the doorway, his violet eyes regarding his father with an expression the elder dwarf could not read.
“Come in, Tarn, come in.
Have a seat while Vale gets you something to drink.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather stand.”
Flushing, Baker stood and faced his son, biting back a sharp response with a considerable effort.
“Can I ask you something?” Tarn demanded.
“What is it?”
“I want to know what you’re going to do.”
“About what?” Baker replied, puzzled.
“About Mother, of course!”
“Do?” Baker glowered, his temper rising. “There’s not much I can do, wouldn’t you say? She left of her own will, after all.”
“You drove her away!”
Baker gaped, stunned by the accusation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he replied curtly. He pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose, glaring at his son.
“Yes I do. She was never welcomed here, never belonged to your Hylar society. I am one who can understand that, better than the rest of this stuck-up band of would-be nobles!”
“Any lack of welcome was her own doing. Garimeth didn’t tolerate fools gladly, nor did she hesitate to call them fools to their faces. Such an attitude made it difficult to make friends with those same fools. Not that it ever seemed to bother her much.”
“How do you know what bothered her?”
“Apparently I didn’t,” Baker said, slumping again in his chair. Ignoring his son, he rubbed his temples, then slammed his fist onto the table and stood up in sudden animation. “She took the Helm of Tongues—did you know that?”
“No, she wouldn’t do that!” insisted the younger dwarf. His tone turned scornful. “You probably misplaced it again. Did you have your glasses on when you looked for it?”
Baker sighed, tired of the argument even though he felt certain he was right. “I do know that she did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. And the needs or wants of anyone else never figured into her decisions. Now, I’ve heard all I will tolerate from you on this topic. There are matters facing Thorbardin that make our quarrel seem less than petty. I would like to talk to you about them, if you will listen. Otherwise, you can take your leave.”
Tarn glared wordlessly at his father, and Baker would not have been surprised to see the young dwarf turn and stalk from the chamber. But instead Tarn exhaled slowly, then nodded in mute acquiescence.
Baker told his son about the letter he had received from Thane Hornfel. “It sounds as though these forces of Chaos are a menace unlike anything Krynn has ever faced.”
“Are you warning the other clans to be prepared?”
“Axel thinks we should keep the news secret from the dark dwarves, for now. He doesn’t want to reveal our weakness to the rest of Thorbardin.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s as purebred a Hylar as you can find.”
Baker ignored the implied accusation. “And you—what would you do if the decision was yours?”
“I would tell them, of course. All of them. Daergar, Klar—even the Theiwar should know.”
“And suppose they use the news as an excuse to mobilize, and then turn against us?”
“I don’t think they will,” Tarn asserted stubbornly.
Baker muttered a curse, profane even by dwarven standards. But he had decided, and though it rankled him to rely on Tarn, to ask him for help, he would proceed. “That’s why I need you. I want you to go to Daerbardin, to carry my message of good will to the thane. You must warn him of the danger, try to convince him that this is truly a dire threat. And you must return to tell me if the Daergar begin to prepare to move against us.”
Tarn’s exotic eyes, the purple of a twilight in the evening sky, narrowed. Baker waited impassively, wondering what thoughts were going through the mind of this stranger who was his son.
“Father, I will go.”
“Good. Make your preparations to leave at once. I’ll appoint another emissary to speak to the Theiwar. The Klar, of course, will do whatever the Daergar say.”
“Very well,” Tarn agreed. “I can be ready to go in two shifts of the boat docks.”
“All right. And Tarn …” Baker added as his son turned toward the door.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. And good luck.”
Duel for a Throne
Chapter Seven
Surrounded by his phalanx of bodyguards, Darkend Bellowsmoke strode through the north gate of the arena as if the mantle of thane already rested upon his broad shoulders. He heard the acclamation of the throng and chose to take it as praise, though it was just as likely that the gathered Daergar were cheering the prospect of imminent bloodshed. Acutely conscious of the need to make an imperial appearance, Darkend kept a slow and measured progress down the long aisle. He looked neither right nor left, concentrating hard on concealing any outward sign that would give an indication of his wounded leg.
The dark dwarf climbed to the dais, still surrounded by his henchmen. He clutched the mighty mace in his fist, grateful that the pain in his shoulder was bearable. In addition to the tiny stone, Garimeth had brought him some ointments and unguents. This morning Thistle had smeared the oily stuff over all of his hurts. Now Darkend felt that he had nearly regained his full peak of his physical prowess. Most importantly, he was able to walk without a limp. The inflamed wound in his thigh had subsided to a barely tolerable throbbing.
All eyes turned toward the west gates, the route which lead to Gludh Kolgard’s house. An expectant hush settled over the vast, domed enclosure as the dark dwarves waited for the last challenger. Darkend stared at that portal as intently as any young hotblood. Although, in his case he hoped fervently that the Daergar were waiting in vain. Slickblade was posted somewhere along that route. If it was at all possible, the assassin would act to keep Kolgard from appearing in the Arena of Honor.
Though the great coliseum had been crowded for each of the previous contests, today it seemed as though every dark dwarf from the two clan cities of Daerforge and Daerbardin had tried to find a way into the room. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, they crowded the ranks of the bleachers and stood in a thick mass around the rim of the huge bowl. Even the four aisles leading to the gates had grown packed in the short time since Darkend’s entrance. If Gludh Kolgard did in fact appear, he and his entourage would have to force their way through the crowd to reach the stage.
More time passed and the crowd began to simmer uneasily. Fights broke out and several Daergar were killed—though as often as not the bodies remained in place and upright since there was not enough room to move them. Darkend began to allow his hopes to rise; maybe Slickblade had found a way to do the task that he had deemed impossible.
But when the outer gates were flung open with a triumphant clang, Gludh Kolgard was alive and hearty. With his face mask open to reveal the fierce set of his jaw and his mailed fist raised to brandish his huge, double-bladed battle axe, he stood amid the score of dwarves who made up his personal corps of bodyguards. Again the crowd cheered as they took notice that he had entered the south gate—a route that had required a considerable detour from House Kolgard, but which had insured that the challenger avoided any pitfalls or ambushes that had been laid in his predicted path.
Slickblade had failed.
“I challenge you, Darkend Bellowsmoke, for the Throne of Clan Daergar, the mightiest seat in all Thorbardin. I say you are unworthy, and the blade of my axe will gladly prove it!”
“Come down here, then, if you are so eager to die!” retorted Darkend. “You have kept this august gathering waiting for too long already!”
Kolgard’s response was drowned in the roar of approval, and the very bedrock underfoot seemed to tremble and shudder from the force of thousands of deep, cheering voices. Darkend kept his wide, pale eyes on the face of his adversary. He watched Gludh’s bodyguards push a wide path through the crowd so that the challenger could swagger easily, free of any interference.
Abruptly one of Darkend’s bodyguards leaped in front of him, then tumbled forward, gagging on a crossbow bolt that pierced his throat. The assail
ant had been one of the anonymous thousands in the crowd, and Darkend could barely suppress a shudder as he saw how close the missile had come to striking him. Somehow the bodyguard had sensed the danger to his master and had made the ultimate sacrifice in his service.
“An arrow from the crowd? A coward’s path!” the patriarch of the Bellowsmoke clan cried as he shook his mace toward the approaching challenger. These words were lost on the Daergar as the excitement built to a crescendo. The dark dwarves, having sipped the first bloodshed, now thirsted madly for the main event.
As Gludh started up the steps leading to the dais, several more silver darts flashed through the crowd. Some were deflected off of bodyguards’ raised shields, and a few dwarves of Kolgard’s entourage fell writhing, pierced by the lethal weapons. Another of Darkend’s men fell before the two main combatants finally came face to face with each other. Each stood in the midst of a semicircle of armored, brawny henchmen.
“Let the matter be decided between us alone,” Darkend stated the ritual words.
“And let the will of Reorx be revealed,” replied Gludh, clamping shut the smooth steel barrier of his face plate. Even his luminous eyes were lost in the shadows of the narrow vision slits.
With the compact agreed upon, the bodyguards withdrew to just below the ring of the stone dais. There would be no more assassin’s arrows for the time being, the time-honored phrases having commenced the formal part of the ritual. The strenth and skill of the two combatants alone would decide the fight.
The roaring of the crowd slowly stilled and was replaced by a soft buzz of anticipation. Here and there the bodyguards around the periphery of the dais jockeyed for position, stabbing and chopping at each other until a solid ring of dwarf warriors enclosed the circular platform. Bleeding and moaning, several hapless losers thrashed on the floor behind the henchmen. But these wretches were left to die unnoticed. All eyes focused on the impending duel.