by Doug Niles
“Master Tarn,” declared Karc, a grizzled footman Tarn had known since his earliest years, “It is an honor to have you among us again.”
He allowed the attendants to remove his cape and satchel and was shown into a parlor while Karc went to find his mother. Garimeth materialized shortly thereafter, just as he was uncorking the carafe of mead that had been presented to him by a bowing servant.
“I was expecting you,” Garimeth Bellowsmoke said, “though I didn’t think you would get here quite so soon.”
“I am here on business, I’m afraid,” Tarn replied, pouring a couple of glasses and passing one to his mother. “Duty calls. I am on a mission for the thane.”
He couldn’t keep an element of self-mockery out of his voice, and Garimeth laughed. “I shouldn’t think it would take much of an excuse to get you out of Hybardin, although it’s good and timely that you’ve done so. You should stay here with me. You’ll have a whole wing to yourself. This is a good time to be a Bellowsmoke in Daerforge.”
“I am a Bellowgranite, remember?” he said, half sarcastically.
She sniffed. “Pay attention. Your dear uncle has just attained the throne of the Two Cities and he has great plans afoot. You will be able to play an important role, whatever you happen to think of your heritage.”
“Your brother Darkend?” Tarn was impressed. “Good. My mission is to seek the thane himself and give him a message from my father. All the easier if it’s Uncle Darkend.”
“What message?” Garimeth queried, her brows knitting thoughtfully.
“You heard about the letter from Thane Hornfel, didn’t you? And the ‘Storm of Chaos, a danger that hangs over all Krynn like a blade of fire’? Well, I convinced father that the news should be shared with the other clans—that we should all make preparations in case of danger in Thorbardin.”
“Indeed. Well, there’s no hurry. Darkend is in Daerbardin and it will take you half a day to get there from Daerforge. Why don’t you wait for a cycle? I’m expecting him here tomorrow and you can give him your message in person here.”
The change in his worlds seemed to be catching up to Tarn and the notion of resting here, relaxing for a brief while, had a strong appeal. He helped himself to another glass of mead. “This is an excellent brew. Shall I fill yours up as well?”
Garimeth held out her glass and regarded her son through narrowed eyes. “Do you understand what kind of power I’m talking about?” she asked, leaning back to sip from her dark beverage. “It’s rather unprecedented.”
“To have our family on the Daergar throne. I’d say it’s extraordinary.”
“Not just that,” Gari said impatiently. “But Darkend has been in conference with the thanes of the Theiwar, and the Klar … and it went rather well.”
“Really? Remarkable! All three clans?” Tarn asked eagerly. “That is unprecedented. Are they still here? Perhaps I could see them—”
“No. They departed a cycle ago. But surely your mission doesn’t concern them?”
“Not in so many words, but I know my father, the thane, was going to send emissaries to them as well. It’s actually a rather ambitious plan that he has. I think it might work.”
“Karc.” Garimeth raised her voice slightly, and the attendent appeared immediately. “Bring us another bottle—the special batch from the back cellar if you please.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“Now, this plan you speak of?” She turned her attention back to Tarn as soon as the servant withdrew. “You say that Baker is informing the Klar and the Theiwar of the danger and trying to make some kind of an alliance?”
“Yes! And with the Daergar, too. That’s where I’m going to try and be some … help.” Tarn was aware that his mind felt very sharp, but for some reason his tongue was growing thick in his mouth. He probably should slow down with the mead, but then, it had been a long journey and the beverage was really quite refreshing. Taking another sip, he confirmed more detail for his mother.
Tarn continued to talk as the new bottle was brought and tapped. His mother declined with a gentle wave of her hand over the top of her glass, so the younger dwarf swilled and spoke contentedly. He had a brief recollection of his father’s rude accusation that his mother had stolen the Helm of Tongues. Tarn felt a momentary inclination to ask her about it. But not now—the time wasn’t right—and besides, the mead was so delicious.
Tarn was taken quite by surprise when the room began to spin. He reached for the table … his chair … anything … but his fingers were numb, his hands like useless clubs. His blurring vision gave way to darkness, and he didn’t feel the thud as his limp body collapsed to the floor.
Interlude of Chaos
The stuff of Chaos tore at the fabric of countless worlds. War raged across the planes. The Queen of Darkness was pulled from the realm of her dark Abyss, summoned like all her pantheon by a transcendent need, forced into battle with the Father of all Gods. For the first time in her eons of existence she fought in the same cause as her nemesis, Paladine—yet even with the aid of that great platinum dragon and all the other deities in Krynn’s cosmos, they were sorely pressed.
For Father Chaos was a wild and untamed enemy, rapacious and unstoppable now that he had finally gained release. In the places where immortals dwelled, toward the already battle-scarred face of Krynn, the blight of wild death and destruction swelled unchecked. Takhisis was compelled farther and farther from her own domain and had no attention to spare the Abyss.
And so from that place of nothing and everything they came, by wing and claw, by darkness and from hunger, a horde that served a single goal and followed but one master: The daemon warrior Zarak Thuul. Astride his mighty fire dragon, he gathered his legion from all the corners of the Dark Queen’s realm.
In the vanguard came a host of shadow-wights from the vileness of never-life, casting an eerie dark blanket through a vast swath of existence. These were beings whose presence evoked horror and dismay, for they were the cruelest of killers. Not only did they claim the lives of their victims, but in so doing they obliterated any memory, any lasting impact or continuing influence created by the hapless one’s existence.
Other serpentine things also answered the summons of the mighty one. Primus was but one of the fire dragons—the greatest and most terrible to be sure—amongst a great host of blazing monsters that swept into the daemon warrior’s wake. They swarmed into the sky like flaming spears, wings pulsing, great necks extending. Their fires were the beacons, pennants, and martial banners of the daemon warrior’s army.
Following the blazing meteor that was Primus, the creatures of Chaos swarmed to the light and the fire and the promise of destruction. They flew through the thick murk that spills into the gaps between the planes as they followed the beacon, advancing to the command and the pleasure of the mighty daemon warrior.
And Zarak Thuul, feeling the unstoppable rush of combined power, threw back his massive head and howled with laughter.
Dark Chambers
Chapter Ten
His tongue was thick and terribly dry, like a dead, dusty corpse that had somehow come to rest in his mouth. When he tried to open his eyes his head was wracked with pain. He immediately twisted on some flat, yielding surface. He choked and gagged, mindlessly sick.
For a long time he held his head in his hands, groaning feebly and trying to squeeze out the agony that throbbed with such violence between his ears. Finally he rolled back onto what he now realized was a mattress. Still his mouth was dry and foul, and he gasped for air.
“By Reorx. Water. I need water!” He choked out the sounds, scarcely aware that he was speaking aloud.
“Here. Drink.” A gourd was placed against his hand and he instinctively pulled it to his lips, quaffing greedily—and then spitting out a great mouthful of something really vile.
“What is this?” he demanded, “Dragon piss?”
The force of his voice brought a further throbbing to his aching head. Trying to ignore the pain,
he blinked, but saw only vague shadows in the utter darkness of the room.
“No!” The stranger’s tone was indignant. “This fine gully grog! You no like, you no drink!”
Tarn groaned again, closing his eyes and sinking onto the mattress in utter despair. Gully grog? And that accent … the petulant tone of wounded pride—not to mention the words spoken. This fellow beside him was clearly a gully dwarf.
But how had he come to be here? Indeed, where was he?
For a long time the throbbing in his head was too violent, too painful, for Tarn to think at all. Instead he merely lay in utter misery, unconscious of anything except for the awful pain and the horrid feeling in his mouth. He might have slept again or faded from awareness—he couldn’t tell for sure—but when he finally forced his gummy eyelids apart he again saw the figure, squat and rotund, sitting beside his bed.
This time he could make out details: a pair of bright eyes, close set and sparkling, stared at him with unblinking attention. The rest of the room was large and well-chiseled. He could see a brass latch on the door, and gradually became aware that the covering of his mattress was a fine bearskin, a pelt very rare and treasured in Thorbardin. From these facts he deduced that he wasn’t in some squalid gully dwarf hovel. He took this fact as no small relief.
But it still didn’t answer the rest of his questions. He forced himself to reach backward in his mind, trying to reconstruct events. He saw Belicia, frowning at him, then turning her back. She was displeased. Why?
Because he was going away! The answer came like a stab of light, even though he realized that he had not defined the exact reason for Belicia Felixia’s displeasure. But part of it was true—he had been going away. He remembered now. The lake, the crossing from light into darkness.
His mother’s house. That was the last memory he had and it came to him with full and vivid recollection. The discussion in her parlor, the mead—the mead, by Reorx! Especially the second bottle, the special brew she had asked Karc to bring. Had Garimeth taken any drink from that bottle? He hadn’t been paying careful attention, but he was pretty sure that she hadn’t.
Of course—his mother had drugged him! His own mother! And now he was no doubt in some chamber of her house.
How could she do such a thing? And why? Why?
For a time he berated himself for his own stupidity. Certainly no self-respecting Daergar would accept a drink from one who refused to partake of the same beverage! How could he have been so careless, so disregarding of the most basic precautions?
The answer was clear: he had spent so much time among the Hylar where trust and goodwill were widespread. He had lost the edge needed to make one’s way through dark dwarf society.
He thought of the Helm of Tongues, how he had argued with his father over the possibility of his mother’s having stolen the artifact. Of course Baker Whiegranite must have been right. He remembered his mother regarding him through narrowed eyes, subtly encouraging him to drink. What had they been talking about? Had he given away any of the thane’s secrets?
“Why? Why did you do it, mother?” he croaked the question aloud, through the painful splitting of his dry lips.
“I not your mother, silly. You say thirsty, I give drink. You say ‘dragon piss,’ and I no give you more drink. That why.” In spite of everything, Tarn uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He had entirely forgotten his odd companion. After all, once he had realized that he was in his mother’s house, it had seemed more likely than anything that the gully dwarf was a figment of his fevered imagination. Certainly Aghar-bashing was considered fine sport among the Daergar. Even the lowliest of his mother’s servants would have had free rein to strangle or crush the little wretch if his presence were discovered.
“Who are you? And where are we?” His voice rasped painfully. He craved a draught of any liquid, no matter how vile. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his sturdy legs over the edge of the bed. He realized that his boots had been removed from his feet.
“Regal Wise-Always. That my name. We in the Big House.”
Tarn regarded the Aghar, observing the sparse beard straggling from a rounded chin, the small, rotund figure, and a face dominated by a pair of bright, curious eyes. “What ‘Big House’? Is this Daerforge, the manor of Garimeth Bellowsmoke?”
“Big Big House. And you in Agharhome, buddy. Best next best place in all Thorbardin!”
“No! I’ve seen Agharbardin. Nobody but a gully dwarf would go there, and I can tell you that it’s not like this.”
Tarn made the denial with a great deal of conviction. He could tell that this was a fine sleeping chamber, with a bed fit for nobility. Now that he was upright, he also noticed a settee, garment wardrobes, and a dressing table. It all looked vaguely familiar. This was not his usual room, but he was almost certain that he was somewhere within his mother’s house in the port city of the dark dwarves.
“Well, you come to Agharhome here. You right by dark dwarves—they take you boots and plop into bed.”
Forcing himself to think, Tarn reviewed his memory of Thorbardin, including the large gully dwarf slum called Agharbardin—or Agharhome, as the wretched inhabitants called it. He remembered that the gully dwarf city was a sprawling wasteland adjacent to Daerforge, but the two cities were distinct entities and clearly unalike. As a youngster during his visits to his mother’s home city, he had joined Daergar youths in pitching rocks from the balconies and plazas of their city, hooting with derision as the missiles had tumbled through the crowded Aghar hovels that lined the lower elevations of the cliff. Come to think of it, he had thrown some of those rocks from the ramparts of this very manor. The squalid lairs of the gully dwarves had not been terribly far away.
“Regal. That’s a good name, I have to say. How did you get here?”
“I walk. Me good walker, for sure.”
“I’m sure you are.” Tarn winced, knowing he could be in for a long conversation. “I mean, where did you go to come to this part of … er, Agharhome?”
“Over there … where I go now!” Suddenly the sturdy little fellow bounced to his feet and dashed with startling alacrity across the sleeping chamber, disappearing into one of the wardrobes that had been standing open. The door shut with a loud clunk, but then he realized that the noise had come from the large door to his room.
His mother stood in the portal now, staring at him with a pinched, thoughful expression. “I see that you’re awake. Actually, one of the guards thought he heard you talking to yourself.” She looked around suspiciously.
“Yes,” he stated in a controlled angry voice, “I make better company than most people.”
Garimeth sniffed as she came into the room followed by a pair of armed guards. “You could do with a bath,” she declared acidly.
Vaguely Tarn smelled the lingering aftermath of Regal Wise-Always.
“I didn’t sleep very well,” he complained. “Something got hold of my stomach. Maybe you can tell me what it was?”
“It was Aminus Hybrythia.” She gave the name of a rare fungus, widely known for its soporific effects. “It served its purpose, I have to admit.”
“And what purpose was that?” demanded Tarn, rising to his feet and staggering in spite of his determination to show no weakness. He clamped his jaws against a swelling wave of nausea. “Why did you knock me out? My orders were to speak to Uncle Darkend, the new thane, and I must do so right away.”
His mother’s expression remained stoic, though the two guards who held small but lethal crossbows raised their weapons fractionally. Finally the truth dawned on Tarn.
“What day is it?” he asked dully.
“You’ve slept for the last three cycles. Poor thing, you seemed to be terribly tired.”
“Then he’s visited Daerforge and gone back to his palace already?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I must go to Daerbardin and talk to him!”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Now the guards stepped fo
rward to flank his mother as she moved closer to him. “For two reasons—one of which is for your own good—though you’re probably too thick-headed to see it.”
He waited, saying nothing, numb even to the retching of his stomach and the aching in his head.
“First, you’re on a fool’s errand. Darkend Bellowsmoke has no more intention of listening to Hylar counsel than he does of taking a goat for his wife.”
“You can’t know that!” Tarn protested.
“See—too thick, like I said. But it’s true. In fact, after hearing you out, your uncle would have to kill you before letting you run back to Hybardin.”
“That is why you knocked me out for three days?” he asked sarcastically.
“Don’t tempt me to make it longer,” she warned.
“How long do you plan to hold me here?”
“I can’t have you talking to Darkend. This is not a good time for such a family reunion. And believe it or not, this is the only place you’ll be safe.”
“Why can’t I talk to Darkend? And why are you making it your business to see that I don’t?”
“He’s my brother, dearie. I’ve looked after his best interests ever since we were children together. Listen to me. What do you think Darkend has been doing since he took the throne? And why do you think he was meeting with the thanes of the Klar and Theiwar?”
“What do you mean?” Tarn’s voice was dull.
“Perhaps you’d like to have a look.”
Garimeth indicated the door. Sensing the alertness of the two guards and the arrows pointed at his back, Tarn followed her outside. They stood on one of the wide plazas of the great manor, a place with a view of the crescent of Daerforge’s waterfront and the broad swath of the sea beyond. There was a lot of activity there, columns of dark dwarves forming on the docks and collecting in the streets beyond the waterfront.