by Doug Niles
The bay, Tarn saw immediately, was thick with boats. A great, metal-hulled flotilla was in the process of boarding and gathering at the dockside of Daerforge. The scene bristled with armed Daergar. This was the embarkation of an army that could only have one goal, one destination.
Tarn’s eyes rose to the spire of illuminated rock in the middle of the subterranean sea. Hybardin stood out like a beacon from the murk of the underworld, torches and lanterns and bonfires lighting the pillar like an outline of distant stars. Specks of illumination reflected in the black stillness of the water. It was his imagination to be sure, but Tarn heard the banter of the dockyard markets, the tapping of kegs, and the searing of grilled meats—all against the backdrop of cheerful Hylar society. He suddenly realized that he missed home very much.
And he wondered if he would ever see it again.
“The Klar? The Theiwar, too? It’s a general attack?” he asked, masking his rising panic by the cool disinterest of his voice. He was terribly afraid. All he could think about was Belicia Felixia and her newly-trained company of novices.
“Yes. The Theiwar shall come by boat from the other side of the sea and the Klar are taking the tunnels of the high route. With any luck, they’ll be charging into that nest of grand dames and doddering old fools on Level Twenty-eight before the Hylar even know the attack is underway.”
Tarn knew the passages she meant. The great homes of the nobles were on the highest of Hybardin’s levels. Many of these had access to passages bored through the great dome of rock that arched over the sea. During the thousands of years Thorbardin had been inhabited, these tunnels had been expanded into a network of passages that could be used to connect Hybardin to virtually any other part of the great dwarf kingdom. Since they granted no access to the outside world, however, they had only peripherally been considered by those who planned for the Life-Tree’s defense.
Level Twenty-eight was where Baker Whitegranite’s house was, where his mother had lived for decades. The people who lived there now had been his mother’s neighbors, her peers, and her companions since before Tarn had been born. He felt a wave of revulsion now at the thought that she could discuss their impending doom with such coldness. At the same time, he sensed that it was important not to let her see his true reaction.
“And Darkend organized this whole attack in the last few days?” he pressed.
“Actually, he’s been planning it for some months. Since before he became thane, actually. My brother’s a very good planner—not a dull, plodding scholar like your father. Darkend was waiting for a certain piece of news. When he got it, he was ready to move.”
“Word about Thane Hornfel and the Hylar army!” Tarn’s eyes tightened on his mother’s face. He spoke heatedly in spite of his earlier resolve for discretion. “And you brought word from your own husband. You betrayed my father, the thane, the whole city.”
“If you don’t think the Hylar deserve it, then you’ve been sleepwalking through life,” she retorted sharply. “For too many centuries the smug Hylar have been lords of Thorbardin, and the time for their arrogant rule has passed.”
But Tarn’s mind was following other paths. “Planned for months, while Darkend was waiting for word.… Then you have been part of this conspiracy all that time. And your divorcing my father had nothing to do with him?”
“It had everything to do with him. But I learned of my brother’s ambitions and bided my time until my departure could serve a dual purpose.”
“And the Helm of Tongues—did you take it just as father claims?”
“Of course,” his mother snapped in exasperation. “The artifact has use to me. Indeed, I have in mind far more practical applications than your father’s esoteric research. You might say that it is a key to part of my own little plan.”
Tarn wanted to ask other questions, to probe farther into his mother’s schemes. For a moment he considered challenging her, but he lacked the will. He was surprised to realize that Garimeth actually frightened him a little. Instinctively he took a step backward.
“What do you intend to do with me?” he asked. Once again he was suddenly very aware of his dry mouth, of the ache that had settled from his skull to permeate his entire body. His stomach was unsteady, but he now knew it was hunger. “Can I have something to eat and drink?”
“Of course. I have no wish to punish you. After all, you’re my son. But of course, I can’t let you go just yet. You’re also your father’s son, and that part of you will be in a hurry to get back to Hybardin. And as I have said, I cannot allow that.”
The guards ushered him back to his room, where Tarn was relieved to note that the wardrobe door was shut. The two bowmen stood watch until, a few minutes later, Karc brought a pitcher of cold water, another pitcher of beer, and a variety of bread, cheeses, and fungi.
“Thanks, old dwarf,” Tarn said affectionately. “I don’t suppose this beer came from that special batch, did it?”
“I really must apologize for the deception, Master Tarn,” the venerable attendent said with apparent sincerity. “And no, you will find this repast quite untainted. As long as you must be detained, I shall do what I can to make the time pass pleasantly.”
Karc and the guards departed. Tarn heard the door locked securely after it had closed behind them. He stood and listened carefully for several moments, certain that he heard three pairs of footsteps walk away.
Only after another full minute had passed did he cross to the wardrobe and pull open the thin door. He was determined to vigorously question Regal Wise-Always. Instead, he was startled to find himself staring into a small, empty closet. The back wall was the stone of the room’s outer wall, and when he knocked on the surface there was none of the resonance that might have indicated a concealed passage.
Unsettled, he closed the door, then checked the other wardrobes. He was certain this was the one Regal had used for his escape. At first Tarn had assumed the gully dwarf knew a hiding place, but now he was certain that the Aghar used some secret path into his mother’s house. And not just her house, but the very room where he was imprisoned.
And, Tarn figured, any way into the house was likely to work equally well as a way out.
Unless he had imagined the whole encounter. After all, his mind was still clouded by toxic fungus, and hadn’t the guards said they heard him talking to himself?
He settled down to eat and drink, and for a time he was able to forget about everything except sating his hunger and thirst. He gulped down the whole pitcher of water, and half the beer. After many slices of thick, flavored bread, he began to feel better.
That was when his mind starting asking questions and making insinuations—even accusations. First of all, he saw that Axel Slateshoulders had been right and that he, Tarn, had been wrong. It was a mistake to want to inform the dark dwarves of the Hylar misfortune. Indeed, the matter of Hornfel’s predicament and the threat of the Chaos storms had seemed utterly irrelevant to his mother, except insofar as it kept the Hylar army away and opened up the possibility of dark dwarf treachery.
This led him to his next thought: his own gullibility had led him to remove himself from any place where he could do any good. He couldn’t help his father, and worst of all, the Daegar plot put Belicia Felixia Slateshoulders in grave danger.
Tarn leaped to his feet and stomped across the room to the door. He pulled at it, straining his shoulders in a futile attempt to bend the heavy bar. He fiddled with the latch, but he could see immediately that it was a steel lock that would only answer to the proper key. Finally he banged on the panel with his bare fist, demanding that someone come and let him out. Soon enough, growling in frustration, he ceased his clamor. He wasn’t naïve enough to think such a disturbance would have any chance of aiding in his release. It might, on the other hand, bring about some treatment that was sure to be punitive.
He sat down on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. Never had he felt such loathing for himself. He told himself if he had possesse
d a weapon he would have been sorely tempted to drive it into his own breast.
“Great Reorx!” he moaned, turning and smashing his fist into the stone wall. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Reorx doin’ nuthin, far as I can see.”
Tarn leaped to his feet and whirled around, astonished to see the gully dwarf standing on the other side of his bed. “Regal! You’re back!”
“Regal Everwise, in person,” he said with a little bow.
“Wasn’t your name Wise-Always?” Tarn asked, delighted beyond reason at the little fellow’s return.
“What difference? Got some beer left?” The Aghar wandered over to the table and began to snatch up Tarn’s leftovers. Many bits of bread and mushroom were popped into his mouth and pockets in random order.
“Help yourself,” said Tarn, indicating the pitcher.
But Regal was already drinking. Equal amounts of beer seemed to be going down the Aghar’s throat and drippling down his sparsely bearded chin onto his clothing.
Meanwhile, Tarn looked at the wardrobe and saw that the door he had left closed now stood ajar. He felt a giddy measure of relief at this sight and grinned at Regal as the gully dwarf smacked his lips and began to lick off the platter upon which Tarn had been served his meal.
“I though you told me this was Agharhome,” he declared genially. “But I happen to know for a fact that it’s one of the finest houses in Daerforge.”
“Yep.” Regal barely looked up as he finished the platter and set to licking off the table. “Dark dwarves built lots of houses in Agharhome. ’Course, we Aghar gotta hide lotsa times, or they bash us.”
Tarn felt a flush of shame at his own childhood memories. At the same time he couldn’t help wondering, “You mean you live in these same houses and we—that is, the Daergar—don’t even know it?”
“This part of Agharhome kinda nice, but we gotta be quiet. Sometimes hide.”
“I guess so.” Remembering childhood stories of fairies and other spirits that were often blamed for strange occurrences in his mother’s house, Tarn suddenly had no doubt of the truth of Regal’s assertions. “But then why did you let me see you?”
“You not smell like wunna them dark dwarves. You different.”
Tarn was startled, and a little embarassed at the notion that there was a difference between Hylar and Daergar that a crude creature like this could actually smell.
“But tell me, Regal, how do you get to other parts of Agharbardin from here? And where did you go when those other dwarves came in?”
With Tarn following, the gully dwarf crossed to the wardrobe. He reached down and pushed on a corner of the flagstone forming the closet floor. Tarn was amazed to see the whole surface pivot easily to the side. He reached down, found the trapdoor to be plaster instead of stone. Beneath the door was a narrow shaft in the floor with a single-post ladder leaning against the rim. Tarn wondered if the ladder would hold him, but also knew he really didn’t care. He was determined to get out.
“Did gully dwarves build this?” he wondered.
“We get some help sometimes. But you be surprised, you see what one clever fella like Regal Allatimesmart can do.”
“Will you give me a tour, show me some of the rest of your city?” Tarn asked, picking up his boots and quickly lacing them onto his feet.
Regal looked around the room and shrugged. “No food left. No beer either. Sure, we take a walk.”
Tarn went first, finding that the ladder could hold his weight. In another moment Regal was closing the concealed trapdoor over their heads.
Incursion of Madness
Chapter Eleven
The Hylar thane stiffened in his chair, his entire body quivering with excitement. However, Baker Whitegranite avoided touching the ancient parchment that was so carefully laid upon his desk. He knew that the slightest disturbance might be enough to crumble the sheet into dust—a crime of cosmic proportions. He had finally begun to understand that here, at last, he had stumbled upon the treasure he had been seeking his entire life.
He took the time to carefully polish his spectacles, drawing a deep breath and telling his heart to be still. Without the helm it had taken him a whole hour to translate a brief passage, but he had just checked his work and felt certain he was right.
Turning back to the passage scribed in Chisel Loremaster’s precise and unmistakeable hand, Baker read it again:
At first the young serpents emerged from the Grotto hesitantly, two or three at a time. They would perch at the edge of the precipice and stare into the eternal blackness over the distant sea, wings buzzing with an audible hum. And it was a vast space before them, for we were near the “summit” of the great, inverted mountain. The water was a long way down. Also, the mouth of the cavern faced in the precise direction where the cavern wall lay at its farthest extent from the pillar.
It was the most concrete evidence yet that the ancient lair of the good dragons had lain high on the southwest wall—actually, just west of southwest. Baker’s earlier investigations included a detailed survey of the area. In fact, he had been so certain of his hypothesis that he had chosen to have his own house located here, in this quarter of Level Twenty-eight. But now he had real confirmation!
If only he could afford the time for further study. He looked at the scrolls piled at the edge of his desk, and knew that each one might yield a revelation as encouraging as the last one. But even now he knew these moments of scholarly inquiry were a luxury he could not afford.
In truth, he probably should have been in the Thane’s Atrium right now. With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and rose. Clumping wearily over to the table, he tried to focus on some materials and information related to his duties as thane.
A messenger, his words duly conveyed to the palace scribe, had come from Belicia Felixia Slateshoulders. Her report told of mercantile interests on the waterfront that were resisting her efforts to make preparations. Next she had presented a plan for defense of the dockside in the event of a waterborne attack by some fractious clan of dark dwarves. Hence, Baker saw the merchants’ objection. Belicia had stated that her small company could not hold the docks against any major attack. They would inevitably be outflanked and destroyed after a short and futile fight.
As an alternative she proposed to form a line of defense at the bottlenecks connecting the waterfront on Level One with the great trading plaza of Level Two. Four stout shield-walls could hold the broad stairways leading up from the dockside to the interior of the Life-Tree. With these steps blocked, Belicia was confidant that she could hold out for a long time against a force much larger than her own.
Beside the military report was a stack of letters from those same merchants. The diatribe from Hoist Backwrench, a prominent shipper, was typical. He complained that this young Hylar captain of the guard had ordered him to move the bulk of his stock up to the second level. He protested that such a demand far exceeded Belicia’s authority and that, furthermore, it placed an intolerable burden on his ability to compete with his rivals.
Vale interrupted the Thane to announce that another messenger had arrived from the Thane’s Atrium.
A young scribe, his beard short but bristling outward well beyond his ears, hurried in with a parchment. Baker felt a guilty sense of relief that the youngster had caught him here at his worktable instead of perusing musty scrolls at his desk.
“My Lord Thane,” he said breathlessly, “this request from the Mercenaries Guild asks you to release weapons from the royal armory. They pledge to bring you two hundred sword arms.”
“A good offer to be sure, but I thought all the guildhands went with Thane Hornfel,” Baker inquired, perplexedly. He was unwilling to put too much hope into the prospect of additional forces from this unlikely source. “I know he put out a summons to all the mercenary companies.”
“Er …” The scribe hesitated awkwardly. “I had a word with the guildman who delivered the note. It seems that these two hundred were unable to meet the requirement
s. The fact is, many of them are lame. Others are blind, or have lost an arm or a tongue. Still, the man said they were all willing to fight on behalf of the Life-Tree if needed.”
“And what of this man who brought the word from the guild? Did he have a name? What was he like?”
“He seemed hale enough—if perhaps a bit on the gray side of middle age. His name was Broadaxe, as I recall.”
“Very well.” Baker signed the request, authorizing the Hylar armory—which doubled as the royal treasury—to issue enough swords, shields, and assorted elements of armor to outfit a company of as many Mercenary Guild recruits as would present themselves.
“Can you send word about this to Axel Slateshoulders?” he asked the scribe.
“Of course, my Lord Thane.”
The young dwarf left. Baker wasn’t yet ready to turn to the next paper, a requisition for some new dirtmoss that was needed to augment the water gardens on Level Twenty-two. He was suddenly startled by the sounds of a large crash. The thunder of rock and gravel suggested a cave in. Running from his study, he found Vale throwing open the door to the garden. The normally moist, cool air was thick with dust. Baker was stunned to see that a small section of the ceiling had tumbled down to reveal a dark passageway leading into the mountain.
“Here, you—stop that!” Vale darted into the garden, accosting a dwarf who had apparently dropped from the newly-created opening.
Baker caught a glimpse of wild eyes and a bristling, wiry beard. Then the newcomer whooped and thrust with a short sword. Vale gasped and tumbled backward into Baker’s arms, as more dwarves dropped from the tunnel into the garden.
The thane pulled his loyal servant back through the door and slammed the portal shut, dropping the heavy bar. He saw that Vale’s chest was covered with blood as he vaguely heard the strange dwarves shouting to each other in a bizarre sing-song. In seconds the sounds faded, and he knew they had charged out the garden gate onto the street.