The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

Belicia drew a sharp gasp at the news, and Tarn remembered a young recruit, freshly knocked in the shins by his stern teacher.

  “What word of the thane?” asked Tarn.

  “Came through here before on the main lift shaft. He and Axel Slateshoulder were with the last group to take the lift.” The dwarf cleared his throat, shaking his head in awe.

  “What is it? What happened?” demanded Tarn.

  “The lift jammed fifty feet below. There was a bunch of them shadows crawling up after it and then the whole tunnel collapsed. Cage was pinched tight, but Baker Whitegranite held off the shadows with his sword until everyone got off. They called him a hero, those survivors. Now you can see even the lift station is buried. They had to climb up like you did. Word was they barely got away!” he concluded.

  “Let’s get to the Thane’s Atrium,” Tarn said urgently.

  “A lot of the stairways are still open,” advised the axeman. “They’ll be less crowded farther from the lift stations, I’m guessing.”

  “Hurry!” Tarn shouted for the attention of the gully dwarves, a few of whom had already wandered off. Together with about eight or ten of his original crew of Aghar, they ran along the street, dodging blocks of stone, broken timbers and beams, and a tragic number of bodies. Several stairwells were nearby, but each of these was thronged by dwarves seeking to flee upward, so they kept running, making their way into the emptier reaches on the periphery.

  “Here’s one!” Belicia cried, finally discovering an entrance to a servants’ stair in an alley behind several great houses. Kicking stones out of the way, she got the Aghar to help move a heavy beam, and finally they cleared enough space to get into the constricted passageway.

  They rushed upward, gasping for breath as they emerged onto the street again at Level Ten and made their way toward the thane’s headquarters. Even here, the avenues were filled with smoke and flame. Most were abandoned and empty. The few live Hylar they saw were running, stricken by panic, hastening to find escape still higher in the Life-Tree.

  A great smoking cave gaped in the floor of a broad intersection, clear sign that the fire dragon had bored through here as well. There was no corresponding hole above them, Tarn pointed out. “That could mean the daemon warrior and the dragon are still around here somewhere.”

  There was no immediate sign of the horrific invaders, nor was there any indication that the dark dwarf vanguard had made it this far. Nevertheless, Tarn suspected the next phase of the invasion would only be a short time in coming. Trotting despite their fatigue, they hurried toward the Thane’s Atrium which stood intact with several grim Hylar on guard outside the doors to the ceremonial chambers.

  “Is my father the thane here?” asked Tarn.

  “Aye. And he’ll be glad to see you,” replied the guard captain who stood aside to let them enter. The Aghar, meanwhile, willingly took up positions with the guards outside the atrium, though the Hylar sentries seemed less than thrilled at the these grubby reinforcements.

  Belicia and Tarn started down the wide hall at a trot, not noticing at first that Regal Everwise had tagged along. They raced toward the large office where Baker had spent most of his time. Even before they got there, two elder dwarves emerged, shouting aloud in astonishment and relief.

  “Father!” cried Belicia, stumbling into the welcoming embrace of Axel Slateshoulder. The old warrior’s eyes were shut, but they leaked streams of tears.

  “Tarn! My son, you’re alive!” Baker’s eyes were moist as well, but his features were chiseled, hardened in a way Tarn had never seen. His father’s glasses were missing, but he was alert and clearly overjoyed. “My son!” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe the evidence before him.

  Tarn clasped his father in a warm hug. “By Reorx, Father, I’m glad to see you. And I’m sorry!”

  “Me, too—but enough of that. There’s been too much sorrow.”

  “But our city … it’s dying!” Tarn declared despairingly as he broke free from his father’s embrace. He halted, dimly realizing that only days before he had been ready to turn his back on the Life-Tree and all things Hylar. How long ago had it been? He didn’t know, couldn’t even begin to reckon. If anything, the recollections seemed like a memory from another epoch.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” the thane concurred sadly. “We’re encouraging the survivors to move upward to the highest levels of the city, but I don’t know what else we can do. We could fight the dark dwarves alone—but with the army of Chaos? I fear they are too much for us.”

  “But Father, listen. I have this!” Tarn declared, pulling the Helm of Tongues from the bag. “In Daerforge I watched Mother use it to control the creature who rides the fire dragon.”

  Baker’s eyes lit up at the sight of the artifact, but then he shook his head as he looked at Tarn. “I don’t think so, not with this. At most, the creature was toying with her, perhaps attracted by the magic of the artifact. No, no. She could perhaps communicate, but never control. But tell me, what did you see?”

  Tarn described the scene he had observed on the balcony of Garimeth’s Daerforge manor house. “I swear the daemon bowed to her! And after that he left them alone, unharmed, and then flew away when Mother gestured with her hand.”

  “I see why you would think it was influenced by Garimeth, but that story doesn’t shake my certainty that such a daemon creature would never allow itself to be controlled by a mortal being. These dark and shadowy manifestations come from Chaos, we know that now. And Chaos cannot be commanded or disciplined. I’m afraid this daemon creature was merely having fun at Garimeth’s expense and doing just what it intended all along.”

  “Then you can’t use it to stop the attack?”

  Sighing, Baker shook his head. “Certainly not.” He brightened again almost immediately. “However, there is something that it might be able to do to help!”

  “What?”

  “Come here, my son. I have something to show you!” urged Baker, his tone surprisingly enthusiastic.

  Inside the Thane’s Atrium there was a litter of scroll tubes and parchment, scrolls that had been tossed and thrown everywhere around the large room. Tarn was startled, recognizing these as the treasures that his father had valued above all others. And now some of them were torn while others lay unnoticed on the floor.

  Absently Tarn took note of the wall beyond that had once displayed an array of great artifacts and weaponry from Hylar history. Now that surface had been picked clean of all the blades except for a single, long-hafted battle axe; undoubtedly the other weapons had gone toward the city’s desperate defense.

  The great stone chair, the throne of the Hylar thane, sat like a useless weight next to the wall. The seat was buried in scrolls and parchments, documents piled haphazardly there as everywhere else in the room.

  “Remember something I told you, Son? You know the legend, that some portion of the Graygem’s power was imprisoned in a platinum dragon egg and left in the Grotto?”

  “Yes.” Tarn remembered something about that, though he had dismissed it as part of his father’s impractical daydreaming.

  “This is the next part!” Baker was saying, waving one of the sheets of parchment. “These are the oldest of Chisel Loremaster’s scrolls. And you can see there is arcane script right here!”

  “Yes, but again I ask: what does that mean?” asked Tarn.

  “The Grotto, my boy! The Grotto!” explained the thane as if it was the happiest discovery in the world. He indicated a small circle on the page, a roundel that was marked with a small dash at the bottom. “This is the symbol right here. I just translated it!”

  Tarn felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. He physically forced down the urge to take his father by the shoulders, to shake some practical sense into him. Instead, the son merely nodded sadly, wondering what possible usefulness his father saw in the ancient cavern—especially now, in the midst of this historic crisis, even if it was true that finally he had found a way to locate it.

&n
bsp; “I’ve been wrestling with the rest of the translation for too long; it’s beyond my poor talents. Now, with the Helm, I’ll be able to read it.”

  “I suppose you will,” Tarn answered absently. He felt completely, utterly defeated. There would be no help from the artifact, no help from any source.

  Baker pulled the Helm of Tongues over his head and picked up the ivory scroll tube. He squinted, then beamed excitedly.

  “Yes! Yes! I was right! It’s here—the key to the Grotto! I know what it means! And what’s more, I know how to find it!”

  Bloodcurdling shrieks pierced the air from outside the throne room. The thick stone of the floor shuddered underfoot, trembling repeatedly from the thud of great weight. The chamber was rocked by a savage roar, a sound of physical force that battered Tarn’s eardrums and nearly drove him to his knees. The thunderous bellow was followed by the sound of a powerful crash. Dust and plaster broke from the ceiling to shower across the throne room.

  Abruptly a crack shot through the great wall and pieces of stone tumbled free, toppling onto the sturdy floor. Another part of the wall started to lean inward, sending the dwarves scrambling toward the far side of the chamber. As more of the barrier broke down, Tarn caught sight of a black body, eyes of fiery crimson that transfixed him through the smoke and the dust. An obsidian fist pummeled the stones, smashing a wide opening. The figure of the daemon warrior, surprisingly manlike in its purposeful stride, advanced into the room. The black head tilted back, and the mouth uttered a roar of bizarre laughter.

  Axel was already moving, broadsword raised in both of his hands. He swung the weapon at the daemon warrior’s chest, but the fell creature grabbed the blade and, with a wrenching twist, snapped it like a toy. A casual backhand slap sent the venerable warrior tumbling across the floor. Again came that horribly incongruous laugh.

  Then the figure changed, shifting and growing before the dwarves’ astonished eyes. The daemon rose into a great shape, a huge shadowy form that writhed at the edge of the throne room. Two Hylar guards charged through the hole in the wall, trying to attack it from behind, but the creature merely leaned down and tore them apart as casually as if it had been rending a piece of parchment.

  Now the beast of Chaos loomed above their heads, fleshless jaws gaping to reveal teeth the size of knife blades. Wings bare of skin or any other membrane spread wide, supported by bones of stark white. Skeletal ribs outlined a massive body, and strips of rotted flesh draped those bones in a gory bunting. The monster had massive talons, great fangs, and all these instruments of death were crimson with Hylar blood.

  “Try the helm!” shouted Tarn, turning to see that Baker still wore the artifact. “At least see if you can make it respond!”

  “Halt!” cried the thane, his tone bold and full of command.

  But the monster took a few steps forward and reached for Baker Whitegranite with talons of sharp bone. The thane stood still, his face white, teeth clenched as if fending off an onslaught of great pain. Tarn grabbed his father and frantically pulled him behind the throne as the monster’s claws slashed through the air where Baker had been standing.

  Baker gasped in agony as he tore the bronze helmet off of his head. With a groan, he clapped a hand to his sweaty forehead. “That thing was in my mind searching, trying to destroy. It would have killed me!”

  Tarn drew the silver sword he had taken from the assassin, feeling as though the weapon was no more than a toothpick in his hand.

  “Get out of here! All of you, flee!” cried Axel, pushing Belicia out the door. He grabbed Baker, who was still clutching the scroll and the helmet, and shoved him too. “Use what you learned! You’ll know what to do!”

  The monster roared, fetid breath reeking like death through the vast chamber. The taloned foot set down heavily, and the floor shook as if under the compression of a monstrous weight.

  Tarn, sword in his hand, ran to Axel’s side as the older warrior pulled the huge axe down from the wall. The elder’s face had a martial gleam, a gleeful battle-fury brightening his eyes. He pushed his horned helmet down tightly onto his scalp, raised the long weapon, and all but growled at the hideous creature.

  “I’ll try to distract it, draw its attention over here!” shouted the half-breed. “You can get after it from behind!”

  With another roar, the monster advanced a step closer. Dust rose in clouds from the floor as the thunderous crash of its footstep caused cracks to shoot through the walls and spiderweb up the walls. The beast took another step and a beam across the ceiling cracked, bending downward with a piercing shriek.

  “No!” cried Axel, staring at Tarn, his face crazily distorted. The great axe, taller by far than the Hylar warrior, gleamed brightly in his hands. “You stay with my daughter and your father! They will need you!”

  “But—”

  “Do it!” snarled the elder in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Tarn backed to the door, as Axel, with the massive axe in his hands, advanced to battle the beast of Chaos. Again it bellowed, darting forward, then pausing.

  The axe swung through the air, a dazzling display of silvery light.

  And then the roars of the beast rose to a stone-shaking crescendo, echoing in Tarn’s ears as he urged Baker, Belicia, and Regal to go and go fast.

  To Highest Hybardin

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Belicia and Baker halted in horror as soon as they burst through the outer gates of the thane’s quarters. Tarn and Regal, hurrying after, bumped into the pair and then they, too, froze in shock and grief.

  Where they had left the guards outside they saw only a mess of blood and scattered lumps of debris. With a groan of horrified dismay, Tarn realized that these lumps were the remains of dwarves, torn and rent by a force almost beyond comprehension. He saw the upper half of the captain of the guard, the brave Hylar’s eyes glazed but wide open, his teeth clenched and sword grasped in the lifeless fingers of his hands.

  “This was Capper Whetstone,” said Baker, kneeling and reverently closing the sightlessly staring eyes.

  Even the Aghar had been mauled. Regal sniffed loudly as he looked at the remains of his companions. All the gully dwarves who had stayed here with the Hylar guards had been reduced to ragged bundles, bloody and still.

  A savage roar emanated from the throne room, and more crashes shook the air. Through the din they heard the battle cry of a charging Hylar and knew that Axel Slateshoulders still fought.

  Belicia looked back toward the throne room. “You go ahead,” she said quietly. “I’ll catch up.”

  Tarn gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Come with us now,” he said softly. “There’s nothing more to be done for him and every second is precious. You know that’s what he wanted.”

  Shaking her head, tears streaming from her eyes, Belicia nevertheless followed his suggestion. The four of them fled the carnage, jogging down the street. Now even the fleeing dwarves were gone, leaving Level Ten with the air of a long abandoned ruin. In fact, to all appearances the place was utterly deserted of living inhabitants. Limp corpses lay like rag dolls in the street. The route of the great fire dragon was a clear path of melted rock, shattered gardens, and gory pieces of bodies.

  Tarn started toward one of the main stairwells connecting this level to those above and below, but a block away from the place they heard shouts of barking dark dwarf sergeants and the sounds of many tramping bootsteps.

  “Daergar!” hissed the half-breed in warning. “They’re coming this way!”

  “The dark dwarves are this high already?” Belicia asked in despair.

  The party scuttled around a corner, crouching in the shadows as they watched rank after rank of their enemies charge through the streets. Some of the Daergar moved into a nearby stairwell and continued the upward charge through the Life-Tree.

  “We have to find a better route so we can go all the way up to Level Twenty-eight,” Baker said. “That’s where we have to go. It’s what I learned from the writing on t
he scroll!”

  “You think one more clue is going to lead you to the Grotto?” Tarn asked, trying to contain his exasperation.

  “I know it will,” his father replied.

  “And then what?” The younger dwarf’s patience was frayed beyond reason. “What will we do besides see it once before it is destroyed?”

  “Trust me. There is hope, there. Our only hope.”

  Tarn bit his tongue. He didn’t see how finding the ancient lair of the good dragons was going to have any practical effect. Still, his own instincts suggested that they needed to climb. If this faerie quest gave his father motivation to attempt an ascent involving thousands of steep steps, then that was good enough for Tarn.

  They darted down a side street and ran along a darkened, narrow byway. The buildings to either side were empty, dark, and abandoned though they hadn’t yet been ransacked or destroyed.

  Still moving at a fast trot, Tarn found himself in a section that was unfamiliar to him. The roads were narrow and winding here, with tiny alleys connecting blocks of buildings in unpredictable ways. Houses were small, with entries that were low and rounded, almost like burrows.

  “Look! Aghar tunnels!” Regal cried in sudden delight.

  “Come to think of it, there always were a lot of gully dwarves in this part of town,” Baker noted.

  “Where are they now?” Tarn asked. The alleys and slumlike dwellings seemed as empty and abandoned as every other part of this level. He hoped that, like the Hylar, the gully dwarves had the good sense to keep on climbing.

  “Who cares?” Regal asked. “They got lotsa tunnels. We find a way up.”

  “Where? Show us the way!” said Baker, with a surprising amount of eagerness.

  “Smells like people go this way,” Regal declared cheerily, dropping to his hands and knees and crawling into a low hole in the side of the wall. “Goes up, too!” he called back as his feet disappeared from sight.

  “Do you think you can make it?” Tarn asked his father, noticing for the first time the signs of Baker’s age, the bleary eyes, the lines of fatigue and grief etched into the elder dwarf’s face. Tarn questioned the wisdom of taking a tunnel used by gully dwarves. He didn’t know if there was any way that Baker Whitegranite would have the strength and endurance to get through a constricted, steeply climbing passage.