The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  In her mind was a thought. Perhaps Tarn had brought the helm here and delivered it to Baker. She could try to reason with her son. Surely Tarn would understand why she needed it so badly!

  She went to the large wooden door, but found it locked. No one answered in response to her violent pounding, so Darkend ordered several of his warriors to smash in the portal. Soon the party entered the house, kicking through the debris left by the broken door and stalking through the hallways and rooms beyond.

  “There’s no one here,” Garimeth said anxiously.

  She started down a hallway but halted abruptly as they heard a deep growling outside the house. They hastened back to the doorway, looking out to see a haze of fire roaring through the street.

  “Primus!” she cried, as the fire dragon halted before them, furling his flaming wings.

  A tall, dark form stalked forward, emerging from the bright background to loom before the two Daergar. The daemon warrior’s eyes glowed, sparks of impersonal fire that flickered from one dark dwarf to the other.

  “Zarak Thuul! We have found you!” cried Darkend triumphantly. He turned importantly to his sister. “Tell our great servant—our friend—that the attack is finished and we are very grateful for his help. But tell him he must wait, must hold any further attack until my dwarves have had a chance to consolidate our occupation.”

  “Please accept our humble gratitude,” she began, looking into those feral eyes of fire, seeking some hint of the previous pleasures that had flickered there before. “And please know me, remember me, hear me, all-powerful one.”

  “Of course I hear you. I have always heard you. But I see you now with different eyes, and I think that you no longer entertain me.” The daemon warrior’s reply had come in perfect mountain dwarven, right down to the tone of insolent contempt.

  “Zarak Thuul, look at me, know me!” Garimeth protested, throwing herself on the ground before the monstrous black being and reaching out her hands. She dared to touch the massive, taloned feet. “Please, grant me your favor once more.”

  “I shall do one thing for you, dwarf woman. Rise.”

  Slowly, tremulously, she lifted herself to her knees, then stood staring upward at the immaculate beauty of his dark form. She thrilled as those fiery eyes dropped to regard her, shivered as that consuming gaze once again washed over her flesh.

  “I am yours, mighty lord!” she cried, throwing her arms wide, offering herself willingly to this creature of Chaos.

  “It pleases me to touch you again, to give you the stroke of my greatness.” Zarak Thuul flicked a great claw, slicing into Garimeth’s neck.

  “I don’t understand!” she cried, stumbling back, recoiling more from disappointment than from the force of the blow. Her vision blurred, light swam before her eyes, and she looked down in disbelief, watching as her lifeblood spilled into the street before Baker Whitegranite’s house.

  Interlude of Chaos

  What did I ever see in that insect? Zarak Thuul was angry at the dwarfwoman and angry at himself for allowing himself to be deceived, to think that she was something mightier than she really had been. Without that strange helmet, she was pathetic—a silly mortal like all the rest.

  Then Zarak Thuul threw back his head and laughed, knowing the deception didn’t matter, that nothing mattered. And now it was time to finish this dwarven city and proceed to all the other cities of Thorbardin, to reduce them to rubble.

  In truth, the female had been an interesting diversion, nothing more. She had intrigued him for a time, and it had pleased him to do the work that she desired. Something about her had touched him briefly, but that was gone. Instead, she had been proved feeble, just as utterly useless as any other mortal.

  And now his power would be truly unleashed. This realm of dwarves would suffer as it had never suffered before. There was much for him to do, and he would continue until all this realm of shadow was reduced to a place of death, horror, chaos.

  The Grotto

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “It feels like solid rock.” Tarn said, stepping back from the wall with the hilt of his sword still humming in his hand. “There’s no hollow sound.”

  “Get a hammer,” his father said without hesitation. “This is the place where the waters of the light garden are born. I ought to know that well enough!”

  “What does that mean?” asked the son, still unsure of Baker Whitegranite’s intentions.

  “The words on the scroll told me to seek the Grotto where the waters of light were born! It’s the fountain in my own garden! Don’t you see?”

  Tarn saw the connection, though he still wondered how they could break through such a thick wall of stone. Still, the half-breed went down to the cellar hallway and into his father’s small smithy—a standard fixture in most dwarf homes. In seconds he returned with a large hammer.

  A solid swing smashed into the stone wall and Tarn—who had braced himself for the recoil—nearly tumbled forward as the hammer punched right through. Pulling it back, he pounded several more times, quickly opening a hole big enough for a dwarf’s head.

  “Keep going,” Baker urged quietly. “Make it big enough that we can crawl through and get in there.”

  In another minute Tarn had worked up a sheen of sweat and the hole leading into darkness was roughly three feet in diameter. Stale air wafted out, and he speculated that this was a chamber that hadn’t been opened to the outside for many thousands of years.

  Baker was eager to advance, ducking and pushing his way through the opening to land with an “oof.” In moments Tarn, Belica, and Regal had followed. They found themselves perched atop a slope of rubble at the base of the wall in a suprisingly large chamber. They scrambled down to join the thane on the floor. Tarn looked up to see a ceiling, studded with jagged stalactites, that arched high over their heads.

  “It was here that it began thousands and thousands of years ago.”

  Baker spoke softly, his eyes bright with emotion. The thane of the Hylar looked around slowly, reverently, as he paced the circumference of the circular cavern. Tarn was vaguely aware of soft light, and he realized that a glow was emanating from the top of a mound near the chamber’s center.

  “The good dragons were here in the Age of Dreams. Here they hatched and grew and learned from Chisel Loremaster.”

  “Wait,” Tarn interrupted. “Chisel was a dwarf, you said. And there were no dwarves during the Age of Dreams, were there?”

  But his father wasn’t listening. Instead, he bustled around exclaiming about this, whistling in amazement as he searched the chamber.

  To Tarn, except for the gentle illumination, the cave looked unremarkable, an ordinary hollow in the limestone rock that probably had been forged by water. Once it had been slick with moisture. Perhaps this dusty rock had once been crystalline and bright, but now it was old and mummified—dead.

  “It’s odd to think that it was under your house all along,” Belicia observed.

  “Not really,” Baker replied. “In fact, I’ve long deduced that it was somewhere around here. That’s one reason I chose to live in this quarter of Level Twenty-eight. And yet we never would have suspected where exactly. I believe there is a reason Reorx has revealed this to me now.”

  “Why didn’t the wall sound hollow?” Tarn wondered.

  “I assume that’s part of the ancient protection of this place: a magical enchantment. This was once the lair of wondrous dragons, you know—great beasts of powerful magic and even a scion. It was sealed so that it wouldn’t be discovered until the right time—until now.”

  Tarn looked skeptical. He still wondered what use this place could be now, but his father was too moved for him to interrupt. For Baker Whitegranite, this was the culmination of a lifetime’s searching.

  Instead, it was Regal who spoke up. “What’s this stuff about a scion?”

  Baker smiled. “All wise, he was, the recorder of our dwarven lore. The records call him Chisel Loremaster. He wrote the greatest histories of o
ur race. But I have a theory: I don’t think he was a dwarf. No. I believe he was one of the ageless wise ones of the sort that have ever lurked around the fringes of Krynn’s history.”

  “Uh-huh. No doubt,” Regal replied modestly. “Though I prefer to think of him as ‘Ever Wise.’ ”

  “Wait. Regal?” Tarn asked, alerted to a sudden change in the gully dwarf’s manner. All of a sudden the Aghar didn’t look so filthy, so plump, nor so ill-mannered. All of a sudden, he looked solemn, and maybe even wise. “Hey, what’s happening?”

  “Huh?” Regal asked, picking his nose. “To me?”

  “It’s you! The chronicler of the dwarves!” gasped Baker. “You’re Chisel Loremaster!”

  “Again, correct,” replied the diminutive Regal, who suddenly transformed into clothes that, if not fine, were at least well cut, nicely adorned, and neatly maintained.

  “The honor of this moment … I can’t explain.” The thane tried to speak, but Regal made a deprecating gesture with his hand. Tarn looked on with mouth agape.

  “However, there is a job to do, if you are ready,” the gully dwarf scion said.

  “Yes, of course. The egg. Now, let’s see. This was the nest—it must have been,” Baker said, suddenly animated as he moved toward the large mound in the center of the large cavern. The white light was rising from an unseen source atop this domed shape. Tarn and Belicia followed, a little dazed.

  “The young dragons were born in there?” asked Tarn, his head still whirling. Scions were beings of legend. In fact, most inhabitants of Krynn had never heard of the ancient race.

  “Yes. Darlantan, Aurican—all their nestmates,” Regal—or Chisel—explained. “And I happen to know that they left behind a single, significant artifact.”

  Tarn, Baker, and Belicia scrambled up the sides of the nest. Tarn saw that, despite the coating of dust and dirt, the nest was actually woven of metal wire. He cut himself on a sharp rock that was embedded in the metallic surface and was startled to see the facets of a huge ruby. All over the nest was studded with these fine jewels. But he didn’t stop to explore, instead he climbed higher until he could join the others in looking into the bowl-shaped basket from the top.

  The object inside was spherical, larger than a dragon egg. It glowed and was covered with a sheen of pale silver-platinum.

  “The Platinum Egg,” said Regal solemnly. “Or The Silver Dragon Sphere. Whichever. Very powerful. Very dangerous.”

  “Father, what do we do now?” Tarn asked nervously.

  Baker turned to his son and there were tears in the elder dwarf’s eyes, a curious mixture of elation and sadness pouring from his face.

  “Now that we have located the Grotto, found the Platinum Egg? And now that you have seen it too? My son, it’s time for you and Belicia to go. I will stay here, for there remains only one thing for me to do.”

  “We’ve all got to go!” Tarn insisted.

  “No. I’m afraid there’s no time to explain. Now, you and Belicia must find your way into the ceiling above Level Twenty-eight, find one of the tunnels the Klar used when they attacked us here.”

  “Yes, but you—”

  “No!” The thane spoke sternly. “This is one time you must obey me!”

  Helplessly, Tarn looked at Regal.

  “Your father is right,” declared his diminutive companion. “It is written: the power of the Grotto will awaken when a true ruler of the dwarves takes the Platinum Egg in hand. And Baker understands—he has proven himself a fine leader and warrior, but he is also a great scholar. This is the power of the Graygem, the power that gave birth to Chaos.”

  “The true ruler of dwarves is me!” declared Darkend Bellowsmoke as he emerged from the hole in the wall. Several Daergar followed close behind him. The thane wore his black armor with the tusks jutting from his face plate and held a wickedly spiked mace in his gloved hands. Fierce and warlike, he glared around the sacred chamber. “You made a lot of racket with your pounding,” he sneered. “Don’t you know there are enemies nearby?”

  More Daergar spilled into the Grotto, and now they stood in a line along the far wall. Several had crossbows, and these were held unwaveringly upon the four dwarves in the center of the cavern.

  “Take aim,” said Darkend Bellowsmoke. The thane of the Daergar spoke to his victims calmly. “Now, do you wish to die quickly, or would you prefer to writhe in excess pain?”

  He advanced toward the nest. “A platinum egg of great power for the true ruler of the dwarves?” Darkend all but cackled. “Perfect timing! I will take the egg, and my conquest shall be redeemed!”

  War’s End

  Chapter Thirty

  Tarn tensed, ready to make a leap at Darkend, but Belicia’s hand on his arm restrained him. The thane of the dark dwarves scrambled into the nest while Baker and Regal stood helpless off to the side.

  “This is a bauble of some size. But what are its hidden powers? Let me see.”

  Darkend siezed the egg and then screamed in such agony that the others fell back as a sudden light pulsed brightly from within his body. Darkend flopped and gasped, pulled and twisted, doing every thing he could to break his grip on the Platinum Egg, but he seemed glued to the stone. His hair stood on end; his mouth worked noiselessly. No sound emerged, but a beam of white, pure light suddenly flashed from the depths of his mortal coil.

  The others could only watch as his skin began to burn. He screamed in unspeakable agony for minutes.

  The Daergar warriors didn’t wait to see the end. Every one of them fled back through the hole in the wall of the Grotto, running without a backward glance. Finally Darkend simply shimmered and burst, his armor, mace, and body all vanishing without a trace.

  “A false leader of dwarves, that one,” Regal murmured dryly, after a long silence.

  “Perhaps I should give it a try,” Baker said, tentatively stepping around the residue of ashes that was all that was left of his rival.

  “Father, don’t! You saw what happened!” Tarn said.

  “Listen to me, my son. I must try. And you must do as I commanded you. Right now. It is our only chance, the only chance to stop Chaos from destroying Thorbardin forever.”

  The half-breed was silent, miserably afraid but compelled to agree.

  “Go! Take Belicia, the Hylar, and all the Aghar you can quickly find! But get out of here as fast as possible!”

  “But—” began Tarn. He stepped closer to his father, spread his hands helplessly. “Come with us! Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

  “But I must. I am the last thane. Son, it is time for our paths to part. You must understand this!”

  “Your father is right,” Regal, who was also Chisel Loremaster said calmly. “Now, go—and quickly! The power of the ancients will be released if your father is successful. And you must be gone!”

  “Go upward, out of Thorbardin,” Baker commanded his son. The thane turned his attention to Belicia. “Take care, my child, and know that your father was very brave and very proud of you.”

  “And I was … am proud of him,” Belicia said through her tears.

  “You!” She took Tarn by the arm. “Listen to your father!”

  Dumbly he followed her as they climbed down from the nest, crossed the cavern, and climbed toward the hole in the wall of the Grotto.

  Baker and Regal watched Tarn and his woman depart.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Regal said, patting the thane on the back.

  “I know.” The thane of the Hylar sighed. It seemed to Baker that his whole life had been building toward this moment.

  “Tell me, how did you learn the last lesson?” asked the gully dwarf who was really a scion of the ages.

  “It was in my readings, the scrolls left by Chisel Loremas—by yourself,” Baker explained softly. He looked around at the Grotto and imagined the great stalactite outside. “The power of the Graygem in this egg is the raw power of Chaos.”

  “Aye, it is.”

  “And only tha
t power can match the forces that beset our realm. Only Chaos can reach out to destroy Chaos.”

  Baker Whitegranite took the Platinum Egg, placed his hands carefully, lightly upon it, his eyes unwavering.

  He pictured the great stalactite around him, the shaft of stone that had been suspended here for more than ten thousand years. Perhaps he should have been feeling fear or sadness, but he remained strangely peaceful. His thoughts tinged with melancholy as he remembered the deaths, the suffering, the killing that had been the legacy of his time in the thane’s chair.

  And he knew that the saga was not complete.

  “Do you think they have reached safety?” asked Baker Whitegranite.

  “I know they have,” Regal replied.

  “Reorx forgive me, it is the will of Paladine himself.” He murmured a soft prayer and felt the peaceful presence of his god, of the god who watched over all dwarvenkind.

  As his grip slowly tightened, he felt the egg of platinum rotate smoothly in its socket. Light welled up, a soothing and cool light that embraced Baker Whitegranite and spread through the Grotto, seeping into the solid stone beyond.

  Then it began, first as a slight tremor, a wobbling in the floor, in the walls, in the very air. Cracks spiderwebbed through the walls, and pieces of stone began to break loose and topple from the ceiling.

  Brilliant white light burst from the egg, shining from the rock, from Baker himself. Yet he felt somehow outside of the experience, watching proudly as if from a distance, cherishing this moment, this place, his people.

  And he became the light, streaming outward, rushing through the rock of the Life-Tree.

  Wherever that light touched, the shadows of Chaos ceased to exist, wisping back to the nothingness that was their origin. Fire dragons sizzled to ashes; slithering creatures spasmed and vanished.

  Where dwarves lay wounded or cowering in terror the light caressed them, and as they died the folk of the under-mountain felt the tender embrace of their god.