Dark Thane

by Jeff Crook

  There was hardly enough room for the huge draconian to turn around. Zen crouched opposite the cot, his folded wings scraping noisily against the canvas wall every time he moved. An oil lamp sat on the floor, smoking heavily in the damp air. The only other furnishings in the tent were a large leather chest studded with silver rivets sitting in the middle of the tent floor and a long wooden coffer lying in one corner with the lid thrown back, revealing a variety of dwarf-made weapons. Zen eyed these with undisguised envy. His own troop's armaments weren't half as good as these extras that the Daergar had brought along out of habit.

  Ferro sat on the cot and realized that he was closer to the draconian than he cared to be, but there was no choice now. In any case, he made an effort to keep one hand near his sword at all times. He'd never before had an opportunity to observe a draconian so closely, and what he saw only increased his nervousness. The creature's black eyes seemed to look at him as though he were some choice morsel that it might consume, its teeth superbly designed for ripping flesh. The sivak was easily twice his size.

  Part of his warrior training had taught him how to defeat much larger opponents. Nearly everything on Krynn was larger than a dwarf. As dwellers of the deep earth, the Daergar had to learn how to defeat hobgoblins, ogres, trolls, giants, and any number of much larger and more powerful opponents. Ferro was no shabby swordsman. He had beaten opponents larger even than this draconian. Nonetheless Zen's draconic features, his scaly flesh and batlike wings, would inspire fear in even the doughtiest warrior. It was said that all draconians had hidden abilities, magical powers of a surprising nature, and that they could kill even after they were dead.

  Ferro didn't have to wait for the draconian to begin the dialogue. Straight and to the point, Zen said, "You did not ask me to bring my gang here to kill that fool we met on the road."

  Ferro nodded, appreciative of the draconian's businesslike manner. There was no guile in this creature, he could see that as plain as the end of his nose. The draconian was used to taking orders, a creature bred to the mercenary life, something Ferro could well understand, having dealt more often that he cared to remember with members of the Daewar clan—dwarves like Ilbars Bleakfell. Ferro wondered what had become of their hapless leader, but he thought it better not to ask. The draconian's fangs were not made for idle talk or chewing quith-pa (a form of elvish dry rations composed, according to the dwarves who had been forced to eat it, of bark and twigs).

  "Indeed, I did not. My agents hired you for a greater purpose. I need you to kill a certain dwarf," Ferro said.

  Zen glanced at the weapons locker lying in the corner. "I do not think you need our help just to kill a certain dwarf," he said shrewdly.

  "Naturally, his death cannot be traced back to me," the Daergar amended.

  Now the draconian nodded his great silver-scaled head. "I understand," Zen said. "Who is to be killed?"

  "The king of Thorbardin, Tarn Bellowgranite," Ferro answered. He watched the draconian's face for any betrayal of surprise, but if the creature was taken off guard by the enormity of his task, it did not show. The draconian merely closed his black eyes and nodded again.

  "And in return… ?" Zen said, his voice trailing off inquisitively.

  Ferro leaned forward and threw back the lid of the leather chest sitting in the middle of the floor, revealing a treasure of steel and gold coins. Zen only looked at the coins for a moment, blinking with boredom.

  "Money," he hissed as though he had swallowed something sour.

  "If not money, then what?" Ferro asked sharply.

  Without pausing, the draconian stated, "There is an abandoned fortress north of here. We passed it on our way from Newsea."

  "Zhaman?" the Daergar asked in surprise.

  "It looks like a human skull," Zen said.

  "The humans call it Skullcap. It was once a Tower of High Sorcery, but it was largely destroyed during the Dwarfgate Wars. No one has lived there for hundreds of years," Ferro said, "except the ghosts."

  "The spirits of humans and dwarves do not concern us," Zen scoffed.

  Ferro asked, "What do you want with that haunted ruin? My masters will not agree if you plan to use it as a base of operations to raid dwarven lands."

  "I have been wandering the face of Krynn since I left the egg," Zen explained, "always taking commands from others, fighting someone else's wars. Now I have a band of stout lads under my own command. I want a base, a place to defend. We will not raid to the south."

  "If you'd rather have some tumbled-down old fortress than a chest full of coins, that's your business. My masters will see to it that you are not harassed in the fortress by dwarf war parties, so long as you do not raid our lands," Ferro said.

  Nodding, the draconian extended his large clawed hand in a curiously human gesture, betraying the long years he had spent among them. Ferro reluctantly shook it, inwardly cringing at the scaly texture of the creature's reptilian flesh.

  Withdrawing his hand from the draconian's grasp, Ferro closed the chest and pulled a scroll from his leather vest. He unrolled it and laid it atop the chest. It was a map of The Bog, with all its waterways and twisting paths and deathtraps precisely drawn to scale. Down its middle wandered a dark line that was the road. Pressing his finger against a certain spot, he said, "You will be able to ambush the king's party here."

  A sudden burst of laughter interrupted his train of thought Lifting the tent flap, he saw that the larger body of draconians had entered the camp and were now passing around a bottle of dwarf spirits that the Theiwar had produced. The brotherhood of mercenaries is universal, he thought.

  Ferro turned back to the map and continued, "The road is narrow here, with shallow bogs on either side where your group can hide."

  General Zen leaned over and examined the map, nodding. "I will approach the king alone," he said. "After I kill him, the others will attack and destroy their force to the last dwarf."

  Ferro intended to ask how Zen proposed to get close enough to the king to kill him, but he froze, his jaws snapping shut, at what happened next. The huge, silver-scaled draconian suddenly began to shrink before his eyes. At the same time, his scales receded into his skin and his reptilian features transformed into the likeness of a dwarf. In moments, the Daewar captain Ilbars Bleakfell stood before him, identical in every way to the dwarf Ferro knew was dead, from the top of his shaggy brown head to the decorative tooling on his boots.

  10

  The first half of the journey from Pax Tharkas had been uneventful.

  An hour or so ahead of their baggage train, Tarn, Otaxx, and Mog had reached an ancient well near the ruined fortress of Zhaman, halfway between Thorbardin and Pax Tharkas. Otaxx had been collecting supplies for Thorbardin for some months, and their train of mules and ox-drawn wagons carried a small fortune in iron ore, Abanasinian grain, timber, and bolts of close-woven woolen cloth.

  The dwarves did not approach the ruins any nearer than the well. Zhaman was said to be haunted. Long ago, it had been a fortress of the Conclave of Wizards, one of their places of study and training. Zhaman was far removed from human lands, and so the wizards found it a convenient laboratory for their more arcane and bizarre experiments, ones too dangerous to conduct near populated areas.

  In the years before the Cataclysm, the wizards abandoned their fortress as they retreated from the persecution of the Kingpriest of Istar. For a hundred years after the Cataclysm, Zhaman had stood empty, until the archmage Fistandantilus led an army against Thorbardin during a time later known as the Dwarfgate Wars. While hill dwarves and humans battled the armies of Thorbardin on the Plains of Dergoth, Fistandantilus loosed powerful magic that not only destroyed both armies, but also Zhaman, and himself along with it. So mighty was this magical explosion that the plains had sunken and become The Bog, while the towers of Zhaman collapsed upon themselves and melted into the fearful skull-like visage that it now bore.

  Tarn and his company had made camp an hour before sundown near the large ancient well i
n the hills north of The Bog. From their campfire, they could see Zhaman in the middle distance, while some distance behind it loomed the great profile of their mountain home. Even before they had finished setting up tents around the well, a runner arrived with news that the wagon train was under attack. The king and his company of more than a hundred dwarf warriors grabbed their weapons and arrived in time to drive off a party of goblin archers who had pinned down the trains in a narrow defile, killing most of the mules and oxen while the dwarves took cover under their wagons. Mog led a band of Klar into the hills and easily drove the goblins away without further losses, but the attack left them without the means to transport their supplies. Otaxx was loath to leave such valuable goods behind, but Tarn was moody and impatient to hasten his return to Thorbardin. He wouldn't allow the general to send to Pax Tharkas for more beasts of burden, and in the end, the dwarves themselves took the supplies and divided them up to carry on their backs. Only the timber was abandoned, along with the wagons.

  This added burden severely slowed their progress through The Bog the next day. Tarn had originally planned to traverse it in a single march and arrive back at Thorbardin before nightfall, but storms had soaked the perpetually waterlogged ground and turned some sections of the road into an oozing morass. With their heavy burdens, the dwarves were forced to slog forward at a snail's pace, further deepening Tarn's black mood. They were still some distance from the foothills when the sun began to sink into the mists above the swamp.

  Already deeply concerned about the risk of passing through The Bog, Mog watched the sun fade into the fog with growing alarm. He had no desire to make camp in the swamp, but traveling through this place after dark was more dangerous. With the majority of Beryl's forces still unaccounted for, there was no telling what might be lying in ambush on the road ahead.

  Not for the first time that day, Mog said, "You run far too great a risk, my king. Let me scout ahead."

  "We're almost home, Mog," Tarn growled. "There's nothing to worry about here. Soon there'll be good stone beneath our feet and you'll feel better."

  "That is what concerns me," his captain said. "They always hit you just when your guard is down."

  "They? Who are they?" Tarn asked. "You are paranoid, my old friend."

  "It's my job to be paranoid where the king's safety is concerned. The road here is more muddy than any we've seen so far, and I wonder if perhaps some large force has passed this way already. We're almost home now, and if I were lying in ambush, this is where I'd set my trap. Look how the road narrows up ahead. At least allow me to scout there."

  "There is no need. Someone has already scouted it for us." As Tarn said this, a lone dwarf emerged from the fog and strode briskly toward them. "Maybe this stranger knows who churned the mud," he said.

  Mog called a halt to await the newcomer's approach. Because he was a dwarf, Tarn's guards kept their weapons sheathed but ready. Mog's axe, however, never left his hand. He held it at his side and watched the stranger struggle and stumble through the mud, curses exploding from his lips every time he nearly fell. Finally he was close enough for all to see his face.

  "Ilbars Bleakfell," Mog said in surprise. "How did they get you to stick your nose outside the Gates of Thorbardin? This is a rare day!"

  Ilbars nodded curtly to Mog and continued his approach. "I was sent to welcome the king back to Thorbardin and to ease his journey," he said to Tarn, stopping a moment to deliver a sweeping bow. "Our camp is not far ahead."

  "Ah, very good," Tarn said. He extended his hand to the Daewar captain. Ilbars strode forward to greet him, but suddenly Mog stepped in front of him, blocking the Daewar's progress with his axe.

  "Mog, what—" Tarn barked as the Klar seized him and pushed him to his knees. Ilbars stopped short, a snarl of anger forming on his face.

  At that moment, bowstrings twanged from either side of the road, and Mog pushed Ilbars away.

  "Draconians!" the Klar shouted as arrows and crossbow bolts clanged and pinged off the dwarves' armor and shields. Two of Tarn's guards dropped immediately, the swarm of arrows having found chinks in their armor. The others quickly formed into a circle around the thane, their round shields locked together, as more arrows poured into them.

  Mog shielded Tarn with his own body, grunting as arrows pummeled his mailed back. Tarn swore and cursed at him to let him up, to let him fight, but the captain maintained his protective position. Another volley of arrows tore through their ranks, dropping three more dwarves. The others closed up the spaces, drawing back to tighten their circle around the thane. They hunkered behind their shields beneath the relentless rain of arrows. Scrambling to find protection, Ilbars picked up a shield from a fallen dwarf and crouched behind it, swearing furiously as he inched closer to the king.

  Under cover of their missile fire, draconians began to climb up out of the bog onto the road, crawling up through the mud with their swords in their teeth. These were the smallest of their kind, known as baaz, a race of cruel and rapacious fighters. Without even waiting to form ranks, they assaulted the dwarves' defensive circle, throwing themselves into the chaotic fray. As the first baaz crashed into the dwarven circle of shields, the last volley of arrows fell among both friend and foe, and kapak draconians appeared from the swamp to join in the assault. This species of draconians poisoned their blades with spittle before entering battle.

  Quietly, Mog loosed his hold on the thane, pointing. A dwarf to their right fell, his head split to the teeth by a draconian sword, opening a space in their ranks. With a nod to the king, Mog threw himself into the empty space, his axe flashing out, separating the draconian's head from its neck in one blow. Its body slumped to the ground and immediately turned to stone.

  Tarn quickly clambered to his feet. A good head taller than any of the other dwarves in his company, he could see the whole battle from his protected position within the circle. Still, this made him an obvious target, and he knocked aside one spear with his sword, while trying to figure out his best move. All around him, his dwarves were battling furiously, some of them engaging two or three opponents at once. In one glance, he knew that they couldn't last for very long. More and more draconians were climbing onto the road, while his dwarves were slowly being cut down before his eyes. Ilbars Bleakfell rose up beside him, sword drawn, and eyes blazing.

  Then a gap opened as a dwarf fell with a spear through his heart. Tarn grabbed Ilbars by the shoulder and rudely thrust the surprised dwarf into the gap. He turned and looked back the way they had come. There didn't appear to be as many draconians attacking from the rear. He might be able to slip out of this trap, but only if he acted swiftly, before the draconians cut off their escape route.

  Tarn was about to shout orders that would shift his dwarves into a column when he heard words of magic being chanted.

  "Wizard!" he shouted, seeking out the source of the eerie words.

  Too late, he saw the bozak draconian standing at the road's edge, its brown robes caked with mud. The creature lifted its hands, and as it did so Tarn threw himself to the muddy ground. Crying in surprise and rage, nearly a third of Tarn's dwarves suddenly found themselves engulfed in thick sticky strands of web.

  Tarn scrambled to his feet, brushing clinging fibers from his arm and beard. Mog was instantly at his side, pulling him away from the battle. Half the draconians attacked the entrapped and helpless dwarves, slaughtering them mercilessly. The other draconians surged toward Tarn and the others, who had fallen back in disorder at the actions of the magic-user.

  Tarn barked a quick series of commands that brought the dwarves together in an inverted V shape just in time. The bozak came up, already casting another spell. Tarn braced himself and shouted for shields to be raised. Two bolts of white energy exploded from the draconian's fingertips and streaked toward Tarn. Brave Mog threw himself into their path, but the gesture was futile, as the bolts wove past him and the shields to strike Tarn full in the chest. They seemed to burn through both layers of his armor, searing into
his flesh like gouts of molten metal. He sank to one knee, screaming in agony.

  Mog stared in horror at his fallen thane then turned, his face flushing crimson. He knew that the bozak must be stopped, but the few dwarves who had been armed with crossbows had long since switched to axes or hammers. Casting about, he saw a spear lying half trampled in the mud. Jerking it free, he hefted it and rushed the advancing draconian line.

  Those draconians who had shields lifted them to their shoulders, but Mog halted halfway and flung his spear. It sailed over their heads and thudded into the bozak magicuser's chest. So forceful was Mog's throw that the head of the spear burst out a good arm's length from the creature's back. Its eyes widened in surprise as it clutched the shaft and staggered forward.

  Mog then dropped back, ordering the others to retreat. He quickly reached Tarn's side and lifted his gasping thane under one arm, retrieving his war axe with his free hand. Tarn struggled to stand on his own feet, even as the smell of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. Nevertheless, he fought through the pain. He didn't have the luxury of hurting.

  Meanwhile, the dying bozak, clutching the spear that transfixed its body, wasn't done. It half ran, half staggered toward the dwarves, its hideous reptilian mouth champing a bloody froth. The other draconians parted to let it pass, then closed ranks and held their ground. The dwarves at the head of the inverted V eagerly awaited the bozak magic-user, and, when the wounded creature got close enough, swarmed forward and hacked him to pieces. Strangely the other draconians merely watched their leader die under the dwarven axes. Blinking through the pain, Tarn watched, baffled. It almost seemed that the draconians were smiling.

  As the bozak fell to the ground, its flesh instantly turned to dust, leaving behind a gleaming draconian skeleton. One of the dwarves stooped to retrieve Mog's spear, dragging it free of the hollow rib cage. At that instant, the bones exploded violently. The dwarf stooping over it vanished in a glowing golden ball of fire, his gore spattering the survivors. Others were flung back, their bodies riddled with bone fragments. The rest fell back in horror, utterly amazed and routed. With a shrill, inhuman cry, the draconians charged again. They fell upon the confused and dazed dwarves like wolves among thunderstruck sheep, slaughtering left and right.