Dark Thane

by Jeff Crook

  Sensing weakness, Jungor spoke. "I think the king is too ill from his war wounds to continue," he said, thumping his staff on the floor. "Perhaps we should reconvene when he has recovered his strength."

  This stung Tarn back to his senses. "My injuries are of no concern," he said as he stood and walked to the center of the dais. "Indeed, I hardly feel them. I only wish that I could not feel the pain of what has occurred. I bring grave news before the Council of Thanes today."

  Jungor's hand tightened around the arm of his chair as he leaned forward. The room grew deathly silent, so silent that even those in the Gallery outside could hear the depth of Tarn's sigh.

  "I have failed," Tarn said. "My army is lost. Qualinost is destroyed, the home of the elves is gone." His last words were lost in the eruption of shocked cries. Tarn closed his eyes and allowed the thunder of voices to sweep over him and pummel him like hurled stones.

  Jungor flew out of his chair and pounded the butt of his staff on the floor, demanding silence. Gradually the crowd noise died down to a low murmur, punctuated by faint roars as the crowds outside the Council Hall learned the news. "King Tarn, how did this happen?" Jungor demanded when he could be heard by most of the crowd. "Surely when you say that the army was lost, you do not mean that all were slain. Surely you only mean that you suffered a minor defeat in Qualinost."

  Tarn shook his great blond mane. "All were lost, except for the dozen or so who were with me when the disaster befell us."

  "And how did the king survive while thousands were lost?" Rughar Delvestone shouted, leaping to his feet.

  Tarn tried to explain, speaking at some length, with frequent pauses to wait for the crowd noise to die down. He tried to explain how he and King Gilthas had plotted to destroy the green dragon Beryl and save the homeland of the elves. While the majority of the residents of Qualinost had escaped through the tunnels Tarn and his dwarves burrowed beneath their city, several thousand elf warriors had remained behind, and, with the aid of some rebellious Dark Knights sympathetic to the elves, they prepared to lure Beryl into a deadly trap. Their plan was to draw Beryl in close and then launch strong strands of rope over her body, entangling and trapping her wings and forcing her to the ground. Tarn's army of dwarves waiting in the tunnels were expected to rise and up and slay the dragon once she was brought down.

  Tarn explained that he had been with King Gilthas, leading the last refugees to safety, when the disaster struck. He told of what had happened to him and his guards in the tunnels, the collapses and the flooding that had nearly drowned them. "We found the elves' city drowned beneath a vast new lake. Our tunnels beneath the city must have been flooded, and the dwarves in them either crushed or drowned. To be perfectly honest, I do not yet know their fate. Some may have survived, but if they did, I could not find them."

  Jungor turned to the other thanes, a horrified expression on his face. Many of the gathered dwarves tore their beards in anger and sorrow. Tarn's army had consisted largely of the newest generation of young warriors of Thorbardin. Among the youth he had found his readiest allies in his bold plan to aid the elves. Few families in the Council Hall had not given a son or daughter, nephew or niece, especially among the Hylar, Klar, and Daewar clans. Now the sight of their grief was terrible to behold, the sound of it like the roar of the wind in a tunnel. Jungor staggered, dropped his staff, and clutched at the hems of his fine silk robe—his own shock part genuine, part charade.

  Tarn shouted over the crowd, "I cannot replace your lost children. I regret having gone against the wisdom of this esteemed Council of Thanes. I am not worthy to be your king. And therefore I must offer my resignation."

  Jungor paused in the act of ceremoniously tearing his robes. His mouth fell open and he turned slowly to stare in surprise at Tarn. The other thanes, who had likewise been preparing to publicly demonstrate their grief and displeasure, were struck silent in amazement. The rest of the crowd was more slow to respond, as most of them had not been able to hear Tarn's declaration. But as word spread, a pall of silence spread over the dwarves.

  "What did you say?" Jungor asked in disbelief.

  Tarn cleared his throat and seemed to sway on his feet for a moment. "I am not worthy to be your king," he repeated after a moment.

  Jungor's mouth snapped shut. He glared suspiciously at Tarn as the crowd erupted. Many began to cry, "Here! Here! It is time for a new king!" But this was quickly met by opposing voices shouting, "Never! Tarn is our king!"

  "Tarn has failed us."

  "He has led us well."

  "My son is dead. My daughter is dead. He deluded his followers."

  "Do not dishonor them with grief. Tarn is their king still."

  "Let the Council vote."

  "We demand a new high thane."

  "Tarn Bellowgranite is our king!"

  Tarn raised his hand, enjoining the crowd to silence. It took some time before they ceased their arguments long enough to hear what he had to say. Jungor had stalked back to his chair, his mind a confused wonder.

  Finally the crowd grew quiet enough for Tarn to speak. Hundreds of grim faces looked down at him, standing alone in the center of the dais, surrounded by the six thanes. He cleared his throat, then spoke solemnly. "My mind is made up. I shall surrender my authority at the Council's convenience. When they have chosen a new king, I shall step aside. This is the least I can do to repay you for the disaster I have brought upon Thorbardin."

  "Disaster?" Mog Bonecutter shouted angrily. Stepping up on the dais, he turned quickly to his clan's thane, Glint Ettinhammer, and asked, "May I address the Council?"

  The Klar thane nodded his shaggy head.

  Mog approached Tarn. He still carried the strange diskshaped object wrapped in its blanket and resting on his back. "The king says that his plan to save the elves ended in disaster," Mog declared loudly. "But I say that a glorious victory was won. Most of the Qualinesti elves did escape, after all."

  "As good as that is to hear, I hardly think the price we paid was worth it," Jungor interrupted. Not a few members of the crowd voiced their agreement.

  "Very well. Then was it worth it to kill Beryl?" Mog angrily asked as he unslung his mysterious burden and flung it on the floor. Flicking back the tattered blanket, he revealed the huge olive-green dragon scale they had found.

  This revelation struck the assembly like a lightning bolt. The cry "Beryl is dead!" rippled out into the Gallery and portico. Jungor was beside himself in his consternation. Why had news of this not yet reached him? He needed time to prepare for this news. Perhaps this was Tarn's game after all.

  However, Tarn seemed to dismiss the claims of his own captain. "I am not yet convinced that Beryl is dead," he said in a low voice.

  Mog grinned and shook his head, turning once more to the excited crowd. "We found this scale floating in the flotsam at the lake's edge. As you can see, there is still dragon flesh attached to it. No other green dragon on Krynn boasts scales so large, and Beryl does not drop them so casually, nor with her precious hide still attached."

  Jungor rose from his chair and bent to examine the huge scale. He could not deny what Mog said. The scale was enormous and obviously came from a green dragon, and it had been ripped violently from the flesh of that creature. But…

  "Did you see her carcass?" he asked the Klar captain.

  "N-no, but—" Mog stammered.

  "Never count a dragon dead until you have personally beheld her bleached white bones," Jungor said meaningfully. He then turned to address the crowd. "I think the king is correct in this matter," he said. "We cannot assume that Beryl is dead simply because we have found one scale."

  Mog began to protest, but Jungor spoke over him, thumping his staff on the floor. "Indeed, such an assumption could well prove dangerous. Beryl might only be injured. She might even now be nursing her wounds and plotting the destruction of Thorbardin for the king's part in her injury."

  "I agree!" a voice shouted from the Daewar entrance. All eyes turned to see General Ot
axx Shortbeard descending the stairs. He was one of Thorbardin's oldest and most respected tacticians. Everyone knew that he was fiercely loyal to Tarn, so it came as a surprise to the king's supporters that the general should be arguing in favor of Jungor and against Mog.

  Otaxx reached the dais. "I agree that we cannot assume that Beryl is dead. She may well be alive and planning our destruction. Which is all the more reason why it would be foolish, utterly foolish, to change leadership at this delicate and uncertain time!" A cry went up from the crowd upon hearing these words, and Otaxx stroked his beard in smug satisfaction. Jungor glared at him, but the old general only returned his stare with a smile.

  He continued, "As general in command of Pax Tharkas, I know more of the outside world than anyone here. Let me tell you that there are rumors of huge armies marching in the north under the banner of a human girl, conquering in the name of the One God, whoever that might be. And even as our party drew near to Thorbardin, the king was ambushed by a large force of draconians. Draconians, very nearly on our own doorstep!"

  Mog took over from there, striding about the dais with his wild hair flying and his bloodshot eyes starting out of his face. "Yes, we need a strong king to lead us now. This is no time to elect a new king, not when we face so uncertain a world outside our doors. When the armies of humans have finished fighting their battles, and when we know for sure that Beryl is dead and no longer a threat to us, then perhaps Tarn can rest, if he still wishes it. But not before!"

  Suddenly, the crowd was turning in Tarn's favor. Several voices cried out, begging him not to abandon the dwarves of Thorbardin in their hour of greatest need. Jungor sank into his chair, shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. He almost felt compelled to applaud, though some might think him disrespectful, when actually he had nothing but the deepest admiration for Tarn's masterful performance. Yet he did not panic. He had never planned to win the throne at this time and place anyway. The hour of his victory was still in place, and nothing really had changed to upset his master plan.

  14

  As the cries for Tarn to remain king grew louder, Tarn looked around the faces of his numerous supporters. Here he had come before the council in shame, begging their forgiveness and asking to be allowed to surrender his power to some more worthy dwarf. And in return for the disaster he had brought upon his people, they now begged him to remain as king. Their support humbled him, made him feel pity for himself—but also pride.

  To think that forty years ago, few of the dwarves now gathered here would have given him an old pair of shoes if he had been barefoot and destitute. And to think that forty years ago he wouldn't have asked for a crumb from most of them, even if he were starving. Forty years, a war that nearly destroyed them all, the deaths of his father, mother, and promised wife, and a revolt among the Daewar that almost ripped all the clans apart, had changed him profoundly. The crown of Thorbardin had been thrust upon his reluctant brow by the death of his father, Baker Whitegranite, himself a reluctant king. He had learned, and learned grudgingly to love these, his own people—people who so often distressed him with their eternal clan strife, who brought him grief and expected him to bear it alone, who blamed him for everything that went wrong, and who claimed for themselves his victories and successes.

  Now, seeing this upswelling of support despite his great failure, Tarn was nearly unstrung. He could have wept, if he had any tears left. Instead, he felt a cold thrill course the length of his body, making his hair stand on end and his beard bristle. The weariness seemed to fall away from him as the energy and love of the crowd flowed into his limbs. He grinned broadly.

  Lifting his head he saw a face in the crowd looking back at him. She smiled lovingly and lifted her hand to him, and he was at once struck by how much he had missed her, and how he had not realized how much he needed her. He had been searching the crowd for her since the moment he entered the Council Hall, without even realizing it. Now that he had found her, it felt as though a burden was lifting from his bowed back. He felt whole again.

  He returned her wave, kissing his fingertips in token of greeting. He noticed that she sat alone in the midst of the Hylar clan: Crystal Heathstone, his wife, daughter of the Neidar king, a princess of the hill dwarves. An empty circle surrounded her, not because she was the wife of the king but because the others were avoiding her—simply because she was a hill dwarf.

  His smile fading, Tarn realized that there was still much for him to do as king.

  Steeling himself, he shouted, "I relent. I will remain your king, so long as you will have me!" The roar that greeted his words shook the foundations of the old temple. Tarn paused, as Mog bowed before him and Otaxx Shortbeard approached and vigorously clasped him by the shoulders. "I knew you wouldn't let us down," the old general joyfully said.

  Jungor stood and lifted his hands in the air, begging the audience for quiet, crying, "Dwarves of Thorbardin! Listen to me! Listen to me once more!" Gradually the tumult died down while Mog retrieved his dragon scale and Otaxx found a seat among the Daewar.

  Jungor had been quiet all this time, but now he gestured to indicate that he was ready to speak. His strange scarred visage was terrible to behold; his hand tightly clutched the weird staff, as though he were some sort of cursed Theiwar wizard and not the thane of the proud Hylar people. Though he wore a small bandage over the empty socket of his right eye, the horrible acid-burned flesh of his face was plain for all to see. Tarn had been initially surprised to see that Jungor had suffered such a horrible wound, but he had held his natural reaction in check. Now, looking at the Hylar thane, he could hardly suppress a shudder of revulsion.

  "We are indeed glad that the king has chosen to lead us through these most difficult times," Jungor declared. "But because these times are so perilous, and we continue to be in danger, I must insist that we seal the North Gate without delay. It is the only way we can be safe."

  The Hylar thane had led the Council's opposition to Tarn's plan to aid the elves, and he had been advocating for years to seal the mountain. Those who followed Jungor were of the same mind—they hated and distrusted the outside world. But those who had been born after the Chaos War were particularly open to his arguments, because they could see all around them how stone had failed to protect them during that terrible conflict. Also, they had no memories of the glory of Thorbardin to cause them to long for its return. They looked to their own future, not the past of the grandfathers and so they supported Tarn.

  "No!" Tarn shouted furiously. "I forbid this. The gate must remain open."

  "No?" Jungor asked, stepping closer to Tarn and peering at him with his remaining eye. His gaze was almost hypnotic. "You forbid it?" Jungor asked. "These are strong words from one who just moments ago was ready to abdicate his throne."

  Tarn tore his gaze from Jungor's strange eye. He looked at the crowd, his eyes almost pleading with them. He knew that most of the dwarves felt as Jungor did. They preferred isolation and distrusted the outside world. Yet he had fought for years to build alliances, often against the wishes of his own people, because he believed the dwarves could no longer ignore the world.

  "Too often have we turned our backs on the outside world," Tarn declared. "True, we live in perilous times, but there are too few of us to defend our homes against the forces of evil now loose in the world. The dragonarmies of old pale in comparison to the might of dragons like Beryl and Malys. We must have allies if we are to survive."

  "Not the elves!" Jungor shrieked. "You haven't invited the elves here, have you?"

  "No, certainly not the elves," Tarn replied, to the relief of nearly everyone in attendance. Jungor sighed, but Tarn couldn't tell if the Hylar thane was pleased or disappointed.

  "There are other dwarves in the world," Tarn continued. "With the destruction of our army and the growing threats in the world, we need every axe and hammer we can muster."

  The Daewar thane, Rughar Delvestone, rose from his chair, his round face flushing red. "I pray you aren't suggesting we in
vite the hill dwarves into our mountain," he hissed, nearly spitting the words "hill dwarves."

  Jungor nodded and took a step closer to Tarn. "Long have we tolerated your infatuation with that tribe of rebels," he said as he lifted his hand and pointed at the king accusingly. His gaze strayed beyond the king to the female dwarf sitting alone on the front row of the Hylar section. Seeing the direction of Jungor's gaze, Tarn knew that the Hylar thane was looking at his Neidar wife, Crystal Heathstone. He felt his blood boil. Would Jungor dare to insult the wife of the king before the assembled council?

  "We will not open the gates of Thorbardin to more hill dwarves," Thane Rughar said, stamping his boot for emphasis. "I'd rather share my bed with an elf."

  This was going too far. Tarn was on the verge of demanding they speak their minds truly, so that he could have the honor of calling them out. But Glint Ettinhammer, thane of the Klar and Tarn's most loyal ally on the council, pushed his bulk up out of his seat, and said, "I must agree with my fellow thanes. We cannot hold the mountain passes against a determined invasion, especially if it is led by Beryl or any of her brood." He shrugged his great shoulders apologetically to Tarn, then resumed his seat. Tarn turned and saw Mog staring at his clan's thane with a look of disbelief. Tarn then looked to Otaxx, sitting in the Daewar section, who nodded sadly.

  "Ten gully dwarves could hold our gates against an army of dragons," Jungor persisted, seeing Tarn's determination begin to dissolve.

  "Two gully dwarves!" Thane Delvestone added, rousing a laugh from the crowd. Even the gully dwarves chuckled. Brecha Quickspring added her voice, readily agreeing that the North Gate should be closed. Last of all, the Daergar thane Shahar Bellowsmoke cast his vote with the majority. No one bothered to ask Grumple Nagfar what she thought.