by Jeff Crook
Orin Bellowsmoke snarled, "What's the matter with you?"
"This road doesn't lead to the transportation shaft," the Klar thane said.
"Of course it doesn't, stupid Klar!" the Daergar scout spat "If it did, it would be guarded. But they are only watching the streets and alleys, while their back door stands open."
"Stop speaking in riddles and tell us what you mean," Tarn demanded.
"What lies to the west of the transportation shaft?"
"Nothing. A few warehouses." Glint said.
"Three warehouses with back doors facing this road and front doors facing the transportation shaft," the scout said.
"Surely the doors will be locked," Tarn said.
"Locks!" the Daergar snorted, shaking his head.
"If memory serves, those warehouses have three floors, and each floor has several windows," Glint ventured, a smile growing on his painted white face. "Windows from which archers could provide covering fire while we rush the Theiwar position."
The Daergar scout nodded.
"I'm beginning to see the value of your plan," Tarn said. "But we must move swiftly and silently. When we arrive, I will lead the way through the middle warehouse. Thane Ettinhammer will take the right-hand warehouse and Orin Bellowsmoke the left. Archers should fill the windows and be ready to fire upon my command."
His orders were swiftly relayed to the warriors and their officers. Daergar archers divided themselves among the three columns. When everything was ready, they set off at a quick march. Within minutes, they had reached their objective without being noticed. Orin Bellowsmoke and several of his companions made quick work of the locks. Huge double-valved doors swung wide to admit the three columns of dwarf warriors.
Stacks of crates rose from floor to ceiling, forming a narrow passage down which Tarn and his warriors cautiously advanced. An identical set of double doors stood at the opposite side of the warehouse, leading out into the transportation shaft courtyard. Near the entrance, stairs led up to catwalks that crisscrossed above them. The Daergar archers swiftly ascended and made their way to the second and third-story windows, their hobnailed boots ringing on the metal walks. At the lowest level, all the windows were blocked by crates, but the higher windows provided a clear field of fire for the Daergar archers.
The Daergar archers lining the catwalk above Tarn's head watched for danger. Crouching behind the door, the king waited until he felt his two other commanders had had enough time to move into their positions in the other warehouses. Then he looked up, checking with the Daergar at the windows. The scout who had led them to this point rose up on his knees and peered out of the window for a moment, scanning the courtyard beyond. Then he looked down at the king and nodded. All was ready.
As Tarn reached for the door, it opened of its own accord, pulled wide by a Theiwar warrior among the force waiting beyond it to surprise them. Above him, the Daergar turned their crossbows against their allies, two score deadly shafts poised to wreak havoc among the warriors packed in the narrow lane between impassible stacks of crates. At the same time, the rear doors swung wide. Hylar and Theiwar soldiers poured in, sealing the trap.
Snarling a curse, Tarn spun, ready to hack a way through to the transportation shaft The sounds of battle would bring Otaxx’s attack on the third level, and that might be enough to draw off the Theiwar sorcerers and allow his dwarves to escape. "It's a trap!" the king roared and lifted his sword. But as he led the charge into the courtyard, his battlecry died in his throat, his muscles froze. Eerie words of magic seemed to surround him, binding him in invisible cords until he was no longer able to move. Around him, his soldiers were cut down by arrows or struck senseless by Theiwar spells. A strangled cry of frustration and rage burst from his lips as his sword fell from his fingers.
Meanwhile, the warehouse in which Glint Ettinhammer and his Klar warriors awaited the signal to attack was largely empty except for a row of crates stacked against the windows of the first level. This arrangement prevented him from seeing into the courtyard, an inconvenience that he could not help but notice. Above him, two dozen Daergar archers crouched along the metal catwalk beneath the open windows of the second level. He didn't like having those untrustworthy brigands above him, but there was little he could do. They dared not try to move the crates from the first floor windows lest they be spotted by the Theiwar guarding the transportation shaft.
Glint was suspicious; worse, he was worried. The entry into this place had been far too easy. He had trouble believing that Theiwar careful enough to block every alley with a spell would overlook such an obvious hole in their defenses. Tarn had divided his own forces for the plan, and was now blind to the movements of his enemy; plus he was separated from his friends. Glint was heartily sorry that he had not advised a more careful reconnaissance of the terrain. Impatience had clouded his thinking.
The Klar thane's nerves were on edge. After he had waited what he thought was plenty of time for the others to get into attack position, Glint couldn't sit still any longer. "I'm going up to have a look," he said to the Klar captain at his side. "If the signal comes while I am upstairs, you lead the charge. I'll he right behind you."
"Yes, my thane!" the captain said, excited to be given such an honor.
Slipping swiftly and relatively silently along the wall, Glint had just reached the stair leading up to the catwalk when he heard Tarn's shouted cry. The words were faint, muffled by distance and by the walls that stood between them, but the old Klar warrior knew what it meant. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Daergar stand and point their weapons down on those beneath them. Both sets of doors banged open. Theiwar and Hylar warriors poured through.
Glint crouched in the shadows for a moment. His warriors clustered together on the floor, shields raised against Daergar crossbow bolts that fell like winged hail among them. Theiwar sorcerers stood in the courtyard, casting their spells through the doors, felling warrior after warrior with bolts of energy and magical sleep. After that one strangled cry, no further sound or sign of his king had reached his ears. The door to the street stood open only a few yards away. His soldiers were being cut down before his eyes, the Daergar traitors were howling with laughter as they ceased their fire to allow the Hylar and Theiwar warriors the pleasure of mopping up the survivors.
That is when Glint leaped into the open doorway and with one blow of his huge mace felled both Hylar warriors standing guard outside. He turned back, laughing into the surprised faces of those within the warehouse. "Klar! To me!" he roared.
Roused by their thane, the Klar came alive. Glint held the door open against a dozen foes until his soldiers hacked a way through to him. Together they poured into the empty street, where they immediately fled like gully dwarves in a dozen different directions to baffle pursuit. In the twinkling of an eye, the street was once again empty save for a few confused and stunned Hylar who had stumbled out too late to give chase.
35
Mog Bonecutter awoke with flames leaping around him, his bed afire. Ogduan Bloodspike stood at the foot of the burning bed, the torch still in his hands, his mouth stretched open in a peal of hideous laughter. Mog yanked the flaming sheets off the bed and flung them aside, but to his horror saw that the remainder of their small chamber, dug from the ruins of Hybardin, was already engulfed in flames. The exquisite upside-down fresco sputtered and popped, the ancient faces of the dwarves at their forges melting into madhouse smiles. Thick black smoke hung halfway to the floor and poured through the uneven entrance to the chamber.
Mog snatched the Hammer of Kharas from the wall above the bed, then leaped over a rising column of flames, landing on his bare feet already running. "You crazy old fool!" he screamed. But Ogduan had already fled shrieking and giggling from the chamber. Mog had been waiting for weeks for the insane old Klar to try to kill him, but he never imagined he'd burn down his own house at the same time!
Mog escaped the burning ruins wearing only a loincloth, the Hammer of Kharas swinging in his fist. The
jagged ruins cut and bruised his feet as he leaped and bounded down the hillside in pursuit of his marooned comrade on the Isle of the Dead. Behind him, flames belched out of the cavern like fire from a dragon's mouth, illuminating the shattered ruins of Hybardin down to the water's edge.
For a moment, Mog lost sight of his quarry, then spotted the old dwarf crawling down a wrecked staircase only twenty yards below, a battered box clutched to his chest. He set off again, down a slope of scree that reached down to the shoreline. Slipping and sliding in the loose stones, Mog reached the narrow, pebbly beach just as Ogduan rolled down the last few steps, still laughing hysterically, his box flying from his hands to land in the black water of the Urkhan Sea.
Mog caught up to him before the old Klar could regain his footing. Stepping on Ogduan's leg to hold him still, he lifted the Hammer of Kharas over his head and swung. But the ancient weapon, glistening with moisture, slipped from his grasp and went sailing off into the rocks beyond.
Heedless of its loss, Mog knelt on Ogduan's chest and began to throttle him, his fingers squeezing around his windpipe to choke off the life of the one who had rescued him from drowning only to attempt to murder him with fire. Ogduan continued to laugh as long as he could draw breath, even as his face turned purple and his lips swelled with blood.
"Hello on shore!" someone cried. "Is there anyone there?"
Releasing his grip, a startled Mog spun and raced to the water's edge, flailing out until the cold, black Urkhan Sea was up to his waist. "Here! Here!" he cried joyfully. "Is someone there?"
"There!" he heard someone shout. "Row for that point beneath the flames."
A long sea boat hove into view, one of the old merchant craft that had once plied the waters of the Urkhan Sea. Towed by miles-long cables, these vessels had carried supplies and passengers between the five cities of Thorbardin. Oarlocks had been fitted to the boat, since the cables had long ago broken and sunk to the bottom of the sea. Now, a dozen Klar warriors guided the boat into shore, while a score more scowled at one another in the hold.
Mog gripped the edge of the boat and walked along with it the last few feet to shore, his joy as boundless as his surprise, a thousand questions getting in the way of one another and momentarily leaving him unable to voice even a single word. A young Klar captain commanded the craft from the bow. With his boat safely beached, he stepped forward.
Now it was his turn to be rendered speechless. After a few moments of stammering, he managed to cry, "Captain Mog? Mog Bonecutter?"
"Bloodfist? By the gods! What are you doing sailing out here on the Urkhan Sea?" Mog asked in turn. "Surely not looking for me?"
"No, we thought you dead these two months."
"Two months? Has it only been two months?" Mog asked in bewilderment. How could he have healed of his injuries in only two months? Nay, one month! He'd woken fully healed a month ago. But these questions were immediately driven from his mind by Captain Bloodfist's next words.
"I was out recruiting among the feral Klar and headed for home when we spotted your fire," he said.
"Not my fire!" Mog said, turning and looking at Ogduan. The old Klar had struggled to his feet and stood at the edge of the ruins rubbing his neck. "Why, that old fool tried to burn down his own house with me in it!"
"We'd never have stopped here if we hadn't seen it. Not even feral Klar are known to live on the Isle of the Dead."
"But what sends you out among the feral Klar anyway?" Mog asked.
"The king desperately needs their help. Jungor Stonesinger has risen in revolt. By the gods who are no more, the king will be glad to see you!"
"Whether by fortune or design, I'm glad you're here," Mog shouted. He climbed up into the ruins, searching for the Hammer. After a few frantic moments, he found it wedged between the broken curb of a pool and a shattered pillar.
By the time he returned to the boat, Ogduan had already climbed aboard and seated himself among the feral Klar as though nothing at all had happened. He gripped his dripping-wet box to his chest and watched as the flames and smoke rose from the mouth of the cave that had been their home this past month, a merry smile on his demented old face.
"What's he doing coming with us?" Mog asked, angrily pointing at Ogduan with the Hammer of Kharas. The other Klar oggled the magnificent weapon, their beards dropping open in astonishment.
"He begged leave to join us," Captain Bloodfist answered distractedly. "The king needs every possible ally. By the gods who are no more, where did you get that hammer? I've never seen its like in all my days."
"That old fool found it in the ruins and was using it to kill rats," Mog explained as he clambered into the boat. He stood in the prow and held the hammer aloft for all the dwarves to see. "This, my cousins, I believe to be the Hammer of Kharas. Lost in the Chaos War and presumed forever buried at the bottom of the sea, the Hammer of the heroes of old has returned to a fresh war. To Tarn Bellowgranite it shall go. Let us take it to him."
"Aye, this is a great day!" Captain Bloodfist exclaimed. At this command, the dwarves backed water and swung their boat around. Shouting out the strokes, they steered north rather than west, toward the ruined docks of Theibardin, where the feral Klar, hungry for war, had begun to gather.
Mog sat in the stern, the Hammer resting on his knees as he stared at the backs of the rowers. Beside him, Ogduan Bloodspike stirred restlessly and opened his box a crack to peer inside. He glanced at Mog under the hanging locks of his unkempt hair as though about to speak.
"Do not talk to me, old fool," Mog growled before he had the chance to utter a word. "I still plan to kill you when this is over."
Ogduan sighed. Reaching inside his box, he removed a flat oval of pure white ivory, from which clung two ribbons of black silk. "I wanted to give this to you. I think it would serve you well for the work ahead you," Ogduan said in low voice.
Mog glanced down at the death skald's mask resting in the old Klar's hands. A flicker of a smile played across his face as he took it. "Indeed it will," he said.
36
Someone had dragged an old chair into the chamber in preparation for Tarn's arrival, obviously intending it to serve as a mockery of a throne. But by the time Brecha Quickspring and her minions had grown weary of taunting the king and had dragged him to the dungeon, the jailer was too drunk to do his job properly. He chained Tarn to the battered old throne too loosely before stepping back to admire his handiwork, swaying and squinting in the dim light of his torch. In the hall outside, a half-dozen Theiwar guards waited to see that the door was closed and locked before departing, else Tarn would have slipped his bonds immediately and relieved the jailer of his keys.
Instead, he was forced to silently endure the jailer's drunken gibes. Frustrated by not getting a rise out of the king, the jailer coughed up a mouthful of cloudy phlegm and spat it into Tarn's face. Tarn turned away, his fingers digging into the wooden arms of the throne to keep from casting aside all reason and murdering this disgusting beast on the spot.
The jailer laughed uncertainly. He had hoped for better sport from the high and mighty Tarn Bellowgranite, King of Thorbardin. Turning, he ducked through the low portal and pushed the swollen door shut with his shoulder. Pausing at the grate to take a final look at the king, he spat again. "You were never my king," he snarled.
With the torchlight gone, Tarn waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon, he could see the general outline of his cell, the door and its grate, and the chains hanging loosely about his limbs. Grasping them in his hands, he twisted and pushed until he was able to slip his upper body through its strictures, then went to work on the chains wrapped around his legs. In scant moments, he was free. Weaponless, locked inside a chamber somewhere in Norbardin, bruised and battered, but free. All he needed now was to escape. Somehow. He sank heavily onto the throne, chin resting on his fists, while the silence of emptiness echoed around him.
It took some time before Tarn recognized this was no ordinary dungeon cell, cramped and rank with se
wage, dead bodies, and rotten straw. The ceilings here were high and vaulted, upheld by crafted pillars. His throne sat atop a sort of dais, with steps leading up from the dusty floor. They had carried him here blindfolded, but he now knew exactly where he was—an old training hall for the guardians of the North Gate. There were still holes in the walls where racks of weapons once hung. The floor was worn into deep tracks where centuries of feet had pounded the tiles.
Why had they put him here? Tarn wondered. Why not a more secure dungeon cell? The answer was immediately obvious. Jungor wanted a large audience when he came to taunt the king. He very well couldn't lord it over Tarn Bellowgranite in a tiny cell which forced him to limit his witnesses.
Tarn wondered how long it would be before the Hylar thane arrived with his fellow traitors and lackeys. A chamber this large could easily hold fifty or more Hylar dignitaries and their retinues.
Tarn had no intention of waiting around to count them. One thought was uppermost in his mind—the dragon. Even now, it might be stirring in its sleep, roused by all the commotion. The dwarven nation couldn't hope to fight such a creature, neither could they seal off its lair, for chaos dragons could pass through stone as easily as air. All those innocent fools, he thought ruefully, they had laughed when he warned them of the dragon.
At least Tor was safe. Crystal would not long remain in Thorbardin once she learned of Tarn's fate. But what would happen to Tor once he was gone? Would Tor, years hence, even remember his father? Would Jungor be satisfied with exile for the son of the king of Thorbardin, or would he have the child murdered to prevent any future claims to the throne? The thought of that innocent child lying dead, hacked apart by cowards, brought Tarn to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest, gripped in sudden panic.
