Baker's first investigations had confirmed these were indeed the work of Chisel Loremaster, the cherished chronicler of dwarven history. The words were written in the ancient script of the scions. Fortunately, the Helm of Tongues had untangled the arcane language, magically laying it out for Baker in words as clear as modern Hylar. He had learned that the site of the Grotto did in fact lay somewhere within the Life-Tree. Particularly intriguing had been a new piece of information, a suggestion that the ancient dragon lair was not empty. He remembered the text vividly:
The Gray gem's power of Chaos is caught within the Platinum Egg and such power shall be unleashed when the egg is raised by the true ruler of the dwarves.
There was more, much more. Now he went to the wardrobe where he had recalled leaving the helm, then frowned as he saw with surprise that the closet was empty. Not only was the helm missing; he realized that Garimeth's cloaks and boots had been removed. Of course, he had not yet become used to her absence.
Returning to the study, Baker wondered if, in spite of his intentions, he had absently taken the helm down to the thane's quarters. But he was certain that it had been here, just a few days ago when he had been reading the scroll that was still flattened on his desk.
And then he understood.
"Garimeth!" He spat her name with the full awareness of this monstrous betrayal, a theft that struck at more than his person-it reached out to wound his family, to threaten his very legacy. She had taken the artifact out of spite, for she knew that her husband treasured it above all things. And doubtless she knew it could be useful to herself as well.
More significant to Baker than Garimeth's reasons for taking the artifact was the simple fact that the Helm of Tongues was gone. He collapsed wearily into his chair, completely unready to face the task of getting it back. Somehow he would possess it again, but for now he didn't see how. All the scrolls, the secrets of the ancients waiting only for his perusal, would have to wait.
He sat in silent misery for some time. His stomach ached badly enough to double him over in the chair.
"My lord?" Vale's deferential voice gently penetrated Baker's pensive gloom. "Young Master Tarn is here."
"Send him in, please." Baker sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts.
"Hello, Father." Tarn stood in the doorway, his violet eyes regarding his father with an expression the elder dwarf could not read.
"Come in, Tarn, come in. Have a seat while Vale gets you something to drink."
"Thank you, but I'd rather stand."
Flushing, Baker stood and faced his son, biting back a sharp response with a considerable effort.
"Can I ask you something?" Tarn demanded.
"What is it?"
"I want to know what you're going to do."
"About what?" Baker replied, puzzled.
"About Mother, of course!"
"Do?" Baker glowered, his temper rising. "There's not much I can do, wouldn't you say? She left of her own will, after all."
"You drove her away!"
Baker gaped, stunned by the accusation. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he replied curtly. He pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose, glaring at his son.
"Yes I do. She was never welcomed here, never belonged to your Hylar society. I am one who can understand that, better than the rest of this stuck-up band of would-be nobles!"
"Any lack of welcome was her own doing. Garimeth didn't tolerate fools gladly, nor did she hesitate to call them fools to their faces. Such an attitude made it difficult to make friends with those same fools. Not that it ever seemed to bother her much."
"How do you know what bothered her?"
"Apparently I didn't," Baker said, slumping again in his chair. Ignoring his son, he rubbed his temples, then slammed his fist onto the table and stood up in sudden animation. "She took the Helm of Tongues-did you know that?"
"No, she wouldn't do that!" insisted the younger dwarf. His tone turned scornful. "You probably misplaced it again. Did you have your glasses on when you looked for it?"
Baker sighed, tired of the argument even though he felt certain he was right. "I do know that she did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. And the needs or wants of anyone else never figured into her decisions. Now, I've heard all I will tolerate from you on this topic. There are matters facing Thorbardin that make our quarrel seem less than petty. I would like to talk to you about them, if you will listen. Otherwise, you can take your leave."
Tarn glared wordlessly at his father, and Baker would not have been surprised to see the young dwarf turn and stalk from the chamber. But instead Tarn exhaled slowly, then nodded in mute acquiescence.
Baker told his son about the letter he had received from Thane Hornfel. "It sounds as though these forces of Chaos are a menace unlike anything Krynn has ever faced."
"Are you warning the other clans to be prepared?"
"Axel thinks we should keep the news secret from the dark dwarves, for now. He doesn't want to reveal our weakness to the rest of Thorbardin."
"He wouldn't. He's as purebred a Hylar as you can find."
Baker ignored the implied accusation. "And you-what would you do if the decision was yours?"
"I would tell them, of course. All of them. Daergar, Klar-even the Theiwar should know."
"And suppose they use the news as an excuse to mobilize, and then turn against us?"
"I don't think they will," Tarn asserted stubbornly.
Baker muttered a curse, profane even by dwarven standards. But he had decided, and though it rankled him to rely on Tarn, to ask him for help, he would proceed. "That's why I need you. I want you to go to Daerbardin, to carry my message of good will to the thane. You must warn him of the danger, try to convince him that this is truly a dire threat. And you must return to tell me if the Daergar begin to prepare to move against us."
Tarn's exotic eyes, the purple of a twilight in the evening sky, narrowed. Baker waited impassively, wondering what thoughts were going through the mind of this stranger who was his son.
"Father, I will go."
"Good. Make your preparations to leave at once. I'll appoint another emissary to speak to the Theiwar. The Klar, of course, will do whatever the Daergar say."
"Very well," Tarn agreed. "I can be ready to go in two shifts of the boat docks."
"All right. And Tarn…" Baker added as his son turned toward the door.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. And good luck."
Chapter Seven
Duel for a Throne
Surrounded by his phalanx of bodyguards, Darkend Bellowsmoke strode through the north gate of the arena as if the mantle of thane already rested upon his broad shoulders. He heard the acclamation of the throng and chose to take it as praise, though it was just as likely that the gathered Daergar were cheering the prospect of imminent bloodshed. Acutely conscious of the need to make an imperial appearance, Darkend kept a slow and measured progress down the long aisle. He looked neither right nor left, concentrating hard on concealing any outward sign that would give an indication of his wounded leg.
The dark dwarf climbed to the dais, still surrounded by his henchmen. He clutched the mighty mace in his fist, grateful that the pain in his shoulder was bearable. In addition to the tiny stone, Garimeth had brought him some ointments and unguents. This morning Thistle had smeared the oily stuff over all of his hurts. Now Darkend felt that he had nearly regained his full peak of his physical prowess. Most importantly, he was able to walk without a limp. The inflamed wound in his thigh had subsided to a barely tolerable throbbing.
All eyes turned toward the west gates, the route which lead to Gludh Kolgard's house. An expectant hush settled over the vast, domed enclosure as the dark dwarves waited for the last challenger. Darkend stared at that portal as intently as any young hotblood. Although, in his case he hoped fervently that the Daergar were waiting in vain. Slickblade was posted somewhere along that route. If it was at all possible, the assassin would act to kee
p Kolgard from appearing in the Arena of Honor.
Though the great coliseum had been crowded for each of the previous contests, today it seemed as though every dark dwarf from the two clan cities of Daerforge and Daerbardin had tried to find a way into the room. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, they crowded the ranks of the bleachers and stood in a thick mass around the rim of the huge bowl. Even the four aisles leading to the gates had grown packed in the short time since Darkend's entrance. If Gludh Kolgard did in fact appear, he and his entourage would have to force their way through the crowd to reach the stage.
More time passed and the crowd began to simmer uneasily. Fights broke out and several Daergar were killed-though as often as not the bodies remained in place and upright since there was not enough room to move them. Darkend began to allow his hopes to rise; maybe Slickblade had found a way to do the task that he had deemed impossible.
But when the outer gates were flung open with a triumphant clang, Gludh Kolgard was alive and hearty. With his face mask open to reveal the fierce set of his jaw and his mailed fist raised to brandish his huge, double-bladed battle axe, he stood amid the score of dwarves who made up his personal corps of bodyguards. Again the crowd cheered as they took notice that he had entered the south gate-a route that had required a considerable detour from House Kolgard, but which had insured that the challenger avoided any pitfalls or ambushes that had been laid in his predicted path.
Slickblade had failed.
"I challenge you, Darkend Bellowsmoke, for the Throne of Clan Daergar, the mightiest seat in all Thorbardin. I say you are unworthy and the blade of my axe will gladly prove it!"
"Come down here, then, if you are so eager to die!" retorted Darkend. "You have kept this august gathering waiting for too long already!"
Kolgard's response was drowned in the roar of approval, and the very bedrock underfoot seemed to tremble and shudder from the force of thousands of deep, cheering voices. Darkend kept his wide, pale eyes on the face of his adversary. He watched Gludh's bodyguards push a wide path through the crowd so that the challenger could swagger easily, free of any interference.
Abruptly one of Darkend's bodyguards leaped in front of him, then tumbled forward, gagging on a crossbow bolt that pierced his throat. The assailant had been one of the anonymous thousands in the crowd, and Darkend could barely suppress a shudder as he saw how close the missile had come to striking him. Somehow the bodyguard had sensed the danger to his master and had made the ultimate sacrifice in his service.
"An arrow from the crowd? A coward's path!" the patriarch of the Bellowsmoke clan cried as he shook his mace toward the approaching challenger. These words were lost on the Daergar as the excitement built to a crescendo. The dark dwarves, having sipped the first bloodshed, now thirsted madly for the main event.
As Gludh started up the steps leading to the dais, several more silver darts flashed through the crowd. Some were deflected off of bodyguards' raised shields, and a few dwarves of Kolgard's entourage fell writhing, pierced by the lethal weapons. Another of Darkend's men fell before the two main combatants finally came face to face with each other. Each stood in the midst of a semicircle of armored, brawny henchmen.
"Let the matter be decided between us alone," Darkend stated the ritual words.
"And let the will of Reorx be revealed," replied Gludh, clamping shut the smooth steel barrier of his face plate. Even his luminous eyes were lost in the shadows of the narrow vision slits.
With the compact agreed upon, the bodyguards withdrew to just below the ring of the stone dais. There would be no more assassin's arrows for the time being, the time-honored phrases having commenced the formal part of the ritual. The strength and skill of the two combatants alone would decide the fight.
The roaring of the crowd slowly stilled and was replaced by a soft buzz of anticipation. Here and there the bodyguards around the periphery of the dais jockeyed for position, stabbing and chopping at each other until a solid ring of dwarf warriors enclosed the circular platform. Bleeding and moaning, several hapless losers thrashed on the floor behind the henchmen. But these wretches were left to die unnoticed. All eyes focused on the impending duel.
Gludh Kolgard struck first, bringing his long-hafted axe around in a vicious swipe. Darkend didn't even need to step back for this attack was all show and the keen blade passed several inches in front of his tusked faceplate. Gludh followed this move smoothly, skirting sideways around the edge of the platform to keep his weapon between himself and his opponent.
The music of battle, a familiar emotion that mingled rage, hate, and exultation, swept through Darkend. He used the strength of his feelings to toughen his will and focus his power against his enemy-a tactic that was second nature after a lifetime of battle and killing. Even so, his subconscious remained aware of his weakness, the pain of his wounds and the toll taken by the days of previous fighting that had led him up to this moment. His movements seemed slow, like wading through sticky mud. He almost felt drugged, his senses and reactions thick. The deep gouge in his thigh was particularly worrisome. It periodically sent daggers of agony shooting through his leg and hip. He planted his feet with a show of firmness, careful not to reveal any outward sign that would give his opponent a clear suggestion of his vulnerability.
Darkend lowered his mace, clutching the haft in both of his mailed fists as he waved the spiked head of the weapon gently back and forth in the direction of his challenger. He held the center of the dais, pivoting only enough to continue facing the circling Gludh. The crowd rumbled, the noise swelling, expanding to a roaring thunder. The great arena shook and compelled the combatants into action.
Abruptly Gludh charged, the great axe raised high over his head. Darkend backed up for a step, then darted to his left. This forced Darkend's foe to hack the blade down and across his body, an awkward strike that his steel-hafted mace easily parried. Following through, Darkend waded in with his weapon smashing left, right, then back to the left. Now it was Gludh's turn to parry, using his axe to deflect each blow of Darkend's wickedly spiked weapon.
Darkend swept ahead eagerly, hoping to bring the fight to a rapid conclusion. Already he could feel the throbbing in his muscles. Fatigue would soon add weight to his weapon and sluggishness to his every reaction. But Gludh met his onrush with feet planted firmly, the axe held cross-ways in both hands so that ultimately the blows of the mace clattered against an immovable barrier. Defending himself, Gludh seemed to meet the attacks with ease, while Darkend felt his strength draining away with each futile blow.
And then Gludh made a surprising move. Ducking low, he jabbed with the head of his axe almost as if he were stabbing with a spear. In the darkness the moving shadow struck true, and the blunt end of the weapon crashed into Darkend's thigh.
His flesh was protected by a sheath of black steel plate mail, but the wound underneath that plate was still painfully sensitive. With a groan of agony, Darkend staggered backward, striving desperately to hold himself upright. Another attack forced him to pivot and plant his full weight on his injured limb, and the maneuver inevitably sent him rumbling to the floor. Only a frantic roll enabled him to escape the crushing swipe of the axe that smashed the surface where he had fallen. Darkend grasped the steel shaft of his mace with both hands, using the weapon as a bar to deflect the next blow of his enemy's heavy weapon. He managed to knock the wicked blade aside mere inches from the tusked protrusions of his faceplate.
Gludh's blade slashed, barely missing the prone Daergar's fingers. Once again a desperate twist sent the axe blade bouncing into the floor. Darkend kicked his opponent in the knee, forcing him backward and buying enough time for the weary warrior to scramble to his knees. With a wild swing of the mace he pushed Gludh even farther back, and was able to use his good leg to push himself back on his feet.
Trying to lunge in pursuit, Darkend felt his injured leg falter. Although he recovered his balance, his foe was easily able to evade his clumsy swing. Darkend imagined Gludh's elation as his weak
points were revealed to all. Jeers and shouts came from much of the gallery, while others in the bloodthirsty crowd-presumably those with hefty bets on Darkend-groaned in audible dismay. Snarling louder, the injured Darkend drove forward, limping but still moving with surprising agility. He forced his enemy to fall back around the edge of the dais.
But even in his retreat Gludh sneered in expectant triumph. The arrogant sound of his laughter rang in Dark-end's ears. Still the mace-wielding dwarf pressed his attack, reaching farther with each swing until a voice of caution whispered in his mind, reminding him of danger. He knew that Kolgard was toying with him, drawing him into an ever faster pursuit, sapping the thin residue of endurance that allowed his injured leg to hold him up at all.
Darkend halted abruptly at the exact moment Gludh made his sudden move. The retreating dwarf feinted a lunge backward, then planted his feet and swung the mighty axe. The blade whistled past Darkend's chest, a mere inch short of carving a deep and gory wound. The follow-up attack by the mace was feeble, coming nowhere near his opponent. The sounds of the crowd swelled again as the course of battle reversed.
Gludh threw himself into a frenzied attack, bringing the axe downward, then swinging it across from right to left and the reverse. He made a difficult upswing that sent Darkend stumbling to avoid a potentially disemboweling blow. The mace swiped in response, but now Darkend's exhausted shoulders were straining and weariness brought on by a week of duels turned his arms to lead. Again and again he avoided the lethal slashes, but each came a fraction of an inch closer than the previous attack. Inevitably one of the blows would bite deeply into Bellowsmoke's flesh.
Remembering the stone in his pocket, the enchanted item given to him by his sister, Darkend was sorely tempted to draw it forth as a last resort. But some grim vestige of pride held his hand and he found the strength to plant his feet for one last showdown with his attacker. Drawing on his last reserves, he lifted his mace and met his enemy's blows, parrying the deadly axeblade and striking desperately with his own spiked weapon.
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