The thane indicated benches that his servants had arrayed before the throne, and quickly the guests and hosts were all reclining comfortably with good views of both the rack and the Daergar thane.
"Bring on the subject," declared Darkend with a clap of his hands.
Guards immediately hustled into view, pulling along a prisoner. Thistle.
At the sight of the thane she screamed and began to plead. "Sire, what have I done? You are my master. Punish me as you will, but not-"
"Gag her!" directed the thane, unhappy with her stream of verbiage.
The female dwarf's voice was muffled into a series of strangled sobs as the guards hastened to obey. Darkend beamed, watching as she was tightly lashed to the framework of the rack. He was pleased to see that Slickblade had followed his orders with precision. She was not unconscious, nor apparently wounded from her capture.
"This is my favorite mistress, a great treasure of mine," Darkend began. "I intend to offer her life as a bond for the words we are about to exchange, and as a symbol of the bond that shall be formed between our clans."
Thistle moaned in despair at his words, but Darkend continued as if he had heard nothing.
Now he addressed himself specifically to Tufa Bloodeye and Pounce Quickspring. "We gather here in another cause, that of allegiance between our three great tribes, and I thought it only fitting that my own treasure should serve as the seal of that friendship.
To this end he invited each of the visiting thanes to accompany him up to the rack. They were provided with a rope, a golden tassel knotted with silver ends.
"Please, my guests… you must each take an end."
"I shall!" said Tufa Bloodeye, enthusiastically eyeing the weeping Thistle as he took up his cord.
"And I, too," Pounce said seriously, squatting to stare with every evidence of detached curiosity into the female dwarf's bulging eyes. Beads of sweat bursting from her brow, Thistle tried to say something, but could only chew frantically on the gag.
"Good," agreed the thane of the Daergar, placing a hand at either end of the cord which dangled just below Thistle's neck.
"Tonight we shall talk of great deeds, of mighty goals and important promises. In the nature of our sacred trust, we shall commence by taking this cord and sealing the throat, the breath, and the life of my cherished mistress."
"And then, my friends," Darkend declared warmly, as he himself hooked the noose over Thistle's head, "we shall commence a celebration that, Reorx willing, shall not cease for a thousand years."
Chapter Nine
An Emissary
Already Tarn could see the improvements that Belicia had made in her ragtag company. First of all, the number of prospective dwarf warriors had more than tripled in a few days. Obviously, Axel and Baker were somehow finding fresh recruits from among the population of Hybardin. And now the dwarfwoman had her recruits marching in time and forming their shield wall with a marked sense of speed and precision. From his comfortable seat atop a sack of mulch, Tarn watched the Hylar train, a process that now required a sizeable swath of the dockside.
"Line forward!" Belicia Felixia barked out the command. Her dwarves advanced, shields and swords set, their straight line unwavering.
"Double march! Now, charge!"
The half-breed couldn't help but admire the quick but coordinated advance made by the line. Now the young dwarves rushed forward with lusty abandon, a hundred voices rising in a fierce, swelling roar. The pounding of boots was a thunderous drumbeat on the stone ground, and Tarn was surprised as he felt a tingle of martial frenzy.
But of course it was just a drill. Belicia halted her advancing shield wall at the very brink of the water's edge and then the recruits were dismissed to their barracks up on Level Three.
"You're making progress," he congratulated her when she took a seat beside him.
"I know, but it's a big wharf we've got to defend-all the way around the island. We still have nowhere near enough troops to hold the whole line."
"I'm sure it won't come to that," Tarn declared earnestly.
"Well, I hope your trip to Daerbardin can help keep the peace. Are you going soon?"
"I have a berth on the next lake boat, but I'm sure I can get a seat on the one after that. Tomorrow, if you can get a little time away." He took her hand, looked at her warmly. "We haven't had a chance lately… but maybe now…"
"Not now." Belicia surprised him with the sharpness of her tone. " have important work to do. I'm teaching a hundred youngsters to shoot bows and arrows and these recruits have work to do on the city's defenses. And you, too, have a mission to accomplish."
"Yes, I do." He flushed and stood up. "I can see that's what matters!"
"Tarn, grow up! Of course it's what matters!" Belicia shook her head in exasperation. "But you might remember that you've been hanging around the docks for months, doing a whole lot of nothing. You had time then, and so did I! But it seemed to me you weren't ready to take advantage of it."
He hung his head. "I guess you're right," he said stiffly, stung because so much of what she said was true. He remembered weeks, months of lethargy when nothing seemed important or urgent. Time had stretched away from him then, an apparently eternal stream of placid ease.
And now that lost time suddenly seemed precious.
"Do you think you'll be allowed to see the thane of the Daergar?" asked Belicia.
"I think so. First, I'll stop and see my mother. She's gone back to her family home near the port. With any luck, she'll be able to help me get a proper interview."
"I wish you good luck with your mission," Belicia said in obvious sincerity. "And… and I'll look forward to seeing you when you get back. All right?"
But he was still too stung and too proud to soften in the face of her pleasantries, so they parted with uncertainty lingering in the air between them.
He made his way to the east dock, where the passengers were boarding the chain ferry to Daerforge. Unlike the slender, sharp-prowed freeboats that plied the waters around all the dwarven cities, the ferry was wide and raftlike. This also insured that it was large and stately, offering comfortable booths and even sleeping accommodations to those who wished to nap over the six hour voyage. Now the craft was nearly full of passengers, mostly dark dwarves, though Tarn saw representatives from all the other clans-except the Aghar, of course.
This was perhaps his tenth voyage on such a ferry, but he still watched with fascination as the great hook lowered from the chain that was slowly clanking over the boat. The progress of the metal links slowed into an eerie silence and dwarf boatmen swiftly latched the steel prong onto the prow. Tarn braced his feet as the gears overhead resumed with a sturdy lurch and the broad ferry was pulled away from the dock. A small wash of water rippled away from the hull as the craft began its slow, steady progress across the lake.
He found his berth amidships, a comfortable couch in a booth which he shared with three Daergar. The largest and most vocal quickly introduced the three as workmen who had helped to deliver the most recent shipment of raw steel. He was a black-bearded hulk with wide set eyes, now squinting against the Hybardin dock lights. He cheerily offered the half-breed a bottle, and Tarn swilled down a fiery draught of fungus wine.
"We've got a spot of pay. Plannin' to pass the time with a few throws of the dice. Join us, if you've the cost of a game," he suggested with a look of appraisal at Tarn's silk jacket and elegant, polished boots.
"It would be a pleasure," the half-breed agreed readily, producing a few steel coins without putting any real dent in his purse.
They passed the bottle and the hours, gambling with an assortment of pegs and spikes cast in various patterns onto the deck. The lights of Hybardin soon faded into an agreeable wash in the background as the clinking chain pulled their craft farther across the silent sea. Even from a great distance the Life-Tree stood outlined in its funnel shape, marked by thousands of twinkling lights that gradually merged into a general glow.
Tarn
enjoyed the crude, easy sociability of the dark dwarves. He liked the way his comrades insulted each other without taking offense. It was an interesting contrast, he thought, to the way things were managed among the Hylar. Even saying farewell to Belicia had seemed to him like walking through a maze of verbal traps.
And at least one of those traps had been sprung, he reflected ruefully. Suddenly wishing that he'd been more sensitive and understanding during that conversation, he vowed to make it up to the dwarfwoman as soon as he saw her again.
Finally, with his head swimming slightly and his purse poorer by a score of steel pieces, Tarn felt the darkness that was the true underworld settle all around him. Daerforge rose from the black distance, and his keen eyes made out the terraces and balconies, the bulwarks and towers that jutted from the steep cliffs surrounding the dark dwarf harbor. There, near the top of the crest, just before the wall curved outward to form the lofty roof over the underground sea, he saw the proud bastion of House Bellowsmoke, his mother's great manor.
The surroundings were fully black, with no sign of lantern or fire, but as the boat pulled into a stone-walled slip carved into the bedrock of the waterfront, Tarn was struck less by the darkness of this city than by its strange silence. There was activity all over the place-cargoes loaded onto other boats nearby, here a hundred passengers debarking from the chain ferry, there crowded into a narrow plaza arcing between the sea and the cliff, a thriving market bustling with sellers and buyers alike. Yet everywhere the Daergar went about their business stealthily. They spoke no louder than a hushed whisper, and even the scuffing of the steel-hulled boat against the stone wharf was but a muted scrape. Only when the doors of a waterfront inn burst open did the true and raucous nature of the dark dwarves echo across the docks for a few minutes.
Weaving slightly as he bid farewell to his traveling companions, Tarn realized that the fiery wine had been surprisingly potent. Still, he was able to climb out of the boat and make his way through the dockside plaza to the base of a long, curving path. He started uphill, and was soon out of breath. This was a grade that really could have used a flight of stairs, he thought with a ragged gasp-and he was only just now coming to the second level of the city!
Daerforge had three different elevations. On this second one he paused to catch his breath and to take a look over the lake. Below him was a sprawling slope that looked like a garbage dump or the refuse of an ancient landslide. He remembered that this was Agharbardin, the home of many thousands of gully dwarves, though from this height he couldn't see any signs of activity in the ravines and troughs among the great rocks.
Moving up again, Tarn passed great manors, each a blocky structure more than half-buried in the bedrock of the steep mountainside. Some were guarded by spiked towers, others by lofty walls with many twists and turns. The pathway skirted the base of some houses and overlooked more of them as it climbed. Tarn saw that the stone houses were well fortified from above as well. Chutes had been excavated between many of the structures, insuring that any large band of attackers could be swept into a trap that would send the whole company cascading downhill. He had visited here many times since his earliest years, but had never before noticed this defense. Indeed, as he looked around, it occurred to him that the Daergar seemed quite a bit better prepared for war than were the Hylar.
Finally he stood before the lofty gate, a steel ramp upraised between two tall towers of black marble. A ditch, dark and full of pungent muck, blocked his path. He recognized the stone drum beside the moat. He pounded on the hollow boulder with the hilt of his sword, three long raps followed by a trio of staccato taps.
At the signal that identified him as one of the family, chains immediately clanked through their gears and the steel ramp slowly and quietly began to descend. By the time it provided him with a walkway, Tarn could see servants and a gateman waiting to receive him.
"Master Tarn," declared Karc, a grizzled footman Tarn had known since his earliest years, "It is an honor to have you among us again."
He allowed the attendants to remove his cape and satchel and was shown into a parlor while Karc went to find his mother. Garimeth materialized shortly thereafter, just as he was uncorking the carafe of mead that had been presented to him by a bowing servant.
"I was expecting you," Garimeth Bellowsmoke said, "though I didn't think you would get here quite so soon."
"I am here on business, I'm afraid," Tarn replied, pouring a couple of glasses and passing one to his mother. "Duty calls. I am on a mission for the thane."
He couldn't keep an element of self-mockery out of his voice, and Garimeth laughed. "I shouldn't think it would take much of an excuse to get you out of Hybardin, although it's good and timely that you've done so. You should stay here with me. You'll have a whole wing to yourself. This is a good time to be a Bellowsmoke in Daerforge."
"I am a Bellowgranite, remember?" he said, half sarcastically.
She sniffed. "Pay attention. Your dear uncle has just attained the throne of the Two Cities and he has great plans afoot. You will be able to play an important role, whatever you happen to think of your heritage."
"Your brother Darkend?" Tarn was impressed. "Good. My mission is to seek the thane himself and give him a message from my father. All the easier if it's Uncle Dark-end."
"What message?" Garimeth queried, her brows knitting thoughtfully.
"You heard about the letter from Thane Hornfel, didn't you? And the 'Storm of Chaos, a danger that hangs over all Krynn like a blade of fire'? Well, I convinced father that the news should be shared with the other clans-that we should all make preparations in case of danger in Thorbardin."
"Indeed. Well, there's no hurry Darkend is in Daerbardin and it will take you half a day to get there from Daerforge. Why don't you wait for a cycle? I'm expecting him here tomorrow and you can give him your message in person here."
The change in his worlds seemed to be catching up to Tarn and the notion of resting here, relaxing for a brief while, had a strong appeal. He helped himself to another glass of mead. "This is an excellent brew. Shall I fill yours up as well?"
Garimeth held out her glass and regarded her son through narrowed eyes. "Do you understand what kind of power I'm talking about?" she asked, leaning back to sip from her dark beverage. "It's rather unprecedented."
"To have our family on the Daergar throne. I'd say it's extraordinary."
"Not just that," Gari said impatiently. "But Darkend has been in conference with the thanes of the Theiwar, and the Klar… and it went rather well."
"Really? Remarkable! All three clans?" Tarn asked eagerly. "That is unprecedented. Are they still here? Perhaps I could see them-"
"No. They departed a cycle ago. But surely your mission doesn't concern them?"
"Not in so many words, but I know my father, the thane, was going to send emissaries to them as well. It's actually a rather ambitious plan that he has. I think it might work."
"Karc." Garimeth raised her voice slightly, and the attendant appeared immediately. "Bring us another bottle-the special batch from the back cellar if you please."
"Very well, my lady."
"Now, this plan you speak of?" She turned her attention back to Tarn as soon as the servant withdrew. "You say that Baker is informing the Klar and the Theiwar of the danger and trying to make some kind of an alliance?"
"Yes! And with the Daergar, too. That's where I'm going to try and be some… help." Tarn was aware that his mind felt very sharp, but for some reason his tongue was growing thick in his mouth. He probably should slow down with the mead, but then, it had been a long journey and the beverage was really quite refreshing. Taking another sip, he confirmed more detail for his mother.
Tarn continued to talk as the new bottle was brought and tapped. His mother declined with a gentle wave of her hand over the top of her glass, so the younger dwarf swilled and spoke contentedly. He had a brief recollection of his father's rude accusation that his mother had stolen the Helm of Tongues. Tarn felt a mo
mentary inclination to ask her about it. But not now-the time wasn't right-and besides, the mead was so delicious.
Tarn was taken quite by surprise when the room began to spin. He reached for the table… his chair… anything… but his fingers were numb, his hands like useless clubs. His blurring vision gave way to darkness, and he didn't feel the thud as his limp body collapsed to the floor.
Interlude of Chaos
The stuff of Chaos tore at the fabric of countless worlds. War raged across the planes. The Queen of Darkness was pulled from the realm of her dark Abyss, summoned like all her pantheon by a transcendent need, forced into battle with the Father of all Gods. For the first time in her eons of existence she fought in the same cause as her nemesis, Paladine-yet even with the aid of that great platinum dragon and all the other deities in Krynn's cosmos, they were sorely pressed.
For Father Chaos was a wild and untamed enemy, rapacious and unstoppable now that he had finally gained release. In the places where immortals dwelled, toward the already battle-scarred face of Krynn, the blight of wild death and destruction swelled unchecked. Takhisis was compelled farther and farther from her own domain and had no attention to spare the Abyss.
And so from that place of nothing and everything they came, by wing and claw, by darkness and from hunger, a horde that served a single goal and followed but one master: The daemon warrior Zarak Thuul. Astride his mighty fire dragon, he gathered his legion from all the corners of the Dark Queen's realm.
In the vanguard came a host of shadow-wights from the vileness of never-life, casting an eerie dark blanket through a vast swath of existence. These were beings whose presence evoked horror and dismay, for they were the crudest of killers. Not only did they claim the lives of their victims, but in so doing they obliterated any memory, any lasting impact or continuing influence created by the hapless one's existence.
Other serpentine things also answered the summons of the mighty one. Primus was but one of the fire dragons-the greatest and most terrible to be sure-amongst a great host of blazing monsters that swept into the daemon warrior's wake. They swarmed into the sky like flaming spears, wings pulsing, great necks extending. Their fires were the beacons, pennants, and martial banners of the daemon warrior's army.
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