The Last Thane cw-1

by Douglas Niles

  Following the blazing meteor that was Primus, the creatures of Chaos swarmed to the light and the fire and the promise of destruction. They flew through the thick murk that spills into the gaps between the planes as they followed the beacon, advancing to the command and the pleasure of the mighty daemon warrior.

  And Zarak Thuul, feeling the unstoppable rush of combined power, threw back his massive head and howled with laughter.

  Chapter Ten

  Dark Chambers

  His tongue was thick and terribly dry, like a dead, dusty corpse that had somehow come to rest in his mouth. When he tried to open his eyes his head was wracked with pain. He immediately twisted on some flat, yielding surface. He choked and gagged, mindlessly sick.

  For a long time he held his head in his hands, groaning feebly and trying to squeeze out the agony that throbbed with such violence between his ears. Finally he rolled back onto what he now realized was a mattress. Still his mouth was dry and foul, and he gasped for air.

  "By Reorx. Water. I need water!" He choked out the sounds, scarcely aware that he was speaking aloud.

  "Here. Drink." A gourd was placed against his hand and he instinctively pulled it to his lips, quaffing greedily-and then spitting out a great mouthful of something really vile.

  "What is this?" he demanded, "Dragon piss?"

  The force of his voice brought a further throbbing to his aching head. Trying to ignore the pain, he blinked, but saw only vague shadows in the utter darkness of the room.

  "No!" The stranger's tone was indignant. "This fine gully grog! You no like, you no drink!"

  Tarn groaned again, closing his eyes and sinking onto the mattress in utter despair. Gully grog? And that accent… the petulant tone of wounded pride-not to mention the words spoken. This fellow beside him was clearly a gully dwarf.

  But how had he come to be here? Indeed, where was he?

  For a long time the throbbing in his head was too violent, too painful, for Tarn to think at all. Instead he merely lay in utter misery, unconscious of anything except for the awful pain and the horrid feeling in his mouth. He might have slept again or faded from awareness-he couldn't tell for sure-but when he finally forced his gummy eyelids apart he again saw the figure, squat and rotund, sitting beside his bed.

  This time he could make out details: a pair of bright eyes, close set and sparkling, stared at him with unblinking attention. The rest of the room was large and well-chiseled. He could see a brass latch on the door, and gradually became aware that the covering of his mattress was a fine bearskin, a pelt very rare and treasured in Thorbardin. From these facts he deduced that he wasn't in some squalid gully dwarf hovel. He took this fact as no small relief.

  But it still didn't answer the rest of his questions. He forced himself to reach backward in his mind, trying to reconstruct events. He saw Belicia, frowning at him, then turning her back. She was displeased. Why?

  Because he was going away! The answer came like a stab of light, even though he realized that he had not defined the exact reason for Belicia Felixia's displeasure. But part of it was true-he had been going away. He remembered now. The lake, the crossing from light into darkness.

  His mother's house. That was the last memory he had and it came to him with full and vivid recollection. The discussion in her parlor, the mead-the mead, by Reorx! Especially the second bottle, the special brew she had asked Karc to bring. Had Garimeth taken any drink from that bottle? He hadn't been paying careful attention, but he was pretty sure that she hadn't.

  Of course-his mother had drugged him! His own mother! And now he was no doubt in some chamber of her house.

  How could she do such a thing? And why? Why?

  For a time he berated himself for his own stupidity. Certainly no self-respecting Daergar would accept a drink from one who refused to partake of the same beverage! How could he have been so careless, so disregarding of the most basic precautions?

  The answer was clear: he had spent so much time among the Hylar where trust and goodwill were widespread. He had lost the edge needed to make one's way through dark dwarf society. He thought of the Helm of Tongues, how he had argued with his father over the possibility of his mother's having stolen the artifact. Of course Baker Whitegranite must have been right. He remembered his mother regarding him through narrowed eyes, subtly encouraging him to drink. What had they been talking about? Had he given away any of the thane's secrets?

  "Why? Why did you do it, mother?" he croaked the question aloud, through the painful splitting of his dry lips.

  "I not your mother, silly. You say thirsty, I give drink. You say 'dragon piss' and I no give you more drink. That why."

  In spite of everything, Tarn uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He had entirely forgotten his odd companion. After all, once he had realized that he was in his mother's house, it had seemed more likely than anything that the gully dwarf was a figment of his fevered imagination. Certainly Aghar-bashing was considered fine sport among the Daergar. Even the lowliest of his mother's servants would have had free rein to strangle or crush the little wretch if his presence were discovered.

  "Who are you? And where are we?" His voice rasped painfully. He craved a draught of any liquid, no matter how vile. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his sturdy legs over the edge of the bed. He realized that his boots had been removed from his feet.

  "Regal Wise-Always. That my name. We in the Big House."

  Tarn regarded the Aghar, observing the sparse beard straggling from a rounded chin, the small, rotund figure, and a face dominated by a pair of bright, curious eyes. "What 'Big House'? Is this Daerforge, the manor of Garimeth Bellowsmoke?"

  "Big Big House. And you in Agharhome, buddy. Best next best place in all Thorbardin!"

  "No! I've seen Agharbardin. Nobody but a gully dwarf would go there, and I can tell you that it's not like this."

  Tarn made the denial with a great deal of conviction. He could tell that this was a fine sleeping chamber, with a bed fit for nobility. Now that he was upright, he also noticed a settee, garment wardrobes, and a dressing table. It all looked vaguely familiar. This was not his usual room, but he was almost certain that he was somewhere within his mother's house in the port city of the dark dwarves.

  "Well, you come to Agharhome here. You right by dark dwarves-they take you boots and plop into bed."

  Forcing himself to think, Tarn reviewed his memory of Thorbardin, including the large gully dwarf slum called Agharbardin-or Agharhome, as the wretched inhabitants called it. He remembered that the gully dwarf city was a sprawling wasteland adjacent to Daerforge, but the two cities were distinct entities and clearly unalike. As a youngster during his visits to his mother's home city, he had joined Daergar youths in pitching rocks from the balconies and plazas of their city, hooting with derision as the missiles had tumbled through the crowded Aghar hovels that lined the lower elevations of the cliff. Come to think of it, he had thrown some of those rocks from the ramparts of this very manor. The squalid lairs of the gully dwarves had not been terribly far away.

  "Regal. That's a good name, I have to say. How did you get here?"

  "I walk. Me good walker, for sure."

  "I'm sure you are." Tarn winced, knowing he could be in for a long conversation. "I mean, where did you go to come to this part of… er, Agharhome?"

  "Over there… where I go now!" Suddenly the sturdy little fellow bounced to his feet and dashed with startling alacrity across the sleeping chamber, disappearing into one of the wardrobes that had been standing open. The door shut with a loud clunk, but then he realized that the noise had come from the large door to his room.

  His mother stood in the portal now, staring at him with a pinched, thoughtful expression. "I see that you're awake. Actually, one of the guards thought he heard you talking to yourself." She looked around suspiciously.

  "Yes," he stated in a controlled angry voice, "I make better company than most people."

  Garimeth sniffed as she
came into the room followed by a pair of armed guards. "You could do with a bath," she declared acidly.

  Vaguely Tarn smelled the lingering aftermath of Regal Wise-Always.

  "I didn't sleep very well," he complained. "Something got hold of my stomach. Maybe you can tell me what it was?"

  "It was Aminus Hybrythia." She gave the name of a rare fungus, widely known for its soporific effects. "It served its purpose, I have to admit."

  "And what purpose was that?" demanded Tarn, rising to his feet and staggering in spite of his determination to show no weakness. He clamped his jaws against a swelling wave of nausea. "Why did you knock me out? My orders were to speak to Uncle Darkend, the new thane, and I must do so right away."

  His mother's expression remained stoic, though the two guards who held small but lethal crossbows raised their weapons fractionally. Finally the truth dawned on Tarn.

  "What day is it?" he asked dully.

  "You've slept for the last three cycles. Poor thing, you seemed to be terribly tired."

  "Then he's visited Daerforge and gone back to his palace already?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Then I must go to Daerbardin and talk to him!"

  "You'll do no such thing." Now the guards stepped forward to flank his mother as she moved closer to him. "For two reasons-one of which is for your own good-though you're probably too thick-headed to see it."

  He waited, saying nothing, numb even to the retching of his stomach and the aching in his head.

  "First, you're on a fool's errand. Darkend Bellowsmoke has no more intention of listening to Hylar counsel than he does of taking a goat for his wife."

  "You can't know that!" Tarn protested.

  "See-too thick, like I said. But it's true. In fact, after hearing you out, your uncle would have to kill you before letting you run back to Hybardin."

  "That is why you knocked me out for three days?" he asked sarcastically.

  "Don't tempt me to make it longer," she warned.

  "How long do you plan to hold me here?"

  "I can't have you talking to Darkend. This is not a good time for such a family reunion. And believe it or not, this is the only place you'll be safe."

  "Why can't I talk to Darkend? And why are you making it your business to see that I don't?"

  "He's my brother, dearie. I've looked after his best interests ever since we were children together. Listen to me. What do you think Darkend has been doing since he took the throne? And why do you think he was meeting with the thanes of the Klar and Theiwar?"

  "What do you mean?" Tarn's voice was dull.

  "Perhaps you'd like to have a look."

  Garimeth indicated the door. Sensing the alertness of the two guards and the arrows pointed at his back, Tarn followed her outside. They stood on one of the wide plazas of the great manor, a place with a view of the crescent of Daerforge's waterfront and the broad swath of the sea beyond. There was a lot of activity there, columns of dark dwarves forming on the docks and collecting in the streets beyond the waterfront.

  The bay, Tarn saw immediately, was thick with boats. A great, metal-hulled flotilla was in the process of boarding and gathering at the dockside of Daerforge. The scene bristled with armed Daergar. This was the embarkation of an army that could only have one goal, one destination.

  Tarn's eyes rose to the spire of illuminated rock in the middle of the subterranean sea. Hybardin stood out like a beacon from the murk of the underworld, torches and lanterns and bonfires lighting the pillar like an outline of distant stars. Specks of illumination reflected in the black stillness of the water. It was his imagination to be sure, but Tarn heard the banter of the dockyard markets, the tapping of kegs, and the searing of grilled meats-all against the backdrop of cheerful Hylar society. He suddenly realized that he missed home very much.

  And he wondered if he would ever see it again.

  "The Klar? The Theiwar, too? It's a general attack?" he asked, masking his rising panic by the cool disinterest of his voice. He was terribly afraid. All he could think about was Belicia Felixia and her newly-trained company of novices.

  "Yes. The Theiwar shall come by boat from the other side of the sea and the Klar are taking the tunnels of the high route. With any luck, they'll be charging into that nest of grand dames and doddering old fools on Level Twenty-eight before the Hylar even know the attack is underway."

  Tarn knew the passages she meant. The great homes of the nobles were on the highest of Hybardin's levels. Many of these had access to passages bored through the great dome of rock that arched over the sea. During the thousands of years Thorbardin had been inhabited, these tunnels had been expanded into a network of passages that could be used to connect Hybardin to virtually any other part of the great dwarf kingdom. Since they granted no access to the outside world, however, they had only peripherally been considered by those who planned for the Life-Tree's defense.

  Level Twenty-eight was where Baker Whitegranite's house was, where his mother had lived for decades. The people who lived there now had been his mother's neighbors, her peers, and her companions since before Tarn had been born. He felt a wave of revulsion now at the thought that she could discuss their impending doom with such coldness. At the same time, he sensed that it was important not to let her see his true reaction.

  "And Darkend organized this whole attack in the last few days?" he pressed.

  "Actually, he's been planning it for some months. Since before he became thane, actually. My brother's a very good planner-not a dull, plodding scholar like your father. Darkend was waiting for a certain piece of news. When he got it, he was ready to move."

  "Word about Thane Hornfel and the Hylar army!" Tarn's eyes tightened on his mother's face. He spoke heatedly in spite of his earlier resolve for discretion. "And you brought word from your own husband. You betrayed my father, the thane, the whole city."

  "If you don't think the Hylar deserve it, then you've been sleepwalking through life," she retorted sharply. "For too many centuries the smug Hylar have been lords of Thorbardin, and the time for their arrogant rule has passed."

  But Tarn's mind was following other paths. "Planned for months, while Darkend was waiting for word… Then you have been part of this conspiracy all that time. And your divorcing my father had nothing to do with him?"

  "It had everything to do with him. But I learned of my brother's ambitions and bided my time until my departure could serve a dual purpose."

  "And the Helm of Tongues-did you take it just as father claims?"

  "Of course," his mother snapped in exasperation. "The artifact has use to me. Indeed, I have in mind far more practical applications than your father's esoteric research. You might say that it is a key to part of my own little plan."

  Tarn wanted to ask other questions, to probe farther into his mother's schemes. For a moment he considered challenging her, but he lacked the will. He was surprised to realize that Garimeth actually frightened him a little. Instinctively he took a step backward.

  "What do you intend to do with me?" he asked. Once again he was suddenly very aware of his dry mouth, of the ache that had settled from his skull to permeate his entire body. His stomach was unsteady, but he now knew it was hunger. "Can I have something to eat and drink?"

  "Of course. I have no wish to punish you. After all, you're my son. But of course, I can't let you go just yet. You're also your father's son, and that part of you will be in a hurry to get back to Hybardin. And as I have said, I cannot allow that."

  The guards ushered him back to his room, where Tarn was relieved to note that the wardrobe door was shut. The two bowmen stood watch until, a few minutes later, Karc brought a pitcher of cold water, another pitcher of beer, and a variety of bread, cheeses, and fungi.

  "Thanks, old dwarf," Tarn said affectionately. "I don't suppose this beer came from that special batch, did it?"

  "I really must apologize for the deception, Master Tarn," the venerable attendant said with apparent sincerity. "And no, you wil
l find this repast quite untainted. As long as you must be detained, I shall do what I can to make the time pass pleasantly."

  Karc and the guards departed. Tarn heard the door locked securely after it had closed behind them. He stood and listened carefully for several moments, certain that he heard three pairs of footsteps walk away.

  Only after another full minute had passed did he cross to the wardrobe and pull open the thin door. He was determined to vigorously question Regal Wise-Always. Instead, he was startled to find himself staring into a small, empty closet. The back wall was the stone of the room's outer wall, and when he knocked on the surface there was none of the resonance that might have indicated a concealed passage.

  Unsettled, he closed the door, then checked the other wardrobes. He was certain this was the one Regal had used for his escape. At first Tarn had assumed the gully dwarf knew a hiding place, but now he was certain that the Aghar used some secret path into his mother's house. And not just her house, but the very room where he was imprisoned.

  And, Tarn figured, any way into the house was likely to work equally well as a way out.

  Unless he had imagined the whole encounter. After all, his mind was still clouded by toxic fungus, and hadn't the guards said they heard him talking to himself?

  He settled down to eat and drink, and for a time he was able to forget about everything except sating his hunger and thirst. He gulped down the whole pitcher of water, and half the beer. After many slices of thick, flavored bread, he began to feel better.

  That was when his mind starting asking questions and making insinuations-even accusations. First of all, he saw that Axel Slateshoulders had been right and that he, Tarn, had been wrong. It was a mistake to want to inform the dark dwarves of the Hylar misfortune. Indeed, the matter of Hornfel's predicament and the threat of the Chaos storms had seemed utterly irrelevant to his mother, except insofar as it kept the Hylar army away and opened up the possibility of dark dwarf treachery.