"Those marchers are coming this way," Belicia said, after listening for a careful moment. "They'll be here soon."
"Take cover," Tarn suggested, pointing to a shadowy alcove a short distance back from the street.
He, Belicia, and the dozen or so gully dwarves slipped into the yawning doorway of a ruined inn. The building had been shattered, walls and ceiling collapsed, but they were able to find hiding places with good views of the dragon-excavated passage. Eyes on the mouth of the tunnel, the half-breed waited for the appearance of the first ranks of the ascending dark dwarves.
The first black-armored Daergar came forth in a skirmish line, many with crossbows ready or swords, drawn. Right behind them was a robed figure that Tarn stared at, then recognized.
"Slickblade!" whispered the half-breed, feeling a rush of hatred. Beside Slickblade were two other familiar figures.
"And there she is-your mother!" hissed Belicia, her hand tightening on his arm.
"Also Darkend Bellowsmoke, the Daergar thane," Tarn added in a whisper. "My uncle."
More of the Daergar warriors moved past the trio to work their way through the ruined streets. Fortunately, none came to check the smoldering hole where Tarn and his companions were huddling. The half-breed hunched as low as possible, keeping an eye fixed to the narrow crack between two rocks.
The assassin, the thane, and the dwarfwoman were next out of the tunnel. Immediately behind them marched rank upon rank of armored Daergar.
"First company, take that road!" shouted Darkend Bellowsmoke, sending two hundred Daergar charging along the street toward the lift station. In quick fashion more dark dwarves were dispersed in all directions as they emerged onto Level Five. Tarn had to drop out of sight, then strained to hear as more and more of the enemy marched past. He dared to steal another glance when he recognized his mother's voice.
"Zarak Thuul must have gone that way!" Garimeth declared, pointing through a series of buildings that had been flattened by the wings of the fire dragon.
"By Reorx, there's no catching him!" wailed Darkend, obviously distraught.
"There might be, but we've got to move fast!" she urged.
"Hurry, then!" barked the thane of the Daergar. Accompanied by Slickblade and his sister, he started along the rubble-strewn path. They moved right past Tarn's hiding place. "Find him before he goes any higher!"
So frantic were the trio in their pursuit that they didn't notice the half-breed and his companions slinking through the wreckage of a nearby building. As soon as they were out of sight of the dark dwarf legions, Tarn and Belicia led the gully dwarves over a wall and around a pair of columns. They paused a moment only before swarming against the trio of Daergar from three sides. Several Aghar tackled the assassin while Tarn drew his silver sword and lunged at the thane.
"Tarn!" cried Garimeth, surprisingly glad to see her son-at least her voice sounded glad.
"Give me the helm, Mother!" he demanded, his sword poised at Darkend's throat.
The Daergar leader sputtered in fury. Slickblade squirmed nimbly, killing a gully dwarf with a blow from his long dagger and breaking free to stand next to the thane. Tarn aimed a stab at Slickblade, who frantically twisted out of reach, and the distraction gave Darkend a chance to break from the scene. The thane ran back through the rubble at full speed.
"Help us! Over here!" Darkend Bellowsmoke's panicked cries drew a phalanx of warriors scrambling to his aid. Tarn looked around wildly, realizing that his mother and the assassin had sprinted away.
"We've got to get out of here!" cried Belicia.
So Tarn and his companions ran, scuttling through the ruins, spinning down a side lane, and darting through partially ruined buildings until they had left the dark dwarves-and, unfortunately, several of the gully dwarves-behind.
"I must have been mad!" groaned the half-breed. "To think I could just snatch it away from her in the middle of her brother's army."
"We had to try," Belicia consoled. She put an arm around him.
"But I was doomed to fail!" Will I always fail? He wanted to ask that question of the gods, but he had neither the strength nor the time to rail against fate.
"Is this what you wanted?" asked Regal Everwise, swinging a leather satchel into Tarn's arms. "I hope so. You carry big heavy thing. Too much for me."
Pulling the drawstring to open it, the half-breed looked down into the bag to see the Helm of Tongues.
Chapter Twenty-six
Reunion
"Are we too late to do anything?" asked Tarn in dismay as they emerged onto the ruins of yet another level. They thought they were somewhere around Eight or Nine, though all familiar landmarks had been obscured by rubble, smoke, and soot. They passed through a place that might have once been a garden, but the fungus and ferns had been smashed into compost and spattered with a mix of muddy, ash-stained water. Nearby was the shaft of the Great Lift, filled with rubble from which jutted the twisted wreckage of girders and one of the transport cages.
Stunned and dismayed, the half-breed shambled through the remains of the city of his birth, his youth, and his home. Hybardin had been ravaged beyond recognition. Guilt tore at him; anger clouded his eyes. With a growl of fury he kicked at a broken beam and looked around for some enemy he could smite with steel. But there was no one, nothing but this seemingly endless devastation.
"We're losing the city from below as the dark dwarves advance into the levels that the dragon has already burned," Belicia said gently, bringing him back to his senses. "Our only hope is to get ahead of them and mount a concerted counterattack."
"What if the Klar are attacking Level Twenty-eight again?" groaned Tarn, who had learned of that incident from Belicia. "What if the top of the city has suffered as much as the lower levels?"
She didn't answer. There wasn't really any answer, the half-breed realized.
Smoke was thick in the air, and not the clean coal smoke of a roaring forge. Instead, it was a choking vapor of thick, reddish hue, like nothing the half-breed had ever experienced before. They found a few Hylar warriors picking through the rubble. These battered veterans looked up as the newcomers approached. They were dazed, though they showed no sign of fear. But neither did they have the air of dwarves who were ready for a fight. Tarn sensed that these Hylar had already admitted defeat.
One grizzled dwarf, a veteran who had a wooden peg in place of his left leg, stood with a large battle-axe near a hole in the floor. "The dragon went on upward an hour ago. No telling how many levels are bored straight through."
"And the dark dwarves?" Belicia asked.
"Haven't made it this far yet. I heard there was a young warrior called Farran Thornwhistle who somehow got a few Hylar dwarves into a shield wall across the mouth of the cave one level down. He held for a long time, but last I heard they'd been overrun and killed to the last dwarf. Now we're trying to get the rest of these Hylar up to safety."
Belicia drew a sharp gasp at the news, and Tarn remembered a young recruit, freshly knocked in the shins by his stern teacher.
"What word of the thane?" asked Tarn.
"Came through here before on the main lift shaft. He and Axel Slateshoulders were with the last group to take the lift." The dwarf cleared his throat, shaking his head in awe.
"What is it? What happened?" demanded Tarn.
"The lift jammed fifty feet below. There was a bunch of them shadows crawling up after it and then the whole tunnel collapsed. Cage was pinched tight, but Baker Whitegranite held off the shadows with his sword until everyone got off. They called him a hero, those survivors. Now you can see even the lift station is buried. They had to climb up like you did. Word was they barely got away!" he concluded.
"Let's get to the Thane's Atrium," Tarn said urgently.
"A lot of the stairways are still open," advised the axeman. "They'll be less crowded farther from the lift stations, I'm guessing."
"Hurry!" Tarn shouted for the attention of the gully dwarves, a few of whom had already wandered off.
Together with about eight or ten of his original crew of Aghar, they ran along the street, dodging blocks of stone, broken timbers and beams, and a tragic number of bodies. Several stairwells were nearby, but each of these was thronged by dwarves seeking to flee upward, so they kept running, making their way into the emptier reaches on the periphery.
"Here's one!" Belicia cried, finally discovering an entrance to a servants' stair in an alley behind several great houses. Kicking stones out of the way, she got the Aghar to help move a heavy beam, and finally they cleared enough space to get into the constricted passageway.
They rushed upward, gasping for breath as they emerged onto the street again at Level Ten and made their way toward the thane's headquarters. Even here, the avenues were filled with smoke and flame. Most were abandoned and empty. The few live Hylar they saw were running, stricken by panic, hastening to find escape still higher in the Life-Tree.
A great smoking cave gaped in the floor of a broad intersection, clear sign that the fire dragon had bored through here as well. There was no corresponding hole above them, Tarn pointed out. "That could mean the daemon warrior and the dragon are still around here somewhere."
There was no immediate sign of the horrific invaders, nor was there any indication that the dark dwarf vanguard had made it this far. Nevertheless, Tarn suspected the next phase of the invasion would only be a short time in coming. Trotting despite their fatigue, they hurried toward the Thane's Atrium which stood intact with several grim Hylar on guard outside the doors to the ceremonial chambers.
"Is my father the thane here?" asked Tarn.
"Aye. And he'll be glad to see you," replied the guard captain who stood aside to let them enter. The Aghar, meanwhile, willingly took up positions with the guards outside the atrium, though the Hylar sentries seemed less than thrilled at the these grubby reinforcements.
Belicia and Tarn started down the wide hall at a trot, not noticing at first that Regal Everwise had tagged along. They raced toward the large office where Baker had spent most of his time. Even before they got there, two elder dwarves emerged, shouting aloud in astonishment and relief.
"Father!" cried Belicia, stumbling into the welcoming embrace of Axel Slateshoulders. The old warrior's eyes were shut, but they leaked streams of tears.
"Tarn! My son, you're alive!" Baker's eyes were moist as well, but his features were chiseled, hardened in a way Tarn had never seen. His father's glasses were missing, but he was alert and clearly overjoyed. "My son!" he repeated, as if he couldn't believe the evidence before him.
Tarn clasped his father in a warm hug. "By Reorx, Father, I'm glad to see you. And I'm sorry!"
"Me, too-but enough of that. There's been too much sorrow."
"But our city… it's dying!" Tarn declared despairingly as he broke free from his father's embrace. He halted, dimly realizing that only days before he had been ready to turn his back on the Life-Tree and all things Hylar. How long ago had it been? He didn't know, couldn't even begin to reckon. If anything, the recollections seemed like a memory from another epoch.
"I'm afraid you're right," the thane concurred sadly. "We're encouraging the survivors to move upward to the highest levels of the city, but I don't know what else we can do. We could fight the dark dwarves alone-but with the army of Chaos? I fear they are too much for us."
"But Father, listen. I have this!" Tarn declared, pulling the Helm of Tongues from the bag. "In Daerforge I watched Mother use it to control the creature who rides the fire dragon."
Baker's eyes lit up at the sight of the artifact, but then he shook his head as he looked at Tarn. "I don't think so, not with this. At most, the creature was toying with her, perhaps attracted by the magic of the artifact. No, no. She could perhaps communicate, but never control. But tell me, what did you see?"
Tarn described the scene he had observed on the balcony of Garimeth's Daerforge manor house. "I swear the daemon bowed to her! And after that he left them alone, unharmed, and then flew away when Mother gestured with her hand."
"I see why you would think it was influenced by Garimeth, but that story doesn't shake my certainty that such a daemon creature would never allow itself to be controlled by a mortal being. These dark and shadowy manifestations come from Chaos, we know that now. And Chaos cannot be commanded or disciplined. I'm afraid this daemon creature was merely having fun at Garimeth's expense and doing just what it intended all along."
"Then you can't use it to stop the attack?"
Sighing, Baker shook his head. "Certainly not." He brightened again almost immediately. "However, there is something that it might be able to do to help!"
"What?"
"Come here, my son. I have something to show you!" urged Baker, his tone surprisingly enthusiastic.
Inside the Thane's Atrium there was a litter of scroll tubes and parchment, scrolls that had been tossed and thrown everywhere around the large room. Tarn was startled, recognizing these as the treasures that his father had valued above all others. And now some of them were torn while others lay unnoticed on the floor.
Absently Tarn took note of the wall beyond that had once displayed an array of great artifacts and weaponry from Hylar history. Now that surface had been picked clean of all the blades except for a single, long-hafted battle axe; undoubtedly the other weapons had gone toward the city's desperate defense.
The great stone chair, the throne of the Hylar thane, sat like a useless weight next to the wall. The seat was buried in scrolls and parchments, documents piled haphazardly there as everywhere else in the room.
"Remember something I told you, Son? You know the legend, that some portion of the Graygem's power was imprisoned in a platinum dragon egg and left in the Grotto?"
"Yes." Tarn remembered something about that, though he had dismissed it as part of his father's impractical daydreaming.
"This is the next part!" Baker was saying, waving one of the sheets of parchment. "These are the oldest of Chisel Loremaster's scrolls. And you can see there is arcane script right here!"
"Yes, but again I ask: what does that mean?" asked Tarn.
"The Grotto, my boy! The Grotto!" explained the thane as if it was the happiest discovery in the world. He indicated a small circle on the page, a roundel that was marked with a small dash at the bottom. "This is the symbol right here. I just translated it!"
Tarn felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. He physically forced down the urge to take his father by the shoulders, to shake some practical sense into him. Instead, the son merely nodded sadly, wondering what possible usefulness his father saw in the ancient cavern-especially now, in the midst of this historic crisis, even if it was true that finally he had found a way to locate it.
"I've been wrestling with the rest of the translation for too long; it's beyond my poor talents. Now, with the Helm, I'll be able to read it."
"I suppose you will," Tarn answered absently. He felt completely, utterly defeated. There would be no help from the artifact, no help from any source.
Baker pulled the Helm of Tongues over his head and picked up the ivory scroll tube. He squinted, then beamed excitedly.
"Yes! Yes! I was right! It's here-the key to the Grotto! I know what it means! And what's more, I know how to find it!"
Bloodcurdling shrieks pierced the air from outside the throne room. The thick stone of the floor shuddered underfoot, trembling repeatedly from the thud of great weight. The chamber was rocked by a savage roar, a sound of physical force that battered Tarn's eardrums and nearly drove him to his knees. The thunderous bellow was followed by the sound of a powerful crash. Dust and plaster broke from the ceiling to shower across the throne room.
Abruptly a crack shot through the great wall and pieces of stone tumbled free, toppling onto the sturdy floor. Another part of the wall started to lean inward, sending the dwarves scrambling toward the far side of the chamber. As more of the barrier broke down, Tarn caught sight of a black body, eyes of fiery crimson that transfixed him through the smoke and t
he dust. An obsidian fist pummeled the stones, smashing a wide opening. The figure of the daemon warrior, surprisingly manlike in its purposeful stride, advanced into the room. The black head tilted back, and the mouth uttered a roar of bizarre laughter.
Axel was already moving, broadsword raised in both of his hands. He swung the weapon at the daemon warrior's chest, but the fell creature grabbed the blade and, with a wrenching twist, snapped it like a toy. A casual backhand slap sent the venerable warrior tumbling across the floor. Again came that horribly incongruous laugh.
Then the figure changed, shifting and growing before the dwarves' astonished eyes. The daemon rose into a great shape, a huge shadowy form that writhed at the edge of the throne room. Two Hylar guards charged through the hole in the wall, trying to attack it from behind, but the creature merely leaned down and tore them apart as casually as if it had been rending a piece of parchment.
Now the beast of Chaos loomed above their heads, flesh-less jaws gaping to reveal teeth the size of knife blades. Wings bare of skin or any other membrane spread wide, supported by bones of stark white. Skeletal ribs outlined a massive body, and strips of rotted flesh draped those bones in a gory bunting. The monster had massive talons, great fangs, and all these instruments of death were crimson with Hylar blood.
"Try the helm!" shouted Tarn, turning to see that Baker still wore the artifact. "At least see if you can make it respond!"
"Halt!" cried the thane, his tone bold and full of command.
But the monster took a few steps forward and reached for Baker Whitegranite with talons of sharp bone. The thane stood still, his face white, teeth clenched as if fending off an onslaught of great pain. Tarn grabbed his father and frantically pulled him behind the throne as the monster's claws slashed through the air where Baker had been standing.
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