by Doug Niles
His bright mood lasted only until he came around another box of crates. He saw what at first looked like a pile of rags at his feet, but quickly realized that the rags were bleeding. Prodding with his foot, he rolled a small corpse over to see the plump gully dwarf, his throat neatly cut. The Aghar’s eyes bulged in surprise, and his mouth gaped in silent protest. There was no sign of the mushroom. Undoubtedly he had been killed by someone meaner, stronger, or more treacherous, someone who had simply wanted that particular piece of food.
Tarn sighed heavily, saddened but not surprised by his gruesome discovery. Such was the lot of an Aghar in Thorbardin. Though no Hylar would butcher one of the pathetic creatures for such a trivial prize, there were plenty of dark dwarves around who wouldn’t hesitate to draw blood. If someone had seen the killer, there would be little recourse; doubtless even many Hylar would be secretly pleased that one more of the pesky little scavengers had been removed from the city.
Taking care not to get any blood on his boots, Tarn stepped around the corpse and continued on. He soon encountered a trio of Daergar who looked at him suspiciously, then glanced back at the crates. Tarn spat in their direction and continued on, and the Daergar apparently decided to ignore the insult rather than tangle with a lone dwarf who was so easily offended. One of them hacked and spit loudly toward Tarn’s back, and then the trio returned to their task of stacking crates.
Tarn felt a twinge of envy for the Daergar, who at least had a task to do, some real work. All of his life he had lived in comfort, well-supported by his mother’s money and his father’s status, a proud member of one of the finest of the Hylar’s old noble houses. He had come to be accepted, though admittedly with reservations, by much of Hybardin society, and his exotic good looks had made him a favorite consort of some of the wilder dwarven wenches of his own age, not to mention the older matriarchs and grand dames who every so often sent a lascivious invitation in his direction.
It was a good life, he tried to tell himself, but by now he realized the truth: It was an easy life, and for many years that had been enough for him. His mother’s departure was a reminder that times were changing, and his life was bound to change, too.
Of course, he could have joined Glade Hornfel’s expedition to Solamnia. Though he was only half Hylar, Tarn Bellowgranite would certainly have been welcomed in the thane’s army. After all, Tarn was Hornfel’s cousin’s son, and his fighting prowess was well-known. However, in response to the reluctance of the other clans, Hornfel had declared that he wanted only Hylar in his army. “The pure of blood, for only they will have nobility of soul,” were his exact words. Tarn had found it easy to feel excluded, a reaction that had greatly pleased his mother. As regarded his father’s disappointment, Tarn didn’t really care. Baker Whitegranite was, to Tarn’s way of thinking, the worst kind of dwarf, a man who would rather spend his days cooped up in a library than doing something, anything, that would bespeak a course of action.
There was one more reason Tarn had wanted to stay behind in Hybardin, and as he came around the wharves to the western side he saw her. He drifted closer, then settled himself onto a small pile of coal where he could get a good view.
Belicia Felixia Slateshoulders was drilling a group of recruits so young that their beards barely covered their cheeks. She stalked up and down before the would-be warriors, her face locked in a frown, a stout staff in her hands. This rank of Hylar was learning the finer points of holding a shield wall, and Belicia Slateshoulders, a veteran female warrior with sturdy legs, solid hips, and the broad shoulders of a true soldier, wasted no effort in pointing up their numerous failings.
“You! Crettipus! Hold that shield lower! Do you want to get your legs cut off?” For emphasis Belicia whacked her staff beneath the protective barrier, drawing a howl from poor Crettipus. That hapless recruit scrambled backward, holding his shin and hopping on one foot.
“And you, Farran!” She barked at the next dwarf. “When your comrade goes down, you have to get your shield over fast or else the next one of you will go down as well.”
She thrust the pole past the stumbling Farran to jab the tip into the solar plexus of a third dwarf. That one went down, gasping, and Belicia strode through the shambles she had made of the shield wall, spinning to smack Farran on the backside.
“If this was a real fight, Raggat here would have been killed,” she snapped. Raggat, the fellow who had been dropped by the blow to the belly, glowered at Farran, who stammered an apology.
“Remember, your shield protects the dwarf to your left. If he falls, you have to move quickly! If you let an enemy do what I just did, we’re all doomed. Now, are there any questions?”
The chagrined young dwarves, some three dozen in number, were too thoroughly cowed to so much as raise a hand.
“Good. You’re learning,” Belicia barked. “Now, by twos, get yourselves going on the sword and shield drill. And I want to see some sweat!”
Quickly the recruits paired off. Tarn smiled as he noticed that Farran was quick to find a partner other than the still disgruntled Raggat. In moments the dockside rang with the sounds of blades striking shields.
Tarn didn’t know that Belicia had ever taken her eyes off the company, but as soon as the mock combats began she sauntered over to Tarn and plopped down on the small mound of coal.
“Come to join up?” she asked him with a wink.
“Do you think you could use me?” he asked, straight-faced.
She sighed. “No offense, but we could use just about anybody with a warm body and at least one eye.”
“I’m sure you’ll whip them into proper dwarven warriors in no time.”
“It’s not only here that we need them,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a look that was all seriousness. “But it’s all over Hybardin. Thane Hornfel took every able-bodied fighter we have.”
“Almost,” Tarn replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
He was looking for pity, but he met with no success as she replied curtly. “It was your choice, no one else’s, that kept you behind. You know damned well he could have used you and would have welcomed your enlistment.”
Tarn shook his head belligerently. “With all that talk about Hylar purity, he might as well have called me an ill-bred bastard. He can wage the Solamnian war without me.” His temper was lousy, and he felt acutely defensive. He had not come to see Belicia so they could discuss the Hybardin military situation—or lack thereof.
“I guess you haven’t heard then,” the dwarf woman replied, her tone softening. “There’s a rumor that the Hylar are no longer fighting the army of Takhisis. It’s said they’re sailing north of Ansalon to campaign against some new threat.”
“Sailing? By Reorx! You mean away from the continent?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Belicia tried to be casual, but she couldn’t entirely suppress a shudder of discomfort.
“Where did you hear that news?”
“A courier came from the army just a few hours ago. He went directly to your father but then talked a little bit to the staff of the barracks cooking hall. You know how word gets around, even in an untrained army.”
Tarn grunted. The topic of his father was another he had little interest in pursuing.
“Have you seen your father at all, recently?” she probed.
He snorted. “Two weeks ago, but all he wanted to talk about was some silly tale of the Graygem and a platinum egg in that cursed Grotto of his! I swear, I hope he finds the place, just so he shuts up about it!”
“Well, go find out for yourself about the latest news, then. I’ve got to get back to my company,” Belicia snapped in exasperation.
“Wait. I’m sorry,” the half-breed interjected. “I wanted to talk to you, to see if perhaps we could get away for an interval. Maybe take one of the freeboats across the lake.”
She sighed and shook her head, “Timing: that’s always the problem with us, isn’t it?” she said, not unsympathetically. “I can’t right
now. These buffoons will kill each other in a minute—by accident, of course; I don’t think any one of them could kill something on purpose—if I’m not there to keep an eye on them.”
Tarn nodded, trying to conceal his disappointment. He wanted to tell Belicia about his mother’s departure but knew that she wouldn’t share his distress. Indeed, most of Hybardin was likely to regard Garimeth Bellowsmoke’s return to the Daergar as cause for celebration. Instead he lurched to his feet and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine with them. Maybe, after they finish their first series of drills?”
“Maybe,” she said with a smile.
Knowing he would have to be content with that, Tarn was still discontented.
Why did she have to mention his father?
Dark Daerbardin
Chapter Five
“I ask the question in the presence of all the clan: where is the challenger? Produce him, or the thane’s chair is rightfully mine!”
Darkend Bellowsmoke was addressing a great gathering of Daergar. He stood upon a dais in the middle of the Arena of Honor, the large, lightless assembly hall that was the grandest chamber in all Daerbardin. Shaking his great, spike-headed mace at the masses of his countrymen, he spun through a circle, his voice a screech that pierced the farthest reaches of the chamber.
Smoke from coal braziers filled the air, the acrid vapors bitter in his nostrils, but the dark dwarf stood in a posture of triumph, feet planted firmly, one hand on his hip while in the other he held his weapon aloft. Even in the pitch darkness he was visible to the gathered throng, for the Daergar, like their Theiwar cousins, could see very well even in the deepest heart of lightless Thorbardin.
“Is the challenger drunk, sleeping off the revel of his last feast on Krynn? Or perhaps he is afraid?” sneered Darkend.
There was no reply, nor was one expected. Bellowsmoke was tall for a Daergar and a strapping warrior in his own right. Now he wore his battle armor, plates of black steel that covered his chest, belly, and groin. Supple links of chain mail rippled smoothly over his limbs and his back. His head was almost completely concealed beneath a grotesque helm, the faceplate scored by the image of a leering beast. Long fangs, honed on both edges to razor sharpness, jutted forward from beside his jowls. Darkend’s pale, bright eyes flashed through the narrow slits of vision holes, and his hand was clenched around the shaft of the wickedly studded mace. Now he raised the weapon, pumping his hand up and down as his voice once again cried his public challenge.
“Khark Huntrack! I say you are the spawn of a gully dwarf, the dribbling bastard of a diseased whore! I say, show your face to me now, and die like a dwarf or else you shall be known as a coward, and your spleen will nourish the soil of the food warrens!”
Soft gasps were barely audible in the chamber. Darkend’s insults had stepped even beyond the usual bravado of dueling dark dwarves. Everyone knew that if Khark Huntrack were alive he would have to come forward and face these accusations or never show his face in Daerbardin again.
Thus everyone knew what they had already come to suspect: Khark Huntrack must already be dead.
Darkend waited a decent interval so that his intended opponent would have plenty of time to appear. The great audience hall lapsed into silence, but no one looked toward the doors in anticipation of Huntrack’s late arrival. Instead, all eyes remained fixed upon the strutting figure that paced back and forth across the rounded dais.
Finally a dark dwarf from the front row, a sturdy warrior in the black, bat winged helmet that characterized Darkend’s personal guards, leaped to his feet and thrust his fist into the air.
“All hail Darkend Bellowsmoke!” he cried. “All hail the new thane of the Daergar and the banner of the Smoking Forge!”
A rumble of assenting cries rose through the chamber, but it was not the thundering acclamation Darkend desired. Instead, there were mutters of resentment from many quarters, and even a few outright hisses of disapproval. One of the latter was interrupted by a scream, and the aspiring thane smiled grimly behind the mask of his helmet, knowing that one of his agents had just knifed another obstacle to his throne.
“Hear me, dwarves of Clan Daergar! Khark Huntrack is dead!”
The voice came from the shadows in the back of the chamber. Darkend whirled to see a robed Daergar advancing in the middle of at least two dozen bodyguards. The dwarf’s protectors had blades drawn, and their guarding posture formed steel-barbed walls before, behind, and to either side of the bold speaker. There would be no knife blade to swiftly silence this dissenter, Darkend saw with a grimace of frustration.
“Gludh Kolgard? Is that you?” demanded the lone figure on the dais.
“You know it is—just as you know that your toady Slickblade killed Khark in the last hours before his ceremony.”
“If Khark Huntrack has met an untimely death, then I withdraw my unflattering remarks,” Darkend replied, with a bow of facetious graciousness. “Though I certainly had no foreknowledge of the manner nor the agent of his demise.”
The hisses and clucks from the gallery were very muted and swiftly faded away. No one believed Darkend, of course, but neither did anyone think it worth a possible knife in the ribs to state a universally held opinion.
“Now to the business of this day.” Darkend cleared his throat, wheeling around in a full circle so that his luminous, dark-seeing eyes could pass over the entire crowd. A hush settled again as the Daergar waited, knowing that before long they would have a new thane or the prospect of further public bloodshed. In either case, there was promise of fine entertainment in the air.
“I have stood upon this dais each of the last six days, since the untimely demise of our esteemed leader, the bold and wise Thane Halt Blackmetal. Six times has a challenger named himself, and six times that challenger has failed to leave this dais alive.”
Darkend paused, allowing his words to settle over his listeners. Four of those challenges had resulted in spectacular duels on this very platform, ending only when his Daergar opponent lay bleeding his life away at the feet of the triumphant Darkend Bellowsmoke. Indeed, the armored dark dwarf still felt the soreness in his ribs, the bruising of his shoulder, and the poorly healing cut on his thigh that were his own souvenirs of those fights. On the other two occasions—most recently in the case of the unfortunate Khark Huntrack—the challenger had met with an unfortunate accident on the eve of the contest, and Darkend had been spared the grueling necessity of public battle. Of all those challengers, Khark Huntrack had been the most esteemed fighter, so Darkend judged it particularly good fortune that the assassin had done his work so well.
“Now, as is the custom of Daergar law, I proclaim I have faced every challenger who dared to name himself, and I announce my ascension to the throne of our clan.” He drew a breath, knowing there was one more part to this ritual, and praying to Reorx that his next words would be greeted by silence.
“I await only the announcement of a challenge, of one more dark dwarf foolish enough to throw his life away before this issue is resolved!”
He waited, allowing the echoes to ring through the huge chamber. For a moment he thought that the matter was finished, that he had won.
“I challenge Darkend Bellowsmoke’s right to the throne!”
The mass exhalation, a communal sigh of anticipation, washed from the crowd like the wind that so often coursed across the surface of the world above. The words came from behind Darkend, but he knew the speaker well; indeed, he was not surprised Gludh Kolgard had spoken out. Still, the confirmation fell upon his shoulders like a weight of iron ore, and Darkend almost slumped under the prospect of another battle. It took all of his powerful will, as well as the concealment of his armor, to mask any sign of his weakness from the gathered clan. He spun, the twin tusks gleaming darkly, almost as if they were already stained with blood, and glared at the dark dwarf who had spoken. Gludh stood utterly still. He was surrounded by henchmen. Slowly the simmering tension in the vast room bubbled towar
d release.
“I accept the challenge.” Darkend broke the impasse at last, he thought with just the right tone of bored acknowledgment. “I will stand here after the interval of one day, that Gludh Kolgard shall have the pleasure of tasting my steel.”
Now a roar of acclamation went up from the throng, and Darkend held his martial pose, though his sore arm throbbed from the weight of his mace. He wished he could bring the weapon down right now on the insolent challenger’s unarmored skull.
It wasn’t fair! He was clearly the master of any one, even any two, of his accursed challengers. Yet Daergar custom demanded that at least seven dark dwarves should have the chance to face him for the throne. Gludh’s reputation was well known. He would be among the most dangerous, and he had been clever enough to wait until the last day, when Darkend would inevitably be wounded, battered, and fatigued from the long ordeal of challengers. Of course, should Gludh triumph, he himself would have to face up to six more possible challengers, but that would be little consolation to Darkend, moldering in his tomb.
The throng quickly filed out of the four massive gateways leading from the Arena of Honor, itself located in the heart of Daerbardin’s great royal palace—the palace that should already be mine, Darkend groused to himself. Gludh Kolgard was protected by his followers as he left for his own quarter of the great subterranean city, one of the two great centers of the Daergar in Thorbardin. There would be another night of feasting and celebration, though no doubt this time some of the bodyguards would be certain to seal off the ventilation shaft.
“Come, my thane. It will be but a short time before you attain your rightful throne.”
The voice was whispered by one of the cloaked figures beside him, and he prayed that Thistle was right. She was his favorite mistress and one who dared to speak to him when all others held their tongues. Yet now even she was a bother, and Darkend had to forcibly resist the temptation to bring his mace down hard upon her head.
