by Doug Niles
Turning, he regarded her coldly, hating the confident light that brightened her milky eyes, yet knowing he would take no action against her now, not when he needed the loyalty of all his followers to see him through the next interval.
“Summon my healer, and see that a hot bath is drawn for me,” he demanded, taking some satisfaction by giving her orders as though she were a common servant.
Thistle only bowed, then turned to elbow her way through the press of bodyguards to see that her master’s wishes were obeyed. Darkend allowed himself to be escorted out, trusting his henchmen to see no ambush awaited him in the shadowed lanes of Daerbardin as the procession made its way through the huge city of the dark dwarves.
Even as he brooded on the coming duel, he couldn’t help but admire the galleries, the wide avenues and looming, fortified buildings that made up this, the greatest city in all Thorbardin. The arena lay at the opposite end of the city from his great manor. Both of these locales were on the highest of Daerbardin’s three levels, but the roadway they followed curved downward until they walked along an esplanade that was open to the great ceiling, two hundred or more feet overhead. The middle and upper levels of the route formed balconies lined with dark dwarves who gazed down in solemn curiosity at the one who aspired to be their next leader.
Occasionally a single Daergar or a small group let out a cheer as Darkend passed, but for the most part these watchers were silent, uncaring as to which of the noble dark dwarves would win the fight on the next day.
“You should all cheer me, fools!” Bellowsmoke hissed through the mask of his helmet, “For I am the one who can raise our clan to new heights! Look at me now and see the image of your future greatness! See, and be awed!”
These boasts he spoke mainly to himself, though a few of his nearest bodyguards heard his words and exchanged worried glances. The strain of the seven challenges was wearing on him, Bellowsmoke knew. It was a relief to let the great stone gates of House Bellowsmoke crash shut behind him. Once secure behind those barriers, he stalked to his own apartments, waiting only long enough for one of his minions to perform a thorough search.
“The chambers are safe, my lord, and nearly unoccupied,” said the sergeant to Darkend as Bellowsmoke waited impatiently in the lofty anteroom. “There is only Thistle there; she tends your bath and awaits your pleasure.”
Without a word the noble dark dwarf stalked into his sumptuous chambers, turning at the portal to address his sergeant. “Send for Slickblade at once.”
“Aye, lord,” replied the gnarled dwarf, paling at the mention of the name. Darkend’s hand was on the door, ready to slam the iron portal, but before he could move he was startled by a voice from within his room.
“My heart palpitates in anticipation of your every command, lord.”
The words were hissed from the darkness behind him and Darkend whirled, seeing nothing except the familiar outlines of his couches and tables. Only after he stared for a moment did he see the assassin, still cloaked in his usual robe of utter black, rise from his comfortable position on one of the softest divans.
Immediately Darkend turned back to the anteroom, where his already pale sergeant had sunk to his knees, drooling in pathetic fear. “You told me that only Thistle was here, did you not?”
The man gibbered, unable to articulate a reply.
Darkend snapped his fingers, summoning another lackey from among his bodyguards. He pointed at the groveling sergeant. “You will blind him now, and cut his hamstrings for good measure. At dinner tonight he will be strangled for the entertainment of the house.”
The replacement dark dwarf stepped forward, drawing a long dagger. Willing helpers seized the thrashing sergeant, and though Darkend finally closed the door, even that heavy portal could not mask the sounds of the wretched sergeant’s screams.
“Why did you make me do that?” Bellowsmoke demanded, addressing Slickblade as he started to remove his cumbersome armor. “The man was useful to me, if only because he was less treacherous than most.”
The assassin shrugged, slumping back to his seat. “He owed me money.”
Darkend stared. “He owed you money, and he refused to pay? Perhaps he was more stupid than I thought.”
“He didn’t refuse. The loan doesn’t come due for several intervals. But it seemed a good time for a lesson, a reminder to those other Daergar who owe me money. I can assure you my next round of collections will be complete.”
“And I’ve lost a capable sergeant,” spat Darkend. “You know I had no choice, once you showed them all that he reported falsely to me.”
“He deserved it,” declared Slickblade dismissively. “In truth, his search was perfunctory. You deserve better protection, lord.”
“Would that I could get it.” The aspiring thane limped to a cabinet of polished black marble and withdrew a decanter of thick, syrupy liquid. He took a long swig from the bottle, then set it heavily on the counter as he turned back to his assassin. “You heard about events in the arena, I presume.”
There was no question in the words—everyone knew Slickblade’s information was always current and always reliable.
“Of course. And you will want me to remove Gludh Kolgard before the interval has passed.”
“Yes. It will be difficult, so I will double your previous fee.” Darkend winced inwardly at the concession. It had already cost him a hefty fortune to have two of his challengers removed before the duel. He was only heartened by the knowledge that if Slickblade was successful, his final payment could be drawn from the thane’s treasury and not the Bellowsmoke family vault.
“Not difficult. Impossible.” The assassin’s reply was blunt, even though his manner was as relaxed as ever.
“You are refusing this task, a task commanded by your lord and future thane?”
“I am refusing, as I would refuse should you ask me to bring you the three moons in a leather bag. After the last six challenges, Kolgard has surrounded himself with the best protection money can buy, and he has a lot of money. His house will be sealed top, bottom, and sides. What you ask cannot be done.”
Darkend considered his response carefully. When confronted by frustration his usual instinct was to order the offender seized, blinded and strangled. But he would have to curb that impetuous impulse, for the assassin was far too useful to cast aside for mere vengeance. “Are your skills slipping?” he asked. “Or perhaps you’re afraid. It is a pity, because I have long believed you the most accomplished practitioner of your trade in all Thorbardin.”
“On all Krynn, and you know it, so don’t insult me with appeals to vanity.”
“You say his house is sealed. Yet perhaps he may succumb to accident on his way to the arena in the morning. You know it is a long and dangerous walk.”
Slickblade shook his head. “Even there his guards will be certain to take extra precautions. It is possible that an opportunity may arise, and if so I shall take advantage. But I warn you, my lord, you must prepare as if you will have to fight this duel.”
Darkend Bellowsmoke growled and glowered. He was confronted with an unusual situation: Someone was thwarting his will, and it wasn’t practical to have the offender killed. Instead, Darkend took another long pull at the fermented syrup of his thick mead and then spoke thoughtfully.
“So there is no way to avoid him in the arena?”
“You can take him. I’ve watched both of you fight.”
“I agree—if I wasn’t so sore that I can hardly move!” snapped Darkend. “And the wound in my leg is festering. That damned Forsyx used poison on his blade, I swear.”
“Of course he did. Just count it as a blessing that you had the more toxic venom on your own weapon.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Again Bellowsmoke drank and felt the mead soothe a few of the aches from his muscles. The pain lessened slightly in his inflamed thigh. He felt glum and angry, but he knew Slickblade was right.
A tentative knock on the chamber door interrupted his brooding. “What?”
he growled, knowing he only cared to be disturbed for something important.
When the door was opened he stared curiously. He did not recognize the female Daergar who stood there. She was attractive, though her best days were behind her, but there was a firm line to her chin that reminded him of no one as much as himself.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me back, dear brother?” the female Daergar asked. Her words were spoken in the elegant accent of the Hylar.
“Garimeth?” The recognition came suddenly and was accompanied by a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’ve returned to your own, eh? Just in time to see my brains get splattered all over the arena.”
“I hope not,” she said in apparent sincerity. “I had word you were standing for the throne, and I was growing so tired of Hylar pretensions. Can’t you win tomorrow? I’d like a good excuse to spend some time here.”
Darkend laughed again, though the sound was dry and utterly devoid of humor. “Come in and share a drink. You know—” He turned to acknowledge the assassin’s presence, but was startled to see that the couch was empty. As usual, Slickblade had departed as he had entered: unnoticed and unannounced.
“I will take that drink, brother. It may be I can help you win that seat on your throne.”
“I’m willing to listen. No doubt you’ve learned a trick or two from your stay among the Hylar.”
“None that will supplant your steel, but yes, it may be that I can help.…”
For a long time the two Daergar talked. Darkend sent Thistle away and allowed his bath to grow cold as Garimeth spoke to him of things she had learned, seen, and done in Hybardin. Finally, when the hour was late, she gave to him a small gemstone. They both understood he would use it only as a last resort.
The stone was magic, Bellowstone knew, and if he used it during his duel with Gludh Kolgard it was quite possible that his ascension to the throne would be tainted. Using magic during a challenge was forbidden. Yet use it he would, if it meant the difference between victory and death.
All the Thane’s Men
Chapter Six
Baker Whitegranite looked up from his desk to see the familiar form of Axel Slateshoulders, veteran captain of many an epic campaign, standing at the door of the thane’s office and workroom.
“Come in, Axel, please.”
Trying to conceal the twinge in his aching stomach, Baker rose and crossed to the door to take the hand of the grizzled, sturdy dwarf who limped stiffly into the room. “I take it you got my message?”
“Aye,” grunted Slateshoulders. “Though not before the whole city was abuzz with rumors and fairy tales. What’s the word from the thane?”
Was there a subtle jibe in the words? Baker wondered. Axel had been one of Hornfel’s most stalwart warriors and had made no effort to hide his disappointment when the thane had turned down his venerable lieutenant’s request to be allowed to join the expeditionary force. Of course, any logical dwarf could see that Axel’s bad foot, swollen and infected with irreversible gout, clearly prevented him from taking the field. Yet on this matter Axel had declined to be logical, and he had not hesitated to let Baker know that he regarded the bookish scholar as a less than ideal replacement as thane.
Still, Baker had need of advice on military matters, and Axel Slateshoulders was undoubtedly the foremost warrior remaining in Hybardin. So Baker had learned to bite his tongue, ignoring the man’s little arrogances in order to accept his counsel.
Briefly Baker repeated the news from Hornfel’s letter.
“The important thing is to keep this secret from the other clans,” Axel said after clumping back and forth across the office.
“Why?” Baker wondered, standing before his desk. “I should think we’d want everyone to be on the alert. If there is an eruption of Chaos, an invasion of Krynn as Hornfel seems to indicate, we must all be ready to meet it.”
Axel looked at the acting thane as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the extent of Baker’s stupidity. “So the Daergar, Theiwar, and Klar should all be told that our army is now gone, perhaps for years—even forever? What do you think they’d do?”
“Well, if they hear about the danger, they’d make ready to defend themselves.” The answer seemed obvious to Baker, and he was insulted by the venerable warrior’s condescending tone.
“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Slateshoulders. “They’d turn their armies against us. Within a week Hybardin would be under siege, and I wouldn’t give a thin copper coin for our chances.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating!”
“Look, Baker.” Axel drew a deep breath, and the thane could tell that he was trying, with visible difficulty, to force himself to speak calmly. “The hostile clans have been waiting centuries for a chance like this. What I’m saying is, we can’t give them cause to think they’d win if they attacked us now. And we can’t afford to give them an excuse to mobilize their own armies.”
“What about the Daewar?” Baker argued. “They’ve always stood beside us against internal threats. And their army is still in the kingdom!”
“Think about that little contradiction. You say they’ve always stood beside us. But when Thane Hornfel sought their help for this summer’s campaign, they were nowhere to be found, right?”
“True.”
“And do you think they’d lay down their lives to defend a Hylar city?”
“At least I can ask Gneiss Truesilver,” Baker argued, bringing up the name of the thane of the Daewar who had been a friendly acquaintance for many decades. “I’m to meet him today. He’s in Hybardin on some trading matters right now.”
“As you wish, but don’t get your hopes up,” replied Axel.
“Why?”
Axel took a breath and spoke bluntly. “I’ve heard they have a real problem with a new cult that has been growing among their people. They’re listening to some prophet who claims that the Daewar have to excise themselves from ‘wicked Thorbardin.’ ”
“Yes, Thane Truesilver told me something about this fellow. ‘Stonehand,’ he’s called. I know he’s creating a lot of problems.”
“My point, exactly,” the veteran declared.
“How many troops do we have in the city now?” the thane asked Axel. He felt slightly embarrassed that he didn’t know the answer off the top of his head.
“Troops? Like to none, I’d say. We have a lot of women and boys who’ll fight bravely—they’re Hylar, after all—but precious few, if any, who could be called proper soldiers.”
“Your daughter, Belicia Felixia. She’s been training recruits, hasn’t she?”
Axel Slateshoulders’s tone softened, and his eyes glowed with momentary pride. “Aye, Belli’s an able captain, that one. And, truth told, there’s a few more of her sisters-in-arms that give us a veteran cadre—a small cadre, mind you.”
“Thank Reorx that Hornfel wanted only the men,” Baker said, almost to himself, before turning his attention back to Axel. “I want you to use that cadre and recruit all the able-bodied youngsters that we have. I put you in command of the Hylar Home Army.”
Axel’s eyes flashed with a trace of his old martial spirit. “Aye, that’s a start. Belicia’s got a small group almost ready down at the docks. D’you know we don’t even have a decent waterfront garrison?”
“Er, yes,” Baker lied. “I had heard something about that.”
“Well, good. Everyone knows that’s the key place to start. It’s where any attack from the other clans will have to land. Anyway, she’s got a company down there, and they’re almost whipped into shape.”
“My own son, Tarn Bellowgranite, is still in the city. Perhaps he can be of use as well.”
“Of course,” Axel replied. “He can swing an axe with the best of them.” The veteran squinted, as if trying to read Baker’s thoughts. “I always felt you were a little hard on the boy. Maybe this is just the sort of thing he needs.”
Baker brushed away the criticism, though not before he’d felt its sting. “You are in command. Use whomever yo
u think will be of use.”
“Very well. I’ll get right to work.” Axel pivoted on his good foot and limped toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back. “You did right, Thane. That’s the kind of decisiveness we need in times like this.”
“You don’t say? Well, thank you,” Baker replied. He felt warmed by the unexpected praise. “Keep me posted, won’t you?”
“Of course.” The door closed behind him, but Axel’s voice, bellowing for the quartermaster and several of his loyal sergeants, came through the barrier until the lame dwarf’s awkward march took him through the gates of the Thane’s Atrium.
Baker tried to direct his attention to some of the documents requiring a decision, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes and he finally set the papers aside in disgust. Fortunately he was saved from further struggles by the arrival of the Daewar thane.
“Gneiss Truesilver, my friend, how are you?” Baker asked, as the solicitous attendants offered light-bearded dwarf ale and a comfortable chair.
“In all truth, I have been much better,” said the Daewar, a frown darkening his normally jovial features. “Though it is not my own health that suffers, but that of my clan.”
“I am sorry,” Baker offered awkwardly, startled by his counterpart’s bluntness. He realized things in Daebardin must be very bad indeed, if Gneiss Truesilver admitted this much.
“There have been some rumors,” he continued, “but we don’t know the extent of your troubles. If there’s help we can offer—”
“Thank you. I know you are sincere. But the tragedy is that it’s an internal rot—Daewar pitted against Daewar, and blood close to being shed.” Gneiss took a long pull at his ale, as Baker waited patiently. “It was started by that damned maniac Severus Stonehand. He’s been preaching about doom and disaster; says there’s storms of Chaos on the horizon. Now he’s got half Daebardin believing him, ready to move right out of here. The other half is just about ready to throw them out.”
