The Last Thane
Page 8
Gludh Kolgard struck first, bringing his long-hafted axe around in a vicious swipe. Darkend didn’t even need to step back for this attack was all show and the keen blade passed several inches in front of his tusked faceplate. Gludh followed this move smoothly, skirting sideways around the edge of the platform to keep his weapon between himself and his opponent.
The music of battle, a familiar emotion that mingled rage, hate, and exultation, swept through Darkend. He used the strength of his feelings to toughen his will and focus his power against his enemy—a tactic that was second nature after a lifetime of battle and killing. Even so, his subconscious remained aware of his weakness, the pain of his wounds and the toll taken by the days of previous fighting that had led him up to this moment. His movements seemed slow, like wading through sticky mud. He almost felt drugged, his senses and reactions thick. The deep gouge in his thigh was particularly worrisome. It periodically sent daggers of agony shooting through his leg and hip. He planted his feet with a show of firmness, careful not to reveal any outward sign that would give his opponent a clear suggestion of his vulnerability.
Darkend lowered his mace, clutching the haft in both of his mailed fists as he waved the spiked head of the weapon gently back and forth in the direction of his challenger. He held the center of the dais, pivoting only enough to continue facing the circling Gludh. The crowd rumbled, the noise swelling, expanding to a roaring thunder. The great arena shook and compelled the combatants into action.
Abruptly Gludh charged, the great axe raised high over his head. Darkend backed up for a step, then darted to his left. This forced Darkend’s foe to hack the blade down and across his body, an awkward strike that his steel-hafted mace easily parried. Following through, Darkend waded in with his weapon smashing left, right, then back to the left. Now it was Gludh’s turn to parry, using his axe to deflect each blow of Darkend’s wickedly spiked weapon.
Darkend swept ahead eagerly, hoping to bring the fight to a rapid conclusion. Already he could feel the throbbing in his muscles. Fatigue would soon add weight to his weapon and sluggishness to his every reaction. But Gludh met his onrush with feet planted firmly, the axe held crossways in both hands so that ultimately the blows of the mace clattered against an immovable barrier. Defending himself, Gludh seemed to meet the attacks with ease, while Darkend felt his strength draining away with each futile blow.
And then Gludh made a surprising move. Ducking low, he jabbed with the head of his axe almost as if he were stabbing with a spear. In the darkness the moving shadow struck true, and the blunt end of the weapon crashed into Darkend’s thigh.
His flesh was protected by a sheath of black steel plate mail, but the wound underneath that plate was still painfully sensitive. With a groan of agony, Darkend staggered backward, striving desperately to hold himself upright. Another attack forced him to pivot and plant his full weight on his injured limb, and the maneuver inevitably sent him tumbling to the floor. Only a frantic roll enabled him to escape the crushing swipe of the axe that smashed the surface where he had fallen. Darkend grasped the steel shaft of his mace with both hands, using the weapon as a bar to deflect the next blow of his enemy’s heavy weapon. He managed to knock the wicked blade aside mere inches from the tusked protrusions of his faceplate.
Gludh’s blade slashed, barely missing the prone Daergar’s fingers. Once again a desperate twist sent the axe blade bouncing into the floor. Darkend kicked his opponent in the knee, forcing him backward and buying enough time for the weary warrior to scramble to his knees. With a wild swing of the mace he pushed Gludh even farther back, and was able to use his good leg to push himself back on his feet.
Trying to lunge in pursuit, Darkend felt his injured leg falter. Although he recovered his balance, his foe was easily able to evade his clumsy swing. Darkend imagined Gludh’s elation as his weakpoints were revealed to all. Jeers and shouts came from much of the gallery, while others in the bloodthirsty crowd—presumably those with hefty bets on Darkend—groaned in audible dismay. Snarling louder, the injured Darkend drove forward, limping but still moving with surprising agility. He forced his enemy to fall back around the edge of the dais.
But even in his retreat Gludh sneered in expectant triumph. The arrogant sound of his laughter rang in Darkend’s ears. Still the mace-wielding dwarf pressed his attack, reaching farther with each swing until a voice of caution whispered in his mind, reminding him of danger. He knew that Kolgard was toying with him, drawing him into an ever faster pursuit, sapping the thin residue of endurance that allowed his injured leg to hold him up at all.
Darkend halted abruptly at the exact moment Gludh made his sudden move. The retreating dwarf feinted a lunge backward, then planted his feet and swung the mighty axe. The blade whistled past Darkend’s chest, a mere inch short of carving a deep and gory wound. The followup attack by the mace was feeble, coming nowhere near his opponent. The sounds of the crowd swelled again as the course of battle reversed.
Gludh threw himself into a frenzied attack, bringing the axe downward, then swinging it across from right to left and the reverse. He made a difficult upswing that sent Darkend stumbling to avoid a potentially disemboweling blow. The mace swiped in response, but now Darkend’s exhausted shoulders were straining and weariness brought on by a week of duels turned his arms to lead. Again and again he avoided the lethal slashes, but each came a fraction of an inch closer than the previous attack. Inevitably one of the blows would bite deeply into Bellowsmoke’s flesh.
Remembering the stone in his pocket, the enchanted item given to him by his sister, Darkend was sorely tempted to draw it forth as a last resort. But some grim vestige of pride held his hand and he found the strength to plant his feet for one last showdown with his attacker. Drawing on his last reserves, he lifted his mace and met his enemy’s blows, parrying the deadly axeblade and striking desperately with his own spiked weapon.
The hammering blows echoed in the great chamber. The mace and axe sparked as the two dark dwarves fought like berserkers. Their weapons were a ringing blur of gray steel, whistling in from one side and then the other. Gludh was apparently content to let his foe exhaust himself with a fruitless series of attacks. When one of Darkend’s blows finally swung wide, Gludh struck, bringing his axe down on his enemy’s forearm with ringing force. Darkend gasped as he felt his arm go numb. Once again he stumbled away, trying to buy precious seconds to recover.
But Gludh Kolgard was clearly ready to end the fight. He stepped forward, swinging again and again, forcing Darkend inexorably across the dais that suddenly seemed terribly small. Soon the back of Darkend’s boot had reached the edge, and Gludh’s attacks still came without ceasing.
Darkend swung his mace wildly, merely to hold his opponent back for a fraction of a second so that his left hand could reach into his belt pocket. He quickly found the small stone and rubbed it hard between his fingers.
Gludh brought his axe up, holding the weapon in both hands as he readied himself for a skull-crushing blow. Darkend hurled the stone down to the dais, closing his eyes in the split second before impact.
Even through his tightly shut lids Darkend saw the bright flash of light. The shouts and cries of thousands of Daergar assailed his ears. The assembled masses had been painfully shocked by the sudden blast of brilliant illumination.
Gludh blinked stupidly as he brought his axe down in the spot that Darkend had just abandoned. The sharp blade bit into the floor. Drawing back for another blow, Gludh revealed his vulnerability: his face plate swung wildly. It was a simple matter for Darkend to hiss a cry of victory as he masked his mouth with his flattened hand and thereby make the sound seem to originate from a place several paces to his right. Fully blinded, Gludh spun on his heel and faced the area where he thought he had heard his enemy.
He never fully appreciated his mistake. Darkend’s mace came down so hard on his head that Gludh Kolgard was dead before he felt the blow that killed him.
For long moments Darkend stood weakly, dr
awing ragged gasps of breath as he stared down at the corpse of his last challenger. At first he was surprised at the lack of loud reaction from the vast gallery, but it soon dawned on him that the Daergar in the arena had undoubtedly been as stunned and momentarily blinded as Gludh Kolgard himself.
“Foul!” One bold watcher cried. This was soon echoed by hundreds and then thousands, of voices. The cries rose to a wall of sound as the blinking dark dwarves gradually regained their sight and witnessed the unfair result of the duel.
“Magic!” hissed one burly patriarch, a stubborn and lifelong rival whom Darkend recognized as Berest Elfslayer. “The duel is void!”
“The challenger is dead! I am the new thane of the Daergar, and I claim my eminence before you all!”
The bodyguards of the new thane had already scrambled onto the dais, forming a protective ring around their leader. Darkend stood in their midst, hands on hips and bristling chin jutting forward as he pivoted to face the Daergar. These were the crucial moments he knew—moments when the remembrance of his cheating was fresh and glaring in the minds of all. But his power was convincing as he stood with a rank of armored dwarves facing a comparatively unarmed populace.
“Nay! Let the matter be re-opened. The pretender must face another challenger!” cried Berest Elfslayer bravely.
Trying to ignore the voice, Darkend looked around impatiently. Where was Slickblade? Surely he would silence this rude dissent.
“Foul and cheat!” Berest shouted again, trying to whip up the support which was beginning to grow through the crowd.
“Watch your tongue, Elfslayer!” snarled Darkend. “Lest I remove it from your mouth.”
“I will not—”
The response was interrupted by a gagging retch as Berest Elfslayer toppled forward, the hilt of a dagger jutting from his back. Garimeth Bellowsmoke calmly reached forward, retrieved her weapon with a sharp tug, and wiped the blood on the dead dwarf’s tunic before straightening up and looking around in cool triumph.
The auditorium was deathly silent. Many recognized Darkend’s long-absent sister. Darkend counted off ten heartbeats while he savored the imminence of his victory. Finally he spoke. His voice was clear, calm, and forceful enough to quell any lingering sounds of dissent.
“I will begin my audit of the treasury immediately,” he announced, claiming his right which was every new thane’s most urgent duty. “My victory feast shall be laid for all the Two Cities at the start of the following cycle. The heralds will cry the word as soon as I am ready to entertain your audiences.”
He was greeted by silence, though he heard one solitary grumble of disgust. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steelcut Gutterblood—a young noble with nearly as much influence as Berest Elfslayer—all but spitting on the floor in his outrage. Yet when Darkend confronted the sturdy hothead with a direct look, young Gutterblood merely dipped his head in the proper bow.
With the eerie silence ringing louder than any echoes of clashing steel, the new thane of the Daergar marched to the center of his phalanx and out the gates of the arena into the broad, deserted streets of the city that was now his rightful domain.
A Throne Made Easy
Chapter Eight
“I have two jobs for you: Steelcut Gutterblood, Younger and Elder. Fortunately, Berest Elfslayer has already been dealt with by my sister.”
His rage slightly pacified by his triumph, Darkend Bellowsmoke issued these orders to his assassin, known only as Slickblade.
“Your commands are my life, lord,” replied Slickblade with a slight inclination of his head.
For this brief interval the two Daergar were alone, though the shouts of the thane’s lieutenants could be heard throughout the halls of the great palace. Juding from the sounds, the search of the premises was proceeding smoothly.
“May they be both your life and the death of my enemies!” Darkend replied, chuckling grimly. Now that he was sitting in the thane’s throne, surrounded by the opulence of his position, his mood was beginning to brighten. The throbbing in his leg was gone, the wound itself cleansed and further healed by some ointment found in the thane’s pharmacologies.
The assassin made his farewells with formal politeness then exited through one of the secret passages that had quickly yielded itself to Darkend’s inspection. As time passed in this great palace, he knew that he would undoubtedly discover more such passages. Momentarily he cursed Halt Blackmetal, his predecessor, for not maintaining a blueprint or some other kind of written directions to the maze of this place.
A knock suddenly thudded onto the great steel doors of his vaulted chamber, reminding him of more pragmatic concerns.
Garimeth Bellowsmoke, alone and clad in a cape of shimmering silver foil, was admitted to the throne room by an unseen doorman. She curtsied with great formality before rising to approach the great chair.
“Ah, dear sister, thank you for responding to my invitation with such alacrity.”
“You impress me, Lord Thane, with your command of language. Where have you been ‘matriculating,’ that you should use a word like ‘alacrity’?”
“There are many things about me that you do not know, though we are bound by blood. It would do you well to remember that it may be best to keep some matters in the dark.”
“Ever I shall, lord—or may I call you ‘brother’?”
“As you will. Your return to our city is fortuitous, for it is my intention that you serve me in many ways, in positions of power and influence, at my right hand.”
“My brother knows that he has but to speak, and I will obey.”
“My first command is this: You are to insure that my coronation feast is the most memorable in the lifetime of our clan’s most venerable elders. The menu shall consist of only the finest blindfish from the depths of the Urkhan Sea. There is to be a plentitude, enough to stuff the belly of even the most lowly footman among my armies.”
“A wise choice, Lord. A full stomach is the best way to still a complaining tongue.”
“Indeed. As for beverage, you are to buy the finest barrels from every brewer in Daerbardin and Daerforge. Every dark dwarf shall be invited to drink and I want none to grow surly from sucking at an empty spigot.”
“Naturally, my brother. And may I suggest the pear fungus from the south warren. The crop has just ripened, and I am told that the mushrooms are the largest and most flavorful in recent memory.”
“Good. Buy the whole crop. We’ll have it fried, baked, and carved—prepared every tasty way known to the clan’s chefs.”
“May I inquire as to the funding, Lord Brother? Doubtless you realize that the expense will be enormous.”
“The coins will come from my own treasury. I don’t want it generally known, but Blackmetal was a cursed old miser. It turns out that there’s more steel in those vaults than anyone could have imagined. Heed me, sister. You are to spare no expense. I want every Daergar in the Two Cities to recognize my beneficence, and to feel indebted to the new thane.”
“It shall be done.”
Garimeth curtsied again, but before she could turn to depart her brother spoke again.
“In your long years in Hybardin, it occurs to me that you must have come into contact with dwarves from all the five clans. Is that correct?”
“Indeed, brother.”
“The Theiwar and the Klar? Did you have cause to take note, to learn their ways and their customs?”
“Their comings and goings were frequent in Hybardin and their leaders well known to me. Indeed, I made contacts among both clans. I came to know them nearly as well as I learned the ways of the arrogant Hylar themselves.”
“Including their secret speech?”
“Ah! Fortuitously, there is something I have brought from Hybardin, a mere toy to my husband, but I guessed it would prove very useful to myself and to those I choose to aid. It seems I was prescient in this regard. It is an artifact that renders all languages an open slate to me.”
“Splendid. Know this, my sister
: When my feast has been done, there will be great matters before the clan. I shall rely on your counsel for much of this and your ear shall be my proof against treachery.”
“As ever, brother, I am yours to command.”
Garimeth’s curtsy was deep, her words humble, but even these manners could not conceal from Darkend her tight smile of pure, gleeful ambition.
The feast was a grand success. However, as he leaned on the great veranda of his palace and digested his belly full of food, Darkend was still aware of an undercurrent of distrust lurking in the city of his people. Naturally, he had heard no mention of his use of magic during the duel, but he was well aware that the majority of his subjects regarded his tactic as little better than cowardice.
Still, they had seen him win several duels quite fairly and none could dispute his prowess as a warrior. Furthermore, the subtle presence of Slickblade—who had appeared in many guises throughout the three cycles that the feast had lasted—insured that the least loyal Daergar carefully watched their tongues, even when they thought they were among their oldest and most faithful friends.
For now, Darkend would content himself with the grudging acceptance of his people. Soon enough he would show them beyond any doubt that he was the dark dwarf who should rule them, that he was a thane who would bring them to a glory never before attained by the clan Daergar in all the history of Thorbardin.
From his lofty elevation he could see the blocky structures flanking the beginning of the Fifteenth Road. Great warehouses and apartments rose like cliffs from the straight and precise boundary of the road. The numberous crenellated battle platforms along the walls gave the impression of fortified bulwarks overlooking one of the main roads that connected the two cities of the Daergar. Each of the platforms was the stronghold of one or another of the city’s warrior-gangs, and was constantly garrisoned by at least a small troop of armed dwarves.