The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  Darkend’s eyes rose to inspect the vast blackness of the straight tunnel leading to Daerforge. Daerbardin, the largest of the kingdom’s seven cities, lay at the terminus of the long, lightless avenue. Natural illumination was neither sought nor welcomed by this dark-dwelling clan.

  For once Darkend found himself wishing that he could see the Life-Tree of the Hylar. That great stalactite-city hanging from the cavern’s ceiling like an inverted mountain, occupied so much of his thoughts, plans, and desires. He would have readily tolerated the hateful expanses of lanterns, lights, and flares that clearly marked the Hylar as a separate people from the Daergar and Theiwar. It was beyond his sight now, he reminded himself, but soon enough he would lay his eyes on that dazzling monument to corruption, wealth, and power

  Before then other matters required his attention. The first of these commenced as Thistle came out through the balcony doors.

  “The thanes of the Theiwar and the Klar are here, my lord.”

  “Good. I expected them shortly, and I am pleased that they have honored me with promptness. Have my own robe prepared.”

  “Aye. But, lord … I beg leave to speak to you on a matter of delicacy and importance.”

  Darkend looked at his mistress with interest. She was hesitant, allowing her dark hair to curl over her face, masking her eyes for a moment. But then she flipped her locks out of the way and glared at the thane with an expression of determination.

  “It is about the feast, lord. There have been some complaints that have reached my ears. Funding was provided for many kegs that were not delivered, and no one knows where the steel coin has gone.”

  Darkend kept his face impassive. He well knew what Thistle was implying. After all, Garimeth Bellowsmoke had been in charge of the budget for the entire celebration and only the thane and his sister had complete access to the treasury. But this was not the matter of most concern to Darkend. Indeed, he would have been surprised if Gari had not found some way to amplify her personal fortune during the course of the task.

  Rather, the thane found it curious that Thistle had bothered to call this news to his attention. She’s jealous, he suddenly realized with a grim thrill. She fears that her status is in jeopardy now that my sister has returned.

  “Thank you for speaking so frankly,” he said, his voice as soft as silk. “I know what must be done.”

  “I am grateful, lord,” replied the dwarf woman, who then withdrew to see to the matter of his royal robe.

  Darkend took one last look at the stretch of dark road, then turned toward the great doors. Before he could take a step, a figure emerged from the shadows beside the wall, causing the new thane to stiffen with instinctive alarm. His gaze attempted to penetrate the gloom, and he recognized the shrouded nature of the black-clad form.

  “Slickblade?” Darkend’s fingers tightened around the haft of his dagger until he received confirmation.

  “The same, lord. I am here to report success in the matter of your commands.”

  “Double success?”

  “Of course.” The assassin’s tone was injured.

  Darkened nodded, pleased with the news that certain significant rivals had been eliminated.

  “But wait.” The thane stopped Slickblade before the assassin turned away. “There is an additional matter … a thing I would like you to take care of …”

  Darkend explained the additional task, which the assassin was more than happy to oblige. Finally Slickblade disappeared, though the ruler of the Daergar couldn’t say exactly where he went. The dark-shrouded figure had simply vanished into the shadows at the base of the wall.

  Immensely pleased, the thane went back into his throne room where he allowed his attendants to drape his black robe over his shoulders. The garment spread to either side of the great chair like the wings of an enormous bat while the black and red banner of the Smoking Forge was grandly displayed behind him. Garimeth took a seat at his side, and he saw with a tight smile that Thistle was nowhere in sight. The Daergar thane reclined with just the right amount of arrogance as two dwarves, each trailed by an entourage fitting to their royal stations, advanced and bowed.

  “My lords, I bid you welcome,” declared Darkend, rising and stepping forward as the cloak fanned wide behind him. He took each of the two visiting thanes by the hand, exerting gentle pressure as he looked deep into their faces with eyes that saw well in the lightless vault.

  Pounce Quickspring, thane of the clan Theiwar, met Darkend’s look with frank, luminous orbs that seemed to swell out of his face. He blinked as the milky lenses of his eyes strained for focus. Darkend shivered, certain that the Theiwar had some item of magic concealed upon his person—typical for a member of his race. Fortunately, Pounce seemed more than happy to keep his private possessions to himself. A bristling head of straw-colored hair grew down the thane’s forehead, and he muttered a reply to the greeting with a certain sense of contained agitation.

  Beside Pounce, Tufa Bloodeye, long-time ruler of the wild Klar dwarves, squinted to penetrate the darkness. His eyes were flushed with spots of watery crimson that gave ample proof of the origin of his surname. Unlike the suspicious and quiet Theiwar, Tufa beamed cheerfully and shook Darkend’s hand with unfeigned enthusiasm. The Daergar thane was pleased by the warm greeting, though he knew that the Klar’s disposition could alter dramatically at a moment’s notice. Like virtually all of his violent clan, Tufa Bloodeye was more than half insane.

  “Allow me to present my sister,” Darkend offered as Garimeth came forward. He accorded her a courtly introduction and she immediately escorted the visiting thanes to the banquet table that had been laid at the side of the huge room. Soon Daergar, Klar, and Theiwar were mingling easily as they sampled a variety of beverages and milled about the great throne room among a mixture of other nobles and their many bodyguards.

  Abruptly a gong sounded and the stilted conversations faded away. “I have arranged for a trifle entertainment,” Darkend announced from the platform before his throne. He indicated a stage at the far side of the room, and all saw that a rack had been placed there. “Please, be seated.”

  The thane indicated benches that his servants had arrayed before the throne, and quickly the guests and hosts were all reclining comfortably with good views of both the rack and the Daergar thane.

  “Bring on the subject,” declared Darkend with a clap of his hands.

  Guards immediately hustled into view, pulling along a prisoner. Thistle.

  At the sight of the thane she screamed and began to plead. “Sire, what have I done? You are my master. Punish me as you will, but not—”

  “Gag her!” directed the thane, unhappy with her stream of verbage.

  The female dwarf’s voice was muffled into a series of strangled sobs as the guards hastened to obey. Darkend beamed, watching as she was tightly lashed to the framework of the rack. He was pleased to see that Slickblade had followed his orders with precision. She was not unconscious, nor apparently wounded from her capture.

  “This is my favorite mistress, a great treasure of mine,” Darkend began. “I intend to offer her life as a bond for the words we are about to exchange, and as a symbol of the bond that shall be formed between our clans.”

  Thistle moaned in despair at his words, but Darkend continued as if he had heard nothing.

  Now he addressed himself specifically to Tufa Bloodeye and Pounce Quickspring. “We gather here in another cause, that of allegiance between our three great tribes, and I thought it only fitting that my own treasure should serve as the seal of that friendship.

  To this end he invited each of the visiting thanes to accompany him up to the rack. They were provided with a rope, a golden tassel knotted with silver ends.

  “Please, my guests … you must each take an end.”

  “I shall!” said Tufa Bloodeye, enthusiastically eyeing the weeping Thistle as he took up his cord.

  “And I, too,” Pounce said seriously, squatting to stare with every evidence of detached cur
iosity into the female dwarf’s bulging eyes. Beads of sweat bursting from her brow, Thistle tried to say something, but could only chew frantically on the gag.

  “Good,” agreed the thane of the Daergar, placing a hand at either end of the cord which dangled just below Thistle’s neck.

  “Tonight we shall talk of great deeds, of mighty goals and important promises. In the nature of our sacred trust, we shall commence by taking this cord and sealing the throat, the breath, and the life of my cherished mistress.”

  “And then, my friends,” Darkend declared warmly, as he himself hooked the noose over Thistle’s head, “we shall commence a celebration that, Reorx willing, shall not cease for a thousand years.”

  An Emissary

  Chapter Nine

  Already Tarn could see the improvements that Belicia had made in her ragtag company. First of all, the number of prospective dwarf warriors had more than tripled in a few days. Obviously, Axel and Baker were somehow finding fresh recruits from among the population of Hybardin. And now the dwarf woman had her recruits marching in time and forming their shield wall with a marked sense of speed and precision. From his comfortable seat atop a sack of mulch, Tarn watched the Hylar train, a process that now required a sizeable swath of the dockside.

  “Line forward!” Belicia Felixia barked out the command. Her dwarves advanced, shields and swords set, their straight line unwavering.

  “Double march! Now, charge!”

  The half-breed couldn’t help but admire the quick but coordinated advance made by the line. Now the young dwarves rushed forward with lusty abandon, a hundred voices rising in a fierce, swelling roar. The pounding of boots was a thunderous drumbeat on the stone ground, and Tarn was surprised as he felt a tingle of martial frenzy.

  But of course it was just a drill. Belicia halted her advancing shield wall at the very brink of the water’s edge and then the recruits were dismissed to their barracks up on Level Three.

  “You’re making progress,” he congratulated her when she took a seat beside him.

  “I know, but it’s a big wharf we’ve got to defend—all the way around the island. We still have nowhere near enough troops to hold the whole line.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Tarn declared earnestly.

  “Well, I hope your trip to Daerbardin can help keep the peace. Are you going soon?”

  “I have a berth on the next lake boat, but I’m sure I can get a seat on the one after that. Tomorrow, if you can get a little time away.” He took her hand, looked at her warmly. “We haven’t had a chance lately … but maybe now …”

  “Not now.” Belicia surprised him with the sharpness of her tone. “I have important work to do. I’m teaching a hundred youngsters to shoot bows and arrows and these recruits have work to do on the city’s defenses. And you, too, have a mission to accomplish.”

  “Yes, I do.” He flushed and stood up. “I can see that’s what matters!”

  “Tarn, grow up! Of course it’s what matters!” Belicia shook her head in exasperation. “But you might remember that you’ve been hanging around the docks for months, doing a whole lot of nothing. You had time then, and so did I! But it seemed to me you weren’t ready to take advantage of it.”

  He hung his head. “I guess you’re right,” he said stiffly, stung because so much of what she said was true. He remembered weeks, months of lethargy when nothing seemed important or urgent. Time had stretched away from him then, an apparently eternal stream of placid ease.

  And now that lost time suddenly seemed precious.

  “Do you think you’ll be allowed to see the thane of the Daergar?” asked Belicia.

  “I think so. First, I’ll stop and see my mother. She’s gone back to her family home near the port. With any luck, she’ll be able to help me get a proper interview.”

  “I wish you good luck with your mission,” Belicia said in obvious sincerity. “And … and I’ll look forward to seeing you when you get back. All right?”

  But he was still too stung and too proud to soften in the face of her pleasantries, so they parted with uncertainty lingering in the air between them.

  He made his way to the east dock, where the passengers were boarding the chain ferry to Daerforge. Unlike the slender, sharp-prowed freeboats that plied the waters around all the dwarven cities, the ferry was wide and raft-like. This also insured that it was large and stately, offering comfortable booths and even sleeping accommodations to those who wished to nap over the six hour voyage. Now the craft was nearly full of passengers, mostly dark dwarves, though Tarn saw representatives from all the other clans—except the Aghar, of course.

  This was perhaps his tenth voyage on such a ferry, but he still watched with fascination as the great hook lowered from the chain that was slowly clanking over the boat. The progress of the metal links slowed into an eerie silence and dwarf boatmen swiftly latched the steel prong onto the prow. Tarn braced his feet as the gears overhead resumed with a sturdy lurch and the broad ferry was pulled away from the dock. A small wash of water rippled away from the hull as the craft began its slow, steady progress across the lake.

  He found his berth amidship, a comfortable couch in a booth which he shared with three Daergar. The largest and most vocal quickly introduced the three as workmen who had helped to deliver the most recent shipment of raw steel. He was a black-bearded hulk with wide set eyes, now squinting against the Hybardin dock lights. He cheerily offered the half-breed a bottle, and Tarn swilled down a fiery draught of fungus wine.

  “We’ve got a spot of pay. Plannin’ to pass the time with a few throws of the dice. Join us, if you’ve the cost of a game,” he suggested with a look of appraisal at Tarn’s silk jacket and elegant, polished boots.

  “It would be a pleasure,” the half-breed agreed readily, producing a few steel coins without putting any real dent in his purse.

  They passed the bottle and the hours, gambling with an assortment of pegs and spikes cast in various patterns onto the deck. The lights of Hybardin soon faded into an agreeable wash in the background as the clinking chain pulled their craft farther across the silent sea. Even from a great distance the Life-Tree stood outlined in its funnel shape, marked by thousands of twinkling lights that gradually merged into a general glow.

  Tarn enjoyed the crude, easy sociability of the dark dwarves. He liked the way his comrades insulted each other without taking offense. It was an interesting contrast, he thought, to the way things were managed among the Hylar. Even saying farewell to Belicia had seemed to him like walking through a maze of verbal traps.

  And at least one of those traps had been sprung, he reflected ruefully. Suddenly wishing that he’d been more sensitive and understanding during that conversation, he vowed to make it up to the dwarf woman as soon as he saw her again.

  Finally, with his head swimming slightly and his purse poorer by a score of steel pieces, Tarn felt the darkness that was the true underworld settle all around him. Daerforge rose from the black distance, and his keen eyes made out the terraces and balconies, the bulwarks and towers that jutted from the steep cliffs surrounding the dark dwarf harbor. There, near the top of the crest, just before the wall curved outward to form the lofty roof over the underground sea, he saw the proud bastion of House Bellowsmoke, his mother’s great manor.

  The surroundings were fully black, with no sign of lantern or fire, but as the boat pulled into a stone-walled slip carved into the bedrock of the waterfront, Tarn was struck less by the darkness of this city than by its strange silence. There was activity all over the place—cargoes loaded onto other boats nearby, here a hundred passengers debarking from the chain ferry, there crowded into a narrow plaza arcing between the sea and the cliff, a thriving market bustling with sellers and buyers alike. Yet everywhere the Daergar went about their business stealthily. They spoke no louder than a hushed whisper, and even the scuffing of the steel-hulled boat against the stone wharf was but a muted scrape. Only when the doors of a waterfront inn burst open
did the true and raucous nature of the dark dwarves echo across the docks for a few minutes.

  Weaving slightly as he bid farewell to his traveling companions, Tarn realized that the fiery wine had been surprisingly potent. Still, he was able to climb out of the boat and make his way through the dockside plaza to the base of a long, curving path. He started uphill, and was soon out of breath. This was a grade that really could have used a flight of stairs, he thought with a ragged gasp—and he was only just now coming to the second level of the city!

  Daerforge had three different elevations. On this second one he paused to catch his breath and to take a look over the lake. Below him was a sprawling slope that looked like a garbage dump or the refuse of an ancient landslide. He remembered that this was Agharbardin, the home of many thousands of gully dwarves, though from this height he couldn’t see any signs of activity in the ravines and troughs among the great rocks.

  Moving up again, Tarn passed great manors, each a blocky structure more than half-buried in the bedrock of the steep mountainside. Some were guarded by spiked towers, others by lofty walls with many twists and turns. The pathway skirted the base of some houses and overlooked more of them as it climbed. Tarn saw that the stone houses were well fortified from above as well. Chutes had been excavated between many of the structures, insuring that any large band of attackers could be swept into a trap that would send the whole company cascading downhill. He had visited here many times since his earliest years, but had never before noticed this defense. Indeed, as he looked around, it occurred to him that the Daergar seemed quite a bit better prepared for war than were the Hylar.

  Finally he stood before the lofty gate, a steel ramp upraised between two tall towers of black marble. A ditch, dark and full of pungent muck, blocked his path. He recognized the stone drum beside the moat. He pounded on the hollow boulder with the hilt of his sword, three long raps followed by a trio of staccato taps.

  At the signal that identified him as one of the family, chains immediately clanked through their gears and the steel ramp slowly and quietly began to descend. By the time it provided him with a walkway, Tarn could see servants and a gateman waiting to receive him.