The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  “That Main Street Number Two,” declared Regal.

  “I thought this was … never mind.” Tarn decided it was best to follow along with as few questions as possible.

  They finally emerged from the base of a cliff. Looking over his shoulder and upward, Tarn saw the sweep of stone wall rising to the uppermost of Daerforge’s levels. He recognized the twin towers at the gatehouse of his mother’s manor and realized he was really not that far from the dwelling of his maternal ancestors.

  But as he looked around he also felt transported to another world. A slope before him led steeply downward. It was a surface of huge rocks teetering dangerously at unbalanced angles. The slope was scored by paths and gullies that twisted around the huge outcrops. Beneath and around the rocks Tarn could see countless niches and darkened alcoves. He guessed that these dens must serve as the Aghars’ houses and other buildings—well, shelters anyway since they didn’t seem to have actually been “built.”

  While he was watching, he noticed several small figures dashing from one of these entrances to another with every appearance of great urgency. They dove into the burrows under the rocks, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. Agharhome covered a broad, steep slope that led from the base of the cliff to the shore of the Urkhan Sea. At a casual glance the gully dwarf city was indistinguishable from a field of strewn boulders. The network of ravines and channels served as roads, just as the crude niches between the rocks served as buildings.

  “Here we find my friends,” Regal said, his conversational voice sounding like a shout to Tarn after the long, silent crawl. As soon as he got over his surprise, he realized that the whole area was abuzz with noise: laughter, argument, snoring, all kinds of sounds—though there were still no Aghar immediately in view.

  “Sure. Regal?”

  “What?” The gully dwarf stopped and looked up at Tarn, scowling suspiciously.

  “I just wanted to say, um, thanks … thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “Beer was gone anyway,” Regal replied with a shrug. “My friends got more, but different kind. You will see. Gully grog got some real kick.”

  Tarn suppressed his misgivings, remembering the rather startling taste when Regal had shared his flask. “Well, I might have to take your word for it. The last time somebody showed their hospitality to me with a bottle, it didn’t work out too well.”

  “Head hurts?” wondered the gully dwarf.

  “Yeah, for starters,” Tarn replied, still feeling the cottony thickness in his mouth and the queasiness in his stomach.

  Regal sniffed, somewhat contemptuously. Any further critique was prevented by the sudden appearance of two more Aghar, who seemed to crawl out from beneath a nearby boulder. One was chubby and short even for a gully dwarf, while the other was taller with a red face framed by a bristling mane of frizzy hair.

  “Regal Way-Too-Smart!” the short one declared, beaming. “You got home in time for … what? We gonna do something, I know.” He turned to his companion while scratching his bushy head. “Why he come home?”

  The second dwarf with an entirely hairless, egg-shaped face scowled. A seared and frazzled fringe of hair was visible at the back of the Aghar’s head. The skin of his face was blistered. Even his eyebrows had apparently been burned away.

  Regal cleared his throat with great formality. “This Poof Firemaker,” he declared, pointing at the singed gully dwarf. “And Duck Bigdwarf.”

  Duck was undoubtedly one of the shortest Aghar Tarn had ever met. Even after he rose from his sweeping bow—a gesture which dropped him onto his face for a disconcerting moment—his head came barely to the level of Tarn’s chest. Looking down, Tarn saw that the tangle of Duck’s hair was alive with fleas. Stepping quickly backward, Tarn tried not to let his distaste show.

  Poof also bowed, and Tarn saw that the burn line neatly intersected his skull into fore and rear halves. It seemed obvious to Tarn that the Aghar Firemaker had held his face a little too close to some incendiary project. This suspicion was reinforced by the sight of a small tinderbox that the gully dwarf proudly held up for the half-breed’s inspection.

  “Come and have some grog, now?” asked Regal, showing every intention of crawling under the boulder where the pair of gully dwarves had been. It appeared to be no more than a small and dingy niche. “Plenty even for big thirsty guy like you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” the half-breed tried to explain, “but I’ve got to be going. I want to look around a bit.”

  His reluctance was only partly out of distaste. In fact, his thought processes had finally begun to grapple with the next question. Where should he go? The answer was obvious: back to Hybardin, back to his father, and especially back to Belicia. He would have to travel by boat, but his hopes were dampened by the sight of the Agharhome waterfront. There were a series of small jetties made from tumbled rock, but these looked like precarious places even for walking, much less docking a boat. And there were no watercraft anywhere in evidence, which, he realized with another glance at the trio of Aghar, was probably very sensible.

  Across the harbor, mostly hidden by the curling shoulder of the sea’s steep shoreline, lay the crowded and busy waterfront of Daerforge. He saw the cables of the chain boats far out over the water followed their pylons to the distant, illuminated height of the Life-Tree. Could he get there, somehow sneaking aboard some dark dwarf boat without being noticed? He didn’t care for his chances.

  And then, before his disbelieving eyes, flaming balls of winged fire burst upward from the Urkhan Sea and soared high into the air.

  “How is your ammunition holding out?” Belicia had located Fortus Silkseller on the rampart over the southern stairway and now she shouted over the din of howling dark dwarves. Just below them—despite having suffered hundreds of casualties—the Daergar still pressed against against Farran’s shield wall. In several hours of battle the doughty Hylar had given up no more than six or eight steps on the wide stairway.

  “We’ve used half our arrows,” replied the grim merchant. “A while ago I told ’em to start taking their time, to make each shot count.”

  “It looks like they paid attention.”

  Looking over the mass of bodies sprawled across the dockside below, Belicia saw that many of the dark dwarves had been felled by the missiles sent down by the Hylar archers. Just below the wall several ladders lay scattered and broken, and the dead Daergar bristled with so many arrows that they looked like pincushions.

  “They thought they could bypass the stairs,” Fortus said with a loud spit, followed by a hearty chuckle. “Wanted to take us by surprise with a sudden rush and a few ladders. Guess we made ’em think otherwise.”

  “Good job,” Belicia said. She pointed toward the center of the line where a dozen or so Daergar carried on with an attack that seemed to finally be losing some of its relentless ferocity. “Good timing, too.”

  Farran shouted hoarsely, and his shield wall pressed forward. In a few seconds they had regained all the steps they had lost since the attack began. Fortus laughed with real pleasure, and Belicia nodded in satisfaction. “It seems like the attack on the stairs is starting to slacken a little bit.”

  “About time.” Despite his gruff manner, the merchant-turned-warrior looked immensely pleased. “What about the other three sides?”

  “Every one of them has held. It seems like none of them got hit as hard as you did here. We’re all grateful. I know you’ve paid the price.”

  “Your boy there … Farran …” Fortus cleared his throat, “he’s doing a yeoman’s job, by Reorx. I was in the Lance War you know, and I’ve never seen a shield wall hold against such a press. The fellow looks young, but I’m here to tell you that he fights like a seasoned veteran.”

  “Yes … he does well,” Belicia replied softly, her eyes misting at the memory of her young sergeant mere weeks earlier, stumbling over each foot as he was among the rawest of recruits. “I guess war has a way of maturing you quickly.” A thought jarred her, as she
recalled one of the hundreds of reports she had received today. “Is there any word on your friend?”

  “Hoist Backwrench, you mean?”

  “Yes. I know he was standing in the forefront of the shield wall. I heard he went down in the fight. How does he fare?”

  “He’ll live,” Fortus said, trying unsuccessfully to contain his emotions. “I don’t think they’ll be able to save his eyes, though.”

  “I’m sorry.” Belicia said no more, but she was touched by the obvious depth of the grizzled dwarf’s feeling, and by the heavy toll this day was taking on the brave Hylar all along the waterfront.

  “ ‘Just have yer warriors keep holdin’ the line, here’—that was what Hoist told me, when I saw him a little while ago.”

  “I will. And you save those arrows, all right? I have a feeling we’re going to need them pretty soon.”

  “It’s a promise, my lady!” Fortus threw her a rigid salute, a true honorific. “You know, if the Daergar pull back a bit, we can even send a quick sortie down there and bring back some we’ve already shot.”

  “Good. Look for a chance, and then go,” Belicia agreed, heartened.

  She went to a small tower that rose from the rampart over the stairs. From here, she had a wide view of Hybardin’s waterfront. Her earlier observation was borne out as the exhausted dark dwarves, who had gained only a small foothold on the steep stairway, finally withdrew entirely to catch their breath on the docks and reorder their decimated companies. From her vantage, the captain could see that many more boats were gathering near the shore, oars stirring the water as they advanced in neat ranks. Apparently, reinforcements were coming from Daerforge—and no doubt from Theibardin as well.

  Belicia was about to make another round of her defensive positions when the ground underfoot was rocked by an unnatural tremor. Explosions split the air, thundering and ringing with a dire, ground-shaking force. Spots of unnatural brightness began to glow across the black water. One after another these patches swelled into flaming eruptions like fiery rockets which shot into the air, trailing sparks and leaving hissing trails of steam in their wake.

  Battling dwarves on both sides halted their violence, staring in awe, silent and stunned. Beacons blazed through the air overhead, and more forms moved along the docks—shadowy figures that emerged from the water. She had not seen them swimming and dimly realized that the forms were not even dripping.

  They slithered along the shore like a silent wave of darkness—touching and surrounding dwarves. And then those dwarves disappeared! The rippling shades moved on, leaving only armor and weapons scattered across the dockside.

  “What in Reorx is happening?!” gasped Belicia.

  But the wave of darkness only swept closer.

  “Hold steady there! Damn you, grab that rope!”

  Darkend pitched to the side as a sudden surge in the lake’s surface rocked his command boat violently. One gunwale dipped below the surface, and a great gush of water poured into the hull.

  Crashing onto a bench, the thane of the Daergar struck blindly at the nearest of his oarsmen. That dark dwarf took no notice of the blow as he tried to scramble away from the water sloshing along the keel. Darkend nearly gagged in revulsion as his hands, knees, and feet were all soaked by the chilly stuff.

  “Who did that?” he sputtered, climbing to his feet and glaring about. “Who dared to unbalance his thane?”

  Immediately he saw that the rocking of the boat was not the result of any careless sailor. In fact, the whole surface of the sea was pitching and surging, lifting the boat and sending Darkend tumbling once more. He heard the terrified shrieking of Daergar all about him. Even as the thane tried to recover his balance, he spat vile curses in all directions.

  Grabbing the gunwale with both hands, Darkend pulled himself up, glaring in impotent fury at the scene along the waterfront. There were random explosions and flaming things in the sky. Dark, shadowy creatures were everywhere, feeding on his troops.

  His warriors should have been reordering themselves, preparing for a new attack, but instead they seemed to be racing in all directions at once. He barely noticed that the Hylar also seemed to have been thrown into confusion by the strange events. Sputtering in helpless rage, he saw that dwarves of both clans were haplessly trying to defend themselves against the fire and shadow creatures.

  A flare of brightness crackled across Darkend’s field of view, searing his eyes with furious light. For a time the thane could see nothing of what was happening on shore. He felt the heat of the nearby flames and instinctively threw his arms over his head. At the same moment, a crash of thunder shook the great cavern, the echoes ringing in his ears so loudly that he could hear nothing else.

  Blinking and shaking his head, Darkend tried to restore his senses. When he had done so, he saw a great, fiery dragon rising up from the water in a hissing cloud of steam. It tore free from the sea and trailed a cloud of vapor in the air behind it. The thane could see the broad wings and feel the heat of unnatural fire on his face. Against the brightness of the wyrm he vaguely saw a figure, coal black and liquidly supple, crouching between the shoulders of the massive creature. The rider was manlike in shape, apparently naked and unarmed. It raised both arms in an unmistakable gesture of exultant triumph.

  A gout of water suddenly burst upward from the stern, pouring into the boat and sucking the metal hull down. Another dark dwarf tumbled against Darkend, jostling him rudely. The thane took the offending fellow by the scruff of the neck and pitched him over the side where his scream was quickly drowned by the cold, churning waters. Still clutching the gunwale of the boat, the ruler of the Daergar glared in mute terror at the chaotic onslaught that was throwing his carefully planned attack into confusion.

  All around him dark dwarves shrieked in terror as the heavy craft heeled violently to the side, allowing a spill of black water to rush into the hull. In an instant the boat was filled. Just as quickly it plunged beneath the waves, carrying its crew into the depths of the Urkhan Sea.

  Baker and Axel were on Level Twenty-eight inspecting the defenses that had been installed in the event of a further incursion by the Klar. Aside from the Ferrust house, the damage from the first attack already had been repaired. Baker could tell from the eyes of every dwarf he met that memories of the onslaught still lingered fresh and hurtful. As he accompanied the venerable warrior through the streets and gardens of Hybardin’s highest places, he passed many clansmen who had lost family members. He found he easily could push his chronic gut-pain into the background when he considered the suffering of so many of his clan.

  Bands of guards, each troop comprised of ten or twelve armed Hylar, patrolled the streets and checked vacant buildings. They moved uneasily down the lanes and streets, sending advance scouts into the darkest alleys and showing every indication of utmost vigilance. Baker was heartened to see that very few of these patrols had resorted to the characteristic dwarven garrison tactic of making sure every inn and tavern was well-defended while the rest of the city was left to take care of itself. Perhaps the suddenness and brutality of the Klar attack had provided a sobering lesson for all Hybardin.

  “It seems damned solid, doesn’t it?” Axel asked, lifting his eyebrows toward the ceiling that arched overhead. “You’d never know by looking that it’s honeycombed with tunnels and caves.”

  Baker nodded, leaning back and seeing the vaulted roof as if for the first time. Stone arches and balustrades, excavated from the very bedrock of the mountain, formed supports where the mass of stone curved over the road. The walls of each house extended all the way to the ceiling, so that within each structure—which was typically a nest of apartments shared by dozens of dwarves—the natural ceiling of the mountain formed the upper boundary of the site.

  “Nearly every house has some kind of route through the rock. And now all those secret tunnels are coming back to haunt us in a big way,” Axel groused bitterly. “I should have thought of it, by Reorx! What kind of a warrior am I, that my mind
has to wither faster than the rest of me?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Baker counselled. “I could have thought of it, too—or anyone else could have, for that matter. What’s important now is for us to come up with some kind of plan that offers long-term protection.”

  A shout of alarm from a nearby house interrupted Baker’s next question. The clash of metal against metal punctuated loud cries of fear and anger. Instantly, several of the armed patrols that were posted in the street charged toward the structure. More blows echoed from inside. Hurrying along, Baker heard the sounds of clashing swords followed by the unmistakable keening of berserk Klar.

  “They’re hitting us again!” growled Axel, his broadsword held in both hands and raised for combat. “Let’s get those bastards!”

  More houses echoed with noise. In moments Level Twenty-eight was embroiled in battle once again. Tangles of Klar and Hylar tumbled from the buildings, taking their skirmishes into the streets. Patrols of armed Hylar quickly stormed in from all directions, responding to the alarm with swift counterattacks. Several formed a steel-edged escort around their thane.

  Baker stood in the street, surrounded by guards and feeling terribly useless. A small sword dangled at his side, one of the ornaments from his audience chamber wall that he had decided he could probably carry around without cutting off his leg. Now, for the first time he drew the weapon. It felt awkward and ill-balanced in his hand.

  The weapon was suddenly forgotten as his attention was drawn to a nearby wall where the rock surface seemed suddenly to shift and sag. It was moving. There was no other way to describe it. The rock melted before him, turning to thick sludge, then flowed away like cream.

  And the strangeness, the darkness, the forms of chaos that emerged from that gap, were more terrifying than any onslaught of Klar.

  “What do you mean ‘escaped’?”

  Garimeth’s voice was low, but the rumbing menace in her tone was enough to whiten Karc’s already pallid features.