The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  “J-just that, my lady. He’s gone! The door was still locked, but somehow your son found a way out.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” the servant’s voice was shrill and filled with panic. “By your order we put him in a room with no windows, and the door was securely bolted and locked. It was never opened, I swear!”

  “Did he walk through the walls, then?” demanded the matriarch, her tone loaded with sarcasm.

  “They’re solid stone, lady! And the floor and ceiling as well!”

  “You idiot!” screamed Garimeth. “They can’t all be solid or he wouldn’t have found a way out! I should have you killed right now for your carelessness!”

  Karc cringed. This was not the first time he had heard this threat, but he knew from experience that it was no mere empty phrase.

  “Go back and look, you miserable wretch! Search on your hands and knees! Use that pathetic brain that Reorx gave you, or I swear it will cost you your head! And know this: if you fail to find him, your death will not come quickly.”

  Before Garimeth could continue her threats, the house was rocked by an earthquake of violent and wrenching force. She screamed as she was thrown headlong on to the hard stones of her floor. Looking up, the dwarfwoman gaped in stunned silence as the rock that formed the ceiling of her house began to ooze downward. It dropped with heavy, liquid plops onto the floor, nearly crushing her before she scrambled out of the way.

  Karc was not so lucky. He groaned in pain as a gelatinous mass of rock struck him on the shoulder and knocked him face first to the floor. He reached desperately toward Garimeth, his mouth working on a silent plea for help.

  But the matriarch was busy scrambling away. Finally she felt a wall at her back and crouched in the corner of the large room, watching in silent horror as the hole in her ceiling expanded. In moments the liquid rock had solidified, leaving a series of drooping tendrils, like smooth stalactites, dangling down into the room. The blobs on the floor had hardened as well, and now as the servant struggled to move he was anchored by a collar of stone that had clasped his upper body in a granite embrace.

  When Garimeth saw the creatures that dropped through the irregular opening, her breath caught in her throat and she shrank into the shadows. Realizing that she was pressed against a large trunk, she quickly scooted behind the obstacle. There she crouched in darkness, peering with one cautious eye around the side of her shelter. Despite her ragged breathing, she forced herself to grow calm, sensing that she could give herself away as easily by sound as by sight.

  She saw a gaunt, utterly dark shape, crouching over the squirming Karc. The creature reached down to touch the servant with a cold, clawlike hand and immediately Karc’s struggles ceased … and more. There was no body, nothing but a pathetic bundle of clothes beneath the shadowy attacker.

  And then, as more of the creatures dropped from the hole and started to glide through her house, she was startled by the knowledge that she could not remember who had been in the middle of the floor.

  But her thoughts immediately turned to more direct concerns as one of the shadows, oozing like liquid through the air, soundlessly advanced toward Garimeth. There was no substance, no real shape to the bizarre attacker. It seemed to be nothing but utter, consuming darkness. She was stunned as she chanced to look into the deep wells of its lightless eyes and felt a sense of utter, hopeless despair immediately drain the strength from her limbs.

  All she could do was stumble backward, falling over the trunk in a nerveless, instinctive retreat. At least that tumble broke the spell of those horrid eyes, and her senses returned. Garimeth trembled in terror and pressed a hand to her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her fearful moans. Knowing that to look back at the shadow was to die, she scrambled around the barrier, then threw up the lid of the trunk to give her another moment’s protection from soundless, lightless death.

  And her eyes fell upon the Helm of Tongues.

  The bronze artifact lay in the trunk where it had rested since her arrival. In desperation, she snatched it up and set it firmly on her head. She barely noticed the keen, sensory tingle of its magical presence. There was no weapon nearby, nothing she could use to fight, so she fell back another step. Then she was in the corner and saw the murky form of the shadow as it seemed to reach out with tendrils of darkness to enwrap the big trunk in a chilling, lethal cloak.

  With nowhere else to look, Garimeth’s vision again passed across the front of the thing, but this time she felt no menace in the bottomless eyes. Instead, she sensed that the shadow paused in its approach, hesitant … even confused.

  The helm’s power focused her thoughts and with those keen senses she reached out, tried to peer inside the mind of the shadow. She recoiled instantly, horrified by the mangled morass of its chaotic being. But at the same time she saw that the formless beast had moved back. Now it writhed in torment, and with sudden perception she saw that it feared her.

  “Go away!” she declared, her tone surprising even herself with its firm quality. “Leave me!”

  To her utter astonishment, the shadowy attacker slithered backward, then turned and wisped silently out the door.

  Gullywasher

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Golly. That some hot water.” Regal admired the blazing vista of the Urkhan Sea, which continued to toss and churn and spume. Periodically another cometlike gout of soaring flame shot forth from the black water. The Aghar shook his head in awe, though he sounded more impressed than frightened.

  Tarn couldn’t speak, could only stare, struck dumb by a much deeper sense of wrongness. He felt as though he was watching what must certainly be the end of Thorbardin. The feeling of impending doom had gripped him at the very first onslaught when tremors had shaken the ground and magical fire had burst into view from countless sources. Rockslides had rumbled down the slopes for several minutes. Although that initial violence had subsided somewhat, the lingering effects were everywhere, a frightening and bizarre assault against nature and reality.

  Tarn had a vague notion about taking cover, but in his heart he knew there could be no shelter from this apocalyptic storm.

  Great meteors of fire, finally recognizable as dragons of flame, roared through the sky over the lake. From over the miles of water the sounds of terror and pain and death shrieked of distant woe. Closer, the waters of the underground sea pitched and rose, surging onto the shore to spatter between the long fingers of Daerforge’s solid stone docks. Dark dwarves teemed there in great numbers, some aboard boats, others scrambling to get to higher ground. Many of the watercraft were hurled ashore like matchsticks. The clutching tendrils of churning waves sucked hundreds of Daergar off the docks and into the bay, and then the tide rose to hammer once more against the unyielding terrain of the wharf.

  Tarn watched in horror as other waves surged into the lower reaches of Agharhome, roaring through the tight streets and bowling helpless gully dwarves along, many of whom were carried back to certain death in the deep and churning maelstrom of the Urkhan Sea. More water spilled into the hollows, no doubt inundating countless Aghar who had sought the illusory shelter of the underground burrows.

  “Wow!” Duck Bigdwarf gaped as a sinkhole formed in the ground near them, rocks and ravines turning to sand and spilling into a widening pit.

  “Quick! Get back!” Tarn urged as the street fell away before them. Scrambling desperately, he and the small group of Aghar pulled themselves to higher ground.

  One of the fiery projectiles soared closer, veering to pass directly overhead. Tarn saw widespread wings, outlined in living flame and unmistakably draconic in nature. He watched in disbelief as the mighty creature swept close to the cliff wall above the dwarven city. Surely the wyrm would have to turn or dive before impact! Instead the terrifying dragon flew with unwavering speed, striking the smooth, dark rock and sweeping onward as if the barrier was no more than a film of gauze. The creature vanished into the solid stone, and in the monster’s wake Tarn saw a gaping
hole leading into the cliff face, a tunnel that glowed like a furnace.

  That illumination slowly faded as the blazing dragon tunneled deeper into the rock. Finally the unnatural cave was quite dark. And then the beast abruptly reappeared, bursting out of the cliff face in a different place and demolishing a couple of Daergar apartments as it emerged. The dragon glided overhead for a moment before soaring over the water again and winging powerfully toward the Life-Tree of the Hylar.

  “How they do that?” Poof Firemaker’s tone was admiring. Duck Bigdwarf merely stared, awestruck.

  “Just flies everywhere,” Regal observed. “Not only in air. Maybe it’s swimmin’ in the rock?”

  Of the gathered watchers, only Tarn reacted with deep unease. The Hylar part of his mind reached beyond the spectacle of raw destruction to confront the deep and fundamental questions. How could this happen? And what did it mean for the future?

  He had guesses for both questions, but his hypotheses were even more disturbing than the original queries. Tarn tried to deny the growing evidence, to consider any number of logical causes for this bizarre phenomenon. But as he watched the shifting images of light and darkness on the lake, he knew that only one explanation was possible.

  “Chaos.” He muttered the word softly, to himself. “Father was right. Chaos has come to Thorbardin.”

  “Poor guys,” said Regal, watching as a great shelf of Daerforge’s second level gave way, tumbling in a crushing landslide, burying a corner of the waterfront below. Rocks tumbled through the streets and a cloud of dust rose to obscure the panic-stricken dwarves—though it did not mask the shrill screams of the injured and dying.

  The collapse swept away the front wall of several crowded dwellings, and Tarn was startled to see directly inside these structures. He spotted some Daergar clinging to the suddenly created precipice, watched in horror as, one after another, they slipped free to plunge onto the broken rubble below. Snatching a quick look up the slope, he felt a surprising rush of relief as he saw that his mother’s house remained intact—at least, on the outside.

  “Awful bad stuff,” Poof Firemaker declared, shaking his head sadly as more dark dwarves tumbled into the maelstrom of chaos. Even now, Tarn was amazed that the gully dwarves were expressing sympathy for the dark dwarves who tormented them so relentlessly.

  For a brief time fire glowed amid the wreckage, apparently feeding on the bare stone. But soon the blazes faded and died or were masked by the billowing and still-growing dust cloud. Fewer Daergar were visible now. Those who survived had taken cover deep in the bowels of their dwellings. The thunder that had rumbled through this end of Thorbardin also seemed to be fading, although when Tarn looked across the water he saw the Life-Tree racked by blazing convulsions. He clenched his teeth, furious at himself for his absence from home and utterly frustrated by his inability to get back there. Even if it only meant that he would die beside Belicia and his father, it was suddenly very important from him to be in Hybardin.

  “All done for now,” Regal declared, looking at the debris settling in the ruined swath of Daerforge. His expression turned hopeful. “Go get some beer?”

  “Wow,” Poof said, his tone strangely subdued. “Real bad happening.”

  “All killed? All?” wondered Duck. He sniffled loudly.

  “Agharhome was badly hit. I’m sorry to say,” Tarn felt obliged to observe.

  “Not hit like that!” insisted Poof, pointing at the ruined swath of Daerforge.

  “Don’t you sometimes think that the other clans deserve the worst that happens to them?” Tarn wondered. “After all, it seems like you Aghar get treated pretty unfairly anywhere in Thorbardin you try to go.”

  Regal Everwise squinted, even rubbing his forehead in the effort of his cogitation. “What you mean?” he asked, clearly mystified.

  “Well, just …” Tarn tried to organize his thoughts. He knew what it was like to be an outsider, to feel scorned and rejected by fellow dwarves. Yet never in his life had he been subjected to the level of abuse that was any gully dwarf’s daily lot. “I would think it would bother you. In the rest of Thorbardin there’s plenty to eat and drink, lots of gardens and fresh water. There are laws, even, to protect dwarves from other dwarves who don’t like them. Yet we all seem to think nothing of kicking a gully dwarf, or keeping you in your own little slum here.”

  “Slum?” Regal bristled. “Agharhome fine excellent city! Got friendlier people even than Life-Tree!”

  Tarn laughed in spite of the rising sense of his own indignation—an emotion inspired on the Aghars’ behalf, but apparently not shared by those whom he felt had been wronged.

  “Friendly people … you’re right about that,” he agreed, ashamed by his own pettiness.

  “Come to our inn. We got some good food there. And beer,” Regal promised with an expansive wave of his hand.

  Reluctantly, Tarn followed the small dwarves through the ravines and gullies of their rock-strewn home. This far from the sea it seemed that the Chaos storm had done little damage, though in fact it was kind of hard to tell, given the generally crumbled nature of the gully dwarf city. He could see, though, that the waves had swept some of the lower portions of the place quite cleanly, even washing away some of the large rocks that had jutted so characteristically upward. Plodding along, the half-breed periodically stopped and stared, allowing his mind to once again wrestle with his one overriding problem. How was he going to get home?

  They finally ducked under a low entrance, and after a moment’s hesitation, Tarn stooped low and followed the creatures into a dingy and lightless hole. Despite the rank smells of unwashed bodies pressed into too tight of a space, the place was alive with cheerful conversation and even giggling bursts of laughter that erupted into a cacophony of hysterical amusement when Tarn stood up and bumped his head on a stone protruding downward from the ceiling.

  “No beer for you!” one jeered. “You not even stand okay now!”

  “Er, right,” Tarn grunted, rubbing the tender spot on his skull. As he saw the dark and bubbling grog that filled the dirty communal mug, he was quite willing to forego the pleasure of a draught. The gully dwarves amiably passed the vessel around the group, chatting with apparent unconcern about food and beer. The half-breed tried to suppress a sense of utter disbelief. Didn’t they understand what was happening to their world?

  “Why you sulk?” Regal asked, eventually coming to sit beside the half-breed.

  Tarn chuckled ruefully. “I didn’t know I was sulking. The truth is, I was thinking about a problem.”

  “What problem? Regal Big-Time-Smart help you fix it!”

  “I wish you could, my friend. I really do. But I’ve got to get to Hybardin, and I don’t see how you can get me there any more than I can get there myself!” Tarn declared bitterly.

  “Hybardin? That long way. Why not stay here? Got friends. Got grog. Here.” Regal held out the filthy mug, which still contained a splash of mysterious looking dregs. Tarn politely declined. “Why in a hurry to go?” asked the Aghar again.

  “I’ve got my father there, and a friend … a lady friend. You saw what happened over there, what’s happening to all Thorbardin. I’m certain that they need my help,” the half-breed declared urgently.

  “You help to fight?”

  “Yes, probably,” Tarn agreed. Abruptly his hand went to his belt, where he usually carried his sword. Naturally, the loop was empty. He hadn’t seen the blade since he had been drugged at his mother’s house. “Although I have to admit I’m in sore need of a weapon.”

  “Here! This cutter too big for me,” offered the tiny Duck Bigdwarf.

  “Thanks, friend.” Tarn took the proffered short sword, wondering how an Aghar had come to possess such a splendid weapon. Only then did he recognize the gem in the pommel, see the crest of white granite in the hilt, and realize that it was his own blade. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. What was the use?

  Meanwhile, the gully dwarves had put their heads toge
ther in a murmured council, during which another mug of grog was passed around and several voices had risen in heated discussion. Just when the vile beverage was beginning to look almost palatable to Tarn, Regal Everwise lifted his head from the group and fixed him with a direct glare.

  “Can we go to Hybardin too?” Regal asked bluntly. “We never go there before; wanna go now.”

  “I don’t think this is the time for sightseeing,” Tarn replied, his mind distracted. “And I really think you’d be safer here.”

  “Safer?” Duck declared indignantly. “We safe alla places. But how you get to Hybardin, you not have our help?”

  “I don’t know,” Tarn declared with a rueful laugh. “But just for the sake of argument, how would I get to Hybardin if I did have your help?”

  “Easy,” declared Poof Firemaker, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We could fly there, or swim!”

  “Or we could ride that fire dragon. Big fun!” added Duck Bigdwarf.

  “Hmmph!” sniffed Regal. “This big dwarf not looking for fun. He gotta go see his pop and his lady love.”

  The other Aghar nodded pensively, clearly understanding this high motive.

  “Thanks anyway,” Tarn said. “But I don’t think I can fly or swim that far. As for the fire dragon, I’d hate to be the one who had to ask him for a ride.”

  “No, no, no. Those stupid plans,” declared the ever-wise Regal. “We go to Hybardin, we do it right!”

  “And how do you do that?” Tarn couldn’t refrain from asking.

  “Easy. We go to Daerforge and steal a boat.”

  Dark Dwarf Decisions

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Help me, you fools!” Darkend thrashed in the water, clawing over the sinking bodies of his crew. He cursed his gauntlets as his fingers slipped from the metal hull of the swamped lake boat. Panic rose in his gorge, horror of death by water penetrating to the very core of his being. Feeling the cold liquid soak through his beard, rising to his chin, he shrieked desperately at any Daergar in earshot.