The Last Thane

by Doug Niles

  “With pleasure, lord.” His eyes flashed with delight.

  Garimeth’s face whitened as she heard the death sentence, but she was obviously shrewd and selfish enough not to betray her feelings. Instead, she merely stared after the dark figure of the royal assassin as Slickblade nodded and glided smoothly out the door.

  “You don’t believe me?” she asked sadly. “I tell you, your killer dwarf was here and came here with—according to him—a message for my son.”

  Darkend shrugged, then chuckled cruelly. “If you speak the truth, he will have no trouble finding the lad.”

  “Perhaps. But Tarn is resourceful.”

  Suddenly they were interrupted by a distant rumble. Quickly, Garimeth led Darkend outside to the vast balcony that overlooked the sea and the lower city. Columns of steam curled and twisted through the air. They watched as one of the fiery serpents veered away from the center of the cavern and started winging closer and closer to the two Daergar.

  A great missile of fire, like a blazing meteor, coursed through the air over the Urkhan Sea and angled downward toward the balcony and the two dark dwarves. Darkend turned his eyes away, wincing against the blinding light. He was only vaguely aware of a stark black figure amid the brightness of the fire dragon.

  The great dragon flexed its broad flaming wings and came to rest in a cloud of sparks and smoke. Darkend still held a hand before his eyes to shield against the painful glare, but even so he could discern the tall, regal creature, manlike in visage, with skin that was smooth and featureless. The black figure dismounted and stalked forward to loom over him. Fire hissed and crackled with excruciating brilliance, a burning heat that felt painful against Darkend’s face.

  The thane knew with certainty that he was about to die.

  Interlude of Chaos

  Zarak Thuul felt a profound attraction, a compulsion that drew him across the vault of space and sea. Thoughts beckoned to him. A presence reached inside his head and touched him like no being—not even Primus—ever had.

  He was astounded to see before him a she-dwarf and to know that it was her will that had drawn him. He could tell she felt awe at his beautiful appearance and that she coveted his mighty power. These twin emotions were immensely pleasing to the daemon warrior.

  Laughing aloud, the harbinger of Chaos seized the female and lifted her into an embrace. She became one with him in spirit, desire, and mind. This was a worthy being, he knew, so different from the pathetic insects that were the rest of these mortals.

  He put her down again and fell on his face before her, overcome with wonder and keen, soaring delight.

  Assassin’s Mate

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Just suppose I agree with you. How would we go about stealing a boat?”

  Tarn decided to ask the question, though he was pretty certain he would regret following this gully dwarf plan. Perhaps the rank air, the sticky goo on the floor, and the odor of the pungent grog—which he had thus far avoided sampling—had combined to cloud his judgment. Even so, he admitted to himself that the notion was better than anything he had been able to come up with.

  “We just goes there and takes it—a boat,” Regal explained.

  The others in the dark and smelly saloon agreed with a whole hearted chorus of nods and belches.

  “Lotsa boats!” proclaimed one expansively.

  “Get big one!” urged a comrade.

  “No, a fast one!” insisted another.

  “I like a boat with lotta legs,” explained Duck Bigdwarf, giving Tarn a bleary but scrutinizing look.

  “Legs?” Tarn was taken by surprise, until he thought for a moment. “Oh, you mean oars, I suppose. Yes, we have to get one with legs. Reorx knows the chain boats aren’t going to get us there.”

  Accompanied by a boisterous mob of gully dwarves, Tarn rose and made his way outside of the dingy inn. He took care this time to avoid smashing his head on the outcrop of rock. Surrounded by a chorus of voices—“What boat that? Go see! Your boots make good boat!”—they climbed to the crest of a large rock where they could get a view of the Daerforge waterfront. Dozens of gully dwarves had appeared, and the whole party was gathered along the steeply sloping surface of Agharhome.

  The docks of the dark dwarf port city were clearly visible along the curve of the shoreline. They all saw the wreckage created when a part of the second level had collapsed to spill across some of the waterfront. The farther expanse of the broad wharves behind the pile of rock and steel left in the wake of the collapse teemed with activity. There, dozens of boats freshly arrived from Hybardin jostled for position as their crews tried desperately to scramble ashore. Everywhere the place was teeming with agitated dark dwarves. Tarn didn’t see any way he and the Aghar could even get close to—much less steal—one of the watercraft without being spotted.

  “See! Comes a fireflier!” cried one gully dwarf.

  Tarn stared in horror as the flaming outline of a massive dragon soared over their heads. He flinched unconsciously, though the mighty creature paid no attention to the insignificant specks on the ground so far below. Instead, as Tarn watched in astonishment, the beast soared toward the upper level of Daerforge, toward the twin towers high up on the cliff. With a flexing of those great wings the creature came to rest on the broad outer balcony of his mother’s house.

  Tarn saw the black creature dismount from the dragon’s back. With a sense of utter disbelief he spotted two small figures coming into view. He could recognize neither at a distance, but the bronze helmet on the head of one of them might as well have been a beacon proclaiming his mother’s presence. Garimeth was wearing the Helm of Tongues, and she was greeting—now she was being embraced!—by this harbinger of Chaos.

  For a long time the monstrous warrior seemed to speak to the Daergar. It seemed to Tarn that his mother did a great deal of talking in return. And then he saw the strange being prostrate himself at the dwarfwoman’s feet! Finally the black rider returned to its fiery mount and soared into the skies on a course for Hybardin. Tarn was certain of one thing: some kind of nefarious deal had been struck.

  Stunned, he tried to consider the ramifications of this development. Soon after, as Tarn watched, a party of dark dwarves, including the still-helmeted Garimeth Bellowsmoke, emerged from the house and started down the road toward the waterfront.

  “What now, Regal Wiseallatime?” asked Duck Bigdwarf patiently. He gestured at the expanse of stormy sea, blazing fireballs, and wracked Hybardin. “This boring!”

  “Wait for him, I say,” Regal retorted, skeptically regarding Tarn. “He our leader. That is, if he ever do something.”

  Angrily Tarn shook his head, thinking. Why was his mother heading to the boat dock and still wearing that helm? Looking out over the sea Tarn saw the inverted cone of the Life-Tree, now scarred by countless fires, pocked by the ravages of destructive Chaos. The fire dragon must have returned there. In an instant of clarity he knew where Garimeth would be going with the treasure she had stolen from his father.

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” he said and turned to the gully dwarves, who erupted in a spontaneous cheer. Scrutinizing the dark dwarf city again, Tarn suddenly saw a possibility—not really an opportunity, perhaps, but at least the ghost of a chance. “See there,” he told Regal, “on the closest part of the waterfront?”

  “Right. Where rocks spilled, dock not so big on this side.”

  “No, nor so crowded.” He studied that part of Daerforge where the collapse had isolated a small section of the waterfront. There were some dark dwarves and a few boats along the edge but nothing like the crowds that thronged on the other side of the lakeshore. “It’s cut off almost completely from the rest of the city,” he explained, his pulse quickening.

  “Not so many boats there,” Regal demurred. “We wanta choose from lotsa boats.”

  “But not so many dark dwarves, either,” the half-breed countered. “And believe me, once you’ve been in a few boats you realize that they’re all pretty muc
h the same.”

  “I dunno.” Regal was still skeptical, but he and his fellow Aghar nevertheless followed Tarn as he filed through the channels and ravines of the gully dwarf city. “Main Street Number One,” noted Regal, though Tarn could see no way that this path was an extension of the subterranean pipe that had also been labeled as “Main Street Number One.”

  Nearing the edge of Daerforge, Tarn started down a steep descent. Abruptly one of his boots slipped, and he skidded several feet down the tumbling ravine. Quickly he recovered his balance and, still muttering curses, climbed to his feet. Beside him was a motionless gully dwarf. For a moment he feared he had knocked and dragged the fellow down with his own clumsiness.

  “Sorry, friend. Can I give you a hand?”

  Then he saw the arrow. A steel shaft had punctured the Aghar’s neck from behind. Tarn knew the gully dwarf was quite dead.

  “An arrow, and poisoned too!” he hissed through clenched teeth, immediately turning to scour the heights. He could see no sign of the mysterious attacker as the other gully dwarves gathered around.

  “Poor Rocco,” Regal said sadly. “At least he got to walk right in front of you. That what he wanted.”

  “And he was shot right after I stumbled,” Tarn realized, the knowledge bringing a prickle of alarm.

  He didn’t speak the rest of the deduction aloud, but it was a certainty in his own mind. That deadly arrow had in fact been intended for Tarn Bellowsmoke, not the unfortunate Aghar named Rocco. But who had shot at him, and why? He wondered if his mother had sent an assassin after him after she had discovered the escape. But he couldn’t believe that she would stoop to something so evil as killing her own son.

  Again he studied the rising ground behind them, seeing no sign of the attacker. They started down again, but now Tarn led them through some of the deepest trenches and urged the group into a ragged trot when they had to cross the occasional stretches of open ground. They could see several boats along the nearer section of the shoreline, as well as a few more pulling this way as their crews strived to reach the dark dwarf city. The “Main Street” took a dramatic downhill turn, becoming indistinguishable from a natural ravine, and Tarn felt some relief as they were able to follow the deep cut steadily toward the lake shore.

  Finally they reached a shelf of rock directly above the flat stretch of Daerforge’s docks. The water of the Urkhan Sea, still roiling from the Chaos storm, smashed against the solid stone bulwark of the wharf a short stone’s throw away. Several rock piers jutted like stubby fingers into the water, but there were no boats docked close by. However, this section of the waterfront was concealed from the view of the rest of the city by the sloping pile of rubble that had been spilled by the collapse.

  “Look! Here comes a boat!” cried Regal, standing up and pointing until Tarn grabbed his shoulder and quickly pulled him back to cover.

  But the Aghar’s observation had been correct, and now Tarn saw a long-hulled lake boat, propelled only by a half dozen oars, fighting its way through the pitching waters. After its crew had time to observe the crowd and the tangle of watercraft at the main portion of the docks, this boat veered away, making landfall near the isolated and relatively empty section of wharf where Tarn and the gully dwarves lay in wait.

  “I’m going to sneak over there and try to get as close as I can,” the half-breed whispered softly.

  “We sneak too!” cried a dozen Aghar, not softly at all. Fortunately, the sound seemed to be swallowed by the general noise of storm and activity.

  Tarn wasn’t at all confident of his companions’ stealth, but he quickly realized that there would be no dissuading the excited gully dwarves.

  “Be careful,” he warned, exasperated.

  “We good sneakers!” Regal proclaimed, and, sure enough, the Aghar all but disappeared as they followed Tarn down the steep slope. They were indeed good sneakers.

  Crouching at the foot of the embankment, Tarn scrutinized the dock, watching as the longboat lurched slightly in the swell and then glided up to the side of the solid wharf.

  One dark dwarf hopped out of the boat before it had come to rest. “You wait here,” he called over his shoulder to the others. “I’ll find out our orders.”

  There was some loud grumbling from the rest of the crew, but ultimately they remained at their benches, holding the boat in the swell next to the dock while their compatriot scrambled over broken stones and soon passed out of sight.

  Tarn looked skeptically at the boat. There were at least a dozen battle-hardened fighters sitting at the oars, ready to row or to fight. With the half-breed were perhaps twice that many Aghar, but he had few illusions about the fighting capabilities of his motley band. It was far better, he decided, to wait for a chance to take an unoccupied boat or one with only one or two dwarves on guard.

  Regal Everwise, however, had other plans.

  “Get boat!” he cried, leaping to his feet. He hopped down to the dock while the other Aghar, gaping in stupefaction, watched.

  “Hey, you! I want boat!” Strutting like a lord, Regal ambled toward the craft. Tarn held his breath, realizing that none of the rest of them had been spotted. Instead, all the dark dwarves’ attention was fixed upon the small, rotund Regal, who spoke with such annoying arrogance.

  All but spitting in their rage at such insolence, several Daergar dropped their oars and scrambled onto the dock, stumbling over themselves in their eagerness to teach this gully dwarf a permanent lesson. Regal stopped his sauntering advance but made no effort to retreat back to safety.

  And Tarn saw only one thing he could possibly do.

  “Charge!” he shouted, drawing his short sword and leaping down to the dock. He didn’t stop to see whether the rest of the Aghar followed. Instead, he raced at full speed toward the foremost Daergar, a hulking one-eyed axeman who had been quick to lead his comrades onto the dock.

  The scarred warrior halted in surprise when Tarn appeared, then raised his axe with a look of enthusiasm, ready to meet this new opponent. But the sprinting half-breed was too fast, and he stabbed first, dropping the Daergar with a fatal piercing into the heart. Tarn’s momentum momentarily staggered the rest of the dark dwarves, who were close together at the edge of the dock. With another swift hack and shove, Tarn sent a shrieking dark dwarf tumbling into the deep water beside the dock.

  Then he fell back as more enemy fighters moved to his right and left, eager to surround him and cut him down.

  “You leave my pal alone!” demanded Regal, advancing to take a place at Tarn’s right side. The gully dwarf’s long dagger snicked out, the quick slash driving the first of the Daergar back.

  Dark dwarves swerved the other way, but Tarn was elated to see Duck Bigdwarf and Poof Firemaker counter to his left. The bigger gully dwarf cheerily swung a torch he had somehow ignited, while Duck dropped low and stabbed upward with a sharp, long-bladed dagger.

  More of the Aghar were racing around, and now it was the Daergar who were surrounded and harassed on all sides by darting, taunting enemies. Poof’s torch flared at the dark dwarves, who cursed its brightness. Swords and clubs flailed, fists and feet pummeled, and the press of the charging gully dwarves was just enough to check the advance of the enemy crewmen. Some of the Daergar still scrambled to get out of the boat while others fought, precariously balanced at the edge of the dock and terrified of the black water surging against the wharf behind them.

  Duck crawled between the legs of a burly Daergar, and when the gully dwarf stood up the sharpened crown of his helm propelled the dark dwarf right off the dock. The armored warrior sank like a stone in the dark water, his screams unheeded by his crewmates who were still trying to scramble ashore. Then the Aghar were swarming over the boat, picking up oars—dropping several overboard before Tarn could stop them—and punching, kicking, and biting the few hapless dark dwarves.

  Tarn leaped into the boat and was immediately startled by a loud clang from the hull beside his head. A steel arrow had just missed him. He whirled
around, seeking the shooter. Judging from the force of the shot—the arrowhead had left a sizeable dent in the boat—he knew that the deadly archer must be nearby. But there were only gully dwarves in the vicinity.

  “Look out!” Duck Bigdwarf shouted the warning, pointing toward one of the dwarves in the boat behind Tarn.

  The half-breed whirled, realizing that the huddled figure beside him was no gully dwarf but instead a small-sized imposter who had rushed across the dock in the wake of the Aghar charge. The fellow moved with lightning speed, and the silver blade of a short sword darted from the shadows straight toward Tarn’s throat.

  “No you not!” Duck leaped from the dock, and the stab intended for Tarn instead caught the gully dwarf in the chest.

  The attacker tried to pull back for another attack, but now Tarn reacted. His sword came down against the Daergar’s weapon, knocking the blade out of the dark dwarf’s hand. With a hiss of rage, the cutthroat scrambled to the dock and raced away.

  Tarn had no time to pursue. The few surviving Daergar made a charge to retake their boat. His sword caught one fellow in the forehead, dropping him in the hull of the boat. The gully dwarves made a splendid game of seizing the others and riding them into the water. After a great splash, each of the Aghar popped to the surface, while the armored and water-hating dark dwarves were not seen again.

  Reaching down, Tarn pulled the assassin’s weapon free from Duck, dropped the blade into the hull of the boat, and laid the motionless gully dwarf on a bench. The short sword was clean and gleaming, an insubstantial fire flickering along the razor edge of the blade. The hapless Aghar who had been pierced by the weapon was already dead.

  “That was Slickblade!” gasped Regal Everwise, pointing to the disappearing assassin and then to the glaring skull embossed upon the silver hilt of the weapon. “He kill loads of Aghar!”