by Doug Niles
“Bail!” cried Tarn, seizing a Daergar helmet and scooping the water that sloshed around his boats. Several gully dwarves immediately joined him in that game, though it took many pointed instructions to get them to pour the water out of the boat instead of over their comrades at the rowing benches.
After much shouting and yelling, most of the little dwarves had begun to bail vigorously while those at the rowing benches—except for two or three who had already dropped their oars overboard—maintained something like a rhythm in the strokes of their blades. True, the boat never maintained a direct heading toward Hybardin, sometimes bearing to port and otherwise to starboard of the Life-Tree, but Tarn figured that as long as they held to the general direction they could get close and worry about the finer points of navigation later.
Moving air gusted past them, and even in his numbed state Tarn was startled by this bizarre phenomenon. He had heard of wind, had even experienced it when he had traveled on the surface of Krynn during the decades after the War of the Lance. Yet it was a bizarre and frightening occurrence here in the enclosed world of Thorbardin.
The air seemed to be gusting from the direction of Daerforge and propelled them toward Hybardin. Somehow the boat managed to stay afloat, aided by the frantically bailing dwarves. Tarn and Regal stood in the stern, taking turns holding the rudder—which at their limited speed was more of an ornament than a directional tool. Tarn tried to shout in a cadence that would enable the Aghar to row with some semblance of coordination.
“Pull!” chanted Tarn in slow rhythm. “Pull!”
After a while Regal took over, and he too shouted the beat to the rowers, “One, Two, One, Two,” with real enthusiasm.
Poof Firemaker crouched in the bow, encouraging the rowers and often turning to look eagerly at the smoking, burning pillar of the Life-Tree.
When he wasn’t urgently directing his crew, Tarn lifted his eyes and took a few moments to glance around. The dwarven kingdom, Tarn felt certain, would never be the same. Fires burned in many places, using nothing more than rock as fuel. Thunder echoed and steam wafted through the air in great clouds. Across the sea he saw a bizarre, funnel-shaped cloud, whirling along the far shore. Every so often it would pick up a lake boat and cast the vessel and its terrified passengers through the air. The mist was everywhere in Thorbardin. Tarn suddenly became aware that his skin was clammy and the temperature was preternaturally warm.
All of a sudden the half-breed heard a moan of terror coming from the bow of the boat. He saw a shadow crouching there, and even from this distance he could feel the chill of its presence. He watched as, impenetrable and shapeless, the form reached out with two black limbs and embraced the trembling form of Poof Firemaker.
And then the horrific creature held only a limp and bedraggled bundle in its shadowy arms. A little tinder box dangled from the belt of the ragged clothes. Tarn couldn’t recall from where the bundle had come, but he had no time to ponder that mystery as the shadow-wight moved down the hull. Panicked gully dwarves tumbled over the rowing benches, pushing and kicking at each other in their haste to get away.
Tarn was already in motion. Drawing his sword, he pushed his way through the throng until he faced the shadow alone near the bow of the boat.
Waves rolled past and the hull shifted underfoot, but he held his balance easily as his battle instincts took over. But how to fight this thing? It had no weapon and was in fact so tenuous in appearace that Tarn wasn’t even certain it had a physical being. It was as if the thing floated directly above the hull of the boat, not adding any weight to the watercraft.
But then he saw the eyes, and he was shocked at the depth of the return stare. He was looking at himself. His saw his mother and his father in those eyes, and the contrast of light and darkness made his brain hurt, numbed his senses and even loosened the grip of his sword hand.
“Don’t look!”
With a loud thwack, Regal hit Tarn over the head with an oar. The blow broke whatever force that held the half-breed even as it sent a throbbing pain shooting through his skull. Remembering his enemy, Tarn raised his sword and held his vision below the level of those hypnotic eyes.
The creature was a totally lightless shape, though Tarn could make out a gaping mouth and two gaunt, clutching limbs. A clawlike tendril of pure black nothingness reached forward, and Tarn intuitively knew that he couldn’t let the creature touch him. Sinew in both arms flexing, he swung the sword with all of his might.
The blade passed cleanly through the extended limb, but the monster only lifted its head and laughed coldly. The hand that should have been severed reached around and siezed the blade of the sword. Immediately Tarn felt an icy pain in his hands, and he was forced to release the weapon before his arm froze.
The wight tossed the weapon contemptuously over the side and soundlessly drifted a step closer to the stunned half-breed. Tarn recoiled, nearly stumbling over a rowing bench in his haste to scramble beyond that lethal touch. With deliberate slowness the deadly monster moved after him.
Behind him the terrified moaning of a boatful of gully dwarves rose, interspersed with shouts of advice.
“Fight him!”
“Run!”
Tarn knew that he had to stop the creature or the entire crew was doomed.
Weaponless, Tarn looked frantically around, catching sight of a silver short sword lying in the hull of the boat—Slickblade’s weapon, the blade that had killed Duck Bigdwarf. He hesitated as he noted the leering skull emblazoned on the metal hilt, but he had no other alternative.
Snatching up the sword, Tarn thrust the bright, flickering blade at the wight just as the monster lunged forward.
But this time Tarn felt resistance to the thrust of the blade. He pushed harder and the shadow-wight uttered a surreal scream—not so much pain as great anguish. Fiercely elated, the dwarf slashed with the weapon, hacking again and again. Abruptly the creature vanished in a cloud of rapidly dissipating mist.
“Yea!” Cheering Aghar instantly mobbed the half-breed, a move that sent the boat rocking precariously. The celebration ceased quickly as the gully dwarves remembered the empty clothes in the bow. One big nosed fellow sniffed loudly, the others were strangely silent.
“To your benches!” barked Tarn. “Row!”
“You kill that?” wondered Regal, his voice full of awe as the other gully dwarves reluctantly returned to their stations. “You one tough war guy!”
“It was this sword,” Tarn said in wonder, holding the plain-looking weapon up for inspection. It was assassin’s steel, cold and starkly reflective. And it was his own sword now.
Somehow he and Regal got the crew back to their stations without sinking the boat, despite the fact that the water in the hull had risen nearly to the level of his knees. He set the bailers went to work again, lending a hand himself. Few oars had been lost, and they were able to keep going at a steady pace. The busy Aghar bailers emptied gallons of water out of the hull.
They drew closer to the Life-Tree, and all of Tarn’s thoughts focused on the looming horror before him. He could see more detail now, and the sight was another blow to his spirits. The First and Second Levels of the Hylar city where Belicia had been stationed were now a mass flaming rock. He groaned at the horrible sight, certain that no one could have survived such a wave of destruction. Other levels, higher above, dripped and melted and burned. Would they find anybody alive when they got there?
As they drew nearer to Hybardin, Tarn saw that many Daergar boats were floating in the water just off the Life-Tree docks. The watercraft bobbed here and there close to the shore but didn’t seem to have any purpose or formation. The crews had vanished.
And then, as if to punctuate the sense of gloom and disaster settling over Tarn, from the fully enclosed skies of Thorbardin came a shower of cold rain. Never before in the half-breed’s lifetime had this happened. It never would have been thought remotely possible.
Their boat pulled toward the bleak shore, rising and falling on steep
-sided breakers. With each stroke the pitching sea churned all the more. Waves rose, pushing them higher. Then with a thunderous crash the hull tipped and all the dwarves found themselves in the water.
Tarn felt the cold waters closing over his head. Then strong hands had him by the hair. He felt himself yanked violently upward, and then the grip had him by the ears and beard. He was bashed against a rock, pulled and twisted this way and that, until finally he was yanked ashore to gasp for breath on a ruined travesty of what had once been the proud city of the Hylar.
A Council of Chaos
Chapter Twenty-one
Garimeth knew four reasons Darkend Bellowsmoke brought his sister with him when he boarded a boat to journey back to Hybardin for the next phase of attack. First, her knowledge of the Hylar city was better than any other Daergar’s. Second, the Helm of Tongues made her an invaluable translator. Third, the respect shown her by the daemon warrior had impressed the thane, even as it still caused her to shiver with remembered delight.
And finally, he had decided that he couldn’t trust her out of his sight.
In the paranoid and scheming mind of the thane, no one could be trusted absolutely. She knew it was that universal suspicion that for now would keep Garimeth Bellowsmoke alive.
The Helm of Tongues allowed her to perceive all of this and more, though she was careful not to reveal the extent and depth of her awareness. She kept a safe distance from her brother, trailing to the rear of the party of warriors that marched back down from Daerforge’s upper level to gather at the waterfront. There too she gave Darkend a wide berth, watching patiently as the thane’s force made ready to depart.
“You ride in the bow,” Darkend informed her curtly at dockside. “I’ll be in the stern, and I’ll be watching you.”
“Of course, my lord brother thane,” she replied, with no trace of irony in her voice or her eyes—even as she “listened” to Darkend speculate about the hatred and scheming that must be simmering in her purely Daergar brain. She carefully masked her smug perception of his thoughts and impulses, continuing to obey him quietly and meekly. Oh, the Helm of Tongues was a marvelous device! She would have left her husband and stolen it long ago if she had suspected the full extent of its hidden powers.
“And when we get to the city, I want you to summon Zarak Thuul to me. Trust me on this, Sister: Your life depends upon your success.”
“Naturally. Now, may I take a seat for myself?”
He let her find a bench in the craft while he supervised the handpicked crew of experienced Daergar boatmen. None of them displayed apprehension about the imminent voyage onto the preternaturally choppy sea, but they would not have been mortal if they had not felt at least a small measure of fear. Indeed, a quick survey of their thoughts showed they were consumed by fright—fears that did little to amuse Garimeth, since by necessity she would be relying upon their prowess and sharing their experiences during the dangerous crossing.
Darkend had chosen for the voyage one of the longest and deepest hulls among the Daergar. This boat would be propelled by no less than four dozen oarsmen. The coxswain, a one-eyed dark dwarf named Bairn Knifekeel, seemed quite confident, almost cocky.
“We’ll get there, my lord thane,” he promised with grim certainty, though Garimeth frowned as the Helm of Tongues allowed her to perceive that even this bold dwarf was inwardly quailing.
As they gazed out over the water it was obvious that conditions on the sea had deteriorated. Garimeth’s thoughts were vividly focused on the encounter that had taken place on her balcony. She still recalled the awe she had felt when she had beheld the daemon warrior’s beauty, the desire and power he had kindled within her. She had learned his name, Zarak Thuul, and that of his mighty flaming steed, Primus. And even more, she had invited him to touch her soul, to know her mind, and to hear her innermost desires. They had connected with each other in a way that she could not have imagined, resulting in a bliss that had weakened her knees. In some way she felt as though she were a young dwarfmaiden again. Perhaps the arcane power residing in the Helm of Tongues had made this first contact happen, but she now believed that she and the daemon warrior had forged a deep life-bond, something that transcended the realm of magic.
And when she had spoken to the daemon warrior, the creature had seemed to understand her. She told him that the Hylar were the real enemy, the time-honored foe deserving of death and destruction. She had made Zarak Thuul clearly understand the special vileness of the sanctimonious clan, and agree that they ought to be subjugated.
And he had consented to lead the Daergar into that battle of glorious conquest. Now all that remained was for Darkend and Garimeth to join with the Chaos army and sweep to victory.
“Go!” cried Bairn Knifekeel, taking the tiller and guiding the longboat away from the dock. “Stroke, on my count!”
Though the boat rocked and lurched sickeningly, the rowers had little difficulty guiding it forward. The sharp prow cut the waves easily, and they plowed steadily away from Daerforge Bay and onto the greater body of the Urkhan Sea. Still, Garimeth soon felt her stomach rising, seasickness suddenly churning in her belly. The voyage quickly degenerated into a vile, hateful ordeal, and she desperately hung her head over the side.
When it began to rain, the dwarves on the benches muttered among themselves in superstitious fear, and Garimeth heard an occasional silent but fervent prayer to Reorx. Even more than wind, this unnatural precipitation seemed to be a dire omen in the underground realm. She concentrated on trying to mask her own discomfort. This soon proved impossible when she began to retch over the side. Still, in the more tolerable intervals she noted with grudging admiration that her brother somehow managed to look grim and majestic, standing boldly in the stern, eyes locked upon his goal. In his two hands he held the wickedly spiked mace that had served him so well in the Arena of Honor. True, he too was afraid, as the Helm of Tongues informed her, but he kept the poise of leadership.
The fiery scars of the Life-Tree glowed even through the rain and the mist, and the dwarves had no difficulty arrowing towards it. About halfway through the voyage, the inverted mountain emerged from the gloom and the murk, rising high above them, clearly damaged in many places by the unnatural onslaught. That was when Garimeth went back to the stern, sensing that her presence was desired by the thane. He brother had realized there was no place for treachery on this perilous crossing.
So fixed was his attention upon his objective that Darkend even sidled over to give her room beside him. The Life-Tree looked as though it was dying, with occasional explosions marring its surface. Great chunks of rubble broke free here and there to fall into the sea or onto the crowded waterfront. Despite the increasing size of the waves, the coxswain and crew negotiated the storm-tossed sea with skill and they continued to make steady progress.
Closer still to the Hylar home they observed numerous lake boats bobbing in the rough swell around the fringe of the waterfront. Most of these craft were offshore, rocking in the turbulent waters.
“I see my fleet waits for me,” Darkend announced in triumph.
“Aye, lord,” agreed Bairn. “Many boats, their crews no doubt prepared to answer your every command.”
But as their boat drew nearer to the bobbing fleet, both Bellowsmokes could see that there was no pattern to the deployment, that these boats had no crews. Scrap evidence of once-proud dark dwarf lives littered the decks. Empty armor and helmets rattled through the boats, oars flopped loosely in their brackets. The thane groaned in dismay and fear, recoiling from the horrible omen.
“They’re all gone!” gasped one rower, as he looked into the empty vessels that bobbed and drifted on all sides of them.
Darkend whacked the dwarf’s head with his gauntlet, but not before all of the terrified crew also had seen that the other boats were eerily vacant.
“To shore, you oafs!” commanded the thane, and the rowers pressed ahead with grim urgency, finally bringing the big lake boat gliding up to one of the few su
rviving docks.
“See, Brother! Your best plans are half-baked, subject to failure!” hissed Garimeth, as Darkend glanced around in horror. “Without my help—and that of my daemon warrior—you will never succeed!”
Even before their boat landed they noticed that the shore teemed with dark dwarves—most thankfully alive. But the none of the troops were making any effort to press the attack. Several hurried forward to take the bow and stern lines or to help the thane climb up to the stone wharf.
“Who’s in command here?” Darkend demanded. A captain rushed forward as Garimeth hastened after her brother. “Why aren’t you attacking?”
“There are no Hylar within reach, lord. The rockfall has cut off our approach. It collapsed the bottom of the enemy’s lift and wiped out the defenders on Level Two.”
“What do you mean? What about the higher levels?” Darkend was full of fear, thinking that all of his plans were coming to nothing. There would be no triumph in capturing a ruined slag heap of molten stone!
“Don’t know. But the Hylar are sealed off from above. The rock melted right down the transport shaft!” blubbered the terrified commander.
“Then get your men digging!”
“I have, lord. They’re making progress, but it will take time!”
“What about our allies, the Theiwar?” asked Darkend quickly.
“Their thane is nearby, sire, mustering his troops just to the west of here.”
Darkend turned to his sister. “Go find Pounce Quickspring and bring him to me.”
“Aye, lord,” she agreed, more than willing to remove herself from her brother’s presence.
Garimeth soon located the Theiwar thane. Pounce Quickspring was shouting angrily at his troops, but his clan also had been stymied by the same solid stone obstacle that was blocking the Daergar advance. He greeted the dwarfwoman suspiciously, but finally agreed to accompany her to Darkend. They joined the Daergar reinforcements on a wide, clear section of the docks. Pounce Quickspring looked expectantly at the Daergar thane.
