The Fate of Thorbardin Page 4

  Tarn shook his head ruefully, turning back to look out the window at the darkness gathering through the foothills and the deep mountain valley. “Your mother will never forget that she’s a hill dwarf!” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Then why? Why even listen to Garn Bloodfist, give him the comfort of her presence?”

  “Your mother is a very sympathetic person,” Tarn replied evenly. “She remembers Garn as a loyal lieutenant to me—wild and unpredictable as any Klar, but a fierce warrior and a good guardian of Pax Tharkas when we needed that protection.”

  “But you’re the one who threw Garn in prison!” their son said, confused.

  “Because he disobeyed my direct order!” the former monarch declared hotly. “If he’d succeeded, Pax Tharkas would be a tomb, and neither side would have emerged from the war with anything other than deep, incurable wounds.”

  “Do you think she’s helping Garn to see that?” pressed Tor, rather insolently in his father’s mind.

  “We’ll have to talk about that, your mother and I,” Tarn replied.

  Even as he replied in vague terms, his mind, his heart, focused on the real reason Crystal went down there, the reason she spent as much time away from him as she could within the constricting environment of the fortress. She was trying to forget about Tara, and Tarn and Tor were constant reminders of her loss.

  Of their loss, damn it! Did she think that he hadn’t lost a daughter as well? Tarn and Crystal both had watched their child, their beloved and beautiful girl, get taken by the fever last winter, the disease so cruel that it seemed to eat her away from the inside out.

  Why, Reorx? Why did you take her?

  For the thousandth time, Tarn voiced the question to the unanswering sky. The bitterness rose within him, the anger and bile that it seemed he would never escape. She had been too young, younger even than Tor. And she had been innocent of everything! Yet the illness had claimed her and not him, not Crystal, not even a deserving soul such as Garn Bloodfist, trapped in the moldering dankness of the dungeon so far below!

  The door opened at that moment, and Crystal Heathstone entered the family’s apartment, which consisted of four small, though nicely appointed, chambers high up in the East Tower of Pax Tharkas.

  “Hi, Mother,” Tor said, racing over to Crystal with what Tarn judged to be unseemly haste. He gave her a hug then went out the door, probably seeking his fellow adolescents in the training and exercise room that was several levels below the royal apartments in the tower.

  His departure left his parents alone.

  “Tor was asking me why you spend so much time with Garn Bloodfist,” Tarn barked. “It’s come to this: even the child is talking about it! Have you no sense of propriety?”

  “There’s nothing improper about it. He’s in his cell; I’m outside. And the turnkey is right there, watching, at the foot of the stairs,” Crystal replied, perhaps a little too casually.

  She crossed the apartment to the small kitchen, pulled a piece of cheese from the chillbox, and started to carve thin slices. “I brought a loaf of bread from the baker. Do you want a sandwich?” she asked.

  “Don’t change the subject!” he snapped, though his stomach rumbled in spite of himself as the rich, pungent odor of the cheese spread through the room. “I think you should stop going down there,” he said, his bristling chin jutting belligerently.

  Crystal cut two more slices, the knife thunking solidly into the wooden cutting block with each stroke. When she turned around to face him, Tarn was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  His immediate reaction to her distress was anger. “Does he really mean that much to you?” he challenged. “I should think a dwarf who tried to exterminate a thousand of your kinfolk would be somewhat less attractive than, say, your own husband!”

  “Stop it!” she hissed, shaking her head, setting her graying hair—still long and silky—shaking around her shoulders. “Don’t you see that I’m trying to understand his hate? Trying to see how he could contemplate such an atrocity? How any dwarf, present company included, could cling to such ancient and outmoded hatreds!”

  “I don’t hate hill dwarves!” Tarn spluttered, surprised by her retort.

  “But you still don’t trust them, do you?” Crystal said. “Even though you signed a treaty with them, pledging an alliance for the future. You’re doing everything you can to see that the agreement is never completed.”

  “How can I trust the cursed Neidar!” the exiled king shouted, nearly exploding. “They almost destroyed us—destroyed you too!”

  “You know that was sorcery!” she replied. “And Gretchan Pax showed you, and my own people, the power of Reorx. It is his will that we learn to get along!”

  “Sometimes I think you long to return to your own people,” Tarn said, suddenly losing his energy for the fight. “I don’t know why you’ve stayed with me, and my people, for so long.”

  She looked at him coldly. “Perhaps I stayed for the children,” she said.

  And there it was again, out there for both of them to feel as a fresh wound, a cut that would never heal. Tara was gone, dead … and with her had gone so much hope for the future.

  He stared out the window again. He heard Crystal sob, choking on an inarticulate final word. In the mountain valleys, the shadows had grown thick and oppressive. Darkness was almost upon them.

  The creature of Chaos did not so much live as it existed. Yet even in its primitive subsistence, it posed an almost immeasurable threat against every form of living being on, or within, the world of Krynn. It was made of consuming fire, an eternal flame that swelled from within the mighty, serpentine form, and it destroyed life, right down to the bare mineral foundations of the world, by its very presence.

  For long years—perhaps decades, perhaps eons, for the mind of the creature did not acknowledge the existence of anything so ordinary as time—the being had been a prisoner, constrained by magic so powerful that even its unimaginable power had been thwarted. And for all that existence, it had remembered, recalling in vivid detail, a previous state of unbridled freedom, when the creature of Chaos had been accompanied by many others of its kind, had been followed by legions of deadly shadow wights, had born a mighty daemon warrior upon its broad shoulders as they embarked upon an orgy of destruction.

  Their violence had been unleashed by a war between the very gods, when the deities of Krynn had faced their ultimate nightmare in the person of Chaos, himself. And while the gods battled, the armies of Chaos wreaked their gleeful destruction upon the world.

  The creature and its daemon lord master had swept into an underground world peopled by dwarves. They had bored through the bedrock; mere granite simply melted away in the face of the monsters’ incredible heat, and even metal barriers soon glowed red, yellow, then white before they flowed like water out of the way. The army of Chaos had swept through the subterranean nation like a hurricane assaulting a flatland shore, collapsing great cities, searing the waters of a mighty sea into clouds of suffocating steam, exterminating the pathetic dwarves wherever the foolish mortals thought to offer resistance.

  The creature of Chaos had come from nothingness, knew naught of its previous existence in the Abyss. It had been called forth by the command of its immortal master, and in that summons it had taken form, learned flight, and brought flame and destruction into the world.

  That freedom had been a fleeting moment in time, but it had been the formative experience of the Chaos creature’s existence. Too soon, the lord of Chaos had been defeated by the gods of Krynn, and the army of Chaos had scattered back to the nothingness from whence it had emerged.

  That was, all except that lone, surviving serpent. The Chaos creature had languished and burned in the depths beneath the mountain, trapped first by the weight of the mountains themselves then ultimately by the power of the black wizard. Always it had strived and struggled and fought for freedom, but for too long the magic chains had held it at bay.

&
nbsp; Until, finally, those chains had been broken, shattered by the magic of the very wizard who had created them. The creature of Chaos had flown free again, bringing fire and death and massive destruction to the underground nation yet again. But such spurious killing seemed unworthy, pointless, after its long imprisonment.

  It would seek a worthy goal. It would feast on magic, for magic was power, and magic was also an enemy. It was not an enemy to be feared. Unlike the almighty gods, magic could be mastered, magic could be tamed and used.

  The gods were to be feared, the creature knew. That was a great lesson learned, one even the tangled mind of the fiery serpent could understand. It feared the power of the gods, but it hungered for the power of magic.

  For the Chaos creature had learned to hate. It hated the one who had so wrongly trapped it. It hated magic and those who wielded magic.

  And the Chaos creature would have its revenge.

  The file of Kayolin dwarves emerged from the horax caverns into the deep levels of their great nation, where their kinsmen struggled and strived and labored to carve out a world under the mountains. The victorious warriors climbed past the mines and smelting plants, through the coal yards and the sturdy pillars supporting the city of Garnet Thax. They beat their drums and chanted the news of their triumph, so by the time they reached the city’s midlevels, the whole population of Kayolin had turned out to welcome the returning heroes.

  “Bluestone! Bluestone!” The sound of his name was a proud roar in Brandon’s ears, and he practically felt his chest swelling from the thundering accolades. He led the column, the Bluestone Axe slung easily over his shoulder, and though he tried to deflect some of the praise, to spread it to the sturdy shoulders of his lieutenants and foot soldiers, his men didn’t begrudge him the honor.

  Indeed, as they moved onto a large ramp, one of the avenues circling steadily upward through the vertical city of Garnet Thax, Tankard Hacksaw and Fister Morewood themselves stepped forward and bodily lifted their captain onto their shoulders without missing a step in their rhythmic marching.

  “Put me down, damn it!” Brandon insisted, rocking backward so much that he had to grab Tankard’s shoulder to restore his balance. But better to fall than to relinquish his axe!

  “Ah, let yerself enjoy it, Captain,” Fister proclaimed. Someone in the throng had handed the sergeant a foaming mug, and he took a deep draught, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Another vessel was proffered by a cheering maid, and the loyal soldier willingly passed that second mug up to his commander.

  Though still teetering, Brandon decided that he might as well ride the wave of adulation to the top of the city, so he took a drink himself and left it to his carriers to make sure that he didn’t take an ignominious fall. When he had drained the mug, he threw it hard, smashing it against the stone wall of the underground roadway and whooping in joy as the file of marching dwarves surged on, the drums pounding even faster.

  He looked across the sea of beaming faces: the bearded men; the apple-cheeked dwarf maids; youngsters hopping up and down or, for a fortunate few, hoisted onto the shoulders of a willing adult. All the dwarves were cheering, and most of them were drinking. The crowd had continued to swell, spilling forward from the walls until the column of soldiers had barely room to march in double file down the middle of the wide avenue.

  Unconsciously he found himself searching for Gretchan’s face, though he knew that she was far away from there by then. For a wistful moment, he wished that she could be there waiting for him, joining the happiness of the victory celebration, though even a moment’s rational reflection reminded him that if Gretchan had been in Kayolin when he had embarked on the recent campaign, she would have been down in the horax hive with the soldiers, not up there in the city waiting for Brandon’s return.

  But she had told him what she had to do, and he had agreed; they both had important missions, and the sooner they got going, the better. He reminded himself, also, that he had accomplished only a single, first step on the long and difficult road that lay before him. Defeating the horax had been a necessity but only because he needed to secure the safety of Kayolin before embarking on his more important tasks.

  As if reading his mind, Chamberlain Wicket came into view, standing in the roadway before the column as the boisterous celebrants gave the governor’s aide enough room, barely, to wave his hand at Captain Brandon Bluestone as he approached.

  The drums still pounded, but Tankard and Fister came to a stuttering halt and lowered Brandon to the ground with as much dignity as they could muster. The captain felt acutely conscious of his muddy, sooty tunic and the flecks of ale foam still clinging to his mustache and beard.

  “Congratulations!” Wicket declared, abandoning courtly manners to clasp the young warrior in an enthusiastic embrace. “Now come with me,” he added firmly. “Your father needs to see you right away.”

  “This is Dram Feldspar. He’s representing the emperor of Solamnia in these negotiations,” explained Garren Bluestone, the governor of Kayolin.

  Brandon’s father was holding court in his private office, a marble-furnished chamber with several chairs and a desk, adjoining the great throne room of Garnet Thax. He was a smaller, thinner dwarf than his son, and certainly more well groomed at the moment. Garren’s beard was braided and tucked into his suspenders, his hair neatly combed, his nails trimmed and cleaned.

  Brandon had reported there immediately upon receiving the summons from the chamberlain to find the two elder dwarves seated, each enjoying a small glass of pungent dwarf spirits.

  “Sorry for my appearance,” the younger dwarf said, acutely aware of the soot and stains upon his leather tunic, not to mention his scuffed and hobnailed boots. “I came here as soon as we returned from the campaign.”

  “No worries, I’m sure,” his father said genially. “Dram Feldspar is no stranger to war.”

  “I’ve heard of you; all Kayolin owes you a debt,” Brandon said, sizing up the stranger, who was regarding him with a friendly grin. Feldspar’s skin was bronzed and weathered by long exposure to the outside world. His full, brown beard was shot with gray, and he wore a plain, woolen jersey and trousers. The only sign of his official status was a mantle of black silk, embroidered with silver thread, resting easily upon his broad shoulders.

  Brandon bowed formally and extended his hand; Dram rose out of his chair to take it in a firm grip. The elder dwarf’s exploits—he had helped the emperor of Solamnia, a former fugitive, to battle and defeat an army of ogres and goblins that had terrorized the Garnet Mountains and surrounding plains for several years—were well known to all Kayolin.

  “I may have lived under the sky for these last years, but Garnet Thax is my home too,” Dram said as if, like Brandon, he was embarrassed by too much praise. “And anyway, we dwarves can’t leave it to the humans to do all of our fighting for us!”

  “Well said,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “And that leads me to our current goal, and to the reason we seek the assistance of the emperor and, specifically, of his ships.”

  “That’s what he said when he sent me up here. He was intrigued by your request and asked me to make the trip to Garnet Thax posthaste. You want to send an army all the way down to Thorbardin?” Dram asked with seemingly genuine interest.

  Garren nodded. “We have reason to believe that the elder home is in dire straits. It is our wish to restore the rightful high king to his throne.”

  Dram Feldspar frowned. “How can you know this?” he asked. “Isn’t the kingdom sealed up tight?”

  The governor gestured to his son, allowing Brandon to answer the question. “It’s still sealed against physical entry. But some of the activities there have been marked by powerful sorcery. Several gully dwarves used that magic to escape and provide us key intelligence about Thorbardin. In addition, we are assembling an artifact that, we believe, will give us the means to gain entry to the place with a significant force of troops.”

  “Gully dwarves?” Dram’s tone was dr
oll. Brandon decided against telling him that one of the Aghar, Gus Fishbiter, had actually escaped from Thorbardin twice. No need to flesh out the story with even more startling and barely believable details.

  “Yes. They’ve been questioned by many of us, not the least of whom is a wise priestess of Reorx. She and I are both convinced they are telling the truth.”

  “Convinced enough that you’re willing to send an army, then,” Dram noted, making the phrase a statement, not a question.

  “Exactly,” the younger Bluestone replied.

  “It hasn’t escaped our notice that you call yourself ‘governor’ here, not ‘king,’” the Solamnic emissary said, directing the remark at Garren. “Somewhat of a change from the previous regime, eh?”

  “Many things have changed since the time of Regar Smashfingers,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “Not the least of which is the matter of succession. No longer do we dispatch our former leaders with violence. Smashfingers, for all his faults, is enjoying a relatively comfortable retirement in a manor on the nobles’ level. And I have made it my further responsibility to right the wrongs that are occurring in Thorbardin, so that we may restore all the dwarf nations of Krynn to their historic roles.”

  “A worthy goal,” Dram acknowledged, though he suppressed a smile at the governor’s fervor. “And do you know how many ships you might require? And where you will wish to embark and disembark your army?”

  “My son has experience with the journey to the Kharolis Mountains and back,” Garren said. He nodded at Brandon. “I believe you said that Caergoth would be the ideal port to begin?”

  The younger Bluestone nodded. “It’s the only large enough port in Southern Solamnia,” he noted. “It has the capacity to load up an army—say, at least four thousand dwarves—over the course of a day. We could march to one of the smaller ports, which are closer, but it would take us a week to load up the transports.”