The Last Thane

Chapter Five
Dark Daerbardin

"I ask the question in the presence of all the clan: where is the challenger? Produce him, or the thane's chair is rightfully mine!"

Darkend Bellowsmoke was addressing a great gathering of Daergar. He stood upon a dais in the middle of the Arena of Honor, the large, lightless assembly hall that was the grandest chamber in all Daerbardin. Shaking his great, spike-headed mace at the masses of his countrymen, he spun through a circle, his voice a screech that pierced the farthest reaches of the chamber.

Smoke from coal braziers filled the air, the acrid vapors bitter in his nostrils, but the dark dwarf stood in a posture of triumph, feet planted firmly, one hand on his hip while in the other he held his weapon aloft. Even in the pitch darkness he was visible to the gathered throng, for the Daergar, like their Theiwar cousins, could see very well even in the deepest heart of lightless Thorbardin.

"Is the challenger drunk, sleeping off the revel of his last feast on Krynn? Or perhaps he is afraid?" sneered Darkend.

There was no reply, nor was one expected. Bellowsmoke was tall for a Daergar and a strapping warrior in his own right. Now he wore his battle armor, plates of black steel that covered his chest, belly, and groin. Supple links of chain mail rippled smoothly over his limbs and his back. His head was almost completely concealed beneath a grotesque helm, the faceplate scored by the image of a leering beast. Long fangs, honed on both edges to razor sharpness, jutted forward from beside his jowls. Darkend's pale, bright eyes flashed through the narrow slits of vision holes, and his hand was clenched around the shaft of the wickedly studded mace. Now he raised the weapon, pumping his hand up and down as his voice once again cried his public challenge.

"Khark Huntrack! I say you are the spawn of a gully dwarf, the dribbling bastard of a diseased whore! I say, show your face to me now, and die like a dwarf or else you shall be known as a coward, and your spleen will nourish the soil of the food warrens!"

Soft gasps were barely audible in the chamber. Darkend's insults had stepped even beyond the usual bravado of dueling dark dwarves. Everyone knew that if Khark Huntrack were alive he would have to come forward and face these accusations or never show his face in Daerbardin again.

Thus everyone knew what they had already come to suspect: Khark Huntrack must already be dead.

Darkend waited a decent interval so that his intended opponent would have plenty of time to appear. The great audience hall lapsed into silence, but no one looked toward the doors in anticipation of Huntrack's late arrival. Instead, all eyes remained fixed upon the strutting figure that paced back and forth across the rounded dais.

Finally a dark dwarf from the front row, a sturdy warrior in the black, bat winged helmet that characterized Darkend's personal guards, leaped to his feet and thrust his fist into the air.

"All hail Darkend Bellowsmoke!" he cried. "All hail the new thane of the Daergar and the banner of the Smoking Forge!"

A rumble of assenting cries rose through the chamber, but it was not the thundering acclamation Darkend desired. Instead, there were mutters of resentment from many quarters, and even a few outright hisses of disapproval. One of the latter was interrupted by a scream, and the aspiring thane smiled grimly behind the mask of his helmet, knowing that one of his agents had just knifed another obstacle to his throne.

"Hear me, dwarves of Clan Daergar! Khark Huntrack is dead!"

The voice came from the shadows in the back of the chamber. Darkend whirled to see a robed Daergar advancing in the middle of at least two dozen bodyguards. The dwarf's protectors had blades drawn, and their guarding posture formed steel-barbed walls before, behind, and to either side of the bold speaker. There would be no knife blade to swiftly silence this dissenter, Darkend saw with a grimace of frustration.

"Gludh Kolgard? Is that you?" demanded the lone figure on the dais.

"You know it is-just as you know that your toady Slickblade killed Khark in the last hours before his ceremony."

"If Khark Huntrack has met an untimely death, then I withdraw my unflattering remarks," Darkend replied, with a bow of facetious graciousness. "Though I certainly had no foreknowledge of the manner nor the agent of his demise."

The hisses and clucks from the gallery were very muted and swiftly faded away. No one believed Darkend, of course, but neither did anyone think it worth a possible knife in the ribs to state a universally held opinion.

"Now to the business of this day." Darkend cleared his throat, wheeling around in a full circle so that his luminous, dark-seeing eyes could pass over the entire crowd. A hush settled again as the Daergar waited, knowing that before long they would have a new thane or the prospect of further public bloodshed. In either case, there was promise of fine entertainment in the air.

"I have stood upon this dais each of the last six days, since the untimely demise of our esteemed leader, the bold and wise Thane Halt Blackmetal. Six times has a challenger named himself, and six times that challenger has failed to leave this dais alive."

Darkend paused, allowing his words to settle over his listeners. Four of those challenges had resulted in spectacular duels on this very platform, ending only when his Daergar opponent lay bleeding his life away at the feet of the triumphant Darkend Bellowsmoke. Indeed, the armored dark dwarf still felt the soreness in his ribs, the bruising of his shoulder, and the poorly healing cut on his thigh that were his own souvenirs of those fights. On the other two occasions-most recently in the case of the unfortunate Khark Huntrack-the challenger had met with an unfortunate accident on the eve of the contest, and Darkend had been spared the grueling necessity of public battle. Of all those challengers, Khark Huntrack had been the most esteemed fighter, so Darkend judged it particularly good fortune that the assassin had done his work so well.

"Now, as is the custom of Daergar law, I proclaim I have faced every challenger who dared to name himself, and I announce my ascension to the throne of our clan." He drew a breath, knowing there was one more part to this ritual, and praying to Reorx that his next words would be greeted by silence.

"I await only the announcement of a challenge, of one more dark dwarf foolish enough to throw his life away before this issue is resolved!"

He waited, allowing the echoes to ring through the huge chamber. For a moment he thought that the matter was finished, that he had won.

"I challenge Darkend Bellowsmoke's right to the throne!"

The mass exhalation, a communal sigh of anticipation, washed from the crowd like the wind that so often coursed across the surface of the world above. The words came from behind Darkend, but he knew the speaker well; indeed, he was not surprised Gludh Kolgard had spoken out. Still, the confirmation fell upon his shoulders like a weight of iron ore, and Darkend almost slumped under the prospect of another battle. It took all of his powerful will, as well as the concealment of his armor, to mask any sign of his weakness from the gathered clan. He spun, the twin tusks gleaming darkly, almost as if they were already stained with blood, and glared at the dark dwarf who had spoken. Gludh stood utterly still. He was surrounded by henchmen. Slowly the simmering tension in the vast room bubbled toward release.

"I accept the challenge." Darkend broke the impasse at last, he thought with just the right tone of bored acknowledgment. "\ will stand here after the interval of one day, that Gludh Kolgard shall have the pleasure of tasting my steel."

Now a roar of acclamation went up from the throng, and Darkend held his martial pose, though his sore arm throbbed from the weight of his mace. He wished he could bring the weapon down right now on the insolent challenger's unarmored skull.

It wasn't fair! He was clearly the master of any one, even any two, of his accursed challengers. Yet Daergar custom demanded that at least seven dark dwarves should have the chance to face him for the throne. Gludh's reputation was well known. He would be among the most dangerous, and he had been clever enough to wait until the last day, when Darkend would inevitably be wounded, battered, and fatigued from the long ordeal of challengers. Of course, should Gludh triumph, he himself would have to face up to six more possible challengers, but that would be little consolation to Darkend, moldering in his tomb.

The throng quickly filed out of the four massive gateways leading from the Arena of Honor, itself located in the heart of Daerbardin's great royal palace-the palace that should already be mine, Darkend groused to himself. Gludh Kolgard was protected by his followers as he left for his own quarter of the great subterranean city, one of the two great centers of the Daergar in Thorbardin. There would be another night of feasting and celebration, though no doubt this time some of the bodyguards would be certain to seal off the ventilation shaft.

"Come, my thane. It will be but a short time before you attain your rightful throne."

The voice was whispered by one of the cloaked figures beside him, and he prayed that Thistle was right. She was his favorite mistress and one who dared to speak to him when all others held their tongues. Yet now even she was a bother, and Darkend had to forcibly resist the temptation to bring his mace down hard upon her head.

Turning, he regarded her coldly, hating the confident light that brightened her milky eyes, yet knowing he would take no action against her now, not when he needed the loyalty of all his followers to see him through the next interval.

"Summon my healer, and see that a hot bath is drawn for me," he demanded, taking some satisfaction by giving her orders as though she were a common servant.

Thistle only bowed, then turned to elbow her way through the press of bodyguards to see that her master's wishes were obeyed. Darkend allowed himself to be escorted out, trusting his henchmen to see no ambush awaited him in the shadowed lanes of Daerbardin as the procession made its way through the huge city of the dark dwarves.

Even as he brooded on the coming duel, he couldn't help but admire the galleries, the wide avenues and looming, fortified buildings that made up this, the greatest city in all Thorbardin. The arena lay at the opposite end of the city from his great manor. Both of these locales were on the highest of Daerbardin's three levels, but the roadway they followed curved downward until they walked along an esplanade that was open to the great ceiling, two hundred or more feet overhead. The middle and upper levels of the route formed balconies lined with dark dwarves who gazed down in solemn curiosity at the one who aspired to be their next leader.

Occasionally a single Daergar or a small group let out a cheer as Darkend passed, but for the most part these watchers were silent, uncaring as to which of the noble dark dwarves would win the fight on the next day.

"You should all cheer me, fools!" Bellowsmoke hissed through the mask of his helmet, "For I am the one who can raise our clan to new heights! Look at me now and see the image of your future greatness! See, and be awed!"

These boasts he spoke mainly to himself, though a few of his nearest bodyguards heard his words and exchanged worried glances. The strain of the seven challenges was wearing on him, Bellowsmoke knew. It was a relief to let the great stone gates of House Bellowsmoke crash shut behind him. Once secure behind those barriers, he stalked to his own apartments, waiting only long enough for one of his minions to perform a thorough search.

"The chambers are safe, my lord, and nearly unoccupied," said the sergeant to Darkend as Bellowsmoke waited impatiently in the lofty anteroom. "There is only Thistle there; she tends your bath and awaits your pleasure."

Without a word the noble dark dwarf stalked into his sumptuous chambers, turning at the portal to address his sergeant. "Send for Slickblade at once."

"Aye, lord," replied the gnarled dwarf, paling at the mention of the name. Darkend's hand was on the door, ready to slam the iron portal, but before he could move he was startled by a voice from within his room.

"My heart palpitates in anticipation of your every command, lord."

The words were hissed from the darkness behind him and Darkend whirled, seeing nothing except the familiar outlines of his couches and tables. Only after he stared for a moment did he see the assassin, still cloaked in his usual robe of utter black, rise from his comfortable position on one of the softest divans.

Immediately Darkend turned back to the anteroom, where his already pale sergeant had sunk to his knees, drooling in pathetic fear. "You told me that only Thistle was here, did you not?"

The man gibbered, unable to articulate a reply.

Darkend snapped his fingers, summoning another lackey from among his bodyguards. He pointed at the groveling sergeant. "You will blind him now, and cut his hamstrings for good measure. At dinner tonight he will be strangled for the entertainment of the house."

The replacement dark dwarf stepped forward, drawing a long dagger. Willing helpers seized the thrashing sergeant, and though Darkend finally closed the door, even that heavy portal could not mask the sounds of the wretched sergeant's screams.

"Why did you make me do that?" Bellowsmoke demanded, addressing Slickblade as he started to remove his cumbersome armor. "The man was useful to me, if only because he was less treacherous than most."

The assassin shrugged, slumping back to his seat. "He owed me money."

Darkend stared. "He owed you money, and he refused to pay? Perhaps he was more stupid than I thought."

"He didn't refuse. The loan doesn't come due for several intervals. But it seemed a good time for a lesson, a reminder to those other Daergar who owe me money. I can assure you my next round of collections will be complete."

"And I've lost a capable sergeant," spat Darkend. "You know I had no choice, once you showed them all that he reported falsely to me."

"He deserved it," declared Slickblade dismissively. "In truth, his search was perfunctory. You deserve better protection, lord."

"Would that I could get it." The aspiring thane limped to a cabinet of polished black marble and withdrew a decanter of thick, syrupy liquid. He took a long swig from the bottle, then set it heavily on the counter as he turned back to his assassin. "You heard about events in the arena, I presume."

There was no question in the words-everyone knew Slickblade's information was always current and always reliable.

"Of course. And you will want me to remove Gludh Kolgard before the interval has passed."

"Yes. It will be difficult, so I will double your previous fee." Darkend winced inwardly at the concession. It had already cost him a hefty fortune to have two of his challengers removed before the duel. He was only heartened by the knowledge that if Slickblade was successful, his final payment could be drawn from the thane's treasury and not the Bellowsmoke family vault.

"Not difficult. Impossible." The assassin's reply was blunt, even though his manner was as relaxed as ever.

"You are refusing this task, a task commanded by your lord and future thane?"

"I am refusing, as I would refuse should you ask me to bring you the three moons in a leather bag. After the last six challenges, Kolgard has surrounded himself with the best protection money can buy, and he has a lot of money. His house will be sealed top, bottom, and sides. What you ask cannot be done."

Darkend considered his response carefully. When confronted by frustration his usual instinct was to order the offender seized, blinded and strangled. But he would have to curb that impetuous impulse, for the assassin was far too useful to cast aside for mere vengeance. "Are your skills slipping?" he asked. "Or perhaps you're afraid. It is a pity, because I have long believed you the most accomplished practitioner of your trade in all Thorbardin."

"On all Krynn, and you know it, so don't insult me with appeals to vanity."

"You say his house is sealed. Yet perhaps he may succumb to accident on his way to the arena in the morning. You know it is a long and dangerous walk."

Slickblade shook his head. "Even there his guards will be certain to take extra precautions. It is possible that an opportunity may arise, and if so I shall take advantage. But I warn you, my lord, you must prepare as if you will have to fight this duel."

Darkend Bellowsmoke growled and glowered. He was confronted with an unusual situation: Someone was thwarting his will, and it wasn't practical to have the offender killed. Instead, Darkend took another long pull at the fermented syrup of his thick mead and then spoke thoughtfully.

"So there is no way to avoid him in the arena?"

"You can take him. I've watched both of you fight."

"I agree-if I wasn't so sore that I can hardly move!" snapped Darkend. "And the wound in my leg is festering. That damned Forsyx used poison on his blade, I swear."

"Of course he did. Just count it as a blessing that you had the more toxic venom on your own weapon."

"Don't patronize me!" Again Bellowsmoke drank and felt the mead soothe a few of the aches from his muscles. The pain lessened slightly in his inflamed thigh. He felt glum and angry, but he knew Slickblade was right.

A tentative knock on the chamber door interrupted his brooding. "What?" he growled, knowing he only cared to be disturbed for something important.

When the door was opened he stared curiously. He did not recognize the female Daergar who stood there. She was attractive, though her best days were behind her, but there was a firm line to her chin that reminded him of no one as much as himself.

"Aren't you going to welcome me back, dear brother?" the female Daergar asked. Her words were spoken in the elegant accent of the Hylar.

"Garimeth?" The recognition came suddenly and was accompanied by a sharp, bitter laugh. "You've returned to your own, eh? Just in time to see my brains get splattered all over the arena."

"I hope not," she said in apparent sincerity. "I had word you were standing for the throne, and I was growing so tired of Hylar pretensions. Can't you win tomorrow? I'd like a good excuse to spend some time here."

Darkend laughed again, though the sound was dry and utterly devoid of humor. "Come in and share a drink. You know-" He turned to acknowledge the assassin's presence, but was startled to see that the couch was empty. As usual, Slickblade had departed as he had entered: unnoticed and unannounced.

"I will take that drink, brother. It may be I can help you win that seat on your throne."

"I'm willing to listen. No doubt you've learned a trick or two from your stay among the Hylar."

"None that will supplant your steel, but yes, it may be that I can help… "

For a long time the two Daergar talked. Darkend sent Thistle away and allowed his bath to grow cold as Garimeth spoke to him of things she had learned, seen, and done in Hybardin. Finally, when the hour was late, she gave to him a small gemstone. They both understood he would use it only as a last resort.

The stone was magic, Bellowsmoke knew, and if he used it during his duel with Gludh Kolgard it was quite possible that his ascension to the throne would be tainted. Using magic during a challenge was forbidden. Yet use it he would, if it meant the difference between victory and death.