Dark Thane

“So we hope,” Mog said. He quickly recounted what had happened in the tunnels, their discovery of the drowned city. “I found one of Beryl’s scales floating in the flotsam along the shore of the new lake. It was not some old dried scale that dropped off her body naturally. It was tom out of her flesh, by what force I cannot begin to guess.”

“Whatever it was that flooded the city must have also killed her,” Otaxx ventured.

“We don’t know that for certain either,” Tarn snarled. He rose to his feet and began to pace the small chamber. “She may only be wounded. In truth, we know almost nothing. We don’t know why the city was flooded or what happened to those defending it. We don’t know how many of Beryl’s soldiers were killed or if they are still under any kind of central command. We don’t even know for sure if Beryl is alive.” He stopped before the door and slammed his fist into it so hard that the center wooden panel split down its entire length. He seemed not to even notice, for he immediately resumed his pacing. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the flagstone floor.

“I cannot allow myself to hope that the Great Green Bitch is dead,” Tarn finished.

“If you had no hope of defeating her, why did you aid the elves?” Otaxx asked with a frankness that might have been traitorous had Tarn been any other king. His commanders and generals knew that Tarn valued frank advice, even if it disagreed with his plans.

Still Tarn spun and glared at the portly general, anger flaring in his violet eyes.

“I had no other choice,” he said, repeating the excuse he’d been practicing since they left the Qualinesti forest early that morning. He felt weary to the bone. He’d had no sleep in almost two days, but that was little more than an inconvenience. He’d gone far longer without rest in the days after the Chaos War, when the survival of his people had lain in the balance. He felt as though there were a palpable force trying to restrain him, to surround him and smother him, plucking at his elbows and tugging at his sword belt. Even now, he sensed it. It felt as though there weren’t enough air in the room for all three of them to breathe, as though each breath were a struggle.

“I aided the elves because I had no other choice,” Tam repeated wearily. “To not aid them when they came begging at my door would have been immoral. Besides, since when has an elf ever begged aid of a dwarf? I could not pass up the opportunity to forge an alliance between our two people in this time of danger. And I wanted a chance to strike a blow at Beryl and her minions and also at the Dark Knights.”

“Then you did hope to defeat her,” Otaxx shrewdly observed.

“The elves’ plan was a good one. It could have worked. For all we know, it did work,” Mo said, a smile creasing his unkempt black beard.

“Their plan was foolish, and I should have seen it. Some madness blinded me,” Tarn said, waving his hands in the air before his face as though he still felt his vision and his judgment clouded. “Aiding them in their escape was the right thing to do, but helping them fight Beryl with arrows and ropes, that was more akin to catching a bird in a snare.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You can’t trust the elves, I always said,” Otaxx murmured as his eyes strayed to the elven longbow hanging on his study wall.

“Elves!” Tarn growled huskily. “I wish to the gods I had never listened to them. If Gilthas himself were to stick his pointy head through that door, I’d chop it off.” Snarling an oath, he slapped the pommel of his kingsword and resumed his seat in one of the antique wooden chairs. The chair looked like a sentimental attempt at a throne. There was distinct elven craftsmanship in its woodland motifs-oak leaves and acorns and unicorns passant. The sight of it made Tarn’s stomach turn.

Yet it was unfair to blame his failures on the elves, and Tarn knew it. This only made him angrier. He had no one to blame but himself. How could he go back to Thorbardin and face those who had lost so much beneath the waters of doomed Qualinost?

“I must return to Thorbardin,” Tarn sighed.

Otaxx clucked his tongue and shook his round head ruefully. “You know what you will find there, my king,” he said. “The Hylar thane will seize this opportunity to challenge your authority. It’s just the sort of event he’s been waiting for.”

Tarn stared darkly across the desk at Otaxx, but said nothing.

“Perhaps it would be better to wait… a couple of days, no more, of course. If there are survivors, we should give them time to find their way back here,” Mog offered. “We can send out search parties. Maybe, with confirmation of Beryl’s death, we can lessen the impact of the news.”

“Lesson the impact?” Tarn asked incredulously. “Do you hear yourself? Thousands of dwarves died because I foolishly went against the will of the Council of Thanes.”

“But if Beryl truly is dead-” Otaxx began.