Dark Thane

"The wound must be cleaned, my lord," the doctor insisted as he tried to pry the towel from Jungor once more.

"Just do it, then," Jungor snarled. "Stop pussyfooting around. I'm not some nobleborn fainting at the thought of a hangnail, whose brow you pat to cool his fevered brain. I won't have your head lopped off if it hurts. Just do your job and be done with it!"

"As you wish, my lord," the Daewar doctor said, bowing. He picked up a leather bag from the floor, set it on a chair, and began sorting through various gleaming metal probes, knives, pliers, and other instruments of torture and surgery. Jungor lay back on the examination table, sighing angrily while he pressed the crimson-soaked towel to his face. The table was as sturdy as a butcher's carving block. It had seen enough meat carved upon it in its day. The doctor's examination room lay one level beneath the arena at the bottom of a staircase leading directly up to the arena floor. Those wounded in the arena were usually carried here by orderlies, but Jungor had made the descent on his own feet, refusing to be coddled.

Hextor Ironhaft nervously paced the chamber, trying to oversee the doctor's work. Astar Trueshield stood beside the closed door, his hackles up and still angry at being prevented from protecting his thane. Jungor glanced at him and snorted. "You would have disgraced me," he said. "Interference isn't allowed."

"You are the thane!" Astar shouted angrily, forgetting himself for a moment.

"If I had been attacked in some alley of Norbardin," Jungor said, "I would have your head on a pike for failing in your duty to protect me, Astar Trueshield. But in the arena, there are rules-"

"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have risked your life in this wasteful manner," Hextor Ironhaft interrupted. "Rules be damned. There is more at stake here, my thane."

"Do not preach to me, Hextor Ironhaft," Jungor said in a low, dangerous snarl that brought the wealthy Hylar merchant to a stop. "My honor was at stake. What do you think would have happened if I had been dishonored by that Daergar?"

Cowed, Hextor shrugged and resumed his nervous pacing. "Those who prevented Captain Trueshield from going to your aid may have been part of the conspiracy."

"I assure you, they now regret their mistake," Astar said.

Jungor chuckled appreciatively. "Yes, I know. The doctor has already seen them in the other room. I expect nothing less from you, even though they were merely enforcing the rules of the arena," he said. "I'm glad you didn't kill them, though."

Jungor smiled grimly and turned his attention to the doctor, who was still rummaging through his surgery bag and laying out various instruments, the use of which was beyond guessing. "By the gods, how many knives does it take to pluck out one eye?" the thane snarled at him.

I can do this quickly, or I can do it correctly, my thane," the Daewar doctor said, rising up with a pair of metal tongs in either hand.

"They're probably already saying I am dying down here," Jungor grumbled. He toweled his eye one last time and tossed the bloody rag on the floor. Though a veteran warrior of many battles, Astar winced at the sight of the thane's vitriol-scarred face. Hextor clapped a hand over his lips and turned away. The skin around the eye was hideously marred and bruised a dusky purple, like rotted meat, while the raw flesh showed through in places where the skin had fallen away entirely. The right eye was the color of watery milk, and a sickening wheylike substance oozed down the thane's face and into his beard. He seemed not to notice the pain, which must have been excruciating. He lay on the table as though waiting for the physician to remove a splinter.

Suddenly, the door banged open. Astar started out of his study of the thane's face, his sword already in his fist. Ferro Dunskull ducked aside as the captain of the guard came leaping around the door.

"It's me!" he shrieked, lifting his hands defensively.

"What do you want here, Daergar?" Captain Trueshield demanded harshly as he sheathed his blade. Outside the door, dozens of dwarves huddled in the hall, awaiting some word of Jungor's fate. Astar blocked their view with his body, filling the narrow doorway, but the look on his face discouraged their efforts as much as the breadth of his shoulders. Many turned away and pretended interest in the quality of the floor's stonework.

"Let him in, Captain," Jungor sighed from the table.

Astar closed the door and resumed his post. Ferro sneered at him and approached the examination table. When he saw Jungor's face, his sneer changed to a pained smile. He glanced quickly at Hextor, who merely shook his head as though still trying to recover from his bout of nausea.

"What passes above, in Norbardin?" Jungor asked. "Do they think me dying?"