Dark Thane

Suddenly, the crowd was turning in Tarn's favor. Several voices cried out, begging him not to abandon the dwarves of Thorbardin in their hour of greatest need. Jungor sank into his chair, shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. He almost felt compelled to applaud, though some might think him disrespectful, when actually he had nothing but the deepest admiration for Tarn's masterful performance. Yet he did not panic. He had never planned to win the throne at this time and place anyway. The hour of his victory was still in place, and nothing really had changed to upset his master plan.

14

As the cries for Tarn to remain king grew louder, Tarn looked around the faces of his numerous supporters. Here he had come before the council in shame, begging their forgiveness and asking to be allowed to surrender his power to some more worthy dwarf. And in return for the disaster he had brought upon his people, they now begged him to remain as king. Their support humbled him, made him feel pity for himself-but also pride.

To think that forty years ago, few of the dwarves now gathered here would have given him an old pair of shoes if he had been barefoot and destitute. And to think that forty years ago he wouldn't have asked for a crumb from most of them, even if he were starving. Forty years, a war that nearly destroyed them all, the deaths of his father, mother, and promised wife, and a revolt among the Daewar that almost ripped all the clans apart, had changed him profoundly. The crown of Thorbardin had been thrust upon his reluctant brow by the death of his father, Baker Whitegranite, himself a reluctant king. He had learned, and learned grudgingly to love these, his own people-people who so often distressed him with their eternal clan strife, who brought him grief and expected him to bear it alone, who blamed him for everything that went wrong, and who claimed for themselves his victories and successes.

Now, seeing this upswelling of support despite his great failure, Tarn was nearly unstrung. He could have wept, if he had any tears left. Instead, he felt a cold thrill course the length of his body, making his hair stand on end and his beard bristle. The weariness seemed to fall away from him as the energy and love of the crowd flowed into his limbs. He grinned broadly.

Lifting his head he saw a face in the crowd looking back at him. She smiled lovingly and lifted her hand to him, and he was at once struck by how much he had missed her, and how he had not realized how much he needed her. He had been searching the crowd for her since the moment he entered the Council Hall, without even realizing it. Now that he had found her, it felt as though a burden was lifting from his bowed back. He felt whole again.

He returned her wave, kissing his fingertips in token of greeting. He noticed that she sat alone in the midst of the Hylar clan: Crystal Heathstone, his wife, daughter of the Neidar king, a princess of the hill dwarves. An empty circle surrounded her, not because she was the wife of the king but because the others were avoiding her-simply because she was a hill dwarf.

His smile fading, Tarn realized that there was still much for him to do as king.

Steeling himself, he shouted, "I relent. I will remain your king, so long as you will have me!" The roar that greeted his words shook the foundations of the old temple. Tarn paused, as Mog bowed before him and Otaxx Shortbeard approached and vigorously clasped him by the shoulders. "I knew you wouldn't let us down," the old general joyfully said.

Jungor stood and lifted his hands in the air, begging the audience for quiet, crying, "Dwarves of Thorbardin! Listen to me! Listen to me once more!" Gradually the tumult died down while Mog retrieved his dragon scale and Otaxx found a seat among the Daewar.

Jungor had been quiet all this time, but now he gestured to indicate that he was ready to speak. His strange scarred visage was terrible to behold; his hand tightly clutched the weird staff, as though he were some sort of cursed Theiwar wizard and not the thane of the proud Hylar people. Though he wore a small bandage over the empty socket of his right eye, the horrible acid-burned flesh of his face was plain for all to see. Tarn had been initially surprised to see that Jungor had suffered such a horrible wound, but he had held his natural reaction in check. Now, looking at the Hylar thane, he could hardly suppress a shudder of revulsion.

"We are indeed glad that the king has chosen to lead us through these most difficult times," Jungor declared. "But because these times are so perilous, and we continue to be in danger, I must insist that we seal the North Gate without delay. It is the only way we can be safe."