Dark Thane

Tarn held on to his wife's arm while they were waiting for a column of wagons to pass in the street. The wagons were laden with ingots of raw iron newly smelted in the forges two levels below. They still smelled warm from the forge fire, the scent of hot metal lingering about them. The wagons, pulled by teams of shaggy, gray cave oxen and driven by Daergar teamsters, passed slowly with much shouting and cracking of whips and creaking of wheels. It did Tarn's heart good to see them. The cycle of life continued, and the dwarves of Thorbardin were still earning fair coin. He'd spent far too much time lately living with war, with fear constantly plucking at his sleeves, with the need to hurry and finish, with the sadness of the elven refugees fleeing their homes, with his grief over the dwarves he'd led to their doom.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to stand quietly with his wife, to nod to the people he met on the street, to not be in a hurry to go anywhere, or to do anything. He could not remember when he'd last had time to sit and enjoy a truly fine horn of ale, or to eat a home-cooked meal. He was sick to death of elf food. He wanted a good beefy ox steak, something that would bleed when he cut it, and a platter smoking with mushrooms swimming in butter. He wanted bread that he could tear with his teeth. He wanted to be able to sit at his own table and eat and slurp his beer and belch, and not have to worry about offending some elf's delicate sensibilities.

He clung to his wife's arm as though she were a rock in the stream that threatened to sweep him away. She bore him well and gladly, smiling to feel his hand gripping her elbow. Crystal was a good, stout dwarf woman, hardy, tough as horn, soft as butter, sweet as elf wine, regal as a queen of old, shrewd as a witch, with eyes like diamonds and a smile to melt the ice from the coldest greed-bitten dwarven heart. As the daughter of the hill dwarf king, she'd been trained to fulfill a variety of roles, from housewife to councilor to warrior to queen. Whether seeing to the domestic affairs of her husband's household, or advising the king in his war councils, she had long ago proven herself an invaluable companion. She hadn't replaced Belicia Slateshoulders in Tarn's heart, but then again she had never tried to. Tarn loved Crystal, and standing there at the roadside listening to the teamsters cursing at their recalcitrant beasts, and seeing her smile, he was reminded why.

Tarn leaned over and kissed his wife on her soft cheek, drinking in the smell of her hair. Crystal patted his cheek indulgently and let her fingertips linger in his beard for a moment. "There, the way is clear," she said. "We can cross the street now."

Tarn's residence was located on the third level of Norbardin within an area known as the Fortress, for it was, quite literally, a fortress built as the last line of defense against invaders of the North Gate. Tarn had chosen this location for his residence in the years before his marriage. There were finer homes elsewhere in the city, homes of greater beauty and luxury than his dark, windowless castle. He might have moved to one of these after his marriage and made a better home for his young bride. But Crystal had taken to the fortress almost from the start. Having grown up in a castle herself, she seemed to prefer cold stone walls, battlements, cavernous fireplaces, and paved courtyards that rang constantly with marching dwarfboots and the shouts of weapons instructors.

As the king and his wife made their way home along the streets of the third level of Norbardin, though, Tarn was taken aback by the signs of mourning already being displayed-doors glistening with fresh black paint, windows of houses and shops with dark curtains drawn, or the sight of a single candle gleaming in a black room. They encountered other reminders: dwarves with freshly shorn beards going about their daily business, and orphaned children being led to their new homes by aunts and cousins. Yet only a few of those they met on the streets cast dark glances their way. Most nodded respectfully and continued on their way; a few even stopped to greet their king and warmly welcome him home.

One young widow, her face streaked with tears, stopped to speak to him. "I know my husband died bravely," she said in a voice trembling with emotion. "I am glad he was with you, and that his sacrifice was not in vain." Tarn found himself without words to respond. He took the widow's head in his hands and pulled her close, kissing her on the forehead to still the trembling of his own lips. Relatives gathered her in their arms and led her away, fresh tears on her face, but now a smile shining through her grief. As Tarn turned to continue on his way, Crysal slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze.

"Who was she?" his wife asked.

"I… I don't know," Tarn answered, choking.