Dark Thane

The Urkhan Sea was a vast underground freshwater lake, one of the largest known freshwater lakes on the entire continent of Ansalon. Five miles across at its widest point, the lake once served as the primary conduit of transportation between the five dwarven cities of Thorbardin. Now the cities lay in ruins, uninhabited except by a few feral Klar and, of course, uncounted thousands of gully dwarves.

Travel across the sea was a rare event now, but the dwarves of Tarn's boat had not forgotten their skills. The helmsmen softly calling out the strokes, they plied the oars with practiced care, working in unison to pull the boat across the lake as smoothly as a shuttlecock sliding between the two weaves of a loom. The lights on the distant shore grew nearer by the minute.

The Isle of the Dead rose before them, hulking and black, jagged and fearful to behold, for this was the ruins of the fallen Life Tree of the Hylar, the wreck of Hybardin. Already somber and thinking ruefully of his wife and son, Tarn's mood darkened as they drew near. Somewhere on that island, buried under tons of rubble, lay the bones of his first love, Belicia Slateshoulders. Their marriage had been less than a month away when she died. Tarn reflected that, had they been married before the accident that took her life-when she, along with several hundred workers, plunged to their fates when the section of Hybardin they were attempting to restore broke free-his life would be very different today. Dwarves mated for life. If he had lost his wife rather than his betrothed, there wouldn't be a Crystal Heathstone or a Tor Bellowgranite in his life today.

In a way, he was glad they had waited to marry, but he meant no dishonor to her spirit, especially on this hallowed day. In his heart, he knew that Belicia never begrudged him his conflicted feelings. Nevertheless, he sometimes felt ugly inside, as though he had betrayed her somehow.

On the near side of the island, a low spur of land jutted out into the black Urkhan Sea. Down by the water's edge, tiny against the huge bulk of the island, the Hylar dwarves had built a small shrine to honor those doomed to lie in these ruins and thus denied a proper cairn burial. The shrine was carved out of purest white marble. Beside it stood a deep granite basin weighing several tons, resting atop a wide granite base into which was carved the names of those Hylar known to lie at rest on the island. A lesser shrine honored the Daewar who had died in defense of Hybardin during the war. Daergar and Theiwar had perished here as well, buried under tons of rubble during the first collapse, but they had died making war against the rightful rulers of Thorbardin and so received no memorial here.

Dozens of torches set atop tall poles surrounded the shrine and its small courtyard beside the lapping waters of the Urkhan Sea. Drawing nearer, Tarn saw that there were already many boats pulled up along the rocky shore or tied to the wharf. His was the last boat to arrive, and by the looks of it, the dwarves had already begun the Festival of Lights ceremony without him.

Atop the shrine burned hundreds of white and blue lamps, each made of wrought silver paned with sodalite or some other polished translucent mineral. Most were stamped or etched with some form of family crest or seal, symbolizing the ongoing dedication of the deceased's family to their fallen kin. More than any other ceremony on this day of ceremonies, this gathering of the Hylar was dedicated to those who had died in the Chaos War.

As Tarn's boat bumped into the wharf, he heard the deep mournful sound of dwarven voices lifted in song-a dirge for the lost dead. Tarn stood on the wharf while his rowers put away their oars. Mog remained sitting in the boat, a dour look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Mog," Tarn said when the rowers had climbed out of the boat and headed for the ceremony. "They won't allow you to join me on the island. Thane Stonesinger has convinced the others that this island is holy to the Hylar and the Hylar alone. There is nothing I can do to change their minds."

"You are the king. It's not proper for you to be without your bodyguards," Mog grumbled. "But I will follow your wishes."

"I am safe here, if nowhere else," Tarn said. Reluctantly, he turned away. Mog seemed so miserable sitting in the bottom of the boat, alone, the cold, moist air seeping through his clothes and into his bones, fighting an internal battle between his loyalty to the king and his burning desire to beat some Klar sense into the fools that seemed to surround him on all sides.

"I hope this won't take too long," Tarn muttered.

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