Dark Thane

As Tarn reached the edge of the crowd of Hylar dignitaries gathered around the shrine, their song was just winding down to its long, dolorous ending. Only the most important Hylar were allowed to be present at this solemn ceremony, but at least one member of every Hylar family, no matter how low in rank, were invited. Of all the bloodlines represented here this day, only Tarn's was not of pure Hylar lineage. But he was their king, and they opened a way for him through the throng to the center of the waterside plaza.

Thane Jungor Stonesinger stood beside the shrine, his grotesque features twisted into an agony of grief. He seemed not to even notice Tarn's arrival as he cried out, "We commemorate this day those who met their end at the hands of the shadow wights, foul creatures of Chaos, whose touch not only destroyed flesh and spirit but also memory. We know that they existed, even though we cannot remember them, because of the effect they had on all our lives."

Clutching a beautiful white lamp to his chest and glaring balefully at the heavens with his one eye, Jungor bellowed histrionically, "I live, yet I have no mother. No one remembers my mother, not even my father, yet we know she lived. We feel her presence in every aspect of our lives. My sisters and I exist because she existed. Yet it is as though she never lived, never bore an honored name, and nowhere on Krynn will you find her tomb. It is to the lost dead of Thorbardin that I dedicate my lamp today."

Finding his place in the ceremony, Tarn stepped up beside the Hylar thane. Atop the shrine lay a tall gilded torch, nearly twice his height and unlit. He picked it up and held its flammable end to Jungor's lamp, lighting it from the lamp's tiny flame. The torch burst to life, its flame warm and yellow compared to the cold white light of Jungor's lamp. He lifted it so that all could see.

"Today we honor all our dead, those who died before Chaos, during Chaos, and after Chaos. Those whose tombs we know and those who he in nameless tombs in the deep places of the world; those slain in battles far from home, and those who ended their lives surrounded by those who loved them. To all dwarves, to the Kingdom of the Dead, we dedicate these lights of remembrance."

As Tarn concluded his dedication, a death skald approached through the crowd. Dressed in black robes and wearing a death mask over his copper-bearded face, he was a fearful sight This day, he represented death incarnate, the living representation of mortality, and he bore in his hand a book in which was written the names of those whose bodies lay unburied on the Isle of the Dead. This island was his place; no one knew his name, not even the king. His was a secret role assigned to his family in a time forgotten even by the dwarves-a true priest of the dead. Tarn suspected that the current death skald was none other than the merchant Hextor Ironhaft, but he couldn't be sure. If Jungor knew, he didn't say. In fact, it was forbidden even to ask, or to publicly speculate about the real identity of a death skald, and no one would even dare consider trying to discover his secret.

Stepping up between the king and the Hylar thane, the death skald opened a diptych and began to chant the long litany of names to be found on the pedestal under the granite basin. His voice, harsh and powerful, was nonetheless beautiful in its own way. Half song of mourning and half war cry, it spoke of the eternal grief of the dwarven peoples as well as their will to endure any hardship or loss. When he sang a name, those who had known the dead in life remembered their grief as well as their former happiness.

As he chanted, bearers appeared carrying large urns in harnesses strapped to their shoulders. Dressed like ancient priests of Reorx yet wearing none of his symbols, they approached the granite basin and bowed beside it, allowing the contents of their urns to pour into the wide stone bowl. The heady scent of fine dwarf spirits stung the nostrils of everyone gathered near the shrine.

As Tarn listened to the chanting of the names and the pouring out of libations for the dead, his mind began to drift back to thoughts of home, of his son. He wondered what Tor was doing, and not for the first time, he wished he were back home with the boy. The voice of the skald resonated with his thoughts, and when the name of his father, Baker Whitegranite, was pronounced, Tarn was overcome by a horrible vision-of himself, lighting a candle in memory of his son. Would Tor's name one day be added to the lists of the dead during his father's lifetime? All the nameless fears that had been tormenting him since the birth of his son were suddenly given life and form. He saw the myriad ways that a dwarf child could die abruptly- disease, violence, accident-and he knew, to his everlasting terror, that there was no way he could protect Tor from all of them. For the first time in his life, Tarn longed for a god to which to pray.