“Too often have we turned our backs on the outside world,” Tarn declared. “True, we live in perilous times, but there are too few of us to defend our homes against the forces of evil now loose in the world. The dragonarmies of old pale in comparison to the might of dragons like Beryl and Malys. We must have allies if we are to survive.”
“Not the elves!” Jungor shrieked. “You haven’t invited the elves here, have you?”
“No, certainly not the elves,” Tarn replied, to the relief of nearly everyone in attendance. Jungor sighed, but Tarn couldn’t tell if the Hylar thane was pleased or disappointed.
“There are other dwarves in the world,” Tarn continued. “With the destruction of our army and the growing threats in the world, we need every axe and hammer we can muster.”
The Daewar thane, Rughar Delvestone, rose from his chair, his round face flushing red. “I pray you aren’t suggesting we invite the hill dwarves into our mountain,” he hissed, nearly spitting the words “hill dwarves.”
Jungor nodded and took a step closer to Tarn. “Long have we tolerated your infatuation with that tribe of rebels,” he said as he lifted his hand and pointed at the king accusingly. His gaze strayed beyond the king to the female dwarf sitting alone on the front row of the Hylar section. Seeing the direction of Jungor’s gaze, Tarn knew that the Hylar thane was looking at his Neidar wife, Crystal Heathstone. He felt his blood boil. Would Jungor dare to insult the wife of the king before the assembled council?
“We will not open the gates of Thorbardin to more hill dwarves,” Thane Rughar said, stamping his boot for emphasis. “I’d rather share my bed with an elf.”
This was going too far. Tarn was on the verge of demanding they speak their minds truly, so that he could have the honor of calling them out. But Glint Ettinhammer, thane of the Klar and Tarn’s most loyal ally on the council, pushed his bulk up out of his seat, and said, “I must agree with my fellow thanes. We cannot hold the mountain passes against a determined invasion, especially if it is led by Beryl or any of her brood.” He shrugged his great shoulders apologetically to Tarn, then resumed his seat. Tarn turned and saw Mog staring at his clan’s thane with a look of disbelief. Tarn then looked to Otaxx, sitting in the Daewar section, who nodded sadly.
“Ten gully dwarves could hold our gates against an army of dragons,” Jungor persisted, seeing Tarn’s determination begin to dissolve.
“Two gully dwarves!” Thane Delvestone added, rousing a laugh from the crowd. Even the gully dwarves chuckled. Brecha Quickspring added her voice, readily agreeing that the North Gate should be closed. Last of all, the Daergar thane Shahar Bellowsmoke cast his vote with the majority. No one bothered to ask Grumple Nagfar what she thought.
With almost the entire Council of Thanes against him, Tarn could not follow his best instincts—not again, not after what had happened in Qualinost. With a deep sigh, he ordered guards away to close the North Gate at once. Then, with the business of the Council completed, the assembly began to break up. Crystal rose from her seat and rushed to Tarn’s side, slipping an arm around him to help the weary dwarf king stand. He leaned against her gratefully, feeling old, sad, and defeated even at home.
As they left the Council Hall, they passed Jungor Stonesinger surrounded by a mob of freshly admiring dwarves. “Now that my will has prevailed and the North Gate is closed, we’ll be safe,” Jungor pronounced.
“It didn’t stop the armies of Chaos,” Tarn muttered under his breath.
15
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.