The Klar quarter was the one place in Norbardin where the people still greeted him warmly, sometimes too warmly. He lost count of how many times he had to free himself from being dragged into a tavern to join them in a round to toast the king’s health. The Klar had lost more warriors in the disaster at Qualinost than any other clan, but they had never grown to blame Tarn. But not even among his own people did Mog relax his guard. If anything, he felt freer here to lay about with his fists in order to clear the way when the friendly crowd pressed uncomfortably close to the king.
Having finally cleared the Klar quarter, Tarn and Mog were able to make better time. They left Norbardin behind and followed a wide passage called the First Road to the West Warrens, where the mushroom fields that fed and clothed Norbardin were located. This huge agricultural area was many times larger than Norbardin, made up of a complex of interconnected caverns filled with a soft black loam, atop which their mushrooms grew. Even so, it was still quite a bit smaller than the North, South, and East Warrens, now inaccessible beyond the ruins of the dwarven cities.
The dwarves farmed several dozen varieties of mushrooms, some for food, some for fibers to make cloth, some for their medicinal properties, or for brewing into spirits. The largest variety were among the edible mushrooms, from the small spicy purple lumpkins to the big beefsteak mushrooms that had to be chopped down with an axe and butchered like a hog to separate the edible parts from the fibrous.
The Warrens were largely unpopulated this day. Except for a few retired overseers or independent mushroom farmers who had their residences right here in the mushroom caverns, most of the workers were away celebrating in Norbardin. Guards lingered near cavern intersections, for the Warrens needed constant guarding against raids by gully dwarves and other hungry creatures of the deep places. They saluted perfunctorily as Tarn passed by, most of them already half-sodden on dwarf spirits.
The Sixth Road led out of the south end of the Warrens to a wharf on the shore of the Urkhan Sea. Here, Tarn found a boat awaiting him, a half dozen Hylar rowers already sitting at the oarlocks with their hoods pulled up over their heads against the cold, moist air. Dark water lapped and spattered against the side of the boat and the piles of the dock as Tarn and Mog climbed down and took their places on a bench. Tarn apologized for being late. Someone muttered something unintelligible in response. Tarn placed a warning hand on Mog’s arm, urging him back into his seat. The helmsman ordered the lines cast off. Oars rattled in their locks and dipped in smooth unison into the black water of the sea, as the boat turned and shot out over the glass-smooth water.
In the distance, a great bulk of darkness, dotted with lights at its near end, loomed up against the larger darkness of the enormous central cavern of Thorbardin. Few humans or elves had ever set foot inside the mountain, nor were they allowed the privilege of seeing one of the great wonders of Krynn.
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.
20
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.