She was still numb to the dire reality of her predicament. Whenever she thought of Tarn being held prisoner in a cell somewhere, she could barely stand to bring that image of him to her mind. Her heart refused to accept such a defeat. She felt as though he were merely away on an errand, and more than once caught herself thinking, “When Tarn returns, I need to speak to him about…”
The idea that Tarn might never return lurked at the edge of her thoughts. She knew that if she seriously entertained that notion, she would break down utterly and be unable to continue. And she couldn’t allow herself that luxury. Tor needed her, and so did the forces watching her as she paced nervously amidst them. She was the last thing standing between her baby and Jungor Stonesinger’s fanatic minions. What they would do to the son of the king, she didn’t dare to guess. She only knew that they would reach him only over her own dead body. Perhaps, if she held out long enough, she could strike a bargain that would allow their escape into exile… .
She went cold at that desperate thought, her heart hammering in her chest. Sooner or later, she knew, she would have to accept that Tarn was doomed if he was in Jungor’s hands. He was probably already dead. She had no hope that Glint Ettinhammer and Mog Bonecutter would succeed in their mad scheme to rescue the king, but she hadn’t dared to try to stop them.
The appearance of their old captain of the guard, believed dead since the Festival of Lights celebration, had surprised her when she thought she could no longer feel any emotion. And for a few brief moments, she had felt hope rekindled. True to his character, the Klar thane had tried to encourage her by pointing out that Jungor’s forces had merely captured Tarn, while they had slaughtered everyone else. They must therefore want Tarn alive for a reason.
But ever since Mog, Glint, and their company had departed, the bleak reality had returned to shadow her. The Hammer of Kharas already seemed a figment of her imagination. The Hammer was not a relic as much revered by the hill dwarves and so she placed little faith in its powers anyway. Nor was she particularly comforted by the assurances of the strange old Klar who had gone off with the rescue party. Before leaving, he had patted her hand and said in a gentle voice, “Don’t you worry, lass. He won’t go and get himself killed just yet.” She wasn’t sure if the old dwarf had been talking about Tarn or someone else, and he had slipped away before she could reproach him.
At least Tor was safe. Right now, he was deep inside the fortress with hundreds of feet of stone between his room and their enemies. And he could have no more formidable bodyguard than Aunt Needlebone, though Crystal had been sure also to place her most trusted guards outside the door to the nursery—dwarves she had trained herself in the years since her marriage to Tarn.
It was the darn waiting that really grated on her nerves. Though she had little hope that Glint and the others would succeed, still that tiny spark of hope tormented her. She restlessly walked the battlements, her boots stamping on the stone, cursing the darkness of this underground city and its walls that prevented her from seeing very far in any direction. She missed the wide open spaces of her homeland, the wild hills and the wind rippling through fields of grain. For perhaps the thousandth time, she peered down the dark street leading away from the gate, looking for any sign of dwarves massing for an attack. But for the thousandth time, she saw only an empty street that disappeared into darkness beyond the light of their torches. A dwarf operating a large bull’s-eye lantern from atop the postern gate swept the nearer shadows, but no, she couldn’t even detect a gully dwarf in its light.
A clatter of dwarf boots in the courtyard below distracted Crystal from her thoughts. She turned to look and saw a pair of Klar talking animatedly with one of the Daewar guards assigned to this entrance. The Daewar turned and pointed up at her, and she felt her heart stop.
“What is it?” she cried, running for the nearest tower without even waiting for an answer. In moments, she had descended the stairs and had joined the two Klar. The dwarves lining the battlements watched, their faces also dark with worry. “What has happened?” Crystal asked breathlessly.
“Thane Ettinhammer is at the south entrances,” one of the Klar guards said.
She felt her hands go cold and numb. “Alone?” she asked.
The guard nodded.
Her passage through the fortress was a blur. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Word spread quickly through the residence that Glint had returned alone, and others followed behind her as discreetly as possible. It seemed to take an age to reach the south entrances, and then even longer to go from entrance to entrance until she found the Klar thane.
As soon as she saw Glint’s pale, drawn face and slumped shoulders, she knew the worst. She hardly recognized him. The Klar thane had been a figure of brash confidence since the day she had first met him. Now, she found him slumped on a curb near the southwest entrance. A dozen guards stood nearby, trying not to stare at him. When Crystal appeared, they looked away from her as well. She stood for a moment beneath a stone arch, too frightened to move, wondering if she would ever be able to draw breath again. It was some time before Glint looked up and noticed her. A strange expression passed across his face, a strange rictus grin that she didn’t fathom. His pallor was bloodless. He rose wearily to his feet to meet her.
Crystal greeted him silently, taking his old scarred hand in hers and pressing it. She could tell by the way he avoided looking her in the eye that this was perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done. “Is there… someplace we could… go?” he asked in a voice strained with emotion.
Nodding, she led him into a passage between the entrance courtyard and an inner court. There, they found a stout, ironbound door, which opened into a small armory. Little remained of its contents; the shields, armor, and weapons had been almost entirely distributed among the troops loyal to Tarn Bellowgranite. Only a few spears and an old battle axe remained.
Crystal swung the door shut on its silent hinges and then leaned her back against it. She drew a deep breath, as her mind reeled. Was there even a need to ask? The story was writ plain enough on the Klar thane’s face.
He turned to her, eyes downcast, his great shaggy head sunk almost between his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, choking back a sob. Crystal flew into his arms, a wordless moan wrenched from her breast. She clung to his thick neck, her face buried in his chest. He wrapped his huge, burly arms around her and pressed her tight, endlessly repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was as though he had been robbed of the ability to speak any other words.
She didn’t know how long she clung to him. He bore her weight patiently, even though he seemed on the verge of collapsing with weariness. He shifted, gathering her with one arm while the other hung limply at his side. Perhaps he had been injured, though the thought barely penetrated Crystal’s consciousness. Gradually, her sobs lessened, though she doubted her grief would ever be dulled. Every time she would look at their son from now until death claimed her, she would be reminded of his father.
She needed to hear the words spoken, no matter how painful.
“So Tarn is dead then,” Crystal asked, her face still pressed to the Klar thane’s chest.
“He will be soon enough,” Zen disguised as Glint answered. “As will you.”