Now, as Tarn began to descend the stairs toward the center of the empty Council Hall, a light flared to life on the floor below, a brilliant white glow that emanated from the stone atop Jungor’s staff.
The new king of Thorbardin sat upon the throne of the dead, a seemly chair, Tarn deemed. The golden crown of the king looked small and preposterous on his skull-like head. Beside his throne stood the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring, a large basket resting at her feet. To their right and left sat the new thanes chosen by Jungor to lend an illusion of legitimacy to his dictates. Tarn didn’t even recognize most of them—petty functionaries or merchants of minor wealth who had somehow wormed their way into Jungor’s graces. However, he was not surprised to see Hextor Ironhaft occupying the seat of the Hylar thane. Tarn silently hoped he enjoyed his new position, for he had probably paid enough for it. Of the thane of the gully dwarves, there was no sign. Even her chair had been removed.
Haruk Mastersword paused at the door to allow the others to enter, for Jungor had ordered that no one be allowed to witness what transpired in the Council Hall this day. As Crystal passed him, the look of shame on his face nearly tore her heart from her chest. But she said nothing, knowing all too well that Jungor Stonesinger was keenly watching his nephew and would punish any sign of weakness. She touched his arm for a moment before moving on. The young dwarf turned away and fled to hide his tears.
As they neared the floor of the Council Hall, Tarn kept a keen eye on his captain. Mog was the only armed member of their group, and this only because he had been chosen to carry the Hammer of Kharas. Tarn feared that Mog might be planning some final act of defiance. Yet he could not deny his captain the honor of carrying the weapon he had brought back from oblivion, even if his job today was to hand it over to their worst enemy.
He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when, as they reached the floor, the Klar captain stepped to his right, unwrapped the Hammer of Kharas from its gruesome shroud, and presented it to Tarn. Tarn took it in his grasp and stepped up onto the dais.
A greedy hiss escaped Jungor’s lips when he saw the fabled weapon in Tarn’s hands. No dwarf of the mountain could look upon the Hammer of Kharas and not feel his soul stirring. They drank its legend with their mother’s milk and dreamed of its power into their last doddering years. No other icon so perfectly symbolized their ties to their mountain home, to their history, to their god, and to everything that made them dwarves. The Hammer represented honor, might, righteousness, and the covenant of the dwarves as the chosen people of Reorx.
Jungor rose to his feet and pushed the glowing staff into Brecha’s hands, while his own hands curled into claws that began to twitch in anticipation. Biting back the column of bile that rose in his throat, Tarn started toward him.
“Stop!” Jungor shrieked, holding up one claw-like finger. “Come no closer, Tarn Bellowgranite. I do not trust you.” Tarn grabbed Mog, who had started forward, too. Crystal stepped onto the dais, fiercely whispering Tarn’s name.
“Be quiet!” Tarn hissed over his shoulder. “No one move.”
“Lay the Hammer on the ground,” Jungor ordered.
“First, where is my son?” Tarn demanded in return.
“He is here, and unharmed,” Brecha Quickspring answered with an evil smile. Holding one hand above the basket, she closed her eyes and chanted a brief spell. A disk of greenish light formed beneath the basket, then rose, lifting it into the air.
“Such a noisy boy, like his disagreeable nanny,” she sighed. “I am glad to give him back.”
“Now put the Hammer on the ground,” Jungor said. Tarn laid the weapon on the ground at his feet, then rose up and glared at Jungor across the dais.
“Step away from it,” Jungor ordered.
“My son,” Tarn said firmly, refusing to move. Jungor nodded to Brecha, who sent the glowing disk of green light floating toward Tarn. He stepped away from the Hammer and grabbed the basket as it passed near to him. Setting it quickly on the ground, he threw back the blankets to reveal his infant son, soundly asleep in a deep nest of rich blankets. A shudder of relief passed through his frame. He moved aside as Crystal plunged her hands into the basket and swept her son to her breast, sobbing hysterically.
When Tarn turned back to the council, he saw that Hextor Ironhaft had already grabbed the Hammer. The new Hylar thane knelt and ceremoniously presented the holy weapon to his new king. As Jungor’s fingers closed around its haft, he seemed to stagger under its weight. But he quickly regained his composure, glaring triumphantly at the other thanes. Last of all, his hawklike visage turned to the king he had finally replaced.
“Before I go,” Tarn said. “I want to warn you one more time. I want to warn all of you that you are in great danger.” Several of the new thanes rolled their eyes and shook their beards in disbelief. Even defeated, the half-breed would not give up.
Infuriated, Tarn continued. “No! You will listen to me this one last time. There is a chaos dragon asleep beneath the new Council Hall being built. Captain Grisbane and I saw it with our own eyes. I beg you to take the architect and make an investigation. The creature is a monstrous—”
“Gaul Quarrystone is dead,” Jungor interrupted, laughing as he spoke. “As is Captain Grisbane. Conveniently, no one other than you has seen this creature.”
“The creature is there. Go and look for yourself, if you have the courage,” Tarn angrily fired back.
“I have looked,” Jungor responded patronizingly. “There is nothing there but an old lava tube, which will, unfortunately, force us to abandon the construction of the new Council Hall. Like all your other machinations, Tarn Bellowgranite, the new Council Hall was ill-planned and poorly executed. Its empty shell will serve as a monument to your rule.”
“Nothing there?” Tarn asked disbelievingly. “You saw no dragon?”
“The lava tube was empty and quite cool,” Jungor said.
“Don’t you see what this means?” Tarn cried. “The dragon is awake and on the move! You must abandon the city at once, before it attacks!”
“Begone from this city, you babbling fool!” Jungor shouted, pointing with the Hammer of Kharas toward the north. “No longer will we listen to your gibbering cries of danger. The dwarves of Thorbardin shall return to their former homes and rebuild our kingdom under my rule. As king of Thorbardin, I banish you from the mountain and the realm of the dwarves forever. You and all your ilk! If ever I see your beard again, I shall order it, and the head that grows it, spitted on a pike atop the Isle of the Dead!”
41
Carrying his son on one arm, Tarn led his group through the silent streets of Norbardin. No soldiers accompanied them, no curious onlookers hung out their windows to watch him pass. If not for the occasional thump or muffled cry that they heard behind doors, they might have thought they were passing through a realm long abandoned by its dwarven occupants.
Tor was awake now and clung to his father’s beard and shoulder. He peered about curiously with his wide gray eyes. As he was still only an infant, the little boy scarcely understood what was happening to him. For a few moments, Tarn felt a sudden pang of grief that Tor would never know this place except in the stories of his father and mother. Thorbardin was the birthright of all dwarves, he truly believed, and as much pain and grief as this place had brought him, it only caused him to love it the more.