Other serpentine things also answered the summons of the mighty one. Primus was but one of the fire dragons-the greatest and most terrible to be sure-amongst a great host of blazing monsters that swept into the daemon warrior's wake. They swarmed into the sky like flaming spears, wings pulsing, great necks extending. Their fires were the beacons, pennants, and martial banners of the daemon warrior's army.
Following the blazing meteor that was Primus, the creatures of Chaos swarmed to the light and the fire and the promise of destruction. They flew through the thick murk that spills into the gaps between the planes as they followed the beacon, advancing to the command and the pleasure of the mighty daemon warrior.
And Zarak Thuul, feeling the unstoppable rush of combined power, threw back his massive head and howled with laughter.
Chapter Ten
Dark Chambers
His tongue was thick and terribly dry, like a dead, dusty corpse that had somehow come to rest in his mouth. When he tried to open his eyes his head was wracked with pain. He immediately twisted on some flat, yielding surface. He choked and gagged, mindlessly sick.
For a long time he held his head in his hands, groaning feebly and trying to squeeze out the agony that throbbed with such violence between his ears. Finally he rolled back onto what he now realized was a mattress. Still his mouth was dry and foul, and he gasped for air.
"By Reorx. Water. I need water!" He choked out the sounds, scarcely aware that he was speaking aloud.
"Here. Drink." A gourd was placed against his hand and he instinctively pulled it to his lips, quaffing greedily-and then spitting out a great mouthful of something really vile.
"What is this?" he demanded, "Dragon piss?"
The force of his voice brought a further throbbing to his aching head. Trying to ignore the pain, he blinked, but saw only vague shadows in the utter darkness of the room.
"No!" The stranger's tone was indignant. "This fine gully grog! You no like, you no drink!"
Tarn groaned again, closing his eyes and sinking onto the mattress in utter despair. Gully grog? And that accent… the petulant tone of wounded pride-not to mention the words spoken. This fellow beside him was clearly a gully dwarf.
But how had he come to be here? Indeed, where was he?
For a long time the throbbing in his head was too violent, too painful, for Tarn to think at all. Instead he merely lay in utter misery, unconscious of anything except for the awful pain and the horrid feeling in his mouth. He might have slept again or faded from awareness-he couldn't tell for sure-but when he finally forced his gummy eyelids apart he again saw the figure, squat and rotund, sitting beside his bed.
This time he could make out details: a pair of bright eyes, close set and sparkling, stared at him with unblinking attention. The rest of the room was large and well-chiseled. He could see a brass latch on the door, and gradually became aware that the covering of his mattress was a fine bearskin, a pelt very rare and treasured in Thorbardin. From these facts he deduced that he wasn't in some squalid gully dwarf hovel. He took this fact as no small relief.
But it still didn't answer the rest of his questions. He forced himself to reach backward in his mind, trying to reconstruct events. He saw Belicia, frowning at him, then turning her back. She was displeased. Why?
Because he was going away! The answer came like a stab of light, even though he realized that he had not defined the exact reason for Belicia Felixia's displeasure. But part of it was true-he had been going away. He remembered now. The lake, the crossing from light into darkness.
His mother's house. That was the last memory he had and it came to him with full and vivid recollection. The discussion in her parlor, the mead-the mead, by Reorx! Especially the second bottle, the special brew she had asked Karc to bring. Had Garimeth taken any drink from that bottle? He hadn't been paying careful attention, but he was pretty sure that she hadn't.
Of course-his mother had drugged him! His own mother! And now he was no doubt in some chamber of her house.
How could she do such a thing? And why? Why?
For a time he berated himself for his own stupidity. Certainly no self-respecting Daergar would accept a drink from one who refused to partake of the same beverage! How could he have been so careless, so disregarding of the most basic precautions?
The answer was clear: he had spent so much time among the Hylar where trust and goodwill were widespread. He had lost the edge needed to make one's way through dark dwarf society. He thought of the Helm of Tongues, how he had argued with his father over the possibility of his mother's having stolen the artifact. Of course Baker Whitegranite must have been right. He remembered his mother regarding him through narrowed eyes, subtly encouraging him to drink. What had they been talking about? Had he given away any of the thane's secrets?
"Why? Why did you do it, mother?" he croaked the question aloud, through the painful splitting of his dry lips.
"I not your mother, silly. You say thirsty, I give drink. You say 'dragon piss' and I no give you more drink. That why."
In spite of everything, Tarn uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He had entirely forgotten his odd companion. After all, once he had realized that he was in his mother's house, it had seemed more likely than anything that the gully dwarf was a figment of his fevered imagination. Certainly Aghar-bashing was considered fine sport among the Daergar. Even the lowliest of his mother's servants would have had free rein to strangle or crush the little wretch if his presence were discovered.
"Who are you? And where are we?" His voice rasped painfully. He craved a draught of any liquid, no matter how vile. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his sturdy legs over the edge of the bed. He realized that his boots had been removed from his feet.
"Regal Wise-Always. That my name. We in the Big House."
Tarn regarded the Aghar, observing the sparse beard straggling from a rounded chin, the small, rotund figure, and a face dominated by a pair of bright, curious eyes. "What 'Big House'? Is this Daerforge, the manor of Garimeth Bellowsmoke?"
"Big Big House. And you in Agharhome, buddy. Best next best place in all Thorbardin!"
"No! I've seen Agharbardin. Nobody but a gully dwarf would go there, and I can tell you that it's not like this."
Tarn made the denial with a great deal of conviction. He could tell that this was a fine sleeping chamber, with a bed fit for nobility. Now that he was upright, he also noticed a settee, garment wardrobes, and a dressing table. It all looked vaguely familiar. This was not his usual room, but he was almost certain that he was somewhere within his mother's house in the port city of the dark dwarves.
"Well, you come to Agharhome here. You right by dark dwarves-they take you boots and plop into bed."
Forcing himself to think, Tarn reviewed his memory of Thorbardin, including the large gully dwarf slum called Agharbardin-or Agharhome, as the wretched inhabitants called it. He remembered that the gully dwarf city was a sprawling wasteland adjacent to Daerforge, but the two cities were distinct entities and clearly unalike. As a youngster during his visits to his mother's home city, he had joined Daergar youths in pitching rocks from the balconies and plazas of their city, hooting with derision as the missiles had tumbled through the crowded Aghar hovels that lined the lower elevations of the cliff. Come to think of it, he had thrown some of those rocks from the ramparts of this very manor. The squalid lairs of the gully dwarves had not been terribly far away.
"Regal. That's a good name, I have to say. How did you get here?"