"I see why you would think it was influenced by Garimeth, but that story doesn't shake my certainty that such a daemon creature would never allow itself to be controlled by a mortal being. These dark and shadowy manifestations come from Chaos, we know that now. And Chaos cannot be commanded or disciplined. I'm afraid this daemon creature was merely having fun at Garimeth's expense and doing just what it intended all along."
"Then you can't use it to stop the attack?"
Sighing, Baker shook his head. "Certainly not." He brightened again almost immediately. "However, there is something that it might be able to do to help!"
"What?"
"Come here, my son. I have something to show you!" urged Baker, his tone surprisingly enthusiastic.
Inside the Thane's Atrium there was a litter of scroll tubes and parchment, scrolls that had been tossed and thrown everywhere around the large room. Tarn was startled, recognizing these as the treasures that his father had valued above all others. And now some of them were torn while others lay unnoticed on the floor.
Absently Tarn took note of the wall beyond that had once displayed an array of great artifacts and weaponry from Hylar history. Now that surface had been picked clean of all the blades except for a single, long-hafted battle axe; undoubtedly the other weapons had gone toward the city's desperate defense.
The great stone chair, the throne of the Hylar thane, sat like a useless weight next to the wall. The seat was buried in scrolls and parchments, documents piled haphazardly there as everywhere else in the room.
"Remember something I told you, Son? You know the legend, that some portion of the Graygem's power was imprisoned in a platinum dragon egg and left in the Grotto?"
"Yes." Tarn remembered something about that, though he had dismissed it as part of his father's impractical daydreaming.
"This is the next part!" Baker was saying, waving one of the sheets of parchment. "These are the oldest of Chisel Loremaster's scrolls. And you can see there is arcane script right here!"
"Yes, but again I ask: what does that mean?" asked Tarn.
"The Grotto, my boy! The Grotto!" explained the thane as if it was the happiest discovery in the world. He indicated a small circle on the page, a roundel that was marked with a small dash at the bottom. "This is the symbol right here. I just translated it!"
Tarn felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. He physically forced down the urge to take his father by the shoulders, to shake some practical sense into him. Instead, the son merely nodded sadly, wondering what possible usefulness his father saw in the ancient cavern-especially now, in the midst of this historic crisis, even if it was true that finally he had found a way to locate it.
"I've been wrestling with the rest of the translation for too long; it's beyond my poor talents. Now, with the Helm, I'll be able to read it."
"I suppose you will," Tarn answered absently. He felt completely, utterly defeated. There would be no help from the artifact, no help from any source.
Baker pulled the Helm of Tongues over his head and picked up the ivory scroll tube. He squinted, then beamed excitedly.
"Yes! Yes! I was right! It's here-the key to the Grotto! I know what it means! And what's more, I know how to find it!"
Bloodcurdling shrieks pierced the air from outside the throne room. The thick stone of the floor shuddered underfoot, trembling repeatedly from the thud of great weight. The chamber was rocked by a savage roar, a sound of physical force that battered Tarn's eardrums and nearly drove him to his knees. The thunderous bellow was followed by the sound of a powerful crash. Dust and plaster broke from the ceiling to shower across the throne room.
Abruptly a crack shot through the great wall and pieces of stone tumbled free, toppling onto the sturdy floor. Another part of the wall started to lean inward, sending the dwarves scrambling toward the far side of the chamber. As more of the barrier broke down, Tarn caught sight of a black body, eyes of fiery crimson that transfixed him through the smoke and the dust. An obsidian fist pummeled the stones, smashing a wide opening. The figure of the daemon warrior, surprisingly manlike in its purposeful stride, advanced into the room. The black head tilted back, and the mouth uttered a roar of bizarre laughter.
Axel was already moving, broadsword raised in both of his hands. He swung the weapon at the daemon warrior's chest, but the fell creature grabbed the blade and, with a wrenching twist, snapped it like a toy. A casual backhand slap sent the venerable warrior tumbling across the floor. Again came that horribly incongruous laugh.
Then the figure changed, shifting and growing before the dwarves' astonished eyes. The daemon rose into a great shape, a huge shadowy form that writhed at the edge of the throne room. Two Hylar guards charged through the hole in the wall, trying to attack it from behind, but the creature merely leaned down and tore them apart as casually as if it had been rending a piece of parchment.
Now the beast of Chaos loomed above their heads, flesh-less jaws gaping to reveal teeth the size of knife blades. Wings bare of skin or any other membrane spread wide, supported by bones of stark white. Skeletal ribs outlined a massive body, and strips of rotted flesh draped those bones in a gory bunting. The monster had massive talons, great fangs, and all these instruments of death were crimson with Hylar blood.
"Try the helm!" shouted Tarn, turning to see that Baker still wore the artifact. "At least see if you can make it respond!"
"Halt!" cried the thane, his tone bold and full of command.
But the monster took a few steps forward and reached for Baker Whitegranite with talons of sharp bone. The thane stood still, his face white, teeth clenched as if fending off an onslaught of great pain. Tarn grabbed his father and frantically pulled him behind the throne as the monster's claws slashed through the air where Baker had been standing.
Baker gasped in agony as he tore the bronze helmet off of his head. With a groan, he clapped a hand to his sweaty forehead. "That thing was in my mind searching, trying to destroy. It would have killed me!"
Tarn drew the silver sword he had taken from the assassin, feeling as though the weapon was no more than a toothpick in his hand.
"Get out of here! All of you, flee!" cried Axel, pushing Belicia out the door. He grabbed Baker, who was still clutching the scroll and the helmet, and shoved him too. "Use what you learned! You'll know what to do!"
The monster roared, fetid breath reeking like death through the vast chamber. The taloned foot set down heavily, and the floor shook as if under the compression of a monstrous weight.
Tarn, sword in his hand, ran to Axel's side as the older warrior pulled the huge axe down from the wall. The elder's face had a martial gleam, a gleeful battle-fury brightening his eyes. He pushed his horned helmet down tightly onto his scalp, raised the long weapon, and all but growled at the hideous creature.
"I'll try to distract it, draw its attention over here!" shouted the half-breed. "You can get after it from behind!"
With another roar, the monster advanced a step closer. Dust rose in clouds from the floor as the thunderous crash of its footstep caused cracks to shoot through the walls and spiderweb up the walls. The beast took another step and a beam across the ceiling cracked, bending downward with a piercing shriek.
"No!" cried Axel, staring at Tarn, his face crazily distorted. The great axe, taller by far than the Hylar warrior, gleamed brightly in his hands. "You stay with my daughter and your father! They will need you!"
"But-"
"Do it!" snarled the elder in a voice that brooked no argument.
Tarn backed to the door, as Axel, with the massive axe in his hands, advanced to battle the beast of Chaos. Again it bellowed, darting forward, then pausing.