The Last Thane

Chapter One
A Thane's House

"Where's my helmet?" Baker Whitegranite whispered to himself. Despite his ill temper, a mood that grew darker with each heartbeat, he kept his voice low. He was not so irritated that he was ready to start a fight with Garimeth, who so far as he knew was napping in the next room.

Instead the dwarf stomped around his spacious study, moving scrolls and parchments, pushing a stack of musty tomes aside, looking under his desk, behind his chair, even in the wooden cabinet that stood near the door. All the while he was cognizant of the steady trickle of the water clock, knowing he had to get down to the Thane's Atrium within two hours. Since it would take nearly half that interval just to descend eighteen levels in the lift, his time was limited.

Exhausting all the crannies in his study, he decided he had no choice but to step through the door to the sitting room, where-predictably-his wife broke from her light slumber and sat bolt upright on the divan beside the cold hearth.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Gari, but I've looked everywhere," he began, watching her carefully but unable to gauge her reaction. He felt the familiar burning in his gut. "Have you seen the Helm of Tongues?"

Garimeth's wide, pale eyes stared at him, and he was once again reminded of the walleyed coldness that was a dark dwarf's gaze. Why it had never bothered him when he was courting her was a question he had long since ceased to ponder. Now he shrugged, nonplussed by her silence.

"I said, I was-"

"I heard you," she snapped, then snorted wryly. "And I wish I had seen the damn thing. I'd enjoy watching you hunt through all the wrong places."

Baker sighed, removing his spectacles to polish them on the hem of his overshirt, letting his watery eyes fasten on his wife's round, pale face, now comfortably blurred.

"It might be in the cedar wardrobe," he declared, ignoring her taunt and moved by a sudden remembrance.

"To the Abyss with your stupid toy!" Garimeth cried, rising to her feet and fixing him with those wide, milky eyes. She stepped closer so that her glare was no longer softened by his astigmatism, "Sometimes I think you would sit there and play with your scrolls and your translations even if the city were falling down around you!"

The words stung, probably because they resonated very close to the truth. Quickly Baker felt the cold, hard shell close around his heart. It was a shield he wore too often, yet even now a trace of the old hurt, the pain that used to wrack his days and torment his nights, broke through the defenses and rose into his voice. He shoved his glasses back onto his face.

"I will be treated with respect!" he declared carefully. "I am the acting thane of the Hylar, and I will not allow you to scorn me!"

"Acting thane? Then why do you spend so much time looking into the past, seeking ancient lairs and forgotten legends?" sneered Garimeth. "It's as though you were afraid of your throne!"

"It is a seat of high honor," Baker snapped. "Until my cousin returns I shall treat it with the respect it deserves-as will my wife!"

"For me to honor the chair I would have to honor the dwarf who holds it." Her tone was as cold as her eyes.

"Why then are you here?" demanded the thane bluntly. "What brought you from the home of your own clan to join me in Hybardin?"

"You had a certain style back then, something I admired." Her tone made it clear that the "something" was no longer a consideration. "And even Hybardin had its appeals for me."

"And still does," he goaded, "compared to the lightless hole of Daerforge."

Her laugh was dry and derisive. "Light is overrated. Besides, I have received word from Daerbardin-where my own brother soon will take hold of a real throne!"

He knew she had her spies and didn't ask how she had gained the information. "Your brother is undoubtedly dead, or he will be soon," he retorted instead, feeling a guilty flush of pleasure as the remark brought a momentary twinge of fear to his wife's small, tight mouth. The throne of Clan Daergar could only be won through a series of deadly duels, and they both knew the odds of a candidate's survival were slim.

Her features twisted, and he saw he had provoked her into a rage. Wildly she looked around, and Baker quickly snatched up her decanter of wine, depriving her of the only ready weapon. And at the same time he felt his own rage erupt. He raised the bottle, ready to throw, and then slowly the emotion faded. Though still burning beneath the power of his self-control, it was no longer a lethal force.

"Why don't you go to your brother now?" he growled. "Leave me, leave the city of the Hylar, and return to the darkness!"

"In a heartbeat, 'my lord thane,' " she mocked. "But for the fact that here I have made my life, and here lives my son!"

The last words broke his shell to pieces and left Baker drained and numb, with no spirit for war with his wife. He turned toward his own dressing chamber, anxious for nothing now but to put distance between himself and his enemy.

He decided to go down to the Thane's Atrium even before he had to. The helm was forgotten as he collected his royal stamp, donned his robe, and departed his house.

Partly to avoid his wife and partly because he needed a touch of serenity, he left through the side door into the garden. Here he took time to relish the cool damp air, the mist swirling along the ceiling that domed up to fifteen feet overhead. As always, the soothing presence of his dark-bred ferns and the clumps of round mushrooms cooled his agitation and steadied his nerves.

The centerpiece of his garden was the fountain that surged gently upward, trickling steadily under natural pressure, waters gathering in a bowl to spill through fluted spouts across a variety of small pools. They were not just any waters, for this was a fountain of phosphorescence, clear liquid that possessed a soft, innate brightness. The streams ran from pool to pool like pathways of pale lights, creating a glowing spiderweb on the floor of the wide garden chamber.

By the time he passed through the gate from the garden onto the street he was in fairly high spirits. The lift station was quite a few blocks away, and as he walked he met and greeted many Hylar on the uncrowded streets. Yet he moved without a bodyguard or an escort of any kind; mountain dwarves at peace were an unpretentious people.

But were they in fact at peace? He allowed his worries to intrude into his thoughts, wondering about his cousin Glade Hornfel Kytil. How fared the true thane and his mighty army? Had they encountered the enemy they had marched forth to face? And when would they be back?

These questions bothered him as he rode the smooth mechanism down the shaft bored through the bedrock of the Life-Tree.

As if in answer to his silent fears, at the Level Ten lift station he met a messenger, a young dwarf on his way from the Thane's Atrium to Baker's residence far above.

"My lord! There is a missive, from Thane Hornfel! He sent a courier on dragonback, and he arrived in the Life-Tree but this past hour!"

In a few more minutes Baker had hurried to the Atrium where he learned that a brave Hylar courier had in fact risked many dangers to bring this letter to Thorbardin. After insuring that the weary and travel-stained dwarf was getting a hot meal and a much-needed bath, Baker took his seat on the royal throne. A servant handed him a parchment and then respectfully withdrew.

Baker Whitegranite looked at the parchment and drew a deep breath, certain that he wasn't going to like what he was about to read. He removed his crystal spectacles, polishing them carefully as he stared around the blurred surroundings of the thane's royal receiving room. Puffing on the lenses, he made sure they were meticulously clean before perching them once more on the bridge of his large nose. For a moment he stared at the wall, at the display of weapons and shields that had snapped back into focus.

But he knew there was nothing to be gained by delay.

My Dearest Cousin,

I will be blunt: We arrived too late in Palanthas. Blame it on the storms that hampered our passage around the Cape of Caergoth, or curse the blue dragons that struck our fleet on the approaches to the Bay of Branchala. Or say it was the fault of fractious Thorbardin, if you will, because the mountain dwarves of all the clans cried the danger to the world but in the end allowed the Hylar to march alone to face the legions of the Dark Queen. (I am still aggrieved that even the Daewar, a clan I had come to trust almost as our own kin, could not find a way to think beyond the stone walls that enclose them.)

Or call it bad timing and leave it at that. In any event, we arrived on northern shores to find that the great city, our objective, the capital of Solamnia and leading beacon of light in the modern world, had fallen. Yes, my cousin, Palanthas is in the hands of the Knights of Takhisis. I can guess your distress as you read these words, for it is the same anguish that gripped my heart and chilled my soul as we drew near to those alabaster walls.

To compound our failure, I must admit that we never reached them. Inevitably, the dragons drove us back. They came in numbers such as we have not seen since the War of the Lance, and they splintered the hull of our flagship with their blasts of lightning. My own son, Annan Kharas, was drowned by this onslaught. I would ask that you hold that piece of news close to your heart, as the times are too troubled for us to reveal that my throne now lacks an heir.

Baker lowered the paper; his hand shook too badly for him to continue reading. Arman, his own cousin-the promise of Thorbardin, a dwarf whose destiny had been to raise the Hylar and the rest of the five clans to heights dwarvenkind had not enjoyed since before the Cataclysm-Arman Kharas was slain. And he'd been killed in a manner more horrifying to a dwarf than any other, for he had died at sea, his feet planted upon a frail wooden hull.

Such a death was a dire event in its own right, but Baker saw immediately that it was also rife with grim omens. With the reluctance of the Daewar to serve in their customary role as trustworthy ally, the clan Hylar was terribly vulnerable to its dark dwarf neighbors.

He looked down at the parchment, at the letters inked in Hornfel's thin, precise hand. Baker knew the slender handwriting was paradoxical, for his thane's brawny forearms and well-muscled shoulders were the clear signs of a fighting man.

"Yet you make your letters like a poet, my cousin," he had told Hornfel, more than once.

Baker again regarded the parchment with apprehension. For the space of several heartbeats he almost believed that, if he failed to read the news in the letter it would be as though those events had not occurred. But these were the fantasies of a kender or a human child-certainly not fit subjects for the meditations of a dwarf. Especially not one who suddenly felt the burden of unwanted responsibilities weighing upon himself with suffocating force.

With the rest of the army, as well as the able accompaniment of the Ten, I retired to the north, making landfall in one of the small coves along the coast. From there, we gleaned word of news to the south.

Not only Palanthas had fallen. So, too, had the Knights of Takhisis taken the High Clerist's Keep. It is the grim truth, cousin: The bastion that stood as such as symbol of might during the last war has been forced to lower the Solamnic banner. Now the five-headed dragon of Takhisis flies from the upper battlements, and the Knights of Solamnia face execution, torture, and worse.

But even as you grieve I must tell you that this is not the worst of my news, for it was not long after debarking that we received word of a new threat.

In fact, the entire world seems wrenched by forces beyond my comprehension. There is no other way to say it: The sky has begun to burn, air and cloud consumed by living flame. It began over the ocean to the north, and as of this writing it has not ceased nor shown any sign of waning. During the day crackling heat seethes between the clouds. At night it is as if half the heavens are ablaze, and we gape with wonder and horror at the terrifying portent. All intelligence, and the prognostications of every wizardry and priestly augury as well, suggest that monstrous horrors are looming.

I send this missive now as a summer of unnatural heat lies heavily upon Krynn. Cousin, I long to feel the cool shade of Thorbardin, to ride the still darkness of the Urkhan Sea. But alas, it is not to be-not now and not in the foreseeable future. For, as you may have guessed, we Hylar are going still farther to the north. We remain on watch against an enemy we cannot imagine. We have as our goal a ridge of islands, hitherto unknown, that have erupted from the sea and stand as barrier isles beyond the northern coast of Ansalon. The Teeth of Chaos these rocky outposts have been called, and the name seems apt.

I know not whether we shall meet with success, or even face a prospect of real survival. But I do know this, O Wise and Thoughtful Cousin: If these Storms of Chaos are allowed to swell unchecked, the future of Krynn will no longer be numbered in ages, nor centuries, nor even years. If we and those who prepare to fight beside us (including knights of both Solamnia and Takhisis-how's that for irony?) cannot hold this wild force at bay, I do not believe our world can survive another winter.

For a long time Baker sat still, unaware of the low hum of Hybardin that penetrated even the stone walls of his study. Not my study, he reminded himself; this is the office of the true thane! His stomach burned, as if these unpalatable truths were eating away at his insides. And with that grim image in his mind he forced himself to read the rest of the letter, knowing-and dreading-what would be revealed.

This last I impart not to fill you with admiration for our boldness nor to place overmuch fear upon your shoulders. It is simply this: I shall be gone from Hybardin until this task is done, be it one year, five, or ten. It may cost me my army and my life. There is quite simply no other alternative.

The result, of course, is that I must ask you to hold the reins of my office-not merely for the summer, as we had originally planned, but for however much time is required until the completion of my mission. I know, Cousin White-granite, you would much prefer to continue your studies and your meditations unimpeded. I, too, share your fascination with the mystery of the Grotto, and I look forward to the day when you can devote yourself to the puzzle that has eluded our greatest minds for more than two thousand years. Was the first lair of the good dragons in the place we now call Thorbqrdin? You have convinced me it is possible. If anyone in the kingdom can unravel the mystery hidden in those lost scrolls of Chisel Loremaster, that scholarly dwarf is you.

But, sadly, the days of research and your ultimate triumph must lie in the future. Duty has a way of calling us all, in one way or another. My work will be done by my strong right arm and my army. Yours has always been through your pen, your mind, and your words.

Just as I know your reluctance, I also perceive your capabilities, perhaps better than you do yourself. You are a wise dwarf, Baker Whitegranite, but do not forget to let yourself be advised. Too, you must not be afraid to lead.

Finally, I am certain that the news in this missive has caused you no little fear. (Reorx knows these events are enough to turn my own beard white!) I must ask that you share the knowledge of what has happened with the rest of the Hylar. It is up to you whether or not to inform the other clans. But if you do so, try to master their understandable fear. We are a proud and capable people, but our nation is prone to fractiousness. It will be up to you to limit that divisiveness, to hold up an example of promise and cooperation.

We must assume, Cousin, that the threat looming over the world of Krynn will not spare our dwarven realm merely because the clans are sheltered beneath the peaks of the High Kharolis. The danger will come to Thorbardin soon enough, and you must insure that we dwarves are ready.

I leave you in trust and confidence to hold my throne and my clan. Baker Whitegranite, Thane of the Hylar. It has a solid echo to it.

Farewell, Cousin, and may the gods allow us to touch our beards together again in this world.

— Glade Hornfel Kytil, Absent Thane of Hybardin And King of the Mountain Dwarves

Baker read the letter again, and once more, seeking some germ of encouragement, a piece of advice that would help him to face the trials ahead. He felt a rising surge of resentment against Hornfel-irrational, to be sure, for even an uneasy throne in Thorbardin was preferable to a journey across an unknown and treacherous sea.

Indeed Glade's very movement of an army by sea was a stark measure of the urgency that impelled him, that even now drew the Hylar into the little known ocean to the north. For a moment Baker yielded to a wave of awe, stunned his cousin would even attempt such a voyage. He remembered the fallen prince, and shook with grief. How could Glade even carry on in the wake of such a personal tragedy?

Yet Hornfel Kytil was a true thane, made from the stuff of heroes; if anyone could prevail, it would be him. Meanwhile, Baker would have to see that Thorbardin stayed in one piece and remained ready to meet any threats, either internal or external.

But could he do all that?

In truth, he wasn't the least bit sure. Baker had been good at one thing all his life: the craft of scholarship, of diligent and reliable research, and the writing of words with a fluidity pleasing to the listener's ear. None of that had prepared him to rule a kingdom of agitated clans, and yet now he would have to try.

In agitation he got up and paced across the throne room into the adjoining office, where he stopped before his desk. He looked at the stack of parchments and tablets, a mess that covered half of the marble work surface, and felt a rising dismay. Most of them were petitions and claims of one sort or another. For the past mooncycle he had only bothered to read a handful of them. He had acted upon none since he had believed Hornfel would soon be returning.

How could he, Baker Whitegranite, be expected to adjudicate between two disputatious Hylar? He had seen Hornfel's court, of course, and was well aware that angry dwarves tended to be, well, angry. He had no stomach to face them, knowing that his decision must inevitably make at least one of the disputants even angrier.

He wandered the great stone room in a daze, mystified and depressed. His hands idly touched the halberds and axes, the great swords and solid shields that lined the walls. It was a grand legacy of war, two thousand years and more of courage, promise, and steadfast reliability. Each of these martial tools had its place in that history, a blade blessed by Reorx, made of steel sanctified by the best dwarven craftsmen. A long time passed before his thoughts were able to focus, and to return to the missive from Hornfel.

For a moment he thought of his own apartments and was tempted to slink back to Level Twenty-eight before still more emergencies were laid upon this vast desk. But even that gave him no prospect of peace. Indeed, he quickly realized he felt safer here than at home. Garimeth had been so unpleasant recently that it seemed pragmatic to avoid her as much as possible. He sighed, recognizing how pathetic it was that this was one thing he could be grateful for: His new responsibilities would give him ample excuse to remove himself from his wife's presence.

But at the same time new duties of necessity would take him farther from his beloved studies. He longed for the familiar weight of his helmet, the bronze Helm of Tongues that was a treasured artifact of the Whitegranite family-as well as a magical device that allowed him to decipher writings even in the most arcane of languages. It was in the cedar wardrobe, he suddenly remembered. Anger at Garimeth surged anew as he realized how she had distracted him from his search.

Still pacing, Baker stopped before the wide golden doors that opened onto the vast balcony of the thane's hall. He knew the vista that awaited him, the plunging cliff of Hybardin falling to the docks a thousand feet-ten city levels-below. He had a lifetime's familiarity with the vast dark sweep of the Urkhan Sea stretching into the distance of the dwarven kingdom. Sometimes he found solace in that view, but now his hand hesitated on the knob and he decided to let the doors remain shut.

He found his thoughts, without conscious command, returning to his wife. As always, there was the familiar tangle of emotions, memories, and regrets, the whole mix stirred together with a growing measure of distaste.

Garimeth Bellowsmoke had been an unusual bride for a Hylar nobleman. An esteemed daughter of clan Daergar, she had a dark dwarf's ill temper and selfishness. Still, many years ago she had been beautiful. The daughter of a Daergar ambassador to Hybardin, she had known the right words to say to a foolish young Hylar noble. And, though it shamed him to remember this, he had allowed himself to be blinded to the multitude of her faults because she was utterly fabulously rich.

He tried to recall the beauty that he had once beheld in her shock of pure black hair, in the eyes of a violet so powerful and intense that he had once compared them to the finest opals. Now that hair was streaked with gray and pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes were constantly clouded by displeasure. Her once-smooth face was scored by lines of age, and a permanent scowl seemed to have settled into the grooves of her chin and forehead.

Baker had memories of her coquettish laugh, of kisses and caresses that had thrilled him, of her daring as a lover. She had excited him in ways that no self-respecting Hylar maid would ever have considered. But those days had been all too brief, lasting only until her pregnancy. Garimeth had blamed him for her discomfort, and following the birth of their son she had withdrawn her affections. He shook his head, casting the thoughts away. He was too old for lust or for love. And even if he wasn't, he doubted the sharp and brittle creature who was his wife, at least in name, could arouse him to even the beginning stages of passion.

The marriage, of course, had made him rich. The union had also served to advance and solidify Garimeth's status, for in Hybardin she had been able to wield influence and prestige in the highest social circles. Despite her dark dwarf ancestry, her intelligence and wit, biting though it often was, had briefly made her popular among the wealthiest and most powerful dwarves in the Hylar capital. In Daerbardin or Daerforge, the two cities native to her clan, Baker knew his outspoken wife would have been relegated to a mere listener, perhaps gossiping about the masculine powers of her realm but unable to exert any real influence.

"Why can't we be more like the Daergar?" he muttered in disgust, suddenly captivated by the notion of a wife who treated him with courtesy and who feared the blow of his clubbed fist should she act improperly.

Immediately he flushed, ashamed by the traitorous thought. Or was he really ashamed by the knowledge that there were times he would like to punch her right in her savagely critical mouth? Such an attack would be most un-Hylar, at least insofar as a Hylar would let his neighbors know his true nature. But who could long conceal from himself the yearning of his own dark thoughts?