Dark Thane

Crystal paced the wall that ran along the north entrances of her fortress home. A cap of steel on her head and a spear in her fist, she looked no different than the hundreds of other dwarves lining the battlements or filling the courtyards. Yet the silent dwarves defending the fortress snapped to attention as she passed, returning to their vigilant watch when she moved on.

Tarn had been gone what seemed an eternity when Glint Ettinhammer returned with a handful of Klar and the news of her husband's capture. Despite their failure to capture the transportation shaft on the second level, Otaxx Shortbeard had managed to take the third-level shaft, and to hold it against the Theiwar sent to dislodge him. The general was a veteran warrior and had fought the Theiwar during the Chaos War. He knew how to battle magic, and his foothold was enough to secure the southern half of the third level. Right now, though, she had no reserves to relieve him. And she must hold the north gate of the king's fortress, as this was the other major entry to this district. As yet, they had not been attacked. But with Tarn captured, Crystal knew it was only a matter of time before Jungor challenged her.

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.