Dark Thane

Tarn knew his job was to look as though he was comfortable enough to lie down on a bench in the seediest section of the Anvil's Echo and take a nice long nap. That didn't mean he wasn't wary. In the year since the disaster at Qualinost, the good will of the dwarves of Thorbardin had definitely soured toward their king. Not in obvious ways, of course. Few spoke openly against him, but in his public audiences Tarn had begun to detect a distinct undercurrent of disrespect. Nothing he could pin down with certainty, just the occasional sarcastic remark about his "leadership."

But more ominously, the dwarves he met on the streets no longer greeted him in their old familiar ways. They used polite formality to keep their distance from him now. In the weeks after the disaster, people had gone out of their way to greet him, to offer words of encouragement and support, seeking any excuse to shake his hand, or bend his ear. Now, people did little more than pause and bow coolly before continuing about their business. Some merely nodded, though everyone was meticulously polite.

Tarn tried not to let it bother him, but Mog, on top of all his safety concerns, was incensed by the change in public mood. He snarled and grumbled nearly constantly, promising a sound thrashing under his breath to nearly everyone they encountered. Tarn heard every word and feared the day Mog should ever be let loose on the innocent population. That was one reason why he had so thoroughly incorporated the Klar into his administration, assigning them duties at every level. With something positive to do and the honor of the king to protect and uphold, the Klar were less likely to cause themselves and others harm. Naturally, the other clans didn't understand this, and resented Tarn's apparent favoritism.

The Klar quarter was the one place in Norbardin where the people still greeted him warmly, sometimes too warmly. He lost count of how many times he had to free himself from being dragged into a tavern to join them in a round to toast the king's health. The Klar had lost more warriors in the disaster at Qualinost than any other clan, but they had never grown to blame Tarn. But not even among his own people did Mog relax his guard. If anything, he felt freer here to lay about with his fists in order to clear the way when the friendly crowd pressed uncomfortably close to the king.

Having finally cleared the Klar quarter, Tarn and Mog were able to make better time. They left Norbardin behind and followed a wide passage called the First Road to the West Warrens, where the mushroom fields that fed and clothed Norbardin were located. This huge agricultural area was many times larger than Norbardin, made up of a complex of interconnected caverns filled with a soft black loam, atop which their mushrooms grew. Even so, it was still quite a bit smaller than the North, South, and East Warrens, now inaccessible beyond the ruins of the dwarven cities.

The dwarves farmed several dozen varieties of mushrooms, some for food, some for fibers to make cloth, some for their medicinal properties, or for brewing into spirits. The largest variety were among the edible mushrooms, from the small spicy purple lumpkins to the big beefsteak mushrooms that had to be chopped down with an axe and butchered like a hog to separate the edible parts from the fibrous.

The Warrens were largely unpopulated this day. Except for a few retired overseers or independent mushroom farmers who had their residences right here in the mushroom caverns, most of the workers were away celebrating in Norbardin. Guards lingered near cavern intersections, for the Warrens needed constant guarding against raids by gully dwarves and other hungry creatures of the deep places. They saluted perfunctorily as Tarn passed by, most of them already half-sodden on dwarf spirits.

The Sixth Road led out of the south end of the Warrens to a wharf on the shore of the Urkhan Sea. Here, Tarn found a boat awaiting him, a half dozen Hylar rowers already sitting at the oarlocks with their hoods pulled up over their heads against the cold, moist air. Dark water lapped and spattered against the side of the boat and the piles of the dock as Tarn and Mog climbed down and took their places on a bench. Tarn apologized for being late. Someone muttered something unintelligible in response. Tarn placed a warning hand on Mog's arm, urging him back into his seat. The helmsman ordered the lines cast off. Oars rattled in their locks and dipped in smooth unison into the black water of the sea, as the boat turned and shot out over the glass-smooth water.

In the distance, a great bulk of darkness, dotted with lights at its near end, loomed up against the larger darkness of the enormous central cavern of Thorbardin. Few humans or elves had ever set foot inside the mountain, nor were they allowed the privilege of seeing one of the great wonders of Krynn.