Dark Thane

He noticed that others felt the same emotion, and he marveled to see dwarves from families long considered enemies standing side by side, their voices lifted in song. He searched the crowd for the death skald, but he had already either disappeared or shed his mask and cloak in order to blend in with the crowd. Shrugging, Tarn added his own voice to the song. He had a good singing voice, and some of the Hylar smiled to hear him use it.

But after only a couple of stanzas, the words died upon Tarn's lips, for the song tapered away as the crowd noticed a gathering commotion near the wharves. Suddenly, a bellow of agony stilled the voices of the last stalwart singers. Everyone turned to look what caused the interruption, including Tarn.

At first, he was relieved to see that Mog had not grown weary of waiting and had decided to join the festivities. But it comforted him little to note that Jungor Stonesinger lay at the center of the disturbance. "What now?" Tarn grumbled as he began to push his way through the crowd.

He found the one-eyed Hylar thane collapsed in the arms of none other than Hextor Ironhaft, the dwarf Tarn suspected of being the death skald. Jungor's body was shaking with paroxysms, foam flecking his bearded lips, and his hands clutching spasmodically skywards. His staff (as preposterous a theatrical prop as Tarn had ever seen) lay on the ground next to him. Hextor clutched the thane to his breast, crying out in despair.

Seeing the Hylar thane flopping about on the ground filled Tarn with disgust. It was obvious even to a blind gully dwarf that Jungor had been taking far too many theatrical liberties of late-his missing eye and acid-scarred face, the wizard staff, his beard and queer robes. But rather than seeing this charade for what it was, it sometimes seemed that the Hylar wished to be fooled by Jungor's theatrics. They preferred a lying charlatan promising all their dreams would come true, rather than a king who only wanted to improve the lives of all his subjects, from the lowest to the highest.

Jungor's performance only grew more exaggerated as Tarn watched. The Hylar thane's guard, Astar Trueshield, arrived on the scene with much bluster, bombastically ordering everyone to stand back and give the thane room to breathe. The gathered dwarves retreated respectfully, fear and concern written upon their faces. Tarn almost laughed, but held his tongue. Hextor and Astar worked over the fallen thane, loosening his robe, fearfully calling his name. Jungor continued to writhe on the ground, bawling like a wounded cave ox, heels drumming the stone.

"What's the matter with him anyway?" Tarn asked, his voice tinged with impatience. The other Hylar glared at him balefully, but he ignored them. He would have liked nothing better than to kick Jungor in the groin and see if that didn't set him right. In his eyes, the Hylar thane was nothing but a fundamentalist fraud, an advocate of an old way of life who was bent on dragging everyone else into the mazes of his delusion.

Soon, the thane's gyrations lessened. His eye assumed a faraway stare as he lay back on the cold stone ground, his closest advisors kneeling worriedly over him. Suddenly, he rose up and shouted, his voice like the blare of a trumpet. "Beware! Beware! The Kingdom of the Dead brings a warning. The dead are not pleased. Danger approaches, danger from above to send a warning and clear the way." Then he fell back, limp as a cloth doll, his good eye closed, empty eye glaring upward.

"What does he say?" Tarn demanded, leaning over Jungor's body. "What's this fool raving about?"

Astar stepped between the king and the thane, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword in warning, the features of his face set as though carved from stone. Tarn stepped back in alarm, but before he could challenge the Hylar captain, Hextor Ironhaft said, "The dead speak through Jungor Stonesinger. Just as the spirit of Vault Forgesmoke obeyed the thane's command in the arena, now the dead bring us a warning of danger. We must flee the island!"

Hearing this, many of the Hylar wasted no time in hurrying toward their boats lined up along the wharf or pulled up on the stony shoreline. Astar and Hextor lifted their thane between them and hustled him toward their own boat, a large craft of sixteen oars moored beside Tarn's boat They didn't even bother to gather their lamps from the shrine.

Others shared Tarn's skepticism yet remained somewhat apprehensive, not sure whether to flee with the others or defiantly remain where they were. Tarn was of a mind to stand on the shore and shout words of ridicule to those who had fled the island so ignobly.