Dark Thane

But then a rock the size of his fist struck the ground before him, shattering explosively and stinging his exposed flesh with tiny razor-sharp shards. Words of derision died upon his lips. Smaller stones began to fall about them like hail. Then a boulder smashed into the shrine, extinguishing the lamps in one concussive explosion. Choking dust boiled around them, casting them into sudden darkness. Tarn's eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, but the other Hylar were hopelessly blinded, while a sudden shower of pebbles pelted them. Screams of pain and terror echoed off the surrounding ruins.

Shouting for them to follow him, Tarn led the remainder to their boats. Luckily, it was only a short dash from the shrine to the water's edge. As Tarn rushed along the wharf toward his own boat, the stonefall slackened somewhat, though to look at the roiling surface of the Urkhan Sea, one would think it were raining inside the mountain. Mog held the boat to the wharf by threat of violence, else Tarn's rowers would have abandoned him already. Most of the boats had already left. He could see them cutting the water with their shining oars, fearful faces glaring back toward the Isle of the Dead.

"There's a light up there," Mog shouted as Tarn drew near. "I saw a light, high above, but just for a moment. I…"

That is when a concussive explosion of water flung Tarn onto his back, knocking the air from his lungs. Coughing and gasping, he climbed to his feet as a fine mist of rain began to fall about him. Mixed with the rain were bits of wood, metal fittings; a bronze oar lock clattered to the ground at his feet, then the frayed stump of an oar dropped beside it.

Tarn rushed to the wharfs edge and peered down into the water. His boat, and everyone in it, were gone. He stared in disbelief at the tattered bit of mooring line still tied to the cleat.

A shout from farther down the wharf brought him slowly around. Still stunned, he climbed down into a boat that had returned to retrieve him. He didn't even notice who the others were in the boat. He merely thanked them and sat down in the bow while the boat shot away from the island, stones raining down all around it.

A noise like a crack of thunder echoed through the vast cavern. The noise shook Tarn back to his senses. "Turn the boat around!" he shouted. "We have to go back for Mog."

"Listen!" someone in a nearby boat cried. The rowers paused in their strokes for a moment as everyone bent an ear to hear. Tarn heard it first-a distant chorus of shrieking voices, growing ever louder, somewhere high above.

"What new evil is this?" one of the rowers asked fearfully.

"Never you mind. Keep rowing. Bend your backs to it!" shouted the boat's helmsman.

"No! Turn the boat around! We have to go back," Tarn said as the shrieking quickly grew louder, like a dozen banshees dropping down upon them from the darkness.

"Row on!" the helmsman roared, ignoring the king, and his rowers obeyed him. Tarn's demands fell on ears deafened by terror. The banshee wails seemed almost atop them now. The dwarves in the boat ducked their heads even as they pulled frantically at their oars.

Then, the shrieks ended in a thunderous roar as a huge section of the mountain smashed into the island, utterly obliterating the shrine and the wharf. A concussion of hot air and blinding dust struck the boat broadside, nearly tipping it over. Tarn's fingers dug into the wood of the gunwale as he blinked the dust and stone splinters from his eyes and stared back at the island, desperately seeking any sign of the loyal, brave Mog.

"We must go back and look for him," he said in a voice utterly bereft of hope.

"It's too dangerous, my king," the helmsman said, not without sympathy. The rowers pulled their oars through the water, drawing the boat away from the Isle of the Dead. "He's probably dead by now. Even if he survived the stone that destroyed his boat, nothing could live through that last collapse."

They pulled in grim silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the other boats, the soft calls of the helmsmen counting out the strokes. No one spoke. All were still too numb with horror to appreciate the nearness of their escape.

Then, one of the rowers in Tarn's boat whispered to his benchmate, his voice pitched low so the king would not hear, "Jungor's warning saved our lives. He saved us all." But Tarn heard him, and as he heard the murmur of awe from the other dwarves in his boat, his heart grew cold with doubt. Such thoughts, such suspicions took root in his mind, so horrible that he dared not shine the light of reason upon them.

For Jungor Stonesinger had indeed saved their lives with his warning vision. And wasn't that marvelously fortunate?

22

Mog had never been more comfortable in all his life. His bed was large enough that his entire family could have slept in it, its wooden frame exquisitely carved with elvish designs (probably an import from Qualinesti), its coverlets of an ancient weave, but sturdy and soft as the day they were made.