Dark Thane

Ogduan rushed into the room, a rusted old spear in his hands, and dove under the bed. "Rats!" he swore, rising up in disappointment. "He got away. Did you see him?"

"Where did you get this?" Mog demanded.

"They're everywhere. Lucky for you. What do you think you've been eating for the last week?"

"Not the rats, you old fool!" Mog shrieked. He grabbed the old dwarf by the tattered collar of his shirt. "The Hammer of Kharas! Where did you get the Hammer of Kharas?"

Ogduan looked at the huge warhammer lying on the bed. "Oh, so that's what it is," he said, a smile bunching up the wrinkles around his eyes. "I found it lying around here somewhere."

"But it wasn't… it was with… it was lost!" Mog stammered in bewilderment. "How did it even get here?"

"That's a question I'm sure I can't answer," Ogduan said in sudden seriousness. "I'll thank you to let go of my shirt."

Mog released his hold on the old dwarf and sank back on the bed. "The Hammer of Kharas!" he sighed longingly. "Returned, and just when it is most needed by the king. I must get to Norbardin. I have to take it to Tarn."

"Come with me," Ogduan said, holding out one hand in assistance. As Mog slid from beneath the sheets, he felt a momentary dizziness, but the old dwarfs strong hand was sturdy as a rock. He leaned his weight upon him, still too weak in the legs to walk under his own power. Ogduan led him to the mouth of the chamber and outside onto a small landing high up the rubble-strewn slopes of the Isle of the Dead.

"That way lies Norbardin," Ogduan said, pointing north into the blackness. "It is a three mile journey through the icy waters of the Urkhan Sea. Can you swim?"

"No," Mog said hesitantly. "But surely boats must…"

Ogduan shook his head. "No one crosses the sea anymore, except to come here, and then only once a year. But I have a feeling even that tradition might finally have come to an end."

"But Tarn needs the Hammer of Kharas. It is the symbol of dwarven rulership. With it, all dwarves will acknowledge him as their king and he can end, once and for all, the challenges to his authority by Jungor Stonesinger," Mog said, the dismayed words spilling out in a rush.

Ogduan nodded his shaggy head. "Aye, he who bears the Hammer wears the Crown," he quoted. "And yet here it is. The gods are indeed capricious."

"The gods!" Mog snorted. "There are no gods."

23

Orchag Bootheel minced past the watchful eyes of the Hylar merchant, his hands carefully tucked into the voluminous pockets of his tattered, baggy trousers, studiously ignoring the piles of doorknob mushrooms piled upon the merchant's cart. Only when Orchag was well past the cart did the merchant turn his attention to a pair of Hylar goodwives shopping for their family's supper. Orchag looked back over his shoulder at the merchant, a promise of murder flickering in his eyes.

Zen hated the way the other dwarves of Norbardin treated the gully dwarves. He hated having to take the form of a gully dwarf, but it was the only way to safely move about the city. With the other clans, it was too easy to be recognized. The magic that allowed him to take on the outward appearance of anyone he killed did not grant him their memories or insights into their personality. A relative or close friend might quickly identify him as an imposter. In the first month of his "captivity" in and around the environs of Norbardin, Zen had had three close calls while masquerading as various Daergar. Since then, he'd spent the better part of his time as one or another nearly nameless gully dwarf.

The problem was the same here as in any other large city that he had infiltrated during his long mercenary career. He had to kill his victim to take its place, which meant that sooner or later, the victim would be reported missing or its body discovered. And then, if he were spotted, he was sure to be questioned. Which meant he'd have to flee and find a new victim to mimic, sometimes without being able to take the time necessary to properly study and stalk his victim, which often led to mistakes or accidents that forced him to flee again, and find yet another victim.

With so many gully dwarves living in the city, he was relieved of this burden. No one ever reported a gully dwarf missing, for one thing. And if they found a dead gully dwarf, they didn't take the time to find out who he was. Gully dwarves died all the time from an infinite variety of maladies. Like the farmer said when he found a dead rat in his cupboard, "now there's one less rat to eat my cheese."