Dark Thane

He stopped. Tor? Was that his son, Tor? He hurried on, his panic growing. He began to call his name, "Tor! Tor! Answer me. Don't hide from me, boy. Tell me where you are!" But there was no sound, nothing, not even the sound of hammering this time. He hurried down the dark, empty, echoing hall, his footsteps stirring the dust but leaving no footprints. He stopped to open every door, but found all the rooms empty, barren, silent.

Ahead, he saw an open door, and he knew as he approached it, that it was the nursery again. He felt a cold dread come over him, but forced himself to the door. Inside, the worker was gone but the crack remained. It was wide enough for a child to fall into. His throat constricted in terror. What would he see lying at its bottom? His dead son? He forced his feet to keep moving, and when he was beside the crack, bent his quivering neck.

A long sigh escaped his lips. The hole was empty, and only a few feet deep. But a hot wind blew up in his face, tinged with the smell of sulfur. "Tor!" Tarn cried, turning on his heel and heading for the door again.

A tinkle of laughter brought him short. He heard it again, mocking, snickering, like a child pleased to have fooled his father. Tarn looked over his shoulder and saw there was a window in the wall opposite the door. He remembered that his nursery had had just such a window. Why hadn't he noticed it until now?

"Tor?" Tarn cried.

A titter of laughter answered him, and a small, goldenhaired head passed beneath the window on the outside.

Tarn rushed to the window. Outside lay the streets of Daerbardin, thronging with Daergar dressed for battle. At the far end of the street was some commotion. Tarn saw halberds waving, the glint of steel. A banner, black with a golden ring upon it, wavered and fell.

The Daergar began to retreat. Retreat turned to panic, and then to rout. Dwarves flew wildly down the street, casting aside their weapons, horror etched into their faces. And behind them marched a mob of shadows, an army of fear. Tarn knew them. He'd fought them in the Chaos War forty years ago and in his nightmares ever since. They were shadow wights, beings of pure chaos whose touch ruptured the bonds of life and flesh and memory, obliterating not only the life but all memory of that life from those who knew it.

And then Tarn saw Tor, giggling and looking over his shoulder, dart from behind a pillar and rush into the street. The mob of terrified Daergar swept over him and the shadow wights descended upon his tiny broken body. Tarn screamed and threw himself against the window.

The floor beneath his feet lifted, then dropped away. The crack opened into a gaping black maw. At its bottom lay a swirling pool of fire. Tarn clutched the window ledge, his legs dangling over the pit, bellowing Tor's name so that he would not forget, so he would never ever forget.

25

Tarn sat up in bed, hearing the last echoes of a cry. "Tor?" he wondered aloud.

Crystal grabbed his shoulder. "What was that?" she asked, her voice tight with fear. "Did we just have a groundquake?"

Without answering, Tarn leaped from the bed and threw back the door. Light spilled into the bedroom from the antechamber beyond. Mog's replacement, a young captain named Ghash Grisbane, stood in the doorway, his face wild with excitement. "My king, there's been a groundquake!" Ignoring him, Tarn thrust past, running naked out into the hall.

The servants were all awake and stumbling out of doors, half dressed, fuzzy-headed from bed. Tarn raced past them, his beard flying, naked feet slapping the floor. Around the corner, startled faces flashing by in his vision, he slid to a stop at the nursery door, his feet squeaking across the slick marble floor.

Aunt Needlebone awaited him, blocking the doorway with her body. "He's fine," she whispered. "He slept through the whole thing."

"Let me see him," Tarn demanded in a low voice.

"You'll wake him up, and then who will have to rock him hack to sleep?" Auntie said. "Let him sleep."

Crystal trotted to a stop behind Tarn. Her long, auburn tresses hung almost to her waist, framing her face in molten bronze. She had thrown a robe around her shoulders, and carried one for Tarn. "Put this on," she scolded her husband.

That is when Auntie noticed Tarn was naked, turning her face away with a shriek. "Reorx's bones! I didn't need to see that!" she exclaimed. "Mountain dwarves have no shame."

Tarn thrust his arms through the sleeves of the robe and tied its belt in a quick knot around his waist, all while peering into the darkened nursery. His darkvision only slowly adjusted, hampered by the lights in the hall. Everything seemed to be fine, though, just as Aunt Needlebone had said. Tor slept soundly on his belly with his little bottom hiked up in the air and fists tucked at his sides. His toys, ranged along shelves on the wall, were only slightly disordered; one or two had fallen harmlessly to the floor.