Dark Thane

Tarn found Crystal in the sewing room bending over a piece of needlework, Tor playing at her feet She looked up, smiling to see him, but the smile quickly faded from her face. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"We have to leave. We have to go, now. Pack only what we cannot live without," he said.

"Where are we going?" Crystal asked as she tossed aside her needlework and picked up the baby. She clutched Tor fearfully to her breast, afraid because she saw the same emotion clearly writ in her husband's face. "You always said we'd be safe here."

"Nowhere is safe now," he barked. "Be ready for when I come back. Be ready to leave immediately."

"But where are we… are you going?"

"To see Jungor," he answered grimly as he stared at his infant son in her arms. For a moment, she saw his resolve waver. She clutched her baby tighter and hardened her heart.

"Tarn, tell me what has happened so that I can know how to advise you," Crystal demanded. "What is happening? Where are you taking us?"

Quickly but without sparing details, Tarn recounted his discovery of the chaos dragon in the crack beneath the Council Hall. "Reorx help us!" Aunt Needlebone, standing behind him, exclaimed.

"Reorx is gone, old woman," Tarn snapped. "We have to help ourselves now. We're leaving the mountain before the dragon awakes. There's no time to spare, but I must warn the other thanes, beginning with Jungor."

"How can we leave a mountain sealed from the outside world?" asked Auntie Needlebone.

"Not by standing here flapping our gums, but first Jungor must hear this news from me and listen to reason."

"He won't, and you know it. But I'm going with you," Crystal said as she handed her son to his nanny. "We have servants to do the packing."

29

Jungor pushed hack his empty plate, sighing contentedly. That was the first decent meal he'd eaten in weeks, and he couldn't remember the last time he slept. He missed his meals sorely, but the lack of sleep was a mere nuisance. All he had to do was imagine himself wearing the crown of Thorbardin and the weariness slid from his shoulders like oil from a hot anvil. The crown seemed almost within his grasp now. His preparations were complete, his forces hovering.

Certainly, the groundquake had forced him to act more quickly than he had originally planned. The discovery of explosive mines in the sewers beneath the Anvil's Echo was unfortunate, but perhaps inevitable-not really so huge a disaster that it couldn't be overcome. Everything was already in place. All he lacked was the catalyst to set things in motion. And that would come soon enough. Whether Tarn challenged him of his own initiative, or events allowed Jungor to assert his right to rule in Tarn's place, the crown of Thorbardin would be his.

Having finished his repast, Jungor nodded to a servant waiting beside the dining room door. "Let them in now," he said. The servant bowed and opened the door, allowing those waiting in the antechamber beyond to enter.

The first to enter was Rughar Delvestone, thane of the Daewar. In preparation for this day, he had changed to battle gear and wore a warhammer at his side. Next came Brecha Quickspring, her dark eyes burning with fervor even as her skin seemed to have only grown more pallid. Behind her, Hextor Ironhaft entered, wearing the robes of a Hylar thane. Jungor raised his eyebrows in alarm at the portly merchant's premature assumption of the seat promised to him, but decided to let the fat old dwarf enjoy himself. He was in too good a mood to reprimand anyone, not even Ferro Dunskull, who entered next, followed closely by one of his trusted assassins, a female Daergar who interested him not only for her mastery of the deadly arts.

Jungor usually didn't show much interest in the opposite sex. To his mind, women were for marrying and improving oneself politically and financially. But this Daergar minx had long ago caught the Hylar thane's eye. Not that he would ever disgrace himself by dallying with a dark dwarf, but even he had to admit that she was a singular creature upon which to rest his gaze. As she entered, he stared at her, and she caught Jungor's eye, returning his frank appraisal with a haughty coldness that he found particularly appealing. He pummeled his brain to remember her name-Marith something.

Astar Trueshield entered last and closed the door, dismissing the servants after they had cleared the table of the breakfast dishes. Jungor remained seated at the table, contentedly picking the last bits of his breakfast from between his teeth with the nail of his pinky finger, making the others wait. The conspirators settled into chairs along either side of the long dining table, only casually pausing to admire the fineness of the wood paneling covering the walls or the tapestries hanging between marble busts of Jungor's grandfathers.