Dark Thane

Now it was his turn to be rendered speechless. After a few moments of stammering, he managed to cry, "Captain Mog? Mog Bonecutter?"

"Bloodfist? By the gods! What are you doing sailing out here on the Urkhan Sea?" Mog asked in turn. "Surely not looking for me?"

"No, we thought you dead these two months."

"Two months? Has it only been two months?" Mog asked in bewilderment. How could he have healed of his injuries in only two months? Nay, one month! He'd woken fully healed a month ago. But these questions were immediately driven from his mind by Captain Bloodfist's next words.

"I was out recruiting among the feral Klar and headed for home when we spotted your fire," he said.

"Not my fire!" Mog said, turning and looking at Ogduan. The old Klar had struggled to his feet and stood at the edge of the ruins rubbing his neck. "Why, that old fool tried to burn down his own house with me in it!"

"We'd never have stopped here if we hadn't seen it. Not even feral Klar are known to live on the Isle of the Dead."

"But what sends you out among the feral Klar anyway?" Mog asked.

"The king desperately needs their help. Jungor Stonesinger has risen in revolt. By the gods who are no more, the king will be glad to see you!"

"Whether by fortune or design, I'm glad you're here," Mog shouted. He climbed up into the ruins, searching for the Hammer. After a few frantic moments, he found it wedged between the broken curb of a pool and a shattered pillar.

By the time he returned to the boat, Ogduan had already climbed aboard and seated himself among the feral Klar as though nothing at all had happened. He gripped his dripping-wet box to his chest and watched as the flames and smoke rose from the mouth of the cave that had been their home this past month, a merry smile on his demented old face.

"What's he doing coming with us?" Mog asked, angrily pointing at Ogduan with the Hammer of Kharas. The other Klar oggled the magnificent weapon, their beards dropping open in astonishment.

"He begged leave to join us," Captain Bloodfist answered distractedly. "The king needs every possible ally. By the gods who are no more, where did you get that hammer? I've never seen its like in all my days."

"That old fool found it in the ruins and was using it to kill rats," Mog explained as he clambered into the boat. He stood in the prow and held the hammer aloft for all the dwarves to see. "This, my cousins, I believe to be the Hammer of Kharas. Lost in the Chaos War and presumed forever buried at the bottom of the sea, the Hammer of the heroes of old has returned to a fresh war. To Tarn Bellowgranite it shall go. Let us take it to him."

"Aye, this is a great day!" Captain Bloodfist exclaimed. At this command, the dwarves backed water and swung their boat around. Shouting out the strokes, they steered north rather than west, toward the ruined docks of Theibardin, where the feral Klar, hungry for war, had begun to gather.

Mog sat in the stern, the Hammer resting on his knees as he stared at the backs of the rowers. Beside him, Ogduan Bloodspike stirred restlessly and opened his box a crack to peer inside. He glanced at Mog under the hanging locks of his unkempt hair as though about to speak.

"Do not talk to me, old fool," Mog growled before he had the chance to utter a word. "I still plan to kill you when this is over."

Ogduan sighed. Reaching inside his box, he removed a flat oval of pure white ivory, from which clung two ribbons of black silk. "I wanted to give this to you. I think it would serve you well for the work ahead you," Ogduan said in low voice.

Mog glanced down at the death skald's mask resting in the old Klar's hands. A flicker of a smile played across his face as he took it. "Indeed it will," he said.

36

Someone had dragged an old chair into the chamber in preparation for Tarn's arrival, obviously intending it to serve as a mockery of a throne. But by the time Brecha Quickspring and her minions had grown weary of taunting the king and had dragged him to the dungeon, the jailer was too drunk to do his job properly. He chained Tarn to the battered old throne too loosely before stepping back to admire his handiwork, swaying and squinting in the dim light of his torch. In the hall outside, a half-dozen Theiwar guards waited to see that the door was closed and locked before departing, else Tarn would have slipped his bonds immediately and relieved the jailer of his keys.

Instead, he was forced to silently endure the jailer's drunken gibes. Frustrated by not getting a rise out of the king, the jailer coughed up a mouthful of cloudy phlegm and spat it into Tarn's face. Tarn turned away, his fingers digging into the wooden arms of the throne to keep from casting aside all reason and murdering this disgusting beast on the spot.