Dark Thane

The jailer laughed uncertainly. He had hoped for better sport from the high and mighty Tarn Bellowgranite, King of Thorbardin. Turning, he ducked through the low portal and pushed the swollen door shut with his shoulder. Pausing at the grate to take a final look at the king, he spat again. "You were never my king," he snarled.

With the torchlight gone, Tarn waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon, he could see the general outline of his cell, the door and its grate, and the chains hanging loosely about his limbs. Grasping them in his hands, he twisted and pushed until he was able to slip his upper body through its strictures, then went to work on the chains wrapped around his legs. In scant moments, he was free. Weaponless, locked inside a chamber somewhere in Norbardin, bruised and battered, but free. All he needed now was to escape. Somehow. He sank heavily onto the throne, chin resting on his fists, while the silence of emptiness echoed around him.

It took some time before Tarn recognized this was no ordinary dungeon cell, cramped and rank with sewage, dead bodies, and rotten straw. The ceilings here were high and vaulted, upheld by crafted pillars. His throne sat atop a sort of dais, with steps leading up from the dusty floor. They had carried him here blindfolded, but he now knew exactly where he was-an old training hall for the guardians of the North Gate. There were still holes in the walls where racks of weapons once hung. The floor was worn into deep tracks where centuries of feet had pounded the tiles.

Why had they put him here? Tarn wondered. Why not a more secure dungeon cell? The answer was immediately obvious. Jungor wanted a large audience when he came to taunt the king. He very well couldn't lord it over Tarn Bellowgranite in a tiny cell which forced him to limit his witnesses.

Tarn wondered how long it would be before the Hylar thane arrived with his fellow traitors and lackeys. A chamber this large could easily hold fifty or more Hylar dignitaries and their retinues.

Tarn had no intention of waiting around to count them. One thought was uppermost in his mind-the dragon. Even now, it might be stirring in its sleep, roused by all the commotion. The dwarven nation couldn't hope to fight such a creature, neither could they seal off its lair, for chaos dragons could pass through stone as easily as air. All those innocent fools, he thought ruefully, they had laughed when he warned them of the dragon.

At least Tor was safe. Crystal would not long remain in Thorbardin once she learned of Tarn's fate. But what would happen to Tor once he was gone? Would Tor, years hence, even remember his father? Would Jungor be satisfied with exile for the son of the king of Thorbardin, or would he have the child murdered to prevent any future claims to the throne? The thought of that innocent child lying dead, hacked apart by cowards, brought Tarn to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest, gripped in sudden panic.

He knelt down. "Oh Reorx, save my son," the dwarf king prayed, perhaps for the first time since the Chaos War. Though he knew that the gods had left Krynn at the end of the war and could not answer his prayers, still he prayed. "Oh, gods, please save my poor dear innocent boy!"

But after he prayed, he jumped up and considered his options. The ancient wood door was not only locked, but swollen so that the jailer had had to force it shut with his shoulder and kick it several times just to get the key to turn in the rusty lock. The chamber had long ago been stripped of its contents, but he eventually found an old stone baton lying in a corner under heaps of dust. Once used in drills for strengthening arm muscles, it would make an effective if crude weapon. He thought about using it to batter down the door, then gave up that idea as too noisy. The guards would only return, and the next time they wouldn't be so careless with their chains.

Tarn resumed his seat and rested the stone club on his knees. What he really needed was rest, but he couldn't risk closing his eyes for a moment; he might fall into a deep sleep. He had to get ready. If nothing else, he would spend his life to see Jungor Stonesinger's brains splattered all over the floor.

He jerked awake and caught the stone baton as it rolled off his knees. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. But he heard footsteps coming, and then the key rattling in the lock. Thinking quickly, Tarn rested the baton next to his thigh while he slipped the chains back around his legs.

The door groaned on its rusted hinges to admit the jailer. He was soberer now than he had been, though in much worse temper. He carried an old bucket and a large sponge in one hand, a smoking torch in the other. As he entered, slopping water onto the floor and cursing, Tarn noticed that the jailer was alone. The hall outside appeared to be empty.