wife and their infant son. A mixture of Hylar and Klar dwarves and a few Daewar-those who had not journeyed east with the Mad Prophet-joined him. In the following years, other mountain dwarves had come along until he ruled a population of a thousand or so able-bodied adults, together with their young and elderly dependents. They called themselves a clan, though they were really refugees from three true clans, and they called him their thane, though he was really just the leader of a band of refugees.
Still, he was a sort of leader, and they were a sort of clan, and their home was important: Pax Tharkas. It was their position in that great fortress, more than anything else, that gave them a sense of identity and continuity in dwarf history. Even more, it provided them all with a purpose, for Tarn had vowed to see the Tharkadan Pass reopened before he died. He deemed the task of reopening the pass so important that many nearby fields lay fallow since the farmers who would have tended them were otherwise busy in fulfilling their thane’s commands. That goal gave him the strength to rise and face each new day.
To be sure, he very much wished to see his children grow to adulthood and prosper, but his years suggested that might not happen. He had married late, to a much younger dwarf maid, and though she had borne him two wonderful offspring, his age made him feel more like their grandfather. He was glad they were there with him, but as he often reflected privately, he often acted as father to a nation more than father to his two children.
Long had he spurned trade with the hill dwarves, the Neidar whose settlements dotted all of the surrounding lands. His intransigence had not sat well with his wife, who was of Neidar blood, but he understood the ancient rivalries of his people better than he had when he was younger, and he knew that a mingling of populations would inevitably hurt the mountain dwarves in Pax Tharkas. He nursed the idea that his “clan” would one day return to Thorbardin to oppose and defeat Jungor Stonespringer and his fanatical followers. That narrow-minded despot represented everything Tarn hated about dwarf stubbornness, rigid thinking, and mindless obedience to authority.
Tarn Bellowgranite’s life had already been marked by too much disappointment and tragedy. He had known love only once; his true beloved-a Hylar warrior named Belicia Slateshoulders-had died in the residual destruction of the Chaos War, and after that he had thought himself destined for a life of loneliness.
His marriage to Crystal Heathstone had been a political arrangement, but even as they took their vows, he had hoped that it might signal a thaw in the long enmity between the dwarves of the hills and the mountains. He and Crystal had become fond of each other, even learned to love each other in a limited way, but at the same time the fractures between their two peoples had seemed to grow deeper. Eternal wars, betrayal under the mountain, and lingering clan hatreds had all cast their pall over the life of the thane and his wife. Only in their two children had they found a focus, and a hope, for the future.
Tarn completed his circuit of the wall, looking up as he approached the east tower. The sky was clear, but the sun had not yet risen high enough for its rays to penetrate the steep-walled valley. Even so, he could detect the first signs of bright daylight limning the crest of the ridge overhead, and he paused to admire the daybreak for a minute before approaching the door to the tower. A Hylar guard snapped to attention, holding his battle axe at port arms as the thane approached then quickly opening the door for his thane.
Tarn nodded his thanks and entered the large, open room that served as a rallying point and ready room for garrison troops. It was currently empty of dwarves, but the rows of benches and the racks of weapons and shields lining the walls gave proof of its martial purpose. A single stairwell spiraled through the center of the room, leading both up and down.
The thane would soon descend to his living quarters, but there was another part of his morning ritual that he needed to complete first. Climbing the steps to the next level, he reached the fortress’s command center. The level was divided into four large rooms, connected by a central hallway, and he headed to the farthest of those rooms. The door was open, and he strolled into the office of the garrison commander, Captain Mason Axeblade.
Axeblade was seated at his desk, talking to his former commander, retired general Otaxx Shortbeard. The two Daewar started to get to their feet as Tarn entered, but the thane waved them back to their chairs and took a seat for himself.
“No incidents reported overnight, my thane,” Axeblade replied. He had been one of Tarn’s loyal captains during the civil war, and Bellowgranite had welcomed his choice to follow him into exile. “The night workers lifted twelve tons of rock by the time their shift was over.”
“Good,” Tarn replied. “Looks quiet out there this morning as well.”
“I almost wish something would happen around here!” huffed Otaxx. Ever a man of action, he chafed as the long, empty years passed by.
But there was more to his glum nature. Both of the dwarves bore a burden Tarn couldn’t fully appreciate, as they were among the few Daewar who had remained behind in Thorbardin when Severus Stonehand, the Mad Prophet, had marched away with the bulk of the clan on his mad quest to regain ancient Thoradin. None of those dwarves had ever been heard from again, and they had long been given up for lost by those they had left behind.
Axeblade’s parents had gone with Stonehand, but Otaxx had suffered an even more grievous loss. His wife of twenty years, pregnant with their first child, had also departed on the quixotic quest for the lost kingdom. Ever true to his duty-which he vested toward the whole kingdom, not just his Daewar clan-Otaxx Shortbeard had been unable to follow his pregnant wife, for to do so would have betrayed the oath he had sworn to his king, Tarn Bellowgranite. Even though Tarn had given him leave to go, Otaxx had elected to remain behind; he had been a source of great strength to Tarn and all Thorbardin during the dark years after the Chaos War. But Otaxx sorely missed his wife, and pined for the child he had never known-the child that might not even have made it to birth.
He was too old to fight anymore, however, and Tarn knew he spent his days remembering his bride and second-guessing his path in life. Always gruff, Otaxx had become more irascible and more depressed as the years passed. He always hoped to hear word of Severus Stonehand’s fate, but no word ever came. Still, he was one of the few who clung to some hope the Mad Prophet’s expedition might not have met complete disaster.
“Any word from Garn Bloodfist?” the thane asked with some trepidation.
“I sent him another message two days ago; he’s on campaign in the hill country, but I haven’t heard back,” Axeblade said.
Tarn nodded, not surprised. Garn was the captain of the Klar contingent of the Tharkadan garrison. Some three hundred strong, the dwarves of that impetuous, high-strung clan were unsuited to the steady labor of rock- hauling required for work on Pax Tharkas. They craved action, and Tarn had found it impossible to keep them immobile in the fortress; the inevitable fights and fits and brawls were too disruptive to the rest of his band.
So every so often the Klar marched out of Pax Tharkas to raid the hill dwarves who lived in countless small towns throughout the vast foothills of the mountain range. Sometimes they killed some Neidar, and sometimes they lost some Klar. Almost always they returned with plunder and food, which they shared willingly enough with the rest of the garrison. Though Tarn didn’t condone their dubious activities, he knew that the Klar kept the hill dwarves off balance and probably prevented them from marshalling their forces all at once to lay siege to his fortress. Still, Garn Bloodfist was a bit of a loose catapult, and the thane could never be sure exactly what kind of trouble he would make.
“Well, let me know if you get a message,” Tarn said not very hopefully.
“Aye, my thane. I will.”
He left the two Daewar and headed down the stairs, past the ready room, into the many levels of living quarters that filled the lower half of the east tower. On the fourth of those, he left the stairs, walked down a short hall, and opened the door to his open, private treasure room.
“Papa!” Tor cried. The robust ten-year-old raced over to his father, proudly holding up a wooden sword. “Look what I made! Otaxx Shortbeard promised to teach me how to parry once I have a sword! Look what I can do!” He waved the sword wildly.
Tarn chuckled, leaning down to embrace his son. “Why don’t you go show Otaxx; I’m sure he can teach you a trick or two.”
Next he hugged Tara, two years younger than her brother. He let her nuzzle his beard, as she loved to do; then he carried her around the playroom on his shoulders, her whoops and shrieks brightening his day like nothing else. Only when he was out of breath did he put her down, promising to return in a few minutes.
He went into the bedroom, then, and found his wife, Crystal Heathstone, standing at the window, as she often did, as he had known she would be doing. She turned to look at him, the anguish on her face tearing at his heart. She would always be a hill dwarf, daughter of a former clan leader, and her life as the wife of a mountain
