This was all that was left of the thousands who had marched just two days ago through Norbardin, following the Hammer of Kharas to victory over Jungor Stonesinger's fanatic rebels. Tarn believed that, with the Hammer in his hands, he could have swept into Jungor's palace and killed the rebellious Hylar thane, and his people would have cheered him for it. But Tor would have been killed. Without the Hammer, he could never again be king, but without his son he didn't know that he could continue living. The choice was easy for him. He only delayed in order to try to win concessions for his followers and for the people he would leave behind. But he had failed in this as well. Jungor considered it an even bargain-the Hammer of Kharas for the life of his son, and in the end, Tarn was forced to accept.
Now, as Tarn began to descend the stairs toward the center of the empty Council Hall, a light flared to life on the floor below, a brilliant white glow that emanated from the stone atop Jungor's staff.
The new king of Thorbardin sat upon the throne of the dead, a seemly chair, Tarn deemed. The golden crown of the king looked small and preposterous on his skull-like head. Beside his throne stood the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring, a large basket resting at her feet. To their right and left sat the new thanes chosen by Jungor to lend an illusion of legitimacy to his dictates. Tarn didn't even recognize most of them-petty functionaries or merchants of minor wealth who had somehow wormed their way into Jungor's graces. However, he was not surprised to see Hextor Ironhaft occupying the seat of the Hylar thane. Tarn silently hoped he enjoyed his new position, for he had probably paid enough for it. Of the thane of the gully dwarves, there was no sign. Even her chair had been removed.
Haruk Mastersword paused at the door to allow the others to enter, for Jungor had ordered that no one be allowed to witness what transpired in the Council Hall this day. As Crystal passed him, the look of shame on his face nearly tore her heart from her chest. But she said nothing, knowing all too well that Jungor Stonesinger was keenly watching his nephew and would punish any sign of weakness. She touched his arm for a moment before moving on. The young dwarf turned away and fled to hide his tears.
As they neared the floor of the Council Hall, Tarn kept a keen eye on his captain. Mog was the only armed member of their group, and this only because he had been chosen to carry the Hammer of Kharas. Tarn feared that Mog might be planning some final act of defiance. Yet he could not deny his captain the honor of carrying the weapon he had brought back from oblivion, even if his job today was to hand it over to their worst enemy.
He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when, as they reached the floor, the Klar captain stepped to his right, unwrapped the Hammer of Kharas from its gruesome shroud, and presented it to Tarn. Tarn took it in his grasp and stepped up onto the dais.
A greedy hiss escaped Jungor's lips when he saw the fabled weapon in Tarn's hands. No dwarf of the mountain could look upon the Hammer of Kharas and not feel his soul stirring. They drank its legend with their mother's milk and dreamed of its power into their last doddering years. No other icon so perfectly symbolized their ties to their mountain home, to their history, to their god, and to everything that made them dwarves. The Hammer represented honor, might, righteousness, and the covenant of the dwarves as the chosen people of Reorx.
Jungor rose to his feet and pushed the glowing staff into Brecha's hands, while his own hands curled into claws that began to twitch in anticipation. Biting back the column of bile that rose in his throat, Tarn started toward him.
"Stop!" Jungor shrieked, holding up one claw-like finger. "Come no closer, Tarn Bellowgranite. I do not trust you." Tarn grabbed Mog, who had started forward, too. Crystal stepped onto the dais, fiercely whispering Tarn's name.
"Be quiet!" Tarn hissed over his shoulder. "No one move."
"Lay the Hammer on the ground," Jungor ordered.
"First, where is my son?" Tarn demanded in return.
"He is here, and unharmed," Brecha Quickspring answered with an evil smile. Holding one hand above the basket, she closed her eyes and chanted a brief spell. A disk of greenish light formed beneath the basket, then rose, lifting it into the air.
"Such a noisy boy, like his disagreeable nanny," she sighed. "I am glad to give him back."
"Now put the Hammer on the ground," Jungor said. Tarn laid the weapon on the ground at his feet, then rose up and glared at Jungor across the dais.
"Step away from it," Jungor ordered.
