Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2)

by Matt Howerter

  Time, Thorn thought. All he needs is time. A sour twist tugged at the corners of his mouth. But there may not be enough. Thorn stood, interrupting the interplay of raised voices. “The time ta act be at hand,” he bellowed. “I intend ta strike the goblin rabble and lay them low, but first I must speak ta the people. Their support be needed in this matter.”

  Not surprisingly, it was Tagen who first rose to his feet to speak. The emerald eyes peering from below his knotted red brows gave away nothing, but the dwarven lord nodded and said, “Tis a good decision, ma king. The Axeheed house be with ya.” Around the long hall, the other houses nodded and echoed their approval, each growing louder as if trying to make up for not being first to show their support.

  Thorn looked down at the lord bishop. “Set an audience with the people two days hence.” He turned back to the lords. “Once I’ve addressed the people, we’ll be havin’ a war council ta decide our best strategy.”

  The heads of the royal houses seemed pleased with the king’s plans and settled back into their seats. The lord bishop got to his feet. “As ya say, ma king. Yer will be done.” The bishop made his way around the steps of Hannaul and stopped, centering himself in front of the throne. He looked up at Thorn. “Now, more than ever, ma king, a successor must be named. With war upon us...” The bishop let his words trail away.

  Thorn couldn’t help but smile. He had anticipated that his lords would support a call for war with the goblinoids. Just so, he had expected this call from the bishop. Fortunately, he was ready for both.

  The bishop blinked and frowned at Thorn’s expression. His mouth opened to say something else, but Thorn arched one eyebrow at him. Confused, the bishop said nothing in the face of Thorn’s challenging stare.

  “I have chosen a successor, and I’ll be namin’ ’im at the first war council. Then I expect ta hear no more about the matter,” King Thorn said, with a pointed look at each of his lords and the bishop. “This meetin’ be over.”

  Olen’s slitted gaze followed the king as he left the throne room with Gurney Borjornin and Gurney’s kin. “Somethin’ be up with those two. D’ya think that Gurney...” Olen didn’t need to finish his words. The same questions that danced behind his squinty eyes plagued the minds of all the dwarves still crowded about Hannual in the wake of the king’s departure.

  Thorn had chosen a successor? Who? Gurney was the most likely person, but if Tagen was any judge, the lord of the second house looked almost as shocked as the bishop at the king’s proclamation.

  “Aye, but it’ll do ’im no good,” Ronil replied. “Jessip be on our side o’ things, and Merrell just be needin’ a little push ta join us as well.” His voice was unwavering in its surety.

  Tagen considered his coconspirators’ words but did not join their speculation. He already knew the way the houses were allied. Jessip Hornsburg had been delving as Tagen directed for nearly two decades now. Merrell Hasselgrod only needed a large purse dangled in front of him to sway his indecisive mind. After Merrell had been bought once and for all, Tagen would have four of the great houses, which gave him great advantage. Still, though, he would require one more to guarantee his ascension to the throne, regardless of the supposed decision that Thorn had made. Pocket of gas, Tagen thought, dismissing the king’s proclamation, and just as ephemeral.

  Everything hinged on Beordin Silvervein of the third house. Thorn had Gurney and Norhan, but Beordin remained a seam of gold yet to be mined by either side.

  Beordin was a dwarf close to Thorn’s own age, and the two had fought alongside each other in battles long past, but they had never truly been considered friends. Many rumors drifted through the halls of Mozil purporting to be the actual reason the two had never become closer despite the bloody trials they had faced together, but most of them missed the mark by more than a surveyor’s piton. Tagen, however, knew the truth: the queen. Kyleeal Brunahlen had been a fetching woman in her youth and had drawn the attention of many suitors, including the coppery eyes of Beordin Silvervein. Despite Beordin’s reputation in battle and the power of his house, he could not compete with Thorn, who not only shared those qualities with his competitor but also had the added advantage of being the crown prince. The Silvervein courtship attempts fell on stony ground. Kyleeal’s father had betrothed her to the Brunahlen boy at the first inclination of the prince’s interest. Any hope for a close friendship between the two men had died that day. Even after her death, more than a century past, the two remained at odds.

  Arranged marriages were not unheard of in Mozil, but they were not discussed in polite company to preserve the illusion of fidelity based on love. Tagen snorted softly enough not to draw the attention of his still-bickering attendants. Tagen would have remained ignorant of the facts himself if not for his own father. Blagett Axeheed had been essential in the brokerage of the deal that sealed Kyleeal’s family to the Brunahlen line, and he had shared the information with Tagen shortly before Blagett himself passed through Dagda’s door.

  “Information, ma son,” Blagett had said, “be more effective than any axe, knife, or amount o’ gold or gems.”

  The lord of the first house and his two cohorts followed the line of softly speaking nobles from the throne room out into the great hall. The high lords and their families broke into small bands and headed through the towering hallways toward their holdings.

  Tagen guided Olen and Ronil into a small alcove as they reached the crossroads that would take each to his own home. Gesturing for his guard to step back, he leveled his emerald eyes at each of his coconspirators. “I don’t see Thorn gettin’ much support from the people, regardless of whatever ‘choice’ he claims ta have made—he’s been absent in heart and fact fer too long.” He paused to ensure that he had their full attention.

  Both lords watched him keenly.

  “Regardless, it be time to bring Merrell into the fold. Ronil...offer the two southern farmlands and the Platka Peak mine. Make it clear that the price be fer his life-long support.”

  Olen sucked in a sharp breath at the mention of the mine. He’d always been too sentimental about the quarries. Fool. Over time, Tagen thought as he looked at the agitated lord, everything comes back ta the source. “Yer too attached ta the physical, Olen. This be our time ta act. There can be no hesitation—no turnin’ back.” Tagen eyed Olen, measuring the other dwarf’s resolve. If Olen wasn’t truly committed, this was the time to find out for certain.

  Olen frowned. “I don’t have ta like it,” he grumbled but nodded in assent.

  “No, ya don’t,” Tagen replied, a satisfied grin stretched across his face. “Yer a good man, Olen. We’ll do well, ma friend, not ta worry.” Irritating though it was, this need to pamper the weaker-willed man, Tagen found himself oddly comforted by the necessity of it. If either Olen or Ronil had the depth of character and strength that they would require to act on their own, then Tagen would likely have found himself needing to eliminate them as competitors rather than making them into allies. Well, tools, actually, but if they thought of themselves as allies, then that was likely all to the good.

  The trio broke and went their separate ways. Tagen’s boots clanked on the polished stone floor with each step, the sound echoing off the mighty pillars along the great halls. His family and guards fell in behind, and together they marched toward his estate.

  Even though Tagen had been dismissive of the king’s announcement, he found his thoughts nagged at him regarding the potential for Gurney to ascend the throne. The lord of the second house was much younger than the king, perhaps as much as a century, but more importantly, Gurney was everything to Thorn that Beordin was not. They had been companions and soldiers in many of the same conflicts, and they hadn’t had the wedge of a woman to push them down separate tunnels. They were close friends, and this was known by all. Beyond this, Gurney was wealthy, powerful, and—Tagen admitted sourly—popular. As the preeminent engineer in the dwarven kingdom, Gurney’s name was well known and often repeated as the people carried ou
t their lives in the halls that the dwarf had designed.

  A low growl rumbled deep in Tagen’s throat. Sometimes when the bolt would not slide home, a hammer had to be applied. I will need contingencies in case Beordin fails to see the light. King Thorn did have enemies, both within the halls of Mozil and without. It was time to make common cause with them.

  No turnin’ back.

  Sargon picked at a loose thread in his ceremonial tarak as he waited impatiently for the king and his high council to finish their discussion. The vestment had been embroidered with gold in runic script that described his rank within the order of Dagda’s Sounders.

  He and the other priests of his order stood in a white-robed line, flanking one side of a hallway that connected the council chamber to Hannual. Dagda’s Mystery Seekers stood facing the Sounders from across the hall, resplendent in their royal-blue robes. Each line began with the high priest’s first cardinal and then proceeded through to the last and most junior priest. Sargon stood fourth in line from the head of his own sect.

  The Sounders were the healers and record keepers of the faith, and it was rare that leadership of the church rose from their ranks. The Seekers held the prophets, and it was from the pool of those that heard the voice of Dagda that leadership was generally chosen.

  Despite his relatively lowly status, he wasn’t irked by the fact that he wasn’t higher amongst his peers. He had always felt Dagda’s hand guiding his steps, and that should be enough for any priest. It was enough for him. The political machinations that were required to rise further than his current station had never been appealing.

  Beyond the rows of priests, the throne room was packed with much of the higher nobility in Mozil. Each lord or lady had brought a gaggle of attendants, family members, and hangers-on so that in all, hundreds upon hundreds of voices filled the throne room with a low but pervasive murmur.

  The entire crowd had the restless, shuffling energy of impatience. The council had been shut away for the better part of two hours while the nation gathered in the Chaumbre. In reality, the gathering had been happening for days. Stragglers who had ignored the calls from weeks earlier when reports of the first goblin raiding parties were finally making their way into the ancient and already burgeoning halls of Mozil. There was not an empty inn, house, or floor in the entire kingdom, if Sargon was any judge.

  Sargon had not realized how populous the dwarven nation had become. It had been all he could do to make his way through the corridors without being beset by a farmer looking for a blessing or a lord seeking an advantage over his fellows by asking a well-known friend of the king what he knew of Thorn’s upcoming address. Finally and most disturbingly had come questions about where he had been and why. All in all, it was a relief to descend to the hidden sanctuary of the Dagdarhem and pour himself into the work of helping the prince understand his gift.

  The tolling of a great bell resonated through the walls of the mountain, shivering the very floor below Sargon’s feet and silencing the voices in the throne room. The nation was assembled and waiting for its king.

  The lines of priests on either side of the council chamber door snapped back to formality as the door opened and the king and his council stepped forth.

  As Sargon looked at his long-time friend and king, his heart filled with pride.

  Thorn’s stature alone spoke of a man comfortable with power. His easy stride set the pace for the others who followed. The ceremonial outfit the king wore magnified his rekindled spirit. A deep-blue jacket framed the still-powerful shoulders of the king, opening at the belt to accentuate his broad chest, which was clothed in deeply textured green. The jacket had been cut long enough to barely pass the knee and just touched the tops of highly polished black boots that themselves had been ornamented in intricate lines of silver. The crown upon Thorn’s head shone brightly with rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. Wings of platinum arched upward, reflecting the glory of Dagda’s angels. Almost surprisingly, Mordekki rode upon the king’s back in its platinum harness. Thorn had so infrequently touched the ancestral weapon since the death of Duhann that Sargon had become accustomed to seeing his friend without it. The artifact’s solid presence spoke loudly of Thorn’s healing of spirit and, more, a willingness to act that had been absent for years.

  The royal procession came to a halt at the edge of the throne room. “It be time,” the lord bishop announced to all present. “Let these proceedin’s commence.” He clapped his hands loudly.

  At the bishop’s signal, an ominous, deep rumble began to vibrate the floor. The wall opposite the throne began to move, and a vertical sliver of golden light appeared as the two halves of the wall began to slide away from each other. A great buzzing roar flooded through the widening gap as the assembled nation on the other side noticed the walls of the throne room opening.

  Thorn squared his shoulders and began marching to the widening opening, the leaders of the ten great houses and the lord bishop following close behind. The assembled noble lords and ladies in the throne room bowed and parted as smoothly as if it were rehearsed.

  The vast Chaumbre sat at the heart of the mountain kingdom. Sargon’s mind quavered at the thought of Dagda’s mighty work in creating a cavern of such natural beauty. The dwarves had adapted the existing wonder to their own purpose by chiseling rooms and balconies from the niches already present. Thorn and his council stepped out onto the largest of the balconies high on the Chaumbre wall. Sargon and the other priests followed the council, while the rest of the assembled nobility flowed out to their prearranged places behind the ruling class. The Chaumbre’s entire basin had been worked flat so that large numbers could gather and stand comfortably. The polished stone floor was the largest open area in all the kingdom, and not an inch of it could be seen through the multitudes of people assembled below.

  A cheer went up as Thorn began to climb the steps of a granite dais, and Mordekki caught the light, flaring like a thing alive. The assembled throng had seen neither their king nor his legendary weapon for decades, but stories abounded in even the most closed-mouthed of civilizations. The people had to have had suspicions about their king and what had befallen him.

  Sargon smiled. It appeared that most approved of what they saw.

  Silence fell once Thorn stepped to the rail of the dais, and Sargon and the others took their places in a semicircle behind him. Thousands upon thousands of upturned and anxious faces regarded King Thorn. Curiosity reigned, but Sargon could see wrinkled brows of frustration here and there, and even the twisted looks of anger and hostility as the people beheld their king. It had been too long.

  Thorn, for his part, appeared to take the vast presence of his people with warm welcome, unruffled by the relatively few angry faces. He looked like a man who had found something he had not realized was missing.

  A niggling fear crept into Sargon’s mind as his king looked out on the silent ocean of dwarves. Wisps of burning coal in braziers set about the Chaumbre permeated the air, reminding the priest of how combustible the situation could become. What if the people rejected Thorn and his leadership? At best, bickering for control over the kingdom would ensue, leaving the dwarven armies unable to meet their foe in time to protect the Lowlands. At the worst, a second civil war would consume them all.

  Either outcome could be possible, but now that Kinsey was in Mozil, there was an entirely new fuse in the powder keg. Sargon knew his friend well enough to know that Thorn would not relinquish the right to rule now that he knew of Kinsey’s existence and the truth of his heritage. The king would move to protect his grandson’s future. Without the will of the people, though, all Thorn’s insistence and pressure would be for naught, and the high lords could and would resort to strength of arms to settle the matter. The quest to find Kinsey would have been in vain—no, worse. If the people did not support Thorn now, Kinsey’s very presence would incite chaos.

  Sargon closed his eyes and prayed to Dagda as fervently as he ever had. He prayed for his king and prayed for his people
until a peace settled on his heart. With hope for the future, he opened his eyes to witness what his prayers had wrought.

  Thorn turned his head back and forth, taking in the crowd with a lingering gaze, then finally he spoke with a grave tone. “I been absent fer too long. I carried on in mournin’ the loss of me son fer too long. In doin’ so, I’ve betrayed ya, all of ya.”

  Low murmurs rippled through the crowd as the sea of dwarves took in their king’s words.

  “I’ve come ta ask fer yer forgiveness, ta ask fer a second chance ta make things right,” Thorn continued.

  Sargon held his breath. The king had invoked the right of the people to judge his actions—to judge him, in fact, for being lax in his duty. It was a rare occasion to call upon such judgment, and never had a ruler invoked the power of the people on himself. The few times the right had been used, the people had demanded judgment of the ruler. The last call from the people had been five hundred years earlier, just before dwarf slaughtered dwarf at Rhazidan.

  A commotion broke out near one of the small platforms where the people could address their king. The crowd parted to allow a lone dwarf to walk forward. Naulin Homber, most predominant miner of the northern mines, climbed up the steps to the lower platform. He was young for such a position, with only a hundred and thirty-five years under his pickaxe. His hair and beard were black as the richest coal. Heavy muscle broadened his shoulders, and his thick arms rippled with taut cords visible even here, atop the highest balcony. When Naulin gained the platform, he planted his fists on his hips in a defiant posture. When he spoke, it was in the rough timbre of a voice that was made scratchy by constant shouting, but his words were clear. “Speak yer thoughts, Thorn King, so we may judge yer heart.”

  Naulin spoke words of ceremony, accepting the right of the people to judge their king.

  Thorn took a deep breath and straightened to his full height. “Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters!” he bellowed. “I come ta ya now, our nation in peril.” He stepped up to the lip of the dais and pointed toward the southern Dales. “The rumors ya’ve heard be true. The swamps o’ Skelris have spewed their filth, and monsters be at our doorsteps. They’ve come ta burn and pillage. They’ve come ta take our homes and kill our families!”