“Time? What time? There’s no one there to rule.” The priest moved closer and pointed a finger at Farrell. “Trellham has suffered enough. Khron chose you for a reason. You do not get to say no.”
“Careful, Farrell,” Miceral said. “Khron is likely to show up personally.”
“I hope he does. Then I can tell Him directly.” Farrell’s skin tingled, and he closed his eyes. For all his bluster, he really did not want a god to show up and order him to take the position. Before he could speak, the great white eagle of Honorus appeared in the room.
Everyone dropped to their knees while the avatar hung motionless before them. Honorus let the silence linger before He spoke. “Why do you reject that which you know to be My will?” The voice was reproachful yet gentle.
“Because I don’t want to be king. You know this, Master.” Farrell did not look up as he spoke. “Haven’t you laid enough upon me already without asking me to shoulder the burden of ruling?”
“Nothing I ask of you is beyond your abilities.” The image shimmered, and a pair of booted feet stepped onto the floor in front of Farrell. An ethereal hand touched his chin, forcing Farrell’s head up. Honorus continued the pressure and effortlessly drew Farrell to his feet.
Tall and proud, Honorus radiated power. His robe appeared white until Farrell looked closer; then it sparkled with all colors and none at the same time. Clean-shaven, His long hair whiter than a unicorn’s coat, Honorus looked at him with an expression that was both wise and paternal.
“You must trust there is a purpose in what I ask of you and that it is necessary for all I hope to achieve. I know what is in your heart.” Honorus smiled at Farrell. “I wish I could grant you the freedom to fly off and ignore the rest of the world. But yours is a destiny beyond such a simple existence.”
“All I want is a normal life where I can grow old peacefully with Miceral. I don’t want to be king. Please, Master, I beg you. Don’t ask this of me.”
“I give you My word that I do not ask anything more of you than I must. In time you will understand why this is required.” He smiled again. “I cannot remain, but know that I am proud of you. We all are.” As suddenly as Honorus appeared, He was gone.
“By the . . .” Given the moment, swearing seemed more inappropriate than usual. Everyone stood up and stared at him.
At least Honorus didn’t bring Khron and Lenore with him.” Miceral’s smile was forced. “The room might have been a bit cramped if He had.”
The attempt at humor didn’t ease Farrell’s sour mood. Aswick maintained his silence, and when Farrell looked at him, he didn’t find the gloating expression he expected.
“It appears, Father, that I have no choice in the matter. I will—I must—do as Honorus has ordered.”
“Son, I’m sorry this is unwelcome news.” Aswick placed a hand on Farrell’s arm. “I never imagined you would be opposed to the honor.”
“I know you are, Father.” He noted movement from the dwarves holding canvas bags. “What exactly is that for? I don’t want to do anything that will force Khron to visit, but I’m not happy wearing armor.”
Miceral laughed softly. “That’s certainly true.”
“A king must be capable of leading his dwarves in battle. This armor will stand as testament to your fitness to lead the combined armies, should the need arise.”
“Armor doesn’t make me an able warrior,” Farrell said.
“That is true.” Aswick snapped his fingers, and the dwarves unpacked their bags. Carefully they laid out two sets of armor and stood at attention. “But without it, no one would fully accept you as the rightful king.”
An old dwarf without a bag stepped forward. “I am Cres, chief weapons master of Fracturn. Khron granted me the honor of presiding over the forging of your armor. They are without equal in all the world and will be the envy of all who behold them.”
“Ages ago, Holy Khron directed the miners in Trellham to a small vein of an unknown metal,” Aswick said. “The ore was recovered and refined but never used. It was turned over to Khron’s high priest, stored in the temple, and forgotten.
“Last year, just before Summer Festival, Khron guided me to the ingots. I was told to bring them to Fracturn so Master Cres could forge two sets of armor.”
“Holy Khron provided me with the exact measurements I was to use in making each piece. As I was instructed, I took great care that the results fit the sizes precisely. I expect they will fit like a second skin.” Cres beamed as he presented his work. “The metal is unlike anything I’ve ever touched. It required the assistance of several priests to get the ore to soften enough to work it into shape. Even then, we needed the priests while we forged your armor.”
Cres bent and picked up Miceral’s chest plate. “The result is armor that is lighter than a suit made of iron but many times stronger. It would take a most determined blow to injure you when you’re wearing this.”
“Your two sets used the entire store from the temple,” Aswick said. “Unless Khron guides someone to a new supply, there will be no more.”
Farrell saw Miceral staring at the armor. Lighter, stronger armor was a warrior’s dream. But even the lightest shirt of mail was unwelcome to Farrell.
“Each set is different, taking into account your different needs.” Cres pointed to the pieces in front of Farrell. “As you are a wizard, Khron directed that yours should protect your vital areas but not constrict your arms or legs. Your helmet is simple yet effective. I’m told the metal is well-suited to magical storage.”
With a nod he said to Miceral, “For you, my lord, Khron decreed armor to account for your greater speed and agility. It is made to protect you from the harshest blows yet allow you full range of motion. Greaves and shoulder guards are added to your set.”
The dwarves picked up pieces and held them out. Farrell held out his arms and spread his legs wide. With a practiced ease, the dwarves quickly fitted him with his new armor. As each piece slipped perfectly into place, Farrell marveled at the skill needed to make this without the subject available for numerous fittings.
Instead of chainmail, the dwarves had made him a breastplate. An intricate design had been etched into the metal and overlaid with platinum and silver. The weight difference from his old armor was a gift in itself, but Farrell also found he had increased mobility.
He looked at Cres. “It feels like I’m wearing just a tunic and a leather jerkin.”
Typically, Farrell eschewed helmets of any kind, but he let them place it on his head before he objected. Despite looking like any other standard helmet, his new one fit like a cotton hat. Farrell took it off and looked inside for something different about the padding. Finding nothing, he then scanned it with his wizard’s sight.
“You’ll not find any magic used in making your helmet.” Aswick shook his head when Farrell looked up. “Our craftsmen have no equal, and when guided by the hand of Khron, the results are extraordinary.”
Wiggling his head to check his range of motion, Farrell smiled at Miceral. “It’s amazing.”
Miceral laughed. “Masters Baylec and Thomas will be pleased to hear that.”
Farrell pulled one of the staffs he’d filled before leaving Dumbarten and transferred the energy into his breastplate. Astonished with the results, he pulled out a second one and repeated the procedure. “Incredible. The natural storage capacity is beyond any other material I’ve tested.”
“Holy Khron did say that, did He not?” Aswick didn’t hide his amusement.
Farrell donned his gauntlets and scanned his appearance briefly before addressing Master Cres. “It fits perfectly.”
“Thanks be to Khron.” Cres bowed deeply.
Miceral’s armor included everything Farrell received as well as guards for his upper arms, thighs, and calves and a pair of hinged shoulder caps. He fitted his old sword belts across his back and tightened the straps. With a quick movement, he drew both swords and set out to test the constraints of his new armor. First, he leapt forwar
d and did a somersault, then began weaving his swords in an intricate, deadly pattern. Next, he tried a few kicks—to the front, back, and side—dropped to a crouch, and ended with a backflip.
“Great Bright Lady, this is amazing.” Miceral’s grin split his face. “I feel like I’m wearing sparring clothing, not a full set of armor. Even if these are no stronger than regular armor, they are worth my weight in gold.”
He sheathed his swords and moved closer to the dwarf smith. “Master Cres, thank you for such a priceless gift. I will remember you whenever I wear this armor.”
Farrell fetched his staff and flipped it onto his back. He nodded in satisfaction when it remained in place.
Cres watched his display and then frowned. “We did not make a sword belt for King Farrell. How could we have forgotten?”
“King Farrell will not carry a sword or ax or hammer into battle.” Aswick put his hand on Cres’s shoulder. “His staff is weapon enough.”
The answer didn’t seem to satisfy the old dwarf as he continued to eye Farrell and frown. “Even so, it is proper for the king to have a suitable belt.”
Farrell studied the etching on Miceral’s chest. Three tall mountains radiated out from the center—east, south, and west. An eagle linked the peaks together in the north and a unicorn in the south. “The three dwarf nations bound together by Lenore and Honorus,” Farrell said.
“Look closer and you’ll see that though Honorus and Lenore’s images are the most prevalent, the dwarf nations are bound by all Six.” Aswick pointed out the faint symbols for each of the Six. “On yours, however, it is the white eagle of Honorus who stands out most.”
“It is . . .” He searched for the right word to compliment a dwarf. “It is worthy for a high king of the dwarves to wear into battle. Add my thanks to Miceral’s.”
“Now that you are both properly dressed, we should go.”
The full import of what the gods wanted from him struck Farrell in the gut. His smile vanished, and he sighed. “Since I have no choice in the matter, Father, let’s go and get this out of the way.”
Aswick opened his mouth and closed it. He turned to Cres, who looked equally shocked.
“Is it really so terrible to be king, Lord Farrell?” Cres asked. “The list of dwarves alone who would kill to be given this honor is beyond my counting.”
“That is likely the reason Khron didn’t choose them,” Miceral answered before Farrell could speak. “To answer your question, Master Cres, yes, it is so terrible. A king—a true king—puts everyone before himself. He watches out for his people at the expense of his own life. If a king is being true to the responsibility given him by the Six, he must handle whatever threatens his subjects even if he must ignore his own needs. If the king just sat on his arse and let his subjects pamper and care for him, it would be a wonderful thing. But the Six expect a lot more from Their kings.”
“Well put,” Aswick said. “We should stop by Khron’s temple and crown you both. Tradition must be followed.”
“Not at this time, Father.” Farrell shook his head. “Honorus and Khron have made clear Their desire for Miceral and I to be kings. We are already the kings of Trellham and high kings of the dwarves. No ceremony, traditional or otherwise, will make the moment more solemn or legitimate. Until the people of Trellham have been freed, it is unnecessary to hold a coronation. After they are liberated, we can have a ceremony for their benefit.”
“Is it your intent to simply walk in and proclaim your rule?” Aswick’s tone wavered between disappointment, disbelief, and disagreement.
“We won’t proclaim anything,” Miceral said. “Khron and His Siblings already named us kings of Trellham. What would our words add to that?”
“Certainly you must understand that a proper ceremony can only enhance your chances of being accepted.” Aswick almost pled with them. “To do otherwise would risk alienating both kingdoms.”
“If the dwarves do not want us as their kings, I won’t argue with them. I don’t want to be king,” Farrell said. “If they reject us, the Six can convince them to accept us.”
“How sure are you that a formal coronation ceremony won’t offend purists?” Miceral asked. “They are already unhappy that nondwarves are the new kings of Trellham. Won’t this upset them more by shoving it down their throats in such a public manner?”
Aswick didn’t answer right away, considering the question. “A fair point. As you point out, Khron has already said you are the new kings. I agree, we can proceed to the Chamber of Kings forthwith.”
Chapter Eighteen
Eight dwarf guards waited for them as they exited their rooms. Farrell informed Nerti and Klissmor of the news as they walked to the Chamber of Kings. His mood became progressively more negative as he recounted the events. “There is a positive side to Khron’s decision.”
He wasn’t convinced he’d find her next word “positive.” “What’s that?”
“Retrieving the Mind of Falcron. Thrinton cannot deny it to you anymore.”
“From what little I gleaned from Father Aswick, the reach of the high king doesn’t extend that far. The powers are only applicable when the dwarves go to war as a race.”
“Nevertheless, it puts you in a better position to demand it.”
He knew Nerti meant well, but he didn’t plan to “demand” anything from Thrinton. The king would either give him the Mind or not. And if not, Farrell intended to ask Khron to intercede if He wanted Farrell to possess Falcron’s Gift.
Nerti interrupted his thoughts. “I believe there is more to your new title than simply helping you obtain the Mind. What that purpose is, I cannot say.”
“You must not look at this as a bad thing.” Klissmor’s advice reminded him that Nerti was sharing everything with her mate. “Three millennia ago, all Lenore told us when She ordered our people to move was that it was necessary for Their designs. For centuries I tried to determine how uprooting my family bettered the world or advanced Her ultimate end. Then you arrived and it was clear. I am certain it will not take three thousand years for you to understand why this is necessary.”
“Hopefully you are correct.” Farrell forgot the dwarves around him and smiled. “I would feel better if you were present during this meeting.”
“It would be a sign of weakness.” Nerti repeated what Aswick had already told him. “I will monitor your thoughts and offer advice where needed.”
Miceral asking Father Aswick a question caught Farrell’s attention.
“Can you tell us what we can expect from the others during this meeting?”
“It’s hard to predict, but I feel confident saying you should not expect a warm welcome.” Aswick snorted softly. “Dwarves can be dense as stone, sometimes.”
“I’m not surprised by their reaction.” Farrell avoided saying “irritation” to avoid reminding everyone he didn’t want to be their king, either. “Take it from me, it’s disconcerting for your god to show up and announce there’s a new king—kings in this case—who will coincidently be the high kings of all dwarves. Not to mention that priest in Trellham that everyone discounted is the new head of Khron’s temple. Since that wasn’t enough upheaval for one century, the new high kings won’t even be dwarves. Other than that, I see no reason for them to be unfriendly.”
Aswick chuckled. “That does sum up the situation quite well. I’m encouraged that you recognize the hornet’s nest you are about to enter, but you forgot to add that your lack of familiarity with dwarves and their ways will not sit well with them, either.”
Farrell rolled his eyes. “Thank you for those words of inspiration, Father.”
“Yes, Father,” Miceral said. “I hope your sermons are more uplifting than that.”
Aswick’s suddenly red face contrasted with his white beard and hair.
“My apologies. I chose my words poorly.”
“No, Father. You were honest,” Farrell said. “That’s why we will look to you for guidance in dealing with the others.”
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p; “I will do my best to offer sound counsel. But remember, I have spent the better part of the last three centuries alone in Trellham. My contact with the other four has not been extensive.”
“They’ve no contact with either of us or you, so on that score we’re all on equal footing,” Miceral said. “It is your understanding of dwarves in general that will be most valuable.”
Aswick let out a short laugh. “Being a dwarf does not qualify anyone as an expert on dwarves. We do not understand our own race all that well at times, but I shall assist you where I can.”
Growing up inside a mountain, Farrell had developed the ability to sense direction and subtle descents and rises and to keep fairly accurate track of time without the benefit of the sun or stars. They’d doubled and tripled back from where they’d started and gone down several levels without slowing.
“How much farther below the palace are we going to walk?”
Aswick and Cres exchanged glances. The smith nodded toward Farrell and said, “Perhaps there is some dwarfish blood in this one.”
“He’s still a bit tall.” Aswick winked at Cres. “We are almost there. Every kingdom maintains a Chamber of Kings for those times when the three kings are in attendance, but they keep it away from the public eye.
Each chamber is identical, with no one assuming a place of honor.”
“So why is there a high king?” Miceral asked.
“As I said before, it’s more a first among equals than overlord of all dwarves. The high king chairs the meetings and in times of war, leads the army should the Six call forth a marshaling of all three kingdoms. In all other ways, they are equals.”
Farrell listened to the answer but kept silent as he noticed a subtle change in the surroundings. They’d entered a rarely used hallway with unusually fine artwork and detailing. The murals were crisper and more lifelike, the etching and carvings on the sconces were more elaborate, and the stone had been polished with great care.
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