Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (13 page)

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!”

Anger rose in the crowd like a deep ocean swell, but only few of the outbursts were loud enough to hear. The nation settled back in wait as Naulin looked around to judge their reactions. When he turned back to face Thorn, his features were stony. “And what’s yer heart say ta that, Thorn King?” he shouted back from the stillness that had taken hold of the people.

Thorn pulled Mordekki from its harness and raised the ancient weapon of his forefathers high into air. Light flickered in the carved runes, and the king’s voice boomed throughout the Chaumbre. “There be no choice but ta
FIGHT
!”

The tide of the people’s anger broke into a roar of approval before Thorn’s shout could echo within the great hall. The walls of the mountain trembled as the people began to chant, “Ham-mer! Ham-mer!” and Thorn Brunahlen, King of Mozil, the Hammer of the Mountain, was reforged in the cauldron of his people’s acceptance.

Tears ran down Sargon’s cheeks. His fears of division were chased back into the darkness by the continuing, rolling chant. The old priest laughed aloud as Thorn began to pump Mordekki into the air in time with the chanting, inciting the crowd below to even greater acclamation. Tension of months—no, years—bled away as Sargon began to truly see hope for a new future.

Eventually, the raucous cheering subsided and Naulin, who had raised his own fists in imitation of the king, lowered his arms while nodding and smiling at the sea of his kinsmen. All the anger in the upturned faces was gone, washed away in the flood of emotion. Sargon hoped that the animosity was truly gone and not just forgotten in the moment.

Naulin raised one beefy hand to calm the last vestiges of the clamor. His black beard was split wide to reveal starkly white teeth. “It appears we be joinin’ ya in this little scrape o’ yers.”

The resounding cheer must have been heard as far as Skelris.

Sargon laughed.
May our enemies tremble.

T
AGEN
gripped the heavy granite rail with white-knuckled fury. He and his company had retired here to the private balcony after the close of Thorn’s rousing speech to the people. Below in the Chaumbre, the king was still alternating between waving at the milling throng and receiving a long line of dignitaries. Tagen didn’t need to hear the conversations below to know what the topic must be. The king had, against all reason and expectation, emerged from his long torpor to assert himself once more as the leader of his people.

“And I thought his time be past,” grumbled Olen as he stepped up beside Tagen along the stone rail.

Tagen looked sourly at his longtime ally and snarled. He glanced over his shoulder at Ronil and Jessip. The stone-blind pair weren’t even paying attention as carefully laid and executed plans caved in around their ears. Instead of watching and planning, they had their heads together away from the balcony and were speaking quietly.

Fools.

With the help of his allies, Tagen had been maneuvering himself and his clan into a position to assume the throne for almost four decades now. It had become clear to him that the old king was not going to be able to rule effectively after the death of the prince. The people had understood and supported the king’s actions on that fateful night, but Thorn had not had the stones to seize the population’s support and make it into his source of strength. Instead, he had sat upon Hannaul, night after long night, brooding over his actions and the fate of his late son.

Tagen grunted in thought as he watched Thorn wave to the cheering throng. Aloud, he said, “It’s almost as if his son had never died.” Tagen did not understand the relationship the old king had had with his son. He
did
understand the decision to put the lad down, however. Duhann’s fate had been sealed on the day that Thorn signed the edict allowing the prince’s training to be carried out in defiance of tradition—even though those traditions had not been performed in what seemed like eons. The king might as well have slit the boy’s throat himself before the lad had ever left the halls of the mountain home.

“The priests should never have agreed ta the boy’s training in the outlands with that thing,” Olen said, echoing Tagen’s thoughts. “It was the
people’s
right and responsibility ta raise the Dakayga. Thorn declared his unsuitability ta rule when he allowed Duhann ta be taken away.”

But for Thorn’s line, the gift of the Dakayga had not been seen amongst the dwarven people in millennia. The touch of their god was rare but so powerful in the minds of the people that any family, high or low, blessed with the gift would be guaranteed elevated status, if not assume the throne itself. The reverence they showed to the Dakayga was one instance in which the dwarves portrayed as much tendency to quicksilver as any human.

Tagen nodded brusquely. He had six sons himself, all of whom were worthless. If it meant putting his clan in a position to inherit the throne, he would have sacrificed them all. One eye twitched as he amended his thoughts.
Unless of course, Dagda selected one of them for the gift against all reason.

Tagen could hear his sons talking quietly behind him about Thorn’s proclamation of war and whether it might mean chances for glory for themselves. Spanner was exclaiming to the others that the stories of the hobgoblin horde were likely exaggerated at best and at worst a complete fabrication of Thorn and his sycophantic priest, Sargon.

Idiots.

The horde’s presence was a fact that had been verified by more than one scout now, and Tagen’s informants had told him weeks ago of the old priest’s absence. Apparently Sargon, Gideon, and several other dwarves had left the mountain home quietly as many as three months ago, presumably on some mission for the king. Sargon was now on the dais below, smiling as he watched the spectacle. Whatever his mission had been, it was likely at the heart of Thorn’s resurgence. It couldn’t matter, though; whatever errand Sargon had performed couldn’t resurrect the lost hope of Thorn’s heir and the god’s blessing that had died with him.

Tagen turned from the rail and surveyed his brood. Spanner, the eldest, was not watching his father; instead, he was addressing his brothers as if he were king himself. Big for a man, Spanner had thick strawberry-blond hair that melded seamlessly with his broad beard. The combination flowed down over his broad shoulders and over the ornate vestment that he wore signifying him as Tagen’s heir. His five brothers were all watching him with varying expressions. Drammen and Tolsen had looks of skepticism, which Tagen approved of. Yannin worshipped Spanner and was eating the words like he was a starving dwarf. The youngest of his kin, Baelstrock, was given to reading and thoughtful consideration of history more than the present. Even now, his gaze left Spanner’s wild gesticulations with a dismissive shake and returned to the book in his hands.

“There be yer biggest concern, regardless o’ the king’s newfound favor with the people.” Olen let the words linger while stroking his beard.

Tagen turned from his sons to follow Olen’s gaze. Below he found the source of his ally’s remark. Gurney Borjornin, head of the second house, stood not far from the king. His gray-shot blond beard was split with a wide grin as he moved to embrace the lord bishop, who also seemed to be all smiles. Tagen knew full well the threat that Gurney posed. “Such a good friend he be ta Thorn.” Realizing he had spoken the words aloud, Tagen continued, forcing more confidence into his voice than he felt. “But it will make no difference once Beordin Silvervein comes under our banner.”

“Aye.” Olen glanced at Tagen. “That do be a
when
, not an if, right?”

“After the war council, I’ll be makin’ sure o’ his loyalty,” Tagen said, not taking his eyes from Gurney. He had no doubt that the older, blond-bearded dwarf would be Thorn’s chosen for the throne. Tagen’s bid was dependent upon the fact that the houses could overturn the decision if there was enough clout on his side and enough reason to offer them. Thorn’s reinvigoration and burgeoning acceptance did little to help Tagen’s plan, and he feared that the reasons behind Sargon’s little “outing” revolved around some benefit to Gurney’s claim to the throne.