Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (11 page)

The Dakayga raged and howled at the dwarves that stared openmouthed. The chains that bound the incarnation of Dagda’s rage blazed brightly as they swung about like ribbons of paper. Despite the ease with which they were flung, the chains effectively halted the raging beast within the circle of gemstones. Undaunted, the Dakayga threw himself at them, again and again, seemingly tireless in its desire to rend its tormentors.

Sargon had no doubts that Dagda had given them a second chance in this boy. He regained his place at the podium and began to turn pages as Jocelyn stumbled up to him with her bronze eyes opened wide. “Did ya have ta do it that way?” she croaked. “He didn’t deserve yer harsh words.”

Sargon rounded on the woman. “This ain’t a game!” he shouted, slapping one hand down on the ancient book. He then looked at Gideon and the others, jabbing a finger at the stunned assembly that stood awed by his sudden outburst. “And it ain’t about Thorn or his line neither. It’s about us, all o’ us: the dwarven people!” He straightened to his full height, glaring at all of them. “The prophecies say a Dakayga be born only in times o’ great need, when strife be bearin’ down on us. We been given one chance already and ruined it. I’ll not be lettin’ that happen again. No matter the cost!”

Jocelyn blinked and looked back to the transformed prince as he snarled and bit at the chains that bound him. The others just stared at Sargon without saying a word, the raging howls of Kinsey forgotten for the moment in their surprise.

“Let’s hammer this straight, here and now,” Sargon said. Authority rang in his voice, and Jocelyn looked back at him almost reluctantly. “If I seem ta be harsh on the lad, or any o’ you fer that matter, it ain’t because I be enjoyin’ it or outta malice. I be doin’ it because it needs doin’.” Sargon turned back to the book and laid his other hand on its yellowed pages, confident in his purpose. “Now, let’s get ta work.”

T
HORN
sat on Hannual, rubbing his temple as the dwarves around him squabbled back and forth. Intense faces watched the interplay between Ronil Narsbin and Petron Grouler, and the king wondered if he was the only one that used the old soldier’s outbursts for time to consider his words.

One of the far-ranging scouts had been brought in just this morning, more dead than alive. His near-corpse had been discovered at the entrance to the underground tunnels that led to the southern reaches of the mountain chain. As the king understood it, the dwarf hadn’t even been able to give his own name, but the names he had moaned before passing out belonged to two of the finest scouts in the kingdom, Mal and Fain Telstrid. The surname alone provided the identity of the wounded dwarf well enough: Zeke, the youngest brother in the Telstrid family. The trio, along with other scouting groups like them, had been dispatched several weeks ago in order to gain a true understanding of what the dwarves were about to face. Zeke had been the only one to return thus far.

Tense hours had passed under the competent hands of the surgeons, but it wasn’t until a high priest arrived and intervened, invoking the power of Dagda, that the boy had recovered enough to relate his dire news. The worst had come to pass. It seemed as though the entire goblin nation was on the march. Tens of thousands of the monsters and their kin filled the many valleys within the southern Dales.

“They be
here
, almost on our doorstep, and ya want us ta do nothin’?!” Ronil Narsbin was saying. His broad face shone beet red behind the salt-and-pepper beard and moustache that swayed as he shook with frustration.

“I ain’t sayin’ that, ya rock-headed fool!” Petron snapped at the younger dwarf. “I’m sayin’ they ain’t after us.”

Ronil raised his hands in exasperation. “An’ what in Mot’s beard be makin’ ya so sure o’ that?”

“Goblins is stupid fer sure, but they ain’t that stupid.” Old Petron pointed his walking stick at Ronil as he spoke, emphasizing his words. “There’s no way inta the mountain once we close those doors. An’ them green-skinned fools know it!”

“The goblin-kin invadin’ our home be not what concerns us, Petron.” Tagen’s deep voice slipped into the strained pause between Ronil and Petron. The thick-bodied, ginger-haired dwarf leaned forward in his chair and looked at the ancient warrior. “The Lowland villages will be destroyed fer certain, whether they be after us or not. Rebuildin’ will take decades.”

Many in the throne room nodded and grumbled in agreement with the lord of the first house. The high families of Mozil had invested deeply in the Lowlands, and those investments were growing. Numerous farming towns that were once isolated villages had been developed into thriving networks of merchant communities ripe with trade.

King Thorn stroked his beard in thought as he looked down at Petron.

The ancient dwarf glared in silence at Tagen and those who supported the lord’s words of concern until suddenly the fight left him like air through a ruptured bellows. The old warrior sagged, looking confused and flustered. His once powerful limbs trembled with the deterioration of age, and the bags under his tired eyes seemed to deepen. As his gaze darted from face to face, searching for support, he seemed to realize for the first time his increasing irrelevance.

Thorn cleared his throat and spoke. “Petron, yer concern fer the possibility o’ lives bein’ lost be admirable. It be the only reason I’ve not yet approved a full assault. Let it be known that yer words be carryin’ weight in this decision.”

The broken coals of Petron’s pride glowed softly at the king’s words, and some of his old character crept back onto his face. He made a stiff bow then shuffled back to his seat beside Girty Borjornin.

Once the ancient warrior was seated, Thorn addressed the lords of the ten houses. “I be havin’ no doubt that action must be taken to protect the Lowlands. But the area be too large ta cover entirely or safely.”

Voices of approval and rumbles of discontent filled the air at the king’s words, filling the chamber with incoherent noise. Ronil, still on his feet, stepped toward the throne and raised his voice above the others. “Where do that put us then,
eh
? You would follow Petron, hidin’ in the mountain like scared wee-ones?” Ronil’s meaty fist smacked into his palm. “No, I say. We must
attack
!”

Ronil’s proclamation only incited more clamoring. The Narsbins laid claim to the fifth house of power, so their influence should have been marginal, but several of the other houses seemed to approve of the dark-headed dwarf’s words, especially once Tagen indicated the approval of the first house with a stately nod.

Thorn had expected no less of a reaction. Centuries had gone by without a serious threat arising from either nation to the north or south. The pretentious and long-lived elves from Asynia had been content enough to lick their wounds after failing in their bid for the northern lowlands. It had been many years since an elf had been heard from, much less presented a threat to the dwarven people or their sovereignty.

The fractious goblin tribes to the south, though known for their profligate rate of reproduction, were too greedy and too violent to allow their numbers to swell enough to pose much threat beyond the borders of the Wetlands. Well, that was what the dwarves had assumed, anyway. The vast numbers reported truly challenged the their understanding of their savage neighbors to the south.

The prevailing peace that the dwarven nation had enjoyed created restlessness amongst Thorn’s people, no matter the desirability of such a state. Dagda had crafted his followers with a heart that needed to pit itself against a challenge. In times of peace, this manifested in ever-greater feats of craftsmanship, art, engineering, and physical prowess, but these outlets could never substitute for the thrill of battle. No matter the station in life, there was an inclination for dwarves to express themselves with a sort of good-natured mayhem, spontaneously wrestling or sparring when words failed to adequately resolve a conflict. It wasn’t unheard of for such struggles to break out even here in the hall of the most powerful, who had no need of such action.

The arrival of Sargon and the others had woken Thorn from his long depression, and now he could sense a sort of pressure that had been building, almost like two shelves of rock being pushed past each other by the forces of the earth. When the force overcame the friction, the resultant shift could be sudden and violent.
Just like Rhazidan,
Thorn thought with a pang of sorrow. He remembered the tales told by his father of the dwarven civil war that had decimated their people, leaving one of their great treasures largely abandoned and open for the brutal human tribes to take for themselves. The humans had “inventively” named it Stone Mountain.

Now came a threat that might just be an opportunity, a threat that could both bind the people together and let them exert that built-up tension against a common foe.

The king smiled grimly and rolled the word around in his mind.
Opportunity.
His grandson would have a grand introduction.
If he can get the damn beast under control, that is.

Reports from Sargon had been well short of encouraging. According to the priest, Kinsey was
almost
able to bring on the transformation at will, but once he achieved it, all indication of a thinking being fled. So far, his grandson had no memory of the events that transpired after the change took place.

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.”