Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (6 page)

King Thorn sat upon Hannaul, listening to the old dwarf’s rantings. Petron was old even compared to Thorn himself, but he had become somewhat of a fixture at the council meetings. He had been a warrior of sweeping renown in his youth. Thorn’s father, King Santeran Brunahlen, had granted Petron a seat in recognition of his reputation and value on the field of battle. Year after year, the leathery old warrior got shorter as time bowed him, but he made up for his decreasing stature by increasing the volume of his voice. Two hundred years ago, Petron would have been the first to demand war, but now... Pity stirred the king’s heart.
He should have died in battle alongside his friends and brothers.

Pitied though the old dwarf might be, Petron’s outbursts did serve a purpose. Duty and respect were not the only reasons that moved Thorn to insist on the old warrior’s presence in these meetings despite numerous requests to the contrary. The ancient dwarf’s often-meaningless ranting created space in any discussion, no matter how heated. Those pauses, for the most part, were precious to the king—when Petron had the floor, Thorn could think.

“Petron.” Thorn got to his feet, gathering the attention of the room and interrupting the old warrior. “Yer wisdom be appreciated in this time o’ need. Rest assured that we’ll be heedin’ yer words, but now it be time fer others ta speak.”

Petron’s frown deepened, and Thorn thought the ancient dwarf might be on the verge of another harangue. In the end, Petron gave one last meaningful glare to those around the room before nodding and taking a seat.

“Next ta speak in favor fer war, step forward,” Thorn announced and sat.

Most of the great houses were in agreement that war with the goblin-kin was inevitable. The many hobgoblin raiding parties spotted along the foot of the southern Dales hinted at a stirring in the swamps, though no standing army had actually been seen. Regardless, the monsters of Skelris had not raided in such numbers this far north in centuries. The many sightings thus far gave good cause for alarm.

War would once again come to the people—Thorn could feel it in his bones.
How
that war would be fought remained a strong point of contention. Many preferred the notion of holding in the mountain fastness to weather the storm as it broke against the stone walls of the kingdom. Others, though, hungry for glory and fearful of lost investments, spoke for an invasion to clear out the vermin or for meeting whatever force happened to crawl out of the swamps head on. Thorn found himself unable to choose the best path as of yet.

Not long after hearing the news of the raiding parties, Thorn had ordered every ounce of food, supplies, and people from the Lowlands to be brought into the mountain. Many of the great houses thought his actions rash but in the end had grudgingly consented. The nobility’s reluctant complicity with the king’s demands, however, had not come with quickness in execution. The season of the harvest had not yet come, so abandoning the fields and streams meant abandoning potential food, not to mention profit. Many of the affected families wrestled with the problem of fleeing from an as-yet-unseen enemy versus staying until the last possible moment to gather what they could of the harvest and minimize their losses. The process had started almost three months ago, but goods, livestock, and farmers still trickled in through the doors of Mozil.

In his youth, Thorn would have raked those lagging behind over the coals of a forge’s fire to make sure his edict was carried out with the appropriate swiftness. As of late, though, his heart lay in the hope of Sargon’s mission and not focused on the matters of the moment. His desire and distraction had also left him unable to address the people about the conflict that would soon unfold, despite the many calls for him to do so. It had been so long since Thorn had retreated into the safety of his self-pity and doubts that he found himself unsure as to how he might even begin such a dialogue. Unfortunately, just as the war with the goblins would be unavoidable, so would the meeting between him and his people. He just hoped he was ready for both.

“I believe all have spoken, ma king,” the lord bishop stated. The bishop was of a similar age to Thorn. Though it was considered impolite to ask, it was thought that he must be deep into his third century. Though his well-managed beard was entirely white, his steps were firm and unwavering. His white-and-gold robes swayed as he walked, and the soft soles of his deerskin shoes made little sound as they slid across the stone floor. He stopped before the throne and gave a slight bow, showing Thorn the top of his balding pate. When he rose, he turned to address the royal gathering. “There be one item of discussion I’d care ta address before we break from this meetin’.”

Thorn groaned quietly.
I should have banished him with the others,
he thought.

“I know this topic be a sensitive subject fer us all, but we can’t be lettin’ that stop us from pressin’ forward ta call fer a decision.” The bishop paced at the foot of Hannaul’s steps. “With the goblin nation stirrin’, the question be o’ even more import. A successor must be chosen!”

Petron’s eyes flared open to their fullest, and he came up from his chair so fast that he stumbled and began to pitch to one side, crying out. The eldest daughter of House Borjornin, Girty, caught him as he fell. The ancient dwarf shook off her strong hands and glared around the room. “Fools, all o’ ya! What has the succession ta the throne ta do with war?!” He then threw up his arms and marched from the throne room in disgust, cane rapping a staccato rhythm as he went.

The bishop shook his head and hesitated for only a moment after Petron took his leave. “As I been sayin’, a successor must be chosen fer the good o’ the people. What say ya, King Thorn?”

Thorn tried to keep the anger from his voice as he replied, “Ya be askin’ too soon after the last time we spoke on it. I got no answer for ya.”

Murmurs rumbled around the room, and the bishop raised his hands and bowed. “As ya say, ma king. I would not be askin’ were it not o’ such consequence.” Then the balding clergyman addressed the room. “This meetin’ be adjourned.”

Thorn scowled at the bishop. He suspected that the holy man was in someone’s pocket. All the great houses vying for a chance at the throne had the opportunity to have a potent influence over the church. The constant pressure the bishop was applying on him was most likely from one if not all the contenders.

Irritation aside, Thorn knew it was his responsibility, no, his
duty
, to choose the next family to inherit the throne. As practical as he knew the need to be, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to make the decision. In a way that he could not define, choosing a family to take the leadership of the nation would mean to abandon the hope of finding his son’s son. He found that he had begun to cling to that hope for absolution in Duhann’s death. The mere idea of losing it now left a bitter taste in his mouth that he could not tolerate.

The leaders of the ten royal houses lingered in the throne room, conversing in small groups. Each house had brought a handful of family members, as was customary. All the retainers mingled freely among the clusters of conversation.

Thorn attempted to participate in conversation with many of those in attendance, but the years of isolation and melancholy had ingrained habits that separated him from these people. At the best, the conversations were shallow and avoided sensitive topics like the succession. This limited the talk to the upcoming potential for war, and he heard many of the same speeches rewarmed. They were as appealing as week-old stew. As the words washed over him, his mind wandered the world, wondering about Sargon and his quest.
Foolish hope,
he thought sourly even as he nodded absently at his companion’s points in favor of meeting with the Skelris nation in the open. To place faith in anything that the Dark Advisor had to say or offer seemed just this side of madness.

Thorn closed his eyes long enough to refocus his thoughts on the men around him.

Hardok Borjornin, the man currently speaking, was a cousin of his good friend Gurney Borjornin. Gurney was widely considered his most likely pick for successor, though Thorn held private reservations on the matter. Gurney was well thought of, and his house was powerful, but the man himself tended to be lost to the consideration of the depth of pilings and span capacity of timber and stone in the face of more important concerns. Thorn knew in his heart his reservations were an excuse to justify his own failure to make a decision.

Lords Ronil Narsbin, Olen Bluebeard, and Tagen Axeheed stood in a small, conspiratorial circle not far from the throne, every so often glancing up at the king with frustration in their eyes. They represented the fifth, fourth, and first most powerful houses in Mozil. If not for Gurney, Tagen would easily be the most likely candidate for the succession, though Thorn liked that prospect even less. Tagen had a reputation for ruthlessness that he felt would be unfitting in a monarch.

The opening of the grand doors broke both Thorn’s train of thought and Hardok’s tales of would-be glory. A flood of servants bearing refreshments flowed through the portal accompanied by numerous pages bearing messages to the different families of power.

One such page stopped at the base of Hannaul and bowed deeply. “Yer Majesty?”

Thorn gestured for the young dwarf to approach.

A folded piece of yellowed parchment was offered up to the king, which he took with a rugged hand. The boy stood to the side in silence with Hardok while Thorn opened the letter.

Thorn recognized the flowing script instantly and almost leapt from his seat in startlement. The paper in his hand seemed an answer to a whispered prayer.
Sargon
. He took a deep breath and settled himself before continuing. His wary eyes scanned the room to see if he had betrayed his emotion to any that might be watching.

Hardok eyed him, but the gray-shot black eyebrows were only furrowed in polite curiosity as he waited for Thorn to indicate it was acceptable once more to approach the throne. The boy, well trained, waited with his gaze focused on Thorn’s chest.

No one else appeared to have noticed the start.

His gaze went back to the letter from his friend, and he read it eagerly:

The road’s been long but we’ve returned. Absent two but added one. I be in the stables, waitin’ fer yer command.

Thorn beckoned the page forward once more. “Quill,” he commanded quietly.

A small white feather was produced from the page’s many pouches along with a glass inkwell and a smooth wooden writing board. The quill and board were handed to the king while the tiny inkbottle stayed in the page’s hand.

Thorn dipped the quill and wrote a single word on the parchment:
Library
. After sanding the document with grains from another of the page’s pouches, he folded the letter and handed it back. “Yer ta take this to the one who gave it to ya. And speak ta no other before it be delivered.”

The page bowed and took his leave.

Thorn settled back upon Hannaul and beckoned Hardok forward as he watched the page exit the throne room from the corner of his eye. Hardok’s words recommenced almost as if there had been no interruption at all. Once more, Thorn allowed the tale to lie only lightly on his attention as he moved his gaze around the room.

The lord of the Axeheed family was watching the page make his exit just as Thorn had been. When the page’s back had disappeared through the still-open doors, Tagen’s head swiveled to look up at the throne. His vermillion locks and beard were well accented by the black and gold of his formal attire. A heavy emerald sash matched the narrowed eyes that locked with the king’s. Tagen smiled and gave a slight nod before returning his attention back to his two companions.

Thorn frowned over Hardok’s shoulder at the trio. If they knew anything about the arrival of his grandchild, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He remained patient, sitting on the throne in hopes of maintaining his subterfuge of calm. It would take some time for Sargon to reach the Great Library on any account.
So no reason fer haste.

From that moment on, time slowed to a horrible crawl for the king. The ten families continued to linger as if aware of Thorn’s need to hasten his exit and fully intent on thwarting his efforts. Hardok was replaced by Squaman and his incessant inquiries about more rent for tunnel space, and then it was Balstrock and his demands for Thorn’s support of a greater price for all his Lowland goods now that words of war had been spoken. Shortly, Thorn found himself tempted to wrest Mordekki from its resting place and set upon the whole lot.

The king’s eyes drifted to the great axe.

The double-bladed head sat comfortably in the stone sheath that had been carved into the side of Hannaul. Runes of ancient power covered the haft as well as the broad head. The etched script was dormant now, but if Thorn were to lay his hand upon the haft, those runes would come alight with pulsing energy and life. Named after the first dwarven king, Mordekki was most assuredly a special weapon, but it was more. Much more. In the passing centuries, the axe had become a symbol of power that marked the right to rule for every dwarven king since the first had wielded it. Just the sight of the mighty axe commanded obedience from the most belligerent of dwarves and steadied the nerves of the most frightened of warriors.