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.
TAGEN 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.
Tagen’s fury from moments past redoubled as he watched the open delight on the f
aces of those below. “Olen,” he said as he reached out and seized the dwarf’s shoulder roughly. “I don’t be knowin’ exactly what’s happened with the king, but I intend ta find out.” He drew the other dwarf close and dropped his voice. “Send Ignatius ta me. It be time for him ta begin earnin’ his way back home.” And time for me to find out what has changed.
Sweat boiled from Kinsey’s brow as his writhing body strained against the restraints.
The vaulted ceiling soared above him into blackness and absorbed the sounds of his grunting, panting exertion. Pain lanced through his body in fiery bolts fed by a pulsing inferno in his chest. The fire inside thrived on insults, indignities, and injustices he had witnessed, and not just those that he had endured himself, but also those that he saw others suffering.
An image of Bale, the captain of the Pelosian guard, surfaced in his mind. The captain was looking at Kinsey’s adopted father, and his sneering lips formed the words “Your kind,” implying that Erik was less than an animal because of his elven heritage. Into the fire the image went, and the flames licked out into his limbs even hotter.
Kinsey stared at his hands, wrists bound in the heavy manacles. The inlaid silver runes that covered the restraints had begun to glow with an inner light, but their beauty did little to soothe the deep and feral instinct that recoiled every time he saw them. The rattling slither of iron on smoothly dressed stone drowned out his moaning as a spasm twisted his limbs and he fell to the floor of the Ointa Dagdarhem.
Kinsey blinked against the fresh pain of his contorting body, and the stone pressing on his cheek came into focus. Parallel grooves in the floor radiated away from his face where, most assuredly, some distant past Dakayga had torn the dense stone while being taught how to control the god’s “blessing.” One trembling hand reached forward to trace the jagged marks in the stone almost of its own accord. The hand was his but no longer recognizably so.
The nails of his fingers had split open, and blackened claws like that of a dog had pushed through. The flesh around his hand and arm was pulled taut, so much so that it had torn in several places to reveal bloody muscle and fur underneath. The whorls of his fingerprints were lost as the skin stretched and cracked open.
Kinsey staggered once more to his feet. The chains that had pulled heavily at his wrists when Sargon had first secured him now dangled from his arms like streamers from a maypole. The glowing silver runes cast ribbons of light into the dimness as they swung wildly. Kinsey threw back his head and howled into the darkness above, giving voice to his frustration, anger, and pain. He howled for what seemed hours as he wrestled to control the change. To shape it. To force it to his will.
The rage surged within him like a thing alive. It wanted to tear the stone hall down on the bloody corpses of those who sought to confine and control it. Kinsey’s mind burned as he lost the struggle to tame the wildfire inside of him, and he screamed a final time before the rage consumed him.
He awoke some time later, shivering and naked. The only sound in the Dagdarhem was Kinsey’s own labored breath. He felt as though he had been dredging the harbor of Stone Mountain with a bucket.
Realization crashed down on Kinsey. In his many attempts to master the change, only two outcomes had yet come to pass. Either he could not force the transformation to manifest, or he would lose control when it did. “I failed,” he said wearily.
“Aye,” said the king.
The voice of his grandfather surprised Kinsey, and he jerked his head around to find Thorn standing just outside the gem-encrusted circle that was intended to define the limits of a raging Dakayga. Thorn’s visits had been infrequent in the past weeks, not only because his time was not his own but also because the level of scrutiny upon him and his activities was high. The king had his arms crossed below his chest, and his eyes were soft with empathy.
The king continued as Kinsey stared at him. “But did ya think this would be easy?” Thorn let a wry snort puff through his gray beard. “It never be easy. Nothin’ o’ worth ever be.” The king’s boots scuffed on the stone as he approached with a roughly spun towel in his hands. He laid the cloth over Kinsey’s broad shoulders with tender grace.
“I’ve done hard before,” Kinsey said as he sat back on his heels and dragged the towel from his shoulders to mop his face. “Most of my life has been hard, but this seems on the verge of impossible.” The itchy cloth felt oddly comforting to him. The tough weave scrubbed away at the layers of dead skin, and soon enough he felt invigorated.
“Again,” Kinsey said, heaving himself to his feet.
“Nay, lad.” Thorn said, gently shaking his head. “Enough fer now.” The king stepped away and spoke a word, “Dyhien-nok.” It was the same strange, cryptic word Sargon would read from the book to unlock the manacles around Kinsey’s wrists. A whispered click saw the restraints spring open smoothly. The last traces of light fled the runes as the chains rattled to the floor.
It was difficult to regret not being allowed to try again. The bouts of agony and bone-deep weariness made Kinsey want to find a cool hole to crawl into and sleep for weeks. But he knew there was no choice if he was to control this “gift.”
“Where are the others?” Kinsey asked, peering about.
The king turned away before answering, stepping to retrieve a thick velvet robe. “I asked them ta leave us be fer a bit. True enough, those that have been keepin’ ya company these past weeks be getting a touch mad fer fresh air and freedom. I sent ’em back up ta the tops.” His head and one hand inclined in the direction of the peaks from which Kinsey and the others had descended to this chamber that first night.
“I believe I can empathize with that sentiment,” Kinsey said.
From what he had been able to put together from the conversations of his companions, Sargon, Gideon, and Jocelyn had been able to mix with the general populace upon their return, primarily because they could be trusted with the secret of the king’s new heir. Even with that trust, though, they had spent virtually all their time here in the cavern with Kinsey. This allowed them to shepherd him on this last, most crucial step of his journey as well as avoid the curious who wished to know where they had been and why. Horus, Neal, Sanderlin, Mansh, Baeld, and Jorin had been his constant companions. They were not too badly missed in the society at large, and Neal, at least, couldn’t be trusted not to slip or declare what must be held close for now.
When Thorn returned, he also bore an engraved cup brimming with water.
Kinsey was vigorously buffing the skin of his legs and ankles with the rough towel. The iron shackles had left no marks on his flesh, which Kinsey still found amazing. He knew that he had strained against the manacles, and he could remember vividly the blood that flowed from the cuts that the metal had made in his skin. Many of the dark stains that had seeped into the pores of the ancient stone were not ancient blood. Despite the daily damage, he had yet to retain a single injury that had been inflicted at any point when the change was upon him. Even the minor cuts and abrasions of daily life closed more quickly than he could ever remember, regardless of his state of change. A shiver ran through him, and his abdomen itched from the phantom scars of Kesh’s knife.
Thorn held the robe for Kinsey as he slipped his hands into the loose arms. The cold air of the cavern was shut away from his naked flesh as he belted the cloth rope around his waist.
“How many sets of clothing did our ancestors go through, you think, before they realized it was better to just start with none?” Kinsey asked.
Thorn smiled at the jest. “Hard ta say.”
Kinsey had railed against Sargon’s requirement that he disrobe that first night, but now he could see that it made no sense to attempt to change form while fully clothed. As yet, no clothes had been found for him that were not too short in leg or torso. The secret of Kinsey’s presence made it impossible to just have more outfits made. The inaccessibility of new clothes made it particularly important to keep the ones he had as close to whole as possible.
Thorn presented Kinsey with the cup of water. “I been thinkin’, lad,” he said.
The cool water soaked into Kinsey’s parched tongue and throat as he drank. Much of the time, the practice that he endured was nothing like farm work or learning weapon skills, but it unfailingly left him spent and thirsty.
“It be time ta start introducin’ ya ta the people.”
Kinsey choked and slapped one hand over his mouth to avoid spraying the king. Drops fell from his fingers as he looked incredulously at Thorn. When he got his breath back, he set the cup down carefully and said, “You must be joking.”
“Nay, ma boy. Nay,” Thorn said with a shake of his head that set his gray beard swaying.
“I think that’s a bad idea,” Kinsey said. It had only been a little more than two months since he, Sargon, and the others had come to Mozil. Since that time, he had had no contact with anyone other than the members of the party he had initially met in the jungle. According to Sargon, there were powerful forces in play, and most of them were arrayed against his grandfather.
Thorn chuckled. “I thought ya might. Ya needn’t worry yerself.”
“I’m not much on politics,” Kinsey continued. “But even I can tell from what you and the others have told me that bringing a potential heir to the table might serve to throw the dwarves into chaos.” Kinsey paused to gauge Thorn’s reactions before piling onward.
The king remained silent and contemplative.
“If you bring in an heir that’s only half a dwarf, well…” Kinsey let the meaning of the unspoken words settle between them.
Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) Page 9
