“No,” he finally said. “No, I’m not.”
Despite his feelings toward Thorn and his newly forged friendships with the dwarves, Kinsey was not prepared to take on a role of leadership for a people he really knew nothing about.
Sargon seemed to pick up on Kinsey’s unspoken concerns. “Ya not be alone in this. I’ll help ya.” A leathery hand thumped his shoulder. “We’ll help ya, any way we can.”
Kinsey smiled at the old priest in spite of himself. Sargon’s confidence was catching. “I have no doubts about you.”
Sargon beamed. “We’ll get through these rough times, ta be sure.”
Doubts regarding Sargon and the companions who had come with him from Basinia aside, Kinsey had plenty that he felt unsure about. Even with the breakthrough he’d made with Jocelyn’s help, the monster within was a far cry from tame. He needed more time to understand how the little success had been accomplished, but with the announcement of imminent war, it was apparent that that time would not be granted.
The heavy oak doors groaned as they were pulled open from the inside. Gideon appeared in the widening gap. Kinsey knew that the blond dwarf served as general for the Borjorin house, but this was the first time Gideon had looked the part. Prior to today, Kinsey had only seen the scarred, rough-cut warrior in chain armor or traveled leathers. Gideon’s demeanor had been the epitome of the rough but relaxed jocularity of the dwarven culture. Now the only hint of the merry mayhem was in his eyes, which sparkled with bronze fire in the flickering torches and lamps. His hair and beard had been tamed from the chaotic bush to a formal braid and bound tails that had been finished with black and gray lacquered metal bands. The worn armor had been replaced with an immaculately tailored red vest and a flowing black shirt and pants that were highlighted with the same steel gray of his hairbands. The clothes were functional, but touches of gold at the collar, shoulders, and wrists whispered of his status.
Gideon smiled his gap-toothed smile. “They be ready fer ya.”
Kinsey took a deep breath and gave one quick nod to the general. “Lead on.”
As with the other formal spaces in the kingdom that Kinsey had been able to visit, the council chamber Gideon led them into had been carved from the mountain. The rough walls were then covered with columns of granite and paneling of polished wood. Two hearths blazed with warmth to the left and right. They, along with many lanterns hung from wrought iron hooks, illuminated a centrally located table of immense proportions. Surrounding the table were perhaps thirty dwarves, all of whom were likely the leaders of the powerful houses that led the kingdom of Mozil. Every eye had turned to the doors when they had opened to admit Kinsey, Sargon, and Gideon. Now those same eyes regarded the trio as they advanced through parting nobility to approach the war table where Thorn waited. Kinsey could see curiosity, confusion, and, in more than one pair of eyes, anger.
Thorn straightened, taking his hands from the table. His voice was full of pride and strength as he swept up an arm toward Kinsey and declared, “Ma grandson, Prince Kinsey Brunahlen. He be and shall ferever remain heir ta the throne!”
The silence deepened until the crackling flames were the only sounds beyond breathing, and Kinsey felt a drop of sweat roll between his shoulders as he stared back at those his grandfather wanted him to lead. In the pit of his stomach, the rage twitched and began to stir in response to the stress.
“That be no dwarf,” one of the leaders said with disdain. His words rang in the silence of the room and sparked a murmur through the crowd of bystanders. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and the frown buried within his thick facial hair turned into a snarl. “What trickery be this?!” His broad fist slammed on the table, displacing several of the miniatures.
“This be no trickery, Ronil,” Thorn said. The king’s voice was low and calm and solid as a billet of hardened steel. “Ya’d be wise ta hold yer tongue till yer mind is clear.”
Kinsey’s skin tingled as the rage within him sought to grow. He took a breath and tried to focus on calm things—Fishing, it would be good to go fishing.
“His statements be justified, ma king. That man be no dwarf,” said a ginger-haired noble from around the table.
“He be half human,” Thorn replied. “But he be Duhann’s son, sure as the gold streams runnin’ through the quarry mines.” A rising murmur of assent susurrated through the room. Duhann’s face was well remembered, it seemed.
Several of the leaders shook their heads, anger distorting their features, but the one standing beside Kinsey’s grandfather barked a laugh and echoed Kinsey’s thoughts. “He do be the spittin’ image o’ Duhann. Yer full o’ surprises, ma king.”
“This be no laughin’ matter, Gurney!” the one called Ronil yelled. A few others nodded, and a low chorus of “Aye” rumbled across the table.
Gurney was quiet for a moment before more laughter rolled from his lungs like thunder. “Yer a fool, Ronil. Every one o’ us sees Duhann’s visage on that boy’s face.” His thick finger pointed at Kinsey. “There be no doubt o’ his heritage. Even so, no half-breed would sit on Hannaul, no way. There be somethin’ more ta this.”
Ronil narrowed his eyes at Gurney then at Thorn. His lips parted to speak, but he was cut off by the sound of something slamming on the table. Startled, everyone turned to look at the source of the interruption.
The burly, red-headed dwarf who had sided with Ronil just moments before was leaning forward upon clenched fists that were set down in a jumble of disrupted figurines. He stared across the table at Kinsey, a sneer distorting his face. “No, that be impossible!”
This time Ronil looked back and forth between Kinsey and the ginger-haired dwarf, as did several others. “What do ya mean?” Consternation had replaced the anger of moments before. “I don’t understand.”
“Dakayga,” an old, withered dwarf said as he stepped away from one of the blazing hearths where he had been virtually unnoticeable. His gnarled cane scraped the floor as he walked. “He be Dakayga, ya numbskull.” The old dwarf jabbed an age-twisted digit at Ronil. “Fer the love o’ Dagda, how a man like yer father had such a dim-witted child I’ll never know.”
Ronil’s impressive chest bowed up and he lifted his chin. “I’ll not be takin’ that kind a talk from ya, Petron. I be deservin’ more respect—”
“Shaddup,” Petron interrupted. “We ain’t got time fer yer whinin’.”
Kinsey was having trouble focusing on the conversation thanks to his internal struggle, but the old dwarf’s voice cut right through his distraction. He almost laughed out loud as the pompous Ronil stared at Petron in slack-jawed shock. The growing rage dissipated as if it had been a bubble pricked by a pin.
“You there, Sarshon”—Petron’s cane poked into Sargon’s shoulder—“the boy here be havin’ the gift?”
“Aye, Petron, he be Dakayga,” Sargon answered, ignoring Petron’s fouling of his name.
“Prove it,” said the ginger-haired dwarf. His steely gaze had not left Kinsey.
“Are ya mad, Tagen?!” Gurney blurted. “He could tear us all ta shreds!”
Inwardly, Kinsey heartily agreed. His brown eyes locked with the emerald chips of Tagen’s. “It’s too dangerous for me to show you here, now. I don’t have enough control.”
Tagen pushed away from the table with a “Hrumph” and looked around at the others assembled. “This be a farce”—he pointed at Thorn—“a pathetic attempt by a tired old bagger ta hold on ta a birthright that no longer be his!” The angry words uncorked the emotions that had been bottled at Thorn’s announcement, and at once, the room was filled with angry, shouting, jostling dwarves.
Sargon stepped forward, raising his hands in an attempt to bring peace, but no one paid him any mind. Red faces continued to yell at one another in fury.
The insult to Thorn gave the rage within Kinsey a new foothold, and it pulsed even more strongly than before. His eyes darted from argument to argument, but he could see no end to the building conflict. Eventually, his jump
ing gaze found its way to Thorn.
The king looked across the table at Kinsey, and amazingly, his old face was utterly calm. He stood out like a stationary pillar amongst crumbling rubble. One brow twitched slightly as if suggesting that he was waiting for something—waiting for Kinsey to do something.
Kinsey reeled away from the thought, though his feet remained planted in his polished boots. Madness, he thought. I could kill every one here in seconds.
Thorn remained unmoving. The start of a smile touched the corners of his mouth and, as if he could read Kinsey’s mind, his mouth moved to form a single word. The king’s voice could not be heard over the bellowing dignitaries, but Kinsey knew the word his grandfather had spoken. Faith.
Absurd. Have faith in a god that Kinsey knew as little about as the people who worshipped him? The whole situation was absurd. He looked around the table, seeing men lost to their own confusion, fear, and hatred. Kinsey wondered if they had considered the possible consequences for the many families loyal to their banners, or if it were only their pride that drove them.
Sargon was moving from lord to lord, trying in vain to calm the angry dwarves. The poor old priest’s fears of civil war were coming to life right in front of him.
The more Kinsey watched the chaos unfolding around him, the more he realized he had no choice but to show them what he was, regardless of the potential calamity. If this meeting could end in bloodshed one way or another, it would be better for Kinsey to try than to stand idly by knowing he could have done something.
With a heavy sigh, Kinsey surrendered himself to the rage. There was an edge of savage joy to that maelstrom as it surged up and claimed him, a gleeful, horrible potential.
The sound of Kinsey’s popping joints was subtle, but it must have been something Sargon had been waiting to hear, for he whipped his head around despite the discord around them. When the old priest’s gaze found Kinsey hunched in the initial transformation, he nodded once and made his way to Thorn’s side, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe in anticipation.
Skin and clothing tore from Kinsey’s body, showering the map and those nearby with blood. A roar of pain escaped from his maw, and he slammed his monstrous hand onto the table. The dense oak surface yielded under the pressure from his claws as if the hard wood was actually soft cheese.
As with his last transformation, Kinsey found himself wanting to fight against the rage but forced himself not to. The flurries of anger swirled around his fading resistance but found no purchase and flowed past, leaving him to remain conscious and unburdened. Once again, he made his way through the tempest of fury to peer out through the Dakayga’s eyes into the world beyond.
The angry voices that filled the chamber had given way to cries of surprise and fear. Those closest to Kinsey stumbled away from him in shock. Splatters of Kinsey’s blood lined the many faces that gaped in awe at his sudden transformation.
The rage pressured Kinsey to destroy the unbelieving faces, but once again he was able to halt the claws as they began to rise from the scarred surface of the table. Kinsey staggered away from the group, his claws leaving great gashes in the wood. Calm. I must be calm, he thought desperately while the fury howled at him, pushing him to destroy the dwarves and their mockery. He turned away from the assembly and channeled the raging fury at the furniture he found in front of him. Heavy chairs and end tables sailed across the room like children’s toys to smash into pieces against stone walls. The tiny effort was not enough to sate the beast, and so Kinsey roared, hammering his fists into the floor repeatedly. Cracks spiderwebbed around the edges of his fists as they drove into the polished granite again and again, but it wasn’t enough. The edges of his vision darkened—the rage was winning. His thoughts blurred; fishing, Erik, his mother. None of the images he conjured staved off the closing darkness. He was doomed, as were those foolish enough to remain in the room with him.
“Jocelyn.” The name emerged from the chaos like a branch swirling in rapids. The encroaching madness halted as he seized upon it.
An image of the beautifully stubborn woman materialized in Kinsey’s ravaged mind. Her golden locks swung about her shoulders as she shook her head and planted her hands on her hips. She did not speak, only stood there, looking at him.
It was enough.
The rage ebbed away, and Kinsey slumped to his knees. Slowly, Kinsey’s thoughts coalesced around his mental incarnation of Jocelyn.
Knotted muscles in Kinsey’s shoulders relaxed as he felt himself begin to change once more. His breath became labored as his body shrank. The heavy fur fell in matted clumps from his shaking limbs and began to dissipate into the ephemeral smoke. He struggled to his feet and turned to face the heads of the ten most powerful families and their generals, clutching the tattered remnants of the once-fine outfit to him.
The silence from Kinsey’s entrance could have been a carnival compared to the nothingness now. Even the hissing of logs in the hearths was muted. Still shivering, he looked from face to round-eyed face. None of the gathered hierarchy appeared to even breathe until Gurney Borjornin shifted, breaking the tableau as he cleared his throat to speak. “Well, I guess that settles it, then.”
The lower mines were dangerous. The torch Tagen held aloft was insufficient to illuminate the many twisting paths and bottomless pits that one had to traverse between destinations. Twisted ankles and drops into the void were the least of the potential dangers, though. Murderous creatures lurked in the darkness of the Deeps. Few months passed without a miner or two going missing with only a severed safety line or a piece of shredded clothing left to indicate where they had been. Legends of deep-dwelling monstrosities swelled like the tide every time a dwarf went missing, but every attempt to delve into the mystery had only paid dividends of more questions and more deaths. Tagen did not care.
He stomped through the dim corridors, daring the reclusive beasts to try him tonight. The heavy clomping of his boots was occasionally broken as his feet found an isolated puddle. The splashing tinkle of the water being cast about did nothing to assuage his mood, and his damp feet did even less. His rage had subsided somewhat since the war council had adjourned, but his nerves were still raw. One of his servants might never speak again after the beating he had given the man, but at least the master of the first house was master of himself again. Mostly.
Torch in hand and anger in tow, Tagen mumbled to himself, “Damn Thorn to Mot’s pits.” That half-breed, bastard offspring that Thorn had paraded with pride—pride!—in front of the ten houses had sealed away any chance for Tagen’s ascension just as assuredly as any collapsed mine shaft. All his work to sway Beordin Silvervein meant nothing now. No one would vote to remove a Dakayga, and allies he thought bought and paid for had suddenly changed their tunes.
The dim tunnel faded away as his vision clouded in the face of the swelling anger that rose every time the traitorous faces of his “allies” swam before him. Tagen paused to lash out at the jagged wall with his heavy boot, flaking away bits and pieces of stone while a fit of cursing washed through him. Later, he finally thought, as the fury subsided. When he was king, he would have the time he needed to punish those who had betrayed him and enjoy their suffering.
Tagen smiled bitterly into the darkness. To salvage the remains of his wrecked plans, he would have to abandon his political games and maneuvering. From this point on, he would need to rely on more direct measures.
Tagen wiped at his nose and began to stomp forward once more.
The Deeps were treacherous, but they did offer one thing Tagen needed tonight: privacy. The list of dwarves that would venture this deep was short, and the list of those who would do so at this hour was shorter still. Regardless, any unfortunate that happened upon him could be easily disposed of with virtually no questions following their disappearance.
Eventually he reached his goal, a small alcove that had been lined with a clever inlay of stone bricks. The ornate carvings in this niche were a rarity this far away from the main p
assages of the kingdom and impossible to mistake for those who knew of them. Tagen stepped into the shallow recess, ground his torch out, and waited.
As the dark closed around him, his thoughts drifted to the coming battle and all the pieces that could be in play. The chaos will serve me, Thorn, he thought bitterly. Even if that mongrel of a grandson of his was a Dakayga as it seemed, the battlefield could be the half-breed’s undoing. Being Dakayga did not mean being indestructible.
The scrape of boots on stone pulled Tagen’s attention back from his gleeful consideration of that ugly demon head on a hobgoblin pike. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered out into the darkness.
The darkness began to yield as a small globe of light swayed into view. The glow was devoid of color or flicker, without so much as a shift of shadow in the source to indicate a wick or taper. Heavy moisture in the air forged a spectral halo around the ball of light, obscuring any details of the figure holding it aloft.
“Ignatius?” Tagen asked from his niche. He tightened his grip on the sword at his hip.
“Aye, Tagen,” Ignatius replied. The voice that crawled through the passage had a rasp to it that spoke of years of abuse, though Ignatius would be just past his prime and had many decades of life before he would be considered elderly. Tagen could remember ringing sermons that echoed from the stone halls sixty years ago and the honey-smooth voice that had preached them. Much had changed, it seemed.
The dwarf’s silhouette came to a stop not far from Tagen, but the globe of light drifted forward seemingly of its own volition, rearing above Tagen’s head and illuminating both dwarves with its phantom light. Tagen almost took an involuntary step back from the ruined face that was revealed.
Ignatius’s voice was not the only thing that had changed. The once-smooth and handsome features of the exiled priest were now a bed of puckered scars and weals that ran the length of Ignatius’s face past his neck and disappeared into a roughly tailored shirt.
Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) Page 13
