Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (28 page)

The stone’s surface was cool to the touch, and if there was harm done, Thorn could not perceive it. The stone did nothing at first, but as the vertical line rotated, the glowing embers danced faster and faster, until their individuality was lost in a single, uniform glow.

Thorn continued to turn the gemstone, and as he did so, the embers separated once more, slowing to their individual rhythmic dances. He grunted with satisfaction and stood, raising his voice to be heard beyond the closed doors: “Guard! Bring me Sargon!”

“Yer gonna burn it, the fire’s too high,” Jocelyn groaned.

“Are ya the one cooking this bird, or me?” replied Gideon.

Jocelyn planted stout fists on her strong hips and gave Gideon a look that would make the giant crocs of Long Lake sink below the icy waters in search of warmth.

Gideon gazed back up at her with a gap-toothed smile and threw another log on the fire.

Sargon shook his head and smiled behind his pipe, which was packed with rich tobacco from the lowlands. The fight would be on now. Jocelyn wasn’t one to tolerate pigheadedness, especially from the likes of Gideon.

“Ya boneheaded, no-sense-havin’ fool...” She kicked Gideon in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. She then snagged the fresh log by an end that protruded beyond the embers and hurled it at him.

Gideon rolled from his place by the fire and came to his feet just in time to catch the fiery log with his face. Red motes cascaded from the log to pepper his beard and hair. He yelped and danced about, swatting at the smoking patches that instantly arose from his dense blonde hair. A roar of laughter went up around the camp and cheers sounded as Jocelyn tackled him back to the ground.

Sargon laughed deeply at the display. Although not a fighting man himself, Sargon always enjoyed a good tumble, especially if he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. Men of the cloth rarely took up the sword—or fists, in this case—but it was known to happen on occasion. He was too old for that sort of thing now, but oh, the memories. Best leave it to the younger generation and enjoy the scrapping from a distance. Perhaps this latest philosophical bent was one of the reasons the younger dwarves kept referring to him as “wise.”

Jocelyn and Gideon grappled on the ground near the cook fire to the sound of cheers and laughter until Jocelyn pinned Gideon with a loud thump. Gideon raised his hands in surrender. “I yield to yer better sense, fer cookin’, anyways,” he wheezed.

“Thought ya’d see it my way.” She playfully punched him in the chest and stood, offering him a hand up.

Sargon pulled deeply on his pipe, enjoying the taste of crisp, mountain air and aged lowland tobacco. It was close to dusk and the low angle of the sun lit the sky in hues of orange and violet. Rows of clouds, reminiscent of freshly tilled fields, drifted in the distance. Their camp sat in the shadow of the northern Dales, many miles from the capital city of Mozil, their home.

Gideon took Jocelyn’s hand and hopped up from the ground. He dusted himself off and made his way over to where the priest had made his bed for the coming evening.

Sargon squinted at the stocky dwarf. “Ya fared well. Only one black eye, and no blood flowin’ this time.”

“I fared better than that, ma old friend. Seems the only way for me ta get out of cookin’ is ta make a right ass of meself!” Gideon replied with a devious grin, not diminished in the least by his charred hair and beard.

“Yer smarter than ya look!” Sargon laughed. He motioned to the patch of lush grass beside him. “Sit.”

Gideon plopped down in the soft vegetation and pulled out a pipe of his own. He pressed several pinches of the valuable tobacco into its bowl. Thick, corded muscles rolled along Gideon’s forearms as he struck flint to light the well-packed pipe he cradled in his meaty hand. A multitude of scars ran along his skin, all the way up to his face. Each white line was earned in battles with Wildmen of the East or the goblin hordes to the South. His presence on this journey spoke volumes about how important it was to the king that Sargon succeed in his quest.

“One o’ these days yer not gonna be able ta get up from yer sister’s beatins.” Sargon chuckled.

“That may be so, but at least I won’t have ta cook.” Gideon smiled. “I’m terrible at it, anyways... abandonin’ the effort...’tis a true service I be doing fer the group.”

Sargon looked at Jocelyn, who stood before the cooking fire making adjustments so the flames didn’t touch the plump, juicy bird skewered on the spit. She knew her way around a fire, to be sure, but Jocelyn’s true skills lay with the axe and flail that were within easy reach of her bustling path about the campfire. Sargon had seen her do miraculous things with those weapons and was pleased when she agreed to come along.

“So...” Gideon said, between puffs of smoke. “This thing we’re doin’... must be pretty important ta bring ya out from under the mountain.”

Sargon looked up at the sky and smiled. Gideon didn’t like secrets and could sniff them out faster than a red-hound hunting a dire bear. Being a member of the Holy Order, Sargon was accustomed to secrets and mysteries, though he doubted their necessity at times. The dwarves who served with him now—Gideon chief amongst them—were duty-bound to follow his lead and would not abandon their mission regardless of his ability to answer or not. For them, a straightforward response was best. “I wish I could tell ya, Gideon, but I gave me oath, and I don’t intend ta break it.”

Gideon’s response was to look down the mountainside toward the lowlands and puff more feverishly on his pipe.

Sargon honestly did want to tell him the true purpose of their journey. He thought it would improve the chances for success if they all knew, but that was not the king’s wish. Sargon had to admit that he could see the wisdom in King Thorn’s desire for secrecy in this matter. The man had lost too much already and could possibly lose more if what Sargon had been told was true.

Sargon settled into the fragrant grass and closed his eyes, reflecting on the meeting with his king.

“Ya summoned me, Ma King?”

He knelt before King Thorn, who sat on the second step of Hannual, the mountain throne of Mozil. The old king was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and apparently lost in thought. The mighty axe Mordekki lay on the steps beside him.

If the king sitting upon the step had not been enough to raise Sargon’s eyebrow, the presence of the weapon, out and free of its cradle, certainly was. Thorn rarely acknowledged its existence these days, let alone drew the weapon. Mordekki had lain quietly since that horrible day, the memory of which was distant to all but his king. Thorn bore its weight every day.

“I need ya ta do somethin’ for me.” King Thorn’s voice was rough but had strength. There was an urgency to his tone that Sargon had not heard in years.

“Anything, Ma King,” he replied.

“I received news from our scouts ta the South that the hobgoblin hordes be on the move. They’re forcin’ the Wildmen to scatter, makin’ a real mess in the lowlands,” the king said. He motioned for Sargon to stand.

“I’ll assemble the clerics and make ’em ready ta move by the end of—”

“No,” King Thorn interrupted. “You’ll be doin’ somethin’ else.”

“Of course, Ma King. I shall do what ya bid of me.” Sargon looked at Thorn perplexedly, not sure what to say beyond this. It was his duty to rally the clerics in times such as these. If Thorn had other duties in mind that would take him from his traditional task, they must be important indeed.

His eyes followed the hand that had motioned him to his feet as it dropped to touch the carved handle of Mordekki. The deep runes etched into the surface glowed softly in response to the king’s touch, bathing the monarch in a soft, golden glow. The action raised more questions about the king’s behavior, but he did not voice his concern. Silence was often the best tool to bring issues to the surface. Most secrets worked to be free. He balled his hands into fists behind his back to calm his anxiety and waited patiently for Thorn to continue.

“I been givin’ other news as well.” The king drew a deep breath, but then hesitated when he looked at Sargon, as if in indecision about what to say next. The pause was drawn out.

Sargon drew his fists tighter in response to the growing tension but tried to remain composed. He had faith in his king, even though the Thorn he had known and loved had been gone for many years. Whatever it was that needed to be revealed, Sargon would listen, and help if he could.

Thorn looked away and spoke slowly, “I must prepare the kingdom fer war. If it comes ta that. So I can’t be leavin’ to deal with this other matter. That’s what I need ya for.”

“Of course, Ma King. I shall do whatever ya bid of me,” Sargon said again, silently urging his friend to continue.

Thorn’s eyes locked with Sargon’s and the old priest witnessed a raging fire within them. A fire Sargon had thought dead with Duhann.

Hope surged in Sargon and curiosity enflamed his mind. What events had taken place to bring the passion back to his king’s heart? More importantly, how long would it, or could it, remain?

“I must tell ya somethin’. Somethin’ that cannot leave this room,” said Thorn.

Sargon nodded eagerly. The priest stood in stunned silence as he was told of the dark adviser’s visit. With each passing word of the story, Thorn was transformed. Before Sargon’s weeping eyes, his longtime friend was no longer the tired, old man who mourned the loss of his son but once again the Hammer of the Mountain, King Thorn, ruler of the dwarven clans of all Orundal.

Overcome, Sargon fell to his knees. “Ma King.”

Thorn looked down at him. “Find ma grandson, if he truly exists.” His voice boomed with the power and authority of old, filling the empty hall. “Bring him ta me. I trust no other but ye ta do this.”

“Am I ta go alone, Ma King?” Sargon asked, still in the thrall of his friend’s rebirth.

“No.” The shake of the king’s grizzled mane was curt. “Pick ya nine of ma best fighters from under the mountain, and one general. Gideon.” The handle of the great axe prodded Sargon’s chest. “Tell ’em nothin’ of yer real purpose, until ya know fer certain of its truth.”

Sargon nodded emphatically. “As ya say, Ma King!”

Thorn nodded as well in satisfaction. Reaching into a pocket with his free hand, he pulled out a stone that glinted blue with what seemed to be its own light. Gesturing with the axe handle, Thorn brought Sargon once more to his feet.

“Take this. It’ll lead ya to ’em, or so the creature says.” Derision and hope both laced the king’s words. “The scrawl along the top is the direction ya travel when the stone glows.” The small stone was pressed into Sargon’s calloused hand.

He trembled when his fingers closed around the stone’s cool, smooth surface. He looked at the gemstone in amazement and rotated it in his palm, taking note of the glow as it grew and faded with regard to the orientation of the imperfection Thorn had indicated. With surprise, he said, “He’s ta the East, with the humans?”

The king nodded. “So it would seem. Now go... and Dagda be with ya, ma friend.”