Delver Magic Book II: Throne of Vengeance



  Delver Magic

  Book II

  Throne of Vengeance

  Jeff Inlo

  Copyright © 1995 Jeff Inlo

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  120110713

  By Jeff Inlo

  Fantasy:

  Delver Magic Book I – Sanctum’s Breach

  Delver Magic Book II – Throne of Vengeance

  Delver Magic Book III – Balance of Fate

  Spiritual Thriller:

  Soul View

  Soul Chase

  When Do I See God? by Jeff Ianniello

  Science Fiction:

  Alien Cradle

  Humor:

  Counterproductive Man

  For everyone that believes in Magic,

  and for Joan, because you believed in me!

  I wish to thank Christine Bell for continuing to review my work in the Delver Magic series. Her generous contributions serve as an inspiration and confirmation that goodwill and thoughtfulness are not as rare as I might otherwise believe. Once more, I would also like to thank you for continuing to read the Delver Magic series.

  Chapter 1

  King Bol Folarok rigidly kept his back to his son. He stared vacantly at the stone wall before him.

  "I am leaving Dunop," he said. The tone rang hollow, his emotions encased in a vacuum. He spoke as if it were some well-rehearsed line he had already repeated a thousand times. The announcement, though cold, remained firm, and it indicated more than just a temporary absence. The finality of the statement slowly took substance, and it lingered in the dimly lit chamber.

  The words fell upon Prince Jon Folarok's senses like a lead weight. He looked upon Bol's back, impatiently waiting for further explanation. He was offered nothing. He stared breathlessly into the dark space between him and his father.

  This was no time for the king to leave. What could be more pressing than the current and growing unrest? Bol was needed here, needed now. He couldn't leave. Jon wanted answers, but the back of his father wouldn't reply.

  Face me!

  But Bol would not turn. The dwarf prince squinted as if hoping to see clearly through a dense fog.

  "Where are you going?" Jon stammered.

  "Does it truly matter?"

  The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

  "When are you coming back?"

  "I'm not coming back," King Bol replied with the same sterile tone as before. If he had sympathy for his son's confusion, he would not show it. His words remained as brittle as frozen twigs. "Not ever."

  "What?" Jon felt his innards tighten, a familiar attack of anxiety. He was not a dwarf that dealt well with conflict or adversity. During the past few days, much of that was heaped upon him. Now, he faced a climax of catastrophe, and the accompanying nervous tension boiled over in his midsection. "What do you mean not ever?"

  "I'm leaving Dunop and I will not be returning," Bol repeated, still not turning to face his only surviving son.

  Jon dropped his head and stared at the floor. He could not look at his father's back for another moment as it only served to tighten the knot in his belly. The pain in his stomach was making it hard to think. His mind nearly went blank. He fought to seize upon something to say, words which might end this absurdity and set everything right. He could find nothing. He blurted out his confusion.

  "I don't understand!"

  "It is simple." Bol extended a hand to the wall in front of him. He patted the polished stone as if hoping to pull conviction from the intrinsic strength of the rock. "I can no longer stay in this place. It reminds me too much of ...." He held his tongue just before his voice cracked. He paused for long moments until his hollow tone returned. "I have made grave mistakes, mistakes I can not simply forget or erase. I can do nothing but leave."

  Jon knew instantly what his father could not say, knew that the king was referring to the decision that had sent him and his older brother, Tun, to Sanctum Mountain. They were sent to assist the elves, to destroy Ingar's sphere which held all the magic in the land, but Tun was killed at the hands of a sand giant. That was the moment Jon first felt a hole open in his soul. An empty hollow pain was his from that day on. It now felt as if that hole was expanding.

  To Jon, this was madness. He shook his head as if to scatter cobwebs from his face. "You just can't leave. You're the king here."

  "Am I?" A note of sarcasm edged Bol's tone. This time, the king did not swallow his emotion. He let his bitterness spill out with his words. "Will the dwarves here even listen to me anymore? I doubt it. The separatists gain power every day. They grow in numbers even faster. They hate the monarchy and they want me out. They say I'm responsible for freeing the magic and putting them all at the mercy of the spell casters that are sure to follow. They say I have made dark alliances with the elves, and even the humans. They call me the king who murdered his own son."

  "No ..." Jon cried out, but the anguish in his stomach tightened his lips.

  Though Bol would still not face his son, he held up his arm to silence any further outburst. "That is what they say, and far too many believe. I can no longer be king, and I can no longer live with the memories of this place."

  The past which Bol spoke of now exerted its force upon Jon. The memories came crashing down upon the prince. An image of Sanctum's outline pierced his mind. It once held the sphere, but now it served as a tomb for his dead brother. It seemed, however, that Sanctum's toll had not yet been fully collected, and it now threatened to take Bol from Jon as well.

  In truth, this should not have surprised the prince. He should have almost expected it. He had witnessed his father's spirit sag since the day he had returned from Sanctum with bittersweet news. Yes, Ingar's sphere had been destroyed, but Tun had died in the effort. Jon could still remember how the very life began to drain from Bol's face when he reported the loss.

  The entire town of Dunop wept for the death of its heir prince, but none endured as much torment as the royal family. Bol was inconsolable in his grief. From the moment Jon returned to the throne room alone, without his brother, Bol's collapse spiraled out of control. He walked alone through empty corridors of the palace, muttering to himself. He sought no one, and what remained of his family left him to grieve.

  Jon wrapped himself in his own guilt. He struggled to return to his duties, to return to the work he loved in the tunnels. Yet each cave and each dark corridor reminded him of the bowels of Sanctum, the grave of his older brother.

  Bol's wife, Queen Yave, proved even less supportive. She seemed consumed with an inextinguishable anger. She found it more fitting to blame her husband than console him. She was against assisting the elves at Sanctum from the start. To lose the son that was always willing to defend her, support her even against Bol himself, it moved her beyond grief. She burned with fury.

  As Yave would make no attempt to comfort her husband, Bol slipped further into his downward spiral. With this came the end of his desire to lead. He allowed rumors to abound and did little to reaffirm his rule. The cry of the separatists was not a whisper. They had called out their near treasonous desires with frequency and fervor. Bol did nothing to quell them, as if he himself believed their venomous lies. And now it seemed, at the very least, he would gi
ve them what they wanted. He announced as much as he declared his intentions to Jon.

  "I am relinquishing my right to the throne. I have already called for a scribe to prepare the notification. When he returns with the scroll, I will sign it. I, thus, banish myself from Dunop. You, being the only surviving heir, shall become king."

  No other words could have brought greater fear to Jon's heart. His knees almost buckled at the prospect. An image came to his mind, an image of himself on the throne; weak, indecisive, and confused.

  I do not want to be king!

  Jon grasped at anything which might change this edict. "If the dwarves would not have you as their king, why will they accept me?"

  "They do not blame you," Bol replied sullenly, almost as if he scorned such unfairness. "I have heard nothing from the crowds against you. Perhaps they think I wished you dead as well, and it was only by luck that you survived."

  Bol steadied himself in a moment of silence. He turned and finally faced his son. His face appeared as hollow as his words. The thick skin under his eyes sank low with dark circles. His beard, ruffled and unkempt, curled unevenly in every direction. The wrinkles on his forehead appeared as if gouged with diamond-headed stone cutters. Though he looked at Jon, his focus seemed haphazard and distant.

  "This is how it must be. There is nothing else I can do."

  Bol's haggard appearance dropped Jon further into despair. He needed a moment to gather himself, but his father's wary glance and the tightening pain in his stomach gave him no reprieve. He spoke out desperately.

  "What of the queen? What about her? Are you abandoning her as well?"

  Bol's reply remained absent of any emotion. "She abandoned me long ago."

  "And what am I to do with her? What do I say? If I am king, she can no longer be queen."

  "She will have to accept this," Bol replied, almost as if he found some satisfaction in this thought. "It should be of no surprise to her, or to anyone. If I had died, such would be the case. Though it might have been better had I actually died, the result of my leaving is the same. I would not fret over it. She no longer seems content as queen. Just as I have been powerless, she has neglected her duties as well. She may actually be relieved."

  Bol was interrupted by the entrance of the scribe. Four guards and several ministers of the court accompanied him.

  "Forgive me sire," the scribe said with a shaky, uncertain tone. "but I thought it necessary to gather witnesses. In the history of Dunop, no king has ever relinquished the throne. I wanted to make sure no one would doubt your true intentions."

  "No one will question this," the king responded. "If anything, they will question why it took me so long."

  "Are you sure you wish to do this?" the scribe pressed, wishing to make it clear to the witnesses that it was the king's true intention and no one else's. "Perhaps you should wait, take time to consider the proposal?"

  "Nothing will change my mind. Let me have the scroll."

  For the first time in his life, the scribe delayed acting upon an order of his king. He stiffened as he opened the scroll, ignoring the king's open hand. He began to read every word upon the parchment.

  Before Tun's death, Bol would have angrily snatched the scroll from the hand of the scribe, making it clear his orders were to be obeyed without hesitation. Now, however, Bol waited meekly as the scribe read the declaration.

  The scribe's hands shook visibly as he read the words on the parchment. His own voice cracked as he spoke of Bol's self-proclaimed banishment, the last order of Bol Folarok before he would relinquish his own throne.

  The words stung at Jon like a thousand angry bees. He wanted to shout out for the scribe to stop, but he did not. He wanted to flee from the room, but he remained. He even wished to strike out at his father, but his hands remained at his sides.

  The witnesses failed to notice the pain of the prince. They watched instead the expression of their king. They looked for signs of opposition to the shocking declaration, but there was none. They saw only acceptance in his eyes, and his hands, when he eagerly signed the document.

  The king, now a king no more, inhaled deeply. He turned his back one last time on his son, and he moved quietly out the door.

  Near shock, those gathered in the room turned their attention from the exiting king to Jon.

  Jon rubbed his face in despair. In this one moment, he appeared to age many cycles in an instant. As he dropped his hands away from his face, wrinkles etched new lines around his cheeks and forehead. His eyes sank further back into their sockets. His skin, normally pale from the lack of light in the tunnels, now hung from his bones with the shadows of even more pasty whiteness.

  He looked to those before him with pleading eyes, and with despair on his lips. "What do I do?"

  At first, no one spoke. Finally, Hern Grottman, the minister of construction and a close friend of Jon's, spoke the only true options. "You must announce the proclamation. You must inform the queen of the edict, and then you must post it for every dwarf to see. You must take the throne."

  Jon groaned. The wail filled the chamber. He looked toward Hern with pleading eyes as the thought of becoming king crushed his very soul. "Is there nothing else I can do?"

  Hern paused as he grimaced. He considered what he believed to be the only other option, an alternative which held dire consequences. "You can relinquish your right to the throne," the minister said guardedly, as if he really did not wish to speak of such a proposal. He saw a gleam of hope rise in Jon's eyes, but he quenched it almost immediately. "This holds no real hope for you, Jon. You do not have an heir. There is no one else to take your place. If you had an uncle or even a cousin, it might do, but that is not the case. If you do not take the throne, you invite anarchy. We might be able to find someone not far removed from the Folarok bloodline, but I seriously doubt our people will accept such an appointment. The separatists have grown strong in these passing days. They will see such action as an opportunity. I am certain they will rise and appoint their own leader. Do you really wish to risk this? If they take the throne, they will certainly execute every loyal member currently in your service."

  Jon was unwilling to give up his hope in avoiding the throne. "What about my mother? What about the queen? She can maintain the throne and rule as queen? It has been done before. I would not have to become king and there would be no question as to her authority."

  "But there would," Hern replied swiftly. "The queen is not of Folarok blood. By marrying Bol she became queen, not from her own heritage."

  "Does that really matter?"

  "It has in the past," Hern noted. "If you had a sister, you could easily relinquish to her, but sadly, such is not the case."

  "This is madness!" Jon argued. "You are basically telling me I have no choice. There has to be another alternative. What if I died in Sanctum along with..., what if I were dead? What then?"

  "But you are not dead. And hopefully, you are not thinking of anything so foolish." Hern bore into Jon's face with concerned eyes. "Suicide is not the answer."

  "I'm not talking about suicide. I'm just asking what would have happened if Bol left and I was not here to take the throne. What would you do?"

  Hern rubbed his thick beard with his own powerful hand. His short stout fingers broke spaces through the flowing hair before he tightened his hand into a fist.

  "I suppose we would be forced to choose a new ruling family."

  "Then do that now," Jon implored.

  "We can not, for you are not dead."

  "I could leave."

  Hern clenched his teeth. He wished not to speak in such a manner to his friend, but he was given no alternative. He inhaled and let the full width of his body face Jon with unrelenting resolution. "Is that what you wish? Has the image of your father walking out of this room, turning his back on you, has this so quickly vanished from you mind? Would you now do the same to the people that depend on you?"

  The dwarf guards and the
other ministers held their breath in surprise at such words. They stared with fixed astonishment upon Hern's icy features.

  Hern ignored the gasps of those around him. He continued with his gaze locked upon the prince who now had to be king.

  "Yes, the dwarves of Dunop will survive without you. We will find a solution if that's what you force us to do, but that is not how it should be. I've known you for some time, Jon Folarok, and you are a Folarok. I know you don't wish to be king. You've never wanted the throne, but it is yours now. I truly feel for you, my friend. I see that you are aging before your time. I know this will only exact an even greater toll, but unfortunately, this is not the time for you to simply withdraw. I will say this with no regard for my own well-being; your father has done you—and all of Dunop—a disservice. He chose to run rather than face his true responsibility. I will hope that you do not do the same."

  Hern exhaled heavily before continuing. "I can offer you but one point of solace. If you truly wish to relinquish the throne, wait until the time is proper. First you must quell the fears of our people, you must bring calm back to Dunop. Then, and only then, will it be advisable for us to search for a successor outside the Folarok name. But for now, I see but two choices for you - accept your fate, or leave Dunop as your father has left, with his back turned upon his people."

  Hern finished his piece. He withdrew himself a pace from Jon and looked to the ground. He closed his eyes as he waited for Jon's response.

  The space which Hern allowed now isolated the prince. Jon felt as if a moat now surrounded him. His shoulders went limp. He spoke, not with resolve, but with grudging acceptance. "It shall be as you say. I will take the throne."

  Hern, though grateful for these words, spoke now with a soft and unchallenging voice, a proper tone for a subordinate addressing a king. "Dunop thanks you, and I thank you."

  "I need your help, not your thanks," Jon responded sorrowfully.

  "I will do all that I can. I will stand by you, I will advise you, if you allow."

  "I need advice. I don't know what to do."

  Again Hern stroked his beard. "There is much to do. The work shall be in deciding how to do it. The people of Dunop will be advised of the change. I am sure word will spread quickly. As to any formal announcements, let me suggest that as you take the throne you do it as unceremoniously as possible. Without insult to you, I do not believe this is a time for celebration."

  Feeling as if being led to slaughter, Jon could only agree. "No, absolutely no celebration. This is no time of joy, not for anyone."