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

by Matt Howerter

  Erik scanned the underlying brush and the heavily wooded jungle beyond.

  All seemed calm. The Tanglevine River flowed west in peaceful consistency, and even the wildlife buzzed with the normality of day-to-day life. If an attack waited for them in the surrounding foliage, it was too well hidden for Erik to sense.

  His adopted son jostled with the sway of his two bearers as they bore him through the dense jungle basin. Kinsey’s clothes were in tatters, but no bruises marred his flesh. He appeared to be at peace, a state that had not graced his features in more than a year.

  Rest, my son. You have earned it. Erik turned his attention back to the path ahead.

  The backs of dwarves crowded the trail. Their short, stocky frames rolled steadily forward across the rough terrain without pause. The eldest, whose name was apparently Sargon, had taken the lead. He was followed closely by a pair of golden-haired dwarves and six others of various sizes and shapes.

  An equine whicker caught Erik’s long ears, and he called out, “Something stirs ahead.”

  Sargon’s head snapped up, and he gazed back at Erik with an appraising look.

  Erik pointed to a small bluff that was just visible through the jungle before them. “Your pack animals wait there, I assume.”

  The old dwarf nodded and quickened his pace. The others followed, setting off at a near run.

  Even with his longer stride, Erik found it difficult to keep up, and the dwarves pulled steadily away. He gritted his teeth and attempted to ignore the flaring pain as he attempted to catch up. At least I’m still alive, he thought with a grunt.

  When he caught up, several of the dwarves had already mounted the sturdy miniature horses and looked impatient to be on their way. Sargon was fretting over the rigging of a sling that would carry Kinsey’s litter.

  More than a dozen ponies were gathered here. Each had been packed and laden with supplies. Whatever else the “Master” may be, Erik thought, he is well prepared. There was a singular discordant item in the clearing. Dak, Kinsey’s warhorse, towered above the diminutive tableau. Proud and aloof, the warhorse’s head swung toward Erik and tossed his long, rusty mane in recognition. The monstrous animal was twice as tall at the shoulder as its smaller cousins and nearly twice their girth as well.

  A broad smile broke over Erik’s face. It was his first true smile since before the capture at the river’s edge. He hobbled over to the warhorse, which responded with an enthusiastic nuzzling that staggered Erik backward.

  Dak’s head and mouth bore partially healed cuts and abrasions—mute testimony to the horse’s struggle for freedom. Whatever had happened to Kinsey in the past weeks, Dak had apparently been left tethered to something and had lost patience with his master’s failure to return. “Eos only knows how you made it back here,” Erik murmured as he smoothed the rusty coat and fingered the shredded leather. “You worked the bit out and chewed yourself free, didn’t you, boy?” Erik asked him as he stroked the underside of Dak’s jaw.

  One liquid eye rolled, and Dak tossed his head.

  “Ah well,” Erik murmured, continuing to stroke Dak’s mane and neck, “I’m becoming accustomed to my questions going unanswered. Why should you be any different?”

  Dak tossed his head again and looked resentful.

  Erik chuckled at the absurdity of it all. “Good to see you, boy,” he said softly. “Take care of Kinsey. He will need your strength.” Erik slapped Dak twice on the shoulder then made his way to Kinsey’s litter.

  Sargon waited near Kinsey’s prone form. The old dwarf was watching the golden-maned pair direct the group for their departure. When Erik’s approach caught Sargon’s eye, the dwarf turned to face him. “You be the lad’s...caretaker?” Sargon’s callused hand gestured to Kinsey.

  “Father,” Erik said without hesitation. “I’m his father.” He knelt beside Kinsey and checked him once again for injuries. “What happened to him? Why has he not awakened?”

  Sargon pursed his lips and studied Erik with his charcoal eyes for a moment before he spoke. “Ya know anythin’ about dwarven lore?”

  Erik shook his head.

  The old dwarf grunted and laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Well, if ya did, you might understand, but for now I can tell ya this: Yer boy’s gonna be fine.”

  Erik frowned at the gray-bearded dwarf.

  Sargon’s dark eyes had flint in them, but his hard voice mellowed as he continued, “I know trust is hard ta come by, especially these days, and maybe even more so between yer people and mine, but I be tellin’ ya the truth. The lad’ll be okay. I’ll be watchin’ over ’im like he were ma own.”

  Erik could see the sincerity in the old dwarf’s eyes and hear the emotion in his gravelly voice. Neither made staying behind any easier. The princess had been rescued. The end of the story was supposed to include the heroes riding away together, but until just earlier, he hadn’t even known if Kinsey had survived the attempt to free Sacha Moridin.

  Satisfied that Kinsey suffered from no injuries, Erik staggered to his feet. He slipped a hand into one of his pockets. A brief search yielded a simple golden ring. Erik stared down at it, thinking on what it had meant to him the past few decades and what it meant for him now. When he raised his gaze back to Sargon, the dwarf’s quizzical expression was distorted through the tears that brimmed in Erik’s eyes. He held the ring out to the old dwarf. “Give this to him when he awakens,” Erik said and was pleased that his voice did not break when he spoke.

  Sargon took the token without question and rolled it in his callused palm, watching the late-morning light glimmer softly upon the matte finish of the simple band. He tipped his hand to let the ring roll to his fingertips and then deftly snatched it up before it could fall to the earth.

  “Tell him,” Erik continued. “That I will follow soon.”

  “As ya say,” Sargon replied, then he added, “You’ll be welcome at Mozil, I’ll be makin’ sure o’ that.”

  Erik nodded but said nothing.

  He helped them secure the ponies and attach Kinsey’s litter to Dak. It took some time to get the horse to accept the hand of the golden-haired female dwarf, but with some coaxing and a few sugar cubes delved from a pack, the moody stallion eventually gave her his favor.

  “Yer good with horses,” she said as Dak gently accepted the latest offering from her upturned palm, “and ya have a way about ya that’s calmin’ ta man and beast. Ya might actually make a fine husband if ya weren’t so pretty.”

  Erik was so taken aback by the sudden comment that he laughed outright in spite of his melancholy. Her impish grin took her bluff features to a radiance that he found enchanting.

  “I be Jocelyn.”

  Erik sketched an unsteady bow. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Jocelyn, and I’m pleased to almost meet your criteria.”

  Her smile mellowed to honest pleasure at that. “You need not worry fer Kinsey,” she said, laying a hand on Erik’s elbow. “He’ll be cared fer and honored in Mozil.”

  “Thank you. Your words are comforting.”

  Jocelyn gave Erik a curt nod and then rejoined her companions.

  All too soon the time had come, and he watched stoically as the dwarves and his son disappeared into the thick jungles of the Tanglevine.

  Sargon rode in silence as Waterfall Citadel and the elf fell away to be obscured by the dense vegetation.

  The day had begun with their entry to Waterfall Citadel, where Kinsey was determined to find the answers to what had befallen his friends since he had lost them. Upon their arrival, the city guard took Kinsey into custody, citing accusations in the kidnap and disappearance of the very person he was seeking, Princess Sacha Moridin. Despite Kinsey’s protestations of injustice, the entire group had been marched to one of the deepest pits below Waterfall Citadel to await the king’s justice. That dank cell had become the epicenter of one of the most momentous days of Sargon’s life.

  In the face of Kinsey’s accusers, the dwarven god Dagda had intervened and
revealed not only the true nature of Kinsey as Dakayga, the ancient spirit warrior of the dwarven people, but also the nature of each of his companions: Gideon as the strong-armed warrior, Jocelyn as the tender but fierce mother cave bear, and the rest of the companions as fierce but loyal soldiers. If ever there had been a doubt of the trustworthiness of any of the dwarves that came along on this quest, there was none now.

  Kinsey’s validation. Sargon’s answer. His god’s touch. These things turned upside down that cell of rot and darkness, trading damnation for salvation and misery for hope. Against all expectation, the experience had altered the course of Sargon’s life.

  The old priest turned his thoughts from the past to Mozil and found his anticipation heightened. Excitement flavored with impatience roiled in his breast at the thought of his friend and king being reunited with his grandchild. The fire within him won’t be dyin’, it’ll become stronger, he thought. Their king would be returned in earnest, and what a sight it’ll be.

  A murmur beyond the noise of their travel drew him from his contemplation of the future and past. He turned to see Gideon making his way forward on a light-brown-and-white mount.

  The general was the most capable of warriors on his feet, but he would never be comfortable in a saddle. He tended to ride the same way that he approached war: clenched fist, tight jaw, and straight at the enemy.

  The horse’s tan head tossed when Gideon drew abreast of Sargon. The scarred general reined back more vigorously than necessary, almost causing his mount to come to a complete halt. A quick heel to a tan flank brought the horse forward again to fall in step next to Sargon’s sorrel. One brown eye rolled at Sargon with hints of white at the edges. It’s not my fault, boy, Sargon thought, some men weren’t meant fer the saddle, no matter the need.

  “That thing back there… It let us go too easily,” Gideon said without preamble, speaking of the pale creature that had sent them on their way.

  Sargon nodded in reply. The creature was known to the people of Mozil as the “Dark Advisor.” Some valued its word almost as much as the holy writ of Dagda, but most felt that its appearance from the shadows was an omen of dire times to come. Sargon wasn’t certain that that was true, but he did not trust that its interests were always the same as those of his people.

  Gideon blinked. “So we’re just gonna walk into its trap?!”

  “I suppose.” Sargon scratched his thick, gray beard. “But... he had us back there. Dead ta rights. If he’d wanted ta kill us, we’d most likely be dead, or at the least still rottin’ in that cell.”

  Gideon frowned in thought. The reins slackened in his grip as he forgot to direct every step, and the pony assumed an easy gait with its head swaying slightly.

  Sargon let the burly, golden-haired dwarf ponder. Whatever the Dark Advisor’s agenda entailed, it was likely beyond any of them to figure it out. For the time being, there were more pressing matters than the pale creature’s murky machinations. Sargon intended to address one of them this very evening.

  The group traveled on in relative silence for the remainder of the day. They had followed a branch of the Tanglevine almost directly west and found a nice clearing next to the river to make camp. Several trees leaned out over the water, providing easy access to refill their canteens.

  The dwarves fanned out to tend to their separate duties while Sargon stretched his legs and went to check on the still-slumbering form of Kinsey. The half-dwarf’s bed had been set near the fire that was rapidly being constructed by Horus. Peace still smoothed the lines of Kinsey’s face, and his color was good. Sargon was no field surgeon—his ability to heal stemmed from sources other than study—but he suspected that Kinsey would recover shortly.

  Satisfied, he sat next to Kinsey’s litter to work the last of the stiffness from his legs. He sighed and pulled his pipe free from his vest pocket. A large pinch of Lowland tabac went into the handcrafted bowl, but he did not light it yet, choosing instead to chew softly on the pipe stem and watch his companions. Sargon leaned back against a convenient lichen-covered stone and lost himself in the activity of his brethren.

  Jocelyn managed the camp with a deft hand. She good-naturedly clubbed her brother, who was sitting on a fallen branch and peering into a boot suspiciously. “Lazy bones!” she chided him. “There’s naught but your imagination in yer boot. Help Neal gather the water, or you’ll not be eatin’ my cookin’ t’night.”

  “Harridan,” Gideon grumbled, loud enough for the elf they had left behind to hear. In spite of his grumping, the general jammed his foot back into the boot and joined in the chaos. Goods were pulled from the sacks, bags, and crates that had been strapped to the ponies’ backs, and in short order, the smells of supper wafted through the small camp.

  The old priest’s stomach rumbled with anticipation, so he got to his feet and slowly made his way closer to the fire. Sargon circled around those who had willingly come with him on this journey, touching each briefly on back and shoulder. This journey had become the single most important event of his life and the affirmation of his faith. He took a moment to mark their faces in his memory. They had come when he had asked. Now came the time to see if they would hide his secret and the secret of their king.

  Sargon bent down and retrieved a stray twig from the fire while the others talked amongst themselves. He used the bright embers to light the dry tabac in his pipe as he took long drags on the stem. The smoke rolled in his mouth, peppering his taste buds with the robust flavor of the rich leaf. ’Tis the stuff o’ kings, ta be sure, he thought as he looked for a place to sit close to the cook fire.

  Jocelyn smiled and scooted to make room for Sargon, while Neal just leaned aside, still gobbling down his portion of supper. Jocelyn scowled at the gluttonous dwarf. Reaching down, she seized one of Neal’s boots and hauled upward, pitching him backwards with a yell of surprise. Low laughter turned into hoots of delight when Neal’s face reappeared in the firelight, covered with pork stew. The disgruntled dwarf’s anger turned to chagrin as he took note of Sargon standing next to him, and he muttered, “Apologies, Sargon. Take ma spot, if you will.”

  Jocelyn, looking smug, handed Sargon a steaming bowl and Neal the ladle. Neal barely looked twice at her when she said, “And Neal, don’t forget, it be yer night ta be scrubbin’ the stew pot.”

  Neal ducked his head with a murmur that might have been, “As ya say, Jocelyn.” Neal was a good fighter, like the rest of them, but truly daft when it came to manners or wits. This time, though, he knew when he had been beaten.

  Sargon enjoyed his meal between the drags on his pipe. Usually he would wait to smoke until after dinner, but there were things he needed to say, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss his evening pipe.

  Once the others finished their meals and began pulling out their pipes, Sargon put his away and cleared his throat. “I got somethin’ ta say ta all of ya.” He rested his arms on his knees and looked around at the faces of his friends. Each face glowed with a yellowish-orange tint from the fire’s light, and each of their eyes met his expectantly.

  “I’m sure ya been talkin’ amongst yerselves about what we been doin’ out here”—he gestured to Kinsey’s sleeping form—“and ya got speculations about the lad over there.”

  Many heads around the fire nodded. Gideon remained still and stared at the flames, slowly scratching his beard in thought. Jocelyn’s eyes tried to look at everyone at once, evaluating.

  “Let me say that I been honored ta have all of ya join me without question. Yer the most trustworthy group I know. It’s time fer ya to understand why we made this trek and what it be meanin’ ta us as a people. I’ve asked a lot from ya, and I’m about ta ask fer more.”

  Gideon’s gaze lifted from the fire to Sargon.

  The old priest straightened and pointed at Kinsey. “That boy be the king’s grandson, as sure as ma beard be gray and long. He’s gonna need our help, as will the king.”

  Horus’s craggy face twisted in a wry way, and he chuckled before sa
ying, “So, it’s true then. King Thorn’s got hisself an heir?”

  Sargon reflected on the vision that had stood above Kinsey in the jail cell. “I be havin’ no doubts about the lad’s origin.” The surety of his statement drew the eyes of everyone around the fire.

  Gideon blinked and tilted his golden-haired head. “Ya saw somethin’ else down in that dungeon, didn’t ya.” The general leaned forward into the light of the campfire, and his scars seemed to deepen in the orange light. “I hadn’t thought about it before, but ya knew how ta stop the boy from changin’.” The stocky dwarf got to his feet. “Damnation, we all did!”

  All eyes shifted to Gideon.

  The young general lifted his hands into the air and laughed. “I never heard that prayer before in ma life, but I sung the words as if I knew ‘em from birth!” All the heads around the campfire nodded their agreement. Sargon had not had to ask or guide them in song; they just joined him, tugged by an instinct beyond their ability to understand.

  Jocelyn’s was the only face that did not turn to its neighbor or nod along in retrospective wonder. She sat calmly, looking at Sargon with hope in her eyes.

  He smiled at her as if she were his own grandchild. In truth, she was the closest thing he had to one. The decision to tell the others about what he had seen down in that dungeon was one he had not made until now. He patted the lovely girl lightly on the hand and stood.

  The others fell into silence as he did so.

  “I seen his true nature standin’ over ’im with ma own eyes.” Sargon said. His skin tingled at the sound of his own words. “I seen the natures of all of ya, as well.” He swept his pipe stem at the faces in emphasis. “The song be a gift from Dagda himself. He saved us all and showed me what must be done.”