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

by Matt Howerter

  He paused to make sure all eyes were on him, even Neal’s, before he continued. “Some o’ ya know what could happen when we return ta Mozil. And fer those that don’t, I’m tellin’ ya right now. We could start a war. A civil war. Dwarf against dwarf like what happened at Stone Mountain.”

  The silence held as his companions looked on with grim expressions. Even Neal seemed to grasp the full implications and sat with his steaming bowl of freshly poured stew untouched.

  “I’ve trusted all of ya with ma life. What I need ta know now is, can I trust ya with this secret?” Sargon finished.

  Gideon looked on, grim thunder playing below his scarred features. The others sat stunned by the revelation and implication. Jocelyn alone looked thoughtful. She had slipped a smooth, black oval of granite from her pocket and was running a thumb across its polished surface as her eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Sargon recognized the bit of stone as a totem that many of his people used as a focus when they prayed to Dagda, seeking his guidance on matters both large and small. Dagda was a god of permanence, strength, and bedrock. Granite made an excellent choice for an icon to represent him.

  Seeming to come to a decision suddenly, she stood, slipped the stone back into her pocket, and then knelt before Sargon, taking one of his hands in both of her own. She looked up into his eyes with the firelight painting deep amber into her golden locks and said, “Ya be havin’ ma oath. I’ll not be sayin’ a word about the king’s heir until ya deem it the right time.”

  One by one, each of Sargon’s companions joined her, kneeling before him and giving their oaths. As hope swelled anew in his chest, Sargon looked at the sleeping, shadowed form of Kinsey and smiled.

  KINSEY blinked when the sun broke through the clouds to shine on his face. When he tried to raise an arm to shield his eyes from the bright rays, he found that both his arms were pinned to his sides. Sweat broke from his forehead as his heart began to race. He didn’t know where he was, who was holding him, or how he had gotten here, wherever here was, but he was damned if he was going to be held prisoner without a fight.

  Still squinting against the light, Kinsey flexed his stiff muscles until his arms burst from the bindings, and he rolled to one side to escape the makeshift stretcher. Whatever had befallen him had robbed him of his coordination. The brief respite his outstretched hands afforded ended in a mouthful of loamy soil.

  Kinsey spat, clearing his mouth as he scrambled to his feet and set off in a lumbering run, willing his wobbly legs to stay under him. He plunged through the grasslands that stretched for miles in every direction.

  A confused babble erupted from behind him as a single voice that was vaguely familiar rose above the rest in a languid yet commanding pitch. “Know where yer runnin’ ta, do ya?”

  Kinsey knew that voice. Even as his reluctant joints and muscles began to find the flow and rhythm of use, he came to a juddering halt. When he turned to regard the speaker, he found an old dwarf sitting astride a tan-and-white pony that had already dropped its head to graze on the grasses that were close by on either side of the path. The dwarf’s gray beard shone silver in the bright sunlight, and his dark eyes were crinkled in good-natured humor.

  Sargon, Kinsey’s memory supplied as the dwarf tucked an amber-and-black pipe back into one corner of his mouth in an affectation that Kinsey already associated with this odd little man. The pleasant expression on Sargon’s face grew to an outright smile as Kinsey began making his way back to the caravan.

  Eight other dwarves were arrayed along the path, stretching to either side of the old dwarf. They had all been situated on ponies similar to the one Sargon rode. Tan-and-white heads were bent to the tall grass on all sides as the horses took advantage of Kinsey’s disruption. The riders all watched him closely, patiently waiting. The expressions on their faces were subtly different than he remembered from the last time he had laid eyes on them.

  The last memory he had of them—the last memory he had at all—was in the dungeons of Waterfall Citadel, where he had been imprisoned on some ridiculous charge involving his supposed complicity in the kidnapping of Princess Sacha Moridin. There was precious little hope for the dwarven entourage, foreigners, and companions of a man that was supposedly responsible for creating a set of tensions that could have led two nations to the brink of war instead of bountiful alliance. No, the hope he saw on the bearded faces was new.

  Dak, his loyal horse, stood amongst the ponies, dwarfing them all. The rust-colored head tracked Kinsey as he moved back, and the horse whickered and blew softly as he approached.

  “Eos be merciful,” Kinsey breathed, ignoring the dwarves for the moment and instead swiveling to one side to stroke the big horse’s mane. “I thought you lost for certain, boy.”

  Dak rumbled and thumped Kinsey in the chest with his broad nose, searching for a treat.

  “Even after the elf introduced us properly,” Sargon spoke up from the rear. “That beast o’ yers has been reluctant ta let anyone handle ’im.”

  A small hard apple came sailing toward Kinsey, and he snatched it from the air.

  Sargon began to clamber from his saddle and continued, “Resortin’ ta bribery was perhaps not the way a true herdsman might be handlin’ it, but we had ta do what we could.”

  One of Dak’s brown eyes remained fixed on the apple in Kinsey’s hand.

  Kinsey laughed softly. “Traitor,” he said to the horse, offering him the fruit.

  “Hardly,” Sargon said as he stepped up to Kinsey’s side and placed one hand on Dak’s big, rust-colored flank. The skin twitched, but Dak did not pull away from the priest’s touch. “I’d have thought this mule o’ yers be part dog, he be so reluctant ta leave yer side.” Sargon chuckled. “Ya be lucky he didn’t attempt ta snuggle up with ya. Might have ruined the whole trip in one act o’ misguided affection.”

  Kinsey smiled as Dak crunched contentedly on the sweet treat. Turning to the priest, he asked, “Where are we?”

  The old dwarf took the pipe out of his mouth. “We still be in Basinia. Just north o’ the Lowlands.”

  Kinsey frowned. “North of the Lowlands?” he asked. “How long have I been out?”

  Sargon smacked his lips around his pipe stem. “A bit more than two full days now.”

  Thunderstruck, Kinsey gasped. “Two days? And how did we come to be here?” The last thing he could remember was being in the dungeon, and then, pain. These lapses better not be the new normal, he thought sourly as he considered the last blackout he had had.

  Kinsey had woken from another blackout less than ten days earlier. That lapse had seen him lost in the jungle, missing his friends and having no recollection of what had happened or how he had come to be on that sunny riverbank. At least I have clothes this time, he thought, wiping his hands on his breeches and remembering his jog through the woods without a stitch.

  Another thought popped into Kinsey’s mind, something Sargon had just said about Dak. Bowling over whatever the old priest was about to say, Kinsey asked, “Did you say ‘elf’ just a moment ago?”

  Instead of answering directly, the old dwarf poked a finger into his vest pocket and fished out something he obscured in his gnarled fist. Sargon cleared his throat and held out the closed hand. “Yer... father, Erik. He asked me ta give ya this.”

  Erik’s name stirred a surge of hope and anxiety. He had not seen his stepfather since before the blackout at Ordair’s keep. He hurriedly took the offered item.

  “He be in Waterfall Citadel and be in good health the last we seen ’im,” Sargon continued.

  A simple band of gold that bore a dignified patina of scuffs and wear that did not obscure its warm glow was nestled in his palm. His mother’s ring.

  He stared down at the golden circle, unable to speak.

  Sargon’s voice was soft and full of respect as he leaned close to say, “He told me ta tell ya he’d be followin’ soon.”

  Erik had given the ring to Kinsey one other time in the past. He and his adoptive father
had been assigned to missions in separate regions of Basinia. It had been likely that a considerable amount of time would pass before they would see each other again. Erik had given Kinsey the ring as a reminder that he would always be near, no matter how far away.

  Kinsey shook his head and cleared his throat. “Why did he stay?”

  Sargon studied Kinsey before he responded, “Not sure exactly. Somethin’ ta do with elven family.”

  Kinsey lifted his brow. “Elven family? Erik has no elven family.”

  “It’s what I heard, lad,” Sargon replied, putting the pipe back in his mouth.

  Erik had never spoken much of his elven heritage. Kinsey had no idea who of Erik’s family might still be alive, but the timing of their arrival was suspicious. The appearance of blood relatives would explain the ring—Erik was going to be preoccupied, for some time it would seem.

  Kinsey let out a deep breath and eyed the gold band once more. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Father. He tucked his mother’s ring into one of his pockets and turned his attention back to Sargon, who was watching him intently. “I assume we are headed for Mozil?”

  “Aye,” the old dwarf said with a smile.

  “Well, let’s get on with it, then.” Kinsey began to untie the litter. “I have questions.”

  “I assumed ya would, lad. We be havin’ plenty o’ time ta talk.”

  Some of the other dwarves dismounted and helped Kinsey break down the litter and pack the pieces away into a pannier on one of the supply ponies. The boisterous lot was strangely quiet and even respectful as they helped him. Kinsey refrained from asking, but the overall attitude of deference they showed him was enough to make his skin crawl.

  Soon enough, the caravan was underway once more. Kinsey took a deep breath, reveling in the sunshine and the freedom of the plains. Whatever it was that lay before him, he had to admit that this was infinitely better than the dungeon. Kinsey looked down at the old dwarf riding beside him and waited until the priest’s glance caught his own steady gaze. “So, how did we get out of Waterfall Citadel?”

  Thorn’s heir stared into the dancing flames with a puzzled expression that was revealed in the lambent light.

  Their small band had stopped for the day just before the light was lost. They had all gathered around the campfire for supper. The overall mood was pensive, and most of the company ate in silence. That was rare for this lot. Occasional looks from dwarf to dwarf and then at Kinsey told the tale.

  Ever since Sargon had explained the events surrounding their departure from Waterfall Citadel, Kinsey had retreated from the rest of them into his own thoughts. When Neal, fool that he was, had knelt before a wide-eyed Kinsey two nights past, Sargon had been profoundly thankful that the half-dwarf had not mounted that oversized beast of his and galloped away into the dark.

  Sargon waited patiently. Initially, Kinsey’s curiosity had provided a nonstop flow of questions, but he had fallen into a solemn silence the day after Neal’s poorly advised display of loyalty. The old priest was tempted to break the lad’s contemplation but thought better of it. He’ll speak when he’s ready ta speak.

  Horus and Neal were assigned to cleanup tonight, and they got to it with the briefest of shared nods. The rattle of pans and tin plates began to fill the evening.

  Gideon reclined next to his sister while honing his assorted weapons with a sharpening stone. The pair had been as quiet as Kinsey, their gazes ever hovering over the king’s heir. The Thorel siblings knew what an heir could mean to Thorn, whom they loved. More, the advent of a Dakayga meant change for the dwarven kingdom. The hope in their eyes was almost heartbreaking, for the lad couldn’t see it. Sargon could see it, though, sure as winter frost settling on the Dales.

  “Does my family... I mean my dwarven family know what I am?” Kinsey asked without preamble.

  The routine noises of the evening ceased instantly, and all eyes turned to Sargon.

  “They be suspectin’ but don’t know fer certain,” Sargon replied.

  Kinsey frowned, his gaze still captivated by the fire. “What does it mean, this word ‘Dakayga’?”

  “Depends on who ya ask, I suppose.” Sargon gestured to everyone around the campfire. “Ta us, it be the gift of our god, Dagda. Ya be a spirit warrior.” Then he chuckled softly. “Ta our enemies it surely means death.” The others around the fire chuckled and nodded their agreement.

  Kinsey looked at Sargon with dismay. “I don’t remember any of it. How can that be a gift?”

  “Ya don’t have control of it yet, lad,” Sargon said. “We’ll be helpin’ ya with that.”

  “So dwarves change into monsters often, do they?”

  Sargon frowned. “Not exactly.”

  Kinsey tilted his head to the side and stared intently at Sargon. “What does that mean?”

  Sargon found himself in a difficult place. He couldn’t lie to the lad, but telling the truth wouldn’t be much better. Also, the way things were going, it didn’t look as if the boy was willing to wait until they got to Mozil to get answers. Sargon would have to tell him something. It might have been better had Kinsey continued his slumber for the entire trip.

  Sargon glanced at the others around the fire, and they all averted their eyes quickly. He was on his own, it would seem. “We hadn’t seen the likes of a Dakayga fer some time till about sixty, seventy years ago.”

  “How long is ‘some time’?”

  The old priest sighed. “A couple thousand years.”

  “What?!” Kinsey’s voice rose. “Then how in Eos’ name are you going to help me?!”

  Sargon raised his hands in a calming gesture. “The grace o’ Dagda helped us once, and he’ll do it again.”

  “Oh, for the love of...” Kinsey got to his feet, anger drawing his ruddy brows together. “This is ridiculous. I’m not some damn monster out of your legends! And I don’t know that I want to wait around for your god to get around to ‘helping us out.’”

  The others around the fire looked up at the angry half-dwarf, their expressions solemn. Kinsey stared right back at them.

  Sargon could understand the doubts the lad had, but the Divine Presence had showed the truth of it. There was no way Kinsey could escape what he truly was. “We can help ya, lad. Ya can be somethin’ greater. Somethin’ truly amazin’.” Sargon got to his feet. “Give it… give us... a chance. Please.”

  Kinsey gave him a skeptical look. “I can’t say I’m not curious about you folks and the prospect of finding blood relatives, but”—he paused before continuing in a rush—“I think my place is back at Waterfall Citadel, helping Erik.”

  Sargon felt the blood rush from his face. If Kinsey left now, the rekindled hopes he had for his old friend would gutter and die. “If that’s how ya feel, lad. I can’t force ya ta come. I just hoped ya’d make the journey with us, and I believe in ma heart that it be the right choice.”

  The half-dwarf averted his eyes. “What you’re asking me to believe… I can’t. The things you’re saying just aren’t possible—”

  “I know, lad,” Sargon interrupted. “It be a lot to take in. I shoulda waited till we were back at Mozil, where I’d at least been able ta show ya some proof.”

  Kinsey perked up. “What proof?”

  “Yer Da. Ya look just like ’im.” Sargon blinked back the tears that came with the memory of Duhann and the mistakes that could never be unmade. “There be a portrait of ’im in yer granddad’s chambers. If ya seen it, there’d be no doubts about ya bein’ his kin.”

  Kinsey spread his arms. “What does that have to do with you telling me that I’m some kind of mindless monster?”

  Sargon hesitated. He was afraid to go any further into Duhann’s story; it wasn’t his place. Thorn should be the one to tell the lad about his father.

  Jocelyn stepped up next to Sargon and spoke. “He was Dakayga as well. It’s what got ’im killed.”

  Kinsey’s gaze moved to Jocelyn. “How?”

  “I don’t be knowin’ exact
ly, but yer grandfather does,” she said. “And it be what changed yer granddad from the bold leader he was to the shell o’ a man we be goin’ back to rescue.”

  The half-dwarf’s brow went up in surprise, but Jocelyn pressed on before he could argue. “We ain’t lyin’ about this.” Her voice began to rise. “It be too important. The world be beginnin’ to boil, and we be needin’ a strong hand ta guide us!”

  Kinsey shook his head, confused. “Strong hand... what are you talking—”

  “Yer grandfather be the king, dammit! And he ain’t whole. He ain’t been whole since yer Da died.” Jocelyn stormed up to the tall half-dwarf and stared up into his surprised face. One stout finger jabbed repeatedly into Kinsey’s broad chest, rocking him back on his heels as she continued. “Ya be the only one that can put ’im back together, but yer too damn afraid ta help!”

  “Jocelyn!” Sargon barked. “Enough.”

  She turned away from Kinsey, wiping her hand across her eyes. Without another word, she stomped off into the darkness.

  Kinsey stood in shock. He tore his gaze from the place where Jocelyn had disappeared and looked around at the gathered dwarves. “Is that true?”

  Gideon leaned forward to sheathe his sword and retrieve a broad-bladed knife from a boot sheath. “Aye, it be true. Though I don’t think ya be afraid. Confused maybe, but there be no fear.” Gideon tapped his nose with the glimmering steel. “I can sense that kinda thing.” The general paused long enough to root in his bag and toss a spare pipe to Kinsey.

  Kinsey frowned as he caught the pipe and looked at it. He sank to the ground, apparently at a loss for words.

  “I knew yer Da. Quite well, actually,” Gideon continued. “I cannot figger how I missed him in yer face before.”

  Sargon silently settled as well, not wanting to disturb the calm rhythm of Gideon’s voice. It had been odd, but Dagda had provided the revelation that Gideon needed when he needed it, even if the general could not see the truth of that.

  “News o’ his death tore me up good, but as bad as I’d felt, it’d been worse fer yer granddad. Yer father’s passing broke ’im, sure as a dry branch over ma knee.” The scarred general lit his own pipe with a twig from the fire. “I knew somethin’ big be up when this one here”—he pointed across the fire at Sargon—“comes ta me and says we gots ta leave on a mission, right when rumors o’ the south boilin’ began ta come in. Ya see, I’m suppose ta be leadin’ our armies, and instead, I be sittin’ here with this sorry lot.”