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

by Matt Howerter

  Several muffled clicking sounds rattled within the bookcase, and then the entire section of the wall began to slide to one side. Light from his room spilled around him into the space beyond, revealing a small passage.

  Thorn stepped into the dimly lit tunnel before the case had slid fully out of the way. He snatched a lantern from a niche in the wall and lit it before moving to the end of the dark passage, where a shaft bore a spiral stair. The stair was made of brass and iron and, just as the carving on the bookshelf had indicated, corkscrewed up to the mountain’s top as well as to the depths below.

  He placed a hand on the railing and looked down at the worn steps. Thorn had made trips on this stair many times in his past, as had the kings before him. None of his clandestine trips had been filled with the hope that bubbled within him now.

  His heavy boots clanged on the banded iron as he tromped down the steps toward the Great Library, toward a family he had thought lost and toward a future that he hardly dared hope for.

  Sargon stood in one of the many alcoves of the Great Library. The old priest brought a hand up to his weathered hood to make sure it was far enough forward to cover his face in shadow. Feeling secure in his anonymity, Sargon peered around at the wondrous riches surrounding him.

  The Great Library was a generational work in progress. As the dwarven nation had grown and changed, so this edifice had delved further into the mountain. The original miners had taken advantage of a massive fissure within the stone to create the principal chamber in which to hold the written treasures of the people. Each generation had produced more works, which required more space. Over time, the library had become a labyrinthine network of interconnected galleries and pockets like the one in which he now stood.

  Even at this hour, some of the dedicated scholars and scribes could often be found in secluded nooks, scribbling notes and cross-checking ancient texts. None were in evidence now. Sargon was thankful that the kings and engineers of old had thought to create one or two ways in and out of the library beyond the front door. He had come in through a passage that was only used by the priesthood. No one was in sight at the moment, but it would be unfortunate if a chance encounter were to announce Sargon’s return before the king was ready to explain the priest’s absence. To ensure the secrecy of this visit, Sargon had sent the rest of the party up to the Dales’ peaks. He alone had entered the mountain.

  A soft rumble and click on the second level caught Sargon’s attention.

  A cloaked figure stepped from a darkened gallery and moved quickly to the staircase. As Sargon watched, the figure made its way down twisting stone steps to the main floor and to the end of the great hall, coming to a stop below a large tapestry.

  How appropriate, thought Sargon. The woven artwork above the mysterious figure depicted a legendary Dakayga in the midst of an epic battle. Legend. Sargon paused for a moment to consider the word and the Dakayga. Of the eleven dwarves who had gone in search of the king’s scion, Sargon should have been the first to assume that Dagda would be inclined to grant his blessing once again. It had been Jocelyn, however, who had first put name to what was happening there in that dark hole below Waterfall Citadel. Oh, Sargon had come to the realization first, it was true, but it had been Jocelyn who had brought the word forth and made it real to their companions. It was so easy to live in a manner that implied that Dagda slumbered beyond the care and worry of day-to-day life. Easy to expect that miracles like Sargon’s ability to heal were not the gifts that they were but part of a quotidian world. Simple enough until Duhann, and until now...

  The figure below the tapestry was Thorn, of course. Sargon recognized both the dark-blue cloak and the manner in which the king had strode past the stacks of books. Only the Thorn of old walked with such purpose. Sargon had almost lost hope that his good friend would ever heal from the loss of his son. When Thorn had called him to the hall of Hannual to tell him of the Dark Advisor’s visit, evidence of the king’s old fire had surfaced, and Sargon’s hope had been rekindled. Since then, he had prayed fervently that his king would maintain a firm hold on the authority and purpose that had been so long absent.

  Once the old priest felt sure the king would no longer move, he gave the hall one last look. All seemed clear.

  Sargon stepped from the shadows and quickly made his way across the room. Even with the close and quiet confines of the Great Library, Sargon felt exposed. He felt as if a giant jeweler’s lens had been brought to bear to inspect his every move.

  Glinting eyes hidden within the shadows of the blue hood tracked Sargon as he hurried passed the finely crafted tables and chairs.

  Sargon stopped in front of the king. The old priest pulled back his hood so that his face shone in the yellowed lamp light. He said nothing, waiting for Thorn to speak.

  Rough hands reached from the depths of the blue robe to seize the edges of the cowl. When Thorn’s face was revealed, Sargon’s breath caught. The king had aged, it seemed, and weariness dragged at the corners of his friend’s eyes. The purposeful movement from moments before had been a veneer on a man that bore the worries of a nation and the weight of years in equal measure.

  Searching Thorn’s eyes, Sargon could truly see the struggle within the man’s soul and knew that his king had no words for him. It was Sargon who held all the power. His next words would determine which part of King Thorn would leave this room and which would fade away into darkness. He cleared his throat and spoke softly, “He’s given us a second chance.” Deep sentiment caused his voice to crack. “I don’t be knowin’ why, but Dagda’s given us a second chance.”

  Tears welled immediately in Thorn’s eyes as the tension of worry and strained hope faded. He reached out and took hold of Sargon’s shoulders. A broad smile erased much of the worry and removed years as it made its way across his lined face. “Thank Dagda for you, old friend,” Thorn said, his voice rough. He pulled Sargon into a bone-crushing embrace.

  Sargon wept with his friend, sharing the blooming hope and fading sorrow. The loss of Duhann would always be with them, but now the pain had lessened with the potential of a new beginning.

  When they broke apart, Thorn wiped the moisture from his eyes. “Ya lost two on yer journey?”

  “Aye. Tarel and Quinn,” Sargon replied, running a hand across his own nose. “They died well.”

  The king nodded. “At least there’s that. I’ll be makin’ sure they get proper respects.”

  Sargon grunted in acknowledgment. A tingle went down his spine when he remembered that they could be discovered at any moment. He pulled Thorn toward the alcove in which he had waited. “So how do we be handlin’ this?” Sargon asked as he swiveled his head, watching for observers.

  The king also searched the books and nooks that crowded around them. When he answered, his rough timbre had softened. “I’ll be wantin’ ta keep this from the council fer now. All o’ ya keep outta sight where ya can until I can find someplace fer ya ta hide proper. But first things first: where be ma grandson?”

  Sargon gave his king a warm grin. “I sent all of ’em up top. They’ll be waitin’ fer us.”

  “Then lead the way, ma friend,” Thorn said and gestured to the priest’s door.

  Thorn followed his friend up the maze of stairs to the mountain’s top. The high peaks of the Dales were never without glacial caps. Eons of the constant ice had permeated the stones of these upper galleries, and Thorn could feel the temperature begin to drop as he and Sargon continued their interminable climb. Cool air flowed down the stairs, creating a mild breeze that drew away the heat of their exertion. In the last hour of their climb, glistening crystals of frost had begun to create intricate natural patterns upon the walls.

  Even in the upper reaches of the mountain, guards patrolled the empty halls. Just before they reached the portal to the upper reaches, they ran across one such party of soldiers. Thorn had been forced to reveal himself when he and Sargon had been challenged. He had ordered the guards to keep their encounter to themselves. Thorn ha
d been able to protect Sargon’s identity, but it was only a matter of time before the late-night expedition would be discovered.

  Alone once more, they completed their climb, coming to a stop beside a massive stone disk that closed the tunnel mouth off from the wild elements beyond. A mighty iron wheel secured the door, and after much effort and more than a little swearing, a high-pitched whine followed by the ticking of interlocking gears filled the tunnel. The monstrous stone door slowly rolled to one side, replacing the insidious creeping chill of the tunnel with a strong gust of frozen wind. It was as if the tearing breath of an ice wyrm blasted through the widened opening and stripped all the heat from their tired limbs.

  Thorn sucked in the chill air involuntarily and muttered a curse, tugging his blue cloak tightly about his body.

  Sargon took the torch from its bracket. The flames leapt wildly as he thrust it forward and yelled into the darkness, “Gideon!” The priest repeated the call several times until a line of dark, heavily bundled forms shambled from the darkness bearing shielded lanterns aloft. Sargon stepped aside, and the fur-clad group tromped through the entrance, tracking snow as they came.

  Thorn pulled on the wheel to seal the entrance once again.

  The heavy door rolled closed much more agreeably than it had opened, but the stone disk hesitated short of closing in defiance of Thorn’s kingly authority as well as his every effort.

  One of the fur-covered newcomers hurried down the short passage and lent his strength in closing the door. The others moved deeper into the hallway and began uncovering their faces. The giant circle of stone ground to a halt with a deep thump.

  With the portal successfully closed, Thorn’s bundled assistant immediately went to a knee. “Yer Majesty,” the familiar voice of Gideon said. The breath of his voice leaked through gaps in his wrappings like steam through the vents of a cauldron. The others in the enclosed space all knelt upon hearing the general’s words. All except for one—a silhouette of oddly human proportions remained standing.

  Thorn took a step toward the large man, trying to get a better view of his face. He was sure this was the one the Dark Advisor had spoken of. The one named Kinsey. A small voice in Thorn’s deepest being cried out that this could not be so, that there was no possibility of having an heir. He had hoped, certainly, but his mind shied with sudden doubt.

  The tall figure was unwrapping the coverings from its head and shoulders. As Thorn continued to approach, the stranger turned so that the torchlight outlined his heavily bearded jaw and brought forth the detail and contours of his broad, masculine features.

  Thorn stumbled to a halt and took in a sharp breath. “Ma boy.”

  The giant version of Thorn’s son cocked his head. His voice was deep and strong when he spoke, “Your pardon?”

  Tears sprang unbidden from Thorn’s eyes and ran freely down his cold-reddened cheeks. He pressed forward to lay hands on his grandchild. “By Dagda, I can’t believe it. A miracle be standin’ before me, and I can’t believe it!”

  His grandson cast an unsure eye at the group around them, raising a brow.

  Thorn tore his eyes from Kinsey to look at those who still knelt. Every dwarf had broad smiles and eyes shining with tears as they took in their king’s happiness. He motioned for everyone to rise. “Ta yer feet.” He waited for them to rise. “I be in yer debt, every last one o’ ya. Whatcha done fer me I can’t put inta words.”

  “It be our duty, Yer Majesty,” Gideon said, stepping forward. “Whatever ya need, we be doin’.”

  Thorn smiled and gripped the general on the shoulder, alternately squeezing and then slapping him on the back. “I be needin’ this ta be quiet fer now and fer all of ya ta stay hidden. I’ll give orders ta my personal guard ta watch this hall and keep ya all safe from the eyes o’ others.” He looked back up at his grandson. “I know ya be havin’ questions. We’ll be gettin’ ta those when I get all o’ ya settled.”

  Kinsey seemed to consider the words for a moment then nodded.

  Thorn grunted. “I be off then, before someone finds me missing from ma’ chambers.” He embraced Sargon and gave Kinsey a last lingering look, then headed back down the long stairwell.

  Despite the real potential that he might be missed, Thorn did not go to his chambers. The stairs of the long descent flew away beneath him as his mind reeled from the impact of Kinsey’s face. A miracle. Almost unbidden, his hurrying feet took him to the Rhomedeyagda, the holy temple of Dagda. The Rhomedeyagda was a cathedral of carved columns and finished stone that could house some three thousand souls with room to spare. As with most of the structures in Mozil, the original builders had taken advantage of the natural fissures and spaces within the mountain, crafting the space lovingly and reverentially. At this late hour, only the penitent or acolytes charged with maintaining the ever-lit flames would be about, so it was unsurprising that Thorn found himself alone as he virtually ran through the central aisle to fall on his knees before the giant basalt monument dedicated to his god.

  The black stone glowed dimly in the lambent light of the never-quiescent flames surrounding the chamber. Thorn threw his arms wide. “I cannot thank ya fer the gift ya bestowed upon me. I haven’t the means nor the words ta do so.” Thorn’s voice echoed through the empty hall. “All I can say is, I shan’t be failin’ ya again!” His hands tightened into fists as he lifted them above his head. “I swear ma life on it!”

  As the last word left his lips, a clap of thunder drowned the echo.

  Stunned, Thorn fell backward and cried out. The king blinked and shook his head against the whine in his ears. The smell of heated rock wafted across his nose. Thorn envisioned an explosion of cave gasses and hurriedly pushed himself to his elbows to look around for the source.

  Curling columns of black smoke rose from the obelisk he had knelt in front of. At the base, a gaping hole had appeared. The ragged edges of the rock still glowed angry red. Somewhat panicked, Thorn searched himself and his surroundings for evidence of the explosion. He could find none.

  Thorn scrambled to his feet, never letting his eyes waver from the glowing rock in front of him. He was convinced that this was not an explosion but an act of his god. Dagda had spoken or at least had given a sign. The old king stumbled forward to get a closer look.

  The plinth that Thorn had always assumed to be solid appeared to be hollow in fact. Rough stone steps trailed off into the darkness below beyond the still-glowing edges of the new portal. A slight breeze came up from the depths to lightly brush Thorn’s braided beard and disheveled hair. There was a crisp, clean, and inviting feel to the gust instead of the stale and musty air that was often found in the opening of a long-lost or just-discovered cave.

  Intrigued, Thorn took a tentative step through the gap and glanced back before descending further. No hurrying or wide-eyed priests had come to investigate the sudden thunder. The hall remained empty and had returned to its previous somber silence.

  Thorn gingerly began to descend into the depths. The passage began to turn in a wide corkscrew, and he reached a hand to the wall to steady himself as the open space of the great chapel disappeared. Even with the light of the Rhomedeyagda being closed away, Thorn was able to see. It wasn’t the walls and floors themselves that glowed, but it was almost as if the light was emanating from his own body, though he could see no sign of it when peering at his hands.

  The king’s questing fingers touched the cool stone, and he immediately hesitated to peer at the wall. The entire surface had been covered in stone carvings depicting his people and a rearing creature. Dakayga, he thought, touching the figure that towered over the heads of the dwarves the way an adult towered over small children. Thorn tore his gaze away from the creature and the thoughts of Duhann that it had inspired.

  An arched opening was revealed as Thorn rounded the spiral stair. Through it spilled a flickering glow of golden light that lit the steps below. Thorn passed through the portal with a breath of relief. The dim passage with its spectral light had
begun to spawn chills of apprehension in the old king’s spine. Free of the small tunnel, he gazed in awe about this new discovery laid before him.

  The chamber was nearly as large as the Rhomedeyagda but completely clear of obstruction. A domed ceiling loomed above his head, and coffering detailed the planes of stone between the arching ribs. Statues depicting the mighty dwarven god evenly paced the perimeter. To the right of each statue, a flaming brand provided the light; to the left, arched openings let into darkness beyond. At the room’s center was a giant, circular rune of inlaid gold and silver. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds set in various places within the circle sparkled in the torchlight. A set of heavy manacles lay bolted to the floor at the very center of the rune.

  Thorn moved to stand next to the thick chains and bent to examine them more closely.

  Smaller versions of the floor’s silver runes ran along the surface of each link and both broad cuffs. Thorn had seen runes like these before, but only in books—scriptures telling of legend.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spun, bringing his fists up.

  Nothing but dancing shadows and silence greeted him.

  Thorn narrowed his eyes, inspecting the dark spaces around the room, and his gaze fell upon a short stone column placed between two of the largest and most ornate statues of Dagda. Upon the slanting surface sat a large book. He walked cautiously toward the ancient tome.