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

by Matt Howerter

  Jocelyn reached out to take one of the artfully worked metal cuffs. She had not inspected them before. The chain was heavy, more so than steel or iron. Carcodium, she thought, it must be. So much of it… There must have been a dozen feet of chain for each cuff, and all of it forged from the same metal. The glistening interlocked ovals snaked in a glittering river to a massive loop set in the floor. It was a king’s ransom. No, a nation’s ransom. The metal was even rarer than the gold, silver, and platinum from the mines of Mozil and the working of it arduous. It was the only metal that could be imbued with power, and it was used sparingly. The king’s ancestral axe, Mordekki, was the largest single use of the metal that she had seen until now. Even that mighty weapon was a combination of carcodium and other, more common alloys. As with Mordekki, fine runes of power had been scribed heavily into both manacles and decorated each link all the way back to the anchoring loop.

  A chill ran down her spine. As beautiful as the chains were, they were still chains. At their best they protected people, but they did it by restricting and binding, preventing freedom. Jocelyn shuddered slightly at the thought of being bound in such a way. Primal fear twisted her voice as she softly said, “I suppose I would be.” Suddenly, she remembered the words she had spoken to him mere weeks past, effectively calling him a coward. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she uncharacteristically began to stammer. “What I said, I… Well, ah mean ta say...I...I be owin’ ya an apology.”

  “No.” Kinsey shook his head. “You said what you felt, and you were trying to drill through my thick skull.” He paused and reached his free hand to touch her on the shoulder. “You were also right.”

  She looked up, searching his face to see if he was mocking her.

  Part of the frown he had worn when examining the manacles had returned, but his thick eyebrows remained unfurrowed. Sincere concern radiated from him and those warm brown eyes. His deep voice was consoling when he said, “I can understand that. And I can respect it.” He paused, gripping her shoulder firmly. “I do respect it.”

  Jocelyn cleared her throat and looked down at the chains again. Does he have ta be so damn...charming? She shook her head, frustrated at the way her thoughts jumbled. “So, ya think you’ll be wearin’ these then?” She gestured with the manacles.

  “Why else would they be here, if not to hold the monster?”

  “Yer not a monster,” she said, too quickly. Pausing to collect her thoughts, Jocelyn took a breath and began again. “Some be callin’ ya demon, that’s fer sure. But if the legends be true, and ya can control it, nothin’ on the face o’ Orundal will be able ta stand up ta yer might.” Jocelyn glanced around at the others. “With the south on the move, we’ll be needin’ that strength.” She returned her gaze to Kinsey. “We’ll be needin’ you.”

  Kinsey opened his mouth to say something but hesitated, looking down at the manacle he still held in one hand. After running his thumb across an etched rune, he raised his eyes to meet hers and spoke so only the two of them could hear. “I’ll try.”

  Kinsey waited, trying to control his steadily climbing heart rate.

  The glittering shackles that he and Jocelyn had been speaking over were now encircling his wrists. Sargon had spoken words that sounded like nonsense to Kinsey, but the metal responded as a living thing, clicking together so completely that the edges were lost.

  Around the room stood his companions from the past weeks, positioned by Sargon. They wore varying expressions, from Neal, who was rapt, to Jocelyn, who smiled in a way that Kinsey was sure was supposed to be encouraging. Sargon stood once more behind the podium, slowly turning the pages and reading the script that only he could see.

  Sargon cleared his throat and looked up from the book. “We gotta find yer trigger, lad. That thing that be bringin’ about the change.” He stepped around the stone column and crossed into the outline of glimmering stones surrounding Kinsey’s central location in the temple. “I think I got a good idea what that might be, but I’m wonderin’ if it ain’t somethin’ more.”

  “You mean Kesh,” Kinsey said, irritation lacing his words at the mere thought of the man.

  “The golden-haired fella back at Waterfall Citadel?” the old priest asked as he came to a stop in front of Kinsey. “Yeah, that’s part o’ what I be talkin’ about.”

  Kinsey frowned. “I’ve thought on the chancellor many times during our journey here and have not changed into the monster you say that I am.”

  “That’s my meanin’, lad. There’s somethin’ more at work here.” Sargon stroked his thick beard in thought. “I be curious. What do ya remember from when we were down in that cell at the Citadel?”

  “Shock mostly. I couldn’t believe they thought I had participated in Princess Sacha’s abduction. It was so absurd. Then I saw Kesh...” Kinsey’s skin began to tingle and his jaw clenched at the memory. That snake. The horrors of his visions surrounding Ordair’s keep and that eel of a man had taken on a certain sense of hostility. “He set us up, Erik and me.”

  Sargon’s features took on an odd cast as a blue light deepened the shadows above his cheekbones. Kinsey and the old priest both looked down to find the glyphs etched into the manacles and chains glowing softly.

  When Kinsey looked up, concerned, he found the old priest already looking at him. Intensity shone in the charcoal depths of his eyes. This was not a surprise to Sargon.

  “What do ya remember after ya saw ’im?” the priest persisted.

  Kinsey shook his head, confused and frustrated. “I don’t remember. I blacked out.”

  “Had that happened ta ya before?”

  Kinsey dropped his gaze back to the pulsing chains. “I... yes, when Sacha was abducted.” The blue light surged in time with a wave of frustration and anger that danced along his nerves as he remembered his inability to act. The pulsing glow captivated his attention. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And again the night we tried to rescue her.”

  The bright azure light’s intensity grew as he remembered coming to himself on the bar floor with Kesh sitting on his chest, slapping him and screaming. At the edge of his awareness, Sargon shifted slightly. When the old dwarf’s voice came again, it almost seemed to float in on the tide of anger and frustration that was building. “That night ya tried ta rescue the girl, that was when the golden-haired man, Kesh, saw ya change, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” Kinsey swayed in time with the pulsing light, his vision blurred. “He tried to kill me.” He shook his head abruptly but did not look away from the chains, which were now growing brightly. “No. He did kill me. I should have died.” He could see it now: Kesh dancing in glee and then his gloating face as he cut into Kinsey’s scalp. Kinsey suddenly knew that his “visions” were nothing of the sort. The horrors were actually memories. He had killed them all. “No,” he whispered. “I am a monster.”

  The room around him seemed to spin as he felt the rage blossom in his stomach, and his mind tried to slide away from the coming rampage.

  “No!” Kinsey shouted, and he strained against the chains, using the effort as a focus to keep himself from losing control.

  A stinging slap to the face shattered Kinsey’s focus.

  “Change, damn ya!” Sargon bellowed. “Ya failed at everythin’ else! Will ya be doin’ the same with this?” The old priest’s heavy hand slammed into Kinsey’s face yet again.

  A rolling, thunderous roar that was barely human in any sense erupted from Kinsey’s throat, and his body began to shake. As rage burned through his blood, his broken attempts at control were replaced by unbridled fury. Bones began to snap and muscles bulged, straining against his skin. He screamed again in pain and rage. His flesh ripped apart and fell to the floor in bloody strips. Death and fire raged through Kinsey’s mind. No recognition of friend or foe remained, only the burning desire to bring tooth and claw down upon all those who stood before him.

  Sargon staggered back from the spray of blood as Kinsey’s skin shredded and the Dakayga’s form emerg
ed. He scrambled away from the chained beast toward the safety of the ring and the ancient tome on its podium.

  Around the room, the group stood in stunned silence, mouths open and eyes wide. Most of them had never seen a living Dakayga before, much less watched one transform. Sargon had witnessed both. Before Duhann had left with the Dark Advisor, Sargon had seen him change. If only we had known.

  The creature that stood where Kinsey had once been shook itself, casting aside the remnants of flesh and clothing. Free of the chaotic leavings, the Dakayga stood to its full height of nine feet or more. Rippling muscles stirred a wolf-like pelt that had the same ruddy color as the prince’s hair. The snarling face was bare, leathery, and smooth.

  The Dakayga raged and howled at the dwarves that stared openmouthed. The chains that bound the incarnation of Dagda’s rage blazed brightly as they swung about like ribbons of paper. Despite the ease with which they were flung, the chains effectively halted the raging beast within the circle of gemstones. Undaunted, the Dakayga threw himself at them, again and again, seemingly tireless in its desire to rend its tormentors.

  Sargon had no doubts that Dagda had given them a second chance in this boy. He regained his place at the podium and began to turn pages as Jocelyn stumbled up to him with her bronze eyes opened wide. “Did ya have ta do it that way?” she croaked. “He didn’t deserve yer harsh words.”

  Sargon rounded on the woman. “This ain’t a game!” he shouted, slapping one hand down on the ancient book. He then looked at Gideon and the others, jabbing a finger at the stunned assembly that stood awed by his sudden outburst. “And it ain’t about Thorn or his line neither. It’s about us, all o’ us: the dwarven people!” He straightened to his full height, glaring at all of them. “The prophecies say a Dakayga be born only in times o’ great need, when strife be bearin’ down on us. We been given one chance already and ruined it. I’ll not be lettin’ that happen again. No matter the cost!”

  Jocelyn blinked and looked back to the transformed prince as he snarled and bit at the chains that bound him. The others just stared at Sargon without saying a word, the raging howls of Kinsey forgotten for the moment in their surprise.

  “Let’s hammer this straight, here and now,” Sargon said. Authority rang in his voice, and Jocelyn looked back at him almost reluctantly. “If I seem ta be harsh on the lad, or any o’ you fer that matter, it ain’t because I be enjoyin’ it or outta malice. I be doin’ it because it needs doin’.” Sargon turned back to the book and laid his other hand on its yellowed pages, confident in his purpose. “Now, let’s get ta work.”

  THORN sat on Hannual, rubbing his temple as the dwarves around him squabbled back and forth. Intense faces watched the interplay between Ronil Narsbin and Petron Grouler, and the king wondered if he was the only one that used the old soldier’s outbursts for time to consider his words.

  One of the far-ranging scouts had been brought in just this morning, more dead than alive. His near-corpse had been discovered at the entrance to the underground tunnels that led to the southern reaches of the mountain chain. As the king understood it, the dwarf hadn’t even been able to give his own name, but the names he had moaned before passing out belonged to two of the finest scouts in the kingdom, Mal and Fain Telstrid. The surname alone provided the identity of the wounded dwarf well enough: Zeke, the youngest brother in the Telstrid family. The trio, along with other scouting groups like them, had been dispatched several weeks ago in order to gain a true understanding of what the dwarves were about to face. Zeke had been the only one to return thus far.

  Tense hours had passed under the competent hands of the surgeons, but it wasn’t until a high priest arrived and intervened, invoking the power of Dagda, that the boy had recovered enough to relate his dire news. The worst had come to pass. It seemed as though the entire goblin nation was on the march. Tens of thousands of the monsters and their kin filled the many valleys within the southern Dales.

  “They be here, almost on our doorstep, and ya want us ta do nothin’?!” Ronil Narsbin was saying. His broad face shone beet red behind the salt-and-pepper beard and moustache that swayed as he shook with frustration.

  “I ain’t sayin’ that, ya rock-headed fool!” Petron snapped at the younger dwarf. “I’m sayin’ they ain’t after us.”

  Ronil raised his hands in exasperation. “An’ what in Mot’s beard be makin’ ya so sure o’ that?”

  “Goblins is stupid fer sure, but they ain’t that stupid.” Old Petron pointed his walking stick at Ronil as he spoke, emphasizing his words. “There’s no way inta the mountain once we close those doors. An’ them green-skinned fools know it!”

  “The goblin-kin invadin’ our home be not what concerns us, Petron.” Tagen’s deep voice slipped into the strained pause between Ronil and Petron. The thick-bodied, ginger-haired dwarf leaned forward in his chair and looked at the ancient warrior. “The Lowland villages will be destroyed fer certain, whether they be after us or not. Rebuildin’ will take decades.”

  Many in the throne room nodded and grumbled in agreement with the lord of the first house. The high families of Mozil had invested deeply in the Lowlands, and those investments were growing. Numerous farming towns that were once isolated villages had been developed into thriving networks of merchant communities ripe with trade.

  King Thorn stroked his beard in thought as he looked down at Petron.

  The ancient dwarf glared in silence at Tagen and those who supported the lord’s words of concern until suddenly the fight left him like air through a ruptured bellows. The old warrior sagged, looking confused and flustered. His once powerful limbs trembled with the deterioration of age, and the bags under his tired eyes seemed to deepen. As his gaze darted from face to face, searching for support, he seemed to realize for the first time his increasing irrelevance.

  Thorn cleared his throat and spoke. “Petron, yer concern fer the possibility o’ lives bein’ lost be admirable. It be the only reason I’ve not yet approved a full assault. Let it be known that yer words be carryin’ weight in this decision.”

  The broken coals of Petron’s pride glowed softly at the king’s words, and some of his old character crept back onto his face. He made a stiff bow then shuffled back to his seat beside Girty Borjornin.

  Once the ancient warrior was seated, Thorn addressed the lords of the ten houses. “I be havin’ no doubt that action must be taken to protect the Lowlands. But the area be too large ta cover entirely or safely.”

  Voices of approval and rumbles of discontent filled the air at the king’s words, filling the chamber with incoherent noise. Ronil, still on his feet, stepped toward the throne and raised his voice above the others. “Where do that put us then, eh? You would follow Petron, hidin’ in the mountain like scared wee-ones?” Ronil’s meaty fist smacked into his palm. “No, I say. We must attack!”

  Ronil’s proclamation only incited more clamoring. The Narsbins laid claim to the fifth house of power, so their influence should have been marginal, but several of the other houses seemed to approve of the dark-headed dwarf’s words, especially once Tagen indicated the approval of the first house with a stately nod.

  Thorn had expected no less of a reaction. Centuries had gone by without a serious threat arising from either nation to the north or south. The pretentious and long-lived elves from Asynia had been content enough to lick their wounds after failing in their bid for the northern lowlands. It had been many years since an elf had been heard from, much less presented a threat to the dwarven people or their sovereignty.

  The fractious goblin tribes to the south, though known for their profligate rate of reproduction, were too greedy and too violent to allow their numbers to swell enough to pose much threat beyond the borders of the Wetlands. Well, that was what the dwarves had assumed, anyway. The vast numbers reported truly challenged the their understanding of their savage neighbors to the south.

  The prevailing peace that the dwarven nation had enjoyed created restlessness amongst Thorn’s peo
ple, no matter the desirability of such a state. Dagda had crafted his followers with a heart that needed to pit itself against a challenge. In times of peace, this manifested in ever-greater feats of craftsmanship, art, engineering, and physical prowess, but these outlets could never substitute for the thrill of battle. No matter the station in life, there was an inclination for dwarves to express themselves with a sort of good-natured mayhem, spontaneously wrestling or sparring when words failed to adequately resolve a conflict. It wasn’t unheard of for such struggles to break out even here in the hall of the most powerful, who had no need of such action.

  The arrival of Sargon and the others had woken Thorn from his long depression, and now he could sense a sort of pressure that had been building, almost like two shelves of rock being pushed past each other by the forces of the earth. When the force overcame the friction, the resultant shift could be sudden and violent. Just like Rhazidan, Thorn thought with a pang of sorrow. He remembered the tales told by his father of the dwarven civil war that had decimated their people, leaving one of their great treasures largely abandoned and open for the brutal human tribes to take for themselves. The humans had “inventively” named it Stone Mountain.

  Now came a threat that might just be an opportunity, a threat that could both bind the people together and let them exert that built-up tension against a common foe.

  The king smiled grimly and rolled the word around in his mind. Opportunity. His grandson would have a grand introduction. If he can get the damn beast under control, that is.

  Reports from Sargon had been well short of encouraging. According to the priest, Kinsey was almost able to bring on the transformation at will, but once he achieved it, all indication of a thinking being fled. So far, his grandson had no memory of the events that transpired after the change took place.