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

by Matt Howerter

  Kinsey massaged the swelling lump on the back of his head and gritted his teeth against the blossoming headache. He knew she was right. He was certain the humans would not have treated him with such kindness. In fact, just recently they had locked him up for an accusation that held no truth and with no evidence of his guilt. The anger had him now, though, and he just stared at her retreating back sullenly.

  Jocelyn hesitated in front of the archway. “Ya know what truly be futile, ma prince? Self-pity.”

  Then she was gone.

  Kinsey shook his head to clear away the reverie and came back to the present. Jocelyn had been not exactly aloof since that day but also not approachable. I’ve been such a fool, but then that’s not news, Kinsey thought, annoyed.

  Jocelyn was approaching the boxes with a gleam in her eyes as anticipatory as that of any of her male companions. Her lustrous blond hair had been pulled into a loose braid, and she flipped it back over one shoulder as she stooped to snatch up a pry bar. Her outfit was a form-fitting, sleeveless linen tunic and pants that served the dual purpose of lounging and lining for the leather padding of the heavy armor she would wear. The cloth closely sheathed her muscular body without clinging, both hiding and revealing her strong yet feminine form. Kinsey had never met a woman of such contrasts. The muscles of Jocelyn’s bare arms rippled as she applied the heavy tool to one of the boxes. A grinding squeal filled the chamber, drawing complaints from the nearby dwarves before they rushed forward to pull out the contents of the crate. Armor of all shapes and sizes came out of the box.

  The dwarves that had been his constant companions for all these months had almost never worn less than chain mail hauberks and leather jerkins in all the time he had known them. The one time he had seen Gideon in ceremonial garb rather than his fighting leathers, the dwarf had looked as uncomfortable as a duck wearing fur rather than feathers. The armor that came from the box was obviously meant for more than traveling around the country. This armor was meant for war.

  The first clang of a greave upon the stones of the temple floor changed the mood of the entire room. Always a ready and good-natured lot, the dwarves shifted from easy camaraderie to a businesslike intensity. The smiles and boasting were still present, but there was an edge that said that the matter at hand was deadly serious.

  Neal waved excitedly to Kinsey from the first opened box where Jocelyn stood, pry bar still in hand. Her bronze eyes watched him as he approached, but today, she did not look away.

  “Here ya are, ma prince,” Neal said, pulling out a breastplate and holding it up against Kinsey’s torso. The gleaming metal plate stopped well short of his navel. “Er… perhaps not.” Neal tossed the metal back into the box and began searching for more. “I be certain, ma prince, that there be somethin’ here fer ya,” Neal said, voice muted by the box.

  As Kinsey got close enough to see past Neal’s flailing legs and into the box, he could see that there were many pieces of armor carefully packed in dry straw and rough-spun cloth.

  “Neal,” Jocelyn said, shaking her head. “There be nothin’ in that box worth its metal when Kinsey calls the Blessing upon himself.”

  Neal’s legs, which had been dancing this way and that as he reached and probed for armor in the crate, froze in place and then slowly deflated to lie against the side of the crate like a pennant that had lost its stiffening breeze. Slowly the dwarf extracted himself from the box. “Ah, yeah,” Neal mumbled, looking abashedly at Kinsey and Jocelyn in turn. “I guess that be true.” Neal looked up at Kinsey, a plea obvious in his eyes. “Apologies, ma prince, I don’t know what ya can wear ta battle.”

  “But I do,” said the king. Thorn came striding through the portal before the last echo of his statement had faded. Two dwarves wearing the gray-and-silver uniforms of those that served Thorn in his personal guard followed the king, bearing between them a chest of dark oak accented with bands of riveted steel. Carved runes inlaid with gold and silver covered almost every inch of the box’s wooden surface.

  “Ma king!” said Neal, Jocelyn, and the others around the temple, bending to a one-knee salute that Kinsey had begun to see as the customary honorific amongst the dwarves.

  “Rise, ma friends,” Thorn said, smiling with genuine affection. “Rise. This be an occasion o’ history. Tonight, we prepare fer war, but tomorrow, we march with the might o’ both the Dakayga and the Ursus.” Excited voices murmured at the proclamation that the great bears would join them. Thorn’s voice elevated with his own excitement. “Let our enemies tremble before us!”

  Kinsey felt his stomach lurch. He was still apprehensive about his level of control over the beast. The prospect of releasing his full fury in combat while standing shoulder to shoulder with his allies turned that apprehension to dread. The others around him appeared to hold no such reservations.

  Jocelyn and the others cheered King Thorn’s words, and enthusiastic hands pounded his back and shoulders. They believed wholeheartedly in their king and the promise of salvation their histories had made in regard to the Dakayga. The group had passed many of the nights they had been sequestered with him telling him about legends surrounding the birth of a child blessed by Dagda and the great conflict that it would herald. The dwarves had been waiting for centuries for that to come to pass and to follow the Dakayga into that conflict. Perhaps the coming trial would provide the faith Kinsey needed to believe as well. He hoped so.

  The cheers died, and Jocelyn’s eyes found his. For the first time in days, she gifted him with a small smile. He found himself smiling back almost despite himself.

  “Kinsey, ma boy,” Thorn’s voice boomed.

  His thoughts interrupted, Kinsey turned his attention back to his grandfather.

  “It be through the provenance of Dagda himself that I was not led ta scrap this,” Thorn continued, waving a hand to the ornate chest. “When Duhann be revealed as Dakayga, it be thought that war was imminent.” He laughed a little hollowly and shook his head. “How confused we became as the years passed and no battle came ta pass.”

  The others surrounding the king nodded in solemn agreement.

  “In anticipation o’ the war that never came, our finest craftsmen and priests forged this fer ’im,” Thorn said as he took a step back and seized the lid of the chest. He pulled the chest open with a great heave to reveal its mysterious contents.

  What lay within was a suit of armor unlike anything Kinsey had ever seen. It didn’t look like it would protect anything. For long moments, he just stared.

  Given the metal monstrosity that Gideon had half donned, Kinsey was expecting something more robust. The thing in the chest was almost the work of a jeweler rather than an armorsmith. A V-shaped medallion was positioned where a breastplate should be, while silvery metal strips with the character and density of lace formed webbing that connected to a similarly insubstantial gorget. The webbing continued from there to shoulder pauldrons that seemed to be less like armor and more like epaulets. More metal lacing draped each arm, attaching to lobstered couters, and then continued around the forearms to gauntlets with shining black metallic buckles at the wrists. More lobster plate was affixed to the wrist buckles and looked like it would cover the back of a hand. To this, five small oblong medallions were affixed with more of the silver and lacey metal, allowing for maximum flexibility of the fingers.

  Jorin and Mansh did their best to smother their snickers but were unable to dampen the sound entirely. Horus flat-out laughed, while Neal scratched his head and frowned. The rest stood in baffled silence.

  The king’s eyes darted back and forth, taking in the group’s reactions. His gaze finally settled on Kinsey. “Well... I know it don’t look like much now, but wait till ya try it on.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be putting that on,” Kinsey said, still dazed.

  At that point even Gideon began to chuckle as Horus, Jordin, and Mansh wheezed from uncontrollable laughter.

  King Thorn shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Ya addle-brained fools.
It be magical armor! Appearance got nothin’ ta do with its true potential!”

  Despite the king’s statements, the group continued to snort and laugh until Thorn himself chuckled at the absurdity of the garment. Eventually the laughter faded, and the party of dwarves settled. An energy filled their curious eyes as they looked from their king to the dainty suit of armor.

  Kinsey remained unmoving. “I’m sorry, Grandfather...I don’t understand how this is going to work.”

  The king reached into the chest and pulled out the gauzy affair. “Put it on.” Though there was still a smile on his face, Thorn’s voice brooked no argument.

  Kinsey was heartened to see that the lower-body armor was somewhat more substantial, particularly in the groin area. A belt made from a combination of the silver and black metals clasped together at the front with a large medallion bearing the runic character that Kinsey recognized as Thorn’s own. A pair of short pants, fashioned from a weave of both the silver and black metals, hung from the belt. The weave was as dense as any cloth toward the center, but as it progressed away from the groin, it became more ethereal, as it was above the belt. More medallions hung in place of cuisse, poleyns, and greaves while the webbing continued downward to cover the feet.

  “At least,” Kinsey managed to say, “I don’t have to be completely naked this time.” He scratched at one ear, absently flicking a braid away.

  Thorn continued to smile. His eyes crinkled with some amusement. “Just because ya don’t see wonders in the world that often, ma boy, don’t mean yer kinsman can’t work ’em upon occasion.”

  “You are saying that this”—he gestured to the gleaming metal dress—“is going to cover the Dakayga as well?”

  “Aye.” Thorn said eyes steady and face calm.

  “I’ll help ya, ma prince,” Jocelyn said suddenly. She stepped up and took hold of the armor along with Thorn.

  When Kinsey looked at her, she did not look away. Her oddly metallic bronze eyes were calm and serious. In them, he could see her steadfast strength and the same absolute faith that she had invoked days ago when showing him the path to harness the rage and make it serve his purposes. She nodded with the briefest motion. Somehow, he found himself galvanized and his other protests and misgivings dying away. “All right. Let’s see what this thing can do.”

  Once again, Kinsey found himself stripped down to his smallclothes. Fortunately, he had become oddly accustomed to being nude in front of others in the past months of effort and training in the Ointa Dagdarhem.

  The metal of the webbing had an oddly silken feel to it, but he still shuddered from the chill as the metal settled onto his bare skin. He was amazed to find that the suit slipped easily over his body as if made specifically for him. Kinsey knew for a fact that Duhann had been shorter than he was, but each of the buckles hit him exactly in the correct place.

  When Jocelyn’s deft fingers buckled the last clasp at an ankle, the webbing began to move and expand.

  “Ghah!” Kinsey danced uncomfortably as the suit moved like a thing alive, snuggling to fit each and every part of him. The strands of the webbing multiplied and expanded as his amazed companions looked on with murmurs of appreciation and exclamations of surprise. As each strand met another, they linked together, forming flexible ridges and scales. The individual medallions that had looked so delicate also morphed and flowed like quicksilver, adopting the correct proportions and shapes of more conventional armor, though no smithwork could match the organic flow of the gleaming steel that now encased him.

  “Amazing,” Kinsey breathed, holding his arms aloft and flexing fingers now gauntleted in gleaming metal.

  “Aye, that it is,” Thorn agreed, watching from a few feet away. The old king’s brown eyes were a little moist but also burned with fierce pride. “It be an age or more since that kind o’ work been done by our people.”

  Kinsey rolled his shoulders to get a feel of the transformed armor. As he swung his arms, he found that the connected webbing did not obstruct his movement at all. The metal drape from the buckles and expanded medallions was almost weightless.

  “It fits ya well, ma prince,” said Jocelyn softly from behind him.

  Kinsey turned from his inspection of the amazing work to find all his friends, including Jocelyn, down on one knee, regarding him with pride. Out of habit, he almost told them to stop but reconsidered. Mere days had passed since he had offended Jocelyn so terribly with his careless words; he meant to not do it again or to cause the same harm to these others. Instead, he stepped forward and offered his hand to her. “Rise.”

  Jocelyn gently took his hand and stood. She smiled at him, her bronze eyes shining softly. Behind her, the others got to their feet with hope brimming on their features.

  “I would have you with me tomorrow,” Kinsey said. The words came unbidden, but he knew the truth of them as they spilled from his lips. “I have wronged you, all of you, with my denial of who I am, and my disregard for your faith and hopes. I would ask for your tolerance and forgiveness of my doubts. You few have been there for me since the beginning, and just days ago”—he reached out and placed his other hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder—“on the cusp of madness, staring into the brink of oblivion.” He paused to take in their faces, to mark their hopes and fears in his mind so that he would remember his responsibilities to them. His gaze came back to settle on Jocelyn. “Say you will stand with me.”

  Her eyes met his as her voice joined the others in a simultaneous response, “I will.”

  BROG scurried across the rocks and boulders like a highland lizard. Her small body was made mostly of sinew and spindly limbs. Long claws on her dexterous feet and hands made it easy for her to cling to the surface of just about any type of stone or bark. The goblin skittered to a halt on the precipice of a jagged cliff and peered with slitted eyes at the horizon as dawn approached.

  The dry, pine-scented mountain air burned lungs that were much more adapted to the swamps of her home. When she released the breath, she let it go in a hiss that was directed at the sensation of the crisp air and the hated golden-orange glow. It was far past time to make camp, but Maharuke had demanded that the army be beyond the mountain pass and into the valley before the horde settled for the day. Brog and many others had been sent ahead to find a suitable spot for the trailing army to rest.

  Brog turned her back on the approaching dawn and scurried northward. Her thoughts wandered as she crawled along the rough, broken earth and walls. She was larger, faster, and smarter than many of the other goblins in Greel’s scouting pack. She had been able to use that strength to harbor more food and shelter that allowed her to become even more powerful. Soon, perhaps as soon as today, she would be able to kill Greel, take over the scouting pack, and choose a mate that would let her whelp dozens of offspring. If she chose the right goblin—cunning and savage—her brood would grow and garner her more power still. Her mate had to be powerful and wily, it was true, but not so much that she could not be rid of him when he had served his purpose or she found another.

  Brog’s thin lips curled over her black, twisting fangs as she fantasized over her future and the brood that would worship her. They would support her as she became stronger and ever more scouting packs would be forced to join her. One day, even Maharuke would have to recognize her, maybe even fear her. “Yesssss,” she hissed as she rounded a boulder and dodged the increasing brightness of the sun. The terrain around her began to gradually slope away, and Brog increased her pace, anticipating the end of her mission.

  The bright, green fields of the mountain moles’ larder came into view between two fractured boulders. Brog raised one clawed hand to shield herself from the rays from the rising sun. Golden highlights shone from the thick heads of grain along the narrow valley floor. Further ahead, she could see the opening to the rest of the Lowlands. When she had assured herself that this would be a sufficient campsite for the horde, she would return and collect her reward for being the first with word. Then her dreams would begin to b
ecome reality. Brog pulled a tattered cloak around her head and shoulders to shield her sensitive skin from the rays of the sun and pushed excitedly through the gap.

  As her head and shoulders wormed out, they were seized and Brog was hauled off her feet, only to be slammed face-first into the unyielding stone she had just passed. Her lip split against the hard stone, and the taste of blood leaked onto her dry tongue.

  “Got us another one,” whispered a voice that could only belong to one of the mountain moles.

  Panic gripped Brog’s mind just as firmly as the hand that still held her neck. She flailed at the arm that pinned her, but her claws only met leather and iron, and her face was pushed even more firmly into the stone.

  “This one be a fighter, fer sure,” said the same gritty voice.

  During the scuffle, she glimpsed the lifeless limb of another goblin. She hadn’t been the first here after all. Hatred swelled, and for a brief moment she ceased her struggle, cackling within at her competitor’s fate.

  The ring of steel bounced from the surrounding stone, reminding Brog of her own dire situation. A low chuckle from more of the moles accompanied the sound. A new voice said, “Have done, Bardak. More may be comin’.”

  Brog twisted and clawed desperately to free herself. A wide blade briefly obscured the body of her dead competitor. The cutting steel was bright with the reflected light of the hated sun, and then all went dark.

  Nur marched alongside the endless line of hobgoblins. His whip cracked on the backs of those lagging behind and others he deemed deserving. Since all of them were lazy, selfish, and stupid, Nur had no qualms about who his lash struck. He chuckled aloud at the thought. Each hobgoblin that turned to see what made him laugh felt the touch of the bullhide, and Nur laughed even louder. This was a good job and one that he richly deserved.