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

by Matt Howerter

  Perhaps there may yet be time to get to the floor and have a role in the turnin’ tide, Tagen thought with a touch of desperation.

  Even under the concentrated efforts of all eight houses, the narrow path that hugged the outside of the mountain was still buried in a shifting mass of broken stone. When enough stones had been moved, loose rock above shifted and slid down to fill the void. So far, no further lives had been lost, but more than one soldier-turned-sapper had been pulled away from the shifting stones to be treated for fractures and concussions. Nothing short of a pocket of gas exploding through the tumbled stone could possibly clear the way in time for the eight noble houses to provide more than congratulations to the victorious soldiers below.

  Mot’s fires, Tagen thought bitterly. Unable to contain his frustration, he slammed his fist against a nearby boulder and cursed.

  All eyes turned to him at the outburst. Merrell Hasselgrod, in his never-ending struggle for understanding, looked confused. The rest of them wore looks of sympathy, while Olen and Ronil glanced at each other with raised brows of concern.

  “I feel yer frustration, Tagen,” said Fir, his jowls shaking with every nod of his bloated head. “If only we could be down there, helpin’ our brother’s and the prince, ta share in the glory o’ this day.”

  “Yes, ’tis a tragedy,” was all Tagen could manage in response. He held his bruised fist close to his chest and scowled at the pain.

  Only Olen and Ronil could possibly understand the frustration in Tagen’s heart. They had known most of his plans and had been a part of many of them. Ronil shuffled one step away as if he might distance himself from Tagen, but a fiery stare from the lord of the first house froze him in mid-motion. It was far too late for second thoughts. Ronil stood chastened and nodded with understanding.

  Tagen straightened and turned to face the house leaders. “It be true. I would see us all in the midst o’ battle, but it appears that Dagda be seein’ it otherwise.”

  “Aye,” Norhan said. “Could be that this is Dagda’s will fer us... to bear witness to Thorn’s choice”—the lord of the sixth house stepped forward, drawing every eye to himself, and continued solemnly—“Dagda’s choice, fer the next king.”

  The words stung Tagen more powerfully than any blow could have. The implication that Dagda had “chosen” the half-breed was ludicrous, if not blasphemous. Yet there it was below: the Dakayga in all its glory, exposed for all to see. No, Tagen thought angrily, this whole affair was a mistake, a mistake that could be fixed, eventually. Ignatius would have much to answer for, Tagen would see to that. The lord of the first house took a deep, calming breath and nodded. “Aye, ya might be right, Norhan. Dagda’s will be done.”

  “Dagda’s will be done,” the lords echoed and then turned their attention back to the battle below.

  Kinsey yanked Mordekki free of an ogre’s split skull and kicked the collapsing body away with one foot. Blood fountained from the horrific gash and coated his armor and pelt in a fresh wave of gore. The goblin-kin that had been supporting the ogre ran shrieking in fear, only to be cut down by raging dwarven soldiers.

  How long Kinsey had been wreaking havoc on the goblinoid army, he could not have said. For much of the time, he had been lost to the fury that burned endlessly, feeding the destruction. He had never spent so much time transformed, but in doing so, he gained precious insight into this creature he became. Though the animalistic hunger and rage were not and could not be reconciled to the human that Kinsey always considered himself to be, those rabid emotions could be harnessed—yoked to his will. The fury yearned for direction, a focus. Kinsey needed only to choose a target and nudge the rage on the appropriate course.

  Previous discoveries became more apparent when sheltered in the storm of the Dakayga’s righteous fury. Any blow received was absorbed in a coruscating wave of pain and met by a like surge of anger and energy so bright that the agony of his healing flesh and bone was almost lost. When under the rage’s influence, his flesh knit together as fast as the hobgoblins could cut it open.

  Realization of this perpetual cycle of damage, anger, and healing brought about another revelation. The wounds that his body took served to fuel the fire of his rage, which in turn fed the ever-draining hunger of Mordekki. Kinsey could feel the totem drawing off the rage and energy and feeding it to the dwarven host, but no matter the requirements of the ancestral weapon, the Dakayga had more to give.

  On and on Kinsey fought, pressing at such a furious rate of speed that his enemies almost seemed to not move at all, though their intent to destroy him was still apparent. Each hateful face that fell under blade or tooth and each wound he took only served to increase his energy and need to exterminate the next monster.

  Mordekki was a glowing icon of retribution, a volcano, a falling star of destruction. The dwarves following in his wake were spurred on by the energy and emotion that flowed through the totem. Under the influence of the rage, they showed no reservations and hewed through the fighting and the fleeing foe with equal abandon. Nearby, the dwarves echoed Kinsey’s howls for the blood of their foes, and together they drove the hobgoblins ever back.

  Abruptly Kinsey found himself staring at the boulders that blocked Fountainhead Pass. Fleeing goblin-kin scattered in every direction, but only those that scrambled back over the boulders avoided death by axe, pike, or hammer. Kinsey whirled about with a snarl, looking for more hobgoblins to rend and tear, but only the sweating faces of his people met him. In the distance, small pockets of goblin-kin were falling under the press of the dwarves. Everywhere across the torn earth, bodies of both dwarf and monster lay, but the battle was over, and beyond any expectation, the day was theirs.

  Kinsey threw back his head and howled at the sky. Above, the leaden clouds with their green-laced lightning began to break apart. Whatever mystic power had brought them to bear had been broken as well. The voices of his people rose with him as the sky swelled with quickening expanses of blue.

  Jocelyn had somehow managed to stay near him during the battle. She stood in the crowd, shaking her mace and flail furiously above her head. Her long blond hair had come unbound from the leather thongs, and golden tendrils, dripping with sweat, swirled in matted patterns on the sides of her head. Her bronze eyes blazed with victory as she looked toward the heavens. The maiden was coated in dirt and ichor, but she couldn’t have been more glorious.

  Eventually, the revelry faded. Men and women slapped each other on the back and embraced one another, exclaiming about the victory. More than one “Dagda be praised” could be heard, and occasionally Kinsey’s name would be raised in a cheer as well.

  New shouts that sounded unlike the cries of victory caught his attention. Dwarves began to run toward a pair that appeared, staggering across the torn fields, first in ones and twos, then in streams. It was Sargon, and with him, Thorn. The two moved slowly but surely until the rushing crowd swept them up on their shoulders and swiftly bore them back to where Kinsey stood amazed.

  The pair’s bearers gently lowered them to stand before Kinsey. Both men were obviously weary almost beyond measure, but they remained standing. Thorn’s eyes watered as he took in Kinsey’s Dakayga form, and he reached out tentatively to take hold of one clawed hand. “Dagda be praised,” the king whispered, squeezing Kinsey’s gore-covered finger.

  Shock and relief flooded through Kinsey. He had seen the king fall and thought him dead. Pushing away the power and rage of the Dakayga, Kinsey changed back into his familiar, half-dwarven skin. The armor, damaged as it was, still transformed smoothly, though the edges of splintered steel dug into the flesh of his chest and belly. Kinsey shrugged uncomfortably and glanced down. Bloated scars decorated the skin behind the riven steel. There was an ache within him that spoke of a lifelong injury, but for now, he would live to see another day.

  Ignoring the pain, he gawked at the pair in awe. “I saw you go down,” he said to Thorn. “I was sure you were dead! How…?” Kinsey could not articulate his confusion, and hi
s words trailed away as Thorn chuckled softly and looked to the priest standing beside him.

  “By the grace and quick wit of Sargon,” Thorn said wearily. “He saved ma life. One more debt I can never repay.”

  “Ya mean more ta me alive than dead, ma king,” Sargon replied. “Ya repay me by takin’ breath.”

  Thorn straightened a bit at that. “Ya honor me with yer friendship.” The king leaned forward enough to clasp Sargon’s forearm. “I’ll not be fergettin’ it.” Settling back once more, the old king turned his attention to Kinsey. “Ya did good, boy. Ya pulled us outta the fire. I couldn’t be more thankful. And proud.” His gauntleted hand reached out again to grip Kinsey’s arm. There was yet strength in Thorn, but he was a shade of the man who had taken the field hours ago.

  Kinsey’s heart swelled as he took in all that had happened. He had come to terms with the monster within him, and when he had done so, he had used the power to effect a great good. He had feared that the Dakayga would always be a danger to others, and so it was, but he knew now that he would no longer have to fear for his friends and allies. Let his enemies bear that burden.

  Kinsey knelt and offered Mordekki to the king. The axe had transformed as he had, and the haft still fit comfortably in his palm. Truth be told, the weapon had felt more comfortable than any other tool he had ever held, but Mordekki was not his to wield. Holding it so that the leather braiding of the handle was presented to the king, Kinsey said, “Because of you, my friends, my family—I have overcome my fears. For that, I owe you everything.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be needin’ that anymore, ma boy,” Thorn answered, waving away the proffered handle. “It knows where it needs ta be.”

  Kinsey’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “Take it,” Thorn interrupted gruffly, a little bit of his usual energy and authority surfacing through the dirt and exhaustion. “’Tis true ya be owin’ me. Ya be owin’ us all.” His gnarled hand swept in a wide arc to encompass the growing crowd. “We be needin’ ya, boy.”

  Kinsey stared at his grandfather in disbelief. He knew what the king was saying. He had known what they would ask of him ever since his friends had started referring to him as “prince,” but in his heart he had hoped that it would not come to pass. He shook his head. Yes, he knew damn well what Thorn was driving at, and he wasn’t ready.

  “I’ve fought ma last battle, Kinsey,” Thorn continued. He placed a callused hand on Mordekki when Kinsey failed to move it and slowly pushed it away. “I’m spent, lad.” In saying so, the weariness that had been held at bay washed over him. In seconds, the king appeared to age tenfold, and it seemed a miracle he remained on his feet.

  Kinsey looked away from his grandfather at the throng of dwarves that circled them. Many eyes were upon him, questioning and eager. His gaze finally settled on Jocelyn. Freshly shed tears ran down her cheeks, hope gleaming in her bronze eyes. She appeared on the verge of speaking but said nothing. This choice would be his and his alone.

  Kinsey realized that he could no longer call these people “strangers.” They had treated him with respect and reverence. They had become his friends and more. They had become his family and his people. He had found more purpose here than he ever had in Waterfall Citadel. He had found his home.

  Kinsey got to his feet, Mordekki in hand.

  Thorn’s broad smile parted the stained beard and mustache that covered his weathered face. He slowly bent a knee to Kinsey. Like a rolling shockwave, the crowds of watching dwarves also knelt. When he looked to the heights, he could make out the dwarves above also sinking to their knees. High in the early evening sky beyond the last of the vanishing, unnatural clouds, the double full moons shone bright, marking the Feast of Corin and the new year.

  New beginnings for all, it would seem, Kinsey thought. “So be it.”

  A choking gasp escaped the messenger as he was lifted into the air. His gnarled fingers clawed at the pale, beautiful skin of the hand that was clutched about his throat. Even had he been able to pry the fingers loose, it was far too late for the unfortunate goblin. His tender throat had been crushed in the first instant. The goblin’s callused feet kicked at the air spasmodically until finally they hung still.

  A stench rose in the cabin as the messenger died and his bowels emptied onto the dark wooden planks of the mistress’s cabin floor. Stupid fool, thought Gobblesnot, clenching his jaws in annoyance. It was not uncommon for messengers to meet their end while delivering news to the mistress or to be graced with the reward of her deadly kiss. “Should have come prepared, yes,” he mumbled scuffing his bare feet across the floor.

  Everything in the ship’s cabin was made from the same dark, polished wood as the flooring. Soft golden candlelight illuminated the room. The smoking wicks left a smell of burned beeswax in the air that competed with the smell of the former messenger and the sea that surrounded them.

  The mistress released her grip on the expired goblin, dropping the body unceremoniously into its own waste. She glided away from the reeking heap to the open balcony just off her private chambers.

  Gobblesnot waited, careful not to approach too soon. He had seen many make that mistake after she had killed in anger—or killed in any mood, really—only to pay the price for their foolishness with their own meager lives. It was best to approach a god with caution and reverence. Gobblesnot had come to understand that this sometimes meant not approaching at all.

  She stood quietly, though the sea wind whipped her normally straight, pale-blond hair against her smooth shoulders in frenzy. Even if Gobblesnot had not known to watch a potentially lethal creature closely, he would have watched his mistress no less intently. Her beauty was majestic, and he found himself often just watching the perfection of her form with open-mouthed envy. How he hated his own stupid, short body with its mottled flesh and twisted limbs. He longed to stand tall and regal, the way his mistress did now.

  She had clothed herself in sheer ivory silk that gently cupped every perfect curve of her long, smooth body. Pale lunar light spilled over her, painting subtle shadows where the lacing pressed light indentations into the flesh of her back. No creature could deny her grace. Even elves with their presumptuous condescension had found themselves overwhelmed and knelt before her to worship, as was fitting.

  In all his years of service, Gobblesnot had seen only one creature not be humbled by the mistress, but that had been no real surprise. Gobblesnot’s newest friend, Bealoke, was a god as well. Powerful and sleek like the mistress, his friend was immune to such influence. Even though Selen seemed to think of Bealoke as an enemy, Gobblesnot knew in his heart that it was not actual truth. Gobblesnot would never—could never—tell the mistress that Bealoke had promised that her safety would be seen to in return for his service. Gobblesnot trusted his friend. He had been promised.

  “Come to me, my minion,” Mistress Selen’s silken voice drifted on the night air like cobwebs.

  Gobblesnot started, fearing for an instant that his mind had been read. Shaking the thought away, he hurried across the room to the open doors.

  He tiptoed around the dead messenger, avoiding the pooling urine, and came to a halt at the hand-carved mermaids on either side of the doorway to the balcony. The salty smell of the ocean washed away the stench of death from Gobblesnot’s broad nose, and he took a thankful breath. He glanced up at the double moons that painted every surface in pale light.

  The second moon, Taalugu, only showed itself once a cycle. Even though smaller than its mate, Taalugu sparkled twice as bright. The humans, dwarves, and elves celebrated the appearance of the moon with festivals and merriment, but the goblin-kin were called upon to provide blood sacrifice during the shy moon’s dance across the sky. Even at sea as they were, the ritual would be honored. The deep waters would run black with goblinoid blood these next few nights.

  “Your kind has failed me once again,” Mistress Selen said. Only her lips and the barest shifting of jaw showed her speech. The rest of her body was so motionless t
hat it could have been an exquisitely carved and rendered part of the ship. “After all the years I’ve spent training you filth, I should not be surprised.”

  “I begs for forgiveness, my mistress.” Gobblesnot bowed, bending almost to the floor.

  “As you should, maggot,” Mistress Selen replied tersely. She looked out at the open water. Many vessels surrounded the flagship, and many more stretched out beyond in the distance until they appeared only as black specks on the moonlit waves. “Why must you constantly defy me? Am I not a strong mistress?”

  “The strongest, my mistress.”

  “Am I not fearsome?”

  “The most terrible, my mistress.”

  “Then why?!” She spun around to face Gobblesnot, eyes blazing bright red in her pale and flawless face. “Why is it my general is dead?!” she screamed.

  Still bowing, Gobblesnot looked down at the deck quickly. “Because we’s is fools, my mistress.”

  “Yes, Mot curse you. You are!”

  The ship fell away as Gobblesnot was seized by the collar of his vest. His mistress had insisted that he take to wearing the thing. No other goblin had ever had such a fine thing, but he regretted it now. The collar began to dig into his throat as he was dangled above the rolling midnight waves.

  The mistress’s teeth were clenched in rage, and her next words leaked between the growing fangs in an almost sultry, throaty voice. “I should go from ship to ship and dispose of every single one of you filthy, stinking scum!”

  Gobblesnot did nothing as she shook him to emphasize her words. No desperate scrabbling at her wrist to prevent him from falling into the shark-filled waters below. No cries of mercy to beg for his life. Not even an attempt at eye contact. He just let the mistress vent her frustrations upon him. He had always known that his life might end at any moment in her service. This didn’t mean that he wanted to die; no, it just meant that he was willing to give his life if she wanted to take it. The longer he lived, the longer he might serve, so he remained still even though his thoughts rolled with terror at the possibility that tonight he would find his death.