Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (3 page)

A broad smile broke over Erik’s face. It was his first true smile since before the capture at the river’s edge. He hobbled over to the warhorse, which responded with an enthusiastic nuzzling that staggered Erik backward.

Dak’s head and mouth bore partially healed cuts and abrasions—mute testimony to the horse’s struggle for freedom. Whatever had happened to Kinsey in the past weeks, Dak had apparently been left tethered to something and had lost patience with his master’s failure to return. “Eos only knows how you made it back here,” Erik murmured as he smoothed the rusty coat and fingered the shredded leather. “You worked the bit out and chewed yourself free, didn’t you, boy?” Erik asked him as he stroked the underside of Dak’s jaw.

One liquid eye rolled, and Dak tossed his head.

“Ah well,” Erik murmured, continuing to stroke Dak’s mane and neck, “I’m becoming accustomed to my questions going unanswered. Why should you be any different?”

Dak tossed his head again and looked resentful.

Erik chuckled at the absurdity of it all. “Good to see you, boy,” he said softly. “Take care of Kinsey. He will need your strength.” Erik slapped Dak twice on the shoulder then made his way to Kinsey’s litter.

Sargon waited near Kinsey’s prone form. The old dwarf was watching the golden-maned pair direct the group for their departure. When Erik’s approach caught Sargon’s eye, the dwarf turned to face him. “You be the lad’s...caretaker?” Sargon’s callused hand gestured to Kinsey.

“Father,” Erik said without hesitation. “I’m his father.” He knelt beside Kinsey and checked him once again for injuries. “What happened to him? Why has he not awakened?”

Sargon pursed his lips and studied Erik with his charcoal eyes for a moment before he spoke. “Ya know anythin’ about dwarven lore?”

Erik shook his head.

The old dwarf grunted and laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Well, if ya did, you might understand, but for now I can tell ya this: Yer boy’s gonna be fine.”

Erik frowned at the gray-bearded dwarf.

Sargon’s dark eyes had flint in them, but his hard voice mellowed as he continued, “I know trust is hard ta come by, especially these days, and maybe even more so between yer people and mine, but I be tellin’ ya the truth. The lad’ll be okay. I’ll be watchin’ over ’im like he were ma own.”

Erik could see the sincerity in the old dwarf’s eyes and hear the emotion in his gravelly voice. Neither made staying behind any easier. The princess had been rescued. The end of the story was supposed to include the heroes riding away together, but until just earlier, he hadn’t even known if Kinsey had survived the attempt to free Sacha Moridin.

Satisfied that Kinsey suffered from no injuries, Erik staggered to his feet. He slipped a hand into one of his pockets. A brief search yielded a simple golden ring. Erik stared down at it, thinking on what it had meant to him the past few decades and what it meant for him now. When he raised his gaze back to Sargon, the dwarf’s quizzical expression was distorted through the tears that brimmed in Erik’s eyes. He held the ring out to the old dwarf. “Give this to him when he awakens,” Erik said and was pleased that his voice did not break when he spoke.

Sargon took the token without question and rolled it in his callused palm, watching the late-morning light glimmer softly upon the matte finish of the simple band. He tipped his hand to let the ring roll to his fingertips and then deftly snatched it up before it could fall to the earth.

“Tell him,” Erik continued. “That I will follow soon.”

“As ya say,” Sargon replied, then he added, “You’ll be welcome at Mozil, I’ll be makin’ sure o’ that.”

Erik nodded but said nothing.

He helped them secure the ponies and attach Kinsey’s litter to Dak. It took some time to get the horse to accept the hand of the golden-haired female dwarf, but with some coaxing and a few sugar cubes delved from a pack, the moody stallion eventually gave her his favor.

“Yer good with horses,” she said as Dak gently accepted the latest offering from her upturned palm, “and ya have a way about ya that’s calmin’ ta man and beast. Ya might actually make a fine husband if ya weren’t so pretty.”

Erik was so taken aback by the sudden comment that he laughed outright in spite of his melancholy. Her impish grin took her bluff features to a radiance that he found enchanting.

“I be Jocelyn.”

Erik sketched an unsteady bow. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Jocelyn, and I’m pleased to almost meet your criteria.”

Her smile mellowed to honest pleasure at that. “You need not worry fer Kinsey,” she said, laying a hand on Erik’s elbow. “He’ll be cared fer and honored in Mozil.”

“Thank you. Your words are comforting.”

Jocelyn gave Erik a curt nod and then rejoined her companions.

All too soon the time had come, and he watched stoically as the dwarves and his son disappeared into the thick jungles of the Tanglevine.

Sargon rode in silence as Waterfall Citadel and the elf fell away to be obscured by the dense vegetation.

The day had begun with their entry to Waterfall Citadel, where Kinsey was determined to find the answers to what had befallen his friends since he had lost them. Upon their arrival, the city guard took Kinsey into custody, citing accusations in the kidnap and disappearance of the very person he was seeking, Princess Sacha Moridin. Despite Kinsey’s protestations of injustice, the entire group had been marched to one of the deepest pits below Waterfall Citadel to await the king’s justice. That dank cell had become the epicenter of one of the most momentous days of Sargon’s life.

In the face of Kinsey’s accusers, the dwarven god Dagda had intervened and revealed not only the true nature of Kinsey as Dakayga, the ancient spirit warrior of the dwarven people, but also the nature of each of his companions: Gideon as the strong-armed warrior, Jocelyn as the tender but fierce mother cave bear, and the rest of the companions as fierce but loyal soldiers. If ever there had been a doubt of the trustworthiness of any of the dwarves that came along on this quest, there was none now.

Kinsey’s validation. Sargon’s answer. His god’s touch. These things turned upside down that cell of rot and darkness, trading damnation for salvation and misery for hope. Against all expectation, the experience had altered the course of Sargon’s life.

The old priest turned his thoughts from the past to Mozil and found his anticipation heightened. Excitement flavored with impatience roiled in his breast at the thought of his friend and king being reunited with his grandchild.
The fire within him won’t be dyin’, it’ll become stronger,
he thought. Their king would be returned in earnest,
and what a sight it’ll be.

A murmur beyond the noise of their travel drew him from his contemplation of the future and past. He turned to see Gideon making his way forward on a light-brown-and-white mount.

The general was the most capable of warriors on his feet, but he would never be comfortable in a saddle. He tended to ride the same way that he approached war: clenched fist, tight jaw, and straight at the enemy.

The horse’s tan head tossed when Gideon drew abreast of Sargon. The scarred general reined back more vigorously than necessary, almost causing his mount to come to a complete halt. A quick heel to a tan flank brought the horse forward again to fall in step next to Sargon’s sorrel. One brown eye rolled at Sargon with hints of white at the edges.
It’s not my fault, boy,
Sargon thought,
some men weren’t meant fer the saddle, no matter the need.

“That
thing
back there… It let us go too easily,” Gideon said without preamble, speaking of the pale creature that had sent them on their way.

Sargon nodded in reply. The creature was known to the people of Mozil as the “Dark Advisor.” Some valued its word almost as much as the holy writ of Dagda, but most felt that its appearance from the shadows was an omen of dire times to come. Sargon wasn’t certain that that was true, but he did not trust that its interests were always the same as those of his people.

Gideon blinked. “So we’re just gonna walk into its trap?!”

“I suppose.” Sargon scratched his thick, gray beard. “But... he
had
us back there. Dead ta rights. If he’d wanted ta kill us, we’d most likely
be
dead, or at the least still rottin’ in that cell.”

Gideon frowned in thought. The reins slackened in his grip as he forgot to direct every step, and the pony assumed an easy gait with its head swaying slightly.

Sargon let the burly, golden-haired dwarf ponder. Whatever the Dark Advisor’s agenda entailed, it was likely beyond any of them to figure it out. For the time being, there were more pressing matters than the pale creature’s murky machinations. Sargon intended to address one of them this very evening.

The group traveled on in relative silence for the remainder of the day. They had followed a branch of the Tanglevine almost directly west and found a nice clearing next to the river to make camp. Several trees leaned out over the water, providing easy access to refill their canteens.

The dwarves fanned out to tend to their separate duties while Sargon stretched his legs and went to check on the still-slumbering form of Kinsey. The half-dwarf’s bed had been set near the fire that was rapidly being constructed by Horus. Peace still smoothed the lines of Kinsey’s face, and his color was good. Sargon was no field surgeon—his ability to heal stemmed from sources other than study—but he suspected that Kinsey would recover shortly.

Satisfied, he sat next to Kinsey’s litter to work the last of the stiffness from his legs. He sighed and pulled his pipe free from his vest pocket. A large pinch of Lowland tabac went into the handcrafted bowl, but he did not light it yet, choosing instead to chew softly on the pipe stem and watch his companions. Sargon leaned back against a convenient lichen-covered stone and lost himself in the activity of his brethren.

Jocelyn managed the camp with a deft hand. She good-naturedly clubbed her brother, who was sitting on a fallen branch and peering into a boot suspiciously. “Lazy bones!” she chided him. “There’s naught but your imagination in yer boot. Help Neal gather the water, or you’ll not be eatin’ my cookin’ t’night.”

“
Harridan,
” Gideon grumbled, loud enough for the elf they had left behind to hear. In spite of his grumping, the general jammed his foot back into the boot and joined in the chaos. Goods were pulled from the sacks, bags, and crates that had been strapped to the ponies’ backs, and in short order, the smells of supper wafted through the small camp.

The old priest’s stomach rumbled with anticipation, so he got to his feet and slowly made his way closer to the fire. Sargon circled around those who had willingly come with him on this journey, touching each briefly on back and shoulder. This journey had become the single most important event of his life and the affirmation of his faith. He took a moment to mark their faces in his memory. They had come when he had asked. Now came the time to see if they would hide his secret and the secret of their king.

Sargon bent down and retrieved a stray twig from the fire while the others talked amongst themselves. He used the bright embers to light the dry tabac in his pipe as he took long drags on the stem. The smoke rolled in his mouth, peppering his taste buds with the robust flavor of the rich leaf.
’Tis the stuff o’ kings, ta be sure,
he thought as he looked for a place to sit close to the cook fire.

Jocelyn smiled and scooted to make room for Sargon, while Neal just leaned aside, still gobbling down his portion of supper. Jocelyn scowled at the gluttonous dwarf. Reaching down, she seized one of Neal’s boots and hauled upward, pitching him backwards with a yell of surprise. Low laughter turned into hoots of delight when Neal’s face reappeared in the firelight, covered with pork stew. The disgruntled dwarf’s anger turned to chagrin as he took note of Sargon standing next to him, and he muttered, “Apologies, Sargon. Take ma spot, if you will.”

Jocelyn, looking smug, handed Sargon a steaming bowl and Neal the ladle. Neal barely looked twice at her when she said, “And Neal, don’t forget, it be yer night ta be scrubbin’ the stew pot.”

Neal ducked his head with a murmur that might have been, “As ya say, Jocelyn.” Neal was a good fighter, like the rest of them, but truly daft when it came to manners or wits. This time, though, he knew when he had been beaten.