Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (9 page)

T
HE
crashing of Zeke’s heart drowned every sound from his racing thoughts. His legs had begun to ache before the first marker had disappeared behind him and his brothers. Had they missed the second? Surely it couldn’t be much further. The throbbing pain from his thighs blossomed upward to join the aching fire that consumed his lungs as he ducked his head and continued to run for his life.

Energy surged into his flagging limbs when he spied the lichen-spattered boulder of the second marker. Its blunt top had been split almost in half, making it easy to spot.
Salvation,
Zeke thought as he rounded the massive slab of stone and spied the actual carved glyph that told of the tunnel entrance nearby.

Zeke’s hammering heart skipped several beats as the baying chuckle of a warg overwhelmed even the shuddering gasps of his strained breath. From the boulder field around him, the calls from the rest of the pack rose—too close.

They weren’t going to make it.

“We ain’t gonna make it!” Mal yelled, echoing Zeke’s thoughts.

“Keep runnin’, damn ya!” Fain bellowed back.

The burly pair were only a few steps ahead of Zeke. Brothers, the three of them had scouted the southern Dales for two centuries, easy. The depth of knowledge they had acquired was the only reason they still drew the labored breath of this final sprint. It had taken every scrap of the secrets they knew to avoid capture, but their luck and opportunities had eventually run dry. Now it was a dash to the finish, and even though the goal was in sight, it was still too far.

“Zeke!” Fain, the eldest, called. Great, whooping breaths broke his words into odd chunks. “Ya gotta—get down—inta—the tunnels. Close—the door—behind ya.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of his brother’s words. Wasn’t that what they were desperately trying to do? “Whaddaya mean?” he panted back.

In answer, Fain planted one boot and skidded to a halt then stepped to one side, pulling his pickax from its sling. Mal mirrored Fain, stepping to the opposite side of the path and brandishing their father’s hammer. Both of his brothers had grim expressions on their faces as they looked beyond Zeke toward their pursuers.

Dread and understanding took a chilling hold of Zeke. “The tunnel,” he began, faltering to a hesitant stop. “It’s right—”

“Keep runnin’, dammit!” Fain screamed. He reached forward with one hand and grabbed hold of Zeke. His brother’s face dripped sweat and burned with more than exertion. Fury darkened his cheeks and knit his brows in a fierce knot above sky-blue eyes. “They gotta know, and
you
gotta tell ’em!” Fain commanded as he hauled Zeke forward with one hand.

Zeke stumbled past as he was dragged. Indecision tore at him, but he began to break once more into motion. He caught a glimpse of grim determination on Mal’s face as he ran past. The knuckles of his brother’s hands were white from the tension of his grip on the haft of the hammer.

“I’m leavin’ the door open!” Zeke yelled. He knew even as the words flew from his lips that it was foolish, but it was the only thing that would come to mind.

“C’mon, then, ya bastards!” screamed Fain. More chuckling yelps from the wargs filled the pass, adding spurs to Zeke’s flight. Ugly, laughing hoots joined the cackling wargs, and Zeke knew that warg-riders had caught up with the unsaddled beasts that had been dogging their steps for hours. Mal’s battle cry bounced from the rocks around Zeke, and the first yelp of pain broke out.

Zeke slammed up against the hatch to the tunnel. He refused to look back. If he could just get the door open fast enough, maybe there was a chance.

The hatch that sealed this tunnel’s entrance was made of metal and stone. Unlike much of the dwarven craftsmanship outside the mountain, this circular slab was obviously a door, albeit a door that had been tucked into a fold of stone that would make it very easy to overlook. Intricate runes covered its surface in a gridlike pattern. Three of the handcrafted symbols needed to be pressed in order to open the circular slab of stone.

The sound of battle behind him erupted into furious chaos. Shouting and swearing from his brothers was clear and sharp against the muddled snarling of the wargs and the harsh cursing voices of the goblin riders. Screams and yelps of pain battered his ears.

Still, Zeke did not turn. Desperate, he pounded on the symbols. A deep click sounded and a half circle of shadow was carved into the stone as the hatch edged open.

Yes!
Zeke thought. The heavy disk swung smoothly and quickly as he threw himself against its weight. He stepped into the short pocket of stone that was revealed beyond and glanced down into the smooth hole that dropped away into the dark beyond the slanting rays of the sun above. Satisfied, Zeke fumbled at his belt for his own iron-studded cudgel and began to turn back to help his brothers.

The sudden impact of a goblin’s bolt threw Zeke forward. He cried out and stumbled into the passage as pain burned through his shoulder. The cudgel he had drawn rattled on the ground near the entrance. Off balance and distracted by pain, Zeke fell into the open hole. His flailing hand snagged a passing iron rung that had been hammered into the shear stone wall, and his body slammed into the other rungs as his momentum came to a joint-wrenching halt. Pain registered all along his body where the rungs had slammed into him. He blinked back the stars in his vision and scrambled until his feet found purchase.

A high and desperate scream that was no goblin came from above. Fain’s unmistakable voice rose in a cry of fury, telling Zeke which of his brothers had fallen. His heart trembled against the loss, and fresh tears came unbidden from his eyes.
Gotta collapse the tunnel, gotta get away.
Zeke ignored the ache of his heart and the throbbing agony in his shoulder to make his way down the ladder.

Once his hard-soled boots landed on the tunnel floor, Zeke was off at a run. His eyes adapted to the darkness around him as he ran. Ahead, the flickering glow of torchlight glimmered on the moist walls and beckoned him north.

Dagda watch over ya, ma brothers,
he prayed as he ran, fighting back the pain of his shoulder and the bruising of his ribs from the ladder rungs. Mal was not only a talented scout, he was also a ferocious fighter. If he truly had fallen, and Fain with him, the burden of alerting the nation was Zeke’s and Zeke’s alone.

The sounds of battle had receded as he ran. Shortly it was only the pounding of his boots, the rattle and rustle of his clothing, and his ragged panting that filled his ears.

Zeke tried to focus on what it was he must say when he reached Mozil. It was well known that the goblinoids were restless. The tribes of the wildmen had been flushed out of their borderlands and had created all types of trouble for the northern lands. Even with the rumors and the stories told by fleeing tribesmen and the encounters with bands of hobgoblin raiders, no one truly understood or appreciated the magnitude of what was coming. At least, no one had known until he and his brothers had crouched on the eastern ridge and watched a seemingly endless procession of goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and beasts boil by along the southern shores of Long Lake.

That had been two days ago. They had been on the run ever since.

Urged on by the growing light, Zeke came to a stumbling halt at a widening of the passage where three tunnels came together. The passage to his left led back to Mozil and safety, the passage to the right to another section of the southern Dales. He hesitated under the flickering glow and craned his head back to peer at his wounded shoulder. A black, twisted shaft protruded from the blood-soaked and torn fabric of his shirt. “I hate bein’ shot,” he muttered.

A carved pocket in the walls of stone housed three large handles suspended from the ceiling. Each lever would collapse the roof of one of the passages.

Zeke stepped up to the middle lever and placed his hands upon it. Thoughts of Fain came to his mind as his fingers wrapped around the smooth wood. He stood motionless for a moment, thinking on his oldest brother. What if Fain had made it down the hatch? Zeke looked down the passage from where he had come.
I can wait just a bit longer,
he thought.

He stepped away from the levers and walked over to a metal basket that held spare torches. Taking one, he dipped it into the flames of the torch that hung from the wall and watched as the pitch and wrappings began to catch and burn. Zeke stepped to the mouth of the tunnel from which he had run and heaved the freshly lit torch down the tunnel as far as he was able. The torch fluttered and spit as the wind buffeted the flames, but remained lit as it crashed to the floor. Burning pitch and fibers exploded from the impact, scattering into glowing, smoldering piles across the tunnel floor. The torch rolled for several more feet, depositing bright, fiery bits of itself along the corridor.

A small sound, possibly a boot scraping over gravel, echoed from the blackness further down the tunnel.

Zeke crouched, ready to run for the levers. “Mal?” He squinted at the darkness beyond the torch. “Fain?” Zeke’s voice sounded hollow and hopeless even to his own ears.

Another muted sound came from the darkened tunnel, and something rolled into view of the torchlight. Two objects, roughly circular in shape, came to a stop on either side of the torch. When Fain’s head came to a stop, its dead eyes and opened mouth were facing Zeke, while Mal’s lay on its side, his dark hair covering any discernible expression.

Zeke gasped with horror and took a step back. “No!”

Screeches filled the passage, joined by the rushing sound of stomping boots and clanking armor. The torchlight in the nexus was reflected in dozens of gleaming red eyes as the horde rushed forward from the consuming darkness.

Zeke turned and ran for the levers. Bolts whizzed by his head and shoulders as he once again ran for his life. Two more of the deadly shafts slammed into Zeke’s back, making him stumble, but he kept to his feet. He rushed up to the alcove that sheltered the ceiling triggers, bolts breaking upon the stone walls around him. Grabbing the middle lever, he hauled against it with all his strength.

He was rewarded by the hiss and ping of the mechanism releasing. Slithering sand poured from the stones above, eliciting cries of confusion from his pursuers until the falling stones drowned them out in a thunder of falling rock and timber. The passage shook, and thick clouds of dirt and haze billowed from the tunnel.

Zeke covered his mouth and nose with his shirt and huddled in the small nook with the levers. Tears flowed unabated, cutting runnels through the dirt caked on his cheeks. His brothers’ severed heads haunted his thoughts, and he knew that no matter how long or short his life, from this time forward they would do so always.

Smooth stone slid under Jocelyn’s hand as she walked. It was cool to the touch, and a pleasant tingle raced up her fingers as she considered the history of this place. The ancient statues located around the chamber were so lifelike that Jocelyn could almost imagine them stepping off their pedestals.

“Perhaps they might,” she whispered to herself, thinking of the divine nature of the cavern and slipping a hand in her pocket to touch the stone she carried to remind herself of Dagda. The smooth, worn surface of the rock always comforted her. Today, the power of her god seemed to emanate from everything around her, and she fancied she could feel the stone vibrate with a kind of resonance as she absorbed the ambience of the temple.

“It be sayin’ right there what must be done, ya daft young idjit,” Sargon was exclaiming.

“I don’t be seein’ a thing...old man,” Gideon replied.

A solid thudding sound, followed by her brother’s familiar cry of false outrage, made its way across the room to Jocelyn’s ears. She glanced toward the two and smiled.

Her brother was rubbing his arm and had stepped a little farther away from the old priest. The two of them had been standing next to a stone pedestal for the better part of an hour, debating over an aged tome bigger than any Jocelyn had ever seen. All of them had looked through the old book, finding nothing but empty pages—all of them except Sargon. Only he had been able to “see” anything legible, and he muttered and exclaimed over the beauty that only his eyes could discern. The old dwarf pored over the pages with Gideon hovering over his shoulder and questioning him after every page while the rest of them wandered the room in awed silence.