Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (5 page)

Kinsey let out a deep breath and eyed the gold band once more.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, Father.
He tucked his mother’s ring into one of his pockets and turned his attention back to Sargon, who was watching him intently. “I assume we are headed for Mozil?”

“Aye,” the old dwarf said with a smile.

“Well, let’s get on with it, then.” Kinsey began to untie the litter. “I have questions.”

“I assumed ya would, lad. We be havin’ plenty o’ time ta talk.”

Some of the other dwarves dismounted and helped Kinsey break down the litter and pack the pieces away into a pannier on one of the supply ponies. The boisterous lot was strangely quiet and even respectful as they helped him. Kinsey refrained from asking, but the overall attitude of deference they showed him was enough to make his skin crawl.

Soon enough, the caravan was underway once more. Kinsey took a deep breath, reveling in the sunshine and the freedom of the plains. Whatever it was that lay before him, he had to admit that this was infinitely better than the dungeon. Kinsey looked down at the old dwarf riding beside him and waited until the priest’s glance caught his own steady gaze. “So, how did we get out of Waterfall Citadel?”

Thorn’s heir stared into the dancing flames with a puzzled expression that was revealed in the lambent light.

Their small band had stopped for the day just before the light was lost. They had all gathered around the campfire for supper. The overall mood was pensive, and most of the company ate in silence. That was rare for this lot. Occasional looks from dwarf to dwarf and then at Kinsey told the tale.

Ever since Sargon had explained the events surrounding their departure from Waterfall Citadel, Kinsey had retreated from the rest of them into his own thoughts. When Neal, fool that he was, had knelt before a wide-eyed Kinsey two nights past, Sargon had been profoundly thankful that the half-dwarf had not mounted that oversized beast of his and galloped away into the dark.

Sargon waited patiently. Initially, Kinsey’s curiosity had provided a nonstop flow of questions, but he had fallen into a solemn silence the day after Neal’s poorly advised display of loyalty. The old priest was tempted to break the lad’s contemplation but thought better of it.
He’ll speak when he’s ready ta speak.

Horus and Neal were assigned to cleanup tonight, and they got to it with the briefest of shared nods. The rattle of pans and tin plates began to fill the evening.

Gideon reclined next to his sister while honing his assorted weapons with a sharpening stone. The pair had been as quiet as Kinsey, their gazes ever hovering over the king’s heir. The Thorel siblings knew what an heir could mean to Thorn, whom they loved. More, the advent of a Dakayga meant change for the dwarven kingdom. The hope in their eyes was almost heartbreaking, for the lad couldn’t see it. Sargon could see it, though, sure as winter frost settling on the Dales.

“Does my family... I mean my dwarven family know what I am?” Kinsey asked without preamble.

The routine noises of the evening ceased instantly, and all eyes turned to Sargon.

“They be suspectin’ but don’t know fer certain,” Sargon replied.

Kinsey frowned, his gaze still captivated by the fire. “What does it mean, this word ‘Dakayga’?”

“Depends on who ya ask, I suppose.” Sargon gestured to everyone around the campfire. “Ta us, it be the gift of our god, Dagda. Ya be a spirit warrior.” Then he chuckled softly. “Ta our enemies it surely means death.” The others around the fire chuckled and nodded their agreement.

Kinsey looked at Sargon with dismay. “I don’t remember any of it. How can
that
be a gift?”

“Ya don’t have control of it yet, lad,” Sargon said. “We’ll be helpin’ ya with that.”

“So dwarves change into monsters often, do they?”

Sargon frowned. “Not exactly.”

Kinsey tilted his head to the side and stared intently at Sargon. “What does that mean?”

Sargon found himself in a difficult place. He couldn’t lie to the lad, but telling the truth wouldn’t be much better. Also, the way things were going, it didn’t look as if the boy was willing to wait until they got to Mozil to get answers. Sargon would have to tell him something. It might have been better had Kinsey continued his slumber for the entire trip.

Sargon glanced at the others around the fire, and they all averted their eyes quickly. He was on his own, it would seem. “We hadn’t seen the likes of a Dakayga fer some time till about sixty, seventy years ago.”

“How long is ‘some time’?”

The old priest sighed. “A couple thousand years.”

“What?!” Kinsey’s voice rose. “Then how in Eos’ name are you going to help me?!”

Sargon raised his hands in a calming gesture. “The grace o’ Dagda helped us once, and he’ll do it again.”

“Oh, for the love of...” Kinsey got to his feet, anger drawing his ruddy brows together. “This is ridiculous. I’m not some damn monster out of your legends! And I don’t know that I want to wait around for your god to get around to ‘helping us out.’”

The others around the fire looked up at the angry half-dwarf, their expressions solemn. Kinsey stared right back at them.

Sargon could understand the doubts the lad had, but the Divine Presence had showed the truth of it. There was no way Kinsey could escape what he truly was. “We can help ya, lad. Ya can be somethin’ greater. Somethin’ truly amazin’.” Sargon got to his feet. “Give it… give us... a chance. Please.”

Kinsey gave him a skeptical look. “I can’t say I’m not curious about you folks and the prospect of finding blood relatives, but”—he paused before continuing in a rush—“I think my place is back at Waterfall Citadel, helping Erik.”

Sargon felt the blood rush from his face. If Kinsey left now, the rekindled hopes he had for his old friend would gutter and die. “If that’s how ya feel, lad. I can’t force ya ta come. I just hoped ya’d make the journey with us, and I believe in ma heart that it be the right choice.”

The half-dwarf averted his eyes. “What you’re asking me to believe… I can’t. The things you’re saying just aren’t possible—”

“I know, lad,” Sargon interrupted. “It be a lot to take in. I shoulda waited till we were back at Mozil, where I’d at least been able ta show ya some proof.”

Kinsey perked up. “What proof?”

“Yer Da. Ya look just like ’im.” Sargon blinked back the tears that came with the memory of Duhann and the mistakes that could never be unmade. “There be a portrait of ’im in yer granddad’s chambers. If ya seen it, there’d be no doubts about ya bein’ his kin.”

Kinsey spread his arms. “What does that have to do with you telling me that I’m some kind of mindless monster?”

Sargon hesitated. He was afraid to go any further into Duhann’s story; it wasn’t his place. Thorn should be the one to tell the lad about his father.

Jocelyn stepped up next to Sargon and spoke. “He was Dakayga as well. It’s what got ’im killed.”

Kinsey’s gaze moved to Jocelyn. “How?”

“I don’t be knowin’ exactly, but yer grandfather does,” she said. “And it be what changed yer granddad from the bold leader he was to the shell o’ a man we be goin’ back to rescue.”

The half-dwarf’s brow went up in surprise, but Jocelyn pressed on before he could argue. “We ain’t lyin’ about this.” Her voice began to rise. “It be too important. The world be beginnin’ to boil, and we be needin’ a strong hand ta guide us!”

Kinsey shook his head, confused. “Strong hand... what are you talking—”

“Yer grandfather be the king, dammit! And he ain’t whole. He ain’t been whole since yer Da died.” Jocelyn stormed up to the tall half-dwarf and stared up into his surprised face. One stout finger jabbed repeatedly into Kinsey’s broad chest, rocking him back on his heels as she continued. “Ya be the only one that can put ’im back together, but yer too damn afraid ta help!”

“Jocelyn!” Sargon barked. “Enough.”

She turned away from Kinsey, wiping her hand across her eyes. Without another word, she stomped off into the darkness.

Kinsey stood in shock. He tore his gaze from the place where Jocelyn had disappeared and looked around at the gathered dwarves. “Is that true?”

Gideon leaned forward to sheathe his sword and retrieve a broad-bladed knife from a boot sheath. “Aye, it be true. Though I don’t think ya be afraid. Confused maybe, but there be no fear.” Gideon tapped his nose with the glimmering steel. “I can sense that kinda thing.” The general paused long enough to root in his bag and toss a spare pipe to Kinsey.

Kinsey frowned as he caught the pipe and looked at it. He sank to the ground, apparently at a loss for words.

“I knew yer Da. Quite well, actually,” Gideon continued. “I cannot figger how I missed him in yer face before.”

Sargon silently settled as well, not wanting to disturb the calm rhythm of Gideon’s voice. It had been odd, but Dagda had provided the revelation that Gideon needed when he needed it, even if the general could not see the truth of that.

“News o’ his death tore me up good, but as bad as I’d felt, it’d been worse fer yer granddad. Yer father’s passing broke ’im, sure as a dry branch over ma knee.” The scarred general lit his own pipe with a twig from the fire. “I knew somethin’ big be up when this one here”—he pointed across the fire at Sargon—“comes ta me and says we gots ta leave on a mission, right when rumors o’ the south boilin’ began ta come in. Ya see, I’m suppose ta be leadin’ our armies, and instead, I be sittin’ here with this sorry lot.”

That last comment earned the general a hurtling tin plate from the direction of the wash kettle. The missile bounced off one brawny shoulder, but Gideon took the assault with a grin.

The rough but easy camaraderie of the dwarven encampment broke the mood in a way that Sargon’s best efforts could not have. Kinsey’s expression relaxed. When the uproar and laughter faded, Gideon turned his attention back to Kinsey. “I know what we be askin’ of ya is a lot and that ya be havin’ other matters ta attend. But, monster stories aside, we really be needin’ yer help, if only fer a little while.”

Thorn’s heir stared into the fire and dragged a smoldering taper from the coals to light the borrowed pipe. For an agonizing time, he simply puffed and looked at the fire.

Sargon held his breath and said a silent prayer, waiting for the half-dwarf to speak.

Finally, Kinsey smiled. “All right, I’ll stay. Monster stories aside.”

“W
E
can’t be runnin’ down the mountains every time a scout be widdlin’ his drawers at the sight o’ a bloody goblin!” Petron Grouler shouted, hammering his heavy cane on the throne-room floor. The grizzled old dwarf squinted past his bushy white brows at the assembled nobles. “They’re just passin’ through, I says. No need fer all this fuss. We be wastin’ our time!”

Olen Bluebeard of the fourth house cleared his throat and replied, “Elder, it be more than just a passin’ goblin—”

“Elder?!” shouted Petron, his voice climbing even higher. “Don’t ya be callin’ me ‘elder,’ dammit. I’d break ya over my knee if I had a mind ta!” His gnarled cane waved through the air, propelled by an even more gnarled hand.

Several chuckles echoed through the hall, but Petron would have none of it. “I seen them maggots scurryin’ around in the valley before any o’ ya were born. It meant nothin’ then, and it means nothin’ now!”