Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (18 page)

Jocelyn?
The figure in the window was Jocelyn. She stood with her arms spread and head held high. The bloody knife lay on the ground at her feet. Foolish, bullheaded, and beautiful, the damned woman meant to die.

The struggle within him changed. The rage tried to pull him away from the light, surging and swirling around his mind, trying to bury him in its tempest. This time, he did not fight. He did not engage it at all but let the rolling fury pass him by. There would be no handholds for the rage to grasp for leverage. Kinsey would not allow it.

He looked out at Jocelyn as the beast roared in frustration, covering the tiny figure in spittle and hatred. Massive, clawed hands appeared in front of Kinsey’s window. They reached for the dwarf woman who stared back, chin high and unmoving. Kinsey focused on the hairy, muscled arms and envisioned them as if they were the sleeves of a winter coat. All he had to do was slide his hands in and will the outstretched claws to stop.

The dark fury howled in his mind, and he could hear the screaming echo from the muzzle of the Dakayga. It tried to resist him, to fix on him, but he gently pushed his will forward as smoothly as a salmon swimming upstream. The black, razor-tipped claws came to a twitching halt mere inches from Jocelyn’s upturned face.

A layer of grime melted away from the window, and he could make out Jocelyn’s expression. A broad smile had made its way across her face. Even as he watched, the terror that had filled her eyes bled away to be replaced by fascination. Slowly she reached out and touched one of the frozen claws with her tiny hand. Amazingly, she seized the giant wrist and pressed her cheek into the monstrous palm, still not taking her eyes away from his.

Kinsey reeled in shock. He could
feel
her touch, the softness of her skin.

The dark rage erupted as his concentration was shattered. It tore at him savagely in another attempt to take control.

Kinsey managed to stumble away from Jocelyn. The beast raged, and claws raked at the floor. He gathered his faltering will and closed away his panicked attempt to struggle against the rage. He allowed the anger to pass him by and did not retaliate but held his calm even though he wanted to scream.

Eventually the fury dissipated, retreating to the far corners of Kinsey’s mind.

He slammed into a wall of the Dagdarhem and slumped against it, sliding to his knees. The light began to dim, but this time not with the anger of the void but with the velvety blanket of exhaustion. Kinsey surrendered completely to this darkness, and hope kindled in his dreams.

Jocelyn stood, trembling.
Dagda be praised!
She had faced the beast and survived. She had been right!

The prince had reined in the monster and had taken his first step toward becoming a Dakayga in the truest sense of the word. Jocelyn watched in unabashed amazement as the form of the Dakayga was shed from her prince and his naked form was revealed. The mass of muscle and hair that fell away from him transformed into translucent rivulets of viscous goo that in turn began to evaporate in mere seconds. In only a few short moments, all traces of the monster had gone, leaving just her and her prince. Well, almost all traces of the monster. Blood from Kinsey’s initial transformation and slobber from the beast still liberally coated her. She shook herself from her shocked stance and wiped away the viscera with the corner of her ruined clothes.
Perhaps I could’ve thought that through better,
she thought with some chagrin. But it had worked!

Jocelyn had almost broken and run in fear as the monster roared into her face. The memory of the slavering jaws sent a chill down her spine. Had she done so, she likely would have died. Fortunately, she had had faith enough and strength enough to stand in place and weather the prince’s storm.

Forcing herself into motion, Jocelyn tottered across the floor of the Dagdarhem to Kinsey’s recumbent form. She stopped several paces from where he lay, suddenly unsure of herself and the encounter.

His broad chest rose and fell in peaceful slumber—no hint of the raging beast or of the damage she had done him before the transformation remained.

Jocelyn risked another step closer, then another, until she stood beside Kinsey. She bent down next to him and moved some of the ruddy locks covering his face. Sweat had beaded on his forehead, and on closer inspection, his entire body shone with glistening perspiration. Slowly, she reached out with a shaking hand and touched his cheek. The skin was warm under her fingertips, but not to the point of fever. Her hand moved from his face to gently comb the matted hair that had mingled with his short beard.

His eyes fluttered as she ministered to him. He gasped like a man who had been held underwater and bolted upright. “What happened?” he asked, looking around in wide-eyed confusion.

“Easy, it be okay,” Jocelyn whispered. “Yer safe, ma prince.”

Kinsey’s heavy mane rolled across his thick shoulders as he turned to look at her. The clouded look of confusion bled away from his features, to be replaced by one of wonder. “I saw you, through the rage,” he said, amazed. “I
saw
you. I
remember
.”

Jocelyn nodded, tears blurring her vision.

“I stopped it.” He barked a laugh and looked down at his hands in disbelief. “I can’t believe it!” He laughed again, wholehearted laughter that echoed throughout the chamber. Kinsey whooped, and jumped to his feet. He danced about, completely unmindful of his nudity.

Jocelyn giggled at first, wiping the moisture from her eyes, but as the prince continued his nude parade, she found herself taking in lungfuls of air and howling as loudly as he was. Her jaws and belly began to ache, and she bent over to catch her breath.

Kinsey rushed in suddenly and scooped her off her feet while she still wheezed. He spun her around and yelled, “You’re a genius, woman. A damned crazy genius!”

Jocelyn felt dizzy, and not just from the spinning.

And then he kissed her.

P
IPE
smoke hung heavy in the air above the massive war table. Intricate etched runes decorated the stone-and-wood tabletop that had been arranged with models of the southern Dales and pieces that represented the movement of the dwarven armies to Fountainhead Pass. Further south and littering the model’s valleys and canyons were chaotic groups of figures representing the dwarves’ best guess as to the numbers and movements of the goblin-kin horde.

The king’s battle plan was solid, but it carried elements of risk, especially when considering the old monarch’s age. He proposed to counter the numbers of the horde with the raw power and stubborn tenacity of the dwarven people. An ancient tactic, “the Hammer and the Anvil,” would be employed to trap their enemies between the dwarven forces like hot steel shaped between a blacksmith’s tools. Thorn himself and those who had chosen to join him would form the anvil. It was foolhardy but likely a choice the king had made from a feeling of obligation to the people for his veritable abandonment these past sixty years. When the king and his allies on the field had stalled the advance of the goblin-kin, the remaining eight houses that were to be hidden on the heights would fall upon the horde from behind and smash it against the shields of the defenders. Tagen Axeheed had volunteered to lead this secondary force.

The ginger-haired dwarf stroked his beard in thought, but it wasn’t the figures on the table that had his attention; it was the dwarves gathered around the heavy granite-and-oak table. The battle would take care of itself in truth now that the roles and responsibilities had been decided, but the fate of the dwarven kingdom
after
the battle, well, that was another matter entirely.

The leaders of all ten great houses were here along with their generals and advisors. Each house was committing to roles in the upcoming battle and refining its tasks. House Borjornin had been the first to join Thorn in taking on the role as the anvil. Those two forces added with the militia made a sizable army, but surprisingly, House Silvervein had stepped in to support Thorn on the field as well.

Tagen had yet to pin down where Beordin Silvervein’s allegiance would lie when it came to Thorn’s successor, but in spite of the old dwarf’s support of the king on the field, Tagen felt confident that he could persuade the man to support the first house in its bid for the throne. Houses Silvervein and Axeheed had enjoyed many mutually beneficial dealings over the past decades. That positive business relationship had set the stage for dialogue between the two houses. In those talks, Tagen had expressed his concern of another “elderly” dwarf, such as Gurney Borjorin, taking the throne after Thorn and had made a solid argument that younger blood was needed to fulfill the position of king. Beordin had been reserved in his reply, but Tagen felt that the queen’s former suitor would not only be supportive of his cause but even prove ardent in doing so.

A smile began to make its way across Tagen’s face, but he smothered it with a fist. He couldn’t have asked for a better battle plan to suit his needs. If things went poorly for Thorn and his supporting forces, it would be left to Tagen to save the dwarven people from catastrophe. All he had to do was ensure that things
did
go poorly for the sods on the valley floor, and he was all but assured of ascendancy. His gaze darted around the table to see if any had noticed his shift in mood.

None of the lords appeared to have noticed—all focus was still drawn to the battle map. Rhert Jaden of the lowest house tapped his finger on the upper peaks of the Dales not far from the capitol and scratched his dark beard as he voiced his thoughts over the din. “Will ya be callin’ the Ursus fer aid, ma king?”

Mention of the bear folk hushed the room. Thorn looked away from Gurney. “Aye, that I will.”

“Probably a waste o’ time, ma lord,” Ronil interjected, his salt-and-pepper beard swaying as he shook his head. “It be such a long time since they been called. Likely none would respond.”

Olen grumbled his assent, but Tagen schooled himself to a noncommittal air. Any reminder of Thorn’s self-imposed exile was welcome, but it was good that the reminders didn’t always come from him.

“That be true,” the king replied, “but worth the time nonetheless.” Thorn passed a weary hand across his brow. “I’ll be goin’ up top on the morrow ta blow the horn and see what’s ta be seen.”

The gathered leaders and generals nodded and murmured to each other, apparently satisfied. Tagen did the same so as not to look out of place, but irritation reigned in his mind. If the Ursus were to join Thorn, they would increase the chances for the old king’s success. True, there was but a slim possibility that the horn would bring any assistance down from the peaks, but even so, the potential put Tagen on edge.

Tagen quietly took a breath to rid himself of the rumbling doubts. He had done what he could do to pave his path to the throne. No one else could have manipulated the situation better than he himself. All that was left for him to do now was settle back and wait for his years of work and planning to yield the riches he so deserved. There was nothing that could stop him now.

The king rapped his scarred knuckles on the battle map, drawing all eyes to him once again. Laying his hands flat on the table, he looked at each dwarf in turn and said softly, “I’ve an announcement ta make.” He nodded once to Gideon, who had stationed himself at the entry doors. Thorn’s fiery brown eyes almost glowed when he said, “I’ve chosen a successor.”