Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (21 page)

Thorn cursed as he sank hip deep in the powdered white drifts. Leaning forward against the weight of the frozen snowbank, he approached the windswept platform that held the ancient summoning horn.

Thoughts of the elves brought Kinsey and his adoptive father to Thorn’s mind.
As if there were not enough hurdles to jump,
he mused sourly. The initial impact of Kinsey’s mixed heritage had been, as Thorn hoped, largely brushed away in the face of the greater revelation that the lad had been touched by Dagda’s gift of the Dakayga. Largely did not mean completely, however. Thorn was well aware of the hooded and bitter looks that followed his grandson. He was confident, however, that the longer Kinsey remained amongst his people, the less often those resentful gazes would be directed toward him. Revealing that the boy had grown up in the care and tutelage of an elf, however, might undo what good the blessings of Dagda had given him. Axeheed and his ilk would be particularly quick to seize upon what should be a trivial matter.

Tend the iron in the fire, you old fool,
Thorn chastised himself as his foot caught on the snow-buried tread of the first stair and he stumbled, catching himself by leaning into the drifts. Steady once more, he began to climb to the dais.

The Ursus had been called for generations from this spot. Weathered granite blocks were stacked upon each other to form the stairs that ascended to a circular platform perhaps four feet in diameter. The horn itself was perched at the edge of the platform, and the bell pointed toward the first of a series of interconnecting valleys. The valleys themselves were stitched together in an unbroken but twisting river, stretching from where Thorn stood to the southern end of the Dales. When the horn was blown, its echoes could persist for long minutes and be heard miles upon miles away if the wind was right.

The horn itself had been fashioned from a beast whose species had died out during the age of the first king. Thorn could not recall the animal’s proper name but knew that the specimen the horn was harvested from had been enormous. The graceful curvature of the wind instrument extended a good ten feet in length, and its weight was easily more than a hundred stone. Some form of enchantment had been cast upon its polished surface, for despite its nonstop exposure to the elements, the horn retained the luster of a new creation while losing none of veneration due it for its age. Ornate silver chasing wound around the spiraling horn, tracing the fading colors of tan at the mouthpiece to the deepest jet at the gold-rimmed bell.

The rough surface of the dais was almost entirely free of snow thanks to the constant wind. Thorn stepped unhindered to the edge of the platform. He rested a gloved hand on the narrow end of the horn and looked across the chain of valleys. The eastern mountains glowed with the fire of the obscured sun, and the western range still slumbered in its blanket of cool darkness. In the majesty of the moment, his god was truly revealed. Thorn bowed his head and whispered into the wind, “Dagda, yer will be done.”

Thorn took two deep breaths to expand his lungs. The frigid air burned his nostrils and throat as it rushed past to fill his lungs. Just as he felt his chest about to burst, he bent his head to the mouthpiece and blew the horn with all his might. A low moan pealed from the mountaintop and echoed down into the valley. The ever-present wind played with the sound, caroming it from rocks and bluff faces of granite, but the echoing call did not lose fidelity. Long after Thorn had run out of air, the sound continued to rebound from the mountain walls, crisp and mellow as the first note.

The king took another breath as the echoing call raced with the wind and began to fade into the distance but hesitated as something caught his eye. He squinted at the darkness below and bent his ear to listen. A mighty roar swelled from the valley below and was repeated from peaks and valleys surrounding his perch.

Thank Dagda,
Thorn thought, releasing his freshly drawn breath with relief. He leaned against the railing in search of his allies of old.

Sunlight spilled like a flood over the peaks, and there, barreling along a ledge just below, was the massive form of Nerok, leader of the Ursus. The great white bear’s color was so perfectly matched to the snow of the mountains that he would have been practically invisible against the colorless drifts if not for his ground-eating, lumbering gait. Massive paws reached into the light above the lip of the cliff. The hooked black claws dove deep, searching for the bedrock below. With a heave, the massive body was drawn up from the chasm. The hind feet scrabbled for purchase with the gigantic claws digging into the bluff face of the mountain. Snow exploded upward in a scintillating spray as his massive head and shoulders breached the snowpack. More snow flew in every direction as Nerok shook his entire body violently, dislodging the remnants of ice from his fur.

The cast snow blinded Thorn, and he raised a hand against the violent rush. When the storm passed, the king lowered his arm with a laugh.

Nerok sat in the snow, looking at the king with his coal-colored eyes. “We hear,” said the Ursus when Thorn’s gaze met his. The bear’s voice was an almost unintelligible bass rumble that vibrated through the air like a rockslide. The effort it had taken for the bear folk to learn the few words of common tongue they did use was hard to fathom, but Thorn was thankful that they had done so; speaking in the guttural language of the Ursus was not an option for the dwarves.

“I’d been hopin’ ta find ya in good health,” Thorn said, truly happy to see the giant after so many years. “I’d feared ya might not heed the call.”

“Was, far,” replied Nerok. His deep chest rumbled with a curious, mewling yowl while he pawed at some stubborn snow clinging to the side of his broad head. When the offending clump of ice had been dislodged, the great bear tipped his head to the side, question evident in his body language.

Thorn studied the great bear before answering.

A new scar decorated the top of the giant’s head, narrowly missing his left ear. Pink skin surrounding a scabbed cut showed as the mountain wind ruffled the thick fur. Thorn guessed that the damage must be no more than a week old. As he sat in the snow with his forepaws held languidly in front of him, Nerok’s cocked head was still several feet above the king’s own despite the advantage of standing on the platform. Few things could pose any threat to this mighty animal.

Memories of their first meeting flooded Thorn’s thoughts. The same quizzical expression had adorned Nerok’s features back then as well. It had been on a bright spring day when the mighty Ursus had come to the dwarves for aid. Nerok had been unknown to the dwarves at that time. Only one among the Ursus ever served as leader and communicator to the dwarves. Thorn had been enjoying a rare day of fishing on the Daelscharak with Duhann when the alarm sounded and the runner came. The winded messenger relayed tales of a “mad beast” rampaging on the heights, attempting to break into their mountain home. Thorn and a unit of armed warriors had charged up the cliffs to the summoning area, only to find Nerok calmly batting boulders the size of oxen at the entrance to the upper tunnels. With caution, the king attempted to strike up a dialogue with the great bear.

All the dwarves had laughed when they learned of Nerok’s recent ascension to leader of the Ursus and that he was not an actual threat. Thorn had turned to that curious expression and asked the new leader how he and his people might serve the Ursus.

It took some time to extract the story, but he learned of several cubs that had been lost to a twisting crevasse that Nerok was unable to enter or breach. The winding of the crack made it impossible to lower a branch or limb. Thorn had happily obliged the request for assistance and within hours had seen the cubs to freedom. Over the years that followed, Thorn had found himself more in need of assistance from the Ursus than they from the dwarves. Regardless, the great bears had always come.

“Again, I find myself in need o’ yer help, old friend,” Thorn said, stepping away from the horn. “There be danger.” He pointed to the fresh scar on Nerok’s head. “Appears ya found some danger yerself.”

Nerok scrubbed at the wound with a massive paw and made a low growl. “Green men.”

Inwardly, Thorn smiled. This made his request easier in some ways. The term Nerok had used was what the Ursus called the goblin-kin. It would seem the great bears were already aware of the horde’s progress around Long Lake. To his friend, Thorn adopted a serious expression, trying to show outwardly the true concern he felt despite the potential good news that this heralded for him and his people. “Was harm done ta yer folk?” he asked.

“No,” Nerok rumbled.

“That be good news,” Thorn replied as he wiped his brow in relief. “We also be threatened by the ‘green men.’ They march in great numbers along the shores o’ Long Lake and will be upon us soon.”

Nerok shook his head violently, then threw his muzzle into the air and snarled. When his rage abated, Nerok dropped his gaze once more to regard the king on his windswept platform. “You fight?”

“Yes,” Thorn said simply.

“We fight,” Nerok growled. Both of his giant forepaws slammed down into the snow, threatening to dislodge the centuries-old calling platform with the violent tremors. The leader of the Ursus surged to his full height, towering above the tiny king on his elevated platform. Nerok let loose a call of such fury that it actually hurt Thorn’s ears, though the king found himself screaming his defiance into the winds as well.

As the echoes rebounded from the valleys below, Thorn could hear the returning calls of Nerok’s folk and found himself smiling with fierce intensity. The Ursus would join them.

It’s getting easier,
Kinsey thought with some satisfaction. For the third time today, he had been able to bring the transformation to its very cusp but prevent it from coming to fruition. The task of attaining such control had been an arduous one, and his control was well short of perfect. Kinsey shuddered as he considered what might have befallen him if Sargon and the others had not found him.

He eyed Jocelyn with a touch of regret. She was overseeing the placement of several crates that the dwarven party currently hauled through a glowing archway. His relationship with this intriguing woman was invigorating. Well, it had been until he’d made a mess of it.

The kiss he’d planted on her in his jubilation had gone far beyond the original enthusiastic peck he had intended. When their lips had met, Jocelyn had gone completely rigid. Kinsey suddenly realized what he was doing and began to pull away, but her arms snaked around his back and pulled him closer. Her lips, formerly drawn and tight, became supple and hungry.

The rush of victory from moments prior was forgotten in a new flood of emotion in which Kinsey found himself just as captivated. His hands wrapped around her, one cradling the back of her neck, the other her lower back. Her body moved easily under his hands, and their embrace burned with more intensity as the seconds passed. Jocelyn began to slide out of her clothing.

A now-familiar twist suddenly wrenched Kinsey’s gut, and rage blossomed in his mind. The mindless and directionless fury that swelled within him was intense, almost as if it were a thinking thing that resented being denied just moments before.

Kinsey reeled, shoving Jocelyn away. He screamed in shock and agony as he struggled to prevent another transformation.

“Kinsey!” Jocelyn yelled. “Are ya all right?”

“Get back!” He held up a quivering hand to stop her approach. “Give me... space.” Gritting his teeth, Kinsey fell to his knees. Deep breaths and thoughts of the calming waters of the Tanglevine eventually soothed the rage, but the damage had been done; the moment with Jocelyn was destroyed. He could almost hear cackling from the beast as it retreated to the dark corners of his mind. Frustration filled the void left by the exiting rage. It would seem that any strong emotion, good or bad, was to be denied him. Always, the rage waited. “And they call this a ‘gift,’” he muttered softly.

“Ma prince?” Jocelyn’s voice was soft, concerned. Confused.

Kinsey shook his head slowly, a bitter twist to his lips. “You dwarves are quite mad, you know, worshiping this thing that I am.”

Jocelyn came to sit by him, a look of concern on her face. “It be more than worship, Kinsey. It be faith, trust.”

“
Trust?!
” Kinsey filled the word with a barking, derisive laugh. “
Trust this?
” He gestured to himself. “You people are more than just mad, then, you’re foolhardy.”