Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (29 page)

Sargon’s eyes stung at the memory of his king’s resurrection, and he turned his face so Gideon would not see the tears that blurred his vision.

“I don’t like doin’ things this way, Sargon, especially when the South is fit ta burst... We’ll be wadin’ right inta the middle of those Wildmen as they’re runnin’ fer their misbegotten lives. And fer what?” Gideon gestured toward the lowlands with his pipe.

Sargon wiped the wetness from his eyes while Gideon was still focused on the basin below. “I know it. But I can’t tell ya... yet. Ya need ta focus on keepin’ us alive through this mess. The reasonin’ will be revealed in time.”

They sat in silence after that, enjoying what remained of the setting sun and their smoking pipes.

Once the fire was the only source of light, Gideon got to his feet and stretched. “Well, so be it, then. But remember this, Sargon.” He stabbed the stem of his pipe in Sargon’s direction, bushy eyebrows high above his polished granite eyes. “When ma men start dyin’—and it’ll come ta that; it always does—I’ll be holdin’ ya responsible and I’ll be wantin’ me an answer.”

Sargon held the general’s eye and nodded his agreement. He understood Gideon’s frustration; he had enough of his own to last two lifetimes. Understanding didn’t change the facts, though. The true purpose of this journey would have to remain hidden until Sargon knew for certain there was indeed a valid blood tie to this Kinsey.

If the highlords got wind that Thorn’s line had not died out, the king’s tenuous grip on power could be severely threatened. Discussions of another family’s ascension to the throne had been underway for some time, and news of an heir would not be welcome to some. Sargon was afraid that even if this “supposed” grandchild was legitimate, it would not be enough to stop the negotiations. Since the night when they had been forced to destroy the king’s son, Thorn’s rule had been tarnished and his authority questioned. An unknown contender, inheriting the throne of a king who had lost much of his appeal amongst the people, could bring unrest and civil war instead of unity. For now, secrecy was paramount.

Gideon made his way back to the fire and gave his sister a playful shove, which she returned with a punch to his shoulder. The two eventually settled on tending to dinner together with impatient bystanders looking on, eagerly awaiting their share of the bounty.

The aroma of roasted fowl snuck its way past Sargon’s troubled thoughts, causing his stomach to growl loudly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He stood and hurried to the campfire for his share of the delicious bird. His troubled thoughts were, for the moment, forgotten.

Eventually, Sargon made his way back to his pack rolls, licking his fingers and praising Jocelyn’s intervention at the cook fire. As he settled in, the carpet of night unfolded above him through the moonlit shadows of the trees but the peace of sleep was denied him. His thoughts clamored more loudly in the darkened stillness.

Sargon loved his king. They had become trusted friends over the long years. He thought there was nothing he wouldn’t do to help and protect that friendship, but now, he found more questions surfacing in his mind. Could he bear seeing the kingdom torn apart in the hopes of restoring a crumbling line of succession? A bloodline he and all the people had thought ended with Thorn himself? Even Sargon’s sense of loyalty and duty was sorely tried at this thought. He could only imagine the reactions of the rowdy fighters who currently escorted him, much less the houses that might have good cause to expect the throne.

The more he pondered why he had accepted the task to begin with, the more he realized it was about saving an old man’s soul. A man who had provided peace to a nation for almost three centuries.

Sudden realization of what must be came upon him. He must find this “grandchild” for his friend and settle one way or the other the truth of his parentage. If the child was not true, or if he was and proved to be made of a lesser mettle than his forefathers, then for his kingdom, Sargon would have to make sure the child never returned to the halls of the Mountain King.

C
OLD
wind swirled through the heavy limbs of the winewoods, sending rustling waves of sound through the darkness. The thick lower branches swung about like massive arms ready to knock any unsuspecting travelers to the ground. A late freezing storm had rushed down from the northern midlands through Ice Lake’s pass and wreaked havoc on thrusher nests and clotheslines alike along the banks of the Tanglevine. While rare, these cold blasts were not unheard of in the late spring.

The moon was a solid orb. Its circular edge was crisp against the night, and the silvery disk shone bright enough to paint the trail ahead in bright patches amongst dense shadow. Pinpricks of light littered the sky in clustered patterns beyond the treetops, providing a backdrop for the constellations that floated eternally over Orundal.

Soft rectangles of yellowish orange could be seen in the hollow below Sloane’s vantage point. The textured patterns of wood shingles on steep roofs were revealed by moonlight in the hazy distance. The promise of warmth and respite floated from the chimneys in the form of dark, deliciously scented smoke.

The river flowed in a tumbling rapid along the southern edge of the village. The rattling of the wind in the trees combined with the crashing of the water to create an ambient white noise that overwhelmed the typical sounds of the night wood. Even so, the sounds of merriment and community could be heard faintly drifting from the town of Riverwood, calling to the weary band as they trudged from the wild.

Oh, how glorious a hot bath would be
, Sloane thought, envisioning herself slipping into a large tub of steaming water. She wasn’t used to such long travel. Most places of importance, in her experience, were not more than a week or two from Stone Mountain, and there were many stops at manors and prestigious taverns along the way. At this point, any hamlet—or farmhouse, for that matter—would be a welcome reprieve. The journey had been rigorous since the ambush. The small campfires that had been allowed had provided little warmth. The short periods of rest between the long rides had also been insufficient for true recovery. The compounded misery of the entire past week of travel had filled her, and her companions, with sufficient contempt for the raiding Wildmen to desire the entirety of the Savage Lands burned to the ground.

“You have stayed in this township before, Master Kinsey?” Sacha asked, nudging her mount closer to the large man.

“Yes, Princess. Many times.” His silhouette turned to face Sacha’s direction. “Good people, excellent food, and soft beds.”

“Do they have bathtubs?” Sloane couldn’t help but ask.

His chuckle was barely audible over the baying wind. “Yes, Princess, and most attentive servants as well.”

“Praise Eos.” Sloane looked to the heavens.

The wind whipped about the group with increased strength and Sacha pulled her cloak more tightly about herself. “What is taking them so long?” she asked no one in particular.

Bale’s voice was deep and cut through the wind with ease. “Precautions, Princess. Safety is not something to be rushed.”

Understandable, if inconvenient
, Sloane thought.

Erik and Rouke had crept, under the cover of shadows, toward the town of Riverwood over an hour ago. Fear of another ambush prompted several similar scouting missions over the past week. Each effort had yielded nothing of consequence, but they had become common practice nonetheless.

The four of them waited atop the hillock while the remainder of the caravan huddled in the trees behind. Sloane looked over her shoulder to check that they had not disappeared and was comforted the sight of the expansive undulating shadow of the men and equipment stretching back into the darkness of the wood.

“All is clear.” Erik stepped out from under the waving branches of a winewood not far from their little group.

Sloane almost jumped out of her skin.
Gods, I wish he weren’t so light on his feet.
No wonder her father had had so much trouble with these woodland folk.

The elf moved closer to the awaiting party. “Rouke is purchasing lodging. Not everyone will get a proper room, but—”

“My men will make camp outside,” Bale cut in, but did not look directly at Erik. “In which tavern will the princesses be staying?”

The elf pointed toward Riverwood. “The largest structure on the main thoroughfare. Rapid’s Rest is its name.”

Bale pulled on his reins, retreating back to the caravan without a word. Kinsey shifted in his saddle as if to say something, but must have thought better of it, as he remained silent.

Sloane looked at the retreating back of the Pelosian captain. “Forgive him, Master Erik. Many of our people have died as a result of the ‘disagreements’ we have had with the elves of Asynia.” She turned her mount so she was closer to the elf. “I’m sure this has not been easy for you, either. I must commend you on your restraint.”

“The matter means little to me, Princess. I have no ties to Asynia. Although I am sorry lives have been lost.” He gestured once more to the welcoming town below. “The way is safe and a warm fire awaits.”

She studied the lean man, taking special note of his body language. His tone of voice held the utmost respect, but he seemed to go rigid, for just a moment, before speaking. Eos knew how Bale could grate on a person’s nerves, and it appeared Erik was no exception. She was still uncertain where he stood concerning the elves of Asynia. He was elven, after all, so it would seem appropriate for him to have
some
misgivings about the people of Pelos.
Time will tell where his allegiance lies
, she thought. For now, she would have to trust in her Basinian brethren-to-be and hope for the best.

She tilted her head toward Erik. “Lead on.”

A party at Rapid’s Rest was in full swing when Sloane, her family, and the delegates of Basinia entered the common area. The sounds of music, dancing, and laughter magnified tenfold upon opening the heavy winewood door. Men and women swung about on a cleared section of floor near one of the two massive stone hearths, while seated patrons banged their mugs in cheery delight. Barmaids darted between groups of people, intent on delivering the proprietor’s goods, and the joyful customers willingly gave thanks upon being served.

Rouke stood next to a bar that dominated the room and defined the rustic aesthetic of the tavern. It appeared to be made of a fallen winewood and was so large that the inn must have been built around it. It spanned the length of the room, and the top had been sawn and sanded to make a flat tabletop along which many patrons sat. They were taking advantage of the knobs and valleys of bark that remained on the trunk of the old leviathan as foot, drink, and pipe rests. The entire surface Sloane could see had been sealed with some type of lacquer that brought out the best colors in the wood, while imparting on it a bright sheen that reflected the many lamps around the room. He spoke with a round, balding man who wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A massive, bristling beard that claimed almost all of the man’s face below the eyes threatened an assault against an advancing bald spot. Small eyes peered brightly from below a similarly bushy brow. A used hand towel draped over one shoulder. That, and his constant swiveling gaze, proclaimed him the owner or manager of the inn.

Erik stepped up beside Sloane. “We secured two long tables next to the hearth.” He pointed to the side of the room opposite the mass of dancing people. “I will see to your meals.” The last he spoke loudly so those piling in behind her could hear, then he turned and maneuvered through the crowd toward Rouke.

“My Lady.” Kinsey took Erik’s place beside her and beckoned as he stepped past to clear a path. The milling patrons moved aside easily for him, and he patted some on the shoulder with a familiarity that bespoke his trips through this area.

Sloane looked again at Rouke and Erik as she followed Kinsey, and found the same ease of interaction between the two men and the barkeep. Even the barmaids gave them warm smiles and giggled as Rouke made expressive gestures, most likely immersed in the telling of some tall tale.

Sloane relaxed as the warmth radiated from the giant hearth and began to wash away layers of cold. Thankfully, she shed her heavy cloak and settled into a cozy corner. Mouth-watering savory smells drifted from the kitchen doors as they banged open and closed in a constant stream of hands bearing trays of steaming soups, hunks of bread, and interesting cuts of meat. Rich brown gravy appeared to be a key player in much of the fare that marched past the group, and she felt as well as heard her stomach rumble. Master Kinsey appeared to have been correct about the food at the very least, if it tasted anything like it looked and smelled.