Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (69 page)

“Kinsey Aveon, and a party of dwarves.”

Kesh scoffed. “Impossible.” He scanned the room once and lowered his voice as he leaned toward the skinny boy. “Is this a jest?” he hissed. “That man is dead.”

The page shook his head in reply. “You are to take them to the base of the Cliffs.”

This is ludicrous, he thought. Even if Kinsey had survived, what possible importance could he and a group of those filthy little men have for Vinnicus?

The boy seemed to sense the chancellor’s skepticism. “I am only a humble messenger, Milord. I do what I am told.” He bowed once more and turned to leave.

“Wait.” Kesh was willing to gamble, but his current hand could only be used to bluff. If Kinsey had somehow survived, then Kesh had to know. “When am I suppose to ‘deliver’ these prisoners?”

The boy didn’t stop walking away but glanced back with impassive eyes. “Now, Milord.”

Jocelyn gestured to the seat beside Sargon as he gazed at the torchlight coming from the hallway.

“Do ya mind?” she asked.

“No, o’ course not,” replied Sargon. “What be in yer thoughts?”

She glanced significantly around at the cell walls as she sat. “Ya mean besides bein’ in a cage?”

The old dwarf smiled. “Could be worse.”

“Aye ta that,” Jocelyn said, and then looked over at Kinsey.

He was leaning against the stone wall on the other side of the large cell. The young man glanced at her and Sargon, then quickly looked away.

“Is it true?” Jocelyn asked, still looking at the half-dwarf. “Is he the king’s heir?”

“Gideon has a big mouth,” Sargon whispered.

She gave him a warm smile. “I’ll not be denyin’ that, but I came ta this on me own.”

Sargon leaned back against the cold wall. “As ya would. Yer smarter than that brother o’ yer’s.” He let out a long breath. “Aye, I think he’s heir to the throne. He’s too similar ta Duhann not ta be.” Sargon watched her as she mulled over the information.

Jocelyn frowned. “What will it mean?”

“Nothin’.”

Her eyes widened. “What do ya mean,
nothin’
? It could change everythin’.”

“It won’t change anythin’, if he doesn’t exist.” Sargon couldn’t believe he had actually said the words aloud. Earlier, he had hardly been able to
think
them, let alone say them.

“Ya can’t be serious.” Jocelyn echoed his thoughts and laid a hand on his arm. “It’d be murder. And the king, he’s yer friend.”

Sargon suddenly felt very old and he sighed deeply. “I don’t know yet. I can’t risk settin’ our people against each other.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not again.”

The civil war at Stone Mountain had almost destroyed the dwarven people. If there was a way, Sargon had to prevent the possibility of another schism developing into war. As much as he cared for his friend, he could not allow his personal feelings to put the dwarven people at risk.

“Yer a wise man, Sargon, and I’d trust ya with me life.” Jocelyn patted his arm. “Ya have a terrible decision ta make, and I’d hate fer this ta change ya.”

Sargon allowed his eyes to settle on the young half-dwarf as she spoke.
Too late by far, girl
. He had been contemplating the elimination of the rogue heir since the journey had begun, and he was worried that the simple thought had changed him. There was no doubt in his mind that whatever choice he made, he would be changed forever by it.
Give me a sign, Dagda. Fer my soul, please give me a sign
, he prayed desperately.

Sargon had questioned Kinsey about the abduction as soon as the jailor’s key had turned. Kinsey had vehemently proclaimed his innocence, speaking of how he and his adoptive father had gone in search of the kidnappers to save Princess Sacha. Unfortunately, the boy was unable to recall the details of this “rescue.” Kinsey claimed to have no memory of the event, or of the several days thereafter. Sargon found the whole affair hard to believe.

The sound of a heavy door opening interrupted Sargon’s fervent prayer. Bits of muffled conversation and the clacking of many boots followed the squeak of another door. The voices became clearer as the group grew closer.

“... I don’t care. Complain again and I’ll have you flogged,” a haughty voice was saying.

A half-dozen armored men stamped to a stop in front of the thick bars of the cell. Each carried a broadsword and shield, and long daggers hung on their leather belts. Every piece had been accented in the emerald and gold of Waterfall Citadel. Two other men stood before them.

Of the two, Sargon knew the jailor already. He hoped to one day forget the hunched man and his horrid countenance of pox scars and moles that was hidden occasionally by the ragged hood of his office.

The second man was new to him, however. This man was obviously a noble of some sort. His bearing matched the self-important tones of his words, and his silk clothes were obviously not meant for strolls in dank dungeons. The colors he wore were a match for the armed men that surrounded him.

Sargon and the others remained where they were, watching silently.

The nobleman took a torch from one of the soldiers and held it high while peering into the cell. Green eyes glittered imperiously in the torchlight as his gaze swept across Sargon and lighted on Kinsey where it froze. The full lips parted in amazement and he shook his head slightly. His voice was barely a whisper when he finally spoke. “I can’t believe it.”

Kinsey was no less thunderstruck. He stood abruptly and stared at the nobleman as if in recognition. “You…” He took one step forward, snarling with an almost animal sound. “I remember...” Kinsey’s body began to shake uncontrollably. He screamed at the top of his lungs and fell to his knees, writhing in agony.

Sargon and the others jumped to their feet.
Poison?
he thought, hurrying to the boy’s side. The order of Dagda were powerful healers and Sargon was one of their strongest. His blessed touch had cast out many poisons and diseases over his years of service. When he knelt beside the suffering half-dwarf, though, he hesitated. Maybe this be the best thing ta happen.
Maybe this be my answer
, he thought. All he had to do was nothing.

Kinsey convulsed and screamed a second time. Sweat began to cover his skin as a fever took hold.

“What have you done to him?” the yellow-haired nobleman squawked from the hall.

Sargon didn’t reply. He sat back on his heels and watched as the boy slipped slowly into death. Watched as his own soul frayed just a little bit more.

Kinsey’s twitching form began to slow in its convulsive heaving. The lad’s pained wheeze of breath echoed in the chamber.

Sargon was overcome, and a surge of emotion washed through his body.
I canna do it
, he thought.
I canna watch ’im die. Forgive me, Dagda, I can’t
. Giving praise to his god, Sargon placed his healing hands on Kinsey’s agonized body.

A clap of thunder shook the cell. An invisible force blew Sargon off Kinsey and pitched him into the iron bars.

Sargon slumped to the floor with tendrils of grey smoke rising from his body. Spots swam in his vision and he blinked, trying to encourage his sight to return.

The other dwarves had also been pushed back against the cell walls. One and all, they looked on in stunned silence. To Sargon’s eye, all of his companions appeared to have an image of their true selves standing before them. Gideon’s prone form had a warrior straddling his legs. Fierce pride shone from the apparition’s face, and the strong arms flexed in anticipation of a fight. Jocelyn was visible behind the figure of a mother bear, fierce and loyal to her kin. Each of his companions had similar images hanging in the air, giving a glimpse of their hearts, and Kinsey… A broad figure, bathed in golden light, stood over the twitching half-dwarf. A figure radiating power and rage.

Sargon blinked against the radiance of the image. Then it was gone.

Tears welled in Sargon’s eyes and he began to laugh, issuing thankful prayers between his breathless gasping. Dagda had answered, and the divine presence had showed itself. The old priest’s doubts fled away and he knew what must be done.

“Look!” Jocelyn pointed at Kinsey’s prone form.

The lad’s skin rippled unnaturally and claws tore through the blistered flesh of his fingers.

“Dakayga! He be Dakayga!” she yelled in disbelief.

Gideon stumbled away from his spot on the wall with a look of amazement. He stammered, “A-aye.” Then again, with more strength, “Aye!” He stepped in front of Kinsey with his fists clenched. “Tear yer way free, lad!” Gideon roared. “Break us a way outta this pit!”

Sargon was on his feet in an instant. “Silence, ya fool!” He knocked Gideon aside as though the bulky dwarf were a mere child. “He’ll kill us all!”

The skin around Kinsey’s arms began to split, revealing thick and bloody fur beneath. The body of the half-dwarf began to swell, and muffled pops and snaps could be heard deep within.

The old priest clasped his hands around Kinsey’s face. “Kinsey!” Getting no response, he shook the man roughly. “Dagda take it, boy, look at me!”

Tension-strained eyelids opened to reveal blood-red orbs. Vertical black pupils dilated, revealing circles of bright flame dancing behind them. Kinsey’s clawed hands reached out to dig into Sargon’s shoulders and he growled with rage.

Sargon grimaced but shook off the pain. “Stay with me, boy, focus on me voice.” He took a deep breath and began to sing a prayer to Dagda.

Sargon had been praying most of his life, but the words that spilled from his lips had never before been recited in his chantries. There were few words at all, truth be told. Sargon felt power flow around him as his mouth gave voice to the essence of the earth, and his people and the god who loved them and blessed them. Energy coursed into every pore of Sargon’s body through the rock that surrounded them, and he gave it to Kinsey, who quivered behind the balefully glowing pools of hatred.

Voices rose around Sargon as the other dwarves in the cell fell to their knees and lent their breath to the old priest, arms reaching out and touching Sargon lightly. Again, there were no words, just a powerful, calming hum that called to mind the patience of granite and stone.

Slowly, the vertical slits of Kinsey’s pupils began to round and the deep, saturated red of the irises began to fade to a more natural brown. Sargon’s body relaxed as the claws that had pierced his shoulders receded, releasing their hold.

Sargon did not stop his chanting until Kinsey’s appearance had returned to its normal state. The boy collapsed into an unconscious heap upon the rough stone as the last shivers subsided.

Mind-numbing fatigue swept through Sargon as he let the last syllable of his song die in an echoing whisper. He almost joined the lad on the floor, but a whimper caught his attention and he turned to face the men on the other side of the iron bars.

One and all, the soldiers had drawn their swords and held their shields aloft. There was no sign of the pox-scarred jailor except for the large brass ring of keys he carried, which was abandoned on the ground. The flaxen-haired nobleman was pressed into the curving stone wall of the hall, opposite the iron bars. It was from this last man that the mewling arose. Just when Sargon thought the man had lost the power of speech entirely, words slipped from him that were almost lost in his panic-stricken quavering. “You. It was you.”