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

by Matt Howerter

  Gideon took Jocelyn’s hand and hopped up from the ground. He dusted himself off and made his way over to where the priest had made his bed for the coming evening.

  Sargon squinted at the stocky dwarf. “Ya fared well. Only one black eye, and no blood flowin’ this time.”

  “I fared better than that, ma old friend. Seems the only way for me ta get out of cookin’ is ta make a right ass of meself!” Gideon replied with a devious grin, not diminished in the least by his charred hair and beard.

  “Yer smarter than ya look!” Sargon laughed. He motioned to the patch of lush grass beside him. “Sit.”

  Gideon plopped down in the soft vegetation and pulled out a pipe of his own. He pressed several pinches of the valuable tobacco into its bowl. Thick, corded muscles rolled along Gideon’s forearms as he struck flint to light the well-packed pipe he cradled in his meaty hand. A multitude of scars ran along his skin, all the way up to his face. Each white line was earned in battles with Wildmen of the East or the goblin hordes to the South. His presence on this journey spoke volumes about how important it was to the king that Sargon succeed in his quest.

  “One o’ these days yer not gonna be able ta get up from yer sister’s beatins.” Sargon chuckled.

  “That may be so, but at least I won’t have ta cook.” Gideon smiled. “I’m terrible at it, anyways... abandonin’ the effort...’tis a true service I be doing fer the group.”

  Sargon looked at Jocelyn, who stood before the cooking fire making adjustments so the flames didn’t touch the plump, juicy bird skewered on the spit. She knew her way around a fire, to be sure, but Jocelyn’s true skills lay with the axe and flail that were within easy reach of her bustling path about the campfire. Sargon had seen her do miraculous things with those weapons and was pleased when she agreed to come along.

  “So...” Gideon said, between puffs of smoke. “This thing we’re doin’... must be pretty important ta bring ya out from under the mountain.”

  Sargon looked up at the sky and smiled. Gideon didn’t like secrets and could sniff them out faster than a red-hound hunting a dire bear. Being a member of the Holy Order, Sargon was accustomed to secrets and mysteries, though he doubted their necessity at times. The dwarves who served with him now—Gideon chief amongst them—were duty-bound to follow his lead and would not abandon their mission regardless of his ability to answer or not. For them, a straightforward response was best. “I wish I could tell ya, Gideon, but I gave me oath, and I don’t intend ta break it.”

  Gideon’s response was to look down the mountainside toward the lowlands and puff more feverishly on his pipe.

  Sargon honestly did want to tell him the true purpose of their journey. He thought it would improve the chances for success if they all knew, but that was not the king’s wish. Sargon had to admit that he could see the wisdom in King Thorn’s desire for secrecy in this matter. The man had lost too much already and could possibly lose more if what Sargon had been told was true.

  Sargon settled into the fragrant grass and closed his eyes, reflecting on the meeting with his king.

  “Ya summoned me, Ma King?”

  He knelt before King Thorn, who sat on the second step of Hannual, the mountain throne of Mozil. The old king was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and apparently lost in thought. The mighty axe Mordekki lay on the steps beside him.

  If the king sitting upon the step had not been enough to raise Sargon’s eyebrow, the presence of the weapon, out and free of its cradle, certainly was. Thorn rarely acknowledged its existence these days, let alone drew the weapon. Mordekki had lain quietly since that horrible day, the memory of which was distant to all but his king. Thorn bore its weight every day.

  “I need ya ta do somethin’ for me.” King Thorn’s voice was rough but had strength. There was an urgency to his tone that Sargon had not heard in years.

  “Anything, Ma King,” he replied.

  “I received news from our scouts ta the South that the hobgoblin hordes be on the move. They’re forcin’ the Wildmen to scatter, makin’ a real mess in the lowlands,” the king said. He motioned for Sargon to stand.

  “I’ll assemble the clerics and make ’em ready ta move by the end of—”

  “No,” King Thorn interrupted. “You’ll be doin’ somethin’ else.”

  “Of course, Ma King. I shall do what ya bid of me.” Sargon looked at Thorn perplexedly, not sure what to say beyond this. It was his duty to rally the clerics in times such as these. If Thorn had other duties in mind that would take him from his traditional task, they must be important indeed.

  His eyes followed the hand that had motioned him to his feet as it dropped to touch the carved handle of Mordekki. The deep runes etched into the surface glowed softly in response to the king’s touch, bathing the monarch in a soft, golden glow. The action raised more questions about the king’s behavior, but he did not voice his concern. Silence was often the best tool to bring issues to the surface. Most secrets worked to be free. He balled his hands into fists behind his back to calm his anxiety and waited patiently for Thorn to continue.

  “I been givin’ other news as well.” The king drew a deep breath, but then hesitated when he looked at Sargon, as if in indecision about what to say next. The pause was drawn out.

  Sargon drew his fists tighter in response to the growing tension but tried to remain composed. He had faith in his king, even though the Thorn he had known and loved had been gone for many years. Whatever it was that needed to be revealed, Sargon would listen, and help if he could.

  Thorn looked away and spoke slowly, “I must prepare the kingdom fer war. If it comes ta that. So I can’t be leavin’ to deal with this other matter. That’s what I need ya for.”

  “Of course, Ma King. I shall do whatever ya bid of me,” Sargon said again, silently urging his friend to continue.

  Thorn’s eyes locked with Sargon’s and the old priest witnessed a raging fire within them. A fire Sargon had thought dead with Duhann.

  Hope surged in Sargon and curiosity enflamed his mind. What events had taken place to bring the passion back to his king’s heart? More importantly, how long would it, or could it, remain?

  “I must tell ya somethin’. Somethin’ that cannot leave this room,” said Thorn.

  Sargon nodded eagerly. The priest stood in stunned silence as he was told of the dark adviser’s visit. With each passing word of the story, Thorn was transformed. Before Sargon’s weeping eyes, his longtime friend was no longer the tired, old man who mourned the loss of his son but once again the Hammer of the Mountain, King Thorn, ruler of the dwarven clans of all Orundal.

  Overcome, Sargon fell to his knees. “Ma King.”

  Thorn looked down at him. “Find ma grandson, if he truly exists.” His voice boomed with the power and authority of old, filling the empty hall. “Bring him ta me. I trust no other but ye ta do this.”

  “Am I ta go alone, Ma King?” Sargon asked, still in the thrall of his friend’s rebirth.

  “No.” The shake of the king’s grizzled mane was curt. “Pick ya nine of ma best fighters from under the mountain, and one general. Gideon.” The handle of the great axe prodded Sargon’s chest. “Tell ’em nothin’ of yer real purpose, until ya know fer certain of its truth.”

  Sargon nodded emphatically. “As ya say, Ma King!”

  Thorn nodded as well in satisfaction. Reaching into a pocket with his free hand, he pulled out a stone that glinted blue with what seemed to be its own light. Gesturing with the axe handle, Thorn brought Sargon once more to his feet.

  “Take this. It’ll lead ya to ’em, or so the creature says.” Derision and hope both laced the king’s words. “The scrawl along the top is the direction ya travel when the stone glows.” The small stone was pressed into Sargon’s calloused hand.

  He trembled when his fingers closed around the stone’s cool, smooth surface. He looked at the gemstone in amazement and rotated it in his palm, taking note of the glow as it grew and faded with regard to th
e orientation of the imperfection Thorn had indicated. With surprise, he said, “He’s ta the East, with the humans?”

  The king nodded. “So it would seem. Now go... and Dagda be with ya, ma friend.”

  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.

  COLD 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 j
umped 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.