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

by Matt Howerter

  “Aye.” The other dwarven lord looked down into the pass. “We won’t be makin’ it in time. Thorn and the others will surely perish.”

  Tagen took a long swig from the water skin, rinsing away the grit and masking the small smile that twitched his lips. So perfect this be, he thought, his satisfaction brimming. He only need watch the king and his bastard grandchild be put to the sword, and Mozil would be his for the taking.

  Even if the king’s forces below were completely annihilated, there remained enough warriors here in the heights to make their way through the hidden passages back to Mozil and weather any assault. The mountain fastness would be sealed, and nothing the rabble could bring to bear would breach those defenses. The food stores would be sufficient to hold the remaining nation until the horde moved on, and then his people could go out to rebuild the farms and lands that would inevitably be destroyed in the passing of the goblinoid army. Thorn’s legacy would be swept away, leaving the core of the dwarven nation—the heart—untouched and untainted. The people would need a strong presence to guide them, to console them, and to assure them of hope for the future. Tagen would be that embodiment of strength. My time be at hand.

  KINSEY turned his head as Dak spun under him. The well-trained warhorse used its armored hindquarters like a massive broom, bowling the hapless goblinoids over in screaming heaps.

  A blue pennant waving from a short pole danced above the head of an armored dwarf who led a small knot of warriors. They were pressed hard by a pair of huge hobgoblins and their smaller goblin cousins.

  Finally, Kinsey thought, wheeling Dak around toward the group.

  Dwarven axes clove into the boiling mass of goblins. The hobgoblins, just beyond reach of the dwarves’ swinging axes, hammered furiously at the defenders’ shields with heavy mauls. The failing strength of the dwarves was evident; the soldiers were on the verge of being overwhelmed.

  With a great shout, Kinsey spurred Dak into motion. The ruddy warhorse surged forward to trample a howling goblin and continued on to ram his armored chest into the flank of the closest hobgoblin. Even at seven feet tall, the goblinoid could not withstand Dak’s charge. The bellowing creature flew into his companion, and both hobgoblins crashed to the earth, trapping several of the smaller goblins beneath them. The dwarven troop swept in immediately with axes and armored boots to end their prone enemies while Kinsey and the quickest dwarves from Jocelyn’s cohort dispatched the rest of the goblins as the creatures began to curse and flee.

  “Where in the hell is Roehil?” Kinsey screamed at the pennant bearer as he chopped his axe into the neck of a goblin that was attempting to stab Dak with a twisted piece of rusty iron.

  “Dead, ma prince!” came the panting reply as the dwarf made his way over the writhing bodies of the wounded to Kinsey’s position. Dak reared, lashing hooves at the approaching dwarf.

  Kinsey cursed, trying to bring his mount under control. The warhorse was in a near frenzy with the scent of blood and battle. “Easy, boy!” Kinsey gripped the sides of his saddle tightly with his legs while leaning into the rearing horse. Sawing the reins would only agitate the horse further, so Kinsey eased up on his grip until the dancing horse settled enough for the dwarf to approach.

  “Who is his second?” Kinsey asked in frustration.

  “Harson, but he be dead, too, ma prince!” said the dwarf as he eyed Dak’s prancing feet suspiciously.

  “Damnation!” Kinsey looked around at the disarray surrounding them. “Who are you, then?”

  “Ipman, ma prince.”

  “Well, Ipman, you just got promoted, as I don’t see anyone else with so much as a badge in this Mot-cursed mess.”

  The death of the hobgoblin pair and their supporting team of goblins had given Kinsey and his companions a brief respite, but ever more of the goblin-kin crawled over the forest of broken boulders in the pass. Kinsey searched the sea of green-skinned vermin for his grandfather.

  Deeper in the mass of goblin-kin, near the center of the battlefield, Thorn and his two dozen companions were making slow progress toward the western flank. They had split from the main force of Ursus, which remained spread along the center with Gurney and Beordin at its core. In Thorn’s wake, the dead and twisted forms of goblins and hobgoblins littered the ground.

  The green-skinned monsters surrounding the king and his retinue were using long pikes and ever greater numbers to slow the advance of the Ursus. The supporting dwarves on the ground protected the flanks and rear of the ursine avalanche and prevented the pikes from becoming a true threat, but they did little to help the bears’ pace. The goblin-kin had done their work well—Thorn would arrive too late. The goblinoid reinforcements coming through the pass would get to the western flank first.

  If the dwarves on the western side collapsed completely, the entire army would be at risk of being surrounded. Kinsey needed to rebuild the wall before that happened. As Kinsey considered Thorn’s position, Jocelyn and hundreds of warriors came at a run. Three dozen or more pairs of heavy crossbow teams followed close behind. Each dwarf bore a gigantic crossbow almost two thirds the length of the bearer’s body, and small pulleys were attached to the stock of each weapon to help reload. One bowman would fire while the other cranked the pulleys and loaded the bolts. An efficient team could fire five rounds in less than a minute.

  Kinsey smiled grimly. “Ipman! We’re going to stitch this wall back together, and we’re going to do it before they”—he gestured at the charging goblins with his blood-soaked axe—“get here to make sure we don’t.”

  “As ya say, ma prince!”

  Kinsey stood in his stirrups and roared to the soldiers that were still running up. “Teams of four, help those pockets”—he pointed at the knots of dwarven soldiers that were separated from each other by masses of green and brown flesh—“and rally the shield wall on me.”

  Ipman joined the charging infantry, shouting instructions as they rushed forward to aid their brothers.

  “You bowmen!” Kinsey barked. “Concentrate on those ogres. I want them dead before we reach them!” He barely waited for their nods of understanding before he sat back in Dak’s saddle and lifted his axe above his head. “For the king, Mozil, and honor!” he screamed, urging Dak forward. The warhorse eagerly leapt toward the struggling combatants, echoing his master’s cry with a neigh filled with fury.

  Kinsey found himself almost thankful for the rising battle rage. Dakayga or not, he thought grimly, this I know.

  The crushed body of an ogre sailed away from Nerok’s sweeping blow as the great white bear thundered his contempt for the lesser creature. Nerok’s fur was dripping with the greenish-red blood of combatants he had crushed, though here and there, his own pure red decorated the dense coat. It was a harrowing task for the goblin-kin to penetrate the formidable combination of bear and rider, but Nerok’s wounds proved that they were not invincible. It was time to be done with the pike-waving wretches before they caused true harm.

  Thorn held his hand aloft, and Mordekki materialized in his palm. Curling his fingers around the haft, he pushed aside his weariness and once more focused his thoughts and emotions on the axe, letting the artifact draw them out to be given to his battling companions. The king strained under the effort of pouring himself through the mighty weapon. Too much time has passed, he realized. I’ve become brittle as rusted steel. In spite of his fatigue, Thorn was able to master the flow, and the encouragement and strength of purpose emitted by the king hit his host like a splash of fresh, cool water.

  Moving as a single entity, the troops shouted and pushed back the wall of screaming goblin-kin. The press became a rout, and the green-skinned attackers ran back to their comrades to regroup, leaving their dead and wounded to be crushed under the feet of angry dwarves and Ursus.

  Thorn’s heart sang despite the weariness. Watching his people come together with a common purpose and seeing them vanquish their foes filled his old soul with a power he thought to no longer possess. Finally, his essence ran d
ry, and he slumped in his saddle as he cut himself free of the artifact’s relentless pull. His heart quailed somewhat when he saw just how little progress they had made to Roehil’s crumbling flank. In the heat of their effort, Thorn had not realized just how much they had slowed. He looked ahead to regard the horde’s forces bearing down on the western flank.

  The constant flow of goblin-kin showering over the blocked pass appeared to have no end. As the creatures landed in the Lowland fields, they were quickly whipped into formation by their taskmasters and sent onward to bolster the numbers of the forces already pressing on the crumbling dwarven flank.

  Dreaded understanding settled on the king’s mind like the dark, menacing clouds that filled the once-clear sky. He and his entourage would not make it in time to lend aid. They were too far away. Thorn felt the grip of failure claim space in his old heart—the loss of either flank could seal their doom.

  A racing form behind the dwarven lines suddenly caught the king’s eye. It was his grandson, standing tall in the saddle. Kinsey was pulling away from a large knot of dwarves that were streaming after him. Even at this distance, Thorn could hear the rising cry of the dwarven warriors as they charged over the littered landscape after Kinsey.

  Go, boy, Thorn urged as he watched Kinsey charge toward the failing dwarven formations. The king glanced back at the goblin-kin he had just repelled, anticipating their return.

  The bulk of the horde was a rippling swarm of chaos. Pockets of open field would appear for no apparent rhyme or reason, only to be filled by bloodthirsty foes seconds later. Thorn and his small host had created one such pocket for themselves, though it was not likely to last long. The once-fleeing goblins and hobgoblins were now beginning to regroup for another assault on the king.

  “Forward,” King Thorn bellowed. “To the western line!” His compact force shuffled onward, and the king looked again for his grandson.

  Kinsey charged into the line of ogres, followed by several formations of dwarven infantry. The half-dozen giants were laden with many bolts that protruded from their thick hides, and another volley of the deadly shafts whizzed by the prince to pierce their exposed flesh. The ogres bellowed in rage and pain. Kinsey dipped under a massive club aimed at his ruddy-haired head. His mount had barely slowed as they galloped into the wounded monsters. Kinsey himself, seeming to be one with the warhorse, was secure in the saddle as he came up from his ducking crouch to cleave one ogre’s mottled neck with his axe. The head of the beast wasn’t quite shorn from the body, but the massive creature stumbled and fell as a fountain of black blood sprayed from the wound. Kinsey continued to the next ogre, rallying dwarven soldiers in his wake.

  “He be yer kin, ma king!” Sargon shouted from Thorn’s left. The old priest was seated behind the shoulders of a sleek brown Ursus named Murr. The bear was well muscled but smaller than Nerok by perhaps a third. “He honors ya with his prowess in battle,” Sargon continued. “The boy fights like a well-seasoned veteran of the Brunahlen clan!”

  “Aye!” Thorn cried, still laughing. “And I owe ya a debt that can never be repaid, ma friend. I thank ya fer bringing the lad ta us.”

  The old priest nodded, grinning as fiercely as any warrior.

  Sargon’s mount suddenly erupted with a great roar of anguish and reared back. A black shaft almost six inches in diameter protruded from the agonized Ursus’s chest just below the left shoulder.

  The king looked back at their milling foes, and his blood ran with ice. The rout Thorn thought he and his companions had forced had actually been tactical. The goblinoids had managed to bring crudely constructed ballistae to the fore. The uncovered dark-wood bows twanged in unison as goblins scattered out of the way. A dart whined by Nerok’s flank and struck the ground but did not lodge there. The soil around the tip exploded as the shaft was propelled by its horrendous momentum back into the air, spearing a dwarf beside Nerok’s left flank. The vicious dart and the transfixed soldier sailed away to disappear in the swirling battle beyond. A third dart sailed harmlessly past the hindquarters of another Ursus.

  “Mot’s fires!” Thorn swore, horrified.

  Murr gave another great cry as he tried to maintain his feet but staggered and fell. Sargon, cursing in a way that surely would have tugged his conscience otherwise, disappeared into the surrounding dwarven soldiers as he was thrown from the bear’s back.

  “Shields!” Thorn screamed as a black volley fell upon them from the goblin-kin ranks. The carcodium runes in Thorn’s enchanted armor glowed a brilliant red as it shed the crude arrows like water. Nerok grumbled in annoyance as here and there a bolt managed to penetrate his thick hide. Cold fury gripped the king as he prepared himself to charge the ballistae. The western flank would have to be left to Kinsey for now. If those engines were left unchecked, Thorn and his entourage would be devastated.

  The king bellowed the call to charge. Nerok tossed his head skyward and roared his own challenge. Together, the wedge of giant bears and steadfast dwarves charged the horde and their engines of war.

  Gurney Borjornin pulled back from the front line and slid down the heaving side of Diherin, his bluish-black ursine mount. Gurney had fought with the giant bear folk before and knew their worth and courage. He patted Diherin’s massive arm thankfully, speaking words of praise to the creature. A low, inarticulate rumble was the only reply before the Ursus lowered its massive snout into the open-topped water wagon that had been hauled to the front by a moody pair of oxen.

  “Report!” Gurney ordered. He accepted a water skin from a young page that charged up.

  “Here, milord!” came a voice from the throng of reinforcements that milled around the supply wagons. Captain Baxton Tallut came at a run with a pennant bearing Gurney’s house colors streaming from a short pole affixed to his back. The steel gray field with an artistic representation of an onyx buttress would leave no doubt as to whose house the captain belonged. Stability and a systematic, methodical approach to things was the only way to approach life, whether it was engineering a new structure, running a kingdom, or fighting a war.

  As much as Gurney loved Thorn, the passion with which his friend followed his heart made the old engineer nervous. The heart can easily lead to ruin, he thought. Gurney had tried to explain that to Thorn when the king had been decaying under the cloud of depression following Duhann’s death. He had done so again when offering his council of caution upon the revelation of this Kinsey person, who was such a mirror image of the lost prince. Despite the worry Gurney felt about his friend’s tendency to think less and react more, he found himself relieved—indeed, almost grateful—for the appearance of the new prince. Gurney preferred his structures over kingship. A buttress didn’t second-guess the needs of the roof when you erected it. A pyle foundation didn’t whine that it was placed in a dark corner when other pyles had been driven in more open areas. Dwarves, though…

  The engineer shook his head and forced his attention back to Baxton, who began without preamble when Gurney locked eyes with him. “Roehil and his captains be dead, milord. The western flank’s been in shambles, but the king and the prince took reinforcements ta help ’em.”

  Gurney nodded. He had heard the warning horns and had seen the king move to their aid but had had his own front to mind. A dwarf had to trust that plans carefully laid would hold in the face of the earth moving. “And now?” he prompted when Baxton didn’t immediately continue.

  “The wall be comin’ back together around the prince, milord,” Baxton spoke quickly. “To the east, Gideon and his forces be keepin’ the greenskins in check, forcin’ ’em back into the seam o’ Fountainhead Pass.”

  “Good,” Gurney said with relief. Tagen and the other eight houses would have an anvil to swing their hammer against after all. “What of the forces on the ridge?”

  “Not so good, milord. They been delayed—”

  “Steel and stone, man!” Gurney shouted. “We’re barely holdin’ as it is!” He reached out and snatched the looking glass that dangled
from one of Baxton’s pouches. The agitated lord spun on one heel, put the glass to his eye, and looked up the cliff face to where their secondary force had lain in wait.

  Along the ridge, the colors of Axeheed, Bluebeard, Narsbin, and the five other houses could be seen scrambling across the rocks. Further south, it was evident that a second rockslide had fallen, blocking the path Tagen and the others had planned to use to attack the horde from behind.

  Gurney rocked back on his heels in shock. He had examined those cliffs himself and found no faults that would cause such a calamity. “I...I don’t believe it,” he stammered. “That can’t be possible.”

  “Milord!” yelled a page, interrupting the engineer’s thoughts. The lad was dressed in the silver and black of House Silvervein. The boy came to a stop just in front of Gurney and the captain, gasping for breath. “Milord. Lord Beordin. He’s fallen, milord.”

  Dagda be good, Gurney thought. Beordin Silvervein and his general Roehil both dead? It was hard to believe, but anything could happen in war. Their deaths, added to the fact that no reinforcements would be coming, did not bode well for the dwarves fighting in the valley basin and perhaps foretold their doom. Hardening his resolve, the lord of the second house gritted his teeth and turned to Baxton. “Get word ta the king... and the prince that there be no reinforcements from up top; we’re on our own.” He stomped off toward his ursine mount.

  Baxton and the page followed on Gurney’s heels. The captain spoke as he helped his lord up into the saddle. “Where will I find ya, milord?”

  “I’ll be holdin’ the middle.” Gurney grabbed the long spear Baxton handed to him. “Send word ta Gideon, too. He must hold his line at all costs!”

  The captain nodded and sped off with the page in tow.

  Diherin appeared refreshed by the brief respite from the battle. The giant bear turned when he felt Gurney’s weight settle and began shambling back toward the front lines. Gurney would have to keep the center intact. With Beordin gone and the king helping the western flank, he was all that remained. Time ta prove what kinda stone yer made of, old man, he thought with a bitter smile.