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

by Matt Howerter

  Jocelyn snapped out of her daze. Her blood suddenly boiled with fury. She would have vengeance or suffer death herself. No war cry boomed from her breast as she slipped past the gluttonous drake. No cry of loss escaped her lips as Jordin joined the king and Neal in eternal slumber. No gasps for breath could be heard as she sprinted up behind the dark menace that sparred contemptuously with Horus. Dropping the flail, Jocelyn took her axe in both hands and swung with all her might—unleashing a strike filled with all the hate and anger she could muster.

  The forged haft of her axe shattered like ice under the impact, spraying her face and arms with stinging shards of jagged steel. Her fingers and arms shook from the vibration, forcing her to drop the broken haft.

  Incredibly, not a mark had been made on the hobgoblin’s armor. Indeed, the black plate appeared as pristine as if freshly wrought from the forges.

  Jocelyn reeled from the pain in her hands and crumpled to her knees.

  Ignoring her attack, the giant hobgoblin continued his assault on Horus until his two-handed sword struck home. Horus’s shield buckled, folding over like a piece of parchment. The dwarf was sent tumbling through the air to land near Nerok’s hind leg. There, Jocelyn’s friend lay still.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she cried out, “Damn you!” Shaking with anger and fear, Jocelyn struggled to her feet. “Face me, damn you!”

  Slowly the brute turned. Victory blazed within his dark eyes, and the wicked smile that split his face told of unspeakable horrors yet to come. “Come, dwarven scum. Maharuke will show you death!”

  Unable to contain her sorrow and pain, Jocelyn charged.

  Black blood sprayed across Kinsey’s chest and arms as his axe cut into the ogre’s neck. The towering beast fell to its knees, and Kinsey jumped clear. A cheer rose from the circling dwarves, who jabbed their spears into the failing ogre’s chest. This was the third creature he had helped take down since coming to assist the western front. As he rolled to his feet, he remained crouched, ready for the next attack.

  No assault came as the ogre toppled face-first into the blood-soaked soil and convulsed one final time before going still. The surrounding hobgoblin forces had been forced back by the soldiers that had followed Kinsey into battle.

  Kinsey glanced around, checking on the reforming battle lines, and hoped for signs of Dak and Jocelyn.

  Crossbowmen rained volley after volley into the enemy, softening their ranks so that the dwarven front could push ahead more easily. Order began to appear behind the front that Kinsey and the others had established. Long shields shuffled forward to fill gaps and connect with other groups. The entire line moved forward in a rippling line like a wave lapping a shore. All throughout the slowly clearing field, wounded soldiers lay dying or calling out for help. Of the horse and Jocelyn, there was no immediate sign.

  Kinsey grabbed hold of the nearest wounded man and hauled him toward safety. “Regroup. Everyone regroup!” Kinsey yelled, dragging the injured soldier away from the front and toward the reforming support lines. Two dwarves saw him and came running. Kinsey set the warrior gently to the earth and turned back to the front. The hammer would fall soon, and Kinsey had to get the lines steady before that happened.

  Horns blared, signaling Kinsey’s call to regroup. The dwarves that had been pressing the goblin-kin to buy time for the reformation of the shield wall heard the signal and began to disengage from their battered enemy. Like dancers in a line, the dwarven soldiers stepped back to join with the solidifying wall. Long shields parted to allow them through and then, like some great jigsaw puzzle, the shields locked together with a great crash and the defensive border was reformed.

  “Ma prince!” Ipman’s voice was shrill with alarm. “The king!”

  Kinsey turned to see the newly promoted commander pointing frantically out beyond the shield wall. His gaze followed Ipman’s jabbing finger in time to see Nerok fall. The great bear reared back with a roar of agony, blood fountaining from his belly. King Thorn and his saddle dropped away from Nerok’s back, and then the mighty Ursus collapsed.

  A wave of dread washed over Kinsey. Grandfather.

  “The king has fallen!” several soldiers yelled in unison.

  “Hold yer ground. Maintain the wall, Mot take ya!” Ipman commanded. “They’re comin’ down on us!” As if the king’s fall had been a cue on which they waited, the horde surged forward. Bloodlust painted their horrid faces.

  Kinsey staggered forward, but he was no longer fully aware of the battle around him. Soldiers rushed past to fortify the newly formed shield wall, but they might as well have been ghosts replaying some battle from the ancient past. Kinsey paid them little heed.

  The beast within him roared with pain and fury at the loss. He had known that this was possible, that something would happen in the course of the battle that would trigger the beast he held at bay deep inside. He had foolishly hoped that his conscience would not be put at risk by unleashing the Dakayga amongst his people. The rage had come, though, demanding release, demanding vengeance. Despite all his thoughts to hold the Dakayga at bay, he found he was no longer of a mind to stop it.

  The anger rushed over him like a river, but this time he welcomed it and drank of it deeply. In response, the swirling rage that had pushed him toward the edges of madness in the past enveloped him like a blanket and filled him with energy. Warmth suffused his being and washed away the hurt and weariness that had accumulated from battle. Understanding came with the rushing fury.

  His marginal control had come only when he relinquished the fight. He had mistakenly thought that Jocelyn had held the key, but the truth was far simpler. Jocelyn accepted him. She accepted all of him. It did not matter to her that he was the progeny of a human and a dwarf. It didn’t matter to her that the Dakayga and its capacity for rampaging destruction were under the surface of his barely adequate control. She accepted all of it with steady equanimity, and it was that acceptance that was the key.

  The Dakayga wasn’t within him, striving to get out. No, the Dakayga was him, and he was it. Only in accepting himself in his entirety could he ever find the control he sought.

  The rage wasn’t a mindless thing of destruction at all. In point of fact, it was purposeful and directed. Dagda had created this blessing to protect his people. The twisted faces of the hobgoblins swam across his mind, and he knew them for the aberrations they were. The entire race and all their kin were a blight upon the surface of Orundal, a cancer that devoured without giving anything back. Like locusts, they consumed and destroyed, and in their hunger for destruction, they had chosen Dagda’s people to devour first.

  One eye snapped open, and he could see where Nerok had fallen. He pushed aside all distractions of his newfound understanding and cast his arms wide, accepting Dagda’s blessing wholeheartedly.

  No longer would he be a mindless, ravening beast. He knew now who he was and what his role was to be. He was a killer. He was Dagda’s justice incarnate and he was vengeance. The many inlaid jewels of his armor glowed furiously as Kinsey felt the change come upon him. Strands of carcodium webbing unhinged and expanded in anticipation of the transformation. Kinsey’s complete surrender to his nature summoned the change faster than ever before. The monstrous body surged into being so swiftly that chunks of his sundered flesh flew away as he and his armor transformed as one. The carcodium strands that had expanded earlier tightened to conform around his now beastly body as if they had been originally forged to do so. The dwarves nearest to him gaped in awe, and some even fell to their knees as the once-prince completed his transformation into the towering icon of fury they worshipped.

  Kinsey rose to his feet, feeling the energy and raw, righteous fury boil in his veins. His thick mane shook as he threw his head back and unleashed a deep, tolling howl. The sound momentarily stilled even the raucous calls of the horde and its monsters. Wide-eyed combatants for dozens of yards in every direction watched in slack-jawed amazement as the Dakayga was unveiled in every ounce of its sav
age glory.

  Kinsey leapt into action, and his stride surpassed even the best pace Dak could muster as he sprinted forward in the direction his grandfather had fallen. He arrived at the front lines in a heartbeat, and within the span of a breath, he sprang into the air. Hundreds of eyes watched him as he sailed effortlessly over the shield wall. The leap carried him deep into the surging mass of the horde. Where he landed, hobgoblins staggered back in surprise, but he ignored them. Focusing on where Thorn had fallen, he pressed on.

  The monsters that had taken his grandfather’s life would not survive this day.

  I think I’ve broken meself, Sargon mused with a groan. He blinked back the pain that crawled along every nerve. Around him, he could hear the shouts, cries, and chaotic clanging of battle. A long shield lay on top of him, covering almost the entirety of his body. He struggled against the weight and eventually managed to thrust the battered shield away to land with a clang against the side of a boulder. Formerly muted sounds of fighting surged in his ears, and he looked around with blurry vision.

  Dwarves fought with goblin-kin in every direction. Nerok’s motionless body lay close by, being savaged by a monstrous reptile while a small group of warriors did battle with a giant hobgoblin in black plate armor.

  The old priest rubbed at his clouded eyes with the back of his hand and tried to remember how he had come to this spot. He remembered being thrown from his saddle after Murr had been slain. He had toppled to the ground to land on his back, but that had not been the blow that rendered him unconscious. He had gotten to his feet to follow the king...

  King Thorn! The moments just before Sargon’s blackout flashed before his eyes in sudden, crisp detail. When he had recovered from his fall, he had hurried after Thorn and Nerok’s charge on foot. He caught up with them in time to see the heartbreaking end of Nerok’s life and Thorn’s fall. When the giant stood over the king, mocking him, Sargon had crept closer, looking for an opportunity to help. When the giant’s wicked black blade had reared up, Sargon abandoned his caution and came darting in, snagging up a discarded shield as he ran. Praying fervently to Dagda for the preservation of Thorn’s life, Sargon had dove atop his friend, holding the shield aloft. When the sword fell, there had been an almighty clang, and all had gone black.

  Frantic, Sargon rolled over to see if his king yet lived.

  Thorn’s face was a bloody mess. Even the enchantments held by the carcodium runes had been insufficient to stop the blow that had thrown Thorn to the ground. The nose guard was bent and pushed deep into the crushed cheek. His nose was twisted at an odd angle, and the skin was split in several places. Fresh blood bubbled from one nostril, leaving a bright-red trail down the king’s gray moustache and beard as his chest rose and fell slowly.

  “Thank Dagda,” Sargon choked in relief. He glanced around to see if there was an immediate threat.

  Forces clashed nearby but kept their distance from the black-clad giant and his feasting drake. The piles of bodies surrounding them provided a temporary circle of protection and somewhat hid Sargon and the king. The giant hobgoblin himself was still engaged with a pair of dwarven warriors.

  Sargon took in a sharp breath as he realized the pair was Horus and Jordin. They worked in tandem, one drawing the giant’s attention to one side while the other lunged in to attack. The giant laughed and swatted away their attempts, seeming to hardly care.

  “Dagda shelter and strengthen ya, my brothers,” Sargon muttered, turning back to Thorn. He could do nothing to aid his friends, but he might be able to save the king.

  As gently as he could, he pried the nasal out of the king’s cheek and worked the helmet off. Sargon’s hands trembled with fatigue, but when he placed them on Thorn’s face and began to pray, they steadied.

  Comforting and familiar warmth began to build within the old priest as he prayed, and he knew from the accounts of others that his eyes would be alight with Dagda’s golden glow. When he uttered the last words of his prayer, the power of his god surged through his hands into Thorn’s unconscious body. The vacating power left a void within him, and weariness flooded in.

  Sargon wavered and almost collapsed. He clenched his jaw and shook his head against the creeping darkness, forcing it away. Long habit guided his tired eyes and worn hands as he examined Thorn once more.

  Blood no longer flowed down the king’s beard, and his broken nose had regained its shape. The shattered cheek was once again round and strong. Thorn remained unconscious, but he looked as if he were in the embrace of true sleep instead of gripped by a trauma-induced blackout.

  Sargon murmured a word of thanks to his god as he rolled off the king. The priest looked around wearily, thoughts numb. His eyes settled on the giant sword-wielding hobgoblin, and to Sargon’s horror, he found his first prayer had gone unanswered. Horus fought alone.

  Sargon watched helplessly as the young warrior fended off blow after blow with a battered shield until finally a powerful sweeping strike from the hobgoblin flung Horus into the air. The dwarf warrior landed hard and rolled bonelessly to a stop near Nerok’s lifeless body. There he remained, unmoving.

  Sargon stared at Horus’s body in confusion. His mind pushed away the possibility of the warrior being dead in spite of the dreadful way he lay. All around him, the chaos of battle and faces stretched in agonized masks of death turned into a shifting milieu. A sudden scream of challenge pulled him away from his bewildered study of Horus.

  Jocelyn stood weaponless, shouting at the giant. It turned away from the fallen Horus toward her. Rough, gritty words that Sargon could not understand came from the thing’s ugly mouth as it beckoned to her. Jocelyn raged at the monster and charged. The hobgoblin’s haughty sneer widened, and it hefted the giant black blade aloft, ready to end the maiden’s life.

  “No!” Sargon yelled in powerless frustration.

  An unearthly howl tore the air of the clearing, burying every sound of battle or pain in its all-consuming wail. The giant hobgoblin’s leer twisted into a snarl as it jerked its attention away from Jocelyn and searched for the source of the sound. Jocelyn’s headlong charge faltered to a stop as she clapped both hands to her ears and fell to her knees. Combatants in every direction on both sides of the conflict dropped their weapons and clawed at their ears, desperate to escape the sound. Even the drake that had ignored everything to gorge itself on the flesh of the great bear’s body hissed in fury and clawed at the sides of its head.

  Sargon, too, agonized under the assault and pressed his hands over his ears in a useless attempt to escape the rising pain in his head. The terrible cry persisted, bending mind and soul to seemly endless torment. Sargon struggled to block the sound, screaming in agony. “Dagda, preserve me!” he shouted, invoking his god. Instantly, the rending torment lifted. The awful howl continued, but the mind-numbing pain, the soul-wrenching agony that it had inspired ceased as surely as if it had been subject to the slamming of a heavy door. Understanding rose as quickly as the pain abated. He knew what was making the horrible sound. More precisely, he knew who.

  Searching the staggering multitudes that surrounded them, Sargon found the prince. He stood atop a fallen boulder, towering above the masses, with his mighty head lifted to the heavens. His ruddy mane, reminiscent of a lion’s, flowed down his back to touch the base of a long, wolfish tail. Dagger-like teeth filled his open maw, and clouds of steaming breath poured into the air as the mind-shattering roar continued. Polished steel and carcodium covered almost every inch of the Dakayga save only the hands, feet, and head. The gleaming metals pressed tightly against the powerful, thick body but moved like a second skin. There was no tapestry in any hall of Mozil or any lost chamber in Rhazidan that could hope to capture the true depth of power, rage, and majesty that stood before Sargon now. The dwarven people’s holy warrior had finally come—the myths banished to the winds by Kinsey’s thunderous call.

  A quiet hum rang in Sargon’s ears as the prince’s wail came to an end and overlay the muted cries of the stunned dwa
rves and goblin-kin. All eyes were fixed upon the gleaming form of the Dakayga as he looked back imperiously from his perch.

  Moving with swiftness that Sargon could scarcely believe, the prince sprang from the boulder in a blur of motion directly at the stupefied hobgoblin giant. A resounding crash of metal on metal filled the pulsing silence left from the Dakayga’s howl. The giant flew away just as Horus had done moments earlier, disappearing into the milling throngs of dwarves and goblin-kin dozens of feet away. The great, black, quillioned sword fell with a ringing clank to the stony earth. Kinsey snarled after the hobgoblin, gathering himself to follow, when Jocelyn stumbled to her feet in front of him. She staggered back with eyes wide and clenched fists still pressed to her ears.

  “Thank Dagda,” Sargon breathed. He attempted to struggle to his feet in the brief moment of calm but was beyond exhausted. Healing the king had truly taken the last of his strength. All that was left to him was to watch. And pray.

  The prince looked down at Jocelyn, momentarily distracted. One of his clawed hands slowly reached out to her in a gesture of comfort. Jocelyn came to a swaying stop and lowered her trembling hands from her ears. She looked up at Kinsey with pride and awe. A moment of understanding appeared to pass between them, and then Jocelyn screamed.

  It was no surprise to find Jocelyn here, and yet Kinsey found himself unable to take his eyes away from her. Of course she would have been amongst the first to rush to the king. The headstrong woman was wonderfully loyal and insane.

  She stared up at him as her hands slowly fell from her ears. The bronze in her eyes picked up the green lightning that still flickered in the menacing clouds above, giving her stare an eldritch flair as she studied him. The same rock-solid confidence she had displayed those weeks ago in her mad gamble graced her dirty face now.