Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (24 page)

Amongst the dwarven warriors, the giant forms of the Ursus stood. Here and there, a bear sat, slumped and waiting patiently, while the others shifted their great weight from one paw to another. Dwarven riders stretched limbs in the saddles as best they could.

There were almost five hundred of the Ursus on the field today. At their center was the monstrous Nerok. Upon the great bear’s shoulders sat Thorn, resplendent in his armor.

King Thorn’s full battle attire was nothing short of spectacular. His armor had been forged nearly two hundred years ago, but today it shone golden and amber in the sun’s rays as if it were brand new. Large pauldrons adorned with deadly ridges protected the king’s shoulders. The gorget and plackart were partially covered by the gray beard that had been plaited into braids that fanned out before coming back together in the center of the broad chest plate that encased his torso. Arms, hands, legs, and feet were also covered in the brilliant metal, and each piece was decorated with lines of silvery runes that glowed of their own accord. Silver wings swept up from either side of the helm in a finishing touch that made Thorn appear as if he might be the incarnation of Dagda himself. Imposing as the sight of all that gleaming metal might be, it was the glowing carcodium runescript that granted the armor its true power. Gideon had heard tales that the king’s plate was sufficient to shrug off the blows of even an ogre’s maul. The general hoped the stories were true but feared that the limits of his king and the armor would be sorely tested this day.

The tumbling roar of the rockslide came to an unsteady end, and a cheer rose from the ranks of the dwarves behind Gideon. The planned avalanche was the signal that the regiments had been waiting for. The king’s face was trained on the settling boulders and great gouts of dust that rolled from the mouth of the pass.

Thorn stood in the traces of his saddle and thrust Mordekki high into the air. Soft cheers and murmurs among the dwarven troops stilled as the great weapon caught the rays of sunshine and reflected them like a prism into the ranks of troops.

Gideon’s own liege lord, Gurney Borjornin, moved forward on his giant brown bear to flank King Thorn. He would take primary control of the center, while the king himself would be leading the main force of the Ursus in a charge to disrupt the surviving goblin-kin as they recovered from the rockslide.

Beordin Silvervein, also mounted on a brown Ursus, was further down the line. Though not as magnificent as King Thorn’s armor, Beordin’s suit made any common soldier’s battle attire pale in comparison. Primarily silver, the armor glistened in the morning sun as if it too had been freshly forged and polished that very day. He and his house would be responsible for the western flank of the battle, keeping the hobgoblin horde from edging around the lower slopes of the valley into the rear of the dwarven troops.

Gideon had been given charge of the eastern flank along the western shore of the Long Lake. Unlike the other lords, he was not mounted on a giant bear, but this was in fact the way he insisted on fighting. It was the proper dwarven way—both feet planted firmly on the ground. Aside from the Ursus, cavalry was nonexistent within dwarven military. Ponies responded poorly in combat; the flighty creatures could not be depended on when blood began to spill and the chaos of battle erupted around them. The dwarves found that their own steady feet proved to be their greatest allies when it came to combat.

The prince was behind the king and Gurney, mounted on that demon of a horse they had brought with them from Waterfall Citadel. Gideon spared a moment of pity for whichever poor stoneshoe had been dispatched to fetch the animal from Palinhine, the village at which they had left the beast. Whether or not an Ursus mount had been offered to Kinsey, Gideon did not know, but it made him smile to know that it was likely that the prince had also refused.

The king lowered Mordekki enough to point across the bright-green fields of the gap. Horns sounded at Thorn’s motion to commence, echoing off the Dales with a low hum.

“March!” Gideon bellowed, suiting action to words and stomping ahead at a quick pace. Pikemen fell in line behind him, footmen and archers following just after.

Gideon looked to the south as he and his forces made their way across the fields that would soon be stained crimson and black. The disturbed dust hung in the air, resistant to the pull of gravity and unstirred by the vagrant breeze that stroked the waving fields of wheat. The great cloud obscured not only the entry to Fountainhead itself but also the face of the Dales for several hundred feet in every direction and several hundred yards from the mouth of the pass as well. Try as he might, he could find no hint of motion in the murk, though the shouting of the goblinoid survivors was growing louder.

Too much ta hope that all the buggers be buried, I suppose,
Gideon thought as he marched and barked out orders to his commanders. They, in turn, conveyed his purpose to those under their command. The lines thinned and stretched as they marched to their positions.

The dwarves moved quickly and with strict discipline; soon enough the army was in place.
Now we wait,
Gideon thought as his troops settled into their formations. Nervous energy rippled through the lines as the anticipation flowed through the soldiers. The greatest enemy, beyond those across the field of battle, was the imagination placing expectations of the horrors to come. Gideon had learned long ago to find the peace in those quiet moments before the storm, and he held his head high for all to see. The dwarves around him also stood straight, following his example. “Courage, lads,” Gideon said with a fierce grin. “I don’t give ya permission ta get killed today, so ya have nothin’ ta worry about ’cept for whether ya be slayin’ more of the green rats than me.”

The concerned faces of the pikemen relaxed and regained some of the color that had drained as they marched. The long black shafts firmed in grips that were renewed and pointed resolutely toward the gap from which the enemy would charge. Appreciative chuckles and murmurs of “aye” circulated amongst the soldiers nearby. Gideon continued, calling each of the men he knew by name and encouraging them in turn as the rolling clouds expanded and began to envelop even the dwarven side of the field.

The moaning call of an Ursus carried across the field, and Gideon clenched a scarred fist around each of his twin battleaxes. The axes were heirlooms that had been passed down for three generations. Each bore the markings of his ancestors, and one day they would bear his own once death had come to claim him. The axes were special beyond just the value of sentiment, however. Dark veins of carcodium intertwined with the polished metal and held the enchantments that had been laid upon the weapons. The magic kept the battleaxes light and sharp, but beyond that, each blade could part simple steel as if it were mere flesh.

Using two weapons prevented Gideon from being able to bear a shield, but that would have been his preference even if the two-weapon fighting style hadn’t been a hallmark of his family, forged over the centuries. His aggressive nature left little patience for defense. He chuckled wryly as he twirled the weapons in his hands. Jocelyn had dearly wanted the axes, but they were not simply given from one generation to the next, they were earned. Gideon had bested her when it came time for the artifacts to pass down, and he had done so each time she had challenged him. The axes would belong to him until his death. It was a point of pride he would not surrender easily.

The dust was finally beginning to settle, but he could not yet see his dear, stone-stubborn sister in the throng. She had been shadowing Kinsey and his dark, ruddy nightmare of a horse. Gideon might have beaten her at every attempt she made for the heirlooms, but she had beaten every other contender that might have sought to challenge him for the twin blades.
The prince be in good hands.
The thought was not a hope but a certainty.

The valley winds finally began to clear the dust from the field, revealing the long lines of the dwarven army stretched across the field and facing the gap from which their enemy would come. The Ursus cavalry sat in the center of the mass of dwarves like a boulder in a river. On both sides, long, deep lines of pikes slanted forward, gripped in firm hands. Behind the pikemen, archers, reinforcements, and healers moved back and forth, making last-minute preparations for the imminent battle. White, puffy clouds floated above, drifting slowly. Columns of shadow descended from them to paint the field in patches of shadow. Past the dappled fields, the havoc of the landslide was finally revealed. Breaths of amazement, thankful prayers, and even a few cheers came from voices up and down the line as the dwarves took in the scene.

Rocks and boulders of all sizes mingled with the torn bodies of the goblin-kin. The rockslide had been devastating, killing everything in its path and spilling like a lava flow out into the fields of the dwarven lowlands. Some of the smaller, rounder boulders had bounced and rolled to within dozens of feet of the dwarven front line. Devastating though the landslide was, even the liberal estimates of damage to the overall force of the goblin-kin stopped at less than a third. Surely, though, this would lend the tactical advantage to the defending dwarves.

As if the general’s thoughts of the horde’s size were a signal to the hobgoblins beyond the rubble field, horns suddenly blared, ringing brazenly from the rocks and cliffs to resound out into the waiting dwarven host. The sound was almost as deafening as the rockslide, and added to it were the bestial, bloodthirsty calls of the still-concealed creatures beyond.

“Prepare yerselves!” Gideon shouted, the hairs on the back of his arms raised in anticipation. The horde would come quickly now, enraged with bloodlust. “Keep tight. No gaps!”

The troops stepped closer together as his words were repeated down the line. They looked ready. No fear, just grim determination painted on their faces. Thorn’s renewal had bolstered them, and they knew that their sacrifice here today was for the preservation of life, perhaps not their own, but the lives of those who remained in the halls of Mozil. The survivors would carry on to maintain the dwarven way of life and remember those who had perished this day. Thorn had given them back that confidence, and the people stood ready to prove it with blood and steel.

As the voices of the horde and its horns began to die away, the fields began to darken before Gideon’s eyes. Stunned, he wrenched his eyes to the heavens, where the formerly white clouds had darkened to an ominous slate gray that was shot through with flickers of green light. Rumbles echoed across the field from the rubble-strewn pass. The azure sky bled away, swirling edges of the expanding clouds gobbling up the space hungrily until the last scraps of open sky had disappeared behind an unbroken wall of gray and green.

Gideon scowled as the sun and sky were eaten away. “Wonderful,” he grumbled. The war council had suspected the presence of shamans amongst the horde’s ranks, but had had no clue they would wield such power. “Looks like Mot be havin’ a say in this here scuffle after all, boys and girls!”

Surprisingly, laughter bubbled up from those closest to him. “Aye, General, and we be showin’ ’im our arses before we be done!” Kloutus yelled, slapping his own backside. More laughter drifted from the men and women who filled the ranks. Gideon laughed with them, but he could see the tightness in their eyes.

Eerie screeching and roars of rage echoed off Fountainhead’s walls to carry down into the sweeping fields of the Lowlands when the darkness had reached a false twilight. A low rumble accompanied the rancorous screams, and goblin-kin flowed over the stones and spilled into the grasslands below like water rushing from a broken dam.

King Thorn’s voice boomed out, bolstered by Mordekki, momentarily drowning out even the raucous calls of the streaming horde. “Charge!”

The full line of the dwarven army took a great breath in unison as a wave of pride and conviction washed over them from the king and his talisman. A feeling of invincibility suffused every sinew of Gideon’s body. His voice was lost in the thunderous shout that responded to the king. The laughable mewling of the horde was pushed back and laid flat as the people of Mozil cried out their defiance. Rage and energy boiled up within Gideon, and his feet pumped as he and his cohort ran screaming. Finally the moment had come. When he raised his axes above his head, thousands of mouths joined his own as a single voice. “Fer Mozil!”

M
AHARUKE
watched impassively as boulders crushed the forefront of his army. Neither the mountain moles’ attack during the cursed daylight hours nor their cowardly use of the mountain itself was surprising. Truth be told, Maharuke had anticipated this and was only truly surprised that it had not happened sooner. The bulk of the horde had been stretched back along the passes and valleys. The few losses that lay buried were...acceptable.