Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (25 page)

Goblins were already busy collecting meat from the exposed limbs of the fallen to supplement the stewpots. Long knives flashed, and the sublanguage that the cretins used keened and crooned amongst the shouts of the wounded as the goblins scrambled to and fro.

Maharuke smiled. He was glad that the moles had come out to fight. “Barkon. Yunn!” Maharuke barked.

The shamans were never far from his side, though when the boulders had begun to fall like a thunderstorm, the pair had fallen to the earth, cowering and crying out for Mot’s mercy. Maharuke never understood why others called to Mot that way. It was Mot’s lack of mercy that made him worthy of worship. Let the moles have a god who cared. Maharuke wanted a god that would let him hate.

The two shamans rose, shaking, from the pebbled ground and made their way to his side. Though they had been from different clans within the horde, the two could have been brothers. Their wrinkled and wiry bodies were sheathed in variegated capes of brightly colored feathers that hid them completely from shoulders to taloned feet. Great carved masks that covered them from brow to sternum shrouded their faces. The owners had painstakingly crafted each mask in the likeness of the patron demon that sheltered their tribe, or so they said. Battle garb, they called it. Ceremonial rubbish, he named it.

Both of the scrawny hobgoblins came to a halt a few feet from Maharuke. “Overlord,” Barkon said, hunching into a cowering bow. Yunn followed suit, bending knee as well and adding a flourish of the feathered cape.

When Harn had died, Maharuke had taken all his former commander’s possessions, including his soldiers and Yunn. He had yet to see whether the acquisition had been worth his months of tolerating their former leader’s company or not. Yunn, at least, had proven useful in maintaining the loyalty of the new hobgoblin soldiers. Now, finally, was a chance to test the shaman’s claims to power.

Maharuke reached out with a clawed hand and took hold of Barkon. He dragged the priest close and pointed to the fiery ball in the sky. “Make that go away.”

Barkon’s pig-like eyes narrowed behind the slits of the mask as he turned his head to follow the pointing finger. Despite his obvious discomfort, the hesitation of his reply was only slight. “I...yes, Overlord.”

Maharuke released the shaman with a shove, sending him stumbling back into Yunn. “Prepare to climb!” he shouted at the hobgoblin chieftains nearby. “We attack when the sun dies!”

Goblins and hobgoblins alike jumped into action at his words, and soon the cry of horns rose to fill the valley with the call to battle. Barkon sent his own runners to the clan chiefs, summoning all the shamans to the foot of the rockslide.

Maharuke leaned against a boulder as the rock-strewn foreground began to fill with a flock of the feathered fools as they responded to Barkon’s summons. He knew from similar events that what he asked of Barkon was possible but the cost would be dear. He wondered how the shaman intended to pay the blood price that would be required for such a miracle.

In all, twenty shamans were present when the wailing to Mot began. After carefully laying aside their intricate cloaks, each shaman attempted to commune with the dark god in his own method. Some knelt in the dust, while others rolled in the dirt like pigs and others danced in frantic circles, waving their hands about and flashing ceremonial knives. All crooned, shrieked, and shouted out to Mot, sounding more and more like strangled birds as they sought to be heard above the others.

Maharuke sneered at their lunacy. He would have sought the blood price from them personally, thrusting his midnight blade through each neck, but as yet Mot had not seen fit to answer his demands without a shaman’s theatrics. No matter the irritation, he needed these idiots.

The antics of the mystics began to change as one by one, a quaking tremor took control of each shaman until every last one was shaking uncontrollably. Bloody froth leaked from behind the demon masks to slide down their chests and speckle the stony soil.

Maharuke pushed off the stone he lounged against and narrowed his eyes.

The shamans’ gabbling broke suddenly, and they flew at each other, long daggers clutched in their fists. Inarticulate screams of rage and hate filled the small clearing as the knives were plied indiscriminately. Oddly, Barkon and Yunn were left to battle between themselves. A clearing in the maelstrom left the two facing each other with their masks heaving and slightly askew. The two shamans hacked at one another, their long knives opening furrows in arms, legs, and torsos. If pain was felt by either, it was consumed and discarded as irrelevant. Neither gave a step, and each barely attempted to avoid the cutting passes of the other.

Maharuke chuckled to himself, delighting in the bloodshed that his holy men wrought. He was tempted to join their ceremonial slaughter but knew his presence in the “dance” would only serve to ruin it.

With a sudden lunge, Barkon’s knife slit Yunn’s wrist deeply enough that tendons were cut. Blood pumped from the gash, and the hand opened, releasing the dagger. This time Yunn did howl in pain. The smaller shaman scrabbled for the dropped knife with his other hand, but Barkon’s blade swept up and under the wooden mask to plunge deep into the smaller shaman’s neck. A wet burble came from the holes in Yunn’s mask, and blood poured down Barkon’s arm.

Screaming in triumph, Barkon ripped the demon mask from Yunn’s slumping form. The possessed shaman tore his knife so viciously from its embedment that Yunn’s head flopped over a shoulder, exposing the cut windpipe and muscles within. Barkon yanked on Yunn’s scraggly hair and sawed his knife through the last connecting tissues, cutting Yunn’s head completely free of the flaccid body. Howling in triumph, Barkon let the gore from Yunn’s head spill down into the opened mouth of his hideous mask.

A rumble akin to the avalanche rolled across the sky. The paltry clouds above began to boil and swell, Mot’s green fire lacing the billowing curves and valleys of the darkling surfaces. The god of destruction had accepted the sacrifice of the priests.

In moments, the sun was obscured and the darkness of twilight shrouded his forces. No longer oppressed by the hated sun, Maharuke’s warriors howled with delight and clawed their way along the massive boulders in a renewed frenzy.

Maharuke laughed openly. His doubts concerning Yunn’s commitment had been proven irrelevant. Even though the late shaman had not given his life willingly, his death still paved the way for Mot’s favor to enter the field of battle, and that was enough for Maharuke.

The half-ogre overlord roared with anticipation and called for his mount. They would dine on mole flesh this day.

Kinsey’s nerves rattled around in his stomach like a bucket loaded with freshly forged bolts. It wasn’t the prospect of the coming battle that made his insides lurch but the questioning gazes of the troops that followed him and his grandfather as they passed. They questioned what Kinsey himself pondered, no doubt. Who was he, this stranger among them, and what did his presence mean for the welfare of Mozil and its people?

I wish they knew,
he thought morosely.
Then maybe they could tell me.

There was no shortage of those who presumed to know his purpose. In actuality, there was a plethora of voices who seemed to have it all worked out for him already, but so far, those roles they wished for him to fulfill felt more like a sentence than a calling.

Not knowing his place in society was nothing new, however. All his life, Kinsey had questioned where he might fit in. Even his adopted father was an outsider. In many ways, that similarity had made the bond between them stronger, though it did little to encourage fellowship from their neighbors. Perhaps it was that subtle urge to find a place to belong that truly tipped the balance for Kinsey and allowed him to accept Sargon’s invitation.

During the time that passed as he wrestled with the mastery of the Dakayga, Kinsey had found that ever-present hope of belonging realized, after a fashion. The small group of soldiers that had journeyed to find him seemed to genuinely care for him, and surprisingly, he found that he returned the feelings. They had provided a springboard of sorts that allowed him to at least consider what it might mean to step into this role of prince that they insisted was his birthright. Now, though, facing tens of thousands of hard eyes on the cusp of a battle between life and death, the scrutiny of a nation was upon him. The weight of all those gazes in the seemingly countless faces intimidated him in a way that battle never could. Even facing the idea of himself as some sort of monster paled in comparison with the enormity of exposing that monster to the full population of the dwarven kingdom.

“Easy, lad. They be seein’ ya fer the first time is all,” Thorn said from his lofty perch atop the giant white bear. “Once the fightin’ starts, they’ll know ya fer what ya truly are.”

Kinsey could hear his saddle horn creak under the pressure of his whitening fist. He knew that Thorn’s comment was intended to be reassuring, but the idea of the people seeing what he “truly” was did little to make Kinsey feel confident. Fresh, rolling waves of apprehension rippled through his body as he thought about the Dakayga unleashed amongst the soldiers surrounding them.
Nothing to be done about it now,
he thought grimly.

Dak shook his head and whinnied.

Kinsey’s entire body was as taut as a bowstring, not just the fist closed about the saddle horn. He took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully, releasing his fist and easing the viselike grip of his legs about Dak’s ribs.

The horse tossed his rusty mane and nickered as the pressure released.

Kinsey gave Dak a pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, boy.” The horse was an Eos-blessed miracle. Many of the soldiers in the dwarven army expressed more concern over the presence of the Ursus than Dak did. The horse had eyed the giant creatures haughtily when they had first been brought together but had made no further acknowledgment. It was as if the warhorse could tell the difference between an enemy and a friend, even in a relationship that was as tenuous as the one the dwarves shared with the giant bear folk.

The dark warhorse acknowledged Kinsey’s apology with a final whinny and resumed the easy canter he had assumed to match the pace of the giant bears.

Their group passed through the front lines and stopped to wait. Gurney Borjornin and Beordin Silvervein trailed just behind and came to a halt on either side of Thorn and Kinsey. The lords of the second and third houses had left the command of their own personal forces in the hands of their generals, preferring to remain close to the king.

The rest of the Ursus nearby settled into place to wait. The massive figures, even sitting or stretched upon the ground, took up so much space that even mounted, Kinsey felt dwarfed.
No pun intended,
he thought to himself with a small smile.

Guttural shouts of many voices began to roll across the gently waving fields, providing proof of the unseen hordes of goblin-kin. Dak’s twitching ears were the only indication that concern might be appropriate. The Ursus watched the gap in the cliff seemingly with no care, and the dwarven riders that Kinsey could see appeared unimpressed with the mighty call that was increasing in volume.

Kinsey looked skyward and could barely make out the figures dotted amongst the peaks and high places of Fountainhead Pass. The tiny forms rushed about, levering boulders from their places to rain down into the gap below. The giant rocks fell soundlessly at first, their boom and clatter lost amongst the hobgoblin’s raucous shouting. Soon enough, though, the rumble of the rocks rose to a thunder that overwhelmed the voices just as the avalanche overwhelmed the creatures that uttered them.

“Dagda’s will be done!” Thorn stood in his stirrups and bellowed. He pointed Mordekki toward the pass now filled with boulders and bodies. The great axe suddenly glowed with life. “First blood be ours!”

Cheering passed up and down the line. The avalanche had been the signal that they had been waiting for. The entirety of the dwarven host began to move forward, filling the fields with armored dwarves.

The turbulent nerves that Kinsey had struggled with moments before suddenly turned for the better. Excitement replaced fear, filling his muscles with energy and sending the sensation of a thousand pinpricks to dance across his skin. The beast stirred within Kinsey like a wolf pacing a farmer’s fence, eyeing the caged livestock. Kinsey breathed deeply as he moved forward with the others. He sought the control he needed to subdue the Dakayga. Unlike his grandfather and Sargon, Kinsey did not wish to unleash the monster. Thorn and the priest had encouraged him to do so, but he had argued that it was dangerous and a risk that he was unwilling to take with the lives of their own soldiers standing on the betting line if things went poorly. He could do as much damage as any ogre on the field, and likely much more, should the beast slip its tether. Instead, he would fight as he had always done—with his axe, as a man.