Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (28 page)

Tagen nodded wearily and stood. Dust and sweat matted his fine clothes and hair. The nails of his hands were broken and rough, and more than one cut had left bloody fingerprints on the pieces of granite that he had heaved aside.

A water pouch was handed to him, which he accepted proudly. No one could say that he had not tried his best. Or at least, that he didn’t lack compassion for his fellow dwarves. “This be a mighty tragedy,” he muttered loud enough for Jaden to hear.

“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.

K
INSEY
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 dry, 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.