Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (33 page)

Infuriated, the drake hauled Kinsey high into the air and then slammed him into the ground. More bones broke with the savage beating, but Kinsey continued to rip and bite at the monster’s head even as the drake reared up to dash him to the ground once more. His thoughts flowed like quicksilver as the rage burned through his mind and body like a firestorm. Every sense was alight, but the pain of his heightened awareness only fed him more energy. He had never felt more in control and at the same time lost to chaos than in that moment of fighting for survival.

The drake released its jaws suddenly. Kinsey could not have said whether the monster had finally succumbed to the punishment of his claws or if the serpent was simply trying to get a better grip on his body, but it didn’t matter. In that instant, he was free, and it was all the opportunity he needed. Kinsey clawed his way out of the grinding maw so quickly that the drake might as well have been carved from a chunk of tundra ice.

One of the monster’s bulbous emerald eyes widened as Kinsey surged forward along its face. He struck the eye with a clawed hand, slicing into the soft, damp flesh, and tore the orb from its socket with a sickening wet pop.

The drake roared in pain. Its massive body began to coil spasmodically around the head, instinctively trying to protect the raw wound.

Kinsey held onto the bony ridges of its brow as easily as if they had been made for him. He drove one clenched fist into the empty eye socket, striking the hard bone of the serpent’s skull. The bone shattered like an eggshell under the force of the blow, and his clawed hand sank deep into the drake’s head. Soft, spongy tissue surrounded his hand and forearm. Flexing and curling, Kinsey tore his fist back out, pulling slimy pink matter and blood with it.

The giant reptile gave a choking gasp and reared high into the air as if in a last, desperate attempt to escape while Kinsey still clung to the scaly snout. Finally, it shuddered and crashed to the ground.

Kinsey released his grip as they fell through the air and dropped to the ground a few yards from where the massive head slammed into the dirt. He cast his head back in a roar of triumph and held the bloody mass aloft. Around him, the dwarves lifted their voices and renewed their attack on the shocked goblin-kin.

Jocelyn came staggering up to him, tears shining in her bronze eyes. “Thank Dagda!”

Kinsey looked down at her and could see the pain she was in, and he knew that it wasn’t just from her wounds, in spite of the numerous places from which she bled. Deep sorrow fed the tears that ran down her cheeks and left clear trails in the blood and grime that covered her face.

A different kind of anger began to stoke within Kinsey. He had become accustomed to the feelings associated with anger, vengeance, and reactions to pain, but now he was beginning to feel a new kind of fury that was grounded in loss and sorrow. His heightened senses reported horror after horror in rich detail from the chaos around him. Dwarf and goblin-kin alike pled for life and succor as their blood leaked away to be absorbed into the torn soil. The wounded and dead were trod underfoot as the hale strove on for survival.

Ever more of the horde poured from the blocked pass, and the dwarven lines were beginning to fail. The center was collapsing in on itself, and the hammer poised on the cliffs above had yet to fall. Here and there amongst the horde, a pocket of dwarves battled alongside an Ursus, but he could tell at a glance that fewer of the mighty creatures graced the field. Something had to be done or the dwarves would be lost. Frustration bubbled alongside the anger as he watched the disaster unfolding.
What must I do?

He did not get an answer, but a sharp cry drew his attention away from the chaos around him. He looked in time to see a yelling, fully armored dwarf soldier flying through the air directly at him. Kinsey reached out and caught the dwarf with ease. A shocked mumble of thanks was given as Kinsey set the soldier down, but he gave no indication that he had heard. A dark figure had emerged from the battling throng.

The hobgoblin Kinsey had careened into just moments before bent to retrieve the great two-handed sword it had dropped. As the giant rose, a grin from ear to disfigured ear stretched across its face as if gleeful to have found Kinsey still standing and able. The black-clad warrior laughed and spread his arms wide. “Finally! Maharuke was growing bored.”

The hackles of Kinsey’s thick mane prickled and stood on end. He snarled, showing bloodstained teeth.

Dark fluid leaked from one of Maharuke’s nostrils, but he seemed not to mind. Wicked anticipation flickered across his twisted face as he squared his stance, sword held high and chin thrust forward. “Your fur will make a good trophy.”

Welcome though the rage may have been, this hobgoblin’s taunt pushed it to the boiling point. The leering giant had slain his grandfather and brought pain and destruction to the dwarven people. Weaponless and howling, Kinsey charged. All his surroundings blurred together as he moved with preternatural speed.

Maharuke’s muddy green eyes narrowed as he dropped the tip of his sword at the last second to receive Kinsey’s sudden rush.

The sword pierced Kinsey’s chest, impaling him and stopping him cold. The jarring halt snapped his enraged senses back into focus. Foolishly, he had depended on his savage strength and speed, but anger and rage knew little of strategy or tactics. The hobgoblin had simply let Kinsey end himself.

Kinsey looked down in shock.
The armor,
he thought, stunned. It had done nothing to stop or even slow the penetration of the blade. Thoughts fled as the horrific pain began to fill his mind. Kinsey howled and scrabbled at the sword, laying open gashes in his palms and fingers.

Maharuke threw his head back and bellowed with laughter. “The mole king fought better!” Grinning maliciously, the giant hobgoblin twisted and wrenched the dark blade as if it were a giant saw.

Great rents opened in Kinsey’s flesh and armor. He screamed as he fought off panic and grabbed hold of the sword with both hands. More screaming howls left his throat as the blade’s wicked edge dug into the bone and tendon of his hands, but his supernatural presence as the Dakayga allowed him to hold on.

The balance in Kinsey’s mind began to shift. In a way, the feeling was familiar and realization dawned even as his ability to think began to unravel. When the transformations had taken him against his will and he neither knew nor remembered what happened, he had assumed it to be a curse. It was not. The Dakayga was a being of vast, savage power and lethal intent. Kinsey’s fragile humanity, not to mention his sanity, would be lost in the face of the horrors that the Dakayga could endure. The sheltering of his mind from that horror was a gift.

Kinsey released his hold on his own actions, and the madness of the Dakayga enfolded him. A tiny kernel of himself remained aware, but it was sheltered and remote as if the pains of the Dakayga’s flesh were somehow not his own. His body twitched as his mind retreated and the frenzy seized control. Within the slick, leather-like face of the transformed prince, a wicked red glow leaked from eyes that ceased having any trace of human intelligence or sanity.

Maharuke felt the change in Kinsey’s body and laughed. The hobgoblin shifted his feet and gave a massive yank on the barbed sword. The twisted grin on his face changed to a scowl as the blade remained stuck fast, and he yanked again with a snarl. The sword still did not move. Maharuke’s eyes widened as the prince’s black, clawed hands tightened on the sword and yanked not away from further impalement but toward it. The hobgoblin’s ogrish hands almost lost their grip on the hilt as the sword was wrenched violently, pushing the blade more deeply into the chest of the Dakayga.

Maharuke snarled at the frenzied beast and joined the effort, shoving the blade further into his enemy. He laughed as the barbs disappeared one by one into Kinsey’s chest. “Die!” he growled. Too late, the giant hobgoblin realized that Kinsey was far from dead. The grievous wound that should have ended the prince only seemed to enrage him further. Maharuke dropped his hands from the bloody hilt of the sword and attempted to shove himself away.

Kinsey released the two-handed sword and grabbed hold of the giant hobgoblin’s heavy black pauldrons before he could escape. His dark claws held tightly to the crevices of the midnight armor, and he pulled Maharuke toward him until they stood face to face.

Maharuke slammed his fists into Kinsey’s opening maw, fighting to free himself.

Kinsey shrugged off the blows as they rained down on his face and snout. With a mighty lunge, his slavering jaws clamped down on the head of the hobgoblin leader. His teeth bit deeply into Maharuke’s face and head, tearing flesh away from bone and penetrating the thick skull.

Maharuke screamed in agony and continued to flail at Kinsey’s head and mouth.

Still lost to the frenzy, Kinsey wrenched Maharuke’s head so violently it tore away from the hobgoblin’s shoulders. The black-armored body dropped to the ground like a stringless puppet while dark ichor pumped from the raggedly torn neck. Kinsey spit the mangled head at a terrified goblin, who in turn shrieked and flung away its weapon to run the faster.

The prince spread his arms wide and howled in victory over the fallen Maharuke. He reveled in the rage, the exhilaration of the victory, and the glory of a fight to the death. Maharuke’s end removed the need for the mad fury, and Kinsey’s rational mind began to once more reassert control, though he continued to cry out his victory.

A weight settled on one of his outstretched palms, and his leathery digits seized it convulsively. Mordekki, grown to a proportion that fit his size as the Dakayga, sat in his clenched fist. The bright light from the runic symbols burned so brightly that the shadows from the clouds above were pushed back as if the sun had come to rest in his palm.

Kinsey could sense a yearning hunger pulling at him from the weapon. Instinctually, he thrust Mordekki in the air as he had seen Thorn do, and he roared once more in victory and challenge. Blinding rays pulsed from the axe head and carried his triumph across the field to his battered people.

The axe felt like an extension of his own body. More, it felt like an extension of his being, and he had no questions about how it was to be used. The rage of the Dakayga flowed from him into the weapon like lava pouring from a mountain. New runes flared to life, and he could almost see the power of his passion pour into the once-crumbling lines of dwarven warriors.

The effect was instantaneous and universal. Across the entire field of battle, exhausted troops straightened with a shout. The defensive lines that had been fracturing came together swiftly and began pressing into the goblin-kin as if newly arrived to the battle. Even mortally wounded soldiers began to struggle to their feet, bloodlust filling their eyes.

Kinsey continued to roar as he seized the sword that still impaled him. He tore the wicked weapon free in a gout of blood. Neither that nor the burning pain of the wound healing itself hindered him. With Mordekki in one hand and Maharuke’s sword in the other, Kinsey rushed toward the horde, his people following just behind.

T
AGEN
stood in stunned silence as the fractured strata of the dwarven lines were reforged. The scene below looked much like the thick streams of silver that ran through the black and fragmented stone of the deep mines. Glittering formations of the dwarven infantry flowed together as one giant vein across the field and began to push the dark, surging masses of the horde back in a fury of shouts that echoed across the valley and up the stony walls of the Dales.

The lord of the first house watched in bitter frustration as the confused goblin-kin were crushed against the fallen rocks that blocked Fountainhead Pass, even as the trailing elements of their force continued to spill over the boulder-strewn mouth. The pass and the mountain had become the anvil while the once-failing dwarves on the field took up the abandoned part as hammer. At the center of that reformation, bearing eldritch fire in one hand and night’s heart in the other, was the Dakayga.

“I don’t be believin’ it,” Olen sputtered, nearly dumbstruck. “He be turnin’ the whole battle around!”

Olen spoke only the truth, but it took all the restraint Tagen could muster not to shout at the fool or push him from their vantage point on the heights. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the rampaging beast cleaving its way through the heart of the hobgoblin army. The “prince” was obviously wielding Mordekki in one hand. Runic fire trailed the weapon as it was swung in great arcs, cutting down two and three enemies at a time. The more cowardly of the goblin-kin fled in the face of the fiery weapon, disrupting their brothers, sowing even more chaos amongst an already unsteady lot. The fact that the rabid upstart dared to even touch, much less use, the ancient weapon was almost as bad as his half-blooded heritage. Ignatius and his ilk would have much to answer for failing to make an end of the king’s polluted spawn.