Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (34 page)

Fir Earthhomme’s chuckle of relief followed a hard slap to Tagen’s back. “By Dagda, that boy’s fer real. Dakayga through ’n through. He’s gonna save ’em all!”

Fir and the leaders of the other noble houses had gathered to discuss what action they might take. With the rockslide blocking their path, any thoughts they had regarding aid to their kin down on the valley floor were just useless noise. When the last of the dwarves below had fallen or had fled, there would be no recourse but to retreat to Mozil. From there, Tagen’s path to the throne would have been assured. But now…

Fir’s fat belly heaved as he chortled in glee, watching Thorn’s whelp. Norhan Founderson and Rhert Jaden laughed with him, but they were not alone. All the lords save Olen sniggered along with the fat fool’s joy, as if their potential for glory hadn’t been usurped by the flea-bitten mongrel that ran amok on the battlefield. Even Ronil was smiling like a vacant-headed idiot until he felt the baleful glare of Tagen upon him. His sycophantic snickers dried up in a pathetic attempt to look noncommittal but pleased at the same time. Tagen gritted his teeth.

“Aye,” yelled Norhan, hugging Fir’s weighty shoulder. “He be a natural leader, and of the king’s own blood fer truth!”

Jealousy welled in Tagen’s veins as the other seven lords offered empty platitudes and agreements. Oh, how he wished to send them all to suffer in Mot’s fiery realm! But with mighty effort he stilled his hands and released the grip that had tightened on the hilt of his hammer. Desperate to distract himself from the catastrophe below, he turned to the work that had continued unabated in clearing the path to the valley floor.

Perhaps there may yet be time to get to the floor and have a role in the turnin’ tide,
Tagen thought with a touch of desperation.

Even under the concentrated efforts of all eight houses, the narrow path that hugged the outside of the mountain was still buried in a shifting mass of broken stone. When enough stones had been moved, loose rock above shifted and slid down to fill the void. So far, no further lives had been lost, but more than one soldier-turned-sapper had been pulled away from the shifting stones to be treated for fractures and concussions. Nothing short of a pocket of gas exploding through the tumbled stone could possibly clear the way in time for the eight noble houses to provide more than congratulations to the victorious soldiers below.

Mot’s fires,
Tagen thought bitterly. Unable to contain his frustration, he slammed his fist against a nearby boulder and cursed.

All eyes turned to him at the outburst. Merrell Hasselgrod, in his never-ending struggle for understanding, looked confused. The rest of them wore looks of sympathy, while Olen and Ronil glanced at each other with raised brows of concern.

“I feel yer frustration, Tagen,” said Fir, his jowls shaking with every nod of his bloated head. “If only we could be down there, helpin’ our brother’s and the prince, ta share in the glory o’ this day.”

“Yes, ’tis a tragedy,” was all Tagen could manage in response. He held his bruised fist close to his chest and scowled at the pain.

Only Olen and Ronil could possibly understand the frustration in Tagen’s heart. They had known most of his plans and had been a part of many of them. Ronil shuffled one step away as if he might distance himself from Tagen, but a fiery stare from the lord of the first house froze him in mid-motion. It was far too late for second thoughts. Ronil stood chastened and nodded with understanding.

Tagen straightened and turned to face the house leaders. “It be true. I would see us all in the midst o’ battle, but it appears that Dagda be seein’ it otherwise.”

“Aye,” Norhan said. “Could be that this is Dagda’s will fer us... to bear witness to Thorn’s choice”—the lord of the sixth house stepped forward, drawing every eye to himself, and continued solemnly—“
Dagda’s
choice, fer the next king.”

The words stung Tagen more powerfully than any blow could have. The implication that Dagda had “chosen” the half-breed was ludicrous, if not blasphemous. Yet there it was below: the Dakayga in all its glory, exposed for all to see.
No,
Tagen thought angrily, this whole affair was a mistake, a mistake that could be fixed, eventually. Ignatius would have much to answer for, Tagen would see to that. The lord of the first house took a deep, calming breath and nodded. “Aye, ya might be right, Norhan. Dagda’s will be done.”

“Dagda’s will be done,” the lords echoed and then turned their attention back to the battle below.

Kinsey yanked Mordekki free of an ogre’s split skull and kicked the collapsing body away with one foot. Blood fountained from the horrific gash and coated his armor and pelt in a fresh wave of gore. The goblin-kin that had been supporting the ogre ran shrieking in fear, only to be cut down by raging dwarven soldiers.

How long Kinsey had been wreaking havoc on the goblinoid army, he could not have said. For much of the time, he had been lost to the fury that burned endlessly, feeding the destruction. He had never spent so much time transformed, but in doing so, he gained precious insight into this creature he became. Though the animalistic hunger and rage were not and could not be reconciled to the human that Kinsey always considered himself to be, those rabid emotions could be harnessed—yoked to his will. The fury yearned for direction, a focus. Kinsey needed only to choose a target and nudge the rage on the appropriate course.

Previous discoveries became more apparent when sheltered in the storm of the Dakayga’s righteous fury. Any blow received was absorbed in a coruscating wave of pain and met by a like surge of anger and energy so bright that the agony of his healing flesh and bone was almost lost. When under the rage’s influence, his flesh knit together as fast as the hobgoblins could cut it open.

Realization of this perpetual cycle of damage, anger, and healing brought about another revelation. The wounds that his body took served to fuel the fire of his rage, which in turn fed the ever-draining hunger of Mordekki. Kinsey could feel the totem drawing off the rage and energy and feeding it to the dwarven host, but no matter the requirements of the ancestral weapon, the Dakayga had more to give.

On and on Kinsey fought, pressing at such a furious rate of speed that his enemies almost seemed to not move at all, though their intent to destroy him was still apparent. Each hateful face that fell under blade or tooth and each wound he took only served to increase his energy and need to exterminate the next monster.

Mordekki was a glowing icon of retribution, a volcano, a falling star of destruction. The dwarves following in his wake were spurred on by the energy and emotion that flowed through the totem. Under the influence of the rage, they showed no reservations and hewed through the fighting and the fleeing foe with equal abandon. Nearby, the dwarves echoed Kinsey’s howls for the blood of their foes, and together they drove the hobgoblins ever back.

Abruptly Kinsey found himself staring at the boulders that blocked Fountainhead Pass. Fleeing goblin-kin scattered in every direction, but only those that scrambled back over the boulders avoided death by axe, pike, or hammer. Kinsey whirled about with a snarl, looking for more hobgoblins to rend and tear, but only the sweating faces of his people met him. In the distance, small pockets of goblin-kin were falling under the press of the dwarves. Everywhere across the torn earth, bodies of both dwarf and monster lay, but the battle was over, and beyond any expectation, the day was theirs.

Kinsey threw back his head and howled at the sky. Above, the leaden clouds with their green-laced lightning began to break apart. Whatever mystic power had brought them to bear had been broken as well. The voices of his people rose with him as the sky swelled with quickening expanses of blue.

Jocelyn had somehow managed to stay near him during the battle. She stood in the crowd, shaking her mace and flail furiously above her head. Her long blond hair had come unbound from the leather thongs, and golden tendrils, dripping with sweat, swirled in matted patterns on the sides of her head. Her bronze eyes blazed with victory as she looked toward the heavens. The maiden was coated in dirt and ichor, but she couldn’t have been more glorious.

Eventually, the revelry faded. Men and women slapped each other on the back and embraced one another, exclaiming about the victory. More than one “Dagda be praised” could be heard, and occasionally Kinsey’s name would be raised in a cheer as well.

New shouts that sounded unlike the cries of victory caught his attention. Dwarves began to run toward a pair that appeared, staggering across the torn fields, first in ones and twos, then in streams. It was Sargon, and with him,
Thorn
. The two moved slowly but surely until the rushing crowd swept them up on their shoulders and swiftly bore them back to where Kinsey stood amazed.

The pair’s bearers gently lowered them to stand before Kinsey. Both men were obviously weary almost beyond measure, but they remained standing. Thorn’s eyes watered as he took in Kinsey’s Dakayga form, and he reached out tentatively to take hold of one clawed hand. “Dagda be praised,” the king whispered, squeezing Kinsey’s gore-covered finger.

Shock and relief flooded through Kinsey. He had seen the king fall and thought him dead. Pushing away the power and rage of the Dakayga, Kinsey changed back into his familiar, half-dwarven skin. The armor, damaged as it was, still transformed smoothly, though the edges of splintered steel dug into the flesh of his chest and belly. Kinsey shrugged uncomfortably and glanced down. Bloated scars decorated the skin behind the riven steel. There was an ache within him that spoke of a lifelong injury, but for now, he would live to see another day.

Ignoring the pain, he gawked at the pair in awe. “I saw you go down,” he said to Thorn. “I was sure you were dead! How…?” Kinsey could not articulate his confusion, and his words trailed away as Thorn chuckled softly and looked to the priest standing beside him.

“By the grace and quick wit of Sargon,” Thorn said wearily. “He saved ma life. One more debt I can never repay.”

“Ya mean more ta me alive than dead, ma king,” Sargon replied. “Ya repay me by takin’ breath.”

Thorn straightened a bit at that. “Ya honor me with yer friendship.” The king leaned forward enough to clasp Sargon’s forearm. “I’ll not be fergettin’ it.” Settling back once more, the old king turned his attention to Kinsey. “Ya did good, boy. Ya pulled us outta the fire. I couldn’t be more thankful. And proud.” His gauntleted hand reached out again to grip Kinsey’s arm. There was yet strength in Thorn, but he was a shade of the man who had taken the field hours ago.

Kinsey’s heart swelled as he took in all that had happened. He had come to terms with the monster within him, and when he had done so, he had used the power to effect a great good. He had feared that the Dakayga would always be a danger to others, and so it was, but he knew now that he would no longer have to fear for his friends and allies. Let his enemies bear that burden.

Kinsey knelt and offered Mordekki to the king. The axe had transformed as he had, and the haft still fit comfortably in his palm. Truth be told, the weapon had felt more comfortable than any other tool he had ever held, but Mordekki was not his to wield. Holding it so that the leather braiding of the handle was presented to the king, Kinsey said, “Because of you, my friends, my family—I have overcome my fears. For that, I owe you everything.”

“I don’t think I’ll be needin’ that anymore, ma boy,” Thorn answered, waving away the proffered handle. “It knows where it needs ta be.”

Kinsey’s eyes widened. “But—”

“Take it,” Thorn interrupted gruffly, a little bit of his usual energy and authority surfacing through the dirt and exhaustion. “’Tis true ya be owin’ me. Ya be owin’ us all.” His gnarled hand swept in a wide arc to encompass the growing crowd. “We be needin’ ya, boy.”

Kinsey stared at his grandfather in disbelief. He knew what the king was saying. He had known what they would ask of him ever since his friends had started referring to him as “prince,” but in his heart he had hoped that it would not come to pass. He shook his head. Yes, he knew damn well what Thorn was driving at, and he wasn’t ready.

“I’ve fought ma last battle, Kinsey,” Thorn continued. He placed a callused hand on Mordekki when Kinsey failed to move it and slowly pushed it away. “I’m spent, lad.” In saying so, the weariness that had been held at bay washed over him. In seconds, the king appeared to age tenfold, and it seemed a miracle he remained on his feet.