Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (23 page)

“Amazing,” Kinsey breathed, holding his arms aloft and flexing fingers now gauntleted in gleaming metal.

“Aye, that it is,” Thorn agreed, watching from a few feet away. The old king’s brown eyes were a little moist but also burned with fierce pride. “It be an age or more since that kind o’ work been done by our people.”

Kinsey rolled his shoulders to get a feel of the transformed armor. As he swung his arms, he found that the connected webbing did not obstruct his movement at all. The metal drape from the buckles and expanded medallions was almost weightless.

“It fits ya well, ma prince,” said Jocelyn softly from behind him.

Kinsey turned from his inspection of the amazing work to find all his friends, including Jocelyn, down on one knee, regarding him with pride. Out of habit, he almost told them to stop but reconsidered. Mere days had passed since he had offended Jocelyn so terribly with his careless words; he meant to not do it again or to cause the same harm to these others. Instead, he stepped forward and offered his hand to her. “Rise.”

Jocelyn gently took his hand and stood. She smiled at him, her bronze eyes shining softly. Behind her, the others got to their feet with hope brimming on their features.

“I would have you with me tomorrow,” Kinsey said. The words came unbidden, but he knew the truth of them as they spilled from his lips. “I have wronged you, all of you, with my denial of who I am, and my disregard for your faith and hopes. I would ask for your tolerance and forgiveness of my doubts. You few have been there for me since the beginning, and just days ago”—he reached out and placed his other hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder—“on the cusp of madness, staring into the brink of oblivion.” He paused to take in their faces, to mark their hopes and fears in his mind so that he would remember his responsibilities to them. His gaze came back to settle on Jocelyn. “Say you will stand with me.”

Her eyes met his as her voice joined the others in a simultaneous response, “I will.”

B
ROG
scurried across the rocks and boulders like a highland lizard. Her small body was made mostly of sinew and spindly limbs. Long claws on her dexterous feet and hands made it easy for her to cling to the surface of just about any type of stone or bark. The goblin skittered to a halt on the precipice of a jagged cliff and peered with slitted eyes at the horizon as dawn approached.

The dry, pine-scented mountain air burned lungs that were much more adapted to the swamps of her home. When she released the breath, she let it go in a hiss that was directed at the sensation of the crisp air and the hated golden-orange glow. It was far past time to make camp, but Maharuke had demanded that the army be beyond the mountain pass and into the valley before the horde settled for the day. Brog and many others had been sent ahead to find a suitable spot for the trailing army to rest.

Brog turned her back on the approaching dawn and scurried northward. Her thoughts wandered as she crawled along the rough, broken earth and walls. She was larger, faster, and smarter than many of the other goblins in Greel’s scouting pack. She had been able to use that strength to harbor more food and shelter that allowed her to become even more powerful. Soon, perhaps as soon as today, she would be able to kill Greel, take over the scouting pack, and choose a mate that would let her whelp dozens of offspring. If she chose the right goblin—cunning and savage—her brood would grow and garner her more power still. Her mate had to be powerful and wily, it was true, but not so much that she could not be rid of him when he had served his purpose or she found another.

Brog’s thin lips curled over her black, twisting fangs as she fantasized over her future and the brood that would worship her. They would support her as she became stronger and ever more scouting packs would be forced to join her. One day, even Maharuke would have to recognize her, maybe even fear her. “Yesssss,” she hissed as she rounded a boulder and dodged the increasing brightness of the sun. The terrain around her began to gradually slope away, and Brog increased her pace, anticipating the end of her mission.

The bright, green fields of the mountain moles’ larder came into view between two fractured boulders. Brog raised one clawed hand to shield herself from the rays from the rising sun. Golden highlights shone from the thick heads of grain along the narrow valley floor. Further ahead, she could see the opening to the rest of the Lowlands. When she had assured herself that this would be a sufficient campsite for the horde, she would return and collect her reward for being the first with word. Then her dreams would begin to become reality. Brog pulled a tattered cloak around her head and shoulders to shield her sensitive skin from the rays of the sun and pushed excitedly through the gap.

As her head and shoulders wormed out, they were seized and Brog was hauled off her feet, only to be slammed face-first into the unyielding stone she had just passed. Her lip split against the hard stone, and the taste of blood leaked onto her dry tongue.

“Got us another one,” whispered a voice that could only belong to one of the mountain moles.

Panic gripped Brog’s mind just as firmly as the hand that still held her neck. She flailed at the arm that pinned her, but her claws only met leather and iron, and her face was pushed even more firmly into the stone.

“This one be a fighter, fer sure,” said the same gritty voice.

During the scuffle, she glimpsed the lifeless limb of another goblin. She hadn’t been the first here after all. Hatred swelled, and for a brief moment she ceased her struggle, cackling within at her competitor’s fate.

The ring of steel bounced from the surrounding stone, reminding Brog of her own dire situation. A low chuckle from more of the moles accompanied the sound. A new voice said, “Have done, Bardak. More may be comin’.”

Brog twisted and clawed desperately to free herself. A wide blade briefly obscured the body of her dead competitor. The cutting steel was bright with the reflected light of the hated sun, and then all went dark.

Nur marched alongside the endless line of hobgoblins. His whip cracked on the backs of those lagging behind and others he deemed deserving. Since
all
of them were lazy, selfish, and stupid, Nur had no qualms about who his lash struck. He chuckled aloud at the thought. Each hobgoblin that turned to see what made him laugh felt the touch of the bullhide, and Nur laughed even louder. This was a good job and one that he richly deserved.

Marching through this mountain pass had been hard, and the troops were restless. Brawls were common in the camps as the fractious community was jostled together and factions strove for dominance. Even so, the scuffles had become more lethal and were breaking out during the day when the horde was presumably resting.

Nur continued to smile as he plied his whip. The troops were restless, and their need for flesh was growing. This march only served to make that desire stronger.

Nur hoped the mountain moles would fight instead of cowering in their holes like the pathetic worms that they were. He looked forward to tasting their blood. The meat that came from the hunts in the swamps and lands northward was good, but it lacked the savor of an opponent that knew it had been beaten. Meat was always more tasty when seasoned with fear and misery. The mountain moles would know, and they would scream because of it. Another chuckle escaped Nur, but none looked his way this time. He let the whip fall anyway.
Stupid slaves,
he thought as the marchers cowered and cursed.

A horn wailed in the distance ahead. The signal was long awaited and meant that the horde had finally broken through this highland defile to the southern tip of the Lowlands. A rolling shudder passed through the long, ragged lines of hobgoblins, goblins, and the other twisted races from the swamps. Weapons were shaken in defiance at the sky that had brightened considerably in the past hours. No, it wasn’t defiance. It was anticipation. Nur’s own guttural roar and expectation joined that of the horde.

Drums began to pound at numerous points along the line, thundering in time with Nur’s heartbeat. The warriors around him began to chant rhythmically in anticipation of battle. The cadence quickly spread, and soon, the voices of the hobgoblin army resounded like an avalanche from the mountainsides.

Nur raised his whip and cracked it in the air above the heads of the troop, encouraging them to move faster. The horde shouted as it began to surge forward at a run, and Nur’s voice was lost in the bellowing.

Like a great river, the hobgoblins flowed forward. The hobnailed boots crushed the rocks to dust where they fell, and even the bare, callused feet of the goblins added to the rumbling roar of the great flood. The hobgoblin commander laughed in bloodthirsty excitement, his whip never ceasing. All around him the energy was returned in a ground-shaking advance that Nur could feel beneath his feet.

Unnoticed on the cliffs far above, boulders began to fall like rain.

Gideon lay in wait, staring at the mouth of Fountainhead Pass, listening to the roar of thousands of bestial voices as they echoed from the mountains. Formed eons past by raging springs that had since gone dry, the large breach was the only way through the Dales on the eastern side of the mountain range, west of Long Lake. It opened out onto the southernmost fields of the Lowlands, granting access to the horde coming up from Skelris. His troops shifted around him as they heard the distant drumming and calls of the approaching horde.

Fortifications had never been built to cover the gap. The mountain range itself was formidable, and with minimal effort, it had become even more so; a rockslide would be devastating to any force hemmed into Fountainhead’s high walls.

Gideon smiled as he watched boulders beginning to tumble from the high cliffs. Tiny forms swarmed along the peaks, levering even more stones that would fall upon the hapless monsters below. Tagen and the other seven houses exercised good timing as the crashing rockslide rumbled toward the unsuspecting horde. The shouts of bloodlust and glee that had been flowing from the chasm turned to terrified shouts and screams that were quickly lost in the thundering roar of falling stone.
That’s gotta hurt,
the scarred general thought.

Gideon took a moment to glance over his shoulder at the troops he would help command. Thousands of dwarves in armor stood about him. Conscripts and volunteers from the people had been reinforced with the King’s Guard and the personal fighting forces of Houses Borjornin and Silvervein. In all, ten thousand of his kinsmen stood on the field to halt the advance of the oncoming horde. Plate armor, shields, and spears glinted in the morning sun.