Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (29 page)

“He be yer kin, ma king!” Sargon shouted from Thorn’s left. The old priest was seated behind the shoulders of a sleek brown Ursus named Murr. The bear was well muscled but smaller than Nerok by perhaps a third. “He honors ya with his prowess in battle,” Sargon continued. “The boy fights like a well-seasoned veteran of the Brunahlen clan!”

“Aye!” Thorn cried, still laughing. “And I owe ya a debt that can never be repaid, ma friend. I thank ya fer bringing the lad ta us.”

The old priest nodded, grinning as fiercely as any warrior.

Sargon’s mount suddenly erupted with a great roar of anguish and reared back. A black shaft almost six inches in diameter protruded from the agonized Ursus’s chest just below the left shoulder.

The king looked back at their milling foes, and his blood ran with ice. The rout Thorn thought he and his companions had forced had actually been tactical. The goblinoids had managed to bring crudely constructed ballistae to the fore. The uncovered dark-wood bows twanged in unison as goblins scattered out of the way. A dart whined by Nerok’s flank and struck the ground but did not lodge there. The soil around the tip exploded as the shaft was propelled by its horrendous momentum back into the air, spearing a dwarf beside Nerok’s left flank. The vicious dart and the transfixed soldier sailed away to disappear in the swirling battle beyond. A third dart sailed harmlessly past the hindquarters of another Ursus.

“Mot’s fires!” Thorn swore, horrified.

Murr gave another great cry as he tried to maintain his feet but staggered and fell. Sargon, cursing in a way that surely would have tugged his conscience otherwise, disappeared into the surrounding dwarven soldiers as he was thrown from the bear’s back.

“Shields!” Thorn screamed as a black volley fell upon them from the goblin-kin ranks. The carcodium runes in Thorn’s enchanted armor glowed a brilliant red as it shed the crude arrows like water. Nerok grumbled in annoyance as here and there a bolt managed to penetrate his thick hide. Cold fury gripped the king as he prepared himself to charge the ballistae. The western flank would have to be left to Kinsey for now. If those engines were left unchecked, Thorn and his entourage would be devastated.

The king bellowed the call to charge. Nerok tossed his head skyward and roared his own challenge. Together, the wedge of giant bears and steadfast dwarves charged the horde and their engines of war.

Gurney Borjornin pulled back from the front line and slid down the heaving side of Diherin, his bluish-black ursine mount. Gurney had fought with the giant bear folk before and knew their worth and courage. He patted Diherin’s massive arm thankfully, speaking words of praise to the creature. A low, inarticulate rumble was the only reply before the Ursus lowered its massive snout into the open-topped water wagon that had been hauled to the front by a moody pair of oxen.

“Report!” Gurney ordered. He accepted a water skin from a young page that charged up.

“Here, milord!” came a voice from the throng of reinforcements that milled around the supply wagons. Captain Baxton Tallut came at a run with a pennant bearing Gurney’s house colors streaming from a short pole affixed to his back. The steel gray field with an artistic representation of an onyx buttress would leave no doubt as to whose house the captain belonged. Stability and a systematic, methodical approach to things was the only way to approach life, whether it was engineering a new structure, running a kingdom, or fighting a war.

As much as Gurney loved Thorn, the passion with which his friend followed his heart made the old engineer nervous.
The heart can easily lead to ruin,
he thought. Gurney had tried to explain that to Thorn when the king had been decaying under the cloud of depression following Duhann’s death. He had done so again when offering his council of caution upon the revelation of this Kinsey person, who was such a mirror image of the lost prince. Despite the worry Gurney felt about his friend’s tendency to think less and react more, he found himself relieved—indeed, almost grateful—for the appearance of the new prince. Gurney preferred his structures over kingship. A buttress didn’t second-guess the needs of the roof when you erected it. A pyle foundation didn’t whine that it was placed in a dark corner when other pyles had been driven in more open areas. Dwarves, though…

The engineer shook his head and forced his attention back to Baxton, who began without preamble when Gurney locked eyes with him. “Roehil and his captains be dead, milord. The western flank’s been in shambles, but the king and the prince took reinforcements ta help ’em.”

Gurney nodded. He had heard the warning horns and had seen the king move to their aid but had had his own front to mind. A dwarf had to trust that plans carefully laid would hold in the face of the earth moving. “And now?” he prompted when Baxton didn’t immediately continue.

“The wall be comin’ back together around the prince, milord,” Baxton spoke quickly. “To the east, Gideon and his forces be keepin’ the greenskins in check, forcin’ ’em back into the seam o’ Fountainhead Pass.”

“Good,” Gurney said with relief. Tagen and the other eight houses would have an anvil to swing their hammer against after all. “What of the forces on the ridge?”

“Not so good, milord. They been delayed—”

“Steel and stone, man!” Gurney shouted. “We’re barely holdin’ as it is!” He reached out and snatched the looking glass that dangled from one of Baxton’s pouches. The agitated lord spun on one heel, put the glass to his eye, and looked up the cliff face to where their secondary force had lain in wait.

Along the ridge, the colors of Axeheed, Bluebeard, Narsbin, and the five other houses could be seen scrambling across the rocks. Further south, it was evident that a second rockslide had fallen, blocking the path Tagen and the others had planned to use to attack the horde from behind.

Gurney rocked back on his heels in shock. He had examined those cliffs himself and found no faults that would cause such a calamity. “I...I don’t believe it,” he stammered. “That can’t be possible.”

“Milord!” yelled a page, interrupting the engineer’s thoughts. The lad was dressed in the silver and black of House Silvervein. The boy came to a stop just in front of Gurney and the captain, gasping for breath. “Milord. Lord Beordin. He’s fallen, milord.”

Dagda be good,
Gurney thought.
Beordin Silvervein and his general Roehil both dead?
It was hard to believe, but anything could happen in war. Their deaths, added to the fact that no reinforcements would be coming, did not bode well for the dwarves fighting in the valley basin and perhaps foretold their doom. Hardening his resolve, the lord of the second house gritted his teeth and turned to Baxton. “Get word ta the king... and the prince that there be no reinforcements from up top; we’re on our own.” He stomped off toward his ursine mount.

Baxton and the page followed on Gurney’s heels. The captain spoke as he helped his lord up into the saddle. “Where will I find ya, milord?”

“I’ll be holdin’ the middle.” Gurney grabbed the long spear Baxton handed to him. “Send word ta Gideon, too. He must hold his line at all costs!”

The captain nodded and sped off with the page in tow.

Diherin appeared refreshed by the brief respite from the battle. The giant bear turned when he felt Gurney’s weight settle and began shambling back toward the front lines. Gurney would have to keep the center intact. With Beordin gone and the king helping the western flank, he was all that remained.
Time ta prove what kinda stone yer made of, old man,
he thought with a bitter smile.

Soldiers made way for Gurney and Diherin as they charged to the fore. The several hundred Ursus had spread out along the shield wall, helping the dwarven troops when and where they could. The lines of dedicated dwarves and beasts were ready for the hammer to fall—a hammer that would never come.

“Push forward, smash ’em against the rocks!” Gurney bellowed as Diherin’s paw snapped the neck of a hobgoblin just the other side of the wall. Gurney jabbed his spear into the nearest foe and yelled again, “Together, lads, forward!”

The lord’s command echoed along the lines on either side through the voices of his sergeants. As one, the entire center shouldered forward a step. The crash of metal on metal was deafening, and screams of the dying resounded after each push, but the dwarves struggled on, step by step. Eventually, the strength of Gurney’s soldiers diminished, their bodies and souls drained from exertion. No matter how much he urged his troops to victory, they could push forward no more.

“Crossbows, ta the front!” Gurney commanded. The crossbowmen had been firing volley after volley into the seething ranks of the horde far beyond the rippling shield wall, but now they were needed to protect those that had protected them. The infantry needed a breather, if only for a few moments.

If the dwarves were to survive this day, they would have to be pushed to the utmost of their limits. A delicate hand would be required to navigate the fine line between recoverable exhaustion and complete failure. Gurney knew delicacy. When chisel cut stone to reveal the art that lay underneath or when understanding the settling of a mountain when boring into its core; these things required finesse. Finesse that the lord of the second house had been master of for more than two centuries. He
would
guide the people to salvation, if not victory.

The point-blank fire of the archers took a telling toll upon the hobgoblin army, and their front lines faltered, easing the pressure on the shield wall. Both sides took precious moments to breathe and glare balefully across the short distance at those who wished to see them dead. Just as quickly, the moment was gone and the combatants flooded the narrow gap once more.

Gurney roared as he stood in the traces of his saddle, raising his spear high to skewer a charging hobgoblin. Sudden pain flashed in his armpit and the spear tumbled away from fingers that no longer obeyed his will. Confused, Gurney turned his head to peer at a gnarled and crude arrow that protruded from his underarm. The mail netting had been pierced as if it were mere cotton.

Gurney’s vision blurred, and he flopped down on his saddle with an audible thud. It was becoming harder for him to breathe.
They’ve gotten me, damned swamp scum got me.
Dazed, he searched for the goblin that had to be somewhere behind the dwarven line until his eyes fell upon a dwarf lowering a crossbow. For the briefest instant, their eyes locked, and Gurney knew that this man hated him. The strength of his legs suddenly failed and the air took hold of the lord of the second house as he slipped from the saddle of the now rearing Ursus. “Steel... and—” Gurney began as the ground rushed up to meet him, and then he knew no more.

A golden-brown Ursus plowed through the goblin ranks that stood between it and the first siege engine. An ogre wielding a massive club managed to land a blow near the rider, high on the bear’s flank, before a swinging paw sent the nine feet of raging monster spinning into its goblinoid brethren.

Thorn and Nerok charged the center position where screaming goblins and hobgoblins rushed to set pikes. The white leviathan swept one paw across the pike line, slapping aside weapons and wielders alike as Thorn repeatedly flung and summoned Mordekki. Around them, dwarves that served as the king’s personal guard shoved, pushed, and stabbed their way into the Mot-cursed rabble that sought to close on Nerok’s flanks. Seconds passed before the mighty ballista lay in ruins, and the dwarves cheered even as they continued to battle.