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

DARK FATE

Book of Kinsey: Volume Two

by

Matt Howerter & Jon Reinke

Copyright © 2014 Idea Forge Publishing, LLC

All Rights Reserved

Cover art, design, map illustration and formatting by

Matt Howerter

Website

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or physical editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedicated to Earl.

Dark Fate: Book of Kinsey

Jacket Blurb

A spirit warrior.

A failing king reborn.

A nation poised at the edge of war.

Kinsey travels to Mozil, mountain kingdom of the dwarves. There, he is to meet his last living relative who may unlock the key that will help him harness the raging power within, lest it destroy him and everything he holds dear.

All is not well in the dwarven homeland. Those who seek power for their own ends threaten the balance of unity that will be sorely needed to survive the dark days ahead. Tempers flare and Kinsey’s newfound talents and companions will be pushed to their utmost as an all-consuming doom draws near.

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P
INPRICKS
of starlight grew on the eastern horizon as dusk approached. Steady winds from the mountains to the west pushed away the ever-present fog and mist from the marshlands of Skelris, leaving the air crisp and clear.

Maharuke watched the pathetic goblins scurry about, building cook fires for the stirring horde. The mewling squeals of the small furry creatures the goblins were spitting amused him. He considered shoving aside the cretinous goblins to skewer the still-living rodents himself but grunted in distaste at the slaves’ work. It was beneath him.

The army of his kin sprawled around him in a chaotic jumble of lean-tos, lounging bodies, pack animals, and slaves. Tens of thousands strong, they had marched nights and slept during the hateful light of day once they had left the sheltering mists. The unveiled sun was harsh on the skin and eyes of his kin. Their cultivation over centuries in the dark and fog-shrouded places of Skelris had made them strong and savage, but the sun had never been a friend of the horde.

A slobbering, harsh voice drew his eye back to his companions.

“You’d have us split our forces, Maharuke.” Harn pointed a heavy, clawed hand at the hobgoblin overlord. “Not wise, I say!”

A grumble of agreement came from many who had gathered around Maharuke’s fire to consult on the horde’s path from this point forward. They sat at the southern tip of Long Lake, near the spewing mouth that fed the Wetlands below. Maharuke would see them divide and travel north on either side of the freshwater ocean. The dimwitted fools sitting before him found solace in each other, but none would challenge his decision alone.

Maharuke leveled a steady glower at the slouching, overly fat second-in-command. All the chieftains but Maharuke himself were crouched around the campfire.

Harn dropped the gnarled hand he had been pointing. His ragged nails disappeared into the folds of flesh below a filthy loincloth as he scratched at his crotch and continued to stare with discontent. Harn’s face had been decorated with piercings made from the finger bones of enemies who had fallen before him. Once, Harn had been mighty, but now he had become a flabby, whining dog.

It was likely that Maharuke would have to kill him soon. He allowed his lips to twitch as he pulled them over his tusks at the thought. He slapped his thick arms and asked, “What’s it you fear, Harn, the lack of my strong arms to protect you?”

Howls of laughter went up around the campfire, and Harn leaned forward, baring his pitted teeth in rage. “The oomans know we come for them. You weaken us with no cause!”

Maharuke dismissed his second’s words with a wave. “We knew they would discover us. It means nothin’.” Jutting his jaw northwest over the lake, he continued, “The mountain moles have fields of food planted in the Lowlands. We needs that grub, unless you wants to eat goblin when we reach the Stone.” Maharuke aimed a kick at one of the pathetic little creatures.

The goblin dodged and cringed away from the blow, dropping its scraps and bones. The others around the fire nodded in agreement with their overlord, and this time even Yunn, the high shaman of Harn’s tribe, tilted his head in acceptance. Harn toyed with the piercings along his jawline, attempting to find a fallacy in Maharuke’s logic.

“We needs to commune with Mot,” Harn’s ragged shaman proclaimed suddenly, while his tribe leader sat in puzzlement. “His guidance will show us the way.”

Maharuke glanced at his own shaman, Barkon. His eyes gleamed with the fading sun as he cut his glance toward Yunn, but he said nothing. Instead, the gangly hobgoblin settled back on his broken log, content to watch.

“Mot don’t speak without sacrifice!” Harn’s chins rolled as he growled. “We gots no time for that!”

Voices rose again as the tribe leaders began to bicker about the way to choose the course ahead, but Maharuke turned away. In the end, they would do as he told them to. They knew the price for refusal—at least, some of them did.

He watched the purpling sky’s reflection in the clear water of Long Lake. Maharuke was fascinated by the water. Nothing in the Wetlands was so pure or clean. Beauty in the swamp was all too often a lure for the unwary, veiling poison and death.

Maharuke had longed to possess the lands of the north ever since his childhood. Before he had seized his freedom, he had already traveled to the rich northlands on many raids. Even as a slave, he had understood the potential fruits that were there for the taking. He knew in the darkest pit of his heart that one day he would return to claim them.

The giant hobgoblin overlord had been born amongst the nomadic human tribes of the Savage Lands: the product of a human blood sport that ended with his hobgoblin mother being raped by his ogre father. From his birth, Maharuke’s parentage had given him great strength and fortitude, but for the first two decades of life, it won him only servitude. The Nomads of the Savage Lands had used him for a beast of burden and as a plaything in their blood sports until the day he had bartered his way to freedom with murdering hands.

After his master lay dead, Maharuke had fled to Skelris, where his size and strength served him well. The skills learned amongst the humans in their games of death and manipulation had made it an almost simple matter to rise to mastery in the tribes. No matter his station amongst his kin, however, he never stopped yearning to return to the North. Now, after a lifetime of waiting, his time had come. The Mistress, Selen, would see his dreams fulfilled.

Selen had been the one to bring the bickering goblin tribes together centuries ago. Under her hand, the violent predilections of the goblinoid races had been shaped and directed; and they had grown. The world was unprepared for them, he knew. Under the sheltering and refining mists of Skelris, the “horde” that the nations of men believed they knew had become a horde in earnest. More, they were directed in a way that they never could have been without her dread influence. Selen would dominate the northlands, just as she had done with the tribes, and Maharuke would rule them for her.