The Game of Fates (36 page)

The
last question was from Kale’s young daughter.  She had come forward and was
clinging to his leg.  “Yes, my sweetness,” he caressed her cheek with his
hand.  “You can bring your doll.”

Soon,
Kale, as leader of the Kale family, had decided that there must be some time
before whatever danger it was arrived, time sufficient to gather the outcasts
and warn the Deep Gen at least.  So he told the females to gather their most
necessary possessions and sent the young males who had no families to worry
about out to each of the major outcast families, directing them to stop by the
home caves of the minor, disparate outcast groups that would not attack them on
sight.

Leaving
his younger brother in charge of the preparations and bidding his family
farewell, Kale shouldered his pack and took his spear in hand and headed off
toward the home of the next largest of the outcast families to warn them and
plead with them to gather themselves.

Trallik
and Trikki rested in the underbrush.  It was late in the evening.  The sun had
set, but its light still shone from behind the western mountains, casting long
shadows from every tree and bush.  This and the brief time before the sun
appeared in the morning were the two times when a kobold was the most blind,
that eerie twilight where light was failing, but yet was still strong enough to
spoil their heat vision.

They
had found a thicket that was hollowed in the middle and, after chasing a family
of deer out of it, the pair made a bed for themselves in the leaves and
snuggled together in the gathering darkness.

Taking
his mess kit out of his old Kale Gen pack, Trallik began searching around for
dry sticks.  After a while he had a nice, cozy fire going that lit up the
thicket nicely.  With a pinch of seasoning from a small pouch he’d carried with
him in his backpack, soon the savory aroma of pork cooking in a tin filled the
thicket.

“Trallik,”
Trikki began tentatively as she sat on a pillow of leaves next to him, “if our
baby is a girl, will you love her just the same?”

Trallik
hadn’t really put much thought into the whole baby thing since she’d mentioned
it, preferring to focus himself on keeping watch for the various nasty things
that wandered around the valley from time to time.  But even with that, he had
learned enough how to hurt her.

“Of
course.  Maybe even more,” he lied.  If he was going to have whelps running
around, he wanted to start with a son… or two or three.  Perhaps he could teach
them how to be adults.  He certainly felt he’d learned enough from his father…
of the wrong way to do it, that is… so it shouldn’t be hard to teach his own
whelps what the right way was.  He wasn’t looking forward to seeing his father
again.  He hadn’t looked up to his father for years, and he didn’t really want to
hear the torrent of mediocre advice his father would have for him.

Trikki
sat silently beside him, lost in her own thoughts.

Just
then Trallik felt something he’d never felt before.  All of a sudden he felt
that, just maybe, he couldn’t go throwing blame at his own father or pick
incessantly at his own father’s weaknesses like he had for the past couple of
years before leaving the gen.  Perhaps it came from the fact that he was going
to be a father, then again perhaps it was this past week or so out on his own. 
He didn’t know.  The feeling didn’t stick for long, however, and Trallik could
feel himself slipping back into his old, negative mindset as he thought more
and more about going home.

Next
to him, Trikki could see his face darken in the light of the fire.

“What
is it, Trallik?  What are you thinking about?” she asked.

Trallik’s
brows rose.  “Huh?  Oh, nothing.  Just thinking about my family, my father
especially.”

“Tell
me about them, will you?” she asked with genuine interest.

Trallik
paused for more than a moment.  Did he really want to talk about his family?

“Well,
there’s not much to tell, really.  My father is a fungus farmer in the Deep
Guard Warrior Group in our gen.  He’s a know-it-all who’s always giving advice,
especially when it’s not wanted.”  Trallik knew it was a harsh and unfair thing
to say, even as he said it.

“That’s
not a very nice thing to say!” Trikki called him on it.

Trallik
looked down at his feet.  “Yeah, I know.”

“You
shouldn’t say things like that about your family,” she pressed.

“I
know.  It’s just that… well…” he stumbled over the words.

“Trallik,
in the end all we have is family,” Trikki said, which sounded strange to
Trallik, considering the only family she’d ever mentioned was her mother.

“Yeah,
I guess you’re right,” he said, looking down and throwing bits of dried leaf
into the fire.  They sat that way for a while, until Trallik felt to speak
again.  “I guess it’s just that… well, it takes a while to figure out that your
parents don’t know everything.  I guess it’s just taken me a while to figure
out that I don’t know everything either.”

“It’s
alright, love,” Trikki caressed his arm with her hand.  “You’ll make a good
father.  Just you wait and see.”

Trallik
nodded.  After a while, he stood and strapped on his belt with his two long
knives on it.  “I better go out and have a look around.”

“Oh,
don’t leave me alone!”

“I
won’t go far, Trikki,” he reassured her.  “I just need to have a look around to
make sure we’re safe here.”  With that he turned to go, squeezing out through
the hole the deer had made in the thicket.  After letting his eyes adjust for
several moments, he walked a short distance through the trees until he could no
longer see the light of their fire.  Having counted his paces, he knew that the
light from their fire carried a good fifty paces.  The heat from it, however,
would show much further with the heat vision of his race, but he wasn’t
worrying about what kobolds could see, since the only kobolds in the southern
valley were likely to be friendly to him.

As
he walked a wide perimeter around the thicket, he came upon a small clearing. 
Skirting the far edge of it, he got a glimpse of the mountains that ringed the
northern edge of the valley.  Stopping suddenly, he peered up toward where the
Chop had to be.  There, climbing the Chop, was a small group of what appeared
to be kobolds with packdogs.  He wondered about that.  Perhaps the southern
gens had been alerted to the presence of the orc horde?  Perhaps it was just a
caravan making a run over the mountain?  But then who were the kobolds up at
the top of the Chop watching them?  Perhaps it was his old party, Durik’s
Company?  He doubted that too, as there only seemed to be six of them.  With
the way the lead kobold seemed to be pulling the rest of them along, he
wouldn’t doubt if that was Gorgon.

Deep
in his heart, Trallik longed to be with his companions yet again.  And yet,
even as he yearned, he thought about all that he had gained since he had left
them.  If he had still been with them, would he have found Trikki?  If he had
still been with them, would he have been able to go back to his home?  Perhaps
it was for the best that he had been cast out of Durik’s Company.  Though the
emotion of it would take some time to pass, Trallik decided that, ultimately, it
probably was for the best.

The
next morning, not long before the light of dawn took away his heat vision, as
Trallik made another sweep of the area he watched the rest of Durik’s Company
make its way up the final switchback of the Chop.  Though the light was just
beginning to appear over the eastern mountains, Trallik could see them clearly
enough in the pre-dawn darkness.  Packdogs, riding wolves, what had to be
crossed shoulder belts over their chests, and the shields that they’d all been
issued that night not long ago in the council chamber of the Kale Gen. 

He
was sure it was his old companions.

D
urik sat cross-legged holding the
Kale Stone for some time as the rest of his party searched the shaman’s
quarters and filtered through the treasure trove, claiming the most valuable
and portable pieces for the Kale Gen.  Manebrow didn’t have that fine of an eye
for such things, so Kiria helped him divine which pieces were the most
valuable.  The alchemical training she had received from her mother so many
years ago came back readily enough.  Soon she had bit enough coins, scratched
enough pieces of cut glass, and seen enough corrosion to have filtered out the
worthless baubles and identified the valuable pieces, enough to fill one sack
for each of the seven of them to tie onto their backpacks.

During
the entire process, Durik sat still with his eyes open staring off someplace
unseen by the rest of his party.  The only indication that he was alive was the
occasional flinch or narrowing of his eyes, as though he were focusing on some
unseen object or vista.

The
rest of the scouting party had left him alone, seeing the strain that the
mysterious power had wrought upon him as it left.  There had been many looks of
amazement and wonder from the rest of the party; amazement that, as Kiria had
revealed, their leader had been chosen as some sort of paladin or receptacle of
the power of a god-like being, known only by the name of Morgra, and wonder at
the power that had been manifested. 

At
first they had fallen on their knees in front of him, as if to worship him, but
Durik had quickly raised them to their feet, telling them that ‘The Sorcerer
said that the Creator is the only one we’re to revere.’  But the power that had
manifested itself through Durik had filled their hearts, burning any baser
feelings from those who witnessed it, and had uplifted them like nothing before
had.

Ardan,
Keryak, and Jerrig had all seen it with their own eyes, and yet as the power
passed it seemed almost as if it had never been there.  Keryak, in awe at what
was happening to this kobold who just days before had been nothing more than
his childhood friend, spent much time looking at his friend stare off into
space.

From
the room that served as a treasure chamber Kiria’s voice broke through Keryak’s
consciousness.  She spoke words of some tongue that was unknown to Keryak, but
the power of the speech felt strangely comfortable as it rose in force and
heightened in intensity.  As Keryak approached the door, Kiria released the
charm on her necklace and splayed her hand out in a commanding gesture in a
circle around the room, turning herself about in the process.  In a matter of
moments a number of items throughout the room began to glow, most of them
faintly, though the spear that Keryak had found and now held in his hand, a
book they’d found on the shaman, and a set of gem stones glowed much brighter
than the rest.

“What
is this spell she’s cast?” Keryak asked Ardan who stood in the doorway,
astonished at his glowing spear, but more astonished by the fact that the glow
carried no heat nor caused him any pain.

“Kiria
noticed several runes inscribed on some of the items here.  Some are runes of
preservation, others are runes of efficacy or strengthening, and still others
that she doesn’t recognize.” Ardan said, then, noticing that Keryak’s spear was
glowing, his brows raised.  “You should take that over to Kiria.  Have her
divine its strengths and purposes as well.”

Manebrow
stood to one side of Kiria, who was quickly looking over the many items that
glowed with a lesser light.

“These
that glow less brightly have no greater magic than that which the runes
inscribed upon them say,” Kiria was saying.  “That is, they contain runes of
preservation and strengthening.  Though their magic has preserved them from
corrosion over these thousand years or so since the dwarves fashioned them, and
kept them from breaking or otherwise being ruined despite the much use they may
have seen, they contain no greater magic nor any hidden functions other than
that which is obvious by the item they are.”

“Well,
these runes of proof against corrosion and breaking are much in and of
themselves!” Manebrow replied.  “Though it doesn’t matter to me on the jewelry
and other fancy items, these swords, bows, and other weapons… and maybe even
those pieces of armor that have these runes of preservation and strengthening
on them will certainly prove useful, though almost all of these were clearly
made for bigger folk than kobolds.”

Keryak
could barely contain his enthusiasm as he stepped forward.  “And what of this
spear I found?” he asked.

Kiria
turned and began to examine it, reading the runes that were inscribed along its
length as well as on its head.  Then, grasping the spear in both hands, Keryak
could see that she was struggling to understand the power of the weapon.

“It
has a greater power,” Kiria began.  “It has… a name!” she was genuinely
surprised.  “It is called ‘The Guardian’, and it follows the will of whomever
wields it.  Though it is not intelligent, per se, the magic weaved into it
gives it some motion of its own.  Here, move back.”

Casting
the spear into the air, she spoke a command word, something dwarfish sounding. 
Before the spear could clatter to the ground, it stopped, poised in the air. 
Pointing to the corpse of one of the two orc warriors who lay stretched out in
the next room, Kiria spoke another command word.  Like a bolt of lightning the
spear flew straight and true into the side of the orc warrior, impaling the
still form of the dead orc.  Then, as effortlessly as its strike, it flew back
to Kiria to hover in the air in front of her as if standing guard over her.

Keryak
stood in wonder, but soon was playing with the metal spear, tentatively at
first and then vigorously, causing it to dance and spin about as he willed it.

It
was not long, however, before Manebrow gathered him and Ardan to give them a
task.  Having found a secret staircase behind a door that was hidden behind a
tapestry in the far room, Manebrow sent Ardan and Keryak back up to scout
around, carrying sacks of jewelry and orders for the rest of the company,
except the prisoners and a couple of guards, to come up and occupy the entrance
cavern, in case the scouting party was discovered. 

The
staircase ended in what seemed to be a blank wall, but after searching around
for some time Keryak found a loose stone that, when pulled, caused the wall in
front of them to slide noiselessly open, revealing the common chamber beyond
with its two wells.

“Wow,
that’s pretty clever,” he remarked.

“Dwarven
engineering, my friend,” Ardan replied, their voices low in the darkness of the
orc’s hideout.

Keryak
nodded and, following Ardan’s hand gesture, moved out stealthily back the way
they had originally come.  A passage later they were staring around a corner at
what had been a raucous party.  It still appeared to be, but only orc voices
could be heard now, though none were visible at the portion of the table the
pair could see.  It seemed that the orc brew was a bit much for the kobold mercenaries
and the female kobold slaves they had been carousing with.  Every one of them
that was visible lay sprawled out on the floor or slumped over the table in the
light of the lone candle.

Moving
quickly past the feasting hall, the pair moved up the passages and stairs, out
into the entrance cavern, and up the passage to where the rest of the company
was hidden in the outer defenses, watching in careful vigilance.

News
of their success and the bags of precious items they had claimed in the name of
the Kale Gen piqued everyone’s curiosity.  Even Morigar, who had been sulking
in the back, came forward and stared with equal wonder at the glittering
jewelry in the open bag Keryak was holding, though it wasn’t long before greed
began to replace the look of wonder in his eyes.  In a token of good will,
Ardan passed his bag of coins to Morigar’s second, Krebbekar.

“For
our brothers, the Krall Gen,” he said as he grasped hands with the older
warrior.

Turning
to the rest of the company, Ardan cleared his voice, but kept it low.  “We’ve
found the Kale Stone, and it has truly shed its power upon our leader Durik. 
Even now he sits communing with the stone in the bowels of the outpost.”

There
were murmurs of approval and joy from the Kale Gen contingent.

“Manebrow
commands that we move our company up to occupy the cavern at the entrance of
the outpost.”

Within
moments the entire company was ready to go.  Tohr and Kahn were chosen to stay
behind and watch the six kobold mercenary prisoners.  The look of greed in Morigar’s
eyes was explanation enough for why he and his team followed the lead of the
Kale Gen warriors as they moved toward the entrance cavern.

Durik’s
eyes began to refocus as the sound of urgency in Keryak’s voice penetrated into
his consciousness.  Standing in front of him, Manebrow was gently shaking
Durik’s leg.

“Sire,
there’s a problem.  We need to get moving,” he was saying.

Shaking
his head and blinking, Durik slowly stood up and stretched.  The rest of his
scouting party was already on their feet and moving past him to where a
tapestry had been pulled aside to reveal a door.

“Certainly,
second.  What’s the problem?”

Manebrow
grimaced.  “I made a mistake.  I send Ardan and Keryak up to the rest of the
company with news of the treasure, and to gather them to the entrance cavern.”

Durik
looked at Manebrow without understanding, though the quiet solace of communing
with the Kale Stone was beginning to wear off, and his mind was refocused on
command.

“Well,”
Manebrow continued, “It seems that Morigar got it into his head to take on the
orcs directly.  Seems to want to claim the outpost… and all its contents… for
the Krall Gen.”

Durik
shook his head as the peaceful look on his face changed to one of
determination.

“I’ve
already given the order to gather the company, sire.  The orcs seem to be all
located in the feasting hall we passed.”

Durik
nodded.  Placing the Kale Stone carefully in a belt pouch, he drew his sword
again, though this time the light of the candles the party had lit to sort the
treasure was all that reflected in its surface. 

Soon
the entire party was gathered into the common chamber where they could hear the
sounds of some battle down the corridor from them.  Seeing the reluctance to go
to the aid of Morigar in the eyes of the several kobolds gathered about him,
Durik spoke quickly and firmly. 

“Morigar’s
move is motivated by greed.  He doesn’t see the danger in approaching these
orcs before they’ve drunk themselves to unconsciousness.  He only sees the
gold.  Either way, however, he is our ally, and we should do what we can to
keep his foolish choices from bringing him irreparable harm.”  He paused a
moment.  “Besides, this outpost is ours.  We can’t let him try to take it as
his own with this petty action.”

With
that, Durik jogged down the hall, followed by the rest of the party.  As they
turned the corner they could see Krebbekar holding up his sword, desperately
trying to withstand the blows of a massive orc’s cleaver while shielding
Morigar, who had fallen to the ground.  Gormanor and Lemmekor, the two Krall
Gen scouts, were both locked in battle with orcs of their own.  Standing
outside the hall, Ardan, Troka, and Arbelk were waiting anxiously for the rest
of the company to arrive.  As Durik swept past them, they fell in line with the
rest of the company.

Durik
arrived at the room just as another orc had gotten up from his drunken stupor
and had stumbled over to where Morigar lay, raising his scimitar to cut the
foolish leader in half, completely oblivious of the Kale Gen warriors rushing
up behind him.

The
tide of Kale Gen warriors broke over the orcs like water through wobbly pillars
of wood, sweeping through them with swords, spears, and hammer administering
death with deadly accuracy.  One by one the towering orcs fell in ungainly heaps,
their dark blood spilling throughout the large drinking chamber.

Facing
the last of the orcs, one whose drink-sodden eyes had only begun to clear as he
stumbled from the large stone throne that sat on a filthy dais at one end of
the chamber, with all the strength the magical Bracers of Kale gave him Durik
plunged his sword up into the orc’s stomach.  With a grunt, the large beast
fell over, alternately vomiting and whimpering.  Taking pity on the creature,
Durik slit its throat then turned around to survey the scene.

Krebbekar
was cradling Morigar’s head in his lap, trying to rouse his unconscious
leader.  Troka’s left thigh had been laid open between his new shin guards and
the skirts of his scale mail shirt by an orc’s wild swing.  He sat grimacing with
pain as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.  Both Gormanor and Lemmekor had
deep cuts.  Gormanor’s right arm hung useless, the muscle between his neck and
shoulder having been all but severed.  Lemmekor had faired better, receiving a
deep slash across one arm.  For those that were in it, the armor had spared the
company several wounds, and for that they were grateful.