The Game of Fates (55 page)

Khazak
had seen more than enough blood today, and he had no desire to see more.

Lord
Karthan looked at the miserable wretch who had fallen to the floor before him
with his head bowed.  His decision stood on a razor’s edge, ready to fall
either way.

Finally,
he decided to accept Khazak’s reasoning.

“So
be it.  I pardon you, Trallik.  Not by your own merits, but for the sake of my
trusted chamberlain, I pardon you.  Khazak,” he said, turning to his chamberlain. 
“Since you seem fond of him, he’s your charge now, though I don’t think he
deserves that rank he’s got,” he said, indicating Trallik’s new elite warrior
status.  “Make him a warrior in your reconstituted Honor Guard Warrior Group. 
He owes you his life, let him pay it back through faithful service, and let him
eventually
earn
his elite warrior marking someday.”

Khazak
nodded and motioned for the guard to untie Trallik, and to send him out of the
council chamber.  In a couple of long moments, the bands were loosed and the
guard motioned for Trallik to depart.

A
much relieved Trallik left the council chamber free.  He was not only freed
from the charges against him, he was free from the fear and guilt that had spun
his world out of control since he had signed that sheepskin.  He felt free from
the overflowing ambition that had driven him to sign it in the first place.  He
was free from the stain of being exiled for his almost-actions. He was free. 

Yes,
he was free.

When
he emerged without bonds, Trikki ran to him, wrapping her arms around him with
all the strength she had left in her, her tears streaming down his chest.  The
relief in her sobs of joy as he told her that he had been pardoned was more
than he could bear, and the two of them stood holding each other and crying
together for some time until there were no more tears to cry, until the tears
had washed away his past.

In
that moment, Trallik came to understand that he had been given a new life.

Kale
stood contemplating the scene, picking through the possessions of the broken
bodies that lay there at the bottom of Sheerface, trying to figure out who
these kobolds were who had obviously died not long before.

The
rich clothes and masterfully crafted weapons showed them to be kobolds of some
importance.

It
wasn’t long before he came to the body of the Untouchable that Khee-lar had
used as a decoy, and the bronze crown that still sat about his horns, though it
had been steeped in blood.

Perhaps
this is the old lord of the gen.  Perhaps this is who I am to replace
, he thought with tenderness as
he looked on the still features of the dead Untouchable.  Bending down, he
pulled the crown from the corpse’s head.  It didn’t feel right to put it on his
head, so he held it in his hand instead.

“Hello,
what are you doing here, outcast?” a voice came from above Kale.

Kale
looked up, startled by the pair of warriors who were not thirty steps above
him, coming down on a wooden platform.

“Well,
hello to you too, warriors of the Kale Gen,” Kale replied to them.

“I
hope you’re not planning on keeping that crown,” one of the warriors finally
said as they got close enough to where they could jump off and run after Kale
if he decided to flee.

“Why? 
Whose is it, and how did it end up down here?  And who are these dead ones?”
Kale asked.

The
two warriors hopped off the platform and drew swords.  “Just put the crown down
and stand back.”

Kale
did as he was told.

The
two warriors sheathed their swords once they had the crown in hand.  They then
went about gathering the rope from the shattered platforms that lay beneath the
bodies.  After collecting up the weapons, they stopped and wiped sweat from
their brows.

“My
fellow Kales,” Kale began, “Who is in charge of the Kale Gen now, and who are
these people?”

“Lord
Karthan is back in charge of the Kale Gen,” one of the warriors said.  “These
usurpers,” he said pointing at the twisted forms, “tried to take it from him. 
Their master succeeded too, but not for long.  Now that Lord Karthan is back in
charge, he’ll set things right in our gen again, so tell your outcast friends
that Lord Karthan’s rule is restored, and to not be expecting anything from
him.  He never was a friend to you outcast types.”

Kale
pursed his lips, his tail swung slowly behind him as he folded his arms.  “My
fellow Kales, I must tell you that there are events in motion which are beyond
you.  I have a message for Lord Karthan.  Tell him that the Kale Stone is about
to return, and the outcasts with it.  Tell him I will meet him here, at
Sheerface.”

The
two Kale Gen warriors looked at each other in surprise and curiosity.  One of
them was quicker than the other.

“Why
don’t you give us the stone, and we’ll take it to our lord?”

Kale
smiled and shook his head.  “You know I will not agree to that.  Now go and fetch
your lord.  Tell him Kale of the outcasts wishes to speak with him, in the name
of the Kale Stone.”

Preparations
were going slowly, too slowly for Mirrik’s liking.  He knew only too well the
paladin’s prophecy; that the ants would be on them before the next dawn.  Their
markers of time had read the flow of the stream and told him and the other five
warrior leaders of the former Deep Gen that day had ended, and therefore that
dawn was not more than three watches away.  He knew it would likely take far
longer than that to get everyone to Sheerface.

Three
watches, three torches’ burning.  Mirrik stood and walked out of his empty
house into the light of the common chamber’s ever-burning globe.  There was no
more time, they must move now.

Outside
all was chaos as kobolds ran about packing as quickly as they could, their
packgoats bleating and milling about after them, some already saddled, some
with saddles already loaded.  Mirrik had commanded his warrior group to gather
in the common area as soon as they were ready.  He’d wanted to wait until half
of his number were ready before sending them ahead, but even now there were no
more than sixty warriors present, with their families and the few packgoats the
wealthier members of his warrior group owned.  Not quite half, but it would
have to do. 

As
Mirrik stood assessing the situation, a messenger that Mirrik recognized as one
of Hemmet’s younger warriors emerged from the passage that would lead them to
the Cross Way.  Spotting Mirrik, he moved quickly through the crowd toward him.

His
warrior group was fortunate, whereas the rest of the warrior groups had to come
from much further down in the underdark, his was the closest to the surface. 
His charge had always been to keep prying eyes out of their gen, something he
had done with merciless efficiency.  But now all that was changing, and the
strain of great change was on everyone’s faces, including that of the messenger
as he approached Mirrik.

“Sire,”
the messenger bowed in front of him, “Hemmet sent me to tell you that the
paladin from the Kale Gen has gone on ahead to parley with the leadership of
the Kale Gen, and that the paladin told him that he will send help for our
people to scale Sheerface.  Furthermore, the paladin has left behind the large
one with the hammer and his team to help in the preparations.  Even now they
are with Hemmet in his caves.”

Mirrik
nodded.  “Very well, then.  And what of the other warrior leaders?  How go
their preparations?”

The
messenger shook his head.  “Sire, none of the other warrior groups are
preparing to depart, save that of Hemmet.” 

Mirrik
looked at the messenger doubtfully.  “None of the other warrior groups save
Hemmet’s?”

The
messenger nodded his head.  “Yes, sire.  As soon as the paladin left, I saw
Sennak dispatching several of his father’s most loyal guards to all the warrior
groups.  Apparently they had carried a message from Lord Sennak the Just, who
still lives, ordering them to not depart.”

“You’re
telling me they all turned away from the prophecy?”

The
messenger nodded.  “Yes, sire.  They continue to follow the commands of Lord
Sennak the Just.”

Mirrik
thought for a moment.  The certainty of the paladin’s prophecy had driven him
this far, and he wondered at how Sennak and the other three warrior leaders
could ignore it and continue to follow their old lord.  Despite the paladin’s
pronouncement that the Deep Gen was disbanded, the reality was that these were
still Mirrik’s people, and the bitter realization that two thirds of his gen
would die with Lord Sennak the Just was more than Mirrik could bear.

“Messenger.”

“Yes,
sire?”

“How
fares Hemmet?  Has he begun his journey yet?”

The
messenger shook his head.  “No, sire.  He has sent half of his warrior group
ahead as agreed upon.  Already they ascend the great staircase and should reach
the Cross Way shortly.  Hemmet, however sire, has stayed behind to lead the
rest of his warrior group.”

“Then
I will go to him.  Perhaps the two of us can talk some sense into Lord Sennak’s
son and the rest of the warrior group leaders,” Mirrik said.  “The first watch
of the night is already upon us and we’ve quite a journey to make if we’re
going to escape the oncoming ant horde.”

The
messenger nodded, turned, and left back the way he had come.

Walking
to the pool in the center of the cavern, Mirrik walked out onto the bridge that
spanned their source of fresh water.  As he raised his arms, the assembled
warriors and their families quieted.

“My
brethren,” he called out to his warriors who were ready, each of which had
their lifemates and whelps with them, with a scattering of packgoats among
them.  “We cannot delay any longer.  I had hoped to have a full count of eighty
to send ahead, but I must send now what I have.  Shoulder your burdens, and
follow my second to Sheerface.”

As
one the group of refugees reached down and began piling burdens on themselves
and each other.  In several moments they had gathered their burdens, Mirrik’s
lifemate and seven whelps among them. 

“Take
good care of my family, will you?” Mirrik grabbed his second’s shoulder and
looked pleadingly into his eyes.

“Of
course, sire,” he answered.  “I heard you talking to that messenger, sire.  Do
not delay for long.  If Sennak and the others won’t come, you leave them,
sire.  Your place is with your warrior group.  They need you, you know.  You’re
the one that saw the miracles, after all.  They’ll follow me out of course, but
they look to you like a father.”

Mirrik
bowed his head and nodded, the emotion of the moment silencing him.

“Soon,
then, sire.  We will await your orders at Sheerface.” 

With
a few short, barked orders, Mirrik’s second prodded the group into action. 
Mirrik hugged each of his whelps as they tried to look brave for their father. 
Last of all he held his lifemate close, the emotion of the moment being expressed
in the intensity of their embrace.  As he let her go and she turned to leave,
he looked over these kobolds he had known all his life.  With his second
leading them, they began to stream out of the chamber and into the hallway that
would lead them, eventually, to the Cross Way, and from there to the area of
the upper underdark where Sheerface and their cousins in the Kale Gen would be
found.

A
rren e-Arnor, prince of his elven
nation and veteran mystic warrior, was not one to make rash moves, especially
where dragons were involved.  For days now he had carefully watched the small,
hollow mountain wherein lay the Hall of the Mountain King… and the pair of red
dragons that had claimed it as their lair. 

To
be fair, the larger of the big reds had departed a couple of weeks before. 
Arren had seen the ancient wyrm, and felt her, flying north as he had been
traveling south on this quest, along the spine of the Great Western Mountains. 
Though only the smaller of the two reds, a male, was at home, Arren kept a
constant watch out for the much more dangerous female.  After all, the older a
dragon was, the greater its ability to wield the power of Dharma Kor for its
own benefit, something he was sure the ancient red female had spent much time
mastering.  He’d hate to find out by surprise that she had been scrying on her
home.  As it was, he had been focusing his own connection to the power of
Dharma Kor to eliminate the disturbances he made to the fabric of magic that
surrounded him, and to cause a shifting and a blurring that he hoped would be
enough to shield his presence from scrying eyes.

The
journey across the northern valley had been interesting enough, considering the
presence of the orc horde and a near-encounter with some ogre mercenaries as
they were foraging; chasing one of the large, flightless birds while throwing
javelins at it to be precise. 

Other
than almost getting a close-up look at the male dragon as it pounced on a
mountain goat near his cave low on the mountainside behind the place, Arren’s
watch on the Hall of the Mountain King had been boring, though fruitful.

The
first night on watch had brought the most interesting thing so far.  He’d seen
the orc horde, and he knew that chromatic dragons had very little respect for
such rabble, usually swooping in on the fringes of a horde like this to pick
out some choice meat from their animals or slaves (as dragons are no fan of orc
meat), knowing that the fear they emanated usually caused all but the most
foolhardy of ogres and orc warriors to turn and flee at their arrival. 
Contrary to this knowledge, however, it seemed that the now-lone male had
decided to not partake.  This was despite the presence of several ogres, whom
red dragons seemed to find tasty enough.

This
alone wasn’t that suspicious of a fact, but the very same night that Arren had
taken up his watch a small contingent of orc warriors accompanied by a small
group of hobgoblins, mercenaries obviously by their mixed gear and armor, had
arrived at the Hall of the Mountain King and entered the place as though they
were welcome guests of the dragon!  What was stranger was that they had left
the place intact, not running for their lives, not carrying any loot, and not
even slightly singed. 

Arren
thought on this one for a while.

It
didn’t take him long to conclude that they were somehow confederate with the
dragon.  But what could a red dragon possibly want from a group of orc warriors
and hobgoblin mercenaries?  Were they acting on behalf of the leader of the orc
horde, or were they acting on their own?  If the orc horde was confederate with
this red dragon, which it seemed to be since the dragon hadn’t raided it for
meat, what did that mean for the kobold gens in the southern valley?

Arren
shook his head.  Orcs never learned.  He’d slaughtered hundreds of them in his
lifetime.  He’d seen the pattern many times in his life; a disaffected human
sorcerer or hobgoblin princeling musters enough resources to go into the Great
Forest and raise an orc army, just to bring them against the elven homeland
(which of all the races’ homelands lay closest to the Great Forest) or to try
to use them as pawns to conquer their own homeland.  Senseless violence was all
orcs ever understood, but any aspiring tyrant who understood that could
certainly harness their one sole use—if his quest for power didn’t get him
killed first, that is.

Arren
had had several dealings with dragons over the years as well, most of which
were with the noble metallic dragons, though he’d had to fight a couple of
their evil, scheming chromatic cousins.  If there was one thing he’d learned
about chromatic dragons, like this red one, it was that they only cared about
two things: wealth and power, and usually their only use for power was to build
their wealth, usually measured in pounds of precious metal and carats of gems
in their personal stashes.

Why
would a dragon deal with these orcs and hobgoblins?  What was to be gained? 
While an orc horde was quite a powerful thing to have at one’s beck and call,
Arren doubted there was enough gold and other wealth to be found in the homes
of the southern gens to pique a dragon’s interest.

Could
it be for a more consistent or varied source of food?  Probably not.  What
could kobolds have that was so tasty to a fire-breathing beast whose taste buds
were hardy, not delicate?  Besides, dragons rarely seemed to think with their
stomachs anyway.

Could
it be… an idea came to Arren all of a sudden, and he nodded his head as he
realized what the young male dragon was doing, and why he was probably doing
it.

That
wily, treacherous beast!  Well, yes, that pretty much summed up any red dragon,
certainly including this one.  The old saying came back to him in a flash of
inspiration:  “A dragon is a monster ruled only by fear, and inspired only by
greed.”  The fact that that old saying had been taught to him by the sage of
the treasury in describing money-lenders made it ironic.

The
fact that the larger, female red dragon was out of the nest explained exactly
why the young male dragon would be seeking to conquer the kobold gens of this
southern valley.  It appeared that the young male had finally decided to rid
himself of his mate’s domination, though whether he had decided to move out and
use the kobolds to build a respectable hoard for himself, or to have the
kobolds somehow try to help him kill his mate and secure her hoard wasn’t clear
yet. 

Arren
thought for a moment more. 
He may even be thinking of hauling her hoard off
to a new lair while she’s gone.
 

No. 
He dismissed that idea out of hand.  After all, kobolds didn’t move that fast,
and a dragon whose hoard has been raided
will
hunt you down and kill
you.

As
Arren sat in the entrance to his cave chewing on a piece of dried venison and
contemplating the situation, the large group of kobolds who had been making
their way slowly along the ancient, winding road toward the Hall of the
Mountain King finally appeared around the base of the low, steep-sided, hollow
mountain where the ancient dwarven stronghold was located.

As
they gathered together in a jittery group just outside the carved entranceway
into the hollow mountain, Arren counted out of habit. 
Looks like about
twenty warriors, two leader-looking types, seven orc slaves, one goblin slave,
and forty-some kobold slaves.  Hmm… not enough to have delusions of taking on a
dragon, looks more like they’re loaded with treasure.  Looks like their
warriors are completely useless anyway.  Perhaps they’re part of the dragon’s
underhanded plan.

Krebbekar
was the type to give his all when necessary, and in fact about halfway down the
Chop he knew that he had.  In his younger years, Krebbekar had used and abused
his body, disregarding aching joints, burning muscles, and going days without
sleep to accomplish whatever he set his mind to.  Now, however, well past four
decades of age, his body decided to rebel.  Halfway down the Chop, as he was
urging his riding dog onward, something in Krebbekar’s right foot snapped.

Cursing
his bad luck, the Fates, and certainly Morigar for making him climb and descend
the Chop twice in one day and a night, Krebbekar went down hard and rolled head
over heels down the path to where it reversed course in yet another of the
endless switchbacks, stopping only because the boulder at the edge of the trail
was heavier than he was and more determined to stand its ground.

An
hour or two later, by the intensity of the light coming over the Chop from the
far side, Krebbekar slowly stirred.  His head ached, his body ached, and his
pride was hurt.  Somehow knowing that he’d only begun to find all the aches and
pains he had, Krebbekar lay still, not yet wanting to find them all.

After
a few moments of this, he rolled to one side to sit up.  As the side of his
foot touched the ground, the electric jolt of pain that shot up his leg caused
him to fall back, groaning.  Lying next to him, his riding dog whimpered and
nuzzled his neck.

“Aye,
girl.  I’ll be alright,” he spoke as he ruffled the fur behind her ears.

After
a few moments he rolled over, this time on his left side, and sat up, bringing
his foot up for inspection.  That something had broken was certain.  He’d heard
it, and now his right foot was swollen like a melon.  Reaching over to his
dog’s saddlebags, Krebbekar pulled bandages from one of the pouches and wrapped
them tightly around the broken member in an effort to reduce the swelling.

Groaning
with the exertion and pain of it all, Krebbekar lay back on his back, breathing
deeply.  Finally, after summoning up his will to overcome this latest
difficulty, Krebbekar dragged himself over to his dog, dropped his armor and
most of his supplies on the trail, then rolled into the saddle.

“Come
on, girl,” he urged, prodding her in the ribs with his one good foot until she
stood up and began to carry him toward the bottom of the Chop, on obviously
sore legs.  Looking over his shoulder down the long slop that was the Chop, and
then out into the valley where Morigar and his group were already well on their
way to the Hall of the Mountain King, Krebbekar could see that he would never
make it in time to stop Morigar.  He hoped that the young fool somehow managed
to escape what he saw as an almost certain doom.

Morigar
stood wide-eyed at the mouth of the entranceway in the side of the small,
hollow mountain wherein lay the Hall of the Mountain King.  Next to him Nipnip
was shaking noticeably.  Though the journey had been exhausting, behind the
pair of leaders the rest of their group stood, most of them nervously scanning
the sky, looking as if they were ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

Morigar
didn’t notice the nervousness that the others were feeling, however; his own
fear was too great.  The effects of dragonfear on the rest of his group had
been manageable up to this point.  Along the way Nipnip had had to beat a particularly
fearful, jibbering slave almost to death to get the rest of the slaves back in
line.  Now that they were here at the lair of the beasts, however, both Morigar
and Nipnip were feeling the effects of the dragonfear as severely as the rest
of their group.