The Game of Fates (56 page)

“Why
we no go away?  We gots much monies.” Nipnip asked, not even trying to keep
from whining.

Morigar
didn’t hear him.  The struggle going on inside him was greater than almost
anything he’d been able to summon the courage to undergo before.  For once in
his life Morigar was trying to resist his natural impulses and carry through
with his plan instead of running.

“Almost
there,” Morigar muttered to no one in particular as he walked through the
entryway and into the inner courtyard of the place.  In front of him lay the
chasm that cut the floor of the inner area of the hollow mountain in half.  On
the far side of the chasm the gleaming granite towers and military structures
of the hall’s external defenses glowed in the light of the midday sun.  Muttering to himself about becoming lord of his gen, all in an attempt to build the
courage necessary to keep going forward, Morigar’s eyes fixed on the yawning
opening to the gatehouse that sat squarely in the middle of the castle-like
construction and the logs which someone at some time in the recent past had
lashed together into a makeshift bridge across the chasm.

“I
think that’s where we’re going to have to go to find the dragon,” Morigar said,
not noticing that Nipnip had not accompanied him past the entryway.  When
Nipnip didn’t answer, Morigar looked back and saw that he was all alone. 
Suddenly, a feeling of deep fear began to settle on his heart at the same time
that he heard the distinct sound of huge, leathery wings being unfolded. 

Looking
ahead to the Hall of the Mountain King, Morigar saw a great beast covered with
burnt red scales standing on a balcony on the west side of the hall.  Its mouth
opened and closed as if it were taking in the air around it, revealing long,
yellow, dagger-like teeth.  As it stretched its wings and legs, it gripped the
edge of the balcony with curved, cat-like claws, each of which was the size of
a sword.

Having
finished stretching, the great yellow-eyed beast jumped off the balcony,
catching itself with its wings and flapping the mighty limbs to gain altitude
as it turned to the south and cleared the lip of the outer edge of the hollow
mountain.

Morigar
didn’t wait for the dragon to get that far, however.  One look at its fearsome
arsenal, and Morigar turned tail and ran back up the entryway.  Stopping at the
top of the broad passageway, Morigar was surprised to see the entire group of
mercenaries and slaves running for all they were worth back down the road and
away from the Hall of the Mountain King.  Nipnip was out in front of them all. 
The bags of treasure that the slaves had carried from the dwarven outpost lay
in piles next to the weapons of the mercenaries and whatever else they could
drop to speed their retreat.  Minotaur the packdog and his own riding dog had
both disappeared as well.

Morigar’s
mind was reeling.  Should he run as well?  Should he hide where he was?  Surely
the dragon would find him either way. 

The
slaves began screaming as the dragon appeared over the lip of the hollow
mountain.  With a gleam in its eye, the massive beast swooped down and snapped
up the fattest, and slowest, of the kobold slaves, chomping down hard on him
then swallowing the body whole as it flew around for another pass.

Morigar
melted with panic at the sight of blood raining down from the sky as the dragon
feasted.  Staggering back against the wall of the entryway, he watched in utter
horror as the mighty beast swooped down again, this time snatching up two of
the mercenaries with gleaming claws, only to land on the edge of the hollow
mountain and go about the process of dismembering them for better eating.

Morigar
had never felt so much fear in his life.  At this point, he could do nothing
more than sit, huddled up in the corner of the entryway and await what he
thought was his own certain doom.  He had lost his dreams for the future, had
lost control of his bowels, and was about to lose his life.  As such, he did
the only thing he could do… he curled up in the fetal position, closed his
eyes, covered his ears, and waited for the end to come.

Krebbekar
had seen the dragon, had watched it hunting near its lair, and returning with
what he imagined to be Morigar’s party members to the Hall of the Mountain
King.  The beast had spent the better part of the afternoon searching the surrounding
countryside, and though his eyes weren’t that good, Krebbekar counted
twenty-two different times the dragon had grabbed something and taken off again
back toward its lair.

As
for himself, Krebbekar had done the only thing he could think to do; he’d spent
the afternoon hiding behind Birdstone, resting his foot, caring for his mount,
and hoping that Morigar had somehow survived.  That Morigar was an absolute
idiot, and incorrigible as well, was indisputable.  However, for all his
rebelliousness, Krebbekar had spent the best years of his life protecting the
lord and his family from conspirators and orcs, or in Morigar’s case, from
himself.  After so many years spent protecting his lord’s youngest son, he’d
grown strangely attached to the fool. 

Now,
as evening fell, Krebbekar mounted up and urged his sore-footed dog forward
with a soft nudge and a click of the tongue.  Though it was still some miles
away, the path that ran east to the Hall of the Mountain King broke off of the
main north-south road not far north of Birdstone; the Winding Way the Kobold
Gen called it.  The paths diverged just south of a hill called Outpost Hill,
which in times now hundreds of years past had served as the home of the Kobold
Gen’s permanent garrison in the northern valley, back before the degenerate
gens had broken off from them.  Even now the ruins of low stone buildings and
the thick earth and stone wall that the Kobold Gen had constructed on the top
of the hill gleamed red in the twilight.

The
history of the valleys was long and rich, and Krebbekar had studied much of it
in the quiet hours when he stood guard with the warriors of his house guard
contingent, but now that he found himself north of the Chop, in the heart of
what had once been the Kobold Gen’s seat of power, he felt nothing but sadness
for how far they had fallen as he rode past these vestiges of their former
glory.

As
his mind pondered on the sadness of the northern gen’s fallen standing,
Krebbekar thought of the crushing blows that were preparing to land on his
people; the orc horde and the ant threat.  He shook his head and hoped that the
Fates would smile kindly upon the gens of the southern valley in these next few
decisive days, lest all they had accomplished in the past several generations
fall into ruin and forgetfulness as well.

Arren
watched curiously as the lone dog rider approached the entrance to the Hall of
the Mountain King.  He had come down from the cave entrance that had been his
vantage point this past couple of days, but knowing kobolds have the same heat
vision as dragons, he had decided to wait until this lone rider arrived to see
if, perhaps, he might convince the approaching kobold to be his eyes in the
utter darkness of the passageways under the hall.

As
the rider reined in, not a javelin’s throw in front of him, Arren raised his
hand in a greeting, and to show that he had no weapon at hand.  The kobold
looked at him curiously.

“Hail,
friend,” he spoke in Sorcerer’s Tongue.

“And
to you as well.  Who… and what might you be, tall one?” Krebbekar replied.

“I
am Arren e-Arnor, of the elvish nations far to the north of here.  My journeys
bring me to this hall, and my quest will soon take me inside it.”

Krebbekar
shook his head as he dismounted gingerly, to give his mount a moment’s rest. 
“I’m sorry to hear that, Arren, though you are clearly an accomplished warrior
by your gear, or at least well funded.  Perhaps you know more of hunting
dragons than I.”

Arren
smiled.  “Yes, I have hunted dragons in the past, though by the look on your
face I suspect you did not come here to hunt dragon.”

Krebbekar
nodded.  “Aye, that much is true.  I’ve come to hunt down a particularly
foolish whelp.  Even though I’m rather certain he’s been devoured, I owe it to
his father to discover what I can about his fate.”

Arren
raised an eyebrow.  “A rather foolish whelp, you say?  Would he have been
dressed in leather armor, with a rather well crafted sword and bow, riding a
dog much the same as yours?”

It
was Krebbekar’s turn to be surprised.  “Yes, that would be the fool I’m
searching for.  You’ve seen him then?  What of his whereabouts?  Did you see
his fate?”

Arren
nodded.  “Yes, I did.”  He pointed with one hand toward the entrance to the
mountain.  “He lay curled up there for some time as the dragon flew out and back,
gathering the rest of his party.  I can only assume that at some point he got
up the nerve to move, as about half-way into the dragon’s foray he disappeared
into the mountain.”

Krebbekar
stood still for a moment, considering what the news the… elf had given him
meant.  “He went into the mountain, then, did he?” he asked flatly.

“Yes.”

Krebbekar
thought for a moment, looked over at the entrance to the mountain, then thought
for a moment more.  Finally he sighed.  “I don’t suppose you’d be wanting
company on your quest into the Hall of the Mountain King, then, would you?”

Arren
smiled at the much shorter warrior.  “Gladly, my little friend.”

Mananthiél
flexed his wings, popping that particularly irritable joint in his right wing
that had been bothering him yet again.  It had been a long day of flying, and
his recent long bout of inactivity was starting to tell.  He’d lost a good
amount of his endurance in the long winter months he’d spent hibernating.  But,
looking down his great length, he could see that he’d made the right choice by
deciding to hibernate… nothing like sleeping off those few extra tons he’d been
carrying.  It certainly beat working it off any day… and Marsa had certainly
liked the new look as well. 

The
young red dragon smiled in spite of himself.  Yes, that old witch did like it…
almost as much as she liked her hoard.  Well, not really.  He had to start
being more honest with himself.  He knew her desires for him were a far second
to the old lady’s lust for the gleam of gold and the glitter of gemstones.  He
knew she’d be more impressed with the treasure the kobolds had been carrying
than with his svelte appearance.  He didn’t take it personally, however.  He
never did.  That was Marsa, and really that was him as well, for was he not with
her for one thing, and one thing only?  He pondered on his relationship to the
ancient wyrm as he looked about the huge dwarven chamber that held her gleaming
hoard, all of it meticulously arranged and categorized. 

He
shook his head.  Yes, Marsa was something else… something of a fanatic about
her neatness and absolutely compulsive about arranging things just so, but if
putting up with her for a few decades or so left him in possession of what had
to be the most renowned hoard among their entire covey, then it would be well
worth it... in the end that is.  And if that end came sooner… well, that’s just
how things were sometimes.