The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  Getting to the top of what Mahtu and the northern gens called The Wall, the same steep-sloped mountain that the southern gens called The Chop, was a long and arduous process no matter how you took it. The wolf riders of the Kale Gen, no matter how strong the wolf, always had to dismount in order to make the ascent. The light-footed Border Guard of the Krall Gen, though they were known for their ability to scale trees quickly, were at no more of an advantage than any other. And despite the year of arduous training that Trallik had undergone, and the fact Mahtu had been living on this mountain and going up and down it for some time, both of the kobolds were breathless and sweating like pigs in the rays of the late morning sun as they sat on a large rock half way up the face of it.

  The early morning mist had already begun to burn off, though patches of it clung here and there and could be seen in small meadows between the dense stands of trees. As Trallik sat looking out over the expanse of the southern valley, he thought about how large and mysterious it had always been to him, and yet from his vantage point with it all laid out before his eyes, the valley looked so much smaller, almost understandable.

  Far to their right, in the western portion of the valley, though he couldn’t see the entrance to the Kale Gen’s home caves, Trallik could see a white patch where their limestone quarry lay bare to the sun. Tracing with his eyes the main path that the Kale Gen’s warriors used, Trallik could see ever so faintly in the distance the top of a tower that marked the Kale Gen’s picket line.

  As he traced the main caravan route between the two gens with his eyes, he could see ever so clearly the low hills that were the great ants’ homes. Feeling the scar on the back of his neck, Trallik quickly averted his eyes. The memories of the horrific things that had happened to him there were too fresh in his memory.

  Not far to their front, perhaps only a few short miles, the tall trees of the Krall Gen stood so short from Trallik’s vantage point. Their majesty had been much greater when he’d been among them, rather than above them. Even from this vantage point, however, the trees were impressive.

  As Trallik thought about Durik’s Company… his former friends now, there among the trees of the Krall Gen, his heart longed to be with them. Though he’d never enjoyed the morning drills and the constant discipline, his heart longed for it now as the rising of the morning sun marked the time when they were most likely completing their drills and exercises. He had to admit that, though he’d never enjoyed it, the training that Manebrow had forced him to endure had done much for him. Though he’d thought he had great skills when he started the year of training, his skills and his abilities had increased tremendously during that year. In his heart Trallik felt much gratitude for his former trainer, the one who had shown him mercy.

  Though he’d always thought himself too good for them, now there was little Trallik wouldn’t do just to be with them again as before…

  “Mahtu!” Trallik huffed, relieved that the marker rock, as Mahtu called the rock that stood on one end of Demon’s Bridge, was finally within view. Their legs had been burning for the better part of the last half of the climb, with Trallik faring little better than his new companion.

  “Mahtu!” Trallik gasped again, looking down the path a handful of paces to where his dark-scaled companion was struggling up the mountain. “Marker Rock! We’re almost there!”

  Mahtu didn’t say anything, only nodding his head as he pushed on his knees with both hands, using his arms to strengthen failing leg muscles. As Mahtu reached the small ripple in the ground where Trallik stood, he threw his body to the ground for probably the twentieth time in the last half of the climb, panting heavily. Trallik sat down next to him, his breathing almost normal after waiting for his companion to catch up.

  “Where did you get such a fine spear?” Trallik asked casually.

  “Eh? Spir? Oh! I get wit money,” Mahtu answered between pants.

  “How much money?” Trallik pressed.

  “Eh? How many money, yoo say? Um… two gold monies.”

  “Did you buy it from someone in your gen?”

  “No, buy from Kobold Gen swapper… er, trader,” Mahtu answered.

  Trallik was a little surprised by this. He thought everyone in the northern valley thought of themselves as part of the Kobold Gen. “So, what gen do you belong to?” he asked.

  “Eh? Gen? Me and all us be Kijik Gen… oh, but um… three be Nipjik Gen,” Mahtu answered. Having regained his breath somewhat, Mahtu groaned as he pushed himself up off the ground and looked up at Marker Rock.

  This piqued Trallik’s interest. “So how many are in our… company?” Trallik asked, climbing alongside his new companion.

  “We be… um… maybe twenty?” Mahtu said after several steps.

  “Wow, so many. Why twenty to guard the bridge? And why are we guarding the bridge?”

  Mahtu gave Trallik a look that said ‘I’ll answer you in a minute’ as he puffed and pushed up the last short distance to Marker Rock. Trallik quieted down and focused on the climb as well, biting back the questions he had for Mahtu. After several minutes the pair of kobold warriors stood panting as they leaned against the large boulder that stood at the very edge of the top of the mountain.

  The two of them were panting so loudly that neither of them noticed the pair of kobold mercenaries until they poked their heads around the boulder.

  “Eh! Mahtu! Hoo he?” one asked, pointing to Trallik.

  “Ah! Ye snik! He Trallik. He wan shiny, shiny for merk” Mahtu told them.

  “Ah, yah, yah!” they said in their yappy, northerner way of speaking, nodding to each other.

  Mahtu stood up straight and thumped Trallik on the back. “Yoo come now. Meet big boss. He give yoo money for be warrior.”

  Trallik picked up his backpack and threw it over one shoulder, panting slightly as he followed Mahtu and the other two warriors around the boulder. On the other side of the boulder the imposing sight of Demon’s Bridge stretched before them, and beyond it lay a vast valley shrouded in mist.

  The bridge was made completely of interlocking stone in a tall arch, the bases of each side being carved to appear as massive horned demons holding up each end of the bridge. On either end of the bridge on both sides of the bridgehead the pillars that started the side railings were carved to appear as crouching demons with fearsome teeth, claws, horns, and spiked tails. Trallik was impressed, and not a little unsettled.

  “So, Mahtu, who is this big boss we work for?” Trallik asked as they neared the far side of the bridge, the wonder of the structure having kept him silent for most of the length of it.

  “Was hobgoblin,” Mahtu said as though working for a member of that evil race from the far eastern regions of Dharma Kor was a normal thing. This revelation, however, was significant news to Trallik.

  “What? You worked for a hobgoblin? But they’re evil, aren’t they?” Trallik stopped in his tracks.

  Mahtu turned and looked at Trallik as though he were seeing him for the first time. “Yep, he be very bad, beat kobolds much. Why?” Mahtu asked. The other two mercenaries had stopped as well, one on either side of Trallik.

  “Who’s your current master, then?” Trallik asked.

  At that moment a large orc with its arm in a sling walked out the doorway of the small building on the far side of the bridge. Beside the big orc walked a middle-aged kobold who had all the trappings of a kobold leader. Trallik began to stutter and stumble backward.

  “Oh, he be big boss with monies. Shagra, orc champion of Bloodhand Orcs be big boss. Warrior leader from Kijik Gen talk with him,” Mahtu answered.

  All the blood left Trallik’s face as the two mercenaries next to him each grabbed an arm.

  “Where yoo go?” Mahtu asked.

  “I… I…” Trallik stuttered.

  At that moment, Shagra and the leader of the Kijik Gen mercenaries noticed the new arrival. Seeing crossed shoulder belts and gear that matched that of the kobold company that had wounded him in the arm and side, Shagra roa
red his rage and strode forward to the small knot of kobold warriors. Trallik, unable to escape the firm grasp of the two mercenaries, held up both hands in front of his face and braced himself.

  Chapter 17 – Morigar’s New Quest

  The tragedy that the Krall Gen’s forces had suffered rippled through the entire gen by the time the emergency council concluded. Each of the commanders and council members returned to their areas with a copy of the list of dead that had been brought back with the train of wounded. Soon, the wailing of widows and mothers could be heard.

  All throughout the forest, the gen was abuzz with preparations. Lord Krall was also busy. Shortly after the emergency council he held another much smaller, but no less critical council. Durik had followed Lord Krall’s messenger from the workshops to Lord Krall’s now familiar personal chambers. Upon arriving there he was quickly ushered inside.

  Krebbekar, Morigar, Lord Krall’s minister and Lord Krall himself were all seated on the various pieces of furniture that formed something of a circle in the center of the room. As Durik took his seat a servant appeared carrying a small barrel and several silver cups. With dexterity and practiced ease the same young servant that Durik had seen before poured the clear, light brown-colored drink called sweet bark cider into each of the silver cups.

  The servant passed a cup to each of the five as Lord Krall massaged his temples. Sipping slowly on the sweet bark drink, the rest of the kobolds in the room waited for Lord Krall to speak. It wasn’t long before their patience was rewarded.

  “My son,” he started then paused. His hands came to rest on the arms of the great stuffed chair he sat in. “I have heard your requests to accompany me, and I’ve given it due consideration.” This was the first Durik had heard that Morigar was wanting out of the quest, though he was not terribly surprised by the revelation. “You are old enough to make decisions for yourself,” he said, citing Morigar’s previous arguments, “but I doubt your wisdom to deal with the consequences of those actions.”

  Morigar began to protest, but his father’s upraised hand quickly silenced him.

  “No, my son, the time for words is past. We now live in a time of deeds,” Lord Krall stated.

  Durik felt uncomfortable being involved in this conversation. He could see by the look on Lord Krall’s face that he was here to confront and end issues.

  “For years I have weighed your character in the balance, and always it has come up wanting.” Lord Krall’s words were harsh, made especially painful by the fact that this was his own son. “I have seen many selfish actions over the past several years. This last request of yours, to lead half of my army, is clearly indicative of your lack of character. Always you’ve wanted every benefit handed to you, without paying the price. Long you’ve strutted about this gen in the garb of a warrior, though you’ve spent little time in training, have no patience for lessons, and couldn’t care less for the well-being of the few warriors I’ve entrusted to you from time to time. You have wasted your life to this point, and have reaped the rewards of your lack of effort. For too long you’ve claimed privileges you never earned.

  “Well, today that ends. Tomorrow, when I leave this gen at the head of our host, you also will leave this gen. I have vowed to drive the great ants from this valley. I will not return until I have done so. I now give you a charge. You will not return without the head of the orc chieftain that leads whatever is left of the Bloodhand Orcs.”

  Morigar had been slowly sinking into his seat and now looked like he’d been skewered by a javelin.

  The moment he said it, Lord Krall knew that he’d given his son a task that was too great for him to accomplish. In his stubbornness, however, instead of rescinding the monumental task, Lord Krall’s features hardened and he turned to Krebbekar.

  “Chief of my house guard,” he said to Krebbekar, “your rightful place at this time is at the head of my house guard. But it cannot be so. If he is to succeed, my son will need your help now more than ever. You will go with Morigar on this quest as has been planned, as will Gormanor and Lemmekor.”

  Lord Krall then turned to Durik. “Young Durik, I do hope you’ll give your support to the task, for I fear my son with his little team will have too hard of a time accomplishing it.”

  Durik, also stunned by the task, thought for a moment about the generosity of the Krall Gen, about the pride and arrogance of Morigar, and finally about how dissenters in his gen, the Kale Gen, were allying with the Bloodhand Orcs to destroy his lord. With a grim look on his face, Durik nodded.

  Lord Krall, feeling the pain of knowing he had just made a mistake, but not wanting to lose face, stood and turned to face the windows that he had spent countless hours looking out of. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “when I leave this gen, your company, and my son with it, must leave. We cannot have foreign troops in the heart of our gen when most of our forces are on campaign.”

  When Lord Krall had stood, so had the other four kobolds. Now as he stood looking at Lord Krall, the implications of what Lord Krall had just said finally hit Durik. The day of load planning, and of finishing the task of sewing the metal scales on their armor, was gone. They needed to be on the road with the coming of dawn.

  Excusing himself, Durik made his way quickly back to the workshops.

  Durik was worried. From Gorgon’s and Ardan’s estimates, it was going to take most of the next day to finish the suits of armor. Terrim had also estimated that it would take a day to repack and readjust the packdogs’ kits to make them more modular, so they could shift the loads more readily if need be, in case they had to accommodate casualties.

  Terrim had had a plan for how to make the packdogs’ packs more modular and easier to scale. Having more iron than they needed, Terrim had traded some of it for extra skins of leather and some of the toughest braided leather string Durik had seen. He wanted to spend their last day at the Krall Gen re-cutting the packs and modifying the pack saddles, but there just wasn’t going to be time now for either thing. He didn’t know how they could overcome this obstacle.

  When Durik arrived at the workshops, Manebrow saw the look on his face and, before he could speak, he asked Durik to step outside with him. Once outside, Durik told Manebrow the disconcerting news. Thinking it over for a few moments as Durik voiced his frustration, Manebrow held up a hand. Durik stopped abruptly.

  “I have a recommendation, if you’ll take it, sire,” Manebrow said calmly.

  “What is it?”

  “Just because Lord Krall wants us outside the perimeter of his gen before his forces leave the gen doesn’t mean that we have to travel any further than that tomorrow. Now, your warriors in there have been working feverishly on this armor for the past three days. We were supposed to give back the workshops tomorrow morning anyway. Gorgon and Ardan already approached me and asked if we could work through the night to finish the armor before we have to give the shops back. Jerrig has also voiced his support of that. In fact, that’s the assumption we’re working under, that we’ve only got until tomorrow at dawn.”

  “But what about Terrim and the pack saddles?” Durik asked.

  Manebrow put his hand on Durik’s shoulder, “When I saw those casualties coming in and heard Lord Krall announce that they were leaving tomorrow morning, I figured he’d kick us out ahead of him. So Terrim and I already spoke. He and his team are already over at the leather working shop working on re-cutting the saddlebags. They should be done by the second watch, after which they’ll repack everything and be prepared for our departure by mid-third watch, so that we can be on our way before dawn.”

  Durik shook his head. “I should have known you’d already have things worked out. Ah, Manebrow, what would I do without you?”

  “What would you do without all of us is the question, sire. It’s certainly not just me. Now, what do you say we get to work at the forges and help push this effort? There’s plenty more steel scales to be pulled from the molds and pounded thin after all.”

  Durik nodded his approval a
nd followed Manebrow into the metalsmithy.

  Lord Krall struggled for some time with his decision to give his son the mission of bringing back the orc chieftain’s head. Later that night he summoned Krebbekar to his personal chambers. He invited Krebbekar to sit as he stood wringing his hands in front of the window.

  “Krebbekar,” he started slowly, “I don’t want you to think that I’m sending my son to die.” He paused for a moment, and turned to look at Krebbekar, whose face was emotionless. “And I don’t want you to think that I’m sending you on a suicide mission.” He came and sat in the chair across the rug from Krebbekar.

  “While I have a good feeling for this young Durik, I think it unfair to put such a heavy burden on our ally. I also want to give my son the maximum opportunity to excel. Therefore, I will not send you out completely dependent on the Kale Gen warriors to accomplish your mission. I will not send my son and our Krall warriors out unequipped to deal with the orcs. We still have the coins that we collected from the bodies of the Bloodhand Orcs after the invasion several years ago now. I will send them with you, Krebbekar.

  “The warriors of the northern gens often sell their services for gold and silver coins. Hire what mercenaries you deem necessary to deal with the Bloodhand Orcs. We will see if my son can humble himself enough to deal with the degenerate northern gens.” Seeing that Krebbekar’s countenance had softened somewhat, Lord Krall stood and straightened the gear he wore, attempting to get used to it before tomorrow came. “See my minister. He should have everything ready for you.”

  “I will not fail you, sire,” Krebbekar said as he stood up. “And I will do all that I can to ensure your son does not fail you either.”