by Joel Babbitt
Trallik raised his brow in surprise. Though he didn’t know exactly how many there were in the Kale Gen, he didn’t think there were more than probably two thousand. To know that, all his life, there had been another gen that had split off from his own gen living in the underdark below his gen’s home was staggering to him.
“So what’s your name?” the spearman asked.
“I’m Trallik, and I too am outcast from the Kale Gen. My lifemate and I are in need of friends.”
“Well, then, Trallik. Welcome to my outcast family, stay with us for as long as you may need,” the spearman said, extending his hand to grip forearms with Trallik in the traditional Kale greeting. “I am named Kale after the gen of my heritage. I am son of Kale and grandson of Kale, I serve as head of our family.”
Chapter 21 – Taking Demon’s Bridge
Kiria and Myaliae had become rather close in the last few days. Though the both of them had been exceptionally busy, both caring for their company’s animals as well as working leather had quickly gone from something that took much concentration to something of a routine. Through it all the two young females, one an aspiring wizard, the other an aspiring healer, had rarely been further than a few yards from each other.
Once Myaliae began to feel comfortable with the members of this company of Kale Gen warriors, she began to open up more and more. Soon, it was all that Jerrig could do to keep them on the task of cutting leather, as the young females shared their life histories, hopes, views, aspirations, and knowledge of magic with each other. When they were alone, tending to the animals, they even shared their opinions on the various young males in the company. It was a strange and exciting thing to Kiria, who’d never had a sister, and who’d not had really any close friends, being daughter of the lord of the Kale Gen.
After a few days, the pair were as close as any two sisters could be; giggling together, finishing each others sentences, sharing inside jokes with just a look between them, and working seamlessly together. After the initial joy of discovering each other, while they were around the warriors of the company, however, the pair did try to maintain some semblance of disciplined decorum. Sometimes their efforts were more successful than at other times.
Durik had begun to wonder when, after walking past the pair, they both started to giggle simultaneously, until he looked back at them, at which point they both promptly bent themselves in earnest to whatever tasks they had been in the middle of, all the while little giggles escaping now and again.
On the more practical side, their friendship had led to a sharing of knowledge in the couple of evenings that they’d had before working through the night on the armor. Kiria had been delighted to discover that Myaliae’s knowledge of magic was, in many ways, greater than her own. She had anxiously studied the old text of her grandmother’s spell book, but with the entire book being written in Draconic, Kiria had been able to stumble through the most basic parts of it, and that was it.
Kiria found that, while Myaliae’s knowledge was based in the powers that their world, Dharma Kor, offered up to her, still she had some knowledge of the Draconic Language which Kiria used to summon the magic that she had studied. Though Myaliae’s powers seemed to well up within her and spring forth as summoned, Myaliae used Draconic to focus the powers that channeled through her. Being a rather serious student of her art, one could say a compulsive student of her art, her understanding of the language of magic was deeper than many of her peers, most of whom only ever developed a rudimentary grasp of it, which was all the healer’s role demanded.
Kiria had been delighted to learn of Myaliae’s understanding. With no one to mentor her in the six years since the orc raid that had taken her mother away, Kiria’s knowledge was basic at best. But now, with Myaliae’s mentoring on the language, Kiria had almost been able to decipher the complex algorithms that held the power of the two battle-spells she had in the book; one by the name of ‘Bolt of Fire’ and another called, aptly enough, ‘Shield’.
Manebrow hadn’t required her or Myaliae to take a turn at standing watch that afternoon as the company dozed in preparation for the climb up the Chop, but both of them had volunteered, not wanting to be seen as somehow weaker or less important than the rest. Myaliae didn’t get her turn, as Morigar’s team arrived before it was to start. However, Kiria had her turn and spent the entire time working on the spell named Bolt of Fire. Eventually, halfway through her watch, Kiria’s understanding of the ancient tongue proved sufficient and the secrets of the spell became clear to her. With excitement she began to commit the incantations of this new spell to memory, deepening the impressions of the spell by her constant practice. After a short time she stood and, picking out a particularly lanky sapling about the same thickness as her arm, she moved her hands and mouth through the short series of steps that was the trigger mechanism to release the power she had committed to her mind already.
With a suddenness that was almost startling to the young mage, a fiery bolt flew from the palm of her outstretched hand and snapped the sapling in half. She looked around to see if the noise had woken anyone up, but no one stirred. Smiling to herself as she stood there with crossed arms, Kiria decided to keep this little secret to herself… until the right moment, that is.
Keryak gripped his spear lightly. The day with its heat had passed, and evening was already upon the members of Durik’s Company before Morigar, Krebbekar, and the two Krall Gen scouts came upon the little company camped in the tree line with only a single picket. It was probably for the better that Morigar’s team had delayed so long.
Manebrow had let the company sleep the entire day, and they were glad for it. The night before with its intense, last minute preparations had worn them out almost as much as their flight from the great ants less than a week now in the past. The effects of the supreme effort of the week before and the preparations of the last few days hung heavier on some than others, and though he tried not to show it, Keryak could see that Manebrow felt it more than the rest of them.
Keryak had been alternately looking up the tall mountain they were camped at the foot of, and back at the company in their deep slumber. He was not looking forward to the climb up the Chop, especially not in his new suit of metal armor, but the arrival of Morigar’s team could only mean one thing. Turning promptly as the four Krall Gen warrior’s approached, Keryak began shaking the still forms of his sleeping companions, starting with Durik and Manebrow.
Slowly the company began to come to life, rising from the ground like so many zombies, their eyes dull and swollen from having slept through the heat of the day. Before long packdogs and riding wolves were woken as well. As Morigar and his team sat on their haunches, the members of Durik’s Company slowly ladened the dogs, stowed blankets, donned armor, and prepared to march. Many a surly glance toward the Chop could be seen amongst the Kale Gen warriors. Not one of them was looking forward to the extreme exertion they knew it would take. More than one of them was wondering if making metal armor these last few days had been a smart idea or not.
None too quickly, and yet without dallying, the entire group of kobolds, both Kale and Krall, were ready to march. The sun had already set by the time Ardan and Keryak, dressed in their lighter leather armor for scouting, moved out in front to their customary position. With Morigar’s team taking up its position in the rear, as Morigar put it to ‘have a better view from which to command things,’ the mixed group of warriors moved out onto the road as one, heading directly north toward the mountain which stood before them as a mighty wall.
The bright points of light that danced about on the top of the dark mountain slope were clearly kobolds to Ardan’s eyes. He had always had very good sight, and he was confident of his assessment. Turning to Durik as they stood in the tree line looking upwards, he told him so.
“Well that, at least, is better than orcs,” Durik replied. “Now the question is how to take them. They’ll be able to watch our progress the entire distance, and by the time we get to the top, we’ll be
exhausted. They could just roll rocks down on us from up there until they eventually hit. Meanwhile we’ll not have the opportunity to hit them at all until we get to the top.”
“Aye, sire,” Manebrow said on Durik’s other side. “Looks like we’ll have to trick them.”
Durik looked over at Manebrow, and Krebbekar who stood just beyond. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“Aye, how about we act like a caravan?”
“A caravan? Do go on.”
“Well, both of our gens send trade caravans over this chop to the northern gens,” Manebrow explained. “We should send a number of warriors up with the packdogs, like a caravan, then once they take the bridge the rest of us come up.”
Gorgon thumped his chest. “I’ll take them up, carrying them if need be.”
Durik nodded his head. “Sounds reasonable enough. I can’t think of anyone who would be better suited to leading an assault up this steep mountain.” Looking at the other two leaders, he asked, “Any other ideas?”
Krebbekar pointed with his snout up at the kobolds moving around far above them, his arms remaining crossed. “Word from our Border Guard is that the orcs have found some sort of passage under the mountains. I’d recommend we find that. It would likely be a lot easier going than up the Chop, and we’re going to the underdark anyway. It would likely be a lot shorter.”
Durik pursed his lips in thought. He agreed with much of what Krebbekar said, but he doubted it would take less time. Knowing what he knew about the situation in his home gen, he didn’t want to risk the possibility of losing days wandering about in the underdark looking for the Dwarven Mining Outpost when the most direct route was supposed to be from the area of the bridge above.
“I like your idea, Krebbekar, except that we could just as easily wander for days or more before we eventually find what we’re looking for. No, I think we’ll go with the caravan idea. Gorgon, the assault is yours.”
“My two scouts share the danger as well,” Krebbekar added in.
“Very well,” Durik nodded. “Then it is decided.”
The other three leaders nodded and the group turned almost as one to head back to where the rest of the party was hidden in the particularly dense stand of fur trees where they’d first caught a glimpse of the bridge guardians.
Having only worn the metal armor for a day, Gorgon had already gotten rather used to it. The feeling of invulnerability it gave him was something he had immediately loved. Now, as he climbed the Chop without it, he felt rather naked, especially as he saw the crowd of probably six or eight kobolds gathered at the top of it. He knew there was nothing to it but to do it, however, as a group of armored warriors would have been seen as a threat. As it was, his team of four kobold warriors, plus the pair of scouts from Krebbekar’s team would have to be enough of a threat, yet not appear so as they led the four packdogs of Durik’s Company and the two packdogs from Krebbekar’s team. The massive beast that passed as a packdog that carried the bags of coins for Morigar was left at the bottom; Morigar wouldn’t be parted with him.
Behind Gorgon the rest of his team was doing their best to attempt to stay up. The rhythmic pace that Gorgon had established was punishing at best, his legs moving like pistons up the mountain. Arbelk seemed to handle it well enough. Troka’s thinner arms and legs were longer than anyone else’s in the company, however, and just weren’t made for mountain climbing. Jerrig was probably the worst off of Gorgon’s team, his tongue lolling out to one side, his shoulders slumped, and his tail hanging limp as he dragged himself up the path, not even attempting to help pull the packdog that he led. He had always been the weakest of the seven original yearlings, and though he’d been toughened up considerably, this climb was an extreme test of endurance.
Gormanor and Lemmekor both seemed to be handling the climb well enough, though it was obvious that the endurance training of the Kale Gen warriors gave them something of an edge. Gorgon couldn’t help but think that, if they were his troops, he could work wonders with them.
“Watch it now, Troka,” Gorgon called down to his tallest, lankiest warrior. “Watch your dog. He’s getting too close to the edge of the path.”
Troka said nothing, just pulling at the reins to guide his packdog further away from the edge.
Gorgon looked up toward the distant figures of the kobolds on top of the Chop. Then, stopping for several moments to let the rest of his team catch up, and to allow his packdog to catch its breath, he looked out over the valley. It was night, and he was glad for that. If they had had to make this climb in the heat of the day, he doubted that any of his teammates would have had the strength to fight by the time they reached the top. The valley looked very different at night, however. The trees and rocks mostly blurred into one indistinct matte of subtle shades of black. From this vantage point half way up the Chop, however, Gorgon could make out a large mass of what had to be living beings several miles into the valley, the heat rising from their collective mass lighting up the whole of what appeared to be a small hilltop from this distance.
Must be Lord Krall’s army, he mused. Seeing that the rest of his party had made the next of the many turns on this zig-zagging path that ran straight up the mountain, Gorgon tugged at his packdog’s reins, pulling him onward.
Mahtu stood leaning on his spear, watching the progress of this most recent caravan. He had gone down and up the mountain again the other day, and he was more than content to watch them struggle all the way up to the top. Better they struggle up the mountain than he. Shagra had told them that they were to send one of their number down to meet any caravan half-way, just to make sure that the caravans weren’t going to try anything tricky, but Shagra and all of his sub-leaders had left to join the horde that was gathered on the northern side of the Chop, and Mahtu didn’t want to get into another argument with the others about who should go down. None of them clearly wanted to, and he had done it the last several times and was feeling worn out from all this climbing. With Shagra gone, he certainly wasn’t going to bother enforcing his mandates.
Behind him, the seven other kobolds on watch with him from this Kijik Gen mercenary company lolled about, throwing bones mostly and exchanging coins on the results while they boasted to their companions about their exploits with the female slaves that the orcs had. He thought it distracted them too much, but they were mercenaries and young, and one couldn’t keep young mercenaries from gambling, drinking, or from females, it seemed. After all, they were hired for their ability to use the spears Shagra had given them, and to not question the orders of their rather evil orc masters. It was impossible to expect them to be disciplined or moderate when the master you were sent to serve clearly wasn’t.
The leader caste from their gen was no help either. His constant fooling around with the females, bouts of drinking, and incessant gambling left him no time to actually focus on improving the security of their position or on the needs of his company. In fact, he pretty much left it to Mahtu to take care of the company while he spent all his strength on various pursuits of pleasure. Such an example by their leader and the orcs that hired them left any attempt by Mahtu to instill some semblance of discipline ring hollow in the ears of these young ones.
Even now, Mahtu knew that the rest of his company had gotten into the orcs’ stashes of chew weed and bitter wine. They didn’t even have the self-control necessary to keep out of their employer’s stores while he was away. Mahtu shook his head. There would be trouble when Shagra returned, that was certain.
Gorgon deliberately halted his little party at the last of the resting places for three times the normal count he had allowed before. He wanted them to be as ready as they could once they arrived at the top, yet loosened up from the inevitable stiffness that waiting would bring. Walking from one warrior to the next, he checked that their weapons were loose in the strappings on the sides of the packdogs. Grabbing each one by the shoulders, he rubbed their shoulders and thumped them on the arms to get the blood flowing after wearing packs on such
a difficult climb.
“Alright now, be ready,” he said as he came to each one. “Not long now. Wait for my signal before pulling weapons. Remember your training. Make our gen proud.”
Before long the entire group was ready. Even Jerrig had perked up some, perhaps only because he knew that the long, arduous climb would soon be over. As their rest period drew to a close, the fear and anticipation in their eyes mixed together, the shine in their eyes showing that their confidence was stronger than their fear.
“On your feet!” Gorgon called. To his surprise there was not a groan among the warriors, though the packdogs more than made up for it with their whining. Looking up toward the top, Gorgon could clearly see the hot white figures of eight kobolds, the same mercenaries, he assumed, that had been exacting a toll from all of their trade caravans for some time. He wondered where the hobgoblin was that reportedly was their employer, or perhaps the orcs had taken over from him. Either way, Gorgon wondered why it was only kobolds at the bridge. Not that he was complaining. Kobold mercenaries from the northern gens would be much easier to confront than orcs.
In unison the group of mixed Kale and Krall Gen warriors began the final portion of their ascent. It was only a short distance, and within perhaps a few hundred steps the company was already rounding the last corner. Straight up the mountainside from them now the apparent leader of the eight kobold mercenaries was directing the spear-wielding northerners into their places; three on either side of the slight rise to either side of the trailhead, the last one with him in the center to confront the caravan as it gained the slope.
“Hail, friends,” Gorgon called as he fought the urge to drag his packdog along with him, not wanting to seem too eager to reach them.
“Eh! Yoo pay toll for cross bridge!” the kobold leader called down to them.