The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  As refugees arrived, alone or in small groups, the tales they brought with them of the atrocities Khee-lar and his supporters were wreaking upon their friends and relatives brought great sorrow to Lord Karthan and his loyalists, and a grim determination to confront and destroy the evil of Khee-lar Shadow Hand and his followers.

  Just outside the picket line to the north and west of the Kale Gen’s home caverns the northern mountains rose abruptly from the gently rolling foothills that bubbled up at their feet. It was here, on a small ring of hills that surrounded a lake of crystal blue, that Lord Karthan and several hundred loyal refugees from the Kale Gen had begun to build a palisade of tree trunks, sharpened at the top, with a walkway from which they could repulse any attack. It was from this position of strength that they would strike back at Khee-lar and his treacherous forces.

  As Lord Karthan looked about the valley at the palisade, the towers being constructed on each of the many hilltops, the ditch being dug in front of the palisade, the various huts for the blacksmithies and such, and the small tent city that had begun to spring up around the edges of the lake, he felt pride swell within him.

  “Goryon,” Lord Karthan called down to the stocky blacksmith who was collecting firewood to fuel his new forge. “How goes it?”

  Goryon looked up at his lord, a bitter, determined look on his face. “Well, sire. It’s a good thing that we intercepted that caravan of ore before Khee-lar got a hold of it. Too bad for him he’s not seen fit to patrol the caravan routes. Soon I should be able to begin turning out the metal fittings for the Great Bow we talked about.”

  “Aye! And I should have the wood for the first one ready by tomorrow as well!” another warrior’s voice joined in.

  “That should add nicely to our list of surprises for Khee-lar and his traitors!” Lord Karthan smiled in grim satisfaction.

  “Aye, lord. We’ll have them on the run in short order.” The look of grim determination on Goryon’s face was mirrored on the faces of many of those who had fled their homes with Lord Karthan. From around the area many voices raised in agreement.

  “Then we’ll get back our families!” cried another. An even louder chorus of support sounded throughout the compound.

  Caught by surprise and unable to get organized, they had lost the first battle in their home caverns, but he could see by the looks on the faces of his warriors that they would do everything in their power to not lose the war.

  Khazak Mail Fist’s vision had begun dropping in and out of focus several hours after his capture to the point where, shortly after his arrival in his home gen’s caverns, he could recognize the part of the prison where his captors were dragging him. His vision lost focus again, however, before he could read the numbers on the cell door when they carted him through the door and dumped him like a load of so much dirt onto the cool stone floor.

  Not long after that, just as Khazak was beginning to get feeling back in his neck and face, the heavy iron door of the cell he found himself in swung open with a metallic screech. Trying with all his might to focus his mostly listless eyes, Khazak was able to catch a glimpse of a bronze crown on a kobold’s head and a purple robe of fine cloth. Making a supreme effort, Khazak narrowed his eyelids in an attempt to focus on the fuzzy figure standing above him.

  “Well met, Karthan’s chamberlain,” Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s distinctive voice came from the kobold who was sporting the crown. “Don’t bother getting up on my account, Khazak. I can see that you’re somewhat… shall we say, indisposed.”

  Khazak was beginning to be able to sense the metal gauntlets still on his hands and longed to swing them in the direction of the voice.

  Khee-lar noted the ever so slight movement of the gauntlets. Turning to one of his attendants, Khee-lar pointed out the gauntlets. The attendant quickly relieved Khazak Mail Fist of his mailed fists.

  “Now, we can’t be giving you any help in trying to escape, can we? After all, we’ll be having executions over the next few days, and you’ll be a key participant in those. We wouldn’t want to do anything to hamper the festivities, now would we my old friend?” Khee-lar asked rhetorically.

  Turning to his attendants, Khee-lar motioned for them to clear the way. “Hm, he’s no fun just lying there like that. No reaction at all. Too bad. I guess we’ll just have to come back later when he’s more up to having visitors,” he said as he walked away. Stopping and turning around suddenly, as if he’d forgotten something, he called out to the jailer who stood by the open door to Khazak’s cell. “Jailer, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to tie him up properly. After all, I believe his reputation precedes him.” With that final comment, Khee-lar and his retinue continued on their way.

  Night had fallen on Lord Karthan’s loyalist encampment by the time the wolf rider detachment had returned from their journey to the First Night’s Resting Place, a small stockade used by the trade caravans that used the main trail between the Kale and Krall Gens. Arriving at the tall front gate of the new stockade, Drok the wolf rider was amazed to see the progress that had been made by his fellow loyalists.

  “Hold, warriors,” he called back to the thirty-some Karthan loyalists that rode with him.

  “Who goes there!” a voice came from one of the towers that formed a makeshift gatehouse.

  “Kodar? Is that you? It’s Drok and the loyal remnant of the Wolf Riders, back from our patrol!” Drok called up to the bright grey figure who leaned out of the tower.

  “Ah! Yes, yes, it’s me. Tell me now, was there any sign of our boys?” Kodar, Keryak’s father asked, referring both to his son and to Drok’s nephew Durik whom Drok had raised as his own son, both of whom had left the gen the morning of the same day that the overthrow had occurred.

  “Let me in and I’ll make a full report to you and Lord Karthan!” Drok called out.

  Kodar nodded and his head disappeared into the tower. Several moments later the scraping sound of a heavy bar being moved aside could be heard, followed shortly after by the gate slowly being drug aside on braided leather hinges. Nudging their wolves forward Drok and his contingent entered the loyalists’ fortress.

  “My good friend, Drok,” Kodar spoke as he came forward and grasped hands with the tall warrior.

  Drok swung a stiff leg over his wolf’s back and stumbled onto the ground, passing the reins to Kodar so he could rub some blood back into his legs. “Where might I find Lord Karthan, Kodar?” he asked as he popped the aching joints in his tail.

  “No need to find him. He’s coming to find you now, it would appear,” Kodar pointed to the approaching entourage. After several moments the entourage was close enough for even their heat vision to reveal Lord Karthan’s presence among them.

  “What news from your patrol?” Lord Karthan asked as he approached, the hint of worry in his voice scarcely masked.

  “My lord,” Drok said as he bowed to Lord Karthan. “We found no sign of Durik’s Company, your sons and Khazak Mail Fist, nor the honor guard you sent to accompany them… that is until we arrived at the First Night’s Resting Place.”

  “Yes,” Lord Karthan pressed impatiently. “And what did you find there?”

  Drok had known this moment was coming for some time, but still he hesitated.

  “Well! And what did you find there?” Lord Karthan almost yelled as he grabbed Drok by the shoulders.

  “Lord,” Drok began, shaking his head slowly, “There was a battle… There was blood everywhere… There were no bodies left, but by the gear we found…” Drok couldn’t continue, he simply bowed his head.

  Lord Karthan fought desperately to keep his composure. “What did you find?” he asked again, almost pleading. “Please, I must know.”

  Drok pulled something out of a belt pouch and looked up at his lord again, tears streaming down his face. “Here, lord,” he said as he handed Lord Karthan two patches of cloth, one embroidered with a ‘K’ for Karto and the other with an ‘L’ for Lat, Lord Karthan’s two young sons. “We found no trace of any survivo
rs. It appears that the great ants to the south of there took them all.”

  Kodar, who had watched the unfolding drama, could no longer be restrained. “Drok, was there any sign of Durik’s Company? What of them? Were they taken by the ants as well?”

  Looking away from Lord Karthan guiltily, who was dealing with his own waves of guilt and despair, Drok nodded his head. “There were wolf skins there, and more weapons and gear than could have belonged to just the honor guard.”

  Walking quietly up behind Drok, one of the other wolf guard riders passed him a boar-skin bag. Drok took it and quietly passed it to Lord Karthan, who opened it and began to pull out the pieces one by one.

  “This is the silver bracer, mark of the office of chief of my personal guard. This is the golden torc of the chief elite warrior of the Honor Guard Warrior Group.” The despair in Lord Karthan’s voice was evident, but still he continued. “And here are the mail gauntlets that belonged to Khazak, my chamberlain.” He said with a note of finality. Lord Karthan dug around more in the bag, dragging out several smaller items and a wolfskin cloak.

  “This is not one of the wolf skins that we gave to the yearlings,” he said as he looked into Drok’s eyes. “And here,” he said dragging out a bronze torc, “this is the bronze torc of the chief elite warrior of the Deep Guard Warrior Group.”

  Drok began to stutter, “I… I… I guess… Well, if that’s not one of their wolfskin cloaks, then perhaps it belongs to someone sent to kill the honor guard.”

  “Some of Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s lackeys, no doubt. The wolfskin outfits we gave to Durik’s Company had cotton lining in their innards. This is not one of them.” A glimmer of hope began to shine in the darkness that had enveloped Lord Karthan’s soul. “I see nothing here that leads me to believe that Durik’s Company, and my daughter with them, was part of this disaster.”

  Turning to his entourage, he grabbed his nearest personal guard by his crossed shoulder belts. “Find one of the messengers. Send them directly to the home of Lord Krall. I must know if Durik’s Company made it there, and if my daughter was with them. Also,” he began almost hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to know more “find out if there were any details from Durik’s Company about the fate of my two sons and their guardians.”

  Chapter 2 – Subduing the Northern Gens

  Drakebane the Mighty, Chieftain of the Bloodhand Orc Tribe, was no one to be trifled with. His axe had fifty-two marks on it; a heroic sum by itself, even without adding in the many uncounted kobolds and goblins that he had taken in his almost forty summers of life. The minotaur’s skull that he used as a helmet only made his appearance more fearsome as he sat on his throne of bone and hide under the shade of the massive rock that was shaped like the head of a bird.

  For an orc chieftain of the Great Forest, he was an unusually cunning leader. Unlike the many war leaders and petty chieftains who had dominated all around them only long enough to cause mayhem and destruction, Drakebane had ruled for the half of his life since he had killed his father and claimed leadership of the tribe, almost twenty summers now in the past. That this was an unprecedented rule in the spoken memories of his shamans was a point of particular pride for the wily old warrior.

  The first ten years had been chaotic, that was certain, but with his father’s many concubines he had immediately raised up many strong sons, the first of them beginning to raise sons of their own at ten summers of age; the age at which a youngling became an orc and was allowed to challenge other orcs to take their first concubines. Now, with well over a hundred sons all striving to assert their dominance over each other, Drakebane had been able to harness their energies to dominate many lesser tribes and family groups, allowing him to count almost a thousand warriors in his tribe.

  The concubines they had taken and the young they had given to his tribe were almost innumerable as well, his fifty-some concubines and almost three hundred young being a particular point of pride to him. As if that were not enough, the number of goblin and kobold slaves he owned was nearly twice as many as his number of concubines, which allowed his concubines to focus their efforts on birthing and breeding. Drakebane was powerful not only because of his much muscle, but also because he knew how to organize his tribe. Truly, his many sons could learn much from his ways.

  Now, as Drakebane sat on his throne and surveyed the scene in front of him, there was nothing but arrogance in his heart. Before him knelt ambassadors from the Kobold, Five, Nipjik, Picor, and Kijik Gens which were the five largest kobold gens in the Valley of the Mountain King. The bleating of the dozens of sheep the ambassadors had brought as tribute for his tribe could be heard in the background as they were led off to the stew pots. With a nod of approval to his son Grimbane who had brought these ambassadors here, he looked around the ring of orc warriors, the occasional ogre towering above them like mountains of ruddy flesh poking out of a sea of green hides. Yes, the kobolds would be suitably impressed with this display of power, and they would certainly submit.

  Leaning back and motioning to the grizzled hobgoblin who stood just behind his right shoulder, Drakebane gave him the authority to speak the dog-like tongue of these kobolds for him.

  “Ambassadors of the five gens of this valley,” Ahn-Ki, Voice for Chieftain began in The Sorcerer’s Tongue, the gravelly effect of his coarse voice only enhancing Ahn-Ki’s aura of authority. That only the Kobold Gen spoke The Sorcerer’s Tongue in this valley didn’t matter. All of their tongues had devolved from that language, and it was still the language of trade and alliances among the little reptilian folk of these cold southern valleys.

  “High Chieftain Drakebane of the mighty Bloodhand Orc Tribe has summoned you here to demand a tribute of you.”

  Ahn-Ki’s image was an ensemble; finely crafted armor, pair of swords crossed over his back, eye patch over one eye, and many scars all giving the collective impression of one who was to be feared and respected. Indeed, for all that Drakebane paid the mercenary commander, he better be an impressive spokesman.

  In the center of the ring the five kobolds all looked certain that they would be killed at any moment. Their fear was not entirely unfounded, of course, as orcs were known for their lack of self-control. Perhaps the fact that orcs’ lifespans were barely a third of his own wasn’t such a bad thing in Ahn-Ki’s mind. Despite the danger of working with such chaotic half-beasts as orcs and ogres, the challenge of bending them to his purposes made him feel more alive than he had ever felt in the Emperor’s service, His Name Be Eternally Revered.

  “High Chieftain Drakebane has decided to be most generous to you, in light of your willing submission to his power. It is well that you have brought a tribute of meat. He further demands…” Ahn-Ki decided to up the ante a bit, though he wouldn’t bother his employer with such trivial details as where the extra thirty gold pieces each went to… “eighty gold coins from each of your tribes as tribute to his mighty power, and one hundred warriors each to serve in his mighty army.”

  The five kobold ambassadors all took the news badly, but seeing their circumstances they bowed emphatically many times to the orc who sat on the great throne, flanked on one side by a mighty black warg whose eyes and teeth showed no mercy and on the other by this tall hobgoblin whose demands were just as merciless. The orc on the throne began fingering the blade of his massive axe. The effect was not lost on the kobold ambassadors.

  “Now, go back to the leaders of your gens,” Ahn-Ki commanded after a brief, dramatic pause, “tell them we await their tribute here at Birdstone. You have until the setting of tomorrow’s sun.”

  The kobold ambassadors all bowed repeatedly as they backed up. At Ahn-Ki’s command, two of his hobgoblin mercenaries directed a path be made through the assembled orcs and ogres and the five kobolds scurried away, breaking into a run as soon as they cleared the circle.

  It was all Drakebane could do to hold his warg in check as the kobolds showed their backs to him.

  Seated on his throne, Drakebane surveyed the gathering of
his warriors and the ogre mercenaries with a scowl. “Go now!” he thundered in his own, feral tongue. In moments the gathering had dispersed and Drakebane was left alone with his hobgoblin advisor and his son Grimbane. “What you think, Ahn-Ki? This five-hundred good for dragon, or no good and we go get tribes in south?”

  Ahn-Ki grimaced. He always tried to avoid calling Drakebane stupid, but sometimes it was hard to not call him what he was. He’d taken one too many blows to the head, apparently, and his speech wasn’t the only symptom of that. “Drakebane, mighty lord, we must be patient. The dragon wants more than just warriors to dig the metals out of his mines. He wants their whole tribes. That way he won’t have to feed the warriors. They can feed themselves while they dig the metals for him.”

  Drakebane nodded, scolding himself with his mind-voice for not having thought of that. But that was why he had Ahn-Ki.

  “Besides, my lord, the mercenaries say that the Kale leader known as Khee-lar Shadow Hand has indeed overthrown the strong Lord Karthan. We know that Khee-lar Shadow Hand thinks of us as friends, so he will not expect it when we decide to enslave him and his gen instead.”

  “But what about Karthan?” Drakebane asked. “He dead or no? I no want Karthan to come back. Kales be hard to control if Karthan alive.”