by Joel Babbitt
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.
In fact, he had already planted the seeds of that end. He smiled as he thought of the series of supports throughout the passageway to the mines that he had begun to whittle away at. Though the passage of many slaves wouldn’t cause a cave-in, the passage of Marsa’s rather large self checking on those slaves most certainly would.
Simple, brutish, but effective. It would leave him with her hoard, and would only kill the slaves and perhaps some orcish overseers in the process. Certainly the petty slaves the orcs gathered for Marsa’s pet mining project would not be missed, such foul-smelling and useless little trifles that they were. But even trifles such as these took controlling, and true to form, Marsa the relentless controller that she was, had planned for that as well. That was where the other objective she gave the orcs came in, for here among the children of that menacing, but now very dead Sorcerer, there were five special ways to control these little scaly pests.
Looking over at the five pedestals Marsa had set up to display the five magical stones that these little kobolds so revered, Mananthiél saw the Stone of Krech twinkle in the darkness, as though it were calling out for help. That stone had been easy enough to acquire. Marsa had had to wrestle a particularly meaty cave troll for it, but her fire breath had made quick enough work of the brute. Next to the Krech Stone’s pedestal were four empty pedestals, one each for the Kobold Stone, the Kale Stone, the Krall Stone, and the last one for the Kormir Stone.
If this orc invasion succeeded, they should be able to add two more stones to their collection; the recently active Kale Stone and the Stone of Krall that had long been among the tree-dwelling gen in the valley on the other side of the southern ridgeline. Marsa had already neatly labeled the pedestals in preparation for their finding.
Mananthiél smiled and continued picking his teeth with the spear tip that one of those particularly defiant little trifles had still had in his rather sinewy arms when Mananthiél had decided he was too rebellious to work the mines, and therefore was better for eating. Finally, he dislodged the offending bit, a finger as it turned out. Being free of that bother, he rolled over onto all fours and made his way up the broad central passageway that led from their massive lair, up through the bowels of the Hall of the Mountain King, and into the outer halls.
At first he had thought Marsa rather silly in bothering to collect these minor stones of power, but now he thought that perhaps her reasoning was right. Once he got rid of her, if he controlled the stones of the five original kobold gens, he could use these five little tribes to take care of his every want and need… and to further build his hoard! He’d be more than just the dominant force in the southern valleys, he’d be a king! Well, he wasn’t sure that being a king over little creatures really counted, but he was sure he would eat well from that point on at any rate.
All was darkness now that the sun had finished setting. Sauntering out of the main entrance of the ancient dwarven stronghold onto the thick logs of the makeshift bridge, he gazed down at the warm silhouettes of the two score or so kobolds and the handful of orcs at the bottom of the chasm, their fear at his approach clearly evident by the amount of heat pouring from their bodies. It was obvious to him that they were useless for the moment. He had tasks for them to do eventually, so they’d have to get past their gibbering fear of him, but that always seemed to take longer than he liked. He might have to eat a couple of them now, just to get the rest to listen to him… No, that would only cow them further.
Mananthiél sighed. He’d just have to wait and let time and hunger work its way with them, to make them pliable enough to work with. After all, he needed them to help whittle away at the supports to the mining area. Certainly, he didn’t need to be doing such work.
Stretching out his wings, the young red threw himself into the chasm, catching himself with his mighty wings and beating the air below him until he slowly lifted himself up and over the edge of the outer shell of the mountain and into the night air.
It was time for a snack, and he was craving pig.
Chapter 18 – The Passing of Lord Sennak the Just
Mirrik’s mood had grown steadily worse as he descended the great stone staircase. The constant slight wind that rose steadily through the great open shaft which bored like an artery through the bowels of the earth almost to the shores of the great inner sea did not have its normal refreshing effect on him this day. His burden still weighed on him without relief.
He had never been one who was easy to convince of much of anything… unless it was his idea of course, but something had changed him. The encounter with the outcast Kale and the whole series of events that Morgra’s paladin had brought about had shattered his world as he’d known it for so long. Now nothing seemed the same. He saw the entire world through different eyes. Yes, it was as if he’d been blind all these years, having only received his sight today.
It was like the first time he’d gone on a foraging expedition to the surface; the light of day, the cool breeze of autumn, the green of the trees and the amazing openness of the sky. It had been too much for him at first, but Sennak, Lord Sennak’s son, had gone forth without fear, as if that alien world were native to him.
But that was Sennak. He’d always been brave, even fearless, and unafraid of change or discovery. That’s why Mirrik couldn’t believe that he’d turned the other warrior leaders against the paladin. How could he deny the power they’d all felt? Didn’t he recognize the call of powers greater than his ancient, nearly-dead father?
The day would soon come when Sennak’s father passed to the realms of the ancestors and the tomb they had carved for him would be his permanent home. Nothing they’d built in this world would last forever. Life was too fickle. He found trusting in the guidance of a higher power much more comforting than trusting Lord Sennak to ensure their future, especially in the face of what the paladin had told them was an imminent, overwhelming danger. Couldn’t Sennak the younger see that?
Mirrik had passed the landing of the great staircase that led to the middle deeps; the area around Lord Sennak’s halls where four warrior groups lived. Hemmet’s warrior group was one of them, though Sennak’s was not. Trusting no one else to guard the approaches to the inner sea, Lord Sennak had sent his son’s warrior group down to guard the deepest, richest area their gen controlled.
Ahead of him, the sound of many kobolds and goats could be heard mingling about in the great chamber of one of the warrior groups. As Mirrik burst into the large common chamber, he saw many frightened kobolds, all gathering what they could carry, but none of them gathering together yet. It was as if they wanted to flee, but had been commanded to stay. Many of them were milling about, talking to each other in hushed, yet urgent tones.
Mirrik passed quickly through the chamber on his way to the throne room.
“Hail, Mirrik,” the voice came from behind. Turning quickly, he saw Hemmet approaching.
“My friend, I assumed you’d be in the throne room working on Sennak and the others,” Mirrik answered.
Hemmet shook his head. “Already there has been much talk. They will not come with us.”
Mirrik pointed back toward the chamber he’d just passed through. “But you saw the look on their faces back there. There’s fear in their eyes, Hemmet. Surely Bantor won’t hold them here,” he said, referring to the warrior group leader whose chamber it was. “Come, let us go and help them reconsider.”
Hemmet watched as Mirrik turned and strode purposefully toward the throne room. Shaking his head and sighing, Hemmet followed.
“Durik says you should go. That’s enough for me.” Gorgon stood with meaty arm
s folded across his broad chest. Seated behind him, Jerrig, Arbelk, and Troka looked worried.
In front of him Sennak the younger sat next to the opulent feather bed, a bowl of broth held in one hand as he rubbed his ancient father’s cheek to rouse him. Despite his efforts, Lord Sennak the Just did not respond. If anything, his breathing became shallower as the blood drained further from his face.
Sennak put the bowl down. Broth would do no good now, Sennak knew, yet still in his heart he held out some hope that the old warrior would somehow pull through this sickness as he had overcome others in the past. Seated and standing around the room were the few kobolds that were closest to Lord Sennak; the other three warrior group leaders and Lord Sennak’s two bodyguards. It was a testament to how poorly Lord Sennak had treated them that none of Sennak the younger’s siblings were present, nor had the old kobold ever had time or the inclination to bear the antics of their whelps, and it had been decades now since his lifemate had gone to join the ancestors. The pain of his father’s situation was not lost on Sennak.
Standing, Sennak turned to face Gorgon with the look of one who was sincerely considering what was being said. “Gorgon, perhaps in my heart I want to follow the paladin’s words,” he started, then turned to look at his dying father, “but while my father lives, he is still Lord of the Deep Gen and I owe my loyalty to him.”
At that moment Mirrik and Hemmet walked respectfully into their lord’s bedchamber. Coming to stand over near the other three warrior group leaders, the pair looked just as worried as their three peers, though the strain in their recent relationship showed as the two stood apart from their friends.
“My lord,” the kobold with bronze-tipped scales stood and took a step in front of Gorgon, “I am Jerrig, cousin of the paladin,” he began.
Sennak nodded at the much thinner kobold. There seemed to be an inherent lack of confidence in this young kobold, yet at the same time there seemed to be great strength. The dichotomy of Jerrig’s presence caught Sennak somewhat off guard.
“I am not lord of this gen, Jerrig of the Kale Gen,” Sennak corrected him. “My father still rules.”
Jerrig looked to the five warrior group leaders. On their faces was written the same fear and worry that he and his little party of Kale Gen warriors were feeling. Yet his words seemed to set spark to an unspoken hope in their eyes.
“I believe, if you look in their eyes,” Jerrig said, indicating the five warrior group leaders, “you’ll see that they understand what you’re going through, for they love your father too.”
Sennak felt disarmed by the young kobold.
“In their eyes I also see concern,” Jerrig pressed forward. “There is a crisis looming for all of us. This is not a time to look after the dying. This is a time to see to the living.”
Around the room the rest of the warrior group leaders stiffened their backs a bit and looked expectantly at the younger Sennak.
Mirrik spoke out in support. “Aye, Sennak. You’ll have my support to lead us, if you’ll look after us as your father did.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Take us to the surface like the paladin spoke.”
“I will support you as well,” Hemmet spoke in turn. “Whatever the future will bring us I do not know, but now is a time of action. This paladin… this Durik from the Kale Gen… his words ring true. We all felt it. We all know what we need to do. But we need someone to lead this gen.”
Bantor, a peer warrior group leader of theirs, spoke guardedly to his two conciliatory peers. “Then you’ll follow Sennak, just like that,” he said, clearly not past the pain.
“Aye. But of course.” Mirrik put his hand on Bantor’s arm. “I only want what is best for our people. Come now, it is time to let the past be past, and let us take action now to secure our future.”
Bantor nodded his head, as did the other two warrior group leaders. He spoke directly to Sennak, who was bowed over his father’s still form. “Aye, Sennak. I believe I speak for the rest of us when I say that we are all behind you. All hail Lord Sennak, Lord of the Deep Gen!”
The five warrior group leaders all repeated the hail in unison. “And long may he live and rule our people!” Mirrik added.
Standing off to the side, the Kale Gen warriors looked at each other. The change had been quick, and neither of them was sure what had been decided about evacuating the underdark. Was the new Lord Sennak committed to fleeing the deeps or not? Would the old Lord Sennak recover and counter his son’s claim to rulership?
As he’d listened to his fellow warrior group leaders, Sennak the younger had asked himself that last question as well. Then, as he looked down at his father, he noticed that he had stopped breathing. Sitting down quickly, Sennak held his hand over his father’s snout and waited. When a few moments passed without feeling air, Sennak closed his eyes and hung his head.
Now, there would be no other choice. Lord Sennak the Just had passed on to the realms of the Ancestors, and Lord Sennak the Younger would now take his place.
Jerrig hurried along behind Gorgon, who was fuming. Arbelk and Troka hurried along a few steps behind. “What is wrong with these kobolds?! Why can’t they just do what they say?!”
Apparently, Bantor’s second had turned his warrior group against leaving the underdark, and had taken the warrior group down the great stairway further into the underdark where they could wait until the rest of the gen had left before returning to their homes. Rather than try to change their minds, Bantor decided to follow after them. He’d apparently caught up to them and was even now bringing them back, but not to join the rest of the gen. No, he had sent word back that he and his warrior group would not be leaving the underdark.
Lord Sennak the Younger had asked Gorgon to catch up to them and deliver a message. ‘We are no enemies. I promise you we’ll return in a few days if this prophecy proves itself false.’ It was a conciliatory approach that Gorgon found particularly distasteful.
“What is this? Their new lord says move and they say no? Whoever heard of such insolence?” Gorgon was almost shouting. “And yet he sends us with a message rather than sending his warriors to force them to comply! Failure in leadership, that’s what I say!”
Jerrig was walking along in silence. He’d left his home and all that was familiar to him for some months, before the year of training. That had been traumatic. He knew what these Deep Gen kobolds must be feeling.
Gorgon noticed that Jerrig wasn’t saying anything. Looking over at him, Gorgon snorted. “And what are you thinking?”
Jerrig was caught a bit off guard. Despite his better sense, he spoke up anyway. “Well, I can understand why they wouldn’t want to leave. After all, think about it from their perspective. They’ve lived here their whole life, then some foreigner talks their leader into making them uproot their entire lives, leave their homes, and go to some place they’ve only ever heard about in stories. It is a very hard thing to do. I can see why they’re rebelling.”
“Thinking like that will get you killed, Jerrig. Obedience and hard work, that’s the key! These kobolds don’t need to be understood, they just need to obey!”
Jerrig raised one brow as he looked over at his muscle-bound leader. With a dismissive look, he kept walking. “Well, I agree they need to obey, but I don’t see why trying to understand them isn’t the right thing to do.”
Gorgon refused to continue the conversation, and the four Kale Gen warriors descended the great stairway in relative silence for a while. For some time as they descended the stairway they passed small groups of kobold refugees; members of Lord Sennak the Younger’s warrior group that had been ordered to gather to the lord’s hall. Unlike Bantor’s second, Lord Sennak’s second had been obedient to the summons and was even now gathering the last of the stragglers.
Soon the four warriors arrived at the final landing of the great stairway, to where Lord Sennak’s warrior group made its home. From here they’d been told it wasn’t such easy going. The great stairway ended, though the shaft continued muc
h farther into the underdark, down to the great underground sea that permeated this whole lower portion of the underdark with the stench of salt water and rotting fish. On the edge of the landing a stand with a great mountain goat’s horn on it stood ready. It was the alert mechanism Lord Sennak’s warrior group had prepared to call for reinforcements in case of invasion from below.
Before them a rockslide down into a partially collapsed cavern with a low ceiling was bisected by a well-worn path. Along the side of the path some of the larger rocks had been stood upright to provide something to lean against as one descended the path to the entryway that was cut into the rock at the bottom of the slide.
As Gorgon stood surveying the route, Jerrig, Troka, and Arbelk came up behind him and stopped short on the small landing.
“Oh good. I was growing tired of stairs anyway,” Arbelk mused.
Gorgon looked worried. “This warrior group of Bantor’s is traveling faster than I expected… or they left earlier than we were told. It can’t be far from dawn in the valleys above. Even if we do get the message to them, what good will it do?”
Jerrig nodded his head. “Aye. We’ve not been sent to bring them back, only to deliver a conciliatory message. Meanwhile, if we keep going, there’s no way we’ll be out of the underdark by dawn.”
Arbelk, breathing hard even though the party had left their armor and packs with the guards at the top of the stairway, chimed in. “Yes, and if these ants show up, as it is we’ll have to fight our way out.”