by Joel Babbitt
Looking into Durik’s expectant eyes, Kale placed a hand on his shoulder. “Loyal servant of The Sorcerer, it is not time yet. These would not accept me. But that time will come and you will know it when it does.”
Finishing his circuit of the room, Durik sat down. Though everyone in the room had felt the power of the stone that Durik carried, all eyes were on Kale.
“My people will join with your people in your plan, Lord Karthan,” Kale spoke with a humility and confidence that somehow did not contradict each other. “But please understand that the small contingent of outcasts I brought with me are not all who will return to defend our gen. Even now I must go and prepare my people to help gather the remnants of those who have called themselves the Deep Gen, since the days of their exile.”
Lord Karthan nodded.
“By your leave, then, my lord,” Kale bowed slightly. “I go to the cavern where my people are your guests. When you call, I will go to the cliff you call Sheerface. Please prepare to receive several hundred more warriors, with their families.”
With that, Kale turned and left.
With Kale’s departure, it was as if the spell had broken.
“Durik, where can we expect this second horde of ants to approach from?” Lord Karthan asked, bringing everyone back to the present situation.
Durik had been lost in his own thoughts, and it took him a moment to recompose his thoughts. “They come through the underdark, my lord. By dawn they will be upon the Deep Gen. I would imagine it would only be a couple of hours before they’re at Sheerface from there.”
“This Deep Gen you speak of,” Lord Karthan began, “what of them? Are they coming to join with us, and if so, how many warriors do they actually have?”
Durik’s brow rose as he thought for a moment. “Sire, they said they were to follow. I left immediately after smiting their wicked ruler with the power of the stone. All of their remaining leaders had committed to follow me to Sheerface, once they had gathered their people. As for their strength, I would not doubt Kale’s assessment. I believe they could easily have a thousand warriors among their six warrior groups and their lord’s personal guard.”
Lord Karthan thought for a moment. He looked about at the various clusters of elite warriors. There was not a leader caste among them, except Durik, and he’d just been appointed to leadership of the Wolf Riders Warrior Group not more than a couple of hours ago. It was the same with chief elite warriors. The only one was Manebrow. How would he handle so many? How would they possibly fight in a coordinated fashion without leader caste and chief elite warriors?
In a flash of inspiration, it came to him.
“My warriors,” Lord Karthan spoke. “We must do three things.
“First, we must send forces out to keep eyes on the orc horde, to keep the orcs blind to our movements, and to lead them into a trap of our choosing.
“Second, we must prepare to defend our home with the combined might of all of the Kale Gen, to include the Deep Gen and the outcasts.
“Third, we must seal up Sheerface, and prevent the second ant horde from coming against us until we have dealt with the orc horde. Only in this way will we be able to defeat both hordes. Warriors, we shall divide our enemies and conquer them!”
By now, the focus of all the warriors was on the task at hand. None of them could afford to linger on the advent of the Kale Stone. There was work to be done in the here and now.
Durik, prompted by Manebrow, stood up. “Sire!”
“Yes, Durik.”
“The Wolf Riders Warrior Group is ready to do its duty, sire. We shall be your eyes and ears, and more than keep them blind, I believe we can lead them on a merry dance.”
Lord Karthan looked at Durik quizzically. “And what do you mean by that?”
“Sire, we will divert them in their route of march, causing them to delay by several hours if possible. That should give time for our forces to equip, organize, march, and set up a battlefield to their liking.”
“Very well,” Lord Karthan agreed. “Go. Gather your forces and leave as soon as you can. Check with me prior to leaving, however, so I can tell you where we shall set our traps for the orcs, so that you can lead them into them.”
“Aye, sire,” Durik responded as the two leaders stood up and, donning helmets, departed the planning chamber. Behind them, as the pair departed, Lord Karthan continued to speak.
“Now, for the matter of how we shall set up our forces. Knowing the disarray we’ve suffered these past few days, I believe the right way to organize is to set up in blocks, with elite warriors forming the first rank of the shield wall and all of their warriors in a line behind them.
“We shall establish two separate blocks; one under my command and one under the command of Khazak Mail Fist. While it remains to be seen whether the Deep Gen kobolds will want to fight this way, we will not count on it, but rather we will give them a wing of our formation to hold. Let them fight how they see fit.
“I think the same is likely to hold true for our brethren of the Krall Gen. Assuming they make it here in time for the fight, we shall give them a wing to hold as well. Either way, one or both of our two blocks will hold the center.
“As for the outcasts, I think if we arm them with javelins and train them how to use them, they’ll likely make decent skirmishers. I don’t see them being comfortable in a shield wall with us. I think it best they fight in a loose forma…”
Lord Karthan’s voice had faded to the point where the two leaders could no longer hear him as they made their way quickly down the main thoroughfare into the bowels of their gen’s home caverns, where the Wolf Riders Warrior Group was found.
The old Loremaster, venerable as he was, had not lived to such an advanced age by mere luck alone. He was and always had been a master at lying low when it really mattered.
Within the Scrolls of Heritage was an observation, which simply stated that ‘he who is lowly shall inherit the house of the mighty.’ Always, it seemed, after the clashing of swords and the shouting of dissidents faded into history, those who were left alive were those who inherited what was left, the quiet, lowly ones to be precise; those who had had enough sense to keep their heads down and ride out the storm.
After yet another overthrow attempt, yet another generation of greedy and self-important kobolds had gone to the ancestors, and those who had quietly gone about their way were left to inherit the mighty home of the Kale Gen yet again. This particular uprising brought a particular benefit to the otherwise unassuming old kobold. As it turned out, Lord Karthan had disbanded the Deep Guard; Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s old group. So, taking advantage of the turmoil, the old Loremaster had his assistants move him in. After all, it was a much larger house, with a fireplace that vented directly to the surface instead of out onto his porch in the leaders’ grotto where the smoke would pool up and flow back into his house, spoiling the air. Once things were settled to his satisfaction, which, being a kobold of few real possessions, didn’t take long, he was very pleased with the new arrangements. Indeed, the lowly did inherit the houses of the mighty.
It was there, in Khee-lar’s former house, that Khazak eventually found the old codger. He had been surprised to find him still alive, as Khee-lar had killed off not just the warrior group leaders, but several of the functional leaders as well.
As it turned out, however, Khee-lar Shadow Hand hadn’t had any interest in history or lore, and neither had any of his supporters. In fact, in the whole two weeks he had not been sent for even once.
Khazak simply relayed the message and shook his head in wonderment at the joyful old kobold enjoying his new house, then left to attend to his other duties.
With a sigh, the Loremaster eventually got up and sent for an assistant to fetch the Wolf Riders’ set of the Scrolls of Heritage, and to arrange for Durik to meet him at Durik’s new house a few doors down from his. The young ones typically didn’t listen much to him, being full of the juices of life and distracted by every passing thing, but th
is Durik did seem to be a bit more receptive than most. Perhaps Durik would have a question that would challenge him. Now that would be interesting…
It had not taken long for Durik to assess the warriors in his group. Only one of Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s ‘Untouchables’ had come from the Wolf Riders, and he had died in the fall down Sheerface. Durik knew he was dead, for that matter, as he’d passed his body thrown off to one side before taking the lift up.
The rest of his warrior group had either not participated in the action, or had actively opposed it and therefore had had to flee with Lord Karthan and his core of loyalists. Of his seventy-three riders, fully twenty-six of them had marched with Lord Karthan to retake the gen, led by his uncle Drok. The remaining warriors had been in disarray after Raoros Fang’s death at the hands of Abetor, their former chief elite warrior. Abetor had basically ignored them, being too involved in entertaining his new lord and his other friends on that evil council.
There had been no need for any tribunals, and Durik was happy for that. Manebrow wasn’t so sure, however, that all the evil that had occurred had come out yet. But for now he held his peace. ‘Let time heal the wounds, or let them fester until they have to come clean,’ he’d told Durik when no one confessed to, nor accused anyone of any wrong doing.
When all was said and done, the primer on justice the Loremaster had given him had been a waste of time, for now at least. For that, Durik thanked the Fates. While Durik had struggled through these challenges, the elite warriors had gone about preparing for what everyone knew would be a challenging night ahead.
Now, wolves and warriors had been fed, rations and equipment packed, weapons and saddles readied, even tools for moving rocks and earth loaded. Drok and his team had returned from gathering the families of the loyalists from their temporary exile in the enclosure to the north, and Manebrow had returned from a brief, but joyful reunion with his family. All were gathered, all was ready, and Durik gave the word to move to the sunken valley that was the entrance to their gen’s caverns.
Durik, dressed in his gleaming steel scale armor, mounted Firepaw and took the reins from his servant Kabbak, urging his mount slightly forward until he came up next to his aunt and sister.
“You look so handsome, Durik.” His aunt Karial beamed with pride at the whelp she had raised to be such an honorable adult. Beside her, Durik’s sister Darya still had the look of one who carried a heavy burden. She had been taken into Khee-lar’s harem at the beginning of his reign and had endured unspeakable things at the hands of Khee-lar’s henchmen.
Looking down now with sadness and a nearly broken heart for his dear sister, Durik lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Darya, do not worry about Keryak. I left him in good hands. He is with Ardan, and Ardan is with the Krall Gen’s forces. I wouldn’t doubt it if he were to return tonight.”
Darya just looked away from her brother, her look only more forlorn.
“Darya, I don’t pretend to know what happened to you in there, but know this; Keryak is a good kobold. He will love you no matter what. Nothing that’s happened this past couple of weeks will change that. Remember, Keryak and I are best of friends, just as you and I are. Hold onto that, my dear little sister. Please hold onto that.”
Darya’s forlorn look seemed to soften somewhat, but like clouds passing before the moon, soon her face was a mask of pain yet again.
“Durik,” his aunt spoke to him. “I will take care of her. You look out for your uncle. Drok is not as spry as he used to be.” She paused for a moment, her lip quivering. “Just bring him back to me, please, Durik. I would miss him horribly if he died.”
Durik leaned down and kissed the kobold who had raised him as though she were his mother for these past six years. His heart was full, but the tasks at hand were calling to him. “I will, dear aunt. Remember, he is like a father to me. I will watch after him.”
With that, Durik nudged Firepaw forward. Riding up next to Manebrow, he called out. “Manebrow, take the warrior group up to the sunken meadow and join me at the council chamber. Have the warriors walk their wolves about a bit in the cool night air. It will do them some good.”
Manebrow nodded his understanding.
“I go to talk with Lord Karthan. I’ll await your arrival in the council chamber.” Firepaw took off at a slow jog, while behind Durik the elite warriors called their teams into line.
Chapter 2 – At the Hall of the Mountain King
Krebbekar looked down at the mass of kobolds and handful of orcs that huddled about in fearful little groups at the bottom of the chasm. By the shreds of their equipment, he could tell that they were mostly the remnants of the mercenaries they’d captured and slaves they’d freed back at the dwarven outpost; the same group that Morigar had brought here for some foolish reason or another. The fact that the dragon had not eaten them yet gave Krebbekar a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Morigar might actually still be alive.
Now that the dragon had passed by here and taken flight, most likely in search of food, the entire group of captives had ceased their wailing and were huddling together to comfort one another again. Finishing his scan of the captives, Krebbekar looked up at the tall elf that was his strange new companion and shook his head. Arren nodded knowingly then nimbly crossed the rough log bridge, leaving the more finished side for Krebbekar and his mount.
Cursing his luck for having broken his right foot in the climb down from the Chop, Krebbekar tugged on the reins and clicked his tongue to guide his riding dog forward and over the boards that someone, or something, had laid over one side of the entryway into the Hall of the Mountain King. Arriving at the other side, he plunged into the deep darkness of the entryway, passing over the splinters and scraps of metal that were all that remained of the doors that had once stood here. The coolness of the stone in the evening air was soothing to his dog’s worn paws, though the smell of the place hung heavy with dragon, a fact that was unsettling to both rider and dog.
Not five steps into the entryway a light suddenly flared into existence next to Krebbekar. Looking over in surprise, he saw the elf holding up his bow, a translucent stone set in the handle now emanating a brilliant, pure light.
“Well, I guess we go by your light then,” Krebbekar remarked.
“I am afraid I cannot see in the darkness as you can, my little friend,” Arren said.
Krebbekar, who was already in a surly mood, glared up at the elf. “If we’re going to be traveling together, this ‘little friend’ thing is going to have to stop.”
Somewhat taken aback, Arren smiled and nodded. “So be it, then. But you have yet to tell me your name.”
“Krebbekar, leader of the Krall Gen’s house guard,” he answered.
“Very well, then… Krebbekar,” Arren bowed slightly, then continued moving down the broad passage that was the entryway. “Tell me, why did this fool you’re searching for come here, to a dragon’s lair?”
Krebbekar prodded his dog forward to keep up with the long-legged elf. “My warriors tell me it was to hire the dragon to help our gen fight these orcs, but the more I think about it, the more I can’t help but think that he had some ulterior motive.”
The pair came upon a double doorway on the right, which Arren ducked into, quickly sweeping the ruins of what had once been a mule stable for the dwarven fortress’s caravans before re-emerging. On the left side Krebbekar had done the same with the base of the watch tower, which was much smaller.
“So, do you think the dragon has any guards in place?” Krebbekar asked as the elf re-emerged from the mule stables.
“It’s not likely,” Arren answered as the pair continued down the passageway past an area full of the splinters and scraps of ancient carts on one side and beds of what had to have been some sort of quick reaction force on the other. “After all, guards typically take money, unless they’re undead that is. It’s more likely we’ll find cowering slaves than anything else.”
“Undead?” Krebbekar asked. “What do you mean
un-dead?”
Arren looked at the kobold warrior quizzically. “You know, things like skeletons or zombies.”
Krebbekar still seemed confused. “What do we have to fear from skeletons? Dead is dead, isn’t it? And what are these ‘zombies’ you’re talking about?”
Arren shook his head. “My lit… Krebbekar, dragons often manipulate the power of Dharma Kor to give a sort of half-life to skeletons of creatures whom they have killed. These constructions can’t think past following simple instructions, but they’re harder to, well, kill let’s say, than something that’s living.”
Krebbekar remembered reading something in the libraries of his gen a couple of decades ago that dealt with such things, but he’d clearly forgotten it over the intervening years.
“Ah,” he spat, “then these zombies are the same, or something worse?”
Arren smiled. “Those are just skeletons with more meat on them. They take a bit more hacking up than skeletons, and depending on how freshly dead they were when animated, they may actually have a rudimentary bit of intelligence left.”
“Oh joy,” Krebbekar muttered sarcastically. The pair had arrived as the gaping entryway that marked the transition from the outer construction to the underground halls and their connecting passageways. “Well, then, on that happy note, I guess it’s time to plunge into the dragon’s lair itself.”
Silently, the pair of warriors passed through the archway, over the fallen stone doors, and into the vault of the dragons.
Morigar’s ears pricked up. From somewhere in the back rooms of what had to be an ancient dwarven inn a scratching noise could barely be heard. With trembling hands he reached out and picked up his sword, the noise of the blade scraping across the stone grating on his already frayed nerves. Slowly, the kobold princeling stood up, his back pressed against the thin stone wall that the builders of this particular part of the Hall of the Mountain King had used to separate the various guest rooms.