by Joel Babbitt
“My people,” Durik spoke calmly. “I have been chosen to be a paladin; one who has power from The Sorcerer to heal and to harm, with the special charge to restore the Kale Stone to our gen in this, our time of need.”
Durik looked about himself into the expectant eyes of his warriors. “I am not the chosen Oracle of Kale, and I have not yet been commanded to give the stone to that oracle. I hold the stone until I am told otherwise.”
He could see that several around the circle were struggling to comprehend what he was telling them. Honestly, he barely understood it himself.
“Sire, will the Kale Stone save us from the orcs and from the ants that have come to destroy us?” the elite warrior Pintor asked the question that all of them had.
Durik smiled. “I cannot see the end of this conflict, but this I know; ours is to fight with all that we have and all that we are. The Kale Stone is a power, given by The Sorcerer to our first ancestor Kale. And it has been returned to us, His children, in our time of greatest need by a being of great power, who is called Morgra.
“I do not believe that it will do our work for us, but rather that it will help us do our work. But I am confident that, with the power of the Kale Stone on our side, and more importantly with the power of our unity as a people, that we can overcome the challenges of this day.
“Now,” Durik raised his hands. “Let us be up and see this conflict through.” All around him the Wolf Riders began to stand, and Durik turned to Firepaw, preparing to mount up.
“Sire,” Pintor asked, “will you claim lordship of our gen?”
Durik stopped and turned slowly around. All around him the eyes of his warriors looked at him expectantly. Among them were a handful whom he had just saved from certain death by the power the Kale Stone. Beside him, Manebrow stood with a blank expression on his face.
“Because we would support you, sire,” Pintor continued. All around the circle voices were raised in agreement. It seemed as though a greater hope had been lit in their eyes with the revealing of the Kale Stone, yet now it seemed as if that hope was being turned to ambition.
Durik shook his head slowly. His answer was calm, yet clear and firm. “My brothers in arms, I fight not to take power, but to preserve it for he whose right it is to rule. Let no one mistake what I say here this day. I am flattered by your question, and your support, but I have not been given power for my own purposes, but to serve our gen. I will hold true to my charge as a servant of The Sorcerer.”
“Sire,” another of the elite warriors spoke up. “Will you give the Kale Stone to Lord Karthan?”
Durik mounted up and turned to the rest of the group, who still stood looking at him expectantly. “If that is Morgra’s will, then yes.”
“And if not?” the warrior asked as the rest of the warrior group began to mount up.
“Then we shall have a new lord,” Durik answered as he kicked Firepaw in the ribs. Soon the entire warrior group had followed him out of the meadow and back along the trail, their nine dead warriors and the few wolves who had been killed left behind in hastily covered holes.
The time would come for the proper burial of these nine; brothers, cousins, fathers and lifemates all. But for now, the dead would have to see to themselves.
The stench of orc lay heavy in the early morning air as Drok lay still in the underbrush. In the rocky streambed below his hiding place the orc scouts had already passed and the main body of the orc horde now marched along at a fast pace, their column expanding to fill the width of what was clearly the easiest road in this underbrush-choked part of the valley. Interspersed among them were a number of ogres, their bulky frames towering far above the orcs, almost to the level of the rise where Drok and his team were hiding.
Drok turned over and looked back across the small meadow to one of his warriors hiding in the tree line beyond. Drok gave the signal for ‘enemy scouts,’ then ‘enemy main force’ and the young warrior mounted his wolf and took off at a run down the deer trail they had used to pace the orcs thus far. Grabbing the kobold next to him, he whispered in his ear. “Get the team ready to move. I’ll follow after I get a count.”
The warrior started to crawl back when Drok grabbed his arm and pointed at his face.
“Tell them to keep quiet, and don’t leave without me!” he whispered.
Standing around the bend in the river, Durik’s tail swished nervously. It was one thing to attack an enemy, or be attacked by an enemy. It was another thing all together to act as bait for a determined enemy, one they’d already poked and prodded to a near frenzy!
Around him in the muddy streambed the five volunteers standing next to their mounts were having a hard time acting casually. Firepaw and the other mounts were feeling it as well. Their only consolation in acting as bait was the presence of half of the group with their mounts all lounging about just upstream from them, in an attempt to look too burdened by wounded and dying companions to keep moving. It wasn’t much of a deception, but then orcs weren’t that hard to deceive. If he could just get the orcs to attack in strength…
The orc scouts were none too stealthy either, and Durik’s little team of volunteers had heard them coming for some time. Now he was sure the scouts were only a spear throw away, just around the corner.
“Come on, take the bait!” he muttered under his breath. The tension was starting to get to him.
After several moments the sound of hobnail boots running back down the stream could be heard and the six kobolds all breathed a sigh of relief together. Looking back above the heads of the almost thirty warriors that made up his half of the contingent, up the steep slope and past the pile of brush that hid their construction and into the eyes of Manebrow, who hid off to one side of their secret weapon, Durik gave the signal.
With a nod, Manebrow turned and motioned. In a moment a handful of warriors appeared at the top of the slope, on either side of the mass of brush that covered what they had built in the streambed that cut through the tall slope. With a quiet reminder and motioning for them to get down, soon only Manebrow was visible again, though here and there a head popped up or the handle of a lever shifted in and out of view.
Almost on cue, the sound of hobnail boots running on the rock of the streambed could be heard approaching the bend of the river. It was only a few, but not far behind them a lot more feet, many of them very heavy, could be heard approaching.
The five volunteers all looked at Durik expectantly. With a motion to stand fast, Durik turned slightly to keep half an eye out for the orc scouts.
“Sire!” one of his companions whispered urgently.
“Wait for it!” he whispered firmly. Just off to the side of the streambed next to the brush-covered construction his half of the wolf riders were clearly ready to run at the slightest notice. Many tails swished nervously, and most could hear their hearts beating in their ears.
At that moment the first of the ogres spotted Durik’s warriors lounging about on the shore from around the bend in the muddy streambed. The great beast let out a war cry, which was all that the kobolds needed to hear.
As one, Durik and the five volunteers jumped into the saddle as their wolves struggled to run, with or without them. Behind the six warriors the first of the orcs spilled around the corner of the streambed, axes raised and yelling a war cry as they ran after the little team of riders.
Despite Durik’s heavy armor, Firepaw quickly outpaced the rest of the little team of volunteers, leaping onto the far bank in one swift jump and almost dropping Durik in the process. Behind them the other five riders made it up, though one of them had to dismount to do it. All around Durik his half of the warrior group was up and either mounting their wolves or already prodding them toward the slope up and out of the little bowl-like dell.
Grabbing a warrior who had fallen down by his shoulder belt, Durik got him back on his feet and looked behind him. With some sense of pride, he saw that the last of his riders were just behind him and preparing for the run up the slope and out of th
e little bowl. But not far behind them two ogres had broken out in front of the orcs and were less than a bowshot away.
Suddenly, with a loud crack and a groan, the brush at the top of the slope exploded outward under a huge stream of water. With it came several large tree trunks, loosed just in time to break through and widen the breech that Manebrow and his warriors had made in the makeshift dam. With a massive groan, the entire dam gave way, bursting outward in a cascade of water and tree trunks that made an earth-shaking impact on the muddy streambed.
With eyes wide open in terror, the lead pair of ogres jumped for all they were worth toward the safety of the slope where Durik and the last couple of wolf riders were climbing. One of the massive brutes made it to the slope, but the other proved too slow and was thrown aside like a rag doll when a massive tree trunk spun through the water, taking his feet with it then churning the huge ogre about in the froth.
Turning back to look at the other ogre, its eyes wild with fear, Durik spun Firepaw around and charged back. Suddenly, from the slope above him, a bolt of fire sped past Durik’s ear and struck the ogre in the side, causing it to recoil slightly. As the ogre began to turn to look at for what had attacked it, Durik drove his spear home in the beast’s kidney, then quickly withdrew his spear. The excruciating pain of the blow caused the ogre to spasm. Jerking uncontrollably with the pain, the mighty ogre fell forward into the deluge and became just another projectile swept along in the current.
Turning Firepaw back toward the slope, Durik saw Kiria’s outstretched hand, a ball of fire already forming in it. As the ogre fell into the water, however, the fire faded and she dropped her outstretched hands.
The water from the burst reservoir quickly passed by as Durik stopped again and looked downstream, leaving in its wake a much smaller, fast flowing stream. Smashed and half-buried under logs, a myriad of soaked and limp forms lay strewn along the streambed, their faces contorted in shock and their limbs twisted in all directions. The ambush had been a success. The orcs had taken the bait and Durik’s trap had caught many of them. Further down the stream the rest of the orcs and their ogre mercenaries seemed to be quite busy helping those who hadn’t been killed out of the water.
Turning Firepaw away from the scene, Durik prodded him forward and up the slope. At the top of the slope, Kiria stood beaming with both the satisfaction of having helped Durik slay the ogre and the pride at having been a part of such a feat of destructive engineering.
“That was very good, Kiria, both the dam and fire,” Durik complimented her.
Kiria looked down, the pride beaming in her face attempting to hide behind a more demure demeanor. “Thank you,” she said. “But your idea of breaking the dam did so much to help save our gen, I just helped where I could.”
Durik smiled at her modesty, but by Manebrow’s assessment of the team that made the dam into a trap, the idea wouldn’t have worked without her knowledge of dwarven engineering. The mud that covered much of her, and the scratches in several places on her arms and legs told the story of the effort she’d made so far, and she had become additionally useful by her magic.
“Will you ride with me a while?” Durik asked.
Surprised at the invitation, Kiria asked “Is there something else to plan?”
Durik shook his head. “No. I would just appreciate your company.”
Kiria flashed a brilliant smile that, despite the dirt and filth, was electrifying to the young warrior leader. In a moment she had mounted her riding dog and was following Durik to the head of the column.
Soon the entire Wolf Riders Warrior Group was on the move again. Where there had been a thousand orcs and fifty ogres, by Durik’s count there were now just shy of two hundred less orcs, and a double handful less ogres as well.
Not bad for a small contingent of kobold warriors, Durik thought. In his heart he hoped that it would be enough to turn the course of the looming battle. Despite their strength and fierceness, the orcs were turning out to be easier to take on than he had expected. But Durik knew this was not the only threat. No, these orcs were but the first of their troubles.
Jominai, who led the four hundred levies from the degenerate gens, rode up next to Krulak, who led the Kobold Gen’s one hundred warrior contribution to the Bloodhand Orc Tribe’s levy for this raid. In the streambed in front of them almost a hundred orcs and a pair of ogres lay dead, their corpses twisted and heaped upon one another like so much dung.
The pair of Kobold Gen leader caste sat upon their riding wolves, surveying the scene for several moments before either of them spoke. Finally, Krulak broke the silence.
“All along the way we see dead orcs and ogres. Finally, a few dead Kales and wolves, a double handful at most at the last ambush site.” Krulak shook his head. “And now this,” he said, waving his hand at the disaster the orcs had suffered at the broken dam.
“It’s a good thing Drakebane doesn’t trust us enough to send us after the Kales,” Jominai said. “This cavalry contingent seems to be very good at what they do.”
The two sat on their mounts in silence for a few moments.
“I was thinking,” Jominai started in, almost too eagerly, “that if the Kales are that good of warriors, that our alliance with the orcs might not be necessary… if this keeps up that is.”
Krulak nodded in agreement. “Yes, but I do not think that one expert cavalry commander is enough to persuade me. Let us see what the Fates bring us before we openly defy these orcs.”
Chapter 10 – The Strength of the Houses of Kale and Krall
Lord Karthan breathed in the early morning air. It had been a late night and he had commanded all to get some sleep about halfway into the second watch of the night. Still, even with his command, some of the workshops in his gen’s home had not gone silent at all. Now, as the sun finally crested Lord Krall’s mountain in the east, he looked back down the long line of warriors that trailed away behind him like a snake.
The eyes of those in the lead companies squinted as they topped the latest rise and were exposed to the full brilliance of the sun’s rays. Spear tips and shield rims glinted in the direct rays of the sun while steam rose from their dew-laden cloaks with the warmth it brought.
Knowing they still had some distance to go before they arrived at the Picket Line, Lord Karthan turned his wolf toward the rise that lay to the right side of the broad path. Dismounting, he led his wolf up the rise to the top, where he stood looking back down the trail at what had to be the largest force the Kale Gen had ever assembled.
In the lead of the massive column, thirty companies of thirty to forty warriors each, led by picked elite warriors, made up all the strength of what two days ago had been called the Kale Gen; all the strength other than Durik’s Wolf Riders and the Trade Warrior Group that is. The thousand or so warriors looked resplendent with their iron-rimmed rectangular shields and steel-tipped spears glinting in the sun. On their backs were bows with quivers full of arrows, each of which was sharp and straight. As each company topped the hill and came face to face with the brilliant sunlight, they greeted their lord and commander with enthusiastic cheers.
Behind the thirty Kale companies came the warriors from the outcasts, each of which had been given several javelins and a shield, as many as they could each carry. Though there were only a hundred or so of them, he hoped that they would serve well as skirmishers and slow down the enemy’s advance so the archers could get a few more volleys in. In their front, Kale and his brother wore grim expressions. They both nodded at Lord Karthan as their contingent passed.
Behind these came the five warrior groups of the Deep Gen, as they insisted on being called. Lord Karthan had talked to their Lord Sennak, as he also insisted on being called, but rather than ask to rejoin his people to the Kale Gen, he had said that they would fight beside them, not as part of the Kale Gen. Lord Karthan, in response, had said that he would gladly have their strength in this battle, and that his gen would host them until the hostilities were over, after which this Se
nnak had thought to return to the underdark. Two of the other four warrior group leaders, Mirrik and Hemmet by name, had disagreed, but the conversation had ended with the Deep Gen leaders deciding to not decide until after the battle.
Whatever the political reality was, Lord Karthan was glad to have these fellow descendants of Kale marching with them. Nearly eight hundred more spears, swords, and shields on their side was nothing to scoff at. They had almost no bows, however, being from the small confines of the underdark.
Finally, at the end of the long line, Lord Karthan could see the Trade Warrior Group, which they had decided to not organize into the Kale companies, coming with every packdog they could muster. On the backs of these dogs were many a mundane item, arrows, picks, and spades mostly, though extra rations and empty water skins for filling from the nearby stream were abundant as well.
But mundane items were not all that they brought. Near the front of the baggage train Lord Karthan could see that Goryon had accomplished the task he had set himself to a couple of days ago in the loyalist enclosure. Behind Goryon and his team, who had been joined by his son Gorgon and his team just up from the underdark, a pair of what looked like massive crossbows drawn by four packdogs each rolled along on rough wooden wheels. The members of each of their two teams were well laden down with what looked like spears, though each had feathers to guide it in flight. Lord Karthan shuddered as he thought about the destructive power of the two large weapons.
Leading his wolf down from the rise, Lord Karthan remounted and worked his way back toward the head of the column, chatting with warriors along the way and offering words of hope and encouragement. For a force so hastily assembled, near half of it from refugees that had arrived in scattered groups throughout the night, they seemed of good spirits and cohesive enough marching next to kin and life-long friends, with respected members of their own disparate communities leading them.