The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  “Lizard men” was the term the humans used to derisively refer to draconians—an insult that never failed to make Kang’s scales twitch. His troops bore no more resemblance to lizards than humans did to … well … monkeys, for example. The draconians were much closer akin to their parents, dragons.

  The shortest draconian stands six feet tall, Kang himself was seven feet in height. They walk upright on powerful haunches, their clawed feet needing no shoes or boots. Their clawed hands are adept at wielding the weapons of war. All draconians except the Auraks (who don’t get along well with their fellow draconians and therefore tend to be loners) have wings. These wings allow them to glide short distances or float through the air. The Sivaks can actually fly. Draconians’ eyes gleam red, their long snouts are filled with sharp fangs.

  Draconians are intelligent, much more intelligent than goblins. This created a problem during the war, for many of the draconians proved to be far more intelligent than the humans who led them. Bozaks, like Kang, have an inborn talent for magic, similar to that possessed by their doomed parents. And though the draconians had been brought into the world with only one objective—to destroy any force that opposed them—the longer they remained in the world, the greater their need to be part of the world.

  Kang took a moment to regard his troops with pride, a pride that, these days, seemed always to be mingled with sorrow. Once there had been six rows of draconian solders lined up before their commander. Now they were down to four. Every time he gave this speech, there were fewer to hear him.

  He glanced over at Gloth, standing with the Support Troop in the rear. And there was the soldier who had disobeyed orders and picked up the crossbow.

  Kang lifted his voice. “You fought well today, men! Once again, we forced the enemy to retreat, while suffering no significant casualties.” He made no mention of the lost sheep. “It has come to my attention, however, that some of you are dissatisfied with the way I’ve been running things around here. We’re not in the army anymore. But we all agreed that our only hope for survival was to maintain our discipline. You chose me to be your commander, a responsibility I take seriously. Under my leadership, we’ve held on here for twenty-five years. Life hasn’t been easy, but then life for us has never been easy.

  “Yet, we managed to build this.” Kang gestured to the neat rows of cabins made of pine logs that stood inside the compound. “This village of ours is the first settlement ever constructed by our people.”

  The first, said a voice inside Kang. And the last.

  “I want to remind you,” he continued, his voice quiet, “of the reasons why we left the army. Why we came here.”

  The troops stood still, not a scale clicked, no link of armor jingled.

  “We, the First Dragonarmy Engineers, have a proud history of service in the War of the Lance. We were commended for our meritorious actions by Lord Ariakus himself. We remained loyal to our Dark Queen, even during that terrible time in Neraka, when our leaders forgot their noble mission and instead turned on each other.”

  Kang paused a moment to relive history. “Think back on that time, men, and learn from it. Our armies had succeeded, by a stroke of luck, in capturing the so-called Golden General, the elf female who was leading the troops of the so-called Forces of Good. And what did our commanders do with her? Instead of just slitting her throat, as would have been the most sensible course of action, they put her on display for the Dark Queen’s pleasure. As even a kender could have foreseen, a group of her motley friends, led by a bastard half-elf, turned up to rescue her. In the fight for the Crown of Power, Lord Ariakus managed to get himself skewered. Some bloke with a green jewel in his chest impaled himself on a rock and the Temple collapsed, bringing Her Dark Majesty’s ambitions down with it.

  “You all remember that time,” Kang said, his voice hardening. “We were ordered by our human commanders to fight to the death, while they escaped! Many of our kind died that day. We chose not to obey. Some of us had foreseen this terrible end. As far as we were concerned, these human commanders had forfeited, by their stupidity and greed, their right to lead us. We marched off, leaving the war to those who had bungled it. You elected me leader and, under my leadership, we headed south, looking for a place to hide, a place to live.

  “Evil turns in upon itself, or so the god-cursed Knights of Solamnia say. But that is not true of the First Engineers.” Kang spoke with growing pride. “We fought as a cohesive unit for years. We were disciplined soldiers, accustomed to obeying orders. And we had a new ambition, one that was born in the smoke and flame of battle. We were sick of killing, sick of slaughter, sick of wanton destruction. We felt the urge to build, to settle, to leave something of ourselves behind on this world. Something lasting and permanent.

  “You recall that time. How we were pursued by the knights. We headed for the Kharolis mountains—long a haven for exiles and outcasts. We reached it, finally, and found ourselves in the lands controlled by the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin. The Knights of Solamnia weren’t about to get themselves killed for what was now a dwarven cause. They left us for the dwarves to handle, and went back to celebrating their glorious victory.

  “It might have gone badly for us, but our numbers were relatively few. We posed no threat to the heavily fortified underground kingdom of Thorbardin, and so the Thorbardin dwarves saw no reason to risk their lives chasing us down.

  “We made camp in this valley, nestled in the foothills between Mount Celebund and Mount Dashinak. Our first objective—we built the wall. Our camp turned into a fortification. The fortification became a village.”

  Kang sighed deeply. “We have just one problem. We draconians are not farmers. Nothing we plant ever grows. No seed we sow ever bears fruit.”

  He did not speak the rest, they all knew it. The futile attempts to make anything grow in the barren ground was a cruel metaphor of their own lives. They were born of magic. No female draconians existed. Their race would be the first and the last to feel Krynn’s sun warm their scales.

  “We would have perished of starvation long ago,” Kang admitted, “if it weren’t for the hill dwarves.”

  The hill dwarves’ village was located on the opposite face of the valley, on the side of Mount Celebund. During the winter, when game was scarce and the draconians were facing starvation, they did what was necessary for survival. They raided their neighbor’s larder.

  “You remember those first raids,” Kang said grimly. “Bloody affairs for both sides. The dwarves suffered the most. With our experience and sheer size, we overpowered even the best dwarven warriors. Still, we were the ones at the disadvantage. When one of our warriors falls, he falls for good. There will be no replacements—ever.”

  Before the War of the Lance, the evil clerics of Takhisis had developed the arcane art of perverting good dragon eggs, changing the unborn baby dragon into a host of monstrous beings. Using various magicks and sorceries, the evil cleric Wyrllish, the black-robed mage Dracart, and the ancient red dragon Harkiel the Bender, produced the warrior race which the armies of Takhisis sorely needed—the draconians.

  The dragon-spawned draconians proved to be so powerful in their strength, intelligence and cunning, that their creators feared them. Lord Ariakus decided that the commanders could control the draconians only if they could control their numbers. He and the other Dragon Highlords forbade the making of females. The draconians could never breed. The Highlords’ elite shock troops had finite numbers. Presumably, when the battle was over and the Dark Queen victorious, she would no longer need the draconians. And by that time, most of them would be dead.

  “I watched our people die off in battle with the dwarves,” Kang said, “and I knew that, over time, we would be a people no longer. We would cease to exist. Of course, we could have wiped out the hill dwarves, but then what? Who would tend the fields of wheat? Who would raise the sheep? Who would”—Kang ran his tongue over his fangs—“distill that concoction of the gods known as dwarf spirits? We’d starve to dea
th! What’s worse, we’d die of thirst!

  “The other troop commanders and I came up with a possible solution. On our next raid, I ordered all weapons left behind. You know what happened. We grabbed the same number of loaves of bread, snatched up the same amount of chickens, and—most important—we made off with the same quantity of dwarf spirits as the first raid, but our losses were considerably less.

  “We fought our way in and out using fists and tails and a little magic. No one died on either side. There were bruises all around and broken bones, but they healed. And, I am pleased to note, when the hill dwarves raided us a month later, they carried no weapons. Thus a tradition was born. It has become an unspoken covenant between the two settlements.

  “I know it’s frustrating,” Kang admitted. “I know that you’d like nothing better than to rip off a dwarf’s head and stuff it down his throat. I feel the same way. But we can’t give them the satisfaction.

  “Understood? Then, dismissed.”

  “Three cheers for the commander!” Slith yelled.

  The troops cheered, heartily enough. They respected and admired their leader. Kang had worked hard to gain their respect, but now he was wondering if he’d truly earned it. Oh, sure, it had been a good speech, but when all was said and done, what victory had the draconians really won? Living behind a wall, fighting constantly to survive, and for what?

  All they lived for was to get drunk every night and tell the same blasted war stories over and over and over.

  Why do we even bother? Kang wondered morosely.

  He traipsed back alone to his cabin to indulge himself in his hang-over.

  An hour later, Slith knocked on Kang’s door.

  Kang’s quarters were built into the main administration building in the center of the village. Slith’s quarters were on the other side of the same building. The armory and tool shed were located in back.

  Kang’s quarters consisted of a large meeting room, with a small bedroom off to the side. It was not luxurious, but it was comfortable. An oil lamp—of dwarven make—rested on a bare table. Kang sat in his chair, facing the door. A mug of dwarven ale was ready for Slith. Kang had poured one for himself.

  “That was a good speech today, sir,” Slith said on entering.

  Kang nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for talk. Fortunately, he knew Slith would be.

  “You’re right, you know, sir. Our lives are pretty good at that. The dwarves raid us, take a few sheep and what weapons they can lay their hands on, and then we go and do the same to them, swiping spirits and ale, tools and bread. Every time they raid us, we pound ’em, push ’em back, and I come in here for ale. Believe it or not, sir, I find some comfort in that. I know what to expect out of life.”

  Kang gave a glum shrug. “You’re right, I suppose. Still, I keep thinking there should be more to it than this.”

  “You’re a dragon-spawned soldier,” Slith said, nodding wisely. “You yearn for the battlefield. You yearn to command troops in a life-or-death struggle, a struggle for glory.”

  Kang took a sip of his ale, pondered this. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything. None of us knows how long we’re going to live, but it won’t be forever. What will remain after we’re gone? Nothing. We’re the last of our race.”

  Slith laughed. “Sir, you can be the most depressing bastard I’ve ever met! What does it matter what happens after we die? We won’t be around to know the difference!”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Kang said moodily, and took a long pull on his ale.

  Slith waited a few moments to see if his commander was going to cheer up, but Kang remained stubbornly immersed in gloom. He stared into his ale, and watched the flies buzz around the rag on which he’d wiped the rotten egg.

  “See you for dinner, sir,” Slith said, and left his commander to his black mood.

  Kang put away his armor and harness. By force of habit, he cleaned his already clean sword before re-sheathing it and hung the belt on a hook near the door.

  He went to bed, to rest through the heat of the day, the heat that was so very unusual for midsummer in the mountains. He did not sleep, but lay, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

  Slith had a point.

  “What does it matter after we die?” Kang asked the buzzing flies. “What indeed?”

  Chapter Three

  The four dwarves ran along a hunting trail that zig-zagged through the tinder-dry meadow grass. Though it was early morning still, the sun beat on their iron helms like Reorx’s hammer. Three were wearing leather armor and heavy boots and sweating profusely. The fourth was clad in a belted tunic, breeches and soft cloth slippers, known disparagingly among the dwarves as “kender shoes,” because, supposedly, they permitted the wearer to move as stealthily as a kender. This fourth dwarf was relatively cool and quite comfortable.

  The dwarves had done well for themselves on the raid that morning. One held a small lamb over his neck, grasping it by its legs. Two carried a large crate between them. The fourth dwarf carried nothing, which also accounted for the fact that he was enjoying the walk.

  One of the dwarves hefting the heavy, rattling crate noticed this singularity. Huffing and puffing from the heat and his exertion, the dwarf complained.

  “Hey, Selquist, what are we? Your pack horses? Come here and give us a hand.”

  “Now, Auger,” replied the dwarf, fixing his companion with a stern eye, “you know that I have a bad back.”

  ‘I know you can crawl through windows without any trouble,” Auger grumbled. “And you can move pretty fast when you have to, like when that draconian came at us with the club. I never see you hobbling around or crippled up.”

  “That’s because I take care of myself,” said Selquist.

  “He does that, all right,” grumbled another of the dwarves to his companion.

  Any well-traveled person on Ansalon could have told at a glance that these were hill dwarves, as opposed to their cousins the mountain dwarves. At least, the traveled person could have said that about three of the dwarves. They had nondescript brown hair, light brown skin and the ruddy cheeks that come of being raised from childhood up on the healthful properties of nut-ale.

  The fourth dwarf, whose name was Selquist (his mother, something of a romantic, had named him after an elven hero in a popular bard’s tale; no one is quite certain why), might have given the traveler pause. He appeared to fit into no specific category. His clothes were similar to those of his fellows, a shade less tidy, perhaps.

  He wore a ring, rather battered, of a metal that he claimed was silver. This dwarf—youngish, considered lean among his stout fellows—also said the ring was magic. No one had ever witnessed any evidence of this, although all would admit that Selquist was quite good at performing at least one trick: making other people’s personal possessions disappear.

  “Besides, Mortar, my friend,” Selquist added, “I, too, am carrying something—a most valuable treasure. If my hands aren’t free, how will I defend it in case we’re attacked?”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mortar demanded. “What?”

  Selquist exhibited with pride an amulet he wore around his neck.

  “Big deal,” said Pestle, Mortar’s brother. “A penny on a chain. Probably worth less than a penny. Bet it’s fool’s gold, like those gully dwarves tried to palm off on us in Pax Tharkas.”

  “It is not!” Selquist returned indignantly.

  Just to make certain, when the others weren’t looking, he slowed his running long enough to take a good look at it.

  The amulet was made of metal, but it wasn’t a coin, at least not like any coin Selquist had seen, and he’d seen quite a few in his lifetime. It was shaped like a pentagram. Each point of the pentagram had a dragon’s head inside it. The five-headed dragon identified it as a relic of the Dark Queen, making it worth quite a bit to those who traded in souvenirs from the War of the Lance. He had found the amulet while rummaging around in a draconian’s footlocker.

  “In fa
ct,” he said to himself, “it would be worth a whole lot more if it turned out to be magic!”

  At that, a rather unpleasant thought occurred to Selquist. Hastily, he snatched off the amulet and thrust it in the money pouch hanging from his belt.

  “The last thing I need is to be cursed by the Dark Queen for appropriating her jewelry,” he muttered. Increasing his speed, he hurried after his companions. “I’ll pass that along as an extra benefit to the buyer.”

  The four crossed over a low ridge and were at last able to slow their pace. It was unlikely the draconians would have chased them in this heat, but the dwarves were not taking chances. They could now see the smoke of the village cooking fires. They could hear the cheers of the people, welcoming the warriors home.

  The main body of raiders had already returned, battered and bruised, but in good spirits. The entire population of the village of Celebundin was gathered at the meeting hall to greet the returning heroes.

  These four, who lagged behind, were missing the celebration, but that didn’t bother them. They wouldn’t have been included anyway. In fact, there were those in the village who would have celebrated if these four hadn’t come back.

  Selquist and his party deliberately avoided the crowd, heading for Selquist’s house, which was located on the outskirts of the village. Selquist unlocked the three locks on the door—he was of a suspicious nature—and entered. His three assistants clomped in behind him and dumped the crate on the floor. He shut the door, struck a match to light an oil lamp.