The Game of Fates (57 page)

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.

M
irrik’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 arms
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.