The Game of Fates (62 page)

Morigar
ran blindly in his fear for some distance down several ramps, each separated
from the other by landings packed with ancient, ruined dwarven shops,
businesses, and guard posts.  A couple of times along the way Morigar was sure
he’d seen glowing, beady eyes peering out of the darkness toward him.  Once
he’d thought he’d seen a large rat, clearly kobold size, standing on two feet
and carrying something in… hands?  He’d only caught a glimpse of it in a large,
cluttered room as he ran past an open doorway, but that had been enough.

Finally,
after running for all he was worth, the broad passage spilled into a vast
common chamber, ringed by many doorways and smaller passageways that shone dark
in the cool underground air.  Not daring to venture out into the middle of the
huge open chamber, Morigar reached out a hand and began to follow the wall to
his right.  Passing what had to have been an ancient guard post, then a complex
of workshops full of smashed forges and woodworking materials, he arrived at a
doorway that still had dwarven letters scribed above it.  He’d never seriously
studied dwarven runes, and he doubted they were relevant anymore anyway. 

Looking
across the vast common chamber again, this time he noticed a broad passageway
in the next wall.  By the slightly warmer air that exuded from it, he guessed
it might be the dragon’s lair.  Somehow in his fear-addled mind, he remembered
that dragons kept large hordes, which often held enchanted items.

Suddenly,
for the first time in several hours, Morigar greed overcame his fear, and he
moved in an almost zombie-like fashion toward the entryway to the dragon’s
lair.

Reaching
the open entryway, he looked down the long, sloping passageway.  At the bottom
of the passageway, light from some unseen fire pierced the darkness, stripping
heat vision yet revealing very little at this distance.  Summoning up whatever
shred of courage he had, Morigar walked down the long passageway, eventually
coming out into what had to be an arena.  It was a bowshot in width, and twice
that in length, with braziers of dancing, magical red flame spaced evenly on
the lowest tier of the many rings of stone benches that rose up almost to the
ceiling in concentric rectangles starting not five steps in height off the
floor.

What
the rings of stone benches contained, however, had a much more stunning impact
on the young, aspiring princeling than the fine dwarven architecture or even
the magical firepots.  Spread out in full array on the benches ringing the
entire arena were a multitude of containers, piles, and collections of precious
items.  Gold coins in huge, meticulously counted stacks sat next to small
wooden frames whereon were draped tens of necklaces of precious stones, each
one meticulously spaced from those around it and categorized according to some
method.  Weapon racks stood with their swords and axes arranged by size, while
armor sat in neat piles or on armor dummies in neat rows by type.  Boxes of
silver ingots, each one shined to perfection, occupied almost the entire length
of one row.  All throughout the benches small boxes of precious stones were
dispersed between and among the various precious items, all in a very precise
pattern, while almost every square inch of wall was taken up by tapestries,
most of which were obviously not of dwarven origin and had to have been brought
in from somewhere else.  On their faces faeries danced, human warriors prepared
to ride off to battle, great castles dominated their surrounding lands, and
noble kings sat in judgment on their thrones.  But most noticeably of all, the
myriad of tapestries was arranged according to size, starting with the smallest
ones on both sides of one end of the hall, and growing larger until the largest
tapestry of all covered what appeared to be an opening in the far wall of the
arena.

Morigar
was stunned at the amazing amount of wealth that sat here, right before his
eyes.  For several very long moments he stood there just taking it in. 
Finally, he began wandering around the arena, not yet venturing up into the
stands that surrounded the arena floor.

Suddenly,
he stopped and looked at the five stone pedestals that sat at the very edge of
the arena just in front of him.  Each pedestal was labeled with the name of one
of the original five kobold gens, in the writing of The Sorcerer.  Sitting on a
pillow on the pedestal labeled ‘Krech’ for a gen which lay some weeks away
toward the coast of the great sea, lay a fist-sized translucent stone with
bronze flecks in it.

Morigar
stood and gawked at the stone for a few moments, questioning whether he was
really seeing what he thought he was seeing.  Finally, he climbed up the wall
to the edge of the benches and took the stone in hand.  The look of greed in
his eyes changed to one of absolute, utter ambition and greed.

“With
this, I can leave these valleys and my father’s gen and I can go and establish
myself as the true ruler of the Krech Gen!  Who needs the Krall Gen when I can
have the Krech Gen!”

At
that exact moment, a light appeared at the top of the slope and Morigar heard
feet approaching down the long ramp that led down to this, the dragon’s lair.

Carefully
placing the Krech Stone in his belt pouch, Morigar unsheathed his sword and ran
over next to the entryway, prepared to ambush whoever might be coming down the
passageway.

In
a few moments Krebbekar came into the chamber, riding his dog, followed by a
rather tall humanoid with a glowing bow.

D
rakebane the Mighty, Chieftain of
the Bloodhand Orc Tribe, stood scowling in front of the groveling handful of
orc warriors that served as a sorry excuse for scouts.  ‘Come back by
sun-high-in-sky’ he had told them.  Had they not understood?  They were as
stupid as stones.  Because of these miserable scouts his horde had been blind
for the whole day.

Twice
he had decided to move on the Kale kobolds, but both times his hobgoblin
advisors had told him to be patient.  He did not like it, but they were smart. 
They understood war like this, war of many numbers.

Looking
at the leader of the scouts with disdain, Drakebane hefted his axe and moved
suddenly up to the fool.  The scout leader had the good sense to try to run
away when he heard his leader coming.  He wasn’t fast enough, however, and
Drakebane’s axe came down hard on his back, breaking his ribs and cleaving deep
into his spine.

This
war Drakebane understood, war of one on one.

“Get
up, fools!” Drakebane screamed in pent-up anger.  “Your slow make horde lose
whole day!  Now night comes, so we must stay here!  Now all of valley know we
here, and all of valley have time to come together!”

Behind
Drakebane, the hobgoblin Ahn-Ki, who served as Voice of Chieftain, stood
patiently waiting for the orc chieftain to get the rest of his anger out.  It
didn’t take long, but another orc had to die before his anger was spent. 
Fortunately, one of the orcs volunteered for the honor.  He’d dared to speak
up; something about wanting to report what he saw…

Ahn-Ki
smiled, but did not laugh out loud.  Orcs were such a brutal bunch, but
exhilarating in their simplicity and predictability.

After
a few more moments, as Drakebane finished venting his anger, the well-scarred
hobgoblin mercenary cleared his throat.  Drakebane looked back at the
hobgoblin.

“What?!”

“Mighty
chieftain, I would think that this is a good thing,” Ahn-Ki said as he crossed
his arms over his armored chest.

Drakebane’s
brow furrowed as he thought quickly.  What was he missing?  He had no idea. 
“Um, maybe.  Why you think I think is good?”

“Mighty
chief, because you wanted to catch kobolds all in one place.  If we catch them
by surprise, they will run.  Now they will probably not run.  It was wise of
you to have your scouts alert the kobolds to gather, mighty chieftain.”

Drakebane
thought for a moment, then he thought for another moment.  Ahn-Ki used so many
words to say things, some of his words Drakebane didn’t know either.  Looking
at the groveling scouts that Ahn-Ki had advised him to send out, he spat at
them.

“That
for making me kill scout leader!”  Turning, he walked back toward his tent,
which was the only tent in the orc and ogre part of the camp.

“Very
good, mighty chief, I will debrief the scouts, then,” Ahn-Ki bowed slightly as
Drakebane the Mighty passed by, never taking his eyes off of the brutish
half-beast.  Drakebane looked at him as he passed by, as if questioning whether
or not he had just been insulted.  Not being able to resolve his question
definitively, Drakebane kept walking.

As
the chieftain entered his tent, Ahn-Ki turned to the remaining scouts.

Jominai
of the Kobold Gen stood with his key advisors around the broad, flat rock that
served as something of a table for his leadership team.  This rock was the
precise reason he had chosen to have his tent put here, and from here the rest
of their hasty fortress had been arranged.

Starting
from this rock, out to two hundred paces in all directions, the area had been
cleared of all trees and sleeping areas for the various levy groups had been
designated.  To surround them, and to make good use of the trees they felled,
under Marbo’s watchful eye the entire camp’s warriors had spent the better part
of one entire watch digging a ditch, two kobolds deep by three kobolds wide,
piling the dirt on the inside in a mound of equal height.  On top of that mound
they had stuck the trees they had felled, though they were cut into lengths of
no more than a kobold’s height and sharpened at the end.  Finally, Marbo had
agreed with Krulak’s chief elite warrior to have the one hundred wolf-riding
cavalry from their home gen build the gates, one facing east and one facing
west, as the levies simply couldn’t be counted on to do a respectable job of
it.  The same went for guarding those gates.  The Kobold Gen leaders would
depend on their own for that, not leaving such a key task to some half-trained
mongrel from one of the degenerate gens.

As
Jominai sat thinking about the arrangement of the camp, which was a marvel of
engineering compared to what the degenerate gens normally did while on the
march, he looked about the circle of leaders at the leaders of the four
degenerate gen contingents. 

The
Nipjik had sent a competent enough leader.  He was a fiery individual whose bad
temper probably got him this assignment. 

The
Kijik leader, Kipja if he remembered correctly, was docile enough.  He seemed
most interested in just getting this thing done and going home. 

The
Picor gen leader was a bore, and lazy to boot.  He always had a story to tell,
but it never pertained to anything that was going on at the moment.  Jominai
wondered if the old, fat Picor leader had ever actually wielded a sword, or if
he just talked his enemies to death. 

Last
of them all, the leader the Five Gens had sent was the leader of one of their
five gens.  Somehow, they had worked out some system among themselves to take
turns whenever the time came to raise a levy.  This time, it fell to the gen
with the unpronounceable name.  He’d wished it were different, but one didn’t
have to be able to pronounce a gen’s name, as long as their warriors showed up
and obeyed their leaders…  And as long as the leaders themselves obeyed Jominai
and Marbo in turn.

Standing
around the map spread on the rock with Jominai and the four gen leaders, Marbo
and the four elite warriors from his contingent that were assigned to the four
leaders looked well worn, but satisfied with the day’s results.  For a day of
such moderate heat, the salt stains evident on their leather jerkins was tale
enough of the efforts they had spent drilling the levies and preparing them for
the possible fight ahead.

Off
to one side of the tent the blessed Oracle Demo and the covenant mage, Gaenthik
by name, sat conversing.  It had been a boring enough day for them, with
Gaenthik spending his time pouring over a tome on fire manipulation using red
dragon dialectics in the draconic language while Demo spent his time providing
medical care for minor health issues and magical healing for two injuries that
had occurred during the day’s training.

“I
don’t think we can know how the Kales will react,” Marbo was saying.  “You’re
asking me to guess whether they will decide to stand and fight, or just let the
orcs have what they want.  It has been a long time since I’ve interacted with
any of the Kale Gen’s leaders, but the one I do know—Kazar of the chainmail
fist or some such name like that—I don’t see him rolling over for the orcs.”

The
other Kobold Gen elite warriors all looked uncomfortable with the conversation
as well.  Finally, one of them spoke up.  “I’ve got to admit that they probably
have the best trained warriors in the two valleys, next to ours that is.  That
may embolden them to fight.”

Marbo
nodded as he looked at the four leaders from the four degenerate gens.  “Yes,
very true.  So, if it comes down to it, we may just have to fight them, Kipja.”

The
Kijik Gen leader grimaced.  He’d been volunteered for this duty, but that
didn’t mean he had to like it.  “Is just… Is just that after orcs go, Kale Gen
and us still be here.  If we fight them, they no will like us never ever any
more.  Not for long many times.”  Kipja’s command of The Sorcerer’s Tongue was
better than most of the degenerate gen kobolds, but it still left much to be
desired.  Nonetheless, he certainly was getting his message across.

Jominai
nodded his head while Marbo looked cautiously over at his untried, young
leader.  “I think it’s been on all of our minds,” Jominai stated.  “I see no
use in denying it.  None of us want to go to war with the Kale Gen, despite
what the orcs want.”

Marbo
nodded unwillingly, yet in obedient support of his young leader, “Yes, but what
are we to do about it?  We have our orders, and I don’t think we can do much
about it.”

Jominai
looked about the circle.  None of the Kobold Gen elite warriors were going to
say anything, not with Marbo standing against further discussion of the
matter.  None of the degenerate gen leaders looked particularly willing to
speak up.  So, looking over at the Oracle and covenant mage, he called out to
them.

“Demo! 
In your role as Oracle of the Ancestors, do you have any advice for us?  What
say the books of our heritage?  Have any ever been in this situation before?”

Demo
looked up from the blade of grass he’d been toying with and stood up.  “Um,
yes… perhaps, but certainly not precisely the same situation.  History, like
lightning, never strikes the same way twice, you know.”

Jominai
looked at him to continue.  “I know our gens have had to provide warriors to
the Bloodhand Orcs and others before them, to fight in their petty inter-tribal
wars.  Is there any instance there where our people have been able to escape
that service?”  He finally prompted Demo to continue.

“Well…
yes, actually,” Demo, the Oracle of the Ancestors replied.  “If I remember
correctly, there is a story of a lord some time back who initially went out in
service, then upon arriving at the orc’s encampment found that the other orc
tribe had been there and destroyed the orc tribe he was to serve already.  As
such, he and his host promptly returned home.”

Jominai
pursed his lips.  “I don’t think hoping for some other force to take out the
orcs is a viable option.  Any others?”

Demo
shook his head.  “None come to mind, sire.”

Looking
around at the assembled group of leaders, Jominai finally sighed a resigned
sigh.  “Well, if it comes down to it, my fellow kobolds, let it not be said
that we struck the first blow.  Let us hold back as much as we can, and wait
rather than go after any of our brethren in this valley.  Ensure you pass the
word.  We will not strike the first blow.  If there is to be hatred between our
valleys, so be it, but I am not convinced that the Creator has let the Fates
run amok against us.  We shall yet see what His will is in this matter, perhaps
through the actions of the Kales themselves.”

The
massive beast that was the ant queen held the little creature up closer to her
large, multi-faceted eyes.  Though she had torn off one of its limbs, it still
continued to struggle.  They were tenacious little creatures, not as soft and
weak as the four-legged horned food that she and her children ate in their home
on the great flat earth.  Though this creature was smaller and more fearful
than the much larger horned creatures that ran about on the great flat earth in
packs on their two legs, it seemed almost as resilient and defiant.  It was not
giving up life easily.  In fact, its few brothers who were with it had been
just as defiant, before she had fed them to her children.

Had
her daughter not expected this?  Had she underestimated the little food of the
valley above?  Was this why she had died?  Food had its uses, and sometimes
caused disorder, but never before had food gained power enough to kill one of
her daughters!  This was unacceptable, and for that she would take the food of
this valley… all of it… and she would stay here until it was done.

Yes,
she would miss the food of the great flat earth where her hills rose far above
the place of two rivers joining, but it would have to be done.  Food had to be
food.  And when food saw itself in any other way, it had to be put down.  Generations
of queens had passed this knowledge to her.  It was such a fact that it didn’t
even merit the use of the ant queen’s rare gift; she would not use her precious
ability to think, to reconsider.  There was no other way.