The Game of Fates (65 page)

“Sire,”
Manebrow called in a low tone to his leader who rode not more than a spear’s
length to his front.  Catching his eye, he gave the hand signal to dismount. 
Durik nodded his agreement and held up his hand to signal the halt.  Not many
paces later the lead scouts had seen the signal as well and the entire warrior
group came to a halt.  Signaling the dismount, Manebrow and Durik slipped out
of their saddles and to the ground.

“Sire,”
Manebrow spoke in a low voice as he stepped up next to his leader.  “Not more
than a ridge or two away is where the orcs halted.”

Durik
nodded.  “Let’s leave the rest of the warrior group here, and go forward to
look at how we want to do this raid.”

Manebrow
nodded then turned and beckoned for Drok to come forward.  After a short
conversation where he put Drok in charge in their absence, then stressed
keeping a watch out and ensuring that everyone got some rest, he sent Drok on
his way to pass the word to the rest of the elite warriors.  Shedding their
armor and leaving their wolves in the care of their warriors, the pair of
leaders disappeared down the forest path into the night.

While
all this was happening, the rest of the warrior group had dismounted and had
shifted equipment in preparation to continue the march by foot.  This was not
the first time they had done this this night.  They had alternated between
riding and walking to rest their mounts for the entire journey, usually
stopping at potential ambush spots along the way to drop off an elite warrior
and his team of warriors.  As part of their plan, each team had been told to
loosen boulders on hills, or to set spikes along the edges of the trail, or to
do whatever else they could to prepare a series of nasty surprises for the
orcs.  There had been several pieces of ground that were uniquely suited to
setting up ambushes, to include a streambed that could be easily dammed up,
with the intent of breaking it at the right moment.  Kiria and her team had
been left at this obstacle.  He hadn’t known it before, but Kiria had studied
ancient dwarven engineering and had a plan the moment she saw the streambed.

The
energy that all of their ideas released was contagious.  Once his warriors
began to see the pattern of how they would fight this night, it was all Durik
could do to keep them from seizing
every
good spot.  They simply didn’t
have enough warriors for
that
, however.

Now,
as midnight and the end of this stage of their journey approached, bright steam
rose from both wolf and rider in the inky darkness under the forest’s boughs. 
Moving from one group to the next of the thirty or so warriors that were still
with the main body of the warrior group, Drok passed the word to each elite
warrior to have their warriors rest themselves and their mounts, and to eat and
check equipment.  It had already been a long evening, and it would certainly be
a very long and sleepless night once the orcs were roused.  In such conditions
a warrior has to catch what rest he can, for ability to endure is often the
difference between victory and death.

Returning
to the front of the column, Drok sat next to his mount and dug into his rations
bag while he awaited the return of his leaders.  As he ate, his thoughts turned
from time to time to the strangeness of how the kobold he had raised as a son
was now in charge of him, but he staved off any thoughts of jealousy by
reminding himself of all the other idiots he’d known in his life who had
somehow been promoted into leadership.  He was glad that none of those were his
leader now.  At least Durik had a good head on his shoulders and a good heart. 
And besides, Drok had had quite an impact on Durik over the six years he’d
raised him.  Who else could say that about their leader caste?

Smiling
to himself, Drok stood up and went about checking over the warriors of his team
before walking around and talking with the other elite warriors.

T
hough they didn’t know it, Durik
and Manebrow were not the only scouts watching the orc horde’s encampment. 
After moving quietly through the underbrush and down deer trails until cresting
the ridgeline, Durik stopped suddenly.  Freezing in place behind him, Manebrow
scanned the forest around them until he saw it too.

There,
in the brush not a stone’s throw away from them, something living stood watching
the orc camp from behind a large rock.  It was covered from head to toe in a
cloak and other thick clothing or armor, but little wisps of heat still escaped
here and there, giving away its position to the two kobold leaders.

“What
do you think it is?” Durik whispered breathlessly in Manebrow’s ear.

After
a moment more of observing the figure, Manebrow whispered back.  “He’s not a
picket for the orc horde.  Otherwise he’d be watching our direction.  Perhaps
it’s a Krall Gen scout.  After all, we did send Ardan and his team to warn
them.”

Durik
nodded and watched for a few moments longer.  Finally, he turned back to
Manebrow.  “I’m going to approach.”

Moving
off the deer trail, Durik circumvented a large tree that stood between them,
then walked slowly forward over the bed of old pine needles that was this part
of the forest floor.  Once he got to within easy throwing distance, he stooped
down and picked up a pebble, throwing it lightly at the watcher.

The
figure turned about quickly, revealing a face obviously covered in mud, in
order to hide the heat it would otherwise project.  The eyes still glowed,
however, only more so with the adrenaline of the moment.  Drawing a sword, the
figure moved off to the side a few paces, ready to run if necessary.

Durik
put his spear down and held up both hands to show that he did not come to
fight.  After only a couple of moments the figure sheathed his sword as well
and walked forward, a broad grin on his face.

“Durik! 
Is that you?” the mud-splattered kobold whispered loudly in the deep forest.

“Yes,
who are you?” Durik replied with a bewildered look.

“And
Manebrow too?  What good fortune!” the figure replied.  “Gormanor here. 
Lemmekor’s just down this ridge a little way.”

“Gormanor?”
Durik looked quizzically at the Krall Gen scout.  “I thought you and Lemmekor
were going to stay behind and guard the prisoners in the Dwarven Outpost?  What
are you doing scouting the orc horde?”

Now
it was Gormanor’s turn to look confused.  “What?  No.  Morigar told us to
follow him with the prisoners and the treasure.  We took them up to the bridge
atop the Chop.  We ended up leaving them with Morigar, though, because he
insisted on taking the whole party off to try to hire the dragons to help him
kill the orc chieftain.”

“What?”
Durik paused in surprise. 

Having
come up beside his leader, Manebrow shook his head in bewilderment at the
news.  “He took all the treasure, and he took a bunch of northerners off to the
Hall of the Mountain King to try to buy a dragon’s loyalty?  Daft!  Absolutely
stupid.”  Manebrow shook his head in disbelief.  “I guess that’s the last we’ll
see of him, then.”

“Probably,”
Gormanor nodded in agreement.  “After all, it’s been two days since we left him
up there and we’ve not seen him returning down the Chop.  But Krebbekar did go
after him, so maybe he’ll talk some sense into him.  In the meantime, however,
Lord Krall has seen fit to send us back to the Border Guard to help scout the
orc horde.”

“Aye,”
Manebrow nodded.  “We’re here to do the same, and more!”

“We’ve
brought a force of about thirty-five wolf riders to give them a bit of a rude
awakening,” Durik added.

“Aha,
well then,” Gormanor said, “it may interest you to know that we’ve got a
perimeter set up just out of the range of the orcs’ darkvision.  We’ve been
watching them for the past day and a half, since they set up camp here.  We’re
not sure why they didn’t move yesterday, but we did see them send out a lot of
orc scouts.  We killed probably a dozen or so of them, though we did lose a few
ourselves as well.”

“I’m
sorry for your loss, but am glad to hear that you’re sticking a dagger in the
eyes of this ungainly horde,” Manebrow said.  “But what about the five hundred
or so kobold levies the orc horde has?  Isn’t it dangerous scouting so close
with their heat vision to spot you?”

“Aye,”
Gormanor answered.  “It would be, that is, if they had put out kobolds on their
picket lines.  But as it is, their kobold levies are the only ones who have
seen fit to put up a palisade.  They seem to not be on so friendly of terms
with the orcs, as we know they’ve spotted us on multiple occasions, but have
sent no one out from their little walled camp to give warning to their orc
masters.”

Manebrow
and Durik looked at each other.  The same idea played in both of their eyes.

“Gormanor,
so you’re saying that the orcs and ogres are sleeping in the open, and that
there seems to be a division between them and their kobold levies, then?” Durik
asked.

“Aye,”
Gormanor nodded.  “That pretty well sums it up, though it’s worth mentioning
that some of the orcs have tents.”

Manebrow
could already tell the plan Durik was formulating.  It was the same plan he
would execute if he were in charge.

“Gormanor,
show us how the orcs have placed their picket line, will you?”

The
few orcs who lazed about the campfire on the northwest corner of the sprawling
mess of tents and smoldering campfires that was the orc horde’s encampment were
the only guards in this area of the camp.  As one, ten small figures in dark,
hooded cloaks with mud splattered across their faces rose up from the tree line
with bows drawn.  In an instant ten arrows flew into the handful of unwary
orcs, killing most of them almost instantly and leaving two of them gasping for
breath through pierced lungs.

To
the left of the archers up on a small, grass covered hill, the line of wolf
riders all appeared at once, the torches many of them carried shining like
beacons in the dark of night.  Raising his spear into the air, the young,
armored kobold on the right side of the line looked down the line, holding the
charge back until all riders were on line.  When he received a nod from the
older armored kobold on the other side of the line, the spear dropped and the
entire line of cavalry jumped forward as one.

With
no more than the sound of running feet, the line swept down into the
hodge-podge of tents and make-shift lean-tos.  Splitting into two groups upon
reaching the outer perimeter of the camp, the younger, bronze-scaled kobold
took the almost twenty riders of his contingent to the right and began lighting
tents on fire and putting spears in orcs who were sleeping in the open as they
rode past.  To the left, the older warrior’s half of the contingent did the
same.  From behind them at the wood line, the ten archers fired arrow after arrow
at the sentries around the other campfires, killing several before they could
sound a voice of warning.

Their
aim was not true enough, however, nor were the wolf riders fast enough to reach
all of the sentries.  Soon, a hue and a cry was raised throughout the camp. 
Orcs came scrambling out of tents, many of them on fire and weaponless.  Ogres
screamed as flaming brands fell on them from their impromptu lean-tos.

By
the time the wolf riders had gone a quarter of the way around the great camp,
and turned inward toward the center of camp, the confusion had only just
begun.  In the dark of night, where only firelight from the sentry posts lit
the area, orc fought orc, not knowing what the real danger was, only knowing
that their camp was under attack.  In the dead of night many ogres smashed at
anything that moved about them.

By
the time the cavalry contingent met near the middle of camp, the entire camp
was in an uproar.  Raising his bloodied spear to halt the reunited contingent,
the young leader gathered his forces into a line.  Ahead of them, standing in a
seething line of muscle and axes, stood the chieftain’s personal guards, ten of
his strongest warriors who were not his sons.  Behind them, a large orc, much
older than most in the horde, growled a fierce command, holding back the
warriors of his bodyguard, knowing the danger of rushing into danger
unprepared.

Standing
still in the eerie light of the camp’s half-darkness, the wolf riders stared
impetuously at the outnumbered and unarmored orcs, who had been hastily
summoned from their sleep in nearby tents.  Spurring his mount forward, the
young warrior leader threw the large round object that was in his left hand
toward the line of orcs, calling out in the best orcish he could muster.

“Leave
our valley!  In the name of the Kale Gen, I command you to go!”

The
young cavalry commander then broke through his own line and led the rest of his
riders straight out of the camp toward the northwest, stabbing orcs and
avoiding the few half-awake ogres they found along the way, their torches
causing a greater conflagration as they pushed their way through.

As
Drakebane the Mighty, Chieftain of the Bloodhand Orc Tribe, walked forward to
see what these impetuous raiders had dropped at his warriors’ feet, he saw
Grimbane’s severed head lying in the dirt.  It had not been long before that
this, his strongest son, had been sent out to prick the Krall Gen into action. 
He obviously hadn’t gotten very far.

Drakebane’s
rage flared bright red in his eyes.  He saw nothing else at the moment, not the
fires, nor the many bodies of his warriors, nor did he hear the screaming of
orcs whose bodies were burning, sealed in burning tents, unable to find their
way out to safety in the smoke and confusion of the raid. 

All
thoughts of caution were gone.  All he knew was that it was time to kill. 
Calling for his axe to be brought, Drakebane ordered his warriors forward.  As
one, the warriors of his bodyguard followed him through the camp, gathering up
warriors and ogres as they went, gathering them together into as much of a mass
as they could as they ran after the lithe little kobolds on their sleek, black
wolves.

“Gormanor!”
Durik called, his face flushed with recent exertion, and his voice exultant
with the success of the raid.  “They are coming!  They took the bait!” he said
as he reined in, dismounting Firepaw in one swift motion, then leading him over
to one of the warriors who had been designated to hold the reins of those on
the line.  Turning back to the direction they had come from, Durik took the bow
from his back and set his spear against the large tree trunk they had picked
for an ambush position.

Drok
came up beside him.  “I have to admit, son,” he said, clapping Durik on the
shoulder, “that’s probably the best raid I’ve ever seen.  Brings a tear to an
old warrior’s eye to see his progeny all grown up and killing orcs like that.”

Durik
just smiled at his uncle.  “Manebrow,” he called out, “are your warriors set?”

From
the other side of the trail, behind another large trunk, Manebrow stood up from
his crouch and signaled all ready—and not a moment too soon.  From across the
meadow the first orcs came spilling into sight.  Rushing headlong, the large
green-skinned warriors began to fan out when they hit the openness of the field.

As
one, the entire line of dismounted wolf riders stood and fired.  Thirty-five
arrows sped through the air, most of them striking true as the orcs were
surprised for the second time that night, caught, as they were, in a headlong
rush.  Very soon after the first volley came a second, more ragged volley,
followed quickly by a third.

As
Durik and the half of his warrior group that were there with him at the edge of
the meadow mounted up and fled down the path into the night, behind them the
bodies of a score of orcs lay lifeless on the ground, while another dozen or so
screamed in pain or lay breathing shallow breaths as their lifeblood spilled
out upon the ground.