The Game of Fates (68 page)

“Khazak,
I can’t leave Gorgon and his team to their deaths.  We have to control the
panic down there, or else we’ll not get anyone else out before the ants
arrive.”

Khazak
nodded.  “Aye, sire.”  Looking up at his lord, he took a deep breath.  “Sire, I
know you’ll not like it, but I think me and some of mine have to go down there
to sort things out.”

Khazak
Mail Fist was right.  Lord Karthan didn’t like it, but in the end there wasn’t
much he could do about it.  There wasn’t anyone else that he’d trust with such
a task anyway, which was why he’d said anything at all.

“Very
well.  Take some of these Honor Guard warriors with you, then,” Lord Karthan
directed.

With
a nod, Khazak turned and stopped one of the lifts from descending.  Looking
about, he called out.  “Trallik!  Gather up a handful of Honor Guard warriors! 
We’re going down to sort out this mess, and to gather up Gorgon and his team if
we can.”

Trallik,
who had been working one of the winches with Trikki and a pair of warriors from
the outcasts, turned and replied “Yes, sire!” before taking off into the exit
passage to obey.

This
was not going to be an easy mission.  Trallik knew ants, and they had no mercy,
but he was a warrior of the Kale Gen, and part of Lord Karthan’s Honor Guard
now, and he would do his duty, even if it cost him his life.  It was strange
for him to feel this way.  Not two weeks before it had been all about him, but
now he knew his heart had been changed.

Many
kobolds would likely die before the evening arrived in the world above, and as
Trikki watched her young lifemate go to gather some of the Honor Guard that
stood watch in the outer cave, she hoped desperately that he wouldn’t be one of
them.

Gorgon
let go of Troka’s hand as the pair of them collapsed on the broad landing that
was the top of the broad stairway.  Jerrig and Arbelk were chipping rocks out
of the wall and were trying to run back and forth from the wall to the abyss
that was the great shaft down into the deeps, though their legs were near spent
so stumbling was all they could manage.  The look on their faces was one of
near panic, as they saw their doom quickly approaching.

After
several moments of willing the intense pain in his legs to stop, Gorgon crawled
over to the edge of the landing and looked down.

“Troka!”
he croaked, his throat and lungs burning.  “They’re coming, Troka!  On your
feet!” the exhausted warrior forced out as he attempted to stumble to his feet.

Troka,
laying flat on the landing, could take no more.  Gorgon had alternately carried
and drug him up the last several hundred steps.  The pain that now wracked his
body was more than he could endure.  Still panting heavily, Troka began to cry
uncontrollably.

Stumbling
over to him, Gorgon stood on crooked legs and looked down at his spent
companion.  Steeling himself one more time, he slapped Troka across the snout.

“Get
up!” he yelled.

“But
I can’t,” Troka whined in response.

Striking
Troka again, Gorgon yelled “Get up!  I’m not leaving you!”

Troka
turned over and kept crying, but began to struggle to his knees.  Gorgon
grabbed him by the crossbelts and helped him to his feet.  Thrusting his
sheathed broadsword into Troka’s arms, Gorgon sent him into the passageway that
led through Mirrik’s home caverns in the upperdeeps and out into the Crossway.

Turning,
Gorgon looked at Jerrig and Arbelk, both of whom were frantically gathering
rocks and throwing them down at the flood of ants a hundred feet below them
now.

“Go!”
Gorgon screamed at them.  Instantly, the pair of warriors woodenly obeyed,
their stiff limbs grabbing weapons and shuffling them into the passageway after
Troka.  Grabbing his hammer, Gorgon stumbled after them.

“Steady,
now, warriors of the Deep Gen,” the old warrior said, the timber of his voice
belying the nervousness they all felt.  The broad passageway had been clear for
some time, and they had just decided to begin to retreat when the noise of
pursuit began low, then grew to the sound of an oncoming flood echoing through
the upperdeeps.

With
spears and shields raised and interlocked, the group of older warriors was
ready.  The same battle-drill they had practiced for decades now served as the
common language of their resolution to stand against the impossible odds of a
great ant horde. 

As
the first figure burst out of the side passageway that led back to their home
caverns, they were surprised to see that it was, in fact, a kobold, and not an
ant at all!  Was this it, then?  Were there no ants?

Stumbling
down the broad passage known as the Crossway toward the double handful of Deep
Gen warriors, the kobold was quickly followed by three others, all of them
holding weapons and all of them running for their lives.

“Steady,
now.  Steady,” the old warrior repeated.  “I’d imagine the ants flushed these
last few stragglers out.  They should be here any moment now.”

Not
ten paces behind the last of the kobolds a pile of ants came tumbling out over
one another, blind in their sadistic eagerness to catch their prey.  Some of
these Deep Gen warriors had seen great ants before, but what they had expected
was not what they saw this day.  Standing erect on four legs, with spiked arms
and mandibles flaring, these were no mindless drones.

As
one, the veteran ant warriors rushed headlong toward the shield wall.

Within
a few short heartbeats the four fleeing kobolds were flinging themselves
through the small gap the old warriors had made for them in the shield wall. 
Immediately after them, the flood of ant warriors hit.

The
old warrior, standing in the second and final rank, braced the warrior to his
front.  Lifting his head, he was proud to see his fellows still on their feet. 
With his spear raised over his head, he joined his companions in stabbing into
the carapaced torsos of the snapping, slashing ant warriors who seemed to have
woken up out of their crazed fury after slamming into the shield wall.

For
the first few confused moments, the double line of old warriors stabbed and
smashed at the ants with spear and shield, their blows landing with some
impunity on the confused monsters.  Then, as the ant warriors recovered from
their bloodlust, they began grabbing at spears, yanking them from their owners’
grasp, wrenching away shields and knocking aside drawn swords.

Not
long after the ant warriors had hit the line, the screams of the last few aged
warriors were silenced, and all that echoed down the Crossway was the low
rumble of many, many feet.

Traveling
much faster on level ground, Gorgon and his team had honored the old warriors’
sacrifice by not stopping for even a heartbeat.

“Go! 
Go!  Go!” Khazak Mail Fist called out to the four warriors as they stumbled
around the corner far to his front.  Behind him, the last of the refugees was
boarding the last of the lifts… the last lift, that is, except for the one that
Khazak and his last few Honor Guard warriors had kept for their own retreat.

With
sweat dripping from his brow, Trallik looked breathless as desperation turned
suddenly to hope.  Grabbing him from behind, Trikki screamed out with the
tension of it all.

“Go!”
she called out as she jumped up and down.

Far
above them, the winch workers took her jumping as a tug on the rope and began
to work the winch with all they had.

“No!! 
Not yet!!!” Khazak’s voice boomed out in desperation.  But, for all his noise,
the lift operators far above him couldn’t hear his command above the din of the
refugees.

Drawing
his sword, Khazak jumped off the quickly rising platform and landed in the
sand.  Not twenty paces from him, the four warriors’ faces had gone white with
the disappearance of the platform up Sheerface.  Seeing Khazak drop from the
lift, the four warriors stumbled into the small cavern at the bottom of
Sheerface where Khazak stood urging them on.  Not a hundred paces behind them
the ants came surging forward, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to
get at the four fleeing warriors.

“Where…
where is the lift?!” Gorgon called hoarsely.

Suddenly,
a rope fell at Gorgon’s feet.  With a giddiness that only comes from
experiencing the extremes of despair, followed by the sudden hope of reprieve,
all five Kale Gen warriors grabbed the rope, riding with it toward the rim of
the cliff in the darkness far above them.

Not
long after, the cavern had been collapsed, sealing the underdark approach into
the caverns of the Kale Gen under hundreds of tons of rock and debris.

^“
W
ait for me!” Morigar whined as he
struggled to keep up with the long-legged elf and his mounted minder; Arren the
elf warrior and Krebbekar the master of Lord Krall’s house guard.

The
look that Krebbekar gave the spoiled Krall princeling said more than any words
could say.  But contrary to its normal effect, it didn’t shut Morigar up.

“We
should seek shelter with one of these local gens,” Morigar suggested.

Upon
meeting up in the dragon’s lair, the trio had immediately headed out of the
Hall of the Mountain King and even now were heading down the Winding Way toward
Outpost Hill, then Birdstone and eventually the path over the mountains to the
southern valley.  Krebbekar had no intention of hanging around the dragon’s
lair, and Arren had agreed to go along.  Though neither of the kobolds knew
why, Arren had pondered long and hard after seeing five empty pedestals, each
marked with the name of one of the original five kobold gens on it. 

Once,
after they had found shelter in a small hollow in the foothills along the way,
for some time the elf had sat mesmerized, seemingly staring into space, during
which a strange translucence had come over his face and he had spoken in a
musical, yet firm tongue that neither of the kobolds understood.  When he’d
finished, his only explanation to the pair was that it was an elvish thing, and
that they wouldn’t understand.  The dragon had passed, however, and seemed to
have finished his hunting for the night, so rather than question him further,
the trio resumed their midnight journey.

Not
far into the second watch of the night, as the trio were just reaching Outpost
Hill, a distant roaring broke the vibrant tranquility of the night.  Almost as
one the nocturnal creatures around them went fearfully silent.  Confused,
Krebbekar and Morigar both turned around.  Far to the rear of them, near where
the Hall of the Mountain King lay in the pitch darkness of the night, a flame
burst seemingly out of the ground and shot up into the air as if it had wings. 
The two kobolds looked at each other in wonder.

Arren,
however, knew the sound well and immediately looked around for the nearest place
to hide.

“Kobolds!”
Arren snapped at the two warriors.  “The dragon seems to have discovered that
we were in his lair.  Come!  Let us hide!”

As
if released from a spell, the two kobold warriors turned themselves about and
followed Arren at a run.  Though they were several bowshots away from the
closest of the ruins on Outpost Hill, the dragon was still miles away, which
gave them some hope of escaping his notice.

Reaching
the crest of the hill in front of the rest of them, Arren turned to look back
toward the Hall of the Mountain King.  In the sky far above the valley the
dragon turned large, erratic circles as it searched the valley floor for signs
of anything living.

“Hurry
now,” he urged the two kobolds on.  “He’s not seen us yet.  Perhaps we can keep
it that way.”

The
trio cast about the hilltop, looking for holes among the old fortifications on
the top of the hill.  After scrambling along a long ditch, over a rampart, and
through a number of old, ruined stone buildings, Arren spotted an old bunker entrance,
half buried in dirt which had flowed down into it over the centuries with the
rains and snows that fell in this part of the world.

Morigar
was first into the bunker, only to come running out again covered in spider
webs.  After burning them out with a torch from Arren’s pack, the elf helped
Krebbekar and his dog into the bunker, followed by a more alert Morigar.

Night
had passed quickly in the cramped quarters of the somewhat collapsed bunker
among the ruins on Outpost Hill.  Finally, as dawn broke over the northern
valley, the kobold’s heat vision, which was much the same as the dragon’s,
began to fail.  Crawling out of their little shelter, the trio saw no sign of
the dragon which had been circling the northern valley searching for them throughout
much of the night.

“Alright,
Morigar,” Krebbekar said as he settled into his saddle for another long day of
riding.  “Tell me.  Why do you think the dragon is after us?”

Morigar
looked dumbfounded.  “Why would I know?” he asked.

“Did
you take something from his lair?” Krebbekar asked directly.

Morigar
blanched and stuttered.  “I… What… What makes you think that?”  Suddenly, the
Krech Stone seemed rather heavy on his hip.

Arren
decided to help the interrogation.  “You did see how organized that dragon’s lair
was, did you not?” the elf asked.

“Yes,”
Morigar agreed.  “I’m sure if there was something missing, perhaps even the
smallest thing, that it would not have taken him long to notice it.”

Morigar
summoned up what little courage he had recovered, trying to keep a straight
face.  “No,” he answered.  “I had barely gotten there when you arrived right
behind me.  I didn’t even have time to take anything… not that I even thought
about it,” he added for good measure.

Krebbekar
looked at him, completely incredulous. 

Arren
didn’t know Morigar’s history, but it was obvious enough to him that Morigar
was lying.

“Empty
your pouches, sire,” Krebbekar said flatly.

“What!”
Morigar looked as if he’d been splashed with cold water.  “How dare you talk to
me like that!”

Krebbekar
turned his dog toward Morigar.  “You can either do as I ask now, or I will
search your pouches myself.”

Morigar
was aghast.  “You wouldn’t!”

“I
would.”

Looking
from Krebbekar to the elf, and seeing the same look in both of their eyes,
Morigar looked about as if considering his chances of escaping.

“Don’t
even think about it, sire,” Krebbekar said flatly.

Inside,
Morigar was squirming.  Now, he began squirming on the outside.

“Just
give it up, little one,” Arren said.  “I haven’t known your protector for that
long, but I very much believe that he would ride you down and search your
pouches himself.”

An
idea suddenly occurred to Morigar.  Reaching into a belt pouch, he pulled out
some of the jewelry he had pocketed from their capture of the dwarven outpost. 
Looking down, he lied.  “Fine!  I grabbed some jewelry from the dragon’s lair. 
But I didn’t think he would miss it!  He had so many nice things!”

Krebbekar
rode forward and grabbed the jewelry out of Morigar’s hand.  “I’ll take care of
that!”

With
a knowing look, Arren shook his head and began looking around.  “We should
leave those things in a place where the dragon can easily see them.”

Krebbekar
nodded.  “Aye, that we should.  Would you mind doing the honors?” he asked as
he handed the small handful of glittering gold and precious stones off to the
elf.

“Yes,”
Arren nodded and walked over to a large, blackened rock.  “This should do. 
Come, let us leave this place and hope that the dragon will search for us no
longer once he finds what was taken from him.”

Krebbekar
turned his riding dog toward the path that led out of the ruins and down the
hill.  Arren quickly followed.  Last of all, with a look of hatred mixed with
smug arrogance, Morigar followed them, holding onto the pouch that carried the
Krech Stone all the way.

“Hurry!”
Krebbekar hissed back at Morigar.  Far to the front of them Arren had found the
entrance to the Doorstep; the caves and passageways that formed a junction
between the two valleys and the underdark beneath the valleys.

With
tongue lolling, Morigar ran as fast as he could behind his protector.  “That’s
easy for you to say!” he panted.  “You’re riding a dog!  I’m on foot!”

For
the pair of hours the trio had been alternately running and walking toward the
Doorstep, they’d not seen the dragon.  Now, as the midmorning sun began to pour
its heat at them, the dragon had once again appeared from its lair, flying
almost directly along the path called the Winding Way.

The
massive beast had stopped at Outpost Hill only long enough to pick something
up; the three warriors were sure it was the jewelry.  But to their horror,
instead of heading back toward its lair, it began to fly low over the main road
that led south toward the Chop, and which would bring him close to the entrance
to the Doorstep.

To
their further horror, the dragon appeared to have spotted them and was flying
quickly in their direction.

“Fine! 
Die if you must, then!” Krebbekar called back to Morigar.  Though he said it to
help motivate Morigar to move faster, he almost meant it literally.

Far
behind them, yet approaching at a frighteningly quick speed, the dragon was
venting flame as it scythed through the air on its great, leathery wings.

For
the next several hundred steps, the pair ran along in silence, while Arren stood
at the hole in the rock that was the entrance into the mountain, his bow drawn
and an arrow ready to fire to distract the dragon if necessary.

Fortunately,
it wasn’t necessary.  Gasping for breath, Morigar followed Krebbekar and his
riding dog into the passageway while the dragon was still further out than the
elf’s bow could reach.  Together, the three of them headed far enough down the
passageway to ensure the dragon’s fire could not reach them either. 

The
dragon Mananthiél was furious.  Cursing the ‘robbers, thieves, and bandits’
that had come into his lair in one breath, and muttering fearfully to himself
about his much more powerful female companion Marsa’s displeasure at losing the
Krech Gen’s stone of power, he flew over the northern valley for most of the
night.  At first he flew high above the valley near their lair, hoping to see
some sign of the robbers with his heat vision, swooping in low to scare several
animals… and to eat them as well.  He’d always been something of a nervous
eater, and tonight’s problems didn’t help him with that trait.