Into the Heart of Evil (31 page)

Morigar’s face darkened and the smile momentarily
left.  Then, as if he had realized his countenance had fallen and was
determined to hide it, Morigar forced a smile onto his face.  “I know of whom
you speak.  His name was familiar to you from that orc raid now several years
past.”  Morigar looked at Khazak somewhat sheepishly.  “We should have trusted
your lord and heeded his request to turn him over to your gen.  His name has
always been familiar to us, but only of late have we paid him much heed.  You
remind me of how long it has been since you’ve been to our part of the valley,
my friend.  Mynar is one who seeks my father’s throne.”

“Aye, but I thought your father did not have any
siblings,” Khazak said.

“He doesn’t,” Morigar answered.  “Mynar is a
second cousin of mine.  His father is of northern gen descent and he grew up
among his common caste relatives,
not
in my father’s courts.  There are
rumors that he claims to be touched by magic itself.  It’s said that he can
talk with the dead and take their appearance upon himself.”

The warriors of Durik’s Company were all rather
surprised by this.  They had only the smallest taste of magic and, in general,
did not think that there was more to magic than what they had seen.  To hear
that someone could talk to the dead was absolutely unheard of.

“It’s also said that he has somewhat of a
following among the common caste,” Morigar continued, “especially among the descendants
of those our gen took in from the northern gens when they collapsed several
generations ago.  He seems to have convinced many of them that they are the
descendants of the First Sire, and because of that they should be the ones
ruling over this gen, and not my father.  Of course, that’s only important
because he seeks my father’s throne.”

“And your father has done nothing about this?” he
asked.

“My father has not been able to capture him,”
Morigar stated flatly.  “Lord Krall’s forest is very large, and there are
enough of these descendants of the northern gen refugees scattered among our
people that Mynar seems to be able to elude capture.” Morigar paused for a
moment.  “Then again, maybe there is some truth to these rumors that he can
appear as the dead, for he seems to escape every trap we’ve set for him.

“Of course,” Morigar continued, “I don’t see what
good it would do to kill my father.  After all, by right my older brother, then
I, would inherit the throne.  And, if somehow he was to kill both of us, by law
the throne would follow our mother’s lineage, who happens to be your Lord
Karthan’s older sister, you know, before it would ever go to a second cousin. 
The leaders of our gen would see the law through if it came to it.”

Khazak looked surprised.  “What?  You mean that
Lord Karthan is in line for the throne of your gen?”

Morigar nodded. “A little known fact outside the
leadership circles of our gen, but fact nonetheless.  And if he were to die,
well, then it would of course go to my little cousins.”

“Let us hope that it does not come to that!”
Khazak stated.

“Oh, I see you’ve got the whelps in tow,” Morigar
said, indicating Karto and Lat.  Then, seeing Kiria, his eyebrows raised.
“Well, and my not-so-young-anymore cousin as well, I see.  My, but you’ve come
of age, haven’t you, Kiria?”  For a moment, Morigar seemed to lose some of the
already weak image of iron discipline and gazed at her with a lecherous eye. 
It was like a shadow over the moon, however, which passes quickly and then all
who see it wonder if it was ever there.

Kiria hadn’t seen it, however, and so blushed at
Morigar’s words.  “Morigar, you’re still the flatterer as ever,” she replied,
almost beaming.  Though it was unintentional, Durik would hold the impression
of how pretty she looked at that exact moment in his heart for quite some time.

“As I was saying,” Khazak began again, “it would
seem that you weren’t the only one to hear of my coming.”  As Khazak talked he
steered Firepaw past the others and started to head down the trail into the
forest, followed by Morigar and his two personal guards.

“So you were saying,” Morigar said as the two
began to walk off under the boughs of the mighty trees, all but ignoring the
rest of the two groups.  Having already started the tale, Khazak Mail Fist soon
was giving blow by blow descriptions of the fight at the first night’s resting
place.  Behind them, the two groups stood looking at each other. 

This was Durik’s first acquaintance with any of
the leaders of the Krall Gen, and he was surprised by how young Morigar was. 
His only thought was that either the Krall Gen had discontinued the ancient
practice of giving positions based on the Trials of Caste, or else Morigar had
earned the right the same way all except the eldest son of the lord of the gen
did, by merit in the trials.  But then in his mind he began to doubt that
Morigar held much of any position at all.  As Durik pondered on the exchange,
he realized that Morigar had not spoken as one having authority over the
warriors who were with him.  He had asked, not ordered.

Manebrow, seeing that the pleasantries were over
and that Durik was lost in thought while their escort had already resumed the
march, turned to the company. “All right now, enough resting.  It would appear
that we’re welcome.  Time to move out.”

With that, the company began the last leg of their
march to the home of the Krall Gen.  Behind them, the remainder of the Krall
Gen warriors climbed up the rope ladder they had dropped from the platforms
above and disappeared again into the lower canopy of the giant redwoods.

T
he
past couple of days had taken their toll on the company.  The sense of absolute
exhilaration that they were still alive after the encounter with the ants had
faded over the past couple of hours of the march until, reaching the edge of
the redwoods, almost all the members of the company wore a uniform haunted look
of exhaustion.  If any of them had thought that the Trials of Caste were their
initiation into the ranks of the warriors of the gen, their minds had long
since changed.  They now understood why it was that many year-groups before
them referred to the quests that were given for the proofing of the trials as
the true initiation.  Before, the yearlings had thought that it was just one
more rite of passage, but now they understood the looks in the eyes of those
new warriors before them who had returned from the most taxing of quests. 
Truly, the events of the trip to the Krall Gen would haunt their dreams for
some time to come.

Before long a pair of shorter, lighter kobold
warriors came riding up quickly on the backs of two well-fed animals, one on a
dog and the other on a wolf.  As they reached the group, the pair slowed and
approached Morigar without dismounting. 

“Krigor!” Morigar exclaimed as he grasped hands
with the much older, grim-faced messenger.  “Redar!” he greeted the much
younger messenger, a strangely cruel-eyed young warrior whose smile looked more
wicked than inviting. 

The younger Redar looked tired already, as did his
wolf, and Khazak wondered if he was the wisest choice for this mission.  He
looked familiar, like all of Lord Krall’s messengers, but Khazak thought he
might be the same messenger that he’d seen at the Kale Gen on the day of the
Trials.  He wasn’t sure enough to mention it, however. 

“Khazak Mail Fist and Lord Karthan’s children were
attacked on the path between our gens, and we need you to go to Lord Karthan
and tell him who did it.”  He turned to Khazak Mail Fist, “Care to elaborate?”

“Aye, now listen to me carefully,” Khazak said as
he looked the older messenger in the eyes.  “I want you to go directly to Lord
Karthan and only to Lord Karthan.  You are not to reveal news of this to anyone
other than Lord Karthan himself.”  He paused to make sure his instructions were
understood.  “I am Khazak Mail Fist, Lord Karthan’s chamberlain.”

“I know you, sire.” The older messenger nodded
humbly.

“Very well.  Tell Lord Karthan that I and his
children are alive.  Tell him we were attacked on the path to the Krall Gen by
five of Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s conspirators, but that Durik’s Company saved
us.”  Khazak turned and winked at Durik, who had just arrived on the scene. 
“Tell him that Khee-lar is in league with the Bloodhand Orcs.”

Morigar interrupted Khazak Mail Fist, “That’s
quite an allegation.  What of that treaty you mentioned?  Wouldn’t it be best
to send it with them to help substantiate your claims?”

Khazak Mail Fist grimaced.  “I would think it
safer to take it to him myself, after I’ve shown it to your father to help
condemn this second cousin of yours.”

“But Khazak,” Morigar started, “Mynar already
stands condemned in my father’s eyes.  There is no need of further proof for
him.  But who knows what mayhem Khee-lar Shadow Hand may be planning.  Delaying
the arrival of critical evidence that could condemn him until you’re ready to
travel seems unwise.”

Khazak chewed his lip for a moment then finally
nodded.  “Aye, you’re right.  Durik, give Krigor here the treaty, will you?”

Redar rode forward a few steps to take the treaty
from Durik.  “Redar!” the older Krigor called out, “stand aside!”  Grumbling,
Redar bowed his head and maneuvered his wolf out of the path as Krigor moved
his mount up to where Durik stood.

“For Lord Karthan’s eyes only,” Durik
reemphasized.

Krigor nodded his understanding and swore that
Lord Karthan would have it, or he’d die trying.  In a moment, the pair of Krall
Gen messengers made their way past the company and were off at a jog down the
trail toward the wild lands between the two gens.

As the company put distance between themselves and
the edge of the forest, they began to feel the blanket of security that the
movement of Border Guard patrols along the platforms in the boughs above them
provided.  Soon, the warmth of knowing that someone else was standing on the
line between them and the dangers of the wild lands began to take its effect. 
By the time they had passed the second ring of Border Guard stations the
haunted looks had mostly disappeared from their faces, and they were beginning
to feel the calm that the moist, still air under the canopy of the redwoods
brought to all who lived there.  The trail wound on as the company walked along
in silent thought.

Soon the bleating sound of sheep could be heard
coming from ahead of the company.  Coming out into a large meadow, the company
saw a large herd of sheep clustered around a pond in its center.  The mud of
the trampled earth mixed with water at the edges of the pond clung to the soft
wool of their bellies.  Now the company understood how the grass that covered
the forest floor along the trail was kept cropped so short instead of being
allowed to grow wild.  On the edges of the herd three small shaggy dogs kept
watch, keeping any sheep who might be feeling adventurous from wandering off
with a sharp yap now and again.  Seated under a short redwood tree, barely
twenty steps in height, sat two kobold whelps with staves and knives, enjoying
the shade of the tree in the heat of the open meadow.

The young shepherds, after seeing that Morigar and
his two personal guards were with the group, jumped up and down, waving as the
company passed.  Behind them in the woods another herd of sheep approached to
take their turn at the watering hole.  With simple commands to the sheepdogs,
the first group of shepherds began to move out to make room for the new
arrivals as they led their sheep to graze on the grass under the canopy of the
mighty redwoods. 

Not much farther down the trail, the company
passed the last ring of Border Guard stations, just on the other side of which
a cluster of pig farms lay, their buildings leaning against each other in a
sort of ramshackle dependence.  The place was a hive of activity.  Thrown about
them in a haphazard fashion were sties full of pigs of many different sizes.  It
was time for the noon feeding already, and the pigs were noisily vying for
position at the troughs.  The spring crop of piglets was bountiful, and in more
than one sty kobold whelps could be seen sloshing around in the muck, ensuring
the youngest piglets weren’t accidentally trampled in the feeding frenzy that
was underway, while trying to avoid getting trampled themselves.  Spring was a
season of birth and renewal for all who worked in the dirt, whether they were
masters of plant or animal.

Life for the Krall Gen continued much as it had
for the past few generations.  Watching this rhythm of life under the canopy of
the forest was a calming thing for the company which had recently traveled
through so much death and fear.  As they watched the whelps scramble after the
piglets, invariably falling and making quite a mess of it, the members of the
company couldn’t help but laugh, and as they did the last outward vestiges of
the fear they had brought with them began to disappear until at last, as they
continued their journey to the center of the Krall Gen’s habitation, they began
to laugh and talk again as they hadn’t felt to do since before the trials.

“Krigor!” the much younger Redar called out as he
reined in his sweating wolf, still rather tired from the night’s ride.  He
quickly dismounted off to the side of the trail.  The older messenger saw that
Redar had dismounted and quickly halted his mount as well.  Turning the dog
around, he called out to his younger companion.

“What is it?  Did your mount get a thorn in his
paw?” he asked as he approached.

Redar was bent down behind his mount as Krigor
maneuvered his dog around to see what was the matter.

With sudden intensity, Redar sprang to his feet,
revealing the long knife he had concealed behind his mount.  Leaping at Krigor,
Redar sunk the knife deep into Krigor’s stomach before the old warrior could
react.  Krigor tried to speak, but choked instead.  Pain and shock showed in
his eyes as he slumped in the saddle then fell to the ground.  Redar bent over
him as he gasped for breath and finished the job by slitting Krigor’s throat.

Moving quickly, Redar wiped the blood off of his
blade in the tall grass next to the road and sheathed it.  Snickering softly as
he went, he grabbed Krigor’s lifeless hands and dragged his body off the road
and several steps into the forest.  Taking Krigor’s blade out of its sheath, he
did his best to scrape the blood-stained dirt off the road and into the grass. 
Finally, he patted down the dirt and inspected his work.

Satisfied with the cover-up job he’d done, Redar
led his dead companion’s mount into the woods and tied its reins to a sturdy
sapling.  After searching in both saddlebags, he found the folded piece of
parchment he was looking for.  It had been less than a day since he had
delivered it to the orc champion, and he thought about how strange it was that
it should be back in his hands again so quickly.  He also snickered as he
thought about how Morigar had trusted him to regain the message and take it
back to their master, as if Mynar would actually keep his part of the oath and
put Morigar on the throne.  Some people were meant to be pawns, and some were
meant to be kings.

Remounting his wolf, Redar found a side trail off
the main route and quickly headed back, unseen, toward the heart of the Krall
Gen.

After quite some time of talking between
themselves, Khazak Mail Fist and Morigar eventually had caught up on the goings
on of both gens, as well as all that Khazak chose to reveal about what he knew
of the group that had sprung the insurrection against Lord Karthan.  As they
had made their way through the trees on the way to Lord Krall’s Great Hall,
Khazak Mail Fist had asked for Durik to come up and join them.

The introductions weren’t that long.  Durik didn’t
have that much of a history that Khazak Mail Fist was aware of, and Morigar had
too long of a history with Khazak to repeat it all.  “Suffice it to say,”
Khazak summarized, “that Morigar and I go back quite a ways.”  Then turning to
Morigar, he added, “And I think we won’t mention anything about the activities
of your not-so-distant youth.”

Morigar feigned hurt. “Why, Khazak, I was an
angel!”  Both of them laughed at that.  Though Morigar was a good deal younger
than Khazak Mail Fist, he was still several years older than Durik. 

After two intense days of leading the company
through the many dangers they had confronted, Durik was again feeling the
awkwardness he had felt before among the leader caste.  In many ways, it was
the fact that it was a whole new peer group; he had been the orphaned son of a
warrior caste not two days before.