The Game of Fates (69 page)

Finding
nothing but frustration, Mananthiél flew back to his lair and tried to sleep it
off.  It didn’t work, however, as Marsa’s furious face kept disturbing his
sleep.

Shortly
after dawn, he was at the search again.  This time, however, he let the cool
morning air of spring clear his mind as he stood on the balcony of his lair,
and he thought like a potential robber.  Where would they hide?

Furious
with himself for not having thought of it earlier, he went about searching the
halls of his lair.  Eventually finding that little rat-kobold thing again, he
cornered it and forced it to come out and sniff around for him, as a dragon’s
sense of smell is rarely acute, and Mananthiél’s was no exception.

The
rat-kobold thing, Skavvin was its name, shambled about the lair for a bit,
finding its rat friends and talking in their squeaky language with each in
turn.  Finally, after an interminably long wait of at least an hour, Skavvin
came shambling back in his mottled fur coat to report that one of his rats had
been killed (this wasn’t news to Mananthiél as he’d eaten the fresh kill on one
of his trips along the main passageway), and another rat had seen a pair of
kobolds, one with a dog, and something without scales or much fur that was
taller than both of the kobolds.  Apparently, they had left as quickly as they
had come in.

The
tension of the wait was almost more than Mananthiél could bear.  Finally, with
the news the rat king brought, he stormed up and out of his lair, launching
himself into the air and looking about to see if his arrival had stirred
anything to movement.

It
had, but nothing of interest, other than to eat.

After
a quick second-breakfast of mountain goat, the dragon flew around thinking
about where these robbers might have gone.  Were they northern gen kobolds? 
Probably not.  Were they Krech Gen adventurers come to find their gen’s stone? 
Perhaps.  What was this tall, scaleless thing?  It really couldn’t be a kobold,
and therefore it was probably an orc or some more foreign race to the area.

Wherever
the three robbers came from, it was almost assured that they only came from one
direction; west.

Flying
away from the rising sun, Mananthiél flew directly toward the most likely
hiding place in the area; the little nest of ruins called Outpost Hill by the
kobolds of the area.  From far up in the air the slight twinkle of something
valuable caught his eye.  Flying down lower, he found a couple of necklaces and
such, all piled neatly on a black rock to catch his eye.

Were
they playing with him?  Were they baiting him on?  Who would be so impetuous as
to taunt a dragon like this?

Launching
himself into the air with a roar of rage, Mananthiél began to scan the long
road that cut north to south through the valley.  There, far to the south
already, and almost near the orc’s entrance into the southern mountains, was a
small group obviously fleeing.

With
all the speed his rage could muster, Mananthiél flew straight toward the little
creatures, so far away.

Arren
returned to the little cave the pair of kobolds had been hiding in with what
appeared to be one of their packdogs.  He was a big brute that had somehow
chewed through the strap that kept the packsaddle on his back.  The look in his
eye was deadpan, as if he had no emotion at all, very strange for such a young
dog, especially for the normally exuberant golden furred dogs they bred.

“Minotaur!”
Krebbekar called out from his seat against the wall.  “How ever did you make
it!” he said as he hobbled over to the big dog.

“You
know this dog’s name?” Morigar sneered in derision.  “How quaint.”

“Aye,”
Krebbekar answered excitedly, “and so should you.  He’ll be carrying your sorry
tail back to your father, you know.”  Turning to Arren, he asked, “Where did
you find him?”

“Further
down the passageway,” the elf answered.  “He must have seen my light and
decided to come toward it.  How strange that he should seek an underground path
to get home, since dogs can’t see in complete darkness.”

Krebbekar
shook his head.  “No, not really.  Many of our dogs are raised in the mines
next to our home.  They are trained to follow their noses, or rather the feel
of air on their noses, to get them and the miner they’re working with back to
the surface if necessary.”

“Well,”
Arren answered in surprise.  “That’s useful, though with the air blowing from
north to south, I’d imagine he was a bit lost.”

“Aye,
now tell me, what do you think the dragon is doing?  Do you think it’s out
there waiting for us to emerge or not?” Krebbekar asked the elf.

“Hard
to say,” Arren answered.  “Dragons are usually rather cunning creatures, and
rarely do what you would expect them to.”

“What
I can’t understand is why it’s still after us, even after finding the treasure
we left for it.”

Arren
shrugged.  “It may be that it’s just that vengeful.  If so, we may be in here a
long time.  On the other hand, it may be that that’s not all that’s missing.”

Krebbekar
looked long and hard at Morigar.  Finally, he spoke.  “Sire, you didn’t happen
to take anything else, did you?”

Morigar
blanched yet again.  “What?” he sputtered, “that was all!  Just the jewelry!”

Krebbekar
got a scowl on his face and, as Arren stepped aside, he hobbled up to Morigar,
who by now was drawing his sword as well.

Slamming
the sword out of Morigar’s grip, Krebbekar took the princeling by the neck. 
“Don’t you ever draw your sword on me!  You may be the son of the lord of the
gen, but you have caused me nothing but problems with your constant lies and
trickery.  Now take off your belt and hand over your pouches!”

Sufficiently
cowed, Morigar reluctantly unbuckled his belt and handed it, pouches and all,
over to Krebbekar who dug through each pouch carefully and thoroughly.  Coming
to the pouch that contained the Krech Stone, he carefully pulled it out.

“And
what do you suppose we have here?” he asked no one in particular.

“That
would be a stone of power, is it not?” Arren asked, his eyes lighting up.

Morigar,
sullen and dejected now as he sat in the corner, only looked away from the pair
of more powerful warriors.  Hobbling over to him, Krebbekar prodded him none
too gently.

“You
heard me!  What stone is this?”

Morigar
just turned away from Krebbekar and faced the wall.

“You
insolent whelp!” Krebbekar yelled, lifting his hand as if to backhand Morigar.

“Krebbekar,”
Arren interrupted.

Almost
mad with anger, Krebbekar turned and gazed fiercely at the elf.  “What!”

“If
you pass me that stone for a few moments, I can tell you what stone it is,”
Arren answered.

Pondering
the offer for a moment, Krebbekar hobbled back toward the elf and handed him
the stone, then sat down heavily, glaring at the insolent young prince that was
his charge.

“You
don’t have to,” Morigar finally muttered.  “The pedestal it was on said
‘Krech’.”

“Aha!”
Krebbekar pronounced.  “Now we’re getting somewhere!  So, tell me, sire, what
possessed you to take the Krech Stone from the dragons’ lair?”

“I
don’t know,” Morigar answered sullenly.

“You
do know that you can’t use it, don’t you?” Krebbekar pressed.

“What
makes you say that?” Morigar turned to look at the old warrior.

“Because
you’re not Krech, you’re Krall!”

Morigar
thought for a moment.  “But my mother isn’t Krall, and she’s the oracle of the
Krall Stone,” he protested.

“Aye,”
Krebbekar answered as if he were explaining something very simple to someone
who just wasn’t understanding.  “But she’s joined to a Krall, you know.  That
makes her a Krall, besides the fact that somewhere in her family tree she
likely has a couple of Kralls.”

“Well
who’s to say that I don’t have some Krech in me?” Morigar protested.

Arren,
who had grabbed the stone and peered into its depths, tossed the stone to
Morigar.  “There’s only one way to know for sure.  See what you can do with the
stone,” he said.

Taking
the stone in both hands, he looked at it, turned it around in his hands, and
stared for a moment into its bronze-flecked depths.

“What’s
supposed to happen?” Morigar asked.

Arren
stepped forward, grabbed the stone and passed it back to Krebbekar.  “Don’t
worry, little one,” he said.  “If it were to happen, it would have happened by
now.”

“Great,
so what do we do now?” Krebbekar asked.

Arren
shook his head.  “I don’t know.  But I would imagine that walking out to the
dragon and offering it the stone probably wouldn’t be the wisest thing.”

Krebbekar
nodded.  “I don’t believe that holding onto the stone would be wise either, if
we want to avoid the dragon’s ire.”

“Too
late for that, I’d say,” Arren said.

“Aye,”
Krebbekar agreed, shaking his head.  “I just realized that him finding us
trying to escape to the south pretty much tells him where we were going… and
puts our families and friends in danger.  He probably won’t stop unless we give
him this stone back.”

Arren
shook his head.  “No.  I think he’ll either take vengeance on your gens or not,
regardless of the stone.  However, if we give him his stone back, perhaps he’ll
waste some time taking it back to his lair.  Perhaps that will give us enough
time to escape.”

“Aye,”
Krebbekar nodded his agreement as he moved the translucent stone back and forth
in his hands.  “I guess one of us is going to have to place it outside the
entrance, then.”

“I
will do it,” Morigar strangely volunteered.

“NO!”
both of the others said in unison.  Neither of them trusted him enough to
believe he would actually do it.

“I’ll
do it,” Arren volunteered.  “I’m faster than you two, even with your riding
dogs, and I’m much more stealthy.  You two should go to the other opening, and
when you hear the dragon on my end of the passageway, kick your mounts to a
full run and don’t look back.  I should be able to keep him busy for long
enough.”

Krebbekar
stood up and hobbled over to the elf, grasping his hand and looking up into his
eyes.  “Right!  Good luck to you, elf.”

“And
to you, kobold,” Arren replied, taking the stone from Krebbekar’s other hand. 
“We shall see each other again, I would imagine.”

Krebbekar
mounted his riding dog, then glared at Morigar until he huffed and sullenly
followed suit.  With a look back at the elf prince, the pair of kobolds rode
out of the small chamber and down the long passageway toward its far end.

D
awn had come entirely too early
for Durik and his group of wolf riders.  After wounding a few from the last
group of their pursuers, and allowing the rest to flee back the way they’d
come, they’d resisted the temptation to go back and make another raid.  After
all, Lord Karthan wanted the orc horde led to him, and they weren’t supposed to
take unnecessary risks in doing so.  No, they’d caused enough commotion and
chaos for one night.  Durik had instead taken his wolf riders to the rough
palisade of sharpened tree trunks known as the loyalist fort and let all get
some rest, save a few scouts only and a detachment he sent out with Kiria’s
team to finish work on a dam.

At
dawn that next morning six packdogs laden with bundles of plants arrived at the
fort that Lord Karthan and those who were loyal to him had inhabited during
their exile.  The guard they’d set sounded the wakeup call, and many hands
helped off-load the dogs.

The
dog drivers, and their few dogs, were glad to be rid of their burden, adjusting
packsaddles then quickly leaving back toward the Kale Gen’s home caverns.  The
leader of the teamsters, a particularly dour looking older servant caste from
the Trade Warrior Group, was none too thrilled when Durik insisted he get a
message back to Lord Karthan and the gen’s forces out near the picket line. 
When Durik told him about the night’s successful raids, however, the dour old
kobold got a smile on his face and gladly consented to take the word back to
Lord Karthan personally.

After
sending out a team of scouts, on Durik’s orders the entire group went about
lighting campfires, hanging clothes out that the loyalists had left behind
yesterday when they’d marched off to take back the gen, and generally trying to
make the enclosure look as if it were still inhabited.

Following
these preparations, Manebrow led off half of the contingent, while Durik soon
followed with the other half.  Today was going to be a long day; a day of decision,
a day of death, and with all his heart, Durik hoped it would be a day of
victory for the kobolds of the southern valley.

Manebrow
came riding up from the side trail.  Reining in next to his leader, he
reported.  “Sire, the meadow and hill site are prepared.  We should be ready
for a large contingent this time.”

Durik
nodded almost absently.  On the main trail his half of the contingent passed in
silence.  The look on their faces was one of grim determination.  Last night’s
long ride and ambush tactics, followed by a short rest, had had little impact
on the Wolf Riders.  In Durik’s mind their endurance was a tribute to the tough
training and physical conditioning the Wolf Riders had insisted on for the
several years of their existence.  Fortunately the recent upheaval hadn’t been
long enough to destroy the base of their effectiveness.

“Manebrow,
I’ll lead them by the nose this time.  You set up the ambush.”

Manebrow
nodded.  “Yes, sire.  I…”

Suddenly,
the blowing of a horn from the direction of the ambush position, where Manebrow
had left Drok in charge of his half of the contingent, captured everyone’s
attention.

“Manebrow?”
Durik half prompted.

“On
it, sire!” Manebrow replied as he turned his wolf about and kicked his heels
into its ribs.  With spear lifted high, rider and wolf bolted past the rest of
the contingent and over the next rise.

“Come! 
Let’s move!” Durik prodded his warriors into action.  Like a snake, the entire
column began to ripple forward at a surge pace.

“Fire
at will!” Drok roared, while orcs spilled across the glade in small groups. 
With spear raised above his head, the kobold leader yelled encouragement to
these, his friends and brothers in arms.  What had been a few at first had
turned into a wave of orc warriors, the shortest of which was easily a head and
shoulders taller than Drok’s tallest warrior.  Soon, this wave would break upon
his line… or smash it.  Drok was sweating profusely.

The
first couple of volleys had been fired while the orcs were too far away. 
They’d had less effect than Drok would have liked.  The pair of volleys they’d
fired since then had done little more than take down the leaders and punch a
hole or two in the line.  His warriors’ confidence was wavering.

“Keep
firing!  Keep sticking it to them!” he yelled.  The closest of the orcs, barely
a spear’s throw away, went down with the third arrow that struck him.  Two
others went down near him.  Drok looked up with utter horror as he realized
that the orcs were about to smash upon them.  That last moment slowed
tremendously as Drok saw his imminent death arriving in the hands of these
foul, green-skinned giants.  The next command died in his throat as a massive
orc jumped up onto the log he was hiding behind.  A whimper was all that
escaped his lips.

Suddenly,
from behind Drok, a battle cry split the air.  As the orc lifted his axe, the
green-skinned warrior lifted his gaze toward the sound, but too late.  A spear
sprouted from his stomach, doubling him over.  Spitting blood, the
foul-smelling beast fell forward, partially crushing Drok beneath him.

“Brace
spears!” Manebrow yelled desperately.  Unslinging his axe, he grabbed Drok by
the shoulder belt and drug him out from beneath the orc.  “Go loose the
wolves!  We’ll need them in this fight!” he yelled at Durik’s somewhat dazed
uncle.

Against
Manebrow’s thirty-some warriors, almost fifty orcs were about to smash into
them.  The tall orcs were building up momentum, their arms pumping, spittle and
steam streaming from between sharpened teeth under fiery eyes as they yelled
war cries and raised axes, swords, and spears high.  Their dark chainmail
shirts and thick hide coverings bounced about their torsos as legs pumped and
hobnailed boots churned the dirt and grass of the clearing into mud in the
early morning mist.

There
was no way his line would hold against such odds, not against these massive
towers of flesh and iron.  Grabbing a nervous young warrior, one he’d trained
just last year, Manebrow turned him about.  “Go that way and tell Durik to
flank right!” he yelled in the face of the wild-eyed youth.  “Go!  Flank
right!  Tell him!  Now!” he yelled as the youth hesitated to grasp any thought
other than his imminent, impending death.

Jumping
up on the log where he’d just killed the orc, Manebrow yelled a determined
battle cry and jumped forward as the impending wave smashed into the forest
edge where his warriors crouched with spears braced.  With a mighty swing, his
axe split the head of the first of the massive, charging orcs.  Dragging his
axe out, he ducked a broadsword and slammed the shaft of his axe up into its
wielder’s groin.  With a howl the orc warrior doubled over and staggered back. 
Holding up his axe, Manebrow caught another sword on the axe head, shattering
the orc’s blade on its thickness.  Twirling around to build momentum, Manebrow
cut through chainmail and flesh, ripping open both of the orc’s thighs.  With a
scream and a large splash of blood the orc fell backward.  Manebrow stomped
down on one of the orc’s hands and swung downward, splitting the orc’s skull in
a merciful blow.

Looking
about himself, Manebrow saw the orc he’d slammed with his axe haft dragging out
a dagger to throw.  Grabbing his own long knife, Manebrow threw it with all his
might.  Spinning once in midair, the blade sank deep into the orc’s neck.  The
big warrior went down with a gurgle, clutching with both hands at his neck.

A
few paces from Manebrow the scream of a kobold warrior rose above the din. 
Turning, Manebrow saw one of his warriors falling back, a sword blade sliding
out of his stomach as he fell to the ground.  With a cry of determination,
Manebrow leapt forward, sinking his axe into the orc’s back, snapping its
spine.  As the orc flopped to the ground, Manebrow, in turn, pulled his axe out
then grabbed the fallen kobold’s spear.

Drok
had loosed the wolves, and to Manebrow’s delight, the animals had surged
forward to join the fight.  The first several lingered near fallen riders, but
after a couple of the alpha males came forward, the wolves began to form into
packs.  Then, as packs, the wolves began jumping at the orcs, dodging axes and
knocking orc warriors down to get at their throats.

All
up and down the line Manebrow could see that his kobold warriors were trying to
hold, but most of them were barely surviving.  Several kobold warriors had
fallen, and only a few orcs.  The wolves had helped balance the odds, but
Manebrow didn’t know if they could hold much longer.  Shaking his head, he
glanced briefly across the meadow.  Already a second group of around thirty orcs
were spilling out of the woods and preparing to charge across.  Things weren’t
looking so good for the Wolf Riders.

Suddenly,
from the tree line to the right of the kobold line, Durik burst out of the
woods, spear held high as Firepaw carried him quickly toward the orc band. 
Behind him the rest of the Wolf Riders Warrior Group surged out of the woods
with a yell.  Within moments they were on the second wave of orcs.

Spear
and axe flashed in the early morning light as orc warrior and kobold rider
smashed into each other.  The second wave of orcs had turned to meet Durik and
his riders, the look in their eyes one of defiance and confidence.  But when
Durik skewered the first one, then a second, and suddenly a third, all in rapid
succession, the shock of his attack shot through the orcs’ ranks like
lightning.

That
crucial moment of hesitation, when orcs tensed and lifted their spears
reactively, cost the second wave dearly.  Yelling fiercely as they sensed the
momentum of the battle shifting, Durik’s wolf riders slammed into the second
wave of orcs.  Kobolds jumped out of the saddle, swords in hand.  Wolves jumped
up, knocking orcs to the ground.  Within moments the second group of orcs was
thrown into a panic as spears pierced chainmail and wolves tore out throats. 
First one, then another and another orc warrior dropped their weapons and began
to run for the wood line.  In several moments the tearing and smashing turned
from a struggle for dominance to a mopping up of orcs who had fallen wounded
and stunned to the ground.

A
group of Durik’s riders had begun to chase after the fleeing orcs when Durik,
standing alone surrounded by a circle of felled orcs, called after them to
stop.  Reluctantly, the handful of riders checked their enthusiasm and reined
in their wolves.  Remounting Firepaw, Durik pulled his spear from the last orc
he’d slain, silently thanking the old kobold Torgal of the Sundered Skull who
had given him these bracers of strength.

“Riders! 
To me!” he called.  The most observant of the orcs from the first wave had seen
how Durik’s riders had cut down the second wave in short order and were already
beginning to break off from Manebrow’s half of the group.

Once
Durik had enough of his riders mounted and ready to have an impact, he spurred
Firepaw forward.  As one, the group of wolf riders yelled a war cry and raised
their spears as they leapt toward the dissolving line of orc warriors.

Many
of the orcs had been so absorbed in the hand-to-hand combat at the kobold line
that they paid no heed to the approaching danger.  In moments Durik’s riders
drove home almost a score of strikes with their spears.  The effect of the
charge was immediate.  The orc attack was over.  The last few orcs were quickly
brought down by spear, arrow, and fang as the handful that had seen the charge
coming fled weaponless back through the meadow and into the woods beyond.

Reining
in Firepaw, Durik hopped out of the saddle and walked over to retrieve his
spear from the back of one of the orc warriors who had not fled soon enough.

“Sire!”
Manebrow approached from behind a large bush.  “That was some good timing, I
should say!  That was a charge to remember!”  Dark blood spattered his chest
and arms, and his axe had bits of bone, brain, and flesh sliding slowly off the
blade or sticking to the haft.  Someone’s artery had sprayed red kobold or wolf
blood across his brow, which he was wiping away with a rag.  Both of his
shoulder belts had been cut by the same blow that had traced a bloody line
across his back, but otherwise the aging trainer appeared to be fine.