Into the Heart of Evil (35 page)

Manebrow sat in silence against the side wall of
the caravan drivers’ quarters.  It had been a long day, following a sleepless
night, and it was all he could do to keep himself awake.  In his hands he held
his axe: well maintained, sharp, and heavy, though he did not think he would
have to use it for what he knew would come. 

As he sat there just to the side of the window to
the room where Trallik lay, he thought about the twists and turns that life
throws at one.  Two days ago he’d been the master trainer of his gen, forging
yearlings into warriors.  Today, he was second to a leader caste and back in
charge of trained warriors.  Shaking his head, he wondered what tomorrow would
bring.  He also wondered how long it would be before he saw his lifemate Ki and
their three sons again.

It had not been long since the rest of the group
had finished quickly preparing the quarters, taking care of the animals, and
stowing their gear.  Once everyone was finished, Manebrow had told them to go
in and get some rest, volunteering to take the first watch himself.  Despite
the shock of Khazak Mail Fist’s announcement and the mix of grumbling and
expressions of relief it had caused as the members of the company had gone
about their tasks, only a short time after the members of the company had
entered the caravan drivers’ quarters the entire place seemed to lay wreathed
in a blanket of silence.  

The window just above him and to his right slowly
creaked open.  This was what Manebrow had been waiting for.

Here at the caravan drivers’ quarters, the windows
were not glass, but rather they were holes cut in the log walls, with wooden
panels that hung on simple metal hinges for shutters.  Because of this, as the
window was opening, Manebrow remained undetected, hidden by the wooden
shutter.  Adjusting his grip slightly on the handle of his axe, Manebrow waited
in silence.

Not more than a moment or two later, Manebrow saw
a pair of feet on the window ledge.  A pack was thrown out the window and onto
the ground.  Standing, he prepared to move.

Trallik leapt out the window and onto the ground,
rolling forward as he landed and coming up on his feet.  He wasn’t there for
long, however.  In a flash, Manebrow tackled Trallik and had pinned him to the
ground.  Trallik fought for several moments, but eventually Manebrow got a hold
of his arms and began twisting.  It was only a matter of time before Trallik
was whimpering, pleading to be let go.

Still holding him fast, Manebrow flipped Trallik
over onto his back, pinning his arms behind him.  Looking into his eyes,
Manebrow spoke intently, “Why are you running, Trallik?”

Trallik’s lips were trembling and his eyes were
full of fear.  “You know why, else wise you wouldn’t be waiting for me outside
my window,” he whimpered.

“So you were awake back there on the trail.  I
thought as much.”  Standing up, Manebrow hauled Trallik to his feet, with one
hand holding Trallik’s arms behind his back and the other holding the axe. 
“Why did you turn, Trallik?”

Trallik’s head dropped, and in a low voice he
answered, “They offered me advancement.  I felt robbed of my rightful prize in
the Trials of Caste, and I was eager to gain that power.  But…” he broke into
tears, “but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I couldn’t bring myself to kill
them.  Then I was taken from behind… and… and the next thing I knew I was
strapped to the back of a wolf.”

Manebrow looked on in pity at the wretched
traitor, too immature to make the right choices and too cowardly to follow
through with the choices he had made.

After a few moments of sobbing bitter tears,
Trallik spoke again.  “What are you going to do with me?  Will I die for my
crimes?”

Manebrow released his grip on Trallik’s arms and
stepped back.  Trallik turned around in surprise.  “Leave your bow and quiver,
but you can take your knives and other gear.” 

Trallik looked at him dumbly.

“You’ve no chance of being welcomed back into the
gen, and they’ll certainly not take you here.  If we find you with one of our
enemies, we’ll hunt you down and kill you, that’s a promise.  I think perhaps
you’ll find it best to head west toward the coast.  Perhaps the gens there will
accept you, or perhaps you can survive on your own.”

Trallik just stared at Manebrow for a moment until
his mind finally registered what Manebrow was saying.  Taking his bow and
quiver from his pack, he dropped them on the ground and, picking the rest of
his gear up off the ground, Trallik took off running for the wood line.  In a
few moments, he’d disappeared through the cover of the trees, never looking
back.

Grabbing Trallik’s bow and quiver of arrows,
Manebrow stowed them in his locker inside the quarters.  Tucking the key into a
belt pouch, he walked outside onto the porch and took a deep breath of the cool
evening air. 

Standing there watching the sun set, he thought
about how the third gong had probably sounded in the caverns of the Kale Gen
and how his small family must be sitting down to eat third meal in their humble
home two days journey to the west, even as the sun set on both the Kale and
Krall Gens.  Manebrow smiled as he felt the warmth of his lifemate’s love still
held close in his heart.

He wasn’t sure why he and Durik had decided to let
Trallik go, but somehow in his heart he felt that it was the right thing to
do.  Perhaps it was that tender spot he had in his heart for those much younger
than himself.  Then again, perhaps it was because of hope; hope that perhaps
Trallik might yet change his ways and become a kobold of character; that
perhaps he might learn from his mistakes.  Sighing, Manebrow sat on the porch
steps of the caravan drivers’ quarters, setting his chin on top of his axe.  He
reasoned that he would probably never see Trallik again, and therefore he
doubted that he would ever know.

After several moments of watching the rhythm of
life around Lord Krall’s Lake unfold, his ears perked up at the unexpected
sound of metal striking metal.  Suddenly, he saw movement down on the lake.  A
side door of Lord Krall’s Great Hall was thrown open and a pair of figures came
spilling out, falling off the walkway and into the water.  Faint shouts and the
ring of steel on steel could be heard coming from the distant great hall where
Durik had recently gone.  Jumping up from where he sat, Manebrow ran into the
caravan drivers’ quarters, shouting, “To arms!  To arms!”

D
urik
was not used to pomp and ceremony, and neither were Lord Karthan’s two young
sons.  As such, when one of Lord Krall’s guards stopped the group at the
entrance to the great hall and said that they must wait, stating that Lord
Krall would receive them momentarily, the two young whelps had instantly put to
whining.  After several times of asking Durik why they couldn’t just go in,
Durik finally told them to go and ask the guard themselves.

After several moments of being harassed by the
whelps, the stout-looking guard at the entrance looked about ready to open the
door just to be rid of them.  Turning around, his tail swishing furtively back
and forth, the guard opened the door and looked inside.  He called to someone
on the other side of the room and the two of them talked for a moment before
the guard turned back around.

“You will please take seats at the tables to
either side of the fire pit, nearest to the dais, and await Lord Krall’s arrival,”
he commanded, loud enough for all to hear over the two whelps who by now were
running in circles around him.

With that, Khazak Mail Fist and Morigar, after
dismissing his two personal guards for the evening, immediately entered the
great hall and, walking to the right of the great stone cooking pit that
dominated the center of the room, Khazak took a seat near the rear door of the
great room while Morigar ascended the dais to take his seat near his father’s
throne.  Nodding a greeting at the guard who stood next to the inner door,
Khazak turned around and waived for Durik to bring the whelps and sit next to
him.

Behind Durik as he entered, Kethor and his group
of Border Guard warriors filed through the doors of the great hall into the
vaulted great chamber within.  As they entered, Khazak Mail Fist noticed that
they seemed to be avoiding showing their faces to the guards.  He thought it
strange and began to look around the room.

Khazak looked at Morigar, who was obviously
nervous.  He kept moving about in his chair as if he were about to wet himself,
the tip of his tail swishing about rapidly.  Sweat was beginning to form around
the edges of the tiny scales on his forehead, giving his face somewhat of a
sheen.  Khazak’s eyes narrowed.  As he thought about it, Morigar had gotten
more and more nervous the closer the group had come to their destination.  He’d
tried to maintain his normal jovial composure, but every once in a while a
nervous look had come over Morigar’s face.  Khazak wondered if Morigar knew something
he didn’t.

Looking around the room, his adrenaline began to
kick in and Khazak’s senses seemed to heighten.  He saw the guards, spear in
hand and sword on their belts strapped onto their thick leather armor.  Neither
of them appeared to be paying too much attention, their tails hanging limply
behind them.  He imagined they’d been on shift now for much of the day and
their alertness had dimmed with time.

Kethor’s group of Border Guard warriors huddled
together, some of them talking among themselves in hushed tones while others
looked about the room as if hastily planning something.  Being one to read a
kobold’s mood by the usually subconscious movements of his tail, Khazak’s fears
seemed confirmed by the furtive, tight motions of their tails.

Khazak reflexively reached for the handle of his
sword, then withdrew his hand.  He should have known better.  His sword
probably still lay where he’d left it at the first night’s resting place when
he’d grabbed the two whelps and made a run for it.  He felt suddenly naked and
vulnerable.

Beside Khazak, Durik sat oblivious to the whole
situation.  After a moment, Khazak scolded himself, telling himself that his
mind was tricking him into seeing danger where there was none.  But after
thinking on the situation more, he couldn’t understand why Morigar looked so
nervous.

Turning to Durik, Khazak Mail Fist whispered in
his ear, “Durik, I sense trouble.”

At that exact moment, the guard at the inner door
opened the door and announced Lord Krall’s arrival.  All kobolds in the hall
stood as an older kobold in blue robes entered in a rather business-like
fashion.  Behind him came a female kobold who was in appearance very much like
Lord Karthan, though obviously several years older.  Durik guessed she must be
Lord Krall’s life-mate and Lord Karthan’s older sister, Lady Karaba. 

As the pair ascended the dais and were seated on
the two most elaborate chairs, a third kobold entered, this one probably a
handful of years older than Morigar, well-muscled, and exuding confidence.  This
last kobold also ascended the dais and took the seat closest to Lord Krall on
his other side.  Durik imagined he could be no other than Krall; Lord Krall’s
eldest son and heir.

Durik had only just begun to look around and try
to determine what Khazak Mail Fist meant when the guard closed the inner door
and asked for all to be seated.  But instead of taking their seats, the Border
Guard warriors stepped from the table into the middle of the room in front of
the dais.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Krall asked.

The twelve Border Guard warriors each unfastened
their cloaks and, throwing back their hoods to reveal their faces, they dropped
their cloaks to the ground.  The warriors in the back of the group drew bows as
the rest of the warriors put hands on the hilts of their swords.

“Kethor, why have you… Borgor, the murderer!?”
Lord Krall exclaimed as he stood, beginning to understand what was happening. 
Turning to the guard at the inner door, he yelled, “Call for the guard
immediately!”

In one swift motion, one of the warriors drew an
arrow and fired.  With deadly accuracy, the projectile punctured the guard’s
armor and lodged between his shoulder blades, bringing him to the ground.

“Lord Krall,” Kethor said with a sneer on his
face, “I’m afraid your days are numbered.  Too long have you kept the
descendants of the northern gens from their rightful place of leadership.  Too
long have we tolerated your petty rule.  Today, your rule ends.  Today, we take
back our right to rule this gen, as true descendants of the First Sire!”

This was not the first time Khazak Mail Fist had
been in a situation like this, and he was determined to see this one through. 
Durik already had Lord Karthan’s two whelps by the waist, his tail swishing
nervously, showing he was ready to pick them up and run.  The conspirators were
focused almost solely on Lord Krall and his family on the dais.  He looked for
Lord Krall’s other guard, the stout one who had been guarding the outer doors,
but did not see him.

Lord Krall saw that he was cornered, and far
outnumbered.  He held out his hand. “What is it you want, Kethor?  You have
always been loyal, what has turned you against me?”

Kethor just sneered at Lord Krall.  “There will be
no talk,” he said as he drew his sword.  “Today, you die!”

From behind the stone fire pit, the stout guard
jumped up and rushed at the conspirators, skewering one from behind, bowling
over another, and distracting the rest of the bowmen.

Khazak saw his chance.  “Go!” Khazak yelled at
Durik, then jumped from his seat toward the slain guard slumped against the
inner door.  Durik used the greater strength the Bracers of Kale afforded him
and ran with Karto under one arm and Lat under the other after Khazak.

Oblivious to the distractions in the rest of the
room, Kethor and the three kobolds nearest him ran up the dais, jumping onto
the table that sat in front of the high chairs as the younger Krall stepped in
front of his father and drew his sword to protect his family.

At that moment, Khazak, seeing their peril, threw the
spear he’d just picked up at one of the conspirators who was rushing toward him
with sword drawn.  The spear pierced the kobold’s leg, taking his feet from
underneath him.  With a solid thud, he skidded across the floor and into a
table leg, knocking himself unconscious as his life blood spurted out across
the floor.

Khazak did not wait to see the effects of his
throw.  Running almost on hands and feet, he had leveled his wounded shoulder
and went barreling toward the large table on the dais.  In a split second, his
shoulder made contact with the leg of it and, ignoring the blinding flash of
pain, Khazak heaved the long wooden table, conspirators and all, tipping it
onto its side then throwing it off the dais into the center of the floor,
sending all four of the conspirators to the ground and battering several of the
rest of them.

While all of this was happening, Durik, knowing he
was now responsible for ensuring Lord Karthan’s progeny survived this battle,
kicked the body of the guard out of the way.  Holding Lat against his chest, he
braced his shoulder and smashed into the inner door.  To his surprise, the door
flew open almost effortlessly.  Putting Lat back under his arm as he went,
Durik disappeared through the rear door.

Morigar now saw his chance.  Running along the
wall behind where Krall, his mother, and his father stood, he saw Durik knock
open the door and began to follow.  However, as Khazak staggered back from
throwing the table, he fell into Morigar, knocking him against the wall.

Looking back at who he’d fallen into, Khazak
turned around and grabbed Morigar’s arm.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Morigar looked panicked.  “Go, go, go…” he kept
saying.

“What do you know, Morigar?  Tell me you are not
part of this?!” Khazak yelled in his face.  Seeing Morigar looking behind him,
Khazak grabbed the hilt of Morigar’s broadsword and drew it forth, pushing the
coward off to the side.

Kethor had jumped to the right as the table was
thrown and, managing to keep a hold of his sword, he stood up and called for
his fellow conspirators.  Having dispatched Lord Karthan’s other guard, several
of the conspirators began to come around the table toward Khazak Mail Fist and
the inner door, trying to cut off Lord Krall’s family’s escape.

Grabbing Morigar’s sword in both hands, Khazak
Mail Fist screamed with pain and rage as he swung downward with all his might,
knocking the nearest conspirator’s much shorter sword out of the way and
plunging the thick blade through the kobold’s shoulder and several ribs, lodging
it in the warrior’s heart.  Kicking the lifeless corpse off of his sword,
Khazak brought the broad-bladed sword around and knocked a sword from the hands
of another conspirator. 

Seeing how efficiently Khazak had dealt with the
first of them, the rest of the conspirators backed up a few steps, not wanting
to engage.  This was all the time that Lord Krall needed.  Grabbing his life-mate
by the arm, Lord Krall ran behind Khazak and out the door.  Seeing his parents
make it safely through the inner door, Krall stopped next to Khazak, sword
drawn and shoulder to shoulder with the mighty warrior.  His eyes were on fire
with the heat of the moment and his tail swished back and forth in rhythm.

“Let’s take them,” he said to Khazak Mail Fist,
who was already beginning to back up toward the door.

“Too many!” Khazak replied.

“We can ta—” Krall’s words were cut off in
mid-sentence by the force of an arrow driving deep into his chest.  Sputtering
and choking, Krall fell back heavily against the wall, eyes wide open with
surprise.  Khazak saw what had happened and, grabbing Krall by the arm, he
pulled him to the door, barely making it through as three more arrows lodged in
the inner door and its frame.

“Out!  Get out of here!  Get the guards!” Durik
yelled as he entered the kitchen of the great hall, one whelp under each arm. 
Having already passed through a large chamber, Durik had decided to run across
the room instead of taking the door directly in front of him.  In the large
kitchen, three middle-aged females, used to following orders, dropped the
knives they were using to cut vegetables and began to run to the far door.

Durik saw several doors.  He guessed that some of
them were storerooms, but he wasn’t sure which ones were which.  He hesitated a
moment, then noticed that the females were all running toward a door at the
rear of the kitchen.  He quickly followed.

In a few moments, he was at the door looking
outside at the wide walkway that surrounded the great hall.  He turned around
and looked back inside the kitchen’s service entrance, which he’d just left, to
see if anyone had followed him.

“Durik,” a voice called from inside.  “Durik,
wait!  It’s not safe!”  Morigar came running into the kitchen after Durik. 
“They’re watching the walkways!  Come, I’ve a place where we can hide Karto and
Lat!  Hurry before they see you!”

Durik looked at Morigar then outside at the
walkway and beyond that to the somewhat choppy water of the lake, lapped by the
evening breeze.  All he wanted to do was get both of Lord Karthan’s sons to
safety and rejoin the fight.  Though following Morigar didn’t feel right, he
did not want to confront the conspirators with the two whelps in tow.  He
looked back at Morigar.  “I really hope you know what you’re talking about!” he
said as he turned to follow Morigar through a side door out of the kitchen.