Into the Heart of Evil (4 page)

Mynar the Sorcerer was no ordinary kobold.  No,
kobolds of his status and… special talents… lived by a different set of rules. 
For Mynar had not come by the honor name of Sorcerer because of his mesmerizing
way of speaking or his way of manipulating things behind the scenes.  No, Mynar
had actual abilities.  He could read minds, or perhaps better said, he could
swim through the consciousness of a person’s mind, often diving into their
deeper memories to find what he wanted. 

Over his few decades of life, Mynar had learned to
not only read what was there, but to speak in the minds of others, and to voice
his thoughts in images.  Eventually, he had learned to help people see what he
wanted them to see.

These abilities were enhanced, magnified, and
projected over distances through a combination of chance and cunning; for Mynar
was of the royal blood of Krall, a neighboring gen to the Kale Gen. When he had
stolen his gen’s stone of power, it had bent to his will.  But Mynar had been
called sorcerer long before he had stolen the Krall Stone.

And so it was on this day that Mynar had used what
remaining power he could muster to mimic the muscular image of Lord Karthan’s
chamberlain, Khazak Mail Fist, as he and his fellow conspirators milled about
in the outer chamber of the prison, awaiting their cell assignments.  Though
his now bulging arms were still in shackles, he managed to hide that fact under
his cloak, which now was a dark blue color; the color of cloak that Khazak Mail
Fist sometimes wore.  Deftly stepping to the side of the group nearest the
entrance, he suddenly stood up straight as the pair of guards assigned to watch
them looked up from the scroll they were scribing on. Surprise at Khazak’s
sudden appearance was evident in their faces.

“Sire!” They both snapped to attention in unison.

“Keep at it.” Mynar nodded dismissively, a gruff
look of dissatisfaction on his face.  As the two guards self-consciously went
back to their task of recording the prisoner’s names, Mynar walked up beside
them as if inspecting what they were doing. At the same time, he subtly grabbed
one of the keys to the shackles that hung on a nail on the side of the desk. 
He then nonchalantly walked out of the chamber as the confusion of where ‘the
last prisoner’ had gone began, leaving the rest of his fellow conspirators to
whatever fate awaited them.

Two turns of the passageway later, Mynar was out
of the smoky torch light of the prison and in the cool darkness of the cave
system.  Here, in darkness untainted by torchlight, the unique heat vision of
his race showed white tendrils of heat wafting up from his body, encircling the
shackles and the key he had stolen in their warmth, outlining the hole where
the lock was.  Stopping for a moment, Mynar dropped the Khazak façade. 
Standing where another passage met his, Mynar worked the awkward angle to get
the key into the lock and turn it.  Soon, the shackles were dropped and Mynar
was free.

“You seem to have lost something.” An icy voice
stopped Mynar dead in his tracks.  Turning to look down the side passage where
the voice had come from, he could clearly see a kobold holding up a belt with a
large pouch on it… a very familiar kobold and a very familiar large pouch. 
Behind the kobold, a pair of armed warriors stood in stony silence.  Turning
back to the main passage, he saw three more warriors appear from around the
next bend. When they stopped and drew their swords, Mynar’s surprise turned to
foreboding. 

The surprise disarmed Mynar of his customary
arrogance.  He licked his lips nervously as his tail twitched behind him; he
knew he was cornered, and unlike the unwitting guards, he knew he couldn’t
escape this kobold with trickery.  “Khee-lar Shadow Hand,” he addressed the
kobold holding the pouch, mustering as much confidence as he could.  “You seem
to have the Krall Stone.”

Khee-lar walked forward, the two warriors behind
him keeping pace.  With a nod from their master, the pair grabbed hold of
Mynar, throwing him to the sand floor of the passage like a sack of meat. 
Their master came up and squatted next to the prostrate form of his former
mentor.

“Your attempt to overthrow this gen and take the
throne seems to have failed.” Khee-lar’s icy voice struck like daggers.  “Tell
me, what did you promise Troll and Kort?  Which one did you pick to be your
puppet on the throne?”

Mynar tried to get up, but one of Khee-lar’s
warriors planted a foot in the middle of his back while another grabbed his
horns and planted his face in the sand.  “You’re making a mistake,” Mynar
grunted.  “It was all for you!  Remember the Covenant!  You were to take the
throne!  Troll didn’t want to wait. He wanted to take the gen now… and present
Lord Karthan’s crown… to you!”  It was a convenient lie, since Troll would soon
be dead.

Drawing his knife, Khee-lar laid it against
Mynar’s throat as his warrior turned Mynar’s head.  “I don’t think you ever
understood that I am not your pup.  You may have brought the binding covenants,
but I have quite outgrown you.  So whatever you were doing, you failed, and the
price for failure, as you once taught me, is death.” 

In the cool darkness of the passageway, the sweat
dripping from Mynar’s face shone white as it rolled off his snout.  He tried to
master his emotions, something he rarely attempted and so failed, but Mynar was
always thinking…

“The treaty!” he muttered as whatever illusions he
had of smoothing things over with Khee-lar vanished.  “Remember the orcs!  If
you’re going to take the gen, you’re going to need my orcs to keep the Krall
Gen out of it!”

Khee-lar sneered at Mynar, his knife moving slowly
across the helpless kobold’s neck.  He could smell the fear emanating from his
quarry.  “Your orcs?  Since when were they your orcs?  Anyone can raise a
rabble of orcs.”

“But it will take you too long, Khee-lar,” Mynar
grunted.  “And you can’t use the Krall Stone, only I can.  You’ll never find
the Kale Stone without it!”

“You haven’t found the Kale Stone with it,”
Khee-lar snarled.  “Do you think I’m a fool!” With a cruel smile, he made as if
to plunge his dagger into Mynar’s neck… but stuck it in the sand next to Mynar
instead.  Over the smell of Mynar’s sudden abject horror, the smell of warm
urine assaulted Khee-lar’s senses.

Khee-lar rocked back on his heals and stood,
disgusted at Mynar, disgusted at himself for ever having listened to this
manipulator.  The game was over; Mynar had no power over him.

“Go!” he snapped at the shuddering form lying
helpless in the sand.  “Get your orcs and don’t come back until you bring me
the Kale Stone!”  Dropping the pouch with the Krall Stone in it, Khee-lar and
his warriors walked away.

In the sand, Mynar’s shame soon turned to anger,
and in turn his anger turned to cold, determined wrath.

T
rallik
was never one to involve himself in celebrations, and today’s celebration of
the Deep Guard Warrior Group was no exception, especially because it was shared
with Arbelk and a handful of others who were coming of age.  Even the fact that
he and Arbelk sat at the head of the table next to Khee-lar Shadow Hand, leader
of the Deep Guard, did little to help his sullen mood.  Despite the passage of
several hours and the congratulations by several of his now fellow warriors for
having lasted so long in the final trial, Trallik’s pride still stung. He was
having a hard time getting over it.  His father, a lowly servant caste fungus farmer
for whom he had no respect, had counseled him earlier in the celebration to
‘get over it,’ saying all it would do is eat at him from the inside until he
learned to let go of his loss.

Well, he really didn’t feel like letting it go. 
Without realizing how sullen of a mood he was in, he had slumped farther in his
chair the further his mood had dropped.  His twitching tail and reflexive scowl
indicated one of his dark moods.  But after quite some time of everyone leaving
him alone, yet another person came up and sat down on the bench next to him.

“Hello, Trallik,” said a familiar, almost hated
voice.

Trallik turned and, with a bewildered look on his
face, sat up.  Seated next to him was none other than the reason for his pain:
bronze-scaled Durik, the newest leader caste in the gen.

“What are you doing here?” Trallik sneered. 
“Shouldn’t you be with your warrior group?  Or perhaps you’re too good for us
common folk any more.”

Durik let the wave of hate roll right off him and
smiled.  “Trallik, several things happened back there at the scouting trial,”
he began.  Trallik sneered and started to say something, but Durik cut him off,
“And…” he continued, “several people had their pride hurt.”

Trallik snorted in disgust and turned away.

“I just came to tell you that I forgive you for
stabbing me in the back, and that I hope you’ll forgive me too for taking
advantage of a downed opponent.” He referred to an incident where he had marked
Trallik’s back with dye.

Trallik turned back toward Durik with a look of
intense anger. “If you were not leader caste, I would strike you right now. 
You took my rightful place!”  Embarrassed for revealing his close-held
feelings, Trallik stood up and quickly walked away.  Several kobolds near him,
including his father and his father’s new lifemate, watched the outburst in
wonder.

Durik sat for a moment, shaking his head, then
stood and walked away. Behind him trailed a servant caste kobold from one of
the council members. 

Watching from the corner of the far entrance to
the Deep Guard common chamber, Trallik’s heart began to soften.  For a moment
it was almost as if he could feel his mother’s soothing presence, though she
had been dead two years now.

Perhaps he’s right.  Ah!!!  I can’t stand it!
 

Bending his knees, he slid his back down the wall
until he sat, head in his hands and tail wrapped around himself, against the
cool limestone wall of the entranceway.  He sobbed softly, and tears flowed as
his wounded pride struggled to recover.

The exchange between Durik and Trallik did not go
unnoticed.  Rubbing his chin, Khee-lar Shadow Hand sat back and thought about
the events he had just witnessed.  After a moment, he turned to a nearby elite
warrior and whispered something.  The elite warrior nodded his understanding
and walked away quickly to execute the order he’d been given.

Durik followed Kabbak, a servant caste who
belonged to a council member named Torgal of the Sundered Skull.  They passed
through the several corridors that separated the caverns of his native warrior
group from the caverns of the Honor Guard and leader caste.  His mind was still
reeling after Kabbak had called him by his proper title, ‘Sire.’  This was just
one of the many changes that had occurred in such a short time.  Perhaps that
was always the way of it.  Perhaps all yearlings felt the same when they became
warriors. 

He could see that the changes were more than
Trallik was prepared to deal with.  In his heart, he hoped that Trallik would
get over it and become what they all needed him to be for this quest.  Though
he did not know the details of the quest yet, Durik knew that they must be at
their best.  Countless times he had heard Manebrow say, ‘It’s when you let down
your guard that the enemy strikes; when you’re weak or unprepared.’  He wanted
to make sure they were as strong as they could be at all times, and so he had
stopped by to speak with Trallik after Kabbak had pulled him from the
celebrations in the Wolf Riders’ caverns.

Perhaps he would grow used to his new stature
within the gen.  Then again, he didn’t even know what he would be doing as a
leader caste after he returned from the quest…
if
he returned from the
quest.  He figured that, whatever it was, it would be something quite different
than what he would have been doing if he’d become just another warrior in the
Wolf Riders. 

For the moment, the thoughts of his future began
to quiet within him as they reached the entrance to the grotto where the
council members lived.  Descending the steps into this grotto, Durik was again
amazed by the raw beauty of it all, and at the same time refreshed by the cool
evening air.  A light mist had arisen from the lichen and moss that clung to
the walls and boulders of the grotto. 

After a moment, Kabbak’s gentle reminder of their
purpose for coming here stirred Durik out of his wonder.  Soon arriving at the
large wooden door that served as the entrance to Torgal’s house, Kabbak pulled
the heavy iron ring in the center of the door and walked inside.  Tentatively,
almost reverently, Durik followed.

Torgal of the Sundered Skull was one of the older
council members.  In his younger days, in fact up until just following the orc
raids six years prior, he had led the Patrol Guard Warrior Group, which served
as the regular infantry for the gen as well as their border guards.  The tales
of his exploits in command of that warrior group were perhaps more legendary
than the actual events, but nonetheless, he was a kobold held in high esteem
among both the leaders as well as the common castes of the gen.  Despite the exploits
of his younger years, he had grown recently feeble and had taken to walking
with the help of a staff.

The front hall of Torgal’s house was impressive. 
The entire floor of the front hallway was covered with bear and wolf skins. 
Lining the walls were tokens of exploits from his younger days; here a pair of
crossed orcish cleavers, there the skull of a minotaur.  As they turned into
the entrance to the large open foyer that was the main room of Torgal’s
quarters, Durik saw a cloven helm and split skull with long shanks of hair
still attached to it from what must have been a very large minotaur mounted on
a wooden shield over the entranceway.

“Durik, young one, how good of you to come.”
Torgal sat in a large stuffed chair near the fire, padded with the down of many
fowl and covered with the fur of several animals.  “Come.  Come inside and have
a seat.”  He motioned for Durik to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the
fire from him. 

Following his direction, Durik walked slowly
forward, amazed by the beautiful carved wooden furniture, copper vases and
ornaments, and war gear that seemed to cover most of the walls and floor. 

“My apologies for calling you so soon after the
ceremony tonight, but you know well the exuberance of youth.  My granddaughter
simply would not let me leave until she was convinced I was too exhausted to
stay.”  Torgal sighed. “Ah, the energy of youth.”  Then he sat up in the chair,
grimacing and holding his back from a sudden pain.  “And the burden of age!”

Durik sat respectfully in the chair across from
the old council member as Torgal rubbed his aching back. 

“I trust Kabbak brought you here without mishap?”
Torgal asked.

“Yes, sire,” Durik stated, then, seeing Torgal
looking at him expectantly, he elaborated, “The celebration was beginning to
wind down and the cares of the upcoming quest were beginning to weigh on my
mind.  It was with good timing that your messenger arrived.”

“Ah, yes.  Good.  Good!”  Torgal nodded his head. 
“Young one, I’d wager you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.”

“I had wondered, yes.”

Nodding, Torgal continued, “Well, let me start by
saying that I called you here to fulfill a promise; a promise to an old warrior
now long dead.”  He paused, as if gauging the effect of his words on Durik. 
“Many years ago, I too was a yearling, and I fought in the trials much like you
did today.  Back then, the trials were not so elaborate, and besides, we were
involved in a conflict with a nomadic tribe of minotaurs who had wandered into
this valley.  They were here because of the great drought that had occurred in
the eastern steppes, making it unlivable, driving away the great herds of
caribou that they depended on.”

Durik had not heard this part of their gen’s long
history, for he had only lived a very short piece of it so far.

Torgal had paused with the memory of events long
past.  After a moment of recollection, he continued, “So, several battles were
fought with them.  One of these battles, the one that was fought the day before
the trials, to be exact, was particularly tragic.  In a meadow now overgrown
with the fir trees that seem to thrive in this cold southern climate, a large
group of Patrol Guard, led by their leader caste, was ambushed by these
minotaur raiders.  Well, it was a bloody affair, and several of our finest
warriors died that day.  In fact, the leader of the Patrol Guard was on death’s
doorstep when they brought him home, carrying him on his shield.

“That very next day at the trials, there was a
somber mood throughout the gen.  I didn’t know it, but the night before, the
council had debated about who would rebuild the Patrol Guard and lead them
against the minotaurs.  Well, no one wanted the job.  They all thought it was
suicide, so the Lord of the Gen back in those days decided to make the winner
of the trials into a leader caste, and give him the job of chasing the minotaur
scourge from the valley.”  Torgal paused, looking at Durik with a twinkle in
the eye.  “You can well imagine who that was.

Durik smiled at the ancient warrior, lively as he
was.

“Well, not knowing any better, I, of course, was
ecstatic!  Leader caste?  The son of a fungus farmer?  It was like a dream come
true.  Little did I know how much of a nightmare it would quickly become, but
that’s another story all together. 

“Before he died, the leader of the Patrol Guard
whom I was to replace gave me something and made me swear that, when a quest
worthy of its use arose again, that I would pass it on.”  Leaning forward,
Torgal smiled at Durik.  “Since none of my progeny have made more than warrior
status in the trials, I was rather glad you came along.” 

Durik was intrigued and grateful at the same
time.  He’d not even known Torgal personally before this night, but yet this
ancient warrior was about to bestow on his some item from their mutual legacy.

With a twinkle in his eye, Torgal continued, “I’m
getting rather old, you know.”  He grabbed his cane.  “Follow me, young one,”
he called as he hobbled away from Durik toward a side room. 

Kabbak opened the lock on the door for him and
held the door open as both of them entered, closing the door lightly behind
them.

Hobbling his way over to a small stone pedestal,
Torgal stopped.  On the top of the pedestal sat a pair of dull metal bands with
leather ties.  Beckoning Durik to come closer, Torgal picked them up and began
to fidget with the ties that crisscrossed one side of each.  “Help me with
these, will you, young one?” he asked, holding out the bracers in one shaking
hand. 

Durik looked a bit confused, but he took them and
quickly undid the ties on both.

“There, that’s good.  Now, let me tell you what
the secret of old Torgal’s power is, my son.” Torgal placed a hand on Durik’s
shoulder to steady himself.  He leaned in closer to Durik, talking in a low
voice.  “These bracers are of great power.  They are one of the original
artifacts brought by Kale to this valley so long ago, back before the orcs were
here, many generations ago in a time when the world was still recovering from
the great changes The Sorcerer had wrought upon the world.  Kale himself wore
them in protection of his fledgling gen in the fight against the great black
dragon.”  Torgal paused to point a finger at Durik’s face. “Now it is your
turn.”

Durik looked down at the steel bands in his
hands.  They were plain enough to look at; no engravings, no marks of any kind,
not even the scars of past battles.  He turned them over and examined the
simple leather ties on each; again, nothing remarkable about them either,
though the ties were obviously of more recent make.  Durik looked up with a
questioning glance.