The Game of Fates (18 page)

The
bridge was made completely of interlocking stone in a tall arch, the bases of
each side being carved to appear as massive horned demons holding up each end
of the bridge.  On either end of the bridge on both sides of the bridgehead the
pillars that started the side railings were carved to appear as crouching
demons with fearsome teeth, claws, horns, and spiked tails.  Trallik was
impressed, and not a little unsettled.

“So,
Mahtu, who is this big boss we work for?” Trallik asked as they neared the far
side of the bridge, the wonder of the structure having kept him silent for most
of the length of it.

“Was
hobgoblin,” Mahtu said as though working for a member of that evil race from
the far eastern regions of Dharma Kor was a normal thing.  This revelation,
however, was significant news to Trallik.

“What? 
You worked for a hobgoblin?  But they’re evil, aren’t they?” Trallik stopped in
his tracks.

Mahtu
turned and looked at Trallik as though he were seeing him for the first time. 
“Yep, he be very bad, beat kobolds much.  Why?” Mahtu asked.  The other two
mercenaries had stopped as well, one on either side of Trallik.

“Who’s
your current master, then?” Trallik asked.

At
that moment a large orc with its arm in a sling walked out the doorway of the
small building on the far side of the bridge.  Beside the big orc walked a
middle-aged kobold who had all the trappings of a kobold leader.  Trallik began
to stutter and stumble backward.

“Oh,
he be big boss with monies.  Shagra, orc champion of Bloodhand Orcs be big
boss.  Warrior leader from Kijik Gen talk with him,” Mahtu answered.

All
the blood left Trallik’s face as the two mercenaries next to him each grabbed
an arm.

“Where
yoo go?” Mahtu asked.

“I…
I…” Trallik stuttered. 

At
that moment, Shagra and the leader of the Kijik Gen mercenaries noticed the new
arrival.  Seeing crossed shoulder belts and gear that matched that of the
kobold company that had wounded him in the arm and side, Shagra roared his rage
and strode forward to the small knot of kobold warriors.  Trallik, unable to
escape the firm grasp of the two mercenaries, held up both hands in front of
his face and braced himself.

T
he tragedy that the Krall Gen’s
forces had suffered rippled through the entire gen by the time the emergency
council concluded.  Each of the commanders and council members returned to
their areas with a copy of the list of dead that had been brought back with the
train of wounded.  Soon, the wailing of widows and mothers could be heard. 

All
throughout the forest, the gen was abuzz with preparations.  Lord Krall was
also busy.  Shortly after the emergency council he held another much smaller,
but no less critical council.  Durik had followed Lord Krall’s messenger from
the workshops to Lord Krall’s now familiar personal chambers.  Upon arriving
there he was quickly ushered inside. 

Krebbekar,
Morigar, Lord Krall’s minister and Lord Krall himself were all seated on the
various pieces of furniture that formed something of a circle in the center of
the room.  As Durik took his seat a servant appeared carrying a small barrel
and several silver cups.  With dexterity and practiced ease the same young
servant that Durik had seen before poured the clear, light brown-colored drink
called sweet bark cider into each of the silver cups.

The
servant passed a cup to each of the five as Lord Krall massaged his temples. 
Sipping slowly on the sweet bark drink, the rest of the kobolds in the room
waited for Lord Krall to speak.  It wasn’t long before their patience was
rewarded.

“My
son,” he started then paused.  His hands came to rest on the arms of the great
stuffed chair he sat in.  “I have heard your requests to accompany me, and I’ve
given it due consideration.”  This was the first Durik had heard that Morigar
was wanting out of the quest, though he was not terribly surprised by the
revelation.  “You are old enough to make decisions for yourself,” he said,
citing Morigar’s previous arguments, “but I doubt your wisdom to deal with the
consequences of those actions.”

Morigar
began to protest, but his father’s upraised hand quickly silenced him.

“No,
my son, the time for words is past.  We now live in a time of deeds,” Lord
Krall stated.

Durik
felt uncomfortable being involved in this conversation.  He could see by the
look on Lord Krall’s face that he was here to confront and end issues. 

“For
years I have weighed your character in the balance, and always it has come up
wanting.”  Lord Krall’s words were harsh, made especially painful by the fact
that this was his own son.  “I have seen many selfish actions over the past
several years.  This last request of yours, to lead half of my army, is clearly
indicative of your lack of character.  Always you’ve wanted every benefit
handed to you, without paying the price.  Long you’ve strutted about this gen
in the garb of a warrior, though you’ve spent little time in training, have no
patience for lessons, and couldn’t care less for the well-being of the few
warriors I’ve entrusted to you from time to time.  You have wasted your life to
this point, and have reaped the rewards of your lack of effort.  For too long
you’ve claimed privileges you never earned.

“Well,
today that ends.  Tomorrow, when I leave this gen at the head of our host, you
also will leave this gen.  I have vowed to drive the great ants from this
valley.  I will not return until I have done so.  I now give you a charge.  You
will not return without the head of the orc chieftain that leads whatever is
left of the Bloodhand Orcs.”

Morigar
had been slowly sinking into his seat and now looked like he’d been skewered by
a javelin.

The
moment he said it, Lord Krall knew that he’d given his son a task that was too
great for him to accomplish.  In his stubbornness, however, instead of
rescinding the monumental task, Lord Krall’s features hardened and he turned to
Krebbekar.

“Chief
of my house guard,” he said to Krebbekar, “your rightful place at this time is
at the head of my house guard.  But it cannot be so.  If he is to succeed, my
son will need your help now more than ever.  You will go with Morigar on this
quest as has been planned, as will Gormanor and Lemmekor.” 

Lord
Krall then turned to Durik.  “Young Durik, I do hope you’ll give your support
to the task, for I fear my son with his little team will have too hard of a
time accomplishing it.”

Durik,
also stunned by the task, thought for a moment about the generosity of the
Krall Gen, about the pride and arrogance of Morigar, and finally about how
dissenters in his gen, the Kale Gen, were allying with the Bloodhand Orcs to
destroy his lord.  With a grim look on his face, Durik nodded.

Lord
Krall, feeling the pain of knowing he had just made a mistake, but not wanting
to lose face, stood and turned to face the windows that he had spent countless hours
looking out of.  “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “when I leave this gen, your
company, and my son with it, must leave.  We cannot have foreign troops in the
heart of our gen when most of our forces are on campaign.”

When
Lord Krall had stood, so had the other four kobolds.  Now as he stood looking
at Lord Krall, the implications of what Lord Krall had just said finally hit
Durik.  The day of load planning, and of finishing the task of sewing the metal
scales on their armor, was gone.  They needed to be on the road with the coming
of dawn.

Excusing
himself, Durik made his way quickly back to the workshops.

Durik
was worried.  From Gorgon’s and Ardan’s estimates, it was going to take most of
the next day to finish the suits of armor.  Terrim had also estimated that it
would take a day to repack and readjust the packdogs’ kits to make them more
modular, so they could shift the loads more readily if need be, in case they
had to accommodate casualties. 

Terrim
had had a plan for how to make the packdogs’ packs more modular and easier to
scale.  Having more iron than they needed, Terrim had traded some of it for
extra skins of leather and some of the toughest braided leather string Durik
had seen.  He wanted to spend their last day at the Krall Gen re-cutting the
packs and modifying the pack saddles, but there just wasn’t going to be time
now for either thing.  He didn’t know how they could overcome this obstacle.

When
Durik arrived at the workshops, Manebrow saw the look on his face and, before
he could speak, he asked Durik to step outside with him.  Once outside, Durik
told Manebrow the disconcerting news.  Thinking it over for a few moments as
Durik voiced his frustration, Manebrow held up a hand.  Durik stopped abruptly.

“I
have a recommendation, if you’ll take it, sire,” Manebrow said calmly.

“What
is it?”

“Just
because Lord Krall wants us outside the perimeter of his gen before his forces
leave the gen doesn’t mean that we have to travel any further than that
tomorrow.  Now, your warriors in there have been working feverishly on this
armor for the past three days.  We were supposed to give back the workshops
tomorrow morning anyway.  Gorgon and Ardan already approached me and asked if
we could work through the night to finish the armor before we have to give the
shops back.  Jerrig has also voiced his support of that.  In fact, that’s the
assumption we’re working under, that we’ve only got until tomorrow at dawn.”

“But
what about Terrim and the pack saddles?” Durik asked.

Manebrow
put his hand on Durik’s shoulder, “When I saw those casualties coming in and
heard Lord Krall announce that they were leaving tomorrow morning, I figured
he’d kick us out ahead of him.  So Terrim and I already spoke.  He and his team
are already over at the leather working shop working on re-cutting the
saddlebags.  They should be done by the second watch, after which they’ll
repack everything and be prepared for our departure by mid-third watch, so that
we can be on our way before dawn.”

Durik
shook his head.  “I should have known you’d already have things worked out. 
Ah, Manebrow, what would I do without you?”

“What
would you do without all of us is the question, sire.  It’s certainly not just
me.  Now, what do you say we get to work at the forges and help push this
effort?  There’s plenty more steel scales to be pulled from the molds and
pounded thin after all.”

Durik
nodded his approval and followed Manebrow into the metalsmithy.

Lord
Krall struggled for some time with his decision to give his son the mission of
bringing back the orc chieftain’s head.  Later that night he summoned Krebbekar
to his personal chambers.  He invited Krebbekar to sit as he stood wringing his
hands in front of the window.

“Krebbekar,”
he started slowly, “I don’t want you to think that I’m sending my son to die.” 
He paused for a moment, and turned to look at Krebbekar, whose face was
emotionless.  “And I don’t want you to think that I’m sending you on a suicide
mission.”  He came and sat in the chair across the rug from Krebbekar.

“While
I have a good feeling for this young Durik, I think it unfair to put such a
heavy burden on our ally.  I also want to give my son the maximum opportunity
to excel.  Therefore, I will not send you out completely dependent on the Kale
Gen warriors to accomplish your mission.  I will not send my son and our Krall
warriors out unequipped to deal with the orcs.  We still have the coins that we
collected from the bodies of the Bloodhand Orcs after the invasion several
years ago now.  I will send them with you, Krebbekar. 

“The
warriors of the northern gens often sell their services for gold and silver
coins.  Hire what mercenaries you deem necessary to deal with the Bloodhand
Orcs.  We will see if my son can humble himself enough to deal with the
degenerate northern gens.”  Seeing that Krebbekar’s countenance had softened
somewhat, Lord Krall stood and straightened the gear he wore, attempting to get
used to it before tomorrow came.  “See my minister.  He should have everything
ready for you.”

“I
will not fail you, sire,” Krebbekar said as he stood up.  “And I will do all
that I can to ensure your son does not fail you either.”

“Do
what you can do, my dear friend,” Lord Krall answered him as he walked with him
toward the door.  He stopped at the door and looked Krebbekar in the eyes,
“Bring him back, will you?  His mother would never forgive me, you know.  One
son is all that any mother should be asked to give.”

“Yes,
sire.”  Krebbekar bowed his head and left through the open door.

Krebbekar
followed Lord Krall’s minister around the side of his spacious house on the
lake.  Beneath their feet the planks creaked and Krebbekar could hear the
gentle lapping of the water against the foundation pylons that anchored the
whole of the minister’s house in its place on the lake.  As they walked, the
minister, a rather tall and spindly older kobold who was the chief of all of
Lord Krall’s servants, mumbled and carried on about how this invasion was going
to tax the resources of the gen and how this whole ‘marching in the morning’
thing was making an absolute mess of their economy.