The Game of Fates (26 page)

Behind
Gorgon the rest of his team was doing their best to attempt to stay up.  The
rhythmic pace that Gorgon had established was punishing at best, his legs
moving like pistons up the mountain.  Arbelk seemed to handle it well enough. 
Troka’s thinner arms and legs were longer than anyone else’s in the company,
however, and just weren’t made for mountain climbing.  Jerrig was probably the
worst off of Gorgon’s team, his tongue lolling out to one side, his shoulders
slumped, and his tail hanging limp as he dragged himself up the path, not even
attempting to help pull the packdog that he led.  He had always been the
weakest of the seven original yearlings, and though he’d been toughened up
considerably, this climb was an extreme test of endurance.

Gormanor
and Lemmekor both seemed to be handling the climb well enough, though it was
obvious that the endurance training of the Kale Gen warriors gave them
something of an edge.  Gorgon couldn’t help but think that, if they were his
troops, he could work wonders with them.

“Watch
it now, Troka,” Gorgon called down to his tallest, lankiest warrior.  “Watch
your dog.  He’s getting too close to the edge of the path.”
Troka said nothing, just pulling at the reins to guide his packdog further away
from the edge.

Gorgon
looked up toward the distant figures of the kobolds on top of the Chop.  Then,
stopping for several moments to let the rest of his team catch up, and to allow
his packdog to catch its breath, he looked out over the valley.  It was night,
and he was glad for that.  If they had had to make this climb in the heat of
the day, he doubted that any of his teammates would have had the strength to
fight by the time they reached the top.  The valley looked very different at
night, however.  The trees and rocks mostly blurred into one indistinct matte
of subtle shades of black.  From this vantage point half way up the Chop,
however, Gorgon could make out a large mass of what had to be living beings
several miles into the valley, the heat rising from their collective mass
lighting up the whole of what appeared to be a small hilltop from this
distance.

Must
be Lord Krall’s army
,
he mused.  Seeing that the rest of his party had made the next of the many
turns on this zig-zagging path that ran straight up the mountain, Gorgon tugged
at his packdog’s reins, pulling him onward.

Mahtu
stood leaning on his spear, watching the progress of this most recent caravan. 
He had gone down and up the mountain again the other day, and he was more than
content to watch them struggle all the way up to the top.  Better they struggle
up the mountain than he.  Shagra had told them that they were to send one of
their number down to meet any caravan half-way, just to make sure that the
caravans weren’t going to try anything tricky, but Shagra and all of his sub-leaders
had left to join the horde that was gathered on the northern side of the Chop,
and Mahtu didn’t want to get into another argument with the others about who
should go down.  None of them clearly wanted to, and he had done it the last
several times and was feeling worn out from all this climbing.  With Shagra
gone, he certainly wasn’t going to bother enforcing his mandates.

Behind
him, the seven other kobolds on watch with him from this Kijik Gen mercenary
company lolled about, throwing bones mostly and exchanging coins on the results
while they boasted to their companions about their exploits with the female
slaves that the orcs had.  He thought it distracted them too much, but they
were mercenaries and young, and one couldn’t keep young mercenaries from
gambling, drinking, or from females, it seemed.  After all, they were hired for
their ability to use the spears Shagra had given them, and to not question the
orders of their rather evil orc masters.  It was impossible to expect them to
be disciplined or moderate when the master you were sent to serve clearly
wasn’t.

The
leader caste from their gen was no help either.  His constant fooling around
with the females, bouts of drinking, and incessant gambling left him no time to
actually focus on improving the security of their position or on the needs of
his company.  In fact, he pretty much left it to Mahtu to take care of the
company while he spent all his strength on various pursuits of pleasure.  Such
an example by their leader and the orcs that hired them left any attempt by
Mahtu to instill some semblance of discipline ring hollow in the ears of these
young ones.

Even
now, Mahtu knew that the rest of his company had gotten into the orcs’ stashes
of chew weed and bitter wine.  They didn’t even have the self-control necessary
to keep out of their employer’s stores while he was away.  Mahtu shook his
head.  There would be trouble when Shagra returned, that was certain.

Gorgon
deliberately halted his little party at the last of the resting places for
three times the normal count he had allowed before.  He wanted them to be as
ready as they could once they arrived at the top, yet loosened up from the
inevitable stiffness that waiting would bring.  Walking from one warrior to the
next, he checked that their weapons were loose in the strappings on the sides
of the packdogs.  Grabbing each one by the shoulders, he rubbed their shoulders
and thumped them on the arms to get the blood flowing after wearing packs on
such a difficult climb.

“Alright
now, be ready,” he said as he came to each one.  “Not long now.  Wait for my
signal before pulling weapons.  Remember your training.  Make our gen proud.”

Before
long the entire group was ready.  Even Jerrig had perked up some, perhaps only
because he knew that the long, arduous climb would soon be over.  As their rest
period drew to a close, the fear and anticipation in their eyes mixed together,
the shine in their eyes showing that their confidence was stronger than their
fear.

“On
your feet!” Gorgon called.  To his surprise there was not a groan among the
warriors, though the packdogs more than made up for it with their whining. 
Looking up toward the top, Gorgon could clearly see the hot white figures of
eight kobolds, the same mercenaries, he assumed, that had been exacting a toll
from all of their trade caravans for some time.  He wondered where the
hobgoblin was that reportedly was their employer, or perhaps the orcs had taken
over from him.  Either way, Gorgon wondered why it was only kobolds at the
bridge.  Not that he was complaining.  Kobold mercenaries from the northern
gens would be much easier to confront than orcs.

In
unison the group of mixed Kale and Krall Gen warriors began the final portion
of their ascent.  It was only a short distance, and within perhaps a few
hundred steps the company was already rounding the last corner.  Straight up
the mountainside from them now the apparent leader of the eight kobold mercenaries
was directing the spear-wielding northerners into their places; three on either
side of the slight rise to either side of the trailhead, the last one with him
in the center to confront the caravan as it gained the slope.

“Hail,
friends,” Gorgon called as he fought the urge to drag his packdog along with
him, not wanting to seem too eager to reach them.

“Eh! 
Yoo pay toll for cross bridge!” the kobold leader called down to them.

In
the back of Gorgon’s mind had been the slightest of doubts, that perhaps these
weren’t the toll-exacting mercenaries he’d heard about.  That doubt was now
eliminated.

“Yes,
yes.  We have it on…” he turned and pointed at the middle dog being led by
Gormanor who had requested the honor, “on that dog there.”  As the rest of the
line of warriors and dogs arrived at the final bend they bowed their heads in
effort, and to hide any hint of the intentions that shone in their eyes.  Some
of them had been reluctant to fight other kobolds, but kobolds that fought in
the service of orcs were certainly fair game, especially kobolds conducting
open extortion on the only known trade route to the north.

As
Gorgon reached the top, he saw that the six mercenaries off to either side
weren’t moving from their spots, nor were the two to the front coming forward. 
He breathed in and out slowly, reducing the sound of pounding blood in his ears
that threatened to dampen his situational awareness.  Looking the mercenary
leader in the eyes, he nodded his head.

Gorgon’s
assessment of the mercenaries was that they’d obviously seen too much excess
and too little training.  Their eyes showed cruelty, not confidence.  Their
postures showed a lack of respect, which meant they wouldn’t act like a team. 
In the mouths of a few of them he could see blackened teeth, a sure sign of
chew weed, a mild intoxicant that sapped the coordination and brain power of
those who chewed it.  The way most of them leaned on their spears showed that
they didn’t take their jobs seriously.  In summary, they were weak.

Drawing
his hammer with lightning speed, Gorgon strode forward and swung his hammer
with both hands.  The leader of the mercenaries, who had been wary of caravan
drivers who seemed to be in such good physical shape, stepped back almost quick
enough; the hammer caught the tip of his snout, sending a spray of blood
through the air.  The mercenary standing next to him, however, was caught flat
footed, and with a sickening crunch the follow-through from Gorgon’s swing
smashed his head as surely as it would a melon.

Behind
Gorgon the rest of the party drew their weapons and in a matter of moments the
other six mercenaries had thrown down their spears and were begging for mercy. 
Grabbing the spear out of Mahtu’s grasp, Gorgon pushed the stunned mercenary
leader to the ground.  It was over in a matter of seconds.

“Where
are the orcs that hold this bridge?” Gorgon scowled at the mercenary leader.

He
was spitting out teeth and blood, a look of wild fear and pain in his eyes. 
“They no here!  They leave guards.  Not many.  Orc guards down in outpost. 
Please, yoo no kill us?” he began groveling in the dirt.

Gorgon
thought for a couple of seconds.  He hadn’t planned on taking over the outpost,
but then he wasn’t particularly opposed to the idea.

“You’re
going to help us take down the orc guards if we let you live?”  Though it was a
question, the tone in Gorgon’s voice and the look in his eye made it clear it
was a demand.

“Yes,
yes.  I help yoo.  Yoo no kill us now?” Mahtu groveled, the damage to his snout
making his northern gen accent even harder to understand.

“Alright,”
Gorgon answered him.  Turning back toward the rest of his warriors, he called
for Arbelk to bring rope to tie them up.  All of a sudden off to his right,
Gorgon heard the noise of running feet.  Grabbing the spear that lay at his
feet, he spun around.  The mercenary had barely gotten ten steps toward the
bridge when Gorgon caught sight of him.  Hoisting the spear, he hesitated as he
saw a light appear behind him. 

With
an audible
whoosh
the bright light of a fiery dart sped past Gorgon
striking the fleeing mercenary square between the shoulder blades, breaking his
back and throwing him forward.  In a matter of moments the young kobold
mercenary’s ‘grand adventure’ came to an end as his body slammed into the carved
pillar at the near end of the bridge, leaving a trail of burnt blood as it slid
slowly down and over the edge into the abyss that the bridge spanned.

Gorgon
looked back at Jerrig, who was smiling a hardened smile.  Looking around at the
remaining mercenaries, Gorgon’s eyes were cold and completely devoid of any
mercy.  “Let that be a warning to you.  The next one that tries to get away
will die just as easily.”  From the look in their eyes, it was clear they were
sufficiently intimidated.

In
a matter of a few minutes Arbelk had used the rope from one of the packdogs to
tie the six remaining mercenaries together in pairs.  Next to Mahtu, the body
of the one whose head Gorgon had smashed lay as a gruesome reminder of the
stupidity of their choice of occupations.  After the six of them were tied up,
Gorgon knelt in front of their leader, asking his name and if he wanted the
remains of his former mercenary companion.