The Game of Fates (61 page)

It
had not taken long for Durik to assess the warriors in his group.  Only one of
Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s ‘Untouchables’ had come from the Wolf Riders, and he had
died in the fall down Sheerface.  Durik knew he was dead, for that matter, as
he’d passed his body thrown off to one side before taking the lift up.

The
rest of his warrior group had either not participated in the action, or had
actively opposed it and therefore had had to flee with Lord Karthan and his
core of loyalists.  Of his seventy-three riders, fully twenty-six of them had
marched with Lord Karthan to retake the gen, led by his uncle Drok.  The
remaining warriors had been in disarray after Raoros Fang’s death at the hands
of Abetor, their former chief elite warrior.  Abetor had basically ignored
them, being too involved in entertaining his new lord and his other friends on
that evil council.

There
had been no need for any tribunals, and Durik was happy for that.  Manebrow
wasn’t so sure, however, that all the evil that had occurred had come out yet. 
But for now he held his peace.  ‘Let time heal the wounds, or let them fester
until they have to come clean,’ he’d told Durik when no one confessed to, nor
accused anyone of any wrong doing.

When
all was said and done, the primer on justice the Loremaster had given him had
been a waste of time, for now at least.  For that, Durik thanked the Fates. 
While Durik had struggled through these challenges, the elite warriors had gone
about preparing for what everyone knew would be a challenging night ahead.

Now,
wolves and warriors had been fed, rations and equipment packed, weapons and
saddles readied, even tools for moving rocks and earth loaded.  Drok and his
team had returned from gathering the families of the loyalists from their
temporary exile in the enclosure to the north, and Manebrow had returned from a
brief, but joyful reunion with his family.  All were gathered, all was ready,
and Durik gave the word to move to the sunken valley that was the entrance to
their gen’s caverns.

Durik,
dressed in his gleaming steel scale armor, mounted Firepaw and took the reins
from his servant Kabbak, urging his mount slightly forward until he came up next
to his aunt and sister.

“You
look so handsome, Durik.”  His aunt Karial beamed with pride at the whelp she
had raised to be such an honorable adult.  Beside her, Durik’s sister Darya
still had the look of one who carried a heavy burden.  She had been taken into
Khee-lar’s harem at the beginning of his reign and had endured unspeakable
things at the hands of Khee-lar’s henchmen. 

Looking
down now with sadness and a nearly broken heart for his dear sister, Durik
lifted her chin and looked into her eyes.  “Darya, do not worry about Keryak. 
I left him in good hands.  He is with Ardan, and Ardan is with the Krall Gen’s
forces.  I wouldn’t doubt it if he were to return tonight.”

Darya
just looked away from her brother, her look only more forlorn.

“Darya,
I don’t pretend to know what happened to you in there, but know this; Keryak is
a good kobold.  He will love you no matter what.  Nothing that’s happened this
past couple of weeks will change that.  Remember, Keryak and I are best of
friends, just as you and I are.  Hold onto that, my dear little sister.  Please
hold onto that.”

Darya’s
forlorn look seemed to soften somewhat, but like clouds passing before the
moon, soon her face was a mask of pain yet again.

“Durik,”
his aunt spoke to him.  “I will take care of her.  You look out for your
uncle.  Drok is not as spry as he used to be.”  She paused for a moment, her
lip quivering.  “Just bring him back to me, please, Durik.  I would miss him
horribly if he died.”

Durik
leaned down and kissed the kobold who had raised him as though she were his
mother for these past six years.  His heart was full, but the tasks at hand
were calling to him.  “I will, dear aunt.  Remember, he is like a father to
me.  I will watch after him.”

With
that, Durik nudged Firepaw forward.  Riding up next to Manebrow, he called
out.  “Manebrow, take the warrior group up to the sunken meadow and join me at
the council chamber.  Have the warriors walk their wolves about a bit in the
cool night air.  It will do them some good.”

Manebrow
nodded his understanding.

“I
go to talk with Lord Karthan.  I’ll await your arrival in the council
chamber.”  Firepaw took off at a slow jog, while behind Durik the elite
warriors called their teams into line.

K
rebbekar looked down at the mass
of kobolds and handful of orcs that huddled about in fearful little groups at
the bottom of the chasm.  By the shreds of their equipment, he could tell that
they were mostly the remnants of the mercenaries they’d captured and slaves
they’d freed back at the dwarven outpost; the same group that Morigar had
brought here for some foolish reason or another.  The fact that the dragon had
not eaten them yet gave Krebbekar a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe,
Morigar might actually still be alive.

Now
that the dragon had passed by here and taken flight, most likely in search of
food, the entire group of captives had ceased their wailing and were huddling
together to comfort one another again.  Finishing his scan of the captives,
Krebbekar looked up at the tall elf that was his strange new companion and
shook his head.  Arren nodded knowingly then nimbly crossed the rough log
bridge, leaving the more finished side for Krebbekar and his mount.

Cursing
his luck for having broken his right foot in the climb down from the Chop,
Krebbekar tugged on the reins and clicked his tongue to guide his riding dog
forward and over the boards that someone, or something, had laid over one side
of the entryway into the Hall of the Mountain King.  Arriving at the other
side, he plunged into the deep darkness of the entryway, passing over the
splinters and scraps of metal that were all that remained of the doors that had
once stood here.  The coolness of the stone in the evening air was soothing to his
dog’s worn paws, though the smell of the place hung heavy with dragon, a fact
that was unsettling to both rider and dog.

Not
five steps into the entryway a light suddenly flared into existence next to
Krebbekar.  Looking over in surprise, he saw the elf holding up his bow, a
translucent stone set in the handle now emanating a brilliant, pure light.

“Well,
I guess we go by your light then,” Krebbekar remarked.

“I
am afraid I cannot see in the darkness as you can, my little friend,” Arren
said.

Krebbekar,
who was already in a surly mood, glared up at the elf.  “If we’re going to be
traveling together, this ‘little friend’ thing is going to have to stop.”

Somewhat
taken aback, Arren smiled and nodded.  “So be it, then.  But you have yet to
tell me your name.”

“Krebbekar,
leader of the Krall Gen’s house guard,” he answered.

“Very
well, then… Krebbekar,” Arren bowed slightly, then continued moving down the
broad passage that was the entryway.  “Tell me, why did this fool you’re
searching for come here, to a dragon’s lair?”

Krebbekar
prodded his dog forward to keep up with the long-legged elf.  “My warriors tell
me it was to hire the dragon to help our gen fight these orcs, but the more I
think about it, the more I can’t help but think that he had some ulterior motive.”

The
pair came upon a double doorway on the right, which Arren ducked into, quickly
sweeping the ruins of what had once been a mule stable for the dwarven
fortress’s caravans before re-emerging.  On the left side Krebbekar had done
the same with the base of the watch tower, which was much smaller.

“So,
do you think the dragon has any guards in place?” Krebbekar asked as the elf
re-emerged from the mule stables.

“It’s
not likely,” Arren answered as the pair continued down the passageway past an
area full of the splinters and scraps of ancient carts on one side and beds of
what had to have been some sort of quick reaction force on the other.  “After
all, guards typically take money, unless they’re undead that is.  It’s more
likely we’ll find cowering slaves than anything else.”

“Undead?”
Krebbekar asked.  “What do you mean
un
-dead?”

Arren
looked at the kobold warrior quizzically.  “You know, things like skeletons or
zombies.”

Krebbekar
still seemed confused.  “What do we have to fear from skeletons?  Dead is dead,
isn’t it?  And what are these ‘zombies’ you’re talking about?”

Arren
shook his head.  “My lit… Krebbekar, dragons often manipulate the power of
Dharma Kor to give a sort of half-life to skeletons of creatures whom they have
killed.  These constructions can’t think past following simple instructions,
but they’re harder to, well, kill let’s say, than something that’s living.”

Krebbekar
remembered reading something in the libraries of his gen a couple of decades
ago that dealt with such things, but he’d clearly forgotten it over the
intervening years.

“Ah,”
he spat, “then these zombies are the same, or something worse?”

Arren
smiled.  “Those are just skeletons with more meat on them.  They take a bit
more hacking up than skeletons, and depending on how freshly dead they were
when animated, they may actually have a rudimentary bit of intelligence left.”

“Oh
joy,” Krebbekar muttered sarcastically.  The pair had arrived as the gaping
entryway that marked the transition from the outer construction to the underground
halls and their connecting passageways.  “Well, then, on that happy note, I
guess it’s time to plunge into the dragon’s lair itself.”

Silently,
the pair of warriors passed through the archway, over the fallen stone doors,
and into the vault of the dragons.

Morigar’s
ears pricked up.  From somewhere in the back rooms of what had to be an ancient
dwarven inn a scratching noise could barely be heard.  With trembling hands he
reached out and picked up his sword, the noise of the blade scraping across the
stone grating on his already frayed nerves.  Slowly, the kobold princeling
stood up, his back pressed against the thin stone wall that the builders of
this particular part of the Hall of the Mountain King had used to separate the
various guest rooms.

He
had run blindly into the entrance of the ancient dwarven stronghold, letting
his feet take him down the broad central passageway until the dragonfear passed
and he was able to gather his wits about him, somewhat anyway.  He’d found
himself standing in a small common chamber, dominated by a crude statue of a
five-headed dragon.  Morigar had found the statue strangely inviting, almost
comforting, despite its fierce appearance.  He’d sat and rested there for quite
some time in the darkness, until the first hint of dragonfear had begun to
creep into his consciousness yet again.

At
the first hint of the massive beast’s return, Morigar had fled into the nearest
doorway, a blasted hole that had led him into a warren of rooms and smaller
doorways, where he’d hidden for hours after the dragon had passed by, and was
still hidden there when the dragon came back up from below hours later.

But
the big beast had been gone for a little while now, and much more pressing and
urgent was the scratching he heard down the hall from his little hideout.  He
didn’t think that rats would live down this far underground.  After all, rats
couldn’t see in complete darkness.  Whatever it was, he didn’t want to stick
around to find out.  If it lived in a dragon’s lair, it was obviously not
something he wanted to meet.

Stepping
carefully over his broken bow and discarded quiver of arrows, Morigar padded as
silently as he could back down the hallway toward the exit.  Sweat poured down
his face, despite the coolness of the stone, and his breath came in short,
strangled gasps.  Suddenly, not far behind him, he heard something padding
along on the stone floor. 

Turning
around quickly with his sword in front of himself for protection, Morigar’s
heat vision showed what had to be a rat, but this rat was huge!  Morigar stared
in disbelief at the animal.  It had to be almost his size!

In
a moment, the fierce-eyed giant rat sat up on its haunches with its front paws
clawing the air as it sniffed about.  In a moment it noticed Morigar and leaned
forward onto its front paws as if to run at him.

Morigar
didn’t wait another moment.  Turning toward the open doorway, he ran for all he
was worth out into the small common chamber, past the statue of the five-headed
dragon, and further down the broad passage that led into the depths of the
dragon’s lair.

Not
long after he turned the next corner, Morigar was sure he’d heard the giant rat
squeal in pain.  Though he no longer heard anything pursuing him, his fear was
up, and he kept running.

Arren
pulled his arrow out of the large rat and wiped the head of it off on the rat’s
still trembling fur.  Looking up from his recent kill, he focused on the statue
that sat squarely in the center of the small common chamber.

“What
is that?” Krebbekar asked, seated on his riding dog at the entrance to the
common chamber.

“That,
Krebbekar, is a statue to the god of the chromatic dragons,” Arren answered.

“A
five headed dragon?  Why would they worship that?”

Arren
pointed at the heads.  “Do you see how each of the heads is different, as if
each one was from a different dragon?  Look, those are the distinctive
forward-curving horns of a black dragon on that head, and there’s the same nose
on that one as this red dragon has.”

“Alright,
I see it.  So what’s that got to do with anything?” Krebbekar asked.

“Nothing
much, just that their god is a dragon with the head of each of the five colored
races of dragons; red, green, blue, black, and white,” Arren answered.  “The
thing that matters is that
something
built this statue for these
dragons.  And you can bet that that something wasn’t the dragons themselves.”

Krebbekar
grunted his acknowledgement, and prodded his riding dog forward past the
rough-hewn statue of the dragon’s evil god.

“Krebbekar,”
Arren called out softly.  “Do you hear that?”

Krebbekar
stopped and listened carefully.  He heard nothing.

“Something
is running further down the passageway,” Arren said as he listened intently. 
Finally, after several more moments, he turned to Krebbekar.  “It could be a
kobold.”

The
pair of warriors took off at a run almost at the exact same moment.