The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  After a short walk out of the trees and up the slope, the small detachment of warriors, only five of them in all, drew arrows and approached the sleeping creature as quietly as they could. Reaching the top of the rise, the contingent stopped and got down on one knee, their tails swishing nervously behind them. The leader of the little group was a cautious elite warrior who had achieved his rank through his many years of service. He had survived several years on patrol by not taking unnecessary chances, and tonight, despite the eyes of all of his companions being on him, he was not about to rush this little scouting foray either.

  He motioned for one of his warriors to come up next to him so he could whisper in his ear. He grabbed the younger warrior by one horn and pulled his ear close to his snout, then silently, like the wind, he breathed his instructions into the much younger warrior’s ear. The younger warrior grabbed a fellow warrior and began to head off at an angle, circling around the sleeping creature.

  The older warrior waited for several moments, then he openly and obviously put his bow over his shoulder and put his arrow back into its quiver. The two warriors who were still with him followed suit. He slowly and silently unsheathed his sword and held it low, so as to not reflect the light of the recently risen moon. He waited as his two companions drew swords that shone in bright contrast to the dark scales of their arms and backs, then he slowly stood to a crouching position.

  The three warriors were exceptionally alert as they moved forward ever so slowly, tails swishing slowly as they went forward in a crouch. While the leader was focused on the still form in front of them, the pair of warriors with him looked to either side, keeping an eye out for any potential companions this creature might have, their toned muscles tensed and ready.

  Arriving at the thicket, the leader knelt down and began to get down on his hands and knees to look between the broomweed roots at the creature. As he did so, the warrior to his right tripped and made a loud clanging sound with his sword against a rock as he tried to catch himself.

  In front of them, the creature stirred. The leader had not wanted to engage the creature, but it seemed like the only option at the moment; to capture it now before it was fully roused.

  Leaping through the broomweed, the leader of the small contingent came face to face with a very scared, and suddenly very alert, Trallik. He yelled at Trallik to put his hands where he could see them, but all Trallik noticed was the sword in the elite warrior’s hand, and two more armed warriors coming through the bush.

  The training that Manebrow had put him through during this past year took over immediately. He grabbed the strap of his pack and swung it hard, knocking the sword from the leader’s grasp. Seeing the other two warriors struggling through the broomweed, Trallik then turned and began to run for all he was worth.

  Not twenty steps through the broomweed, two more kobolds appeared in front of him with bows drawn. Trallik didn’t even hear them yelling for him to stop. He immediately took off at a right angle to them and began to run through the stands of broomweed. A year of training and a severe burst of adrenaline had done much for Trallik. Try as they might, none of the five warriors were able to catch up to the young exile. Soon, Trallik was far ahead of them in the bush. Calling a halt to the chase, the leader of the small contingent stood with his hands on his knees and watched as the bright form of the mysterious kobold disappeared into the stand of oak trees to the north.

  Trallik’s adrenaline carried him far that night, farther than he had thought it could. But his adrenaline was mixed with fear, and fear is a potent drug, able to push a person well beyond what they might otherwise think are their limits.

  He did, however, eventually stop plodding aimlessly through the forest like a hunted animal, desperate to escape and always hearing the sounds of pursuit, real or imagined. After some time he decided he must have lost his pursuers and he began to realize that perhaps the sounds of pursuit he had been hearing for most of this chase had been more in his head than in the forest.

  Calm, sweaty, and completely exhausted, Trallik found a small hollow between two rather oversized tree roots and, after wrapping himself further in his blanket from his pack, he fell into an exhausted slumber.

  Chapter 2 – The Council of Lord Krall

  It was late in the afternoon of the day of execution for Mynar’s conspirators who had attempted to overthrow the Krall Gen, long after Durik had returned from Lord Krall’s Great Hall on the lake and rejoined his company of kobold warriors at the caravan drivers’ quarters in the heart of the Krall Gen. As the company recovered from the past few days word was received from the lord and master of the Krall Gen; Lord Krall himself. He wanted to see Durik… alone. As Keryak stood before Durik and Manebrow, his second in charge, relaying the summons, the pair looked at each other questioningly.

  “He would like to see only me?” Durik asked, the tip of his tail flipping up and down subconsciously as he wondered what the expectations of being the leader of his company of Kale Gen warriors here in the midst of the Krall Gen would be. Just days before he too had been a yearling; a kobold trainee and nothing more. He had never put even one thought into high politics and the affairs of the leader caste before he had suddenly become one.

  “That’s what he said. He was very specific,” Keryak re-emphasized. “I guess he wants to have a little heart to heart. You know, a little mentoring for our new leader caste.”

  Manebrow shot Keryak a glowering look from under his signature eyebrows that would have withered a plant, but Durik only laughed. “Ah, Keryak, good to see that the last few days haven’t changed you too much,” Durik said after a few moments, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  Keryak had another smart comment on the tip of his tongue, but after seeing Manebrow’s reaction, he decided against it. Even here, in a place of safety and healing, Manebrow was determined to not relax the order of things, whether Keryak had been Durik’s best friend or not. All about them was evidence of that discipline. The company had spent the entire day sharpening their weapons, fixing their wolfskin outfits, and getting their gear ready for their eventual departure.

  Durik stood up. “Well, I guess I should be getting there as quickly as I can. Keryak, walk with me, will you,” he said.

  Keryak nodded and locked grips with Durik to help him to his feet. As Durik stood, he stretched and rubbed aching shoulder muscles. Picking up his crossed shoulder belts and sword, he strapped them on top of his uniquely bronze scales and tightened the sheath onto his waist belt. Not wanting to appear a complete mess, Durik had taken extra care in cleaning the blood off his gear and loincloth, mending rips and tears in his leather shoulder and waist belts, and sharpening the nicks out of the blade of his sword.

  Checking himself again, Durik finally nodded. “All right, let’s go.” He and Keryak made their way down the gentle slope to the bridgehead of the first floating bridge at the edge of Lord Krall’s lake. Durik walked mostly with his head down and his shoulders hunched.

  As they reached the bridgehead, Durik spoke. “Remind me to talk to Lord Krall’s minister, will you Keryak, about getting one of his dog masters to take a look at the packdogs’ feet. Perhaps they’ll have a salve for their pads. Oh, and I’ve got to see if we can’t get replacements for the weapons we’ve lost.” Durik mumbled to himself for a minute, then shook his head, “First things first, I guess. We really need to find out more about Demon’s Bridge and what awaits us there. Then we’ll know what we need to ask for.”

  As Durik ran down the list of company issues, Keryak looked at him with concern in his eyes. After several moments of muttering on like this while Keryak looked on in silence, Durik eventually looked up at Keryak.

  “You know, Durik, the last couple of days have changed you,” Keryak said.

  At first Durik opened his mouth to deny it, but then just fell silent. No matter how he looked at it, Keryak was right. Before he’d mostly concerned himself with his own affairs, looking out for the needs of others as time was available. Now his
every waking thought was bent on his company and his mission.

  “Well, Keryak,” Durik started, “I…”

  “No need to explain, my friend,” Keryak interrupted, “you’ve taken on the harness of leadership and are pulling the company.” He paused for a moment, then looked at Durik with a smile, “As for me, I’m glad it’s you up there at the top. I don’t think just anyone could have seen us through these past few days.”

  Durik pursed his lips and sighed, “Will it ever be the same between us, Keryak.”

  Keryak laughed in relief, “I was just wondering the same thing.” He paused for a moment then continued, “Well, I guess we’ll see. Who knows, perhaps there will be more than one opening on the council after Lord Karthan and Khazak Mail Fist take care of Khee-lar Shadow Hand. Perhaps I could take Khee-lar’s place. He won’t be there much longer.”

  Durik laughed, “They’ll never pick you for that,” he said, then realized what he had said. An awkward moment of silence passed between the two of them. “Keryak, I didn’t mean…”

  Keryak lifted up his hand, “No, Durik. You’re right.”

  Durik stopped and faced his long-time friend, grabbing him by both shoulders, “Keryak, hear me now. Just because I somehow was exalted to a high social status doesn’t mean that we’re no longer friends. I will always be your friend, Keryak. Position doesn’t change that.”

  Keryak nodded and turned back to the path, though in his heart he could see that the changes Durik was undergoing were already creating a rift between them. After a few more moments of walking, he sighed, “I guess I’m just jealous. We’re all growing and learning, but you seem to be growing so much more than the rest of us.”

  Durik laughed and shook his head, “At times I wish it were someone else doing the growing. I hope you do somehow get into the leader caste. Misery loves company, you know.”

  The pair arrived shortly at the large double doors that opened into the great hall. This was not their first time here, as only the day before Durik and his company had helped to thwart an assassination attempt against Lord Krall and his family here in this very hall. Now, as the pair of warriors arrived at the scene of the previous day’s battle, they felt a slight bit of lingering nervousness. It wasn’t that there were any conspirators left in Lord Krall’s Great Hall, rather it was the memory of battle—and the blood, death, and pain that accompanied it and that had haunted many of their dreams the night after it had occurred—that naturally left them with a sense of unease upon returning to the scene.

  Pulling open one of the large double doors, the two young warriors made their way into the great room that took up half of the building. Immediately upon entering, the pair could smell the freshly cut wood. They saw a handful of carpenters finishing up their work and gathering the remnants of the wood they had brought to effect their work. Though much work had been done before the executions and the giving of awards that morning, still there had been much left to do—but from the look of things it wouldn’t be long before the work was completed.

  The great room itself was lined with tables and benches, and in the center of the room was a great stone cooking pit with a stone-lined blackened wooden chimney above it to direct the smoke out of the building. The carpenters had obviously been smoothing out the boards they had put in place earlier to replace sections of the floor, sections that Durik recognized as being where four kobolds had spilt their life blood the day before. The fine work of the carpenters had eliminated any trace of the bloodstains, which to some degree helped Durik and Keryak feel more at ease.

  At the head of the great room was an ornately carved wooden chair on a dais—Lord Krall’s throne. On both sides of it were arranged four other chairs of lesser splendor, obviously seats for Lord Krall’s lifemate and two sons, but Durik was unsure of the reason for the fourth lesser chair. The two kobolds passed by the dais to the slightly larger than normal door on the far side of the room. The door that had been there the day before had been smashed and rendered useless. A new, stronger door, with presumably a new bar to reinforce it, now stood in its place. As they arrived, Durik recognized the grim-faced guard from the clean up after the attack. Durik noticed with some interest that he was wearing the hardened leather armor that Morigar, one of Lord Krall’s sons, had shown Durik previously. Nodding to Durik, the guard opened the door and allowed him to pass.

  “I’m sorry, sire, but your messenger may not pass,” the guard stated flatly as he blocked Keryak’s passage with his spear.

  Durik nodded and turned back to Keryak, “Thanks for bringing me here, Keryak. Go ahead and head back to the quarters. I’m sure you have a lot to do. Oh, and by the way, bring…” Durik leaned closer and whispered something the guard could not hear in his ear.

  Keryak smiled, nodded and turned to leave. Durik watched him go with a heavy heart. After a few moments, he turned back toward the door and nodded, “I’m ready.”

  The guard opened the door and Durik walked in.

  “I’m not suggesting we send an invading army, father, of course! But wouldn’t you agree that we do need to send enough warriors to ensure that the conspiracy against our neighbor Lord Karthan fails?!” Morigar spoke from his place, two seats down from the head of the table. Around the table sat several distinguished looking kobolds, obviously several of the council members of the Krall Gen. In the seat between Morigar and his father at the head of the table sat another, slightly older kobold of noble bearing that Durik had only briefly seen the day before and had not yet had the opportunity to meet; he was Morigar’s older brother and their father’s heir, and his name was Krall, for he bore his father’s name.

  “My son,” Lord Krall spoke, addressing his younger son Morigar from his ornately carved chair at the head of the table. “I don’t think it our decision to make.”

  Morigar continued, “Surely Khazak would agree that this concerns us also. If Khee-lar Shadow Hand somehow succeeds, in spite of the weakness that mother saw, what will become of our trade agreements? How can we assure the future prosperity of our gen? Should we not move to ensure his defeat?” A moment of awkward silence passed as the kobolds seated around the table sat in stony silence.

  Though none present knew it for certain, the great amount of emotion that Morigar put into his argument came from both his frustration at his brother and father surviving the coup attempt the day before as well as from the fact that the conspirators who had tried to take his own gen had turned against him, choosing to try to kill him also instead of put him on his father’s throne. Now that he had recovered from the conspirators’ treachery, he had not only enjoyed seeing the few of them that had been captured alive executed earlier that day, but he felt a deep desire to see the Kale Gen conspirators killed also. Indeed, if he was ever going to take his father’s throne, he would find a way to do it himself, and not rely on someone else to get him there.

  Lord Krall, seated at the head of the table, shook his head and leaned forward, “My son, while I appreciate your enthusiasm in this matter, I think it is not right to send an army of Krall Gen warriors, unbidden by Lord Karthan, with you and Khazak Mail Fist at its head. I do not think anyone in the Kale Gen wants to see Krall Gen warriors meting out justice and stamping out conspirators in their gen, not when they themselves have the evidence they need,” he said referring to Khee-lar Shadow Hand’s treacherous treaty with the Bloodhand Orcs. “And certainly not when they already have the capacity to take care of the problem themselves.”

  Turning to Khazak Mail Fist, who was seated on the other side of the long table from the younger Krall, Lord Krall continued, “As I’ve already stated, however, I will certainly grant your request, chamberlain of my lifemate’s brother and one of those who so recently saved my life. On the morrow you and a small contingent, accompanied by one of my healers, shall ride from here with all haste. May you succeed in this matter and, of course, I and my lifemate will be glad to keep Lord Karthan’s sons here until you come back for them.” Then, looking pointedly at
Morigar, he added, “Consider the discussion closed.”

  “Well, then it’s settled,” Khazak Mail Fist said, and stood up.

  In the mean time Durik had walked in, but was standing patiently in the entrance to the room. Not knowing exactly how bold he should be with this group, he had decided to wait there until called upon. Now, as all the kobolds seated at the table stood up, Khazak Mail Fist noticed him.

  “Ah, well. Lord Krall, it would seem that our young Durik has arrived,” Khazak said.

  Lord Krall turned and looked where Khazak was pointing. One by one the various members of the council began to walk past Durik out of the chamber, conversing among themselves about the extraordinary news of the day. As they filed out Lord Krall walked with them to the door and approached Durik. “Well, and here you are, the other hero of our little battle here yesterday,” he said as he grasped Durik’s hand. Behind him trailed one of his servants, a rather tall, very thin kobold who was obviously well advanced in years; his horns had begun to curl around themselves and his rust red scales had begun to lose their color at the tips, age bringing with it a slight bronze tint to his now-flaking scales. Durik had always felt self-conscious in the presence of the elderly, for unlike anyone else his scales were not rust red but a deep bronze instead, though the color was vibrant with the strength of youth and not the more bleached tone of those of advanced age.

  “At your service, sire,” was all Durik could get out before Lord Krall was talking again as he thumped Durik’s back and escorted him toward the back of the chamber.