The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  Either way, Durik was taking no chances down here in the unfamiliar terrain of the underdark. He’d assigned Arbelk to stick to Mahtu like glue and to serve as the party’s forward scout, leaving his armor for Troka to carry. The last thing he wanted was for the seven of them, in their heavy metal armor, to get surprised by the outcasts that called this abyssal realm their home. They needed all their equipment if they were to make the trip up Sheerface, and their armor and weapons if they were to fight themselves out of whatever bad situation they might find themselves stuck in when they got home. Because of that, he knew that outrunning whatever they might run into down here wasn’t an option.

  Soon he reached the top of the slope and, with a clank that echoed uncomfortably, he took a knee next to the other three. Fortunately, the sound of running water up ahead masked the sound nicely. The armor was certainly taking a bit of getting used to.

  “Sire,” Arbelk started after Gorgon nodded for him to go ahead, “It appears that we’ve run into something of an outcast community.”

  Durik looked ahead where the passageway ran another thirty or so steps then dived down a stairway into what appeared to be a large, sandy grotto, complete with water dripping down the left wall, gathering little strength as it cascaded down into a little pond at its base, passing through multiple lines of thick, edible fungus that grew in obviously cultivated, uniform lines on the wall, tightly packed and well nourished. The chamber was dimly lit be green phosphorescence that streaked the walls like paint thrown about wildly, all of which showed clearly a number of mud brick dwellings. Their doors were made of some unrecognizable wood and the roofs of their small round dwellings were giant mushroom tops that had been fitted to the rough mud walls. As Durik looked at them, he could tell that the wood was nothing more than the bark of a giant mushroom stalk that had been formed to lay flat.

  As Jerrig and Troka came up and joined the other four, a rather well-built kobold, dressed in a long, flaxen shirt that hung down past his knees, emerged from one of the dwellings. Over his back was a round shield of giant mushroom wood, ringed in metal of some kind with a pointed metal cap sitting square in the middle of it. In his hands was a short spear with a metal tip and on his belt sat a short sword in a scabbard. As he adjusted the shield over his shoulder a pair of young whelps, no older than five or six years, ran screaming past him, one eventually tackling the other as they both went plunging into the pond. Their voices barely pierced the sounds of gurgling water, but it brought back memories of Karto and Lat, Lord Karthan’s sons that the company had rescued from the ant queen’s lair.

  Gorgon motioned for them all to move back down the slope to where they wouldn’t be seen. Slowly, and very carefully, the four of them did so with hardly a sound.

  “Are you sure this is the way to the Cross Way?” Durik pressed Mahtu as soon as they were all out of sight.

  “Yes, grin room, grin light. Is way!” he replied. “Whole way was no kobolds in six years,” he said, meaning that the whole route had been unoccupied six years before.

  “Sire, it may be that these outcasts set up there sometime in the last few years,” Arbelk said.

  “These aren’t ordinary outcasts,” Manebrow said as he shook his head. “You saw the metal on his shield and weapons. With equipment like that, these guys probably dominated everyone around them. I think we’ve found that Deep Gen you were talking about,” he said, looking at Mahtu. “Besides, the outcasts we’ve seen are a bunch of savages; they run around naked and certainly don’t build permanent structures, much less nice ones like those mud-brick houses down there.”

  Durik nodded his head in agreement. “Well, outcasts or not, they’re not from our gen, and we need to get past them. What options do you see that we have?”

  “We could take ’em!” Gorgon muttered, fire shining in his eyes as he slammed a fist into his other hand.

  “Hold on, Gorgon,” Manebrow said. “I don’t think we need to go starting another war here. Besides, we don’t know how many of them there are. This may be only the muzzle of a much larger dog.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gorgon countered. “After all, there haven’t been that many outcasts from our gen, and probably not many from the Krall Gen either. With our gen’s Deep Guard Warrior Group making periodic patrols down here, well, there just can’t be that many of them or we would have heard already!”

  Manebrow looked away in thought. “Why is it we’ve never heard of the Cross Way? It makes me wonder if our Deep Guard’s patrols ever come this far. When’s the last time you heard of them leaving for more than a day or two? And, by the way, why haven’t we ever heard of this Deep Gen, or of mud-brick houses in the underdark and warriors armed with metal? In two months in the underdark, your yearling group never left the caverns that spiral far down into the earth below Sheerface. It may be that the entrance to the Cross Way lies hidden and the Deep Guard in our gen have yet to discover it. Did you think of that?”

  Gorgon frowned judiciously. “No, but I still doubt there’s that many of them,” he said with less enthusiasm.

  “Well, either way, we need to either go around them or go through them,” Durik said. “Mahtu, is there any other way to the Cross Way?”

  Mahtu shrugged his shoulders. “No think so. Maybe?”

  “We need to get to that Cross Way,” Manebrow emphasized. “This is a race against time, you know. That orc horde certainly isn’t going to wait for us.”

  Mahtu looked around anxiously. “Um, maybe is way back there? Yoo know place where two ways split?” He was speaking about a previous split in the passageway, where they’d followed down the right passage, leaving the much smaller left passage unexplored.

  “Do you think that might take us there, or do you know?” Manebrow pressed.

  “I tink is right,” Mahtu said. It wasn’t a good answer, but it was probably better than any other option they had right now.

  “What do you think, sire?” Manebrow asked.

  “We can try it,” Durik sighed. It wouldn’t be the first wrong turn they’d suffered, and he doubted it would be their last. “We need to get moving, however, if we’re going to get to Sheerface in time to do any good.”

  “Right. Off we go then,” Manebrow looked at the warriors in the party. Almost in unison they scurried down the slope back the way they’d come.

  Arbelk stopped cold. Mahtu saw him freeze and, after only one more step, he too froze. Behind the pair Gorgon held up his hand to the rest of the party, signaling that they should freeze in place immediately. After a few moments the rest of the party complied, all of them looking anxiously down the boulder-strewn slope with its low ceiling to their forward scout at the bottom of the slope.

  Peering into the darkness, Arbelk carefully backed up a couple of steps and slid around behind a boulder, putting it between himself and whatever was to his front. Turning around, he quietly put his sword away and drew his bow and an arrow from off his back. Looking Gorgon in the eyes, he shrugged his shoulders and gave a look of uncertainty while holding up two fingers.

  Slowly, and ever so cautiously in his metal armor, Gorgon moved forward to join Arbelk behind the boulder. Seconds after he arrived Durik and Manebrow joined them.

  “I’m not sure exactly what I saw, but on the other side of this mudflat,” he whispered, indicating the muddy field in front of him, “I thought I saw a pair of kobold heads pop out from behind two different boulders, on either side of that exit,” he said, motioning toward a passage that had the look of being carved out of the far wall, and not by nature.

  Durik poked his head out from behind the boulder for a moment to catch a glimpse of what Arbelk was talking about. As he looked, the bright white form of a kobold darted from behind one of the boulders and into the exit. A moment later, from the other side of the exit, another kobold darted from behind the boulder into the exit as well.

  “They’ve seen us, and they’re going for help!” Durik hissed.

  “Oh no, they’re not!” Gorgon s
tated. Unsheathing his hammer, he ran from behind the boulder and charged around the edge of the mudflat on the only ledge that provided any solid ground. Within moments he was to the far end of the mudflat and was charging into the exit. Behind him, the other six members of the party came streaming after.

  “Oh no! Deep Gen, they kill us!” Mahtu was keening to Arbelk.

  “Keep him quiet!” Manebrow hissed back at Arbelk, who passed the dirty look straight on to Mahtu.

  In several moments Gorgon, despite his metal armor, caught up to the first of the two watchers. Seeing he was about to be taken down by the charging metal beast behind him, the watcher dived behind a boulder and huddled up in a ball, hoping that its fury would carry it right by him.

  Gorgon waited only long enough for Manebrow and Durik to appear around the bend so he could point out the huddled watcher before continuing his sprint after the second of the watchers.

  For all his endurance, the metal armor weighed terribly on Gorgon and, after giving it all he had, he arrived at a small chamber with three other passages heading out of it, one straight ahead and one to either hand. While the construction of the chamber wasn’t dwarven craftsmanship, it was solid and reliably built nonetheless.

  Gorgon didn’t spend any time admiring the workmanship, however. Stopping to listen, he tried desperately to calm his heart down sufficiently to hear anything, but the blood pounding in his ears was too loud, and soon he knew that he had lost his prey.

  “Argh!!!” he cried in a strained hiss, slapping his thigh in frustration. Turning about, he began the walk back toward his companions, shaking his head at whatever was to come.

  Durik had wasted no time in deciding what to do. He knew that the route ahead had been compromised, so they would avoid it completely. After all, no one put up a watch unless they had troops readily available to reinforce that watch. Seeing how alert the watch had been, Durik didn’t want to test the rest of the defenses that this group of kobolds had set up.

  Before they took off, however, they decided to interrogate the one watcher who had been too slow to escape Gorgon. After tying his hands behind his back, to make sure they got answers he let Manebrow do the interrogating, with Gorgon standing just off to the side looking very intimidating. Durik knelt off to the other side, observing the youth.

  “Do you understand me?” Manebrow started out.

  “Yes, I speak Sorcerer’s Tongue,” the young kobold started. He was close to Durik’s age, barely out of his whelping.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “My name is Tammik, what’s yours?”

  Manebrow smiled his best disarming smile at the youth. “My name is Kormach, and my honor name is Manebrow,” he said, wiggling his thick, hairy unibrow for emphasis.

  Tammik almost smiled, and the tension in the passageway began to ease a bit.

  “Gorgon, put away that hammer, will you?” Manebrow ordered, seeing that his easy going manner was working with the youth. “Now, tell me, I see that you have an iron-tipped spear and an iron rimmed shield. It looks to me like you and your companion were no outcasts. What gen are you from, and what are you doing down here?”

  Tammik looked quizzically at Manebrow. “I’m from the only gen down here; the Deep Gen. What gen are you from, stranger, and how do you speak the Sorcerer’s Tongue?”

  Manebrow looked over at Durik who nodded his approval, then back at Tammik. “We are from the Kale Gen. We live in caves just below the surface of this great southern valley. Tell me, Tammik, how big is this gen of yours?”

  Tammik looked at Manebrow with the beginnings of understanding. “You mean you’ve never heard of my gen?”

  Manebrow shook his head. “No, we’ve not heard of your gen. We know that there are many outcasts down here from our gen, as well as from the Krall Gen and some of the gens in the northern valley, but we’ve never heard of your gen.”

  Tammik shook his head. “You are very sheltered up there, aren’t you?”

  Manebrow looked annoyed at the boy’s impetuousness. “Well then, why don’t you tell us about your gen?”

  “We are strong. We have a thousand warriors. We rule the underdark from these upper reaches to the shores of the inner sea. We came from you generations ago, when the chamberlain of Lord Kale seized power from the ruling line of the Kale Family.”

  Manebrow was genuinely surprised… and skeptical. After all, the total count of warriors in the Kale Gen couldn’t be more than five or six hundred, maybe as many as seven hundred. The total count of able-bodied males in the Kale Gen, including servant caste, couldn’t be more than probably a thousand, maybe twelve hundred at very most. How could there possibly be more outcasts from the gen than there were members of the gen?

  “A gen a thousand warriors strong who came from my gen? I doubt it. I would have heard about that by now, I think,” Manebrow replied.

  “Believe it, furry brow. But do not worry. You and your people hold nothing more for us. Our lord, Lord Sennak the Just, leads us in the paths of prosperity and peace. We avoid you and your valley by choice. We have set our people’s home in the underdark far away from where your warriors patrol. The chamberlain of our ancestor Kale may have cast us out, but our lord retains the right to rule as a direct descendant of the Kale line.”

  “Well, alright, let’s say you’re telling the truth,” Manebrow cut short the soliloquy, “what lies ahead? Is there an outpost, a stationing of warriors, or something of that nature?”

  “Ahead is a place we call the Fortress. It is a place for repelling invaders from the upper deeps and surface, like you. We have some warriors there, probably thirty or so and their families.”

  Manebrow looked over at Durik with frustration on his face. No one he knew was that good at making up stories like this. Whether it was all the way true, or not, he didn’t want to have to fight through to the Cross Way. He also had avoided asking any questions that might let the youth know where they were going, as they’d have to take him along just to keep pursuit off their tale if they let him know their route or purpose for being here.

  Durik could see the frustration on Manebrow’s face and moved forward. “Tammik, we don’t want problems with your people. We’re down here fleeing from an army of orcs and ogres. If you will act as our guide, we will let you go when we get to where we’re going.”

  From down the passageway, the sound of running feet and scabbards slapping on thighs began to be heard, faintly at first, but growing louder very quickly.

  “We’ve tarried too long!” Durik voiced what they all now realized.

  Manebrow motioned for everyone to fall back. As one, the little party fled down the passageway, leaving Tammik tied up behind them.

  “Go ahead, you Kale Gen cowards! Run! We’ll find you!” Tammik yelled as the party retreated down the hallway.

  Chapter 10 – In the Hands of the Deep Gen

  It had been a full day since the company had climbed the Chop, and Durik’s little party was not even a third the size of the company he had led up that mountain. Had he had all of his warriors with him they might have stood against the onslaught. As it was, with only six of them plus Mahtu, he knew their only option was to run.

  And run they did.

  At first it was a disciplined retreat. As soon as they reached the steep, boulder-strewn slope where they’d first sighted the watchers, however, those who were moving slower because of their armor and shields soon began to fall behind. It was at about that moment that Durik could see that there was no way they would escape their pursuers, not with all this armor, shields, weapons and packs. Even without all of their equipment he was quite sure that they’d probably get lost rather than lose their pursuers. They just weren’t familiar enough with the terrain, but he was sure their pursuers were.

  Seeing order disintegrating, Durik looked over at Manebrow, who was prodding Mahtu along. The look in Manebrow’s eyes matched his own.

  “Gorgon!” Durik called ahead. “Hold the top of the slope! We’
ll make our stand there!”

  Gorgon, breathing deeply from his piston-like ascent, turned and dropped his pack to the floor so he could loose his shield from his back. With hammer in hand he grabbed the members of his team as they reached the top of the slope and formed them into a rough line, sending Arbelk back to the rear to don his armor and watch out behind them. Durik and Manebrow were last up the slope and placed themselves in the middle of the line of shields, the five Kale Gen warriors standing with shields overlapping, filling the opening at the top of the slope while Mahtu stood nervously fidgeting between the line and Arbelk, wanting to run but being hemmed in by Kale Gen warriors.

  As Manebrow held his axe and placed himself in line with Durik, Gorgon, Jerrig, and Troka, the first of the Deep Gen warriors arrived at the bottom of the slope. Their equipment was identical to what the party had seen before; iron-rimmed round shields, iron-tipped spears, swords still in the scabbards hanging on one side. Upon seeing the Kale Gen warriors lined up and ready for battle, the group of Deep Gen warriors stopped their charge, some of them taking cover behind the boulders while a particularly steely-eyed warrior wearing a shirt of wide chainmail links and carrying a large axe stopped square in the middle of the path looking up at the Kale Gen warriors with a fierce gaze.

  “Jerrig, pass a javelin over to Troka. This is too narrow of a passageway for him to be swinging his two-handed sword,” Durik commanded.

  “Jerrig,” Durik continued as more and more warriors appeared, “if it comes to it, can you blast their leader with your magic arrow spell?”