The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  This alone wasn’t that suspicious of a fact, but the very same night that Arren had taken up his watch a small contingent of orc warriors accompanied by a small group of hobgoblins, mercenaries obviously by their mixed gear and armor, had arrived at the Hall of the Mountain King and entered the place as though they were welcome guests of the dragon! What was stranger was that they had left the place intact, not running for their lives, not carrying any loot, and not even slightly singed.

  Arren thought on this one for a while.

  It didn’t take him long to conclude that they were somehow confederate with the dragon. But what could a red dragon possibly want from a group of orc warriors and hobgoblin mercenaries? Were they acting on behalf of the leader of the orc horde, or were they acting on their own? If the orc horde was confederate with this red dragon, which it seemed to be since the dragon hadn’t raided it for meat, what did that mean for the kobold gens in the southern valley?

  Arren shook his head. Orcs never learned. He’d slaughtered hundreds of them in his lifetime. He’d seen the pattern many times in his life; a disaffected human sorcerer or hobgoblin princeling musters enough resources to go into the Great Forest and raise an orc army, just to bring them against the elven homeland (which of all the races’ homelands lay closest to the Great Forest) or to try to use them as pawns to conquer their own homeland. Senseless violence was all orcs ever understood, but any aspiring tyrant who understood that could certainly harness their one sole use—if his quest for power didn’t get him killed first, that is.

  Arren had had several dealings with dragons over the years as well, most of which were with the noble metallic dragons, though he’d had to fight a couple of their evil, scheming chromatic cousins. If there was one thing he’d learned about chromatic dragons, like this red one, it was that they only cared about two things: wealth and power, and usually their only use for power was to build their wealth, usually measured in pounds of precious metal and carats of gems in their personal stashes.

  Why would a dragon deal with these orcs and hobgoblins? What was to be gained? While an orc horde was quite a powerful thing to have at one’s beck and call, Arren doubted there was enough gold and other wealth to be found in the homes of the southern gens to pique a dragon’s interest.

  Could it be for a more consistent or varied source of food? Probably not. What could kobolds have that was so tasty to a fire-breathing beast whose taste buds were hardy, not delicate? Besides, dragons rarely seemed to think with their stomachs anyway.

  Could it be… an idea came to Arren all of a sudden, and he nodded his head as he realized what the young male dragon was doing, and why he was probably doing it.

  That wily, treacherous beast! Well, yes, that pretty much summed up any red dragon, certainly including this one. The old saying came back to him in a flash of inspiration: “A dragon is a monster ruled only by fear, and inspired only by greed.” The fact that that old saying had been taught to him by the sage of the treasury in describing money-lenders made it ironic.

  The fact that the larger, female red dragon was out of the nest explained exactly why the young male dragon would be seeking to conquer the kobold gens of this southern valley. It appeared that the young male had finally decided to rid himself of his mate’s domination, though whether he had decided to move out and use the kobolds to build a respectable hoard for himself, or to have the kobolds somehow try to help him kill his mate and secure her hoard wasn’t clear yet.

  Arren thought for a moment more. He may even be thinking of hauling her hoard off to a new lair while she’s gone.

  No. He dismissed that idea out of hand. After all, kobolds didn’t move that fast, and a dragon whose hoard has been raided will hunt you down and kill you.

  As Arren sat in the entrance to his cave chewing on a piece of dried venison and contemplating the situation, the large group of kobolds who had been making their way slowly along the ancient, winding road toward the Hall of the Mountain King finally appeared around the base of the low, steep-sided, hollow mountain where the ancient dwarven stronghold was located.

  As they gathered together in a jittery group just outside the carved entranceway into the hollow mountain, Arren counted out of habit. Looks like about twenty warriors, two leader-looking types, seven orc slaves, one goblin slave, and forty-some kobold slaves. Hmm… not enough to have delusions of taking on a dragon, looks more like they’re loaded with treasure. Looks like their warriors are completely useless anyway. Perhaps they’re part of the dragon’s underhanded plan.

  Krebbekar was the type to give his all when necessary, and in fact about halfway down the Chop he knew that he had. In his younger years, Krebbekar had used and abused his body, disregarding aching joints, burning muscles, and going days without sleep to accomplish whatever he set his mind to. Now, however, well past four decades of age, his body decided to rebel. Halfway down the Chop, as he was urging his riding dog onward, something in Krebbekar’s right foot snapped.

  Cursing his bad luck, the Fates, and certainly Morigar for making him climb and descend the Chop twice in one day and a night, Krebbekar went down hard and rolled head over heels down the path to where it reversed course in yet another of the endless switchbacks, stopping only because the boulder at the edge of the trail was heavier than he was and more determined to stand its ground.

  An hour or two later, by the intensity of the light coming over the Chop from the far side, Krebbekar slowly stirred. His head ached, his body ached, and his pride was hurt. Somehow knowing that he’d only begun to find all the aches and pains he had, Krebbekar lay still, not yet wanting to find them all.

  After a few moments of this, he rolled to one side to sit up. As the side of his foot touched the ground, the electric jolt of pain that shot up his leg caused him to fall back, groaning. Lying next to him, his riding dog whimpered and nuzzled his neck.

  “Aye, girl. I’ll be alright,” he spoke as he ruffled the fur behind her ears.

  After a few moments he rolled over, this time on his left side, and sat up, bringing his foot up for inspection. That something had broken was certain. He’d heard it, and now his right foot was swollen like a melon. Reaching over to his dog’s saddlebags, Krebbekar pulled bandages from one of the pouches and wrapped them tightly around the broken member in an effort to reduce the swelling.

  Groaning with the exertion and pain of it all, Krebbekar lay back on his back, breathing deeply. Finally, after summoning up his will to overcome this latest difficulty, Krebbekar dragged himself over to his dog, dropped his armor and most of his supplies on the trail, then rolled into the saddle.

  “Come on, girl,” he urged, prodding her in the ribs with his one good foot until she stood up and began to carry him toward the bottom of the Chop, on obviously sore legs. Looking over his shoulder down the long slop that was the Chop, and then out into the valley where Morigar and his group were already well on their way to the Hall of the Mountain King, Krebbekar could see that he would never make it in time to stop Morigar. He hoped that the young fool somehow managed to escape what he saw as an almost certain doom.

  Morigar stood wide-eyed at the mouth of the entranceway in the side of the small, hollow mountain wherein lay the Hall of the Mountain King. Next to him Nipnip was shaking noticeably. Though the journey had been exhausting, behind the pair of leaders the rest of their group stood, most of them nervously scanning the sky, looking as if they were ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

  Morigar didn’t notice the nervousness that the others were feeling, however; his own fear was too great. The effects of dragonfear on the rest of his group had been manageable up to this point. Along the way Nipnip had had to beat a particularly fearful, jibbering slave almost to death to get the rest of the slaves back in line. Now that they were here at the lair of the beasts, however, both Morigar and Nipnip were feeling the effects of the dragonfear as severely as the rest of their group.

  “Why we no go away? We gots much monies.” Nipnip asked, no
t even trying to keep from whining.

  Morigar didn’t hear him. The struggle going on inside him was greater than almost anything he’d been able to summon the courage to undergo before. For once in his life Morigar was trying to resist his natural impulses and carry through with his plan instead of running.

  “Almost there,” Morigar muttered to no one in particular as he walked through the entryway and into the inner courtyard of the place. In front of him lay the chasm that cut the floor of the inner area of the hollow mountain in half. On the far side of the chasm the gleaming granite towers and military structures of the hall’s external defenses glowed in the light of the midday sun. Muttering to himself about becoming lord of his gen, all in an attempt to build the courage necessary to keep going forward, Morigar’s eyes fixed on the yawning opening to the gatehouse that sat squarely in the middle of the castle-like construction and the logs which someone at some time in the recent past had lashed together into a makeshift bridge across the chasm.

  “I think that’s where we’re going to have to go to find the dragon,” Morigar said, not noticing that Nipnip had not accompanied him past the entryway. When Nipnip didn’t answer, Morigar looked back and saw that he was all alone. Suddenly, a feeling of deep fear began to settle on his heart at the same time that he heard the distinct sound of huge, leathery wings being unfolded.

  Looking ahead to the Hall of the Mountain King, Morigar saw a great beast covered with burnt red scales standing on a balcony on the west side of the hall. Its mouth opened and closed as if it were taking in the air around it, revealing long, yellow, dagger-like teeth. As it stretched its wings and legs, it gripped the edge of the balcony with curved, cat-like claws, each of which was the size of a sword.

  Having finished stretching, the great yellow-eyed beast jumped off the balcony, catching itself with its wings and flapping the mighty limbs to gain altitude as it turned to the south and cleared the lip of the outer edge of the hollow mountain.

  Morigar didn’t wait for the dragon to get that far, however. One look at its fearsome arsenal, and Morigar turned tail and ran back up the entryway. Stopping at the top of the broad passageway, Morigar was surprised to see the entire group of mercenaries and slaves running for all they were worth back down the road and away from the Hall of the Mountain King. Nipnip was out in front of them all. The bags of treasure that the slaves had carried from the dwarven outpost lay in piles next to the weapons of the mercenaries and whatever else they could drop to speed their retreat. Minotaur the packdog and his own riding dog had both disappeared as well.

  Morigar’s mind was reeling. Should he run as well? Should he hide where he was? Surely the dragon would find him either way.

  The slaves began screaming as the dragon appeared over the lip of the hollow mountain. With a gleam in its eye, the massive beast swooped down and snapped up the fattest, and slowest, of the kobold slaves, chomping down hard on him then swallowing the body whole as it flew around for another pass.

  Morigar melted with panic at the sight of blood raining down from the sky as the dragon feasted. Staggering back against the wall of the entryway, he watched in utter horror as the mighty beast swooped down again, this time snatching up two of the mercenaries with gleaming claws, only to land on the edge of the hollow mountain and go about the process of dismembering them for better eating.

  Morigar had never felt so much fear in his life. At this point, he could do nothing more than sit, huddled up in the corner of the entryway and await what he thought was his own certain doom. He had lost his dreams for the future, had lost control of his bowels, and was about to lose his life. As such, he did the only thing he could do… he curled up in the fetal position, closed his eyes, covered his ears, and waited for the end to come.

  Krebbekar had seen the dragon, had watched it hunting near its lair, and returning with what he imagined to be Morigar’s party members to the Hall of the Mountain King. The beast had spent the better part of the afternoon searching the surrounding countryside, and though his eyes weren’t that good, Krebbekar counted twenty-two different times the dragon had grabbed something and taken off again back toward its lair.

  As for himself, Krebbekar had done the only thing he could think to do; he’d spent the afternoon hiding behind Birdstone, resting his foot, caring for his mount, and hoping that Morigar had somehow survived. That Morigar was an absolute idiot, and incorrigible as well, was indisputable. However, for all his rebelliousness, Krebbekar had spent the best years of his life protecting the lord and his family from conspirators and orcs, or in Morigar’s case, from himself. After so many years spent protecting his lord’s youngest son, he’d grown strangely attached to the fool.

  Now, as evening fell, Krebbekar mounted up and urged his sore-footed dog forward with a soft nudge and a click of the tongue. Though it was still some miles away, the path that ran east to the Hall of the Mountain King broke off of the main north-south road not far north of Birdstone; the Winding Way the Kobold Gen called it. The paths diverged just south of a hill called Outpost Hill, which in times now hundreds of years past had served as the home of the Kobold Gen’s permanent garrison in the northern valley, back before the degenerate gens had broken off from them. Even now the ruins of low stone buildings and the thick earth and stone wall that the Kobold Gen had constructed on the top of the hill gleamed red in the twilight.

  The history of the valleys was long and rich, and Krebbekar had studied much of it in the quiet hours when he stood guard with the warriors of his house guard contingent, but now that he found himself north of the Chop, in the heart of what had once been the Kobold Gen’s seat of power, he felt nothing but sadness for how far they had fallen as he rode past these vestiges of their former glory.

  As his mind pondered on the sadness of the northern gen’s fallen standing, Krebbekar thought of the crushing blows that were preparing to land on his people; the orc horde and the ant threat. He shook his head and hoped that the Fates would smile kindly upon the gens of the southern valley in these next few decisive days, lest all they had accomplished in the past several generations fall into ruin and forgetfulness as well.

  Arren watched curiously as the lone dog rider approached the entrance to the Hall of the Mountain King. He had come down from the cave entrance that had been his vantage point this past couple of days, but knowing kobolds have the same heat vision as dragons, he had decided to wait until this lone rider arrived to see if, perhaps, he might convince the approaching kobold to be his eyes in the utter darkness of the passageways under the hall.

  As the rider reined in, not a javelin’s throw in front of him, Arren raised his hand in a greeting, and to show that he had no weapon at hand. The kobold looked at him curiously.

  “Hail, friend,” he spoke in Sorcerer’s Tongue.

  “And to you as well. Who… and what might you be, tall one?” Krebbekar replied.

  “I am Arren e-Arnor, of the elvish nations far to the north of here. My journeys bring me to this hall, and my quest will soon take me inside it.”

  Krebbekar shook his head as he dismounted gingerly, to give his mount a moment’s rest. “I’m sorry to hear that, Arren, though you are clearly an accomplished warrior by your gear, or at least well funded. Perhaps you know more of hunting dragons than I.”

  Arren smiled. “Yes, I have hunted dragons in the past, though by the look on your face I suspect you did not come here to hunt dragon.”

  Krebbekar nodded. “Aye, that much is true. I’ve come to hunt down a particularly foolish whelp. Even though I’m rather certain he’s been devoured, I owe it to his father to discover what I can about his fate.”

  Arren raised an eyebrow. “A rather foolish whelp, you say? Would he have been dressed in leather armor, with a rather well crafted sword and bow, riding a dog much the same as yours?”

  It was Krebbekar’s turn to be surprised. “Yes, that would be the fool I’m searching for. You’ve seen him then? What of his whereabouts? Did you see his fate?”
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br />   Arren nodded. “Yes, I did.” He pointed with one hand toward the entrance to the mountain. “He lay curled up there for some time as the dragon flew out and back, gathering the rest of his party. I can only assume that at some point he got up the nerve to move, as about half-way into the dragon’s foray he disappeared into the mountain.”

  Krebbekar stood still for a moment, considering what the news the… elf had given him meant. “He went into the mountain, then, did he?” he asked flatly.

  “Yes.”

  Krebbekar thought for a moment, looked over at the entrance to the mountain, then thought for a moment more. Finally he sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d be wanting company on your quest into the Hall of the Mountain King, then, would you?”

  Arren smiled at the much shorter warrior. “Gladly, my little friend.”

  Mananthiél flexed his wings, popping that particularly irritable joint in his right wing that had been bothering him yet again. It had been a long day of flying, and his recent long bout of inactivity was starting to tell. He’d lost a good amount of his endurance in the long winter months he’d spent hibernating. But, looking down his great length, he could see that he’d made the right choice by deciding to hibernate… nothing like sleeping off those few extra tons he’d been carrying. It certainly beat working it off any day… and Marsa had certainly liked the new look as well.

  The young red dragon smiled in spite of himself. Yes, that old witch did like it… almost as much as she liked her hoard. Well, not really. He had to start being more honest with himself. He knew her desires for him were a far second to the old lady’s lust for the gleam of gold and the glitter of gemstones. He knew she’d be more impressed with the treasure the kobolds had been carrying than with his svelte appearance. He didn’t take it personally, however. He never did. That was Marsa, and really that was him as well, for was he not with her for one thing, and one thing only? He pondered on his relationship to the ancient wyrm as he looked about the huge dwarven chamber that held her gleaming hoard, all of it meticulously arranged and categorized.