The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  “Lock shields!” he called.

  As one, all forty kobolds in the first rank brought their shields together, leaving no gap between them. Behind them, the next rank of forty did the same. The rear two ranks, however, braced behind their shields as if preparing to not be bowled over, letting their spears stand straight up and down.

  Below them on the slope, the lead orcs had worked themselves into a frenzy. Seeing the blood of their fellow orcs spilled about them, and seeing the object of their torment run from them, drove those in the lead into an absolute blood frenzy. They were so close now that the Deep Gen warriors could see the whites of their wild eyes.

  “Lower spears!” Mirrik called. As one, the forty spears of the first rank were brought to shoulder level and braced under the arms of the warriors in the first rank. The second rank brought their spears up, prepared to stab with them over the heads of the first rank.

  All of this happened not a moment too soon. The lead orcs smashed into the shield wall with a tremendous force, impaling themselves on the spears of the first rank, but smashing many a shield with their axes and clubs. The orcs that came behind them met much the same fate at the spears of the second rank.

  But by the time the tail end of the first group of orcs reached the shield wall, the damage had already been done. Many first rank warriors were unable to recover their spears, and so had to pull out their swords, all of which were much shorter than the large weapons the orcs carried. Some first rank warriors’ shield arms had been broken by the axes and clubs of the orcs they had slain. The shock of the orc charge had done much to disrupt the small kobolds’ lines. Even a couple of warriors in the second and third lines had fallen, victims to odd javelins thrown at random from the orcs as they had charged.

  “Reform the line! Move into the gaps!” Mirrik called as he yanked his own spear loose from the neck of a dying orc. All about him warriors from the second rank moved forward where there were holes, while those who had been wounded from the first assault struggled to get to the back of the formation, or lay senseless on the ground where they had fallen.

  “Lower spears!” Mirrik called again, and not a moment too soon. The cacophonous sound of shields splintering, cries as metal ripped through flesh, and screams of rage as spear struck home rent the air. For several moments Mirrik was locked in a struggle with an orc who was trying to pry his shield from his hands. The orc had picked the wrong kobold, however. Mirrik was as strong as they came. In a moment the warrior next to him had driven the orc off with his spear. Reaching down, Mirrik again pried his spear out of the neck of another orc, this one already dead.

  All around the front of his warrior group kobolds he had known for his whole life lay screaming, gasping, or moaning in pain. In front of his line, a number of orcs were doing the same. Blood flowed everywhere, both dark and bright red. Looking down at the ground, he could see that his feet were soaked in blood. One of his younger warriors lay face down in the dirt behind him, a javelin that Mirrik had ducked skewered the whelp in this last charge.

  Looking over to the right, he saw Hemmet’s warrior group fighting through a small number of orcs as they tried to move up in line with his warrior group. As the few orcs fell before Hemmet’s advance, the two friends locked eyes down the line from each other and nodded. There was a confidence there born of trust.

  Looking back to the rear, Mirrik could see the first line of another warrior group coming down the slope through the trees to join them to the right, and off to their left he saw Lord Sennak at the head of his warrior group rushing down to come on line with the rest of them.

  Suddenly, from down the slope the first of the ogres came crashing through the trees. All warriors’ attention was riveted to the front as the massive beasts beat their way through the underbrush. First one, then a second, and before long a whole group of fifteen ogres stood looking along the slope at the kobolds of the four Deep Gen warrior groups as they came on line and formed the shield wall in front of them.

  Not one of the Deep Gen warriors was under the delusion that the next phase of this battle was going to be anything but bad.

  Chapter 14 – The Kobolds’ Left Flank

  Trikki lay flat behind the bush, her simple earthen-colored dress and make-up of mud and splattered leaves helping her to blend in with the dead leaves, rocks, and foliage of the mud around the tiny little stream bed. Up above her, on the berm-like hill, the raucous voices of orcs and the earth-shaking steps of ogres could be heard as the large creatures smashed through the underbrush and pushed over trees in their movement up the hill.

  Probably twenty-some in that group, she counted to herself. That’s two groups of orcs, total of about fifty among them, with fifteen ogres coming up behind them. Most outcasts weren’t that good at counting, but she had learned the value of money early, and that had spurred on her studies.

  Suddenly the last of the large group of ogres disappeared up the hill, and the next group of creatures had yet to catch up. There was a moment where the area was clear, and she took full advantage of it.

  Grabbing her spear and holding onto the sword by her side, Trikki sprinted through the underbrush and down the slight slope that existed on this side of the berm-like hill. In a few moments she found the small trail that paralleled the berm from a distance and began climbing up the slope to where she knew the rest of the scouts were doing the same thing she was, and beyond them Lord Karthan’s many companies would be coming, guided here by Trallik, her love.

  As she ran along up the trail, to bring word of the advanced forces of the orc’s right wing, Trikki thought about the past few days. It had been a time of much change for her and for her new lifemate Trallik. They had gone from outcasts to scouts, from slaves to free, and she had gone from depending on others to take care of her to killing her first kobold… and several more after that. The marks on her soul had changed her, perhaps more than her time with Sultry’s Family.

  No! She would not think of such things anymore. Sometimes the weight of her past was too much to carry, but she had started a new life, and she would not look back to who she had been.

  They had brought with them enough wealth to start a new life, and once this little war was over, that’s exactly what she intended to do.

  Ahead of her on the trail she saw the object of her affection. Trallik was conversing with Billik, an elite warrior from the Honor Guard that had been put in charge of Lord Karthan’s scouts, and thereby her and Trallik. In a matter of several steps she was up with them.

  “What did you see?” Billik asked.

  “About fifty orcs, followed by fifteen ogres, then a break in the line, but certainly a lot more coming behind them,” Trikki reported.

  “Were any of them on our side of the hill?” Billik asked.

  “No,” Trikki shook her head. “They were all up on the hill.”

  Billik smiled a satisfied smile. “Good work, Trikki. This is perfect. I’ll pass the word to Lord Karthan. You too get back out there and keep watch as the tail of this line of the orc horde passes. As soon as you think its past, you find me and tell me.”

  “The tail?” Trallik asked. “Why wait until they all go by to hit them?”

  “Lord Karthan’s orders, Trallik,” Billik answered. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he continued. “I think he wants to catch as many of them as he can in his little trap.”

  “It’s about time you showed up for the fight!” Mirrik growled, mostly to himself. Lord Sennak was walking along behind the line his four warrior groups had formed leading his warrior group, the fifth to reach the fight, off to the left where the line ended.

  “Alright, now, lads,” Mirrik called. “Loosen up the ranks a bit! Remember, don’t let them hit your shield, it’ll probably kill you if they do!”

  The four-rank thick line of Deep Gen warriors shuffled about a bit, pushing the line out to where it touched the warrior groups to their left and right. In front of them the ogres began yelling incoherently, slamming the ground with
their fists and the hafts of their weapons, and in general working themselves into a frenzy. It was hard to think, much less get any commands out.

  Looking around, Mirrik could see that many of his warriors were scared almost out of their wits. He turned back around to face the ogres. Well they should be! he thought. Most of us, if not all, will be dead very soon.

  When he had started this march he had accepted that he would die this day. It was easier that way. Then if he lived it would be a pleasant surprise. Looking at the massive beasts with their axes like tree-trunks with metal mill-stone sized blades on them, Mirrik began to give up any hope of living.

  All of a sudden, the large ogre in the middle raised his axe and charged.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Kale yelled. They had reached the piles of javelins up at the base of Great Bow Hill quickly enough, but grabbing two each had tangled many of his outcast skirmishers up with each other. One certainly couldn’t call the outcasts a bunch of mindless followers. They were entirely too independent, a trait that wasn’t such a good thing when it came to getting a group of them to do a simple task in turns.

  “Why don’t you take the first half with you right now,” Kale’s brother suggested. “I’ll follow behind with the other half once we get them re-armed.”

  Kale shook his head. “You’re a life-saver, brother.” Moving to the group of those who had already gotten their javelins, he called out. “All who have their javelins, follow me!”

  Almost as one almost fifty outcast warriors began streaming down the hill along makeshift trails and over whatever obstacles were in their way. As they started to run, they could hear the ogres begin their yelling and pounding.

  “Hurry!” Kale yelled at a pair that were trying to move through a thicket more carefully than time allowed. “Move it now!” The pair of outcasts got the message and barged through, coming through with many little scrapes, but with the group.

  Not much further down the slope Kale could see Lord Sennak at the front of his warrior group, leading them down the line to the left. In a moment more the rear ranks of the thick line of Deep Gen warriors came into view. They were tensed, but not yet in battle.

  Behind him, the many feet of his outcast skirmishers crunched along the forest floor, though no one could hear anything but the frenzied roaring of the ogres below.

  Kale could now see the front ranks of the Deep Gen line. They weren’t more than forty steps from the rear of the line. He and his warriors could see the ogres beyond, froth coming out of their mouths as they roared and pounded the dirt with their massive weapons.

  Suddenly, the massive brute in the center of the ogre line raised his axe above his head and charged at the Deep Gen line. As one the ogres followed his example and rushed forward toward the kobold line. All through the warrior group that stood in the ogre’s way warriors braced for sudden, brutal, violent death. All along the kobold line, warriors waited to die.

  “Form up!” Kale called, though none of his warriors could hear him. Holding out his arms, he brought the first several on line, and the rest began to extend the line out in either direction as they came up. With a hand motion to the front, Kale and his skirmishers raised their javelins as one and ran forward.

  The ogre had now arrived at the front line, with several of his companions only a couple of steps behind him. With a mighty swing, a handful of kobold warriors were smashed, their bodies flung lifelessly through the air to land in pieces among the warrior group to their right.

  “Let fly!” Kale called out, and as one almost fifty javelins scythed through the air, striking many of the ogres. The long, narrow tips of the javelins pierced much of the thick leather they wore, piercing many holes in their thick hides. Nearly half of the ogres were able to brush off the javelins without any real effect, but the other half bled much. Best of all, the massive ogre in the middle had taken a javelin in his gaping mouth, the long stick poking out through the back of his throat as he stumbled about in surprised agony.

  “Ready!” Kale yelled over the din of combat. He was heartened by the effect his warriors were having, and especially by his especially good hit on the biggest ogre.

  “Throw!” he yelled, then heaved his own second javelin at the massive ogre in the middle yet again, this time lodging it under the beast’s arm in its ribs as it stumbled about.

  Three of the ogres were down, and the massive ogre who had led them was one of them. All down the length of the Deep Gen line the stout underdark warriors had gotten past their initial panic and had begun to move about, trying not to mass where the ogres could easily strike. Several moments after impact what was left of the lead ranks of each warrior group had surged forward with their spears only, dodging between legs to stick spears in thighs, jumping up to stick the Neanderthal-like ogres in their bellies, causing several of the massive brutes to reel back after their initial assault.

  The blows that had done the most damage to them, however, were mighty thrusts by their strongest warriors into the ogres’ soft groins. Already a pair of them had fallen to the ground in pain this way, after which each of them had been swarmed by the little kobolds with their metal tipped sticks. All down the line the rest of the warriors were doing the same thing, swarming about them to confuse the massive brutes and to avoid giving them too tempting a target to hit.

  Behind Kale came his brother and the other half of the skirmishers. Kale held up his hands to stop them from throwing, however, as there was no way to keep from hitting the Deep Gen warriors.

  As they watched, the Deep Gen warriors began to turn the tide of battle. Another ogre went down, then another, then a pair. Soon, nine ogres had succumbed to the swarm tactics of the nimble Deep Gen warriors with their spears, and the rest were wounded; bleeding profusely and confused by the chaos of it all.

  First one, then another ogre began to run. Seeing they were almost by themselves, the last four ogres all turned to run at once.

  “Ready!” Kale called.

  “Throw far, warriors!” Kale’s brother urged them. “Past our line!”

  “Throw!” Kale commanded, and as one fifty more javelins scythed through the air, bringing down two more of the massive beasts just as they cleared the swarm of deep gen warriors.

  All up and down the line the underdark warriors cheered. They had survived their greatest challenge so far without breaking and running, though not one of them would have imagined that they could. The exuberance of life swelled up in each of them and they danced on the corpses of the huge ogres like children playing on little hills.

  “Mirrik!” Kale called. The muscle-bound warrior turned about to see who was calling him. He was drenched almost head to toe in sticky, congealing ogre blood, but the white of his teeth shone through like a wolf’s in the dark of night.

  “Mirrik, the next wave is coming!” Kale called. “Hemmet! Pass the word! The next wave is coming!” He had moved his skirmishers up in front of the Deep Gen’s line to collect up their thrown javelins and to slow down the next wave the orc horde threw at them. Someone has to be focused, Kale thought. Right now the warriors of the Deep Gen were too busy celebrating their victory over the ogres, and had yet to reform the line.

  “Where’s Lord Sennak?” Kale called. “We must reform the line!”

  Mirrik looked about. Down the line to the left a group of warriors were not rejoicing. They were some of the old lord’s personal guards that the new Lord Sennak the Younger had taken on as his own personal guards as well, and they were huddled about the shattered form of a kobold on the ground.

  “There’s your answer,” Mirrik called back to Kale as he pointed to the left. “I think he’ll not be leading us for now, if ever.”

  Mirrik and Kale both looked down the hill. Already they could see the first orcs through the trees.

  “Form it up!” Mirrik called. “Here they come! Form the line!”

  Kale didn’t have time to worry about others at the moment. “Form the skirmish line!” he called, and with an obedience he’d n
ot seen in them before this battle, his hundred outcast warriors quickly moved into their various positions.

  “Ready!” he called out. In front of them, not twenty paces away, the lead orcs of the next wave were climbing up the slope, determined looks in their eyes and sharp swords and axes in their hands. Not far behind them a huge mixed group of ogres and orcs came, some of the largest, fiercest looking orcs and ogres that any of them had seen yet forming the nucleus of the group. It was as if the first group of orcs were but shock troops for what had to be the rest of this entire wing of the orc horde.

  “Throw!” Kale called, and as one almost a hundred javelins flew threw the air, cutting down the entire first group of orcs before any of them could get close enough. Kale had been prepared to fall back, but the effectiveness of his warriors’ throws made that command unnecessary for now.

  Behind Kale’s skirmishers, the Deep Gen’s warrior groups finished forming up. Kale’s skirmishers had succeeded in giving them enough time to reform.

  “Look at the number of them,” Kale’s brother muttered in a low voice.

  “Steady now,” Kale responded.

  Down the slope from them the orcs and ogres had stopped. Kale counted to himself. Among the numberless mass of orcs… a few hundred at least… were about twenty-five ogres. Shaking his head, he looked back at the Deep Gen’s warrior groups. They were battered and beaten, having lost probably a quarter of their strength in the last battle alone. Not a one of them was more than three ranks deep now as their leaders’ seconds moved warriors about to fill gaps the previous groups of ogres had punched in their lines.

  From the elite group in the middle of the seething, screaming line of warriors, an older orc with a large axe stepped forward. The scars all over his body could be seen by all the kobolds in the line, as could his massive muscles. Looking from one side of his line to the other, the fierce looking warrior began yelling something in their feral tongue. The orcs around what had to be their chieftain repeated the older orc’s words, roaring it out with grim enthusiasm. The chief called out again, and this time the entire line joined in repeating the foul syllables.