The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  As the old orc chanted, an orc with many small skulls about his waste and necklaces of claws stepped out of the line. The simple black cloth robe he wore was smeared with handprints of ash mixed with blood, and in his hand he held a long bone as a rod that was topped with a blackened skull with sharp fangs. In the eyes of the skull two dark rubies shined with a ghostly light.

  All along the line the Deep Gen warriors shifted about nervously, not knowing what to expect.

  “What do you think he’s for?” Kale’s brother asked.

  Kale just shook his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the black-robed orc as it raised the scepter. Suddenly, as the orc shaman chanted, blackness radiated forth from the rod, flying through the air with a power that chilled the hearts of every kobold there. In what had to be but a heartbeat the blackness had flown through their formations, desecrating the ground about them and chilling their hearts as though their tenuous grip on mortality were weakened somehow with the arrival of the black mist. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, the black mist seemed to disappear, seeping quickly into the many corpses about them.

  Instantly, with jerky, spasmodic motions, tens of corpses came to their feat as one all along the line, their eyes open yet senseless, their faces still frozen with their final moments of agony. Blood was still pouring from some of them as, kobold or orc alike, the risen dead reached down and grabbed up weapons in unnaturally strong hands.

  A great cry of despair rose up and down the entire line as many of their fellow warriors, who had died nobly in the defense of their companions, now raised spears against them. Down at the end of the line Lord Sennak’s personal guards fled as his corpse also rose to its feet and took up its sword, a particularly pain-wracked grin lighting its slack features.

  Kale had seen much in his life, but he had never seen anything like this. Neither had any of his outcast warriors, by the looks of sheer panic on their faces.

  “Skirmishers! Fall back!” he called out. All around him, the outcasts were already trying to do that, several of them being cut down by the reanimated corpses, who had now begun to attack every living kobold within reach.

  Kale’s brother thrust a sword into his brother’s stunned hands. “Kale! We’re not going to get through this line of undead! We must flee around them!” he yelled.

  Suddenly, Kale’s eyes became clear, and he looked down at the sword in his hand. “No,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” his brother voice was urgent. “We can’t stay here!”

  Kale, however, threw the sword to the ground, sticking it upright. In the air about Kale a feeling of power, greater than his brother had ever felt, began to drive out the fear. Not understanding what was going on, Kale’s brother watched in amazement as his brother knelt down on the ground in front of him.

  “Ancestors!” he called out as the din of battle behind the brothers began to be shut out from where they knelt. “Hear my plea! I, Kale, son of Kale, inheritor of the burden of lordship of this gen, call upon you! Send help this day!”

  Suddenly, a great burst of light coming from seemingly everywhere at once blinded Kale and his brother. All along the two lines, kobolds, orcs, and ogres all reeled back from the intense, purifying light. After a few moments, as his heart burned with an intense inner fire, Kale could perceive that there were many figures coming from not far away, off to the right side of the line. They rode animals, wolves or dogs by their outline, and they came with spears and swords, smashing through and riding down the animated corpses of those who the orc shaman had raised against them, as if sent from the realms of the ancestors themselves.

  Suddenly, in a moment, Kale’s sight refocused as the light began to fade, and he could see that, indeed, they were kobolds, and they were riding wolves, and riding at the head of them Durik held the Kale Stone high.

  As the Wolf Riders Warrior Group came sweeping along the front of the Deep Gen’s line, the warriors on the line began to take heart again and to attack the zombies that the shaman had raised against them. To their surprise, what had been unnaturally strong was suddenly weak, and the corpses of the both hallowed and unhallowed dead were quickly struck back down to the ground.

  Continuing their sweep along the line, Durik led the Wolf Riders to the far end of the line, and formed them up next to what had been Lord Sennak’s warrior group. All this time, the hundreds of orcs and many ogres that faced the Kale forces stood strangely quiet, as if confounded by the light and its effects on their shaman’s spell.

  But as the last of the zombies fell, and Durik’s Wolf Riders formed up, the orcs began to break into yelling and cursing the kobolds in their guttural tongue. Seemingly woken up from his stupor, the shaman came forward out of the line yet again, but his confidence was not the same. With scepter in hand he began to chant again.

  Kale grabbed a javelin and, running forward, he threw it with all his might. The orc shaman, seemingly at an impossible distance from the line of kobolds, paid no heed to Kale. All up and down the kobold line, however, warriors held their breath as they saw the javelin arch high through the trees.

  With a stunned gasp, the shaman shuddered as the javelin struck true, piercing his chest and driving all the way through. The chanting instantly stopped and the shaman fell lifeless to the ground to the cheers of the entire kobold line.

  Grabbing another javelin as he walked toward the back of the Deep Gen’s line, Kale smiled and grasped hands with a few of the warriors as he walked past them to rejoin the eighty or so remaining outcast skirmishers. His brother came behind him, gathering an arm full of javelins as he went.

  Chapter 15 – Slaying the Minotaur

  Trallik and Trikki sat against the tree trunk listening carefully for any sound on the berm above them. A large column of orcs and ogres had just finished passing by, and they were waiting to make sure that they had all passed.

  After a few more moments, Trallik stood up and peeked around the tree trunk and over the berry bush that grew at its base. He saw no one before ducking back behind the trunk. After a couple more moments, this time he stepped out and watched, and waited. Still nothing from down the hill, only the noise of many heavy feet retreating away up the hill from them.

  “They’re gone, and I don’t see any more coming,” he whispered.

  Trikki stood up. “They’ve all passed!”

  “Yes. Let’s go tell Billik.”

  The two young kobolds ran off down the side of the hill and through the underbrush to the meadow where the lead companies of Kale Gen warriors had gathered. Standing in the midst of the meadow with ash raining down like a sporadic snowfall, Lord Karthan was talking with Billik and the twenty leaders of companies that he had gathered to talk over plans.

  “Sire!” Trallik spoke urgently in a low voice as he and Trikki came running up. “Sire, they’ve all passed by! The orc horde has passed up the hill!”

  Turning to consider Trallik for a moment, Lord Karthan thought for a moment longer, then nodded. “Leaders!” he said quietly, but urgently. “The time for action is now! Remember, we march the companies into two parallel lines, then we move up the slope to surround and destroy the horde. First line, shields and spears. Second line, prepare to plant spears and fire bows. Shields on backs, second line!”

  The twenty company sub-leaders all responded “yes, sire,” in equally low, yet excited voices, then turned and began running back to their companies. Gathering his small personal guard about him, Lord Karthan patted his wolf on the neck and had it led away. The message was clear. Win or lose, he would share the same lot as his warriors.

  With a hand signal from Lord Karthan, the scouts ran ahead of the companies to give early warning, and the companies began to march across the top of the hill, eventually forming two long lines of ten companies each before turning to the right and beginning to advance up the hill in the direction their half of the orc horde had gone.

  Drakebane the Mighty, chieftain of the Bloodhand Orc Tribe, screamed in frustrated rage. It was as if the
hand of some powerful being were tipping the balance against his forces, taking away the advantages his force had one by one. They were orcs, by the Dark Prince! Each of his warriors were easily twice the weight of a kobold, and even the shortest of his warriors was a head and shoulders taller than the tallest kobold! They had chainmail jerkins! They had big axes and swords, plus some spears, bows, and javelins for throwing and shooting as well. How had these kobolds done so much damage to them? The first few groups he’s sent up the hill should have torn through these little pests!

  And the ogres? What happened there? Only two had come running back? Ogres were giants! How had little creatures that were only knee-high to the giants kill thirteen of them? And why hadn’t the kobolds broken? With half of their number laying dead or dying about them, still they stood! How was it possible?

  Drakebane’s rage was blinding. The wily old orc had ceased to think. It was now time to kill. Screaming in rage, he thrust his axe into the air. Like a massive, organic train, all around him the three hundred orcs and twenty-five ogres of the main force echoed his rage and slowly began to charge the five or six hundred little kobold warriors in their shield wall on the hill above them. As they approached the huddled, battered kobolds, the force of their charge reached its peak. The ground shook and axes were raised as a hundred tons of muscle and steel bore down upon the little shield wall.

  There were no delusions among the grim warriors who stood in the kobold line. There would be no running away from the much taller, much faster orcs. There would be no surrender. No, life as an orc slave was usually very short, if they bothered to take slaves. And there was no way they could abandon their families at the caverns of the Kales anyway. No, the only thing there was to do was stand their ground to the last.

  In the eyes of every warrior on that line, it was clear that they understood that they would die this day. In fact, no one there thought they would live past the next charge.

  “Steady!” Mirrik called. Looking over to where his friend Hemmet stood in front of his own warrior group, he could see how thin their lines were, only two ranks per warrior group in most places, with the few warriors left for a third rank mostly made of those who were wounded, but who had come back to the line anyway to help brace the warriors in the first two ranks.

  “I’ll not die standing here!” Mirrik suddenly said. “Get ready, lads! Let’s charge them!” Mirrik said. Behind him, his warrior group began to pass the word in excited voices. Looking over to Hemmet, Mirrik called out. “Hemmet, we’re going to charge!”

  “What? Are you crazy!”

  Mirrik didn’t respond. Down the slope from them, like an avalanche the horde had begun to charge, their roars drowning out all other sounds.

  Raising his spear, Mirrik screamed out a challenge. All around him, his warriors did the same. Hearing his challenge, the other warrior groups joined him.

  “Charge!” Mirrik yelled, and the entire kobold line hefted spears and ran forward, forming a wedge with Mirrik’s company at the point and the rest of the warrior groups joining in as they caught the spirit of the attack.

  “What amazing, suicidal valor!” Kale said, the emotion of the moment washing over him. Turning to his skirmishers, he yelled “Charge!” Running past the many wounded and the piles of corpses that marked the position the original almost nine-hundred kobold warriors of the Deep Gen and the outcasts had held against several attacks already.

  On the left side of the charging line, Durik ordered his wolf riders to swing right and fall in behind the tip of the wedge.

  With a thunderous crash, the almost six-hundred remaining kobold warriors jumped at the orcs and ogres in a frenzy of crazed desperation that was suicidal. As Durik lined up his Wolf Riders, he saw great skill with spears and swords, but he also saw kobolds throwing spears, knocking orcs off their feet as they rammed their legs with their shields, butting them with their horns, and even biting them in their suicidal attack. He saw kobolds swarming into orcs, knocking them to the ground and pounding in their heads with rocks. It was as if they had resigned themselves to death, but were determined to make the orcs pay for every ounce of their blood.

  Much more frequently, however, Durik saw orcs pounding kobolds senseless, cutting off arms and heads, kicking them senseless and stepping on their heads with iron boots. All about the many ogres great swaths had been cut in the kobold charge, but one advantage the charge did give the kobold warriors was that they got in close to the ogres, making it hard for them to swing their mighty, but unwieldy weapons.

  Durik wasn’t sure how much longer the kobolds of the Deep Gen would last, but as those in front of the orcs he was targeting fell, he saw his opportunity. With spear raised, he pointed it forward. “Warriors of the Kale Gen, into the breach!”

  Durik leveled his spear as Firepaw jumped forward down the slope. Passing the skirmishers who were picking up fallen spears and throwing them at the ogres, Durik guided Firepaw with his knees toward the old orc with the axe.

  In a moment of clarity in the midst of the chaotic melee, Drakebane the Mighty pulled his axe out of the shattered remains of the kobold he had just killed and looked up the slope just in time to see the spear coming.

  Twisting his spear downward, Durik planted it firmly into the chieftain’s chest as Firepaw jumped up on the orc. Drakebane’s axe fell spinning off to one side as his hands grasped the haft of the spear, his eyes bulging out with the impact. Propelled backward, Drakebane fell over the body of the kobold he had just slain. Riding up next to Durik, Manebrow smashed through Drakebane’s minotaur-skull helmet with his axe, cleaving it in two.

  The pair of armored wolf riders passed by the lifeless form of the former chieftain of the Bloodhand Orc Tribe and were continuing the attack.

  “Warriors of the Kale Gen, at the double!” Lord Karthan called. Not far up the slope he could hear the sounds of battle ringing clearly through the thick afternoon air. Already he could see those warriors on the outer edge of the melee through the trees.

  “Sound the charge!” he called to his signalers. He hoped against hope that it would both give hope to the Deep Gen warriors that were holding the line, and cause fear in the hearts of the orc horde. Either way, he knew his fellow kobolds were taking a pounding, and he just couldn’t get there fast enough.

  As the notes of the rams horns blew, many orcs turned in surprise to see another almost seven hundred kobold warriors charging at them from behind. Panic ensued among the rear ranks of the orc horde, stoked on by the first volley of arrows from the rear ten companies, who had planted spears and drawn arrows.

  “At them! At them!” Lord Karthan shouted as he raised his sword and focused on one orc warrior who was twenty steps directly in front of him. All around him the lead companies of his warriors had charged forward with a yell.

  Some orcs had begun to form up in small groups in the rear of the orc horde, but the first volley of arrows had broken up most of that. Now, as Lord Karthan and the over three hundred and fifty kobolds that charged with him slammed into the back of the orc horde, a shudder ran through the orcs and a panic began to spread, even affecting the ogres as the hundreds of archers in the rear ten Kale companies began shooting high to avoid shooting their Deep Gen cousins on the far side of the horde, focusing their sharp missiles on the only things that were high enough; the ogres’ heads and necks.

  Soon the weight of the encirclement began to take its toll. Groups of orcs began to peel away from the fight and tried to break through the kobolds in an attempt to flee. Many did, as there were several holes in the uphill side of the line where the Deep Gen charge had stalled. Here and there ogres were falling, victims of the swarming tactics that the impetuous Deep Gen warriors had perfected. Almost imperceptibly, yet all at once, it was as if the will of the entire horde broke. Orcs and ogres once blind with rage now turned blind with fear. Large numbers of them ran on the spears of the Kale companies in their attempt to escape. A few ogres did cut large swaths through the Kale companies, ho
wever, as they ran for their lives.

  Pulling his sword out of an orc he’d stabbed as the beast was trying to push through, Lord Karthan looked up to see Manebrow and a detachment of Wolf Riders rushing past to chase after several orcs who had managed to get past the Kale companies and were even now running down the hill.

  A wolf reined in next to Lord Karthan. Looking up, he saw his daughter Kiria, her face a mask of concern. She was scratched, muddy, and bloody, but she was whole and unwounded. In spite of himself, standing there in the midst of so much death, Lord Karthan cried with both joy and despair.

  “Form it up! Let’s go!” Lord Karthan soon called as his daughter went about helping Myaliae administer to the hundreds of wounded that littered the broad crest of the berm-like hill. Yes, this had been a great victory, but they didn’t have time to celebrate it. The other half of the orcs were trying to envelope them from the other side of the battlefield, and Lord Krall had taken his forces to stop them. It wouldn’t do to be celebrating, until they were sure that the other half of the orc attack was broken.

  Leaving five companies behind to help the stumbling, shocked survivors of the Deep Gen gather their wounded to the clearing on the top of the hill, Lord Karthan led the remaining fifteen companies in three lines down the hill and out into the clearing.

  Mirrik and Hemmet stood looking at Kale, who was going about the heaps of bodies picking out the wounded and helping separate them from the dead. The pair of life-long friends had seen the deaths of almost half of their gen’s warriors this day, between Bantor’s warrior group that had been left in the underdark and the hundreds of warriors whose lifeblood had been spilled freely on this nameless hill.