The Game of Fates

by Joel Babbitt

  Shaking his head about, he let out a loud roar, shooting flames out into the air while stomping the ground with one of his front legs. This was all a distraction from the real issue, which was his left wing. While he was roaring and stomping about, he was moving the wing about, testing it to see if perhaps it might hold his weight. He didn’t like what he felt.

  Looking about, he could see kobolds running in every direction. The screams of the little dragon-spawn only egged on by the dragonfear Mananthiél naturally exuded. He knew this wouldn’t last forever, however. He didn’t have time to summon the words of power to mend his wounded wing, nor could he concentrate on such a thing in his current situation. No, he would have to ‘wing it’ for now. Mananthiél smiled at his own smug little joke.

  As the dragon looked about the clearing, trying to think of ways to keep control of the situation, his eyes caught hold of one kobold dressed a bit better than most, with a crown of bronze on his head. Running forward, he pounced on the kobold, catching it in a cage of his claws and pinning it to the ground as its crown went rolling. After sending a particularly muscular kobold flying with a swat of his tail, the rest of the kobold’s personal guards scattered, and the wolf one of them had been holding ran for its life with its tail between its legs like the kobolds it served.

  “You!” Mananthiél roared. “What is your role among these vermin?”

  The kobold didn’t answer. After a second of watching the kobold gasp, Mananthiél realized that he was probably crushing him. He lifted his foot ever so slightly.

  “Speak!” the dragon roared.

  Coughing and sputtering, the kobold eventually spoke. “I am Lord Karthan” it spoke in a calm, almost resigned voice. Mananthiél was puzzled by how calm the kobold was. From the corner of his eye he could see a small number of kobolds beginning to come toward him from different points around the edge of the clearing. Were they insane?

  “Are you lord of all of these kobolds?” Mananthiél asked, continuing to monitor the kobolds.

  “No, great dragon,” Lord Karthan spoke. “I am Lord of the Kale Gen, but there are kobolds here from the Kobold Gen and from the Krall Gen as well, and some from the other gens in the northern valley.”

  Mananthiél growled in frustration. He’d wanted to get this over quickly by capturing whoever was in charge of all the kobolds here, but the Fates didn’t seem to be on his side today. And now there were a handful of these annoying little creatures approaching from different angles around the clearing.

  Inconsequential, certainly, but he was more used to little creatures running away, not coming toward him. Perhaps he was getting to be a bit obsessive himself, he thought. Perhaps Marsa, his larger female mate, was rubbing off on him. Things that were out of place just annoyed him nowadays.

  Kale stood in the center of the clearing watching the dragon. He was rooted to the spot, not by his own will, and yet not by fear alone. Perhaps it was a mix of both fear and the power of the Kale Stone he could feel welling up in his hands.

  As he stood there, fixated on the dragon to his front, he heard a voice from off to his right. Daring to take his glance away from the dragon, who had by now swatted away Khazak Mail Fist with its tail and pounced on Lord Karthan, Kale looked over and saw Durik running toward him, followed closely by his much older chief elite warrior, Manebrow by name, and a female kobold whose name he couldn’t remember at the moment.

  Looking off to the other side, he saw his younger brother gathering up a shield that someone had thrown down and running toward him as well. He smiled at that, though he felt certain he would be dead soon. No matter what, his brother had always stood by him.

  In a few moments the five kobolds were standing together, and they were preparing for what they thought would come next. As they steeled themselves to confront the dragon, however, a subtle power began to emanate from the stone, calming their almost frantic nerves and emboldening them for the confrontation ahead.

  “I want you to tell your gen that they are now my slaves,” Mananthiél spoke in his gravelly, thunderous voice.

  “No, dragon,” a little voice said from not too far away. Looking up from his little prisoner, Mananthiél saw that the small handful of kobolds had mostly gathered together into one group and were looking defiantly at him. In front of them two kobolds stood, the one who spoke had a nicely inlaid, golden-hilted sword.

  Under normal conditions, Mananthiél would have just blasted the creatures into oblivion, but the sword was of good make, and might have magical properties as well. It would make a nice gift for his mate, which she would probably need… especially if he couldn’t find that Krech Stone and the elf that had taken it.

  Narrowing his eyes a bit, Mananthiél let up on his prisoner and walked over toward the little group until he stood immediately in front of them, his hot breath washing over them, the liquid fire that boiled up within him aching to be released.

  “And who, might I ask, are you?” Mananthiél asked flatly, the contempt in his voice for these little creatures clear.

  The other kobold, who had not spoken yet, lifted one hand. Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light caused the red dragon to recoil and cover his eyes with his front leg. “I am Kale, son of Kale, inheritor of the power of the Kale Stone, by whose right I rule!” the little kobold spoke in a voice that pierced the massive dragon to the heart.

  Mananthiél backed up, the intensity of the power that confronted him was different from anything he had ever faced before.

  “What… power is this?” he grunted as he winced in pain.

  “It is the power of The Sorcerer, by His Covenant with our world Dharma Kor!” the little kobold with the stone spoke in a voice that held an immortal power.

  “And it is the power of Morgra, Keeper of the Covenant and protector of our race!” the kobold with the golden-hilted sword spoke by the same power.

  Finally regaining some of his senses, Mananthiél breathed in, closed his eyes, and roared liquid fire at the small group of kobolds. As he watched, the fire sped at them and washed over them as if there were a spherical shield around them, protecting them from his fire. As the fire engulfed them, then flowed past, the light broke forth again from the stone the one named Kale held, blinding Mananthiél again and causing him to recoil yet again.

  “Ah!” Mananthiél wailed, despairing at his sudden turn in fortunes. “What would you have of me? Why do you vex me so?”

  “It is not us who vex you, it is you who have destroyed our home!” the one named Kale spoke. “You bring fire to our valley, burning our homeland! You brought orcs down upon us! For your greed you have slain many, seeking to take all that is not yours! Even now you plot to kill your own mate!”

  Mananthiél was amazed and rebuked. The light of this power the little kobold held had laid bare his own plotting for these little… kobolds to see. The pain of the holy light probing every crack and crevice of his evil, twisted soul was more than he could bear. As if to add insult to injury, several arrows and magical bolts of fire bounced off his hide at random as the kobold spoke.

  “Know this,” the kobold continued. “We shall bear your evil no longer! Leave this valley, and never return, foul beast!”

  With one last, desperate surge, Mananthiél ignored the pain and, summoning what little courage of his own he had, he ran forward toward the little group of kobolds.

  Suddenly, from somewhere off to his left, a large arrow slammed into his head, driving partway into his neck where it met his skull before breaking off and leaving a burning pain running throughout his body.

  As Mananthiél found himself standing up yet again, this time a little more disoriented and seeing double, he shook his head about and blinked. The fire of his fury had dampened, giving way to a deep, sickening pain that weakened him to the core.

  Suddenly, he saw a blazing light approaching him. Trying to focus his eyes, he thought he saw a kobold with a sword ablaze with pure light running at him. Unable to turn away in time, he screamed out in pain as
the kobold plunged his sword through the impossibly-hard thick red scales that covered his chest.

  Stunned and unable to breath, Mananthiél fell over to his side, his eyes focusing and unfocusing in the dazzling light of the sun. Finally, after involuntarily trying to gasp several times, the shock of the blow wore off enough that he could force a small amount of air into one of his cavernous lungs; the other lung was pierced and had collapsed on him, causing a deep, excruciating pain that wracked his body.

  As he writhed about on his back in pain, he turned his head toward the kobolds to speak, but the only sound that came from his throat was a gurgling sound as he coughed up blood. Coming toward him yet again he could feel, more than see, the light. It was at that moment that Mananthiél, red dragon of barely a century of age, a descendant of the ancient and original inhabitants of Dharma Kor, a creature of great power and a wielder of the power of this world, knew that his time on this world would soon be over.

  As the light of Morgra’s power drove Durik’s sword up through the dragon’s jaw and into its brain, the spirit of the great beast was released from its mortal frame, to rejoin the powers of the Creator that had originally spawned it.

  For several moments, the entire clearing and all around it was as silent as a tomb. Then, as kobolds felt the dragonfear die away, they returned to the clearing, stopping at the edge and staring in disbelief at the small cluster of kobolds in the center of the clearing standing next to the massive body of the dragon.

  Slowly at first, and then with gathering intensity, a cheer could be heard from the perimeter of the clearing. Soon several more voices could be heard joining in the excitement as kobolds came streaming back into the clearing, shaking weapons over their heads and yelling exuberantly. Eventually, the entire strength of the Kale and Krall Gens was dancing on or around the corpse of the dragon, while Durik, Kale, and their small handful of brave companions stood looking on, tears streaming from their faces as the joy of the moment was more than they could express.

  Chapter 19 – The Lord of the Kale Gen

  It would be decades before the valley of the Kale and Krall Gens was the same, if it ever truly would be. The conflagration that the dragon’s fire had started burned almost every bit of scrub, grass, and smaller tree, as well as many of the older, larger trees. What it hadn’t been able to burn, however, were the massive trees of Lord Krall’s forest, many of which were several hundreds of years old. Yes, the fire had passed through the boughs and the underbrush in many places, hungrily eating up every bit of fuel it could find, but the trees themselves were fireproof when alive. In fact, unforeseen by almost all the Kralls was the amazing event that occurred next; seeds that had lain dormant in the ground throughout Lord Krall’s forest since before any of the current inhabitants had been born began to sprout, bringing new life to the barren, ash-swept floor of the outer forest.

  The body of the dragon survived the ravages of the fire without the slightest change to it. In fact, in the days that came, once the kobolds of the southern valley had recovered from the initial shock of the battle and the fire, a great effort was made to preserve and store the meat, though its thick armor skin was taken in as large of chunks as possible and much work was put into making every bit of it useful by the Metalsmithies and Trade Warrior Groups of the Kale Gen. And forever more, the skull of a young red dragon could be found hanging like a trophy in the halls of the Kale Gen’s leadership.

  Dragon Bone Hill, as the long-sloped hill where the battle was fought soon came to be known, was but a short run from the broad, shallow lake that sat at the Picket Line. When the fire swept over the entire battlefield immediately after the death of the dragon, the entire force of kobolds had run to the lake that day and, like apples bobbing in a barrel, they took shelter in the shallow water until the fire passed.

  That lake, which had born several names in the millennia that the Kale Gen had lived near it, gained another name that day; the Saving Waters. For generations to come, caravans and travelers from the gens would stop to draw water there, both for the sweetness of the natural spring water that fed it, as well as for the blessing of the Creator, whom they revered only more for having put it there to save their people from the last fury of the dragon.

  And as for companions who stood against the dragon, and the warriors who stood with them against the hordes of orcs, ogres, and ants, they were seen as the heroes of that generation, and forever more their stories were told to motivate, inspire, and instruct the rising generations of defenders of their gens.

  Kiria’s heart felt as if it would burst within her, there was so much joy in her heart. It had happened just today. Lady Kamia, the new Lady of the Kale Gen, had asked her to teach her Covenant Magic to her and her children, and to be a part of the council of the gen with her own staff who would learn magic from her and teach it to other aspiring students. But that was only the least of her reasons to be happy at the moment.

  She was to be mated!

  Durik had asked her just last night, as they rode back to the caverns of the Kale Gen together. She had enthusiastically agreed, of course, and even now she was looking for her lifemate-to-be among the crowd, aching to just be with him, to share her joy with him on this, the first day of the rest of their lives.

  “Your future lifemate,” Arren, the tall elf whose shot had disoriented the dragon and helped slay the ant queen, was talking with her love, who had his back turned to her.

  “Ah, Kiria!” Durik smiled as he turned about, taking her in his arms as the two embraced, pausing in each others arms long enough that Arren began to feel a bit awkward.

  “Uhm,” the elf prince cleared his throat. After a moment more, he did it again.

  “Ah, yes, sorry,” Durik said, a bit embarrassed as he turned to face Arren again, Kiria still firmly pressed against his side. “What were we talking about?”

  “Your calling as Paladin of Morgra,” Arren chided the little kobold, though he was inwardly quite happy for the pair.

  “Aye,” Durik nodded. “So what did you need from me?”

  “Well, first of all, my thanks again for the use of your workshops to reset my collection of arrows. The second thing is perhaps less pleasant.” Arren pulled a small bundle out of a belt pouch and handed it to Durik. “Morigar of the Krall Gen stole this from the dragon’s lair,” he said.

  Upon hearing the name Morigar again, Durik looked up at Arren skeptically, even as he began to unwrap the package. As the final fold of the cloth fell away, both he and Kiria gasped. It was yet another stone of power, and in fact it looked identical to the Krall and Kale Stones.

  “What…” Durik looked at Arren in confusion. For all he knew, Kale had the Kale Stone, and Lady Karaba of the Krall Gen had the Krall Stone.

  “It is not what you think,” Arren said, seeing his confusion. “This is the Krech Stone, Takamak by name, the stone of the fourth of the five original kobold gens.”

  “But where are they? We have no knowledge of the Krech Gen,” Durik said.

  Arren shook his head. “I do not know, but this I do know. I am a prince of the elven nations and a member of the Watchers, an old organization by kobold standards that The Sorcerer himself established to protect the stones of power he gifted to the races.”

  Durik was taken aback. He’d never heard of such a thing, but Kiria, next to him, had.

  “My father found the journal of a paladin who was of your order!” she said. “He died down in these valleys, questing for a stone of power I think.”

  Arren nodded. “Yes, I know of whom you speak. But that was before Morgra, the Keeper of the Covenant, had called a paladin among her children.” The elf knelt down and placed a hand on Durik’s shoulder. “You are clearly her paladin, young Durik,” the elf said. “And as such the right place for that stone is with you.”

  Durik nodded. The power of another stone lay dormant in his hands. “But what am I to do with it?” he asked as the elf stood up and gathered his backpack and weapons to leave.

>   “You will know when the time comes,” Arren said, looking down at the pair of heroes. “After all, you are Morgra’s paladin. She will make her will clear to you… in time.”

  With that, the elf turned and walked out of the sunken grotto that was the home of the leader caste of this gen. He had not found what he was searching for, but had found something much better instead. The will of The Sorcerer often was fulfilled in mysterious ways.

  “All rise!” Khazak Mail Fist, Chamberlain of the Kale Gen, yelled out in a commanding voice that echoed throughout the huge arena. As one, thousands of kobolds rose to their feet, ‘all the members of the Kale Gen’ as Kale himself had instructed, and the thousand or so Krall Gen warriors who had not yet been able to depart due to the fire. Among the crowd were the original members of the Kale Gen, warriors with their crossed belts and servant caste without, but all of them with their lifemates and children. Standing side by side with them were the refugees from the Deep Gen, survivors of the battle with the orc horde and the ant horde, and proud defenders of their chosen lord; Kale of the outcasts.

  The room was noisy as, from the bowels of the arena, Kale and an entire entourage of kobolds walked out onto the floor of the arena. For the veterans of yesterday’s battle, and all who had counted themselves lucky to be there when the dragon was slain, the names of their lord-to-be Kale and his younger brother, as well as Durik the paladin, Kiria the mage, and Kormach Manebrow would forever be known among them as ‘The Companions.’ For they were those who had stood against the dragon. And even now, they walked together at the head of the entourage into the middle of the arena.