The Game of Fates (5 page)

“Then
it is settled,” Khazak said as Durik wondered who would be going with his
company from the Krall Gen.  He was not at all happy about the revelation of
dragons living in the Hall of the Mountain King, and he began to think that, no
matter what Khazak thought, he and his company would thoroughly search the
Demon’s Bridge area before even thinking about approaching the Hall of the
Mountain King.

“Now
the question is, with the gen’s council so concerned about the threat these
great ants pose, whom shall we send?” Krall said, referring to the massive
colony of great ants that Durik’s Company had discovered on their travels
between the Kale and Krall Gens. 

His
father nodded slowly as he looked out the window at life in his gen unfolding
before his eyes.  “Yes, they will be reluctant to commit any of their warriors
to anything else, I’d imagine.  Hmm… perhaps some of the new warriors from the
Archer Guard’s ceremony the other day…” he mumbled out loud.

Seated
in his chair, Morigar, who had been silent until now, raised his head and
stated loudly enough for all to hear, “I’ll go, father.”

Lord
Krall turned around in surprise.  “What?!”

Morigar
looked up into his father’s eyes, “I will go,” he said almost urgently.

Lord
Krall was furious with his son’s statement, treating it the same as though it
were but his latest stunt.  “Do you realize what you’re saying?  This is no
errand for a son of the Lord of the Gen.  It’s too risky.  And besides, you’ve
not fully recovered from your wounds.  Absolutely not!  I forbid it!” 

Seated
across from Durik, Lady Karaba was shocked as well, though she tried not to
show it.

Morigar,
however, was determined in his decision.  Standing, he faced his father
defiantly.  “Father, I know I’ve not met your expectations in the past, but
have I not earned the chance to prove myself?  Though you may not have realized
it these last few years, I have become a warrior and a leader in my own right.”

“You
are my son!” Lord Krall stated harshly.  It was obvious to all that this was
not the first time that Morigar had asked him for something of this nature.  It
was equally obvious to all that this was a rather sore subject between father
and son.

Morigar
did not bend.  His next several words were delivered in perhaps the most
sincere manner Morigar could muster, though to Durik it seemed almost
practiced.  “These last few years I have served you, my father.  Have I not earned
the right to choose my own destiny?  I know you desire to protect me and, yes,
after these several years of course Krall and I still ache at the loss of our
middle brother, but I’m no whelp any longer.  It is my turn to step up and take
on the risks necessary to build this gen.  It’s my turn, father.”  With all his
cards on the table, Morigar waited with a stern countenance for his father’s
reaction.

‘Well,’
Durik thought to himself, ‘that solves the mystery of the empty chair.’ 
Looking at Khazak Mail Fist, Durik could see that he was feeling uncomfortable
as well.  He was certain it had not been Khazak’s intention to cause division
in Lord Krall’s household.  But the matter had arisen, and now there was
nothing to do but wait until it was decided.

Lord
Krall was both angered and visibly stung by his third son’s words and the
mention of his dead middle son.  Dropping his head and turning toward the
windows, he reached out his arms and leaned heavily on the pane.  When he spoke
again, it was in a much lower voice.  “Several times with impassioned words you
have promised many things, my son, and every time you have not had the
character to see it through.  But you’re right; I cannot choose your destiny.” 
He paused for several moments then continued, “Young Durik, if you’ll have
them, a small contingent of warriors from our gen will be accompanying you, led
by Morigar.  May your quest be victorious.”

Lady
Karaba could not hide the dismay on her face.  Fear and the pain of previous
loss resurfaced in her eyes, which quickly became moist.

Turning
to face his son, Lord Krall spoke with pent up emotion, “You’ve been asking for
this for too long.  Perhaps it is time you dealt with the results of your
actions, without me to sweep them under the rug for you.  Perhaps it is time
you saw senseless death that you can’t run and hide from.  Maybe that will
bring you to your senses.  For your sake, and your mother’s, I hope you’re
ready.”  Lord Krall turned back to the window, but not before he noticed the
look in his lifemate’s eyes.  “Go, my son.  Tonight you may request whom you
need from the council.  May you return to me and your mother when this quest is
finished.”

Morigar
stood tall in front of his father, who looked well stooped with both age and
the burdens of life.  “Father, I’ll not fail you, and I will return.”  Lord
Krall did not turn around, but rather bent even more, as a prisoner would when
lashed with the whip.  Feeling uncomfortable, Morigar turned, bowed his head
and walked quickly out of the room.

As
the door closed behind Morigar, Lord Krall spoke again.  “I’m sorry about that,
my guests,” he apologized in a low voice.  “Young Durik, this quest you bring,
and what you have discovered on your trip here…”  His head shook as he
contemplated the situation out loud, his voice gradually growing more sure as
he continued.  “This imminent threat of the massive great ant colony you
discovered, as well as the alliance between the remnants of the Bloodhand Orc
Tribe and the dissenters in our gens.  These have caused no small stir among
the members of our gen council, and seem to have evoked much emotion about the
well-being of our gen.  And now, as if Lady Karaba and I did not have enough to
worry about, we now must deal with our son going on some quest, possibly to face
dragons, just to find what may very well end up being an ancient ruin.”  He
shook his head in frustration.  “How shall I justify such a quest to the
council?”

After
a few moments of silent thought, Lord Krall looked up at the group, though he
could not meet his lifemate’s teary gaze.  “To justify our participation in
this quest to my gen’s council, I will give Morigar the responsibility of
seeking out and gaining a knowledge of what this remnant of the Bloodhand Orcs
consists of,” he said, referring to the unholy alliance that had been struck
between the conspirators in the neighboring Kale Gen and their common enemy the
wild orcs of the great forest. 

Staring
Durik in the eyes, Lord Krall nodded.  “Yes, that’s the answer.  That will
sidestep the dragon issue.  And, after all, it is in your gen’s best interests
to discover the strength of the Bloodhand Orcs as well, is it not?  Besides, it
would not delay your quest much anyway.  Well, so be it then.” 

Durik
looked uncomfortably at Khazak who was looking steadily at Lord Krall.  The
quest given him by Lord Karthan was not to scout out the strongholds of the
Bloodhand Orcs.  Would Khazak say nothing?

“Sire,”
Khazak Mail Fist broke in almost on cue, “Lord Karthan said nothing about
scouting out the Bloodhand Orcs.  We cannot risk doing much for Morigar if that
is his quest.”

Lord
Krall nodded without looking up.  “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.  I shall
have to send someone with him that will ensure his success, for alone my son
has a propensity to get in the deepest of trouble and the direst of
circumstances.”  Lord Krall looked up at Khazak.  “Something I’m sure you’ve
seen him do before.”

Khazak
nodded.  Yesterday was not the first time he’d saved Morigar’s life.  There had
been a hunting incident some years now in the past.  “Aye, sire.”  He paused a
moment.  “I’ll not speak for Durik on this, but if he does decide to provide
some assistance to whomever you send to watch over Morigar, I’m sure Lord
Karthan would approve of it.”

Durik
nodded his head in understanding.

Hearing
a gong sound out in the great chamber, Lord Krall seemed roused somewhat from
his dismal mood, “It would seem that the feast is almost prepared.  Shall we
go, my friends?”  Durik, Khazak, and Krall stood up from their chairs and began
to make their way to the door.

Lady
Karaba could neither face her lifemate nor think of food after the events of
the last several moments.  Silently, she made her way back up the stairs toward
their bedchamber.

As
Durik approached the door, Lord Krall spoke again.  “And if it so be that you
decide to help him in this task, or if he decides to accompany you on the
remainder of your quest, then so be it.”

One
by one, the warriors filed silently out of the room into the council chamber,
and from there to the great chamber beyond.  Khazak Mail Fist was last of the
Kale Gen to leave, behind him Krall, Lord Krall’s eldest son, waited.  As he
reached the door, Khazak turned to Lord Krall.  “If it is any comfort to you,
sire, I’ll tell you that this is the best group of yearlings I’ve seen come
through the trials, and Manebrow who is Durik’s second, well… you just couldn’t
ask for a more level-headed warrior.  He’s as smart as he is skilled.  Lord
Karthan trusted them with his only daughter, and that’s saying something.”

Lord
Krall grimaced at Khazak’s final statement.  “Lord Karthan’s daughter is still
determined to continue on this quest, then.”  He shook his head, “Poor Durik
will have his hands full, that’s certain.”

Khazak
thought for a moment then changed the subject.  “I wonder if it wouldn’t be
wiser to put Morigar under him, rather than leave them as companions as they
head north.”

Lord
Krall looked at Khazak skeptically.  His son Krall scoffed in open derision at
the suggestion.

Khazak,
seeing that Lord Krall was not in agreement, tried to strengthen his case,
though it ended up being a feeble attempt, “I remember several years ago there
was a two-headed lamb born here in your gen while I was visiting.  The shepherd
was more than willing to show the thing.  It looked healthy enough for a while,
but soon died…”

Lord
Krall raised his hand.  “Enough said, my friend.  That young Durik seems an
accepting enough type anyway.  I’m sure that the two of them will be able to
work out some sort of agreement on how things are to be done.”

Khazak
nodded his head and walked past him to the door, his argument having fallen on
deaf ears.

Krall
seemed to have something urgent to discuss with his father, and the two of them
stood discussing it for several moments.  Finally, Lord Krall nodded his
agreement and the discussion ended.  The two of them walked stiffly through the
council chamber into the great chamber and were greeted by the light, sounds,
and smells of the feast.

A
crackling noise slowly began to
pierce Trallik’s groggy mind.  For several moments he successfully ignored it,
not wanting to be roused from his somewhat uncomfortable slumber.  He imagined
that it was his mother fixing first meal, and that she would soon come to rouse
him.  Somewhere in his groggy mind, however, he wondered why he felt cold. 
After all, the caves of the Deep Guard Warrior Group were near the fiery crack
that heated his gen’s home caverns, the better to grow the fungus that much of
the gen depended on for their food.

After
a few more moments of groggy half-wakefulness, the memory of where he was and
what had happened came rushing back at him in an instant of sudden awareness. 
He sat up with a start and, with eyes wide open, looked around himself.

Seated
on a log in front of a small cooking fire not ten paces from him was a most
strange looking creature.  It was tall like an orc and had no scales, but
unlike orcs its skin was very light and seemed to radiate health, youth, and
vigor.  Its ears were pointed like a kobold’s horns, but its head was covered
in long, dark hair that fell about its shoulders.  It was dressed in dark green
robes mostly covered by finely crafted armor made of overlapping bands of a
silverish metal he did not recognize and had on a thick, dark green cloak the
same color as its robes.  Beside it on the log sat a full helm made of the same
strange silverish metal, designed to cover its entire head with a T-shaped
opening crafted into its front to allow for sight, smell, and speech.  Protruding
from the helmet’s top was a shank of long, course black hair.  In its hands the
strange creature had a small metal pan… and it seemed to be offering the
freshly cooked contents of it to him.

Trallik
looked at the… human?  He cast his blanket to one side, stood up, and threw
back the hood of his wolfskin outfit.  On his belt he could feel both of the
hilts of his long knives.  He was still armed… how strange.

In
response to Trallik feeling for his knives, the stranger gave Trallik a knowing
glance as, with his empty hand, he lifted a long pole-like weapon with a long,
slightly curved blade up from where it lay against the log on the other side of
it.  Trallik realized what the creature was implying and immediately took his
hands away from his knives.  The creature in turn lowered its weapon back into
place against the log.

The
creature… human… or whatever it was silently offered Trallik the food in the
metal pan again.  Trallik took a couple of steps toward the food.  He could see
a pair of eggs, fried, and a decent sized portion of meat, deer meat it
appeared, well cooked and seasoned as well.  Trallik’s mouth began to water. 
He didn’t necessarily trust this creature, but the more he thought about it,
the more he realized that his list of friends was rather short at the moment
and that he probably should take a chance on this creature.

Trallik
walked tentatively forward and took a seat next to the fire, and within reach
of the creature’s long arms.  He gladly accepted the metal pan with the eggs
and meat and immediately began to eat voraciously.  The creature sat watching
him with some interest.  After a few moments it spoke.

“Hoor
ye?”  it said.

Trallik
looked at it strangely.  He wasn’t quite sure, but he thought the creature
might be speaking the corrupted dialect of the northern gens.  He had only
rarely seen any of their traders, and he’d only heard their strange manner of
speaking from actual northern gen kobolds once that he could remember.  Though
all whelps in his gen were taught a few basic phrases, much of it was in the
pronunciation.

“Ah
ye hoo gen?” it asked.

Trallik
shook his head.  If it was speaking northern gen dialect, then its flat face
and small mouth certainly were getting in the way of its pronunciation. 
Trallik didn’t know much northern gen dialect anyway, so he decided to find out
if, perhaps, it might know Sorcerer’s Tongue.

“Do
you speak my language?” he asked.

The
creature’s furry eyebrows raised in surprise.  “What?  You speak The Sorcerer’s
Tongue?  How is that so?” it said in somewhat of a thick, though surprisingly
gentle, accent.

Trallik’s
scaled brow also rose.  “What do you mean ‘how is that so?’  It is the only
language my gen speaks.  It is the pure language passed down to us from of
old.”

The
creature nodded its head.  “Very well, then.  I am Arren e-Arnor of the Elven
Nations which lie in the northern part of the Great Forest.  Who, may I ask,
are you?”

Trallik
looked at him strangely.  “You are… an elf?”

“Yes,
my little scaly friend,” the elf nodded slowly as he smiled a most disarming
smile.

Trallik
began to feel somewhat more comfortable with the tall… elf.  As his fight or
flight instincts began to subside, the emotional turmoil of the night before
came back fresh and strong as ever.  “I am no one’s friend,” Trallik said with
his head bowed.

The
elf looked down at Trallik for a moment before speaking.  “I can see that you
run from something.  Your equipment is not at its best, though it is obvious
that you were recently in someone’s hire, as it is of good make.”

Trallik
winced as the elf hit so close to the mark.

“You
are no scout, for you would not be found traveling alone,” Arren continued.  “I
would imagine that no one camps for leisure here along the orc infiltration
routes.  And you are not lost, for there are too many landmarks in this small
valley to get lost.”

“I…”
Trallik cut him off, unable to bear his guessing.  “I am an exile, though I
would give anything to not be.  Now that I have lost my friends, I truly miss
them.  I valued their friendship too little… and thought of power too much.” 
Then, with a note of finality, he bowed his head as tears again began to roll
down his cheeks.  “I am guilty of being a conspirator against the lord of my
gen.  For this, I am cast off.”

The
elf looked steadily at Trallik for several moments as Trallik struggled to
regain his composure.  After a few moments of quiet in the forest, broken only
by the flittering song of a small songbird somewhere in the trees above them,
the elf spoke. 

“In
my lands, young kobold, we have a saying; ‘If you correct the flow of a river
when it is still a tiny stream, it will change the course of the mighty river
it eventually becomes.’  In other words, though you may be in this situation
because of what you have done wrong, if you decide to correct your course you
can change who you will become.  In my land, young elves make many mistakes,
but when they have corrected their course, we accept the change and forget the
fault.  Perhaps with you and your people it can be the same.”

Trallik
looked up at the stranger.  It seemed a strange and foreign thought to Trallik
that perhaps he was not permanently marred by his treachery… that perhaps he
could someday recover some honor.  Certainly, he would not have forgiven
himself.  Wiping the tears from his eyes, Trallik brushed the grease on his
hand into the dirt that covered his wolf-skin outfit then extended his hand to
the elf.  “My name is Trallik, and I
was
a warrior of the Kale Gen,
which lies about a day and a half’s journey west of here.”

“Well
met, Trallik,” the elf said as he took Trallik’s hand in the traditional
grasp.  To Trallik’s surprise, the elf shook his hand up and down a couple of
times before releasing it, something not done among the members of his gen.

Trallik
looked up at the elf.  “What are you doing here in kobold lands… um… what was
your name again?”

“Arren,”
he answered.  “I am here on a quest.  I seek something that was lost some time
ago, and I think I might know where it lies.  Unfortunately, I don’t know how
to get there.”

Trallik
started eating the elf’s… Arren’s food again.  “Where…” he swallowed to clear
his throat, “Where are you trying to get to?” he asked as he began to think of
what he might be able to get out of Arren.

Arren
looked Trallik straight in the eyes.  “Have you ever heard of the Hall of the
Mountain King?”

Trallik
stopped chewing.  After a moment, he realized he must look terribly surprised
and he tried to pass off his reaction as something else.  “Um… well, yes.  Of
course I have.  After all, everyone around here has heard of that place,” he
lied.  He remembered getting a brief glimpse of the map Raoros Fang had given
to Durik, and he remembered that it was on the other side of the great mountain
known as the Chop, but past there he was not so sure.  He remembered something
about it being in a low, flat topped mountain.  He hoped that would be enough
to get them there.

“Hmm,
is that so?  Well, then what would you say to guiding me there?” Arren asked.

Trallik
looked Arren in the eyes, then he looked down at the egg he was about to pop
into his mouth.  “What’s in it for me?” he asked.  Last night’s change of heart
had been deep, but it would be a lengthy process to completely replace his old
ways of behaving with something more noble.

“I
am prepared to take care of your needs.  Food, protection, and such,” Arren
answered.

“That’s
it?  Can’t you do better than that?” Trallik pressed him.

“Well,
then.  If everyone around here knows where it is, then perhaps I should be
finding someone that is going that way,” Arren said sternly.

Trallik
bowed his head.  “I’ll take you.  I’ve nothing better to do anyway.”

Arren
smiled again.  “Very well.  Once you’ve finished your breakfast, we’ll start.”

Trallik
stared at Arren for a moment.  He’d not heard the word
breakfast
before
and wondered at how strange it sounded.  He did not normally eat as much at
first meal as this elf had prepared, but Trallik was in need of comfort, and
tasty, solid food seemed to provide a good measure of that.  So Trallik ate it
all. 

While
Trallik was finishing up his food, Arren stood and gathered his gear.  Trallik
watched him with much curiosity.  Besides the pole-like weapon with the long
blade, which was quite a bit longer than a kobold is tall, Arren also carried a
bow of about the same height.  It was a strange bow, however, as it had curves
in its length unlike any bow he had ever seen.  Down the length of the bow, as
well as carved into the face of the pole weapon’s blade, were a number of
silver inlaid letters, all in a language that Trallik did not recognize. 

These
weapons were masterfully crafted and appeared to have ornaments on them, gems
of some sort perhaps.  The pommel of the bladed pole-weapon was a clear crystal
or gem, set firmly in a metal base that resembled a cup of some sort.  On the
front of the bow, just above the handle, another clear stone was set in similar
fashion.  Trallik wondered on this and the rest of the elf’s strange gear.  As
he looked on, he noticed Arren’s backpack.  It was made of plain leather and
appeared of somewhat more normal workmanship.  That, at least, was
understandable and easily acceptable to Trallik.

Handing
the pan back to Arren, Trallik stood up and took off his wolf-skin outfit.  He
rolled it and his blanket up and strapped them down to his own backpack.  Stretching
sore muscles, he looked around him.  Though he had not noticed it during the
night, there was something of a trail not a stone’s throw to the east of where
they stood.  He turned to Arren, who was putting out the fire, and asked him
about it.  “You mentioned orc infiltration routes.  Would this be one of them?”
he asked, pointing to the trail.

Arren
looked up from the ashes of the fire.  “Yes, little one.  The orcs have found a
way through the mountains to the north.  They travel these valleys freely it
would appear.”  Arren looked behind him to the north.  Looming behind him was
the Chop, the massive wall of flat mountainside that separated the northern and
southern valleys.  “In my wandering about, I came across the tracks of an orc
band headed into your valley and followed their trail backwards.  It plunged
into a cave not far to the north of here.  An initial examination showed no
signs of habitation, which leads me to believe that it’s a pass through this
big mountain range to the north.”

“Well,
even though we must go north, I would think it safer to take Demon’s Bridge
over the Chop rather than follow an orc infiltration route,” Trallik said.

Arren
looked down at him curiously.  “What is that?  The Chop and Demon’s Bridge?  Do
you mean this flat faced mountain here with the stone bridge on top?”

Trallik
nodded his head.  “The Hall of the Mountain King is on the other side of it. 
We will have to climb it to get there.”

Arren’s
already almond-shaped eyes narrowed even more.  “The bridge is held by a
hobgoblin, some outcast from the eastern lands I would imagine, and some kobold
mercenaries he’s hired to help him levy a tax on those who would cross the
bridge.  I have already been, though it was some days ago now.  They have
crossbows and received me none too kindly.  Though I am skilled enough to have
a good chance of forcing my way past them, I would prefer to not fight against
such odds.  I also do not see stealth being of any aid, either.  The
mercenaries’ heat vision prevents me from passing by stealthily in the night,
and their superior vantage point keeps me from approaching undetected in the
day.”

Trallik
looked up at the fair skinned elf.  “It lies to the north, and I know of no
other way to get there, other than perhaps these caves you mentioned.”

Arren
looked disappointed.  “I had hoped to avoid the caves, but I feared that I
might have to pass that way.”  He turned and looked up at the top of the Chop,
then back down to the path cut by orc boots through the forest floor.  “It
would appear we have no other option.”