Chapter One
Never trust a good night's sleep, Pok thought as a distant roar roused him from a deep sleep to wide awake in the space of a blink.
At the sound of war drums pounding and the Task-Drivers howling their orders, the Kobolds rose out of their designated lines and assembled in haphazard lines. The Master had called them to battle, and their duty, pride, and honor compelled them to answer.
And what an honor it was.
Armed and armored with castoffs of the Elder races and defeated foes, the hordes of Kobolds had to salvage and split up materials so that most of them had something to wear into battle above rags.
Thunder echoed from above and tremors of the earth beneath, from the mountain's murmurs and the steady, distant footfalls of an army in motion under the cover of arcane artillery. Sulfur, smoke, and ash, stale after settling into the network of underground tunnels into the heart of the mountain, flowed into Pok's nostrils as he ignored the aggravating itch of ash and grime rubbing against his scales and under his armor, no itch more irritating than the one around his neck.
Throughout those tunnels were thousands upon thousands of other Kobolds packed into the dimly lit corridors leading to the surface, bracing for what was to come. Each coated in soot as if it were war paint.
Pok gripped his spear, a sturdy thing dropped by a Human guard a couple of months or so back, and waited for those ahead to move out, counting each second until it was his turn, all while ignoring the engraved collar around his neck.
Around him were the members of his string. Kodi, Muk, Tuuk, Reen, Jop, Moka, Yik, Dak, Jura. A full sixteen kobolds he was to keep track of, all told, kept in a rough approximation of order by length of copper wire that each of them were holding. If they were lucky, he would see most of them at the rally grounds once this was over.
A final clearing ahead, and Pok led his string up the tunnels to the surface, past Hesker's screams. Warcrys were shouted with vigor as they emerged out onto the mountainside and began spreading out down the slopes of Mount Zhaldolak, barely keeping unit cohesion as strings bumped shoulders and tried to avoid clustering together. Amidst the mad rush, Pok took a moment to admire the scene.
Dark clouds rolled overhead above the mountain cities, and across the craggy slopes stretching across the valley below, catching the faint rays of light that broke through in haunting, golden glows that were countered by flashes of lightning from the Crown. Volcanic ash spewed from the heart of the mountains, raining down onto the battlefield, drifting and collecting as the wind bid, and broken by the trampling of scaled feet as the scrambled into formations and ranks.
On the opposite end of the plain were the glittering lines of the Elves, marching in synchrony. Instead of the ramshackle equipment of their opposite numbers in the field, each was dressed from head to toe in golden and silver armor, indistinguishable from the next. Masks meant to filter the air to be breathable made them look less like their divine legacy and more like the constructs of the Giants own armies. Each weapon they wielded would be a treasure to any kobold, and the leaders and heroes carried even greater weapons.
Pok hoped he'd get to take one, preferably after said warrior was dead and before one of the Draekyre took it instead.
Archers began firing testing volleys into the Elven ranks, glancing off of shields and armor, as expected. Even the better bows in the armory wouldn't have pierced elven scale and plate.
It did, however, mean that they were in range. Both them and the enemy.
Draekyre casters launched fireballs into the Elves' formations. Few made it to the pointy-eared warriors, whose own casters had shielded them from the attacks, and answered with bolts of lighting and flung rocks, tearing furrows into the kobold ranks. The Task-Drivers kept order, but just barely. Not as if they had anywhere to run that wasn't forward.
A bellow of the horn, and crawling advance of the horde turned into a steady trot. Behind them, Draekyre soldiers move up, stepping over the dead to set themselves up as the Kobolds swarmed towards eleven shields and spears.
Around him, Pok could hear the terrified whimpers of his kin, brothers and sisters raised in the warrens, charging forward to certain death. Terror barely kept at bay by shouted orders, battle cries, and imprecations against the enemy.
Pok kept chanting in his mind, Keep marching, keep breathing, keep steady, keep as many alive as possible. Survive.
Survival meant lessons learned. Survival meant becoming stronger and teaching others the same. Survival meant another chance to hope. It was the only thing that kept him going most days, even days like this.
Especially on days like this.
Elves methodically answered the charge with an arrow volley of their own, far more effective the Kobolds', as were their spells, felling dozens, and then hundreds in a rhythmic grind of arms. Their own shield wall hadn't held up, and now it was a matter of closing the distance before an errant missile found them.
Pok ducked, jumped, and rolled as holes were opened in the Kobold lines. His brethren spread out to do the same. Arrowheads whistled overhead and arrow shafts collected in the ground ahead, whittling down the front runners until there was nothing standing between them and the enemy but the span of ash and gravel.
At last, the tide of Kobolds slammed into the Elven shield wall, pushing them back a step and bending the defense, but not breaking them. No matter. The Kobold would simply climb over each other and over the shield wall, throwing themselves into spears in some cases.
Pok redirected an Elven spear with his own, allowing Dak and Jara slip through with knives. The Elves in the next rank barely had time and space to maneuver against them, but that was enough. Dak managed to stab the frontman's knee, dropping him back, just in time for Pok to thrust his spear into the Elf's neck.
The success was temporary, as the Elves pushed back and filled in the gaps. And of the Kobolds who had wormed into the opening were cut down, and the game started again, this time with fresh warriors on the line. It would be a contest of numbers and endurance, and Blight-Eye had numbers enough to throw at his enemies.
Nonetheless, luck was on Pok's side, even if it favored no other. While parrying a spear from finding register on an ally, one of the Elves had pulled out an arming sword and brought it down on the Kobold's head. Instead of splitting his skull, the blade bounced off, and Pok drove his spear home, the head finding home in the weaker armor around the warrior's leg, crippling him and opening a hole in the shield wall once more.
Diving into the opening, Pok released the spear in the hobbled Elf and drew his own shortsword, cutting him down while others poured in behind him, widening the gap further.
Then came the Elven response: a quintet of warriors moved into the opening, two casters, two with shields, and another with a Warhammer in mid swing.
Pok's shield cracked under the opening blow, but held enough to offer some protection from the firebolt that struck next. The now-useless plate of wood and metal was hurled as a distraction that let him jump into one of the casters' guard.
Just when Pok felt as if luck would fail him, Blight-Eye's roar echoed down the slopes and across the plains, him and his brothers taking wing.
Now it was the elves to fear for their lives.
Blight-Eye swooped down, a streaming breath pouring onto then enemy, joined by his brothers. Showers of burning acid washed over the elven soldiers, sowing clear signs of panic into their ranks. Their armor held…at first. But even magic enchantments had limits, and that limit was exceeded by a Dragon's breath.
By now, the din across the battlefield had risen to droning out all other sounds other than the roar of Dragons. Shouts, screams, hissing, and roars. Clashes of metal, of armor, of spear, sword, shield, and the relentless barrage of spells as every reserve of magic the elves had been holding in reserve was unleashed into the sky. Pok lost himself in the noise of battle, furiously striking at any enemy within reach, counting each strike, each kill to keep himself from screaming.
Even as one dragon crashed to the plains, the onslaught continued and was redoubled, and before long, the Elves were withdrawing from the field, retreating in good order, even as the Draekyre and Kobolds chased them out of the valley, leaving a trail of dead the entire way, not stopping until they had reached the mouth of the Ardellis River.
Another roar of Blight-Eye, and his armies were called back to the mountain.
Watching the Elves cross the river and disappear over the horizon, Pok inhaled sharply, soaking in the fading sunlight streaming between the clouds and the mountains, then joined the others for the march back, pulled inexorably by the collars on their necks.
The battle was done. And now it was time to count the dead.
A/N: Right, here we go. First attempt at an original (ish) work. Original, in that the plot, setting, and characters are all invented. Mechanically, it draws from assorted Dungeons and Dragons sourcebooks, with some adjustments made here and there. For example, the Draekyre refer to what the Player's Handbook calls Dragonborn. Since Dragonborn refer to another entity of the setting, they got a new name.
How does it work? I write a basic outline with some general objectives, throw in some hurdles for the characters to overcome, and let the dice determine how things go. New experience, but we'll see how it goes.
Questions? Comments? Concern? Want me to talk your ear off with lore? Feel free to PM or drop a review.
Until next time!
Winterman, Out.
