The Orc's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page B

Deeps, raiding the surface from time to time to steal plunder and slaves.
    A kobold. 
    "So," said the kobold in orcish, its voice a hissing rasp, "another boy come to die." It laughed. "The twelfth in half as many years. You orcs seem eager to throw away your useless lives." 
    Kharlacht shifted his spear. "And I suppose you slew them?" 
    The kobold laughed, exposing its fangs. "I? Not I! No, no, that pleasure is reserved for the great one that dwells below the Tower. And its master, of course. You are a puppet dancing on unseen strings, child. Your bones shall join the others lying within the Tower." 
    "The great one?" said Kharlacht, watching the kobold. The creature seemed relaxed, almost friendly. "What great one?"
    The kobold grinned a hideous, jagged-tooth grin. "Why, the urvuul, of course! When the dark elves still lived in the Tower, they conjured it, set it to guard their treasures. The old masters departed long ago...but the urvuul still lurks below the Tower. Fools come to steal the old masters' treasures...and then the urvuul feasts." 
    "And what of you?" said Kharlacht, circling to the side. The kobold followed suit, club still dangling from its hand. "What do you get? I have heard that kobolds enjoy the taste of orcish flesh."
    "There is nothing finer," said the kobold. "But, alas, we would not deprive the great one of its feasts. No, we merely enjoy the pleasure of watching fools like you go to your doom...heedless of the fact that you are nothing more than a puppet."
    "Or," said Kharlacht, "you're only talking to distract me, while another kobold circles around that pile of stone to jump me from behind." 
    He had the distinct pleasure of seeing surprise ripple across the kobold’s lizard-like face. Then the creature sprang forward with a howl, club raised for a deadly blow. A second kobold, this one wielding a stone-headed axe, raced from behind the pile of broken rubble. 
    Kharlacht spun, caught the first kobold’s blow on the haft of his spear, twisted, and lashed out. The butt of his spear sent the first kobold sprawling. But then the second kobold was on him, and Kharlacht jerked back, just avoiding the axe's jagged stone edge. He stabbed with the spear, but the kobold stepped inside the spear's reach, snarling. 
    Which gave Kharlacht the opening he needed to snatch a dagger from his belt and drive it into the kobold's belly. Blood spurted from the wound, and the kobold doubled over, howling in rage and pain. Kharlacht stepped back and swung, the point of his spear ripping across the kobold's throat, and creature toppled. 
    But the first kobold swung its club, knocking the spear from Kharlacht's grasp. He dodged back, ducking beneath the next blow. The kobold kept coming, snarling. Kharlacht wrenched his remaining dagger free, and the kobold laughed, as the blade didn't have anything like the club's longer reach.
    So Kharlacht threw it. 
    The blade buried itself in the kobold’s shoulder, and the creature bellowed in sudden pain. Kharlacht threw himself forward, tackling the kobold, his skin crawling at the feel of its cold, scaly skin. He seized the dagger from the kobold’s shoulder.
    "The urvuul will devour you!" spat the kobold.
    "Perhaps," said Kharlacht, "but you will not witness it." 
    He drove the dagger down. Then he rose, cleaned his weapons, and looked at the Tower. What had the kobold meant, with its talk about puppet strings? He knew that Narrakhan had sent him here to die. 
    But how had the kobold known that?
    Something else was happening here, something Kharlacht did not understand. 
    But there was nothing to do but to press forward.
    He picked his way through the ruined fortress, watching for more kobolds, and arrived at the Tower's base. Sorcery might have preserved the Tower's outer shell, but it had done nothing for the interior, which had long ago collapsed into rubble. Some stone stairs still clung to the walls, but the rest of the Tower was a hollow shell, a lifeless