The Mountain
Fatskull narrowed his yellow eyes and looked down at the camp of softskins huddled against the cliffside. Crouched on a jagged outgrowth of stone maybe fifty spans above the sleeping forms, he ignored the bitter cold of these high mountains. “Still they fear us.” Fatskull whispered, watching as one of the sleeping forms called out quietly from some dream before rolling over and becoming still again. “And tonight show them why.” he added quietly.
Despite the cold, the warchief’s hands were moist with sweat and his ears rang with the rush of excitement. This was it! The first raid in over two duovarns. It had been so long that the softskins forgot they even existed. Kobold. Once a name to be feared. Then a legend to scare children. Now a memory mostly forgotten. These ignorant humans believed kobolds to be extinct.
Fatskull would show them. His people had survived in dark holes deep underground. No! Not survived, they had thrived. Flourished. And as they did, they nursed their hatred of humanity. A wicked smile turned up the corners of Fatskull’s mouth. All that was over now, today marked the triumphant return of the kobold scourge.
“Weak.” Fatskull hissed to an aging kobold who crouched beside him. Snagtooth turned his ancient eyes towards the warchief, and sometimes Fatskull wondered just how old Snagtooth really was. Maybe the wrinkled kobold had actually seen all the years of both duovarns. “Weak,” he repeated, “and soft. Easy. We take them quick.”
Snagtooth grunted his agreement, eyes gleaming with hunger and fury. Behind them, the other members of their raiding party waited. A dozen more kobolds, pressed tightly against the rock wall. Their fur was as pale as their skin. Perfect camouflage in the snowy cliffs. They were hungry. Hungry for food. Hungry for vengeance. Hungry for proof that they still mattered.
“We show them.” Fatskull muttered, “We show them we not dead. We show them mountains belong to us.” Behind him, a dozen voices added their agreement, their tails flicking eagerly in the wan moonlight.
It had taken Fatskull six turnings of the nightstar to convince them it was time. There had been fear - of the surface, of the humans, of the unknown - but he had been patient. The warchief had stoked the embers of their long dormant urges and enticed them with promises of wealth, food, and glory. And now, looking down at the helpless softskins he knew he had delivered all of this to his kin.
Fatskull felt his own fear melt away, replaced by something far more dangerous: pride. With a quick gesture, he raised his spear, bringing the tribe to readiness. Their claws scraped against the rocks and their bodies poised, waiting only for his signal to leap forward. Fatskull grinned, his teeth flashing in the moonlight, “Tonight,” he said to his kin, “mountain remember us.”
As he spoke, the mountain itself joined with his declaration. A loud, deep crack issued from somewhere far above and Fatskull looked at the softskin camp and raised his spear. The time was upon them.
Suddenly, in the camp, the old man stirred and sat up with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes lifted toward the cliffs and Fatskull tensed, shrinking back into the shadows and hissing for his companions to do the same. Then the old softskin’s gaze drifted past Fatskull, upward—higher, searching the ridgeline. “See how he pretend not see us,” Fatskull hissed to Snagtooth. “Fear make him weak.”
Fatskull grinned broadly, anticipating the bloodshed to come. Just as he was about to give the order to attack, a second softskin stepped from the darkness below. Fatskull hadn’t seen that one. Where had it come from? It stepped close to the old one and hurried whispers passed between them.
The warchief couldn’t understand the words, but after they spoke, the softskins began rousing their companions. Fatskull scowled, so be it, instead of an ambush it would be a battle. But the softskins, now fully awake, didn’t so much as glance at the hidden kobolds. Instead, they bustled about, snatching up their possessions and looking repeatedly at the mountain peak high above. Fatskull’s scowl turned to a victorious grin, “See.” he hissed, “They afraid and now flee.”
Abruptly a tremble passed through the ground and Fatskull’s grin faltered as a shower of snow tumbled down onto him. Behind him, he heard the exciting voices of his tribe and he whirled around, anger filling him.When he turned, he realized his warband was not even looking at him. Instead, they were looking upwards?
His eyes followed theirs up the slope. Up to the distant ridge. Abruptly the entire peak shuddered and there came a crack like thunder. Then the whole mountain moved. “Avalanche!” Fatskull howled, leaping from the overhang, Snagtooth at his side. For one long moment they hung in the air above the now-empty camp of the softskins. And then the avalanche consumed them. Their spears snapped. Their screams were cut short. The snow took them.
And the mountain was still.
Several days later, Caius led the young Strykaran’s back to retrieve supplies they’d cached in the cliff wall. They cleared the snow, built a new fire, and settled in once again talking of things great and small, never realizing that beneath their boots lay the great kobold war party that had planned to herald the return of a forgotten race.