"I . . . I don't know," whispered Krakas, clutching her only possession on her in her hand, a small prayer coin etched with the symbol of Arda. "He has always been a child of fire, I could see that. Most days, back home in the east, I'd have to wipe down bruises and scratches he gets from where I have no idea. It doesn't matter if dracon or kobold, he always found a reason to fight."

She kneeled, and looked up at Akydon. "I . . . know these are not your gods, but I would ask you to pray with me. Kobolds are a people of communion. To pray alone is frowned upon."
__________________

"Your Might! Your Might!" shouted a messenger, running up and gasping, out of breath. Rughoi pushed in a brick and eyed the little kobold.

"Speak," he said, preparing for the worst.

"It's Merat, Your Might. You sent him as a prisoner gift to the Fertile Valley, but something's gone awry. I was watching from the walls, and he and the entire group with him suddenly turned south."

"Traitors!" Rughoi shouted, gripping his trowel so hard it was beginning to warp. "I should have known not to entrust Merat to his own former captains. Where do you suppose they are headed?"

"I know not, Your Might," said the messenger. "But they looked as if they had a purpose. Whatever it is, I don't think it'd bode well for the empire."