Home, Siege Home

by Eric Ugland

  “Please,” the old kobold said, “sit on the bed. I know any other option is impossible.”

  The blanket on top of the bed was quite soft, but it was misleading. It felt like a fleece blanket on top of a hunk of wood. Or, knowing the kobolds, stone.

  The old guy closed the door in leader-dude’s face. Then he sat down on the tiny chair with a grunt.

  “Welcome fellow traveler,” the old guy said. I think he was smiling. He seemed happy to see me at least. “It has been quite some time since I have entertained a visitor here.”

  “This may be a bit odd, but where am I?” I asked.

  “You are in the South Mountain warren of the Mountain Kingdom.”

  “That’s the name of it?”

  “It is, yes. A bit awkward in the mouth, but oddly, no one consulted me when naming this place. Their loss, I suppose. But there are topics to be discussed, just, where to start,” he murmured. “Where to start…”

  He pushed himself off the chair and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He withdrew a teapot and two small cups. There was a spigot in his wall, and he used it to fill the teapot with steaming water. Then he sprinkled a handful of leaves into the pot.

  “Given that you are here speaking with me and have yet to try and kill any of us,” he started, “allow me to surmise you are unfamiliar with kobolds. Is that correct?”

  I opened my mouth to lie, but he waved his hands. Or claws. Both. He waved his arm-ends.

  “You need not lie,” the old dude said. “the truth is evident. It is through magical means you know our tongue?”

  I sighed, but nodded.

  “It is okay. I understand. I am Baltu.”

  “Is that your name?”

  “Yes,” he said, “Baltu the Traveler.”

  “Uh, I guess I’m a traveler too?”

  “You are. All who are not of this brood are travelers. Even me, who, though I am of a slightly different breed, I am yet still a kobold, because I am not hatched from The South Mountain, or even of the Mountain Kingdom, I am thus titled.”

  “My name is Montana Coggeshall, Duke of Coggeshall.”

  “Is that of the Empire?”

  “It is.”

  “Ah. And how is the Empire these days?”

  “Oh, well, big, I suppose. A bit tumultuous to be honest.”

  “As it ever was.”

  “You know much about the Empire?”

  “I have more experience with the outside world than most of my kin. At least those here.”

  “Clearly. You speak excellent Common.”

  “Thank you, Duke Coggeshall. It was important for me to learn.”

  “Is that, uh, I mean, is there a reason I’m here talking to you?”

  “Likely the duchess grew tired of looking at you. She finds smooth-skins to be particularly abhorrent for some reason.”

  “Oh. Well, not much I can do there.”

  “No,” he said with a chuckle, “you can not.”

  He tottered over to his little desk and poured tea from the pot into two small cups. They had no handles, but were thick enough that we wouldn’t get burned. Gingerly, he handed one cup to me. My hand dwarfed the cup. It was the size of shot glass that’d get you laughed out of any frat.

  “I believe,” he said, stirring his tea delicately with a claw, “she is hoping I am able to get a better picture of who you are, and why you are in the valley.”

  “I live there. We’re, I mean, I guess I’m trying to make a city there.”

  “Oh? This far from the Empire?”

  “I don’t know how long you’ve been away, but the Empire took Osterstadt. So, the Empire isn’t that far away, and it decided this valley is theirs as well.”

  “I suppose it has been quite some time.” He sipped his tea. “Then perhaps the duchess intends for me to sway you towards helping us.”

  “What do you need help with?”

  He took a deep look into his tea, and blew on it gently. Then, he took a sip. I noticed he was staring at my untouched cup. I smiled at him, lifted it to my mouth, and took a delicate sip. It was nice. A tart, berry sort of taste. Pleasant without being cloying.

  “Have you met some of the other denizens of the valley?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  “There is a rather vile subset of goblins who inhabit the western caves.”

  “The night goblins? Or I’ve also heard them called dark goblins. Not sure which—”

  “Night goblins, dark goblins, they have several names, but a singular focus: their dark god.”

  “They seem pretty fucked up.”

  Baltu seemed to think through that phrase for a moment. Then he took another sip of tea. “They require constant sacrifices. A stream of bodies and souls to satiate their blood-thirsty god. We have been the primary suppliers. Perhaps you noticed the lack of population while you were taken through the halls here. We have been tapped beyond our limits to reasonably recover, certainly not unless the night goblins are stopped.”

  “Hold up,” I said, “despite the fact that the hallways were empty, I know there were a ton of kobolds around.”

  “You really know nothing of us, do you?”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “Kobold warrens are notoriously populated. Some might say overpopulated. Others, well, that it is the normal way for kobolds to behave. Something the size of this warren of the Mountain Kingdom would be swarming with kobolds. They would be streaming through the halls. The industrial halls would be a cacophony of noise, the mines would be churning out stone and metals, the gardens would be overflowing with food, and I would not be forced to offer a duke a lowly mug of tea when I could proffer a decanter of the finest kobold mead. I shudder to even consider what the apiaries of the South Mountain warren look like right now. A carpet of dead bees, I imagine. So, yes, there are some kobolds still living here. It is not just myself, the duchess, and that asinine kiss-ass she has named her steward. But it is but a fraction of what it used to be. Perhaps less than a third.”

  That hit me. A third of their population remained. Sure, the dude could be lying to me. But, either way, it’s not like I was good friends with the goblins.

  “You want me to stop the night goblins,” I said slowly.

  Baltu nodded.

  “Any idea how I might go about doing that?”

  “Were it up to me, and thank the gods it is not, my first instinct would be severing their connection to their dark god. Or, alternatively, you could kill them all.”

  “Do I seem like someone who kills a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? I don’t think I look like a mass murderer.”

  “The muscles. Not much point of them for anything but soldiering.”

  “Sure. But this is different than soldiering.”

  “Is it?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “What does it seem like to you?”

  “Wholesale slaughter?”

  “They represent forces of evil. They would happily eviscerate you, draining your lifeblood on top of one of their dark altars.”

  “I mean—”

  “Perhaps your blood would be what opens the gateway to allow their god to slip into this realm and destroy the world. Would you rather the night goblins massacre your family and friends instead?”

  “No, but—”

  “There is no other alternative with them. They are evil and they are determined.”

  “And what would they say about you?”

  “About me, Baltu? Or about kobolds in general?”

  “Either.”

  “I think they would consider me too old. Too tough. And my hide is nowhere near what it once was. I doubt it would fetch even a fraction of the price a younger snowbolds might—”

  “Snowbold?”

  He was surprised at my interruption, and then smiled broadly. He ran his fingers through the white fur or feathers that adorned him, “Snowbold. That is me. Or that is what I am. Partly at least. We are
a relative to the kobolds, but we have a slightly different history. And, I suppose, society. Alas, we likely have not the time to dig into my people’s history, but suffice that snowbolds are cousins to kobolds, quite close. Getting back to our prior topic, as much as I might hate to admit it, I imagine the night goblins would say the South Mountain Brood is weak. Easy pickings, ripe for slaughter. The best provider of sacrifices one could likely ask for. And largely, they would be right. The South Mountain Brood follows the Old Ways, and the Old Ways do not work well unless population levels are immense. They were developed in the times when broods numbered in the—”

  “What are the old ways?”

  He took a sip of tea and smiled.

  “Alas, that must be a conversation for another time.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “They do not fully trust me — knowing the duchess as I do, she did not intend her toady minion to leave you alone with me, and they will be rejoining us any minute now, as soon as she has finished yelling at him and he can run back here. I can hear them coming down the hall.”

  I tried to listen, but I heard nothing. I reached out with my tremor sense, and finally picked up footsteps heading our way.

  “Will you help us?” Baltu asked once again.

  This time, a quest popped up in my vision.

  You have been offered a quest Baltu the traveler on behalf of Duchess of the South Mountain, Mistress of the Southern Mountain Mines, Kin of Dragons, Immortal Beloved, Scion of Fire, Member of the Platinum Band, Defender of the Mountains, and Member of the Order of Dragons:

  Won’t You Save Your Neighbor

  Your neighbors, the South Mountain kobold warren has been the sacrificial storehouse for the Night/Dark Goblins who also inhabit your valley. The kobolds seem unable to stop the goblins, and seek your help in stopping the goblins from making their routine raids and sacrificing kobolds to their dark gods.

  Reward for success: Significant increase in relationship with the South Mountain warren, minor increase in relationship with the Mountain Kingdom, XP, (unknown)

  Penalty for failure (or refusal): Significant decrease in relationship with the South Mountain warren, et. Al.

  Yes/No

  I took a few small sips of the tea, trying my damndest to think through this. Best case scenario: I’d be able to kill the goblins, or at least push them so far back into their cave they’d find another valley to terrorize. It was certainly something I’d need to do at some point — and maybe this way, I might be able to get the kobolds as allies. The biggest question: were kobolds worth having as allies?

  Baltu seemed to know what I was thinking — the wry smile that bloomed on his dinosaur-like face gave him away. He chuckled to himself and finished his tea.

  “I would offer you another cup,” he said, “but I fear you have to go.”

  The door swung open. There was the little leader guy, standing at the head of a group of weapon-wielding kobolds.

  “You go now,” Leader-dude said.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I told Baltu in Common. “And I’ll do it. But for you, not for the duchess.”

  I said Yes to the quest.

  He smiled, big, the kind where his eyes even got in on the act. “All the same in the end. But I do appreciate it, Duke of Coggeshall.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The crew escorted me back to the busted-up room, which had not been touched. Arms and legs and other less-identifiable body parts were still strewn about the place. Skeld and Ragnar looked bored more than anything. As soon as I returned, they herded us back down the hole.

  The walk back was quiet for a bit, at least until Ragnar guessed the kobolds weren’t in listening range.

  “They’re weird, huh?” Ragnar asked.

  “Who, the kobolds?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Weirdoes.”

  “I mean, they’re not the weirdest I’ve come across in Vuldranni.”

  “Were they Old Way Followers?” Skeld asked.

  “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “Hunting parties talk. People talk. Kobolds are not well liked amongst, uh, the Empire at the least. Oft, they are just considered monsters.”

  “They didn’t seem like monsters.”

  “They think they’re little dragons,” Ragnar interjected.

  “Matter of debate,” Skeld said. “Personally, I think it depends largely on whether you consider if they might be descended from dragons, or if you think they might actually be where dragons come from.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, coming to a stop in the muck. “How do dragons figure into this?”

  “If you ask kobolds—” Ragnar began.

  “Some kobolds,” Skeld corrected.

  “Sure, some kobolds,” Ragnar continued, “they will happily tell you that kobolds can turn into dragons.”

  “And some will say they are descended from dragons.”

  “But no one knows if either story is true.”

  “I haven’t exactly seen a dragon,” I said. “But thinking about it, I’d say I could maybe see some similarities between the wyrms I’ve seen and the kobolds I just met.”

  “You mean the wyrm,” Ragnar said, exasperated. “Not worm.”

  “And the Old Ways are,” Skeld started, then stopped, trying to find the words. “Describing it is hard. There is a lot about the practice I—”

  “It’s not hard,” Ragnar said. “The Old Ways mean they bash some heads in to make stupid worker types. They feed some of the babies good food and some of them trash. It’s all some hogwash about making super-kobolds who’ll reach the next stage of evolution on the way to being dragons. And it’s crazy.”

  “I know that the guy I talked to said that this warren—” I started.

  “Yeah, warren, that’s what they call their groups,” Ragnar said. “And sometimes broods.”

  “Sure,” I said. “The guy I talked to said I was a traveler. He was a traveler too, except he was just a different type of kobold. He told me this brood, the Mountain Brood, follows the Old Ways. But we ran out of time before I could get a deeper explanation.”

  We stood there in the muck for a moment, and I was really tempted to push Skeld harder because I wanted to know about these Old Ways, but I had the distinct impression, he didn’t have the knowledge I wanted. Or needed.

  I grabbed a bit of the poop-mud, and I rubbed it between my fingers. It had a strange texture, alternatively remarkably smooth and a bit gritty. I wondered how the poop-mud and the foam differed. How the worm made both, and I wanted to know if someone might figure out a means to corral these worms and harvest the poopmud or foam from them.

  Skeld and Ragnar were walking again, their feet squelching along through the muck. I hopped to, catching up quickly, but it seemed like the two Lutra were deep in thought.

  Given the lack of conversation, I started to think about the kobolds and the goblins and the quest I’d accepted. Another mass-killing quest. And no handy-dandy glow-stone to do it with. Granted, the quest didn’t require me to kill all the goblins — I just needed to find a way to stop the goblins from kidnapping and sacrificing the kobolds. Permanently. And I got a little bit of info I didn’t know: the goblins lived in a cave on the west side of the valley. Which meant, in my head at least, that the kobolds lived on the east side. I wondered how long the killing had been going on. And I wondered what else lived in and around the valley. I was willing to bet that the kobolds knew a lot about the area, what monsters were where, good hunting grounds, good fishing grounds, that was definitely stuff of value to Coggeshall, and maybe if I helped them out, they’d be willing to give us a map or two.

  The hike back was deeply unpleasant. We tripped just about as often, the rocks we stepped on were just as painful. But knowing that we didn’t have some big fight at the end of our stroll made it easier to pick up all the various gems and minerals we came across and toss them into my knapsack. I stopped keeping track of the riches, but it was an impressive haul. I idly wo
ndered if anyone had tried using banded-worms for mining operations. They certainly seemed uniquely suited to it. Minus the insane drive for murder. A minor liability into any sort of commercial operation.

  Our first indication we were close to home came when we noticed the muck had been cleaned up, which turned our slog into a stroll. No more tripping, no more sucking sounds as we tried to pull our feet out. It was almost relaxing.

  Finally, we came around a slight bend and saw light leaking into the tunnel. And a staircase. Harmut had gotten a staircase carved down into the tunnel. Two glow-stone lanterns hung at the top of the stairs, flanking and a heavy stone door, about twelve feet tall. It was remarkably incongruous with the rest of the place, and I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw it.

  “Those dwarves work fast,” I said.

  I gave the door a hard knock, one that was rather muffled by the heavy stone nature of the door.

  The sound of stone grating against stone came from above me. I looked up to see two bearded faces looking down. As soon as one recognized me, a toothy grin spread across his face.

  “Mornin’ my lord,” one of them said, “nice hunt?”

  “A bit messy,” I replied, smiling, “but successful.”

  “Open the door!” The dwarf called out over his shoulder. The heavy noises of stones being moved around filled the air. Finally, the large door swung open.

  There were some smiling dwarves inside.

  “You got the worm, your grace?” One of the dwarves asked.

  “I did,” I replied, and dug into the bag. I pulled out the worm’s head and held it up as best I could.

  I got a few more gasps than I was expecting at first, but finally someone started cheering. Then all the dwarves began to cheer, and I started to feel awkward. Especially as the worm’s blue blood ran down my arm.

  Ragnar pushed past me and the dripping head. Then he stopped and glared at the dwarves. “Knock it off,” he said. “The duke’s got a big enough ego as it is. And he stinks.”

  Skeld just nodded as he pushed by. “You do.”