Guardian

by P B Hughes

  “I’m not leaving without Marcus,” Jude said flatly. “I have a plan to rescue him.”

  Ryker laughed in disbelief. “Look, lad, I know what it’s like to lose a man. But trust me, there’s no chance of rescuing that boy. He’s locked in the tower and the place is teeming with guards.”

  “Marcus is innocent,” said Jude. “I will not let him die as a result of another man’s treachery.”

  “It’s a suicide mission. You’ll both be caught, and then what? We won’t be able to come to your rescue.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “Jude, try to understand,” said Samara. “There are casualties in war—”

  Jude jumped up from the table. “Marcus is not dead! So either you’re going to help or you’re not. It’s your choice. But I am not a coward and I will free my comrade with or without you.”

  “It’s not an issue of desire,” Ryker said. “We’d all like to rescue him; sure we would. But we’re not willing to risk our own lives for his.”

  “Just as I thought—you’re a coward and a liar. You don’t care about his life; you only care about your own. At least have the decency to admit it!”

  “Ryker is not a coward,” Samara shot. “He’s the bravest man I know! Tell him, Ryker.”

  Ryker opened his mouth to speak but the words stuck in his throat. His eyes flickered and his skin went red at the slap of Jude’s accusation. Suddenly, the man seemed very old and very tired. He took another drink, set the mug down, and stared at Jude without focus. “The answer is no,” he said. “I’ve learned that in this life, you have to look after your own interests first. It’s a sad fact, but I’ve come to terms with it.”

  It wasn’t true; the man hadn’t come to terms with it—Jude could see it in his eyes. It was as if a memory from long ago still haunted him. He was a tortured soul who didn’t believe his own words. “Then I’ll go alone,” said Jude. “I would rather die a thousand deaths than live a thousand years as a coward.”

  Ryker’s throat worked. “I know how you feel,” he said, “but you don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “You know how I feel?” Jude scoffed. He took hold of his staff. “If you know how I feel then you know why I have to do this.”

  “Ryker,” said Samara, a note of alarm in her voice. “You know we can’t just let him go. You know what Bubbs will do to us.”

  “Try to stop me,” said Jude, his blood boiling, “and I’ll tie you both up and leave you dangling out the window.”

  “Wait,” said Ryker, pleading. “Jude, sit down. Listen to reason.”

  “I’m done listening to your empty words!”

  Samara stepped in front of Jude. “Just calm down, Alpha. We’ve all got something at stake here.”

  Jude slapped his palm against the table. “They died because of me!” he cried, the vein on his forehead throbbing. “The men and women in the Arena; the massacre—it happened because I was a fool! Their faces haunt my dreams, night after night. I will not add Marcus’ to the list. I was used—a helpless, powerless nothing. But now…now I can do something. And if I just let Marcus die knowing I didn’t do everything in my strength to save him, I will never be able to live with the guilt.”

  The room fell silent. Ryker stared at the floor; Samara stared at Jude, her mouth slightly ajar. Jude’s strength left him. He dropped his staff with a clack and slumped back into his chair, his eyes stinging with tears. “So, you see?” whispered Jude, his voice cracking with sorrow. “I don’t have a choice.”

  Ryker looked up, full of pity. Suddenly, his brow knit resolutely. “I suppose there’s nothing else to be done, then. I’ll help you rescue your friend.”

  “Ryker,” said Samara, “you can’t be serious.”

  “You heard the boy—his mind is made up. If he goes alone he’ll die. That means our mission will be a failure. We both know what that means. The only option, then, is to help him.”

  “Crazy,” said Samara, “imprudent, and arrogant. The both of you!” She snatched a mug off the table and drank. When she’d emptied it, she hurled it against the wall, shattering it to pieces. She turned and studied them with narrowed eyes. “When do we leave?”

  “What do you mean, we?” said Ryker.

  “An old man and a fool? You’ll both be killed unless someone with wits goes along.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Samara. No use in putting us all in danger. Stay here.”

  “To the Netherworld with you,” said Samara. “You’re not my father. I’m going.”

  Ryker placed a hand on his brow and let out a deep breath through his nose. “Right you are, lass, right you are. All right, Alpha of the Guardians. What’s this plan of yours?”

  Chapter 29

  Drops of dew glittered across the yellow turf as rays of morning light reached down from a clear sky. Jagged mountain peaks scraped against the horizon, growing ever larger as the troupe traversed down the path in single file. Jelani stared at the pillars of obsidian that rose up on either side of them, thinking they looked almost like giant glass fingers. The region had a good deal of volcanic activity, and the polished black stone was everywhere. This must be how the Obsidian Plague got their name, he thought. The goblins living in the region claimed to have found a way to mix the volcanic byproduct with their steel to turn it black. But Jelani was skeptical of such an assertion. It was relatively simple to turn armor black—burn oil onto its surface. The fact that their armor still rusted let him know that this was their likely method. But goblins often lied. Tall-tales and trickery were part of their culture. One had to learn to read what they were truly saying amidst the deception.

  Jelani stared ahead of him at his friends, wondering if any of them possessed the skill of reading lies. Despite the fact that Sir Weston had apparently had some dealings with goblins before, he seemed all too trusting, likely to believe a man without question. Martha had a pure heart; it was doubtful that she would partake in a game of fabrication. Nera was quick of wit and a natural skeptic, and while truthful to her core, she could tell if someone had false motives. Today, he would rely on her judgment.

  Now, Gregory on the other hand, Jelani mused, he is one adept in subterfuge. He is as likely to enjoy deceiving the goblins as Martha is to detest it.

  But Gregory had been acting rather odd. Jelani couldn’t quite place his finger on the cause, but his entire persona had evolved from one of cheerful nonchalance to acute paranoia. He was continually casting sideways glances at Jelani, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. And to Martha, Nera, and Sir Weston, he seemed constantly irritated—snapping at them in response to the most basic of questions. During supper the night before, Nera asked Gregory to pass her a slice of bread. Gregory replied with a pointed, “Get your own bread—I’m not your slave.”

  And then Nera snapped back, “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat ever since we arrived at the city.”

  Gregory bolted up from the ground, knocking over his bowl of beans. “What’s gotten into me? I’ve narrowly escaped death fifteen times since we’ve started this journey and you’re asking what’s gotten into me?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve all narrowly escaped death fifteen times,” Nera said coolly. “And you don’t hear any of us whining about it. So suck it up.”

  Gregory snatched his staff from the ground and marched off into the night. Martha gave Jelani a look—eyebrows raised with confusion, mouth dipped in a frown—set her bowl down, and hurried after Gregory.

  Jelani’s anger began to boil. This was the second time Gregory had separated from the group. A foolish decision that could result in him being captured…or worse. But Jelani decided to resist throwing more kindling on the fire of Gregory’s rage. He took several deep breaths and listened as Martha tried to reason with him some distance away. Gregory needed to cool off before being chastised. In the meantime, Jelani decided to keep an eye on the two of them, just in case.

  Now, Nera and Gregory would
not speak to each other. The tension between them was so palpable it felt as if it might break at any moment. But Jelani had pulled Nera aside and asked her to keep her anger in check.

  “You should be telling him this,” she argued. “Not me. He’s the one with the chip on his shoulder.”

  “I will speak with him. However, I must wait until the appropriate time. Gregory is not himself. You still have the ability to use reason; it would appear he does not. In the meantime, we must be careful how we approach him.”

  “Fine. I’ll hold my tongue. But if he comes after me—” she held up her staff “—Martha will have some more healing to do.”

  As they continued on, Jelani racked his brain for answers. He barely noticed the terrain grow rockier as they descended into a shallow ravine. The change in Gregory did not seem natural; it was as if something foreign had planted itself in his mind. Jelani wondered if talking to him would do any good. Maybe he should simply watch Gregory instead. Considering how glib the boy was, answers had a funny way of revealing themselves on their own.

  “Up ahead!” Sir Weston called out from the front of the procession. He stopped and turned to face them, his silver breastplate shining in the sun. “We’re near the checkpoint, the official boundary leading into goblin territory.”

  “So you’ve been this way before?” asked Nera.

  “Indeed I have. Though the last time I made the journey I was but a cadet.” He turned around, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Now, there should be a few guards around the bend. They may be suspicious of us. Normally, it’s an act of good will to bring a peace offering, and since we lost the Chimaroo time-bo—I mean…since we lost the Kordara Torch, they may potentially see us as aggressive.”

  “And what if that makes them hostile?” asked Martha. “Shouldn’t we come up with a plan, just in case?”

  “We are diplomats,” said Sir Weston, “not an army. They will see quickly enough that we mean them no harm.”

  “You sound awfully sure of yourself,” muttered Gregory.

  They continued on; all the while Jelani scanned the cliffs above for signs of life. Even in times of peace, he did not trust the goblins to abide by the law. He had seen too many oaths shattered between his people and the southern goblins for his liking. And if they were, indeed, at war with them, they might be attacked on the spot.

  The path began to widen, and the checkpoint appeared up ahead—two poles sticking out of the ground on either side of the pathway. A rope was tied from pole to pole, and a tattered flag hung down from its middle—black, with the head of a red wolf painted on the front. Below, the path lay empty.

  “Strange,” said Sir Weston at the sight. “Ordinarily, there are five flags hanging from the banner—one for each tribe. The only one left is for the Sharlock—or the Bloodwolves, as they like to call themselves. They are the ones who typically guard this road.”

  Jelani spotted a small movement from the top of the cliff—nothing more than a shadow flitting up from over the edge.

  “Hello?” Sir Weston called, his voice echoing through the cliff walls. “We are ambassadors, coming in the name of the Orsidian Empire!”

  “Sir Weston,” said Jelani, pushing his way past his friends. “Up on the ledge—I thought I saw—”

  The shadow rose up again—a goblin in black armor, a horned helmet covering his face—bow drawn. The arrow leapt at Sir Weston with a twang.

  Jelani locked onto the arrow with his mind. Sure enough, the head was made of stone. He aimed his staff and sent the projectile spinning off course and into the rocks.

  Suddenly, the top of the cliff exploded with screaming goblins, waving weapons and loosing arrows.

  “Get down!” Jelani shouted to his companions. He focused all his might on the ground, lifting up the earth and stone. A dome formed around them as arrows met the surface.

  “I told you!” cried Gregory from inside the darkness of the dome. “I told you they’d try to kill us. Even if we had that bomb, do you think their chief would let us get close enough give it to him?”

  “Now what, Sir Weston?” asked Martha.

  “I do not understand,” said Sir Weston. “We come under a banner of truce!”

  “You cannot trust a goblin,” said Jelani. He took a deep breath. He knew their survival rested on his shoulders. “Remain here—I will make short work of these creatures.”

  “Jelani, you can’t fight them alone,” said Nera.

  Jelani’s staff lit with orange energy, and he stared at his friends, huddled together. He touched the butt of his staff to the earth. Soil and stone crawled up from the ground, encasing his comrades’ feet and sealing them in place.

  “Jelani!” cried Nera. “What are you doing?”

  “We are trapped, but I have a way to defeat them that you do not.” He placed the end of his staff against the dome and part of the wall crumbled, allowing him to exit. He sealed the hole behind him.

  Twenty goblins were already down in the ravine, swords drawn, pikes raised, all of them shouting and whooping. When they saw Jelani emerge, they sprang forward in a frenzy.

  Jelani needed armor. He waved his gleaming orb over a large vein of obsidian. The smooth stone shattered and spun through the air, encasing his skin in shimmering black. He thrust his staff at the charging goblins. The path shook; rocks and pebbles broke free from the walls around him. His gaze locked on several stones lying on the ground. Up they shot, flying through the air and breaking against the helmets of the goblins in puffs of dust that knocked them off their feet. The rest of the goblins slid to a stop and began to back away, muttering and pointing.

  He could collapse the ravine walls like ocean waves on top of them, he knew, but that might prove dangerous. Knocking down one area might cause an avalanche elsewhere. And if he were to die in this fight, his friends would be imprisoned with no way of escape. No, he decided, this fight must be won with small bursts. The safety of the group depends upon it.

  Jelani braced himself for the next attack. However, instead of attacking, the goblin at the front of the pack threw his sword to the ground. To Jelani’s surprise, the rest of them did the same, tossing aside their weapons and pulling off their helmets to reveal their horrid green faces. Then, all of them fell prostrate, noses in the dirt. Their leader rose up with his hands in the air and shouted, “Gorbikna!”

  Then, one after another, all of them began bowing up and down, chanting, “Gorbikna! Gorbikna! Gorbikna!”

  Jelani stared at them, dumbfounded. It seemed they were worshipping him like he was some sort of idol. Is this a trick, he thought, designed to get me to release my friends from the safety of the dome?

  But their weapons were on the ground.

  “We have come to you in peace,” Jelani said, his voice muffled by his makeshift armor. “Yet you act as if we are at war. Why?”

  The goblin at the front began to crawl forward, groveling and speaking Goblinese, right up to the toes of Jelani’s boots.

  “What is this about, goblin?”

  The goblin lifted its swollen yellow eyes. “Forgive us, Great One, for we were ignorant. He spoke of your return, but we did not believe.”

  Still, Jelani could not comprehend. But he felt as though the danger had passed. He raised his staff and the dome around his friends crumbled. The four of them emerged, weapons at the ready, blinking in the sunlight.

  “Lower your weapons,” Jelani ordered. “They mean us no harm.”

  “What do you mean, they mean us no harm?” challenged Gregory. “They just tried to kill us!”

  Jelani pointed at the prostrated goblins—all of whom were still bowing up and down and chanting.

  “Gorbikna has finally ascended from his prison in the Lake of Flames,” said the goblin. “Soon his forces will march across the land!”

  Gregory’s mouth dropped open at the sight. He gaped a moment, blinking and shaking his head. Suddenly, understanding flashed in his eyes and a sly grin formed at the edge of his mouth. He rushe
d to Jelani’s side and whispered excitedly, “They think you’re some sort of god. What luck!”

  Jelani could see Gregory’s mind at work. A plan was formulating behind those eyes of his.

  “Play along,” Gregory said, patting Jelani on the shoulder.

  And so the game begins, Jelani thought, thankful to have Gregory back on their side.

  “Foolish goblins!” hollered Gregory. “How dare you attack us! We ought to squash the lot of you like bugs.”

  “Mercy!” cried the goblin near Jelani’s feet. “Please, spare us, oh Great Gorbikna. For we did not know your return was nigh!”

  “Get your slimy hands off his lordship’s boots!” Gregory ordered, sending the goblin scurrying backward. “You are not worthy to touch the great Gorbeeku—”

  “Gorbikna,” Jelani muttered.

  “—Gorbikna!” Gregory continued. He turned and gave the others a warning glare, ordering them not to hinder him. Then he turned to the crowd of goblins, who seemed to be hanging on his every word. “You will address all questions and comments to me, the Great Gorbikna’s mouthpiece.”

  “Of course,” said the goblin, turning its attention to Gregory. “Of course, please forgive my ignorance, oh Mouthpiece of Gorbikna, the Wondrous and Powerful…Wondrous and Powerful…”

  “Wondrous and Powerful Gregory, the Mighty Flame of the Netherworld!”

  “Oh brother,” mumbled Martha, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, Wondrous and Powerful Gregory, the Mighty Flame of the Netherworld,” the goblin repeated. “I am Org, your humble servant.”

  Gregory winked at Jelani, looking very pleased with himself.

  Nera stepped forward. “You impudent goblins have made a dire mistake,” she said, looking very serious. “A dire mistake indeed. As penance you must escort us to your leader without question. If this is done, then we may not sacrifice you in thunder and flames to satisfy Gorbikna’s hunger!”