by P B Hughes
Jelani puffed his chest, rising to his full height in an attempt to appear as godlike as possible. He considered for a moment removing the armor he had created, but decided against it. For whatever reason, it appeared the armor made them believe he was a god.
“As you wish,” said Org, bowing over and over and backing away. “Right this way—our chieftain will be most honored to meet with you.”
“Good,” said Nera. “Lead the way.”
Org rose, beaming with pleasure. “All right, maggots!” he barked, turning to the soldiers behind him. “Back up on the cliffs. If anyone comes this way, then off with their heads, understand? Well? Hop to it before I gut you!”
The goblins jumped up from the ground, scrambling toward the ropes and climbing up the rocky crag like cockroaches. As they did, Sir Weston stole up next to Jelani, a perturbed look on his face.
“What’s all this about then, eh?” he said softly. “These wretched creatures believe you to be a god?”
“Yes,” Jelani replied. “It appears they will do anything I ask.”
Sir Weston stroked his chin. “Fortune is on our side, it would seem. Though, I do not enjoy engaging in deceit. It is a very dishonorable practice.”
“Then let me do the talking,” said Gregory. “I have no problem playing these frog-skins like the fools they are.”
“Nor do I,” said Nera. “Anything that will help us gather the information we need.”
Martha’s forehead scrunched with worry. “Perhaps we should just tell them who we are,” she said. “Maybe they’ll behave peacefully if they know we are ambassadors. I just feel like this could blow up in our faces if we’re not careful.”
Gregory rolled his eyes and sighed. “Martha, Martha, Martha,” he said. “These are goblins we’re talking about. They’ve already tried to kill us. No, this time we do what it takes to get what we want, whatever the means.”
“Your Majesties,” said Org when the rest of his goblins had finally made it up to their roosts. “If you will follow me, I will take you to Korophant, Chief of the Bloodwolves.”
Gregory stepped forward. “Then get on with it! We haven’t got all day and Gorbikna grows weary with your delays.”
Org bowed and hurried ahead of them, back hunched, long arms wagging like an ape as he walked. Jelani heaved a deep sigh, hoping their fortune would not run dry, and followed after.
It was as if some great clawed finger had dragged itself across the land, Jelani thought, cutting through the rocky terrain to create the road they now trod. He wasn’t sure if it had been dug out by the goblins or if it had formed naturally. He thought about asking, but decided against it. As a god, he should appear to be omniscient. They passed a few goblins here and there—all fully armed, most eying the group with distaste until Org muttered, “Gorbikna,” to them, tossing a nod in Jelani’s direction. The other goblins would invariably become filled with awe, bowing and backing away; then they followed behind the group at a distance, muttering their praises. This continued until a procession of close to thirty goblins trailed behind them, shouting and singing a hideous, discordant song.
As they walked, Jelani noticed how sparse the vegetation grew. There were a few stumps along the way, but almost no plants other than weeds and spindly shrubs.
The butchers of the forest, Jelani remembered bitterly. Most of the goblins’ wars with his people were fought because the goblins had an insatiable desire to strip the land of anything green and leafy. They had little understanding of conservation, or the idea that once you use something up, it is gone forever. They leveled entire forests—using the wood for weapons and for kindling their enormous bonfires. When their supply ran out, they simply moved on to the next resource—killing the inhabitants and repeating the process. Eventually, they drew south to the jungle where Jelani’s people lived. The sound of the war drums still echoed in Jelani’s mind. His people had gathered for battle—their long assegai spears razor sharp; their almond-shaped leather shields at the ready. The goblins did not expect such fierce combatants. The jungle was his people’s ally. They dropped down from the trees, shot up from the brush, tossed their assegai into the crevices in the goblin’s armor. Of course, his tribe had fought the goblins before, long before Jelani was born. Back then, they had won the war with help from the Empire, and the goblins had retreated east. But when they had spent those forests, or some other kingdom had stayed their march, they turned back to the southwestern jungles. This time, they persisted—remaining on the outskirts of the jungle, raiding and felling trees in the night. And Greavus refused to send troops to help. As far as Jelani knew, the goblins remained in his homeland to this day.
A pang of homesickness shot through him. He wanted to return to his village—to go to war alongside his people; his brothers. They would lay waste to the goblin menace once and for all. His tribe had originally joined the Empire for protection. Emperor Oran had sent an army, Miraclists among them, in exchange for annexation. A small price to pay for the survival of their nation. But now, the alliance meant nothing except that their Miraclist children were taken, their land taxed, and they bore the burden of a new set of laws.
One day, Jelani thought, I will be a force for change. I will lead my people and reclaim our land.
When the sun reached directly overhead they found themselves at the foot of the mountain: an immense serrated tooth rising out of the earth. Huts made of mud and rock lay strewn about the mountainside. Several goblins stood outside, huddled by fires, watching the motley group ascend the path.
Org turned to face Jelani, a wicked smile pressing his lips back, revealing gray gums and white teeth.
“Welcome to Terragordom, Mountain of the Bloodwolves,” he said. “This mangy lot keeps an eye on the entrance of our city.”
“Some city,” Gregory scoffed, staring at the huts with a look of disgust.
Jelani could see a flash of hate in the goblin’s eyes for an instant; it was quickly replaced with submission. Org stomped forward and waved his sword at the guards. “Oi, can’t you see Gorbikna’s among us? Ratark was right! Bang the drums and blow the horns! Gather the females and the younglings! You disgusting slugs—show some respect. On your feet! Now, take us to the city entrance before I get angry!”
The guards stared over at the group, terrified and filled with wonder. Org let out a roar, causing them to scatter. Four guards, wolf skins on their backs, black helmets covering their faces, scrambled to attention before Org, while others pulled out small drums and horns. They began to beat the drums, blast the horns, and cheer wildly at their god’s arrival.
“That’s better,” barked Org. “Lead the way.”
The four guards led them up the trail, hobbling and grunting for nearly half a mile while the strange procession followed, still making the horrendous racket that must have sounded beautiful only to goblin ears. Finally, they came upon a litter of white boulders, a stark contrast to the ashen surface of the soil and rock that covered the surface of the mountain. The guards came to a halt.
“This way,” croaked one of them, his voice hollow beneath his helm. “Chief Korophant has been notified and awaits your arrival.”
Org lumbered past the guards and disappeared behind a boulder. Jelani hesitated, not sure what he was supposed to do. “Do we follow?” he whispered to Gregory.
“You make the rules,” Gregory replied. “You’re their god, remember?”
Jelani gripped his staff and marched after Org, the goblins going wild again behind him. Together, they marched up to a pair of doors built into the side of the mountain. Org pulled them open, revealing a black expanse that only goblins—creatures of the night—could see into. Jelani stepped through the doors, followed by his friends and the crowd of goblins, and Org shut them all inside.
Jelani could not see a thing. Fortunately, he could sense the location of the stone walls. His friends, on the other hand, might not be so lucky.
“Master Gregory,” he said. “A light if you will.”
A fireball popped above Gregory’s palm and his staff shone red, causing many of the goblins to cry out and stop their wild singing.
“It is okay,” said Jelani, surprised. “We mean you no harm.”
Again, the goblins began to cheer, pressing forward at a trot. Down into the tunnel they went, the air growing thicker, hotter, and fouler as they descended into the heart of the mountain. Many more goblins joined them, scurrying out from spurious tunnels to see what was happening. Jelani could not believe his eyes. Of all the receptions he anticipated, this was not one of them. The noise was almost unbearable—the pounding drums, blasting horns, clattering armor, and cackling cries—all of it growing louder by the second. Beneath his armor, Jelani began to feel claustrophobic; as if it might suffocate him. But he dared not remove it.
They poured out into a wide, circular room filled with hundreds of goblins. Orange torches lined the walls and a fire pit belched flames and smoke in the middle. For heat, Jelani knew, and not for light. Bones of all sorts were strewn across the floor, and Jelani tried to ignore the ones he knew were human. On an obsidian throne sat an impressive-looking goblin. Across his lap lay an ebony scepter with cruel spikes jutting from the top. He gripped the arms of his throne so tightly with his massive green hands that Jelani could see where claw-marks had cut into the stone. A black fur cape hung across his broad shoulders, fastened with a clasp made from a wolf’s skull. His jowl was heavy, his nose curved like a raptor’s beak, and his yellow eyes peered at Jelani through thick strands of dark hair.
A low growl emanated from inside his throat. The goblins in the room fell silent. The chief took hold of his scepter and rose from his throne. It was clear why he was their leader. He was monstrous, standing head and shoulders above any normal goblin. Every muscle rippled across his body like ocean waves. Unmistakably, he was the greatest warrior in their clan.
“Kerak oga, shersheh hargu,” the goblin chief said, his voice deep and surprisingly quiet. Then he bent his knee. “The prophecies are true. Gorbikna a nugala.”
All of the goblins in the room fell to the ground wailing, “Gorbikna! Gorbikna!”
Jelani surveyed the area, dumbfounded. This could end badly if he misspoke. He tried his best to focus on their mission. The bomb was gone; an assassination was out of the question. They needed to know if the goblins had gone to war, and if not, to ensure their loyalty to the Empire. But the answer didn’t seem quite as simple as yes or no. Sir Weston had said that normally the road leading to the mountain was shared by all the goblin tribes. But now, only the Bloodwolves claimed it. Could the goblins possibly be warring amongst themselves? He had so many questions, though he did not know how to ask them.
“Fools!” cried a sharp voice through the tunnel behind them.
The crowd of goblins fell silent, and the chief raised his head.
Jelani turned to see a hunched shadow standing at the entrance to the cavern. The figure moved into the light, rattling with each step. He was an ancient goblin, leaning against a twisted staff twice as tall as he was that was strung with beads and bones. His white beard, stained with patches of red, slithered across the floor as he hobbled, and his thick, protruding lip was curled in a snarl as he gaped at Jelani with an oversized, owl-like eye.
A shaman, Jelani thought. He cast a worried glance to Gregory. Let’s hope your tongue is sharp enough to deceive a wise man, he wanted to say.
The shaman made his way over to Jelani, staring up at him intently. Then, he began to hum and wave his staff, filling the air with clatter. He walked around him three times and then came to a halt. Slowly, he stepped away. He struck the end of his staff against the stone floor once and began to chant:
“He comes clad in armor of obsidian
To lay waste the kingdoms of man.
Black eye doth test each nation,
His favor the Bloodwolf clan.”
As the shaman chanted, Jelani realized that this was the aforementioned prophecy, and he had at least fulfilled part of it with his obsidian armor.
“When shadows again shall rise,
And war burns across the land,
The truth will become lies,
All wrought by his unholy hand.”
The shaman finished singing the prophecy and pointed a gnarled finger at Jelani. “You,” he said, “are not Gorbikna.”
Dread filled Jelani. Shouts flooded the room—angry and hot. The chief tossed his scepter aside, rose from his knee, and pulled an enormous broadsword from his belt. Jelani gripped his staff, ready for battle.
Gregory chuckled, gesturing to Jelani. “You would dare suggest that this man is not the Great Gorbikna?” He turned to Chief Korophant. “Who is this loose-tongued buffoon who defiles our presence? Away with him!”
“I am Ratark, Supreme Shaman of the Great Gorbikna, Bearer of Prophecy, Stealer of Souls.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I’m the Wondrous and Powerful Gregory McPherson, the Mighty Flame of the Netherworld. And I say you’re a fraud. This here is Gorbikna, and you’d better be careful or else he’ll crush you all beneath his boulders of doom.”
A small goblin squealed with fear.
Ratark snarled. “Gorbikna is the Master of Shadows. When he is reborn, he will wield a power too terrible for words.” He bowed grandly, and stepped aside. “But if you truly are Gorbikna, then give us a demonstration. Show us your dark power.”
Jelani stared at the goblin. The thought crossed his mind to attack—to abandon the façade and catch them by surprise.
“He can’t do that,” said Gregory.
Ratark smiled. “You see? He is false. Just like the fat man. He does not possess the power of the Nosfertu.” Then, with a shudder, he said, “He is as pure as light. A Miraclist, no less.”
“Clearly,” Gregory continued, “you do not understand the power of the Nosfertu, Shaman.” He took a step toward the old goblin, the rings under his eyes looking dull and darker than before. “It takes time to grow. My Master has only just been reincarnated. It will take days until his powers are at full strength.”
“Then,” said the shaman with a grin, “you would not mind proving your words are true. Your…master will have no problem being locked in our dungeon until he can use his powers again. Just to be sure, of course.”
Gregory looked up at Jelani, frustration on his face. This goblin would not be so easy to trick.
Jelani decided it was his turn to speak. “Gorbikna will never be locked away,” he boomed, mustering all the authority he could. “What insult is this? Foul creature—I ought to have your head!”
“Do not waste your time with him, Gorbikna,” said Nera. “Clearly this shaman has a pea for a brain. Any cunning goblin would know he is just jealous of the great Gorbikna.”
A few goblins began to nod and mutter their agreements.
A vein pulsated on the shaman’s forehead, his eye turning bloodshot with rage. “Enough of this,” he cried. “The truth will be revealed!” He lunged forward, thrusting his staff. Out of the end erupted a spray of black smoke that covered Jelani’s entire body. Shadows swirled about him, wailing and dreadful. It felt like hands were trying to pry Jelani’s mouth open—to reach inside him and steal his breath. He tried to resist, but the attack had caught him off guard. Slowly, his mouth began to slide open. Nera attacked—a bolt of lightning exploded from the end of her staff, but the shaman deflected it with an outstretched palm, knocking it into the ceiling. Then Sir Weston, sword drawn, ran at the Shaman, but was blown from his feet by an invisible force. He slammed against the wall with a clang.
And then, all Jelani could hear was the shaman’s cruel laughter.
Suddenly, the torches blew out and the fire pit went dark. The invisible hands pulled away from his mouth. There was a flash of red light. For an instant, Jelani saw it—that same hulking shadow-creature, standing over Gregory. And then the room went dark again.
The room began to quake
“GORBIKNA,” shrieked the shaman. “GORBIKNA IS
RISEN. NO MASTER, PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU! FORGIVE ME!”
There was a rush of wind and a loud, thunderous crash. The goblins began to scream in terror. Jelani could not see in the dark; but the goblins could, all of them scrambling this way and that, pushing and shoving and clawing. Whatever that creature was, it seemed to be wreaking havoc amongst their ranks.
And then, the cries stopped and the wind died. There was only darkness for several long moments. Then the torches lit again and then the fire pit crackled once more.
Jelani surveyed the destruction. There, on the floor in a heap, the shaman lay dead. Dozens of other goblins littered the floor, lifeless. The goblin chief stood unharmed, his mouth open, the end of his blade against the floor.
Gregory leaned against his staff, panting hard, his golden hair drenched with sweat.
The goblin chief dropped his sword with a clank and fell to his knees. “Gorbikna,” he said. “Gorbikna! Gorbikna!”
Then, the rest of the goblins in the room fell with their noses to the floor.
“Gorbikna! Gorbikna! Gorbikna!”
“Now,” said Gregory, “we have some questions for you frog-skins.”
Chapter 30
The wind climbed to a furious bluster, howling across the Irachnian plains and into the city streets where it sought to worm its way into every crack and drain. Commoners retreated indoors to huddle in front of meager fireplaces. Vagabonds moved out of the gutters and sank beneath bridges to escape the scream of winter. The streets were empty now, all save the troops of guards marching miserably by, still scouring the city in vain for the assassin that lurked within their walls.
Jude wished for his cloak; his traded rags did little but flitter about as the wind blasted against his body with the force of a rushing river. Penance for the trouble I caused you, beggar, he thought as he and Samara pressed through the darkened streets toward Murlock’s Tower. I hope they let you keep my cloak.