by RG Long
At first, Ealrin tried to sit up to accept the drink, but was overcome with pain in his head and his ribs as he made the attempt.
A very real groan of pain escaped his lips.
“Now don’t work too hard, Ealrin. You’ve had it pretty bad.”
Holve moved over to Ealrin and helped him drink the water. It was almost cool and certainly refreshing to his overly parched mouth. He gulped down every drop that was in the cup and wished there were more. But then it hit his stomach and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw it all back up or just lay still a moment.
“Thanks,” Ealrin managed as he licked his lips to spread the moisture on his chapped mouth.
Holve placed the cup and the pitcher next to Ealrin’s bed on the table and returned to his chair. Resuming the same look of comfort, he began to speak.
“Well, I’d say welcome to Good Harbor, but seeing as you’ve already been here for the better part of a month lying in that bed, you ought to be feeling pretty welcome already. You sure gave us all quite the intrigue in your coming. This is a fishing and trading community. Not many boats occupy these waters without the knowledge of the general public. Yours sure snuck up on us though. There was a pretty terrible storm the night before we found you lying on the beach, about a day's walk east of here. Your vessel was smashed to pieces. Most of it went down to the depths.”
With this he paused.
“You’re the only one we found alive among the wreckage.”
He was looking for a response from Ealrin, but Ealrin had none to give.
A shipwreck?
A storm?
Others?
None of these brought any memories to his mind.
Only fog.
Hearing no response, Holve continued.
“We thought for a time we’d lose you too. You had lost a lot of blood. Fortunately for you a healer of some talent was traveling through this harbor. He was able to patch you up nicely before sailing on. Then, with Elezar’s cooking and a room to rest in, it seems you’ll pull through.”
Ealrin saw that Holve had allowed himself another moment to examine him. His expression was stony. It didn’t seem like the man smiled much. Ealrin felt odd as Holve continued staring at him, as if he had more to say and definitely more to ask, but was pondering whether he ought to speak.
Holve sighed.
"Though your fever certainly gave you some odd dreams. You fought those blankets pretty hard the first few nights.”
For the next few moments, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the occasional crack of the logs in the fire as they turned to embers. The room had paint peeling off at certain spots on the wall and smelled of the sea. The hearth above the fireplace held a vase of long dead flowers that were stiff and brown.
Ealrin looked up at the ceiling, staring at the wood he saw there and to keep from feeling uncomfortable as Holve glared at him.
Holve asked the question Ealrin was wondering as well.
“Can you recall anything Ealrin?"
Nothing Holve had said provided a picture in his mind. It was as if he was hearing a tale that he played no part in at all.
“I can’t,” replied Ealrin.
There, in his mind, was only fog.
For the second time, Holve gave a big sigh.
“Hmm. Well, I was hoping to find out some things from you. Like I said, boats here don’t normally surprise us at Good Harbor. And the pieces of yours that washed ashore aren’t like any I’ve seen in many winters.”
“Good Harbor?” asked Ealrin.
“That’s right,” replied Holve. “Though the only truly good thing about this place is the bed you’re sleeping in. We’re the only human island in-between the civilized portion of Ruyn and goblin owned lands known as the Goblin Maw. They’ve sailed from time to time to the mainland, always landing here first to set the place to fire and stock their boats before turning on more populated areas. Though it’s been some time since they’ve set their ships to sea. I reckon they’ve been arguing among themselves. Better for us if they keep in-fighting.”
Holve shifted in his chair to glance out of the window into the night. The small opening had four glass panels set into a wood frame. It was the only thing that decorated the otherwise bland plastered wall.
“This island isn’t the home of the willing. The ones who live here either want to get away from the eye of more civilized areas of Ruyn or can’t afford to leave.”
Holve adjusted his gaze back to Ealrin.
All this talk of Ruyn, goblins sailing, and fishing was so foreign to Ealrin. Nothing could fight through the fog that so clouded his mind.
He was only halfway sure of the name he was hearing.
But now, his present situation was beginning to register in his head.
“Who’s been caring for me?” asked Ealrin.
Though he was sure he’d felt better at some point, he certainly wasn’t starving. Nor was he unclean. In fact, save for the wound in his ribs that still hurt when he moved despite being healed, Ealrin felt well taken care of. His belly was satisfied and his skin felt as if he had had a bath.
Well, except for the feeling that he wanted to throw up again due to his headache and the water.
“We’ve been taking turns watching over you. Elezar and myself. Well, us and the maid. Though she refused to wash you up. Bit modest,” Holve said with a wink. That seemed a little out of character for him, though Ealrin had only known Holve for a few minutes.
Ealrin was overwhelmed. If he truly had been lying here for a month or more, then he owed his caretakers much.
“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it.
“Don’t mention it,” replied Holve, with a bit of gruffness to his voice. It sounded as if he truly wished Ealrin wouldn’t mention it.
“And welcome to Good Harbor. And the Rusty Hook. Best inn on the island.”
3: Stinkrunt
Stinkrunt sneered as he walked onto the goblin ship. He was doing his best to look fierce today, but, as always, it was hard to look fierce standing next to old Grayscar. Grayscar was the big doyen of the Sharp Claws. He had three scars running down his face, starting from his forehead, down his snout-like nose and going all the way to his opposite cheek. The beast that had given him the scar lived just long enough to admire his work before Grayscar skewered it with a spear. He had returned to their goblin tribe with that great wolf around his neck as a trophy and he had been the doyen, or leader, of the Sharp Claws ever since.
Stinkrunt, who was one of the smallest goblin leaders, always felt like he was in Grayscar’s shadow. Of course, in a literal sense, he tried to be as often as possible. The sun hurt his eyes and today was no exception. The goblin tribes were loading the boats and sailing toward human lands, something they hadn't done in a generation.
Grayscar took a big sniff from his off centered nose.
"Smells good. Smells like the sea. Smells like war. We'll stop fighting other tribes. We'll fight men instead. Dwarves and elves too." Grayscar looked over the goblins who were loading weapons and barrels of supplies into the ship and chuckled. Stinkrunt could tell the thought of war with the other races pleased his leader. He always felt important whenever Grayscar talked with him.
"Stinkrunt!" Grayscar shouted unexpectedly and nearly knocked Stinkrunt over as he turned around, searching for him.
"Oh," he said as Stinkrunt tripped over some rope, knocking over a barrel and falling into its contents: a pile of fish. "There you are."
Grayscar lifted him by his ankle and set him down out of fish. Stinkrunt looked up at him from the deck of the ship.
"You wanted me, Grayscar?" he asked, now knowing that Grayscar had been talking to himself.
Grayscar snorted as Stinkrunt got to his feet.
"Stinkrunt, you're clumsy," he said as he began to walk away towards the front of the ship. Grayscar was always calling Stinkrunt names. Mostly because he was disappointed with Stinkrunt in some form or fashion. That Stinkrunt hadn’t brou
ght him his sword fast enough, or caught a fish for him to eat yet, or had been able to deliver a message to another doyen without getting beat up in the process.
Stinkrunt quickly got to his feet, slipped and nearly fell, but ran after him.
Stinkrunt was always running after Grayscar. For the last two years the goblins had moved away from their ancestral lands and hidden themselves in the mountains to the north. They had been breeding there; increasing their numbers well beyond what was sustainable in their lands. A goblin was typically ready to bash some other creature’s head in six months after it took its first breath. At two years old, it would be fighting fit.
But, if a goblin tribe grew too large with young goblins ready to prove their strength, there would be infighting without end. Rival doyens would challenge the tribe's leader, goblins would take sides and then an all out civil war would breakout until enough of one side had their skulls cracked in.
But this was not to be the fate of the goblins this time.
Grayscar was the leader of doyens. It was he who had convinced the other goblin tribes to sail east to raid the civilized lands. It was he who had been able to tell the others about the fertile plains and forested mountains that held fat humans who were lazy and stinking elves who were always lost in their own thoughts. These were the lands that goblins would take. Generations ago, they had tried and failed. Not this time. This time Grayscar would lead them all to victory. This time, the Sharp Claws would take the biggest cut of the loot.
And where had Stinkrunt been while Grayscar was off drinking goblin brew with the other clan's leaders? Following him around, carrying his banner, doing his dirty work, and making sure the daggers never found Grayscar’s back like they had so many other doyens who tried to unite the clans.
Stinkrunt was the lowest of the goblin leaders and he knew it. But he wanted a chance and would take anything he could get. He knew that this was the moment to make his claim.
"I'm small. I'm weak. I'm clumsy. You never say I'm a good doyen." Stinkrunt came up beside Grayscar as he continued to bully around goblins who were loafing. Most at least pretended to work when he walked by. A good sneer from Grayscar would send the smaller goblins scurrying off to either pretend to work somewhere else or bully someone smaller than them. This was how the goblins worked. The bigger ones bullied the smaller ones into doing whatever they wanted. And Grayscar wanted to sail east and fight. He was the biggest among all the clans and knocked around whoever disagreed with his great plan. "Give me a chance," Stinkrunt said, almost whining to his boss. "Let me lead in a fight. I'll show you. Small isn't bad. I'm sneaky. I'm cunning. I'm..."
He was cut short as Grayscar shoved a goblin overboard who was eating a fish out of the barrel, instead of packing the barrel below the deck.
"You want to show me you can fight?" Grayscar asked as he continued surveying his ship: The Big Scar.
It was the biggest in the fleet of goblin craft, which was saying something because all the other clans had tried to outdo one another with their flagships. It stood nearly thirty goblins tall. Grayscar himself had laid down the goblins to measure it when it was being built. Its boards were black and its sails had the Sharp Claw's symbol emblazoned on it: three black scars running down the yellow canvas.
Stinkrunt knew Grayscar was pleased with his ship. It had three decks, the lowest for goblin slaves to row their oars, giving the ship a speed greater to the others around it. Grayscar was always the first to a fight.
"Our ancestors sailed east to raid. They brought down a whole city. I want to bring down more. Goblins don't have room for weak doyens."
Stinkrunt stomped his foot on the deck, hard. It hurt a little, but he wasn't going to let Grayscar know that.
"Give me ships! Give me goblins! I'll bring down a city myself! I'll show you I'm not weak!"
Grayscar looked down at him. Stinkrunt knew he didn't look big or scary like other goblins. But he had become a doyen, a goblin leader. Sure, he had stabbed a few other goblins in the back to get here, but he had stayed alive a lot longer than most of the others. He was always checking his back for daggers. He knew that some of the smaller gubbins were taking bets on how long he could keep his post.
Grayscar scratched the back of his ear with a finger and looked up at two goblins fighting on the rigging of the ship. Stinkrunt wanted his attention back on him, but he didn't want to be tossed overboard either.
Stinkrunt couldn't swim.
He leaped up and pointed to a smaller boat that was also being loaded with supplies. Unlike Grayscar's own three-mast ship, this little boat only had one mast. The Big Scar could easily carry three hundred goblins. More if the little ones packed in tight. Stinkrunt could see that this boat could only carry a hundred without sinking.
"That one," he said, knowing that his request wasn't outlandish. "Give me that ship. The Fish Bone. I'll bring down a city with it!"
Grayscar looked at the boat and then back at Stinkrunt. He paused for just a moment, and then let out a big long laugh. His mouth, wider than most of the others Stinkrunt had looked into, showed all his teeth bared and ready to bite into humans, dwarves and elves. Even if there were only twenty left.
"Stinkrunt. You want to bring down a city? Good! Show Grayscar you can! Take the Fish Bone and four others. You'll be the captain. Show Grayscar that you are a strong doyen. Maybe small goblins are tough!"
Stinkrunt's heart leapt. Five ships! This was his chance to prove that he was a big, mean, scary doyen! He would make all the other doyens jealous. He'd find a city and bring it down. They'd loot the place clean and he'd take all the good stuff!
He turned around to run off of the ship when he felt himself jerk backwards. Grayscar had him by the collar. He felt his feet come off the ground and himself being turned around. Grayscar grasped him just underneath his chin with one hand.
"Stinkrunt," Grayscar said in a quiet voice and he knew that what he was about to hear would be important. That and he couldn't breathe.
"Don't make Sharp Claws look bad. Come back with a lot of loot. Or don't come back."
Stinkrunt was still massaging his short throat when he stepped off the ship. He could still smell Grayscar's breathe too.
He wouldn't make the Sharp Claws look bad. He'd make them feared all over the big lands, not just the Goblin Maw. He'd show all of them.
Stinkrunt practically ran off The Big Scar and towards The Fish Bone. He saw it and the four other ships beside it that Grayscar had pointed out. These would be his to captain. So what if Grayscar had twenty to his name? Stinkrunt would take these ships and find a city. He’d bring it to the ground. He’d send in every goblin that he led if he had to.
Goblin vessels lined the coast of the Goblin Maw. For the last month they had gathered here from all over the rough lands of the west. Hidden in caves along the coast or in the Big Sea in the middle of the Maw, ships had come here, right next to the grounds claimed by the Sharp Claws, to supply and get ready and mostly show off.
While running to the Fish Bone, Stinkrunt could clearly see two clans, much smaller than the Sharp Claws, trying to make a bigger show than the other.
The Red Suns had adorned all of their vessels with as many war trophies as they could. This was standard among the goblin. The small Fish Bone had a couple of goblin heads hung out at the front of it to make it look important. More than likely it was just some crew member that smarted off to the captain.
The Red Suns, however, were different. They had dwarven helms, shields, axes, and skulls hung all over their ships. The lands they claimed lay at the base of the mountains many dwarves called home. The Red Suns were always fighting with them over this cave or that. It kept their clan sharp. Their doyen, Gobber Dwarvenbane was a brute of a goblin and an excellent fighter. Too bad he was as dumb as a rock. The only thing that kept him in power was that no one could ever get a knife to sink deep enough into the armor of defeated dwarven warriors that he wore.
That and he'd crush your skull for trying.<
br />
The Fanged Ones, on the other hand, were always fighting one another. Their doyen changed three times on their journey from the west of the Maw to the eastern coast. Vicious goblins. Crackedtooth was their current leader, at least the last time Stinkrunt cared to check. He was always ready for a fight. In fact, he was the most willing to sail east and have a reason to fight someone else. Better humans than some other smaller doyen trying to climb up the chain of command a bit.
Finally Stinkrunt came to the planks leading up to his future ship. He stopped just for a moment to catch his breath.
Yes, he thought to himself. This is my chance to show them I'm not small and clumsy!
He then suddenly slipped on some fish guts a gubbin had left on the dock as it scampered away from Stinkrunt.
Stupid gubbins, he thought as he climbed up the plank.
Gubbins, of course, were the smallest of goblins. They were the immature and not yet fully formed goblin young ones. Nasty boogers with full sets of teeth and a normal sized goblin appetite. It was best to avoid the things until they were matured.
Stinkrunt climbed on board the boat, puffed up his chest as big as he could, cleared his throat importantly and began his speech.
“Hey! Fish brains!” he called out to the crew. A few looked up at him. Most ignored him and kept working (or at least pretending to). Then Stinkrunt took one of the smallest gubbins he could find by the throat. He shook it harshly and watched the little gray thing’s eyes bulge a bit. He yelled again.
“Listen up! I’m captain now! I’m the doyen in charge! You sail with me! We’re gonna go beat up some city!”
He threw the gubbin into a barrel of fish, where it was quite content to stay, and then looked around at the crew. A few had actually looked up at him. One or two almost shook their heads in agreement.
There, Stinkrunt thought. That’ll do.
He stepped up to the front of the boat and pushed off a goblin that was sitting on the side railings studying a map. The map fell into the water with the goblin and he felt pretty important already.