by RG Long
***
THE NUMBERS OF GOBLINS in the forests of Thoran were growing by the day. Stinkrunt was to keep watch over the population and make sure that the goblins grew to larger numbers without turning in on one another. Growing more goblins was not difficult. The battles that had been fought and lost had provided plenty of raw materials to spawn more gray-skinned warriors: their fallen comrades.
The smell of the spawning pits would probably kill a man, if he ever made it that far into any goblin encampment. The pools of gray muck teemed with unnatural life. Dark bubbles lingered on the surface, popping with an even fouler odor than the pool. Large trees had been felled and placed around pits dug out by forced labor, mostly gubbins.
Gubbins were smaller goblins, ones that hadn't quite yet matured fully. The whole transformation from crawling out of the pool to battle ready goblin took two or three weeks. In the meantime, gubbins could be given basic commands and would almost always pretend to follow them. Mostly the things just tended to be pretty grabby.
Well someone had to tend the pools, Stinkrunt thought. It certainly wasn't going to be him.
To fall into one of those stinking rots would spell the end of any creature, goblin or not. Some were tossed in as punishment. Others were conveniently pushed in right after their belongings were snatched. The pools were a place no one went intentionally. Tree and other green life surrounding the pool began to decay and whither as the stench wafted out over the wall of fallen trees. The ground turned from brown to black. Sickly mushrooms began to grow where once lush undergrowth blossomed.
The pools consumed the vegetation around it. In truth, it needed the life of them to thrive. Without them, the goblin spawn would cease to grow and the pool would dry up. Here in the forests of Thoran, however, that would happen after hundreds of years.
Good thing Stinkrunt had lots of deer meat to eat. This could take awhile. He crunched down on the hind leg of one that had just been brought to him by one of his cronies. Well, it was stolen from one of his cronies. That was almost the same thing.
***
“HEY! BOSS!” CALLED a voice from behind him. Stinkrunt took a moment to remember that 'boss' meant him. He turned to look in the direction of whoever called and saw one of his more faithful cronies, Lazyguts, walking towards him.
No chief’s cronies were ever completely loyal to their leader. They were all just waiting for the right opportunity to move up the ranks themselves and take over. All the more reason for Stinkrunt to carry his knife with him at all time.
Lazyguts stumped up to Stinkrunt and gave a half bow.
Not a bad sign of respect and loathing.
“The goblins are fighting over by the rocks, boss,” Lazyguts reported.
That was the other part of Stinkrunt's job: keep the goblins from killing each other. Well, as best as he could at least.
“Any Sharp Claws in it?” he asked. Even though he had put himself over all the goblins, he really only cared about his own clan's well-being. The others were just in the way.
“No, boss. Just a couple of Fanged Ones showing off.”
Stinkrunt gave a little grunt. He didn't care if the other tribes did each other in. The Sharp Claws were coming out on top after this thing was over. And, if he played his cards right, the goblin clan with the yellow banner would have themselves a nice castle to call their own.
“Aw, let them fight. Go cheer them on and call it a contest. See if that will get everyone off my back about more food and drink.”
Lazyguts gave a half hearted salute and stumped back to where Stinkrunt could now hear a pretty loud commotion.
If the goblins could be entertained by other goblins smashing in some heads, maybe that would keep them from fighting one another. It wasn't the soundest logic on Ruyn, but it worked for Stinkrunt.
All he really needed to do was wait for the pools to do their work.
From each spawning pit a score of goblins would rise. With these new troops, the goblins, specifically the Sharp Claws, would help Androlion and his army take down Thoran.
And then beyond.
Stinkrunt settled back down against his tree trunk and thought about his orders.
Make more goblins. Wait until commanded to attack.
Stinkrunt could handle two pieces of instruction.
Which, for a goblin, was actually quite the feat.
5: A Journey Thwarted
The sun was beginning to set on the king's table. The conversation around it, however, was far from over. Teresa was arguing bitterly with the advice given to her.
Currently, they were trying to decide the best way to weather the storm coming from the south. Should they send for aid, prepare the defenses of Thoran for attack or be the first to strike back? Many opinions had formed over the last week.
“It's the only sane course of action, my lady,” Tory reasoned with a particularly loud voice. The young warrior was becoming redder in the face as the talk went on. Afternoon reds and oranges shining on him through the window did nothing to help this.
“I'll decide the sanest course of action for this kingdom, Tory Greenwall. We can spare no one in our attempts to rebuild our forces!” came the reply from Thoran's princess. Her voice hit a crescendo as she stood from her chair to address the man who, before this conversation, had been the most sullen of the group.
The talk of taking action had given birth to the fighter inside of Tory. Ealrin could see it. Perhaps even, he could understand it.
Ealrin's travels here had, of necessity, shown him the value of one who could wield a sword or a bow to defend oneself or others. He owed his life to such people. Very few owed their lives to him.
It was in defending something of value that had given Ealrin a purpose. He valued those gathered here around the table. They were his only friends left alive. He would take up arms to defend them. The question being argued at the moment, however, was whether or not he would take himself away from them in order to defend them as well.
“We must seek aid outside the kingdom of Thoran. Otherwise we'll be overpowered by the combined might of the Mercs, the Southern Republic, and whatever vile goblin has decided to make his blight known on our lands,” Tory countered.
Ealrin knew it was true. Thoran had so many loses from the previous month's battle that if an assault were mounted against them soon, there would be no hope.
That was partly the reason Ealrin had not yet offered much of an opinion. His mind was trying to discern the thoughts of his enemies, rather than take sides with friends.
Why had Androlion Fellgate, ruler of much of the Southern Republic, not yet come for the capital of the city of Thoran, its crown jewel?
Perhaps he had losses of his own to consider? Or maybe he feared an offensive against the great mountain castle? To directly assault and breach the fortress would take an army of ten thousand. But starving those inside by siege would take a force far smaller.
Whatever the reason may be, Ealrin knew their time was limited. Before long he would come for them. And then who would stand against the madman from the south?
Gorplin was now offering his expert opinion on what the best course of action might be.
“Bah! What are we all holed up in this castle for? I say grab your hammer and let's put an end to the devil and his army ourselves!”
For an added effect Ealrin was sure the dwarf was proud of, he hopped atop the table and kicked a bowl of apples aside. Unfortunately for the young leader of the dwarven refugees, the top of his head only came to Teresa's shoulders.
Lote gave him a stern look.
“You'll have us all killed within the next full moon. You're a devil yourself, Gorplin. Get off the table.”
The dwarf apparently thought better than to argue with Lote. He had seen her shoot the bow that rested upon her chair. Ealrin knew the elf could kill a sparrow that he could barely see in the distance. Gorplin clumsily removed himself from the elegant spread and took his seat.
Lote continued speaking.
“I know little of my kin to the south. Since the dwarves’ homes were assaulted, we can only assume that their cities lie in ruins as well. But, there are more elves to the far north.”
She hesitated.
“We could request their aid,” she said slowly, without looking up from the table. Ealrin looked her way, but couldn't read what was going on in her mind.
“Bah,” said Gorplin from his chair.
“I suppose you find something terrible about that idea, dwarf?” Lote asked.
Gorplin stood on his chair and pounded the table with his fist. Another bowl flew to the ground.
“Why ask some spindly elf when there's a mountain of dwarves to the west! Grandun-Krator holds the best dwarven warriors and weapons on the whole continent! Send a delegation to the dwarves! They'll put an end to Androlion!”
“For that matter,” said Tory, in an apparent moment of clarity as his voice was much calmer, “Why not ask for aid from them both? And the men of Beaton as well? If Fellgate is as mad as we suspect him to be in his delusions, what's to stop him from taking this conflict further than Thoran?”
For the first time since the conversation had begun, Ealrin spoke.
“That is a course of action that would make Holve proud.”
The table fell silent.
Ealrin knew mentioning his friend's name would have this effect on those gathered. He was a mentor, if not a friend, to all here.
“He was always seeking peace and unity between the races of the south. What's to stop us from asking the same of those in the north? Three delegations could travel to each country and beg for aid in ending Androlion's madness and giving peace back to the south.”
His words hung in the air around the room. Most began to nod in contemplation.
Teresa sat back in her chair with a sigh. She looked years older to Ealrin in that moment, though no less beautiful.
“Three delegations will be sent then,” she said. “Tory and Lote will travel to the north and request aid from the elves. Gorplin, I will ask that Gaflion accompany you to the dwarven holds in the west. Ealrin and I will travel to Beaton. My brothers were studying under the governor there to forge a stronger relationship with them already. Surely each can send aid to us. Each should prepare a traveling pack, tonight if you must. We ought to leave on this mission soon.”
There were more nods of agreement from around the table. Ealrin had feared that when he heard Teresa suggest who should travel where. Tentatively, he broke the silence.
“Actually, Teresa, I thought it would be best if you stayed here with your people. They will need to prepare for the coming conflict and no one can better serve them around this table than you.”
The tired look faded from Teresa within a blink of an eye. Wild anger replaced it.
“You'll not command me how to rule my own nation, Ealrin Belouve!”
She shoved the chair back from the table and stormed out of the chamber, kicking aside an ornate pot as she slammed the door behind her.
The ring of the wooden door against the stone wall echoed throughout the chamber.
“Bah. She's a bit of a hot head, don't you think?” Gorplin said as he picked up a chicken leg and bit into it.
6: A Speaker's Dilemma
Blume was nearly knocked off her feet as Teresa stalked out of the dining hall. Fortunately for her, a rather large tapestry hanging in the hallway cushioned her as she stumbled against the wall. Equally as fortunate, Princess Teresa seemed so upset at whatever it was that was being discussed within that she hardly noticed the young girl snooping outside the door.
A sigh of relief escaped Blume as she realized she was not going to be in trouble with the princess.
That sigh quickly gave way to a gasp as she caught a glimpse of who came walking past Teresa and up to the door Blume had her ear up against just a moment ago: Madam Wishter, the head of Thoran's School of Speakers.
Though the look upon her face was no more stern than usual, Blume knew that she was once again going to hear a lecture from the woman who was her mentor and teacher. It wouldn't have been so bad had it not been her third today.
“Blume Dearcrest,” Madam Wishter said in her unusually deep voice. Blume didn't have to look up at the woman's large nose to know that she was being glared at with those piercing green eyes. “I pray you were not listening in on conversations you were not invited to? Come with me.”
Begrudgingly, Blume began to walk towards the head Speaker of Thoran, unwilling to meet her gaze. Instead, as she took her eyes off of the floor, her eyes met those that belonged to Jeremy Farthee.
It was all Blume could do to not punch him in the nose.
She stared daggers at the skinny, black haired dwarf youth who was a good two heads shorter than her.
“What are you doing here?” she spat at him.
Jeremy opened his mouth to reply in his typically squeak of a voice, but was cut off.
“That is none of your concern, Miss Dearcrest,” Madam Wishter interrupted. “It is curfew and you are not in bed. I will escort you to your room.”
“But he's not in his room either!” Blume said before she could wrest control of her tongue.
The glare from Madam Wishter was all the young Speaker needed to see to know what was about to happen next.
***
BACK IN HER ROOM, BLUME's ear still ached from being dragged up three flights of stairs and across numerous hallways in order to be forcefully returned to her quarters. No amount of rubbing was going to stop it from hurting before she fell asleep, so she gave up.
The private room for a Speaker wasn't really much to speak of. A small room, barely wider than the beds that were bunked two high, held a bookshelf, a desk and a chair, as well as two small chests of drawers for personal belongings. Blume had only her small chest, necklace, and tattered dress from home left in the top drawer. The bottom drawer held the clothes given to her since arriving in Thoran. That summed up all of her possessions in the world. Blume was the only one in her room for the time being. The rooms were evenly split and Blume made the total number of girls in her age group an uneven seven. She did almost wish she had a bunkmate, but then she wouldn't be able to sneak out and listen to the talk of war down south.
Sitting on her bunk in her nightgown, Blume felt more than the sting of her ear.
She felt a little left out.
There was more than enough reason to be excited. Blume had only recently started her studies at Thoran's School for Speakers. Speakers were those who could manipulate the elements through a special crystal known as Rimstone. Most Speakers were found around their fifth or sixth birthday. Blume just turned fourteen this year. To be accepted at such a late age was an honor. But to be able to perform the complicated magic of which she was capable was unheard of in the kingdom of Thoran.
Blume knew she should be glad for her advanced placement and the admiration of her teachers. Well, most teachers.
Madam Wishter had been hard on her ever since her very first day. Though the other students claim she's as hard on everyone else. Still. The head Speaker did little to help fill the void Blume so desperately craved.
Her parents and brother had been killed not two months before now. When she was with Ealrin, she felt taken care of. Protected. Not that she wasn't learning how to take care of herself these days. There was still the feeling of missing out on her father's kind words to her, or her mother's encouragement, that made her heart ache. Ealrin and even grumpy Holve had been that to her as they traveled from her hometown of Weyfield to the mountain kingdom of Thoran. Madam Wishter, on the other hand, wasn't really the encouraging type even though Blume excelled as a gifted Speaker.
Being so talented had its drawbacks as well. When it came to practical application, she excelled beyond the group her own age in every way. the study of theory, though, was where she was terribly bored, and therefore struggled during examinations. The very idea of reading the large tome of Rimstone incantations next to her bed mad
e Blume yawn loudly.
To think that there was something about the wonderful gift of magic she had that could actually put her to sleep! And while she struggled with books like The Displacement of Beings Through Rimstone Manipulation, there was talk of war and battles amongst those she had traveled to Thoran with.
Blume was torn. She knew she ought to be spending time with the students her own age and making friends with them. But with friends like Jeremy, who Blume was sure tattled on her sneaking out of the dorms, she would much rather spend time with Ealrin and Lote.
There was one other elf girl with whom Blume could stand to spend a few minutes with. Her name was Abigail Flowers. But Abigail couldn't Speak her way out of a pantry. For all of her efforts, she had only barely made it into the next level of study on par with Blume's same age classmates. She was sweet, kind hearted, and young for her race (about twenty-five) but a little hopeless when it came to Speaking.
While her classmates either ratted her out or begged her for help during class, Blume found herself cut off from the action Ealrin was getting into.
Nothing I can do about it tonight, Blume thought as she blew out her candle and left her book unopened on her bedside table.
But tomorrow is a new day.
And with thoughts of sneaking out again to hear about the plans the princess and Ealrin were making to fight Androlion, Blume slowly drifted off to sleep.
***
SHE WAS RUNNING.
The main street through Weyfield lay before her. Fire consumed the city on both sides. Men with unusually large mouths laughed and threw rocks at her as she sprinted.