by RG Long
Madam Wishter shook her head.
“You're in charge and I'll follow where you lead,” she said putting her hands on her hips. “But I still think you've failed to see the danger.”
Teresa knew there was danger. This was a battle, wasn't it? There was always death sitting close by, waiting to strike as a snake. It was decisions like this that determined whom death would bite.
"Keep your Speakers focused on the forest," Teresa replied with grim determination. "And we'll see that all goes according to plan."
She looked around the room, into the eyes of her soldiers and Speakers who would repel the goblin menace from their great country.
"For Thoran!" she said, holding up a fist.
All voices echoed her cry and emptied the room, preparing for their assault on the horde.
23: Flames and Ladders
This was stupid, Stinkrunt thought.
He had thousands of goblins at his command, maybe even tens of thousands, and they couldn't climb over some little wall.
They had been trying for at least a full two hours now.
Even with their ladders made from trees and big bark shields, the gray warriors hadn't managed to get inside the castle and do some real damage.
Stinkrunt was so bothered by this, he almost got up from his sitting position in the back of the horde to go see what was taking so long.
Almost.
A couple of his favorite goblins had been making him some roasted squirrel over a small fire pit. He knew full well that they were trying to avoid the frontlines and that they snuck bites whenever they thought he wasn't looking, but if it meant he got the Doyen's share of meat, he didn't care.
As he was biting down on a nice, juicy portion of his third helping, a larger goblin came running back to where Stinkrunt sat among some felled trees and their stumps. One of them currently served as his throne.
"Hey, big Doyen Stinkrunt," the large goblin spat as he approached.
Stinkrunt could tell this one wasn't particularly impressed with something. He also knew this bite of squirrel was the best food he had eaten in days.
He kept chewing for a few more moments before the large goblin brought his club down in a mighty thud on the ground.
"Hey!" he repeated. "These lazy goblin's ain't doin' nothin'."
Though Stinkrunt was sure that what this big and threatening goblin said had truth in it, he also felt like he was being challenged in his leadership.
And to a goblin Doyen, that meant a fight to the death.
Or to Stinkrunt, it meant a quick nod to one of his loyal, if a little cowardly, cronies.
Arrahead had snuck up beside the giant goblin when he saw him bash his club into the ground. He now held an arrow drawn back all the way on his bow against the temple of this challenger.
Stinkrunt spat out a tiny bone.
"You think I'm dumb?" he asked, not really interested in what this goblin thought of his intelligence.
"What's your name?"
The goblin snarled at Arrahead, who relented a step or two. He kept his bow trained on him, though.
"Veinripper," he answered, hoisting his club to his shoulders and giving the goblin Doyen a menacing stare.
Stinkrunt didn't bother to ask if the red that coated Veinripper's hands was war paint or something else.
He knew better.
"Hey," he said, getting up from his tree stump throne and attempting to make himself big and intimidating.
That was a difficult task. Veinripper was at least two or three goblin heads taller than he was and he was certainly thicker around. Stinkrunt had learned one thing, though, from becoming the leader of all the goblins who had come west to Thoran.
Big doesn't mean you're the best.
Or that you'll live the longest.
Sometimes the smaller creatures are more willing to struggle to survive at any cost.
"Why don't you fight?" Stinkrunt asked him. "You came back here. You can complain. But can you get up the walls?"
Veinripper let a snort leave his nostrils. If Arrahead didn't have him in his sights, he would have probably loved nothing more than to flatten Stinkrunt.
The little goblin had plans in his head, though. He was fairly certain how he could best put this big goblin to good use.
"Show me the lazy ones," Stinkrunt said, walking past his massive challenger and towards the front lines at the edge of the forest. "We'll get them to work."
WHEN THE THREE GOBLINS arrived at the front, Stinkrunt could tell that Veinripper had been right. He was also glad Arrahead kept his arrow pointed at the hulking goblin. Had the two ever found themselves alone, he knew how that meeting would end.
If nothing else, it would mean no more tasty squirrels.
The walls of the great capital came into view and Stinkrunt had to give the bigger goblins credit. They certainly were doing a great job of pushing the little ones out and getting them to at least attempt to climb the walls.
"Lazy guts," Stinkrunt said as he watched the scene. The goblins weren't quite making the push towards the wall that he had envisioned.
"Where's Greeneye?" he shouted at no one in particular. "Wasn't he supposed to get the goblins up the walls on trees?"
Arrahead answered him.
"Over there boss," he said, pointing with the tip of his arrow. For a moment it was pointing right at Stinkrunt and he ducked out of the way. Fortunately, Arrahead quickly brought his arrow back to Veinripper and Stinkrunt saw what he was attempting to point at.
After swearing a lot of course.
Greeneye was with a group of other goblins who were pushing the little ones out front to do the hard work for them. He had to admire their goblin tendency to survive by putting the weaker, or more able to be bullied, ones out in front to attempt to scale the walls.
But this strategy wasn't going to last, or turn out well, for the gray skins. They only had so many weaker goblins before the big ones had to fight. And Stinkrunt knew that would eventually mean he would have to fight.
That wouldn't do at all.
“Hey! Greeneye!” Stinkrunt called over the clamor of laughing goblins under the trees and dying goblins out by the wall. “What happened to those tree ladders, you lazy sneak?”
The huge goblin quit laughing and glared hard at Stinkrunt. There were some words that began to form in his mouth and they were sure to be some excellent curses.
Unfortunately for him, his words were cut short by a wall of fire that consumed the tops of the trees they were standing under for protection.
Everything turned red as cinders began to fall among burning tree tops and branches. The goblins began to run in a panic away from the flames. Some of the smaller and weaker ones ran to the walls, not wanting to face the fires or the bigger goblins. Most who were left in the forest began to run deeper into the woods.
But the fire was too strong. Too big.
Stinkrunt knew this was no normal fire.
He had seen it leap from the hands of robed figures who stood on top of the wall. They called forth the flames even now. Fire spread and seemed to leap before them. Some of the slower ones fell into the flames and hollered as it burned their skin.
Most tried to avoid doing something similar.
Stinkrunt stood as others around him panicked. He refused, if more stubbornly than normal, to let his second attempt to raid a castle fail.
“Arrahead!” he yelled over the panicking goblins and crackle of the flames above them. “Shoot somebody!”
The first arrow he loosed caught Veinripper in the shoulder. The large goblin howled and pulled the missile out of his thick armor, seeming none too hurt. Arrahead notched another to his bow and shot wildly at the wall.
Whether by good fortune or a twist of fate, the arrow flew straight into the neck of one of the Speakers casting their spell. A group of warriors, who had been protecting the wizard with shields, stood shocked. They were celebrating the seemed retreat of the goblins too much and not attending to their job.
Stinkrunt had an idea.
“Goblins! Red Fangs! Big Scars! Dread Cliffs!” he shouted as best he could. To his surprise the din of running goblins subsided, even in the flames and chaos.
“If we can take the wall, we'll be safe from the fire! Run to the wall!”
For the first time in his miserable life of being unheard, ignored, mistreated, and abused, Stinkrunt had managed to capture the attention of his troops and have them follow his orders.
Additionally, the fire spread so far back so quickly that it looked like the wall of fire was returning to the spot where he stood.
Thousands of goblins began to rush the wall all at once. This was the siege Stinkrunt had hoped for. Many carried trees on their backs and propped them against the wall to climb up. Some even picked up trees that weren't mostly on fire.
As one, they crashed against the wall.
Whatever trees that were burning some goblins threw against the castle gates. Boiling water rushed down on them, scalding away the attacks. More replaced them with new burning trees as soon as the water relented.
Stinkrunt was using most of the larger goblins as shields as he ran up to the wall. He figured as long as he couldn't see the archers and Speakers at the top of walls, they couldn't see him. It was mostly true. An arrow bounced off of the shield of the goblin in front of him. Stinkrunt did a double take, because the wall had been clear there just moments before.
A woman with dark, short hair looked down with both anger and fear as the goblins began their true assault on the wall. She had taken specific aim at Stinkrunt. He made the rudest gesture he could think of in her direction and then continued his business of hiding behind bigger goblins.
Unfortunately, most of the biggest started climbing up the tree ladders.
Begrudgingly, Stinkrunt followed with his knife waving around wildly. He wasn't much for leading from the front.
At the top of the tree, which lay propped up against the castle wall, several goblins were doing all of the hard work in fighting back the troops along the wall and trying to hold a section between the ladders. He saw a Speaker, who looked weary enough to pass out, held up by two other soldiers. The robed woman attempted to raise her hands and began muttering a spell. Stinkrunt dove forward, more out of an inner desire to survive and not be melted to the spot than bravery, and found himself standing over two dead soldiers and a Speaker within a moment's time.
A cheer from below reached his ears.
His troops had seen him fight and they were shouting for more.
Over the wall and down in the street, a call to retreat had been issued just as the resounding crack of wood echoed out just below Stinkrunt's feet. The gate had been destroyed.
Stinkrunt was beside himself with glee. The siege was going perfectly!
His smile didn't last long, however. The same woman who had shot at him with a bow now approached him and the other goblins who held the wall with red in her eyes and two swords in her hands.
Stinkrunt looked down at his knife and then up at his attacker.
This was a fight meant for someone else. He looked to his left and saw Veinripper, club held high over his head and a snarl on his lips.
He stepped behind him and gladly pushed him forward into the fight as he slunk back behind him.
The goblins may have taken the wall, but bravery still wasn't his strong point.
24: The Traitor
“You really don't need to worry so much about us,” Abigail said as she braided Blume's hair. “I mean, the ship still smells awful and the food hasn't improved at all. Oh, that's right, I was going to ask you to bring us something better to eat. Have you been eating the fancy things all of the other important people have been?”
Blume's elf friend had been chattering away for the last forty-five minutes, hardly giving Blume any time to tell them what had transpired over the last few days. She didn't mind too much. It was good to see her friends again. Jeremy sat in a corner, nose deep in notes he had made about ships and ship designs and every other piece of knowledge he could garner from those who would give him the time of day. Someone had given him a book a few days ago to stop him from pestering them.
Not everyone on board the ship was willing to talk well to a dwarf.
Jeremy and Abigail had come with Blume on a long journey that hadn't ended the way any of them would have liked.
They had been accidentally transported by magic from Thoran in the midst of battle, to Conny, the capital of the Southern Republic. There they managed to go from innkeeper's assistants to orphanage residents to servants of the Southern Republic's army.
Blume's head spun simply remembering all of their trials up to this point.
Of the group they had ridden with from Conny in horse drawn slave carts, only the three of them remained together. The other boys and girls had been put to work among the soldiers. Abigail and Jeremy, however, were kept under strict orders not to leave the ship's hold, nice as it was.
They were aboard Androlion's flagship. There were few houses and castles Blume had been inside that compared to its beauty. Everything was intricately crafted. Even this room, which was little more than a jail, held two well-made beds, a chair, a dresser, and window made of glass that looked out over the plains of Beaton.
From that window, the army could be seen making preparations for war.
As nice as it was, however, it was still a prison to Jeremy and Abigail. Three guards stood by their door both day and night. These were prisoners of Androlion himself. Though they were treated kindly for Blume's sake, they were still jailed.
Each moment spent with the leader from the south was a chance to be reminded that the lives of these two depended on her obedience and loyalty to a man she hated.
Looking out of the window to the army preparing for war was not something Blume wished to spend her time with friends doing.
She saw enough soldiers on a daily basis.
“They've had ample time to make themselves ready. When will the siege begin?” asked Jeremy, looking up from his notes and book.
Blume felt Abigail's hands stop their work. She looked at the dwarf sitting on the bed across from her. His face was serious.
“Tomorrow,” Blume said. “As soon as the sun rises.”
She didn't throw in the part about potentially preventing a siege by tossing all the elves and dwarves out of the city. This was partly due to her hopes that it didn't happen.
But to not sacrifice the other races meant a long and drawn out siege.
Both options made Blume hate Androlion more, though she knew of few ways to actually put into words her disgust for the man.
She was about to ask them about something else, anything else, when a knock at the door interrupted the start of a thought.
“Miss Dearcrest,” came a voice she hated nearly as much as Androlion's. “It's time.”
Knowing that arguing was futile and that the life of her two friends depended on her cooperation, Blume rose without words and hugged them both before departing.
“I'll see if I can't get you something better to eat,” she said to Abigail on her way out of the door.
A small smile crossed the mouth of the elf.
“Thanks, Blume,” she said.
Then her face was gone as the door shut between them.
“They don't appreciate their rations?” Cory asked as he led Blume away from the only two people she cared about in this country.
Don't make small talk with me, traitor, Blume thought as she ignored him and walked the familiar path to the stairs of the ship.
She emerged from the holds of the ship and wiped a tear from her eye. She never would have guessed that an hour every few days would be too little time to spend with the friends she had made along her journey from the south to Beaton. The time between visits seemed to endlessly drag onward.
As they typically did, Blume walked toward her own room. Hers was a smaller cabin, but no less elegant and located near Androlion's own quarters.
She made to turn one way, but was stopped by Cory's outstretched arm.
He cleared his throat and gestured with his other hand.
“This way, please,” he said.
Blume stared at him, wishing she could incinerate him on the spot. Lacking her Rimstone, however, she obeyed and walked in the direction he motioned. The last few days had given her enough time to familiarize herself with the ship. Cory was leading her to Androlion's main meeting area, or The War Room as she called it. Several meetings had occurred in here since their arrival, of which she had been an unwilling participant. He held the door open to her and she walked inside.
There were several chairs and couches with green cushions and pillows along the walls. A banner hung on the wall to her left, prominently displaying Androlion's symbol: the hated white griffon.
A rectangular table set upon an ornate rug took up a large space in the middle of the room. On the table, a map of Ruyn was laid with pins and other markers placed on it. Most of them now lay on or around Beaton. Several strings drew lines from that focal point to a place far up north and two far to the west.
Blume cared for none of it. She walked to the table and clasped it with her hands, hard. There was no desire in her heart greater than to see it all go to ruin, save for the prospect of saving her friends from death.
Her knuckles burned as she clutched the table. Behind her, she heard the door shut as well as a click, indicating that Cory had locked the door behind them.
She suddenly became very aware that they were alone.
With one hand she reached for the heaviest object she could see: an inkwell.
“Miss Dearcrest, I do hope you're not planning on ruining this fine outfit I have,” Cory said with a voice that made cold sweat race down her neck.
I'll ruin more than that, she thought, anger burning within her. Take one more step toward me.
She waited to hear his foot fall behind her and swing around to punch, scratch, kick and do anything else that might cause him bodily harm. She didn't care if they did anything to her after that. She would not allow herself to be mistreated by a man she loathed.