The Goblin Wars Part One

by Stuart Thaman

  He could see the opening in the ceiling above him, a small hole in the stone about thirty feet above his head. The sloped cavern he had first landed in was out of view, just a small pocket in the stone above the larger chamber. Following the route he had taken with his eyes, Gravlox traced out the likely path that Vorst had travelled. He knew that his beloved companion was in a different chamber but she could not have landed too far from him.

  “There must be a tunnel that connects us,” Gravlox mumbled as he got to his wobbly feet. The foreman drew his sword from the sheath at his hip, inspecting the weapon to ensure that it hadn’t gotten damaged during his plummet. Luckily, it was intact and made a wonderful cane to support his bruised legs. Gravlox hobbled to the side of the chamber where he had fallen and tapped on the rock, hoping to hear a similar tapping from the other side to signify Vorst’s presence.

  Goblins, living in the dark chambers beneath Kanebullar Mountain, often communicated by tapping on the stone walls that separated the various passages from one another. Deep in the mines, goblins had developed a sophisticated language of tapping and scraping that the rest of the goblin society was quick to adapt.

  Are you alright? Gravlox tapped on the wall. Can you breathe? Are you alive? No tapping came back from the other side. Vorst, are you alive? Gravlox tapped faster on the wall, panic gripping him fully. He endured another excruciating moment of silence. Using the hilt of his sword, Gravlox tapped even harder on the wall, throwing what remained of his strength into every blow. Vorst! His sword hilt cried out on the stone. Where are you? Are you alive? A tear streaked down his dirty face and fell to the floor.

  Gravlox, came the slow reply from the wall. The taps were faint, almost impossible to hear above the sound of the underground stream in the chamber. I am alive. Gravlox was so overcome with joy that he simply collapsed to the floor and cried. Are you badly hurt? Vorst asked, her taps coming with more strength than before.

  No, Gravlox replied with his sword hilt. Are you? He feared what the response might be.

  Nothing that won’t heal, came her characteristic response. Gravlox could see her smiling on the other side of the stone, grinning from ear to ear at his worry. Is there a stream on your side? Gravlox searched the cavern, hoping that the stream went under the rocks and into Vorst’s cavern.

  Yes, he tapped out excitedly, scrambling for the edge of the water. He dunked his head in, trying to see where the water went. It was nearly impossible to tell with certainty, but Gravlox felt the water rushing as though it was moving under the stone wall and into another chamber. The opening was narrow, less than a foot in diameter, but it gave him hope. I am going to try to swim to you, Gravlox tapped out as he removed his pack.

  He attached his sword belt to the rest of his travelling gear and then fixed a long length of rope to his ankle, the other end tightly tied to his equipment. Be careful, Vorst tapped on the other side of the stone, I can hear something. I think there are footsteps coming from another cavern. They sound close, getting louder. Gravlox didn’t waste a moment.

  The goblin dove down on his belly in the shallow stream, pushing himself along the cavern floor as flat as he could. Thankfully, the stream deepened where it met the stone wall and he was able to slide a hand under the ledge and pull himself down. His eyes grew wide with panic when he realized how far he would have to crawl before the stone above his head gave way to air. Gravlox rotated in the water, placing his hands above his head and clawing his way through the submerged passage.

  He was wedged into the stone tightly, his face smashed against the rock above him, his back being cut by the rock beneath him. Without being able to turn his head, the goblin had no idea how far the tunnel would take him. Hurry, came the tapping, barely understandable to the underwater goblin. The warm water coursed past his body, moving much faster than Gravlox.

  Panic gave way to sheer terror in a matter of moments. Gravlox’s small lungs burned. It took every fiber of his will to keep from screaming in the narrow tunnel and filling his body with cave water. Frantically, Gravlox clawed and scraped at the stone, pulling himself along, inch by painful inch. Hurry, Vorst repeated. Hurry, something is coming.

  Gravlox grit his teeth and tried to pull himself further along the tunnel but his hips were stuck. Gravlox… Hurry.

  ***

  “STILL NO REPORT from Darius, sir.” The soldier was impeccably dressed, his fine mail armor betraying his inexperience. Herod preferred a warrior with a few dents in his shield. There was a long pause before anyone in the throne room spoke again.

  “Alright. Thank you for the update.” Herod stood before the throne on the raised dais, his body clad in heavy steel plates. Herod’s twin longswords, Maelstrom and Regret, dangled on his hips, their sharp points hovering right above the stone. No one had seen the prince’s famed weapons in years. Their very presence indicated the gravity of the situation. “What is your name, soldier?” Herod’s deep voice boomed through the stone hall, echoing with a newfound air of command.

  “Apollonius, my liege,” replied the well kempt man, offering a rigid bow. “I live to serve the throne.”

  Herod smiled. His right hand moved to his left hip, slowly drawing Maelstrom from its golden sheath. “You serve the throne…” Herod muttered. The room full of soldiers stood on edge, silently awaiting the prince’s action.

  Prince Herod lifted the blood-red blade before him, holding it up for everyone in the room to see. With a simple thought, the sword burst into flame in his hands. The fire was not real, in the physical sense, but ethereal. Black, translucent flames licked up the red steel and sent a thick plume of ash swirling toward the ceiling.

  Maelstrom swung down with the prince’s arm, cutting a line of incorporeal fire through the air, and connected with the seat of the throne with a resounding thunder. The stone of the royal seat was torn asunder. A thin line of molten rock seeped from the edges of the laceration as the throne crumbled to ruins on the dais. A chorus of hushed gasps met the prince’s rigid gaze as he turned back to the assembly before him.

  “You say you serve the throne.” Herod looked as many men in the eyes as he could, striking fear into their very souls. “I ask you now to serve your city. Talonrend needs you, not the throne. This is the hour of her greatest weakness.” A priest standing off to the side of the assembly opened his mouth to speak but an upraised hand from the prince stopped him cold.

  “All of you assembled in this hall, you are the city guard. I ask you now to protect your city, as you have sworn to do. Darius, your leader and my friend, has been killed. Treachery held the blade that took his life. I do not know who commands such treachery, but we will discover them, and we will kill them. Trust no one but myself, Master Brenning, and each other. Anyone approaching the castle without my consent is to be considered hostile.”

  Master Brenning stood near the priest to the prince’s right. He was wearing the traditional armor and tabard of the royal guard, signifying him as Darius’ replacement. The proud smith stood slightly taller at the mention of his name.

  “You soldiers are no longer the city guard of Talonrend. I commission you now as Templars of Peace, ordered to protect the city at all costs. All those who do not wish to be a part of this order may throw down your arms and leave the castle unharmed. You will not be exiled from the city, but you may no longer serve in its guard. All those who wish to serve as guardians of the people,” Herod lifted Maelstrom high above his head, ordering the weapon to extinguish its fire so that the sunlight streaming in from the windows glinted on its dark crimson edge, “kneel!”

  Every man in the large audience hall kneeled at once, without hesitation. Every man except for one. The priest of Vrysinoch stood steadfast next to Master Brenning’s kneeling form, locking eyes with the prince.

  “Only a king has the power to commission such an order,” the old priest spat. He turned to face the crowd of kneeling templars but none of the armed men even glanced at him.

  “Our rightful king is missin
g, likely dead. Our guard captain is missing, likely dead as well.” Herod pointed his red sword at the withered priest menacingly. “Who are you to say that a prince cannot protect his castle and his city?”

  “I am a holy priest of Vrysinoch!” the man cried out. “You cannot take such actions without the approval of Vrysinoch! The tower does not approve! You are not our king!” The wrinkled old man stretched his hand out in the direction of the prince, pointing a crooked finger, a sneer plastered to his ugly face.

  “I have been tormented by Vrysinoch for far too long,” Herod said with solemnity as he lowered Maelstrom back to his side. “It is time for your god to truly protect you, priest.” The words of damnation rolled off of Herod’s tongue and left a sweet taste in his mouth. The prince slashed Maelstrom through the air in the direction of the priest who instinctively raised his hands to defend himself. Thirty feet of open air separated the two men but Maelstrom understood the prince’s intent.

  Ethereal tendrils of acrid black smoke shot forward from the tip of the sword, circling about each other wildly as they sped toward the priest. The black smoke materialized into six clutching hands that latched onto the priest from all directions. Herod held the sword steady, leveled at the old man’s splotched forehead.

  Master Brenning, the man who had made the sword, knew what was about to happen. He closed his eyes tightly and kneeled lower to the stone, making his body as small as possible. One sharp tug of Herod’s wrist pulled the sword back across his body and stretched the ghastly tendrils taut. When the sword reached the end of its arc, the black hands receded to their origin, taking six bloody chunks of the priest with them and depositing the remains of the shattered priest at Herod’s feet. Blood splattered Master Brenning’s armor as the priest exploded in a rain of gore. The man never had the chance to scream.

  “Vrysinoch is no longer your guardian,” Herod called to the kneeling soldiers. “The paladins who serve the tower have not shown themselves. With the command of my brother, I doubt they will leave their tower, even when it comes to open warfare in the streets of Talonrend. You must protect each other now.” A wave of his hand commanded the templars to rise and they obeyed in unison. “Apollonius!” Herod called to the soldier standing in the front row.

  “Yes, sir!” the loyal man barked back.

  “Go to the tower. Tell those cowards what has happened here.” The eager soldier nodded. “If the priests refuse to summon the Vrysinoch Guard, kill them until one of the priests agrees.” Apollonius nodded again, more solemnly. “The army is to be gathered at once, inside the walls. Every paladin, healer, warrior, and pit fighter is henceforth called to serve.” Herod scanned the room and searched the men’s faces for any signs of doubt. “Failure to heed that call is treason.”

  Satisfied that none of the murmurs were of dissent, Herod continued his rousing speech. “Send runners to each of the villages. The militia is also called to serve. Every city along the Clawflow is required to send thirty able-bodied men, with arms and armor if possible. Organize the militia outside the walls in camps.” Herod turned to Master Brenning and offered the man a stiff salute. “See to it that the militia is properly equipped and well fed. I feel a war on the horizon.”

  The burly smith returned the salute with a grim smile.

  Some minutes later, after much cheering and applauding from the gathered templars, Herod left the audience chamber and returned to his personal chambers. Master Brenning hurried along behind the inspired prince. The two men stopped in front of the brand new steel door that barred the way to Herod’s personal chambers.

  The heavy door was inscribed with enchanted runes, every line weaving a strong magic that protected the room beyond from unwanted visitors. Two similar doors had also been installed on the front of the castle and the drawbridge was being modified by Master Brenning’s chief smiths.

  Herod waved his hand in front of the steel and the runes glowed to life, unlocking with a series of metallic clicks. “Master Brenning,” the prince said with a smile before stepping into his chambers, “you are a genius. This door will only admit myself, no one else?”

  The hairy man nodded with excitement, strands of his thick beard flying about his face. “Your command will allow visitors to enter, but only those you name specifically. Your new armor also awaits you in your chamber,” Master Brenning chimed in. “And it is always good to see my favorite swords being put to use. Maelstrom and Regret have hidden in their sheaths for far too long.”

  “I wish that you still made weapons of their caliber, Master Brenning.” Herod thumbed the hilts of his magnificent swords with nothing but true appreciation showing on his face.

  “Those two swords are my masterwork, Herod. After I crafted those weapons, I turned my focus to armor. I have only made one weapon since, but it wasn’t a longsword.”

  Prince Herod took a hesitant step into his room, but turned back to face the smith. “Your last weapon was not a hand-and-a-half sword, honor-bound to a disgruntled paladin, was it?”

  Master Brenning’s deep laugh resonated through the stone halls. “Indeed, my prince.” The smith’s eyes took on a glossy sheen and he looked through Herod rather than at him. “Nevidal, the sword is called. It simply means ‘wonder’, in the old language. Maelstrom and Regret may be the strongest paired weapons in the entire realm, but Nevidal is stronger still. Gideon could slay an entire army with that sword…”

  Herod waited a moment before speaking, allowing the smith his moment of reverie. “Assuming that Gideon’s own soul would not be destroyed in the process?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Master Brenning muttered, “there is that one small matter. Hopefully Gideon can learn to control the weapon before that happens. A blade like that is not something to be trifled with. In the hands of anyone else, it would reap nothing but disaster. The Blood Foundry can be a tricky forge, especially when it comes to weapons.”

  “Your sacred forge has never ceased to amaze me, Master Brenning. Your capabilities as a smith are only outshined by your undying loyalty.” Prince Herod gave the man a rigid salute, showing him nothing but respect and friendship.

  Master Brenning returned the gesture and spun on his heel to leave. As the new captain of the guard, Brenning had plenty of work to do around the castle. His smiths were almost finished installing new doors at the end of the drawbridge, enchanted plates of steel designed to keep out all forms of magical intrusion.

  Brenning stood in front of the massive metal doors, staring at the parapet above. Two of his smiths were standing on the top of the stone wall, fitting an iron mount onto one of the crenellations so that a heavy ballista could be stationed there. With his mind’s eye, Brenning imagined the new fortifications and defenses of Castle Talon. Ballistae lined the parapet, manned by seasoned soldiers of unflinching loyalty. The moat would be filled with large iron spikes rising up out of the water. Master Brenning imagined small catapults stationed near the castle’s round towers, filled with loose sacks of caltrops that could be easily set on fire and launched onto the ground before the moat, slowing the assault of any army.

  The smith’s vision turned to the city itself. “All of these buildings will need to be removed,” he whispered, not wanting anyone to hear. The row of houses and buildings closest to the castle were too close, Brenning thought. He could not see well past that first row and into the city proper. “Herod will not like that idea,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But we need to have sight. A clear view of the enemy is the first step toward defeating the enemy, whoever that may turn out to be...”

  “Sir!” a soldier behind Master Brenning called to him, interrupting the daydream. Brenning turned to see the man, a newly commissioned templar, standing on the top of the parapet with a crossbow in hand. The templar pointed and Brenning turned, drawing a short sword from his side in the process. The burly man was not a soldier by profession, but neither was he a novice to melee combat.

  A man approached the drawbridge wearing a plain brown shirt with matchi
ng leather breeches, his head hung low in thought. “Fire at his feet and reload quickly,” Master Brenning called to the templar. The man walking toward the castle was easily recognized by the smith as Jan. Apparently, the steward had not gotten wind of his exile from the castle. A heavy, steel tipped bolt thudded into the banded wood of the drawbridge, causing Jan to jerk back reflexively.

  “Halt!” the templar called out from above. The clicking sound as the crossbow reloaded quickly followed the soldier’s voice.

  “What are you doing here, Jan?” Master Brenning took a step in front of the door, squaring off against the steward across the drawbridge.

  “What in Vrysinoch’s name is going on here?” Jan’s eyes darted around the castle, examining the new fortifications and finally finding the stone cold stare of the burly smith. “I am the king’s steward! Am I no longer permitted entry into the castle?” His tone was incredulous and spiteful.

  “By order of the Sovereign Prince Herod, ruler of Talonrend and commander of both the Vrysinoch Guard and the Templars of Peace, you are hereby exiled from Castle Talon and from Talonrend herself, on pain of death. You are under arrest and will be escorted outside of the city.” Jan’s jaw dropped and his legs began to noticeably tremble.

  Have they found me out? Did Keturah turn on me? Tentatively, he took a step back. Master Brenning matched his movement and took a confident step forward onto the drawbridge, openly challenging the smaller man.

  Brenning motioned with his hand and the templar fired a second bolt. Jan saw the deadly missile speeding toward his chest and reached a hand out to block it. Dark magic swirled about his wrist and formed into a solid buckler of necrotic energy that easily shattered the bolt and then dissipated. Jan turned and began to run.