The Goblin Wars Part One

by Stuart Thaman

  “Do not forget Kanebullar Mountain, my liege, across the river,” Apollonius was quick to point out. The monolithic natural structure loomed on the horizon like a watchful overseer, poised to strike.

  “And what is beyond that?” the prince asked. “In all of the histories of Talonrend, no one has ever ventured that far beyond the Clawflow. We are a young kingdom, compared to the Green City from which our ancestors came, but it surprises me that no one has ever gone out to map the rest of the world.”

  “Such is the fate of every frontier city,” Apollonius replied. “I am sure that the leaders of the Green City looked out to the east, to where your castle stands strong today, and were filled with such trepidation.” The young soldier sounded at ease with Talonrend’s surroundings.

  “Gather a group of volunteers for me, Apollonius. Get a patrol of five or six men together to travel to the north and another patrol to scout the east, beyond the Clawflow. I need to know what is out there if I am to be a good king.” Prince Herod turned to make his way back down the winding staircase to the city.

  “I will gladly lead such an expedition, sire.” The soldier saluted but his eagerness was cut short as Herod grabbed him forcefully by the arm.

  “No!” the prince shouted at him. “You need to stay in the city. I fear that the number of people I can trust within these walls is quickly diminishing. I need you by my side.” Apollonius bowed. “You are my personal guard, remember that.” The soldier bowed again much lower.

  “I shall see to it that a patrol is organized at once for each area. A scribe and a cartographer shall accompany both groups.” The soldier saluted and followed Herod back down to the city.

  After the prince had donned his armor once more at the base of the wall he continued with Apollonius into the city proper. The two armored men walked down the wide avenues of Talonrend back to the castle without another word passing between them.

  You will never be king. Herod was constantly reminded of his station in life by the nagging voice of his clawed god, Vrysinoch. The message echoed in the prince’s head with every heavy crunch of his armored boot. Herod looked upon the castle, his brother’s castle, and wondered what he was doing. Soldiers lined the parapet with crossbows and spears. Guards flanked the enchanted door and patrols of armored men could be seen moving beyond the moat in tight formations. If I will never be king, Herod responded to Vrysinoch in his head, why do I do all of this? Why do I try to protect my brother’s people? Why do I protect myself?

  Vrysinoch did not answer.

  YAEL MOVED WITH his troops far to the north of Talonrend. The grassy fields and open plains provided little cover, but goblins are small. The soldier drones marched in coordinated blocks all at the behest of Lady Scrapple. The army of Kanebullar Mountain was comprised almost exclusively of these mindless drones. Each goblin soldier carried a spear, sword or mace, and had a small dagger tucked under its belt. The drones were never heavily armored, but the goblin at the head of each column carried a heavy metal shield on each arm and wore a thick helmet of shining iron plates.

  Each column of drones had a captain, a goblin at the center of the group who was only partially enslaved by Lady Scrapple. The captains typically wielded javelins or throwing knives and wore light shirts of hardened animal hide. Tasked with singling out important targets for kills at range, the captains were afforded a measure more of freedom and discretion on the battlefield.

  Yael was a commander in the goblin army. He, like Vorst, was almost fully autonomous. The goblins obeyed his orders but only because the Mistress of the Mountain forced them to obey. In a sense, Lady Scrapple was carrying out the will of Yael through the drones. The goblin commander often thought about that fact and what it might mean for him. With enough intelligence to understand that he was a slave, Yael frequently entertained the idea of ordering his troops to kill themselves just to see how Lady Scrapple would respond.

  Yael’s ranks were arrayed in the grassy field in perfectly straight lines. Each block consisted of ten rows of ten and Yael had been assigned to command three such blocks. Three hundred identical goblin soldiers stood before him on the plain. Their pale skin was beginning to take on a crimson luster as many of the goblins, being above ground for the first time in their lives, developed sunburn. The air was hot and thick about the army and smelled strongly of moist dirt and damp caves.

  Engineers had dug a wide tunnel from the base of Kanebullar Mountain to the eastern bank of the Clawflow which allowed supplies to be carried half the distance to the army underground in fast carts moving along hastily assembled tracks. From the river, goblin teams waited until nightfall to transport the supply carts overland to the waiting army. Yael had ordered more construction materials, a shipment which he was still waiting to receive.

  “We need hammers, nails, fasteners, metal braces; things with which to build. We can harvest all the lumber we could ever need from the forest but without tools, it is meaningless.” Yael was one of the few goblins to have seen the human walls up close. The drone assistant attending to Yael nodded vigorously and the commander knew that Lady Scrapple had heard every word.

  “Their walls are higher than our short arms can reach,” he said to the drone with a shake of his head. “We must build siege towers, ladders, catapults, trebuchets! We must build great engines of war!” Yael had a way of working himself into to exhaustion over preparations. Even when conducting exercises within Kanebullar Mountain, the commander was relentless when it came to proper preparation. Yael assumed it was why he had been promoted to his position so early, which made him all the more angry that Lady Scrapple would not afford him the supplies he needed to build the siege engines.

  With a wave of his scaly hand, Yael’s troops dropped to their bellies on the field. The commander surveyed the army before him. Four other goblin commanders had been summoned to the field, each controlling three blocks of mindless soldiers. Another force of five blocks had been positioned on the eastern bank of the Clawflow as well, poised to overrun the human settlements to further add to the chaos of open warfare. Yael was smart enough to know that two thousand goblin soldiers would never be enough to take down the high walls of Talonrend, especially without proper siege equipment.

  The commander ordered his soldiers to sit before returning to the comfort of his tent at the back of the army. Yael had met with the other leaders the day before but none of them seemed to share his concerns. Perhaps Yael didn’t trust the hive mind enough, or perhaps his passion for preparedness had consumed him, but the goblin was thoroughly uncomfortable with the entire plan. “You hide something…” the goblin muttered as he splashed some water on his head and picked up a large parchment to use as a fan. “You would think that a proper general would tell her commanders the entire plan before deploying troops to the field.”

  Yael’s joints locked into place and the parchment crumpled in his hand as Lady Scrapple invaded his body. Awkwardly overbalanced, the rigid goblin fell flat on his face in the dry dirt. Motionless, Yael remained on the floor of his tent for what felt like an eternity. He could feel the hive mind probing through his consciousness, investigating his memories, searching his being. Yael’s eyes, filled with dirt and dust as they were, clouded over with a grey mist as Lady Scrapple searched every ounce of his body and mind.

  A slow line of drool escaped Yael’s open mouth and wet the dirt beneath his frozen face. The parchment was still clutched tightly in the goblin’s right hand and the edges of the thick paper cut into the pale flesh of his side painfully. Droplets of blood began to mix with the dirt and spittle on the floor of the tent.

  Suddenly, just as quickly as his creator had taken over his being, Lady Scrapple was gone. Yael gathered his wits and shook the dust from his clothes in silence. He attempted to stand, but the churning sensation in his gut knocked him back to the ground. Sitting on the hard soil, beneath a plain white canopy that served as his tent, Yael couldn’t help but wonder if his entire company was being used as fodder. The possibili
ty that his anger and questioning had turned him into fodder bothered him even more.

  “If I am going to serve only as a distraction to provide cover for the actual attack,” Yael said through gritted teeth, “I will die surrounded by human corpses.”

  ***

  HE COULD FEEL the muscles of his arms breaking down and knitting back together, growing stronger and threatening to rip out of his skin at any moment. Gideon’s legs flexed and bulged with renewed life. His bones elongated, adding inches to his height and making his clothes seem like the garments of a child.

  Loosing a primal roar at the top of his lungs, the paladin scraped his boots against the stone and charged.

  Taurnil spread his arms wide and met the ferocious paladin head on, ducking his head at the last moment to avoid being rent in half by Nevidal’s blinding overhand swing. The demon tried to use his natural agility to outmaneuver Gideon’s hulking frame but the paladin matched him step for step with speed unnatural for his size.

  Without an easy path to the side of the wildly swinging man, Taurnil had to quickly back step and use his sinewy wings to avoid the frenzy. Gideon’s pursuit was inexorable. Swing after swing, Nevidal filled the damp cavern with blazing holy light. The sword was a blur, cutting the air with such speed that the retreating demon had no opportunity to parry.

  If any emotion could be seen in the dark, soulless eyes of the winged Taurnil, fear would have shown itself in those lightless orbs. The demon tried to parry, tried to mount a counterattack, tried to stab out with his wings. Nevidal met every strike before it truly began.

  Gritting his teeth and pressing forward, Gideon braced himself for the acid that he was sure would fly for his face. He had the evil creature back up against the wall, alternating high and low strokes to keep Taurnil’s clawed feet planted firmly on the stone floor. A glob of sizzling acid broke through the glowing light of Nevidal’s blade and divine magic flared to life around the paladin, encasing him in a fiery sphere of protection. The acid popped and crackled against the magical shield before falling to the ground harmlessly inert.

  Fire engulfed the berserking paladin, swaying with his steps and surging forward with every lunge. Gideon could feel the intense heat of the cleansing flames but his skin did not burn. Smoke curled towards the ceiling of the cavern but its tendrils avoided the paladin’s lungs as if the smoke itself were alive. The man’s sweat ran off of his scalp and turned to mist in the flames at his feet.

  Taurnil felt the cold stone against his back and knew he was trapped. Nevidal’s brilliant light flashed before his eyes in a dazzling pattern the demon could never hope to discern. His claws flew about in front of him recklessly, trying desperately to keep the edge from his pale flesh.

  Reaching within himself, Taurnil calmed his frantic mind and found his inner well of magic. The cord of ethereal servitude connecting master and slave thrummed with violent energy that begged for release. Keturah could feel the panic within her minion as keenly as the flailing demon felt the stone at his back.

  Seated behind a massive oak desk in the grand study of the Artificer’s Guild, the beautiful woman’s eyes glazed over as the telepathic communion solidified. With whitened knuckles, Keturah’s forearms bulged and her hands clenched the desk, digging lines into the polished wood.

  Her sable tresses flew wildly about her face as the raw energy of her communion whirled around the study in a ghastly fog. Books flew from their shelves and pelted the walls in a maelstrom of fury as the powerful wizard pumped wave after wave of arcane strength into her puppet.

  Taurnil’s desperate parries began to hit their mark and Nevidal rang out violently against the demon’s sharp claws. A jagged grin broke out on Taurnil’s pale face. Overwhelming strength surged through the demon’s body, hastening his blocks and turning the radiant weapon aside time after time.

  Gideon could sense the energy flowing into his adversary. A song to Vrysinoch escaped his lips and the two mighty warriors found themselves on equal footing.

  Keturah arched her back let loose a ghastly scream amplified by her two-tone ethereal voice. A bolt of lightning shot forth from the wizard, jettisoned through the incorporeal tunnel of magic, and found its way into her pet.

  Flashes of purple lightning shattered the super-heated air all over the cavern, striking the stone with enough force to sunder it and send up a shower of rock and dirt. More than one of the arcane bolts collided with the divine shield surrounding the paladin’s body. Gideon could feel his sacred protection waning and knew he had lost the upper hand.

  With a growl that was more out of frustration than ferocity, the paladin hefted his mighty sword above his head, poising for a deadly overhand chop. Demonic claws reached high to stop the fatal blow. Nevidal surged brighter, a holy flare in the underground arena. Gideon stepped in close, exposing his left flank to the biting maw of the demon and shortening the angle of his sword to connect the hilt with the top of Taurnil’s head. The winged beast bit down hard on the soft flesh above the paladin’s meager armor a split-second before the heavy hilt of the hand-and-a-half sword cracked into his skull with resounding force.

  Taurnil slumped against the stone and a lightning strike blasted apart the cavern floor between the dueling champions. Gideon flew backwards through the churning air and landed painfully on his back with the wet stone pressing up against his muscled flesh. Pain coursed through the man’s shoulder, blurring his vision and scrambling his keen senses. Nevidal’s enchanted might worked furiously to counter the necrotic poison eating the paladin’s shoulder as he writhed on the blasted stone floor. Swiping frantically at the wound, Gideon grabbed onto the bleeding, wriggling tongue and ripped it free from his torn skin. The disembodied tongue had been severed by the lightning strike but it had done its work. Poison continued to pump out of the bloody tongue as it slithered aimlessly on the ground.

  Gideon tried to stand but a thick gush of blood forced him back to his knees. With Nevidal still magically bound to his hands, all the paladin could hope to do was crawl inch by painful inch toward his crumpled adversary to finish the work.

  Vrysinoch’s restorative magic could only do so much. The vile poison sizzled within the warrior’s veins and ate away at his flesh from the inside. The blood and muscle of his shoulder began to coagulate into a blackened ash of corrupted flesh.

  The blazing sword flickered. Its glow faded with every pained shuffle of Gideon’s weakened legs. Skin sloughed off his shoulder in fetid clumps like rotten apples falling from a dead tree. The holy magic imbued in Nevidal was still attempting to embolden the stubborn warrior, but the poison broke down tissue faster than the magic could knit it together.

  Taurnil’s wings twitched pathetically as they scraped against the stone. The once proud demon from the abyss lay nearly motionless. A stream of thick black blood meandered from his scalp and mouth to his ashen chest and pooled on the blasted rocks. The hard pommel of Nevidal had left a massive dent in the top of Taurnil’s skull.

  “You…” Gideon managed to cough past the blood in his throat. “You are dead, demon.” The paladin tightened his grip on the large sword he used as a cane to pull himself along. “I will harvest…” A fit of coughing shuddered through Gideon’s chest and sent more blood splattering out in front of him. “I will harvest your soul,” he said with finality as he shakily stood before the fallen beast.

  Gideon’s heart raced at an uncontrollable pace. Adrenaline and Nevidal’s enchantment combined in his body with the demon’s poison in a virulent tempest of life and death. The sword hummed in his grip, eager for a kill. He knew that satisfying the blade would dispel the divine magic and allow the poison to consume him. The pain was so immense that Gideon started to smile at the thought of death.

  Vrysinoch’s champion loomed over the broken creature with a peaceful grin on his face. He mustered what was left of his resolve to raise his right hand up high. Nevidal gave off a faint bluish glow, barely enough light to reflect off the blood staining the ground, but the bla
de managed to release one last spark of energy as it swooped in for the kill.

  Tears streamed down Keturah’s face. The grand study of the Artificer’s Guild was in ruins. Small fires smoldered in every corner. Priceless arcane tomes had been turned to powder in the fury of her spellcasting. The lightning storm had taken every ounce of magical energy the woman possessed. Her features were gaunt and emaciated. Her once lustrous hair hung limp at her shoulders. The flesh around her piercing eyes was dark and her cheeks sunk in, giving her a hollow and lifeless appearance. She used a sleeve of her beautiful gown to wipe a line of mucus from her inflamed nose and cracked lips.

  With a whimper, Keturah mouthed the words to her final spell. Tendrils of oily smoke billowed up from her empty eye sockets. A gentle breeze made its way into the grand study from a shattered window set into the northern wall of the room. The soft whisper of the wind picked up the bone dry ashes of Keturah’s corpse from under the folds of her elegant dress and scattered them around the room. Her dead hair snapped and blew away, but the spell was finished.

  The final spark from Gideon’s sword stole his vision long enough for the paladin to miss the wisp of smoke that curled around Taurnil’s broken body. In the blink of an eye, the demon reverted back to his natural form. Nevidal clanged against the bloody stone with the sound of thunder and a small, jet black scorpion skittered away into the darkness unseen.

  The momentum of the missed execution pulled him to the ground. His body was too weak to even gasp. Resigned to bitter agony, Gideon looked around the darkened cavern one last time. “A quiet place, but not…” his voice trailed off into a strained cough of blood.

  Nevidal winked out and left the warrior in pitch black darkness.