by Pirateaba
“Durene? Stop shaking me, please.”
“Oh! Thank goodness!”
She sweeps me up into a hug that nearly kills me. I gasp, and Wiskeria and Prost manage to make Durene let go. I sit up, breathless, and look around. Prost hovers around me, worried.
“Your majesty? What happened? One second you were speaking, the next, you fell over!”
“I’m fine, Prost. I told you I had a plan. Thanks for catching me. Now…I need to get up.”
“Are you sure? If you need to rest—”
“Up, Prost. And then you, Wiskeria, and Beniar will meet me…right here. Everyone else can get out. Durene can stay if she wants. We’re going to end this thing with the Goblins right now.”
—-
This is what an [Emperor] sees. Three people, a young man, an older young woman, and an older man standing around a dining room table in a house still bearing the marks of the avalanche. I sit in a chair, holding a mug of tea.
And see my empire. Now it’s a huge plot of land, not just a village. I see forests and hills, animals, grass and trees buried under the snow, and all things in between. This is mine.
And there are trespassers on my land. Thanks to my senses, I can count them all. I can see where they are. And I know we’re in trouble.
“Sixty four Goblins? And two Hobs?”
Wiskeria looks at me. Credit to her, after all she’s been through she can still focus. Even more credit—after hearing what I’ve said, her voice is only slightly shaking.
I nod.
“And you’re…sure, your majesty? Absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely. I may have miscounted—”
“Oh?”
“It may be higher. They move around and I lose track. But it’s at least sixty four. At least.”
She pales. I turn my attention from her, to the fidgeting young man. Beniar stares at me.
“How can you know this, your majesty?”
I shrug.
“I can see them. The markers you placed claimed this land as mine. I can sense everything that goes on in my empire, including how the Goblins are moving. It’s a Skill that [Emperors] have. Or maybe just a function of my class. I don’t know.”
Beniar’s open-mouthed, staring at me. So is Prost, but Wiskeria’s focused on what I’ve said about the Goblins.
“Sixty. That’s…too many. We’ve twelve of the Trackers and seven of Beniar’s riders. We’ll be overwhelmed. And two Hobs—each one’s as dangerous as the Mossbear. More dangerous because they can think.”
Beniar nods. He strokes at the stubble around his chin, sounding worried.
“Sixty four. I uh—if they’re not trained warriors—and if they are—well, it’s doable if we can catch them off guard, right, Wiskeria?”
He turns hopefully to the [Witch]. She nods with less conviction and looks at me.
“Do you know where they are, your majesty? We could ambush them and whittle their forces down. I have a few spells I could use if I had the time…”
I wince. Here’s the bad part. I shake my head as Prost turns, sharpening a kitchen knife with a whetstone.
“They are coming. I—tipped them off.”
Prost’s hand slips. I sense the blood and hear him curse. Beniar starts and Wiskeria gets up—
“It’s nothing. Your majesty, if they’re coming, we’re doomed. At least, that’s what I understand from my own class and the looks on these adventurer’s faces.”
“Perhaps. But if we run, they’ll hunt us down, Prost. If we can fight them back…there is a chance. We’ve been training the villagers, and there are over a hundred and fifty of us.”
“Not all warriors, sire. Many children, folk too old or injured to fight, and most’ve never fought anything before. A far cry from a seasoned Goblin [Warrior].”
“Yes. I know.”
Silence. I can sense the adventurers and Prost looking at each other. But there’s no options available. Wiskeria clears her throat.
“We can rely on the palisades, block off the main street now we know they’re coming. I’ll prepare spells; see what the best area to fight in is.”
“I’ll do the same.”
Beniar springs to his feet. I raise a hand and he stops.
“There’s something else.”
I detected a group of Goblins splitting off from the main force, circling around the village. They’re clearly trying to flank us. When I tell Wiskeria that, she nods.
“How many?”
“Twenty…three. Including one of the Hobs. That leaves less Goblins to attack from the front, I guess.”
“But more to hit us where we least want them. I have a proposal, your majesty. If we let the Windfrozen Riders handle them—”
“What?”
Beniar’s outraged. Wiskeria freezes him with a cold stare.
“You have seven people in your group, Beniar. Seven, including you. I doubt you could fight off that many alone. We’ll give you some other villagers who can use bows.”
“Yes, but—that leaves the Trackers and villagers to hold off forty Goblins and a Hob!”
“We’ll have to do it. We can’t risk being attacked from two sides. If you can finish off your group, you can help us. But we can’t let ourselves be overrun.”
Wiskeria’s in charge. She’s taking command in this moment and no one, including me is about to stop her. I can’t see the map she’s looking at, and she understands more of war than I do.
However, my input matters. I talk with Wiskeria as Beniar goes out to let his party know what they’ll be doing. Prost is already organizing a barricade.
I can sense her glancing at me from time to time. After a while, she breaks off from asking me what the Goblins are using as weapons—swords and spears, mainly with a few axes for good measure—and speaks quietly.
“I…wanted to apologize, your majesty.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For casting a spell on you. For not telling you about the Mossbear fur. For Odveig…all of it. I know that if I were in any other kingdom, the punishment for any of these things might be my life. I can only beg for forgiveness.”
I grimace.
“I put you in a bad spot, Wiskeria. I’m still angry about the Mossbear fur, but I understand that was a precaution.”
“Yes. I was actually trying to drive it off before you did. I didn’t understand why it was so furious—I suppose Odveig might have done something to it.”
“Well, her actions are not your fault, Wiskeria.”
“But they are. She is—was—our team leader. Because she did all these things…”
“Tell you what, Wiskeria. We’ll sort out blame after all of this. But if you fight and put your life on the line with all of us, I’ll consider that a very strong endorsement of your innocence. Deal?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Now tell me how likely it is you think we’ll survive.”
For a while she’s silent. Wiskeria traces the map and I hear the rustle of paper.
“Truly? We’ve no [Strategist] or [Leader] and neither do they.”
“I’m an [Emperor].”
“Yes, but—I apologize, your majesty. However, you’ve not said you have any direct combat skills. Without those, the battle remains as it is.”
“I see. You’re correct. In that case…”
“We have Durene. She might be as strong as a Hob, but she’s never fought before. We outnumber the Goblins, but only with the villagers who are as inexperienced. And these Goblins are trained, deadly. It will come down to your people, sire. They would win no matter what the odds if they were without fear—”
“But they are afraid.”
“Yes. And they will die, and see their friends and family dying. They’ll pay the cost in blood. And if they break and run—”
“We die.”
“Yes.”
Wiskeria takes my hand for a moment. Her hands are cold and clammy. I squeeze her hand gently.
“Well then,
I suppose it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
I sense her smile weakly. We say little more. The village is alive with fear, with tension. But also, strangely, a bit of certainty. After so much waiting, the Goblins are finally coming. For all of us, there’s some relief in that finality.
I don’t want to die here. Wiskeria and I part ways after a while. I want to be with Durene for the hours before night, when we think they’ll strike, and she has work to do.
“Emperor Laken? May I ask you one question?”
Wiskeria stops me before I go. I turn.
“Yes?”
She hesitates.
“I’ve wanted to know this the entire time. You—you’re truly an [Emperor], aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“In that case…how did you become one? Were you born to it? Are you from some distant land?”
I have to laugh softly.
“I am from a distant land. One you’ve never heard of, Wiskeria. But I was not born an [Emperor]. In fact, I only became one when I met Durene.”
“What? Then how—?”
“I decided to be one. Because I knew I could be one. Because I’d heard a story about an [Emperor] with no crown. An [Emperor] with no castle. An [Emperor] with a city to live in and not a penny to his name. Beloved by all.”
With that, I leave her. I walk out the door and kiss Durene in the middle of the village. And night falls.
And the Goblins come.
—-
This is the sound of the end. It’s blowing horns, shouting in the woods, and wind howling through the trees. The wind has to howl. It’s only fitting.
It’s the sound of your own teeth chattering as you try to make a speech. It’s the sound of a young man weeping and people around him shouting at the Goblins, roaring as if to drown out the guttural shrieks coming towards them.
It’s the sound of saying goodbye to your loved ones, holding a child’s hand, lying, saying all that will be well. It’s the sound of ‘I love you’, spoken a hundred ways to a hundred people.
It is the sound of Goblins.
They burst out of the woods around midnight. It’s a terrible wait, knowing they’re coming. When they do come, it’s so quick I can barely shout before the alarm is raised.
But we’re ready. The Goblins falter a second as they see the barricades made from overturned wagons and spikes driven diagonally into the ground. But on they come. A huge Hob is leading them, sword gleaming in the winter moonlight.
And the Goblins are everywhere. I know there are only forty of them, but they stream across the ground like one mass. I can only imagine what it’s like to see all of this and not sense it. I’m standing at the back of the rows of villagers and I think I can hear Wiskeria’s heart stop.
But she doesn’t falter. As the Goblins approach she shouts and the villagers with bows and the Celestial Trackers loose quarrel after quarrel at the Goblins. They’re answered with arrows from the Goblin’s bows, and I hear villagers cry out around me.
“To the rear! More goblins!”
A shout goes up. I can sense the Hobgoblin’s smile, but the trap he’s set with his friend cuts both ways. I hear a wild war cry as Beniar and his Windfrozen Riders charge towards the Goblins trying to attack from behind. I pray for him.
And then the Goblins are here. I hear a voice like gravel shrieking and feel helpless. I have a woodcutter’s axe with me, but I’m to stay behind the fighting. Everyone insisted. Prost told me privately that he thinks the villagers will flee if I’m killed or wounded.
So I wait. And I see it all.
The first group of Goblins doesn’t charge onto the wooden spikes. That would be suicide. They hack at the sharpened points instead, cutting with their weapons and then surge through the gaps, climbing the barricades and fighting with the people jabbing spears and other weapons down at them.
“Celestial Trackers! On me!”
Wiskeria screams and throws glowing blue fire at the nearest Goblins. She and the Celestial Trackers rush forwards. Some hang back, loosing arrows in point-blank archery duels with Goblins.
“For Riverfarm!”
Prost leads the counterattack. He and the villagers keep formation, trying to hold the Goblins at bay. But retreating. The Goblins are expert warriors and they swarm and try to get around the villagers, some going as far as to try and climb the roofs of the houses and leap down on the villagers from above.
“For Laken!”
I hear a different cry, and sense Durene. She’s towering over the other Humans, and the Goblins are reluctant to go near her. She swings her club and they back up. Wiskeria is trading spells with a Goblin in the back wearing war paint—a [Shaman]?
And then I see the huge, fat Goblin towering over the rest. Only it’s not fat, is it? Hobgoblins like this one are round and made of muscle. And he is taller than anyone but Durene. Stronger, too.
The Hob is fighting across from Durene. He’s smashing the wooden barricades, sending villagers tumbling off it and opening a hole with pure brute strength. As I watch, he turns and cuts. One of the Celestial Trackers screams and falls, her hand severed at the wrist.
No. I want to cry out, to rush forward, but the villagers are forming a solid mass between me and the Hobgoblin. I look around—there’s a platform the archers are meant to be using, only this one’s lost its archer. I find a young woman on the ground behind it. Dead. There’s an arrow in her throat.
No time to be sick. No time to cry. I stand on the platform. I can’t use a bow. That’s one of the things sight is essential for. But I can use my voice. So I shout.
“I am Laken Godart, [Emperor] of Riverfarm! You are trespassing on my land! Leave or die!”
I’m shouting right at the Hobgoblin. I know he can hear me. He turns—his eyes are glowing, although in my mind they have no color. I shout.
“Halt!”
For a moment he does. Long enough for a villager to attack him with a pitchfork. But the moment of hesitation isn’t enough for the young man to capitalize on it. The Hobgoblin twists his body and the tines of the pitchfork break on his armor. He slashes—the young man falls.
“I said, halt!”
This time the Hobgoblin gives me a dismissive glance. My voice of command is useless on him. He turns and grins as the Goblins around him shout and drive the villagers back.
Helpless. I feel helpless. Wiskeria is shouting orders and Prost is fighting. Durene swings her mace and Goblins scatter around her. One is too slow. The blow breaks something in the Goblin and it—she—falls.
And I do nothing.
My voice is useless. The Goblins laugh and sneer at my attempts to stop them. I can only shout. My words—
I see them falling. My villagers. They’re being pushed back by the Goblins’ relentless assaults. And their morale is weakening. Already three of the Trackers have fallen. Wiskeria screams as the [Shaman] hits her with a bolt of energy that scorches her shoulder black.
They are my people and I cannot help them. In this moment, I know it. I see a young man with a hoe cutting at a Goblin, and watch as it ducks beneath the blade, snarling, and stabs into his stomach.
His intestines come out. I see the Goblin duck away as he collapses. I know his name.
Calop, the name of a root. He is mine.
Mine. I pulled him from the ground. I saved his life. They can’t take him. He is my subject.
But he fades. I see him sagging, see a young woman clinging to him, trying to pull him up and ward the same Goblin away. He grins and cuts her.
Her name is—is Fulca. I offered her sanctuary. I told her she would be safe.
She falls too. Dying. They’re all dying.
My mouth opens silently. You cannot have them. They are mine. My subjects. My people.
Mine.
I don’t realize that I’ve leapt off the archery tower. I’m standing at the backs of the villagers now, shouting.
“Stand and fight! Don’t retreat! Don’t let th
em advance a single step!”
They hear me. I can see villager’s heads turning, see them struggling harder. But they are mortal and frail. This is all they can do and spirit is—a Goblin guts a young teenage girl, barely older than a child.
It’s not enough. Now I’m screaming at the Goblins, shouting as they laugh in my face.
“You are not worthy of standing on this land. You did not bleed for it. You have not died for it! The people of this village have lived and died here for generations! This is theirs. And mine!”
I point at the Hob. He sees me now and throws a man aside as he cuts towards me.
“I will burn your people to dust. I will hound them from the face of the earth! I swear to you, for every one of my subjects that falls I will take a hundred of your kind as vengeance! I will not let you take this ground!”
There’s fury in my heart. Something bursting in my mind. I feel something ignite. The Hob is coming. I hear Durene’s scream, Prost yelling.
“Kneel, Goblin.”
This time the Hob’s knees buckle. He pauses and when he looks at me, it’s no longer with a smile. He raises his longsword. I have the axe. I raise it.
Someone shoves me aside. The Hob’s sword descends and cuts the young man who gets in the way. Gamel blinks at me as the longsword opens up his chest. I see bloody ribs, see his open mouth.
He falls. The Hob turns to me and Durene bellows a challenge. She roars, hurling villagers and Goblins aside and the Hob backs up.
I don’t see her collide with the Hob. Gamel’s on the ground. He’s trying to tell me something. I tried? Please…?
I can’t hear. I can sense the light leaving him as I try to grip his hand. Not him. I can’t let him go. I can’t.
I won’t.
“Stand up! Don’t die! I said, stand up! Gamel!”
He tries. But there’s nothing left. He’s given it all to me. All. His life fades and I see it flowing out of him. I reach for it. It’s not enough. I want more. I demand more. He cannot die yet.
I will not allow it.
“Stop bleeding. Stop. Stop.”