by Pirateaba
“I know. And I’m so sorry.”
She was here. In that moment, Ilvriss forgot decorum. He forgot his station and his appearance and began crying as if he were a hatchling. And Periss held him as she had never done, but as she would have if he had cried. Ilvriss clung to her, feeling her heartbeat. And he begged the world for this moment to continue, even in his grief. Another second. Another moment.
Please.
“You can’t waste away. You have a future and more importantly, a duty.”
The Lord of the Wall wept into her arms, clutching at her, feeling the realness of her body.
“I know! I know, but I can’t let you go. I can’t continue—”
“Of course you can. And you will.”
Periss gripped him on the arms, hard, looking into his eyes. Ilvriss grasped at her.
“I can’t just forget you and move on. I cannot, Periss. I—”
He couldn’t finish. The weight of moving without her, of waking from this dream and knowing she was gone was too heavy. Periss looked at Ilvriss and sighed, as if he was an idiot. He’d heard that sigh before, too. He’d used to hate it.
“You don’t have to forget me. I’d be insulted if you did. But you have to stand up. Your people need you. I need you.”
I need you. What choice did he have? Ilvriss stood, though the effort cost him more than words could say. He looked into Periss’ eyes, holding her. And in his heart he knew the dream was ending.
But not yet. Please, a moment longer. He had something he had to say. Ilvriss drew Periss closer and kissed her. She wasn’t good at that either. Neither was he, but it was genuine, real. And then he confessed his sins, the weight of his heart.
“I wanted to say sorry. To ask for forgiveness.”
She looked at him and laughed in his face.
“What forgiveness? For sending me after a lone Human girl? That was a sound decision. Although sending all those elites after me wasn’t. You should have kept the rest back so you could defeat Shivertail.”
Ilvriss blinked at her, surprised. But then he laughed too.
“You know what I mean!”
“Maybe I do, but the strategy was sound. And that’s what matters. You couldn’t have known. Now you need to move forwards. You know what the enemy looks like, where he is roughly. You know, and you can protect your people.”
Periss held Ilvriss, pointing towards the map. He looked and saw the undead rising around the Goblin Lord’s army. For the first time, hot fury flickered in his heart, drowning out the sorrow.
Then it faded. Ilvriss looked at Periss and held her tightly. She wasn’t fading or disappearing, but he sensed his time with her was ending.
“Don’t go. I have so much I want to do. So much I want to say.”
She raised one brow at him.
“As fun as it might be, I don’t think this is the right place for a tumble together. Maybe some other time.”
He laughed against his will.
“Will I ever see you again?”
She looked at him tenderly, and one of her claws intertwined with his.
“Maybe. If you have more of that strange drink Erin Solstice gave you, perhaps. But I’ll always be here.”
She pointed to the war map, the living continent of Izril, their home.
“Because that’s what you need to focus on. Not just the southern half. All of it, Ilvriss. And this inn in particular. There’s more for you to see, more to do. I can’t do anything anymore. But you can.”
Ilvriss closed his eyes. The weight of his duties fell upon his shoulders, but this time he could bear it. He had to. He spoke to her, feeling her claws in his.
“I swear I will. I will protect our home. I will find the Necromancer and make him pay. And if the Goblin Lord threatens, I will protect our people. I won’t slip back again Periss. I swear it.”
“Good.”
He felt a kiss. When he opened his eyes, she was gone. But the memory remained. And as Ilvriss turned he opened his eyes—
And woke up. Ilvriss jerked upright at his table, and the nearly-empty mug of Faerie Flower ale tipped over. He grabbed for it and looked around.
It was pitch black in the inn. The fire was ash, and everyone had gone to sleep. Ilvriss stared at the mug, and then clenched his hand. He could still feel her, still hear her voice.
Had it been just a dream? The Human girl, Erin had said—was it magic? A drug? Something more?
It didn’t matter. Ilvriss looked around the room. He was so tired. And then he looked into the mug. There were just dregs left.
Oh well. It would have to do. Ilvriss closed his eyes, and then sat up. He raised his mug and spoke into the silence. His voice echoed in the empty inn, coming back to him.
“To war. War, ever changing, always taking…to war. It’s the Drake way. And I—”
He drank and let the mug fall onto the table. The dream didn’t come back, but he hadn’t really expected it to. Ilvriss looked around, blinked, and then toppled off his seat. He slept on the floor, tears trickling from his eyes. His heart was bitter, sore, and broken. But it was there, and it beat on, reminding him he was alive. Ilvriss slept and whispered her name as the map and colors and the promise of battle whirled in his dreams.
“Periss.”
4.46
When she slept she forgot where she was and what had happened. It was only when she was awake that she remembered. Sleep was her one reprieve. But it was a coward’s way out, so she woke up this morning as the sun hit her face. There was no running from the truth.
A young woman sat up in a tent, her body aching. She was alone. Far from home. For a few seconds, she looked around in the darkness. Then she inspected the restraints on her hands.
No good. They were as secure as they had been yesterday. The young woman thought about gnawing at the raw leather bindings, but gave up the idea. Her captors inspected the cords regularly.
There were no restraints on her legs, though. So the young woman stood up and walked around the tent. She could go to the bathroom so long as she didn’t mind being watched. She could wander around the camp, and run about if she so chose. So long as she didn’t cause trouble she was free.
That freedom would disappear if she tried to escape, though. And while the young woman knew she could run quite fast…no, it was still impossible. She was surrounded by the enemy. If she ran she’d be caught.
The same went for grabbing a weapon. She’d be overwhelmed in a second, and while the idea of going out in a blaze of violence was tempting, it was also wrong. She had to live. The young woman knew that. She had to live. It was her duty.
Still. In the confines of her dark tent, the young woman could tell it was just before dawn. She stretched as best she could with her bound hands, plotting another escape attempt. The guards around the camp were numerous, but if she could get beyond the limits of the camp undetected, and have half an hour’s, no ten minutes’ head start, she might outrun any pursuit.
“To hell with running. If I could fly—”
Osthia Blackwing grunted as she reached to touch her scaly feet with her arms. She twisted and tried to eye the black metal restraints that had been placed over the two leathery wings on her back. It was rather difficult; the young Drake woman couldn’t see that far behind her. Normally she’d use a mirror to inspect her wings for injuries or flaking scales. However, she didn’t have to look to feel the cold metal constricting the movement of her wings. She could move them, but she couldn’t unfurl her wings.
It was agonizing. The Goblins who’d put the bindings on her probably hadn’t any idea of how torturous that binding could be. In fact, they’d been extremely generous to her by the standards of prisoners; she could move about and eat whenever she wanted, she was left by herself unless the Goblin Lord wanted her, and she had her own tent. It was far better than how Drakes treated their captives, and Osthia might have been grateful were it not for her wings.
She longed to move them. It was like having her legs bou
nd or—or having her eyelids forced open. All she wanted to do was flap her wings once. But of course, if she had that opportunity she’d be flying away in an instant.
And the Goblins weren’t fools. If they afforded Osthia small freedoms, well, that was a peculiarity unique to her and only her. There were no other prisoners in the Goblin Lord’s camp. None. They could treat one prisoner well. That she wasn’t being raped or tortured didn’t fool Osthia. She’d seen what the Goblins did to every other enemy soldier they’d captured.
—-
After an hour of stretching and pacing around her tent restlessly, Osthia had to go out. It was that or go insane in the dark tent. She pushed through the dirty flaps of her tent, glancing around in disgust as she did.
The Goblin Lord’s camp was already bustling as the first rays of daylight shone down on the continent of Izril. Osthia looked down rows of orderly tents, which slowly devolved into sleeping bags, and then just small campfires and cleared patches of dirt which Goblins slept around.
Despite the magnitude of the camp—meant to hold tens of thousands of Goblins each night—it was still organized. Central pathways lead into the center of the camp and outwards, giving the streams of thousands of Goblins access to food, places to relieve themselves, social areas where they could squat, poke each other and grunt in their foul language—
Osthia looked around, her face twisted into a scowl of disgust. She would rather be dead than a captive here. But she had no choice. As tempting as it might be to ambush a passing Goblin armed with a knife or sword, Osthia knew she couldn’t die here. She had to survive.
Someone had to live to warn everyone. To tell them that the Goblin Lord was a pawn of Az’kerash, the Necromancer. At least one soldier had to return—few had seen the truth, or realized what it meant. Osthia had witnessed two entire Drake armies eradicated to the last soldier, only the stragglers on the outside escaping to tell of the Goblin Lord’s incredible comeback. But she had been at her uncle’s side. She had stood next to Thrissiam Blackwing and realized the truth.
The Necromancer had created the Goblin Lord. And he was sending his minion to wreak havoc across Invrisil. He had made the Goblin Lord, taught him necromancy, given him orders. It was because of him that two Drake armies had died. Osthia’s stomach tightened at the thought.
Thrissiam Blackwing. Garusa Weatherfur. Two heroes of the Drakes had perished in battle. How long had it been? Weeks? A month?
It felt like yesterday. Osthia could still remember her uncle, Thrissiam, ordering her off the field. She could still see him cutting down the other general, the Gnoll he had loved for a short few days, Garusa, and then falling to the horde of undead. She wondered if he had been torn apart. Sometimes she hoped that was the case.
The undead stood silently at a good distance away from the Goblin Lords’ camp every night. They were always there, no matter where the Goblins travelled. A silent group of tens of thousands of undead, motionless, swaying occasionally in the breeze. Their foul rot was usually too far away to smell, but occasionally a strong breeze would waft the scent of death towards Osthia.
She stood at the edge of camp, ignoring the Goblins passing by who stared at her and pointed, staring at the undead. It was one of her habits. She would stare at the undead, picking out each Drake zombie or ghoul that she could see. Each one she’d search for some clue as to their rank, their identity in life. She’d recognized comrades, officers…but never her uncle. She prayed she never would. Still, if she saw him—it was so tempting to bring him a final peace, even if it meant becoming one of those horrors herself.
No. Osthia looked away fighting down the dark urges again. Duty. As a prisoner she had to cling to her duty. If not, what was the point? So many Drakes had died—she owed them her life. Even if it meant living in this camp another day.
Against her will, her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the requirements for survival. Osthia turned, smelling the Goblin cooking pots hard at work. And realized she had an audience.
A group of tiny Goblins had gathered around the Drake. They were Goblin children. Osthia had never seen a Goblin child before, but she’d learned that was because Goblins were only functionally children for about six months to a year. After that, they could fend for themselves.
Well, Goblin babies learned to walk after about two weeks. After that they shot up in height rapidly. The children who’d gathered around behind Osthia stared at her with keen interest. They were short, unevenly dressed—some were naked—and picked at their noses, leaned on each other, or scratched themselves as they watched her.
“Get lost you little monsters!”
Osthia snapped at them angrily and the Goblin children scattered. A few passing Goblins looked at her warily, but the Drake knew better than to back up her words with any kind of action. And unfortunately, the Goblin children knew it too. As she stomped towards one of the cooking stations they followed her in a mass.
It was a game. They’d gather up behind her, trying to sneak up on Osthia and edging closer and closer. If she didn’t look at them they’d poke her in the leg and then flee. Osthia hated it. She scattered the Goblin children with sharp words as she stomped towards the cooking pots.
Of course, the children weren’t as bad as the adults. The Goblins that were eating breakfast stopped to stare at Osthia. They had no compunctions about staring openly, and several of them nudged each other and pointed at Osthia. The Goblins never got tired of her. Osthia ignored them all and strode up to the front of the line.
“Food.”
She growled at the female Goblin ladling hot soup into bowls. The Goblin woman glared at Osthia and pointed. Back of the line. Osthia knew what she meant without having to interpret the Goblin’s crackling language. She stomped into line and waited, grinding her teeth until she was handed a bowl. When the Goblin filled it, Osthia raised the bowl to her lips and sniffed suspiciously at the broth.
She knew the Goblins ate their own. And worse, that they ate Drakes and other species. If it hadn’t been for the presence of the undead, Osthia would have refused to eat at all for fear of eating Drakes or Gnolls. However, she’d checked and the Goblins had yet to use the meat of people in their broths. Fortunately or unfortunately, their stores were fat from raiding villages and towns, and they had more than enough meat from cows, horses, sheep, and sometimes, Corusdeer.
Not that they generally kept that. Meat was a luxury and day-by-day the Goblins lived on thick, filling soups made of whatever vegetables, grains, and what they had on hand. They seasoned their soups with a tiny bit of whatever meat they had.
At least it was palatable. Osthia grunted as she sipped at her bowl. The Goblin children who’d followed her were now pestering the Goblin server for a second breakfast. Osthia smiled grimly as the Goblin woman chased off the youngsters by smacking them with her serving ladle. Then she finished her soup, gulping down the hot mix and tossing her bowl in a pile with the other empty bowls.
Immediately three children jumped at Osthia’s bowl and fought over it. Because the Drake hadn’t licked it clean like all the other Goblins. She refused to, but the other Goblins left their bowls so clean you could eat your dinner out of them, which usually resulted in them being reused at least twenty times before needing to be washed.
“Disgusting.”
The Drake sneered at the children. It annoyed her she couldn’t apply that word to the soup. The Goblins might be savage monsters, but they had their own [Cooks] and [Stirrers] who could make the soup halfway tasty. The Drake would have died rather than acknowledge that, though. She walked away from the mob of children now fighting for her bowl, ignoring her stomach that protested it wasn’t entirely full yet.
Time to observe. Osthia had no real restrictions in the camp, and so she could wander about. She took advantage of that freedom every day to scout out the Goblin Lord’s army as it moved from place to place. It was probably futile, but Osthia comforted herself in thinking that it might be useful if she managed to escape befo
re the Goblin Lord’s army was destroyed.
Firstly. Organization. The Drake paced through the camp, staring at the lines of tents that had been used to house supplies and bodies. They were all looted from her army’s camps! The Goblins wasted nothing. Indeed, most of the Goblins warriors she passed by were carrying arms made out of Drake steel. Every time she saw a Drake insignia on a scavenged breastplate or helm, Osthia ground her teeth.
It would be so easy to call the Goblins simple thieves and dismiss everything they did, but Osthia was actually bothered by the efficiency of the Goblin Lord’s camp. While his army moved at a snail’s pace, the camp still had to be disassembled and rebuilt every night. And it was, with what was worryingly close to military organization.
The Goblin Lord’s forces were a far cry from an undisciplined Goblin tribe. He had sentries, regular patrols, and latrines! He’d stolen all of these ideas from other races. But that was the Goblin Lord. Osthia knew him better now. He was a thief. He stole everything. And he was terrifying because of that.
A Goblin found her as Osthia was watching a Goblin quartermaster handing out weapons to waiting soldiers. They’d even set up a temporary smithy, where a team of Goblins was crudely repairing holes and damaged armor! Others were coating new armor with a black resin, a sticky substance that gave the Goblin Lords’ forces their distinct black armor.
“Color coordination. Who gave the Goblin Lord the idea to mark his troops with colors? The Necromancer? Ancestors, he’s managed to figure out how to organize them into battalions with officers! Did the Necromancer teach him that too?”
“No. Goblin Lord took idea from Drakes.”
Osthia whirled as a guttural voice spoke behind her. A Hobgoblin grinned at the Drake, a female Goblin wearing steel armor. She had no weapons at her sides, but Osthia recognized her at once. The Hobgoblin was short for a Hob, but her head was unnaturally large. And as she grinned at Osthia, the Drake saw two rows of metal teeth glinting at her.