The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King

by Stuart Thaman

  With a cough comprised of more blood than air, Herod managed a chuckle. “Then do what you want, paladin. I have no heir, but without subjects, the monarchy dies with me in this bed. The Templars will listen to you and Apollonius, of that I have no doubt. When I am dead, you are free to choose your own path.”

  Gideon left the royal bedchamber with a frown. He whispered a prayer to Vrysinoch as he walked down the stone hallway to the throne room and searched the intricate web of magical energy for any hint of an answer. He could detect the ever-present power emanating from the prince’s swords at his bedside, but Vrysinoch was eerily silent.

  A STEADY WIND cut through the half-frozen tree limbs and scattered dead leaves all over the camp. Tongues of orange flame reached into the night sky from the center of a mass of huddled orcs. The ragged standard of the Wolf Jaw Clan flapped against the dark serenity of midnight.

  “I say we kill ‘em,” one of the burly humanoids grunted through a mouth of jagged teeth. The other orcs nodded in agreement and smiled at one another across the fire.

  “Me axe be hungry,” another orc said with anticipation.

  Jurnorgel, the tallest orc of the Wolf Jaw Clan, shook his head and lifted a hand to silence the eager gathering. “Fightin’ now be death,” he cautioned his bloodthirsty kin.

  “Death be what we’re lookin’ for!” an orc holding a long piece of iron chain yelled up at the sky. Jurnorgel reached over the fire and clamped a hand down tightly on the orc’s throat to silence him, lifting him off the ground with ease.

  “Must be quiet now,” Jurnorgel told them in the softest voice he could muster. He pulled the unfortunate orc over the fire with a single powerful tug and shoved the side of his face down into the hot coals. The disobedient soldier tried to scream but Jurnorgel’s powerful hand around his windpipe reduced his cries to nothing more than a whimper. “Minotaurs be all around in these hills, watchin’ us and waitin’ on us to fight. Half Goat Clan is just over that ridge, wantin’ the same blood. I say we wait, Wolf Jaw waits.”

  Jurnorgel stood and tossed the burned orc from his grip like a used piece of firewood and calmly rolled his own wrist across the ground to extinguish the flames on his knuckles and bracer. The burned orc writhed in pain on the ground but didn’t dare to make any sound.

  “How long we wait, chief?” Jurnorgel’s son asked. Kraasghull ran a thick hand through his dirty and matted hair.

  Jurnorgel looked each of the orcs of his band in the eye before responding. “We leave Half Goat alone,” he told them with a grave voice that left no room for argument. “Orc clans come from the mountains now to kill puny humans, not Half Goats. We kill all the humans,” he placed a meaty arm around his son’s back, “then we kill other orcs.”

  Kraasghull nodded and puffed out his chest in an attempt to imitate his father’s strong presence of command. “After Wolf Jaw eats the tiny human clan, we roast Half Goats over fires made from their children’s bones!” The orcs smiled, restraining their war cries, and jumped from foot to foot with their weapons held high. Nothing excited the Wolf Jaw Clan more than the thought of eating Half Goat orcs.

  TALONREND FELT EMPTY. The merchants had deserted Talonrend along with the refugees, sweeping up the poor and rich alike in their exodus. A few families wealthy enough to have stores of food saved in larders under their houses elected to stay behind with the city guard, but even they boarded up their windows and barred their doors.

  Crows and stray dogs ran through the streets and played among the fallen buildings. Rotting remnants of the undead army and bits of fallen soldiers littered the cobblestones at Gideon’s feet. With a hand never far from the hilts of his throwing axes, the tall paladin walked from Castle Talon’s drawbridge toward the city streets. A pair of young soldiers stood anxiously at the foot of the bridge with spears held high, turning to watch Gideon’s approach.

  “How fares the prince?” one of them asked. His voice betrayed his youth and Gideon knew that he must have been freshly recruited out of the militia.

  “Not well,” Gideon replied without slowing his gait. “He may be dead by the morning…” he muttered without care as to who might hear.

  Gideon continued down the empty streets until he reached the brilliant glass door of the Tower of Wings. Weaving a path through the unseen realms of magic, the holy warrior searched for the enchanted lock’s magical signature within his mind and took comfort in the memory of the place. Open, he commanded the lock with a burst of holy energy that caused the symbol of Vrysinoch on his back to flair to life. He could feel heat emanating from the tower but the beautiful glass door did not respond.

  No, thundered Vrysinoch’s voice so forcefully that it nearly knocked Gideon to the ground. His mind was consumed by the resonating power of the word echoing off the walls of his consciousness.

  Regaining his composure and locating the magical lock within his mind once again, Gideon braced himself and ordered the door to open.

  A short pause filled the air with tension before the hidden voice whispered. No, Gideon heard inside his mind. The denial was followed by a hiss and the sound of talons scraping.

  “Vrysinoch…” Gideon clenched his teeth as though the word itself brought pain. “Let me in.” He slammed a heavy fist into the glass door with enough force to shatter it, but succeeded in no more than bruising his hand.

  Why? came the incorporeal response.

  “Vrysinoch… I am your paladin, your chosen warrior… What more can you ask of me?” Gideon begged. Sorrow dripped from his words like blood.

  Souls, Gideon of Talonrend, I hunger for souls. Vrysinoch’s voice hissed with magical influence. Nevidal added its call to the cacophony of scraping talons inside Gideon’s mind from the sheath on his back.

  “How many goblins have I slain in your name? How many men have I killed with your sword?” Gideon demanded with incredulity. “I bear your mark!” he yelled and slammed another fist against the glass door.

  Goblins have no souls, Gideon, Vrysinoch cackled with an avian hiss. It is your soul that I long to taste.

  The strong paladin hung his head in defeat and slumped his back against the beautiful glass door. “You have already taken so much…” he mouthed. Without another sound, Vrysinoch’s divine presence fled his mind and left him with a profound sense of emptiness.

  “Sir?” an old, familiar voice called to Gideon from behind. “I heard you pounding on the door…”

  Gideon rose to his feet and turned, bearing a grin at the sight of his friend. “Asterion!” the paladin nearly shouted. He reached a hand out to greet the priest as he walked through the open glass door into the tower’s foyer. “It seems I can no longer open this door on my own.”

  “That’s what old friends are for, Gideon.” Asterion waved an arm around the quiet foyer to indicate their solitude. “It seems that now, more than ever, allies are a hard commodity to find.” The priest let out a long sigh and shook his wrinkled head. “Most of the others have already left.”

  “How many still remain, Asterion?” Gideon asked as he moved around the spectacularly decorated room. Marble and glass statues of Vrysinoch were scattered throughout the space in a circular pattern, standing guard in front of epic portraits depicting the winged god doing battle against all manner of evil creatures.

  Asterion paused for a moment and scratched his head. “The Archbishop is still here, locked away in his room like a madman,” he said grimly with a nod toward the ceiling. “And two of the devotees have elected to stay. I dare say that I am the only priest left in Talonrend.”

  “The people need you now more than ever, I would think,” Gideon replied with an edge of contempt creeping into his voice. “When did everyone leave?”

  “The Archbishop ordered us to lock the doors as soon as the goblin horde arrived. The paladins were told to stand down.” Asterion placed a hand on Gideon’s shoulder and gazed up at the painted ceiling. “After the battle, your brothers fled. Most of them went ahead of the refugees on the road
to the Green City, but some of them travelled east in search of vengeance against the goblins. The priests went with them, for the most part. Some returned to the villages along the Clawflow and others simply vanished.”

  “Damn the Archbishop!” Gideon roared. “Think of the lives he could have saved! The wounded soldiers had nowhere to turn. Their prayers of healing could have spared the lives of hundreds, if not thousands.” Gideon’s rage boiled over and he ripped a throwing axe from his belt. The likenesses of Vrysinoch all over the room glared at him and taunted his anger. With one swing, Gideon shattered the top of the nearest statue. “The paladins could have held the field for days, even against a horde like that. The militia wouldn’t have been forced to retreat inside the walls. Talonrend wouldn’t have fallen into their trap.”

  Bits of marble flew from a carved pedestal as Gideon shattered another image of his god. “I know,” Asterion spoke softly. “The Archbishop won’t allow any of us to aid what he calls an illegitimate ruler. With no corpse to prove that King Lucius is dead, the Archbishop will not support Prince Herod. He would rather watch this city die than go against the laws of the monarchy.”

  “Suddenly I remember why I left this awful place,” Gideon sneered sarcastically. “Why are you still here?”

  Asterion smiled weakly and shrugged. “I have no idea,” he muttered. “I guess I just didn’t know where to go. I saw no point in fleeing with my tail between my legs like a beaten dog. Who knows, maybe I’ll join the city guard,” Asterion jested. The plain brown robe concealing his frail body shook as the old man laughed at his own joke.

  “As good a reason as any,” Gideon said as he moved toward the staircase ascending into the tower.

  “I do not know why you have returned here, Gideon,” Asterion stated solemnly. “Do not make me regret opening that door.”

  Gideon nodded once before climbing the stairs.

  SNARLSNOUT THE GLUTTONOUS, a massive orc with a wiry white beard covering his tremendous waves of naked fat, sat upon a dais of carved stone. The crisp morning air brought crystals of frost to his labored breathing and a smile to his hideous visage. Snarlsnout watched as two simple-minded orcs used their war clubs to smash a chunk of rancid meat into a slimy pulp that the chieftain could slurp past his toothless gums.

  The slaves, castrated orcs shackled to the stone dais, offered the runny meat to Snarlsnout in wooden bowls one after another until the entire liquid breakfast was devoured.

  Flapping high above his head, the ragged standard of the Half Goat Clan greeted the cresting sun. Snarlsnout clutched an old horn in one of his gout-ridden hands and blew the call to assemble. Within minutes, several hundred orcs stood at attention before the stone platform with their weapons held ready.

  “Today,” Snarlsnout struggled to shout above the clan. “We rid ourselves of the plague!” His slurred voice echoed over the assembled orcs as it had done every morning for nearly a hundred years. “The Wolf Jaw cowards,” he continued over the sounds of violent cheering, “are just beyond that ridge.” Snarlsnout tried to lift an arm high enough to point but found once again that his immense weight made the mundane task impossible.

  “We wait until they march,” Snarlsnout commanded his clan. “Then we descend upon them with a storm of death unlike anything they have ever known!” The gouty chieftain’s eloquent speech was lost on the majority of his dim-witted subjects, but still they roared to life. “Half Goats kill Wolf Jaws!” Snarlsnout whipped their furor into a blood rage. “Half Goats kill everything!”

  Banners adorned with goat skulls and bloodstained furs flew through the air. Snarlsnout looked on with amusement as two brawny soldiers near the front of the assembly were consumed by excitement. It didn’t take long for a brawl to leave one of them dead.

  Fifty chained and castrated orc slaves rushed to the dais and lifted the chieftain into the air on their hunched and scarred shoulders. Snarlsnout used a large stick to guide his unfortunate bearers through the crowd of Half Goat orcs. Everywhere he passed, orc warriors sang the chieftain’s praises and worshipped him like a god. A hearty laugh rumbled up from beneath Snarlsnout’s overwhelming layers of fat that served as his prison and his home.

  An hour later, the Half Goat Clan neared the Wolf Jaw orcs marching ahead of them through the frozen valley. The ground was hard beneath their feet, but the heavy snows of winter were still far away in the desolate mountains.

  “Orders, chief? Attack?” Snarlsnout’s most trusted general asked with a booming voice. The simple question twisted the general’s face into a pained expression of profound stupidity. Stringing more than two words together to form a sentence was a task not often asked of the burly orc and it confused his head.

  “Send the first wave, Gurr,” Snarlsnout said after a brief moment of pondering. “Just arrows at first,” the massive orc mused. “Wait until they turn around to charge. I want them to see us coming!”

  Gurr stood motionless for several minutes, processing the information and weaving his uneasy mind around the words. Eventually, confusion yielded to vague understanding and Gurr smiled at his leader. “Fear!” he shouted with a pounding of his chest.

  The brave general turned to the army at his heels and raised a flowing standard. The columns abruptly halted and waited for the next command. Scratching his bare chin, Gurr looked through a sack full of brightly colored banners for the one indicating the appropriate tactic.

  “Arrows first, Gurr, then the charge…” Snarlsnout reminded him softly.

  With mounting frustration, Gurr howled to himself and grabbed the largest banner from the bag with a meaty hand. He waved it wildly above his head with shouts of unabashed glee before tossing it to the ground and drawing his sword. The orc clan burst into action and fell into step behind the charging general.

  “I’m not sure why I bother bringing the other flags,” Snarlsnout coughed to himself through pained laughter. “Gurr only recognizes the one for a full charge anyway. Perhaps that is what makes him such a fine general. The Wolf Jaw Clan will never suspect another full charge, not after the last twenty-eight times Gurr has ordered it.”

  Half Goat orcs swarmed past the elevated stone dais like flies around a carcass. Snarlsnout looked on with pleasure as his subjects flooded the frosted valley laid out before him. The speedy Gurr was so far ahead of the charging horde that Snarlsnout could see his individual shape reach the rear of the Wolf Jaw column. The enemy orcs quickly turned and surrounded the lone fighter, but it was a scene the chieftain has witnessed many times before. At the end of the battle, Gurr would come limping back triumphantly with a large sack of bloody heads slung over his shoulder. Of that, Snarlsnout the Gluttonous was certain.

  STEAMING BLOOD FLOWED freely from both Wolf Jaw and Half Goat orcs alike. The crisp layer of frost coating the valley floor quickly turned to slick brown slush that made the field of battle treacherously unstable.

  Howls of rage echoed through the valley, Gurr’s voice loudest among them. The slow-witted orc general cleaved his heavy sword in wide arcs before him, tearing chunks of blood and gore free from the bellies of those closest to him. A javelin, weighted on the back side and designed to slow and maim, ripped through the leather jerkin covering Gurr’s chest. The sharp metal point exited his left shoulder with a spray of blood that would have killed a lesser being. Gurr fell to his knees.

  The missile weighed twice as much the orc’s sword and was covered with vicious barbs that tore Gurr’s muscle as he squirmed. Grunting from the effort, he grasped the wooden shaft of the weapon in his huge right hand and yanked hard on it, shredding his shoulder in the process.

  The left side of Gurr’s body began to numb. Whether from blood loss or pain, Gurr didn’t care. A sinister smile creased his face when the javelin fell to the ground with a thud. Numbness was good, Gurr knew. Numbness took away fear. Numbness killed enemies.

  A few strides in front of Gurr, an orc slashed wildly with a scythe at a brawny, spear-wielding brute, poking and prodding the lar
ger warrior without attempting to close the gap. Gurr’s tight hand wrapped around the scythe-wielder’s throat with such intensity that the orc dropped his weapon and tried to scream. He shook the lesser beast and threw him to the ground like one of his used mates and charged. Terror played out on the bigger orc’s twisted face. The general’s bloody fist crashed into the Half Goat emblem painted on the stunned orc’s armor.

  Allegiances were meaningless to Gurr. If the general had an appetite to kill, which he most certainly had, every living thing in his sight had good cause to run. The orc’s ribs bent and snapped under the weight of Gurr’s punch and the Half Goat soldier fell before the rage, adding another nameless body to the wake of death.

  Hefting his sword above his head with one mighty hand, Gurr surveyed the field for the next closest target. Within moments, a trio of axe-wielding orcs were scattered into pieces at Gurr’s feet. He wiped the spattered gore from his face with the back of his wrist, tasted the potent viscera with a smile, and rushed deeper into the sounds of chaos.

  “FILTHY CUR,” JURNORGEL muttered to himself as he watched his clan in battle. A defensive ring of guards had been set up around the chieftain and his most powerful ally, a half-blooded shaman without a name.

  “These dogs attack the wrong clan!” he yelled through the tumult around him. His guards shifted nervously back and forth. They were outnumbered and hard pressed. “Wolves kill dogs…”

  “Shall I turn back this vile tide, my lord?” the shaman asked in a quiet voice laced with a thick accent from some distant land. The half-orc was short and lean compared to his purebred associates but more feared than anyone in the clan. Orcs born with the gift of magic were rare, but every clan had at least one dedicated shaman that could heal their wounds after battle.

  The shaman had appeared without warning one night shortly after a goblin emissary had rallied the clan. He spoke the guttural orc language flawlessly, but with a refined dignity so unnatural to the brutes that it made them uneasy.