The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King

by Stuart Thaman

  “Hurt them, shaman, but do not kill them,” Jurnorgel commanded. “If we are going to take the human city, we need more orcs than just one clan. Turn them back.”

  From their position atop a small crest near the end of the frosted valley, Jurnorgel and the shaman watched the carnage. Battle lines quickly dissolved into a wild fray and the ranks were consumed by more fist fights than actual combat.

  Lowering his head and closing his hands tightly about his staff, the peculiar half-orc uttered a stream of arcane words that melted the light snow drifting into his breath. Like someone blowing out a candle, the world darkened with sudden and terrifying speed. A heavy mist descended on the orcs, deadening their sounds and making their hands clammy with humidity.

  The shaman fell to his knees clutching his staff, never opening his eyes, and uttered one final word that sent a shockwave through the valley. A roiling cascade of dirt sped through the battlefield and knocked down every combatant it touched. Attempting to rise, the orcs found the mist stifling and debilitating. A thick curtain of humid fog stole their breath and felt like heavy chains weighing down their arms.

  Though many tried, no screams rose up into the magical darkness. The faint sounds of metal scraping against the ground could be heard as soldiers dropped their weapons, but all of it sounded distant and barely relevant, like a voice at the edge of awareness quickly fading.

  The valley was dark and still as death.

  Unaffected by the spell, the shaman rose to his feet and tossed his staff playfully from one hand to the other. “Be prepared to order a retreat, great chieftain. There is no honor in killing the Half Goat Clan whilst they struggle to breathe.” The half-blooded creature smirked and twirled his wooden staff high above his head. With a great sweeping motion more for show than effect, he slammed the staff into the ground. At once, all of the screams that had been suffocated by the magical mist tore through the valley in a piercing wail and were sucked into the half-orc’s staff.

  “There…” the shaman chuckled. “All better.”

  War horns sounded from both ends of the valley as the terrified orcs scrambled to their feet. Both clans rushed to their leaders for instruction, still thirsty for blood, but unsure what it would cost.

  All the while the shaman laughed to himself and mindlessly twirled his staff.

  THE TOWER OF Wings held an eerie sense of solitude and despair despite the bright sunshine reflecting off of the glass walls. The spiral staircase, carved from brilliant marble and adorned with gold filigree, was shrouded in gloom. The tower’s living magic was said to be a result of the resident’s holiness, an active reflection of Talonrend’s devotion to their winged god. With almost everyone gone, the air inside was stagnant and tasted of stale emptiness.

  Gideon reached the landing that housed most of the tower’s sleeping quarters and pushed the door open with ease. The common area that connected the individual chambers was quiet and dark. Gideon whispered the words of his favorite cantrip and summoned a magical bird to illuminate the room. A thick layer of dust covered the bookshelves and old sheets were draped over the chairs and couches.

  Without giving much attention to the abandoned common room, Gideon went directly to his former living quarters and opened the locked door with a slam from his shoulder. A small cot rested vertically against the far wall and stacks of books covered the floor. The paladin dropped to his knees, scattered the books with a sweep of his hand, and drew an axe from his belt. It didn’t take long for Gideon to rip up a small section of the wooden floorboards and find his hidden stash.

  Everything was just as he left it. Gideon took a small package wrapped in red silk out from the cubby and left the room without repairing the damage to the floor.

  Asterion, reading while reclining in a soft chair, didn’t bother saying goodbye to the paladin as he exited the tower and strode toward Castle Talon.

  The soldiers standing watch behind the crenellations nodded as Gideon pushed through the enchanted doors of the keep. He went quickly to a side door off of the throne room that led to the dungeon beneath the castle. The torture chamber buried within the thick walls of Terror’s Lament typically housed common criminals and prisoners delivered from villages along the Clawflow. Castle Talon’s own dungeon was reserved for traitors and other high profile prisoners, such as Gravlox and Vorst.

  Gideon grabbed a lit torch from a wall and held it in front of him. The goblins sat in their cramped cells and stared at the metal bars with visible resignation. The one-armed prisoner was lying vertically against his cell walls with his head wedged painfully between the bottoms of two bars.

  “Gravlox,” Gideon whispered to the goblin quietly enough to not disturb the sleeping lunatic a few feet away. “Gravlox,” he whispered again and rattled the bars. “Wake up.”

  The shaman lifted his head and brought his eyes up from the floor.

  “Goblins don’t sleep,” Vorst said from another cell. “Gravlox is… resting,” she decided after a pause.

  “Gravlox,” Gideon began again with the shaman’s attentions. “I have something for you.” He slipped the red cloth package through the bars and nearly dropped it when the one-armed prisoner made a groan in his sleep.

  “Thank you,” Gravlox managed to say with his poor knowledge of the human language.

  “What is it?” Vorst asked, pressing her face against the bars to get a better view.

  Gideon pulled back the silk and placed a small metal hoop in the shaman’s outstretched hand. “I wore it on my arm when I was in training at the tower.” He let go of the enchanted metal and took a step back from the prison cell. “The younger paladins use them as armbands to help hone their magical abilities. For you, it might work as a circlet.” Gideon couldn’t help but chuckle as Vorst told Gravlox what to do. The one-armed man stirred slightly in his sleep and fell over into a pile of his own filth.

  “The energy imbued into the steel amplifies a paladin’s ability to navigate the world of magic. I thought it might help you control your own abilities.” Gideon looked to Vorst for a translation, but it was clear from the expression on the shaman’s face that he understood the purpose of the item as soon as he touched it.

  “What do you feel?” Vorst asked in her high-pitched voice. She stared in wonder as the shaman placed the circlet above his ears. Gravlox flexed his arms as though he had somehow grown suddenly stronger. His eyes rolled back in his head and he clutched at a metal bar for support.

  Gideon took a cautious step backward and the hilt of his sword hit the carved stone wall. “Be careful…” he murmured, but he knew Gravlox could not understand.

  “Grav, you need to take it off!” Vorst shouted, awakening the other prisoner. Visible streaks of power emanated from Gravlox’s fingertips as he swayed back and forth. Gripping the metal cell door hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Gravlox wrenched the bars free from the floor and ceiling and hoisted the heavy door above his head.

  The iron bars clanged to the ground like thunder and the one-armed prisoner began to shout. “Someone must have heard that,” Gideon growled as he peered up the dank staircase. “We need to run!”

  Gravlox ripped the iron door from Vorst’s cell with similar ease and the three of them bounded up the staircase. The old man yelled and howled a stream of incoherent curses and exclamations behind them.

  A guard, wearing a leather jerkin denoting his position, was waiting for the three with his sword drawn at the top of the stairs. “Back off!” Gideon yelled to him without slowing his pace.

  The soldier, clearly confused, lowered his sword but did not get out of the way. Gideon’s fist slammed into the man’s gut and doubled him over. The paladin pointed to the front entrance of Castle Talon and told the goblins to run.

  The gasping soldier managed to choke out a scream before Gideon hit him squarely in the back of the head and sent him to the ground. By the time the three made it to the front entrance, the drawbridge was being raised and shouts of alarm came from every direction.


  Gravlox glanced over his shoulder for advice but Gideon continued to wave him forward. They burst from the keep followed by shouts and the thrumming of several crossbows. The bolts were hastily fired and none of them landed close to the running escapees. The drawbridge was a quarter of the way up when Vorst leapt from the edge. Gravlox and Gideon followed quickly behind Vorst and landed in a pile on the stone walkway beyond the moat.

  “Come on!” Gideon roared as he untangled himself. The three were on their feet and running before the soldiers could fire a second volley.

  With the drawbridge raised, it didn’t take long for Gideon and the two goblins to put sufficient distance between themselves and any pursuit that might follow.

  “Why did you do that?” Vorst asked when they finally sat down in a cramped alleyway between two brothels.

  Gravlox shook his head and looked at his hands. Gideon plucked the circlet from the shaman’s head and handed it to him, motioning that he should not wear it unless he needs to.

  Vorst looked up to Gideon with despair etched onto her pale face. “Grav could have gotten us out before. I felt it…” she trailed off. “I told him not to do it. Now we are escaped prisoners.” She buried her head in her hands. “They will hunt us now. We have broken their trust.”

  Gideon couldn’t find any words sufficient to ease her sorrow. They would be hunted, he knew. Any chance of getting Herod accepting the goblin pair into the city was surely destroyed. “Well?” he said, “whatever happens, I owe you two my life. I will help you as best I can, but we may need to leave the city.”

  Running his hands along the smooth enchanted metal of the circlet, Gravlox let his gaze fall on each of them. His face showed nothing but anger and resolution. “I will not be controlled,” he spoke in his native tongue. “Not by Lady Scrapple, not by any human prince, and certainly not by a metal cage buried beneath a castle.”

  The expression on Vorst’s face was enough to tell Gideon what the shaman was saying. Vorst placed a hand on Gravlox’s shoulder and a long moment passed before anyone spoke.

  “Talonrend can expect another attack,” Gideon said evenly. “I do not think it will be immediate, but it is coming.”

  Vorst nodded and considered the short amount of time it would require for Lady Scrapple to replace her army. “We need to find a way to stop it,” she decided. “Perhaps even kill Lady Scrapple.”

  Gravlox stood and brushed the dirt from his leather skirt. “The mountain will be in disarray, at least for now. If we move quickly, we might be able to return unseen.” Vorst translated the plan for Gideon but it was obvious that she disagreed with it.

  “Grav…” she muttered, ashamed of her lack of control. “I can’t go back to the mountain. If I get that close to her…” Her voice trailed off and Gravlox knew she was right. Returning to Kanebullar Mountain with Vorst was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

  “If I go to the mountain,” Gideon suggested with a flex of his hand, sensing Vorst’s apprehension, “I can kill her. Just give me a map or something and I will handle it.”

  Gravlox shook his head.

  “Your sword,” Vorst said, pointing to the hilt resting behind the paladin’s head. “It doesn’t work with goblins, remember? How many goblins did you kill without returning to your normal size?” It was a question Gideon didn’t want to answer.

  “Lady Scrapple has no soul?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment.

  “I don’t know,” Vorst replied. “But something must be done before her army returns.” Her tone was grave and serious, but not without hope.

  Gideon scoffed and gestured to Terror’s Lament towering high above the city. “These walls held before, they will hold again,” he said.

  “The first battle was likely a test of the city’s defenses,” Vorst stated. “Remember the balloons? When they come again, Lady Scrapple will bring more flying machines, blasting oils from the mines, catapults and trebuchets to tear down the walls. She will not make the same mistake again, no matter how expendable the soldiers may be.”

  Gideon thought for a moment how he would attempt to lead an army against the heavily fortified city, but came up with nothing. “What about others?” he wondered aloud after some time. “Do the goblins have any allies that would join in the battle?”

  Vorst shook her head. “There are no other goblins,” she said with a pained expression. “Lady Scrapple’s goblins. Us,” she pointed to Gravlox tentatively, “we can’t survive on our own.”

  “What about outsiders?” Gideon gestured toward the mountain range lowing to the north. “Other things live in the wilds besides goblins.”

  “Possibly,” Vorst mused. “I have never heard of any such alliances existing, but that certainly does not make it impossible. There are hordes of orcs and other beasts in those mountains that would love to see this city fall.”

  “So what do we do?” Gravlox asked after Vorst translated the conversation for him.

  Gideon rubbed his hands together and turned his gaze back upon the tower at the center of Talonrend. “We need information, that much is clear,” he said without looking back to the goblins. “I might know where we can find some of our answers.” He motioned for the two goblins to keep close to the walls of the nearby buildings and exited the alley in the direction of the tower. With so many refugees already on the road outside Talonrend, it didn’t require much stealth for the goblins to move through the streets of Talonrend unnoticed.

  AREON, ONE OF the two devotees who choose to stay in the Tower of Wings after the exodus, knelt next to Prince Herod’s body and listened for the man’s breath. “He is still alive,” the young priest said through a mask of white silk. “Though I have no clue as to how long he will live.”

  Apollonius watched the devotee dab some of the sweat from Herod’s brow with a rag. “What is it that ails him? Is there a cure?” he asked with desperation.

  “If I knew the answer to either of those questions, wouldn’t the prince be healthy by now?” Areon snapped. He rolled the prince from side to side in the bed to remove the sweat-soaked sheets and replace them with fresh linen.

  “I only meant,” Apollonius started with frustration, “is it some disease? An infection? Do you know anything?”

  Areon let out a long sigh and stood straight to look Apollonius in the eyes. “I doubt that it is contagious,” he patted his mask with a thoughtful finger, “but I would rather not take any chances. If it was an infection, he would either be dead or better by now. My best guess is magic, although none of my prayers have shown any power to heal him.”

  The soldier regarded Areon with a scrutinizing expression. “Have any of the other wounded shown similar ailments?”

  “I would not know,” Areon stated coldly as he began to leave the prince’s bedchamber. “The two of us devotees who stayed long enough to see the end of the fight are students of Asterion, a battle priest. All of the real healers left with the paladins or the refugees. I’m afraid that most of the wounded were treated only by conventional methods.”

  Apollonius balled his fists suppressing the urge to scream at the devotee, but couldn’t find any words to adequately describe how he felt. Areon looked to the prince and frowned once more before leaving.

  THE LONG TRAIN of refugees moved slower every day. Cold air froze the ground and hints of snowflakes danced in Seamus’ foggy breath. His scarf was pulled tightly around his mouth and nose in a poor attempt to keep his lips from cracking. The group had caught up with a small band of paladins who had stopped to bury one of their brethren. A sickness was spreading through the refugees that had many of them throwing up throughout the night and dead on their feet.

  The trail, if it could be called such a thing, was covered in rocks and wild plants that tangled the wheels on their wagons and caused more than a few of the mules to fall from broken ankles.

  “I thought we would at least see something by now,” Seamus murmured under his scarf. “There won’t be any of us left at this rate.
” Squirt padded alongside the older man, but was too sick to ask questions. His eyes were halfway glazed as he stared blankly at the path under his feet. Food was running low and children too young to help carry supplies were given the least of what remained.

  A paladin, Corvus by name, trudged next to Seamus with a bulging pack strapped to his shoulders. “Our histories say that it took months for the settlers from the Green City to get to Talonrend,” the warrior stated with a lack of emotion as though he were identifying the color of the sky.

  “Yeah, but they didn’t know where they were going,” Seamus retorted. He tried to sound confident but the wind and the cold stole the strength of his words.

  “They were also plagued by all manner of creatures and suffered hundreds of casualties along the way,” the paladin recounted.

  Seamus stopped in his path and rubbed the top of his head. His legs were sore and the bottoms of his feet were plagued with blisters. “Maybe we should never ‘ave left…” he lamented. Squirt collapsed behind him with a thud but no one had the strength to help him back to his feet. Maybe one of the paladins further down the trail would help the poor boy. Maybe not.

  The column halted with the onset of dusk, and fires were lit to cook what remained of the mules and other animals that had perished. Corvus climbed to the top of a wagon with a bowl of hot broth and attempted to keep watch. Weariness made his eyes tired, and the glare from the cooking fires made it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the circled wagons. Sleep quickly overcame him.

  Seamus tossed and turned on the hard ground. His sheepskin blanket kept him warm but did nothing to ease his aching back. He watched as Corvus’ bowl tumbled from his sleeping hands and knew that he should either rouse the paladin or keep watch himself, but Seamus couldn’t find the energy to move. There were other paladins spread out among the long line of refugees. Surely, Seamus thought to himself, one of them would raise the alarm if the camp came under attack. Let the tired paladin sleep.