At the city guard's armory, the rescued paladins had gathered with the remaining Templars and militia to discuss the defense of the city. Their patrols were spread thin, but the Templars managed to find enough men to reinforce the western portion of Terror's Lament, a section of wall they had all believed safe just a day earlier. Everywhere he looked, Gideon found soldiers oiling their armor, sharpening blades, and making repairs to their gear. There was an air of easiness and camaraderie in the armory, but he could practically taste the coming war.
As it turned out, Gideon's reputation was not the only one that had spread among the military. The returned paladins had told almost everyone of the heroic exploits of the goblin pair that walked among their midst. Several of the guardsmen went up to Gravlox and offered to shake his hand, a gesture he didn't understand but returned nonetheless.
My magic is gone, Gravlox tapped against Vorst's palm as they walked. I'm not a good fighter without it.
I know, was all Vorst curtly responded. She walked ahead of him with her head tilted just barely higher than usual. Gravlox had never been shunned by a female before and the strange feeling hurt. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, but he pushed them away.
Gideon led them to a storeroom at the back of the armory compound the held rations and proper traveling gear. After a moment, he had a large pack full of enough supplies to last several weeks assembled and strapped to his back. Without Nevidal encumbering his entire torso, Gideon felt he could easily fight without having to abandon the supplies.
One of the younger militiamen that had been watching Gravlox with awe stepped into the storeroom and spoke. “Gideon,” he stammered, “I mean... Sir.”
Gideon laughed and addressed the younger soldier. “What is it?”
“Well, it’s just that...”
“Out with it!” Gideon sarcastically chided to ease the tension.
“I have something that might help them,” he blurted out, awkwardly pointing to the two goblins. The guard motioned for the three to stay where they were and ran off.
A short moment later he returned, panting and clutching several items inside a blanket. “I salvaged these from the battlefield,” he said with a bit of pride. Gideon knew the man intended to keep the goblin items as trophies, but it didn't matter. They could use whatever help they could get.
The man unrolled his blanket and revealed several goblin swords, a pair of goblin daggers, a crude looking mace, and several pieces of leather armor that looked to be in decent condition.
Immediately, Gravlox found a leather breastplate that fit him well and picked up one of the swords. It was heavier than he was used to, but the hilt fit nicely in his small hand and he knew it was the best weapon he was likely to find. Vorst put two of the daggers through her belt and tied a goblin sword to the inside of her leather vest.
“I can shoot,” she said, miming the motion of an archer pulling a bowstring.
Gideon searched the storeroom for a bow but only found longbows designed for hunting and target practice. Vorst was far too small of stature to wield a bow made for a human male.
“I can get you a bow,” Gideon reassured her. Although he didn't enjoy the notion of returning to Master Brenning's forge, he knew he would find a bow small enough for a goblin.
Gideon and the two goblins thanked the young soldier and set out into the empty streets once again. On their way to Dragon's Breath Armory, they only crossed by a handful of guards, all of which respectfully nodded and saluted Gideon.
Master Brenning's forge was a colossal building, just as Gideon remembered from his days as an apprentice. Four towering chimneys marked the corners of the forge, but only one of them puffed black smoke into the air. Gideon opened the door and let the familiar heat and smell of the place wash over him.
“Smells like the mines,” Gravlox remarked quietly. It was a smell he had known all of his life, but not one he had particularly missed.
Less than a dozen smiths remained at Dragon's Breath Armory and that stark fact shook Gideon to his bones. The fall of Talonrend was something Gideon thought he could learn to accept. All kingdoms rise and all kingdoms fall. In a thousand years, the story of Talonrend would be confined to a few short pages in a history book. Looking at the three cold forges in the large room was like staring at Master Brenning's headstone. When Gideon did his apprenticeship at Dragon's Breath Armory, there were so many smiths that he would often have to wait in a long line just to get access to an anvil to pound out a piece of iron.
Gideon sighed and walked to the back corner of the first floor where most of the ranged weapons were made. Hand crossbows were not commonly crafted by the smiths of such a legendary forge, but they did occasionally make ornamental and ceremonial pieces favored by the wealthy. Gideon found a small hand crossbow hanging from a peg above one of the cold forges and took it down for inspection. The string was made of loosely wound cotton and designed exclusively for appearances. Gideon ripped the cotton string from the weapon and searched through a cabinet of tools until he found a wax and sinew string that he could cut down to fit the smaller frame.
When the alteration had been finished, Gideon tested the hand crossbow and showed Vorst how to operate it. Using a small brass crank of the left side of the weapon, she could easily pull the string back and an automatic latching mechanism would trip, locking the string into place while simultaneously lifting a bolt from a box underneath the bow and placing it in the track. With one pull of the ornate trigger, the hand crossbow fired a metal-tipped bolt forcefully enough to puncture most armor. Gideon pulled a quiver of two dozen bolts from the cabinet and fit it snugly over Vorst's shoulder.
The few smiths that remained in the building watched Gideon and the goblins carefully, but none of them said a word. As the three were about to leave, Gideon thought of returning to the Blood Foundry where Nevidal had been magically entwined with his life essence. It wasn’t far from him, only several flights of stairs beneath the ground floor, but it only took a moment for Gideon to realize that returning there would be pointless. Regardless of what immensely powerful weapons Master Brenning might have left there before his untimely death, Vrysinoch would surely prevent Gideon from wielding them.
With a shake of his head and scratch of his thick beard, Gideon led the small group out of the Dragon’s Breath Forge. “Get some sleep,” he told Vorst and Gravlox. “We leave in the morning for Kanebullar Mountain.”
“We don’t sleep…” Vorst replied, but she didn’t bother explaining her goblin physiology. “We will meet you one street before the gatehouse,” she said.
Gideon nodded and walked off through the empty streets of Talonrend toward the guard house to find a bunk for the night.
QUL RECLINED ON a soft heap of cushions and pried a female orc from his naked chest. Several orc women, slaves given to him by the two clans as tribute, were scattered about the lavish tent in various states of abuse and disregard. The minotaur king moved around the tent with all the confidence and authority of a god mingling with his supplicants. He dressed in his battle gear and strapped his two metal poles across his back. His black plate armor weighed nearly four thousand pounds, but Qul had trained relentlessly for combat. During the two decades he spent as a royal guard for the previous king, he would train every morning by attaching ropes to his waist and tying the ends to a heavy log. Weighted down, he would run through the cave systems for several hours before joining the other royal guards for half a day of intense combat training.
One night, when Qul thought himself strong enough to lead the clan, he snuck into the previous king’s cavern to facilitate his ascension. Instead of murdering the royal family while they slept as was customary, Qul bellowed, issuing his challenge. Once all five members of the family had been aroused, Qul gave them time to arm themselves before the slaughter began. Even against five, Qul was hardly tested. He was proclaimed king of the minotaur clan within an hour.
The morning sun glinted against the heavy plates of Qul’s armor. His
royal compound, a set of six tents arranged in a square with guards positioned around the border, smelled of roasting meat and freshly brewed mead.
A smaller minotaur, not that any member of the clan was larger than Qul, brought the king a large bowl of hearty stew and a barrel of mead large enough for a human to use for bathing. The minotaur king enjoyed eating in the open. The strong sun burned his cave-attuned eyes, but he could look upon his entire clan. Cook fires trailed lazy streaks of smoke into the air as the camp collectively awoke. It was a marvelous sight, and Qul relished the glory of being their leader. The minotaur clan, the only band of such creatures known to exist anywhere within a thousand miles of Talonrend, had not marched to war for centuries. Their last campaign, several decades before Qul was born, had been against a rival clan of orcs that had overstepped their bounds. The Falling Star Clan, responsible for several nighttime raids upon the minotaur livestock and food stores, had been completely and utterly annihilated. It had taken over two years of military campaigning, but the very last survivor of the Falling Stars had been hunted and eventually executed.
Qul loved the finality of war. Eradicating the previous royal family had been the most exhilarating experience of his life. In a single battle, he had single-handedly ended a family. One hereditary line had been extinguished by his hand and that fact filled Qul with violent pride. In this war with the humans of Talonrend, he promised himself and his clan that he would extinguish hundreds of family lines, if not thousands. Qul knew there would only be one battle. Minotaurs were not likely to dig in for a siege, and Qul was intent on taking the city in a single afternoon. With the help of a hundred or so winged demons, his fearless warriors would be ferried over the high walls of Talonrend where they would slaughter and pillage until nothing remained.
When he had finished his meal, Qul swept open the flap to the tent that housed his throne and maps. The royal seat, a colossal structure crafted from the bones and skulls of other humanoid races, was surrounded by several of Qul’s most trusted battle advisers. The generals welcomed their king with low bows and words of praise. A map was laid out on a wooden table in front of the throne depicting Talonrend and the surrounding hills. Qul took his seat on the throne and commenced the war council with a thump of his fist.
Undrakk, the mysterious half-orc shaman, was the first to speak. “The combined armies will move slowly,” he explained, leaning against his staff in the corner of the tent. “It will take four more days to reach the city walls. On the final approach, we need to wait until darkness. They know we are coming, but we might as well retain what advantage we can.”
The gathered minotaurs nodded in agreement. Qul knew that his generals were not so much concurring with Undrakk’s plan as they were trying to appease the powerful being.
“Is there any cover from the west or the north?” Qul asked, inspecting the map.
“There are small rises in the land here and here,” Undrakk showed him with a smile. “We can move out of the foothills to these positions and gather behind the rises. Their lookouts atop the city walls will surely spot the army, but their bows shouldn’t have the range to be effective.”
Something about the elegant tones of Undrakk’s voice mesmerized Qul. The king had never been fond of magic and those who could wield it, but he would readily sacrifice his closest allies and companions if it meant keeping Undrakk on his side. He knew the half-orc exuded confidence that was well earned. The prospect of making an enemy of the shaman terrified Qul.
“Where will the orc clans attack?” Qul asked. He thought of hundreds of wild-eyed orcs charging the high walls of the city and being cut down with ease. He would love to see the two clans torn apart by the human defenders.
“The orcs will wait a mile or so behind this point here,” Undrakk stated. He pointed to a third rise marked on the map with a brown line.
“Wait?” Qul questioned. Images of massive orc casualties flittered from his head. “Orcs are not known for their patience.” Despite his severe reservations, he decided not to antagonize Undrakk.
“They will this time,” Undrakk replied with a slight chuckle. “Once enough minotaurs have been ferried over the walls by our winged demons, your soldiers can open the portcullises and let the orc clans storm the streets.”
Another plan began to formulate inside Qul’s large bovine skull. If we never raise the portcullis, the city will be exclusively ours. The king tried to image what a human throne would look like. His chair had been occupied by several dozen minotaur kings and was an important symbol to his clan. However, a human throne would certainly make a wonderful trophy.
Undrakk snickered as though he could read Qul’s thoughts.
“Are you sure the demons can carry us?” One of Qul’s generals asked with a hesitant tone. “They are small and sinewy, just skin and bones.” Qul had to admit that he held the same reservations.
Undrakk faced the general and casually tossed his staff from hand to hand. “I will ensure that their wings beat hard enough and their arms can support your… stature.” He turned to face the massive king and looked over Qul’s armored body. “For some of the larger minotaurs,” he said with a smirk, “it may take several demons. Luckily, we have plenty.”
Qul let out a gruff sigh and waited for the strange half-orc to leave his tent before conferring with his generals. “The orcs will never enter the city,” he said them in a low voice. The generals smiled and nodded their agreement. They had been counting on that exact plan.
“When we get to the walls, we can take them easily. That is our first objective.” Qul looked each of his generals squarely in the eyes and was met by intense stares of unquenchable bloodlust. “Secure the walls and find a way down to the keep. It will be heavily defended, but it will fall. Once the keep is ours, their men will either surrender or attempt to flee. Let the demons deal with any survivors.”
“And the orcs? What if they come to the walls?” one of the generals asked. An unmistakable tinge of violence painted his rumbling voice.
“We will use the human defenses against them. They have bows and ballistae and all manner of things to prevent a ground assault. Once the keep is ours, we slaughter every orc we can.”
The generals looked at each other and knew that they were all in agreement. They were hungry for war and even hungrier for a place to call their home. It had been centuries since the minotaur clans had bothered to build settlements above the surface. Their race longed to dwell in the sunlight of the surface and to build great cities and monuments that would demand respect from the other humanoid civilizations. With Talonrend occupied, Qul could proclaim himself as the rightful ruler of everything. No clan could hope to contest him. No human kingdom would dare rise against him. Qul would build a minotaur city strong enough to rule the world.
Only one thing gave him pause. As he shifted his weight on his ancient throne, he couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that Undrakk was playing him for a fool.
SEAMUS WAS LOST. He had been to Talonrend a few times, but he had never felt truly lost before. The middle-aged farmer wasn’t used to stagnation. Seamus had grown up on a small farm between two of the villages that dotted the Clawflow. If he wasn’t busy tending to the farm’s many needs, he spent his days hunting and learning what he could of carpentry. As he aged, he found himself frequenting taverns and gambling halls after his working duties were finished.
When Talonrend called for a militia, Seamus had eagerly acquiesced. He had expected to find a life of glorious soldiering and conquest as a member of the militia. He wasn’t prepared for the utter boredom of war. Seamus’ group of barely-armed militiamen hadn’t gotten a chance to fight during the initial conflict with the goblin army, and something deep within the pit of his stomach urged him to take to the open road when the battle ended. When he joined the refugee caravan, his head was filled with visions of the Green City and a legendary empire that spanned further than he could see. Back in Talonrend, most of the people he had known were dead and he was left
with nothing to do. Still, the sensation of destiny urged him to seek out adventure.
Seamus rolled from the bunk that had been given to him at the guard house and shook a haze of sleep from his mind. Most of the city was deserted. There weren’t many taverns open and gambling seemed neither prudent nor accessible. He had left everything he owned on the road.
“Hungry?” one of the younger men in the barracks asked. The bunks were directly connected to a large storehouse of food and other goods, but Seamus hadn’t eaten much.
“Not much,” he replied quietly. He picked up an overripe apple from a barrel and thanked the young soldier before exiting the building. It was morning and the sun hadn’t yet crested the high walls of Talonrend. The streets were thick with fog and dreary shadows that danced on their own.
Seamus let out a long sigh and sat down with his back to the barracks like a penniless beggar. From the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of something moving through the morning fog. Curiosity got the better of him and he stood to investigate. Before he could take a step, the shadow darted through a patch of mist and escaped down the street.
“What the…” Seamus muttered under his breath. He scanned the street, checking for anyone who might think him a fool for chasing ghosts through the mist, and found he was alone. With a shake of his head, Seamus set off after whatever it was that moved through the street.
He spotted the apparition again, and then another time, always ahead of him and always just beyond the edges of his vision. “I’m mad,” he concluded, but that didn’t stop his feet from moving.
After several minutes of being led down the empty streets of Talonrend, the thick fog parted and showed him an open door. Seamus gazed up at the Tower of Wings and covered his eyes against the bright rays reflected from the top. He looked back at the open door and wondered what it could mean.
The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King Page 17