“Hello?” he called, not sure what to expect. His voice echoed once before dying off. With hesitant steps, he walked into the Tower’s foyer. Instantly, he felt a sensation of calm wash over his body and he knew he had been led to the Tower for a purpose.
Seamus felt a cool breeze from his back push him in the direction of the staircase and was powerless to resist. His feet plodded, one in front of the other, and carried him down several flights of stairs to the underground hallway that ended in the star room.
“Oh,” he cooed almost affectionately. Eerie light emanating from somewhere he couldn’t see glinted off the hilt of Gideon’s sword. Without another thought, Seamus bounded into the room and wrapped his hands around the weapon. He felt the blade calling to him, begging to be released, and he was more than willing to set it free.
With a fierce tug, Seamus ripped Nevidal from the soft ground and held it before his marveling eyes. The sword shimmered with power and Seamus felt as though his life had purpose for the first time. He would wield the legendary blade, the chosen weapon of Vrysinoch, and he would become the savior of Talonrend.
Yes, my son, he heard an avian hiss flood into his brain. Yes…
Suddenly, Seamus’ left shoulder exploded into pain. Searing, biting agony twisted his flesh and brought him to his knees. He screamed and clawed at his shoulder. He ripped his shirt and watched in horror as a brilliant white light streamed from a hideous gash that grew just beside his shoulder blade. Seamus rolled to the dirt and tried to extinguish the holy fire, but he knew his efforts were in vain. Still, he thrashed about on the ground and wept.
After several agonizing moments of the worst pain Seamus had ever experienced, the fire sputtered out. The blazing sensation of bubbling flesh faded into a much more manageable throb and Seamus climbed to his feet. Using the reflection of Nevidal’s blade as a mirror, Seamus watched his burnt skin knit itself back together as a garish scar in the shape a talon clutching an emerald. He knew beyond a doubt that he had been chosen by his god.
“Thank you…” was all he managed to say before running from the star room with Gideon’s sword in hand. He stopped before he left the open door of the Tower and considered hiding the weapon until he could find a place to store it. The moment he considered dropping it, a sharp pain shot through his hand and he knew he could not be separated from the sword. It was as much a part of him as the fingers extending from his palm.
Seamus turned back into the foyer and searched for anything he could use to conceal the weapon. Without hesitation, he ripped an elegant tapestry from the wall and wrapped the sword in delicate cloth. It seemed fitting that a tapestry depicting Vrysinoch would be used to hide the deity’s sword.
Once the weapon was as concealed as it was ever going to be, Seamus took off at a sprint for the barracks. Not waiting or attempting any kind of stealth, he crashed through the front door of the building and bolted to the storehouse. With the sword still held firmly in his right hand, he filled a burlap sack with as much food as he could carry and sped out of the storehouse before most of the soldiers had awoken.
Seamus wasn’t sure where to go. He looked for a shadow dancing in the street, but too much sunlight was reflecting off the Tower of Wings and most of the fog had burned away. Without any plan easily coming to him, he ran for the gatehouse at the eastern edge of the city.
When he reached the interior portcullis, he tossed the tapestry into an alley and approached the guards on duty as though he knew exactly what he was doing. “Taking supplies to the top?” one of the Templars asked when he spotted the sack of food in Seamus’ hands.
Seamus nodded and walked briskly past the man.
One of the other guards laughed and pointed at the sword. “Easier to carry supplies if you sheath your sword, man!” he called, pointing at Seamus and getting the other guards to laugh as well.
“I…” Seamus stammered, “I don’t own a sheath!” he finally replied. The other guards howled with laughter, but let him pass. With a sigh of relief, Seamus found that the entryway to the stairs of Terror’s Lament was open, so he began to climb. It took him a long time to carry everything to the top, but he made it without dropping the cumbersome weapon.
The bright sunlight seared his eyes and nearly blinded him. Looking around on top of the interior wall, he saw several guards patrolling, but thankfully, none of them spotted him. Their gazes were all held away from Talonrend and Seamus was able to walk to the southeast corner of the wall without being stopped. Each corner of the interior wall was outfitted with a low roof and several small crossbows bolted to the stone parapet. Three buckets of steel bolts were arranged in one corner of the outpost and Seamus eagerly hid his food behind them.
One of the guards patrolling the wall approached from the southern section and waved. Seamus let his sword hang awkwardly at his side while he waved back and took a step out from the low-hanging roof.
“Here to patrol?” the soldier asked, stopping several paces in front of Seamus. “Where’s your armor?”
The man wore a hardened leather jerkin and a matching set of steel greaves and gauntlets. He held a steel barbute under one arm and an official short sword dangled in a sheath at his belt. Seamus looked around and saw other patrolmen walking, but none of them were close enough to pay him any attention. After all, most of the guards were stationed on the outer portion of the walls and the south side was the least defended.
A swelling began in Seamus’ chest when he looked at the armored guard and it would not stop. The sword in his hand thrummed with power and released a palpable aura of violence.
“You alright?” the soldier questioned. His hand drifted to the hilt of his short sword and Seamus didn’t wait another moment. With furious bloodlust in his eyes, Seamus lunged. He lifted Nevidal high above his head and cut the man down in a flash of steel and unbridled rage.
Seamus stood over the bleeding corpse and let Nevidal slide from his grip. The hand-and-a-half sword clanged to the stone floor next to the dead soldier like the ringing of a funeral bell. Seamus fell to his knees. He didn’t feel remorse. He felt nothing—nothing but the call of the powerful sword to kill again. Seamus didn’t dare touch the hilt. He kicked the blade against the base of the parapet and set to work removing the dead man’s armor.
The breastplate, splattered with warm blood and separated at the top where Nevidal had sliced it, fit snuggly over Seamus’ chest. The greaves were slightly too large for Seamus to comfortably wear, but he managed. Seamus slide the steel barbute over his head and it fit him nicely. With a smile, he drew the dead man’s short sword and swung it through the air.
As though driven by some unseen force of violent ire, Seamus began cutting the corpse into small sections. He hacked the arms off at the elbows and then again at the shoulder. He removed the head and sliced open the man’s belly, spilling his innards over the edge of a low crenellation. Working methodically, Seamus diced the body into a dozen small pieces and dropped them over the interior side of the wall, one every few paces, where they wouldn’t be likely to be found.
When his grim work was finished, Seamus carried Nevidal by the blade back to the southeast outpost and hid it behind the barrels that concealed his food. At once, the inner fervor that urged him to violence dissipated. Seamus grimaced at what he had done and began walking the south side of Terror’s Lament with a slight hint of divine purpose guiding his steps. He had no idea why Vrysinoch, or perhaps the sword itself, had led him to commit murder atop Terror’s Lament, but patrolling the massive walls gave him purpose.
That night as Seamus curled up between the barrels of bolts and cold stone parapet of the outpost, he dreamt of war. He saw a massive army of orcs, goblins, and all manner of wild beasts attacking the city walls. In the midst of all the chaos, Seamus saw himself. He was wielding Nevidal with both hands, cleaving through foes three at a time. Standing atop a fallen section of the walls and surrounded by corpses, Seamus was the very definition of heroic glory. Despite the cold wind that
sent chills down his spine, it was the best night of sleep he had ever known.
GRAVLOX, VORST, AND Gideon marched through the field east of Talonrend as quickly as they could. Something ominous about the desecrated land still lingered and threatened to devour them with every step. Gideon’s large travelling cloak billowed out behind him. A stiff breeze planted tiny flecks of frost in his braided beard. On the horizon, they could see the black dots that represented Cobblestreet, the nearest village to Talonrend and the most direct path to Kanebullar Mountain.
“I didn’t believe them…” Gideon said with a voice full of awe. Far above the tiny silhouette of Cobblestreet, a massive creature took flight. “Some of the Templars spoke of a dragon made of bones, but I didn’t believe them.”
Gravlox searched all around him for traces of the magical world. His mind yearned for something to consume, something to use, but only the scattered bones of his kin remained.
“Why does the dragon not attack?” Gideon asked to no one in particular. “Surely, a dragon would have no trouble destroying one small frontier city.”
Vorst smiled and tried to imagine Lady Scrapple exhausting every ounce of her energy to control the mythical beast. “The more goblins she controls, the weaker her mind becomes,” she said. “A dragon must be incredibly hard to dominate.”
“Why bother to dominate it? Turning the dragon loose might not be such a bad idea.” Gideon had rarely felt fear in his entire life, but watching a bone dragon flying lazily above a mountain lair he meant to infiltrate shook him to his core.
Vorst knew by the relative lack of bones remaining on the battlefield that the skeleton was made of goblin corpses. “She made the dragon,” Vorst explained. “Now, she is the dragon.”
With Gideon’s hardened physique and the natural endurance of the goblin race, the group reached Cobblestreet a few hours after nightfall. The town was nearly empty. The cobblestones that gave the village its name echoed under Gideon’s boots with an eerie hollowness. Even at night, there should have been taverns roaring with drunken exuberance and brothels flashing candlelight through red tinted glass.
The three travelers reached the center of the village without seeing a single soul. A marble fountain decorated with vivid images of Vrysinoch sat lifeless between rows of empty merchant stalls. The nearby businesses were mostly boarded up and the village itself smelled of death. Gideon couldn’t help but think of Reikall and all of the beautiful buildings he had seen completely desolated. Cobblestreet was a village of less than a thousand, but it still unnerved him.
Gideon leaned against the quiet fountain and gazed up at the shadow of the huge mountain. He couldn’t see the dragon any longer, but he knew it was there. In that moment, Gideon knew he would end the goblin threat once and for all.
“We should camp,” he told Vorst. The small goblin was busy inspecting the reliefs of Vrysinoch that adorned the base of the fountain.
“Is this your god? The human version of Lady Scrapple?” She asked, never taking her eyes from the images.
“No,” Gideon stated coldly. He began walking toward the noise of the river when something about Vorst’s question struck him as odd. In the Tower of Wings, Vorst had seen hundreds of images of Vrysinoch. She knew exactly what the sacred bird looked like. Had she not realized until now that the others worshipped the deity?
Gideon shook his head and continued walking. He thought of the goblin hive mind. Was Vrysinoch the human equivalent? Was religion really any different from direct mental control? When he was a devout follower and paladin, Gideon obeyed the orders of the priests and Archbishop without question or hesitation. When the Archbishop spoke it was a mandate from Vrysinoch himself… or so Gideon had foolishly believed. He had never realized it before, but goblin society wasn’t dissimilar to his own. The notion was terrifying.
Gideon found a general store one street south of the village square that looked small enough to be easily defensible. With a heavy fist and a clouded mind, he slammed on the door. When no answer came from the other side, he lowered his shoulder and pushed until he felt the locking bar on the other side splinter and fall to the ground.
Somewhere inside the pitch darkness of the store, a woman gasped.
“I’m sorry,” Gideon immediately called out. He was tired and his mind was churning with theories of religion and obedience. The last thing he wanted was a fight. “Just looking for a place to sleep is all,” he explained.
He heard several hushed whispered and a brief moment of arguing before he got a reply. “Is it just you?” the female voice called from somewhere to his left. The room wasn’t very large and Gideon thought he could make out a huddled mass of several people.
“I have…” he stopped. How could he explain his travelling companions? “I have two friends with me,” he said. “One male and one female.”
After several more moments of hushed whispers and debate, one of the shrouded figures stepped forward and opened the door to a flickering lantern.
“Come in,” the woman holding the lantern beckoned. She was tall, nearly as tall as Gideon, and exuded an air of confidence that didn’t match her otherwise gentle features.
Gideon took a step forward and began to speak, when Vorst, deep in conversation with Gravlox, obliviously walked through the door behind him.
The woman shrieked and drew a dagger from her belt at the sight of the goblins. To Gideon’s left, a man jumped at him from the shadows with a heavy metal gauntlet covering his balled fist.
“No!” Gideon yelled, sidestepping the would-be ambusher. With one easy motion he brought his own mailed arm down on the man hard and sent him sprawling to the floorboards. The woman yelled again and stabbed at him, but Gideon predicted the obvious maneuver and deflected the blade off his armor. Or he would have, had the attack not been a well-executed feint that revealed the woman’s true skill. In the blink of an eye, she had rotated her body toward Gideon and jammed her off-hand against his mailed arm. Before he could react, he felt the point of her weapon pricking the soft skin under his chin. In the midst of the flourish, the woman had somehow maintained a steady grip on her lantern and the flame had not gone out.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” Gideon said with gritted teeth. The clumsy man from the corner slowly lifted himself up and struggled against a wooden stool for balance. “I swear,” Gideon reiterated.
The woman looked boldly into Gideon’s eyes and he saw no fear lurking behind her grimace. The dagger point twisted and drew forth a bead of blood. “What are you doing in my store?” she demanded. Her voice had a hint of the village accent that reminded Gideon of his youth.
“We just need a place to sleep for the night. We’ll check someplace else,” he reasoned.
“Why should I let you terrorize someone else in my village?” the woman practically snarled.
“Your village? You own the store and you’re the mayor of Cobblestreet?” The fire in the woman’s eyes didn’t lessen, but she did ease up on her dagger slightly.
“Look at his swords, Melkora,” the man said as he rubbed the back of his head. “He would kill you in a heartbeat.”
“Is that so?” Melkora replied slyly. She took a step back and glanced down at the hilts of Maelstrom and Regret. In an instant, the color drained from her face and Melkora’s heart nearly stopped beating.
Gideon pulled away from her dagger and she made no move to stop him.
“Told you,” the man snickered.
Gideon knew that her reaction was more than simple fear of his obviously well-crafted blades. She recognized them. Gideon stared her down and watcher her confidence melt like a candle tossed upon a raging pyre. “How do you know these swords?” he demanded.
Melkora’s eyes withered beneath Gideon’s stare and she retreated further into the store. “I…” she stammered. “I worked for the prince.”
Gideon had dealt with enough cheats and sweet talking swindlers in the fighting pits to know a bad liar when he saw one. “How do you know these swords
?” he repeated.
Melkora backed into the store counter and knocked a book to the floor. She had nowhere left to flee. “No,” she begged, dropping her dagger and putting her hands in the air.
“My sister is a thief,” the man said. It was obvious from his tone that he had no idea who once owned the swords. “She probably tried to steal them.”
Gideon nearly lost his composure at the thought of a village thief attempting to steal the prince’s swords. Where would she sell them? Who could afford to buy them? Even the most idiotic of fences wouldn’t dare to buy royal property that was so easily recognizable. “Tell me how you know the swords, Melkora.”
The terrified woman hung her head in shame. “I have seen them before is all,” she whispered past the growing lump in her throat. “I never tried to steal them.” Her eyes peered through stray locks of golden hair that obscured her downcast face. Gideon saw a flicker of hope in those eyes and let his posture relax.
“These are Herod’s swords,” he explained to the obviously confused man. “I am on official business from Castle Talon and need a place to stay for the night.” He pointed to Gravlox and Vorst standing behind him. “My traveling companions require lodging as well. We will be gone by dawn, I promise you.”
Melkora slowly nodded her head and collected herself. “This is my brother, Torvald,” she introduced. Motioning to a dark corner behind a set of shelves covered in various wares, she called to two children. “My brother’s sons,” she explained, wrapping them each in a gentle hug.
“Thank you for opening your store to us,” Gideon replied. His statement was more a confirmation of his demands than it was a gesture of appreciation, although he was glad Melkora’s demeanor had softened.
“The goblins killed my parents,” Melkora said with her gaze glued to Vorst. “When their army moved through, they didn’t destroy much, but they did kill anyone who tried to stop them.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gideon muttered, “but they are different. They fought on our side during the siege and they are as loyal to Talonrend as Herod himself.”
The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King Page 18