The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King

by Stuart Thaman

  One of the minotaurs noticed him and began stalking toward the outpost. Seamus had enough time to load and fire the crossbow that rested atop a barrel of bolt to his side, but Nevidal would not allow it.

  Seamus bellowed with glee and set his feet into motion. Nevidal rose high above his head and directed his path as though Seamus was the tool and the sword was the intelligent wielder. The minotaur held a bloody axe in his meaty hands and bounded toward Seamus. The two crazed combatants met with a clash of steel that thundered so loudly it drew the attention of a dozen other fighters. Nevidal slammed into the shaft of the double-headed axe and ripped it apart. The hand-and-a-half sword cleaved straight into the minotaur’s heavy chest plate and sliced through flesh.

  The minotaur tossed the shattered hilt of his axe aside and readjusted his grip on the wood that remained below the head. It swung fiercely downward and clipped the side of Seamus’ leather helmet. Instinctively, the farmer-turned-berserker brought the hilt of his sword swinging to the side and knocked the axe head off course before it rent his skull in two. Seamus pushed forward with his left shoulder and slammed into the minotaur’s bleeding chest. His weight, not even a quarter that of the beast in full armor, did nothing to move the creature.

  The minotaur grunted and pushed back, nearly sending Seamus over the edge. The farmer caught himself with his left hand and steadied his feet. Nevidal twitched his bulging muscles and commanded the man to spin with the sword raised. Faster than he thought possible, Seamus deflected a blow he never saw coming.

  The minotaur closed the gap between them and wrapped his huge arms around Seamus’ small frame. Against any other man, the minotaur would’ve easily crushed the human to bloody pulp in an instant. But Seamus held Nevidal in his grip. The sword empowered him beyond his wildest dreams.

  Seamus flexed his arms and legs and pushed upward. Slowly, the minotaur left its feet and began to panic. Instead of letting go of Seamus, it clamped harder and renewed its effort to break the man’s spine. Seamus smiled as he felt his legs bulge with energy. Using the leverage of his shoulders locked beneath the minotaur’s arms, Seamus pushed upward again and hefted the beast a foot off the stone. He took one powerful step and slammed the creature into the parapet.

  The minotaur flailed and tried to release its grip, but it was too late. Straps of its heavy armor had slipped around the stone parapet and trapped it. Seamus took a step back and watched the creature scream and thrash. He lifted Nevidal above his head and leveled it at the minotaur’s neck. There was a small strip of hairy flesh exposed between the beast’s thick breastplate and black helmet. Seamus wanted to see the fear in the creature’s eyes, but had to settle for its screams instead. He waited a moment for several of the other minotaurs to start running toward him before he beheaded the trapped beast and sent its corpse over the edge of Terror’s Lament.

  Three heavily armored minotaurs stood shoulder to shoulder and marched toward Seamus. He smirked and lifted Nevidal up in challenge. The minotaurs increased their pace and brandished their weapons menacingly. The death of one of their own in single combat was a rare enough event that it enraged the minotaurs beyond their typical bloodlust.

  Seamus welcomed them with a taunting grin. The three beasts came upon him slashing their weapons furiously in front of them. He relinquished what control he had left to the sword and let Nevidal guide his every action. The blade dashed through the air in a blur of speed and deftly parried the three weapons.

  Seamus’ feet edged forward as he beat the minotaurs back with sheer ferocity. His parries hit harder than the minotaur’s strikes and the three beasts were forced to step backward. Nevidal launched up under one of the minotaur’s clubs and knocked it into the air. Wasting no time, Seamus dove forward and gutted the beast where it stood. The two flanking minotaurs struck at Seamus’ back and sides as his sword was temporarily trapped in the innards of their comrades.

  A studded club crashed into Seamus’ tunic and shredded the bulging muscles of his back. He shrieked, but Nevidal had full control of his reflexes. Seamus ripped the blade from the minotaur’s chest and crouched to his knees. The beast to his left swung a barbed spear that missed high over Seamus’ head and clanged against the armor of the other minotaur. The failed attack gave Nevidal all the time it needed to make short work of both minotaurs. Seamus slashed out to his right and took the legs out from one of the creatures at the knees. In the same motion, Seamus completed his spin and Nevidal severed the legs of the left minotaur just above the hip. In a heap of gore, the three slain minotaurs fell silently away from Seamus.

  The momentum of Seamus’ circular maneuver launched Nevidal from Seamus’ grasp and sent it hurtling into the base of the parapet. In an instant, Seamus’ body shrank painfully back to its normal size. His muscles contracted with agonizing spasms and his bones re-knitted themselves back to their regular proportions.

  Seamus felt a sense of accomplishment when the pain subsided in his joints and chest. He grabbed Nevidal by the blade and limped back to the southwestern outpost of Terror’s Lament. He propped himself up against a barrel of crossbow bolts and struggled against the inviting warmth of sleep. As his eyes fluttered in the winter sunlight, Seamus experienced something he had never felt in his three decades of life: clarity.

  Half a mile or more down the western length of the wall, three winged demons brought the minotaur king to the top of the wall. Qul stood more than a head taller than any other minotaur atop the wall and well over eight feet taller than any man. With his full battle armor, the minotaur king thundered with every movement. The flagstones vibrated with each of his steps and brought the nearest human warriors to their knees. Qul drew two smooth metal poles from his back and began swinging them into any piece of flesh that got in his way. When the poles accidentally connected with crenellations along the wall, the stone exploded and fell away without slowing Qul’s cadence.

  Seamus knew what he had to do. He watched the king cleave through a swath of human defenders like a team of harvesters bringing in the fall wheat. Seamus knew he would have to wait. He was too tired to confront such a monstrosity without a night of sleep. With Nevidal in hand, Seamus scurried from the southwestern outpost to a crenellation a quarter mile away and looped a rope around the stone.

  He knew he needed to wait. Nevidal commanded him to wait. With an exhausted sigh, Seamus grabbed the rope and used what strength remained in his arms to rappel down the interior side of Terror’s Lament. At the base of the wall, Seamus scampered off into an alleyway across from Castle Talon. He curled up around his stolen sword and leaned against one of the few buildings in the city that hadn’t caught fire yet. There would be time to kill the minotaur king in the morning. It was what Nevidal wanted—what Nevidal demanded.

  APOLLONIUS HAD RUN out of options. The dragon had free reign of his city and there was nothing he could do about it. Fires burned in every section of Talonrend and it would only be a matter of time until the skeletal monstrosity set its eyes upon Castle Talon. The catapults and ballistae had proven slightly effective, but the undead dragon was simply too large to be taken down.

  Most of Apollonius’ officers had died on the wall. He regretted stationing so many men atop Terror’s Lament, but it had been his only hope. He crouched between a pair of stagnant shrubs outside an abandoned house and tracked the bone dragon through the air. The abomination flew high over the city casually tossing balls of black flame onto the rooftops and lanes. Their defense had been a resounding failure.

  ASTERION PEERED AT the city from a translucent window on the second floor of the Tower of Wings. The fire created strange patterns of dancing light that reflected off the Tower in marvelous patterns. While Talonrend was completely enveloped in chaos, the Tower of Wings was peacefully quiet. The opalescent walls blocked out the screams of the dying and the living alike.

  The pain in Asterion’s knees and hips slowed his ascent to the top of the tower. He pushed open the door to the Archbishop’s quarters and wrinkled his
nose against the smell. There weren’t enough priests left in the city to bother with a proper funeral for the man and the body had been left to rot.

  Behind a pale red curtain hanging near the Archbishop’s sleeping quarters, Asterion inspected the wall for a notch he barely believed to exist. After a minute of running his fingers along the wall, one of the nails on his hand caught. A small divot, barely discernible even under careful investigation, marked the location of a hidden door.

  Asterion pressed down on the divot and marveled as a hidden panel silently slid away to reveal a brilliantly lit passageway.

  “Corvus!” the old man called down the stairs to the level beneath him where Corvus had been praying. After a moment, the blind paladin appeared at the doorway to the Archbishop’s quarters wearing a plain white and green robe that was customary for acolytes in training.

  “Yes?” he said calmly. He walked slowly to where Asterion stood and sighed. He had been waiting for the old priest’s call.

  “Are you ready?” Asterion asked. Despite his effort, the old man couldn’t keep the excitement and awe from his voice. “The dragon has been weakened.”

  Corvus couldn’t see the destruction of Talonrend through the walls, but he could feel it. The city burned all around the Tower of Wings and hundreds of humans had been slain. Corvus felt their souls flying through the air toward Vrysinoch’s heavenly wings. He wanted to weep for them, but couldn’t find the tears. He needed to keep his mind clear.

  “It is time we end this. Vrysinoch has waited long enough,” Corvus said with confidence. He placed a hand on Asterion’s shoulder and let the old priest lead him up the hidden staircase. The top of the Tower of Wings was made into the likeness of an eagle’s talon clutching a giant emerald, the symbol of the city. What few people knew was that the center of the emerald was hollow and covered in ancient runes carved by the first settles from the Green City.

  “It is truly a marvelous sight,” Corvus said, tracing his hands along the intricate runes.

  “You can see it?” Asterion asked skeptically. He opened a pocket on his own robe and produced a scroll as old as the Tower itself.

  “I can,” Corvus whispered breathlessly. “It’s beautiful!” He couldn’t believe the images that flashed through his magical vision. He saw hundreds of runes and could feel their meanings. Instead of seeing static images carved into a gemstone, Corvus recognized the runes as living entities that moved and spoke to him.

  Asterion spread the scroll out in his hands and began to read the ancient text. The words sounded like confused gibberish to Corvus, but he knew they held unbelievable power. He let his mind search out the power of the sky itself and drew it into the emerald. The two men summoned every last ounce of magical strength they could muster and channeled it into the spell on the scroll.

  When Asterion completed the incantation, the small space in the center of the emerald fell silent. The Tower of Wings pulsed and released a soothing calm that bathed the city in magical silence. Men burned and screamed in the streets, but their cries turned to dust in their mouths. The sounds of battle and crossbow gears rang out from the western walls, but no one heard them. The emerald perched on top of the tower had come alive with a powerful aura of silence.

  The great bone dragon soared above the houses and doused them in black flame. The wood cracked and glass shattered, but none of it made a sound. The world was perfectly quiet.

  When sound returned to the world several long seconds later, everything was drowned out by one tremendous thunderclap that tore the sky asunder. The dull grey clouds above the city recoiled from the Tower and curled in on themselves as if a storm had suddenly roiled them. Inside the emerald, Asterion and Corvus could feel the presence of Vrysinoch speaking through the back of their mind.

  I need your souls, faithful servants… the avian hiss spoke to them both. The two men nodded and shared a brief smile before the world faded into blazing light.

  MELKORA, GIDEON, AND the two goblins stopped abruptly on the eastern side of Kanebullar Mountain. White light the likes of nothing they had ever seen split the sky apart. From their angle, they couldn’t tell where the light had originated, but they could see into the fabric of heaven. Above the physical tear in the sky, a shimmering light danced about that marked the bottom of Vrysinoch’s eternal paradise.

  Gideon fell to his knees. He gazed up into heaven and saw thousands upon thousands of souls whimsically flying to and fro on the wings of astral eagles. “Vrysinoch…” he muttered. He didn’t know what else to say in the presence of such an incredible sight.

  “Talonrend is in trouble,” Melkora said. She could feel it in her bones. “We need to hurry.”

  Gideon couldn’t deny the truth that resonated in her words. There, on the side of Kanebullar Mountain and several miles away from his home, Gideon felt the call of Vrysinoch once more. His tattoo burned on his back and he felt Nevidal’s absence as though it were a missing limb.

  “I need my sword,” he yelled to no one in particular. He suddenly felt foolish for leaving it behind. “I am a paladin once more!” he bellowed. Despite his newfound urgency and purpose, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to all the souls his sword had taken in the past. Seeing the souls drifting through the sky was both a comfort and a curse. Were they the souls that Nevidal had taken trapped inside the blade? Or had they been obliterated for all eternity?

  “Let’s go,” Melkora urged. As Gideon got to his feet, the sky changed once more. It had been late afternoon when the heavens opened, but a furious storm began to boil the sky. The broken clouds clashed into each other like huge ships tossed about in a harbor during a squall. Lightning strikes erupted from the torn sky and blasted the ground beneath. Gideon could only imagine what the scene must have been like in Talonrend.

  “We aren’t that far,” Vorst said. The four climbed hand over foot up the steep northeastern approach to the top. Unlike the southern and western faces of Kanebullar Mountain, the northern and eastern slopes were rocky and unorganized. Luckily, that also meant there were far fewer goblin patrols to avoid.

  Gideon got to his feet with a broad smile on his face. He would slay in the name of his god once more.

  The storm raged in the distance and at one moment Gideon thought he saw a great meteor crashing down from heaven, but he couldn’t be sure. All he could do was keep his head low and continue the strenuous trek to the summit.

  By nightfall, the group was nearly at the highest entrance to the tunnels of Kanebullar Mountain. “Over here,” Vorst called. She pulled some rocks away from a patch of dark soil and began to dig. After a minute, she had revealed a small passageway leading down. It was barely large enough for a human to navigate on hands and knees.

  “How do we know it isn’t a trap?” Melkora asked. She peered into the darkness of the tunnel in vain.

  “Perhaps some of my magic has returned,” Gideon said. “I might be able to light the passage.” He searched the mental realms of magic for anything he could onto and found what he desired. The smallest speck of energy, just enough to form into a light-giving cantrip, rested inches beyond his fingertips. Gideon called to the energy with his mind and it responded, floating over to him to be manipulated and utilized.

  When he had created a small bird of light, Gideon whispered to it and released it into the dark tunnel. The bird’s radiant magic illuminated the tunnel as it flew. The passageway spiraled downward at a steep angle and ended in a much larger chamber nearly twenty feet below.

  With a smile, Gideon got down on his hands and started to crawl. Vorst followed closely behind with Gravlox and Melkora entering last.

  The magical bird darted playfully around the narrow passage until it flittered into the larger cavern below. Gideon dropped through the tunnel opening to his feet and inspected the room. Crudely made wooden bins of all sizes and shapes littered the ground. Each of the bins was filled with the remains of a plant-like fungus that smelled of sulfur and rotten eggs. “What is this place?�
�� Gideon asked with a hand over his mouth.

  To Vorst, the aroma was stale, but not unpleasant. She didn’t know agricultural terms in the human language so she explained it as simply as she could. “Fill the boxes with dirt, put a dead goblin on top of the dirt, wait for fungus and mushrooms to grow,” she said.

  “And you eat that?” Gideon said with disgust.

  “Why not?” Vorst led the group through the abandoned mushroom farm to a larger tunnel blocked by a roughshod wooden door. She paused for a moment and listened before opening the door a fraction of an inch and peering through. “There’s no one there,” she affirmed.

  The door swung open and revealed the complicated network of tunnels that comprised the innards of Kanebullar Mountain. To their left, several downward sloping tunnels presented themselves. To their right, two other chambers much like the one they had come from waited in disuse.

  “This one,” Vorst announced as she pointed to one of the smaller tunnels to the left.

  “Where will it take us?” Gideon asked. The small bird fluttered through the tunnel and around a shallow bend.

  “The only way I know of to get to Lady Scrapple is through the tunnel where her food is taken. This passage will eventually lead us to one of the livestock pens farther down. From there, it shouldn’t be difficult to find her.” Vorst still had reservations about the death of her creator. She knew the goblins were somehow magically connected to Lady Scrapple’s mind. Would Lady Scrapple’s death free them all or kill them all? Vorst rubbed at the painful nub where her left pinky finger had once been. She was keenly aware that the death of the Mistress of the Mountain would be the end of the goblin race. They had no means to reproduce naturally and Lady Scrapple’s budding was their sole propagation.

  Vorst led the group through the passage and around several twists and turns. More than once, another tunnel would cross their path and Gideon’s magical bird would temporarily illuminate it, but they never saw any goblins until they reached the livestock chamber several hundred feet deeper.