Wayward

by Ronald Long

  Holve shifted in his chair to glance out of the window into the night. The small opening had four glass panes set into a wood frame. It was the only thing that decorated the otherwise bland plastered wall.

  “This island isn’t the home of the willing. The ones who live here either want to be get away from the eye of more civilized areas of Ruyn or can’t afford to leave.”

  Holve adjusted his gaze back to Ealrin.

  All this talk of Ruyn, goblins sailing, and fishing seemed so foreign to Ealrin. Nothing could fight through the fog that so clouded his mind.

  He was only halfway sure of the name he was hearing.

  But now, his present situation was beginning to register in his head.

  “Who’s been caring for me?” asked Ealrin.

  Though he was sure he’d felt better at some point, he certainly wasn’t starving. Nor was he unclean. In fact, save for the wound in his ribs that still hurt when he moved despite being healed, Ealrin felt well taken care of. His belly seemed satisfied and his skin felt as if he had a bath.

  Well, except for the feeling that he wanted to throw up again due to his headache and the water.

  “We’ve been taking turns watching over you. Elezar and myself. Well, us and the maid. Though she refused to wash you up. Bit modest,” Holve said with a wink. That seemed a little out of character for him, thought Ealrin had only known Holve for a few minutes.

  Ealrin was overwhelmed. If he truly had been laying here for a month or more, then he owed his caretakers much.

  “Thank you,” he said. And he meant it.

  “Don’t mention it,” replied Holve, with a bit of gruff in his voice. It sounded as if he truly wished Ealrin wouldn’t mention it.

  “And welcome to Good Harbor. And the Rusty Hook. Best inn on the island."

  Chapter 3:

  Stinkrunt

  Stinkrunt sneered as he walked on to goblin ship. He was doing his best to look fierce today but, as always, it was hard to look fierce standing next to old Greyscar. Greyscar was the big doyen of the Sharp Claws. He had three scars running down his face, starting from his forehead, down his snout-like nose and going all the way to his opposite cheek. The beast that had given him the scar lived just long enough to admire his work before Greyscar skewered it with a spear. He had returned to their goblin tribe with that great wolf around his neck as a trophy and he had been the doyen, or leader, of the Sharp Claws ever since.

  Stinkrunt, one of the smallest goblin tribal doyens, always felt like he was in Grescars shadow. Of course, in a literal sense, he tried to be as often as possible, the sun hurt his eyes and today was no exception. The goblin tribes were loading the boats and sailing toward human lands, something they hadn't done in a generation.

  Greyscar took a big sniff from his off centered nose.

  "Smells good. Smells like the sea. Smells like war. We'll stop fighting other tribes. We'll fight men instead. Dwarves and elves too." Greyscar looked over the goblins who were loading weapons and barrels of supplies into the ship and chuckled. Stinkrunt could tell the thought of war with the other races pleased his leader. He always felt important whenever Scarface talked with him.

  "Stinkrunt!" Greyscar shouted unexpectedly and nearly knocked Stinkrunt over as he turned around, searching for him.

  "Oh," he said as he saw Stinkrunt trip over some rope, knock over a barrel and fall into its contents: a pile of fish. "There you are."

  Greyscar lifted him by his ankle and set him down out of fish. Stinkrunt looked up at him from the deck of the ship.

  "You wanted me, Greyscar?" he asked, now knowing that Greyscar had been talking to himself.

  Greyscar snorted as Stinkrunt got to his feet.

  "Stinkrunt, you're clumsy. Not like my other doyens," he began to walk away towards the front of ship. Greyscar was always calling Stinkrunt names. He was always disappointed with Stinkrunt in some form or fashion. That Stinkrunt hadn’t brought him his sword fast enough, or caught a fish for him to eat yet, or been able to deliver a message to another doyen without getting beat up in the process.

  Stinkrunt quickly got to his feet, slipped and nearly fell, but ran after him.

  Stinkrunt was always running after Greyscar. For the last two years the goblins had moved away from their ancestral lands and hidden themselves in the mountains to the north. They had been breeding there; increasing their numbers well beyond what was normally sustainable in their lands. A goblin was typically ready to bash some other creatures head in six months after it took its first breath. At two years it would be fighting fit.

  But, If a goblin tribe grew too large with young goblins ready to prove their strength, there would be infighting without end. Rival doyens would challenge the tribe's leader, goblins would take sides and then all out civil war would happen until enough of one side had their skulls cracked in.

  But this was not to be the fate of the goblins this time.

  Greyscar was the doyen of doyens. It was he who had convinced the other goblin tribes to sail east to raid the civilized lands. It was he who had been able to tell the others about the fertile plains and forested mountains that held fat humans who were lazy and stinking elves who were always lost in their own thoughts. These were the lands that goblins would take. Generations ago they had tried and failed. Not this time. This time Greyscar would lead them all to victory. This time, the Sharp Claws would take the biggest cut of the loot.

  And where had Stinkrunt been while Greyscar was off drinking goblin brew with the other clan's doyens? Following him around, carrying his banner, doing his dirty work, and making sure the daggers never found Greyscars back like they had so many other doyens who tried to unite the clans.

  Stinkrunt was the lowest of his leaders and he knew it. But he wanted a chance and would take anything he could get. He knew that this was the moment to make his claim.

  "I'm small. I'm weak. I'm clumsy. You never say I'm a good doyen." Stinkrunt came up beside Greyscar as he continued to bully around goblins who were loafing. Most at least pretended to work when he walked by. A good sneer from Greyscar wold send the smaller goblins scurrying off to either pretend to work somewhere else or bully someone smaller than them. This was how the goblins worked. The bigger ones bullied the smaller ones into doing whatever they wanted. And Greyscar wanted to sail east and fight. He was the biggest doyen among all the clans and knocked around whoever disagreed with his great plan. "Give me a chance," Stinkrunt said, almost whining to his boss. "Let me lead in a fight. I'll show you. Small isn't bad. I'm sneaky. I'm cunning. I'm..."

  He was cut short as Greyscar shoved a goblin overboard who was eating a fish out of barrel, instead of packing the barrel below the deck.

  "You want to show me you can fight?" Greyscar asked as he continued surveying his ship: The Big Scar.

  It was the biggest in the fleet of goblin craft, which was saying something because all the other clans had tried to outdo one another with their own flagships. It stood nearly thirty goblins tall from the lowest part up to the top of the mast. Greyscar himself had laid down the goblins to measure it when it was being built. It's boards were painted black and its sails had the Sharp Claw's symbol emblazoned on it: three black scars running down the yellow sail they were painted on.

  Stinkrunt knew Greyscar was pleased with his ship. It had three decks, the lowest one was for goblins slaves to row their oars, giving the ship a speed greater to the others around it. Greyscar was always the first to a fight.

  "Our ancestors sailed east to raid. They brought down a whole city. I want to bring down more. Goblins don't have room for weak doyens."

  Stinkrunt stomped his foot on the deck hard, it hurt a little, but he wasn't going to let Greyscar know that.

  "Give me ships! Give me goblins! I'll bring down a city myself! I'll show you I'm not weak!"

  Greyscar looked down at him. Stinkrunt knew he didn't look big or scary like other doyens. But he had become a doyen, a goblin leader. Sure he had stabbed a few other goblins i
n the back to get here, but he had stayed a doyen a lot longer than most of the others. He was always checking his back for daggers. He knew that some of the smaller gubbins were taking bets on how long he could keep his post.

  Greyscar scratched the back of his ear with a finger and looked up at two goblins fighting on the riggings of the ship. Stinkrunt wanted his attention back on him, but he didn't want to be tossed overboard either.

  Stinkrunt couldn't swim.

  He leaped up and pointed to a smaller boat that was also being loaded with supplies. Unlike Greyscar's own ship three masted ship, the Big Scar, this little boat only had one mast. The Big Scar could easily carry three hundred goblins. More in the little ones packed in tight. Stinkrunt could see that this boat could only carry a hundred without sinking.

  "That one," he said, knowing that he request wasn't outlandish. "Give me that ship. The Fish Bone. I'll bring down a city with it!"

  Greyscar looked at the boat and then back at Stinkrunt. He paused for just a moment, and then let out a big long laugh. His mouth, wider than most other goblins mouth, showed all of his teeth bared and ready to bite into humans and dwarves and elves. Even if there were only twenty left.

  "Stinkrunt. You want to bring down a city? Good! Show Greyscar you can! Take the Fish Bone and four others. You'll be the captain doyen. Show Greyscar that you are a strong doyen. Maybe even small doyens are tough!"

  Stinkrunt's heart leaped. Five ships! This was his chance to prove that he was a big, mean, scary doyen! He would make all the other doyens jealous. He'd find a city and bring it down. They'd loot the city clean and he'd take all the good stuff!

  He turned around to run off of the Big Scar when he felt himself jerk backwards. Greyscar had him by the collar. He felt his feet come off the ground and himself being turned around. Greyscar had him just underneath his chin with one hand.

  "Stinkrunt," Greyscar said in a quiet voice and Stinkrunt knew that what he was about to hear would be important. That and he couldn't breathe.

  "Don't make Sharp Claws look bad Stinkrunt. Come back with a lot of loot. Or don't come back."

  Stinkrunt was still massaging his short throat when he stepped onto the Fish Bone. He could still smell Greyscar's breath too.

  He wouldn't make the Sharp Claws look bad. He'd make them feared all over the big lands, not just the Goblin Maw. He'd show all of them.

  Stinkrunt practically ran off The Big Scar and towards The Fish Bone. He saw it and the five other ships beside it that Greyscar had pointed out. These would be his to captain. So what if Greyscar had twenty to his name and Fangbite, the second deyon under Greyscar, had fifteen. Stinkrunt would take these ships and find a city. He’d bring it to the ground. He’d send in every goblin that was on the ship if he had to.

  Ships lined the coast of the Goblin Maw. For the last month they had gathered here from all over the rough lands of the west. Hidden in caves along the coast or in the Big Sea in the middle of the Maw, ships had come here, right next to the grounds claimed by the Sharp Claws, to supply and get ready and mostly show off.

  While running to the Fish Bone, Stinkrunt could clearly see two other clans, much smaller than the Sharp Claws, trying to make a bigger show than the other.

  The Red Suns had adorned all of their vessels with as many war trophies as they possibly could. This was standard amongst the goblin. Even the small Fish Bone had a couple of goblin heads hung out at the front of it to make it look important. More than likely it was just some crewmember who smarted off the current captain.

  The Red Suns, however, were different. They had dwarven helms, shields, axes, and skulls hung all over their ships. The lands they claimed lay at the base of the mountains many dwarves called home and therefore the Red Suns were always fighting with them over this cave or that. It kept their clan sharp for sure and their doyen, Gobber Dwarvenbane was a brute of a goblin and an excEalrint fighter. Too bad he was dumb as a rock. The only thing that kept him in power was that no one could ever get a knife to sink deep enough into his armor made out of defeated dwarven warriors.

  That and he'd crush your skull for trying.

  The Fanged Ones, on the other hand, were always fighting one another. Their doyen changed three times on their journey from the west of the Maw to the easter coast. Vicious goblins. Crackedtooth was their current leader, at least the last time Stinkrunt cared to check. He was always ready for a fight and the most willing to sail east and have a reason to fight someone else, unless it some other smaller doyen climb up the doyen chain a bit.

  Finally Stinkrunt came to the planks leading up to his future ship. he stopped just for a moment to catch his breath.

  Yes, he thought to himself. This is my chance to show them I'm not small and clumsy!

  He promptly then slipped on some fish guts some gubbin had left on the dock.

  Stupid gubbins, he thought as he climbed up the plank.

  Stinkrunt walked on board the Fish Bone, puffed up his chest as big as he could, cleared his throat importantly and made his speech.

  “Hey! Fish brains!” he called out to the crew of The Fish Bone. A few looked up a him. Most ignored him and kept working (or at least pretending to). Then Stinkrunt took one of the smallest goblins he could find, a gubbin, and grabbed it by the throat. He shook it harshly and watched the little grey thing’s eyes bulge a bit. It also attempted to bite Stinkrunt’s hand. He yelled again.

  “Listen up! I’m captain now! I’m the deyon in charge! You sail with me! We’re gonna go beat up some city!”

  He threw the gubbin into a barrel of fish, where it seemed quite content to stay actually, and then looked around at the crew. A few had actually looked up at him. One or two even almost shook their head in agreement.

  There, Stinkrunt thought. That’ll do.

  He stepped up to the front of the boat and pushed off a goblin who was sitting on the side railings studying a map. The map fell into the water with the goblin and Stinkrunt felt pretty important already.

  Stinkrunt, the goblin pusher! he thought as he listened to the little goblin struggle in the water. Stinkrunt, the big and scary!

  Or something like that.

  Chapter 4:

  The Rusty Hook

  Ealrin would soon learn that the Rusty Hook was the only inn on the island.

  It was an old two story building. The second floor had rooms that could be rented out by the night or longer if you wished. Some rooms had beds cramped next to each and others offered a more spacious experience. It all depended on your coin purse.

  The ceilings were the same on both levels: parallel wood beams that held either the floor above or the ceiling in place. The walls were the same plaster as Ealrins room throughout. Though originally white, the salt from the sea had yellowed it through the years. The furniture, linens, and most of the people shared the same smell of the sea. If you lay quietly in your room, it was easy to hear the birds calling over the harbor and the waves charging to shore, causing all manner of ships and boats to edge agains their docks.

  The Rusty Hook was indeed aptly named, for the salt in the air had managed to add at least a small measure of rust to every metal surface. There must have been finer inns in other countries, but it was the only choice in Good Harbor.

  But that didn’t seem to make a difference to those who would come and go, spending a few nights and then returning to sea again.

  His use of his legs and body would return slowly. At first it was a chore to even leave his bed and sit in the chair by the fire as Holve told him more and more of the island.

  Yet after a few more days rest and eating real food, instead of the broth they fed him while he was recovering, Ealrin began to regain his strength. He had even begun to walk around the town of Good Harbor a bit, exploring his temporary home.

  Instead of taking his meals in his room next to the fire, Ealrin began to sit in the common eating area that served as both dining room and welcome area of the Rusty Hook. All who came and went through the little inn
made their way through here.

  Some of the tenants only stayed a night or two, just long enough to rest and eat a meal. Or perhaps they stay long enough to share in a conversation with who they had arranged to meet. These conversations would take place in the shadowiest part of the dining hall. The participants would used hush voices and rarely show their faces.

  Others lingered for a longer time. In fact, the longer a tenant meant to stay at the Rusty Hook, it seemed the more they would be inclined to make their presence known.

  Their dress and manner varied as much as the shapes of the clouds over the harbor. One pair wore pelts and skins as their only clothing. It seemed they were dressed for a much colder climate than the mild Spring Good Harbor was experiencing. Another came in robes and veils so thick that it made it impossible to distinguish who they were or any of their physical features.

  Two things all visitors had in common: very seldom did any travel alone, and every one of them seemed to know Holve.

  For the shadowy ones, a nod of the head in his direction would suffice. Sometimes he was invited over to the shadows in order to hear the news that was being discussed.

  For others, the greeting was more like seeing an old friend. Like the man who came into the inn a little more than a week after Ealrin had begun eating his meals out in the open.

  He came dressed in similar clothes as Holve: leather vest and pants with a simple cloth shirt. A navy cloak covered his body and a hood lay unused on his back. He was much broader than either Ealrin or Holve and, as a breath of fresh wind from the east, much more jovial than any other visitor had been to this point, especially Holve.