by R. G. Long
"Now, Dollin, if we are to understand, you are not debating axes and swords, but an elven caravan that intended to travel to Kaz-Ulum?” he said, trying to bring the conversation back to a focus.
"Not only that, but I say there was no caravan!" Dollin shouted at Ceolmaer, who, upon hearing those words put his head back into his hands.
"Dollin of Kaz-Ulum!" shouted one of the elven elders, a tall and brown haired man named Finasaer. He was younger than Dollin, in fact, he was the youngest of the elders. His youth gave him a pride and arrogance that matched Dollin's rage. The elf was fair and had no beard, for in fact, no elf had ever needed to shave. They never grew facial hair. Ceolmaer’s own graying goatee fell into his lap as he continued to listen to the bickering.
"You know full well that the elven caravan came to Conny, and resupplied here and convened with myself and Olweleg before continuing on to Kaz-Ulum. Or have you forgotten that they also spoke with Thrinain, who gave them his blessing to travel to your infernal mountain? If you say there was never a caravan then you are a liar or a fool, perhaps both!"
Shouting on both sides grew so that no words were intelligible, by either party.
Of course Finasaer was right. The elves had indeed sent a caravan of artisans and craftsmen from Ingur to Conny with the intent of traveling to the dwarven mine in order to learn from the weapon smiths there. It was to be a time of cooperation and learning from one another. The elves had in fact traveled to Conny. Ceolmaer had seen them with his own eyes. The issue was that the caravan never made it to the mountain. Upon searching for the fourteen carts, forty horses, and over two hundred elves that were a part of the traveling group, only a single charred cart was found.
On that cart rested the heads of the lead artisans upon the axes of dwarfs.
Now both sides were furious with the other. The elves naturally assumed that the dwarves had slaughtered the elves for reasons unknown to anyone but themselves. The dwarves claimed no such violence could have taken place. It was during a season of meditation for the dwarves, before a concentrated effort to better understand the mountain and its gifts to them. No weapons would be held during the two week long worship of the mountain. Therefore the dwarves could not have attacked the elves.
And they said that it damaged the honor of a dwarf to be called liars.
Both sides blamed men for different things at different times. Men should have accompanied the elves to help them travel safely to the mountain. Men should have come to the aid of elves if a battle was to be fought. Men should side with the dwarves because of the weapons forged by them and used in the Southern Republic's army.
And so the argument continued to escalate.
"Peace, my fellow elders!" said a feminine voice finally.
Mara held up her hands to silence the elves and dwarves. Ceolmaer looked up from his hands, hoping that the sole woman elder could grant him respite from this bickering. His headache was worsening by the moment.
Both dwarf and elf resumed their seats, as they looked to the short female who still held her hands high. She looked at both sides of the round table with stern green eyes. Though she was in her sixtieth year, she was still a fiery politician who could easily command a room, as she did currently.
"May we take a moment to discuss a possibility among this tragedy?" Ceolmaer adjusted himself in his rather uncomfortable chair to better look at Mara. He had always admired her for her ability to look at every situation with eyes other than her own. No wonder she had risen to the prominence of an elder. She possessed a wisdom and insight that Ceolmaer envied at times. Should he ever need someone to follow him as head, he would have her be the top candidate.
“Suppose the elven caravan was in fact attacked and I believe we can assume this report is true. Now what if what is plain to our sight is not true and, as the dwarves say, the caravan was not attacked by dwarves of the mountain but by another group? We have heard several accounts of a group of raiders harassing smaller villages and communities on the southern side of the peninsula. Could it have been made to look as if the dwarves of the mountain are at fault when truly they are not?”
For a moment Ceolmaer considered the possibility, that the dwarves of the mountain were honest and had no knowledge of the attack. But then could it be another group of dwarves who led the attack? A rogue group? Perhaps those who would not have observed the Mountain Ritual?
“If one dwarf has killed an elf than all dwarves are responsible!” roared Finasaer.
The shouting match continued and Mara looked down at the table, shaking her head.
So much for diplomacy.
Ceolmaer brought his thoughts back to the city he watched over from his balcony. He had replayed the scene around the Table of Elders for the last two weeks, during their break from that last terrible session. Could he have led better and helped bring about some peace? Perhaps if he was younger he could have told both sides to quit being foolish and listen to reason. Or at least to Mara.
Tomorrow, during the councils next session, he would ask, no beg, his fellow elders to see the great need of unity. The bickering must stop so that they could address the greater issue at hand. There had been reports of a rogue group of bandits gaining ground among the more unsavory types of man. It sounded like the Merc Rebellion of a generation ago, but surely it was not they who were causing such trouble. Those raiders were smashed against the rocks with the combined might of three races held in unity.
And so it would be again after this tragedy was behind them.
A noise at the door brought him out of his daydream.
"Does my Lord require anything?" inquired a voice from the door. Ceolmaer turned to face the attendant, keeping one hand on the railing of the balcony.
“No thank you I’m...” Ceolmaer would not finish that sentence, or any afterward. For the words that he had intended to say were stopped short by a dagger that cut into his throat. The blade was sharper than any he had ever imagined. He swung at his attacker, but his arms were too frail and his frame too weak. The action caused him to lose his balance. Clutching his bleeding wound, head already spinning from the loss of blood from the deep cut, he slipped to the floor. Looking up, he saw the distinct face of a man: bearded and dark. His eyes were narrowed into a grim and satisfied look. A smirk crossed his face. He dropped the blade that had sliced Ceolmaer’s neck and turned to leave. He wore the traditional robes of a tower attendant: maroon with a single golden colored sash and a hood. Ceolmaer wondered where the imposter had stolen his disguise.
The man would undoubtedly leave the tower unnoticed.
The world around Ceolmaer swum and spun. He lay on the cool stone balcony, unable to call out for help. His hand fell limply to his side. With his last moments, Ceolmaer only saw one last detail of his assassination. Left lying on the balcony beside him, it would be heralded up and down the streets of Conny the next day and used to stir hate and unrest. It would be used to ignite a terrible struggle. The dagger that had slit his throat was elven made.
13: The Night Shift
Ealrin was awakened with a shake.
"Can’t see how you sleep for all the snoring. It's your shift," said a bleary eyed human named Pas.
He had a good point. For all their complaining, once the dwarves were asleep, hardly anyone else could rest with their combined snores. The whole crew cabin shook with their collective breath.
Ealrin thought about reconsidering his desire to visit a dwarven city more than once whilst trying to fall asleep. He removed the bits of cloth he had eventually tied around his ears to help him sleep, and drug himself out of his hammock and into a standing position. He gathered the sword Roland had been allowing him to use, and now had officially given him to keep, and climbed the stairs from the lower deck up to the main deck.
Pas was sent down to wake the next shift and as Ealrin arose, the other three who were on watch gave a sigh of relief and began to file down to their own hammocks. The night was still; a breezy eastern wind was guiding them along to their dest
ination. They would be there after one more day and night of sailing.
Holve rose from the lower deck as well as one of the elves. Ealrin began to look for a fourth, but then realized Urt was at the helm, rounding out the high moon watch.
"Mind if I join you?" said a voice as if spoken inside a vast cavern, with a slight echo behind it. It was never difficult to tell when Edgar was speaking.
"Not at all Edgar," said a yawning Holve. During this voyage, Ealrin's friend had not been talking much. Instead, he had been pouring over several pages of notes in his own leather bound journal. Every now and then he would consult a map of Ruyn, make a new note in his journal, grunt a bit, and then go back to reading. His behavior was odd to Ealrin, who had known Holve to be very talkative, despite his bad mood.
When he had inquired about his change in behavior, Holve had only said "It comes from two things young one: my dislike of traveling by sea and wishing this voyage to be over quickly, as well as my business in Thoran. Once all my thoughts are gathered I will gladly share what I have been looking over."
Now that he was out under the open sky, Ealrin began to wonder how the first watch had indeed known it was time for their shift to end. The sky was completely overcast with dark clouds. Not a single star could be seen. It made the night eerily dark.
"I fear that easterly winds will bring dark clouds with them. The Dark Comet burns brightly as well. A bad omen," said Edgar, who Ealrin supposed was looking at him. Though how a suit of armor had the sense of sight he wasn't sure.
"It's just so dark tonight," said Ealrin with a yawn of his own. He was trying to think of something to ask Edgar. Surely a spirit encased in ancient armor had stories to tell to help them pass the time. But just as he was about to speak, a light caught his eye.
And then another. And another. Soon the whole western horizon was filled with lights that were level with the sea.
Urt let out a mighty roar that sent chills down Ealrin's spine.
This was no good tiding.
"Goblins," said Holve in a tone of bitter resentment. "To see that many on the horizon spells terrible news for Good Harbor. I had thought their numbers were dwindling."
"As did I," said Roland, rising up from the lower deck, strapping on his weapons. "I spent the last moon before coming to Good Harbor prowling the Maw and I thought their numbers had decreased back down to the days of the Southern Republic's expedition. This can't bode well for the dwarven cities."
Ealrin thought of the dwarves traveling with them from the mountains in-between Beaton and The Goblin Maw. Were their ancient dwarf’s cities safe, or overrun with the gray skinned, black haired beasts?
Felicia came flying out of her cabin, fastening a sword in its sheath around her waist. Instead of her typical clothes, she had on the equivalent of a night robe and her captain’s jacket. In her eyes, however, was a fierce determination. Urt surrendered the wheel to her as she began barking orders to the crew that was emerging from the lower decks. Sleep was not in their eyes. They had also heard the Skrilx mighty roar and knew what it meant. They were alert and ready for action.
“Full sail! Prepare the vessel for combat! Every one of you, make ready your weapons! To your stations!” yelled Felicia Stormchaser. A storm had begun to chase her.
Ealrin’s post was at the rear of the ship, Roland was at his right, closer to the wheel. This part of the deck was higher up than any other area. The lights that had lit the horizon were coming closer with each passing moment. The White Wind was going to be overrun.
“We are using the same wind are we not?” asked Ealrin as the lights began to illuminate their vessels: ships with dark sails that littered the sea like leaves during the harvest.
“Yes, but our wind is a natural one. There’s something about this that seems more than unnatural,” answered Roland. “Goblins are as inventive as they are cruel. Something drives them other than the winds!"
“I’ve never yet been overrun by a goblin vessel and I don’t intend to be!” barked Felicia in the pair’s direction. “If there’s anything on the deck that can be lost, throw it over!”
Barrels and boxes and trunks began flying off the White Wind’s deck. Every piece of cargo that they could afford to do without was tossed.
Several merchants would be disappointed in the fate of their wares, but that was the least of their worries at this moment.
Ealrin glanced back at the approaching menace. There was something odd about the boats. The water they rode on was being stirred with something other than their hulls. They were now close enough to see that their hulls were painted black and that they were crawling with goblins: on the sails, on the rigging, and on the deck. This particular boat carried no less than a hundred. The crew of the White Wind was a scant 30.
“What is that at the bottom of the boat closest to us?” Ealrin asked the closest person to him. It turned out that person was Urt, who was surveying the boats as well.
“Slave oars,” said the Skrilx.
So. They do talk, Ealrin thought.
He leapt gracefully to the upper deck and spoke to Felicia, who swore loudly at his news.
“Ready yourselves, crew of the White Wind! We’re in for a fight!” she said as she drew her own sword, keeping one hand on the wheel.
“It’s not the fight with the goblins that worries me,” said Holve who had appeared at Ealrin’s side. “It’s that I’ve never known a goblin to go looking for a fight it wasn’t totally sure it would win.”
Holve had nothing but disgust in his voice. His eyes were narrowed with rage. Ealrin thought about asking him how many times he had to face a horde of goblins that were sure of the results of a battle and won. Obviously he had dealt with the gray skinned killers before. How many of those skirmishes had been won over the bodies of several defenders who had fought for their lives?
And would Ealrin live long enough to tell the story of his own encounter with the goblins, or was he living his final moments?
He drew his sword as Roland came to stand next to them.
They would soon know.
THE GOBLIN SHIP WAS now directly behind them, flanked by two more on either side. Not only was the crew of the White Wind hopelessly outnumbered man to man, they were soon to be surrounded by ships carrying two hundred goblins each.
The blood had drained from Ealrin's hands. He felt numb and cold. And yet he tried to steel himself with the same gritty determination that his companions had. Those on board had drawn their weapons. Ten of the crew carried bows with them. They waited for the ships to come within range so that they could whittle down the goblin menace before they were boarded and faced the red eyed beasts in hand to hand combat.
Ealrin wished now for a bow, instead of simply waiting for the ships to form a circle and slowly ease towards them, ready to attack.
One goblin ship came close to the rear of the White Wind. Close enough to warrant a volley of arrows from the archers aboard the hunted vessel.
Several cries from the goblin ships let the crew know that they had scored at least a few hits. Ealrin could tell from the howls of rage that the red-eyed goblins were not going to allow those arrows to go unanswered.
“Goblin arrows!” shouted Roland to the crew behind him and all of them took cover. Some had shields with which to protect them, while others dashed behind a mast or behind a door of the lower deck.
Ealrin and his two companions dropped below the railing of the upper deck. The cover it provided was sufficient enough to shield them from the arrows, but not from the sight of seeing hundreds of arrows scatter the ship around them. A scream from below let them know that one of their crew had been struck with a goblin missile.
“Careful not to touch the things!” Holve shouted over the thud of arrows. “Goblins will poison the tips!”
Getting shot would be bad enough. Being shot and then suffering from poison as well was a terrible thought.
Surely goblins are the worst type of vile creature, Ealrin thought.
&nb
sp; The archers on the White Wind returned fire as they could. Every now and then a yell from a crew member let Ealrin know that they had lost another good fighter and that their chances of survival were growing slimmer. Not that they were very likely to survive in the first place.
First light broke just as the arrows had stopped raining down on the White Wind. It was a sign that the goblins were now close enough to ready their own weapons. Ealrin peered over the decking to see that four goblin ships had now come on either side of their own. Their foes were dressed in dark colors and wielded short, crude looking swords and shields that were also painted black to match the ships. Goblins were truly repulsive creatures and now Ealrin could see their every detail.
Most of them were black haired and gray skinned, though some were darker than others. All of them had glistening red eyes that flashed with hate. Their ears sat higher on their heads than a man’s did and were large and pointed. Unlike the elves, this did nothing to make them seem dignified or proud. It only added to their grotesque image. Their noses were little more than two holes opened above their mouth. Their mouths were also unnaturally large and filled with sharp, pointed teeth. Their howls were deep and long, like a dog who had been maimed and yet was fighting off a vile enemy.
Their voices joined together in a chorus hundreds strong that chilled Ealrin far more than the morning mist.
Perhaps he was indeed facing the last moments of his life. Would he face them like a coward, hunkered down behind the decking of a doomed ship, or upright and brave, facing adversity head on?
Ealrin rose, sword held high, and let out the fiercest battle cry he could muster.
He would not die a coward.
14: The Goblin Pusher
Stinkrunt was in a bad mood.
Not that he was ever in a particularly good mood, but this current state of affairs made his demeanor worse than it was typically.
The Fishbone rocked back and forth in the sea as scores of goblins sailed east toward human lands. Stinkrunt had never been one for sailing, and now he knew why.