The Sword of Darrow

by Hal Malchow

  His head struck a rock. His body stilled and gradually floated upward. His head broke the surface of the water. Cool air crossed his forehead and traveled down to his mouth. At the first taste of air, his lungs exploded, disgorging water.

  Frantically, his hands clawed, searching for something to keep him afloat, until they struck a round wooden object too large to grasp. His fingers found an edge, but the object slipped away. He reached up again and realized it was a keg. He clutched the barrel at both ends and lifted his head above the water. Another cough, this one long and helpless, followed. The cough gave way to wheezing breaths. And when the wheezing ended, he peered out from behind the keg to see where he might be.

  The goblins were pulling his crew from the water and tying them with ropes. He scanned the landscape. Not a single pirate escaped. His entire crew was lost.

  But Telsinore was hardly discouraged.

  “A dime a dozen,” he muttered and began thinking of where he might hire his next band of scoundrels. But a more alarming thought crossed his brain.

  “Frick! Three Fingers Frick! Why, that lowly scoundrel has escaped his due!”

  As Telsinore watched the goblins fish the boxes from the river, his heart boiled with anger. His war? For nothing! Frick still ruled the sea.

  These goblins would pay. Not today. Not tomorrow. But an account had to be settled on a day and at a time when fate offered him the chance. His hands trembled as he lifted himself from the water. Steam rose from his water-logged clothes. With a grim expression and a memory etched in stone, Telsinore turned and began his long walk back to the sea.

  • 5 •

  Ambush

  It was the fifth day in the forest. Beltar was up at sunrise and moved to the head of his column. There on the ground lay a raven, pierced by a yellow arrow of Sonnencrest. The enemy had finally struck.

  Great precautions were taken. A scouting party moved through the dense underbrush, far to the left of the path. Another advanced to the right. Scouts ran back and forth, bringing reports from the trail ahead.

  Up and down his column, Beltar shouted orders, cursed Zindown’s creatures, and urged his soldiers forward. Today, his curses grew louder, for there was a new delay—the mantis men.

  Another creation of Zindown’s, a mantis man, had the body of a man but no hands. Instead, his arms terminated in giant crablike claws. Covered in a hard red shell, these claws could snap a soldier in half so quickly the movement was impossible to see. The heads of these creatures were tiny, round, and, like the claws, covered in a bright red shell. Worst of all was the face. The yellow eyes never moved. Incapable of even the slightest expression, the mantis men were so hideous that Zindown himself was frightened in their presence.

  But while the mantis men were well designed for warfare, they moved with a strange, jerky gait. They lifted each leg one at a time high into the air and then slowly folded the knee until it pointed straight upwards into the sky. At this point, the mantis men froze, not looking left or right but simply pausing. When they resumed, the foot eased forward in a reaching motion that languished in the air until the toes softly touched the ground.

  These trancelike motions disturbed the goblins. They shouted at the mantis men, but the creatures were deaf. Some tried prodding them with sticks, but the mantis men turned to strike. One soldier lost an arm and the prodding ceased. The deeper they ventured into the forest, the slower the mantis men moved.

  Beltar peered through his telescope. The forest floor had changed. Large thorn bushes, brown and without any sign of spring, rose waist-high from the ground and painted the landscape in dark, forbidding colors. Beltar smiled. No human could penetrate these thorns. There would be no ambush from the side.

  He listened for the caw of the ravens. Only the moaning of the Cyclops reached his ears.

  “Six days,” cursed Beltar, “and we are barely halfway through the forest.”

  He looked down at his feet. Two more ravens lay dead in this path. Yellow arrows had done the deed.

  His enemy was mocking him.

  At that moment, a messenger appeared with news: “The trail is blocked.”

  Beltar hurried to the barrier. Across the trail lay five large trees—huge trees, obviously felled by a mighty axe. No wagon could pass this blockade. Removing it might take days. But passage was no longer a problem. For these trees spoke as clearly as a painted warning: the attack was imminent.

  Beltar summoned the scouts.

  “Move ahead past the obstacle and see what you can find.”

  While the scouts scrambled ahead, Beltar organized a defense. He ordered soldiers to man the barricade. To either side he placed archers.

  But when the scouts returned they had nothing to report.

  Beltar thought aloud. “If they are not ahead on the trail, then where can they be?” His eyes grew large.

  “Tunnels!”

  Soon, goblin soldiers moved up and down the path stabbing sharp sticks into the ground. But all they wounded were mole rats and tarantulas.

  That night, Beltar did not sleep. The Cyclops and skriabeasts were blissfully silent, but the forest sang with coos and mating cries of animals he did not know. So loud were these sounds that the entire army of Sonnencrest might have marched, covered by darkness, directly into their midst.

  Twice Beltar awoke his troops; twice the attack did not come. In his mind, the enemy’s presence was everywhere.

  Morning arrived. Around the barricade and at either side, goblin soldiers gripped their swords and tightened the strings of their bows. Once again, Beltar dispatched his scouts. Once again, they returned with no news.

  The low moan of the Cyclops echoed through the forest. The skriabeasts cried in reply. The forest became a menacing force, almost laughing at a great army unable to see or hear the enemy before them.

  Then, above the din, came a sound Beltar knew all too well. It was the death cry of a goblin.

  A soldier was struck by a yellow arrow, not in his leg or arm or even through his heart. No, the arrow was planted squarely in his forehead, its feathered end pointing skyward to the trees above. The wound was so deadly that the soldier’s scream stopped even before he hit the ground.

  Beltar pulled his sword, eyes still seeking the enemy. A new sound filled the air. And this sound sent a chill right through his toes.

  It was no battle cry. No footstep or clashing swords, no war trumpet or martial drums. The sound was air, rushing air, descending from the heavens above. Beltar lifted his eyes. A thousand arrows burst from the trees, a merciless rain of death that headed straight for his warriors below.

  He had found the enemy—or rather, they had found him. From high in the canopy of the kamilko trees, an army of archers had located their prey, and a terrible slaughter was under way.

  The goblins countered, but their response was pitiful and without effect. Arrows launched upward but fell short of the enemy every time. Soldiers hurled rocks and lances. So short was their flight that surely the enemy laughed from above.

  Here and there, the mantis men, unnerved by the chaos, curled in on themselves and huddled motionless on the ground. Their still bodies made easy targets, and they were the first to die.

  Without any possible defense, the goblins had but one choice. They ran. But the thorn bushes that crowded the road clawed at their garments and tore their skin. Even after they had traveled beyond the arrows’ reach, their desperate flight continued without order or reason. Beltar shouted orders, but his words were but a whisper against the screaming of the wounded and the chaos of retreat.

  How far they might have run, no one will ever know, for it was not exhaustion or relief that slowed the goblin flight. Their retreat stopped for one reason alone.

  Sonnencrest struck again.

  Waiting far down the path was yet another company of tree-dwelling archers. And this second volley of arrows was even more deadly than the first. Once again, the frightened goblins turned and ran, this time back in the direction from which
they had come. But there was no escape from this attack, for the path was clogged with goblins fleeing from the first. Soldiers collided, falling to the ground. The fallen were trampled. Dozens were shoved into the terrible thorns. Jammed together on the trail, they made a perfect target for the archers above.

  But Beltar did not panic.

  “Fire,” he ordered. “Set the forest on fire!”

  Soon, up and down the path, the goblins set torches to the dry thicket of thorns. Great flames surged high in the air, moving outward from the road. Plumes of smoke lifted from the ground, forming dark clouds in the canopy above. The archers struggled to breathe and were soon unable to see the ground. Fewer arrows fell, and almost none of those found targets.

  “Skreeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Frightened by the fire, the skriabeasts broke their ropes. They ran down the road and deep into the forest, their terrible screams piercing even the sounds of battle and fire.

  But another cry arose, even louder and more chilling than the skriabeasts. Up the road, marching directly toward Beltar, came the Cyclops, staggering with three arrows protruding from his large eye. Without sight, he swung his hammer wildly through the air, sending terrified goblins scattering from his path. Then his hammer struck a tree and an archer plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening crack.

  Seeing the dead archer, Beltar knew what to do. Rushing to the Cyclops, Beltar shouted, “Listen to me, listen to me. The archer who has taken your sight cannot escape. There he is—to your right.”

  And with a thunderous stroke, the Cyclops swung his hammer against a tree, sending another archer falling from the sky.

  “To your left! There is the archer who has taken your sight!” Again, the Cyclops struck. Slowly, Beltar guided the Cyclops down the path.

  “The cave trolls,” Beltar shouted. “Bring me the cave trolls.”

  When the cave trolls arrived, they followed the Cyclops, hitting the trees with heavy logs. More archers fell to the ground. On and on, the Cyclops raged. Again and again, bodies dropped from the black clouds above.

  Beltar screamed at the Cyclops once more. “He has escaped! The one who took your sight has fled. Come, we will destroy him.” A group of goblins took the Cyclops by the hands to lead him back to where the battle had begun.

  A great black cloud filled the branches of the trees. Looking up, the goblins wondered how these archers could breathe. Some had already fallen. Others cowered above.

  Again, the Cyclops’ hammer struck. Furiously, the monster’s club exploded into the trees. “On, Cyclops,” Beltar screamed. “A Cyclops is more powerful than some coward in a tree. Slam him. Kill him. Destroy him!”

  And with the cave trolls close on his heels, it was not arrows that rained, but the archers themselves. A few archers used their ropes to descend, but they were easy targets for the goblins below.

  When the smoke cleared from the forest, many goblins lay dead. But for Sonnencrest the day was no better. Their soldiers retreated from the forest, hoping to make a stand behind the palace walls. But Beltar’s trap was ready.

  At the mouth of the forest, Sonnencrest’s army met a wall of metal shields locked together in a great semicircle, blocking any path of escape. The scorpion man led the charge, but the goblins were ready, covering him with nets. Beltar followed from behind. The scorpion man cut himself free and disappeared into the forest. He was the only one to escape. No message reached the palace, and King Henry knew nothing of the defeat.

  The army of Globenwald was wounded but victorious. They moved toward Blumenbruch, and a long line of prisoners followed them. They would be paraded through the streets of Blumenbruch in a show of goblin might. And when the goblin victory was complete, they would be locked beneath the palace until the last soldier breathed his last breath, a reminder to every citizen of Sonnencrest that the final remnants of their army remained in goblin hands.

  • 6 •

  The Flight of the Princess

  If you believe in history, grand events are the work of heroes. But in this respect, history tells little truth. Who are these heroes? They are the product of legend, of tales told over and over, until they tower in size far larger than any real memories of the time.

  The truth, could it be known, is that the largest events are often shaped by the smallest hands. Tiny circumstances, unnoticed by any at the time, grow in consequence until they unleash vast powers, topple empires, crumble armies, and leave the mightiest of monarchs resting in their graves.

  In the kingdom of Sonnencrest at the palace of King Henry, one such event, arising from a simple act of childish mischievousness, empowered the many great deeds that followed.

  The moon was full and high in the sky as midnight approached. Though the soldiers stepped softly, the muffled drumbeat of their footsteps filled the streets of Blumenbruch. Beltar lifted his hand to signal for quiet. Among the soldiers not a word was uttered. But in the houses that surrounded them, barely a mile from the palace, citizens peered through their windows fearful and certain of the terrible events that would surely come to pass.

  Inside the castle, no warnings had sounded. Few lights shone from windows. A handful of sentries manned the towers. Unaware of the impending attack, most soldiers and citizens lay fast asleep. However, most did not include the eight-year-old princess, Babette.

  Outside the castle, beneath a pear tree, the little princess sat, waiting for an unusual visitor, a rare and precious serenading bird from the faraway island of Annisa.

  The bird was a gift from a visiting prince and Babette had named her Principeelia after an angel in an ancient fable. So precious was this bird and so beautiful was her song that Babette could not bear to keep her captive. With tears in her eyes, she had released Principeelia through a window. But finding no others of her kind in the forests of Sonnencrest, the little bird returned, and every Wednesday night the princess sneaked through a window, departed the palace, and waited for her bird to return.

  Principeelia landed on the branch. Barely bigger than a chicken’s egg, her feathers were a dazzling yellow, accented by blue eyes and a bright red beak. Babette lifted her hands to offer Principeelia the raisins she always brought. When the little bird finished her meal, she hopped back to her perch, opened her bright beak, and let forth her song. Lost in the melody, Babette’s mind wandered to faraway places.

  She imagined herself a sword fighter, a sailor, or even a spy, disguised as a man, whose designs bring an evil kingdom to its knees . . . anything but a princess. Eyes closed, she galloped across a great desert pursuing evil bandits, determined to deliver the punishment they deserved.

  A great thundering clap interrupted Babette’s dream. Sand and small bits of rock exploded through the air, stinging her skin. A small cut appeared on her arm. The dust made her cough and when it settled, she saw a large round stone lying broken on the ground.

  Another stone struck, hitting the palace wall a little farther away. Loud claps began to sound, near and far with a random but more frequent pattern. Trembling, Babette curled into a ball, wondering why such stones might fall from the sky. She reached for a branch and pulled herself into the tree.

  For a moment the stones stopped. Babette crouched in the tree, ready to jump. A great bang sounded and began to repeat with an even rhythm. Next to her tree, the wall shook. After each bang, the sound of creaking wood cried out in response. “The gate,” she realized. “Something is banging at the gate.”

  A great crash reached her ears and the banging stopped. A shrill cry, joyous and evil, filled the yard. A sea of torches floated inside, spreading like milk across a black table. Her tiny hands shook. She climbed higher in her tree. For moments, she simply trembled, eyes closed, too afraid to look.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw wagons and boxes and trees alive with flame. In the stone buildings, great yellow plumes roared from the windows. Strange shadows pulsed chaotically, in a vile and wicked dance. A figure approached. Its face was dark, the light at its back. Then she knew. The goblins had
arrived.

  Across the yard, gleams of silver showed the rise and fall of a hundred swords. Bodies dropped to the ground. Amongst the cries, she heard voices she knew—not just soldiers but servants, craftsmen, and even their children. In and out of the palace compound, the goblins flowed, some wearing shirts stuffed with candlesticks and gold.

  Torches approached, five in all. Babette gripped the trunk, trying to make herself small behind the leaves. The torches passed. She climbed higher and stepped out onto the wall. There, a watchtower cast a shadow that concealed her tiny frame.

  A great cry arose. Across the yard, movement slowed. Her eyes darted frantically about, searching for the reason. The torches moved toward the palace. Her eyes rose to the balcony and she gasped.

  There stood her mother, father, and three siblings, bound with ropes, motionless as statues commemorating some unspeakable tragedy. Babette clutched her heart, fearful to look but unable to look away.

  A goblin wearing a black mask climbed to the rail of the balcony and lifted his hands. A high-pitched cheer arose from the yard. Babette staggered backwards. The goblin unsheathed his sword and lifted it high in the air, prancing back and forth across the balcony rail. More cheers, louder. Trembling, Babette stepped back again, but this time her foot stepped beyond the wall.

  When she awoke, she lay on her back, looking up from the ground. She rose. Screams and cheers filled her ears. She was outside the wall, so she turned and ran.

  She had no idea where to run as she took off across the open grounds and into the streets of Blumenbruch. As she fled deeper into the city, the noise from the palace faded. Soon, only the sound of her footsteps echoed in her ears.

  She stopped, pressing her back against the wall of a small building. She had seldom left the palace, and the streets of her own city were strange and unfamiliar. They were empty and cold. She looked left and right, wondering where to go.