The Goblin Reign Boxed Set

by Gerhard Gehrke

  Her head throbbed. Her arms were tingling and numb. With one hand, she felt the smooth rock. At first it felt featureless with no suitable handhold. Reaching further, her fingers found the smallest lip. She grasped it. Her callused hands had no problem gripping the stone. But it was too dark to see if there was any place for her feet.

  As her toes reached out and tapped at the rocky face, the quiver strap slipped.

  She dropped a few inches and cried out. Cursed herself for showing weakness. The strap would fail at any moment. She continued to probe with her toes.

  Nothing. No ledge, not even a rough surface for the tips of her boots. The wind-smoothed stone was as slick as soap.

  She needed her other hand. But raising her right arm would mean letting the strap of the quiver slip off her shoulder. That would result in a fatal plummet.

  But she was going to fall anyway.

  She placed her weight on the fingerhold and swung. Her right hand slapped at smooth stone. The quiver strap went slack but caught again on whatever above her held it in place. She grabbed the strap. The taut leather stretched to its limit. Yet it held. But as she tried to pull herself up, the strap gave way with a soft snap.

  Her entire body weight hung on just four fingers.

  The hand began to cramp. The tiny lip of rock grew slick with sweat. Her entire body was trembling as she reached up and found another fingerbreadth of stone for her right hand. But it was enough to allow her left to edge to the side in search of a better purchase.

  No good.

  The lip only grew narrower.

  With arms and back muscles accustomed to drawing and firing arrow after arrow using a bow with the highest draw weight, she pulled herself up. With her shoulders higher, she was able to reach above her head. Her hand found a solid hold. Soon she was scrambling over the precipice and onto flat ground. She collapsed on the stone and let out a dry laugh.

  Curse the goblins and their Mother Mountain, curse Lord and his fantasy of hidden dragon lore, curse the bastard dragon who nearly killed her, and curse the goblin youth that led her platoon of mercenaries to their doom.

  The bow she had dropped when the dragon had struck her with its tail lay nearby. It was intact except for a busted string. Her own bow had been lost when they first went up against the creature. This weapon she had salvaged from a fallen soldier.

  Even in the diffuse moonlight she could make out the dark stain of the glyph on the white oak.

  Luck.

  Maybe the soldiers in her mercenary company who believed in the power of the glyphs were right. It was good to have luck. But the glyph hadn’t done anything for the man who had owned the bow.

  Now that she had a weapon, she made a quick examination of herself. No broken bones. Bruised ribs, no doubt, judging from the pain each breath caused. All her joints ached. Multiple scrapes. But she had suffered worse.

  The quiver still hung from a dry branch growing out from a crack in the rock. She drew it up by its broken strap. The arrows were all gone, but she discovered a spare bowstring in a side pouch. Finding any of the arrows fired during the last encounter would be next to impossible at night and would require her to climb down into the canyon where the dragon lived.

  For now she needed to move.

  There was no knowing where the dragon may have gone, and she had to assume it might be searching for her. The last she had seen of Lord and the remaining men of her platoon, the monster had torn them to pieces. And then there had been the explosion.

  Her mouth was too dry to spit. She wanted water, but that would have to wait.

  Lord had trusted in his satchel of bombs as if the devices could compensate for poor tactics and stupidity. She shook her head at the memory. Lord and his bombs.

  Curse those weapons as well.

  She needed to find her way down to the mouth of the canyon. That was where they had left their horses and two guards. They could head back west to the sea and figure the rest out as they went.

  The top of the canyon proved treacherous, as the rock held many hidden crevices that might twist an ankle. Stumbling might result in a fall down either side of the ridge. Yet she pressed on. The sooner she could get out of the mountains the better. This was a foreign land to her, too cold with too much rock. She’d had her fill of goblins, trolls, and dragons.

  Soon enough the way forward widened and there were even trees that grew from the sandy soil between the granite.

  From ahead of her came the scrape of a boot. It was a single sound that didn’t repeat.

  She held her breath and waited. A less experienced hunter might dismiss the sound. Darkness and adrenaline activated the imagination. But Alma watched and listened until she could find out what was in front of her. She was perfectly concealed in the shadow of a fir tree. The only thing that could give her away was her scent.

  Someone groaned and then a shape moved. It came towards her at an awkward gait, hobbling as if burdened by an uneven load.

  She hissed.

  The person ahead of her froze. “Hello?” a man’s voice cried.

  “Martin?” Alma rose from her hiding place. Martin was one of Lord’s lieutenants. The other men called him Blades. The acne-scarred merc should have been dead several times over. Yet here he was, hitch-stepping his way up a dark ridge with a branch as a crutch. Blades had twisted his ankle badly after the dragon attacked and their goblin prisoners had escaped.

  “How is it you’re alive?” she asked.

  “I played dead.”

  “Who else made it?”

  “No one. Lord’s gone. The rest of the men fell when the dragon came out. And then the bombs went off…all of them.”

  She heard the panic rising in his voice. “Are you sure they’re all dead?”

  “No one was moving,” Blades said. “You think I waited around to dig through the rubble?”

  “Relax, Martin. I’m just trying to find out what our assets are. We need to make it back to the horses and get out of here.”

  “It’s too dark. I can’t see where I’m going. We have to take shelter and wait for morning.”

  “Maybe you don’t remember the pile of human bones by the dragon cave. It’s not just the dragon we have to avoid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shhh.”

  A softer sound. A rustle. She had missed it while talking to Blades. But they had been following him.

  Figures moved in the gloom around them. Even as she bolted past Blades to race down the ridge, two men holding spears blocked her path. More emerged from the shadows on all sides.

  The barbarians who lived in the mountain and called the dragon their god were here.

  Chapter Three

  “Several of Lord’s band rode off before we crossed the water in the boats,” the goblin slave said. “Lord let them go as a show of good faith to the rest of his men. He said they were all free to find their fortune, but the ones who stuck with him would be rich.”

  The slave grabbed a mouthful of dried and salted fish scrounged from a soldier’s pack and chewed noisily.

  Fath had retreated into the darkness but might change his mind about letting the goblin slave live.

  Spicy gestured for him to go on, glad the slave was finally calm enough to talk. He was a young adult with freckled tan skin and several broken teeth. His jaw appeared misshapen. It was difficult to tell whether this was from some old accident or abuse suffered from his captors.

  Food swallowed, the slave was about to continue speaking when a wet crunch made them both jump. Hog had moved closer to the fire and had just stepped down on one of the raider’s heads, crushing it.

  Hog giggled. It was a deep, bouncy chortle. The slave looked horrified and began panting hard as the troll moved to the next raider. Another crunch. Another laugh.

  Spicy felt his own stomach sour. “Hog, please stop.”

  Hog looked at him for a moment before dragging two more of the humans off into the shadows. Spicy could only hope both were already de
ad.

  “I don’t want to die,” the slave whispered.

  “You’re not going to. Believe it or not, she’s my friend.”

  “And the dragon?”

  “He’s okay, too. Just not used to being around people. What’s your name?”

  “My old owners called me Mouse.”

  “What did your parents call you?”

  A crunch from the dark interrupted Mouse just before he spoke.

  “Hog!” Spicy shouted in irritation.

  There came a wordless grumble from Hog, followed by silence. Mouse eyed the backpack with the salted fish. Spicy closed it up and placed it in his lap. He ignored the pang of guilt. Mouse looked lean and exhausted.

  “Your parents?” Spicy prompted. “Where are they? What village are you from?”

  “I was born in a human village on the coast out on the big ocean. My earliest memory is me being given away and put to work. I never knew my mother. There was only one other goblin in the village where I lived and he had his tongue cut out. There were only a few younger humans who ever spoke with me beyond giving me orders. But then Lord’s men came through.”

  “They attacked other humans?”

  Mouse nodded. “Some they murdered, most scattered. The ones they captured they made dig up anything precious they might own. But no one had much. The village sold fish and salt for trade. Can I…?”

  Spicy opened the pack and let Mouse grab up another handful of fish. At least he seemed calmer. Spicy fed the fire while Mouse ate. It felt good to get warm. The mountain air had only chilled further, with snow threatening in the wind. There wasn’t much left of the fish inside the pack.

  “How long ago did Lord’s men take you prisoner?” Spicy asked.

  “Two full changes of the moon. Except for having to ride on horses and then being on the boat for so long, it hasn’t been too bad. Although a few of the men threatened to feed me to the troll if I didn’t mind them.”

  Spicy shook his head. “Why didn’t you try to escape?”

  “And go where?”

  “Anyplace would have to be better than being a prisoner.”

  “I’d have no idea where to run to. Or where to find food.” Mouse eyed the pack.

  Spicy realized his own nascent survival abilities were a world ahead of Mouse’s. At least he could fish, identify edible foods, and navigate. But Mouse’s life had been restricted to menial domestic work with a liberal side helping of abuse.

  He handed Mouse the entire backpack but kept his hand on it when the goblin tried to open it. “You’re going to have to make that last. But first I need you to tell me what happened to Rime and the children.”

  “Two of the men said they’d take them south and sell them at a town one of them knew. A place called Bliss, somewhere on the shore of the Inland Sea. They exchanged oaths and promises. At least one of the men didn’t trust the two would ever return with their share of the sale price. Another thought they’d be murdered by the humans who live around here. That was all I overheard. Then they left. That was the day after Lord departed to chase you. Then the troll attacked the camp, and me and the other human were the only ones who made it. Then we got captured.”

  “So south? They headed south? The same direction we’ve been going?”

  “Yes. All I know is I don’t like it here. The sea water smells funny. Your troll frightens me. And now I don’t know where to go.”

  “Well, you can’t follow us. Take the fish. Find your way north along the coast. It’s a long walk. You’ll have to hunt or gather shellfish to live. Further to the west up in the hills is Athra, where I live.”

  Mouse’s eyes were wide. “I’ll be your servant. Do your cooking and cleaning. Wash you. Anything. Let me go with you.”

  Spicy shook his head. “You’re free now. And you coming with us is just not possible. You see who I’m traveling with. You have a chance if you stick to the coast. Avoid everyone. There are a few goblins out there who were fighting the humans, but they’re going back home. If you can find them, join them.”

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  Spicy dug through the rest of the gear near the fire. They didn’t have much, but there was a rough map drawn on smoothed hide. It bore little resemblance to the expertly illustrated charts from Sage Somni’s library, but surprisingly, it showed the entirety of the Inland Sea. A rough unlettered arrow indicated north. Spicy saw labels on a few villages and towns. Perhaps it would be enough to fill in the blanks so Fath would know the route to travel. But that would mean he wouldn’t give Spicy the chance to save the other goblins.

  He tucked the map away into a pocket.

  “The fire’s yours. Anything left here is yours for the taking, but it’s not much, and the less you carry the faster you can travel. I wouldn’t linger.”

  Mouse looked as frightened as any goblin Spicy had ever seen. But he didn’t follow when Spicy got up and left him at the fire. Spicy forced himself to ignore the sting of guilt at the thought of what would most likely happen to the young goblin. But Spicy had to care for his own.

  He called to Hog. She emerged from the darkness and followed him. Hog was working something out of her teeth. Spicy tried not to notice the stains around her mouth as they went to find the dragon.

  “You have a map?” Fath asked.

  “No,” Spicy said. “But I know where we can find one. A town to the south called Bliss. We go there and I sneak in and get us a map.”

  Hog kept her distance. She was always content to hunker down on her haunches and lean on a tree. Even in daylight she became part of the landscape. But Fath preferred to lie out in the open, which was odd considering his lair had been a cramped cave created from some long-ruined building set in a mountain.

  Spicy waited as Fath absorbed the news. “That goblin heard my name.”

  “Like I said, he heard only what I called you. He was in such a panic he doesn’t even remember. And I don’t even know if he’ll last long out here.”

  Fath grunted. “So by setting him free you’ve doomed him. Killing him would be a mercy.”

  “No, it’s not like that. Those humans were evil. Keeping him as a slave was wrong, and at least now he has a chance.”

  “Indeed. He has a strong chance of death.”

  “He’s not going to die.”

  “I’d set a wager, but you have nothing to bet with that interests me. We go to this town, then. You procure a map. And then no more delays. We head south to the Devil Mountain and find my brother.”

  Chapter Four

  The tribe folk were painted white. Hands, skulls, and other patterns glowed on faces and bare chests in the cool moonlight. The obsidian spear tips sparkled as they flashed in Alma’s face.

  One broad man with tiny bones twisted in his locks snatched her bow away. He hissed an order and another man nudged Blades and got him to kneel.

  Alma raised her hands in surrender and tried not to stare. In her experience tribe folk could take offense at anything—a hard look, a gesture, a piece of jewelry that reminded them of a bad spirit. Alma wore only a few rings. But her white hair must have been unusual to them, as a few of the men surrounding her grabbed and tugged at it as if not believing it was real.

  She resisted the urge to cry out.

  One of the men was going through Blades’s pockets.

  “I don’t have anything,” Blades said.

  But the tribal found something and showed his prize to the leader. The leader took the offering without comment and put it into a pouch he wore around his neck. Someone pushed Alma. Blades was prodded as well, and soon both were being directed along an unseen path that wound back up the back of the ridge.

  A waiting tribal had another man from their platoon held in front of him. The man was the mercenaries’ best horseman, named Redruth. He had been one of the two left behind at the horses. As he was pushed along with them, he appeared dazed and barely able to remain upright.

  Th
e trail had numerous rocks and other trip hazards. Alma was able to navigate them easily enough, but Blades had been deprived of his crutch and wound up falling numerous times.

  The tribesmen only laughed.

  When Blades finally cried out and refused to rise, the leader cuffed him. “Keep up or we kill you.”

  The sharp command had its effect. Blades kept up. Alma finally got a look at Redruth. He too was limping badly and had an eye crusted shut with blood.

  At the top of the slope, they stopped. A group of the tribals gathered around their leader. A hushed discussion followed.

  “What happened?” Alma asked Redruth.

  “Ambushed. But not by them. By goblins.”

  “You sure?”

  Redruth nodded. “They came at us from all sides. I got hit in both legs with arrows. Never heard them coming. They got Warren. I’d made my way up the canyon when I heard the explosion and then a roar. I hid just in time. What was that thing?”

  “A dragon,” Blades said. “Lord took us here to get killed by a dragon.”

  The tribal leader approached them. “Dragon,” he said in a deep voice. “You came to see dragon.”

  Before Alma could reply, Blades said, “Yes! We saw it. It was magnificent. But we’d like to leave now. Mission accomplished.”

  The leader gestured up the hill with a chopping motion. “You see dragon.”

  “No. Wait.”

  They were pushed onward. A tribal right behind Alma tugged again at her hair. The gaunt man had scars along both sides of his face and painted stripes on his arms. Alma tried to give him an alluring look but was rewarded with a hard shove that knocked her into Blades and sent him sprawling. As he cried out, the tribesmen around them laughed.

  “See dragon,” one of the tribesmen repeated, and the words were echoed by the others with glee as if it was a joke they never tired of.

  “See dragon. See dragon.”

  They reached the top of the ridge an hour later. By Alma’s best estimation they were over the dragon cave and the collection of human bones in the floor of the canyon. Her legs trembled. She wanted nothing more than to collapse in exhaustion. The tribesmen were chanting now in some unknown tongue and making no attempt to keep their voices down. If there was a dragon below, it would know they were there.