The Goblin Reign Boxed Set

by Gerhard Gehrke

Two more sons died in the following week without explanation. He tested and retested the birthing liquid. The chemicals read at the proper levels. He sniffed his reagents and pondered the possibility they had grown old and ineffective.

  Three sons yet lived. They had all been identical, but was there something about the survivors’ makeup that gave them greater strength than their expired siblings? Hour by hour, he watched as the last three continued to develop.

  He limped around the humming machines and the tanks. Dared to feel excitement.

  Each son had formed fingers and toes. His flesh had given them life. The stuff of his bones was theirs. His blood. And as if he could accomplish it by will alone, all his strength he once had from his former days too.

  No more mistakes, he promised the three. Such errors were for lesser creatures.

  The matters of Pinnacle took too much time. No matter how much he delegated, his subordinates had grown too afraid to make decisions and would wait for him to emerge from the palace basement.

  A week had passed, and his three sons had only grown stronger. The archduke emerged to gather supplies, but his palace staff immediately alerted the chancellor, who cornered him.

  The archduke allowed himself to be led to the council chamber. The chancellor spouted his gratitude and nearly dropped the armload of papers clutched in his arms as he shepherded the frail archduke to the long table where the matters of city and kingdom were always discussed.

  A trade dispute with the Dons down in Bahia was causing shortages in corn. Pinnacle’s own villages on the Great Ocean and the Inland Sea were slow in bringing in fish because of the raids perpetrated by the zealots. And the lesser dukes around the bay all wanted something.

  “We have calls for reinforcements at all our settlements and forts to the north,” the chancellor reported in his contralto voice. “I have reports of casualties here. Eyewitness accounts of the zealot Pater’s growing forces. He grows more brazen. The threat to the bay becomes a real possibility. The other dukes demand—”

  He raised a hand to interrupt his chancellor. “What news of the dragon?”

  The chancellor licked his lips. He took the bottom page from the stack from which he read. “Our boat, the Dire Gamble, was lost in the delta. All hands. Pirates, we suspect. Again.”

  The voices of waiting officials outside the council chamber echoed through the door.

  “He knows we pursue him,” the archduke said. “Arrange a new expedition.”

  “Sir,” the chancellor began, pausing to choose his words, “the last expedition was…costly. A new one will take time and funds better served addressing the city’s immediate needs. The nobles of the House of Zora, for instance, have demanded we send troops—”

  The archduke slapped the table. The chancellor almost jumped. “The House of Zora serves at my pleasure. They all do. Now set down plans for two expeditions. I want to hear that they are underway by tomorrow night.”

  After cutting short his meeting with the chancellor, the archduke retired to his basement. A persistent ache pulsed within his abdomen. From where he had cut during the procedure, the wound wasn’t healing. The wrappings had bled through, compounding the dark stains already covering his tunic.

  He barely made the basement laboratory before he blacked out.

  Upon waking minutes or hours later in the dark, his eyes had trouble adjusting. Even with no lamp burning, he was used to seeing as clearly as if at dusk. But now he was blind.

  He forced himself not to panic. Feeling his way forward to his study desk, he managed to find matches and candles. Something else about the basement felt off. The smells were the same, no one else was there. And then he realized what it was.

  It was quiet.

  His machines had turned off.

  “No,” he said as he hobbled to the tanks. “No, no, no!”

  He had spent too much time upstairs in the council chamber. The chemical battery that powered the five tanks was spent. He fumbled with the terminals and attached them to a fresh battery. The machines started up and began to hum. The tanks bubbled. The three floating forms appeared intact, their color good.

  His sons lived.

  He decided he wouldn’t leave their side until they could breathe the air on their own.

  Chapter Seven

  Sailing on the Sin Nombre made Spicy believe it would be possible to sail the entirety of the Inland Sea in a fraction of the time it had taken them to travel down from Eel Port. In the hands of its able crew, the boat caught every change of wind. Wes had an eye for the water currents, though to Spicy it all looked like a swirling mass of brown.

  Middle Finger’s first mate was tireless, his attention on every aspect of the boat’s operation as well as the weather, the water, and his men. But he studiously avoided even looking directly at Spicy and had given him no more tasks.

  The sun was up. They had sailed half the night under good moonlight and only staked off on a sandbar after the clouds had grown too thick. But once the sky had brightened enough to see, Middle Finger ordered them back underway.

  “Might catch them before they even get to Orchard,” Goldbug said.

  The boy had flopped down to sleep on the deck near Spicy. He was toying with something in his hands that regularly clicked. It was a padlock. He had a pair of tiny pins inserted inside the keyhole. He snapped the lock closed, deftly fiddled with the pins, held in one hand, and the lock went click as it opened.

  “Want to try?”

  Spicy accepted the lock and examined the pins. They were bent at right angles at the tips and appeared delicate.

  “You can open these without a key?” Spicy asked.

  “It’s all in the feels. Push in until you touch the tumbler. Then use the second pick and find the next one. Both will make it open.”

  Spicy jiggled both lockpicks about, but the lock remained closed.

  Goldbug laughed. “This is what happens when you only trust goblin luck. Let me show you again.”

  He took the lock and picks back and popped it open in seconds. Spicy nodded as if he knew what he hadn’t done right. But once he accepted the lock and tools back, he twisted both picks and couldn’t open it.

  “Keep trying,” Goldbug said.

  “Maybe I should try with an easy lock.”

  Goldbug grinned. “That is an easy one. Some are simple, some not. The simple ones you open. The complicated ones you leave. That’s a rule.”

  Spicy kept working at it. Goldbug hovered over him until Wes came along and put him to work making breakfast. Minutes later, Goldbug was passing out slightly rotten yellow pears and rice cakes wrapped in leaves.

  Spicy’s hand was starting to cramp. How could an oversized human manage something with such finesse?

  His fingers kept working at it and he squinted, trying to see anything past the keyhole. Finally he stopped trying to watch what he was doing and gently jiggled the pick. It touched something that shifted ever so slightly. Then he inserted the second pick. It, too, found a tumbler. Twisting both was a challenge. He had to maneuver both picks back in place several times, as they kept slipping. But then, with a turn of his wrist, the lock opened.

  Spicy cried out in happy victory.

  Goldbug shot him a giant smile as he moved among the crew with the sacks of food. No one else paid Spicy any mind.

  Spicy snapped the lock closed. He unlocked it again in under a minute. He got that down to a thirty count and found himself looking for Goldbug to announce his new record. The young man had gone forward into the hold and was busy filling a pitcher of beer from a keg. Spicy rose to help him load a tray. Each crew member got half a cup of the yeasty brew. Spicy sampled it and concluded it was disgusting. But the men swallowed it down and made a game of flipping the cup so Spicy had to catch it, all while not spilling his tray. A couple of pirates gave Spicy a rub on the head. He tried not to flinch.

  “Thirty seconds,” Spicy said once he caught up to Goldbug. “I got the lock open in thirty seconds!”

>   Goldbug handed the last of the beer to Wes. “You’re a natural. Next, we try it with your eyes closed.”

  Wes stacked his cup on the tray. “Wash those out with soap. And you’d be better suited learning your knots, not this lock nonsense.”

  Spicy lowered a bucket into the water and was preparing to help Goldbug do the dishes when he saw a boat turn the corner of an island behind them. It was the Wind Bonnet.

  “We’re being followed!”

  Wes shielded his eyes and studied the trailing boat. The Wind Bonnet was obscured by the sun but not invisible. The first mate’s expression didn’t change. He crossed the deck to the captain’s cabin and went inside. Spicy moved to follow but Goldbug took his arm.

  “Best let them talk strategy alone. The captain hates interruptions.”

  “But I need to know what they’re planning.”

  “Trust the captain.”

  Spicy shook his arm free. No one stopped him as he went to join Wes and Middle Finger.

  “Get out,” Wes snapped as Spicy entered.

  “Why are they chasing us?” Spicy asked.

  Wes started to push Spicy outside.

  “It’s fine,” Middle Finger said. “Let him in. This was always a possible move that Captain Breaker would make. If he suspects we’ve held out on the bombs or found another seller, he might think we still have the goods. He swoops in, takes the bombs, has the gold, and good-bye Sin Nombre.”

  Wes was clenching his jaw. “And half our men are protecting a bunch of goblin children.”

  “So what do we do?” Spicy asked.

  Middle Finger’s face brightened. “That’s the easy question. We run, of course, and run well. It’s the one thing we do best.”

  Chapter Eight

  Once the Sin Nombre made its way to an open waterway, the boat only went faster. But the Wind Bonnet remained in the distance behind her and was keeping pace.

  Wes and the captain spent time poring over a map and speaking in low tones. While there were routes they could take through the delta, none were suitable to evade a ship of approximate equal speed and size.

  Spicy decided not to interrupt as he listened.

  Wes pushed his hair back from his face. “If we can’t outrun them, it means we fight. And lose.”

  “Slow us down a little, then,” Middle Finger said.

  “Sir?”

  “If Breaker thinks we have the goods, he’ll catch up. But he’s not dumb enough to jump the gun in case we’re leading him somewhere, like if we have a customer he might rob too. He’ll hang back if he thinks we might have stashed his bombs someplace else. Let me know if he closes distance.”

  “We need to run, not let them get closer.”

  “You have your orders.”

  Wes nodded and went to relay the instructions to the crew.

  Middle Finger returned to his earlier work. After a moment, he glanced at Spicy. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Shouldn’t you be out there getting your men ready to fight?” Spicy asked.

  “They know what to do, if it comes to that. Me racing about in a panic won’t help them. We’ve been pursued many times before. I’m sure we’ll manage this time.”

  “And what about catching Alma? If you lead Breaker to them, he’ll have her and the foreman.”

  “That’s our one advantage. He knows nothing about what we’re chasing. But it’s a piece of information I’ll trade, if I have to.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Watch me. But that’s only if it comes to it. Did you know that a boat sails faster on fresh water? Some say during cold weather, too. Be hard to make a side-by-side comparison, though. Now leave my office.”

  Spicy stepped outside, unsure of what to do with the captain’s random boat trivia.

  One of the forward sails had been furled. They were going slower. Spicy climbed up the aft deck and looked at the waterway behind them. The Wind Bonnet had gotten closer. Wes pushed past him and reported it to Middle Finger. A moment later he emerged from the cabin. All the sails were let out and the ship’s heading was adjusted to maximize the wind.

  “We’re running,” Goldbug said, a grin on his face.

  Spicy crouched at the rail and watched the pursuing boat make its own course adjustments.

  “Why aren’t you afraid?” Spicy asked.

  “If the captain outruns them, we live. If we get caught, maybe we die. Maybe not. But I trust the captain and my crew. That’s a rule.”

  It was that simple. This was his family and he accepted what would come.

  “Now you answer me a question, Master Goblin,” Goldbug said.

  “Spicy. Call me Spicy. I’m not a master anything.”

  “Okay. Spicy, then. You’re going to kill this woman Alma.”

  Spicy shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

  Goldbug narrowed his eyes. “I see it in your face. Why else would you want to catch her so bad? Did she steal these bombs from you? Did she steal them from your dragon?”

  “It’s not the bombs themselves. It’s that she or anyone even knows how to make them. It’s what will happen when more people learn the recipe. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

  “So you’ll have to kill her and the foreman and her soldier friend. How else would you get them to not say what they know?”

  “I’m not going to kill them.”

  Goldbug waved a hand. “If not you, then you’ll ask the captain to do it. Or maybe your dragon. Same thing, I don’t care. She’s not part of this crew. The captain says she left a long time ago, as was her right. And now she’s a stumbling block to our business, just like Captain Breaker and the Wind Bonnet. We chase her because it’s business.”

  Spicy realized the boy wanted a reply. “What if everyone knew how to make bombs?”

  “The world would become very loud.”

  “I want to do what I can to keep that from happening to my family.”

  Goldbug nodded solemnly.

  The Wind Bonnet wasn’t gaining but wasn’t falling behind. Spicy watched each turn and found himself counting. He estimated fifteen minutes’ sailing time separated the boats.

  Middle Finger came out on deck and surveyed the water for a moment before contemplating the pursuing boat.

  “Red Harbor,” the captain said.

  Wes stared at him. “Sir?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. Set the course. Red Harbor. Let’s see if they follow us there.”

  Chapter Nine

  Several settlements lined the shore. Some of the homes rested on stilts and stood above the water. Nearby, small boats with fishermen worked the shallows with lines and nets. The Sin Nombre sailed past. No one waved.

  Woodsmoke smudged the sky ahead.

  Middle Finger now paced about the deck. Wes remained sullen, only speaking when giving an order. Spicy could feel tension between the captain and the first mate. He didn’t dare ask more questions. Whatever Red Harbor was would become apparent soon.

  The Wind Bonnet followed them down the broad channel. It had gradually gotten closer. Its sailors had set oars in the water, as the wind had slacked.

  The Sin Nombre came around a cape. Now the wind let out of the sails almost completely. The men made their adjustments as much as possible, but the boat slowed even further.

  “To the oars,” Middle Finger said.

  Wes whistled and the men got moving. Oars were shoved through their rowlocks. Spicy stood on a bench next to Wes, who sat and began turning an oar.

  Middle Finger raised a hand. “On my mark. Stroke.”

  As one, the men began to row. Spicy’s motion was off and pushing the large oar through the water strained his muscles. But he kept up and tried to match the motions of Wes and the others.

  “We don’t have enough for a rowing race,” Wes muttered.

  The captain ignored him as he continued to call each stroke, adjusting the boat’s direction from time to time by having either starboard or port drag their oars or li
ft them momentarily out of the water. Spicy could only imagine how fast they would be going if the entire crew was with them.

  His arms and shoulders ached after the first few minutes. An hour later, he was in agony. But he didn’t let up. Only when he saw the long skyline did he pause to look.

  The town was much larger than Eel Port, with several spires rising above the high walls. They passed a few smaller harbors outside the city proper. The smells of cooking fires mixed with the stench of sewage made Spicy want to gag.

  “Eyes to stern,” Wes said. “You’re causing drag.”

  “Raise oars,” Middle Finger ordered. “To the sails. We’re catching enough of a breeze. And we’re close enough now that Breaker would be a fool if he starts a fight.”

  Spicy was grateful to pull his oar in and stow it. His arms trembled from the exertion. He climbed the aft deck for a better look behind them. The Wind Bonnet still followed but it was now falling behind. Other boats were on the water, some under sail while others were anchored. Scores of eyes watched them pass. Spicy looked up and realized the Sin Nombre’s black sail wasn’t flying.

  “This is Red Harbor?” Spicy asked.

  “This is Orchard City,” Wes said. “Red Harbor is the largest place to dock. It also has the most soldiers and people who will have to be paid off. All a fine trick, since you gave away our money.”

  Middle Finger’s attention was fixed on the city. “Right now, it’s the safest place for us. Breaker could put in at any of the other docks and would have guards in his pocket there. But not at Red Harbor. His pockets aren’t deep enough.”

  Wes’s face darkened. “Neither are ours.”

  The Wind Bonnet didn’t follow them in. It never even appeared at the mouth of the harbor.

  To pay off the harbormaster, the captain had Wes take up a collection from the men. There were grumbles, but each handed over coin or the paper money Spicy had seen a few times. The harbormaster took every penny.

  Scores of other vessels floated in their berths. The docks were busy with men working on their vessels or loading and unloading cargo, moving wheelbarrows and dollies burdened with crates. The harbor had not only walls manned with soldiers but a tower. It felt as if the watchful guards on the tower parapet were giving the Sin Nombre extra scrutiny. Hanging from the chain of the tower was a large skull, prominent between a multitude of smaller ones.