Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

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

  "Oh," he said as Stinkrunt tripped over some rope, knocking over a barrel and falling into its contents: a pile of fish. "There you are."

  Grayscar 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, Grayscar?" he asked, now knowing that Grayscar had been talking to himself.

  Grayscar snorted as Stinkrunt got to his feet.

  "Stinkrunt, you're clumsy," he said as he began to walk away towards the front of the ship. Grayscar was always calling Stinkrunt names. Mostly because he was 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 had 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 Grayscar. 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 sustainable in their lands. A goblin was typically ready to bash some other creature’s head in six months after it took its first breath. At two years old, 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 an all out civil war would breakout until enough of one side had their skulls cracked in.

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

  Grayscar was the leader 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 Grayscar 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 Grayscar was off drinking goblin brew with the other clan's leaders? Following him around, carrying his banner, doing his dirty work, and making sure the daggers never found Grayscar’s back like they had so many other doyens who tried to unite the clans.

  Stinkrunt was the lowest of the goblin 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 Grayscar as he continued to bully around goblins who were loafing. Most at least pretended to work when he walked by. A good sneer from Grayscar would 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 Grayscar wanted to sail east and fight. He was the biggest 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 Grayscar shoved a goblin overboard who was eating a fish out of the barrel, instead of packing the barrel below the deck.

  "You want to show me you can fight?" Grayscar 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 flagships. It stood nearly thirty goblins tall. Grayscar himself had laid down the goblins to measure it when it was being built. Its boards were black and its sails had the Sharp Claw's symbol emblazoned on it: three black scars running down the yellow canvas.

  Stinkrunt knew Grayscar was pleased with his ship. It had three decks, the lowest for goblin slaves to row their oars, giving the ship a speed greater to the others around it. Grayscar 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 Grayscar know that.

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

  Grayscar looked down at him. Stinkrunt knew he didn't look big or scary like other goblins. But he had become a doyen, a goblin leader. Sure, he had stabbed a few other goblins in the back to get here, but he had stayed alive 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.

  Grayscar scratched the back of his ear with a finger and looked up at two goblins fighting on the rigging 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 Grayscar's own three-mast ship, 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 his request wasn't outlandish. "Give me that ship. The Fish Bone. I'll bring down a city with it!"

  Grayscar 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 of the others Stinkrunt had looked into, showed all his teeth bared and ready to bite into humans, dwarves and elves. Even if there were only twenty left.

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

  Stinkrunt's heart leapt. 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 place clean and he'd take all the good stuff!

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

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

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

  Stinkrunt was still massaging his short throat when he stepped off the ship. He could still smell Grayscar's breathe 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 Grayscar had pointed out. These would be his to captain. So what if Grayscar had twenty to his name. Stinkrunt would take these ships and find a city. He’d bring it to the ground. He’d send in every goblin that he led if he had to.

  Goblin vessels 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 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 coul
d. This was standard among the goblin. 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 crew member that smarted off to the 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. The Red Suns were always fighting with them over this cave or that. It kept their clan sharp. Their doyen, Gobber Dwarvenbane was a brute of a goblin and an excellent fighter. Too bad he was as 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 the armor of defeated dwarven warriors that he wore.

  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 eastern coast. Vicious goblins. Crackedtooth was their current leader, at least the last time Stinkrunt cared to check. He was always ready for a fight. In fact, he was the most willing to sail east and have a reason to fight someone else. Better humans than some other smaller doyen trying to climb up the chain of command 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 then suddenly slipped on some fish guts a gubbin had left on the dock as it scampered away from Stinkrunt.

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

  Gubbins, of course, were the smallest of goblins. They were the immature and not yet fully formed goblin young ones. Nasty boogers with full sets of teeth and a normal sized goblin appetite. It was best to avoid the things until they were matured.

  Stinkrunt climbed on board the boat, puffed up his chest as big as he could, cleared his throat importantly and began his speech.

  “Hey! Fish brains!” he called out to the crew. A few looked up at him. Most ignored him and kept working (or at least pretending to). Then Stinkrunt took one of the smallest gubbins he could find by the throat. He shook it harshly and watched the little gray thing’s eyes bulge a bit. He yelled again.

  “Listen up! I’m captain now! I’m the doyen 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 was quite content to stay, and then looked around at the crew. A few had actually looked up at him. One or two almost shook their heads in agreement.

  There, Stinkrunt thought. That’ll do.

  He stepped up to the front of the boat and pushed off a goblin that was sitting on the side railings studying a map. The map fell into the water with the goblin and he 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 crammed next to each other and others offered a more spacious experience. It all depended on your coin purse.

  The ceilings were the same at both levels: parallel wood beams that held either the floor above or the ceiling in place. The walls were the same plaster as it was throughout Ealrin’s room. Though originally white, the salt from the sea had yellowed it over 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 bump against 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.

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

  Ealrin's use of his legs and body returned slowly. At first it was a chore to leave his bed and sit in the chair by the fire as Holve told him more about the island.

  Yet after a few 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 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 the dining and welcoming 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 lingered long enough to share in a conversation with someone they had arranged to meet. These discussions would take place in the shadiest part of the dining hall with hushed voices and hidden faces.

  Others visited for a greater duration. In fact, the longer a tenant meant to stay at the Rusty Hook, 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. 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 knew 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. With others, the greeting was more like seeing an old friend. Like the man who came a little more than a week after Ealrin begun eating his meals out in the open.

  He was dressed in similar clothes as Holve: a 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 up to this point, especially Holve.

  When he saw Holve, he ran towards him and picked him right off the ground in an embrace, letting loose a hearty, genuine laugh.

  "Easy Roland, you'll crush me to pieces!" said Holve as Roland put him down, nursing his sides and giving him a stern look. Ealrin couldn’t help but notice that Holve had a small twinkle in his eye.

  Maybe he has a soft side down there somewhere, Ealrin thought.

  "We'd all be better for it, Holve. That way you could be in more places than one. I've much to tell you,” replied Roland as he sat opposite Ealrin.

  Elezar came over to the table and Roland let out another shout of joy. He had begun to rise, but the innkeeper and cook raised his old hands to stop him.

  "You hug me like you did Holve and you'll certainly break my bones. What are you eating, Roland?" said Elezar in good spirits.

  He was indeed older than many other people Ealrin had set eyes on. His gray hair was long, but tidy. Both his eyes were green, but only one was able to see. He playfully kept reminding Ealrin his left one was his good one and not to look at the right's playful jumping about. His hands were wrinkled and burned from many days and nights of keeping up the old inn and cooking for the tenants there.

  "Your biggest plate full of your best catch. Whatever is left of it anyway. Po tells me that the fish haven't been biting like they used to," said Roland, looking hopefully at another patron's plate.

  "That's because Po's not fishing like he used to," said Elezar, rolling his eyes. "I swear that boy will never make a living with his head in the clouds."

  With that Elezar headed back to the kitchen.

  Roland took off
his cloak and laid it next to him on the bench. Ealrin could see Roland's eyes matched his scruffy brown hair well. He was a handsome man, but perhaps would have been more so if he didn't carry with him all of those scars of battle. A cut across his cheek and another across his forehead denied him a polished look. Yet still, his smile was such that it could make you forget your troubles and enjoy the company of one so jovial.

  Roland shuffled around so that the assortment of weapons strapped to his back wasn't in the way of his seat. A menacing battle-ax, two swords, and a few others that were difficult to keep track of. Ealrin was sure there were at least eight but decided not to stare, just in case.

  "And who might your young friend here be, Holve? I've never seen him around, nor have I known you to travel with a companion," inquired Roland, looking inquisitively at him.

  Somewhere in Ealrin's mind, he took offense to being called young.

  Since he hadn't a clue as to how old he might be, being offended felt odd. He ignored it.

  "Well Roland, I'll trade you tales since you say you have news for me," said Holve, reading Ealrin's face. Ealrin really had no desire to share his story.

  He didn't know it. Holve told it instead.

  As Roland's meal of three pieces of bread and some unidentifiable fish came to their table, he was just wrapping it up.

  "And so he's been gaining back his strength here at the Rusty Hook. Though I fear he'll need cooking of a different sort soon. He hasn't said whether or not he likes the fish," finished Holve with a rare smile at Ealrin. In fact, it may have been the first Ealrin had seen.

  Ealrin thought for a moment and then realized he had only eaten fish or some variant of it for the last few days. His stomach rumbled a bit in agreement with Holve's statement.

  "No memory, eh?" said Roland through a mouth full of food. "No worries there, young Ealrin. There are things I'd much rather forget myself if I had the chance."

  "Like that time you went off searching for a dragon, eh Roland?" Holve said it with a bit of irritation in his voice.