Another set of fingers grasped my leg, and Siy’s shattered body clawed at me. They were pulling me deeper into the river. I tried to fight them, but they were impossibly strong. My lungs burned as I struggled. I was running out of air, growing weaker. This isn’t where I’m supposed to die, I thought wildly, staring down at my cousin’s broken face. His eyes were vacant.
Isn’t it? I already cried for you that first night, the Wailing Bone whispered. I saw myself with Siy, pushing Elder Rivu into the water, as the Wailing Bone screamed. And now you’ve followed me here to rest.
Together, Rivu and Siy dragged me down, down, down into the river, until the water went cold and the last of the stars winked out.
Ah, but you’ve heard this story a thousand times, haven’t you? The two naughty kits who neglected their duty and broke the Wailing Bone, and the curse that haunted them until they died.
Here’s the part your parents won’t tell you.
A year after I died, my bones washed ashore at the mouth of the canyon. My parents discovered them and took them back to the caravan. They brought back Siy’s, too, or as many as they could find; his had been eroded and tumbled to pieces against the rocks. They took me to Elder Kulen, and she carved that familiar, horrible poem into my surface.
Now, when someone dies, I lead the caravan across the sands. I can feel the pull of the desert, and I cry and sob and scream. No one hears me until we reach the place where the dead can rest.
But I can hear everything.
I hear how tired you are of traveling with your grandmother’s body. It’s been weeks of wandering with no end in sight, and the caravan is getting restless. You haven’t felt me stir in your paws at all. I’ve heard the frustration in your voice as you wonder how much longer this will take. And I’ve heard you talking with Enne about how easy it would be to hide your grandmother in a shallow grave beneath the bluffs.
It would be easy. But I would take care, if I were you. If you’re going to act a fool, remember: shirking your duty always has consequences.
And a caravan always needs a Wailing Bone.
Every great goblin invention was born from necessity, bubble gum, or an accident.
—Goblin Adage
n a dark afternoon, three goblin children were playing at the market while their parents haggled over the prices of detonation cord and explosives. After a bit of showing off, the children began to argue.
“I have four iron coins,” the sassy one said.
“That’s nothing!” the ill-tempered one bragged. “I have five.”
The youngest goblin waved a handful of iron coins in the air. “I’ve got more than both of you.”
An old goblin with ratty teal braids overheard the argument and stopped. She wagged a warning finger at the children. “Keep your voices down and your money in your pockets, or we know who might pay you a visit.”
As the old goblin continued on her way, she sang a nursery rhyme the young goblins knew well:
In dark of night and bright of day,
Keep in your hand a tossaway.
Guard your fortune, mind your greed,
Or else the Uninvited Guest will feed.
The children heeded the warning and shoved their money back in their pockets, glancing around as if they could see the invisible creature even the bravest goblins feared. There was only one way to protect themselves and their meager fortunes. As the children ran off, they each threw a tossaway behind them. Every smart goblin carried a few of these shiny gold discs stamped with the face of an ancient trade prince, but few knew the true story of their origin.
It began with a trade prince, a gold waistcoat, and a funeral.
It was an unpleasantly rainy winter day, and Klaxz Boompowder’s mood matched the weather. Normally, the trade prince of the Steamwheedle Cartel looked forward to funerals—what resourceful goblin wouldn’t appreciate one less competitor and another slice of business up for grabs? But the funeral scheduled for this particular afternoon was an exception.
Klaxz waited impatiently as the tailor at his feet hurriedly stitched the back of his gold lamé waistcoat. If he was stuck attending a rival’s funeral, the trade prince intended to look as wealthy as possible while doing it.
Klaxz’s wife, Slixi, noticed his foul expression. “Stop sulking,” she said, before applying another coat of bright-purple lipstick to match her straining silk bustier.
“I’m not carrying that deadbeat’s coffin,” her husband announced. “I don’t care what it says in his will. No self-respecting trade prince would carry a rival’s death box. He cost me the rocket boot deal of a lifetime.”
Slixi narrowed her green eyes. “You will, or you’ll be sleeping in the bathtub,” she shot back, arranging her ratty teal braids on top of her head. “You ain’t embarrassing me at the biggest shindig of the year.”
The day was off to a bad start, and it would only get worse.
Hundreds of goblins stood in line to pay their respects to Rikter Hogsnozzle, the late trade prince of the Bilgewater Cartel—everyone from the bosses of the families in his cartel and their underlings to the welders and shop owners.
The cartel members and the common goblins waited in separate lines, and it wasn’t difficult to tell them apart. The cartel line was a blur of shiny, glittering silk and huge gemstone rings adorning chubby fingers. The wealthier goblins flashed gold and silver smiles as they rested their hands on jeweled dragonhead canes. Some had brought crocolisk suitcases, while others had butlers pushing wheelbarrows.
When Klaxz arrived, he strode to the front of the cartel line. Of course, he took his time so the other goblins could appreciate his opulent attire. Slixi followed suit, waving to the crowd like an exalted queen. Two butlers trailed behind them carrying enormous hydra-hide steamer trunks.
Klaxz tipped his chin to an older goblin wearing a glossy arctic fur coat. “Ripfizzle. It’s been a long time.”
Lyar Ripfizzle flashed a phony, metallic smile. “Not long enough, if you ask me.”
“Still doing the Gurubashi’s dirty work?” Klaxz asked.
“Sure. If that’s what you call making a mint selling them pig-iron blades. Then yeah, I’m rolling in it.”
“What did you bring for the coffin?” Klaxz asked innocently.
Ripfizzle gestured to the wheeled metal bathtub manned by his butler. “See for yourself, sucker.”
The contents of the bathtub-wagon resembled the piles Slixi left behind after cleaning out her closets—a nondescript fur coat, strands of pearls in boring shades of cream and white, a mismatched silver tea service, boxes of sugared croissants and moonberry-filled pastry, and cases of honey wine.
“Is that all you could find in the attic?” Klaxz taunted.
“I should knock your teeth out for insulting me,” Ripfizzle spat, shouldering his way to the viewing platform, determined to go first.
A metal safety rail surrounded the perimeter of the “coffin,” a huge metal shipping container previously used to transport goblin war machines around Azeroth hammered into the familiar funerary shape. The late trade prince’s body rested peacefully atop a mountain of riches—gold and truesilver, gilded furniture and a gemstone-encrusted trampoline, luggage brimming with expensive suits and furs, custom swords and tools, barrels of ale and cases of champagne, all beside packages of sweets and prime cuts of meat. As tradition dictated, goblins were buried with their most valuable and favored possessions so they could enjoy them at the Everlasting Party, the goblin afterlife.
The only thing more important than being buried with one’s possessions were the burial gifts bequeathed to the deceased by other goblins. Gifts were a reflection of wealth and social standing. Klaxz’s butlers emptied the hydra-hide steamer trunks, tossing a plethora of goodies onto the heap. His gifts didn’t cause any mouths to drop, and Ripfizzle stood by, smug with the knowledge that he and his rival had given virtually the same gifts, give or take a gilded toothpick or two.
But Klaxz had saved the best gift for las
t. He removed a small something from his pocket, and before he tossed it onto the pile, he held the priceless object up for all to see. The ancient gold coin gleamed, and everyone recognized the face of the grinning goblin stamped into the polished metal—the first trade prince.
The crowd sucked in a collective breath, and then the whispering began.
Is it real? Where did it come from? How did Klaxz Boompowder get it? If it is real, why would he give away such a rare treasure?
No one had seen goblin galleons in ages. The once-beloved currency had been lost to time and newer forms of barter.
Ripfizzle pointed at the coin. “You expect us to believe that’s real?”
Klaxz held the coin out to him. “It’s real all right.”
Lyar Ripfizzle snatched the coin and scrutinized it. There was no mistaking the face of the first trade prince staring back at him. Still, Lyar put it between his crooked teeth and bit down to be sure.
It was common knowledge that a goblin funeral was nothing more than an excuse to throw a party with someone else footing the bill, and Klaxz was now the center of attention.
“Where did you get it?” Ripfizzle asked in awe.
“That’s my secret,” Klaxz said with a satisfied smile. He took the galleon, rubbed it between his palms dramatically, and tossed it into the opulent coffin.
The goblins in the crowd gasped, watching the coin arc in the air and finally land on the deceased goblin’s unnecessarily frilly shirt. They had no way of knowing that the coin was a fake.
Klaxz had switched the real galleon for the worthless one resting on Hogsnozzle’s body. He wasn’t about to part with the precious treasure. He had spent years diving the underwater rock caves in search of the legendary coins. Slixi had mocked the excursions until the fateful day a year ago when he had finally returned from the South Sea with six galleons.
After the gifting ended, the lid of the enormous container was soldered shut. Klaxz and many others danced on top of it to usher the deceased on to the Everlasting Party as the other goblins watched.
Normally, prominent goblins served as pallbearers at the head of the coffin, while goblins contractually obligated to serve as pack mules carried the rear. But even with thousands of goblins in attendance, Hogsnozzle’s coffin wouldn’t budge, and the Bilgewater Cartel had to bring in cranes to place it in the cavernous hole at the burial site. Once Hogsnozzle was safely in the ground, the festivities truly began. It was common knowledge that a goblin funeral was nothing more than an excuse to throw a party with someone else footing the bill, and Klaxz was now the center of attention. The other goblins marveled as he gorged on the buffet—a pudding fountain, towers of iced goblin shortbread and funnel cake, roasted k’bab, and aged bear steaks and boar ribs smothered in cheesy sauces.
But unbeknownst to Klaxz, he had attracted the attention of something else.
The creature watched from the shadows. It wasn’t a goblin or a troll, or a gnome, elf, or orc. It was something unseen and unknowable, an uninvited guest waiting in the darkness. Unbridled greed had attracted the creature to the funeral. Greed so all-consuming that it yielded a breach in etiquette so great that it offended the dead and extended an irrevocable invitation to a guest no goblin would ever care to meet. Now the creature stalked the shadows, sensing the true nature of the funeral goers in a way that allowed it to see beyond the limits of sight.
If Klaxz Boompowder had known the creature was out there, perhaps he wouldn’t have chosen the gold lamé jacket or brought his finest hydra-hide steamer trunks. Perhaps he wouldn’t have thrown a worthless, painted-gold galleon into the burial trove. Perhaps that would have saved him. But nobody will ever know, because that night the creature—the Uninvited Guest, as it would come to be known—followed him home.
The Uninvited crossed the threshold before the butler closed the door—although, truth be told, it could’ve walked straight through the walls. It glided up the stairs and crossed the hall only steps behind Klaxz. It lurked behind the door as he removed his waistcoat and tugged the rings off his pudgy green fingers.
The creature sensed the greed that gripped Klaxz’s thoughts that night as he settled beneath the covers. With a tired, satisfied grin, the goblin pictured the coffin filled with riches and Rikter Hogsnozzle’s corpse nestled amongst jewels and furs, silver goblets, and gold bars.
As Klaxz closed his eyes that night and visions of galleons and rare black pearls unfurled in his mind, the Uninvited was there beside him—barely an inch away, its mouth open—feeding.
With the goblin’s every thought, the Uninvited Guest grew stronger and more powerful. But the creature would never get its fill. Its belly was a bottomless pit, an unfathomable black hole constantly gnawing with emptiness.
Forgiving a few debts felt strangely normal. Why not?
Klaxz awoke the next morning feeling right as rain. He went about his day as if nothing had happened. Slixi didn’t notice anything different about him either—not until his bruiser, Bang, arrived during lunch.
“We’ve got a problem, boss,” Bang said, dreading the trade prince’s reaction. “The arms runners in Booty Bay are short again. Whatcha want me to do?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Klaxz said between bites of funnel cake. “The cartel has plenty of money.”
“Boss?” Bang stared, dumbfounded.
Slixi stared at her husband with a creeping sense of unease.
“You heard me.” Klaxz waved him away. Forgiving a few debts felt strangely normal. Why not? The cartel had plenty of money, after all.
Bang would never challenge the trade prince, but later that day, when Klaxz failed to haggle over the price of a load of explosives the cartel delivered, the bruiser knew something was terribly wrong. He alerted Slixi, but that was only the beginning.
The next morning, Slixi caught Klaxz sorting through her jewelry.
“I was thinking we should give away some of these,” he said, holding up an armload of necklaces laden with twilight opals and black diamonds.
Slixi gathered her necklaces and clutched them to her chest. “Have you lost your mind? What’s wrong with you?”
She couldn’t see the invisible vortex of shadow slithering around her husband’s body, curling around his neck, and sliding into his ears.
Klaxz felt a heaviness in his chest, but his thoughts were not his own. He shrugged off his wife’s questions and wandered off in search of other extravagances they didn’t need.
The Uninvited moved with him, parasitic and constantly feeding.
No one could see it writhing around the trade prince while he ate breakfast, during cartel meetings, and as he slept. They couldn’t see the way it smothered him, filling his orifices, and then undulating out of them like swirling black liquid.
The trade prince couldn’t feel it either. Sometimes he felt a tugging deep in his belly, like the annoying nag of hunger. But then it would disappear as quickly as it had surfaced.
Klaxz Boompowder’s behavior grew more erratic and unusual every day. One minute he was forgiving loans and offering steep discounts, and the next he was giving away arctic furs and polished gems. His behavior confused the other goblins and alarmed the members of his cartel.
The trade prince hadn’t been in an accident, and he didn’t look sick to the naked eye. What could cause such horrific conduct? Sane goblins did not offer discounts and give away their valuables. No one could see the creature consuming his thoughts of wealth before he was even conscious of having them.
Slixi suspected another trade prince had arranged for a necromancer to put a curse on her husband. There was simply no other explanation. She sent Bang and cartel spies on a fact-finding mission to uncover the truth. While they were gone, the situation turned dire. At night, she heard Klaxz mumbling about freeing himself from the weight of their possessions. The next day he began giving away their belongings.
“We have more than we need,” Klaxz explained as he rooted through closets and steamer trunks for items to pu
rge.
“Watch your mouth!” she spat. “Your shenanigans are disgracing the cartel and me.”
When her husband approached their personal vault, Slixi took matters into her own hands. She hit him over the head with a frying pan and knocked him out. It was for Klaxz’s own good, she reasoned. He would send them to the poorhouse if he kept this up.
She opened the vault and removed the remaining galleons. She had to protect their fortune from Klaxz until she found a way to break the mysterious spell she believed had been cast upon him. Slixi carried the galleons into the woods, careful to ensure that no one followed her. Once there, she dug a deep hole in the earth and buried the treasure. Her husband couldn’t squander what he couldn’t find.
But any hope of uncovering the source of Klaxz’s madness was extinguished when Bang returned from his mission. He had nothing but bad news. There was no word of a spell against the trade prince, only dark tales of poisonings and ancient hexes gone awry and old legends about malevolent otherworldly creatures that preyed on unsuspecting beings. An aging troll told a tale about an invisible evil that fed on the living, sucking the souls of its victims dry and leaving them mad.
“Is it the same creature?” Slixi wondered. “Or a similar monster?”
“No way to tell unless you find the thing and lure it outside under a full moon,” he said. “That’s the only way to see it, apparently.”
Unfortunately, the moon wasn’t full that night. At dinner, Slixi sat across from her husband, who didn’t touch his meal. She kept her gaze trained on him, watching his chest rise and fall in even breaths. A thick—and invisible—trail of liquid shadow reached for Klaxz, encircling his neck in a suffocating cloud of blackness.
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