The Prince and the Goblin

by Bryan Huff

  “To be fair, Captain, the lookouts were ordered to the square,” said Buckler, pausing at a door partway up the stairwell.

  “To deal with one goblin,” Fist reminded him.

  “It seems their commanders thought there was an invasion.”

  “Well, ’zere is now.”

  Buckler sighed in agreement, and pushed open the door.

  The party entered a stone guardroom built atop the city wall, directly over the main gate. A wide archway in the room’s front wall led out onto the ramparts. The stairwell door they’d just come through was set in a side wall, opposite an identical one at the far end. Both stairwells climbed the watchtowers that flanked the gate.

  The guardroom was unadorned, except for a set of table and chairs in the middle, a row of empty weapon racks lining the back wall, and flickering torches mounted beside each entrance.

  A pair of city guards sat huddled at the table with their backs to the door. When they heard people enter, they jumped up, and spun around. One of them nearly dropped his spear.

  “Hey! You can’t bring him in here!” said the guard who wasn’t fumbling with his spear. “He’s the enemy! He’s a—”

  Captain Fist stepped forward, dragging Hob with her, and nearly strangling him in the process. The effect on the guards was the same as if she’d drawn a sword. They retreated as fast as they could, backing right into the table.

  “’Ze goblin is an asset,” the Captain scolded them. “Which is more ’zan I can say for you and ’ze rest of your so-called guard. If you had not been so concerned with hunting down one little goblin, and had kept your watch on ’ze pass, we would not be in ’zis mess.”

  The guards shifted where they stood, doing their best to avoid meeting Fist’s gaze.

  “It was the clouds what did it, ma’am,” said the clumsy guard, who finally had his spear under control. “You can’t see a thing down there.”

  “I promise you, ’ze clouds had not yet rolled in when ’ze goblins arrived in ’ze pass. And ’zat was when ’zey should have been spotted. Before ’zey reached ’ze Riven gate. While ’zere was still time.”

  The guards flinched. Fist had yet to truly raise her voice, and she had them shaking.

  “Now, get out of my way, and go find something useful to do,” she ordered them.

  The first guard opened his mouth to speak.

  “Elsewhere,” Fist finished.

  The guards exchanged a look, and then scurried out the front archway onto the ramparts.

  Fist turned to the pair of Royal Guards holding Edric. “Tie ’ze Prince to a chair. He’ll be safest in here.”

  The men nodded. They lowered Edric into a chair in front of the table, and bound his legs and torso to it with strong ropes.

  “Mm-mph!” Edric protested, through his gag.

  Then two loud voices echoed out of the stairwell behind the company.

  “Let me through! Let me through!” cried the first, belonging to the Spring Chicken.

  “What business do you have here?” demanded the second, belonging to grim Sir Deckard. “We’re trying to organize the defenses.”

  “I have a goblin to keep an eye on!” the Spring Chicken replied. “He’s still my prisoner, you know. I only loaned him out because we’re under attack.”

  “Right, we’re under attack,” said Sir Deckard, with disgust. “Don’t you have better things to do than to harass one little goblin? Haven’t you learned anything?”

  The Spring Chicken ignored Sir Deckard and called up directly to Captain Fist. “Captain! We had a deal!”

  Fist let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Let him pass!” she called down to Sir Deckard.

  Moments later, the Spring Chicken marched in through the stairwell door. His formerly-white feathers were gray and disheveled. His hair clung to his forehead in sweaty clumps. He was panting from exertion and overexcitement. In the relative calm of the guardroom, he seemed a madman.

  He glared down at Hob, and then up at Captain Fist. “Remember … he’s mine once you’re done with him,” he said.

  “Once I’m done with him,” said Fist.

  The Spring Chicken grinned smugly.

  Hob swallowed hard. He hadn’t really been spared—just granted a stay of execution, negotiated by Captain Fist. She’d said she needed him for questioning. The problem was, Hob didn’t know anything. He racked his brain for something he could tell her that might keep him alive.

  “Follow me, everyone,” said Fist. “Except you, my Prince.”

  Edric wasn’t going anywhere, having been tied securely to his chair. He and Hob could only exchange glances, as the Captain dragged Hob out the wide archway at the front of the room, with Lieutenant Buckler, the two other Royal Guards, and the Spring Chicken in tow.

  The group emerged on a broad wall-walk over the city’s main gate, set between the flanking watchtowers. This great walkway ran right through open archways in the sides of both towers and onwards the length of the wall. Within the archways, Hob could see further entrances into the tower stairwells. Every feature was constructed of thick stone.

  City guards and townsfolk rushed back and forth along the wall, preparing for the coming attack. Some carried torches to fend off the darkness—though the moon was large and surprisingly bright—while others followed with arms full of weapons and armor, wheelbarrows full of rocks, and anything else that could be used to fend off the goblins.

  Half the city had answered the call to arms, while those unable to fight had either barricaded themselves in their homes or joined the mothers and children in evacuating through the west gate at the back of the city. Captain Fist had taken charge with remarkable efficiency, setting these plans in motion before she’d even left the castle yard. And over the past nearly three hours, the townsfolk had worked valiantly to carry them out.

  The Captain dragged Hob to the front of the wall, before finally releasing her grip on him. The others gathered around.

  The parapet there was almost too tall for Hob to see over, but he managed to peek through one of the square crenels that were indented in it every few feet. Battlements like this ran the entire length of the wall.

  With his hands still tied behind his back, Hob pressed his chest against the stonework, and craned his head through the crenel. His eyes traveled to the top of the tightly closed gate and portcullis in the wall below, then out across the wide plateau before the city, and finally down the steep switchback road into the mountain pass.

  The road zigzagged down a short distance from the plateau before it disappeared. Though the plateau was clear, the evening clouds had closed in not far below, filling the pass most of the way up the road. The nearby mountain peaks jutted out of this misty sea like towering islands of stone and snow.

  The short stretch of road visible above the clouds was empty. There were no goblins to be seen. But they could be heard. The clanking of their armor, the thunder of their boots, and the rumble of their voices all rose out of the mist, echoing off mountain walls.

  “’Zey are getting close,” Captain Fist whispered to herself.

  “Bad news, Captain!” a voice exclaimed. Another Royal Guard rushed out through one of the tower archways, and joined the group at the battlements. He was a younger man with a scruffy chin. “They still haven’t found Lady Isobel. They searched the tower and castle, but she’s not there. They don’t know where she went. Some keep swearing she doesn’t exist.”

  Captain Fist and the rest of the company turned to face him.

  “Well, Sir Fredrick, tell ’zem she does exist!” said the Captain. “Tell ’zem to keep searching! ’Ze Lady must be escorted to ’ze west gate, and evacuated with ’ze others. Make certain ’zey understand ’zis. ’Zen get to your post.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Sir Fredrick was off and running again.

  Captain Fist shook her head, and addressed her other men. “Lieutenant Buckler,” she said, “make sure everyone is
in position on ’ze wall—city guards at ’ze front, townspeople at ’ze back. Sir Paddrick, Sir Wilhelm, go find Sir Deckard and Sir Reginald, and get to your posts as well. Get armor on as many townspeople as you can. Get weapons in ’zeir hands. Organize ’zem. Encourage ’zem. Our defenses must hold long enough for ’ze evacuees to get out and take cover in ’ze mountains.” She paused. “And if ’ze goblins see enough resistance, perhaps ’zey will ’zink twice about attacking in ’ze first place.”

  The guards were about to reply, when Hob interrupted them.

  “M’ey migh’d!” he exclaimed, forgetting his gag, and nearly choking on it.

  Everyone turned to stare at him.

  “Go,” Fist instructed her men, without taking her eyes off Hob.

  Buckler and the other Royal Guards departed to help organize the defenses. Captain Fist, meanwhile, reached down and loosened Hob’s gag. It fell slack around his neck.

  “Phtt, phtt, phtt …” He struggled to spit the stray fibers from his mouth.

  “Speak!” Fist demanded.

  “Yeah, tell us what you know!” added the Spring Chicken, stepping up beside her to take part in intimidating Hob. “That’s why you’re still alive, isn’t it?”

  “S-sorry!” Hob sputtered. “I was only saying I think the Captain’s right. They might think twice before attacking.” He paused to sort out his thoughts. “This so-called army of theirs, I’m sure it’s nothing but a mismatched troop of goblins cobbled together from nearby hordes, marching north to Shadowguard. They’re thugs and raiders, but they’re not soldiers yet. None of them have fought a real battle in their lives. If the defenses hold, they might back down.”

  Captain Fist studied him carefully. “Perhaps,” she said. “But ’zen why come at all? ’Zat is what concerns me.”

  Hob had no answer for her. “I don’t know,” he sighed.

  “He’s holding out on us!” growled the Spring Chicken.

  “I should hope not,” said the Captain, staring at Hob, “or I may begin to doubt his usefulness.”

  The Spring Chicken grinned. He was practically licking his lips with anticipation.

  Hob tried to think. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he muttered aloud. “I heard the Sorcerer order his troops to march straight to Shadowguard. They shouldn’t be here.”

  The two humans stared at him incredulously.

  “I mean, I don’t think the Sorcerer’s the type who likes to be disobeyed,” Hob clarified. “The goblins wouldn’t come here against his will.”

  The Spring Chicken stopped him there. “What do you mean, ‘the Sorcerer?’”

  “Are you telling us ’ze Sorcerer has returned?” demanded Captain Fist.

  “Oh, yeah, I guess I am …” said Hob, realizing the information would come as a shock. “He’s back! And he sent crows to all the valley hordes telling us to have a Clobbering and send troops to Shadowguard an—”

  “Shh!” Captain Fist held up a hand, silencing him. “Even if I believed you … and I’m not saying I do … ’zat does not answer my question. Why have ’zey come here?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Hob. “I really don’t know.”

  “Then we’re getting nowhere!” shouted the Spring Chicken. “I say we kill him right now!” He drew his sword, and advanced on Hob.

  Captain Fist stepped between them. “No!” she said. “If ’zere is any truth to what he says, he may still be of use to us.”

  “But he’s clearly lying!”

  “We don’t know ’zat yet.”

  “Oh, come off it!”

  The Spring Chicken grabbed Fist’s arm, and tried to force her aside. It was a mistake. In a flash of black, the Captain had him pinned facedown on the stone wall-walk, with a knee jammed between his feathery shoulder blades and his wrist held back in a painful-looking grip.

  “Enough!” she hissed. “You are here as a courtesy only. ’Ze goblin will be returned to you when I decide. And no sooner.”

  The Spring Chicken nodded, his cheek rubbing against the stones.

  Hob tried not to smile. Though it was satisfying to see the chicken man put in his place, there was still a chance Hob would end up his prisoner, or worse, before the night was done.

  “And if you ever lay a hand on me again,” Fist warned, “I will toss you over ’ze …” But she trailed off.

  boom! boom! boom!

  Goblin war drums sounded in the pass, drawing the Captain’s attention away from the Spring Chicken. She released him, stood up, and returned to the battlements. The Spring Chicken joined her a moment later, nursing a sore wrist. Hob peeked back through his crenel.

  The goblins appeared below. They streamed out of the cloud sea, marching on foot up the top of the switchback road, looking like a dark river of armored bodies, swords, spears, axes, and pikes, flowing eerily up hill.

  Turning away, the Captain scanned the watchtowers flanking the gate-platform until she spotted Lieutenant Buckler. Along with a number of city guards, he surveyed the defenses from atop one of the towers.

  “You two,” he said to a pair of guards, “go shore up that gap in the east line.”

  “Are we ready, Lieutenant?” Fist hollered up at him.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be, Captain!” Buckler hollered down.

  “Good!” replied the Captain. “’Zen return to my side. We defend ’ze guardroom together.”

  With that, she turned back to the Spring Chicken. His face was suddenly as pale as his feathers.

  “You want to kill goblins, Chicken Man?” Fist said darkly. “You’re about to get your chance.”

  boom, boom, boom! The war drums kept a steady beat.

  Hob wouldn’t have thought they could be so frightening, but somehow they were, like thunder approaching before a violent storm.

  The goblins’ numbers grew quickly as they climbed out of the mist and up the switchback road, filling the plateau before the city.

  Hob remained standing at the battlements over the gate, his hands tied behind his back. Captain Fist stood beside him, Lieutenant Buckler and the Spring Chicken a step behind her.

  The entire length of the wall now bristled with armed humans. The city guards were scattered along the front parapet, each section under the command of one of their royal counterparts. They stood armed and ready, waiting for what was to come. The townsfolk were lined up nervously behind them, outfitted with whatever they could find. For every real sword, spear, and shield in the crowd, there were two cooking-pot-helms, two broom-handle-pikes, a carving-knife-dagger, and a table-leg-club. One portly woman even wielded a crude mace, fashioned from an iron kettle strapped to a tree branch.

  Hob spotted Marta the innkeeper and a gang of tough-looking patrons from the Headless Goblin posted not too far from the gate. At least they looked ready for a fight! They were all armed to the teeth with weapons from the rack in the inn’s secret cellar.

  Hob wondered, in passing, where Monty and Stella were. He’d been expecting them back hours ago. They might have been somewhere in the city, searching in vain for Edric and him. Or they might have been stuck outside, cut off by the goblins in the pass. Hob hoped not, for his sake as much as theirs. He was desperate for their help,

  Again, he peeked through his crenel in the battlements. As the army closed in, it became obvious that it was a goblin pack like no other. The usual variety of shapes and sizes was gone, replaced by one dominant combination, big and brawny. These were fighters!

  Finally, the front lines clattered to a stop a few paces back from the wall. Hob sank low behind his crenel, taking care to stay out of sight even as he continued to peek through. If the other goblins saw him there, it would only make matters worse.

  In the center of the plateau, a gap appeared in the goblin ranks, breaking around a lone figure approaching the gate. Though the rest of the goblins were on foot, this one seemed to be riding a strange beast. The rider was too big for his mount, ca
using him to sway awkwardly with each step it took. Swaying with the rider was a huge black crow perched on his shoulder.

  Only when this lead goblin broke through the army’s front lines did Hob finally recognize him. It was Brute! He slowed to a stop at the head of the army, just before the gates of Valley Top.

  Brute’s mount turned out to be some sort of wild pig, woolly and brown, with a coarse mane running down its spine, and extremely long tusks jutting out from its snout. Mismatched armor plates hung from its back. Beads and decorations were woven into its fur. And iron bands connected its tusks to leather reins, which Brute held in hand.

  “A war-hog,” Hob whispered.

  He’d never seen one before, but he’d heard them described in songs and stories. Found in the mountain forests bordering the valley, they were a species of monstrous pigs that goblins once rode to war.

  It was said that some war-hogs grew bigger than bulls, but this one wasn’t even five feet tall at the saddle. It struggled not to collapse under Brute’s massive weight and that of its own makeshift armor. Hob wondered where the goblins had found the poor creature.

  “What did you say?” asked Captain Fist, prying Hob from his ruminations.

  “It’s a war-hog,” he repeated.

  She didn’t look impressed. “And what of ’ze goblin riding it?” she pressed. “’Zat is the sort of information you’re here for.”

  “Oh,” said Hob. “That’s Brute. He’s … trouble.”

  “Trouble?” asked Fist.

  “Let’s just say, I doubt he’ll think twice before attacking.”

  Hob returned his attention to Brute. The mighty goblin dismounted, and stood before the gate. He had the war-hog beside him, the army at his back, and the crow still perched on his shoulder.

  Hob noticed a roll of parchment clenched in the crow’s beak. But before he could puzzle out what might be on it, another goblin pushed his way out of the crowd behind the war-hog. This one was much smaller. He stumbled, but quickly regained his footing. A few of his fellow troops sniggered. Ignoring them, he straightened his oversized helmet, and stood proudly at Brute’s side.