The Goblin Wars Part One

by Stuart Thaman

  The warrior strode along his path out of Talonrend, not even realizing that his feet were mimicking his own movements of his fight in the pit with the minotaur. He turned and rolled along the rocky ground, dodging the scimitar, ducking under strikes, reliving the entire combat from memory.

  Gideon tried to think of a plan while he dodged, tried to come up with some sort of offense that would get him inside the swinging scimitar before his own endurance gave out and he collapsed to the sand. He had never fought a minotaur, never even seen a minotaur before, but he knew enough just from the corded muscles of the beast’s body that he would not survive a direct test of strength.

  A swing came in for Gideon’s head, the tip of the curved blade entering his vision from the left. The warrior feigned a dodge, moving his feet to jump back and to his right and outside the weapon’s deadly reach. At the last moment, Gideon pivoted into the swing, bringing his own weapon up to block the attack, hoping to surprise the minotaur. The beast slashed across its body, wielding the scimitar in its left hand, and was able to quickly follow the parry with a brutal punch to Gideon’s chest.

  The warrior staggered backward and tried to catch his breath after the mighty blow. The roar of the crowd around him was deafening. Relentless, the creature pressed his advantage, swinging wildly at the retreating man. Gideon dodged most of the attacks, parried the few that came in too close, and continued to move away from his snarling foe.

  Finally, Gideon saw an opportunity. He had retreated far enough to catch a glimpse of the heavy metal javelin protruding from the sand to his right. His first thought was to retrieve it and use the length of the weapon to keep the monster back. No, he thought, the minotaur’s reach with the small sword would still best the length of the heavy pole.

  The minotaur pressed him again, unleashing a chain of fast attacks that Gideon was forced to parry. The man planted his feet, determined to not let the shaft of the javelin out of his sight. His broadsword came up in a flash, barely catching the scimitar’s point on the hilt. Using the exact same maneuver that had scored a hit on himself, Gideon pressed the weapons together and punched out with his left hand, catching the beast in its hairy chest. If the minotaur noticed the blow, he didn’t show it.

  Hoping to impose a test of brawn, the minotaur leaned in and pressed with all of his might against the smaller warrior, forcing the blade of the scimitar closer and closer to the man’s neck. At the last moment, Gideon turned his shoulder hard, dropping the blade of his own sword into the sand and letting the overbalanced minotaur crush through the block. Had Gideon not ducked into the attack, he would have been eviscerated where he stood.

  The smaller man had slipped under the large minotaur’s arms and managed to get the blade of his sword on the creature’s shoulder, slashing a long gash from the top of his arm to the chain at the center of his muscled chest. The infuriated minotaur spun quickly and blasted Gideon’s jaw with his hand and narrowly missed with the scimitar that followed, a strike that surely would have decapitated the man. Gideon had timed it all perfectly. Collecting his wits and rubbing his jaw, the warrior managed to escape to the buried javelin as the monster howled in pain, much to the delight of the crowd. Blood oozed from the wound and dripped into the sand.

  Gideon dropped his sword at the base of the javelin and used both of his strong arms to tear the weapon free. The arena floor let go of its prize in a whirl of sand that temporarily blinded the minotaur. Not wasting the opportunity, Gideon charged in with the weapon, swinging wildly with the butt of the heavy pole at his hip. The long and slender blades cut a deep wound into the side of the minotaur, causing more blood to spill forth. The beast howled again but did not fall.

  Surprisingly, the minotaur reached down and tore the strange spear from Gideon’s grip, dropping his own scimitar in the process. Scrambling, Gideon launched himself to the ground and grasped after the hilt of his broadsword. His hand found it, but not in time. The heavy pole smashed down on the back of Gideon’s legs, rending his flesh. The clever beast then revealed the true function of the weapon, rotating it in his fierce grip and using the five blades to shave the skin from the back of Gideon’s legs.

  The pain was dizzying, but Gideon fought on. He knew that he didn’t have much time left; the next blow from the pole would likely shred his skull to bloody ribbons. The minotaur lifted the weapon high to the roar of the frenzied crowd, seeking to make the final strike more dramatic.

  Gideon took the chance to roll, sending waves of pain from his legs all the way to his eyes. His vision began to fade. Dark spots formed wherever he looked but he had his broadsword grasped firmly in hand. The beast bent over to strike, putting all of his bulk into the attack. The young blacksmith’s assistant set the broadsword’s hilt against his side in the sand and used the leverage to lift the sharp blade at the last second. The massive minotaur wasn’t quick enough to shift his feet and avoid the blade.

  The screams of the beast could be heard for miles. It wrenched away, covering the downed Gideon in blood, and howled into the sky. The two handed sword had impaled the mighty creature. Half of the blade protruding from the beast’s back, half from the front. Gideon slowly climbed to his knees, his torn legs barely supporting his weight.

  Suddenly, a mighty fist crashed into his neck, sending him sprawling back to the sand. The minotaur was laughing with the sword still plunged deep into his bloody chest. Gideon grabbed the ground with his hands and used the strength of his upper body to roll forward into a crouch. Standing upright just a few paces away was the laughing minotaur. It reached down, one hand grabbing the hilt of the sword and the other grasping the blade close to his body. Gideon scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to get away but never taking his eyes from the gruesome sight.

  The crowd went quiet, expecting to see the bloody giant rip the sword from his own chest and fight on. Instead, the minotaur used his brute strength to break the forged blade in half. He tossed the bloody hilt to the crowd and began to shake, arching his back and convulsing. The second half of the blade dropped to the sand with a spurt of thick blood.

  Gideon managed to get to his feet as he watched the astounding spectacle. With the minotaur’s own scimitar in hand, he slowly began to circle the beast. The crowd went wild at the sight of both combatants leaking blood all over the sand, the minotaur unaware of the warrior standing behind him. Gideon raised the scimitar up, thinking to cut the gruesome head from the hairy shoulders of the minotaur, but the beast sensed him at the last moment and turned. The monster couldn’t get the javelin in line to spike Gideon but was able to dodge the killing blow, losing only a horn in the process.

  Gideon was quick to retrieve the twisted, severed horn from the sand and used it in his left hand as a dagger. The minotaur took the offensive again, attempting to charge Gideon and open his gut with the end of the pole. Blood loss from the sword wound in the minotaur’s chest slowed him and caused him to stagger as the thick, dark blood began to fall from the beast’s mouth. Mustering his last reserves of energy, Gideon struck out with one quick, low feint with the scimitar to force the beast to lower the pole. A flick of his wrist brought the sharp horn up under the minotaur’s chin. A singular, powerful flex of Gideon’s arm had the end of the horn protruding from the top of the creature’s skull and the minotaur fell to the sand, lifelessly twitching as the crowd screamed for more.

  In dramatic fashion, Gideon dropped the jeweled scimitar down on the top of the minotaur’s lifeless chest and collapsed to the sand next to the slain beast, exhausted and nearly dead.

  It took the warrior three weeks under the care of the Vrysinoch priests at the tower before he was able to stand unassisted. It was at the tower that Gideon was recruited to fight for the city as a paladin. He spent ten years living there, training with the other paladins and becoming a true warrior. Holy paladins of Vrysinoch are trained to use large shields and maces and to fight side by side, using each other for support on the battlefield.

  After his decade of rigoro
us training, Gideon took his weapons and left the tower, never entering it again. Typically, a paladin who has graduated from the tower either receives a commission in the royal army as an officer or is chosen to be one of the king’s guards. Not wanting to dedicate his life to the service of one man or even one city, Gideon abandoned his life as a paladin.

  He took his tower shield and his enchanted mace to the blacksmith where he used to work and sought to have something better crafted. Not being able to pay for his gear, Gideon returned to his old job hauling ore and materials. It took him almost two years to pay for the re-forging of his holy weapons. The shield and mace, along with a decent portion of Gideon’s blood, were melted down into a single sword entwined with the warrior’s powerful soul.

  A screech brought Gideon back to the road in front of him, shattering his peaceful memories. His eyes immediately shot skyward, searching for the bird that had screamed. An eagle, the divine beast of Vrysinoch, was a fortuitous portent for the wandering warrior. Gideon listened, hearing the powerful call of the eagle echoing off of the high city walls behind him. The screech was full of violence and strength, mimicking the blood in Gideon’s own veins. His pace quickened to a light jog, adrenaline coursing through the great warrior’s body.

  “Vrysinoch!” Gideon called to the sky, yelling at a black spot on the horizon he assumed to be the distant eagle. “Grant me your blessing!” he shouted, breaking out in a run. The axes on his side thudded against his powerful thighs with each hulking stride and his sword bounced up and down in the leather scabbard on his back.

  Gideon did not know why he had begun running. Something about the way the eagle had cawed ignited a holy passion in the paladin. The divine symbol etched into his back from his training at the tower began to glow and radiate with heat. The warrior kept his pace, jogging for a few miles before finally coming to a rest outside a small hamlet on the edge of the Clawflow. He made his camp outside the town, not wanting to spend money on a room at an inn or tavern. He waited until the dawn before beginning his search for information concerning the lost king.

  The villages along the Clawflow River all belonged to Talonrend and swore allegiance to Castle Talon, but few citizens from the small towns frequented their capitol city. The river ran from north to south, beginning somewhere in the snowy mountains to the north of Talonrend and continuing through the land for hundreds of miles before splitting into many tributaries. The Clawflow not only served as the lifeblood of the villages, but also created a natural barrier to the wilds. All of the human settlements were located on the western bank of the river; no villagers wanted to brave the untamed wilderness of the great forest in the east. Always dominating the horizon, the massive form of Kanebullar Mountain could be seen from almost anywhere, towering above the shadowy forest.

  There was another kingdom far to the south of Talonrend and beyond the reaches of the Clawflow. Reikall was only a few days’ ride on horseback to the south of the river but the two kingdoms had almost no communication or trade between them. Gideon had a sneaking suspicion that his southerly neighbors were somehow behind the disappearance of King Lucius.

  Every five years, dignitaries from Reikall made the trip to Castle Talon to partake in diplomatic discussions. Well, that was the agreement at least. It had been over twenty years since anyone from Reikall had been seen. Geographically, the two cities were not far from each other, but in the minds of the citizens of Talonrend, Reikall was all but forgotten. The two kingdoms had no trade between them and had never been at war. It was whispered, of course, that King Lucius would send the worst criminals of the realm to exile in Reikall, a statement that the rumormongers could never prove true or false.

  Like everyone else, Gideon had only heard rumors of the kingdom of Reikall, but even so, a nagging feeling tugged at his gut and caused him to turn his gaze upon the southern horizon.

  Gideon welcomed the journey with a sigh of contentment.

  ***

  DARIUS WATCHED AN interrogation through the heavy iron bars of the cell. The guard captain held a small silk cloth over his mouth, a futile effort to keep the pervading stench at bay. Under Terror’s Lament, buried hundreds of feet below the massive stone walls and tucked away in a cavern that few knew existed, was the dungeon. The man being interrogated was nearly dead, having offered up no pertinent information. Darius was still no closer to finding King Lucius.

  “Death is such a flirt,” King Lucius’ steward mused, grabbing a small piece of iron with a heavily gloved hand. “You never know just how much one man can take before death comes for him. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been doing this for hours, sometimes they die with the first tiny cut. Interrogation is such an imperfect science, wouldn’t you say?”

  The tortured man tied to the bloody table in front of the steward didn’t respond. He merely whimpered, barely even attempting to struggle. The king’s royal steward, Jan by name, although most everyone used his title when addressing him, also served as the dungeon’s primary interrogator. The steward lifted the heavy piece of iron out of the fire and pressed it gently to the bound man’s eyelid, laughing quietly as the skin began to crackle and pop.

  “One more time, good sir,” the steward taunted, lifting the iron from the smoldering face, “where is the king? Everyone knows that you went with him in the caravan, your own family will attest to that.” The man’s face contorted in horror at the mention of his family.

  “Tell me where the king has run off to, and I will end this. One stab of my dagger, deep into your heart, and this all ends. Your daughter won’t have to answer any questions, your wife won’t have to answer any questions…” Jan was twirling his dagger around in his hand, staring at the ceiling as though he were discussing the weather with an old friend over a casual game of chess. The steward lifted the small strap of hemp from the man’s mouth, prompting him to speak.

  “I… I already told…” the words came out in between violent sobs that sent blood splattering to the table.

  “Yes, yes, the king left the caravan before you arrived at the southern village of Cobblestreet,” Jan interrupted. Darius shook his head at the bars, looking away, knowing what was coming next. “It seems that everyone who has wandered back into Talonrend from that caravan has the same sad tale to tell. The only problem is, I don’t believe it. I say you killed our dear Lucius. You and your merchant band united and slew the king and his guards and now all spin the same pathetic web of lies.” The steward reached under the table to a thick wooden crank and began turning it, lifting the table up to a vertical position. “Your lies will not save you. Not here.”

  With a flick of his practiced wrist, Jan replaced the rope in the merchant’s mouth, looping the ends of the hemp around a hook on the back of the table and completely immobilizing the man. The look of sheer terror on the man’s burnt face was enough to make Darius leave the room. This was the third interrogation he had seen in as many hours, having lost the contents of his stomach only minutes into the first.

  With the table in position perpendicular to the floor, Jan picked up a heavy axe from the floor, its edge heavily stained with old blood. He held the axe up against the man’s pale neck, gently rubbing it back and forth, bringing a thin red line of fresh blood to the blade. The tortured man closed what was left of his eyelids, waiting for the end. Jan started to laugh. His victims never understood. “You only get to die quickly if you give me what I want!” he bellowed, cackling away with evil, sadistic joy.

  One perfectly placed blow severed both of the man’s ankles, dropping his bloody feet to the floor. Jan’s leather boot kicked the feet away, burying them in a pile of filth and other rotting parts. “Now, just to let you know what is happening, although I don’t suspect that you have much time left in the first place,” Jan picked up a large bucket from a table behind him and placed it under the man’s bleeding stumps as he spoke. The steward had to use both hands to lift a heavy bag from the table, pouring its white contents into the bucket, filling it to the top with fine
salt. The bloody stumps writhed in pain just an inch above the grains.

  “Now, this bucket here is full of salt,” Jan explained, wiping the blood and grime from his hands onto a towel. “Right now, that isn’t much of a problem for you. I tied the ropes too tightly for you to fall into it.” King Lucius’ steward bent down and took a pinch of salt from the bucket and sprinkled it into the savage burn on the man’s face. “I assure you, you do not want to end up in that bucket.” The man howled through clenched teeth, fighting against his restraints at the new wave of pain.

  Jan walked to the corner of the room to a set of a dozen ropes attached to pulleys in the stone ceiling. After sorting through them for a moment, he grasped one of the ropes and smiled at the man on the table. “Better flex,” he said in a melodic voice, yanking down firmly on the rope. In the blink of an eye, the hook at the back of the table released, causing the man to violently jerk downward, no longer supported by the ropes but still unable to escape the table with his arms tied out wide.

  Jan hurried out of the small chamber, locking the door behind him. “I’ll send the wolves in tomorrow to clean up your mess,” he called back over his shoulder as he continued down the hallway past the other cells.

  “Do you always have to be so dramatic at the end?” Darius asked, falling into step beside the king’s steward. The captain kept his silk cloth over his mouth until the pair exited the dungeon entirely.

  “I like the drama of a good interrogation,” the man replied, his voice dripping with malice. “Besides, that’s what the king pays me to do, to interrogate people and then make them disappear.”

  “Yes,” the captain said solemnly, disgusted by the horror of it all, “judging by the smell in that room, you don’t bury the bodies. Ever.” Darius was glad to step into the sunlight of the warm afternoon and breathe the fresh air. “We still don’t know much about the king. All of the merchants that have wandered back to Talonrend just say that the king left the caravan with some of his guards at some little village along the Clawflow.”