The Halls of the Fallen King

by Tiger Hebert

  “How much longer?” asked Nal’drin.

  Excitement carried Dominar’s voice as he spoke up, “I would reckon that the Highland Pass and Duroc’s Refuge is but a few hours away, my boy! Wouldn’t you agree, Theros?”

  “Indeed. I know trekking across the northern wastes has been slow, but making sure not to cross the hungering sands was more important,” added the orc.

  “Even in winter?” asked Kiriana.

  “The Ni’al are never safe, not even in winter,” answered Sharka.

  “I am glad to have never seen the buggers,” remarked Dom.

  Kiriana agreed, “Are they worse than vraeks?”

  “Is one monstrosity worse than another?” was Dominar’s rhetorical remark.

  “The Ni’al are worse...” muttered Theros as his voice trailed off.

  “We only narrowly escaped them when we fled to the mountains,” admitted the female orc. “We were right to go around.”

  They trampled the snowy ground as they rode to their destination, and the hours slipped by. The upper reaches of the Highland Pass slowly rose above the horizon as they inched closer. It wasn’t long until they passed a place that was familiar to the two orcs. It was the place where many orcs and men lost their lives, and his brother Ogron had died. The scene was burned into the recesses of his memory, and it played out in his mind once more.

  “Don’t give up, just don’t give up,” shouted Theros as he clutched the elder orc tightly.

  “... Little brother... you have always... been my... closest friend. I... am grateful for ... your loyalty... and love,” mumbled Ogron as he gasped for air between words.

  “You can’t leave me brother, I need you,” wailed the giant orc.

  With a brief and painful smile he replied, “No, it was... me that needed you...”

  That is where his brother’s voice trailed off, and his lifeless body disintegrated into ashes to be scattered by the wind. The great orc was gone. The late chieftain’s words and meaning were twisted, and Theros struggled with the guilt of not being there when his brother needed him. Instead of pushing the guilt away, he accepted it as if it were a secret badge of honor, a badge of torment.

  “Theros...”

  “...Theros?”

  The orc was snapped out of his trance as a voice called out to him.

  “Theros, wake up!”

  The chieftain followed the voice to a face. That face... Sage skin complimented the light brown eyes that stared back at him. Tiny ivory points poked out just above her lower lip. It was her... For a moment, his world stopped spinning as everything started to come into focus. He knew her, he loved her.

  “You need to snap out of it, we have trouble!” snapped Sharka as she pointed back to the horizon.

  Still reeling, the orc chieftain shifted his gaze from her eyes down her arm and beyond the reach of her outstretched finger. There, ahead of them, came a horde of nasty creatures. The combination of dark furs and leaf colored complexions stood in stark contrast to the snowy backdrop. Long, scrawny half-bent legs carried their disproportionate bodies with a wobbly and bouncy gait. Grotesque potbellies heaved with each bounding stride. Talon-like fingers clutched spears, swords, and daggers alike as their sinewy arms stretched forth. Ugly mugs rested squarely between their bony shoulders. The square jawline of the monstrosities hung low over their chests, down toward their guts, with just their eyes and ears resting above the shoulder line.

  “What the...” started Nal’drin before being cut off.

  “Prepare for battle boys!” shouted Kiriana as she hoisted her trusty twin repeaters.

  Before Theros could gain his bearings, the dwarven maces had already found their way into his hands, and fury found its way into his heart. The others couldn’t make out who or what swarmed toward them until the warbling blast of a goraung echoed off the mountain backdrop, but Theros knew.

  “Gruaahhhhhhh!” growled the enraged chieftain as he surged forward.

  “Goblins!” screamed Sharka as she pulled out her bone carvers.

  As the two forces converged, it was quickly clear that the goblins had them vastly outnumbered—six to one. Yet the chieftain weaved past the oncoming hail of spears as he charged ahead in his suicide mission. Sharka and the others tried to stop him, but it was too late. All they could do for him was fight by his side, so all five raced headlong into battle.

  The first spear that found its mark simply glanced off the hide of the beast that carried Theros, but not the second. The iron spear burrowed its way into one of the massive creature’s front legs, destroying the beast’s knee. The mighty hrall stumbled and then crashed down upon the icy ground. An explosion of snow littered the air as both beast and rider were sent tumbling.

  A small pack of goblins set upon the orc, spears at the ready. He rolled over to prepare for battle when a hail of bolts riddled the first three assailants, but the fourth still came. Scrambling to get his legs under him, the giant orc crouched as the goblin charged. Shrieking cries of blood-lust left the enemy’s grotesque maw as he raced forward with his crude blade drawn. Theros chucked one of his hammers, striking the advancing goblin in the leg. The staggered creature stumbled forward as it tried to regain its balance, but it was too late. Switching his remaining mace over to his right hand, the orc exploded upward from his crouching position, and the upward arc of his iron brought the goblin to its end. The chieftain’s terrifying roar was the punctuation mark.

  The horde of goblins was not swayed; they hungered for battle, for flesh. A second surge of creatures descended upon him. Nal’drin, on horseback, smashed through their ranks. Their green bodies broke against his steed like water upon the rocks. His long sword eagerly bit at their wart-covered hides. His advantage was short lived though, as a spear pierced the side of his horse. The human was thrown to the ground and he was about to be surrounded by the remainder of the goblin forces, which still numbered more than twenty. Dwarven iron and human steel cried out for justice as the rest of the team rushed to their aid.

  Kiriana was devastating with her crossbows in hand, but she was a terror with the blade too. Discarding the repeaters as they ran empty, she unsheathed the runic daggers that were hidden beneath her furs. The nine-inch blades were instruments of death in her hands; her mastery with the blade was matched only by Sharka’s. The two women waited for no invitation as they leapt into action. Sharka slashed while the Slayer stabbed. Their styles differed, but both were menacing, and enemies fell before them.

  The Chieftain was not to be out-done though. Once he retrieved his thrown hammer, he rampaged through the goblin force. He was a thundering storm. Like lightning, those hammers struck with vulgar brutality. His foes broke beneath the oppressive might of his assault.

  “Leave some for me!” hollered the dwarven elder as he willed his stout little legs forward.

  The armored dwarf swung his great maul in a wide arc. Its head plowed through a small cluster of goblins, sending them to the ground. The momentum of the swing took the dwarf with them, as he tumbled right over them. He squirmed and frantically kicked his stumpy legs in an effort to get off the pile before green arms could seize him.

  Silver flashed before his eyes. Nal’drin drove his long blade through the goblin heap before helping the old dwarf to his feet. They had laid waste to much of the horde, but several remained, so the five battled on. The first two fell at the hands of Kiriana and Sharka, but the last goblin made a break for it.

  The only creature that had enough sense to turn back darted across the red and white terrain. His misshapen body almost waggled as he ran away upon those wobbly knobby legs. High pitched shrieks from the retreating goblin nearly allowed them to forget the groans of those dying around them. Theros thought to give chase, but the wretched mongrel’s twenty yard head start made him think twice. Looking over his shoulder, the goblin realized he wasn’t being chased, and soon his shrieks of fear turned to a bout of laughter as he realized his narrow escape. With a safe distance between himself
and his would-be pursuers, the shameless rascal mounted a triumphant display of insolent mockery. In true goblin fashion, he dropped his trousers about his ankles and began to dance while hurling insults. The glint in his eye was that of daylight upon steel. His hide could not resist the blade’s persuasion. The tumbling blade tore through flesh as it burrowed deep into his chest. His laughter stopped.

  The other four just stood and stared as they turned their unbelieving eyes from the slain goblin to Mistress Kiriana. Her throwing arm still fully extended and her gaze fixed upon her mark, now well over thirty yards away. The wide-eyed companions were astonished.

  “Remind me to never run from you,” joked Nal’drin as he admired her talents.

  “Like you would,” quipped Sharka.

  Dominar snorted a bit as he tried to suppress his laughter. Nal’drin’s normally pale face gave way to the glowing hue of embarrassment, which nearly matched the Mistress’s fine hair. Perhaps it was her intensity, or the fact that the commotion still had not entirely ceased, but she seemed oblivious to the exchange and the human king’s awkwardness. Instead she turned her attention to one of the fallen foes.

  “That one has a bit of life left in him,” she barked, pointing behind them.

  “We can fix that,” offered the hulking orc.

  “No! Hopefully we can gather some intelligence from him,” suggested Dom.

  “Goblins don’t have intelligence,” added Sharka.

  The five moved forward and formed a semi-circle around the wretched creature. It was the first time that Kiriana and Nal’drin had seen one, and they both hoped the last time. The monster’s wide mouth revealed a host of crooked and rotting teeth. That wasn’t even the worst of it though. No, it was the spine tingling trio of serpentine tongues that did the trick. Those nasty organs writhed in a twisting fashion as they lashed out with each guttural utterance.

  In his native tongue, the goblin spat his dying words as if they carried venom.

  Mo Vishto bana Varug zif grag, ki mo migoth tog bo, lo braketh mo draga-noth!

  Some might choose to call what happened next a mercy killing, but the violence of Theros’ response bore little resemblance. The bones snapped and cracked, and the goblin fell silent.

  “What are you doing? What did he say?” stammered Nal’drin in shock.

  “He curses us saying, ‘the age of the goblin has come, let the darkness take you, or suffer the wrath of the king’,” answered the great orc in translation.

  It was as if a flame-less fire burned in his eyes. Nal’drin saw it. They all saw it. Then as quickly as it was kindled, it was gone. Only the sparkling cobalt blue eyes remained as his rage subsided. His quiet stoicism seemed to have returned almost as if nothing had just occurred. The group quietly observed him for a moment before his old friend spoke up.

  “Theros, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” was the orc’s reply.

  “What do I mean? You just snapped, and his neck too,” started Dominar.

  “He’s a goblin, who cares?”

  “That is not the Hammerfist that I know,” admitted the old dwarf before being interrupted.

  “Goblins seek to corrupt and destroy everything they lay their eyes upon, they must be exterminated!” growled Theros.

  “My friend, I too share the knowledge of the goblin plague, but this... this is something else... isn’t it, hmm?” inquired Dom with a gentle tone.

  “The threat has been eliminated, we are safe now, that is all that matters,” added the orc as he avoided the real question. “Now let’s get to the keep before anything else waylays us.”

  Without waiting for their approval or rebuttal, the orc trudged eastward over the snow. While the others put down the two wounded mounts, and gathered supplies from the wreckage, Dominar simply kept his concerned gaze upon his dear friend.

  Without ever turning back, the orc’s booming voice commanded them to move forward as he shouted, “We’re almost there, let’s move!”

  He was right; they were indeed almost on the doorstep of the old dwarven keep. Only a couple hundred yards stood between them and their destination. Dominar and Sharka mounted up and rode after him, and much to Nal’drin’s delight, Kiriana pulled her horse up beside him and extended her hand.

  He jumped at the opportunity without blinking as he grasped her hand. Before he knew it, he was merely inches away from her as they shared the horse. He tried to not get caught up in the excitement, but he failed. The allure of that black jasmine scent combined with the caress of the silky red tresses that fell well past her shoulders was overwhelming. It was exotic, it was primal and intense, and she had no clue.

  His indulgent day-dreaming did not last long though, as the ride was such a short distance. He was aware of it though and savored every breath. Then the riders came to a halt in the Highland Pass. There the five companions stood in the shadow of Duroc’s Refuge. They had finally made it.

  Dominar was in awe. While the gray-bearded dwarf had seen the outside of the ruins before, even he did a double take. His reaction to the quality stonework of his long lost kinsmen was not so different from Kiriana and Nal’drin, who had never set foot in the pass before. It is doubtful that anyone could have looked upon the craftsmanship here and have guessed that any hands other than a dwarf’s could have made such a place, but the intricately carved illustrations and runic markings on the walls of the narrow canyon erased any such question.

  The two grand entrances were carved into the rock faces of the canyon’s towering walls. One door was on the Southern wall, and the other on the Northern. Each narrow gateway into the forgotten ruins was intricately decorated. They were unnecessarily yet impressively over-sized, their height climbing nearly fifteen feet up the stony pass. The hand-carved door casings of the entrances were complete with architectural design that boasted hard lines with many square and blocky elements. It was unmistakably dwarven.

  The group’s tension grew as the clattering of hooves rose over the faint rush of wind. The eyes of the five darted east as they braced for another attack. Kiriana’s highly trained reflexes produced two locked and loaded crossbows.

  “Woah, woah, woah! I’m on your side!” shouted a voice from the distance.

  Theros scanned the horizon but the winds had returned and visibility had gotten worse. “Dramar, is that you?”

  “That it is, Hammerfist,” returned the nasally voice as the centaur finally came into view.

  The companions sighed in relief, but Kiriana remained locked on the obscured figure, fingers already applying a gentle force upon the triggers.

  “Are you alone?” Theros asked as he looked past the newcomer.

  “Yes. No reason to bring anyone else out in this weather,” said Dramar before noticing the blood that was splattered across the orc’s heavy coat. The centaur’s once-confident eyes grew nervous. “Wait, what’s going on?”

  “We had a few—delays. First vraeks, then a goblin kill squad,” shared Theros with a scowl.

  The centaur must not have hidden the look of terror very well, so Dominar spoke up. “Don’t worry, we took care of ‘em all.”

  “But goblins?” asked Dramar with a shudder.

  The rest of the crew had a pretty good idea now just how dangerous goblins could be, but this was a centaur. Their looks of confusion were understandable. He was a massive warrior, and he had seen the horrors of battle. As a member of the Hand of Horus, he was there when they killed the Baalim, he was there against the Black Dragon and his army. Yet he seemed utterly spooked at the mention of goblins. Dramar must have realized it, because his face flushed with embarrassment.

  Nal’drin, never one to beat around the bush, joked, “Looks like the big ole horse here is scared of goblins?” Then he turned to Sharka and asked, “Why is it that horses spook so easily anyway?”

  Sharka snorted as she tried to stifle her laughter. Kiriana and Theros ignored the remark. Dominar shot him a disapproving glare that said, ‘shut up stupid’.r />
  Nal’drin shrugged and tossed his hands in the air, saying, “What? It was a joke.”

  Dramar grunted with disapproval before returning his attention to Theros. “Centaur are well acquainted with goblins. We are not scared of them, we just know that—well—things have changed.”

  Sharka’s eyes revealed concern. “What do you mean?”

  “Most of Darnisi hasn’t felt the goblin presence for a long time. Well, we have,” said Dramar.

  “I know, when we met the magi, they told us about the raids,” added Theros.

  “Yes, the raids started again about two years ago. The raids were, well, they were not just goblin raids. They were hunting for something, something that drove them into a frenzy. It was as if they were driven by some unseen force. It was frightening,” admitted Dramar.

  “Thanks for your candor, friend,” said Dominar with a forced smile. “You are right, they were driven by an unseen force, and that is why we are here. We have reason to believe that they are after some dangerous artifacts left behind after the collapse of the dwarven empire. We are hoping that their continued presence in this area means that they haven’t found whatever they are looking for yet.”

  Dramar’s face grew pale, and his voice fell to a whisper, “It’s the Elder Stones.”

  Surprised looks appeared on the crew’s faces.

  Theros’s expression shifted from surprised to worrisome in a blink. “You—know of the Elder Stones?”

  “Not really. I mean, as a member of the Hand of Horus, it is my responsibility to study our texts and to know the histories. Some of our studies briefly touched on the stones, but they never really said much,” said the centaur.

  “So what makes you think there are Elder Stones in there?” asked Theros with a thumb pointing toward the ruins.