The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King

by Stuart Thaman

  “What if it is a diversion? A message sent by Lady Scrapple or someone else to take us away from the north?” Images of the chamber beneath the Tower of Wings flitted through Vorst’s mind. All of the threats to Talonrend had come from the north, not the west.

  “I’m not sure,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “It could be misdirection, but I think Asterion knows more than he let on. He wouldn’t have agreed to change course so quickly if he thought it could be the wrong decision.”

  Her words did little to comfort the nervous goblin. “Have you felt her in your mind again?” Gravlox dared to ask.

  “Not since the battle,” Vorst snapped. Now that she had tasted a few weeks of true freedom, the thought of being so viciously controlled made her sick to her stomach.

  “Sometimes…” Gravlox stumbled around the words, regretting that he had broached the subject at all. “I worry about you,” he whispered.

  Vorst’s glare pierced through him like an arrow.

  Gravlox wanted to apologize for questioning her, but thought it prudent to keep his mouth shut. The four companions hiked through the frosted foothills until a few hours past dusk, using magical light created by Asterion to guide them.

  THE ASCENDED PALADIN sat on a large rock at the edge of a campfire. His eyes, devoid of traditional sight, picked up flares of white energy that marked the exact locations of the other magic users around him.

  The intensity of the light correlated with the depth of magic present within each of the paladins that Corvus could identify. The old veteran, sitting at his side with a hand on his shoulder, flared the brightest.

  “I’ve only read about this,” the gruff man said in true wonder. “I wish I could see what you see.” There was a hint of mirth underneath the paladin’s words that Corvus found insulting.

  “I’d rather have my vision back,” he replied dryly. “I rather enjoyed being able to go for a piss without tripping on everything.” Corvus rubbed a fresh bruise on his leg and remembered a particularly heavy rock he had stumbled upon. Blindness took more than a few hours to grow accustomed to.

  “Once you learn to control the magic within your soul, you will be the strongest paladin alive!” the veteran marveled. “The anointed one of Vrysinoch! Chosen by our god!”

  Corvus didn’t appreciate the manner he was being regarded. The young paladin had planned on a life of soldiering and doing good for the people, not living as a cripple. Even if he was ‘ascended’, whatever that might mean, Corvus hated being treated like an experiment or a freak show.

  When the paladins had returned to the refugee train, the others couldn’t help but spread the word of Corvus’ predicament. Corvus hated the attention and resented his brothers for it.

  Seamus was the only one who seemed unbothered by it all. With his typically gruff demeanor, the farmer thrust a hot bowl of soup into Corvus’ hands and plopped down noisily beside him on the log. “What ye thinkin’ about?” Seamus asked as he slurped his own soup.

  “I’m trying very hard not explode,” Corvus said with no hint of humor or sarcasm. “The river of magic within me is beyond my control.”

  Seamus didn’t understand the first thing about being a paladin, so he wisely held his tongue.

  “If my concentration breaks for just a moment, I lose control.” Corvus’ hand clenched so tightly around his spoon that his knuckles turned white. “Watch,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The other paladins, nearly two score of them from throughout the refugee train, were gathered around a different fire barely a stone’s throw away. They talked noisily, mostly about their ascended brethren, and stole curious glances at him every chance they got.

  To Corvus, the paladins were nothing more than varying gradients of lights against an inky background. He let some of his control over the flow of magic slip from his grasp and another nova of mental energy pulsed out.

  The paladins jerked their heads in unison and gasped. “See?” Corvus smiled when he heard Seamus burst out in laughter. “My magic is uncontrollable. It’s like my mind is trapped in the intricate weave the binds the paladins together. I can’t make it back to the real world.”

  Seamus set his bowl down and rubbed his hands together against the cold. “Any chance you could make some heat?” he jested in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

  Corvus let out a long sigh. “I would probably set you on fire or melt the skin from your fingers.” The magic was far stronger than anything Corvus had ever known. He had heard rumors of paladins ascending in the past, calling forth unimaginable bursts of holy magic during battles against insurmountable odds, but he had always brushed them off as legend.

  “What’s it feel like?” Seamus wondered. As a poor farmer, he had never encountered a true magic user before and the idea of someone snapping their fingers and setting him ablaze was terrifying.

  “The magic?” Corvus replied with a rare grin. “Imagine a river flowing just beneath your consciousness. If you can send your mind deep enough into your being, you can find that river and approach it.”

  Corvus still remembered the first time he had found magic within himself, and counted it among his treasured memories. He had been young, younger than most who discovered magic, and it had changed his life forever. Corvus had been an apprentice to a blacksmith who worked at the fighting pits. His days were spent sharpening swords, mending armor, and cleaning blood off the training room’s floor.

  When the fighters left for the night, Corvus would take a lance and jab at the mannequins, pretending to be a mighty warrior fighting a battle to save the king. One night, a few of the fighters returned to the training room, drunk from the celebration of recent victories, and tried to make the young apprentice boy their next victim.

  He had tried to defend himself with a lance, but the warriors outnumbered and outweighed him severely. Offering up a prayer to his winged god, Corvus found the river of magic within him. Beams of light shot forth from the lance and engulfed to boy in white flame. Within moments, the terrified Corvus had killed the drunken fighters and burned the training room to the ground. The paladins of the Tower found him the next day and recruited him.

  “What’s in the river?” Seamus asked, shattering Corvus’ reminiscence.

  “Anything you desire,” the blind paladin replied with awe. “Once you learn how to find the river, you can pull that energy up to the surface and, with the help of Vrysinoch, mold it into a spell.”

  “I don’t have any rivers,” Seamus said with mock despair. “I’s born a farmer and I’ll die a farmer.”

  Or a refugee, shivering and starving in the middle of nowhere, Corvus thought. He turned his eyes in the direction of Seamus’ voice, but saw no spark of light. There was no magic about the man like there was emanating from the other holy warriors.

  “There were certain priests and paladins of the Tower that believed anyone could learn the art of magic,” Corvus said to take his mind from grim reality. “If those people are to be believed, one must have a certain amount of faith in Vrysinoch before the path to the river is opened. But who can say for sure?” If truth be told, my faith was nearly non-existent when I discovered magic.” Corvus shrugged.

  He heard footsteps coming from behind him and turned to see a small flicker of white light approaching. The magical essences of the other paladins varied slightly in size and intensity, but somehow, Corvus knew beyond a doubt who the man was when he neared.

  “We’re moving out,” the old veteran stated. Due to his lack of reference, Corvus couldn’t quite tell if the man had a brighter mark upon his vision or was standing closer than he normally would. Corvus reached out his hand awkwardly and brushed against the veteran’s tunic.

  The man ignored the blind paladin’s groping and informed him of the plan. “We have thirty-five paladins, most of whom still have all of their gear. I think there are a hundred or so militia among the refugees and a few hundred more strong enough to fight if they need to.”

  “I don’t
like where this is heading,” Corvus wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of marching without regular vision or the thought of abandoning the refugee column that made him shudder.

  “We split the fighting men into groups and spread them along the line,” the man continued in a gruff voice. “I say we travel back east and see what’s following us. If there are more orcs out in the foothills, we will have to fight them eventually. I’d rather the battle take place away from the caravan than while we sleep. It would be best if the civilians aren’t in our way when the fight is on.”

  Corvus couldn’t argue with his logic. A great battle was coming; he could feel it in his bones. The poor refugees would be cut down like wheat to a scythe if the orcs hit the column. “What if we find an entire orc clan?” he asked, trying not to let fear manifest in his voice.

  “We do the same thing we will do if we find only a single orc,” the veteran grumbled. “We link our shields, offer our prayers to Vrysinoch, and march for the victory of Talonrend.”

  “You’d best get ready,” Seamus whispered. Disappointment oozed from his words.

  A sharp laugh escaped Corvus mouth. “Don’t think for a minute you get to stay behind,” he told the farmer. “If I’m risking my neck for you, you better be risking your neck for me.”

  For a moment, Seamus was glad that Corvus was blind. He didn’t want the paladin to see the huge smile splayed across his face.

  BEADS OF SWEAT dripped off his brow and stung his eyes. The bright white cloth of the sheets made him squint. In a word, Herod was miserable. The prince’s spirit raged within him, full of vim and vigor, perhaps stronger than it had ever been before. Herod’s festering wound laced the room with a thick stench of death.

  “How do you feel, my prince?” Apollonius asked in hushed tones. The dutiful soldier wore a thin strip of cloth over his mouth and nose just like the two guards by the door. They said it was to prevent any new sicknesses from being introduced to the room, but Herod knew better. The stench of his princely rot was too awful to bear.

  Herod gave the man a long stare before answering. “I feel only slightly better than I smell,” he replied loudly enough for the guards to hear. “What news do you have for me today?” Confined by weakness to his deathbed, Herod had lost any shred of patience he once had for small talk.

  The soldier grimaced behind his strip of cloth and a look of pity flashed in his eyes. “The goblins have escaped, sir. They have been gone for more than a day, but I was just informed moments ago.”

  Herod gave a weak wave of his hand and dismissed the news as though it was a fly buzzing about his food. “If I was truly serious about their capture, I would have had them killed.”

  That set Apollonius back on his heels. “What…” he stammered. “Then why did you imprison them at all?”

  “Half of the city has deserted. Allowing a pair of goblins to walk among them would have surely made the others leave.” Herod stifled a cough that brought a bit of blood to the back of his throat. “If I killed them, I would have lost Gideon, my greatest paladin. What was I to do?”

  Apollonius mulled over the possibilities and agreed with a shrug. “You knew they would escape. It was the only way to keep both the Templars and Gideon happy.”

  “Now you understand why I’ve never had a stomach for politics,” Herod mused. A chortle brought a fresh wave of pain up from his chest that stole the air from his lungs. “I assume that Gideon and the goblins could not be found within the city?”

  Apollonius nodded and grinned. “And thus you have released them without releasing them.”

  “Perhaps my brother was right for abandoning his throne. Decisions like that will drive a man insane.” Or to the bottom of an expensive bottle, Herod thought with suppressed laughter.

  “Should I send a search party?” Apollonius asked.

  The prince tried to prop himself up on his elbows but the pain in his side threatened to smother his consciousness. “We need to spare everyone we can. Have any goblins been spotted?”

  Apollonius leafed through a set of loosely bound parchments and quietly added up rows of numbers. “Goblins have been seen beyond the walls, your highness. Almost two dozen instances now. Some of those reports are bound to be illusions created by paranoia, but we must not ignore them all. Terror’s Lament sustained significant damage during the attack and repairs are moving slowly. Should they come again, we will have to defend the inner walls.”

  “Good, good,” Herod muttered. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he spoke. “What do the goblins do out there?” he asked with mild disinterest.

  “Most of the reports say they are scavenging the field or wandering around aimlessly.” Apollonius organized his parchments and slid them back into the leather pouch at his side.

  “Have you seen them yourself, Apollonius?”

  “Not since the battle,” the soldier replied.

  “Then don’t take it seriously,” Herod coughed. Flecks of blood flew from his mouth and splattered on the fresh sheets. “Fearful men see only what they fear.” Images of Vrysinoch flitted through the prince’s mind. You will never be king, Herod recited to himself. He knew those words were true.

  WHEN THEY FINALLY stopped to make camp, Gravlox’s weary feet were covered in a myriad of blisters. Their camp was set at the center of a triangle of tumbled boulders that offered protection from the wind. Vorst plopped down on top of one of the rocks and rooted through Gravlox’s pack for the magical circlet.

  She felt the cold metal slide between her fingers and wondered what it would feel like to put it on. The three males of the group busied themselves with bedrolls and food preparation so Vorst let the small ring of metal fall gently between her ears.

  Vorst expected a rush of magic to fill her mind and let her summon dazzling bolts of lightning with a snap of her fingers. At the very least, she had expected to feel different. The cool metal lacked even the decency to feel uncomfortable on her head, but rather fit so well she knew it wouldn’t take long for her to get used to wearing it.

  With a disappointed sigh, she tucked the magical circlet back inside Gravlox’s pack and slid down the side of the rock to be with the others.

  “Are you sure you can keep the watch again tonight?” Asterion asked inquisitively. “We can assign shifts.” The old priest spread his bedroll out close to one of the boulders.

  “We get tired,” Vorst explained, “but we don’t sleep. Gravlox and I will take the watch. He needs time to practice with his circlet.”

  When the moon was high above them, Vorst led Gravlox a few hundred feet away from their camp and handed the enchanted metal band to him with a touch of reverence. “Try it on again,” she bade him.

  Gravlox ran his fingers along the smooth steel and tested the integrity of the metal. To his touch, it felt like a simple band, entirely mundane, but once he let it fall down around his ears, Gravlox could feel the power it contained. His magical consciousness dove deep within his mind and found the wellspring of energy.

  Latching firmly onto the source of magic, Gravlox asked, “What should I do?” Being able to freely speak his native tongue brought a smile to the shaman’s face. The human language was confusing and Gravlox still didn’t understand how Vorst spoke it with such ease.

  “Remember when we stumbled into that clearing...” Vorst saw that he remembered and backed away as he began focusing.

  Gravlox closed his eyes and brought forth an image of soldiers aiming their crossbows. He remembered the sounds the crossbows had made as their bolts fired. Gravlox’s hands dug into the dirt and he felt a surge of power rising up as if the land itself offered him its spirit.

  A great spike of viscous rock rose up under his palms and balled around his fists, ever-shifting gauntlets of sizzling magma. Gravlox spun to his right and slammed into tree trunk. Bark flew and bits of smoking wood exploded as his fists hammered away.

  Vorst grabbed a fallen tree branch as long as she was tall and charged, using it as a spear. Gravlox saw h
er from the corner of his eye and rolled to his left, bringing up his hands in front of his face to block.

  Vorst pivoted and planted the stick behind Gravlox as he came out of his roll. Using her momentum, the small goblin swung around the stick and landed both of her feet solidly on the side of Gravlox’s face. The shaman grunted and planted a fiery hand on the ground to keep from falling.

  Dried leaves and twigs caught ablaze immediately and started to fill the small area with thin wisps of smoke.

  Somewhere nearby, Vorst heard a crash as a flying boulder smashed down through the tops of a dozen or more pine trees. “Gravlox!” Vorst screamed, thinking that the shaman had somehow started using his magic to hurl boulders.

  Gravlox, fully immersed in the magical realm, couldn’t hear her shout over the sizzle of the growing fire. The thunder of hooves finally brought Gravlox from his reverie. Three minotaurs, each more than triple the height of a goblin, bellowed their way into the clearing.

  The minotaurs were clad in full battle gear with heavy sheets of plate mail that glimmered in the light of the fire. Their horns were sharpened and banded with steel and their heavy metal greaves adorned their legs and feet. Each minotaur held a single-bladed axe so large that they would have made Nevidal look like a child’s toy.

  Vorst shrieked and scrambled out of the way, narrowly dodging the thunderous hooves. Instinctively, she reached for the hilt of her short sword, but she realized she was unarmed. The three minotaurs focused their rage on Gravlox and bore down on him through the fledgling flames.

  One of the minotaurs shouldered into a burning pine tree and barely seemed to notice. The tree groaned and splintered, scratching the minotaur’s armor. It did nothing to stop the beast as it was ripped free from the ground and tossed aside. Gravlox saw them coming and knew he had nowhere to run. He slammed his fists together in front of him and loosed a high-pitched war cry, sending forth a volatile gout of flame.