“Unlimited access to the Green Forest for your college. And protection, as well as funding. Your students will never have to go hungry.”
“In other words,” Forojen tilted his head, “you want the teachings of the Crystal College, and the renown of my staff to both work in your favor, but you wish for Froj to complete its crumble into ruin. Is that about right?”
Mikja gave a shrug which somehow seemed anything if innocent. “Your decision. I am offering the Crystal College a chance to continue. That is all. If Froj should crumble, then maybe it was never worth saving to begin with?” She turned to Nandor, her eyes glowing, “Wouldn’t you say, darling?”
Any warmth he had felt for her faded as he met her gaze. He said nothing—nor would he. Some people were not worthy of words.
His hand slowly stretched to the longsword at his side. It was time to end her. It was time to end all of them. He almost laughed at the realization. Lord Grimbone, Lady Mikja, even Forojen Dorgenja himself if he should stand in his way. They were all corrupt, and beyond saving.
Let Forj fall to ruin says she…
No. I have a better plan.
Burn it all down.
Froj, Norda, Winfrost, and all the pompous lords and ladies who think themselves fit to rule. They will all fall. Let the clockwork cities be reborn in ash.
He envisioned his action plain as day. In two strides he could part Lady Mikja’s head from her shoulders. With another swipe he could cut down Galager, and then his father, Lord Grimbone. Then he would turn and face Forojen, and do whatever was necessary. He might even be able to take down a guard or two before he was brought low.
A smile crept up inside his mind as he imagined artfully flinging their corpses over their respective city walls, and shouting that they were all fools for betraying him.
Gripping his sword, he slowly stood to his feet, face grim, arms pulsing, blood pumping strong and true, his entire body ready to do what he knew he must do.
“N-Nandor…. what are you doing?” Lady Mikja shrunk back in her chair. The guards standing around the pavilion became tense—but they were too far away to stop him.
The fate of the clockwork cities was in his hands, and in that moment, he knew without a doubt the best course of action. It was so simple. It had always been simple—he’d just been too foolish to see it.
“Some people are beyond saving,” he muttered as he stood, a snarl at the edge of his throat. “Some people just really need to die.”
He took a swift stride forward as gasps erupted around him. Mikja was only one more stride away from intimately tasting the razor sharp steel of her own blade. But he paused. He did not take that last stride.
Instead, he sniffed the air, and listened. Years spent in the wild had taught him when to heed his gut, and he could not ignore such lessons, not even in such a crucial moment. Nothing was out of place to the wayward observer, but he sensed it.
Something was wrong.
Immediately, a horn sounded from the wooden gates surrounding the vast farmland. The guards moved quickly, scattering around. A voice in the distance shouted—more of a senseless shriek than anything intelligible. Another series of screams followed.
For an impossible second, Nandor forgot about his plan of slaughter. Instead, he glanced over at Nixie and Dorin. Their eyes were wide—they knew something was wrong too.
“Goblins!” a different voice yelled from the wooden walls. “Goblins surrounding us! We’re under attack!”
A glimmer of blue and gold erupted as Lady Mikja’s armor-clad men rushed to the gates. “Goblins?” someone demanded, “here?”
At the time, Nandor could not have explained why he did what he did—perhaps he had no thoughts. Perhaps something else deeper inside him was at work.
All he knew was he had to do what he did. If his life meant anything at all, it meant he had to act, and act swiftly.
He faced Lady Mikja, still cowering in her chair, and spun around in the opposite direction.
Feet thundering into the soft green valley, he jumped from the pavilion, and charged to the gates. Sword still raised, he ran to where the screams and cries for help were worst.
When the sheep scatter and scream, the wolf thrives.
He smiled, but only ever so slightly.
It was time to do what he was born to do.
Chapter 28: Goblin Rotisserie
I could have done anything in that moment. I could have killed them all, I could have agreed to the poor terms, sealing the fate of Froj, or I could have just walked away, and never returned.
Why did I charge to the gates instead? Why face the goblins, and fight side-by-side Lady Mikja’s men—those who were all but my enemies?
Was it always my plan? Did I hear the goblins coming before everyone else? Was that why I stood baring my teeth and clenching my blade?
I wish I could say so, but in the moment when I first stood and held my sword, my intentions were anything other than noble. Would I have actually followed through on my initial plans? I do not have the will to say. All I can say for certain is that when I felt the presence of danger, my thoughts turned from inwards, to outwards, if that makes any sense.
It might have been the screams that changed my mind, and set me on a different course. Although I am a believer no longer, for many years I was a man of Marr. Wherever there was pain, suffering, confusion, or peril was where I felt called to be.
And so I developed a taste for discord. I learned to run into the places where others fled.
Which ultimately leads me to believe that maybe I was just following my instincts…
—The Journal of Nandor, written the following day
It was chaotic near the gates of the Green Forest. The bars were shut tight over the main doors as the cries from outside the walls continued to creep into the green valley. Two dozen guards from Norda and Winfrost readied their swords and spears near the entrance, and up top the walls were crawling with men fumbling for their crossbows or twisting into motions weapon-grade shock generators.
Nandor headed up the ladder to overlook the situation. In the distance, there were echoes of terror and trees rattling as if several giants brushed between them.
“How many goblins were spotted?” Nandor demanded of the nearest guard.
“Dozens! At least a full scouting party, perhaps even an entire army!”
“And how many men are trapped outside of the gates?”
“A patrol squadron, and the commander—one of Lady Mikja’s generals.”
“Is that their screams coming down from the hills—where the trees are shifting?”
“It very well could be sir!”
“Then why are you staying put while they are stranded outside the walls?”
“Protecting the Green Forest and Lady Mikja is our first priority!” he barked. “The goblin numbers are unknown—until we have a certain advantage we must not allow any of the beasts inside the walls!”
He faced downwards—the wall was still under construction, and only about a dozen feet high. Not impressive, but higher than he wished to jump. It would be one thing if there was snow to soften the fall, but the land around the Green Forest was hard and barren. At his left, he spotted a thick rope. Grabbing it, he tossed one end to the guard. “I have no such obligation, nor fear. I’ll not stand and listen to my fellow man’s screams while I can do more. Here. Tie it to the post—and be quick about it! We’re running out of time!”
The screams in the distance were growing more desperate. Before the guard had finished securing his second knot around the post, Nandor sheathed his sword and climbed down.
Outside the walls, echoes of terror landed harsher in his ears. He pulled free Mikja’s blade and ran towards the noise. The forest around the valley turned to a rugged and dense woodland, with thick brush and thorns cutting through his coat. The tall trees and heavy thicket was ideal for goblin movements—plenty of camouflage, and more room for the smaller creatures to maneuver. For a large man, not so
much.
Even as he ran it felt like slow going. At last he pushed through a berry-bush, and brute his way into a small clearing.
He saw and heard everything in the blink of an eye. Clashes of swords against goblin spears. Cries of terror as men succumbed to their wounds. Shrieks of pleasure from the goblins as they surrounded the small squadron, pelting them with darts, crude arrows and javelins.
No one would call goblins smart creatures, nor strong—but when they gathered en masse, they became terrifying. A foulness stank from their unwashed, slimy green and grey bodies, and when they hooted and yelped long, yellow, dagger-like teeth protruded from their wide mouths. Their bodies were small, but their spears were long and jagged, and sharp enough to cut between metal plates on a good thrust.
The goblins had Lady Mikja’s patrol squadron surrounded in the forest clearing. Perhaps there was forty of them or more—it was hard to tell precisely. They outnumbered Mikja’s guards four to one, and the disparity grew greater with each thrust of their spears.
Any sane man that stumbled into the clearing would have turned wide-eyed and ran for all he was worth. But Nandor had fought goblins before—he knew both of their strengths and their weaknesses, and he had no choice. After heated negotiations, he needed a source to pound his rage into, and the goblins were as good a target as any.
He raised his arms like an angry bear—in one hand he held his stun-stick, in the other, a longsword. A roar barreled through his lungs and exploded loudly into the clearing, turning a hundred red eyes of deathly hate in his direction.
When swarming, goblins become nearly unstoppable. Like a plague of insects, or a pack of ravenous wolves.
But scattered, they became disorganized, chaotic, and utterly inane.
While he knew consciously that he was only one man, and one man could hardly turn the tide of a battle—he also knew that he had to try. If he could wedge just enough of an edge between the goblins and their prey, perhaps they would scatter and run.
For they were not prideful creatures.
All he had to do was make them fearful.
Running towards the hoard of goblins, he deflected a thrown spear with his sword, and then thrust his stun-stick into his own side, continuing to charge. As the stun-stick jolted through his body, he built up a channel of electrical energy. He felt his eyes grow cold, and his hands spat sparks as he conducted the charge, and propelled it outwards.
As he advanced, the goblins turned from the guards to face him with their spears.
He did not intend on fighting them blade to blade. A flash of lightning erupted from his left hand, thundering throughout the valley and striking the goblins through the middle, dividing them in half.
Perhaps one goblin fell from the bolt of thunder. Maybe two. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they jumped away from the loud noise, frightened and scared. There was now a division in their swarm, and he pressed the attack to his full extent.
Gripping Lady Mikja’s sword now in two hands, he swung left, and then right, swatting and slicing through the tiny slimy creatures as if they were no more than annoying gnats. A reign of spears poked and prodded towards his body in response, but he avoided the thrusts on his right, and swept aside the blows on his left, then continued his attack.
He couldn’t keep it up for long. He was playing the odds. It was only a matter of time before a goblin managed a good strike in his side, or a javelin was thrown at his back. But perhaps if he could keep continuing for just a few more seconds…
Yes! The divide between the goblins and the guards grew more cavernous. A few men cheered as they witnessed Nandor’s mad assault, parting the grey goblins—a defiant stone in the stormy sea.
“Attack! Press the advantage!” the captain of the guards roared, perhaps realizing for the first time that they actually stood a chance at surviving.
Less than a dozen men were left standing, but at their commander’s rally, they attacked for all they were worth, further dividing the goblins at all sides.
What had been a horde of grey flesh soon turned into a sporadic splash of green blood, followed by dismaying cries.
“Eek! Eeeek!” the goblins squealed as they found the tables abruptly turned against them.
Nandor continued his frenzied swings, losing count at how many had fallen before Mikja’s blade. The more scattered the goblins grew, the easier they were to crush.
In a matter of moments, the grey hoard realized they were outmatched if not outnumbered. They panicked, and leapt away, jumping and sprinting through the trees and brush, frantically yelping as they did.
Nandor pursued them all the way to the edge of the clearing, roaring back at them as they screamed.
The guard captain followed at his side with a roar of his own, “You tiny little bastards run back to the foul pisshole you drained from! And don’t you ever come back!”
Through the trees, Nandor was just barely able to make out the goblins shouting back. “We kill you all! You all die! We have more in the trees! Ha! You think you win? Best run while you can—leave the wounded! Or you no have time! Ha!”
“What the hell did you little bastards say?” the guard captain demanded.
Realizing that most people don’t speak goblin, Nandor conveyed their words, translating as best as he could. “They are scared, but not defeated. If I am interpreting them correctly, they are headed to get backup, and they will be swift. If we don’t leave now, we’ll die.”
“There’s more?” The captain furrowed his bloodied brows. “Damn. You think they have an entire army lying in wait?”
He shook his head, “These are merely scouting parties. Goblins are not known for their bravery—they travel in large numbers. If it were a real goblin swarm, there would not be hundreds—there would be thousands of thousands. A sea of grey and green, and so much stench and noise that it would be unmistakable for anything else.”
“So they have another scouting party?” The captain cursed, and then looked backwards to his men. Two thirds of the patrol squadron were either dead or wounded. Far too many to carry. “I can’t just leave them here. Who knows what the rotten creatures would do to our wounded?”
Nandor did—goblins did not take prisoners, nor care for those who were dying. They killed, and ate—even their own on occasion. If the wounded soldiers were left in the clearing, they would almost certainly be gobbled up by hungry goblin mouths before they fled back to their homeland to give a report.
A hoot and a rumble came from where the goblins had disappeared in the forest. Perhaps they had already regrouped, and were ready to deal another attack. Nandor glanced back at the dead and injured soldiers—he couldn’t leave them to die.
“Stay with your men,” Nandor instructed the captain. “I’m going to handle the second scouting party.”
“By yourself?” The captain clearly thought he was mad. Maybe he was.
“Yes. Stay down, but keep your guard up. I’ll be back soon.”
As he ran into the forest to face the second goblin unit head-on, he rehearsed his plan. He knew he stood no chance of fighting them all off with his sword, and his stun-stick was all out of charge, so he had no way to conduct electricity.
But he still had options. Setting aside Mikja’s sword, he pulled out his fire-starting-grinder and kneeled down on the ground. He could hear the goblin hoard in the distance, and they were growing closer by the second. At least three dozen creatures—maybe more.
The ground outside of the valley was dry, brambly, and thick with brush. It had come alive with the sprouting of the Green Forest, thawing the snow and milting the many decades of ice.
Now, it was perfect kindling. He quickly brushed together a small pile of pine needles, pinecones, and fallen branches and wayward vines. Then he held the fire-starting-grinder close, and clicked its two gears twice repeatedly, propelling a tiny spark into the pile of fresh tinder.
A flame lit-up instantly, and soon it grew into a small fire.
Pattering h
is hands about the forest undergrowth, he spread the flames further from bushes to trees, blowing on the flames to grow them into a blaze of fire.
His plan worked. Almost too well. The recently thawed forest had not known of fire in hundreds of years—but now that the eagerly licking flames kissed its long neglected undergrowth, it grew into a booming wave within seconds.
The goblin hoard paused just before the fire, and Nandor lay low, listening to their crude words.
“What that?” the chief goblin of the scouting party asked. “Fire?”
“Yes. It fire. Where are the fallen men to eat?”
“Further. Past the fire,” another from the first party recalled.
“I do not like fire.”
“No matter. Go anyway. Go around fire. Eat men. Tasty. Then we go home.”
“Yes,” the chief agreed. “Go around fire. Eat men. Hurry!”
Their words were all spoken in a series of quick barks and yelps as they moved—few could have understood them, but Nandor was well-practiced in their language from his years spent with the barbarian tribes.
The fire was spreading fast, but if the goblins curved around it then they would still have time to finish off the guards and gather their corpses for food.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. Nor could he allow the fire to spread so far that it consumed his own men. He was left with only one choice.
A wave of calmness dampened through his body, and he readied his mind and form. Briefly, he wondered how much fire he was capable of conducting.
Every man had his limits—knowing them was essential. Even among trained elementalists, most could barely project more than a small body of flame—and that was from a refined metal conductor to ease the burden of transfer.
But out in the wild? With no metal conductor?
Even a small fireplace contained a heavy amount of energy. Heat transfer, flames, burning coal and wood—it all adds up to a lot to conduct. He knew he could handle the flames of a fireplace—he had done it on more than one occasion.
The Crystal College Page 29
