by S. G. Night
Here in Vale, he had no need to conceal himself beneath the hood. Positioned as it was, deep in the belly of the Spikes, the town made for a convenient and welcoming spot to rest his head as he travelled between the east and west. Isolated by the mountains, the Dominion’s influence remained blessedly minimal, and the Humans here were more than hospitable to travelers.
Many of the townsfolk nodded or waved to him as he walked. They didn’t know his name, but they remembered him by his face. The dirt-streaked miners hefting their pickaxes and sledgehammers, the hurried housewives darting from errand to errand, the children playing games of hider-finder between the houses, the baker and the blacksmith wiping the honest sweat from their brows — they all remembered him from his numerous visits over the years.
Racath doubted that any of them knew that he wasn’t one of them. Not Human, I mean. Racath always kept his leather gauntlets over his forearms, hiding the black shape of the markara on his skin. He never let any of the Humans look into his eyes for too long either, lest they notice the way his pupils tapered at their tops and bottoms.
His Stingers would have to remain concealed inside his gauntlets, but he could finally return his long knife, throwing knives, and folding four-bladed vindur’scain to their respective places on his Shadow. He didn’t bother to hide his weapons here. Vale saw plenty of mercenaries — licensed or not — traveling through every few days.
To the people of this town, Racath was just another sell-sword passing through. Another ranger or renegade, benign enough to earn friendly smiles in the streets, yet mysterious enough to spice up the day with a little intrigue. He looked old enough to appear experienced, yet young enough to seem approachable. Intimidating enough to dissuade curious questions, yet strapping enough to ignite shy flushes in the young women in town with just a brief glance.
They didn’t know his name, no. But as he passed, he could sometimes hear them whispering to each other about “that shadowy fella.” Racath liked it.
He was happy to spend a few days in Vale on his way to Oblakgrad, but it was better for them that they not realize exactly who he really was. Or rather, what he really was.
——
The atmosphere in the Broken Hammer was just like that of any small town inn: dim, loud, and reeking. It was only Daratag evening, but the place was packed with men enjoying drink and company. The bar was full, as were most of the tables, and the three serving girls were red in the face as they tried to keep up with the evening rush.
As Racath shut the door behind him, a few of the off-duty miners welcomed him with wordless hails and raised tankards. He waved in acknowledgement and made his way to the bar.
A portly man behind the mahogany pulled himself away from the taps as Racath squeezed through the crowd. Trundling over to him, the man greeted him with a friendly innkeeper’s grin.
“Hullo again, young master,” he said with the low burr of mountain accent. “Ain’t seen you ‘round here for a good long while, have we? How long’s it been, now?”
Racath returned the man’s smile. “About three months, I think.”
“Well, welcome back, then!” the innkeeper boomed enthusiastically. “And you’ll be havin’ the usual, eh?”
“The usual drink and the usual room,” Racath nodded, reaching into the purse on his belt. “One and seven, right?”
The innkeeper’s cheery expression gave way to an apologetic grimace. “Price’s gone up since you been gone. The town’s been having some trouble from them Dominion collectors.” The man practically spat the last two words.
Racath frowned. “So what do I owe you?”
“For the drink and the room….” The innkeeper mulled it over for a moment. “I reckon two and four will ‘bout do it.”
Shrugging, Racath extracted a pair of silvery dyre and four copper pennies from his purse. In turn, the innkeeper gave him the usual tankard of his usual dark drink, and a key to his usual room upstairs. After accepting them, Racath left the bar to find his usual seat.
His spot was a shadowy booth in the back corner of the room. The booth was sequestered in an alcove of sorts, separating it from the rest of the tables and providing plenty of privacy. Once he’d nestled himself into the familiar seat, he relaxed, leaning heavily against the wall, glad to finally be off his feet.
But even while idle, his keen assassin’s-senses remained vigilant. His eyes, ears, nose and even skin monitored every part of the large barroom, like guards on patrol.
He could feel the passage of the plump mouse that darted around on the floor, amidst a forest of feet and table legs. He could taste the ephemeral whispers of a young, quiet couple that held each other at a table on the opposite side of the room. He could hear the lonely, silent tears that streaked a nearby drinker’s solemn face. He could see the bellow of guffawing laughter from a band of rowdy miners at the bar.
And, through all the noise, he noticed a man at the bar. Racath vaguely recognized him as the mayor of the town. The man appeared to be engaged in serious, whispered conversation with the innkeeper. The interchange snagged Racath’s attention, and he bore his senses down on the men.
“…bad for business!” Racath heard the innkeeper argue in a harsh whisper, his face indignant. “Last time they came ‘round, I lost a whole crowd for the night! Had to close up early!”
“I know, Gammel,” the mayor implored. “But they’re insisting on room and board for the night. You know how they can be.”
“Oh, course,” the innkeeper scowled. “Always insisting, that lot. We all know what that means. And I’d wager they’ll be wantin’ it for free, too? Gods, Simon, I ain’t made of money. I ain’t made of rooms, neither! I’m already gonna have to chuck some payin’ customers out to make space for ‘em, but I only got fifteen beds! How many of them are there, anyway?”
The mayor dropped his eyes. “Twenty-ish…plus the one in charge.”
“Faul it, man!” the innkeeper swore, throwing up his arms. “And, what, he’ll be wantin’ my bed?! What’re they even doin’ here again, anyway? Haven’t they already had their fun bleedin’ us dry?”
“They’re just passing through on their way to the next town,” the mayor placated, holding up his hands.
“Passin’ through…” the innkeeper spat. “Passin’ through and takin’ half the valuables in town with ‘em is more like it.”
“What do you want me to do, Gammel?” the mayor demanded, struggling to maintain a whisper. “I can’t do anything! Do you want to try talking to them? Fine, go ahead, go gripe to the one in charge. Have fun with that — that thing has got to be at least ten feet tall.”
Before the innkeeper could snap back, the front door banged open, and a rush of mountain wind drafted into the taproom. The door snapped shut with a swift slam, stifling the breeze from the outside and silencing the entire room as everyone turned to stare at the newcomers.
Racath could smell them before he could see them; they carried the reek of sour saliva and carrion rot. There were two of them, a pair of creatures of moderate height. Their eyes were narrow, predatory and yellow. They were sickeningly lupine, like the offspring of a wolf and the most wretched witch that had ever walked the earth. Only, they were far too inelegant to be compared to a wolf. No…they were closer to wild dogs, I would say.
They wore rusted iron plating for armor — hodge-podge assortments of mismatched and scavenged pieces, mostly ill-suited for their hunched backs and peculiar limbs. The flesh that the armor did not cover bristled with matted tufts of stiff, umber fur. Jagged, corroded swords hung from their belts, and painted on their pauldrons was a monogram of a single crimson teardrop encasing a moon and sun: the Celestial Droplet. The emblem of the Demonic Dominion.
A flicker of memory flashed before Racath eyes, like a scalding lash across his mind. A memory of a burning house and a shrieking woman in the night…and creatures just like these ones, burning and hurting. His teeth ground against each other and his hands balled into shaking fists. An ungodly ha
tred boiled in Racath’s throat and it took all his willpower to remain hidden in his dark corner.
Goblins.
They were monsters, little more than animals. They walked like men. They talked like men. They could swing swords like men. But they were certainly not men. Men did not pillage towns or ravage innocent lives the way Goblins did; the only thing that kept a Goblin pack in line was the presence of a Dominion overseer who kept them on a leash. Albeit a very loose leash.
Their lives had no value; killing a Goblin was like killing a rabid dog — everyone was better off for it.
The Goblins skulked over to the bar. Their double-jointed legs made their movements jerky and unnatural. They spoke to each other in their hoarse, guttural language — the only sound in the otherwise silent taproom. The crowd parted to let them pass, as if repelled by a lodestone.
One snarled at the mayor, who cowed and scurried out the door. The other Goblin slapped a hirsute hand down on the bar, its pointed nails clacking on the mahogany.
“We comes on behalf of our kin, the Halastamatu pack of House Alabak, sworn under Vrag the Red, Grand Knight of the 23rd Horde of the Ministry of Enforcement of Compulsory Law,” the Goblin warbled at the innkeeper, the Skuran words dropping clumsily from its muzzle.
God, what an awful mouthful — the Dominion loved their titles.
“We requires lodgings for the night, beds for one-score and three,” the creature continued. “You shall provides.”
The anger that had previously occupied the innkeeper’s face vanished beneath a blanch of white-knuckled fear. “Uhm…err…yes, milord. I’ll see to it right away.”
The innkeeper darted to his work and the crowd of patrons started to murmur quietly. Before long, people began to trickle out of the inn, leaving before anything could turn nasty. As they departed, more Goblins entered the inn, filling the taproom with their stench and barking speech.
By the time a good fifteen of them had settled in with drinks, most of the original patrons had left the bar, with the exception of Racath…and one other person who sat in the opposite corner of the taproom. Racath only noticed him now that all the others had gone, but he didn’t recognize him. He was a stranger like Racath, sitting alone, his face hidden beneath the hood of a dark traveling cloak. He did not seem perturbed by the gathering horde of Goblins.
Racath’s limbs remained tense, muscles flexed and ready for trouble. Unsure if he should stay or go, he watched the horde of Goblins bark and snarl and snap and spit at each other, like a roomful of animals. Like rabid dogs.
“Hey, you!” one of the Goblin’s yapped at the stranger in the cloak. “Why dontcha clears outta here, before you gets hurt?”
The stranger did not move, did not react. Did not acknowledge the Goblin at all.
“You deaf, whelp?” another Goblin growled. “He’s talkin’s to you!”
Again, the stranger did not move.
Snarling, one of the Goblins yanked the stranger’s hood down. A cascade of golden hair flowed out from beneath, curtains around a graceful face of fair-white skin and sparkling azure eyes. Racath blinked in surprise — a woman? Oh…faul.
The woman’s face remained impassive, her gaze locked blankly on the table in front of her. Around her, the Goblins spouted a cacophony of clucking yuh yuh yuh sounds that Racath guessed must’ve been laughter. Their mirth drew the attention of a few other Goblins nearby.
“What’s this?!” the Goblin barked excitedly, a wicked gleam in its eyes as it stepped over to the table.
“There’s a fine nag, you founds there, Nald!” the other one leered. It tried to touch the woman’s cheek with a ragged nail, but she flinched away. But otherwise, she did not move.
“Well, then!” the first one shouted to the rest. “I’s is takin’s this one upstairs with me!”
“Be sure’n leave some fer the rest of us!” Goblin warbled with another yuh yuh yuh.
The Goblin clamped a lecherous hand down on the woman’s sleeve. “C’mons, lass,” it seethed in her ear. “We gots some business, me and you.”
The Goblin tried to pull her toward the stairs. The woman did not move.
Racath was already out of his seat, crossing the chaos of the barroom in five long strides. He knew what Goblins did to women. He’d seen it happen before. And he would not abide such brutality. Not again. Not here.
His hood over his face once more, Racath walked right up to the Goblin that held the woman’s arm. His fists were shaking with rage. The crowd of creatures seemed startled by his sudden appearance — clearly, they hadn’t noticed him sitting in his corner.
As he moved, the woman at the table looked at him. There was something strange about her eyes…but Racath couldn’t place it. But there was no fear in her eyes when she looked at him. She didn’t have the look of a cornered girl facing savagery. She did not look at him with terror in her face. No, she looked at him…and smiled. She smiled a smile that belonged on a new bride, not a victim.
Racath tapped the offending Goblin’s shoulder. Growling, the creature reluctantly turned away from the woman to face him. It did not release her arm.
“What?” it growled, baring its teeth threateningly.
The Genshwin said nothing in reply. He just stood there, towering over the mongrel, a pillar of black shadow and burning eyes. He had more than a full head of height in his favor.
The Goblin snarled impatiently. “You gots sumthin’ you wants to say, whelp?”
“No.” Racath’s voice was lethal-flat. “I just wanted you to see this coming.”
He straight-punched the Goblin in the snout.
The creature’s face caved in, its head whiplashing backward from the massive force of the Majiski’s blow. There was an audible snap as the connection between the Goblin’s skull and spine severed. Its head flopped around at an unnatural angle, dangling like a dead fish. The corpse flailed on its feet for a moment, then crumbled to the floor.
The shock was instantaneous. The other Goblins gawked, looking from Racath, to their pulverized comrade, to the woman, to Racath again. No one moved. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe….Except for the woman at the table — her lips had curled in a smug grin.
And before anything else could happen, the door thudded open and shut one final time. The sound was authoritative, powerful, like the entrance of a god. Racath, the woman, and the Goblins all turned toward the newcomer. Ice filled Racath’s veins and his throat clenched so tight he could scarcely breathe.
A monster stood in the doorway. A great behemoth, fresh from hell. It wore nothing, no clothes or armor. It didn’t need to: most of its body was covered by a scarlet crab-like shell, bristling with bony spines. It had no face. At least no visible face, since its entire head was encased in a featureless mask of red chitin. The natural helmet tapered smoothly upward to a point, nearly brushed the ceiling.
Two egg-white eyes glinted beneath holes in that red helmet, flickering with malevolent intelligence. The left arm was thick as a tree branch, hooked claws arching out of the end of its fingers. The right arm…well, it didn’t have a right arm. Just a rippling bicep with a gargantuan wedge of scalpel-sharp ivory protruding from the elbow.
And around it was a strange silence. A deep, oppressive, silence like ice in your blood. A silence that would have forced you to hold your breath for fear of breaking it. Silence, born from dread.
In unison, every Goblin in the room dropped to their knees, groveling before the new monstrosity. The woman stood up from her chair, stepping to Racath’s side, glacial caution in her movement.
The Demon stepped forward. Its heavy, segmented foot produced a resonant thud against the slatted floor, like the boom of a gavel passing judgment. It surveyed the room slowly, methodically, examining the nearly-decapitated corpse, the Goblins, Racath, and the woman each in turn. Finally, in a chorused voice, like twin peels of low thunder, it broke the silence in half.
“Rabble,” it rumbled at the Goblins. “What has happened here?”
One Goblin, the friend of the one Racath had punched, rose hesitantly from its knees. It kept its eyes downcast.
“G-Grand Knight Vrag,” it stuttered. It pointed a shaking finger at Racath and the woman. “Nald tried’s to claim the wench. And this…manling…kills him.”
The Demon, Vrag, tilted its head. “And yet he remains alive. Why.”
“Ehh…” the Goblin stalled. “Sire…I dun’ thinks—”
“Thinking,” Vrag interrupted. “Is not your prerogative, dog. That is my calling. You go where I tell you to go, you take what I tell you to take, and you kill what I tell you to kill — do I make myself plain?”
The Goblin cowered, blubbering. “Y-yes, Sire.”
“Now, dog,” Vrag said. “Tell me. What is he?”
Racath’s eyes narrowed, his posture bristling. What was he? Vrag spoke as if he were some peculiar insect on the wall, hardly warranting his attention. He noticed that the Demon would not look him in the eye. In fact, it seemed like it was deliberately ignoring him, like it was refusing to legitimize his existence with its gaze. Angry words boiled on the end of Racath’s tongue, dying to burst from his mouth. But he held them back.
“S-Sire, I…” the Goblin sputtered. “I dun’ thinks he’s—”
“Silence,” Vrag thundered, lifting up his clawed hand.
The Goblin dropped to its knees again.
The Demon cocked its head again, as if sniffing the air with an unseen nose. The tension in room rose to a noticeable degree. “That stench he carries…it is familiar….”
The Goblins looked at each other, sniffing the air, perplexed. At Racath’s side, the woman tugged surreptitiously at his sleeve. He looked at her, and she mouthed to him soundlessly: Get ready to move.
Racath furrowed his brow, confused. Who was this girl?
He was about to whisper a reply when the woman’s eyes twinkled brightly…and he realized why they had stood out to him before: the top and bottom of her pupils tapered off into gentle points, like two-sided teardrops. Exactly the way his eyes did. This woman, whoever she was, wasn’t Human.
