The goblin yelped as his chieftain pushed him forward. Two other warriors, equally slow and witless, lurched after, propelled by strong kicks to their posteriors.
“Attack!” cried Bonechisel, raising his club and advancing behind the screen of the three milling goblins.
The giant shook his head and blinked. His eyes went to something at the edge of the room-a bed for an infant, the hobgoblin perceived in a quick glance-and the giant’s muscles tensed as he was suddenly galvanized by fear. At the same time, the three goblins in front of Bonechisel hesitated.
Disgusted, the hobgoblin charged between his cohorts in a bull rush. His axe, already raised above his head, whistled downward in a wild swing just as the giant sprang to his feet. The jagged edge of granite struck the fellow right in the middle of his forehead, the blow knocking him back into his seat then sending the chair toppling over backward, spilling the giant onto the floor where he lay motionless.
With a wild whoop of triumph, Bonechisel brought the axe down again, and again. The three other goblins, inspired by their chieftain’s example, joined in the fun, rushing forward with their own stone clubs to batter and bash the helpless giant, until his body had been reduced to a shapeless pulp.
Bonechisel danced around the corpse of his slain foe in an ecstasy of triumph. “I am Giant-Slayer!” he crowed. He clubbed one of his lackeys. “Call me Giant-Slayer!” he ordered.
“Hail Bonechisel Giant-Slayer!” the goblin, no fool, shouted.
The hobgoblin danced to the back of the room then yelped when he realized that the great bed was occupied-by the mate of the giant. He bashed his club against the female and was startled by her utter lack of reaction. Leaning in, he sniffed. The scent of death filled his nostrils. Pulling back the quilt, he saw this was an ogress, not a giantess. A shrewder brain that Bonechisel’s might have deduced that this oddly matched couple were outcasts from both giant and ogre tribes.
The chieftain remembered the third denizen of this stone house. He looked toward the infant bed and saw that Laka was peering over the lip of the cradle. Caught up in the blood-frenzy, Bonechisel raised his club and howled aloud, starting toward the last of his enemies.
To his surprise, Laka reached into the cradle, snatched up the infant, then turned and snarled at the chieftain with a startling display of big teeth. Her eyes blazed, and the import of her actions was clear and defiant.
“Give me babe!” demanded the hobgoblin. “I kill! I am Bonechisel Giant-Slayer!”
“This babe mine!” she declared. “Go kill someplace else!”
The infant was squalling and fussing, and the hobgoblin would have liked nothing better than to smash its little brains out on the floor, but he noted the glare of determination, of pure courage, in his mate’s eye. He decided that killing this baby was not worth subjecting himself to the female wrath and recrimination that would follow.
Even as he stared in disbelief, his pig-eyes squinting, Laka slumped down to the floor, opened her tunic, and gave the baby one of her breasts for suckling. The baby half-breed’s annoying wails faded to a surprised squawk, then a soft slurping as he fastened himself to the teat and began to nurse.
Laka called her babe Ankhar, and she cared for the half-giant infant with as much love and attention as if he had been born of her own flesh. From the first greedy suckle, Ankhar clung to his new mother with desperation, forming an inseparable bond.
Generally the adopted hobgoblin spent his time avoiding the mature males of the tribe, although he became the natural leader of the gobs of his own age. Not only did he outweigh all of his contemporaries by at least a factor of two, but he was quick to anger and ruthless in retaliation, inflicting countless broken bones during any outbreaks of rough play. Fear being a primary influence upon goblin relationships, Ankhar’s prowess made his fellows obsequious, and he was quick to take advantage of the worship he inspired. He would dispatch the young ogres to bring him food and drink, to perform his designated chores (he especially hated firewood hauling and stone breaking).
During these years the tribe moved around a lot, never settling in the same place for more than a season or two at a time. At first Bonechisel was one of many hobgoblin chiefs in the foothills around the Garnet Range, but he gradually made a name for himself as one of the most successful when it came to raiding the settlements of humans, leading his tribe in such a way that the gobs had plenty to eat-even during the waning months of winter when starvation made a rampant sweep through the bands and clans of leaders who showed less foresight.
In Ankhar’s sixteenth year the War of Souls ended unnoticed by the goblin population of the Garnet Range. However, the savage creatures did notice that once again two moons moved through the skies. Not long after, Laka came upon a shiny green rock in a mountain cavern. She listened to the rock and heard the words of the Prince of Lies, Hiddukel. Hiddukel was pleased with her, the rock said, and she began to tell the other hobs and gobs about his wickedly successful ways.
Drawn in part by the might of the brutal chieftain, in part by the compelling words of the primitive high priestess Laka, more and more of the small goblin clans were absorbed into the Bonechisel tribe. By the time of Ankhar’s eighteenth year Bonechisel’s followers numbered many hundreds-and in fact was the most formidable horde along the entire circumference of the mountain range. Burly hobgoblins, seasoned veterans with scars and trophies to prove their prowess, bowed down to Bonechisel these days, and brought him gifts of food and drink and treasure. Bounty hunters stayed well away from the brutish tribe.
In the late spring following Ankhar’s eighteenth winter, the gobs and hobgoblins of the Garnet Range held a great gathering during the week preceding the summer solstice. The site of the gathering was a town that had once been called Tin Cup, a formerly prosperous mining settlement of two score houses and a dozen larger buildings. Bonechisel’s warriors had attacked Tin Cup the year before, slaughtering all the miners who had dared to remain. Since then, no human had visited the place.
Bonechisel held court in the upper floor of a stone mill-house. His tribemates were scattered through the houses of the town, while the clans and tribes of all the other gobs and hobs for two hundred miles around made camps in the surrounding valley and the many deep, dry mine shafts. Every night a huge bonfire raged in the village square, and the field and the narrow streets thronged with festive warriors and wenches. Alcohol flowed freely, a mixture of captured spirits brewed by human and dwarf and many vats of the vile, flat coal-beer brewed by goblin alchemists over the previous winter.
This was the year when Ankhar began to feel the pulse of the council, the dancing and the drumming and the sweat and the smell. By this time, of course, he was a well-recognized member of the tribe. By virtue of his blood parentage, he stood ten feet tall when he raised his head, a height that lifted him two or more feet above the largest of the hobgoblins in all the Garnet tribes. He was not a greedy soul, for he had not yet developed a taste for females or strong drink, and in these days there was plenty of food to go around, and he was often courted and feted at the campfires of all the lesser lords.
He was counseled in private by his foster mother. Laka spoke to him of many truths, truths that had been revealed to her by the Prince of Lies. Hearing these words, Ankhar began to see his own destiny and to think in terms of his own choices… his power.
Through these nights, Bonechisel watched his tribe’s adopted son with increasingly narrowed eyes. A strapping hobgoblin, the aging chieftain was still no match for the young, lumbering Ankhar. The chieftain always wore a green medallion of stone formed from the first talisman of Hiddukel that his wife had discovered, and now he fondled that glowing disk, worrying. His simple mind perceived that the youth was a menace, and no doubt he regretted that he had not taken decisive action when his prospective rival had been but an infant. Now it was too late, at least for a direct confrontation.
Although he was not the most subtle of schemers, Bonechisel began to consider other ways t
o deal with the hulking hill giant whom most considered his adopted son. He whispered of his wishes to several lesser chieftain, suggesting that great rewards-money, liquor, gob-wenches-might come the way of one who removed the threat from his midst. The hob was not particular: poison, a knife in the back, assault by a bloodthirsty mob, all seemed workable solutions. Unfortunately, he found no takers for his schemes, not even among the most aggressive and ambitious of the sub-lords. Several even looked askance at Bonechisel when he ventured a few hints. More than one of these would-be schemers, it may be assumed, reported the chieftain’s wishes to Laka or to Ankhar himself.
For his part the half-giant foster child was a good-hearted fellow, and avoided politics and other entanglements. He stayed out of Bonechisel’s way out of long-established habit, remembering all too well many a bruising kick, slap, or bite that he had suffered during his younger years. Of late he noticed that the chieftain had ceased to harass him directly, though he saw the brooding glances and observed the surly attitude. Ankhar willingly accepted the hospitality of the other chieftains as he made the rounds of the vast encampment. So it was that he had become known to all of them by the the last night of the great council, when the solstice itself brightened the night. It happened to be a cloudless sky, and the silvery orb of Solinari commanded the heavens and the world.
The bonfire that night was the biggest in the memory of even the oldest gob granny. Trunks of whole pine trees were stacked into an enormous tepee, and when they were ignited the heat was such that the whole circle of watchers could not close to more than three dozen paces away from the base of the fire.
The throng of goblins, hobgoblins, and the odd ogre and draconian filled the valley, with many gathered on the hills that rose to either side of the former mining village. The moon bathed them all in pristine light, and the gobs were so thick on the ground that when they drummed and danced it seemed as though the whole landscape was thrumming with the power of the tribe.
Ankhar mingled with the throng, delighting in the drumming, raising his face and howling at the silver moon as loudly as any of the rest of them. He shook a spear over his head, a weapon he had carved himself from a straight sapling of elm. He had affixed a steel spearhead to the shaft, the hard metal treasure something that he had claimed from one of the villages overwhelmed by Bonechisel’s band. Now his long arm and the even longer staff of wood raised that spearhead high above the rest of the pulsing throng, and the deep bellow emanating from the adolescent hill giant’s chest roared as a steady, basso undertone to the shrill cries of several thousand drunken, frenzied warriors.
Bonechisel emerged from the front door of the large mill house. The hobgoblin was dressed in his ceremonial finest: a stiff shirt of dried bear-hide, with wide shoulder epaulets formed from the blades of captured short swords. His gleaming belt rattled with grisly trophies, a dozen human skulls that dangled from the golden links. His face was painted with white clay, except for circles of shining red around his eyes and his mouth-the crimson of fresh blood, stolen from a captive human child who had been sacrificed minutes before, simply to provide the bright facial paint. In each hand he carried a dagger with a curved blade, and he held these weapons over his head, edges crossed, and roared out a command:
“Hear me, my warriors!”
The chieftain scowled and clashed the blades of his two daggers together as the drumming continued, drowning out his words from all but the nearest of his listeners. These few ceased their dancing, facing Bonechisel in an expectant semicircle-though a few cast envious glances over their shoulders at their still reveling comrades. When the hobgoblin repeated his command, the crowd began to settle. Drums faltered, and more and more of the gobs turned their attention to their leader.
The firelight illuminated Bonechisel as he stood on a high stone porch, well above the crowd. A number of sub-chiefs crowded upon the steps leading up to the platform, jostling to be closest to the exalted one.
Finally the last of the drumming faded away, and the revelry settled to a few isolated whoops, cries, and howls. Ankhar was one of the last to settle down, so that the lofting of his spear and his deep, ululating cry stood out. Bonechisel scowled at his tribe’s adopted son until even Ankhar quieted resentfully.
“My hobs and gobs!” Bonechisel roared. “I have brought you here, a great horde of warriors, and now I will tell you my plans!”
It was at that moment that the impulse came to Ankhar, and he acted without further thought. Later he would wonder if the question he had dared to ask had been inspired by Hiddukel himself.
“Why do you stay in the big house-and we sleep out here, in the rain?” Ankhar roared in a deep bellow, more commanding than any hobgoblin voice.
Bonechisel blinked in surprise and groped for a train of thought. “It has not rained all week!” he protested lamely. The crowd of gobs began to mutter among themselves, some glowering at the young giant, others echoing the question indignantly.
“We should all share the big house,” retorted Ankhar, sensing the majority of the crowd was rumbling in agreement with him. Some instinct caused him to repeat the offending phrase. “The big house!”
“Big house! Big house!” The chant began as a wild whoop by some of the drunken young gobs near Ankhar, but in seconds it spread through the gathering, rising as a chorus, echoing from the surrounding hills.
“Stop!” cried Bonechisel, momentarily taken aback, holding up his hands. The crowd ignored him.
“You-Notch-you stop them!” barked the chieftain, whacking one of his under-chiefs on the side of the head-forgetting that he was still holding the curve-bladed knife.
The stricken Notch recoiled with a howl, clasping a hand to his bleeding ear. The next moment he snarled, lashing out at Bonechisel, who lifted his daggers and tried to step back. The group on the porch behind him, however, blocked his exit.
“Big house!” roared Ankhar again, relishing the squabble. The crowd surged forward, goblins on all sides pressing close, ignoring the hapless few who fell to be trampled underfoot.
The goblins behind Bonechisel were in no mood to expose themselves to Notch’s fury. They pushed back, and the chieftain wobbled precariously at the lip of the porch. The bleeding sub-captain grappled with him while other lieutenants hooted and howled in amusement.
The pair fell together, vanishing into the mass on the wide stone steps. Ankhar could see only a thrashing, chaotic melee, and he pressed forward for a better look. The crowd parted almost magically before him, and he reached the base of the steps. Notch lay dead, bleeding from several deep cuts, but Bonechisel had not escaped the tumble unscathed. To judge from the bloody punctures in his legs and sides, several of his trusted lieutenants must have taken stabs at him as he rolled past them. He gasped, spitting furiously, as he looked up to see the hill giant looming over him.
Ankhar, in later years, could never reconstruct what impulse caused him to act in this fashion-but undoubtedly it had to do with the years of abuse, the vicious cruelty and bullying of his hated master. The giant abruptly brought his spear down, the steel head punching through the stiff bearskin of the hobgoblin’s breastplate, through the body underneath, and into the hard ground. There it stuck, the elm shaft rising up like a flagpole, quivering from the force of the lethal blow.
For a long moment-two or three heartbeats, at least-Ankhar gaped at the dying chieftain. The crowed seemed to share his reaction, as many edged back and a murmured gasp ran through the mass, spreading outward like ripples through still water.
“Bonechisel is dead!” croaked one subchief, looking not at the slain hobgoblin but at the giant who stood like a statue over the bleeding corpse.
“Ankhar killed him!” cried another, in a tone of triumph. “Hail Ankhar!”
“Ankhar! Ankhar!” The chant started with those on the steps of the mill-house, but quickly spread through the square, down the narrow streets, through the throngs on the surrounding hillsides.
“Ankhar! Ankhar!”
&nbs
p; Time had stopped, and now it started to move again for the half-giant. He felt liberated and empowered-two sensations wonderful and unfamiliar. He looked through the crowd, trying to spot his mother, but Laka was invisible among the sea of faces.
Slowly, with a hesitation that might be mistaken for diginity and deliberation, Ankhar reached out to grasp the stout spear shaft. He flexed his powerful mucles and drew the shaft free, lifting Bonechisel’s body off the ground until he shook the weapon and the corpse dropped free.
The head of the spear was glowing, and the giant raised it curiously. He had inadvertently split the talisman of Hiddukel that the hobgoblin had worn over his heart. The vial had spilled forth its contents, an oily liquid that now slicked over the sharp, double-edged bit of his spearhead. The hard steel glowed with an emerald light that made it look as though the forged metal had just been pulled, cherry-hot, from the smith’s furnace.
Wonderingly, the half-giant raised the weapon to his face, touching the sharp edge with his fingers. It was cool to the touch.
“He is the favored one of the Prince of Lies!” cried Laka. The old shaman came beside him now, shaking a rattle made from the skull of a human. “See how the god favors him with the Emerald Fire! It is the Truth! Ankhar is the Truth!”
Ankhar raised the spear over his head and relished the cheer that erupted, spontaneously from ten thousand bloodthirsty throats. Holding the weapon by the base of the shaft, he extended the glowing head high into the air, where it seemed to spark and shine with light brighter even than the full, silver moon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
City Knights
You sure you want to do this?” Dram Feldspar asked. The dwarf was slouched in the saddle, his mare stolidly plodding along the road beside the warrior’s gelding. The Garnet Mountains and the city of the same name were by now several days behind them.
The two riders were sunburned and dusty after crossing the dry plain. The previous day, the road had spanned a wide river on a splendid bridge, and here Dram had suggested they stop for a leisurely soaking, maybe an early camp. The warrior had looked across at a gaunt, burned-out structure on a bluff, a former manor house now in utter ruins, and insisted they keep going.
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