Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  ‘Say something,’ Piggett said, softly, tentatively; completely at odds with the belligerent soul he was said to be.

  What has he to be afraid of? What threat am I? Why would he even care, for ’morl’s sake?

  ‘Say what?’ The words left Tips’ cold lips like bolts from Brinner’s crossbows. She caught herself and tensed, awaiting a rebuke or worse.

  A sad smile was all she received, from beneath grey bristles. It surprised her all the more when the Earl played with his beard, fussed over its length and tangle. He looked… dishevelled. He appeared worn and weary, his jupon and hose rich and colourful, but in a poor state, now she came to look at them.

  ‘I can understand your confusion,’ Lord Piggett said finally. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to his sides. He stood, straight and tall, for one of their kind, and took a step forward.

  Tips took a step back, connecting with the bottom step and near on falling. He rushed forward at that, as if to help her. She steadied herself and motioned for him to stop.

  ‘Was I…’ she started, voice dry all of a sudden. Clearing her throat, Tips continued. ‘Was I such an embarrassment to the family? Is that what-‘

  ‘No!’ Piggett protested. ‘No, my dear. There’s so much more to it than that. Now come, sit, I insist.’

  ‘And so I must obey.’ Her words were venom once more, the sneer on her face reinforcing it despite the dim light.

  Piggett took it like one of his standing would. Stoic, strong. He nodded to accept the barbs of her words before motioning to a chair opposite his own. There was no refusing him, no matter the revealed family connection.

  Tips licked her dry teeth, clenched them and did as she was bade. The seat was soft, comfortable, a luxury she’d never experienced. It blew armchairs of gnomish taverns out of the water, that was for sure. But it meant little to her right now. Comfort and luxury and the warmth of the flickering hearth meant nought compared to the new truth of her life. The lie she’d been living.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she said, demanded of an Earl.

  Piggett frowned, hands back to his long beard. He sat. ‘Has Stalwart not told you?’

  ‘My known uncle? I want to hear your side of it, so I can glean from a second telling the real truths. So I know which parts of the outlandish story marry up.’

  Rolling his bottom lip, bristles on bristles, Piggett nodded his agreement and understanding. He nodded and he told. He told and he painted a picture beginning with the truth of the family above them, on the barge. They were indeed family. Stalwart was Piggett’s youngest brother, despite the skipper looking older than the Earl, as rough as he was. Piggett was first born and so Earl of Chapparro Minor. Stalwart was youngest and so had the luxury of choice. Priest, knight or hobelar captain was the norm, for younger brothers of a noble gnomish household, but Stalwart had chosen to be a skipper of a barrage barge. Watcher of the Waterways was his official title, albeit kept secret by tradition. Tips had never even heard of such a title, such a position; the secret worked, it seemed.

  Her thoughts moved quickly to the lifelong lie of her father; he died in a mining accident, months before her mother died in childbirth, gnomish pregnancies taking a little over a year as they did. It all made sense to her. Always had. It wasn’t uncommon for mothers to die bringing a new life into the world and it wasn’t uncommon for miners to die in the mines, young or old, male or female. But this?

  Piggett picked up a pot of wine Tips had missed and poured himself a cup, the silence it allowed as thick as the air in the somehow-sub-barge hall. He offered Tips a cup and she took it, draining it in one and holding it out for more. Piggett obliged.

  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’ she asked, before Piggett could say any more. The spice of the wine lingered. ‘And why are you here, on this barge?’

  He took a breath before answering. ‘Because it’s all coming down around us, Tips. My Earldom is in turmoil and I needed you to know the truth. I’m no human lord wanting to hide away family secrets at any cost. Despite all that has happened to you, gnomish family comes first and you know it; I needed the family together, and strong. We’re fleeing, Tips. My castle is breached, my keep – my home – included. Loyal gnomes turned on me hours before we left. My gates were thrown open and the castle stormed by the horde that now pursues us.’ He stood and ran hands through his grey hair, cup down and wine forgotten. ‘We are betrayed and we are defeated. Our only chance is to make it out of Chapparro Minor and into Altoln proper. I need to warn King Barrison of this threat to the kingdom. And I wasn’t about to leave you in the mines. Mines that will have, by now, fallen…’ He let that sink in as Stalwart called down to them, urgency in his tone.

  Tips hadn’t thought there could be any more to assault her mind. She hadn’t thought there could ever be anything more frightening than all she had just learnt. But this…

  ‘How?’ It was all she could manage, and it was more a breath than a word. It was all she needed to know at that moment.

  ‘An emissary called Dignaaln.’ Piggett chewed at the word, like he’d tasted the sourest fruit. ‘I allowed him into my court and he tried to turn me against our King. I attempted to throw him from my home and he turned on those closest to me. He turned on them and so did others I thought loyal. Knights and guards and families close to ours for generations pulled blades and used them on their own. It wasn’t long until the gates were opened by those I trusted with their defence.’ His arms raised and slapped against his sides. ‘I fled through the mines. Through an old tunnel few knew. Those knights and guards who remained loyal and living followed me, fought our retreat. But none survived, Tips. None made it through but I. We’re all that’s left of our home. I didn’t even have time to send riders to the towns and villages. All we can do is warn the baron and his garrison at Strongholme. Warn them and order them to send word. Word to pull everyone back there and hold whilst King Barrison sends aid, from The Marches and beyond.’

  Blow after blow after blow.

  ‘Now!’ was all Stalwart shouted this time. And with all she had just learnt, the horror and confusion of it fresh and fearsome, Tips turned from the Earl, stood, walked and ascended the steps to the deck above, not a word given in response.

  Chugging through the dark was terrifying, despite the now armoured barge. The searing heat and orange glow of the furnace coupled with the whirring engine and pounding paddle forced thoughts of flanking raiders into Tips’ churning head. Surely such light – braziers and lamps included – and noise would brand them easy prey and she wished for a canal pony to pull them along in silence and darkness. The wind dropped and the clouds were patchy now, showing bright slithers of star-filled sky. The moon was a thin crescent, casting little light when it revealed itself. And so the blackness of the pine forest to starboard was an ever present reminder of the horrors that stalked them all.

  Tips refused eye contact with any of her family once on deck. She merely bent to her task and followed orders, ignoring anything but. It surprised her when Piggett revealed himself to the night sky. He worked as hard as any other, she noted, but it comforted her little.

  The castle is gone. The town is gone. The mines are gone! Her friends. Her many, many friends… Slaughtered? Enslaved? She could not know. She didn’t really want to know, truth be told – for a change. She grunted a laugh at that, to herself. Bitter, but honest with it.

  An owl screeched from the forest and Tips shivered despite the heat of her work. Brinner stood at the fore-end, wrapped in furs whilst he peered through the openings of his mounted crossbows’ pavise shielding. He couldn’t see anything, surely. Gnomes saw well in the dark, but there was no penetrating the forest at night.

  Loop huddled by her husband, who operated the tiller as usual, and Piggett worked a whetstone the length of his slim sword. He’d had Brinner help him into his padding, shimmering scale-maille and conical helm; the locks drew near.
All Tips could do was think about the weight on the noble gnome’s back. One wrong foot in the dark and he’d be no better than a lead fishing weight cast to the bottom of the canal, albeit scaled like the catfish that would feed on his corpse. Her mind wandered to the fish they’d consumed in haste. Cooked by Loop and supplemented with potatoes and root vegetables. It tasted shit. The aftertaste lingered in Tips’ mouth. Caution to the wind and the threat of Stalwart a thing of the past, as far as she was concerned at that moment, Tips spat into the furnace. She didn’t even hear the hiss, the fire was so hot. But she heard something else. They all did.

  A solitary, otherworldly horn, low-high and prolonged. Howls followed: goblins and hobyahs.

  Scree take us…

  The clunk of arrows and spears on armour and pavise shields was familiar now; Stalwart guided the barge through the night, bullseye lamps pointing the way, accompanied by the horrifying sounds. His skill and experience alone kept them close to the left bank without striking it. The maintenance of the canal by the gnomes that used it surely saved their life during the night, for if the barge struck one obstacle… Well, the thought was horror-filled to say the least.

  Tips huddled behind the protective barriers of the barge, which would be snug and homely under other circumstances, in a strange, castle-like way. A faint glow illuminated the inside wall of the port-side pavise shields.

  The sun is cresting the mountains, Tips thought, the golden vales below lit for some time.

  Clank. Another arrow.

  ‘Do they ever fucking tire?’ Tips’ complaint turned into a cough. The night proved cold after the storm of the previous day. Summer didn’t favour their altitude.

  ‘Not goblins and their kin, Tips,’ Stalwart answered, from his own huddled position on the tiller.

  ‘How far until the first lock?’ A shudder ran through Tips at the thought of the locks. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Let’s just huddle and chug and hide behind our protective walls.

  Another two bangs of missiles on wood before Stalwart gave his sickening answer.

  ‘Soon, lass. Very soon,’ he said, voice rougher than ever. ‘Make ready! Everybody up!’ A clear shout. A rousing shout.

  Talk about an underestimation, Stalwart. Tips’ heart thudded at her uncle’s shouts.

  Everyone was on deck. No one dared go below for fear of not being able to assist should something go wrong. Should something board.

  Tips rubbed life into her hands and arms and watched her family make ready; watched Piggett make ready. His two-handed sword was long and thin, with little weight to it, but she’d heard he was wicked with his lunges. A human knight in full Sirretan plate would ware those thrusts, so she’d heard older miners say, the needle-point more than able to pass though chinks and gaps to end the life within. Tips felt a tiny bit more comfortable knowing that. A tiny bit.

  ‘We got time to eat, dad?’ Brinner said, from the fore-end.

  How can he think of food? Tips thought, incredulous.

  ‘Nope.’ Stalwart pointed. Tips looked to his frown before following his black fingers.

  ‘Scree take me,’ Tips said for the umpteenth time.

  The lock, its gates and its surrounds, swarmed with their foe. As did the bank to their right. The rising sun revealed dozens of goblins keeping pace with the now slowing barge. Several hobyahs amongst them. As Tips looked from lock to flanking raiders and back, again and again, more arrows came in. She called a warning and everyone hunkered down.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Brinner asked.

  Tips saw Stalwart’s eyes meet Piggett’s. The two glanced to Loop then. Did they nod, the three of them? Was it some unspoken agreement that passed between them?

  ‘What will we do?’ Tips demanded, lost for what they could do against so many. There was no operating the lock and so there was no continuing along the canal. Would they disembark? Risk the scree and slide down the mountain, with goblins following them on foot? Hobyahs too; both faster than gnomes.

  ‘We fight,’ Piggett said.

  ‘We fight,’ Loop agreed.

  All eyes moved to Stalwart. A single nod and a barked order at Tips to assist in a rare manoeuvre.

  ‘We’re to barrage?’ Brinner asked, clearly impressed but shocked at the thought of bridging the canal before the lock.

  No one answered, bar the drifting of the barge.

  Fore-end shifted to starboard as tiller wrenched to port. The barrage barge turned side-on, pointing itself at a swift gathering of howling and gesticulating raiders.

  ‘Loose!’ Piggett shouted. Brinner did just that. He sent bolts into the gathering and he cranked to re-span the bows. He managed four incredible shots before he was dragged back by Piggett, who took his place, sword at the ready.

  ‘We can’t do-‘

  ‘Not now, Tips,’ Loop berated. ‘Not now, lass.’

  That last word struck Tips. She swallowed and nodded to her aunt. But what are we to do? Tips despaired, completing her role in securing the barge’s barrage action.

  The bridging of the canal was complete. Fore and aft bumped canal sides. Goblins and hobyahs screamed and cursed and pushed for the narrow, armoured fore-end.

  Piggett thrust and jabbed with his sword, one hand on the hilt, the other on the blade itself.

  Goblins died.

  Brinner was already on the side-mounted crossbows, loosing deadly bolts into the crowd, his mother doing the same on the opposite side. Stalwart was up, bladed bargepole in hand, rushing to assist Piggett. Tips felt lost. Utterly and completely. And scared shitless.

  Grabbing one of the remaining bargepoles, Tips moved to help her family fight the raiders. She’d only recently come close to such creatures and now she considered – had no choice in – skewering them at the end of a pole. But for how long? There were dozens of them. Scores of them! She saw those by the lock running down the bank to join the frenzy.

  Reaching the cursing, grunting and thrusting duo in the melee, crossbow bolts knocking goblins back and down to the sides, Tips screamed with determination. An attempt to rouse anger and stab and stab and… she faltered. She couldn’t. How could she cut… stab… rend… kill? She was a miner. A stoker. A…

  ‘Tips!’ Stalwart roared, at the same time as pushing his bargepole’s blade through a hobyah’s gaping mouth. The beast convulsed and slumped, dragging Stalwart’s pole with it, and out of his hands.

  A goblin leapt at the gap in the barge’s armoured prow. At the gap Stalwart stood in.

  Tips screamed, stepped and lunged. Bladed pole jolted in her hands as it snagged ribs and caught in innards. The anger and fear and confusion breached her emotional dam. Tips thrashed and threshed, stabbed and thrust and jabbed at chests and faces. A jumble of limbs and weapons married with a cacophony of screams; anger and bloodlust and fear and pain.

  Stalwart shoved Tips back and took over, a new pole in hand. Tips staggered back and back, hating it all, fearing it all, and stumbled, dropping her pole to land on hessian rolls. She watched Stalwart and Piggett, one scaled in steel and slick with gore, his sword lancing his enemies in a way that looked to Tips like the old gnome was playing war games rather than maiming and killing creatures. And the other, her known uncle, poling the bastards in the faces and keeping them at bay.

  The press at the bottle-neck stole the goblins advantage of numbers, that was clear, but how long could her family fight?

  A shriek came from somewhere close. Louder and closer than anything their enemy issued.

  Tips looked up, and practically shat.

  The winged beast in Tips’ mind’s eye was silhouetted against the rising sun. A mountaintop fell beneath it like a pyramid of pine. Whatever it was, it descended quickly.

  ‘Look up!’ Tips cried. ‘We’re doomed!’ Tears flooder her face. No warning… well, the fear of sudden death for two days was a fair wa
rning, she mused ridiculously despite all that was going on. ‘Look up!’

  ‘Help us!’ Loop shouted. Seemingly ignorant of death from above, Loop released another twin shot of crossbow bolts into the throng on the bank. As Tips looked to her aunt, incredulous, she saw the woman rummaging in her multi-pocketed tunic; Tips saw the empty paniers besides the mounted crossbows. Loop was out of bolts.

  ‘Samorl save us,’ Tips managed, glancing up to the ever-growing, ever-nearing beast above. One final – she assumed it final, with thoughts of throwing herself into the canal at the forefront of her mind – look to Loop, who was wincing, her hands dangerously close to the open furnace. What’s she…?

  Tips’ eyes widened.

  Loop looked at her, grinned and ran for the fore-end of the barge. She lobbed the clay mining grenados over the melee and into the crowd beyond. She dropped and hugged her head. Brinner did the same, having seen the move. Tips was too slow to cotton on.

  Twin concussive retorts followed a dual flash and the flinging of goblin corpses, some aflame, others in bits.

  Surely deafened, if only temporarily, Stalwart roared his approval and stabbed some more.

  The loudest, closes shriek yet wracked through Tips’ head. Their time was up. More so when she caught movement in her periphery and witnessed two wet hobyahs climbing aboard, halfway down the barge. Closer to Brinner than anyone else.

  Despite that, Tips looked up. She looked up and saw the magnificent gryphon for what it was. She looked up and she rejoiced at the gnomish face staring down from its back; a familiar yet ghostly face, but gnomish all the same, grey beard trailing.

  The feline-raptor and its ethereal rider crashed, talons first, into the half-roasted gaggle of goblins on the bank. Tips’ ears rang from the grenados, but the shriek that followed still reached her. More bodies flicked into the air. More raiders were stabbed by sword and pole. The spectral gnome aback the rampaging gryphon lashed out with fire of his own, immolating hobyahs as well as goblins until there were none of the taller goblinkin left.