Magic of Ruyn

by RG Long

  Tory sat to Ealrin's right. If Teresa were the one who felt the sting of the previous month's battles and defeats the worst, Tory was a close second.

  The night Tory had arrived to defend Ealrin and two others from Merc Raiders his best friend was killed by a man named Rayg, one of the generals of that terrible force from the south.

  The Mercs.

  Tory had so much stolen from him by these usurpers. All anyone knew a year ago, the force of thieves and mercenaries known as The Mercs, or sometimes called The Raiders, were wiped out by the combined forces of Thoran and the Southern Republic several years beforehand.

  What the continent was unprepared for was the swift reorganization of the army of thieves by a man named Androlion Fellgate. Androlion had rallied men to aid by spreading word of a prophetic vision he had seen that would spell the doom of all of Ruyn. A doom that could be forestalled if all races save for men were wiped from the land.

  A vision that he nearly accomplished.

  Reports have come from the south that Androlion had now taken complete control of the southern country of Ruyn and either killed most of the dwarves and elves there or caused them to flee to the north. The Southern Republic, once a testament to the great accomplishments of a unified country of diverse races, was now a place only for men.

  The man with the white griffin banner had poisoned the minds of many into believing that their country was now a better one, now that it was rid of any race other than man.

  And, when the demons rained down from a dark comet that had been in the sky for a year, it seemed that at least some of his predictions were true. More and more men rally to his banner to aid in “saving” the land by fighting against the real threat of these demons and the perceived threat of the other races.

  Tory’s brother, Cory, being one of them.

  Ealrin still had visions of Cory Greenwall single handedly slaying the dwarves who remained after a fierce battle with the Mercs. Dwarves who were from his own country. Dwarves with whom Tory had marched with and fought beside not a day before. Cory had joined the usurper, Androlion, and betrayed his own country. His brother being the first to feel the brunt of betrayal. Tory had managed to find his way back to castle Thoran on top of a stretcher, held up by four dwarves. One of those dwarves was Gorplin.

  The troop of survivors that numbered no more than fifty souls had hobbled back to the castle two weeks after the battle outside Loran, beside the ocean. How they had managed to keep Tory alive was beyond Ealrin's reasoning. Using more tunnels underneath the ancient mountains of Ruyn, Gorplin had led what was left of the army of Thoran back to the castle. They had been able to travel without being seen by Androlion's scouts or the purple flamed demons that roamed the land, bringing with them ruin and destruction.

  The beasts, called demons for lack of any better term, appear in different forms, but all are covered in a purple flame. Rumors spread of their numbers. Some said there were thousands of them who walked during the night, spreading their purple flame. The reports Ealrin believed put the official count at nine, but he could see why people could believe that they were many more in number.

  The demons could travel vast distances in a short amount of time. They seemed to be immeasurably strong and moved with great speed.

  But the company that surrounded the table inside castle Thoran knew something others could hardly believe: the beasts that could destroy an entire village in an evening could be defeated.

  They had seen it.

  Holve Bravestead had given his life to kill the one that had landed in the middle of the battle that had sent the army of Thoran retreating back to its castle. Ealrin had watched the man who had found him washed ashore on a beach, nursed him back to life, and then allowed him to be his traveling companion. Ealrin's memory of his life before the shipwreck had washed away with the tide. Holve had been his constant in the months that followed. He was rough and hardly ever in a good mood, but he hadn't made Ealrin feel like he was a child or that his memory loss was an impediment.

  Holve was the closest thing Ealrin had to family.

  But now he was gone along the demon he had slain.

  A crater was all that remained when Holve stabbed his spear into the beast on the battlefield.

  And now that spear was in the hands of the man who controlled the south.

  Thus their meeting today.

  It was the first day since the survivors returned that Tory felt like even getting out of bed. They gathered around this table to discuss their options and the best strategic moves in the days that would follow.

  Ealrin, Tory, Lote, and Teresa were the surviving members of the King’s Swords, a special fighting force formed by the last king of Thoran to be a small army of fighters that fought to keep peace with the smallest number of fighters possible.

  With Teresa depressed at the loss of her father and king, it seemed that number had dropped to three.

  Gorplin was the leader of the dwarves of the south, all thirty of them that remained. Having met with the dwarves of Thoran, the scant few that were left, they had agreed to let him speak on their behalf. The King’s Swords had employed several dwarves before. It seemed like they could use a few more now.

  Lote was the slender representative of the elves. No reports had come from the two cities of elves from the south. For all they knew, every last one of them had been wiped out. Lote had been a hard read to Ealrin after the battle down south. As with Teresa, she kept a stern look on her face and her emotions to herself. At one time she had been almost jovial. That part of her seemed to have vanished with the end of the great battle.

  But there was no other elf Ealrin had seen that could rival her shot with a bow. She was deadly accurate.

  He didn't know much else about her background. She had not discussed her history with him at any length nor had he had a reason to find out about it.

  Looking around the table now, he was curious.

  The mood around the table was certainly somber. The meeting had not yet started because they were waiting on the last living member of the Kings swords. As they waited, Ealrin busied himself by looking out the window down upon the city when he wasn't observing everyone else.

  The city below was a beautiful one. Houses made out of the hewn rocks that came from the mountainside dotted the valley in which the capital city rested. One main road ran from the castle itself down through the wealthier houses and into the marketplace before reaching the gate that had provided some measure of protection for the vast city.

  Ealrin moved from his chair to get a better look down through the giant windows that looked out into Thoran and remembered the words of the king.

  "I never want to eat a meal without first thinking of the people I serve," he had said the very first time Ealrin had met him.

  What would he say now about his people that remained?

  Most of the city's original inhabitants had marched out with the army in an attempt to aid the Southern Republic in removing the threat of the Raiders from their lands once again. Most were slaughtered by the very country they had sought to protect.

  The city's numbers had swelled in recent weeks but not from survivors returning from the battle. Refugees from smaller settlements and towns without proper defenses had fled to the great walled city in hopes to find protection there.

  Instead of knights in armor ready to defend the weak and helpless, what they found were other scared refugees wearing whatever scraps of armor they could salvage from the already picked over armory and holding weapons too old to do much good.

  Though the walls of the city were strong and stout, the hearts of those within were fearful.

  And if he was being honest with himself, some of that fear came from himself.

  A door opened to the great Hall and all eyes turned in its direction.

  Teresa Thoran, ruler of the once great country, stepped through the door. Behind her was Gaflion, with whom Ealrin had shared only a very few words. Looking at Teresa, Ealrin could tell th
at she was still weary and saddened by the loss of her father. And yet in her eyes gleamed a fight that he had not seen in several weeks.

  "Goblins march toward the city from the south," she said with a voice of authority that Ealrin had only known her to use on the battlefield. "We have less than a week before they get here. It's time we devised a strategy."

  4: The New Goblin Doyen

  Stinkrunt was beginning to get the hang of this being in charge thing. For starters, he always had a good sharp knife beside him. It was a nice, long, pokey thing he had taken off a soldier once. Though he forgot if it was from one of the men he was working for, or man he was fighting against. It didn't really matter.

  What he did remember was that the man was still technically alive when he took it. Stinkrunt had taken care of that.

  On more than one occasion the knife had proved very helpful in developing his leadership skills. With it, he was able to convince all the other goblin doyens, or leaders, that he was the one who was best suited to be in charge of the combined might of the goblin tribes. It also came in handy for taking care of those who disagreed with him.

  Grayscar would've been proud of him, if he hadn't been killed a couple months back.

  Grayscar was the old leader of the tribe to which Stinkrunt belonged: the Sharp Claws. He was the one who had convinced all the goblin tribes to sail east in order to claim new lands. Even if it meant taking orders from humans for a little while. Of course, Grayscar had seen this as a temporary arrangement and would have willingly stuck his own blade into the man in charge if he had actually gotten the chance. Unfortunately, during the first battle that required his involvement, the army that came against him beat him soundly.

  Which, in turn, gave Stinkrunt incentive to be in charge of everybody.

  Stinkrunt was not the biggest goblin, nor was he the strongest. Perhaps he had himself done a poor job of commanding an army to smash a city, but the first time as always for practice. As he climbed up the ranks of goblin leadership, he found out that he was a goblin who greatly desired to keep living. And for one of the gray-skinned, that generally meant making sure other goblins didn't outlive you by whatever means necessary.

  THE NUMBERS OF GOBLINS in the forests of Thoran were growing by the day. Stinkrunt was to keep watch over the population and make sure that the goblins grew to larger numbers without turning in on one another. Growing more goblins was not difficult. The battles that had been fought and lost had provided plenty of raw materials to spawn more gray-skinned warriors: their fallen comrades.

  The smell of the spawning pits would probably kill a man, if he ever made it that far into any goblin encampment. The pools of gray muck teemed with unnatural life. Dark bubbles lingered on the surface, popping with an even fouler odor than the pool. Large trees had been felled and placed around pits dug out by forced labor, mostly gubbins.

  Gubbins were smaller goblins, ones that hadn't quite yet matured fully. The whole transformation from crawling out of the pool to battle ready goblin took two or three weeks. In the meantime, gubbins could be given basic commands and would almost always pretend to follow them. Mostly the things just tended to be pretty grabby.

  Well someone had to tend the pools, Stinkrunt thought. It certainly wasn't going to be him.

  To fall into one of those stinking rots would spell the end of any creature, goblin or not. Some were tossed in as punishment. Others were conveniently pushed in right after their belongings were snatched. The pools were a place no one went intentionally. Tree and other green life surrounding the pool began to decay and whither as the stench wafted out over the wall of fallen trees. The ground turned from brown to black. Sickly mushrooms began to grow where once lush undergrowth blossomed.

  The pools consumed the vegetation around it. In truth, it needed the life of them to thrive. Without them, the goblin spawn would cease to grow and the pool would dry up. Here in the forests of Thoran, however, that would happen after hundreds of years.

  Good thing Stinkrunt had lots of deer meat to eat. This could take awhile. He crunched down on the hind leg of one that had just been brought to him by one of his cronies. Well, it was stolen from one of his cronies. That was almost the same thing.

  “HEY! BOSS!” CALLED a voice from behind him. Stinkrunt took a moment to remember that 'boss' meant him. He turned to look in the direction of whoever called and saw one of his more faithful cronies, Lazyguts, walking towards him.

  No chief’s cronies were ever completely loyal to their leader. They were all just waiting for the right opportunity to move up the ranks themselves and take over. All the more reason for Stinkrunt to carry his knife with him at all time.

  Lazyguts stumped up to Stinkrunt and gave a half bow.

  Not a bad sign of respect and loathing.

  “The goblins are fighting over by the rocks, boss,” Lazyguts reported.

  That was the other part of Stinkrunt's job: keep the goblins from killing each other. Well, as best as he could at least.

  “Any Sharp Claws in it?” he asked. Even though he had put himself over all the goblins, he really only cared about his own clan's well-being. The others were just in the way.

  “No, boss. Just a couple of Fanged Ones showing off.”

  Stinkrunt gave a little grunt. He didn't care if the other tribes did each other in. The Sharp Claws were coming out on top after this thing was over. And, if he played his cards right, the goblin clan with the yellow banner would have themselves a nice castle to call their own.

  “Aw, let them fight. Go cheer them on and call it a contest. See if that will get everyone off my back about more food and drink.”

  Lazyguts gave a half hearted salute and stumped back to where Stinkrunt could now hear a pretty loud commotion.

  If the goblins could be entertained by other goblins smashing in some heads, maybe that would keep them from fighting one another. It wasn't the soundest logic on Ruyn, but it worked for Stinkrunt.

  All he really needed to do was wait for the pools to do their work.

  From each spawning pit a score of goblins would rise. With these new troops, the goblins, specifically the Sharp Claws, would help Androlion and his army take down Thoran.

  And then beyond.

  Stinkrunt settled back down against his tree trunk and thought about his orders.

  Make more goblins. Wait until commanded to attack.

  Stinkrunt could handle two pieces of instruction.

  Which, for a goblin, was actually quite the feat.

  5: A Journey Thwarted

  The sun was beginning to set on the king's table. The conversation around it, however, was far from over. Teresa was arguing bitterly with the advice given to her.

  Currently, they were trying to decide the best way to weather the storm coming from the south. Should they send for aid, prepare the defenses of Thoran for attack or be the first to strike back? Many opinions had formed over the last week.

  “It's the only sane course of action, my lady,” Tory reasoned with a particularly loud voice. The young warrior was becoming redder in the face as the talk went on. Afternoon reds and oranges shining on him through the window did nothing to help this.

  “I'll decide the sanest course of action for this kingdom, Tory Greenwall. We can spare no one in our attempts to rebuild our forces!” came the reply from Thoran's princess. Her voice hit a crescendo as she stood from her chair to address the man who, before this conversation, had been the most sullen of the group.

  The talk of taking action had given birth to the fighter inside of Tory. Ealrin could see it. Perhaps even, he could understand it.

  Ealrin's travels here had, of necessity, shown him the value of one who could wield a sword or a bow to defend oneself or others. He owed his life to such people. Very few owed their lives to him.

  It was in defending something of value that had given Ealrin a purpose. He valued those gathered here around the table. They were his only friends left alive. He would take up arms to defend them. The
question being argued at the moment, however, was whether or not he would take himself away from them in order to defend them as well.

  “We must seek aid outside the kingdom of Thoran. Otherwise we'll be overpowered by the combined might of the Mercs, the Southern Republic, and whatever vile goblin has decided to make his blight known on our lands,” Tory countered.

  Ealrin knew it was true. Thoran had so many loses from the previous month's battle that if an assault were mounted against them soon, there would be no hope.

  That was partly the reason Ealrin had not yet offered much of an opinion. His mind was trying to discern the thoughts of his enemies, rather than take sides with friends.

  Why had Androlion Fellgate, ruler of much of the Southern Republic, not yet come for the capital of the city of Thoran, its crown jewel?

  Perhaps he had losses of his own to consider? Or maybe he feared an offensive against the great mountain castle? To directly assault and breach the fortress would take an army of ten thousand. But starving those inside by siege would take a force far smaller.

  Whatever the reason may be, Ealrin knew their time was limited. Before long he would come for them. And then who would stand against the madman from the south?

  Gorplin was now offering his expert opinion on what the best course of action might be.

  “Bah! What are we all holed up in this castle for? I say grab your hammer and let's put an end to the devil and his army ourselves!”

  For an added effect Ealrin was sure the dwarf was proud of, he hopped atop the table and kicked a bowl of apples aside. Unfortunately for the young leader of the dwarven refugees, the top of his head only came to Teresa's shoulders.

  Lote gave him a stern look.

  “You'll have us all killed within the next full moon. You're a devil yourself, Gorplin. Get off the table.”

  The dwarf apparently thought better than to argue with Lote. He had seen her shoot the bow that rested upon her chair. Ealrin knew the elf could kill a sparrow that he could barely see in the distance. Gorplin clumsily removed himself from the elegant spread and took his seat.