Magic of Ruyn

by RG Long

  There was a pause from the others and then what sounded like a ruffling of papers.

  “We just need you to sign this here,” came the first male voice.

  Blume heard him step closer to her table and lay down what must have been a parchment of some sort. And to her horror, Miss Greer actually stepped over the bench Blume was next to and sat down at the table. Her foot hit Blume hard in the face.

  Without meaning to or before she could think, a sharp squeal escaped her lips.

  Chaos ensued. Miss Greer let out a shout and jumped back wildly. The two sets of boots scrambled. Blume tried to crawl her way out of the table, but it was too late.

  Within a moment, Festus had overturned the bench on the other side and pulled Blume out by her hair. She was kicking and biting in all directions that she could, but was unable to get away from him. As she was pulled upright, she saw her necklace just within reach on Miss Greer.

  If she could only grab it! She made a wild grab, but Festus pulled her back and Miss Greer stepped behind the owners of the boots Blume had seen.

  Two men, whose faces she couldn't make out in the dim light wore the green and white of Androlion's army. Miss Greer wore that terrible dress and Blume's necklace still wrapped around her neck. She could barely raise her arms now. Festus had both of her hands in one. His other hand was firmly wrapped around her neck.

  With every movement of her struggle, he put more and more pressure on her throat and hands, making it impossible for Blume to move. Breathing alone was becoming harder by the moment. She looked around, trying to take in the scene before it became all one big black spot in her vision. Trying to see if there was a way out, a way to escape.

  It was hopeless.

  She did hear, however, very clearly as she began to lose consciousness.

  “Well, well gentlemen,” Miss Greer said evilly. “It looks like you have your first volunteer.”

  Blackness consumed Blume, and she remembered nothing more.

  23: Stupid Goblins

  Another sneeze came from that abnormally large snout of Stinkrunt, leader of the goblins from the Maw. Of course, he was the leader of the goblins who had been smart enough (or dumb enough, depending on which goblin one talked to) to stick with him.

  In reality, the goblins hadn't fared well since landing on the eastern and more civilized side of Ruyn a few months ago.

  Three tribes had tried, without success, to raid a city or defeat an army. None had succeeded so far. One of those attempts had been thwarted due to a lack of enough numbers and bravery to withstand the army approaching it. Grayscar, the former leader of the biggest goblin tribe, The Sharp Claws, had been the leader of that force. He was dead now.

  Another tribe, The Fanged Ones, had cursed Stinkrunt and made rude gestures when he had told them the plan was to stay put and grow in numbers for a while.

  So they left without another word.

  Too bad The Fanged Ones were still one of the smallest tribes amongst the goblins. Half of that was due to their constant infighting. The other half was due to a number of their ships that never made it to the eastern side of Ruyn.

  Actually, thought Stinkrunt, that was because they sunk their own boats.

  He had gleefully watched two ships ram into one another because of a disagreement about which was the biggest and longest. They would have to figure it out after they sank to the bottom of the gulf.

  They had marched north and said they had big plans about taking down a castle for themselves and not leaving anything for the rest of the goblins.

  When a measly hundred or so of them showed their faces back in the camp, Stinkrunt was glad to see that their leader, Crackedtooth, was not among the survivors.

  “Maybe you stupid goblins will listen up now!” Stinkrunt had shouted at them as he assigned them to guard duty.

  That was after having them all pounded by his own doyen underlings.

  Now that he had followed the orders from the men who promised him land and a castle, Stinkrunt was discovering that the changing season was giving him uncontrollable sneezing fits. It was terribly frustrating. Nothing helped.

  He had asked every goblin shaman they had. Both of them recommended shoving various herbs and twigs up his snout.

  It was an ineffective solution.

  So now, as Stinkrunt pondered why they had lost so many of the smart goblin shamans and why the mucus coming out of his nose had to be so thick and green, he looked eastward at the approaching horses and the soldiers riding them.

  “What me to shoot 'em, boss?” asked Arrahead, one of Stinkrunt's new found underlings. The goblin wasn't the best shot in the whole goblin army. He wasn't the worst either. Stinkrunt kept him around for two reasons: the bow wielding soldier was twice as large as Stinkrunt was and had proved himself to be fiercely loyal to whoever was on top of the goblin leadership.

  Currently, that was Stinkrunt.

  It also helped to have someone at your side that could shoot any potential assassin with a dagger in the back. Even if it had to be from a few paces away to guarantee accuracy. He'd take any help he could get these days. His eyes were so watery half of the time, he couldn't see a threatening goblin if it stabbed him in the back. A scenario he'd like to avoid.

  Stinkrunt grunted.

  As much as he would have liked to see the soldiers from Andro-whatever-his-name-was twitching from the poisoned tip of a goblin arrow, he knew that his army was no match for the men of the south.

  Yet.

  “No, Arrahead,” he replied. “Wave that white flag there. Maybe it'll stop the Fanged Ones from rushing out to beat them up.”

  It didn't.

  Once the soldiers had reached Stinkrunt, who sat outside his tent on a throne like chair outside his tent, they had killed at least eight goblins that didn't get the message.

  Neither party was all that upset about the loss.

  “When will you filth learn to let us pass without difficulty?” the biggest soldier asked as he dismounted his horse and approached Stinkrunt. He wore all black armor made from small interlocking plates and carried a sword large enough to slice three goblins in half at once.

  “Too long,” Stinkrunt replied. “I was hoping you'd kill a few more of those ones off for me. Stupid goblins, them.”

  The look on the man's face stayed hard as he stared at Stinkrunt. He typically could look down on any goblin that approached him while he was on his wooden throne. The chair was littered with blades and shields from defeated enemies. This man, however, was so tall that he was right at eye level with Stinkrunt.

  He'd address him by name, but he'd forgotten exactly what this one was called. Mad? Upset? Angry? Something like that.

  “We've kept growing. Just like you wanted,” he said as he spread out his hand. Indeed, behind him was a sprawling encampment of goblins. Where there had once been trees and even a little city called Loran, there were now goblins as far as anyone cared to look.

  The fact that Stinkrunt had been able to keep so many goblins in place without them all killing each other was impressive. Goblins had the bad habit of killing each other off, down to the last gray-skinned knife wielder.

  It was more accident than good leadership. When he came upon a couple different goblins from various tribes fighting one another, Stinkrunt had told everyone else to watch, instead of breaking it up.

  A daily competition had formed and two representatives from each tribe participated in a battle to the death, cheered on or booed at by their fellow goblins. A large betting circuit had grown around the event, as well as some training to get better as to participate. Every goblin who went into the fight gave up something valuable to two pots: a small collection of winnings for the current fight, and a bigger one for any goblin who managed to survive past four fights in a row.

  The current record was one.

  It kept the bloodlust of their race contained and most every goblin was content to cheer or pay to fight the next day.

  Stinkrunt was currentl
y trying to figure out how long they had to keep the fight going before The Fanged Ones were totally wiped out.

  He could be patient enough for that.

  “You've done well, for a goblin,” the man said. “Androlion will be pleased with your progress.”

  He took a small bag from his hip and threw it at Stinkrunt's feet. It bust open and gold coins burst out from it.

  “A small token of thanks for the leader of the goblins,” he said. “When the moon is full, take your army and sack the north. Anything you take, you keep. This was our bargain.”

  Stinkrunt's mouth curled up in a greedy smile.

  “Two weeks then,” he said in a low voice. “We'll do our part. But you keep your end too, human.”

  The man was so quick, Stinkrunt didn't even have time to gurgle. He had drawn a small knife from his belt and jumped onto the throne of the little goblin. The blade pierced the very tip of Stinkrunt's ear, pinning him to the back of the throne.

  He let out a howl of pain.

  Stinkrunt saw a grim satisfaction in the man's face as he wriggled against the dagger stuck in his ear.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arrahead point his bow and arrow in their general direction. He wasn't sure which he feared more: being pinned to the throne forever with a knife shaped earpiece or the possibility of being shot by his own lackey.

  “Know this, filth,” the man said. His voice had changed from business like to death threat very quickly. “If you and your tribes even consider stepping foot past the river that separates us, you'll regret the miserable day you sailed here and made a bargain with the devil.”

  He released his hold on Stinkrunt, drew out his knife from the chair and then shoved the goblin back against the throne.

  “I hope I've not been misunderstood,” he said as he mounted his horse and called his men to follow him out of the camp.

  Stinkrunt was holding his ear and whining. A line of blood was running down his face. And he felt another sneeze coming on.

  Arrahead growled as he watched them walk away.

  “I could still put an arrow in one of them,” he said as he drew back his bowstring.

  Stinkrunt kicked the top of the bow, making him shoot his arrow high into the sky. He looked up until he lost it in the clouds. Then he turned on the goblin below him.

  “Dumb goblin,” he said. “Do that now and we'll all be dead.”

  He sat back on his throne and sulked, still holding his injured ear. But then, as he considered, a smile crossed his face again.

  “Don't worry, Arrahead,” he said quietly. “You'll get your chance to put an arrow in something soon enough. Up north first. Then we'll see about the south.”

  He sneezed multiple times, causing him great pain in his ear and sending the sticky muck from his nose all over the bag of gold down at his feet. Oh well. It could always be cleaned in a pond somewhere. He sent one of the goblins below him to grab it and clean them off. This particular one was called Blacktooth. It wasn't because he had black teeth literally. It was more because his mouth was so full of holes from missing teeth it looked black whenever he opened his mouth.

  The good thing was it meant he kept his mouth shut most of the time.

  Only after he saw him scamper off with the bag did Stinkrunt kick himself for not counting how many were in it.

  He'd just assume the greedy thing had stolen some and whip him good when he came back with whatever he thought Stinkrunt might miss.

  Goblins couldn't really stay in any one place too long. The Maw had been their home for generations. It was time to find new places to burn and decimate. The north would do for the time being. But before long, the goblins would grow too numerous even for the expanse of woods that lay before them. And Stinkrunt knew a little about the plan of the men who came to him. So many different ones had come to talk to them that, bit by bit and always with threats to his life, they had revealed parts of their plan to him.

  The man in black though, he was going to be hard to kill. He was a skilled soldier. Stinkrunt had seen that through how he had always taken down multiple goblins without even breaking a sweat. There would have to be some other plan for that one. Maybe Stinkrunt would carve up his ear one day.

  That thought consoled him for the time being.

  Humans. So greedy and so dumb, Stinkrunt thought. He'd show them. Especially that one. He'd show them all that goblins were the ones who were going to rule this land. He'd show them that Stinkrunt was the best, most fearsome goblin around.

  After he got a bandage for his ear.

  A howl of pain from an unlucky goblin rang out from the camp.

  Apparently, Arrahead's aim wasn't too bad after all.

  24: Rulers Then and Now

  The two-day ride to River Head was nothing compared to Teresa's excitement. She was finally doing her kingdom some good.

  Perhaps, in talking with this representative of the former Southern Republic, she could gain aid as well as offer council. What if she, while her trusted Swords were off convincing the north to bring aid south, could bring aid from the south to the north!

  Teresa was elated to think that she could help her country and actually do some good as its leader for a change. When the small city of River Head came into view over the grasses, she prodded her horse so much that the delegation behind her was struggling to keep up.

  A few of her sergeants had agreed to come with her. The King’s Swords were the nation's acting generals. In their absence, common soldiers who had demonstrated astute battlefield wisdom were promoted to sergeants. These were put to good use by the generals of Thoran and, in their absence, would also act as the leader of their command of troops.

  Three rode with her: Vera, a fiery, black haired woman from Loran who had just recently been promoted to sergeant during the last goblin raid. She had kept an entire portion of the wall clear herself by cutting down ladder after ladder with her impressive axe wielding. Even after the ladders were cut, she led men back into battle and saw to the destruction of a goblin catapult.

  Teresa was quite impressed.

  “Just putting what I know to good use, Princess,” she had replied at the news of her promotion. What she knew was working in a forge for her father for ten years as a youth. Now, as an adult, she was indeed using those skills well.

  The other two sergeants were named Benton and Crawford. Crawford was an older man, about forty, who was a veteran of the army and well respected among his peers and those with less tenure than he.

  Plus, he could drink anyone stupid enough to challenge him under the table twice over without even seeing double.

  “My father was a drunk and my mum was an alcoholic,” he would proudly declare. “That's why I never touch the stuff unless coins are at stake.”

  It was true. He was no social drinker. Whenever a bet was made, however, he drank the kegs dry and saw the pockets of his competition emptied.

  Benton was a dwarf and used his hammer to rid Thoran of no less than twenty goblins single-handedly during the fight down south before the king was lost. Teresa had actually trained with the red haired dwarf on multiple occasions. He never had accepted the king's request for him to join the Swords.

  “Bah. I only use hammers and that won't be changing anytime soon, your majesty!” he had said on that day.

  Several dwarves and others had tried to explain that the title didn't mean he'd be giving up his hammer, but Benton wasn't going to change his mind. It seemed to be some philosophical battle he was fighting.

  Teresa was glad for the company.

  Alec, the messenger from the south, was not really revealing much else about his mission, other than to hurry them to meet Mara.

  They needed no extra prodding today.

  All of their horses ran at full speed in order to reach the gates of River Head. At the banner of the ruler of Thoran, which Crawford carried proudly, the gates opened without command or incident and the party of four rode into the city.

  Just before passing
under the wall, Teresa slowed her horse down to a gallop.

  “I was wondering if you were going to keep that pace right up to Mara's room!” Alec said, breathless, as he caught up to Teresa and her steed.

  The animal was a beautiful one, though Teresa still felt odd riding it. Horses weren't her specialty.

  Give me my own to boots any day, she thought as she adjusted herself in the saddle.

  “This way,” Alec told them, and led the way on his horse through the streets.

  Alec rode out first, followed by Crawford with Teresa's banner. Teresa followed him and Benton and Vera brought up the rear.

  People began to shout as they rode through the streets.

  “The princess!”

  “It's Teresa!”

  A small crowd was lining the streets to see the sight of the Princess of Thoran riding through their city.

  “Make way!” Alec shouted above the noise of the gathering crowd.

  Some of the residents of River Head bowed deeply. Others just stood watching from the sides of the road. Still more knew enough to back out of the way off the road, but managed to go about their daily tasks.

  Teresa felt awkward as she looked at the people from her horse. She had never been good at being put on display and led places. Her mother had tried especially hard to teach her how to act in a crowd.

  “Never look too happy, but don't be too sad either. Wave politely, not too energetically, though. Remain proper at all times. Never run off from the procession.”

  Her head spun just trying to remember all the bits of information she had been given about the simple task of going somewhere. Maybe that's why she never really desired to be a ruler of her country.

  Well, she thought. I suppose there are many other reasons.

  The streets of River Head all lead to its harbor. From the main entrance, five large roads sprang out, like a hand. They rode straight up the middle. Alec stopped them at a building with a large wall around it. The gate was a large red double door wide enough for a horse and rider to pass through.