Guns and Swords
CHAPTER #1: TISVIR’S CAMP
General Tisvir sighed as he leaned forward, his head in his stubby, wrinkly little hands. This was, indeed, a bad situation; and it was getting worse by the day.
Oh, where had it all began? Tisvir wondered miserably as he reached back into the depths of his memory. Well, the best answer would probably be when the Industrial Revolution began in the goblin lands of Gebiet. The Empire of Man had long been at odds with those runty little beasts; long had humanity coveted the sheer mineral wealth possessed by their green-skinned neighbors, who in turn glared with jealous eyes upon the comparatively fair, beautiful and fertile lands owned by the larger race. The rivalry had only increased in ferocity over the centuries, as goblin and mankind skirmished and warred with one another, both seeking what the other had and both willing to pay for it in blood.
Now there was one thing that had always set humans and goblins apart; humans were larger, stronger and more numerous by far. Goblins were characteristically small, scrappy little things, but they did have one thing going for them; their brains. Always had they held out against humanity by keeping one step ahead of them in the area of technology, creating even newer and more fantastic inventions when mankind imitated what they had already made. Pikes, crossbows, and even steel itself were but a few examples of the secrets that man had taken from goblin.
And then, just about a century ago, something huge happened.
This something did, in truth, occur as a result of several somethings happening in rapid succession. The massive planting of turnips and clover, plants that fertilized the field they grew in and provided good animal-feed afterwards, started in the goblin lands. It was closely followed by the concept of planting seeds in rows and, later, the new idea of “crop rotation”, or growing two types of crops on different parts of the field while leaving another part to tallow. Thus what farmland there was in Gebiet became more fertile and efficient, and there was more food to be had. This caused a boom in population; suddenly there were more goblins than frankly anybody needed.
Your average goblin lives about a hundred years, but to develop into an adult for them only takes ten. Thus for a while there were many goblins without employment, living in poverty and gathering together in poorly made, unhygienic “slums”. It did not take long, however, for profiteering goblins with a fair amount of both money and brains to wonder how they could use all these poor buggers’ situation to their advantage.
And thus began the birth of Industry.
Herr Allan von Hethler, a young goblin noble with a brain that knew few equals, had decided to try an experiment with one of these slums. The theory was that, using new machinery developed by himself and a few others, he could use the many goblins within those slums to “massively produce” goods which could be sold by merchants for a large profit. After a shaky start, the experiment proved a total success, and soon mills and factories were springing up wherever there were slums, which nearly eliminated unemployment among the green-skinned people. A new Industrialist class emerged, rivaling the goblin nobles in power and prestige. And for once in history, goblin and human found almost total peace; the human people made the perfect market for goblin wares such as tools, textiles and other manufactured things. Both human and goblin merchants could be seen ever crossing the border between their two lands, making the most of this new advance in technology.
Things soon became far from peaceful, however.
Apart from herr Allan, very few goblin nobles took part in industry, and those who did were frowned upon by their born-to-power brothers. The goblin nobility saw the Industrialists as a threat, a contender for power over the kingdom. With good reason, too; the goblin people who now worked in these factories had lived in poverty while most of the aristocrats had done nothing; it had been the Industrialists who had brought them salvation. Thus, anti-nobility sentiment was on the rise among the great unwashed, as well as the Industrialists. No matter how much they gained, they still wanted more, and it was the nobles who tried to block them from it.
It was then, about thirty years ago, that herr Arlit von Hethler, brother of Allan and a fellow Industrialist to boot, was to make his move. Arlit was much the same as his brother; both were daring, charismatic fellows, born to leadership as fishes are to water. In many other ways, however, they were completely different. Allan was a visionary, an upbeat sort of person who inspired others to follow him through the straightforward clarity and benevolence of his ideas, and his ability to present them through powerful words. Arlit, on the other hand, was the sort who played on the greed and desire of others to get where he wanted to go, manipulating them and gradually turning their wants and goals into his own.
Tisvir stared sadly at the small musket that lay in the middle of his table. At the moment it had become more than just a part of the usual clutter that situated his desk. It was a cold, soulless thing that somehow managed to exude such menace as to send a shiver down the spine of even such a hardened man as Tisvir knew himself to be. He knew that in the wrong hands something like this could cause unparalleled destruction. Yet while Allan’s factories and mills were busy making textiles to be sold abroad, Arlit was working his miners furiously in order to provide the right ores and alloys for the massive production of thousands of these guns within his own factories. Once produced and stocked with ammunition, these new vessels of destruction were distributed among Arlit’s private army.
And it was all done in secret. Apparently, Arlit had funded all of this work by borrowing money from his brother, assuring him that it was going towards the worthiest of causes. Never for a moment considering that his own brother may have been harboring such evil intentions, Allan had complied generously; only when the storm had began did he realize the folly of what he had done, but by that time it was too late.
Arlit’s first action was to cast away his nobility, forever dropping the “Von” from his name in order to “become closer to the people”. The second thing he did was go about seeking the support of the other Industrialists, whose rising position of power was compelling them to muster their own personal armies like those of the nobles. Arlit not only promised to provide funding for these private militaries, but to train and equip them with the newest weapons of unparalleled destruction; firearms.
Once he had enough support, he started to spread anti-aristocratic propaganda, using every injustice they had ever committed to paint the nobility as evil beyond belief, and even spreading lies and rumors crafted to their detriment as well. Predictably, the nobles were not happy about this, and several death-threats and even a few attempts on Arlit’s life were put into action by the aristocrats. Each and every one was a failure, however; if anything, the impudence of those with blue blood only served to further Arlit’s cause.
And then began the Industrial Revolution.
It was after much pressure from the nobles that the goblin Konig agreed to place Arlit under arrest about twenty years ago. The firebrand Industrialist had publicly disparaged the royal family itself, something that was not to be tolerated. When Arlit refused to cease his rebellious behavior peacefully, der Konig sent an army equipped mainly with pikes and crossbows to his estate in order to capture and, if necessary, execute the unruly goblin. Compared to the army sent by the royalty, Arlit’s was quite small.
Even so, in the end it was they who had won.
Arlit had caught wind of der Konig’s intentions long before the royal army had been given its marching orders. Thinking quickly, he had gathered all of his soldiers, outlined a plan that a brain-dead monkey could understand, and began preparations. Earthen bulwarks were set up all around his estate, gunning towers were quickly constructed by several teams of crack carpenters. By the time the royal banners were within sight, Arlit’s army was all ready and in place, waiting for the bloodbath to come.
At first der Konig’s army had indulged in a good, hearty laugh at the sight of the primitive fortifications. The general in command of the army did not even hesitate to send his full force forward; to him, victory was all but assured.
Little did he realize his mistake.
The boom of hundreds of muskets firing at once could be heard for miles around. Seemingly solid walls of pikes were smashed apart by the gunfire. Dozens of crossbowmen shrieked as bullets pierced their bodies long before they even came close enough to fire their own weapons. The level of destruction caused by the first volley, combined with the amount of noise it had created, sent the larger goblin army milling in frightened confusion; the second volley sent those who survived into a retreat. Crying out victoriously, Arlit’s private army then drew their cutlasses and charged after them, slashing apart those they could catch. Ten thousand soldiers had been sent out to subdue Arlit, and by the end of that bloody day the bodies of nearly five thousand of those were being dragged into giant piles for unceremonious cremation. Even the general of that army had been cut down by one of Arlit’s goblin’s cutlasses; his head was sent as a gory gift to der Konig.
Word of Arlit’s victory spread far in a very short time; while nobles and loyalists were shocked and appalled, the majority of the goblin working class - or "proletariat," a new term of unknown origin - cheered the firebrand Industrialist. They had had enough of those useless nobles, and urged their leaders to stand strong under Arlit’s banner, the Red Wheel. Most did so gladly, and within a few short weeks the Industrial Revolution was well underway. Industrialist armies could soon be seen marching to war across the plains of Gebiet, bristling with muskets and cutlasses, rolling forward heavy canon and huge barrels of gunpowder, and all marching under that great Red Wheel.
The revolt in the goblin lands had affected the nations of men as well; some jingoistic firebrands therein urged their own nobles to attack the goblins while the little creeps were turned on each other. “We can’t lose,” was a popular excuse presented by such foolhardy men, "With them fighting each other, they won't know what hit 'em!" In Tisvir’s opinion, however, those gung-ho fools would have quickly learned what it is like to be caught between two walls – one of pikes and one of gunfire – had their requests been taken seriously. He did not doubt for a second that any goblin general willing to march against his own kind would bat an eye at getting rid of a few pesky humans first.
The human merchant class, however, who were rising in a manner disturbingly similar to that of the goblin Industrialists, generally thought war in the goblin lands to be a very good opportunity to make a profit. Both sides would need supplies, although the general mercantile bias tended to favour the Industrialists. After all, it was they and not the nobles who encouraged profitable commerce between the two races. The human nobility, on the other hand, who generally resented both the green-skins and the merchants (whose influence was growing in a very unwelcome fashion), was more in support of the goblin nobles, who seemed to be the lesser of all the evils in this matter. There were even rumours of some human lords secretly sending battalions of elite troops to the aid of the goblin aristocrats. Indeed, though many men of great influence were inclined towards intervention within the goblin civil war, it was not just these highest of birth who wanted to throw their lot into the conflict.
Within the human lands there are dozens of mercenary companies, many of which saw bloodshed in the goblin nation as an opportunity to make a big profit. Goblin gold is as good as any, they reasoned, so why not? Thus, several thousand human mercenaries crossed from the human lands and into those of the goblins, ready and eager to sell their swords to the highest bidder. Human raiders and terrorists also used the chaos brought about by the war to take advantage of thought-to-be defenseless goblin villages along the border, though more often than not the adventures of these would-be bandits met their ends to the sound of many guns firing. Human intervention, however, was but a small factor that nearly cancelled itself out during the seemingly endless period of conflict.
Indeed, the Industrial Revolution dragged out longer than any could have expected. The nobles soon learned the secrets of how to manufacture muskets, and used their vast treasuries to equip hundreds of troops with fire-arms. Even so, the Industrialist armies numbered in the hundreds of thousands, most of whose soldiers carried some sort of primitive gun or hand-cannon. Thus, it was the brilliant tacticians, who had long ago pledged their unwavering fealty to der Konig, who kept the civil war going for seven full years.
Even so, the nobility could not hold out forever.
The Industrialists were nigh unstoppable. They had the bulk of the goblin population behind them, millions of pounds of raw material to work with, and dozens of the best inventors who worked round the clock (a relatively new invention) in order to develop newer, better devices for killing and destruction. The sheer firepower they commanded, combined with the genius of their own generals, was what truly kept the tide against the nobility. Many goblins in the royal armies either fled from the fields of battle or else deserted to the side of the Industrialists. Those who did not were either killed or taken prisoner.
One by one the generals under the nobility died, either killed in action or captured, to be tortured, publicly humiliated and then executed by the Industrialists. Goblins who would have balked at the very idea of such things a few years ago now cheered on as they watched their own green-skinned kin murdered in the slowest, cruelest of manners. Normally good, decent goblins were now willing to plunder the homes of loyalists and estates of the nobles, firing upon and killing their servants, vassals and even families.
Most of the nobles, seeing that their side of the war was losing, tried to flee the country. Few of these succeeded, however, for every road had a garrison on it, and every garrison was manned by dozens of well-trained, gun-toting warriors under the Red Wheel. Few coaches could get by them, and most of those that did were intercepted by Industrialist patrols before they could reach the border.
One of the first to flee, however, was herr Allan. Being a noble and an Industrialist at the same time, he was welcome among neither. Early on he had made the mistake of rather rudely denouncing his brother’s madness when the other goblin had confronted him with his schemes, he thus been labeled a traitor to Industry and an enemy of the proletariat. The well-being of those in the factories he managed, of course, was not mentioned by Arlit's propagandists, but this was of little matter to revolution-crazed goblins. Fortunately, the Industrialist-noble managed to scratch together a plan that would bring himself and those who wished to follow him out of the country before either his brother or the nobility came to take vengeance upon him. Although many brought their families and fled with him while it was still relatively safe, most were reluctant to abandon their homes and factories. Woe betide those simple fools; it was not long before the Industrialists had each and every one of them massacred as an example to others who would willingly serve the nobility.
Tisvir had received a detailed account of the fate suffered by der Konig. Apparently many of the last defenders of his capital city had turned upon their own comrades, fighting the loyalists and bringing them to their knees before the first banner of the Red Wheel even appeared on the horizon. It was these traitors who brought der Konig to the very feet of Arlit, who merely smiled, aimed a small pistol between the royal goblin’s eyes, and with a resounding thunderclap committed regicide. He then ordered that those goblins who had betrayed their Konig receive amnesty, although the royal family and any other aristocrats who refused to renounce their nobility were to be executed. His orders were carried out with neither hesitation nor mercy.
And so ended the Industrial Revolution; it was not long before flags bearing the Red Wheel could be seen on nigh every building in the factory-cities, fluttering from a pole every other fence-post that surrounded the farmlands. Arlit Hethler declared himself the permanent Kaiser of Gebiet, and ruled with an iron fist.
He did not stop there, though.
After the success of the Industrial Revolution, tensions flared once more between the two neighboring races. Recent advances in mining, industry and agriculture had turned Gebiet into an almost completely self-sufficient nation. They no longer needed anything that mankind had once had to offer, and thus business between the two races gradually faded to nothing. Baffled human merchants returned home bearing tales of how coldly the goblins had treated them, giving them the cold shoulder, refusing to buy their wares, and often even reluctant to sell them anything. It would later be discovered that much of this was Hethler’s doing; apparently, der Kaiser was spreading nationalistic and anti-human propaganda, keeping memory of past wrongs committed by man towards goblin alive and using it to cause hatred and mistrust for the taller race.
Not only were the goblins growing more independent, though, but also more aggressive. For the first time in decades, skirmishes had started to rage between humans and goblins. Hardly ever did the men find victory, though; those human soldiers who survived came back bearing startling news of not only muskets but other hellish machines, too. They told of large, rapidly firing metal contraptions that chattered loudly as they killed; of hand-held devices that shot bursts of flame like a dragon; of objects which, though they were only the size of a large acorn, exploded in a mass of fire after having hit the ground. Of course, the goblin government apologized cordially – if not in a cold, lofty manner – for each incident, reassuring the humans that these skirmishes were carried out by a few individual jingoists and terrorists, who operated outside of der Kaiser’s control. Even so, Tisvir hadn’t believed a word of it; the goblins were planning something big, something they did not want mankind to know about until it was too late to do anything.
Now it seemed that such had been the case all along. Word had come across the border of massive goblin armies marching into position, bearing awesome weapons of unbelievable destruction and, of course, the flag with the Red Wheel. Disputes between the two races had grown quite frenzied as of late, and now humanity had to deal with the very real threat of a goblin invasion. Tisvir sighed; although a few select human alchemists had learned the secret of making gunpowder and primitive canon, most of mankind would have to fight with traditional blades, bows and other comparatively primitive weapons. It would be a war between guns and swords, one that Tisvir severely doubted that the latter side had any chance of winning.
And that wasn’t all that was happening. Things were about to get a whole lot worse.
Not two months ago something completely unexpected happened to heap yet another worry upon mankind’s already heavily laden shoulders. The Westerland Forests, prime source of timber for all the Empire, were under siege from within. The forest’s inhabitants, the reclusive gypsies and other mysterious cultures (not all of whom were exactly – or even remotely – human) had suddenly seemed to have gone mad from the influence of some evil force. Lumber mills and small communities nearby the forest had raided and even ransacked by these once harmless but now rampant beings. If some evil was brewing in these woodlands, it needed to be found and destroyed posthaste. Humanity could not afford to let it become powerful enough to represent a great threat.
And that was where general Tisvir came in. He and his army had been sent to identify and extinguish this new threat. He hoped that whatever it was, he could negotiate a peaceful resolution without wasting men who would be needed should goblinkind decide to put its threats of war into action. Hah; not only was it unlikely that this new evil could be approached, but even if he could convince it to accept a peaceful solution, there was little chance that even the five thousand men under his command could make much difference against armies of goblins with guns.
A hopeless predicament indeed.
Tisvir now sat in his tent, mulling over the current predicament. Surrounding him were weapons, banners, and other trophies from the numerous exploits that dotted his military career. Badges of honor hung from his rich scarlet jerkin, which he wore overtop an iron breastplate black with age and use. A short sword, the first he had ever been given, hung from the left side of his belt. A dagger with an ornate hilt and handle, a gift from a noblewoman and former lover, sat strapped to his right thigh. A bandoleer lay dormant nearby, its strap unbuckled so he could put it on quickly should the need arise. It was made of two crossing leather loops, and allowed him to carry two more weapons on his back. One of the two weapons was an axe crafted by Ivan Rosovich, a famous dwarven bladesmith. The other was a mace, the old-school type which is composed of three main parts: 1) the stick 2) the ball 3) the spikes. Tisvir was actually quite a small man, but what he lacked in size he made up for in strength, both physical and mental, charisma, and pure military genius. He was a leader born, and quite popular with his troops.
And as for the troops; they were quite a mixed-up bunch. It had been rare enough to see humans of different colors marching under the same army’s banner, let alone humans and other creatures. Tisvir had been many places and added many sorts of people to his command, including those that many other humans would shudder at the prospect of calling “people”. All of them had eventually learned to speak in Common, although Tisvir was fluent in most every language his army could dish out at him.
The majority of his army was made up of humans, with a smattering of dwarves, trolls, a giant, and a kukushtidd. It took a man like Tisvir to hold such a multi-racial army together; without his strong leadership and influence, who knows how long it would have taken for the different peoples of the army to tear one another apart?
Tisvir shook off his gloomy feelings; this was not the way to get things done! He had gotten where he had by being assertive and charismatic, not a moping fool! He turned to the map on his desk and started going over his plans in his head. His army was currently positioned well within the woodlands; seeing as he had already made such headway, it was obvious that the enemy had little intention of facing such a large force as his without mustering some more warriors first. Scout reports indicated the presence of two large encampments of gypsy warriors located about two miles West and one mile North. He had sent envoys to parlay with their leaders this morning, and was starting to grow worried; it was late in the evening, and they should have been back by now. Most likely their heads now sat on poles in those forest-dwellers’ camps, but he could not yet be certain. He would wait till the morn, then get his army on their feet. That way they could pack up camp and be on the march to the nearest encampment by mid-afternoon at the latest.
"My general?" A voice like an avalanche rumbled through his mind, shaking him from his thoughts. That would be Ormun, a formidable giantess and his own personal bodyguard. She usually stood sentry just outside the tent flap, a stern scowl chiseled onto her rough face as she glowered down at anybody who walked by, silently daring them to make a move to threaten her general. Twelve and a half feet in height, she stood more than three times higher than the little man, whose four foot figure brought him to about the same length as Ormun’s heavy mace. Alone, she was as good as any ten well-armed, well-armored and well-trained knights, and probably twice as strong. Truly no normal man could lift her mace in even both hands, yet she could twirl it like a baton. She was a one-woman army, and the best friend a general can have on the battlefield.
“My general?” her heavy voice rumbled again from outside the tent. Although Ormun was not the sweetest-tempered lass Tisvir had ever met, she could be surprisingly patient at times. He knew that she would stand outside the tent flap calling “My general?” every so often until dusk of the next day before she would even consider going inside to get him. Still, this might be important, and at any rate Tisvir had never been one to keep people waiting.
“Coming, coming,” Tisvir called back, jumping from his chair and adopting a straight-back, chest-out, arms-behind-the-back military pose. He reflected briefly that this stance would still reveal him to be a bit of a midget, but then again it would also make him out to be a dignified, respectable midget. Or maybe he just looked like a tit; in any case, he didn’t much care. He had business to attend to.
His entire body rigid, Tisvir marched to the tent’s entrance. He briefly allowed one arm enough flexibility to bat aside the flap, then continued his strut and finally came to a halt in front of Ormun. The giantess, her gargantuan frame clad in solid iron plates, saluted with the hand that wasn’t carrying her mace. She said, “Someone here to see you, my general.” Ormun never had been a fan of long explanations. This was fine, because personally, Tisvir was not much of a fan of hearing them.
“Very well,” Tisvir said, returning the salute, “Allow them to see me, soldier.”
Ormun nodded, then stepped aside to reveal six figures. Although they were all a bit different, each shared the same distinguishing features. All were about three to three and a half feet in height, all had long necks attached to hunched-over backs. All had a long crest of black, red, gold or white hair traveling along the top of their head and neck, and all had green skin. Finally, each possessed the beady eyes, long mouths, long ears and long noses that marked them as goblins.
Their apparent leader, an older goblin with white hair, a thick quilted overcoat lined with sharp iron studs, and a pair of spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose, walked forward and extended a clawed hand. “Ach tung,” he greeted Tisvir, then waited a while for the man to return his handshake. When it became apparent that Tisvir had no intention of doing so, the goblin nervously withdrew his claw and said, in Common this time, “Erm, very well then. Mm-hm. Allow me to introduce myself. I go by the name of Ilkburgheingritz von Haight. I am one of the few goblin nobles who made it across the border alive, and these brave lads," he gestured to the goblins behind him, "Are my bodyguards. Quite frankly, I am lucky to have kept my head on my shoulders throughout the trip here; the neck that connects the two is so long, it would be easy for any who wished to do so to separate them, yes? Heh heh…” The goblin giggled nervously into Tisvir’s blank expression, then fell silent. “We need your help.” He said finally.
Tisvir nodded slowly. He could well believe that this goblin was nobility; he spoke Common better than most people for whom it was their only language, and with hardly a trace of an accent. Also, in Tisvir’s opinion, anyone with glasses couldn’t be that dumb; it would be interesting to see what this goblin wanted. “How can I be of service, herr Ilkbar…var…gritz…how can I be of service?”
The goblin noble grinned with worried relief. “Just Ilky will be fine, my good sir,” he assured the man, “Damned be formalities to a goblin in my predicament! But look; I ask nothing save for an escort of a few good men who know the way to your capital city…Ar’tia, am I right?”
“Indeed,” Tisvir affirmed. Ah, Ar’tia, capital of the Human Empire, city of spires, towers and temples, home of the most famous scholars, noblemen, warriors and other honored people. He’d been there once before, and been quite frankly dazzled by how prissy and arrogant everything was; everything and everybody was so stuck up he felt like he had been thrown into a pair of trousers currently being occupied by several aroused minotaurs! He had never liked the damn place, but did not say so. Indeed, all he said was “What business brings you there?”
“First of all,” Ilky responded, “It is no longer safe in my lands for a goblin of…erm…high class upbringing.” He snorted, quite a loud sound for a creature with such a long nose. “Truth be told, it was my brothers who inherited most of the wealth and estates. I usually just stayed in my lab and worked with my chemicals, hardly got involved in the affairs of other nobles, but that is not the point. What I am trying to say is that the aristocrats are no longer safe in Gebiet. Besides, there are other reasons why I must reach your capital,” The brows above his spectacles narrowed conspiratorially, “Very important reasons.”
“Like what?” Tisvir asked without so much as batting an eye.
Ilky swallowed nervously, bending forward and lowering his voice. “Perhaps this isn’t the best place to be discussing such things,” he said, “I mean, with all these strange ears around…”
“My men’s ears are no stranger than yours or mine,” Tisvir stated firmly, “You will tell me your business or you will leave my camp.” Ilky stood, mouth opening and shutting stupidly for a while. His brain was obviously cogitating hard to decide what to do next. “Take it or leave it.” Tisvir concluded simply.
Ilky’s mouth snapped shut and his shoulders slumped. “Very well,” he sighed, “If that is the way that it must be, then so be it. On our way over here, my guards and I intercepted a message addressed to der Kaiser. It came at a cost, though; poor Johan lost his life during the firefight.” He bowed his head in respect for the dead, then continued, “It was guarded by a troop of musketeers, but luckily we were able to overpower them.”
“Really?” Tisvir asked, surveying the group of unarmed goblins, “With what?”
“Our guns,” another goblin, a younger, black haired fellow with angry eyes responded. He was bedecked in hard leather armour, with a round plate on each shoulder that sported a row of three long spines. “We got a whole wagon-load of them, except your men confiscated it soon as we came into your camp! The bastards didn’t even let us keep our cutlasses!”
“Das genügt völlig, herr Frensberg,” Ilky chided the other goblin, then turned back to Tisvir with an apologetic smile. “Forgive young Lollban here,” he explained, “He is my sergeant; his family has served mine for generations. As you can see, he is very well-spoken in Common; he was raised speaking both our language and yours, and has hardly any accent in either. He is a good lad most of the time, if a bit, er, fiery.”
Tisvir nodded, recognizing Ilky’s attempts to diffuse the situation and fully willing to allow him to do so. “I see. So, what were the contents of this letter?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Ilky admitted, “I couldn’t exactly read it, you know? I mean, I know it is addressed to him because the writing on the cover clearly stated so, and there was the symbol of the Red Wheel on the stamp, too, but, well…” he paused, “It’s in, how do you say, um…code? Yes, I think that is it.”
“Really?” Tisvir extended a short hand, “May I see it?”
“But of course,” Ilky politely gave over the letter. Tisvir flipped open the letter (the seal was already broken), took out its contents, and examined it thoroughly. After a few minutes, he nodded slowly and spoke again.
“It’s an old military code; haven’t seen it in ages, but if you give me some time I can decipher it. Well, lads, I thank you for this valuable bit of information; you have done myself and my people a great service. We won’t execute you…for now.” This comment was made purely to see the look on their faces. “Anyhow, I’ll be keeping you and yours with me until I’ve deciphered the code, and while you’re here you will still need to be watched at all times.”
“Watched?” Ilky asked incredulously, “We just gave you some potentially critical information about our own people!”
“You misunderstand me,” Tisvir smiled kindly, “We are merely concerned for your safety. I would absolutely hate for one of you to get lost during the night and accidentally wander out of the camp all the way to the goblin border, where you unintentionally let slip any troop numbers and positions you saw on the way, believe me I would.”
“You think that we’re spying on you?” Lollban cried.
Tisvir’s face became a mask of shocked puzzlement. “Now what would give you that idea?” he asked, then turned to Ormun. “Call White Squad over here. I’ve some very important people who I want watched, and those boys are as good as any to do it.”
Ormun saluted. “Yes sir,” she rumbled and lumbered off, leaving Tisvir’s tent to do as she was bid. The general stared after her for a while, then turned back to the goblins. Three of them were currently restraining Lollban, who looked ready and willing to pounce on Tisvir and tear his throat out. Ilky was speaking hurriedly to the young goblin in his own tongue, trying desperately to assuage him. Tisvir doubted Ilky even guessed that the general could understand Gerban (the goblin tongue), but it was still a useful skill.
What Ilky was saying was, “Take it easy, Lollban. You must restrain yourself, else you may cause all of us to perish!”
“But that bastard!” Lollban barked, “That total bastard! We bring him information that could turn the tide of the coming war, and he imprisons us!”
"He has imprisoned nobody,” Ilky responded levelly, “Not yet, anyway. Keep up this mischief, though, and you may well be the first! Pull yourself together, man; we’re all on edge about what is happening, but we can ill afford rash actions and stupidity! Do you understand?”
Lollban seemed to calm down a bit, enough at least for the other goblins to let him go. Still, his glare at Tisvir did not disappear. The general merely smiled back; he had little doubt now that the goblins’ intentions were clean, but there was still that one little bit of uncertainty. It was better to be safe than sorry, and besides, it would not do for the men to see goblins walking around freely without guard. Anti-goblin sentiment had risen a considerable deal over the last few years; murmuring of spies would spread through the camp, until somebody decided to carry out an unauthorized execution. No, better to keep these goblins watched. There was no telling what trouble could be caused from failure to do so.
“Sir?” a voice jolted Tisvir back to reality. He turned around to see Ormun had returned with man in full military armour in the rigid saluting stance. He was taller than Tisvir (that goes without saying), his face was thirty-five years old, probably shaven with his cooking knife. He wore the full soldier’s gear, and had the sergeant’s stripes painted on his shoulder plate.
“At ease, sergeant,” Tisvir said, composing himself, “You would be Philip Doler, wouldn’t you then? Very good; I have a task that I think you would be the perfect man to see done. You can spare, oh, say, six men for a while, could you not?”
“Sir yes sir,” Philip responded, “I shall send my best men, sir.”
“Now, let’s not overkill here,” Tisvir smiled, “It’s just a few goblins I want watched, and I’m sure they’ll be on their best behavior.” He flashed a glance at the creatures in question, who were staring at him as one. “I hear you have a new lad on your squad; Jack or something like that…”
“Jake, sir,” Philip corrected him, “Jake Hammel.”
“Ah yes, Jake,” Tisvir could take being corrected much better than most other generals; the type of impudence that takes such a form would have earned Philip a sound flogging from some of the more stuck-up commanders Tisvir had known. “Well, this seems like a good mission to get the lad onto his feet with, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, if you say so, sir,” Philip responded. Tisvir caught the note of doubt in the sergeant’s voice, however, and raised an eyebrow (something few others could actually do).
“Is there something the matter, sergeant?” he asked.
“Um, no, not really, sir,” Philip assured him, straightening up suddenly. He paused, then said, “But, there’s, well, a thing about Jake. You see, he’s a good, enthusiastic lad sure enough, but, well…”
“Go on,” Tisvir encouraged.
Philip sighed. “Well, the thing is, you know how some Easterland warriors say that the sword should be an extension of the arm? Well, for Jake the sword is more of a protrusion.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s a crappy swordsman, sir.”
“Really? Has it not it been your responsibility to train him?”
“Yes sir.” Tisvir had never thought much of military training from other sources; thus, every soldier in his army was retrained to his specifications. As a result, nobody needed any sort of military record to join up. “It still hasn’t helped.”
“Hm,” Tisvir rubbed his chin, then shrugged. “Well, plenty of time for training later. If he’s really as bad as you say he is, then the boy could use a boost in confidence, and this mission is just the thing. Oh, don't worry; it’s a simple enough task, just watch one of the goblins for a while. Relax, man; it’s not as if I’m sending him into Hell to bring back the Devil’s head.”
“As you say, sir,” Philip threw another salute, then hurried off. Tisvir watched him leave for a while, wondering just how bad this new lad could possibly be. No matter; with his style of rigorous – but effective – training, the boy would be a match for any two of another general’s troops.
Tisvir turned back to the goblins. “Well then, I’ll leave you boys here with Ormun for a while; in the meantime, I’ll be getting right down to cracking this letter’s-” he waved the object in question “-code. Good day.”
He re-entered the tent, assured of a job well done.
* * * * *
Lollban snorted angrily once the general was out of sight, turning to his brethren. “Who does that bastard think he is, anyway?” he growled in his own language, “We bring him something that could change the tide of the war, and what does he do? Claps us in irons, that’s what!”
“/b>He has clapped nobody in irons yet, Lollban Frensberg,” Ilky said levelly, “But if you wish for that to change you’ve already gotten off to a good start! We’ve gotten the note into human hands, ones that can decipher it no less. This is good; with whatever information this letter contains, we may be able to assure that the Kaiser does not take over these lands. Even if a ball of fire were to fall from the sky, incinerating the six of us where we stand, we would die secure in the knowledge that we have at least done our part.”
“I still don’t know about that Tisvir, though,” another goblin, a sturdy, red-haired fellow with a metal chip screwed to his skull above the left eyebrow named Gonble Lichten, muttered, “He’s little bigger than us, and walks around in that arrogant, chest-puffing hands-behind-the-back pose. Have you all not seen him? He looks like a tit!”
“Be that as it may,” Ilky, the voice of reason here, responded, “He’s still our best hope. I have heard of this man before; his men are supposedly the finest in all the Human Empire. Perhaps you just have to get to know him.”
Lollban and Gonble exchanged glances. “Alright,” Lollban muttered, “But in case there is trouble on the horizon, I want to be watched by the little prick that the human general was talking about back there. That way, when the shit hits the cogwheels, I can overpower him and get to your side as quickly as need be.”
Ilky flinched slightly. Lollban was a loyal fellow, a bright lad too, but a bit of a victim to angry passion. “In that case, make sure there is no other course of action you can take, and that the situation is truly dire. The last thing we need is to cause problems in a camp full of creatures who know they will soon be making war on our race. You understand?”
“Yes,” Lollban shrugged, “I understand.” He looked to a group of five men approaching behind the one called Philip.
“Well,” Gonble muttered, “These would be our shadows, then?” He was right; the men lined up before the goblins, garbed in full war-gear with their blades sheathed but ready to be pulled free. The two groups sized each other up for a while, then Philip approached Ilky, throwing a quick salute as he did.
“These will be your bodyguards,” he announced, “Their names, if you’re interested, are Trent, Sandor, Cobblar, Gregory, and,” he flinched uncertainly as he said the final name, “Jake. They shall be with you at all times for your sole protection; if any harm comes to you it shall be over their dead, twisted, mangled, mutilated, blood-congealed, rigor-mortified bodies." He cast a sideways glance at his troops to see how they squirmed at this remark, then asked, "Any questions?”
“Yes,” Ilky said in polite, fluent Common, “There are five guardsmen with you. There are six goblins with me. Did you miscount or something?”
“Sir no sir,” Philip explained, “You see, I have taken the liberty of assigning your protection to myself; you being the leader of this band, I figured it would be most important that you be given my personal attention. That way, should any trouble arise, my entire squad will be at my side to save you from it.” He paused, obviously adding mentally “Assuming you aren’t the trouble’s cause.”
Ilky said nothing of this, though. He merely nodded, saying “Thank you,” as politely as possible. He would have to handle this situation very diplomatically, and hope that the rest of his goblins – Lollban especially – would do so, as well.
* * * * *
Lollban snorted derisively as he walked alongside his new bodyguard, that pup of a human they had called Jake. He was a young man, of fair complexion and bright blue eyes, whose blond brows seemed constantly raised in something like bewilderment. His gauntleted hand played worriedly with the hilt of the sword on his belt; the kid was nervous, if not downright scared. Lollban figured he could probably take this guy down with his bare claws if need be. Perhaps this was for the best; for one who has been placed on probation, it helps to be watched by another who can be easily taken down should trouble arise.
After a while, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to socialize a bit. “So, Jake, was it?” he asked, giving the boy a friendly grin. At least, to a goblin it would have been friendly; to Jake, who wasn’t used to seeing a smile full of fangs, it was obviously a bit of a shock.
“Um, yes indeed,” Jake said, clutching the handle of his sheathed sword as if for protection. He then straightened up again. “What is it that you want?”
“Hey, take it easy,” Lollban grinned toothily, “I just wanted to ask where we are going, that’s all.”
“Oh,” Jake muttered, trying to look the goblin in the eye and not in the teeth, “Right. Well, Sergeant Philip told me that I am to attend to my normal duties, and see to it that you accompany me the entire time. He also implied that if it is your wish to make yourself useful, then by all means do so.”
“Ah,” Lollban said, grinning with his mouth but glaring with his eyes, “I see.” The two walked in silence for a while, Lollban deep in contemplation. “Sergeant Philip”; there was something disturbing about this kid using that title to speak of the man. In this language, the way ordinary soldiers talk, you’re supposed to call him things like “Sarge”, not the full name-and-rank. Suddenly, Lollban realized that this was more than he ever could have hoped for; the lad was greener than his own skin! If crunch-time ever came around, he could probably shout, “BOO!” and run off while the kid was shitting himself!
He spoke again. “So, Philip is a sergeant, then? Who is his lord? Tisvir?”
“Um, I don’t know what you mean,” Jake muttered, then his eyes lit up. “Oh, you mean the old type of sergeant, the man who attends his liege in battle, right? You are that sort of sergeant, are you not?”
“Aye,” Lollban responded, “That I am. What other type of sergeant is there?”
“Well,” Jake said in a scholarly fashion, “There’s the type of sergeant Philip is. He puts the troops through sword-drill, assigns those below him in rank to menial tasks, and yells at us when he’s pissed off. When he’s not pissed off, he yells at us out of principle; half of sergeanting seems to be yelling at subordinates.”
“I see,” Lollban muttered, “Well, that’s…”
“I mean, it can’t be a very interesting job,” Jake continued in spite of the goblin, “He has to say the same damn things all the damn time. JAKE, WHY AREN’T YOU DOING THIS? JAKE, WHY AREN’T YOU DOING THAT? JAKE, ARE YOU FINISHED DIGGING THAT LATRINE? JAKE, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU DIGGING A LATRINE ANYWAY? YOU’RE ON KITCHEN DUTY!”
“Interesting,” Lollban muttered, flinching slighty, “Now, moving on…”
“JAKE, YOU SWING THAT SWORD LIKE A GIRL!” Jake went on angrily, “JAKE, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO HOLD THE OTHER END! JAKE, YOU HAVEN’T HIT THE DAMN TARGET-DUMMY YET!”
“Okay, okay,” Lollban grimaced, “I’ve got the picture, you’re…”
“WHAT IS YOUR MAJOR MALFUNCTION, JAKE?” The kid was ranting now. “YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON EARTH, JAKE! DROP ON THE GROUND LIKE A FILTHY MAGGOT AND GIMMIE TWENTY, JAKE! YOU…”
“ALRIGHT!” Lollban shouted. The two stopped dead in their tracks, Jake’s face twisting into a pale rictus of shock and fear. Everybody around had stopped to stare quizzically at the pair of them as they stood there in awkward silence.
“Erm, sorry,” Jake said sheepishly, “Carry on, carry on.”
The two started to walk again, and gradually those around got back to their individual duties. The two marched in silence awhile, looking around every which way so long as it was not in the direction of the other companion.
Finally, Lollban started up the conversation again. “Well, where are we going now?”
“Um, what?” Jake was jolted out of the awkward silence.
“Where are we going now?” Lollban repeated, “You said you had duties to attend to. What are they? I might be able to lend a hand.”
“Oh, it’s menial stuff,” Jake said, waving his left hand dismissively, “Today I’m on latrine duty.”
“Oh joy,” Lollban grumbled sarcastically, “We get to dig shit-holes. Great; what a romp in the park.”
“Um, not exactly,” Jake grinned nervously, “I mean, we’re not actually digging any latrines here.”
“Huh?” the goblin wondered, "What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” Jake seemed to take a profound interest in one of the clouds hanging overhead, “You see, the thing is, we don’t have any more space for latrines in the camp, and Tisvir does a bit of other business with farmers to help fund his armies, and, well…” He noticed that Lollban had stopped, halted himself, then looked down to meet the goblin’s piercing gaze.
“What…the…hell…do…you…mean?” Lollban growled.
“We’re not digging new latrines,” Jake explained, “We’re digging out the old ones.”
Lollban cried out in frustration. “Ach, sheizer!”
* * * * *
Philip walked silently next to his goblin companion, rubbing his chin pensively. “So, Ilky, was it?” he asked, “You’re a noble then, huh? How was that working out for you? You know, before that whole Industrial Revolution thing.”
“Oh, fairly well,” the goblin responded politely, “I was actually more of an alchemist, really. My brothers ran the lands and let me work in my lab with my chemicals most of the time. I made some pretty useful things, you know; too bad I could not have brought most of them with me when I fled.”
“Really?” Philip muttered, “Useful things like what?”
“Well, there is one invention I made that I was able to take with me. It’s called the cartridge; it is comprised of enough gunpowder to send a small bullet a reasonable distance at high speed, all stuffed into one little tube. With the right design of gun, these inventions will revolutionize the speed and efficiency with which firearms can be reloaded. I thought that maybe if I brought a few here, your race may reap the benefits of having an effective tool with which to fight back against the Industrialists.”
“Well,” Philip mumbled, “That’s thoughtful.”
“Thank you,” Ilky grinned, “I could give you a demonstration, if you trust me enough to take me back to the wagon.”
A bright red warning sign flashed in Philip’s brain. “Um, you know,” he said, “I can actually be a very good listener. Why don’t you just tell me about them while we walk?”
Ilky shrugged. If the man’s reaction disappointed the goblin in the least, he did not show it. “As you say, sergeant. Well, I told you of certain guns that can be manufactured specifically to fire bullets with cartridges, did I not? Bah, don’t bother answering that; if I didn’t before I just did there, didn’t I? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the guns. I have a whole bunch in the wagon, you know. Not only five barrels and who-knows how many pouches full of gunpowder, but also twelve muskets, standard issue for most heavy goblin infantry. Five big old blunderbu…um, blunderbusses, blunderbussi, something like that. Anyway, do you know what those are? No? Well, they’re like muskets, except they fire a spray of small objects very hard. You can really put anything in them, I’ll tell you; so long as it’s small enough to fit in with all the other junk.
“And then we have the guns that fire cartridges. I actually have the first one that I ever made in that wagon, you know; the successful prototype of the first shoot-gun in the world. To operate it, you place the magazine of cartridges into an opening in the top of the gun, letting the first bullet slide into place. Then, once you’ve fired the gun, you use a little pump mechanism with a blade attached to cut loose the used cartridge, tipping the nozzle forward so it can fall out. Thus, a new cartridge will immediately slide into place, allowing you to fire until the magazine is spent. Interesting, is it not? I think so. I tell you, one can hardly keep Lollban away from the thing. He was the first to fire it; ever since he has used it almost exclusively.”
“Uh.” Philip found himself fearing for poor Jake’s safety with that maniac green-skin.
“As well, we have brought with us several cartridge-rifles, although we’ve no ammunition for them. I don’t know why, but somehow we forgot to pack it; oh well. Also, we have our very own custom-made gattling gun, so named for the way it seems to cry “GATTLE-GATTLE-GATTLE!” as you fire it. Granted, the Industrialists have long ago invented a gun much like it, although their machines are not nearly as advanced or efficient. While theirs rely on a steady stream of bullets and a trickle of gunpowder, mine uses cartridge technology to maintain a fast, steady flow of fire. It takes two to fire, really; one to aim and operate the machine, the other to feed the chain of ammunition into the gun. Interesting, yes?”
“Indeed,” Philip responded, now somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of a creature who spoke so enthusiastically of such lethal weapons. Of course, he had heard men making similar exclamations about highly prized – and priced – blades, spears and axes, but a sword is a sword. You showed it off, waved it in the air and roared to cow the enemy, and actually fought with it. In a way, it was just a tool for keeping yourself alive. But these guns, though; they were different. You couldn’t parry a canon ball, or take a used bullet and fire it back at the enemy. When you held a gun, you were holding a weapon in the truest sense of the word; a device designed not for fighting, or even keeping you alive. It was a device designed specifically for killing.
Philip had never liked killing. Of course, he recognized it to be part of every soldier’s job and remembered doing so a number of times before. Even so, the better part of most battles was just fighting – hacking, parrying, thrusting, dodging, until finally either you or your enemy caught the other off-guard and slew him. But killing with a sword was different; if the other man held a weapon too, then he still had a chance, no matter how small. But guns were the most dangerous things imaginable; at least with an arrow, you could catch it on your shield or even armour. Neither of those things would make the faintest difference against a man – or goblin – with a gun.
“So,” Philip continued, “You’re wearing some pretty heavy quilting for this sort of weather, don’t you think? I mean, the under-armour gambeson is standard-issue with most troops here and in most other armies, but, well…it looks like you could slog through a blizzard in that.”
“Oh, this,” Ilky chattered conversationally, “It does look like a quilt I’ll grant you, but it is actually much more. You see, I specifically designed this armour to withstand bullet-fire. It’s made up of many pads of lead placed inside the quilt; this armour has a ninety percent chance of seeing me alive and well through a hail of musket-fire, easily.”
“Wow.” Philip would have to consider investing in one of these some time. With the threat of a new war with the goblin nation, he might very well need it.
“Indeed,” Ilky grinned, “Although it is still not yet completely perfect, I have been thinking of ways to improve the design. I’ve also just recently – on the trip here, in fact – invented a knife that can be fitted to the end of a gun for use in melee combat. Pretty neat, yes?”
“Uh huh,” A knife on the end of a gun…what’s the point of that? Isn’t the fact that the guy’s holding a gun enough? He has to have a knife on the end of it, too? Philip shook his head; what kind of creatures were these goblins?
“Hopefully,” Ilky rambled on, “With the inventions I have brought to you and yours, humanity will be able to massively produce them in time for the eventual – er, I mean, possible goblin invasion.” You’re not fooling anyone, Philip thought. “Who knows," the goblin continued, undaunted, "Perhaps when my race sees how well-armed your race will become, they will start to talk peace instead.”
There was a desperate, fleeting – yet still ultimately doomed – hope in Ilky’s voice that Philip detected immediately. He felt a small surge of pity for the goblin; he was obviously a good guy deep down, despite his, well…weirdness. This scrawny, bespectacled creature in a funny bullet-proof quilt obviously wanted a war like this just as little as he himself, and now it seemed that conflict between their two races was inevitable.
Philip said nothing of his thoughts; rather, he merely shrugged. “We can only hope,” he said with less feeling than he would have liked. He no longer had any real doubts of this goblin’s good will, but he still needed to watch the green-skin, if only to protect him from his fellow troops.
Even so, poor Jake; he could only wonder how the lad was doing.
* * * * *
Lollban grumbled as he dug, plunging a shovel longer than his own body into the muck inside one latrine. Grunting, he heaved the gunk out of the pit and threw it into a small wheel-barrow that lay nearby. He sighed, exhaling through his mouth because his long, sensitive nose was already plugged with two pieces of cloth. “That about does it for this shit-hole,” he muttered, turning to Jake. He stared for a couple of seconds, then asked, “Just what the hell are you doing?”
Jake himself was grunting with frustration as he swung his sword. The target at which he was swinging was his own helmet on the end of his shovel, which was propped upright in the earth. He recognized this game; the object was to hit the stick right below the helmet in immitation of a decapitating blow. So far, though, the lad seemed to have done naught but put several new dents in his helmet.
“Taking a break,” he muttered without looking at the goblin, “I’ve got to practice my sword-swings, you know.”
“What?” Lollban barked, “So I’m the only one who’s going to be digging out all of these shitters? Come on, give me some help here!”
Jake paused, then sheathed his sword with a sigh. “Alright,” he said, subdued. Without another word to say, he took the helmet from the end of the shovel, placed it back on his own head, grabbed the tool and proceeded to dig out the next latrine in silence. Lollban had never needed to read human expression before, but it was obvious to him that the kid was sad about something. Unexpectedly, he felt a flash of remorse.
Holding his shovel awkwardly, the young goblin trudged over to the young man's side and started digging. They did so in silence for a while, before Lollban finally said, “Um, about how I yelled at you there; I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to hurt you or anything.”
Jake shrugged. “It’s alright,” he responded, “I’m used to being yelled at. Even before I joined the army people were hollering at me. What difference does it make that a goblin’s doing so, too?”
Lollban rubbed his neck uncomfortably, glaring into the dirt instead of Jake’s eyes. He had offered an apology, and something about the way the kid had reacted to it ticked him off that much more. Zehn, neun, acht… he counted in his head all the way down to eins in order to keep his temper under control, then looked back at the young man. Jake, however, merely continued shoveling mechanically. “Just a question,” he asked, “But what were you doing before you joined up?”
Jake sighed, dropping his shovel and sitting down on the edge of the hole. “That’s a bit of a story, there,” he said.
Lollban sat beside the young man. “Trust me,” he responded, “I’d rather listen to it than shovel this shit for another shec- I mean, second.”
Jake smiled wanly. “Okay,” he conceded, “I’ll tell you.”
Jake told of how he was born into the Clan Hammel, a rich merchant family whose potentate was Jake’s very own father. Jake told of how harsh and strictly regimented his childhood had been; seeing as his old man was an extremely busy person, he had been sent to several boarding schools for the young boys of rich families. The teachers there were strict at best, and downright cruel at worst. His peers, too, were often surly, obnoxious bullies who took pleasure in mean pranks and tricks. Then, when he had reached manhood at thirteen, he was sent to the University of Ar’tia. It had been horrible there; he had no real friends among the snobbish, ignorant fools who had attended that institute. It also seemed that there, too, the teachers were not hired for their kind words; the professors in that university were expected to be strict, an expectation which they more often than not exceeded.
This was not Jake’s only problem, though; there were several gangs of bullies which seemed to enjoy making sport of him. The first of these was Davie’s Dobblers, a gang of ruffians from rich families led by David “Davie” Loustariel, a pug-ugly brute with muscles like bundles of ropes. He and his gang mostly spent their days skipping classes so they could go a-drinking and a-whoring in the city, and spent their nights skipping studying so they could do the same. They were also known for brawling and proving how tough they were by ganging up on lone people; Jake was one of their favorite targets.
Another was the Briar Street Bitches, a gang from the young ladies’ campus on Briar Street. They were the most notorious female gang in the University; their flirtations were shameless, and often used to play cruel games with their male targets. Jake had once been the hapless subject of one of their games; one of them had seduced him, led him on over the course of a few months, and then torn his heart in two. Then they had started to gleefully spread all sorts of nasty rumors and lies about Jake until his reputation was ruined beyond repair; this being done, they sometimes decided to gang up on him and bear him down under a hail of taunts and long, scraping nails.
The final and worst gang that took pleasure from harassing Jake, though, was one of the biggest reasons why he had left school in the first place. It did not have a name that incorporated mildly clever alliteration, or members that gave half a damn for ruining people’s reputations. No, these guys were the bullies who bullies feared; known only as the Skarz, nobody messed around with them. Their parents were among the richest, most influential people in all the Human Empire, which meant that they could get away with anything they wanted. They didn’t go a-whoring (the woman who’s whoring has to be paid – and consenting), they didn’t drink (they just binged), they didn’t go to drug houses (with the intention of paying) or to tattoo parlors (knife-work was good enough for them – they weren’t called “Skarz” for nothing). Some things that they did do was brawl and bully their fellow classmates, and nobody could do anything about it for fear of their families’ wrath. Jake was one of their most unfortunate targets; other bullies stopped in mid-mugging and ran away when the Skarz came looking for him.
Thus, when Jake had reached the age of twenty he had decided that he’d had enough; packing up a few belongings and enough food to last him for a couple weeks, he hired a horse and rode as far away from Ar’tia as possible. It hadn’t occurred to him what to do once he had run away, though; he had no skills or training in any sort of practical profession. Fortunately, salvation came in the form of a recruiting poster in a small town he stopped off in for supplies; it read:
GRAND-PA TISVIR WANTƒ YOU TO JOYNE THEE ARMIE!
Following the directions given below this description and the funny picture of a little man pointing and glaring grimly at the viewer, Jake traveled to the nearest recruiting station. He was accepted almost immediately, and before he knew it he was on his way to Tisvir’s army, and a new life.
“There are a lot of things that I don’t like about the way that I’m living right now,” Jake explained, “But at least it’s better than university. Granted, I learned quite a few things there; how to read, how to write, how to make poetry…”
“I see,” Lollban muttered.
“Proper etiquette,“ Jake continued, unabashed, “Good hygene, a reasonable understanding of history, and it completely got rid of all of my bad habits.”
“Bad habits?” Lollban asked before he could stop himself.
“Oh yes,” said Jake, the Amazing Man Who Can Keep No Secret, “Things like picking my nose, scratching my you-know-what, scratching my other you-know-whats, writing with my left hand…”
“Hold on,” Lollban said, “What was that last part?”
“Scratching my other you-know-whats?” Jake asked, furrowing his brow, “Why are you interested in…”
“Gah!” Lollban interrupted, “No, no, not that! I meant the other last part! And seriously, don’t bring those you-know-whats up again! Ever!”
“Okay,” Jake responded, “Do you mean that part where I was writing with my left hand?”
“Yes, exactly!”
Jake shrugged. “Bad habit, that. It’s part of a proper education to break kids out of it when they start, you know; children need to know how to all write alike…”
“Jake,” Lollban asked, “Did it ever occur to you that you might be left-handed?”
“Huh?” the young man muttered, confused, “What do you mean?”
“Left handed,” the goblin explained, “Don’t you know how most people’s dominant hand is their right, but with some people it’s their left?”
Jake shook his head. “I was never taught that,” he said.
“Well,” Lollban said, rising to his feet and picking up his shovel, “This may just explain how banal your swordsmanship is. You’ve been using your right hand all this time when you should be using your left; gods, how come somebody else hasn’t spotted it yet?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Jake muttered.
Lollban sighed. “Come on,” he said, planting the shovel. He then plucked the helmet from Jake’s head and hung it on the tool’s end. “Using your left hand,” he instructed, “Take the helmet off of that shovel.”
Jake rose to a standing position. “You’re sure this is going to work?” he asked.
“Trust me,” Lollban said, “It’s going to work. I am sure about it.” He flashed another reassuringly fang-filled grin. Shuddering involuntarily, Jake drew his sword, took it in his left hand, and swung.
It was perfect. His first stroke cleft the part of the shovel’s stick right below the bottom of his helmet, sending both it and the useless clump of wood beneath tumbling to the ground.
“What did I tell you, kid?” Lollban smiled toothily.
“Whoah,” was all that Jake could say as he stood, staring in shock and growing excitement at the blade in his left hand,
* * * * *
Tisvir sat in his tent that night, staring determinedly at the letter. At this late hour his old man’s body was growing weary, yet still he sacrificed the sleep that he so desired in order to finish cracking the code. It was tough; the old-school military codes usually were. Having not used it for so long, he was not sure he remembered half of how to decipher the message…oh damn…
“My general?” a sibilant, melodious voice whispered through the tent. Tisvir needed not even turn his head to know who it was; Scoutmaster Myinze was unmistakable. Who would have known that such a voice as his could come from what looked like a cross between an eagle and a crow’s beak? Most humans had never seen a being like Myinze, and even if they did they would hardly know what to make of him. Words like “Monster” “Demon” “Serpent” would enter their vocabulary, but Tisvir knew better than to think of Myinze as any of these things.
Myinze’s knobby-nailed feet clopped like a horse’s hooves on the ground as he approached the general, no doubt using his usual smooth swagger. He was the army’s token kukushtidd, a being that could be separated into four quarters; his neck, his tail, his legs, and everything else. In some ways he resembled a snake, in some ways an ostrich, and others a human. Walking in his usual gait, he was about nine feet in height. His legs, feet and neck were like that of one of the large, veldt-running birds (aside from the third joint in the most former feature), his tail was like that of a snake, and his chest was almost like that of a human, albeit with a slightly avian twist. His arms were almost completely human, save for the fact that they ended in three-fingered hands with a large, knobby nail on the end of each. These hands were far from clumsy, though; Myinze himself was the most dexterous creature that Tisvir could think of.
One of the things that still caught Tisvir’s attention, though, was his face. Myinze’s entire body was reptilian, covered in light blue scales instead of skin. His face was smooth yet at the same time bony, fixated with a large beak. These were all small side-notes, however, compared to his eyes; his cunning, extremely intelligent eyes. They were not lizard’s eyes, or even cat’s eyes. They were normal eyes, like one would see when looking at the face of a fellow human; so dark blue that they were almost black, they still held an underlying yet undeniable element of the sincerest honesty, determination and valor.
Myinze swaggered to his general’s side. “The scouts are back,” he said, “I took the liberty of sending them to see to the fate of the messengers we sent out earlier today. Indeed, the emissaries’ heads now rest upon pikes atop the fortifications about the gypsies’ camps; I am afraid that a peaceful resolution may not be possible. You will see it for yourself on the morrow.”
“Indeed,” Tisvir sighed. Damn it; somehow he had known it would come to this. A good general hopes for the best but prepares for the worst, because quite often the latter will come to pass. Myinze was a trustworthy creature if ever there was one, Tisvir knew; seventeen years they had fought and bled together, and never once had the kukushtidd let him down.
Myinze said nothing; rather, his long, snakey neck wove its way down past Tisvir’s shoulder so that he could read the letter up close. “It’s an old code,” the kukushtidd observed, “You are trying to decipher it?”
“Aye,” Tisvir responded, “One of the goblins brought it into camp with him; it seems to be important information. You have heard of the goblins here in camp, have you not?”
Myinze nodded, pulling his neck back and studying the letter from further up. “But of course I have; one would be hard pressed to find somebody who has not. And I especially always have my ear to the ground, figuratively speaking of course.” Figuratively speaking indeed; kukushtidds have no visible ears.
Tisvir shrugged dismissively. “I must be getting old,” he muttered, turning back to the letter, “I keep forgetting things, like how to crack this bloody code.”
Myinze smiled, an action that can best be described as turning up the “lips” that extended from where his beak ended. “It is a hard code to crack, I’ll give you that. You have, of course, considered that it is in a different language?”
Tisvir slapped himself on his own balding forehead, chuckling in spite of himself. “There’s the forgetfulness again,” he chortled, “It’ll be the death of me one of these days!”
An expression of genuine concern crossed Myinze’s face. “Now don’t say that, my general,” he pleaded. Some would have read something sinister into such words coming from a smooth-talking reptile like him, but Tisvir knew better. He had known Myinze for long enough to recognize that the kukushtidd was 100 percent loyal to his general and friend.
“Oh, come now,” Tisvir laughed, “You know that talk like that is all just poppycock; I’ve some life in me yet, don’t you know. Still, if you’ve any more aid to render me in this task, I would be glad if you could help me. Um,” he paused, “Do you speak Gerban, by any chance?”
“Yevol,” Myinze responded with a small smile.
“Dat ist gut,” Tisvir muttered, then they both turned to the letter. Slowly, over the course of a couple hours, they deciphered the code, translating it into the language spoken by those who had written the letter and writing the words down on a handy piece of parchment. At the end, when they had finished their work, Tisvir could barely keep his eyes open; his vision was blurry, his head was muddled. Most all he could think about was his nice bed, which stood only a few feet away…
“My general?” Myinze’s voice rolled through his mind. Tisvir looked blearily up into the kukushtidd’s face as the creature silently read what they had written; even in this exhausted state, he could clearly see the worry written all over the being’s features. “This is serious,” Myinze continued, “It says here…” he told Tisvir the entire contents of the message. The effect of his doing so was like being doused by a bucket of water; by the end, Tisvir was almost fully awake, a feeling of horror rising up in his belly.
“Oh my,” he muttered, “This is worse than I ever could have imagined…”
CHAPTER #2: WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!
Mistress Sella Enferiellus stood atop the palisades of the northern gypsy camp, her hand resting calmly on the ornate hilt of her smooth, curving saber. Her dress on this day was long, flowing and colourful, made from fine, intricate fabrics with delicate lacing. It was an outfit like one may wear to carnival or some important meeting or ceremony, not for heavy traveling or battle. Indeed, she intended to do neither of the latter today; although she knew that the army of Imperial warriors would be coming her way the moment they had finished picking up camp, she doubted that they would have the time to even begin preparations. Her allies would see to that.
She glanced up at the pike on which one of the messengers’ heads had been placed. She felt a brief flash of sympathy for the man; a young, hearty lad, not bad looking either, who would have had so many years left in him had he not embarked on this final, fatal errand. He probably wasn’t of the bad sort, but even so he was an enemy, and to be treated as such. No doubt those scouts who had thought they had been so sneaky and inconspicuous sneaking around outside camp had seen his severed head, and reported back to their general with the news. Whether the man would be cowed or outraged Sella knew not; no matter. He would soon be deceased either way.
Even so, Sella did not like this one bit. She and her gypsies were all skilled in the deadly arts, but never in history had they rallied together into armies to go to war. Sella herself had never guessed that such days would be hers; she had been a traveler, a performer before theCcall of the woodland spirits had brought beckoned her to come and serve with her other gypsy brethren. As it turned out, she was a natural leader, but although she had proven to have a good understanding of military tactics, she knew that in her heart she would always be an entertainer. She wanted nothing more than for this war to be over with so that she could go back to traveling with her little band. Tactics and warfare and severed heads were all part of what needed to be done here, but this did not make her feel any better.
Looking into the relatively thin woods before her, she saw dozens of snarling, scaley figures blur past. Garbed in furs, leaves, bark and other things scrounged from the forest, many painted almost completely blue with woad dye, the lizardmen were a fearsome sight indeed. They were a violent, savage race, but they, too, were held under the sway of the master who had enlisted the aid of the gypsies. Sella knew that she need not fear them, but still the very sight of the reptiles sent a shiver down her spine.
She could not but pity the poor fools who these lizardmen would soon be making their prey.
* * * * *
Tisvir’s camp was not an undefended area. Aside from a palisade curtain-wall, about twice the height of a man and broken every few meters by a lookout tower, it was surrounded by a ditch filled with stakes. The walls were manned at all hours, and thus an attack would not come unchecked.
Near-around mid-morning that day Jake and Lollban lounged lazily in one of the watch towers. Jake had been placed on sentry duty, displaying just how small the chance of being attacked really was. Still, it always did well to have somebody on watch while the rest of the army packed up; you never knew what might happen.
Lollban sighed as he stared out into the trees. This place was too natural for his liking; not a good, honest stone or brick building in sight, no plumes of smoke from factory chimneys, no reassuring sounds of a working society. Everything was just sitting there, all green and, well…wild. So far as Lollban was concerned, those trees were just firewood that hadn’t found its place in life yet. He didn’t like these woods; oh, to be home again…
At the moment, Jake was practicing his left-handed sword-slashes on a practice dummy they had somehow smuggled up into the tower. He cried out gleefully as he struck each successful hit, gradually tearing the straw from the dummy’s body.
It was while he was doing this that Lollban noticed something. At first there seemed to be a rustling within the woods, as if some thing – or things – were moving within. Gradually, as whatever it was drew closer, the sounds of many harsh, snarling voices could be heard. Then, in an instant, dozens of lizard-like creatures burst from the tree-line, screaming first in rage, then in terror as they fell helplessly into the spike-laden ditch.
Lollban blinked stupidly, then turned around. “Um, Jake?” he addressed his distracted companion, “Excuse me? Are you listening?”
Reluctantly, Jake ceased his attempts at murdering the unfortunate dummy long enough to look at Lollban. “Yes?” he asked, still grinning proudly.
The goblin chucked a thumb at the scene unfolding outside the wall. “Is that supposed to be happening?” he asked.
Jake peered out of the tower, then gasped in fright. “Sweet mercy,” he cried, then turned to a bell on a nearby hook. Ringing it furiously, he shouted, “ATTENTION! ATTENTION! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”
Lollban gulped, looking back out at the advancing army. “Oh crap,” he muttered.
* * * * *
If one thing could be said for Tisvir’s soldiers, they were quick and efficient. Once the warning bell had been rung, nearly every man in the army was on the move. Squads of warriors hustled to the walls, swords drawn and ready to kill. Crossbowmen hurried to the towers, firing down into the lizardmen below.
The first wave of reptiles was nearly decimated between the ditch and the defenders with crossbows. However, others came behind them carrying ladders, grappling hooks and even a few large battering rams. Some trampled over the bodies of those already caught in the ditch on their way to the walls and started scaling them with their own bare claws. It was not long before a full-scale battle was being waged for control of the palisade fortifications; blades clashed, blood spurted, warriors screamed as they killed and died.
Philip grunted as he swung his blade, bringing it down at a lizardman’s head. The creature let out a hissing grunt as it raised its own rusty short-sword in defense, then stabbed at the man. Philip knocked the weapon away with his buckler, then struck again. This time the lizardman dodged, lashing out wildly. Philip swung his sword, however, smacking his opponent’s weapon out of the way before plunging his own blade into the lizardman’s chest. The creature hissed painfully as it died, purple blood spurting everywhere. Philip braced himself as the liquid spattered his face; it was a good thing Ilky was with Tisvir at the moment. He doubted the goblin would last long in close-quarters combat.
Turning around, Philip faced another two oncoming lizardmen. Both were big, burly fellows, about six and a half feet in height; one held an axe, the other a broadsword. They attacked furiously, chopping wildly at the sergeant and forcing him back. Philip swung his blade with skilled concentration, parrying every attack that could have potentially hit him. So fixated was he on the fight, however, that he backed right into another lizardman, who had fortunately been preoccupied with another soldier from White Squad. Both he and the lizardman noticed when their backs hit, but it was Philip who reacted first. Turning around on his heel, he punched with his sword hand, stunning the lizardman with the hilt of his sword. Meanwhile, his left hand caught the creature’s shoulder and, turning back to face the original two enemies, Philip pushed the stunned lizardman into them.
The other two lizardmen paused in their attack; savage though they were, they apparently were not keen on cutting through their own kind to get to the enemy. Philip used this to his advantage; surging forward with a yell, he skewered the stunned lizardman through the back, pushing his sword all the way through its body and into that of the broadsword-lizard behind it. This left only the axe-wielding lizardman facing Philip; as the man tried to free his blade, the creature hissed and swung, aiming to decapitated the sergeant. Philip had no choice but to jump back, forsaking his weapon but saving his life – however briefly.
As the creature prepared for another strike, the soldier who Philip had just aided charged forward. The man, an brown-faced grunt named Holmar Makir, cried out as he swung his slightly curved blade. The lizardman snarled painfully, backing up and now bearing a bloody gash on its right arm. Holmar pushed forward, though, thrusting at the creature’s blue-painted belly. The lizardman, however, dodged aside, raising its axe as it did, and brought the weapon down on the man’s head. There was a sickening crunch as the poor soldier’s helmet crumpled and skull cracked, sending bits of brains flying everywhere. Hissing in triumph, the lizardman turned to Philip, who stood, staring dumbly. The look in the creature’s eyes was that of a wolf eyeing a particularly juicy piece of meat.
One thing that could be said for Philip, though, was that he always came prepared. He always had a small soldier’s kit of utensils, first aid equipment, and other things hanging from his belt. Drawing his dagger with one hand and his cooking knife with the other, he barked a challenge at the creature. He would have to play this out carefully; that lizardman was strong, and one swing with that big, muscular arm could probably put an axe right through his breastplate. Briefly Philip wished he had taken the time to retrieve his sword, but it was too late for that now.
The lizardman charged with an enraged hiss, swinging its axe. Philip could not avoid it, so instead he raised his buckler and hoped for the best. The stroke from the axe smashed the buckler, sending painful vibrations through his wrist and causing him to drop the cooking knife with a painful cry. Still, Philip pushed on, ducking under the lizardman’s defenses and stabbing with his dagger. The blade slid smoothly between the lizardman’s ribs; the beast hissed painfully as it lashed out in the throes of death.
Pushing himself away, Philip clenched and unclenched the fingers on his left hand. His entire arm still wrung painfully, but at least nothing appeared to have been broken – except for the buckler, of course. Sighing with frustration, Philip used the brief respite to sheath his dagger and pull free his sword. Then it was back to the fight; another two lizardmen appeared, crawling over the wooden fortifications and turning their baleful eyes on Philip, who looked around for some backup. All of the other members of his squad were currently embroiled in conflict, though; thus Philip grunted in frustration, raised his blade, let out another battle-cry, and charged.
* * * * *
Jake was scared; really scared. He had never been in a real battle before, and was not enjoying his first experience. The blood, the screams, the fact that at this moment, in this place, there were people who were here specifically to kill him and his comrades…it was all way too overwhelming.
Being about three times the height of a man, the watch towers were not bearing the full brunt of the attack. It was for this reason that most of the archers had stationed themselves in them; Jake’s own watch tower now held four other men, three with crossbows, one with a longbow.
It was then, however, that one of the crossbowmen, who was firing at the lizardmen still outside the wall, screamed as a reptilian claw shot up, grabbed him around his throat, and pulled him over the battlements. Then up crawled a lizardman, snarling and menacing with a wicked-looking dagger. Three arrows launched at once, all straight into the being’s chest. The lizardman hissed as it toppled back from the edge of the battlements, but in its place appeared three more.
Lollban jumped immediately into action. Picking up the fallen lizardman’s dagger, he cried out and lunged, sticking one of the lizardmen almost immediately. The beast’s body, however, toppled forward onto the little goblin, bearing him to the ground. This still left two, though; one held a pair of scimitars, the other a hook on the end of a four-foot stick. The former hurled one of its weapons, taking another crossbowman through the chest, while the other swung its hook, braining the longbowman. The other crossbowman screamed as he fled the tower, jumping out into the camp and landing in a wagon filled with hay placed conveniently below. This left Jake standing there, quivering as the two lizardmen turned their attention to him.
The lizardmen hissed. Jake screamed. The lizardmen then surged forward, both slashing at the same time. Jake, however, threw what was left of the practice dummy at them, then closed his eyes and swung wildly. It was a lucky blow; Jake felt his sword cut through something, then opened his eyes just in time to see the scimitar-bearing lizard’s head roll. This still left the hook-holder, however; the lizardman paused a second to take in his comrade’s fate, then turned to the young man and issued a challenging hiss.
Shrieking in horror, Jake swung wildly, his panic-addled brain scrambling to remember proper swordsman's technique. The lizardman fought back, although it obviously was not accustomed to fighting with a left-handed warrior. The duel seemed to carry on for a tedious amount of time, as both hacked at one another while at the same time keeping their distance. It was brought to a final resolution, however, when Lollban finally managed to shift the body of the lizardman he had slain from his own, then stuck his new knife into the back of the reptile Jake had been fighting.
“Thank you,” Jake said, wiping away the sweat that beaded his brow, “I owe you one, friend.”
“No problem,” Lollban muttered, “But if there’s one thing for sure, it’s that this wall isn’t going to hold out for long. We have to get out of here!”
“And go where?” Jake asked.
Lollban said nothing, but merely started climbing down the ladder to the base of the tower. Jake opened his mouth to speak, decided against it, and followed suit. From there they started running into the camp, as Jake noticed many other men were starting to do, as well. As they ran the goblin elaborated: “If we can get to the wagon with all the guns in it, I’ll be able to arm myself – and maybe you – and we can hold off these lizards for at least a while. There’s too many of them out there for this army alone to defeat, but I’m willing to bet that these beasts’ scaly hides aren’t bullet-proof! We can at least take a few down with us if we can just get to the guns!”
Jake gulped. That last part was in no way reassuring.
* * * * *
Philip knew not when he had lost contact with the rest of White Squad, and personally he didn’t care. It was becoming ever clearer in his mind that the wall was lost; men fled it like rats from a sinking ship. Meanwhile the lizardmen just poured in from the forest, now attacking the Eastern and Western walls as well. He could hear their triumphant shrieks, saw them station their own archers in the watch towers they had once been attacking. Soon arrows were raining down on the warriors fleeing into the camp. It seemed that these beasts were unstoppable; he would soon have to retreat himself.
Swinging his blade wildly, he hacked and smashed his way through the lizardmen in a desperate bid to reach the nearest stairway to the ground. Fortunately, his passage was aided by the presence of other soldiers doing likewise; within moments, he was off of the wall, down the wooden stairs and running into the camp. Behind him the hisses and shrieks continued, and arrows flitted by as he ran, either thunking into the ground or bodies of other men. Philip felt an unusual burst of panic; it there was one way he did not want to die, getting mowed down by arrow-fire while retreating was it.
All of a sudden one of the men running in front of Philip tripped and fell forward. The cause of this proved to be a spear shoved into the ground before the man’s feet; its holder was one of four lizardmen who had been hiding behind a tent. These creatures now hissed and snarled as they jumped out, attacking the fleeing men as they ran past.
Philip met one head-on, swinging his blade. The creature parried with its own weapon, then jabbed. Philip backed up, pulling his sword back, and swung forward, causing the lizardman to raise its own blade in defense. Philip then drew his weapon back, feinted a strike to the left only to bring his weapon in a curving arc from the right. The lizardman was caught off guard, and went down with a painful scream and a spurt of blood.
Philip then faced a second lizardman, who slashed at him with two long daggers. The man dodged back, and was right to do so; encrusting the twin weapons’ blades was some sick greenish substance. A brief glance at some of the already-fallen soldiers showed them prostrate on the ground, twitching as green foam bubbled uncontrollably from their mouths and nostrils, their eyes circling aimlessly in their skulls. The lizardman attacked again, slashing and stabbing wildly yet with frightening skill and precision, trying to open a gap in Philip’s defenses. The sergeant parried every strike as well as he could, knowing that even the slightest scrape from one of those poison-crusted daggers could spell his doom.
Alas, such a fate was not to be his this day; one of Tisvir’s trollish warriors lumbered into the middle of the fight. Obviously the creature had already seen a good deal of action; yet even though he panted and huffed as his giant shoulders heaved, his eyes blazing red with killing-lust. The troll was nine feet tall, had thick, gravelly gray skin, and a big-eared, big-nosed and big-toothed face that only a mother could love. Covering most of his body was enough chain mail and metal plating to make three normal footmen’s armour, and in one massive, four fingered hand was clenched an axe that Philip doubted he could ever lift. In the troll’s massive hand, though, the great weapon looked like a small hatchet.
Roaring, the troll swung his axe down at the lizardman, cleaving through its head and torso all in one go and spattering everything around with the creature’s blood and guts. Grunting, he turned to obliterate another lizardman, only to find that a dozen more were swarming into the camp from behind. Bellowing in outrage, the troll waded into these, smashing about with his axe, sending weapons and body bits flying every which way.
Briefly, Philip considered helping the brute, but decided against it. Trolls seemed to fight best when vastly outnumbered; the presence of enemies all around just meant that wherever the troll struck, one of those bastards was going to die. If the troll felt too overwhelmed he would cut his own path of retreat through the bodies of his foes, Philip was certain. All the sergeant knew, though, was that he was nowhere near as powerful as the beast, so he might as well use this diversion of the lizardmen’s attention to his advantage.
Go to Tisvir’s tent, he told himself as he continued running, That’s what all the other sergeants are probably trying to do. If we make a stand there, we might just be able to hold these lizard-freaks off for a while. He only hoped that he was right about this.
* * * * *
Tisvir burst from his tent, Ilky following close behind. The man had strapped on his bandoleer, and held his short sword in one hand and axe in the other. A look of grim determination was etched on his wizened features; the situation was turning very ugly indeed. He did not know what lizardmen were doing this far from their everglade homelands, but whatever it was it could not be good at all.
At that moment Myinze ran up to him, holding a heron-feathered javelin in one hand and a long katana in the other. “Sir,” he said, throwing a straight-backed salute, “We’ve lost the northern wall! Defense protocol three was carried out as per your instruction, and I took the liberty of pulling men off the south wall to help reinforce the north, but we still lost! There are too many lizardmen out there, sir!”
Tisvir grunted angrily. “Damn it,” he snarled, “This is not good. Do we still have men enough to hold the east and west walls? How about the south? Have there been any attacks on the south?”
“Sir,” Myinze responded, “The men on the east and west have managed to hold out so far, but even so they’re still hard-pressed. No attacks have come from the south. We had to send the reserves into action quite soon; these lizardmen are deadly, sir, and they just keep coming. I’ve never seen anything fight so viciously!” Tisvir took a brief glance at Myinze; the kukushtidd was covered in cuts and scars, things that he had rarely seen on the skilled warrior. Myinze wasn’t joking around.
“Damn it,” Tisvir growled, then looked the Scoutmaster straight in the eye. “Get every man you can over to this tent. We’ll rally here, then push forward. These lizardmen won’t do so well against a dense mass of soldiers.” He paused, then asked, “Where is Ormun, anyway?”
“Out there fighting,” Myinze responded, “You sent her to add a little muscle to our forces, remember?”
“Oh yes,” Tisvir mumbled. Old age, he thought, then turned to Ilky. “You’d best stay out of this one, little goblin. Get inside my tent and stay there as long as you can; hopefully, if we lose the battle, you can hide from the lizardmen and they won’t recognize your smell. You both have your orders; now go!”
Myinze dashed off, shouting at the top of his powerful lungs, calling the soldiers to rally at Tisvir’s tent. Ilky, on the other hand, entered the tent, walked right through to the other side, and stopped. Letting out a sigh and steeling himself up, he put his claws to the canvas, punched ten holes in the material, then raked down. Another couple of horizontal slashes and he had a hole big enough to climb through. He looked around, exited the tent, and started to run as quickly and quietly as he could, his heavy quilted body-armour muffling the noise.
This was probably suicide, but it had to be done. He had to reach that wagon with the guns, and somehow find a way to get out of here. Ilky wanted to kick himself for abandoning Tisvir and his men like this, but what he was doing was for the greater good. He now knew the contents of that message – Tisvir had told him everything – and would need to give this information to the rest of humanity if their race was going to survive.
At first he had thought that the letter had contained some really bad news for the Human Empire. He had been wrong; the news it contained had been worse.
* * * * *
Lizard-chief Iruk’zikku grinned as he and his army reached the southern wall. Mok’squik and Hav’rak’tak had, by now, gained a good talon-hold on the northern wall, while Nifl’jar, Ooik’tom and Ram’skrap’tchi were currently barraging the east and west. It was as the blood-seer had foretold as he had peered into a basin of lizardblood the night before; only a skeleton guard had been left at this wall, leaving it easy pickings for Iruk’zikku and his brave warriors. Ah, what a glorious battle; he praised the lizard-gods for the bloody orgy in which he would soon take part.
He saw one of the guards cry out in terror, obviously having seen him and his force emerge from the trees around. Before the man could do anything else, though, a lizard-archer had stuck him through the neck with an arrow. Shrieking, Iruk’zikku raised his battle-axe, rousing a mighty cheer from his host, and charged forward…
The earth disappeared from beneath him, and before he knew it he was falling. Giving a frightened yelp, he soon discovered that the drop was relatively short – only about six feet to the bottom, but three feet to the tips of the many stakes that protruded from the earth like the many sets of fangs in the maw of Chagg, the lizardman god-chief. A scream escaped his throat as several parts of his body were pierced; his right arm, his tail, and his torso in two places. Struggling, he soon realized that he was trapped; a quick glance around showed him that many other lizardmen were in a similar situation. The truth was quick to dawn on Iruk’zikku; he was going to die.
Even as the light in his vision seeped away like the blood in his wounds, however, the lizard-chief managed a painful smile. His death mattered not to him; he and all of the fallen this day would ascend to the Swamp of Warriors, there to find blood and glory for all eternity. As for those of his kind who survived, they would merely bring themselves victory and glory in this world by defeating the humans; victory had been foretold. The rear-assault would obliterate the humans; second-commander Ees’quarrl would see that vengeance be exacted for the death of his chieftain.
The last thing Iruk’zikku’s dying eyes saw was camps being thrown across the ditch, with lizardmen surging across them. The sound of terrified screams and clashing metal was a heartening one to leave the world with.
* * * * *
Lollban thrust his dagger at a lizardman’s gut, causing the beast to jump back with a snarl. The creature then raised its axe above its head for a killing blow, but Lollban pressed forward, swinging his left claw and gnashing his teeth as he did. The lizardman hissed as it dropped its weapon and clawed at the goblin, who not only held on tooth and nail (literally) but also took his opportunity to make good his previously unsuccessful stab. Meanwhile, Jake cried out as he swung his sword wildly, lost in a state that could be described as somewhere between berserk and panicking. One careless lizardman, a younger fellow, dared to come to close and paid for it with his life; another three were now edging around him, menacing with their weapons and occasionally taking an experimental jab or swing. None were any too willing to walk into Jake’s wildly swinging blade.
Lollban, having disposed of his previous foe, crept up behind one of Jake’s attackers and, reversing his grip on the blade, plunged it into the creature’s back. In retrospect, this turned out to be a bad move; the lizardman’s body launched into a spasm of pain, and Lollban was unable to pull his blade free. Rather, he let go of the weapon, and soon found himself unarmed as another one of Jake’s attackers turned to face him.
As the lizardman moved towards the goblin, however, Jake took this opportunity to lunge while the creature’s back was turned. Letting out a wild cry, he plunged his sword through the reptile’s back and out its stomach. The other lizardman raised its blade and charged, but Jake let fly a blow with his right hand, catching the creature across the side of its snout with the back of his gauntlet. The lizardman let out a painful groan, stumbled sideways, lost its footing and fell to the ground, its jaw a bloody mess. Pulling his blade from the body of his second most previous foe, Jake took it in both hands, turned to the lizardman and hacked downwards, opening its chest and spurting blood every which way.
Panting in exhaustion, his brow beaded with sweat, Jake looked around. Here and there groups of men fought against larger groups of lizardmen. Somewhere nearby, a troll roared as he tossed a shrieking reptile over the tops of the surrounding tents. Still, the nearest lizardman was about ten feet away, and already preoccupied; thus, Jake took the brief respite to lean against a tent post, huffing and wheezing with exhaustion. His breastplate was stained with lizard-blood; his arms were sore from swinging the sword, his legs from running and fighting in heavy armour. No doubt his torso was covered in bruises from blows to his breastplate, and his hands wrung awfully from the painful vibrations of clashing blades. Nobody had ever told him that battle left you feeling this awful; it’s one thing to say that war is hell, and quite another to actually know it.
“Hey,” Lollban’s voice interrupted Jake’s thoughts. He looked up (but not very far up) to see the young goblin, who had looted a slightly longer blade from one of the fallen lizardmen. The small green-skin had a brave enough face, but behind the eternal fires of anger that blazed in his eyes Jake could see that Lollban was just as fatigued as he. Still, the goblin continued, “We have to get going now; those guns may be our only chance.” He paused for a second, thought about something, and then added, “By the way, thanks.”
“Thanks?” Jake said wearily, “Thanks for what?”
“You saved my life there,” Lollban explained, “And I thank you. Now come on; let’s go.” With that the goblin set out, running forward as another group of lizardmen charged at him. Jake followed quickly, lashing out with his blade. He was having to learn quickly how to fight and kill in battle; it was that or be slain himself.
Jake and Lollban fought now not so much to kill, but to beat their way through the ever-growing masses of fighting warriors. Fortunately, most of the lizardmen were already embroiled in battle with the other soldiery, and only a few paid the young man and goblin much heed. This was at least was a small blessing.
It was then that Jake and Lollban turned a corner around one of the tents and found a single man fighting off five lizardmen. They couldn’t get a good look at his face, but it was clear that, although he fought like a devil, he was going to lose within a short period of time if left unassisted.
Crying out, Jake leapt into the fray, bringing his blade in a two-handed swing. One lizardman went down under his unsuspected attack, its head completely severed. Lollban was close behind; as one of the reptiles turned to attack Jake, he was already between it and the young man, thrusting forward with his short sword. The lizardman hissed as it fell, impaled through the gut.
From there, Jake, Lollban and the other warrior each took on one of the remaining lizardmen. Jake swung his blade, causing his combatant to parry and strike. He blocked in turn, then stepped forward, feinting a stab to the left and then bringing his sword in a two-handed arc from the right. This action knocked the weapon from the lizardman’s claw, and it was not long before an overhead blow from the young man’s blade had opened the creature’s skull.
Meanwhile, Lollban charged full-on into his own foe, slashing wildly with his short sword. The lizardman blocked each attack with his studded quarter-staff, though, until one blow severed the shaft in two and opened a space for Lollban to attack. Seizing his opportunity, the goblin let out a battle-cry as he charged forward, right shoulder first, into the lizardman. The creature was immediately gored on the spikes protruding from Lollban’s shoulder plate, and soon the goblin was cursing bitterly as he tried to rid himself of the reptile’s thrashing body.
As all this was happening, the unknown soldier swung his blade with experienced expertise, drawing a gash across his enemy’s arm, batting its axe out of the way, and then tearing a scar across its chest. As the lizardman recovered, the warrior raised his sword over his head and swung down, cleaving the beast’s right arm off. Maddened by pain, the lizardman shrieked and charged, gnashing its teeth and swinging out its remaining appendage in a desperate bid to drag the human down to hell with it. Claws scratched futilely against armour, though, and a well-placed elbow knocked the lizardman’s biting jaw back, breaking several teeth. The creature stumbled back, inadvertently putting enough space between itself and the man for a final killing thrust.
Having finally vanquished all three lizardmen, the two men and one goblin turned to face one another. At first they did not recognize the new man, panting and stained all over with lizard-blood as he was, but eventually his identity dawned on the two companions. “Philip!” Jake cried, for once in his life happy to see the gruff sergeant.
Philip huffed tiredly, then met the young man’s eyes. “Jake,” he gasped, “Wha’ th’…wha’ th’ ‘ell’re you doin’ here? You should…youshould…you should be on guard…duty…” He seemed to remember that the walls were now swarming with lizardmen. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
Lollban looked around. Another large group of lizardmen seemed to have broken through the lines of men who had been previously fighting with them, and were now charging at madly the small group. “Come on,” he cried, running in the opposite direction as the lizardmen. Jake and Philip did not hesitate to follow suite.
The trio headed towards the centre of the camp. Gradually there began to be less and less fighting, until there were almost no lizardmen about. As they ran, Jake asked, “Sweet divinity, Philip, it’s good to see you alive! But where are you going? Where are the others? Where is the rest of White Squad?”
“Dead,” Philip said flatly, “At least, that’s what I’m assuming. I lost track of them on the walls, and was forced to hoof it out of there before I could find them again. At best they’ve been scattered and are heading to Tisvir’s tent, like we are right now.”
“Tisvir’s tent?” Lollban asked, “Is that anywhere near wherever they put our wagon full of guns?”
“Are you kidding?” Philip responded, “That wagon’s still in the killing zone!” Seeing the puzzled looks on his companions’ faces, the sergeant sighed. “That means it’s still in the area where all the fighting is happening. You know? The place where dozens of men are getting overwhelmed and killed by hordes of those maniac reptiles? Yeah, that’s the place. Why is it so important?”
Lollban stopped in his tracks, causing the other two to stumble forward and then stop, too. “We have to go back,” he said flatly, “Those guns may be this army’s last hope.”
“Go back?” Philip cried, “Are you nuts? Every minute adds another huge bunch of lizardmen to the ones already in the killing zone, and another huge bunch of bodies already lying on the ground! There is a critical mass of reptiles back there,” he sounded each of the words out in order to drive home their importance, “And they’re going to kill you both if you’re stupid enough to go back for your damn guns.”
Lollban stood for a second, shoulders heaving angrily. “I’m going back,” he stated firmly, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” With that he turned tail and ran back into the killing zone.
“Are you crazy?” Philip called after him, then turned to Jake only to see him following after the goblin. “What the he…what are you doing? You trying to get yourself killed too? Soldier, you get back here right this minute! That’s and ORDER!” Seeing that his words had no effect, he sighed. “Fuh x’akes,” he invoked an old blaspheme, then hurried after the two. This was stupid; Philip was pretty sure that this crazy stunt was going to get them all killed.
They’d better hope it does, he thought sourly. If he lived through this, he was going to give those two the tongue-lashing of their lives!
* * * * *
“Lollban, are you nuts?” Jake asked, using his longer legs to run up beside the young goblin, “We just got out of there! Why are we going back? You did hear that everybody’s heading to make a stand around Tisvir’s tent, right?”
Lollban snorted. “Hah, a lot of good that will do,” he spat, “Did you know how powerful my nose is?”
Jake stared at him, perplexed. “Um…no-o-o-o-o,” he said, “What’s that got to do with it?”
Lollban sighed. “There’s a northbound wind blowing in from the south,” he explained, “Do you know what lizardman smells like? Well, I learned today. And if I’ve learned right, there are at least five hundred of them coming in from the south; it won’t take long for them to hit Tisvir’s tent from behind, and everybody will be looking for an attack from the north. In short, we’re probably dead even if we do get to the guns in time. If we don’t, though, then we’re definitely going to die.”
“Hm,” Jake muttered, “I don’t see what choice we have, then.” An idea struck him. “Why don’t we go back and warn those people then? We could save the entire regiment!”
Lollban’s face became marred with a bitter frown. “Trust me,” he growled, “They’ll know by now.”
* * * * *
Tisvir gave a great battle-cry as he lashed out with his short sword. The lizardman he had been facing shrieked as it fell, its left leg severed. Tisvir swung his axe, decapitating the fiend and using the momentum of the blow to carry him around to face another creature. Knocking away its weapon, he jabbed his blade into it’s gut, twisted and pulled free. The beast hissed painfully as it fell back, trying to hold in what guts hadn’t been torn out by his opponent’s latest action. It was a cruel way to kill any creature, but right now Tisvir was angry. The situation was not good at all…
Ormun, having fallen back to the tent that she may better defend her general, roared as she swung her mace, killing wherever she landed a hit. Myinze meted blows left and right with not only his katana and javelin, but his legs, tail and beak as well. A number of other soldiers also fought around them, battling desperately against the lizardmen, who seemed to have come from behind. Obviously the scaly fiends had expected a good deal of men to leave the south wall in order to defend the north, and sent a force to attack the camp in its most vulnerable area. Well, if that had been their plan then it had worked quite well; Tisvir doubted that he would see this battle’s outcome.
Tisvir soon found himself confronted by another lizardman, this one somewhat taller than the others and decorated with a head-dress of spines and bright feathers. It hissed challengingly, twirling its two blades, the right wickedly jagged, the left straight and smooth. Tisvir also saw the giant hooked middle claws on its feet, characteristic only of lizardman chiefs and shamans (according to personal experience) and immediately identified the creature as a leader. The general gave his own war-cry and charged, swinging both weapons at once. The creature blocked each blow, a fang-filled smile widening across its scaly features. Then it started attacking back, clearly enjoying the fight as Tisvir himself matched the lizardman blow for blow.
The two battled on for a while, hacking, slashing, stabbing and parrying. Tisvir feinted with his axe, then lashed out with his blade. The lizardman jumped back, twirling its knives for show as it did, then advanced steadily, letting fly a series of swift jabs. Tisvir blocked each one, then swung with his axe, causing the lizardman to back up, then lunge forward, hacking at his left shoulder. Tisvir, however, managed to raise his sword and axe just in time, catching the weapon between the two. The lizardman tried to jab under the scissor-shaped barrier with his left blade, but Tisvir jumped back, bringing both weapons down and batting away both of his enemy’s weapons as he did.
Tisvir and the lizardman circled for a while, each planning their next move. It was the lizardman who acted first, though; shrieking viciously, it jumped high up into the air, then plummeted down towards Tisvir, raking with the long hook-claws on its feet as it pulled its chest down to its knees, stabbing down with its blades as well. Tisvir, however, was able to leap out of the way just in time, letting the lizardman chief hit the ground full-force. Not giving his opponent even a fraction of a second to recover, Tisvir lunged at him, hacking and stabbing furiously. The reptile was unprepared for the vicious attack; it died almost instantly.
Tisvir looked up from his latest kill. Two more enemies were coming towards him, snarling and swinging their weapons. He met them head-on, ducking under one’s blow and putting his axe in its gut, then thrusting his sword under the other’s guard and into its groin. The latter lizardman emitted a painful shriek as the general pulled out his blade in a spray of blood, then jabbed it into the creature’s heart. After kicking the beast’s body away, Tisvir let out a great sigh; this was going to be a hard fight.
* * * * *
Jake grunted as he blocked a swing from a lizardman’s axe, then brought his own blade under the creature’s guard, stabbing it through the chest. Pulling his blade out, he turned to see Lollban still battling his own opponent. Before he could lend the goblin aid, however, a dagger came flying through the air to thud into the lizardman’s eye. The beast staggered back, its body twitching from the trauma to its frontal lobe before Lollban pushed it savagely to the ground. The two then turned to see Philip, the obvious owner of the knife, as he ran to their side. From the look of him, he was not a very happy man; his face was red from a mix of frustration and fatigue, and his narrow eyes and hard jaw reflected the latter quite well.
“Alright,” the sergeant barked, trying not to huff with exhaustion lest he ruin the effect, “What do you little dicks think you’re doing back here, hm? We are back in the killing zone, you know!”
“Look, we know all this,” Jake explained, “But…”
“If I wanted butt, I’d put my boot up yours right here and now!” Philip snapped, “And believe me, soldier, you are certainly on your way to a good arse-kicking if you do not come back to Tisvir’s tent with me right bloody now! Am I making myself clear, you little maggot?”
“Tisvir’s tent is being overrun by lizardmen,” Lollban retorted, “I can smell those bastard newts from here, there’s so many of them! If we get to the guns, though, we might have a chance!”
“Yeah,” Jake said, feeling empowered by the fact that somebody was standing beside him for once, “Besides, what difference is three soldiers going to make?”
“Why you yellow piece of…” Philip started, gritted his teeth, then let out a slow, angry huff of frustration. Finally, he said, “Well, what are you two worms standing ‘round scratching your asses for, eh? Didn’t you want to find your precious wagon? Come on, I think I know the direction it’s in!” With that he set off. Jake and Lollban exchanged glances, then followed the sergeant.
* * * * *
Ilky ran mostly unnoticed by those hurrying back and forth around him. Very quickly for a goblin carrying as heavy a jacket as he was, he also knew how to go move like he had the right to be wherever he was, the confidence trained into him for life as a nobleman in the goblin lands. Solitude in his old laboratory, save for the company of his servants and, of course, the faithful Lollban, had somewhat diminished his interpersonal skills, but even so he knew that there was a job to be done here, and he fully intended to do it.
Suddenly from a nearby tent burst three lizardmen. They were crooning and clucking merrily; obviously this tent had belonged to an officer of some sort, and they had been looting it. One sang a drunken, off-tune song as it held a pipe of wine in one hand and a bloody knife in the other, another wore a rich violet cape and a foppish, lopsided hat with a feather in it, and the last had bedecked himself in random pieces of armour, which it sported proudly. A look of malicious glee rippled across each one’s face as they spotted the goblin; seemingly defenseless, Ilky presented some very good sport as far as they were concerned.
Ilky stood his ground as the one decked in random bits of armour advanced, brandishing a shiny new sword and followed by its companions. Then, without warning he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, metal device. It was made up of a handle, a container for all the little clockwork, a nozzle, a trigger and striking device. Ilky called it the new pistol; it used cartridges instead of the old shot-and-powder stuff, and was small enough to be easily smuggled anywhere under a large enough guise. He had proven such by smuggling it into Tisvir’s camp when all of his other weapons had been confiscated, and now he would put the new weapon into its first live field testing session.
He fired his first shot. The armoured lizardman gasped as it tottered backwards, holding a bullet-wound in its gut. Another shot put a hole through its helmet, through which blood came out in spurts as the creature fell back. A third shot saw the foppishly dressed lizardman fall to its knees, gurgling blood and trying to staunch the flow of gore from the hole in its jugular. The last lizardman’s drunken eyes bulged in astonishment, then, hiccuping, it dropped the cask and knife and ran away. Ilky considered shooting it in the back, but decided not to. It was a dishonorable deed at best, and besides, he may need the bullet later.
Ilky grabbed the knife that the drunken lizardman had dropped and wiped the blood that stained it off on the nearest dead reptile’s cloak. Briefly he poked his head inside the officer’s tent; the occupant still lay there among a mess of overturned chests and other possessions, his blood seeping out from several dagger-wounds. The goblin noble grimaced angrily as he pulled his head out; the lizardman had murdered the man, and should have been punished when the opportunity had presented itself. Killing an officer in battle was something that ought not be done lightly; such people should be captured if the opportunity was presented, and treated as chivalry dictates. Even so, beasts like these lizardmen held no concept of such things. Savage to the core, they thought only to kill in battle.
Even so, Ilky thought as he continued running, passing into the area dubbed by Philip as the killing zone and seeing the reason why the title was so befitting, There are a lot of things about battle that I had never guessed would be true. It was one thing to read about such things and look at tapestries of neatly organized creatures standing tall and straight, save for the exception of a few corpses lying bloodlessly on the ground. This, however, was much different; men and lizardmen ran amok everywhere, filling the air with the sounds of clashing steel, battle-cries and the screams of the dying. Blood spurted from wounds, dismembered pieces of bodies lay strewn about the ground, and here and there a man knelt, stood or staggered about bent-over, gasping as he tried to keep a jumble of guts from tumbling out from a wound in his belly. It looked like a giant tavern-brawl, or at least what he thought one would look like.
Suffice it to say, it was all extremely frightening.
A lizardman covered in blood – most of which probably was not its own – appeared before Ilky, snarling and panting, its long, lizard-like tongue lolling and half-bitten off as it swung its gory hammer about in the air. Ilky screamed in fright, firing four shots into the creature’s body without even thinking. The beast growled as it fell to its knees, clutching at its wounds, then keeled over and died. Ilky gasped, stepping back and trying to slow his quickly thumping heart. Damn; three extra bullets wasted when one could have done the job. That left nine in the gun, and three magazines of ammo somewhere else in his coat. He would have to use each shot to its fullest.
Ilky ran a few more feet, then stopped and sniffed the air. The stench of blood, sweat, urine and bodies almost made him gag, but even so he still detected a faint trace of something else, something that brought back fond, nostalgic memories of the old lab back home. A smell of old used cartridges, of the inside of a gun’s nozzle, of all the experiments he had conducted trying to create the next advancement in firearm technology. He sighed briefly, wishing that he was back in that blissful time in life when he was back in that beloved laboratory with his chemicals and machines. Still, he soon forced himself to get back to the task at hand; there were things that needed to be done.
Holding his pistol close to his body, Ilky kept his head low and continued running, trying as hard as possible not to be noticed. He had to get to those guns; if anybody was going to survive this mess, then they would do so because they had the necessary firepower.
* * * * *
“That’s it,” Lollban growled as he, Jake and Philip approached a tent, “I smell it! We’re almost there!”
“What’s it?” Jake asked, “What do you smell? We’re almost where?”
“The tent,” Lollban explained, “You know, the one with the wagon in it?”
“Right,” Jake answered curtly.
Suddenly, out from no-where something ran smack into Lollban, bowling him over. For a while, the goblin and whatever it was rolled about, cursing and swearing as they wrestled on the ground. Jake and Philip soon intervened, though, pulling Lollban and the other creature away from one another, letting both get a good look at the one they had been fighting. Lollban’s adversary was another goblin, a sturdy little fellow who was instantly recognized. “Gonble!” he gasped, stunned.
“Lollban,” Gonble spouted, equally surprised, “What the hell…” he switched back to his old language. “Oh, I didn’t recognize you there. Sorry about that.”
“It’s alright,” Lollban responded, shaking away Jake’s grip, “We’ve just found the wagon with all of the guns, but what in the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking for what you’ve found,” Gonble responded, then switched back to Common. ”I don’t think the others are still alive, though. But now that we know that our goals are the same, I should think that we should continue, ja?”
“Very well,” Philip muttered, releasing his charge, “The more the merrier, I guess.”
The tent’s flap was not facing them, but that proved no obstacle. Before Jake, Gonble or Lollban could do anything, Philip jumped in front of them, raised his blade and hewed a long scar in the canvas. Then, left-shoulder first, he pushed through the new opening and burst into the tent, followed somewhat more clumsily by his three companions.
The tent was mostly empty, save for the prized wagon standing in the middle, and a couple of lizardmen standing on it. They were currently toying around with the firearms, curiously inspecting their different parts with curious claws. Even as the foursome watched, one of the lizardmen stared down the nozzle of a musket, at the same time feeling about the opposite end with its tail. It just so happened that the fifth appendage found the trigger during its search; the other lizardman jumped at the following boom, then turned to face its comrade, who slumped over, dead. The creature then turned its attention to the two humans and goblin. Shrieking angrily, as if they had been responsible for the other’s death, the lizardman stood up on the pile of guns and prepared to attack.
The reptile never got the chance. “Stay away from those firearms, you filthy snake!” a familiar voice cried, accompanied by another gunshot. The lizardman let out a choking sound, then stared dumbly down at the exit-wound in the middle of its chest. Then, groaning, it fell over and joined its companion in death. “What the…” Philip muttered before the answer became apparent.
Around the other side of the wagon appeared Ilky, the pistol in his hand and his jaw set with grim determination. “My last bullet in that round,” he muttered, “And well spent, I must say.”
Lollban’s face lit up with delight. “Ilky!” he cried happily, running over to give his lord a bear-hug. Gonble just stood by, grinning with relief at the sight of his charge. The elder goblin took this treatment with a patient smile, then got immediately back to business. “It’s good to see you all too, but time is running short. We need to get the message to human ears as soon as possible; the fate of your entire Empire hangs in the balance!”
“Well, on that cheery note,” Philip muttered, but nobody was listening. Ilky, Lollban and Gonble were already crawling onto the wagon, intent upon gathering up and using whatever they could of its contents.
Jake sidled over to the tent flap and lifted it with his right hand. Peering out as gingerly as possible, trying to keep hidden as he looked, he saw that all the defenders in this area were dead or fled. Now hordes of lizardmen advanced through this section of the camp, crying out their hissing, feral war-dirges. The young man gulped, edging away from the tent’s flap. “I think that we’re about to have company,” he said nervously.
“Hah,” Gonble spat, jumping to the ground with a large blunderbuss in his hands and several more guns on his back and a cutlass in his belt, “Bring them on, then! Ausrotten die eideschse!”
“You heard the…er, man,” Philip grumbled, stepping forward with his sword drawn, “Let’s ass-rotten some eye-dishes-es.”
Ilky jumped to the ground next, loaded with a few more muskets and holding one in his hand. With his other he held a cutlass. “You may have as much grip on my language as an oily-fingered frog on a slippery rod,” he muttered, “But I think that we can postpone your Gerban lessons until later.”
Lollban, who still stood atop the wagon, was now readying the gattling gun. “I’d get up here, Jake,” he suggested, “Not only do you not want to get caught in the coming firestorm, but I need somebody to feed the ammunition into this gun.” Jake complied wordlessly, but even so Lollban caught the doubtful look on his face. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to it; just make sure that this chain of bullets keeps running into this slot here. Keep your hands under the chain and you’ll be fine. Now there’s about nine yards of ammunition here, so once there’s about one yard left let the rest go and grab a new chain to put in the gun. Do you understand? Good. And now, without further ado…”
* * * * *
Lizard-chief Mok’squik stopped awhile and grinned at the progress being made by his brave warriors. Lizardmen ran past in the dozens, calling out ancient, holy war-cries, screaming for the blood of the enemy. Indeed Chagg would be pleased by the bloodshed this day; the wise shamans had dedicated every drop of blood spilt here to the lizard-god’s honor early on the morn of this glorious battle. And now the foretold victory was about to take place; Mok’squik sighed in contentment. Everything was going perfectly.
Suddenly the tent just beside him seemed to explode outwards with the sound of some loud, booming demonic laughter. “GATTLE-GATTLE-GATTLE!” cackled whatever was inside, as pieces of tent were torn apart even before they hit the ground. Immediately more than a dozen lizardmen cried out and fell, blood spouting from holes that had appeared in their bodies as if they had been punctured by many invisible arrows.
To his own credit, Mok’squik had dived to the ground at the sound of the explosion. For a while the malicious chattering continued, punctuated now and again by an angry BOOM! which rattled the scales on Mok’squik’s body. Finally, however, after a small eternity of hellish noise, there was silence. Shakily, the lizard-chief stumbled to his feet and looked around. All of the tents in the vicinity had been torn to shreds, and most of the other lizardmen around had suffered an equally gruesome fate. And there, just a few feet away, stood two humans and three other, smaller green skinned creatures. Three were on the ground, the other two sat atop a large weapon, feverishly working on some bizarre contraption. It was a confusing sight, but one thing that soon became apparent was that these were the ones who had caused the recent massacre.
Looking about him, Mok’squik saw more and more of his warriors running to the area of destruction, bearing the bewildered look of one who wonders just what had happened. Then he turned back to the small group of enemies, a pyre of rage building itself in his gullet. Those fiends; he would make them all pay!
Raising his war-axe in the air, he let out a battle-cry and charged. All of the other lizardmen were quick to do the same.
* * * * *
“Quickly,” Lollban growled to Jake, grabbing another chain of ammunition, “Help me reload this thing! More of those damned lizards are coming! Hurry!”
The two worked quickly and mechanically, Lollban hastily showing Jake how to reload the gattling gun as they did. Meanwhile, Ilky and Gonble huddled behind Philip as they reloaded their own weapons. For his part, the sergeant stood in a fighting stance, his sword held before him in both hands. He cast a worried eye out over the throng of lizardmen who were swarming in to take the place of those already fallen; there was at least half again as many this time. “Ilky?” he muttered through the side of his mouth, “Excuse my asking, but just what in the hell is taking so long with those guns?”
“We are going as fast as we can,” the goblin noble explained, pouring some shot into the barrel and pressing it down with a small wand, “These guns are very slow to reload! That is why I invented the cartridge, didn’t I tell you?”
Philip grunted incoherently, then turned back to the lizardmen. Just a few feet away one was climbing to its feet, a battle-axe clenched in a violently shaking claw. It looked around, then turned its stunned eyes on the small group of defenders. Glancing about again, probably to make sure that there were enough of its kind left, the creature then threw a baleful glare straight at Philip, raised its weapon and shrieked, charging forward. “Shit!” Philip cried, raising his sword just in time to block the being’s first blow.
While Philip battled the first lizardman, Lollban let out a whoop of joy as he finished reloading. “We have it now,” he cried, taking aim at the advancing lizardmen, “Just keep the rounds coming, Jake!” With that the rattling cackle of the gattling gun started anew, sending dozens of bullets through the bodies of the advancing lizardmen.
Gonble finished reloading his blunderbuss and took aim at the lizardman Philip was fighting, but Ilky put his hand on the nozzle. “Don’t do it,” he warned, “The spray will hit him, too!” At a questioning look from the other goblin, Ilky pulled out his pistol. “Let me deal with it.” With that, the goblin noble took aim and fired, putting a bullet straight through Mok’squik’s brain.
Suddenly a noise from behind caught Ilky’s attention. Grabbing Gonble by the shoulder, he ordered, “Quickly, come with me!” and led him around the wagon to the other side. There, in the area where Lollban was not concentrating his fire, a large number of lizardmen were massing for an attack. “Fire at them!” Ilky barked, so suddenly and sharply that his companion obeyed without thinking. The blunderbuss roared, spraying dozens of small, sharp objects at the approaching reptiles. The beasts broke apart, most either dead, dying, injured or just plain panicked. Ilky took aim with his musket and fired, taking another down as well.
Soon, though, the gattling gun’s rattle of fire stopped, and Jake and Lollban worked furiously to reload. Seeing more lizardmen rushing in to take the place of the fallen, Ilky and Gonble traded glances and unsheathed their cutlasses. This was going to be a very long, very bloody battle.
* * * * *
Tisvir swung his mace, obliterating the ribcage of a lizardman. He had lost his axe somewhere in the fray, and now held only his sword and mace in hand and his trusty dagger on his belt. Whirling about, he lashed out with the short-sword, catching a blow from a lizardman behind him, feinted with his mace and then stabbed again with the blade, taking the reptile through the gut. Pulling out, he turned about again, swinging both weapons at the same time to knock the blade from another foe’s hands, then swung both again, slaying the creature where it stood.
Most of the other men had gradually died around him. Some were just faces in the crowd, men who he knew by first name only and even then just as soldiers. Even so, many of the others were friends, comrades from old campaigns. Corporal Rodrigo, whose confidant smile and woman-hungry eyes had accompanied Tisvir through a year of fighting during the Lacarian Rebellion, now lay pierced by two spears. An old drinking pal, Subcommander Derrick, sprawled dead beside the deceased Sergeant Caroline “Carl” Hern, a woman who had run off to join the military under the guise of a man. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been fooling anybody, but she was a good soldier and seemed to enjoy having a secret identity so much that it was generally understood that nobody should tell her that they knew of her real gender. The only person who she had known to have figured out her secret was her lover and fellow sergeant, Will, who now lay beheaded somewhere else. Tisvir felt it a pity that the two could not at least have died side by side, but he had indeed seen greater tragedies within his lifetime. These deaths, along with those of many other fine soldiers, had infuriated Tisvir, and he had done his best to avenge each and every one.
Now, however, only three were left among the defenders in this area; Ormun, Myinze, and, of course, General Tisvir. The Scoutmaster’s breaths came out in frantic huffs as he battled furiously, bleeding from dozens of small nicks. Ormun, too, kept on fighting with a berserk rage and strength. Tisvir knew, though, that in time even her might would fail.
One thing was certain. They needed to get out of here, and do it quickly, too.
“Ormun,” Tisvir cried out as he fought, “Ormun, listen to me! We have to get out of here! Start moving East! We must first escape these lizards, then bring word to Ar’tia!”
Ormun said not a single word; rather, she turned East and started moving forward, swinging her mace and killing as she went. Tisvir motioned for Myinze to follow, and both followed in her wake.
“Remember,” Tisvir told Myinze as they ran, “It’s every man, kukkushtidd or giantess for themselves. If one of us dies, I expect you to keep going. This message is too important to compromise over one of our deaths!”
“Indeed, my general,” Myinze responded loyally, “I would but ask that you do the same for me.”
Tisvir smirked grimly. “I am ahead of you there, friend.”
The corners of Myinze’s mouth turned upwards as well. “Thank you, sir.”
Tisvir turned back to watching Ormun’s back and the lizardmen who either parted or were thrown about before her. He knew that Myinze meant it with every fiber of its body; the kukkushtidd was dead serious about requesting to be left behind for the greater good. Good as gold, that lad; the world could use quite a few more like him.
For now, though, all Tisvir could do was hope that he or somebody with him would get out of this alive. Too much was hanging in the balance here.
* * * * *
Philip huffed and panted, watching as even more lizardmen hurried in to take the place of those just slaughtered. They were no longer coming in small groups of marauders; now their numbers better resembled a swarm. Ilky padded up to him, huffing and panting and holding a bloody gash in left arm. “We can’t hold out for much longer,” the goblin gasped, “We need to get out of here!”
“I know,” Philip grunted as the gattling gun started rattling again, then started shouting over the noise, “But what can we do? What…” The sergeant raised his sword to defend himself against two lizardmen who had made it to him before the gunfire had begun. One swung its axe while the other stabbed with a dagger, hacking with its sword as it did. Philip backed up, swinging his sword wildly in order to block both, then pressed forward, slashing hard and quickly. The axe-lizard fell instantly, while the other died, stuck through the gut by Ilky’s cutlass. “Thanks,” Philip muttered.
“Never a problem,” Ilky responded courteously, pulling out his pistol and firing it into the crowd of advancing lizardmen.
The explosive rattling died down after a while, leaving the field littered with even more corpses. So thick were the lead-peppered bodies of dead lizardmen, one could barely see the ground; and where one could, it was always completely soaked with blood. Yet still more and more lizardmen swarmed in, all intent upon bringing the prey to their deaths. On top of the wagon, Lollban called down, “Hey, Ilky! I hope that you’ve got a plan! We’re down to our last round up here; after that…”
“We’re up shit creek without a paddle,” Philip (Mr. Original himself) muttered, then turned to see Ilky scrambling onto the wagon, calling for Gonble to come up and help him as he did. “Hey, what are you…”
The gattling gun now started cackling away its final round. From the look of them, Ilky and Gonble were hard at work preparing some desperate, at-their-wits-end plan. Philip frowned before turning to face another oncoming lizardman; with any luck, at least somebody would escape this dismal situation.
* * * * *
Back at the Western gypsy fort, Sella and the rest of her war-counsel sat together about a large, round table. Their meeting was taking place within the mistress’s very own tent. Normally it was quite bright and colourful inside, with many decorations, posters and souvenirs from old, fondly remembered circuses and performances. She kept them around for nostalgia’s sake, to remind her of what she loved and intended to get right back to after all of this nasty war business was over and done with. Even so, the tent had been darkened in order to better focus the mind for the channeling of spiritual energies.
Magic was an art not highly regarded within the Empire of Man, except of course in the places where its users held the highest power and influence. Although many gypsies were assumed to have mystic powers and thus distrusted, most of what their kind knew how to do was cheap party-magic; card-tricks, disappearing money, crystal balls, and that sort of hokus-pokus. Sella, however, was quite different; she actually did know how to practice the art of true gypsy magic.
Before her lay a small, perfectly round, perfectly smooth crystal ball. Most “magic” that was done with such things was a sham, but Sella had learned to use the crystal ball to do the things that most other false enchanters only pretended that they could. She could see into the past and present with much clarity and only moderate concentration, yet peering even an hour into the future required such intense concentration it made her dizzy and disoriented afterwards. There were other things she could do with the crystal ball as well, but at the moment they were of no matter. What did matter was what was going on at the enemy’s base.
In the side of the crystal ball she saw the brute giantess as she waded through the ranks of lizardmen, roaring as she swung her mace about in berserk rage. In her wake ran a little old man and a kukkushtidd – well, well, she hadn’t seen one of those in a while – as they, too, fought off the reptiles closing in from the sides. She felt pity for the odd little trio; their bid to escape was as valiant as it was desperate, but it had to be stopped. She knew whose side she was fighting on, and that the side on which these people fought was the opposite.
Still concentrating on maintaining the image inside the crystal ball, Sella looked up at one of her officers. After one got used to using gypsy magic, multitasking while doing so would become easier and easier, until it was second nature. The officer she had looked to stared back calmly with his soft, blue eyes. Understanding her unspoken request completely, he said not a word; rather, he pulled out a long, thin flute and played a soft, eery melody. It seemed that as he did a slight wisp of blue smoke floated from the flute and out of the tent’s flap. In a matter of moments that same blue wisp was visible in the crystal ball, reaching the giantess’s ears – no doubt she could now hear the same melody – and entering her mind. She stopped dead in her tracks, swayed with the breeze, then tumbled to the ground, asleep before she hit. The Piper then laid down his flute, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
Now the two remaining warriors separated, the kukkushtidd fighting and kicking his way forward through the throng, the old man standing his ground and fighting, challenging the lizardmen to come and get slaughtered even as he did. He soon lost grip of his mace, at which point he continued fighting with his sword until even that broke under the force of combat. Even then, he pulled free a dagger in his belt and started fighting with that, slaying and wounding several more lizardmen before finally he was dragged to the ground and beaten into submission. That was the lizardman way, she knew; only the lizard-chief could kill the one who was known to be leader of the enemy in battle, and if such could not be done then the leader was to be captured.
Too late she realized that the kukkushtidd had made it to the Eastern wall, poll-vaulted onto it with his spear, and then jumped across the stake-filled ditch and ran through the forest. Sella merely shrugged; it would not hurt to let the creature go. The Empire needed to know the power of her master’s armies, and doubtless the kukkushtidd’s tale would raise their eyebrows a fair bit. Besides, you didn’t see many of their kind in these parts; kukkushtidds were noted for their preference of the wide-open eastern plains, where they could stretch their legs and sprint without the confines of dense trees.
Well, that was that; she sensed that there was still a small pocket of struggling Imperial soldiers left fighting for their lives in the base, but they were of little matter. At that moment a small voice in the back of her head chided her for being so uncaring; they were people, for godssakes! She didn’t know what was happening to her; maybe it was this war that was hardening her heart, or perhaps some dark, callous aspect had awoken within her soul. Shuddering, she let the image fade from the crystal ball; she needed a rest. A rest and then time to do some serious thinking.
* * * * *
The gattle-gattle-gattle of the gattling gun died down, leaving Lollban standing at the trigger of a useless hunk of metal. “That’s it,” he shrugged, “I’m completely out of ammo now.” He looked out at the lizardmen, who fortunately seemed to be taking a more tentative approach, edging forward with their weapons held at ready. “It looks like we’re dog meat now.”
“We’ll die over my dead body,” Ilky muttered, thrusting a blunderbuss into Lollban’s hands, “Grab a cutlass, your favorite gun and as many pouches of gunpowder as you can.” He thrust another blunderbuss and several pouches of powder into Jake’s hand. “You, too, will have to help us if this plan is going to work. Gonble,” he called over the side of the wagon, “Is Philip equipped and ready to move?”
Philip hefted his blunderbuss, his sword sheathed. He didn’t seem to like the feel of the gun, but said nothing. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he grunted, “But what the hell are we doing, anyway?”
Ilky, Lollban and Jake all jumped down from the cart. Lollban held his blunderbuss in hand while his pump-gun and several magazines were strapped to his back and his cutlass dangled from his belt; his angry eyes literally burned as he stared out at the cautiously advancing lizardmen. They were hanging back in case the gattling gun started rattling again, but it would not be long before they crowded in again. “Make a valiant final stand, I guess,” he muttered, taking aim.
“Nien, due dumbkopf,” Ilky chided him, then explained, “We are going to fire our weapons one at a time, running forward as we do. The spray of projectiles from the blunderbusses will scatter and kill the lizardmen before us; if we time this right, then once the last to fire has done so, then the first will already have reloaded.”
“Really?” Jake asked, a faint glimmer of hope lighting up his eyes, “You mean that we have a chance of making it out of here alive?”
“About as good as a snowflake’s in hell,” Ilky grumbled, “But it’s all we’ve got. Which way’s east?” Philip pointed in the most likely direction. “Very good; now CHARGE!” Ilky ran in the direction pointed out by the human, closely followed by the rest of the group. When he was within five steps of the lizardmen, he opened fire, spraying them with a hail of small, sharp objects. Several lizardmen died, a few more were wounded, and the rest all fled screaming, trying to get away. “There’s an opening! RUN!”
The small band ran and kept running into the gap created in the reptiles’ lines, using the beasts’ milling confusion to their advantage. One that came too close was quickly knocked down by a blow from the butt of Philip’s own gun, although soon the beasts started closing in again. “Gonble!” Ilky cried, “FIRE!”
Gonble did not hesitate to discharge his weapon, creating yet another gap in the lizardman lines. Having done his part, Gonble started reloading, shouting as he did, “Come on! Come on! MOVE!”
Ilky barked, “They’re closing in again! Lollban…”
Lollban needed no further orders. “EAT THIS!” His own blunderbuss blew another gap in the reptiles’ lines.
As the group gained ground and the lizardmen started to close in again, Ilky cried, “Jake, it’s your turn now!” The young man did not need to be told twice; pointing his gun, he pulled the trigger and cried out as he lost his grip on the weapon, jerking violently in his hands as it was. Even so, the lizardmen were forced to part before the blast. “Leave the gun! We have to keep moving!”
Philip did not even need to be asked; he ran to the head of the group, took aim and opened fire. Despite his firm, steady grip on the blunderbuss, the shock nearly knocked it from his gauntleted fingers. Even so, the desired effect was produced yet again.
By that time, Ilky had completely reloaded and was soon able to fire his own weapon again. “Take this, you bastards!” he cried as he let fly the spray of projectiles. Gonble did the same shortly afterwards, but even so it was generally noticed that the lizardmen were giving less and less space when their ranks were blown open. It seemed that the better part of this desperate plan depended upon these primitive brutes fleeing in terror at the sound of guns firing, and now that fear was slowly disintegrating.
Finally, after Lollban had taken his turn, disaster struck. “Philip, it’s your turn!” Ilky called, “Fire!”
Philip pulled the trigger, but the only response was a small click. “It’s not working,” he responded, desperation twinging his voice.
“What?” Gonble cried, watching as the lizardmen closed in again, “Didn’t you reload it?”
Philip’s eyes widened to the point where they bulged from his skull. “I don’t know how,” he gasped in an uncharacteristically meek voice.
The group now had to come to a complete halt, as the reptilian foes had now completely moved into the gap that had just been made. While the goblins shouted and cursed, frantically reloading their own weapons, Jake and Philip drew steel and started to fight back the lizardmen, Philip using his ammo-less blunderbuss to beat them back in his left hand while his right wielded his sword. Finally, Ilky had his own weapon fully reloaded, pointed and shot. Several lizardmen fell dead or wounded, but this time many more flooded in almost immediately to take their place. Sighing, Ilky let his blunderbuss drop and unsheathed his cutlass, ready to fight to the last. Seeing that they weren’t going to get any farther, Gonble and Lollban just discharged their own weapons randomly into the crowd, grabbed their own cutlasses and fell into the fray.
The five fought back to back, bravely fending off the lizardmen who came at them and occasionally making a kill. All the while, Ilky was counting down; ten seconds, nine seconds, eight seconds…come on, come on…three seconds, two seconds, one second…ah…
Ilky smiled grimly. He had taken into consideration the detriment of leaving all of the guns that he and the others couldn’t carry in the claws of those filthy reptiles. So he had left them a little surprise to go along with all of those big barrels full of explosive powder…
* * * * *
There was a fizzle, barely audible even to the lizardmen nearest to the wagon, as the single fuse to one of the powder kegs ran out. And then there was a gigantic boom, one which obliterated everything within several meters and sent a giant heat-wave across almost the entire camp. It rippled through the lizardman army, sending many to the ground and causing massive panic and confusion among the rest.
The small group of defenders, as well as a good number of lizardmen and nearby tents, were all blown to the ground by the heat-wave. Ilky wasted no time, however; scrambling to his feet, he cried, “MOVE!” and started running and jumping over the bodies of dazed lizardmen, the rest of the group following close behind. The lizardmen did soon recover, though, and eventually the party was forced to bunch together, moving steadily forward and fighting off their reptilian fiends as they did.
Philip, who had cast away his blunderbuss in favour of a discarded iron shield, called to his companions, “Hey! I can see the wall from here! We’re almost there, guys!”
It was then that a lizardman jumped at them, shrieking as it swung its club. Gonble grunted as he fell and lay still, a trickle of blood running down his face. “GONBLE! NO!” Lollban cried, unslinging his favorite gun and firing a bullet through the lizardman’s chest. Pumping the gun and reloading, he then rushed forward to his companion’s side, but Jake grabbed his arm with his left hand and kept the goblin moving forward. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“It’s too late for him,” Jake cried over the din of battle, still fighting off the enclosing lizardmen with his left hand, “We have to keep moving, or his sacrifice will have been for…” he ducked under a swing, then stabbed the lizardman who had delivered it. “Naught.” He finished.
The group soon made it to a small ladder that led to the top of the palisades. Fortunately, none of the lizardmen now occupied it, so the two remaining goblins scrambled up while Jake and Philip held their ground at the bottom. Jake was the next to ascend, while Philip backed his way up, jabbing at the reptiles below as he did. This being done, the group looked along the wall for a way across the ditch. They soon found one; about two meters away was another ladder, one that led from the wall to the other end of the stake-filled trench.
Unfortunately, between them and it stood three huge lizardmen.
About seven feet in height each, the entire trio looked as if they were packing nine hundred pounds of muscle between them. In fact, they were so big that there was not enough room for two walk side by side along the walls. Each wielded a razor-sharp long-sword and a big, wooden shield, and all were covered in woad tattoos. The other smaller lizardmen seemed to retreat from the fight at this point; obviously, they thought it best to let these brutes have their sport uninterrupted.
The first swung its blade, causing Philip to raise his own in defense. Such was the strength of the fiend’s blow, however, that the sergeant cried out and lost his grip on the sword. Jake lunged forward with a shout, slicing and thrusting wildly and tearing deep several gashes across the hulking being’s muscular chest. The creature grunted as it stumbled back under the unexpected barrage, allowing the second to pass by and swing its own blade. Jake ducked underneath and kept fighting, and was soon joined by Philip, who had by now retrieved his own blade. Ilky took aim with one of the muskets on his back and fired, putting a hole through the head of the very first lizardman champion. The creature died instantly.
This action, however, only served to enrage the second and third one. This proved both a blessing and a curse; while the third barged by the second, knocking him over the side of the wall in a wild attempt to avenge his other comrade (ironically, the second fell to his death on the stakes in the ditch), Jake and Philip soon found themselves quickly losing ground to their latest foe. The day was saved, though, when Lollban pushed between the two men and fired a shot into the lizardman’s chest. The creature grunted, staggering backwards, and another shot sent its bestial soul to whatever afterlife a creature like it expected after death.
“Come on,” Lollban snarled, “Let’s move!”
The group was soon across the ladder and running into the forest. It would take a while to for the lizardmen, disorganized as they were, to catch them now.
* * * * *
Tisvir huffed and panted as he knelt, his hands bound by rough ropes behind his back. His entire body ached from the bruising he had received in this battle; an annoying trickle of blood dripped into his right eye from a cut just above the brow, causing him to have to blink away the crimson fluid. He looked up as four large lizardmen, chieftains if the hook-claws on each one’s feet were any indicator, approached him, triumphant grins lighting their fanged faces.
“Well,” one cackled in its own language, “You and yours put up a valiant battle, brave leader, but alas you have lost.”
“Just as was foretold,” another snickered.
Tisvir sighed. He knew some of their language, so could communicate well enough. “You have had your victory, o lizard-chiefs. The most that I ask of you is to not dishonor the bodies of my men on this field.”
The assembled chieftains frowned disappointedly at one another. Lizardmen were cannibals, but they respected the wishes of a leader for his men’s fate, especially if that leader had proven himself a mighty adversary. “Very well,” one consented begrudgingly, “You shall have your wish. You, however, shall accompany us until we are released from duty to our master. It is then that you shall be taken to the city of Ram’takka’zakka’tehit’alakrak to be sacrificed to Chagg, and your heart eaten by our Highest Shaman atop the sun-pyramid.”
Tisvir’s eyes widened. Not at the heart-sacrificing, of course – he had seen that coming long ago – but the other part. “What other master do you mean?” he asked, then added, “I mean, surely a people as mighty as yours answers to none save for the gods who gave you birth?”
The lizard-chief frowned. “Enough out of you,” he snapped, then turned to his fellows. “Come now; we have a celebration to prepare in honor of this victory!” The others cheered while the reptile turned to a couple of subordinate soldiers. “Take the leader away and cage him. Let him not from your sight, else your eyes shall be eaten by the toads.” The two lizard-warriors bowed respectfully, then fastened a rope around the human general’s neck and led him away like a dog.
Tisvir, however, said nothing of his treatment. He had been through much worse and more degrading in his long life, and doubted that this little incident would be his death. What his mind was concentrating on, though, was this “master” of theirs and what it might have to do with the evil rising in these woods. Most likely they were one in the same, but whatever the case only one thing was for sure. There was something extremely sinister happening in these lands, and whatever it was it had the potential to shake the very foundations of the Earth.
CHAPTER #3: WE CAN DO THIS
Jake, Philip, Ilky and Lollban ran for the rest of that day and several hours into the night before collapsing from exhaustion in a small glade within the woods. “I think we lost them,” Philip gasped, leaning back against a tree, “There’s no way they could have followed us here.”
“Agreed,” Ilky conceded, panting, “We’ll rest here tonight, then keep moving come the dawn. We must get the message into human hands as quickly as possible.”
Meanwhile, Jake had sprawled out on his back, looking sleepily up at the sky. Lollban sidled towards him, trying desperately to restrain a stream of coughs. “Are you alright, kid?”
“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine,” Jake said muzzily, “It’s just…just my first battle…I could have died there, you know. We all could. But we didn’t. It…it just makes you notice the little things more, you know?”
“Um, sure,” Lollban muttered.
“I mean, the little things in life seem so much bigger,” Jake continued, “Because you’re actually living to experience them, you know?”
“Yeah.” Lollban said curtly.
“Like…like take for instance the stars up there,” Jake murmured on, “Or, or the moon…what time is it right now?”
“I don’t know,” Lollban sighed, sitting down beside the young man, “A couple hours before midnight, I think.”
“Huh,” Jake said blearily, “I didn’t know that the moon would be in the West at this time of night, and at this time of year.”
Lollban took a brief, careless glance at the sky. Then, when he realized what Jake had just said, his eyes shot up again. He was tired, his eyes and mind bleary from physical exertion and the late hour, and he knew it, so it took him quite a while to think about what he had seen up there in the cosmos. In the end, however, he saw that there was no denying the cold, hard truth.
Stumbling to his feet, he gave Jake a kick to the breastplate, waking the previously sleeping man with a grunt. “Come on, kid,” Lollban said, “This is important.” He then ran over to where Ilky and Philip had chosen to rest the night and shook them each into wakefulness. “Guys,” he said desperately, “Guys, wake up!”
“What?” Philip, the type of man who tends to hold a grudge against the one who wakes him, growled, “Just what the hell do you want, you green little…”
“GUYS!” Lollban cried, “WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HEADING EAST!”
“Yes?” Ilky grumbled sleepily, “What do you mean by this?”
Counting “Zehn-neun-acht-sieben-sechs…” under his breath, Lollban attempted to calm himself down. Then he pointed one clawed finger into the night sky. “Look at the moon,” he said frantically, “It’s not in the right place in the sky!”
“What do you…” Ilky, now somewhat more awake, put all the pieces together in his head, and then muttered, “Let’s see, we were supposed to be heading East, but right now the moon is in the West. Now the moon follows the same cycle as the sun, hmm…this time of year, at this time of night, the moon should be…” he looked up, and then an expression of utter horror appeared on his face. “Oh no,” he gasped, “Oh…oh no…”
Jake, who had just stumbled over to the rest of the group, exchanged questioning glances with Philip. “Oh no what?”
“We’ve been heading West, into the forest!” Ilky explained with emphasis, “We’ve been going the wrong way!”
This comment took both men aback. “This is not good,” Philip grunted, “Are you completely sure that…”
“NO!” Ilky cried, flopping back, “Of course I’m not sure! I’m tired! My brain needs rest! As far as I know, I’m either babbling like late-night inventor or even still dreaming! I don’t know!” He lay there, his breath coming out in heavy puffs. Finally, he said, “Look, tomorrow we’ll wake up and sort this whole mess out. But right now, I think I speak for all of us when I say that we need some rest.”
“I agree,” Philip himself lay back and was snoring within seconds. Jake shrugged, not even taking off his armour as he sat back against a tree and fell asleep. Finally Lollban, still high-strung and worried, managed to lay back and let slumber slowly take hold.
* * * * *
“Well, there you have it,” Philip growled angrily, waving his hand at the blue morning sky, “The sun’s come up in the direction we came from, so that means that it’s going to set in the direction we’re going in. Therefore, we were going bloody west.”
Ilky nodded as he stood, tapping his chin pensively with a single claw. Lollban gave an agitated snarl. “We’re going to have to turn back. We have to get the message into human hands!”
Jake, who was leaning his shoulder against a nearby tree, cast him a glance. “Just a question,” he said non-threateningly, “But what is this message, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Lollban snapped, “Ask Ilky! He at least does!”
“Okay,” Philip grunted, facing the goblin noble, “What’s the story?”
Ilky rubbed his chin. “Well,” he muttered, “That is sort of classified information…”
“Come one,” Jake said, “We need to get this message into human hands, right? Well, there’s two humans right here, and who says that with all those lizards out there, you aren’t going to be killed on the return trip?”
“The kid’s right,” Philip agreed, “If we all know the message, then we can all communicate it to the high-ups who can do something about the situation. So, what was it that the message contained?”
Ilky considered for a while, then conceded. “Very well. I see the wisdom in your words. As a goblin, there is a chance that I will not even be trusted anyway. Therefore, since I can find no argument against doing so, I shall tell you of what Arlit plans.
“Deep within these woods, nearby the forest’s very heart, the forces of der Kaiser are massing. You see, the goblin Industrialists have been plotting the downfall of man for many years; in fact, Hethler began the blueprints for your race’s domination before the Industrial Revolution even began. And now my people has begun their war without your even knowing it. While human eyes are turned to the skirmishes along the border and the large goblin armies massing within our own lands, your race is left blind to the many small forces of half a dozen to a dozen goblins which have been slowly infiltrating your land.
“They move quickly and silently under the cover of night to mass together pre-specified rallying locations. The plan is ingenious as it is daring; the Industrialists know the advantage of gaining an early foothold within their enemy’s lands, but they also know that they cannot move an entire army without starting a war before they are completely ready. But small parties of goblins can sneak unnoticed into almost anywhere, these forests especially. The heavy woodland provides excellent cover for their movement and activities, which is why their greatest force within your land shall be massing here.
“Already, since this message was sent, fully four hundred goblins had already made it to their destination. Many more have doubtless arrived by now, and many still will probably be arriving on a weekly basis. There is no doubt in my mind that if your people is not warned, then Hethler’s Industrialists shall crush your land under the Red Wheel of Industry.” He paused, suddenly looking very tired. Lollban lay a comforting hand on his lord’s shoulder.
Ilky smiled wanly, then turned again to the two humans. “My entourage and I hid in our own lands for several years before finally coming here after intercepting the message, you know. We have seen the way in which the banner of the Red Wheel flying overhead poisons the hearts and souls of our people. I’ll admit that the goblin nobility – myself included – could have done much more for the people beneath them with the power that they were born to, but even now I can see that the Industrialists are soon to become just as bad – if not worse – than the aristocracy ever was. I do not know what the future holds, but what I do know is that for the sake of both your race and mine, the Industrialists must be stopped.”
The group fell into silence. Jake and Philip exchanged uncomfortable glances, and then the sergeant said, “Very well. Since we’re all fighting the good fight here, I suggest that we start moving as soon as possible.”
“But wait,” Lollban interjected, “We can’t just go blindly east only to run right into the claws of those filthy lizardmen again! If we do that then all of those people in that camp will have died for nothing.”
“Okay,” Jake said, “Then what do you suggest we do?”
Now this was the cat that caught Lollban’s tongue. Finally, though, after a silent moment of thought, Ilky came up with the solution. “One of us can climb up a tree,” he said simply, “And look for a good, safe route east. After that, we can take that route and get out of these woods.” He beamed at them, satisfied that he had come up with such a simple yet effective idea.
“Very well,” Philip muttered, “Sounds easy enough. So, why don’t you just scoot up one of those trees over yonder and show us what we’re looking for?”
“Um,” Ilky muttered, taken somewhat aback, “Me? You want me to climb one of those…erm…” he looked slowly up one of the trees, and his neck started swaying back and forth as his fangs ground together nervously.
Again, Jake and Philip exchanged glances. “What’s wrong with him?” Jake asked.
Lollban sighed, rolling his eyes. “Ilky’s just afraid of high places,” he explained, then smirked. “Von Haight has no stomach for heights, get it? Heh heh…”
“That wasn’t very funny, Lollban,” Ilky mumbled distantly, prying his eyes away from the trees and looking now to the good, solid ground.
Lollban gave a small chuckle, slapping his liege on the back. “Don’t worry, mein herr,” he grinned in a toothily reassuring manner, “I’ll do it no problem.” With that Lollban laid all of his weapons, magazines of ammunition and armour on the ground, so that he was garbed in but a shirt and a pair of brown trousers. Then, having decided upon which of the nearby trees was the tallest, the group watched as the spry young goblin began his ascent to its top.
Lollban quickly felt more at ease as he scrambled up through the branches, clinging to any nook or cranny that his claws could sink into. It was good to have some physical exertion in the right amount and for the right reason; right here and now, he wasn’t fighting a desperate battle against an angry lizardman, or running for his life through an unfamiliar forest. Right here and now he was zooming up a large tree that, come to think of it, none of the others would dare to ascend. He allowed himself a brief arrogant smirk, feeling twice as high up as the tree itself; he certainly hoped that the others were suitably impressed.
After a few moments he had made it to the top of the tree, or at the very least a place near the top that would still support his weight. There he found a good, sturdy branch to sit down on, his hand wrapped around the trunk, as he took in the view. It was there that he hit his first snag; he couldn’t see anything in the woods around for exactly that reason. It was all covered in woods.
“Ach, scheizer,” he cursed briefly, then took a small instrument out of his belt. It was a small tube that elongated from within to form a telescope; Ilky had told him to keep it handy in case he ever needed it. And now it appeared that he did; peering through the long tube, Lollban spent about half an hour looking around, seeing whatever he could see. Only once was he interrupted by an updraft which almost shook him from his seat. Then, having collected all the information he needed, he began his admittedly more difficult descent, his mood somewhat subdued by the recent developments.
The other three greeted Lollban on the ground. “Well?” Ilky asked, “What have you seen, herr Frensberg? Tell us, please!”
Lollban sighed, laboriously putting his armour back on. “There’s no way back east,” he said, “All of the roads that I could see were swarming with creatures – humans, other creatures, lizardmen, to name a few,” he looked straight at them. “And then a pleasant updraft that nearly blew me clean off of that tree wafted the smell of at least a hundred different creatures taking different routes through the forest. Let’s face it, guys; this is not going to be easy.”
Philip groaned, rubbing his brow. “Damn it,” he growled, “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He stomped the ground angrily, then tried to bring himself under control. “Alright,” he muttered, “Alright, we can work this through. All we need is a plan…” he cried out in impudent rage. “A plan to get us past a forest full of pissed-off monsters and gypsies!”
“Well we have to try,” Jake snapped, “What are we supposed to do anyway, huh? Sit here in this glade until we die?”
“Wait,” Ilky little more than breathed, “We can do this…”
“We can do this?” Philip cried, “HOW?”
“No, no,” Ilky said, excitement rising in his voice and a grin spreading across his face, “I mean, we can do this! We can take care of this problem all by ourselves!”
Jake, Philip and Lollban all exchanged confused glances. “Um, Ilky?” Lollban asked, “Are you alright?”
“Just let me explain,” Ilky said, paying little mind, “In the letter, it said that they were already building up a giant store of gunpowder. The current size stated when the letter was made alone is enough to level a whole square mile of land! At least!” His eyes lit up as he addressed the dumbstruck group. “Think of it! One spark could blow them all to kingdom come!”
“But…but…” Lollban stuttered, “But all those people…four hundred at least…”
“Lollban,” Ilky said, his tone suddenly hard and serious, “If this army is allowed to finish forming and make its assault, many, many more people – both human and goblin – will die. Tragedy is a part of every war, and now that we’re part of one, we have no choice but to commit one evil in order to help stop an even greater one from occurring. Do you understand?”
Lollban bowed his head. “Yes,” he sighed, his eyes still shining with a spark of futile rage, “I…I just hate it, that’s all.”
Ilky nodded sympathetically, patting his personal sergeant on the back. “We’ll get through this,” he assured the goblin, “I promised already that I would do all that is within my power to stop the Industrialists, and I intend to keep my vow.”
Lollban looked up. This time it was his turn to wear a wan smile. “Thank you,” he said, then started picking up his equipment. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
CHAPTER #4: AN UNLIKELY DUO
Myinze had fallen from sheer exhaustion after but an hour of running from the ransacked camp. Even then, he crawled forward under the dense forest foliage, gasping and straining to push himself forward every inch of the way. At last, though, he succumbed to black oblivion, and gradually fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke at noon the next day, moving seamlessly from unconsciousness to consciousness in the manner of all his race. His body aching where it had been cut and bruised, Myinze raised his long neck like a periscope above the surrounding bushes. The area seemed clear enough; this at least was a blessing. Groaning, Myinze climbed to his feet and teetered unsteadily before finally regaining balance. Hmm…it seemed that he had dropped his weapons somewhere on the way here, too. He would need to go back and retrieve them…
No, he told himself, no, the mission was more important! The Empire must be warned of the Industrialists’ plan, and that supercedes all need for luxuries like a good katana in hand. If need be then he could just as easily use a nearby branch like a club.
And if your need becomes so great that you need a weapon to aid your legs and tail in a fight, a bitter thought blindsided the kukkushtidd, Then a piece of wood won’t make much difference.
Inside his head, Myinze’s debate as to whether to continue or go back raged back and forth, making him want to twist his neck about and croon to relieve the stress. I need food…There may still be supplies back at the camp…Fool, the lizardmen have probably already taken all of the food, and besides, I can hunt for more…Hunt with what? I can’t chase down forest creatures in an enclosed place like this…I’m just going to have to learn how then…
Myinze made several false starts, both going to and away from the camp. Finally, however, he decided that it was best not to take risks; if he was to get back to civilization alive, he was going to need at least one good weapon, some supplies and, admittedly, a fair bit of luck. There was only one option; he had to risk going back to the camp.
He started jogging along the path that his knobby feet had kicked through the underbrush, retracing his footsteps as any scout and tracker knew how. Hopefully the lizardmen would have vacated the camp by now; according to Tisvir, who had fought such creatures before, they would take what they wanted and then go back to their own base for celebrations. If this was true, then he should be relatively safe.
Myinze soon found his katana and then his spear, and before long he had jumped over the camp’s ditch and was scrambling over its wall. Even now, though, the kukkushtidd was horrified at the very sight of the camp. Bodies were strewn everywhere, lying in pools of drying blood. Some of the bodies there were those of men he had fought, traveled and laughed beside; he paused briefly to kneel and say a brief prayer for all of the dead lying here on this day. Then he continued his journey; if memory served, the supply tents would be right about…
He paused yet again beside the body of Ormun, the giantess. Frowning piteously, he knelt beside her massive head and gave her forehead a pat. Then he rose to his feet and took a couple more steps before realizing something; her skin was warm. Ormun wasn’t dead at all, but merely sleeping!
Wasting no time, Myinze knelt beside Ormun’s head again and started shaking her, trying frantically to rouse the giantess. After a few minutes without success, though, the kukkushtidd sat back, rubbing his beaked chin thoughtfully. Then, slowly, carefully, he pushed her eyelids apart and gazed into her unseeing pupils. Seeing the way her irises sparkled like they were filled with dozens of tiny stars, Myinze knew in an instant that she was under the influence of some fiendish magic spell. Cawing in frustration, he rose to his feet and looked around. Hopefully the enchantment was one that would preserve her health, too, but if it had kept a fully-grown giantess down for as long as it had, then chances were that it was.
Seeing that there was nothing further that he could do for her, Myinze then made his way to the supply tents. They had been ransacked, though; busted-open crates lay scattered about, vegetable food had been strewn everywhere. Myinze smirked; lizardmen could at least be counted on not to eat that stuff. Kukkushtidds, like humans, were omnivorous beings, so this was not problem.
Suddenly, though, Myinze heard a soft sound, like an exhausted voice babbling nonsensically as it approached. He whirled about, both weapons at the ready, and met an unexpected sight; about ten feet away tottered a sturdy, red-haired goblin, who still dragged behind him one of those blunder-guns. He looked dazed and disoriented, like a drunkard in the streets. As Myinze ran up to the goblin, he noticed a large bruise near a spot where a metal plate had been screwed into the creature’s very skull.
The poor, babbling goblin looked up at the kukkushtidd and then fainted ungracefully. Myinze took the being’s pulse, found that he was still alive, and dragged him and his gun back to the supply tent. There the kukkushtidd fashioned a pack on which he could carry both a week’s worth of supplies and the goblin’s body – he had not the heart to leave the poor soul here. He briefly remarked at what an unlikely duo he and the goblin made before setting out to deliver the message.
CHAPTER #5: TRAGEDY OF WAR
The small group of two men and two goblins could not set out immediately, though; first there was the business of supplies and equipment. Everybody was currently carrying something, and all of them laid what they had down on the grassy floor of the clearing. Even all of their armour came off, so the group was standing in but their shirts, pants and – in Ilky’s place – spectacles.
“Okay, let’s see,” Ilky muttered, preparing a mental checklist as he did, “For my part I was carrying one bullet-proof jacket, one cutlass, one pistol, three muskets, a bag full of assorted objects, and about seven pouches of gunpowder. Lollban, you were carrying one pump-operated firearm using cartridge technology, seven magazines of bullets for said gun, one telescope, one cutlass, one chain mail tunic, one leather breastplate with three-spiked iron shoulder plates. Oh, and you also have three more pouches of gunpowder – well done – and a container of blunderbuss shot.” He frowned critically at the small, sharp objects, barely more than scrap metal, “Which we probably won’t need, but you never know.”
Then he turned to the human’s equipment. “Okay, you both have the complete standard issue military garb of a human soldier, then. That means each of you has one quilt gambeson, a chain mail vest and leggings, a steel breastplate, gauntlets and helmet, and a leather belt and pair of boots, too. Now, between the two of you, you were carrying five pouches of gunpowder, am I correct? Good, and you, Philip, have had the foresight to bring a mess kit complete with a pouch of herbs, some dry meat, a bit of bread, a few bandages – these could be useful. Hmm…flint, tinder, candles…it’s good to see that you came prepared, herr sergeant. And Jake, you have a pouch, some pens and paper, a cooking knife and…a rope? Why do you have a rope?”
Jake shrugged. “It might come in useful. I just grabbed it from the wagon, that’s all.”
Ilky shrugged. “Maybe,” he muttered, then said, “So you each have a sword and a dagger, and Philip, you have a shield, yes?”
“Yes,” Philip muttered, “But just a second; do you think that you’re leader of this operation here? Just because you’re the most convenient nob doesn’t make you boss, you know.”
“I know,” Ilky said levelly, “And I never said that I thought I was boss here, did I now? I’m just making a mental list of our current inventory, because nobody else here is doing so. I have the feeling that we’re going to need every bit of what we have if we’re going to make our plan work, and we’ll have to cooperate, too.”
“What plan?” Jake asked.
“Yeah,” Philip grunted, “All we know is that we’re about to blow stuff up.”
“Hey,” Lollban growled, bearing his fangs, “You humans watch how you talk to Ilky, got it?”
“Do you want to go, shorty?” Philip barked, “Why, I could crush you with my bare hands!”
“Oh yeah?” Lollban cried, flexing his claws, “I could open your jugular with mine!”
“Enough!” Ilky barked, “Both of you! This is not the time for petty squabbling! Philip, I can understand that you think that I think that I’m the one running the show, and I admit that perhaps I was giving that impression, but I assure you that each of us has an equal part in this team! But if we’re going to make our plan work, then we need to quit all of the fighting!”
“You still haven’t told us what the damned plan is,” Philip grunted.
“Look, I’m working on it, alright?” Ilky assured him, exasperation plain in his voice, “The better part of my plan is going to depend upon circumstance, but I have a general idea. So, now I ask you, are you willing to go with me to the end of the line, to help me bring this plan, however it turns out, into fruition?
“What I’m asking is, are you willing to do your part, for the sake of both our races?”
There was a silence in which Lollban stood, his eyes angry and arms crossed across his chest as he loyally shadowed his lord, who kept his gaze firm and unwavering. Jake and Philip traded glances, and then the sergeant sighed. “Alright,” he said, “I’m sorry for causing trouble. You can count on me.” He thumped his chest above his heart, “To the end of the line.”
Jake thumped his chest, too. “To the end of the line,” he repeated.
Lollban’s angry eyes smiled briefly, a toothy grin spreading across his features. Ilky merely smiled and nodded respectfully. “Thank you,” he said gratefully, “Thank you so very much.”
* * * * *
“Blast it,” Kyan grumbled to his companions, “We’ve been searching all afternoon, and have found naught a trace.” He paused for a second, then asked, “By the way, just what are we looking for again?”
Sergeant Raux sighed, sitting down on a log and staring out into the forest around. He was getting old, and this military thing definitely wasn’t his life’s calling; he was a magician, a sham-magic maker who played at parties. He relished in the delighted looks on people’s faces as he pulled rabbits out of hats and coins out of ears, crying out “Ah-HAH!” in a jovially powerful voice. He even looked the part, too; he was a wiry, lightly muscular man, in his early fifties, with short dark hair that miraculously had not even started to gray. His eyebrows were thin and neat, his cheeks somewhat gaunt, and a small goatee and long, thin lock of hair made him look somewhat dashing and mysterious – at least, in his mind. Despite his gypsy blood, Raux was uncharacteristically pale of skin; many believed that whatever the cause, it was nothing healthy.
Raux’s life had been going fine before he had received the Call. He could not explain it at the time; it was as if some timeless bond with the spirits of this forest which had been buried under countless generations had finally reemerged, allowing him to hear their voices and see their faces. They had brought him to the Westerland Woods, where he joined up with a massive army of thousands of men and women like him. Before long he had been chosen for the rank of sergeant, a position which he had only ever heard of and knew not the meaning. And now he had command of a small body of soldiers, gypsies all, of which the currently present Kyan Sorral and Selt Ret were only two.
Raux looked up at his two companions, Kyan in particular. He was a young man, an axe-thrower in his former career, which explained the five small, light axes that dangled from his belt. “At least four Imperial soldiers have escaped west into the forest,” he explained simply, “We are under strict orders to either capture or kill them.”
Kyan traded glances with Selt Ret (everybody referred to him by both his first and last name), whose face was perpetually bundled up in cloth. He, too, seemed to be a young man, and the fact that he held his crossbow in his left hand showed clearly which arm he favored. Raux had seen the man practicing archery a few times before, and knew him to be a fair shot, although not perfect. Selt Ret was usually quite silent as well, preferring to listen rather than speak. Even so, the sergeant could see fear clear as daylight in both of his subordinates’ eyes.
Raux had done his best to think tactically here. Reasoning that the surviving Imperials could not have gotten far and would most likely be exhausted after both the battle and the flight, he could afford to divide his squad up into a few groups of three or four men. This being done, his soldiers cover more ground in less time than if they all stuck together, and would logically find their quarry sooner. But now he was beginning to doubt his plan; these soldiers, wounded or exhausted though they might (and this was a big might – nothing was for sure here) be, they were still far better equipped and trained than he and his bunch.
Raux cast his eyes over the arms and armour of his two troops once again, and was in no way encouraged by what he saw. Above his normal plain pants, boots and sleeveless shirt, Kyan wore a mere chain mail tunic and some old iron helmet. Selt Ret had been more creative, attaching several long plates of copper to make an odd sort of plate mail to cover his chest, belly, and shoulders. The sergeant himself was noticeably better equipped; he had managed to get his hands on a good breastplate, with hip protectors and rather impressive shoulder guards, too. He had a well-crafted gauntlet on each hand, and on his left arm he wore an arm-band with the sergeant’s stripes stitched into the fabric. He had a long rapier and a big knife in his belt, too, and he had to admit that he wasn’t too bad with either.
Still, Raux had no idea what to expect from a group of trained, professional soldiers. The lizardmen had done well against the camp, but then again they were seasoned warriors themselves, and the Imperials had slain at least thrice their own number of the reptiles during the battle. Apparently two lizard-chiefs and one of their second-in-commands had died during the battle, too, which was another fairly discouraging thought. And even in the case that he and these two young men were as well-trained as the soldiers, would they have the nerve to actually kill if the need arose? Other gypsies had taken part in the bloodshed which took place in the lumber mills and forest-side villages they had raided, but sergeant Raux had never partook in any such missions. This was indeed his first assignment, and already he was jittery as the bug under a shoe’s shadow.
Apparently his two soldiers felt the same way. “I don’t like it, sarge,” Kyan grumbled, “I never wanted to kill nobody; I’m a performer, for godssakes! I throw axes at small targets, or at a girl tied to a spinning wheel! I can’t throw them to kill people!”
“You’ll do whatever is necessary to get the job done,” Raux snapped, surprised at how cold his words came out, “We’re at war here, son, and if we don’t obey orders then we’ll all get the noose!”
“I didn’t say I didn’t know that,” Kyan barked back, the current situation making him snappy, “I just said I didn’t like it, that’s all! And…and who the hell do you or any of these other people think you are telling me and Selt Ret here to go out and kill people for you, hm? I don’t want anything to do with this war…”
“Nor do I,” Raux growled coldly, then stared at Kyan’s startled expression. Easing up – the tension here could deflect a machete – the sergeant sighed, letting his soldiers slump. “Look, Kyan, we need to find these…” Don’t say “people,” he thought to himself, Don’t let it sink in who they actually are… “…soldiers and make sure that they no longer pose any threat to us. If one of them takes it into his head to strike a spark on some of the bushes, then we could have a raging forest-fire on our hands.”
“So?” Kyan cried, “They’re still people, aren’t they? Why should we have to kill them, anyway? They haven’t done anything to us!”
“Yes they have,” Raux responded, “They came to attack us in full force.”
“After we attacked them,” Selt Ret’s muffled voice breached from his scarf.
“Exactly,” Kyan said, seeing his opening, “We’re the ones who attacked first! These people are just defending their lands! They’re not the bad guys here!”
“And what do you propose we do?” Raux grunted, rising from his seat on the log, “Should we desert our army? If we do, we’ll either by hunted down and executed by our own side, or killed by the Imperials for having served the gypsy army. We have no choice here; we’ve already chosen a side in this war. We, the gypsies, the lizardmen, and the other forest creatures are all in this together now; there’s no going back from here.”
“Dammit,” Kyan cried, “This isn’t fair! I didn’t want to answer the Call, I just had no choice! I don’t want any part in this! This isn’t my war!”
“It is now,” Raux barked, “And none of us particularly like what’s happened to us, but we weren’t given a choice in the matter! In war you have only two choices; kill or be killed. Those soldiers know that, and though they probably aren’t that bad a bunch of people if you sit down to drink with them in a tavern, if you don’t kill them on the battlefield then they will kill you. Do you understand?”
By now Raux and Kyan were nearly face to face, a mere inch separating their two noses. Selt Ret stood a few feet away, his nervous gloved hands clenching protectively to his crossbow. For a moment sergeant and soldier glared into each other’s eyes, but in the end it was Raux who broke away first. “Look,” he sighed, “If we can, we’ll try to capture or subdue them, but we have to be prepared to kill these…soldiers, because they will be prepared to do the same to us.”
Kyan stayed silent for a while, then sighed angrily. “Fine,” he growled, “I’ll go along with this, but I still don’t like it. I’m a performer, for crying out loud,” he added under his breath, repeating the same phrase in a slightly different manner.
Raux looked around. “Alright, lads, let’s keep moving. Remember the plan; push west through the forest until we reach a deer trail, then follow along it north for two more. We shouldn’t be far from the trail now, and if my guess is correct, neither are the Imperials. With any luck, we’ll run into them somewhere along the trail.” He didn’t exactly mean that last part; in fact, he fervently hoped that this was not the case. Still, if ill fortune haunted his steps this day, then he would indeed have no choice but to do whatever he could to follow his orders.
“Kill or be killed…” those words echoed eerily in his head. Raux shuddered as he and the small party began walking again; he did not like this situation one single bit.
* * * * *
“So, if the sun is any indicator, then we’re currently going west, right?” Lollban muttered as the group pushed its way through the forest foliage.
“That is correct,” Ilky responded, “If we follow the sun’s path across the sky then we shall eventually get where we need to go.” He paused, then looked to the humans. “Excuse me, Jake, Philip. May I ask, about how far is it to the forest heart?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Jake said knowledgeably, “The Westerland Woods themselves are twice as large as all the rest of the Human Empire put together. Even if we keep walking straight then it could take us weeks, perhaps even months, to reach our destination.”
“And that’s assuming that nothing happens to us on the way,” Philip muttered, “Which includes avoiding starvation. The food in my bag won’t last us for very long; between four mouths, I’d say we’ve got three meals before we have to re-supply.”
Ilky rubbed his chin. “I see,” he muttered, “Not very good news. Well, I suppose that I could use one of my guns to shoot any deer we see, but then we’d have to worry about those forest creatures coming to investigate the noise.”
“You seem to be a pretty good shot with that knife of yours,” Lollban said to Philip, “I saw you stick one of those lizards right through the eye from at least ten feet away, remember? If we run across some deer, you can toss your knife at one, we can all eat venison for a while, and the only sound to be heard will be a ‘thud’ as the beast hits the ground!”
Philip rolled his eyes. “I was lucky there,” he muttered, “The heat of battle sort of gets to you; when it’s actually important that you hit the mark, then there’s a better chance that you will do so.”
‘It will be important that you hit the mark,” Jake commented, “I mean, we all have to eat, right?”
“I know that,” Philip snapped, “But that’s not what I mean! I mean, when you’re really in a situation when your life depends on that one throw…”
“We probably will be,” Ilky interrupted.
“Gah!” Philip threw his hands up in the air with exasperation, “No, no, no, that’s not what I mean! It’s the adrenaline rush, the fact that you are in immediate danger of getting your head cut off! That’s when you throw really good, and even then you don’t always hit the mark!”
“So, what you’re saying is that you aren’t really any good at throwing knives, is that it?” Lollban asked.
“I never said that I was no good,” Philip grumbled, “I’m just saying that there are a lot of other people who are a lot better than me, that’s all.”
“Well,” Ilky mused, “As the old saying goes, ‘There’s always someone who did worse than you.’ I imagine that in that case you have a few of those type of people in the area of knife-throwing.”
“Huh?” Philip grunted, “What do you mean, ‘those type of people?’ What are you talking about, anyway?”
“I mean people who aren’t any good at throwing knives,” Ilky explained patiently, “I’d be the first to admit to being one. I’ve never even tried to throw a dagger before, and I would not imagine that the types of knife which are currently available to us are exactly designed for use as a projectile.”
“I don’t imagine so,” Philip muttered, and the group lapsed into silence for a while as they pushed onwards through the foliage.
After about half an hour, the two men and two goblins burst out onto a thin, rocky, hard-dirt trail. “This must be a deer trail,” Philip muttered, “It seems to be going south-west-ish, so I bet it’s safe to follow, if only for a while.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Ilky muttered, sniffing the air. “I smell the residue of quite a few creatures, although I can’t quite put my finger on what half of them are.” He snorted, shrugging. “Still, all of those things are long gone by now; in fact, I even smell a bit of deer, and the scent is fresh!” He nudged Philip’s leg with his elbow. “You might be proving your aptitude with the knife quite soon, eh?”
“But wait,” Jake said, “What if following this trail sets us off our course? What if we actually do run into somebody along the way? What if somebody’s watching us right now? What do we do then, huh?”
“We shut your damn trap and get moving,” Philip grunted flatly, starting to walk forward. Shrugging, the two goblins started after him, leaving Jake to stare for a while, then jog to catch up.
* * * * *
Kyan glared at Raux’s back as the sergeant led the other two soldiers through the underbrush. This wasn’t fair; Kyan was an overall good guy. Sure he had a bit of a temper on him – plenty of people did – and sure he could split a leaf’s spine at twenty paces with a thrown axe, but that didn’t mean that he was any sort of warrior! That didn’t mean that he wanted to go into battle and kill other people!
This was stupid. He never wanted to join an army, and he never wanted to hunt people down in some damned forest. When still a travelling performer, he’d had all he wanted; a relatively safe, steady line of work, good friends and company to travel with, even a girl. The thought of this made him think longingly of Mina, a young, beautiful woman who could read your fortune on your palm, and was currently as infatuated with him as he was with her. He had never felt the same way about another person as he had with her, and hoped that this expedition would not keep him too long from his lover’s arms.
Suddenly Raux stopped, causing Kyan to almost walk right into him, and then stumble forward as Selt Ret walked into his own back. “What is it?” Kyan asked, clumsily regaining his balance.
Raux stepped forward a few paces into an area of uneven, trampled-down dirt. “This is the deer trail,” he announced, “We follow it in the most northerly direction possible, then after a couple of hours we head back home. Understand? Good. Don’t worry; they probably haven’t even gotten this far yet, or more likely they’ve just headed back east.” Please let them have headed back east, he prayed inwardly, then turned to the trail. “Let’s go, then.”
The sergeant set out at the head of the group. Kyan exchanged glances with Selt Ret, and then both started forward.
* * * * *
“But seriously,” Lollban chattered on to Ilky in his own language as they continued down the deer trail, “If there’s always someone who did worse than you, and then there’s always someone who did worse than him, then logically there’s got to be somebody who is worse than everybody, right?”
“Well,” Ilky responded, “Technically, the saying itself implies that there is always somebody who is worse than whoever else, so there must be somebody worse than whoever is the worst, then.”
“Yeah, but how does that work?” Lollban asked, “I mean, how can somebody be worse than the worst person in the world at something?”
“I don’t know,” Ilky sighed, “This is a really stupid conversation, although that’s just my opinion.”
Lollban grinned toothily. “I think it’s sort of fun.”
Philip, who was walking a few paces ahead with Jake, looked back suspiciously at them. “Hey,” he called back, “You two ain’t insulting us behind our backs, are you?”
“Heavens no,” Ilky answered politely, “Although I admit it is somewhat rude to be speaking in a language that half the present company cannot understand. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
“Huh.” Philip turned back to Jake, inexplicably put off by the goblin’s politeness. “It’s these foreign people with these foreign lingoes,” he explained, “I don’t know why, but I just don’t like it when they rattle on in their own language while we’re still in hearing range. I mean, if they need to say something, why not say it so we can understand it, eh?”
“Hey, don’t worry,” Jake said, “I don’t think that they mean anything by it; they’re probably just talking about, oh, I don’t know, the weather or the trees, or something like that. I mean,” he added with a laugh, “I hardly think that they’re insulting us behind our backs.”
“I think that Philip looks a bit like a pissed-off cow,” Lollban snickered to Ilky.
“Mister Frensberg,” Ilky rebuked his sergeant, “You should not be insulting these two men that way!”
“Hey, I don’t really mean it,” Lollban smirked, “It’s just fun knowing that they can’t understand it, so I can say whatever I want!”
“Well, even so I don’t think that you should,” Ilky sniffed, “Besides, it’s not Jake’s fault that he smells like a goose with a glandular condition.”
“Hey!” Lollban almost laughed, “You just did it, too!”
Ilky smiled briefly, smothering a chuckle in his sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he giggled silently, “The temptation was too great to resist.”
Philip scowled at the sound of the two goblins’ conversation. “Alright,” he muttered, “Now I know they’re talking about us.”
“Philip, just leave them alone…” Jake started, but it was too late. Philip had already halted and turned around, a lone warrior ready to battle bilinguality in all its forms.
“Alright, fellas,” the sergeant said, “That’s enough. First of all, it’s just plain rude talking in a language that not everybody present can understand; I believe you said so yourself, Ilky. And second of all…”
“Um, Philip?” Jake said, tapping the man on the shoulder plate, but the sergeant merely batted the young soldier’s hand away like an irritating fly.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re saying, so…”
“Listen,” Lollban responded, “We weren’t talking about anything that would offend you…”
“Um, Philip?” Jake tried again.
“Not now, Jake,” Philip muttered through the side of his mouth, then continued, “So what were you talking about, and why couldn’t you share it with us?”
“Hello?” Jake asked, his voice taking on a slight hint of worry.
“It was just a little joke, that’s all,” Ilky explained.
“Guys?” Jake asked.
“A joke, eh?” Philip grunted, "Then why don’t you share it with us…”
“LOOK OUT!” Jake suddenly barreled into Philip, pushing him out of the way as a crossbow bolt zoomed through the space once occupied by the man’s head.
* * * * *
“Damn it,” Raux growled, drawing his rapier in his right hand and his dagger in his left, “There goes the element of surprise! Up and at ‘em, boys! They know we’re here now!”
While sergeant Raux rushed forward to meet the enemy, Kyan glared at Selt Ret. “I saw that,” he snarled, “You shot straight at that guy’s head!”
“Hey,” Selt Ret’s muffled voice whinged, “I was aiming for his shoulder…”
“Never mind!” Kyan let fly an axe, aiming for one of the goblins. It was okay if he accidentally killed one of them, he reasoned; it wasn’t as if they were really, technically people or anything…
Still, he threw the axe at the creature’s leg just in case. He didn’t want to kill anyone if he could help it.
Thankfully, the axe fell short, hitting the ground. By now, Raux had engaged the enemy, fighting against the two humans simultaneously. Dammit, Kyan thought, If I throw my axes I might hit the sarge! “You cover me,” he told Selt Ret, pulling out two more axes, “I’m going to help out Raux!”
“Very well,” came Selt Ret’s cloth-muffled voice as he frantically reloaded, but his words were unheeded; Kyan was already rushing towards the ensuing melee.
Please don’t let me kill them, the be-cowled man thought as he took aim and fired again.
* * * * *
Another arrow whizzed by Jake’s head as he and Philip frantically fought back Sergeant Raux and Kyan Sorral. Both pairs traded blows, each trying to force the other back. Meanwhile, about twenty paces away, Selt Ret reloaded his crossbow for another shot.
Lollban raised his pump-gun, but Ilky quickly laid a claw on the nozzle. “Not now,” he hissed, “The noise may attract more of them!” He drew his cutlass. “Go for the legs,” he instructed, then charged.
* * * * *
Sergeant Raux cried out as he whirled about his rapier, slashing curving, complicated arcs in the air. He rarely used his dagger, though; indeed, he did not know how, and such was demonstrated in the way he held it, with its blade pointing away from the top of his hand. Thus, although he constantly held it at the ready, his main weapon still remained his long rapier.
Beside him, Kyan struck about wildly, yelling and hollering as panic welled up in his eyes. Raux could sympathize with the young man; he, too, felt panic flaring in his mind, making it difficult to think about anything save for keeping on fighting. Only now did he realize how truly dangerous his situation was; here were two soldiers whom he had provoked, and now they would likely stop at nothing to kill all three members of his party. Oh, how had this horrible nightmare come to pass? All of the odds were tipped against him finding these soldiers; how the hell was it that that’s exactly what he had done?
Fight now, think later, a little voice in the back of his head told him, Remember, it’s still kill or be killed. That was not much of a reassurance.
* * * * *
It was not long before the two gypsies, overwhelmed and outmatched, were forced to give ground and retreat a few steps. The two goblins behind the Imperials seized this opportunity to attack, jumping in front of their human companions and lashing out with skilled strokes and slashes from their cutlasses. Kyan swung his axes wildly, trying to drive them back but not kill them; he had decided that he would spare even these creatures if he could.
The desperate duo fought on, with Selt Ret occasionally firing an inexpert shot from his position behind them. The goblins, however, slowly shuffled about, side-stepping around the gypsies as they fought so that the two humans could re-join the action. Soon Raux and Kyan were fighting back-to-back, the former battling the two humans, the latter desperately hacking at the goblins. It was a desperate battle, and the two gypsies could barely restrain themselves from succumbing completely to panic.
Kyan hacked wildly, trying more to smash away his two adversaries’ blades than to kill the enemy. He hadn’t counted on fighting being this hard, and all the fear he had felt before the battle paled in comparison to the sheer terror he felt now. Still, desperation gave his limbs strength as he continued to fight, heedless to the nicks and cuts the goblins occasionally scored on his unfortunately bare arms.
Some time during the fight it entered Kyan’s mind to kick out at the goblins, to perhaps stall them long enough to strike a successful blow – for the purpose of wounding, of course. Even so, his attempt ended in disaster; his kick struck a glancing blow across Ilky’s jaw, but Lollban moved in, stabbing with his cutlass. The weapon slid into the underside of Kyan’s exposed thigh, and the man let out a scream as he felt the blade rip through his hamstring. Falling to the side and still shrieking as he did, he let go of both of his axes and started to craw back from the young goblin, who advanced steadily, holding out his blade.
“Stop right there,” the creature snarled, pointing the tip at Kyan’s throat, “Or you’re dog meat.”
* * * * *
Selt Ret saw Kyan fall, and immediately knew that the man was in danger. Just like Raux had said, it was kill or be killed here; he might just have to do so in order to save his friend’s life.
Casting aside his crossbow and drawing a long, curving knife, Selt Ret made not a sound ran forward, pushing himself to take each step. As he did, the thoughts ran through his head, I don’t have to do this…this isn’t my war…I don’t want to hurt people…I don’t want to be a soldier…a fighter…a killer…I was happy with my family…all of us travelling together…oh Esko…
He had gotten into a fight with his brother, Esko, last night; it was not a real sparring match, but a mere war of words. He could no longer remember what it was about any more – some small, trivial issue that had seemed so all-fired important at the time – and all of the anger he had felt at that moment had faded after a good night’s rest. He had wanted to look for his brother in the morning, to make amends for the unkind words he had said in anger, but before he could he had been taken away on this mission. And now he realized that he may never get the chance to apologize…
He was just within striking range of the nearest goblin, and raised his knife high. It was here that the full brunt of the realization hit him, so hard that he wavered for a second, lost in regret and unable to bring down the blade.
It was in that short moment, however, that the goblin, Ilky, spun around with a gasp. Reaching into his jacket as he did, he pulled out his small, cartridge-firing pistol and instinctively his finger clenched on the trigger…
“HOUGH!” All of the wind left Selt Ret’s body in a rush as the wildly discharged bullet shot straight through the area between his waist and gut, unencumbered by the cheap copper “armour”. He doubled over in pain, then crumpled to the ground, a crimson hue flooding his vision. For a few moments he stared out in shock at nothing in particular; none of it mattered. He knew not even how whatever had happened to him had, but he did know that he was dying; he could feel a pool of blood surrounding him, soaking into his clothes…
He could hardly believe it. He was dying. He was dying, and he hadn’t even had a chance to apologize! He tried to move his limbs, to push himself up again, to walk back to the camp and at least make peace with his dear brother before he left this world, but alas all strength had left his body. His arms and legs lay like useless, immobile lumps of lead; it would not be long until all of his body was like this.
No, Selt Ret thought, sadness and desperation welling up in his very soul, No, no, no, it’s not fair! I need to apologize to my brother! I’ve been good all my life! I at least deserve this! Please, don’t let me die, this…this isn’t fair…
With his last breaths, the young man slowly started to sob, his tears mingling with the blood that now pooled around his body. He died crying pitifully, his thoughts whirling around in a pool of bitter grief and remorse.
* * * * *
“SELT RET!” Kyan cried, “NO!”
He had seen it; all of it. He had seen that murderous little green-skin slay his friend with that wicked little contraption, seen as the poor young man crumpled as that hellish noise sounded. Anger welled up inside Kyan’s soul, grabbing another axe in his belt, he grabbed a low-hanging branch in the other hand and pulled himself to his feet, ready to do combat again.
“YOU BASTARDS!” he cried, pushing himself forward with his good leg and swinging his axe wildly at Lollban, “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU BASTARDS! HOW DARE YOU!” He continued shouting and hacking like a mad lumberjack, causing the two surprised goblins to quickly back up under the furious onslaught. He no longer cared about trying not to kill them; these little monsters deserved to die for what they had done to Selt Ret! And he would make them pay; by the sky, he would make them all pay!
Even so, Kyan’s bad leg could not hold out for very long. He stumbled, tripping and falling to one knee. Even as he did, he made a wild, over-head swing with the axe. This action, however, proved to be his last; the goblins both dodged in a different direction, then closed in on the man, sliding their steel into his body. Kyan gasped, and felt blood welling up in his throat. As the goblins pulled free their blades, two spurts of blood violently exited the young man’s body.
Kyan’ tried to scream, but it came out as a gargle. Retching blood like vomit, he pitched forward, twitching as his nervous system gradually shut down. His last thought before his spirit left for the afterlife was one of bitter regret and resentment for all that had brought him to this horrible situation.
* * * * *
Sergeant Raux cried out in panic and anger as he whirled about, swinging and slashing desperately as he fought back four foes at the same time. It did not even cross his mind to throw himself upon their mercy; he knew that they had killed Kyan and Selt Ret, and was now completely convinced that they would do the same to him. These were soldiers; they were trained to kill or be killed. It was the philosophy that the warrior lives and dies by.
And now, he realized with rising horror, he was going to die by it.
Raux cried out, somewhat panicking as he swung his sword in a wide arc. Jake and Philip backed up while the gypsy sergeant spun around, slashing wildly at Ilky and Lollban. Then, instinctively sensing that the two human soldiers were about to attack again, Raux whirled about and stabbed several times, forcing the men back. Again, he turned to the goblins.
Raux feinted a blow at Ilky, then stabbed suddenly at Lollban. The goblin parried the blow, but this time Jake and Philip were quicker to respond than usual. Raux was just able to jump out of the way as both slashed at him at once, then raised his blade to block another blow from Philip. The thin rapier’s blade snapped under the attack, though, and soon the gypsy was less his main weapon.
This is it, he thought desperately, I’m done for…
And then he remembered the knife in his other hand…
Raux was not left handed, but even so it took him little time to switch the dagger to his right hand. Then he attacked, hurling himself recklessly at Philip. He dodged under the man’s guard, getting so that his breastplate almost touched the other sergeant’s, and swung with his knife. Philip was barely able to catch the man’s wrist, stopping the blade’s tip but an inch from his own throat.
“Philip!” Jake cried, swinging his sword. The blow chopped Raux’s right arm off, causing the man to scream with pain and terror. Blood spouted everywhere, spattering Jake, who screamed in turn. Philip, however, pushed the man away and, raising his sword with a battle-cry, brought it down at the gypsy sergeant’s skull.
* * * * *
The small group proceeded along the deer trail at a brisk jog, deathly silence smothering them in its heavy grip. Each was lost in his own individual thoughts; the skirmish had affected all greatly.
While Philip had insisted that they get going immediately, a shaking and stuttering Jake had adamantly insisted that the bodies be buried in some way. Philip had argued that there was no time for that, but Jake was resolute. In the end, before a fight could break out, Ilky had put forth the idea that they cover the gypsies’ corpses with a blanket of leaves and bushes and leave them where they were; he promised to say prayers for them later that night. This was mainly to reassure Jake, who seemed to have taken what had happened quite badly; nobody knew exactly why, although it was not hard to guess.
Meanwhile, Sella Enferiellus sat at her table, her fingers gently caressing her crystal ball as she gazed down at them. She had found them now; sergeant Raux had done well in directing her mystical eye towards these Imperials.
Looking up briefly, Sella saw a figure in a long, flowing cloak and hood.
Everything about the man was dark; the way he dressed, the way he acted, even, on the rare occasions that she had heard him do so, the way he spoke. In fact, the only thing that was not completely shadowy about the man his ivory face mask, a covering of the upper face with two skull-like eye-holes and a long, goblin-like nose which shone a pearly white even within her own darkened tent. A simple nod in his direction was all that was needed to make the man back out of her tent without a word; he would know what to do.
Sella then turned back to the crystal ball and let the image fade away. A sudden wave of exhaustion fell over her, and she sensed that it was not merely due to the energy lost in using magic. Not long ago she would have burst out crying hopelessly for remorse at having sent three good men to their deaths, but now she felt colder, more indifferent. She didn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was it could be nothing good.
* * * * *
Soon the deer path started to wend its way east, and the group had to cut off from it and head west through the forest’s underbrush. They went on as quickly as possible for a couple of hours, then came to camp in a small patch of clear ground about three metres in diameter. Darkness was already falling, but even so none dared light a fire. Thus did they ration out some bread and meat, and the four companions ate in silence.
After a while Philip snorted, finishing off the last of his part of the meal. “So much for our dreams of venison,” he commented, “I’ll tell you one thing, though; we should have checked those gypsies’ bodies for some damn grub. We’ll be needing it come the day after tomorrow.”
Jake stared coldly at the man. His face seemed somewhat gaunt in the failing light, his eyes wide and twitching. “How can you say that?” he asked, “How can you?”
“What do you mean?” Philip grunted, “All that about looting? Give me a break, kid; those gypsies would have just as soon despoiled us. It’s just we killed ‘em first.”
“We…killed them…” Jake breathed to himself, looking down at his still blood-stained gauntlets.
“Gypsies?” Lollban asked, “I thought they were just common bandits.”
“No, couldn’t have been,” Suldir muttered, “One of them bore a sergeant’s stripes. Bandits don’t have ranks like that, or ranks period. With bandits, all you have are leaders and flunkies, although an army of them would probably do better than these gypsies if those soldiers are any example of what they’re all like.”
“How do you mean?” Ilky asked.
“Well,” Philip said, leaning back against a nearby tree, “The gypsies just aren’t a battle-ready foe. Those men’s weapons and armour were obviously made up of just whatever they could get their hands on. There were scared to even risk shedding our blood for the better part of that fight; you could even see the fear in their eyes.”
“Really?” Lollban asked.
“Aye,” Philip answered, “Against a real army with real soldiers, they’ll not stand a chance. If they’re smart, they’ll let the seasoned warriors like lizardmen and other creatures with more military experience do the fighting until their own soldiers are sufficiently trained and equipped.” He tossed off his left gauntlet and idly picked at some gunk in his teeth with his little finger. “Even so, I can still see them sending men after us into the woods, which could pose a definite danger to our mission.”
“I can’t believe this!” Jake finally cried, throwing his hands up in the air. At the puzzled glances from the rest of the group, the young man continued, “How can you be just talking like this? We just killed three people!”
“Yeah,” Lollban muttered, “Your point?”
“MY POINT?” Jake screamed, eyes wide and frantic, “What the hell do you mean? My point is that three people are…are…dead.” The last word dropped from his mouth like a leaden weight, making a small thump that gave way to an uncomfortable pause. The young man stared down at his bloody gauntlets again. “We all had a hand in it…we all killed those people…even me…”
“Um,” Philip muttered, “I’d hate to rain on your thunderstorm, kid, but you didn’t seem so remorseful about all of those lizardmen you killed at Tisvir’s camp.”
“Indeed,” Ilky agreed, “It seems something of a hypocrisy, in my opinion.”
“But, but,” Jake fumbled for words, “But those were lizardmen, and they were trying to kill us, and…”
“And they looked different,” Lollban sneered, for once openly hostile towards Jake, “So that’s it, huh? Just because somebody looks different or speaks in another language, they’re not as much of a person? Is that what you believe? Huh? Is it?”
“No, no,” Jake said hurriedly, turning from depressed to defensive, “I mean…”
“What about me?” Lollban snarled, splaying his claws across his own chest by way of reference, “I look different from you, don’t I? Does that mean that I’m less of a person?”
“No!” Jake almost shouted, anger starting to rise in his own voice, “I never said that, you son of a…”
“So you know my name,” Lollban yelled overtop of him, rising with fists clenched, “Does that make me a person? So now people are only people if you know their names?”
“Hey, look,” Jake snarled, rising to his feet himself, “You’re twisting my words, you little…”
“So what?” Lollban barked, “You still aren’t getting the point here! The point is…”
“Oh, knock it off,” Philip growled, “Lollban, don’t tell me you wouldn’t rather kill a human than a goblin, right? And Jake, if it makes you feel any better, you weren’t the one who killed that sergeant. That was me; I killed him. Not you. You just cut off his arm, and saved my life in the process, I might add. And besides, killing is all part of being a soldier; it’s the gritty, unpleasant and inglorious business that good, honest folk should never have to do, so we’re the ones who do it for them.”
“So what,” Jake said stiffly, “You’re saying what we did to those people was right?”
“Jake,” Philip grunted, pushing himself to his feet, “There’s something you’ve got to realize; war is tragic. Whether or not those people we killed knew what they were signing up for or not when they attacked us may forever remain a mystery, but they did make it their duty to fight for their side. And now we cannot let anything, and I mean anything, keep us from doing our duty, no matter the cost. One thing I’ve learned during my years in the army is that war is something nobody should have to go through; all it does is cause sorrow and tragedy, and all it leads to is even more wars in the future.”
“Then why do we fight at all?” Jake asked, the fire in his eyes fading away.
“Because it’s either that,” Philip pointed out, “Or we just lie down and let other people walk all over us. If we aren’t prepared to do our part in this war, kid, then I’ll tell you right now that der Kaiser and his Red Wheel are going to roll over and crush the lands of our people, destroying and enslaving everything in his way. This isn’t just a war between two jingoistic countries who are greedy for what each other has; this is a war against evil.”
Jake shrugged concedingly. “Does that make us good?”
“Not necessarily,” Philip responded, “But however bad our kings and lords might be, Arlit will always be a hell of a lot worse. He’s a ma- er, goblin with a dream, kid; a dream to make everyone else’s world a nightmare. Some monsters have to be killed, you know, and this is one of them.”
Jake nodded, then collapsed into a sitting position, lying back against the nearest tree. “I’m sorry,” he said distantly, “It’s just…”
“It’s okay, kid,” Philip assured him, “All soldiers get this way. Now let’s all get some rest, shall we? We’ll need to be up and at ’em in the morning, so we’d better all be as well rested as possible.”
CHAPTER #6: HUNTING AND MASQUE
Ibram Masquer watched silently as a score of kobold warriors scurried through the underbrush beneath him. They were short, gangly humanoid creatures, with grizzly, pointed features, twelve fingers and twelve toes (two of which were du-claws for the latter), mean, beady eyes and large, fang-filled jaws. Theirs was a race whose skin could shift like a chameleon between gray, green and brown; in their natural forest environment, they were masters of disguise. Ibram drew a finger along the ridge of his goblin-nosed mask; even though the night’s darkness would make for good enough cover in itself, he had learned much from their people.
Ibram had grown up among a gypsy travelling circus. He remembered this very clearly; few people had a memory such as his. Given enough time, he could remember every face he had ever seen, every word ever spoken to him, every moment of his entire life up till now. Even so, there was one thing that he could never recall, and quite frankly never wanted to. Every time he reminded himself, the experience was just too painful, for that thing was his own face.
Poor Ibram was the victim of an old family curse, one that went back for generations. Never had history seen this misfortune written down on paper, for few who had the knowing of reading and writing back them knew anything about ways of the mysterious gypsies. As the legend went, one of Ibram’s ancestors had foolishly let himself be carried into an argument with Lothlan Spellbinder, a powerful and wicked gypsy of ages past. And although Lothlan had power unmatched by any of his kin, wisdom was a thing that he had not. Ibram’s ancestor had easily pointed out every contradiction and idiosyncrasy in the magician’s argument, and humiliated him through and through.
Power can easily turn a man wicked, though. And a wicked man with a lot of power often finds himself in the position to take vengeance in any form he pleased.
And so Lothlan found a cruel yet delightfully ironic way to get back at Ibram’s poor forefather. He had been a handsome young man, so much so that no woman had yet been able to resist his charm. Lothlan had spent thirteen days and thirteen nights preparing a curse which would plague the man’s family for a hundred generations, and administered it using a small prick with a silver needle. This being done, Ibram’s ancestor became so terrifyingly hideous that not even the kindest, most understanding person could help recoiling in disgust at the very sight of his face, and loathing him for it. Not even wearing the Mask, the long-nosed, ivory barrier between world and face which had eventually been passed down to Ibram himself, could completely dissipate the feelings of animosity people would forever more hold against him. And so it would be for every child of that man, and every child of that child, and so on for the entire duration of the curse.
Still, things were not completely bleak. As every spring has a winter, so does every winter a spring. The catch contained by the curse, the one obscure glimmer of hope among the black sea of despair, was that there would always be one person who would hold greater love for the curse’s bearer than all the collective hatred held by the entire rest of the world. And, despite how small a chance of the bearer meeting this person was, love had always found its way to every one of Ibram’s ancestors, as it had eventually come to him.
Even so, it had reached him at a very late time indeed. A lifetime of detestation had tossed and turned him about long before that had happened.
Ibram had started his life in the inglorious position as a circus freak. None who ever saw his true face ever remembered it for more than about an hour or so, but all who had could well recall its pure hideousness. He had sometimes mused that perhaps it was not his face that was ugly, but merely some sort of evil aura that made others detest him so. No matter; all he knew for sure was that none could stand the look of his face, not even he. How many times had he collapsed, shivering, weeping and moaning before the cruelly honest face of a mirror, trying to deny the undeniable? Trying desperately to purge the feelings of disgust and hatred he felt for himself.
Ibram had eventually set out on his own to make a living for himself, his travels bringing him to the Westerland Woods, a haven for all who shared gypsy blood. It was not long before he had met the kobolds – the Greenrunner tribe, to be precise – who were an isolated race who wanted little to do with the outside world. For some reason, they felt no disgust or loathing for him, but rather were deeply intrigued. When they saw his face, they marveled rather than recoiled, and invited him to come amongst them and be accepted.
Ibram had never asked for an explanation concerning their behavior, nor had he ever received one. Perhaps they were attracted to the powerful magic in some way, although he doubted it; they were unlovely, mysterious creatures to be sure, but he had never known them to be any more power-hungry than your average human. Most likely they wondered at how one’s face and form could be warped to such an effect. They were, after all, a people to whom natural physical distortion came very easily.
From a young age, every kobold learns how to blend his skin with the woods around him. Although intertribal wars often killed the young of their kind off before such could happen, certain kobolds could even live to an age where their skin could take on any sort of hue they so desired. Ibram had once watched in wonder as an elder of their race blended in perfectly with a patch of brilliantly coloured woodland flowers, and it was from this example, along with several others, that proved such to be true. And finally, there were some kobolds who were born as heirs to a natural talent for magic. Theirs, however, was not an ability to curse or cast about the elements. Theirs, in his opinion, was much more intriguing.
These great kobold shamans were shape-shifters. They could take the form of any beast of their choosing, a secret which they had taken into their gnarled talons to teach him. He had been tutored by them for many a year with little progress – such magic did not come easily to humans – but eventually his form-altering curse began to work to his advantage, just as the shamans had predicted it would. At last his ancestors’ damnation had become a small blessing to himself.
Even so, he still was not satisfied. At least, not until he had met his love.
Terrah Sensalan was a fine woman, about forty-four years old. Ibram was fifty at the moment – they had only met a few months ago – so fortunately there was no criminally large age gap. Terrah had seen several lovers before, none of whom had ever seemed to have quite satisfied her. She had always been searching for something in a man, something she could never quite place her finger on, but knew was never there, and that she could never be truly happy without it. And then, after hearing the Call (which extended to gypsies, kobolds and all other tribes of people who had ever found haven in the Woods), the two had soon met and become immediate lovers.
Now nothing else mattered to him but her. Though he still cared for the kobolds who had accepted him, nothing could match what he felt for his beloved! He thought nothing of that witch Sella, or the smug, arrogant Piper. Subcommanders Bendan and Riasha, and others among Sella’s high officers, also occasionally condescended towards him, but they did not matter. All that mattered was Terrah; by the trees, he would do anything for her!
Still, if he was to have life and love with her, then both he and she would have to survive this war. And to do that, they would both need to follow the orders of their mysterious new master, the undeniable force that was steadily rising within the Westerland Woods. If his superiors wished that four men be hunted down, then so be it.
“The fools now rest as sun is gone,” Ibram mused to himself, in verse like he always did, “Unknowing they’ll not see the dawn.” And then, with one dexterous leap, he was on the ground and running quickly to catch up with the kobold warriors.
* * * * *
Ilky paced furiously about, trying to use movement to keep him from succumbing to the blackness of sleep. In order to put Jake at ease, he had said his prayers for the poor men they had slaughtered this day; they probably hadn’t deserved to do, but war is war. The only way a soldier can discern who does and does not deserve death is whether or not they are friend or foe.
Feeling drowsiness starting to set in, Ilky increased the pace of his paces. While his right hand held his cutlass, his left arm remained wrapped around one of his muskets. The moonlight above glinted off of the rims of his spectacles, he could not see much in this poor light, especially due to his impaired vision. However, a shift of the wind soon blew a strange scent by his nose.
It took Ilky a few seconds to isolate the smell; it was faintly familiar, and it was not long before the goblin realized that he had smelled it before on the deer trail. Back then it had been diluted by a myriad of other scents, though; this time it was strong and singular. If his nose still served, then there was at least twenty of them, and they were drawing nearer by the second.
Daring to sheath his cutlass for a moment, Ilky kept his musket trained on the dark woods around as he shook Philip awake with his free hand. “They’re coming,” he whispered quickly by way of explanation, “Get the other two up as quickly and quietly as you can; we need to get moving as soon as possible. Do it now!” Wordlessly, Philip complied; he knew better than to let having been woken up at such an ungodly hour get in the way of the business at hand. Mechanically, like a man who has had insufficient sleep but nevertheless needs to do an important job, Philip woke Jake and Lollban. To them Ilky gave no explanation save for, “We have to get moving. Hurry!” And then they were off.
Pushing through the darkened underbrush, leaves and foliage scratching against armour, the group made relatively silent headway into the forest. Even so, the smell of the enemy had begun to grow stronger in the two goblins’ nostrils, and the humans could even start to hear the sounds of their chasers; huffs and snarls, claws scratching up the surrounding foliage, and the occasional barked order reached their terrified ears.
So this is what it’s like being hunted, Ilky thought bitterly as the group continued. No idea what is behind, but no courage to risk a glance backwards to look; no knowledge of where you’re running, only the fact that to stop will mean death; no idea how long the nightmare will last, only that to make one wrong move could send you spiraling into the sleep of death. Of course, the presence of the dark, looming trees and the occasional spooky forest noises did not help in the slightest, but they were mere background when compared to the thought of whatever the pursuers were like.
And then the group stumbled onto a wide, earthen path. Old, worn ruts in the trail showed that it was used by wagons, and used often, too. Without a word to say, the group started following along the trail’s slow, westward curve. This action, however, although it increased their speed greatly, also placed them in a vulnerable position.
They were now out in the open. And the kobolds could use this path just as well as they.
If any of the group had risked a glance back, then they would have seen the kobolds running through the patches of moonlight that dappled the ground, shining through the branches above. They hurried along, bent so low to the ground that their long, swinging arms almost dragged their knuckles along the ground. Ibram Masquer ran at their front, his black cloak billowing out behind him, like the wings of some dark angel of death come to pluck mortal souls from the living realm. About five of the kobolds took to the trees, scampering up the ancient bark like gutter-climbing rats and then leaping from branch to branch, notching arrows to their bowstrings as they did so. Then they started firing as they moved, peppering the small group with shafts painted black as the night itself.
The kobold archers’ aim, however, was inaccurate because of their movement and quite ineffectual against such a small concentration of prey, although this was of no matter. It was not necessary that these creatures fall immediately; as a matter of fact, kobolds quite enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, of inspiring their foes with fear and panic. Besides, all that this war-party had to do was chase the prey into the trap…
* * * * *
Sergeant Mestail peered through the darkness, clutching tenaciously to the handle of the sword in her belt. Her first mission, she mused; her first taste of battle. This was not going to be a pleasant affair, she knew, but she had no choice. She had the distinct feeling that she would see many more unpleasant affairs before this war was over.
She looked over her troops. There were about twenty-five gypsy warriors here under her command. Most were men, although some were women, but all looked equally frightened and apprehensive. They had made up one of the patrols guarding the Wagon Trail, one of the more commonly used roads that ran through the Westerland Woods. She had received a message by carrier pigeon not an hour ago, telling her about a trap which was to be set for the surviving Imperials and what her role in it was.
By her order, the ten gypsies with pikes and spears had arrayed themselves across the breadth of the road. Behind them ranged the archers, who bore long and short bows, along with the occasional crossbow or set of javelins. A torch on a stake had been set out about ten feet from the front line of pikes, creating an area of illumination that was dubbed as the “killing zone.” When the enemy entered this area, the archers would open fire. Any who survived the first volley would fall easy prey to the pikes.
Even so, there was something about this strategy that just wasn’t quite right. Mestail just wonder what exactly it was.
* * * * *
As the group ran, they began to see a light somewhere along the path. As they drew nearer, they began to see the figures arrayed behind it, and they knew that they were walking into a trap. Even so, Philip shouted at them, “Just keep moving, and follow my instructions! I can get us out of this if…”
Okay, Philip thought, Let’s see…hmm, we’re being chased by a bunch of frenzied monsters…in front of us, there’s a bunch of armed men who probably have archers with them, if that torch-indicated killing-zone is any clue…and we won’t last long fleeing into the forest, either…
“Oh hell,” Philip cursed, still running as he did, “There’s no way out of it! We’re dead!”
Just for an instant, Jake risked a glance backwards, then kept running. “They’re close enough to see clearly,” he gasped.
“Oh good,” Philip growled, “That just means we’re dead sooner!”
“But no, wait!” Jake said as he ran, an idea forming in his head, “I’ve seen pictures of them! Those are kobolds; we learned about them and their role in the Ma’hitian Civil War!”
“Yeah?” Lollban grunted, pumping his short legs as fast as he could, “So?”
“Apparently they always surround their prey when they come in contact with it,” Jake said pointedly, “Maybe we can use that to our advantage?”
Philip grinned. “You know, I think that we just might!”
“So what do we do?” Ilky asked.
“Get behind me,” Philip explained, “And keep running.” I just hope this works, he thought.
Philip ran straight along the path, ever looking towards the torchlight that represented the killing zone. That was the flaw in these gypsies’ strategy; he knew where they wanted their prey to be when the trap was sprung! That gave him time – however little – in which to plan his next move and counter theirs.
And now to make the bloody plan work…
Soon Philip was a few scant strides away from the area of light. This was it; the plan would either work or they were all dead. Raising his shield over his exposed face, he entered the torchlight and cried, “HALT!” The group did so immediately, spinning about to face the kobolds from behind. Meanwhile, from in front, there was a zoom! like many angry hornets as fifteen arrows took flight…
* * * * *
The next few minutes passed in a flurry of blind confusion. The kobolds, as was their custom when fighting almost any sort of enemy, used their superior numbers to quickly surround the small group – just as the arrows were in flight. As a result, three kobolds died immediately, pierced by the shafts, and several others were left wounded. Some of these kobolds went berserk, thinking that the gypsies had turned traitor, and broke from the rest of their pack in order to attack their hapless former allies. Ibram Masquer and Sergeant Mestail tried fervently but fruitlessly to regain order as a brawl broke out between the two forces and, as a result, the small group of two goblins and two men were able to sneak by with little incident.
Once they were past the brawl, the group continued running down Wagon Road until finally they were forced to stop for a rest. They slowed down first, made the most of their speed while they still had it, then sat down on the roadside, puffing and gasping for breath. The hunt had failed; the prey had slipped from the snare’s grip, which had now accidentally caught the hunter’s hand.
Even so, every one of them was dead tired. “If they stop fighting and decide to come after us,” Ilky gasped, “We’ll be no match for however many of them there are.”
“Then pray that they don’t,” Philip muttered, letting himself flop back and closing his eyes.
Jake shook his fellow human, trying to keep him from the smothering arms of slumber a while longer. “We can’t go to sleep here,” he pointed out, “We’re right out in the open! Anyone could…”
“We need our rest,” Ilky said, “Look, Jake, we can’t go on all night; we’ll die of heart attack or something. It’s best if two of us rest while the other two remain vigilant. Do you understand?”
Jake nodded solemnly. “Very well,” he conceded, “I’ll stay awake with whoever else…”
There was a rustling in the branches above. Jake, Ilky and Lollban looked up immediately, and even Philip glanced groggily upwards in order to show willing. A wind blew a chill down all of their spines, and an eerie voice rang, “Darkness shall be coming soon, For I am here to seal your doom!”
Philip struggled to his feet, holding out his shield and sword for protection and all vestiges of sleep erased from his mind. “What the hell is that?” he whispered, frightened sweat beading his brow. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but something about that voice sent his nerves a-tingle.
Indeed, the entire rest of the group seemed to have suffered the same. “Back to back,” Ilky said quietly, as the entire group did so anyway, “Weapons out; be ready for anything.”
The group spent a frightened moment standing back to back, staring worriedly out into the dark forest around. Jake held his sword in both hands, his teeth chattering like a dancer’s feet on hard floor. Philip held his shield before his body and his sword ready to stab; anything that tried to get at him, he assured himself, would have to be immune to pierced intestines. Lollban aimed his pump-rifle into the darkness around, his index finger nervously vibrating about the trigger. Ilky fidgeted nervously, too, a musket in each claw as his be-spectacled eyes swiveled around, searching for enemies hidden in the dark of night.
Meanwhile, in the branches above, Ibram Masquer smirked wickedly. “Poor fools now stand at Death’s own gate,” he whispered, “Not knowing that soon I’ll seal their fate.” With that he leapt from the branch, plummeting downwards in free-fall right into the group’s midst.
And then he threw off his cloak.
* * * * *
Jake, Philip, Ilky and Lollban were scattered in all different directions, and where once they had stood now reared a large, roaring troll. It looked much like any of the others in Tisvir’s defeated army, except it was naked of all armour or, indeed, any other sort of covering. Still, Philip thought as he regained his composure, readying himself to fight the brute, That troll-skin thicker than two-fold leather armour. We’ll need those two goblins’ guns right about now.
As if on cue, there was a BOOM! that shattered the night. Philip turned to see Lollban steadily advancing, reloading his pump-gun as he did. The troll snarled, holding a profusely bleeding hole in its left shoulder. Lollban fired again, taking the troll in the gut. The creature roared, then charged forward. “Look out!” Philip cried, diving forward and pushing both himself and the goblin out of the berserk creature’s way.
The two had little time to recover. Although the troll had barreled past, it soon turned around, tearing an old, mossy log from the roadside, and swung it overhead like a club. Philip pushed the still-stunned Lollban to one side and rolled to the other, letting the fallen tree trunk crash into the ground where both had once lain. Grunting from the weapon’s weight, the troll pulled up the club again and prepared another swing. It was at that moment that Ilky ran forward, crying out as he fired both muskets in his claws at the same time. The creature moaned, dropping its club as it staggered backwards, a bloody hole in its right chest and left thigh.
Before Philip knew it, Jake was by his side, helping him to his feet. “You alright?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” the sergeant responded, looking over at the troll, who was now heaving and groaning as it limped forward. Ducking down to retrieve his fallen sword, Philip stood up in the ready position. “You don’t want to engage one of these brutes up close, kid,” he muttered, backing up, “But if you have no choice, then stab, don’t hack. You do more damage that way.”
The creature, however, merely lumbered past the two men. Lollban, who had just recovered from whatever confused mess had just struck him, was now on his feet and aiming with his gun. “What the hell is that beast doing?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Ilky responded, furiously reloading one of his own muskets, “It seems to be trying to pick up some sort of black cloth on the ground…
* * * * *
All kobold shape-shifters wore cloaks; it was one of the keys to their power. Beneath their cowls, which were held together as much by threads of pure magic as they were by threads of cloth, the shaman could remember and invoke the ancient Rite of Changing, and shift into any form within the boundaries of his power. Thus, when the cloak was cast away, the shape-shifter’s body would have Changed into that of whatever he had so desired.
Even so, the power exerted by the Change is directly effected by the intellect of the creature whose form was being taken. Most shape-shifters could only manage to turn into simple creatures such as common forest animals, and few had ever managed to turn into even something as sentient as a troll.
Still, as Ibram Masquer threw the cloak over his trollish body and invoked the Rite of Change again, he knew that this time he would have to settle for some sort of beast. Although the Change would heal all of his wounds, he had not the strength for another sentient being. Just as well; although he had eventually surpassed most other shape-shifters in magical talent, he never had been able to shift his form into that of another human being. It probably had something to do with his curse, but that was of no matter. Right now only the fight mattered; the fight, and living to see Terrah again…
…I need a new form…one not easily slain…as strong as the storm…but little brain…ah… Ibram decided on what he would change into. He had seen such a creature of this long ago, in the days of his youth, and could roughly remember what it looked like…
* * * * *
The group stood staring at the cloaked figure for a while; they had all watched in wonder as the robe, large though it was, seemed to do the impossible and envelope the troll’s entire body. From there it shrank until it seemed only to contain a single, human-sized creature, which stood, shivering in the night.
And then it was thrown off, revealing a gigantic gray creature of huge, stomping feet and long, sharp tusks, large, wing-like ears, and a single tentacle growing from its giant head. “What the hell is that?” Philip gasped.
“It-it’s an elephant,” Jake stuttered, holding his sword up defensively, “But-but how did one get here? And where did it come from? Wha-“
“Out of the way!” Lollban grabbed Jake’s arm and pulled him out of the way with surprising wiry strength. It was just as well that he did; a scant second later, the elephant had let out a loud, trumpeting war-call and barged by, swinging its tusks about wildly.
Philip ducked under the giant ivory weapons, then moved in. This beast was big, and no doubt it was tough, but even so it didn’t look sword-proof – well, not completely, anyway. The point was, it was still just flesh – thick flesh, but flesh none the less – and blood (underneath that thick flesh). Less cynicism, more action, Philip thought as he prepared his sword for a plunge.
The elephant, however, had different plans. Trumpeting loudly again, it lumbered around, swinging about with its tusks and trunk. Philip was hit on the breastplate by one of the tusks, and sent flying by the mighty blow. “Shit!” he cried as he flew landed hard on the ground.
Crying out, Jake leapt into action. While Lollban fired again and again from a distance, Jake confronted the beast head-on, slashing wildly with his blade. In retrospect, this was a mistake; one lash from the trunk sent the young man sprawling to the ground, even though he miraculously managed to keep a grip on his blade. The elephant then charged, using its trunk and tusks to toss the man about the ground like a cat does with a mouse. It seemed to completely ignore every shot Lollban fired; not only was its skin too thick, but the pain only made the brute angrier.
“That’s it,” Lollban muttered to Ilky, who was just about finished reloading, “I’m out of ammo. Don’t lose this,” he added, dropping his gun at Ilky’s feet before drawing his cutlass, “I’m going to help Jake.”
With that, Lollban rushed at the elephant. It was then that Ilky finished reloading, took aim and fired straight at the creature’s right eye. Now this the elephant couldn’t ignore; trumpeting painfully, it reared up and staggered backwards on its hind legs, crying its pain to the forest around. Lollban, who had at first harbored the intention of goring the beast, soon decided to help the beaten-up – but still breathing – Jake to get out of the way. It was lucky he had; soon the elephant tottered forward, then came crashing back down onto all fours right where the man had been lying.
The elephant, though, was now starting to get tired. Blood-loss was now starting to make the creature dizzy, and so it started slowly moving towards the fallen cloak. The members of the group it had been fighting quickly cleared out of the way – nobody was quite sure what the creature was up to, but none were willing to drag the fight out any longer than necessary. Who knew? Perhaps it had just gotten tired and was running away?
They soon found, though, that this was not the case. Using its trunk, the elephant awkwardly pulled the black cloak over its body, and made another transformation.
* * * * *
A newer form…a different guise…with little mind…but wicked eyes…
* * * * *
Again the cloak burst from its wearer, revealing not some terrible, brutish beast, but rather a small butterfly. For a while, Philip, Ilky and Lollban stared at the creature; even in the dead of night in the dark forest, the thing glowed faintly with every colour of the rainbow. For a while, all three stood, silently contemplating the delicate little creature as if fluttered slowly about, the beautiful light gradually glowing brighter and brighter.
Dazedly, like it was some subconscious instinct that told him to do so, Ilky removed his spectacles and stared, awed by the sheer beauty of the tiny insect. How marvelous; how absolutely spectacular! This creature glowed so many wonderfully beautiful colors in a way only one creature could, but he had thought such an insect to be a mere fairy tale!
And yet here it was; a Biden Bee, a rare and magical creature of ancient legend and lore. He had been told tales of such creatures when he was a child, although he could not now remember them. Perhaps given time he would, but that could wait. Right now, all he wanted was to sink deeper and deeper into the sea of colors that was surrounding him…
How interesting, said an intellectual voice at the back of Ilky’s brain, It seems that the light around me is taking a form like a face, perhaps like the pattern which decorates the backs of the Biden Bee’s wings. Ah yes, it is quite likely, I can see two huge eyes, always shifting and swirling with colour, growing larger and larger…and what’s this? A mouth, too? And look; this, too, is growing and growing, masticating furiously as if it is eating something, or at least anticipating doing so…
And ah…it appears that the mouth has teeth as well…
BOOM!
The magical light dissipated with a snap, leaving Ilky blinking in confusion. Right above the fallen cloak still fluttered the Bidden Bee, the light which emanated from its body fading as it drifted helplessly to the ground, one of its wings blown clean off. A quick glance sideways revealed Lollban, who stood scowling like a surly old man, his now fully reloaded pump-gun held grimly in the firing position. The plume of smoke blowing from the nozzle of the gun easily betrayed the fact that he’d had something to do with this.
Before Ilky could express his outrage at his sergeant’s behavior, at how unforgivably cruel he had been to such a small, delicate, rare, and above all, beautiful creature, a flood of memory hit the former noble like a bag full of bricks. The Bidden Bee was not just some cute fairy from legend; it was a wicked monster that used its giant, magical wing-eyes to trap innocents in rapture, then gobble them up through some other dire form of enchantment. He felt a brief flash of anger and humiliation at how easily he had been sucked in by the fiend’s wicked scheme, and instead of yelling at his comrade, he merely said, “Thank you, my friend.”
Lollban grunted. “I always hated bugs.” How he had managed to resist the creature’s enchantment was anybody’s guess; Ilky would have to ask him later.
“Speaking of which,” Philip growled, “That thing’s crawling back into that black cloak again! Now I’m no wizard, but I’ll bet that overused dog-carpet’s got something to do with all of these strange transformations!”
Indeed such seemed to be the case. As the Biden Bee disappeared completely within the folds of the cloak, the cloth itself seemed to grow upwards, melding into another shape. Before it could, however, Philip was right beside it, sword in hand and thrusting. The blade pierced the fabric easily and penetrated deep into the folds…
* * * * *
Oh, pit Of shit…
* * * * *
Philip withdrew his blade from the cloak, which hovered there for a while, billowing about as if caught in the wind. Then it fell to the ground, revealing a man dressed in a long, black coat reaching nearly down to the soles of his feet. The man’s face was obscured by a goblin-nosed ivory mask, yet still something about him instantly gained the collective dislike of all present company.
Ibram Masquer looked up and scowled. Look at those wretches, reveling in their disgust! They were nothing like his fair Terrah; they were monsters, hateful beasts with no understanding of his curse! No pity, no compassion in any of their hearts; he had expected no less from such fiends. After all, the entire world had always treated him this way! How were they any different?
But these fiends are different still, a sudden thought struck Ibram, For these are fools that you can kill…
A wicked smile suddenly flashed across the masked man’s face. Yes…yes, this was true! These creatures were enemies…enemies who he could kill! All his life he had wanted to take vengeance upon all of those who had loathed him for his cursed face, and now he could satisfy that lust for revenge upon their very flesh!
Oh, how he was going to enjoy this…
“Pray enjoy your final breath, For I am here to bring you DEATH!” Ibram’s hands moved quicker than a flash of lightning, pulling a lithe, razor-sharp saber and a sleek, curved knife from his long jacket. Although the magic weave of the cloak had been severed, thus rendering the garment useless, he was still equipped with several practical weapons. He swung about with the two blades in a wild, dangerous dance, his weapons changing hands quickly and often as he attacked Philip, who backed up quickly as he tried his best to block every blow. Ilky and Lollban discharged their weapons furiously at him, but Ibram moved with such grace as to put any cat to shame. He dodged every shot fired at him, while at the same time continued his advance upon Philip as if unhindered by the deadly bullets zipping through the air.
Again, Lollban cast his gun to the ground; it was obvious that he wasn’t going to win the fight with it. “Be right back, pal,” he whispered to it as he drew his cutlass and charged at the masked man. Ibram, however, was ready; throwing his weapons to the ground, he grabbed two handle-holds on the inside of his coat and whirled about, spreading his arms out as he did. The inside of the garment was attacked to a sheet of chain-mail. Thus the jacket served not only as armour, but, when swung about with the right momentum, it could hit as hard as any iron bar. The coat caught Lollban a glancing blow on the jaw, sending him sprawling on the ground.
“Lollban!” Ilky cried, throwing down his musket and drawing his cutlass again. He, too, ran at Ibarm, but the masked man swung around again, holding out his coat as he did so. Philip’s next advance was pushed back by this move, but Ilky dodged under the cloak and stabbed at Ibram’s left leg. The masked warrior, however, kicked out with that same leg, a small knife-blade sliding from the toe of his boot as he did so. Ilky cried out as the kick hit him, the knife-blade penetrating an area in his quilted armour between two of the leaden lumps within. Fortunately the sharp little blade did not sink deep, but it did delay Ilky long enough for Ibram to bring his chain-mailed coat crashing down on the poor creature’s head.
“Ilky!” it was Lollban’s turn to cry out as he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his cutlass once again. Anger seething in the young goblin’s eyes, he rushed forward, swinging his blade wildly. Now Ibram found himself fighting off two foes with the long, sweeping blows of his chain-mailed coat. Even so, he knew that his own victory was inevitable; he would just enjoy the fight for a while, savor the flavor of this morsel of vengeance before going for the kill…
* * * * *
Jake woke slowly from the pain that wracked his entire body. With agonizing sluggishness, he rolled onto his belly and tried to get up, then cried out as he collapsed from the pain in his right arm – perhaps he had broken it. The fall, though, however short, was enough to send jarring pains through his ribcage – something there was probably broken, too. He lay there awhile, listening to the clashing steel not a few feet away. “Lollban!” he faintly heard Ilky cry, and he knew that trouble was a-brew.
Slowly, painfully, using his left arm and knees – at least the pain in them was bearable – he crawled to his feet and looked dazedly at the raging battle. Philip and Lollban were desperately fighting against a masked man, who was somehow using his coat as a weapon. Jake immediately disliked the man; something about him just wasn’t right. Perhaps it was just that he was an enemy; or perhaps it was because of the fact that Ilky lay unconscious, maybe even dead, at his feet…
Despite his pain, anger started to well up in Jake’s heart. He looked to the ground a few feet behind…there lay his sword, waiting to be used again. He had no choice here; if his companions were to survive, then he needed to fight here. Tottering – but moving nonetheless – Jake made his way over to the fallen blade and bent over painfully to pick it up. His gauntleted hand clenched firmly around the sword’s handle, and, curling his probably-broken right arm up against his chest, the young man turned to look at his enemy. The fight still raged furiously, the combatants completely oblivious to his presence. This, he told himself, was good; the element of surprise would be useful here.
Even so, as Jake shambled forward on his weak legs, he soon found that he could not hold the sword up as he used to. Thus, he didn’t bother even trying to do so; instead, he opted to drag the blade on the ground until he came within striking distance, then swing or stab or whatever with whatever strength his single arm had left. Closer and closer he edged towards the fighting warriors until finally he realized that, the way the masked man was swinging about, he had no chance of getting near enough to strike a good blow.
It was also then that another desperate – and probably foolhardy – idea struck him. In theory it would work, but in theory, you could make a machine that could fly, too. Quite frankly, this probably wasn’t going to work, but the least he could do was try…
Calling on his last vestiges of strength, Jake grunted as he hefted that leaden-weight blade into the air and prepared to hurl it…
* * * * *
Ibram Masquer was not protected by his chain mail coat alone. He had also taken the precaution covering his body in a mailed tunic and breeches; hard, strong stuff it was, imported specially from a famous dwarf-smith in the east. A blade or arrow would be hard-pressed to find a weak link in it, never mind create one itself.
No matter, this; Jake’s sword did not even touch the armour. Rather, his blade hurtled through the air, shooting straight through Ibram’s neck.
The masked warrior had not been expecting this. In fact, he had been in mid-whirl as it happened, and thus was sent spinning to the ground, his coat and limbs alike limp as he crumpled. Blood gushed from his throat like water from a burst sack, although it took little to guess that the man was dead before he had hit the ground.
Philip turned to look at Jake, who stood with a grim face, his right arm clutched tightly to his chest. “Thanks, kid,” he said, “I don’t know how much longer we could’ve held him.”
If Jake heard the comment, then he ignored it. Lollban, too, seemed apathetic; his first concern was to rush to Ilky’s side and attend to his master. “Oh, thank heavens,” the young goblin gasped, putting a finger to his elder’s pulse, “He’s alive. Just unconscious right now; hopefully he isn’t hurt too badly.”
As Lollban administered to his lord, Philip peered down at Ibram’s body. The man’s eyes still stared lifelessly from the holes in the mask. He briefly considered taking the mask off, revealing the being’s visage, but then decided against it. Best to let the dead rest in peace; somehow, he couldn’t explain why, he kind of felt sorry for the man. Maybe it was about the unreasoning hatred he had felt earlier, but whatever it was he couldn’t be quite sure one way or another.
Tottering and stumbling, Jake slowly made his way to Philip’s side. Wordlessly, he wrenched the sword from Ibram’s neck, releasing a small, half-hearted spurt of blood. Philip stared at his younger companion for a while as the soldier sheathed his blade, then spoke, “You do know that you just killed a human, right?”
“Yeah,” Jake responded. If he felt anything about it, then he was feigning otherwise.
Philip shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve seen quite a few things in my time, you know, and come to quite a few realizations. That whole hell-storm Lollban and I gave you about not wanting to kill things may have been a bit unfair. There actually was a difference between those lizardmen you killed and the men you helped kill – and this man you killed here, I guess, too. The fact is, many of those lizardmen were probably black-hearted, vicious brutes who would do much worse to you than you would to them. Judging by the way those men we fought yesterday behaved, I think it’s safe to assume that they weren’t. And this fellow here…well, he seemed pretty hell-bent on killing us all, whether it was purely out of duty or tainted by malice as well.
“The point is, though, that those are just some of the types of people you can expect to face when going to war. Whether they’re murderous at heart, just following orders, or even leaving you unable to tell, if they’re an enemy then you are going to have to face them. I admit, though, that it would be a lot easier to kill the really bad ones if they all had pointy teeth and scales, or to spare the good ones on the basis that they didn’t. But life’s not like that. And neither is war. It’s a sad truth but a truth nonetheless that war is, well, sad; we all do things we’re not sure of, or not proud of, or that we just plain hate. And there are times when you’re taking things too far – killing civilians, for one, even on a superior’s orders.
“Of course, you should never engage in such an activity, even under orders. If you do, then I promise that you will never be able to wash the blood off of your hands the next day, but soldiers are completely different. They know – or at least, they should know – what they’ve signed up for, and whether they’re good or bad or whatever, the fact remains that if they are your foe, then they are fighting you. And you have to fight back. It’s that simple. Do you understand?”
Jake nodded solemnly. “Yes, I understand,” he said, then shrugged. “I still want to cover his body in some manner.”
“It’s a done deal, then,” Philip promised, “And as far as looting goes, I won’t take anything that isn’t edible, okay?”
“Fine.” Jake gritted his teeth against a sudden flash of pain, and nearly collapsed to the ground in agony. Philip quickly caught hold of the young man, though, and gently lowered him to a sitting position. “You took quite a beating, it seems,” he muttered, then turned to Lollban. “Hey, is Ilky alright over there?”
“Yes,” the goblin responded, “Turns out he’s fine. Goblin skulls are thicker than yours,” he tapped his own head as if to demonstrate, “Got to protect our big brains somehow.”
“Good,” Philip said, “Then come over and help me with the kid, would you? He looks like he’s hurt pretty awful; I’d appreciate some assistance in stripping his armor.”
“Will do,” Lollban replied, then rushed to his companions’ sides.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, a baleful moon and pitiless stars shone down on sergeant Mestail as she crawled away from the scene of carnage, gasping and panting for breath. The kobolds and gypsies had almost killed each other off, the remaining kobolds disappearing into the woods when the better part of the gypsies were dead. So far as Mestail knew, she was the only person in her squad left alive, although most of the muscle on her bottom left leg had been ripped apart. Oh, this was so terrible…
A movement along the path ahead caught her eye. Looking up, she saw several dark shapes looming almost right in front of her. The light from the cruel moon above glinted off of the completely black spectacles resting on the bridge of the middle one’s long, pointed nose…
There was a harsh muttering among the creatures in some guttural foreign language. Finally, the middle one raised his hand, holding out a strange yet utterly menacing object composed of a long, hollow metal tube. “Entschlafen, du abschaum,” it snarled in a cold, pitiless voice.
“I-” was all Mestail managed before a great BOOM! shattered the silence of night.
CHAPTER #7: THE GOLDEN RIVER
The small group continued along Wagon Trail for the better part of the next day, although all knew that they could not continue to do so forever. No doubt the gypsies would be able to easily send more soldiers and other creatures at them if they kept to this well-known path, but for now it seemed relatively deserted. "It must be because the gypsies are preparing for war," Ilky speculated as they walked and rubbing the lump on his head as he did, "But then, wouldn't these paths be a-bustle if such were the case? I mean, with all of the units of soldiers moving from this position to that, or the supply wagons being sent from here to there, you'd think that this road would be seeing more activity."
Philip grunted nonchalantly. "You complaining?"
"Well, not exactly," Ilky admitted, "It's just…odd, that's all."
"Well, we've got other troubles to deal with at the moment," the sergeant grunted, giving a subtle nod to Jake, whose left arm was wrapped about his shoulder, "Personally, I'd say the kid's injuries are far more worrisome than any lack of people who want to kill us, wouldn't you?"
Ilky nodded in grim agreement. "A brave lad is he," he said with admiration, "To face a bull elephant head on with naught but a sword; I wish I could say that I had such courage."
"Um, yeah," Lollban said, shifting his hold on the pump-gun uncomfortably, "Yeah, Jake? About the other night…"
"What other night?" Jake asked weakly.
"Well, I guess it was only last night," Lollban conceded, then gave a nervous chuckle. "Time flies when you're having fun, eh? Heh heh…well, about that whole tirade about, well, killing people and such, I've done a bit of thinking, and…"
"Don't worry, Lollban," Jake smiled weakly, "I already know."
"What?" the young goblin asked, confused.
"It's true," Philip explained, "I told him last night. I'm sure that our friend here is now willing to do whatever it takes to serve the Empire and all that other crap."
"Uh." Lollban was half relieved and half annoyed that now there was no reason for him to say what he had to say. "Well, as long as that's settled, I'd just like to say I'm sorry, okay?"
"It's alright," Jake responded, "I just hope that I'll live to serve my people again…"
"All too true, I'm afraid," Ilky said with serious severity, "His right arm's been broken, but we've done our best to fix that." He referred to the crude splint around the said limb, courtesy of a few branches and Jake's own shirt. "What I'm really worried about, though, is his ribs." Jake's chest had been wrapped about with his pants, so that now he was completely naked beneath his armour save for a small pair of underwear. "At least three have been broken in a few areas around his chest. Using what rudimentary field surgery I know, I've done the best that I can. I merely pray that it is enough, although there's a good chance that it isn't."
Jake's eyes went wide at this. "What the hell?" he gasped, almost leaving the support of Philip's body, "You mean I could really die?"
"If we don't get you to a good healer soon, then yes," Ilky said with calm severity, "But even then most conventional medicine won't work to save you if killing damage has been inflicted. Now don't get excited; you'll only make your situation worse."
"Make it worse?" Jake wailed, "I'm going to die! How can I bloody make it worse?"
"You can keep whining about it, for one," Lollban muttered.
"Hey!" Jake and Philip barked as one.
"Lollban," Ilky growled, indignant anger blazing behind his spectacles, "That was uncalled for! Apologize this instant!"
"Fine," Lollban grunted, "I'm sorry, alright?"
"Now how about meaning it, now?" Philip growled.
"What am I, a child?"
"Hey, I can make you cry like one!"
"Verpiss dich!"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Wanna find out?"
"ENOUGH!" Ilky cried, causing everybody to stop dead in their tracks. Now that silence was restored, the goblin barked, "What is this? Why are we fighting like this? Lollban, just what has gotten you so unreasonably angered, anyway?"
Lollban sighed, the stubborn fires in his eyes dimming somewhat. "I don't know, Ilky, I honestly don't," he conceded, "Maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the dirt path or something. I don't know. Whatever it is, I'm sorry; I'll try to keep it under control, okay?"
Philip grunted. "See that you do," he muttered a tad arrogantly.
"Hey-" Lollban started, the fire in his eyes rekindling again, but Ilky placed a claw on his arm and stopped the young goblin just in time. Instead Lollban merely grunted, and the group started to proceed once again along the path.
* * * * *
Sella awoke that morning to the sound of an angry buzzing. Fearing some sort of emergency, she sprang from her bed, hastily pulling the sheets around her naked body as she did. Her eyes scanned the inside of her tent, trying to locate the source of the noise, but soon found what she was looking for; the crystal ball was now humming loudly, pulsing with a weak, white light.
Slowly, tentatively, Sella approached the steadily pulsing crystal orb. It seemed that there was something at its centre, but she couldn't quite make out its shape. Maybe if she looked just a little bit closer…
"TERRAH!" a voice screamed in her face, causing her to jump back and drop the sheet from about her body. She stared at the crystal ball, startled and confused; now it was filled with a masked face, distorted as it was by the shape of the object it was in. Occasionally the image faltered and flickered like a candle's flame, but otherwise stayed much the same. "Terrah," it said again, quieter this time, in a garbled voice that sounded far away yet right beside her at the same time, "Where is Terrah? I must speak with her! Now!"
"What the…" Recognition finally dawned on Sella as she realized whom she was speaking with. "Ibram? Is-is that you?"
There was a slightly garbled but undoubtedly frustrated sigh, and the image flickered somewhat. "Yes."
"But what are you doing in my crystal ball?" Sella snapped, "And why aren't you speaking in verse? And why…" She looked down upon her naked body, then gave a gasp of shock as her hands flew to bring her some semblance of modesty.
Ibram, however, merely snarled disgustedly. "Spare me, woman. Though only thirty-five summers have you seen, neither your beauty or that of any other is any match for my love. I care not for your exposed breasts and pudenda," Sella's mouth formed a silent O of shock, but Ibram did not seem to notice. Instead he continued, "And I've not always the time To speak in rhyme. I must speak with Terrah. Now."
"Terrah…" Oh yes; she remembered her. A chestnut-haired woman, about forty-four; a nice person on most accounts, except when Ibram was around. At such instances she became a jealous bitch to any other female within the vicinity, as if anybody else wanted that man. Sella knew, of course, that their feelings was nobody's fault save for the curse placed on Ibram's bloodline so long ago; at least, she knew it intellectually. Part of her still loathed and distrusted Ibram, and perhaps always would.
Alright, back to business… "Your reunion with your lover can wait," Sella stated firmly, gathering the blankets about her body once again, "We've more important matters to attend at this moment."
A ripple of indignant rage electrified the air around. "Nothing is more important to me than Terrah," came Ibram's angry response.
"And I swear that you shall see her soon," Sella promised calmly, "But after you tell me what I want to know."
Another sigh of frustration followed, then a paused as the image in the crystal ball flickered on and off. Finally, the response came. "Very well."
Sella smiled mirthlessly. "Excellent. Now, first things first; how did your mission fare?"
"I have failed you, mistress," the bitter reply came through, "The goblins with them used foul weapons of metal and black powder; this, and their swordsmen were exceptionally powerful. I tell you, not of normal fighting stock were those men. There is something about them…I sensed it just as my soul left my body…"
Sella's interest was now completely captured. "What do you mean?"
"They probably do not yet realize it," Ibram explained, "But they are driven by…something else. Something higher, just as the gypsies, kobolds and other forest races are. Whatever this thing is, it now drives them onward to achieve some obscure goal. I can tell little else save for one thing; that they will not be easy prey to thwart."
Sella nodded in understanding. "So what should we do about it?"
"Always shall they remain within my sight," Ibram responded, "My life was brought to an end before my loins could create an heir to my curse, and thus my spirit cannot rest. Always shall my slayer remain within my sight; I shall find out what I can about them and their mission.
"I've told you all, and you promised me time to speak with my beloved. Bring me Terrah. Now."
"Very well," Sella said, then peeked outside the tent. "You there," she called to a guard, "Do you know Terrah Sensalan? No? Then find someone who does and have them bring her to my tent. Somebody she knows needs to have a word with her."
* * * * *
At about noon that day the group found themselves before a bridge that led across a southward-flowing river. There was something recognizably different about this river's water, though; it shone bright golden, illuminating the forest around. About its banks grew an abundance of brilliantly coloured wildflowers and berry bushes. Reeds growing from the stream stood high and thick, and even the nearby trees seemed to stand taller and prouder.
The group stood and stared at it for a while. Then Lollban muttered, "So? What the hell are we waiting for? Let's go."
"Wait a second," Philip said cautiously, "Let's not be too hasty. I've heard tales about some of the bridges in this land, and believe me, they aren't usually very nice."
"What do you mean?" Ilky asked.
"Well," Philip explained, a glimmer of uncharacteristic superstitious fear sparking in his eyes, "I've heard that gypsies, witches and fairies sometimes enchant the bridges so that they seem to stretch on much longer than one would ever guess by the sight of them, or that they disappear right under your feet once you're half-way across. I'm not saying it's true, I'm just saying that we should, well, proceed with caution, that's all."
Jake shuddered painfully, shaking in Philip's grasp. "You alright, kid?" the sergeant asked, concerned. The young man, however, gave no response.
Ilky's face also clearly betrayed a certain level of sympathy, but then something else caught his eye. "Look here," he said, walking up to the bridge's first rail, "There's an inscription; "Thoz hoo pas wiff Urjint Bizniss wil find no trubbul."…Hmm, that must mean that if we have urgent business to attend to, we won't be bothered by anything while crossing the bridge."
"Wait a second," Philip asked warily, "You mean that there actually is something to bother us?"
"Well, not if we have urgent business," Ilky responded airily, "And I am sure that this we do."
"Oh, come on!" Lollban cried in exasperation, "Witches and fairies and haunted bridges my ass! Look, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll go across first just to show you that there's nothing to fear at all. Alright?" With that he stepped onto the bridge and started walking.
Or at least, he started moving his legs in one spot. As the group stood staring for about fifteen minutes, Lollban only made it a few feet. It was then that he looked back, held a hand up to his mouth and shouted, "HEY! YOU GUYS! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS BRIDGE, ANYWAY?"
Ilky, who was still somewhat stunned at having been yelled at so suddenly, answered, "Um, Lollban, what do you mean?"
"WHAT'S THAT?" Lollban called loudly again, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU! YOU'RE AT LEAST HALF A KILOMETER AWAY, AND THIS DAMNED BRIDGE JUST KEEPS GROWING!"
Philip and Ilky exchanged glances. "Told you," the sergeant said smugly, "It's some sort of witchery; the bridge seems way longer to him than it actually is."
"WHAT?"
Philip turned to Lollban, cupped his hands near the edges of his mouth, then hollered, "START RUNNING, LOLLBAN! YOU MIGHT GET THERE FASTER!"
Lollban gave Philip a dubious look, then turned to face the other end of the bridge and started pumping his little legs furiously. Slowly but surely he made headway; soon he was an eighth, a sixth, a quarter, and eventually fully half-way across the bridge. It was then that he stopped dead in his tracks and bent down, hands on his knees, his shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath.
And then the bridge disappeared beneath him.
Ilky ignored both Philip's triumphant laughter and the stream of Gerban vulgarity coming from Lollban, who now lay thrashing angrily in knee-deep water. Instead he adjusted his spectacles and stared closely at a small inscription near the bottom of the railing's post - how strange, this one rail-post seemed to be all that was left. Huh. Back to the inscription; "Mayd bi Urjint Bizniss, Inchantr for Hiyr." Well, that would explain it; the warning didn't mean "Urgent Business", it meant "Urjint Bizniss," the person who probably designed this bridge and the enchantments surrounding it. Okay, that made some sort of twisted sense…
"Hey," Philip's voice jolted Ilky back to his senses. "Get off the road; someone's coming." Helping Jake between them, man and goblin scrambled off of the path and into the river, where they and Lollban quickly moved into the cover of the reeds just in time to watch the bridge suddenly reappear as a traveler rushed to the opposite end of the river to them.
He was a young man, lightly dressed and armed with only a long, thin sword in his belt. Even though he sat astride a large horse, he had a desperately breathless - or breathlessly desperate, whichever fit best - look about him. He reigned in his mount before the bridge only long enough to shout some strange syllable, then he dug his heals into the beast's sides, spurring it on into a frantic bolt across the magic bridge. No magical tricks befell him; that word he had spoken must have been a password of some sort.
Whatever the lad was doing, though, it seemed of dire importance.
"He's a gypsy alright," Philip grunted, "Probably on his way somewhere with an urgent message; means there's something big happening on the road ahead."
"Well," Ilky muttered, "I guess this means that Wagon Trail has lived out its usefulness to us; there's bound to be more gypsies or other creatures on that road, and we don't want to tangle with them, do we now?"
"You're right," Philip agreed, "So I guess we'll travel upriver for a while - it's got a sort-of west-ish curve, so we'll at least get somewhere."
Jake shuddered again. "I'm fine," he lied when confronted with the rest of the group's concerned gazes, "I just need a drink, that's all."
"Well," Lollban muttered, "We are standing in water, aren't we?"
Philip eyed the liquid pooling around his knees distastefully. "I wouldn't try it," he said, "This stuff has a distinctly magic look about it. Could turn you into a frog or something."
"Huh," Lollban grunted bitterly, "I'll say that I've swallowed enough of the stuff to know if it could do that."
Philip gave a dry chuckle. "I don't think it would work if you already look like one."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Stop it, you two," Ilky barked, "Look, it didn't seem to have any negative effect on Lollban, so it must be alright. If you want further proof, Philip, I'll drink some myself." With that he scooped up a clawfull of the liquid around him - he didn't need to bend down far, he was already almost waist-deep - and took a deep sip. Immediately he began to shiver, then cough, then cry out loudly as his entire body seemed to convulse spastically. Then, as the entire group watched in awe, he stood still, rigid as a statue.
"Um, Ilky?" Lollban asked, "Are you okay?"
"I…I've never felt better," Ilky said, a grin slowly creeping across his face. He reached up to feel the top of his head. "The lump from where I was hit last night," he remarked with astonishment, "It's gone!"
Lollban exchanged dumbfounded glances with Philip. Before either could say a word, however, Ilky ordered, "Quickly, give Jake a drink of this stuff! Don't ask, just trust me; this will work!"
Too stupefied to disobey, Philip bent over and scooped up a gauntlet-full of the golden water. Then he tipped it into Jake's unresisting lips and they all waited uneasily while the young man underwent a series of strange convulsions. Finally, though, he slid from Philip's grip and sank to his knees, bringing the water up to about his waist. He shuddered, then stared dumbly at the golden liquid around him.
Then he pulled his right arm from his sling and scratched an itch on the back of his neck.
"Jake!" Philip cried, laughing with relief, "You're alright, buddy!" He paused a second, then asked, "How are your ribs, though?"
"They're…they're completely healed!" Jake rose, laughing with relief himself. "I feel great!"
"Very good," Ilky smiled, "Now we've all taken a bruising over the last few days; I say we all take a draught, and maybe fill something with this water for any later emergency."
"Huh," Lollban scowled as all of the other members of the group took another drink, "I almost drowned in the stuff and my bruises are painful as ever." Just to make sure, though, he lowered his long neck and took a sip of the water, then snorted disappointedly. "Yeah, I was right. Doesn't do a damn thing. At least, not to me." The others, however, paid no attention; they were too busy convulsing in spasm. Lollban made a mental note to find out about this later.
Thus, having drank their fill and feasted on the berries at the banks of the river ("We'll have to save some of these for our supplies," Philip commented), the group filled one of the empty gunpowder pouches Ilky was carrying with the magic golden water and set off, wading upstream.
It was three hours, though, before a terrible racket came to the group's ears. It was coming from upstream; around a bend in the river could be heard the ruckus of men screaming, steel clashing, and occasionally a chorus of gunshots. A slow, thin trickle of blood tainted the golden water as it washed south. "Oh no," Ilky gasped, "This is definitely not good…"
* * * * *
"Hold your ground!" Group-Leader Einwitz cried, lifting his cutlass aloft in one hand and firing his pistol into the mass of enemies with the other, "For the sake of our Fathers' Land and our Kaiser, we must push them back!"
The situation, though, was quite unpredictable. The eight goblins left under his command were holding their side of this shallow, golden river quite well. While four musketeers fired on the enemy from the eastern bank, the three pike-bearing goblins and the gattling-gunner (whose gun had broken while firing, forcing him to rely upon his cutlass) were currently holding back a larger group of gypsy warriors. Einwitz himself stood behind the musketeers, shouting encouragement to his comrades and insults at his enemies.
"You are the sons of Gebiet!" he shouted, "So long as your arms have strength you shall not know defeat!" Even so, the same seemed to be applying for the gypsies right about now; the golden healing water was proving to be both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing in that his goblins, if wounded, could easily lower their mouths into the water and heal themselves with ease. It was a curse in that the same closeness to the water that helped to heal them also impeded their movement, and that the gypsies could replenish themselves in a similar manner. Only three gypsies had died so far, or at least only three had stayed dead; it seemed that no matter how great an injury one inflicted, if the injured swallowed the water before passing away then they would be healed almost instantly. A pretty pickle, this; too bad one of the musketeers had been too late to use this to his advantage.
Even so, Einwitz was determined not to falter. He and his group would make it to the rallying point, even if they had to kill every gypsy in this forest on the way! Again he regretted having used the Cart Trail to speed his travel; he should have just stuck to the specified route as he had been instructed. Things had been going fine until he and his group had come across that damned bridge, which went on forever before disappearing beneath their feet and dumping them in the water. After a moment of cussing and scrambling in the water (during which somebody realized that the golden stuff had healing properties), his group was just able to reassemble themselves before a large patrol of gypsies approached them from the other end of the river. From there the battle had started, had was not going to be finished any time soon.
Einwitz had, of course, taken the time to count the warriors in the enemy party; about thirty-five, minus three dead, and minus one who had been sent off back the way they had come. Huh, he was probably going to proceed ahead to where Wagon Trail merged with Cart Trail to form Coach Road. Einwitz had studied the map of the known regions of the Westerland Woods extensively, and could guess that the rider would use one of the two other paths to alert another, larger body of gypsies. If that happened, then he and his squad would be in pretty deep.
"Do not let those humans defeat you!" Einwitz cried, reloading furiously, "Their race is stupid and brutish, and no match for our own! You must not fall to them, damn you; you will not fall!"
An easier thing to say than to do, though, he had to admit.
* * * * *
The messenger panted as he drove his horse further along Wagon Trail, digging his heels into its sides and lashing its neck with the reigns. The wind rushed in his face, causing his eyes to water and his vision to blur.
That was precisely why he hardly noticed the figures that confronted him on the road ahead. He faintly heard one of them snarl something in some foreign language; "Es ist der menschen! Sich töten!" A loud blast followed, and suddenly the young man went from atop the horse's back to lying on the ground, the inside of his chest blazing with such pain that he had not even the breath to scream. Slowly blood started to well up in his throat.
As the young man's vision began to darken, the figures - now indistinct blurs - crowded around him. They were small beings to be sure, but they collectively exuded such menace that even his dying mind felt a stab of fear. One of them - a creature with a pair of some sort of dark eye-glasses - said something in his own language, then lifted up his leg.
And with a final "thud!" the young man's dying vision was filled with boot's sole.
* * * * *
The small group found a bunch of berry bushes which were hanging over into the water to hide behind as they watched the skirmish unfold on the golden river. Three gypsies already floated dead in the water, kept in place as if by some un-seeable force. The goblins fought viciously to hold their own, their melee-fighters battling mechanically at the front and their leader shouting encouragement to them and firing his pistol at the banks with the musketeers. Only one had fallen; he lay dead on the banks, half his neck submerged in the water as if he had drowned.
"Well," Philip grunted, "What do you make of that?"
"Interesting," Ilky mused pensively, "Well, I guess that this proves that the goblins and gypsies have no love of one another; obviously, whatever evil is waking in these Woods is not aiding the goblins in their plan."
"Well that's a relief," Lollban muttered, "Can you imagine it if both our enemies were working in cahoots? We could kiss the Human Empire goodbye!"
"So wait a second," Jake interjected, "Do you think that it could be these goblins that are causing the evil to rise in the forest?"
"Well," Ilky pondered aloud about this theory, "It could very well be that they are contributing to the reason, but the truth is undoubtedly more complicated and sinister. Why else would the gypsies and other forest creatures be killing those outside their lands instead of merely concentrating on the threat building within? Of course, there's no way of saying for sure at the moment, but it's the best hypothesis I can come up with."
Philip's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Hypo-what?" he asked.
"A theory," Ilky brushed the question aside quickly, "The question is, though, what to do now. We're not going to get past them unscathed."
"Well," Jake suggested, "We could help the gypsies defeat those goblins; maybe they'll figure that the enemy of their enemy is their friend, right?"
"I doubt it," Lollban muttered, "They were the ones trying to hunt us down and kill us last night, remember?" He thought for a while, then proposed, "Maybe we could team up with the goblins, just for a little while? So far as they know we aren't their enemies."
"I'm afraid not," Ilky explained, "We'd have to turn on them later, and that would only be all the harder once they have come to recognize us as comrades. Besides, we've got two humans with us, whom they will probably shoot on sight."
"Yeah," Philip agreed, "And if we side with the gypsies, even if they don't kill Jake and I outright they'll almost definitely kill you goblins. That is, if this friendly little exchange," he motioned towards the unfolding battle, "Is any indication of their attitude towards your people."
"Quite right," Ilky sighed, then muttered, "It seems we have but one choice."
* * * * *
"Fight! Fight! Fight, damn you all!" Einwitz cried angrily, firing his pistol again, "You will not be defeated by these scum!"
"But sir," one of the goblin musketeers beside him said, reloading frantically, "Our gunpowder will not last forever! We need to…"
Einwitz said not a word. Rather, he plunged his cutlass into the other goblin's gut, then pushed the startled creature into the golden river. "Drink, you fool," he snarled, "And next time think before you voice your cowardly thoughts!"
He looked up again to see a pair of armoured goblins - not decked in standard issue armour, but armoured none the less - stroll by between himself and the musketeers and the infantry-goblins. They saluted as they passed, the elder of them shooting his mouth off like a gattling gun. "Good day, my sir, we're scouts from, um, White Squad, yeah, just hold out awhile and we'll have reinforcements here in no time! Hail to the Kaiser!" And with that they passed on by.
"White squad?" Einwitz muttered skeptically before turning his attentions back to the battle.
* * * * *
Jake, Philip, Ilky and Lollban met on the other side of the area where the battle was taking place. "Well," Philip muttered as they continued their journey upstream, "I'll have to say that I'm bloody impressed that worked. Those gypsies didn't give us a second thought when we just walked by, mentioning to their sarge that reinforcements were en route."
Ilky smiled the smug smile of someone who knows that he was exactly right about everything. "I told you it would work," he stated coolly, "But now, we have more important matters at hand. We won't get where we need to go just by following this river forever, so I say we push on till nightfall, make camp on the banks, then head into the woods again in the morning. Everybody agree?"
"Sure," Lollban muttered, "Sounds alright to me."
"Then let us be off," Ilky said exuberantly, "We've still a mission to accomplish!"
* * * * *
Several hours later, as the sun's rays were but a pink glow outlining the tops of the trees, Einwitz realized that it was finally over; he would have to either surrender or call a retreat. Two of his pike-goblins and one musketeer had died, and although they had taken six more gypsies to the grave with them, the odds were now stacked far too high. Especially considering that the gunpowder his group had been carrying for storage at the rallying point had already been used up; the muskets and pistols were now useless lumps of metal and wood.
Einwitz raised his cutlass and started to call for a retreat when a noise from downstream pierced his ears. "GATTLE-GATTLE-GATTLE!" it shrieked, and without warning many of the gypsies screamed as they fell, slain by several bullets each before their mouths even reached the healing water. The rest of the gypsies, startled and milling in confusion, eventually had the sense to run away before more died.
What was left of the small goblin squad cheered wildly, and even Einwitz allowed himself a small, triumphant smile as he turned to greet his rescuers. "I thank you, my friends," he called to the group of stern figures before him, "You are from White Squad, I..."
"GATTLE-GATTLE-GATTLE!" Now it was the squad of hapless goblins' turn to shriek as they were mowed down by a hail of bullets. They were even easier to kill than the gypsies; their heads were about level with their bodies, and their necks large enough to hit easily. To the last they died almost instantly, slumping into the golden river to float in one place, the blood washing from the numerous bullet-holes that pierced their lifeless forms.
The reflection of gore's crimson hue mingling with the gold water shone in a pair of dark lenses…
CHAPTER #8: GET OUT AND STAY OUT!
Myinze spent the next few days making good his escape, the unconscious goblin ever slung over his shoulder. Every so often the poor creature would wake up and start babbling incomprehensibly, and Myinze would have to stop and tend to him before he fell back to sleep. The kukkushtidd drank the water and ate the food he had sparingly - years of training in the Plains of his home had ridden him of his dependency on an abundance of food. Still, he allowed himself to be as gracious as he could when feeding the goblin, and did whatever he could to make the creature more comfortable.
Myinze was still dressed in full armour, and carried his katana in its holster and his spear on his back. He had stripped the goblin of what armour he had possessed, leaving him in a light shirt and a pair of pants, keeping only the being's gun, cutlass, and a couple purse-sized sacks full of black powder and what looked like small, sharp metal fragments. He didn't know exactly what they were for, but they might be important. Anyway, he could ask the goblin if the poor being ever regained enough consciousness to speak sensibly.
Myinze ran mostly through the forest, occasionally skirting the pathways. He did, however, know to stay clear of most roads; death - and with it, the loss of the message - might closely follow any encounter with the gypsies or their allies. He could put two and two together just like anybody else; there was a good chance that the lizardmen had been working with the gypsies, given the fact that they had come from the direction of one of the gypsy camps without seeming to have attacked it first. If they had, then logically the force would have needed time to recuperate and lick its wounds before moving on to attack Tisvir's army.
Gradually, the trees began to thin and give way to clearer ground. Myinze noticed instantly that easier running was becoming more and more possible, and took full advantage of this fact. He started almost instantly to make better and better progress, until by the end of the third day of journeying he had made it to a hamlet in a clearing.
The place was a little more than a few buildings; obviously a logging community, giving the construction of the buildings - long, rectangular things, made from entire stripped logs. Tools lay on racks outside, and as the people in the streets saw Myinze approaching with a goblin slung across his shoulder, they immediately ran to these racks to grab whatever weapons they could.
Myinze raised his hands unthreateningly as he stopped in his tracks, allowing the loggers to make a cautious - albeit undoubtedly menacing - circle around him. Their faces were hard and angry, their eyes suspicious. "It's one o' them woodsies," one snarled, patting his axe, "Back to kill a few more o' our lads, are yah? The three what died yesterday not good 'nough, hmm?"
"Citizens, please," Myinze announced, "I mean you no harm. I am on the same side as you, it should be clear by the armour in which I am bedecked. I am a servant of the Imperial Army, and I have a message which must be brought back to human authority!"
At this a few of the loggers seemed to cool down, but the rest were still suspicious. "How do we know ye're tellin' the truth?" the same man growled.
"He just might be," another, older man observed, "I was in the army in me younger days, yah now; certain regiments'd let all kinds o' folk serve, even beasts like this'n." He snorted in disgust. "I hear it's getting' worse, too; nowadays, any beast what can hold a sword can sign up an' get treated like a true soldier."
Myinze fully realized the delicacy of his situation. It was a shame, but many folk within the Empire were united only in name; the smaller countries and territories into which the Empire were ever scrapping with one another for whatever power they could, and resented the others for doing so, as well. Even racial tensions proved a source of animosity; it was a given that trolls, kukkushtidds and other sentient beings would have less than friendly relations with the humans who had settled on their lands without bothering to ask consent, but it did not stop there. Humans were sometimes even known to turn on each other merely because of differences in the pigment of their skin; an absurd reason to fight indeed, but a reason none the less.
Sometimes Myinze had to wonder if, with all of the internal squabbling and hatred, the Empire was truly worth saving. But always when such doubts came to his mind, they were accompanied shortly after by every brave, honorable and fair person - human or kukkushtidd - who had served that same Empire with him. No, despite all of its bad points, the Empire of Humanity had still reared the finest people Myinze had ever known, and that alone was enough to redeem every other shortcoming in his eyes.
Still, Myinze hoped that this situation would not devolve into violence. He'd hate to have any of these poor fools' deaths on his hands.
"Rest assured that I serve the army of the Empire, which my people bow to as do your own," Myinze gave a sweeping bow for effect, then continued, "I was dispatched by general Tisvir in order to quickly deliver a message to the higher-ups. It is absolutely urgent that it reaches human hands as quickly as possible."
Some of the loggers smirked at this, and there were a few guffaws and snickers. "Well," one of the lumberjacks grinned, "We are human, aren't we? Why don't yah give us the message, so as someone can deliver it in case, er, somethin' happens." He finished cryptically, and was responded to by a chorus of snorts and snickers.
If Myinze noticed the hint of menace in the man's voice, he didn't notice. Rather, he put on such a happy smile that it was quite shocking. Clapping his three-fingered hands together, he exclaimed, "Oh, splendid! How utterly ingenious of you, my friend! The more who know, the safer all shall be, eh? Now, gather 'round and listen closely; some of this news may be rather shocking…"
And so Myinze related to them the contents of the intercepted letter, going into as much detail as he could concerning the strategy. It was silently amusing to see the baffled looks on the faces of some of the simpler men, who obviously had no understanding of military strategy in any form, although a few of the brighter ones - the old veteran included - seemed to get the picture quite well. "So ye're saying," muttered the man who had spoken last, who was now willing to temporarily drop the fact that Myinze had referred to him as "friend," "Is that those damned goblins've finally begun their invasion?"
"I knew it," another man growled, "Yuh can't trust those slinky bastards as far as ye can throw a castle."
"But wait a second," yet another man interjected, "'Ow do we know this kukkuh-whatever ain't lyin'?"
"Don't see why he would be," the old veteran muttered, "If we humans're in danger, then so's his kind. 'E'll be wantin' ter save 'is scales, don't'cha worry 'bout that."
"Hey," said another man, looking at the pack on Myinze's back, "Is…is that a goblin?"
This drew a few gasps from the crowd, and it seemed that all of the men tightened their grips on their weapons. Shit, Myinze thought, then thought up a quick explanation. "Um, why yes," he said, adding a quick chuckle, "It's the green skin that gives him away, isn't it? Er, you see, he is, how do you say, a P.O.W." Military terminology to impress the peasants; nice. "That's military terminology for 'Prisoner Of War', I take it you know. Knocked him cold myself, I did; not even a thick goblin's skull can withstand one of my kicks!" He kicked the air with his right leg by way of demonstration.
The veteran snorted. "I see," he muttered, "So, 'ave ye interrogated the bugger yet?"
Myinze gave an cocky laugh. "He'll have to wake up first," he said confidently, "I'm hoping he'll have done so by the time I reach where I'm going." He thought for a while, then asked, "By the way, where would you say is the nearest bastion of human authority?"
"Castle Armitage," the veteran growled, "About a week from here as the crow flies. Can't fault the lord, save for he's a bit soft when it come to the torturin'." He snorted. "The most this lowlife green-skin can expect from him is a few punches in the face between questions."
"Huh," another man grunted, brandishing his saw meaningfully, "I'm sure we can do better'n that, eh?"
"Yeah," the man who Myinze had unwisely called "friend" grinned wickedly, "Why don't yah leave 'im with us, eh? We'll 'ave 'im singin' like a bird in no time!"
Myinze gulped inadvertently, but rallied quickly no less. "I thank you for the offer," he said, "But accidents can happen during torture. One needle in the wrong place and the subject will bleed to death, don't you know; better to bring this one into experienced hands."
There was some angry muttering and resentful looks among the disappointed peasants, but they seemed to accept his words. "Well, since it seems ye mean us no 'arm," the veteran grumbled, "Ye can stay a night in our inn, but best begone by the morrow. The gypsies an' other woodland beasties've gone mad as o' late; raidin' our village fer no reason, killin' a few an' runnin' away…there's definitely somethin' fishy about it."
"I assure you, this menace is one of our primary concerns," Myinze said truthfully. More primary than anybody would have guessed; it had been thought that Tisvir's army alone could subdue whatever evil was rising in the wild woods, yet now it seemed that this evil's armies had grown stronger than any would have dared to imagine. Why they hadn't just swept over this small village was anybody's guess.
"Well, come on, lads," the veteran barked, "Let's show this great lizard and 'is, erm, hostage to their room. Afterwards, there's somethin' I wants to discuss wi' a few o' yez." With this last, cryptic remark drifting in the air around, the elder man stalked back to the village, the others in tow. Shrugging, Myinze followed.
* * * * *
Dannal Orrinsson was as old and grizzled as any old war-dog whose fangs had fallen out. These last ten years of retirement had done nothing to dampen his militaristic spirit, and if anything age had only put an extra edge on his gruff, stern demeanor. Still, even though the young man in his mind yearned for the thrill of crossing blades with a foe once again, the old man that was his body needed to take things a bit slower. His body was strong for a man of sixty, but still not what it had used to be.
Dannal was old and set in both his ways and his prejudices. He disliked creatures like kukkushtidds and goblins, but at least the latter had the decency to bow to a human Emperor. Those goblins, though, with their big factories and loud weapons, who looked only to their Kaiser for leadership, were a different matter. It was because mankind had never really stamped its boot down on them that the little monsters had become so powerful so quickly, and now everybody was going to pay for it. Dannal truly did wished that he hadn't spent most of his life living in a time of relative peace with the creatures; he would have very much loved to have smashed a few of the green brutes' long noses right back through their heads!
Come to think of it, Dannal had never actually killed a goblin before. His time in the military had been spent mostly serving as either a peace-keeper in the Blackened Isles, which were famous for their political unrest, back-stabbing, and even short-lived civil wars, or as part of a heavy infantry regiment helping to put down a bloody uprising among the Southern Provinces of Hariad. He could tolerate people with different skins and dwarves (who looked enough like people) and, to a lesser extent, even trolls and kukkushtidds. He drew the line, however, at trusting goblins; sure, they had traded a lot with the Human Empire a while ago, but that seemed now to be but a way of funding their wicked operations. It would indeed be an interesting experience, watching one die…
One thing was for certain; P.O.W or not, that damned green-skin was a threat. This and more he told the group of half a dozen men he had called together. He even added that beings like that were known for their wily cunning; it was likely that the beast was merely playing senseless in order to be taken safely deeper into human lands. Admittedly, this part was of his own design, but oh well; it was probably true.
That night, just as the sun had set, one of the men used the cover of darkness to shimmy up the nearest tree and dangle a noose from the sturdiest branch. The others started to slowly, silently sharpen their axes; if that damned kukkushtidd stood in their way, it'd be hell for him, too.
* * * * *
Myinze shifted uncomfortably on his little, straw-mattress bed. His room, made entirely of wood, was sparsely furnished, with only a chair, a bed, and a paneless window, but he had expected no more from these humans. Right now he was just grateful to have a roof over his head tonight, even though he still had a few qualms about the current situation.
He was, in truth, sleeping in a very awkward and uncomfortable position; his legs from the knee down and tail were draped over the foot of the bed, while his long neck snaked up along the wall directly behind the head of his bed. He restrained the urge to caw angrily at the air around; strange noises emanating from his room probably wouldn't be very welcome, especially among the company that this village had to offer. Whether it was caution or paranoia that caused him to keep his armour on as he slept Myinze did not know, but one thing was very certain; he didn't want to spend more than one night in this forsaken place…
Oh, for a good, warm pile, like the one he had owned back in Tisvir's camp. It was made of about a dozen furs from various different animals he had hunted down in the past, and he just loved sleeping on it! It was one of the few luxuries Myinze had ever allowed himself, one of the few indulgences he had ever engaged in, and it was all the sweeter for that fact. Only now had he ever seen it that way, though; only now that he had been without it or something like it for so long, something he could roll about and stretch out on, oh how he missed the comfort…
When Myinze awoke about an hour (although it felt like a minute) later, his first thought was that whoever was responsible would soon die a bloody death. It did not take long for it to become apparent, however, that he was being held prisoner; he could feel a man grasping each wrist, another grasping his neck, and another grasping his legs and tail all in one. Myinze severely pitied the lattermost fellow; if any of these men were about to die, then he would probably be the first.
"Hold still an' ye won't be 'armed," a gruff yet strangely familiar voice growled, and Myinze could feel a blade press against his neck. "We're takin' the goblin an' doin' whut ought to be done wi' the likes o' him. Best not try an' stop us; it'll only hurt yah in the end of it all."
In the darkness Myinze could see two other men dragging the goblin between them. "'Eavy bugger, ain't 'e?" one of the men grunted as they started to haul him out the door. Myinze squirmed just a little bit, trying to think of what to do next.
It was then, just when the two men ad carried their load out the door and out of the kukkushtidd's sight that it happened; the goblin had one of his waking, babbling fits.
Cursing emanated from the hall outside. "The bugger's awake," one snarled, "I knew'd 'e wuz playin' possum!"
"Quick, thump 'im on tha 'ead…AAGH!" there was sounds of fighting outside the room, and Myinze felt the blade leave his throat as whoever was holding it there ran to his companions' aid.
Myinze wasted no time. Kicking and thrashing with his legs and tail, he sent the man holding the said limbs sprawling. A sharp constriction of his neck freed himself from the man holding it, whom he delivered a crushing peck to the shoulder. The human screamed, and the man holding his right wrist slackened his grip with shock. Bad mistake. Myinze tore his right hand free and rolled to his left, delivering a nose-breaking punch to the man holding his other wrist there.
The man who had been holding his legs, however, soon recovered. Picking up a big, wood-cutting axe, he snarled angrily as he brought it down at Myinze, who rolled completely off the bed and righted himself all in one fluid movement. As he did so, however, his head went crashing up into the ceiling, causing the hapless kukkushtidd to momentarily see stars. The man wasted no time; rushing at the kukkushtidd with a wild yell, he swung his axe straight at the being's gut. Myinze could not avoid the blow, but fortunately his armour absorbed the worst of it. Still, he was sent reeling back, giving his adversary time to ready another swing while the man on his right hand grabbed his own axe.
Before the man could strike, however, Myinze pushed forward, delivering another wild peck. The man screamed as he stumbled back, blood gushing from his right eye socket. Myinze spat to rid himself of the man's optical fluids, then cawed ferociously at the stunned second man, who dropped his own axe immediately and sunk to the ground, a bubbling, cowardly mess.
Spitting contemptuously, Myinze turned about just in time to face Dannal, that old veteran. The man swung at him with an old, rusty blade, causing Myinze to jump back as far as he could. Just stopping himself before he hit his head on the ceiling again, Myinze's eyes darted about the room. Right…he had placed his weapons in the corner currently furthest from himself, and between them and him stood an angry veteran with a sword. Just his luck; things were going to get ugly.
"I told ye it'd go bad fer yuh," Dannal growled, holding his sword in a surprisingly good fighting position, "Din't listen, though; now ye're for it." He side-stepped left as Myinze lunged forward with a peck, raising his blade in both hands and hacking down at the kukkushtidd's out-stretched neck as he did. Myinze, however, swung forward with his right claw, knocking the blade away with the palm as he kept charging past. The room was not a large one, though, and soon Myinze found himself pulling sharply back so that his shoulder thudded solidly into the wall directly beside the corner on the right. Shifting his body so that now his back leaned against the wall, Myinze grabbed his sheathed katana and swung it out just in time to deflect another blow from Dannal. He then threw the sheath from his blade and swung again, just as Dannal was delivering another stroke.
The blades met in mid-flight. Where Myinze's blade was triple-folded steel, sharp as a razor and strong as a tree, Dannal's was old, rusty and, like the man who wielded it, had seen many a better day. The weathered metal snapped, leaving the veteran to stare dumbly for a while at the useless handle that now occupied his hand. Then, slowly, his eyes crept up to stare into Myinze's, shock and fear filling them for the first time in many a year.
Myinze advanced steadily on the man, who backed away fearfully until finally his back hit the wall. From there Dannal slowly sunk to the ground, his breath catching in his throat as Myinze extended his blade to tickle the bottom of his chin. "P-please," he gasped, "Please, mercy…"
Myinze stared coldly at him for a while, then gave him a good knock on the head with the flat of his blade. Dannal slumped, unconscious but still breathing, and Myinze stalked over to the corner, retrieving both his sheath and his spear, as well as his gear. It was then that he remembered the purpose of his escape; the goblin! He still hadn't rescued the goblin! Oh no, it may be too late…
Rushing out into the hallway, Myinze was greeted by a shocking sight. One of the men lay dead, blood pooling around his head from the bite taken out of his throat. The other man - the one whom he had referred to as "friend" earlier - whose clothes and skin beneath had been torn up something fierce, was cowering against the wall, his throat held tight in the clawed grip of the goblin he had just carried out of the room. As for the goblin; he was bruised, battered, had taken his fair share of beating, but now seemed alive and well. It was as if the danger had revitalized his very spirit; blood gurgled in growling, fanged jaws, and there was an unmistakable gleam of murder in his eyes as he raised his unoccupied claw for another slash…
"Sir goblin," Myinze addressed him in a loud, clear voice (speaking the creature's own language, of course), "Let that man go; we must escape while we still are able." The goblin looked up, seemingly disappointed at being denied the right to finish this unctuous human. Nevertheless, he dropped the cowering man without so much as a single word and ran to his kukkushtidd partner's side.
"Let's get the hell out of here," the goblin growled, and both started to run through the hallway, down into the inn's common room, and out the door. They ignored the startled voices of the people around; their objective was to get away as fast as they possibly could.
A glance backwards showed Myinze and image of the man he had just saved standing in the frame of the inn's door, shaking his fist and calling after him, "Damn yew, lizard! P.O.W my arse! I knew'd ye were in league wi' those bastard green-skins!" Seeing Myinze turn his head back to the ground in front of him, the man called again, "That's it! Run, yah coward! We don' need yer filth 'ere! Get out and stay out!"
"Asshole," Myinze growled bitterly as he and the goblin ran once again into the woods. It would be about an hour until they could afford to rest safely again; still, he would be glad if this was the worst his journey had to offer him, although somehow he sincerely doubted it.
CHAPTER #9: THE SONG OF DEATH
"My sweet, thine beau-ty is as a rose,
So softer and fairer than an-y dove
For this is why t'was you I chose
Now let us share e-e-ver-last-ing love.
My…"
"Okay, Jake, that's enough," Philip grunted, ripping a hunk of meat from his ration of the freshly (and luckily - it had but stumbled into their path when Ilky's gun had accidentally gone off in its direction) caught deer, "I think I've had all I can stomach of that namby-pamby singing. Cripes, what sort of music do they teach you in that yoooney-versey city place, anyway?"
Lollban paused in his just long enough to give Philip a quizzical look. "Yooney-versey city?" he asked, his voice implying that this was one of the stupider things he had ever heard.
"You know," Philip grunted, taking a wolfish bite out of his meat, "Th' pl'ce whur yuh go t'learn schtuff, right?"
"Oh, you mean university," Ilky said, "It's called a university, Philip. I just hope it won't replace hypothesis as your new favorite word."
The group all knew what he meant. Since Philip's first hearing of the word, he hadn't been able to stop trying to fit its usage into he current situation. If this wasn't bad enough, the fact remained that he was still, even after uncountable corrections, making mispronunciation after mispronunciation. Even so, the group had gotten used to it, and generally accepted that the sergeant would eventually drop out of whatever habit this word was forming with him.
"Huh, well," Philip muttered, tearing off another hunk of meat with his teeth, "Back'n muh day, we 'ad some real gudd c'mp-f're songs. Y'wanna 'ear one?"
"I'd swallow first," Ilky chided, "Else you might choke."
"Or worse," Lollban snickered, "You might spray us all with your current mouthful!"
Philip swallowed and gave Lollban a look. "You know," he muttered, "If you're going to poke fun at someone, don't use fancy-pants words like 'current'. It sort-of ruins the effect, you know?"
"Whatever," Lollban muttered, dismissing the comment with a wave of the hand, "Just get on with it, alright?"
Philip's face lit up. "Okay, okay, here goes…hmm, lemmie see if I can remember…
"There once was a virgin, her family's runt
"And aye, she did have such a tight…"
"Do you know any others?" Jake said hurriedly.
Philip snorted, distinctly annoyed by his companion's interruption. "Yeah, I know a few others," he grumbled, "But I won't sing 'em if you keep interrupting me."
"Very well," Ilky muttered, "Just try to abstain from singing the songs that rhyme with 'runt,' that's all."
Philip rolled his eyes. "Fine," he muttered, "Have it your way. So, what's another good one…oh yeah! Trust me, you guys, you're gonna love this!"
And so Philip launched into an old soldier's song, a popular one in Tisvir's regiment. Jake had heard parts of it a couple of times before; it was a military adaptation of an old religious song, which described the selfless deeds of a righteous man and was named "Forbearing the Wages of Sin and Vice." Since it had been rude, obnoxious and (probably) drunk soldiers who had made the adaptation, however, the song's name had been changed to "Riding the Pony to Paradise." This version of the song featured a young infantryman's journeys through booze, battle and several beautiful women's beds, along with all of the comical hijinks that happened in between each. It was a jolly little number if ever there was one, rife with word-play and humor that knew no subtlety, and by the end the whole group was laughing raucously; even Philip was having a hard time keeping from bursting out with hilarity as he tried to recite it.
"Hah, that's a good one," Ilky grinned, wiping a tear from behind his be-spectacled eye.
"I liked the part where you know," Lollban tried to remember, "'And fin-a-ly/When her skirt he'd lifted/And shirt he did un-tiiiiiie/He came to see/That her parts had shifted/In-to those of a guuuuuy…' HAHAHAH!"
Philip let out another obnoxious laugh. "You liked it now," he boasted, "You should hear it when you're drunk, eh? Then it's funny!"
"Huh, drunk," Jake mumbled pensively, "You know, I've never been drunk…"
"Wha'?" Philip asked, "Excuse me?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing," Jake assured him, but it was too late.
"Come on, kid," Philip pressed on, "I thought I heard you say you've never been drunk before. You joking or something?"
"Well, um, no," Jake admitted, "But…"
"Not even a bit?" Lollban asked, "I mean, come on, I've been drunk every now and then. Surely you must have boozed a little bit at your university, right?"
"No, not really," Jake said uncomfortably. By now he had shared his past with everybody in the group (hence Philip's mention of "that yooney-versey city place"). "I was mostly too wrapped up in my studies, or being bulled by the other students."
"Oh come on," Philip scoffed, "Have you even lived a day in your life, kid? I mean…"
"Hey, easy up," Ilky said, "If Jake's never been drunk before, that's perfectly fine. He doesn't have to have been to earn my respect; he's quite a decent person without it, and I don't think that you have any more right to judge him for his sobriety than he to judge your, well, non-sobriety…" He thought about it for a while, then said, "Insobriety. Yes, that's the one. Insobriety."
"Hey, come on," Philip said defensively, "I'm not judging anybody here. That said, the first thing I'm going to do once we're out of these damned woods is buy Jake a nice, tall beer. That okay with you, kid?"
"We'll talk about it later," Jake said dismissively, then changed the subject. "So, do you have any more camping songs?"
Philip shrugged. "Yeah," he muttered, "But best save it for another night. I'm getting a bit tired right now; I think I'll hit the sack." With that he rolled over and closed his eyes while the rest of the group just kept staring at him. After a few awkward moments, Philip opened one eye and grumbled, "What?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing," Ilky responded gently, "In fact, I believe that yours is a very good idea; we all need our rest if we're to make another long journey tomorrow. So I suggest we go to sleep now; Jake, it's your turn for first watch."
"Very well," Jake muttered, rising to his feet to begin the pacing, "Philip, you're second, right?"
"Gff-mnkle," Philip muttered drowsily, then gave an obnoxiously loud snore. Jake shrugged, watched the two goblins settle down for the night, then began pacing circles around the campfire.
Jake hated staying up for watch duty. It wasn't the staying awake he minded - he had been awake at late hours dozens of times before - but rather it was the fact that, this last week or so, he always had the distinct feeling that something was watching him from the shadows. The feeling was usually very faint during the day, when he was slogging through the forest's underbrush with his companions at his side, if indeed it was present at all. In the night, however, when it was his turn for watch, the feeling came on the strongest.
And herein lay the rub; always did it feel that whatever sadistic watcher haunted his footsteps was ever staring at the back of his head, right into his brain. No matter how much he looked about, it was always directly behind his head, staring into the black space behind the limits of his eyesight. It was infuriating and fearful at the same time; suppose whatever specter which now followed him decided to take on shape, and bite through the back of his head while he wasn't looking? Jake shivered at the thought, clenching his gauntleted fingers around the handle of his sword for the comfort such action would afford. At least he would not go down without a fight…
Even so, he would never tell any of the other members of the party; he knew that they would merely think him mad. All Jake knew was that he would be glad when his turn at watch was up.
* * * * *
Sella sat in her darkened tent, her chin supported on the backs of her hands, whose elbows rested on the table. Nearby sat the Piper, upon whose lips an amused smile played like the magical flute he carried. Subcommander Bendan, a big, gruff man with a dark, shaggy mane of hair framing his complexion, also sat uncomfortably in a seat which was a bit too small for his massive form. Middol'skik'tik, an emissary from the lizardman armies, was also having problems with his chair due to the presence of his own tail, but Sella was sure that the reptile could manage.
And, oh yes; the other person sitting at the table was Terrah. Of course she had to be here; she had become an essential part of many meetings concerning the progress of that band of Imperials and goblins. The ghost of Ibram Masquer was the only one keeping track of their movements, and he would only speak if he was assured of an opportunity to speak with his love afterwards.
Sella noticed that Ibram seemed to be improving greatly; already he had started once again to speak frequently in verse, lacking meter though it was; something about him still gave Sella a twinge of dislike, perhaps because however much she loathed him, his resentment of her seemed all the greater. Intellectually, Sella knew that the universe had been very unkind to the poor man, and anybody would be just as bitter, if not more so, after such treatment; in her heart, she still innately disliked the man anyway.
Finally the crystal ball flickered, sputtered, and revealed the mask of Ibram Masquer. "I come again from the realm of death With another message for those with breath."
Middol'skik'tik jumped at the sudden appearance of the specter in the crystal ball; hissing, he knocked the chair back with the violent motion and was immediately on his feet, a long, curving saber in hand. Ibram's face regarded him with some distaste, but soon seemed to soften at the sight of his love sitting nearby. He then turned to Sella. "I take it that you wish to have Whatever news comes from beyond the grave?"
"Now that's dodgy rhyming," Bendan muttered, snorting out a mirthless laugh.
Making her move before Ibram could retort, Sella asked, "So, what progress has the group made this day?
Ibram's image directed its eyes upon the woman, then started humming melodically. Slowly but surely, a map of the Westerland Woods started to spread out over the table, causing the lizardman emissary to shriek again in startled fright and anger. It was a work of magical art; if one looked closely enough, one could see each and every individual tree, perfect in every detail. True enough, certain large parts were inexplicably obscured - Sella would need to look into this later - but this problem was insignificant compared to the task at hand. And somewhere on the map, highlighted by a golden glow, camped the small group of four, one of them pacing about restlessly while the others slept.
"Wrrt izziss?" the lizardman snarled, his lizard's tongue trying to pronounce the human words "What is this?"
"It is merely a magical map," Sella responded, "Don't worry, it won't harm you."
"Unless you scaly freaks are allergic to maps," Bendan grunted. Sella glared him down; the man obviously disliked these savage creatures, but now was not the time.
The Piper, meanwhile, rubbed his chin pensively as he stared at the group with an amused expression causing the corners of his lips to twitch upwards. Seeing he had caught Sella's attention, his calm blue eyes met hers as he said, "You know, I have an old friend in this area; if it is your will, I might convince him to pay our, erm, guests a visit?"
Sella thought about it for a moment. "One they would survive?"
"I most certainly doubt it."
Sella shrugged. She was under orders to purge any Imperial presence in these woods; even so, it would have been interesting to find out this group's full intentions. They had obviously gone over their main objectives before confronting Ibram and his kobolds; now, from what Sella could piece together from the snippets of conversation Ibram had caught, whatever their plan was had something to do with the recent goblin incursions.
Whatever their cause, though, it might forever remain a mystery. "Very well," Sella consented with a sigh, "If you or whoever this 'friend' is have a means of slaying these men and goblins, then I bid you do it with the utmost expediency. You have your orders, Piper; now everybody must leave this tent save for Terrah, whom I believe we owe some time alone." The other gypsy commanders nodded their understanding, then rose to leave. Middol'skik'tik glared distrustfully at the crystal ball, then followed suit. Sella was the last to leave, closing the tent flap behind her in order to ensure that Terrah and Ibram received the utmost privacy.
The gypsy mistress emerged from the tent to face a questioning stare from the lizardman emissary. Shrugging, she merely explained, "Time is owed to her and the spirit. Even so, my orders remain unchanged; you and your people are to remain in position until further notice. There will be no sweeping investigations of the forest until we can be certain that there truly are internal threats to be dealt with."
The lizardman's eyes flashed with anger. "Chagg rotcher gutsh, yew fiwth," he snarled, "Yurr t'ink yew c'n borss 'bout usss lisser'men?"
"No, I do not think that I can boss you around," Sella said calmly, "I merely expect you to cooperate so that we may better serve our common master, and thus sooner be free of our service to it. So you understand?"
Middol'skik'tik fumed over this for a while. Finally, he growled, "Darr lissurd-chief's won' liyk it."
"Neither do I," This is the perfect time of year for carnivals, some voice at the back of Sella's mind added wistfully, "But we all must make sacrifices during times of war. Tell your masters of my plan, then report back with their response." Coloured, inflated pig's-bladders, woven candy, nightly performances and circuses, children getting their grubby little hands all over the show-animals..."You have you orders," I really miss it all, even the grubby children…"Now be gone." I hope I live to see it again…
The lizardman stood there for a moment, scowling as its hateful lizard-eyes bored into Sella's, although the woman's gaze would not break. Finally, hissing with frustration, the lizardman stalked off without another word. Sella exhaled slowly, looking around. The Piper had gone off somewhere, leaving only Bendan at her side. The big man snorted at the lizardman's departing back, then turned to Sella. "I don't like those lizard-creeps one bit," he muttered, chucking a thumb at the beast in question, "Are you sure we're doing the right thing in siding with them."
It took Sella some time to come up with an answer; since she had joined the army, right and wrong had become less than ideals, and more like simple words. Maybe this was just what war did to a person, making them forget what they valued most in life. Whatever the case, she finally answered, "I wouldn't be surprised if we weren't, but at the moment we simply have no choice."
Bendan shifted uncomfortably; obviously he wasn't quite satisfied with her answer, but knew he wasn't going to get much better. "I only pray that this entire damned war will be over with as soon as possible."
Sella nodded, her eyes staring at the distant carnival lights in her imagination, longing to reach them once again but ever restrained by the chains that were reality. "Yes," was all that she said in response.
* * * * *
Priat Berdenst sat quietly up at the top of his tree, watching as the sun rose and letting his thoughts swirl gently into some other pleasant little dimension. Just how did that little dot in the sky light and warm the entire world? And how was it that its beauty managed to enthrall so many as it rose and sank, strewing so many beautiful colours across the sky…
He reflected sadly that, with the coming war, there would be little time for such trivial, idle thought. He would miss mornings like this, but he would have to do whatever he could for the master; after all, he had no choice…
A soft tune whispered its way gently into his ears, and Priat immediately recognized the music of his trainer and friend, the mysterious gypsy flutist-magician known as only the Piper. Priat had learned everything he knew now from that man; it had taken him fully fifteen of his thirty years, but he had eventually done it. Now he listened to the words intermingled with the soft tune, and immediately understood what he had to do.
With that, Priat began his descent from the top of the great tree. He had a knack for climbing; he was a short but spry man, garbed completely in green with a green tunic, green leggings, green shoes and a green cap. His eyes were green, as well, and his hair was stark red in contrast. He had grown up in the forest under the care of his hermit nanny, until she had passed away at the age of fifteen. During this time he had learned to shoot up and down trees like a squirrel; his nanny had always attributed it to the wood-sprite blood on his father's side of the family.
Priat finally reached the ground, taking a leap from a branch about half again his own height up and landing squarely on his feet with only a slight "Umph!" With that he pulled out his flute, polished it off a bit, then searched his memory for the tune he now required. Music was one of several mediums through which magic could be made; often it was used to help, but in the right hands musical magic could trick, deceive, manipulate, even kill. It was a song for the latter which the Piper had required that he play; he had hoped never to use such a song, but this was war, and these men were the enemies. He knew that, although he hated it with all his heart.
* * * * *
The group continued their journey through the woods that day, now packing with them a good deal of dried venison strips made from the deer they had caught. It was a good thing they had come across the beast, too; the berries from the Golden River had all but run out. Fortune seemed to be favoring them for now, as little incident had befallen the band lately. Still, one could only hope that this good luck would hold out for the rest of the journey.
At about mid-day that day, the group stopped and sat down for a leisurely lunch. Shafts of sunlight speared down through the canopy, illuminating the forest and giving it an almost supernatural look. Everyone, even Lollban, was in a relatively good mood; Jake hummed the song from last night as they walked, and the whole group occasionally snickered when he got to a particularly humorous (or explicit) part.
"And I've still got some more," Philip informed them once they had gotten over their last round of chuckling (induced by the line that described a drunken incident involving a fiery maiden, some shackles, a whip, and a small donkey), "Y'know, tonight I can pick up where we left off in 'The Runt Song'..."
"Um," Ilky mumbled, "Best save that one for later, shall we?"
Philip shrugged. "Whatever," he muttered, "Still, I like that one…"
"I think Philip's right," Lollban ventured, "Maybe we should…" he took a few more steps forward, then stopped and turned around. "Guys?" he asked, but received no response. The entire group was standing among the forest's underbrush, swaying gently from side to side like long grass in the wind. Their mouths hung open vacantly, their eyes holding the look of one who is completely lost.
"Um, guys?" Lollban approached them tentatively. He snapped his fingers in front of Ilky's face, but no spark stirred behind the being's spectacles. Cocking his head to one side, Lollban felt a ripple of irritation go through him. "If this is some sort of joke you're all playing," he muttered, "Then it's not funny, okay?"
Still, the other three members of the group merely stood, staring vacantly. Now Lollban was starting to get worried. "Look," he said, trying to keep his voice level, "I already told you, this isn't funny. Cut it out. Now." Receiving no response, Lollban shuddered involuntarily. He didn't like this situation one bit; what the hell was happening here? "Okay, you're starting to give me the creeps…"
A subtle shift in the wind brought a new smell to Lollban's nose. Human, mostly, although there was a small trace of…what the…nothing? There was something he distinctly couldn't smell about whatever this creature was, a profound absence which made the scent seem disturbingly incomplete.
No matter, though; whatever this was, Lollban was sure that it had something to do with his friends' strange behavior. Pulling out his pump-gun, he glared about wildly, identifying the direction from whence it came. "You'd better not be responsible for whatever's happening to them," he muttered, "Because if you are…" He set off in that direction, jaw hard and eyes blazing with determined anger. Some foul play was at work here, and he was not the sort of goblin one wants to play dirty with.
* * * * *
Priat leaned back against an old tree-trunk; he was now about a third of the way through completing his spell. A tune for the causing of one death was work enough; a tune for four was going to take a while. He knew also of a sharp, high-pitched whistle that could be used to slay certain creatures - it triggers something in the brain which causes the thing's nervous system to automatically shut down - but this was not powerful enough to fell such beings as men or goblins, and besides, he would have to get much closer. For this song of death he need only stay in one place and play on his flute, and the music would find the ears of his victims on its own.
Once the music had found them, it would enthrall their very senses, numb their minds to all but the tune and make them completely and totally defenseless. This part had already completed; the nest part would cause a complete bodily collapse. This part had the potential to turn out very messy; the victims would immediately regurgitate the contents of their stomachs and their bowels would empty. The blood in their veins would stop moving, their lungs would cease to work, their muscles would go limp as a boned fish. It would seem that such would cause their immediate death, but this was not the case. If only the second part were completed without the third, then the victim would take but a few moments to regain all vital bodily functions.
The explanation for this, of course, was simple; although the body had been incapacitated, the soul still lingered within its mortal shell. The third part of the spell, the final, longest note, was meant to cut the spirit loose.
It would be a difficult and unsavory task at best, Priat knew, but he could and would do it. He had to. He didn't have any other choice.
Suddenly, as Priat kept playing, he noticed something moving rapidly through the underbrush. A goblin, it seemed; how had it evaded the spell? No matter; though it saddened his heart to see anything die, it was generally understood that these creatures were bad news anyway. It would have no qualm about killing him, so he should have no qualm about killing it.
It was not like he was going to, though. He had taken into consideration that something unexpected might happen while he played his song, and had thus called on a few friends to keep watch, and aid him when it did…
* * * * *
It was not long before Lollban caught a glimpse of his quarry through a break in the bushes. It was a man playing soundlessly on some flute, although strangely no sound came out. Either he isn't very talented, he thought, continuing to run forward, Or this is some magic devilry. Either way, he's gonna answer for it if I have to shoot his voice-box out to make him comply. Without pausing to consider the logic behind this thought, Lollban instead shouted, "Hey, you there! With the flute! I…"
Suddenly the bushes burst outwards, causing Lollban to jump back. Before him stood two humanoid creatures with long, dragon-fly wings. Both shouted out as they hacked and slashed at the bewildered goblin's body repeatedly and mercilessly with their ornately decorated swords…
Wait a second…their swords that didn't have blades. Once Lollban had realized this, his face and posture took up a look of severe annoyance. "A-hem," he cleared his throat to get their attention, then asked, "Do you mind?"
The two creatures, probably fairies or some other pansy woodsy things like that, paused and exchanged confused glances. Groaning, Lollban pushed roughly past them, taking some care not to impale either on his spiked shoulder plates but not putting too much effort into the endeavor, either. Instead he moved straight on to the mysterious flutist, who eyed him with shock and panic even as he continued playing. Yes indeed, that strange smell was coming from this man; the closer he came, the more profound the absence of scent. This little journey was starting to wear thin on his nerves; it was high time he got back on the intended trail, and he couldn't do that without the rest of his companions.
At first Lollban decided to use one of those things he rarely used around people who weren't Ilky. What was it again…self control? Yes, that was probably it. Clearing his throat again, he said, "Hey, you, I know you're doing something to my friends. Stop it now." When the man seemed to ignore him, Lollban groaned, leveled his gun with the man's chest, then decided against it. Waste of a good bullet, he thought bitterly, then threw down his gun and gave the human a good, hard punch in the stomach.
Huffing as the wind left his body, Priat doubled over, the magical song broken. Lollban deftly snatched the flute from the man's unresisting hands and looked at it closely, ignoring the two fairies who rushed to their friend's assistance. "Funny little thing," he muttered, "Always wanted to try and play one…" He took a deep breath, then blew a heavy note that came out as a "BLORT!" on the small instrument. He shrugged, regarding the object once more; not exactly the singing of the angels, but he could improve. Besides, if he left it here, that mad flutist guy might use it again; just to make sure, he tucked it safely into his belt, picked up his gun and walked away, leaving the three would-be adversaries to attend their own matters.
* * * * *
When Lollban rejoined the group, they were almost completely recovered. Despite his attempts to ask them what they had experienced while in their comatose states, none were particularly willing to talk, although all (except for Philip, who remained somewhat sheepish) expressed their gratitude that they had gotten their daily bowel movements over with before the "incident." Thus, they journeyed in relative silence until night had fallen, and they made camp and broke out the rations.
"So," Lollban asked Philip, making a point of not mentioning the funny smell that surrounded him, "Do you have any other camping songs for us tonight?"
Philip, who was dressed only in his chain-mail leggings and soaking the pants he wore underneath in a small creak nearby, grimaced with an involuntary shudder. Ilky and Jake also shifted uncomfortably where they sat around the low campfire. Jake chewed his portion of the meal with ponderous thoroughness, while Ilky seemed to take a distinct interest in inspecting the length of his own claws. For a while the awkward silence continued, making Lollban more than a little uneasy.
And with a person like Lollban, uneasiness often takes little time to give way to irritation. "Well?" he prompted, feeling a flash of the aggressive emotion shoot through his body, "Am I going to get an answer here?"
"You know what?" Philip responded finally, "I actually do know plenty of other camping songs, but I don't think that I'm in the mood to sing one tonight."
"Nor I to listen," Jake added.
"In fact," Ilky threw in his two pence, "I'd be perfectly happy if there was to be no more camp-fire music for quite a while to come, if that's all well with the rest of you." Jake and Philip nodded and muttered their ascent, leaving only Lollban sitting there, the top of his right cheek twitching with irritation. Seeing this, Ilky gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "It's nothing really personal, you know, but that spell we were put under…well, it was like we couldn't escape the music, no matter how we tried. By the way," he remembered finally, "How exactly was it that you did not fall under the song's influence, anyway?"
Lollban shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted, "But I wasn't expecting anybody to venture any complaints about it at the time."
"Don't get me wrong, now," Ilky assured him, "I do not wish to complain, I am merely commenting on… oh, never mind." I'll have to ponder this mystery some other time, Ilky made a mental note.
Lollban merely shrugged, then leaned back against the nearest stump. "Oh well," he muttered, whipping out the magical flute he had looted from that foolish human, "At least I can amuse myself a bit tonight." With that he raised the mouth-bit to his own lips and started playing: "HOOT! Heet-hyit HOOT-HOOT HWAAAAAA!"
It was then that he was summarily informed by the rest of the group that, if his awful playing continued, that flute would be taking the grand tour of the other end of his body.
* * * * *
"Come in," Sella called, hearing the rapping on her tent's post. She had been going over lists of inventories, supplies, troop movements and reports, and had momentarily fallen asleep while doing so before the sound of patient knocking had awaken her. Now, collecting her wits and sitting up as straight as possible, grabbing a piece of paper she was supposed to be looking at in order to create the illusion of being in the midst of something, she watched as the Piper strode gracefully into the tent.
Sella noticed that the man's demeanor had undergone quite a change since last she had met with him. His face no longer bore the small, satisfied smile that usually rested upon his lips, and his soft, mild blue eyes now shone with grim determination and a hint of…was that grief? It was quite the surprise to see such an emotion coming from such a normally cool, collected person; obviously, for him to be in such a state then the news he brought was certainly dire.
The Piper spoke before Sella had the chance to address him. It seemed that this was not a time when he felt like mincing his words; instead he got straight down to the point. "Priat is dead," he told the mistress, letting those words hang in the air like thick mist for a while after they had been said.
For a moment Sella stood, digesting this new information. Then she asked bluntly, "What?"
The Piper merely fixed her with a hard, azure stare. Then he explained. "Priat, my friend and the one who was to intercept the four Imperials, has failed in his mission. And now he is dead."
Sella nodded in understanding. "They killed him, then, I take it?"
Surprisingly, the Piper shook his head. "No," he answered grimly, "Imperials and goblins though they may be, Priat's blood stains not their hands. It was another group which came after their own, a small band of goblins bearing weapons of the most hellish sort. Where the true quarry had imparted mercy, these fiends had imparted death; Priat and one of his wood-sprite attendants were slain by them, while the other fled and sent his message to me in the form of a far-reaching song of sadness."
Sella took a moment to digest this new information, then nodded once more. "Another infiltration party," she muttered, "Well, it figures those little brutes would slay any of us that saw; we jeopardize whatever mission their kind has embarked upon within these Woods."
The Piper shook his head. "That is not it," he said, "These goblins are no normal squad going about whatever business they have in this land. The servant who imparted to me this message has already seen a few such patrols, and claims that these other creatures were nothing like their other kin. According to him, these beasts were more intimidating, more menacing, than the normal sort that we face. They were decked in different armour, and bore more bizarre and dangerous weaponry. When they had encountered Priat, they slew him with hardly a word, then proceeded on whatever journey they were taking."
Sella thought about this for a while, then came to a realization. "Wait," she said, "You say that Priat encountered first his true quarry, then this new group of goblins, did you not?"
"Aye," the Piper replied patiently.
"Let me see," Sella paced about, thinking furiously about this new idea that had struck her. "Hmm, the Imperials have been traveling off-road for quite some time, right? Right; so, this means that this new party of goblins has been doing so as well."
"Indeed," was all that the Piper said, his subtle way of urging her to continue.
"Now, the question here," Sella muttered, more to herself than to her present company, "Is whether or not this is a mere coincidence, or if these goblins are following the same path as our quarry."
The Piper nodded in understanding. "You think that they may be connected, somehow."
"Essentially," Sella said, still thinking, "However, it is doubtful that they work together as allies, for if such was the case then would they not travel as a single group rather than as two separate ones on the same path? No; more likely they share the same destination, although neither knows of the other's presence."
"Perhaps," the Piper admitted, "But this is not the only possibility."
"And what other possibilities would there be?" Sella let the Piper take the floor now.
"There are several," the man said, fixing her with his azure stare, "It may be noted that there has been increasing tension between the goblins and Imperials, which may account for the numerous goblin parties infiltrating our forest. We are, after all, in a territory of the Human Empire, even though their jurisdiction reaches not into these Woods. I am getting sidetracked here, though; perhaps either the Imperials are fleeing from the goblins, or the goblins are hunting the Imperials. Who knows; it could be both."
"I see," Sella muttered, "We shall have to watch both of these groups carefully; I have no doubt that the threat they pose could become quite substantial before long."
"Indeed," the Piper responded, then lapsed into silence. Then, after a while, he asked, "Permission to send some warriors to seek justice for Priat?"
"Denied," Sella said sharply, then recoiled at both the shocked reaction she drew from the man and her own tone. She explained, "I know he was your friend and am sorry to hear of his loss, but we need to find out what these goblins are doing in our Woods. It may be the reason for our master's unrest, or at least linked to it. Even so," she thought for a while, then said, 'Have a retinue of wood sprites follow them at all times, so that any time we wish to kill them then we may."
The Piper nodded, never breaking his azure stare. "As you say, mistress," he said, "However, I do not like this plan; those goblins pose a definite threat to our cause, that one group of them anyway."
"Then they, too, shall be followed closely," Sella stated, "We need them to stay alive only long enough to find out what they are up to in our Woods, and no more. However, a description of these foes would be quite useful, I should think; did your late friend's attendant tell you of any special features they may have?"
"He told me little," the Piper admitted, "Although he did note that one of them, a hollow, wicked creature who seemed to be their leader, wore a pair of completely black spectacles…"