28. New Friends

“Despite his physical weakness, the hatchling, who has named himself Magar, is well spoken and possesses a mind keener than any I have ever seen.

Over two Cycles of the Moon, he has learned more than many goblins, even shamans, will manage in their entire lifetimes. He seems to remember every concept and conversation that we discuss, and to reach his own ideas readily enough.

In one way, it is good to have charge of such a capable student. But in another way, I begin to fear that I will soon have no use. My knowledge will eventually be surpassed.

‘Do not worry, Izzig,’ Magar said to me just as soon as that worry passed through my mind. ‘I will protect you. You brought me into the world and I will not take you out of it.’

The fear that he could read my thoughts passed through my mind.

‘Some,’ Magar added. ‘But I will not, if it bothers you. I will not,’ he soon added, baring his small fangs in a regretful smile. ‘Just know that you are safe. From Zalak and the others.’

I studied the meek goblin’s bony, youthful green mien. His large eyes shining as if in curiosity or confusion. I wondered loudly in my own mind what had happened to Agrak, but the hatchling did not show any sign that he heard my thoughts.

‘Where is the Small King?’ I then asked aloud. ‘Is he alive…?’

‘Yes, Izzig. He is alive.’

‘Is he safe?’

‘Yes, Izzig,’ Magar hesitantly repeated. ‘Agrak is safe for now.’”

Hjorvarth paused atop the rocky ledge of a treacherous climb. Flanked by mountains and snaking from Timilir to Vendrick, he could see the particoloured patchwork of land known as Ouro’s Scales. He had sight, as well, of the snowy ranges separating the winter hues of Southwestern Tymir from the autumn shades of the Midderlands.

“We must hurry,” Russ urged, “the blue ceiling dizzies us.”

Hjorvarth glanced at the hooded kobold. “The Midderlands is burning.”

Russ shrugged. “Is that not the way of all goblin lands?”

The green hills of the Midderlands stretched in the distance, separated down the middle by a great wooden wall and two huge ditches known as Ragni’s Divide. Two walled towns stood at the northern and southern points of the sprawling defense, but by the smoke rising from scorched fields and blackened homesteads, the goblins had already made their way into the manling lands of Jarl Harrod the Younger.

“We must leave,” pressed Russ. “The goblins you seek will soon be sold, or eaten.”

Hjorvarth nodded, turning to the scene of rugged stone behind him. Ahead, up a winding slope, the other cloaked kobolds filed into the shadows of a small cave. “I thought you eat roots?”

“We do.” Russ turned to follow the others, his cloak unnaturally black against the grey surroundings. “But distinctions become harder to make when children begin to starve. If the pink goblins will no longer give us food for their kin then we will begin to see them as things worth eating.”

“I would sooner starve than eat a man.”

“The kobolds do not share your suicidal thoughts.”

“You speak as if for all of them.”

“I speak as a kobold speaks.”

“You are on a odd thing,” Hjorvarth said now they crossed into the cave. The narrow walls led to a tunnel that lead back into the darkness of the earth, which the other hooded kobolds had already begun to descend.

“How far are we from the lands of Zelerath?” asked Hjorvarth.

“Tunnels. Not far,” Russ squeaked. “And I am not odd.”

“I meant no insult.”

“And yet you make constant efforts to distance yourself from my kind.”

“Perhaps that is meant as a compliment.”

Russ shrugged under his cloak. “It should be. But it is not. I wonder what would’ve happened had a kobold ever held audience with a king of the pink goblins.”

“He—”

“Would be hacked to pieces before reaching the gate.”

“Perhaps. But there are those who might listen to the kobold’s reason for being there.”

“Be clear in the knowledge that Zelerath is not among those of our people who might listen.”

“Is there blood between you?”

“Yes,” Russ hissed. “We made blood. A child. But she considered him too weak… and so consumed him.”

Hjorvarth frowned, trudging along as the tunnel led further down into darkness.

“I can hear you thinking, goblin. Words of barbarism,” added Russ. “Yet I have walked forests before, and I have seen the babes of goblins in the maw of a wolf. Or shredded in the clawed paw of a bear.”

“Truly?”

“No. But what else awaits a parcel of meat when you set it in the realms of a predator?”

“The gods take the child into care after it passes.”

“After it is savaged.” Russ shrugged. “The kobolds have no gods. We are born, live, then return to the worms.”

“Then what sense is there in living at all?”

“I have often asked that of myself, goblin. Kobolds make use of gifts given… perhaps that is our way. Or, perhaps, Hubbard the Hallowed brings truth to an ignorant people when he preaches of his deity. Eternal salvation free from the probing of scavengers and worms. Free from servitude at the feet of the Small King.”

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“Rubinold is enemies with all three?”

“Rubinold would chew through the neck of any that oppose him. He is not wrong to take issue with the Hallowed. For his preachings tell our people that the answer is death. For all others, for ourselves. Carnage until eternity.”

“Oh.” Hjorvarth nodded. “And that is why you fire stones from pipes?”

“No.” Rubinold shook his head. “It is simply the best way to obliterate those that mean to obliterate me.”

***

Russ raised his clawed hand now he and the other five hooded kobolds crossed into a domed cavern that was lit by the unnatural luminescence of sparking blue gemstones.

Hjorvarth slowed to a stop while the group started to chatter, spreading out around the walls, keeping their ears close as they scrabbled against the dirt.

Russ turned, beady eyes glistening under his hood. “I expect this marks the border of Zelerath’s tunnels. This tunnel is recently expanded, and the glowing stones have been placed here. The others will check the walls to make certain that the place is not hollowed for a sudden ambush. If it is safe, we will rest before proceeding.”

“I am not tired,” Hjorvarth assured.

“No doubt you claim the same even as you sleep.” Russ swept out his clawed arms, revealing scars across his slender belly. “My concern is for those with me. This trip was planned before your arrival, but was yet to be agreed. Once we cross into the tunnels, we will be spotted by scouts hiding behind false walls, which will leave us little time before an overwhelming number of Zelerath’s followers are upon us. As such, we must be rested and readied. Do you wish to eat, goblin?”

“I see no goblins to eat.”

Russ stared. “I had meant that as address.”

“I had meant that as a jest.”

“As had I,” said Russ, his lips curling over his fangs.

Hjorvarth frowned. “I’ll manage without food.”

Russ’s pink arms returned to the folds of his cloak. He stood for a while in silence.

“Problem?” asked Hjorvarth.

Russ shook his hooded head. He lifted a root to his mouth, gnawing reddish flesh now he turned the others. “Is it safe?”

“Yes,” a few of the hooded kobolds answered in unison. “Do we rest?”

“Yes.” Russ seated himself on the floor. “We will move when we awaken.”

Hjorvarth took a seat in the middle of the cavern, watching while the kobolds gathered themselves in a circle. They squeaked and chattered, shared roots and herbs and branches, making a chorus of gnashing as they chewed food.

Russ and his hooded kobolds sat in company for so long that the huge man decided he would need to sleep.

Hjorvarth untied his short black cloak, placing the bundle under his head now he laid against hard earth. He laid the large shield atop his bruised chest, so that cold metal shadowed his crotch and neck.

He sighed, and closed his eyes.

Hjorvarth tried to sleep in the awkward confines of the earth and the shield, but decided he would not be able to manage the act with the giant rats squeaking nearby.

Despite that, he next opened his tired eyes to find all the kobolds now in their own corners of the cavern, counting pouches of powder and cleaning metal pipes.

Hjorvarth closed his eyes once more, certain he wouldn’t find sleep again. He woke to find the cavern silent around him. The kobolds snored softly, nestled together in a pile, hairless skin shown amid their tangled black cloaks.

Hjorvarth then heard a distant squealing and scampering, as if made by another kobold’s rapid approach. He rolled onto his side to see a burdened figure struggling towards the blue gloom. “Russ…?”

A strike of stone sounded out, followed by a shower of golden sparks. “For the Hallowed!”

Hjorvarth managed to roll to his feet before the kobold drew too close, understanding then that the giant rat had shouldered packs upon packs that leaked the same explosive powder which his hooded companions had so carefully handled.

Stone clacked and sparks sprayed.

Russ and the others murmured awake, soon tripping over themselves in efforts at escape. Hjorvarth strode forward instead, glimpsing a fledgling flame that swiftly spread along the powder sacks and danced across the furred figure of the burdened kobold.

A pained screech split through the panicked cavern.

Fire stole into sacks, glowing red and gold, embers welling with a muted inhale.

Hjorvarth slammed his shield down at the tunnel’s entrance, eclipsing a malicious conflagration. Flames roared outward in a burgeoning inferno, rolling over his shield, scorching neck and shoulders, brightening closed eyes with the colour of blood.

***

Russ shook dust and debris from his tattered moleskin cloak. He stood over three fresh graves, yet to be covered. In the left, Rigg. Next, Rott. Then the huge man that claimed to be the son of Isleif the Bard.

The air reeked of burnt flesh, singed hair, and fresh earth, along with the tang of spent powders and fired pipes.

Russ had the thought that Hjorvarth appeared much the same living as he did dead, only now his ears were burnt, swollen red, split and peeling, much like his broad shoulders and back. Tattered clothes had gone up with the flames or melted into reddened flesh. Eyelashes and brows had been singed at the edges. Combed hair had combusted, the long tail cut away. “They lived. They died. May the worms take them.”

The cloaked kobold glanced to his two surviving companions, their own dark garbs burnt and shredded, then the living three began to cover the bodies in a layer of soil.

Russ discounted the huge man’s murmur as a trick of the tunnels. He refused to acknowledged the splutter.

“Enough,” Hjorvarth groaned.

“You are dead, goblin. Go to sleep.”

“I am cold, but I am fine.”

“You are burnt, goblin. Your arm welded into your shield. Your face licked by flames. Would you like me to end this illusion of living before you understand what you have become?”

“That is an odd lie,” Hjorvarth whispered, still laying in his shallow grave. He seemed afraid to look at his body, and his pale eyes shook now he stared up at Russ. “What has happened…? Are your companions well?”

“Two are dead,” answered Russ. “We are all wounded. A kobold of Hubbard the Hallowed found us. He had clad himself in sacks of powders and meant to destroy us all in a divine conflagration. Such is the madness of faith. The worms cannot take him now… he is little more than chips of bones and scraps of flesh.”

Hjorvarth struggled to nod. “I find myself unable to rise.”

“Yes.” Russ hissed a sigh between sharp teeth. “You are dead, goblin. As I have said. You tried to stand in the way of fire, when you should have stepped clear of the flames. Though I expect that would have led to all of our deaths. Our own powders would have ignited and erupted. You would have then been skewered by our bones.”

Hjorvarth furrowed his burnt brows. “You speak in riddles, rat.”

“I am not a rat, and I speak plainly.”

“I am not a goblin.”

Russ assented with a nod. “But you are dead.”

“I disagree.”

“You will soon remember your pain, Isleif’s son,” assured Russ. “I will ask once more, do you wish for me to spare you a slow passing? I must continue forth without you,” he added. “I cannot linger any longer. If I do not slay Zelerath, then my people will be too divided to stand against The Small King.”

“I know that king.” Hjorvarth blinked, his burnt face creasing in confusion. “He is small.”

“Your mind wanders. Do you wish for me to deliver a message to the stone city?” Lost eyes gazed up at Russ and labored breaths filled the silence. “Isleif’s son…?”

“Ask the kobold known as Russ to save a man named Sam.”

“I am Russ.”

Hjorvarth seemed confused by that, but his expression froze before he could speak.

Russ looked to his two companions, who watched with ware from under their tattered hoods. They had already buried their kin. “We will leave him… in case his spirit wishes to rise.”

“I see danger in that, brother. The tunnels are no place for ghosts.”

“It is decided,” said Russ, lifting up his hood. “Come, let us bring death to the usurper.”