34. Small Mercy
“Though our escape from Zalak’s throne room went smoothly, Magar and I ran afoul of a pack of spiders in the neighboring tunnels.
This was odd in two ways. Firstly, because the tunnels were oft travelled and any spiders should have long since been killed by other goblins. And, more worryingly, because the spiders were a new breed with a particularly potent venom that I had never before witnessed.
Given that I had spent so much of my life tracking and recording all the species in the underground, as well as some of those strangers creatures that hunt amid the underdark, such a discovery should have been impossible.
And yet one of the huge twins was bitten, which soon incapacitated the goblin and set his skin to rotting in a manner most horrific.
Magic and poultices proving useless, there was little left to do than kill him.
His twin, Tuku, was understandably bewildered and distraught. Our attempts to calm and placate him have worked for now, but I suspect that the loss will not be readily suffered. And I wonder as well whether it is just humans and wandering gods that are travelling through time and space or whether creatures, doubtless unwitting, are being pulled from place to place as a result of temporal manipulation.
In any case, I now find myself in the company of a meek youngling who now speaks only to himself and a grieving hulk who utters not a word.”
Hubbard the Hallowed resided in long and narrow cavern, perched upon a ledge that overlooked a sheer drop and a pair of arduous slopes. He had kobolds standing guard at each of those approaches and white-cloaked pipers ready at either side of him.
Hubbard did not wish to risk being stabbed or fired upon by the unfaithful. Death was release, but he did not yet wish to be released. There was work to be done, goblins to immolate. Though in truth that proved harder than he had originally reckoned.
He had lost cavern upon cavern, tunnel upon tunnel, follower upon follower.
Divine fire did not scour his domain of the incursions. Fervent faith did not cure the foes that so ailed him.
Hubbard wondered whether he had made a mistake in breaking the kingdom of Rubinold. He wondered if things would have been different had he waited, had he murdered the king and taken his crown instead.
But he had nought to do now but see his choices through. He would hold tight to his shrinking domain. He would bring both kobold monarchs to the brink with him. Hubbard’s people would die. Their souls saved from bone-and-flesh prisons.
“Most hallowed Hubbard!”
Hubbard had to peer down to see the white-cloaked kobold addressing him. “What is it, Child of Fire?”
“Zelerath has fallen!” he declared. “Destroyed in divine flames!”
“Praise the Hallowed,” the guards and pipers intoned. “He who safeguards our souls!”
“Our righteousness has been proven.” Hubbard nodded, unconvinced that this kobold was as pleased as he should be. “The faithless usurper has fallen. Rubinold the Pretender will topple soon enough.” He leaned forward in a seat molded from a dark mix of ash and earth. “Do you bring any other news?”
The kobold scraped and bowed. “The goblin horde has breached the main caverns, most hallowed.”
“Have they been shown the merits of our faith?”
“Yes! Yes,” he echoed more quietly. “Only one remains.” He stared at the earth. “It wishes to speak with you.” He paused. “It claims to be the son of Isleif.”
***
Hjorvarth was ushered forward by kobolds that seemed to be draped in filthy bedsheets. He was aching and tired and, more than anything, surprised he wasn’t dead. He didn’t know whether the request for audience had been answered or whether they were simply leading him to an execution, but he had little choice other than to step forward unless he wanted to be prodded and stabbed by spears.
He ducked under the low roof of a narrow tunnel that then widened and rose to a narrow cavern. A high plateau towered ahead, reachable by two steep slopes that ran alongside each side of the chamber.
A handful of mangled candles lent the dark space a hue of gloomy orange.
Hjorvarth was brought towards the rock face and forced to his swollen knees. He had to squint, but he thought he could see a white figure looking down at him.
“You sit in audience with the most holy and most hallowed, Hubbard the Hallowed!” a kobold beside him proudly declared.
Hjorvarth made slight effort to dip his head in respect.
“You claim to be the son of Isleif?” asked a reedy voice from above, better suited to a sickly child than a feared ruler.
“I am the son of Isleif.”
“Why then do you serve the diminutive monarch of the green goblins?”
“I am a goblin.”
“A pink goblin,” Hubbard corrected. “Pink is ever at odds with green. All know this. You should serve those who live under the dizzying heights of the blue ceiling.”
“In honest truth, I was sent to steal from Queen Zelerath on behalf of the kobold known as King Rubinold. I was then attacked and captured by your followers and brought here. I now wish nothing more than to return to the surface, or to be led back to the tunnels from where I came so that I can steal from Rubinold instead.”
“That is much unlike Isleif. He was the bringer of peace. He saved us from each other.”
“Oh,” murmured Hjorvarth. “Do you wish peace with Rubinold…?”
“Such a question has no consequence. The Small King will send more goblins, more and more, until all the faithful are passed on to the life that follows. Until all the faithful are consumed in divine conflagration.”
“Would it not be simpler to try and make a truce?”
“There is nothing simpler than death,” hissed Hubbard.
“Then I know not what to say beyond that I have no wish to die without reason.”
“You will be accorded all respect, Isleif’s son. I will make sure we burn together.”
***
Hubbard the Hallowed pondered on the oddity of the son of Isleif.
The pink goblin did not seem at all pleased with the grand honour he was awarded. He almost seemed to teeter on violence, but soon changed his mind when he was hemmed in by shining spears. Hubbard wondered whether the pink goblin should have been slain outright, so that all risk could be avoided and his body could be kept safe for the final fire.
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“A thing to consider,” Hubbard mused.
“Hubbard the Hallowed?” a shrill voice enquired.
Hubbard squinted to see a small figure below, a green goblin, whose presence caused surprise and alarm among all those gathered. “How do you get in here?”
The cloaked kobolds moved to the ledge, powder hissing now they readied their pipes. The armoured kobolds took a wary step forward.
“I walked,” the goblin replied. “I am the Small King. I have come—”
“Burn him!”
Hubbard covered his eyes as sparks were struck, as the armoured kobolds charged forward. Explosions rocked the cavern, whipping up white robes with a bitter rush of air, causing the cavern to shake and dirt to sift down onto the Hallowed’s head.
Hubbard slowly opened his eyes to see that a cloud of dust had enveloped the green goblin. He was elated, clapping and happy, until the cloud faded to reveal a goblin, a whole goblin, covered in black soot and brown dust.
The Small King coughed, and spat out debris. “If you do that again, I will slaughter you and all your people.”
Hubbard the Hallowed considered that while his followers stopped of their own accord. “Why are you here?” he ventured.
“As I understand it, Queen Zelerath has fallen. I have come to make an offer of peace. One that requires that you cede some of your domain. I will take the rest from Zelerath’s holdings and from Rubinold’s, as well, if needed.”
“I wish to keep all of my domain,” Hubbard countered.
“Then I will kill you. And Rubinold will get to keep all of his instead.”
Hubbard the Hallowed shook with anger. “I would sooner die!”
“Thank you. Those are the only words I needed to hear.” The Small King upturned long claws. “If any of the rest of you wish to live, then you can butcher the Hallowed and I will negotiate with whoever takes his place.”
“Wait!” Hubbard insisted. “I will conquer Rubinold’s domain for you, and then you will have no need of mine.”
The goblin scowled. “That was I not a choice I presented.”
“Present one, then. This is no negotiation—it is a threat!”
The Small King’s laugh was piping. “I suppose that’s true. Another choice…? I am obliged by the old laws to offer you resolution through a duel. If you wish to settle this war through single combat then that can be arranged.” He shrugged his sloped shoulders. “But you would be expected to vacate your caverns, never to return, in the event of a loss. And I believe your people would be better served by—”
“I accept!” Hubbard the Hallowed announced.
“Very well.” The Small King bowed. “I will return to my people and arrange a place for us to meet. Though I would suggest you take all care in choosing your champion. My own will not be easily beaten.”
“I have already chosen.” Hubbard straightened in his ashen seat. “Pink is ever at odds with green.”
The Small King frowned, bowed once more, and then vanished.
Hubbard the Hallowed grumbled his confusion. He had always thought that the Small King would be a giant. “Well,” he thought aloud, “at least I have a giant of my own.”
***
Orog sat on crossed legs, titanic shadow looming behind, before a crackling fire. The Small King sat opposite and seemed at peace in the orange warmth. Loffi crouched between the mismatched pair while a dozen goblins, each named Moonkin, screeched and scratched while they ran frantic circles around the modest cavern.
“This seems—” Orog frowned, searching for words.
“Makes us dead?” Loffi asked.
“Fraught with needless risk.”
The Small King’s green lips drew up over protruding fangs. “Was it not you who asked me to find a peaceful resolution?” he asked. “Does this not allow the kobolds to leave in relative peace when the war is concluded?”
“You saw the remnants of Zelerath’s court,” Orog replied. “They were shredded, ripped to pieces. If Hubbard attends then he will only attempt to consume us all in a senseless explosion.” He sighed. “For what other reason would he attend? Does he truly expect that a kobold is going to best a fighting goblin?”
“I expect he intends to use a giant mole,” Agrak answered. “As to the risk of fire, we’ll simply choose a place that divides the spectators. If the need arises, I can shield us readily enough with magic.”
“At risk of you yourself exploding,” Orog rumbled.
Agrak dismissed the warning with laughter. “My soul isn’t quite that unstable.” He smirked. “Besides, I speak only of solutions to unlikely problems. Hubbard grabbed at the idea, and thus he must think he can win.”
“Or he is as mad as they say he is.”
“Perhaps.” Agrak shrugged. “I think the likelier truth is that sacrifice by fire becomes less and less romantic as the flames grow ever closer. He sat high up, but I could see plainly that he feared death. Or at the least a fear of failure. What man, goblin, or rat would want to live as a god only to die as a screaming mortal? It is easy to surrender when you have nothing. Less so when all things are now yours.”
Loffi snorted snot into the flames. “Which of us will fight, Small Agrak?”
“I will, Loffi,” Orog answered. “Orog fights.”
“That isn’t strictly true,” Agrak said. “I don’t want to have you walk out to have your skull blown away by a crude cannon. I have spoken with Izzig, and he has one of those beetle goblin monstrosities fit for purpose.”
Orog’s flat features twisted. “That does not sit well with me.”
“You could try standing,” Loffi suggested.
“What part?” Agrak asked. “That you won’t get to fight, or that Izzig has created them in the first place.”
“It is one thing,” Orog’s rumbling voice was even lower, “to breed monstrosities for… for sake of some odd gain. And perhaps another to use them to spare the lives of ordinary goblins. But to put them in place as your heralds and champions.” He shook his large head. “That is a mark of disrespect towards your actual people.”
“I have no wish to argue over trivialities,” said Agrak. “If I have to disrespect you to protect you, then that is exactly what I will do. In the very same way that you would not have Loffi fight in a duel on your behalf.”
Loffi met the words with a slight shrug. “I will fight.”
Orog scowled. “I would not have any goblin fight on my behalf. Nor would I ever have need to.”
“I could make the same claim,” Agrak replied. “Yet immortality takes the fun, and fairness, out of winning.”
Orog’s frown deepened. “None of this changes the fact that Izzig means to twist us and defile us towards enormous proportions. Or to create creatures with monstrous appendages that no goblin should ever possess.”
“He does that at my request,” said Agrak. “Do not disparage him for his loyalty.”
“Why would you ask that of him?” Orog demanded. “You could have him breed ordinary goblins that can be trained—”
“I will,” Agrak insisted, sighing deeply. “This is beyond your understanding, my friend. If you want a simple answer then I am trying to understand whether goblins or the spawning pools came first. I am trying to discern how Dalpho was born to the proportions and likeness of sea creatures when he was born nowhere near the ocean.”
“The pools came first,” Loffi mentioned.
“What makes you think that?” Agrak asked.
“It smells like blue magic. And that is the bluest, oldest magic of all.” Loffi’s orbish amber eyes danced with firelight. “Though not so old as the man in the robe that smelled like gold.”
Orog chuckled. “I did not know you could smell such things, Loffi.”
“Of course.” Loffi’s ears twitched. “We all can… can’t we?”
“What do I smell of?” Agrak asked.
Loffi shrugged. “The earth, sweat, stone, old meat, old blood. Green and purple, and a mix of red and gold that keeps you together. Like Orog, only better and stronger. Orog’s is more like the Fire Giant. Yours is better than that but not so good as the man in the robe. He is all gold, stained by purple. No red at all.”
Orog and Agrak exchanged worried glances.
“What else do you know of the robed man?” Agrak asked.
“I don’t,” Loffi replied. “But Dalpho told Lazarus that he was the Old Enemy and Small King both.”
“You speak of a man named Lucius Chance,” Orog informed. “He is in truth the Old Enemy.”
“This blue magic,” Agrak said, “have you smelled it anywhere else?”
“No, yes, no.” Loffi scrutinised the flames. “Yes… no. It’s hard to think with all the gold. That’s why Moonkin has to run away and screech.”
Agrak’s eyes narrowed on the manic encirclement of goblins. “They’ll all running and screeching.”
“To stop the other colour,” Loffi agreed. “One or two follow the rest.”
Orog straightened. “So we’re being watched?”
The Small King tapped his claws together and all of the scrawny goblins slowed to a stop, save for one that kept on running and screaming, paying no notice at all to his kin. “How entirely unsettling,” said Agrak with a piping laugh. “I managed not to notice the scrutiny of a dozen prying eyes.”
The goblins named Moonkin sighed relief and started taking seats on the floor.
“What of the last?” Orog asked.
Loffi grinned, leaping to his feet, and screeched.