5. Unexpected

“During the time of the Elder Races, the rise of the humans was viewed as unlikely and as such unanticipated. Yet looking back it should have been all too obvious that a people who could reproduce at an exponential rate—limited perhaps by food and their own wars—would easily overtake the Dwarves and Elves despite any technological limitations.

In the same way, our people—given enough resources—would easily sweep aside every human kingdom. Though I wonder if the goblins would be so adept at salvaging and adopting what their extinct foes had left behind. Or whether they would simply trod upon the ashes oblivious to what once was.”

Atsurr strode away from the balcony, and closed the doors.

Jarl Thrand had turned in his seat at the octagonal table. He scowled at his most trusted guard. “You are aware that I had not meant that as a genuine request?”

“Yes,” Atsurr spoke in a careful voice. “Yet he had delivered his message and served no further use. It would not surprise me if the entirety of what he said was a lie. He fondled his knife the whole way here, and refused to offer his message despite threats and temporary imprisonment.”

“An assassin, then?” Thrand asked. “An assassin that soils himself. An assassin that you let enter my company with a weapon to hand.” The Jarl of Timilir shook his head. “You are unhinged, Atsurr. The Crooked Teeth have you jumping at the wind. If you do not rein your suspicions in, or at the very least temper them with sense, then I will find myself a guard who is not so easily rattled.”

Atsurr belatedly bowed his helmeted head. “I will consider your words, my Jarl.”

“Good.” Jarl Thrand turned back in his chair, eyeing his absent company. “Since the situation has raised itself, what news is there from Southwestern Tymir? And why was I not made aware of this development sooner?”

“I knew nothing of it until now.” Atsurr started to search the small room, then forced himself to stand still. “There has been no real news since the group led here by the man named Sam the Slayer, who we have been unable to find… though some suggest he has gone off to join the Golden Men. Those that journeyed with him gave reports of war with goblins… reports that you have already heard.” He took a breath. “It does not strike me as impossible that Chief Gudmund would be so foolish and arrogant as to declare himself a Jarl… but nor do I think him so witless that he would come here to flaunt his rash action.”

Jarl Thrand massaged his narrow chin with withered hands. “Perhaps the man is ready for his death?”

“Perhaps,” Atsurr echoed without conviction.

“He has lost his sons. He has lost his oldest friend. He has even lost his dear brother.”

Atsurr remained silent.

“Well?” Jarl Thrand asked. “I have no need of mutes.”

Atsurr’s armour rattled as he straightened. “You know my thoughts on this. I believe that Southwestern Tymir has suffered losses, but the idea that all those closest to Gudmund have died feels… unlikely. Untrue.”

“I would disagree. In all cases, save for Brolli. Murdered by his own foster son in a way that hides his body from sight.” Jarl Thrand shook his head. “This should have never happened. If Braguk—” He cut himself short, knowing that Atsurr, or any man, would not approve of his dealings with the monstrous goblin shaman. “Never mind. Onto—”

“My Jarl,” Atsurr interrupted in a thoughtful tone. “Did you say Braguk?”

Jarl Thrand kept his gaze towards the cluttered tabletop. “Yes… I suppose I did. Why?”

“We received a delivery… I kept it closed for fear that the true senders were of the Crooked Teeth.”

Jarl Thrand’s sunken eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“A large dwarven strongbox,” Atsurr explained. “It arrived outside the gates… marked with the name Braguk.” He stepped forward. “Would you like me to collect it?”

“Yes,” Jarl Thrand decided. “And bring the others back… Fati claims to have some talent at opening locks.”

“My Jarl.” Atsurr turned, bowed, then continued on down the white corridor.

Jarl Thrand sighed. He closed his eyes and kneaded his aged face.

He considered this a bad day. A bad week, even. A bad month. A bad year.

Perhaps, he decided, that time worsened all things and so there was never going to be a day better than the last. He knew for certain that this delivery was not what he expected. He had wanted the sons of Gudmund alive, pieces to trade, or to use, or simply to dismantle. At best they would arrive as pieces in earnest, while at worst this was some simplistic trinket meant to placate for failures.

Jarl Thrand could not afford another enemy at his door. He could hardly manage what he had already suffered. Braguk Moonbear should have ravaged Southwestern Tymir to establish a fear for the goblins that Tymirians had not known for winters.

Instead, Thrand had been gifted with the worst outcome. A crippled region that yielded no coin and no fear of goblins that he could leverage. Timilir’s walls were, would ever be, an ostentatious decoration. A city of stone seen as nothing more than an oppressive leech, sucking blood from regions that supported themselves.

“And yet they hail Vendrick,” he hissed inside his own mind, “because the buildings are made of wood, because the ground is warm earth and not cold stone. What good is Vendrick? A city of fools and braggarts. Exemplified by the Golden Men. By Godfrey Golden himself. Timilir had been here since the beginning. The beginning. And these young pups bark at me from all sides, crying foul, lamenting taxes that are owed. Taxes rightfully earned.”

Jarl Thrand laughed in derision and desperation. Timilir had become so isolated that the petty plots of Chief Gudmund might well be the end of it all. Jarl Alfgeir sat atop a pile of gold in Vendrick. Gold ripped from the mines of the Low Lands, sent with a smile by the Low King. Jarl Thrand worried that the would-be monarch had grown too bold. The Low King would soon lay claim to the southeastern region if not Timilir in entirety.

Thrand wondered for a moment what Jarl Alfgeir would do then, but decided that the coward would quickly bend his knee.

The Jarl of Timilir realised that his issue had been in his choice of allies. He had married his daughter to the son of Jarl Harrod. A man that proved less than a quarter of his father’s worth. A man that lost acres of ground by the day, despite all the coin spent in his efforts of defense. Even Gudmund of Horvorr had been a sounder investment.

Thrand had his friends in the High Lands, but they were too busy fighting among themselves or living in fear of the Low King. That left the Eastland Plains which was no better than the High Lands, only they were plagued by monsters and worse instead of flesh-and-blood men.

Jarl Thrand glanced up to see his counselors seated at the table, making a small effort to pay him little mind.

“My Jarl,” Atsurr spoke behind him. “Are you well?”

“I will be better,” Thrand answered, “when this strongbox is opened.”

Dragmall and Ekkill turned their attention to Fati. The skinny man scrutinised a large strongbox, wrought from black stone, worked with a multitude of brass mechanisms. The two dozen lines of brass could form hundreds of symbols or shapes on the strongbox’s face. The lock would release when arrayed in the correct pattern.

Fati scratched at his head, then started fiddling with the movable switches.

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“How long will this take?” Dragmall grumbled.

“Anywhere from a second to a season… but I—” Fati twisted a horizontal plate and a hollow clunk sounded from the strongbox. The lid released, sweetening the air with the fetid scent of decay. “Ah, see. I thought I’d seen this like before.” He frowned. “Does anyone else smell that?”

“Thank you, Fati.” Jarl Thrand hid his discomfit. “You are all free to leave. We will meet as normal tomorrow.”

Fati narrowed his eyes, his hands hovering by the barely open lid.

Atsurr’s armour rattled as he stepped forward. “Do you need to be escorted?”

“No.” Fati smirked. “Of course not.” He pushed back from the table. “I’ll see you all in the morning, friends.”

Ekkill followed his example and the two men left together, muttering among themselves.

“Dragmall?” Jarl Thrand asked, more concerned than annoyed. “Do the gods speak?”

The green-robed spiritualist rose slowly to his feet, his gaze never leaving the strongbox. He shook his hooded head, then hurried into the shadowed corridor.

“This bodes ill,” Atsurr muttered, standing over the strongbox. “Shall I open it?”

Jarl Thrand nodded his assent. He leaned forward in his seat now the armoured man lifted the lid.

Atsurr coughed, staggering back. “There’s Lady’s work in this.”

Jarl Thrand grimaced, but showed no hesitation. He walked over to inspect the grim contents. He did not recognize the man who appeared to have been crushed to better stuff him into the metal confines. Flesh had begun to rot, bundled together around broken bones, submerged in a mix of blood, feces and bile.

A prodigious eye had been placed amid the remains, lifeless black encircled by faded green.

Jarl Thrand saw his own withered face in the mired reflection and understood why Braguk Moonbear had not brought word.

***

Izzig’s laughter was tired and dry, rattling out of his wrinkled green neck. He sat cross legged on layered rugs, surrounded by sour smoke, his eyes closed.

He had cast his mind elsewhere, watching an old manling open a dwarven chest to find the giant, rotting eye of Braguk Moonbear. The old shaman now blinked his ferine eyes open, coughed, and scratched at his long nose.

He had always hated Braguk. Because he was a coward. But, more importantly, because he had never had any need to be one. In all the Moons Izzig had known, Braguk was the only goblin to be born with both potent magic and prodigious size. Before The Pool had birthed him, Izzig had not believed such a combination of traits was even possible. And, when he had been birthed, he had hoped he might be the best of them.

But the hugest shaman of all had proved the biggest disappointment. It was Mubrogg the Spirit Weaver, stocky and hunched, who had impressed Izzig in all respects. And, Braguk, along with that accursed Lazoor, had slaughtered him. He had taught all three of them. And in that sense, Izzig knew himself to be a disappointment as well.

Though back then he had used a different name, as he often had need to.

Other than The Small King, Izzig was the longest lived of their kind. And it was better for he, and for others, not to know that. The shaman suspected that their immortal monarch knew about his monikers and meddling, but he seemed not to care.

That was the way of immortals.

Even Izzig fell prey to bouts of intractable hopelessness. It was much easier for an old, lesser known, shaman to escape them though.

Izzig did not shoulder the weight of being a living god. Even if he had been an instrumental part of one or two failed attempts to form a just and venerable empire.

The old shaman’s thin lips curled up into a wry smile. The goblins had risen and fallen so many times, and it was always such a struggle to keep an empire from collapsing.

The humans on the other hand seemed to carry on despite whatever they suffered. While the goblins had in them an unstoppable desire to reproduce, to birth more and more from The Pool, the humans seemed to love to build. To take.

To keep rising and rising.

They did not need to rely on the singular will of The Small King.

Izzig grunted disagreeably to himself. He crossed out of the small chamber in which he seered, getting clear of the sour smoke, and crossed into a larger cavern full of a dozen deep, perfectly circular, pools of luminescent green.

They would’ve looked to most goblins no different, other than in their enormity, to other spawning pools, but these had been made channeled so that the acrid pool water could be safely drained once the birthing sacks had reached fruition.

In the old days, Izzig would use his hooked bone staff to haul each egg up from the water, taking care not to tear the protective lining, but the creatures he now made were far too large and unwieldy for any goblin, at least those still living, to consider lifting.

Those with gigantism, like Dalpho or Braguk, might have managed an attempt.

Izzig stepped over to the nearest pool, peering down through the murky green liquid to the enormous birthing sack below.

There were identical unborn goblins resting at the bottom of each of the other pools, and they would each grow to a size not dissimilar to the recently fallen Great Chiefs.

Izzig had been impressed by his own consistency when it came to sizing, but all his previous attempts had either never sparked to life, or, if they had, swiftly suffocated.

If this last batch failed, he would need to move on from mixing in giant beetles.

Izzig sighed, trudging over to the bone plate that held the pool’s water. With great effort, and using his bone staff as a level, he managed to prise it up enough for the acrid liquid to begin quietly draining.

Time passed him by as he pondered what he might try next, or whether to simply be satisfied with growing larger goblins and not forcing them into chitinous hybrids.

The level of the luminous pool beneath him slow dipped lower and lower, revealing the glistening fleshy sack which barely contained the huge dark figure growing within.

When the last vestiges of acidic liquid had finished draining, the ancient shaman stood staring at the enormous sack left sitting at the bottom of the perfectly circular hole. He knew this would end as the others had, but knew as well he couldn’t leave the hatchling much longer. Sighing, Izzig leaned forward with his staff and began to slice away at the fleshy webbing of the birthing sack, worrying he lacked the strength to cut through.

Revealing the chitinous red skin of a giant shoulder, the great weight of the hatchling then did the rest of the work as the goblin, hunched in on itself, unfurled and burst out from the sack, eventually collapsing in a sprawled mass amid the glistening earth.

Eyes closed, unmoving, the creature looked more like a bipedal giant beetle, with great mandibles, than a goblin. Izzig scowled down at the creature, willing it to shudder, or at least try to breathe, but it remained indelibly still.

The old shaman muttered indistinctly to himself, expecting disappointment but still greatly disappointed, and tried to summon the effort to drain the rest of the pools.

“Izzig.”

He turned, not having heard the lithe, bat-like, goblin approach. “Loffi.”

The goblin’s conical ears twisted as he cocked his head. “Oh. Big beetle.”

“Yes…”

His large ferine eyes were wide and confused as he studied the hatchling. “Sleeping…?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“It is time to leave.”

Izzig frowned. “I am not ready to leave.”

“So says Agrak,” explained Loffi. “King says. Do that.”

“For what reason?”

“War,” declared Loffi happily. “Need new caverns. Bigger. Better. Hunt the manlings.”

“Oh…” Izzig closed his eyes, and bit down on his own fangs. It had taken so long for these caverns to be made, along with all the pools, and there was no chance at all that his scrolls and reagants and etchings weren’t going to get destroyed by careless carriers. But, he supposed, at least he could start fresh at some other cavern. “I will need help.”

“Yes. Moonkins will help you carry. Izzig has many things.”

Izzig had been about to open his eyes, but he sighed instead. “Different help, Loffi. Your clan is… too boisterous. They will break of all my things, or merely forget them.”

“Hm.” Loffi cocked his head once more. “Izzig is friend. So I do this for Izzig.”

“Thank you, Loffi,” said Izzig, managing to smile. “Was there anything else…?”

“No,” said Loffi. “How is Izzig? You seem… not good.”

Izzig thought that, that was an odd question. Loffi had been an able talker, but it was rare for any goblin to inquire about how another goblin was feeling. Or to note it at all. He would’ve thought on it further, but then he heard a great, wolfing breath.

“Oh,” said Loffi with evident surprise. “Beetle was sleeping!”

Izzig did not turn right away, waiting for the breathing to give out as suddenly as it began, but then the cavern rumbled instead now the giant hybrid began to rise. “So it seems,” he said, looking up at the enormous goblin that soon towered over them both. The great chitinous head and mandibles nearly scraped the roof. “I will need many diggers,” Izzig then realized. “We must quickly widen the tunnels for our new friend.”