53. Moonlight

“Though the moon holds more significance to goblins than men, rumours abound that it is linked to the practice of magic. In my own experience, the results are the same regardless of lunar cycle, but then I only ever managed cheap tricks.

Lucius believed that teaching me any more than that was too much of a risk, not to the wider world, or to him, but to me. He thought that each act of magic made a man’s soul more volatile. He was fearful of using his own gifts.”

The great fur cloak of Braguk Moonbear lay draped across a copse of small trees.

Braguk himself sat with his knees up and his eyes closed. He bathed in the silvery water of a large pond, which seemed only a deep puddle lapping at the huge legs of the prodigious goblin. He appeared not at all like the mysterious shaman wreathed beneath the cloak. He was an ugly thing, with monstrous limbs and a hunched back, with a long lopsided face and a great hooked nose. He could never fully press his uneven lips together, so he permanently bared six grimy fangs. The moon hung heavy and bright in a starless sky, shining down on Braguk Moonbear, shading his waxy skin a slate grey, so that he bore likeness to a gargoyle sized for the world.

“Braguk,” Lazoor’s sibilant voice came as a whisper on a windless night.

“Come to kill me?” Braguk grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

Lazoor laughed softly. “I come to kill… others. Does the Moon not tell you that the manlings have left their town of walls and wood and mud? That Ragalak and Ragrak are dead. That Krakann Bonesipper is dead. That we are to join them, should we not act when our enemies are only a short walk away.”

“I know.”

“Then we should act!” Lazoor hissed. “Kill them now while they sleep!”

“And how many snaps, traps, and screams will it take before they wake? They have made the forest our enemy.”

“The enemy of our lessers. But should you and I go forth alone… shrouded, silent.”

Braguk opened his green eyes to the lithe figure of Lazoor. Tiny before him. “Then you could stab me in the back? Eat me to pieces where none would ever find me?”

Lazoor bared his shining maw in a smile. “I am no match for Braguk, not when the Moon is full. I simply wish to help our leaders. I simply wish to help Grugg, Trugg, and Brugg. For it is them that deserve to lead… is it not?”

Braguk’s sigh rumbled through the shadowed forest. He lumbered up from the pond, water cascading from his moonlit skin. “They lead because I allow them to the lead. Because they are too greedy to follow.”

Lazoor slunk back into the shadows, waiting for the prodigious goblin to garb himself in the great fur cloak. “Well?”

“We will see what we can find,” Braguk grumbled, hoisting his huge staff. “See who we can kill.”

***

Engli and Gunnar were the last men awake at their fire. They had built it at the very middle of the road, so tents, trees and bushes surrounded them, as did the wary folk of Fenkirk and the gathered hunters of The Blackwood.

Engli wore his floral-wrought armour, which had itched and stank for so long that he no longer noticed it. Gunnar had washed his fur clothes, but they were still stained and smelled faintly sour, so he appeared all black, save for his tired, roguish face. They both sat facing each other across the dying flames. Their eyes were glazed, lambent with the fire. Mirth echoed in the distance, and every now and then an enthusiastic moan would sound out through the darkness.

Gunnar laughed at nothing. Engli yawned for a long time.

They had sat in those seats for most the night, with Ingrid and Ragi. Sam had come, so had the Trapper. Abbi had come with him, and the two old men kept company like brothers. Dozens of others passed by, sitting for a while, offering drink or food, or kind words, or bold boast, or jovial jest.

Skorri and Ottar had come with four young women and, despite offering to leave two behind, had gone with them all.

Ingrid and Ragi had left together, after they had grown tired of joking of their mutual lust and simply acted on it.

“I really didn’t think…” Gunnar chuckled, and yawned. “I didn’t think you could do it. Any of it. And now you’ve got hundreds of men ready to go to war for you. How does that happen?”

“Honestly?” Engli paused for a long while. He knocked against his ornate helmet. “I would have to put it down to the armour.”

Gunnar laughed more quietly.

“It’s no lie,” Engli said. “Folk look at me like I’m someone important because I’m wearing stolen armour.”

“Well—” Gunnar sniffed. “To be fair to them it is fanciful wrought.”

A scream sounded in the distance, too quietly for either man to pay heed. The woman who made it was crushed under the weight of Braguk Moonbear’s staff; the man she was with got snatched up by Lazoor before he could reach his sword.

Gunnar shivered, pushing up from the ground. He rolled his neck and licked his lips.

“Something wrong?” Engli asked.

Gunnar swallowed, and cringed. “There’s a taste in my mouth… like blood, or fear. It’s odd.” He scowled into the shadowed forest. “Do you hear anything?”

“A few people having sex, some other folk snoring…? It’s a windless night… if there was anything wrong we would have heard.”

Gunnar nodded his assent, yet still prowled around the dying fire. He glanced up at the night sky, and stopped dead. Gunnar stepped back until twisting branches no longer obscured vision of the luminous moon. “It’s full… the Moon.”

“It is,” Engli agreed. “Does that matter?”

Gunnar stared in severity. “Do you know who Gahr’rul is?”

“He led the goblins—”

“He was the Great Chief of Horvorr,” Gunnar spoke in frustration, “who swore loyalty to the Small King. He didn’t lead any more than ten score goblins before Gudmund came here—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I think that his shaman, Braguk Moonbear, is here.” He spat on the dirt road. “I can taste his magic.”

Engli eyed him skeptically. “You can taste his magic?”

“There’s something wrong with my blood.” Gunnar upturned his palms. “It’s to do with whatever deal the original Jorund made, and I’m telling you that there is someone, or something, nearby using dark magic.”

***

Braguk Moonbear loomed over a hide tent, listening to the soft snores of those resting within. He raised his huge staff, then held it aloft.

“What is it?” Lazoor hissed. “Crush them.”

“The Trapper is after us,” Braguk grumbled, bringing his staff down with a solid thump. “It is time to leave.”

“For an old man?” Lazoor laughed softly from the darkness. “He has chased us for many years. Better we bring him an end that he deserves, than let him fade to old age.”

Braguk Moonbear leaned heavily on his staff. “There are more. One of Jorund’s blood. And another that bares the taint of the Old Enemy.”

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Lazoor slunk forward to the crumpled tent, slicing open the hides, and dragged out a crushed man from within. “I will spill Jorund’s blood if it comes to that. As to the third, well, the taint often brings bad luck.”

Braguk snatched up a body, and looked skyward. He dangled it into his hood, and crunched. “There is more. The One-eyed God has broken too many of his own rules. Joyto’s Luck was plainly written among the stars. There are too many hands in this war, and too many hands in this night.”

“If we leave now,” Lazoor hissed, “then there will be too many men in the coming battle. Why risk our clans being broken on the battlefield when we can eat these in their sleep? At the least, let us take a few more. I am not even full.”

“Then you are greedy,” Braguk growled. He peered out from his great fur hood, green eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Fine. I will kill more. But should our enemies come upon us, do not think that I will risk my life to save yours.”

Lazoor bared his sharp teeth. “I would have it no other way.”

***

“This feels a little mad,” Engli whispered.

Gunnar led the way into the night forest, his two daggers shining in the moonlight. “I can feel him. You should be ready to fight… only Dalpho is known to be bigger than Braguk Moonbear.”

Engli side-stepped a branch that snapped back. “Then shouldn’t we call an alarm?”

“No,” Gunnar warned. “Braguk must be leading this clan, in spirit if not in name. If we can kill him now, we can win the whole war.”

Gunnar twisted his body to fit between two thorny bushes. He murmured in surprise then heard other men arguing in whisper.

Engli freed his axe as he hurried forward. “What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down,” the Trapper hissed. He kissed his bone-carved Laykia idol, then studied black-clad Gunnar. “You felt it too?”

Gunnar nodded. “It’s—”

“I know who it is.” The Trapper’s grey gaze spoke to old regrets. “I have been hunting the Moonbear my entire life.”

Abi strode out from behind a shadowed oak that seemed unnaturally smooth. He kept his arms under his feathered cloak. “I thought we were being quiet?”

The Trapper scowled at his brother, and raised a finger to his own lips.

“What’s going on?” a lean, black-haired man shouted from a distance.

Sam stepped back now four men rounded on him with weapons drawn, whispering that he be quiet. He had woke with the urge to come here, so only wore a thin nightshirt, but had the foresight to bring a thrusting spear all the same.

The Trapper rounded on Gunnar, and stared with old eyes that spoke to a lifetime’s hunger. “Which way?”

Gunnar glanced at the shadowed forest around him. He shook his head, and upturned his palms. “My urging ended here.”

“What about you, Sam?” the Trapper pitched his whisper for the distance.

Sam stood staring at the smooth oak. He raised his gaze to see orbish green eyes at either side of a huge hooked nose. “This isn’t a tree.”

“It used to be,” Braguk grumbled.

“Weapons!” the Trapper shouted. “Backs to—”

Lazoor clawed through the old man’s throat, using his own weight and momentum to hurl the Trapper into the darkness.

Sam had already begun a charge. He snarled, and drove his spear into a huge green foot. He ripped the weapon out as he got plucked up by prodigious shaman.

Gunnar and Engli stood back to back, trying to watch for a lithe creature that appeared no more tangible than a shadow. Lazoor ducked in, swept by, and slashed out, nicking and cutting at their toes, shoulders, and feet, laughing softly all the while. They answered with their own swings, but their blades met only night air.

Engli roared with frustration.

He hurled his axe at the fur-cloaked goblin with a tree-sized staff. The blade cleaved into Lazoor’s bony black shoulder, forcing the lithe goblin to stumble into physicality.

Lazoor turned to flee, but found himself ensnared in a feathered cloak. He tried to escape despite that, blocked by the lean frame of an old man. Long knifes flashed in the moonlight as Abbi stabbed and slashed, striking the goblin a dozen times before Lazoor managed to shred the cloak. Abbi forced himself to thrust and duck even as his own flesh got tore to ribbons in answer, not even sure if he was even harming the black goblin.

Gunnar closed the distance between where they had stood, wondering how the old man or the goblin had ever got so far so quick. He managed to drive a dagger into the black goblin’s back, then Lazoor spun on Gunnar with his claw leading.

Gunnar crashed back into the grass, bleeding and blind, knowing only that he was terribly hurt.

Sam had broken free of being grabbed by thrusting his spear into Braguk’s wrist.

He had swung off the shaft to get clear of a huge-handed clap, managing to stop his fall by slamming a dagger into a distended belly. Sam had then managed a lucky leap from his sliding handholds on green flesh, and now clung tightly instead to one of the bear hides that comprised Braguk Moonbear’s great cloak.

“Where are you?” Braguk grumbled, thumping his own chest with bony fists as he ran from the others. He grabbed a hold of his cloak, and shook.

Sam got thrown free and landed in a tree, grateful of the spiky leaves that softened his landing.

“Why is the Old Enemy here?” Braguk Moonbear’s hooded head obscured the moon, his great green eyes stared down at Sam. “What does he want? With you? With us? Give me answers, and I kill you here, manling. Keep to silence, and I will bring you with me for a short journey towards long suffering.”

Engli let out a war cry from a distance away. His floral-wrought armour glistened in the moonlight.

Braguk grumbled in anger and reached for the tainted man. Sam swung Hakon’s sword, hewing a third way through a bony finger. He shifted his weight, and the branches beneath him gave way. Sam descended the tree with a rustling of leaves and a painful snapping of wood.

“I challenge you!” Engli shouted.

“You would need a bigger clan and a bigger name, manling!” Braguk Moonbear chuckled down at the shining fool. “But I will gladly crush you after you witness your people broken and slaughtered.” He swept around with a flourish of his great fur cloak, and was gone without further sight or sound.

Engli slowed to a wary stride, genuinely glad that the gargantuan goblin denied him. He regretted leaving the others, and could only hope his call for help had been heard.

He took heart when he found Sam bruised and bleeding, still breathing.

***

Lazoor the Black screeched his anguish into the darkness. He had been beaten by a lucky throw and a feather cloak. He had been abandoned by that coward of a shaman. What good was it for a goblin to be so huge when all that resided within was a rat’s heart.

Lazoor sucked in breaths while he made his desperate flight across the shadowed floor, only fast enough to avoid the snap of traps that he triggered. It was luck alone that he had bled the colour of his skin, so those that saw him only saw Lazoor and not a wounded prize of meat, and flesh, and respect.

He would live. He was sure of that now. He had almost reached the cave he had chosen as his own. He would need to rest for a long while. But when he was healed Lazoor would take his revenge on the shaman. He would put an end to the name of Braguk Moonbear. For all the shaman’s talk of strength in the moonlight, he showed little more than speed in his flight.

He took one spear in the foot, and was running away like a newborn runt.

Lazoor hissed relief through his toothy maw. The rocky fissure that led into his cavern lay ahead. He would drink from his pool, and chew on his wolf carcass, then he would rest, and he would wake to see what had happened at Horvorr. Whether the peace of the two clans had lasted, or whether the Young Wolf was not so old as the goblins thought.

Perhaps he truly was the Old Wolf now, like the Trapper had been. Not even a slash, or attack to answer with when Lazoor came for him.

Nothing more than an order half-spoken. Lazoor laughed, thinking of all the years that the Trapper had tracked him and Braguk Moonbear, how dearly he had wanted his revenge. He thought on the terrified look in those old eyes before he ripped the Trapper away, and threw him off into the darkness.

Lazoor could not believe how much he had once feared the old manling, could not imagine how much time he would have saved by seeking the Trapper out to begin with instead of listening to the cautious words of the huge coward of a shaman.

He made his way into the fissure, rugged stone pressing into his lacerated flesh.

Lazoor the Black crept into his small and gloomy cavern, and sniffed for intruders. There was a slight smell beneath the stink of wolf guts, but he could not place it so paid it no mind. Any goblin that could fit through the fissure had not the wits or courage to attack. He staggered forward, his pain and weakness growing with his sense of safety.

Loffi clung to the moss of the roof, waiting with numbed determination for the black goblin to come to the wolf carcass. He had hung there a long while, but found the ache in his limbs no hard burden to bear. He had actually wondered if Izzig had shown him the right cave, but decided that Izzig was as good a goblin as any, so he should trust him. And now Loffi knew he was right to trust.

Lazoor hissed agony, and fell to his knees. He started to tear and bite at the wolf meat.

Loffi let go of the moss, twisting in the darkness, falling like silent death.

He readied hand claws and hind claws as he landed, burying them into black flesh. He clasped his hands around the goblin’s bony neck.

Lazoor staggered now pain burrowed into his back and his throat. He tried to throw whatever it was from his shoulders, but the claws dug deeper.

“Better that you’re dead,” Loffi whispered, scratching and scraping until all the wet bits gave way to bone. “Better that you’re dead.” He clung on while the black goblin writhed against the cavern floor. “Better that you’re dead.”