9. Named
“The Young Wolf. One Swing. Blackheart. And, of course, Isleif the Bard.
These are the names given to us by the Great Chiefs. Though my own was earned back during The Midderlands Wars. It may be true all goblins have names of sorts, but the ones earned in battle, through victories and deeds, are honorific titles of sorts.
With them comes respect, and also a form of protection. Because goblins of no renown of their own do not dare to slay us. For fear that they would die or, if they managed to succeed, that a Great Chief would kill them for the act.
The advent of this has led to a new kind of warfare. Ritualistic duels between named goblins and named men. It is helping to turn the tide. Though I fear that there are some goblins that neither of us could overcome alone.
The battle last we crossed paths with the Great Chief Ragadin. By Joyto’s Luck, did we prevail against him long enough for our men to battle back his clan and force his retreat.
Yet now Brolli has convinced himself he can beat Ragadin in a duel. And further believes that it is the key to ending this entire war. Gudmund has forbade him from making the challenge.”
A horn sounded, low and long, from the wrong side of the battlefield.
Ragadin winced.
Dozens of birds alighted into the clear sky. Goblins had horns of their own, made from the bones of their kin, and the clans under his command were quick to answer.
A cacophony of high piping erupted on all sides, leaping into the air, towards the now halting caravan, and down into the forested floor of Snake Basin.
Horvorr’s Guard looked to the largest manling among them, his hair the colour of fire, and then another, a grizzled warrior with one arm, began shouting commands. Reins were freed, beasts ushered forward, laden wagons pushed over for makeshift walls.
Ragadin’s kin had already crept from trees and onto the pristine snow. They looked back in hesitation. “Charge!”
The earth shook, white crystals melting into brown sludge, as dozens of green figures—clawed fingers twitching, bony limbs swinging—poured forward in a screeching, gurgling wave. Those with horns sounded them. Those with rocks readied them.
Ragadin considered racing with them, but he saw plainly that the battle was won as the field of snow was churned entirely by the gathered clans. Horvorr’s Guard, struggling to wheel a caravan around to seal their flank, appeared sturdy but all the more insignificant. The old manlings along the rest of their line locked shields and prepared themselves.
The clans hurled stones before they closed with the wall of wood and iron and flesh. The song of madness erupted as green figures then hurled themselves into swords, axes, and shields, screeching as they reached with teeth and claws for the neck, ears, eyes, and chest. Broken bodies tumbled back. Blades flashed before they sank deep and erupted from severed limbs. Scores died within moments, others staggering back and screaming, while only a few of the fur-clad fighters had fallen.
Ragadin sighed, both relieved and disappointed, now the wagon meant to seal off the end of the caravan was sent over the cliff’s edge by a pair of panicked beasts instead.
A lithe manling, having nearly been thrown clean over, had managed to jump atop the bed, and now made best effort to leap before the wagon flipped. He cleared the distance and landed on solid ground, only to find himself amid the porcine clans of Balluk.
He fell atop one goblin before dozens of kin leapt at them both.
Moments later a severed arm was lifted from the air, ring flashing on the finger.
Then Balluk’s clan spilled forth to the manling’s exposed flank.
Dalpho, standing amid the soiled snow, simply ordered his goblins to usher a troll, by spear point, towards the covered wagon at the head of the caravan. This was were the Young Wolf’s pups would be hiding, and their lives would pay to open the gates of Horvorr. His clans had barely fought, and did not even bother to encircle the wagon.
They would wait, and hope, for the wax monster to win their honor for them.
Ragadin had hoped this would all be harder. He had hoped for a contest. He contented himself instead by watching the one-armed manling stood frozen in horror. The bearded warrior seemed fixated on the flashing ring. Ragadin dismissed the thought as countless green figures charged forth to engulf the rest of the manling caravan.
***
Grettir recognised Agnar’s ring on the severed arm being waved aloft and any hope he’d held died in his heart. His ears rang with screams. Goblins gnawed and tore at men apart as if they were carrion-born. For one long breath, he felt grief and panic, and then all those awful sounds were used as fuel for cold fires in Grettir’s moss green eyes.
Engulfed by a tumultuous silence of unbridled rage, he tightly gripped his axe.
A goblin runt ran forward, thrusting with a filthy spear.
Grettir sidestepped, cleaving through the goblin’s head. He spun to the right, swinging his axe through the throat of a goblin that meant to cut in at his armless side. He rounded back to the left, driving his boot into the belly of a fatter goblin, hurling his axe at another that had been about to throw a stone.
A large goblin, block-headed and well-muscled, bellowed ahead. The smaller kin came furtively in from the sides.
Grettir ran past the smaller goblins, twisting clear of a large axe. He smashed his head into the large goblin’s own, pinning it by the shoulder, tearing out its throat with his teeth. He drove his head into the goblin’s nose and stole the axe as it staggered back.
Holding the crude weapon in a one-handed grip, he faced the encircling goblins.
A mad man did he seem in that noonday light. Hirsute face and wild beard stained black, glistening with goblin blood.
“One Swing!” a goblin shrieked in awe and terror. “The One Swing!”
Grettir, berserk and enraged, paid no mind to his echoing name. He began a rampage, carving through goblins now they scrambled over one another in manic efforts at escape.
***
Ragadin grew perturbed as his kin were hacked apart, cowed, by a single warrior. Others joined the one-armed manling’s cause and soon Balluk’s clans were trampling one another in their efforts at escape, dozens thrown from the path and into Snake Basin.
“Turn back!” Balluk snarled in the distance. “Turn back or I will kill you all!”
Ragadin stepped out of the shadows. He now knew the manling. Grown old, ugly and hairy. Grown grey. One arm stubbed like a felled tree. Yet he was still the same. “One Swing.”
Ragadin would slay this hero of old. He would prove his own worth. “Forward! Ever forward!” he demanded, but his clans did not answer. Instead they too fell back, screeching and scampering as they trampled their kin.
“For Brikorhaan!” a manling boomed like thunder. “For the Shield Brother!”
Ragadin watched with dismay while half of his clans fled from only a dozen wounded manlings while the others stood dumbfounded, soon hacked to pieces, or charged forward only to be slaughtered. He glanced over to the snarling monstrosity that was Balluk and watched the giant goblin tear his own kin to pieces while cursing their cowardice.
Yet he was the coward.
Ragadin lifted the pair of massive axes from his back, ancient and grey, each made to be used by both hands. They were of the finest make he had ever found and he only valued his honor above them. “Gone are the days when I lived for this,” he mused. “I am sickened by all around me. In the company of warm corpses. Give me an honourable fight. Prove that my life still has worth.”
He surged forward towards the young warrior, huge for a manling, who had shouted out and first blown the horn.
“I challenge you, Fire Giant!” he declared, barely heard above the senseless din.
Fire Giant had an ally beside him but that grey manling stood frozen in recognition.
He remembered the Great Chief.
Ragadin leapt, axes high, meaning to hew through both manlings.
Fire Giant was ready but shoved his ally aside, sparing the grey manling at the cost of killing himself. He avoided the axes but such was the impact that he staggered.
Ragadin stepped forward, tripping him, and the warrior landed hard on his back.
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He appeared as a fallen child before the Great Chief.
Ragadin stomped down, meaning to crush the warrior’s skull and bring a swift end to things, only to find his foot stopped by crossed elbows. Fire lanced across his hip.
The Great Chief wheeled around with both axes to see the grey manling with his sword and shield readied. The first strike sent the manling spinning in a cloud of shattered wood, leaving back and spine exposed for the second.
Ragadin’s small glee in what would’ve been a simple kill turned to horror when weight shifted beneath him. Agony surged up his heel.
The Great Chief staggered, trying to steady himself despite the dagger in his foot.
The old manling leapt forward, sword raised, and hacked deep into one shoulder.
Ragadin used teeth to tear through his lower jaw and throat.
Fire Giant had risen. More manlings approached.
The Great Chief glimpsed the twisted visages of fearful kin.
Ragadin tried to hop back, only to find another manling that then thrust with a spear. Metal pierced flesh, driving him sideways, but he managed to grasp with his wounded arm, enclosing the throat and crushing bones. Ragadin then hurled the dying manling at his allies, only to wince as wounded shoulder muscles fully tore.
The Great Chief, one arm useless, struggled to pull the spear shaft from his chest. Wood snapped. Black blood gushed onto the churned snow.
Ragadin tried to lash out at the nearest attacker, but crumpled to his knees. He scowled at the manlings coming to surround him.
Fire Giant’s eyes were pale and uncaring. He stood readying a throwing axe.
“You are weak!” Ragadin declared. “Unworthy of ending my name. You did not win. You will kill me, but you will never beat me. I had you, Fire Giant.”
“Had me?” the huge manling boomed. “Do you mistake this for a game?”
“This is my life!” Ragadin spat blood and shuddered. “This is all that I am.”
Fire Giant’s weight shifted in answer. “It was.”
***
The axe struck bone with a vicious crunch.
Hjorvarth struggled to steady his breath at the sight of mutilated men all around him. He took no joy from the ruined goblins sprawled amid the mud and snow. Dozens of their kind watched in silence, edging away, as if waiting for their leader to rise.
Ten men of Horvorr’s Guard gathered back together near the huge man and the gargantuan corpse.
“Ragadin?” came a confused whisper from amongst the wiry goblins.
“Ragadin,” came a louder echo.
“Ragadin! Slayer of Ragadin! Only woe comes from facing the Slayer of Ragadin!”
“Only woe!” another agreed in a fearful whine.
The filthy goblins bowed their heads with solemnity, before scrambling into retreat.
“What now?” asked a man plainly suffering exhaustion.
Hjorvarth noticed the others were looking to him. He saw no sense in pursuing the goblins that ran back towards the tree line, while joining Grettir and the other blood-covered men to the east seemed needless, as they were slaughtering foes well enough on their own. Those at the head of the caravan though, where goblins writhed around a troll, had been surrounded. “This way,” he suggested in a calm tone. “We’ll save the others or else die in the attempt.”
“That’s mad,” the lean man beside him hissed. “Lady’s Shadow for us all. Don’t you get that, you big fool? We ought to run. By the gods, I think we’d have a better chance if we tried to climb down into the Snake Basin.”
“I’m certain of little,” Hjorvarth replied. “But this is likely your last battle—both of ours—so you should fight as best as you can. Brikorhaan does not take fools or cowards into his band.”
“That he doesn’t,” agreed an older man. “As long as you don’t get swallowed by that troll, we’ll all meet again in Ouro’s belly.”
***
Engli drove his axe into an ugly green head. The haft snapped and the scrawny body toppled back onto the wagon bed.
Shafts of sunlight lanced through through the covering above him. A warm wind scented with iron and refuse swept in through the ragged tear in the fabric to his right. Goblins clambered in through the gap, squeaking and jeering, teeth bared as they tried to make their way to the young woman in the corner.
Engli leapt forward and tackled one onto the cart. The goblin tried to bite but he forced its head back, smashing it against the wood until the skull cracked.
He dismissed his own disgust, and struggled up.
Engli started to run to Sybille’s aid but realised she had cut the throat of the goblin beneath her. Turning back, he glimpsed a savage smile.
A stone club struck his temple. The world shifted, faded to black, then returned in a blurred scene of daylight.
Engli pawed at the cart bed as warm blood ran down his brow. He could hear faint screaming beneath the ringing in his ears. He recognised a brown dress and a woman’s kicking legs. He tried to trip the goblin dragging her but it had already passed.
“Engli!” Sybille’s nails clawed into the wood. She grabbed for the cart’s sides but another goblin emerged to help drag her out.
Engli had managed to rise to one knee. He made a drunken effort at stumbling forward and leaping out of the cart. He fell to the path below in a tangle with both goblins, then rolled clear and reached for the stone club that had fallen from grasp, turning in time to bludgeon the goblin clambering atop him, sending up a spray of blood and fangs.
Engli rolled the corpse away, revealing a clear blue sky and a bright sun overhead.
A criss-cross of shadows then obscured his vision.
When the rope tightened, Engli realised he had been netted. He was pulled forward, his flesh scraping against debris now he made a desperate effort at struggling free.
Engli tried to turn but the net was too small, nearly doubling him over.
He could see Sybille find a weapon within the cart and leap down on an unsuspecting goblin, but she was far away, too far away to help, and the goblin that dragged Engli seemed to have boundless strength and energy.
The sight of the cart dwindled.
Engli tried to bite and scratch through the net, to no avail. He tried to throw his weight and drag his feet but the goblin dragging him did not even hesitate. Growing weak and desperate, he prayed for his friends and family instead, resigned to the fact that he would die. He only hoped that better men had managed to hold the line. He tried once more to strain the ropes, to slow himself, digging his bleeding fingers into the earth.
The goblin stopped, grunted, and ropes grew lax.
Solid footfalls approached.
Engli turned to see a huge, wild-eyed man looming over him. “Hjorvarth?”
“The battle is not ended.” Hjorvarth ripped through the net with his belt knife. “You need to rise.”
Engli grabbed the offered hand. He realised he was not nearly as far away from the carts as he thought.
Horvorr’s Guard had broken into three battered groups, two of which were further along the plain and heading towards the main cart, where Geirmund and ten other men fought against scores of goblins and a black wax troll.
Horns sounded out from the trees in a slower chorus and the westernmost goblins that were not fully committed began to break away into a unified retreat. Several of the fighters moved to aid Sybille even though goblins fled from her direction.
The black troll then grabbed Geirmund with both huge wax hands.
Lifting him high in the air, the troll’s rounded head, once featureless, split open to reveal a maw filled with teeth. The men around tried to hack through the malleable limbs, but molten liquid pooled wherever they struck and ate through wood and iron.
Geirmund’s sword smoked as he drove the blade over and over into the wax hands. But his arms were getting tired and acrid mix and steel and wax coated his fingers. He kicked out as his boots dangled mere inches from the troll’s mouth.
Engli ran forward, close enough to hear but not close enough to help now the screaming started. The troll’s teeth crunched noisily together, tearing through feet and ankles, paying little mind to the ruined weapons that hacked in from all sides.
Hjorvarth came in behind the creature, his hands now gripped on one of Ragadin’s huge axes. He wheeled around to cleave through a black wax foot in a single swing, upsetting the troll’s balance then did the same to the other.
Molten wax pooled out at first, restoring the first leg, but began to trickle out too slowly to seal both wounds. The troll toppled towards the stub limb, fresh black wax hardening to dull grey, and then remained there unmoving and frozen.
Engli had stopped his charge, stayed by the sight before him.
Geirmund appeared terrified even in death, hands reaching in desperation, mouth wide as if he had almost crawled out of the creature and now screamed for help.
“There’s Lady’s work in this,” a tall man muttered.
“Lady’s work?” Hjorvarth asked coldly. “It is a fate woven by your own fair hands.”
The tall man suffered shock for a moment, then outrage. “Say that again?”
“The words hang in the air as eternal truth.” Hjorvarth glared at a rotund balding man. “As it does for you.” He turned his hateful gaze on well-built youth. “And you. The three of you ran to play handmaiden for Sybille when she was at no risk at all. So by the gods,” he added with venom, “don’t dare speak of Lady’s work in my hearing when this is the plain failure of three gods-damned cowards.”
Engli looked among the survivors of Horvorr’s Guard for Grettir. He waited for reply to come from a man that wasn’t accuser or accused, but they all watched in grim silence, their expressions made no better by the dark blood that stained their weathered faces.
The tall man scowled, tightening his grip on an axe. “You are mistaken, Hjorvarth. But I’ll forgive your ignorance.”
Engli had never seen Hjorvarth so animated. He had never a seen a look of such pure disgust. “You have but a moment to withdraw that lie,” Hjorvarth replied, his voice steady even as his pale gaze trembled with rage.
“I won’t take the blame for your sake,” the tall man dismissed. “You were the one running off across the plain.”
“To save a man that you allowed to be netted and dragged away. I watched you as you watched it happen.” Hjorvarth dropped the massive axe. He shook his head in disgust. “In sight of the gods, in honor of Broknar the Elder and Brikorhaan the Shield Brother, I challenge you to a duel so we can measure your honor and divine the truth.”
“Did you get hit on the head?” The tall man scowled, stepping back. “Have you gone completely mad? Was it not enough that you murdered the son of Jarl Thrand?” He looked to the fur-clad fighters that encircled him. “Is no one going to stop this?”
“I wonder if Geirmund thought the very same thing.” Hjorvarth gripped the man’s swinging wrist. “The gods are watching, friend.” He shoved the man back, suffered a kick to the knee, then felled him in a single punch. “They watched you fall.”
Engli saw momentary relief among the others as the fight went no further. Hjorvarth then turned to the balding man. “In sight of the gods—”
“Stop!” he pleaded. “The lass was in trouble. It wasn’t—”
“In sight of the gods!” Hjorvarth repeated. “In honor of Broknar the Elder and Brikorhaan the Shield Brother! I challenge you to a duel so that we can measure your honor and divine the truth!”
Sybille sat with her back to the cart, watching with muted concern while a huge brute strode forward to beat his peers. She had the thought that her uncle should be stopping this, not knowing that he was desperately searching for the body of her other brother.