Not since the Dark Ages—or, as the humans call it, the Age of Heroes—has such a goblin host been assembled.
The morning after the raid was a loud one. Chaos and celebration filled the forest as goblins divided the previous night's loot amongst themselves and indulged in their usual mischief. The assembled goblin was by far the largest the forests of Eberon had the displeasure of hosting in decades. Goblins, by nature, are nomadic and disorganised, roaming clans that did their best not to cooperate with one another. To lead a goblin army a strong hand was required, someone who could harness their chaotic energy and apply it for more useful purposes.
In ancient times, goblins were even known to crown kings amongst their own kind, though such occurrences have long since been buried in the sands of time. In recent memory, goblin armies have typically been led by leaders of non-goblin descent, most notably, Dark Lords who have always relied on goblin hordes as a staple to any army of darkness. The leaders of goblin armies in recent memory were usually not of goblin descent, Dark Lords throughout the years have made it a habit to amass goblins for their armies. Goblins have also been found to be led by greater green-skins such as orcs and ogres. Not since the Dark Ages, or, as the humans call it, the Age of Heroes, has such a goblin host been assembled to attack a human settlement.
Zal’Rodal’s army now numbered several hundred goblins as those unsure of this upstart leader joined his rank during the night. He divided the spoils of battle evenly into six parts: one-sixth for each of the five goblin clans that had joined him, and one for himself. The time in which the goblins would personally hand over their loot to him and be content with mere service had not yet come, and keeping the goblins happy was a priority. Content goblins were cooperative goblins, or at least less likely to stab each other over a rat carcass.
Pushing aside the tent flaps, Zal’Rodal stepped into the camp, and the chatter of goblins hushed for a brief moment. Their new leader was a sight to behold: taller and stronger than any goblin, wielding a weapon that spoke of strength and authority. Goblins were inherently sceptical, even of their own kind, but they respected power, treasure, and the ability to deliver both. Zal’Rodal, for now, embodied these traits.
Inside the hastily erected command tent, the Dark Lord surveyed his surroundings. The structure was a shoddy thing of old leather and stolen cloth. While not approaching anything that could be construed as grandeur, it still made it clear to the goblins sleeping on the forest who was in charge. He dressed himself in simple clothing stolen from the village, a white tunic and brown breeches that were hidden under his tattered cloak. Though the clothes were hardly intimidating they were practical and provided some amount of comfort.
Pushing aside the tent flaps, Zal’Rodal stepped into the camp, and the chatter of goblins hushed for a brief moment. It was clear to the goblins that they had a new leader, a leader who was taller and stronger than any goblin. Goblins are inherently sceptical, even of their own kind, but they had an open spot in their hearts and minds for someone who provided shiny things to them. And Zal’Rodal had brought these goblins more treasure in a single night than several months of ambushes and thievery.
He approached the central campfire, where goblins immediately scurried out of his way, leaving the prime seat by the fire vacant for their master. The smell of roasting meat greeted him—proper food, stolen cattle from the raid. He grabbed a chunk and bit into it thoughtfully, already planning his next move. Guglak soon appeared, his lanky frame juggling a flagon and a drinking horn.
“Master, Master,” Guglak croaked, presenting the horn with exaggerated care. “Not goblin dlud but humanz ale!”
He approached the central campfire, and the goblins immediately scurried out of his way, leaving the seat by the fire to their new master. The smell of proper meat roasting on the fire was something he could get used to. There was no rat or squirrel on a stick in sight, instead, the goblins were roasting a cow they had herded away during the raid. He grabbed himself a portion of the roast and pondered his next move. Guglak approached soon after, he was juggling a large flagon and a drinking horn between his arms.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Master, Master,” Guglak croaked, presenting the horn with exaggerated care. “Not goblin dlud but humanz ale!” He began pouring a glass of golden ale.
Zal’Rodal raised an eyebrow at the offering. Goblins did not appreciate the fine art of drinking, which mostly meant they drank their own vile concoction they called dlud instead of anything decent. He was still unsure what exactly made dlud, dlud. All he knew was that he didn’t want to find out. This ale, on the other hand, was a welcome improvement. Taking a cautious sip, he found it surprisingly good. He drained the horn and extended it for more. Guglak grinned, eager to please.
While enjoying his drink he continued his pondering. Raiding and looting small villages in the night was all well and good but before trying anything larger he needed a base of operations. Something better than an improvised tent in the middle of a forest. He needed a fortified position to hide his loot from anyone who would come after it. His thoughts turned to an abandoned castle at the northern edge of the forest, nestled against the mountains. It was isolated, surrounded by forest and a perfect place to hide.
Before the day was over Zal’Rodal had convened with the goblin leaders and convinced them of the shiny benefits of continued cooperation. The dissent within the group was currently rather low, food and treasure seemed to remove the need to stab one another for the most part. Four of the five tribes decided to follow Zal’Rodal to the castle, the fifth, the Green Talon Tribe, however, chose to remain in the forest they had always called their home. The Dark Lord permitted this under the condition that they handed over a portion of their earnings to him and joined him in battle if called upon. He knew the castle wasn’t too large and reducing the number of goblins trashing his new base didn’t seem like such a terrible idea.
The mountain range was commonly referred to as the peaks of Dornon, named after the dragon that once inhabited the area. The dragon’s disappearance remained a mystery to this day, the most common theory was that it simply starved after a rockslide sealed its lair, others believed it left merely in search of a new home, while the most foolish claimed that one of their ancestors had slain the great beast. If anyone had actually killed a dragon they would be known as a hero of incredible renown and would not be delegated to being some forgotten ancestor. Today the only evidence of Dornon ever residing in these parts was the flattened peak at the highest summit, destroyed in one of the dragon’s many rampages.
The trees started growing scarce in the distance revealing a clear path out of the forest. He hastened his step, eager to be out of the woods. Guglak rushed after him, his small stumpy legs struggling with the fallen trees and heavy shrubbery. The goblins that had been directly behind him also attempted to follow the heightened pace set by their leader. They dropped whatever they were carrying to keep up. Leaving it to other goblins to pick up their loot, sure in the knowledge that they could beat up anyone who wouldn’t return their stuff. For the most part, goblins enjoyed forests, not for their idyllic natural calmness but rather because they provided an ideal place for ambushes and hiding places. Goblins, however, were not particularly fond of walking through a forest especially not for long amounts of time, in fact, goblins hated doing anything for any amount of time, except for eating, killing, and looting of course.
With the sun setting behind his back Zal’Rodal finally set his eyes on the old castle, his horde of goblins trailing behind him through the thicket. It was not the imposing fortress of his dreams, in fact, it did not come close to his old citadel that he lost in the Dark Ages. The walls were crumbling, with gaping holes revealing the courtyard they were supposed to guard. The gatehouse lacked its most important aspect, a gate, and its roof was completely rotten away and had broken into itself. It was more a ruin than a refuge, but it still beat a tent in the woods.
A Dark Lord knew that there was no shame in starting off small. Many famous Dark Lords had started with less than he had now. On second thought, these Dark Lords had all died, so perhaps he should not follow their lead. His rise to power was going along better than he expected especially after the fireball incident. One goblin had turned into hundreds, and a dirty old cave had become a dirty old castle. According to his calculations, if he progressed at the same pace he should soon rule these lands. These grand thoughts were quickly shaken from his mind as a section of the wall crumbled into dust before his eyes. “This will take some work…”