-The Birth of the New World-
-Book III-
Rise of the First Demon Queen
-Prelude-
He Who Strikes from the Green
Moving through the brush, spears aimed outward and waiting to strike. A warband of thirty-two Kobolds moves forward on silent footsteps; their hearts set and resolute, ready for battle against their hated foes. Wielding his spear and human made hatchet, He Who Strikes from the Green leads this warband forward from the front, his green fur and scarred body blending in perfectly with the surroundings as he scouts ahead.
Peeking out from the cover of the green, he finally finds their target and signals for the others to stop by mimicking the songs of the birds that are common in the area. Some move forward and peak through the brush, joining He Who Strikes as they observe their enemies. They are the powerful warriors of the tribe, veterans that have seen much bloodshed and have lived to tell the tale to their descendant’s pups. Friends of his father, the village chief.
Up ahead, living noisily and in filth, their enemies are milling around the remains of a broken-down human hut, making a mess and leaving their filth everywhere. Disgusting things those Goblins, every Kobold in the warband can smell them from where they wait, the urge to throw up building in the back of their throats as they grit their teeth.
Not wanting to spend any longer around the nasty little Goblins, He Who Strikes waves his hands and calls for everyone to spread out and surround the nest. Reaching for the holster on his back, he grabs a javelin and picks a target, watching as it wanders about the outside of the nest, stopping to scratch its ass and then smell its fingers.
His eye twitches as he watches it, wanting to gag and kill the vile thing as soon as possible. Thankfully, it does not take long for the call to finally come. Bird song comes from the sides, his allies ready and waiting for his signal.
With a loud piercing whistle, He Who Strikes stands up and hurls his javelin with everything he has. It quickly flies through the air and pierces the body of his target. He doesn’t stop to watch it fall and die, already drawing another javelin and picking a target as more come flying from the green. Several times, they fly, and several times, Goblins get speared and fall to their knees. From further back, by the nest, a Goblin lets out a loud ‘Greeka, Hakiiii!’ screeching with its nonsensical noises and flailing it limbs in a panic before someone finally puts a javelin though its throat, putting a stop to its noise.
From within the nest, more noise comes as Goblins come pouring out of the entrance of the hut, hollering as they swing their weapons about in a panic. With the last of the goblins that where outside lying dead and their javelins running low, He Who Strikes lets out a call and orders the charge. Drawing his spear and human made hatchet, he charges forward as he and thirty-one Kobolds come rushing out from the green, weapons held at the ready and war cries calling out.
Spears forward, the Kobolds meet the Goblins, batting away their swinging clubs and burying the blades of their spears into the exposed chests of their stinky foes. He Who Strike from the Green leads the charge, spear in one hand and hatchet in the other as he parries blows and slaps aside his foes, moving forward towards the entrance to the nest as his warriors fight by his side. From all around the nest, his warband closes their ranks, pushing against the Goblins and forcing them back towards the nest, not allowing a single one to escape past their line of spears. They will kill every single Goblin here and not let a single one escape, for that is all it takes for a new nest of the vermin to be born.
Pushed back by the sharp blades of their spears, the Goblins are forced back to the entrance, the bodies of their fallen being their only shield until they are next to fall upon the Kobold’s spears. The encirclement complete and the enemy forced back to the entrance, He Who Strikes gives the call and with practiced ease those in the back separate from the warband in small groups and move to surround the nest, finding any exits and waiting with spears at the ready to stab anything that attempts to flee.
A call sounds out and confirms that the nest is now surrounded. Letting out a war cry, He Who Strikes gives the order and they begin to push with renewed vigor against those at the entrance, stabbing fiercely at their foes and pushing them to the door. It does not take long for the cowardly Goblins to break, turning their backs to the Kobolds as they try to flee back into the nest, pushing and shoving to be the first one back inside.
The Kobolds don’t hesitate to attack while their backs are turned, Goblins falling at an increasing rate as they push aside corpses and finally break into the nest. Inside, Goblins scream and scatter about in every direction, running down halls, climbing on top of furniture, and hiding under anything that they can. Others still try to fight, throwing themselves at the Kobolds as they swing their clubs around and noisily scream out a string of nonsensical sounds and grunts.
They all meet their end on the blades of a line of spears. The Kobolds moving slowly and in tight formation down the hall as another group breaks off and covers the entrance, preventing any escape.
Slowly they move forward, clearing room by room, cornering those that flee, executing those that hide. In one room, a Goblin tries to jump through a window to escape outside, but it is met with three spears and its body is held in the air before being tossed aside like garbage. It lands outside, free, but a corpse.
The Kobolds hold no love for the fleeing creatures, they do not hesitate as they spear the females through the heart, they do not faulter as they drag out the hiding and stab them to death on the floor as they scream, they do not blink as they kill the young down to the last crying infant, even as they remain latched to their mother’s tit. The Kobolds have learned to never spare a Goblin. Especially those Kobolds that are old enough to remember living on the //World Tree. The horrors they had to endure.
Every Goblin must be killed, if they are allowed to grow their numbers, there will only be death. A lesson that they all wish the humans would quickly learn. They have seen humans spare the Goblins before, not bothering with culling them because of the smell or because it is too much of a bother. That will be their mistake.
Slowly but surely the nest is cleared down to the last room until there is no more screaming Goblins, until they can no longer hear the soft whimpers of those hiding or the cries of their young, until every corpse is stabbed and confirmed dead.
Once everything has been checked, He Who Strikes gives the call to clear the nest, beside him a warrior retrieves a torch and with a few quick practiced strikes from some flint, lights it. As everyone leaves the room, the warrior turns and tosses the torch back inside, it lands onto an old mess of a bed and the remains of the females and young that lay on it where they were killed. It does not take long for the bed to go up in flames and for the rest of the house to quickly follow.
The Kobolds are not ones for random acts of arson, but in the case of nests, it is necessary. The left-over nest is useless to even the most desperate of Kobolds and humans, most monsters would not even consider it a viable home. This alone would have been fine, but abandoned nests have a tendency to attract more Goblins. They are drawn by the scent of the place and within weeks there can be a new tribe occupying it, breeding and multiplying. The only way to get rid of them is to burn them out.
With all of his warband safely extracted and recalled, they gather on the road and watch as the building burns, waiting to ensure that the flames will do the job.
Watching the fire burn, He Who Strikes does not notice as one of the warriors walks up to his side, knocked out of his revelry as they lay a hand missing a couple fingers on his shoulder. He turns to look to the old warrior and receives a nod of approval from the old Kobold, his scared face and one blind eye giving him a permanent look of seriousness.
“You did good Young Leader. You lead well. The chief will be pleased.” He tells him.
He Who Strikes simply nods back, a feeling of pride filling his chest, “Thank you, He Who Slayed the Crawler. Your words do me a great service.”
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Parting with a warm gesture, He Who Strikes turns and goes to call out to the warband, to signal the retreat. But he is interrupted by a disturbance to the north. A great many shouts and calls coming from the woods.
The warband is surprised, but He Who Strikes quickly gets them under control with a couple calls and orders, everyone is brought into formation. Not a moment latter as they tighten ranks, a number of Goblins comes running from the tree line, bursting out of the brush as they charge, their bodies a dark green and covered in soot and blood, the mark of a hand made of blood, upon their faces.
They charge at the Kobolds, incessant and enraged as they charge toward the line of spears. Unlike the Goblins of the nest, they don’t run with fear as their fuel, and they don’t just mindlessly swing their weapons. They meet the ends of the spears with their own weapons and attempt to knock them aside. The Kobolds are surprised by the Goblins showing any signs of tactics, but are quick to respond, pulling their spears back and parring blows as they work together to suppress the charging Goblins and run them through.
After a short few exchanges, the Goblins lay dead, a slight change in how they fight, not being enough to change being outnumbered and running against a wall of spears thirty-two strong.
“What in the world is with these ones!? Where did they come from?” Asks He Who Strikes.
He Who Slayed the Crawler, moves forward and examines the corpses, running his fingers through the soot and ash that covers one of their bodies. “Young Leader, this is bad… We must return to the village and warn the others.”
“Why, what does this mean?”
“It means that a nest has been allowed to grow. These Goblins are marked, that means that they have a leader of their own… Young Leader, please call for the retreat, we must…!”
He is interrupted as more marked Goblins come bursting from the trees, numbering more this time than the last.
Quickly, they pull back into the spear line and He Who Strikes orders for the line to hold as the Goblins draw closer. Spears soon meet clubs, sharpened flint daggers, and hurled rocks. As the new group clashes with the Kobolds, they spread out their line and fold the wings of their formation to keep the Goblins from flanking around them, still managing to outnumber the attacking group, they are quick to win the fight with nothing but a couple injuries.
As the last Goblin falls, the warrior turns to He Who Strikes and calls out to him again, “Young Leader, please. We must retreat immediately!”
He Who Strikes wants to argue, but he can hear it clearly now, the noises coming from the North. The voices of hundreds of Goblins running through the woods. He clicks his tongue and gives the order, “Fall back, we are heading back to the village! Quickly!”
They all turn and run as a group, He Who Strikes quickly making his way to the front and leading his warband into the woods just as more marked Goblins come pouring out from the other side of the clearing, screaming and kicking up a fuss as they move to pursue the fleeing Kobolds.
Running through the brush, they move quickly as they watch their corners. Moving as fast as they can, they try to grow the distance between them and their pursuers, but the noise of screaming and hollering Goblins continues to grow closer. Soon comes the baying of dogs and the sound of dirt being thrown up by running feet and the noise of twigs and leaves getting crushed under hundreds of feet.
With every step they take, the sound of their pursuers increases, until the moment that a figure jumps out from the brush at them. They answer with spears and the figure drops dead, their feet not stopping for a moment as they run. Soon, along the trail they are following, a number a marked Goblins block their path and He Who Strikes gives the order to charge. Spears lowered and pointed forward, they run bodily into the waiting Goblins and impale them, forcing them aside as they toss their bodies off the path and continue to run. With time, the Kobolds numbers slowly drop, members at the back of the pack falling behind and getting overwhelmed, a goblin jumping out at them and pulling down a member even as they are being stabbed with spears. The Goblins simply continue to run at them with reckless abandon, with very little care for their lives or bodily harm.
Eventually, the noise from the goblins is all around them and they are forced to stop in a clearing. All around them, the nasty little monsters are surrounding them and blocking off their escape. The Goblins move forward, and He Who Strikes orders his warband into a porcupine defensive position, backs to backs and spears pointed outward in every direction.
The goblins quickly fall upon them, and they answer with pointed blades, stabbing outward in every direction as they all shuffle together slowly down the path. Each one of them continuously stabbing and striking as more and more bodies throw themselves at them. He Who Strikes continues to lead, stabbing outward with his spear and striking with his hatchet at anything that draws near.
He does not know how long they move and fight for, but he can hear as the breaths of his comrades grow ragged and tired, he can feel as they continue to tighten up the formation as another member falls to the endless tide, being brought down by a thrown rock to the head or from the charge of too many suicidal Goblins.
He does not know how much longer they will have to fight, how much longer they will be able to hold on for, but he continues to swing his hatchet and stab with his spear, even as his muscles scream at him and beg for a rest, as another member falls fighting valiantly.
Until eventually, it all just stops. A single call goes out and all of the Goblins stop in their tracks. All of their screaming and noise, all of their nonsense. The woods go quiet.
He Who Strikes turns his head as he hears the noise of something heavy approaching, watching as it emerges from the brush. A pressure exerts itself upon the world, pushing down on everyone present like a weight on their shoulders.
Riding on the back of a massive dog, a tall Goblin of pitch-black skin adorned with red marks and a layer of grey ash comes forward, a pack of dogs following shortly behind, each with a rider. In his hands he wields a staff of blackened wood with the burnt skull of some horned creature resting on its end. Moving forward, he gestures to the surrounding Goblins and with a single word they move back, creating an area around the warband and the new Goblin as it moves forward. Its mount growls at the Kobolds and they all shuffle back, spears pointed towards the beast as the surrounding Goblins laugh. The Black Goblin raises his hand, and the laughing immediately stops, his eyes never leaving the battered group of Kobolds, not even as he dismounts from his hellish beast.
Standing on his own, the Goblin easily stands two heads above even the tallest Kobold. He raises a hand and beckons the Kobolds to come at him. He Who Strikes moves to order his warband to attack, pushing to act through his fear and the force of the pressure pushing down on him, but He Who Slayed the Crawler places his hand on his shoulder and stops him. “Please, Young Leader…” He pleads, a shake in his voice as his one good eye refuses to move from the still standing Goblin, “Please flee. You must make it back to the village and warn everyone. Tell your father, tell the shamans!”
“I refuse! We will all fight together against these vile…!” He tries to argue back, but the hand on his shoulder tightens into a death grip.
“Listen to me and run! If you do not, it will not be just us that dies, but the village as well. Do not disgrace my final moment by throwing away your life!”
He Who Strikes wants to argue back, but he can hear the panic in the old warrior's voice. His eyes fall on the Black Goblin, and he sees it smile. Sharp yellow teeth on full display, he sees as it stands poised and relaxed before their spears. He sees the confidence in its eyes.
He shakes and takes a step back.
“Do not die, He Who Slayed the Crawler, my father would miss you greatly.” He tells him heavily.
“Ah… Go, Young Leader… May we find our end in the embrace of the Empress!” He yells as he pushes He Who Strikes aside and gives the order to Charge. Quickly turning to run, He Who Strikes runs and throws his spear at the Goblins in his way before switching his grip for his hatchet, swinging wildly at anything that gets in his way. Chopping limbs and bashing skulls until he is able to reach the base of a tree, he jumps onto its surface, digging his claws in and climbing up as quickly as possible, ignoring the blows that fall on his back and the slash of a knife against his leg. Quickly he climbs until he is out of reach, even as the Goblins throw their weapons at him along with a hail of rocks.
Looking back, he sees as the Black Goblin finally switches from defending and goes on the attack. It is nothing more than a simple gesture. He points his staff at the warband, and they are instantly engulfed in flames. His warband falls to the ground screaming as their fur burns and they panic, their bodies being turned into torches of light as they throw themselves to the ground and scream until they can no longer scream any more, quickly being reduced to black charred corpses on the ground.
The Goblins in the area laugh and dance as they celebrate. He Who Strikes from the Green watches as his comrades burn, letting out an angry cry as he watches on from the treetop, cursing the Goblins.
The Black Goblin, the magic wielder, simply turns and smiles at him, slowly raising his staff and pointing it skull adorned top towards him.
He Who Strikes quickly turns and runs, his every instinct screaming for him to move. Jumping from branch to branch as the staff lights up, a ball of fire soars towards the tree that he just vacated, impacting its canopy and exploding in a blaze of hell fire that sticks to the wood and yellowing leaves, quickly spreading and devouring everything it touches.
He runs for his life as the forest burns, moving from tree to tree until he is passed the laughing faces of the Goblins and far from the smiling face of the Black Goblin. The fire quickly spreads and is soon everywhere, the only solace being that it is separating He Who Strikes from the Goblins, but yet still compelling him to run for his life as the flames nip at his heels and chases his tail.
Alighting from the trees and back to the ground, he looks back one final time before turning and sprinting back to the village. Behind him is the visage of Hell often spoken of in their stories. Of the last days before the death of their Empress.
“May you find your end in the embrace of the Empress…” He silently whispers in prayer for his fallen warriors.
He does not look back as he runs, he does not stop to rest until he is finally home.
Delivered with breath worn ragged by smoke and heavy with exhaustion, the news he carries is a dire one. With much deliberation the decision is made. Word must be spread to the neighboring villages, and they must all flee south and gather their numbers. The Shamans ensure them that they will find salvation in that direction. That they must simply flee before the winter comes, or they will all die.