The Master examined his hand, the vibrant immortal flesh seared, and no matter the willed effort, the scars wouldn’t heal. Drawing his strength back from the Dark Priest, a mistake he admitted to himself, the shock of the pain though … never since creation has his body been wracked by such torment. The Master should’ve suffered through the pain to allow his priest to succeed in gaining his freedom. After recovery, then possibly return if he so chooses, at his leisure or not at all … should have been the choices made. The mortals would perish in time … defeatist thoughts. He needed to find rage and cunning, not self-pity, and examine the details.
Judge and his Gods abandoned this world, yet the pain from intense sunlight burning flesh and being is demoralising and makes a mockery of this. How do these mortals wield the power of a faded God? They cannot change the past. They can only accept and delude themselves that they might correct it. I called back his power, the strange missiles removed, and his pain a tolerable ache, possibly for the cost of his freedom. Not a good bargain, he mused.
The release of the Dark Priest’s horde meant further consequences, imprisonment to continue, laughable given the trap’s perfection and annoying given a pure accident coupled with his folly. Advance and destroy. Don’t toy with your food. The Dark Priest was now distant, the blood link severed with anguish, although the last thought from his servant most definitely focused upon saving his own life, the worm. What about the release of his Master?
He sensed the other two, near yet entombed, separated by Judge’s edict and utterly dismayed. He forced them to listen to him as he instructed them to release their blood and curse their current tomb to make the prison their new coffin. This process weakened them further, although better than the alternative.
---
Weakened already from battle with the foolish women in the Cavern, she listened to her Sire. The Judge Knight was a terrible surprise. How can a real one exist? The battle wounds took a toll on her vitality. Nevertheless, she spilled blood as instructed to curse the stone coffin prison to become a sanctuary. Weakened further, she would need time to recover, whereas previously slow deterioration until dust. She listened to her Master, the possibility of regaining her coffin hopeless, even if physically close. Her coffin, the promise of a swift recovery and the return to perfection, is an unattainable dream. Indeed, those blood bags would have destroyed the beautifully polished enamelled wood and cushion-lined luxury by now; heathens.
Time is her ally now, agonisingly slow recovery to her former strength. The persistent scars reminded her of the possibility of destruction. The voracious feeding in the proceeding days was a truly inspired circumstance. This alone now fortified her, suggesting the sweet taste of revenge yet possible. She sniffed. Also, inconveniently, she would need a choker for her neck if the scar remained after her next feeding, her smooth skin now blemished and unsightly, which just won’t do.
---
The scar through his chest was a permanent tunnel, front to back, with an arm and attached fingers now fleshless bone. Both sealed, relatively painless and neither healing. Blessed sunlight upon a wielded weapon responsible and perhaps, while struck in bat form the holy weapon, not as outraged to leave a legacy of eternal agony.
Trapped inside a sealed stone coffin, locked away and impotent, his anger rose to new heights, like his Master testing the strength of the stone and similarly finding defeat. Humiliated, fallen low, he awaited his fate. His first thought was to be on guard for an opportunity. His jailors would want to destroy him, yet time passed, and they didn’t. Each passing day, his strength ebbed. Each night, his recovery was meagre. The option of hibernation entered his mind, although the risk of total surprise, destroyed while helpless a possibility—the slim benefit, faster recovery.
His Master ordered a different solution, the sacrifice of blood to transform this stone prison into a sanctuary. Significant depletion of strength initially and then quicker recovery. Without his Master’s permission, he entered hibernation as well, the recovery quicker again. However, regardless of his defenceless state, the effort required and resultant noise for anyone to break into his tomb to attack should wake him with enough time to greet them with much brutal vengeance on his mind.
---
Satisfied his followers would remain alert and slowly recover, the Master’s thoughts turned inward. Not strong, wounds unable to heal and a painful reminder from each, every time he moved, he sank his consciousness and body into hibernation. He needed to conserve his remaining strength. No life, not even a rat, could he drain of blood, and the hunger would soon drive him to folly and madness. Unfortunately, hibernation was not a solution. His body would continue to weaken, albeit slowly, as his feeding habit would catch up to him, a minimum of one hearty victim each month, oft times two, now none. Patience, another would need to release him, and acceptance of this truth took much petulant thought to reach. Nevertheless, he did. The option to shed his blood to create a sanctuary within the cavern was still a way off, his reserves not yet depleted enough to reach that critical point of no return.
---
After weighing up the risk, she also hibernates. Each attempt failed because she could not reach the required meditative state. Searching for an explanation, her mind recalled she didn’t glimpse the sun or spy any daylight, given the snowing overcast conditions in the Death Season. She spent her days in a closed coffin carried by followers until she crashed past the Cavern Entrance and into shadow. She tried contacting the Master, silence, hibernating perhaps? Her eyes darted about the six sides of her prison, now a sanctuary bereft of ideas. Without hibernation, she would wither and decay much faster, rapidly burning through her wonderful gluttony instead of preserving it. The only thing holding her evil to the present was the wonderful orgy of feeding before this ill-fated journey, the memory of which was fresh and fantastic, her first bloodbath and, possibly, her last.
Trembling hands reached to her face, trying to rub her panic away. She must escape, taste blood again. How? A tickle of pain, fingers tested. Ouch! Gently now, her fingers tested the limits. A large bump on her head was painful to touch. How? Why unhealed? Before being sealed in the tomb, she remembered. A panicked change to bat form, smashing into an invisible wall and stunned back into human form. The bat form closer to mortality. Could she be suffering from a concussion? Ridiculous! Ordinary bruising and cuts always healed. The invisible wall, then. What properties? Was this a great magic construct? Judge Knight mysticism? She swallowed without actual need. This invisible wall held the Master. Not worldly, divine, one of Judge’s edicts, not habitat permission entrance, nothing to do with the sun, crossing running water? How is this inside a cavern?
---
Dione hurried down the passageways, free at last to be one with her stallion. She did her duty, congratulating Lysisa with a brief hug, leaving Niobe and Latona to giggle and pamper the new Initiate. Dione is not totally forgiving, though, remembering Lysisa at the wall supporting Niobe in delaying her pursuit of the Dark Priest.
The presence of the Goblin Sisters on the Northern Wall was surprising, although who else really? One faced outward, observing over the wall, and one faced back, inward. Why? Was the third missing? No, not missing, huddle up against the wall, sleeping? Dione slowed to a jog and then a walk.
“Welcome, sister,” said Jocasta.
Dione jumped, unaware and caught off guard, concentrating on the obvious; the small street urchin in a new or at least recently excavated hidey-hole near the wall.
“We apologise, sister. We thought to protect her like a goblin, hidden well.”
Dione, not sure of the name of the Goblin Sister, who, while on the wall, stood eye to eye with Dione, physically intimidating. Dione hoped the smile was genuine. While not staring eye to eye, Dione refused to lower her head in their presence as one of the Ladies Three. All sisters owed her deference, and these were no different.
The second spoke without turning around or acknowledging Dione. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the snow-covered Cleft. “Welcome, Sister Dione. Mistress trusted us to stand watch over the Northern Wall, and we will help you.”
Dione passed the Goblin Sister, who looked back towards the Cavern Entrance and couldn’t stay her curiosity.
“Why do you watch behind?”
“We are Goblin. We watch all ways for danger.”
Except for one thought, Dione. “What about above, the Stone Curtain Wall?”
“We decorated it!” The two Goblin Sisters and Jocasta broke out in laughter, and the third rolled over, drawing a fur around tight.
In response to Dione’s questioning look, Jocasta replied, “Many a loose walking dead husk rests up there, easily dislodged by the unweary sister.”
Dione’s arms flung up in the air. “What if they walk?”
Jocasta stared at Dione’s display, speechless. Sweetears calmly responded.
“They are few, and warning is the most important.”
No other responses, no reaction and Dione was speechless this time, looking from sister to sister.
“At least tell your Mistress,” said Dione. She then approached the wall, intending to well dramatically leave until the drop proved greater than her courage, even with her stallion’s bare back invitingly poised below. A rope whipped around her waist while she was considering her options. Before she could react, a voice calmed her reaction.
“We lower you down, saddle and backpack, all alright, sister.”
Dione glanced back. The third Goblin Sister was now awake, apparently.
---
Fresh snow fell in the intervening bells, a clean spread of white before Dione and her stallion. The churn because of the walking dead created a slight depression in the land, and with the layer of snow, the illusion of a white road rolled out before Dione, like a welcome of sorts. With caution, her stallion struck out along the road, which proved remarkably firm, the mud-slush underneath hardening, perhaps.
Her stallion reached an easy, sustained gait, Dione’s heart light with joy, away from the Cavern, upon her stallion and in pursuit of evil, an evil which wouldn’t escape, revisit and inflict any hurt.
---
Light spilt down from the Training Room through the open trapdoor, Clymene having climbed the steps first.
The lightly frosted legs behind the steps called to Astera. She thought of a task yet to be completed, her first step upon the stairs poised and finally returning to the cavern floor. Perhaps the Goblin Sisters could add them to any errant walking corpses to form a final pyre.
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“Mistress?” called Clymene.
“We need to dispose of our intruders. Perhaps the Goblin Sisters could be asked?”
Clymene poked her head through the trapdoor. “No, Mistress, I will volunteer, as will Ismene and our new Initiate. You have posted the Goblin Sisters on the North Wall, and I have seen no sisters more thankful. They believe you trust them with our defence and to bring them back to fetch and carry so soon, well, not… proper.”
“Yes, I blame my tired self and, as you say, Clymene.” Astera cast her eyes upon the stairs, preparing to climb.
Clymene caught Thyia with a look. Thyia confirmed with a quick nod while assisting Astera. Clymene allowed one Mistress to tire she wouldn’t permit another. At least on this occasion, the explanation was plain and obvious. Most sisters who held the line on the South Wall still slept. Only the Mistress and Thyia were up and about, busy with duties.
---
While waiting for Lysisa, Clymene and Ismene dragged the frozen bodies out from behind the Top Cavern to the House set of stairs. At Clymene’s turn to take the corpse under their arms, Ismene lingered, a double take look at the intruder they just deposited into the lantern light.
Clymene’s arm around her shoulder startled Ismene, causing her to jump slightly and place a hand on her chest.
“Don’t do that, sister!”
“Do what? You stood here instead of helping over there.”
Ismene’s eyes were now fixated, studying the face of the first corpse, Clymene’s head adjacent and mimicking Ismene keeping an arm around her shoulders.
“I know her, well, more accurately, know of her,” whispered Ismene.
“Care to elaborate, sister?”
Ismene straightened the glued-on Clymene with her, certain she could place the corpse’s surprised, light blue face.
“This is Pania, third daughter, the fourth child of the Baron of Water Watch, currently married to the Captain of the City Guard. After months of trying to arrange a marriage, the pieces suddenly fell together.”
“How does a lowly daughter of a minor Lord become involved with evil?”
“Perhaps by making a deal to advance? Come, let us drag out the rest!” Ismene’s eyes danced with conspiratorial eagerness as she dashed to the row of corpses.
---
“Sisters?”
Clymene and Ismene looked up from their grim examinations. The six bodies lined up, side by side, with a couple of lanterns for general light, shoving them at the faces of each corpse.
“Come in. We have only been able to recognise one intruder. Well, Ismene did. I have no idea.”
“Yes, a third person would be useful, if only to stop Clymene from asking a multitude of useless questions,” grumbled Ismene, finishing with a sweet smile, ensuring Clymene noticed.
Lysisa parked the two trolleys and bent over the nearest corpse. A male. Her scream of delight and clapping of hands ended when both Clymene and Ismene flashed their lanterns in her direction.
“Do tell,” asked Clymene, wide-eyed at the tuff of something in Lysisa’s hand.
Following Clymene’s eyes to her hand, Lysisa smiled awkwardly and patted the evidence back on.
“A spearman in the Duke’s Guard when my sister and I …” Her voice hardened a little, the pain of loss only submerged, never gone. “They presented us to the Temple to finish our Seer Training, his chin displaying a fresh scar, pink skin, so the wound was still healing.”
Clymene raised her eyebrows. “And the clutch of hair?”
“I needed to be sure. He disguises his scar now with a full beard and needs to fill in the scar.”
Ismene tapped her chin. “You would only need to change your appearance if your past is too well known, or perhaps your deeds.”
“Oh yes, sister,” said Lysisa, a slight shiver cascading down her body, able to call another sister, once again, belonging. “He would insult or shame to force others to duel, and when his reputation proved a barrier, he would step in for others. After a recent promotion, this soon-to-be stinking corpse was responsible for my brother’s death.” Her words finished with hard-edged anger mixed with remorse and triumph. She last waved goodbye to her brother when she was five Death Seasons old and was given a day to mourn when told of his death ten years later. Family is still family.
“Yes, I see the plotting now. The Baron’s daughter married the Captain before he became Captain, rising when the incumbent met death in a dual!” Now clapping and smiling, Ismene caught up in unravelling the conspiracy, forgetting her sensitivities.
“Did we miss a celebration, sisters?” asked Nysa, stepping around the trolleys on her way to the stairs. Pausing, she inspected the corpses lying at attention.
“Sort of because of our House intruders, we have a duellist and a social climber so far,” announced Clymene proudly.
Otonia chortled, flapping a hand in the general direction of a corpse, a mature female. Clymene and Ismene held their breath.
“That poor excuse for a merchant supplied cloth and nick-knacks to the Troupe for years and then one season announced she now only supplied to the Castle, in fact, the Duchess herself, surrounding herself with airs and graces when she did, us lowly folk no longer fit to wipe her shoes, so good riddance!”
“Sisters, this old man is a runaway or perhaps hired help for the intruders. Zoe slew him with an arrow through the neck, an amazing release, pinned him to the wooden gate,” said Lysisa.
Nysa stepped between the last two corpses and dropped to her haunches, glancing at one, a male and then the other, a female.
Voice high and excited, Clymene asked, “What, sister?”
“Do you think there is a family resemblance?”
Clymene shone her lantern on the male, while Ismene helpfully shone her lantern on the other, a female. Both nod at each other after several back-and-forth looks.
“The Village Priest escorted me to the City when twelve Death Seasons young to witness a Judge Knight Apprentice choosing. Country bumpkin, wide-eyed and impressionable, I took in every sight and every sound, the people and their frantic racing about, including these two.” Nysa dropped to her buttocks, arms wrapping around her knees.
“He was a pageboy in the service of the Duke. She was a servant in the Duke’s household. Nine years have passed, and their faces now those of adults and perhaps lured into evil by the promise of a glorious reward, given the change in fortune of the others lined up beside them,” finished Nysa, eyes closed, chin scrunched up.
Kyra offered a hand. “Up, Judge Knight Adept. They made their choice as we must.”
Nysa raised her head and accepted the offer. “So much younger than the rest.”
“Well, these are people who others will miss, so we must ensure all their clothing and weapons are taken with them to the pyre,” said Clymene, her eyes meeting Ismene and Lysisa in confirmation.
The six sisters packed the corpses, three to each wagon, Ismene having fetched rope to secure them. Nysa, Kyra and Otonia climbed the stairs to bathe and then break their fast, their sleep extending into the second half of the day. Ismene and Lysisa piloted the wagons to the Main Cavern and beyond. Clymene trudged back to the Kitchen, Ismene insisting as a Seer always needs to be in attendance within the House, especially since Astera slept.
+++
The Chieftain told him of this great responsibility, explained the importance of the tribute to the clan and with those thoughts in his mind, after examining the unusual snow drift, Crookedtooth almost lost his water. The night dark covered the flush of green upon his skin, although unable to conceal the flush of warmth from his six companions. Fortunately, they, like him, understood the implications.
The seven, bent low to the ground, scurried across the snow-covered Cleft, evading the white path. The cause, the trampling of a multitude, in this case, walking dead perhaps two or three nights ago, which they guessed sallied forth from the Dark Cavern. An army of this size, unimaginable, the release into the world, a doom. The Goblins quailed.
Crookedtooth chewed empty-mouthed at the wall, looking back to check on his companions. Their open-mouthed faces confirmed his suspicion; the wall was a recent addition in less than a month. What of the Northern opening? Could a wall be in place there? Why would you protect one entrance to leave another open?
“I check,” whispered Bloodeye, shrinking further and gliding across the snow, hugging the Stone Curtain Wall.
Crookedtooth nodded, the consent given long after Bloodeye disappeared from their night vision. Trying to comprehend the meaning of everything witnessed, with an absent wave, a companion snuck forward and hefted the tribute bag into the “hole-in-the-wall”. Listening for the clunk, none. Crookedtooth and his companion exchanged stares until they both stepped back and squatted, the other Goblin noticeably shaking. The four with them pressed their bodies down further, shifting snow and creating a shallow hole to hide in.
He waved the first back and, once in retreat, waved to the next to join him. After a moment, he looked back, a Goblin on either side trying to push and handle the next companion forward. A threatening hiss from Crookedtooth silenced the struggle. He swiftly advanced on the recalcitrant, grabbed the faint heart around the neck, and pulled him forward. The sooner they delivered the tribute, the sooner they could leave, and this single aim granted him resolve.
As breathing became difficult, the captive nodded his head. Crookedtooth used his other appendage to grab around the back of the neck before releasing the throat and driving him forward to the drop-off. Again, the hole swallowed the tribute and silence.
The third witnessing the first and second survive, or perhaps fearful of Crookedtooth, edged his way forward. Eventually, an arm reached out, grabbing his shirt front and tugging him forward to face his fear. The third tribute fell without a thump.
“Another wall.” Bloodeye was breathless, trying to gulp for air.
Crookedtooth scratched his head. “Walls? But great army marches?”
“Few remain. Fear attack?” Bloodeye shifted his bobbing head in front of Crookedtooth to gain his attention.
“Tributes, no thump when dropped.”
A slow whistle issued from between Bloodeye’s teeth. “Walls, Army leave, drop quiet, perhaps special metal change tribute?”
“No, like, good this last,” said Crookedtooth, flicking his head for them to be on their way.
Bloodeye placed a clawed hand upon Crookedtooth’s shoulder. “A horse and maybe rider leave Northern Wall, follow the snow path, chase?”
Shaking his head to dismiss the request, he halted. Why did the horse and perhaps the rider leave? To follow? Perhaps attack Cavern and find emptied now chasing the Army. Scout? For who? Crookedtooth smashed closed fists upon his skull, thinking hard! Tell Chieftain quick. He then decides.
“Chieftain.”
Crookedtooth sprinted away from the Dark Cavern, heedless of discovery, his six companions hurrying to catch up and keep pace. The stale air of the home tunnels drew him.
---
Eyes shut and dozing, Sweetears recalled the activity required each month. The Tribute Drop measured their growth, the crawlway needed widening, and the anteroom required additional excavation to account for their gain in weight and size. Muscle mass and definition from working the stone, height from their bones straightening from eating meat, and when they could bone, occasionally Clymene would gift them leftover bones from smoked meat after the elder chatted to her.
Each night, two sleep, one listen. The antechamber floor, square and smooth, and the few furs thrown down sufficed as beds. They fitted the stone door during the day, their bronze circles hanging from their ears to gather sunlight if possible, and their Mistress gave them all other time off! The collection of the tribute is a duty, although not personally important. At first detection of movement or low speech, the Goblin Sister on watch quietly woke her two sisters.
Laying quiet, bodies tense, their ears tuned into the Goblin speech of the visitors. They missed hearing their language and would consume it in silence; the Goblins delivering the tribute, invariably chatting. The usual chat about the tribute, returning home, the journey and some annoying relatives or friends missing this visit. Instead, fear and awe about the walls and theories about the walking dead. The Goblin Sisters’ hearts sank a little when they didn’t speak about home and then heard the news. The visitors wouldn’t return until the next Death Season…
While the humans treated them as equals and felt loyal to them, certainly thankful for saving their lives and making them strong, the three Goblins still missed their birthplace, even if they wanted them or expected them to be dead. Teenagers, or the Goblin equivalent, tended to become homesick, and the three Goblin Sisters were no different.
Prettynose wiped a tear away. “Stupid males, no news and fearful instead.”
“Goblins always afraid. It is our way,” said Bluefingers as she wrapped an arm around her sister.
Sweetears kept silent, shortly attracting the attention of her two sisters, who stood side by side waiting for the smartest of the three to speak.
“They also talk dumb, while we talk human….”
Prettynose sobbed and then sniffed, straightening. “We no longer Goblin? Are we human now?”
“Well, our skin isn’t green, and your nose is pretty like a human, not pretty like goblin….”
“You think my nose is a pretty human nose?”
A naked Bluefingers clapped her hands and then rested them on her hips. “Of course, and look at yourselves or me, human breasts.” Her hands cupped and lifted them slightly, attachment to a barrel-like chest not allowing much freedom.
Prettynose likewise cupped hers, bigger and attached to an athletic body, allowing more movement. Sweetears pushed back Bluefingers’ dark hair to expose both ears, which remained the same size while losing the obvious top point, although not entirely human. The face she examined filled out and rounded; the sunken skin hung on bone looked gone. Long oval slanted eyes remained the truest telltale facial feature of their origins.
Point proven, Bluefingers dressed. Sweetears knew, as did her sisters, that their bodies had changed and, until now, silently accepted the results, each probably wondering if another would raise the obvious. Eavesdropping on the Goblins delivering the tribute confirmed their clipped Goblin speech childish, yet… Sweetears wiped a developing tear from her eye.
“If we aren’t Goblin anymore and not entirely Human, then what are we?” asked Prettynose, finally finishing playing with her… assets.
---
The Sisters delivered the three tribute bags to Ismene, entering the House to do so, welcomed, with Clymene offering a pre-dawn meal containing bones. The bags were handed over without inspection, and while probably containing wealth, there could also be recognisable items within, which their tribe decided to surrender and seeing them would make the missing home even more real.