The Goblin Wars Part One Read online

  As long as Herod could remember, he had haunting dreams of the moment the oracle spoke over him. He was just an infant, barely a month old, but he saw the moment vividly in his mind. His parents, the former king and queen of Talonrend, held him before the oracle, deep within the castle that was their home. Castle Talon, the seat of the monarchy, was built over an extensive system of caves and underground rivers. In the deepest cave, miles beneath the surface, stood the most holy place in the entire kingdom: the Temple of Vrysinoch. Other than the oracle, no one was allowed to enter the temple at any moment. The prophecy of a newborn prince was one of the few exceptions.

  The king and queen stood underneath a great marble statue of their god, the winged Vrysinoch, and placed the newborn prince into the stone bowl at the statue’s feet. Vrysinoch’s likeness stood forty feet tall in the dark cavern, his four angelic wings spread out to encircle the entire temple with their jagged ends forming the doorway. The deity held a sword in one hand with half of the blade buried deep in the stone at the statue’s feet. His other hand grasped an emerald the size of a boulder, raising it up toward the ceiling of the cavern as if presenting the sacred relic to the world. The emerald shimmered in the palm of Vrysinoch’s hand and bathed the cavern in an eerie green light.

  The oracle had spoken his prophecy, much to the delight of the king and queen, but a different prophecy had been spoken directly to Herod. You will never be king. You will never sit upon your brother’s throne. Your fate is not in this kingdom. Your destiny has been written elsewhere. You will never be king. It was the voice of his god, Vrysinoch, sounding in the mind of the young prince. Herod heard the voice every single night for his entire life, always the same, always calmly telling him that he will never reign.

  The restless prince of Talonrend awoke in his bed with beads of sweat staining his pillow. He looked up, gazing from his sheets to the white canopy that hung on the ceiling of his bedchamber. The unrelenting gaze of Vrysinoch met the pained eyes of Herod, causing the prince to turn away. A white tapestry displaying the visage of Talonrend’s winged god was a common adornment above almost every bed in the kingdom. The canopies were meant to bring good luck, and the overly zealous priests in every village and hamlet made sure that images of Vrysinoch could be easily seen. The tapestry in the chamber of Prince Herod served only to torment the haunted man.

  Herod stood and rubbed the weariness from his eyes. He slid his cold feet into a pair of animal skin slippers and stretched his back. His bedchamber was located right next to the royal reception hall that housed the throne. That was perhaps the worst part of his daily awakening, walking past the empty throne where his brother was supposed to sit and reign. The old king and queen from Herod’s dreams were long since buried in the royal mausoleum, enjoying their eternal flight through the heavens on the wings of Vrysinoch.

  Herod’s brother, Prince Lucius Firesbane, ascended to the throne in his late twenties, ruling the kingdom through an age of unrivaled prosperity. Then, one spring, King Lucius set out to travel with one of the kingdom’s many trade caravans, a wagon train of resources and finished goods leaving Talonrend and heading south to do business with the various villages along the Clawflow River. Lucius always believed that a great king must walk among his subjects. The trading caravans were the best way to mingle with the common folk.

  That caravan was over a year ago. His trips usually lasted a few months or a season at the most. No word ever came back about the King’s whereabouts; no traveler from the south ever said a word about the king passing through. It is as if the king of Talonrend disappeared.

  Herod stopped a moment before opening the iron-banded door of his bedchamber. His tabard hung on peg next to the door and a pair of swords dangled in their sheaths underneath the cloth. An array of training weapons, some dulled and some with edges fine enough to shave with, leaned in a wooden rack next to the door. Herod glanced at the two swords hanging on the peg as he pulled the tabard over his head. A fine layer of dust coated the leather belt and the two sheathes. The weapons, a matched pair of enchanted swords crafted by Talonrend’s most respected smith, had not moved in years. The training weapons were covered in pits and dents from countless hours of martial practice but the enchanted swords, Maelstrom and Regret by name, had never been drawn. Herod mulled over the idea of strapping the swords onto his waist and setting out to find his lost brother himself. The prince shook his head. The idea was fleeting and fled his mind as soon as he opened the door and walked into the throne room.

  “Good morning, sir. Sleep well?” The king’s steward was always awake before anyone in the castle and eternally in a good mood. Something about the way in which the young servant conducted himself, being perfectly dressed and composed day after day, bothered Herod. The steward was too clean, too well dressed, and too handsome. It was disconcerting for Herod to see the man every day when he woke up. The prince had always been cautious though, seeing a treasonous spy from another kingdom behind every smiling face.

  “Yes, of course. I slept just as well last night as the night before. It’s getting to be damned cold in that room though. Tell someone to bring up the winter sheets from storage.” Prince Herod tried to wave the eager steward away as he took a seat at the long table beneath his brother’s empty throne.

  “Yes, I fear that the nights are becoming a bit chilly,” the steward replied, standing uncomfortably close to the prince. “Perhaps, if my king would prefer to have a woman warm his bed, or even a wife to give the kingdom an heir—” Herod slammed his fist into the large wooden table and made bowls and platters of food shake from the force.

  “This is the last time I am going to tell you this!” Herod screamed, far beyond his breaking point with the annoying steward. “I am not going to marry or produce any sort of legitimate or illegitimate heir to my brother’s throne! It is impossible! I am NOT the king!” He accentuated the word ‘not’ with a slam of his fist, this time into the chest of the unsuspecting steward. “Lucius still reigns in Talonrend. I merely serve as his regent until his return. No progeny of mine will ever rule from that throne.”

  The kingdom was in disarray without Lucius to lead them. Everyone assumed that he was dead or never planning on returning. The people looked to Herod to lead them. Every time anyone in the castle referred to him as their king or bowed before him, Herod heard the soft words of Vrysinoch echoing through his head - you will never be king. With every decree and edict that Prince Herod signed in his brother’s name, the winged god reminded him of his fate. You will never sit upon your brother’s throne. The words tormented him and relentlessly coursed through his brain.

  Herod grabbed a small chunk of bread and shoved the rest of his food away. He rose from the table, motioning for the castle’s guard commander to join him. Darius, clad in his usual coat of mail with a great helm by his side, stood at once and walked next to the troubled prince. “Did you have another dream from Vrysinoch, my liege?” He asked, falling into step with Herod.

  “The same as always, Darius. It never changes.” The two of them walked out of the castle and onto the immense wooden drawbridge. Herod stopped next to one of the many banners that bordered the castle walls and leaned against the parapet, gazing out into the morning.

  “If my god does not wish for me to rule this kingdom, why is it that my brother has not returned from his journey? Where is Lucius? Why has there been no word of his trip from anyone?” Herod began to tear little bits of bread from his chunk and toss them into the moat below. Feeding the ducks that lived in the moat was always comforting to Herod. Even when he was a little boy, Herod would save some portion of his meal and take it out to the ducks. Something about the way they ate the scraps that he dropped into the moat was serene and calming. The ducks had no idea that Herod was tormented. They didn’t understand the dilemma that the kingdom was forced to endure. They simply ate little scraps of food and kept on swimming.

  “I have no answer for you, Herod. I have never heard the voice of Vrysinoch. I go
to the temple almost every day and pray that Vrysinoch guides my path, but I fear that the words of the priests are as close to god as I can get. Most men in the realm would give their arm to hear the voice of Vrysinoch.” The captain of the guard set his helmet down atop the parapet where the morning sun made the polished metal shine. Darius rubbed his fingers on the hilt of his short sword and wondered why Vrysinoch had never spoken to him. The sword, his symbol of office, had a hilt carved into the image of a bird’s claw. The sharp talons ended in a small emerald that was the symbol of the kingdom’s religion.

  “Look out at the city, Darius. All the houses, all the people going about their lives, look at them.” Herod spread his arm out wide and soaked in the sight of his brother’s kingdom. Castle Talon had been built on the closest thing to a hill in a hundred miles. Its foundation stood only twenty or thirty feet above the rest of the kingdom, but it was enough elevation to give a fantastic view of the city. The most prominent structure, the Tower of Wings, which served as the public temple to Vrysinoch at the heart of the city, was always magnificent in the bright morning sun.

  Rising a hundred feet above the ground, the beautiful work of art was a pillar of sculptures more than it was a temple. Priests had constructed the building out of black stone taken from the caves under Castle Talon. Somehow, the cold black stone reflected the bright light of the sun with a searing intensity while at the same time offering a sort of translucent quality to the tower. Anyone looking at the tower would feel blinded by the light reflected from the walls but, at the same moment, they could see all the way through the walls to the other side. Not even the priests could explain the phenomenon without calling it a miracle.

  The tower was intricately carved, every single inch of the exterior walls being crafted into wings. The wings wrapped around the whole building, interlocking with one another, to form a perfectly cylindrical tower. The top of the structure resembled the hilt of the guard captain’s sword, a talon clutching an emerald.

  The most interesting part of the city, at least in Herod’s mind, was the wall. It was formally named the Wall of Lucius but the common folk all referred to the massive defensive structure as Terror’s Lament. The wall, designed and built at the hand of Lucius, was an amazing work of military genius. It rose sixty feet above the city, a monstrous behemoth of smooth stone. Terror’s Lament was so much more than just a tall barrier to guard the city. It was actually constructed of three walls, the outermost and innermost being a full sixty feet in height. The wall in the center was only forty feet high, and, instead of having a flat walkway on the top for archers and other soldiers to be stationed, it tapered into a rounded edge no wider than a few inches.

  Any invader would first be tasked with scaling the smooth outer wall, climbing the full sixty feet with either a ladder or ropes. The ascent would be made under the direct fire of archers from the walls and ballistae from the towers that marked the corners of the square city. The inside face of the outermost wall was covered in barbed spikes, set at an angle to catch anyone attempting to jump or rappel down to the ground. The shorter and rounded middle wall had much the same defenses as the exterior wall. It was smooth on the side facing away from the city but held an array of upward reaching spikes on the interior face.

  The interior wall, the thickest of the three, was hollow. It contained hundreds of archer slots, ballistae dotting the top of its parapet, and two thick chains attached to either side of each section. The chains were stretched taut from the top of each tower, two on each exterior face of the four sides of the square wall. At the end of each chain dangled a solid iron ball, covered in tiny dimples. The chains could be released from the ball end, causing the heavy metal to sweep like a pendulum down the face of the wall, clearing all invaders attempting to climb into the city. Although those defense mechanisms had never been used, many of the guards had taken bets on how far an unfortunate soldier would be thrown by the massive iron balls as they swung.

  Further adding to the city’s seemingly impregnable defenses, a maze of sorts was constructed for all of the traffic moving through the wall’s gates. Only two gates existed that would take anyone beyond the walls altogether, but several other gates were present between the layers. None of them ever lined up evenly with another gate at a different layer and all were spaced far enough apart to prevent a battering ram from being able to turn and maneuver. The reason for the intricate defenses wasn’t because of any sort of impending doom or overt threat to the city, but was merely a result of King Lucius’ desire to protect his people at all costs. The resources and labor were available, so the king had the walls constructed.

  Lucius always wanted to be remembered by the name King Lucius the Builder, but of late he was only referred to as King Lucius the Missing.

  Prince Herod let his gaze fall, settling back on the ducks swimming around the moat. “What are we going to do, Darius? I fear that if I proclaim my brother to be lost and take his throne, Vrysinoch will strike me down before I make it up the steps to the royal seat. That is my dilemma.”

  The wizened guard captain had been pondering that circumstance for weeks now, ever since Herod confided in him. “I do not know, sir. I would not want to be the one to make your decision. We can probably delay any sort of action until a second year has passed without sign of your brother. I do not know how long the peasants will be satisfied, having a regent ruling over them and collecting their taxes.” Darius started to inch his sword out of its scabbard, a nervous tick that betrayed the fear behind his calm eyes.

  “It isn’t the peasants that I am worried about. How long will it be before word of a leaderless city reaches the ears of those who would do us harm? It isn’t another kingdom I fear, Darius. We are on the frontier! There isn’t another city large enough to have an army within two hundred miles. But that is exactly what I fear.” The prince clenched his fist, crumbling the remaining piece of bread to crumbs in his hand.

  “What do you mean, sir? We don’t have much contact with the other castles of the realm and I know of none that wish us ill will,” the dutiful captain replied.

  “The monsters, they are who I fear, the creatures that live in the wilderness.” The prince let the ball of bread crumbs fall into the water below and pointed at Kanebullar Mountain, far on the horizon. “There. That is where evil lurks. We are the only castle that the villains of the wilds have ever seen. We are their only enemy, the only beacon that holds the darkness at bay. When my ancestors left the Green City, they followed a prophet for years until they found this spot. People flocked to their cause, blindly pursuing the dreams of a religious zealot. That is why I fear the monsters of the wilds so much. If they come against us in force and breach our walls, no rescue will ever come.” He let his hand fall back to his side, brushing the remaining crumbs off of his tabard.

  “Let us pray that Vrysinoch will never let an enemy breach our walls. The only creatures of the night who would dare to risk Terror’s Lament are the goblins, too stupid to know any better. In the twenty years since the wall’s construction, the goblins are the only enemies who have tried to attack our city.” Darius put a hand on his prince’s shoulder, hoping to comfort him and bring him some sort of peace, however fleeting it may be.

  “Yes, I know. Those walls should stand for hundreds of years. No land army could ever climb our walls or knock them down...” Herod envisioned the death that would accompany such an attack and shuddered. “What would happen if the goblins, in league with some necromancer or powerful wizard, were able to summon and control a dragon? Will our walls save us from that? A million goblins? That is an army we could destroy against our gates. A thousand goblins with a single dragon? That is an army that would surely consume our city in a matter of moments.” Herod turned to walk back inside the castle, his voice shaking with worry.

  “Then perhaps it is time to test the words of Vrysinoch. Sit on the throne and take your brother’s place. Claim your birthright. The coronation of a new king in Talonrend would show the wilds tha
t we are not leaderless. They will fear the might with which you rule your lands,” Darius told him plainly.

  “Crossbows,” Herod called back to the drawbridge where Darius stood. “Start training your troops to use longer-ranged crossbows. We need something that can kill a dragon.” Herod walked into the castle and let the heavy doors of the keep close behind him.

  “I know we need something to stop a dragon, but a crossbow won’t do it, my liege,” Darius mumbled to the morning air. “I will go to the artificers and the craftsmen and see if they have any better ideas than crossbows.” The guard captain made his way down the drawbridge and into the city with his eyes cautiously darting up toward the sky to look for signs of fire.

  Still mindlessly playing with the hilt of his jewel encrusted sword, Darius crossed onto the cobblestone street and into the city, heading in the direction of the artificer’s guild house. The streets were busy with people going about their everyday business. Merchants of all sorts called out prices for their wares and women stood in the windows of brothels, blatantly showing theirs. Everything was in order.

  Lately, tensions were high in the city. The public was starting to grow concerned with the absence of their king and many people blamed Darius. The trade caravan that King Lucius had departed with was escorted by a heavily armed contingent of Darius’ soldiers. Many of the common folk suspected that Darius had ordered the assassination of the king on the road in some sort of planned coup. Luckily for Darius, no one in any position of real power believed the rumors.

  Darius decided that the time had come for him to step up the search effort for the king’s missing caravan. He took a detour on his way to the artificer’s guild, stopping by one of the seedier taverns on the city’s south side. The bar, aptly named “Terror’s Legs” for its position against the great stone wall, was always full of patrons willing to trade some information for a few coins. Even early in the morning on a bright sunny day, the stench of alcohol and vomit assaulted the dignified captain’s nostrils as he opened the rickety door to the tavern.