61 - Grim Harvest (IV)
A goblin victory was a glorious affair.
With no one to stab and nothing to bleed, the ancestral rage hungered still, dragging its host on a carnival of ever increasing acts of depravity. Friends turned on each other to claim the shiniest treasures. Rivals danced together in pools of blood. Goblins gorged themselves on the cuisine of the tall men, and where no food could be found, the lust drove them to dine on the tall men themselves, from the armour they wore to the bones under their skin.
One legend spoke of a warrior so consumed by hatred that he grabbed a fistful of stones and swallowed them whole, and his power was forever enshrined in the name he earned—Toothless.
Then there was fire. There was always fire.
As Stump scaled the hill, leaping over golden bowls, ivory lockboxes, and fallen tribesmen, it was the fire that smelled the worst.
A pile of the dead had been gathered near a pyre, and two goblins less seized by anger were dutifully hauling bodies into it.
Fire was destruction, but it was also rebirth. It was a gateway to the burning afterworld alongside Grumul, though their god was dead and his domain likely gone with him.
But tradition was harder to kill.
When Stump didn't spot Griza among the slain, he leapt past the other goblins with only a passing glance. The many necklaces they'd stolen jingled as they briefly turned his way.
He swept a jagged knife from the hand of a dead tribesman, found his Firestone in the dirt, and ducked through the front entrance.
Pools of water glistened from where the Rainstone had reached, and smoke billowed beneath the ceiling, obscuring twilight spearing in through high windows. Three goblins darted from one room to the next, peering over the many plates and goblets they hugged to their chests. Another brought his hammer down on a section of wall with relentless fury, yelling his own name.
"Wood-Smasher! Wood-Smasher smashes all!"
A clatter sounded from out of sight, and the snarls of a scuffle came from the other direction. A goblin rolled into the hallway and crashed into the wall, dislodging a hanging portrait, then skittered away on all fours.
Where are you, Thrung?
Stump stealthily collected his Rainstone and moved ahead, playing the part. He yipped and hollered and followed the path back to the cellar as best as he could remember.
Thankfully he didn't have to think very hard.
"Fire! Fire!" came the cries of the burning.
A flaming goblin thrashed into view, bouncing off chairs and tables before collapsing in a barbecued heap. Another hopped away on one leg and swatted at his scorched foot.
Stump darted the way they came and found the long cellar hallway flickering with firelight. Several dead goblins lay around the body of Ivis. Smoke coughed through the open doorway and the sounds of battle were carried on a chant that almost drew a smile out of Stump.
"Show no fear! Show no fear!" said Wick and Durgish. Tallas was a little off tempo. Hadder's voice was somewhere in there too, and all of them were wrapped in the rolling fury of Ilora's bellows.
They're still fighting, Stump marvelled.
"Run! Fire!" A goblin scampered up the steps with wild eyes, one ear cleaved halfway off and the other crackling with smoke. Two more stepped over him in their desperate escape.
"The fire dancer is below! Rally the king! King Fire-Spitter! Find him!" another screeched.
Stump mimicked the panic and grunted as the goblins slammed him against the wall in their retreat. He followed them through the manor, beneath collapsed beams and over pockets of fire, and covertly tossed the Rainstone into a room entirely engulfed.
"Fire-Spitter! Fire-Spitter!" the goblins called as they passed the dining hall, where other members of the tribe feasted in animalistic delight on spilled and splattered dishes. They jammed apples and cakes into their mouths, licked wine off the floor, and wrestled over a bowl of sugar berries.
The greenhouse door had been breached, and a fine haze enveloped the jittery bodies of tribesmen caught in hysterical laughter or in sputtering conversation with Grumul. The cold room held shattered bottles of brandy and tipsy fighters, the sunroom was nothing more than broken glass and burning chairs, the—
Stump's teeth rattled as he hit the floor. He licked away the taste of blood, pushed himself upright, and searched for where he'd dropped the knife.
Her fingers found it before he did.
The weapon glinted in Griza's hand.
"Watch yourself, mutt!" she said in a spray of spittle.
Heat rose to his face. "Griza—"
Her tackle forced the air from his lungs. She mounted his chest, brought the jagged knife to his neck and her face close to his, and peered through rain-slick strands of white hair.
Maybe he'd forgotten to alter his eyes with his magic, or maybe Griza had committed their look to memory, but whatever the reason, surprise reigned in her bloodlust.
"Ergul?" she said.
He couldn't decide if she was happy or not.
"It's me," he confirmed.
She snarled—not happy.
"What are you doing?" she whispered loudly.
He considered his next words carefully. "Ending it."
She replied with a baffled stare. He braced for an argument, but before he could load his reasoning onto his tongue, she hoisted him to his feet.
"Then you'll need this," she said, and curled his fingers around the weapon.
He blinked at it, surprised, then swallowed hard. "Where is he?"
Her face twisted at the question. "I'll stay out of your way," she spat. "But I'm not helping you."
"What about Yeza? Is she safe? Is she here?"
Griza shook her head. "Back home, in the bone pit. Fire-Spitter was afraid you'd save her." She shoved Stump hard enough to unbalance him. "Now go before they notice me."
She had given him more than he expected, but before either of them could offer parting words of luck, Wick's voice rang out.
"Up! Up! Drive them out! Show no fear!"
They're not fleeing? Stump thought with more than a twinge of worry.
In response to the rally a number of goblins closed in with frothing rage—those in the dining hall abandoned their meals, several burst out of the cold room, and more still clambered in through the windows.
"Kill the tall men! Kill!" they roared. "Our king is with us!"
Stump glanced left and right, and found a new foe every which way. Wick, run! Go to Rilla!
He turned…
Thrung.
The dining room doors lay burning in the threshold, a natural barrier to any normal goblin passing through. But the one they called Fire-Spitter was not normal. He snapped a diagonal splinter with his heel and stepped through with all the leisure of a riverside stroll.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
Fire bent around his toes, licked up his legs and arms, and lapped gently at his face. And Thrung breathed deep like he was stealing a whiff of crisp morning air.
His burned half was no less cooked than it had been. His unharmed side was as pristine as Stump remembered, and on his head lay a heavy crown of splintering bone and fire-forged trinkets of blue, green, yellow, red, white, and black—the colours of the matrons.
"Kill them all! Bring me their heads and I will give you Jaessun's reward!" he croaked.
More fighters came in behind him, yelping as they leapt over the flames. They bounded through the dining hall and into the hallway with Stump and Griza. She followed, swept away by the bloodlust, but Stump didn't. He shouldered the current, knife in hand.
Thrung met his eyes. He frowned in confusion, then retreated half a step at the sight of the weapon. His scorched lips moved around words, but all that escaped him was a puff of smoke, like an extinguished candle, when Stump dropped the illusion.
"Ergul?" said the king.
Stump had never heard his true name uttered with such horror.
It almost made him smile.
With one arm he arced a lumen over the table, and with the other he held the dagger up to strike. The dining hall erupted in a white Flash. He darted forwards, blinking through the collateral blindness, kicking aside fallen trays and mashes of highborn delicacies.
A war cry escaped his lips.
Thrung drew his arms from left to right like he was yanking an imaginary curtain, and a sheet of fire curved between them.
Stump kicked off the table and veered around the scorching heat, dropping a double in his place with Moving Image.
"Ergul!" Terror gave way to hatred as Thrung punched through the burning veil. His fiery fist rippled the phantasmal goblin, but his eyes widened and fissures crackled all over his body as his head snapped around to the real danger.
Stump circled behind and pushed off the wine-soaked remains of a flan. The goblin king spun, raised his burned arm, and caught the blade in his palm. They crashed into the wall, and the blood-stained steel broke through the back of the goblin king's hand and threatened his neck.
Stump pushed the knife deeper and walloped Thrung's jaw. Each strike scattered flakes of charred skin like cinders from a fire, burning Stump's split and bleeding knuckles. He screamed through the pain.
"Get off!" Thrung roared through a blind tackle, sending them twirling in a whirlwind of sizzling heat.
White flashed as Stump's head rattled off a chair. Smoke and heat speared his throat, but he only gripped the blade tighter. It was his anchor. His harpoon in the skin of his enemy. He pulled himself towards it and brought his fist down again and again, pounding through air and fire to find goblin flesh.
But Thrung fought, too. His kicks shuddered against hide armour. Fire singed the bucklers. A fork bounced off harmlessly. He shouldered Stump's chest, kicked his shins, clawed his arms.
"Take… off… your… armour!" the goblin king demanded between slugs.
With a second tackle they barrelled over the table in a chorus of shattering glass. Pain lashed Stump's skin. Jets of flame zipped blindly, lighting tapestries and decorative ferns.
The knife left his grasp, and he landed on the floor with a breathless grunt.
But Thrung was already on his feet. Through an agonized howl he pulled the knife out of his palm and touched the wound with a tongue of flame, cauterizing it instantly. He squared his shoulders, glaring menacingly through bits of meat and vegetables stuck to his face, and stoked fire around his fingertips.
Stump rolled under the table, barely evading a scorching lance that crashed somewhere behind and spewed a wave of heat. He scampered out the other side, swept up a carving knife, and leapt back across the table.
Cups tumbled at his lunge. The knife whistled in a wide diagonal arc. Thrung straightened and spun away, but the blade bit flesh and painted the wall with steaming blood.
Stump crashed to the floor in the momentum, then rose again and stepped over one of the goblin king's severed fingers and pressed the attack, swiping left and right, cutting into air and flesh and flame. He shrieked as his hand seared, tasted blood as his teeth clattered from a riposte, and leapt back when his shoulder sizzled with embers.
But Thrung persisted. He stepped under a downward slash and pummelled Stump's chin. Another scraped his cheek, and a fire-wreathed fist to the eye made half his world go black.
He slipped in a puddle of booze and fell to a knee. Thrung's foot came up to meet him, and all sound cut away. The wall hit hard, the floor even harder. He blinked, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stand again.
Blood pooled with the wine around his cheek, distorting the reflection of the goblin king above and the magic swirling around his hand.
A heavy heel pressed into Stump's back. Heat sizzled by his ear. "At least you won't die a coward," Thrung whispered in the crackling tones of burning flesh.
Tiny ripples disturbed splotches of blood near Stump's eyes. The vibrations strengthened until a shrill war cry rattled the floorboards.
The heat vanished when Thrung turned to Griza's shout. He stumbled as she leapt, raining fists and claws and teeth faster than the flames could leave his hands. She was on his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist as she battered his blackened skin.
"Go, Ergul!" she said. "Run!"
"No, Griza…" Stump squeezed the words from his chest, but they only emerged a whisper.
She and Thrung toppled chairs and shuddered the table in their struggle. He threw her atop it and scorched her arm with a flaming whip. She rolled to her side with a yelp, curled her fingers around a fork, and spun back with a downward strike.
But he was faster.
"Traitor!" he growled, and plunged a knife into her belly.
"No!" Stump roared.
Puddles vibrated again, but this time it was his cry. He shook with Grumul's rage and rallied his body against the burning and the pain, and pushed himself to his knees as the horde burst into the room.
"They're coming!" a goblin bellowed.
"Tall men! More tall men!" said another.
Over a dozen tribesmen stampeded into the dining hall, making for the exit. The fearless chant of the Stillwater Fellowship rang behind them.
Stump collapsed again, knocked to the floor by a retreating goblin. He tried to rise a second time, but took a foot to the face, then rolled away and pressed himself against the wall, and saw Thrung on the far side of three or four others. Terror seized the goblin king at the sight of his fleeing army, and although he met the eyes of Stump once more, he allowed himself to be swept away in the flurry.
"Coward," Stump wheezed, but the insult was buried under frightful hollers. He moved to follow the herd, but the goblins were faster, and knocked him down as they shouldered for the door. Only once they were gone could he hobble after them.
Blood leaked from wounds he didn't know he had. Pain thrummed from a dozen points in his body, but he didn't stop. He stepped into the evening gloom, over the slain invaders and around the corpses of Pugg and Gorash, and wedged himself between the remains of the palisade.
To the right came the voices of Rilla and Morg, and the dwarven reinforcements from Ruggan's farm, and ahead were the tiny shapes of the broken goblin army, scattering through the fields. There were no more than two or three dozen left—the numbers of a standard tribe, but with no matrons to lead them.
Stump fished the Sending Stone from his pocket.
"Thrung," he said.
Far ahead one of the shapes stopped and turned to the manor. Stump could hear the fearful ragged breaths on the other side, but Thrung didn't reply.
"You're a coward," Stump said, with a little more strength. "You always were."
The stone went silent, and the goblin king ran.
Stump inhaled, filling his lungs with smoke and soot and the stench of the dead, and bellowed loud enough for the tribe to hear.
"COWARD!"
The word echoed over the horizon as the last of the goblins vanished between flickering stalks of goldhush.
He found her on the table.
"Griza…" Stump said, climbing next to her. He slipped a bloody hand under her neck, and another behind her knees and tried to stand with her in his arms, but was thwarted by the pain.
"Don't," she gurgled. "It hurts." Her fingers wrapped around the hilt sprouting from her stomach.
His face went cold at the sight of it. Blood had spilled down her sides and coloured what little white remained of the tablecloth.
"I didn't get him," he said, and the admission hurt nearly as much as the throbbing in his body.
"You didn't run," she managed. Blood dribbled off her tongue. "You were brave, like a goblin."
He cupped her cheek. "I was angry. You were brave."
She shook her head and her lips quivered with the tears welling in her eyes. "No," she said. "I'm scared, Stump."
He would've smiled at her invoking of his warname in any other scenario, but the tenor of her voice frightened him—acceptance.
"Don't be. We have healers here," he said, almost pleading. "Durgish! Eskel!" he called, but no one came running. Around them the fires raged and the manor snapped and creaked, and somewhere the trailing end of combat rang out with the goblins who hadn't fled. "Durgish! Someone!"
"Stump," she said, resting a cold hand in his. "I'm sorry I didn't come with you. I couldn't leave. Not like you."
Why is she talking like this? "Thrung's gone now, and you don't need to go back. You're with me, now. Gold-Blooded. That's who you are. Thrung didn't grant you a warname in his tribe, but I will. In my company."
The bloodlust soared with his rage, and he uttered every word with the power of Grumul, as if anger could seal wounds. Save her, he thought. She's not dying. She can't.
She smiled sadly. "Gold-Blooded. I like the way it sounds." She squeezed his hand. "I'm cold."
He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her and remembered holding her in the barn. "Gold-Blooded," he said. "The Fearless."
"Fear…fearless…" she mumbled. "Like you… Stump… bravest of goblin…kind…"
Please, Grumul. Lumensa. Although he didn't have the virtue, he summoned the feeling that had coursed through him on Seabrace. He dipped his mind into Lumensa's glow, the weave of power all around them, and called to the goblin god he once worshipped. There must be a spell. Gods can save people, can't they? I'll go blind. I'll trade my sight. Save her…
"Fearless, just like me. Tell me your name again," he said, if only to keep her from falling asleep. He hugged her tighter, and prayed harder, but she wasn't getting any warmer. "Tell me. Tell me your name."
He pleaded for a long time, in his mind and out loud, until his throat was raw and his thoughts were numb and the rage smouldered like the dying fires around them. Eventually he stopped, and she never said her name again.
Only then did a god reply.
Tenet of Lumensa Fulfilled - Virtue +1 (4/10)
No. I don't want it. Take it back. Take your fucking virtue back. He wanted so badly to forget, to unrealize, to drag himself back into denial where hope burned, however dim. Take it back, he begged, but knew no one was listening.
Because the gods were dead.
And so was she.
He held her until the warmth left her body and the heat of the fires fell away.