Forging the Half-Goblin Sorcerer Page 14

  “Tomorrow morning when the Thaumaturgist departs for an audience with the king, your men will wait for him in a side passage.” Myrel listens in disbelief. They are plotting to kill Krage and blame the crime on a member of the king’s guard. She has to warn her father.

  When the conspirators leave, Myrel heads for her parent’s apartment. They are surprised to see her and more surprised by the warning she brings. Krage thanks her and tells her not to worry. Now that he is forewarned, he can deal with the situation. She takes a lamp from her father’s study as she leaves. It is late; she encounters no one moving about the corridors. She passes through the disserted scriptorium and proceeds up the staircase. There is indeed a latch that locks the lid of the altar. She releases it and climbs back into the catacombs. When she closes the lid she hears the lock engage behind her. She has survived her adventure undetected. Why would someone in the temple want to kill my father?” she ponders. She wraps herself in a blanket and falls into an agitated sleep.

  The next day Myrel frets. She wants to reassure herself that her father is all right. She could knock on the door to the catacomb and end her test, but it is only the fifth day. It is too soon to leave. She decides to wait until night and reenter the storage room to see what more she can learn. While waiting for evening, Myrel studies the altar lid that covers the hidden staircase. She finds scratches and fresh scrapes on the edges of the lid that betray the altar’s hidden purpose. She wonders, are there other secret passages in the catacombs? She searches all day until she discovers a suspicious set of scratches on a sarcophagus near the door through which she first entered the catacombs. It is clear that the lid has been repeatedly opened. This lid is not locked. With all her strength, she pushes the lid to the side.

  There is no hidden passage, only a solid vault containing a small wooden box that Myrel removes and opens. It holds a large key and a scroll of parchment. She unrolls the ancient parchment to discover a map. The map is a layout of the temple. Ten floor plans are stacked on top of each other. There are levels that Myrel didn’t know existed. Black lines of various lengths interconnect the levels. Myrel realizes the lines represent passages—probably secret. There are more than two dozen. Instructions for locating the entrances to the passages are indicated. Myrel dares not keep the map, so she studies it for hours until she is sure she can draw every detail perfectly before returning it to the sarcophagus. She fails to guess the purpose of the key.

  That night, when she is again hidden in the scriptorium, the three conspirators reappear. “How could your plan have gone so wrong? Are you totally incompetent?” said the man who sounded like a military commander.

  His subordinate responds, “Lord, I was behind the Thaumaturgist as he walked down the passage. Everything was set as planned, but as the Thaumaturgist approached the ambush point, six of the king’s guard came running down the hall to the spot where my men were hiding. I heard only muffled cries. The king’s guard knew exactly where the ambush would occur. The Thaumaturgist walked by like he was unaware that anything had happened. Someone must have informed the master-at-arms of our plan.”

  “How is that possible?” exclaimed a voice. “Except for your dead guards, we are the only ones who knew the time and place of the attack. Will the disappearance of your men be noticed?”

  “No, I posted orders transferring them to a remote outpost the day before. Their companions here in the city will think they have been reassigned.”

  Myrel learns nothing about why they are trying to kill her father, but for the moment he is alive. Myrel stays three more days in the catacombs and makes two more visits to the scriptorium but has no further encounters with the conspirators. On the ninth day, she again studies the map. With the details fresh in her memory, she knocks on the catacomb door and waits to be released.

  No one opens the door. Myrel fights her swelling panic when she realizes that the secret stairway inside the altar is the only other exit and it is locked. Would someone eventually come or would she be left to die? She decides not to overreact. She will wait until evening and see if the attendant reappears. He does not show, and soon the lamps start to burn out. Myrel extinguishes all but two lamps to conserve what oil is left. She berates herself for not saving a bit of the oil each day in the event something like this happened. In the morning, the last lamp flickers and dies out.

  She sits in the blackness with her back against the door. She closes her eyes because there is no reason to open them and listens for sounds in the corridor behind the door. All she hears is her own heart pounding in her head. It takes all her strength to calm herself, but as she does, she feels a tingling in her fingers. She opens her eyes to find the vault no longer pitch black. She is startled to see a blue light radiate from her fingertips and weakly illuminate the catacombs. The sensation is remarkably calming. As the tingling passes through her, she hears a disembodied voice speak inside her head, “Use the key.”

  Chapter 11

  City of Neu Ardonbrae: The Giant Skull-Headed Goblin

  Trak’s new smelting operation will commence in a few weeks, and his special weapons projects are off the drawing board and in the hands of the craftsmen. The master-at-arms has never gotten back to him about his idea for a new style of combat, and Trak has taken Hogarth’s lack of enthusiasm as an indication that it has no merit. He has not seen the Thaumaturgist since he was instructed to move back into the temple. One evening as Trak stands on his balcony staring out over the lights of the city, he recognizes Krage’s voice, “May I enter?” Trak turns to see Krage standing in the doorway. The Thaumaturgists joins him on the balcony. “During the fifteen years I was on the Isle of Uisgebeatha, this view is the sight I missed most.” Trak remains silent, waiting for Krage to come to the reason for his visit.

  “The king has decided to join Lord Lizardthroat on the border. He believes the invasion from the south will commence in two weeks. As Thaumaturgist, it is customary that I accompany him. I would like you to come as well.”

  “Does the king’s army need another smith?”

  “You will not be going as a smith; you will be my assistant. We leave in two days.”

  Trak turns his responsibilities in the smithy over to Gerum and readies his new armor and weapons. He hands Gerum a sack containing most of his profits from making helms for Melkerei’s police. “Give this to the widow of the man who was killed when the ore cart collapsed.”

  Gerum is surprised by the gesture, “I’m sure it will be appreciated. May the ancestors speed your safe return.” As they embrace, Trak realizes that he is not sure he wants to return to the capital. He doesn’t want to be the king’s or any other noble’s pawn.

  Trak makes a final visit to the balcony where he first met Myrel and pens a final message. “I want to say good-bye. I don’t know when or even if I’ll return. A girl from your school told me you were testing to become an Initiate. I hope serving in the Temple brings you the happiness you seek.”

  At the appointed time, Trak stands in the cobbled stone square in front of the palace along with the master-at-arms, the royal guard of two hundred, three hundred porters and seventy-five handcarts. The king and a lanky boy of about sixteen, whom Trak takes to be the king’s son, emerge from the palace and climb into a closed liter. Krage in his scarlet robe climbs into another, and without fanfare, the master-at-arms orders the caravan to move out.

  Soldiers run in front and clear the streets of delivery wagons and merchants preparing for the morning’s market activities. Trak falls in behind the main body of guardsmen that precede the liters and wagons out of the city. He is pleased to see each guardsman is armed with a steel sword and carries a new shield over his left shoulder. Each shield bears the king’s sigil. a freshly painted golden hawk flying on a white field.

  Trak imagines that he will be walking by himself all the way to the border, but when the caravan clears the city’s wall, Krage emerges from his liter and joins him. He has removed his scarlet robe and is dressed in his boiled leather v
est. “A stroll to the border and back will do wonders for my health,” he proclaims to Trak as he catches up with him puffing from the exertion. “I enjoy times when a new phase in my life begins. I feel that today is such a time.” He glances at Trak and notes that his cheek-scar is turning white with age. He wears his sword and leather armor comfortably. The Thaumaturgist observes Trak is no longer the wide-eyed boy that left the island six months before.

  It will take ten days for the caravan to meander down the coastal road and reach the border. Trak shares a tent with Krage and performs the routine duties expected of an apprentice. Krage’s tent is always near the king’s and is heavily guarded. Krage spends his evenings reading. He loans Trak an alchemy text to occupy his idle time.

  On the third night, the party camps north of the Dragon’s Belly. Trak trails behind Krage and the king as they climb the hill overlooking the lava beds. They are subdued, remembering the events of a terrible day nineteen years ago. Neither speaks as a light spring snow descends and slowly covers the dragon’s black scales. For twenty minutes, King Giforing stares and relives the battle that cost a thousand goblin lives. He hopes that his current campaign will not be a repeat of the earlier disaster. He has to believe that the new iron swords will make the difference. He turns and heads toward his tent.

  Krage thinks of all those who have died because he impulsively ran off with King Red’s queen. King Giforing has stood by him and has given protection to the queen even though most of the nobles want her shipped back to King Red. Krage acted out of love for the queen and without thought for the consequences to the goblin kingdom. His actions seem, even to him, unbelievably selfish. He can think of no way to repair the damage he has done. Perhaps the new iron swords are a partial repayment of the debt he owes the kingdom.

  Trak follows Krage as he leaves the hill and walks toward a small meadow covered in a sea of blooming orange marshmallows and fluffy-white meadowsweets. “It is here we buried a thousand infantry,” the Thaumaturgist says, addressing no one in particular. Trak can see no trace of the mounds that must have once dotted the meadow. Krage turns toward Trak and suggests, “Perhaps, you should harvest the mallow leaves and meadow wart. We will need them later.” To treat battle injuries, Trak thinks to himself. He gathers enough plants to fill a handcart. He knows that horsetail and goutweed will also be needed. He will look for them as they journey toward the border.

  When the column marches through Halban by the Sea, Trak learns that Duke Amin’s army left the Isle of Uisgebeatha and passed through on their way to the border a week before. He wishes he had time to sail across the channel and visit with the ancient goblin in the woods. He imagines her in her cave peering through her magnifying glass at a tiny blossom. It frightens him to think old age could take her before he can return.

  ***

  In his fortress in the south, King Red is inpatient. He has been ready to invade the goblin kingdom for months and detests having to wait for the roads to dry. Finally, he stands before his assembled captains on the eve of their departure. He shouts at his officers, “Remember you fight for your king and country. Your cause is just. Your enemy is the inhuman spawn of the devil, himself. God will guide you to victory.”

  Save your rhetoric for the recruits, thinks a veteran commander who wishes he could avoid the speeches and prayers that accompany the start of every campaign. The sooner we start, the sooner we can come home. He knows the attack on the border is a ruse to draw Duke Amin off his island. The border is only a two day march from King Red’s fortress. With luck we will be back home in a fortnight. There could be a little fighting, but the odds are stacked in our favor, he thinks. He doesn’t feel particularly anxious for himself or his fellow soldiers.

  Red has assembled a modest force of twelve hundred infantry and two hundred cavalry. They are supported by an equal number of porters and craftsmen. As the army approaches the border, the field commanders brief their captains on the expected enemy’s strength and location. “Our first encounter will come tomorrow when we ford the river.” As predicted, the advanced guard encounters resistance at the ford, but after a dozen bowman hidden in the trees on the opposite bank shower the crossing troops with a couple of volleys, they break and flee before the advancing army. The news of the successful crossing pleases King Red, and he orders the entire army to cross the river and camp in the meadow on the other side. One of his generals cautions that it is wiser to keep the river between the army and any potential attackers. The king ignores the caution, and the main army crosses the river and sets up a temporary camp. Guards are posted, but no attempt is made to fortify the encampment.

  Concealed in the woods, Trak stands beside Krage who is positioned behind the king and his son waiting for the dawn. Trak has donned his skull helm and mask. He stands two heads taller than the average goblin and his muscular arms ripple beneath tight bands of iron that bear wicked spikes. On his left arm he holds his newly fashioned shield. Trak has forged in steel the gory image of a human face, flayed and stretched over the shield’s surface. To friend and foe alike, he looks like the king’s champion—the warrior chosen to represent the king in single combat. Trak looks more menacing than he feels.

  Trak thinks, at least I’m in the safest place possible. I have the entire king’s guard here to protect me. He leans on his spear as he regards the nervous behavior of the king’s son who stands in front of him. Pimples!—Trak realizes that this is the boy the duke’s niece so adamantly refuses to marry. Trak agrees with Dorla——he doesn’t look like much of a husband. From the dark shade of the forest Trak gazes on the meadow as it becomes sunlit. A monarch flutters among the spring flowers and reminds Trak of Myrel and her butterfly zoo. A league away he sees the colorful tents of King Red’s encampment arranged in parade-ground orderliness.

  Lord Lizardthroat has successfully positioned his soldiers in the forest during the night. His army is crouching a short distance away on the king’s left flank. Deeper in the trees, Duke Amin’s troops stand in reserve. At dawn with the sun at their backs, Melkerei’s infantry advance at a slow run. By staying under the cover of the tall grass, they cover half the distance to the camp before they are spotted. Trak watches a sentry turn and run through the camp shouting, “Goblins! Goblins! We are attacked!” The porters and craftsmen bolt out of their tents and flee for the river while soldiers emerge holding their swords and attempt to take defensive positions.

  Trak watches a thousand Spore wearing the Blue Dagger sigil race screaming into the camp and engage King Red’s disorganized troops; many of whom are shoeless. At first, the goblins have the best of it. The men fight without their armor and shields. The nimbler goblins slay the first men they encounter, but by the time the attackers reach the center of the encampment, they face men who have time to grab their shields and stand shoulder to shoulder to meet the attackers. The goblins find it difficult to penetrate their formations. Their attack stalls, and slowly the goblins begin to tire. Fortunately, their swords hold up, it strengthens their will to know they can meet the steel of the men with steel of their own. Trak is mesmerized by the sound of steel striking steel, the shouts of the commanders and the screams of the attackers and the wounded.

  The goblin king watches from the woods, and, excited by the goblin’s early success, turns to Trak and says, “Congratulations, Lord Dragonfire, your swords are a wonder.”

  Trak replies, “The swords are strong, My Liege, but I fear the battle goes badly.”

  “What do you mean? We have taken them by surprise and their losses are heavy,” retorts the king.

  “Yes, My Liege, but your infantry tires and the battle is about to turn. I suggest you withdraw your forces before they are butchered.”

  The king watches as the horror Trak predicts begins to unfold. His mind flashes back to the Battle of the Dragon’s Belly. After witnessing a dozen goblins hacked down by men who patiently crouched behind their shields waiting for an opening, he looks at Krage who advices, “I recommend you order a retr
eat and fight again another day.” The order to retreat is signaled by the trignani, the battle horns, and Lord Lizardthroat is only too ready to comply. Duke Amin’s troops are ordered forward to protect the Blue Dagger retreat.

  King Red, emboldened by the shift in fortunes, orders his army to advance against the retreating goblins. When Duke Amin’s advancing infantry collide with King Red’s men, the goblins regain the advantage. The duke’s troops are fresh and massed in attack formations while the men are tired and strung out over the battlefield. Again, the goblin advantage is short lived. When scattered elements of King Red’s cavalry begin arriving, the duke’s army is beaten back to the tree line. The cavalry was caught unprepared by the goblin attack, and only now have a few riders managed to saddle and enter the battle.

  Trak is stunned by how fast a few mounted riders turn the battle in favor of King Red. The goblins have no cavalry of their own because a warhorse is too large for a goblin to control. The goblins with their short swords cannot get close enough to strike at the mounted soldiers. A few try to slash at the legs of a horse, but most who try are trampled beneath the warhorse’s hooves. “Spears not swords is the answer,” Trak mutters to himself. Trak looks for Lord Farg, the duke’s son, but he does not see him at the head of the duke’s vanguard. He reflects it is odd that the fate of Farg has become important to him. As the goblins dissolve into the forest, King Red’s army appears unwilling to follow them and surrender the advantage their horses give them in the open meadow.

  It appears the battle is over. The killing has been hard to watch, but Trak is relieved he never had to draw his sword or heft his spear. Then someone behind Trak shouts a warning. He turns to see a hundred men have circled behind the goblin king and his guard and are now charging from the rear. Half a league away, the men on the battlefield, alerted by the shouts of the attacking men, begin running to their support. The goblin king and his entourage, Trak included, are trapped between the attack from the rear and the men in the meadow.