The Wandering Inn_Volume 1, page 636
“Who am I? I am Greydath.”
The name meant nothing to Rags or the other Goblins. Save for Noears. He moaned aloud and fell to his knees. The old Goblin laughed again. He stood tall and his voice echoed in the forest, across the lake. And now he was taller still. A giant contained in a small body.
“In years past they knew me across the world. They shouted my name. Enemies, allies. The world trembled as we built, and then destroyed. And though many have forgotten his face, so long as one Goblin lives, his dream continues. I served Velan the Kind. And he named me his servant of arms.”
The old Goblin was decrepit, scarred by thousands of battles, missing most of his teeth. An elderly, battered warrior. And then he drew his sword out of the ground and he was different. His eyes blazed, his smile could eclipse the sun. He raised his blade and Goblins fell to their knees around him. His voice echoed as he raised his sword, proud, unwavering. Another Goblin, dignified, ancient, and vast as the sky spoke his name to the world.
“I am Greydath of Blades. Once, a Goblin Lord.”
He bowed, mockingly, towards Rags. She felt her skin chill and freeze. A low sound swept through the Goblins, like wind, like the heart of a storm.
Here stood a Goblin Lord. Out of nowhere. It was impossible and yet—who could deny it? Surely no other Goblin had his skill, his strength. And no other Goblin could lie, would lie about this.
Something was wrong, though. Rags searched Greydath for any sign that he was who he said he was. And found nothing. He had no pull among the tribe, no mental draw or connection that told him he was her greater. He had no aura that marked him as unique, or even as a Hob. That was something intrinsic to all Goblinkind and he lacked it.
The awe the other Goblins held him in was a product of his might, not anything else. Rags had felt the pull of Chieftains, weak and strong. She felt the distant call of the Goblin Lord, urging her to heed his call. All Goblins called each other, all were connected. But here stood a Goblin Lord, a true Lord, a vassal of the previous Goblin King himself and she felt nothing.
He…was like a ghost in the world. He didn’t fit with the others. He didn’t pull at her, didn’t meld with her being like other Goblins did. Why? Or more probably, how?
Rags narrowed her eyes. She didn’t know if this was Greydath’s choice or…a consequence of the last Goblin King’s death. And yet, she did not doubt for a second he was telling the truth. Greydath stood with his rusted and battered greatsword stuck in the dirt beside him, ragged grey beard waving in the cold wind, and still he crushed everyone with his presence.
But why had he come here—no, why had he revealed himself now of all times? Because the enemy had been too great? From the way he had simply wounded the Chevalier, Rags was certain that wasn’t it. She stared at him and forced saliva into a dry mouth.
“Why are you here?”
The old Goblin’s wrinkled brows raised. He grinned at her with his remaining teeth.
“To see whether you are worthy.”
“Am I?”
He pondered the question as the hearts of thousands of Goblins thundered in the silence. Here stood a Goblin Lord. And his reply was simple.
“No.”
He shook his head and Rags stood, staring at him. She felt crushed, though it was one word. She felt small and worthless. Greydath looked at her and she was a child, looking up at him.
“Why?”
“You are too young. Too small. Too weak.”
He stooped, bending down to look at her, a kindly Goblin who had brought down empires.
“But most of all? You are not enough.”
“Enough?”
“You do not crush others with who you are. That is all.”
Rags did not understand and Greydath saw it. He turned and raised his sword. His voice echoed across the lake. He swung his blade and there was a tearing sound, a howl. Goblins threw themselves flat. Across the lake, the waters parted, cut by something Rags could not see. They flowed together and Greydath roared.
“Overwhelming! Goblin Lords define themselves by their overwhelming talent! In combat, with sword or axe or bow or magic! With their minds, or hearts! Goblin Lords must stand above all others!”
He swung his weapon again and a tree fell. Hundreds of feet high, it tumbled into the waters. Greydath raised his sword and roared.
“A Goblin Lord rules over other Goblins! They are unmatched! I am the greatest of blades, the one who could not be defeated by force of arms! I am Greydath! And you would be a Lord? Equal to me?”
Rags couldn’t answer. The air grew tight around her throat and she gasped for air. Greydath laughed and turned away. She coughed, breathing in painfully.
“You. You are not enough, child Chieftain. Tremborag is not enough. He is old, lazy, fat on his arrogance. Garen Redfang is complacent in his strength. That is what I see. But I wonder, is the Goblin Lord truly as flawed as others claim?”
“Is he—he—”
Is he like you? Rags could barely breathe. Greydath laughed mockingly again.
“No. He is young. But he must be worthy of his position. But even if he is—I rode with the Goblin King. He is not my equal. And you are not worthy, child! Not yet. None of you are worthy to even remember the face of the Goblin King!”
Where had the kindly old grinning Goblin gone? Greydath swung his sword again and this time Rags felt a hammer drive her flat into the ground. He’d struck her! With something—air?
She gasped and curled up into a ball, feeling flashes of pain. Now the other Goblins moved. Instinctively they tried to protect their Chieftain. One paused as he stepped in front of Greydath—the Goblin Lord swung his sword and the Hob flew through the air, crashing into others. Other Goblins surged forwards; Greydath sent them flying or crashing down with casual swings of his sword.
Overwhelming.
“Old one. Stop. Stop.”
Pyrite stumbled forwards. Greydath paused, sword raised.
“Brat.”
Deferentially, Pyrite bowed his head to Greydath as Rags uncurled, gasping.
“Too far. You are too much.”
“I am.”
There was no apology in Greydath’s tone. He turned.
“I am going, young Pyrite. Going to see what the Goblin Lord is. Your Chieftain is too small, yet. She may be something if she grows, may be not. I will not wait.”
He began to walk away. Rags croaked a word, and then she scrabbled after him. She grabbed Greydath’s foot as he walked away, ignoring the mud that clung to her body. He stopped and stared down at her.
“Why?”
Rags could only say that word. But what she meant was why everything? Why was he in hiding? Why did Pyrite know him? Why had he not—not—
Why had he not led his people as they died? Greydath bent down. His voice was low as he met Rags’ eyes for the first time. She saw sorrow in the depths of his crimson gaze. Sorrow, a burning hatred that had lasted for ages, and something else. Regret?
“Because I cannot be King.”
Then he lifted Rags up by one hand and casually tossed her aside. Rags tumbled through the air and landed poorly on the ground. The other Goblins backed away as Greydath strode through the destroyed camp, out of the forest and into the distance. When Rags picked herself up, he was gone.
—-
The Goblin Lord had been here all along. He had hidden himself, a legend from the past, among them. Poisonbite was almost out of her mind, gnawing at her hand, remembering every time she had been around the old Goblin. And he had stayed in Tremborag’s mountain for years! Why?
No one knew. But they had all seen him, all heard his words. Their Chieftain was not ready to become a Goblin Lord. That was natural, perhaps. But to see him and to see the small Goblin who’d picked herself up afterwards—
Overwhelming. That was the word that defined Goblin Lords. So Greydath had said. Overwhelming. He had been unmatched in battle. The Humans who had decimated Rags’ careful strategies had broken themselves on his blade. And now he was gone.
The Goblins longed to follow him. Noears was sitting, pale and quiet by the fire. Redscar was staring at his sword, as if he suddenly realized he’d been playing with sticks all his life. The other Goblins were the same. They would have followed his back, abandoned their tribe without a second’s thought if he’d but asked. But—
He was like a ghost, like Rags had sensed. He had a physical presence, but no mental connection to the tribe. He had been a Goblin Lord once, yes, but he was not one now.
“Not yet.”
It was Noears who said it first. The other Goblins looked at him. He nodded to Rags. She was sitting where Greydath had tossed her, staring at the ground. He looked around.
“Not yet. Maybe not ever?”
Would that be a bad thing? A Goblin Lord was rare. And yet…Noears was staring at the place where Greydath had stood. His hands were trembling.
“Another tribe could be. Could be—”
A Goblin Lord. The thought made all of them shudder with fear and longing. The Goblin Lord to the south was not worthy, but everything in their natures cried out for one. A Goblin Lord, and a Goblin King. If Rags could not be one, then—
“No.”
A voice spoke. Noears spun. Pyrite stood over them, rubbing at his newly-healed chest. He shook his head.
“Not go. Chieftain is young. Small. But not unworthy.”
His voice gave the other Goblins pause. Yet in the face of what they’d seen—one of Tremborag’s former Hobs raised his voice, speaking in a wheedling, obsequious tone.
“Chieftain is young, yes. But you are strong. One of Greydath’s students? Could be Chieftain?”
The other Goblins held their breaths. He was suggesting treason. Pyrite stared blankly at the Hob, and then raised his hand. He made a fist and punched at the Hob’s head.
The other Hob was a warrior, and a good one. He raised his arm, yelping denials. He was going to block. So Pyrite changed the angle and arc of his punch mid-blow. He casually walloped the other Hob in the head without missing a beat. The sound was heavy and satisfying, but the blow itself made all the other Goblins gape. Across the camp, several Redfang Warriors sat up with interest. Redfang stared at Pyrite, impressed.
“Good punch.”
Pyrite shrugged as the other Hob toppled over. Redfang stared at the fallen Hob and narrowed his eyes.
“Greybeard—Greydath teach you anything?”
The big Hob paused. He shrugged impassively, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face. He was either simple as he seemed or—the other Goblins recalled Greybeard’s false persona—a truly magnificent actor. Pyrite scratched at his belly as he replied to Redfang.
“Teach some. Some. Important things, not important things. Some.”
The other Goblins looked at each other.
“How much?”
Pyrite shrugged again.
“Not much. Old things. Stories. But I left mountain long ago. Made own tribe. Long past.”
He flicked his hand and no one bought it for a second. Poisonbite narrowed her eyes.
“Rags beat your tribe.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Lots of arrows. Can’t dodge good. Plus—Garen Redfang. Good not to fight, I think.”
Pyrite steadily returned her gaze. He turned and bowed his head.
“Chieftain.”
Rags stood behind the Hob, small, looking pale. The other Goblins hesitated a second before getting to their feet. And she saw it. Rags stared at Pyrite, and then at the other Goblins.
“Not yet.”
She said the words bitterly. None of the other Goblins could look her in the eye. Save for Pyrite. He nodded and moved on.
“Chieftain, Humans are coming back. What to do?”
She blinked at him. The listening Goblins blinked at him. But Pyrite just waited, patiently as ever, for Rags’ orders.
The small Goblin hesitated. She scuffed at the ground.
“Should run.”
“Humans hunt.”
Pyrite pointed that out and she glared at him. Rags opened her mouth to tell him fighting was impossible, that Greydath had been the only one who could fight! Then her eyes caught something at Pyrite’s side. She stared.
“Broken axe.”
He blinked and looked down. The axe Rags had given him—her first gift to any of her followers after the raid with Tremborag—had broken. He lifted it and shrugged.
“Sorry.”
He handed it to her and Rags stared at the broken metal and wood. She looked around. The forest was full of trees. Tall ones. And yet, Greydath had toppled one in an instant. She stared at the fallen tree, and the Goblins saw something flicker across her face. The small Goblin was small. But then she smiled and she was a bit taller.
Their Chieftain turned to face the others and lifted the axe in her hands. She hefted it with a grunt and looked towards the trees.
“Get cutting. We do not run. We prepare.”
The Goblins looked at her and then at each other. Then they stood up. Pyrite spoke for all of them.
“Yes, Chieftain.”
—-
The next day, forty Rose Knights, Lady Bethal, and the Chevalier Thomast stopped in the same spot and saw the Goblins had not fled. If they had it wouldn’t have mattered; the Knights of the Petal were as adept at fighting on horseback as they were on foot. That they had to dismount to maneuver in the forest mattered not at all.
However, one thing had changed. Lady Bethal’s brows rose as she saw a few trees had been felled in the interior of the forest. And out of the wood the Goblins had built—
“A fortress.”
Thomast had healed from his wounds of yesterday, but still Bethal had refused to let him be first into combat. Should the Goblin with the greatsword appear again this time, he would be dealt with by others. The Rose Knights would surround the old Goblin and wear him down with numbers and magical artifacts instead. Only, it seemed that rather than send their champion out and base their strategy around him this time, the Goblins had been building.
A wall of wood, a mighty barricade from which Goblins could repel any attacking force. There were four such walls, each one twenty feet in height, forming a box amid the trees. There the Goblins had decided to make their stand, in their fortress of wood amid mud and snow. It was a worthy place to be besieged from. Bethal could spot more Goblins behind the walls, ready to hold it for as long as it took. She sighed and shook her head.
“How ingenious. They did that in one day? I would say it is commendable—but I won’t. Thomast? Destroy the walls.”
Her Chevalier nodded. Reluctantly, Bethal thought. Even after he’d been nearly killed—her heart beat faster in fury. He was too kind. He nodded at one of the Rose Knights standing next to him. The Goblins watched, curious. They had heavy shields on their walls and barriers made of thick wood. They were probably confident they could withstand however many arrows the Rose Knights had brought.
One of the Knights of the Petal who looked less bulky than the others raised a staff in their pink, gauntleted hands and pointed it towards the walls. He spoke a single word, pointed. One of the Goblins on the walls with no ears shouted an alarm—
Too late. The [Grand Fireball] spell shot through the forest and burst across the walls. Goblins screamed and disappeared into an inferno and the flash and smoke blinded everyone for a second. When it was over, a huge hole had opened up in the thick walls and thousands of Goblins were suddenly afforded a spectacular view of the Rose Knights. And vice versa.
“[Knights] can be [Mage Knights] too, little Goblins. Advance!”
Bethal’s voice snapped and the Rose Knights charged once more. They raced towards the Goblins who met them with a roar. Only, now they were boxed in, trapped by the fortress they had worked so hard to design! The Rose Knights charged towards them, intent on holding them in place and capitalizing on this mistake.
—-
The ruse lasted until the first pink knight was nearly upon her Goblins. Rags, sitting on one of the back walls, gave the order. She raised her hand and Pyrite pointed. Goblins hidden behind one of the huge trees saw the signal and pushed.
Goblins and trees. Of course, they’d cut a few down to build this stupid little fort, but they’d spent the rest of that time carefully, carefully sawing at the base of the trees, making sure they were still standing upright, but able to be pushed—
The first tree, an ancient guardian hundreds of years old, fell with a thundering crash upon the Rose Knights. They cried out, unprepared for a few thousand pounds of wood to hit them. Rags clenched her fist as two of the Knights went down, pinned by the branches. And one more had been directly hit! She shouted in celebration—
Until she saw the knight was still moving. Weakly, yes, but the impact had only dented their armor. Rags stared. The other Knights were lifting at the tree, trying to recover their comrade—
“Next tree.”
She pointed to Pyrite. He nodded and pointed to two more trees. The Hobs and Goblins hiding behind them heaved and down the trees went. It was hard to aim them of course, but it was fortunate the pink knights were such a colorful target.
One huge tree was aimed straight at Lady Bethal. She blinked at it. Ten of her Rose Knights roared as they leapt towards the tree. They braced themselves and caught the tree as it fell towards them. Rags gaped.
“More trees!”
Four more trees were toppled, but the Rose Knights were retreating out of the forest now. Two of their comrades lay on the ground—unconscious or dead, it was hard to tell. Some of the other Rose Knights had dented armor.
It was a paltry victory in Rags’ mind, but the Goblins around her cheered wildly to see the invincible Humans retreat. And without Greybeard! She could see them staring at her, and sat a bit straighter.
Overwhelming. She knew she was weak as a warrior, but her mind? Rags narrowed her eyes. What would the Human [Lady] do next? Burn the forest down? Attack from afar? Rags had prepared herself for everything, but she was still not ready for what Lady Bethal did next.
