The Wandering Inn_Volume 1, page 637
—-
“That little minx.”
Bethal narrowed her eyes as she stared at the downed trees and eyed the Goblin fortress. She couldn’t spot the Goblin Chieftain this time; if she had, she might have had her shot from afar, never mind Thomast’s objections.
One of her Rose Knights who’d survived having a tree dropped on him saluted her. His helmet was dented and he was unsteady, but his voice was clear and worried.
“Milady, they are attempting to surround our position.”
He pointed to the Goblins as they streamed slowly out of the forest. Did they have another plan or was this a feint? Were the two of her [Knights] alive? Bethal’s heart ached and her head hurt trying to figure out what might happen next.
“Sir Kerrig, it seems we’ve been caught off-guard. What do you propose we do? If the Goblins can take out two of my Knights of the Petal, is it worth risking more of your lives?”
He bowed, fearless, wobbling only a bit as he straightened.
“My Lady Bethal, we do not fear death when valor awaits! Only give the word and we will slay the leader of these Goblins. With your permission, we can retreat you to a defensible location while a core of us strike at the Goblin Chieftain. If we kill her, the rest of the Goblins will lose their command—”
“No.”
Bethal said it suddenly and decisively. Sir Kerrig and the other Rose Knights stared at her. He wavered.
“Milady?”
Lady Bethal looked at the two Knights pinned underneath the tree, thought of the old Goblin, and looked at the Chevalier Thomast. Her voice held a note of complaint in it as she addressed her husband.
“Thomast, I’m not in the mood to hunt Goblins any longer. Let’s go home.”
He blinked at her. Bethal stared back. Thomast turned.
“Sound the retreat.”
The Goblins wavered when they heard the horn call and saw the line of pink knights moving backwards in tight formation. Rags frowned as she saw Lady Bethal unhook one of her earrings—she’d worn earrings to a battlefield—and lightly touch the gem. She began speaking into the gemstone, and part of what she said drifted through the wind and was picked up by Rags’ keen ears. And the ears of the rest of the Goblins.
“Magnolia? It’s me. Yes, Bethal. I’m not hunting the Goblins anymore. What? No, I see them. They’re right in front of me. But I’m giving up. Okay? Wait—stop shouting!”
There was a pause as Bethal listened to someone on the other end. Rags’ jaw dropped slowly. Bethal’s voice rose, indignant.
“I lost two of my Rose Knights. Two! You said they’d be easy to—no, don’t shout at me! There were unforeseen circumstances that—how many were killed? A few hundred…maybe a thousand. Yes, there are lots more. No, I’m not doing it! There’s too much risk and I don’t feel like it. Yes, I don’t feel like it. I’m going back to my estate. Send a carriage to—hello? Hello?”
She threw the earring to the ground and stomped on it. Thomast bent to pick the earring up from the frosted ground. Bethal tossed her head angrily.
“The nerve of that woman! I was about to tell her about that old Goblin—not that he was that much of a threat. You underestimated him, Thomast.”
“I did not.”
She stomped her foot.
“Yes you did! I keep telling you not to and you do! You could have beaten him—”
“He reminds me of an old story.”
“Hm?”
Thomast straightened, cleaning the earring with a handkerchief one of the Rose Knights offered him. He watched the unmoving Goblins over Bethal’s shoulder as he spoke.
“During the Second Antinium War, there were mighty Goblin Lords. Each known for their abilities in some way or another. One was known as the greatest warrior, someone whose skill at arms let him cut the air itself, a Goblin who could match any [Blademaster], any [Sword Dancer] or [Duelist]. He was called Greydath, I think. Greydath of Blades. That old Goblin reminded me of him.”
Bethal stared at her consort for a second and then burst out laughing. She patted his arm lightly, chuckling and wiping tears from her eyes.
“Don’t be silly, Thomast. The Goblin Lords all died out. They fell when their King did, or led their armies into oblivion shortly thereafter. He’s just an old Goblin. A veteran of the Goblin Wars, perhaps. You are prone to your silliness, aren’t you?”
“My apologies, milady.”
He bowed to her and she pouted.
“Call me ‘my dear’, or ‘wife’, or Bethal. Oh, Thomast, I’m feeling invigorated after all that fighting. I don’t know how I’ll explain the loss of two of my Rose Knights to Magnolia or their families. Comfort me?”
She clung to him. Thomast shook his head.
“Not here.”
She sighed.
“Prudish. Do be a dear and find us a nice deserted house so we can be alone. Or a tent. Or a bush. Or we can just find some grass and order everyone to look away.”
He smiled and lifted her into his arms as the other Knights of the Petal coughed or looked away. Slowly, Thomast turned and, still carrying Lady Bethal, he began to march with the other knights into the distance. It was as if the Goblins had completely been forgotten by all of them.
Chivalry, valor, passion, and dignit—and virtu—and nobility. Such were the aspects that governed Lady Bethal and her house. The Rose Knights marched away as the Lady of House Walchaís let her husband carry her off into the distance. The Goblins of the Flooded Waters tribe watched them go in silence. Rags closed her mouth after a while and looked around.
Blood and death remained. The scars of battle were fresh in the memories of the Goblins; they had burnt their dead out of respect. And there were fallen on Bethal’s side. Yet the lady turned away. And there was something admirable about that as insane as she clearly was. She lived for her whims. And there it was. Valor, passion, pride—it was something like that.
Rags scratched her head. Goblin Lords and [Ladies]. Pink knights. She really wished Erin were here to explain things to her.
—-
“House Walchaís? Um…they’re one of the larger houses in Izril. They’re not one of the Five Families, obviously, but they came soon after the original noble families did and they can trace their roots back to Terandria.”
Lyonette paused and looked up. She was scrubbing the bar with Erin, a rare moment when the two of them could chat. She frowned, her forehead wrinkling as she tried to answer Erin’s question precisely.
“They’re mad as loons, all of them. They’re the kind of nobility who love to go on quests, and who train [Knights] and duel people over insults. From what I can remember…Lady Bethal Walchaís is the current scion of the house. She married a famous [Duelist] after eloping with him and then came back to establish her own branch of [Knights] and take control of her family. She’s arrogant, prickly, and her husband has killed twelve people in duels of honor.”
Erin blinked as she raised her wet dust rag and scrubbed at a stain.
“Whoa. That’s a lot. I think. Is it? No—twelve people? That’s a lot.”
“And those are just the ones killed, remember. Lady Bethal has many friends, but many more enemies.”
Lyonette grimaced and took a drink of cold water before wiping away a bead of sweat. Now it was coming back to her, all the little squabbles and ever-shifting networks of names and political alliances. She smiled as she recalled something Erin might like.
“She’s also known for her flights of passion. Did you know she once bought five hundred prime horses to establish her own horse breeding industry? Only, within a month she’d gotten bored so she fenced off twenty thousand acres of land and let them roam wild. They kept repopulating until there were so many that her lands became famous for exporting war stallions anyways.”
“Whoa. Hey, how do you know all of this? Do you know these Wal—Wallchase people personally?”
The [Princess] turned [Barmaid] rolled her eyes and laughed.
“Erin, I was a [Princess] who took part in the politics of the realm. I have to remember all of it. Only, I was a bad student so my tutors always despaired. I suppose memorizing orders as a [Barmaid] helped my memory. But why do you want to know about House Walchaís anyways? Do you have an issue with them or know them somehow?”
Erin opened her mouth and frowned.
“You know what? I have no idea. Oh. Right! I didn’t mean to say Walchaís, I meant to say Welch’s juice. You know—grape juice? Oh right, you don’t know. Anyways, they make grape juice. I wish I had some.”
Lyonette stared at her. Erin stared back and then raised her hands.
“Right! Back to work!”
They went back to cleaning the tables. After a while, Lyonette raised her head.
“I wonder if there are any vineyards around here. Terandria has a lot, but do Drakes or Gnolls raise grapes? Do they even grow in this climate?”
Erin frowned.
“Good question.”
They stared at each other and shrugged. The Goblins were downstairs, sleeping off a food coma, the inn was quiet, and for the moment there was tenuous peace. After a while, Mrsha rolled across the floor, chewing on a magic wand.
It was a relief to have a peaceful day in the inn. Especially after all the trouble with the Goblins they’d had. And all the trouble they were about to have. Erin shook her head.
“I sort of wish I was with Rags right now. I bet she’s keeping nice and quiet, you know, keeping her head down while all this Goblin Lord business sorts herself out? She’s smart.”
She tapped her head. Lyonette nodded obligingly.
Mrsha sneezed.
4.40 L
Beneath Liscor, the war continued. It was a quiet war, one that the Drakes and Gnolls living above were unaware of. It had gone on for years; it could rightly be called a war of attrition, although neither side truly viewed it as such. How could a war of attrition take place when both sides were functionally inexhaustible?
The Hive of the Free Antinium versus the monsters of Liscor’s dungeon. Both groups were able to reproduce at speeds that allowed them to continually clash with one another. The monsters in Liscor’s dungeon were numerous and had established vast nests within the dungeon. The groups that continually assailed the Antinium Hive were a drop in an ocean of bodies. So long as they were not purged in their homes, they would keep coming.
On the other end, the Antinium were adept at repopulating themselves. They had developed it into a science, such that they could weather any number of losses with few issues. After all, so long as their Prognugator and more importantly, Queen survived, what were the deaths of a few hundred Soldiers that died to stop a group of Flesh Worms, or the Workers who perished each day rebuilding their tunnels and fortifications?
Neither side cared. Not the Queen and certainly not the monsters. But if anyone had bothered to ask the Workers and Soldiers, they would have said…
Nothing. Soldiers did not speak and Workers had few opinions of their own. They were born loyal to their Hive and fought and died in service to it. What was despair to a being that had been alive for hours? New Soldiers hurried to the front lines, fighting monsters with the fluids of their creation still wet on their carapaces. They were faceless, voiceless. And alone. There was no one to champion them.
In a section of tunnels adjacent to the dungeon, a group of Soldiers struggled alone. They fought desperately against an equal number of enchanted suits of armor. These metal guardians were the equals of Soldiers; incredibly tough and difficult to kill, they cut down the Antinium one by one as the Soldiers hurled themselves desperately against their foe. The newly born Soldiers fell back, desperate. Fighting. Dying.
And yet they fought on. Because if they fled, who would fight? The Soldiers ignored the wounds on their bodies, and yet despair crept into their limbs, weighing them down. They cried out, silently, without a voice to speak, without words or knowledge of what they wished for. They needed someone to give them hope, to give them a reason to fight. Someone, something they could believe in. In their darkest moments the knowledge of their Hive was not enough. They needed—
One of the suits of armor bashed a Soldier down with a mace. It strode forwards, red light leaking through the slits in its visor as the enchanted guardians approached. A Soldier raised a broken arm as the other three battered the armor of its foe futilely. He knew he was going to die and the knowledge was bitter and cold. But then he heard a different sound.
Click.
It was thunderous, collective, a sound made of many parts. A hundred mandibles snapped together. The enchanted armor paused, and the Soldier heard it again.
Click.
This time the echo was louder, and there was a drumming noise, the sound of heavy footfalls. The Soldier stumbled backwards through the tunnel and saw something running towards him.
A foe? No. Another Antinium. But this one was different from the Soldiers and Workers, the faceless multitudes. It was…bigger? Bigger, yes, a bit. But what set this Antinium apart was the color. The young Soldier with the broken arm stared.
Yellow splatters of paint covered the Soldier who ran down the tunnel towards the enchanted suits of armor. They turned, weapons covered with green Antinium blood. The mace-wielding armor turned towards the Soldier, weapon ready. It swung and the young Soldier tried to look away rather than see this new Soldier cut down—
The mace struck the Soldier with yellow splatters on one raised forearm. The chitin cracked under the force of the mighty blow, but unlike the other Antinium who had broken from the crushing impact, this Soldier’s body was tougher. Two of his arms shot out, pinning the arms of the enchanted suit of armor. The other two began to pound it, making the ancient steel ring with the impacts.
The other Soldiers stared. The enchanted suits of armor abandoned their foes to help their comrade, but now more Soldiers were streaming through the tunnels. The Soldier with the broken arm stared. These Antinium were like the one who had charged into battle. They were all painted, all colorful! One had a star on its forehead, another a rainbow of droplets all over its body, like rain.
They were all unique, all—all different. And as they charged down the corridor, the young Soldier saw an Antinium holding a strange, object that released plumes of sweet smoke every time he shook it. The Worker pulled the Soldier with the broken arm out of the battle, shielding them as the colorful Soldiers charged ahead. And the young Soldier now had an image, a name for what he had cried out for in his last moments.
He stared at the Soldier with yellow splatters as he pointed and the other Soldiers charged ahead. Yes, that was what he’d wanted. Someone to lead them, to show them—hope. He had no words for what he felt, for what the other Soldier was. But if he had heard the word, he would have agreed with it immediately. The other Antinium were different, braver, more certain, and they fought for something rather than because they had been told. They were unique. They were hope.
They were heroes.
—-
Yellow Splatters ran down the tunnel, his legs pumping as his arms rose. He didn’t feel the cracked chitin on his arm. He was alight with battle fury. And each second he ran was another second, another life he could have saved. He charged into the backs of the second group of monsters on the front lines and caught a suit of armor with a two-armed lariat. He flung the hundreds of pounds of armor to the ground and began stomping on the metal guardian, ignoring the other suits of armor as they turned towards him.
Enchanted armor this time. At least they didn’t seem to be accompanied by any other types of monsters. Yellow Splatters had learned to dread monsters working in tandem with each other. At least the enchanted suits of armor were few in number.
But deadly. This corridor was filled with the bodies of Soldiers and Workers alike. Yellow Splatters had arrived too late. He gave vent to his fury as the other suits of armor assailed him. They cut at his body, struck him with metal fists and tried to bear him down. But Yellow Splatters refused to fall. He couldn’t.
He was a [Sergeant]. The Soldier felt another part of his outer layer of chitin crack as something struck him in the shoulder. But the blade that cut into his side, the fist that smashed him in the side of the head, none of those blows could fell him. He had a Skill. [Tough Carapace].
One Skill, but it made so much of a difference. And another—Yellow Splatters turned and his fist sent a metal suit of armor flying with a dent in the chest plate.
[Power Strike]. The other suits of armor closed in, fearless. Yellow Splatters raised his arms to guard his body and saw one of the suits of armor disappear. A Soldier had crashed into it with a running tackle. This Soldier had white wings painted on his back and he rolled around on the ground, bashing the armor’s helmet in.
The other Soldiers had arrived. Yellow Splatters abandoned his guard and leapt into the attack again. He and another Soldier tore the arms off a suit of armor, and then he found himself bashing at another suit with the arm he’d ripped off. And then?
It was all over. At least, for now. Yellow Splatters rose, breathing heavily, and heard a voice.
“Sergeant Yellow Splatters, we are ordered to take Tunnel E4J!”
He turned and saw a smaller Antinium standing at the back of the group of Soldiers. Pawn, censer in hand, was bending over a wounded Soldier. Yellow Splatters rose and immediately pointed. The Soldiers under his command—forty of them—raced down the tunnel.
War. That was what he fought. Yellow Splatters slammed into another group of monsters—large maggots that spat acid at him, and then found himself fighting a horrific moth that was so large it had to crawl down the tunnel. The Face-Eater moth, one of the large insects that the dungeon housed, ripped off a Soldier’s arm and buried its mandibles in another before it died.
Both had been marked. After the giant moth was dead, Yellow Splatters stood over the dead Soldier. His body had been shredded, but Yellow Splatters could remember what had been drawn on his chest. A white circle with a question mark drawn on the inside. In black paint. Yellow Splatters didn’t know what it meant, but that wasn’t important. It had defined that Soldier.
