Tears of Liscor, page 73
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
“Yes, Lord Veltras.”
The Clairei Fields [Knight] nodded and turned away. Yitton dismounted and walked stiffly up to Tyrion.
“Veltras.”
“I don’t appreciate being given orders, Lord Byres. Even well-intentioned ones.”
Tyrion looked up coldly. Yitton flushed.
“My apologies.”
“Very well. Your disposition?”
Yitton stroked his mustache and glanced back at the Goblin Lord’s army. They’d remained stationary after the fighting, but he could see them milling about. Reorganizing. Absorbing the defeated Goblins into their ranks. He wondered if there was any ill will. Another odd thought to have.
“I—what do you think that was, Veltras? Silver and steel, I thought the Goblins were getting along.”
“Apparently not. Either this Goblin Lord decided to consolidate his forces or they had a falling out. Either way, their numbers have been reduced, but we’re left with a single tribe now. No more Chieftains will oppose the Goblin Lord. The last one—Garen Redfang—ran. And I didn’t spot the small Chieftain. I suppose she perished.”
“And does that affect your plans?”
Tyrion paused as he stroked his stallion’s head. He looked back at the Goblins.
“There are enough to serve.”
That was all he said. After a while, Yitton walked away. Tyrion Veltras stood and counted losses, gave orders for the march to continue immediately. He didn’t stop.
And neither did Reiss. He couldn’t. He sat on his Shield Spider as the last of the Goblins joined his army and were absorbed into his warriors. He looked down at the hand he’d reattached and flexed it slowly. His nerves sang with phantom pain.
He did not feel good. He felt sick at heart and ill with what he’d done. He kept remembering Pyrite trying to stand. He had been a good Hob. A good second-in-command. Loyal.
He was still lying there. So was she. Reiss was certain of it. He could feel Garen ahead of him, heading south, a burning flame in his mind. And behind him was another flame, burning even brighter. Reiss looked back.
The battlefield was filled with dead goats and Goblins. Humans too, but they’d found most of their dead and cremated them. Now they were driving his tribe onwards. But he could still feel her there.
Behind him. He stared back towards the bloody battlefield where corpses lay in piles. She was alive. And so long as she was alive, perhaps her tribe would keep together. But it didn’t matter, did it? So long as she was behind them, without her wolf, without allies, she’d be helpless.
“I—”
Reiss stared back at the battlefield. He wanted to say something to Rags, though she couldn’t hear him. Something that would explain everything. Tell her why it had to be like this. He sat there, staring, as his undead creation crawled forwards and he drew further and further away.
He never finished his sentence.
——
She lay among the dead. That was how she’d survived. Wet fur covered her, almost suffocating her. It was wet, and more wetness dripped down from above.
Blood. Rags lay still, listening to the thunder of marching footsteps die down. Tens of thousands of Humans on foot had passed by here. The infantry of the Human army. She’d heard voices—laughter—weeping. They sounded so familiar. Not like Goblins, but like her.
They were all dead. Rags knew it. She lay beneath her Carn Wolf, the brave wolf who she’d never named. And she knew the other bodies, the cold things touching her were dead. Reiss’ warriors. Her own.
Pyrite.
Pyrite. Rags struggled to move. She had to—he couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be. She pushed at the furry body on top of her, tried to worm away. She kicked—and then felt horribly guilty.
Slowly, painfully, Rags pulled her way out of the dead. She staggered upright and saw the setting sun. It was orange and sinking below the horizon. It should have been red. But there was enough around her.
Dead. Goblins stared up at the sky through blank eyes. Hobs lay on the ground, their armor shattered. And in front of her—Rags stared at her Carn Wolf. He was far larger than she was. He was curled up, his rust-red fur torn from where Reiss’ spell had laid into him. Gone.
“Sorry.”
Rags knelt. She looked at the Carn Wolf, at his blank half-open eyes. She hugged him one last time, stroking the cold, wet fur of her Carn Wolf’s head. Then she let the body drop and stood up.
“Where?”
She stumbled across the battlefield, staring at faces she thought she recognized. Where was he? She passed by dead Carn Wolves, a Human half-eaten by something. Eater Goats? There were small shapes roaming the battlefield. They took no notice of Rags; they had enough to gorge on.
She found him lying on the ground on his back, staring up at the sky. Pyrite looked almost peaceful as he lay there. His jaw was closed. The bloody injuries he’d taken still glistened, half-scabbed over. Rags fell to her knees.
“No.”
She’d seen Reiss kill him. [Deathbolt]. That stupid spell. Again and again it had struck Pyrite, too many times for anyone to survive.
It wasn’t fair. Rags pounded the ground. She couldn’t cry. She wasn’t going to. She had to be strong. But her tribe was gone. Her wolf was gone. She’d lost her warriors, her people—
And her friend. Rags felt the first hiccup of pain force its way out of her throat. She gagged, sobbed, and began to cry. It was so childish. So—useless. It wasn’t Goblin.
But she couldn’t help it. Rags crawled towards Pyrite. She hammered on his chest.
“Why? Why?”
No one answered her. Rags shouted.
“Why? Why does it—why?”
She buried her head in Pyrite’s chest. He still felt warm. He still felt alive. She sobbed. And then she heard a sound.
Crunch.
It was loud. A thunderous cracking sound, like grinding gravel but a thousand times louder. A horrific grinding noise. Rags leapt back. She saw something move.
Pyrite pursed his lips, turned his head, and spat something onto the ground. Rags stared as a handful of glittering, bloody fragments landed in the mud. The Goldstone Chieftain regarded them for a second, then put something else in his mouth. He began to chew again, and the grinding sound continued.
“Pyrite?”
He opened his eyes and blinked up at her. Rags stared at him. She was staring at a ghost. Pyrite chewed and then spat out more of whatever he was eating.
“Hi.”
She kicked him. Pyrite grunted. He made a sound. Almost as if he were alive. She poked him in the side and saw blood run from one of his scabbed over wounds. Pyrite frowned reproachfully.
“That hurt, Chieftain.”
“You’re dead!”
“Wish.”
Pyrite grunted. He fumbled for something, and his head lolled back. He tried again, but he seemed too weak to even grab for—whatever it was.
“Need another. Give.”
“What?”
Rags was dreaming. She stared at the thing Pyrite wanted. It was a rough, plain hemp sack. Worn, dirty. Spattered with his blood. She recognized it. It was Pyrite’s special sack of gemstones.
“You want?”
“Give.”
He repeated the words, faintly but urgently. Rags delved into the sack and pulled something out. An emerald as large as a fist. She offered it to Pyrite. He grunted.
“No. Shiny.”
Shiny? Rags peered into the sack. She saw something flash at her, despite the lack of light. She reached in and pulled out a glowing bit of blue quartz. It had…a mote of light that danced inside the crystalline structure. Rags stared at it. Then she heard Pyrite’s voice.
“Give.”
She looked up. He was dead. She had seen him die. He’d been hit by too many [Deathbolts]. But then how—? She handed the stone to him, and Pyrite slowly lifted it to his mouth. He opened his jaws and let the glittering quartz fall into his mouth. Then he began to chew.
The sound he made was horrendous. Even Rags, who had eaten bark and dirt and bugs, winced. Pyrite chewed and chewed and then turned his head and spat. Blood and bits of quartz expectorated onto the ground. Rags stared at the shards. They were bloody. And the mote of light was gone.
“Give another.”
Pyrite’s voice was weak. Rags stared into the sack.
“No more.”
“No more? Bad.”
Pyrite wheezed. He lay there. She realized he was breathing, but faintly. His face was pale. But he was breathing. Could he really be…?
“How? How are you…”
Rags knelt over Pyrite. Now she remembered her healing potions and fumbled for them. Pyrite grunted weakly.
“Had stupid idea. Knew [Deathbolt] coming. Tried stupid thing.”
“What? What try?”
Pyrite groaned as Rags dumped a healing potion on his wounds. He must have used one already, because his wounds had been half-scabbed already.
“Shiny stones. Magic. Put in mouth. Thought could eat magic.”
Shiny stones? Rags remembered. Pyrite had his magic gemstones. She stared down at him.
“And?”
The Hob blinked reproachfully up at Rags.
“Think it worked. Tell me if I’m dead.”
She stared at him. And then, shakily, she laughed. Rags sat back and began to laugh. She heard a rumble. Pyrite chuckled. Rags lay on her back and giggled, then guffawed. She heard Pyrite laughing, and the two of them laughed until it hurt and they were quiet. Then Rags wiped at her eyes. She kicked Pyrite in the stomach.
“Ow.”
“Don’t do again. Ever.”
“Won’t promise.”
The two sat there. Well, Pyrite lay on his back. Rags wiped at her eyes. After a while, Pyrite spoke.
“We lost.”
It wasn’t a question. Rags nodded.
“Yes. I…hid. Knew die if showed face. Reiss won. Tribe ran.”
“Okay.”
That was all Pyrite said. All he could say. Rags sat there and buried her face in her hands. It was over. Pyrite lived, but her tribe was gone. She laughed again, but this time with bitter bile.
“I am stupidest, smallest, worst Chieftain ever.”
“And ugly.”
She kicked Pyrite again. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She just wanted to curl up next to Pyrite and sleep until she was dead. It was really over.
“All gone. I fail. Reiss wins.”
“Not over.”
Pyrite spoke insistently. Rags looked at him.
“You can’t move. I lost—wolf. Tribe. Crossbow.”
She looked around blankly for it. It was gone. Her beloved black crossbow was gone too. Somehow, that hurt almost as much as the Carn Wolf. Rags patted her belt.
“And sword. And shield. And everything.”
She looked around the battlefield. Had someone torn it off her? Was it lying in the mud? It didn’t matter. Rags bowed her head.
“Lost everything. Have nothing.”
“Still have one. Me, Chieftain. Not done yet.”
Rags glared at Pyrite.
“What good is one Goblin? What good is stupid Chieftain without tribe?”
Pyrite was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sat up. His body groaned and creaked with the effort. His face was pale as it rose, but he did rise. He looked at Rags, tired, weary. One foot in death. But he smiled, and when he did, Rags thought the world seemed brighter.
“I’m not stupid. Just fat. Not ugly, either. And Chieftain has no tribe. But has me. [Magestone Chieftain].”
Her breath caught.
“Magestone…?”
Pyrite nodded. He rummaged in his sack for a gemstone and lifted it up. The emerald flashed in his fingers. It had been dull, just a pretty bit of rock when Rags held it. But as Pyrite lifted it, a flicker of light ran between the faults in the gemstone. A curving trail of energy.
Magic.
Rags stared at the gem. Pyrite smiled and then groaned. The light went out, and he lay back with a whumph. Rags stood up.
“You not able to walk. I—what can we do? Humans gone. Reiss gone. Heading to Liscor. No way to catch up.”
“Just rest today. Tomorrow I follow.”
Pyrite groaned. Rags shook her head. He was talking nonsense.
“How?”
“Make sled with Eater Goats?”
The Hob winced before Rags kicked him this time. That was a stupid idea. As stupid as anything she’d heard. Only someone like—like her would come up with that. Rags wanted to laugh and cry. She wanted Pyrite to meet Erin. She wanted—
She bowed her head and sat by Pyrite. She was out of plans. Out of fancy ideas and schemes. She was alone. But that was the thing about Goblins. They were never truly alone. Not when there were two.
And then Rags heard crunching in the dirt. She turned and reached for a sword she didn’t have. She saw dark figures moving towards her. Hobs. Goblins. Rags scrambled up. Pyrite tried to sit up again and groaned.
“Who is?”
Rags’ voice felt small and quavery. She clenched her fists and reached for her magic. There were at least two dozen shapes. They held still, just out of sight. And then one of them, a tall figure with curves, stepped forwards.
Ulvama, her tribal paint smudged, her face dirty, stepped forwards. Hobs followed her. Goblins who Rags recognized. Not hers. Not her Goblins, but Tremborag’s. Goblins who had joined her tribe but owed no allegiance to her. Goblins who’d fled when she’d fallen. They surrounded her and Pyrite.
And more Goblins appeared, those who had hid like Rags or escaped the Humans in the fighting. Ulvama stared down at Pyrite. She stared down at Rags, leaning on her staff. Rags waited for something. Anything. Then, Ulvama bowed. She bowed low in her skimpy feathered outfit, and the other Hobs bowed too. Ulvama smiled as Rags blinked at her. There was mischief in her eyes. Mischief, relief, and something else. A spark that if Rags didn’t know better, she would have called hope. Ulvama gestured around at the other Goblins.
“What now, Chieftain?”
——
It was a time of endings. Numbtongue knew it. He had come so far from the little Goblin he’d been. The one sent to kill an [Innkeeper], who had gotten lost. He had grown. He had lost friends. He had won and lost and become someone different. And perhaps, yes, perhaps it was time to run again. To flee.
But he didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He knew in his heart that Goblins couldn’t live among people. He knew that the inn was a dream and that reality would cut him down in time. But it was a beautiful dream. And she was beautiful. And he couldn’t run any longer.
He had seen the bright star shining above Liscor. He had felt it give him strength. A bit of determination. Courage to do what he had to do. So Numbtongue walked out of the cave. And his followers joined him. The other Cave Goblins joined him. They flooded out of the cave. They swam out of the dungeon. They appeared out of holes in the ground, from hiding places only they knew. And they followed him.
The first person to see anything on the walls was Olesm. He was walking up and down the walls, muttering to himself and trying to calculate ranges based on a report he’d obtained from Zeres about the trebuchets they had. He was trying to figure out if there was time and eyeing the floodplains.
The water level had fallen so far that only the valleys contained any water now. That still meant there was a lot of water, but the hilltops were muddy instead of underwater, and the fish that hadn’t been smart enough to escape to…wherever they went…were now trapped in the valleys. They’d be scooped up by Liscor’s fishers for food or eaten by predators like the Rock Crabs. Or they’d die when the waters became too stagnant or finally evaporated.
Right now, Liscor was a mud pit. A watery mud pit, which gave Olesm some hope. The [Mages] would have to dry the land and shore it up or the recoil from the trebuchets would literally send them flying into pieces. Maybe they didn’t know about the dangers. It would also slow their advance. But for each good came an ill. Would the Antinium be able to tunnel and attack the trebuchets in this water? Klbkch had not been responding to Olesm or Zevara’s requests to speak. Was something wrong?
Olesm was staring at one spot in particular from the walls. The rift that led down into the dungeon. That concerned him greatly. Mainly because…it was one of the few ways down into the dungeon, and it was currently flooded. Of course, there was the main entrance, but that led through a series of randomized, trapped rooms that hadn’t been cleared. If you were going to move thousands of people through there, it would be suicide.
But the rift was flooded. And if he wanted to bring people into the dungeon—hypothetically—it would be impossible with that much water. That only left the Antinium’s entrance, and what were the odds they’d let anyone into their Hive? Olesm paced back and forth. Could he get a [Mage] to heat the water, boil it away, perhaps? Or—what about Erin’s door? Could they drain the water somehow? Maybe—
Something rose from the watery, muddy waters of the rift. Olesm froze. He saw a little grey-green head poke out of the water. The rift was miles away, but Olesm recognized the green skin and distinctive head anywhere.
“A Goblin?”
No, a Cave Goblin. Olesm stared at it, wondering if it had gotten lost or something. Then he saw another Goblin surface and gasp for breath. And another. And another. The first Cave Goblin clambered out and tugged its fellows out of the water. And then more surfaced and began swimming to land. More and more and more—
Olesm looked around. There were dozens, no, nearly a hundred Cave Goblins surfacing now, and more heads were popping up by the second. Was this some kind of evacuation of the dungeon? Was something happening? Should he tell someone? He looked back at the rift, and then his eye caught another source of movement on the plains.
A Rock Crab. It was scuttling up the side of a hill, quite rapidly. Olesm blinked. Rock Crabs normally didn’t move that fast unless they were hunting. But they would have enough to eat in the valleys with the captive fish. Why was it going so fast? Then he realized the Rock Crab wasn’t hunting something. It was running.
