Tears of Liscor, page 75
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
He was Garen Redfang. Leader of the Redfang tribe. Former Gold-rank adventurer. And he had been betrayed.
Again. The taste was bitter in Garen’s mouth, like bile. He remembered the Goblins staring up at him, Redscar looking towards Garen. Turning away.
It had happened again. First in the mountain, then after Tremborag’s death. And then today. And before that—and before that too—
Garen’s life was a litany of betrayals. Of false friends. The memories were still with him. They surged in times like these, and he let them pass through his head as he squatted, offering his wolf a handful of meat scraps. It ate them greedily, licking his hand. Garen smiled and scratched his wolf behind the ears. You could trust a Carn Wolf. They were ferocious, and if they didn’t respect you, they’d kill you. But loyalty, once won, was never lost. His wolf wouldn’t leave Garen.
Everyone else would. That was what Garen had learned over the years. You couldn’t really trust anyone. Not your fellow Goblins, and certainly not other species. Not even your own tribe, apparently. Redscar, his right hand, had left him. Another lesson.
“Chieftain?”
Garen looked up. He saw his new second, Spiderslicer, walking towards him. Garen nodded and stood up.
“Time, Chieftain?”
Garen nodded. He grunted.
“Time. Get treasure. Pile.”
The other Redfangs looked up. The new recruits didn’t understand what was going on, but they followed along willingly. They didn’t have to be told; they’d learn by watching. The Redfangs congregated around Garen. They tossed items on the ground at his feet. A sword snatched from a Human’s hand, a potion bottle ripped from a belt. Magic rings, armor, and so on. The spoils of war. Each Goblin did it. There were a lot of them, so it took a while, but soon, there was a pile of every object they’d snatched in the latest battles.
Garen looked down at the pile when it was done. He squatted down and pushed items back and forth. He’d seen most of what had been dropped, and he knew he only wanted a new potion. He found a strong healing potion, or what seemed like one, and tested it. He grunted and corked the bottle after one swig.
“Bleh. Mana potion.”
He tried again with another. The Redfangs nudged each other, pointing out what they’d taken, laughing at their leader’s expression. The second potion was a healing potion, and the third surprised Garen.
“Ironhide Potion.”
He blinked down at the bottle of greyish liquid which tasted like metal and looked like sludge. Garen stowed it on his belt at once and stood up. He nodded at the others, indicating that it was their turn. He had no need of other weapons besides his sword, and he hadn’t seen any lightweight enchanted armor that would fit him.
Spiderslicer went next. He looked through the items, found a potion like Garen, and stood up with it. The other veterans, the oldest Redfangs who rode Carn Wolves, had been fighting with Garen for years followed him in a group. They found rings they were willing to try on as an experiment, potions, and a magic buckler. Then came the newer Goblins, who took armor and weapons. The last ones, the recruits who had joined today, got to argue over what was left at the end.
Garen watched the new Goblins pick up weapons and test them out. They looked surprised; there were still good iron and steel weapons left over and bits of armor for them. They needn’t have been, though.
This was how the Redfangs divided loot. Garen had first pick, and then the more experienced Goblins. They usually took potions unless there was something really good that had been found. And they left weapons, even good ones, for Goblins who needed them. Not all of Garen’s warriors had enchanted weapons—only a few, really. But all of the ones who’d ridden with him for a few years wore steel and carried as much gear as any Silver-rank adventurer.
The Redfangs equipped the last of their weapons, replacing damaged bucklers, spears, swords, and other pieces of gear too badly damaged to mend and stood up. What was left they let lie. It was a haul for another tribe or anyone who chanced upon the collection on the ground. But the Redfangs wouldn’t carry it. They had secondary weapons, spare blades, but they didn’t carry anything else. They moved and travelled light. And neither would they hoard their new artifacts and potions either. In the next big battle, they’d use up most of their potions.
The Redfang tribe had no motto. But if they did have one, it would probably be the opposite of ‘be prepared’. They used everything they had right away. Anything for an edge. You won the battle in front of you and let everything else work itself out. Beyond that, you just trusted that the next fight would be coming soon.
That was how it worked. The Redfangs followed Garen into battle and didn’t sweat the rest. They trusted him to lead them to bigger opponents. After all, he was Garen Redfang. He had made them into what they were.
Warriors. Elites of the Goblin world. You could see it if you looked. The Goblins sitting around Garen, the original Redfangs, were head-and-shoulders apart from the new ones. Tremborag’s Goblins, the new recruits gained in the mountain and on the road—they were good. The best in the mountain, probably. They could probably boast any number of kills, and some of them even had weakly enchanted gear, a mark of their status. But they weren’t Redfangs. And it showed.
Muscles, a honed body beyond regular Goblin warriors. Economy of movement. A fearless walk. And coordination in battle. Redfangs trained in their off time where regular Goblin warriors just lazed about. Even now, as Garen walked about, stretching his legs, he saw the new warriors talking with the old ones. About the last battle, about tactics. Learning. Watching the veterans stretch, swap stories, laugh. In time, they’d become reflections of the best. If they lived long enough, that was.
They made Garen proud. The Redfangs were his tribe. His family, the ones who he trusted. Never mind the ones who’d left. He’d taken them and changed them from weak Goblins into warriors. He’d given them pride, strength. And most importantly, brotherhood.
One of the Goblins caught Garen’s eye as he walked around the sitting warriors. He spotted a younger Goblin, a full Redfang, but newer. He was clutching something.
The severed stump of his left hand. The skin was nearly healed—a healing potion had been used, but it couldn’t regrow what was lost. The Goblin looked up as Garen paused.
“Chieftain.”
“Furgatherer.”
Garen looked down at him. The young Goblin nodded. He bared his teeth as Garen squatted down. The Chieftain looked at his hand.
“Lost?”
“[Knight] cut off, Chieftain. Bad block. Sorry.”
Furgatherer looked down at his hand. One of the other Redfangs punched him softly in the shoulder. Garen looked at the young Goblin. Furgatherer was trying to keep a strong face up, but anyone could tell he was upset. His Carn Wolf padded around him, too upset to rest, licking him.
“You left handed?”
“Was, Chieftain.”
That explained it. Furgatherer gave Garen an anguished look. He’d lost his dominant hand. Fear was in his eyes. Fear of being useless. Crippled. Garen thought for a second, then reached out. He plucked Furgatherer’s mace from his belt.
“Try right hand.”
The young Goblin took the mace awkwardly. Garen made him swing at him. Furgatherer adjusted his grip, attacked fast and hard, but awkwardly. Garen blocked the blows with his sword as the other Redfangs turned to look.
“Slow! Faster! Hit high, low, faster!”
He spun, dodging a blow to the face, and kicked. Furgatherer stumbled back, wincing. Garen let him charge back towards him and blocked a strike to his chest, groin, arm—he knocked the mace down, and Furgatherer stopped, panting. He looked up at Garen, afraid. And his Chieftain smiled.
“Good! Not bad for right hand.”
The other Redfangs called out encouragement as well. Furgatherer flushed, and then his face fell. He gestured at his missing left hand.
“But Chieftain—can’t fight on left.”
“So?”
Garen challenged him. He kicked at Furgatherer’s left side dismissively.
“Can’t fight on left? Fight on right! Let others fight on left! Find partner. Doesn’t matter.”
Furgatherer nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.
“But if weak—”
He got no further. Garen punched him lightly on the shoulder. He roared loud enough for everyone to hear.
“If weak? If weak, get stronger! Other Goblins guard left! Doesn’t matter! Redfangs don’t fight alone!”
He turned. The other Redfangs knew the cue and raised their weapons. They shouted, and Furgatherer looked up. More Goblins came around him, critiquing his stance, the way he held his mace.
“Wear buckler. Tie to arm. Can still block.”
One of the older Redfangs, a female Hob, advised Furgatherer. She winked at Garen, who nodded as Furgatherer found himself supported. He turned away, reassured the younger Goblin wouldn’t do something stupid like get himself killed on purpose or run away. The other Redfangs grinned at the sight as Furgatherer sat among his peers.
Redfangs don’t fight alone. It was what made them strong. They didn’t abandon their own. It was what Garen had taught them. The Chieftain’s own smile lasted for a few more seconds. Then his mood grew dark again.
He’d taught them that. So why had Redscar left? He’d never gotten a chance to ask him. Why had he and so many of the others abandoned Garen after all he’d done for them? That was like last time.
Annoyed but determined not to show it, Garen walked back over to his Carn Wolf and lay down. Just for a few minutes. He turned his face towards the fur of his wolf. They’d have to go soon. This was only a short break. And then they’d go…to Liscor, right? There weren’t many other options, not with the Humans behind them. And what about after there? Which way?
The memory stole over Garen, too fast to stop.
“Which way?”
“Hmm?”
Garen looked up. He heard a male voice, unfamiliar for a second. Then he remembered and recognized it was Jelaqua who was speaking to him.
“Garen? Which way now? North? South? West? East? Pick a direction, would you? I’m out of ideas, and Seborn keeps bugging me about which way we’re headed.”
Garen turned. He blinked at Jelaqua as she grinned at him, her pale face Human, at least for now. She pointed down at the map. Her fingers were hairy. She wore a male Human’s body, big and burly. She wasn’t comfortable in it. Neither was he, but he edged over anyways and stared at the map.
Jelaqua didn’t often ask him for advice. Well, she did, but he seldom gave it. As the newest member of the Halfseekers, he felt out of place still, even though he’d been with them for a year already. He shrugged a tad uncomfortably.
“What about others?”
“Oh, you know what Halassia and Ukrina always want. Go south, as if we’d find more work around the Walled Cities. Moore’s still moping over that girl, and Keilam’s snoring away upstairs. I’d get Seborn to pick a spot, but he keeps telling me it’s my choice. Jerk. So, uh, why don’t you pick a good spot?”
Jelaqua’s finger slid across the map, tapping spots as she talked conversationally.
“We could go to Invrisil. Always work over there. Or, hey—why don’t we head towards Celum? They dug up some treasure in Albez. Or the bug caverns? I hate that place, but heck, I’m sure it’s not fully explored. Just pick a spot and I’ll pretend it was my idea, okay, Garen?”
“Garen?”
The Hobgoblin opened his eyes. For a second, he didn’t know where he was. Then he recognized Spiderslicer staring at him. He sat up as the past faded away.
“What?”
“Which way, Chieftain?”
Spiderslicer looked a bit uncomfortable asking. Garen spotted several Redfangs behind him glancing their way and then pretending to be chattering. So they’d gotten Spiderslicer to ask the question on everyone’s mind. He rubbed his face, trying to erase the past. But it was impossible. He heard an echo.
“Crawling caverns sound good.”
“Chieftain?”
Spiderslicer stared at Garen. The Redfang Chieftain shook himself.
“Nothing. We go south. Past Liscor.”
The other Redfangs stirred. Spiderslicer frowned.
“Not going to High Passes, Chieftain?”
“Yes. But going other way. Past Liscor. Down south into Drake lands. West, back through High Passes from other side.”
Garen grunted as he sketched a quick map. They’d have to go through Liscor and loop a long ways around to get to the other side of the High Passes. Spiderslicer made a face.
“Long trip.”
“Better than fighting hungry Eater Goats and Humans. Too many. Too much slaughter.”
Spiderslicer grimaced and nodded. All that slaughter had called the Eater Goats down from the High Passes. They’d be ravening and might even attack the Redfang tribe, red stripes or not.
“And after that, Chieftain?”
“After that?”
Garen gave Spiderslicer a blank look. He shrugged.
“After that—we’re in High Passes. We’ll fight. Train. Push Gargoyles out of territory. Expand up, maybe. Find more Carn Wolves instead of horses. Normal stuff.”
That was all Garen wanted. A return to normality. He saw Spiderslicer nod, but hesitantly.
“What?”
The Goblin squirmed. He looked back at the others, and they waved him on, clearly saying ‘get on with it’. That was Spiderslicer’s trouble. He was an excellent warrior, but he was no Redscar, brave with words as well as battle. Spiderslicer muttered to himself and then looked at Garen.
“Chieftain—we not fighting Goblin Lord? Or Humans?”
“No.”
Garen scowled. He looked around and raised his voice a little louder, so all could hear.
“Too risky. Too many Goblins. Too many stupid Humans.”
The others nodded. It was suicide, even for Redfangs to fight that many. Still—they looked at Spiderslicer. He hesitated.
“Could have fought with Flooded Waters tribe, Chieftain. Reiss—Goblin Lord—was exposed.”
They could have cut towards him. Garen knew that. His scowl deepened.
“Yes, but—too risky. No way out. No. Let Reiss fight. Don’t need to waste lives.”
Some of the Redfangs nodded, but most looked confused. Risky? That wasn’t what Garen would normally say, and both they and he knew it. Garen growled. Spiderslicer eyed him, but the peer pressure was too great for him to drop it.
“So Chieftain. We go back. Then we fight Gargoyles. Get more wolves. And…use key?”
He gestured obliquely to Garen’s side. Instantly, the chieftain clamped a hand to the small key he carried on him at all times. Spiderslicer sat back on his heels. Garen tried not to glare at him. He trusted Spiderslicer. He was just asking. He forced himself to respond normally.
“Not yet. Other one missing.”
“Okay. We get?”
“Not yet. Later. I—I’ll come up with plan. Later.”
Garen growled. Spiderslicer nodded. He seemed to sense Garen’s patience was at an end and looked back towards the others.
“Okay, Chieftain. Past Liscor. We ride soon?”
“Yes. Get ready.”
Garen watched the Goblin move back. He saw him exchange looks, not quite glance back at him, and begin a rapid and furtive conversation with the others. Garen didn’t need to know what they said. They were probably debating his words.
They could sense it too. Garen didn’t know what he’d do after he got back home. The High Passes always had something to fight, something to do. But he didn’t have any plans beyond surviving there. He just knew he was done. Done with Rags and Reiss and the Humans. Done with betrayal. After all, what reason did he have to stay? It wasn’t his battle. It wasn’t his war. Reiss could die fighting for his master. Garen didn’t care anymore.
He was going home.
——
Olesm had seen armies passing by Liscor. Human ones, going to battle in the Blood Fields. Recently, he had seen the Goblin Lord’s army, a vast host passing in the darkness. And he had seen Skinner’s undead—the hordes of Face-Eater Moths. Each time he’d been cowed by the numbers, but he had trusted Liscor’s walls to hold.
However, today he felt uneasy for a reason that had nothing to do with numbers. The army of Cave Goblins spread out in front of him, twenty-four thousand strong. Enough Goblins to cover the muddy hills. They were spread out, camped on the wet Floodplains. Some were fishing from the water. Others were milling about, kicking mud at each other. A few were trying to spar. But the rest were motionless.
They were staring at the city. Thousands of Goblins, just standing or sitting. Staring. Olesm recognized the Hobgoblin leading them. Numbtongue.
“What are they doing now, Olesm?”
He turned. Wing Commander Embria was standing on the walls next to him. She was staring at the Cave Goblins. She could see as well as he could, but he stated the obvious for both their sakes.
“Nothing yet, Wing Commander. They’ve stopped chanting, but I expect they’ll start up in a few minutes.”
The Cave Goblins were indeed silent. But that wouldn’t last. For the last thirty minutes, they’d been chanting. A single name.
Redfang. They would shout it as one, scream it at Liscor’s walls, and then go silent. But it would start up again, Olesm knew. He looked around.
The battlements were occupied. Full, in fact. The City Watch manned the walls with bows, Gnolls and Drakes ready to unleash volley after volley. But not just them. Embria’s 4th Company also held the walls, and Olesm saw four of her [Captains] taking posts along the wall. And spread out between the Watch and Liscor’s army were other [Soldiers] in yellow armor. Pallassian troops, the ones brought through the door before it had been sabotaged. And if Olesm looked over his shoulder—
He looked and wished he hadn’t. A crowd of faces, furry and scaled, looked up at him. Liscor’s citizens had gathered by the eastern wall, and they were staring up at Olesm’s back. They’d heard the chanting of course, and you’d have to be blind as a Dropclaw Bat to miss the Goblin army camped outside the walls. There had been panic at first—people had thought it was the Goblin Lord’s army. But Zevara had restored order, and now everyone was watching. Wary and silent.
