Archive for the ‘Tales’ Category

Lars in his element

“So for one, Geir, you’re going to compensate us for our donation  at the temple of Chemosh“, said Lars. “Then, you’re going to pry that tight fist of yours open a little further and pay us properly. Elsewise, you won’t see the goods, ever again”. His face was hard, but his bowels were water. He could run a great bluff, but there was no bluffing his adrenaline glands. There would need to be several stiff drinks after this.
 
The dwarven merchant spluttered. This updweller was spoiling the fine, hand-picked gnomish coffee he had selected to go with his breakfast. Pork steak and quince paste. It should have been perfect, but this manling upstart was threatening to turn it into a hard day of indigestion.
 
“What makes you think I’m going to pay you more money, thug? I’ll have you clapped in irons, then my cousins in the duke’s dungeon will shatter your finger bones until you squeal”, he barked through a mouthful of beautifully rendered pork fat.
 
***
 
The dwarf’s barking retort brought yesterday’s messy ambush roaring back to the front of Lars’ memory. ‘Wella had lodged herself in a tangle of kobolds down at the bottom of the hollow, forcing Lars to charge in and help. The frontline had never been his place in life and he’d paid for it. The feather-plumbed leader of the warband had brained him with an axe, which luckily was rusty and blunt. Even still, Lars had gone down like a sack of dried kine-dung.
The memories were fractured from there … a wave of heat had washed over him as a flaming ball of magic bounced down the hill and flash-fried half the little fiends in short order. Immediately after, Garpo had flung himself into the fray from who knows where, scattering lizard-heads around the firepit like lawn bowls. The goblin then snatched a moment to pour something foul and acidic into Lars’ throat to stop him dying.
 
Things happened very quickly from there. One of the little beasts crept up behind Garpo and brought one of the ‘cheap’ cooking pots from the wagon crashing down on his head. Flakes of black paint flew everywhere, causing the mithril underneath to gleam in the sun.
 
“Strong silver” Garpo had gasped, shrugging off the bump on the head. He wrenched the pot from the kobold and tapped its brains out onto the ground.
 
“Mithril“, cried ‘Wella, as a fuming acidic arrow lashed one of the remaining kobolds.
 
“Molkai bend me over, and part the mists of time”, cursed Lars through a mouthful of tooth chips. He’d been fooled before but never, ever, had he been tricked into smuggling something like this. The penalty for mithril smuggling was death on site. No trial, no sympathy from the duke.
 
***
 
“Well”, grinned Lars (how can he not see that this grin is pasted on, he wondered), “First of all there’s my letter”.
 
“Letter?”
 
“Yes”, he continued to smirk, “the letter I’ve written to the Overlanders Guild, who don’t seem to know about any mithril shipment in these parts. You see, if I don’t check in with my friend tomorrow morning, that letter does to the Guildmaster. How is he going to feel when his heavies comb your books over and match those ‘cheap’ cooking pots on your register to the cleverly disguised lumps of mithril I’ve got holed up in the Creep somewhere”.
 
“You wouldn’t dare”.
 
“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just pay up. The fee on a job like this should be 100 gold drakes each, not the fifty silver swans you coughed up. I would dare, and you know what? It’s not just your gnomish forest-coffee that’s at stake here Geir. One sniff of this and the duke’s men will burn every damned holding of the Overlanders Guild to the ground. In fact, without my co-operation from here on, beardy, one of your two deceits is going to come to light and either way, you’ll hang by your thumbs. That’s why you’re not only going to front the 300 drakes; you’ll also write us a contract for three more jobs, 50 goldies each per outing, the task is up to you but we get veto power. Right?”
 
The thick, earthy blood drained straight out of the merchant’s face and Lars knew he had won.

The War of Kadian Succession

After his exploits, Hugh Kade became his father’s heir. All agreed, except perhaps his brothers, that it was fair that the youth who had saved the Duchy should one day rule it.

The youth himself only expressed hope that that day would be far off.

The elder brother, who had fled to the south and never returned, began to spread lies about his brother into the ear of Alarak the Cruel. He told the king that Hugh had made an evil bargain with the dragon, that he was poisoning his father, that he had designs on the Leyiran throne. At first, the king paid no mind to these slanders.

In good time, the old Duke was taken by Emesh and Hugh became the new duke of Otraxis. His rule was wise and fair, and under his guiding hand, the city flourished. The dwarves were thankful he had defeated Salizarr, and showered him with gifts and offers of trade. The moutain orcs were scattered, first by the dragon, then by the dragon’s disappearance, so an uncommon peace fell upon the duchy.

Alarak’s cold eyes saw the Jewel of the North begin to shine, and his cold heart became filled with desire for it. First, he raised the tithes the duchy paid him, then raised them again. He began to tax the merchants who traded with the city harshly. Finally, falling back on the old lies of Hugh’s brother, he declared that Hugh was guilty of treason and patricide, abhorred by the gods, and raised his banners against him.

Hugh himself was horrified at both the slanders and the foul acts of the king. At first, he intended to journey south to plead his case, but his advisors counselled against it: the king would simply seize him, and demand a ransom from the city for his return, if he let Hugh return at all. Alarak may have been king, but he had turned his back on Eurus’ justice. They pointed out the king’s many cruelties.

Finally, Hugh held vigil in the temple for a day and a night. When he emerged the next day, he said that Molkai had granted him a vision: Alarak no longer deserved to be king.

The people of Otraxis rallied to their young duke. The dwarves rallied with them to repay their debt. The army marched south, dwarfed by Alarak’s army, but carrying the will of the gods with them.

Hugh  led his small army in a long game of cat and mouse, striking Alarak here, ambushing him there, scoring victory after victory but forced to always retreat before the king’s superior forces without fully engaging in battle. People began to whisper that Hugh no longer beleived the gods were with him, that Enlil would win the day for them if only Hugh would turn and fight, but Hugh never did.

Finally, having retreated back to the very fields before Otraxis, having won every skirmish but now, finally, in danger of losing the war, Hugh turned and faced the king. Before his city, the armies clashed, Hugh’s tiny force swallowed almost completely by Alarak’s army. The brave soldiers faced wave after wave of attacks, but all knew that Hugh’s Rebellion, the War of Shrinking Swords (as Alarak’s men sneeringly called it), had finally come to an end.

At the very blackest hour of the battle, a great roar like rolling thunder was heard. Stormheads sprang from nowhere. Lightning pounded the ground. All men but Hugh cowered before what seemed the very wrath of Branchala.

Salizarr appeared from the heart of the storm. Every breath brought death to waves of Alarak’s men. Every blow unhorsed a knight or destroyed a war engine. Every roar struck terror into the hearts of the king’s men. Unable to face the dragon or its storm, the army broke, and fled.

Salizarr snatched Hugh up in one clawed hand, and Alarak in the other. Faster than the fastest birds, the old dragon flew south to the King’s palace. Alarak screamed and begged and pleaded. Hugh was silent, knowing his life was in the hands of the gods.

Salizarr crashed through the dome of the palace, into the throne room. With booming voice, the dragon said, “This man has waged war upon a man to whom I owe a debt of honour. This is his punishment!” Alarak screamed once, then Salizarr swallow him whole.

“This man shall now by king!” thundered Salizarr. “And as long and he rules, and his sons rule, and his sons’ sons rule, they shall have my protection!”

And that is how the Severan dynasty ended, and the Kadian dynasty, our own, began, with the wise rule of King Hugh the Pious, the first of his name. It is how the Kadian family came to take the blue dragon and gold chain for their arms. It is how the Salic Law–that a Kadian should rule–was spoken. It is why the Kadian Kings send a gift to the mountains on their coronations, and it is why that is a gift, not a tribute. And it is how Salizarr first revealed how seriously he took his oath to Hugh, six hundred years ago.

Hardly Worth It

Llewella felt a little sick and her head swam. Worse still, the goblin was poking at her face with a finger covered in green gunk.
 
“Take herbs, put under tongue” Garpo barked.
 
She shook her head and was rewarded with an explosion of pain. She took a moment to review the situation. Lars was at the bottom of the dusty basin, maybe dead, maybe just incapacitated, either way he was trussed up tight with leather thongs. He had fallen while trying to kill the kobold that had brained her. Garpo had dragged her up the rock-strewn eastern slope while Lars fought fought them. “Easy”, the merchant at the wayshrine had said. “A half dozen kobolds at most, armed with blunt stone spears and pissy little slings. You’ll have ’em for breakfast”. That merchant was an idiot, ‘Wella decided, and would certainly not be seeing his cargo should she and her companions survive to liberate it.
 
“Take herbs, elf-girl eat, friend Garp needs your help. You make magic for to save Lars.”
 
The goblin tripped over the word ‘friend’, but she supposed the sentiment was there. She scooped the green paste from his filthy fingers, deposited it under her tongue and … it was wonderful! She swallowed the healing salve and energy surged into her system. The pounding in her head receded and the world snapped into focus.
 
They had stalked the scaly bandits to their lair in this tiny gully, only to find themselves flanked. The merchant’s ‘half-dozen’ had expanded to nearly twenty, most of whom pounded them with stones. One of the bigger ones had gotten through Lars’ guard and struck Llewella in the head, ruining her spell and casting her to the ground. Garpo had managed to haul her away and hack into the kobolds at the same time. Lars stood his ground and held them at bay, but not for long. The kobolds had swarmed him and taken him down. Now half the band tried to light a ritual bonfire while the others stalked up through the shrubs and boulders, wary of Garpo and his sturdy horse-bow.
 
All this for that lying dwarf’s cargo – a dozen iron cooking pots and a barrel of beer. “We really need to hit the big-time” she murmured, as she kneaded a noxious lump of tallow, sulfur and iron dust in the palm of her hand.

The Otraxin Wyrm

Approximately 600 years ago, in the twilight of the Severan dynasty, during the reign of King Alarak the Cruel, a great blue wyrm settled in the barren Palir Mountains above what was then the fledgeling town of Otraxis. The dragon was already old beyond measure; longer than a river galley, with a head the size of an aurochs and scales the colour of the deepest oceans.

The people of Otraxis were terrified and fled. The Dwarves closed the gateways to their mountain homes and cut off all trade. All living things waited to see what cruelty the great dragon would perform.

Its first target was the Dwarven mines. With claws of adamantium and a breath of lightning, the dragon began to dig deep into the mountain rock, hunting out the precious stones and metals the dwarves had hoarded. Many lives were lost; many mines and sacred crypts were looted and destroyed, the treasures lifted back to the dragon’s lair on leathery wings.

In desperation, the Dwarves begged the dragon for mercy. It agreed to spare their lives and homes in return for crippling annual tribute. The Dwarves paid, and gave the dragon the name “Salizarr”, which means “The Burrowing Death” in their language.

The mountain orcs were unable to resist the Dwarven tribute caravans, and raided them–the Dwarves perhaps less ardent defenders than they would have been under other circumstances. Enraged, Salizarr tracked the orcs back to their lairs, took back his treasure, and breathed death into the orc lairs. He killed their leaders, laughed off the hexes of their witches, and broke the spirits of the tribes. They, too, agreed to serve Salizarr.

Salizarr turned his greedy eye southwards, towards Otraxis. At this time, the Duke of Otraxis had three sons, the youngest of which was Hugh Kade. In desperation, the Duke sent his eldest son south, to the rulers of the Kingdom, to beg for help. He sent his second son west, to seek aid from the magic users of the broken lands. He sent his youngest son east, to the lands of the elves.

Hugh was a pious boy, and every night prayed to the gods to save his home and the good people of Otraxis. He did so one night on the very borders of the elf lands, and fell into a deep slumber. He dreamed of a beautiful woman in white, who gave him eight strands of her hair.

When he awoke, a beautiful golden chain was laid across his chest.

Hugh rode back to Otraxis as quickly as his horse could bear him. He gathered what paltry tribute remained to the people of Otraxis in an ox cart and drove it into the mountains in search of Salizarr.

Salizarr of course found the boy and his cart soon enough. The dragon took the gold and was about to leave when Hugh told him that the ox was tribute from Otraxis as well. Pleased with the fine looking animal and its golden harness, Salizarr devoured the ox in a single gulp.

As soon as it touch his tongue, the ox’s gold harness unravelled into the golden chain, and wrapped itself around Salizarr’s mouth, then head, then neck, then body. Tighter and tighter flexed the chains, until the dragon was trussed like a goose and whimpering in pain. He tried to breath lightning. The chain ignored it. He tried to break free. The chain would not break. Finally, he begged for help from the boy.

“Torment the young races of this area no more,” said Hugh. “Know that I could slay thee now, for I have thee at my mercy. I choose not to, for truly you are creature of surpassing nobility and power, and I would not strike such a splendid child of the gods. Give me your word of honour to trouble us no more, and we shall part as friends.”

Touched by the youth’s nobility, piety and of course flattery, Salizarr gave his word and the chain melted away. True to his word, he returned to his lair, and bothered the younger races no more. Hugh returned to his father’s castle and was hailed as a hero.

Llewella

It was, on balance, good to be out of Otraxis. Sadly, Lars had invited a goblin along. The little monster had practically inhaled a half-raw joint of pork, almost started a fight with a dwarven footman and had taken the name of half the gods under the sun in vain, at the top of his voice. How horrible, Llewella mused, that the atmosphere of such a quaint little wayshrine Inn be spoiled by this stunted barbarian.
Her old friend sat arguing with the creature, both of them well into their cups.
“No, Garp. Not a chance. Elves build the best bows. The best. Bar none”, Lars slurred.
“Goblin bow better”, the smelly wretch replied, “bow short for the riding of horse. Strong for to shoot through bison skull. Made from beautiful horn for to carve and polish. Always you buy bow from goblin, not tree-things”.
Garpo had made this exact statement, word-for-word, each time Lars made a new point. his lack of imagination was astounding. Even worse, each time he said ‘tree-things’ his greasy eyes would flick to Llewella. Never mind that she was a half-elf and had lived in a stone house in Otraxis all her life; to the goblin she was a tree-witch. Fine, she thought, to her Garpo was little more than a half-tame cannibal.
“These goat-pebbles you spitting make me dizzy, Lars. I go outside for to pass water and breathe the wild air for a while”, grumbled Garpo.
“The wild air?”, Llewella sneered as the goblin left, none too sober herself.
“The goblins think it is wrong to trap air inside a building, ‘Wella. They prefer life outdoors, in the wind and rain and wild air” replied Lars. He was about to add that this made them a little like the elves, but bit his tongue – literally.
“Why Lars? Why a goblin. Otraxis is full of men, elves and dwarves, all hungry for work and you choose this little green man!”
“Yes, he smells, he eats raw pork and pretends that it’s people, then drinks horse milk that smells like piss, but by Enlil ‘Wella – you should see the little bastard fight!”
“I’m not sure I want to”, she replied, as string of guttural goblin curses exploded from the coutyard.

Garpo the Goblin

Garpo crouched in the dirt amongst the horses, which both reminded him of home and smelled better than the human cesspit where he found himself. To pass the time, he admired the notches he’d made in his father’s old sword. The nicked edge from Arche Valley was especially impressive, acquired when he’d struck the nail-studded skull of an Orc chieftain’s bodyguard. His little band of mercenaries had done well that day, a hundred brass bits, which was almost unheard of for a dirty band of goblins. Of course, Erbe and Kocochu were dead now, betrayed by Neikun for those very coins. This is why Garpo sat amongst the horses in front of a stinking tavern in the Creep, trying not to feel jealous of the human Lars, who was allowed into Otraxis and had gone looking for work(1).
Garpo the Goblin. What a stupid name. Back in the khanates they’d called him Guzzling Garpo, or Garpo the Gorger, never ‘goblin’, ‘stinker’ or ‘shorty’ like they did here. In those days Garpo had some weight to him, a big boss-belly to frighten the children and attract the ladies. That was before Garpo’s father insulted the myangan(2) chief and lost his head, forcing Garpo to flee his comfortable life in the camp. Now Garpo was worn and wiry, a veteran of a dozen petty raids and skirmishes. His arbat(2) brothers were dead, his steppe horse was lost and he had finally run out of kumis(3).
It was hard not to feel nervous as he waited for Lars. Garpo had saved the man’s life (quite by accident) as they fought their way out of a caravan ambush along the river Thienne. In the khanates this would earn Garpo a year or two of loyalty, but Lars was a human and humans cheated goblins, that was just the way of the world. Not to mention that Lars claimed to know a wizard – an elven she-wizard – and had promised to bring the filthy witch-thing back here to meet Garpo. Still, they had decided to become treasure hunters and no worthwhile band of ‘diggers’ ever ventured forth without a spell-slinger(4) of some kind. He would meet this tree-loving harpy and perhaps they could even make some money together. Perhaps instead she would die and he and Lars could hold a funeral feast(5). Garpo licked his lips at the prospect. It had been a decade since the khans had signed the Trans-Palir Pact(6), but surely an elf already dead was fair game?
The wiry goblin sheathed his sword. Lars was trotting down the steep stairs into the Creeper village with the blue-eyed she-devil in tow. More importantly Lars’ hardened fingers gripped a small leather purse filled with brass. This meant wine, cheese and if Garpo was lucky, roasted pork, extra rare …
FOOTNOTES
(1) Although tolerated in human lands, goblins are rarely admitted into the city proper. Instead, taverns in the Creep do a roaring trade entertaining them while their human, elf or dwarven allies do business in the city.
(2) The arbat is the smallest unit of khanate military structure, comprising ten goblins (always male, except in the case of the elite female horse-archers). Ten arbats constitutes a zuut (100); ten zuuts make myanghan (1000); and ten myanghans combine into a tumen of 10,000 warriors. A tumen is rarely assembled and is almost always led personally by a khan.
(3) An alcoholic beverage made from fermented mare’s milk. The fermentation process removes the lactose, to which goblins are intolerant.
(4) Spell-slinger is a terrible cliche and I apologise. By all means suggest some better slang.
(5) The funeral feast is probably the most unsavoury custom retained by the goblins, who are otherwise gradually becoming civilised. Instead of burying or burning a dead relative, the deceased goblin will be roasted and consumed by their family, who are said to retain their spirit from then on. The ghosts of goblins who were not feasted upon are said to wander the khanates as evil spirits and feature heavily in goblin folklore.
(6) An inter-racial treaty designed to promote trade in the regions around the Palir Mountains. Among other things, it contained a clause requiring the elves to retract their “death-on-site” policy if the goblins would refrain from eating elf-meat.
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