Chương 24: Bobbert's Bobble

Sparfydl was lost. The bustling villages along the Viridian river were abandoned. The great trains of grain barges were long gone. When Wintermore fell, even the hardiest farmers lost hope and fled south with all they could carry. The homes they had abandoned were now burned out shells surrounded by fallow fields. Legions of dirty green feet trampled the hills of rich black loam into a sty of muck and filth. The breadbasket of Anvillan was empty and bare. With the watchers gone, no one could stop the Goblins.

Two hordes poured into the valley and laid claim to either side of the river. Each day, the fever built. Troops of warriors strutted and danced along the opposite shores, proud as peacocks. Chieftains screeched and Shamans howled hexes and obscenities at the enemy. A great battle was brewing. When the spring thaw ended and the river ran low, the hordes would surge across the river and rip out each other's throats. From the west, a great wave of black leather and death swept across the badlands.

The Bad Moon Soon warband was led by Blakabaa Ba'ah, the ingenious and merciless Grand Maja of the Bla'Claw Goblins. From the east, a tide of crazed, painted faces came to meet them. Clad in stolen silks and rainbow feathers, the savage Gorelord Goblins were led by Brakakak-Bak, the Sorcerer Supreme. For years, the two war chiefs had eyed each other at a distance, probing for weakness with spies and assassins. Now it would end in the Valley of Six Mists. There could be only one Maja.

Cinnabinathi led the Heartbroken Expedition through the Goblin pandemonium. The peerless Hawkmoon scouted ahead and plotted a path through the sorrowful hills. At the start of their mission, she chose the eastern side of the valley. The Gorelord Horde was far larger, but the Sorcerer Supreme was utterly insane and there was little discipline in his ranks. It was their best chance to slip by unnoticed. Sparfydl was terrible to behold.

The party could creep right under the bulbous noses of the Goblin patrols, but they could not escape the devastation. They marched across a waste of trampled crops, torched vineyards, shattered settlements, and ravaged villages. The rain was a gray slush of ash and dust that stained instead of washing away. The wind stank of smoldering ruins and rancid Goblin musk. After such sights, Cinnabinathi worried after the humans in her party, especially the haunted lieutenant.

But Sindermann was not shaken, he was inflamed. He looked at what the Goblins had wrought and his eyes blazed, twin beacons of hate. His jaw was always tight, his fists forever clenched at his sides. The Halberdiers itched to face the beasts who'd done this. They met only one human, a raving loon. The party crept past a ruined moonshiner's shack. A man's voice screamed within. Wary of a trap, they approached to offer aid.

As the scouts drew close, the madman leapt through the window and escaped, hollering into the hills. Maro raised his bow, but Cinnabinathi shook her head. It was ill fortune to kill a madman. If he was dear to a god, disaster would follow. The scouts pinched their noses to inspect his shack. Skunkleaf and poppy tar permeated every fiber of the awful hovel. The bare walls were scrawled with vile charcoal drawings. Cinnabinathi had erred.

It was clear the hermit gave himself over to Chaos long ago and had even cohabited with Goblins. Above his bed of musty rushes, the Cracked Moon was painted in blood. That night, they heard howls in the distance, closer by the hour. The hermit had squealed to his masters. Now, stealth was no help. Outriders were on their way. Alone, the Hawkmoon could have vanished without a trace, but the expedition could move no faster than the plodding dwarves. There was nothing subtle or swift about Hilg's Shieldbearers.

Each time Cinnabinathi met Hilg's eyes, judgment seared back. Her lapse in judgement would cost them dearly. There was no sleep that night. Wolf Riders rode around the camp in screaming circles. The Goblins blew horns and beat on pots until dawn, while their hairy steeds howled along. It was cunning and cowardly. The Goblins would never fight an enemy at full strength. They would wait until their numbers were overwhelming and the expedition was half-dead from fatigue.

Hard as the party marched, the howls were never far. As the day dragged on, their slumberless steps grew heavier by the hour. Cinnabinathi kept an eye on the line. A few Halberdiers wavered, but none dropped. Something had to be done, soon. Dusk came quickly in Sparfydl. The sun slid behind the mountains and the mist hid the moons. Cinnabinathi ordered the main force to march on. With their bows, she and her Hawkmoon climbed into the trees and lay in wait.

Soon enough, the Goblins rode along with their pots and whistles in hand, grinning like fiends. To the Goblins, this was all a jape. Hidden high in a pine, Cinnabinathi anchored a shot on their leader. He was easy to pick out, for he wore a milk bucket for a helmet and a stolen washboard as a breastplate. Keenly, she could remember the sound it made, rattling off-beat all night long. She loosed the string of her Silver Hartsbane Bow with a smile.

The black arrow's broadhead punched right through the tin washboard and bit into the goblin's belly. He fell off his wolf screaming. The jape was over. Elvish humor was more refined; the Goblin would take days to die. All around her, Cinnabinathi heard the muffled twang of muted strings. Each was followed by an awful scream. She had hoped to kill them all and buy more time, but a runt at the rear escaped the ambush and fled howling into the mist. Alas!

The maneuver bought the expedition a few precious hours of sleep. Far too soon, the wolves returned and the march resumed. There were always more Goblins. That night, the wolf riders kept well out of range. Shouts flew farther than arrows. On top of that, it rained. The men huddled under tarpaulins and snatched bits of sleep in miserable, shivering shifts. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. At dawn, they could see their goal.

Blagg Peak rose east of the Six Widows: a cascade of roaring waterfalls that wept endlessly along the edge of a high, hidden lake. They were past the main body of the Gorelord Horde and the peak was just a horizon away. But, they could never reach it. The Dwarves were bone-tired and silent as stones. The humans were close to keeling over. Maro returned from the rear and reported there was a large force on their tail. The Goblins were taking their time. Maro believed they would catch the expedition near midnight.

He warned that he'd spotted a large shadow moving at the back of the pack. Maro could not tell if it was a contraption or a beast, but the Goblins seemed afraid of it. If they could just last another day, they could make it into the mines and perhaps escape. Lieutennant Sindermann proposed to have his men draw straws for a suicide squad. They would stage a last stand to allow the rest of the expedition to escape. Of course, he would stay behind to lead them. It tracked with the prophecy.

Cinnabinathi was about to agree, but Bobbert stopped her. He had a better idea. Painfully close to their goal, they stopped early and set up camp in full sight of the Goblin spies. The weather was perfect for Bobbert's plan. As night fell, thick clouds covered the moons and fog rolled over the hills. Every sound carried like they were inside a cathedral. The camp bustled with the sounds of many men winding down after a long slog.

The pursuers listened at a careful distance, wary of another painful lesson from the Hawkmoon. When the time was ripe, the Goblins would climb onto their wolves, charge in with their spears, and take their revenge. They waited, never realizing they'd taken the bait. The camp was a decoy. The main force of the expedition was leagues away, marching up the river. Only Bobbert and Cinnabinathi remained.

With a few cantrips and a great number of strings tied to tent flaps and branches, Bobbert did his best to sound like a whole unit of clumsy men who were trying to be quiet. Cinnabinathi moved from tree to tree like a ghost, putting black arrows through any Goblins who wandered too close. It was great sport, but terribly perilous. If the Goblins saw through Bobbert's ruse, they would rush in and turn him into apprentice stew. The pair pressed their luck as long as they could, hoping to buy time.

Just as Cinnibinathi was about to give the signal to withdraw, she heard movement in the north. Then, from the south, a dozen wolves howled. The Gorelord had run out of patience. Bobbert! Cinnabinathi leapt from her perch and rushed to warn the boy. They'd carefully plotted their escape route. As Bobbert leapt up to flee, he forgot the strings tied to his feet. He went down in a tangle, the foes were too close. Cinnibinathi could still get away if she left him behind. She spun and drew Fahflets.

The curved blade of the Skymetal Scimitar flared a brilliant blue and burned away the mist. Uncanny light flashed in the eyes of the wolves and their Goblin riders. Too many! The blade shook in her hand. Here was the end Swyllev had foreseen. For a hero to arise, the self must die. Cinnabinathi had been certain she would be brave at the end. But it had arrived, and she was terrified. There was still time to flee. The Goblins could not follow her. Bobbert was only a boy, his entire life was a blink before hers.

Cinnabinathi turned from the riders.

"RUN!" she shouted. All smiles, the Goblins spurred their mounts forward to run her down. Cinnabinathi spun back around and the first spearpoint flew past her. She sprang in a leaping slash. Fahflets sliced through the Goblin's leather gorget and cleaved through his spine in a burst of brilliant blue. His head still wore an idiot grin as it tumbled into the brush. The second rider was dazzled by the flare. His thrust went wide and struck the headless rider's mount.

It was only a glancing blow, but the wolf didn't think so. With a furious snarl, the wounded wolf sprang at the second rider and knocked him from the saddle. He set in on the Goblin and savaged him. The Goblin's own wolf joined in and together they tore the rider back and forth like a toy. The third rider waited and managed to corner Cinnabinathi with her back against a tree. As the Goblin charged, she turned towards the trunk, dashed a few steps up and sprang backward. The spearhead thunked into the tree.

She sailed overhead in a twirling slash that nearly cut the rider in half. The charging wolf slammed into the trunk and was knocked senseless. Cinnabinathi landed in a roll and rose, breathing hard. She heard chanting at her back. Bobbert! The fool apprentice had not fled as she'd ordered. Now they would both die. Another trio charged, the Goblins fought in threes. It was a mistake to waste so much energy with all her flashy maneuvers. Now Cinnabinathi was winded. The Goblins would never stop.

The air stank of burnt metal and sorcery. With a locust roar, a swarm of green sparks flew at the riders and engulfed them. The motes stung again and again and drove the wolves mad. One bit the other's tail and soon all three and their riders were dragged into a snarling ball of claws and teeth. Heavy steps thundered close and a shadow approached from the south. Cinnabinathi grabbed a fallen spear and hurled it with all of her might. She heard a heavy thunk, then a snap and a snort of contempt.

Here was their master. The Boarlord had feasted on his rivals and grown three times as large as a normal Goblin. His skin was tinged orange with brain-rot and his eyes were blood-red. He wore ill-fitting bits of stolen imperial armor and the snapped spear shaft dangled from his heavy oaken shield. His boar's mane was braided with bones. Outlined in moonlight, the Boarlord raised a double-headed axe. He bellowed at his fellows in their snot-belching mockery of a language. No more chaos.

The wolf riders snapped into line and moved to encircle Bobbert and Cinnabinathi. Tusks jutted from the Boarlord's thick lips. He held up two fingers and smiled. You are only two. They were doomed. Behind her, Bobbert's voice raced, high and frantic. Cinnabinathi was no magus, but the spell sounded wrong. A queasy feeling rippled through the air as Bobbert cast his spell and hurled a sphere of rainbow flame. With a yelp, the Boarlord hid behind his shield. The sphere shrieked around the wood and engulfed him.

The gaudy light clung to the Boarlord like paint. For a moment he was still, waiting for pain that never came. The spell did nothing more than dye his skin. The Goblins burst into chattering laughter. The chief grunted two words; no translation was needed.

"Kill them."