Chapter 4
Barthog picked up the strip of meat slowly from the bucket. He held it gingerly and tried not to move too fast. He was on gripet duty – a task all dreaded when given. The little creatures in the basket in front of him were starting to stir. Barthog let them awaken in their own time. It was very, very important not to startle them. They were roundish in shape, about the size of Barthog's head. Their scales were also the same murky green of a goblin. Spiky spines went along their back. One had half opened its bulgy, yellow eyes. Its gaping mouth, full of razor sharp teeth, made a small rasping noise as they rested blurrily on the goblin. It waved its two puny arms weakly. Barthog carefully held the strip of meat against its maw. The creature snatched it from his hands and gobbled it noisily. The noise made the other gripets open their eyes. Bathog recoiled a little. It was hard to not be nervous around these things.
Gripets were among the oddest creatures in creation. Their habits were limited to eating and hibernating, which in itself was a wonder. Being legless meant they could hardly move themselves around, which made one wonder how they ever managed to find food for themselves. Barthog fed another one. There were five of them in the basket. The little room he was standing in had the thickness of three walls around it – a necessary protective measure. Enormous, murky-yellow gripet eggs rested against the walls, ready to hatch. The room was kept warm with extra torches on the bare walls. This didn't help improve Barthog's apprehension. He fed a third. This one bounced forward slightly to receive its meat, and accidently struck a still groggy one on its left. The other gripet gave a little squeal which made Barthog jump backwards in alarm. He quickly took hold of himself. No sudden movements around gripets - that was important. If you frightened one of these strange reptiles, if you even startled them a little too much, they would blow up spectacularly. All predators who learned of this quirky habit gave these things a wide berth. Gripets - they were the most useless creation in the world, yet the gods had made up for it by giving them something to remember them by.
As he fed a fourth, the door to the room began to open. It was a heavy door, Made entirely of steel. It uttered a low squeal as is swung very, very slow outwards. The person coming in was wisely trying to be as silent as possible. The door was halfway open when it stopped, and from behind it entered a young man, peering nervously in the torchlight.
"H-have you finished feeding them, goblin?" the youth asked warily. He was tall and scrawny, dressed in the typical garb of a warlock; black robes with a high collar. The only thing he lacked was the pointy warlock's hat, the lack of which was the telltale sign of an apprentice. On one hand he held a wooden board with yellow parchments clipped to it. On the other was a quill. A little inkwell was attached to his hip, held tightly against his robe. Looking at the dripping pot of ink, Barthog thought he understood why warlocks wore black.
"Not yet, Master Orik." Said Barthog.
"Well hurry up, goblin." The youth said unhappily. "Mogdren will be waiting for his tea!"
Orik was apprenticed to Mentor Mogdren, Chief Warlock and Master of Rite. This sounded like an impressive career move, but as with other magician's apprentices that Barthog had seen, Orik's work seemed to consist of fetching refreshments and pressing clothes for his master. Ink-smearing was another stimulating part the boy's regular activity. Barthog hid his amusement. As he continued to feed, the warlock's apprentice started to count the eggs. There was a sound like a cork being pulled hard from a jug of ale. The warlock's apprenticed started violently, his face white, and nearly fell into the egg shelf to his left. Barthog gave him an eyeful of bale.
"You'll live through it, Master Orik." He said, and pointed at a gripet. "It's just him belchin', is all." The sated gripet had gotten immediately back to sleep. Barthog had expertly concealed that he had been as worried as the youth. Any sound could set these kokthrotters off; even their own burps didn't feel safe. One by one, the critters went back to sleep. The warlock's apprentice finished counting the eggs, noted that the gripets were fed, and the two of them exited the room together.
"Well, that's the exciting part of the day over with." The boy said sullenly. There was a spot of ink on his nose.
"Cheer up, Master Orik," Consoled Barthog. "Pretty soon we'll be goin' over the new bridge. Might even have a run in with enemies. And then you might get the chance to press Master Mogdren's combat robes."
"What's so-" began the boy, and then stopped. His glare shot full-force on the goblin's smirking face. With a great huff he took the nearest right and ambled off. Barthog set off towards the Lair. He had spent most of the morning in the Training Room. This might be the only chance to sneak a quick nap. He went past the bulk of a bile demon heading in the same direction. It was the third day since the discovery of the new area. Imps had erected a bridge next to the ruins of the old one. Warlocks and (the now very impatient) mistresses patrolled the Dungeon's side of the bridge; waiting for Morg's order to proceed. Nothing moved in the gloom of the other side.
With his injured shoulder aching as always, Barthog headed for the Lair. Between training, sharpening weapons, polishing armour of the dark knights and feeding living hand-grenades, there had been precious little time for sleep. It did not appear to be Morg's policy to let his minions be well rested before a battle. Since the discovery of the new territory, Morg's minions trained for combat with added zeal.
A cluster of dark mistresses walked past from behind the goblin, speaking in low voices. Apparently, they had been in the library. To Barthog this was an unsual place for dark mistresses to be in at the current, pre-battle climate. The dark mistresses were the most eager for the promised bloodshed. When not training, they were willingly volunteering to guard the newly built bridge. It had been over eighty hours since Barthog had broken down that door, and still no enemy was showing their face. The frustrated mistresses, now driven to the limits of their patience due to the lack of action, wanted more than anything to push forward. Barthog shook his head. These women were probably conspiring to do just that.
From Barthog's left, the enormous workshop was a cacophony of steel and iron. The noise emanating from the room was intense now. Through the doors Barthog glimpsed trolls and bile demons hammering and screwing. There were a steady stream of imps running in and out, carrying various kinds of traps and snares. At the end of the corridor, Barthog took a right. Behind him another corridor lead away to the Training Room, where he knew warlocks were hard at work. Roughly nine hours ago an embarrassment had occurred among Morg's warlock unit. One overzealous warlock got carried away with his fireballs, and spontaneously combusted; earning both an agonizing death and the eternal contempt of the spell-caster community. Since then the Training Room had been cleared of all creatures, and on pain of death the warlocks were to master controlled magical combat. One the left were the doors of the Great Hall, from which came a steady buzz of many voices. Something seemed to be taking place. The goblin decided to ignore this completely. This might be a perfect time to be getting some shut eye.
When he arrived at the Lair, however, Barthog found the doorway blocked by the stern figure of one of the resident dark knights. This one was female. Fully armoured and sword in hand, the she glowered down at Barthog.
"Creature," she growled, "get yourself to the Great Hall!"
The goblin turned without a word. Inwardly, he was groaning. The buzz of talk got louder as he approached the Great Hall. Voices were rising; loudest of which seemed to belong to Chief Mentor Hikandrix. Barthog entered the Hall through the Northeastern door. What he saw there made him recoil and take a step back towards the door. The Hall was more crowded than he had ever seen, with all the tables and chairs stacked against the walls. Nearly all off Morg's minions seemed to be there. Yet even through the crowd the only people the goblin noticed were those that were currently taking up most of the attention; elves. There were three of them, grim faced and steely-eyed. Barthog's hand flew involuntary onto his injured shoulder. The goblin tried not to feel too resentful towards the new recruits. The elves were, of course, renegades. There were two females and one male, all with shaven heads to symbolize the parting with their ancient clans. They were natural allies to the likes of Morg, and useful minions. Despite this, Barthog found himself glaring at the back of their heads between their slender, pointy-ears.
The elves were standing near the middle of the Hall, looking resentful and unhappy. Chief Mentor Hikandrix stood facing them, flanked by Mentor Rite. Hikandrix was talking furiously, his cheeks flushed red with obvious rage. Rite backed him up, looking stern. The elves now also looked angry. The male pointed at the sacks at their feet, speaking stern words. Hikandrix shook his head fiercely, while Rite beckoned to a nearby imp. The imp scurried towards the luggage, but one of the females kicked at it hard. Around the hall Mentor Horst, Peragonn the Knight and Mistress Chaos were rallying the troops. Barthog did not evade their attention for long.
"You, horrid creature!" Cried Chaos, brandishing her steel talons. "Join the goblin ranks this instant."
Barthog moved towards the goblin cluster, where the figure of Fugwar was clearly visible over the others' heads. Most of the goblins were gathered around the two-horned goblin, but there was a separate cluster of those who were not Fugwar's cronies or supporters. Barthog joined the other group, ignoring Fugwar, who had called something out to him. He also ignored Fughorn, who was in his cluster. The remainder of Morg's minions were trickling into the Hall now, herded by Mentors, knights and mistresses. It seemed to Barthog that the elves had won a part of their battle, and had gone off to their Lair carrying their luggage themselves. Bile demons were taking up considerable space in the Hall. Some had enormous morning stars attached to their horns, while others were relying on their natural sharpness. Orcs were organizing themselves swiftly. Trolls on the other hand milled about the hall looking comparatively aimless. Some practiced swinging their hammers. Snarling filled their air as about a dozen hellhounds entered the hall, with orcs holding their leashes. The excited chatter of the dark mistresses was getting louder. Warlocks were the last fill the hall. Out of the all of Morg's minions, they looked least eager for the coming battle. Standing In the midst of this call to arms, Barthog could only think unhappily about his copper sword and injured shoulder. He would have to rely heavily on his group. Looking around, he was both pleased and surprised to see that his part of the goblin cluster had gotten bigger, at the cost of Fugwar's. Perhaps it was the fact that he had stood his ground, or maybe it was that he was now the second tallest goblin in the Dungeon. Fugwar noticed this little shift, and came over at once. Barthog watched the taller goblin approach and felt his patience ebbing away.
"Oi, Nancy," Fugwar began, and Barthog drew his sword. Fugwar's eyes widened in alarm as he quickly drew his own. Barthog had already began to move forward when a stern bark made him stop.
"You, creatures!"
They saw Mentor Rite striding towards them. The Master of Defense was a tall woman with a strange helmet. The back part of the headgear was round and covered the entire back of the Mentor's head. The front part came towards the face in three points; two from the sides and one over the forehead. Framed between the talon-points was a stern, long face; with hooded eyes and a slightly beaky nose.
"Get into groups!" The woman snapped. Her eyes were on Barthog and Fugwar, who were still brandishing their weapons at each other. "I want troops of five or six, and quickly!"
The goblins complied quickly. The other goblins gravitated towards both Barthog and Fugwar. But Barthog was not happy. Fugwar had quickly selected a seven-strong group of experienced fighters, and was shooing the rest away irritably. There were too many novices among the ones that had come to him, including and not surprisingly, Fughorn, who was giving him a sheepish smile. He looked past Fughorn at the other groups. Some troops had eight to ten goblins in them, while some others were in fives and threes. Barthog casually took charge.
"Come on, lads," he said placidly. "Let's even ourselves out so that we're all alive at the end, eh?"
His own team seemed to have ten goblins in it. He gently began to herd the novices into other groups, making a genuine attempt to put them in with goblins that seemed to have more experience. He saw with annoyance that Barthog had somehow managed to stay, but he decided to say nothing more about it. His own group now had five fighters with varying degrees of experience.
He looked around the hall. A knight was restraining some mistresses who apparently had decided to march ahead without the rest of them. Indeed, the cluster of mistresses were rippling with excitement. There seemed to be another argument in the hall, time between Mentors. Horst, Rite and the Chief Mentor stood facing each other, each fiercely making a point. Barthog looked to another corner of the Hall and saw bile demons sparring, with their horns swining at each other and their massive fists flying. He took to the idea at once. At his suggestion, his troops began to practice maneouvers they had been learning in the Training Room: merry-wheel, tack-in-the-toe, upsy-downs and dirty-side. Presently the elves returned to the Hall with their bows ready and swords swinging at their hips. The goblins saw Rite striding towards them again. There had been a new development; half of the minions would remain in the Hall, while another half would march. They heard a loud chrorus of protests from the mistresses side as the Peragonn broke the news to them. The Mentors quickly sorted out this division. Barthog felt no surprise when he found that Fugwar had quickly put himself and his troop into the side that was remaining. Then Mentor Horst bellowed a single order, and Barthog found himself marching with those that were going to the frontline.
They poured out of the Hall, moving eastwards, with Barthog thinking about his shoulder and why he couldn't think fast like Fugwar and remain in the Hall. The elves had taken the lead with the goblins following second. Behind them bile demons were marching in a cluster with the mistresses, who were agitatedly trying not to march past their hulking body. They reached the dreaded corridor where Barthog and Fughorn had played chase with the rolling boulder. Barthog could feel the gulp that went down Fughorn's throat, and thought about the fate of Haglock. The knights were marching in a cluster with warlocks, and had started a war chant that made the cave walls around them rumble. This was no stealth mission, Barthog thought. They burst out into the cave with the chasm. Barthog had one moment to register that the imps had built three wide bridges, with two placed on the far side. Then each elf was drawing their bow, and firing arrows at a southeast cave wall on the opposite side of the chasm.
The arrows hit the wall, and vanished. The wall seemed to move, ripple like a piece of cloth that had been disturbed by the wind. Instantly the wall changed. Barthog saw what seemed to be a giant, brown curtain hung over the mouth of an opening. Then, the curtain fell.
"Duck!" Screaming the goblin. There were noises in the air. Arrows and fireballs were flying across both sides of the chasm. Barthog took the briefest of glimpses to see that the spot where the curtain hang was an opening in the wall. Stand beyond it were blue robed wizards, and men with swords, axes and bows. with shrieks of joy the mistresses ran towards the middle bridge. Then one of the blue-robes on the other side made gestures in the air and cried a word. A bright flash of magic erupted from his hands and struck the bridge. The bridge shattered, splitting the ears of all that heard it. The wizard responsible fell to the ground like a rag doll; either passed out or dead. The magic he needed had been costly. The mistresses paused on for an instant, then with cries of fury released a torrest of lightning from their arms. Two men burned where they stood, they rest jumped out of the way. The mistresses paused to recover from the mana drain, which gave wizards the time to begin hurling fireballs. The warlocks responded in kind. Barthog stayed low to avoid fire and arrows. Beyond the chasm, battle cries were emerging from the passageway on the right of the opening. Then more enemies began to pour through them.
Morg's minions were running to the bridges on either side to counter them. Barthog saw warriors, wizards, witches and dwarfs. Behind them came giants and, hovering around their shoulders, fairies. The fairies fired lightning of their own. Barthog watched as a troll received a direct blast and toppled into the chasm. The stench of burning flesh was in the air. One goblin was nursing a burnt face from a wizard's fire. The elves' arrows had taken down several on the other side, but now their blades were in their hands. It might have been sensible if the minions of Morg held fort on this side of the bridge, exchanging lighting, fire and arrows. But the mistresses were streaming over the bridge, shrieking and ululating. At Peragonn's command Barthog and the goblins joined them.
A giant was upon them almost immediately. As he swung his hammer, the troop ahead of Barthog lost four goblins. The rest scattered, and then it was upon Barthog and his team. Wordlessly, Barthog dived and stabbed at its shins. He struck again and again and fast as he could. The giant howled as four other blades followed suit. Without waiting, Barthog attacked the other foot. This time all five other blades joined him. While the giant hobbled, all five goblins attacked the hand that held the hammer. The giant did not drop his weapon, but he was retreating. Then another goblin troop attacked from his right. The giant swung the hammer again and three goblins fell with their skulls caved in. The rest of the goblins attacked in unison. Some attacking the feet, some the hands, and the rest stabbed at the chest. Finally, the giant toppled over backwards, bellowing. Barthog saw an axe coming towards him from above. He sprang to his left and stabbed its owner on the side. There were two barbarians, both armed with axes. The one that attacked Barthog was not wounded suffiently, and made a sideways swing. Barthog let it miss again. He leaped in the air. A goblin could leap very high. He slashed at the man's face, and missed by maybe half an inch. Then another goblin plunged his sword into the man's belly. The other barbarian was dead too, but he had taken two more goblins with him. Barthog saw Fughorn at his side and rounded on him with fury.
"You kokthrot!" He bellowed. "When you see a giant it's tack-in-the-toe! What in Nether were you waiting for?"
But then he saw that Fughorn's hand was empty, and his sword in the belly of the dead barbarian.
"Get your sword." He said with a sigh. A troop of dwarfs were making for them, axes flashing. Goblins took formation on either side of him as the dwarfs struck. This was a more even fight, but the dwarfs were hardy. The goblin formation broke quickly, and Barthog found himself surrounded by three dwarfs. Barthog knew these creatures well. They lusted for Morg's treasury, it would be the main reason they were here. He felt their impatience to get the battle over with. But their coordination was excellent, better than goblins. They would attack in unison, one swinging at his neck, another chopping at his legs and the third going for his midriff. Without waiting, Barthog threw his sword at the one in front of his with all his strength. Then without waiting he ran for it. The dwarf was dead, taken by surprise by the thrown sword which impaled itself in his throat. Armless, Barthog ran ahead without waiting to see if the other two gave pursuit. He ducked under two knights who clashed swords heavily. He dodged past a streak of rainbow-coloured magic, then than a morningstar swinging on the horn of a bile demon as it smashed towards the face of a sorceress. He stopped only when at last he came upon a weapon on the ground. A steel sword.
He picked it up, looking around as he did. It occured to him then that the enemy was retreating. Jubilant mistresses chased them towards the passageway. The knights were coordinating quickly. A portion of bile demons and warlocks remained to guard the cave. The rest continued the chase. The goblins quickly fell behind the mistresses, who were jeering and taunting. The walls of the passage lit up brilliantly as they cast more lightning bolts. retreating wizards seemed to be blocking most of the blasts, while fairies returned in kind. An unfortunate goblin was next to Barthog was roasted to a pillar of ashes as three blasts hit him at once. Mistresses were expertly dodging most of the lighting cast their way. Barthog and the goblins were running blindly. The passageway seemed to change, but they had no time to stop and see. A vague sense of unease was developing in them. The enemy was not yet outnumbered enough for them to retreat like this. Something was wrong. Someone was yelling something. It sounded like Chief Mentor Hikandrix. Sound of battle was picking up again, and growing louder. Suddently, Barthog found himself in the Dungeon, right in the middle of the Heart Chamber. Battle raged fiercely. Crowds of fairies, wizards and sorceresses were attacking the Heart. The thought of desertion and a quick getaway crosses Barthog's mind only once. Fury took control a moment later. To be fooled this way!
"ATTACK!" He bellowed. The goblins bellowed in response. The rest was a blur in Barthog's mind. Years of experience took autopilot. Dwarfs fell under him. He dodged fairy blasts and cut them out of the air. Knights, giants and barbarian warriors they fought with coordination. Soon no goblin in Barthog's troop was left alive. None except Fughorn. By then the battle was over. They had won, but at a gruesome cost of life. But Barthog was alive, and felt jubilant. Panting, he turned to Fughorn, who looked, despite already being a goblin, green with nausea.
"Stick with me in the future." Breathed Barthog. "You fight worse than a one-armed troll, but you're the luckiest koktrottin' goblin I know."