The elders muttered and talked together in fat, deep voices, wearing heads of orange hair that wetly hung down onto their shoulders. They placed their fingers, traced pictures on the muddy walls, and thought softly about bags full of gold. They wished and hungered for elixir, the drink that spilt forth from the ground and formed skeletons, witches, barbarians, and life. The life-drink, the mead brewed from the hollow earth. A band of Messengers scrambled into the dirt, running forth, tumbling down the steep dusty slopes, and scrambling toward the Elders, screaming, huffing, panting. "The Barbarians are coming! The Barbarians are coming!", they screamed, ringing sacks full of gold, as goblins shuffled out to watch them from their wizened, shriveled cities. They watched, shivered, and then ran out of their doors, gathered around the beaten, bloody, messengers, as they ran, coughing, spitting, wearing helmets that jangled loosely. "Who is thine to interrupt the holy meetings?", said the Royal Goblin, running forth his rough hands and pushing through the dirty crowd, wearing a beaten pendant around his soft neck. "The elixir! Seeping across the ground… The Barbarians leaping from horse, torching the village… They slaughtered them all… They're coming! The Barbarians! The Barbarians!", screamed a young goblin, "We must go! Ride forth from the chambers of this hollow place. Go! Ride! Ride! Listen! Listen!"
The elders approached, quietly muttering. They dragged their fluttering gowns and robes, holding the roots and leaves of a hanging vine. "We are here!", shouted the blind announcer, hobbling forth, "The halls of the chambers allow you to continue."
"The Barbarians are coming! The Barbarians are coming! Gather your best, your soldiers! Gather the hog-riders and the archers! We must fight! The thundering, stormy army of the skeletons are rushing forth from the Underworld, from the Witches Of The East that march forth, spawning their murderous, raging things. From the Runlands, the dark-elixir troops are heading our path. Do you see? We must get ready! Pack up your best, get ready! Get ready! Get-"
"STOP!", shouted the Prophetic One, wearing his purple badge, tapered across his skin, wrapped like a sash. The words echoed across the cave walls, waters rippled, children stopped and watched, and goblins hurried forward. "THEIR IS A MESSAGE FROM THE ABOVE. I HEAR IT! THE GREAT ONE HAS SPOKEN.", screamed the Prophetic One, who muttered strange words, shouted forth incantations and then a voice spoke through him. A loud one, a strange one, that burst from heaven unto earth.
"Seek from thine earth, of what I have formed. Seek the goblin king. Seek the one in the cage, the goblin created from the dust, molded with stone. Seek the one that drinks dark-elixir and hunts deer in the moonlit rough. Seek him! I have said enough! Seek him!"
The Prophetic One shuddered, then lay back onto the ground, dark eyes open, breathing hard. The heart of the earth pounding within him, blood rushing through his tiny body, his clammy hands reaching forward.
"God, bless us all!", screamed someone from the haze and the blood of the cave. Silence echoed throughout the giant cave. "We must prepare!"yelled the Grand Goblin, "Barricade the doors! Hide the young un's! Run! Run! Hurry! We do not have time!". The running of dirty feet began, pittering-pattering against the soft earth, green skin blending into the surroundings, and the creak of wood against rough stone as chamber after chamber closed. For hours and hours, they hid and built, while a weak, tilting wall shivered in the sharp winter breeze, and they drank their elixir, stashed their gold in odd corners, and happily grinned.
Giant wheels that ground grain were hefted and placed against the great gates. Goblins surrounded the entrance, waiting for the Barbarians, whilst watching the blue water, listening through great, curved trumpets. Runtgard sat in the main cave, full of warm light and a fire to warm him, drinking his elixir gas, examining his coins, holding up his weak, frail arms to worship the Great One, in the great kaleidoscope, and examining the artifacts of the east, when the goblins burst into his home. "The governor has sent you to the escape chamber! You must come with us!", shouted the announcer, a small blue goblin holding a spear. "We beckon ye", yelled an old Southerner holding a cane, "Come with us!"
"I must pack up my things!", Runtgard yelled, "I have not gotten ready! What is the reason for this?! I have no time, let me go, let me go!"
His scaly yellow feet scrambled into the room of chests, but more goblins pushed him back.
"The Barbarians are coming! The Barbarians are coming! You must go! Run into the woods, do as the governor says!", They poked him with spears, before grabbing his arms, and dragging him out onto the streets "But- But- My things! You can't take me away like this! My things! Bring me back! My things!"
Someone smiled at him "Their is no going back now!"
"Talk to Elin", Runtgard pulled off a ring, and placed it into a guard's palm, pressing it firmly in, and smiling as he did so. "Tell him that I was taken unfairly! I didn't know! Tell him! Tell him I need more time!"
"Elin will be brought…Elin will be brought", repeated the spear goblins, as they continued climbing the rocks and the moss, going into the wild, tangled brush, past a waterfall, and into a glittering oasis of water, where caves intertwined and wound crazily. Then they let him onto the ground, near hundreds of huddling people. "Where is Elin?", he shouted. But then, the familiar pock-marked face of Elin appeared.
"The Barbarians are coming! They're coming to kill us all!", shouted someone.
Elin shook his head, and sat down on the soft dirt. The spear goblins left and they were left alone, in the chanting of the crowd, in the strange chaos of the loud crying, screaming, and laughing.
"At least we have our gold!", nodded Elin. "At least we have our gold", mocked Runtgard, and slowly lay back, holding his head in his hands and staring at himself for as long as he could.
As they waited, the goblins heard the sounds of hoofs against the dirt, the chants, the screams, the yelling of the Barbarians. The songs of the East, and the horrible rising of the witches as they blasted through the ranks and files, raising up the undead from the ground.
"They're coming! They're coming! Fight for ye lives! Fight for the people! They're marching! I can hear- I can hear-", yelled a raving madman, a lunatic writhing on the ground. But, eventually, he stopped, as feet marched forward, sandals against the earth, and swords digging. Horrible, horrible, digging, quicker and quicker, as fast as could be.
From below the deepest chambers of the earth, children and women heard the tiniest drop of water, then pounding feet, then the gnashing of teeth, the swords that swung together, and then the screaming above, the yelling, the fighting. The singing of the witches, the yell of skeletons, the elixir flowing brackish, soaking into the ground, royal blood against the earth. "Save the Gold! Save the Children!", screamed someone, before being trampled against the ground by the army of Barbarians.
Runtgard hid with them, too weak for fighting, too flimsy to hold a sword. He whispered to himself, molding some clay into the figure of a small goblin, or a barbarian. It was shifting, weightless, strange, molded tirelessly, expertly, in his small hands, as he mumbled, whispered, hating himself, hating how he only had clay, hating it all...
Near him, Elin shivered in the mud, holding a sack full of gold on his shoulders, and wearing a frown. He ran around the tunnels, searching for mere remnants of gold coins, some split in half, stomped by running feet.
Children lay huddling near them. Near a nursemaid shivering underneath a flimsy straw blanket, and a Protectorate sleeping near his sword.
The cracks of whips, the jangling of the hogs, and the digging from thousands and thousands of swords reverberated, echoed, in the fog of the storm, in the silence, the dullness, of the cramped cold cave. Screams continued, going on and on and on, swords clashing in the darkness, shivering jaws, horrible metal against metal. Sharp blades, serrating, teeth on the end, elixir dripping raw against the ground, soaking into the purity of the place. Horrible… Horrible…
Runtgard looked around, shivered, saw their faces in the dark, looked at each of them, and snuck past the guard, into the tunnels, blending into the slight shadow, quietly going into the caves, the pockets in the earth. "Every goblin for oneself", he whispered to himself, shaking his head suddenly, then quivering from slight spasms in his back.
The water dripped slightly here. He wished to go home, into his warm cottage. Into a place he'd wished for, but had never gotten. He remembered the jungle, the steaming shacks, the chispouri and the diaspora of colors. The strange temples that were made from yellowed stone, and rusty iron. The glowing ruby eyes from the head of the Goblin King. The great castles, and the giants that frolicked around the lush place. They were strange, interesting times. Strange… Interesting times... But he sludged through, quietly, quietly, quietly. Into the damp cold, where the rock stretched infinitely across the dark plains.
He looked up, his hands shook. He saw where the daylight poked slightly through. Past the curving corridors, the chambers go round and round, a maze of earth, shaped and formed by the Great One.
He looked back, "Elin! Elin!", he whispered sharply, "Elin, you idiot! C'mere, get over here! We must go! Elin!"
Elin ran from the tunnels, carrying his sack of gold. "Here Grandmeister!", nodding as he spoke of a name long gone. "I'm here!"
"Let's go", he ran forward, jumped past the dark rocks, and the jutting boulders. Elin followed, sneaking past him sometimes to survey the land for shiny things, collecting quartz and sandstone into his bulging rough sack. Elin whistled as he walked along, keeping away the silence that continued.
After a while, he stopped, and tapped Runtgard's shoulder. "Where are we going, Grandmeister?", asked Elin.
"We're running away."
"But where?"
"Above ground, to the valley in the springs."
"But I don't want to go to the springs Grandmeister!", Elin yelled, "I wanna go back home, to the place where the dust is and our cities are, and the warm homes… I want to go back!"
"There's no turning back now, Elin", Runtgard interrupted, "Put your bag down, and listen to me. The Barbarians have come. They killed them all! Do you understand? When we go back, there will be a pile of bodies as high as the Mountain Of The Great One."
Runtgard smiled softly. "And, we've escaped. We've survived. Perhaps, we will go to the palace where soft cherries form from the earth, and strawberries grow great in wide swathes."
"But my brothers and my mothers. They're waiting for me. I just know it. I can smell the fish stew… They weren't there when we went down the tunnels… They were still above ground… They must still be alive!"
Runtgard shook his head, and beckoned him forth. "We must go, Elin! Run fast! Sprint like the wind! We must go!"
Elin trudged along, nodding compliantly, as Runtgard pulled him forward. Eventually, they could only hear the great rush of the wind and the creak and shuddering of the carts. As the light of the cave grew blue and strong, and as he sprinted forth, seeing a strong light. He heard the scream of agony, cries of thousands. Thousands and thousands. He smelled the dirty hogs, the blood on swords, heard the slice of meat, and huddled back, hiding into the dark. Elin stayed, watching quietly, cupping his ears to hear the sounds. Barbarians! Coming forth, from the darkness of the cave, thousands of those gruff faces, yellow hair wildly waving around, some wearing iron helmets, with skeletons surrounding them, emerging from the dust, a tornado of lightning and wind emerging from stone. "Elin! Elin! Run for your life!", he screamed aloud, running back, stumbling, tripping, then regaining his steps as he scrambled backwards, slipping, tumbling. God! Oh God! He pulled Elin back, into a deep corner. They ran deeper and deeper, past the winding steps and crevasses, past skeletons, past dead men, past the disgusting swathes of blue stone and red mushrooms, into the deepest chambers, where deep rolling boulders covered the ghost grass, and skeleton trees bloomed freely, glowing and glowing.
But the Barbarians continued, chasing them, going forth, as spear goblins surrounded them from all sides, screaming at them to run! Run! Run away! Run from them! Run to safety! Hide! Hide for your life! Hide! Until they were killed by a spear, or a berserk barbarian, gone, exploding into purple dust.
They jumped in a deep crevice, hiding in the darkest, deepest cave, where they could barely see light, and only barely watched the chaos before them. "Death to them all!", raged a barbarian, wearing a thick metal helmet."Death! Death! Death!"
They chanted, they sang, as minions dropped death onto the rotting valley, and killed more and more goblins, letting blades drop slowly. The valkyries sang as they swung their axes round and round, and the witches slammed spells from the earth, drawing up ancient incantations to fling glowing orbs forward. Dark elixir poured forth, bubbling, rotting. He smelt it, as the army rushed past them, fighting, yelling, flinging goblins aside, as they all evaporated into smelly, rotting dust. Gone into the grave, with arrows in their backs, "No.. No… No… No...", Runtgard whispered to himself, covering his eyes as tight as he could, hiding in that deep corner, sobbing to himself, hoping to himself that he wouldn't see such a thing. Hoping… Hoping… But blades flew past, and spells awashed the world ablaze, until lightning burst from the deep crevices of rock and stone, and the world turned white, and his head churned with the horrible dullness of sleep.