Vol 6, Chapter 3

"The Second Prince is dead?" Erin asks incredulously after I finish my story.

"Definitely. They drove an obsidian dagger into his temple, to the hilt. Not even an archmage would survive that."

"No, are you sure? Absolutely sure?" she repeats, agitated.

"I saw his body as clearly as I see you now," I reply and pull the boiled potatoes closer. I hadn't eaten all day, and it had been a very long one.

"I don't understand why the Commonwealth would do such a thing…"

"I told you: the client was the Third Prince."

"Yes, but a murder right under the Commonwealth's nose… It had to be with their approval; there's no other way! The place is crawling with mages; an assassin simply couldn't have… unless this is some clever scheme, a decoy for their own ends?"

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The Commonwealth may be the most advanced state, but that doesn't mean they don't make mistakes." I shrug and pop a potato into my mouth.

She shakes her head, unable to believe it.

I chew and move on to the potatoes sprinkled with fresh dill. Tasty.

By the way… there's one more important matter we need to start on right now.

"Til, another task. Two, actually. First: bring Master Orin here. Second: prep a damp basement room and a couple hundred clay jars with lids. We need to collect mold samples from all over the city. Make sure they're from different places!"

"Understood," he answers curtly, not so much as changing expression. The right attitude.

"Mold?" Mira echoes, setting a mug of ale on the table in front of me.

"Exactly. Oh, and put a small piece of bread in each jar so the mold doesn't die. Don't overdo it; a tiny piece is enough."

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Erin rolling her eyes. Hm. Fair; talking mold right after a prince's murder isn't the smoothest.

"It's for important alchemical research," I explain.

She snorts.

"I get it… but your priorities are strange, Viscount. Suppose all of this is true, then why are you sitting here eating instead of racing to the Capital?"

"And how far will I get on an empty stomach?" I joke, then immediately realize it's the wrong moment. Fine, time to explain.

"Don't give me that griffin look, Countess. I understand this is very, very important information. But there are two points. First: who's going to believe me, if even you don't…?"

"I do believe you," she cuts in. "It's just… too incredible."

"Exactly. Second: the goblins. Until I deal with them and secure my lands, I'm not going anywhere. My people matter more to me, and they always come first."

"You only have people thanks to the King; all these lands were granted by him," she reminds me.

"Maybe so. But if war breaks out, it'll be they who fight at my side, not the King."

"And how long will they last if a real war starts?"

I chew in silence for a few minutes before saying, "You'll see in a couple of days, on the goblins."

Erin sighs.

"All right, but if the Second Prince is dead, the Commonwealth could accuse you of killing him."

"One more reason not to hurry to the Capital, no?" I smile.

"You're insufferable. At least inform the Count about the situation. I'll write to my mother as well, if you don't mind. We're obliged to notify them at minimum."

"Fine, we'll do that," I nod. "He probably won't believe it either, but I'll write the letter. Mira, thanks for the food."

"You're welcome. And where's the redhead? Did she stay in the Commonwealth?" Mira asks. Looks like she missed that part while she was off getting the potatoes.

"She's sailing, I suppose," I shrug. I wasn't worried about Asha; she wouldn't get lost. Not even at sea.

"Shame. I thought… Hmm. If you're free, can we talk? About the book."

"Book?"

"Weeell…" She hesitates, glancing sideways at Erin.

"Is it urgent?"

"I think it's important. But it can wait," she sighs.

"Then let's do it another time. Too much on my plate. By the way, Countess, I may need your help."

Erin arches a questioning brow.

A hastily painted poster hung on the stable wall, crudely nailed in place. Ironically, it showed a goblin likewise pinned—only this time by bayonets. "Drive the Goblins Out!" proclaimed Gerrar's latest artwork.

"Tasteless," Erin comments. "My knights are teaching commoners to read so they can look at this scrawl?"

"Among other things," I mutter. I still hadn't found time to organize a proper newspaper, and there wasn't much point yet; the school had barely started running. Still, the poster being sloppily nailed up instead of framed under glass as I'd promised irked me a little. I'd have to make sure someone handled that…

Once we got rid of the goblins.

The stable doors swung open, and Ron led out the flier. Aside from a few bald patches and the uneven feathers sticking out in all directions, he was in fine shape.

"All right, Countess, I need a crash course in griffon handling."

"You're insane?!" she shouted into my ear so loudly I went half‑deaf, and the griffon itself recoiled and hid behind the healer.

"What's the problem?" I asked, rubbing my ear.

"Everything. This isn't a soldier's horse that doesn't care who's on its back! Knights spend years learning to fly a griffon. There has to be trust between a griffon and its rider; you can't just up and mount someone else's griffon."

"Oh, come on. I'm not going to perform any aerobatics. I just need to take off and fly a bit, that's all." I spread my hands to show how simple the task was.

"Even takeoff takes months of training. And are you sure he won't just throw you off? You're not an air mage, and you wouldn't survive a fall like that."

"Chicka isn't like that—Chicka won't toss me. Right, Chicka?" I say gently, reaching a hand toward him.

He takes a few steps back, eyeing me warily from the side. Fair enough. I just dragged him out of the water; I haven't actually spent time with him.

"Fine, I'm not greedy for glory. Results first. Erin, can you take my place?"

"NO!"

"I haven't even told you my plan…"

"NO! And don't even dream of it—I am never in my life getting on anything with wings!" she snaps, lips pressed tight.

"Why? Isn't the high nobility taught to fly as a matter of course?"

"I prefer to keep my feet firmly on the ground."

Something clicks in my head.

"Wait—are you afraid of heights?"

"Viscount Randall Condor, I did not hear your unfounded assertion. Correct?" she says in an exceedingly official tone.

"…So that's why you turned down a short ride in the hot‑air balloon when I offered?" I continue the chain of logic.

She doesn't answer, only glares daggers.

"All right, forget it," I say, scratching my chin to hide a smirk. "Hm. Then we've got a problem. We have a griffon, but no one to fly it."

My gaze shifts to the healer, whom the griffon is pressed up against. They are rather close…

"Well then, Sir Ron. Congratulations. You've been promoted to flying ambulance."

"Huh?"

"Objections not accepted. You get two days to train, no more. I also still need time to put together a decent loudhailer…"

"But my lord, I can't fly!"

"You don't have to fly yourself, ha. The griffon will! And I'm not asking you to carry me right this second. You've got a full two days to practice."

"I can't do it!" the healer blurts, gone white at the realization of what's been dropped on him.

Smiling, I step up to him, grip his shoulders, and whisper,

"But I could always change my mind… and then you'd be learning to fly alone, without the griffon. Likely from my castle tower. Which will it be?"

He nods meekly. Good boy. At this rate he might actually work off his karma someday for the people he helped kill in the lab…

Now all that's left is to take care of the megaphone and oversee the planting of the explosives so everything goes off without a hitch.

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◆ Refugee tents near the city of Eagle's Cliff, Voice of the Crowd's POV. ◆

Strange rumors were making the rounds in the city—stranger than usual, in fact. With a goblin horde roaming the county, everyone's nerves were raw and even small incidents turned into sensations.

People had barely finished discussing the strange soldiers who loitered in dives scraping mold off the walls when a new cause for panic appeared: sealed barrels were being carried out of the warehouses and stacked in a field several kilometers from the city.

The gossips, still undecided as to which particular demon of the Abyss the mold was meant to honor—went into overdrive. It took them only a few hours to reach the only correct conclusion, in their minds: the barrels held human meat! A payoff for the goblins; they'd take it and go on their way.

Arguments raged. Those who hoped it would work prayed; those who called it intolerable fumed. The soldiers hauling barrel after barrel kept their mouths shut.

When people tried to question them, the answer was always the same: sign up for the army and you'll learn everything.

Some actually did just that. Dispossessed of their land—now the goblins' playground and toughened by life, they understood two things clearly. First: hunger threatened them all. Second: no lord lets his army starve.

So they made the only reasonable choice in such circumstances… and fell just as silent, since harsh punishments awaited anyone who blabbed. That didn't stop them from hinting, though, and the rumors around the barrels only grew. It got to the point where people were all but expecting the One's wrath. Some even chose to worship the goblin chieftain, hoping to be spared.

Militia squads with scarlet armbands quickly restored order, and the crazies went back to worshiping the "proper target", but the bitter aftertaste remained. Everyone was on edge.

Even the Lord flew into a rage. Rumor had it he was chopping off the legs of anyone who displeased him…

******************

Though at the moment, the Lord was extremely displeased with the healer. And his legs were still attached—for now.

"Hold it steady, for fuck's sake!" I bellow into Ron's ear as he somehow coaxes the griffon forward.

Clouds above us. Below—green grass and goblins.

"How are we supposed to find the goblin we need?" he yells back.

"Look for the biggest bastard bristling with weapons from head to toe, with even more bastards clustered around him—you can't miss. And I think I see one now. Right a bit!"

The griffon banked, and I nearly dropped the megaphone. Maybe it was the weight, maybe the lack of practice, but the feathered brute flew abysmally. Still, I wasn't chasing speed records, so long as we didn't crash into the goblins' heads, I'd call it a win.

"Lower, lower!" I order. Goblins below spot the griffon and wave sticks, and some even brandish real human spears. The Warchief watches our flight closely but gives no orders; he waits.

"They won't shoot us down, will they?" the healer asks, doubtful.

"Go lower!"

We begin to circle lazily over the Warchief's bonfire, distinguished from the others only by the greater number of gnawed human bones.

I pull out the megaphone and give a test cry.

"Hear me, Warchief!"

My voice rolls across the field. Goblins duck, drop their sticks, and clap hands over their ears. Perfect. My own ears ring, so it's twice as nasty for them. The sound cracks and distorts, which is even better: it creates the effect I need.

Only the Warchief stares up at me with piggish eyes, unblinking. I would hardly call him a goblin; I don't know what mix of creatures produced this abomination… I don't even want to think about it. He looks as much like a boar as a reptile, his body covered in green scales showing through the joints of his armor. He stands at least as tall as a man, taller than most. Perhaps only a few, such as Aluin or Dorvan, could rival him.

"The horde's successes are great, but the true trial lies ahead. No one has ever broken a city. No one! But you can. The gods say only you can do it."

The Warchief nods, pleased. So far, so good. I clap Ron on the shoulder.

"Drop it."

The griffon gladly loosens his claws. A barrel of weapons tumbles toward the ground. A thud; the crack of an unlucky goblin's bones mingles with the clatter of swords spilling from the split barrel. The loss is nothing. A brawl erupts over the blades at once.

The clearing is instantly soaked in blood—no surprise. I hadn't filled the barrel with mass‑produced junk but with decent swords from the castle stores. The body count rises like dough on yeast. Well, would you look at that!

If we do this often enough, maybe we won't need bombs at all.

"The omens say there will be weapons in the field near the city, more than you can imagine. But the battle will be hard. Only if all of you march out, every last one, will victory be certain. So say the gods."

"Tis my horde, hooman. Don' be tellin' me wot ta do," the Warchief growls.

The green bastard is getting uppity.

"The omens may turn away from one who fears his fate to become the Greatest," I proclaim, lowering my voice, and signal Ron to fly off.

The griffon gains height. Soon the field slips from view, and Ron dares to ask,

"So what do you think, my lord, will they bite?"

"We'll know the day after tomorrow. If not, no big deal. It'll just take much longer to wipe them out."

​****************************************

◆ The Horde, Goblin Warchieftain's POV. ◆

The Warchief follows the winged beast with his eyes. Someday he will devour it too.

"Our horde will grow strong with the weapons!" squeaks the hobgoblin leader, surprised that the Warchief has not given the order to march.

"Our? Tis my-y horde!" the Warchief snarls and seizes the uppity underling.

The hobgoblin struggles, but tall by goblin standards or not, he is a child in the Warchief's claws. Fangs redden with blood. Entrails slap onto the ground.

A pity. Nowhere near as tasty as children.

Finished with the choicest bits, the Warchief looks over the gathering. The fight over the weapons has ended; those holding them now truly deserve them, having paid in the blood and deaths of the weak. Expectation and greed gleam in goblin eyes. They want more. More.

He keeps silent. He is clever enough to understand that the human is simply using them against his enemies. But what difference does it make? He will eat them all, those and the others. He will eat everything… Otherwise…

He looks into the hungry eyes of his horde.

Otherwise they will eat him.

"Ga'dder 'em all! All da bosses!"

***
​

He could smell their panic from kilometers away. The flimsy tents trembled with fear. No wonder: his horde was so vast it trampled fields flat with a single pass.

The human had not lied. An entire field was crammed with barrels like the one that had spilled swords. The fidgeting hands of lesser goblins were already pawing at them, trying to pry them open, but a wrathful roar made them stop.

The Warchief strides with dignity to the center of the field, where the barrels are heaped into a mound. Surely there is something there worthy of his hand.

Goblins stream after him. Each glances at the Warchief, at a marked barrel, and at his rivals. Each waits for the moment he can fight for a weapon. And there it is: the moment!

A colossal blow of the Warchief's fist smashes a barrel. Others try to break theirs, but that is no easy feat if you lack the Warchief's strength. Bone spearheads simply splinter against the  barrels. Seeing that the division of spoils has begun, the rest of the horde forget everything else and sprint for the casks, squealing with anticipation.

The Warchief lifts his fist. Black powder sifts off it, and within the broken barrel a sword hilt gleams. He takes it and raises it into the light. Black grains, like coal, slide from the blade, and the sword itself…

Disgusting. Short. Crude. The grip bites into his palm. The worst human sword he has ever seen. Even back when he was a mere boyz, he would have preferred a woodcutter's axe to this parody of a weapon.

He gropes in the powder; his claws scrape something sharp. Weapons? No, just useless nails. Fit for archers, maybe, but he expected more. The Warchief casts a look toward the city. Yes, there will be better plunder there.

Contemptuous squeaks sound all around. Even the lowest goblins are not eager to fight over such arms. Some barrels contain only the useless powder, without even nails.

He shakes his head and stalks away from the barrels, tossing them to his guard, then stops. The ground gives slightly underfoot. He flares his nostrils; beneath the familiar stench of goblins and the strange smell of the powder, something else lurks.

A blow! His paw punches through boards camouflaged under the soil. He bends and sweeps the splinters aside.

More barrels? But why hide th—

He has no time to feel anything, much less understand.

For the townsfolk, watching in horror as the horde stands practically at their very doorstep, hell opens.

A flash brighter than the sun sears their eyes. The next instant a blast wave slams into their chests, knocks them from their feet, and tears down tents. A monstrous roar shreds their ears until blood trickles out. Dirt rains from above; goblin gobbets fall; blood pours.

A vast black mushroom rises over a colossal crater a hundred meters across, one that would take diggers weeks to excavate.

Sergeants' orders ring out over the trenches. Soldiers sprint through the dazed refugees and townsfolk, weapons in hand, rushing toward the blast to finish any survivors and give the goblin plague no chance to live.

There is no need. The horde has simply ceased to exist.

Shredded chunks of bodies are flung for hundreds of meters; you cannot tell whether they were pitiful goblins, mighty shamans, or hulking hobgoblins. All are mixed with the earth.

Among the trenches, among the houses, among the tangled tents, and even among the soldiers, the same words drift. Even those who knew what to expect repeat them again and again, eyes fixed on the black cloud:

"The One's Wrath."