The Goblin of Gelhalad

by Samuel Kennedy

in Issue 106, November 2020

As the children gathered around the dim light of the fire, the old crone smiled at them through her broken, yellow teeth. When everyone had found a seat, a hush fell over the cave. And then the old woman began her story.

“The outside world is full of dangers,” she began, “with strange lands, and stranger creatures. Beyond these mountain caverns, to the south, lie the great plains of Gelhalad. No caves anywhere, no place to seek shelter. Nothing but endless, rolling terrain and tall grass. There are lions there, with teeth ready to devour anyone who crosses their path. But worse, far worse, than the lions – who simply kill for food as nature commands – are the people who live there. For in the plains of Gelhalad you can find the great walled cities of the Gelhalad Elves, a proud race with golden armor to match their golden hair, and eyes that see everything. These Elves are mighty horsemen, and they have claimed the plains as their kingdom.”

She looked around at the circle of wide, frightened eyes before she continued. “In the land of the Elves, neither Orc, nor Goblin, nor Troll dare show his face, for if he did –” she stopped here, and drew a finger across her throat. Making a sound like she was choking, she let her tongue hang from the side of her mouth and her head drooped to the side.

Her eyes burst open suddenly as she leaned forward. “They are never seen again.”

The foremost children drew back in horror, but a couple of the older Goblin children snickered in the back.

The old Goblin’s face crinkled into a scowl. “And what is so funny about that?”

The children sobered instantly, but one of them raised a dirty hand. “Well…” he said slowly, “I heard my dad say one time, that a Goblin did go out on the plains once, and he came back too.”

“Hmm.” The crone stroked her chin for a moment. “There was only one that I ever heard of. Your father must have been speaking of Rek Mudfist.” 

She looked around at the group, who all seemed shocked that such a feat of daring was possible. So, now smiling again, she decided to tell the story of the legendary Mudfist.

“This was almost two hundred years ago, during the reign of our great chief, Hurk the Obtuse. In spite of the fact that his father had been a renowned war chief and great hero during the wars, Rek Mudfist had never been anything remarkable; no one could have guessed what he was capable of when the safety of our people was at stake. For the most part, he seemed a worthless, lazy fellow, always scampering about in the tunnels, getting in everyone’s way, and being a general nuisance.”

The storyteller paused here to look sharply at some of the children. “Not that you should follow his example in that respect.”

“In those days,” she continued, “Rek Mudfist often got into misadventures throughout the cave-world along with his best friend, an equally troublesome young Orc named Scratcher. But one day, disaster befell the caves, and this time it wasn’t Rek or Scratcher’s fault.

“In the middle of the night, a band of adventurers from outside snuck into the cave world. They crept past the guards, using Elven magic and rogue skills, and made their way to the very heart of Hurk’s kingdom. And from there, they stole the legendary crystal of D’Shareth Mundall, the great sorcerer of the first age. Now, I’m sure you little ones have all heard of D’Shareth. According to our legends, it was this sorcerer who first created the Goblin race, when he sought an army to destroy the ancient city of Norjalad. When he was defeated, he retreated to these mountains, and created the legendary crystal. This crystal was to be his secret weapon in the next war. It was a powerful force of magic, the most powerful he had ever created.

But the Goblin chiefs of old rebelled against the sorcerer, who had created them merely to be his slaves in an endless war. They bound him with arcane magic, and cast him into the heart of a volcano. Then they took his crystal, and used it to cast an amazing spell, a spell that would make the cave world habitable, providing light and warmth and air. Not enough for those spoiled Elves, mind you, but plenty enough for the Goblins, and the Orcs, and the Trolls. Through their wisdom, they created a paradise for us, safe from the ravages of the Elves, Humans, and Dwarves.

Until the day, those adventurers crept in and stole the crystal.

The next morning, everyone was awakened early, for the caves had become cold, far too cold, overnight. The Trolls who kept watch at the entrances to the cave world swore they had seen nothing. But when Hurk and his advisors opened the vault of the ancestors, they saw that the crystal of D’Shareth Mundall was gone.

Their hearts sunk with terror. Without the crystal to power the ancient spell, the cave world would become uninhabitable before the next lunar cycle. The Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls would be forced to migrate to the surface, where countless dangers awaited them. Whatever could they do?

But Hurk the Obtuse came up with a plan. Just as a small band of adventurers had snuck into the vault and stolen the crystal, so a small group of cave-folk could sally forth and steal it back. His counselors agreed the plan was brilliant, well worthy of such a great king.

But when the call was made for volunteers to go on this quest, none stepped forward. No one wanted to leave the safety of the caves even for such a crucial mission.

Word of the call for champions to save the cave world eventually reached Scratcher the Orc, who ran to find his good friend Rek Mudfist. He finally found him, fast asleep on his favorite pile of rocks. Rek had never been much affected by the cold.

Scratcher watched his friend for a minute. Then, stooping down, he picked up one of the smaller rocks and threw it at Rek’s head.

Rek Mudfist leapt up with a yelp, banging his head on the roof of the burrow. “Fie on you, you bloody vermin!” he shrieked. “What’s the big idea?”

“Hope you enjoyed your nap,” the Orc replied, “because we’re all gonna’ die soon.”

Rek’s brows furrowed. “Die? How’s that?”

So Scratcher told him what had happened, and how no one had stepped forward to save the cave world.

As the story concluded, Rek’s eyes sparkled with delight. “No one’s volunteered yet?” He danced about the little burrow, scooping up a leather satchel and a long item wrapped in a deerskin. “Come on then, let’s go before someone beats us to it!”

The Orc scratched his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see,” Rek chattered, strapping the deerskin on his back, “this is our chance. This is an adventure! A chance to do something amazing! We can be heroes!”

Rek was halfway down the tunnel by the time he finished this declaration. So, still scratching his head, the Orc had little choice but to follow after him.

The chieftains were still in council when they heard the patter of hurrying feet coming up the tunnel. They turned and squinted in the darkness. A moment later, Rek Mudfist and Scratcher strode into the council cave. Both newcomers stopped short on seeing the grave faces turned toward them.

As Scratcher hung back a little, Rek cleared his throat awkwardly. “Umm… were you looking for volunteers?”

Hurk and the others exchanged grim looks. Trusting the fate of the cave world to these two seemed like insanity. And yet, no one else had come forward. With a sigh, the great chieftain turned to the duo.

“Do ye even know what ye’re volunteering for?” He lumbered forward, staring down at them ominously. “To go beyond the safety of our caves, to face dangers of man and beast, to venture into the very heart of our enemies?”

He turned back to his advisors and sat down wearily on the stalagmite throne of the ancient Goblin chieftains. “Yer father was an incredible warrior, Rek Mudfist. He was a credit to the Goblin people. But ye… do ye even have a weapon?”

All eyes turned to the deerskin on Rek’s back. Even Scratcher wondered what his friend carried wrapped in the hide. 

Rek pursed his lips and stared down at his feet, scuffing at a pebble on the floor. He pulled the deerskin off his shoulder slowly, holding it in both hands. He bit his lip as Scratcher leaned forward to see.

The deerskin fell away, revealing a brightly polished piece of bronze. Its once-sharpened edge was now dinged in more than once place, but the blade itself was still good. The grip was of hardened leather strips around the bronze tang, and ancient Elvish runes were carved into the fuller. The blade itself was over two feet in length. It was just small enough for someone Rek’s size to wield, but it was clear it had originally been made for someone of greater stature.

Hurk took a faltering step forward, reaching out a hand toward the bronze sword. “It’s magnificent,” he gasped. “The sword of Tok Mudfist, slayer of Gryphons, and great champion of the war against the Minotaurs. I stood at his side as he fought the great bats of the Lower Reaches, and the serpents of the Black Pit. He –”

The chieftain’s voice, which had been rising steadily as he recounted the deeds of Rek’s father, cut off suddenly. He sank back onto his throne and shook his head, remembering the last battle of Tok Mudfist, outnumbered a hundred to one by the spiders of the Turonian Mines. The spiders and their wicked queen had been driven back through the rift to their own world, but the price had been high. The warrior class of the Orcs, Goblins, and Trolls had been decimated. Even the great Tok Mudfist had fallen in the carnage.

Now Hurk the great chieftain looked up, and saw the son of Tok standing here before him. Rek shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, and his shoulders were hunched, making him seem shorter than he actually was. But there was a glint in his eye as he gazed down at the bronze sword in his hands. It was this look in his eyes that reminded Hurk of his old friend. The high chief of the Goblins let out a heavy sigh.

“And ye, Scratcher? How will ye fight?”

The Orc shrugged his shoulders. “The two of us can’t win in a fight. Stealth is my preference.”

The chieftain nodded. Scratcher was right; and the fact that he at least understood how outmatched they would be gave Hurk a certain level of confidence. He turned to his counselors. None said a word, offering either advice or objections. So Hurk made his own decision.

He stood up once again from his throne and turned back to face the duo. Unfastening his own scabbard from his belt, he held it out with his sword to Scratcher. “Go then, both of ye. Out of the caves, into the harsh light of day. Find the thieves, the adventurers. Recover the crystal… if ye can.”

. . .

With the blessing of their chieftain, and packing a week’s provisions for their trip, the Orc and the Goblin set out on their adventure, walking the cold, dark path up from the cave world to the fissure that faces the sky. Two old Trolls stood guard here, their stone hides covered in the moss of many seasons. As the duo walked silently past, the Trolls leaned on their iron-tipped spears and watched the young warriors go by. Neither Troll spoke, but their gaze revealed their thoughts. Neither expected Rek or Scratcher to return, and both were solemn at the thought of what would happen to the cave world.

Rek stopped on the last bit of gravel, gazing out in awe at the seemingly endless plain in front of him. The rolling grass and gentle hills went on as far as the eye could see, with clumps of trees here and there to break up the landscape. But there were no more cave walls. No stone ceiling overhead to provide shelter. Nothing but the wide open world outside.

Rek gulped. Then, clutching the bronze sword, he stepped onto the grass.

It was like nothing he had ever felt before. Soft yet poky, it stabbed and tickled the bottoms of his feet in a way completely different from rocks. And the warm breeze that blew on his face was nothing like the cool drafts of the cave world. Above it all, the sun glared down from the sky like a giant ball of fire.

Scratcher stared at the outside world with wide eyes. But when he looked down, he noticed the tracks of strange four-footed beasts. Round, like the hooves of Minotaurs, but without the cleft in the center. And these hooves seemed to be fitted with some sort of u-shaped shoes. Tapping his friend on the shoulder, Scratcher pointed at the hoofprints.

Rek’s gaze followed the tracks, leading away from the cave entrance and further out onto the plains. This was the path the adventurers had taken.

With a nod to his friend, Rek adjusted the pack on his shoulders and ventured farther out from the caves, following the path where the adventurers and their mounts had trampled the tall grass aside. Scratcher followed along behind him. For the first several hours, the Orc and the Goblin set a steady pace. Both were accustomed to running long distances throughout the cave world, and the relatively flat terrain actually made traveling easier here. And – not wishing to be caught unawares by the many dangers out on the plains of Gelhalad – the two friends covered ground as quickly as they could.

When the sun was directly over their heads, they stopped in a clump of trees to rest their legs and escape the scorching sunlight for a little while. The bright rays weren’t just hard on their eyes, you see; they also had strange effects on their skin. Both the Orc and the Goblin felt strangely itchy, and Rek noticed a definitely flush on Scratcher’s gray skin. It was like the start of some bizarre disease, and both were quite worried, though neither of them said so.

After resting for a while, Rek suddenly heard new and unusual sounds. Something was coming their way.

The cave-dwellers crept low, sneaking through the tall grass and trying to find a vantage point to see what was making the noise. It was like a low bellowing from some creature, mixed with an awful creaking sound, like when two smooth rocks rub against each other during an earthquake. And, mingled in with these two sounds, were voices. Strange voices speaking a language neither Rek nor Scratcher had ever heard before. They finally got a glimpse from behind the trees.

A giant wooden box on wheels rolled by, pulled by a strange, furry creature with horns on either side of its head. The box was full to the top with farm produce, the heavy load causing the dreadful creaking from the wheels. On top of the box, guiding the lowing horned creature along a pathway, sat two plainspeople conversing between themselves.

Rek and Scratcher watched them go by suspiciously. When the box on wheels had passed, they stepped out onto the pathway that it followed. Without the grass and trees around them, the broad path felt even more open and dangerous, but it was well-paved with smooth stones that reminded the two friends of the tunnels they had played in for years. Besides, they reasoned that this path was no doubt the fastest way to Elvish and Human cities, which was where the adventurers would no doubt take the stolen crystal. And so they set out, already tired and homesick, but comforted by the feel of the stones under their feet. Once or twice, they had to scurry off the road and into the tall grass to avoid being seen by Human travelers, but they still made good time. They came to the outskirts of a Human settlement just as the sun began to sink in the sky.

Now, as a Human settlement, the place they came to was nothing like the walled cities of the Elves. No, instead of high stone battlements, white-washed and gleaming in the sunlight, this village was surrounded by a wooden palisade and shallow moat. Watchtowers of fitted stone stood at each corner of the settlement. Farmers and workmen were making their way into the city in the growing dusk, before the gates closed to keep out enemies and the beasts of the plains.

Rek and Scratcher lay in the grass and watched as the gates closed and the city became quiet. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, as the moon slowly crept into the sky. Torchlight flickered in dim shadows from atop the wooden walls. About midnight, when no one had stirred for hours, Rek came to a realization.

He reached over and tugged on Scratcher’s ear. The Orc batted his hand away and turned to glare at him. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” Rek grinned. “There’s nothing happening.”

“So?” Scratcher was still glaring.

“So we don’t have to worry about these wooden-headed loafers. Nobody’s out after dark.”

A grin suddenly appeared on Scratcher’s face as well, as he understood Rek’s point: they could travel freely if they traveled at night. Cackling as if they were back to their old mischief in the caves, the two friends scurried off, following the road around the Human town and toward the walled city of Urkad. This was the closest Elven city, and – according to some passing Giants – it was a hub for adventurers traveling in or out of the plains of Gelhalad.

So, in spite of their tiredness, Rek and Scratcher pressed on through the night, and slept the next day in the shelter of a small forest. The same tactic worked the next night. But on their third night in the plains, the two travelers rounded a turn in the road, and came face to face with an armored warrior sporting a thick black beard and a stout hammer covered in runes.

They stopped short, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

The Dwarf stared at them, just as surprised as they were. And then:

“What’s this then? Monsters on the road!” He raised his war hammer. “Have at you, villains!”

Rek and Scratcher watched in mute terror as the two-foot high tank charged them. Then, one stepping left and the other stepping right, they watched on as he barreled past them. His hammer struck the road with a dull clunk as he came to an abrupt stop.

Rek and Scratcher turned to each other, their terror giving way to bewilderment. What was this diminutive walking fortress? He was no taller than a Goblin, far too short and hairy to be an Elf. Too short to be a Human, even a younger one. Though Dwarves are far more familiar to Orcs and Goblins today – due to the Black Mountain Incursion – neither Rek nor Scratcher had ever seen one before.

The hirsute hammer-wielder turned to face them again, the plates of his heavy armor clanking together. Heavy marching boots clomped on the pavement as he charged. His war hammer lashed out, plowing through the air. Rek dodged, avoiding the path of destruction by a hairbreadth. Scratcher leapt back as the hammer swung far too close for his own comfort.

The Dwarf grunted. Charging on his stubby legs was tiring in full armor, and the massive war hammer was quite heavy as well. But Dwarves are a stubborn breed, and so he attacked a third time.

This time Rek, recovered from his surprise and far more nimble than the Dwarf, sidestepped neatly. As he did so, his foot reached out and tripped the attacker. First the hammer hit the ground, and then the Dwarf hit the hammer, a resounding clang echoing as the iron helmet struck the war hammer head. The Dwarf sprawled out, face-down and completely limp atop his oversized weapon.

The Orc scratched his head. Rek approached cautiously, stooping to see if the Dwarf was actually unconscious. He nodded to Scratcher, who reached out and gingerly rolled the Dwarf over.

He hit the ground next to his hammer with a loud clattering of iron plates.

Rek looked at Scratcher, then at the hammer, then at the Dwarf. Then back to Scratcher, the hammer, the Dwarf. Nothing like this had ever happened to them in the cave world.

Late the next afternoon, two figures approached the gates of Urkad. The first and shorter figure was dressed in a full suit of armor that seemed as if it were made for someone of a stouter frame. A heavy iron helmet covered his face.

The second figure, a little taller than the first, walked along behind him with his head bowed inside a large hood. His brown robe draped along the ground as he walked toward a booth set up just outside the gates.

As the two figures moved to walk past, the grumpy-looking Elf seated at the booth held up his hand. “Wait just a minute.” He dipped his pen in an inkwell. “Identify yourselves.”

The travelers froze. Then the shorter one turned to the gatekeeper. “Identify ourselves?” he said. “What’s wrong with you, lunkhead? Never seen a Dwarf before?”

The gatekeeper had never seen a beardless Dwarf before, but he kept that thought to himself. “Everybody who goes inside the city has to state their name and business.”

The Dwarf huffed, thumping his monstrous war hammer against the leg of the table. “Fine then. I’m Bolomar Gunstrum. A Dwarf here to meet up with my cousins. My friend is Lerick Talzin, a Halfling on pilgrimage to Kerinhad. We met on the road and decided it was safer traveling together.”

The pen stopped scratching abruptly, as the Elf squinted at the hooded figure. “Your friend looks a little gray for a Halfling.”

“That’s because he’s a mage,” Bolomar said. “Spends all his days in dank, dusty towers learning spells. Now do you want him to drop a lightning bolt on your head?”

The gatekeeper rolled his eyes. “Sure…” He made a couple more scratches on the parchment before dropping his quill back in the inkwell. “Fine. Enjoy your stay in Urkad.”

The Dwarf grinned from inside his helmet. “Thanks, I’m sure we will.”

. . .

Urkad was a paradise for wandering adventurers. All manner of creatures walked its streets. Elves, Humans, Halflings, Dwarves, Dhampirs, Fae, even Centaurs. There were taverns, brothels, and dozens of shops buying and selling trinkets, artifacts, and weapons. Even ancient magical items could be traded for gold in Urkad. If the thieves who had taken the crystal of D’Shareth wanted to sell it, this was the place.

Safely within the city walls, Rek breathed a sigh of relief from inside his recently-acquired helmet. “Crickets, that was close. I thought we’d bit it for sure.”

Scratcher grunted, trying to ignore the sound of the cumbersome hammer scraping along the pavement. Rek had given up trying to carry the weapon, so now it dragged along behind them. Finally, unable to hear what his friend was saying, the Orc snatched up the war hammer and swung it over his shoulder.

Rek went on ahead, still talking as if nothing had happened. He rambled on about how strange the city was, pointing out one interesting feature after another. Now able to hear him, Scratcher still decided to ignore him for the time being.

As the sky started to get dark and Rek’s monologue began to die down, the two friends realized that finding the crystal was going to be much harder than they had initially thought. But around sunset, they found themselves outside a shop that catered to more secretive clients, specializing in rare and unusual items. Not sure what else to do, the two travelers stepped inside.

A noxious cocktail of smells met them as they walked through the door. There was the unmistakable stench of the road, the lingering scent of sweat and dirt from across the map, dragged in by travelers from far and wide. Strange herbs and spices added to the aroma, along with an acrid, seething smell neither the Orc nor the Goblin could put their finger on, and the scent of burning wax.

Flickering candles illuminated shelves of small, ornately carved boxes, rolls of fragile-looking parchments, and rows of sharp, deadly blades. There were weapons of iron, steel, bronze, and even obsidian. Dark-tinted vials filled with mysterious substances lined the upper shelves. The whole shop was a menagerie of the bizarre, but nothing for sale was as bizarre as the proprietor himself.

As Rek and Scratcher stepped past the front shelves and came to the counter, a pale-faced Dhampir looked up from his book. His piercing black eyes studied them intently for a moment before dropping back to the open page in front of him. He let out a sigh, sending a shiver of cold air toward his customers. His white chest, visible through the open tunic he wore, was crisscrossed with pale scars and dark sigils that crept up his neck. His hands seemed soft, delicate even, but wiry muscles rippled in his forearm as his long fingernails flipped the page.

“Ken malach, ircol ves,” he said eventually, not looking up from his reading. Neither Rek nor Scratcher recognized the words, but it seemed to be some kind of greeting. That, or perhaps he was reading something from his book. After a moment, he continued. “What can I get for you this e’entide?”

Scratcher set the war hammer down with a thud, as Rek climbed up on a stool so he could see over the counter.

The Dhampir looked up once more at the strange-looking Dwarf in front of him, and finally closed his book. “Well?”

Rek tapped his fingers on the grimy surface of the counter. “We’re looking for something unusual,” he said. “Something very ancient, very powerful. A crystal. It should have arrived here in the city within the last couple of days. Have you heard anything?”

The Dhampir stared at him for a moment, his clear inner eyelids blinking. He looked down at the purse on Rek’s belt without speaking.

With a frustrated grunt, Rek slapped a copper coin on the countertop.

The Dhampir snatched it up with his long nails and tossed it into a jar over his shoulder. “Ol’ Laertes from Cathigu Street was in here the other day. Mentioned a band of travelers from the Western Mountains who’d come into his place trying to sell an old wizard’s crystal. But they wouldn’t take the price he offered.” Again the Dhampir’s eyes wandered to Rek’s purse. “What price do you put on it?”

Rek frowned inside his helmet. He hadn’t planned on buying the crystal back, and he certainly didn’t have the money for it. “That’s our business,” he declared finally, feeling somewhat put out. “Where can we find these travelers?”

The Dhampir scratched his chin for a moment, apparently trying to decide something. Eventually he nodded, more to himself than to Rek. “If they couldn’t sell it to Laertes, there’s really only one place for them to go: Trassakar the Upyr.”

Both Rek and Scratcher turned a few shades paler at the mention of such a horrific creature.

“Upyr?” Rek repeated. “There’s an Upyr in Urkad?!”

“Certainly not,” the Dhampir assured them. “This is a respectable Elf city, after all. But if you did want to find a mysterious and powerful crystal, you should probably check the catacombs beneath the Northern River Ward… unless that’s too scary for a couple of cave-dwellers.”

Scratcher caught his friend before he tumbled off the stool. Apparently the Dhampir was more perceptive than the gatekeeper outside the city.

“On the other hand,” the Dhampir continued, completely ignoring his guests’ discomposure, “if you like I could let a few people know that you’re looking for the crystal. If it’s for sale, they’ll get in touch with you.”

Both friends studied the Dhampir’s expression for a moment. Satisfied that his offer probably wasn’t a trick, and seeing little hope of tracking the crystal down themselves, Rek and Scratcher both nodded. Then, leaving a couple more coins on the counter, they turned and strode silently out of the shop.

Standing back outside, Rek looked both ways up and down the street. A tired sigh escaped him. “Well, I guess we’re going to the catacombs.”

Scratcher shook his head. “It’s getting late. We should find somewhere to sleep for the night, and continue searching tomorrow. Besides, do you really want to go into the catacombs after dark?”

Rek begrudgingly admitted that he didn’t. With that settled, the duo made their way to a tavern, renting a small room for the night with a few more of the Dwarf’s rapidly dwindling supply of coins. Another copper sent a meal up to their room.

Later that night, sleeping soundly on the floor, Rek woke up suddenly to a hand tugging on his arm. He was about to protest, but stopped on feeling the other hand pressed over his mouth. His eyes opened to see the face of Scratcher, nodding his head toward a shadow creeping through the open window. That window had been closed when they had laid down.

The shadow stood up once inside the room, taking the form of a tall Elven man in a dark cloak. He tiptoed ever so stealthily across the floorboards to the first bed, where a pronounced lump was visible under the covers. There was a brief glint of steel reflecting the moonlight through the open window. The next instant, a metallic clang rang out as the dagger was driven downward into the blankets.

The Elf leapt back, taken by complete surprise.

Scratcher leapt out from under the second bed and hurled himself at the intruder, knocking the dagger aside and grappling with the much-larger Elf.

With an angry grunt, the Elven intruder seized the Orc by the shoulders and flung him against the wall. Scratcher tumbled to the floor, scattering their provisions across the room. Standing over him, the Elf pulled a second dagger from beneath his cloak.

Rek gripped his father’s bronze sword and leapt into the battle. The blade flashed yellow in the moonlight, slashing this way and that. The Elf staggered back from the onslaught, parrying with his dagger. Rek pressed his advantage, the bronze sword carving in broad strokes and slicing in delicate maneuvers his father had taught him years before. 

The Elf countered, lunging to the attack in return. This brought him directly within the little goblin’s reach, and the bronze blade sliced upward and pierced the Elf’s chest with a sickening, squelching sound that ended in a grating thump as the hilt struck ribs.

The sword had passed completely through the Elf’s body.

His dagger clattered to the floor. The eyes grew wide for a moment before rolling back in the Elf’s head as the entire body sunk like a felled tree onto the floor. The fall wrenched the sword from Rek’s hands. The little adventurer himself tumbled backward onto one of the beds.

Looking down, Rek and Scratcher saw a pool of blood spread out around the lifeless body of the Elf, face down in the center of their room. The front half – the deadly half – of the bronze sword stood up like some macabre plant sprouting from his back.

Scratcher turned the corpse over and pulled out the sword. Stopping for a moment to wipe the blood from the blade, he handed the sword back to Rek.

Rek stared at it in wide-eyed silence. His gaze wandered to the Elf’s face, gray now in the moonlight, eyes staring blankly. Then, still without a word, Rek spun around quickly and heaved his dinner out on the floor.

Scratcher, a little pale himself, sat down against the wall and waited for his friend’s shoulders to stop shaking. When that happened, he stood up and began gathering up their belongings. 

He had a pretty good guess what had happened. The Dhampir had put out the word that they were looking for the crystal, and that word had spread. This Elf must have concluded that if they were in the market for such an unusual item, they must have money to spare, and had therefore decided to relieve them of it. It would be good to leave before someone else like him appeared, or before the landlord came up and discovered the murder.

Both their packs slung over his shoulder, Scratcher turned to Rek. “We need to go,” he urged quietly.

Rek nodded, shoving the sword back into the deerskin and dabbing roughly at his eyes. Leaving the door to their room locked, they clambered out the window the Elf had used to enter, and scurried across the rooftops until they felt they were far enough from the scene of the crime.

. . .

Rek sat in a dark alley, staring down at his hands. He couldn’t sit still, playing with his fingers as the hours wore on towards dawn. Scratcher leaned against the opposite wall of the narrow alley, leaning back with eyes closed.

Finally, just a little before dawn, Rek spoke softly, without looking up. “I remember when my dad used to go on adventures, all over the cave-world.”

Scratcher’s eyes opened, turning to look at his friend.

“He would always come back,” Rek continued, “right from another impossible victory. He always won. Everybody celebrated.” He finally looked up, meeting Scratcher’s gaze. “He never celebrated, though. He just looked tired; and kind of sad. I used to see him crying in the night sometimes. I never knew why.”

Scratcher let out a sigh. “You think you do now?”

Rek nodded, looking away as he fought back a sniffle. When he spoke again, there was a slight crack in his voice. “Scratcher… I want to go home.”

The Orc sighed again, strangely tired after the previous night’s adventure. “Me too, Rek. Let’s just get what we came for first.”

“Right.” Rek took a moment to compose himself, then looked up as the first rays of dawn crept into the alley. “We should get moving before the city wakes up.”

Rek had left the Dwarf’s armor behind at the inn, replacing it with a gray cloak he’d pinched from a clothesline as they fled across the rooftops. As he stood up, he pulled the hood over his head. With his ears tucked back, and his face shadowed, no one of Human or Elf height would ever notice his Goblin features. The same went for the Orc, though he had to walk with his head bowed forward to keep his tusks hidden. Slinging their packs over their shoulders, the brave duo set off for the catacombs.

The alleys behind Urkad’s shops wove and twisted through the various wards of the city. Rek and Scratcher were nearly lost more than once, but not long after the breakfast hour they found themselves in the Northern River Ward. 

This portion of the city lacked the bright, bustling façade of the other wards they had passed through. In those days, traffic poured in and out of the city by the overland roads. With Hernal City overrun by Imperials, trade on the river had dried up almost completely, and the ward had died out with the loss of commerce. Shops and warehouses sat empty, with the few that remained open catering to a less than respectable clientele. The very air seemed different here, and many of the old buildings had cracks in their stucco, offering glimpses of ancient bricks veiled in moss.

Down a flight of stairs, next to the river, and tucked under a bridge, they found the gate to the catacombs. It gaped open, an ornamental dragon staring at them as it hung sideways from broken, rusted hinges. Standing on the threshold, they peered into the darkness below. They were both more comfortable in caves than in the open; that was certainly true. But this was no cave. A cave is natural. The catacombs were man made, built by the Elves hundreds of years ago, after the Great War. And the feeling that rose up from the tombs on the whispering drafts seemed far from natural to the cave-dwellers.

With a nervous gulp, and no other options, they pushed past the gate and took the first steps into the underworld.

The first few levels of the catacombs were relatively spacious. Light drifted down from lightwells above, and the floors were clean and well-paved. The deeper they descended, however, the darker and closer the tombs became. Eventually it reached a level where the only difference between the catacombs and the cave world Rek and Scratcher called home was the constant presence of the dead. Row after row of coffins and burial chambers lined either side of the path. As they made their way down flight after flight of worn, crumbling stairs, gargoyles and even skulls grinned down at them from the walls.

Deep beneath the city, they finally came to the end of the catacombs. Beneath the crypts of Urkad’s dead was the bustling city of the undead. Here, out of the sunlight, a dangerous underworld thrived, offering wares and services none dared even mention on the streets above. And the overlord of this dark domain was Trassakar the Upyr, and he was expecting them.

“Welcome, cave-dwellers,” his voice boomed from a raised dais at the end of the cavern. 

Merchants and customers alike stopped their business to stare at the newcomers.

Rek and Scratcher filed awkwardly by, doing their best to avoid eye-contact with any of the underworld’s denizens. Mercenaries, armed with long sabers and brutal battle axes, stepped sullenly aside as they made their way toward the dais. One wrong move here, and the outsiders would meet an instant, gruesome fate.

They stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up at the Upyr. Trassakar was tall, taller even than the Dhampir. He had the pointy ears of an Elf, but the sharp, grinning teeth and bright glowing eyes of a Demon. And the pale, almost leathery hands that hung from the silk sleeves of his blood red robe were long and bony, with dark talons, more like the hands of a great bat than a man.

A Dhampir stood guard on his right side, while a Troll kept watch on the left. A variety of creatures, living and undead, lounged on and around the dais, where Trassakar apparently held court in the underworld.

“A Goblin and an Orc in Urkad,” the Upyr said finally. “I didn’t think cave-dwellers had the stomach to brave their way into the Elven cities.”

“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent business,” Scratcher replied, hoping his words didn’t offend the Upyr.

“Oh?” Trassakar asked, taking a silver chalice from a passing Half-Elf. He drained it at a gulp, licking up the trace of red liquid that ran down his chin. “And what is your business here in Urkad? Particularly here in the catacombs?”

This time it was Rek who replied. “We’re looking for a powerful crystal that was stolen from the cave-world. We believe the thieves brought it to this city. We heard that they had attempted to sell it to a man named Laertes, but he turned them away.”

“So Malach sends you both to me? He thought I might have this crystal?”

Rek and Scratcher both nodded, assuming Malach must be the name of the Dhampir they’d met in the shop the night before.

“Well,” the Upyr resumed, “if I did have the crystal, and I thought you had the gold to pay for it, I would bring it out and let you see it. But while Malach’s guess is usually accurate, this time he steers you in the wrong direction. You see, I hear a rumor from the bustling streets above. It trickles down from a thousand lips, and tells me that the men you’re looking for found another buyer.”

The faces of the two travelers fell at this news.

But Trassakar continued. “A noble Paladin from the king’s court in Norjalad spotted the crystal as the adventurers drank in a tavern, and recognized what it was. He immediately claimed it in the name of the crown, offering the thieves a king’s price for it. Whether they have actually been paid yet, I know not. But I do know where the crystal of the Dread Sorcerer sleeps tonight.”

He leaned forward, a cruel grin revealing his red-tinted fangs. “And I’m even going to tell you where, completely free. The governor’s vault in Urkad Castle. If you haven’t noticed it yet, it’s that big sandstone fortress on top of the hill at the center of our fair city.”

Rek’s knees practically gave way under him at this news. They had come so far, and gone through so much – even standing there at that moment facing one of the most feared creatures in the world – only to be thwarted at the last minute. There was simply no way the two of them could ever hope to fight their way into the castle. He thought of the worst case scenario: the Orcs and Goblins would be forced from the only safety they had known for generations, out into an open world infested with Humans and Elves and all sorts of other creatures.

But the Orc, after scratching his head for a moment, addressed the Upyr again. “My lord Trassakar,” he said, “I’ve heard from many of the older Orcs that castles are often built with a sally-port, a secret tunnel for escape in case the castle is overrun. Were I the architect building Urkad Castle, I would have had this tunnel lead to the city’s massive network of catacombs, where pursuit would be impossible.”

Silence fell once again over the cavern. Rek stared at his friend in awe. After a moment, Trassakar the Upyr chuckled. “Clever for an Orc, aren’t you?”

He stood up and walked down the steps to stand in front of the duo. Looking down from his seven feet in height, he chuckled again. “There is indeed a tunnel that can take you under the castle. But with the passing years, it has collapsed under the weight of the stone walls. A small gap is all that remains, but perhaps such small creatures as the two of you can pass through it.”

Scratcher nodded, hesitant to ask for one more favor from the Upyr. “And can one of your people show us where this tunnel is?”

The glowing eyes flicked from the Orc to the Goblin, then back again. “That could be arranged. But it will come at a price.”

“What price?” Rek asked.

The Upyr turned his back on them, returning to his seat. “That I will decide when you return from the castle. But trust me, it will cost you.” 

Rek thought about the offer for a moment. “The future of our people hangs on the crystal. We’ll pay the price.”

“Excellent,” said the Upyr. He pointed to a golden-haired Elf at the edge of the room. “Inbor can show you to the tunnel. Finding the crystal and making your way back out of the castle is up to you.”

Rek and Scratcher nodded, accepting his offer. Then, with Inbor in the lead, they turned and left the cavern, travelling back the way they had come until a side passage took them away from the catacombs. 

The tunnel grew narrower as they progressed, and the dark spaces between the torches became more and more. Eventually the Elf could travel no further, so he merely pointed forward and left them to themselves. The passage was low and dark with no torches along its length. But, somewhere in the distance, they could see a faintly flickering light.

. . .

Rek crawled forward on his elbows and knees, bronze sword firmly in his grip. Scratcher squeezed along behind him. The tunnel was just barely large enough for the young Orc to force his way through. 

The tunnel opened into a small storeroom illuminated by a torch set in the stone wall. A few barrels and chests sat around the room, covered with a thick layer of dust. Apparently, keeping the torch burning was merely a formality, as nothing else had been done in the room for some time. In the wall opposite the tunnel entrance, an iron-studded door led out to the rest of the stronghold.

Rek crawled out of the tunnel, crouching as he looked around the storeroom. Scratcher stepped out beside him a moment later. Ears raised, both listened intently for any sound outside. A few voices could be heard here and there, muffled by distance and thick stone walls. They tiptoed forward, pressing their ears against the door. Rek tried the latch; the door swung open with a low, mournful creak.

Rek and Scratcher both froze, worried that someone may have heard the noise. But no alarm was given, no sound of armored boots stomping on the cobblestones. They stepped out into the corridor. It extended in either direction, with a staircase winding upward and out of sight on the left side. Where in this enormous citadel was the vault located?

They turned right in the hallway, moving away from the staircase. The steps went up, and it seemed more likely that the vault would be on the lowest level for greater safety. The passage sloped gradually downward, curving to the right, past a sturdy wooden door on either side, and then turning left again. Finally, at the end of the turn, the passage leveled out. Ahead of them was another door, completely plated in steel and engraved with Elvish runes. This had to be the governor’s vault. The crystal was on the other side of a door that neither physical force nor magic could penetrate.

Rek slouched against the rough stone wall. “What do we do now?”

Scratcher took a step forward, tapping lightly on the door. He stood back a moment, scratching his head. “Well, it’s thick, and it’s warded. Can’t go through it.”

“Exactly,” Rek replied. “So what do we do now?”

Scratcher didn’t answer, instead kneeling on the floor and opening his satchel. He rummaged through it for a moment, looking for something. Rek stooped to look over his shoulder. Scratcher jostled him out of the way as he pulled out a set of inscribed lockpicks. Rek pushed his way forward again, watching intently as Scratcher selected two of the picks and slipped them into the lock of the door.

The tools scraped against the harsh iron. Squinting at the lock, Scratcher turned them back and forth inside the door, tiny movements that clicked and scratched in the quiet of the tunnel. Fascinated, Rek watched him work for a couple minutes before deciding to keep watch in case they were interrupted.

Crouching behind a turn in the wall, he stared into the dim light. Muffled voices came to him from a distance, while behind him Scratcher’s tools continued to jangle like ill-fitting keys in the lock. But, finally, the sound changed.

Rek’s ears pointed straight up as he heard the heavy clunk of a bolt turning back. He darted back to rejoin Scratcher, but was surprised to see the door wasn’t open when he arrived.

“What’s the matter?” Rek whispered.

Scratcher pointed at the runes on the door. They were glowing, casting a dull blue light in the narrow tunnel. The runes on the picks – still set into the lock – were not glowing. Scratcher had cracked the physical lock, but the magical warding was still holding strong.

Rek’s eyebrows scrunched together. He examined the runes closely, first those on the door and then the ones etched into Scratcher’s tools. They were of a similar pattern, but the runes in the door were engraved with greater finesse, and set more deeply into the iron. It seemed to him as if the lock picks simply possessed less powerful magic than the warding on the door did.

Apparently Scratcher was of the same opinion. Returning the tools to his satchel, he began rummaging through in search of something else. Rek waited impatiently.

“I can’t focus with you hovering, Rek.”

Rek sighed, picking up his sword and trudging back up the tunnel to keep watch again. Scratcher found what he was looking for, a talisman given him by the Orc chieftains before the two friends set out on their adventure. He turned it over in his hand, studying the engraving. He found a place in the door where the runes matched up, and placed the talisman against the iron.

He shuddered as energy flowed through the talisman into the door. Rek felt the tremor in the floor, and turned to look back with wide eyes. The runes glowed brighter than before, casting their light further into the tunnel. Rek scampered back into the glow, stopping by Scratcher’s side. 

“Did you get it?” He bit his lip as a few moments went by without an answer.

Scratcher narrowed his eyes, watching the light from the runes flicker. “Not sure,” he replied. “Still working on it.”

Rek’s foot started tapping on the cobblestone. Scratcher threw a stern look over his shoulder. Rek’s foot stopped mid-tap.

The light went out. The door sprung inward without a sound, startling both Rek and Scratcher with how suddenly it moved. Inside was dark.

Rek and Scratcher stepped through the open doorway. As they did, lanterns came suddenly to life over their heads. The vault was magical inside as well as out, and filled with incredible treasures gathered from countless ages and distant lands by the Elves. And there, in a gold-leaf pouch sitting atop an ancient chest, they found the crystal of D’Shareth Mundall.

As Scratcher pulled it from the pouch, Rek heard the distant trampling of many feet. The tremor that had flowed from the talisman into the door had apparently carried throughout the stone walls. 

Scratcher noticed the commotion a moment later. Quickly stuffing a substitute crystal into the pouch, he set it back in its place and turned to the door.

“Let’s get out of here!” Rek exclaimed.

Scratcher nodded, following Rek out of the vault. They darted forward, charging at full speed toward the approaching footsteps. As they ran around the corner, the heavy sound of steel boots grew louder and louder, closer and closer.

The door of the storeroom was in sight up ahead. Beyond it, coming from the direction of the stairs, the glow of torchlight grew brighter, closer. Shadows of armored warriors stretched across the floor in the flickering light. Rek and Scratcher raced onward, closer to the oncoming soldiers. An armored foot stepped around the corner. The door to the storeroom clicked shut. 

The soldiers marched on to the vault, anxious to learn what had caused the commotion. And Rek and Scratcher, with the crystal in hand, crawled back through the tunnel.

By the time they emerged into the catacombs, the noise from the castle had faded away. Ghoulish hands pulled them from the tunnel. They stood up, surrounded by the undead and the degenerates from the city above. All waited expectantly. Rek and Scratcher stood frozen, unsure what would happen next.

The crowd parted. Trassakar the Upyr stepped through, stopping directly in front of them. He smiled, his fangs somehow appearing even larger than before. Rek and Scratcher moved to back up, only to bump into a Ghoul and a Dhampir.

Trassakar knelt on one knee, lessening the height difference between himself and the cave-dwellers. His smile widened even further. “You came back. Does that mean you were successful, or that you fled like a couple of Imps?”

A Dhampir started snickering.

Rek stepped forward, holding up the crystal. “We got it back.”

“Excellent!” the Upyr exclaimed. Dust clattered down from the ceiling at his booming voice. “Now,” he added, “about the price I mentioned…”

Scratcher took a step forward, and Rek quickly pushed the crystal back into his satchel.

“What price?” Rek demanded, afraid now that they had done the work to recover the crystal that the Upyr would claim it as his own.

Instead, he pointed to the bronze sword tucked into Rek’s belt. “I recognized that when you first arrived down here. The sword of the First Upyr King, lost in battle in the Western Mountains 12,000 years ago.”

Rek stared down at the sword. He had known that his father was not the original owner of the sword, but he had no idea that it was so ancient. “But… this is my father’s sword.”

The Upyr sighed. “I’m afraid my claim supersedes yours. I was only a young man when the sword was lost, but the First Upyr King was my father. And I want his sword back.”

Rek grit his teeth. “Not on your undead life.”

His fingers closed around the hilt, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The Upyr crossed his arms. “Really?” he said. “Didn’t you say it didn’t matter what the price was, as long as you were able to save your people? This is the price, child. Will you pay it, or should I take the crystal instead?”

Scratcher placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He could feel the tension building inside Rek; he knew what the sword meant to him. It was the only thing in the world that Rek valued, the only thing he had left to remember his father by. 

Rek thought the same thoughts, and then he looked up at Trassakar. The undead eyes glowed in the darkness of the catacombs. Twelve thousand years, he had said. That was more time then Rek could comprehend. The ancient tombs they stood in now weren’t that old. The city of Urkad hadn’t even been built when Trassakar first walked these plains, following in his father’s footsteps.

Feeling as if the blade had run through his own heart, Rek unfastened the scabbard and handed it and the sword over to the Upyr. A tear fell from his eye as he parted with the blade; then something he thought was impossible happened.

The Upyr himself shed a tear. As his dark talons closed around the hilt of the bronze sword, one single drop fell to the catacomb’s floor. He pulled the blade from the scabbard, holding it up to the torchlight. 

“It’s beautiful,” Trassakar said. He looked back down at Rek and Scratcher. “If I were a smart man, I would take the crystal from you, and use its power for myself. But after 12,000 years, I forget my father’s face. When I see this, I remember him. And that, to me, is worth more.”

Then he sighed again. The red glow of his eyes faded somewhat, as he slid the blade back into its sheath. Without a word, he placed the weapon back in Rek’s still-open hands.

Rek stared at him in disbelief. What was this?

“Compared to me, your life is short, Goblin. Keep the blade for now; but on your death it returns to me. Remember your father through it, and be worthy of the blade he carried, but leave another for your son.”

He turned and walked away, leaving only stunned silence behind him. Gradually his minions followed him, but Rek and Scratcher stood for a moment in the flickering torchlight. Rek stared at the crystal he held in one hand, and the sword he held in the other, still struggling to comprehend what had happened. They had won. It seemed impossible, but somehow they had won.

Their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, Rek and Scratcher climbed toward the sunlight, and left the underworld behind.

. . .

The return home was much less eventful than the first half of their odyssey, and seemed to pass far more quickly. With the fate of the cave world riding in their packs, Rek and Scratcher made excellent time. Once safely home, the crystal was given to the Orcs for safe-keeping, and placed within their fortress deep beneath the surface. To this day, it has never been stolen again, and the cave world has lived on for two hundred years.
Years after their adventure, when a new war broke out against the Minotaurs, the two friends stepped forward and became champions of their people once again. Scratcher went on to be a wise chieftain, and eventually became king of the Orcs. Rek could have been a chieftain as well, but instead he set out in search of new adventures, finding new lands and mapping unexplored regions of the cave world.”

The old crone looked again around the circle of faces. A few of the younger children had drifted off to sleep, but the rest sat listening in awestruck attention. She smiled at their wide eyes, as her tale reached its end.

“And,” she said, “if you ever walk into the hall of the Goblin chiefs, look up and see the many weapons hanging in places of honor on the walls. These are the remembrances of the great champions who have watched over our race since we first came to the cave world. Above the throne, and a little to the left, you’ll see a falchion made of bright steel, its hilt engraved with a depiction of D’Shareth Mundall’s crystal. That is the sword of Rek Mudfist, the Goblin of Gelhalad. And now you have heard his story.”

©November 2020, Samuel Kennedy

Samuel Kennedy is an author and blogger who has been telling stories since even before he learned to write. He’s written stories in just about every genre, with an emphasis on adventure and personal struggles. He loves creating flawed heroes, likeable villains, and conflicts that make us question our own assumptions about the world and fiction. Samuel Kennedy can be found online at https://samuelkennedywritesstuff.home.blog/.  His work has appeared previously in Swords & Sorcery.