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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780957453548 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Parallel Universe Publications |
| Publication date: | 01/16/2015 |
| Pages: | 318 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.67(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
"Long ago two brothers, Elfran and Aratantara, were given custody of the Royal Estates by the Elf-King, their father. It was their responsibility in those far off days, when only Elves existed on the entire continent, to supervise the cultivation of the fruits and vegetables and flowers. Elfran was the older brother and would ultimately inherit the throne, but Elves lived even longer then than now, and centuries would pass--some tales even speak of millennia--before that would occur. Only if Elfran died by accident--since sickness was virtually unknown at that time--before he sired a successor, would Aratantara inherit the throne himself.
"As the long years passed into centuries Aratantara began to nurture a malignant jealousy for his older brother--and for his father, too. Aided by his wife, he delved into the darkest secrets of the Ancient Sorceries till he discovered that if he should eat the fruit of a certain, specially-prepared tree, fed by blood from when it was merely a sapling, he would, by application of certain obscure incantations and the use of certain obscure substances, be able to create a new race. Thus it was that for decades he secretly produced a hybrid life form, from which the Trolls and Ogres and the Goblins too were eventually bred. With an army of such creatures Aratantara hoped to attack the palace of his father and take the throne for himself, imposing his rule through fear of his hideous creations. What he had not realised, though, was that the noxious fruit, which he still regularly ate to give him his powers, were changing him, transforming him into something coarser, more lowly, halfway between the Elf he had been born and the things he wascreating.
"Eventually becoming curious at his lengthy absence from the Royal Court, as the prince secretly built up his army of abominations, his father suddenly, unexpectedly visited him. Shocked at the appearance of his son, the King soon realised what Aratantara must have been doing. Elf-knights searched the prince's estate, and quickly uncovered the things he had been making. As his punishment, Aratantara was banished from Elfdom, cast out along with all his vile creations to live as they could along the barren coastline. So it was that in due time the cities of Man eventually rose, though they themselves deny the story now, disclaiming it as nothing more than an Elvish lie, distorted from the truth to flatter their insatiable pride. Men have other legends of their own about their origins--and about the origins of the Elves themselves."
from The Discourses of Adrack the Chronicler
With a surge of effort, Prince Ithidor urged his war-horse up towards the brow of the last low hill that gently rose from the grassy plains behind him. From its windswept summit he paused for a long moment to gaze at the distant range of the Jagged Mountains. They soared ominously against the sky ahead of him like an endless row of grotesque jawbones, massive, bone-white fangs of rock that jutted towards the clouds in silent, motionless menace.
Between, though, lay a huge, melancholy wilderness of mists and reeds. How many leagues of this ugly wasteland separated him from the edge of the mountains he could not tell; dismal banks of low-lying fog obscured much of it, confusing the eye.
"Goblin Mire," whispered a voice from close behind the prince. Mithror, Chief Steward of the prince's grandfather, King Farrador, aimed a smooth, unwavering finger at the wilderness, his lean face grim with concern.
Smelling the odour that drifted towards them from the bog, Ithidor nodded his elegant head. Goblin filth. No Elf could mistake it.
No Elf could ignore it!
With a melodramatic gesture, that was as curiously charismatic in Ithidor as it would have been absurd in almost anyone else, the Elf-prince suddenly reached for his sword. Drawing it from the jewelled scabbard strapped across his back, he swung its dark-blue, glimmering blade high into the air. It hissed through the damp air like a brilliant flame against the dull clouds that hung overhead. He glanced back at the score of well-armed Elf-knights behind him, their caparisoned war-horses snorting impatiently as they drew up along the brow of the hill.
"Will the Goblin Mire deter us from our quest?" he called rhetorically to them, tossing his golden, perfumed hair defiantly as he turned once more towards the wastes. "Nothing," he sighed, his clear, almost musical voice so low that his followers had to strain even their sensitive Elven ears to catch his words, "no beasts of darkness, no demons from beyond the realms of death will hold us back. Even if we must tarnish our noble swords with the venomous blood of a thousand Goblins, we go on!"
Fanaticism shone like fire in his cobalt eyes, making the hearts of his followers race as he suddenly rose in his saddle and cried: "Whoever tries to bar our way shall feel our Elven wrath!"
With a reckless, arrogant laugh of scorn at the dangers ahead, Ithidor spurred his war-horse forward, its hoofs scrabbling down the scree-covered slopes towards the mire. Banners raised in a spontaneous roar of approval, the others urged their horses on, the gaunt faces of the twenty Elf-knights betraying nothing of whatever fears the Goblin-haunted mire ahead held for them. Warriors to an Elf, their loyalty lay with their lord as they drew their shimmering swords and followed him.
Muddy brown eyes watched the Elf-knights as they rode downhill to the mire, muddy brown eyes that blinked with an unnatural slowness as the old but cunning brain behind them took in what they saw.
Elves meant danger. And Mickle Gorsestab, ancient even for a Goblin, had not survived for as long as he had in this cold, hard world without learning this. His maternal grandfather, old Ogbad Scarbladder, a shield-bearer for the ancient Goblin-king, Ludblat the Second, was killed by Elves, his gore-splattered head hacked off and rammed on the end of a pole as a trophy of war, to be carried off in triumph back to Cyramon by his murderers. Mickle drew his broad head down amongst the reeds, his warty skin so dark that he had no fear of being seen by the distant Elves, though the sunlight flashing from their silvered armour hurt his eyes.
For a moment more the old Hobgoblin watched the Elves as their horses splashed through the reeds, then turned his head away from them. Elf warriors could be crossing the Mire for many reasons, he knew. They could be heading for the Jagged Mountains to the north. Then again they could be heading west for the Misty Sea. Or east to the Grasslands. Or, Mickle thought, as his thick lips drooped into a sullen scowl, they could be hunting Goblins. His snag teeth ground like old millstones as he thought of this; without hesitation his huge right hand reached down for the snakeskin hilt of the short broadsword hanging at his side. If Elves were here to kill his kin they would find their sport more dangerous than they expected. Many years had passed since the Elves last fought and defeated his race at the Battle of Sundered Hill, when the last of the Goblin kings was killed. In the time that had passed since then, the Goblin folk had grown more numerous again--and all but lost their fear for the proud, all-conquering Elves. The one thing they had never lost--nor ever would, he knew--was their hatred, though. Oh, no! Mickle ground his teeth harder till they threatened to break. They had not lost their hatred at all.
Lurching round, with a muttered oath growling like a threat between his lips, the Goblin forced his way through the reeds as fast as his bowlegged gait would allow.
Mithror frowned as he gazed across the seemingly endless expanse of reeds that surrounded them after more than a half day's journey through the Mire. Pungent mud had splashed across their horses' flanks almost as high as their saddles, though the Elves had all grown used to the stench.
"The Jagged Mountains look as far away now as they did when we set out," Mithror said, wiping beads of sweat from his narrow brows.
Ithidor glanced back at him contemptuously as he faultlessly guided his own horse through the reeds. "We'll reach their foothills well before dusk, My Lord Steward," he replied.
"So I would hope. Though none of the creatures that dwell in this stinking bogland have shown their snouts as yet, still they are there, somewhere. In daylight--even the wretched daylight that calls itself such in this damnable place--they'll mind our lances. But in the dark, when the cunning can use their cowardly skills, they'd not be half so shy."
Ithidor laughed. It was a cold, razor-edged laugh that grated through Mithror. "My grandfather chose you well, old friend--for your caution. Still, I'd wager my life on our lances defeating whatever cunning the Goblin-breed that lurk hereabouts can use against us."
The golden hair on his short beard showing hints of grey, Mithror shook his head. "You are right that the King sought to leaven your enthusiasm with the wisdom of my council--my cautiousness, as you term it. But do not forget that beneath my words lie the foundation stones of experience. You may be sure that our lances would take many Goblin lives, however and whenever they choose to attack. But even the courage and skills in warfare that all of us have would not be enough if we were to face a Goblin horde. With our small numbers, only speed would save us then. If nightfall should come before we can reach the end of the mire, we would be forced to stop. Not even Elven eyes could pick pathways through this treacherous bog in the dark. Then, as we encamped, the Goblins that lurk hereabouts will come, filtering through the night in their hundreds."
Ithidor's laughter was colder now, as his pale eyes watched the rest of his followers to see what reaction the steward's words had had on them. To his concealed chagrin he could tell that some of the older Elf's worries had spread amongst them. Even grim-faced Charador, fiercest of the Elven knights, had a look of concern on his battle-scarred face.
"Your fears are groundless, Lord Mithror. We shall reach the end of the mire before dusk." Cursing the wisdom of his grandfather in foisting the steward upon him--against his will--Ithidor turned and urged his horse onwards. Behind him, the Elves exchanged brief glances, then pressed on after him, though their eyes could not help but glance at the sun that by now lay all too uncomfortably low in the sky.
Never had Mickle been forced to move so fast through the mire, but the horses of the infernal, narrow-headed Elves were fleet even here. Or so they seemed to an overweight, aging Goblin, though he managed to kill a water snake as he ambled on, skinning its tough flesh with his bare hands before eating it. Soon, though, he spotted what he had been hoping for. A young Hobgoblin was peering through the reeds at the Elves a short distance ahead of him, too absorbed with curiosity at the unusual sight to hear Mickle lurch menacingly towards him.
"Get yer fat 'ead down, yer stupid, dim-witted lug!" Mickle snarled as he lumbered up behind him. "D'yer want 'em to see yer starin' at 'em? A fine trophy yer brainless 'ead'd make for an Elf-knight's 'all."
The young Hobgoblin's face turned a greenish tinge of gray as he nervously sank beneath the swaying heads of the reeds and gawked at Mickle as he trudged towards him, his broad face grim with anger.
"What's yer name, sprogget?" the old Goblin asked gruffly, as he grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
"Bolgor, sir. Bolgor Grubsnuffer."
Mickle grasped the youngster's knobbly shoulders and stared him in the eye.
"Yer know what they are, don't yer, lad?"
"Yes, sir," Bolgor answered with a gulp. "They're Elves, sir."
"Elves, sir. Yesss. Dirty, stinkin', yellow-'aired Elves. An' yer know what they do to folks like us, don't yer?"
"Sir?"
"Did yer father or gran'fathers not fight in the wars?"
"My great gran'fathers did. Three of 'em were killed, sir."
"By Elves?"
"Yes, sir."
Mickle nodded, slowly. "They 'ate us, laddie. 'Ate us. Just as we 'ate them. So yer'd better 'urry an' warn whoever yer meet there's Elves in our land--armed Elves, laddie. Elf-knights. An' tell 'em that Mickle Gorsestab told yer to tell any warriors yer meet to 'ead this way--to me." He tightened his grip on the young Hobgoblin's shoulders till the youngster yelped. "An' tell 'em to get themselves armed as well. Just in case. D'yer get me, laddie? Just in case."
"What was that over there?" Charador stood in his stirrups and gazed intently over the reeds at the scuttling, furtively shifting shape that had caught his eye. He pointed mail-clad finger towards it.
Impatiently, Prince Ithidor pulled on the reins of his horse, glanced at the unmistakable signs of violent movement through the reeds, then impetuously spurred his horse forwards. His sword flashed in an arc above his head as he darted after whatever was trying to escape through the reeds, his gaunt face flushed with a surge of excitement.
"Your highness!" Mithror called out after him as the Elf-prince galloped into the mire. "Damn his impatience!" the steward muttered beneath his breath as Charador urged his own horse forward and followed the prince. "Hold ranks!" Mithror ordered the remaining Elves. "I am sure it won't take more than two to flush out whoever's hiding there."
Mithror watched the two Elves splash through the reeds as they gained quickly on whatever was desperately threshing its way through them.
"Got you!" Ithidor yelled in triumph as he swung the flat of his sword at his target. There was a high-pitched yowl of pain, then Charador, catching up to his prince, leaned down from his saddle and hauled a wriggling, scrabbling shape from the reeds.
A gasp of astonishment broke from the knights as Charador rode back towards them, the struggling, pot-bellied body of a Goblin grasped by the scruff of its neck. His bearded face grinning, Charador unceremoniously dumped the wretch at their feet as the Elves guided their horses into an enclosing circle around the bewildered, wild-eyed Goblin that squirmed awkwardly on the churned-up mud between them.
A broad sadistic grin on his face, Prince Ithidor leapt from the saddle of his horse, his sword aimed at the Goblin's heart as he stepped towards him.
"Were you spying on us, you carrion filth?" he asked, thin-lipped and cold; he tapped the point of his sword on the creature's greasy, mud-stained jerkin.
The Goblin's lips quivered uncontrollably; his eyes stared at the surrounding Elves, flinching as the prince prodded his sword a little harder on his chest.
"It's nothing but a child," Mithror interrupted, exasperated. "Look at the scrawny size of it."
Frowning in anger, Prince Ithidor stared at the Goblin, though he knew, even as he studied him that the steward was right. It was just a child. A fat, ugly, vile-smelling goblin-child. And a frightened one, too.
"It could still have been spying on us," Charador interrupted, nettled by the steward's scorn. "Look at the slyness on its ill-favoured face."
"Look at the terror in that face," Mithror spat. "Have we journeyed this far just to frighten youngsters--even youngsters like this?"
"Mithror, much though I value your counsel, I command here," the prince retorted, his face almost alabaster pale with anger. He glanced again at the Goblin as it grovelled at his feet, pawing helplessly at the ground as if that could somehow open up and allow it to escape the doom it was sure was only moments away from it. "Well, maggot, what were you doing when we captured you? Spying on us, as we suspect? Speak up!"
The wretched goblin scrambled to his knees; his arms and legs dripped mud as he reached beseechingly up towards the prince as if begging for mercy.
"I weren't doin' nothin', m'lord, jus' lookin' about fer somethin' to tek 'ome fer my mum an' da' to eat, that's all."
Ithidor smiled at the Goblin, his thin lips cold like polished silver.
"You were watching us, though, weren't you, my lad?"
The Goblin cringed as he nodded his head, his large eyes almost popping from their sockets as if he expected to be struck down and killed.
"Were you going to tell your people that you had seen us?"
More frightened now, the Goblin glanced round at the staring Elves.
"Well?" Ithidor prompted; his sword touched the Goblin's chest once more.
Trembling back away from the sharp, shimmering blade of the sword, the creature nodded, gulped, then added: "But I were only gonna tell 'em so as they could keep away from yer." He gazed beseechingly at the prince.
Ithidor's thin smile broadened, edged with cruelty.
"Of course," Ithidor said in a soft whisper, as he glanced at Mithror. "Perhaps, my Lord Steward, we should keep our young friend with us, just to make sure that his kin keep themselves to themselves."
"Holding the youngster as hostage wouldn't keep them away," Mithror snorted. "They'd forfeit the lad's life gladly enough to attack us. I'd wager, they might even be more tempted to attack us for having had the effrontery to keep hold of him. We should let the lad go. He's no use to us. Nor is he any danger. Releasing him could do some good, in fact. It would show the rest of them that we mean them no harm."
"More words of wisdom?" Ithidor asked.
Mithror's eyes narrowed into slits as he replied: "Would you prefer words of foolishness, my lord? Our liege, your grandfather, would know which of the two to choose."
"As do I, Mithror." The prince smiled calmly, though inwardly he seethed with suppressed anger. He turned to the Goblin. "Where are the rest of your kin?"
Shivering, the Goblin shook his head.
"What's the matter?" Ithidor asked.
"I daren't tell yer, m'lord. I daren't. It'd be more than my wretched 'ide is worth to tell yer that. They'd skin me alive if they knew I'd told Elves where our 'ome nest is."
"Perhaps we shall skin you if you don't," Ithidor replied quietly, his eyes glinting.
The Goblin sank into a huddled mass, his long, knobbly fingers clutching at the ground.
"Daren't," he repeated miserably, tears in his eyes. "Daren't."
Stepping forwards, Ithidor forced the Goblin's face up with the point of his sword. For a moment he stared at the creature's fear-glazed eyes and trembling features, disgusted by them. "Very well," he hissed contemptuously, releasing the Goblin's chin from his sword. "Get to your feet." Ithidor turned his eyes on the steward. "Since we seem unable to get any sense from the wretched thing I'll heed your words." He turned on his heels and pointed to the mire. "Be gone with you, Goblin. And tell any others of your wretched, miserable race that you meet that they had better keep out of our way. The next found lurking within our reach will not be so lucky." With a kick from his iron-soled riding boot he sent the Goblin skittering into the mire, gabbling his thanks for the Elf-prince's mercy. Ithidor laughed as the creature broke through the nearest reeds, tripping and skidding in his panic-stricken haste to get away from the Elves as fast as he could before they changed their minds.