Chapter 14 - The long walk home (Rookie games arc)

　　The party pressed on through the rocky terrain of the flatlands. The cliffs rose hard to the north, but it was to the west that their eye was drawn, where the sun failed to the falling of night; it was there that they had one by one started, emerging from the nest with the overalls on their backs and not a thing more. Or so it had been for most.

　　"Gorkon knew you," said the prince—a statement to Artisan and not a question.

　　"That he did. As I knew him."

　　"And the hammer... are you always..." the prince went on.

　　"Crippled? That I am. The hammer is my cane till I forge a brace—it`s the best a master of tasks can do for an old friend cursed anew."

　　The prince started in response but then fell silent—the clamours of a conflict not far off, the grunts and hollers of a brute-force clash. The clatter of wood on wood, a dim and endless echo.

　　"We move in," said Artisan, breaking off toward the plains. "We are three and they will be weary by now—infighting most likely. But each one we lay low curries us further favour."

　　The prince does not ordinarily follow the command of a fallen knight. But this was a stranger land than ever thought possible... and the warrior-poet knows when to lead. And when not to.

　　Sweeping sideways across the hard and stone-strewn path, they veered back toward the plains.

　　"I am more a figure of stealth," said Artisan in a tone that was almost apologetic. "So you will forgive me if I do not partake in the brawl." He started again to remove the ring, but the prince bade him relent.

　　"And the crown is to fight for you?" The prince flared indignant, reaching within and finding. The scattered remnants of old.

　　"Not alone—we are allies, are we not? Your own words, prince. Lead the vanguard now as many a time before; I am sure you have, wielding the cursed sword that is your doom."

　　"But the sword is not here." The prince waved the wooden dagger he had been holding, retrieved from the huntress and her kind grasp—she had carried what he could not. But now he was restored or at least able. He could wear it now, blaze into battle anew. He knew he could.

　　"Aye, but you are. Champion of the sands. The rabble dawning any moment now before us... they are nothing. Not compared to Vol`krin, named beast and first among the naturals. And you cracked him like another might an egg. Still, I will fight with you, albeit from range. I have just the thing..." Artisan trailed off in word and step, venturing nearer now to the jagged forms of rock and hill. "It is here somewhere... but one path precludes the other."

　　They let the man search the craggy face of the hillside edge, its inside slope. He stumbled and swayed, close to keeling over but never quite. His hand ran along the grooves and ridges; his eyes scanned from plain to forest to sun-downed sky. Assessing his position.

　　"It`s not here," said Artisan finally and in a stern voice. "A sacrilege. I did not think her so strong. Nor so impudent." He turned to the prince and huntress, eyes wide in consternation. "Make haste; we leave for the tribal halls at once."

　　"The mage?" asked Cedric, hastening his step to keep pace—Artisan was now half-running.

　　"How dare she violate—yes, the mage, of course." Artisan was panting already. But from panic it seemed, and not exertion. "My red medallion... a minor magestone, paler still than the ring round my finger... a mere trinket. But not to me. The binding glyph on the back of it... combined with the blue... key to my coffer..."

　　"Then we retrieve it," the prince broke in. "Speak no more, for breath eludes you. And it is not long but perilous, the way forward... or the way back. If my reasoning holds."

　　"Aye, it does." Artisan threw off the buckler, took a breath. Then he slipped off the ring.

　　The prince took both to himself, the beauty and burden—the ring that shone so pure to his goblin eyes, the buckler that had won him the title. Champion of the sands. Blood-earned trophies, the one and the other.

　　Would the huntress have known? The prince could only wonder. She had shown receptive to him, some innate wisdom or herding instinct. But logic games, he supposed, would prove beyond her. It had taken him a while, to be fair, breaking the code of the bone-warrior`s words: Take to the fields and find the entrance to the tribe`s great halls.` There were two parts to it, seemingly connected but therein lay the trick. `Take to the fields`—a quest to war and plunder; find the loot stashed by the returners. `Find the entrance to the tribe`s great halls`—wherever might a tribe eat and drink and perhaps hold council, if such was the goblin way? Not the fields, not the beach, and not the forest. The taskmaster had led them out, but the true path was in. Through the birthing chamber. Deeper down in the goblin hole.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　For a handful of dust had they risked it—the blue-gleaming ore that had cost so much. For a green ring and a green locket, the shard of red to augment his buckler.

　　It was almost clever, thought the prince—the riddle seen in isolation. A circular mission: forwards and then back. But on the whole it made no sense. How many bodies did they lose, new and able bodies fit to throw at proper foes if nothing else. He would ask Artisan when time and breath allowed. The purpose to these... rookie games. This silent massacre.

　　They had orbited the grounds, and now they trudged back, sticking close, to the hills, to each other. A slender track skirting the arena bounds, sharp-edged and strewn with stone and pebble, a jutting rock here and there. Debris trickled down, a mist of gravel and fine earth.

　　Cutting through the plains, they would surely be faster. But this was safe. Safer.

　　As they came nearer, so too did the clamouring, spreading now like wildfire, moving out and ever toward them—a two-way closing of the gap. Here now was the folly of their errand, the prince thought, and a sick smile twisted hard onto his lips.

　　They saw it now, clear as dawn though night had all but fallen. Striking out across the plains, a mass brawl had formed, shifting outward and then in—swathes of goblins like the prince had known, mindless like the lake-dwellers and savage too, but upright and able... like Vol`krin. Though none had his strength or raw tenacity. This hapless lot, they floundered back and forth, flailing the wood of their dagger or spear, splashes of yellow and purple flying. And striking true—it was brutal, not at all a sparring scuffle. They bludgeoned; they brutalized. The wood made it worse—it had not the swift and sudden mercy of steel. There were no sides either. The colours did not matter, not to these rampaging oafs. A war of all against all. The natural state, for men, for goblins.

　　"They thin the herd," the prince said, incredulous, seeking Artisan`s eye to affirm this folly.

　　Faintly, Artisan nodded. He was limping again, straining against the shift and tear of his own body. The brace, it seemed, might not hold.

　　But they had more immediate matters to attend to—though sneaking like thieves in the night, somehow they had aroused suspicion. Two pairs of goblin ears pricking up—two bastards half removed from the inner-plains scuffle. They were battered and bloody, but they came bounding nevertheless, straight toward the prince and his party.

　　Both assailants were wielding spears, yet their bodies were marred with stripes and slashes of yellow and purple alike. The infighting curs. It made the prince bristle to observe such wanton disregard for a notion he himself held in high esteem, always had. Allegiance—in battle, in life.

　　Though these two came screeching and charging, the other plain-roaming brawlers seemed either unaware or uninterested; they were content to keep beating their brothers and sisters closer by.

　　Dispatch of these two then, thought the prince. And they could resume their silent trek. Not much longer and they would make it to the chamber entrance.

　　Artisan was made to stand at the back, farthest from incoming harm.

　　The first brute staggered in, spear aloft and swiping, cracking hard against the prince`s buckler. The huntress was wielding Artisan`s dagger, stood waiting in a strong stance, ready to take the charge of the second spearman... but it never came. The savage merely stood there, behind the first assailant... then he stabbed with all his might. Not at the prince and not at the huntress. But at his own battle-brother—spiked him clean through the heart. It did not make sense—the wooden tip was not that sharp. The prince saw it now. The paint on this one`s spear had blotted off; the tip had been sharpened. A crude but killer weapon.

　　A terrible howl—the first one`s dying call. And all the plain-fighters stopped and stared... and charged. Right at the prince, the huntress, and Artisan.

　　The prince cracked the murdering assailant over the head with his buckler, then grabbed the bastard`s spear, driving it straight through his heart. Let like beget like.

　　"Run," said the prince, seeing the horde come rumbling toward them. "Run for your life; run for all life. None get left behind." He was yelling now, barking orders like the olden days.

　　And they ran, fiercely, breathlessly, they ran.

　　They were not far out from the chamber entrance now. They could make it, but...

　　Artisan stumbled, fell down hard, his brace shattering. It had endured much, and now no more.

　　The prince stood tall with the fury of two lifetimes in his eyes—he would fight them all. Maybe he would win. He would not leave Artisan here to be bludgeoned.

　　But the huntress snarled, vicious in a way the prince had not seen her. She pushed the prince, pushed Artisan. Leave.

　　Cedric would not have it. They stay here as three, and he and the huntress fight off the horde. He muscled past the huntress to intercept the first of the attackers.

　　This time the huntress grabbed him hard by the arm. She shook her head. No. Her eyes were sad but determined, and when the vanguard prince wanted again to move past her... she pulled him back, held him. Harder. She swallowed, looked Cedric in the eyes in a way she never before had—in adoration, in unwavering service and protection... and also, although it seemed to the prince ludicrous... in love.

　　She tried to mouth something, shy and reserved... but then no longer. "Love," spoke the huntress. She nodded, tear-stained, then bounded off, barrelling straight into the pack of plain-brawlers. She had taken all their attention, was running now further into the arena grounds, making way for the forest.

　　A sacrifice. So Artisan and the prince could make it back to the birthing chamber.

　　The prince felt tears well up, wanted to run after her... but Artisan stopped him. "Honour her..." he said, though speech was difficult without his ring. "She... hero."

　　"The best of us all," said Cedric, and he thought then that he meant it. He cried. For the loss of her but something greater also—the loyalty, her unbroken devotion. That which she stood for without full-well knowing.

　　There were sharp cries now, a female`s. They had got to her right before the forest entrance, and she was fighting, but taking hard blows to the head and body.

　　The prince and Artisan walked on toward the birthing chamber entrance.

　　They heard dreadful hard cries and the battering of wood and they could not look back, not the prince and not Artisan.

　　They walked on.