Chapter 27 - The long last night and lore: Part II (Pre-evolution arc)

　　Kageru was a scourge, a blighted ghost in his true form of a goblin.

　　The text had been redacted—intrusive marks made by a foreign pen. But the words yet remained, their censorship left wilfully incomplete. How is that for a message—here are the thoughts you cannot think. In a way, it was striking. More sinister still than a full-on deletion.

　　He was once, it is said, the most devout and austere. The first of the forged gods in rank and renown—how the Lady doted on him. Chiefly, these are rumours... though this author has known two of their company: one who is dead, and the world will never know all the tears it should shed; and one who is alive in the worst broken way—he haunts these halls like a ghost, the warden of hell. Neither have ever dreamed of denying it. Kageru was the most elevated. Before he hurled himself and the world into the darkmost abyss.

　　The fact or assertion troubled the prince—Artisan had known not one but two gods.

　　Rolling the words over in his mind, the watchful one eye... the warden of hell,` the prince walked back to the rack, picked out the book On myths and malice`, sank his gaze into the images once more, first the flayed god on the front... then the divine dinner on the back. Faruikis was the figure most forgotten—there was little of lore and he was always deemed lesser. The shame-faced young brother reaching out vainly, clutching at the pit-lord in full plummet. His eyes were alive with desire to follow. Wherever Kageru went. The prince did not recognize him, though why would he—an image captures shadows at best. And Faruikis was not now as he was, with both eyes in the world above and the name of a god. When did he lose them, the eye and the name? Did he take to it willingly, the role of taskmaster? The prince thought of Gorkon and quivered; he looked at the image and knew it for true. The lost god Faruikis was found.

　　How could he rise and not falter... and what the damn hell would he be if he did? From prince of a nation to prince of a realm. The hard depths of hell.

　　The prince read on.

　　Crucible.

　　The fallen god had forged a master blade—he named it Ziegb鰈t. And in self-righteous vanity he set to the task of cutting and flaying the dead. The tale is told elsewhere, but in essence he could not stand it: the impurity of man, his withering form and the grave in the end. Kageru sliced at the heart and the mind, and like puppets they rose—man from his rot, the eternal deep slumber. But they turned hard and then foul, forgetful and weary. He bestowed unto them their green skin and savage small frames, deforming them further and further until man turned to goblin.

　　These were all things he knew, the prince thought as he turned the page, gasping for air at the unsightly image—Kageru`s eyes in imposing detail. They were wild and piercing, the sharp chiselled edge of a gemstone that shone. Like a locket or ring, the things that men treasure.

　　The cold whipped around him—the prince felt his body, how it shivered like sickness. There was too much to take in, but he lacked the luxury of a moment; no time to digest, no time at all. No rest for the wicked.

　　They bred and like a wildfire multiplied, the goblins that swarm; we are hell on this earth. Creatures against creation. Kageru tried with all his fell might to harken them to him—an army of death. And though the will of a god has a greater pull still than the forces of nature... it proved like all things finite, and his ranks soon turned rogue. Too many goblins; too many warped minds to control. Kageru sought for some conduit through which to channel his warlike intent, his divine inspiration. He was distraught and blinded by rage, for none could see far in the same way that he did: to gaze so deep as to glimpse the true soul... no god and no goblin had the eyes for this task. So he tore it out, his perfect right eye—only thus was he able to see it himself. It glowed like a god, took on life of its own, the eye of the devil—the birth of known magic. Kageru was mad but still brilliant, and he learned all he could of its complex design, making masterful copies—imperfect still but as right as can be; bright as a starlit long night, we call them magestones.

　　Sinking in his seat, the prince thought of Gael. One as wondrous as her, yet her work was the devil`s?! The magic she held in her breath and her touch. But as long as he lived in this nightmare of death, he would be glad for one thing. She did not know and she is not down here with him. Though not close to enough, it would do. Her soul was as frost, pure and still free. Only in memory everlasting.

　　Like moths to a flame, most goblins flocked to fake eyes; they glowed just like the master`s. Magestones of blue, red and green. Here was his army with purpose renewed—those that bent to the will of magic. The others were culled and re-carved by Kageru`s Ziegb鰈t... the god on a quest to make his brood more slavish. Most were thus salvaged`, reborn as lesser ghosts now malleable. The most ardent and unbreakable may have been released—here the scriptures fall hazy. This was a time before the Lord and the Lady had seen right to cast a curse on the god-blades... and the souls of the slain goblins, those who would not take to carving... perhaps they went unrevived and are free; I think it so, though I hope it not so—none should escape the perennial noose that hangs so viscerally around my neck; I feel it there always. This is the author now, not remote as a scholar: I am glad you are with me, for all souls should suffer in the same way as mine. From now till forever.

　　Was it shocking to see Artisan clad in torturer`s drag, his words as foul as the halls they dwelt in? No, not truly—though acknowledging this felt more frightful by far than the fact itself.

　　And so was born the first test of many. Kageru slew those fractious few who would not bow to his magic. He divined from his mind the concepts of classes and evolution; gave them life or undeath, willed the notions to being. It took much from him—he called on the might of his name, a god as Leximancer; one cannot but quake at such might and resolve. But at length he cracked, failing to rise in perpetuity to his self-spoken challenge. He lost the right to his name, and took on the moniker of Zenok, taskmaster. And yet another wrench in the works then: the mad god turned taskmaster was slain by his siblings, their god-blades. Whilst the lesser gods Eteraenem, Maienexis, and Yulvolde fought the goblin armies (for they were not equipped with the divine power of forging a god-blade) ... the true battle of the gods took place between fearless Reduvex, wielder of Dicebolg, and noble Paldufaer, wielder of Caladbrinn; they were the two most skilled in combat, exempting Kageru, though now he was Zenok and much diminished, and he fought like thunder taken flesh, each blow of his blade a boom to fell thousands. In a fair duel he would have prevailed, but two gods are more than one, even in the case of great misguided Zenok. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

　　When he fell, his craven brother took over, hiding in the gloom of his master`s goblin caves. This second taskmaster is by far the lesser; his voice of command a whisper when set against the direful roar of the devil, his great brother. The goblins dwindled in number by sheer necessity; this taskmaster cannot control the same large army his brother could. And so more wicked tasks were devised by the lesser taskmaster. He took over the hard duty of breeding—indeed, another vile task that was once performed by his brother. But born from his lesser seed, the quality of goblins began to wane. More and more hatchlings would not take to the bestowal of class or rank—they do not heed the weaker taskmaster`s call. Millennia-old records attest that approximately 80% of goblins were assigned a class in the early years of the new taskmaster`s reign. (Though conjecture, it appears to this author likely that Zenok, with so potent a will, would have managed to assign 95%+ a class.) The most recent numbers indicate a sharp dip: approximately 58% of hatchlings are assigned a class at present. The classless others are ushered out of the birthing chamber without word or weapon; they take to roaming and are lost, or they fight and are lost, almost invariably.

　　The prince thought it hard to imagine a voice more commanding than Gorkon`s... the taskmaster`s will, and in earnest, merely his presence, rattled him to the broken core.

　　A brief interim curiosity should now be explicated: soon after Zenok`s fall, some of his foremost goblins took to preserving the master`s rites—they carved and sliced at the corpses of their dead, removed the rot from the mind and heart... but without the god`s skill and the god-blade, it was pointless—a bloody autopsy and nothing more. The result of the failing rites was a far faster onset of the descent into madness: many second- or third-time hatchlings felt entirely untethered to their former goblin lives; their mind had gone or their soul, and sometimes both. They were savage now and could not be commanded by the new taskmaster. (Interim note: be not misgiven... it comes for us all; this is known. With the passing of time, with each rebirth, and even with each evolution, part of the mind and/or heart may be lost. There is no escape.)

　　But here did the current of the two taskmasters, though so much the lesser... devise a sequence that is nothing short of brilliant. To reduce the accrual of mind and heart/soul loss with every rebirth, the rites were replaced: the digging through corpse flesh and the carving at the heart and mind... these were made metaphorical. Each worthy goblin (either second-grade class or long dutiful service as a first-grader) was presented by the taskmaster with two boxes, empty ones for them to fill. The lesser box he named the mind box`, and it is suited to hold the most prized possession that anchors the goblin to being (note: typically a magestone if one can be attained through looting or more nefarious means; we are so drawn to these, replicas of the master`s eye). The greater box he named the soul box`, and it is suited to hold the essence of that goblin`s being; virtually without fail this is an instrument of destruction—a weapon of great power or somesuch... anything that binds the goblin to their personal path of vengeance, for it is always that which dominates the rotted-down core of one like us. Vengeance.

　　Once filled, the boxes are buried by the groundskeeper, who tells the goblin once, and only once, where to go digging. If the location is forgotten, the boxes and their contents are lost, and a rapid deterioration of the mind and soul may be expected.

　　And so what is the Crucible of the Neophytes, or as it is now mostly called by the less literate—the Rookie Games? A trip of remembrance for all but the newcomer hatchlings. To the reborn-again goblin, it is a challenge to recall their mind and soul from previous undeath(s). To become what they were or near enough to it. Additionally, the groundskeeper gives a choice—and this is always vital: free will is the essence of sanity, even in chains or in hell. The wooden weapons symbolize non-savagery—the option to train without maiming, steeling the new body for wars to come. Those that wander off or turn blindly to killing are cast out, for they have failed to recall the taskmaster`s will.

　　The subsequent chapters deal with strategy: the beach, forest, and hillside all require a different approach.

　　But before that, an open question. What do you think is the end goal of the goblins? To run amok and raise a sliver of hell on earth with each farmyard or village raid? No, think bigger. What do you suppose happens to the body of a slain god—a true full deity like Reduvex or Paldufaer, though they have not fallen but left. Together with Eteraenem and Maienexis, they ascended skyward and were never again seen—so go the stories, and I have little zest to doubt them, for many old truths have proven right as a compass in a storm. Yulvolde was clipped in penance for her actions—she had supported Kageru and would stay here to see the earth boil with the blood of hell. So three then remained: Yulvolde, though demi-divine now, for cast out from full godhood; evil Kageru/Zenok, whose body lay broken under Landsbury, where the gods had held their final fight; and Faruikis/Gorkon. The latter wants nothing but to bring back his brother, the devil.

　　That is why he needs you—markbearers, for as long as the mark burns on your forehead, the blood has not left you. The god-blade that broke you can be yours to wield still—a race against time.

　　The taskmaster needs you and your god-blade. All of them combined, to slice the rot from the heart and mind of a fallen god.

　　Kageru can live. And then hell will reign above as below. The end of the age of man.

　　The prince heard footsteps outside, the general bustle of dawn.

　　He placed back the book in the rack and felt leaden. He walked out of the scholar`s hall and into the mid-ranks` cell where Artisan and the Lady were sleeping. How could they sleep when they knew like he did? How could he ever again rest his head when it was green and dead and full of hard truths he could never discard?

　　The morning bell sounded and it was time for bodies to start moving.

　　He wanted some mead, put the flask to his mouth, but it was empty. The prince plugged the cork back in.

　　Then came a silent sob, that private admission of unrestrained sorrow. There was no cork to plug in the flask of his being. So he stood up still broken.

　　But at least he stood up.