Chapter 17 - The long night and numbers (Pre-Training Arc)

　　They strode down all three, deeper into the goblin pit. Behind the birthing chamber was a tunnel, like the one leading out but dark and still more narrow—harder to walk for there was no light.

　　There was no great ceremony, not a token offer of condolence. The bone-warrior held guard at the lonesome hard end; it was there that the path came to a large wooden door. He stood in silence like a statue. Menacing still as he was before, but different. Aloof somehow. A slight bit uncertain.

　　The prince kept a wary eye. But Artisan was hardly bothered. "Not a danger," he said, limping past; the man did not want a shoulder now—nothing to lean on but his stubborn pride. "Not yet. Just a touch of the madness."

　　Linaria and the prince then followed, eking past the hardened guard, this tower of flesh and bone that jittered now toward them, bellowing a half-phrase in garbled goblin—something something rookie games`. Sent the two careening back. But not Artisan.

　　"Give it no mind," said Artisan, grown weary and impatient. "It`s the eyes—they bespeak the depths of his madness. Mild, for now. It will be hours or maybe days. Nothing Gorkon cannot in due course handle."

　　"Mad like the ones outside?" queried the prince as he eyed the brawn of the bone-warrior—a full-grown goblin and then some. Tall and fierce, more than most all he had seen and slain. If this one were to come unhinged... they could never stop him, not with three. A whole nest of them might not suffice, the soft-skinned rookies they now were.

　　"Yes, precisely like them," Artisan answered, be it begrudgingly, for his hand was on the handle of the large door, and he seemed loathe to stop or tarry. "The savagery, our madness... comes with the creature—innate in us low goblin things. But fresh souls, if they`re strong, they can withstand it some. Then with age it gets worse. And increasingly with each death as well. We all pay the hard price in the end. For now his assigned role is what stops this one, though he is ancient. The class assigned by the taskmaster in a sense, though combat classes all blend together past the starter stage."

　　The prince thought briefly of his own classes: warrior and scholar... then his mind went again to the huntress—could he bear it if she returned to him hard and broken? Perhaps she could hold on to her senses, like the Lady Linaria... though they were worlds apart as far as intelligence went.

　　When the door swung open, the prince felt his mind fall silent as he was made witness to that which lay beyond. The tribe`s great halls, sanctuary of an unholy lustre, carved from the bowels of the earth.

　　The halls were stone and silent, rough-hewn arches in the vaulting space. Light came from all sides but in ghastly green alone; it was the glow of a moss growing on the walls and ceiling—luminous but abhorrent, the name of it was goblin gold. Though down here, the prince now reckoned... it would just be called gold.

　　A long broad table stood stoic in the centre, large chairs jutting at the head and foot. Four smaller chairs slid under at the far end; and at the near end only three, with the last halfway crumbled.

　　There was nothing more in the large, long chamber. Only the vast and empty. Hostile like a dead-born soul.

　　"Note that you are without helmet now, for you cast it brashly aside," said Artisan to the captive prince, the latter rooted in fear and fascination. Like a zealot lost to the godless and profane.

　　Artisan clapped the prince hard on the shoulder. "It`s no time for dreaming now—stay hard and stay ready. I need you here. We both do." He looked at Linaria, who was likewise small now standing there, in the green-lit dark of the tribal hall. She gave a slight nod, body and heart atremble; the small nod, it was the best she had.

　　"Three unblemished..." broke in a voice, weedy and ordained—the speaking like a chant, a minister of sorts, or so it seemed. The man wore glasses, in a sense like Gorkon`s, though thinner, sitting low on the nose and half askant. He peered over them like the taskmaster might, but he was nothing to compare. A pale imitation and hardly that. "All three adorned..." he mused to himself as he skittered over, clutching a tattered old booklet to his skin-and-bone—a chest less than most the hatchlings`.

　　"It is late, registrar, so do not dawdle," Artisan let out in worn-out retort.

　　The registrar looked at Artisan, not in interest nor in scorn, but with grey-toned eyes, hard and hollow.

　　"The clubfoot," said the registrar then, jotting down a note. "The mage with the mark." Another note. "And..." he peered at the prince... at his booklet... back at the prince. "A Blackrose." The note he wrote was longer now, like the prince had come unaccounted. "Step through," he said shortly after. "Ranks retained or elevated... all elite. Third door down and..."

　　"To the left," Artisan cut in, and he waved the man off, shambling on in unsightly step—a passage marked in blood. Linaria followed, trailing close, and then the prince, staring still at the grand hall and table, the chairs that stood strong like a memory. But of what... he did not know.Stolen novel; please report.

　　"Rest and recover," said the registrar in passing. "And straight to the statistician in the morrow."

　　The hall led to a winding corridor. The first door down was glyph-locked and barred, a stark brutish wailing hounding out from within. The second door was merely locked—a lesser glyph to keep its denizens from roaming.

　　"The commons and mid-ranks," said Artisan, leading them further. "And our chambers. It is safe if you are quiet. Safe enough." The third door creaked open, and their gazes were met—ten pairs or more of those hungry hard eyes. Men and women and all were left standing, staring in bloodlust, some in vacant abandon.

　　The prince clutched his dagger and his buckler, both tight to his heart. Then they wove through, not a word in between them. Fresh supple meat in the well held-down ranks. Dozens of cots were strewn on the cold unclean ground. More goblins manned them, and women aside them, sleeping or laying and silently swaying—many were restless like old roamed-out wolves.

　　Were there a hundred of them, or maybe still more? The dark seemed unending, with more cots and more eyes, and the long broken walk—Artisan first, then the prince and the lady. Stalking past now with no strong or fell movement... barely breath spent, for the air was so tense.

　　They sought for their spot, for a cot that was free.

　　A single one there... so far away from the entrance and exit. They curled up all three—no place now for decorum. Lean dark-green bodies in the shiver-cold night.

　　The gloom was their solace—eyes closed and gone, both the world and the body. Weathered old things they could now do without.

　　The prince saw the meadows, the heartlands and valleys, all spinning through in the dreams he had lost. There was Gael and then there was Gendrin; he wanted to reach out in lust and in hate. These two were now the true heart-born contrasts. Love was a hell he could best leave behind.

　　Once were they woken from unbroken slumber. A goblin. A rotten foul goblin—the lonesome hard fiend who would wander too close. He had eyes for Linaria, and reached out to grope her... but the prince was more swift and he pulled the man in—put a hand straight on that wretched damn mouth... the other hand hard round the vile culprit`s throat. And the prince squeezed with a bitter hard fury; that swelling of blood on his palm, it was bliss. Curse you for making this happen, you filthy crass animal. But the rage was just splendid in both the right ways: the act and the hate for the act. The man choked and he choked till the gasps and the gurgles they stopped. It was beautiful as long as it lasted; the prince felt like a god so divine. He wanted to scream songs of hate in the dead man`s foul ear. But didn`t. He rolled off the body like the waste it had been. Kicked it out to rot.

　　--

　　Morning dawned and light slivered in through the narrow-slit window... they could not then be buried too deep below ground. Artisan had kicked the body a ways further—someone`s problem perhaps, but not their own.

　　They walked through the quarters and it did not feel stifling. Things can be different in the light of the day.

　　All three then went to the statistician`s office; Artisan had known the way.

　　"Come in," said a sinewy tall woman with keen and blue eyes—no, only the one, Cedric saw in horror. The second eye had been scooped out, with the nerves still showing. A small clockwork ball hung eerily in the space. "And remove the stat boosters!" she shouted. "Damn rookies."

　　Artisan went first; he took off the dim red medallion. The statistician eyed him with the real and then the clockwork one; she wrote down some notes they would later go over.

　　Then Linaria was scanned, and she could gratefully keep her magiguard gauntlet on—it boosts no base stat. More notes... the statistician nodding and bobbing her head in calculation... but the examination was over quickly.

　　Third came the prince, who was now aware—all of a sudden—of how dreadfully small the other two looked—Artisan and Linaria. But just yesterday, their heights were at a level. Now the prince towered over them like the bone-warrior had him.

　　Taking off the locket and ring... putting the buckler aside... and the prince was ready for his assessment.

　　The clockwork eye whizzed and whirled, spinning around all axes. The statistician`s real eye went wide in amazement as she wrote down the battle-earned stats of the prince. "So it`s true..." she mumbled, "the Blackrose did slay Vol`krin in clean melee."

　　Once they were all measured, they sat for a brief wait—the statistician tallying the numbers.

　　"Here are the results," the statistician said, handing the three their respective stats paper.

　　"As expected," grumbled Artisan, looking over his paper. "Enough INT now to speak without the medallion."

　　The prince was unclear on what the results meant, but he looked now at himself, properly looked at his arms and his legs. And there was some meat there that hadn`t been there the long hard day before, the rookie games day.

　　"Goblins grow with sleep," Artisan said, his medallion once more around his neck. "If you`ve done fighting or scouting or reading before, that is—it gives you experience points`, as the statisticians call it."

　　"Alright, let`s compare the sheets to assess our baseline stats," said Linaria, and the three put their papers in the middle.

　　They read as follows:

　　--

　　Artisan

　　Class: Builder

　　Level 2

　　Constitution (CON): 6

　　Intelligence (INT): 7

　　Dexterity (DEX): 6

　　Strength (STR): 6

　　Magic (MAG): 1

　　--

　　Lady Linaria

　　Class: Mage

　　Level 2

　　Constitution (CON): 6

　　Intelligence (INT): 6

　　Dexterity (DEX): 4

　　Strength (STR): 3

　　Magic (MAG): 6

　　--

　　Prince Cedric

　　Class: Warrior & Scholar

　　Level 5

　　Constitution (CON): 10

　　Intelligence (INT): 9

　　Dexterity (DEX): 11

　　Strength (STR): 10

　　Magic (MAG): 4

　　--

　　"Rookie of the year," said the statistician excitedly, "goes to the Blackrose goblin... but don`t stop now—it`s time to start training in your classes and do right by goblin society!" Her tone and her everything seemed so cheerful suddenly that it grated on the prince. Like she did not know or care what dreadful place they were in.

　　"Prince," Artisan cut in, "you had best go straight past the elite quarters, then hard right... leads to the arena. Warrior training starts early. I trust you will give those bastards hell, my liege?"

　　"They will find out what it means to spar a prince," said Cedric, setting off for the arena. "I will destroy them all."