The goblin

[DM B]

OOC: Just to give you something to compare with; this piece of text is about two young adventurers from the South Coast, who have been forcibly drafted into the army of a Boeruine noble.

A man has his needs, army service or not, and this evening called for some solitude. Growing up in a noble household meant very little privacy, so Moergan was used to that, but this was different. In the army you never were alone. Never. On or off duty made little difference, you were always surrounded by the same people. Even the odd half-day of leave spent in Ravar offered no relief, since you were not allowed to go alone. And Anuirean cities were filled to the brim with people anyway, and being surrounded by strangers was even worse somehow. Not being one to share his pleasures, no matter how minor, Moergan stalked purposefully towards the sentry lines. 'I really detest being cooped up with all manner of low-life commoners. Perhaps I should just leave this damn army behind? No, I swore the Oath of Service, no matter how unfairly it was forced upon me. Damn my twisted sense of honor; it will get me killed some day, and then I’ll surely curse my Haelynic heritage as I lie dying.'

[DM B]

He came up on a pair of guards watching the perimeter. The Captain had four such watchposts manned at all times – single men during the day, and pairs during the dark hours. According to the Captain there were goblins about, and they preferred skulking about in the dark. Moergan doubted that there were any nearby. Clever goblins would stay well clear of an entire company of alert and battle-ready Anuireans. Most likely it was more training for the recruits. That and the fact that this was how things were done. In addition there was another pair on guard inside the perimeter, but their task was different. They watched for trouble inside the camp – drunkenness, fire, that sort of thing – and also checked up on the perimeter guards. And of course the sergeant could be counted on to wander around the camp at odd hours. The bastard seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to irregularities.

[DM B]

He was pulled from his thoughts by a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Now there Moergan, wher’d ya think you’re a goin?” There words came out of the mouth of corporal Jaenoues, a man that Moergan had previously seen little of, but heard a lot about. A small fellow, Jaenoues had something of a reputation as a warrior. He supposedly killed three goblins in a knife-fight once and brought down the Ogre of Houndsglen with a spear after it had killed or maimed the rest of his patrol. And that was only a few of his many exploits; come to think of it, most of the stories came from his own mouth, and Moergan somehow doubted they were all completely true. The hand, however, belonged to the mute in the corporal’s file – Olav or some such – a big, scarred man of obvious Rjurik blood. Olav really was a skilled warrior, quick for his size and murderously strong, he was never far from Jaenoues’ side. Moergan could well believe that the silent Rjurik had played a part in the heroic tales of the corporal, even if his involvement was never mentioned. “I have orders to fetch the captain some clean water, he did not fancy the stuff we drew from the well”. The words came unbidden to his lips; growing in a noble household had taught him to use lies whenever necessary. 'That was a truly lame excuse. The rapier wit of the Shaemes is another of my failings.' Shrugging, the corporal let him through with a wave. 'Sarimie’s own luck that they are only commoners; they know it not, but the Blood commands them still.'

[DM B]

As he ventured into the woods the noises and smells of the camp slowly faded away. A thick canopy of leaves shielded him from the last rays of the setting sun, already low on the western horizon. The chilling breeze that had been with them since marching from Caer Ravar stilled into nothingness under that dark green canopy. A cool silence, broken only by his own soft footsteps and the faint rustling of leaves, surrounded him as he walked deeper into the shadowy forest. 'Quiet and gloomy these northern woods. Very much like the people that dwell here. Back home the hunting preserves teem with life, birds and small game and deer are always plentiful. It seems that even animals shun this cold and dreary land.'

[DM B]

The mighty oaks and redbarks were spaced quite evenly, about ten yards separating each tree, as if some gargantuan gardener had placed them there and carefully watched over them. Very few other plants seemed to thrive in their shadow. The ground was covered with a thick carpet of moss and short, soft grasses and a variety of fallen redbark leaves. ‘Perhaps Aeric really does live in the deep woods. If so, then he must be the most boring god of all.’ The thought was quickly banished – one did not blaspheme the gods, especially not when walking alone in their domain. The ground was gently rolling, but not so much as to make walking arduous or keeping direction difficult. Small streams and ponds were in abundance though. Moergan saw small, slivery fish in several of the larger ones before the light faded and turned the waters the color of jet. The rolling ground, the trees and the deep shadows made it difficult to accurately see anything more than a stone’s throw away. 'In darkness delve the creatures of Evil. In shadows hide the enemies of Light.’ The Book of Laws had a fitting verse for the situation, as it always did.

[DM B]

Moergan suddenly realized that he had gone much further away from the camp than he had intended to, perhaps half a mile or more. It was getting darker by the minute. 'How long have I been away? Half a glass at least, maybe more. Woodcraft indeed, gawking at trees and fish and getting all religious instead of paying attention. I must have been reported lost by now or will be very soon. The sergeant is going to be furious.' Not that Moergan really cared or felt at all intimidated by the man. Only the oath he gave on serving at the best of his abilities really meant something. That had been given to a true Noble, a man of the Blood. Getting caught at insubordination and dereliction was clearly not in line with that oath. 'If I get lost in the dark and they have to search for me, it will be jack duty for a year. The elf-loving bastard would like that, thrashing one of better blood than he. Better head back, and quickly before this becomes a disciplinary matter unworthy of one Noble born.' He was about to turn back when he suddenly heard a splashing noise followed by a low gurgle. 'The sound of water on water. The sound of a man drawing water and drinking.'

[DM B]

His hand closed around the familiar shape of the sword hilt. He drew it slowly, lest sound betray his presence. It was shorter and heavier than the blades used by Dieman nobles. A simple and rugged blade, suitable for close infantry work. But after endless hours of drill its weight and balance now felt natural. The sound was gone, only to be replaced by a tingling feeling of presence. There was someone close by. 'Perhaps a sentry. No, not so far from camp. One of the Baron’s woodsmen then.' He almost called out, but suddenly thought better of it. 'Why would they camp away from security of the main force? They surely knew it was there.' Making camp was not silent work. If the Baron’s woodsmen were half as skilled as they boasted they could not have failed to notice an entire company making camp in the vicinity. 'Someone else, brigands or poachers perhaps.' He moved toward the sound. The moss carpet made moving silently quite easy. He heard another splash and gurgle. The sound was surprisingly close, coming from the far side of a huge royal oak. He moved slowly now, breathing lightly and taking care not to make any noise.

[DM B]

The creature was small, about the size and build of a skinny boy in his mid teens. The nose was small with upturned nostrils, the ears elongated, a slanted forehead and the eyes large and without whites. Its skin looked pale, almost sickly. It wore loose fitting trousers made from some kind of rough, brownish fibers and a studded, sleeveless leather jerkin that had seen considerable use. Instead of boots it had animal hides wrapped and laced around its feet. The creature carried a short stabbing sword tucked in a leather waistband. The blade looked cheap and crude compared to the weapons Moergan was used to. A sturdy spear leaned on a fifty foot oak, not one handspan away from its owner. It too looked crude, but very functional. The creature was standing beside a small pond, drawing water from it and drinking from wooden cup.

[DM B]

'It’s not human. A goblin. Surely it is a goblin. By Haelyn, what is it doing here? There are not supposed to be any goblins on this side of the river. Sarimie’s curse on that fool sergeant. The Captain was right all along'. While Moergan had never actually seen a goblin before, he knew of them by hearsay. Every boy in Anuire did. Goblins figured widely in the ballads and sagas as servants of evil. They had been Azrai’s creatures from the start. The Book of Laws clearly stated that they were evil by blood even before the War against Shadow. Every half-wit Anuirean knew that they were enemies of the land and must be killed or driven of lest they corrupt it by their mere presence. But goblins of legend were much larger and more menacing. Not small and puny like this one, but fierce and brutal warriors. Besides, goblins were supposed to have the senses of wild beasts. It should have detected him long ago if the stories were to be trusted. 'A trap perhaps?'

[DM B]

The wooden cup struck him squarely in the chest. He was thrown off balance by the sudden impact. He had barely regained his balance before the goblin came at him, spear in hand, growling. The first spear thrust slipped past his shaky guard and hit the left side of his belly. The glancing blow was mostly tuned by his brigandine jerkin, but still hurt quite a bit. The goblin was surprisingly strong for its size and momentum from its little ‘charge’ gave extra power. The next two thrusts went a lot better, and he managed to meet the spearhead firmly and turn it aside with his sword. 'There are two basic methods for defeating an opponent armed with a spear or polearm. You either attack his weapon just short of the head until it snaps, effectively leaving you opponent unarmed, or you move aggressively forward to get inside his weapon’s reach. You must never just stand ground, as his superior reach will allow him to repeatedly attack you without exposing himself.' The words of the armsmaster suddenly rang clearly in his head. The goblin got ready for another attack, but this time Moergan was ready, deftly slipping forward while meeting the spearhead with his own blade, and forcing it up down and to the side. Then he was suddenly past the creature’s guard. It howled in surprise, and then quickly swung with the butt of his spear. Moergan had not expected this much ingenuity from a goblin; a spear was intended for thrusting, not for clubbing. The spear hit the side of his head and he felt pain and nausea paralyze his body. 'Never, ever remove your helmet, however tired you are. It is the single most vulnerable area on your body. Even a glancing blow can leave you stunned and open to a follow-up attack! No, the armsmaster wasn’t going to be pleased.' Moergan fought to remain standing, fought to keep his balance, fought to keep conscious.

[DM B]

Moergan’s opponent tried backing up to give itself some more room, but he somehow managed to stumble forward and keep inside its reach. The goblin growled again, a low throaty sound much like a dog’s snarl. It dropped the spear and snatched it’s sword from the belt. Moergan’s limbs felt like lead, he could only watch as the goblin grabbed his jerkin and made ready to drive his blade through and end the fight. 'Cuiraécen, give me strength.' He somehow managed to strike out with his left fist. It connected with a satisfying crunch. The goblin let go of his armor and the sword-thrust went wild. Moergan swung his own weapon at the goblin, the spell of dizziness all but gone. Steel blades rang together again and again. 'And it is when you face the creatures of Evil that you shall truly know the might of our Lord. For He is ever with you and He extends His blessings to men of true courage in their hour of need. All praise to Haelyn.' The words of his father’s household priest rang in his mind. The citation was something of a favorite of his, one that he was repeating over and over again. He had always seemed a silly old man, but Moergan had a sudden moment realization – perhaps the Book of Laws and the priest hadn’t been so silly after all. Perhaps it had only been his own lack of experience that prevented him from understanding the true meaning of those words. Given the present situation, however, he now understood pretty well. It was moments like these, when you were locked in mortal combat with the servants of evil, your faith was really tested. And if you stayed true and kept your courage, then Haelyn would grant you victory.

[DM B]

The goblin was not the most accomplished swordsman Moergan had fought. It did not seem to adhere to any known drill, at least not one which Moergan was familiar with. It just kept up a steady barrage of swift slashes and sudden thrusts. Only his superior reach allowed him to keep the dancing blade away. He made a few attacks of his own but the goblin had no problem dodging his wild swings. 'I, Moergan Shaeme, Noble born, is having my ass kicked by this pathetic excuse of a warrior. I will be the laughing stock of the family when words of my defeat reach them.' It became very clear to him that he was not winning this fight, not even with the image of Haelyn in his mind. Moergan felt no fear, only a cold realization that he was probably going to die here at the hands of this unworthy creature. He was already panting from the effort and keeping the goblin at bay was getting more difficult. Perhaps the old armsmaster was right; maybe he was in poor shape. The fight had lasted only a few minutes and already he was heaving for air. Back on his father’s estate he could outrun and outfight every boy of equal age. But then again, the north was nothing like home. 'Breathe. Breathe you idiot. If you are going down let it be by the blade, and not from fainting.'

[DM B]

It was blind luck that saved him. The goblin’s sword had looked to be in poor condition to start with, made more from iron than steel. Repeated blows form his heavy blade must have weakened the metal. By rights it should have gone straight through his armor, gutted him good and that would have been the end of it. Instead the brittle steel snapped clean off just inches above the guard. The thrust still held enough power to drive the point between the metal scales of his amour. But instead of piercing his bowels the tip twisted and embedded itself in the fleshy part of his hip. It hurt like hell but he managed a backswing of sorts. The blow hit the goblin in the shoulder area. It did not bite as deep as he would have liked, but the goblin screamed and its shortsword fell from limp fingers. He tried for a follow up to the head, but his left leg gave away and he nearly fell. 'If it tries to run it will get away, there is naught to do about that.' But the goblin did not run, instead it snatched Moergan’s dagger from his belt using its good hand. Still off balance and unable to follow up his attack, Moergan stumbled backwards. The goblin came at him snarling. It must have realized that it was outmatched; a dagger is not a weapon to fight swords with. Yet it did not lack in determination. It came in low, but this time Moergan stuck to the drill. Thrust-parry-slash. The blade caught the goblin across the jaw. This time the blade bit deep, shearing flesh and crushing bone. The goblin went limp and sagged to the ground. With one deft slash he cut its throat to make sure it remained down.

[DM B]

“All praise to Haelyn.” His shout echoed through the woods. ‘It seems Haelyn favors those who help themselves. I should have known better than to somehow expect the goblin to roll over and die just because I had a leap of faith.’ He bent down to retrieve his dagger. 'I better get back and warn the others, there are probably other goblins nearby.' He suddenly felt very dizzy, swayed and almost fell. He felt weary to the bone; his entire body throbbed with the pain of his wounds and his lungs burned as if on fire. 'Cuiarécen did indeed offer me strength and now it is withdrawn.' It was common knowledge among warriors that the God of Battle gave men strength to fight on when they were weary. After the fighting stilled this strength was withdrawn, leaving the recipient weak and shivering. ‘I must rest for a while. And have a drink of water - if the goblin did not pollute the pond.’ Moergan limped past the cooling corpse and over to the pond. As he bent down to drink, his legs gave away and he fell forward into the water. The cold water revived him and he scrambled out. “Kriesha take the cold” he muttered. It had gotten quite dark while he was fighting, too dark to actually see the now red waters of the pool. He bent down again, carefully this time, and drank from the pond. It tasted of blood. 'My blood.' I must have taken more damage than I realized. He bent to examine his thigh. The goblin’s sword point was still embedded in his flesh. That was good, or so said the field surgeon. As long as the point stayed put he would not loose too much blood. ‘I better get back. Just one more drink of water and then I’ll rest for a little while...’

[DM B]

“Khaiarén, Khaiarén”. People shouting. ‘Why are they shouting? Is the Baron lost in the woods?’

“Khaiarén, Khaiarén”. The voices were getting closer. Men with torches and drawn swords. ‘Probably after the goblins. That is what we need, more goblin scouts.’

“Over here, I’ve found him” a voice called out. ‘Wilfred, my friend.’ The men with the torches were closing in on him. ‘This goblin is already dead, you better look for his friends though.’ Moergan tried to speak again, but the words did not reach his lips. “You are hurt my friend, let my have a look”. Wilfred bent down to examine him. “Hey sarge, Moergan’s hurt bad” Wilfred called to the man next to him. “Hurt himself has he? Serves him well for deserting on us. Hey Moergan, I’ll see you hang for this. Get him on his feet, we’re moving out”. Moergan tried to protest, but his voice seemed to have left him. ‘Deserting? Not me, I went to kill me some goblins.’ The sergeant moved away, southing orders for the search party to gather around him. “Aye sarge, will do” answered traitor Wilfred. ‘Do you not realize what had happened here? Can you not see the goblin?’ Moergan wanted to scream at them. “This might hurt a bit Moergan; I’m goanna pull out the blade and then close the wound. Keep still or you’ll hurt yourself even more”. He steeled himself, but as soon as Wilfred touched the wound he could do nothing but scream and twitch. His leg was on fire, could they not see that? Fools all of them. The goblins were going to burn them all. “Stannis, Erik, hold him down while I remove it, will you. Garred, run to the sarge and tell him that Moergan didn’t hurt himself, that creature did”. Good man Wilfred, a man of the Blood even if Bastard born. “Now, let’s get this over with shall we”. Strong hands griped him and held him down. Then there was fire and pain until the darkness claimed him.