Tenebroum Ch. 26-27 (Patreon)

Ch. 26 - A World On Fire

The goblins tore through the soft underbelly of the county of Greshen for the next few weeks on their relentless journey to Fallravea. Wherever they went, smoke followed in their wake. Krulm’venor made sure of that much. He was overflowing with power now, even if he bristled at the idea of serving anyone, and made sure to point that out to the lich in every conversation they had.

“But I am the stone burner,” the godling would say whenever the Lich ordered it to do something that it considered to be beneath it. “The world once trembled before me!”

“And it will again,” the Lich agreed, “but only if you do as you are told.”

Some villages offered token resistance, but most of the people had long since fled, and only the most foolish of heroes attempted to stop the endless tide.

None of them survived their own foolhardiness, and even after countless smaller battles and skirmishes, the goblins finally reached the capital with just under two thousand warriors baying for blood spread across ten war bands.

The last few months had seen their numbers reduced by almost a third, and they had come so far from the red hills that the swamp doubted very much that they could ever hope to find their way home without its help.

Very few of them would make the return trip, though. They were here for two things: to kill and to die. Not just so the lich and Krulm’venor could feast on the carnage, either. The sheer amount of deaths involved in this impromptu war were terribly effective at poisoning the land so that the lich could claim it as his own. Nothing pushed out the competing spirits faster than the unnatural darkness that suffering provided, and even though the darkness had lost much of the territory it had gained on and near the Oroza, almost all the lands between the red hills and the swamp belonged to it now.

Even normally troublesome places, like temples, and concentrated grounds had been burned and desecrated to the extent that they belonged to it now too.

Now, though, the goblins weren’t just devouring backwaters that no one had ever heard of. They nipped and probed around the borders of Fallravea - the capital itself, and were thirsting for the battle to come. The Lich had no intention of letting them sack the place, though, no matter how much they might want to. Goblins were useful for many things, but building cities and mining for gold were not among their talents. For that it would need men, specifically, it’s man, Kelvun Garvin, who was now second in line to the throne.

This hadn’t been the swamp’s original plan. It had intended to kill the boy’s older brothers with poison and disease, letting his father watch his entire family tree wither to nothing before it struck down the old fool. Bloodshed was quicker, though, and the timing was convenient. This army would only exist until the darkness found Theon, and then after that it didn’t care what happened to it, as long as its ending was as bloody as possible.

Fallravea was a city that had been growing for the better part of a century. At its core was a building of stone, more palace than fortress. Since it hadn’t suffered an attack of any kind in decades, many of its defensive features had slowly been supplanted with more decorative ones. Around that was the old city, which was protected by a wall of earth and brick. The bulk of the city lay beyond that ring, though, following the river until it slowly faded out into farmlands.

It was the last part that the goblins assaulted, killing and burning as they went. They had no scaling ladders, nor any real desire to be out in the open long enough to be shot by crossbowmen, so they stuck to the narrow alleys, and the streets farthest from the watch towers.

Near the water front, few victims remained, since almost everyone had evacuated for the crowded city center. But each day, the small army they had still sallied forth from the gate to try to hunt down the menace that was destroying their city. They met with very little success, because the goblins along with their violence evaporated until darkness fell once more.

In order to appear less impotent, Theon Garvin finally led a nighttime raid to try to push back against the threat. That was the moment that the darkness had been waiting for.

He wasn’t half the warrior that his father or older brother had been, but he went out with almost fifty knights anyway, thinking that if they stuck close to the walls they would be safe enough. They were wrong.

No sooner had the gates closed behind them, then goblins boiled out of the surrounding buildings and the sewer line. In the space of less than a minute, they’d gone from empty streets to almost a thousand gibbering warriors. It was a complete bloodbath, on both sides, but the darkness didn’t care.

Arrows fell from the walls like rain, killing or maiming a dozen of its servants every second, but that only served to heighten the moment while the doomed warriors fought to the last man.

The sheer amount of death made the scene glow to the eyes of the lich. It had a terrible beauty to it as the souls evaporated, and the gutters overflowed with blood.

Even unhorsed a knight in armor was more than a match for twenty goblin warriors, but he was no match for a single goblin shaman, and human warriors fell almost as quickly as their goblin counterparts as the darkness threw away its pawns in a frenzy of killing and death.

Part way through the battle, reinforcements tried to come out of the posturn gate in an attempt to save the young lord Garvin, but that only resulted in a small flood of frenzied goblin warriors making their way inside city walls before they could shut the gate again. Only four dozen made it inside, but it was enough to terrify the defenders, and for a time the archers turned to focus on their own problems.

That was the turning point.

After that, the shamans had nothing to fear and blazed a path through the last of the humans. By the time they were finished with the little lordling, no one would even be able to recognize his body.

. . .

It wasn’t until almost a week later that Kelvun landed on what remained of the docks to survey the burned out water front. He’d known what was happening even before news had reached him at the landing thanks to the relentless dreams of fire and blood that started the night Fallravea had been assaulted.

With the small amount of soldiers he had, he doubted there was much he could do, but even so, the dreams demanded that he return home to turn the tide. Most mornings he awoke to the image of him standing victoriously atop a pile of the dead. Even that hadn’t been enough to sway him as he’d made preparations to depart. Not until one morning, his older brother Theo lay atop that pile.

That spurred Kelvun into action. All he had to do was go and rescue his father, and the Lordship would practically be his.

The journey north took several days, and at each village and landing along the way Kelvun stopped to gather more men. In the process, he had no promise an irresponsible amount of silver, but he was sure that his father was good for it.

So over the last few days his two barges were joined by a small armada of fishing ships and other small boats full of men that weren’t quite eager to join the fight, but probably wouldn’t retreat in a panic as long as they were winning.

Kelvun had no doubt that he would win, thanks to the swamp’s protection, and as long as he was confident, no one had any reason to doubt that Kelvun “goblins bane” Garvin would once again be victorious.

“Today we fight not just for the Count, but for all our futures,” Kelvun said, trying to sound inspirational. “If we fail today, then the whole of the west bank of the Oroza will be lost to the good people who have cultivated them for who knows how long. We cannot let that happen!”

There were a few ragged cheers that went up at that, but by and large the men were not impressed. Most of them people he’d gathered lived on the east bank, and knew the goblins were unlikely to learn to build boats for some time. They were here for the money and the fame, in pursuit of what they saw as an easy victory.

As the sun began to set, Kelvun and his nearly 300 volunteers and mercenaries began their long walk through the ruins of the commercial district toward the gates of the old city.

. . .

The lich watched the progress of his servant and his ragtag army with dark amusement. It was shabbier than either of the ones his brothers had stood at the head of, and yet somehow it was going to be victorious where those better men had failed.

The goblins watched them too, waiting for the right moment to pounce and rip them to pieces, but the darkness was unconcerned. It was focused instead on Krulm’venor. The godling knew the plan, but the lich found it very unlikely that it would follow it, and everything hinged on that obedience. Without the shamans there to slaughter the armored humans, the rest of them would quickly retreat under the withering barrage of arrows.

The lich watch warily as the fight was finally joined in the main square, and far enough from the towers to avoid the worst of the arrows. At first, Kelvun’s army acquitted itself quite well. Then the fire started, flaring out from burned out market stalls in several places along the east side of their formation in an effort to break it.

It almost succeeded, too, the darkness noted as it turned its gaze away from the battle and towards its servant.

“I warned you, Krulm’venor,” the darkness intoned icily. “I warned you of what would happen if you disobeyed me.”

“What can you do?” the dwarven demi god blasted back in a shower of sparks. “I am Krulm’venor! I am free of your cage and more powerful than ever.”

“It’s true,” the swamp agreed, hiding its annoyance while it toyed with the fire god, distracting it from the battle at hand. “You haven’t been more powerful in a long time, thanks to me. You should respect that.”

“Respect? From the thing that put me in a cage? Nay!” the fire sputtered. “Once I’ve finished turning this city to ashes, I will take this army for my own and then march it here and burn you and all your corpses until they’re naught but dust, and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

“Nothing?” the darkness asked, it’s words full of venom. “Be careful what you say to the one who holds your heart in their hand.”

“My heart! I will—” Krulm’venor screamed silently then, as the darkness had one of its minions close the door on the brass lantern that contained the true spirit of Krulm’venor. It had been left open for so long that the petty fire god had forgotten the significance of it, if it had ever understood it in the first place.

In a very real sense the pathetic spark at the center of that bauble was the godling, and when the door was shut once more it cut him off from the whole world, instantly snuffing the thousand fires that he had started. The shamans that had most fully embraced him, likewise, fell over stunned or dead.

It was like Krulm’venor had been ripped away from the world, which, in a very real sense, he had been. He still existed, and would perhaps be of some use to the swamp in the future, but only after he’d learned a bit more obedience.

Ch. 27 - Slaughter

For a moment, all was lost. They’d fought their way to the gates of the city walls without too much trouble, and then suddenly Kelvun and his sell swords were surrounded. One minute there were only a few goblins anywhere to be seen, and then at some unseen signal they boiled out of the burnt out buildings on all sides of the market square.

Even then, the Viscount still thought they had a pretty decent shot. They were only outnumbered four or five to one, which would have been a death sentence against a real army, but was pretty close to an even match when it came to these pests. At least that's what his men had told him. With this many goblins people would die, of course, but he was towards the center of the formation, so he should be fine.

That’s when the fires started. Kelvun shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He’d seen them use magic at Holt just before he’d ridden that shaman down. Everyone knew the green skins had dark powers, he just didn’t expect them to be so, well, powerful. Out of nowhere, a wall of flame scorched everything on the east side of the marketplace, and men died by the score, and he was lucky to be just knocked off his feet by the blast.

At that moment he lost hope along with most of the men he’d led here. The dreams had promised him victory, but there would only be death here. There was no way they could face such terrible magics without spell casters of their own.

The rest of the goblins picked that moment to charge, and Kelvun almost ran for his life. It wasn’t appearances that stopped him, though. He’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero.

It was a moment of complete shock. For a few seconds the plaza had been as bright as day once more, and even after that, men and structures continued to burn, bathing the place in a flickering orange glow. Then, just as suddenly as the fires had appeared, they vanished. Not just the ones that the shamans were casting, either, but the ones that had been left behind. In a single second, every last fire was snuffed out, and the moment of pure terror was replaced by a strange calm as both humans and goblins looked around for a moment, wondering what had happened.

The assault that had almost broken the back of his men dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, and Kelvun rose shakily to his feet, grateful that very little of the blood that he was covered in was his as the fight roared to life once more around him. The first thing he did, was to stab an already dead goblin not once, but twice. It wasn’t rage that this thing had almost killed him, or even vengeance for the man that the thing had killed. Kelvun was more pragmatic than that.

Now that the fight was rejoined, the tide was already turning against the goblins, and even now they were starting to retreat on the west and south sides of the square now that those wretched shamans had stopped casting their terrible magics, and in another minute or two there might not be any goblins left to fight. So, Kelvun needed some green blood on his blade before anyone looked around and noticed how little fighting he’d done himself.

The moment that he’d cowered for his life as the gouts of flame all but consumed him wouldn’t be remembered by anyone. Not anyone that mattered, anyway. They would remember only that he had taken the field and beaten back the green menace. The bards that he would pay would make sure of that.

Kelvun looked around, and spotted a group of goblins that were already starting to flee before the scything blows of a pair of hardened mercenaries, and shouted, “to me! Let’s beat the bastards back!” as he charged towards the retreating enemy. He made a good show of it, but never once got close to the goblins. He repeated this several times, never reaching a group of goblins before they’d fled or been felled.

In the dark of night, the sudden absence of fires made it hard to see what was happening at all times, but he was fairly certain they either were winning, or had already won. All that remained was to find out the butchers bill.

That’s what he was thinking about when a sudden blow from out of nowhere hit him on his blindside and sent him sprawling. Kelvun managed to hold on to his sword, and scampered to his feet, only to see the biggest goblin he’d ever seen ripping out the throat of a warrior with his teeth.

Most of the goblins of this fight stood between three and four feet tall. This one was a little under five feet tall, and across its dark green skin were a web of scars and muscles that covered it like an evil spider web.

For a second, all Kelvun could do was stand there with his sword outstretched, but then the thing turned and locked it’s glowing red eyes on him, he did manage to piss himself as he stood there in utter terror. It jumped off of the dying man and charged at Kelvun, and suddenly he was filled with the certainty that he was going to die. The battle might be won, but this thing could still kill him before he could enjoy the fruits of his hard work.

Then suddenly, the thing just froze.

Less than a foot from Kelvun it simply stopped walking. Instead, it stood there, with straining muscles, but all it could do was snarl and snap. Kelvun was confused, but he wasn’t about to waste this miracle, and he ran the monster through.

Even with a sword in its chest, it took the goblin far too long to die, and in its death throes it did more than a little damage to Kelvun’s armor as he bore it to the ground and pinned it to the cobblestones with his blade. By the time it stopped squirming, and he looked up, it was all but over. A ragged force was riding out of the city, and the tide had clearly turned against the green skins.

They were in full retreat.

The fact that they were running didn’t mean it was over. Not really.

It would be weeks before the stragglers were dead, and months before there was even a semblance of normalcy in the city. For Kelvun, all it meant was that he’d lived, even if he couldn’t stop shaking.

By the time the last of the visible goblins had been butchered, and the wounded men that might yet live were bandaged, it was pitch black out. The torches that had been distributed didn’t quite fix that problem. They just trapped Kelvun in his own little bubble of light as he walked with the last of his warriors to the gates of the city, and in that little bubble all he could see were dead goblins by the hundreds.

Just getting rid of this many corpses would be a serious undertaking, he thought, smiling, as he tried not to step on any of the grotesque bodies scattered in front of him like a green carpet. If they’d been closer to the swamp, Kelvun had a feeling that most of them would disappear in the middle of the night to serve some unspeakable purpose, but as it was, it would take weeks just dig the graves big enough to bury all of them and let them rot.

That wouldn’t be Kelvun’s problem, though. He’d never dug ditches in his life, but even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t now that he was the heir.

In spite of all the terrible carnage that surrounded him, that thought buoyed him. He was not only the savior of Fallravea, but also the heir to his father’s title. Those thoughts made it hard for him to pretend to be somber and serious as he slowly made his through the throngs of battered warriors and well-wishers to the palace. All he would have to do was wait until the old man keeled over, and then he’d finally have it all. The title. The money. The power. Everything.

Did he really have to wait, though? He asked himself as he climbed the familiar steps to his home. His father was growing old and feeble, and was drunk half the time anyway. A sudden fall down the stairs, a touch of poison, or even a pillow over his face while he slept.

Any of those would be better than waiting, he realized as he walked into his home, ignoring the servants as he focused on more weighty matters. Kelvun realized he could easily hire a professional to handle this once everything had settled down. That came with its own drawbacks, of course, but none of those would be the reason he didn’t have someone else do his dirty work for him.

No, Kevlun wanted to do it himself. He wouldn’t say he had a taste for killing. On the battlefield in terrified him, and off of it, it was only a middling thrill that couldn’t hold a candle to girls or winning at dice.

Killing his father though. That would be something. He’d thought about it before, of course, but deemed it too risky. Here though - now, in the aftermath of these terrible battles while the city was still smoldering, who would know? Kelvun could blame literally anything. The suffering of Lord Garvin’s people, the death of his second son, or even just the will of the gods. Who would question any of those things on tonight of all nights?

“Right this way sir, if you could come with me,” one of the manservants said, trying to grab Kelvun by the elbow, but the boy shook him off.

“I will visit my father when I’ve taken care of other matters, Marcus,” Kelvun snapped, annoyed to be disturbed in his moment of triumph. He still reeked of piss and would not visit his father to hear his congratulations or to murder the man until he was clean and presentable.

“But, I… He—” Kelvun stormed off, leaving the servant sputtering in his wake while he went to his room to clean up and change.

“Wearing blood spattered armor and stained trousers was not the way to handle such an important moment in your life,” he muttered to himself as he shed his garments and used the wash basin to clean up.

Once that was done, Kelvun returned to the hall, and strode confidently down it while he tried to hold a resolved expression that would effectively cover the joy that was swelling in his heart that he was so close to true victory.

The servants, likewise, looked at him with respectful and somber expressions as he made his way to his father’s rooms. Some even had tears of joy in their eyes as they looked at him, and he nodded to each of them in turn, giving them the dignified response that he imagined a Lord would.

Since very soon he would be, not just a Lord, but The Lord. All those thoughts and plans came to a sudden stop, though, when he opened up the door to his father's bedroom to find him surrounded by graybeards and other lords.

For a moment, Kelvun thought that the man had summoned the leading luminaries of the city to praise him very publicly. It took a few seconds for him to realize that many of these men were doctors and priests.

Which meant his father was dead already.

Kelvun shook his head and lowered his face to hide his tears. They weren’t tears of sadness, though, but of frustration. He’d wanted to be the one to deliver the blow, but someone, either the gods or his patron, had stolen that opportunity from him.

Kelvun should have been thrilled. He was finally Count Garvin, and ruled over the whole region. He wasn’t though. On the day of his greatest triumph, everything tasted like ashes.