SONG OF POWER

Chapter I: Cyen

SONG OF POWER

CHAPTER I:  CYEN

The goblin stopped and knelt behind an old stump to light a rag it had plugged into a flask of rotgut, its black heart pounding in his chest.  Once the rag had caught, the creature peeped over the top of the stump.  He could see the low palisade that helped to protect the human settlement from the woodline, as if the trees that made up the wall stood as a warning to the trees still free further inland.  A human exposed himself from the waist up and fired off a quick shot from a crossbow that had seen one too many afternoons like this; the brittle quarrel it fired splintered as its head was buried into the stump where the goblin was positioned.  This only gave the stinking creature cause to grin; it spun once and hurled the rotgut with all its strength.  The flask whooshed through the air and shattered against the palisade; flames erupted along the front of the wooden wall, preventing the crossbowman behind it from firing from cover.

“Vúr Brondre! Vúr Tark! Matrijs!” Bellowing in its guttural language, the goblin charged towards the human village.  In his right hand he held a wicked blade that was little more than a sharpened hunk of copper inserted into a luckless squirrel and bound there so as to make a handle.  In its off-hand the goblin clutched the candle it had used to light the flask.  The man with the old crossbow stumbled out from behind the flaming palisade, fumbling to draw his long knife.  As he yanked the blade free the goblin was upon him; first it threw the candle at the man’s face, causing him to react by defending.  As the man’s free hand came up to deflect the waxen missile, the goblin suddenly shifted direction, darting to the man’s exposed side and scoring a vicious gash in the man’s unprotected torso.  Red blood sprayed the goblin, speckling its yellow teeth as it grinned gleefully.  The crossbowman fell to a knee, and the goblin finished the job by bringing its hefty blade down across the back of the man’s neck, nearly severing his head.  The goblin cackled in triumph.

“NO!” yelled another human from behind the palisade, barely a man of sixteen summers, who fired a crossbow of his own at the gory goblin.  His shot struck the goblin in the rump, causing its triumphant cackle to become a comical yelp of pain.  The youth, who stood head and shoulders over the stocky goblin, grappled the hideous humanoid.  The two tumbled about on the ground for a moment, each clawing and throwing elbows and trying to gain an advantage.  Finally the human was able to use the goblin’s momentum against it, whipping the evil creature face-first into the side of the burning palisade.  Stunned, the goblin stood dumbly for a moment, allowing the human to clutch it by the scruff of the neck and the crossbow bolt he’d misfired into its rear.  Spinning the goblin by these handles, he was able to bring it around and run it headlong into the flaming front of the palisade once more.  The stink of burning goblin (somehow less offensive than the stink of non-burning goblin) filled the air.  The youth picked up his fallen friend’s old crossbow and held it like a club.  The goblin it tried frantically to back away from the fiery wall, but the human shattered the old crossbow across its shoulder blades with a crushing blow, sending it stumbling into the fire for a third time.  This final strike was too much, causing the goblin to lose consciousness and slump, burning, against the wall.

“Etre?  Etre, please, don’t be dead!  It’s me, Cipher! Do not die!” the youth demanded of the older man’s mostly headless corpse; a futile gesture and he knew it, but so overwhelmed by grief he was that he did not care.  Cipher reached down and claimed Etre’s long knife, a blade forged by masterful dragonen blacksmiths who dwelt in the wards of Draketon that were entirely governed by the dragon-men.  Working quickly, the youth unbuckled Etre’s boot-sheath and equipped it, securing the knife to his heavy right boot.  Etre’s antique crossbow lay in ruins near the smoldering goblin corpse, so the youth left the equally old quarrels in their quiver on Etre’s back.  His own crossbow forgotten behind the smoldering palisade, he stood solemnly over his fallen friend and mentor.  Tears trundled unchecked down his face, and Cipher’s voice was sorrow incarnate, such that a nearby squirrel, taking refuge from the battle in a holly-bush, wept at his words.