The Goblin's Heir, Chapter One

“Move faster, you street mice! Is that supposed to be a parry? How’s the King supposed to sleep at night if you ladies can barely swing a sword?”

Eldroned paused for breath and looked over his charges with a critical eye. Inexperienced boys tripping over their own feet—this month’s troop of twelve-year-olds sent to the King’s barracks to train under the Captain of the Guard. Eldroned darkly surmised that he could be spending his time more productively by drilling the army regiments, but the warriors didn’t take well to a twenty-year-old strutting around giving them orders and Makakzha was tired of the infirmary being full of Eldroned’s example of keeping control.

It was rare for someone younger than thirty to be the Captain of the Guard, but Makakzha knew Eldroned could handle a sword better than any soldier in the city. Twenty years of living with the four best warriors in the country—the King and the King’s three best friends—had made him nearly as skilled as they were and twice as agile. Anyone facing down somebody even half as good as any of them would be more than a little nervous.

But he didn’t have time to prove that to the armies of Naranon, and they wouldn’t believe mere words. The Castle Guard itself was different; they were too seasoned and knew him too well to challenge him. That was his main occupation—keeping the city in order at the head of the Guard—but in his free time he babysat the new recruits.

Usually boys came to the barracks at thirteen. But there was an uneasy truce between Naranon and their sworn enemy, Galamathon, which gave Eldroned room to put more time into training younger boys. Much as he scorned the task.

Well, to be fair, they would shape up in a year or so and become valuable for the city’s defense. But right now, they barely knew how to hold their swords correctly.

Eldroned heaved a self-pitying sigh and walked forward to the youngest of the recruits. Poor colt. Barely had control of his long limbs, much less an instrument made to kill a man.

“Look, Athred. Hold it here. It’s not a club, all right? You don’t batter with it. And it’s not a double edge; it’s only sharp on one side. See? Fighting styles change with different weapons.”

Athred’s huge dark eyes stared up into his. “You’re the King’s cousin.”

“Last time I checked.”

“Is he as ugly as they say?”

“Why?”

“I just want to know what he’s like.”

Eldroned grinned. “Uglier than a toad and cunning as a fox. But he’s a good king. One of the best Naranon’s ever had. You’d be a fool to doubt how much he cares for the people.” He heard his voice getting defensive, and looked down. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that the Naranonians hated their King. He shook his hair out of his eyes and met Athred’s gaze. “Is that all?”

The boy tipped his dark head to the side and looked steadily into Eldroned’s eyes. “Is Galamathon going to massacre us?”

“I’m insulted,” Eldroned snorted. “You really think they have a chance against us?”

“The Lieutenant says that Galamathon is run by a vixen.”

“That’s true,” Eldroned grinned. “But Naranon is run by wolves.”

“Eldroned!”

Eldroned turned around to see a tall woman standing in the doorway, watching him. She jerked her head impatiently.

“And that,” Eldroned muttered to Athred, “is our Alpha Female."

He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later, my lad. Keep trying to hit the other boys.”

Athred grabbed his sleeve. “You’re one of the wolves too.”

Eldroned grinned at him and joined the woman, who was still standing by the door. She turned and headed out of the barracks back toward the main part of the castle.

“Wolves, eh?” she said, darting him a glance. “Wolves who like to run with their tails between their legs. Away from vixens.”

“Don’t dare ruin their confidence, Maskiria,” Eldroned muttered. “It’s good to see someone with hope in this city, even if what they believe is lies.”

Maskiria nodded.  Though she spoke with biting practicality, Eldroned knew she understood.

“Well,” she said, “the vixen is coming to negotiate with the wolves in a matter of hours.”

*

King Makakzha’s appearance was so frightfully startling that even his own friends jumped when he entered the room. But he cared little for how he looked—all he wanted was someone to conquer. The Queen of Galamathon—or more commonly known as the Vixen of Galamathon—would do very well.

Eldroned came quickly into the throne room with Maskiria, drawing his coat around his shoulders. The King turned around to cast a shrewd eye over his cousin.

Makakzha was of medium height, with powerful shoulders and a great bony head that topped his shoulders like an anvil. A long mane of shaggy, streaked hair hung down to his back and two dark fangs gleamed from his mouth as he grinned. Not many countries had a half-goblin for their King.

He had been born two years after Eldroned, but the goblin race grew at an unbelievably fast pace until they were physically about thirty before slowing to grow normally for the rest of their lives. Makakzha said it was a natural defense mechanism so the goblins wouldn’t have to wait long for their younglings to join their armies, but it was hard for Eldroned to grasp sometimes that he was two years older than a cousin who appeared ten years older than himself.

“There’s the Captain of the Guard,” he grated, his voice like a mouthful of rocks gnashing through his fangs. “Back from teaching children to walk in a straight line. You look tired.”

Eldroned gave him a sneer and stepped over Maskiria’s dog to drop into his chair. “It wasn’t my idea. I was happy with the regiments.”

“Well, the regiments weren’t happy with you,” Makakzha replied, turning away.

“They just couldn’t adjust to me,” Eldroned said, examining his nails. “Where are Medri’ekko and Rasdidan?”

“Coming,” Maskiria said brusquely. “They were riding with the patrols.”

Maskiria’s dog, Bones, got stiffly to his feet and padded over to Eldroned, nudging at his hand. Eldroned rubbed the old dog’s head absently. Bones. The only living thing in the palace that stayed the same.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the doors swung open. A tall man and a small, slender woman stepped into the room, bringing the chill of the wind in with them. Medri’ekko and Rasdidan—two of the most cunning, perilous bastards in Naranon.

Maskiria and Medri’ekko and Rasdidan had been born roughly around the same time in the kitchens, children of scullery maids and street thieves.  When they were still very young, Eldroned’s father, Sadifar, had taken them into his care and raised them like his own children. That had been nearly thirty years ago, when Sadifar had still been alive and the goblins hadn’t been a menace. Before they started setting traps for Naranonian princesses.

“I don’t see why we had to come in from the ranges,” Rasdidan said irritably, swinging her long legs up onto a couch. “We all know you and the Vixen aren’t going to decide anything.”

Makakzha grinned. “Maybe not. But I want to hear what she has to say. Medri’ekko, give me your report.”

Medri’ekko had taken his long broadsword from its scabbard and was rubbing it with an oily rag. He looked up, tossing his long hair out of his face. “Nothing. It’s quiet as a stone out there. Makes me uneasy.”

“The birds have gone south,” Rasdidan said. “But it’s early. The leaves haven’t even started to fall. That’s a sign of trouble.”

“We’ve been at war for sixteen years,” Eldroned said. “And the birds just now decide that it’s trouble?”

“Maybe it’s not about us and Galamathon,” Medri’ekko said. “Maybe something else is happening.”

“Well,” Rasdidan said, “maybe the Vixen can shine some light on the matter.”

“I’m not very easy about the girl who I’ve been at war with for seventeen years coming to my castle,” the King said methodically. “It makes my fangs prickle.”

“What, you think you won’t be able to resist trying to take a bite out of her?” Eldroned asked, and regretted it as the King’s eyes gleamed unpleasantly.

“He’s half-goblin,” Medri’ekko said. “He likes royal girls.”

“Or perhaps he fancies a fight with her General but isn’t too keen on losing,” Rasdidan said.

Makakzha just grinned and remained silent. It was a common fact that there wasn’t a man alive who dared fight the King of Naranon. Not even the steel-eyed General of Galamathon, however legendary he may be.

*

An hour later, the Queen had entered the city.

Standing in the archive, Eldroned raked his hair back from his face and watched the black carriage as it drew steadily closer on the cobblestone road, towards the city gates. Inside the city walls he could see the people running to crowd by the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Vixen.

“I see the dame draws nearer,” said Maskiria, behind him. “I wonder how long she plans to stay.”

Eldroned turned around. “She only wants peace.”

Maskiria nodded. “She’s always wanted peace.”

“Makakzha’s not very keen on giving out peace to anyone,” Eldroned muttered.

Maskiria came forward to the window. “It’s strange. I would think Makakzha would be the one wanting peace, and she wanting war.”

Eldroned shook his head. “Makakzha likes war. He doesn’t care about Galamathon’s good opinion.”

“He was the one who started the war,” Maskiria said. Eldroned glanced at her. Tall and straight, she stood in front of the window, her face hard. “You’re damn right he doesn’t care about Galamathon’s good opinion. The Vixen isn’t to blame for the war he started. She wasn’t even born when it began.”

“It was because of her the war started,” Eldroned said.

“No,” Maskiria said. “It was because Makakzha sent a filthy Naranonian spy to woo her mother to love him, got her with child, and then tried to murder her with an arrow through the head.”

“Seventeen years is a long time to be at war.”

“Seventeen years is a long time for a girl’s heart to rankle against the man who tried to kill her mother.”

Eldroned snorted. “Makakzha isn’t a man. That makes it worse.”

“Poor Queen,” Maskiria said, speaking of the Vixen’s mother. “She thought she’d found love in the mysterious Naranonian. Her own husband was older than her by thirty years. Then to have her lover turn on her and try to kill her? Nothing but a spy out for money. That man was a bastard,” she said suddenly, her lips curling above her teeth.

Heavy footsteps paused outside the door, and Eldroned turned to see Medri’ekko. “Is Makakzha going to let her in?”

“She’s coming,” Medri’ekko said, his voice harsh. “I came to find you. You need to be in the throne room.”

Eldroned nodded and headed for the door. Looking back, he saw Maskiria turn her head and give Medri’ekko a venomous look. No one in Naranon hated each other more than Maskiria and Medri’ekko did.

*

The throne room was completely silent.

The King sat in his carved throne, his twisted goblin body lounged across with a barely perceptible grace. Medri’ekko and Rasdidan sat on his right and left sides, sprawled like cats. Their dark eyes gleamed through their long hair.

Maskiria and Eldroned sat together on a lower level of the dais. They could be sitting beside Medri’ekko and Rasdidan, but Maskiria would rather be on a lower level than sit beside Medri’ekko. And Eldroned liked her better than Rasdidan, so they were demoted. Neither of them cared.

Time healed most things, but Medri’ekko and Maskiria’s vicious hate of each other could be traced back to before the war began. Or rather, Maskiria’s vicious hate of Medri’ekko. All that Eldroned knew about it was that Maskiria had been holding a grudge against Medri’ekko for years upon years and no man could be courteous to a woman who wanted to poison him every time she saw him.

It seemed that not a man or woman in Naranon knew what the source of the rivalry was but Eldroned knew that if stench of hate was that strong, it trailed from something ugly.

But not a word was said, not a sound echoed through the hall. Except for the soft swish of the Vixen’s skirt as she came closer toward them behind the double doors. They could all hear the heavy tread of her General beside her as well, and the clinking of her armored guards. Drawing closer.

There was a unsettling scrape as the King’s sharp, filthy nails scored long furrows in the arms of his chair.

The footsteps stopped outside the doors. The soldiers standing on either side opened them: revealing the flawless, two-edged blade that was the Vixen of Galamathon.

Nicknamed by cruel circumstance, the seventeen-year-old Queen Iswytha stood silent in front of the dais, her green eyes fixed upon the King.

She was nearly as tall as the goblin himself—slight and slender-faced, but there was a silent forte in her face that quelled any thought that she was weak. Her dark hair was pulled back away from her face and she wore a silver circlet around her head; her face was emotionless as she watched them. She wore a heavy, sleeveless black dress that flashed a silvery sheen when the sunlight hit it. Around the top of the dress was a dense band of black swan feathers; stark against her white shoulders. A heavy black band was fastened around her neck; the end falling past her waist to the ground, and her arms were encased in black leather gloves.

“My fair Queen of Galamathon.” Nobody but the King could have put so much insult, offense and sarcasm into such a conventionally courteous sentence.  “At last you grace my palace.”

“Greetings, High King Makakzha, Ruler of Naranon, heir of the Most High Goblinking Yhakan,” Iswytha said.

Eldroned grinned. No one dared to call Makakzha heir of Yhakan except her.

“I am glad you’ve accepted this temporary truce,” she continued. “I have come to try and make it permanent.”

“Name your terms, Majesty,” Makakzha said, politely through ground fangs.

As the Vixen began to speak, no one interrupted her. There was no sound in the room except for the Vixen’s detached voice, and hardly any movement. Maskiria and Rasdidan were actually listening, and Medri’ekko didn’t want to draw the General’s attention. Medri’ekko had a lot of enemies.

So Eldroned took his chance to get good look at the Galamathonians. Starting with the General.

Taller than the Queen by a head, General Nalament stood dominant as a silver lion, his eyes fixed upon the goblin. The tail of his long, silver hair hung over his shoulder, an arresting contrast to the bronzed skin of his face. Some called him a walking legend, the strongest man in Galamathon.

He’s quite an undesirable enemy, Maskiria had said once. Medri’ekko hates it when he comes here.

Why? Eldroned had asked wearily. It was hard to keep up with Medri’ekko’s various grudges and disputes.

Maskiria had examined her nails in silence before replying, her dark face savage. Because Medri’ekko belongs in hell.

A handsome bastard, the General was. Born with hair silver as the moon. Lean and muscular, always prevailing. No one was more jealous for the Queen, and no one loved her more.

He remembered another conversation between him and Maskiria. He thought back to it, grinning. Maskiria knew everything.

Her General staked his claim almost as soon as she was born.

But Nalament’s thirty-five and getting older. Eighteen years is a long gap between them.

He’s a good-looking man. She couldn’t do much better. And the tradition in Galamathon is that girls marry men much older than themselves because of how the military works. It wouldn’t be strange for them to make a match of it.

He’s just out for the throne.

No. Look at the way he watches her sometime, Eldroned. He’d die for her.

Eldroned kept watching the General, thinking over the conversation. If the Vixen married the General, Galamathon would have a worthy King. Iswytha was a good Queen, but Galamathon was too strong a city for just one girl. Galamathon needed a King.

Nalament was a good man. Hard and cold as steel, but hot as a burning coal for his kingdom and his Queen.

*

“The south half of the river, where it meets the mountains,” Makakzha said. “In return for this, we shall have peace and trade once more.”

Iswytha stared back at him with hooded eyes. “No indeed, lord goblin, for I fought the frost-giants for that land and I intend to keep it.”

“And before the frost-giants had it, it belonged to Naranon,” Makakzha said. “I want it back, little queen. That is the only way we shall have peace.”

“And also the most illogical and unfounded one,” Iswytha said. “You waste my time, Makakzha.”

“You’re a little girl,” Makakzha said, examining his claws. “Your mother knew how to bargain better than you do, even if she was a fox.”

Iswytha stared into the Goblinking’s eyes, hideous in their unconcealed mockery of her. The Fox. The title that the Naranonians had branded her mother with. Now she herself had been labeled the Vixen. Cruel and contemptuous and satirical, the Naranonians always had been.

He had rejected every single offer she had made of peace. They hadn’t been unreasonable offers. Did he enjoy the violence and expense of war? Or did he really want to demolish her?

“Do you want peace at all, lord goblin?” she asked, her voice echoing across the cold flagstones. For once her emotionless facade vanished, and her voice rang out heatedly. “Or do you love war?”

Makakzha leaned forward in one swift move. Goblin as he was, he was deft as a cat. “Your mother started this war, my fair lady. You can’t end it now because you’re tired of it. Because I’m angry now, little one. I never wanted this war, but your mother started it and I won’t let you end it until you’ve paid. Your mother was volatile, foolish, and brazen, and you’re turning out the same way.”

“My mother,” Iswytha bit out, “would never have started the war if not for your spy, seventeen years ago, lying and sneaking around like a snake—” Makakzha tried to interrupt but she continued, louder—“charming my mother to love him and then aiming a crossbow at her head when she was trying to stop him from escaping back to his overseer. That is why the war started, Makakzha. Because of your folly.”

Makakzha snarled, his fangs gleaming as he bared them. “That spy had his own strategy, Iswytha. And how would you know the truth? You just know what you’ve been told by your nursemaids.”

“At least one thing I know,” Iswytha replied. “I hope to gods that my father was the King of Galamathon, who died saving my mother, and not that bloody bastard of a spy. Because if he ever shows his face in Galamathon again, I’ll send him back to you with his tongue down his throat.”

Makakzha raised his eyebrows. “I’ll pass that on to him.”

“Thank you,” Iswytha said serenely, and left the throne room with her guards at her back.

But the General stayed, standing in front of the dais, watching the King. “You know she means every word of the threat, Makakzha,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but there was a current of sharp steel running through it. “And I will be the one to carry it out.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Makakzha said, watching him with glittering eyes.

Nalament turned and left the room. As soon as the sound of the Galamathonians faded into silence, Maskiria stood up and headed for the hallway.

“Maskiria,” Makakzha said, his voice cuttingly unruffled. “You don’t have anything to say?”

Maskiria turned. “Oh, I always have a lot to say, Makakzha,” she said softly. “But I don’t want to scare anyone. Except—” Her eyes gleamed. “You know that the General is in deadly earnest.”

She left, the door closing hard behind her. Makakzha watched her go, then glanced at Eldroned. “Well?”

“I like the Queen,” Eldroned said. “She knows her kingdom.”

“She’s our enemy,” Rasdidan said wearily.

“I think she likes this castle,” Makakzha said. “Did you see how she was looking at it?”

“Nothing like the nice, comfortable nest of Yhakan’s heir,” Medri’ekko sneered. 

“If she calls me that one more time . . . ” Makakzha drummed his claws together. “She’s bold, for all her flat glances and cold manners.”

“Manners,” Rasdidan said. “Something you have an abundance of, my fair lord.”

“Don’t flatter me, Rasdidan,” Makakzha said. “Someone ugly as me can’t be vain.”

“What are you going to do about her?” Eldroned asked, edgily interrupting their banter. “Since you won’t make peace, she’ll unleash her full power upon you.”

“What full power?” Makakzha scorned.

“I heard,” Rasdidan said, “that she’s been sending messages to the goblins.”

Makakzha stiffened like a snake had suddenly appeared in front of him. “She can’t recruit them. They’ll eat her first.”

“Why would they want to bother with her?” Medri’ekko asked.

Makakzha gave an ugly smile. “We all know how much goblins like royal girls.”

“They can’t touch her,” Eldroned said. “Not if Nalament’s around.”

*