The Sword of Darrow (2 page)

T
he fog wound through a thick carpet of fir and spruce that colored the landscape in shadows of black and green. From this landscape rose a mountain. It harbored no soil, no trees, and barely a blade of grass. From its foot to its peak was one long expanse of black rock, broken only by a door and a few small windows. Behind the door lay a castle, built directly into the stone of the mountain.

No walls, watchtowers, or large wooden gates guarded this fortress. A great door was simple and stood at the base of the mountain, but inside was a labyrinth of hallways and rooms, hundreds of them, carved deep into the mountain. At night, when lamps burned inside, the few tiny windows glowed eerily.

A road passed the castle, barely a stone’s throw away. In the day, when no light shone outward, the castle seemed like no more than a stone, a silent work of nature unshaped by earthly hands. A traveler might walk past unaware that the heart of a great nation lay nearby. But on this day, from this great black rock, a voice boomed outward.

It was the voice of King Malmut II, ruler of the goblin nation of Globenwald.

“Smoke! I want to see the smoke from my window. I want Sonnencrest reduced to a landscape of ash!”

Arms flailing, King Malmut stormed back and forth, his eyes black with rage. Even among goblins, Malmut was especially ugly. His head was large and bulbous, with two tiny eyes set close together and a hooked nose that jutted out far from his face. He was oddly proportioned, with a torso barely as big as his head, and most of his height concentrated in his spindly legs, which gave him the appearance of a very large insect.

There was no hiding the stresses of the king, for when his nerves began to rattle, he began to sweat. These were no small droplets here and there that might go unnoticed. No, when King Malmut was anxious, great rivers of liquid poured forth. Today, the king was utterly soaked.

The king’s advisor, Bekkendoth, spoke up in his calm voice.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty, this whole affair might be a trick. Why would such a small, peaceful kingdom provoke war with the goblins? Really, it makes no sense.”

“Then who killed Rildon?” the king shot back. “Fairies? Bloodthirsty fairies?”

A smooth voice cut in, “Your Highness, perhaps we should discuss the plan.”

Vinton Beltar, supreme commander of the forces of Globenwald, stood before a great map spread out on the king’s table. Tall, with a broad, muscular frame, the commander looked at the king with patient eyes. To Beltar, the king’s tirades were nothing new.

Beltar was a commoner, an orphan, who began his career as a foot soldier of the lowest rank. But his uncommon courage soon caught the eye of Globenwald’s senior officers. Once in command, he proved a brilliant tactician and a ruthless one as well. He was a legend for his triumph at Cinidorm. Commanding the goblin force facing the army of Tolenbettle, an assemblage more than twice the size of his own, Beltar made a sudden retreat from the battlefield. His soldiers fled madly away into the woods. Hours later, under a flag of surrender, a goblin officer brought Beltar’s sword to the enemy commander.

“Take it,” the underling told him. “Beltar lies dead in his grave. The army is gone. The victory is yours.”

The soldiers of Tolenbettle began a great celebration. Music played, wine flowed, and men danced merrily around their blazing fires. Deep in the evening, the merriment faded. The men sank into sleep, drunk and exhausted.

An hour before sunrise, a great rustling noise surrounded the camp, followed by a hideous battle cry. Out of the blackness stepped the entirety of the great goblin army of Globenwald, swords drawn and torches blazing. Before the soldiers of Tolenbettle could stagger to their feet, the goblin soldiers were upon them. Not a single soldier of Tolenbettle survived.

Now Beltar faced a new campaign against the kingdom of Sonnencrest. Perhaps Rildon’s death was indeed a trick, but the general did not care. He would have a new campaign. Sonnencrest was a nation of weaklings. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Tomorrow, we march on Sonnencrest. We will need a day and a half to reach . . .”

The door was flung open and in walked an aging goblin, tall, wrinkled, his long, black robe swishing around him.

“At last! At last! At last!” he bellowed.

This was Zindown. His robe was woven with silk that reflected the sunlight from the window. On one sleeve, stitched in green, was a spider with twelve legs and two tiny wings. On his face, the green skin sagged with the deep creases of immeasurable age.

No one can say just how long a wizard lives. It is a secret they keep to themselves. But it is easily counted in decades, some say even a century or more, beyond the lives of ordinary mortals. Zindown had lived a very long life. But beneath his withered face rose a voice, clear and vibrant, that on this morning lifted like a song.

The king gave Zindown an icy stare.

“Your happiness exceeds the occasion.”

Zindown paused for a moment. “Why, Your Highness, I do indeed mourn the death of poor Rildon. He was a fine servant of our land. It is only the possibility of
vengeance
that brings excitement to my heart.”

This was not quite the truth.

For years, Zindown had conducted experiments far beyond ordinary magic. He had toyed with life itself. His goal was a whole new collection of creatures—terrible creatures that could be used in battle against enemies of the goblin land. These efforts were difficult and drew from him his last gasp of energy. Fortunately, most of the experiments failed.

Once, he had created a giant stilt crab with long legs that could walk across the land. Its shell would be impervious to attack. It could be ridden by archers, who could rain arrows onto enemy soldiers below them. And, of course, its giant claws could cut an opponent in two with a single snap.

But the stilt crab bore a temperament unsuitable for military life. Six trainers were snapped in half. Despite Zindown’s pleading, the stilt crabs were put to the axe.

Another disappointment was the venomous ferret. In Zindown’s mind, a small and speedy mammal like the ferret might be the perfect attack weapon. Armed with fangs and deadly poison, these creatures could be unleashed on an enemy late at night or hurled over the walls of a castle under siege!

Zindown’s ferrets worked exactly as planned, but there was a flaw he never considered. When mating season arrived, the ferrets attacked one another viciously. Not a single male animal survived and the breed was soon lost.

Zindown was nothing, however, if not persistent. After many years, he had achieved two successes. They took years to reach adulthood, years to breed, and years to train. It was the work of a lifetime, and now that work would be rewarded. When the goblins marched on Sonnencrest, his creatures would be ready.

His creations. His magic. His triumph. Now, Zindown could watch his creations dismantle the army of Sonnencrest.

Beltar continued his report. “Our army will march down the Dalamath Highway. Before crossing the river into Sonnencrest, we will split into three parts to confuse the enemy.”

“And what of the scorpion man?” asked Bekkendoth. “I hear he fights with the force of twenty men.”

“Perhaps,” sneered Beltar, “but the others are worth barely half a goblin.”

Zindown broke into loud laughter. His creatures. Beltar’s genius. This was going to be a beautiful war.

W
hile the goblins soldiers readied to march, the people of Sonnencrest had no idea what was in store for them. In fact, at that very moment, a great celebration was underway. Thousands had come to the capital city of Blumenbruch to line the streets and cheer the parade that was in honor of the Festival of Sir Fenn.

A costumed dwarf soared through the air and crossed in front of the dazzling sun, briefly blinding the crowd who watched his tricks. When he landed, both feet squarely on the head of a troll, the children cheered and laughed.

Leading the way were three gigantic trolls who served as platforms for a team of six acrobatic dwarfs. Tumbling through the air from one troll to another, the dwarves landed on heads, shoulders, and open palms. They were dressed in blue and golden silks, and spun through the air like juggling balls.

Behind the dwarves came a disordered assembly of boys, small and large, pulling kites shaped like monstrous birds with teeth and soaring wings. Each kite depicted one of the celebrated creatures of the Miskerdrones, the mole people whose wizard king rose from the earth to transform ordinary songbirds into monsters, and visit his vengeance upon the surface-dwellers.

Next came the scorpion man and a hideous creature he was. He was tall with thick shoulders and arms. Atop those shoulders was a round head covered with a dark shell that was backdrop to two unmoving red eyes. His body was covered with black scales; from his back emerged a tail ending in two sharp points. It wasn’t actually the scorpion man, for the great soldier himself was far too shy to walk in a parade. Still, the costumed figure reminded the crowd of the real scorpion man, who was out there somewhere and who would protect them if war ever came.

At the end of the avenue stood a great platform, adorned in blue and yellow banners of silk. There the royal family sat. Today was a special day because their six-year-old son, Prince Fenn, would read the tribute to Sir Fenn, his namesake and founder of the kingdom.

The queen rose on her tiptoes, eyes searching the parade route. Far in the distance was Prince Fenn, dressed as a knight, with a silver breastplate and leg guards. He might have been dashing, but the armor was obviously too heavy for the young prince. Under its weight, poor Prince Fenn stumbled slowly.

And why was Prince Fenn called to perform before the crowd at such an early age? Well, the answer was a scandalous fact, closely guarded and hidden from all outside the palace walls.

Princess Babette, eight years old and the third of the royal children, could not read.

And that was only the beginning!

A tiny girl with bright, curly hair of a color somewhere between red and yellow, Babette cared nothing for the ceremonies of palace life. Her antics were legendary. Bed slippers in the throne room! A pet rat in the cathedral! A frog beneath her brother’s crown!

At each such episode, the king would howl her name and demand her presence. But the queen would squeezes his arm and whisper, “Be patient, my dear. Even her younger brother comes before her. She will
never
wear the crown!” No one was happier about this fact than the little princess herself.

Prince Fenn lumbered up the steps to the stage, stopping now and then to lift one of his heavily armored legs with both hands. When he finally stood center stage, a servant handed him his papers. He raised his eyes to the crowd.

Now, Babette was ready with her surprise. She would show the kingdom that she could read. She knew the letters and she knew words, but when she looked at the page, the letters moved and came together until they didn’t make sense. But for today’s parade she had secretly lettered a sign—a sign to salute her brother, Prince Fenn. Standing in her chair, she called out to her brother and held a large sign, almost bigger than herself, lettered in her own hand.

Prince Fenn!

May his words make us sore!

She smiled, waiting for the crowd to cheer, but instead a murmur arose and then muffled laughter. Prince Fenn, who could both read and spell, looked back at his older sister with sad eyes. The king turned to Babette, face red, but the queen tugged at his cloak and he knew not to speak.

Babette looked about, first surprised, then confused, and finally slumped quietly into her chair.

From the reviewing stand, King Henry X rose to introduce his son. His voice boomed across the avenue.

“Today, we celebrate Sir Fenn and his lessons which have served our kingdom for more than two hundred years.

“We celebrate that love and kindness are nobler than violence of any form. And while we respect the bravery of soldiers who defend this kingdom, we know that there is no greater act of courage than the willingness to forgive the wrongdoings of others.”

As King Henry spoke, the sounds of hoof beats echoed through the street. In the distance, a rider approached. The rider leaned low in his saddle. He wore a strange garment with stripes of red and green muted by dirt from the road. His face was drawn with deep lines and narrow eyes.

The rider hardly slowed before the crowd and spectators scrambled to avoid the horse’s hooves. When he could no longer penetrate the crowd, he leaped from his mount and fought his way through the crowd.

“I carry a message! A message for King Henry!”

The king gave the messenger a stern glance and began to resume his address.

But the rider would not be denied. All eyes followed his course. At the entrance to the reviewing stand, a soldier tried to block his way, but the rider pushed him aside, rushed up the steps, and before he could be stopped, he dropped to his knee before the king. Bowing deeply, he raised his hands, which held a scroll.

“Later,” blurted the king. The messenger lifted his face and looked bravely and directly into the king’s eyes, which was a serious breach of protocol.

But upon seeing the face of the messenger, the king trembled. Slowly, he reached for the scroll and tore open the seal. His eyes darted across the writing before him. His face fell.

There would be no further celebration. Tightly gripping the message, the king turned, hurried from the reviewing stand, and entered the royal carriage. As the crowd watched in silence, the king disappeared behind the palace walls.

That night, while the palace buzzed with whispers of war, the king and his generals met to plan their defense. But alone in her bedroom, Babette knew nothing of the tragedies to come. All she could think was that she was glad that she was not queen. “If I had been queen,” she thought, “I could not have read the message at all.”