Barbarian Legends - Goblinslayer 02

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

==========

The events of Barbarian Legends occur many years before the events of Barbarian Tales.

==========

**********

CITY OF YELEDOR

**********

Girn easily dodged the drunken man's careless punch. Girn jabbed forward with his own fist, catching the drunkard on the chin and sending him hurling backwards through the swing doors into the dirt of Ale Street. Girn heard the man groan in pain and was sure he would stay down for a while longer. Girn rubbed his hands and turned back into the tavern.

He was working as a bouncer in the roughest part of Yeledor and was glad to leave his life as a sewerjack behind. Ale Street ran parallel to Low Street so he wasn't far from where his journey in Yeledor started. Or from where lovely Cassie was brutally murd-- No, he didn't want to think about that.

The Full Tankard stank of rank sweat and cheap perfume. The lanterns along the wall cast a gloomy glow across the interior. Upon entering, all eyes were momentarily on him. Girn scowled. From behind the bar, Hans the tavern owner gave a wide smile and an appreciative nod.

Girn liked Hans. He also held gratitude towards the man. After being dishonourably sacked off as a sewerjack, Hans had been the only man in Yeledor who had offered Girn a job. While Kiara had left the city, Girn had stayed, thinking that running out of the city made him look like some criminal. He also wanted to stay because there was still the potential threat of goblins.

Girn surveyed the room and noticed a cluster of stout warriors in the corner. These short, muscular figures were hunched over the table, gulping down their beers from large tankards. They growled, tugged at their beards, and muttered in their harsh, flinty language. Known for their stubborn nature, it was likely that they were reminiscing about some past offense to their people or contemplating the numerous grudges they sought to settle. Perhaps, they were simply recalling a time when beer was more affordable, and people treated the dwarves with the respect they deserved.

Girn casually made his way around the crowded tavern, glancing at each table as he moved. The hall, filled with beer-stained tables, bustled with activity. At one table, a semi-naked woman from the Cloudlands twirled and danced, egged on by a group of inebriated halberdiers who were enthusiastically throwing silver and encouraging her to remove the rest of her clothes. While Girn wouldn't mind seeing her alabaster body completely naked, but believed it should only happen with her consent.

In another corner, women of pleasure from Low Street guided drunken soldiers to secluded alcoves along the far wall. The noise from the bar drowned out the sounds of gasps, moans, and the clinking of gold changing hands. A long table was occupied by desert horse archers, most likely serving as guards for an incoming caravan from the south. They bellowed out drinking songs focused on horses, women, and sometimes a lewd combination of both, all the while consuming large quantities of Hans' home-distilled potato vodka.

Two tall, hook-nosed Snak from the tropical jungles, T'kar and G'far, sat at their permanently reserved table. Their scaly fingers adorned with gold rings, and their nearly non-existent earlobes gleamed with gold earrings. In the torchlight, their black leather jerkins sparkled, and long curved swords hung over the backs of their chairs. Occasionally, strangers--ranging from street urchins to nobles--would enter the Full Tankard and join them. Haggling ensued, money changed hands, and abruptly, the visitors would depart. Days later, a lifeless body, drained of blood, would be discovered under some bridge. Rumours circulated that T'kar and G'far were the premier assassins in the Kingdom of Yeledor.

Alone at a table near the lively fire sat Alexander Hoffenwurst. Rumours circulated about him too, with some labelling him a necromancer, while others dismissed him as a charlatan. Despite ample available seats at his table, no one dared to approach the skull-faced man and inquire. Every night, he sat there, with a leather-bound book--possibly a necronomicon--in front of him, carefully tending to his lone glass of wine.

Scattered throughout the tavern, akin to peacocks in a rookery, were opulent nobles whose presence seemed out of place. Dressed in exquisite clothing, these upper-class individuals were essentially fops exploring the city's darker side. Accompanying them were bodyguards--typically large, silent, vigilant men armed with well-used weapons--ensuring their masters' safety during their nocturnal escapades. As Hans always emphasized, it was unwise to provoke the nobles. A mere whisper in the right ear could result in the closure of his tavern or the imprisonment of his staff. It was better to cater to their needs, keep an eye on them, and tolerate their often obnoxious behaviour. But only as much as was tolerable of course.

In addition to the exotic and debauched crowd, there were also the typical rowdy youths from student fraternities. They ventured into the roughest part of town to affirm their manhood in the eyes of both themselves and their peers. These individuals, often the most troublesome, were spoiled and affluent young men seeking to showcase their toughness. Moving in packs, they were just as prone to drunken violence as the most ruthless of criminals. Perhaps even more concerning, as they regarded themselves as above the law and viewed their victims as less than vermin.

From where he stood, Girn could see a bunch of jaded young dandies tugging at the dress of a struggling serving-wench. They were demanding a kiss. The girl, a pretty newcomer called Mina, fresh from the country and unused to this sort of behaviour, was resisting hard. Her struggles just seemed to encourage the rowdies. Two of them had got to their feet and began to drag the struggling girl towards the alcoves. One had clamped a hand over her mouth so that her shrieks would not be heard. Another brandished a huge sausage obscenely.

Girn moved to interpose himself between the young men and the alcoves.

"No need for that," he said quietly and menacingly.

The elder of the two young individuals grinned maliciously. Prior to speaking, he took a sizable bite of the sausage, quickly swallowing it. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and cheeks. "She's a feisty wench - maybe she'd enjoy a taste of a prime Yeledor sausage." The dandies laughed uproariously at this fine jest. Encouraged, he waved the sausage in the air like a general rallying his troops.

"I don't think so," Girn said, trying hard to keep his temper. He hated these spoiled young aristocrats with a passion.

"Our friend here thinks he's tough, Derek," said the younger of the two. He sported the scarred face, one who fought to gain scars and so enhance his prestige.

Even though the he was twice the size of the youths, they really thought they could take him on. Girn looked around. The other bouncers were trying to calm down a brawl between the horse archers and the halberdiers. Girn shrugged. He didn't need them. He looked straight into Derek's eye. "Just let the girl be," he said with exaggerated articulation - then devilishly added, "and I promise not to hurt you."

"You promise not to hurt us?" Derek seemed a little confused. "You wouldn't dare touch us. Don't you know who we are?" The student's friends were starting to gather around, keen to start some trouble.

"I think we should teach this scumbag a lesson, Renman," Derek said.

"I think we should show him he's not as tough as he thinks he is," Renman agreed.

Mina chose this moment to bite Derek's hand. He shrieked with pain and cuffed the girl almost casually. Mina dropped as if pole-axed. "Bitch bit a chunk out of my hand!"

Suddenly, Girn had reached his breaking point. After traversing hundreds of leagues, battling against beasts and monsters, he had witnessed the dead returning to life and defeated cultists of evil. He had even taken down the chief of the secret police in Yeledor for collaborating with wretched goblins. He refused to tolerate insolence from these pampered individuals, and he certainly had no intention of standing by while they harassed an innocent woman.

Girn seized Renman by the lapels, delivering a forceful headbutt to the student's nose, resulting in a sickening crunch. The youth stumbled backward, hands clutching his injured face. Girn then grabbed Derek by the throat, administering a couple of slaps for effect, before forcefully slamming the student's face into the sturdy tabletop, accompanied by another audible crunch. Steins were knocked over, and onlookers pushed their chairs away to avoid the potential mess. Girn swept Derek's legs out from under him and, as he lay on the ground, delivered a kick to his head for good measure.

There was nothing pretty or elegant about it, but Girn was not in the mood to put up with these people any more. He was glad of the chance to vent his anger. As Derek's friends surged forward, Girn lifted his greataxe from his back. The razor-sharp blade glittered in the torchlight and the handle creaked under his forceful grip. The angry students froze.

Suddenly it was all deathly quiet. Girn put the blade down against the side of Derek's head. "One more step and I'll take his ears off. Then I'll make the rest of you eat it."

"He actually means it," one of the students muttered. Suddenly they did not look so very threatening any more, just a scared and drunken bunch of young idiots who had bought into much more trouble than they had bargained for. Girn twisted the blade so that it bit into Derek's ear, drawing blood. The young man groaned and squirmed under Girn's boot.

Renman whimpered and clutched his nose with one meaty hand. A river of red streamed over his fingers. "You broke my nose," he said in a nasal tone of piteous accusation. He sounded like he couldn't believe anyone would do anything so horribly cruel.

"One more word out of you and I'll break your fingers too," Girn said and grimaced. "The rest of you pick your friends up and get out of here, before I really lose my temper."

He stepped away from Derek's recumbent form, keeping his blade between himself and the students. They hurried forward, helped their injured friends to their feet, and hurried towards the door. A few kept terrified eyes on Girn as they went.

He walked over to Mina and helped her to her feet. "You all right?" he asked.

"Fine enough. Thanks," she said. She looked up at him gratefully and wiped a tear from her eye.

Once again, Girn couldn't help but notice her beauty. She flashed him a smile, her lips slightly pouting. Succumbing to the impulse, he reached down and gently tucked one of her jet-black curls behind her ear.

"Best go and have a word with Hans. Tell him what happened. He'll make sure they won't dare set a foot in here again, no matter who they claim their parents are."

Mina nodded and hurried off.

Girn looked around. All eyes were on him. He grunted. It was time for a drink.

**********

Seated on a raised bone stool, Shaman Utkut simmered with anger, a level of fury he struggled to recall experiencing before. He questioned if he had ever been as enraged. He harboured a desire to inflict suffering on something, or better, on someone.

"Hurry-hurry! Or I will flay the flesh from your rotten bones," he shrieked.

The elven slaves increased the pace with which they ran on the treadmill attached to the huge mechanisms of the communications device. The power crystals glowed slightly and illuminated the dusty cavern. The shadows of engineers of Clan Arx danced across the rock walls as they worked on keeping the machine functional.

"Quick-quick! Or I will feed you to the goblin-ogres."

If only he had a goblin-ogre to feed these slaves too, Utkut thought. What a disappointment Spinebreaker had proved to be - as easily killed by a small girl as Utkut would slaughter a crippled puppy. Hatred for those damned sewerjacks bit at Utkut's bowels. He wanted revenge on those still alive! Not only his goblin-ogre was slain, they had also killed Lynch and disrupted the shaman's plan for throwing Yeledor into chaos.

True, Utkut had other agents on the surface, but none in such a high position as the head of Yeledor's secret police. He wasn't looking forward to reporting the failure of this part of his scheme to his masters in Goblingard. In fact, he had stalled making his report for as long as he could. Now he had no choice. Utkut looked into the huge mirror on top of the machine, as he waited for the image of his masters to take form.

The elven slaves ran faster now. The light in the power crystals became brighter. Utkut felt his skin tingle and a shiver run down his spine as sparks leapt from the crystrals. One Arx engineer rushed over to the communications control panel and wrenched down several copper switches. Forked lightning flickered between the power crystals. The mirror glowed with a faint green light. Chains rattled, flywheels buzzed, pistons rose and fell.

Utkut felt a brief surge of pride at this impressive feat of goblin engineering, a device which made communication over thousands of leagues between Yeledor and Goblingard possible. Truly, no other race could match their ingenuity, once again proving the goblin superiority to all other so-called sentient races.

A figure took shape in the mirror, looking down at Utkut. The picture remained fuzzy, patterns of interference dancing across the mirror's surface. He considered commanding an engineer of Clan Arx to make a few adjustments to the machine but perhaps, the shaman thought, the interference could work to his advantage.

"What have... report... Utkut..." The majestic voice of the Council member emerged from the machine's squeaking trum- pet as a high-pitched buzzing. Utkut had to strain to make out the words. With his outstretched hand he snatched up the mouthpiece, carved from human thighbone and connected to the machine by a cable of purest copper.

"Great triumphs, lordly one, and some minor setbacks," Shaman Utkut said.

"Spea... up... kut... I... hardly... you... and..."

Utkut decided there were definitely a few problems with the communications machine. Many of the Council member's words were being lost, and doubtless his superior was only catching a few of Utkut's own words in return.

"Many successes, oh lordly one, only a few minor setbacks!" Utkut screamed as loud as he could. Startled by his roaring, the slaves stopped running and the machine slowed. The mirror flickered and faded. "Faster, filthy elf-things! Never stop!"

Utkut encouraged the elven slaves with a flick of his lash. Slowly the image returned, but a cloud of foul-smelling smoke was starting to emerge from the communications machine. It smelled like burning.

"...setbacks? Shaman..." an angry voice came from the mirror. "...and how is... agent Lynch..."

"Indisposed," Utkut replied, a little too hastily for his own liking. Somehow it sounded better than saying he was dead. He decided to change the subject quickly. He knew that he had better do something to save the situation and fast.

"We have news... change of plans... we send army to Yeledor... when ready... ttack city..." The Council member's words made Utkut's ears rise with pleasure. If an army was being dispatched to Yeledor, he would command it. Taking the city would increase his status immeasurably.

"Warlord Gur will command... render him all... assistance..."

Utkut grimaced with disappointment upon learning he was being replaced in command of the army. Contemplating his options, he sniffed thoughtfully. Perhaps not. Warlord Gur could conveniently meet with an accident, allowing Utkut to ascend triumphantly and claim his rightful share of glory. His nose twitched as he observed the billowing smoke filling the chamber from the malfunctioning machine, emitting sparks in an alarming manner. The sight of two Clan Arx engineers fleeing only heightened his concern. He pondered the idea of following them.

"Also... future... barbarian... problem... your... downfall..."

A deafening bang echoed through the room, prompting Utkut to leap from his stool and take cover on the floor. A bitter taste filled his mouth as acrid smoke billowed around him. As the haze slowly dissipated, he surveyed the aftermath: the communications machine lay in ruins, its components fused and melted, surrounded by the charred bodies of several elven slaves. In a corner, a Clan Arx engineer lay curled up, trembling in shock. Utkut paid little heed to their condition, his mind consumed by the Council member's ominous words. "Barbarian?" The notion struck fear into him. There was a connection to those sewerjacks who had slain Danton Lynch. With a sense of urgency, he grasped his small bronze bell and gave it a nervous tinkling.

Gradually, members of Utkut's bodyguard filed into the chamber. Utkut couldn't help but notice a hint of disappointment in Squadleader Tork's expression upon seeing him alive. For a fleeting moment, Utkut entertained the thought that Tork might have sabotaged the communications device, but he quickly dismissed it, knowing Tork lacked the imagination for such a scheme. Regardless, Utkut had more pressing concerns to attend to.

"Summon the shadow shivs!" Utkut hissed in his most authoritative tone. "I have work for them."

For a moment silence fell over the chamber. Just the mere mention of the dreaded assassins of Clan Dagger had silenced everyone.

"Quick! Fast! Hurry!" Utkut added.

"Instantly, master," Tork said sadly and scuttled off into the labyrinth of sewers.

Utkut rubbed his hands in glee. The shadow shivs would not fail, of that he was assured.

**********

Girn unlocked the door of his chamber and entered his room. He yawned widely. He wanted for nothing more than to lie down on his pallet and sleep. He had been working for more than twelve hours. He put the lantern down beside the straw-filled mattress. He tried to give his surroundings as little attention as was possible, but it was difficult to ignore the loud moans of passion coming from the next room and the singing of the drinkers downstairs.

The chamber wasn't good enough for paying guests, but it suited him well enough. It had the great virtue of being free. It came with the job. Like a minority of Hans's staff, Girn chose to live on the premises.

He pulled back the woollen cloak on the bed and made sure his greataxe was within easy reach before getting into bed. His previous experiences had made him wary even in seemingly safe places, and there were the goblins underneath the city that could pop up anywhere at any time.

He recalled only too well the huge corpse of the slain goblin-ogre lying at the foot of the stairs in Danton Lynch's mansion. That goblin of monstrous proportions had not been a reassuring sight. Somehow he was not surprised that he had heard nothing at all about the fire at Lynch's mansion. Perhaps the authorities had not found the goblin bodies, or perhaps there was a cover-up. Right now, Girn didn't even want to consider it.

There was a soft knock at the door. Girn lay still and tried to ignore it. Probably just one of the drunken patrons lost and looking for his room again, he told himself. The knock came again, more urgently and insistently this time.

Girn stood up from the bed and grabbed his greataxe, feeling the need to be cautious in these perilous times. There could be a dangerous individual lurking outside, hoping to prey on a sleep-fuddled Girn. Only two months earlier, Hans had discovered the bodies of a murdered couple just three doors down. The man was a well-known wine merchant, and the woman his young mistress. Hans suspected the merchant had been killed by assassins under orders from his ruthless wife, though he maintained it was none of his concern. Girn had ended up with his new loincloth stained with blood after disposing of the bodies in the river, a task he hadn't exactly relished, especially navigating through the sewers to do so.