Waxley the Bold Ch. 02

But such whisperings were furtive and few; for the time being, at least, their Master remained in control. They would have to be content with sharpening their nicked and rusty swords and nursing their wounds – both to body and pride – for the time being.

Beside the chieftain's tent – now home to the only remaining hobgoblin – Shargon conferred with his remaining lieutenants, trying to figure the best way to maintain troop discipline and morale. Shargon was no leader, although he was a more than capable warrior. His rather dim and straightforward intellect was best used to figure out how better to cleave a Warrow skull in two, not muster the forces of a sorry and beaten goblin warband.

As he spoke with the three goblins who listened only peripherally, Shargon's pointed, reddish ears suddenly perked. In the next instant, one of the goblins pitched forward, crying out and sputtering as blood erupted from its mouth, a crossbow bolt jutting from its back.

"Snipers!" cried Shargon, drawing his long, curved sword. He pointed with the dull steel blade toward the forest line. "Kill them!"

The goblins cried in unison, with bellows of bloodlust and anger. They scampered to their feet, snatching up their weapons. They did not wait for Shargon's lackluster order; they charged blindly toward the edge of the clearing, eager to reclaim at least some measure of pride for their clan.

At hearing the excited cries of his warband, Calo appeared in the doorway of the cracked dome, a wide-eyed look of panic on his face. "No!" he shouted. "It's a trap!"

But his cries fell on deaf ears. Swords raised and arrows knocked, the goblins charged the forest and their unseen enemy. Only a handful remained behind, given pause by Calo's desperate words and blessed with somewhat better insight than their fellows.

"What we do, boss?" asked one of the few stragglers.

Calo sighed, grinding his teeth. "Come inside with me, and keep your arrows trained at the doorway. Shoot anything that comes in; I don't care if it is Warrow or goblin."

"Er . . . Okay, boss."

Further afield, the goblins surged toward the forest in a howling, barbaric mass. They were spurred on as they spied a figure moving in the darkness of the trees, their goblin vision allowing them to spy him as easily as during the day. Arrows were loosed, but they either went wide of their mark or thunked into the trunks of trees.

Their hopes of an easy prey soon became dashed; as they rushed toward the trees, the ground about their ill-shod feet suddenly became alive as grass, roots, and even twigs seemed to take on a life of their own, grasping at their ankles. Many tripped and fell; others shrieked and cried out in anger, pulling against the tangled mass that ensnared them.

From around a tree, Alderlin chuckled at the results of his nature magic. Although no druid, the life of a hunter and ranger had given him certain insights into the way of Idunn's world, thus providing him with a limited command of the natural sphere. At times, such as now, that command proved immensely useful.

Raising his crossbow, Alderlin fired into the frustrated mass of goblins, striking down one with an easy shot. Continuing to chuckle to himself, he leisurely reloaded his crossbow . . . .

*

Calo Wills meditated in the midst of the cracked and rubble-strewn domed shrine, peripherally looking upon ancient stone gods. He finished a muttered incantation, and all at once, his skin became as of the hide of the great oaks that filled the forest. He sighed, looked up and about at the lifeless, ancient effigies that surrounded him. He wondered what they thought of this battle; of his failures. Were they angered? Disappointed?

But more than the favor of dead gods was the favor of his dead mother that he longed to earn. Yet, within his dark and twisted heart, he suddenly realized that he was beyond hope of achieving that; her spirit, he sensed, was displeased.

"Mother," he whispered emotionally, cradling her skull in his hands. "I'm so sorry . . . ."

With an anguished cry, he suddenly rose and hurled the skull toward a far wall, where it shattered, polished bone exploding into dust. Calo lifted his face to the darkened sky overhead, revealed through the half of the dome that had long ago crumbled, and screamed. The pain in his voice was felt by even the hardened hearts of his goblin guardians, who looked back fearfully to their Master, temporarily abandoning their vigilance of the shrine's doorway.

Calo's cry stopped abruptly, however, as he beheld a single, black-garbed figure sliding down a long rope, the end of which fell beneath him to brush the floor. Flickering flames glowed from the ends of two glass vials that the figure hurled ahead of him. Calo's eyes flew open wide in surprise as he looked upon the hard-set features of his one-time friend.

"Waxley!" he breathed.

"Another time, Calo?" cried Waxley. "That time has come!"

The flaming vials landed amidst the cluster of goblin guardians, erupting into miniature bonfires as they exploded upon the ground. Goblins shrieked as their skin and patchwork armor caught fire. They howled and screamed in pain, some stumbling out through the doorway, others dropping to their knees as they were consumed.

Waxley landed upon the cracked marble floor, casting aside the rope and unslinging his crossbow. But Calo was already moving, gesturing in eldritch ways. With a hiss, he thrust his hands out, compelling the weapon in Waxley's hand to bend and turn in upon itself. Yet the enchantment upon Laniron's crossbow proved powerful; the weapon remained unchanged.

"You'll not have me a second time!" cried Waxley, bringing the crossbow to his shoulder and firing quickly. The aim of the bolt proved true, striking Cal in the left shoulder. The younger Warrow cried out, stumbled back. But he was not to be so easily defeated.

Sagging on the floor, Calo jerked the bolt from his shoulder, casting it aside. His eyes were wild with madness and anger. "You could have joined me!" he cried. "We could have ruled over this forest as gods!"

"You're mad, Calo," said Waxley, dropping the crossbow to the floor. He drew his sword and advanced. "Your dreams of conquest have ended."

Calo laughed. "Spoken like a true hero," he spat. "So what now? Go on grand adventures, like Riley? You saw how he ended up."

Waxley's eyes darkened. "You'll pay for Riley's death," he said.

Calo bobbed his head, eyes wide with lunacy. "Well, I didn't think you came here to thank me," he said. He nodded to the doorway, which still crackled with flame. The stench of burning goblin flesh filled the air. "Nice work, by the way. Quite crafty. But then, you always did think ahead, didn't you?"

Waxley pointed toward his one-time friend with the tip of his sword. "I'll give you one chance to surrender," he said. "Which is more than you deserve."

Calo's eyes rolled upward as he thought. "Well, let me think," he said, tapping bloodied fingers on his chin. "Uh . . . No."

"So be it," said Waxley.

Calo pushed himself to his feet, spoke quickly in a language Waxley did not understand. He thrust his hands out, glowing with a pale blue radiance. He grinned. "So be it!" he cried.

His statement was punctuated as a spray of numbing cold lanced forth, devouring the short distance between he and Waxley. Waxley's eyes flashed wide for a split-second, then he dove and rolled out of the way, feeling the brief intensity of the cold but was otherwise unaffected. He came up on his feet, holding his sword in a practiced move he had learned from Alderlin.

Calo seemed unimpressed. He grinned evilly, snapped his arms out, away from his sides. His hands swiftly changed, transforming from a splay of fingers into curled, sharp, talon-like claws.

With a wild cry, Calo rushed forward, the fury of his sudden assault startling Waxley. The hero raised his blade hastily, parrying one attack with a shower of sparks, but not the other. He winced as a razor-like claw slashed deeply across his chest. Waxley stumbled to the side, slashed blindly, missing Calo by inches. Cackling gleefully, Calo slashed again, this time catching Waxley across the back. Waxley cried out, stumbled, and fell to his knee. He managed to flip his sword about in his hand and stab backward, however, and felt a brief moment's satisfaction as his blade bit into Calo's leg. But the weapon was swatted from his grasp, clattering across the marble as Calo jerked away. Waxley's energy seemed to leave him. He sagged, bracing himself upon the floor, breathing heavily.

Calo chuckled, stepping around to face Waxley, his magically-clawed hands catching the flickering light of the flames.

"The hero does not always triumph," he remarked coldly. He nodded toward the doorway, indicating the world outside. "Who else was foolish enough to come with you? Brandy? That gruff soldier Alderlin? What do you think is happening to them now? My goblins are tearing them apart, feasting on their flesh as they watch with horrified eyes. How does it feel, hero? To come so far, only to fail?"

"Calo, please," gasped Waxley.

Calo cocked his head to the side. "Oh, is that pain upon your face, within your heart? You know what will happen to the village now, don't you? Every home, every structure, will burn, and no reinforcements from Heimdall will come. My pitiful father lied to you, you know; he never sent the message. He thought, in his idiocy, that he could appeal to me. By the time Heimdall realizes something is amiss, Crawley's Crossing will be nothing but a smoldering ruin . . . And Corabell, sweet, sweet Corabell . . . ."

Waxley's eyes flashed up in anger, glaring at Calo.

Calo chuckled. "I can just imagine the delights she will give me, as my concubine. Oh, she will resist at first, and I will have to take her by force. But eventually, as with all madchen, she will come to accept her fate, and will give herself willingly to me . . . until I tire of her, and feed her to my goblins."

"Please," gasped Waxley, a pained expression on his face. "I'll do anything . . . Just don't take Corabell."

Calo cackled. He stepped closer, looking down at Waxley as he stood over him. He dragged a clawed finger down Waxley's cheek, curled it beneath his chin. "Oh, you would, eh?" he asked. "Perhaps you would become my champion, my bodyguard, with your reward being Corabell as your personal slave. I will honor such a bargain, Waxley; all you must do is pledge your undying loyalty to me, to the power of unforgiving Idunn."

Waxley stared up, eyes trembling with apparent fear. Calo's claim of serving the Goddess insulted him, but he hid his umbrage. Unknown to Calo, Waxley's fingers reached slowly for the small-bladed knife in his right boot.

"Well?" asked Calo.

Waxley seemed to yield. "Very well," he said, eyes dropping for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes flashed with fierce brilliance, and he jerked the blade free, burying it a heartbeat later in Calo's chest. "Never!" he cried.

He clutched Calo close, pinning one of the Warrow's arms beneath his own, and felt the shudder as Calo's life quickly left his body. Waxley squeezed his eyes closed, hating the way Calo's body shook and trembled, the sound of his friend's death-rattle as it escaped his lips. Calo's eyes flew open wide, pain but also warmth flooding through him. His eyes rolled toward the heavens as his mouth parted in a silent scream. His limbs spasmed, then fell limp. In but a matter of seconds, it was over.

Waxley did not look at his friend's body as he let the corpse fall to the floor. He turned away, leaving his dagger buried in his friend's breast. Wounded and exhausted, he stumbled toward his crossbow, picking it up. Calo's death had not brought the battle to a close; there yet remained the goblins of the warband, and their sheer weight of numbers stood a good chance to bring him down. Yet, as he cocked and loaded Laniron's crossbow, he found comfort in that, at the least, he had fulfilled two promises: that he would save Crawley's Crossing, and that Calo's death had been swift.

Feeling his own life's blood trickling from the wounds Calo had given him, Waxley suddenly remembered the potion the apothecary had provided. He found it snug within his pouch, and with shaking hands, jerked upon the stopper. He gulped down the crystal-blue liquid, feeling within moments its healing effects. His wounds stopped bleeding, and some even closed. Though far from being fully healed, he would not yet perish.

Not until the goblins come, he thought.

The sound of a piece of rubble being kicked just beyond the doorway alerted him. He hastily cast the empty vial aside, raised the crossbow. Somewhat more alert now that pain no longer flood his senses, he held the enchanted crossbow with steady hands, a finger lightly caressing the trigger.

Come, then, you damn goblins. I'll take as many of you with me as I can.

But the figure that appeared was no goblin; Waxley emitted a sigh of glorious relief as he saw Captain Alderlin stumble through the doorway, literally coated in goblin blood, holding his sword in a heavy hand. His buckler was dented, smeared in gore, as it hung from his forearm. His face was weary, exhausted, yet upon seeing Waxley, split into a wide grin.

"Idunn's sweet," he breathed tiredly, stumbling across the room. He wrinkled his nose at the smoldering goblin bodies, glanced with satisfaction at Calo's body.

"Aye, she is," agreed Waxley, lowering the crossbow. "Are you all right?"

Alderlin regarded Waxley with the face of a thoroughly spent and exhausted Warrow. "Am I 'all' right?" he asked. "No, not exactly. But I'll live, if that's what you mean."

The captain fell roughly on his rump beside Waxley, emitting a painful grunt. "If not for the apothecary's potion, I'd be a dead halfling," he said breathlessly. He looked hopefully to Waxley.

Waxley shook his head. "Mine's gone, too," he said.

"Just as well," breathed Alderlin. "I doubt Calo went easily."

Waxley was quiet, looking, for the first time, upon the corpse of his childhood friend. "No," he said after a moment. "He did not."

"What of the badger?" asked Alderlin.

Waxley frowned. He looked about, suddenly alarmed. His eyes settled upon a darkened archway in the far wall. "The badger," he breathed. "I'd forgotten."

Alderlin let out a heavy sigh. "The battle's not over, yet," he moaned.

Groaning, the two battle-weary Warrows helped each other to their feet and trudged toward the darkened archway.

"Be on your guard, lad," said Alderlin, hefting blade and buckler. "This may not be easy."

*

With as much stealth as either could muster, the two Warrows moved cautiously down a sloping, curved passageway, Alderlin with a torch held high. The walls were rough-hewn and moist, glistening with water that seeped from limestone and fed the abundant fungi in the tunnel. The passageway, long ago carved by giants, was broad enough for both Warrows to walk abreast with arms stretched wide.

As they descended further and further down over mammoth steps, a feral smell assaulted their senses, confirming the theory that this was the dire badger's abode. It became stronger the more they descended, and was soon accompanied by the sound of heavy, labored breathing.

The passageway stopped at a broad landing. Rubble lay strewn across the floor; an archway was filled with it, denying access to deeper parts of the shrine. The tunnel had been widened by goblin sappers, transforming it into a wide, rough-hewn den for the lair's occupant. And before them, curled into a blood-soaked heap, lay the great badger, breathing slowly, laboriously.

Waxley stared at the beast in surprise; its bestial face held none of the rage and ferocity he had seen before. If anything, it looked sad, almost pathetic. Small, red-tinted eyes opened slowly, looking upon the Warrows before it with a sense of solemn acceptance. It winced in the presence of the torchlight, its eyes narrowing reflexively.

"By the gods," whispered Alderlin, even his hardened heart touched by the despicable condition of the beast. "It's--"

"Dying," finished Waxley, his crossbow held before him.

"But, why?" asked Alderlin. "Druids possess healing magic. Calo could have--"

Waxley's heart fell as he understood. "Because he knew," he said. "Because he knew it was over. For all his bold talk and madness . . . he knew."

Alderlin bravely stepped closer to the giant badger, which seemed to almost whimper at the captain's approach. "Waxley," he said. "This is no monster. It is just an animal."

"One twisted and perverted by Calo's evil," said Waxley.

Alderlin looked back to the hero. "We must," he said, needing not to say what his tone implied.

Waxley nodded, slowly lifted the crossbow to his shoulder. Despite seeing the beast before him, Waxley could not see the animal as evil. Although it had slain Riley, and had been the original target for Waxley's vengeance, the young Warrow felt nothing but pity for this creature. His finger hesitated on the trigger.

Then, as if sensing Waxley's trepidation, and understanding more than any animal ever should, the great badger painfully rolled onto its side, exposing its soft underbelly, and beyond, its heart. The foreboding red eyes seemed to soften as they stared at Waxley.

Waxley took a deep breath, eyes closed, then opened them suddenly in determination. He felt the shudder of the crossbow against his shoulder, saw the momentary wince of the beast's eyes. The deadly limbs fell to the floor. The beast took a single breath, wheezed as it was released. Finally, the badger lay silent and still, the radiance of those once-fearful eyes fading to nothingness.

With a heartfelt sigh, Waxley turned away.

*

"Think Corabell's got enough healing in her to tend to us both?" asked Alderlin as they stepped from the shrine and into the cool night air.

Waxley, despite himself, laughed softly. "By Idunn's long locks, I hope so," he said.

Alderlin chuckled as well, gave Waxley a stout slap on the shoulder. "You'll make her a fine husband, if you wish," he said, then let out a deep, exasperated breath. "Gods, I need a drink. We both do."

Waxley grimaced. "We need a bath, is what we need," he said. He slapped Alderlin's arm. "We stink."

Alderlin could only laugh.

***

Upon seeing the two bloodied heroes upon their mounts, Brandy let out a triumphant cry and rang the alarm bell for the village. Fearful at first, then with gladdened faces, the Warrows came out from their homes and from the tavern where many had been nervously biding their time. They crowded at the gate as it was swung open wide. Gasps of sympathy sounded as they beheld the sorry shapes of Waxley and Captain Alderlin, sagging in their saddles, grim looks upon their faces. Hero and captain were helped down from their sympathetically-growling mounts and supported by grateful Warrows, who were eager to do what they could to assist their saviors.

"The goblins?" asked Dubil optimistically, supporting Captain Alderlin.

"Routed, at the least," he said. "I took as many as I could. The rest fled. I don't think they'll be a threat any time soon."

"And . . . the goblin's master?" he asked tentatively.

Alderlin looked over his shoulder as Waxley walked without aid beside his friend Brandy. "The hero dealt with him," he said grimly. "Calo's dead."

Beside Brandy, Waxley was dimly aware of the tenor of Alderlin's conversation. He stared at the ground for a long time as he and Alderlin were escorted to Corabell's home. "I don't know how I can face Wills," he said. "I mean, I know he was part of this, but . . . He only wished to protect his son."

Brandy took a deep breath, let it out loudly as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well, you needn't worry about that," he said portentously.