The Goblin King (8 page)

“Is he a…” She couldn’t bring herself to call Dai a goblin to his face.

“Goblin? No. Our cousin died on the general’s blade that night. A quick death.”

***

The body lay still. Hands folded over the sword. The bullet hole in the forehead couldn’t be hidden. Anfri had shaved his head, grown his beard, and for a time ridden with a biker gang. The helmet and leather had hidden his features. He was also the only medic they had. If Dai were to be injured…Roan hissed. He would have to use magic to save his brother.

Centuries had slid past without progress on breaking the curse. Finding a cure had become the sole reason Dai lived. Every moment spent working on a puzzle that would never be complete. Now the bell was ringing. The clock about to strike midnight, yet Dai refused to admit it was over. But if Dai was fighting, so was he. Roan smoothed the red cloak over Anfri’s distorted, gray body. He kissed his forehead. The dry, cold skin was already more like dust than life.

Roan closed his eyes. It should be getting easier the closer he came to becoming goblin. Instead, the golden heart in his chest ached. He placed his hand on the wooden boat that was fresh from the dockyard. Someone would curse the loss of the
Summer Breeze
. Anfri deserved the best, not a wreck for his funeral.

“Meryn, wherever you are, may you find peace. I’m sorry.” One with the Hoard. Trapped forever by the loss of his soul and Roan’s failure to notice. Those first few days in the Shadowlands had been a confused jumble of survival and summons. The loss of Meryn had placed their new reality in striking distance. His fading had been a hard lesson for them all to learn.

“Brac.” Killed by the druid. The first send-off he’d had to do. Roan swallowed. There’d not been much left to burn.

“Fane.” He closed his eyes. Fane had taken his own life. Not because he was turning, but because he couldn’t live only in nightmares. Consumed by despair, he’d left a heavier burden on the living.

“Anfri.” Roan’s ribs became brittle, crushed by the weight of the metal that made up his heart. His voice fractured.

“Celebrate in the hall of the gods and pray we meet between lives,” Dai finished for him.

Unable to speak, Roan lifted his goblet to his lips. He sipped the bloodred wine, then poured the rest into the dirt. The ground blackened then dried, desperate for the acid rain that rarely fell.

In the gold chamber Dai’s skin had grayed. If not for Eliza, they would have turned on each other, then faded to goblin and fought to the death. Now she watched the funeral. Not as one of them but as an interloper, because she refused to be queen.

High above a crow circled. How the druid knew when one died, Roan didn’t want to know. He ignored the harsh, taunting cries and pushed the boat into the river. It spun around seeking the nonexistent current. The river didn’t flow, instead it swelled and sucked like a leech on the landscape. Roan raised his hand in farewell and created the funeral fire for Anfri. The cost to his soul was worth it. Anfri had served him for far longer than any man should have to serve a king.

The river burned by his will, swallowing the boat, the body, the warrior. Roan sucked in a breath tainted by the scent of burning flesh. The flames offered an end. An end to the curse and the endless wait for peace. He stepped forward, knowing that even though there was no heat in the fire, the flames would destroy him. Who would light the fire for him and Dai?

Dai rested his hand on his forearm. “Not yet, brother.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I still have hope of a cure.” A smile graced Dai’s lips, but no light lit his eyes. For the first time Dai had responded to gold like a goblin should. No amount of hope would save them from fading.

Roan watched the crow draw closer. Dai’s activities hadn’t escaped his notice.

“Your mystery treasure hunt?” He turned to face his brother. “You spend all your time reading or in burial chambers. When did you last go to the Fixed Realm for something other than your quest?”

Dai’s grip on his goblet tightened. “I’m close.”

“Then I hope you find it before I am out of time.” Roan turned his back to the flames. Their siren song would have to wait. The crow circled to land. “Go to Eliza.”

Dai obeyed, crossing the distance to where she watched wide-eyed as the river burned.

The large crow touched the dust then shook its feathers. Out of the ruffle the druid rose. His brown hair and beard were unchanged by time because, as a human, he was unable to leave the Shadowlands via people’s nightmares. Like all druids he carried no weapons, but then he had no need when the magic he commanded could make even the ground obey.

The druid Elryion watched the burning river. “Another one succumbed.” He didn’t bother to hide the glee in his voice. He turned to Eliza and studied her for longer than needed.

Roan loosed the sword at his side. He could end it now and face Elryion for the final time. Roan clenched his fingers over the hilt. Elryion wouldn’t fight with weapons, only magic, and while magic couldn’t kill Roan, using it would lay waste to his soul. Only weapons could kill a goblin, and the druid was unarmed. If Roan drew first, Elryion would retaliate with magic. He forced his hand to relax. Now wasn’t the time, or place. His fading would trap Eliza in the Shadowlands. She would have to be home first. And he wasn’t ready to take her back. To be seen as a man one more time was all he wanted.

“Kidnapping, Roan. You get ever closer to the Hoard.”

“Anfri’s death is on your soul. You wrought this.”

“I stand by my judgment. Give up your soul. End your suffering.” The druid shook, and the crow took to the smoke-darkened sky.

The curse was so powerful that it had trapped the druid with them. Elryion had refused to retract the curse even though Roan had nothing to do with the rebellion’s failure. It was centuries before Roan had understood why the druid wouldn’t release them. In the end Dai had unraveled that mystery. If Elryion lifted the curse, he would become a goblin. The only way out for any of them was death.

“We’ve got company.” Dai drew his sword with one hand and a knife with the other.

Three goblins appeared dressed in clothing that blended with their skin and surroundings. Camouflage. They carried an odd assortment of weapons, but they were no less deadly. Above, the crow shrieked and the attack began. An arrow brushed past Roan’s arm and skidded into the dust behind him.

Dai threw the knife. It caught the goblin archer in the throat. His battle cry became a gurgle as he choked on his thick black blood. Roan drew his gun—he didn’t need another goblin to study—and fired twice. The two other goblins dropped into the dust like hideous, wilted flowers. He raised the gun and scanned the sky. But the druid was gone. The coward would never face him as a warrior.

He holstered the gun. “Scouts.”

Where they were more would follow. The druid had led the Hoard to his home. He glanced at Eliza, but her eyes were locked on the goblins’ bodies. He’d shared her horror once. Wondered if every scout he killed was Meryn. He’d learned the hard way not to let a scout live. They’d had to fight until they could barely raise a weapon just to survive after Hoard goblins found their camp. Since then they killed every goblin on sight.

Dai retrieved his knife and wiped it clean on the goblin’s clothing. “Do you have to use the gun?”

“It works.”

“It lacks class.”

“So does dying.” Drawing weapons at a funeral would displease any watching god. No doubt that was what Elryion intended. Did the druid still believe the gods would find him innocent and worthy to enter their hall? What would they think of him and all he had done? Would he be damned in every life he lived? An eternity of paying off sins committed while cursed. He glanced back at the goblins. Sometimes being a soulless goblin looked easy.

“You killed them,” Eliza said. Her voice filled with disbelief.

“It was us or them.” Roan took her arm to lead her back to the cave.

She tried to shrug him off. “How do you know that?”

“Because they are goblins.”

Her lips trembled. It was another breath before she responded. “And so are you.”

Roan touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She didn’t move, frozen by his heartless touch.

“Not yet, Eliza.” He cupped her chin.

Her lips were sealed tight, but her eyes were fierce, challenging him to act and prove her right. Magic whipped through his body, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He should remind her who he was and what he could do. Replace her fight with fear. He was the Goblin King.

The man he still wanted to be let her go.

She stared up at him surprised. He turned and stalked away before she could see a similar expression etched on his face.

Eliza was his. Yet he was waiting for permission.

***

The battle swept across grass that shivered and fell as it was trampled beneath the hooves of the horses and feet of the soldiers. Roan watched the dirt become mud weeping with the blood of the Decangli. He knew every move, every thrust, every man who fell. Yet he still summoned the final battle of the Decangli out of the dust time and time again. This was the result of his failure to win enough support to stall the rebellion. On days like today he liked to wallow in the past, wishing he could go back and change it. Kill the traitor before the general found out. Kill the druid…anything to save his people and change their fate.

He’d been forced to watch the rebellion fail the first time, and had watched it fail a thousand more times played out in the dust as he relived the battle that should never have happened. Watched, unable to do anything as his tribe was slaughtered. Summoned by the Roman general, imprisoned in goblin flesh, he couldn’t move until ordered. The orders had made him a slave to Rome.

Bitterness filled his mouth like rancid meat. Seeing the Roman Empire crumble under the feet of invaders had been poor compensation for the theft of their land and lives of his people. He watched on, unable to look away. His sword pierced the ground in front of him. His legs ached from squatting. But the pain meant he was still alive and he would enjoy it a little longer while he could. Did goblins feel pain? Was death the relief he wanted to believe in? Horses shrieked as they fell. Men looked surprised as metal appendages bloomed in their guts. The fortunate ones didn’t have time to realize they were dead.

Roan sensed Eliza’s approach. She stood behind him. He didn’t turn and acknowledge her. The battle was almost over. The remaining few would surrender. Their heads would hang outside the walls until their skulls shone white in the moonlight. Rome would take his home. The military would command where kings had once led.

She sucked in a breath. He supposed the violence was shocking to one who hadn’t lived it, and who didn’t understand the reasons.

“What will happen to the dead goblins?” she whispered as if she were afraid of interrupting the battle.

“The Shadowlands will reclaim them.” Their bodies lay by the river, without life there was no decay. The corpses would remain as fresh as the second they died until the magic stopped working and they turned to dust. No warrior’s flame would take their absent soul.

“You said they were scouts. What were they looking for?”

“Gold,” he glanced over his shoulder, “women.”

Eliza flinched.

Her reaction was almost enough to raise a smile. The Shadowlands wasn’t the realm of nightmares without reason. Existing here was dangerous. Roan turned back to the muck of battle.

“Is it safe to be out?”

“No.”
Go away and leave me to dwell on my past.
“Go back to the caves.”

Her hand settled on his shoulder with no more weight than a butterfly. “Dai said this is the rebellion you tried to stop.”

He shrugged and scowled. He didn’t need her pity. “I tried to stop the battle. The rebellion would have gone on.”

A body rolled to his feet. The eyes were wide open, seeing nothing. Eliza’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

With a thought Roan returned the body to dust. “Then Dai told you about Elryion and the other men.”

“Yes.” Her feet shuffled in the dust. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The once proud warriors of the Decangli laid down their swords before the Roman army. The injured ones were killed. The leaders were tied and taken away. What happened next he didn’t need to see again. He had been ordered to kill his tribesmen by the Roman general as punishment for refusing to yield to Roman rule, and he had been helpless to disobey. The compulsion had torn at his skin and cracked his bones. His body was driven forward while his mind protested, screaming silently as his sword was bloodied with his men’s blood. He’d learned later that the traitor had also died that night, betrayed by the general after revealing the details of the curse. Using the druid’s magic against Roan had been the general’s final act of cruelty. But the legend had spread, and other people had called on the king cursed to be goblin.

Learning to refuse an order given by his summoner had taken time. Each order disobeyed had returned his sanity and hope, and each time he ignored an order he had rewarded himself with a bead, which he’d crafted and added to his hair. Years of disobedience now rattled with every step so he could never forget he was no one’s slave to command.