Waxley the Bold Ch. 02

Waxley leapt from the battlements of the palisade wall to the roof of a nearby home, reloading his crossbow. The bulk of the fighting remained on the ground; most of the goblins bore swords and axes, not bows. They remained in relatively tight groups, some lead by a hobgoblin, others lead by a goblin sergeant. They outnumbered the Warrows two to one, yet the Warrows, thanks to the leadership of such as Alderlin and Dubil, benefited from better organization. Even as they were surrounded, the Warrow volunteers held their spears at the ready, taking advantage of their weapons' greater reach.

Waxley crouched, sighted, fired again and again, and each pull of the trigger resulted in the death of yet another hobgoblin or goblin sergeant, or at least their mortal wounding. His fellow Warrows finished off those not killed outright.

The goblin invaders soon found themselves with a marked lack of leadership, and quickly splintered as they followed their own chaotic agenda. Some barged into homes to ravage or ransack, others sought to set fire to buildings. Still others blindly charged whatever Warrow was closest, seeking immediate glory but finding, usually, only ignonimous death. And here and there, a goblin would topple to the ground, a crimson-feathered crossbow bolt lodged somewhere deep within its body.

All but two of his bolts spent, Waxley leapt to the ground, snatching up the sword of a dead goblin, and joined Lieutenant Alderlin in fending off a determined pack of goblins.

"Where's the Captain?" cried Waxley, dodging one blow and landing one of his own.

"I don't know!" growled Alderlin, running a goblin through and grinning as it twitched and howled on the end of his blade. With a vicious swipe, he crashed his buckler against the goblin's face, knocking it backward and freeing his sword. "I lost track of him when the battle started!"

"Hela's breath!" cursed Waxley. "He's the one! He's the Master!"

"What?" cried Alderlin, slashing open a convenient goblin throat. He and Waxley fought with their backs to one another. "That's daft!"

"Just trust me, Alderlin!" yelled Waxley, jabbing at a howling goblin. It stumbled back, blood spurting from beneath its armpit. Waxley finished the unfortunate attacker off with a slash across the gibberling's face. "Every time there's been an attack, where has the Captain been?"

"But -- last night! It attacked him!"

"It was in his home, yes," said Waxley. "But didn't Wills escape? And how did it get in his home, if he did not bring it there?"

"Idunn's sweet!" exclaimed Alderlin. "I cannot believe it! But why would Wills want to attack the village?"

"I do not know, yet," grunted Waxley, beating back another goblin. Beside him, Alderlin pivoted, lunged, and nearly severed the head of the goblin that threatened Waxley with a deadly thrust.

Their attackers momentarily beaten back, Waxley and Alderlin regarded each other. Six goblins lay about Alderlin's feet; three by Waxley.

"Best stick to your crossbow, lad," said Alderlin.

Waxley chuckled. "I'll find Wills," he said. "Gather the others!"

Leaving Alderlin in the village circle, Waxley charged up the hill toward Captain Wills' home. A group of goblins were busy trying to alternately slay a pair of Warrow constables and rip the bodice off a screaming Warrow madchen. With the most blood-curdling cry he could muster, Waxley hurled himself toward them, heedless of his own safety. The goblin sword flew from his hands and clattered across the ground. His attack caught two of them off-guard; one, interrupted in his attempted ravaging of the madchen, screamed shrilly as it found a constable's sword blade erupt violently through its chest. The other staggered back, swinging blindly at Waxley, yet succeeding only in catching its blade in the wooden wall of Captain Wills' home.

Bereft of weapon, Waxley attacked with the only means he had left: his fists. With surprising strength, he pummeled the goblin square in the nose, making the gibbering creature fall back and strike its head against the house. It slumped to the ground.

"My thanks," snarled Waxley, jerking the goblin's curved and jagged sword from the wall. He stepped over the comatose body, letting the two constables deal with the remaining goblins.

With a dramatic kick, Waxley crashed open the door to Wills' home, holding the goblin sword in both hands. "Wills!" he cried valiantly. "I know it is you!"

The Wills home, still in a state of disarray following the previous evening's attack by the badger, was relatively empty. Yet the open doorway to the back room revealed a glimpse of Captain Wills, laying upon the floor, blood trickling from his forehead.

Frowning in consternation, Waxley approached slowly, still holding the goblin sword in both hands. Wills lay beside a large desk; the chair lay splintered and on its side. A leather-bound journal was open on the desk. No one – or no thing – else was in the room.

"Get up, Wills," growled Waxley, nudging the captain with his foot. But Wills did not budge, although his slowly rising and falling back indicated he was still breathing, still alive. Then Waxley noticed the journal. Keeping one eye on the Captain, Waxley glanced down to the revealed page. It was the most recent entry, written by a young hand:

"I've had it. 'Tis bad enough I've had to live in father's shadow, to have him talk down upon me. Now, I have to be compared to Waxley. Why did he have to do this? He was my friend! How could he betray me like this? I could have shown him real power, the power of nature, of true vengeance and strength! Well, it is no matter. I've decided. The attack will come today. Crawley's Crossing will burn, and I'll be the King of the Goblins!"

Waxley stared, dumbfounded, at the passage. He flipped quickly to the front, already knowing what he would find. Yet there, physical proof lay in a single sentence: "Journal of Calo Wills."

Calo, thought Waxley, squeezing his eyes shut. No. How could it be you?

Gathering up the journal, Waxley stepped back out into the Wills family living room. As he did so, the two constables, both wounded yet still serviceable, looked at him with tired grins.

"They've been driven back, Waxley!" one of them gasped. "The goblins are retreating!"

Grimly, as if heedless of the constables' words, Waxley pushed past them and strode purposefully down the hill. Lieutenant Alderlin stood at the head of a circle of Warrows, perhaps thirty in number, who watched as the remaining goblin force retreated through the shattered gate. Cries of victory and elation filled the air. But Alderlin remained grim-faced, and looked to Waxley as the hero approached.

"What happened?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"I was wrong," said Waxley, holding up the journal. "It's not the Captain. It's Calo."

*

The battle had taken its toll. Nineteen Warrows had lost their lives, including three women. But nearly thrice that number in enemies had fallen, which served as some measure of satisfaction for the village. Goblin, hobgoblin, and worg bodies were dragged out of the gates and piled up near the edge of the stream and set ablaze with oil and torches. As the remaining few constables and the rest of the volunteer army worked hastily to repair the smashed western gate, and stood vigilant upon the walls, Waxley, Lieutenant Alderlin, and Captain Wills were gathered in the constables' office, the journal of Calo Wills before them.

"How long have you known?" asked Waxley, standing over the Captain.

Wills stared numbly at the journal. "He started learning from his mother when he was just seven," he said. "No one knew she followed the druidic arts, and no one – especially me – knew how dark her heart truly was. She twisted Calo, made him devious, taught him her dark magicks while bidding him to conceal his true nature from those around him."

"But . . . Emberly died, years ago," said Alderlin. "Mauled by a . . . oh, no. Wotan's fist."

Wills nodded. "Killed by the selfsame dire badger that Calo now controls. I didn't want to believe it, I wanted to think it was all coincidence, but . . . In my heart, I knew."

"Yet you told no one," said Waxley, angry.

Wills lifted his tortured face. "Who was I to tell? I am the captain of the constabulary!"

"But not the voice of the village!" said Waxley. "You should have told the burgomeister!"

"And he might have withdrawn my commission!" snapped Wills, hammering his fist upon the table.

"So you protected Calo out of selfishness," said Waxley acidly.

Wills' glaring, trembling eyes remained on Waxley for a moment longer before turning away. The truth stung in his heart.

"Where is Calo now?" asked Alderlin in a more controlled tone.

Wills shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"I do," said Waxley, picking up his crossbow.

Both Wills and Alderlin looked after the hero as he headed for the door.

"Where is he, then?" asked Alderlin.

"At the ruins," said Waxley. "At the goblin camp."

Wills nodded, suddenly understanding. "That's where his mother was killed," he said.

"You'll need help," said Alderlin, rising. He looked down to Captain Wills, a pained expression on his face. "Sir, I hate to do this, but--"

"I know," said the Captain. He stood and jerked the badge from his best, let it clatter across the table. It came to rest upon his son's journal. He looked first to his lieutenant, then to Waxley. "I resign," he said.

"I'll, uh, need you to remain under house arrest," said Alderlin.

Wills nodded, grinding his teeth. He headed for the door, where two constables awaited him, and paused as he opened it. He gave Waxley a meaningful look.

"When it comes time," he said. "Make it quick, if you can."

Feeling somewhat admonished, Waxley nodded. Wills gripped Alderlin's arm before he was escorted back to his home by the two constables who waited out front. With a pause, he looked back, eyes shaking. "He's my son."

"He was my friend," said Waxley.

"Then I don't envy either of us," said Wills. Then he departed.

Waxley and Alderlin both remained in silence as Wills was escorted away in shame. Alderlin adjusted his belt. "We'll need to get some supplies," he said. "You need a sword, we both need some bolts."

"Are you sure you want to come along?" asked Waxley.

Alderlin grinned. "You're the hero," he said. "But I'm the Captain, now. And I've more years under my belt than you. Let's go, before those Hel-cursed gibberlings have a chance to nurse their wounds."

"Calo will be waiting," said Waxley.

Alderlin nodded. "Aye, that he will. We'd best not disappoint him."

*

Two war dogs had been saddled for Waxley and Captain Alderlin, waited for them within the village circle. They were strong, stout beasts, with thick, wrinkled beige hides and fleshy faces. They gnawed on their bits and excitedly wagged their cropped tails. They, and the villagers, were ominously silent as Waxley and Alderlin approached; the entire village had become privy to the basic circumstances of what had happened with Wills, how his son Calo had betrayed the village, how Wills had tried to cover it up.

A sense of somberness hung over the village as hero and captain climbed atop their mounts. Both were positively bristling with weapons, the best products of Modsognir steel the village could afford: shortswords at hips, knives in their boots, bolts across their backs. Alderlin polished his buckler, wiping away a last tiny spot of goblin blood.

With a furtive expression, Corabell approached Waxley's mount. She held a small, dark blue handkerchief in her hands. "I want you to wear this," she said, fighting back tears. "And I want you to bring it back." She sniffed. "It's . . . my favorite."

Waxley accepted the token, then eased over in the saddle to give Corabell a longing, deep kiss. He straightened, and she stepped back, tears trickling down her face.

Next to step forth was the village apothecary, a rotund, cherry-nosed fellow with a kindly face and small eyes. He held a small wooden case in his hand, and opened it as he offered it to Captain Alderlin. "Healing draughts," he said proudly. "Not my own making, but purchased from a Priest of Wotan in Heimdall. I figured you might be needing these."

Alderlin accepted the gift with a nod, and set the box in his lap. "My thanks," he said.

Waxley smiled at the gesture, also gave the apothecary a nod of thanks. Then he noticed members of the crowd step aside as his father approached, a stern look upon his face. He stopped beside Waxley's mount, looking up at his son.

"I won't lie to you, son," he said. "I'm none too happy about this. But your actions against the goblins . . . Well . . ." he pursed his lips, face glowing suddenly with emotion. "I'm damn proud of you, lad! Damn proud!"

Waxley smiled, reached down and gripped his father's hand. The elder Paddins shook it fiercely, eyes swelling with tears, then took a deep breath. "Never forget who you are, Waxley," he said. "And who Calo was."

"Never," promised Waxley, shaking his head.

"Hail the heroes!" someone cried. "Hail Waxley the Bold and Captain Alderlin!"

"Hail the heroes!" came the response.

With a nod to each other, Waxley and Alderlin spurred their mounts forward, riding through the rickety remains of the gate as it was opened for them. At the battlements, Brandy looked down upon his friend, as he stood proud with spear in hand. Waxley paused a moment, smiling up at his friend.

"Sad business, eh?" said Brandy.

"I wish it weren't so," responded Waxley.

"Ale's on you when you get back, right?" asked Brandy.

Waxley managed a genuine smile. "I'll buy the whole keg," he said, then followed Alderlin into the forest.

***

No one knew exactly what the ruins within Bogarty Wood once were; some claimed they were a shrine to some ancient, long-dead giant god, or perhaps a safe haven for the Races during the Age of Chaos. During the nearly three thousand years since the end of that era, the once-great structure had degenerated into a scattering of toppled stone slabs, columns overgrown with moss and vines, and a single, sunken, domed structure with only half of its roof intact. The doorway to the place was gigantic, five times the height of a Warrow; the doors themselves had long ago become rubble. Within, a great circular chamber lay, with obscured and cracked designs of some ancient arcane language upon the floor. In recesses along the wall stood statues more than ten feet tall, most of them defaced by millennia of looting and infestation by such creatures as goblins.

Within this massive chamber knelt a single figure, black cloak hanging off his shoulders, hood pulled back. He was a young Warrow, with short, thick curls framing a round, boyish face. Yet the look in his dark eyes was not one of innocence; it was one of malevolence. He gazed upon the polished skull he held in his hands, smoothing his fingers over its polished contours.

"Oh, mother," he sighed. "Why did you have to be taken from me? Why did I have to do it?"

Calo Wills closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. But one escaped and fell down his cheek.

"Well, they will pay," he said. "For their righteousness, their feigned superiority . . . They will pay, all of them. They will learn that there is neither good nor evil in the world, that there is only the law of nature. The brutal, final law of nature. Idunn will see to that. Through me, she shall prove it to these . . . These 'civilized' barbarians who would disturb Idunn's natural way."

For several long moments, Calo remained as he was, weeping silently, caressing the skull of his mother. Then, finally, he rose, carrying the skull with him toward the gaping doorway. Stepping out into the cool night air, he looked over the sorry remnants of his goblin army. He had never thought that his overwhelming force could be driven back, but . . . Damn that Waxley! Nearly all of his lieutenants had fallen to the hero, now using some new crossbow that was even more deadly than Riley's. Thanks to him, and to the uncommon valor of the volunteers of Crawley's Crossing's militia, all he had left were a bunch of sad, chaotic goblins, with no leaders save one.

"Shargon," said Calo, beckoning to the lone hobgoblin that remained. Now the captain of Calo's forces, Shargon responded quickly, getting to his feet at the Master's call. He towered expectantly before the figure that stood at half his height.

"I am expecting some . . . Guests tonight," said Calo in the goblin tongue. "See that they are greeted properly."

Shargon grinned. "Can we eats them?" he asked, showing cracked, yellow teeth.

Calo glared. "Bring them to me, alive," he said. Shargon's face registered disappointment.

Calo turned away, heading back inside. He paused at the entrance. "Once I'm done," he said. "You may deal with them as you wish."

Shargon grinned again, nodded. He headed back to the goblins, visions of halfling shish-kebobs dancing in his head.

*

Waxley and Alderlin lay upon their bellies atop a grass-covered knoll, looking down upon the ruins that lay at the extreme edge of crossbow range. Even from such a distance, however, goblins could be seen moving about. The marble columns, remnants of the giants whom some said were imprisoned within the stone, looked pale blue in the waning light. Campfires burned here and there, with crude tents pitched around them. Beyond the camp, ringed by cracked and weathered columns sporting moss and vines, could be seen the massive marble dome of an ancient structure . . . a shrine of some sort to long-dead gods, or perhaps a giant king's audience hall.

Alderlin narrowed his eyes, chuckling as he caught sight of the lone hobgoblin amongst the enemy. "I know that one," he said with a grin. "His name's Shargon. If he's Calo's second-in-command now, then our work will be easier. He's a moron, more so than most of his kind."

Waxley looked to the new captain questioningly. "How do you know him?"

"Lad, I've been hunting goblins for a decade now. I've come to appreciate the value of studying the enemy. Sometimes, I'll venture through the forest, just to watch goblins and others of the Savage Races as they work and live. It can be quite entertaining sometimes."

Waxley chuckled, suddenly impressed with Alderlin. "I'm sure," he said.

"They still number almost thirty," said Alderlin. "Regardless of your accuracy, and my skill at arms, we could never defeat so many in a direct assault."

"We need to lure them out, then," said Waxley. "Or sneak in. One or the other."

"Why either one?" asked Alderlin with a sudden grin. "We could do both."

Waxley glanced to the newly-promoted Captain. "What are you thinking?"

Alderlin stared at the goblin camp. "You have stealth, I have skill," he said. "I could lure out the goblins, giving you a chance to sneak in. If you can catch Calo unawares, perhaps we can put an end to this right away."

"That's quite a chance," said Waxley.

"Aye, but chance makes glory."

Waxley glanced to Corabell's midnight-blue handkerchief, which he had strapped around his left arm. "And death," he said ominously.

"Aye, that, too," agreed Alderlin, then chuckled grimly. "No one ever said this job was easy . . . ."

*

The goblins sat about, tired yet still restless. Their failure to take the Warrow village weighed heavily upon them; the Master was not pleased. But more so than the Master's disappointment, the goblins felt their failure in the eyes of Maglubyet, the goblin god; perhaps he had cursed them to fail since they followed a Warrow betrayer, rather than one of their own.

Already, the undercurrents of dissention were beginning to grow stronger. Baleful goblin eyes would peer narrowly back toward the domed structure which their Master had claimed as his home; hushed, gibbering voices whispered of possible revolution against him. At least, he was but one Warrow, and his death, they reasoned, might very well appease all-mighty Maglubyet.