Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

Through these nights, Bonechisel watched his tribe’s adopted son with increasingly narrowed eyes. A strapping hobgoblin, the aging chieftain was still no match for the young, lumbering Ankhar. The chieftain always wore a green medallion of stone formed from the first talisman of Hiddukel that his wife had discovered, and now he fondled that glowing disk, worrying. His simple mind perceived that the youth was a menace, and no doubt he regretted that he had not taken decisive action when his prospective rival had been but an infant. Now it was too late, at least for a direct confrontation.

Although he was not the most subtle of schemers, Bonechisel began to consider other ways to deal with the hulking hill giant whom most considered his adopted son. He whispered of his wishes to several lesser chieftain, suggesting that great rewards-money, liquor, gob-wenches-might come the way of one who removed the threat from his midst. The hob was not particular: poison, a knife in the back, assault by a bloodthirsty mob, all seemed workable solutions. Unfortunately, he found no takers for his schemes, not even among the most aggressive and ambitious of the sub-lords. Several even looked askance at Bonechisel when he ventured a few hints. More than one of these would-be schemers, it may be assumed, reported the chieftain’s wishes to Laka or to Ankhar himself.

For his part the half-giant foster child was a good-hearted fellow, and avoided politics and other entanglements. He stayed out of Bonechisel’s way out of long-established habit, remembering all too well many a bruising kick, slap, or bite that he had suffered during his younger years. Of late he noticed that the chieftain had ceased to harass him directly, though he saw the brooding glances and observed the surly attitude. Ankhar willingly accepted the hospitality of the other chieftains as he made the rounds of the vast encampment. So it was that he had become known to all of them by the the last night of the great council, when the solstice itself brightened the night. It happened to be a cloudless sky, and the silvery orb of Solinari commanded the heavens and the world.

The bonfire that night was the biggest in the memory of even the oldest gob granny. Trunks of whole pine trees were stacked into an enormous tepee, and when they were ignited the heat was such that the whole circle of watchers could not close to more than three dozen paces away from the base of the fire.

The throng of goblins, hobgoblins, and the odd ogre and draconian filled the valley, with many gathered on the hills that rose to either side of the former mining village. The moon bathed them all in pristine light, and the gobs were so thick on the ground that when they drummed and danced it seemed as though the whole landscape was thrumming with the power of the tribe.

Ankhar mingled with the throng, delighting in the drumming, raising his face and howling at the silver moon as loudly as any of the rest of them. He shook a spear over his head, a weapon he had carved himself from a straight sapling of elm. He had affixed a steel spearhead to the shaft, the hard metal treasure something that he had claimed from one of the villages overwhelmed by Bonechisel’s band. Now his long arm and the even longer staff of wood raised that spearhead high above the rest of the pulsing throng, and the deep bellow emanating from the adolescent hill giant’s chest roared as a steady, basso undertone to the shrill cries of several thousand drunken, frenzied warriors.

Bonechisel emerged from the front door of the large mill house. The hobgoblin was dressed in his ceremonial finest: a stiff shirt of dried bear-hide, with wide shoulder epaulets formed from the blades of captured short swords. His gleaming belt rattled with grisly trophies, a dozen human skulls that dangled from the golden links. His face was painted with white clay, except for circles of shining red around his eyes and his mouth-the crimson of fresh blood, stolen from a captive human child who had been sacrificed minutes before, simply to provide the bright facial paint. In each hand he carried a dagger with a curved blade, and he held these weapons over his head, edges crossed, and roared out a command:

“Hear me, my warriors!”

The chieftain scowled and clashed the blades of his two daggers together as the drumming continued, drowning out his words from all but the nearest of his listeners. These few ceased their dancing, facing Bonechisel in an expectant semicircle-though a few cast envious glances over their shoulders at their still reveling comrades. When the hobgoblin repeated his command, the crowd began to settle. Drums faltered, and more and more of the gobs turned their attention to their leader.

The firelight illuminated Bonechisel as he stood on a high stone porch, well above the crowd. A number of sub-chiefs crowded upon the steps leading up to the platform, jostling to be closest to the exalted one.

Finally the last of the drumming faded away, and the revelry settled to a few isolated whoops, cries, and howls. Ankhar was one of the last to settle down, so that the lofting of his spear and his deep, ululating cry stood out. Bonechisel scowled at his tribe’s adopted son until even Ankhar quieted resentfully.

“My hobs and gobs!” Bonechisel roared. “I have brought you here, a great horde of warriors, and now I will tell you my plans!”

It was at that moment that the impulse came to Ankhar, and he acted without further thought. Later he would wonder if the question he had dared to ask had been inspired by Hiddukel himself.

“Why do you stay in the big house-and we sleep out here, in the rain?” Ankhar roared in a deep bellow, more commanding than any hobgoblin voice.

Bonechisel blinked in surprise and groped for a train of thought. “It has not rained all week!” he protested lamely. The crowd of gobs began to mutter among themselves, some glowering at the young giant, others echoing the question indignantly.

“We should all share the big house,” retorted Ankhar, sensing the majority of the crowd was rumbling in agreement with him. Some instinct caused him to repeat the offending phrase. “The big house!”

“Big house! Big house!” The chant began as a wild whoop by some of the drunken young gobs near Ankhar, but in seconds it spread through the gathering, rising as a chorus, echoing from the surrounding hills.

“Stop!” cried Bonechisel, momentarily taken aback, holding up his hands. The crowd ignored him.

“You-Notch-you stop them!” barked the chieftain, whacking one of his under-chiefs on the side of the head-forgetting that he was still holding the curve-bladed knife.

The stricken Notch recoiled with a howl, clasping a hand to his bleeding ear. The next moment he snarled, lashing out at Bonechisel, who lifted his daggers and tried to step back. The group on the porch behind him, however, blocked his exit.

“Big house!” roared Ankhar again, relishing the squabble. The crowd surged forward, goblins on all sides pressing close, ignoring the hapless few who fell to be trampled underfoot.

The goblins behind Bonechisel were in no mood to expose themselves to Notch’s fury. They pushed back, and the chieftain wobbled precariously at the lip of the porch. The bleeding sub-captain grappled with him while other lieutenants hooted and howled in amusement.

The pair fell together, vanishing into the mass on the wide stone steps. Ankhar could see only a thrashing, chaotic melee, and he pressed forward for a better look. The crowd parted almost magically before him, and he reached the base of the steps. Notch lay dead, bleeding from several deep cuts, but Bonechisel had not escaped the tumble unscathed. To judge from the bloody punctures in his legs and sides, several of his trusted lieutenants must have taken stabs at him as he rolled past them. He gasped, spitting furiously, as he looked up to see the hill giant looming over him.