FANTASY ADVENTURE HUMOUR
Werner and the Goblin Queen
An adventure reluctantly embarked upon goes even more poorly than expected
If you’ve read any of my other private memoirs, you’ll know that my desperate reputation derives more from unwilling proximity to danger than genuine heroism. I prefer to earn my livelihood through less hazardous employment, like tracking down errant spouses or acting as bodyguards for various dignitaries —although gods help them if any actual danger arises.
This notwithstanding, I’ve had more than my share of monsters, human and otherwise, try to send me to my long home in painful, bloody ways, and more often than not these adventures have sprung from the lure of a gold coin or a well-rounded backside. Greed and lust are treacherous mistresses, if sometimes rewarding.
The exploit I relate below, however, was no product of my own weakness, and I’m uncommonly proud of that.
Morts Ford is not a cosmopolitan city. We have our share of those born or bought into the noble classes, but they’re generally either of the lower-tier families or the embarrassing spawn of the finer clans, banished to the provinces for pissing in too many punchbowls. That’s why whenever a genuine nob pays a visit, everyone dusts off their sashes and ballgowns and prepares for an evening of gluttony and fawning.
In the year of my story, it was the Earl and Marquess of Flenna making a stop in the city as part of an unenthusiastic tour of their nearby holdings, a vast useless tract of empty rock and scrub known as the Barrens. There had once been a tin mine but it had been exhausted a century earlier, and the Earl now visited once every few years to reassert ownership in the unlikely event that anything of value was ever discovered on the land.
The expedition consisted principally of the Flenna and their retinue marching into the wasteland blowing horns and shouting “Dominion!” before retreating to more comfortable demesnes. Staying longer would have been pointless at best and perhaps dangerous at worst. Although the area was notionally occupied only by a few wild goats, travellers had been known to vanish there, and stories spoke of wild men and beasts who would devour the unwary. Even a large, well-armed party like that of the Earl would look over their shoulders after sundown.
Morts Ford was a leisurely day’s ride from the old mine, and while lacking the decaying elegance of the old Imperial capital of Sternburh where they resided, the Mayor’s palace was large enough for the Flenna and their entourage, and preferable to a tent on a wind-swept moor.
The ball itself was not just to celebrate the arrival of our betters, but also to present them with a gift. While artifacts of value or interest were rarely found in Morts Ford, some months earlier workers digging a privy had unearthed a broadsword in the old Imperial style.
The sword was of a unique curved design, jewel-encrusted and gilded in gold. The blade bore an inscription similar to Elvish but untranslatable by the house Fae who lurked around our upper crust. Inexplicably the weapon wasn’t purloined and melted down for sale, and scholars determined from the rubble where it was found that it had belonged to some ancient Flenna, from the time when they were ferocious warlords ruling the area with whip and sword on behalf of the Emperor.
The present Earl was a fop who wouldn’t have recognized a sword if it were stuck up his backside, but he was influential at court. And even though Morts Ford was a Free City, there were sound reasons to curry his favour, and so it was decided that the sword would be presented to him at the ball.
At the time I had recently survived a terrifying but lucrative encounter with some mad Fae (see Werner and the Fae) and was not seeking immediate employment. I have always been at my happiest boozing, lounging, and testing the virtues of the local talent. However, I listened when the lovely Ceallach approached me with an offer of work as I quaffed ale at her tavern The Crying Man. Unlike me, Ceallach is a true warrior, and apart from her landlord duties, she runs a profitable agency hiring out thugs and mercenaries.
I’d learned respect for her when she first arrived in Morts Ford. Believing no woman immune to my charms, I let a hand wander, provoking a devastating punch to the codpiece that left me on the floor puking. Since that early misunderstanding we’d become friends, and trusted each other, in our way. She and her hoodlums had in fact saved my life during my most recent adventure, and while such debts generally stir up resentment in me, to my surprise the event actually increased my wary affection for the lass.
She sat down at my table, shooing away the barflies and wenches that gold attracts. “Werner! Most gracious of you to settle your tab.”
I spread my arms wide and grinned. “Have I ever disappointed you? You’re always the first one I pay.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A wise choice, if you wish to keep drinking. In any case, I may have some work for you.”
I prepared to decline. “Well, flattered as I am…”
“Hear me out, Werner. A single night’s work, twenty silver, a free meal, and a ballroom full of drunk society ladies.”
“Go on.”
“The Mayor’s Palace has asked me…” She tossed her long red hair in a fetching gesture. “To arrange some security for the Flenna ball. While normally I would use my own people, not all of them are the sort who would be suitable to attend our visiting nobility.”
I laughed. “I was born in a tavern with filthier floors than this one.”
“But you know how to speak like the fancy, and you have a way with people. Plus your reputation as a fighter is known even by the Palace.”
There is no currency like reputation, I thought, even if undeserved. “So you need me. Thirty silver, and a steak dinner.”
“Twenty-five, and a roast chicken.”
I paused, considering.
She smiled. “Without me, you’d be in Pauper’s Field with an elvish arrow through your skull.”
“Done.”
The Ball
So I found myself two weeks later at the entrance to the Palace Ballroom, looking stalwart as I made curt bows to the arriving upper crust of Morts Ford. Most were rich merchants, along with a few nobles from provincial families in decline. Anticipating no real danger, I eschewed heavy chain mail in favour of a padded leather vest and cloak with a silver clasp, with a sword in my scabbard for appearances and a dagger tucked in my boot for emergencies. The latter choice would prove fortuitous.
The evening began smoothly. Ceallach had found three other hooligans whom she deemed sufficiently civilized to work the event, and when the guests had been seated she posted one of us by each of the four ballroom doors. She moved through the crowd, keeping an eye out for any trouble.
Also on hand were a dozen of the Mayor’s Guard, the feckless scions of wealthy families, who trained mostly at the tavern and all called themselves Captain. They were dressed in elegant uniforms of green and gold, topped with tall green hats which gave them the appearance of well-maintained shrubberies. Their blades were shiny pieces of scrap that would have snapped off if tested against a carving knife. Their principal role was to carry the broadsword — now dubbed the Flenna Sword — to the dais for presentation to the Earl.
Things went smoothly for the first two hours. I’d downed several cups of wine, and was exchanging flirtatious glances with a dark-haired charmer whose elderly companion appeared to have fallen asleep at their table. I doubted anyone would notice if I left my post to engage the poor abandoned girl in conversation.
My bladder was full, however, and I deemed it wise to make my way to the privy first so that I might focus my fullest attention on the lonely young woman. While the hired help like myself would normally be expected to relieve ourselves in the bushes or simply endure discomfort, the grandeur of this event meant outhouses had been provided beside the hall for us to use.
The privies were inelegant, to be sure, simple wooden boxes over top of a hole in the ground, but they provided some degree of privacy and ensured that the visiting aristocrats weren’t exposed to the poxed-up nether regions of the serving classes.
I was in an outhouse, sighing as I discharged into the darkness, when I heard the sound coming from the bushes outside. That awful, gut-wrenching, bowel-loosening sound.
The Goblins
Allow me to provide some background.
During the cursed Ducal wars, I was a reluctant soldier in the army of the false Duke Koerner — may he rot in Hel — fighting the Emperor’s men in the wild valleys on the western border. For my sins and naivete, I was posted to the shitshow that was the Tromentine Forest.
The campaign was a farce. Both armies blundered their way through the dense bush for weeks, encountering each other just once in a pointless battle, after which both vacated the field and left it to its original inhabitants.
The goblins.
Apart from the meaningless clash which signalled the end of the campaign, the two armies rarely crossed swords. Nevertheless, both sides soon found that men were vanishing without a trace while patrolling the woods, and even from their own tents.
At first, the disappearances were attributed to desertion. With the entire exercise a debacle lacking any visible strategy, and which saw hundreds of men keeling over from fevers or falling off cliffs and into frigid rivers, there were ample reasons to make an unsanctioned exit. I would have done so myself had it not been for the certainty of a slow and painful execution if caught. But many of the supposed deserters had left most of their gear behind, taking not even a canteen or a blanket.
Whispers passed through the camp that the disappearances were the work of goblins. These were an almost mythological race of small, vicious, creatures rumoured to live underground in regions too inhospitable for humans or Fae. They were also said to be eaters of human flesh.
The stories were soon confirmed, when a patrol heard strange chittering noises, as of giant insects, coming from a hillside near camp.
They followed the sound to a cave hidden under thick brush, where the bravest among them took torches and ventured inside. The sound stopped abruptly as the soldiers entered. Some twenty yards in, they found the embers of a fire, beside which several of their missing comrades had been strung up like cattle and drained of blood, some with heads or limbs removed.
The soldiers barely had time to assess the horror of the scene, when the clicking sound began again from the back of the cave, much louder this time. The men looked toward the noise to see a pack of hideous creatures rapidly approaching.
The sole survivor of the cave described them as the size of a twelve-year-old child, with pebbled blue-gray skin, long crooked limbs, and oversized ears and nose. That he observed all this with several dozen of the monsters racing towards him, firing poison darts from their blowguns, is truly commendable.
While I never saw any goblins in the Tromentine, I was privileged to hear their peculiar skittering speech coming from the forest on more than one occasion. Those nights my comrades and I tripled the guard and slept in full armour.
The Raid
Thus it was that when I heard the hideous, unmistakable sound of goblin speech I knew precisely what to do. My unwanted experience had taught me that while these demon imps were deadly, stealth was their weapon of choice, and they wouldn’t attack large groups of humans unless trapped. So while I had no idea what the goblins might be doing here, it seemed that the safest place would be the guarded, well-lit ballroom.
I opened the door cautiously. The chittering had stopped. I peered out and saw nothing obviously amiss between me and the manor door some thirty yards away. Perhaps the sounds had been insects or animals, magnified by my coward’s imagination.
I had taken perhaps three steps when I heard a “thunk” and saw the Mayor’s Guard standing to the right of the entrance collapse, followed immediately by his comrade on the other side. Still more discouraging was the flood of small grey figures emerging from holes in the ground and racing towards the doors, screeching madly while waving axes and blowguns.
As I contemplated my sworn, silver-bought duty to defend the palace, I noted that my instincts had already turned me back towards the relative safety of the shithouse walls. I flung myself inside with a single mighty leap, and learned that such structures are not designed to withstand the impact of a two-hundred-pound man travelling at high speed. I crashed through the floorboards and fell to the bottom of the pit below.
It wasn’t the first time I’d found myself knee-deep in shit, but it was the first time that it had been so literal. Fortunately, I landed on my feet, and I thanked the gods that I’d spent the extra silver to buy a decent pair of boots. However, if my adventures have taught me anything, it’s that no situation is so bad it can’t get worse.
My eyes hadn’t even had time to adjust to the darkness when I realized that there was light coming from both sides of the hole into which I’d fallen, and sounds emanating from these gaps. The sounds, unhappily, were goblin talk. I heard some rapid skittering speech, with one distinctly commanding voice rising above the others, before I felt a “thump” and everything went dark.
To make the story easier for you to grasp than it was for me, I’ll provide some background that I didn’t learn until later. The blueskins had launched an unprecedented surprise assault on the ball, in aid of stealing the Flenna sword, for reasons which will become apparent shortly.
The surprise was absolute, especially since most people were unaware that goblins even existed. They eliminated the unfortunately distinguishable Mayor’s Guard immediately on entering, while the attendant nobs shrieked and ran for cover.
Ceallach was cool and capable as ever, and had prepared for even such an unlikely event as a goblin raid. She and her people — apart from me, of course — pulled shields and crossbows from hidden niches and calmly picked off Goblins one by one, while a couple of her troopers who’d been masquerading as guests shepherded the aristos and lesser civilians towards a back room.
The blueskins were damned professional for a race that I’d believed to be little more than upright cave rats. With the ballroom clear, the first wave formed a perimeter around the case which held the Flenna sword. Then one bold fellow dashed in and grabbed the sword, thrust it into a scabbard strapped to his back and ran back towards the entrance, followed by his colleagues. The whole raid took perhaps five minutes at most.
While all this was happening, my semi-conscious form was being dragged through what I recall as a maze of tunnels and then a long sojourn over a dark and desolate plain. At some point I passed out completely, coming to in a spacious underground cavern, with my arms and legs tied to two large poles. Still more disheartening, I was surrounded by a mob of snarling blue homunculi, presumably all salivating at the prospect of a juicy Werner haunch or butt cheek.
As I contemplated my imminent translation into goblin shit, a loud voice shouted over top of the din, the same one I’d heard immediately before I was knocked out. It was a voice clearly accustomed to command.
There was immediate silence in the cavern. The crowd of blueskins in front of me parted, and a figure strode forward, flanked by two uncommonly large and ugly goblins armed with spears.
Even in my reduced state, my instincts didn’t fail me, and I quickly observed that said figure was readily identifiable as a female, and an intriguing one at that. She was larger than her minions, easily as tall as most human women, and apart from a blue-grey tint to her complexion, more human than goblin in appearance. She wore a sarong around her waist, above which she was clad only in warpaint and a string of necklaces that did little to hide the bounty that nature had bestowed upon her. Unlike most of the blueskins, she carried a sword in a scabbard instead of a blowgun and axe, and she had several daggers hanging from a belt.
The Queen — for there was no doubt who she was — stood for several seconds in silence, examining me up and down from barely a hand’s breadth away. I thanked the gods that the goblins hadn’t stripped me down, as her attentions and innate comeliness were creating a visible reaction below my belt. I hoped if she noticed it would be perceived as the compliment it surely was.
“You are Werner”, she said.
I was shocked, both that she spoke the common language and that she knew who I was.
“Yes...”
One of the friendly lads poked me with a spear and chittered loudly.
“You will address me as Your Majesty,” she said. “I am Queen Versana.”
Bootlicking royalty, especially armed royalty, is a specialty of mine. I bobbed my head to indicate vigorous assent with this instruction and any that might follow.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am Werner. It is a great honour to make Your Majesty’s acquaintance, even under such difficult circumstances, and may I say that I am flattered indeed that my small fame has reached the ears of one so exalted…”
The Queen interrupted me. “You would do well to stop babbling.” Her eyes were hard. “You are here for a purpose, but I have no doubt we could find some less excitable warrior.”
Never let it be said that Werner can’t take a hint, particularly when confronted with a barbarian monarch and her slavering host.
“No doubt, ma’am. Er, Your Majesty.”
“You will join me in my council chambers.”
She gestured to her guards and spat out something in Goblin before striding away.
The Queen
Shortly thereafter, I was ushered into a smaller room off of the large cavern. The guards had untied me from the poles, but chained my hands behind my back with some ancient iron manacles. I shuffled in, prodded by my escorts, and saw Queen Versana on a platform in the centre of the room, seated on a throne some nine feet high. The throne was intricately carved from dark wood and festooned with skulls of various types, including some which were unmistakeably human. The guards led me close, then gestured at me to stop.
Her Majesty fixed me with an inscrutable stare, and I wondered if I was only breathing because I’d been reserved for the royal stewpot. The notion, while flattering, provided surprisingly little comfort.
Versana barked in Goblin, and the guards bowed and backed out of the room, leaving us alone. She lifted herself from the throne and came to stand directly in front of me, still with that perplexing, emotionless gaze. She looked me up and down, slowly.
“You will be wondering why we have brought you here.”
“No doubt you have excellent reasons, your majesty…” I began to babble.
“Please shut up.”
I grinned wanly.
“We had not planned on taking you, but when my people found you cowering in the cesspool…”
“Not cowering, Your Majesty, I had fallen in while attempting to defend…”
She put her hand on the hilt of one of the daggers in her belt. “If your tongue wags once more, I swear I will tear it from your mouth.”
Goblin queens are made of starker stuff than our own effete nobility, I thought, nodding in terrified acknowledgement.
She began to pace in front of me.
“When we found you, it seemed an opportunity to take two heads with one spear. You don’t see us but we have eyes everywhere. Our informants in the human city had given us intelligence on all the guards who would be at your ball. The fools in the green hats were of no consequence, but we knew that the red-haired woman and her people would be dangerous, so we planned a rapid entrance and exit.
“Werner, we had heard, was a practiced and capable warrior, to be neutralized or avoided. Our observation of your behaviour has not borne out this description, but who knows.”
I attempted to look simultaneously fierce and harmless.
“Do you know why we took such great risks in this raid?”
I shook my head, wondering if she was trying to trick me into speaking as an excuse to take my tongue.
“What you call the Flenna sword is rightfully ours. You call us goblins, but our true name is the …” she said, spitting out a flood of clicking, buzzing gibberish.
“In your language, that means “The True People”, for so we are. A thousand years ago all this land belonged to us, from the great barrens of the north to the hot spice islands in the far south. We were a proud nation then, until the Fae and the humans came and slaughtered us.
“That sword is a relic of that glorious age. It was crafted for the Conqueror King known to your people as Darsek. He held back the tides of the human scum for a generation, until he was captured by treachery and slain by cowards. The sword was ripped from him and displayed around the human kingdoms, along with his head, as a trophy.”
I shook my head in what I hoped was a disapproving fashion. “Treachery, you say? Foul play, not my sort of thing at all…”
“Shut up.” She stroked the hilt of her dagger and I fell silent.
“After the Conqueror was murdered, the humans and Fae joined forces and drove the True People to the empty lands, too hot or cold or rocky for your races. We dug our caverns and waited.
“My people believe that when the lost sword is recovered, we will rise up in power and recover the lands that were taken from us. We have it now, and we will never return it.”
I pondered this. The uncle who raised me had told bedtime stories of a monster named Darlek who would eat misbehaving children, but I’d never heard of a war between humans and goblins.
Versana continued. “One of the reasons I’ve brought you here is because we need someone to convey a message back to the humans, and we have learned that they will kill any of our people on sight.
“This is the message you will take to them. We will never return the sacred sword. It is ours and will always be. However, we do not wish to have a human army in our lands again, not yet anyway. We will deliver twenty thousand silver to Morts Ford in compensation for the useless fools who we had to slay in our raid. In return, no one must seek us out.”
Perhaps I’m a cynic, but it seemed to me that between our own mayor and the Flenna, this offer would be gladly accepted. Gala balls don’t come cheap.
The queen paused and looked at me, seemingly waiting for a response. I took the chance and spoke, measuring my words carefully.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I will be honoured to carry your message.” Or any message that would get me out of this dank, pestilent hellhole before I became an appetizer for the royal court.
She nodded. “Yes, you will. And should you betray us, or fail to deliver the words exactly as I say, I assure you that our darts will find you.
“There are some in my own court who would prefer to see you killed, rather than send you back with a negotiation that they see as a sign of weakness. I have overruled them, but I tell you this so that you do not think you are somehow necessary.”
I judged that the time was not right for further fawning and simply nodded.
“There is a second reason you are still alive, which will be made clear presently.”
She called out in Goblin, and the two guards re-entered the throne room. They grabbed me and took me out to a small chamber nearby, which contained a child-sized cot and several buckets of water. The larger and uglier of the two unshackled me while the other held his spear to my throat. He motioned at the shreds of shit-stained clothing I still wore, indicating that I should remove them. I did so, using some minor sleight of hand learned in my misspent youth to palm the dagger from my boot scabbard and drop it in the boot proper, where it was less likely to be found.
When I was stripped, one guard picked up buckets of cold water that had been waiting and threw them on me, while the second scoured my skin with a rough brush on a six-foot pole. When they assessed me sufficiently cleansed, they tossed a robe at my feet and gestured that I should put it on. I donned the robe — and a surprisingly comfortable thing it was, made of some sort of fur — and my captors led me out and back through the main throne chamber to a door hidden behind the throne platform.
One of the goblins knocked on the door and Versana replied from the other side. The guards opened the door and led me inside, both of them bearing an almost human smirk on their monstrous faces. I wondered if they were anticipating my imminent horrible death, as I could think of little else that might amuse a goblin.
The chamber was much larger than the closet in which I’d been bathed, and well-appointed with a large covered bed, couch, dressing table, and multiple mirrors. The furniture looked antique to my eyes, decorated in designs from the old Imperial days, and the fabrics were rich velvets, silks, and satin. My knave’s eye noted an open box on the dressing table, within which could be seen the glint of gold and gems.
Versana had changed from her sarong and war paint into a robe similar to my own but lined with purple trim. She spoke again, and the pair bowed and exited, shutting the door behind them.
“I have said there is another reason you were brought here.” She paused. “You may have noted that I am different from most of the People.”
I had indeed. While I understood that there were both male and female goblins, from what I’d seen thus far they were uniformly misshapen and ugly, with little to distinguish between them. Still, I supposed they found each other appealing enough to keep their numbers up, which was all that mattered.
Versana, in contrast, was tall and well-formed, at least as I considered such things, with an admirable upper carriage, slim waist, and muscular legs. Apart from the bluish tint to her skin and penchant for cannibalism, she could have passed muster in Morts Ford high society, and even the cannibalism would have been forgiven if she had a decent income.
Versana continued. “The reason for the distinction is that my grandfather was not of the True People, but human, a soldier like you whom we kidnapped from his camp. Every two generations we bring human blood into the royal line. We do this not because we believe you to be superior, as you clearly are not, but to ensure that we do not fall prey to the inbreeding that has had such an obvious and unfortunate effect on your own nobility.” She said the last word with a sneer.
I thought of the Earl of Flenna, and couldn’t disagree.
“You are a fighter of some reputation, and of suitable size. You will father the heir to the throne of the True People.”
My mind raced, and I assessed the advantages of this surprising development. Most obvious of the benefits was that it would keep me alive in the event the plan to use me as courier went awry. A close second was that I would be bedding this captivating wench, who if somewhat rough around the edges was still royalty, and who gave every impression that she would be worthy company on the mattress. Finally, if I refused the lady, I conceived that her fiery temperament could lead her to abandon the Werner as messenger plan in favour of simply slitting my throat and serving me up in pastry at the goblin high holidays.
I was flattered, of course, and the Werner bravado returned sufficient for me to puff out my chest and flash what I fancied was a rakish smile. “I will be honoured to service — er, serve — Your Majesty.”
She stared at me. ”Gods, if you are the best the humans have to offer…no matter, you are here.”
She made an imperious gesture. “Remove the robe.”
I shed my garment, resisting the temptation to curtsey. She looked me up and down before pausing her eyes briefly below my midsection. For the first time, her lips curled slightly upward.
“Yes, you will do.”
“It will be my pleasure, your majesty.” And it was.
Her Majesty’s Lover
It’s poor form to provide details of one’s romantic liaisons, particularly when one’s partner is a barbarian queen with a horde of murderous subjects. However, I may say that once she had doffed her own clothing and directed me to the bed, it became evident that humans had little to teach goblins when it came to the practice of the amorous arts. Bone-weary as I was from an eventful evening, she was able to inspire me to perform not once but two and a half times, before summoning the guards to return me to the chamber where I’d been scrubbed down .
Once installed back in my quarters, I collapsed for an indeterminate period until I was awakened by a guard, either one of my earlier friends or another who bore an uncanny likeness. He shoved a plate of some sinewy brown and grey substance at me, which I presumed to be breakfast. My position as Versana’s paramour and potential sire of the royal line hadn’t bought me special treatment, I thought, gulping down the mess and idly hoping that it wasn’t the boiled carcass of one of the Mayor’s Guard. But I hadn’t eaten for what seemed like weeks, and I’d learned as a soldier not to turn down a meal when offered.
The next few days sank into a tedious routine of sleeping and pacing in my room, occasionally taking a break to use a small stone to scratch a calendar and some pornographic etchings on the wall. Twice daily there was a delivery of the foul slop that passed for nourishment, at which time the chamber pot would also be replaced. An unhappy situation to be sure, but as someone who’s been chained up in an Elbonian spider pit, I can say it was not the worst accommodation I’ve suffered.
Each day at around the time I came to think of as evening — there was no way to determine the time in the cavern — I would be summoned to the Queen’s bedchamber for an heir-making session lasting into what I imagined were the early hours of the morning. While I pride myself on my fornicative stamina, and was driving Versana to a consistently loud and presumably satisfying conclusion, it was not unusual for me to be half passed out with exhaustion while she fumbled fruitlessly in my down-below for further response. Aye, she was a lusty wench.
I say without false modesty that I’ve a gift of charming people when it suits me, and even even though Versana and I had met under inauspicious circumstances, as days stretched into weeks she developed a toleration, if not affection, for me.
Pillow talk with a goblin queen is a curious thing, and not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. Sometimes we would simply exchange sweat-drenched compliments on the carnal round just ended, or she might muse on possible adjustments in technique that could be brought into play for future sessions.
But she was also fascinated by the differences between the human world and her own people. She viewed humans as a crafty but weak race, and would cheerfully explain why goblin torture techniques were so much more effective, describing in detail methods of flaying and roasting that would keep the subject alive and in a state of unimaginable agony for days. On one particularly memorable night, as we drowsed under the furs and silk she opined on the gustatory appeal of different meats, including human (rich but sometimes gamey, depending on the source) and Fae (delicate and tasty, but a bit bland, which is why Fae captives were fed a spicy diet for several days before being served at table.)
As an immoral man myself, I rarely judge morality — my usual measure of a person is limited to determining how they can help or harm me, so that I can flatter or avoid them accordingly. But her casual, enthusiastic cruelty was repellent even to me, and while she had the form, talent, and vigour of a top-flight Imperial courtesan, it was clear that it would be unwise to test her affections.
Hence I responded to her unconventional conversational sallies with a cocked eyebrow and an occasional murmured “Remarkable!”, as if she were discussing the latest fashions from the Imperial Capital rather than how long some unfortunate fellow had remained alive after taking a blow-gun dart directly up the length of his manhood. I had no doubt that any small tenderness she felt towards me would not stand in the way of my immediate dispatch when my services were no longer required.
The City
Nevertheless, she came to trust me sufficiently to allow me to leave my room and roam the dim, torch-lit caverns — goblins have much better night vision than humans — accompanied only by a single guard.
So far as I know I am the only human ever to venture into the goblin lair and return, so I will give you my impressions. The place was a crowded city of perhaps several thousand inhabitants, with homes, shops and bustling crowds, all chittering away in their hideous language. The blueskins typically wore sarongs or long robes, not differentiated by sex, and most carried an axe or blowgun at their belt. All goblins of fighting age are soldiers, and their society is organized along military principles, which perhaps explains the efficiency of the raid on Morts Ford. As an aside, I was pleased to note in the city some large chambers dedicated to goats or chickens, which reassured me somewhat about the nature of the meals I’d been served.
The goblin hoi-polloi became accustomed to seeing me in their midst and apparently viewed me as an amusing distraction or pet for their monarch, which was at least better than a potential next meal. Occasionally some merry blueskin would point at me in a corridor and call out “Grazkl!” which I learned meant something akin to “pussycat.”
I didn’t roam the underground simply out of boredom or curiosity. While I still fantasized that the plan to send me back to Morts Ford with a message was real and not simply something Versana had invented to keep me compliant while the fertilization derby was underway, I was anxious to find an escape route should worst come to worst. My guard — whom I called Sid, as his Goblin name was unpronounceable — spoke a few words of the common tongue, and I convinced him to show me a corridor that led to the surface by promising I would play his advocate with Versana to get him promoted within his unit. Of course, I had no intention of jeopardizing my delicate relationship with the Queen by pleading the case of a lowly soldier, but I hoped that he, at least, was trustworthy. In light of my other observations on goblin culture, this seemed unlikely, but my options were limited.
If you’re wondering whether a closer acquaintance with goblins led me to like and respect them, it did not. I’ve spent time with the Fae, and though they’re supercilious, condescending, and dangerous when angered, they’re generally honest and fair with both friends and foes.
Not so the goblins. The blueskins, like their queen, revel in cruelty. As I gathered from my conversations with her, goblin heroes were revered for their commitment to viciousness and treachery. Their Conqueror King Darsek, erstwhile owner of the Flenna sword, was much admired for having poisoned all of his siblings at a feast to celebrate their father’s ascension to the throne. Most intersections in their rabbit warren kingdom featured the flayed, burned, or crucified corpses of those unfortunate enough to incur the displeasure of the Queen or other leading goblins.
Whether these leading goblins were an inherited nobility like our own fancy classes or just those bloodthirsty enough to scramble to the top of the pile I do not know. There was a hierarchy among the blueskins, but as I could barely tell one from another and didn’t speak the language, the nature of it was never clear to me. No doubt it’s as grotesque and chaotic as everything else about them.
The Plot
After three weeks I had become, if not comfortable, at least somewhat accustomed to the place. The nightly rogerings continued apace, and I’ll say that Queen Versana, for all that she was a monster, was marvellously inventive when it came to the old thrust and pump. I presumed she was not displeased with my performance, as the quality of my food improved over time and my door was left unlocked with only my personal guard seated outside. I was even gifted with several decent sarongs in the local fashion, and some books in the common language that had been obtained gods-knew-where; one of them had pages stuck together with what appeared to be blood.
But on my twenty-third day underground, I was forcibly reminded that it’s unwise to become complacent around goblins.
Early one morning as I dozed, there was a rapping on the door of my room. Since the guards didn’t knock, and no one had ever visited me, my immediate response was panic.
You see, for all that Versana was Queen, she’d told me herself that she had enemies inside her camp. These included rivals who envied her perch atop the skull throne, and more importantly to me, rejected suitors angry that she’d chosen an outsider and a human to sire the royal heir. So far she’d managed to slaughter the traitors— and their families, she chortled— but the situation required constant vigilance.
For this reason and because of my craven nature, my first thought was that my caller was some jilted swain eager to murder the only thing standing between him and a blueskin dynasty. I rolled off my cot, snatched up the dagger which had remained hidden in my boot, and held it behind my back.
“Who is it? Is it you, my love, my Queen?”
It wasn’t, of course, but I wanted to remind the visitor that any harm to Versana’s stud bull was likely to result in severe and permanent consequences for the perpetrator.
The door opened slowly and a goblin stepped in. He was tall by blueskin standards, and even more wrinkled than most, which I’d learned was as with humans an indicator of age (goblins typically live for more than a century if they’re not murdered first, which they generally are.) I thought I recognized him vaguely as some high muckety-muck in the army. His sarong had a purple-striped design, and he wore a sword, both fashions only permitted to the upper echelon of goblins. That explained how he’d gotten past the guard.
He turned and shut the door behind him, then turned back to me.
“You are Werner.” Another speaker of common. I wondered if they held classes.
I nodded.
“My name is (unintelligible Goblin word). It may be familiar to you.”
It was not, but I raised my eyebrows and tried to look impressed.
“It is an honour to meet you, er, sir. May I ask what brings you to my humble quarters?”
“You may ask.” He glared at me expectantly. Goblins are very literal.
“Er, what brings you here?”
“We have a common interest.”
I doubted that but felt it unwise to interrupt.
“You must know that Her Majesty has no intention of sending you back to your own people with an offer of silver. The True People do not negotiate. The story she told you is meant simply to keep you content until you give her a child, after which you will be disposed of.”
I had long suspected this, but hearing it from someone with inside knowledge sent chills through me.
“I represent a group who are concerned that Her Majesty’s decision to birth another half-breed is not in the best interests of the True People. So we will replace her with someone more suitable.”
Someone like you? thinks I. He continued.
“In order to do that, she must die, of course. Versana is well protected by her bodyguard, who have all made a blood pledge to serve her unto death. And there are still misguided others in the city who would defend her. It would be difficult to get near her without an army, and we do not wish to start a war among ourselves.”
I saw where he was going and did not wish to accompany him, but it was too late. He pointed at me with a bony grey claw.
“But you, Werner, have private access to the queen every night. All we ask of you is that for tonight’s assignation, you bring with you the knife you’ve kept in your boot and which I conjecture you’re holding behind your back right now.
If he knew of the knife, he had an efficient intelligence network. He continued.
“The two members of her bodyguard who stand outside will be replaced by our own people, so they will not interrupt should they hear odd noises from within. Although I understand that your meetings with Her Majesty are raucous affairs anyway.”
He let out the hideous cackle which passes for laughter among the blueskins, and is most commonly heard when some poor soul is being disembowelled or burned alive.
“When the time is right, you will kill her. At the height of her passion would be an elegant moment, but of course it is your decision. In return, you’ll be sent back to your people.”
For all my long history of cowardice, I have never shit myself from fear, but this time was a damn close thing. I considered my options, all of them horrifying.
There was no doubt that if I killed Versana, the plotters would immediately murder me. However, given what the general had already revealed, any refusal to carry out the task would see me killed before suppertime to keep me quiet. On the other hand, the queen had spies everywhere and if news of my acceptance reached her ears before I did, I would also be murdered, no doubt after days of hideous torture. A final possibility was that Versana had sent him to test my loyalty, in which case an immediate refusal might keep me breathing a few days more.
Fortunately, I’m gifted with a mind which works with surprising nimbleness when in the grip of utter terror. I saw no outcome that did not result in my throat being slit, so I needed to delay that moment as long as possible and hope some escape opportunity arose in the meantime.
I considered that the important thing was to get to Versana, either to kill her and escape through my own devices, or to place myself under her protection. If she believed I had betrayed her, I would have to rely on the Werner charm and my storied bedroom talents to convince her otherwise.
I held out my hand, which the old general ignored.
“I accept your offer, sir.”
The Consummation
And so I found myself in Versana’s bedchamber some hours later, having used the shreds of my human clothing to strap the dagger to my thigh beneath my robe. The general was as good as his word; the queen’s usual guards had been replaced by two ugly new brutes, who seemed no happier than their predecessors to see the future father of their kingdom.
You may be asking whether I went in planning to kill Versana, and I will reply that at that moment I did not know. As to whether I could have killed her, certainly. In my years as soldier for hire I’d seen enough death to be little moved by it, and while I don’t condone the murder of the innocent, this was different. For all that we were lovers, Versana was a fiend whose passing would be mourned by no one.
The door shut behind me. Versana was seated on the end of her bed, looking at me. I sensed something different about her, and to this day I have no idea exactly what it was. Perhaps the way she was seated, or the intensity of her gaze — whatever I perceived, it saved my life.
I reached under my robe and whipped out the dagger. After holding the weapon up momentarily for effect, I hurled it to the floor, pausing another moment before flinging myself beside it at Versana’s dangling feet. I looked up at her, eyes filled with tears; tears of terror to be sure, but she had no way of knowing that.
“My love, my joy, my only, my queen,” I said. “They asked me to kill you. I had to come here and warn you, no matter the consequences.”
Her face softened in a way I’d not seen before. Gods, I thought, was this creature capable of emotions besides lust, rage and malice?
She looked at me and nodded solemnly.
“I knew, of course. Even now those who plotted against me are being rounded up for slow strangulation at tomorrow’s feast. I brought you here because I wanted to know if you would truly betray me. To know that you would not — it pleases me. And it saved your life.”
I raised myself slowly from the floor, uncertain how to respond. It pleased her? While I have a healthy opinion of my own appeal, I was astonished by the possibility that this royal madwoman could hold some genuine affection for me.
Absent any better ideas, I tore off my robe and approached her, stiffened portion leading. An unexpected reprieve can be surprisingly stimulating.
The Escape
Evidently Versana felt similarly, because we managed two furious bouts of two-backed beasting before we stopped to take a breath. As we lay back on her silk sheets, no doubt looted from the pack of some poor lost traveller, she turned to look at me.
“I have enjoyed you these weeks, Werner.”
I mumbled something about being her humble servant.
She continued. “But this is the last time we will be together. Your task here is complete.”
For a moment I was confused, wondering if she’d determined a fixed number of ecstatic culminations after which our engagements would end. Then she patted her stomach and I understood.
“Ah, then, you are, in a family way, so to speak, your majesty.” I stumbled over my words. “This is wonderful news indeed.”
In truth, I did not find the news wonderful. In spite of her seeming attachment to me, it seemed unlikely that I would be retained strictly for my stallioning prowess, and she seemed to have forgotten entirely the notion of sending me back to Morts Ford as negotiator. I conceived that my sudden lack of utility could see me relegated to something served in thin slices on toast.
“When are you expecting, Your Majesty? No doubt the little gaffer will be excited to meet his — or her! — father.”
Versana smiled, which was both rare and disconcerting.
“You fear that with my heir secured, you are no longer needed. This is true. So.”
My arm hair stood on end. She paused, while I resisted the urge to shriek “So what, woman?”
“But you have performed your task admirably, and I wish you to live,” she said. “In any case, it may be useful for me to have an ally who is regarded highly among the humans, should it come to war.”
I could have cried from relief, but judged this to be the moment for a square-chinned manly nod.
“Appreciated, your majesty,” I said, before blurting out a rapid succession of lies about my eminence in the councils of the mighty and how I had little doubt the others would come to share my eternal love and respect for such a great and inspiring monarch.
“Shut up. You must also appreciate that this decision comes at great cost to me. Many of the people will be unhappy that the father of their future ruler would be left alive to make a claim to the throne.”
My mind reeled at the idea that I might wish to be ruler of this enormous ant colony and its monstrous denizens.
“I would never, Your Majesty…”
“No, you would not. You are too weak and stupid. But my people do not know that. So it is best you leave tonight, before the rumours fly, and before I change my mind.
“I fear all the traitors may not have been uncovered, so you are still in danger. A member of my personal bodyguard will escort you to the surface.”
Since I was entirely in her power, she had no reason to lie, so this was welcome news indeed. But there’s many a slip twix’t cup and lip, as I was about to learn.
There was a loud pounding on the door, followed by some screeching in Goblin. Versana leapt up and pulled a sword from a shelf under the bed, motioning for me to pick up my dagger from the floor. She chittered back towards the door in full voice, but as I had neglected my study of Goblin I had no idea whether she was threatening a quick death to those at the door or welcoming in the butler. The enraged tone suggested the former, but as the Goblin language has no other tone, I couldn’t be certain.
There was more pounding and an axe head crashed through the door, followed by the two goblins who had been standing guard. Evidently the Queen’s clean-up of her enemies hadn’t been as thorough as she believed, because behind them was the goblin general who had visited me earlier. All three were wielding battle-axes.
The next few seconds passed in a blur. Still stark naked, Versana hurled herself at the intruders, driving back the two soldiers with skilful swordplay and sheer fury, while I stood back contemplating this unexpected turn of events.
The general moved towards me and raised his axe. For an old goblin he was terrifyingly spry.
“You have failed me, Grazkl,” he said. “No matter. When the story is told, it will be you who murdered the Queen before my men and I could stop you. Your dagger will be found in her heart.”
I saw from the corner of my eye that my lover was being sorely pressed by the general’s ruffians. She glanced back towards me and shouted. “Fight, Werner!”
I hurled my dagger at the general, striking him in the head. Unhappily, I hit him with the hilt rather than the pointy end, so he was only briefly dazed. I assessed the situation — Versana was doing an admirable job and one of the thugs was already bleeding from his cheek, but she was clearly tiring. She would need me to keep the general out of the fight if she were to have any chance at all.
It was clear there was only one possible course of action. In a swift motion, I snatched a handful of jewels from the box on the dressing table, then barrelled past the still-stunned general and out the open door.
I was uncertain how the locals would respond to seeing the beloved Grazkl sprinting nude and unaccompanied through the city, and expected with every step to feel a poison dart embed itself in my neck. However, there was little traffic in the corridors, possibly because of the late hour or because the populace was avoiding the imminent civil war, and within fifteen minutes I reached the passageway to the surface without incident.
I raced up the passageway and after making one sharp turn, my spirits soared as I detected bright light perhaps two hundred yards further along. Gods, I thought, Sid hadn’t been lying after all, there truly was an exit here. Spent from the run, I stopped to lean against the rock wall, silently thanking Versana for helping me maintain a semblance of physical conditioning.
If I’ve done some bad things in my life, by the gods I’ve paid for them in spades. Even as I imagined myself back at the Crying Man thrilling the girls with the tale of my brave and bloody escape from the goblin domain, I heard a distant noise of marching feet and chittering behind me. Whoever it was, they were closing the distance at an alarming rate.
I was perhaps a hundred yards from blue sky and freedom when the source of the sound turned the bend. Even in the low light, I could see it was a troop of perhaps a hundred goblins, moving towards me at a fast march. It appeared they had spotted me; even as I watched, half a dozen of the creatures broke from the group and began to run.
I pushed myself from the wall and lurched forward. I estimated I would be within blowgun range of the advance scout in two minutes or less, but knew that even if by some miracle I reached the egress there would be no salvation there. Further bleakening my outlook was the knowledge that goblins sometimes use a paralytic rather than a killer venom in their darts, the better to preserve their captives for torture and maintaining freshness.
I’ve told many lies in my life, and you may think the next part of this tale is among them. I would perhaps feel the same had I not been there, but in this late season of my life I have no reason to prevaricate.
As I struggled up the corridor, unclad, unarmed, and exhausted, I heard loud shouting. Although the Goblin words were a mystery to me, the harsh, commanding voice was unmistakable — it was Versana. I looked back and saw her pushing her way through the troop, sword raised and clickity-clicking at top volume.
I almost vomited. How in the name of the Seven Devils of Anzar had she managed to escape the three murderers in her bedchamber, let alone round up an army? How she’d found me was less of a mystery, as I was likely the only human running naked through the city that day. Damned resourceful girl, she was.
Then I glanced over my shoulder as I hobbled towards the light, and saw that the troops had halted. Even the scouts with blowguns had stopped in their tracks. Their queen, however, continued to stride towards me.
I guessed she was saving the kill for herself, and it would not be an easy death. Regardless, I knew she was my only hope for escape, if a dim one. I turned to face her, and knelt on one knee. Surrendering elegantly is a particular talent of mine, although rarely useful with goblins.
She approached to within two feet of me, then stopped and fixed me with that familiar reptilian stare. The severed head of her erstwhile general dangled from her belt, and she carried the Sword of Flenna; the very exemplar of a wild barbarian queen.
“Werner, you are treacherous and deceitful. You lied, abandoned me to my enemies, and stole from me.” I had forgotten I was still clutching a fistful of her valuables.
She paused, while I considered what an appropriate response might be. Perhaps, “You do me a grave injustice, madam”.
Fortunately, she continued before I had time to speak.
“Indeed, you are almost cunning enough to be one of the True People. I have chosen you well to further my legacy.
“My people say I should feast on you. Likely they are correct. But I am not here to kill you. I wish you to return to your own kind to tell them that the True People survive, and we have not forgotten. The day of reckoning will come for humans.”
While I wasn’t looking forward to the eventual reckoning, the prospect of not being tortured to death today was a welcome one. Almost fainting from joy, I said nothing but nodded to confirm I was taking mental notes.
She glanced down below my waist, where my sweat-bedewed equipment was gleaming in the torchlight, and offered a hint of a smile.
“And there are parts of you that I have enjoyed. I prefer to leave them attached. For now, at least.
“Keep the baubles to remember me by. I send you back to the world outside. Farewell, Werner.”
She turned and stalked back down the corridor.
Wordless and in shock, I made my way to the light and exited the caverns. As my eyes adjusted to the early morning sun, I saw that I was somewhere in the dusty brown wastes of the Barrens, with rock and scrub stretching to the horizon in every direction.
Then I recognized my old comrade Sid standing nearby. He was awkwardly holding the reins of a black stallion, the latter approaching pasturage age but saddled and harnessed for riding. The beast was a surprising touch on Versana’s part— goblins dislike horses and the sentiment is generally returned.
As I approached, Sid noted my nakedness and gestured towards a saddlebag, wherein I found one of my robes and some jerky of suspicious provenance. After I had donned the garment, he handed me the stallion’s reins and pointed towards a line of distant hills. “Humans”, he grunted.
Sid and I wasted no time on what would no doubt have been an emotional leavetaking, and in a few hours time I was riding into Morts Ford.
Epilogue
Back home, I was received as a great hero. From somewhere, which is to say the pen of an impoverished bard of my acquaintance, a story arose that I had contrived my own capture in an attempt to recover the Flenna sword. The awkward fact that the sword was not actually reclaimed was glossed over in the songs and sagas, as was the tale of my intimate relationship with Queen Versana.
The purloined jewels purchased me a small home in a district that didn’t stink of open sewers, with enough left over to cover my tab at the Crying Man for weeks after.
The following year the city fathers and rich merchants negotiated a deal with the mercenary Black Company to venture into the Barrens and chase the goblins to some further country. As the only human ever to visit the city, I was bullied into accompanying them, a task I could think of no way to avoid without risking my valuable reputation as a keen warrior.
The mission was largely uneventful. A two-week search failed to uncover any trace of the goblin city; even the cave from which I’d departed seemed to have vanished into the dust. Eventually the leaders of the company gave up and returned to Morts Ford to advise that the goblins had already fled.
They had not. I have never told this next part of the story, judging that it would lead to more danger for me, and be of little benefit to anyone else.
On our third day of scouring the waste for signs of the blueskins, I woke in my tent. I had been careful to locate myself near the centre of camp, surrounded by some of the most vicious and experienced fighters in all the kingdoms. In spite of that, when I opened my eyes that day, lying next to my bedroll was the dagger I had last seen when I hurled it in Versana’s bedchamber.
To this day I don’t know whether Her Majesty returned my knife as warning or joke or gesture of affection or for some other inexplicable blueskin reason. But I have imagined that someday the goblins could pour from their underground fastnesses to set human cities in flames, led by a King or Queen eager to meet Papa Werner. Should this occur, I hope their mother has spoken kindly of me.
The other Werner stories so far — chronological sequence is Werner Begins, Werner and the Fae, Werner and the Goblin Queen, and Werner and the Alchemist, but they can be read in any order: