The wandering inn volume.., p.78
The Wandering Inn: Volume 5, page 78
part #1 of The Wandering Inn Series
“Lord Yitton.”
“Lord Veltras.”
Yitton Byres, head of the Byres family, lowered his head slightly as his grey-brown hair and careful beard dripped with water. Tyrion, who was clean-shaven, eyed the man and nodded in return. He gestured and the two men began striding through the camp.
“You should have entered my tent. Waiting in the rain hardly befits a [Lord] of the realm.”
“I preferred to wait outside. I’m sure you were occupied in preparing for our strategy meeting.”
“Considerate of you.”
Lord Tyrion’s reply was cold and clipped, although that didn’t reflect his feeling towards Yitton Byres. The two men headed for a larger pavilion across the busy camp. They strode past [Soldiers] who saluted, [Knights] who turned and bowed, hurrying [Servants] and [Porters], [Cooks] and [Handlers], hearing the hustle and bustle of a massive army moving around them in the rain.
This was the largest force Izril had seen gathered all year. Tens of thousands of armed retainers and forces from Human cities had come at Lord Tyrion’s command and more arrived each day, by the hundreds or sometimes thousands. It was a massive host, sustained only by the equally large volume of supplies they’d brought with them. And they had been camped in this place for over half a month now.
Over three dozen [Lords] and [Ladies] and other leading figures of Izril had also come. It was they who Tyrion was headed towards now. As the two men walked, Tyrion considered that it was fortunate that Yitton was part of the strategy meeting they were headed towards.
Of course, Yitton Byres was a [Lord], but he was a lesser one. The Byres family was small and the man had brought over a thousand retainers, but it was almost all his house could spare. He was hardly as influential as Lord Tyrion, whose personal army had more than twenty thousand horse in his vanguard. He would not have been readily welcome in the smaller gathering that Lord Tyrion was headed towards normally.
However, Yitton Byres’ fortunes had changed in the last few days. Markedly so. It was nothing the man had done himself, but the incredible images from Liscor had caused his influence to rise sharply. That two of his offspring had helped vanquish the Face-Eater Moths that had besieged the city had made his political value soar to the point where he was included in the discussions as a matter of course. The Byres family had also been approached by several buyers looking to order their signature silver and steel arms, according to the reports Tyrion had glanced at.
That was all welcome to Lord Tyrion. Yitton Byres was known to him and if they weren’t friends or even that close, Tyrion respected the man. He was a good [Lord]. Solid. Unpretentious. He sensed Yitton Byres looking at him before the older man spoke.
“We’ve been camped for nearly three weeks now. Are we to move out within the week, or should I order my men to prepare for a longer wait while the Goblin Lord keeps razing settlements?”
He was also brave. Yitton had said what other, more powerful nobles would have hesitated to mention. Tyrion nodded to himself. Three weeks they’d been camped here, waiting. Any sane strategist would question why. After the Goblin Lord had defeated Zel Shivertail and the army formed by Magnolia Reinhart in battle they had expected Tyrion to march on the wounded Goblins at once. He was known as a decisive attacker, one who didn’t hesitate. But Tyrion had his reasons.
“I intend to keep your men waiting a while longer, Yitton.”
The other [Lord] eyed Tyrion sideways as they walked across the muddy ground.
“How long?”
“Possibly less than a week. I intend to move some of my forces ahead of the rest. I’ll take some of the horse and a few [Mages]. But the main army waits.”
“Why? To keep levying more forces? Is the Goblin Lord that dangerous?”
Tyrion paused.
“He slew the Tidebreaker in combat. Isn’t that enough for caution?”
“For caution, yes. But this seems excessive.”
It did. But Zel Shivertail’s death had given Tyrion a useful excuse. No one had expected Zel to fall in battle. Tyrion hadn’t, for all he’d hoped Zel Shivertail would lose the battle and be forced to defend Invrisil instead. His death was an unexpected boon.
“I have my reasons, Yitton. As you’ll hear shortly. I’m aware the nobility is chafing at the delay. But I will lead the army in the best way I deem fit.”
“Which doesn’t include informing those under your command of your thoughts?”
“At the moment. There are too many factors I must consider.”
Yitton’s eyebrows rose.
“Such as?”
“Rain.”
Lord Tyrion looked up. The rain didn’t fall into his eyes; it flowed away from an invisible barrier a few centimeters away from his skin. Yitton looked up, shading his eyes.
“Rain. Hardly ideal for marching, but you’d have this army wait for weather?”
“I await a single, precise moment, Yitton. Give it time. The Goblin Lord is doing damage, but he’s on the move.”
“Marching towards that so-called ‘Great Chieftain’ in the mountain. I can’t believe he was living under our noses this entire time. If they combine forces…silver and steel, Veltras, tell me you’re not going to let that happen!”
“We’ll move out, Yitton. Trust me.”
“I do. But you have to understand that I have questions.”
It was a dramatic statement, coming from a Byres. They were normally staunch supporters of the Reinharts, who had strong ties to their family. But Yitton had placed his trust in the better commander. Tyrion intended to honor that trust.
“I’m afraid your questions will have to wait. This strategy meeting will be resolved shortly, to no one’s satisfaction, I suspect. But I do have one piece of information that might make us move out faster.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently there’s a new province just southwest of Invrisil.”
“A new [Lord]?”
“An [Emperor].”
“What?”
“The reports are confirmed. An [Emperor] has appeared and he has a rather unusual holding.”
Yitton had to shake his head as he avoided a large puddle of water.
“[Emperors] and Goblin Lords. What next?”
Tyrion smiled. The report he’d received had been intriguing. Possibly helpful. So Magnolia thought she could use him as an ally?
“More to consider, Yitton.”
“But not act on? The Goblin Lord is growing in strength. His forces were down to sixty thousand by most estimates. He’ll replenish his numbers heading north. And if he takes the mountain—”
“Patience, Lord Yitton.”
“An odd word to hear from you.”
“Perhaps.”
Lord Tyrion paused in front of the pavilion. He looked up again. The rain was still falling. It fell over his camp, where countless Humans awaited his order. But he held his ground. He waited, as the continent of Izril and the world waited and wondered why. Soon the rains would stop. And then, or perhaps before then, Tyrion would make his move. He just had to wait. For the right moment.
At least Liscor was hot on everyone’s lips, distracting them from pressing him too hard. The events in the city had truly been newsworthy. Lord Tyrion was keeping a careful eye on the developments there. But he could have had no idea what was going on in the dungeon that very moment.
—-
They fell through the water. Down. Into the rift. Into the dungeon. Their descent was not unnoticed. The dungeon waited for them. As the Redfang Warriors neared the bubble of air that marked the point at which the dungeon began they swam towards the edges of the rift, dropping the stones they held, moving quickly before they ran out of air. The blackness of oxygen deprivation swam around their thoughts.
They gasped as their heads broke out of the water and gravity asserted itself. The Redfang Goblins clung to the sides of the rift as the stones they’d dropped floated downwards through the water. They fell into the dungeon, bringing a small splattering of water from overhead. The Goblins grunted as they watched the stones fall, and began to climb down.
Into a trap. At the bottom of the rift, hidden further back with bows trained on the opening leading upwards were monsters. People.
Raskghar. The huge, furred beasts were larger than Gnolls, stronger, and their hunched forms and long claws and teeth made them look like a cross between an upright bear and lion. But for all their brute strength and muscle, they were intelligent. They held crude bows and they were armed with arrows coated with poison. The Raskghar were not mindless monsters; they had noticed this entry point to the dungeon and begun ambushing adventurers that came down.
The weak ones, at any rate. The Gold-rank teams the silent hunters left alone. But eight out of ten teams had fallen to the ancient Gnoll kin before leaving the entrance point to the dungeon here. Now the Raskghar waited, listening as the stones dropped and cracked on the stone floor.
The adventurers were coming. The not-Gnolls waited as the telltale droplets of water cascaded down from above. The Raskghar kept their poisoned arrows aimed at the stone walls. Waiting. They could pick off the climbing adventurers like flies. They just needed to see all of them. They waited. And waited. And…
After two minutes, the furred hunters began to grow restless. They didn’t do anything as foolish as make sound, but they did look at each other and silently urge each other forwards a few steps. Had the adventurers not come down after all? Had they decided to return above? The sentries had spotted something swimming down through the water above. But why were they taking so long?
Eight of the Raskghar were shifting positions and two had come closer for a furtive look. The lead not-Gnoll edged forwards and peered up at the rift. He moved a few feet forwards—
An arrow sprouted from his eye. He dropped without a sound. The other Raskghar stared at him in alarm and then stared at the rift. They saw something move right where ceiling met dungeon. A head dropped down. Something flashed.
Another Raskghar dropped with an arrow in his chest. He had time to choke and try to roar before he fell. The remaining six immediately scattered. They aimed back at the rift, but the archer had disappeared! They waited, and then the body appeared again—from another spot. The [Archer] aimed, spotted a Raskghar, and loosed. The not-Gnoll howled in pain as an arrow took him in the side. The other Raskghar loosed arrows at the spot where the [Archer] had been—too late. The face disappeared out of view again.
The howling Raskghar fell silent as one of his companions struck him with a clawed hand, silencing him. The five hunters aimed their bows carefully, waiting. Waiting. Then they saw a flicker of movement. A head peered down out of the hole. Crimson eyes blinked at the surprised not-Gnolls. Instantly, all five Raskghar loosed arrows. The head pulled up. The arrows broke against the wall and then another torso dropped down. The Hobgoblin holding the bow loosed an arrow as the Raskghar realized too late that they’d been baited to shoot!
An arrow took one of the Raskghar in the side of the head as she turned to duck. Another struck the wounded Raskghar in the leg. Now there were four of the ambushers left. They saw the Hobgoblin disappear again and looked at each other.
What was happening?
In the rift, hanging from the walls of the cliff leading up, the Redfang Warriors were completely silent. They gestured at each other, communicating the spots of the remaining four archers to their lone sniper.
Badarrow. The Hob hung upside down as Shorthilt and Headscratcher strained to hold his legs steady. He growled a soft order and they lowered him—he shot, cursed, and kicked both legs. They instantly hauled him upwards as more arrows missed his position.
Six shots. Four kills. The seventh elicited a brief howl and then silence. Badarrow raised a finger as Numbtongue poked his head down below and answered with a hand sign. The wounded Raskghar was dead. Three arrows had finally done it in.
Three left. The Hobgoblins didn’t hesitate. They dropped off the cliff walls, landing hard as the hunters began to retreat. The Raskghar hadn’t expected that either. Shorthilt and Numbtongue charged one of the not-Gnolls while Rabbiteater and Headscratcher rushed another. Badarrow’s eighth arrow cut down the third Raskghar.
It was over in a second. The two archers fell to Shorthilt’s sword and the dagger Headscratcher had borrowed from Badarrow. They were strong and quick, but faced with two Hobs each they went down fast, the victim of multiple cuts. In the silence, the Redfang Warriors looked around swiftly. There were no more monsters. The ambush team had well and truly been ambushed.
It had been an easy victory. Perhaps too easy, but the Raskghar had grown accustomed to easy pickings. Silver and Bronze-rank adventurers were easy targets. After all, who expected to be ambushed the first second they entered a dungeon?
Goblins would. Goblins always expected a trap. Badarrow sneered and kicked a twitching claw away as he inspected the arrows the Gnoll throwbacks carried. He grunted as he found fourteen he liked and tossed the bad ones at Rabbiteater along with one of the bows. The other Hob grunted and slung it over his shoulder.
The Redfang Warriors spread out, searching the bodies, still not making a sound. They came away with crude stone axes, one genuine steel waraxe—probably looted from an adventurer—and several iron and steel daggers. No swords though—it seemed the Raskghar preferred axes. The Hobs grabbed the bows and arrows and nodded to each other.
Well, now they had weapons.
—-
This was the dungeon. It was dark. Quiet. But not silent.
The Redfang Warriors walked single file down a corridor. More like a tunnel. They could see well in the dark, but the blackness was oppressive. They could hear distant sounds, echoing down the corridor. The dungeon was filled with life.
But the things that moved in the dungeon didn’t move about loudly. Not unless they were the biggest and most dangerous thing. And that was a relative term. The monsters were all predators and they stalked each other until they met in a brief, loud flash of violence.
Sometimes the Goblins thought they heard a trap go off. The sounds were so faint they were practically inaudible over their heartbeats. But the Goblins kept their breathing silent, their footsteps invisible as they pressed forwards.
This was home. They were used to this. Not this dungeon, but this. Danger. Death. The Raskghar hadn’t known what hit them. They were used to adventurers, not Goblins who’d lived in the High Passes.
This is how they moved. Silently, five walking relatively spaced out down a corridor, following each other’s tracks exactly. Rabbiteater took point. As the only Goblin with [Dangersense], he was suited to checking for traps. But he was aware of his limitations and opted for a different method than Halrac’s precise techniques, or Seborn’s expertise at spotting tripwires and pressure plates and concealed magic runes.
Rabbiteater followed the tracks on the ground, the places where dust and debris had been stirred by passing. Because monsters had obviously learned to avoid the traps. So Rabbiteater followed those spots. That meant of course they would run into monsters, but that beat stepping on something nasty.
These are the things they carried. Healing potions and alchemical weapons, stolen from Octavia’s shop. Weapons from the Raskghar. A hemp bag, three of them, in fact. A bed sheet, stuffed into Headscratcher’s pack. Sharp rocks, a handmade sling of Rabbiteater’s.
Nothing else. No food, no artifacts. To adventurers they would have been horribly unprepared but the Redfang Goblins followed the Goblin way of doing things. Travel light to hide and run. They weren’t here to explore. They were on a mission.
Find the treasure. They’d memorized Vuliel Drae’s explanation of where to go. The Redfang Goblins had to cross about eighteen corridors between the entrance and the dungeon. They made it down two corridors, one filled with flame traps, another completely cleared, according to Vuliel Drae.
It wasn’t. The Redfang Goblins paused as they spotted something oozing its way down the corridor at a distance. Badarrow raised his bow, training his arrow on the…slug? Coming their way. Then the Goblins realized it was a lot of slugs and backed up.
They were headed down an intersection, dozens upon dozens of the long, oozing things. They were giant slugs with razor spines on their fronts. They were following something. The Redfang Goblins peered at the wounded, shambling giant thing that was stumbling from them. A…moth?
A Face-Eater Moth. One of the big, wagon-sized ones. It looked like it had been chewed apart. It was bleeding as it fled. The slugs pursued. The Redfang Goblins exchanged a look. How many moths had survived the battle at Liscor? Had they lost their position in the dungeon? Were things hunting them?
No time for questions. They moved on. This tunnel was odd. It was devoid of traps according to the scattered tracks, but it looked as if that was because it was part of some kind of crossing. The corridor split eight ways, two of the paths sloping downwards. The Redfang Goblins paused. Vuliel Drae had gone left here. They crossed to one edge of the corridor.
Rabbiteater peeked around the corner of the intersection swiftly. His first glance showed him nothing so he moved forwards. The other Hobs kept an eye on the other directions. They moved swiftly, each one tracking a different direction. This was like a hunting expedition in the High Passes.
They watched their surroundings, checking for camouflaged monsters. In the High Passes it was common to run into Gargoyles hiding in plain sight. And that was only the outer layers. Further in there were things that could kill two Goblins in the middle of a patrol without anyone noticing.
This corridor led to a labyrinth of doors, a maze of interconnected rooms. The Redfang Warriors slowed here and made even less noise than before. They crept along, silent, wary. They had to pass through this section—Vuliel Drae had fled though here, pursued by moths and Raskghar.
There were no moths today. But there were many, many doors. The Redfang Goblins paused at the first one. They stood back from it, in the center of the corridor. Their eyes narrowed.
