The Last Gremlin

Gods across the sea, what has the world become?

I pick my way through the carnage. The taste of blood and iron lingers in the air along with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. Moans of agony echo across the desecrated valley. Some are soothed as healers and priests tend to them, knitting wounds back together with herbs or restoration magic. The rest are soothed as Iro carries their souls to Axial across the sea. Several of the Watcher’s ravens light onto bodies, inspecting the face for a moment before taking to the air once more.

The bodies are mixed. Goblins, gremlins, and humans, though I pass a few elves as well. Some are nezíreth, my own kind, their skin varied in shades of brown like tree bark, long, pointed ears peeking out from hair of darker brown or auburn. For a moment, my body lies among them. Auburn hair matted with blood. Green eyes staring sightlessly at the dark, cloudy sky. And I am merely my soul, wandering until I am at last freed from this existence.

Surprisingly, a laróseth lies nearby as well, his fair skin and golden hair begrimed by blood and dirt. However, I spot no detúnés among the dead. A pity.

A large fire burns a short ways away, the surrounding land pot-marked with scorched earth. Judging from the destruction, I can only assume a talented thermalurgist was present during the battle—most likely the laróseth I saw. This amount of power is far beyond my capacity. Smoke from the fire billows into the air, shrouding the land in further darkness, denying even the beauty of starlight to comfort the troubled souls beneath. Only úthalor, the bright silver moon, manages to cut through the gloom and lend a faint light to the world, transformed in such a short time from the lush green valley it had been not a few hours before.

Before my first true taste of battle. For I now see that my past experiences were nothing more than boyhood tussles in comparison.

The attacks had increased in both frequency and severity. When detúnés assaulted Ciremúd, it took every available fighter to drive them back. Though not until they took away everything.

Civulír must have thought he was being merciful when he exiled me.

What would exile bring me? Should I take refuge in another settlement? Wander the wilderness? These questions and more plagued my mind as I traveled, taking down small bands of orcs I crossed. When I had come upon scores of men fighting against gremlins and goblins, I immediately dropped my pack and rushed into the clash, cutting through goblins and gremlins distracted by less-threatening prey, consumed by my drive against the enemy until they fell or fled.

Now here, in the aftermath, I see afresh the destruction brought by the vile races. All that has been lost because of them. The world must be cleansed of the apostate creations. But to resist such wickedness, sacrifices will have to be made. And if our enemies are to fight as snakes, we shall show them just how venomous our bite can be.

I look around at the large force of men assembled here. It is no accidental gathering. It must have been formed for a purpose. Perhaps that purpose coincides with my own.

I’ve heard the rumors, of course. They all say the same thing. Great armies of orcs, goblins, gremlins, and detúnés marching against the whole of Coretani. These I can believe. But there are other rumors as well. Whispers, really, that even the gods themselves fight in this conflict. The Creators fighting alongside us against the Apostates.

Outlandish claims that couldn’t possibly be true. But if they are, what exactly have I found myself on the edge of? And how much more destruction will have to come to the world before wickedness is at last erased?

In my meandering, I find a goblin that still breathes. His dark orange skin is splotched with black ichor, his own blood, the same color as his greasy hair. Like nearly all the vile races, the goblin has pure black eyes. They bore into me, his crooked, yellowed teeth bared in a snarl, a weakened hand grasping for his weapon several feet away. I draw the sword at my side and plunge it into his neck, watching the life leave his eyes.

“Return to the destitution that spawned you,” I whisper. I withdraw the sword, wiping it on my already bloodstained, war-torn cloak before returning it to its sheath.

I continue my roving, letting my feet take me where they will. I pass three men discussing the recently waged battle.

“I swear, nasty wretch nearly bit me,” one of them says. “If I hadn’t managed to grab me knife, he’d have taken a chunk right outta me shoulder.”

“Should’ve let ‘em,” another grunts. “Then you’d have an excuse to get out of supply duty tomorrow.”

“Not to mention you’d finally have something impressive to show the ladies,” the third says with a chuckle.

“If I wanna impress the ladies, I’ll bring ‘em the head of a hobgoblin,” the original says. “Everyone knows them’s a lot tougher than the little ‘uns.”

The third one laughs again. “The day you bring down a hob is the day a dwarf shaves his beard.”

As their voices continue behind me, I wonder at the unfamiliar term. Hobgoblin. A rank of goblin? I’d never known the creatures to be so organized. Except around gremlins.

I near the large fire, discovering it to be a pile of smoldering wreckage. Most likely it was once an gremlin command tower. I spot one of the creatures pinned under the burning remains, its dark yellow skin stained black by blood and burns.

A man steps to the fire next to me. I hear the clatter of his armor before I hear his voice.

“You fell many enemies tonight.”

I turn, surprised to hear a human speak Roásethír, the language of the elves. A helm is tucked under his arm, a longsword sheathed at his hip, his body completely covered in a suit of metal. What do humans call them? Plate mail? I do not understand how their warriors can wear such armor. Surely they can barely move in it.

“I welcome any opportunity to do so,” I say, continuing the conversation in my native tongue. “Tell me, for what purpose did you engage such a large force of gremlins and goblins?”

“That itself is our purpose. To resist the enemy who seeks our annihilation.” He meets my eye. “Tell me, for what purpose does a lone elf wander the wilds?”

“My purpose in that…” I survey the battlefield around me, searching, I suppose, for an answer. “…is not yet clear.”

“Your blade seems to have found a purpose. Indeed, you appeared to relish the thrill of battle. Rarely is such temper found in an elf. You have spirit.”

“We elves, too, were created by the All-Mother. Though the other races may sometimes think otherwise, emotions fill our hearts like any other.”

“And which emotion fuels this passion?”

I swallow. “Numu.”

The man puts his back to the fire, looking over the survivors. Though their forms are worn and tattered, they hold their heads high, an unseen strength burning within them. “Yes, grief can be a potent motivator. Many of my men are here for the same reason. Yet oil which is life in the lamp swiftly becomes poison in the belly.”

A man runs up and salutes, putting fist over heart. From his leather armor and short green cloak, I judge him to be a scout.

“Commander Treston, apologies. Our quarry has managed to slip away this time,” he says in Anunish, the common language spoken by humans.

“Send out riders to search the surrounding valleys,” Treston orders.

The scout salutes and leaves.

“You have been pursuing this horde for a while?” I ask.

Treston looks at me, surprised. “You speak Anunish.”

“I can get by.”

“Yes, we’ve been tracking this clan for several days now. Appears they’ve finally slipped through our net.” He returns the helm to his head. “If you will excuse me, I must look into picking up their trail again.”

Treston salutes me and leaves the fireside. Going off to hunt down a swarm of goblins. To cleanse Coretani of their wickedness. My lips move before I am aware of it.

“Commander Treston!”

He stops and turns at my call.

“Might I be of service to your cause?”

The commander pauses, then slowly approaches. “You want to join our ranks?”

“I wish to join the fight against the vile races.”

He remains silent for several moments, apparently having some internal debate. What about, I cannot tell.

“What is your name?” he finally asks.

“Athrílas,” I answer.

“You showed great skill in tonight’s battle, Athrílas.”

Treston pulls my cloak aside, inspecting the armor underneath. The bracers, pauldrons, and breastplate I wear are light and fitted, favoring mobility, cast in elegant curves after the elven fashion.

He holds out his hand. “Ithmi anír.”

I draw my sword, twirling it around and offering the hilt. Like my armor, the sword has an elegant design and is slightly curved. Smaller than most human-forged blades, it favors swift, precise strikes over brute force.

“I’m glad to see you come well-equipped. Our steel is stretched thin enough as it is.” He returns the weapon to my hand. “It is also good that you speak Anunish. I am one of only a few here that speak the language of elves.”

“Then I am accepted?”

“Report to Captain Porrin. If I remember correctly, he’ll be set up on the northeast slope.” Treston motions to a nearby hilltop, where a small war camp is being erected. “If you’d like, I can have someone lead you there.”

“That will not be necessary. I can manage on my own.”

I salute my new commander, and we part ways. After recovering my discarded pack, I climb the hill to the northeast slope. There, I find half a dozen men sitting around a small fire, their tents pitched in a circle around them. Though I suppose circle is a generous term. The tents are scattered, placed unevenly apart, save for two arranged neatly side-by-side.

A short, squat man rises at my approach. For a moment, I think he might be a tall dwarf until I see his short, scruffy beard. No dwarf I have ever met would show himself in public with such paltry facial hair. It may be a female, but the form striding towards me lacks any sign of feminine features.

“Who are you?” the man asks in a gruff voice.

Human, then.

“I am Athrílas. I was sent by Commander Treston to find Captain Porrin.”

“Well, you’ve found him,” Porrin says. “Here to join the fight?”

I nod.

Porrin grunts and looks me over. “You’re a young one, aren’t you?”

The man looks to be in his late forties. Nearly middle-aged, by human standards. “I am a century older than you. Captain,” I add. I’ll have to get used to that.

“Then you are young. For an elf.” Porrin nods to my pack. “Have your own supplies?”

“Yes.”

“Come on then, I’ll introduce you to your fellows.”

A small cauldron rests over the fire, holding a simmering stew. One of the men ladles a serving and holds the bowl out to me. He is rather thin, and his boyish smile only exaggerates his youthful appearance.

“That there is Finn,” Porrin says. “Sweet boy, but he still needs to work on his sword arm.”

Finn continues to smile as he is introduced, seeming to find no insult in Porrin’s words. I sip the broth. It is quite hot and I swallow quickly, feeling its heat warm my body against the cool night. Luckily, spices seem to be scarce, and the taste does not overwhelm my elven palette. The wooden bowl feels rough against my hands, but I am not one to carry a pair of larvothiré. And I’ve managed worse textures. If only the broth was not so scalding.

“Big one is Lodis,” Porrin continues, motioning to a large man with a shaved head and skin even darker than my own. “His sword arm is fine, but he could do to learn some more manners. Those are the twins, Tucam and Keel.”

The twins are identical—with short black hair and almond-shaped eyes—yet I pick out several distinctions that allow me to differentiate them easily.

“And finally, Rolen. Tends to keep to himself, mostly, so I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Lads, this is… Athrílas, was it? Right. Athrílas.”

The others stare at me as though I might suddenly sprout wings. All except for Rolen, who remains focused on his stew. The hood of his cloak is pulled low, but I can see he wears a headband that does little to stop his long blond hair—the same color as his beard—from falling past dark eyes.

“You’ll have to forgive the lads,” Porrin says, swiping the ladle away from a distracted Finn. “They’re all from villages down south. Doubt any of ‘em have seen an elf up close before. We have a few—one of ‘em is a bit of a mage, I think—but you’re the first one that’s been assigned to me. I hope that fancy blade of yours can do more than look pretty.”

I grip the pommel of my sword. “It has seen its share.”

“You fight the gobs tonight?” Lodis asks. “How many did you kill?”

“Not nearly enough,” I say.

“Me? I killed at least seven.”

“Seven goblins?” Keel says. “That’s not that many.”

Lodis smirks, clearly hoping for the question. “Hobgoblins.”

Finn’s eyes widen in awe, and the twins each let out a whistle. Subtly, I cool the stew with thermalurgy magic, taking advantage of their momentary distraction. No need to give them more reason to gawk.

“That term,” I say. “Hobgoblin. I have heard it once before. What does it mean?” I sip the broth again. Much better.

“They mean gremlins,” Finn says, leaning forward. “A lot of the soldiers have just started calling them hobgoblins.”

“Why is that?”

“Hob is evidently the goblin word for high or great,” Tucam says.

“It’s said even the goblins call gremlins hobs,” Keel interrupts.

“Since gremlins and goblins work together so often,” Tucam continues, “the term caught on.”

I now understand why the others are impressed with Lodis. Gremlins are as strong and cunning as any dwarf. For a human to take down seven in a single battle would take great skill.

“What about you, Rolen?” Lodis asks. “How many did you kill?”

“The enemy has fallen,” Rolen says after a moment. “How many I put there doesn’t matter. All that matters is how many of our men still live because they do not.”

Rolen stares into the flames as he speaks, his eyes reflecting the dancing orange light from within the shadow of his hood. I recognize the haunted expression. This man, despite his apparent few years of life, has seen his share of horrors.

Porrin clears his throat. “Well, speaking of the fallen, it’s time we get some rest. We’re on scavenge duty tomorrow.” The other men groan, and Porrin holds up a hand to quiet them. “I know, I know. But the sooner we get started and done, the less it will stink, at least.”

“Yet it will remain just as grim,” Rolen says under his breath. He meets my eye, as though he knows I can hear his words.

I pitch my tent a little outside the circle. I doff my armor, placing the parts neatly on the ground beside me next to my sword, and slip into my bedroll. Scavenge duty. It does not sound as though there will be another battle tomorrow. Yet I suppose there can hardly be one every day. If, as Commander Treston said, this force’s purpose is to fight against the vile races, then one must come soon enough.

As an elf, I do not require sleep as often as humans. However, though I had slumbered the night before, the unexpected combat has sapped my strength, and sleep takes me within the hour.

The next morning, I habitually equip my armor and sword and emerge from my tent. All around, the camp is dyed golden by the light of Casralor, the great day-star, dawning in the east. The clouds have moved on, leaving behind a clear sky, allowing the air to warm quickly.

After we breakfast, Porrin leads us out onto the battlefield of the previous night, handing out squares of cloth. I follow the others’ lead and tie it to cover my nose and mouth. None of the others bring weapons or armor, but I prefer to remain equipped.

When Porrin explains to me what scavenge duty entails, I understand Rolen’s sentiment. We spend the next several hours searching for bodies, piling them onto handcarts and bringing them to the supply unit. The carcasses of the enemy fallen are piled and burned after being relieved of anything of value. The cloth does little to block the stench.

Nobody attempts to break the silence as we work through the macabre proceedings. Eventually, I come to a large human sprawled across the ground, an gremlin’s sword sticking out of his chest. I remember this man. I killed the gremlin as it killed him. I remove the sword and toss it toward the gremlin’s body lying a few paces away. I drag the human toward the closest cart, but the body is heavy and my progress slow. Finn trots over and reaches out his hands.

“I have it,” I tell him.

“It’s alright, I can help. Let me grab—”

“No! I’ll do it myself.”

Finn steps back, lingers for a moment, then retreats to find his own work.

Even with my elven strength, I struggle to lift the body and roll it over the lip into the cart. I take a moment to recover my breath, then turn to retrieve another corpse. I return with another victim of the goblins just as Rolen sets a body onto the pile. His headband is dark with sweat from the grueling labor.

“I’ll take it to the supply unit,” I say, gripping the handles of the nearly full cart.

“He’s a nice kid,” Rolen says.

I pause.

“Finn. Nicer than a place like this deserves. Don’t spurn him when he’s only offering to help.”

“I prefer to do things myself.”

“And I can respect that. But try to remember that there are allies at your side now.”

“The relationships of elves are not like those of humans,” I tell him. “We do not form close bonds like the one you have with Finn.”

Rolen gives me a cynical smile and walks away. “Barely know him.”

I watch him for a moment, then put my weight to the cart.

Porrin calls for us to return to camp as Casralor begins to sink in the west, painting the sky a clear orange. The air is still warm, and I send a prayer to Masha for a gift of rain, hoping it might cool the air around us and wash away the stench and stain of battle.

I keep my eye on Rolen and Finn as we cross the cleared battlefield, but they remain distant and do not interact in any way. It appears that Rolen was telling the truth, that he has no special relationship with the young man. However, even the most casual of camaraderie among humans may be considered a dear friendship to elves.

With my attention elsewhere, I do not detect their presence until they are upon us, releasing a harsh war cry. There are eight of them, emerging from behind the collapsed remains of the command tower. The goblins raise their crude blades and spears as they charge.

Cursing myself for not noticing them before now, I draw my sword. The others have come unarmed. No way to fight back. I lunge forward, sending my sword straight through one’s leather breastplate. The rest circle me toward the others, but I bring my sword around, cutting off the head of a second. I turn to see a third fall, blood spewing from his neck. Before him stands Rolen, a dagger in his hand, dripping black ichor. The dagger. It’s curved, with an elegant design.

Finn screams as a goblin swipes at him. All he can do is avoid the jagged blade zipping through the air at a reckless pace. He stumbles, falling onto his back. The goblin smiles with wicked glee, bringing his sword down on the defenseless boy. But my weapon is there, deflecting the sword and cutting down its wielder.

I leave Finn on the ground and rush to where Rolen still fights. Though he has only a dagger, he demonstrates excellent skill, evading attacks and planting the dagger where it will do the most harm. He has slain two more by the time I approach. The other two have run off, fleeing over a hill.

“Yeah, go ahead and run, you cowards!” Lodis shouts.

“Think they were scavengers?” Keel asks.

“No, looked more like scouts to me,” Porrin says. “And if scouts are still around… C’mon, let’s get back to camp.”

When we arrive, Porrin sends the others back to the tents but directs Rolen and me to follow him. We come to a large tent in the center of the camp, where two soldiers stand guard by the entrance flap. One dips his head in to announce our arrival then ushers us inside.

Commander Treston rises from his supper as we enter.

“My apologies for interrupting you, Commander,” Porrin says, “but there’s something you ought to hear about.” He gives a brief explanation of the attack. “Luckily, Rolen and Athrílas here managed to fight them off and save the rest of the unit, including myself. They are to be commended.”

“Indeed they are,” Treston says, saluting. “Well done, soldiers. You have honored Tenu this day.” He returns to his seat and looks at Porrin. “So, you believe these goblins were scouts, sent out from the force we have been pursuing?”

“They fled over the hills to the east.”

Treston nods. “Where the enemy retreated last night.” He summons the guard from outside. “Tell Captain Vanda to send his four best scouts to the east. We will be following behind shortly. Captain Porrin, please spread word that the camp is to be ready to move out by first light.”

We wake before dawn the next morning. Camp is broken down, and we march east as Casralor emerges from the horizon ahead. Finn soon appears next to me. I sense what’s coming and resist the urge to steer away from him.

“I never got the chance to thank you yesterday. For saving my life,” he says.

“It would have been a waste,” I say. “You had no weapon. You would have died without bringing an enemy down along with you. A meaningless death. If you are to die, you should die helping cleanse the world of wickedness.”

Finn looks at his feet. “I’m not a very good fighter.”

“Neither are goblins. They rely on their force of numbers. Avoid large groups of them. Take one at a time—” I find him staring at me with wide eyes. “What is it?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just… never thought I would be receiving advice from a great elven warrior.”

“I am no great warrior.” I close my eyelids. Behind them, the flames of Ciremúd still burn. “I am merely a survivor.”

The landscape slowly changes as we journey eastward. The smooth edges of rolling hills sharpen into the harsh angles of canyons and cliffs. The air remains warm and dry, and no clouds appear in the sky to signal a reprieve. After two days of travel, we are at last ordered to stop while Casralor is still high in the sky. Word spreads that the scouts have reported a gathering of gremlins and goblins in a nearby basin.

We rest and attack in the evening when the sun is at our backs.

The goblins recover surprisingly quickly from our sudden assault. The gremlins must coordinate them remarkably well. Still, the men advance at a steady pace. The enemy’s numbers seem fewer than they should be, despite the defeat a few nights ago. The rest must have fled the moment we revealed ourselves.

I ready my sword as I near a dueling pair, angling the blade at the goblin. My weapon tears easily through the small creature. I continue past my fallen foe, towards one of the few gremlins I’ve seen, bringing his sword down on a fallen soldier. Red splatters the gremlin’s dark yellow skin. He turns his short, stout body towards me, grinning, and sweeps his sword. I duck backward, the blade ripping the air above me. I bring my weapon around as I right myself, slicing into the gremlin’s leg. He goes down on one knee, and I finish him with a blow across the back of his neck.

Around me, Captain Porrin and the rest fight with like fervor. Porrin carries a sword and shield, just like Finn, while the twins hold long pikes. Meanwhile, Lodis cleaves his way through goblins with his battleaxe.

Though he had been lethal with a dagger, the spear Rolen wields transforms him into a whirlwind of death. He holds no shield, but that only aids his quick movements that leave his enemies no time to counteract. His spear is a blur as he knocks aside strikes with the head then pierces his opponent’s heart, staving off others with the butt-end before spinning his weapon and bringing destruction upon them.

As my next opponent drops to the ground, I look beyond him to where a wooden structure rises above the chaos. A command tower. The gremlin commander stands atop it, shouting orders at the goblins next to him. The goblins respond by blowing rhythmically into large horns affixed to the railing around the wide upper platform.

The tower is made to be light and mobile. A mere framework that can elevate the gremlin and grant him a vantage point over the conflict. Two wheels sit at corners of the base, two more at the top. It moves on its back before being erected for battle.

There is our victory, I think. I run forward into the horde, cutting down any goblins in my path. I vaguely hear shouting behind me, but the words are drowned out by the rush of battle. A clashing of metal sounds at my back, but I don’t spare the time to turn my head as I race towards my target.

I leap over the last few goblins in my way, grab hold of the ladder on the back of the tower, and climb. The gremlin notices me as I pull myself onto the platform, and his eyes flicker to where the humans still fight below. He wears heavier armor than the other I faced. His chestplate and vambraces are ablaze in the evening light.

He raises his shield, sparks flying as my sword rakes across its scratched surface. The gremlin’s sword streaks toward me in retaliation. I knock it away with my bracer and continue my onslaught. Even so, the gremlin is well-trained, and his weapon comes close to taking my life several times.

“Fúzi zu japid!” the gremlin shouts.

The horn-blowers have remained at their stations, and they immediately blow a rhythm to signal the throng below. Meanwhile, three goblins ascend the ladder in pursuit of me.
The gremlin then sneers at me and makes for the ladder. “Zark zu ent!”

Five goblins—two horn-blowers, three reinforcements—move to attack me. I lunge at one and remove his head before he can react. I parry another as he charges, cutting off the hand of a third before carving through the other’s gut. I kick the one-handed goblin over the railing as a fourth swipes at me from behind. I leap backward over it, bringing my sword down and severing his spine as I land on my feet. The last goblin charges at the same time. Still recovering from my landing, I manage to raise my sword, but my poor footing sends me to one knee and our swords lock.

I stretch out one finger, touching it to the flat of the goblin’s blade. Like I did when I cooled the stew, I affect it with thermalurgy, but in the opposite direction. The weapon immediately begins to glow red-hot. The goblin shrieks, drops the sword, and grabs his hand which sizzles from the sudden heat. I stop him from feeling any more pain.

By the time I arrive back on the ground, however, the gremlin is nowhere to be seen. In fact, every remaining goblin is in retreat. A great cry of triumph erupts from the victors as they chase after the stragglers. I wipe and sheath my sword before returning to the others. I’m surprised to find them so close to the tower.

They are not cheering. Instead, they have gathered around a form that lies still on the ground. Finn.

The boy is face down, blood soaking into the dirt beneath him, surrounded by the bodies of a dozen goblins.

Rolen breaks away from the group and strides toward me. I open my mouth, preparing to offer my condolences when he punches me square in the jaw.

“Do you see what you have done?” he shouts.

“Soldier!” Porrin yells.

Rolen moves forward, but Tucam and Keel each grab one of his arms. “He’s dead because of you!”

Commander Treston arrives with his helm under his arm. “What is going on here?”

He and Porrin speak, but I do not absorb their words. I stare at Rolen, then down at my hand, my fingers slowly curling into a fist. A fist like the one Rolen struck me with. But it was not a fist I swung that day.

I was right. Though Rolen had claimed otherwise, his bond with Finn must have been strong indeed, and now he blames me in his grief.

And I was wrong. I thought dying in battle would give death meaning. But what did Finn’s death accomplish? A few dead goblins? What was that against the swarm of evil marching across Coretani?

“I see,” Treston says, turning away from Porrin to consider me for a moment. “Captain, I believe it’s time for your men to prepare for rest. Night will soon be upon us. But I would like a moment with Athrílas before he joins you.”

“Yes, sir.” Porrin leads the others away, Rolen ripping himself from the twins’ grasp as he marches off.

“When we met,” Treston says once they have gone, “I said that you appeared to relish the thrill of battle. I was mistaken. You do not relish it. You have an unquenchable thirst for it. You forget all else as you rush forward to slay your enemy.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“That was not a compliment.” Treston stares at me, his jaw clenched. “What were you thinking, abandoning your unit and going off on your own?”

“I saw my chance to end the battle quickly,” I explain. “If I could have killed the gremlin—”

“I don’t care how many hobgoblins you think you could have killed!” He reigns in his anger and lets out a breath. “I should have known this would happen,” he mutters.

“Commander?”

“Do you not think I saw you during our previous battle? You killed many goblins, yes. But I saw how you threw away lives in the process. You waited until the enemy’s sword was plunged into another before striking them down. Never attempting to deflect a killing blow. Only determined to land one yourself. I hoped that scavenge duty would make you see differently. That you might be able to fight for those who fight beside you after coming face to face with the men you willingly sacrificed in order to destroy your enemy.”

Finn’s body still lies a few paces away.

“Well,” Treston continues, “I suppose that was too much to expect from an elf.” He turns to leave. “You’re assigned to supply duty tomorrow.”

He goes, and I am left with the only company that never seems to leave me. The dead.

The next morning, I report to the supply unit. While the soldiers are almost exclusively human, the supply unit is mostly comprised of halflings and gnomes. A halfling named Spufe explains what I am to do. My assignment is to process bodies from the previous evening’s battle, brought in by those on scavenge duty. I relieve the body of anything the supply unit may be able to use or repair. Armor, coin, or even clothing. As I work, Spufe makes a drawing of the dead soldier’s face, which will be shown to the captains that reported losing men.

He runs off to deliver his latest sketch just as I finish with the body. It is taken away, and a scavenger places another before me. I pause, recognizing the dead man’s face. Finn. I look up at the scavenger who brought him, recognizing his face as well. Rolen. The man glares at me.

“You have scavenge duty again today?” I ask as I begin to unburden Finn of his possessions. His shield is still strapped to his arm, his fingers curled around the grip. Hopefully, I won’t have to break them.

“No, I just wanted to retrieve Finn myself,” Rolen says.

Finn’s fingers are stiff, but I manage to pull the shield free without breaking any. “Tell me, why do you mourn for this boy if you barely know him?”

Rolen looks at the man lying between us. “I guess I’m just sick of watching men die because of one elf’s arrogance.”

I pause. “You’ve met my kind before?”

Rolen gives me that cynical smile again. “Yes, I’ve met your kind before. So do not lecture me on the ways of elves. I am all too familiar with them. You spurn the company of others. Fine. Avoid the men beside you all you want, but do not forfeit their lives for the sake of your own desires.” He points at Finn. “Do not forget that you are not the only one fighting this war.”

Rolen stalks away, and I look back at Finn. The boyish smile is gone from his face, never to return. He had been so young. Did he still have parents? Have they also been killed by goblins? Orcs? Detúnés? Or do they remain at home, waiting for their son, waiting for him to step through the door, waiting to see his smile again? Yet another family ripped apart by the vile races’ animosity.

When my duty is ended, I make my way to Commander Treston. He leans over the table in his tent, palms pressed flat against its surface, studying what appears to be a map of the surrounding cliffs and the wide basin we currently occupy.

“Commander Treston,” I say, saluting. “I have a request to make.”

Treston does not look up as he asks, “And what request might that be?”

“I wish to accompany the scouts in pursuit of the goblin remnant.”

Treston makes a note on the map. “There are no such scouts.”

“When will they leave?” He finally looks up at me, and I understand his meaning. “You aren’t sending any?”

“Only a handful of goblins escaped this last battle. It is not worth dispatching our entire force to chase them.” Treston picks up a small scroll, comparing it to the map on the table. “Not when there are larger threats to deal with.”

He will be allowed to escape? Get away without paying for what he’s done? Unacceptable. These humans claim I forfeit lives, but here they are, forfeiting victory.

“Then I wish to pursue them myself.”

“Excuse me?” Treston says.

“That hob— That gremlin commander who fled. He was highly trained. He will become a threat again if he is allowed to escape. Not to mention his goblin thralls killed many of your men. They should be brought to justice.”

Treston studies me for several moments. “Clearly, supply duty had as little an effect on you as scavenge duty did. Have you forgotten why you were assigned to it in the first place?” He circles the table towards me. “For going off on your own. And now you ask that I let you go off on your own?”

“I thought perhaps—”

“My answer is no. I will not allow you to do the very thing you are being reprimanded for doing. And furthermore—”

A scout bursts into the tent. “Commander Treston! A large force of goblins is fast approaching our position!”

Reinforcements already? Is this a coincidence, or…

“From which direction?” Treston asks.

The scout swallows. “All of them, sir.”

The color drains from Treston’s face. “Show me.”

The scout points out the enemy’s positions on the map. They have cut off every exit from the basin.

“How could they know we are here?” I ask.

“Those goblins were bait!” Treston slams his fist onto the table. “We thought we were the hunters, but we’ve been their prey all along, led right into their trap. How long until they are upon us?”

“About two hours, commander,” the scout answers.

“I want detailed reports of their movements every half hour. And I want their numbers.” The scout salutes and leaves. Treston turns to me. “Athrílas, return to your unit. Do not repeat what you have heard here to anyone. Though, I doubt it will really matter.”

Commander Treston knows his men well. Even though I do as I was told, it is not long until the whole camp knows of the surrounding army. Knows that they will soon be destroyed. But they do not panic. They carry on, believing there is a chance for them to survive. Poor, deluded humans.

I am under no such delusions. This gathering of men will soon be annihilated. It will no longer serve my purpose. I decide to return to the wilderness, where I can continue to fight the vile races on my own.

In my tent, I pack up my few belongings. A large group will not be able to slip past the goblins, but a single elf should be able to. Especially if I scale one of the cliffs. I will have to leave my tent behind. I don’t want to make a scene of my exodus. Perhaps I can steal one from the goblin camp when the slaughter begins. Once I secure my bedroll to my pack, I slip out of the tent and away from the others.

“Going somewhere?”

To my right, Porrin sits on a small stool, sharpening his sword. He slides the whetstone down the blade.

“Are you going to stop me?” I ask.

“Don’t imagine I could. Why’d you decide to leave?”

“You need to ask?”

“I’d like to hear your side before I make any judgments.” The whetstone grinds against his sword.

I should go now. Casralor sinks in the west. If that scout was correct, the goblin army will arrive shortly after nightfall. And climbing the cliff will be much more difficult in the dark. Yet something keeps me there.

“These men are going to die,” I say. “Why should I stay when I would only die with them?”

Porrin holds up the blade to his eye, inspecting the edge. “Maybe we’ll win.”

I scoff.

“It certainly won’t be an overwhelming victory if we do. Maybe only a few of us will end up surviving. But at least we’ll die fighting an enemy, cleansing Coretani of their wickedness. Meaningful deaths. Isn’t that what you told Finn?”

I shake my head. “No deaths are meaningful. No matter how we die, all it will ever bring is misery and grief.”

Porrin looks back at the circle of tents. “Yeah, grief always shows up after death. There’s no helping that. It’s in our nature to grieve such loss. But our deaths can have meaning, so long as we make a difference to the living.”

“And what difference did Finn’s death make?”

Porrin smiles, looking me in the eye for the first time. “He saved your life.”

Saved my life? I frown, thinking back to his body lying on the ground, surrounded by fallen goblins.

“He ran off after you,” Porrin says. “You probably didn’t see him, but he stayed at your back as you raced towards that command tower. Probably hoped to storm it with you.” He shakes his head. “I’d never seen him fight so bravely as I did in that battle. I’d say that’s a pretty meaningful death.”

Finn died to defend me. A death to protect life. A meaningful death. If I died fighting alone in the wilderness, would it have any meaning? Perhaps there is a way it can.

Without a word, I return to my tent.

I emerge again when Captain Porrin calls my name. He is standing with Commander Treston. I panic. Did Porrin tell him about my desertion attempt? The two officers salute, and Porrin heads toward the center of camp.

Treston stands with his hands clasped behind his back. He has that familiar look that signals some conflict is raging in his mind. I start to wonder if he’s always like that or if I am the reason for them. He glances around and—though we are alone, the others already resting in their tents—begins speaking in Roásethír.

“If I had any choice in the matter, you would remain with the supply unit,” he says. “But I am no fool. I know you’re the most talented soldier I have. If we have any chance of surviving this, I’m going to need your sword.”

I salute. “It is at your service. What am I to do?”

“It appears you’ll be getting what you wanted. I need you to take out the enemy commander. The hobgoblin officers hold order over their goblin troops. If that command structure is disrupted, the enemy will fall into chaos, and we will have a chance, however slight, for victory. It will be up to you to slip past our foes and bring about that chaos.”

“It won’t just be up to him,” a voice says.

Treston and I turn to where Rolen stands outside his tent.

“Because he’s not going alone,” Rolen continues in Roásethír. “I’m going with him.”

“I don’t believe that is your decision to make, soldier,” Treston says, switching the conversation to Anunish.

“And I do not require your assistance,” I say.

“You’ve already tried to kill the hob once by yourself,” Rolen points out. “Didn’t work out very well, did it?”

“Only because he sent his goblin thralls to distract me.”

“And you think he won’t have any this time?” When I don’t respond, Rolen continues, “We’ll have a better chance to succeed if I’m there to back him up. I’ll even let him kill the hob. I’ll just hold off his minions.”

Treston considers this. “Your loyalty to your fellows is admirable.”

“I’m not doing this for him.” Rolen jerks his head in my direction. “I’m doing this for Finn.”

“Then my statement still stands.”

Though I raise more objections, Treston refuses them, and it is decided that Rolen will join me in my mission. He brings us to the command tent, where Porrin and the other captains are gathered. Treston explains his plan.

The sky is already dark when Rolen and I take our place in the canyon, concealing ourselves in a small niche behind a few boulders.

“Captain Vanda’s scouts are very thorough,” I say, settling myself within a small divot in the stone.

Rolen merely grunts, watching the canyon.

“Why did you wish to come along?” I ask. “You clearly don’t like me.”

“Like I said, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for Finn.”

“But why aid me? I am the reason he’s dead. Why not stay and hope I perish on my mission?”

“That might have been tempting, but I’m not a hobgoblin. I don’t throw away lives because it’s convenient for me.”

His answer brings me back to Commander Treston’s words. Those goblins were bait. And that hobgoblin—I mean, gremlin—commander who sent those goblins to stop me from pursuing him. That sneer. I had thought it was directed at me. But no. It was at the laughable idea that his goblins would be able to kill me.

“Commander Treston told me I am more inclined to deal a lethal blow than deflect one,” I say.

“He always could turn a phrase,” Rolen says. “He’s a fine warrior, but I suspect he would make an even greater poet.” He suddenly drops the smile that was beginning to form, as though remembering he’s supposed to be upset.

The two of us perk up at the same time. First comes the scuffling footfalls. Then the stench like rotted fish on a summer’s afternoon. Then the goblins are there, scrambling through the canyon. We hold our breath as they pass, ordered along by gremlins.

Once their footsteps fade, we emerge from our concealment, turning in the direction from which they came. A deep resonance flows out into the night. The battle has begun. The canyon floor slopes upward, and we soon find the narrow ingress. We half climb the steep path until we reach the top, then stalk through the tall, dry grass toward the cliff’s edge. The rumbling notes continue to ring out as the gremlin commander controls his army below.

Between the bellows of the horn come the faint sounds of battle, echoing through the canyons. I spot the command tower while we are still a distance away, right where the latest scout report said it would be. Úthalor and Gennis, her small indigo-hued sister, shine brightly in the clear sky, illuminating the tower outlined by torchlight. I signal Rolen to stop and we crouch low.

“There are four guards at the tower’s base,” I tell him. “All gremlins.”

“I’ll hold them off while you climb up and deal with the commander,” Rolen says.

“And get surprised by two or three gremlins that climb up after me? No, I’ll help you deal with the gremlins below—”

“Let me do what I came for: Distract the others while you take out the target.”

I open my mouth to respond.

“Every second we delay is another man dying below,” Rolen interrupts. “The longer that hobgoblin lives, the harder it will be to turn the tide. Follow and wait for me to lead them away from the ladder.”

Rolen shuffles away, leaving me no choice but to follow. Near the tower, he sprints toward the guards. He raises his spear over his shoulder and launches it at the gremlins. They turn at his rustling, and one of them catches it in the neck. Two rush him, shouting, but he slides under their swings, leaping to his feet and pulling the spear from his first victim before the body even touches the ground. He runs off, pulling the other three along.

I dash to the ladder, scaling it quickly. The tower is positioned near the very edge of the cliff, the platform granting an arresting view of the valley. I make out pinpricks of torchlight scattered throughout the mass of colliding bodies. Our soldiers have formed a defensive perimeter around the supply unit, but the line cannot hold indefinitely against the surrounding swarm of goblins. Rolen is right. I must end this as soon as possible, or numerous lives will be lost.

The gremlin and his goblin horn-blower face my direction, drawn by the commotion below. The gremlin draws his sword and shouts something to the goblin, who returns to his horn.

Our weapons collide, and the duel begins. Swords are a blur as they clash with sword, shield, and armor. Like before, the gremlin demonstrates his martial talents. His wide shield and thick armor rebuff my attacks, and I scramble to avoid or parry the brutal blows he rains upon me. His only mistake, whether from pride or carelessness, is to assume that he is my only target.

I deflect one of his heavy sweeps, blade grinding against blade as it passes an inch from my neck, stepping past as his momentum carries him forward. He turns back quickly and raises his shield. However, my sword is directed not at him, but the goblin. The pitiful creature has only a torch to defend himself and waves it sporadically as I attack. I avoid the flying flame as I cut through his chest, catching the torch as it falls from his lifeless hand.

The battle is on Commander Treston’s shoulders now. With no more orders being communicated, I can only hope Treston was correct, and that the horde will soon fall into chaos. Still, I cannot retreat. I have no doubt that the gremlin is well-versed in the rhythms, and can signal them himself to command the army if he wishes. Torch in one hand, sword in the other, I swing them both at my opponent as our duel resumes.

He must come to the same conclusion I have, for the gremlin attacks me with renewed vigor. We break apart after my thrust is blocked by his shield. He barrels towards me, his shield out front. I leap over the charge, but the gremlin expects this, swiping his sword through the air as I fly above him. I manage to deflect the blow but sacrifice my balance in the process. I land on my side and roll toward the edge of the platform, catching myself before going over. I raise my sword as the gremlin attacks, but I have not regained my composure, and the weapon flies out of my hand from the force of his strike. I watch it skid across the wood and over the edge.

I thrust out with my only remaining weapon. I jab the torch into the gremlin’s hand, and he bellows in pain. He reflexively drops his sword, and I kick it away. The gremlin bashes my face with his shield, and the back of my head slams into the rough wooden platform, lights dancing before my eyes. He rips the torch from my hand and prepares to brand my skin.

I focus on the bright fire of the torch, willing it to expand. Thermalurgy grants my wish, and the small flame erupts into an inferno. The gremlin recoils from the sudden heat, tossing the torch away. It bounces once and rolls off the platform.

The gremlin brings his shield down on me. I catch it, the edge digging into my palms. He pushes down with his other hand, and the shield soon presses against my neck. Warm blood runs down my wrists as I fight against the crushing of my throat. I gasp for breath, my lungs burning. Pressure mounts within my skull so that it feels as though my head will burst at any second.

The gremlin’s face shows pure ecstasy as he slowly kills me.

“You have the sword’s skill, little ent,” he says in broken Anunish. “But you being the fool. You be soon death under me. And your allies after.”

My vision goes dark; numbness spreads through my body.

“Athrílas!”

The pressure suddenly lifts, and I gasp, sucking air into my starved lungs. Coughing, I look up to see Rolen engaged with the gremlin, who has recovered his weapon. Sword and spear dance, competing for who will be the first to strike the other’s master. The sword wins.

Rolen cries out as the gremlin’s blade strikes his head. Blood sprays from the wound, and his headband, cut cleanly on one side, falls to the floor. That’s when I see them, peeking out from his blond locks. His ears, the tops long and pointed.

“A half-elf,” I breathe.

I go to stand, but a crack rips through the air, and the platform suddenly lurches. I topple into the railing. Beneath me, I see the torch that fell lying at the edge of the cliff among blackened grass beside the platform. The wooden framework groans as flames lick up the side, devouring the supports like they’re made of kindling.

The gremlin comes at me with his sword. I step aside, and the blade cuts deep into the railing. Rolen appears next to me, spear at the ready. The two prepare to strike each other when another support snaps and the platform leans precariously over the cliff. I manage to keep my feet, but Rolen and the gremlin are sent into the railing. The gremlin’s weight breaks the weakened barrier, and both tumble over the edge.

For a second, I think they are gone. But both manage to grab hold with one hand, hanging over the valley floor far below.

This is my chance, I think. I can end it.

I move towards the gremlin. One kick will send him falling to his doom. The fire is spreading faster now, its heat cooking the air around me. The platform lurches again, and Rolen cries out. He’s dropped his spear, grabbed onto the platform’s support with both hands, but the fire grows ever closer, and the gremlin has started to pull himself up.

No. I am no hobgoblin. I do not throw away lives for convenience.

Rolen tries to pull himself up, but the wood beneath him breaks, and he falls. But my hand is there, grabbing hold and pulling him up onto the platform.

Rolen coughs. “Thanks. Thought you were going to let me fall for a moment there.”

“That might have been tempting,” I say.

Rolen’s face, which begins to smile, suddenly turns grim as he looks over my shoulder. He shoves me to the side as he pulls out his dagger. The hobgoblin slams into him, bringing them both to the floor. He’s lost his shield, but the hobgoblin pins down Rolen’s dagger arm, reaches into his boot, and pulls out a knife. He stabs at Rolen’s face, but the half-elf grabs the hobgoblin’s wrist, the point of the knife descending slowly toward his eye.

I have no weapon. No means for attack or defense.

“Athrílas!” Rolen shouts.

He flicks his dagger upward, and it spins through the air. I leap forward, catch it in a reverse grip, and instantly bring it down. The hobgoblin watches the dagger fly above him, turns his head just in time to see me drive it into his neck. Black ichor spurts from the wound. I twist the dagger and rip it free.

The hobgoblin glares at me with hate one last time before he falls back dead. His body slides across the slanted platform and disappears.

I help Rolen to his feet as the platform shudders. The whole tower is practically engulfed in flames, but we scramble down the ladder before it collapses, the upper half tumbling down the cliffside in a burning heap.

Originally, I was supposed to use the tower’s horn to signal my success, but I believe this new smoke signal will be sufficient. Indeed, as Rolen and I walk to the edge, we can already see its effects.

Seeing their commander’s tower burn must have dispirited the goblins, for much of the horde has already broken away. We stand and watch as the circle of men begins to expand, driving the rest back. They do not chase as the enemy retreats, but their cries of victory and relief reach us on the clifftop.

We reunite with our unit back in the valley, the others gawking at Rolen’s ears.

“Guess I won’t be able to hide these anymore,” he grumbles.

Treston finds us soon after. The battle-weary commander glances at Rolen, but if he is surprised by what he sees, he hides it well.

He salutes the pair of us. “Well done, soldiers. You’ve saved many lives this night.”

“May the souls of those we’ve lost have peace as they look upon this victory,” I say, returning the salute.

Treston considers me, then nods.

Every head turns at the pounding. A horse canters up to us bearing an unfamiliar scout. The man salutes Commander Treston.

“Commander Treston, I was sent by Sir Quegún after we saw the smoke.” The scout looks up at the still-smoldering command tower.

Beside me, Rolen suddenly becomes stiff. He looks at the ground, his expression hard.

“What has happened?” the scout asks. “Your men appear to have faced an ordeal.”

“Indeed we have,” Treston says. “You say you come from Sir Quegún? There is a matter I must discuss with him urgently.”

“Then please, sir, take my horse.” The scout dismounts and Treston takes his place. “Sir Quegún’s procession is just to the south. I believe he’s expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Treston gallops off.

Rolen walks away. Before I can say anything to him, the scout approaches me.

“Looks like you all had a tough time fighting off the gremlins,” he says.

I survey the bloody basin with him. “Hobgoblins.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There are now no such things as gremlins . What remains, are hobgoblins.”

“Hobgoblin,” the scout says. “Strange word. What does it mean?”

A short distance from us, Porrin, as well as Lodis, Tucam, and Keel, celebrate with Rolen. Among their circle, an empty space is left for Finn.

“It means those who fall beside us do not die in vain.”