Dromos 35, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Hills – The Abandoned Mine
The morning was bright, the sky a pale blue dotted with cotton clouds. Birds sang in the trees outside the guild hall. A gentle wind carried the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The sun warmed the cobblestones.
Priestess stood in line, her hands clasped around her staff. Her robes were white, unwrinkled, the silver pendant at her throat still bright. She had pressed them the night before, folded them carefully, laid them on the chair by her window. She had dreamed of this moment for months.
The receptionist, a woman with grey‑streaked hair and tired eyes, looked up. "Name?"
"Priestess."
"Rank?"
"I'm new."
"Porcelain, then." She dipped her quill. "Experience?"
"I can heal. Basic miracles. Protection."
"Ever killed anything?"
"No."
The receptionist studied her. "You're not the first. Most don't come back."
Priestess swallowed. "I understand."
"You don't." The receptionist set down the quill. "But you'll learn."
A hand clapped her shoulder. She turned.
A young man stood there, a sword at his hip, a chipped tooth in his grin. His armor was new, the leather still stiff. Behind him, a woman with calloused fists and a scar on her knuckle. And a teenage girl with spectacles and a book of spells, her red hair pulled into a messy ponytail.
"You're a healer?" the swordsman asked.
"I—yes."
"Perfect. Goblin quest. Village a few hours east. They've been taking women. We need someone to patch us up."
"I've never—"
"It's just goblins," the mage said, adjusting her spectacles. Her voice was young, eager. "Low‑level. Easy coin."
The martial artist said nothing. She cracked her knuckles.
Priestess looked at them. They were confident, smiling, eager. She wanted to be confident too.
"Okay," she said.
They walked to the door. The receptionist watched them go. Her quill hovered over the ledger. She did not call them back.
The road to the village was green and pleasant. Birds sang. A rabbit darted across the path. The swordsman told stories of his training, his voice loud, his hands gesturing. The mage talked about spells she had mastered, pushing her spectacles up her nose. The martial artist walked in silence, her eyes on the horizon.
Priestess listened. She nodded. She smiled.
"Goblins are cowards," the swordsman said. "They'll run the second we draw steel."
"I've read they're cunning," Priestess said.
"Books." He waved a hand. "You can't trust books."
The village was small, the people hollow‑eyed. An old man met them at the gate. His hands shook.
"The cave is east," he said. "They took my daughter three nights ago."
"We'll get her back," the swordsman said.
The old man looked at them—their new armor, their clean swords, their young faces. He said nothing.
They walked east.
The cave mouth was a dark gash in the hillside. Moss hung from the rocks. The air that seeped out was warm, damp, thick with the smell of rot.
Priestess hesitated. "I feel like something's watching us."
"It's just a cave," the swordsman said.
He lit a torch. "Form up. Warriors in front. Healer in the middle. Mage in the back."
"Should we check for side passages?" Priestess asked.
"It's a straight tunnel. Goblins aren't smart enough to build traps."
They stepped inside.
The tunnel was narrow, low, the walls slick with moisture. Water dripped from the ceiling.
Drip.
The sound echoed down the passage, thin and hollow, like a bone tapped against stone.
Drip.
The swordsman's boots scraped on gravel. The martial artist's footsteps were softer, almost silent. Priestess's staff tapped. The mage's robes rustled.
Drip.
The priestess stopped. "Do you feel that?"
"Feel what?" the swordsman asked, his voice too loud.
"Like something's watching."
The martial artist said nothing. Her fists were clenched. Her eyes scanned the shadows. She had felt it too.
The swordsman laughed. "You're imagining things. It's just a cave."
They walked deeper.
The tunnel opened into a chamber. Torches sputtered on the walls, casting greasy yellow light that barely reached the corners. The floor was wet, sticky, dark with old blood. The soles of their boots clung to the stone with each step. Bones littered the edges—small bones, delicate, the kind that came from hands and feet. A child's skull, cracked, rested near the wall. The priestess looked away.
In the center of the chamber stood a totem. It was a crude thing—a wooden pole carved with jagged symbols, painted with what might have been blood, dark and flaking. A goblin skull was lashed to the top, its jaw wired open in a frozen scream. The eye sockets were empty, but they seemed to follow.
The swordsman walked up to it. "What's this?" He poked it with his sword. The wood creaked. "Looks like something a child made."
"Don't touch it," the priestess said.
"It's just a stick." He laughed. "Maybe they worship it. Goblins have gods?"
The mage frowned, pushing her spectacles up. "I've read about these. They mark territory. It means we're close."
"Good," the swordsman said. "Let's find them."
They did not check the walls. They did not look behind the rocks. They were focused on the totem, on the path ahead. The priestess glanced back. The shadows seemed to move.
The goblins watched from the darkness between the stones.
The mage was the first to fall.
She did not see the blade. None of them did. It came from behind a rock, low to the ground, held by a goblin that had been pressed flat against the wall, its green skin blending with the moss. It moved without sound.
The rusty knife slammed into her lower back, just above her hip. She gasped—not a scream, a soft, shocked exhale—and crumpled. Her spectacles flew from her face, landing in a puddle of old blood. The book of spells fell from her hands, pages soaking. Her red hair spilled across the stone.
The priestess ran to her. She dropped to her knees, hands trembling, reaching for the wound. "I can heal her. I can—" Her palms pressed against the girl's back. Golden light flickered, warm and urgent. The flesh began to knit, the edges of the wound pulling together.
But the skin around it was turning grey. Then black. Dark veins spread like cracks in ice, crawling up the girl's side.
"No, no, no—" The priestess's voice cracked. "It's not closing right. The blade—there was something on the blade. I can't—I don't have—I can't stop it!"
The mage's breathing was shallow, her lips already blue. Her eyes fluttered. A whisper: "It hurts…"
The swordsman roared.
He cut down the goblin that had stabbed the mage. His blade took its head. The body twitched, spraying dark blood across the stone. He turned, swinging, and killed another. Then a third. He was fast, skilled. His sword sang.
But he was angry. Anger clouded his eyes. He did not see the ceiling.
The chamber narrowed where the tunnel continued. The rock dropped five inches—barely enough to notice, but enough to matter. The swordsman charged at a cluster of goblins near the far wall. He raised his sword for an overhand cut, a move that required space above his head.
The blade struck the rock.
The impact jarred his arms. Pain shot through his wrists. The sword flew from his grip, spinning end over end, clattering against the stone. He stumbled, off balance, his hands empty. His eyes went wide.
The goblins swarmed him.
They were small, but there were many. They clawed at his legs, his arms, his face. One bit his calf, tearing through his boot. Another stabbed his shoulder, the blade scraping against bone. A third drove a rusty knife into his side, just below his ribs. He felt it slide between them. He fell. They piled on. His screams became gurgles, then wet, choking sounds, then nothing.
The martial artist lunged.
Her fists were weapons. She had trained for years, her knuckles hardened, her strikes precise. She broke the first goblin's nose, drove the bone fragments into its brain. It dropped. She broke the second's jaw, then its throat. It fell, clawing at its neck. She killed a third with a kick to the temple.
But there were too many.
A goblin bit her arm. She shook it off, broke its neck. Another slashed her thigh. She ignored it, kept moving. She killed two more.
"Fall back!" she shouted.
The priestess grabbed the mage's collar and dragged her toward the tunnel. The martial artist covered them. Her fists were wet with blood—goblin blood, her own blood. She could not feel the cuts.
Then a hobgoblin emerged from the shadows.
It was larger than the others, its skin grey, its arms thick, its teeth filed to points. It wore a necklace of fingers. It swung a club—a tree branch, studded with rusted nails. She dodged, but it caught her wrist, twisted, and threw her to the ground. Her head struck the stone. Her vision swam.
It pinned her.
The goblins cheered.
The swordsman was dead. His eyes were open. His blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the stone, mixing with the old stains.
The mage was dying, paralyzed by poison, her lips blue, her breath a whisper.
The priestess knelt, trembling, her pendant clutched in her hands. "Please," she whispered. "Please, someone."
The hobgoblin laughed.
It tore the martial artist's tunic. The cloth ripped. Her skin was pale, goosebumped from the cold.
The goblins laughed.
They held her down. They took turns.
The martial artist did not scream. She did not weep. Her eyes were open. Her face was blank. She stared at the ceiling, at the water dripping from the stone.
Drip.
The priestess could not watch. She grabbed the mage's collar and ran.
She dragged the girl through the tunnel, her lungs burning, her legs screaming. The mage's heels scraped over gravel. Her breathing was shallow, her lips blue. Her red hair dragged through the dirt.
The tunnel twisted, narrowed, split. She did not know which way was out. She had run too deep. Too far.
Her foot caught on a root. She stumbled. The mage slipped from her grasp, her head striking the stone with a dull crack. She did not wake.
"I'm sorry," the priestess whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Behind her, laughter.
Three goblins emerged from the darkness. Their eyes were yellow, wet, hungry. One held a rusty knife. The others had clubs studded with nails. They chittered, pointed, grinned.
Priestess scrambled to her feet. She raised her staff. "Stay back!"
The lead goblin lunged. She swung. The staff caught it across the face. Bone cracked. It stumbled back, shrieking, clawing at its broken nose.
The other two ignored her. They turned to the mage.
They tore her robes. They laughed.
Priestess tried to run to her. The wounded goblin grabbed her ankle, pulled her down. It crawled on top of her, its weight pressing, its breath sour. It did not kill her. It toyed with her. It slapped her face, laughed, tore at her collar.
Behind her, the mage gasped. The goblins were busy.
Drip.
Water fell from the ceiling. The echo was thin, hollow, swallowed by the laughter.
Drip.
Another. Lost.
Step.
The goblins did not hear. They were laughing, grunting, busy.
Step.
The laughter continued. The echoes faded.
Step.
This time, the echo did not fade. It hung in the air, growing, pushing against the laughter. The goblins paused. Their chittering faltered.
The cave grew cold. The torchlight from somewhere ahead flickered, and a new smell reached them—smoke, oiled steel, something old and patient.
Step.
The light appeared. Small, orange, at the far end of the tunnel. It did not waver. It grew.
Step.
The goblins stared. One dropped its knife. The sound clattered, sharp, final. Another whimpered—a high, thin sound that had no place in a predator's throat.
Step.
A silhouette emerged. Tall, broad, armored. A torch in one hand. A shield in the other. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, making the figure seem larger than life.
Step.
The man was visible now. Dark steel armor, scratched and dented, angular plates. A greathelm with a narrow horizontal slit. A red warrior's tail—a short cloth—hung from the back, swaying with each step. His shield was small, round, unadorned. His sword was short, practical, its edge nicked but sharp.
The goblins stared. Their laughter died. Their hands trembled.
One goblin hissed. It raised its knife. It charged.
The silhouette raised its shield. The knife scraped across the steel. The goblin was thrown back, slammed against the wall. The torch came down on its face.
The flesh sizzled. The goblin screamed.
"One."
The word was flat, calm, absolute. It drowned the scream, drowned the crackle of the fire, drowned the echoes. The other goblins froze.
The Goblin Slayer stepped into the light.
He did not speak. He did not shout. He simply walked forward.
The goblins broke. They ran.
He caught the first by the throat. His gauntleted fingers sank into its flesh, crushing the windpipe. The goblin's eyes bulged. Its mouth opened, but no sound came out. He lifted it off the ground and held it at eye level. Its legs kicked. Its claws scrabbled against his vambrace, leaving thin scratches on the steel. He squeezed. The trachea collapsed with a wet, grinding crunch. He squeezed harder. Blood vessels burst in its eyes, turning the yellow to red. He squeezed until he felt the vertebrae separate. Then he slammed it against the wall. The skull cracked. The body slid down, leaving a dark smear. It twitched once, twice, then still.
"Two."
He turned to the second. It tried to crawl away, dragging its club, whimpering. He stepped on its ankle. The bones snapped—a sound like dry branches breaking. The goblin shrieked, rolled onto its back, clawed at his boot. He knelt, planting a knee on its chest. He grabbed its head with both hands. The goblin's fingers tore at his gauntlets, drawing sparks. He twisted. The neck did not break cleanly. He twisted again. Bones ground together. A wet pop. The goblin's eyes went wide, then empty. He twisted a third time. The head came free with a tearing sound. He dropped it. The body convulsed.
"Three."
The third—the one whose face he had burned—was still writhing against the wall, its skin peeling, its screams reduced to wet gurgles. The Goblin Slayer walked to it, slow, deliberate. He raised his boot and brought it down on the goblin's knee. The joint reversed. The leg bent the wrong way. The goblin shrieked, tried to crawl, tried to push itself up with its arms. He stepped on its other knee. Another crack. It collapsed. He knelt beside it. He drew his short sword. He placed the tip against the goblin's belly, just below the ribs, and pushed. The blade sank in slowly, scraping against the spine. He twisted. The goblin's scream became a wet, bubbling hiss. He pulled the blade upward, opening the belly. The contents spilled out—dark, glistening, steaming in the cold air. The goblin's eyes rolled back. He stabbed it again, through the heart, and left the blade there.
"Four."
He stood among the bodies. The torch crackled. The mage lay on the stone, her robes torn, her red hair spread across the dirt. Priestess sat against the wall, her collar torn, her face streaked with tears.
The Goblin Slayer looked at her. She did not meet his eyes.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Then walk."
He lifted the mage. The girl was light, her head lolling, her red hair hanging.
Priestess stumbled to her feet. She followed.
As they passed the main chamber, she saw the martial artist. The woman was still alive. Her eyes were open. Her face was blank. The goblins had left her there, broken but breathing. She did not move. She did not speak.
The Goblin Slayer did not stop. "She will live," he said. "But she will not be the same."
Priestess wanted to go to her. She wanted to help. But she had no strength left. She had no magic left. She had nothing.
She walked past.
She should have been grateful, she thought. She was not. She was empty.
The tunnel branched again. The Goblin Slayer led her deeper, past the bodies of the goblins he had killed earlier. The hobgoblin was not among them. Its body was gone.
"It's not dead," Priestess whispered.
"No."
"Where did it go?"
"Deeper. To protect the nest."
They found the hobgoblin in a wide chamber, surrounded by a dozen goblins. Behind them, leaning against the far wall, was a crude door—wooden planks stolen from farmhouses, lashed together with rope and leather. It was low, barely three feet high.
The hobgoblin saw them. It raised its club. The other goblins hissed.
The Goblin Slayer set down the mage against the wall. "Stay here."
He drew his sword.
The fight was short, brutal, and one-sided. The Goblin Slayer moved through the goblins like a blade through flesh. He reached the hobgoblin and drove his sword into its throat. The creature did not fall. It swung its club, caught him on the shoulder. His armor held. He stabbed again, into its chest. It staggered. He stabbed a third time, into its belly, and twisted. It fell to its knees. He raised his boot and brought it down on its skull. Once. Twice. The skull caved. It stopped moving.
He turned to the others.
"Five." A knife through an eye. "Six." A shield bash that caved in a chest. "Seven." A head twisted until the neck snapped.
The remaining goblins tried to flee. He caught them.
"Eight." "Nine." "Ten." "Eleven." "Twelve."
The chamber fell silent.
Behind the crude door, something whimpered.
The Goblin Slayer walked to the door. He lifted the plank that barred it and pushed it open.
Inside was a small alcove, barely large enough for a man to crouch. Five goblin babies huddled together in the corner. They were small, hairless, their skin a sickly grey. Their eyes were too large, too wet. They trembled. They made soft, keening sounds—not the chittering of their elders, but something almost pathetic. Almost human.
One of them reached out a tiny clawed hand toward the Goblin Slayer. Its mouth opened. A thin, reedy cry emerged.
The Goblin Slayer picked up a club from the floor.
In the main chamber, Priestess knelt beside the martial artist. The woman's eyes were still open, still empty. Her breathing was shallow. Her torn clothes hung from her shoulders. Priestess pulled her own cloak off and wrapped it around the martial artist's body.
"It's over," she whispered. "You're safe now."
The martial artist did not respond. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Then her hand twitched. Slowly, trembling, she reached out and touched Priestess's wrist. Just a touch. Then her hand fell back.
Priestess covered it with her own.
From the side tunnel, the cries began.
High, thin, terrified—the sound of goblin babies. They were not the shrieks of adult goblins. They were something else. Something almost pitiful.
Then the first blow landed.
A wet crunch. A cry that cut off mid‑note.
The second blow: a wet squelch. Another cry, shorter.
The third blow: a sharp snap. A whimper, then silence.
The martial artist flinched. Her eyes darted toward the tunnel.
"Don't listen," Priestess said. "Don't—"
Another crack. A shriek that became a gurgle.
The martial artist began to shake.
The blows continued. Each one was followed by a small, wet sound. The crying grew quieter, then stopped.
The tunnel fell silent.
The Goblin Slayer emerged from the alcove. His club was wet. His armor was splattered. He did not look at Priestess.
"There were five," he said. "I counted."
He walked past her, toward the back of the chamber.
Behind a pile of bones, in a shallow trench, lay a figure. A young woman, naked, her hair matted, her face swollen. She was alive. Her eyes were open. She did not move.
The old man's daughter.
The Goblin Slayer knelt beside her. He pulled a cloak from his pack and draped it over her.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She did not answer. But as he lifted her, her hand twitched. A small sound escaped her throat—not a word, not a sob. Just a breath.
The way out was long. Priestess carried the mage. The Goblin Slayer carried the daughter. The martial artist walked between them, silent, her face blank, her steps mechanical.
They emerged into the grey morning.
The old man was waiting at the cave entrance. When he saw his daughter, he fell to his knees. She did not look at him. But her hand, resting on the Goblin Slayer's arm, twitched again.
The Goblin Slayer set her down gently. He did not wait for thanks.
Priestess looked at the martial artist. The woman stood alone, staring at the ground.
"What will happen to her?" Priestess asked.
The Goblin Slayer did not turn. "She will live. Or she will not. I cannot change that."
He walked away.
Priestess watched him go. She did not know his name. She did not ask.
Then she turned to the martial artist.
"Come with me," she said.
The martial artist did not answer. But she followed.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine