Race Into Blood
Peter J. Welmerink

The hoofs pounded close behind as Sturoq Adahy hunkered down on the bare back of his dark gray mare. He slapped the horse's hindquarters, pushing her to a swifter pace. Behind the young barbarian and his sprinting horse, two-score screaming goblins rode hard in pursuit.

Two fingers of the Lucien Mountains surged up into the barren wastes of central Kren. In the space between the fingers rested Krenon, the capital city of Kren. Moisture from the sporadic rainfalls that soaked the usually arid region, trapped between the Lucien Highlands, had created a dense forest between the jagged fingers. Krenon, though not the most pleasant of eastern cities to visit, was pleasantly situated within the protective embrace of the mountains and the forest. Her gilded towers of wealthy landbarons and deadly archers were home to wanting daughters, Sturoq had found to his misfortune in the past.

Sturoq hoped he could lose his pursuers and reach Krenon before nightfall. His coin purse held enough to afford a cheap meal and possibly a drink; he had slept on the street before. However, the chattering and shouting of death threats from the goblins told him they had other ideas regarding his final destination.

Sturoq unsheathed one of the blades at his side, raised the long curved blade before him. The blood of the cutthroats he had happened upon a day ago still stained the shiny metal like a grisly rune. Reflected in the blade, he saw his dark hair whipping about his face; his long black bangs danced before his hazel eyes. His face was bronzed from the sun. His lips were dry and cracked. A dusting of white desert sand lightened the small inverted triangle of dark brisly hair growing between his lower lip and chin.

Then the image, reflected in the blue steel, changed to another.

"A fine son you are, running from battle like the sheep of lesser people. Disgraceful!" Sturoq's father bellowed; his old scar-flawed face twisted in anger, the thick single brow furrowed and rotted teeth clenched. His unruly black beard twitched with his words. Eyes devoid of pupils seemed to swirl like storm clouds. The man was long dead but his tortured spirit lived on. He appeared in the strangest forms; most often when Sturoq was troubled, or in trouble.

"They will be upon you before you reach the city. Turn about and face your enemy, brat! Weakling! Dung-crawling worm!"

Sturoq gnashed his teeth, a great rage building within. His father was probably right about his pursuers. The goblins rode Ki'Ancha's--huge, ebon hunch-backed boars that could easily keep up with a racing charger. It was just a matter of time until he was overcome.

He reined in his horse, nearly snapping its neck as he brought it to a halt. He turned the mare, slapping his heels into her side, and brought her up to a hard gallop again. He put the leather reins between his teeth. With one curved blade in his right hand, he drew the second from his side. The coarse dry leather at his tongue, he muttered several curses at his father and at himself.

The two-score gabbling goblins were less than a quarter mile before him. Sturoq closed the gap quickly. The boars raised a huge dust cloud, their hooves thundering. The goblins shook their dun-colored arms in the air, waving crude serrated swords and sharp-tipped stone spears in their filthy hands. They rode fast. As Sturoq rode forward, horse pounding the ground beneath him, some of the creatures tried to rein in their hump-backed mounts; their yellow eyes wide and their drool-dripping mouths agape. Sturoq smashed into them like a great boulder crashing through a copse of small trees. His blades struck downward and across, breaking spears mid-shaft, knocking swords aside, taking gibbering heads from shoulders, opening huge furrows in chests. Thin hairy arms and chunks of skull and brain sailed skyward. A great mist of dark goblin and bright red boar's blood fogged the air.

The gray mare whinnied and dove to the ground, a pair of spears embedded in her chest. Sturoq tumbled forward over the horse, reins pulled from his mouth, gore-covered swords flailing. He landed on top of one of his attackers, a sharp pain biting into his back. He came up without weapons, throwing himself at the nearest goblin and warboar. His large fists drove into the surprised creature's face, smashing through it as though it were a weak jug of molasses. The boar crashed into him, knocking him again off his feet. Sturoq went down, wrapped a taut muscled arm around the beast's thick throat, then snapped its head back.

Lean, all muscle, and stoked in deadly fury, the barbarian was a storming giant among the diminutive goblin horde. His balled fists flew, smashing the life from his foe. He yanked the sword from a snarling goblin, grabbed the creature by the arm and impaled it on the spear tip of its fellow, driving both brutes to the ground. The weapon Sturoq bore had a simple wood hilt, like that from a butcher's knife, and a two-foot long dual-edged blade. The goblins began to break, screaming in panic, as he cut into them like a biting and deadly whirlwind.

When the blood and dust settled Sturoq stood in the center of gore-covered ground littered with dead and dying goblins and Ki'Ancha. His blade and body dripped with blood, mostly from his opponents and some from his own battle-bestowed wounds. As his dark-spirited eyes glanced across the field he caught sight of the last goblin that hadn't met the wrath of his blade or fist.

"You have win, Human," the goblin said, his voice like a rolling mug of heavy gravel. "You will no longer be bother to us."

The creature wore a purple tunic and tattered brown breeks, with a multitude of colorful but dirty silk belts tied about its waist. A gold headband encircled his head, denoting his status as a tribe chief. The chief's Ki'Ancha had red-painted warbands about its snout and polished metal caps on its tusks, tapering to a wicked point.

Sturoq kept his blade up but looked at the goblin-chief questioningly. He flicked a small soft chunk of... something from his blood-wet cheek. "A bother? A bother to you?" The barbarian took several careful steps backwards out of the pile of bodies--he didn't want to stumble over the carnage. "What kind of trickery is this? You were going to attack me."

The goblin-chief stood, peering beyond Sturoq, towards Krenon nestled below the Lucien mountain range. "My people were here first. You invade our homeland, push us out like the deer and fox." He waved his dirty brownish hand slowly before him as if encompassing the whole world.

Sturoq lowered his sword and turned slightly to look towards Krenon, too far away to actually see. He had been there though, and in his mind's eye he could see the sprawl, see the tall buildings and squat houses, the multitude of people, the land being claimed to enlarge the growing town.

"Take what you want, prizes of victory," the goblin-chief said as more goblins appeared behind him, rising from behind dense brush and rocks. "Let my people claim their dead and us be gone from here."

There were easily a hundred or more goblins of all shapes, sizes and ages. They made no sound other than the shambling of their feet on the hard-packed ground, their eyes on the broken bodies of their kin.

Sturoq, feeling his heart sink in his broad chest, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, deciding to let things be. He looked at the closest dead goblin, a creature split from crotch to collarbone, its guts spilled upon the dusty ground. There was a small pouch cut open at its side, spilled gold shimmering in the pool of dark blood. Added to his own coins, it was probably enough to afford him a grand meal, comfortable lodging and maybe female companionship for the night.

He shook his head, sheathed his sword, went to his dead horse--stifling a bit of angry regret on losing the expensive beast of burden and means of easy transportation--gathered his things and walked on towards Krenon leaving the goblins to their chore. A large mangy bush, void of leafs, shook in a sudden soft breeze and took the broken shape of his father's face. "Don't let those beasts free to attack us again. Turn and kill them! Kill them all, you weak-kneed fawn!"

Sturoq put his hands to his ears and turned from the apparition.

That evening, as the sun dropped away and the blanket of night covered the city of Krenon, Sturoq sat outside the city gates, staring into the gloom, looking at the dark arms of the Lucien Mountains that embraced the town. He ate a meal now cold that he had purchased from a street vendor and sipped at a large skin of sour wine. As his thoughts returned to his encounter earlier that day, he listened to the sounds of nature...

...There were none. What filled the barbarian's ears was the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels along cobblestone roads, the braying of people trying to sell their wares, doors and windows opening and shutting to the activities of the night, the cry of hungry beggars and babies, and the commotion of brawls taken out into the streets and the related ring of angry steel.

Sturoq, with the clamor of the city behind him, sat in the deepening darkness and drank until his mind dulled and sleep deemed him worthy of her embrace.