The tale of one's nephew

AREMFRID

The doors of the town hall remained open at all times, whether it be winter or we be in a fierce debate, the current situation notwithstanding, seeing as we were abruptly assaulted by a clan of dread lynxes the previous night, which warranted a serious discussion in the town hall with the doors closed as the unwashed masses found themselves in a state of panic and would disturb any possibly fruitful debate. The chiefs Baldrenraz and Hardalgmar—the two who oppose my policies most fervently—were absent, thus setting the stage for myself to enthrone my nephew as the tribe’s sovereign at last. Without the pushback of those two populist demagogues—who paralleled those corrupting whigs in the Lugustian Estates-General—the Highgoblins would see the truth of the matter and submit to my judgement.

“…We… await the seal of approval from chief Hardalgmar, for we would never decide upon a matter without his input.”

…Why is it then that I am still opposed?

It was chief Frakaldhelm that had muttered these words, none of the others inclining towards disagreement, except for chiefess Maraldnund, the only one amongst the ilk that could see reason. Maraldnund too was once captured and indentured by the humans of Lugustia together with myself, so it must be the reason behind her continual endorsement and understanding of my ambitions. If I could have my way, I would send all goblin children to be educated in Lugustia so that they might find themselves reborn a civilized people, and lose the backward ways of their fathers and forefathers before them.

Even when confronted with sound logic, do these Highgoblins stick to tradition, once again demonstrating that the humans truly are a superior kind to our own. Were it not for them, the term “law” might never have entered in the dictionary of the goblin people. My, I had forgotten that we lack a dictionary all together, and speak in nothing but a disorderly lexicon, completely devoid of grammar and formal structure.

In spite of their rigid beliefs, I hold the Highgoblins in earnest esteem. Anyone who has ascended to the Highgoblin stage—it is evident that he has true merit and intellectual capacity backing them, which is why I shall always refer to them as chiefs, even if they do not lend me the same courtesy. I would solely wish that they would see to reason, but it is an innate part of a goblin to defer to the one higher ascended than him; cooperation between equals leading to impasses, a principle also present in man’s nature, but to a lower extent. In the times of my elder brother and our father, leadership was clear; the Gobkin stands above the Highgoblin. But in our current predicament, we are stuck in a dreadlock as we lack an ascendant above us, yet cannot come to agree to whom the reins should be handed: my nephew or another.

Had I not known better, I would have had my nephew seize this town by force, but alas, force is met with force, and though it is no trouble to take another nation by force, subjugating your own powerbase through such means is akin to building a tower on a sandy dune—it is bound to collapse on its precarious foundation.

“I think this meeting is over. We’ve been here the whole day, and still we have nothing to show for. We’ll continue this tomorrow,” Frakaldhelm ended the meeting on a whim and stood up from his seat. In his eyes, I could discern the same agitation that everyone here was feeling, but even deeper in his gaze, determination was growing by the second.

***

“Chiefess Maraldnund, you must understand…!”

“The matter has already been decided upon. No one leaves until chief Albar, Hardalgmar, or Baldrenraz make their return.”

The sun sank behind the walls of Casbriga while chief Frakaldhelm was pleading with chiefess Maraldnund for her permission to head out with a small retinue of warriors to search for chief Hardalgmar. My belief in my nephew’s capabilities was no mere hope—it was proven true, for he had installed the chiefess as temporary steward of the two captains, who could not do but obey what two chiefs had ordered them to do—to stay put. The only ones who could overrule such a command were those two chiefs themselves, the war chief, and chief Hardalgmar.

Neither was my estimation of Frakaldhelm’s resolve misplaced, for I knew that if the Highgoblin council remained mired in indecision, bickering over plans, his loyalty would drive him to act. He and chief Hardalgmar had forged an unbreakable bond in the grueling trials of warrior camp, so upon noticing the sparkle of determination kindling in his eyes, I knew he would carve a path of his own to return his ally home.

Thus had I plotted to force Frakaldhelm’s fealty to my nephew, for I would permit—and order the chiefess to permit—his action if he did so, and ceased his opposition. He readily complied, anything for his lifelong comrade, and I set him off with a band Crawgoblins at his command. Four particular Crawgoblins approached, and requested to join this party in its goal, explaining that they too desired to save someone, meaning my nephew. My face contorted in slight bewilderment, but I had swiftly come to the realization that these were the same Narzakii huntsmen with whom my nephew had worked with for the last four months, having ascended to Crawgoblinhood under his tutelage, according to them. I gave them my blessing, and they followed suit.

…

Hours passed, and the morning was nearly upon us, with Frakaldhelm and his men in its wake. On his back was one chief Hardalgmar, and to his right, my nephew marched on with empty eyes in his sockets, lethargy in his movement, and the head of a beast in his hand, persisting upright with all of his remaining strength.

Upon their return, they had brought along glad tidings of an end to the hunger and misery, as my nephew raised the head up of the one who led the fur-covered terrorizers to wreak havoc in our lands. The masses lauded him a hero, whilst he directed all the praise to the unconscious chief Hardalgmar instead, claiming that he was but a nonperformer who had failed to save war chief Baldrenraz from an untimely demise; the one called Rekmun carrying his corpse. Whether he took credit himself or remained modest mattered not, for the masses would never associate his face with anything but goodness from now, his popularity solidified.

After days passed, the town had stabilized, the markets restocked, and contact was once again established with the rest of the tribe, causing word of the exploits of Albar, son of Albar, to spread further. Not before long, all the Highgoblins from the Ausmulii, from myself to chief Hardalgmar, had sworn eternal fidelity to him and established him as the high chief, chieftain, and tribal head of the Ausmulii; all terms that would fall flat in the face of “king”, though that would have to wait, for our kind had yet to reach such level of political sophistication.

The pledge took place inside of the former town hall, which used to be the residence of my brother, father, and grandfather in times gone by, but was seized by the Highgoblins in the period where my brother had left the tribe with me. Now, at once, the hall was to revert to our possession—property of the Habzakii.

The chieftain’s seat, which had been gathering dust for the past sixteen or so years, had finally come to be restored to its proper function the instant Albar settled upon it. All the townsmen of Casbriga, the villagers from local establishments, and the most prominent amongst the tribal village chiefs having gathered to bear witness to their first ruler in close to two decades.

In the kingdom of Lugustia, whenever a prince succeeded his father, and the earls and barons had to swear their fealty to the new king, they would do so through an immaculate, noble ritual. The vassal would approach the new king on his throne unarmed to signify his loyalty, he would place his hand on his heart to signify his candidness, and would conclude with a bow, his right foot in front of the left, to show his submission. Per contra, the manner in which us goblins swear fealty is regarded as vile barbarism by any man of sound character—a blood ritual.

Standing to the right of my nephew, glaring down at the incoming Highgoblin ready to shed his blood in a ceremonial chalice, my face contorted in disgust as I whispered in the new chieftain’s ear.

“My boy, I beseech you to halt this primal formality and take the opportunity to institute a new pledge. Now that you possess power, it is your duty to rectify goblinkind from its backward traditions, as you must surely understand this at this point.”

“But, dear uncle, is this not a tradition of the goblins that distinguishes us from others?”

“One should not seek to be distinct in vulgarity.”

“This tradition is based on the Gnobble ceremony, whereby the Gnobble-to-be must drink the blood of the Highgoblins in order to ascend. Do what we may, this tradition is built within our nature, is it not?”

“Fras—” I swallowed my words. Although I had made peace with the fact that this boy is no longer my true nephew, I cannot help but remember the undeniable similarities between the two. In truth, I remain steadfast in the belief that this boy remains the same Frasmul that I have been with for the past fifteen years, for if I did not, I could not live with the fact that I had taken my only nephew’s life in pursuit of duty.

Albar looked at me with sorrow in his gaze, like Frasmul before him. I hadn’t told Albar about my past in Lugustia, yet he gazed at me like the first time I narrated it to him. Behold! He must truly still be in there, but alas, woe to me.

“Fret not, uncle. The day I’m crowned king, I will institute a different ritual,” he whispered with gentle understanding in his voice. I held my tongue, and tolerated the rest of the ritual.

All the Highgoblins had collectively filled the chalice with their blood, barring myself. After all, in the eyes of the goblin, drinking the blood of one’s kinsman is akin to drinking one’s own blood—a meaningless, inherently repulsive act. At the outset, one cannot ascend through the blood of their relatives—so the children of a Gnobble, Gobkin, cannot pledge to their sibling and make them into a Gnobble—further cementing the futility of the matter.

Albar emptied the chalice in a single swig despite his queasy mien, and the tribe exclaimed in elation:

“He is our head, we are his blood! Long live Albaric!”