Interlude: A reality turned delusion

ROOONK!

Sounded the trumpets of the elephants as they fought to their dying breaths. These were foreign animals shipped to us by our ancient overlords. Though we inherited much from the Hadashtians, the knowledge in regards to manning and operating these beasts were not among them. With little else to do, we locked them up in arenas, and let them fight to their deaths. For our entertainment. To please the people. That was the rationale of our ruler.

“Thodbar,” he beckoned me forth, “See these creatures, unmatched. Amongst all the living things created by Anz, these ones must surely be the most fierce of them all, are they not?” He postulated with fascination in his voice.

I cleared my throat. “Uh…Yes, lord.”

He sighed out of frustration. “No matter. Fetch me the other magistrates,” he dismissed me after I failed to reciprocate his enthusiasm. Typical.

I marched towards the other seats overlooking the fighting spectacle. I called upon the magistrates, both Highgoblin and Gobkin, to join their ruler in conversation. They followed and crowded his stand. I remained at the back of the gathering. Left out, I exited the arena, and made my way to the plaza. In the days of my great-great-grandfather, our people used to rule from open-doored halls. But ever since the Hadashtians penetrated our peninsula deeper inland, us Turacetaens have been ruling from plazas instead, mirroring our former overlords.

In the plaza, beyond the open-aired center garden, and the kitchens populated by cooks and servants, there I was in the main assembly chamber. Standing up right, I gazed at my ancestor’s sword. It was hung on the wall behind the ruler’s throne. Back in our tribal days, it would have been referred to as a chieftain’s seat, but nowadays… well, you get it. The sword is a falcata, a weapon still readily used. This one is old, maybe a century or so. It’s edge is dull, but not a speck of rust has defiled it. It was treated as a relic, and despite me being the only descendent of its original wielder, it is not my property. It was the ruler’s.

“…”

Ever feel like you were born for greatness? I sure do. My great-great-grandfather was the hero of legends, Olfrik—wielder of this sword. The only one amongst goblinkind to have slayed a dragon, then drank its blood, before ascending and becoming a Goblin King.

“The first king,” I whisper, the torchlight flickering in my eyes.

My late father raised me on the tales of this great champion of old. I would hear the stories of his exploits, of his influence, of his will that bent our people in his image. He slew both goblin and human without any effort, and he made submit any and all Gnobbles that were unfortunate enough to stumble upon him. And yet, he is remembered as nothing more than a great man. The greatest goblin. Especially here amongst us Turacetae, for he was its greatest ruler—or chieftain, as was still the title back then.

In comparison, what am I? An ordinary nobody.

However... sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see it differently.

I see the plaza erupting in thunderous cheers, not for Olfrik or the current ruler, but for me. I see myself striding across the marble, Olfrik’s falcata gleaming in my hand as a weapon reborn. My legitimacy derived from wielding the blade, rather than displaying it. The magistrates bow to me both as the hero’s descendent, as well as his equal.

In my dreams, the tribes do not squabble like children over scraps. They stand as one—my one. The Ausmulii, the Laiesyces, even the Bugretanii, kneeling not in chains, but in awe. Men tremble at the gates of Turacetae, whispering my name as they once whispered Olfrik’s. Thodbar. The name that follows Olfrik in the sagas.

Is it madness to believe it? To imagine trumpets sounding not over caged beasts, but over my victories? That the elephants of the Hadashtians will march not in arenas, but in warbands under my banner?

They say memory fades. But I will not fade. I will not be reduced to a simple life of modesty and humility. Nor will I be levelled with mediocrity, serving the usurpers who rule from my ancestor’s throne. Nor will I remain as a mere shadow of the past. I will rise to be my great-great-grandfather’s shadow made flesh. His legend revived. Through me.

My eyes opened, I step closer to the relic. The torchlight flickers along the scabbard below the sword. My reflection gazes at a goblin who is unworthy, hunched, and small.

Enough.

I lift it from its hooks. The falcata is heavier than I imagined, but not too heavy for me. Contemporary blades are lighter, but this one would carry a hefty strike. My fingers curl tight around the worn grip, and for the first time in my life, I feel the weight of Olfrik’s hand over mine.

The magistrates murmur behind the doors. If they see me, they will protest, they will say the relic belongs to the ruler, they will say I am unfit to touch it. Let them. I will let them say what they will. What is destiny if it waits for permission? Is it dangerous? Yes. Greatness is unsafe, but that is what makes it praiseworthy.

I draw the blade, hold it erect. Its edge may be dull, but in my mind, it can cut the world asunder. I see rows of tribes falling into place, banners raised, enemies broken. I see goblinkind not as scattered clans, but as one people beneath a single name.

My name.

“Olfrik was the first king,” I whisper, the iron trembling in my grasp. “But not the last. Certainly not the last.”

I sheath the sword at my side—the display be darned. Its emptiness hangs awkwardly, so I tear it off. At my side, the blade hangs awkwardly also. It is too long for my frame, but not for my resolve. It is mine now. The relic of my ancestor, yes, but also the promise of my future. Goblinkind’s future.

When the doors open and the magistrates look at me, when the warriors march and salute at my mere presence, when the ruler wakes up and finds my face in front of his. They will see Thodbar, heir of Olfrik, claimant of destiny.

From this day forth, greatness is not a tale of the past any longer. It is a blade in my hand, and ambition in my heart.