CHAPTER 2

A Blorc in Shining Armor

Octobre 30, 5599

 

Shorn woke up in a foul mood. He got out of bed and was getting dressed when Stench came bursting into his chamber.

“I’m soooo hungry,” Stench said, as his stomach made a loud growling sound.

Shorn froze in the middle of putting his pants on, one leg in the air. “Shut the door, moron,” Shorn shouted. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“I have heard of it . . .” Stench said, grabbing his chin with one hand as if in thought. “I just don’t believe in it.”

“Well, I do. Next time you want to enter my chamber, you’d better knock.”

Stench smiled, and Shorn realized that Stench had no intention of ever knocking.

Shorn finished getting dressed, and they left his chamber and headed down the staircase. As the two of them entered the dining hall, King Gridarg stood up, whispered something to Reilyk the Red, chuckled, and approached his son. He said, “Are you ready for your birthday surprise?”

Shorn grumbled under his breath, “No, Father, I’d rather eat first.”

“As you wish, but make it snappy,” the king replied, snapping his fingers repeatedly as he sat back down at the table. The king continued eating, all the while having a whispered conversation with Reilyk the Red, sneaking glances at his son.

Shorn and Stench ate their breakfast, but Shorn found he was not very hungry. Stench, on the other hand, filled his plate three times before sitting back and belching so loud that he fell off the back of the bench. He lay on the stone floor holding his disgorged belly, groaning from eating too much.

Shorn played with his food on his plate until his father came up behind him, touched him on his shoulder and said, “You’re ready now.” It was not a question.

Shorn sighed and stood up. He turned and faced his father.

Why is he doing this to me? he thought.

Shorn’s sixteenth birthday should have been no different than any other birthday. Since his father had never given him anything before, the last thing Shorn expected was a gift.

Gridarg smiled, turned around and shouted, “Bring out Shorn’s birthday gift!”

Shorn raised his eyebrows in surprise. This IS a first, he thought.

Reilyk the Red pulled out a wand from inside the sleeve of his blood-red robe and waved it over his head in a circular motion. The air was filled with small popping sounds as hundreds of magical fireworks launched upward from the floor toward the rafters above, filling the room with a multitude of colorful explosions.

King Gridarg eyes opened wide and his mouth hung open as he watched the fireworks. He clapped rapidly with joy, like a small excited child.

Two human servants entered the dining hall carrying a crate that had a crude blue bow tied on top of it. They placed it at Shorn’s feet and backed away while bowing. He eyed the crate suspiciously.

“Well,” King Gridarg said, indicating the box, “Open it already.”

Shorn reached out and ripped the bow off the crate and threw it on the floor behind him. Using his fingernails, he tore the lid off and flung it aside, sending it sliding across the floor until it smashed into a stone wall, startling a sleepy guard. Shorn peered down into the crate and let out a small gasp. At the bottom of the crate lay a long, metallic shirt of extremely dirty rust-colored chainmail. On each sleeve was a metal disc about the size of one of Stench’s tiny fists. In the center of each disc was stamped the house symbol for Zogstomp, a large foot stepping on a human’s head and crushing it.

“Wow,” was all Shorn said as he continued to study the dingy chainmail.

“That chainmail hauberk was discovered seventy-five years ago in the ruins of a sanctuary by my grandfather’s Black Plague,” Gridarg stated. “The king tried slide into it, but it wouldn’t fit over his large belly. Still, it was so beautiful that he kept it anyway. He handed it down to his son, my father, who also couldn’t fit into it, so he had it hung on the wall in his sleeping chamber because he liked the way it looked. There it hung for the last forty years collecting dust until I noticed it again a couple of weeks ago while visiting that room. Now, the time has come to pass it down to you. I hope that you like it and use it well.”

Gridarg approached and looked down into the crate and then back at Shorn. “I also hope that it fits, but I doubt it,” he said laughing, knowing that there was no way it could fit over his son’s broad shoulders. He had tried it himself when he had removed it from this father’s bedchamber. Like his father and grandfather for him, it didn’t fit, being way too small. A chainmail hauberk is not one size fits all, especially not for large blorcs, particularly when it was designed for a much smaller frame, like that of a human.

Shorn reached into the crate and lifted out the chainmail hauberk. This shirt looked small, with its half-length sleeves, open collar, and longer than a normal shirt. It was also lighter than he expected. He turned it around so it faced away from him and slipped it over his head. He had a hard time sliding it over his shoulders, and servants ran in to pull and tug on the bottom of the shirt. Then something strange seemed to happen . . . the chainmail seemed to magically adjust itself, and it easily slid down his back to become a perfect fit on Shorn’s muscular torso, hanging almost to his knees. The king frowned as he saw his son wearing the mail shirt. The joke he intended was no longer funny.

The king’s frown deepened even more, then he looked confused. When he had tried the chainmail hauberk on, he found that he could not come close to even running one of his massive arms down a sleeve, let alone slipping it over his massive shoulders.

“I like it, father,” Shorn said, while running his hands over the metal links. “It suits me, I think.”

“I’m glad to see that you like the chainmail,” Gridarg growled, eyeing Shorn in his armor, upset that the joke actually seemed to be played on himself. “Don’t ever let it be said that I never gave you anything.” Gridarg laughed, hiding the fact that he had tried to embarrass his son. Seconds later, everyone else in the dining hall laughed too. Shorn looked around and noticed that none of the Black Plague were laughing. He wondered where Grizill was, as the leader was mysteriously absent.

Shorn looked down at the family crest that had been stamped into the disc on his left sleeve. Upon closer inspection of the symbol, something did not look quite right about it, as if there was another image under it.

“There’s something strange about this image,” Shorn pondered, just loud enough for his father to hear.

“I . . . yes, well, you see,” Gridarg began, uncharacteristically bumbling over his words. “There were originally some other images on the discs. I had our royal blacksmith stamp our family crest over them. The original symbols meant nothing to me.”

“Do you know what the original symbols represented?” Shorn wondered aloud, running his finger over the disc on his chest.

“Nope,” Gridarg said, waving his hand as if brushing away a thought. “I had Reilyk the Red try and figure out what they stood for, but he was unsuccessful. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Shorn looked over at Reilyk the Red, someone he did not trust at all. With the mage’s red robes, and his strange red eyes, sharply-pointed nose, and sly grin, Shorn had never liked nor trusted him. There was something about him that was just . . . off.

Reilyk the Red turned to Shorn, as if sensing he was being watched, and grinned at the young prince. Shorn quickly returned his attention to the chainmail.

Stench approached Shorn from behind and laid his hands upon the chainmail and whispered, “So pretty. So very pretty.” Stench then began to pet the chainmail and continued to whisper, “So pretty.”

Unfortunately, he did this upon Shorn’s buttocks. Shorn stiffened, spun around, and thumped Stench on the head with a finger. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Stench said as he cowered on the floor. “It’s just so very pretty.”

“This is my chainmail, not yours. I promise that we’ll find some armor that will fit you,” said Shorn. “How would you like that?”

Stench jumped up excitedly. “Truly? I look forward to wearing it while I’m at your side,” Stench’s face was beaming with happiness. “Then we’ll be twins.”

Shorn laughed at this. He turned back to the king and said, “Father, I’m going to head back to my chambers and polish my new armor. Thank you for this gift. It means the world to me.”

Gridarg grimaced and turned away, grumbling to himself. He left the dining room, went down two flights of stairs, and entered the throne room to begin his day of work as ruler of Strudhyne. Everyone in the room could see that he was in a foul mood and steered clear of him.

Shorn turned and headed out of the dining hall with Stench in his wake. I guess surprises aren’t so bad after all . . . at least this one wasn’t, he thought.

Shorn and Stench walked through the castle to the armory. Upon entering, Shorn looked around the room at the rusty weapons and shields. Most of the items in the armory were old, broken, and useless, having been obtained from humans the blorcs had killed in battle. He kicked aside a couple of dusty, moth-eaten blankets while searching for a pile of armor he remembered seeing here somewhere. As he removed a blanket from a stack in a corner, he spotted the pile of rusted plate armor and chainmail he had remembered.

“Ah . . . here’s what we’re looking for, my friend,” Shorn said, bending over and sorting through the pile.

“What? Where? Let me see!” Stench yelled, running toward Shorn. He tripped over a broken mace and flew headlong into the rusty pile.

Shorn stood up in shock at almost being head-butted by Stench, and then laughed. He reached down and pulled the dizzy goblin off of the small hill of armor.

The two dug through the pile until they found a set of armor that used to belong to a dwarf. It was the right length, sort of, as Stench was almost as tall as a dwarf. Since goblins were much thinner than dwarves though, the armor was far too wide. The pants would not even stay on Stench’s thin hips without falling to the ground. The armor was made out of some kind of green metal and covered in the dark red, almost brown, dwarf’s blood from the previous owner.

“These’ll do nicely, sire. I just need to make some adjustments,” Stench said, holding up the front of the pants in his dirty green hands. He tried walking around and tripped again on the same mace, but was able to catch himself before he smacked into the stone floor.

“Would you please take those off before you kill yourself?” Shorn bellowed, worried about his friend truly getting hurt. “Let’s take them to the royal blacksmith and have him work on them right away.”

“That would be wonderful, sire,” Stench said as he took the pants off. “I hope no one mistakes me for you once the fit is right.”

Shorn shook his head in amusement as they left the armory. They made their way out of the castle and entered the blorc city proper. Blorcs recognized the prince and hastily got out of his way. Shorn nodded to a few of the subjects that he knew, but for the most part, he ignored the rest. Eventually, they found the blacksmith hard at work fixing a bent sword and gave him the rusty, bloody, dented dwarf plate armor.

“I need these adjusted for my diminutive friend here by tomorrow evening,” Shorn ordered.

“Impossible,” the huge blacksmith growled back, pushing his black hair out of his eyes. Then his eyes widened when he realized who he was talking to.

“It is not impossible and it will be done,” the prince demanded. “I also want any broken plates repaired and the dents fixed. If you don’t make this your highest priority, I’ll see to it that you no longer work for the royal family.”

The blacksmith eyed the prince, as if deciding whether he was serious or not. Finally, he elected not to take any chances, as he enjoyed the prestige of being the royal blacksmith. He knew it would be a long night if he had any hope of finishing on time. “I’ll have it done by sunset tomorrow,” the blacksmith grumbled, and then bowed to Shorn.

Grabbing a piece of twine that had black marks down its length, the blacksmith began measuring Stench, who could not hold still as he kept claiming that he was being tickled. Finally, Shorn grabbed him on top of his head with one of his massive hands and slightly squeezed. This caused the goblin to freeze in place, and the blacksmith was able to finish taking the goblin’s measurements.

The blacksmith quickly walked a short distance away and started gasping for air, as he had been holding his breath the entire time he measured Stench for the fitting.

Shorn and Stench turned around and left the blacksmith shoppe behind. As they walked away, Shorn heard the blacksmith shout, “Grim! Thistle! Get your bony hides out here and help me with this pitiful dwarf armor! We have a rush job!”

Shorn smiled. He loved being the prince.

Back in his room, Shorn and Stench polished the chainmail hauberk late into the evening until the entire shirt shone brightly in the candlelight. Shorn had not noticed the color of the chainmail when it was covered with decades of dust, but now he could tell that the metal was something he had never seen before. It seemed to be a very hard yellowish-orange metal, the same color as his eyes. He was excited to wear it the following day when he would practice sparring with some of the guards.

Exhausted, Shorn finally fell asleep, but it was a restless sleep. He was plagued with dreams of battles, which was normal, but also by some strange dreams about the chainmail hauberk.

He tossed and turned throughout the night.