HOME | DD

Description
Prologue

The wind was fierce and unrelenting, whipping tirelessly against the shadowy figure. He wore a long black cloak, the material of which had taken up a life of its own, and which seemed resolved in disobeying the natural flow of the wind: billowing up against it, in a denial of physics. The figure stood unmoving against a snowy backdrop; creating, in an act unintended artistic temperament, a silent roar of contrast which only made the scene more dramatic and surreal. There was something seemingly unholy about the cloaked figure; something scheming and foreboding: emotions one would expect from a harbinger of death and decay.
But there was also something seductive about the obvious power that this figure commanded, and within seconds his power became clearer, as the once spiteful and stubborn wind suddenly quivered and fell away and an invisible void of some kind formed, separating the element from the man.
Without warning, a black staff jolted out from the recesses of the cloak and slammed into the deep carpet of snowflakes that caked the ground. A flash of light expanded across the clearing with enough intensity to rival that of a dying Supernova; then all went dark. When the light returned, the cloak clad figure was gone. The wind returned to its peremptory pulsing of the air. There was no evidence someone had stood there only seconds before. It was four A.M, and though nature stirred, existence seemed to hang, like a painting in a frame; like a still life. It was as if God himself were holding his breath.

The land shuddered,
And He breathed out.

Chapter ONE

The Pixies had gotten him. That was obvious by the tiny bite marks on his wrists and the signature positioning of the carcass: the backwards cross. It was known as the backwards cross because, though the victims’ palms were always facing up, their necks, which were always viciously snapped, were turned into the mud as if embarrassed by the thought of being seen in such a tragic state. Some knew it, also, as the Faceless Cross.
The horses’ hooves pawed the ground nervously at the scene; they felt the tension in their riders’ thighs. King Albert swung down from his copper mare, Nala; the liquid bronze plating of his goblin armour sent a ripple of sound through the orange earth (goblin armour was organic and, as a result, connected to the earth like an appendage, even in its severed state.)
From inside his cloak the King pulled out a small acuminated object about the size of a finger and, with a well practised flicking motion, the object dully brightened, and expanded into an ebony staff with which the King used to push the corpse’s head over. Someone retched over the side of their mare, which flared its nostrils and tap danced backwards in fear and disgust. The rest of the horses stomped, nervously, the dirt beneath their hooves. Even the King’s face, usually stoic and unaffected, adopted an uncharacteristically disgusted expression at the sight of the newly exposed ‘face’. “Definitely the work of a Pixie,” He muttered. As if he didn’t already know. Moving slightly closer now, he raised his ebony staff and brought it down sharply on the chest of the carcass, which burst into ivory flames. The corpse gave a lifelike shudder as the flames licked up the bruising flesh. The corpse reminded the King of a half eaten peach that someone had given up on finishing and left to rot in the sun. In a way, that is what it was. The lump of mangled skin where one would expect to find a face had been mercilessly gnawed at until it was almost unidentifiable. The eyes were gone, the lips torn off, the flesh that had once protected the lower jaw now dangled uselessly at a slight angle to the left. Whoever this human was, he had suffered in the worst possible way before he had died. This human, who had foolishly fallen into the trap of a Siren pixie – a beautiful, curvaceous and winged creature who, in appearances, resembled the Arced Angles of the ancient Romantic Painters, had been given the Kiss of Teeth, and had died after having his face gruesomely torn off. But the magic of the King’s Fire had quickly dissolved the matter, leaving only ashes, which were swallowed up to join the dust that lined the forest floor. His work done for today, the King climbed back onto Nala; but though his face was once again as smooth as freshly fallen snow, his eyes brimmed with black emotion: the scene, now erased from sight, was not was easily extinguished from his mind’s eye. It made the King angry that these attacks were becoming more common, despite his increased attempts to keep the two species apart. It made him feel somewhat inadequate. He also felt angered by having his role as King somewhat remodelled, for the sake of humanity, into that of a cleaning woman, or nanny. It didn’t help that the humans were such an ungrateful, condescending people; that the goblins’ work was left unappreciated and often sabotaged by stupidity.
The King was much older now, and worn, and beginning to feel Time gnawing at his ancient bones. He wondered when humans would learn that, pixies especially, should be avoided at all costs, or but that Magic in general should not be so idly sought and underestimated. These turbulent thoughts occupied his mind with a relentless ebbing motion that caused the King’s skull to ache as he and his riders continued on their way through the forest, and away from the newly marked grave.
The party was on its way back home from a meeting with one of the underground goblin societies: an organisation which lived hidden in the folds of human society, making sure that nothing went amiss; protecting the humans from as many pixie instigated attacks as possible. It had taken place at one of King Albert’s hidden forts (a venue located somewhere between the Goblin City and this particular G.U.S’s own territory) used for anything requiring a degree of conspicuousness. The meeting had not gone well, however; further adding to King Albert’s already mountainous stress load. According to the leader of this particular band, Manny, the humans were dabbling more and more precariously in the Dark Arts, and, as if in direct correlation, pixie attacks on infants and young men had risen dramatically also. The coincidence was a matter of great speculation and great worry but even more disgruntling was the news of the human attacks: on goblins.
With quiet loathing in his eyes, Manny had told the King of the hunting parties that had started in the cities but were fast being introduced into the towns. He described how human soldiers went from house to house ruthlessly searching for goblins living under the pretence of being “human”, and how anyone they thought to be suspicious they had tested.
“Tested how?” But Manny did not know. It was done in testing camps where security was tight; and as yet, the underground goblins had not been able to infiltrate these testing camps. “But we’re working on it. What we do know is that, those confirmed to be goblins, are burnt at stakes in the city squares.”
The King had been angered by the news, but not for long: from the recesses of his mind came forth the ever suppressed knowledge that this would happen. He had struggled against this angst through the lonely hours of many a sleepless night. He had lain awake wondering if protecting the prophecy was worth losing a few of his own people. He didn’t know. Or was he just too afraid to voice his decision aloud? He had rubbed his temples and cursed humanity.
With a bitter laugh Manny had proceeded to tell the King that the tests were not fool proof; that, on more than one occasion, he had watched a burning with the knowledge that the man or woman screaming at the stake was not goblin, but the son or daughter of a tailor, or a merchant. “Here we are protecting those who cannot even protect their own. Do they deserve our efforts?” Manny had asked.
“We rely on them also.” The King had replied. Manny had shrugged, and his characteristically unperturbed disposition had returned. A disposition the King was thankful for – the less flowery the emotions of his men, the better. The two goblins had discussed the matter for many days, and though they slept on occasion, neither had felt rested. It was finally resolved to keep the underground societies where they were, despite the risk to themselves. It was the humans’ best interest to have the goblins’ protection.

The forest continued to roll out in front of the King and his rider’s, but its end was nearing. Still, the nearness could not keep King Albert from struggling with his increasingly aggravated thoughts. To protect had been his designated role for the last half century, and the thought made his dark blue eyes flash with a black, bitter anger. Nala, his mare, snorted beneath him, as if to say, “Hey, forget about it – you’ve got me,” and the blackness retreated, like rainclouds, into his pupils. The dark sapphire colour of his irises returned, in its usual facade of placidity. He let out a heavy breath and with it, expelled the frustration cramped up inside his skull; the ebbing motion stopped. “Thank you, Nala,” he mumbled, aware that the warm feeling that was coursing through his veins, and numbing the rising tension, was her work. She was a Spirit horse, and capable of such things.
Up ahead, the increasing sound of cascading water could be heard. Its pounding was music to the King’s ears; it sent a thrill of pleasure down his spine, and he smiled. “Home,” he thought, contentedly.

The waterfall was built into a jagged wall of earthen coloured rock attached to the lower part of a mountain of breathtaking proportion. This mountain swerved inwards in a crescent shape that ran in both directions and, like the horizon, its end was forever distant to the eye. In reality it was circular, and at its centre, hidden from view, laid the goblin city. There was no way over the mountains: they rose up with vertical vehemence, and the majority of the mountain’s face was expressionless – without crags or scars to place ones fingers and toes. The secret to entering the Goblin City lay within the waterfall. It was the portal to their hidden world: the knowledge of how to enter through it, a guarded secret. Humans rarely ventured this far, anyway, and other magical creatures were far too awed by the power of the goblins to stray too close to the area. There was once a time, many thousands of years ago, when the secret to the waterfall had been compromised, and the City attacked, but that enemy was defeated and the secret was safe again.
The King’s men were obviously, equally as pleased by their return as he was; and they dismounted their mares with a jovial swing and far more spirit than they had shown all day. The sombre expressions that had masked their faces were replaced by boyish grins, and playful remarks: “Don’t know what you’re so happy about, Gavin,” called out a stocky, middle aged goblin, as he dismounted his Spirit mare. “One bite of the missus’ cooking and you’ll wish we were back out here cleaning up Pixie mess!”
“She makes up for it after the meal.” Gavin shrugged, adding a wink for effect. A laugh rose from the other goblins. “But enough about me, Drake... How’s your mother? Still unsuccessful in her attempts to marry you off, I see.” At this comment, the laughter rose even higher. It was an ongoing joke with the riders, Drakes disinterest in any other female besides his mother. Drake smirked, unabashed. “It’s her own fault she cooks so damned good,” he returned, patting his stomach.
Even though their topic of conversation left a lot to be desired, the King was glad the energy had returned to his men. With the new knowledge of the growing oppression the goblin’s faced, and the chilling awareness that a human life was worth more than their own, the riders were heavy with conflicting emotions, and stress. Home was the only thing that seemed able to cure that.
“It’s time, men.” The King’s voice boomed over the laughter, which abated, instantly. Eyes turned towards him, beaming with loyalty and high regard. The King spoke again, “Our women... and mothers,” he let his gaze waver over Drake, creating a stir of laughter; he held up a hand to silence it, “Are waiting for us. Let us not keep them waiting any longer than there is need.”
There was a buzz of agreement, and newly charged excitement at the mention of women. Hurriedly, but affectionately also, a few words were whispered by the soldiers to their mares, and then the latter rode away into the forest to find the woodsmen that lived outside the Goblin City and were paid to keep them safe. The Spirit Mares never ventured into the Goblin City as they were not the property of the Goblins but their soul companions, as pertained by nature.
King Albert’s fingers brushed gently along Nala’s copper coat. She had not yet run off into the forest with the other mares, and was looking at him intelligently through thick black lashes. “Take care,” the King whispered softly. She snorted in response, banging her nose gently against his closely, pressing chin. Then, with a whisk of her long black tail she flew away into the trees. “I always do,” he replied.
He turned back towards his men and nodded, so that the ritual required to open the portal, could commence. Forming a lotus like enclosure around their King, the riders, with the King at their centre, sloshed into the waters of the translucent pool. With swan like grace they arrived at its centre. King Albert then dipped his palms into the shimmering water, and brought them, cupped and full, to his face with an elegant splash. It felt good. Next, he lowered his palms so that they hovered just above the surface of the pool; tightly closing his eyes in concentration. A string of incoherent words from beneath his breath caused the waterfall to slow, almost imperceptibly, and then draw apart from the centre like a curtain, revealing a crack in the rock formation, just big enough for one to pass through. In single file, the riders followed the King through.

Description
Prologue

The wind was fierce and unrelenting, whipping tirelessly against the shadowy figure. He wore a long black cloak, the material of which had taken up a life of its own, and which seemed resolved in disobeying the natural flow of the wind: billowing up against it, in a denial of physics. The figure stood unmoving against a snowy backdrop; creating, in an act unintended artistic temperament, a silent roar of contrast which only made the scene more dramatic and surreal. There was something seemingly unholy about the cloaked figure; something scheming and foreboding: emotions one would expect from a harbinger of death and decay.
But there was also something seductive about the obvious power that this figure commanded, and within seconds his power became clearer, as the once spiteful and stubborn wind suddenly quivered and fell away and an invisible void of some kind formed, separating the element from the man.
Without warning, a black staff jolted out from the recesses of the cloak and slammed into the deep carpet of snowflakes that caked the ground. A flash of light expanded across the clearing with enough intensity to rival that of a dying Supernova; then all went dark. When the light returned, the cloak clad figure was gone. The wind returned to its peremptory pulsing of the air. There was no evidence someone had stood there only seconds before. It was four A.M, and though nature stirred, existence seemed to hang, like a painting in a frame; like a still life. It was as if God himself were holding his breath.

The land shuddered,
And He breathed out.

Chapter ONE

The Pixies had gotten him. That was obvious by the tiny bite marks on his wrists and the signature positioning of the carcass: the backwards cross. It was known as the backwards cross because, though the victims’ palms were always facing up, their necks, which were always viciously snapped, were turned into the mud as if embarrassed by the thought of being seen in such a tragic state. Some knew it, also, as the Faceless Cross.
The horses’ hooves pawed the ground nervously at the scene; they felt the tension in their riders’ thighs. King Albert swung down from his copper mare, Nala; the liquid bronze plating of his goblin armour sent a ripple of sound through the orange earth (goblin armour was organic and, as a result, connected to the earth like an appendage, even in its severed state.)
From inside his cloak the King pulled out a small acuminated object about the size of a finger and, with a well practised flicking motion, the object dully brightened, and expanded into an ebony staff with which the King used to push the corpse’s head over. Someone retched over the side of their mare, which flared its nostrils and tap danced backwards in fear and disgust. The rest of the horses stomped, nervously, the dirt beneath their hooves. Even the King’s face, usually stoic and unaffected, adopted an uncharacteristically disgusted expression at the sight of the newly exposed ‘face’. “Definitely the work of a Pixie,” He muttered. As if he didn’t already know. Moving slightly closer now, he raised his ebony staff and brought it down sharply on the chest of the carcass, which burst into ivory flames. The corpse gave a lifelike shudder as the flames licked up the bruising flesh. The corpse reminded the King of a half eaten peach that someone had given up on finishing and left to rot in the sun. In a way, that is what it was. The lump of mangled skin where one would expect to find a face had been mercilessly gnawed at until it was almost unidentifiable. The eyes were gone, the lips torn off, the flesh that had once protected the lower jaw now dangled uselessly at a slight angle to the left. Whoever this human was, he had suffered in the worst possible way before he had died. This human, who had foolishly fallen into the trap of a Siren pixie – a beautiful, curvaceous and winged creature who, in appearances, resembled the Arced Angles of the ancient Romantic Painters, had been given the Kiss of Teeth, and had died after having his face gruesomely torn off. But the magic of the King’s Fire had quickly dissolved the matter, leaving only ashes, which were swallowed up to join the dust that lined the forest floor. His work done for today, the King climbed back onto Nala; but though his face was once again as smooth as freshly fallen snow, his eyes brimmed with black emotion: the scene, now erased from sight, was not was easily extinguished from his mind’s eye. It made the King angry that these attacks were becoming more common, despite his increased attempts to keep the two species apart. It made him feel somewhat inadequate. He also felt angered by having his role as King somewhat remodelled, for the sake of humanity, into that of a cleaning woman, or nanny. It didn’t help that the humans were such an ungrateful, condescending people; that the goblins’ work was left unappreciated and often sabotaged by stupidity.
The King was much older now, and worn, and beginning to feel Time gnawing at his ancient bones. He wondered when humans would learn that, pixies especially, should be avoided at all costs, or but that Magic in general should not be so idly sought and underestimated. These turbulent thoughts occupied his mind with a relentless ebbing motion that caused the King’s skull to ache as he and his riders continued on their way through the forest, and away from the newly marked grave.
The party was on its way back home from a meeting with one of the underground goblin societies: an organisation which lived hidden in the folds of human society, making sure that nothing went amiss; protecting the humans from as many pixie instigated attacks as possible. It had taken place at one of King Albert’s hidden forts (a venue located somewhere between the Goblin City and this particular G.U.S’s own territory) used for anything requiring a degree of conspicuousness. The meeting had not gone well, however; further adding to King Albert’s already mountainous stress load. According to the leader of this particular band, Manny, the humans were dabbling more and more precariously in the Dark Arts, and, as if in direct correlation, pixie attacks on infants and young men had risen dramatically also. The coincidence was a matter of great speculation and great worry but even more disgruntling was the news of the human attacks: on goblins.
With quiet loathing in his eyes, Manny had told the King of the hunting parties that had started in the cities but were fast being introduced into the towns. He described how human soldiers went from house to house ruthlessly searching for goblins living under the pretence of being “human”, and how anyone they thought to be suspicious they had tested.
“Tested how?” But Manny did not know. It was done in testing camps where security was tight; and as yet, the underground goblins had not been able to infiltrate these testing camps. “But we’re working on it. What we do know is that, those confirmed to be goblins, are burnt at stakes in the city squares.”
The King had been angered by the news, but not for long: from the recesses of his mind came forth the ever suppressed knowledge that this would happen. He had struggled against this angst through the lonely hours of many a sleepless night. He had lain awake wondering if protecting the prophecy was worth losing a few of his own people. He didn’t know. Or was he just too afraid to voice his decision aloud? He had rubbed his temples and cursed humanity.
With a bitter laugh Manny had proceeded to tell the King that the tests were not fool proof; that, on more than one occasion, he had watched a burning with the knowledge that the man or woman screaming at the stake was not goblin, but the son or daughter of a tailor, or a merchant. “Here we are protecting those who cannot even protect their own. Do they deserve our efforts?” Manny had asked.
“We rely on them also.” The King had replied. Manny had shrugged, and his characteristically unperturbed disposition had returned. A disposition the King was thankful for – the less flowery the emotions of his men, the better. The two goblins had discussed the matter for many days, and though they slept on occasion, neither had felt rested. It was finally resolved to keep the underground societies where they were, despite the risk to themselves. It was the humans’ best interest to have the goblins’ protection.

The forest continued to roll out in front of the King and his rider’s, but its end was nearing. Still, the nearness could not keep King Albert from struggling with his increasingly aggravated thoughts. To protect had been his designated role for the last half century, and the thought made his dark blue eyes flash with a black, bitter anger. Nala, his mare, snorted beneath him, as if to say, “Hey, forget about it – you’ve got me,” and the blackness retreated, like rainclouds, into his pupils. The dark sapphire colour of his irises returned, in its usual facade of placidity. He let out a heavy breath and with it, expelled the frustration cramped up inside his skull; the ebbing motion stopped. “Thank you, Nala,” he mumbled, aware that the warm feeling that was coursing through his veins, and numbing the rising tension, was her work. She was a Spirit horse, and capable of such things.
Up ahead, the increasing sound of cascading water could be heard. Its pounding was music to the King’s ears; it sent a thrill of pleasure down his spine, and he smiled. “Home,” he thought, contentedly.

The waterfall was built into a jagged wall of earthen coloured rock attached to the lower part of a mountain of breathtaking proportion. This mountain swerved inwards in a crescent shape that ran in both directions and, like the horizon, its end was forever distant to the eye. In reality it was circular, and at its centre, hidden from view, laid the goblin city. There was no way over the mountains: they rose up with vertical vehemence, and the majority of the mountain’s face was expressionless – without crags or scars to place ones fingers and toes. The secret to entering the Goblin City lay within the waterfall. It was the portal to their hidden world: the knowledge of how to enter through it, a guarded secret. Humans rarely ventured this far, anyway, and other magical creatures were far too awed by the power of the goblins to stray too close to the area. There was once a time, many thousands of years ago, when the secret to the waterfall had been compromised, and the City attacked, but that enemy was defeated and the secret was safe again.
The King’s men were obviously, equally as pleased by their return as he was; and they dismounted their mares with a jovial swing and far more spirit than they had shown all day. The sombre expressions that had masked their faces were replaced by boyish grins, and playful remarks: “Don’t know what you’re so happy about, Gavin,” called out a stocky, middle aged goblin, as he dismounted his Spirit mare. “One bite of the missus’ cooking and you’ll wish we were back out here cleaning up Pixie mess!”
“She makes up for it after the meal.” Gavin shrugged, adding a wink for effect. A laugh rose from the other goblins. “But enough about me, Drake... How’s your mother? Still unsuccessful in her attempts to marry you off, I see.” At this comment, the laughter rose even higher. It was an ongoing joke with the riders, Drakes disinterest in any other female besides his mother. Drake smirked, unabashed. “It’s her own fault she cooks so damned good,” he returned, patting his stomach.
Even though their topic of conversation left a lot to be desired, the King was glad the energy had returned to his men. With the new knowledge of the growing oppression the goblin’s faced, and the chilling awareness that a human life was worth more than their own, the riders were heavy with conflicting emotions, and stress. Home was the only thing that seemed able to cure that.
“It’s time, men.” The King’s voice boomed over the laughter, which abated, instantly. Eyes turned towards him, beaming with loyalty and high regard. The King spoke again, “Our women... and mothers,” he let his gaze waver over Drake, creating a stir of laughter; he held up a hand to silence it, “Are waiting for us. Let us not keep them waiting any longer than there is need.”
There was a buzz of agreement, and newly charged excitement at the mention of women. Hurriedly, but affectionately also, a few words were whispered by the soldiers to their mares, and then the latter rode away into the forest to find the woodsmen that lived outside the Goblin City and were paid to keep them safe. The Spirit Mares never ventured into the Goblin City as they were not the property of the Goblins but their soul companions, as pertained by nature.
King Albert’s fingers brushed gently along Nala’s copper coat. She had not yet run off into the forest with the other mares, and was looking at him intelligently through thick black lashes. “Take care,” the King whispered softly. She snorted in response, banging her nose gently against his closely, pressing chin. Then, with a whisk of her long black tail she flew away into the trees. “I always do,” he replied.
He turned back towards his men and nodded, so that the ritual required to open the portal, could commence. Forming a lotus like enclosure around their King, the riders, with the King at their centre, sloshed into the waters of the translucent pool. With swan like grace they arrived at its centre. King Albert then dipped his palms into the shimmering water, and brought them, cupped and full, to his face with an elegant splash. It felt good. Next, he lowered his palms so that they hovered just above the surface of the pool; tightly closing his eyes in concentration. A string of incoherent words from beneath his breath caused the waterfall to slow, almost imperceptibly, and then draw apart from the centre like a curtain, revealing a crack in the rock formation, just big enough for one to pass through. In single file, the riders followed the King through.