It felt like an hour before Stump came to a stop. His knees ached, his toes burned, and his heart shuddered in harmony with the pounding of his skull. He doubled over and hurled up nothing but the remains of the bloodlust.
When he was done he wiped his mouth, straightened, and glanced over his shoulder to listen for his pursuers. Soon the wind died and he could hear nothing but the drumming of his own heartbeat. He deflated and took a moment to catch his breath and appraise the unfamiliar world around him.
The Shadowlands.
Cursed, it was. At least that's what Stump had been told as a child. It was the endless wooded afterlife for goblins sullied by the Mark of Grumul, forever barred from his fiery domain.
No, said another, it was a land fallen under the spell of an ancient hag, its creatures and flora dragged from the realm of sunlight into a world of eternal darkness, at the centre of which was her eldritch hovel, its very structure forged from the bones of goblin children snatched from their cradles.
It was impossible to know which tale held truth. No goblin of his tribe had ventured there in living memory, and as his jaw hung open at the terrifying wonder around him, he could see why.
The air was stale with the scent of dying flora. Shrunken bushes huddled between colonies of mushrooms glowing blue and green. Tall fungal stalks rivalled the heights of goblins and tall men, some with caps wide and red, others that draped like translucent cloth and breathed sunset colours into the gloom. Flowing between them were wisps of bright spores, glittering like clouds of stardust carried on a soundless breeze. Bare trees rotted under snow-white patches of mildew, and great sheets of silver lichen rolled across the ground.
High above the sun rippled golden but was powerless in the magic of the Shadowlands. It was fuzzy, dim, suffocated by the orange and pink of twilight as if Grumul himself had stretched a thin fabric over its surface.
Stump gulped. I'm lost here, he thought, his eyes darting from mushrooms to trees, as if any one of them might sprout legs and reveal themselves for the arcane abominations they likely were.
A twig snapped.
He turned his head around, eyes narrowing at a rustling bush. He shifted back, his legs spreading and toes curling into the dirt. His heart began to clamour again, threatening to revive the bloodlust.
"Thrung?" His voice cracked through a dry throat.
The offending creature scuttled into view—a mouse.
He sighed.
It scurried around the base of a tree, its black fur glittering with flecks of starlight silver. It turned away from the bark and made to cross the forest floor, but when it left the darkest shade of the trunk's shadow, it vanished. A moment later it reappeared in the shadow of another tree a dozen paces away.
Stump rubbed his eyes to ensure they hadn't betrayed him. Sure enough, the mouse repeated the teleportation to another shadow, this time of an overturned log.
Magic, he thought. Like the spell I used.
New spell learned. Upon reflecting on the thought that had entered his head during his short battle with Thrung his vision darkened, his peripherals narrowed, and what little sound came from the woods fell away.
Words materialized in the air, like a goblin emerging from the fog.
 
Ergul 'Stump'
1st level Lumenurgist
 
His breath caught in his throat. My first level!
It was the dream of any young goblin to be engaged by the Words From The Sky, the nearest anyone other than the matrons could get to seeing the face of Grumul this side of existence.
Lumenurgist was a strange class, though. No other goblin in tribal memory had harnessed an arcane skill. No one except Thrung. Stump looked down at the pages in his stubby clutches and thought back to Rat-Squealer bursting into flames, and the fire around Thrung's hand.
After a long moment skeptically surveying the foliage around him, he glanced back up to the Words From The Sky and focused on the name of his class. It faded again and in its place emerged more information.
 
Lumenurgy
Manipulate Light
"You have a beginner's understanding of Lumensa's gift. You may slightly alter the features of existing sources of light, or your own lumen, without expending virtue."
 
Virtue? Lumen? Stump squinted at the unfamiliar words, then shook his head and moved on. Beneath the ability known as Manipulate Light was a straight line leading down, bisected by a simple "I". At the end of the line was another ability, which the Words From The Sky called a focus tree.
 
Illumomancy I
"Create a lumen of bright light which remains until you lose concentration."
Enhancements
Sustain (Virtue: 1)
"Allow your lumen to remain without your concentration for up to one hour per virtue spent."
Obey (Virtue: 1)
"Give minor commands to your lumen, which it will carry out without your concentration until completion of the command."
Duplicate (Virtue 1)
"Create identical copies of your lumen, spending a virtue point per copy."
Flash (Virtue: 2)
"Cause your lumen to disappear in a flash, temporarily blinding those nearby."
 
He was fairly certain he'd used that last enhancement on Thrung. Sure enough, just beneath Lumenurgy he spotted the relevant numbers—Virtue (3/5).
"How do I get more virtue?" Stump asked. The Words From The Sky did not reply.
Beneath Illumomancy and its enhancements was another line, this one broken by a "II", beneath which the line forked into several that led to a number of focus trees that were smudged, like when a raindrop hit a page in a book. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the abilities remained blurry.
"You must spend a focus point to unlock the following focus trees," the Words told him.
He pulled his attention back, letting Lumenurgy fade into the background amongst the web of connections it made with the other magical skills. There are so many, he thought. But he couldn't look at them all while standing in the middle of the Shadowlands, unless he intended on becoming some twisted creature's shadow lunch.
When he looked away the Words vanished, the sounds of the woods resumed, and his sight returned to normal. He stole one last glance behind him, back towards the tribe that had ordered his execution. For a moment he thought there might be a chance to return, to give the pages to the matrons and wow them with his newfound skill. What a gift that would be.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
But those days were behind him. Even if he managed to slip by Thrung and convince the matrons to revoke their decision, he would be an outcast, hated more than he already was.
They never liked him, never wanted him. No one but Yeza. Even with her presence the tribe never truly felt like a place where he belonged. He squeezed his fingers into a fist and bit his lip to stop himself from crying. Goblins don't shed tears, they shed blood, he was always told.
At least I'm alone now. No goblin would dare follow him into the Shadowlands. Not even Thrung.
He turned west again, deeper into the woods, the direction from which that wagon had come from, and the man and the magical book and the badge of the Iron Fleece. He felt it hanging in the pouch affixed to his side and wondered about Garron the knight and what his life had been like. There had to be something there, something more than ghost stories and a cursed goblin afterlife. Something beyond the Shadowlands.
Maybe a home, Stump thought, his ears curling anxiously.
Tenet Of Lumensa Fulfilled: Virtue +1 (4/5)
The thought came suddenly, unbidden.
What did I do? he wondered. Tenet of Lumensa? The words imparted no clarification of their own. He needed to find someone who had also been visited by the Words if he wanted to understand more.
He gave a final wistful look back for Yeza, his only friend, before he darted forward, headlong into the shadows.
 

 
Grrrrrnnnnblrgh, complained Stump's stomach.
"I know," he said, patting his empty belly. "Soon."
He'd travelled for hours, and darkness spilled like ink around all the fungal colour.
The last meal he'd eaten, if you could call it that, was a strip of unidentifiable meat off a rotting thigh in the bone pit the night before, and other than two failed attempts to catch a Blink-Mouse (at least that's what he decided to call the teleporting critters) and one failed attempt to eat a glowing mushroom (it tasted of ash and paint), he'd had no contact with food.
He was starving. He was tired. Sleep seemed impossible.
I need a spell.
With any luck he'd find a way to hunt or start a fire within the pages he'd taken from Thrung, but he needed a safe spot in the gloom to read them. He looked down at the crumpled papers and realized his knuckles were beginning to ache from gripping them so tightly against his chest.
It didn't take long to chance upon a low hill crowned by a tree stub wide enough to spread them out. But as he climbed he noticed the axe. The blade was sunk deep into the trunk, the haft spearing out at an odd angle. And from behind it flickered a fiery yellow light.
The hag's hut, Stump realized. He crouched, his ears perked. He swallowed hard and pressed up against what remained of the tree and peered carefully over the weapon.
Ahead the forest grew sparse. A narrow dirt road cut a swath between trees, beyond which stood the hut. Its crooked shingles were partially digested by mats of fuzzy mold.
It looked nothing like the hag abodes of his nightmares. Where there should have been bones were instead planks of wood, holding two storeys aloft. Where there might've been skulls staked out front was instead a gently swaying lantern of bright yellow mushrooms. A signpost stood in its glow, and embossed in green was the illustration of a helmeted man in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "THE KNIGHT INN," it read in Ingilish, in chipped yellow paint.
Stump narrowed his eyes. The Knight Inn. The hag inside must have had its hut under an illusion, perfectly calibrated to whichever unfortunate goblin was gazing on it.
It knows I'm here.
He jolted at the wail of a door swinging open. He breathed deep, stemming the churning bloodlust, as an ox-like figure slipped out of the hut on its hind legs.
It sauntered into the night in patchwork leather armour and a heavy iron nose ring. "G'night," it called over its shoulder before the door rattled shut. It turned onto the dirt road, took a bite out of a pastry, and tossed the remains into the woods.
Food.
Grrrrnblrrrgh, his stomach concurred.
The ox creature mumbled to itself and swaggered deeper into the Shadowlands, towards a cluster of lights flickering between distant trees.
What is that?
Before he could reveal the source, muffled voices leaked out of the hut. There were still others inside—victims, probably. One sounded deep and gravelly, the other pleasant and lilting.
Maybe they were goblins from other tribes.
But most of all there was food.
Stump carefully wrenched the axe free and tracked across the road. He skirted the lantern and sunk to his haunches beneath a window. The shutter was cracked open enough for orange light to bleed through.
A barrel stood immediately inside, flanked by two rickety stools. A bucket beyond caught a leak from the ceiling while cracks and holes dotted the floorboards.
A figure darted by.
"…and the Amber Glow, that too," she was saying, though not to anyone Stump could see. "Oh and the spicecaps, I seem to remember them runnin' a little low."
He readjusted to follow where she'd gone, and found her hunched over a heavy wooden chest surrounded by chairs of dubious structural integrity. She vigorously scrubbed the chest with a cloth.
"Jin, you hear me?" she said. Locks of red hair slipped in front of a slender, freckled face. An apron stained with grime hung from her shoulders.
The hag. Stump's heart skipped several beats. Her illusion of beauty was striking, but it wasn't going to fool him.
"Already on the list," came a husky voice. He shuffled to the right in time to see a broad-chested man mosey through a curtained doorway at the other end of the room. Filed horns crowned his head, and he had a wide, flat nose and hairy arms, much like the upright ox. "The Glow's tricky, though. Funds are tight 'til next month," he said, wiping his hands on a food smeared apron.
"Seven patrons today, Jin. Seven," said the hag. "Without the Glow we're like to get four a day, if we're lucky."
Jin sighed and ducked back through the doorway. "Yeah, yeah, Amber Glow it is."
Stump nudged the shutter open a little more. Fungal lanterns hung inside. Cobwebs colonized the corners, and horizontal barrels crowded the wall behind a long countertop. A short and stocky bearded dwarf sat face down at a table, his fingers wrapped loosely around an earthenware mug. His chest heaved in a manner suggestive of sleep.
The hag walked by and stacked his drink onto a spear of cups, and when she passed another table, Stump spotted it—a bowl of steaming broth.
Grrrrrrnblrrgh, his stomach observed.
"Quiet," he whispered, and held the axe at the ready.
After the hag had collected enough dish ware and disappeared through the curtained doorway, he pressed the shutter open with the head of the weapon.
Goblin instinct took over. He scurried through the window like he'd been born to do, careful to grip the sides with his toes as he lowered himself onto the floor. Not even the roaches would stir at his entry.
The food sat on a table halfway across the room.
Steam curled enticingly from the broth, like the fingers of an ethereal enchantress. The bowl itself was clay and riddled with cracks and impurities, but to Stump it glimmered with all the promise of the treasure of the tall men.
He made to scurry ahead, but stopped short after the first step.
Grrrrnblrrgh? his hunger inquired.
It was a trick. It had to be. It was too easy, too enticing. The hag would pounce as soon as he shoved a spoonful into his mouth, or the food was poisoned or enchanted. It's all a ploy.
The bearded figure stirred.
Stump turned back to the window, and his foot broke through a crack in the floor.
"Eh?" The dwarf blinked. "Gobby! Gobby in the inn!" He stumbled from his chair and struggled to rip a weapon from his belt, but lost the vertical. A table flipped over in his descent.
The hag rushed into the room, and behind her thundered Jin.
"Goblin!" he said, striding forward with a bloody cleaver.
"Stop!" yelled the hag.
Jin looked back at her, confused. Stump struggled to pull his foot free. The dwarf picked himself up and massaged his forehead.
"It's a goblin, Reem," said Jin. "He'll alert the rest of his tribe and before long we'll have a raid on our hands."
"You won't!" said Stump. “I don't have a tribe. Not anymore, I mean." He let the axe clank on the floor to fortify the point.
Reem—the hag—slid in front of Jin and pressed a small hand to his chest. "He's just hungry is all," she said, then turned to Stump. "Isn't that right?"
All at once the bloodlust seeped out of him. The anger, the fear, the anxiety, all vanished as her eyes locked onto his. I feel calm. The hag was disarming him, quelling his goblin power with her enchantments.
I need to run.
Stump nodded, feigning weakness.
She smiled and turned back to the larger man. "Get some tallowcap soup started in the kitchen. Make sure it's hot." Jin hesitated, nostrils flaring. "I've got Morg here if anything goes wrong," she added.
Jin's eyes bounced off the dwarf without warmth. "If anything happens to her it'll be your liver for breakfast," he said, then shouldered back the way he came.
The one they called Morg scowled. He gripped a small weapon at his hip, but his swaying stature hinted his lack of sobriety.
"Welcome to the Knight Inn," the hag beamed. She put a hand to her chest. "I'm Reema, should you be inclined. Jin's our cook and co-owner, and Morg's a protector. Sort of."
Morg grunted.
The more Reema spoke the more Stump felt himself enveloped in warmth. If his foot wasn't halfway through the floor he might be tempted to curl up and fall asleep. Her spell is strong. I have to break it.
"Do you have a name?" she inquired after his silence, her voice deceptively soft.
He blinked at the two of them. "Uh…"
Never let a hag learn your true name, he was always told. A goblin's warname was his weapon, but it was also his shield. True names could be spun into all manner of eldritch horrors, and once known, no goblin could hope to outrun the hag who spoke it.
"My name's Thrung," he said, and then fished for something in his pouch.
Morg inched forward, but Reema signalled him to stop. As Stump displayed the badge of the Iron Fleece, a soft blue glow emanated from its careful etchings.
Hags were devious, but like goblins they were greedy. They wanted offerings. Gifts. They could be bargained with.
"I'll give this to you if you let me go," he said.
Reema's eyes widened. "You're a mercenary?"
Stump's jaw tightened. A what?, he thought. "That's right," he said uncertainly.
"Never seen a gobby in the ranks o' the Iron Fleece," drawled Morg. "He's lyin' to ye."
Reema ventured a step. Stump's caught ankle prevented him from pouncing away.
"You can keep that trinket of yours. If you'd like I could fix up one of the rooms if you're plannin' on staying the night," she said.
Warmth hung off his shoulders like a blanket, weighing him down. His eyes drooped. Sleep sounds nice.
The hag shifted closer. "Does that sound alright, Thrung?" Her voice droned like a whispering brook. She reached out, fingers beckoning him forward, drawing him to the river.
To drown him.
Stump snarled and swiped at her hand.
She recoiled. "Jin!"
The hut erupted in white light as a lumen flickered into being moments before he commanded it to burst in a brilliant flash. Morg and the hag stumbled back. Stump ripped himself free, pain firing up his leg. He stepped to the window, the corners of his eyes darkening.
Sleep, he thought. She has me.
The floor came up to meet him.