Krazgul Runeblade's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Krazgul Runeblade stood alone at the fire pit and told the goblins he would kill their king. Nobody cheered. Nobody even stood up. A dozen goblins crouched around the flames of their ramshackle village, chewing meat, watching him the way they watched a stranger. He was the biggest goblin among them, red-skinned, black runes burned into his arms. In each fist he held a dagger that drank the firelight. He wanted the king's seat. He wanted to lead a warband into the king's hall and take the title of warchief. But a warchief needs warriors, and not one of these goblins would follow a challenger who had killed nothing worth naming. An old goblin spat into the fire. "Big talk," he said. "Show us a kill, then we talk." Krazgul knew the kill they meant. Past the last crooked hut grew a thing the village feared. It was a monstrous flytrap, taller than a troll, its jaws lined with demon thorns. Four goblins had wandered near it and never come back. The old goblin pointed his bone at the dark where it grew. "Bring us its head," he said. "Or stop barking." Krazgul walked out of the firelight. A shape rose and followed him. His wolf, gray and black, wrapped in drifting smoke, padded at his heel without a sound. The beast had been with him since he left his old pack. It alone did not need convincing. The flytrap waited in a pit of dead roots. It smelled him and its jaws yawned open. A vine lashed out and caught Krazgul's ankle. Thorns bit deep. He fell hard. The plant dragged him toward its wet, stinking mouth. He cut the vine with one dagger and rolled free. The runes on his arms glowed. More vines whipped at him. He hacked them back, but there were too many. Then the smoke wolf lunged. It clamped its jaws on a thick vine and tore it loose. The flytrap twisted toward the wolf. That was the opening. Krazgul ran straight at the gaping jaws. He drove both daggers up through the soft base of the flower. Black sap burst over his hands. The plant shuddered, folded, and died. He sawed through the stem and lifted the heavy, thorned head. He carried it back to the fire and dropped it at the old goblin's feet. The thorns still twitched. For a long moment no one spoke. Then the old goblin stood. One by one, the others stood with him. "The challenger has a kill," the old goblin said. "Now he has men." Krazgul had his warband at last. But as the goblins pressed close to swear to him, he heard a new word pass between them, low and afraid. The king had heard of the challenger too. And the king was sending something to the village first.