2
Lodoss was a remote island a fortnight’s voyage south of the Alecrast continent. The voyage was long and perilous enough that there was little sea traffic between the two landforms—only occasional merchant galley ships from Raiden, the free city northwest of Lodoss. Some people on the continent called Lodoss “The Cursed Island,” and it was true that there were some ominous places there that lived up to that title: The Forest of No Return, The Storm and Fire Desert, and Marmo, The Island of Darkness. Underground labyrinths crawled with loathsome monsters, and the God of Darkness, Phalaris, had a dedicated following. The Demon Wars thirty years prior had terrorized the island, and it had taken an alliance of elves, dwarves, and humans to drive the demons back into their underground prison. The scars from the battle had healed and peace had returned, but tales from those days had forever stained the island’s reputation.
The ordinary people of Lodoss, however, didn’t think much about what outsiders thought of their island. Daily life held more than enough problems for anyone.
The island of Lodoss was divided into kingdoms. The most powerful was the Kingdom of Moss in the southwest, unified after the Demon Wars by Mycen, a Dragon-Knight-turned-King. The original countries had been fiercely independent and fought amongst themselves constantly, until foreign threats united them. Then the fractured kingdoms, each named for a different body part of a dragon, came together under Mycen, the king of Highland, the Dragon’s Eye. Mycen’s heir was a Dragon Knight named Jester, and he and the twelve Dragon Knights who served him were the central pillars of Moss. Thus, he came to be known as “Mycen, the Golden Dragon King.” When Mycen passed away, Jester inherited his name, his title, and the golden dragon he used to ride.
At the center of the island lay Valis, the Holy Kingdom of Justice. It was ruled over by Fahn, one of the Six Heroes. Most people there worshipped the supreme god Pharis, so the Order of Pharis held power. Rule over Valis was not passed down through blood. Instead, the new king ascended to the throne after being nominated by the Order from among the Holy Knights and royal guardians of the kingdom. Religious commandments from the order were also made law.
North of Valis was Flaim, the desert kingdom, a nation that rose from the recent defeat of local barbarians. The desert people were brave, and their mercenary king and founder—Kashue—was widely respected. The land was harsh, but the young country was vibrant with hope.
Kanon, in the southeast, was ruled by a scholar king. It was known for its natural beauty and temperate climate.
To the south lay the feared Dark Island of Marmo, home to monsters and exiled criminals. For years, the land had been ruled only by chaos, until a warrior called Beld declared himself Emperor and brought the entire island under his rule. He’d spent most of his ten years of leadership ruthlessly crushing every rebellion that sprung up. In recent times, Marmo appeared peaceful—at least on the surface.
Alania, in the north, was a center of culture and history. The citizens took great pride in their stone buildings and the marble dwarven-built castle.
Within Alania, there was a small village nestled in the mountains of the peninsula north of Allan, the capital city. This village was called Zaxon, and its inhabitants led simple lives far from the culture and bustle of the capital.
That village was dealing with a serious problem…
“I told you—I’m going to destroy them!”
Good Reunions, the only pub in Zaxon, thundered with the pounding of an armored fist on a table, and wooden goblets spilled their contents everywhere.
A young man stood in the back of the crowded room. He wore plate mail and a longsword at his hip—a sword with a long grip to allow the wielder to hold it two-handed. He had a thick iron shield strapped to his back; all he needed was a helmet, and he’d look like a fine knight. But his breastplate bore no crest, only a large scrape across the chest.
“But Parn,” Filmer, the village chief, replied, “you can’t fix this by yourself. These are goblins—lots of them. I don’t care how good a swordsman you are. You’ll be outnumbered.”
Parn glared back in disgust. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this pack of cowards.
“That’s why I’m asking for help! Like you said, I don’t have a chance alone, or even with Etoh’s help. But look around! If everyone here grabbed a weapon, we’d be invincible! Don’t let a few goblins scare you—think about how it makes our village look not being able to handle this!” Parn scanned the crowd. The people at the tables all kept their heads down, avoiding his gaze.
A group of about twenty goblins had dug a cave in the hills close to Zaxon while isolated by the winter snow. Goblins were about the size of a human child, with reddish skin. Because of their skin tone, they were sometimes called “red ogres,” but they were originally fae of the earth and soil. In the ancient wars of the immortals, they were summoned by the gods of darkness as their vanguard. The gods of both sides died at the end of the war, so the surviving goblins had no way to return to the fairies’ realm—and no choice but to live primitive lives in the mountains and forests.
Humans and goblins could not live together—any contact between the two always ended in conflict. And while the goblins near Zaxon hadn’t harmed the villagers in the three months since they’d arrived, it was only a matter of time—considering their evil reputation.
Parn had called on all the strong, healthy men of the village to help him mount a preemptive strike. They had more than thirty men, outnumbering the goblins. But as for their reaction…
“Nothing bad has happened yet. Maybe it never will. Why risk our hides by provoking them? If we fail, they’ll attack the village,” someone muttered.
Parn looked at the man in dismay. It was Zamji, a hunter—Parn had been counting on his skill with a bow and arrow.
“Zamji, that’s dangerous thinking.” Parn replied. “You’ve heard the horror stories. You want to wait until that happens here? Defeating them now is our only option.”
“But Parn…” This time it was Riot the woodcutter. Parn’s spirits fell even lower—Riot was the strongest person in the village.
Others mumbled their objections—and not a single voice rose up to agree with him.
Parn smashed his fist into the table again. This time, the whole table flipped over with a thundering crash, alarming the pub’s owner.
“Why don’t you people get it?! My dad fought thirty bandits by himself. Don’t you have a tenth of that courage?”
“We all know the story. Didn’t your dad run into those bandits after he ditched his knight position? And he got himself killed, too,” Moto, the owner of the general store, sneered. He and the pub’s owner, Old Man Jet, were the town’s gossip mongers.
Parn, whose face had been flushed with excitement, went pale.
“Wh-what did you say about my dad?!” Parn glared at the man with open hatred.
“I’m just repeating what I heard. If it’s not true, then why was the crest of the Holy Knights scraped off your breastplate? Why did your mother have to leave Valis and settle out here in the country?”
Parn’s hand went to his sword—the urge to charge Moto and chop his head off was almost overwhelming. But drawing his sword against a villager was clearly not the right thing to do.
“Fine,” he muttered, and pulled his hand away from his weapon. “Etoh and I will handle it ourselves.”
With that, he strode out, ramming the door into the wall as he left.
The villagers sat slumped in their seats until the metallic clanking faded away.
“They’re not actually going to go alone, are they?” Riot whispered to Moto.
“He wouldn’t be that reckless,” Moto answered uncertainly. They all knew Parn. He would absolutely do foolish things in the name of justice.
The village chief listened to them talk for a while, then quietly announced the meeting over. He slipped out the door Parn had left open, toward the shack on the outskirts of the village.