Chapter 2: Just a Little Nap

Three Thousand Years later

Xavos awoke with a rush, his instincts taking over as he twisted the gnarled slimy grey hand of the goblin shaman about to thrust a twisted blade of Yrdmil into his neck intent on consuming the victim’s soul energy for magical power. Perhaps the shock of life hitting his system made the veteran of endless struggles with the undead more violent than normal, or seeing a goblin shaman and having his foul smelling breath of rotting meat slap his senses triggered his old crusading days against the denizens of the inner deep beneath the rocks of the world. It might even have been the sight of the extra tiny shrunken heads marking them as children's heads on a necklace around the hook-nosed shaman’s neck. Regardless, the Arch Paladin felt the inner rage of old awake into a blossoming flower of fire in his breast. Xavos kept twisting the stinking salamander hand till with a vicious pop the appendage snapped off the body like a weed ripped from its roots.

The bitter startled cry of the stricken goblin reaching for his ruined arm echoed off the white towers of the Paladin’s old fortress. Xavos lived. And so did his beloved castle of the sky. How was this possible? And where had this stinking goblin come from?

A clang off of Xavos’ scarlet helm made him turn with inhuman speed snatching up what must have been a goblin warchief given his immense size that almost matched that of a youth of about sixteen summers. They were after all created in mockery of the dwarves, but unlike the dwarves were obsessed with height for choosing warchiefs even to their own destruction.

Though, Xavos would allow the brute’s size and obvious prowess must have allowed him a longer lifespan given how his iron armored shoulders matched his robust girth. Given the immense strength a normal goblin possessed despite its slimy yet miniscule hide this warchief could’ve crushed a man's head with his bare hands with ease.

Xavos gazed at the chieftain with his pierced nose, scars from endless battles with rivals, and untold cruelty written in the tattoos on his arms accounting for the many villages pillaged and lives consumed that had marked his wicked life. Survival was war for any goblin chief less his more ambitious grunts poison him in his sleep, or more brutish drop a keg of powder on his head and blame a mage fireball had done the deed.

Some of the crusaders of old had a begrudging respect for the strength of the cave ape chieftains who lived longer than a few days in the rank. Xavos never did though. The Arch Paladin tossed the wretch off the edge of his castle like a sack of screeching potatoes. Their cruelty over the years had driven any admiration for the beady eyed gremlins long ago.

The sound of the soon to be ex-chieftain's pig squeals shrinking into nothing was very satisfying indeed to the old warrior. This was not his preferred awakening, but interrupting sacrifices to dark gods was a favorite pastime of the Arch Paladin. He’d gained his title fighting the ogres of Casthalatum who were ever slow to grasp the concept that a man of the cloth gave no respect to religious rituals involving humans or any other mortal race being sacrificed. Silly brutes.

The Paladin turned back to the courtyard to see a surprising yet not altogether unwelcome sight. Night had taken the air in full with only a sliver of a moon smiling down on the deadly scuffle upon the flying fortress. Amongst the shadows was a wave of goblins all in deadly combat with the now awakened acolytes who seemed to have come to their senses just as the Paladin had.

The teacher inside him felt rising pride as he saw not one of his students had fallen to the mini horde of wild spear and flail bearing headhunters even with their injuries and sudden awakening. The mean little greyskinned monsters were wailing in shock and dismay at the loss of their chief and shaman which like most goblin rabble seemed to have shaken them to their mean little cores. Still, there were many of them, and they wouldn’t break so easy even now that they realized a fight would happen, not a feast upon living statues unable to counter their teeth.

There were many questions on the edge of Xavos’ mind as he picked up his great sword Juradill the Troll Cleaver with his foot before tossing the heavy blade to his hand from the pure white marble stones being quickly stained with dark blue almost black goblin blood at his feet. But as he had always been a man of action the Paladin chose to first rid his fortress of his unwashed and uninvited guests. Dinner parties were very strict, and absolutely zero exceptions on their dress codes in Paladin ceremonies after all. The rags and spotted rusting iron armor smeared with the blood of past victims just wouldn’t do. Soon waves of dead goblins were being sent screeching to their deaths in many falling pieces over the side of the flying Isle with each swirling pass of Juradill.

The goblins squealed and hooted, pointed and jarred in their high pitched chatter that had more in common with apes and beasts than man or dwarf before fleeing in abject terror. Their fear and shock was more than just surprise at a sudden fight. The Paladin had the distinct impression these fellows had not known what Paladins, or even just Paladin Acolytes were capable of.

Perhaps they were from much farther in the deep depths where none had seen warriors of light. Though with the wave of undead striking all the world it seemed a strange time to come and raid, risking the attention of the lich kings on their subterranean domains. They may all serve the dark, and even at times aid each other's purposes, but that didn’t mean the goblins were not technically living. A fact the undead would never abide for long.

Bolane led the charge after the twisted fiends, and their retreat revealed a team with a twisted battering ram attempting to breach the inner keep. A futile gesture. Such a crude device would shatter long before the enchanted gates. Still, the sight warmed The Arch Paladin's heart.

If those who had been on the surface had survived the stasis field then surely those within had as well, and not all of them were as durable as his acolytes. A shame to pass through so many dangers and into such miraculous salvation only to get stuck by a piss covered blade from a mean hairless ape of the underworld. The thought did reawaken a rather important question to Xavos however. Where had these freakish little gremlins come from?

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