The throne room of Grabo Meshier groaned beneath his weight.
Far at the chamber's end, upon a throne of black stone and fused helms, sat the Goblin King—fourteen feet of corpulent war-flesh and brutal sovereignty. He was thick as a siege tower through the middle, vast of shoulder, mountainous of gut and chest, yet no softness lived in him. He was not fat as mortal lords grow fat, but heavy as a beast grown too mighty for any world to bear politely. Scar upon scar crossed his iron-green hide. Tusks curled yellow-white from his jaw. Tangled black hair, braided with bone and stolen trinkets, hung from his great head like a carrion banner. At his side lay a sword so vast it seemed less a blade than a butchered fin of iron from some sea-born abomination.
Before him, half in shadow and half in torch-glow, stood the invader.
A hooded Seeker.
Dust at his hem. Blood at his boots. A stillness in him most men lost long before they reached such a depth.
Grabo watched him.
Then the Goblin King smiled.
And spoke.
"O Seeker…"
His voice rolled through the chamber like a cart of chains over crypt-stone.
"O Seeker, thou hast come into my kingdom not as pilgrim, nor as beggar, nor as some pale-tongued envoy come prating peace—but in straight violence, in wrath, and in that hard, cold purpose that doth so sweetly become thy breed. In truth, I commend thee for it."
He leaned forward upon the throne, yellow eyes glimmering beneath a brutish brow.
"For even in the deepest womb of earth, in these black and sun-forgotten halls, thou didst stand thy ground and hew thy way unto me. My generals—my captains—my chosen maw-bearers and war-whelps—thou didst cast them down as though they were but lice upon the hide of the world. Scum, mayhap? Vermin? A pestilent rabble fit only for death?"
He gave a low, ugly chuckle.
"And yet, bold little butcher, dost thou know what number of kin and kindred thou hast widowed this night? How many brothers hast thou cut from their brothers? How many sons from their sires? How many shrieking mates from the arms that warmed them? Thou look'st upon slaughter and nam'st it cleansing, for thus do men soften the taste of blood upon their own tongues."
He rose.
The throne seemed to shrink behind him.
Stone groaned beneath the shift of his weight. The chamber lost space. Fourteen feet of goblin kingship towered now above the dais—broad, immense, heavy as a fortress gate torn loose and taught to hate.
"I gave the mortals above peace."
He spread his huge arms, mock-generous, mock-regal.
"Peace! Think on it, little grave-maker. I ask'd no miracle of them. No worship fit for gods. No impossible tribute. Only this—that each year they render unto me the greater part of their women and their children, to feed my goblins and keep their own walls free of ruin."
His tongue passed across his tusks.
"A fair exchange. A most ancient bargain. Flesh for safety. Fear for order. Tears for sleep. Such pacts are older than crowns, older than scripture, older than the first mud-walled hovel wherein man first learn'd to call his cowardice governance."
His voice darkened.
"And they obeyed. Oh, how they obeyed. They bent the knee. They counted out their daughters. They hush'd their babes. They made themselves meek before the necessity of my hunger."
He pointed at the Seeker.
"Till thee."
The words cracked like thrown iron.
"They have ruin'd it. They have sent thee down into my dominion, and for thy trespass I shall answer them in a tongue all mortals know. I shall peel their flesh from their frames. I shall gnaw the marrow from their bones. I shall drink the juices of their insides whilst their fathers look on and call it justice too late!"
His roar shook the hall. Bone ornaments rattled overhead. Torchfire bent away from him.
Then, quieter—more dreadful for it—he continued.
"I have heard of thee."
He took one vast step down from the dais.
"Aye. Heard of thee in cracks and caverns, in whispers carried by rat-men and goblin scouts, in the trembling mouths of those few who fled where thou hadst pass'd. I have watch'd thee from the dark corners of the world whilst thy name climb'd upward, rung by rung, through slaughter and ordeal."
Another step.
"Sherachne, the Spider Queen of the Tsarian Caves—laid low."
Another.
"Mordo the Grey, broken at the battle of Fanshu."
Another.
"Ithilayan the Black—one of the last great serpents—dragged with thee into such ruin that an island itself was made to perish for your quarrel."
Another.
"And Licht…"
At that name, even the torches seemed to tremble.
"Licht, the Skeleton King. The grave-sovereign. The necromancer old enough to make nations into funeral processions. Thou didst fight him and didst not die—though all wisdom says thou shouldst have. More: thou didst bind him. Seal him. Chain his soul in contract and walk from the mouth of that doom whilst death, cheated yet again, gnash'd its teeth behind thee."
Now Grabo stood at the chamber floor, no more than a short span from his foe.
"And now thou art come hither."
His lips peeled back in a grin of pure contempt and savage delight.
"To Grabo Meshier."
The name rolled from him like a title spoken by a priest at the world's ending.
"Goblin King. Lord of the under-ways. Maw-crowned sovereign of the hollow dark. Eater of tribute. Breaker of walls. Master beneath these roots and stones."
His Ōi exploded outward.
The chamber convulsed beneath it.
The ground cracked from under his feet in jagged lines. A black wind burst through the hall, whipping cloaks, rattling bones, hurling dust in spirals. The air itself thickened—crushing, tyrannous, kingly. Pillars groaned. Lesser creatures hidden in the dark cried out and collapsed flat.
"I know not," Grabo thundered, "whether I should count it an honor… or a deep and rancid insult… that one such as thou shouldst seek me."
He bent, seized the gigantic sword beside him, and lifted it with one arm.
The blade rose from the stone with dreadful ease.
It was enormous—broad and brutal, near the shape and size of some butcher'd shark-thing from the abyssal sea, all edge and weight and cruelty. In mortal hands it would have been absurd. In his, it was merely fitting.
He slammed it into the floor.
The chamber rang.
"Yet by the memory of all thou hast slain," he cried, "I shall grant thee this one mercy: death. Clean, if thou art fortunate. Swift, if the dark is pleased. For when a lesser force doth meet a greater, what remains to it but submission?"
He lowered his head and hissed over the blade.
"O abyssal gods—touch ye my steel once more. Cloak my soul in your blackness. Let night itself creep upon this edge. Let terror dwell in my hand."
Abyssal Muti poured over the weapon.
Blackness slick'd itself along the iron, swallowing torchlight, drinking color, until the sword became a wound in the room. His aura followed it—straight black, pit-deep, devouring the edges of all it touched.
Then Grabo's voice rose monstrous and full, filling every corner of the hall:
"And now, thou creature—thou Seeker—learn what it is to die!"
Silence answered him.
Then a bootstep.
Slow.
Measured.
The hooded figure came forth from the half-light, as if the speech itself had taken too long and wearied him.
A dagger slid from beneath the cloak.
Plain-looking. Small, even.
All the more insulting beside Grabo's abyss-shrouded slab of war.
The Seeker lifted his head.
Looked directly into the Goblin King's eyes.
And said, with all the bored irreverence of a man interrupted from his own amusement:
"Man… I thought you'd never shut up."
The stillness that followed was almost holy.
He rolled one shoulder, loose and easy.
"The others talk'd less. Easier that way." He flicked the dagger toward the tunnels behind him. "Killed them quicker, too."
Grabo's aura surged again, more wrath than wind now, black and crushing.
The Seeker squinted into it and clicked his tongue.
"Sheesh. Alright, big baby."
He planted one foot forward.
Bent his knees.
Raised the dagger.
And smiled.
"Come, then."
His eyes gleamed.
"Let us dance."
And in the small bright wickedness of that smile, one thought passed through Elric's mind as naturally as breathing:
Here we go again.