Darvin gazed blankly at the sword in his trembling hands. The tip was sheered off. Its blade was badly notched and the steel was spotted with rust. But it was a sword.

How many seasons had he toiled in the fields, filling the tedious hours with dreams of adventures where there was always a blade in-hand and deeds worthy of a song?

There was a blade in his hands now.

On the other side of the campfire stood an old man, a bloodstained maul hanging limply from the hand at his side. Tangled hair covered much of his face, but Darvin could see tears streaming from his eyes as the goblins surrounding them jabbered in their sneering speech. He couldn’t understand a word, but their tone was unmistakable.

The largest and most fearsome of the goblins raised his hand in a gesture of silence and the cave went quiet, save for the echoing sound of the narrow waterfall just outside the cavern. The brute held the old man in a lingering, contemptuous gaze before turning his attention to Darvin, displaying a mouth full of sharpened, pointy teeth as he favored the boy with a mocking smile.

This time, Darvin understood the speech.

“Humans fight for Klarg. Now…“

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