The hobgoblin clutched the skull in his thick, clawed fingers, staring into the empty sockets as if searching for something: answers, intrigue, satisfaction? Not even Boaz knew. After a while he gave up and threw it into the pile with the rest—a mass grave for those who had been cut down by the Odious Legion, and a plinth for his throne of bones. The horde had been camped out for months in this makeshift fort on the ruins of a city whose name Boaz had forgotten in its conflagration. He was starting to tire of it. Of the mewling, bickering goblins who scampered aimlessly about the place, chasing rats and stealing meat. Of the lurking, unpredictable bugbears who had already begun to form gangs and shakedown passing merchant caravans, or even depleted units of the hobgoblins. Even his hobgoblin kin were frustrating him. Asking him where next? Who next? Had they no ambition of their own? Of course not, he’d killed any who would dare question or usurp him. It was his own fault, really, though no less annoying. It was time to move. As if fated, his closest advisor entered the wrecked throne room.
“Lord Boaz, there are messengers from the Vastglen to see you.”
“Unexpected,” Boaz mused aloud. Afterall, what use was keeping thoughts in your head?
“Indeed, brutal one. They are strange creatures. Part human, part goat, part something else. They claim to be apostles of Cosa.”
Boaz’s pierced eyebrow rose, the stolen gold clinking together with the movement.
“Well, send them in. We can always feed the freaks to the worgs if they’re treacherous.”
Fang and Claw growled eagerly at the words, their low intelligence permitting them an understanding that food could well be on its way. Boaz’s advisor nodded, turned on his heel, and strode from the chamber. Boaz looked down at his worgs, wondering which would arise victorious if he chose to pit the two against each other. By the time his advisor returned with the satyrs in tow, he was on the verge of finding out.
“My lord, my brutal one, commander of the Odious Legion, here are the messengers from the Vastglen,” said the advisor, sitting on the ground at his feet in a gesture of supplicancy, and stepping aside to reveal the diminutive creatures following him.
Boaz burst into harsh laughter—a choking snarl of a sound. “These are the messengers?” he asked in disbelief to the crowd of nosy goblinoids that had followed them into the throneroom. They joined in his guffawing, sounding like a pack of hyenas fighting a flock of seagulls. “They’re pathetic,” he growled. “Barely a snack for my worgs.”
Mercy stepped forward and, in a wavering voice, said: “Lord Boaz, we are emissaries of Cosa, demigod of Chaos. It would be wise at least to hear our message before we become food for your beasts.”
“Hah,” Boaz barked. “You have a sense of humor at least. Perhaps I’ll keep you as jesters. What’s your message, little goats?”
Mercy looked at Levy, urging her to speak, lest she be seen as weak and meet the mouths of the hungry worgs snarling in his direction.
“Cosa asks that you amass the Odious Legion once again and march into the northern reaches of the Vastglen, to the ruins of Sylcara. She says it still contains many treasures and the men of the west seek to claim it. Thwarting them and taking it yourself will earn her favor.”
Boaz glared at the little creature until she cowered, using intimidation to cover his confusion.
“What is the Vastglen?” he muttered harshly, the shame of ignorance angering him.
“The forest to the north, brutal one,” Mercy stepped in.
Boaz nodded. “And Sylcara?”
“A ruined stronghold,” Levy replied, mustering courage.
“I have ruins here, little goats. Why would I want to claim another?”
“There is more than meets the eye in Sylcara,” Levy assured the hobgoblin. “Ancient arcana, forgotten weapons, riches beyond counting.”
Fire blazed in the hobgoblin’s eyes as the vision of plunder rose in his mind.
“Your message is from the demigod herself?” he asked.
Both satyrs nodded.
“Then we march!” he bellowed out to the crowd. The satyrs, surprised by the raging roar, fell over themselves in retreat. The amassing goblinoids joined the warcry, shaking fists, torches, and weapons in the air. The worgs howled with glee at the rising fear of the satyrs as the cacophony rose and echoed through the valley. Startled ravens took flight, their wingbeats adding percussion to the discordant choir.
“You’ll not feed my worgs just yet,” Boaz said to the terrified satyrs. “We’ll need a guide, and a spare is always useful. In three days you’ll take us to Sylcara.”
*
Word spread quickly, and goblinoids of all description swarmed to Boaz in his fallen city. He watched from high atop the last remaining turret. They flocked to him. Worshiped him. He was a paragon of war, and they his fodder for the fight. With them they brought all manner of beast and brute—giant rats and ravens, hulking ogres, half-formed creatures without name. Boaz was ready to command them all. To send them into the fray against whatever foe the forest should choose to throw into his path.
As it turned out, the satyrs were good company as well. Once they’d overcome their initial fear of him, they’d become rather amusing. They danced like their feet were aflame, and drank until their wine came back in goats from their mouths. They teased the worgs and kicked the rats, swung the goblins round in waltzes and darted between the lanky legs of the bugbears. He hoped that keeping them alive would please Cosa. The favor of a demigod was no small thing.
On the morning of their departure, the ruins were packed with war-hungry creatures. He stood before them all, proclaiming great wealth and rank to those who would fight beside him through the forest, and reach the ruins of Sylcara, where their plunder awaited them. The Odious Legion was on the move once again.