He remembered.
He still remembered that fateful day in the fortress, when a messenger had come carrying orders from the Goblin King the first time in over a decade commanding them to send five hordes of goblins into the fortress.
He had been sparring in the barracks when the order had come. The drill sergeant walked into the barrack and rounded us up into our hordes. Then he picked which hordes would go.
First, he pick Krush's horde. Well, not exactly his horde, but the honour of being among the first ones picked was immense. The horde had nodded so forcefully that one would think the motions would cause their helmets to fly across the room.
He was so proud when that happened.
Second was Dekkan's horde. Oh, how he loved that look on Dekkan's face as he accepted the lesser and dubious honour of being picked. Second. Ha! That mush have brought the carpet-faced dwarf down a notch!
Third was Krashnak and company. It was actually rather surprising that they were picked third. Out of all the hordes, Krashnak's horde always had the best form. They followed the drill sergeant's orders, no matter what. Predictably, they all stomped their feet and pulled off a smart salute.
Then he dismissed them - the other two positions would be fought upon by the remaining hordes as they left and Krush rushed home, down the black corridors, eager to tell his family of the happy news.
Here you go, my son. I think you're ready for this. his father said, ever so softly, while handing him the old helmet from the rack on the wall.
The helmet had been there as long as he could remember. It had been a sort of sacred symbol in their house, reminding them of how they got so far, and everyone looked up to it. Over the years they had made something akin to a shrine around it, where all their most valuable possessions and mementos lay, as if huddled around the great helm.
Seeing it removed without any greater ceremony or ritual was a bit shocking, but at the same time, he felt happy. He had felt like it was Wintersday all over again, when the goblin soldiers would return from their thieving operations with bagfuls of dwarven goods to share amongst the children.
He took it graciously, and looked it over in his hands. It was surprisingly light, and showed no signs of age or wear. The spike on the top of the helm was still as sharp as can be, despite the fact that nobody had touched it for decades. Krush touched it gingerly, but drew his finger back quickly as it drew a red pearl from his skin.
It was made by your grandfather... his father hesitated a little before continuing, ...right before he died. His father smiled tenderly and placed his hand on Krush's shoulder; it was strange, for on the happiest of all days, he was not joyful Krush realised why he did so then, as he though about it in bed and instead, he was solemn. Despite his father's best efforts to hide this, Krush saw that he was also teary-eyed; Krush suspected that these tears were not of joy .
Your grandfather was a good man. He'd have wanted you to have this.
Krush had remembered what had happened: His grandfather was a farmer (not a particularly glamorous job, nor very well paying, but an essential and important one nonetheless. Importance, however, meant little when not I the form of coin), and under one of the irrigation floods had been swept off the tower.
Grandfather then fell five floors, and ended up with a broken back and legs. He had then spent the next ten years as in invalid, living off of the hospital and its services. But the hospital was a dangerous place to be in, during those times; the tower had a finite amount of resources, and the ones that could be supported no longer (starting with the lower classes), as well as the ones declared mentally dead would have to be killed. They would be killed as mercifully as possible of course not like the dwarves, who slaughter their sick as soon as the come in, and do so with relish.
Grandfather, at the end of those ten years, couldn't be kept alive any more, and so was scheduled for euthanasia in six months. But, only one month before the scheduled day, Grandfather had dragged himself out of the bed with only his arms bleeding as he did so and pulled himself along and down to a smithy where he began his work on something.
During the process, Grandfather had rejected any food, water or healing, kept his project a secret, and left the smithy only for some materials from time to time. When there was but two weeks left until his release, they heard the rhythmic banging from the smithy which they had gotten used to stop, and everyone hoped he would come out healthy and on his feet, for they had heard legends detailing similar events and the goblins becoming miraculously strong, fast or tough and without injuries in the aftermath.
However, Grandfather had simply left dragging himself along with one hand the other carrying the helmet that he had made and placed himself once more onto the hospital bed, with no new strength or miraculous healing. And so, they were forced to euthanise him after the two weeks, when he showed no sign of improvement. The tower leader felt so regretful about the incident that they had given Krush's family Grandfather's extraordinary helmet as well as some monetary compensation. Krush never believed the last part about regret.
Krush examined the helmet for a second time, recounting the story in his head, and put the helmet on as his father mustered one last, great snuffle and said,
Well, bye son. Come back in one piece.
He had waved, and left.
He had heard the rumour that only a few goblins survive in sieges.
He had never believed it.
He remembered.
Author
Topic: Prisoner of War (Read 1258 times)