Forging the Half-Goblin Sorcerer

By J. Craig Argyle

This book is for fantasy junkies. it takes the reader to a world that has just entered its Iron Age. It is a time when kings battle kings for revenge and survival, and sorcerers and alchemists pit magic against science. It tells the story of a half-goblin orphan, Trak, who is hated by both goblins and men. His world is torn by racial hatred, and Trak struggles to be accepted. When he finds love, it is taken from him by fate. It will not surprise regular fantasy readers that the half-goblin eventually overcomes his humble beginnings.
Trak's destiny becomes clear when the earth is overrun by white goblins fleeing the Underworld. His magic is critical in the battle between the surface dwellers and a malevolent demigod who seeks domination of the earth. But which side does Trak support? Be warned, this tale has many twists that will keep the reader guessing as the final battle between good and evil unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Craig Argyle
• Release date: Jan 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311199836

J. Craig Argyle

I am a Maya archaeologist excavating at a site called El Mirador in Guatamala's Peten jungle. My past carreers include: organic chemist, military pilot and pathologist. When I'm not excavating, I like to paint and write.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Isle of Uisgebeatha: Rite of Passage

In our age most people have never seen a goblin or as they call themselves, a Spore. There are those who don’t believe they ever existed. Still, if a goblin walked into your house, you would probably recognize it by its short bandy legs and particularly long arms. Indeed, most do have yellow skin or, more precisely, various shades of green and ochre. Yes, their noses are prominent and their ears pointed; their black eyes have an eerie, penetrating quality which is a bit unnerving, but otherwise they are much like men in their needs and their aptitudes to learn, love, and scheme.

Goblins have wide grinning mouths through which they can hiss, squeal and screech, but as you know, goblins can’t whistle. They lack the muscles needed to pucker their lips. Their speech is lispy, like someone with a cleft lip.

If you think goblins relish the taste of human flesh, you would be mistaken. Their traditional foods are crickets which taste like greasy chicken and wichetty grubs that taste like nut-flavored scrambled eggs wrapped in a crispy pastry. They devour worms they raise in giant compost heaps—not the shriveled up worms you find on the road after a heavy rain, but a thick, pink, juicy kind, with a rich hint of iron, sort of like a shrimpy, blood pudding. If you find this disgusting, reflect on your attitudes. Do you know of any reason why a wiggly worm shouldn’t be the most yummy and nutritious treat imaginable? You can’t say you don’t like the taste because the truth is you haven’t eaten one. Perhaps, you are not as openminded as you think. If you hope to understand goblins, set aside your preconceptions. Goblins have habits that will bother and upset people who believe they know how things should be.

Goblins prefer the dark and take a fancy to deep caverns. Their world is riddled with tunnels and is more three dimensional than the world of men. Humans live on the earth’s flat surface while goblins inhabit many levels within the passages and hives they excavate in the earth. Some Spore once resided in farms and in villages much as we do. These surface goblins dwelt on the edge of our world at the far periphery of our kingdoms. They cultivated Bere, or as you know it, as their staple grain. From bere, goblins brewed ale they consumed in large quantities and distilled a malt used for social recreation and as a key ingredient in medicines for treating all manner of illness.

For millennia, surface goblins fought against men for their survival. With each generation, goblin fortunes ebbed and flowed, and most believed the struggle would continue for millennia.

***

This tale is about an age when men, goblins and cross-breeds shared a corner of the world. Cross-breeds, outcasts who are half-goblin and half-man, were rare even then. Both goblins and humans frowned upon miscegenation, a prejudice that persists until our time. Humans thought of goblins as animals, or worse, as monsters. Their theologians debated whether cross-breeds had a soul. Goblins were equally xenophobic. Spore elders taught that humans were kin to feral swine—only less intelligent.

Old attitudes never completely die. If the thought of a woman mating with a scrawny, yellow goblin is repulsive to you, ask yourself, Why?

***

Our story begins on the Isle of Uisgebeatha, an ancient rock anchored in one of the world’s forgotten places. The sea has chiseled the rock’s edges into sheer cliffs. The wind that constantly rakes the island has left it almost treeless. A small wood survives in a valley on the isle’s east side. It takes two days to walk the island’s length, but few find a reason to make the journey. Most goblins inhabiting the rock are content to toil their small plots or fish along the rugged coast. Patches of thorny gorse find places to thrive amid the heather-covered slopes. Almost any time of the year, one can see patches of gorse in yellow bloom. The Spore have a saying, when the gorse is in blossom, kissing is in season. In other words—about any time. Goblins have lived on the island for as long as anyone can remember, but the standing stones and stone circles that dotted the tops of promontories speak of an earlier age now forgotten.

We commence our tale on the night a cross-breed, named Trak, is required to demonstrate his metal casting skill to the elders of the craft guilds. For fifteen years Trak has toiled for Baelock Swordbeater, the metal smith who serves the island’s goblin duke. For fifteen years the apprentice has built forges and constructed bellows. He has hammered bronze swords and decorated their surfaces with abstract geometric designs and legendary creatures. In truth, he has avoided cleaning ashes out of fire pits and repairing pots, but in most respects he has been a model apprentice.

To pass from apprentice to master smith, Trak must demonstrate his ability to cast bronze. On this night the cross-breed’s skill will be tested. It is his rite of passage. Although years have gone into preparing for this one event, everything could be lost. If he fails badly, he will not be given a second chance. Trak knows he must not fail. Becoming a Master Smith is his only chance to escape a stifling existence.

Baelock is not permitted to help, not even to offer advice. It unnerves Trak to feel Baelock stare at him as he painstakingly prepares the kiln, crushes the ore, and grinds the charcoal. He senses the pride Baelock feels in the care he takes in each step of the process. Baelock watches as he carves six wax dirks emblazoned with symbols of power. He hears Baelock sigh audibly when the elegant wax creations are encased in clay and vaporized to produce molds for the casting. When Trak has stacked charcoal around the ceramic crucible containing the precise mixture of tin and copper ores, he is ready—eager for the testing to begin.

As the leaders of the various guilds gather, Baelock Swordbeater welcomes his peers nervously. He is sure Trak will do well, but something might always go wrong, and there is the nagging fear in the back of his mind that his apprentice will try one of his ‘stunts’ to impress the elders and have it backfire.

About twenty guild members are present. As expected, the potters from the local village are the first to arrive. The two little goblin sisters, Nam and Drag Claydigger, live for social occasions and take a special interest in Baelock. In their wicker basket, they bring enough neeps and kohlrabi to last the night. Trak wonders how the toothless glassblower will chew the hard tubers. Fortunately, the glassblower arrives with an ample supply of soft bread. The cooper who makes the barrels for the castle arrives with a cask of fresh ale. Baelock is surprised when Wreen Wormclaw, the metal smith from the other side of the island and his chief rival, shows up and contributes a basket of apples.

The guild members are there to relax and eat. They will enjoy flustering the examinee with their questions. In the end, they will judge the results of the examination. Whatever the outcome, it will reflect on Baelock’s reputation as a smith and teacher. Metal regard themselves as the elite of the crafting professions. Baelock knows his fellow smiths will suffer embarrassment if the evening doesn’t go well.

***

As is customary, the testing is staged at night when the luminescent glow of hot metal is most magical to behold. When the judges are seated on benches in front of the clay forge, a smith from another village calls for Trak to step forward and begin. The large cross-breed walks in from the shadows; on his bare pectoral a fresh tattoo is visible. It is his personal mark, placed on his chest in black ink. It consists of a zigzag entwining a vertically positioned sword.

Trak circles the forge In the darkness he removes a burning fagot from the coals of a small fire. Facing the six cardinal directions, he draws in the air symbols of power to mark the boundaries for the night’s ceremony. He addresses the spirits of his ancestors and asks them to witness his rite of passage. The cross-breed isn’t sure who his ancestors are, but he is certain they will find him. They are his spirits after all. The potter sisters shift warily. Spirits of dead Spore are one thing, but they are uncomfortable with having the spirits of dead men in their company. Hopefully, the pig faced spirits will decline to attend or, if they do, will be well behaved. Trak pushes the fagot into the forge and watches the oil soaked-charcoal burst into flame. That went well, he thinks.

He steadily pumps the bellows a score of scores to bring the kiln to its maximum temperature. Only the whoosh of the bellows and the cracking of the coals break the silence. Actually, if he listens carefully, Trak hears the potters gnawing on tubers. He looks up and sees they are using hand signs to gossip with the barrel maker. At least they aren’t talking about me. He tells himself, This evening is important only to me and perhaps Baelock; for the others this is just a party. Better they should ignore my performance than search for my mistakes. As a cross-breed, he is wary of bigots that hate him solely because of his mixed parentage.

An owl flies by and screeches. The potters feel certain it is one of the cross-breed’s human ancestors arriving late. After an additional hour of pumping, during which time the heads of some of the guild members nod sleepily, he declares the transformation complete. Nothing remains but to pour the molten metal into the molds and wait. The red glow of the open kiln sends his shadow stretching across the rocky, heather-covered landscape as he pours the luminescent, molten earth into the waiting molds.

Nothing in his life embodies the mystery and beauty of the unknown as does the flow of the hot, glowing, orange metal. It is the earth’s ethereal form. The transformation of rock into metal is the most magical event in his otherwise drab life. He has not yet realized that his thirst for magic will become the driving force of his existence.

***

This casting is the most important of Trak’s life. It is his casting from start to finish. If successful, he passes the first part of the two-part examination. As the molds cool, the second stage of the examination begins. He stands motionless in front of the forge silhouetted by its glow. The judges are ready to ask their questions. They will not go easy on a candidate who is an outsider and a cross-breed. Baelock shifts uneasily, but he can see that Trak stands confidently with his sinewy arms crossed in front of his sweating torso.

Standing bare-chested, his blonde hair blowing in the breeze and wearing only a leather apron, leggings and heavy boots, he is a simile for the smiths of legend. By goblin standards the cross-breed is huge and powerfully built, although his facial features are more pig faced than goblin. The cross-breed’s countenance and youthful vigor gall Wreen Wormclaw, the metal smith from across the island, who sits impatiently waiting.

Wreen jumps at the chance to ask the first question; he intends to take his revenge on Baelock by humbling his young upstart. Your bellows be most clever; it appears they have seen a lot of good service. Be it one of Baelock’s inventions?

Trak catches the implication immediately. If he has used a bellows made by another smith, he fails his examination on a technicality. Fortunately, he can answer that it was a bellows of his own design that he made some months ago. Wreen sits fidgeting on the bench while the potters ask Trak in a friendly, complimentary manner how he creates the fanciful designs he engraves on his work. When the potters finish gushing over Trak’s artistic gifts, Wreen tries again. A weak smile cracks on Wreen’s face as he asks, Please explain the magic you use to transform dead rock into living metal.

Baelock wants to yell foul! He understands that Wreen expected to be named the duke’s smith when the former smith died in the last war, and how the opportunity was lost when Baelock showed up out of nowhere and stole the position. Still, that is no reason why Wreen should ask his apprentice a question no one can answer.

Trak’s heart speeds up a notch. He remembers what the ancient goblin in the forest taught him about the mysteries and extemporizes, In all things, both animate and inanimate, there is a spirit. The rock’s spirit sleeps until it is awakened by fire. It is the task of the smith to guide the quickened rock to its destiny. Trak has no idea if he is correct; neither does Wreen. Baelock likes the answer; his apprentice has learned a thing or two from the old Spore who lives in the forest.

Wreen Wormclaw is not about to back off. The cross-breed is too clever; he needs to be taught a lesson. He poses a puzzle that makes no sense, believing it would fluster anyone. If gold be the metal of the sun and silver be the metal of the moon, what be the metal of the earth?

Trak stands silent for a moment. Wreen thinks I’ve got ‘im good. He looks forward to witnessing Baelock’s embarrassment when his apprentice decompensates. Trak is angry. Gobshite! Trak says to himself. Why is this second-rate smith, whom I don’t even know, going after me? He casts a glance at Baelock who only shrugs his shoulders as if to say, Ye be on your own.

Trak calms himself as the old Spore had taught him. He replies, The answer, Master Wormclaw, is quicksilver. He remembers Baelock has instructed him not to pull any stunts, but he isn’t going to be bullied by Wreen.

When the world was young, Mikol Blackface, the Earth’s first smith was challenged by the smiths of the sun and the moon to a contest to see whose metal was the greatest. The other smiths thought that Mikol would be easily defeated since everyone knows the earth has no precious metal of its own, but only the metals that fall from the celestial spheres above. The moon’s smith brought forth an intricately carved silver ring that shown like moonlight on a still lake. The sun’s smith displayed a polished ring that radiated like daffodils in the morning sun. Surely, there was no metal in the earth that could match the beauty of silver and gold. But Mikol was clever. He gathered cinnabar from the earth and placed it on a bed of hot coals. The heat transformed the red earth into quicksilver, a metal that was as brilliant as gold and as luminescent as silver and what’s more flowed like water even when cool.

Wormclaw’s response is contemptuous. That be a pretty story, boy, but ye haven’t convinced anyone that quicksilver be superior to silver and gold!

The cross-breed disappears into Baelock’s hut. Wormclaw gleefully expects Trak has given up and won’t return. The other guild members shift in their seats uncomfortably. Baelock suspects that Wreen will oppose Trak’s advancement no matter what he does. Trak can’t transition to a master smith unless every smith present agrees.

Trak emerges carrying a crucible filled with a bright red powder. Wreen recognizes cinnabar, the ore from which quicksilver is made. Master Smith, Trak asks, May I borrow that magnificent gold ring you are wearing? Wreen reluctantly removes his ring and hands it to Trak. The owl screeches twice more, and everyone senses that something important is about to happen.

Trak sets the crucible on top of the kiln. The guild members gather around to watch the flame turn the cinnabar into brilliant quicksilver. When the metal is fully formed, Trak says, Master Smith, you asked me why quicksilver is superior to gold and silver, and I will show you. He drops the gold ring into the quicksilver.

Wreen Wormclaw panics. He knows that quicksilver will dissolve gold and silver. He grabs the tongs out of Trak’s hands and retrieves his ring. The ring is hot and burns his hands as he fumbles it about until he is satisfied that it is not seriously damaged. When he sees the broad grins on the faces of his peers, he becomes angry, stomps out of the ceremony, and heads home. The suppressed chuckles of the guild members acknowledge that the cross-breed has gotten the better of Wormclaw.

The questioning lasts until dawn. Trak doesn’t disappoint. There is no hint of uncertainty in his voice as he lends every word impact. As dawn arrives, it is time to open the molds and judge the results. Not every casting is a success; even experienced smiths suffer inexplicable failures. Trak holds his breath and smashes open the molds to reveal his castings. The guild leader examines the six dirks, hoping to find flaws. When he doesn’t, he is faced with a conundrum. He has no reason to fail the cross-breed, but he can’t bestow the Master Smith title on Trak unless Wormclaw agrees.

Trak waits, wanting to hear the guild leader speak the words traditionally uttered when an apprentice passes his examination. But instead of saying Well done, Master Smith, the guild leader apologetically announces that the results are inconclusive. He is required by custom to confer with Wormclaw before announcing his decision.

The ordeal ends on a sour note. There is no clapping and clacking of teeth. The judges offer no words of congratulation. They just leave. Baelock looks at the untouched cask of celebratory wine. He is too frustrated by the evening’s outcome to enjoy even a flagon. He feels bitterness toward Wormclaw and the provincial peasants that inhabit the island. He isn’t angry with Trak, exactly; the boy did his part. He offers Trak an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and moves his muscular frame slowly toward a pile of straw in the back of his hut. He needs sleep. He has done his best to ready the boy for the examination but worries that somehow Trak’s failure is his fault. He sees no way Trak can advance to Master Smith if Wreen adamantly blocks it. He will speak to Wreen; perhaps he can be persuaded.

Chapter 2

Isle of Uisgebeatha: The Alchemist

As Baelock sleeps, Trak’s day is just beginning. The boy has already turned his disappointment into anger. Trak knows nothing of how Baelock stole Wreen’s chance to be the duke’s smith. From his perspective Wreen is just another half-breed hating bigot. Trak’s frustration boils inside him as he makes his way to Krage’s broch to ignite the fire that heats the lower chamber. About five years ago, Krage Oregile, the duke’s alchemist, approached Baelock and arranged for Trak to work for him. The job is easy, and the arrangement generates the small amount of currency the master smith requires to buy raw materials for his trade.

After splashing his body with cold water and putting on a fresh shirt, Trak bolts out of the hut and strides up the hill toward the castle. He is already late. The rocky path takes him by scores of thatched huts that form the core of the village. The wattle and daub huts are the homes and workshops of the servants and craftsmen that serve the castle.

Spore marry for life, but often, married couples do not live together. They tend to live in occupational units. Metal smiths live with other smiths, potters with potters and barrel makers with barrel makers. Children are placed in units at an early age, according to the career chosen for them. It is not always a career followed by one of the parents. Everything depends on what the community needs.

Trak waves at a young potter who stands at the door of his hut. Trak works with the potter when he needs a crucible or ceramic tip for his bellows. The potter doesn’t wave back. He has already heard of my failure, Trak thinks. He passes by other villagers beginning their daily routines and is similarly ignored.

The local population tolerates the cross-breed outsider, but they never admit him to their close-knit circles. He has no real place in the community. Trak is frustrated that there is no place he fits in. Trak thinks himself as one of the chickens and pigs the villagers keep penned next to their huts—useful but not something to get attached to. Master Smith or Apprentice, nothing will ever change for me as long as I stay in this village, Trak laments.

Trak does not know where he came from or who his parents are. Typically, Spore have two names. The first is a given name and the second a family name that refers to a special accomplishment of a famous ancestor. Sometimes a goblin whose actions are particularly meritorious is awarded a new last name by his liege lord. Trak has no family name. He is just Trak, a name given him by Baelock. If he wants a last name, he will have to earn it.

Years ago the smith told him the last war claimed his parents. Trak and other orphans were brought to the island to be adopted by its inhabitants. He is expected to serve the duke for as long as he lives. The arrangement is not all bad. He has a warm place to sleep and food to eat. Baelock has, in fact, shown him much kindness and treats him more like a promising apprentice than a servant.

Trak’s thoughts keep returning to his basic dilemma—he doesn’t belong on the island but doesn’t have anywhere to go. If he stays, he can only be Baelock’s assistant. He wants to run his own smithy, but where can he go to build a new life? Is there any place that a cross-breed can fit in? Would the duke even permit him to leave?

He approaches two small, nearly naked goblets who sword play with sticks. When they see Trak, they incorporate him into their game. Here comes the troll! shouts one boy. They point their swords at Trak and jook about him, staging a mock attack. They don’t get too close, because the troll is large and scary. The children nickname Trak the Troll, not just because he is big and hairy, but also because of the way he walks. Trak has a human’s striding, flat-footed gait that goblins find troll-like. Goblins are much nimbler than men. They virtually spring on their bowed legs as they bound from place to place.

Trak is in no mood to play games. On most days Trak’s loneliness doesn’t matter, but today he is angry and wallowing in self-pity. He makes a feigned lunge at his two attackers and roars in his most troll-like voice. They run off squealing in their high-pitched lisping voices when Trak makes an eerie whistle that mimics the wind blowing through the trees on a stormy night. The cross-breed makes sounds that fascinate and frighten goblin children. The young goblets like to tease Trak, but older children keep their distance. They find the cross-breed too different to befriend and too big to intimidate.

Trak needs to get to the broch. Later that morning, the duke’s children will arrive to begin their daily lesson, while Trak tends the fire and goes about his chores. On most days he relishes his good fortune. Working for Krage exposes him to the education reserved for the high born of the goblin kingdom. Trak hangs on every word the alchemist utters. Trak has no idea what purpose it serves to memorize royal lineages, the history of the kingdom, the rules of statesmanship or the high language used at court, but he absorbs the fundamentals of courtly protocol as eagerly as he absorbs the lectures on mathematics and astrology. It never occurs to Trak that his good fortune might be more than coincidence.

To reach the broch, Trak passes through the yett, the castle’s outer gate. The castle is perched on a cliff jutting out over the western sea; it is approachable only from the east. As he crosses the drawbridge, he waves to a sleepy guard. You’re late, the guard grunts in response.

The broch is a tall, circular tower built eons ago as a fortified residence. A few centuries back, it was incorporated into the inner wall of a fortress. Built of grey slate, the castle intimidates friend and foe. The Isle of Uisgebeatha with its castle, small villages, farms and mines, occupies the southwestern edge of the goblin kingdom and is in little danger from a direct invasion by the men who occupy the southern half of the mainland. Even seafaring marauders are an unlikely threat since the cliffs surrounding the island offer poor beachheads for warships. Only a small dock on the east side of the island is able to accommodate sea-going vessels.

With the sun at his back, Trak stares up at the brightly lit hulk of the broch; he muses that he has never been higher than the second floor, which serves as the alchemist’s library and bedroom. His duties confine him to the main floor, which functions as a kitchen and classroom or to the food larders that share the cellar with centuries of accumulated junk.

To enter the broch, Trak passes through a narrow passage set in its thick outer wall. A tandem of heavy wooden doors protects the passage. Murder-holes located in the ceiling above the corridor permit boiling oil to be poured on any intruder who manages to breach the outer door. Access to the upper floors of the broch and battlements is possible only through a spiraling staircase built into the tower’s outer wall.

Trak hears the alchemist’s dog Dun bark. Krage is always aloof and mysterious, but his small, yellow dog greets Trak warmly. For a goblin to own a dog is astonishing. Goblins hate dogs and don’t keep them—not even for food. Trak realizes that because of his dog, visitors never surprise Krage.

***

Glowing embers greet Trak when he stirs the ash of the previous day’s fire. He knows the hearth needs a cleaning, but decides that, unless the alchemist complains, the chore can wait. Within minutes, he has the fire blazing once again. He grabs a bucket and, accompanied by the yellow dog, passes through the back door of the broch and down a long corridor built into the defensive wall of the castle. Upon reaching the inner courtyard, he fetches well water for the tea the duke’s children would drink as they listen to the alchemist’s lesson.

The duke’s household includes his three sons, ages 18, 15 and 12, and a niece, Dorla Giantslayer, of 16 years whom the duke adopted after his brother was killed in the last war. Although Trak has spent most mornings for the last five years in the same room with these children; none has bothered to learn his name. To them, Trak is the lowliest of servants, a cross-breed child, the detritus of war, salvaged solely for his economic value.

On one occasion, Dorla abruptly entered the broch and collided with Trak as he swept the slate floor. Trak bowed and in his most elegant manner uttered, My Lady, I beg you to excuse my clumsiness. Trak despairs that this is as close to courtly banter as he will ever come.

When Trak looks into Dorla’s face expecting to see a trace of recognition or perhaps revulsion, he sees only passive indifference. He thinks she is the most elegant creature he has ever seen. The gracefulness of her alluring walk contrasts with the ungainliness that characterizes the movements of most goblins. Trak longs to inhabit her world.

Krage typically wears a sky-blue robe and pointed cap trimmed with white rabbit fur. Sitting in the classroom on his tall stool, he looks most wizardly. Although in his fifth decade and approaching old age, Krage is still vigorous. He is often seen crisply walking with his yellow dog across the island for no other reason than for invigoration.

Each morning Krage delivers a lesson in the high court language which isn’t so much a separate language as an elegant extension of the common tongue. It combines hand gestures and voice intonations with many borrowed, foreign words and grammatical innovations. The affect is erudite. Trak grasps the nuances without difficulty and is resentful that he has no opportunity to demonstrate his competence.

Nothing escapes the alchemist’s attention. Once during a grammar lesson, Farg Giantslayer, the eldest son, complained to the alchemist about the difficulty of the exercise. Education is wasted on this dumb oaf, Trak said to himself, smirking. He looked up and saw Krage staring at him, his face frozen in a cold frown. He realized Krage had read the disgust on his face. In the future, he was more careful to cradle his contempt.

Farg would inherit the duke’s lands and titles, while the younger brothers would become Farg’s sworn swords and administer parts of the island as tax collectors and local judges. None of the brothers had an interest in anything beyond military topics. Once they grasped basic arithmetic and achieved a modest level of literacy, their interest in scholarship ended. Krage has the impossible task of meeting the needs of the niece and at the same time holding the attention of the brothers. His solution is to add an extra hour of instruction to the end of the morning lesson.

When the brothers go off to the training yard, Krage and the niece discuss all manner of arcane subjects. As Trak prepares the midday meal, his mind alternates between actively participating in the discussion and fantasizing about the day when the niece will passionately surrender herself to his embrace.

The Alchemist Krage in his Broch.

Chapter 3

Isle of Uisgebeatha: The Old Goblin

When the morning’s lesson is over, Trak realizes that Baelock would still be asleep. He decides to visit the forest and query the she-goblin about his origins. Since he began working for Krage, he only rarely has time to visit his ancient friend.

Trak has never seen a man and isn’t exactly sure how a cross-breed differs from a full-blooded human. He can see that he is larger and stronger than the other children, but he attributes his size in part to his labors in the smithy and uncertainty about his true age. He guesses he is about 18, but his height suggests that he is older.

Spore are beardless or nearly so, and four years ago, he noticed the appearance of facial hair, which he considered too blonde to be noticeable. Perhaps his blue eyes and hairiness distinguish him most clearly from full blood goblins, but the old she-goblin in the woods told him a few Spore on the mainland also possess these traits. Like all Spore he has seen, his skin bears a yellow hue, but he lacks the pale translucency possessed by some goblins. Although he is fairer than the darkest goblins, his skin color is not unlike that of the duke’s children or, for that matter, of Krage, the alchemist.

As he walks through the forest, he thinks back more than twelve years ago, to when he made his first journey up the same path and stumbled on the old Spore’s cave. He remembers peering through the wattle and daub wall that covered the cave’s entrance to be startled by the oldest goblin he had ever seen. A hairless, wrinkled sack of bones, he thought. She was at her fireplace stirring a pot. Without even looking up she said, Hello, little one. Who might ye be?

When he told her his name, she responded, Trak! Now that is an unusual name. Ye are missing your family name. Did ye lose it somewhere? Well, it is good ye came to see me, I can help ye find it again. The first thing to be decided is whether ye lost your ancestors or they lost ye?

Sit! said the old Spore pointing to her table. She handed Trak a glass of tea and demanded, Drink this! Ye look like ye need herbs to strengthen your blood.

She has an odd way of speaking and says the strangest things, Trak thought.

She picked up her large magnifying glass and looked into Trak’s eyes. He looked back startled. The glass puffed up the old Spore’s face. It was huge and distorted. The glass was some kind of magic, Trak thought. The old goblin handed the glass to Trak and said, See what ye can learn about the world that ye didn’t know before ye came here.

Trak passed the glass over his hand and realized it was covered by thousands of tiny creases. My fingers are swirly, Trak announced. The old goblin fetched some black soot from her hearth, dusted the tips of his fingers, and pressed them onto parchment. This trick will make the patterns easier to study.

Trak used the glass to study the swirly marks his fingers made on the parchment. Does everyone have swirls on their fingers? He wondered if being a cross-breed made his fingers different.

Yes, everyone has the marks, but I have never found two people with the same marks, she replied. The patterns are more unique than a name. I believe your ancestors know your marks and can use them to recognize ye. Hang this parchment near where ye sleep and they will find ye.

The boy left the cave believing he had discovered a way to be reunited with his family. Haste ye back! There is much in the world that ye need to learn. Months later, when Trak complained that the parchment didn’t work, the old goblin retorted, Of course it did. Your ancestors now know exactly where ye be. Your problem is half solved. Now ye must find them.

***

On his second visit to the old Spore’s cave, he was delighted to discover she rescued an owl chick that had fallen from its nest. The chick was sleeping with his talons tightly wrapped around a branch the old Spore had jammed in a crack in the cave’s wall. Trak came everyday to bring the owl a scrap of meat. Once, when the owl was tearing at the meat with his talons, the old goblin said, The way the owl uses his feet resembles hand-talk. I once heard a tale about a wizard who talked to a magical owl using sign language. As she spoke the words, she signed, How did you like your dinner? When she received no reply, the old goblin said, Of course, this owl be too young. He needs a teacher. I don’t have the time for such an effort. He looks like a slow learner.

Could I teach him? Trak asked eagerly. You teach me, and I’ll teach the owl. It would be wonderful to have a magical owl. She taught Trak to sign one sentence a day, and each day Trak stood in front of the owl and signed everything he had learned. The old goblin said, I think the owl wants to answer but still doesn’t know how. She began signing how the owl might respond to Trak’s questions. She became the owl’s interpreter. Trak asked the owl What is your name? The owl sat there motionless with his feathers fluffed and one eye closed. The other eye stared unblinkingly at Trak. The she-goblin signed, I am Whitecloud, Prince of the Forest."

What! How could he being saying that or anything else? He hasn’t moved! Trak protested. You are making things up.

She smiled and replied, When ye have studied owls as long as I, ye will know that there be many ways they communicate. At the end of the summer, the owl flew off. Trak still looked for it hunting its dinner in the island’s fields. Whenever he spotted Whitecloud, he would greet the prince with the appropriate hand-talk.

***

Except when a villager came seeking an herbal remedy, the old Spore’s time with Trak was almost the only contact she had with others. She seemed content. The natural world was the center of her existence. For several years Trak diligently trekked to her cave to learn new things. She opened Trak’s mind to the world outside the island. Her biggest challenge was teaching Trak to read and write.

She explained, The goblin writing system evolved out of the hand-talk ye have already learned. Traders once used hand signs to communicate with foreigners. Stick drawings of hand gestures became the symbols that represented the most important words in the language. Using her hands, she signed, The king ascends the throne. Then using chalk, she drew on slate the goblin glyphs that said the same thing. Trak studied the slate and recognized a glyph composed of five converging curved lines. It resembled the cupped hand and open fingers that were the hand sign for crown or king. A circle topped by a single straight line mimicked a closed fist with the thumb extended skyward that meant ascended. He recognized that the semicircle topped by two straight lines was a combination of a downward curving palm and two upright fingers that together meant chair.

The old Spore wrote a series of glyphs on the slate and asked Trak to read what she had written. With prompting, Trak figured out the glyphs. I can read! he exclaimed.

You have made a good beginning, said the old goblin, but you will find there are many complicated ideas that are difficult to express using hand symbols. You must now learn the alphabet." She explained that all words could be written using the twenty-one letters in the goblin alphabet. Trak learned to write his name. By adding an extra slash mark, a vowel went from short to long, and Trak became Trake. Placing a squiggle in front of a verb indicated the action will happen in the future and cross behind meant something happened in the past.

Goblins loved to write compound words. It allowed them to combine the phonetic symbols taken from the alphabet with the glyphs derived from hand gestures. A very long word could be written several ways. Accomplished writers delighted in inventing new ways to write a word. It was considered erudite to avoid writing a word the same way twice. It was not necessary to learn the hand signs to be able to write, but knowing the hand gestures enabled one to read old tomes and communicate in silence. After two years of daily practice, Trak mastered the letters and could phonetically write any word he heard even if he didn’t know its meaning. At ten years of age, he was one of the few literate inhabitants of the island.

When signing one’s name, it was customary to add an identifying mark, such as a family lineage glyph. In Trak’s case, he had to invent one of his own. Even illiterate smiths stamped their creations with a personal mark. Trak considered many possible candidates for his identifying glyph before selecting a conflation of two symbols, a zigzag superimposed on an upheld sword. The zigzag represented the leaves of a bellows. Trak thought, a sword and a bellows were appropriate symbols for a smith. It was this mark that Baelock, with a sharp needle and charcoal, tattooed on Trak’s chest.

***

Trak learned to address the old Spore as Mother, the polite way to speak to an old female goblin. From listen to the old goblin, Trak learned how to weave a tale. She couldn’t resist enlivening Trak’s world with wondrous tales of ancient sorcerers and legendary heroes. Trak would watch mesmerized as the wrinkles above her eyes, where her eyebrows would have been if she had hair, rose and fell to match the mood of her story. She made her wrinkles bend and twist to mimic dozens of personalities.

Without access to parchment, Trak developed the capacity to remember much of what he read or heard. The old Spore possessed a few tattered, handwritten books she said came from a former employer. They were mostly concerned with plant lore. Trak read them aloud as the old Spore challenged him to express clearly his opinions and observations.

The old mother showed Trak her collection of elf bolts—flint and obsidian arrowheads, which she discovered over the years in plowed fields. She let Trak hold each bolt, feel its sharp edges and appreciate its craftsmanship. They were made by forest elves and be charged with magic. With one tiny bolt, an elf could kill an evil spirit, she assured Trak. She saved her best bolt for last. It was a black, obsidian blade as long as her forearm. I call this one Dragon Killer because it be made to slay a monster, she informed Trak.

Are there still elves in the forest? Trak asked.

I can’t say I’ve seen one, replied the old goblin, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. If ye believe in the strange and unbelievable, ye will never be caught unprepared. Perhaps ye will see an elf this very day. The trick is to always be on the lookout. The old goblin could make sticks and stones come alive and speak across time.

He and the old mother read aloud The Legends of Woddin so often that Trak could recite the epic as well as any bard. The story was close to the old goblin’s heart; it told of a sorcerer that smote a dragon into nine pieces and used his magic to change each part of the worm into one of the nine sacred herbs. Each of the sacred herbs was an antidote for a different type of venom that blew on the wind and caused disease. When Trak cockily bragged that he knew all there was to know about the nine herbs, the mother sent him into the forest to collect a sample of each. Most were easy to find. Wormwort was a tall perennial with reddish stems and long green leaves with whitish undersides. It gave good dreams and restored vigor. The legends said it had power against any loathsome foe that might be roving the land.

Waybread, he recognized by its tall, cylindrical leaves and yellow flowers that evolved into a gelatinous seedpod in the fall. With the leaves, Trak could draw out the poisons of biting insects and stem bleeding. Stune or Watercress was an evergreen perennial that was a tonic for the body and soul. Chamomile or Maythen, as some call it, lifted the spirit and cured fungal rot. Two common plants, Nettle to provide nutrients and Crab Apples to renew energy, were easy to find. It was said that Thyme could restore the will to live. When eaten frequently, Fennel guaranteed good eyesight and courage in battle. Trak found them all, but the last herb, Atterlothe, the venom loather, Trak could not find, although its tall stem ringed by blue flowers should have been easy to spot. It was the herb of the sun, the only cure for the bite of the rock viper.

After two days of searching for Atterlothe, Trak reported to the old mother that he had failed. Perhaps the season isn’t right, he suggested. She said, When ye find it, tell me. I have looked for it the last seventy years.

You mean you have never found it? Trak asked.

No, I mean I haven’t found it in the last seventy years. The plant was once easy to find in the valley where my ancestors lay buried, she replied.

***

He once asked if there were any stories about heroic cross-breeds. No. she said, but then, after a pause, added, Of course, there is the Prophecy of the Betrayer, but that is only a superstition. When Trak looked puzzled, she added, "According to the legend a half-bred will