Legends of Belariath
Ehlanna
A Tale of Goblins
The fire crackled and spat as the burning pine branches cast their warming glow around the cave. The tribe huddled together, crowding in on themselves for additional warmth and in an effort to seek comfort. Despite the warmth radiating from the cheery fire the small gathering of goblins shivered and gained no comfort; icy fingers of the chill night wind seeming to leech the warmth from their very bones, the events of the past days denying comfort. The womenfolk cuddled babes, either their own or others, adversity causing the remnants of the tribe to draw even closer together in their time of need. Even the elders suffered the presence of a youngling on each knee.
For a night of celebration that should be filled with joy and laughter all was still except for the wheezing of labored breathing from the elderly and soft cries, rapidly hushed, from the babes, and the crackling of the fire. Instead of children running and playing, youths, and some not so young, drinking, dancing and carousing, the goblins sat quietly: not daring to make a loud sound for fear of attracting unwanted attention. No proud displays of clan and tribal tattoos from young warriors, no girls with flirting eyes teasing the warriors. Instead, wary eyes flitted around the cave, meeting and flinching away in shared pain and grief from those opposite, seeing a reflection of their own horror within.
A low howl echoed through the night, distant but quite distinct. The goblins, as one, froze. Eyes finally met and locked across the fire, sharing the same thoughts – was this a wolven hunting party stalking the forest, or just a wolf calling to the moon? With a degree of non-verbal communication that is possible only amidst a tightly knit group, especially one in such dire straits - an arched eyebrow, eyes flicking to the cave entrance, a subdued nod of acquiescence – an elder stood, displacing the children he had been comforting. Picking up a spear from against the cave wall he sidled carefully to the hastily woven osier barrier across the entrance. Standing motionless he stared out into the dark, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of firelight. He held up a cautionary hand to the others, feeling their communal gaze upon him.
Long minutes passed until the elder visibly relaxed, breathing a soft sigh of relief. He returned the spear to the cave wall and rejoined the tribe at the fire, whispering, “just a wolf, nothing more.” The tension in the cave dropped to a level of mere frantic paranoia as he sat. The elder scooped up ‘his’ children once more, the small girl child wriggling around to hug him about the neck, “tell us a story?” The assembled goblins took a collective intake of breath at the girl’s impertinence. The elder uttered a low chuckle, “and why not? We should after all be celebrating the solstice … what story did you wish to hear little Velkin?” With knowledge seemingly beyond her years the young Velkin responded with a request not for a tale of beautiful goblin maids rescued by dashing warriors, but instead, “tell me of the tribe.”
“Ah, a worthy subject … but to know of the tribe one must know of the clan. And to know of the clan, one must know of the race. ‘Tis a long tale Velkin, will you stay awake for it all?” The young goblin girl looked at the elder with wide innocent eyes and nodded, “oh yes.” Velkin’s eyes widened even further and she ducked her head as the elder frowned at her. “I I mean, yes shaman, I I will.” Being young, and not yet knowing better she looked back up to see how her new found manners had been received. With a soft giggle she flung her arms around the grinning shaman. The quiet sound of Velkin giggling and the soft smack of the kiss she gave the wrinkled shaman’s cheek seemed to puncture the feeling of tension within the cave. Within moments the cave echoed to the sounds of hushed goblin speech.
With a stern gaze that was largely offset by the amusement twinkling in his eyes the shaman glared at the other goblins. One by one they fell silent. Clearing his throat, he began.
“I have this tale from those who came before, pay heed and learn from the words of our ancestors. When this land was yet young, and the songs of creation could still be heard echoing, there walked upon the earth just two races: the dragons, the first and mightiest of all, and the elves. It is from the elves that we come. Millennia past an ancient necromancer, one to whom the Song fell on deaf ears, ‘He Who Must Be Spited’, dared the creators and tried to elevate himself to their ranks.
“He thought that if he could duplicate their creations they would look kindly upon him. After years of studying and storing of his powers he was finally ready to complete his dire work. After a fashion he succeeded in his dreams – he created a new form of life, a perversion of the only life that he knew: that of the elves. So, thus the race of goblins was brought into existence, a failure of an elven necromancer, scorned and shunned by our blood kin … outcast as unclean and barbarous. Shunned for being not being pleasing to their eyes.
“From such tormented beginnings we grew and became a mighty tribe, living in the barren lands where no elf would go, eking out a piteous existence on roots, berries and whatever scrawny wildlife fell to our traps.
“We had no Gods to smile upon us, none to even call down plague and ruin upon us – for none wanted us as their own. But that sat well with us, for we did not need Gods, our strength was the strength of the tribe.”
The shaman smiled down at Velkin, who sat transfixed in his lap looking up at him with wide open eyes.
“Yes Velkin, we were as one in those days, one race, one clan, one tribe. It was not until the elven troubles and their exodus that the tribe had their own problems. ‘He Who Must be Spited’ had done his work too well, for we were linked to the elves, far tighter than we ever knew. Some decades after the splitting of their ways, we too split asunder, likewise into four disparate clans. Each clan mirrored one of the branches of the elves. The Clan of the Ebon Hand retreated into dark caves in the mountains to scratch out an existence there, the Razor Wind Clan remained in the wide open steppes, roaming wild, the Clan of the Broken Tusk migrated east and settled in townships along the coast, whilst our clan, the Blood Moon Clan, sought haven in the forests of the land.
“So, we goblins multiplied and drifted apart, each clan slowly becoming a separate and distinct entity, evolving their own laws and ways, until all that remained the same was our skin. And even that changed in time – the Clan of the Ebon Hand grew darker and darker of skin, to blend into their gloom ridden caves, Razor Wind Clan grew paler in color as the sun bleached them. Only ourselves and the Clan of the Broken Tusk remain a good healthy green.
“And so time passed, each clan thriving or suffering in turn. Eventually we became too populous and so we split further into tribes. For once this was of our own choosing as the magic of our creation had long since dwindled and decayed. As each tribe grew and thrived we would split further, more and more tribes coming into being. In times of inter-tribal strife, or in times of hardship, tribes would either consume others or take the survivors in and adopt them.
“And, so you have it Velkin, here we are, the remnants of the Hornèd Moon Tribe, of the Blood Moon Clan, of the race of goblins. That is who we are, that is our pride. We will once again take out place amongst the trees and live, for are we not of the Hornèd Moon?”
The shaman finished and looked around the silent goblins, nodding in satisfaction at the gleam of pride that once more shone from their eyes.
“Aye, we are of the Hornèd Moon, and we shall prevail.”