Giant Thief (39 page)

  His anger beginning to give way to tiredness and the lure of the fire, Corin leaned against the rough cave wall. As one final protest, he exclaimed, "I have a destiny to complete, old man. There's a prophecy that must be fulfilled!"

  At this, his companion began to leaf through the book. "Ah yes, I have it here."

  "What do you have?"

  "Prince Corin, the twenty-first to bear that name… da da da… it shall fall upon him to defeat, once and for all time, the Goblinish foe… da da… fifteen days and fifteen nights… da da… shall seek out the sword Cymerion, left by his ancestors upon the mountainside of Torbeth, that he may unite the people before it… yes, that's the one."

  Corin stood aghast. He had heard these phrases three times before, read on each occasion by the most venerable priest of the temple of Corinil, in utmost secrecy. "How do you – "

  "Rather prosaic, isn't it? The Goblin version is far more entertaining."

  "The Goblin– ?"

  "It's only short, I can read it all if you'd like. Only a rough translation of course, they have such an erratic approach to grammar… ah, here we are:

  "'Thinking he can beat wise and mighty Goblins, foolish boy-man goes looking for rusty trinket-sword lost by grandfather after much ale. Fifteen suns and moons he goes, getting lost and falling over often, until he is lucky and finds cave where useless sword is. Greatly I've done, he thinks, but just as he is picking up blunted pig-sticker, stupid man-child stumbles over own feet, falling on arse and smashing puny head into many pieces.'

  "Not the most literary people, are they? But it's always nice to see a sense of humour exhibited in these things."

  Bewildered, Corin sat down on the rough stone floor. He had been prepared for many trials, had trained long and hard so that he might best any man or beast in combat. But he'd never expected anything like this. He felt sure that his best course would be simply to seek out his prize and be gone. But a seed of doubt had been sown, and he couldn't bring himself to do anything except sit and listen.

  Seeing he had a rapt audience, the old man continued cheerfully, "Now, the account told by the high priests of Zor-Tola is quite similar to your own. You succeed in recovering the sword and make it home in one piece. The only difference is that you still lose the war, Corinil is put to fire and the sword, and your people are wiped out. But other than that the details are largely identical."

  Corin had never heard of the high priests of ZorTola and had no idea why they might have seen fit to prophesise upon his fate. However there seemed no point in asking, and in any case the old man had only paused for breath.

  "A tale kept in the Grand Library of Forpoth is basically the same, until the point where you return to find that in your absence the Goblins have invaded your home and all your friends and family are dead. Understandably, you're driven mad by grief. It dwells at great length upon this part, to a rather depressing degree."

  Finding he could keep silent no longer, Corin cried, "What's your point, old man? That the prophesy of Corinil is a lie? That I'm doomed to failure or madness? Do you seek to dissuade me with your stories?"

  Calaphile appeared a little hurt by this outburst. "Nothing of the sort, my boy. Why, in the manuscript held by the king of Far Brinth you actually succeed in repelling the Goblin invasion, and single-handedly end the war. You do then become rather crazed with power, only to be assassinated by your own most trusted advisor and recorded by posterity as Corin the Cruel. But if I've given the impression that all versions purport an unsuccessful end to your venture– "

  "How many are there," Corin interrupted, "how many versions?"

  "Well, no more than a dozen."

  Corin sighed deeply. For as long as he could remember his destiny had been the sole certainty in his life; the prophecy had guided and moulded his every thought and action. That it should be nothing more than a tale amongst a dozen others, a possibility not a certainty – the thought filled him with despair. Finally, he looked up wearily, and said, "It's clear that you know more about my fate than I ever will. So tell me, what do I do now?"

  "Well you might as well take the prize you've come all this way for. You'll find it over in the back of the cave."

  Corin looked past the ancient scholar. Sure enough, sunk into a recess in the rock face was a long, ornate box of dark wood. He could just make out his family crest glittering above the latch. He stood hesitantly. "Will any good come of it?"

  "My boy, don't be so pessimistic. You may be surprised. It may even be that you'll surprise yourself."

  "Perhaps," said Corin, "and perhaps I have no choice in the matter. Either way, I've dallied here long enough."

  He walked over to the alcove. The box was handsomely carved, an elegant piece of craftsmanship hardly diminished by age or weathering. If the container is so impressive, he thought, what must its contents be like? And a shiver of hope returned to his heart.

  There was no sign of lock or keyhole so he placed a hand on the clasp and drew it up, and with his other hand tried to raise the lid. Sure enough, it opened freely. Using both hands now, he strained to draw it wider. Finally it fell back with a dull thud against the stone, and he gazed with awe into the shadows inside.

  The box was completely empty.

  Corin didn't even have time to be taken aback before something struck the back of his head, at the exposed point where his helmet met the hem of his chain-mail. He found himself collapsing forward helplessly. His last dazed thought, before he lost consciousness completely, was that perhaps the Goblin prophesy had been right after all.

 

When Corin awoke, daylight was filtering into the mouth of the cave and the fire had burned down to ash and glowing brands. As his head began to clear he struggled to a kneeling position and strained to look around. He wasn't surprised to find that his antiquated assailant had vanished. What did startle him was that where he'd stood and proselytized there was now a scroll of old paper, bound with a strip of red cloth that must have been torn from his robe. Not feeling ready to stand quite yet, Corin crawled over to the parchment, curious despite himself. He was groggy, his fingers felt numb and bloated, and it took a few minutes to unravel the scroll. But by the time he'd done so the agony in his head had faded to a steady throb. Feeling capable of standing, he walked to the cave-mouth where the light was better. He saw then that the paper was actually a torn page, presumably ripped from the same tome that the old man had carried with him. There was a title followed by three short paragraphs:

 

 

  
Another will also hunt this prize; Prince Corin shall come seeking his inheritance, that he may end the war between his people and the Goblin hordes. But he shall be easily overcome, for he is a slave of his destiny and cannot see beyond it. Then Calaphile shall secure Cymerion, and it shall >serve as the capstone to his Grand Ziggurat. He shall die in peace, and his spirit shall pass safely beyond the bounds of >this world.

  
As for the Prince Corin, in his undoing will be found his greatest victory, for on his return he shall craft a peace between the races that will benefit both peoples for a hundred generations.

 

  Corin found that he was laughing, despite himself. He wasn't sure exactly what he found so funny. Nevertheless he continued to laugh, long and loud, until his sides ached to match his head. When he finally calmed himself he read through the scroll again, with a broad smile on his face.

  It struck him that he held no resentment towards the old sage, who had toyed with him and beaten him and had given him a new future as recompense. And suddenly it occurred to him that he had little grudge against his Goblin enemies, either. In retrospect it had been his own father who'd sparked off this latest fracas between the two races, when he'd encroached upon Goblin lands. It had never occurred to Corin that they were anything more than dumb brutes; certainly he'd never imagined they might be reasoned with except by the blade. But then nor had it crossed his mind that they might write prophesies, indeed that they could write at all, or that they were astute enough to use satire as a weapon. In any case, the war had been at a stalemate almost since it began. Perhaps an attempt at peace wouldn't be such a bad alternative to rallying his people behind some antique sword.

  Corin hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. In the daylight he could see now that there was a trail down the mountainside; a rough one, certainly, but far preferable to the climb of last night.

  He began towards it – his eyes set on the far silver towers of Corinil, his thoughts upon the terrifying wonder of an uncertain future.

ANGRY ROBOT

A member of the Osprey Group

 

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Saltlick's City

 

Originally published by Angry Robot 2012

 

Copyright © 2012 by David Tallerman

Cover art by Angelo Rinaldi

 

Distributed in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

 

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

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ISBN 978-0-85766-211-8

eBook ISBN 978-0-85766-212-5