It was an embarrassing admission for the one who, not even half a millennium ago, held the entire continent in his palm. Nevertheless, Kaelen had to concede that he was not in his prime. Whatever number Velen’s sword did on him, it left him in a weakened state.

  He was wounded, constrained, and unknown. His next move required subtlety – and subtlety, in turn, meant hiring those who already lived by flexible morals.

  Even at the apex of his power, Kaelen had ruled through others. Generals. Enforcers. Functionaries who understood that proximity to power mattered more than ideology.

  Back then, mercenaries had been easy to find, too. They clustered near borders, wars, and places where law thinned. Doomgard itself had once been a magnet for them, especially once it was clear who was the likeliest winner in the continent-spanning war.

  The question was where to find people willing to listen. The answer was depressingly predictable.

  Taverns had always been fertile ground for the lowest kind of individuals. They collected resentment, ambition, desperation, and bravado in equal measure. Soldiers between wars. Criminals between jobs.

  He stepped into two establishments in quick succession. The first catered to dockworkers and petty traders, the second to clerks and junior officials. In both, he listened, asked a few questions, and was met with polite disinterest.

  “We don’t work for nobodies.”

  “You want answers, you talk to the guild hall.”

  “Eh, too many regulations these days.”

  By the time Kaelen stepped back onto the street, his patience was running thin. It seemed that this blasted city had sanded down its edges.

  He passed through a small square where street performers worked for coins and attention. A pair of illusionists argued loudly about credit. A man sold fried dough from a cart. Children ran between adults without fear.

  , he thought with sadness.

  He took a turn off the main street, then another, following pure instinct. The buildings grew narrower, the stone cheaper. It looked like an old part of the city, untouched by beautification. Here, at least, the view somewhat resembled the old Doomgard.

  The smell reached him before the sound. A combination of ale, smoke and laughter. Kaelen stopped at the corner and looked ahead.

  A tavern stood crookedly between two older buildings, its wooden sign swinging gently, even though there was no wind. The sign depicted a foaming mug with legs. The image was crude, almost childish. , the sign said in bold red letters.

  Even here, among decrepit buildings, this tavern looked out of place.

  It was not the sort of venue Kaelen would have chosen instinctively. He lingered near the entrance, listening. The windows were fogged by smoke and heat. A low, steady rumble of voices spilled out whenever the door would swing open from a gust of wind.

  “…shift was murder.”

  “…told ‘em I ain’t working overtime again.”

  “…and so then I says to him…”

  He edged closer to the door, keeping to the side. A pair of figures exited, laughing loudly. One was a short dwarf with sharp features. The other was taller, broader, with a heavy brow and long arms. They shoved each other playfully and staggered off drunkenly down the street, arguing about something.

  “You ready to continue, my good man? The night’s so young!” the taller one said, slurring half of his words and stumbling on his feet.

  “Bah!” said the dwarf. “Let’s find some other place, with less o’ them bloody goblins.”

  Kaelen’s lips twisted in a smile. Sure, goblins were not demons and could not be controlled with [Dark Voice], but back in the day, they were some of the more ardent followers of his. All they ever needed was blood, drinks and pillaging, and Kaelen provided all three in kind.

  Perhaps he would not require mercenaries, after all. Goblins were creatures of the dark and no doubt would help him get his old empire back. Judging by how safe and boring this era had looked to Kaelen so far, they must all be itching to return to their old glory, too.

  Kaelen stared after the two figures walking away, then turned his attention back to the tavern. He adjusted his cloak, reached for the door, pushed it open and immediately stopped.

  He expected to see maybe half a dozen goblins at best. To his surprise, the tavern was packed to the full with rowdy, loud, small figures. Goblins, hobgoblins, and their smaller kin crowded together in loose, boisterous knots, tankards clutched in clawed hands, voices overlapping in constant arguments.

  “Ye being a dullard on purpose?”

  “...not because you cheated but…”

  “Two? He’s had more ‘an three!”

  “Ah, bugger off, you whiny little…”

  “...take it outside? Fine, let me grab my coat, then.”

  The only two things that were ever large about goblins were their floppy, pointed ears and the amount of noise they tended to generate at any given moment. They compensated for their short height with volume, rarely sitting still, chairs scraping and elbows flying as they talked over one another.

  And yet, despite their loud nature, Kaelen always had a weird fondness for them. Goblins were so unapologetic about being themselves. It was what he liked best about them. That, and their ferocity in battle.

  Hobgoblins were taller and broader and acted as natural counterweights to the usual goblin chaos. They spoke less but were heard more when they did. All goblinoids were social creatures by nature, but rarely egalitarian in practice. They were ruled, more often than not, by the loudest minority among them.

  “That’s not how it works, numbnuts!”

  “...one more time, I swear to gods…”

  “No, don’t let him finish that! You know what happened last time!”

  There were even a couple of snow goblins, for reasons Kaelen failed to grasp. Their kind usually preferred colder climes and high passes, far from cities like this. They were much hairier than any of their brethren, too, their thick white fur seemingly touched by hoarfrost.

  Kaelen noted kobolds as well, though it was hard to. These creatures were even smaller and leaner than your average goblin. Kin to goblins by most scholarly definitions, the two groups behaved like distant cousins forced to share a family gathering.

  Voices rose as they argued, for perhaps the ten-thousandth time, over whose nation was older. Neither side appeared remotely interested in conceding.

  “...back in the Second Age…”

  “Bugger the Goblin Czar! We kobolds have always been…”

  “...can’t tell real history from my giant hairy…”

  Kaelen took another step into the tavern, scanning the room. Several goblins glanced up at him with mild curiosity but quickly resumed their conversations. A few hobgoblins spared him a nod of acknowledgment, showing no fear.

  They were not what he expected. Centuries of inaction must have had their toll on them, though most of them still didn’t lack for muscles.

  Deep in thought, Kaelen sat at a bar and helped himself to a nearby cup. The green-skinned drunk to whom it belonged had passed out some time ago and raised no objection. Whatever swivel he was drinking, though, was too bitter for Kaelen’s liking.

  “Anything I could get you?” the man working behind the desk asked him. Kaelen barely noticed him appearing there, but judging from his clothes, he might have even been the keeper of The Wandering Tavern.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “A horn of lizard wine would go down well,” Kaelen said mildly, making it a point not to look directly at the man. The help needed to know its place, after all. “And make it quick.”

  “My apologies, I don’t think we have that. Might I interest you in some other drinks? We have a good collection of–”

  Kaelen pursed his lips and turned away. “Save your breath.”

  Perhaps that was for the better? Kaelen needed his thinking to be sharp, and indulging in beverages would weaken his reasoning. The swivel he tasted just now already went to his head.

  “How many goblins do you usually serve?” he asked the tavern keeper.

  “Hard to say. Today we’ve got the biggest crowd in months. A hundred something, I’d say.”

  “And how many are there in the entire city?”

  “Who, goblins? I’m not sure. A few thousand, easily.”

  Kaelen pushed back from the bench and got to his feet.

  “Attention!” he said, but his voice was completely drowned out by the noise in this tavern. A couple of heads turned but quickly resumed their loud arguments. One tipsy goblin was playing a fiddle, though it was hard to call whatever he was producing music.

  , Kaelen decided. He drew a sigil in the air.

  [Minor Illusion: Amplify Speech]

  For the entire duration of that spell, everyone sitting in this tavern, no matter how far from Kaelen, would feel as though he was speaking directly to them. He cleared his throat and projected his voice.

  “SONS OF THE NIGHT!” he announced, exactly like he did so many times in the past.

  A sudden silence fell. All conversations died, the fool torturing the fiddle lowered his instrument, and even the clatter of utensils all but ceased. He saw dozens of heads turn, mostly to confirm that, yes, the tall human in the dark cloak was indeed talking to them.

  Kaelen looked around, visibly content with the effect he had on goblinkind. He stepped forward, raising his chin, and pointed his finger at them.

  “Look at what they’ve reduced you to. A pack of crows screaming for carrion. Once, you were feared and respected. No army marched forward without a squad of your ancestors at the helm.”

  It was a more polite way of describing them as “cannon fodder”, but no soldiers have ever been won over by being called expendable.

  “Loyal subjects of chaos! I look at you and see your past glory, long forgotten. The hands that once held swords now hold forks and spoons. You’ve grown fat.”

  “Hey, he’s talking about you!” one goblin elbowed his mate, and both screeched with laughter. Kaelen ignored them.

  “But blessed are you, beings forged in shadow! From the dawn of man, who were the first to pledge allegiance to Dead Gods? Who were the first to brave the swamps of Ulathil? Who stole the secret of mead-making from the proud Elf King?”

  Kaelen often found it useful to salt and pepper his speeches with appeals to history, but a balance needed to be struck. Despite their ears, goblins and their kin did not possess a long attention span. The thing they responded best to, though, was flattery. Pure, naked flattery.

  [Minor Illusion: Silent Image]

  Kaelen decided to accompany his speech with colorful, translucent images from history: goblins fighting bloody battles, traversing the swamps, and scaling castle walls.

  “Look at the stone around you. It is as hard as you once were. You’re soft, but we will chisel a weapon out of you yet. You used to soak battlefields with the blood of those who stood before you, deaf to their pleas and prayers. You were feared for your savagery and admired for your resolve. When others fled, you advanced. When others begged, you endured. I look at you, and I still see the legendary bloodlust, buried under tatters.”

  There was some muttering at the back, but Kaelen held up a hand to silence everyone. He felt that he was almost there. The crowd only needed a minor push.

  “They think they’ve tamed you. Useless fools! You cannot dress a goblin in citizen’s clothes and expect obedience, no more than you can dress a common whore in maiden’s attire and expect chastity.”

  Admittedly, that was a crude remark, but if Kaelen knew one thing about goblins, it’s that they enjoyed ribald jokes.

  “Look into your own black hearts! You are not creatures of peace. Your hands were not meant for ploughs, for the only thing you can sow is chaos.”

  A hobgoblin sitting at the table nearest to Kaelen visibly teared up.

  , Kaelen nodded with a slight smile.

  But surprisingly, the same hobgoblin soon burst into real tears and started sobbing like a child. This took the Dark Lord aback. The other goblins ran to the crying idiot and tried to comfort him.

  “EY, HALFWIT!” one of them turned and screamed at Kaelen.

  “Are you… talking to me?” A wave of anger mixed with confusion rippled across Kaelen’s face. Nobody had ever addressed him half so insolently. Not even that damned boy Velen.

  “Who else?! You outta your mind or something? What’d you say all that crap for?”

  It took a few moments for Kaelen to recollect his thoughts.

  “YOU DARE?!” he yelled in return, losing his concentration. The images he was showing them vanished like morning mist. “You, the creatures of the night, dare question your master!”

  The hobgoblin started crying even harder. The goblins who were consoling him all turned to Kaelen, shooting daggers with their eyes.

  “You think this is funny, you prat?”

  A goblin raised a bony finger. “Ey, bucko! Maybe cool it with bigotry, yeah?”

  “We’re pretty used to it, but it still hurts, you know,” another goblin chimed in. “The whole ‘you’re goblins, so you must be evil buggers’ thing. You think it’s so bloody clever, aint’cha?”

  “We’re not responsible for whatever our great-great-great-grandparents did during the Scourge Era!”

  “Oy, he’s just drunk!” shouted a red hobgoblin who, by the looks of it, had two pints too many himself.

  Kaelen wanted to shout, but the words turned to bile in his throat. They would never dare make jests about him if they knew who he truly was.

  “It seems you have forgotten the oath your forefathers have sworn to the Dark One!” he said instead.

  “Bugger the Dark One,” one snow goblin said unceremoniously. “And bugger you, for that matter. Right in your tight little arse.” He laughed loudly at his remark, and the others took their lead from him.

  “Repeat this to my face!” Kaelen bristled, rapidly losing temper. “I promise I will keep you alive long enough as I make a scarf out of your filthy tongue.”

  The threat did not have its intended effect. The whole lot of goblins broke into another fit of laughter, even louder this time. Some even pointed their fingers at Kaelen, as if he were some random drunk.

  “Where’d they find this guy?”

  “Is he an actor? He even talks like in a failed play!”

  “Dressed like a museum exhibit!”

  Kaelen was turning his head from left to right, observing all the goblins around him, disbelieving what he was hearing.

  , he realized with astonishment. But why would they? For all they knew, the Scourge had been dead for centuries.

  Kaelen raised his fist, and for the second time this day, someone placed their hand on his arm. Kaelen turned. It was the tavern keeper.

  “Sir, would you be so kind as to leave this very instance? I could overlook your attitude aimed at me, but we at The Wandering Tavern do not tolerate racist and speciesist remarks against our customers.”

  The goblins cheered in approval.

  “Get his arse!”

  “Take his bloody coat!”

  Kaelen jerked his arm away. “Unhand me!” He gestured at the goblins around him. “These aren’t your customers, fool! They are creatures of destruction.”

  The crying hobgoblin pointed at Kaelen. “There! He did it again!” he managed between the sobs. “And so shamelessly, too!”

  What came next came as a shock to Kaelen, the all-powerful Dark Lord and once-emperor of the known world. The goblins started to actually him. Several even threw bits of food at him, like he was a common street performer.

  Kaelen was so stunned, his body couldn’t even correctly process his feelings. He knew there was rage bubbling somewhere deep inside him, but he couldn’t yet manifest it.

  “Get outta here!”

  “Stinkin’ loser!”

  “Listen here…”

  “...kick him in the arse…”

  “...this vile bigot…”

  “Arse-sniffer!”

  “...grab him by his coat and…”

  “Bloody idiot!”

  A few dozen voices merged into a cacophony of ire.

  “I’m inclined to agree with my customers,” the keeper said. “You should leave.”

  Kaelen scoffed. “Or else what, mortal? You wouldn’t lay a finger on me.”

  “I wouldn’t need to.”

  Kaelen narrowed his eyes. “Do you know who you are speaking to, knave?”

  Another wave of laughter exploded behind him.

  “You heard ‘im? He said ‘knave’!”

  “He really a failed actor!”

  The tavern keeper was the only one not laughing. His eyes were studying Kaelen’s face. “You’re someone who’s about to be thrown out of my tavern.”

  Several goblins murmured in agreement.

  Kaelen stepped closer. “I will not be dismissed like some common–”

  The tavern keeper didn’t let Kaelen finish. He raised his hand, though there was no weapon in it. Instead, the man said a simple word.

  “LIFT!”

  Every goblin and hobgoblin immediately grabbed their tables in a trained motion. Even the tavern keeper was holding on to a large chain link suspended from one of the tavern’s beams.

  The floor lurched.

  Kaelen’s stomach dropped as the tavern tilted sharply. The floor, the walls, the entire building groaned in protest. The ale sloshed out of everyone’s tankards, and Kaelen felt his center of gravity shift.

  "What in the name of…" he exclaimed, utterly bewildered.

  The tavern tilted further, and Kaelen, losing his footing, slid rapidly across the polished floor. He shot toward the door with undignified speed, crashed through the doorway, and somersaulted outside, landing hard on the muddy ground outside the establishment.

  Kaelen lay there for a moment, staring at the sky. When he rose, he looked up, intending to charge back into the establishment, but…

  …the tavern was no longer there.

  True to its name, The Wandering Tavern was lumbering away down the road, moving surprisingly fast toward the edge of town. The four great, multi-jointed supports were retracting with a synchronized hiss of hydraulics, leaving deep, muddy tracks behind them.

  Kaelen has had his fill of advanced machinery for one day.

  A goblin leaned out of a window. “Come back when you learn manners, you narrow-minded taint-licker!” The window slammed shut.

  Kaelen stood in silence. Once the tavern vanished behind a row of warehouses, he looked around, not recognizing the streets.

  Kaelen hadn’t even noticed it while he was inside. He wasn’t sure whether he should have marveled at the engineering or felt insulted.

  He exhaled slowly. Recruiting minions, it seemed, would not be as simple in this era as it had once been. He stepped toward the nearest alley, boots squelching in the puddle, and pulled his hood lower.

  The lights from the main road faded as he walked deeper into the narrow passage. The sign on the corner of one building announced that he was entering an area of the city called Gnometown.

  Kaelen’s patience was wearing thinner by the moment. If the world insisted on changing its rules, he would simply need to adapt. With or without minions.

  Somewhere behind him, a boot scratched the ground.

  Kaelen paused. He sensed quick, deliberate movements approaching from the back. The first hint of malicious intent.

  Kaelen smiled.

  He stopped abruptly and listened. With his advanced [Perception], he could practically hear them panting.

  “Whoever you are, you should take a few steps back.” Slowly, he turned to see who he was stalked by. There were several figures, just like he predicted, but at the helm stood a haggard man. “You’ve caught me in a bad mood. If you’re a beggar, I advise you to look for charity elsewhere.”

  Something flashed in the man’s hand. A knife.

  “Give us your money! Now!” he commanded.

  Whatever effect he wanted to have on Kaelen, it didn’t work. The Dark Lord grinned.