When they returned to the castle courtyard, all of the goblins were gathered – even those from the mine. It was nearly morning, Griz was still asleep in the back of the wagon, and Eric’s newest goblins hadn’t said a word since their creation. Bel stood waiting before the fire, his reds spread out behind him as if expecting confrontation. None had yet drawn a weapon, but the red general had a leather sack in one hand. He took one look at the black goblins and scowled Eric’s way.

“What the hell is going on here?” Eric asked.

His loyal three took up position before him, legs apart and hands open. Eric could see them eyeing the gathered goblins, gauging where the first attack might come from.

Bel said, “I’d hoped you would change your mind about the star metal.” Again, he’d purposely not called Eric master. It seemed his rebellion was at hand. “You have put your own needs before this expedition for the last time. What you did was a selfish waste of resources.” More to those gathered than to Eric, he raised his voice and said, “We could have completed our expedition with honor, gone home as celebrated heroes. Instead, we’re stuck with a human, who cares for nothing but himself, and corrupted abominations that will never be welcome in Xanaranth.”

The three watched Bel with perfect calm, waiting for him to make an aggressive move or for Eric to give an order.

Crush him, the voice urged. Crush them all.

“Big words,” Eric said, “for a little man. You gonna back ‘em up?”

“Belchburn,” Bri said with a hand to her pommel. Her blues were already spreading out on the left side of the gathered reds. “This is not what’s best for us right now. It will only make matters worse.”

Bitters and his oranges had moved toward the right on their own. Stalk and Mudbutt were in back on the castle steps, well behind the reds. Either they’d chosen the wrong side or were waiting to see how things played out. All of the gobs who’d come with Eric stood quietly behind him.

“Don’t do this,” Bitters said in an even tone.

Bel squared his shoulders. “You think your duty is to the expedition,” he told the two generals. “It isn’t. It belongs to the people of Xanaranth, our people.”

“Honestly,” Eric said, “I dunno what’s going through your head right now, but there’s no way you’re walkin’ out of this.”

“Perhaps not,” Bel said and threw the sack against the ground. The sound of breaking glass within followed. “But neither will you.”

Black essence rose up from the sack.

“You stupid fu –”

It struck Eric in the chest, sent him backward a step and took the words from his mouth with the strength of its touch. Despite all effort to refuse it, the black cloud licked along his metal in wisps of clinging smoke. It seeped inside, ran the length of his runes and gripped his spirit with the force of a storm.

Eric dropped to his knees as if violently ill. He would have wretched if he could, convulsed his every muscle to expel it from his body. It shook him from within with an implacable hold, caused both his hands and vision to tremble. Senses became dulled, as if the world had slipped beneath a blanket of noise. It blurred his eyes, rang in his ears and burned his middle with a growing cold.

I’m dying, he realized, could feel his glyph start to slowly unravel. He looked up at Bel, at the traitorous goblins beside him. You think you won? Think again.

“Kill them,” Eric said. “Kill the reds.”

None of the others made a move, not Bri nor Bitters or any of those that followed them. Whether it was out of shock at the order or loyalty to their comrades, not one of the original expedition moved to attack.

They didn’t have to.

The three black goblins sprang forward like hounds loosed upon prey. They went straight for the closest red, all three on the same target. One grabbed him by the arm reaching for a sword and broke it at the elbow over a knee. A second was at his other arm, using it as leverage to drive him backward over a leg and toward the ground. The third leapt on top, punching at his face with sharp raps to the nose until he was dead. The red’s sword was pulled free and chaos ensued.

One after another, all three leapt upon a target and took a new weapon with each kill. The first red had died so quickly, none of the others had time to react with anything but fearful surprise. By the time they drew their blades, another had fallen. The reds were guards and soldiers, trained to fight with sword and shield, but none of that mattered in the face of such a coordinated ferocity.

The three fought as one, blocked attacks for each other, created and took advantage of openings for one another. They were relentless in their assault, choosing the nearest target and fighting for all they were worth until it was dead. Each slash, every thrust, all their movements were deliberate and delivered with precision.

Pained screams rang out, blood spattered, and reds died one after another. Bel was last to fall, disarmed, brought to his knees and beheaded without a word.

When it was finished, the three let fall their swords and came to stand before Eric, facing the other goblins. They were covered in blood but not a drop was their own.

It happened so quickly, Eric had barely seen. His vision was blurred, shaky and playing tricks. Suddenly he was surrounded by hundreds of ghostly spirits – goblins, humans, dwarves, men and women. They were all crouched, looking away, trembling in fear.

All but one.

It was Eric, or a man that looked like him. He wasn’t pale and doughy, as Eric remembered himself, but a man straight and tall. The face was Eric’s though, and he carried it on a wooden stick like a mask. It spoke when he did, mimicked his expressions.

Don’t leave me now, boy, the man said in Eric’s voice and knelt so they were face to face. I still have use for you.

Griz was there beside him. “Master, are you alright?”

“No,” Eric said, staring into his own eyes. “I think I’m corrupted. Can you… fix it?”

The shaman shook his head. “I know of no way to purify a spirit.”

Eric recalled Sebran and his family of spiritists as the mask that was his face smiled wide with a horrific grin.

“Bring me Sebran,” he said. “Whatever it takes. Just bring him here.”

See? said the man with Eric’s face. Still of use.

Eric couldn’t see what was behind the mask, but he knew who it was. The fancy clothes, the boots, the gold ring with a ruby.

It was Tragona.