Chapter 8: City Gates (Part 2)

  The poacher cleaned up camp in the morning, threw the tied up goblin on the back of his centaur, then rode towards the city.

  Stryg stayed quiet the entire trip, choosing to focus on clawing through the ropes. His fingers were raw and bloody when he finally saw the tall jet black walls in the distance.

  Stryg was dumbstruck, he had never seen such a large structure; the walls stretched past all the way to the horizon. He had heard stories of the Great Cities growing up, but he had never truly grasped their size.

  As they drew closer Stryg noted large symbols drawn into the stone wall.

  The reading was confusing or perhaps it had been written wrong. The words said, “protection of death,” not “protection from death.”

  A large gate formed at the base of the wall, it didn’t seem carved, but melded into its surface. A statue appeared on either side of the gate. The left statue was of a large skull, while the right depicted the sun with flaming tendrils, both were carved from black marble.

  A crowd of people stood waiting at the gate. The poacher rode up and joined the line. Stryg looked at the strange assortment of creatures nervously. Several centaurs, male and female, waited around with their masters. Some pulled wagons, others carried a single passenger on their back, a pair were even pulling a carriage.

  Many people were on foot, most of them looked human. As for the centaurs’ masters, Stryg had a difficult time recognizing them. Some had slate grey skin, with snow white hair, and blue eyes. They were tall and skinnier for the most part, with sharp ears that pointed upwards, unlike a goblin’s that pointed horizontally.

  Others in line were as short as goblins, with warm beige skin, and dark grey eyes. The men had stocky limbs with long thick beards twisted in elaborate styles and decorated with small shiny stones. The women braided their long hair in a similar style, with silver beads interwoven within. None paid him any mind as they waited to get into the city.

  One centaur caught Stryg’s eyes as she passed him. She had clearly been treated better than the rest. Her long orange hair practically glittered in the setting sun. Her sharp features were covered in expensive makeup and her neck was adorned with the iconic metal collar Stryg had spotted on each centaur, though this collar was attached to a gold necklace that hung beneath it.

  The centaur wore a red embroidered jacket on her upper body that opened wide at the chest, exposing her cleavage. Stryg thought he had seen large breasts before, but centaurs were larger than goblins in all ways, and her bust was clear evidence of that.

  The centaur’s pale skin was unblemished, except for strange pairs of pinprick scars that covered her chest.

  The centaur’s rider was draped in a midnight velvet cloak. Stryg caught sight of twin crimson eyes from beneath the hood. The rider looked down at him and smiled menacingly, revealing two pearl-white fangs. She reached out with pale pudgy hands and pulled on the centaur’s silky hair. The centaur picked up the que and trotted forward.

  The poacher bowed deeply as the wealthy duo trotted by.

  Stryg strangely found himself imagining being in that rider’s place, riding on top of the beautiful creature. Stryg had thought he’d hate all centaurs, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Show us your name-plate and state your purpose for coming to Hollow Shade.”

  The guard’s stoic voice brought Stryg back to reality.

  The guard’s skin was a shade of deep crimson. Coupled with the fangs protruding from his lower lip and orange eyes, Stryg easily recognized what the guard was. He was an orc, an ancient enemy of the goblins.

  “Of course,” the poacher nodded.

  He dismounted and pulled out a small rectangular piece of iron, an inch thick. He inserted his name-plate into a small metal cube the guard held.

  The poacher bowed, “I’m here to get my captive a docility collar and hopefully sell him in this wondrous Great City, sir.”

  The guard’s face didn’t move a muscle as he stared at the small cube. “Hmm. Your name-plate is in order. The entrance fee is three copper.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” the poacher pulled out a few coins from his pocket and handed it to him.

  “Welcome to Hollow Shade, greatest city in the Ebon Realm,” the guard said the phrase in a monotone voice. He passed the name-plate back and waved the poacher and his centaur past.

  “Thank you, sir,” the poacher bowed to him and the other guards.

  He quickly got back up on his old centaur and went through the gates.

  Stryg watched the entire procession quietly.

  The small blue goblin had thought the walls were amazing, that the crowd outside had seemed as large as his entire tribe, but as he entered Hollow Shade he understood how wrong he had been. Granite buildings lined the streets as far as the eye could see. People of all different shapes and sizes milled through the street, eager to get to their homes after a long day of work.

  “Just a little longer, old boy, we first need to get to the trade district,” the poacher patted the tired centaur on the back.

  Stryg wasn’t paying attention to the man's voice. There were so many people. Most were far taller than him, it’d be easy to get lost among the crowd. He was intimidated at the sheer quantity of city folk, yet he couldn’t let that stop him.

  This was his chance, his last chance to escape. Stryg pulled on the ropes as hard as he could, but they remained firm. His heartbeat quickened, he couldn’t let this be the end. He had so much he wanted to do.

  He had so many dreams; he wanted to be chief of the Blood Fang tribe, he wished to be powerful enough that he’d be respected by all, he wanted to eat delicious food with salt on it and have a tent to call his own. He even wanted those things that the older hunters always muttered about late at night, like dozens of giant barrels of mead, or a bunch of beautiful women, hell maybe even a centaur like the red-head he had just seen. Okay, perhaps the last bit wasn’t as important. But it didn’t matter, more than anything all Stryg wanted was to live.

  He struggled against the bindings. They didn’t budge.

  Stryg was tired of failing, always coming up short no matter what. He pushed his arms apart with all his strength, still the bindings held tight. He screamed in frustration. A surge of heat swept through his arms. The bright yellow rope darkened and frayed.

  The poacher turned around at the sound of the bindings tearing into small threads. It was too late, Stryg had already disappeared within the crowd.