by Daniel Kozuh
“This was all we found, sir,” reported the guard. “We believe they were traveling together.”
The commander leaned over his horse’s head and looked down on the frightened Whittle. “Where is The Author?” he queried, with an inflection meaning he was only asking once.
“I … I don’t know,” stammered a confused Roe. Not only did he not know who these inquisitors were, but he genuinely thought that Norman had been asleep in the cot next to his own.
The commander bellowed in annoyance and unsheathed his sword.
“I am traveling with him. That is true,” cried Roe, anticipating the blow. “But I don’t know where he is at this moment! Perhaps in the stables – that is where his mongrel-slave is!”
“The little brat sold me out,” Norman thought.
With a jerk of the neck, two soldiers were dispatched to the stables.
Things grew awkward while the group waited. The commander scratched at his massive brown fang with his fingernail, inspected the removed plaque, and then sucked the grime off his finger. Roe and Yov shared a look of disgust, no matter the consequence.
Yov opened his mouth to defuse the situation with a little small talk. Lucky for everyone, the severed head of a goblin soldier cannoned into the courtyard and knocked another goblin off his horse.
Before the lead goblin could realize that the corpse of one of his troops was just used against him, Tahra was upon them. She dived down from the second-floor window, landing on top of the fallen goblin. Her sword pierced his torso. With slick blood coating the blade, she pulled her weapon gracefully from one target and stabbed it thorough the shoulder of another. As Norman watched the severed appendages pile up; a piecemeal Franken-goblin could have been created from the remains.
The superior knew that she had the drop on them and they were at a severe disadvantage. He sloped off his saddle and picked Roe up by his restraints, throwing him like a sack onto the horse’s backside.
“Retreat!” He cried.
What remained of the raiding party twisted their horses around and fled from the town. Tahra pursued briefly long-distance stamina eluded her. She returned and set upon Yov.
“Where did they take Roe, traitor?” she screamed, her blade so close to his neck that it inked a line of goblin blood across his artery.
“Woah, woah!” Norman finally turned the corner of the building and stopped Tahra from giving Yov a tracheotomy. “Tahra, calm down. He is no use to us dead!”
“He is of no use to me at all, the traitor,” she then realized to whom she was talking, “What are you doing here?”
“I heard a scream … so I came back.”
For the first time, a modicum of respect appeared in Tahra’s eyes and quickly vanished, “Then why didn’t you do anything?”
“I didn’t have time before you started killing everyone.” He turned to Yov. “Do you know where the Mor-Leidr camp is?”
“I don’t,” he yelped, Tahra took a threatening stutter-step towards him. “I swear! They move around. Usually somewhere to the west.”
“How did you get word to them that that I was here?” Norman asked.
“There is torch on the edge of town that burns blue. They told me to light if you ever came to the town.”
“Show me.” Tahra grabbed Yov by the collar and yanked him.
“Hold on,” Norman interjected. “We are all tired and grumpy and I think that wandering directionless into a darkness crawling with god-knows-what with god-know-how-many-heads is not the best idea. We should wait until morning and set out following the tracks.”
Tahra finally released Yov.
“I tell you what,” said Yov, brushing himself, and the situation, off. “For the trouble I cause … Half price for your stay.”
****
Tahra opted for the stables again and Calamity followed her. Norman went back to his room and fell into bed. As he tried to find comfort on the itchy straw mattress, he flipped onto his side, starring at Roe’s empty spot and his borrowed pillow. “Poor little guy,” he thought.
There was a brickish block within Roe’s pillow case that drew Norman’s attention. He reached out, reached into the case, and pulled out the lump: Tales of Lingeria – Vol 8: Sinister Awakening. The book had been pilfered from Norman’s collection, probably as he showered, the morning they ate breakfast in his house.
Norman ran his hands over the cover, and it rang with that comfortable hollow tone that only comes from a hardcover book. There was a thin piece of worn leather between the pages, used as a homemade bookmark. Norman opened the book to Roe’s stopping point.
Roe reached his pudgy hand into the crevice to retrieve the key and did not even feel the bite, only a warmth that spread up his arm, straight to his heart. When he withdrew his hand, a cave spider, twisted and blind, fled its refuge. Roe, clutching the golden object, saw two bloody punctures on his wrist and looked desperately to Tahra. He grew weak and slumped to the wet cave floor.
Tahra knelt beside him and placed his head in her lap. She knew the power of a cave spider’s venom and knew nothing could be done to counteract it. She simply brushed Roe’s spikey hair and watched the life fade from his eyes. Nothing was spoken between them, because nothing needed to be said.
When Roe took his final breath and she felt his muscles relax, Tahra took the key from the Whittle’s hand and continued out of the cave.
Norman slapped the book closed and threw it on the floor. Was that why Roe was so eager to send the soldiers to the stable? Norman fell back into his bed again and gazed at the ceiling. He watched a simple house spider spin its web in the far corner of the room. Sleep did not come easily, this night.
****
Tahra had Norman up before the sun, when they sky was an anxious grey and the only noise was a farmer setting up his stall for the day. Luckily, his face felt slightly less tender today. Yov begrudgingly served him some complimentary sausages, and dark tea with cream.
“There are horse tracks everywhere,” complained Tahra, surveying the road, “I can’t make out which are theirs, any more. I knew we should have left last night.”
“Some tracker you are,” joked Norman.
“I am the greatest bounty hunter in Lingeria.”
“Greatest human, maybe,” said Norman, as he retrieved Roe’s travel sack from Tahra’s saddlebag. “Janey,” he sung and the aged coonhound, who was digging at the door to the pub’s kitchen, came plodding towards him.
Norman knelt down in front of his dog and retrieved a particularly greasy sausage kept from his breakfast. He held it inches from Janey’s instantly-slobbering muzzle and she snapped for it, only to have it pulled away.
“Ah, ah, ah,” corrected Norman. He hung Roe’s bag in front of her wet ebony nose. “Get the scent, girl. You smell that? Smells like Roe, right? You know? Your friend Roe!”
He was answered with a thumping wag of her boney tail.
“Good girl,” he said. He presented her the sausage, which she swallowed in a single, frantic bite. “Okay, girl, then let’s find Roe!”
It took some convincing, but Norman soon found himself on the back of Tahra’s horse, his hands wrapped around her solid torso. Calamity Jane kept the pace out front, occasionally pushing her wrinkles in the dirt to keep the trail.
“So,” Norman started, trying to pretend that the situation of having his face pressed into Tahra’s trapezius was perfectly normal, “Does your horse have a name?”
“I think you know he does,” came the terse response.
It was true – Norman did give the horse a name, but he couldn’t remember it and he couldn’t reach the Abacærium. “What was it? Something like Freddy? No. Sammy?”
“Aves.”
“Right, Aves.” Norman’s testicles were really starting to hurt.
****
About an hour of into the silent journey, the farmed agriculture gave way to wild prairie. Sweetgrass and Bluestem waved to the rescue party and, had Norman not been clinging to the hips
of an Amazonian mercenary, while tracking a goblin raiding party, it might have been a perfect day.
Suddenly, Janey’s pace quickened and then she broke into full scamper, which was unusually fast for her. She led them to the edge of a small forest and Norman had to quickly leash her before she went bounding any further.
He could see the outfit’s camp, only a hundred yards into the maples – just a few canvas tents and a fire-pit, smoldering from breakfast. There was little activity. Norman didn’t notice any guards and of the goblins he could see, most seem to be napping.
Tahra tactlessly snatched her sword and started her assault. Norman caught her elbow and received, in turn, a look that clearly said, “You are not to touch me.”
He let go of her arm, but said, “You can’t just rampage in there. We don’t know how many there are, or if there are any traps. We should strategize.”
“How many rescue parties have you led?”
“Well, none, but –”
“Need I remind you that I rescued the kidnapped Prince of Cth’fer?”
“Yeah, but that was just a story this is real …” He caught himself way too late. With a growl, Tahra was gone.
Sword raised, Tahra high-stepped into the trees and, despite her height and size, was quite agile, making sure to remain hidden whenever possible. Norman simply echoed her footsteps.
When they got within a hundred feet of the clearing, Norman could make out Roe on the opposite side of the camp. He was sitting on the ground, with his legs stretched out, tied to the trunk of a tree. I looked like he had been left out all night. Roe seemed to be staring into the dirt, dejected. Streaks of mud ran down his cheeks from where he had been crying.
“Okay, there’s Roe. What I’m thinking is we sneak around to the other side of –”
Tahra responded to Norman’s sensible planning with a raucous battle-cry, waking up anyone within a hundred yards. And she charged.
Norman realized that the party of goblins who had visited the previous day was not the entirety of their squadron. Green creatures streamed from tents by the dozens and, if the rescue party was outnumbered before, now they were screwed.
As Tahra burst onto the scene, Norman slowed and tried to use Tahra’s conspicuousness to his advantage. He backstepped and circled around the campsite, towards the tethered Roe.
Tahra was managing the wave of goblins quite easily, her sword slicing through their poorly-treated leather armor like a utility knife through paper. She managed to keep most of them at bay with her ample reach and the few brave ones who attempted to attack her from the rear were met with a swift kick or swipe.
Roe was left unguarded, as Norman approached from behind.
“Psst! Roe! Hey, Roe!” Norman didn’t know why he was whispering – there was enough ruckus at the other end of the camp to drown out the heartiest of shouts. “Roe, are you okay?”
Roe craned his neck around and saw his rescuer. He turned back around. “Go away,” he said, with a dejected authority.
Norman ignored the pouting and got to work on the rope that bound Roe’s wrists. It was some version of a Prusik Knot that Norman couldn’t comprehend – goblins are the Boy Scouts of Lingera, apparently.
“Roe, can you twist your wrists at all? Try to loosen the rope?”
“Why do you care? Don’t you want them to kill me?”
Norman couldn’t help but jeer at this juvenile display. “You weren’t supposed to read that. No one here should have read those books. Can we please talk about this after we escape?”
“I was the smallest of my siblings, I was never important in my village,” Roe persisted, “I’m not a good farmer, not good at sport, never very artistic. I was invisible.”
Norman’s fingers fumbled at the binds. He gave up, bent his head down and gnawed at dirty twine, like a chipmunk.
“And then The Tomes arrived, I finally felt important. I mattered, not just to my town but to all of Lingeria. Not just for what I had done but for what I was going to do. But then you went and killed me.”
“Roe!” Norman spat out some fibers. “That wasn’t you I killed. It was the character Roe. You are not …”
They were so busy bickering they didn’t realize it had gone silent across the camp. Norman look towards Tahra. She was surrounded by the army, her arms pinned back behind her and a knife at her throat. She twisted, jerked, and snarled – never relenting, despite the odds.
Norman abandoned the knot and rushed towards the mob.
“Hey!” Norman shouted and waved his hands about. “Here I am! I’m the one you’re looking for!”
The captain from the night before, with the tip of his blade pressed against Tahra’s neck, turn to look at Norman.
“Who are you?” asked the confused goblin.
Norman paused and mustered all his confidence. “I’m The Author.”
There was a brief pause before the laughter began. Goblin laughter is a gritty, throaty noise that sounds like a leaking aerosol can.
“No, seriously, I am! And I command that you take me to Wrence The Wizard.”
This rubbed the commander the wrong way – it seemed he didn’t like taking orders from balding men claiming to be gods.
“You? Command me?” he literally spat. “You are in no position to make demands. If you really are The Author then I have been ordered to bring you to Wrence The Wizard, and that is just was I intend to do.”
Norman squinted in confusion, waiting to see if the goblin would realize what he just said. The goblin did not.
“You know what? You’re right. I surrender.”
The goblin let out a triumphant ‘hurrah’ and his men cheered.
NINE
The goblin army descended into the valley in a single motion. They mechanically tore into two sentries. They were like a flock of birds, instantaneously, silently communicating among themselves, as to a change of course and procedure.
The raiding party, who – having taken the siege – believed they had the upper hand, fell into disarray, as the descending mass braided in and out of itself with a precise but unpredictable trajectory. The hillside burst into dazzling and distracting patterns.
- Tales of Lingeria: Quest of Fire, Chapter 11
The goblins of Lingeria were not necessarily a bad lot. Norman just wrote the to be simple-minded and naive; suited for basic combat and brute labor. They were easily confused, swayed, and commanded. This artlessness often led them to unknowingly serve nefarious forces.
One interesting note about Lingerian goblins is that they reproduce asexually. They were able to lay eggs and fertilize the eggs of others in the same breeding grounds – The Bog of Gathude. The larval stage of a goblin is not that much unlike a tadpole. Roughly ninety-percent of all goblin youth do not make it out of the Bog, succumbing to predators and the elements. Goblins never know who their genetic parents are and, perhaps, it is this lack of parental structure that lends to their desperate desire to please authority figures. Lingeria lacked a desperately-needed psychiatry practice.
While goblins are technically neither male nor female, in the Lingeria novels Norman refers to them with male pronouns. It was an issue in which Norman received more than one letter of complaint.
As their reproduction indicates, the goblins of Lingeria are quite amphibian. They are cold-blooded, with massive heat-trapping, octangular scales over their body. Their hands are webbed and contain glands that can secrete a glue-like mucus that makes disarming a goblin near impossible.
Despite their willingness to be taken to the wizard, Norman and Tahra were still bound like Roe. They marched westward, along a rocky trail. Norman tripped his way along, realizing how one’s equilibrium is thrown off with your hands behind your back. Janey was allowed to roam free, posing no threat to the mercenaries. Some of the soldiers even threw her meat, to watch her snatch it out of the air.
Tahra, who could have easily broken her bonds and escaped, played along at Norman’s insistence and culled her anger. She rarel
y spoke, even to Norman and Roe. Instead, she glared down the road, kicking the occasional stone.
At night, the “prisoners” were freed, briefly, to eat before being re-secured to local shrubbery, each falling asleep in a seated position, dreaming radically different dreams but all awakening with stiff necks and sore tailbones.
On the second day, they were forced to walk in the center of the marching horde. A goblin held onto Norman’s leash, while walking beside him. He would, occasionally, glance at Norman, with a curious expression on his face. Norman got the feeling he wanted to talk. Taking advantage, Norman attempted to gather some information about Wrence.
This goblin was young – probably a teenager in their lifespan. He had piggy, red eyes, a long, sharp nose like an arrow, and a squash-shaped skull. His tusks barely crept above his lower lips; one sported a significant chip. He hosted only a few minor tattoos. He lacked the battle scars of his elders and his muscles were lean, toned, and unused. Two razor-sharp sickles hung from his belt and clanged as he walked – an audible reminder that Norman shouldn’t try anything funny.
Norman broke the ice. “So, what’s your name?”
“We do not have names,” came a cold reply.
Norman had forgotten that part of goblin lore. Part of their subservient nature was to disregard the self for the sake of the group. This seemed quite noble, until you remembered that the group’s activities included pillaging, kidnapping, and killing.
“They say you come from another world,” whispered the captor to his prisoner.
“That’s true. I came out of his oven,” Norman said, nodding to Roe, who still wasn’t speaking to him.
“Is your world like ours?”
“Philosophically, I think they share a similar ethos,” Norman said.
This assertion was met with a look of obliviousness.
“My world is more advanced, technologically speaking,” Norman tried. “But we still fight and mate. We are just less obvious about it. Or, at least, we pretend we are.”
