The
Good Goblin
By
C.M.F. Eisenstein
Copyright © 2019 by Craig Martin Fels Eisenstein
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Author contact: [email protected]
Cover design by C.M.F. Eisenstein
Print Typeset:
Set in 11/12/14 pt Baskerville Old Face
Cover title set in Benegraphic by Tepid Monkey
To my father and mother, Colin and Ilse, for being my Tac’quin and my Amyia; for encouraging me towards foolish foibles; for allowing this literary lunatic to howl at the moon; and for letting there be dragons.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole…
…it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
- J. R. R. Tolkien, ‘The Hobbit’
Author’s Foreword
The Good Goblin has been a long time in its publication: it first started life as a notion in high school; languished in teenage angst for a spell; had its first few words written while an undergraduate in molecular biology; completed as a final year student in English literature; and ultimately revised several years later with a few other useless writing degrees thrown on top of its founding cornerstone. Within this journey of life, writing and The Good Goblin’s own maturity, it has come to represent an end of things, much the same as Samwise Gamgee coming home and uttering his inimitable phrase.
The Good Goblin was one of my very first novels – discounting certain chronological impediments and some rather heinous novellas. It, at least to me, represents the origin of my novel form of writing; and inside these pages is a classic arc, with some classic themes, but I believe it too has a myriad seeds of humanistic diversity and travail that threaten to sprout from each of the main characters. I hope they grow; I hope they make each character that much more whimsical and earnest; I hope that we are all a mote better each day because of them; I hope such sentiments shall never fade.
There may be a palpable universality to the minds of these main characters, and it is certainly my further hope that their adventure and each of their difficulties are ones we can fantasise our sympathies towards; however, I wish to be eponymous and declare, beyond all else, and this is my furthest hope, may this novel appeal to the little bit of goblin within all of us.
Thank you for purchasing my novel, and thank you for investing your time and emotions with Cezzum the Goblin and his grand adventure.
- C.M.F. Eisenstein
28/11/2019
Contents
Palodar's North-Eastern Trade Map
Chapter I - No Good Goblin Goes Unpunished
Chapter II - The Golden Path
Chapter III - A Crossing in the Dark
Chapter IV - Plains of a Fallen King
Chapter V - The Tomb of the Living
Chapter VI - A Friend In Need
Chapter VII - The Heart of the Matter
Chapter VIII - A Raconteur of Note
Chapter IX - Forest Tidings
Chapter X - Into the Warrens
Chapter XI - A Humble Farmer’s Gifts
Chapter XII - The Tempest of the Meadows
Chapter XIII - Unto the Peaks and Into the Feet
Chapter XIV - The Not-So Forlorn Mountain
Chapter XV - All Good Things Come to an End…
Chapter XVI - …But a Good Goblin Lasts Forever
Palodar’s scribblings as found on the back of ‘Palodar’s North-Eastern Trade Map’
I struck upon an idea today! No good merchant, loving dwarf, or stalwart fiscal figure, by this I mean an aureate dwarf beloved by their family, should ever be caught without a map. Yet despite my ventures from Darantur to Palu’don to Gram’mel (not of any great accolade for they are all dwarven), to Meygtelar and that vocabulary-profane place of the lorans (great accolade!), I found myself without a map. Now, let me tell you, no dwarf ever truly needs a map, but to expedite those beneath the highest of ranks in this venture, well, some might find that rather useful.
Your friend Palodar is no stranger to the outrageous sums that cartographers charge, and with no desire to support such rapacious villainy, I made my own perfectly legible masterpiece. As you can tell from the impeccable illustrations, it is a superb map, one that nearly made me quit caravan trading entirely to set up my own cartographic enterprise! But I did not; I will not debase myself like some swindling brethren of mine.
Not that I require it, yet on occasion I will use the map sparingly to test it, naturally, for like the birds that fly above, I know my way around this land by instinct alone! I did, however, forget to mark on this cursed piece of parchment where my… rock… is… no matter, I will recall, as I always do – you see, forgetfulness is a trifling matter, and once you forget forgetfulness, you will find exactly what you were looking for!
- Palodar
Under a tree without sufficient shade,
Somewhere west,
Matters not, I know where.
Chapter I
No Good Goblin Goes Unpunished
A croak crawled through the air. Cezzum the goblin rolled over upon his pallet, fatigued to the last. He grumbled with several squelches and grunts, before he finally arrived at a state of awareness where he could consciously curse the frog, which had pestered him for many a morn.
He rolled out of his bed and flung his tattered coverlets to the ground. Cezzum strode purposefully towards his warped wooden wardrobe, running his rangy, pale green fingers through his unkempt, sable hair as he did so.
The frog called out again and Cezzum thought he was the target of some vile jest the frog sought much pleasure from. Throwing open the doors of the garderobe, Cezzum’s yellow irises darted from side to side within the gloom, in search of a suitable frock. He quivered as a powerful croak leapt about the air and dashed into his ears. Days of pent up ire surfaced within him. He swiftly donned a simple leather slip, which he himself had wrought, before clambering out a window so that his prey might not catch sight of him beginning his hunt.
Cezzum was not a typical goblin, nor did he even consider himself akin to his brethren who took no greater satisfaction than in the utter torment and dismay of others. Goblins were known throughout the realm as fiends and fell creatures, filled with naught but guile, cunning and a profound sense of devilry tenderly touched with a dash of trickery. But at a very young age, Cezzum found himself dismayed at his fellows for their evil ways and lost any love he held for his kindred. His mother never saw in him this wan of malice, and thought him to be as any other gobling. As soon as Cezzum’s legs were able, and his mind adamantly set on a path, he bore himself away, taking leave as fast as he could of his goblin home deep within the Yfelgod Mountains, or so the mountain was called by human folk. The three-foot high goblin toiled and travelled for many a day across the vast tracts of lands, over plains of green and fords of crystal blue, through forests of old and weathering nights of peril. Like this Cezzum persevered for many leagues, until one day he found himself at the southern face of a great mountain range. He stood in awe as the sun rose in the east, casting a golden nimbus upon the massif. It was as if a Wyvern of old sat before him, for the mountains were thusly shaped. The thought of a peaceful life atop the mountain swelled and bubbled within him and hence he
spent a great many following days surmounting the towering cliffs. At the gloaming of the sixth day, Cezzum found himself upon a plateau, but barren and desolate it was. And no hope of a livelihood could be conceived of upon such an arid land.
Disheartened, yet still firm with his resolve, Cezzum clambered down the north side of the range. He then found himself once again at the foot of the mountain, but in a small recess within the mountain’s sheer face. A glade he thought of it, within the forest of stone. Within this clearing a small mere glinted ebulliently, fed by many springs from the mountain, and an occasional fish jauntily splashed about. The grass was short and a lush green, and best of all, thought Cezzum, was that the entrance to the dell was surrounded, as was the entire northern side of the mountains, by a thick and bushy forest filled with life and the lilt of birds, yet quiet from any being that could bring ill to his home.
It was here that Cezzum made his home using the plentiful resources that abided with him in the woods. And never did Cezzum deplete a resource, including his much beloved and tended fish, for all he ate was what he could scrounge in the forest and, to satisfy his carnivorous aspect, the occasional hare. It was like this that the goblin dwelled for many passings of the world. And it was within this glade that Cezzum would eventually become known as the Goblin of the Wyvern’s Nape.
Cezzum moved slowly through the reeds. He had circumnavigated his homestead, which was a most modest yet welcoming cabin, slightly lopsided and ill-shaped on many sides, but a grand home to him nevertheless. The goblin coiled his hind legs upon a stone and prepared his attack. His slender hands brushed aside the cane and reeds before his face, and there atop a rock, near the brink of the mere, but a few feet away, croaked the tormenting frog.
The frog cried out in shock as it flew in the air firmly within the grasp of the goblin. Cezzum landed deftly upon the lake’s bank, rolling his body, and swiftly came to his feet. Turning the frog within his hands, the creature looked upon Cezzum’s visage. The frog’s eyes grew wide with fear as the amphibian gazed at the long, protruding and hooked nose of Cezzum, for below that nose a grin of malevolent success was burnt into the frog’s very soul. And while it may seem odd that a frog and a goblin could express such emotional capacity, when the wild is lived within, there exists much more than an ordinary eye may see. But then Cezzum's grin turned into a wry smile and the goblin, clutching the frog in one hand, used his other and retrieved a small needle carefully hidden within the leather folds of his slip. Cezzum was nigh upon boring the needle into the frog’s gullet, inhibiting its ability to croak, when the oddest thing happened. The tiny amphibian pricked Cezzum before the goblin could carry out his own perforation. Into the frog’s eyes Cezzum stared and it was in that moment that a truth occurred to him: it was these very fiendish ways that he had abandoned all those moons ago, but even more than that was the notion that each creature, every warbling bird, and even the tormenting frog, made Cezzum’s dell the place in which he was fulfilled and fain to call home.
Placing the needle back into his frock, he gently lowered the frog to the ground. As the frog began to hop back to its home it turned its head slightly and gave an appreciative nod, at least that was what the goblin imagined the amphibian had done. Cezzum smiled, his elongated teeth glinting in the morning light cresting the mountains to the east.
The morning birds began to sing in earnest. It reminded him that he, in his hunt, had forgotten to break the fast of his forest-dwelling, aerial companions. Loping quickly indoors, he unfastened the lock on his pantry cupboard, searching frantically among his wares. To his dismay Cezzum found naught but dried out elderberries, which birds did enjoy thoroughly, however, thought Cezzum, hardly fitting enough for a day on which he had had such a grand epiphany thanks to his erstwhile, bothersome frog. Fresh ones he thought, the freshest berries he could find on this day, would only do and perhaps even some tender and plump fruit. Cezzum dashed back out of his house, grabbing a small gunnysack off the back of a chair on his way. As the goblin left his home, light was beginning to shine through the windows proper, casting a homely radiance on all his wooden furniture and trinkets; he kept that cosy image with him. Running past the mere he called into the air: “Fret not my birdies, I shall soon return with your repast!” And with those words lingering in the wind, Cezzum darted out of his dell and into the woods.
Cezzum’s sack already bulged, his forage had proved most fruitful. He scampered swiftly, yet ever so lightly and deftly, across the ground and up many trees, plucking berries and fruit of all sorts and placed them into his bag, although not all his spoils made it that far; as Cezzum neared the end of his scavenge he felt quite replete indeed.
Lofty trees towered above the comparatively dwarfed goblin as he looked for a rarer fruit, known as an opi plum, to add a flourish to his morning meal. Rust coloured leaves, thickets, shrubs and verdant laurels suffused the forest, while giant boles of ancient trees supported their most lush boughs. A soft and earthy, invigorating breeze pushed through the forest, carrying upon it a touch and whisper of autumn, reminding all those that lived in the forest that change was indeed wending its way.
Cezzum found his sought-after mark. At the foot of a grand, gnarled, oaken tree, grew the majestically hued opi bush, teeming still with the golden fruit. Placing the sack next to the tree, Cezzum moved his hand cautiously through the thorny branches. Reflexively his arm shot back to his body as his smallest finger was bitten by the plant. Cezzum grumbled, for while the poison was not deadly, his finger would be lame for a good few hours. Manoeuvring his gangly limb more tentatively than before, Cezzum managed to clutch the large oval that he prized and wrenched it free.
Digging his nails deeply into the fruit, he quickly brought the plum to bear down upon his knee and the succulent fruit snapped in two. One half of the tender, jade coloured citrus was quickly devoured. Smacking his lips lavishly Cezzum prepared to finish off his feast, but he stopped suddenly and moved neither a muscle nor a hair.
Then it came: the strident footfalls of boots hastily crushing leaves. An arrow whispered over Cezzum’s head, shot forth from beyond a dense patch of foliage. Instinctively the goblin dropped his opi fruit and adroitly scampered up the bole of the gnarled oak. Lying atop one of the large branches he slowed his breathing; not even an exhale of his breath left a hint in the air. A man burst from beyond the brush to stand below the tree. The human, as he looked to Cezzum, spun around once he had his footing. He drew a long sword from his scabbard and stood steadfastly, ready for battle.
Another arrow hissed past and the man nimbly stepped to one side. But a further arrow soon followed; it caught the scruffy and wayworn man off-guard. The thick missile ripped deeply into his flesh, bowling him onto the forest floor. Breath exploded from his lungs, but Cezzum could see the man was well skilled in the ways of survival. Wasting only but a second, the man scuttled under a dense thicket across from the tree, completely hiding himself from view, including the shaft that protruded from his chest. Cezzum thought it lucky for the man that the grass and leaves were compact and dense this time of year, for they left no obvious trail of where he had dragged himself off to.
Two creatures then sped into view, bows clutched firmly in their hands, they each nocked another arrow and began to step cautiously among the shrubs. Immediately Cezzum knew what they were, for they were of a distant heritage to goblins. The two phagens stood just over six-foot and, although double the height of most goblins, they bore many similarities to their less lofty kin. Their long, rangy, yet powerful limbs, groped around in the brush, searching for their quarry. The two attackers wore mail and jumbled pads of leather with metal plates intertwined. Large and encroaching fangs jutted out from their upper jaw; even when their mouths were closed their teeth were still harrowingly evident over their lower lip. One of the phagens took the lead, his head bobbing up and down as his hooked nose savoured the air.
Speaking in their native tongue known as Kig’n, which Cezzum could understand, for it too was
used by goblins, the lead phagen growled in anger: “The vile odour of the forest impedes the smell. His man-scent eludes me! It is here, but it is hazy!”
The second phagen halted as he spied Cezzum’s gunnysack and called his companion to his side. Cezzum knew that the discovery of his pack would only serve to spur on the phagens’ search; he quickly formulated a plan. As the man-sized goblins rummaged through the sack, Cezzum bounded from the bough and landed nosily behind them. All at once two bows were firmly pointed at the goblin’s head. With a tone as domineering as the goblin could muster, he quite indifferently instructed, “Off with you! That is my forage sack for my clan!”
The commanding phagen lowered his bow, his cohort doing likewise, and stooped low, placing his face directly in front of Cezzum’s; snarling viciously, he said, “You reek of the forest; you smell too clean for a goblin!”
The breath of the phagen was taking its toll on Cezzum; the putrid, vile scent made the goblin want to retch, but Cezzum held his glower. He stretched out his arm and pointed to a short distance from the oak.
“You see that woodland brush yonder?” queried Cezzum.
Both phagens nodded as they viewed the indicated flora.
Suddenly, while their attention was momentarily focused on the thicket, Cezzum smashed his hand into the chin of the hunched Phagen, knocking him to the floor. The startled phagen was up a second later and both stood with their swords levelled at the goblin’s throat.
“Well that brush,” continued Cezzum, pointedly ignoring the swords, “you and your arrow-maddened friend caused me to dive into! Here I was, minding my own business, going about the deeds of my kin, when your arrows coursed through the air! Now I, Cezzum of the Gild’en horde, had to dive into such a revolting shrub merely to avoid getting impaled by you two Kashen’uks!”
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