A spear slammed into the ground, bringing Cezzum’s attention away from the captive. Firmly impaled on the great pole arm hung the corpse of a hornless stag, directly over the flames; the spear’s shaft passed directly over the inferno.
Slumping onto the log beside his kin, the cook slapped his cohort’s back and said, “’Te flesh chars; we feastin’ to-night!”
Saliva dripped down the phagens’ mouths. A thought struck one of the creatures. The cook dully waved his hand in the prisoner’s direction. “Wha’ we be doin’ with that?”
Without shifting his eyes, the other phagen quite gleefully cried, “If the captain is not back by morn... I think a suitable breakfast is in order.”
"Ain't ha' 'is kind since Kan'a's tunnel bit; wha' a maddin he was."
Both phagens chuckled slightly, their already taught smiles widening at the prospect of a new course being added to their dietary inventory.
Cezzum hid his face behind the tree once more, scratching his chin in thought. He knew he could not let the child suffer at the evil hands of the captors; none should ever know such torment. A wave of reverie and yearning quickly swept over him, and for but a moment he wished he were back in his dell listening to the soothing sounds of his frog. Cezzum wondered both at how he had come to arrive at that moment, carrying on more by narrow focus than by any actual conscious considerations; he too pondered why he constantly felt jabs of pain when something wicked was being done before his eyes - why indeed was this form of doom upon him? With such thoughts that could be mused later, the immediate was far more pressing, and the goblin decided there was but only one deed that must be done - rescue the prisoner.
Cezzum waited for hours in the hope that the two corpulent guards might shirk their duty, with the aid from the great quantities of the liquor that they drank, and fall into a slumber at their posts. Yet despite their grog-gorging performance, both phagens remained wakeful.
It was well past midnight and the first subtle, almost inconceivable, touch of light was beginning to chase the darkness. Quickly contriving another plan, Cezzum scurried about the forest floor collecting several small stones, pebbles and mud clots, as well as, in a tree but a short distance from the phagen camp, the goblin stashed a large, ponderous rock, having hauled it into the branches with some difficulty despite his goblin strength, for the deed was not one that availed itself of noiselessness; in time, however, the goblin managed. Hiding behind the tree, which he had used earlier to conduct his espionage from, Cezzum prepared to set his assault in motion.
The fire had waned from its earlier glory; it was a simple pile of glowing embers dimly casting a trivial light about the clearing. Both guards sat upon their log, glancing around occasionally, but otherwise deep in conversation about their innumerable amount of triumphant pillages and their constantly growing bone collections.
Suddenly, in mid-sentence, a small pebble thumped one of the phagens’ foreheads. The phagen let out a cry of surprise and held his brow mightily, incredulously wondering what had just happened. His companion turned to him with a look of bewilderment. “To’o much grog’?”
Swiftly, in quick succession, two more projectiles slammed into the already stunned phagen, one catching his hand that held his head, which was then shaken in an attempt to be rid of the pain, while the second stone collided with another part of his scalp. Both phagens, after the realisation of what was actually happening occurred to them, jumped to their feet, drew their weapons, and sought futilely in the dark for their assailant.
Another rock pelted into the same phagen, who more out of great annoyance than any sheer pain, let out a chilling roar and yelled, “This fiend torments us!” Yet another pebble found its mark on the phagen’s skull; wincing, he crunched his eyelids at the blow. He slammed his fist into his fellow, the cook. “Guard the prisoner!” barked the harried phagen. The tormented guard then dashed into the woods, his weapon at the ready, guessing at the general direction of his attacker – he headed straight for Cezzum.
The phagen stormed past the tree where moments before the goblin had hidden, and stood enraged, searching determinedly amongst the dark figures, that were the night-enfolded trees, for his assailant.
Cezzum had barely hidden himself behind a towering yellorend tree, when, off to his left, his pursuer caught a glimmer of his scent in the air. Wasting no time, Cezzum, arced his arm and let another pellet fly. The clay clot splattered across the phagen’s face, sending dirt and grime into every facial orifice. The phagen howled again in fury and used his free hand to wipe the muck away. Cezzum quickly raced for the tree where he had hidden his large rock and climbed to the large branch, where his fortification lay. The phagen roared, “Come out you craven swine!”
Cezzum gulped – it was time for the most unpredictable part of his plan. He let two of his small pebbles fall to the ground below, crashing at the base of the tree. The phagen immediately launched maniacally towards the sound. Standing upon the spot where the pebbles had fallen, the guard strained his ears listening for any further sound; his hand tightened its clutch on his sword.
Suddenly a crunch of wood could be heard above. The phagen twisted his head upwards only to see a grey mass obstructing his view; he cursed. The rock smashed into the phagen’s face, dropping him to the floor. Cezzum smiled, slightly. Although he knew the mind robbing dangers of fell ways, he, nonetheless, could not stop the small twinge of pleasure that crept over his face. He jumped down to the forest floor and decided it best to leave the prostrated phagen, unwilling to check whether the fiend was alive or dead, although phagens were well known for their hard heads.
The remaining cook crouched, his back against a tree, just adjacent to the prisoner’s perch, scanning the darkness for any movement. A wind had begun to pick up and leaves rustled much as a braided stream would resonate as it was broken by dozens of little rocky islands. Discontent night birds sung their objections to the wind.
Cezzum was only able to spot the guard by the faintest of silhouettes projected about his form by the dying embers of the fire. Taking his last stone, Cezzum hurled it a few feet away from the phagen, where it thundered into a bole of a tree; the prison keeper remained motionless, his sharply curved axe at the ready. The phagen cook had apparently thought his companion foolish to dart off towards some unknown fate and had decided not to follow in his steps. A new tactic was needed.
Quietly, every footfall carefully placed upon the ground, Cezzum made his way around the camp, until he eventually stood silently on the opposite side of the tree that the phagen used for cover. Unsheathing Gnarlfang, Cezzum began to creep around the tree trunk. The figure of the phagen loomed into view. Priming himself, the three-foot attacker sprung out from the dark. Hurtling in the air, the goblin flew towards his objective. The cook heard the crunch of leaves as Cezzum propelled himself, and throwing all his weight to one side, turned in time to deflect the blow from the goblin. A great spark ignited in the night as the poor steel from the axe singed against the might of Gnarlfang. Cezzum’s momentum carried him forwards and, even though his thrust was deflected, the goblin managed to grasp the phagen’s face with his left hand and clambered onto the squirming countenance. With all his might the cook tried to wrench Cezzum off of him, but the goblin’s grip remained firm. Each tug and pull evoked pain for the captor, as his three-foot-high-foe dug his nails deeply around his neck. Cezzum tried desperately to find an angle and drive Gnarlfang into his target, but the now conjoined figure of the two kin flailed around the campsite wildly and no such opportunity revealed itself to Cezzum. Regardless of his most valiant efforts, the cook’s weaving and floundering stopped any attempt of the sort; Cezzum allowed his nails to bite more deeply. Air swished, rushing past Cezzum’s ears, as the phagen swung his axe violently in several attempts to dislodge the goblin; luckily Cezzum was in a position that covered the cook’s head, neck and weapon-wielding arm, impeding any effort the phagen made to bring the axe closer to his body. The fused figure stormed haphazardly around t
he camp, stumbling and smashing into almost every item that there was. An absolute din of noise sung throughout the forest as pots, cauldrons, arms and numerous other items clashed, crashed and were knocked about. Cries and grunts of rage were sprouted by the phagen, giving the woods a veritable lament that some poor creature was being slowly put to death. Without warning, the mobile tower, that was the cook and Cezzum, began to teeter dramatically. A crumpled metallic goblet shot out from under the phagen’s foot, and they began to topple in earnest. Gravity was unrelenting and the two picked up an incredible amount of speed on their way towards the ground. Cezzum’s only saving grace was that his adversary had fallen over backwards. A dull thud drummed in the air; the back of the cook’s head ploughed into the makeshift log bench. The phagen’s body wilted and its grip on Cezzum released; the axe fell from his hand.
Cautiously Cezzum disengaged his nails and pushed himself off his conquest. As much as the goblin despised phagens and his kind, he did not wish to kill any of them without good cause. Drops of blood dripped from his fingernails as he stood waiting for any sign of life. The chest of the phagen rose upwards, then fell back down. Phagens did indeed have very hard heads.
Surveying his surroundings, Cezzum observed a much-altered camp. Almost everything that could have been knocked about, had. Even the heap of dead animals had collapsed into a furry carpet of death. A mumble brought Cezzum from the sight. Spinning towards the sound, Cezzum found a squirming, droning prisoner trying his utmost to break his bonds. Cezzum chuckled, for he thought the scene quite comical, as the sack hidden captive reminded him of a writhing slug. Running over to the prisoner, grabbing a torch and igniting its cloth in the embers along the way, something struck the goblin as odd. During the battle, and even in its aftermath, he had felt no fear, no regret, no emotion whatsoever other than a staunch feeling of self-preservation – or was it the need to, above all else, save the child from such an ill fate? The lack of emotion, even the most insignificant tremor of his hand, troubled Cezzum profoundly; yet, somewhere within in the depths of his mind, the goblin felt a poignant regret for opposing his own kin.
Holding the burning brand aloft, Cezzum vigilantly checked if there were any traps or other hideous devices, which his kin had oft been known to use, attached or set to trigger without proper deactivation. The goblin, once satisfied, sheathed Gnarlfang and stood before the mumbling prisoner, who appeared but nigh under a foot taller than the goblin. With his hand, the shrouding sack was ripped from the captive. Cezzum almost fell over in shock and exclaimed in Kig’n, “Ragum!”
The dwarf’s eyes swelled into gaping moons upon seeing the face of a goblin before him; his hopes of liberation were slaughtered, much like his body would soon be. The prisoner started to reel and squirm vigorously in some final hope that the bonds might break. Cezzum pulled the muffling gag down from the captive’s mouth. The dwarf began to cry out in the Dwarven language of Valaku: “Terac a’n Felp, roog vin kal smecken wer!”
Cezzum stared blankly at the dwarf, who, in his own right, simply stared back at the goblin, quite confused that he was still breathing. A handfuls of seconds slowly drifted into nothingness. The dwarf finally broke the silence by yelling out his statement again, although the second declaration was hinted with query by a subtle inflection of his words. The goblin took the initiative and hesitantly asked, “I do not suppose you speak the tongue of men by any chance of luck do thee, master?”
The dwarf’s chestnut brown eyes rolled in thought and puzzlement. His sweeps of shaggy hair, along with the most bedraggled beard Cezzum had ever seen, matched the colour of his eyes. The captive cautiously nodded.
“Ah! Wonderful master,” exclaimed Cezzum, brightly. “I never did have the patience for Valaku. What were you saying earlier?”
The wind caused the torch’s flame to flicker, casting contrasts of light and shadow over the dwarf. The light bounced strongly off his hairy, iron jaw, while soft touches of shade attempted bravely, yet fruitlessly, to soothe his wayworn and tanned skin.
“I was saying,” began the dwarf, with a voice that was not quite as deep as most dwarves, and one that too was speckled with confusion, “‘goblin traitor – you will not break me!’”
“Goblin traitor?” said Cezzum questioningly.
The dwarf regretted repeating his previous avowal, thinking the language barrier might have been the only wall between him and his venal slayer. The light from Cezzum’s torch twinkled off the dwarf’s prominent nose as he indicated with it the unconscious phagen.
Cezzum laughed, his own teeth glinting a fiery yellow.
“I know your ways goblin! You slew your kind to have me for yourself! A mighty feat overpowering two phagens, but you will never break a dwarf!” The captive’s eyes looked upwards, then back at the goblin, frown lines wrinkled his face. “Why do you call me master?”
“I call everyone I meet ‘master’,” replied Cezzum openly. “It avoids ever giving insult to anyone; I do not believe that anyone could ever take offence at being called a master, but call a king a man, or a merchant a slave, well then you might as well walk to the gallows yourself.”
“Well,” said the dwarf, “that’s odd.”
“What?”
“You”
“Me?”
“Aye, goblin, you”
“Why?” asked Cezzum.
“Why what?”
The goblin chortled. “Why am I odd?”
“Oh,” responded the dwarf, in his highly toned, yet gruff voice, “because I’m not dead yet.”
“Yet,” replied Cezzum in jest.
“Now that was not a grand thing to say to warm my heart, when it was slowly beginning to fill with hope,” said the dwarf, his face tinctured with worry.
Cezzum laughed loudly and rubbed the shoulder of the dwarf with his hand. “I but jest master, it makes it quite effortless when folk think thee inherently fell.”
“For my sake goblin, I hope you stay well away from anything fell.”
“I would never kill the good folk of this world!” rejoined Cezzum, trying his best to rebuff the foul concepts of his kind. “But I must admit, no race differs themselves from goblins, phagens and pokroks, for men, dwarves, telopians – they all wage war. Although some of them have also taken it upon themselves to create, to love and show great compassion; my kin only know torture and hate – that is why I call them foul, malign and... fell.”
A smile came over the dwarf’s light red lips. “By the stench of my unwashed teeth and beard, a good goblin, who would have guessed!”
Cezzum returned the affable grin, and as when Filburn had called him his brother, Cezzum’s most ardent ambition had come true; he had been called good, and with a title comes the maintenance of its particular reverence – a notion that Cezzum grappled with daily to uphold. It was as if a pent up well, which resided inside Cezzum’s mind, of all the vile traditions of his kind, suddenly broke, all hatred pouring out of his once bursting pit upon the oration of the two generous words.
The dwarf coughed and he purposely jingled his bonds. Cezzum’s pale green skin turned a shade darker as he flushed. “Ack! My apologies master!” Cezzum swiftly darted behind the rescued hostage, unclipping the double-headed bolts that fastened through both the fetters and the shackles in order to keep them from coming adrift. The dwarf let out an audible sigh of relief and reflexively rubbed his wrists, soothing the pain that only confined pressure could bestow.
As the dwarf assuaged his limbs he bellowed out: “Three days! Three, rotting, smelling, days! Three days of profiteering, well that’s three days that could seem like three hours indeed, but three days with a bag over the head! I feel as if I had just been pulled out of my very own eternal grave!”
Cezzum grinned at the dwarf as he ranted, the orator of confinement wearing nothing but a tattered and torn, cloth jerkin. The former prisoner turned to the goblin. “But imprisonment must not spoil manners. Well met, good goblin, I am most thankful for your rescue. I could not p
ossibly have stomached one more day tied up here, mind you I probably was to be stomached,” – he pointed at the closest phagen – “by them at the light of morn. Due to the luck of the goddess of good fortune, whom I am certain you know, but Ispin to make quite sure, I remain uneaten. By the bye, that is a nice blade you have strapped to your belt goblin, a most fine-looking hilt indeed – could fetch a lovely sum of coin that. Ah woe! Again, my manners fail me! I think I said it earlier, but I cannot quite recall, pure darkness will do that to you, even to a dwarf! Well met goblin! I am Palodar, merchant extraordinaire, from the grand dwarven city of Palu’don, named after the founder’s fourth or fifth child himself, can never quite remember which one was my namesake though – he had far too many children, quite the virile dwarf he was.”
Cezzum laughed loudly, shaking his head at the utter garrulousness of the dwarf; he tried to absorb everything he had been told. “My pleasure to have aided you, master Palodar, and well met. I am Cezzum the goblin from, I suppose, the Wyvern’s Nape in these very mountains.”
“Cezzum, well met! Has a nice z’a sound to it, could be a trace of Valaku in that name!” said Palodar with a smile showing his days-old filthy teeth to good effect, but it also seemed to make his face kinder, as lines of tension began to evaporate. The talkative dwarf grabbed Cezzum by the shoulders and ripped him into a great bear hug, before releasing him and stepping back. “Now we are properly introduced!” Palodar scratched at his belly. “It seems I am starved, let us eat!”
Without waiting for a reply from the goblin, Palodar walked over to the phagens’ bundle of kindling, which rested near the mound of hunted animals. Gathering a large batch of the wood he rambled over to the log bench, kicking the phagen’s head off of it, and threw the fuel onto the embers; puffing his cheeks, he blew onto the cinders, trying to ignite the kindling. Cezzum rummaged through the hares until finally he came across one that still seemed reasonably fresh. He placed his brand upon the ground and quickly skinned the hare with a knife lying about - it proved to be only slightly sharper than it was blunt. The goblin drove a stake through their to-be-meal and, as the phagens had done, planted the pole into the ground, leaving the shaft hovering over the fire. Palodar was well pleased that he had managed to get a decent fire to roar once more and slumped down next to Cezzum on the log, wiggling his toes. “I miss my boots.”
The Good Goblin Page 3
