Before Cezzum could offer a reply, the older version of himself hopped off the large rock and trotted over to face him. The hooded goblin began to fade, his body changing itself to look as if it were made from a gossamer material. The ethereal image lost the form of a goblin and instead morphed into a sheer phantasm. “You have proven yourself goblin,” cried the melodic voice, so joyful was it that it almost brought tears to Cezzum’s eyes. The wraithlike creature pulsed, shimmering, as it held Cezzum by the hands. With a mighty tug the ghost pulled itself into the goblin. Cezzum’s vision became suffused with a blinding light; his own breath soon fell silent and darkness returned.
Cezzum tried to open his eyes, but they were caked and felt as if they were laden with lead. Startlingly, he found his arms free and vigorously rubbed his eyes, propelling dried sleep and rheum from his face. The goblin, with apathetic movements, managed to eventually coerce his eyes into opening.
His gaze was once again met by King Arcun’son, whose ethereal mien remained tempered and placid. Cezzum quickly sought his bearings and found the that the soldiers’ hands and the arms sprouting from the dais, which had once fettered his legs, were no longer locked upon him. Both the king and the pair of soldiers at the goblin’s side were stolidly staring at him. A groan was uttered by Palodar as he slowly returned from his vivid dormancy; his shackles no longer bound him either. The dwarf’s face was drawn and his entire countenance was the personification of haggardness, but he nodded towards the goblin indicating that he still bore some semblance of sanity behind the veil of destitution.
The four soldiers, at attention on either side of Cezzum and Palodar, shifted and moved behind the ghost king, lining up in a militaristic fashion. The transparent hands sunk beneath the platform with only a whisper to mark their passing. Cezzum’s heart beat more slowly, trying ardently to return to a normal, lively throbbing, while the fusty night air let slivers of freshness permeate it.
Arcun’son, for a second time, bore his ubiquitous eyes into both of the companions and spoke with his imperious, trinity of voices. “And thus Treatchal has judged you fairly. Thine breasts still bear breath; you bring no malice into these hallowed walls; enter with welcome and peace. The way is unbarred.”
At once a gust of air snapped through the air and the millions of sapphire particles that was the makeup of the spectres, wafted away on the wind, dispelling the companions’ inquisitor. Magically, as if the handles were pulled by an unknowable will, the gigantic rings lifted out of their inlays and heaved the great, arched-iron doors open. The craftsmanship, thought Palodar, was exceptional, for the hinges made no squeal and the only sound that marked the opening of the edifice was a swish as the trapped tomb atmosphere rushed to embrace its outer brethren.
Stairs curled downwards from the entrance of the tomb and torches burned brightly in sconces on the walls. Palodar still stood tremulously upon the dais struggling to comprehend all that had occurred. He mustered a minute smile and with his voice quivering said, “I am beginning to dislike the wonders we are seeing.”
Cezzum nodded absently as his thoughts transfigured themselves into exultations; riddled with the notion that his journey for Filburn was near its end; the realisation prodded his consciousness. A chilled gust breached the sequestered area of stagnant air, whipping the halflings’ backs as to hurry them into the tomb. Cezzum shivered as the icy air bit at his ears. Both he and Palodar fixed their hoods upon their heads and stepped across the threshold and advanced into the barrow.
The small vestibule was bathed in a warm, but weakly light; yet the air was cool and continued to harangue the halflings’ hides. They pulled their cloaks even more tightly around them as they approached the top of the stairs. The walls were rough and jutted out unevenly; at several sections, where the mortar had eroded away, roots from the grass and vegetation above pushed out between the stones.
Cezzum, interested by the source of peculiar illumination, approached one of the sconces above the flight of stairs. What he saw was a rather peculiar torch; it held no flame, nor did it give off any heat, it was merely a shimmering sphere of drab, yellow light which hovered just above the actual torch and produced the illusion that it burnt as a real one might have. He marvelled at the magic contained therein and wondered for how many years these fey lights ceaselessly glowed in their fixtures.
Palodar tapped the goblin on his shoulder and held his finger upon his lips. The pair stood in silence and listened intently. From far below, echoing along the wending walls of the staircase, were the unmistakable, but faint, sounds of the clanging metal and scraping wood.
The two friends quietly, a single, carefully placed step at a time, descended the crumbling stairs. The ancient, stone staircase wound round and round and guided them ponderously downwards into the heart of the barrow. The narrow, stepped tunnel reminded Palodar of his own kin’s staircases that coiled themselves thousands of feet high inside lofty mountains and delved into the depths of the ground. The stairs narrowed as they progressed and the two friends rearranged themselves into a single file, for the wall of rock closed around them more and more.
After a minute or two of delicately transgressing the narrow steps, the two companions halted, as before them an arched doorway led straight into a commodious chamber with an ornately carved, barrel-vaulted ceiling, belying the erosion they had only just endured. A single light, a lantern it seemed with the same mystical glow as the sconces which lined the stairway, flickered brightly upon a large stone table in the centre of the room. Four men sat around the circular table; none of them raised their heads to look at the staircase landing. Although the room was capacious, the brilliance from the single lamp managed to destroy much of the darkness within. Built into the wall, directly across from the archway, no more than three or four feet from the floor, was a deep recess which cradled a cist. It was sparse in design, but there was no mistaking the craftsmanship evident in its construct; all its angles, bevels, edges and its lustre were superlative, not one fault existed in its creation. Two more of the sarcophagi, each bearing similar coats of arms, lined the adjacent two walls, although they were but a single foot off the ground - rank retains loft even in death.
Cezzum took another step... he stopped himself from taking another. He became absorbed by the insane notion that he, a goblin, was about to enter the sepulchre of Arcun’son, the first liege of men. Palodar put his full mouth near Cezzum’s ear and whispered, “Our fourth wonder!” Cezzum smiled briefly and then, growing restive with apprehension, walked into the room.
Three of the men were engaged in a game of cards; it was a game Cezzum did not know, for each held ten or more cards in their hands. The other man, who ostensibly appeared to be of a rank of primacy, huddled low over a large, unfolded, cloth map, tracing imaginary lines with his finger. The men had heard the footfalls of the two as they had entered the upper levels of the tomb; it was why none of them looked up as the two companions entered. Weary and drawn faces were imprinted on all the men around the tabletop. The captain, while looking intently at the map, and without his gaze changing focus or faltering, cried out: “Filburn, Terreth, you return! What news do you bring from the east? If good fortune has had you favoured, speak the name quickly so you might be our ministrant; purge us of this accursed lethargy!”
Cezzum and Palodar fell utterly silent, uncertain as to how they should reply to the question.
“Have you both had your tongues dissevered from your mouths? Speak damn you,” continued the captain with a wry grin creeping over the half of his face that was visible between hood and light. A few seconds passed in stillness, the air becoming more and more torpid. Finally, the captain let out a sigh and rolled his head over to look at the archway. A suddenly raised eyebrow was his only sign of surprise.
At the same moment the three men playing cards changed their attention and followed their captain’s stare towards the archway. They, however, were not as meek as their seated leader. All of them launched from their hefty highchairs. On
e readied a curved bow that was slung around the back of a chair, nocked an arrow and planted a menacing bead upon Cezzum. The other two waylaid defenders deftly drew daggers, hidden within their habergeons, and threw themselves at the two intruders.
Before they could half the distance between them and the three-foot-high foes, the captain peremptorily cried out: “Halt! Stay your weapons!”
The men stopped immediately, dead in their tracks. There was no doubt that the other man carried sublime command of the cadre.
“The two before us would not be standing here if they meant ill,” said the captain; he rose to his feet and walked towards Cezzum and Palodar. He exuded an air of power, Cezzum thought, and any foe that warranted his aversion would be daunted by the mere sight of the man. Deep and dark shadows threw themselves across his craggy, shaven face. A prominent jaw and clear, assertive, grey eyes sought purchase upon the newcomers, identifying what intent lay within. He stood well over six-feet, lean and powerful; the captain appeared as a man that well understood the trials of a rustic, itinerant and militaristic life. A similar habergeon covered his body to well below his waist. An odd, white gilding, that seemed similar in nature to nacre, decorated his armour, but how it was flexible, Palodar and Cezzum could not fathom.
“How is it that two unfamiliar dwarves come to stand in this tomb?” asked the captain as he warily tried to look at their cloaked faces; the hoods now gazed more fixedly upon the floor. “I am amiss!” cried the captain, wrenching back Cezzum’s hood. “A dwarf and a goblin no less. These are odd times when a goblin can enter this tomb; little doubt do I have that it was for a just purpose; Arcun’son and his sons ensure that.”
He lowered himself to eye level with the halflings; while doing so, he waved a hand back towards his men; their weapons lowered. Immediately, the captain noticed Gnarlfang at Cezzum’s side, who for the first time since the start of his journey, remained unafraid, only circumspect of the man in front of him.
“You hold a mighty weapon goblin - Gnarlfang; I know it well. Filburn must have had great trust in you to bequeath such an aegis. Despite the blade you carry, you and your hirsute friend here have stolen my interest. Please, I beg of you, give unto me some news, some passing of what has transpired; I can see your dwarven companion quivering with knowledge.” The captain’s voice was firm, but it was tinged with an aged fatigue.
Cezzum looked dryly at Palodar who had an innocent look refuting the trump charges laid against him; he pointedly held his hands before him and sought any sign of a tremor; he was pleased there was none.
A wicked grin sprung onto the captain’s face as he slapped the dwarf’s shoulder and jested, “I like him already! I pray though that neither of you are mutes.”
Palodar, amused, shrugged his shoulders helplessly at Cezzum, smiled at the goblin and shook his head.
“No Master-,” started Cezzum, in the tongue of men with his regally distinctive and sibilant elocution; he was cut short by the crouching captain with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I am no one’s master, goblin, nor does anyone master over me. Again...” corrected the captain. Palodar laughed audibly at his friend as his exemplary method of address, which existed solely to preclude offense, crashed down around him.
Cezzum sighed in mock failure as he knew he would be ceaselessly pestered later by the already scheming dwarf.
“Sorry good, knight,” said Cezzum, assuming by the cut and cost of their adornments to be of that class; he waited to see if that was an acceptable title, to which the captain nodded, before he continued, “I was going to say we are indeed not mutes, but I think that much is evident now.”
The captain smiled, although Cezzum could see the anxiety and worry which ran through his blood beneath his gregarious face.
“I am Cezzum from the Wyvern’s Mountain and this is Palodar, merchant and trusted companion, from the city of Palu’don.”
The man before them nodded with respect. “I will admit that this is the first time that I introduce myself and my party to such strange company, especially to one of a race of which dozens have I slain, and yet who speaks my tongue far better than all my fellows.”
The quip garnered a few embarrassed laughs from his men.
“I am Knight-Captain Lauret, and these are my knights and brothers in arms; they are as if kin: Galfen, Ulures and Beren.”
Each of the three men nodded their heads in turn.
“But now I must ask,” said the knight-captain vehemently, “do not delay with news of Filburn and Terreth. Please tell us of them!”
Cezzum wished he did not have to bear the ill news; he winced and apologetically said, “I crave to bring thee better news, captain, but Filburn was slain many days ago, outside the Wyvern’s Nape. I do not know of this Terreth, for Filburn talked with me alone and made no mention of him. I can only suggest that he too fell to the phagen arrows before Filburn succumbed.”
A roiling cloud of gloom raged over the faces of the knights and their captain. Ulures beat a closed fist softly against his mouth while a despondent look of sorrow scathed Galfen and Beren. Lauret remained stolid, but a sheen in his eyes betrayed his heart to Cezzum and Palodar.
Lauret managed to maintain his calm voice and asked, “You bring tidings of woe, not of your own accord, and I thank you, for it could not be easy to tell, as it is trying for us to hear. You said that Filburn talked to you alone; did he send any message, any words? It is apparent enough that you took up his cause. Please, tell me it was for good measure!”
Cezzum reached inside his jerkin and retrieved the missive, holding it in his hands before the knight-captain. As he was about to hand it to Lauret, Palodar put a hand on Cezzum’s arm curtailing the gesture for a moment. Both Cezzum and Lauret looked at him curiously. The goblin thought for a moment, then nodded in understanding. Palodar spoke with a dejected voice: “My good knight-captain we, unfortunately, bring more foul news.”
Lauret’s and his men’s regard increased dramatically upon the dwarf.
“Three days ago, or maybe it was four, time melds together in this cursed Lea, Cezzum and I met another of your group, I believe. They had with them a leader whose valour I will never forget and a loranic conjurer whose art saved us from certain doom.”
Lauret thought of his company whom he had sent out to safeguard the ford of the Cevrain for Filburn’s and Terreth’s unhindered crossing. He nodded to Palodar, denoting that he knew of the men he spoke. Palodar then, in the most concise way he could wove a paean of the battle that took place at the ford: how the few brave men, an elf and a loran stemmed off a tidal wave of foes to make good their escape.
The news drove into the men with such poignancy that Beren collapsed onto his knees crying out in anguish, his eyes digging into Palodar’s, pleading longingly that his news was false, for Beren’s brother was among that party of men. Galfen and Ulures, each filled with their own dread, tried to console their comrade.
Lauret tucked his head into the nook of arm, drumming his fist against his skull as he cried, “In one sweep my entire company of knights reduced to four! To four! Ill-fated news! Fell! Fell! A captain does not deserve to outlive such valiant sisters and brothers.”
“Sisters?” asked Palodar, shocked by the proclamation.
The knight-captain raised his head, the white of his eyes had become scorched with vines of red and tears ran freely down his face, splashing into darkened spots as they collided with the stone floor. His voice was shaken: “My daughter was a knight in my company, she was but seventeen years of age; I was beseeched by her for this path. Doom upon me for this. Galfen’s betrothed was among them too, my heart aches with you brother!”
“I did not see any women!” whispered Cezzum harshly into Palodar’s ear.
The dwarf replied, “It was dark my friend, some were behind others, blocking the light from the fire. Others were veiled with cloaks and hoods, two of those we thought were men could have easily been women.”
Galfen was so str
uck with grief that his only outlet for the moment, in the face of such disaster, was a modicum of levity. He bantered back to his captain: “Do not worry; I was not too fond of her, sir!” The jest seemed apt for a trice, but none laughed.
A minute or two passed before Lauret had recomposed himself enough to look at Cezzum and Palodar once again. He put his hand on Palodar’s shoulder and ineffably, with his penetrating grey eyes, reminding him of the ghost king’s gaze, Lauret thanked him for telling such grave news.
Cezzum admired the man being able to muster courage in the wake of sheer torture. The goblin hesitantly said, “Knight-Captain, I do not know what it contains, but we hope it brings some good tidings.” Lauret accepted the missive from the goblin and stood up as he breached the wax seal on the back that was stamped with the signet of their order of knights – the head of a gryphon with six swords crossing behind it.
Lauret’s eyes would have burned a hole in the paper sheet if they were so capable. He placed the missive upon the map and slammed his fist onto the table with a thunderous crash, capturing the attention of everyone in the tomb; even Beren ceased his mourning. With a piercing whisper he muttered, “We have a name!” Silence pervaded the room before he cried out in a hopeful voice somehow stirred from brutality: “We have a name!”
Neither Cezzum nor Palodar could fathom the importance of what the knight-captain was ranting over, but the effect was immediate on his men, for their tears seemed to be staunched and each of them rose with a determination in their posture.
“Ulures,” commanded Lauret, his voice resurging with vigour, or one hiding his grief expertly, “muster our wares; make certain the cuirasses are oiled.
“Sir!” replied the tousled, blond haired man.
“Galfen, prepare a missive to Casena; tell of the news and that the name has been found. Add that her aides stand before her.”
The Good Goblin Page 10
