The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  Amyia was quickly offered an empty bowl as she emerged from the crowd by an eagerly diligent child. “Thanks, Tobin. Yous know where me mum is?”

  “Yous Welcomes, Amyi. She over ‘dere by the big pot!” proudly said the little boy, pointing to Amyia’s right, before he darted off again on his chores.

  Amyia quickly dabbed her gashes and wounds with her finger to make sure they had not oozed any more blood to mar her appearance. Once happy she crossed over to her mother and stood behind her. “The biggests scoop you can mum,” cried Amyia with a rapacious keenness to her being.

  Her mother dipped the ladle into the pot, brought it out, and turned around; an incensed look swept across her previously jovial face. “Amyia!”

  “Wha’?” she cried in bewilderment, unable to understand the anger.

  “Look at you! You’re in your nightclothes, those are not for the outside! I’ve only washed them. Get your little self back home and change! Then you can come back!”

  Amyia’s face became drawn. “But I’s here already, can’t I’s just get some stew, then I’l gos back an’ eat there, an’ I’s won’t leave again, I’s promise, I’l go right back to bed,” she pleaded fervently, her eyes wide with pity.

  “No, you must learn not to wear your nightclothes outside. Once you’ve changed you can come back.”

  “But!”

  As she miserably tried to cry her appeal, her mother simply turned around and started serving others. Several eyes had watched the altercation, some of the caravaneers laughing at poor Amyia’s fate, and despite her mother’s elegance and beauty, none envied the girl, for they all knew far too well that her mother was as hard a woman as any that walked upon the lands. Amyia, however, was too enraged to notice any of this; she threw down her carved, wooden bowl and marched out of the circle, knocking adults, twice her height, out of the way.

  She heard her brother calling her name and running after her, but he was waylaid by his own obstruction, a young lady of similar age who had taken to thinking she was his betrothed. Stopped in his tracks by groping arms, he managed to call out the best thing that he could: “Amyia, she is but our mum!”

  Amyia seethed all the way back to the caravan, muttering curses at her mother and clenching her fists so tightly that they trembled and became as white as a pearl. Reaching her homestead, she kicked the rear wheel as hard as she could with undirected rage; the act only caused her to limp and bobble along in pain; Amyia had forgotten she had but slippers on. She threw open the door and then furled the overhead flap to let the moons’ and stars’ light in. She stomped over to the armoire again. The inside of the caravan became enclosed with a gentle red hue, for Fesser was waning while Asthen was in its full glory.

  A feeling caused her to stop in her tracks. She allowed her temper to cool and stood in complete silence as she tilted her head and listened. Something was indeed off; she could hear the faint ramblings of the others at the fire down the line, but around her she knew the air was too still, too soft, but there was an eerie, loud stillness that should not have been. For a moment Amyia considered standing on the bunks and peering through the open top; she instead decided to lean over the basin and unfastened the thread-held window. The little window flopped downwards. Amyia looked out of the small portal for a good minute, but saw not a thing. She was about to turn away when an outline darted past the window – it was far too swift to be made out and looked as if it were but a shadow.

  A cry ripped through the night and Amyia could hear all the men and guards shouting the alarm: “To arms! To arms!” The words ran up and down the caravan line. Muffled shrieks and screams intertwined with the piercing whinny of horses as folk scrambled for weapons. Before Amyia could turn to run out of the caravan, a grotesque face appeared before her: a foul, jade skin, with stern yellow eyes and a crooked, aquiline nose – Amyia had no doubt that it was a goblin. It was trying to claw its way through the opening, its claws piercing the fabric, when, without forethought, Amyia slammed her fist into one of its bulbous eyes. The creature reeled in pain and fell backwards off the van. She turned and started towards the rear door when she was again jostled about, this time not by a stone in the road. It seemed as if the ground below was pounding at regular intervals, thud after quaking thud. Suddenly the caravan began to lift upwards and tilt terrifyingly over. Amyia clutched one of the bed posts with all her might and held on. Her entire world rotated around her as the caravan was flung through the air. Drawers, cupboards and everything that was loose shot out and together with clothes and bedding and linen churned around inside her spinning barrel of a home.

  The caravan smashed into the ground. Amyia, ripped by a force far superior to her most valiant efforts, could not hold on as the home came to a sudden halt. She flew across the room and slammed into a wooden arch. The mirror adjacent her shattered into a thousand pieces, thrusting thousands of razor-like motes of glass everywhere. Amyia shut her eyes desperately but felt the scathing pain of the glass cutting her all over. The caravan toppled one final time and came to an abrupt halt; unfortunately for Amyia it stopped inverted. Her back slid down the strong wooden arch, which had managed to survive intact from the disaster, and lay crossing her arms against her face as everything that was loose came crashing down around, and on top of, the poor child.

  She pushed the debris off her head and lay dazed, staring at the floor. The din around her was garbled by her walloped senses and Amyia simply remained prostrate for a few seconds, mentally coaxing her faculties back into some form of sensibility. She felt her face with her finger tips and they came back to her eyes as bloodied. She twisted and then sat up slightly, pain running down her bruised side and back; she saw at least a dozen more cuts weeping; her once neat night dress was ripped and gashed. Amyia crawled through and over the jumbled heaps of goods and tried to push through the rear portal, but to no avail; the rear of her wagon home had been crushed against a tree... She slowly, painfully, came to her feet and pressed against the door to see if there was any play she could squeeze through, but the tree’s bole was too large and wedged shut any hope of an opening. Amyia shook her hood, trying to gather her remaining wits that were lost. Clawing through the tangled clutter on the floor, she eventually came across what she was after. Pulling her brother’s leather hunting boot from beneath a broken trinket box, she grasped the handle of a plain, foot-long skinning knife tucked into the side of the boot in its own specially woven sheath. Amyia drove the knife into the one of the canvas sides and cut a large incision in the fabric; she quickly clambered out of the wrecked caravan.

  Amyia toppled straight into a large shrub. She grimaced with pain as the vegetation’s leaves and twigs brushed and tugged at her many wounds. Wails of children still clung to the air, but the sounds of battle had taken up verse as metal clanged against metal and the odd deadened thud whispered the flight of arrows.

  After righting herself, she brushed away a handful of foliage to gain a purchase to see the road and the travesty that was raging upon its tamped surface. If there was one thing Amyia had come to learn, through the many years of playing war, it was the ability to remain silent; to be still and unseen; to wait for the perfect moment to pounce; even so, not a lifetime of playing at war could have prepared her for this. Lumbering down the caravan line were two massive, hulking pokroks. The gigantic beasts each stood over seventeen feet tall. They had globular appendages that were so thick and disproportionate that they could well have been mistaken as being swollen from some incurable ailment; yet the sheer size and height and ferocity of the creature made it appear anything from ailed. Goblins sat on the pokroks’ short, hunched necks, thick stems that supported the enormous weight of their prognathous heads. The behemoths’ circular feet pounded the ground with each step it took. One of the pokroks, with its gargantuan hands that was knotted with several equally thick fingers, gripped onto another wagon and, holding it aloft, as if the entire construction weighed no more than twig, threw it fervently at the gathering crowd of defend
ers. A dozen of the caravaneers ducked hastily as the flying van plunged into the fire behind them, sending burning brands and ambers over them. Several of them quickly recovered and fired a volley of arrows at the assaulting creatures. Two goblins and a long-fanged, lanky phagen collapsed to the ground, but the pokrok reached for the three arrows that had dug themselves into its chest and uncaringly plucked them from its skin. The caravaneer defenders formed a circle around the fire; the majority of the women and children were clustered behind them. But more and more phagens and goblins were rushing along the road, seemingly spawning from the dense thickets of trees, towards the vestige of humans.

  Amyia judged that there was no hope for the others. She wanted to scream out, as loud as she could, with all the torment and the pain that she vicariously felt as the others were struck down. A sudden surge of naïve clarity swept over Amyia and she tightened her grip on the hunting-knife. She sprung from her refuge and bowled a goblin to the ground who had been searching the wreck of a nearby cart. The creature was caught off-guard and fumbled about for its weapon, but it was too late. Amyia was already on top of the goblin and she thrust the knife into its neck, just above its rusted, chain collar. The goblin jolted as its nerves were severed; the wicked green halfling soon became limp. It was sheer providence that three phagens, in that very moment running down the road, did not glimpse the sight to their right where Amyia was kneeled down wrenching the knife from the goblin’s neck, sprouting a tiny spring of blood as she did so to the sounds of a fading gurgle. One of the three phagens was unexpectedly knocked to the ground as a bolting horse smashed into it, trying to escape the dinning, raging noises; Amyia could do naught to prevent a grin tugging at her lips at the sight of the trampled, wicked creature. Her mind surged to immediate concerns and she swiftly hid herself behind the nearest wagon. A caravaneer’s body soared into it, undoubtedly knocked through the air by a pokrok. Having little time to sympathise with her fellow’s fate, Amyia started to dart from caravan to caravan and bush to bush, running as fast as she could down the convoy - a trying task while attempting to remain concealed as the same time.

  Sitting on her haunches, with her side pressed against a large wheel of one of the caravans, Amyia was a few feet athwart from the encircled fire; she gazed at the tableau before her. The only blessing for the caravaneers seemed to be the reluctance of the pokroks in approaching the inferno at the centre of their holdout. The lumbering beasts were shying away from the roaring flames, much to the discontent and frustration of their riders; instead, the beasts decided to smash trees and carts, launching the newfound projectiles at the defenders. The goblins and phagens however were unrelenting and undeterred. A number of them had fallen and their lifeless bodies lined the roads, but many caravaneers lay broken as well. Amyia’s heart was torn asunder. She could see the final play of the raiders coming to a disbelieving truth. From beyond their fell ranks came a company of archers. All Amyia could do was tremble in helplessness; she watched the scene in dismay that clawed at every organ within. She saw her brother valiantly standing beside another caravaneer, nocking and releasing arrows as fast as they could, while two swordsmen stood at their sides hacking those that made it through. A solid oak wheel slammed into one of the sword wielders, crushing him instantly; there was no time for the others to react. Instantly a hail of arrows ripped into the first line of defenders, and without shields, they were destroyed utterly. Amyia’s brother was punctured in his chest; he stammered for a second then for his last, he charged at a phagen, drawing his sword and raising it high above him. He brought it down in a vicious arc, but the phagen had anticipated the movement and deftly sidestepped, bringing its own weapon to bear in the space between, rending the young man’s abdomen open. Amyia felt her gorge rise as tears streamed; the abject horror before her cutting her as much as any physical wound could. Unable to turn her head, Amyia’s gaze was fixed.

  With the defenders’ will broken, the caravaneers had no recourse other than to flee with whatever little fragment of life they still clung to. A flurry of people rushed in every direction where the faintest hope of an opening could be glimpsed; to a person, trying to evade their doom; it was a malign nature that ensured that goblins and phagens were bred for their swiftness, and scores of the creatures mercilessly cut down the caravaneers; even the pokroks managed to gain the advantage on a few, crushing them into the ground; into puddles of blood and bone. A dreadful sight caught Amyia’s focus before she at last had the lucidity to divert her awareness from the grisly scene. Her mother stood steadfastly at the pot she had been cooking at earlier; a rapier from a fallen man was in her hands. A cacophony of death roared around her as she stood firmly and pierced a phagen and then lunged at a goblin. In that instant Amyia saw her mother for the woman she truly was: courageous, gallant and indomitable beyond any measure. And in Amyia’s palpable grief, she felt herself swell with admiration, an admiration riddled with terror. A goblin leapt at Amyia’s mother but she swivelled on her heels and the creature fell straight into the flames, screaming. The evasion had put her off balance and before she could recover a spear was thrust into her side; the sword dropped from her hands.

  “Mum!” shrieked Amyia viscerally, with a cry that clove the air in twain.

  Her mother’s rippling eyes, knowing their own mortality, looked up as she fell to her knees and saw her child’s face staring at her from behind the wheel.

  “Amyia!” she cried with her last breath as she fell forwards onto the dirt road as the instrument of her death took a second essence of her. Despite the carnage that raged about, Amyia’s mother remained adamant in death; no lineaments of weakness marred her face.

  Amyia’s hand was clutched over her mouth; every inch of her was fraught with grief; she had no outlet for it, no control. She was on the verge of retching when she saw the phagen that slew her mother, pick up the rapier, leaving the spear in its victim, and charged towards the girl; it was followed by a half dozen other foes. Amyia’s blood surged, her gorge ceasing. Darting with frightful speed, she leapt through brush and bush and ran with every last remnant of her frayed essence into the woods beyond, her harriers in pursuit.

  The fire raged below it, to the south of where it flew. It knew immediately what had transpired was of ill design, for nothing that ever bares an inferno on a road was fortune favoured. A long stream of fire ran down the Great North Trade Road; the flames strove to rise above the tree tops. But the creature forced itself to look away; it had another mission.

  Flapping its wings powerfully, it took to the higher streams of air and scanned the horizons from end to end. Whispers and rumours had set it on this path, governed by the need for certainty. If the words that had been heard were to be true, disaster could soon be upon everyone. Its serpentine eyes searched mightily for any speck, flicker or quiver that might indicate something moving against the dawning light. A glimmer! It forced every muscle to innervate around its eye, turning its iris into a veritable spyglass. A rush of dread ran through its blood; the whispers held veracity. A skein of its dreaded foe flitted across the sky in the far distance. Its blood flowed with a coldness. It turned its head from the sight and swooped downwards, the pre-dawn gloom bouncing iridescently off its scales. The little dragon soared downwards, back to the land below, to inform its confidant of the pernicious news. The wyverns were flying to war.

  Chapter VII

  The Heart of the Matter

  C ezzum and Palodar approached the tower. It was a lofty, square-shaped edifice, built with ancient stone and mortar; the material had been weathered away by the centuries to leave an outpost of uneven texture - a stalwart remnant of the past. Crenulated battlements adorned its uppermost level while numerous arrow slits and murder holes were dauntingly carved into the tower’s façade. The oddest feature the two companions noted however, were not the characteristic features prevalent in most barbicans, but it was rather something that was ingeniously unique to the tower before them: an intricate series of pipework, gullies and
gutters ran over the coarsened patina of the tower which then converged, at numerous outlets, onto several solid metal plates that were angled downwards and ran the complete circumference of the structure. Palodar did not envy those charged to assault the tower; impervious archers were a hard-enough task on their own, but the added challenge of competing against a sheeting stream of pitch and oil was not an auspicious notion in the slightest.

  The tower sat at the southern end of a dense forest path. If it were not for the directions they had been given, the tower could have been easily missed in the thick foliage which surrounded it for many miles. A large shape, whose silhouette against the bright morning’s light looked much like a large bird of some ilk, swiftly darted over the canopy of trees, disappearing from view as it landed on the tower’s summit.

  The goblin and dwarf had left the barrow three suns past. As per Lauret’s orders, the two newly ordained knights had travailed the land southwards, towards a tower that was located on the fringes of the old Cevrain province; a day’s brisk march from the southern verge of the Fallen Leas. The trip had proven uneventful, much to the felicity of the two companions. The one notion that did strike them as peculiar was that despite the surplus stores of fare given to them by Beren, the Leas did not have the same effect on them as they left its grassy mantle, as opposed to when they had first entered the plains, and their victuals, after three days of travel, had not diminished greatly; sadly, they did not see Bogroo as they had journeyed away.