The entire shock of the clash sent a shattering wave through the goblins. Hundreds of phagens and goblins fell to the grass, shivered spears digging deeply into their breasts, legs, groins and heads. After the rush had receded the battle began in earnest. Men drew their shorter implements once their spears had been duly spent, turning the battle into one of an intimate and embracing nature. It was war in its most profound, basic and guttural embodiment. Limbs were cloven, heads were cleft, lives were hewn; screams and wails suffused the air, and the soil was churned, besmirched with confluences of shit and piss and blood.
The sounds of epic battle were new to all that were present; women stationed in the rear bellowed in horror at the noises, the sonorous cadence chilling the blood in their bodies – their wombs ached with each syncopated crescendo.
Arcun’son beat his way through the conflagration of battle with a single goal pervading his entirety. He cut down goblins as they ducked under shield or scampered over the tops of men’s heads, keenly searching for chance of fleshy weaknesses. The king strode the battle thus, felling, without fail, every evil creature that entered his path.
An hour lingered past; it was the first hour that had ever felt like a lifetime to the race of men. A death exhaustion was upon them; bodies were piled upon the ground; a greedy new variety of crimson grass had been born from the carnal desires of battle. Men fought atop men; goblins and phagens upon their kin; neither side gave an inch of purchase to the other. Cezzum watched the historical spectacle suffused with a sublime horror. Without forethought, his conscience darted between the din of battle, both in melody and flailing bodies, and the immutable reunion between the two brothers. Arcun’son glimpsed the limp jaw of his foe. He charged through a line of phagens. Turning his shield horizontally, he slammed it into their exposed throats; spines snapped under the strikes. As the king pulled himself through the line of collapsing cadavers, his brother caught wind of him. Rage overcame his entire being. He threw his sword at the human, but the aim was untrue and ripped into the back of an unfortunate goblin. Driven to further madness, Phagen, without regard, stormed forwards, careening into his brother. Arcun’son brought up his shield, to slim avail. The momentum drove both of them to the ground; the spikes from Phagen’s armour pierced and pitted the shield with ease. The King of the Cev’rain’s left arm was rendered useless; the shards drove deeply into his forearm. The man growled with pain as his brother extricated himself from the entanglement; Phagen ripped the shield from Arcun’son’s arm with ease and tossed it aside. The younger brother curled his fist and hammered it into the king’s face, again, and again, and again; the elder fought to recompose himself under the bewildering blows. Pulling a small dagger from his ankle, Phagen propelled it downwards, Arcun’son rolled; the dagger took him in his left shoulder. As the liege grimaced, Phagen’s hands were suddenly ripped off the hilt of the blade; two men bowling him to the ground. Seizing the respite, the king left the blade in his useless sinistral body and came to his feet; he picked up his sword with his right hand. One of the men who had tackled the fell brother reeled backwards and writhed on his side as his voice was ripped from his neck. The face of the gulletless solider sent dread through Arcun’son; his son lay clutching his throat in futility, helplessly yearning into his father’s eyes. The second son rose to his feet, but he was quickly brought low by the same manoeuvre, decades ago, that Arcun’son himself had endured; except phagen did not grip the son’s arm, rather his head; it produced a sickening twist. In the span of mere moments, Arcun’son, King of the Cev’rain, had lost both his sons; the land, both its heirs.
Arcun’son was filled with ire; his heart had been wrenched from his chest; its former place seethed with a furious vengeance. As Phagen disentangled himself from the king’s son, Arcun’son’s blade was driven down into his neck. A meaty crack announced that the blade severed the column; the sword dug deeply through the entirety of Phagen’s body; it coursed through and into the ground below. The king smashed the heel of his boot into the sword’s pommel, shooting the entire blade through his brother’s neck; it only came to a stop when the small crossguard could not pass through. The bereaved liege stood tarrying over the corpse of Phagen; he could not move; his body was so overcome with grief that all he could do was stand in a stupor. Death came swiftly for the king; an enterprising goblin jumped upon his unguarded stance and drove his dagger into him; the king collapsed next to his brother and two sons. The tide of the battle had turned. Men crying out that their liege had fallen rallied together with cries of final courage and gallantry, filled with a conviction to drive back the demons to the deepest reaches of their abyss. The foe, however, upon news that their lord was felled, became dismayed and soon their purpose was shaken. Despite their overwhelming numbers, they were routed under the unrelenting might of the raging men.
Cezzum’s gaze whirled away. He was in the ground, within the very soil itself. A foul black ooze crept from the corpse of Phagen, slithering its way through mud and dirt and rock. The good goblin was inexplicably cognisant as to what was transpiring – it was the advent of the imprecation which altered the lush plains from their former glory to that of the Fallen Leas. The vile substance crept at alarming speeds and befouled every pinch and parcel of earth and root. Years passed, decades, centuries, Cezzum knew not, but with each passing the malediction rooted itself deeper and deeper within the Leas; the only sward of land spared from the touch of the doom was the small knoll whereupon Arcun’son and his sons had perished.
More time passed, but some fell deed was at play; the essence of Phagen, of his Deorc brood, was gathering and moving through the lands; not every particle of the vile entity shifted and hunted, only a portion that would struggle to fill an ale jack.
Cezzum’s tableau again evanesced and reappeared as to display before him a tranquil scene on the eastern bank of the Cev’rain River. A young woman, elven or human she appeared, but Cezzum could not tell truly, drank deeply from the fresh waters. She did not notice the black ooze slowly, bit by bit, flowing into her hands as she absently pulled mouthfuls of water to her lips. The essence of Phagen had no ill outward effects on the woman and she proceeded to her homestead in good health. It was not until days later when goblins, drawn by the pure malice held captive in the unbeknownst host’s chest, that they espied her home and sacked it in a swift incursion.
The woman was dragged from the enflamed building by a pair of goblins to fall on the ground before their leader; they each chanted their Osi’s name: Bledun, Bledun, Bledun! With a compulsion beyond his control, Bledun drew his blade and charged it into the belly of the petrified woman. She shrieked with agony as her organs were punctured by the sword; she glimpsed her own innards churning outside her body before shock took hold and into death sped her. Instantly, the vile substance leapt from her perforated gut and heaved itself upon the goblin leader; he was thrown to the ground as the ooze ripped at his body, desperately creating a passage for itself; it hungered for entrance. Bledun lapsed into a spasm and a cloying shattering and shivering and tearing erupted from his entire corpus. His limbs began to lengthen, his shape altering. Before Cezzum could witness the entire alteration, Bledun’s cadre of guards hurled him upon their shoulders and darted into the woods.
Cezzum was pulled into the firmament and levitated above the land. His vision focused on a cluster of great mountains - a cluster so intimate that it might have easily been titled as a single mountain. They rose up to the east of the dwarven city of Darantur and north of the town of Gram’mel. Shadowy figures swirled around the peaks of the massif, darting in and out at astounding speeds. Flying through the air, Cezzum was brought rapidly into one of the mountain’s crowns, swept into an opening carved from one of the sheer faces. Before being fully submerged by the caverns, Cezzum caught a fleeting flicker of one of the airborne creatures: forward-swept wings whipped the air powerfully and enormous leather-like ears, gangly protrusions, scanned the air for any sign of intrusion. Cezzum had long heard tales of t
he wyverns; no longer would only words define the perilous creatures to his thoughts.
Leagues upon leagues of weaving tunnels flew by as Cezzum raced along. The rock faces were lost on the goblin as the speed at which he navigated the caverns was too immense for any shred of geological comprehension to become indelible. Thousands of other figures, of all sizes, from halflings to giants, dashed by him before he finally came to a halt.
Two phagens bowed respectfully to a figure in front of them and then turned to leave; each of the phagens wore sun bleached chicken skulls as epaulets; it was a show of their primacy; only the most lauded were given such delicacies. The creature to whom they bowed turned to face Cezzum in the dimly lit, dank chamber of the caverns. Beetles scampered around constantly and a heavy, rancid smell filtered through; the stench of rotting meat festering wafted from some unknown location. Eyes that resembled a goblin looked at Cezzum, or rather through him. The ocular portals were altered, somehow, they were more malevolent, as was the goblin’s entire makeup. The goblin stood near the height of a phagen, appearing more a half-breed rather than being defined by any wicked purity. It exuded a hatred that was palpable to the senses; it was only amplified by the intimidating image of its body. Wounds that would have commonly seen a person to a quick death pulsed with life upon the limbs and torso of the half-goblin. A liquid more viscous than blood and raven-hued, trickled along his body before ebbing back into the wounds from whence they came; within seconds the substance flowed outwards once more, as if another entity pulsed within the creature.
Osi’Bledun-Deorc’s focus of attention altered, for every fibre that thrummed within Cezzum told him this. The Osi peered at Cezzum instead of through him. Cezzum was flooded with fear; his mind became wracked with pain as a force, painful, deadly and probing, scoured his thoughts. With all of his conscious might Cezzum struggled to eject the mental invasion of Bledun. Images, plans, thoughts, ideas were all ripped from Cezzum as the Osi fed off his knowledge, but the good goblin continued to struggle. The bond broke! Cezzum was plunged into the mind of the reincarnated leader of the Deorc horde. Harrowing spectres bombarded Cezzum; it was then that the pure spite and animus of Bledun made itself pellucid. A tall silhouette, which previously had stood stolidly at the Osi’s side, moved into view, sensing the danger Cezzum posed and how the tide of the espial duel had shifted. The sight sent a ripple into the goblin knight. A loran stood at the flank of Bledun, ethereal, unworldly and diaphanous; it was a surreal remnant of a dream to Cezzum; the loranic spectre approached him. The loran brandished a gleaming silver staff in his hand, and with one deft movement stepped towards where Cezzum’s conscience was, smashing down the head of the staff upon the area where Cezzum’s observation rested. The paladin’s vision became drowned in a dizzying darkness and he felt himself pulled from the ephemeral plane of the Espial Font, his body convulsing in pain.
Casena jumped to Cezzum’s side as he was flung from the Espial Font. Before he could careen into the surrounding shelves of books, the knight-captain grasped him tightly in her arms and held. She wrapped herself around the goblin who was ripped with a violent paroxysm. She channelled her magical energies, a violet nimbus engulfed them both; Cezzum slowly recomposed into a shuddering calmness.
The hour was late when Palodar and Lúnàras were finally summoned to Casena’s library. Palodar had been able to wash his clothes in the spring earlier that day and he stood looking more resplendent than he had been in days. “There is nothing better than fresh clothes upon your back, Lúnàras. If nothing else, it makes you feel whole in the world!” preached the dwarf as he ascended the steps with the magician.
Lúnàras grinned. “But what of the nude form, my friend? Is it not the most splendid form any of us can display? Attire merely serves to negate our inherent beauty and enthral us to conform to a doctrine of outlandish and prudish decorum.”
“Aye,” laughed Palodar, “there is no doubt there! Have you seen a lady-dwarf in her skin of birth? If you have not, you have yet to behold true beauty, loran! Even so, I still prefer a sturdy cloak and boots for traipsing through the land than bare skin – mind you, I fathom one might be less prone to bandits if one did travel in the nude; dwarven physique in its truest form would strike terror into the hearts of the most cunning foe!”
“Oh,” rejoined Lúnàras, with a sarcastic twist to his lip, “experience has taught me as much today.” The dwarf heaved his accord with his breath; Lúnàras chuckled. Palodar shook his head at the mage as he reached to open the study door.
“You lorans are a strange bunch,” asserted Palodar.
Entering the room, the two were hailed by Casena and Cezzum, who stood up from behind a rectangular table in one corner of the room and greeted them welcomingly. Palodar grinned as he saw his goblin friend’s anxious face. Casena approached the dwarf and loran knights. “We have beheld the mountain that is dubbed by the Osi as the trumpet to his banner. How he had managed to gather forces there without knowledge, I do not know; I suspect dire illusion was involved,” informed Casena to her knights. Sadness and fatigue laden her voice as lead in water. “The mountain keep lies to the north of Gram’mel and east of Darantur - the Forlorn Mountains.”
“Well then,” Palodar cried, his voice filled with zeal, “we know where this demon outcast now dwells, let us send word to all the lands of the races and march upon his fortress and bring it down atop his head!”
Casena could see the fatuous courage in the dwarf and she smiled at him regardless, even before he had finished his proclamation; the earnestness of intent cheered her in spite of his irrelevant attack plans. “His forces are too strong Palodar. By the time any words could rally the hearts and feet of others, Bledun will have sallied forth. Nay, even if rallied, those close enough to be at the fore of battle would be crushed under the Osi’s might; news has come that the wyverns have pledged their fealty to him. We remain stalwart with Lauret’s plan; it is of swift and prudent design.”
Palodar nodded solemnly, no expostulation churning from his lips, realising what he had suggested was futile; nevertheless, he felt all the more content with himself for saying what he did – he at least garnered smiles from those present. Cezzum stepped forwards and was about to offer voice when a startling figure entered the room. Upon seeing his friend’s incredulous expression, a compression of fright, Palodar spun round. The dwarf’s jaw fell open, agape. Standing indifferently before the gathering of knights was a dragon.
The dragon, no more than three-feet-high when striding on its four muscular legs, appeared as one of the most exceptional being of its kind; Casena knew this far better than others. Iridescent scales sparkled every variety of light; so much so that it was nigh impossible to ascertain exactly what colour the dragon truly was; Cezzum thought it a deep crimson and gold, but even that was uncertain for glimmers of green and blue glinted and gleamed all about as well. Great scales and leathery wings were folded high on its back and a thick, tapering tail swung to and fro when the dragon approached them. The most impressive lineaments the creature bore however, were not on its body but rather upon its head; the dragon was possessed of a striking serpentine snout, with fangs that shifted from terrifying to placid as its lips curled and unfurled; with this, brilliant large eyes adorned the dragon’s countenance and its gaze quickened the pulse of its onlookers.
“A dragon!” cried Palodar in amazement. The creature returned all their looks in kind; it sauntered over to Casena and lowered its back legs, sitting on the ground beside her.
“Yes, dear dwarf, I am a dragon,” rejoined the scaled creature with a hint of undulating sardonicism in its voice.
“This is Tac’quin of the dragon-kin,” announced Casena, her voice surprisingly filled with humility. “It is of a rare distinction of dragon, and a true friend of old to myself. Before you wonder Cezzum and Palodar, Tac’quin speaks with dragon-tongue; it is a language of their own design, and if they will it, those around them can fathom their words; if they will it not to be, naught
could be understood. Tac’quin, at my behest, has offered to extend his will in our endeavour.”
Of all those in the chamber, the dragon eyed Palodar markedly. The dwarf maintained his own composure and wondered whether the dry grin on Tac’quin’s face was one of contempt or humour. “What good will a dragon be to us if we are to follow Lauret’s plan? If anything, it would dismiss any hope we might have for success!” cried the dwarf with protestation that far exceeded his original intent; the stare was flustering.
The dragon rose onto its feet and took a step closer to Palodar. Its lips snarled slightly and suddenly a tiny dart of flame was shot from the dragon. The little tongue of flame lilted through the air towards Palodar until it came to rest snugly inside his beard. Palodar frantically patted, scoffing his dismay loudly. He looked down at the numerous singed hairs upon him. He turned his eyes to the dragon and glowered at it. Lúnàras grinned at the spectacle, but Casena was less affable. “Cease this inane strife at once! Our cause is common. Dwarf-Knight, dispose of your preconceptions, you know naught of dragon-kin, and, you, dragon, are a friend to us, but do not give credence to the volatile bearing your kind is known for; not at this razor’s edge.”
“My apologies, knight,” murmured Tac’quin sincerely, waiting an appropriate amount of time in silence where both indomitable will and decorum could be satisfied.
The Good Goblin Page 16
