The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  “Yo-u… you, may pass,” conceded the guard before Palodar.

  Palodar clasped him friendlily by the shoulder: “We thank you.”

  Tac’quin and he rejoined Amyia and Cezzum.

  The masses of travellers slowly started to move on their ways once more. The two guards looked at one another as the four companions passed between them; perhaps Cezzum was right, more than taverns were going to be drained of liquor by the middle of the night. The four companions crossed the threshold and stepped into Darantur.

  Chapter X

  Into the Warrens

  T he dwarven passageway was a close fit for the party, even tighter when they had to pass a hurrying gaggle of dwarven wives as they dashed passed heading to the road. Shortly after the portal into the tunnel, the ceiling had vaulted upwards dramatically, creating a narrow yet lofty path. It resembled a gorge or defile more than any thoroughfare, but Palodar looked quite at home. Oil fed torches burnt vividly in sconces just higher than the halflings’ height, the flames of which rested adjacent intricate inlays of reflective stone. Amyia thought the stonework seemed similar to that found in a reflecting glass; the effect however was beyond any such imagination, as the shimmering incandescence bathed the entire hallway in a warming yellow glow. While the path before them was illuminated, the space above their heads was lost in darkness, and judging from the sheer face which ran up the mountain side, seen beforehand from outside the entrance, the cavity would tower for many hundreds of feet.

  When they were further from the entrance, Palodar inhaled deeply allowing every mote of fusty air to swirl within him and caress his lungs. He let the breath out slowly, almost as if hesitant to do so and an infectious smile crossed his lips. “Ah, I had forgotten the smell of hearth and home,” he announced in his own little reverie. “No matter how much joy one finds elsewhere in this world, including all the wonders we have seen, sometimes, naught can match the touch of home.”

  Amyia winced at the remark. She well realised that the dwarf was merely making them all feel at ease and at comfort, which had been lost for many a day, but the foreboding and nettling sense that her entire home had been effaced from existence, the sole refuge of any of her family’s presence residing as a vestige in her memory. An unseen forlornness descended upon her as they walked on.

  Palodar led the van of the line as walking abreast was not possible with traffic flowing in both directions; as such, he could not hear the air of depression that rushed out of Amyia’s chest as he remarked once again on the splendour of striding within the dwarven homelands. Cezzum turned his head momentarily to face her as they walked. He recalled then the nature of his words and he turned; with a remorseful smile of commiseration he held Amyia’s gaze; with that little conveyance of comfort, it assuaged Amyia’s melancholy; yet what she felt, in spite of the dwarf’s tenderness, was an ache that would forever rankle and no benediction would ever cure her of it; it would become a constant reminder and it would be the site of a continuous battle between the type of person she may have become as opposed to the person she would become.

  As if sensing that he had caused Amyia the impulse of harm, Palodar added, “But perhaps I am wrong, it has… occasionally happened.” The dwarf had been spurned by his mother, perhaps in truth, perhaps jovially, but the true story was locked away within his mind; what was known however was that, despite all his travels, something infinitely profound still touched him when his gait passed through the hallowed dwarven halls; even so, he knew he harboured far greater love for his three newly found companions than he had ever known, especially for his goblin brother. With a chuckle to himself he left the thought trail off unfinished. He changed the subject. “You know, I was once asked to join the Order of Light, ahh a bright flame, a candle in these halls I would have been.”

  “Orders of Light?” Amyia asked.

  “Aye! The Order of Light, dear Amyia; a finer collection of dwarves does not exist or ever could exist, for how can one shine brighter than those named after light? It is not possible I say. Such a sacred Order are they, present in all cities, boroughs, towns and villages where dwarves dwell, and so honoured are they that when they walk the streets all know the sacrifices of slumber these courageous folk forsake to ensure the security and prosperity of our passageways,” cried Palodar in a great paean of his people.

  “What’s do they do?” bellowed Amyia excitedly.

  “The finest thing imaginable! They ensure that all these torches burn brightly every hour of every day; they keep the darkness at bay; without them we might not see where our feet tread!”

  Amyia’s eagerness drastically ebbed. “Oh.”

  “At a loss for words? Fear not Amyia for many are such as you when those esteemed few walk by. Well, if I didn’t have a knack for adventuring, tailoring or being a jeweller, I might well have been the finest member of the Order of Light.”

  Amyia and Cezzum laughed, and those at the other end of the passageway, heading for the exit the companions had just entered through, could barely believe their eyes as a puff of fire illuminated the end of the hallway fleetingly as an unintentional slip of mirth escaped from Tac’quin’s lips; some secreted amusements not even dragons could keep.

  A stone table stood before them. It was carved from the wall itself and sat between a fork in the passageway, branching to either side of it. The meticulously wrought counter was still attached to the rock face and a section of stone behind the table had been burrowed out to form a splendid looking alcove wherein a dwarf was firmly ensconced ploughing through a plethora of papers and missives upon his desk. A lamp hung from the stone overhang, not more than three feet above the tabletop; an elaborate shade was draped over it to focus the light onto the work area. A small well had been crafted into the surface of the table and was filled an ebony ink; a magnificent quill rested beside it, with a plume of feathers that adeptly counterbalanced the quill’s tip and haft.

  “Yes, yes, yes, how can I help you?” recited the dwarf sitting behind table with a voice so rapid that each sentence could not be filled with another word should he have tried. The dwarf was a dour old fellow with a full face and head of silver hair, neatly trimmed and clasped with many ties. His garb shone immaculately and Palodar thought him to be slightly foppish as even the cream of government officials who dealt with the general population and foreigners were scarcely ever dressed in such finery. Blue eyes scanned sheaves of paper with a swiftness that Palodar had hitherto thought quite impossible. A sufficient amount of time had elapsed without a forthcoming response; the fastidious dwarf finally looked up at who had approached him. As he did so, the light from the lamp graced his face, and despite aged wrinkled he appeared striking in features and in his youth, thought Palodar, he must have been one of the comeliest dwarves in the city.

  “Good noon,” said Palodar in greeting, once again content to be speaking in Valaku.

  “Good noon, good noon,” repeated the dwarf. “Busy, busy here, now what do you want? Are you an expected political envoy?”

  Palodar shook his head, his beard weaving from side to side. “Nay.”

  “Are you seeking asylum from either your people or a war?”

  “I am a dwarf!” protested Palodar.

  “Are any guilds, magistrates, provosts, lords or dowagers expecting you?”

  Palodar absently scratched his head. “I do not think so.”

  “Then why,” said the dwarf, setting down his ream of papers and leering at the interrupting dwarf before him, “do you bother me, hmm, hmm, hmm?”

  Palodar was stunned at the speed at which the conversation had evolved before him.

  “Do you stutter, hmm? Why, why do you bother me, out, out, out with it, what do you want?”

  Palodar looked back at his companions who all wore a grin, except for Cezzum whose face was hidden, but the bobbing of his hood gave a clear indication of the mirth beneath it. Palodar assumed that their interpretations of the tone between them suggested it was not going in his favour.
/>
  “Umm,” answered Palodar, “we are seeking a specific dwarf.”

  The dwarf behind the desk looked at Palodar incredulously. “You seek a dwarf? A dwarf? You seek a dwarf? You seek a dwarf in a dwarven city? How novel, how quaint of you. Shall I throw a stone down some tunnel and strike a dwarf on the head and see if it is the one you seek? Hmm? Perhaps that would work for you?”

  Palodar sighed with exasperation; he did not quite remember his people to be so surly and brusque. Perhaps the sedentary dwarf and the guard he had haggled with earlier were father and son. He altered his question to a more suitable one given that the entrance through which they had passed was novel to him. “Where do these two tunnels lead?”

  The dwarf looked to his right. “The left tunnel is a thoroughfare into Darantur proper, yes, yes, yes, Darantur proper.” He looked to his left, “the right takes you to a periphery village, yes, yes.”

  Numerous people were resolutely walking between where the companions stood and the left passageway; Palodar was jealous of their decided directions.

  The dwarf drummed his fingers on the table. “Left, left, left, go left, and leave me in peace, go bother someone else. No, no, time to waste on unimportant matters or persons.” Turning back to his papers, obviously bearing far more importance than those who needed directions; he then pointedly ignored them. Palodar gave one more attempt before seeking a more forthcoming dwarf in the borough itself.

  “We seek a farmer. Perhaps that helps?” asked Palodar with an edge of finality to his words.

  The dwarf languidly lifted his head to look at Palodar again. “I told, yes I told you what to do, yet you still bother me. Bothering me still. Curses, blights and banes upon you harriers! I am a regal Welcomer, a royal Herald and yet, and yet, I have good graces, such good graces to listen to your drivel. If you will leave me in peace, and peace from you is what I seek, I say to you Darantur’s farms are to the right, to the right, yes, yes, yes. Take the tunnel and come to the village of Daranbar; it is one of Darantur’s wards, a district, a quarter, all farmers go there to conduct business, for nobles and important people cannot have farmers bothering them in their daily business in the city, no, no, no they cannot. Now go! Go, go, go, hasten and leave, leave – very far behind, important people coming today, to-day and far far behind…” The dwarf’s words trailed off as he picked up his quill, returning to his parchments and began scribbling documents at a pace beyond comprehension.

  Palodar turned to his group and shrugged with an affable smile. The entire exchange in Valaku was lost on them, but from the comparative swiftness of the other dwarf’s words they managed to garner the ultimate gist. With a step to the right the others followed and they once again walked a hallway as remarkable as the first, but with a paucity of fellow travellers.

  An hour shuffled away as the party weaved their way through the dwarven halls, Palodar’s keen sense of direction in the subterranean network never leading them astray. It was a feat which boggled the minds of both Amyia and Tac’quin for almost every juncture, crossing, square or intersection looked remarkably similar, but not a hesitant step did their dwarven guide take. With aching feet they finally emerged at the district that passers-by had informed them was called Daranbar; with the exclusion of Palodar, the party was ill-prepared for the sight that met their eyes.

  The tunnel opened up into a cavern that stretched for hundreds of yards. A massive barrel-vaulted ceiling, rising to ninety feet in the air, adorned the settlement with carvings and bas-reliefs of great dwarven farmers, stock and draft animals and crops of grand variety that it was incredibly difficult to imagine such a plethora of harvestable plants could exist. A road, cobbled and quarried to immaculate perfection, and more than able to comfortably accommodate several carts travelling abreast, wound its way directly through the centre of the village, forming an elephantine and sumptuous main street. Buildings, both free standing and wrought and recessed into the very stone they came from, straddled the high street, complete with patios, stalls, verandas and shops. Several of the buildings rose to over four storeys in height, the entire vista giving a sense of an unworldly land formed from the bosom of the mountain itself. Cezzum stood dumbfounded and attempting to liken it to something his mind might conceive; the nearest he could come was if a colony of ants were possessed of great civic engineering and artistry, then surely what was before him would too have been their talents.

  A feature more astonishing than the village was the absence of any torches; in spite of this, the entire district was bathed in a diffuse afternoon light, as if it were bequeathed by the sun itself, mystically passing through the mountain above them like it were no more than a gossamer fabric. A great statue stood in the market square at the epicentre of the village: an effigy of a burly dwarf and pet hound holding high a torch adorned with what could only be described as an object resembling a massive diamond that rested in the place where the torch’s flame might have been. In truth, it was a prism of grand proportions and facets too numerous to tally. Following the line from the apex of the prism, it led into an immeasurable shaft at the midpoint of the ceiling. Light poured forth from the channel, bouncing off the diamond prism and reflected the scattered illumination to thousands of installations of glass, mirror and reflective stones placed at key points around the locality. The effect of the magnificent craftsmanship encouraged the belief that the village residing within a mountain was quite irrelevant.

  Palodar threw the others a triumphant grin. “And you all thought the Order of Light was a bunch of dwarves with candles.” He clasped Cezzum on the shoulder and spritely said, “You are winning, brother.”

  Cezzum tilted his hood at him. “Winning?”

  “Aye, you have seen one more wonder than I have since we set off on this quest. I need to catch up!”

  Tac’quin too stood in awe of the scene before it. It too had never been within a dwarven settlement before. “How does the light pass through such a shaft?” the dragon queried, intrigued by the ingenuity presented before it.

  Palodar pointed to the chute. “The shaft leads straight upwards to the exterior of the mountain where there is a collection of reflecting glass placed around the opening; they gather the sun and focus it onto another of those prisms, more finely tooled; it concentrates the light downwards unto the statue’s brand.”

  The dragon was thoughtful for a moment then recalled the numerous reflections that dotted its eyes the half dozen times it had flown atop the dwarven massif. A swirl of smoke from its snout denoted its awe.

  Two dwarven farmers, followed closely by several farmhands laden with an assortment of goods, strode past the stationary companions with a flurry of speed that nearly bowled Cezzum over. Amyia smiled broadly at all the dwarves and people of all assortments, even if the proportions presented to her certainly favoured those of a halfling stature.

  Regaining his balance and ensuring his guise was still intact, Cezzum whispered to Palodar: “Perhaps it best we divest ourselves of this road. Where should we go to find out where this farmer could be? Be there a constabulary here?”

  Palodar pulled Cezzum to one side as a host of missive runners ran by. “I cannot say; I have not been in this quarter before, but true to any dwarf, the best place to find one, or at least gossip about them, would be where the evening milk flows! They are usually a street or two off the main square - a great position for such establishments, fortifications are always needed to ease the soul after a tasking day of dickering at the markets and baling the farms.”

  “Let us hope it clouds not their memories of who our contact might be. Lauret called him Gilly, a farmer from Darantur - a title far too encompassing.”

  “Come, let us to the juice of bees! For no finer way is there to loosen a dwarf’s tongue!” And without further delay they entered the village proper.

  If any of the party thought agrestic life to be sedate, commonplace or serene, as was woven into many a folk tale, the scene before the companions swiftly dispelled any such no
tions. Mongers of all types, from fish to iron, wailed out their prices and their singular specials to those in the streets that passed by their stalls and counters. Wagons rolled by at breakneck speeds, some piled high with crops or livestock or wool, all heading to the market; they were late, as the afternoon was already in full effect; others leisurely made their way out of town - dwarves donning great smiles and bulging purses. The four companions walked through the true lifeblood of dwarven society, or any society for that matter, for without the produce the farmers toiled to create, life itself would not function.

  Despite the odd sly look, noticeably aimed at Tac’quin, the group went largely unacknowledged as people were far too engrossed in their businesses and trade. The occasional dwarven urchin would run up to the companions and puzzlingly run alongside either Tac’quin or Cezzum; the younger ones sporadically launching mocks and taunts at the prior and the dragon, until Tac’quin would fix them with a gaze that froze the blood in their hearts or irate mothers and fathers would pull their children away, much to their disappointment as well as their unknown succour.

  The main street widened as it approached the bazaar, expanding diagonally to eventually form the square. The buildings that were close to the walls became more and more recessed; they were far from small, explained Palodar, since easily stretched further into the mountain, hidden from sight. The central market was humming with activity. All manner of dwarves and buyers from every race were fluttering about, dashing from farmer to farmer, or selling their goods directly out of their wagons and stalls, all attempting to finish their days procurement before the final throws of the afternoon were whisked away. As the companions walked, on the lookout for an inn, they observed costermongers selling innumerable produce: lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, onions, beetroot, herbs, spices, olives, leeks, mushrooms, apples, lemons, oranges, limes and all other manner of fruits and vegetables adorned the stacked boxes and the backboards of wagons. Amyia had known bustling fetes, as it was her trade up until a few short days prior, but she had never thought it possible for so many people to desire fruits and vegetables; the caravaneers had always only dealt with the transportation of non-perishable goods.