The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  A crowd of enraptured people clustered around a dais upon which a jongleur was to start a verse. His ænglix rung out as if it were his mother-tongue, for distant travellers were the subjects from which the bard garnered his wealth. With a lute gleaming in the young dwarf’s hands, his mellifluous voice lilted through the market, and even the companions curtailed their expedition in order to listen to the troubadour.

  Listen to me brothers,

  Listen very close.

  And I’ll spin for you a tale fraught with terrible woe.

  About a certain vagabond of whom we know was no foe;

  He dug in halls and caverns deep,

  To retire one day unto this, his keep.

  Until one day he came upon a glittering vein,

  Filled with riches beyond any name.

  But little did he know it too were filled with glory-pain.

  He took his pick and picked all night, and picked until the morn,

  He picked until the sun had slept and far beyond its dawn.

  His pockets filled as well did sacks;

  A treasure grew about his feet.

  All thoughts and wishes and deep desires flying from his keep.

  And lo and alas did he pick until all was set in black,

  For his precious stones, did he not notice, towered around his back.

  And like titans of old did there come a clash,

  A frightening thunderous burying golden crash.

  He died a dwarf beset with woe;

  All arising from the faintest yellow glow.

  But take to heart and courage-fill with a dash of a fortuitous boon,

  At least he had paid his bill; the ferryman quite happy at his fortune.

  The crowd, especially the gathered telopians, lorans and humans, burst into applause and mirth. The jongleur with his bright eyes and high cheek bones bowed deeply and smiled gratefully. He placed before his audience his felt cap and immediately coins, sovereigns and other odd manners of valuable trinkets clangoured about as they filled his hat. But of more import than the wealth that would see him through the next two days was the accolades and praises and pleasure of his patrons; although difficult to live on applause alone, he nonetheless found the greatest felicitations from them. They were an approbation of his life. For as critical as he knew the costermonger and fisher to be, so too was he most valuable, for he filled the void where only rhyming words may touch.

  Palodar was cheering loudly at the orator of one of his more favourite lyrics when a hanging sign to his left caught his eye. An image of a dwarven farmer, replete with straw hat and pitchfork, adamantly stood facing a mule which too faced the dwarf with an equally unyielding disposition. Dwarven characters beneath the picture read: The Stubborn Mule. Palodar gestured towards the establishment. Squeezing through an assortment of stationary trailers and carts, and almost being run through by a team of ponies hauling its farmer’s harvest, the party entered the inn.

  The inn was warm and commodious, touch austere but what trappings it did have made it welcoming; adorning the walls were a handful of tapestries and landscape paintings. A few steps led down to the main floor where vast arrays of round tables were laid out, all filled with patrons except for two. A considerable hearth jutted out of the far wall, crackling and glowing gloriously with hospitality. The tavern’s counter ran along the entire right side of the inn, behind which a dwarf and his wife were merrily dispensing victuals and drink; every few moments they would disappear into the kitchen and fetch the fare, then nimbly dash between numerous kegs, filling pitchers and tankards. A flight of stairs led, presumably, up to the inn’s rooms on the first floor. It was boisterous inside the edifice, with everyone’s conversation loud enough to be heard by any other table. All were dwarves and none bore weapons upon their belts, indicating that they were all ostensibly farmers, armed only with conviviality and perhaps the odd dagger or two tucked into some nook in their frocks. The supper makers and imbibers all revelled in each other’s company and drinks; it allowed the companions to enter without a scene of any sort.

  Tac’quin immediately beheld the fireplace and set to it with a determined stride. Chairs shifted and squeaked as the winged creature pushed through, and weary faces turned towards the dragon, but never did the jolly commotion decline. Tac’quin ensconced itself firmly before the comforting blaze, curling into itself, only allowing its snout to lie protruding from its body, Palodar likened the dragon’s posture to that of a dog, although he would never say as much. The nearest open table to the dragon was almost adjacent the hearth, but it was free for obvious reasons: it was positioned in a corner between the wall and the extending fireplace; it possessed sufficient light to commune happily, but a supper plate may well have been lost to the blanket of shadows. Cezzum found the table fortunate and bowing his head even further, allowing the darkness to embrace his visage, he started towards the table; Palodar and Amyia a step behind him.

  A dwarf, catching sight of the reverent monk, stood up from his table, much to his inebriated fellows delight, and staggered before the concealed goblin. He balked Cezzum’s step by softly bumping the goblin’s shoulder with his hand. The dwarf kept trying to look Cezzum in the eye, yet he could not manage a glimpse as the goblin easily weaved and tilted his head in various directions. The dwarf finally conceded his attempt to look underneath the holy dwarf’s hood.

  “I sey… say there, ye holi-ness,” stammered out the dwarf, his friends caving over in guffaws, “we’es ‘ere seek-in redemption – our daysa earnings ‘ave bought naught but mead! An, this well pleases us!” The dwarf swept his hand over his friends, nearly losing his balance in the act; he then turned to Cezzum again and began to speak in a hush: “But… our wives will not see the clarity of draught we ‘ave eaten, no, no…” – the dwarf paused for a moment, holding his finger to his brow as if being meditative – “… I mean-en the clarity in usin’ our earnings for ale, I mean mead! It be making oo-us lighter; gettin’ aback to u-our fair maidens all the more swift-her. But we’es canno-ot dare facin’ their sweet voices with souls of mead and ale both yes see, we’es ask you, brother, be purgin’ us from this blight!” The dwarf leaned backwards to an improbable angle before teetering forwards again.

  Cezzum could not understand his accoster’s Valaku nor was he sure what to do; he attempted to bypass the dwarf. The shambling farmer grabbed him by his collar. “Now brother we’es be-in asking you nicely for forgiv-enness, but we’es can be ask’in un-kind-like too. We’s only be wantin’ yers forgiveiness like.”

  Palodar positioned himself at Cezzum’s side and suggested, “Aye lads a worthy reason indeed! And go with our blessing to your homes, freed from all soul-bound worry.”

  By this time the dwarf’s fellows who were seated at the table were flushed with hilarity and upon the brink of crying into their elbows. The dwarf before Palodar grew dark and he produced from his pocket a sheering blade. “Now we’es want the brother ‘ere to bless us!”

  With a flourish of his cloak Palodar flaunted the sword hanging at his side. The dwarf stared at the weapon then at Palodar. His face turned even more foreboding. Palodar’s hand slowly crept to the hilt of his blade. Suddenly the inebriated’s cheeks puffed out and he burst into uncontrollable laughter, dropping his sheering blade and collapsing backwards. Palodar let out a deep sigh of relief and stepped over the reposed dwarf, followed by Cezzum whose heart was attempting to sooth itself. As Amyia bridged the drunkard she let her heel slam into his head and with such volumes of liquor already beclouding his mind, the dwarf easily mistook the pain for a chair’s leg. Tac’quin however was already in a deep slumber and saw naught of the encounter; it was in much need of convalescence. Cezzum took the wooden high-back chair in the corner, Amyia to took the one to his right and Palodar sat across from him.

  Amyia, with a quick lean and twist of her head, peeked around the hearth to ensure Tac’quin was indeed truly dead to the world, before turning back to the goblin and dwarf, and asked, “What’s dos w
e’s dos nows?”

  Palodar laughed at the rebellion against her grammarian and replied, “We haggle.”

  Never before had Cezzum or Amyia seen such a myriad expressions cross a person’s face in so short amount of time. Palodar stood talking to the innkeeper whose visage had started off more than welcoming, but had in no more than five minutes transformed from the affable to the curious, to the shocked, to the surly, to the scornful, to the dejected and finally to the drawn. The owner appeared quite exhausted after having conversed with his dwarven kin. With languorous movements the inn keeper set out a tray of goods for Palodar who took them quite cheerfully. As Palodar returned to his compatriots, the inn’s owner shook his head to himself and sneered in astonishment.

  Palodar placed a tray on the table. It was a veritable sumptuous repast, complete with a variety of cheeses and breads and an earthenware pot of honey.

  “And what bilking did you conjure on that poor and honest inn-keep to secure us fare without a piece of coin?” jested Cezzum as his dwarven friend sat down. Amyia immediately set to obliterating the enemy ranks of leavened bread and honey. Palodar fingered a wedge of cheese and looked slyly at Cezzum. “It seems my uncle has an arrangement here, gods and goddesses know what for, but he does, which is rather fortuitous I say for I do enjoy cheese. I took it upon myself and thought it only fair, considering that I had trudged up and down the lands many a time with his wares, that I lighten his pockets a wee bit, as any kind-hearted nephew should avow himself to do.”

  “Your uncle, the jeweller? An account here?”

  “Aye! ‘Tis strange, but who are we to defy the fates by not indulging on his behalf.”

  Cezzum laughed and tearing a chunk from a bread roll said, “Surely not us.”

  While her mouth was stuffed with food, Amyia let her eyes wander over the occupants of the inn. Most were dwarves – the odd taller customer sitting at slightly elevated tables with loftier stools – and most, if not all, looked incredibly content with their lives, or at the least, their present food and drink circumstance. Smiles and laughter were abounding from their countenances and beards of all hues were heartily jostling up and down and swinging to and fro. Aside from the odd drunken lout, never had she seen such merriment on so many a people. It struck her that mayhap a quiet and settled life was where joy was to be found. As a child of a caravaneer she had never known what it was to not be a wayfarer. With her teeth pensively crushing and her tongue rolling the victuals into round amalgamations that her belly yearned for, she considered this thought with much perspicacity. But another aspect suddenly came to her mind as her irises turned to the rumpled lineaments of a few farmers. She thought perhaps that age itself begot wisdom or, perhaps, bequeathed a person with the ability to find serenity in life. Aside from the odd farmer’s engraved, aged creases, Amyia found herself being unable to tell the age or even to speculate on the years for the majority of the dwarves present. She swallowed the remaining food in her mouth, the succulent honey letting the food slip sweetly down her gullet. Amyia looked at Palodar and asked with bright eyes: “Palodar, how’s old are you?”

  The dwarf concentrated on his chewing for an instant and then swallowed the grand lump of cheese. He looked at Amyia with a face filled with amicable surprise.

  “’Tis a fine question, Amyia, I too am eager to know this,” echoed Cezzum.

  “Bah!” exclaimed Palodar, “only a few days on and already you two are ganging up on the dwarf. Well if you must be knowing then, I be-”

  “He be still a callow whelp by our standards, but do not let that beguile ye, he has a tongue lathed with silver.” It was a hoarse, ænglix voice that answered from behind Palodar before he could. The dwarven innkeeper approached the table with a lilt in his bandy-legged step; a tray of drinks was in his hands. He set the tray next to the other and plumped himself onto a seat next to Palodar.

  “So young bairn,” continued the proprietor looking at Amyia and placing a glazed ceramic cup before each of them, “beware this Palu’don cloaked dwarf, for without intervention from ill-fates, he will live to harry ye until the end ‘o yer days.” He gestured towards the three vessels atop the wooden salver, indicating a pitcher of ale, a decanter of exquisite mead and a carafe of water. “Please travellers of Palodark, imbibe to yer heart’s content. Any kin of his uncle will be well received indeed; many a time did that upstanding dwarf save me from the scorching wrath of my beloved with his fine wares – a boon I shall nigh on never forget.”

  The proprietor was a garrulous dwarf prone to happiness, except in times of great Palodar bartering. A considerable girth protruded from the dwarf due to the keen interest he held in his own brew and his cook’s fare. Sapphire eyes were set deeply under his brow as if they were two treasures never wishing to be removed from their place of rest. From these gems a sweep of fair skin joined these eyes to his dishevelled, yet stylish, flaxen beard, masking the hard jaw resting beneath.

  Amyia reached for the decanter of mead and poured herself a generous measure of the brew. Palodar grinned knowingly at her. Having the good graces that her mother had bestowed upon her, she did not return his grin with a sheepish turn of her cheeks, but rather a smile of cunning proportions.

  “A fine choice to be sure,” cried the innkeeper with much enthusiasm. “Palodar, are ye certain dwarven blood does not roil and roll in her veins?” The dwarf said the last with grandiose vibrations of his tongue.

  “Perhaps a mere touch,” Palodar bantered.

  The innkeeper turned his attention to Cezzum. “Manners and ale be cursed; I’ve been a host remiss in my welcoming; it be not my usual wont. I be Deggart, wedded to Gurtsa and son of Talgoronc.” He slapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand as per custom of dwarven decorum when more than one was gathered about a table.

  Cezzum was circumspect about speaking outside the confines of his group; yet he thought that the ramifications of ignoring the greeting were far greater than the chance of discovery. Doing his utmost to deepen his voice he replied, “And I, Cezzum, thank you for the welcome.” Continuing in his portrayal of a dwarf, the goblin slapped the table in return, hoping that it too was what custom called for.

  “A harsh rasp in ye speech, Cezzum, fare ye well?” inquired Deggart sincerely.

  “Aye, a cough nettles at me still,” invented the goblin.

  “Cezzum is a prior from Keethran,” interjected Palodar. “We were tending the ailed therein and caught a bout ourselves.”

  “Ah,” commiserated the innkeeper, “noble deeds are always punished in this world, but those saved I be sure hail ye greatly. But I gab like a fish-dwarf’s wife, ye said Palodar ye be needing help to find someone. How can I help?”

  “We have need to find a farmer they call, Gilly.”

  Deggart filled Cezzum’s and Palodar’s vessels with ale, before filling his own. “Gilly? Hmm… I cannot say I am knowing a farmer by that name and I know all the farmers in these parts and leagues beyond that as well.”

  Palodar’s expression became crestfallen.

  The inn-keep leaned back in his chair, slowly sipping at his drink, his mind furiously scouring every recess and nook for the name; even barnacles of a mental nature were breamed from his brain. His eyes grew wide, the incipient lines of age in the corners of his eyes were pulled taught. “Unless ye mean good ol’ Gillamanieanoliac, we usually call him the Farmer of the Dale,” – Deggart laughed to himself – “or sometimes just Dale as bland as that might sound for a dwarven name; he owns the lowest lying farm here outside of Darantur and o’ course Daranbar. A finer fellow I have not met to be sure. A good soul has he, born to till the soft mountains that dwarf was, perhaps he could be the one ye seek?”

  Smoke began to hang lazily in the air as farmers curbed their drinking as night was nigh and turned their vices now to the pipe, the stillness of the room allowing the tobacco induced mist to swirl in eddies of a magnificent sort from the mouths of their creators.

  “Logic dictates it must,” suggested
Cezzum. “Or lack of options.”

  Deggart chuckled. “A holy dwarf and a logician, ye are quite full of surprises brother, Cezzum.”

  The goblin only allowed his hood to nod in agreement.

  “Deggart,” asked Palodar, “not that a dwarf as myself ever needs directions, for I do have a grand nose for these things, but could you tell me how to find Gilly’s farm?”

  “’Tis good you ask! Would hate to see such a comely bairn wandering lost in our dwarven halls until her doom with ye as her guide, Palodar.”

  Palodar merrily scowled at the dwarf.

  “’Tis not far, two or three miles to the east…” instructed Deggart, who continued to tutor Palodar in choosing the correct tunnels to follow. Cezzum became quite lost by the instructions although Palodar seemed to absorb them easily. As soon as Deggart had finished explaining to his kin, Amyia interrupted.

  “You’s not answered mys question,” said Amyia far too indignantly than she truly meant. A chunk of cheese adorned her one hand while her cup of mead was in the other. “If Palodars is young then hows longs do dwarves live’s?”

  “Why young bairn,” answered Deggart in a voice rife with placation, “depending on how they look after themselves they can live anywhere near four hundred to eight hundred years; ‘tis why it is a great tragedy when one falls in battle - a long life cut short.”