Palgrin turned to trot back to the stone farmhouse and it was then that Cezzum saw it. Tucked conspicuously into the belt at the dwarf’s back was a gleaming dagger of steel. Cezzum momentarily tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and then laughed, following the once weary dwarf into the house.
The goodbyes had been swift and heartfelt; to each of the companions the farewells had been of deep and differing value. It was perchance only Palodar and Palgrin that could comprehend the full nature of what was to be done; it was because of this that tears were shed between them as they embraced. Palodar the dwarf had never before known a true connection to his family and it pained him that as quickly as he had found one with his Uncle, the transient familial bond had to be broken. Their hold thronged with regret: an Uncle who had never taken the time to fathom the true depths of his nephew; and a nephew who had idly dismissed notions of family after he had fallen out with his mother, turning his sights instead to treasures and esteem. It was not only this that caused melancholy between them, more simply, more viscerally, was the possibility that neither, after that moment, would set eyes on the other again; the quest ahead would be daunting beyond any measure and both knew that death would be likelier than their success.
Tac’quin uttered curt farewells, its mind bent on other notions, while Cezzum had already, in essence, bided his parting to Palgrin in the fields; he had only nodded knowingly at the Palodar’s uncle and wished the Farmer of the Dale best tidings with his lands. But it was indeed Amyia that took as much from their leave as Palodar did. Her life had been desecrated and violated in ways that few of the land knew the true torment of and it was this that gave her strength. The family she had come to know had bequeathed her with the constitution and the ambition to manipulate her strength and with it forge, in the crucible of fatality, into a spear - a lance of incarnate retribution that would strike at her foes with unrelenting horror and bestow them with the harbinger of their sanguine slaughter, so that before their eyes fail they might surely know the suffering of a thousand tortured souls. The few hours spent with the Jeweller, the Farmer and her three companions had fortified her resolve and her new place within life, lashing her to something profoundly loving and tangible from a dislocated mind that was cast aside when her family was given to dust. Amyia had acquired a sense of belonging and searing purpose, and that was more powerful than any army. It was with such mindsets, three ponderous sacks, resupplied victuals and Cezzum once more in his monk guise, that the party left the safety of the dwarven halls by means of the eastern gate.
Faint and obscure figures could be gleaned in the far distance to the north, the only indication that the Great North Trade Road still carried its passengers on the less perilous tedium of life. As they had crossed the short fields from the massif to the eastern woods, a brisk wind had swept across the land. It had brought with it a bone chilling bite and an overcast, lugubrious tract of cloud that induced the three friends to draw their cloaks around them tightly; Tac’quin remained stolid and instead regarded the heavens with an untrusting eye. It was within the short stretch of woods, in mid-morn which appeared as a late eve, that the four companions then stood. Beyond the forest lay vast meadows, running to the eventual foot of the Forlorn Mountains. Eyes of the enemy would soon fall upon them. They spilt the contents of their sacks onto the ground and removed their clothes, Cezzum and Palodar folding their garb carefully and placing it into the bags, and surprisingly, Amyia took exceptional care with her canvas garb as well. Tac’quin watched the spectacle of transformation with considered amusement; it watched all their odd bits and bobs and rather gangly appendages bobble about as they changed; Tac’quin was quite certain that his metamorphosis into a wyvern was far more elegant.
The coarse goblin undergarments roiled the skin; it was repugnant to the touch. The harsh fabrics nettled every hair and every nerve. Cezzum knew the embrace of goblin wares, it was a grave grasping sensation that he could feel upon his skin; but Palodar’s and Amyia’s faces were squished and contorted in frightful discontentment. The assortment of goods before them appeared even less comforting. Roughshod jerkins of interspersed metal and leather, stained with strokes and splashes of blood, served as tunics – each one a variation on an insidious theme that made each tunic appear quite distinct to the other. Stitched patches of mottled hide and bracers of cloth were tied firmly to their thighs and arms to conceal any lack of green skin, while tasses and leggings were donned to cover any skin on the thighs that wished to furtively peak out from behind the hide to betray their own. Amyia looked to Palodar and teased at the dwarf’s earlier comment: “And this’s dwarven hospitality at its finest?” Palodar shrugged helplessly and let the ends of his lips curl slightly, imploring her for forgiveness.
Amyia’s and Palodar’s sacks each contained a rusted, dented and scored metallic helmet replete with guard visors that could be pulled open and shut. They drew these upon their heads and in an instant the girl and the dwarf each became three-foot-high goblins of terror; unfortunately, the dread was not conveyed entirely to Tac’quin and Cezzum; they both laughed at the sight before them. The two obscured faces looked at each other then back at their audience. Palodar unfastened his visor. “So, this is what it feels like to be a goblin?” Palodar jested, tugging at the apparel around his waist and groin and shifted about within them with displeasure. “I think I have discovered why goblins are wicked! With clothes like these who could ever be happy? It feels as if I have a thousand tiny goblins running all over me!”
Surreptitiously Amyia drew a dagger, which came with one of the goblin belts, and slyly poked Palodar in the rump. The dwarf jumped a foot off the ground and pulled furiously at the cloth and armour that girthed his rear. Amyia broke down into giggles. Palodar squinted at her metal-bound head; she eventually opened her visor to reveal a face dribbling with joyful tears at his reaction. Palodar could not help but join in with her merriment.
Cezzum finished attaching the two daggers and razor that came with his outfit before buckling Gnarlfang to his belt and finding a secure place beneath the tunic to place the crystal heart; Amyia and Palodar both did the same with their short swords. A thought then occurred to the goblin. He stared at the two false-goblins’ feet and was met with a sight he had expected. Both Palodar and Amyia saw the glance at their pins and followed the line of sight to discover one set of olive and one set of fair skinned toes gazing adamantly back at them. With rue, Cezzum said, “It appears I had forgotten that goblins always stride with feet that are bare, but all is not lost: the odd noble adorns his feet with leather bindings, merely to show that his soles are more worthy to his horde than to be wasted by treading on the sullied excrement that often line their boroughs.”
“I have always thought of myself as a cut above the common goblin,” replied Palodar with a grin.
Cezzum smiled and added, “And so it ever shall remain.”
Palodar selected one of the spare goblin garments that remained from his assortment and assiduously set upon the hide jerkin with his sewing kit, scissors and blades. Minutes later, two pairs of lengthy bindings were produced that were wrapped and hid the skin from the zenith of the calf to the very tips of the toes. In spritely opposition, Cezzum tugged off his boots and wriggled his toes before them. Pursed lips were his response.
The goblin trio found a small burrow that rested betwixt a tree and an oddly shaped rock and placed their three gunnysacks therein. As Palodar covered the burrow with a myriad twigs, leaves and fallen branches, he uttered, “A pity to leave such fine wares to the elements, but I promise you good clothes we shall return for your splendour!” He hoisted Darantur’s flask to the forest canopy above and the overcast sky beyond. “To what may come, Cregar!” And the dwarf drank a deep swig before placing the vessel into the knapsack and hoisting it onto his back.
Tac’quin regarded the three transfigured characters before it finally admitted, “Perchance this plan is not utterly foolhardy.” For if none were to look too closely, the gir
l and the dwarf made for passable goblins, if only in appearance.
“’Tis pleasant to see the rolls of disguise being reversed,” Cezzum bantered.
Amyia and Palodar both grumbled and the dwarf cried, “Fortune is a cruel, unhappy dwarf-wife!”
“Then let us get going,” suggested Amyia with only the slightest hint of impetuosity, beginning to take a step or two towards the east, urging her companions onwards. The others moved to join her and their footfalls were given an ovation by the crackling of the leaves. As they walked, Cezzum instructed them in an odd Kig’n phrase or two should they come to need it. Tac’quin let its ears become mute to the goblin’s words and instead focused intently on Amyia. Letting her last few words resonate within it, the dragon let a wash of glee rush through it. It considered that the litany the goblin gave it as they had journeyed southwards towards Darantur, was not entirely folly, there did seem to be a sense of empowering majesty in compassion. For while Tac’quin did not doubt that rage was a great boon on any duty, it found Cezzum’s concept intriguing and even for the briefest of moments conjured that if the need may ever arise, it would lay down its life for the girl and the two halflings. It was, however, indeed fortunate that this self-sacrificing notion was left unheard and it swiftly abated from the dragon’s mind. Nonetheless, Tac’quin found much contentment as it mused upon Amyia’s previous sentence, spoken perfectly, each and every word.
Cezzum concluded his lecture on goblin phrases, etiquette and mannerisms, and found by the time he had finished his instruction that Palodar and Amyia both seemed crasser simply for knowing goblin decorum; he chuckled to himself. The party reached the eastern fringe of the woods. It was then that Tac’quin began to change into its wyvern self. Slowly its resplendence waned and the bright colours of its being dissolved into a grim dun. Outwardly, the splendour that was intrinsic to all dragon-kin faded into a fever-born enmity that had its nascent eruptions from the single jaw that dislodged and was severed into four separate, yearning maws. The other companions looked upon Tac’quin with both awe and dread - awe at the feat that their friend held within it, and dread at the miasma of fear that the dragon’s shape-shifted form exuded.
A fox strolled passed in the bushes, beyond the sight of the company, and it stopped for a moment and looked at the spectacle before her. She pricked her ears and her tail flitted around her back as she beheld the dragon’s transformation. Quite suddenly the fox remembered she was hungry and sauntered off in the search of some food, and never cared to think back upon the goblin, the girl, the dwarf and the wyvern again; by the time she had corralled herself a morsel of food, she had completely forgotten about them.
The companions took their first step upon the meadows. No farm, no person, not a single being loomed before them apart from the commingled stretches of flat heaths with great sweeps of undulating heather. Vast clusters of small flowers dotted the landscape, beautiful, mesmerising flowers of yellow, purple and white hues, but they all appeared sullen beneath the foreboding sky above. Cezzum considered the gloomy firmament atop his head and it reminded him of a song he remembered from one of the great ænglix books he had read, one where a farmer watched a darkening horizon tower and loom before him as he stood upon his fields; the farmer silently regarded the welkin and the host of soldiers marching to war on the road skirting his farm.
A light dost fall across the heath;
It buries too light’s sweet wreath.
And a dark cloud looms upon our brow,
Beseeching the heart with shadows most foul.
The ravens tarry, the falcons cry.
A whispering murmur looms a yonder
That bellows as a trumpet to those anigh.
Their graves awaiting all the fonder,
Allowing those lost souls little to ponder.
And once their bones settle to dust,
Crops shall bloom with godly lust.
‘An so and on do wars shall pass,
Leaving little to mark the lost.
But the farmer forever shall carry
The loaves of peace made from wheat
Brought into this world from dead soldiers’ feet.
And once again when strife has waned
Will peace, the land, forthrightly reign.
Those of the world knowing none of this,
Letting those few perish in vain.
But always will the farmer know,
Just how his bread came to be.
Forever shall he lift his glass,
And drink in infinite glee.
As Cezzum let the final word linger in the air, a cold drop of unsightly, autumn rain burst upon his brow.
Chapter XII
The Tempest of the Meadows
T he rain beat down upon them as if they were but the dough of a tempestuous baker, kneading and punching the incipient pastry with ardent might. Sheets of water whipped at them from every angle, the wind seemingly changing its blustery nature at every moment. The meadows, shrouded in darkness and lit by no moon that could pierce the clouds, held no trees, no brush, not a single structure that could provide the sanctuary the party wished for. An inclement veil of chilling rain and bracing wind did not only cause the company to bow their heads and shelter their eyes as they trudged along, but so thick was the fine misty spray that was born from the wind-whipped rain that it, with the enveloping darkness, made navigation nigh impossible. Even the helms donned by Amyia and Palodar, at best, did little to keep the pernicious water from assailing their eyes; at worst, it funnelled the rain straight into their vision.
“I cannot see where we tread!” cried Cezzum over the thunderous roar of the storm.
Tac’quin squinted into the gloom before it, letting a pair of its ocular membranes sweep over its eyes, preventing the rain from impeding its vision; the dragon attempted to shift through various receptions of light; it was to no avail and the dragon could behold no more than its fellows. “The storm obscures all I can see – something of it is most foul,” yelled Tac’quin in return.
Amyia lifted her head and ensured that her family still walked beside her; she gripped the edge of Tac’quin’s vile wing. Palodar, seeing the action, followed suit. With flurries of water cascading more heavily upon his helm, he grappled Cezzum’s tunic with his one hand and Amyia’s with the other, the dwarf binding the party together.
“The storm grows in potency; the longer we tarry within, the more we shall succumb,” cried Cezzum once again.
“I see no other option, we must press on Cezzum; every direction seems equally wreaked,” said Palodar.
Amyia grinned to herself. “It’s only a storm, you all’s afraid water going to hurt you?” taunted Amyia with the best degree of levity she could muster. She heard three water-strangled laughs in return and was pleased that for a moment their desperation was lifted; yet the subsequent severity of their plight crashed down once again as the moment faded. Mirth is always the defeated when brought to arms against that which is grievous. With no clear choice, the party could do naught but weather their besiegement, and with ponderous steps press unknowingly onwards.
The infusion of malevolent clouds and scathing wind only continued to flourish. Great scintillating patterns started to form as lightning struck the land in a panorama of luminescent fury. The clouds themselves appeared to snarl as lightning too proud to bequeath the earth with its majesty instead rampaged within the voluminous folds of the darkling rain-givers. It was then that the storm was able to enact a far more vicious attack, for its constant oppression on the companions began to bleed them of hope, and the loss of hope is only a single footstep from the grave.
“Yonder!” bellowed Cezzum. A faint, glimmering, yellow glow caught his sight.
The others strained their eyes. “A light!” confirmed Amyia as she saw the flicker peeking through the curtain of wind and water. Drawing closer the party observed the secluded brightness resolve into a candle burning brightly behind a pane of thick and rippled glass. Their path had taken th
em unto the threshold of the house that held the candle. From first sight of the hope-filled light, to acknowledging it as indeed a candle, had been no more than a few footfalls - the illumination had loomed upon them with great expedience.
The isolated house seemingly stood alone within the meadows. None had known of its existence and both Palgrin and Gilly had said naught but grass grew upon the lands towards the mountain. From the trappings the house possessed, it appeared to be a rather new construction and one of immaculate design and construction. Something about it, however, struck Palodar as odd. The building was composed of brick, a material only at the call of the affluent; even more striking was the fact that a finish had been placed over the brick, an adorning façade of plaster – a relatively new technique in building pioneered by Telopian craftsmen and not commonly found. A short overhang, replete with a gable, ran atop the building, elegantly binding the wall and roof together while also serving to grant the four companions a respite from the storm as they stood beneath it.
“What should we do?” queried Palodar. “Knock? What a wondrous house we would sully with our presence.” Before Cezzum could suggest any tact in the matter, Tac’quin, using its head, let it collide three times with the stained door.
“Act decisively dwarf!” said Tac’quin derisively. “If we dwell out here any longer a freeze will take us before the night is through.” Even the dragon, who was accustomed to the coldest regions of the world, was shivering noticeably; out of the rain, a line of rime began to build upon its brow.
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