The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  Palodar lightly elbowed Amyia in her side and lifted the visor of his goblin helm. “Lest we be considered goblins; I do not think goblins would live in a home like this, far too free of… blood painted murals and bones!”

  The young girl attempted a smile, but with muscles too keenly gripped with cold, all that she could affect was a tweak of her upper lip. With quivering hands, she opened the visor as well. Tac’quin’s wyvern veneer slowly evaporated as if it were melting away with the curtain of water running down its corpus. A thought then violently came upon Palodar and the dwarf spun to face Cezzum. “Cezzum, your face, we must conceal it!” But before they could construct an artifice of any sort, the door swung open.

  Countenances of three halflings and a dragon gazed apprehensively at the figure standing within the ajar portal. A strikingly beautiful man stood before them. Perfectly combed grey hair flowed around his shoulders, resting upon his chest, accentuating the gilded, indigo robe he wore. Blue eyes were nestled above a flawlessly built nose which in turn surmounted a pair of lips filled with life; it all was finally garnished with a dense beard, binding the man’s features into a sculpture that artists would have wept at the sight of. He held a glass lantern in his one hand; the other cupped the knob of the door. Bringing the lantern before him in a sweeping motion, he cast his sight over the four peculiar fellows that stood at his feet. Cezzum watched the man’s bearing with precision, but even as the figure’s sapphire eyes brushed over him, he could discern no reaction from the man at the sight of a goblin, or even a dragon for that matter; their surveyor’s disposition displayed not a fleck of animation. His response, or lack thereof, concerned Cezzum deeply. Slowly the man withdrew the lantern and stared above the companions’ heads. A moment passed before the impassive human murmured, “A foul storm plagues this night, the likes of in a century I have not seen; utterly wretched it is.” He lowered his head and regarded the sanctuary-seekers. “Enter, I entreat thee, little wayfarers; a deathly wind rages about, but welcome and come and find refuge from the storm and stay your deaths within.” The man moved to the side and allowed the others passage.

  “Our thanks kind, master,” said Cezzum as he moved passed the inviting homeowner.

  The room looked rather sparse in comparison to the opulent exterior of the building. A simple skin rug destroyed the monotony of the hardwood floor, and apart from a hearth, with a fire pleasantly fluttering within it, the only other noticeable piece of furniture in the room was a commodious recliner wrought with the sole purpose of ensuring optimum comfort for its sole sitter.

  “I am afraid,” said the man, “there is little I have to offer, but please warm your hearts by the hearth.” Almost before the offer had been completed, the four companions had hurried towards the warming glow; if it were not for fire’s innate ability to singe and burn, the four friends would have embraced it with open arms.

  “Company I do not often keep, I come to this home to ponder the world in solitude and merely to let time pass until an hour I seek does come,” explained the robed man setting down the lantern and exchanging it for an finely worked staff that befitted the splendour of the his carriage.

  Amyia, while intensely rubbing her hands, became vexed. She had noticed that apart from the sound of the scintillating fire the storm could no longer be heard.

  “How did you come to own such a fine home that even dwarves would be envious of? If dwarves lived under the sky that is,” asked Palodar of the man as he warmed his buttocks.

  “I never did say that I own it, little dwarf, only that I come unto this place to be pensive and pass many hours until I am indeed satisfied,” the man retorted, his face as stolid as a mountain.

  Tac’quin revelled in the soothing warmth. For all intents and purposes the dragon stood with a good majority of its body being enveloped by the flames. Tac’quin had always found it odd that its kind found the effects of water rejuvenating at the correct temperature, but if water became blisteringly cold, and assaulted in torrents, the effects proved far more draining than any poison. It considered this mystery again as it let a soaring flame wrap itself around its neck; the dragon arrived at the conclusion that as with most things in life, dragons were subject to a bizarre balance as well; that moderation was as vital to life as the most galvanising ambition, for extremities of any nature are far more noxious than they are salubrious. Tac’quin enjoyed its musing as it concurrently contemplated that it was the finest and most sumptuous fireplace it had ever encountered, stretching a good seven feet wide and a yard backwards. Interested in the soothing crackle of the type of wood the man used, for it burnt exceptionally well with little ash and near to no smoke, Tac’quin opened its eyes wide and flipped between membranes.

  “Pray tell kind master,” said Cezzum, “what is your name? I am Cezzum, a goblin unlike my kin. I only seek to know in order that I may thank thee for this kind reprieve more personally.”

  The man leaned on his staff. “Titles are frivolous baubles. I am renown to some as one thing; to others as another; what the denizens of this world dub me is as filled with vagaries as the clouds are. I might give you a name by which to call me, but in time that will come to pass you might wish to bestow me with that which differs. Thus, of what importance are they?”

  Tac’quin was taken aback. With the effulgence of the flames removed, the dragon could see the fuel below. Wood, almost obsessively stacked with precision, lay on the hearth’s floor, yet not a single one had turned to ash; not even a solitary log glowed with embers or donned a covering of grey veil.

  Amyia looked at the man with accusing eyes and said quite forthrightly: “You talk in riddles. You are lying about something.” Palodar regarded Cezzum for a moment; the goblin nodded slightly, for they both agreed that despite being generous with help, the indigo clothed man was proving suspiciously evasive.

  “I do not adumbrate, dear child. I answer questions wholly and give testimony that is both true and pertinent. If you ask a question of me and I give response, know that the answer is veracious as far as the relevance of it is to the question that you posed,” the man genially retorted, his fingers drumming the thigh of his leg.

  “And those who seek to poison minds speak in truths that are only contained in halves,” countered Cezzum. The goblin’s hand gently crept towards Gnarlfang’s hilt.

  The man’s fingers ceased their motion; he displayed no other mote of movement. “That is where you err goblin. I do not wish…”

  An image emerged before Tac’quin’s eyes; dread shot into its heart. The visage of a dwarf loomed before it. Hidden to the rear of the hearth, lying behind the previously eclipsing veil of flames, was a familiar face in repose. What was left of a great beard, knotted at the navel, hung dryly from the lifeless face contorted with rigours of pain; the dwarf had died tortuously and tediously. The dwarf’s corpulent figure did little to stave off the cold passion of mortality’s embrace. Hilloc rested in his final tomb, a fireplace built with spacious room, the merchant the master of his own doom.

  “… to poison your minds as much as I wish to return thee all unto the dust,” plainly informed the man. Tac’quin’s tail lashed out as it still faced the hearth. The flesh-spawned spear whisked through the air but collided with a scintillating clash on a translucent barrier that glimmered fleetingly before the robed man. In a space of time far shorter than that of a moment, Tac’quin reversed itself completely, bringing its maw to face the body of their beguiling assailant. A cloud of burning conviction leapt from the dragon. The searing, roaring flames coiled with writhing liquid coursed towards the devious foe. Once more Tac’quin’s attack was thwarted. The crimson and sun-coloured conflagration burst upon the barrier, wrapping itself around the protective bubble in a feast of ignescent turmoil that sent sparks and bristling shafts of light in all directions until finally the flames could roar no more and returned once more unto the ether. The man stood leaning lightly on his staff, his face as expressionless as before.

  Immediately Cezzu
m, Amyia and Palodar darted for their weapons. With a mere indifferent lifting of his finger, the indigo-clothed magician called forth three amber rings which flickered as they spun at immeasurable speeds; they bounded shut the three swords to their scabbards. Despite fervently pouring every ounce of might into their drawing of arms, the three companions could not break the unyielding grip of the rings. The party stood with visages transfixed on the man; cold shivers transmuted into dank, helpless fear.

  Gradually, lines and segments of dark armour plates, which looked as much like paintings upon the skin, materialised on the man’s face and beneath the robe as well for the material began to rise; his beard dissolved as the armour took its true form. The glorious sapphire-hued eyes gave way to irises of a perilous orange nature which shone with the luminescence of two contained moons. Only one race in the world held eyes of such an origin, and with the emerging patterns adorning the man’s features, there was little doubt that he indeed was a loran - corrupted and befouled, with malignant blood beating within his heart, but a loran nonetheless. A foreboding voice boomed from his lips: “Trifling whelps it is utterly unfathomable that thine concluded escapade could have evaded the attention of Bledun.” His lips continued to move yet no words were spoken. The fire in the hearth vanished from existence and the body of Hilloc was whipped through the air to lie at the feet of the companions. It was as if that very action drove a dagger through Palodar’s heart, for it had not even stirred within his mind that the flask of Darantur had been surreptitiously further magically imbued; the lesser known tale of Darantur, known alone to Palodar, told that the primary motive for his father’s bequeathment of the gift was in order to keep track of his son’s progress throughout his journey by the employ of a loran scryer. Palodar silently cursed himself a thousand times over for his oversight that had brought doom upon his friends.

  “A curious dwarf,” postulated the dread loran, “’tis astounding what terror and wealth may compel one unto certain deeds. It does appear that his face expresses disgust at his own fate, peculiar is it not?” The loran began to walk apace thrusting and swirling his now silver, transfigured staff in great jabs and arcs. Instantly walls erupted into air; the floor sprouted with desirous blades of grass. The opulent rooftop evanesced with a transient flicker. Within a span of no more than a few seconds, the entire house of magnificent construction was dispelled for the illusion that it indeed was. Hilloc, the four companions and the loran all stood with their feet treading the soft green plush of the field. The storm raged furiously around them, but about them it was as still as a pond that bore a surface of reflecting glass. They stood within the eye of the tempest. Veritable walls of blackened and malevolent clouds, mist and rain, reverberated in cyclonic ferocity as they spun swiftly in a great cone surrounding the centre. Lightning continued to flash and churn out vigorous thunder, suffusing the entire storm which loomed up to great heights in the sky. The coruscation of light bathed the entire scene in a staccato of grim illumination. Gazing directly upwards showed the only true calmness that existed: a stretch of the night firmament speckled with serene stars, blissfully blazing without a mote of concern for the grave occurrences that were being undertaken beneath their pinpoint glows.

  The foul loran transfixed his staff on the body of Hilloc and with a flick of the weapon cast the corpse into the swirl to be seen no more; the storm voiced its appreciation with the slightest of whispers as the dwarf dissolved within its folds. Tac’quin watched the scene with livid eyes and a gall beset with ire at its impotence. It was a feeling shared by the entire party.

  “Why?” cried Cezzum, taking a step closer to the loran, his heart filled with despair. “Lorans are creatures of benevolence, not dread!”

  “Belligerent cur, I do not exult in verse that explains actions that are only to be mine,” said the loran with his indefatigable passivity of tone.

  “You strive for a cause that brings naught but death and misery to the land. If goblins and phagens lay claim to it what would be left? After the fall of the great races, where would their warmongering ways turn but unto themselves? And pray tell what then? Until a single horde emerges victorious from the malicious infighting their strife will never cease; all the fictitious unity conjured by the Osi would collapse into ruins. What then will be left of the world when that single horde may no longer fulfil their nature, and when years shall wane until but a sole creature draws breath and his bones are turned to dust? What then, cursed loran, will have been accomplished? There is not a trice of reason in this!”

  “You have a gift for rhetoric you rambling traitor of the blood. You seek reason?” For the first time since their encounter with the loran his face displayed emotion. His lips compressed and the ends were pulled a great distance closer to his ears; his teeth greeted the night air. “We are no more altered than any other being that treads the land. War, hatred, deceit have all reigned since the dawning of time. Your paragons repress what is innate; the repression is fractious, why else do they still monger for death? Is that not the truer folly? There is an earnestness, goblin, in your kind; nature alters when pursuit finds its alteration. And yet you still seek reason; think of the reason within the great races? You seek sanity within an asylum.”

  “But look only upon th-.” Cezzum was hurled backwards as the loran’s staff physically crashed into his chest with a unique reverberation that the world was not often privy to, when wood assails metal and the former prevails merrily. Coming to his feet slowly, Cezzum again stood defiantly with his friends. The loran raised his staff above his head; a keening noise smothered all sound. An effulgence gathered upon the staff’s apex, swiftly intensifying in its magnitude.

  Amyia interlocked her hand with Palodar’s and the two looked at each other. Tears ran freely down Amyia’s countenance; no tremulous inhalations or gasping of air, merely tears welling within her star-speckled eyes and coursing woefully to her chin, ensuring both the verge of her nose and lips felt the sorrow that her eyes were tormented with. Such was the face the habitually content dwarf was harassed by. Palodar felt her sorrow, for indeed his own heart now dwelt within the confines of his throat. A clarity of perception flooded him; a clarity which all the companions felt; a clarity only possible in the moments that occur in that fleeting space between life and death. He smiled and squeezed her hand in comfort. He then looked to his brother who beheld him in return. Cezzum glimpsed the smile threatened to be hidden by his beard and the universe, but no amount of weight contained within a land of mountains could have compelled Palodar’s unforgettable visage to alter. Cezzum nodded to his brother and friend; Palodar nodded in return. Tac’quin spat a tiny ball of flame towards the loran; the barrier repelled the inquest. With fate sealed, the dragon gazed upon its fellows. Two emotions bubbled within Tac’quin’s blood: first was unbridled rancour at their fate as well as its own inability to give help unto its companions. The second emotion was one that confounded Tac’quin, knowing not what it was; it likened it to a remorse of some ilk, a regret, perhaps, of only just beginning to understand the divine nature of its insipient feelings towards the goblin, dwarf and the girl.

  The exchange of hearts and minds occurred at a pace that was far too brisk for anyone’s fondness, all unfolding in a period of time that could contain no more than three chirrups of a nightingale. But ‘tis often such that occurs within the world, where those happenings that have the merit of significance possess a space that is seemingly inconsequential, and threatens to be effaced by time, that are indeed paramount to a fulfilled existence; and despite their brief surfacing, they should be clung to for an eternity with a bolstering passion that naught but the clutches of death could wring it from the mind.

  The swelling, coruscating energy burst forth from the staff. Threads of incandescent amethyst purple and oceanic green, bound by ribands of white and black, rapaciously bounded for the companions, their touch wishing, wanting, and beseeching to wizen their foes’ flesh to bone and drink glutinously of their essences. The compani
ons dug their feet into the ground and stood fast with melancholy hearts and stalwart courage.

  A deafening snap ripped through the air. In a blazing instant the amber ring binding Gnarlfang to its sheath shattered into a thousand grains. The sword, with no aid from Cezzum, leapt from the goblin’s side to hover before him as if clutched by the hands of a mystical entity. None could tell if the subtle pearlescent sheen the blade blushed with emanated from the weapon itself or the mantle of the stars, but none indeed were concerned over such matters, for as the blade glided in the air, the deathly, dashing threads of magic changed their course. From a position no further away than the that of the tip of the nose to the eyes, the purple and green streaks left their proximity of the companions’ faces and shot, as a bolt would from a crossbow, towards Gnarlfang. The exsanguinating magic encircled the blade, crackling with an insanity that threatened to turn even the most refined nobleman into a wailing, feral beast. The loops of magic cocooned themselves around Gnarlfang, growing greater and brighter with each passing second as the magical current swept from the staff to the blade like a waterfall tumbling into its linn.

  All, including the loran, were dumbfounded by the spectacle. Cezzum let his vision stray from his friends and watched the face of the loran. The wicked magician’s eyes appeared as grand swollen orbs as their disbelief was fully exposed. Cezzum could only faintly make out the murmured words on his lips within the sporadic light, his mouth slowly, disdainfully, forming the word, Gnarlfang, as if it were a name he had known the bite of before.

  Tac’quin seized the opportunity and again spat a small daub of molten fire towards the loran. The globular inferno gripped the magician’s indigo robe and began, with hungry tongues, to lap at the cotton and woollen garment; the dragon charged forth. Palodar and Amyia, both aware of Tac’quin’s feat, tried to wrest free their short swords; the rings still bound them as tightly as stone. With the vigour of reborn life innervating their hearts and gall and bones, they too charged forwards with hands ready to do the deeds meant for arms of a different nature. Cezzum, however, felt as if he were shackled to the ground. While the others were free to assail the magician, Gnarlfang, hovering but a few paces in front of him, with the magic building upon it, seemingly struggled to contain every ounce of energy thrust at it; the tendrils of amethyst, white, green and black swept to and fro from the blade as if long flaxen hair were caught in a fine summer breeze. No matter which direction the goblin ran, he was not able to circumvent the conflating anomaly before whatever terrible resolution was to be reached.