The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  “We press on,” announced Cezzum.

  Tac’quin could plainly see the effect that choice had on Cezzum; the dragon archly grinned. The greatest hallmark of any leader is not only steadfastness, but the capacity of change when needed. It was in that moment the dragon could palpably savour the greatness which emanated from the goblin, its leader, its knight-commander, its friend.

  The claws released the tree and Tac’quin hovered in the air. With two swift beats of its wings the dragon positioned itself beneath the branch Cezzum clung to.

  “Haste is of the utmost importance,” said the dragon.

  Without waiting for any further cue, Cezzum bounded onto Tac’quin’s back. Wrapping his arms around its powerful chest, Cezzum and Tac’quin burst through the forest canopy and soured above the woods; within a minute they were back at the verge of the meadows. The Forlorn Mountains could be seen looming into view from the two companions’ great height and they sped onwards as if all the speed in the world were not enough. The land raced below them but their gazes were steadily fixed on their destination.

  “Cezzum,” said Tac’quin, its mighty wings swatting the air.

  “Aye?”

  “This is never to be spoken of, especially to another dragon,” instructed Tac’quin with spurious, sinister warning in its voice.

  Cezzum laughed heartily and then asked, “Our quest demands speed and by no invention is there any other means swifter than this, but never before have you said that a dragon has been ridden, why such an honour? Easily I could have been carried in your claws.”

  Immediately Tac’quin’s body started to alter, its bright luminescence fading into drab hues; the masterfully woven plates of armour contorting into haphazard sheets of abraded leather, spindles and patches of stony sheets all earthen in colour. The dragon’s tail split and three coiled ends, much like that of a scorpion, came into existence, flapping in the wind. The elegant curtain of leather that were Tac’quin’s wings gave way to a collection of light scales and brown feathers. A cleft then appeared in the dragon’s maw and the wyvern jaws gaped wide open. Tac’quin’s voice became acerbic, filled with a deep rasp and sibilance that projected scorn and bitterness with every word. Then Tac’quin replied, “Because change, Cezzum, is the hardest thing to learn.”

  The sight was fearful. If it were not for the sheer doom clutching their hearts, the scene might have been quite magical: a single, lonely collection of mountains rested in the centre of an otherwise sprawling province of heather. Scores upon scores of wyverns surged around the mountains’ conical spires, some only slightly larger in proportions than Tac’quin; others reached lengths of the Great Dragons described in Hilloc’s tale of Darantur. Duels were at play where pairs of wyverns lashed at each other in midair, streams of emerald spittle flowing between them, maws and claws slashing to and fro eager to put their keenness to trial. A few were throwing cattle – sheep, oxen, cows, goats and pigs – onto the stone wrought barbs, lapping at the sustenance stolen from farms and fields afar. But the majority of the wyverns were content to circle the mountains, biding their time and keeping sentry until their lord called them forth.

  Cezzum kept nudging his sable hair from his vision as the banks and rolls of Tac’quin’s soaring sent the now completely dishevelled locks flustering about his face. In all his years of existence, the goblin had never seen such a sight. The number of wyverns alone was enough to put even the most battle-ready army through its paces. Tac’quin curved around one of the spires and the visceral deeds of the wyverns could be well seen below; the rank redolence could also well be smelt. Several misfortunate beasts cried out their final charnel howls as they lay skewered, waiting for death to take them from their misery. Decay for others had long since set in and the rotting of flesh had turned their very corpses into frames of putrid decadence.

  A flight of wyverns swerved in front of Tac’quin, causing it to slow its speed. The wyverns circled around them a number of times. Cezzum’s and the dragon-wyvern’s eyes regarded them closely, as they were regarded in return. Numerous slit orbs churned in great circles as the wyverns drew closer and closer until they realised their imposing effect sent no quiver of fear through Tac’quin and the goblin; they summarily veered away. When they turned Cezzum glimpsed upon one of the wyverns’ back the trappings of a saddle, a girth.

  Tac’quin flew lower and lower, following the cones of rock to their base where they vanished into the mountains. The sun was at its zenith and it sought to remove the darkness which would otherwise be cast on the area. A small, flat, recessed strip of rock indicated the entry into the mountain proper. Several wyverns, goblins and phagens were assembled on the flattened stone, seeing to the tacking of the airborne creatures. Jutting out of the sheer face at one end of the landing was a wide entrance, commodious enough to allow many types of wyverns to soar in and out simultaneously.

  Cezzum gulped and felt a slight rise in his gorge; he pushed it down. He tightened his hand that gripped Tac’quin’s chest and squeezed it reassuringly.

  “We go goblin,” said Tac’quin, “may your stalwart courage see us through.”

  Tac’quin sent itself into a dive, striking straight for the entryway. The goblin and the dragon disappeared into the den of the Osi.

  An hour had lingered away since Palodar and Amyia had confronted the first trio of the Osi’s pickets. Two phagens and a goblin had crafted a depression that resembled a hybrid of a fox’s hole and a covert in the meadows. Originally the sentries had been well concealed, but when the girl and dwarf came into view they shot to their feet and made ready to assault. As the two companions drew nearer, weapons were lowered and they passed them by without so much as an utterance; the leers of the guards were steadily fixed on the boots the two wore; none were to question nobles of a horde.

  However, that was an hour lost to history. The pair stood at the threshold of the mountains, at their very feet. The mountains appeared even grander as they stood beneath its foul aegis. Alternating strata of ashen and dark grey stripes layered the structure from its base to where the eye lost the ability to differentiate the striations anymore as it rose onwards towards the clouds. High above, the shapes that had been previously obscured could now be better viewed and Amyia and Palodar observed the once distant dots transfigured into wyverns. A keen screech, with the reverberation much the same of sword being dragged along a metallic surface, tore across their ears, originating from a particularly gigantic wyvern which had just arisen from the crown of the mountain. Yet matters that were to transpire where their feet tread were of far more importance to the two friends than any airborne antics of antipathy; the pair attempted to ignore the wyverns’ cries.

  A large entrance had been carved into the mountain, opening into a darkened cavern that lay therein. It seemed to be one of many that could be seen at some distance to the left and right; it was loftily excavated to accommodate even the tallest of pokroks, the function of which it was presently serving. Five of the gargantuan beasts lumbered before Palodar and Amyia with a host of phagens and goblins at the van and rear. Two felled trees were hoisted under each of the pokroks’ ponderous arms, bringing the much-needed fuel for their engine of war. The marching foes were all laden with food and drink and basic wares; the items glittered far too resplendently in the sun; it was indeed the plunder of an unfortunate village or caravan.

  Amyia seethed inside. She felt her heart drawing her weapon and charging up to the host and slaying them one by one until she herself would be driven to the dust – at least there she would not have the boiling hate anymore. A message then shot from her mind to her heart that quelled the desire, and she tramped onwards without betraying her dark and deep desires; prudence had won the battle, for at least a spell. The pillaging host then passed the six guards standing at the entrance to the caverns and disappeared upwards into the gloom. Amyia and Palodar were one step from earshot when the dwarf said, without looking at her: “I was glad to have met you, young bairn, Amyia.”

>   She curiously threw her gaze at him, but before she could question his statement they drew too near the pickets.

  One of the goblin guards stepped forwards to approach the companions. If two noble goblins strolling in from the meadows was an occurrence to cause suspicion, the goblin did not display a modicum of it. As the guard gestured for them to stop, Palodar’s head beat with fury trying to recall the words, and in particular, the vernacular Cezzum had taught him.

  “Raan kilhg?” asked the goblin with sonorous, hissing tones.

  “kilhg Vrazern,” replied Palodar, throwing as much rancour into his voice as possible and hoping beyond all hope that he had properly informed the guard that he and Amyia hailed from an esoteric horde to the far north and west, a clan which scurried about on the verge of the Brack-Wood. They both stood stalwart and unmoving. The fastest way to dissolve any illusion is by the unintentional gestures of the body and if there was any one time where a steel web of lies was necessary it was at the precipice of evil.

  “Vrazern?” echoed the guard. He looked them up and down and made note of their raiment. They were slightly shoddy and ill-fitted for nobles, but the boots and helms played a great part in portraying their guise, besides what goblin was to know the eccentricities of nobles that lived leagues and fathoms away? “Dazek ur kavga?”

  “Gribe,” answered Cezzum pointing over his shoulder attempting to inform the goblin that they were envoys of their horde which was to follow a day later. “Kavga reki baftom.”

  The goblin smiled, his visage appearing almost endearing. “Kikve! Kikve!” he exclaimed with much felicitations; “Tezum.” The guard turned and gestured for the nobles to walk before him. Palodar breathed deeply and felt anxiety spawned perspiration dribble onto his lips. Their entry had succeeded. The rest of the guards all bowed slightly in scornful deference when Amyia and Palodar strode near them. But such fortune now belonged to the bottom of the wheel.

  Emerging out of the entrance, purposefully walked a true goblin noble with two phagens and four further goblins in tow. The guards that stood around the companions were clearly delighted by his appearance; their shift had come to an overdue end. The noble goblin donned no helm but allowed his lush strands of long ruby hair to fall around his back. He wore a rather shoddy jerkin which was at odds to its masterful workmanship; it was coupled together with a pair of chain leggings via a series of straps and buckles. Three daggers rested at his right hip with two longer ones sheathed on his left; yet most importantly, his boots were immaculate. The boots were tailored of sable leather, as opaque as the deepest night, steel-toe shod and gilt with golden festoons of wondrous patterns. An emblem was etched into the steel-toe – an iron gauntlet clutching a horizontal haft; attached to one side of the shaft was the head of a battleaxe and upon the other, the head of a pick. Palodar instantly knew a prominent figure from the dwarven town of Gram’mel had fallen to the goblin lord. The noble halted in the middle of his stride at the sight of the two fellow brethren of estate before him. Waving his hand to his followers he ordered them to start switching over the duty roster with those on guard; he then walked towards Palodar and Amyia.

  “Krazek kikve kazuuns khopkhop,” said the noble, his rather protracted and aquiline nose seemed to bobble tremendously as he spoke. “Tezum tez freggil reki ke shoz aka Osi’Bledun-Deorc. Shox baka?”

  Palodar quaked within his armour, he stood bewildered. Cezzum had taught him a basic greeting and where they might hail from, but the words voiced by the goblin noble were utterly unfathomable. The dwarf, for his very life, could not induce a movement into any of his limbs; fear had frozen him. It was Amyia then who remembered overhearing Cezzum’s final advice to his brother.

  The young girl took a step and slammed her fist into the noble’s head. It was either that the noble was extremely dainty or her fist contained more potency than she had initially imagined, but the goblin was sent flying to the ground. Suddenly all attention was thrown onto the nobles. The twelve guards ceased their duty switching and watched the fray unfold; it was rare, since the Osi’s arrival, that nobles challenged each other for the right of rule and power, for as Cezzum had told Palodar, the victor of any such non-lethal encounter is a half-day of absolute rule where their will and actions could not be questioned by any save the elder of the horde.

  Quickly the noble rolled onto his haunches and turned his enraged face towards Amyia. His lip was torn and blood curled around one of his fangs. The goblin was suffused with fury and the lust for the brawl. In a piercing screech he cried, “Miklin Kashen’ukin!” With a prodigious kick off the ground he leapt at the girl and threw a vicious punch into her belly. Breath burst from her lips and the two tumbled onto the ground with arms and legs flailing wildly, droplets and splatters of mud and blood decorating the goblin’s face and Amyia’s helm. It was in the span of those few seconds that Amyia regretted two things that caused her own heart to erupt in panic as Palodar’s had done. One, for both ignoring and underestimating the sheer power and swiftness of a goblin - quite a different beast altogether compared to the phagens she had bested; and two, being remiss in reattaching her chinstrap which she had chosen to leave hanging given the rawness upon her jaw.

  The hefty impact of the ground sent a second bout of pain surging through Amyia, all the more hurtful by way of the momentum the goblin added as he grappled astride her. Amyia’s helmet had rotated with the tumble and her vision was now obscure; she was unable to see her opponent. Despite the pangs thumping within and without, and the loss of sight, Amyia threw a defensive punch where she thought her foe was – it rang true. The whisper crack of flesh on teeth lilted into everyone’s ears. It pleased the noble. Shaking his head the goblin savoured the taste in his mouth and with devastating force knocked Amyia’s sternum. Amyia’s resistance crumbled. The noble sought to put an end to his victorious brawl and rejoice in his day of unbridled power; it was so that he decided to strangle his aggressor into unconsciousness. He grabbed the helmet and flung it mightily into the meadows. His hands were nearly upon her throat when recognition speared his eyes. A non-goblin, green-eyed and hazel haired greeted him. The noble froze for a great span of time, incredulity gripping the eyelids of all present and contorting them into monumental distances from each other. And then the shock passed.

  The noble drew his dagger and struck its hilt into Amyia’s forehead. The world became cloudy and filled with fog. Haze grew from everything she could vaguely glimpse from behind eyelids that fluttered uncontrollably. What is wrong with me? thought Amyia as the blunt force plunged her into a confounding existence where the effects occurred before any understanding. Why can I not see properly?

  Through the mist she saw Palodar clouted with a vicious pole arm; he staggered to his knees. One of the phagen guards ripped off his helmet and discovered him to be a non-goblin as well; Palodar was hit repeatedly with an armoured fist until the dwarf slumped to the ground. The fog grew. A second ache grew from Amyia’s temple. She thought it all very odd that she lived in a world with there was no sound and where little could be seen. Where is everything?

  Clouded figures and shapes shifted about. Amyia’s eyes were more closed than open, but occasionally they let some fog in. Grass slid beneath her back. No. It changed. It grated. She was being dragged over a coarse, rock floor. Her eyes opened. A little shape faintly glowing in the light was seen. A young gobling was replacing a torch on the wall. His face was adorned with great round eyes tinged with delicate and lanky features, its fangs only slightly jutting out from its other teeth; his lips parted when Amyia was hauled passed him. And all the girl could think of before she fell into a world of darkness was: How cute.

  Lauret, Knight-Captain of the Paladins, approached his peer. A face filled with tension brought furrows that threatened to become ravines on a forehead that should not have known such lineaments until age had sought for them to be chiselled. His armour – a chain hauberk with leggings of interlocking mail and plate – glistened in the dull red hues of t
he fire burning in the centre pit of the grand feasting hall which had been converted to accommodate his knights. Lauret’s hand rested on the pommel of his blade, and so quickly did his fingers drum its hilt that while his courage was unwavering, his anxiety sought escape. He came to a halt at the side of his sister-in-arms. She peered pensively, stoically, at the stars through the recessed window in the wall which had its ornate wooden shutters left ajar. A soft evening breeze flowed over her visage and she drank deeply of its effects. Lauret joined her and too stared at the firmament. He was on the verge of asking her a question when she responded preemptively in a voice tattered with despondence: “A fellow was found on the journey; a girl; a warrior; a beast. Two have fallen into the dark; beyond that I cannot see. The mountain is wreathed in a pall. We must wait.”

  He grimaced. Lauret’s thoughts turned first to their hope’s plight and then to his fallen daughter. She loved the stars… I think the Knight-Captain thought to himself.

  “She did,” came that tattered voice of reassurance.

  With his back to his cadre of knights, he allowed himself a forlorn sigh. “Already so much has been taken. Is all lost?”

  “Never is anything lost when valiance opposes darkness. It is when silence deafens the world that all is forfeit. There exists still a whisper; its voice may yet be found. But turn your thoughts to happier things, my friend. Rejoice with those that seek courage from you, for while our hope rests beyond our sight, their spirit” – she gestured with an unhurried nod of her head to all those gathered inside the hall – “resides within you. Let us make good with the time we have. Yesterday teaches us, tomorrow will try us, but on it we must not dwell; many roads may be taken, save but one will be trod. Rejoice in the now and charge with unrelenting fury when the path is cleared. Nay, dear Lauret, all is not lost.”