The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  Lauret took a long pull of the fresh, pristine evening air. He smiled to himself. “It tastes of promise.”

  “Then that is what it truly is.”

  “You have my thanks,” said Lauret.

  She nodded her pleasure slowly. Lauret could do naught but return a dry grin to the woman who was of equal rank to himself, but exuded an aura of majesty a class far beyond his own. He turned on his heels and, with renewed rambunctious verve, descended on his knights with merriment.

  The loran knight-captain returned her vision unto the heavens; she became desperately thoughtful. The stars looked at her as much as she looked at them. Their reflection sparkled with a divine sheen in the black of her eyes. Casena too loved the stars.

  Chapter XIV

  The Not-So Forlorn Mountain

  T he hallowed, harrowing stench was hauntingly familiar. Cezzum’s nostrils were unsure whether to revel in or be reviled by the smell milling about the depths of the caverns. Tac’quin and Cezzum had been exploring the extensive network of tunnels and chambers for a great deal of hours. The amount of infrastructure built was beyond any expectation either of them had held; the extent of the Osi’s rallying was immeasurable; every goblin and phagen horde throughout the realm could well have been billeted within the mountain along with all other manner of beast. As they explored, the two companions conversed in Kig’n with one another – Tac’quin’s dragon-kin speech allowing for such a feat. Earlier the two had dined at a refectory: a low-ceilinged chamber that extended for a good three hundred feet, filled with roughshod tables and benches of splintered timber and coarsely carved stone. An army of cooks toiled over cauldrons and spits, cooking and roasting vast quantities of victuals to sate the hunger of the hundreds of goblins, phagens and wyverns feasting in the hall; Cezzum could only assume there were bigger halls for bigger fare.

  The drink had been vile and the food tough and scarcely cooked, although Tac’quin found the latter somewhat satisfying; yet it renewed their bellies that had been empty for over a day. It was after their meal that the two decided to continue their search on the lower levels of the cave network; the upper areas, it seemed, were designated purely for accommodation and sustenance.

  A train of goblins carrying scores of fagots scurried passed them as Cezzum and Tac’quin walked along a segment of tunnel angled downwards, presumably leading out of the habitation area.

  “I grow tired of this, Cezzum! How do we discover his location?” growled Tac’quin with vitriol, its four jaws drifting in and out as a flower would with four petals that might bloom for the sun and curl with the moon.

  A nettling feeling irked Cezzum while he regarded his companion; he grew anxious. “I know not. This place is far greater than ever I could have envisioned; a single chamber here is as large as some goblin villages.” Cezzum ran his hand along the pocked stone wall. A fine earthen-grey dust leapt onto his hand and clung on for safety, grateful to escape its mundane existence, eager to be away from their infinite brethren still coating the rocks. The odd burning brand was slotted into ill-fitting holes in the walls that provided scant illumination; despite the dimness, it at the least removed the worry of tripping over obstacles and debris hidden in the dark. A stench then assaulted the two friends’ nasal passages. Vile rankness, noisome and fetid, that smelt of the infusion of urine, excrement and putrid decay, clambered into their noses.

  Cezzum vividly remembered the conditions of his first home, but what assailed them was far more appalling than he had ever before known. He puffed his cheeks and tasted bitter bile in his throat. “However… I think it safe to conclude the… O-… Osi would not find his purchase on this… level,” Cezzum choked out. Tac’quin’s eyes were narrowed and beaded tears gathered at their fore. The dragon was in agreement. They quickened their pace.

  A tunnel branched off to their left, descending downwards once more; more importantly, it led away from the floor of defecation and the dead. The companions had absconded into the arsenal. A long corridor stretched out in front of them, better lit than any of the previous tunnels had been. Numerous cavities had been dug perpendicularly to the hallway and many phagens, ostensibly due to their greater strength, traipsed into and out of the chambers carrying bundles of arms before disappearing into the gloom that occupied distant turns in the tunnels. Tac’quin walked purposefully into the closest room on its right. Cezzum quickly followed.

  The chamber was simple and had little in the way of features to define it. Three of its walls were stacked to the ceiling with weapons rolled in coarse cloth and lashed shut with fibrous cord. Several small bones lay at the feet of a phagen who sat behind a desk that was either too large or the creature too diminutive for his race; regardless, the effect was somewhat humorous to Cezzum and the phagen knew quite well the absurd portrait he portrayed. An unpleasant gunge bubbled on the upper gums of the commissary clerk. The creature noticed the two visitors and listlessly poked at his dental secretion. He scraped a good dab of it off with his nail and flicked it onto the floor. Without caring who else might be in his office, the phagen licked at the spot where the ooze had been and swallowed what remnants his lapping tongue could scoop up. Dreary, tawny eyes, that displayed his bibulous enchantment with grog, swept over Cezzum and Tac’quin; the eyes then had to sweep back again, for their first run they had swept too far in one direction.

  Tac’quin the wyvern allowed little time for the scant decorum in use by phagen society and propped its front claws atop the table; the wood creaked under the dragon’s weight. “Where is the Osi?” commanded Tac’quin in a howl that could have sown fear into any creature that lead a mortal life. It was fortuitous that neither the phagen nor Cezzum were subject to this fear; the clerk was too far under to allow anything save a dagger plunging into his bosom to detract him from his stupor. Cezzum cuffed Tac’quin with the back of his hand and cried, “Tempestuous knave! Seek to speak again without my leave and I will rip the flesh from thee myself!”

  The dragon sneered savagely at his friend; its maw spreading fully open, frightfully displaying four banks of razor-edged teeth; each jaw boasting three rows of the minute daggers. Cezzum felt a visceral fear at Tac’quin’s response, but showed not a jot of it. The dragon then halted and slipped silently off the table to sit, front legs extended, adjacent its goblin-master.

  “Forgive the beast,” apologised Cezzum, “I shall strike him later this eve.”

  The phagen clumsily nodded his forgiveness.

  Cezzum gripped the edge of the table with both his hands and leant forwards. “I seek the Osi’s chamber, where is it to be found?”

  The phagen attempted to grumble but gurgled instead. His voice bore the typical phagen rasp yet the deepness of his mugs had seen to slur his patois and a great degree of his cognisance. “If had you cause see him to, where know be throne.”

  A snarl curled on Cezzum’s lips. He forcefully grabbed the drunkard by the collar of his jerkin and pulled the phagen’s face to an infinitely small distance to within his own. “I bear dire tidings from the West and thee, you drunken louse, dare to thwart and oppose His will! Once have mine feet tread these halls, by what incestuous birth do thee think I can recall every turn and tunnel.” Cezzum thrust the clerk’s head against the table, the wood creaked under the sudden weight; Cezzum threw him powerfully back into his chair; the phagen went tumbling over backwards; both the chair and the phagen lay sprawled upon the ground. Cezzum rounded the table and drew Gnarlfang. Levelling the blade at the wide-eyed creature’s gullet; Cezzum ordered, “Direct my feet lest steel discovers your throat before my news finds the Osi.”

  “Descend fourteen down go you! Down go floors, fourteen!” drunkenly pleaded the phagen rapidly. “Chamber small stairs all lead. One hall level on. Throne find hall follow!”

  Blood wept into the phagen’s tawny irises blending a new hue of drab ochre. The phagen cowered and flung his arms across face. Cezzum sheathed Gnarlfang and potently kicked the pitiful creature in the ribs; he had not meant it
to be so crushing; what had happened? A crack echoed off the walls; one of the phagen’s ribs had been snapped. The phagen wailed mournfully as every breath brought with it a pang. No other creature in the mountain cared for the cry.

  Cezzum clumsily stepped backwards, turning he dashed under the chamber’s archway. Phagen labourers lumbered along with their wares paying no heed to the goblin that stood bracing himself against the corridor’s wall, shivering visibly. He had been carried away by the guise. The end flourish had not been necessary. He violently hurt his own kind. It was gratuitous. It was done for his pleasure. He had enjoyed it. Streaks of moisture ran down Cezzum’s jade face as he collapsed onto his knees. The goblin had little compunction concerning the felling of his own kind, for what he knew was a just cause, and yet, to cause such grievous harm, when none was warranted, and then to imbibe in the woe that it caused... it broke his mental fortitude in twain.

  Tac’quin emerged from the wailing room and stood next to the goblin. “You have broken a rib goblin; he will not perish. Cease your self-indulgent folly; I have no patience for your fatuous whimpering.” The dragon trundled along the corridor heading for the next descendible route.

  Cezzum was still filled with frisson, but he compelled his body to follow Tac’quin. Wiping his face with his hand that had stroked the wall, he left a muddy streak down his left cheek. The goblin’s resolve was asunder. With the deed at hand what was there to be done? Fulfilling his vow to Filburn was right and virtuous to him; what of the cost? The years of solitude and self-forged serenity in the crucible of seclusion had made him a form of good; it had made him whole - being thrust back into the world destroyed that. The Osi had to be returned to the dust; he had to be slain. Yet if Cezzum’s will became interred in the gaping, rapacious yearnings of the dead, what was to happen to his self? All his goodness would be vanquished along with his foe. Cezzum would not be the goblin he set out to be. Cezzum was in double conflict. An eager gobling ran past Cezzum, quickly changing one of the brands in its sconce. Cezzum hurried after the dragon.

  A torch burnt in the corridor sending scant light into the chamber athwart from it, only dimly outlining the trembling, naked forms of a dwarf and a young girl. A single silhouette of a halfling, a goblin, stood at the threshold of what presumably was a gaol. No bars, doors or shutters of any sort barred the way out of the room. The only pinioning feature was the small creature fingering a crossbow.

  Amyia curled herself up into a ball, desperately hugging her face between her knees, attempting to find some corner in the circular chamber; attempting to cling to some vestige of courage; no tears did she weep. Palodar sat at her side. He hated himself. He had stood there dumbfounded and abashed with fear while the little human girl had shown valour of an epic sort. He was a civilian of the world and because of it he was impotent to stand against it. He hated himself.

  The scent in the chamber carried with it an acrid tinge. Moments ago, the goblin jailer had irritably thrown the defiled, broken form of a woman back into the room. She had pleaded for her punishment to be stayed; she then lay face down on the floor, a pool of urine and blood curling around her; a bolt protruded from her nape. No walls, no bars, only death.

  Palodar felt helpless, humiliated and seething with anger. If he had had so much as a stone, the dwarf vowed he would pummel the guard’s head into the ground so vigorously that naught would remain but a splashing of pink pulp and ground bone. But he was helpless. The dwarf put his arm around Amyia’s neck and willingly her head fell onto his shoulder; two wounds still oozed; blood trickled down the dwarf’s breast. He tenderly placed his bloodied and bruised face upon her head. His hand shivering, he stroked the side of her face and the strands of her hair clumsily. No words were spoken. Only a touch of solace was to be found.

  Another goblin appeared at the entry way. What seemed like a grand flank of meat was in his hand. The gaoler readily accepted it and the other goblin stepped into the cell. The venal guard ravenously gorged himself on the meat; his weapon still remained attentive. The goblin was but a shadow of black against the meagre light that flickered at his back. He came close enough so that he could be vaguely seen by Amyia and Palodar. The goblin’s lower jaw jutted outwards and his upper lip had never developed properly, curling permanently upwards; two fangs rested on his bottom lip. Malevolent, yellow eyes leered lasciviously at the girl. He took no regard of the dwarf. The goblin unbuckled his leather sash; his tasse fell to his ankles; he stepped over it.

  Palodar took to his feet. He positioned himself doughtily between Amyia and the determined defiler. The guard continued to enjoy his feast, heeding not the opposition occurring within his cell. The other goblin continued to approach. Palodar vowed to himself that the beast would not draw close enough for the smell of its breath to corrupt the girl. Palodar heaved a thunderous punch at the goblin. It missed. The goblin stepped to the side, avoiding the fist, and slammed his own into the wounded areas of Palodar’s visage. The dwarf collapsed in renewed, scorching pain. The goblin gestured to the gaoler and reluctantly the jail-keep, annoyed at having to deal with such matters at a time of great food, levelled his crossbow at Palodar and continued to tear at muscle on the flank. Palodar again was helpless. It was a show of resistance, far too little in its prowess and far too late in its surfacing. If the dwarf had helped Amyia in the fight with the noble, or had struck the noble himself, then they might well have eluded their grisly fate. Nay, redemption was not to be his. But even if he had stopped the fiend before him, what end would it have accomplished? Would not Amyia despise the very sight of him, the dwarf that had done naught to aid her? And of what use was atonement? Atonement, that insidious creature lurking to amend injuries to another; the false fiend whose false words and false actions the conscience might readily accept, and be absolved by, but forgiveness from another never truly being achieved, for something that is slighted is never entirely effaced.

  Amyia was hauled upwards by her shoulders and thrust against the cold, abrasive, stone wall. The goblin snarled wickedly. Amyia’s eyes were on fire. She punched an exposed part of the goblin’s belly and rammed her knee into his groin. The goblin cringed slightly and returned her effort with a pleased smirk. The anger, the passion excited him. Amyia fought back as a female goblin would. The pain pleased him. Amyia’s body might have been captive to her attacker, but her eyes glowed with unflinching strength. The goblin shifted, and on the cusp of injecting himself into the girl he was ripped backwards. Amyia slid down the wall and slumped to the floor.

  The defiler received a staggering stroke of a truncheon across his brow from a fellow goblin. His eyes swivelled about; he fell to the ground. A phagen was laying waste to the bribed gaoler with a flail, which instead of being crafted with a single spiked orb, it was chained with dozens of tiny barbed globes – designed to inflict intolerable amounts of pain without slaying its victim.

  The noble the pair had brawled with stood under the cell’s archway. He had informed the Osi of the infiltrators and immediately the Osi had declaimed their fate to be different from that of the fruits taken from their pillages - information that had not been given to the rapist nor the jail-keep. The Osi wished to wring from the captives his own manifestation of truth, or falsehood; the words the Osi longed to hear came not from a desire for their tale or their masters; he merely wished to briefly look upon the faces of those that had managed to reach the steps of his fortress before revelling in his own enjoyment of decorating his throne with their forfeiture.

  Shrieking, the gaoler begged the phagen to halt his endeavours. The phagen further bolstered the ardour of his trade. The noble tossed two bristly shifts and strands of string into the centre of the chamber. Approaching Amyia, he grabbed her by the flesh of her upper arm and bowled her towards the plain and foul-smelling garments. Shoving his boot into the soft flesh of Palodar’s side, he rolled the dwarf to where the girl was hovering on her haunches. The two companions listlessly picked up the shifts.

  “I am...” whi
spered Palodar to Amyia in a broken voice, “...so sorry.”

  “Yous did nothing wrong,” whispered Amyia in return. She smiled at the dwarf. In all the darkness that lay above them, in all the horror that lay about them, she smiled; within the very depths of depravity, she curled her lips and smiled genuinely and warmly. Never had Palodar seen anything more radiant or more beautiful than that act. It was a wonder beyond all wonders.

  The tip of a dagger prodded Palodar’s side. It created a tiny spring of blood. The noble was growing impatient. Hoisting the garbs over their heads, they donned the itchy shifts and fastened them with the pieces of cord. The noble propelled them into the corridor and they disappeared down the hallway. All that remained in the jail cell were the remains of an ill-starred woman, the unconscious form of a goblin and the flesh-torn jailer; naught else. But the only hope that perished in the chamber were of the figures who remained.

  The hall was commodious; yet, as with the rest of the intricate levels of the warren, it was wholly barren. A single corridor led into its cavernous desolation; if fixtures were scant, it nevertheless thronged with respective leaders, all elders and nobles of newly arrived hordes that had come to pay their respects to the Osi. Naturally formed pillars of excavated and chiselled stone ran parallel to each other off the centre of the chamber, supporting the great weight looming overhead which had a sense of threatening to bury all those beneath it for having wrought such a large chamber out of the innards of the mountain. Torches were more vividly present in the hall: four to a pillar and several more along the surrounding walls. The effect granted pellucid vision of all those gathered before the Osi, while only two, faint torches stood straddling a dais. No comforts were evident and naught adorned the walls apart from the mottled ripple of rock and shadow. A single throne rested upon the dais. It was fashioned by a nature that knew little of the balance of things for it was utterly, unyieldingly malignant in its construction.