The Good Goblin

by C M F Eisenstein

  “Great are your actions yet little do you know of them. ‘Twas you dragon who pulled me from the bastion of death when I was struck in the knee and tumbled to the ground. It is to you that I owe existence.”

  The regal knightness then proceeded to kiss the forehead of the dragon. Tac’quin shifted about uncomfortably; the bodily humour of the habitually recalcitrant dragon was not lost on Palodar who chuckled to himself. It was then that Cezzum noticed Casena standing at his side.

  She gestured to the horizon and then to the growing gathering of rambunctious people around the spit; knights and knightesses had begun to emerge from the various buildings. “Even when beauty fades and becomes replaced by darkness, look, Cezzum, at the happiness which can be found in hearts where shadows do not pass.”

  “’Tis a marvellous sight,” agreed Cezzum watching his friends. Some time passed before Cezzum spoke again. “How fare thee, my captain?”

  “I am loath to utter such words, Cezzum, but mayhap, for this eve, I shall. I am well and at peace. The prescience which blessedly haunts me is softer, quieter. A thousand voices in there still do rage, but yet they are more mindful and cry out in dins no more. They whisper and speak in turn. With the vanquishing of Bledun, his ethereal terror fled from this world and others to which we cannot speak. Spirits are becalmed and rivers flow their truest courses.”

  Despite the cryptic answer Cezzum found sanctuary in the words. Before he could muse of them further Casena continued.

  “But of far more import here is you goblin.”

  Cezzum looked at Casena’s startling eyes into which he had to constantly force himself not to become lost.

  “Aye, goblin, you. The path of the world, the path of nature has forever been destroyed. Destiny lies at your feet and you tower imposingly above it. Through turmoil you emerged true... incomprehensible goodness. The blood of the Osi has forged you into the first paragon of hope that we may only fervently beseech that others will follow. Your choices, Cezzum, have defied providence and fate, whether you accept it or not is of little consequence, but know that on this day, here, where you stand, allowing the lives and joys of others to cause pride within you, free will, the capacity to tear asunder what we are born into, has been embodied within your breast.”

  Before Cezzum could offer any words in response, for they were already known to Casena, he began to rise from the ground. He floated on a stream of air, lifting through the calm night and came to settle on the shoulders of the Knight-Captain.

  “Now,” said Casena with a queer mien of mirth, “we should not allow others to revel in folly without us.” And the figure of the loranic-goblin joined the massing merrymakers.

  Lúnàras waved his hand and a superbly sharpened butcher’s knife and silver serving dish magically leapt from the small table and saw to carving the roast. A barrel of the jasmine mead was rolled next to the spit by a brawny, bronze-skinned telopian, followed by Palodar who had offered to serve as a swift stein dispenser. An unexpected shout ripped through the merry air.

  “Oi’s! Whats yous all thinks you doing withouts me!” cried Amyia imperiously and with wild, emphatic gesticulations, as she materialised from the infirmary building. The Paladins all turned to seek the source of the wail and upon seeing its originator as the young girl, all bellowed out laughter at the sheer fright they had felt which could quite plausibly have been shrieked out by a soul-enthralling banshee. Amyia’s blue robe glistened under the torchlight of the infirmary; too far away were the Paladins to glimpse the gaiety roaring boisterously inside her eyes. She ran towards the crowd of people, but stopped dead in her tracks a few yards from them. There stood Tac’quin glowering at its student. Biting her lower lip Amyia sheepishly scuffled forwards to the dragon. “What I meant to say was: ‘Excuse me everyone, what are you all doing without me?’”

  Tac’quin nodded its approval and enfolded the young girl within its wings; smiles and laughter adorned the faces of all. She saw Cezzum straddling the neck of Casena and projected forth gratitude. The goblin returned the grateful look; it was his gratitude that was inexpressibly immeasurable. Perhaps precocious to those who knew not the wonderful girl that Amyia was, but Cezzum knew that her action was earnest in its manifestation: she put her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss towards the goblin, she blew a kiss to a member of the race that had sundered her world; she blew a kiss to her family. It was, however, the next event which sent everyone gathered, including the newly arrived Knight-Captain Lauret, into sheer hysterics.

  Palodar moved towards Amyia through the crowd, his hands concealed behind his back. When Amyia caught sight of the dwarf she shone delightfully at her companion that knew her better than any in the world would ever come to know. She ran to embrace him when, again, she staggered to a halt as Palodar revealed his hands. There, clutched within those ten magnificent fingers, was held, Tales of the fey, the majestic and the unbelievable - dirty, muddy, torn and blood besmirched, but there nevertheless. Amyia’s eyes grew unbelievably wide. Her mouth was agape and she became suffused with frisson. She launched herself at the dwarf and the two became one, toppling to the grass as a giant heap. Palodar landed softly on his back; Amyia atop him; the book caught between the two. Amyia embraced Palodar with such ferocity that not even a stout dwarf could break it; he was kissed all about: his forehead, cheeks, beard and even a soft touch to his lips. And just as it was, many moons ago, Palodar was thankful he had a grand beard of hair for so much blood rushed to his face that blushing might be considered a faint undertone for the colour red. Releasing the discombobulated dwarf from his organic shackles, Amyia graciously retrieved her book, pulled the still perplexed Palodar into a sitting position, and vigorously cleaned the golden spine of her book. And there she was, a girl no longer, but the reincarnation of her mother without the fetters of tradition; it was a wonder.

  The scene had sent ripples of unabated laughter through the ranks. Deadly, merciless, vile and ill-seeking hordes of goblins and phagens could not shake the stalwart resolve of the Paladins, but the thanks of a girl to a dwarf obliterated them entirely.

  Mead was drank, viands were gobbled and songs were sung. Magical displays of fireworks, enchantments and illusions continued to ensure the unabated flow of merriment. And thus it was how the celebration of the destruction of shadow spurred on revelry of the most wondrous kind.

  The hall was alight; not only with blazing torches burning brightly in feverishly fuelled sconces for the vigil, but also with a hundred faces; with visages and eyes, of every shade and hue, awaiting the mourning to begin. Farmers, crafters, shopkeepers, merchants and families had all come from the surrounding countryside to pay their respects to the chapter of knights and their lost brethren. The Paladins ensured their secrecy by maintaining their guise as a cabal of altruistic warriors and sell-swords that served the immediate community in whatever faculty they might be needed, and that their liege, to whom their unwavering fealty was sworn and avowed, was an unknown, but benevolent lord who cared deeply for the valley community and every one of its people.

  Tapestries lay becalmed, the only wind ushering forth were from the sorrowful breaths of the living – an oddity of humanity, where the living are besieged with melancholy, yet the dead know none of it and hold no sadness; should it not be otherwise? Stars decorated the night-swept heavens, pouring into the mustering hall through numerous windows and giving a starry backdrop to those lost eyes which would never see such light again.

  The Paladins sat cross-legged on the floor, dressed in the most elegant finery that they did own; they sat amongst the other denizens of the valley; all were turned inwards, as to face the central pit where Knight-Captain Lauret Kalan stood. It was a remarkable sight. Without the throws of armour, without the clutching of arms, within a sea of faces, were seated a cadre of beings forged to slay and drive peril before them, but so at peace, so plainly faced, so sparkling were their eyes, that they appeared no more than any other being; no greater than a farmer; no lesser than a king;
yet beneath those homely faces drummed a bravery and passion which exists only in the slightest of modicums within others. How was it that so few took it upon themselves to preserve the lives of so many, perishing in anonymity, with their accomplishments never known? There was only silence that filled the gaps. But the grandest deeds are often passed in silence, and so a moment was spared for those unknown few, with a thanks and a thought given to them, as they would have it... silently.

  Cezzum, Palodar, Amyia and Tac’quin all sat adjacent the central pit. Casena lounged next to Cezzum and next to her, Verenáles and Lúnàras were ensconced, holding each other around the waists. The vigil that was being held struck Palodar as odd; sadness abounded in the plenty, but more at ease were the faces dancing around him than at any funeral service the dwarf had ever seen. People chatted to one another, held partners with love, relaxed on blankets and sung sweet, pleasing dirges. His eyes strolled over these fain beings and he nodded admiringly; he could not think of a finer way to honour the dead.

  Lauret paced within the small confines of the rostrum. The Knight-Captain donned a sumptuous, crimson doublet, emblazoned with the Paladins’ crest, the rampant gryphon upon a shield, along with ankle-length breeches and sable, calf-high boots. Walking around the pit, he scanned and imbibed deeply all the keen faces regarding him.

  “Glory!” cried Lauret suddenly, his voice booming and resounding throughout the hall and then slowly falling to soft, strident tones. “Glory; it is not to be found in war. Glory; it is not to be found in battle. Glory; it is not to be found in death.”

  Not a single eye focused elsewhere. Lauret’s oration enthralled the minds of all in attendance. Strong and courageous were the faces of those Paladins all too familiar with their honour-founded eulogy, but the countenances of others, who had yet to behold such words, compressed; lips were pursed with distaste at the defamatory initiation of the ceremony. Yet such misjudged conceptions were soon to fade.

  “But glory is to be found!” continued Lauret sweeping from one arc to another, in turn letting his own fiery irises embrace each person that beheld him. “The dead are not glorious. Lifelessness, glorious is it not. The deeds of the fallen, glorious they are not! But life, life is glorious.

  “You! All you who sit before me are glorious. No wishes, no benedictions did our fellows utter so that their bones might be returned to the gutter. But it is for you, it is for all those who are known not, that life was unbidden and needlessly cast aside, for you glorious many who do here sit, for those that sit in homesteads in the valley, for those who reside in kingdoms far from this place. It is for those glorious people that our fellows did give the greatest gift that any may bequeath. There is glory! There it is to be found! Within you there is glory!

  “Take that glory, spawned from the flesh of our mothers, of our brothers, of our sons, of our daughters, of our sisters and of our brothers, and march forth into the world, and with that glory forge a life, a glorious life, worthy of remembrance! Worthy of their sacrifice! And if not, then, remember... Light a candle for their hearts, or be in peace for but a moment, and think of those who you never would think. And so from the bones of the fallen to the minds of the living, is glory to be found!”

  Passion swelled in Lauret’s bearing, his hand curled into a fist and was thrust high into the air. “Glory to the living!”

  “Glory upon them!” echoed the Paladins within the crowd with such spirit that the walls of the hall shook.

  “Glory to the living…” repeated Lauret, letting the words fall gently to their end. The hall was silent, not a whisper dared to crawl about. The ruffling folds of falling cloth then rippled with a shuffling noise. A tapestry behind the orating Knight-Captain fell to the floor revealing a marble block moulded into the stone wall. Hundreds of names were etched into it. Silence remained as all heads regarded the cenotaph. Then magically, as if it was the very purpose of the wall to do so, new names began to emboss themselves into the marble, slowly surfacing from within the memorial, a single appellation at a time.

  Laleth Kalan

  Fekrun of Darantur

  Calciná Hilthur

  Dea’rel Grawek

  Gallan of Palu’don

  Ilgrank of Gram’mel

  Illithe Mielen

  …

  And there on the glittering marble cenotaph did forty-three names add themselves to those inglorious remembered few, marking the deeds and valour of those that perished at the ford of the Fallen Leas and within the chamber of the Osi.

  Lauret stepped out of the circle and knelt on one of his knees before Cezzum. The goblin thought back to when they had first met the Captain, when he had donned only the faintest trappings of bearded growth. The facial hair had grown at length; it cast a dejected shadow upon his visage; the death of his daughter had taken its bristling toll. Never can there be a greater travesty than that of a child being taken from life before the parent, for not only is it the death of the child that ails, but with that loss of life the transcendence of time is too ripped away. The unkempt, unshaven beard was the only outward sign that Lauret mourned his daughter; his eyes shone with pride and admiration. He looked at Cezzum and then to Palodar; they swept over to Amyia and then on to Tac’quin with a steadfast gaze.

  “And here!” pronounced Lauret to all, holding Cezzum’s shoulder. “Here sit our saviours.”

  Cezzum shifted about uneasily, averting his eyes from those who until then had taken little heed of the green-skinned figure; he looked askance at Palodar who wore a grand grin at the words. Amyia reflected the dwarf’s saintly bearing, while Tac’quin appeared rather aloof.

  Lauret stood and cried out again. “If not for the deeds of this goblin, yes and I say goblin with as much love and valour as I would give to each of you – for a goblin is he in name and appearance only and naught else – if not for the deeds of this goblin, pain of a kind yet unknown would have descended upon our lands. His breast beats with a radiant goodness I have yet to see mirrored, apart from his courageous companions. Without the strength of will from each of them, a shallow grave would be each of our tombs. Their journey of despair into the heart of evil would be but a hollow shell if legend was to recount such a tale, immense was their task. And humble are they, for no reward, no riches were offered for their quest; their undertaking was of their own accord. Stand my friends; let us give praise to these two halflings, a woman and a dragon that saved a world from its doom.”

  Citizens and Paladins alike rushed to their feet and stood with utmost veneration. Casena stretched out her arms and offered them to Cezzum and Palodar, aiding them to their feet; Lauret offered his to Amyia and Tac’quin. Lauret whispered to them: “Arise my gallant knights; my gallant friends.”

  And when Cezzum stood, those in attendance not of the Paladin Order only saw a divine halfling who had saved them from the ravaging clutches of a foretold evil; no longer was he a fell goblin to them.

  Proud faces and inspired smiles warmed and encased those four saviours with an approbation that was beyond the value any physical reward.

  Lauret reverentially gestured to each one in turn. “Cezzum the Goblin! Palodar of Palu’don! Tac’quin the Dragon! Amyia Vesna!”

  Hundreds of fingers from over a hundred hands brought into existence an applause that clutched the very essences of the four friends.

  “All hail!” bellowed Lauret, clapping ardently.

  “All hail!” were the words echoed.

  “Hail Cezzum!” trumpeted the Captain.

  “Hail to Cezzum!”

  “Hail Palodar!”

  “Hail to Palodar!”

  “Hail Tac’quin!”

  “Hail to Tac’quin!”

  “Hail Amyia!”

  “Hail to Amyia!”

  The raucous felicitations wended their way into Cezzum’s ears; they streamed through his mind and formed within his eyes into small, delightful tears of longed for ambition that ran down a face that was no longer was blemished with dirt.

 
; Tac’quin threw its wings up into a great sail; so majestic was the action that the applause redoubled itself; the dragon chuckled slyly. Amyia rejoiced in the accolades and turned to her friends and saw within them not only the figures joyfully bewildered by the ceremony, but too she saw her family. She looked away lovingly and bowed her head and quietly whispered, only to herself: “I’m done mum. I’m done.”

  Palodar’s eyes appeared as if they were two little ponds hidden by the darkness, only visible by the faintest shimmer of moonlight upon them. He wrapped his arm around Cezzum’s neck and whispered through the cacophony of triumph: “This wonder, Cezzum, is for you.”

  The four companions stood alongside one another upon the greensward and outside the yearning reaches of the candlelit lamppost; they watched the Paladins and others exit from the mustering hall. Some headed straight to their billets while others milled about the courtyard and fountain. Paladin commissaries haggled with merchants over wares that would soon need replacing and comely sons and daughters and wenches seduced dashing young and veteran knights alike. Lúnàras and Verenáles walked, hand in hand, towards the small rose garden that lay at the far end of Gryphon’s Rest. The four friends stood watching all these happenings in silence. A voice interrupted from behind.

  “I do believe, Cezzum, that this is yours,” said Casena, surfacing from the darkness and proffering from her hands, Gnarlfang.”

  “Great victories did that blade bring,” argued Cezzum, “but the quest is done, is not the blade yours? Or the heirs’ of Filburn?”

  “Nay, Cezzum. This sword was forged for you, and to you it is bound until the end of time itself; no other may wield it, it is as much a part of you now as your own two feet.”

  “I do not understand,” said Cezzum confusedly.

  “You will,” ensured Casena, presenting Gnarlfang on the palms of her hands. Cezzum took the blade and looked at it; somehow he felt better, more at ease with himself, when the blade was in his possession.