by Jean Rabe
It shifted slightly, to her exultation. She nearly had it free when an icy wave surged over her; the cold shot down her back, and the sword slipped from her fingers—a cold more intense than anything she’d experienced before, instantly numbing her. Whirling she faced a row of militant ghosts, all spirits of the Knights of Neraka. The closest had needlelike claws instead of hands, and though he looked transparent, he’d somehow managed to pierce her. Though the cold was vicious, she also felt some warmth and guessed this was her own blood.
“You dare mutilate our mistress,” the knight with the claw hands cried. “Defiler! Despoiler!”
“You will die for your transgression,” another knight added. He reached toward her, his hands turning to wispy claws.
Obelia! Feril’s mind screamed. Obelia! Help me!
The specter of the ancient sorcerer appeared above and behind the line of knights, his sage companions forming a foggy cloud near him. Obelia’s hollow eyes met Feril, and he sadly shook his head.
“We cannot help you, elf-fish.”
Dhamon! she wanted to scream.
Looking around wildly, she could see no sign of her shadow.
Feril reached for the dropped sword, held the pommel tightly, and swung it wide. The blade harmlessly passed through the approaching ghost knights.
“You will die,” they said as one.
One smiling ghost knight floated so close that his form brushed against her. “Your spirit, too, will help guard this sacred dragon.”
10
Ragh hadn’t smelled a skunk in some time, spending so many months in the swamp where the creatures weren’t normally found, but the foul smell made him think that a family of skunks was headed toward him and his favorite white oak. Ragh growled. He wasn’t afraid of skunks, wasn’t afraid of much of anything. Dragons, he had to admit, scared him some. He was definitely afraid of dragons, particularly Sable… and any significant number of Knights of Neraka.
He fished around in the grass and managed to find a handful of pebbles. These Ragh heaved toward the noise that was rustling around some ferns near the base of a tree, not quite finding his mark but getting close enough.
Still, the rustling grew louder, the offensive smell stronger, and when a small feather-decorated spear poked out above the ferns, he realized the smell was coming not from skunks but from something else entirely. A shrill cry cut through the morning sky and the woods came alive with the pounding of tiny feet.
“Goblins!” Ragh snarled and braced himself, holding his clawed hands out to his sides.
Less than three feet tall, the goblins in question were manlike in form but had scaly skins like lizards. Their faces were drawn forward, giving them a ratlike visage, and their ears—though some had been bitten off—were pointed. Some of the goblins were the red-brown color of dried clay; others were dark brown or dirty yellow. There was one white-skinned goblin in the mix. Scraggly clumps of hair grew on top of their otherwise bald heads, and their wild, wide eyes were black as night and fixed belligerently on the draconian as they attacked.
“An army of stinking goblins.” There were several dozen of them that Ragh could see. He couldn’t outrun them, as goblins were fast and agile, and he certainly couldn’t fly away, but he could fight them, and he relished the opportunity.
“Stinking rats.” Ragh snatched at the first goblin to reach him, his scaly fist closing about the creature’s throat and squeezing until he heard its neck snap. Ragh hurled the dead one into another trio of goblins that was rushing at him, spears thrust out as if to skewer him. The corpse bowled over the others, and Ragh crouched and turned his attention to a barrel-chested goblin who had come up close and was wielding a small axe.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he spat. “I’ll wet the ground with your putrid blood.”
Ragh’s voice was craggy, a rasping whisper that would have hinted at weakness or age had it come from another creature, but it got that way from many throat wounds earned in battle. His neck was thick with the scars. “Goblins come to bother me, fool thing for you to do. Stink up my tree. Last thing you’ll ever do.”
The draconian fought hard—not only against the goblins, but to keep from gagging, the stench from the goblins settling hard on his tongue and filling his nostrils. He’d traveled in the company of goblins before when he, Dhamon, and Maldred were heading to the mountains on the other side of the New Sea. They’d struck up a temporary alliance with some goblins, and those had looked up to Ragh as if he were some sort of general. Those goblins were from dry lands, and though they smelled bad, they didn’t stink so much as this bunch.
“By the memory of the Dark Queen! What did the lot of you roll in? Rats, you are! Stinking, filthy rats!” One of them jabbed at him with a spear. He cursed at the goblins in an old language he knew and kicked out at the one who dared jab him, the force of his blow caving in the small creature’s chest.
He slammed his fist down on the skull of another, smiling when he heard the bones crack and saw the goblin crumple. Ragh grabbed two more, one of them the white goblin he’d spotted, wringing both their scrawny necks. Tossing the two bodies over his shoulders, he picked up a fallen spear with his right hand and started skewering the red-skinned goblins. He alternately batted goblins away and bashed in their skulls. He had to step over a growing pile of bodies to keep fighting.
It was exhilarating to Ragh, after all these days of boredom. He threw back his head and howled, the sound quieting the goblins for a moment and giving the front rank pause. The spear slipped through his fingers, his hands were so coated with their black blood.
Ragh kicked one goblin so hard it sailed over the heads of his surprised fellows. He could read the hesitation on the faces of the closest goblins and the scent of their fear mingled with their stench.
“Stinking rats, come to disturb my morning!” the sivak cursed. His eyes sparkled darkly and a big grin spread wide across his scaly face. “I’ll kill all of you and let Dhamon toss the lot of your dead bodies in that damnable lake!”
Another goblin managed to get close, chattering maniacally, and jabbed a spear deep into his already-wounded leg.
“Foul little beasts!” Ragh hollered, stepping back and shaking his claws dripping with goblin blood. “What are you doing in these parts, anyway?”
The goblin tugged the spear free and stabbed again at the same wound. He cluttered at Ragh and eluded the sivak’s grasp, lunging at Ragh’s stomach.
One of the tallest goblins shouted long and loud in its spitting guttural tongue. Ragh had spent enough centuries on Krynn to learn most languages. The tall goblin had said, “Hurt him, yes, but don’t kill the wingless one. We need him alive!”
Alive? Ragh redoubled his efforts, though his arms and legs were moving slower from wounds and fatigue. What in the memory of the Dark Queen would a pack of goblins want with an old, scarred draconian without wings?
Another wave of goblins rushed out of the trees. Ragh guessed there were a hundred or more of the disgusting creatures. In general, goblins certainly weren’t anything to fear… but how many more of them were lurking nearby?
An uncharacteristic chill raced down Ragh’s spine, and he risked a glance over his shoulder at the lake. The surface was still and there was no sign of the elf or Dhamon. Calling for help would do no good; he doubted anyone would hear him underwater.
Ragh slammed his teeth together and growled from deep in his chest. He fought against the fatigue and clawed at every goblin within reach. He didn’t cry out for mercy, even when they gradually circled and cornered him, jabbing at the back of his legs with their tiny spears and knives.
Mere pinpricks, he told himself. They can’t hurt me. Ragh ripped open the chest of the tall goblin whom he’d heard ordering the others not to kill him. Then he trampled the body and tore into a couple more. The draconian’s eyes were watering fiercely—from the exertion, from the strong smells of blood and the reeking goblins. He batted at his eyes and shook his head to clear his vision.
<
br /> He caught sight of a huge figure looming behind the goblin throng. It was a man with broad shoulders and an imposing build. Ragh couldn’t make out any details, as the man clung to the shadows of the oaks, but he was certain the man was guiding the goblins, else they probably would have attacked him, too. Ragh swung at the goblins blindly now, keeping his eyes on the man, mentally daring him to step out from the shadows of the trees where he could be contested.
More goblins died; more were crushed or went flying. Then, abruptly, Ragh was brought to his knees and all he could see was the press of little leathery bodies, a veritable wall of scaly red and dirty yellow, shot through here and there by broken-toothed grins. The stench of the creatures’ sweat, blood, and whatever else clung to them overwhelmed him and he choked. The air in his tightening chest was hot and fetid, and he twisted his head up, gasping for fresh air.
He continued to swing and flail while the goblins cried shrilly and stabbed at his arms and legs. They were careful not to pierce his chest or stomach, having been commanded by the man, now stepping forward, that this sivak had to be captured alive.
“Take him down.” The man spoke in the common human tongue, and the goblins moved as one. “Break him, but do not kill him, not yet.”
Ragh was pushed onto his back with the pack of goblins climbing on and pummeling him with their weight. He managed to kill a couple more before the strongest of them drove spears into his arms and legs to pin him to the ground like an insect collector might pin a butterfly. A few of the goblins spat on him then, while others produced thick twine and crisscrossed it over his limbs and chest. The ends of the twine were tied to daggers that were thrust into the ground.
The sivak struggled but refused to cry out from the pain. He pitched his head from side to side, seeing the spears thrust into his arms and the blood that was spilling from his wounds. A particularly repulsive-looking goblin with one milky eye and patches of sores on his chest held a short sword to Ragh’s throat.
The draconian finally lay still and the goblins chittered their victory.
“We did as you asked,” Ragh heard one goblin say in the common tongue. “We did not kill him.”
“He’ll die anyway,” another said. “Look how he bleeds.”
“Work fast, Bedell,” a grizzled red goblin said. “Make him talk before he dies.”
Ragh saw a face above him. It was clean-shaven and handsome for a human, a man with short black hair and dark blue eyes. There was a faint scar leading from the center of his chin and disappearing under his ear. He smiled, revealing a row of even teeth as white as the lily emblem on his coal-black tabard. The man’s plate mail made a grating sound when he bent over the draconian, and Ragh could see that the armor was marred from acid. The Knight of Neraka drew his sword and touched it to the ropy scars across Ragh’s chest.
“I see you’ve been in many fights, sivak. Scars are the best badges of honor, are they not? Battle marks to wear for all to see.” He touched his own scar with his free hand. “Better than medals, don’t you think?”
Ragh struggled and the knight drove his heel down on Ragh’s chest.
“Commander Bedell,” a goblin risked. “You said he wasn’t to be killed. Our mistress will be angry if he dies… uh, accidentally.”
“I risk her anger just by being here,” the commander answered, “but no, the sivak is not to be slain… yet.” He traced the scars on Ragh’s chest and neck with the sword. Then he pressed just hard enough to cut a bloody trail across the sivak’s chest. “I think I should add to his badges of honor first.” Another long cut, as he watched Ragh’s eyes, wanting to see them narrow in pain, wanting to see them plead. “Answer some questions for me, sivak, and I’ll make your death relatively painless. Resist and I can draw it out for days upon days.”
A goblin leaning over Ragh wrung his hands and grinned gleefully. Others pressed closer to watch the entertainment. Ragh felt bile rising in his throat, the stench of the creatures turning his stomach. The stench, coupled with the pain from the cuts and the spears that held him in place, was nearly unbearable. The smell… he placed it now, a mixture of sweat and the creatures’ own rank odor, but above all that was the stink of a swamp bog. These creatures must have come all the way from the swamp. Didn’t the goblins mentioned a mistress? Sable?
“The shadow dragon that calls itself Dhamon,” the Knight Commander coaxed, holding his sword poised for another cut. “Tell me where he is.”
Ragh shook his head and clenched his teeth as the commander sliced at him.
“You’re his boon companion, my Mistress Sable says. The shadow dragon that carves out more and more of the overlord’s swamp for his own… where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Ragh spat fiercely. “I’m here alone.”
“I can see that,” the knight shot back. “You’re alone now, but you weren’t a little while ago. There’s dragon spoor. You’re always with the shadow dragon called Dhamon. Where is he?” The knight jabbed the sword into Ragh’s shoulder, twisting it. “I could take the chance that he’ll come back here eventually—he wouldn’t abandon his pet for long—but I’d rather know where he is right now.”
The draconian snarled his reply. Ragh knew they wouldn’t find a trace of the dragon or the elf on the bank of the lake… for the sand perpetually erased all tracks. He prayed to the memory of the Dark Queen that Dhamon and Feril would stay down in the lake for days, like before. Ragh knew he would be long dead, and the knight and his goblin army would be gone by that time, searching for the dragon elsewhere. Dhamon would be safe and would have his chance of someday becoming human again. Dhamon would avenge him, Ragh thought.
If, by chance, Dhamon surfaced while the knight and the goblins were still here, that was all right too; Dhamon would finish this bunch faster than he had the force of bakali. Only Ragh didn’t want Sable to know where they were.
“What do you want with Dhamon?” Ragh asked, meeting the knight’s icy glare.
“I intend to deliver his head to my Mistress Sable,” Commander Bedell returned. “My goblin army will make of it a surprise for the overlord. She thinks I am running simple errands south of Shrentak. She will be pleased to discover I instead gathered this army and went after her hated enemy.”
So Dhamon was to be killed. That meant that Ragh, too, didn’t stand a chance of surviving his torture. He had nothing to lose now.
“Going against Sable’s instructions? That’s not healthy,” the sivak pressed, thinking he might learn something else interesting from this stupid, talkative knight.
“She’ll reward me, not punish me.”
“Isn’t it enough that Dhamon’s left her damnable swamp?”
“That might be enough to satisfy my Mistress Sable, but it doesn’t satisfy me. I need to curry favor with the overlord, and this is my best chance.” The knight smiled maliciously. “I want to ensure that the Dhamon-dragon never comes back to her lands. I’ve enough goblins here to take care of him for good this time.”
He patted his belt. Several small flasks hung from it. There was also a small totem decorated with tiny black feathers and chips of obsidian. He pointed to the latter. “I borrowed this special item from a vault in Shrentak to bolster my army’s courage, and I brought something extra with me from the swamp that will ensure his defeat.”
Bedell drummed his fingers on one of the flasks and paced in a tight circle around the draconian. “Now tell me, sivak, where is your shadowy friend?”
11
The specters of goblins floated amid the Knights of Neraka, and Feril thought she could see the ghostly outlines of war horses in the distance.
By Habbakuk’s fist! Her mind reeled. Dhamon, can you see them? So many dead! An army of the lake’s dead! Dhamon, where are you?
“An army of the lake’s dead, and soon you will join them, little elf-fish.” Obelia, his wrinkled, translucent form hovering well above and behind the knights, spoke in a voice laced with regret. The Qualinesti ghost was still shaking his h
ead, and his insubstantial fingers reached up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You will join them, my pretty puzzlement, then I must watch you die.”
Feril’s face contorted in pain as a Knight of Neraka drifted into her body. Icy needles stabbed at her all over, and though she screamed, no sound came out.
Dhamon, uncertain how to deal with the otherworldly threat of the knights, had merged his shadow with her form, so that no one, not even Feril, could see him. He could see and hear everything through her senses, and maybe he could help her; he could speak to her now without Obelia suspecting his presence.
Feril! Hear me! You can’t fight them with a sword! Use your mind! Use your mind!
The Kagonesti couldn’t hear Dhamon. She was overwhelmed by the whispery voices of the ghosts and the pounding of her heart. She fought to stay conscious. Feril raged against the pain that pulsed through her body as a second knight melted into her. Trembling, her fingers tightly gripping the pommel of her sword, she swung the weapon with every last measure of her strength, trying to keep the rest of the ghosts at bay, but as one, the ghosts inched closer.
Her vision swirled. She could no longer make out the blue of the lake; she saw only ghosts, their ephemeral features blurred as their ranks thickened. She couldn’t even tell the difference between the knights and the Qualinesti any longer. They formed a solid, chilling wall of white, with voices keening.
“Defiler! You who dared to deface Beryl will perish at our hands.”
“You must join us.”
“You will help us guard Beryl for eternity.”
“You should die slowly and with great pain, as Beryl did. Then you will feel what our blessed Overlord felt!”
