Cezzum almost regretted invoking the highest order of phagen affronts – to call a phagen a Kashen’uk was to insult their heritage to its fullest, as it equated them with no more than a half-bred hound.
The rearmost phagen sneered savagely at the mocking goblin, nudging his sword ever so closer to Cezzum’s throat; the goblin could feel the cold metal against his skin.
“Kashen’uk is not a word to be used lightly, goblin. I seek but one more word and your second will be blood!”
The lead phagen, while scowling at Cezzum, stayed the hand of his comrade and asked, “We are hunting a man. He scurried through the forest, much like craven men do, but this one is of importance.” Black saliva slowly oozed its way down the fang of the conversing phagen. “Did our quarry pass this way?”
Cezzum nodded and recounted to them that one of their arrows took him in his shoulder. Both phagens let out a roaring cheer. The commander sheathed his sword and gripped Cezzum by the shoulders. “To where did the vermin scatter? Speak quickly cursed kin!”
“He took flight to the north; the arrow had direly wounded him, but his step did not falter.”
The phagen released Cezzum and turned to his follower, his dark, wild eyes glinting brightly.
“He turns northwards, the beast attempts to skirt our camp!”
The second phagen grabbed Cezzum’s sack and hoisted it over his shoulder. Cezzum was agape and cried, “Gah! You deceitful Kashen’uk’s! That is my-”
A fist slammed into the goblin’s stomach, collapsing him violently to the floor. The imperious phagen stood over Cezzum’s body, his visage contorted in anger.
“Only your words and provisions preserved your blood this day, for I would wish to run you through merely for your smell!”
The two phagens dashed off northwards, running swiftly through the forest. Cezzum spent several lingering minutes upon the ground, waiting for the heavy treads of his loathed kin to disappear and ensuring his chest could still hold sufficient quantities of air. After he was certain that the phagens were no longer in the vicinage, Cezzum took to his feet and quietly said, “They have departed.”
Across the clearing a small thicket rustled as the man pulled himself out from beneath it. He laboriously forced himself onto his knees, but sat back upon them, unable to support his own weight. His face was covered in many a day’s growth of hair; he wore a simple leather garb with a thick traveller’s cloak, and although he looked ailed and weak, a deep strength could be seen beating behind his amber eyes. Cezzum and the kneeled man spent a minute staring at one another. But as Cezzum broke the lock, by stepping towards the dishevelled being, the human suddenly cried out, “What cruel fate is this? Delivered from the arms of my bane by another who seeks my end! The fates surely take pleasure in my torment.”
The man was wracked with pain and clutched at his chest where the shaft had taken him, absently trying to alleviate the pain, but to no effect. Quickly refocusing his attention, he brought his eyes back to bear upon Cezzum.
“I cannot tarry here longer; my body is broken! But come if you must goblin, for then might we both greet what goddesses and gods there are together – for I shall not be the easy prey you wish!” As the words ended, with all his remaining might, the man drew his sword from his side and held it aloft.
Cezzum could see the man wavering and tottering as he balanced upon his knees, waiting for the goblin to begin his strike. But Cezzum simply lifted his hands, palms towards the ailing human, and switching to the tongue of men, a common language known as ænglix, said, “Master, I mean thee no harm; I am friend not fiend.”
His sword faltered slightly as a spasm of pain ripped through his body, but the man replied with oral verve: “What trickery is this? A goblin, who not only speaks the tongue of men with better elocution than most princes, but too claims to be friend and not foe. Does your kind know no limits to its fell deeds? You may claim well, but I have fought your kind before – trust not the word of a goblin!”
“Master,” continued Cezzum, “if I had meant for thee your end, I could have, with naught so much as a bead of sweat being lost, snapped your head from its shoulders while you took refuge in the thicket. I am an outcast, a renegade of my people, yet the mar of their ways scars my being still.”
Cezzum could not quite tell, but it seemed that the man’s eyes acquiesced to his affirmation of conciliation. The fatigued man blinked desperately, his eyelids falling ever closer to his cheeks. His sword then fell from his hand and he collapsed to the ground.
Cezzum came upon the man, writhing in pain upon fallen foliage, and knelt beside him. The spasm passed and the mortally wounded traveller stared once more into the goblin’s eyes; it was as if, somehow, Cezzum could feel the man boring into his very essence.
“Your words are as true as your heart goblin, forgive my doubt.”
Cezzum smiled one of his beaming grins, which showed off his numerous teeth to good effect. “There is no need to forgive good master, my kind are fell; I hold no delusions of that.”
The man’s face was still contorted by the grasp of pain, but Cezzum quickly conceived an idea. Running over to the opi bush, he wrested a think branch of thorns from it and ran back to writhing man. Cezzum, using the man’s fallen sword, cut and ripped away a swathe of the leather jerkin immediately around the projecting shaft and proceeded to pierce the immediate skin several times with the thorns.
“It is but a palliative; it should stay the pain for a time.”
The man nodded his appreciation; a wry smile of thanks it seemed, but Cezzum was not sure if it were from the aid he rendered or the thought of being tended to by a goblin that induced his mirth.
After a time, the man sat up. “The pain is staunched for now, I thank you, but the arrow itself was poisoned; even now I can feel the trappings of it in my blood.” Cezzum aided the man in sitting up further, hoisting him under the shoulder. The man turned to the goblin.
“I am Filburn, an Ordered scout from the town of Acrin.”
“Well met master. I am Cezzum, goblin from... umm… but yonder,” Cezzum pointed just beyond the forest.
“Ah! You abide in the dell that is there, the Wyvern’s Nape it is called, or it is named such by those woodsfolk that know it, who are few indeed.” Another, yet less virulent, pang sped its way through Filburn.
Cezzum supportively grabbed Filburn’s arm and began to lower his upper body back to the ground. “Master you must take rest. The poison grows in potency, the less strain you exert the better you will feel.”
Filburn then collapsed rearwards; at the same moment the man grabbed Cezzum by the collar of his tunic, pulling the goblin’s face to his own. The man’s eyes were alit with vigour and life, and the verve of power flickered brightly within them. And in that moment Cezzum was as scared as much as he was confounded.
“Cezzum the goblin,” Filburn began with a deep, authoritative tone, “your aid gives me heart and your generosity I shall always recount, which alas may not be long indeed, but as men often do, I must rebuke your charity and call you into enthrallment as much as it pains me!”
Filburn turned to one side, coughing violently; he kept a steadfast grip on Cezzum who was now limp with fear.
“My body is broken; the phagen venom will take me soon. But a charge I have to fill, for while I fail, another, you, can stand in my stead.”
Cezzum began to vehemently shake his head, utterly aghast at what he was hearing. It only caused the man to clutch him more tightly and bear the goblin down even closer to his warped countenance.
“I speak not of trifles goblin! For shall my task fail all these lands will be forfeit, your home among them; such evil cannot be allowed to pass. It grieves me to do this o’ caring goblin, but I cannot allow all that has been done to come to naught.” Filburn then produced a twisted and elegantly carved dagger in his left hand. The dagger was well the size of a sword with regards to the goblin; perhaps it was a short sword. Placing it against Cezzum’s gut he said, “I
n this I have only two options to give you, good goblin: take from me my errand or perish in this wood.”
Cezzum’s mind raced in turmoil, completely bewildered at how his day had been so quickly altered. Absently Cezzum, on the brink of tears, started to nod, “I will take your charge, master.”
Filburn thrust the dagger upwards. Cezzum clenched his eyes, shutting them forcefully; no pain seared through him. Upon opening them he saw that the handle was pressed firmly into his chest.
“My heart gladdens,” Filburn replied. “This is Gnarlfang: it was wrought with my own knowledge and two hands. Girdle it to your belt; you shall know when you require its boon.”
Cezzum tentatively accepted the scout's knotted and twisted dagger; it was a blade that grew from a tangled web of gnarls near its hilt to a fine and elegant form at its tip. Filburn presented the equally gnarled scabbard for the short sword. Still shaking with trepidation, Cezzum sheathed the weapon and tied it to his tunic’s band. When he gazed back at Filburn a missive was being fingered in his hand.
“This is my cha-,” his head rocked heavily as he coughed; he slammed his fist into his chest a few times and continued, “This is my charge; it is of the utmost urgency that this missive is received. My brethren already await its word.”
Cezzum took the offered letter and placed it within his tunic, clasped firmly by a pocket of leather which had been attached and reattached on innumerable occasions with several stitches.
Filburn spoke again. “I am sorry friend, Cezzum, that I enthral you to this service. But fate has left me with naught; no other options can I see.”
Cezzum fumbled a few words in reply, “I… uh... un... understand… I ... think. I need to umm first go and tend to my faunal friends and make preparations before I depart.”
“Nay!” cried Filburn, as he grasped the goblin again. “Each moment that passes while the knowledge within that missive goes unread, darkness spreads and the rallying will grow ever stronger. You cannot tarry Cezzum! Take flight now: to the north and west, past the head of the Wyvern, and west into the plains called the Fallen Leas; there, in its centre, lies the barrow of an ancient king.”
Cezzum’s pupils grew wider in distress at the mention of the mounds of the dead. Filburn could see the dread welling up within the goblin; he chuckled lightly.
“Fear no evil there my friend; those that are dead do so remain unless some fell magic changes that. For within the Barrow of Arcun’son, King of the Cevrain and the first liege of men, reside, in wait, my brethren.”
Filburn used all his might and forced himself to sit fully upright one final time. He extended his hand and gently wiped a tear off the goblin’s cheek and softly, gently said, “I am sorry goblin, that you, the only noble of your kin is given such a doom, but for this, as I go to my bier, I shall call you my kin, and my brother.”
Cezzum was overwhelmed with emotion yet had no outlet for it; he merely stood unwavering and despondent. He knew, however, that somewhere in his mind he had been dubbed kinsfolk to a man, and that those words meant more to him in life than any other; nevertheless, at that particular instance, the words were hollow in their significance.
Filburn’s powerful hand pushed hard against Cezzum’s chest and the goblin stumbled backwards.
“Now go!”
“But you-,” Cezzum began to object.
“I matter not! Now be vigilant, may the wind guide you and the trees bower you! Be swift in your journey! Away!”
Cezzum reluctantly commenced running to the northwest, judging from the position of the sun through the boughs of the trees; he stumbled many times as he constantly turned to keep sight of Filburn. As the figure of the scout could only faintly be seen, Cezzum thought he saw the figure of the man collapse to the ground, but he could not be certain.
Chapter II
The Golden Path
C ezzum fell to the ground, the soft undergrowth gently cushioning his crash. He had trod through the forest for hours, heading in the general direction he had set out in, but otherwise completely lost in his own mind. Panic and grief had overthrown him, and the goblin lay upon his breast sobbing into the dead refuse of trees. The events of the day were beginning to unwind within him, and Cezzum found himself able to do naught except lie upon the ground in wretchedness.
The hurt which rent Cezzum’s heart the most was not merely that in a single day his life had been threatened and that he was cast on a journey not of his own design, and one very much against his will, but rather that despite all his years of solitude and building his home away from strife and the evil deeds of the world, and those of his kin, they were still able to seek him out. It was the inescapable entrapment that brought the suffocating despair upon the crestfallen goblin.
Tears ran wildly down Cezzum’s face, which pooled into tiny lakes of sorrow inside the drying cups of leaves that were pressed beneath his face. The sun was low and an orange gloaming cast its long shadows through the forest. The first star of the evening peeped through the mantle of the failing day; it was of little matter to the goblin, as he saw it not, and soon a powerful, tormented sleep took its hold of him. His tears ceased and Cezzum lay unconscious upon the forest floor.
Cezzum rolled onto his back, wiping the caked remnants of tears from his bulbous eyes and gazed at the heavens above. The stars were glistening brightly; the forest remained in dark; both Asthen, the red moon, and Fesser, the grey moon, were new in their turn.
Coming languidly to his feet, a new acceptance found itself inside Cezzum. Within his troubled and ire-filled sleep, his mind had made its peace with his path – a resignation unto action – and the goblin found himself startlingly hungry, for when a goblin's mind was set to purpose, there was little in all the lands that could sway them from their mental persecution.
Meandering through the forest, a new, not vigorous, but determined, stride was in his gait; Cezzum sought for a fessik tree, as it was known in Kig’n, or more commonly referred to as a birchnum tree. After a few resolute minutes, Cezzum’s stomach sang in glee as he came upon his quarry.
Birchnum trees were lofty and towered over many of their smaller kin in the woods. Their twisted and sickly appearance rendered them to most prey a desolate waste of time, as no food, no fruit and no sustenance was to be had from the plant. Long stretches of peeling bark wrapped their way around its bole, while saps of tart amber coursed down the sides, wriggling between and over the tree’s wooden skin. Most unfortunately, Cezzum, knew the trees’ most guarded of secrets.
Cezzum pulled Gnarlfang from its scabbard; the oddly weaved blade glinted keenly in the lightly tinged dark, freckled as it reflected the few stars which pierced the canopy of the woods. With practised ease, Cezzum used the blade to peel off the tree’s bark. Beneath its woody façade lay a vile crust of the blackest design. In one fell swoop Cezzum clove a large hunk from the tree, cutting through the foul covering. Wiping the dripping blade upon his tunic, Cezzum picked up the toils of his labour from the ground. He smiled widely as the thick, fleshy innards, from the hewn tree. The succulent portion of woodland flesh melted in his mouth as he ravenously feasted upon the odd fruit. Water, held captive by his meal, dribbled down the goblin’s chin – the touch of which soothed, invigorated and granted Cezzum a second wind.
Perfectly ripe, thought Cezzum as he, with the back of his hand, wiped the trickling juice from his chin.
Dropping the black skin of the fruit to the ground, Cezzum glimpsed something odd through the trees. In the distance, a flickering, yellow glow began to radiate mightily, growing in strength with each passing second – someone was establishing a camp. Cezzum hunkered down, his goblin instincts swelling to the surface, and he crept towards the light.
The bark of the tree crumbled lightly under Cezzum’s tense hands. He furtively leaned his head out from behind his nook, his eyes eager to gleam the refuge before him; he spied upon the camp.
The fire lit the entire scene in a smoke-filled, sallow glow. Two phagens, not the same w
icked creatures Cezzum had previously met, for these were a great deal more rotund, sat adjacent the flames, bickering endlessly and passing between them a waterskin filled with a familiar liquid that was now repugnant to the goblin; the dark substance drooled down their faces.
The camp appeared well-used, evident from the oversized phagens. Several scattered heaps of ash from prior campfires dotted the cleared section of the woods. A mound of lifeless, hunted animals rested to one side: deer, hares, birds and numerous other beasts’ dead eyes glinted in the radiance of the fire. Next to the mortal pile lay, quite demonstrative of phagen nature, the bones, the remnants and the offal of all the fauna which had been gorged upon and had succumbed to the bellies of their hunters.
One of the phagens stood, teeth utterly stained by the putrid, black drink, and with a pictorially repellent, merry smile, one that Cezzum had known for too long, queried, “How’s ‘bout a fine stag 'en this eve?” He glanced to the pile of bodies. “O’ perhaps them hares? Their flesh is startin’ to rot.”
His companion slurped loudly as he drained the dregs from the waterskin. Meditatively he began to rub his large black fang until a high, constant squeak filled the air; the contemplative phagen did this while he gazed into the flames before him. The sitting phagen’s eyes were furiously marred with red streaks, as the heat from the fire seared the moisture within. But, as it seemed, he was quite indifferent to that fact and eventually replied, “Let the hares fester; I am sick of their mangy flesh. Skewer us the stag!”
The cook seemed obliged and walked over to an assortment of weapons, which stood next to two large trees that had been fitted with fetters and shackles. The one imprisoning device was bare, but the other held a captive. A hefty sack had been pulled over the prisoner, leaving only the feet dangling in the air. From what Cezzum could see in the dingy light, the wriggling feet extending out from the sack were wider than most races, olive hued and barren of hair. The goblin guessed, from the size of the sack, that the inmate could not have been anything more than a mere child of women.
The Good Goblin Page 2