“Aye, and mine too, friend, it was out of place to question you; my ken is of fable and distrust; it was poor,” conceded Palodar amicably. “Although, my beard shall not give you forgiveness anytime soon!” The dragon answered the banter with a grin.
“With that divide now bridged, I must bring the matters at hand to attention,” asserted the loran knight-captain. She walked over to a nearby shelf, from which she removed a small, austere, black box. “Chance has seen fit to bestow us with these haflings, without whom we could not have contrived our designs, but alone they would still fail; this is why Tac’quin heeded my summons.”
Holding the black box firmly in her hands she stepped to the dragon’s side. “Tac’quin if you would be willing?”
The dragon nodded curtly and immediately its carcass rippled with change. Its dazzling colours became tawdry; its scales became decayed and warped, appearing more a bristled hide than elegant armour. Tac’quin’s eyes glazed over with an opaque film, their form distorting, elongating; they drained of their vibrancy and turned tawny hue. A great cleft rippled down the centre of its snout, that when the dragon opened its maw the onlooker was greeted with four interlocking jaws inhabited by thousands of tiny, spindly teeth. The once luscious wings turned to sprawling, ungainly sheets of rotten, waxy sap, bearing the tint of metal left too long ago to the rigours of rust.
“What trickery is this?” exclaimed Palodar as he and Cezzum approached the transformed dragon and examined it intimately. The several jaws of the grisly creature flapped in response, the resonance of which was vitriolic to the core.
Casena sedately walked behind Tac’quin. “This, knights, is a wyvern. The stagnant creatures of old, locked in ways that bring sorrow to all; a race of creatures which we must see never take up flight against those of this land.”
Cezzum tentatively stepped closer beheld the beast.
“Tac’quin possesses the talent to shift its form into its ancient kith,” elucidated Casena, reverently touching the black box with each of her fingers in rhythmic turn. “It is a guise that will serve you well, halfling knights, on your task, but it does not come without a cost. The longer our honourable dragon here inhabits the form of a wyvern, the bitterer and more lingering the malice becomes, for to encompass a form such as this entails not only the embrace of the wyverns’ physical attributes, but the wretched hearts of the beasts as well.”
Casena looked on admiringly at her dragon friend, and pointedly nodded her head in thanks. Tac’quin’s wyvern façade evanesced and its resplendent, previous form shone brightly once more. Palodar approached Tac’quin and gently patted it on the head. The dragon laughed and was content enough with the dwarf’s display of concern that it let the infantile gesture be appreciated instead of rebuffed; in return, it sent forth a groan of pleasure. Cezzum stood at the dragon’s head and pronounced, “Welcome, Tac’quin, friend. It will be an honour to have thee at our side. You have my thanks, and apparently Palodar’s as well!”
The dragon nodded its appreciation at the welcome and scowled a smirk. “A goblin that speaks as you do, I have not come across, Cezzum. It is an oddity indeed; time will ease its presence.”
“As will a talking and shifting dragon!” the goblin bantered in return. Casena stepped forwards, curtailing any further discussions. She lowered herself onto her haunches and the newly formed party of three gathered around her; Lúnàras stood quietly in one corner of the room. “This is the second reason why I called you to these chambers.” No discernible lock was evident on the obverse side of the unadorned, black box; it simply opened with a faint click as Casena ran her finger over its surface. She reached in and pulled out an object.
In her hand, lit by the golden light in the room, was a peerless item of the world. A transparent sphere held within it the pulsing and beating form a miniscule heart. The crystal blue organ seemed to levitate within the clear orb, never coming into contact with the sides; it beat vigorously as any of its corporeal brethren would. Casena looked at the dazzled eyes about her, enamoured with the fey creation; with a sly grin she let it slip from her hand; the frail glass housing and heart plummeted to the floor. Gasps resounded around her as the item coursed towards its shattering doom. The sphere collided with a flagstone at the verge of the crimson carpet; it stopped instantly upon hitting the stones; the glass shell and crystal heart remained intact. Casena lifted the pumping heart again and held it before her gathering.
“What is it?” asked Cezzum, mystical amazement conjured in his voice.
“It is, for want of a more befitting term, a Crystal Heart. It is primordial and raw energy given form as a heart pulsing contained and dammed within this glass carapace.” Casena looked at Palodar and before he could speak said, “This paragon of magic is indestructible. Not any known method can be used to breach the seal, save one. A kiss destroys the glass shield and unleashes that which is contained within.”
Casena handed the orb to Cezzum who deferentially held it in his hands, examining its every facet; he passed it on to Palodar who held it before the dragon as well. Cezzum grinned with elevated eyebrows at the knight-captain. “A kiss?”
“Yes, Cezzum, a kiss. Of all the arts at the disposal of a fell despot, who would be so cunning as to think a single kiss could unleash the torrent within?”
The goblin looked at the heart again with awe, at the subtle ingenuity that clasped the powerful, enigmatic sphere together.
Casena’s finger tapped the glass as Tac’quin and Palodar searched its innards. “We lorans are well versed in the art of transcendent location- Yes, dwarf-knight, teleportation; many aspects prevent us from this power, two of which preclude us from aiding your party with your charge. The first is that this transcendence can only be made to a place that is easily framed in the mind; a distant spot on the horizon or a well-known vista hundreds of leagues away; we cannot travel into the unknown. The second, this movement is a personal act which, despite a tragic legacy, is impossible to extend to others.
“These two barriers, however, may be gainsaid by the tool you hold in your hands. In the time of need, and you shall know when that moment is, kiss the Crystal Heart and it shall be set free. It will join together every mote, vein and artery of the preternatural that exists in this world, causing but a single manifest entity to exist while it is without its glassy ward. When that occurs, the lorans among our order, myself as well, who are keenly attuned for its liberation will attach themselves to these lines; infused by this and their visceral magic, we can grasp onto others and weave all those who will it to where the Crystal Heart beats freely.”
Every word she had said lingered in the ears of the halflings and dragon, burnt firmly into their memories. Their three faces looked on placidly at Casena, each of them absorbed by their own thoughts and questions, but detached from what dread their emotion threatened. Each of these concerns the knight-captain heard as loudly as a clap of thunder. She looked on gently to all in turn and smiled approvingly. “Better and more courageous souls Filburn and Lauret could not have chosen, for this my knights… my friends you have my deepest love.” And for only a moment, Casena, the stalwart and plagued loran, with the doom of prescience, appeared at peace, at rest. She touched each of their faces in turn, a gentle caress of her finger was all she could impart to them on their dreadful quest. Three pairs of eyes glistened with moisture; something intangible and profound wended its way from the knight-captain into them.
A minute passed, then as if suddenly remembering, Palodar handed the Crystal Heart back to Cezzum. As soon as the heart was firmly in his grip Casena wrapped her hands around his and thrust the mass of four intertwined hands against the goblin’s chest; her resolve and imperious demeanour surged. “Cezzum, this is your party’s essence, treasure it as you would the heart of your beloved!”
Cezzum nodded solemnly. Palodar’s lips were taut with mirth and he could not hold back his jest any longer. “Some might say, captain, that the heart of your beloved is not to be treasured, especi
ally after a decade with her face greeting you each morning!”
Faint laughs sprouted from within the room. Casena’s lips were tugged by the dwarf. She stood and faced Lúnàras. “Inform the knights we take leave at first light; we head east to join Lauret’s ranks and who else remains. Lúnàras, see to their provisioning; supply them well for the journey to Darantur.”
“Of course.”
She faced the fellowship of three. “Once your feet tread the halls of Darantur, seek out the farmer named Gilly; dwarves, as Palodar may attest, know of each other well; little trouble I foresee in your finding of him.” With a dip of her head, Casena ended the assembly. She walked over to the staircase and, prior to their ascension, turned and offered the only platitude that had been said for centuries, instilled more by tradition than from truth: “May the goddesses and gods keep you. Salutations and good travels my brave knights.” The knight-captain disappeared up the stairs.
Lúnàras sidled next to them, a cordial, regarding smile on its lips. “We have much to prepare and the hour is late; let us hasten.”
Palodar caught Cezzum’s eye and looked at the metamorphosing dragon and then the small Crystal Heart the goblin held against his bosom and said, “Two wonders in one night; we are favoured indeed.”
Cezzum tucked the Crystal Heart into the inner pocket of his jerkin; the outside only marginally bulged outwards; the goblin laughed, placing his arm around his friend’s shoulder and grinned. “What more could we ask for?” The four that remained in the room vanished into the stairwell.
Chapter VIII
A Raconteur of Note
T ac’quin touched down softly on the forest floor below, its mighty wings ebbing and flowing as a curtain in the wind, stirring up the fallen leaves they did so. The dragon trotted to walk abreast of Cezzum and Palodar who were using their swords to hack at any impeding flora. Unlike the plains and less dense woods surrounding the Wyvern’s Mountain, the forest they pushed through was thick and bushy. The swish of singing blades and barking wood ceased as the little dragon approached. “A road draws near. It is the Great North Trade Road; it is charred. I gazed on its inferno not more than three days past; a caravan column has been sacked.”
Cezzum nodded his thanks to his airborne compatriot and slashed at a thicket hindering their way forwards.
“It would be nice, only once I think, to stumble across a merry village rather than some ill begotten find,” murmured the dwarf churlishly to no one other than himself.
“And what would be the fun in that?” said Tac’quin, its glacier-like eyes rolling at the bearded halfling. “At least here we might stumble across the unknown and that is invigorating.”
“The unknown?” cried Palodar in return. “Have you ever walked into an inn without knowing if there is mead to be spared or a bed to be bought or coin to be made. There is more unknown in civilisation than there is in the barbaric world before us!”
Tac’quin snarled, showing its keenly edged teeth and fangs to good effect; whether the dragon’s demonstration was in humour or annoyance, Palodar could not tell. With a dash of speed, the dragon jumped through a dense brush. The sun was near midday, yet little of its warmth pierced the shadow veiled forest; where the companions strode, it was still chillingly cool.
“You two do not agree on much,” said Cezzum playfully.
“What’s not to like, my dear friend?” bantered Palodar as he stepped to the goblin’s side; “It breathes fire and you can never tell what it thinks, so dragons are much like females in that regard; I will have no choice but to love Tac’quin one day.”
Cezzum’s response was brought to a standstill when the dragon’s head popped through the brush. “Here,” the dragon said, and disappeared once again. Gnarlfang cut a small opening in the thicket and the two friends stepped through. They stopped shortly after they had cleared the vegetation; they sheathed their swords and looked at Tac’quin carefully surveying the surroundings.
A wooden caravan lay overturned. Abraded and splintered wood, from both the wagon and tree, decried that it had been crashed or thrown into the large bole against which it was lying. Behind the caravan, a short bank filled with broken bushes and tamped grass rose to meet the road beyond, whereupon the charred remains of more wagons, caravans, carts and drays could be glimpsed. A lofty, coniferous tree butted against the read end of the nearby wreckage, its rotund trunk effectively blocking the entire entryway inside, at least through the door. The tarpaulin quivered in the breeze, rolling its oily, canvas surface between the wooden braces.
Palodar caught it first. Between two of the caravan’s crossbeams a tear or cut fluttered differently, breaking the single material into two disparate waves; they were without harmony. Indicating the opening, Palodar and Cezzum cautiously approached it. Tac’quin called for their attention and bowed its head to the grass below: it was flat, yellow and worn with wear, an often-trod path in the shape of hurrying feet. “I am no diviner of forest signs,” said the dragon, as it followed the patterned path to the opening in the caravan, “but someone remains here yet.”
Palodar looked at Tac’quin. “A survivor?”
The dragon looked solemnly back at the dwarf and with a grim bearing said, “Or a picket.”
The forest breathed little life other than the rustling wind. All forms of activity had fled the scene of attack and no pioneering creatures had mustered the resolve to return to their homes; without those daring scouts, the rest of the forest dwellers would remain displaced. In the eerie silence of the woods, Cezzum drew Gnarlfang again and raised it to his chin, ready to thrust it if need be, his other hand grasped one side of the material portal, pulling it open as he pushed his head inside.
Darkness greeted Cezzum; his pupils desperately dilated to adjust to the sudden shift in light. A meagre amount of illumination entered the caravan from the opening that Cezzum held; it was enough however to discern several features from the darkness. Just below the entryway, piled high, was a long pallet composed of a jumbled mass of clothes seemingly used as a makeshift bed. Broken drawers, glass, earthenware and papers littered the rest of the caravan. Other furnishings, the housing for the basin and the armoire, had been hacked apart, for they were splintered and fragmented; the once remarkable pieces of craftsmanship had been reduced to vacant remnants.
The scene in the caravan radiated more vividly as the canvas was opened even wider; a bearded face appeared next to Cezzum’s. Palodar’s eyes looked about for a moment, then casually he offered, “Could do with some sprucing up, I say.”
“I do not think it would be high on the agenda for any compelled to dwell herein,” retorted the goblin with affable dryness. He continued to search the shade and shadows for any clue as to the nature of the occupant. Leaning forward, almost toppling into the wagon, Palodar grabbed something that caught his eye jutting out from under an imitation pillow of a stuffed overcoat. Retrieving the item, the dwarf stepped back into the forest’s speckled daylight; Cezzum and Tac’quin manoeuvred to join him.
Palodar ran his fingers across the dirt besmirched book. Caked mud covered most of the hard leather binding while other stains of water, oil and wax littered the remainder in drips and splotches; a golden lettering could be gleaned on the spine of the book. Palodar, spitting onto the cuff of his shirt, deftly effaced the obfuscating dirt. The aureate title gleamed under the spit-shine and the title read: Tales of the fey, the majestic and the unbelievable.
“It is a children’s book,” declared Palodar, cracking open the pages of the tome. “Quite a popular one at that; best exported work the Loranic publishers have.”
The pages were smudged with small muddied fingerprints and dotted with little dried drops of moisture.
“Those fingerprints appear to be no more than a child’s,” Tac’quin hinted.
“Someone escaped the carnage?” asked Cezzum absently, knowing that the dragon knew the answer as well as he did.
“I do not know, but any insight as to what happened here wou
ld be welcomed. This is indeed an oddity.”
Palodar closed the book and was about to hand it to Cezzum and Tac’quin for their perusal when the dwarf cried out in shock as he was knocked over, hitting the ground with a thumping slam. As quickly as the attack had come the book was ripped from Palodar’s hands and, as to add further insult to the dwarf, his wits were momentarily stunned as a fist smacked into his head. The rapidity of the attack was incredible; Cezzum was too slow with his sword and Tac’quin only had time to rotate around to see the end of the ambush, when the attacking creature leapt off the dwarf and ran to one of the large trees. A blade appeared in the right hand of the earth and mud shrouded creature, while the other hand embraced the book to its bosom as if it were its very heart.
The creature backed against the tree, making sure no attack from the three trespassers could arrive from the rear. Palodar clambered to his feet as his attacker stood ready with steady courage to defend itself. Dark, hazel tinged hair fell in clumps and in clots around the creature’s face, concealing any telling feature, apart from a set of viridian eyes that were unblinkingly and wild. An occasional spot of skin broke through the monotony of brown dirt lacing the being’s entire body; a simple torn and bedraggled slip covered the creature’s torso and upper thighs.
Cautiously aware of the attacker, Tac’quin and Cezzum shifted to Palodar’s flanks; the goblin quickly proffered his hand and aided his companion back to his feet; all the while they kept their eyes steadily fixed. The dwarf immediately unsheathed his sword, joining the goblin and dragon in their glaring match with their outnumbered predator. The three companions remained motionless.
“What is it?” whispered Palodar too loudly.
The dragon squinted at the creature; speckles of light trickled onto its body through the high canopy of trees, like small splashes and dabs of paint. “It… it is human; no more than a child; mire besotted, gangly and feral, but it is a child.”
The Good Goblin Page 17