by Dan Ehl
Lorenzo straightened just a bit and took another deep breath before looking at the goblins as if he were a schoolboy expecting praise for his recital.
A dark mood oozed from the trio of Blackwatch Goblins and seemed to curl about me as a poisonous vapor. I gripped my hilt tighter just to keep my hand from shaking. The looks the goblins had turned upon us were not favorable. For a moment I had a desire to smack Lorenzo along side the head.
The front goblin, who had seemed the leader of the three, lowered his sword as he stepped past me to face my comrade. He too took a deep breath as his brow curled like a thunderbolt and a storm seemed to cross his weathered face. The silence that followed was like a polar wind that had not only froze the five figures stilled beneath the one lone torch, but time itself. I found myself holding my breath and let it out as quietly as possible.
The lead goblin finally stirred and drew his arm back. Lorenzo stood as if unaware of the troubled waters he had undammed. I watched as the goblin's open hand swung around to strike Lorenzo on the shoulder and the goblin bellowed, "Hah-hah, you be the great jester."
The remaining two goblins shoved me aside to also clap Lorenzo's shoulder as they roared their mirth. Though they must have been smiling in some weird goblin way, it still looked to me as jackals about to snap at an encroacher attempting to steal a rotting carcass out from under their noses.
Lorenzo had suddenly gained an amazing goblin fluency and was joking with the three scofflaws as if they were long-lost cohorts. One was saying how they must have shared the same wet nurse. The desire to smack my friend grew three-fold, but keeping control of my trembling legs was the first priority.
"I be Quig," the foremost goblin introduced himself to Lorenzo, completely ignoring me. And he again asked, this time as politely as any goblin is capable of asking, "Why you here?"
"We seek vengeance upon the Reverian Assassins," he answered.
So much for tact, I thought. It was all or nothing. Either the goblins were enemies of the Reverian Assassins or allies. I would have favored a more circumspect route to the answer, but I had reached the point where I was no longer nervously gripping the hilt of my sword every time it appeared Lorenzo was going to get us killed.
Quig paused as if considering Lorenzo's answer. "Us too." He glanced at me and asked, "You be the ferret?"
"That is private inquisitor..."
All three goblins broke out into a guttural laughter and Quig slapped one of his cohorts solidly on the back and roared, "See, I told you I get the ferret to admit who he be."
Curses, I thought in embarrassment, outwitted by a bunch of deranged goblins who barely had the intelligence of clams with dementia. And to make it all the more lamentable, I could not even think of a scathing retort. It made me realize just how exhausted these last days had left me.
Lorenzo half closed his eyes and observed the three goblins as he might the sudden appearance of singing toads dressed in bright yellow silk tutus. "So, you know of the ferret?" he spoke slowly, but in a perfect goblin accent.
"That is private inquisitor," I grumbled half under my breath.
"The Captain will want talk to likes of you two," the goblin replied while ignoring Lorenzo's question.
It took me by surprise, and even more the three goblins. Lorenzo's left foot lashed out and caught the lead goblin in the kneecap. He howled and dropped his sword. The other two Blackwatch Goblins, startled wide-eyed and opened-mouth by the unexpected violence, were also caught off guard as Lorenzo leaned in and slammed their heads together. Their tightly fitting helmets made of oak roots and lacquered hide absorbed most of the concussion, so for good measure Lorenzo kicked them both in the stomach.
It seemed to have only taken half a breath, but suddenly the three goblins were flat on their buttocks and clutching various points of pain.
"Kindly inform your Captain that we would rather sleep the winter in bat droppings and eat broccoli than be at his beck. We will call upon him at our own convenience. I will send word," Lorenzo spoke with disdain.
I expected the goblins to be a bit resentful at this verbal and physical abuse. I was wrong. Quig briskly rubbed his injured knee, but nodded and smiled approvingly as if he would have been disappointed at any other response. They gained their feet and without even as much of a backward glance, the three goblins disappeared around the corner.
The cavern was again silent and darker than ever.
"We could have at least kept them around long enough for some questions," I said when their footsteps could no longer be heard.
"No, they'd just have gotten cranky again. Anyway, they wouldn't have known anything. We'd need to talk to the brass for that and I'd like to be more prepared for such a meeting."
"Still have your magic torch?"
A bright beam of light shot out as an answer to my question. I felt the gloom lift that had been building with the darkness. I was becoming very weary of these caves. We again began following the twists and turns.
Chapter Eight
It happened so abruptly I stopped and blinked in confusion, taking several seconds to realize the sparkling motes dancing about me were dust particles drifting down from above and the illumination came not from torches but the sun. I lifted my face to feel the warm rays caress my face.
We climbed a half crumbling stairwell and emerged from a round doorway carved into the base of a limestone bluff. Trampled vegetation showed that the goblins had also found the same exit. The crushed brush and weeds would have once hidden the portal from outside eyes. The goblins' trail, and whomever they pursued, disappeared downhill into the woods
I was drawn to the music of a waterfall. It had worn a large basin into the rock floor before flowing off into the thick woods. Hazy shadows that looked like trout lazily circled below, the pool at least twice as deep as I was tall.
Gingerly untying the hemp twine and sliding off the boot, I hesitated before unwrapping Lorenzo's bandaging. There was no denying he had done a good job. My poor stub was only a bit red about the stitching he used to pull together the torn flesh.
I scooted to where the water flowed out of the pool and dunked my poor foot in the cool current and wearily fell back onto the leaf littered floor of the woods. I cracked one eyelid to see Lorenzo rising from the pool and wiping his mouth, from there to go off scouting into the trees.
I woke to hear a sound as delicate as silken wings splashing in a butterfly bath. I turned my stiff neck and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. Three rock fairies the size of sparrows dipped and darted along the water's surface. A large eruption sent water flying and the blue and pink metallic flash of a fish flipped back into the pool. The fairies, looking like tiny teenaged maidens with gossamer wings, hovered sassily at a safe height before bobbing down once again to tease the trout.
I felt wonderful despite the throbbing foot, grumbling stomach, and stiffness from sleeping on stone. The fairy dance had me enthralled and I could have watched their aerial shenanigans 'til the night. It was wonderful to once again see and hear the sounds of life. I stretched a cramped leg and the rustling of leaves startled the rock fairies, sending them shooting into the leafy canopy.
I sighed with disappointment and climbed unsteadily to my feet. Lorenzo must have returned while I was sleeping. I found my bandages had been washed in the creek and were hanging from a bush. They proved to be dry and I carefully rewrapped my foot before slipping it back into the boot. A gray material I believe he called duck tape enclosed the toe of the boot.
I had no sooner tied the twine when Lorenzo emerged from the trees. He slipped off his backpack and observed, "Ah, the patient stirs. I have brought sustenance to aid his recuperation."
I expected him to proudly display a deftly gutted and skinned rabbit or dwarf marsh goat. He instead produced a paper-wrapped bundle. I cautiously unwrapped the parcel to discover a double slice of bread holding a breaded pork tenderloin. My eyes grew wide.
"You have been to the Coal Diggers Tavern" I exclaimed
. School memories of the spicy sandwich made my mouth water. This was much better fare than the inn's other specialty--garlic-mint turtle soup.
I felt almost human after the meal and a quick bath in the chilly pool. A change of clothes was called for, but as best as possible I brushed the leaves and cave grime from my garments.
I hoped the dark green tunic was not ruined. It was subdued enough for when subterfuge was called for, but the bit of red embroidery along the felt cuffs and collar gave it a hint of jauntiness. I had walked passed the Appanoosian peddler's booth several days in a row before finally stopping. Though I could not haggle the price down to my satisfaction, I bought the tunic and wore it that night to the King's Wart Inn. As I speculated, Marlune the barmaid found I cut quite the dashing figure in it.
Lorenzo and I followed the trampled vegetation beaten down by the goblins. Once down the hillside, we emerged onto a trail. The road would have been well rocked when the region was still producing coal, but it was now hard-packed dirt and heavily rutted. We followed it east. The route was littered with shattered wheel spokes, broken crockery, rotting frames of cargo wagons, and clumps of rust that once must have been pieces of mining equipment. There was no sign the goblins or anyone else had recently been this way.
Among the bordering saplings and weeds were cobblestone walks leading to collapsed cellars and the half tumbled walls of cottages. Now and then a lone bloom spoke of where a flower garden had been tended. There was an air of sadness to the abandonment.
We crossed a creek and turned to follow it down a small valley. A thin string of smoke arising from the trees was our first clue we were near the Coal Diggers Tavern. The dirt path turning to a brick lane was the second indication. Weeds were forcing their way between the bricks and some had been pushed aside by small trees. These signs of nature grew fewer as we approached the two-story limestone structure that was the Coal Diggers Tavern. No doubt shops and other hostels had hemmed the stretch of paved street when weary miners once came to the village to spend their hard earned coin.
A string of sad nags and several carts were tethered before the wraparound porch. A few patrons sat on benches with mugs in hand and glared as we passed them to push our way through the twin doors.
It was still much the same as in my private inquisitor academy days. The long bonewood bar, the moth-eaten heads of musk lizards and mountain gerbils mounted on the walls. Floors carpeted with crushed garlic nut shells. The candles created islands of light around the tables scattered across the floor, with some hidden among the shadowed corners--none of it had changed. Even the smell of rich fare drifting from the kitchen doors triggered vivid memories of the inn. Yet there was something different. It came to me as we wound our way through the tables on our way to the bar. It was the patrons.
During the days of my youth, the inn mainly catered to local smugglers, poachers, and scavengers. This crowd was different. If I was not mistaken, there be Itchy Fingers leaning across his table and talking in what sounded like tones of conspiracy to Razor Driz, an unprincipled fence who plies his trade on the south side of Duburoake. There had been talk of the disappearance of a spice shipment from across the Naabaskqua Deserts--a natural scheme for both the scoundrels I was observing.
In a dim corner to the other side of the smoky room was the pocked visage of Grungle Arseviper. Grungle had been barred from the King's Wart Inn for unruly behavior, an almost impossible task. I vaguely remembered it had something to do with a drunken rampage after he had found his consort with two Arcanese midgets. Now he is the caliber of assassin I would have thought a foe of mine would retain--cheap, but efficient in a coarse way.
There were other faces, some vaguely familiar, trying hard not appear too curious of the new arrivals.
"An interesting clientele," observed Lorenzo after ordering two Horse Lips Ales from the barkeep.
"It is a different crowd than when I was here last. Many of these villains I know, but why they collect at such a remote tavern is peculiar. I can only guess they come because few of the Baron's constables patrol this far off the beaten track."
"Hear you've been havin' a spot of trouble, Barley," a voice close to a whine came from over my left shoulder.
I turned to see Slim Sim. He was holding a steaming cup of srewm tea, a mild hallucinogenic when consumed in large quantities. Sim was supposedly a fellow private inquisitor, though others in the trade were disinclined to admit it. His cases were usually those refused by more fussy inquisitors worried about such things as losing their licenses and/or immortal souls.
I silently gazed at Sim until he began to fidget.
"How so?" I finally replied.
"Youse know, those Reverian Assassins. Somebody must crave your death real bad," he said as if relishing the idea.
"Nice togs, Sim," I changed the subject. "One must be quite brave to make such a mild fashion statement,"
He looked confused and echoed my earlier question, "How so?"
"You know--the stereotypical wrinkled black tunic and breaches, rimmed felt cap pulled low over the eyes, and that narrow dark ascot--the laughable way street performers portray private inquisitors. I guess you are braver than I. The jeering and snide comments behind my back would just be too much for me."
Sim looked down at his clothing in alarm then glanced about as if expecting to see people smirking and whispering behind their hands. Actually, I liked the getup and had something similar to it in my closet.
"And you are also audacious to be even be talking to me," I continued. "Whoever is going to such violent extremes probably has eyes on me as we speak. Imagine what they will think--another private inquisitor, and I use the term loosely, meeting me in a tavern noted for conspiracy and intrigue. You can guess how they will react to that."
Sim visibly paled and looked about him with even more concern. Without even a farewell, he spun and retreated to a stool at the end of the bar. Lorenzo nodded his head in approval and took a sip from his mug.
There were too many murky corners in this bar, I decided, as I squinted at one far table shaded by a flowering thistle palm.
"I will return in a moment," I told Lorenzo and began navigating through the furniture until stopping in front of a table littered with empty ale bottles.
"Sergey, what in Hades are you doing here?" I asked the scribe.
My friend looked up and smiled broadly. I did not wait for an invitation to join him but slid a chair out and sat across from my friend.
"You are juiced," I observed. "This is not the healthiest spot for a lone binge. There are enough cutpurses here to rob a battalion of sots such as you, with time left over for a throat slicing and a toss down an abandoned mine shaft.
Sergey put the mouth of a bottle to his eye and peered within. "Damn, empty."
"Here is one." I pushed a half-full bottle across the table then noticed that among the empty vessels of Duburoake Star Ale was a clay cup and a bottle of Bettyann. It is a local wine grown from grapes along the Council Bluffs, so named because legend has it that the goddess Mizeririv called a war meeting among the numerous local deities beneath those limestone cliffs.
At this council the gods were to plan a defense against a plague of biting shoe flies that supped off now extinct migratory herds of direponies. When the prehistoric equines thundered past the domiciles of the gods, thousands of the metallic beige flies would split off from the herd and attack the gods with a bloodthirsty ferociousness that not even traditional divine intervention could hold back.
The saga, recounted in song by street musicians, is rather long and boring but ends with the gods finally causing a lengthy period of cold and ice. The direponies starved, which resulted in the demise of the flies.
As a child, I worried the fleas and lice that plagued humans would also antagonize the gods. I asked a priest of Rumsveldt about this fear and he cuffed me smartly alongside the head. The gods were kind, he barked, and such questions would only lead to my eternal damnation in the fires of Hades.
&n
bsp; I picked up one of the clay cups and twirled it in my fingers. "Could it be that we are not alone?"
"We?" Sergey asked. "I think I am the only one here who can rightfully use the editorial 'we.'"
"So, we have a friend. A friend who is partial to a floral and musk-based perfume, bright red lipstick, and the more pedestrian of wines--as well being brunette, fairly slim, left handed, had a pet peacock slug as a child named Vrtleyx, well moneyed, and not that particular with whom she is seen in public."
I smiled and waited for his response to my simple deductions.