by James Wyatt
All too soon they stood in a close circle again. Senya held Gaven’s right hand and Darraun his left, and both seemed as though they believed Gaven could understand a secret language of squeezing his hands. He almost pulled both hands free in frustration just as Haldren completed the spell and brought them, in the blink of an eye, to Darguun.
The hobgoblin lands presented a stark contrast to the steaming jungles of Aerenal. The air was no less sweltering, even so early in the morning. But the towering trees and lush ferns were replaced by dry grasses, stunted shrubs, and barren outcroppings of red and gold rock.
“The Torlaac Moor,” Haldren announced.
Gaven surmised that Haldren was the only one of the group who had been here before. The rest looked around at the alien landscape with curiosity and perhaps fear.
Haldren gestured to the rising sun. “To the east is the Khraal rain forest, which is not too different from the jungle we just left on Aerenal.” Gaven could see a green haze on the horizon he supposed might be the canopy of a distant jungle.
“Jaelarthal Orioth,” Senya said. “The Moonsword Jungle.”
“I’m not sure what Khraal means in the Goblin tongue,” Haldren said. “It probably describes a peculiar form of disembowelment, knowing their language. And knowing the jungle, for that matter.” He turned and pointed in the opposite direction. “To the west, the Seawall Mountains divide this land from Zilargo. Just north of here, the Torlaac River marks the end of the moor, and wide plains make up the rest of the goblin lands. Far to the north, goblins dwell in ruined cities built by the good people of Cyre. Beyond that region, to the east, is the Mournland.”
“I see no settlements nearby,” Gaven said. “Where are we supposed to get supplies?”
“Have faith, Gaven,” Haldren said with a patronizing smile. “As I did when we journeyed to Whitecliff and Aerenal, I chose a destination outside of a settlement and out of sight, lest our sudden appearance startle the natives. And far better to startle an elf in Aerenal than some bugbear going about his business in Darguun.”
He laughed at his own joke, and Senya smiled at him. Darraun and Cart were busy scanning the horizon.
“In any case,” Haldren continued, “there’s a small town on the river just down in the valley there, to the north. It carries the rather quaint name of Grellreach.”
“Grellreach?” Gaven said. “I don’t understand.”
Haldren started walking to the north, with Senya and Cart falling into place beside him. Clearly, Cart was not going to allow Haldren to fall victim to another surprise attack.
“Grells are hideous aberrations said to dwell in the Seawalls near here,” Haldren explained as he walked. “They’ve been described as flying brains with beaklike mouths and long, barbed tentacles. Can you imagine living in a town named after such a thing?”
“I take it that it was not originally a Cyran settlement,” Darraun said with a wry smile.
Haldren laughed. “No, it was not.”
The spell had set them down a considerable distance from Grellreach, despite Haldren’s easy confidence. They walked through the morning, with the sun growing hotter as it neared its zenith, before they even came into sight of the town. They walked through fields of grain nestled between the wreckage of ancient settlements and monuments. Wheat stalks brushed up against weather-beaten blocks of reddish stone, the vague outlines of long-fallen buildings. Here and there a farmhouse stood at the feet of an ancient colossus, clearly built from stone salvaged from the toppled statue. Gaven had to remind himself that, as easy as it might be to think of the goblins of these lands as brutal savages, they had once ruled a mighty empire that stretched across the length and breadth of Khorvaire.
Farmhouses appeared more often, and at last the party came within sight of the town’s wooden palisade. Haldren called a halt. “We need to be careful how we approach,” he said. “I’m certain I can get us all inside, if we’re careful and play it right. People of Darguun are not generally fond of elves-and I have no idea how they’ll react to Cart. So Darraun and I will draw near the gate first. And I will do the talking,” he added, with a commanding glare in Darraun’s direction.
Darraun nodded, and the two of them closed the remaining distance to the town. Cart took a few long paces after Haldren, then dropped to one knee to wait and watch. Gaven found himself more or less alone with Senya. She gazed after Haldren too, and Gaven shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s funny,” she said, without turning toward him. “Haldren was in Dreadhold for three years, and he’s basically had only one thing on his mind since he got out. You were there, what? Twenty-six?” She turned to face him now. “And you’re afraid to look at me. I’m starting to wonder if you found a way to become deathless while you were locked up.”
Gaven felt his face flush, and he turned away from her.
“Or is it your destiny that keeps you focused on higher things?” she said. He heard her step closer behind him, and he swallowed hard. “The Storm Dragon must have more important concerns-the realm of the spirit, not the flesh.” Another step, and he could feel her presence close to him, electrifying, like a storm brewing overhead.
Gaven found it strangely hard to speak. “I’m not the Storm Dragon, Senya,” he said. “I’m just a book in which the Prophecy is written.”
He heard the creak of her leather coat behind him and felt her light touch on his shoulder, tracing his dragonmark where it disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. “And written on,” she said. Her finger tugged on his collar as she traced the dragonmark downward. “But who wrote it, I wonder?”
Gaven closed his eyes, and Rienne was there with him, touching him, letting him lose himself in her skin. He felt Senya’s hands on his chest, and she pressed herself against his back. He pulled away, whirling to face her again.
“You don’t want me,” he said, shaking his head violently and looking down at the ground. “You want the power you think I represent. You’re wrong about me, Senya.”
She stepped close again and breathed into his ear. “So what if I am? What do you want, Gaven?” She put a hand on his chest and started to slide it downward.
He took her shoulders in his hands and gently pushed her away, looking straight into her bright blue eyes. “I don’t want you,” he said.
He couldn’t quite read the expression that twisted her face. It was clear that she wasn’t used to being refused, and her hurt pride made her angry and defensive. But her eyes held something else, something that her anger couldn’t quench.
“Senya!” Cart’s voice surprised them both, and Gaven saw Senya’s pale skin flush red. “Gaven!” the warforged called. “Haldren is signaling! Time to move!”
Gaven wondered how much Cart had seen or heard, and what he’d tell the Lord General. His mind filled with a string of curses directed at Senya and himself, even as his feet carried him quickly to the gate of Grellreach.
CHAPTER 12
Darraun took in the scene while he waited with Haldren for Gaven and the others to catch up. His travels had taken him over most of Khorvaire, to Xen’drik a couple of times, and now to Aerenal, but Darguun was a new experience. It wasn’t uncommon to see the three races of goblinkind-the burly bugbears, proud hobgoblins, and sniveling goblins-in the rougher parts of many cities, and they were more common the closer you came to the fringes of civilization. Here, though, they were everywhere, from the guards at the gate to the merchants hawking their wares in ramshackle stalls that lined the main street.
Four hobgoblins stood proudly at the gate, wearing piecemeal armor-mismatched plates and bits of chain over a basic suit of leather-that was at least clean and well maintained. They leaned on polearms that were as motley as their armor, watching impassively as Haldren led the group through the gate. The guards were all almost a head taller than Darraun and looked considerably stronger, so he was glad that Haldren had so easily talked his way past them. Just past the gate stood a bugbear who looked like he was normally kept chained and
as if he might begin a savage rampage at any moment-head and shoulders taller than the hobgoblins, covered in matted fur, and armed with a wickedly serrated sword. Despite his appearance, he too let them pass without incident.
If one could forget that all the citizens of this town were goblinkind, Darraun reflected, it would not seem very different from Whitecliff. The buildings were constructed from stone blocks salvaged from the surrounding ruins, but they were well made. Street vendors hawked food, clothing, and tools from push-carts and wagons pulled by donkeys or oxen. Many of the buyers were women, and children ran and played on the rutted dirt streets.
One thing made this place different from Whitecliff in a way that Darraun didn’t like. People stared at them wherever they walked-particularly at Cart, he noticed-and Darraun squirmed under their curious gaze. He had made a living out of blending in, and to be attracting so much attention made him nervous.
“Senya and I will get the supplies,” Haldren said as they made their way down the town’s main street. “We won’t spend the night here, so there’s no point in getting a room-even assuming we could find one that would take us.” He called a halt in front of an open-air building-some sort of restaurant or tavern by the looks of it-crowded with rowdy hobgoblins, probably drunk even in the early afternoon. “Why don’t you three find a table here and pass the time until we’re finished?”
Some of the nearby hobgoblins stared at Cart and pushed out their chests in a way that Darraun recognized as a sign of aggression, so he wasn’t sure Haldren’s idea was a good one. But the sorcerer was already walking away, his arm locked around Senya’s waist. “And watch your tongues,” Haldren said over his shoulder, shooting a glare at Gaven.
With a sigh, Darraun led the way to a table in the quietest corner of the place, making a wide circle around the aggressive hobgoblins near the street. “Do either of you speak Goblin?” he mumbled as they took their seats.
Gaven shook his head, and Cart said, “A few words-the kind soldiers throw around.”
“Let me order, then,” Darraun said, as a rail-thin goblin woman approached the table.
“Azhra dam?” Her voice was a high growl.
“Two ales,” Darraun answered in Goblin, and the goblin woman vanished in the crowd.
“I hope Haldren comes back quickly,” Gaven muttered.
“I agree,” Darraun said. “Cart, some of these men were looking at you in a way I didn’t like.”
“I noticed that,” the warforged said, “but I’m used to it.”
“Kak-darzhul!” Three of the hobgoblins Darraun had seen before stomped to their table, and the one in front addressed Cart. The warforged turned to face the one who had spoken. He was almost as big as Cart, and his arms were as thick as Darraun’s legs.
“He doesn’t speak Goblin,” Darraun said, pronouncing his words carefully to avoid any insult.
“Tell him I think his ancestors’ swords couldn’t cut the tail from a lizard,” the hobgoblin said.
Darraun started to explain the hobgoblin’s insult to Cart, but the warforged interrupted, rising to his feet. “Your ancestors couldn’t sharpen sticks to use as spears,” Cart said in perfect Goblin.
Darraun bit back a laugh. Naturally, the language of insults would be what Cart had learned from goblin soldiers.
The hobgoblin pounded his chest with one fist, raising the other hand toward Cart. Cart mimicked the gesture, and the onlooking goblins backed up, making a wide circle with Cart and their leader at the center. Cart and the hobgoblin clasped hands and started to push.
Darraun had never seen this form of contest before, but it was easy enough to see what was going on. Right palms together, each man pushed to his left, trying to force his opponent off balance. Their feet were firmly planted on the dirt floor, so Darraun surmised that a single step would mean defeat.
He also quickly saw what he hoped none of the goblins could discern: Cart was holding back. He would win eventually, but he was letting the goblin feel that the contest was a close one. Darraun smiled. Cart continued to impress him, demonstrating an amazing sympathy for the emotions of flesh-and-blood people.
A dozen goblins circled the contestants, shouting, laughing, and making wagers on the outcome. Cart showed no sign of exertion, of course, but his opponent grunted as his biceps bulged, veins pulsing. He leaned in closer, baring sharp fangs in Cart’s face and snarling to intimidate him. Unfazed, Cart bent his legs to lower his center of gravity, and with one last push he sent the hobgoblin sprawling on the ground. Cart gave his chest one more resounding thump and returned to his seat, among the yells and jeers of the onlookers.
A quick glance around confirmed Darraun’s suspicion that a lot of money had just changed hands. He figured that meant that their chances of nursing their drinks in peace were almost zero, and his fears were confirmed when a big bugbear stepped into the circle, drawing a chorus of loud cheers.
The bugbear pointed at the defeated hobgoblin, who tried to slink away. “Prax is so stupid he doesn’t know that the kak-darzhul have no ancestors,” the bugbear growled.
Many in the crowd laughed, but several looked with wide eyes toward Cart, wondering how he would respond to what they considered a grievous insult.
Cart leaned close to Darraun and whispered, “What did he say?”
Darraun translated, and Cart stood up. “Well, I wasn’t drinking anyway,” he said with a sigh. In Goblin, he addressed his challenger. “I’d rather have no ancestors than have ancestors too weak to throw stones.”
The crowd murmured a mixture of approval and offense, and the bugbear roared as he pounded his chest. Cart seized his outstretched hand, and the contest began. Darraun could see that the warforged had found a closer match, but he predicted another victory. From what he could hear of the wagering, it seemed the bettors favored the bugbear, and Darraun briefly considered placing a bet.
Again, Cart gave the appearance of a good fight before forcing the bugbear off balance. The big man took two steps and didn’t fall, but it was no less humiliating a defeat. More money changed hands, sending the music of clinking coins all around the circle. Challengers began to line up. Darraun looked around for the ale he’d ordered-if he was going to watch fights all afternoon, he wanted to do it with a drink in his hand.
He didn’t see the goblin who had taken his order, but Gaven caught his eye. The half-elf watched intently as the next contest began, and Darraun watched the muscles in his arm flexing. Did he want to get in on the action? he wondered.
Cart defeated four more challengers, and the crowd grew boisterous. The next one in line showed some hesitation, to the derision of the onlookers, and Gaven got to his feet before Darraun could stop him.
“All right, Cart,” Gaven said, “I don’t know the formalities of the challenge here, but I know how to do the wrestling.” He beat his chest as he’d seen the goblins do and raised a hand to Cart.
“Well, I should think of some way to insult your ancestors,” Cart said, “but I’m afraid I’m running out of ideas. And I have nothing but respect for House Lyrandar, in general.”
“Chaos take House Lyrandar,” Gaven said, “and your makers in House Cannith, for that matter. Let’s do this.”
Cart beat his chest, seized Gaven’s hand, and started to push. Gaven pushed back, hard, and Cart had to stop holding back. Darraun’s mind flashed back to the jungle, the previous night, when he’d tried to punch Gaven and ended up flat on his back. He imagined for a moment that he heard a rumble of thunder in the clear blue sky.
The bets favored the warforged now. “I could have made a fortune here today,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen people so eager to make losing wagers.”
It was over quickly. Cart’s left foot shifted slightly, then he stepped back with his right. A silence fell over the crowd, then the few spectators who had won money started to cheer, and then the circle closed. Hobgoblins and bugbears swarmed around Cart and Gaven, jabbering at them in Goblin, thro
wing out a few words of congratulations-and curses-in Common. Darraun smiled. They’d won their acceptance.
They had also attracted a great deal of attention, which had been exactly what Darraun had hoped to avoid. Still, there was no sign of Sentinel Marshals appearing on the scene, no city watch coming to investigate the disturbance, no brawl breaking out. He was starting to like Darguun.
Gaven spotted Senya first, peering around the edges of the bar, looking for them. Haldren hung back, wearing new clothes. Both of them carried new backpacks loaded with goods. Gaven looked down at his own worn shirt and breeches, the same clothes he’d been wearing in Dreadhold before his release. At least he had a sword.
Haldren and Senya were having a hard time finding him, surrounded as he was by rowdy goblins waiting their turn to buy him a drink. Gaven stood, prompting some shouts from people nearby.
“Haldren!” he called. “Over here!”
Haldren looked around, spotted Gaven, and scowled. He hit Senya’s shoulder and pointed at Gaven, started toward the unruly crowd, then thought better of it, waving impatiently in Gaven’s direction.
“Cart, Darraun,” Gaven said, “our escort has returned.”
Cart leaped to his feet, breaking the hold of a trio of inebriated hobgoblins who had been draping themselves over his shoulders, trying to get the warforged to drink. Darraun was not thronged by as many admirers-his command of Goblin and his ready wit had won him some friends, but those qualities were not as impressive to the goblins as the sheer strength Gaven and Cart had demonstrated-so he was able to extricate himself from the crowd and get over to Haldren quickly.
Gaven waded through the crush. With every step, goblins grabbed at his hands and jabbered at him, making him wish he could understand a word of Goblin. He hoped it was compliments or well-wishes they threw his way, rather than insults and challenges, but he figured he would never know. The crowd closed behind him as he passed, and he realized with a smile that their departure wasn’t going to quiet the party.