A Spell Takes Root

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by Keith Hendricks


  And yet, despite his unfortunate inability to read the goblin mouth, which seemed paralyzed to him between hostility and an ambiguous indifference, Khyte found the goblin women beautiful, with golden or silver eyes inset like jewels in noble, mask-like faces—like props used by fabulously wealthy courtesans. And there had been a time that a goblin woman captured his fancy—if only it had been a different goblin, he lamented, watching her brother Huilin clamber up to his ledge. While their friendship had survived Khyte and Kuilea’s courtship, it had become strained. In fact, this ledge, less comfortable than a balcony, but with nearly as much space for them to stand, was a good symbol of their strained friendship, They stood there for a moment before they clasped hands.

  “I know that look, Khyte,” said Huiln. “I see it when blades are drawn and fists fly. If you were thinking of me, I hope they were friendly thoughts.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Khyte. “But I hate Nahure. I love your cauldron-cooked food and goblin beer, and if there were no goblins, I would count my friends on one hand. But you destroy your own world. Why do you live like this?”

  “I don’t,” protested Huiln. “Like you, I’ve lived more days on the other worlds than on my own. Only my family keeps me here for any duration; this time, it was five weeks. Though I love my family, when I call them my anchor, I mean that they’re a burden that weighs on my spirits. Though I should know by now not to expect much from my kinsmen, my last homecoming was a cautionary tale.”

  “Huiln,” said Khyte. “I was only talking.”

  Huiln ignored him. “Within five minutes of coming home, my cousin asked for investment funds, my sister bade me speak to her manager, and my wives and children cared not for my six-month adventure, but looted my backpack for their gifts. By dinnertime, my entire family had asked for money or favors. I prefer moneygrubbing to requests for aid, as donations hurt less than being obligated to flatterers and fools. But when your loved ones take no pleasure in your company, having toadies sounds more attractive, for they would better know how to counterfeit gratitude and a good welcome.”

  “You have too much pride for that, Huiln.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m here. So why do you travel so far beneath your contempt?” The goblin idiom, “to travel beneath contempt,” was not only untranslatable, but unmusical, in Khyte’s native Drydanan, although the closest mistranslation neatly expressed Khyte’s feeling that the Goblin World was beneath his contempt. Not the whole of it, but the half he liked couldn’t redeem the bitter air.

  “I have nothing to add, as you have exhausted the subject. Though I was expecting this conversation, you’re taking all of the good lines.”

  “No—you’re my understudy, because I was born to this. I’m only getting started.”

  “I understand,” Khyte said, though his tone was not patient. “You wore out your welcome the day of your arrival, but only because their welcome mat was paper-thin.”

  “While it would be lovely if I could blame them in full, it isn’t so cut and dried. If all of us are happier at my leave-taking than in my arrival, what does that say about me?”

  “I’m also more at home in other lands than at my own doorstep,” Khyte said, “and when I am home, my neighbors won’t talk to me, and might not even look at me. Maybe I remind them of honest living that doesn’t involve banditry or horse-thieving.”

  “Oh? You’re not adding to the trinket collection of a certain rotund, oily tongued merchant?” As Khyte scowled, he continued, “In charming one of your competitors to learn what you seek, we lucked onto an even greater prize.

  “You should know better than to trust any of those bunglers, Huiln. Was it man or elf?”

  “Neither Hravakian nor Alfyrian, and most decidedly not male.”

  “Out with it!”

  “I don’t mind sharing what I know, Khyte,” said Huiln. “But I should warn you: when I said competitor, I meant for the fee, not Kuilea’s affections. She won’t take anyone back.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Huiln. It isn’t Kuilea the goblin that I hate; it’s Kuilea the jackass.”

  Huiln laughed. “Unfortunate phrasing, but I don’t deny it’s an accurate portrait of my sister.”

  “How’s this for truth? I’d sooner take a mule to bed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Though it’s metaphor, not truth, it still hurts. We could have been brothers, you know.”

  “Your high hopes may have been altar-bound, but our thoughts never strayed from much lower. About waist-high. For me. For Kuilea—”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  “Stop being coy about this offworlder, then. If not elf, human, or goblin, it’s likely a dryad. Unless ...” The thought filled Khyte with horror. “No. Not a giantess?”

  “No,” said Huiln, with a reassuring tone. “Though I’m surprised to see you scared of anything, even a giant.”

  “I’m not scared of any giants,” said Khyte, “I said giantess, and only one in particular.”

  “Don’t fear—she’s a dryad. Though you could call her a giant, as she’s a big hulking brute, bearing a long spear with a curved blade, and resinous redwood armor that’s slatted over her, making her look less like a warrior than a woodshed. I don’t know why she’s here,” admitted the goblin, “but I did hear a rumor.”

  “What rumor?”

  “A rumor that would discredit goblins, vile though we are.”

  “Those that despise strangers think themselves worse.”

  “I should have never taught you Nahurian,” said Huiln.

  “It’s apt,” said Khyte.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Huiln, “though you’ve butchered your translation, as ‘think’ is intended not as passive, but active. Leonora meant not that despisers have a low opinion of themselves, but in hating another their self-loathing manifests.”

  “Not the elves. Those hypocrites believe themselves our betters. Why are you changing the subject?”

  “Why are you? I see no elves,” said Huiln. “To be blunt, Khyte, I shudder to tell you. The rumors concern the dryad Princess Inglefras.”

  “Who is she? The king’s wife? Concubine? Prisoner? Nanny? General?”

  “‘Prisoner’ is closest to the truth, though her cell is a greenhouse. And the rumor goes that they enjoy her not only in the way you’d expect of the wicked and the perverse, but they’re also eating her.”

  “This is no rumor,” said Khyte. “Are you really taken in by this lie? If the goblin king put the dryad princess on the menu, not only would she no longer be a prisoner, unless you count goblin guts as a cage, but Nahure and Ielnarona would be at war.”

  “Dryads regrow their tenderest bits. So long as they do not eat her in whole, the king and his court may indulge their carnal and cannibal depravities, then schedule another evening of horrors and leave her in the hothouse to grow back. Kreona’s ghoulish gossips are only too happy to provide commentary on the taste of Princess Inglefras, saying that her flayed skin smacks of cinnamon, her eyes are more intoxicating than any wine or brandy, and her finger-shoots are as delicate as asparagus in coconut oil. I’ve heard the story of her plight so often that I believe most goblins prefer tales of torment to music or theater.”

  “This is true?”

  “It is.”

  “If it weren’t for you, brother, I’d say every goblin should die.”

  “The rumors say more. Merculo uses her to leverage favors from Ielnarona, so that his estate is replete with tributes of the dryads’ exotic beverages and foodstuffs.”

  “Shouldn’t her torment have provoked a rescue, rather than your departure?”

  “I was heading for Hravak to enlist your aid.”

  “Huiln, you mistake me for a good man.”

  “Then let us profit from her distress. Though the goblins won’t entertain ransom d
emands, the dryads may pay a reward. If not, we could do the ransoming.”

  “After we rescue her, you mean.”

  “Should we not benefit from our good deed?”

  “Look around you, Huiln. If good lives in the Five Worlds, it does not dwell in Nahure. You were the Goblin Trinity’s last attempt to sculpt something good, and while there’s a little charity in your clay, there’s no altruism.”

  “Today I am neither good nor evil,” said Huilm, “but moved by pity that what befalls this dryad goads me, so that I must free her even if there is no profit in it, or I will ever be a detestable creature, hating none in the Five Worlds more than myself.”

  “You almost persuade me,” Khyte said. “It’s a wonder she is in captivity, if there is even one other goblin like yourself.”

  Huiln’s eyes welled. “You know her only hope lies in two mercenaries standing on Mt. Irutak.”

  “Huiln,” said Khyte, “pardon me for saying so—and forgive me for being skeptical of goblin tears—but you seem unusually invested in this. Why should we risk our lives or waste our efforts when at this very moment her people plot an escape?”

  “To dryads, family, people, race and species are the same word: hyurlohta. And if I’ve read correctly, Ielnaronans reproduce and raise offspring in common.” Huiln continued, “Moreover, after cramming all there is on dryads at the Grand Goblin Library, I can tell you that the creature suffering in Merculo’s cell is only a sprig, not the whole dryad. A rescue seems doubtful for one without family, nation, or even personhood.”

  “Saying she is a princess in part seems needlessly cruel.You already said she grows back,” said Khyte. “Won’t that make her whole?”

  “You misunderstand. What we think are dryads are only like a seed fallen from the real dryad, and just like many trees’ seeds have wings or burrs or armor shells or other devices to ensure that they take root, these seeds walk, climb, jump, talk, ride, and even swim to propagate the will of their vessel. So while you might call the tree-women dryads, they are not the whole dryad, and their tree-mothers are the true Ielnaronans.”

  “I don’t mean to change the subject,” said Khyte, who had only pretended to pay attention, “but we’ve been standing on this ledge for a good while, and though you’ve eaten your meals on time the last few days, I ate my last pondira this morning after three days in the Abyss.”

  “Here’s my dilemma,” said the goblin. “Should I fly to Hravak or Alfyria looking for other swords, or will you join me? If you’re coming, breakfast is on me. Also, as the whole point of my leaving was to recruit you, you’ve spared me a trip, and you can have any of this.” At this, Huiln opened his pack to reveal fire-hardened clay pots, from which Khyte feasted, one at a time: a still-warm soup smelling of cabbage, onion, garlic, bacon, and pungent cheese; a syrupy-sauced gamy meat redolent of sweet wine and wild goat; and dried figs, dates, raisins, and cherries. Khyte first drank from the lip of the soup pot like a mug, and said, around sips, “Though I like free breakfast, you might ask that dryad warrior you mentioned to put her face where it doesn’t belong.”

  “I didn’t like the look of her. For all I know, she sold the princess to Merculo to remove a political enemy or simply for the money. I don’t know everything about dryads, and don’t want to get killed by thinking I know everything about dryads. But I know you, Khyte, and we’ve been to the Monster World and back.”

  “How about this?” Khyte sighed. “Help me with Merculo’s crown, and I’ll help you with the dryad’s rescue.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” said Huiln, something between joy and suspicion etched across his features.

  “While you’ve been talking, I’ve been listening. Call me persuaded. Once we’ve stolen this princess from under King Merculo’s nose, I don’t like anyone else’s chances to take the crown or the scepter. The guards will be so thick after her escape that his highness will keep those treasures on deposit for me.”

  While Irutak’s west flank was precarious, it was the steadiest of the mountain walls, for her shallow slopes tended to shear off unexpectedly under callow climbers looking for an easy ascent. Its mix of granite, quartz, and the onerously hard tshubarek that even goblins considered unmineable, had so far been spared a single mining blast. Irutak vaulted too high to be majestic and had been shorn of too much stone on the other sides to be sublime; what was left was a monstrous heap that looked like any moment it might explode into rubble. As the wind lashed into them, the ramshackle mountain seemed to sway under Khyte’s feet.

  “Is she a god, Khyte?” While Huiln was a mad goblin that could turn a blind eye to his fears of heights and the sky, those racial phobias were evident in the sweat welling from his face. If a reasonable goblin would have wedged into a crevice and refused to budge, Huiln’s madness made him walk to the edge and drink in the giddy drop.

  Khyte stood at Huiln’s side. “She’s taller than one.”

  “Imagine, for a moment, that I am being serious. At one point, Irutak was a tenet of our faith.”

  “What does it matter? I’m no goblin.”

  “You’re a better goblin than me,” snorted Huiln. “What say you? Did Irutak hurtle from the Abyss?”

  “Those myths make no difference to how you die.”

  “Whether goblin folklore is the wisdom of gods or the wisdom of goblins, is it not wisdom?”

  By great restraint, Khyte refrained from rolling his eyes at his bookish friend. Instead he said: “Life is like climbing this ugly mountain, Huiln. When it takes all your attention to find your footing, who can spare a glance at the gods?”

  While the dense cliff was best scaled by hand, while descending through the softer sections they rappelled fifty yards at at time, recycling their rope as they did so. When less than two hundred yards from the base, and nearing a well-worn ledge that both had used as a stage of many journeys, they were astonished to find the ledge shorn, and rocky shards cluttered the slopes.

  “Khyte,” grunted Huiln, “that ledge was there this morning.”

  “I think I know the cause,” said Khyte, but then a looming shadow, stretching from what appeared to be a stone spur, announced itself by breaking from the mountain. It was what the goblins called a wire giant, whose hirsute body was armored by sharp, bamboo-hard hairs, so that if you brushed up against them, you might lose fingers or your nose; their shaggy hands were like morningstars. Khyte and Huiln slid down as a fist cracked above their heads, and Huiln’s rope went slack when the wire giant’s bristling knuckle-hairs shredded the hemp. As the goblin fell, Khyte grabbed him by the beard, and swung his screaming friend back onto Irutak.

  The giant raised its other fist to crush Khyte, but with both hands in the air, the unbalanced monster slid a few dozen yards until it found footing, roared, and bounded back up the cliff like a bear. Then it shrieked, and shrieked again, and slid back down. Arrows landed in its furred feet, then hands, and it loped away, mewling and leaving bloody stripes across Irutak as it fled.

  “Huiln, use my rope!”

  “No, brother, I’ll follow.”

  “I’m the better climber. You go first.”

  Huiln rappelled down until he reached the shorn edge of the former cliff. There a small foothold remained , just wide enough for the goblin to rest one foot while holding the rope.

  When Huiln began inching down to the next ledge, Khyte rappelled to the foothold. Finding that he could fit both boot heels on the outcrop, he leaned against the rock.

  There was no need to ask Huiln for the arrow's source: Khyte already knew from their barbed fletching that it was Kuilea, Huiln’s sister and Khyte’s one-time lover, wielding the laminated recurve bow that she called, half-jokingly, Nut-Puncher.

  Kuilea was not only an excellent archer; aside from what trickled into Huiln’s skull from books, she was better at everything. When their aged father, Lord Hwarn, was called a tfalgas-skurn, he
sent not Huiln, but Kuilea to avenge the flagrant insult. Her sword departed its scabbard for less than two seconds—a feint, a parry, the backhanded riposte that shaved fingers to stubs and sent the opposing blade clattering to the floor in spurts of blood, and then a nonchalant wiping of gore on her dumbstruck opponent’s cheek—before the steel returned to its sheath. Huiln was only the more seasoned traveler because of madness and wanderlust, while Kuilea was cozily ensconced in not only her goblin fears but the creature comforts of their ancestral manor, House Hwarn—and, Khyte suspected, their father’s love. Even if Lord Hwarn was just as mad as his son, there was a moment in which Khyte thought the old goblin preferred him, an offworld barbarian, for his heir. As Goblins do not open their houses to you without making you one of the family, Lord Hwarn roughly shook Khyte from Kuilea’s bed, not to eject him from the mansion, but to embrace him—still crusty from sleep and lovemaking—and welcome Khyte into House Hwarn. When Huiln called Khyte a better goblin than he, it was a measure of real resentment.

  While Huiln and Kuilea had their differences, they were as thick as thieves. If brother and sister journeyed together to Mt. Irutak, and Kuilea lurked at the base, there was only one explanation: Huiln lied, in whole or in part, with the most important omission being that they knew Khyte was coming to Nahure, and Sarin Gelf was likely in on it. While there could be countless reasons for this deception, the whole ruse was disheartening—though he blamed himself the most for believing Sarin Gelf.

  “Was that Kuilea?” Khyte asked, staring at the arrows embedded in the ground nearby.

 

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