Jean Rabe - Redemption

“They should fear to displease me,” Dhamon said, “although I’m counting on the woman in the crystal ball to tell us which village.”

They’d walked until after midnight, a forced march set by Dhamon that had the goblins running and gasping and clutching their bony sides. The ground was not helpful, for it was broken by tree stumps and jagged rocks, with sharp dips and slick slate that sent the goblins flying. Dhamon found nothing interesting about Throt. The land was primitive and something he would have preferred to avoid.

When the goblins began to fall too far behind and even Ragh, Fiona, and Maldred had trouble keeping up, Dhamon grudgingly stopped by a thin, twisting brook. The moon was high, clearly illuminating the dying vegetation all around them and setting the water to shimmering like molten silver. The goblins struggled to catch their breath. They kept a polite if not wary distance from Dhamon and his associates.

Dhamon had ascertained that none of the goblins knew the common tongue, so he could talk freely without fear of insulting or provoking his guides. “To be venerated by these things is uncomfortable,” he confessed to the draconian.

It was clear Ragh didn’t share that feeling. The draconian basked in the goblins’ adoration and kept them busy bringing him water from the brook and plucking sweet apples that were still clinging to a nearby tree.

They’d removed the gag from Fiona’s mouth but didn’t untie her hands. The female Knight wouldn’t accept fruit or water and refused all conversation.

“They think we are going to ransom her to someone in this village. They think she’s royalty.”

“Don’t tell them anything different, Ragh.”

“They want to know why you and I don’t have wings.”

Dhamon grimaced. “What did you tell them?”

The draconian offered him a grim smile. “I told them I honestly don’t know where I lost mine,” he said. “Likely in some great battle so many decades ago that I’ve forgotten.”

“And me?”

“I told them your wings just haven’t sprouted yet.” The draconian instantly regretted the words when he saw the life go out of Dhamon’s eyes. “About Sabar,” he said, quickly changing the subject. He gently removed the cloth bag from his waist and produced the crystal ball.

There were a collection of ooohs and ahhhs from the goblins, and a few inched forward uncomfortably close until Dhamon halted them with a look.

“Ogre,” Dhamon said, calling to Maldred. “Use this crystal again, and see if you can find the village for us. I want to look in on Riki and the baby”

Maldred selected a flat, dusty patch of ground, spread his legs and rested the ball on its crown base between his knees. Using the ball was so much easier now, as his mind was already familiar with the magical pulse of the crystal. Soon the purple mists filled the globe, parting to form the image of Sabar.

“You seek me again, O Sagacious One,” she purred to Maldred. “Are we to take another journey together? I would enjoy that.”

Maldred quickly shook his head. “Show us the village, Sabar,” he said evenly.

“Blöten?”

“No. The one from before that, the one inhabited by the half-elf and the babe.”

“As you desire, O Sagacious One.”

Sabar twirled within the confines of the crystal, gradually revealing the village. Dhamon motioned one old, yellow goblin forward. The creature leaned over the globe, finger extended and almost touching the glass, but clearly afraid.

“Ask him if…” Dhamon nudged Maldred, watching intently as the image shifted to show Riki sleeping with the babe at her breast, Varek lying curled at her side. “Ask him if he’s seen this place.”

The goblin’s crude language sounded even worse in Maldred’s deep voice. The ogre-mage spoke for several moments, pausing at intervals to let the goblin answer him. Finally Maldred looked up from the crystal. “The old goblin’s name is Yagmurth Sharpteeth. He’s their leader, and he says he knows where this village is. Apparently he and his people are quite familiar with it. They usually visit it in the late summer, raiding small fields for corn and potatoes, and in the spring they come again when sheep are born. They didn’t visit it this summer, though, as a force of hobgoblins have been camped just outside of it for the past three or four months.” A hint of a smile crept across Maldred’s face. “The goblins hope the ‘perfect children of their revered god’ will lead them against their cousins, the hobgoblins, so they can crush their enemy and again raid the village for food.”

Dhamon studied the goblin named Yagmurth. “Only if necessary will there be a fight with the hobgoblins. Tell him that. Fights take time, and I’m in no mood to waste time. There’ll be a battle only if that’s the last resort, for I’ll do anything to make sure Riki and the child stay safe. But don’t tell him that.

In fact…” He felt the ground shaking again. “Maldred, ask the crystal ball…”

The ogre-mage was startled. Dhamon hadn’t called him by his real name since they’d been transported from the Nostar cell to the shadow dragon’s cave.

“Ask the crystal ball if a cure is still within my reach.” Dhamon ran his hands across his stomach, feeling all the scales beneath the ragged robe. He touched the left side of his face to make sure there was still flesh there, and he waited impatiently while Maldred talked to Sabar. Dhamon visibly relaxed and breathed a great sigh of relief as he heard Sabar answer yes.

“But Sabar says you don’t have much time left in which to find a cure,” Maldred explained. “You have to find the shadow dragon soon.”

“Aye, Mal. I am well aware of that.” The fever had suddenly returned, and the skin on his cheek was drenched with sweat, despite the chill of the fall night. His stomach felt was if it were on fire. Dhamon turned abruptly away, walking toward the brook. “Why don’t you look in on your damnable dry mountains of Blöde while you’re at it? Check in on your dear father.”

Ragh snatched up the crystal ball. “You already did that, didn’t you?” The draconian returned the ball to the pouch, trying it to his makeshift belt. “You don’t need to use this anymore.”

Dhamon shed his tattered robe, hearing more oohs and ahhs from the goblins following him as they admired his scales. He waded into the water, hoping its coolness would chase away his fever and put out the fire raging in his stomach. He left the glaive on the bank and growled when a goblin ventured close to touch the weapon.

“Get back!”

The creature didn’t need a translation. The meaning in Dhamon’s eyes was clear. The goblin scampered away to join his fellows, eight of them sitting high on the bank at a respectful distance. They all watched intently Dhamon’s every move. When the ground trembled again, stronger than it had before, Dhamon saw the look on the goblins’ crushed faces turn to horror. The trembling persisted and became more intense. Pebbles rolled down the bank and into the stream.

Dhamon jumped up, nearly losing his balance as the earth rumbled. Spears in hand, the goblins were chattering in fright, forming small groups and shouting.

“They’re scared!” the draconian called to Dhamon.

“I don’t need to speak their language to know that.”

“They await our orders.”

Dhamon shrugged on his robes and snatched up the glaive. He watched Fiona stumble as she tried to get up. “Cut her loose, Ragh. It’ll help her keep her balance.”

Ragh started to argue but thought better of it when the tremors became more pronounced. As the draconian headed toward the Solamnic Knight, a fissure appeared behind him and a half-dozen goblins were instantly swallowed by it. Before their hysterical fellows could attempt to rescue them, the ground beneath the sweet apple tree erupted in a geyser of dirt and rocks, sending the tree toppling down the bank and half the remaining goblins running in all directions.