Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“There are many ships in New Ports. I’ll see if one will take us to Palanthas,” he said.

“Hurry,” Goldmoon urged.

“It was my idea to come here,” the creature snarled. “I said we should do it. It was me! Do you hear?”

The young goblin, a manlike thing less than four feet tall, had a flat face and a broad nose that looked as if it had been smashed with a hard object. His dark mouth was wide, and small yellow fangs peeked out from below his thin upper lip. His forehead sloped back, giving his bright red eyes more prominence, and his hairy arms almost dangled down to his knees, making him look apelike. He was a fine specimen of his race.

The sun that was starting to drop toward the horizon was only a shade lighter than the goblin’s burnt orange skin. He squinted into the offensive light as he ranted. “I should get the credit for the idea! Do you hear?”

His fellows appeared roughly the same type, though they were older, less muscular, and had skin tones ranging from dirty yellow to deep vermilion. All of them were wearing crude leather boots and mismatched pieces of armor that had been pathetically fastened together. Most of the armor had been stolen from the graves of kender and elven warriors. Only a few pieces had been claimed in fair fights. And to the goblins, a fair fight usually meant a carefully planned ambush or a well-constructed pit trap laden with sharp spikes.

Several carried crude shields fashioned from boards and bearing designs of clenched fists or bashed heads. A few had impressive metal shields looted from fallen foes. Their weapons included primitive stone axes, clubs with metal spikes pounded into them, and maces.

“It was not your idea,” the largest of the goblins barked. He carried a dented metal shield that bore the emblem of three roses— two buds and one full bloom— indicating it had at one time belonged to a knight from the Order of the Rose. “We were summoned.”

The large goblin was called M’rgash, and he was the chieftain of the three dozen who were slowly picking their way through what was left of the forest. At one time the dense forest covered about half of Kendermore and bordered on Balifor. But a mountain range had sprung up where the two countries met and had obliterated a considerable number of trees.

M’rgash’s entire tribe numbered more than four hundred, and they laired in tunnels deep beneath Wendle Woods to the south in kender territory. These three dozen were among his favorite and most loyal warriors. He handpicked them for this journey, and they’d set out five days ago.

The goblins stopped at the base of a rocky embankment that formed the base of the mountain ridge and looked up. It hadn’t been there a few months ago.

“We might have been summoned, M’rgash,” the orangeskinned goblin retorted. “But it was my idea to answer the call.” He was called Dorgth, and he was M’rgash’s lieutenant.

M’rgash growled and slapped Dorgth’s face with enough force to send the young lieutenant reeling. It was necessary for M’rgash to show a little force every now and then in order to keep his lofty position. “It was my decision. You merely agreed with me.”

M’rgash was an old goblin, having seen nearly forty summers, and he knew goblin protocol better than any in the tribe. He cast a baneful look at Dorgth, who had risen in the ranks only because of his brashness and fearlessness. Then he motioned the entourage to follow him. Dorgth, properly chastised, took up the rear.

The goblins wound their way ever higher, quickly clawing their way up the sheer surface until they found what amounted to a path. M’rgash knelt and traced a footprint in a small patch of dirt. “Hobgoblins,” he muttered. “I suspect our large cousins were summoned, too. But why?” He stepped onto the path and glanced to his right. The path snaked around the far side of the mountain. To his left it curved upward, leading to a large crevice. The spiky rocks at the very top were dark, indicating the sun had sunk lower. It would be blessed twilight within several minutes. M’rgash had timed the journey well.

The goblin chieftain strode toward the crevice, his tribesmen shuffling single file behind. Beyond the crevice stretched a plateau, and on it sat Malys, who took up nearly half of the space. The Red was impressive, and M’rgash stood in the heavy shadows of the opening and heard the sharp intake of the dragon’s acrid breath. The warriors behind him heard it as well, and M’rgash heard the nervous chattering of their teeth.

“Don’t run,” the goblin chieftain mumbled. “Show no fear.”

The dragon sat on her rear haunches, her horns even with the top of the rocky ridge that surrounded her plateau. The last bit of the sun’s rays poked through the crevice and made her scales look molten. Her dark eyes gleamed malevolently at M’rgash. Wisps of steam curled upward from her great nostrils as she slightly nodded her head, deigning to acknowledge him.

To her right stretched a line of two dozen barbarians. Savages, they wore strips of fur and leather. Their tangled hair hung past their shoulders, and their skin was tanned and weathered from living above ground. Their muscles were thick, sweat-slick cords that stood out along their arms and legs with veins that twisted around them like rope. The goblin chieftain picked out their leader immediately. He held the largest spear and wore a heavy silver chain around his neck with a large golden charm dangling from it. The lead barbarian’s eyes met M’rgash’s glance, but only for a moment. The barbarian returned his attention to the dragon.

To Malys’s left was a gathering of nearly fifty hobgoblins. M’rgash softly growled when he noted that Illbreth the Untrusting was leading this particular clan. The hobgoblins were clustered together, whispering and skittishly pointing at the dragon. M’rgash chuckled to himself. His cousins, nearly double his size, had little military training and didn’t know how to stand at attention. The hobgoblins were a dark reddish brown, their hide a mixture of tough skin and hair. They carried maces and spears that were in far better repair than their black leather armor.

M’rgash, seeing that he had Illbreth’s attention, strode through the opening so his soldiers could follow. He ordered them to form three lines directly behind him. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked like a reasonably well-polished military unit. However, the goblin chieftain smelled the strong scent of fear they gave off. He hoped the Red and Illbreth did not also recognize the odor.

Malys idly drummed a claw against the plateau’s slate floor. “We will begin,” her voice boomed. “Know that I could destroy you all if I wanted.”

The fear scent grew stronger, and M’rgash heard the gasps of his hobgoblin cousins.

“But if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have summoned you here so your bodies could litter my lair. I have need of you.” Her voice reverberated off the stone walls.

The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable, and finally the goblin chieftain found the courage to break it.

“Tell us what you need, dragon.” His tone was strong and steady, filled with respect. “If it is within our power, we will give it to you.”

“It is.” The dragon lowered her head until her chin grazed the ground. Her neck snaked forward until her face was mere feet from M’rgash’s. He could feel her hot breath. “I want your allegiance and the allegiance of your tribe. I want the allegiance of all the tribes represented here. Understand?”

Then she pulled her head in close to her chest and glanced from the barbarians to the hobgoblins, and finally back to M’rgash and his soldiers.