Chapter I

No Good Goblin Goes Unpunished

A croak crawled through the air.

        Cezzum the goblin rolled over upon his pallet, fatigued to the last. He grumbled with several squelches and grunts, before he finally arrived at a state of awareness where he could consciously curse the frog, which had pestered him for many a morn.

        He rolled out of his bed and flung his tattered coverlets to the ground. Cezzum strode purposefully towards his warped wooden wardrobe, running his rangy, pale green fingers through his unkempt, sable hair as he did so.

        The frog called out again and Cezzum thought he was the target of some vile jest the frog sought much pleasure from. Throwing open the doors of the garderobe, Cezzum’s yellow irises darted from side to side within the gloom, in search of a suitable frock. He quivered as a powerful croak leapt through the air and dashed into his ears. Days of pent up ire surfaced within him. He swiftly donned a simple leather slip, which he himself had wrought, before clambering out a window, so that his prey might not catch sight of him beginning his hunt.

        

Cezzum was not a typical goblin, nor did he even consider himself akin to his brethren who took no greater satisfaction than in the utter torment and dismay of others. Goblins were known throughout the realm as fiends and fell creatures; filled with naught but guile, cunning and a profound sense of devilry tenderly touched with a dash of trickery. But at a very young age Cezzum found himself dismayed at his fellows for their evil ways and lost any love he held for his kindred. His mother never saw in him this wan of malice, and thought him to be as any other gobling. As soon as Cezzum’s legs were able, and his mind adamantly set on a path, he bore himself away, taking leave as fast as he could of his goblin home deep within the Yfelgod Mountains, or so the mountain was called by human folk. The three-foot high goblin toiled and travelled for many a day across the vast tracts of lands, over plains of green and fords of crystal blue, through forests of old and weathering nights of peril. Like this Cezzum persevered for many leagues, until one day he found himself at the southern face of a great mountain range. He stood in awe as the sun rose in the east, casting a golden nimbus upon the massif. It was as if a Wyvern of old sat before him, for the mountains were thusly shaped. The thought of a peaceful life atop the mountain swelled and bubbled within him and hence he spent a great many following days surmounting the towering cliffs. At the gloaming of the sixth day Cezzum found himself upon a plateau, but barren and desolate it was. And no hope of a livelihood could be conceived of upon such an arid land.

Disheartened, yet still firm with his resolve, Cezzum clambered down the north side of the range. He then found himself once again at the foot of the mountain, but in a small recess within the mountain’s sheer face. A glade he thought of it, within the forest of stone. Within this clearing a small mere glinted ebulliently, fed by many springs from the mountain, and an occasional fish jauntily splashed about. The grass was short and a lush green, and best of all, thought Cezzum, was that the entrance to the dell was surrounded, as was the entire northern side of the mountains, by a thick and bushy forest filled with life and the lilt of birds, yet quiet from any being that could bring ill to his home.

It was here that Cezzum made his home using the plentiful resources that abided with him in the woods. And never did Cezzum deplete a resource, including his much beloved and tended fish, for all he ate was what he could scrounge in the forest and, to satisfy his carnivorous aspect, the occasional hare. It was like this that the goblin dwelled for many passings of the world. And it was within this glade that Cezzum would eventually become known as the Goblin of the Wyvern’s Nape.

Cezzum moved slowly through the reeds. He had circumnavigated his homestead, which was a most modest yet welcoming cabin, slightly lopsided and ill-shaped on many sides, but a grand home to him nevertheless. The goblin coiled his hind legs upon a stone and prepared his attack. His slender hands brushed aside the cane and reeds before his face, and there atop a rock, near the brink of the mere, but a few feet away, croaked the tormenting frog.

        The frog cried out in shock as it flew through the air firmly within the grasp of the goblin. Cezzum landed deftly upon the lake’s bank, rolling his body as he landed and coming swiftly to his feet. Turning the frog within his hands, the frog now looked upon Cezzum’s visage. The frog’s eyes grew wide with fear as the amphibian gazed at the long, protruding and hooked nose of Cezzum, for below that nose a grin of malevolent success was burnt into the frog’s very soul. And while it may seem odd that a frog and a goblin could express such emotional capacity, when the wild is lived within, there exists much more than an ordinary eye may see. But then Cezzum’s grin turned into a wry smile and the goblin, clutching the frog in one hand, used his other and retrieved a small needle carefully hidden within the leather folds of his slip. Cezzum was nigh upon boring the needle into the frog’s gullet, inhibiting its ability to croak, when the oddest thing happened. The tiny amphibian pricked Cezzum before the goblin could carry out his own perforation. Into the frog’s eyes Cezzum gazed and it was in that moment that a truth occurred to him: it was these very fiendish ways that he had abandoned all those moons ago; but even more than that was that each creature, every warbling bird and even the tormenting frog, made Cezzum’s dell the very place in which he was fulfilled and fain to call home.

        Placing the needle back into his frock, he gently lowered the frog to the ground. As the frog began to hop back to its home it turned its head slightly and gave an appreciative nod, at least that was what the goblin imagined the amphibian had done. Cezzum smiled, his elongated teeth glinting in the morning light cresting the mountains to the east.

        The morning birds began to sing in earnest. It reminded him that he, in his hunt, had forgotten to break the fast of his forest-dwelling aerial companions. Loping quickly indoors he unfastened the lock on his pantry cupboard, searching frantically among his wares. To his dismay Cezzum found naught but dried out elderberries, which birds did enjoy thoroughly, but, thought Cezzum, hardly fitting enough for a day on which he had had such a grand epiphany thanks to his erstwhile bothersome frog. Fresh ones he thought, the freshest berries he could find on this day would only do and perhaps even some tender and plump fruit. Cezzum dashed back out of his house, grabbing a small gunnysack off the back of a chair on his way. As the goblin left his home light was beginning to shine through the windows proper, casting a homely radiance on all his wooden furniture and trinkets; he kept that cosy image with him. Running past the mere he called into the air, “Fret not my birdies, I shall soon return with your repast!” And with those words lingering in the wind Cezzum darted out of his dell and into the woods.

Cezzum’s sack already bulged, his forage had proved most fruitful. He scampered swiftly, yet ever so lightly and deftly, across the ground and up many trees, plucking berries and fruit of all sorts and placed them into his bag, although not all his spoils made it that far, and as Cezzum neared the end of his scavenge he felt quite replete indeed.

        Lofty trees towered above the comparatively dwarfed goblin as he looked for a rarer fruit, known as an opi plum, to add a flourish to his morning meal. Rust coloured leaves, thickets, shrubs and verdant laurels suffused the forest, while giant boles of ancient trees supported their most lush boughs. A soft and earthly invigorating breeze pushed through the forest, carrying upon it a touch and whisper of autumn, reminding all those that lived in the forest that change was indeed in the air.

        Cezzum found his sought-after mark. At the foot of a grand, gnarled, oaken tree, grew the majestically hued opi bush teeming still with the golden fruit. Placing the sack next to the tree, Cezzum moved his hand cautiously through the thorny branches. Reflexively his arm shot back to his body as his smallest finger was bitten by the plant. Cezzum grumbled, for while the poison was not deadly, his finger would now be lame for a good few hours. Manoeuvring his gangly limb more tentatively than before, Cezzum managed to clutch the large oval that he prized and wrenched it free.

        Digging his nails deeply into the fruit, he quickly brought the plum to bear down upon his knee and the succulent fruit snapped in two. One half of the tender jade coloured citrus was quickly devoured. Smacking his lips lavishly Cezzum prepared to finish off his feast, but he stopped suddenly and moved neither a muscle nor a hair.

        Then it came: the strident footfalls of boots hastily crushing leaves. An arrow hissed over Cezzum’s head, shot forth from beyond a dense patch of foliage. Instinctively the goblin dropped his opi fruit and adroitly scampered up the bole of the gnarled oak. Lying atop one of the large branches he slowed his breathing that not even an exhale of his breath left a hint in the air. A man burst from beyond the brush to stand below the tree. The human, as he looked to Cezzum, spun around once he had his footing. He drew a longsword from his scabbard and stood steadfastly, ready for battle.

        Another blind-fired arrow whizzed past and the man nimbly stepped to one side. But a further arrow soon followed; it caught the scruffy and wayworn man off-guard. The thick arrow ripped deeply into his flesh, bowling him onto the forest floor. Air exploded from his lungs, but Cezzum could see the man was well skilled in the ways of survival. Wasting only but a second, the man scuttled under a dense thicket across from the tree, completely hiding himself from view, including the shaft that protruded from his chest. Cezzum thought it lucky for the man that the grass and leaves were compact and dense this time of year, for they left no obvious trail of where he had dragged himself off to.

        Two creatures then sped into view, bows clutched firmly in their hands, they each nocked another arrow and began to step cautiously among the shrubs. Immediately Cezzum knew what they were, for they were of a distant heritage to goblins. The two phagens stood just over six-foot and, although double the height of most goblins, they bore many similarities to their less than lofty kin. Their long, rangy yet powerful limbs groped around in the brush, searching for their quarry. The two attackers wore mail and jumbled pads of leather with metal plates intertwined. Large and encroaching fangs jutted out from their upper jaw, that even when their mouths were closed their teeth were still harrowingly evident over their lower lip. One of the phagens took the lead, his head bobbing up and down as his hooked nose savoured the air.

        Speaking in their native tongue known as Kig’n, which Cezzum could understand, for it too was used by goblins, the lead phagen growled in anger: “The vile odour of the forest impedes the smell. His man-scent eludes me! It is here but it is hazy!”

        The second phagen halted as he spied the gunnysack of Cezzum and called his companion to his side. Cezzum knew that the discovery of his pack would only serve to spur on the phagens’ search and quickly formulated a plan. As the man-sized goblins rummaged through the sack, Cezzum bounded from the bough and landed nosily behind them. All at once two bows were firmly pointed at Cezzum’s head. With a tone as domineering as the goblin could muster he quite indifferently instructed, “Off with you! That is my forage sack for my clan!”

        The commanding phagen lowered his bow, his cohort doing likewise, and stooped low, placing his face directly in front of Cezzum’s and snarling viciously said, “You reek of the forest; you smell too clean for a goblin!”

        The breath of the phagen was taking its toll on Cezzum; the putrid, vile air made the goblin want to retch, but Cezzum held his gaze. He stretched out his arm and pointed to a short distance from the oak.

        “You see that woodland brush yonder?” queried Cezzum.

        Both phagens nodded as they viewed the indicated flora.

        Suddenly, while their attention was momentarily focused on the thicket, Cezzum smashed his hand into the chin of the hunched Phagen, knocking him to the floor. The startled phagen was up a second later and now both stood with their swords levelled at the goblin’s throat.

        “Well that brush,” continued Cezzum, pointedly ignoring the swords, “you and your arrow-happy friend caused me to dive into! Here I was, minding my own business, going about the deeds of my kin, when arrows zipped and dove through the air! Now I, Cezzum of the Gild’en horde, had to dive into such a revolting shrub merely to avoid getting impaled by you two Kashen’uks!”

        Cezzum almost regretted invoking the highest order of phagen affronts – to call a phagen a Kashen’uk was to insult their heritage to its fullest, as it equated them with no more than a half-bred hound.

The rearmost phagen sneered savagely at the mocking Goblin, nudging his sword ever so closer to Cezzum’s throat so that the goblin could feel the cold metal against his skin.

        “Kashen’uk is not a word to be used lightly, goblin. I seek but one more word and your second will be blood!”

        The lead phagen, while glowering at Cezzum, stayed the hand of his comrade and asked, “We’re hunting a man. He scurried through the forest, much like craven men do, but this one is of importance.” Black saliva slowly oozed its way down the fang of the conversing phagen. “Did our quarry pass this way?”

        Cezzum nodded and recounted to them that one of their arrows took him in his shoulder. Both phagens let out a roaring cheer. The commander sheathed his sword and gripped Cezzum by the shoulders. “To where did the vermin scatter? Speak quickly cursed kin!”

        “He took flight to the north; the arrow had direly wounded him, but his step did not falter.”

        The phagen released Cezzum and turned to his follower, his dark, wild eyes glinting brightly.

        “He turns northwards, the beast attempts to skirt our camp!”

        The second phagen grabbed Cezzum’s sack and hoisted it over his shoulder. Cezzum was agape and cried, “Gah! You deceitful Kashen’uk’s! That is my-”

        A fist slammed into the goblin’s stomach, collapsing him violently to the floor. The imperious phagen stood over Cezzum’s body, his visage contorted in anger.

        “Only your words and provisions preserved your blood this day, for I would wish to run you through merely for your smell!”

        The two phagens dashed off northwards, running swiftly through the forest. Cezzum spent several lingering minutes upon the ground, waiting for the heavy treads of his loathed kin to disappear and, as well, to ensure his chest could still hold sufficient quantities of air. After he was certain that the phagens were no longer in the vicinage, Cezzum took to his feet and quietly said, “They have departed.”

        Across the clearing a small thicket rustled as the man pulled himself out from beneath it. He laboriously forced himself onto his knees, but sat back upon them, unable to support his own weight. His face was covered in many a day’s growth of hair and he wore a simple leather garb with a thick traveller’s cloak, and although he looked ailed and weak a deep strength could be seen beating behind his amber eyes. Cezzum and the kneeled man spent a minute staring at one another. But as Cezzum broke the lock, by stepping forward towards the dishevelled man, the human suddenly cried out, “What cruel fate is this? Delivered from the arms of my bane by another who seeks my end! The gods surely take pleasure in my torment.”

        The man was wracked with pain and clutched at his chest where the shaft had taken him, absently trying to alleviate the pain, but to no effect. Quickly refocusing his attention he brought his eyes back to bear upon Cezzum.

        “I cannot tarry here longer; my body is broken! But come if you must goblin, for then might we both greet the gods together – for I shan’t be the easy prey you wish!” As the words ended, with all his remaining might, the man drew his sword from his side and held it aloft.

        Cezzum could see the man wavering and tottering as he balanced upon his knees, waiting for the goblin to begin his strike. But Cezzum simply lifted his hands, palms towards the ailing human, and switching to the tongue of men, a common language known as ænglix, said, “Master, I mean you no harm; I am friend not fiend.”

        His sword faltered slightly as a spasm of pain ripped through his body, but the man replied with oral verve: “What trickery is this? A goblin, who not only speaks the tongue of men with better elocution than most princes, but yet claims to be friend and not foe. Does your kind know no limits to its fell deeds? You may claim well, but I have fought your kind before – trust not the word of a goblin!”

        “Master,” continued Cezzum, “if I had meant for thee your end I could of, with naught so much as of a bead of sweat being lost, snapped your head from its shoulders while you took refuge in the thicket. I am an outcast, a renegade of my people, yet the mar of their ways scars my being still.”

        Cezzum could not quite tell, but it seemed that the man’s eyes acquiesced to his affirmation of conciliation. The fatigued man blinked desperately, his eyelid pushing ever more deeply into his cheek. His sword then fell from his hand, and he collapsed to the ground.         

        Cezzum came upon the man, writhing in pain upon fallen foliage, and knelt beside him. The spasm passed and the mortally wounded traveller stared once more into the goblin’s eyes; it was as if, somehow, Cezzum could feel the man boring into his very soul.

        “Your words are as true as your heart goblin, forgive my doubt.”

        Cezzum smiled one of his beaming grins, which showed off his numerous teeth to good effect. “There is no need to forgive good master, my kind are fell; I hold no delusions of that.”

        The man’s face was still contorted by the grasp of pain, but Cezzum quickly conceived an idea. Running over to the opi bush he wrested a think branch of thorns from it and ran back to writhing man. Cezzum, using the man’s fallen sword, cut away a swathe of the leather jerkin immediately around the projecting shaft and proceeded to pierce the immediate skin several times with the thorns.

        “It is but a palliative effect, but should stay the pain for a time.”

        The man nodded his appreciation; a wry smile of thanks it seemed, but Cezzum was not sure if it were from the aid he rendered or the thought of being tended to by a goblin that induced his smile.

        After a time the man sat up. “The pain is staunched for now, I thank you, but the arrow itself was poisoned; even now I can feel the trappings of it in my very blood.” Cezzum aided the man in sitting up, hoisting him ever so slightly under the shoulder. The man turned to the goblin.

        “I am Filburn, an Ordered scout from the town of Acrin.”

        “Well met master. I am Cezzum, goblin from... umm… but yonder,” Cezzum pointed just beyond the forest.

        “Ah! You abide in the dell that is there, the Wyvern’s Nape it is called, or it is so named such by those woodsmen that know it, who are few indeed.” Another, yet less virulent, pang of pain sped its way through Filburn.

        Cezzum supportively grabbed Filburn’s arm and began to lower his upper body to the ground. “Master you must take rest. The poison grows in potency, the less strain you exert the better you will feel.”

        Filburn then collapsed onto his back, but at the same moment grabbed Cezzum by the collar of his tunic, pulling the goblin’s face to his own. The man’s eyes were alight with vigour and life, and the verve of power flickered brightly within them. And in that moment Cezzum was scared as much as he was confounded.

        “Cezzum the goblin,” Filburn began with a deep, authoritative tone, “your aid gives me heart and your generosity I shall always recount, which alas may not be long indeed, but as such, and as men often do, I must rebuke your charity and call you into enthrallment as much as it pains me!”

        Filburn turned to one side, coughing violently, but kept a steadfast grip on Cezzum who was now limp with fear.

        “My body is broken; the phagen venom will take me soon. But a charge I have to fill: for while I fail, another, you, can stand in my stead.”

        Cezzum began to vehemently shake his head, utterly aghast at what he was hearing. It only caused the man to clutch him more tightly and bear the Goblin down even closer to his visage.

        “I speak not of trifles goblin! For shall my task fail all these lands will be forfeit, your home among them; such evil cannot be allowed to pass. It grieves me to do this oh caring goblin, but I cannot allow all that has been done to come to naught.” Filburn then produced a twisted and elegantly carved dagger in his left hand. The dagger was very well the size of a sword with regards to the goblin. Placing it against Cezzum’s gut he said, “In this I have only two options to give you good goblin: take from me my errand or perish in this wood.”

        Cezzum’s mind raced in turmoil, completely bewildered at how his day had been so quickly altered. Absently Cezzum, on the brink of tears, started to nod, “I will take your charge, master.”

        Filburn thrust the dagger upwards. Cezzum clenched his eyes, shutting them forcefully, but no pain seared through him. Upon opening them he saw that the handle was pressed firmly into his chest.

        “My heart gladdens,” Filburn replied. “This is Gnarlfang: it was wrought with my own knowledge and two hands. Girdle it to your belt; you shall know when you require its boon.”

        Cezzum tentatively accepted the scout’s knotted and twisted dagger, which grew from a tangled web of gnarls near its hilt to a fine and elegant blade at its tip. Filburn then presented the equally gnarled scabbard for the short sword. Still shaking with trepidation, Cezzum sheathed the weapon and tied it to his tunic’s band. When he gazed back at Filburn a missive was being fingered in his hand.

        “This is my cha-,” his head rocked violently as he coughed; he slammed his fist into his chest a few times and continued, “This is my charge; it is of the utmost urgency that this missive is received. My brethren already await its word.”

        Cezzum took the offered letter, and placed it within his tunic, clasped firmly by a pocket of leather which had been attached and reattached on innumerable occasions with several stitches.

        Filburn spoke again. “I am sorry friend, Cezzum, that I enthral you to this service. But fate has left me with naught; no other options can I see.”

        Cezzum fumbled a few words in reply, “I… uh... un... understand… I ... think. I need to umm first go and tend to my faunal friends and make preparations before I depart.”

        “Nay!” cried Filburn, as he grasped the goblin again. “Each moment that passes while the knowledge within that missive goes unread, darkness and evil spreads and the rallying will grow ever stronger. You cannot tarry Cezzum! Take flight now: to the north and west, past the head of the Wyvern, and west into the plains called the Fallen Leas; there, in its centre, lies the barrow of an ancient king.”

        Cezzum’s pupils grew wider in distress at the mention of the mounds of the dead. Filburn could see the dread welling up within the goblin; he chuckled lightly.

        “Fear no evil there my friend; those that are dead do so remain unless some fell magic changes that. For within the Barrow of Arcun’son, King of the Cevrain and the first liege of men, reside, in wait, my brethren.”

        Filburn used all his might and forced himself to sit fully upright. He extended his hand and gently wiped a tear off the goblin’s cheek and softly, gently said, “I am sorry goblin, that you, the only noble of your kin is given such a doom, but for this, as I go to my bier, I shall call you my kin, and my brother.”

        Cezzum was overwhelmed with emotion yet had no outlet for it; he merely stood unwavering and despondent. He knew, however, that somewhere in his mind he had been dubbed kinsfolk to a man – and that those words meant more to him in life than any other – nevertheless at this particular instance the words were hollow in their register.

        Filburn’s powerful hand pushed hard against Cezzum’s chest and the goblin stumbled backwards.

        “Now go!”

        “But you-,” Cezzum began to object.

        “I matter not! Now be vigilant, may the wind guide you and the trees bower you! Be swift in your journey! Away!”

        Cezzum reluctantly commenced to run to the northwest, judging from the position of the sun through the boughs of the trees, stumbling many times as he constantly turned to keep sight of Filburn. As the figure of the scout could only faintly be seen, Cezzum thought he saw the figure of the man collapse to the ground, but he could not be certain.