Dhamon turned away, looking at Fiona. The draconian was still wielding the Solamnic Knight’s sword, keeping it trained on her.
“Take the gag out of her mouth, Ragh,” Dhamon said.
“You want to hear more of her insane prattle?” The draconian shook his head. He stared into the wild eyes of the female Knight. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to untie you,” Ragh said. “I would never be so foolish as that. But I will take the gag out of your mouth—if you promise to keep quiet this time.”
Fiona only glared at him.
“Swear.”
She defiantly shook her head.
“No, the gag stays, Dhamon. Unless you want to watch her.” Ragh was surprised that Dhamon didn’t argue. “Remember when we took it off to let her eat on the boat….” The draconian paused, cocked his head. He heard something. The gentle rustling of dried branches, a hushed and indistinct voice. He and Dhamon looked to the northeast, staring into the spreading twilight, searching for the source of the ominous noise.
Chapter Sixteen
Throtian Welcoming Party
“Whoever they are,” Ragh said, “I think they’re hiding behind those pines.”
“Whatever they are,” Dhamon corrected. He stared at the trees, shutting out the soft voices of his companions and focusing on the distant noise. There was the rustling of bushes and the faint sound of pine branches rubbing against each other. And there were voices, at least four distinct ones that he could make out. “Whatever they are,” he repeated. “They aren’t human.” They certainly didn’t sound human to his extra-keen ears. They were talking in a guttural rasp he didn’t recognize.
Ragh listened intently for a few minutes, cocking his head. “I agree—odd voices. Something I recognize there. A word: blessed. Another: Takhisis.”
As the rustling persisted, a small shape darted out from behind the pine trees.
“I can make out at least six voices,” Dhamon said. He pointed at the one running.
“Goblins.” Ragh spat the word. The draconian couldn’t be entirely sure of the shape of the creature, which skittered behind a clump of scraggly bushes, but he finally recognized the language. He had spent enough time on Krynn to know goblin when he heard it spoken. “Big rats.”
Ragh stood silent, watching Dhamon for some signal, glancing at Maldred and Fiona to make sure they weren’t causing problems. The Solamnic Knight, struggling with the ties at her wrists, caught his gaze and stopped, shrugging.
“If there are only six of them, we could just ignore them,” Ragh suggested.
“There’s more than six,” Maldred said. The ogre-mage had come up behind them and was looking at the pines, too. “You might not hear more than that, but goblins don’t travel in such small numbers. There must be at least twice that many.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem, no matter the numbers.” Dhamon propped the glaive over his right shoulder and gripped the great sword in his left hand. “I’ve found that goblins are little more than a nuisance. Oversized rats, just as Ragh said. And they die quickly.”
The two days on the fishing boat had done wonders for his health. The serious wound caused by Fiona had nearly completely healed. The pain from the scales had abated somewhat, and his fever had broken early this afternoon. He felt alive and alert, and he found himself almost anticipating a fight to test his recovered strength—though goblins would not present much of a challenge.
“No, they shouldn’t be a problem,” Ragh agreed, “depending on just how many of them are out there.”
“Doesn’t matter how many, I said.” Dhamon saw one of them clearly now, crouching among the leafless branches of a stunted shadberry bush. It was about three dozen yards away, and the fading light served to make it look especially grotesque. It was a small creature, not quite three feet tall, with a mottled red-brown hide dotted with warts. Its visage was flat, as if it had run into a stone wall, and its nose was far too broad for the rest of its face, its ears lopsided and irregularly pointed. Looking closely, Dhamon saw that its forehead sloped back a little, giving way to a coarse smattering of black-brown hair tufts on the top and sides of its head. Its large eyes for night-seeing were wide and fixed on Dhamon’s.
“A damn nuisance, goblins,” Dhamon hissed. “Worse than rats.” He took a step in the direction of the shadberry and watched as three more scurried out from the pines and jumped in the clump of bushes.
They were all carrying crude-looking short spears in their twisted hands. Their spindly arms hung down almost to their knees. They were foul, ugly creatures.
The goblins were chattering behind the bushes, and the words, sounding like snorts and grunts, reminded Dhamon of a pack of dogs arguing over a bone.
“What are they saying?” he asked Ragh.
“They’re talking about us,” the draconian returned. “Mostly about Maldred. They’re worried about him. They know by his color he’s an ogre-mage and can cast spells. They’re frightened of magic.” After a few moments: “They’re puzzled by you, however. They think you’re some sort of spawn or draconian, but they want to get a better look at you. And… they’re wondering how many steel pieces Fiona might fetch.”
“Let them worry and wonder. Then let them die.” Dhamon strode purposefully toward the clump of bushes. He tossed his hood back so the goblins could see his scaly face. “I’m wondering just how long it will take me to finish them off.” A glance over his shoulder. “Ragh, watch Fiona and Maldred.”
“There are a dozen,” Ragh said, just as that many creatures came out of hiding, waving their spears and shouting. “There are a dozen of them that I can see.”
The goblins spilled out from the bushes, though they didn’t advance more than a few yards. They stank. A gust of wind drove the stench into his nostrils, and Dhamon had to work to keep from gagging.
They raised their dissonant voices to a shrill and annoying chorus. Dhamon loped toward them now, expecting them to run, half hoping some would stay and fight. To his surprise, the goblins all held their ground, shaking their spears at the air, the smallest one hopping and whooping.
“Suit yourself,” he said, as he raised the glaive and swung. “Let’s see how many of you I can kill with one pass.” The blade fairly whistled as it swept forward, and only then did the goblins in its path leap back. Dhamon pulled the weapon around for another swipe, then stopped himself before he managed to cut any down. “Damn it all.”
None of them were truly threatening him, he realized. None had darted in, not a one had lobbed a spear. They just hobbled around and hooted annoyingly.
Dhamon let out an exasperated sigh. Maldred’s good-heartedness—the Maldred who once had been his friend and who, back then, seemed to revere all life—had perhaps finally rubbed off on him.
“Fight me!” he cursed. Dhamon couldn’t bring himself to attack the foul little things unless they made a hostile move. They held their place, whooping louder.
“Wonderful,” Dhamon grumbled. “Are you going to fight or just shout and dance?”
There came more noise, grunts and clicking sounds. The goblins continued to chatter as they formed a semicircle around him, their grunts and growls sounding almost rhythmic now, like a chant. The tallest of the lot, a bent old fellow with a dirty yellow hide and more than a dozen steel rings threaded through his lips, cheeks, and nose, was waving wildly toward the pines. Another was pointing behind Dhamon, to where Ragh and Fiona and Maldred waited.
From behind the pines came forty more goblins, all with spears, and half of them wearing pieces of leather they’d cobbled together into breastplates. One flaunted a helmet, human-sized, that had been hammered in places to keep it from falling down over the goblin’s head. Two carried wooden shields garishly painted with the images of open-mouthed goblins. They were animated and snarling, though not one waved a spear menacingly in Dhamon’s direction.