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Skeletons of leaves crumbled to dust under a heavy boot, sole worn as thin as his patience. Rugan waited. Stared out past the wooden stakes driven into the ground, past the dark streaks in the mud. Tried not to think about which bodily fluid had caused them or how it had exited the body of the unlucky soul dragged across it. No sign of movement on the makeshift battlements.
“Key thing,” Rugan whispered, the gruff tones of his voice dampened to a cautious husk. “Hang back ‘til you’re certain the way is clear. Then wait a while longer. No need to tempt fate.”
He expected something. A sound, a terrified twitch. Something that signaled agreement to his superior wisdom in these matters. Twisting around, Rugan’s brow furrowed. “Olly?”
Peering over his shoulder, there was nothing but clear skies and far too many regrets behind him. Shaking his head, Rugan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Should’ve seen that coming.” Seemed to have a head on him, that lad. Smart move to scarper before it all got a bit too hot to handle.
Rugan balanced on his haunches and turned back towards the slap-dash wooden structure the local residents called a guard post. Funny thing though, he thought as he quietly pulled away a twig of thorns that was prodding his arse, there didn’t appear to be any guards to speak of.
He scanned the rough timber parapet across the gate that led the bridge and the heart of the encampment. Fear snapped up Rugan’ spine as a twig, somewhere to the left, splintered under a creeping step that wasn't his own. He froze like startled prey in the dry foliage. Only Rugan was no prey animal.
Silent breaths; silent deaths, he slid the shortsword from where it was secured at his side as quietly as if he was never there at all. Crept forward, each branch carefully moved aside unveiling the fog of war between him and the dark shape crouched, hidden behind the tangle of branches.
The figure was hunched over, weapon stowed away, attention firmly fixed ahead.
Never would see him coming.
“Gotcha,” Rugan hissed as he plunged the dulled edge of his tired shortsword into the brambles.
“Oi.” A gruff voice barked as it tumbled back through the overgrown brush. “Watch where you’re aimin’. Almost skewered me sack.” As he stood, the web of thicket tried to pull him back down, and Aradin rose out of the bushes like nature was trying to bury him early.
Withdrawing his blade, Rugan was grateful to have his breath return. “Had you pegged as one of these pesky goblin blighters.” One of his brows curved curiously as a disgruntled man angrily picked thorns from his padded clothing. “What possessed you to go crawling about in the brambles?”
“Recon,” the adventurer replied. “And doing a darn sight better at it than you, old man.”
Hands on his hips, Rugan studied the goblin outpost that lay just up the muddy path. “Take it you’re planning on heading in?”
The adventurer nodded. He ripped a final knot of nature’s barbed wire from his thigh. “Don’t get in my way.”
Returning his haunches, Rugan craned his neck around the shrubbery, like a meerkat undergoing a mid-life crisis who received some terrible advice from both his troop leader and his barber. “See any signs of life?”
Aradin scanned the horizon through the wooden checkpoint one last time. No movement up on top. In the distance, an abandoned table and an overturned chair. By the looks of them, they had been that way for some time. Aradin rolled the stiffness from his neck. “Time to make a move.”
He stalked out from the hiding spot and advanced on the goblin outpost. Never one to turn down an opportune advantage, and there was safety in numbers, Rugan felt in position behind him. The two men crept forward, poised for a fight but hoping to avoid one, weapons in hand, shoulders down, careful steps.
Not careful enough, as it turned out.
Aradin felt the pressure against his shin just long enough to know to close his eyes with the knowledge he was never going to live this down. The thin thread, pulled tight and low, snapped. A counterweight plummeted; a sack of rocks smashed to ground tugging up a hidden web that had been laid underfoot and shrewdly buried in the muck. A net of rope folded up around them with the speed of a lit firework. Limbs caught painfully, bones twisted as two men slammed together and were hauled into the air. The rope net creaked as it strained under the weight. Approximately two idiots’ worth.
Rugan smacked his lips. “Well.” He grimaced; something was wedged far up somewhere it shouldn’t be. “This is awkward.”
“Shut your gob,” Aradin snapped. There was an armpit moistening the side of his cheek. He wasn’t entirely sure who it belonged to. Tangled up with the other man in the rope trap, it felt a bit too uncomfortably like a scene from a book he’d seen Remira reading. Two blokes who had no business being wrapped up together forced to take part in relations like dolls being smashed together willy-nilly. Bastards from the North, or something like that. He’d sneaked a peek over her shoulder once when they had some down time. Spicy stuff.
An unavoidable clank of heavy armour accompanied a malicious snort as a proud figure emerged from around the rocky bluff. The newcomer scoffed as he approached the squirming men suspended tragically close to the ground. “I spotted it as soon as I happened upon this place. Could have warned you, but I wouldn’t want to rob you of this valuable opportunity to learn something.” Anders smirked as he inspected the two trapped individuals, feigning the interest of a scientific researcher as he leaned in towards their scowling faces. “Bit tall and ugly for goblins. Though you did manage to step into one of their traps, so equally as foolish.”
“We’ve got a comedian in our midst,” Rugan grumbled. Muscles were being pulled that he didn’t even know existed. He wasn’t quite sure which shoulder was in pain, but he was certain it was never supposed to be placed in that direction.
Aradin grabbed at the thick rope and snarled through the net. “Let us down, Anders.”
Rugan was trying to relocate his shoulder joint and slip his knife from his waist. “Nice to know you two are acquainted.”
“Wouldn’t go that far,” Aradin muttered. “This fucker’s after a devil named Karlach. I’m after summat called the Nightsong.”
“And I’m after a drink,” Rugan said dryly. The short blade slipped into his palm. He now only had the small task of maneuvering it to the net and sawing through it whilst some lad’s foot was somehow buried in his nether-regions. “Glad introductions are over and we can all move on with our lives.”
“Then I have fantastic news for us all,” Anders announced, enjoying very much taking his time as he strode around the swaying bundle of insecure manhood. “New intelligence. The wretched creature I seek was last seen in pursuit of your beloved artifact. So here we are, all on the same trail.”
“He’s not with me,” Aradin said, dangling helplessly, poking his thumb towards the bloke that wouldn’t stop squirming and jabbing his boney knees into Aradin’s back.
"Are you quite sure?" Anders replied, most amused at the situation. "Your current arrangement would say otherwise."
“Delighted to make your acquaintances,” Rugan grunted, focused more on the predicament his limbs had found themselves in. “If only I were upright I would curtsey.” In his effort to slide the knife to his front, Rugan nicked himself across the thigh. He didn’t even know his thigh was capable of making it up that high. He cursed under his breath as blood oozed from his latest wound. “Mind, oh, I don’t know, releasing us from this here net?”
In a swift motion that he hoped some innocent passer-by saw, Anders brandished his sword, as broad as his ego, as thick as his head, it shimmered with divine energy as it caught the light. He sliced it through the air and it moved cleanly through the straining pulley.
Aradin and Rugan crashed to the ground with as much elegance as an ogre with digestive issues. The adventurer scrambled to remove the rope that seemed to have a mind of its own and was determined to aggravate him further - though at least it wasn’t full of thorns - and Rugan hesitantly inspected to see if his lower back was still in one piece. Close enough, he surmised.
Stumbling out of the remains of the trap, Aradin kicked the limp netting aside. Bracing against his thighs, his eyes caught on the glinting armour of the man who had unceremoniously freed them. Plated layers of immaculate shine, polished, and a mop of sandy hair. “I know you. On your own mission. Holy one, if we can call it that.” He turned the man glad in leather armour who had just been all but shoved up his arse and looked him over. He was still clambering to his feet. An older bloke. Another mercenary type of some description. Must be decent enough at it to have made it to his age. Or good at making a quick exit. “And just who the feck are you supposed to be?”
“Someone who’s supposed to be in The Elfsong with a pint.” Rugan sighed as he inspected the young man. An adventuring type. Not new to the gig, but with a few scraps under his belt. New enough to make foolish mistakes. “And just which hole in the ground have you crawled out of?”
“Aradin Beno, leader of the Beno Boys. Taking after my old man.”
“Nepotism at its finest.” Anders’ thin smirk was smug.
“Whereas you ain’t ever had a leg up, ey Choirboy?”
“Charming. And where, pray tell, are these Boys of yours?”
“Same place your lot have apparently buggered off too.” Aradin turned to the man who clearly was a few pints away from a serious problem. “And who the feck is Olly?”
“Lad with more sense than me, apparently.”
Sizing each other up on the outskirts of the goblin stronghold, the three men had the exact same thought at the exact same time.
These two are bloody morons.
It was followed quickly by a second simultaneous thought.
Better use that to my advantage.
After that, their internal monologues diverged somewhat.
Anders sank into the weight on his heels, feet shoulder-width apart. He was neither the tallest nor the shortest man among them, and somehow still managed to look down his nose at them both. Perhaps Zariel will feast on their souls, and throw a few extra gold my way for the pleasure.
Rugan slung his shortsword into its scabbard and crossed his arms casually across his chest. His cautious eyes slid over the heavy melee arms and thick armour. Couple of empty heads with gigantic weapons. Stay back, let them do the swinging, pick up the pieces.
Aradin passed his studded greatclub between his hands. The blunt tip thunked into the ground as he slammed it down. There was a sound like pebbles crunching underfoot as he cracked his knuckles. Two blonds walk into a bar. I kill them both and leave with the Nightsong.
“Here is what I suggest.” Anders spread his hands wide, a convincingly earnest smile equally spread between his ears. “We work as a team. It’s a numbers game against these vermin.”
“Can get behind that.” Aradin squinted towards the goblin camp, sunlight blinding over the dark, ruptured skyline of the crumbling walls. “So long as you know how to use that thing.” He nodded at the oversized hilt thrust into the air over Anders’ back.
“And you, Zhent?” Anders turned towards the oldest of three. He knew that despicable twitch at the corner of the man’s eyes, which were still bright in spite of the lines that crinkled deep around them. There were none pure of heart that were busy sneaking about the area, not after the recent caravan attacks.
“Count me in.” Rugan smiled back. Easier to con paladins who have already fallen; at least you know their loyalty is as useless as unweighted dice. “Rearguardsman. I’ll keep any nasty surprises from sneaking up from behind.”
Past the timber structure, the pathway to the old temple turned right and where it crossed the gorge torn into the landscape by rushing water. To their left, the river tumbled down the cliffside. To their right, an equally nasty drop in the opposite direction.
The men advanced on the towering gate house, flanked by statues that watched their approach, sharpened wooden stakes stained dark at their tips warning intruders of the unpleasant welcome that awaited. The cobbles were smeared with dust and long dry blood, and the boney remains of the last foolish adventurers to attempt to storm the fortress piled up like leaves in the wind at the raised edges of the broken bridge.
Aradin leaned towards the man beside him as they walked the span of the bridge, the gruff tone of his words that always scraped between disappointment and accusation lowered. “You know he’s going to run us in with that over-compensation of a sword the moment our backs are turned?”
“Indeed,” Rugan replied. “I imagine so. And so will you with that almighty club.”
Anders threw his voice back over his shoulder as he marched. “Whereas you plan not to drive a hidden dagger through our throats at a moment’s notice?”
“Long as we all know where we stand,” Aradin muttered.
As they reached the gatehouse, the men gathered at each side of the entrance. Sitting wide open, there was no gate attached, but nor, as they peered cautiously into the courtyard, were there any signs of life.
“Perhaps they’ve packed up for the night.” Rugan surveyed the scene, but saw little movement inside the goblin’s main camp save for the fluttering of a lonely piece of fabric caught on the corner of a scaffold. Nothing but a stretch of open, paved space littered with debris between them and the main door of the fortress.
“And perhaps Zariel will forget about our little runaway,” Anders replied dryly.
The uneasy trio picked carefully across the threshold, feet firmly in enemy territory. Rot and blood still clung to the air, gentle wind rustled eerily through the deserted courtyard. A forgotten shield lay on the ground, gnarly homemade shiv of a dagger embedded in its painted crest. Coals on the central fire were lifeless. Up on the high stone walls, a bluejay cocked its head.
“This is the work of goblins.” Anders stepped cautiously over the uneven tiles. “I can smell it in the air.”
“We can all smell it, you ponce.” Rugan’s eyes were fixed up on the edges of stone along the towering walkway. Perfect place for an archer or two. “Like stepping in a cesspit.”
“Like shite and rotting meat.” Disgust winced across Aradin’s face as they passed a large spit, decaying meat skewered over a dying fire. “Rest in pieces, Brian.”
Anders looked over the hunks of flesh dangling from the iron frame. One was hanging on by sinewy mesh and singed muscle. “Friend of yours?”
“Fool who didn’t run fast enough.”
“Hopefully you are quicker than he.”
Beside the unevenly roasted meal that had been left for eager scavengers to pick over, a gigantic skull lay on its head, teeth craggy and exposed along the edge. Rugan leaned over the enormous makeshift cauldron and took a short sniff. His nose puckered as he recoiled. “Poisoned.”
Aradin grunted. “And to think I was about to take a swig.”
Approaching the door to the fortress, it was surely original in its construction; it took more than the collective wisdom of a goblin hoard to craft an entrance so solidly built as to appear impenetrable. Noble old growth felled and shaped into planks thick enough to withstand an army, bound in battens and forged metal straps, secured flush into the shaped rock with expert smithing.
“You.” Rugan pointed at the adventurer with dense coils of hair. “Put that club to use and whack that door in.”
"Feck off." Aradin glared. “Who put you in charge?”
“Just do it, Curls.”
Squaring up in front of the thick oak and iron barring the way, Aradin steadied the weight of his studded great club in his hands. It swished through the air as he worked his grip tight. “Stand back.” Solid on his feet, he pulled back and swung the club, engaged from his calves to his wrists, the strain of every muscle fired into his attack.
With a thunk, one of the nails protruding from his club embedded itself into the mighty door, which did not appear to even consider that it had been hit. When his weapon didn’t budge with a good wiggle, Aradin placed his foot against the door and ripped his club out of the timber. With a roar of energy he repositioned and pummeled the door with a flurry of ferocious attacks. Sweat dripped from Aradin’s heavy brow as he unleashed hell on the unmoving target.
Chest heaving, he stepped back and inspected the damage. Anders and Rugan peered over his shoulders. A few small gouges were scratched into the wood.
“Must be made of steel.” Aradin spat on the ground. “Bloody gobbo architecture.”
“Impressive as that was.” Anders turned to the man beside him. “Locks and whatnot. Surely this is your wheelhouse?”
Rugan had helped himself to the contents of a few boxes and rooms in his time that had, a few moments before his sticky fingers got inside them, some sort of strange device affixed to the outside that made his extraction take a few moments longer than it otherwise would have, yes. Half they time he didn’t know why people bothered to keep things locked up; just kept him practiced at breaking into their valuables, he supposed.
Dropping to a knee, Rugan peered into the slot of iron where a key ought to go.
Standard stuff. Should be a doddle.
Unhooking a set of tools from his belt, Rugan slid a small, thin instrument into the keyhole. Leaning in close, the others watched him fiddle intensely, like he was knitting a tiny hat on the other side. Rugan’s tongue was sticking out between his lips.
As soon as he pushed the small sliver of unseen metal aside, a tiny hammer shattered a tiny glass. Noxious green gas burned out of the opening. A cloud the colour of swamp water oozed from within the solid door and slid like the stagnant growths floating atop it into Rugan’s nostrils and tear ducts. He stumbled back, scraping against the ground as he choked.
“Might want to check if it’s been rigged first.” Anders said, idly inspecting the deadly liquid that dripped from the keyhole.
“You don’t say,” Rugan shot up from where he sat, glaring through bloodshot eyes, mucus streaming down his face. He took his flask, which up until now he had cursed himself for filling with water rather than something more medicinal, and poured the contents over his face like a wet dog. Coughing through the rancid water, Rugan swiped over his raw cheeks, trying to claw out the potent effects of the stinging fumes. “One door. Open. You’re welcome.”
“Expertly done.” Anders smirked. “Truly the Zhentarim must be lost without your remarkable talents.”
“Keep talking, you overgrown imp.”
When Rugan stood, wiping streams of painfully hot tears away with his sleeve, the young adventurer was sarcastically gesturing to the mighty front entrance. “After you, princess.”
Rugan’s chivalrous refusal was laced with snark, still squinting through the burning sensation that was tearing apart his eyelids. “Not at all, sunshine. I insist.”
Anders barged between them. “Make room, boys. Allow a real man to take care of it.” He latched his palm around the great, iron handle and heaved.
The door, heavy as it was, submitted easily to his touch, and the entrance to the goblin stronghold groaned as it revealed the heart of their encampment. A driveway encased by stone led the way ahead, deeper into their lair. Flaming torches flickered inadequately along the oppressive walls.
As Anders strode down the long, wide hallway, his heavy boots thumped an ominous beat. “There, see?” As he walked he did a complete turn over a couple of steps, briefly turning to face the men following behind him. “All it takes is someone with the guts to get the job done and-”
A scream pierced the air as Anders disappeared. One moment his shiny rear was marching down the dank hallway, the next his floppy mop of hair flew upwards as the man vanished into the floor.
Hurrying up to where they had last seen their unlikely companion, Rugan and Aradin came upon a section of ground dug out deep under the floor of the fortress. Aradin peered down, noting the rusted array of spikes arranged like a macabre forest after a wildfire, jagged, unclean blades ready to impale any wayward adventurer, promising a low, slow death from blood poisoning, open wounds, and humiliation. Hands on his hips, Aradin watched Anders flail desperately at the edge of the pit. “Mate, there’s a hole there.”
“Really ought to watch your step.” Rugan blew air out of his cheeks and stayed well back. “Never know when a gigantic pit of spikes might jump up out of nowhere and nibble at your toes.”
Anders scrambled uselessly at the cracked, dusty floor, his feet trying desperately to find purchase on the edge of the pit. “Help me up, you useless louts!”
Glancing over at one another, for a moment a brief, villainous suggestion of possibility passed between the men standing in the corridor. Then they reluctantly rolled their eyes and took an arm each, dragging Anders roughly back over the edge and onto solid ground. He huffed indignantly and made quite the show of swiping off the offensive smears of dirt from his armour which, to his dismay, had gained a few unsightly scratches.
Reaching the end of the driveway into the main chamber, the three men scouted the grand hall. Once a proud tribute, the cavernous room still had suggestion of its once proud purpose; the columns that lined each side, the decorative inlay in the cracked tile. Now the temple was shattered; a sanctum defiled by goblin excreta, spoiled, as so often is the case, by the unrelenting pursuit of greed.
Each seeking the promise of riches of his own, the men made their way through the temple, past the crudely constructed throne and broken obelisks of bone and feather to whatever God was unlucky enough to have a hoard of mindless filth grovel at its reluctant presence.
“Hmm,” Anders paused as he peered down another empty hall. Something was amiss. Off. Like an agent of Zariel masquerading as a righteous knight. Where in the Hell was that bloody devil? And where were all the bloody goblins that left the cack now caked to his boots?
The agent of the Zhentarim had noticed it too. Skulking from corner to corner, eager to have the other shoe drop rather than be suspended in doubt. Empty. So why were the hairs on the back of his neck prickling? His troubled brow was drawn together as they moved ever deeper into hostile waters, ever further from safety.
“Hell’s this?” Aradin spied a lever sticking out of the wall. It was shining with oil, free from any build-up of dirt or dust. Clearly it was recently used and well-maintained.
“Perhaps we ought to-”
As Aradin yanked the handle down a series of gears slid like clockwork and the metal grate above swung open.
An enormous mass tumbled from the ceiling, wiry legs bristled with tough hair, writhing and chittering it blanketed the man beneath in crawling, excited insects. The corpse of the giant arachnid that thumped onto Aradin's head and almost knocked him unconscious was long dead, pinched tense appendages unmoving, though the mourning colony that jumped and wriggled across the floor was very much alive. The adventurer screamed as he twisted and smacked desperately at himself, crunching as many of the unwelcome guests under his boot as he could.
“Shove over, the pair of you,” he barked as he flailed and pushed his way past the snickering two men and away from the grim insect graveyard.
“Fecking hate spiders,” Aradin grumbled, still sure he could feel something crawling up his back. “Who needs that many legs? Greedy bastards.”
“Far be it for me to question the intelligence of present company.” Rugan’s eyes were sliding cautiously around the echoing chambers, ignoring the harmless critters that scuttled about his feet. “Does it strike anyone else that there ought to be more…”
“Gold?” Anders offered blithely. “Guards? Evidence of anything at all? Artifacts, devils, or otherwise?”
“No one here. Nothing.” Aradin kicked at a broken vase. “Picked over.”
“No,” Anders’ words growled against his teeth. “I must find the wretched creature.”
“This is supposed to be it,” Aradin insisted, his rising aggravation grating in his throat.
“Give that contract here.” Rugan held out his hand. When a piece of parchment was shoved into it, he studied the advertisement with an extravagant seal. Adventurers wanted for a perilous and profitable quest, it proclaimed. Fame, glory, and incredible fortune assured, apparently. Rugan looked around the empty chamber, unamused.
“All I know is Lorroakan is expecting a Nightsong, last located at this sorry site according to that druid. We’ve searched every inch of this place, and no Nightsong. Which leaves one last possibility.” Aradin raised the tip of his great club and pointed it between each of the two men. “Whichever one of you has it, I’d give it up now if I were you.”
“Please,” Anders scoffed, his sword singing with the desire for blood as he brandished it. “It’ll take more than adventuring filth to take down an agent of Zariel herself.”
“Right, well,” Rugan whistled, sliding a foot back behind him. “I’ll just leave you two to it.”
“Not so fast, Zhent,” Anders snapped.
“Don’t think so, mate.” Aradin swung his club at his opponents, taking position for a fight. “You, and you, are going down. Least I’ll take something back with me. I’ve mouths to feed and a contract to fulfill.”
“I’ve a sacred oath and a contract with Hell to uphold.”
“I’ve…” After a moment of consideration, Rugan shrugged and drew his shortsword. “Well, I’m a crook and my coin purse is conspicuously light.”
The three men encircled one another, weapons unsheathed and eagerly in hand, hungry for the taste of exposed skin. To be the last man standing, victorious, sated by the plundering of two men into submission.
High above in a hastily constructed look-out nailed to the rafters, a goblin leaned over the wooden barricade.
“Wot they yellin’ abowt?”
“Ignore ‘em,” the woman beside him spat. “Better off guzzlin’ that poisoned grog than tryin’ to make sense of ‘em.”
“Not their fault, Neem.” The fella sitting opposite with blue face markings looked up from his book. “Tiny brains, see. In comparison to body size. Ain’t got no chance, poor blighters.”
“Quit usin’ big words, Piddle.”
“I pity ‘em, me,” another squat goblin said, lounging against the makeshift wall. He glanced down at the squabbling group. “Imagine bein’ born human. Scuttlin’ abowt on them spindles fer legs.”
Krolla strode purposely into the centre of the cock-eyed wooden platform. “Look at me, I’m a hooman!” She rose up onto her tip-toes, flicked her hair dramatically back over her shoulder and tottered about, flailing gangly arms. “Cheese! Pants! Existential crisis!”
The goblins whooped and roared with laughter.
“Don’t forget dick measurin’.” One of the goblins was creased over, wiping a tear from his eye. “They love a good knob contest.”
“Must be wot’s goin’ on down there.”
Back on the ground, the three men were heated and impassioned. Posturing egos on full display. Each unmoving in their position, each need fervently argued. Weapons lowered, their words echoed across the great goblin hall. Engaged in conversation so intense you might have thought they were attempting to pass a new trade law regarding Baldur’s Gate’s agricultural exports.
“Okay, mate.” The blunt end of Aradin’s club was resting on the ground, his one fist resting on his hip. “So your sword sucks Zariel’s tits. Big fecking deal.”
“Tyr’s, if we’re being accurate.” Anders tiled the blade to catch the light. Then he threw over a wicked smile. “Myself? Not so much.”
The adventurer lifted his weapons and buffeted the air as he swished it. “But when things get rough, you need a tool to match.”
“Now listen here.” Anders jabbed a pointed finger towards him. “There’s no way that rudimentary hunk of timber is comparable to the blade of Justice.”
“Lads, look.” Rugan twirled the haft of his shortsword deftly in his palm. “It’s not the size of the thing, it’s what you do with it.”
“Keep telling yourself that, old man.”
“Okay look.” Anders made an exasperated sound and pressed his fingertips between his eyes. “Can we put our heads together for half a second.”
From the very depths of the dilapidated structure, the earth began to moan. It started deep, like the groan of an old warrior in pain, a snort, a huff of determination to fight once more, until a great roar thundered through the abandoned halls, loose rock trembled in the shrieking guttural sound.
Spinning wildly around on his heel, great club poised, Aradin was ready to strike. “The feck was that.”
“Prepare yourself for battle,” Anders swung the Blade of Justice, both fists secure around the handle.
Rugan swallowed. “Was that what I think it was...”
A sudden roar of flame from inside the next chamber lit the back wall in a hellish glow, and there, illuminated in shadow onto the ancient rock, a sinewy, serrated wing rose through the roiling light.
Rugan’s disbelief teetered on the edge of wonder. “Tymora’s sweet, dimpled cheeks.”
“Can’t be.” Anders’ gasped, though his eyes were wide. “There’s no way Karlach could have survived.”
Fingers twisting tight, Aradin’s face fell, a terrible realization washing over his sharp features. “Makes sense,” he said, slowly. “What do goblins want with a Nightsong? A dragon’s hoard, though…”
Fire flared bright against the wall and a wing rushed upward. Another shriek erupted from the beast and several rats darted from a crevasse between stones and skidded across the chamber.
“Well,” Rugan said, already taking a step backwards. “If it’s all the same to you chaps, I think that might be my cue.” Before waiting for a reply, Rugan tripped over his own feet in his effort to propel himself back through the abandoned temple and get as far away from the goblin hideout as humanly possible.
His steps rapidly faded from thunderous echoes to distant patters. They disappeared altogether as he flew out of the imposing entrance and across the courtyard. As Aradin looked back towards the undulating shadow, a growl that seemed to rip from the gut of the ground beneath them rumbled again through the cavernous halls. “Right,” Aradin said. “Lorroakan can go fuck himself.” He gave a definitive nod to the last man standing then followed the Zhentarim's lead and raced out of the goblin camp in a way that felt pathetically familiar.
“Hells,” Anders cursed through his teeth. Torn between the ungodly shriek and flame ahead and the retreating cowardice behind. “Not throwing my life away for that stinking devil.” With an almighty cry of frustration he turned his back to the draconic threat and made a tactical retreat.
The three men high-tailed it from the goblin fortress, only narrowly avoiding the pit gouged into the hall they had so helpfully discovered earlier. Tripping over the cobbles, they raced back through the courtyard, over the bridge, past the outpost, and back to whatever miserable, festering corner of the world they had bothered to slink out of.
And good riddance.
The goblin child cackled as she stepped away from the horn and its carefully fluted cone. The shape and rugged air holes scraped into the side crafted to produce whatever roar or call or rumble would induce the most sickening horror in a wayward adventurer’s gut.
Another grinning youngster let go of the giant handle that connected dangling ropes to two large, fluted objects; scraps of wood nailed haphazardly together - and a few fearsome looking spikes cobbled on for good measure - and thumped to the ground below. A third released the bellows that hassled the fire in the brazier in front of the fake wings into a frenzy.
“See that?” Peering over the barrier one of the goblins grinned from ear to ear. “Fink they almost shit their breeches.”
As the goblin children giggled and joined the group, one of the adults grabbed one and ground their knuckles into her skull. “Did good, little ankle biter.”
Krolla was leaning against the wooden barricade stroking her chin. “Wot’s the Nightsong, anyway?”
“What it sez on the tin, innit? Good ol’ sing-song after dark.”
“Fink it’s crickets and the like. Nocturnal buggers.”
“I ‘eard it’s a person.” The goblin with the book and a hungry sparkle for knowledge in his eye leaned forward. He gestured with his hands in the circle of his peers, drawing them in as he wove the tale. “Aasimar, to be precise. Daughter of Selûne, goddess. Beauty and wrath the likes of which you never did set eyes upon.”
There was a moment of raptured silence, a dozen beady eyes in awe of the vivid description, before the laughter erupted.
“Crock o’ nonsense!”
“You’re full of grubshite, Piddle.”
“Right, come on you lot.” Olak slapped his thighs as he hopped to his feet. “Gotta get them traps reset.”
The group of goblins trooped down the wooden platform. “Can’t wait ‘til one of ‘em finds the maggots.”
“Too right. Messing with humans is the most fun we’ve had since that Absolute business.”