Episode 4
“What if I talked to them?” Garold mused, stroking his chin.
“You want to talk to the goblins?” Naggeneen scoffed. “They aren’t exactly the reasonable sort.”
Garold shook his head. “I’m good at talking. I can be a merchant, or a salesman of some fine wines or something. If I parley with them, would the rest of you be able to sneak around back and dig up the treasure?” He sneered at Naggeneen. “Nag, where is your ‘pot-o-gold’?
The clurichaun’s face grew as red as his jacket. He muttered a curse through gritted teeth. These fools were making a mockery of him, but he had no choice but to put up with it. At least, not until he completed his job and they finally released him. “There. Under the clovers.” He pointed to a rear corner of the ruined building. Next to a crumbling gap in the wall, there was a patch of green slightly greener than the surrounding grass of the clearing. “There’s a, ah, problem, though.”
The building in the center of the clearing was large and, at one point, probably magnificent. It was a masonry structure, built of redstone with grey lime trim. It was a chapel, or some place of worship from a time long past. The steeply pitched roof was now nothing more than a few slate shingles hanging on for dear life. The chapel’s wooden skeleton could be seen poking out in several places. Large holes marred the walls. Ivy snaked up the walls and twisted through every crack.
Bergle the gnome and Garold the elf walked across the clearing towards the chapel entrance. They couldn’t make out much in the moonlight, but little dark shapes could be seen darting in and around the dilapidated chapel. A horn blast, issuing forth from a cracked tower, echoed across the clearing as the two adventurers continued to approach. Bergle and Garold had their hands up in surrender as a squad of twisted, spear-wielding goblins rushed out to meet them, forming a half circle of deadly pointed steel.
Naggeneen was crouched in the grass, nearing the rear corner of the building. The three-foot-wide crack in the masonry ran floor to ceiling, giving Hammy, Calmin, and the clurichaun a clear view into the throne room: a muscled red goblin sat atop a carved stone throne mere feet away from the opening. Sounds of merriment had turned to tense silence after the alarm horn had been sounded, and goblin guards with spears had taken up position in front of the throne-goblin.
Carefully, Naggeneen turned to face Calmin and Hammy. He gestured for them to be silent, then pointed to the patch of clovers by the hole in the wall. It was the only patch of clovers in the meadow, and it was quite green, even in the moonlight. They nodded and readied their spades, awaiting the distraction.
The half-circle of spears quickly formed a full circle as more goblins filed in, surrounding Garold and Bergle. A pair of goblins with a twine net came forward and threw it over the two adventurers unceremoniously (and rather ineptly—it hung around them like a sheet but did little to hamper their movement). One of the goblins who brought the net started speaking in a language Bergle didn’t understand.
Garold grinned. “Goblin. Studied it in grade school, though I’m not familiar with this particular dialect. Let’s see…”
Garold and the net-goblin proceeded to engage in an erratic and lively debate that involved many wild hand gestures and the use of props. Bergle wasn’t sure if Garold’s “parley” was alleviating the goblin’s concerns or exacerbating them. The negotiations ended a few moments later, and the goblin harrumphed and gestured at the others in his squad. The two were led, by net, towards the chapel. They had to take care not to trip on the net as they trudged forward at spear-point, dragging the net behind them like a dress train.
They were roughly shoved through a portal of hanging vines into the chapel’s antechamber. The room was unlit, save for a finger of blue moonlight illuminating a swath of stone-tiled floor, on which a babbling statue fountain stood. The statue was an archaic depiction of a robed man with his hands raised to the sky. Bergle and Garold were brought to a halt ten feet before the fountain, and the net was yanked away. The goblin they’d talked to disappeared deeper into the chapel. A minute later, in the darkness beyond the moonlight, they saw a figure approaching. It came slowly around the fountain and entered the moonlight a few feet in front of them.
The thing was man-sized—taller than Bergle, shorter than Garold—but a man it was not. It looked strong, with knotted muscles and a slight forward hunch. Its face was like a boar’s, its skin the color of red clay, and sported a snub-nosed snout with two sharp, curling tusks jutting at odd angles. Its ears were large and pierced. Contrasting its bestial appearance, it was well-dressed: leather shoes, ochre-colored wool breeks, a blue cotton tunic with gold-embroidered fringes, and a gleaming steel breastplate. On its clawed left index finger was a silver ring that resembled interwoven vines, and at its hip was a rapier in an elegant scabbard. This was the Goblin King.
He stood there a moment, hand resting on his rapier, sizing up Garold and Bergle. Then he spoke in a gravelly baritone.
“Hogsboon, at thy service.” He gave an exaggerated bow. “Whom do I have the honor of meeting here, in my demesne, under such adventitious circumstances?”
Bergle could understand him. The goblin king was speaking an old dialect of the human tongue. He didn’t appear pleased. Garold took a step forward, which cause some of the spear-wielding goblins to ruffle and tighten their grips.
“I am Garold Greenleaf, Greenleaf LLC. This is my business partner, Bergle. We come in peace.”
Hogsboon smiled mirthlessly. “Ye art merchants who come to conduct commerce. Hmmm… Pray, where is ye stock? Ye inventory?” His face twisted into a scowl. “I see nothing on thy person, unless thou intendeth to sell me the threads off thy back, pedlar elf.”
Garold Greenleaf, Greenleaf LLC. was only slightly unnerved by this goblin king’s condescension, and plowed on. “We’re here to offer you help, great Hogsboon. We know there’s trouble brewing in this forest. We’ve heard rumors of the giant, and the witch. And we’ve seen the dragon.”
The king tried to conceal his shock, but Bergle was watching him intently. The goblin king was interested.
Hogsboon glared at them. “So ye’ve laid eyes upon the wyrm. My own eyes have seen the wyrm, it is not that impressive. How dost thou intend to help us, other than merely gazing upon sundry creatures?”
Bergle could tell that Hogsboon was trying not to tip his hand. He spoke up. “You’re in trouble, Hogsboon. The giant is a threat to your fort here, isn’t it? The dragon too. We could slay it. We—“
“Nay! Do not slay the wyrm. Not that ye could croak such a beast…” Hogsboon thought for a moment. “Merchants, pray, ye hail from Brandonsford?” Bergle and Garold told him they did. Why was he asking that?
Hogsboon cursed. “Gods, but if I were not so desperate, I’d be having my cooks plate ye up for the young. Oh, wipe that expression from thy face. Ye are in luck. I be the one presently at a disadvantage.” He motioned for one of his servants, who brought him a wooden box. He bent down, undid the latch and produced a coiled hempen rope. Holding it reverently, he turned to face Bergle and Garold again.
“It’s a… rope?” Garold asked.
“This is an artifact of great power,” whispered Hogsboon. “We found it in a refuse pile behind a house of ill repute, among various other knicker-knackers. Here lay the rub: anything tied to the end of this cord becomes weightless; like a feather.”
He stepped forward and placed the rope in Garold’s arms, then looked them both in the eye. “And YE are going to bring the Black Wyrm of Brandonsford to me, alive.”
Hammy, Calmin, and Nag finished stuffing the gold into their bags and quickly refilled the hole with dirt. They ran towards the treeline, hundreds of gold pieces richer.