A Goblin About Town
Hob awoke with a painful buzzing behind his eyes, and a mouth that tasted more than a little like goblin gruel. As he lifted his head from the pillow, he discovered the problem. Sunlight streamed in through the window beside his bed. He was lying in a bright patch of it.
Squinting hard, Hob swatted at the shutters, trying to close them. Then he remembered Eldwin’s goggles. He fumbled around on the nightstand until his fingers found their leather strap. He pulled them onto his face, and fastened the strap behind his head. As he reopened his eyes, he felt his headache begin to dissipate.
Hob glanced around the room. Edric’s bed was empty.
“He must have gone for breakfast,” Hob assured himself, though he secretly worried Edric and the others had decided to leave without him after all.
Luckily, he was distracted from these fears, and what remained of his headache, by the music piping up outside his window. It didn’t sound like the goblin music he was used to, full of banging drums and clanging metal. It was much softer and sweeter.
Hob stood on his bed, opened the window, and leaned out of it.
Outside, the Spring Chicken Festival was underway. A parade of musicians marched up the street below, playing strange instruments—silvery mouth tubes, and wood with strings. And, all around them, crowds of humans of every shape and size—some even smaller than Hob—wandered about. Looking across town, Hob saw tents and banners, tables and signs, flags and stages, all in bright hues. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many colors in one place.
Goblin holidays existed mostly as an excuse to hit things, like Whack-a-Snake Day, or hit each other, like Clubmass Eve and Bruise Morning. But a Spring Chicken must have been a wonderful thing to have inspired such a party.
Looking between two buildings across the street, Hob could see a small courtyard where the townspeople had erected a stage. They seemed to be putting on some sort of a play. Onstage was an old man in black armor. He was obviously the villain. He laughed maniacally and raised his sword to the throat of a pretty woman in a white dress. From off stage, a young man in a puffy white shirt swung in on a rope, drawing his own sword. He was obviously the hero.
Hob could tell this was the final showdown between the two. The audience members seemed to know it as well. Their cheers echoed all the way up to Hob’s window. The actors’ swords flashed as they dueled back and forth across the stage. Hob quickly lost himself in the action.
A few minutes later, Edric returned to find Hob jumping between the two beds in their little room, swinging a broomstick like a sword, and making quite a mess of the covers. Realizing he wasn’t alone, Hob froze, and let go of his pretend sword mid-swing. It spun toward the doorway.
Smack! Edric ducked the broomstick just in time, and it struck the wall in the hallway outside.
A tense moment passed. Hob worried Edric might send him packing.
Then Edric burst out laughing. “Hah hah!”
“Sorry!” Hob squeaked. “I was just …” He searched for the right word.
“Practicing?” ventured Edric, with a smirk. He stood in the doorway, carrying a tray of food in one hand and a big canvas sack in the other. A sheathed sword and a coil of thin rope hung from his belt, and a crossbow was slung over his back. He must have paid a visit to the weapon rack in the secret cellar. “I brought us some lunch,” he said, entering the room. “Or, breakfast for you.”
Edric was right. Outside, the sun was already high in the sky. If anything, it was past lunchtime.
“I’m usually nocturnal …” Hob mumbled.
“I’m not judging,” said Edric. “Hope you like bread and honey.”
He passed Hob a plate of bread and a small bowl of honey, and sat with him on the edge of the bed.
“Eat up!” said Edric. “We’ve got a lot to do, and not a lot of day left to do it in.”
“I though’ we were wait’n’ fer Stello?” Hob mumbled, his mouth already half-full of food.
Regardless of what happened on the rest of the adventure, the meals at the Headless Goblin had made everything worth it. The bread was warm and soft, the honey sticky and sweet.
“We are waiting,” said Edric, tucking into a plate of his own. “Just not in here. Remember that tower-Lady the old woman was talking about? The pretty one?”
“The Lady of Valley Top? A beautiful maiden, cursed by an evil spell to remain locked in her tower for all time?” asked Hob. It wasn’t a story he’d soon forget.
“That’s the one,” said Edric. “Well, I’ve been thinking about her. Actually, I can’t stop thinking about her. I have to see her for myself!”
Hob bit his lip nervously. “I don’t know, Ed. Isn’t that exactly the sort of thing Stella said not to do?”
“Stella says a lot of things,” said Edric. “But what does she know?”
“She knows the Royal Guards are in town, and there’s a huge festival going on,” said Hob. “Maybe we should just do what she asked. She saved us from them once already, after all.”
“And you’re not the least bit curious about the mystery of the Lady in the tower?” Edric pressed him. “About the world outside that window?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hob replied, firmly. “I can’t just do whatever I want. I’m not a rebel, like you.”
“But you are a rebel like me!” Edric exclaimed. “An adventurer like me! You skipped out on your own execution, ran off with a human and a dwarf, and even followed us when we told you not to. What do you call that?” Edric laughed, reached in his sack, and drew out a small sword, complete with a scabbard and sword belt. With a flourish, he freed the blade from the scabbard, and turned the hilt toward Hob. “Here. Every adventurer needs one of these.”
“Whoa,” Hob whispered, taking the sword and holding it up in the beam of sunlight. It wasn’t much longer than a dagger, but it was the perfect size for him. The bronze hilt was fashioned after a falcon, and the blade was made of shining steel.
“It’s just lucky I found one in your size,” Edric went on, setting aside the belt and scabbard. “It’s a dwarvish short sword, I think.”
“Thanks!” Hob exclaimed, still in awe. It was a gift to match even Eldwin’s goggles. His very own sword!
“You’re welcome,” said Edric. “No more practicing with broomsticks for you. It’s time for a real lesson!”
“Huh?” said Hob. “A lesson?”
An image flashed in his mind’s eye of Grunt handing him a clobber-stick and dragging him into the practice ring in the Great Cave. And Hob fretted for a second that Edric’s lesson might be like that one. This was followed by pang of guilt and worry. Hob knew that Grunt, his brother, his first friend, had only been trying to help him—had only wanted what was best for him. Had Grunt been punished for Hob’s supposed crimes? Had he made it through the Clobbering? Been shipped off to join the Sorcerer’s army? Hob hoped he was all right.
“Yes, a lesson!” Edric went on, bringing Hob’s attention back to the present. “If you’re going to be part of the quest, I’m going to have to teach you a thing or two about real adventure.”
“Wow!” said Hob. Edric’s lesson did sound much better than clobbering practice.
“And you know what’s the greatest adventure of all?”
Hob thought back to all the stories he’d ever read. “The search for the Heavenly Chalice of—?”
“That’s right. Life! I’m going to teach you how to live.”
“Oh!” said Hob.
“And real life is out there,” Edric went on, pointing out the window. “You can’t find it in here, or in some book, or by following every dumb rule. You have to go out and live it. And that means going to see the Lady!”
“But why?” Hob sighed, suddenly feeling more conflicted than before.
Edric hesitated. “Well, I … Oh, maybe you wouldn’t understand … Maybe it’s human stuff. Just, please … It’s important.” He stared at Hob, with big, hopeful eyes.
Hob groaned. “Oh, all right,” he said. He still wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But he didn’t want to disappoint his new friend, especially after Edric had given him such a great gift, and promised to teach him about a life of adventure. It was everything Hob had ever wanted and more. How could he refuse?
“Excellent!” said Edric, clapping his hands, and standing up from the bed. “Now, we’re gonna need some disguises.” He looked Hob up and down. “Especially you. Luckily, I borrowed some clothes from the cloak room.” He emptied his sack’s remaining contents onto the floor.
A short time later, a tall figure appeared in the doorway of The Headless Goblin Inn. He wore a dark burgundy cloak and a black patch over his left eye. The hood of his cloak was pulled up, leaving his face barely visible under its shadow.
A much smaller figure waddled up next to him. His boots were too tall for his short legs. His little winged sword and scabbard bounced awkwardly against his hip. And his green cloak trailed behind him along the ground. Even more peculiarly, his face was hidden under a thick brown scarf, a tight hood, and a green hat with a long feather and wide brim. All that could be seen were his eyes, which appeared abnormally large behind the odd tinted goggles he wore. He promptly banged his head on the doorframe, and stumbled sideways into his friend.
“No peripheral vision,” Hob explained, adjusting his goggles with hands hidden in floppy elbow-length gloves. “But I’ll get used to it.”
“Just follow me,” Edric encouraged him. “You look great.”
The next thing Hob knew, he was waddling along beside Edric as they made their way through the winding streets of Valley Top, heading for the castle tower that loomed over every part of the city.
The mountain sky above them was clear and blue. And Hob felt the sun’s gentle warmth on his skin, and admired its light where it fell, golden, on the stone walls of the buildings and on the many different faces of the people in the crowds. This was just the sort of sunny day Hob had always longed to experience for himself, but had never been able to without Eldwin’s goggles.
Still, as the streets grew increasingly congested around him, Hob began to feel overwhelmed. It was one thing to overlook the festival from the safety of his room; it was another thing to be squeezing through the teeming human masses himself!
It didn’t help matters that Edric’s face stared at him from every wall and street corner. There were wanted posters of the Prince up everywhere!
“Oh, look, the market!” said Edric, ignoring the crowds and the posters, and pointing dead ahead. “What do you know? It’s on the way.”
Without warning, he dragged Hob up the street, through a tall archway between the buildings, and into the city square.
Really more of a circle, the square was a round area, paved with cobblestones, and ringed so seamlessly by shops and apartments that the only roads in or out passed through four identical archways. It housed the marketplace at the heart of the Spring Chicken Festival, and was filled with a sea of people milling about between the many tents and stalls.
Hob was more nervous than ever. But, as he followed Edric through the marketplace, he couldn’t help but get caught up in the wonder of it all. Edric too seemed to be enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells. He made an excellent guide. He led Hob from stand to stand, explaining what sort of goods they were selling or just how delicious their treats were.
Some sold clothing, or toys, or jewelry, or cookware; others sold meats, or cheeses, or breads, or cakes. One man was serving whole roast chickens, just for the occasion. His sign read, Mortimer’s Spring Chickens, Official Chicken Vendor of the Spring Chicken Festival.
It was a good thing Hob had just finished lunch; looking at all the delicious things to eat made his mouth water.
Occasionally, they encountered local city guards on patrol, dressed in half-helms, simple chainmail armor, and surcoats bearing the mountain crest of Valley Top. Edric paid them little attention, and they paid him none.
Only once, when he spotted the crimson cloaks and gilded steel armor of three Royal Guards, did Edric panic. He turned away and pretended to examine whatever the nearest merchant was selling very closely. Hob copied him. When the guards had passed, the pair moved on.
The crowds were most dense around the performers. At every turn, there were musicians and bards, actors and acrobats, dancers and jugglers. One man wearing a big three-eared hat with bells on it attracted a great deal of attention by jumping about, doing handstands, and making rude noises at passersby. There was also a woman breathing fire out of her mouth like a dragon, and another man swallowing a whole sword while balancing on a strange one-wheeled contraption.
“That looks dangerous!” Hob worried.
“Relax. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” said Edric. He stopped at a gap in the crowd around the man, and watched with fascination.
Hob wasn’t convinced. One slip, and the man would be riding the sword instead of the wheel. When he pulled out three daggers and began juggling them, Hob had to look away.
Distracting himself, Hob tried to study the festival-goers around him. But he was too short to see their faces very well. At his eye level, he saw a few small children run by, waving colored ribbons. And he noticed three large crows fighting over a chunk of fallen bread near a baker’s stand. They bobbed and weaved like tiny swordsmen, jabbing and thrusting to steal crumbs from each other. One paused for a second to scan the crowds, making sure the coast was clear, and then returned to the duel.
The audience around the sword swallower broke into applause as he finished his act—thankfully, still in one piece. Edric turned his attention elsewhere.
“Hey, you like books, right?” he asked Hob.
“I, uh …” Hob felt his throat tighten. Was Edric subtly accusing him of stealing The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer? If Hob said “yes,” would it confirm his guilt? If he said “no,” would Edric know he was lying? Maybe he needed to—
“Then we should check out the bookshop!”
Edric took Hob’s arm and led him toward the edge of the square. There, tucked between two much taller buildings, was a tiny bookshop with a bright red door. It looked like it had been squeezed in and had gotten stuck. A wooden sign hung at the front, black with gold lettering that read: The Paper Sparrow.
Inside, a single patron browsed, while the owner sat by the door, reading. Or, perhaps he was sleeping. Hob couldn’t quite tell. The four short walls were lined with bookshelves. Tall stacks of additional books were scattered around the floor. The air smelled of musty parchment and binding glue.
Hob was in heaven. He could have happily moved in and spent the rest of his days there. He wandered the store, letting his gloved fingers trail across the book spines as he read their many titles. He was amazed that so many had even been written! And on such a variety of subjects: On the Dancing of Heavenly Spheres; The Art of the Duel: An Illustrated Guide to Swordplay; Paul and John’s Book of Songs …
After a while, he reached out and grabbed a thick leather-bound volume titled The Lost People of the Wild: The Legend of the Ancient Elves. But, as he did, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.
“Welp, I think that’s enough of these dusty old tomes,” said Edric, losing interest. “Better get going.”
Hob didn’t even have enough time to put his book back before Edric whisked him toward the door. Instead, the book joined one of the stacks at the front of the shop.
“Sorry we couldn’t help you find what you were looking for, sirs,” said the owner, not bothering to look up from his book. “Come again soon.”
“You know what,” said Edric, pulling open the door, “I think we should grab one of those roast chickens on the wa—”
Then he froze. Together with Hob, he stepped back into the shop, closed the door so it was only open a crack, and peeked outside.
Two tall figures stood there with their backs to the door, scanning the marketplace. One wore a crimson cloak, the other a cloak of black. The crimson cloaked man turned to his companion, revealing his profile. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jaw and a steely gaze. His thick hair and trimmed beard were of a fiery orange color that Hob had never seen on a person before.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself …” the man said. “Yes, the boy gave you the slip, but what else could you have done? Sometimes complications arise.”
His companion turned to him, revealing her profile as well. It was Captain Fist! “Where ’ze boy is concerned, complications always arise.”
“Still, a three-headed troll!” the man replied. “It’s not every day you fight one of those and live to tell about it!” He shook his head in amazement.
“Let us just say, it was not so ’zree-headed when I was done with it,” Fist growled.
The man laughed darkly. “At any rate, Captain,” he said, “I don’t think he’s here. Even Prince Edric wouldn’t be foolish enough to come to the festival when he knows we’re looking for him.”
“You would be surprised,” said Captain Fist, peering around. “But, very well. Have guards posted at every entrance to ’ze square, and meet me at ’ze gates.”
And with that, the two parted and left.
“Who was that?” Hob whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Well, Captain Fist you know,” said Edric. “And the man with her was Sir Lance Buckler, her Lieutenant.”
“Well, that settles it, then,” said Hob. “I guess we should be getting back to the inn.”
“Yep,” said Edric, “right after we pop up to the tower.” Then he was out the door, dragging Hob back into the marketplace.
They made their way straight across the bustling square, heading for the tower in the distance. Before long, the crowds around them grew so large and dense that Hob had to cling to Edric’s cloak so they wouldn’t be separated. Hips and knees buffeted Hob. All he could see were people’s bottoms!
Finally, at the very heart of the square, the pair passed through the largest crowd of all, and emerged in a wide circular clearing at its center. They paused at the edge of the clearing to get their bearings.
In the middle stood a tall stone fountain. Cool spring water gushed from its many spouts to fill a raised pool at its base. And a ring of people held hands and danced around the pool to the same music Hob had heard earlier. Off to one side, the musicians from the parade played their strange instruments while a drummer kept the beat.
Tall posts displaying bright banners stood here and there around the clearing’s edge. And long ropes strung with colorful little flags and pennants ran between them, crisscrossing overhead as they circled the clearing. Again, Hob noticed three crows. They were perched on these flag lines, looking out over the crowds, no doubt searching for some dropped food to eat.
Soon, a man in a giant white chicken suit bounded out from behind the fountain, holding hands in the spinning chain of dancers. He had a feathery body, skinny legs in bright yellow tights, floppy chicken’s feet shoes, and an oversized chicken head that bobbled around on top of his own—with his face sticking out of the beak.
“Who’s that?” asked Hob, wide-eyed.
“Why, that’s the Spring Chicken, o’ course!” interjected a fat man standing next to him at the edge of the crowd. “What? Have ya been livin’ in a cave yer whole life?”
Hob nodded. “Yeah, pretty mu—”
Edric’s hand clamped over Hob’s mouth. “Shhh!” he whispered. “It’s just an expression!”
Thankfully, the fat man wasn’t listening. “Hey, Chicken, these two blokes could use a dance!”
The Spring Chicken looked over at them with a wily grin. “Could they now?” he said, as he flailed toward them around the clearing.
“Yes, sir!”
Before Edric and Hob could escape, the fat man shoved them forward to meet the Spring Chicken. Feathery hands clasped their forearms and pulled them into the ring of dancers. The fat man and the Spring Chicken started laughing their heads off.
“C’mon, lads! Join the fun!” exclaimed the chortling face inside the chicken beak. It was long and horsey, with beady eyes and a pointy mustache and goatee.
“Don’t be shy, boys!” yelled an old woman who streaked by in the crowd.
The trio was quickly swept off in the dance, Edric first, followed by the Spring Chicken, followed by Hob.
The Spring Chicken even began to sing with the music: