The Goblin Wagoner
Cragmok House and Ruk was a tiresome one. The road skirted sheer cliffs regularly, and in places, the wagon Reglese had procured at Cragmok House was barely narrow enough to keep the wheels from slipping into vast crevasses.
The wyvern trainee had been instructed to drop Reglese off near Cragmok House, a large supply depot on the route between Calrok and Ruk, so the goblin entrepreneur could round the bend without anyone suspecting he had received special transport. When Reglese arrived, the hosts at Cragmok, two elderly orcs with an adult son, welcomed him and bade him to have a sit after his “weary journey.”
Their usual customers were wagon transporters that brought goods from various places. A fish transporter from Calrok had been there the day before. On the day Reglese appeared, travelers were few. Reglese noticed a single goblin at a corner table. His greyish green skin seemed sickly to Reglese compared to his own vibrantly sunbaked green skin. It had taken him a long time to adjust to living under the sun in Calrok—something he had deemed unnatural for goblins at one point in his life. He wondered if he were the better for it instead.
When Reglese inquired about a wagon to Ruk, the hosts suggested that their boy might see Reglese to the capital. Just before the boy accepted the task, the goblin in the corner offered his services.
“Ima take ’im!”
The hesitation and apologetic ticks on the hosts’ faces gave Reglese pause, but the other goblin doubled down on his bid.
“Ima take ’im fer less dan you lot.”
Reglese, in a strange place outside his comfort zone, clung to the one thing he understood: saving coin. He was more comfortable with a fellow goblin anyway.
So, at length, he had taken up the goblin’s charter. Rocks crunched and skittered away, off the cliffs, under the weight of the old mountain goblin’s even older and ricketier wagon. The driver’s cloak covered his whole body, and his ample hood protected his pale grey-green skin from the sun.
Navigating the road to Ruk was long, slow work. The goblin, whose name, Reglese learned, was Kig, denounced his years with careful footwork, which increased Reglese’s confidence in his choice. Kig knew what he was doing on the treacherous mountain roads, and his strength to pull the wagon had not waned over his years.
As evening drew upon them, Kig deftly maneuvered a side trail to the top of a small plateau where two other traveling wagoners were already setting up camp for the evening. Kig waved a greeting to each, who returned the gesture and continued their business. Kig parked his wagon, very particularly, next to a well-used fire spot where he unloaded a bundle of wood from his wagon. He snatched a handful of kindling from a small wooden box, of which there were many in the back of his rickety wagon, and quickly lit a fire. He grabbed two woolen blankets as well, laying them down with care near the growing fire, and returned to the tiny wooden boxes. He retrieved a pot, a couple pieces of meat, some water, a few vegetables, and some seasoning.
Kig caught Reglese’s curious look out of the corner of his eye and flashed him a sly grin, “Just causin’ were on the road donnit mean we cannit eat good!” He laughed a raspy laugh and cooked away, humming a mountain melody Reglese didn’t recognize.
The two sat in the glow of the fire, the stars ablaze above them. Occasionally, the wind swept away the smell of the fire and stew, and Reglese’s capable nose caught the sweet scent of crisp mountain air. Reglese, who was used to the hustle and bustle of his beloved Spinefish Tavern back in Calrok, enjoyed the pleasant stillness. His nights were never quiet but always filled with boisterous orc conversation, music, and raucous laughter. The quiet hum of the old mountain goblin’s tune, the warmth of the licking fire, the woolen blanket ... He could get used to those, he thought.
Kig dished the steaming stew into two bowls, passing one to Reglese. “Carful na, itsin hot,” Kig warned.
The steam swirled into the cool evening air, enveloping Reglese in its aroma. He blew away the steam several times, dropping it to a temperature at which he might take his first sip. When he did, he looked at Kig with astonishment. It was incredible.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?!”
“Ah,” Kig chuckled. “Me fadder was a good cooker. Afore Isa leff ’im tinkin’ Isa smerter dan ’im.”
He shook his head, laughing to himself and reflecting on the folly of his youthful perspectives. Wisdom had greyed the hairs on his head and deepened his thoughts.
Reglese gazed upon the old wagoner with wonder, blowing and sipping at the stew hungrily. He hadn’t been terribly hungry, but the richness and depth of flavor of the stew had stirred his stomach to a ravenous state. The wheels of his proprietor mind began to turn. The old goblin couldn’t have too many more years in the mountains. Surely, his strength would fail him as it did everyone who eventually succumbed to age.
Perhaps ...
“Kig,” he started, picking his words carefully. “What would you do if you weren’t wagoneering?”
“Isa donnit know.” Kig set his bowl down to secure the woolen blanket around his shoulders. Once he was comfortable and had his stew back in his hands under his chin, he continued, “Isa supposin ... Ida be dead.”
The frankness caught Reglese off guard. He was almost sad for the old goblin. What legacy would he leave behind him? Reglese’s mind was made up. “What if I could offer you a new life?” Kig looked at him incredulously, taking another sip of his stew. “If you can cook like this, you could cook for me.”
Kig laughed. “Isa just madin some dis stew.”
“No really, Kig. This stew is amazing.”
Reglese set down his stew and scurried to the back of the wagon, where he had placed the half-sized tankard barrel he had strapped to his back when he arrived at Cragmok House early that morning. He grabbed two mugs the old goblin had stowed in a wooden box and filled them with his proprietary glorb wine.
He handed one to Kig and explained. “This is my famous glorb wine. I make it back ’ome in my tavern in Calrok. I’m going to Ruk to expand—you know—start a tavern there. And then ’oo knows where from there.” Reglese’s look drifted, lost in his dream.
Kig chuckled again at the younger goblin, so full of excitement. When he took a swig of the glorb wine, he stopped. Reglese, back from his dream, watched with anticipation, waiting for the old wagoner’s verdict on his prized glorb wine. Kig swirled the glorb wine in the mug and sniffed it closely with his long nose. It was good. Maybe, just maybe, the greener goblin had something here. And certainly, Kig was feeling his age with every charter he took. Maybe it was time for a change.
“In Ruk?” he confirmed.
“Yes, in Ruk. I will need a cook for the tavern there. And if your other dishes are ’alf as good as this stew, we’ll be the talk of the kingdom together.”
Kig looked at the stew in his one hand and the glorb wine in his other as the firelight danced shadows all around. He grinned widely, his smile missing many teeth.
“Isa tinkin Ida likin dat.”
The new partners clinked their mugs and drank and ate heartily. Both of their bellies were filled; moreover, their minds were filled with thoughts of potential. Soon enough, they fell asleep next to the fire, on the refuge plateau, under the starry night.
On their flight back to Ghun-Ra, the orcs utilized the cover of darkness. They had stayed in the ruins an extra day, that they might have a full night’s cover to travel back to Drelek. While Gar Nargoh, with his pompous attitude, suggested he didn’t think it necessary to wait for nightfall, Karnak insisted. Night operations were always safer, and in turn, more successful. Though he didn’t doubt the dragon would tear through any enemies that impeded their flight home, wisdom suggested they keep the creature hidden as long as possible.
Karnak thought about the young huntsman. A scowl edged across his face as Smarlo flew nearer. The commander’s vision had returned fully, given the extra day to recover, though he had spent most of that day hiding in the shaded spots of the ruins while his eyes were still sensitive. Orc eyes attuned well to the darkness, and Smarlo clearly saw the grim visage on his gar’s face.
“I disappointed you, my Gar.”
Karnak looked over at his second-in-command, surprised. The statement had brought him out of his own thoughts. He loosened his hold on the reins, not sure how long he’d been gripping them so intensely. “No,” he said slowly. “Something is not right.”
The concern the gar showed to his most trusted friend caught Smarlo off guard. He knew Karnak to be a thoughtful orc, but in the many years of their companionship, he had rarely seen him in doubt. “What do you mean?”
Karnak stretched his back and cracked his thick neck, adjusting his posture on Ker’s back. He tightened the knot of black hair on the back of his head, unsure what he meant, himself. “I told you of Jaernok Tur.”
“Yes, King Sahr’s new sorcerer. The one from Kelvur.”
“That one ... He was strange, Smarlo,” Karnak’s tone was one of a friend speaking with a friend rather than a gar to a commander. “There was this ... aura about him. Like the very essence of darkness.”
“So you’ve said. What’s got you troubled?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The wyverns clicked at one another as they felt the wind off each other’s wings, not overly happy with the tight flight pattern. Karnak gathered his thoughts under the watchful stars. His eyes landed on the dragon ahead of them. The beast was a force to be reckoned with, to be sure, but its appearance coincided with the appearance of Jaernok Tur. Karnak didn’t like any of the implications.
“Strange to see a gnome with humans,” Smarlo thought out loud. “And a dwarf. An odd lot that was.”
“Another wrinkle in all this. I’ve not seen a band like it before.”
“Likely won’t again,” Smarlo chuckled. “I know my aim was true with the blast potion. I saw it land its mark before the orb of blindness hit me. Even if they survived the Rolling River’s treacherous waters, they would need a serious amount of luck to survive the dangers of Blackmar Forest. Can’t defend yourself unconscious.”
Karnak nodded his agreement. Blackmar Forest was infamous, even in tales among their own people.
“Even if they survived the forest, they would wash out to the Tandal Sea, and their vessel would be drowned soon enough. That boat was no seafarer.”
Karnak warmed to Smarlo’s reasoning, deciding his friend was right. The huntsman would face his own deadly trials in Elderwood Forest, host to its own ancient magics and savage creatures. The group’s survival chances were slim, but a solo huntsman lost in Elderwood Forest had little chance at all. Then again, huntsmen made their living in the wilds.
It is not impossible ..., Karnak thought.
The curious makeup of the group nagged at the back of his mind. Even as Smarlo soared a little distance away, to the relief of both wyverns, Karnak stewed on the unusual band. They were clearly not of the Griffin Guard nor of the Loralith Riders. Perhaps they were of the dwarf city of Galium, but there was only one dwarf. If by chance they were some sort of joint task force and managed to survive, the peoples of Tarrine might band together, and King Sahr’s war could be over before it really began.
A peculiar bunch, indeed.
Karnak looked up at the stars, wishing he was home with Tanessa. As much as she would argue the opposite, Karnak always thought her counsel wiser than his own. Or, perhaps, her counsel merely comforted him. Surely, she would have thoughts on the matter.
“I can’t help but feel there are bigger forces at work here,” he said to her, though only the stars and Ker heard him.
Ker clicked warmly, glad to have a little distance from the rest of the group. Karnak patted her smooth, scaly neck in reply. The methodical motion of Ker’s deliberate wings comforted the large orc as they flew north through the night.