Chapter Thirty Eight: Gooth Gahan

Goblins were vicious, savage creatures, but they were smart. They were cruel and bloodthirsty, true, but also clannish and family oriented. Their strength was in the swarm, but they spoke Goad as well as anyone, and that alone made them people.

People that would gladly eat you, but nonetheless.

All three of the casters began tossing Flame Licks around the walls, trying to fill the enormous space with light. When they found a column or wall, they afixed themselves. If they travelled too far without finding anything to attach to, they simply dwindled out. Then Warwick illuminated the entire room. He chanted a soft prayer to his Lady, and Zuglah watched as a strange, liquid light filled the palms of his upheld hands like glowing water. He raised them both, and two vivid white birds took off in opposite directions.

Pliesson had a respectable, thick hide, but his rump was round and generous. It made an easy target for the Goblins, and he was getting struck repeatedly. He tried not to show it, but the bone darts hurt. Zuglah wondered why they were holding back; the air should have rightly been full of the small, wicked arrows. The massive crowd of Goblins flinched as the Lightbirds flew overhead, some aiming arrows and others covering their eyes. Zuglah’s group cried out in disbelief at the rank upon rank of archers, spearmen, shield bearers and axe wielders amassed against them. There were no Shamen or Witchdoctors, nor Priests or Witches. There were Hexen, Skeinnin, and Braugha, and worse still. They had a Goblin Lord.

The one who had eaten the Light, he was no taller than a Dwarf. But he had an enormous skull, one that would have been comical if it didn’t contain so many teeth. Those enormous lips covered a mouth that was every bit as wide as the entire head, and the shark-like rows of needle teeth that Goblins were famous for were on full display. The eyes met Zuglah’s in the dark, remained fixed upon his and didn’t flinch when the Lightbirds illuminated them.

“Bring me that juicy Troll meat. Now!” He pointed straight at Zuglah. The Goblins all began firing at once as row upon row charged at them.

Somehow, the arrows seemed to mostly sail wide or fall short. The charging Goblins were attacking them from both the left and the right, yet well before they had crossed the distance, they were curving inwards in an unintentional arc. The two groups slammed violently into each other and attacked viciously.

“Warwick, your Light. It bends so easily, and it cuts like butter.” Pliesson was washing his whiskers, a sure sign that he was pleased with himself. “You guys can go ahead, now. They’ll turn very soon.”

Zuglah turned to Randall. “Do you think that you can handle the crowd work? Keep the Cleric out of trouble? I really want to go after that Goblin Lord. We need to kill him.”

Randall, being pure Human, probably couldn’t even see Zuglah very well. His blue skin was designed by his deity to be impossible to track in most lighting, but the darkness was his home. A home that he unfortunately shared with Gobliins. They were the only creatures besides Trolls to have Ultravision by nature; even the High Elves had needed to claim it as their boonright upon Ascending.

“What in the Hells is a Goblin Lord? Never mind. If it’s that guy who won’t shut up, then by all means. Go.” Zuglah had kept watch on the creature. It hadn’t once taken its eyes off of him either. Zuglah strode out until he was apart from his friends and slowly, deliberately cast Dancing Mana. Just a small salvo, silver bullets flying unimpeded across the stone floor to detonate harmlessly mere inches from the creature’s smugly grinning face. Zuglah sent out a well imagined wave of Detect Magic just as the Dancing Mana struck, and faintly, several spots began to throb in a vague orange glow. If it hadn’t been so dark, they would have been imperceptible.

By the time the last bullet had struck in front of the Goblin Lord and faded, Zuglah was gone. An icy wind began to blow, all at once carrying a sheet of heavy, wet snow across the battlefield.

There were three Skeinnin out there, in the darkness, all providing a protective magic shell around their Lord. Zuglah blinked into the far right-hand corner, crouching, and approached behind the nearest glowing orange shape. With a ruthless thrust of his dagger, he stabbed the creature in the heart. It collapsed, and he stabbed it again just to be sure. It was dead.

The Goblin Lord was looking around everywhere for him, but no part of his robes were light reflective at all in the darkness and driving snow. They were almost as neutral as his flesh, or that of a Drow. He wondered if Caldwell was aware of this. He was almost positive that he had been. All of the Goblins were shrieking and clutching their clothes tighter about themselves. Some slipped in the icy water at their feet, others ran for cover or high ground. Goblins hated the cold with a passion.

As a result of his excellent robes, as well as him being deep behind the enemy’s lines, Zuglah was able to creep up on the next Skeinnin, jump on top of him, and stab him repeatedly. But this one was wearing a hardened leather jerkin that made his blade skid off the first time, and get stuck the second. Zuglah grabbed the Goblin by his head and unleashed a Shocking Grasp. It screamed, drawing every eye to him like lodestones. When he bashed the head tentatively against the frozen stone, it swung about limply in his hands. The creature was done for. Zuglah blinked, but not back to his friends.

The Goblin Lord was cunning, with a savage intelligence that had led him to prominence among his kind. He must have felt his magical protections diminishing, because he strode around in the darkness until he found the last Skeinnin, grabbed him by the scruff, and dragged him back to his place across from Denton, where he had been directing the battle. But his eyes were constantly searching, scanning for what had become of the Troll. He could not be found.

Braugha were thick, feral Goblins larger and uglier than the rest. They tended towards leadership roles, relying on their savagery as a form of authority. It was a theme that played out through most of Goblin society. As such, the Goblin Lord was surrounded by a ring of Braugha that Zuglah hadn’t noticed until the brute had left to fetch his Skeinnin. This was meant to be another trap, one that would collapse down upon him if he went after the Lord. Only, he was already inside the ring of steel, with about ten seconds left of Invisibility before he popped right out. There was no way to blink for at least another minute. He decided to stick with his original plan.

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He had positioned himself, invisible, directly in front of the Goblin Lord. But then the savage had stormed off into the battle and blizzard to secure his magical shield, leaving Zuglah a little flat footed. A moment later, he returned to direct the battle from his vantage.

Recalling a certain mountain and a vicious Drake, Zuglah treated the entire group of them to a bath of roaring flames. Literally.

He loomed over the whole crowd, appearing from nowhere and spewing fire so hot that it dripped from his fingers and left pockmarks in the stone. His savage roar mixed and blended with their screams, until everyone in the room was covering their ears, if not their entire heads. Zuglah poured it on, forcing the flames hotter even than had sent the Mountain Drake fleeing. A moment passed before anyone realized that the room was now silent. Everything was still.

A cured leather breastplate fell to the flagstones and collapsed to ash. A leather boot fell over, making almost no sound. The Goblin Lord, his entire entourage, the Skeinnin. They were just gone.

To say that the Goblins were shocked, or demoralized, was an understatement. There was virtually no fight left in them, and they tended to back away and huddle together. Against the cold, but against the larger, more aggressive Humans too. Denton considered the largest group, huddled in the corner behind a large wooden shield. The Hexen holding the shield stood up slowly, then reached forth and threw his sword onto the ground.

He jerked his head towards the far wall. “Just go,” he said in Goad. “Leave us alone.”

A small archway made of glowing runeblocks appeared. Without a word, Denton led them through the arch and into the marbled foyer of an amphitheater. Somehow, they were beneath a blue sky filled with sunshine and birds. Instead of stone, there was dirt beneath their feet and columns strewn about serving no visible purpose. There were rows of seating, surrounding the enclosure in a semicircular arrangement that rose as it receeded. The seats were occupied.

“Zuglah.” Denton had hung back as the others looked around the small, compact little arena. “I just wanted to say, that was the greatest thing I’ve seen in all my years of dungeon crawling. Great job.” Then, he formally offered Zuglah his hand. They shook.

Zuglah looked around. The gallery of people watching was Illusion, just as the blue sky was. But somehow, it was an accurate representation of all of the people above observing them. Chayah was wearing the bright yellow tunic and hose that she had been in earlier, and Gamstone had his red beard and hair formally braided and tasseled. Lieber Cant was the only one who was on his feet, however, resplendent in black robes stitched with golden thread. There was an emblem on the breast, a small knot of nested love berries, and his long black hair was tied about with a black gold diadem. He looked regal. He was a little angry.

“Well,” Lieber Cant said, his voice as misty as his appearance. “This is why we have trial runs, I suppose. The meatweed was a mistake. And the Goblins are fired, obviously. They won’t be paid for their cowardice. But here we are at last. The Warcaster’s Cauldron. I congratulate you on getting to the main event. Please say the word “Begin,” to my Avatar, and your first opponent will appear. Good luck.”

With that, Lieber Cant’s avatar took on the same vacuous expression as the rest of the audience. The only difference was, Lieber Cant stood at his dias. Zuglah was willing to bet that his avatar was a permanent feature of this amphitheater.

The party checked in with each other, but nobody needed a rest. They had escaped the Goblins virtually unscathed, and were feeling confident. There were grinning faces all around as they agreed that they were ready, whatever came next. Denton walked over to the Drow and nodded. “Let’s begin.”

He had time to take his place at the front of the party and draw his sword. Lieber Cant waited patiently, then he declared, “I give you your first Champion. Gooth Gahan.”

From directly opposite the spot where their archway had appeared, the runed gate for the dungeon’s first Champion formed. The plane of the arch was flat and orange, turning darker in the center. It continued to deepen, turning first red, then rich, dark swirls until a shadow began to form of a huge man shape. Ducking its head, a seven foot tall Tauren stallion shouldered its way through the portal as though it had crashed its way through the magic gate.

Wicked, pointed horns made him seem even taller, and he had huge arms and shoulders. His head was thrust forward, swinging around and measuring everyone. His head back, he howled in anger. A solid mail tunic covered his jet black skin, and he had a great, iron-banded club that was almost as tall as he was. Zuglah was reminded of Larrio, but decided that this guy was not quite as tall. He just loomed more. And he could probably chew Larrio up and spit him out in short order. He wore a pair of heavy-bladed scimitars at his belt as well as various daggers, a whip, two hooks and a potion sling that looked well appointed.

When he finally trod forward heavily, the massive red portal produced two more of the huge, burly beasts. The one on the left had a black fur cloak about his shoulders and a tall crystal focus staff. His horns were carved in ruby and obsidian script and tipped with sharpened iron. This was typical of Taurens who had broken the tip of their horn, the script inscribed to strengthen and unite the reconstruction. Zuglah had seen the process done more than once. The Tauren wore a chain and disk shirt made of sewn iron, and the cudgel at his belt had a heavy iron bolt threaded directly through the middle. Zuglah was willing to bet that this was the Champion’s Shaman, and the two would work as closely together as Warwick and Denton did.

The man who came through the portal with him was another fighter, dressed all in leather armor and sporting a tall, recurve bow. His arrows were long, thick and barbed. He had a longsword on one hip and a shortsword for a dagger on the opposite, and his cloven hooves weren’t iron-shod like the others. At least, if they were, it was a muted iron that was designed to make no sound.

The last two through the portal were not Tauren, and Zuglah could not decide which one was more alarming. A short, heavily muscled Orc in thick, black plate mail armor, or a tall, thin blue Troll with orange hair and an orange goatee. He had long, pointed claws painted black and gold, and a carved ivory and gold scepter with sharpened gemstones on the weighted end. It looked like it was designed to conduct both magic and blunt force. The man holding it was the first Troll Zuglah had seen in many years.

Denton turned to the group. “That Anti-Paladin is going to come after you Wizards, I guarantee it. If I were you, I would gang up on him and take him down hard. If you can get past his wards. I’m not going to lie to you guys. This situation is dire. We are over matched.”

“That Orc is a Death Cleric? I agree with the Fighter. Let’s give up.”

“Nobody suggested giving up,” Warwick snapped.

The silence that followed was deafening for Denton’s lack of agreement. The party hesitated, then finally the Human conceded, “At the very least, I will go down swinging. Anyone who wants to leave, you can take the portal right now.” Even Randall was too ashamed to take him up on his offer. “Well okay then. Let’s go tell Gooth Gahan the good news.”