Chapter 14: The Goblins’ Quarry

Damien descended into a craggy scar at the base of the snow capped peak, opposite the side from which he emerged in this other world. Picking his way over uneven ground and maneuvering through tight spaces in the bouldery land, Damien shivered. Below the mountain that cut the sky like a jagged tooth, the air was not as thin but just as cold.

Rivulets of water, long since frozen in stony cracks, conspired to slowly split the ancient rocks, and sharp icicles dripped from every overhang. There were fewer trees on this side of the mountain, but there were several copses further from the rocky path he now trod. A bird of prey, perhaps an eagle, drifted on a cold gust overhead. Damien squinted at it, taking aim with his crossbow. No, it was much too far away to hit.

He continued on, pressing into a narrow crevice between two enormous boulders. Damien did not have a clear goal. Not yet. He was intrigued by this world, and by the sudden power that had been bestowed upon him. Power he had long fantasized of. Power he believed he deserved. Yet he should not forget his original purpose–revenge against the girl who had ruined his life. Whatever the truth of this reality, his smoldering hatred of her remained fixed.

“I’m an assassin,” he whispered to himself. “Daemon Nightblade. This world has recognized who I really am. Who I am really meant to be. It has given me the ability to carry out my purpose…”

He would find Chastity, somehow. And when he did–

“Ahh!”

Damien let out an involuntary cry as a rope closed around his ankle, yanking him off his feet and hoisting him into the air. He groaned as he painfully swung upside down from one leg. His long black cloak hung down around him like a wilted flower.

There was a cackling sound. Gleeful and malicious.

Damien frantically looked about. Disoriented, and trying to move the limp fabric out of his face, he made out two oblong figures emerging from behind a nearby outcropping. With the blood rushing to his head and the skewed perspective, it was hard to make out exactly who (or what) these people were.

“Lookee, lookee! A human! It’s a human!” one of the figures squealed in a high-pitched voice.

“Watch out! He’s armed!” yelled the other.

The figures quickly scuttled toward him. One was clutching something in its grip, like a thick tree branch. No–a club. It swung, and Damien felt an explosion of pain on the side of his head. Then all went dark.

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Damien came to in a warm, stuffy chamber. The side of his head throbbed terribly. He tried to move, but he was stuck. He tried to cry out but could only manage a grunting noise. There was a foul cloth stuffed in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He tried to speak, to breathe, but could only gag in response. Struggling, he realized his arms were tightly bound behind him with rope.

Damien fought against the bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to breathe through his nostrils and struggled to get on his knees. The air was stale and chalky. There was no more sky, but there were sources of light. He could sense matted blood on the side of his head from where he had been struck. Damien’s cloak was gone, as was his crossbow. Blinking, squinting, and wincing, he tried to take stock of his surroundings.

He was bound and gagged, kneeling on hard stone, inside a large wooden cage constructed of crisscrossing branches lashed together. A makeshift prison cell in some sort of cavern, with a few scattered torches as the only illumination. The sounds of hammering and clanking could be heard echoing from somewhere. A few small, hunched figures shackled in leg irons trudged past, carrying pickaxes. They looked no larger than children. Did one have bluish-gray skin? Perhaps the torchlight was playing tricks on his eyes.

Three figures were nearby, speaking. When they noticed Damien moving, they approached the cage. There were two shorter figures, and one much larger, and they were clearly not human. Damien recognized the nasal squeal of the first two, the ones who had sprung the trap. They had sickly green skin, with elongated arms and pointed yellow nails at the end of their long fingers. Their sneers revealed an abundance of crooked and sharp teeth. The larger one, a deeper olive green, appeared scarred and fierce, with an almost porcine snout and tusks protruding from beneath. Each was clad in garments of animal skins lined with fur.

“So this is the man you captured!” the large one uttered, his voice guttural. Clearly he was in charge. “And you say he was alone?”

“Yes! We saw no others!” one of the shorter figures answered.

“He has the look of a ranger or scout. Part of a hunting party!”

“No! No! He searched carefully. He was all alone! Trust us!” the other of the two whined.

“Trust a goblin? Bah!” the larger figure spat on the floor in contempt. He fingered a whip coiled at his side, as if deciding whether or not to use it on the other two.

Damien’s mind wheeled. Goblins? He struggled futilely, feeling the tightly bound ropes cutting into him with each attempt.

“P-please! Please. We’re telling the truth! There was no other man!” the goblins pleaded. “We clubbed him, and made sure there were none following! And we covered our tracks real good!”

The large one moved his hand off from the whip, stepping closer to the cage and glaring at the captive. Dark, saucer-like pupils swam within his yellowed eyes.

“No humans should be in these parts. This could be a problem,” the leader grunted. “Keep him under guard. I will go back to the great mine and report to Slaggmaw. I’ll return in a few days. Then we’ll see what is to be done with him.”