Jarring, creaking, and clamorous, the Dreadlung’s wagon trundled recklessly out of exhibition hall. There was a wooden joining strip that marked the transition to the tile floors of ancestral ring, and Rhode felt the impact throw the bottom out of his stomach. The whole construction bent and groaned. It should have been a catastrophic failure, and yet they still kept moving.
“[Stress]or nails are holding up!” announced a white-haired, gap-toothed timber-treater. Precarious: he hung his head over the edge, inspecting the frame up-close and from below.
“Handles are too wide! Can’t make it through the smaller doors,” called out a goblin with a wicked-toothed saw. She had a swollen, darkening cheek from where she’d landed on a table, but still she cheerfully jumped on top of the yokes on either side, straddling as she cut them down to size.
Rhode had to warn her once: she’d been sawing from the wrong end. Admittedly, he half-expected a cartoonish logic to shield her from the consequence of gravity, but there’d been bodies they had left behind. They lay as reminders not to treat this life or these people as a joke: that would be a dangerous, careless instinct.
The wagon was developing a crowding problem, really. The mercenary with a broken shin was laid half on top of Rhode, still drugged out of his mind. Jern Eintirp the page was curled completely and fast asleep, quite happily pinned between Rhode’s ammunition and the arm-rest. On top of that, four or five artisans were crawling over Rhode’s litter at any given time. The fact that their vehicle was actively in transit? That wasn’t stopping the craftsfolk from improving on it.
The Hero moved his arm aside; a fragile veneer of patience displayed across his face. Twice now, he’d been stepped on as the goblins worked, and he almost entertained the urge to push a few passengers overboard to make a point.
“No,” Rhode sighed. “You can’t remove me to make it faster. Get down and let the wheel-grease lady up.”
In a very real way, it was useless to discourage this hyper-fixation, this fey mood; mostly it was just easier to steer it gently. The barrel axle turned more smoothly after it was liberally smeared with odorless grease. The cart was rattling less as a carver incised his [Hot Shock] runes along the frame. Because that was the bizarre thing about goblin-craft: for some inexplicable reason, powered by levels contrary to all reason or rationality –
It worked.
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A tawny fur rug stretched across the floor of a dim, chlorine-colored stone alcove. “Stretched” was not a sufficient word, no; the hide splayed enormously from wall to wall. It was large enough to beg the question: what kind of animal had been large enough to supply that skin? Once, its owner must have been terrible, a monarch of its era. Now it was just flooring: worn out and oh so easy to overlook.
Two goblins circled each other warily in the half-dark, on top of that ancient pelt. Their fangs hinted threats from between their parted lips.
The first of them was dressed as a dandy. His sheer, white shirt ballooned with wide, puffy sleeves and a burst of ruffles about his chest. A spiral corkscrew wine-opener was gripped in his fist like a stiletto. “My goode man, all honest souls have been confined to quarters. An uncharitable person might just mistake you for a scoundrel, the way you are about tonight,” he crooned.
The second gob wore casual working leathers, the sturdy and comfortable attire of a working outdoorsman. He replied to his opposite with a casual and confident ease. “Oho? Why my goode man, I am only on honest business, the most reputable of affairs. I even carry papers to that effect, most official if you would inspect the seals. But what about you? Surely, such an upstanding young man as yourself would not be about on dishonorable sorts of business.”
From his belt, that groundsman drew out a gardening trowel and held it like a knife. Even in the dark, its edge gleamed to an unusual, horticultural sharpness.
“Who do you work for!” screamed the fop.
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“No, who do you work for!” snarled the trowelist.
Ruffle-breast sneered. “I am a loyal servant of Sacred! Sworn to the shadows to defend her interests!”
Leather-pants rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything! Which department, you ninny!?”
Perhaps if these two gentlegobs were given time to resolve their differences, they might have come to an amicable and professional understanding. Or maybe they’d just have killed one another with hand-tools. But they did not have an opportunity for either.
A howl rose up throughout the halls, like the rise of a whistling tea-kettle. A panicked mob of gobs flushed about the bend and into view: spear hefting mercenaries in padded gambesons, and out of breath craftsmen, all running at full tilt. The plonking, rattling wooden sofa-carriage wheeled round after. The goblins pushing at its yokes were flush-faced and screaming.
As a matter of fact, they were throwing around a great deal of accusations about who had forgotten to add brakes.
Out of control, the hodge-podge conveyance (the franken-couch-mobile), would slip by fractions of inches along the tile as it made its turns.
The two spies looked at one another, and came to the same conclusion. Side by side and arms outstretched, they flung themselves aside together. Maize-Well Fields Textiles Presents: Spear Squad 2 ran whooping past, as Greater Tidewater Woodworkers Union Chapter 4 clung noisily to their rolling, luxury battering ram. At the rear of this parade, a panting pair of junior officers chased desperately from behind. As one, the clandestine goblin agents rolled away towards safety – until they collided with the wall.
[Bellows] heaved. A giant bluish, corpse hand slapped against the raised back seat. A squared head with short black hair and wide, flat teeth peeked up after.
The two gobs clutched each other as the monster pointed directly at them.
“Hey! Come help us stop these riots!” the homunculus hollered.
The barrel wheel of his wagon was muffled while it careened over the rug. Two spies, a sergeant, and a squire had trailed behind.
“Wimmel? Tinc?” asked a goblin in the Prince’s colors.
Leather and ruffles goggled. “Bned?” they asked in a baffled duet.
Because naturally, all three of them were simultaneously employed as secret agents of the Prince. How embarrassing. Surely, it would have been for the best if they had gotten a chance to explain themselves.
But no.
The Hero lifted his body up on his elbows from his litter as it continued on; and his orders echoed back. “Staff guy, sword man, grab those guys and bring them too! Don’t let ‘em fight!”
Rhode Mortimer Irving was expanding his command of a growing goblin horde. It wouldn’t last long, he knew. Sooner or later, he would run into someone who held actual authority. It would be all over then. He slumped down into his rest, his knees tucked close, and a growing pile of tuckered goblins in his lap.
“The Heroes are here!” he shouted. His throat was inflamed and swelling, but his voice still shook nearby windows; it bounced along the halls, and carried into the grounds. “Stop setting stuff on fire! Everything’s gonna be okay!”
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A footman’s son paused in a darkened upstairs room. He held a small brazier of coals, and a fiery cinder pinched between a pair of tongs. With longing, he gazed at the curtain in front of him. With regret, he considered the big loud voice that had shouted. His ears fell. Grumbling, the boy shoved his coal back inside its carrier, and then he marched back to his family’s room to bed.
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Two cooks rolled along the floor. Their hats lay abandoned behind them as their struggle carried them along. The object of their argument was abstractly shaped: a brilliant, celadon vase that resembled a gaping lion’s mouth. It was worth a fortune; and for whatever reason, they’d both chosen to try to steal the thing tonight.
One goblin tried to put the other’s eyes out with his nose. The second one got her revenge by biting the first one’s chin. How tragic. The two had once been friends.
But then they heard the rumble coming. In their surprise, they dropped the porcelain, and a flake of glaze chipped off the treasure as it clinked against the tiles. What a waste!
The cooks pushed away from each other, scrambling. The first one ripped a fork out of his shoulder, and the second pulled a sugar spoon out of her ear. There was nowhere to hide, they were firmly in the way of an oncoming stampede.
“Get up!” cried out the three-eyed, helmeted spearman who was running at their head. “It’s an emergency! We’ve got the Dreadlung with us, and we’re going to need some snacks!”