Ser Crom’s brow beetled and Stout’s dragonbone club furrowed the ground as the two went down the river side.

“Do you think she will be very angry?” Stout asked in a voice as dull as the rumble of the overturned earth he left in his wake.

“What?” Ser Crom said. “Now why would such be my overly worried partner’s worry?”

Stout shrugged a boulder sized shoulder. “We didn’t get the sharp-stick. Mistress was very clear, she wanted the sharp-stick.”

“Stop that,” Ser Crom said, smoothing the gambeson tunic Stout dented with a poke of his chipped nail. “Our express command was to scout the area where the most prized artifact is presaged to be hidden.”

“Sharp-stick,” Stout grinned with teeth as square and riddled with holes as blocks of cheese.

Ser Crom snorted. “You’re being impossible. Sometimes I wonder if befriending a troll was a mistake…”

Stout grumbled with an audible sniff. “Don’t say that when we’re outside.”

Ser Crom waved negligently. “A joke, my trusty companion, a joke. Now banish any thought of distress or concern. We performed our task to the letter. Besides, there’s really no reason to assume she’ll even be the slightest bit perturbed. After all, the sun shines, the breeze is pleasant, the water glistening and see, there she is, the enchantress herself, Mistress Ziyadi in all her tentacled splendor accompanied by her chosen mate, Master Sham. Now, bow, Stout.”

Stout bowed.

“What news do you bring?” Ziyadi asked, her pale, slender form half submerged in the shallows. She had her back to them and her tentacle head tresses cascaded from her shoulders, their animated tips curling and bobbing just beneath the calm surface.

“Only the best news, mistress,” Ser Crom said, rising from his bow with a plucked flower held between thumb and forefinger in an outstretched hand.

Ziyadi turned, regarding them with eyes black and smooth as opals. “No, thank you.”

“Of course, mistress. My mistake,” Ser Crom said. “Indeed, what flower can compare to the sweetest of water lilies that I’m so fortunate to behold?”

“Can I have it?” Stout asked.

Ser Crom twirled the stem and raised the plant to his partner and the troll grazed the flower from the human’s fist. “On to business, then?”

“You’re wasting precious time, Crom,” Sham said, a being as pale and slick of form as his mate, though standing almost a head shorter.

“As you say, Master Sham, I was merely upholding—”

“We did not get the sharp-stick,” Stout said, chewing on flecks of purple petals that stuck to his teeth and gums.

“They never expected us to!” Ser Crom sneered, then tried to smother his temper with a measured breath. “However, in our survey of the subterrane in question we did stumble upon a slight, uhm, challenge to our—that is to say, your illustrious plans.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Goblins,” Stout clarified. “Whole heap of goblins.”

Ziyadi narrowed lidless eyes before relaxing her pliant features. “They will soon move on.”

“They have,” Stout said.

“Then what is the problem?” Sham spat.

Ser Crom stopped Stout from responding with a palm to the troll’s rotund gut. “What—my forgetful friend fails to convey is that he might have caused some superficial damage to the grotto’s structure. During the operation he scratched—nay, grazed, really. Just a nick out of a supporting column.”

“Collapsed it,” Stout clarified again, ever helpful.

“What?” Sham now growled, baring pointed teeth from under his thin lips.

“A moment, love,” Ziyadi said, curling a long limb over her mate’s shoulder to gently restrain him. “Did you find the artifact?”

“We—believe we did come across the item in question, but since the cavern was, as of yet, still occupied, we deemed it prudent to seek your advice before proceeding with any designs for extraction. After all, we would not know how such a piece is to be handled with the care and deference owed to such—”

“How many?” Ziyadi asked Stout.

“One.”

“One?”

Stout brought his hand low. “One goblina. Small thing, smaller than club.”

Though lacking any discernible pupils, Ser Crom could feel the inky orbs shift back to him. “A rare sight, indeed,” Ser Crom said. “Usually the little banlings leave their clan to live with their own kind, but alas, the girl has proven to be a stubborn one.”

“Lord Crom,” Ziyadi said, the use of his former title making the old knight stiffen. “Focus.”

Sham came to stand abreast his mate. “Does she have the Lance?”

“No,” Stout said.

“No,” echoed Ser Crom. “But she’s currently trapped in the same cavern with no other way out. We would have breached the blockage ourselves, but with the Horde out in force, we dared not risk finding ourselves outnumbered to such an insurmountable degree.”

Ziyadi heaved a soft breath, her slender fingers dipping beneath the water. “A goblin horde is nigh unstoppable when out in force, but when confused and separated, they become—manageable.” She smiled thinly, staring at the clear water she stirred with tacit strokes. “I have another job for you two.”

“Ah, we are happy to be of service again, my mistress.”

“Don’t be so quick to bite,” Ziyadi said, lowering herself and letting her tentacle arms spread like a spider web as if to hug her submerged nest. “There can be no room for error. Fail me, and the first thing my brood tastes will be troll flesh.”

Ser Crom swallowed. “N-not human, flesh, mistress?”

Sham waded up the bank, a puckered tentacle rising menacingly. “What use is dry, tough, meat to our spawn? No, I’ll pop and snap your bones to the tune of a lullaby, how does that sound?”

Ser Crom felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “I take your meaning, sir.”

Ziyadi rose from the water, her naked form rippling, transmuting into the shape of a raven haired human female, tall, with glacial eyes that could cut the soul. “Stout, be a dear and hand me my robe.”

Stout did so.

“Thank you.” The shapeshifter covered herself and appraised Ser Crom with a dark lipped smile. “You’re a wizened man, Crom, past fifty, I believe?”

“Well past, Mistress,” Ser Crom said, batting his gaze so as not to stare at her nakedness.

Ziyadi closed her eyes and sighed. “Well past fifty, he says… Oh, what I would do with just half that number.”

“I’m twent—twenty—” Stout frowned, starting to count on his fingers.

Ziyadi snorted softly, evidently amused at the huge troll struggling to count his own age. “You’re such simple folk… It really isn’t fair how Vahm granted you such long lives while we are already at death’s door.”

“Mistress,” Ser Crom said, feeling compelled to raise the woman from her lament. “You must take into account what you’ve accomplished in the few years your, uhm, noble biology allows. Why, if you would live even a fraction longer—”

“I’d be able to teach my children everything I know,” Ziyadi snapped, causing Crom to take a reflexive step back. But then her posture lilted and she hugged herself, staring at the little outcrop far removed from the river rapids of Rewer Zamin. “You can’t possibly understand, my dear Crom. Out of thousands, only a handful of my children will survive. What a curse it is. To be born perfect in an imperfect world with no one to guide them through their insultingly short lives.”

Stout scratched the back of his short-cropped head. “I could teach them.”

Ziyadi smirked. “Well, if all else fails…” She drew a deep breath, turning back to them. “Stout. I will need you to nick a few more support columns…”

Stout smiled. “Yes, mistress.”