“More wine.” Nolin waggles his cup.
“Right away, sir!” The cringing, officious goblin servant scurries over with a crystal flagon to refill his goblet. “I’m sorry you have to wait. But we have people out looking for your dwarven friends, we’ll have your winnings delivered shortly, and a healer should be here in just a few minutes to heal your lesser gladiator.” He shows his teeth in an attempt to smile.
Galthia’s long face scowls, but Nolin smiles easily. “Plus 10% of those winnings for me as an agent, of course,” he reminds the goblin. The creature bobs its head eagerly, clearly not wanting to upset the people who just defeated the most powerful woman in Akin’s Throat.
Malachite turns from where he’s been standing in the richly furnished room. He scratches his shoulder in distracted annoyance. “This is all well and good, but I need more information.” He flexes his fists and glares at the goblin servant, who goes pale and stands at attention while bobbing his head submissively. “Who owns this place? What is it used for?”
The goblin stops sweating as much. “Oh, nice people own it,” he wheedles unconvincingly. “Mistresses Luccia and Ellius. They run the Arena, punish criminals, and help keep order here in the Throat! Very good, very important.” He pauses, and then ventures cautiously, “Mistress Ellius is very pleased with you, has given you a bonus, said anything you want you get. She’s very friendly. Mistress Luccia, who is friendly in a different kind of way, may be a little…” The goblins swallows, a sound like a sparrow choking. “…annoyed with you when she returns tomorrow.”
Malachite chuckles mirthlessly. “She’s not returning.”
“Oh no, Master,” says the goblin sadly as it spreads its gangly arms in emphasis. “This happens maybe once, twice a year. She is always back next day.” It shivers and cringes in remembrance. “Always in a bad mood.”
“Not this time.” The goblin looks at him in amused disbelief, and nods politely. Don’t anger the human and his hurtful sword, it thinks. Very stupid. Better to stay alive. He will see. It gazes around the room, eyes lingering on Mara. Good for making baby goblins? it thinks hopefully. I wonder if… no. Stupid idea. Stupid ideas get goblins killed! Quiet and polite, that’s the rule. Maybe then they will favor me. It smiles widely and offers the flagon to anyone needing more wine. I hope he’s right about Mistress Luccia. Mistress Ellius is so much kinder than.. no! Mustn’t think it! Mustn’t think it! He focuses back on the conversation, just as Malachite is finishing a sentence. “…for good.”
The goblin pulls on its chin. “Hrmmm. You know, if you would like to make more money, you can have more battles,” it offers hesitantly. “Very popular, you’ll be! Good money, much fame.” He looks sly and glances towards Galthia, who glares back at him. “Would not have to be to the death, if you like each other or are scared.”
Mara turns from readjusting her armor’s breastplate. “What, we’d fight each other?” The goblin flushes at the sound of her voice, but manages to keep his train of thought.
“If you’d want to. Or animals, or monsters, or slaves. Ellius and Luccia would certainly approve.”
“We’ll consider it.” Malachite shakes his head. “In fact, I’d like to see Ellius. Now.” Unconsciously, his hands tighten on Karthos’ hilt as he remembers standing in the arena and detecting her undead nature in the balcony above him. Mushrooms and coins had been tossed down into the gravel towards him by cheering spectators, but his attention had been wholly consumed by the vampire’s partner.
Gritting its teeth and cringing preemptively from the typical vicious blow, the goblin shakes its head. “I’m very sorry. She has gone away. She told us that we are to be very nice to you, to congratulate you, for me to offer you employment, that she is indebted to you – but that she is sadly unable to meet with you. Very sorry, but impossible.”
Smart vampire, thinks Galthia as he sits with his exhausted muscles twitching. I wouldn’t see him either. Me, on the other hand… He sighs. I have failed on several levels. I was not taught to be self-sufficient just so others could save me. He feels shame curling around him like wood smoke, and tries to fight down the emotion. In his weakened state, with negative energy still coursing through his thin body, it takes everything he has not to give in to despair.
“You will like Akin’s Throat,” the goblin is chattering. “Everything important is here – good food, supplies, slaves, mercenaries, healers, the arena. Everything good.”
“We’re looking forward to seeing it,” says Tao politely from over by the hors d’ouveres tray. “Say, do you have more of these little meat things? They’re pretty tasty.”
Malachite changes the subject. “By the way, we’re taking the frog-creature with us when we go. My agent here,” he nods at Nolin wryly, “will arrange details.” The goblin looks appalled, but nods gamely.
The door bangs open, and the arena’s manager scuttles in. His rich dress looks odd on a hunchbacked goblin, but he seemed competent enough when he left to find Galthia a healer. “I am back! We have found your dwarven friends just outside of the city, and they are on their way. Meanwhile, I have brought help for the brave gladiator!” He bows quickly and steps to the side, as a hideous humanoid beetle in robes enters the room. Its bulging eyes survey the heroes, and then it buzzes something incomprehensible as it moves towards Galthia. Agar screams and dives behind a couch.
“Wait!” Velendo quickly pushes himself to his feet and fights down his natural revulsion. “Greeting, friend. What God do you worship?” The beetle-man buzzes something as its mandibles clack together, and the richly dressed goblin translates. “He worships Mog, of course. The Beetle God.” The goblin smiles reassuringly. “Very respected.” The chitinous cleric pulls out a scroll that looks like it has been inscribed upon a huge insect’s diaphanous wing and turns towards Galthia.
“Aah.” Velendo trades looks around the room, trying to think quickly. “Say, I’ll tell you what. We have peculiar religious beliefs. Is that a scroll of the restoration spell?” The cleric of Mog buzzes in confirmation. “Then if you would permit it, would you consider giving me the scroll and letting me heal him? It would certainly be appreciated.” The cleric of Mog looks at the goblin, who shrugs, so the cleric buzzes his approval and hands Velendo the scroll with one multi-jointed arm. “Thank you. You’re very kind to come.” The cleric buzzes politely, and scuttles away.
As the door shuts, Agar sticks his head out from behind the furniture. “Is he gone yet?”
“Yes, Agar. He’s gone.”
“Good.” He wipes sweat from his brow. “I don’t like this place. They have some sort of weird obsession with bugs.”
* * *
Later, Malachite has been paid and the group has been reunited with Splinder, Priggle, and most of the dwarven troops. Not all the troops, though, as ten of them apparently took advantage of Silissa’s offer to travel to Moradin’s Forge. “I didn’t know at the time,” storms Splinder, “and no one else told me. They thought they’d be better able to deal with our God’s demesnes than you folk could. They’ll probably die, but they’ll die in heaven.” Splinder looks furious.
“Say, what happened to Olum?” asks Velendo.
“We showed up just outside of town. When I came to, he was gone.” Most of the group lets out a heavy sigh.
“Well, that’s too bad,” says Velendo. “He would have been a huge help to us. But at least he promised not to oppose us or help our enemies.” Malachite lets out a noncommittal grunt.
They walk slowly through the town of Akin’s Throat, strolling under giant mushrooms and past ponderously hovering flumphs. A geyser explodes off to their left as they pass a duergar-run smithy and weapon shop named Prust’s Forge. They pause just outside of a “rainy zone,” where an underground stream above their heads dribbles off of dozens of stalactites in the ceiling overhead to create a colorful field of molds and fungus that flourishes in the damp heat. They stop at a skaven-run clothier’s booth named “Skins and Pelts” to try and gather information from hostile and suspicious ratmen. Everywhere they go, people point to Malachite, and a surreptitious crowd of a dozen or so goblins and kobolds follow behind them to see if he’ll get in any fights.
Soon after they pass the smelly wares of a very old kuo toa fishmonger, the group pauses at a booth named “Dimm’s Halfling Fingers.”
“Damn, that smells good,” sniffs Nolin, nose twitching. Agar looks at him askance.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry!” croons the cheerful goblin behind the cart. “They aren’t real halfling fingers! But they are delicious.”
“Thank goodness,” says Agar, wiggling his hands in front of him.
“After all, you’d never be able to find enough real halflings down this deep.” Agar glares and snatches back his hands. The goblin smiles a friendly grin. “Want an order?”
“Sure!” says Nolin. In front of him, the goblin reaches into a case and pulls out a large, squeaking white mouse. He dunks it into a container of sticky clay and then drops it into a vat of boiling oil. Tao winces. In just a moment, the goblin fishes out the hardened clay ball and cracks it open with a rock. The clay pulls away the mouse fur, leaving behind a perfectly cooked meat snack.
Nolin looks at it with one flaming eyebrow raised, scarfs it down, and smiles broadly. “Delicious!”
“The trick is to only use fresh healthy mice,” encourages Dimm in a confidential whisper, as if imparting a trade secret. “I’ve been cooking them here for years. Same oil, too!”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” says Velendo dubiously. “This is disgusting. But it.. oh.. it smells so good. Oh, just give me one!” Dimm the goblin salutes and gets down to business, and soon most of the group is feasting on delicious deep-fried mouse.
“These are much better than one of Laujin’s brain pies,” confides Dimm.
“Brain pies?” asks Mara. Dimm nods. “Is that.. er.. run by a mind flayer?” Dimm nods. “Thanks for the warning. I think we’ll pass.” She looks like she’s using every ounce of restraint she has not to be detecting evil. Distractedly, she scratches her sweating shoulder, and looks around. “I don’t like the look of most of the people – or creatures here. What if they’re all foul?”
“Even if they are, they’re still opposed to the ghouls,” says Nolin as he bites off one final deep-fried mouse tail. “That’s got to be worth something. Let’s not borrow trouble when we have more important enemies to worry about, huh?” Mara reluctantly nods.
“Then come on. Let’s go explore.”
To be continued…
