The potion appeared to work because a few moments later he felt ready for anything, full of beans, or possibly full of avec. Why, in the face of all the gods, had he been so apprehensive when there was absolutely nothing to be frightened of, oh dear no!
This cheerful state of mind continued right up until the moment they spotted the red lights of the railhead shining out like a beacon through the surrounding woodlands. Leaving the most elderly goblins with the twigs[46] hiding in the undergrowth as only goblins could hide, Moist and the rest crept forward.
The young men in the travelling work gang had crafted themselves cosy little shacks covered with oilskin. These were extremely portable and always a place where a friendly face could be certain of a hot drink, stirred with a spanner, of course. And if no gamekeepers were known to be about, a wild avec and rabbit stew might also be available for an al fresco meal.
Indeed, the pot of stew still bubbling over the embers of the camp fire smelled as good as any Moist remembered. He had expected to see the young lads he had met only that morning, cheerfully tucking in after a hard day’s work. He had not expected to see corpses … but corpses were what he found. By the glow of the fire and the pale light of the lanterns, he could see that the workers had many things that could usefully have been employed as a weapon, but they had evidently been taken unawares. It had been a terrible encounter and most certainly they had lost. A quick assay of body parts indicated that there had been nine of them, cut down while having their meal outside their makeshift bothy.
Of the Twilight the Darkness was instantly on the case, sniffing the corpses and the ground.
‘The damn dwarfs have been here, oh yes, can smell the naaaasty buggers! But some of them still here,’ he added quickly, pointing to a small piece of woodland in the distance and dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Hiding in the wood’ — sniff — ‘over there’ — sniff — ‘several, one injured.’ His beady goblin eye was glittering and Moist … Moist had a sudden sensation of being on fire.
‘Please,’ he managed to say, ‘please, tell me, what is the goblin for “Charge!”?’
Much, much later, Moist remembered that he had heard the goblin say at least the beginning of the word and then the whole world was a crimson haze full of shouting and the dark fog of war. He felt his arms and legs going about their terrible business, especially his arms, and he was aware of noises, unpleasant noises, cracking noises, splatting noises, but they came as a kind of incoherent memory, as did the screams … Little parcels of recollection bobbing up and down like the bubbles in a bottle of home-made ginger beer, coming and going and never staying long enough to mean anything. But the bubbles were gradually drifting away now and, when he came to what was left of his senses, he was lying with his back up against a tree.
The railhead camp fire had been relit and to Moist’s bemused amazement there were the signs of dawn on the horizon — but hadn’t they been in this place for only a couple of minutes? Of the Twilight the Darkness was sitting on a lump of wood near by, smoking a pipe and occasionally blowing smoke rings into the early blue sky. It was a sight that a painter would love to paint, were it not necessary to paint it in various shades of blood, and, to do justice to the scene, with several tubes of gore and a splash of whatever colour you needed for guts. Moist’s memory of the night before was now strewn with corpses.
‘Well now, ain’t you a dark horse, Mister Dripping!’ grinned the goblin. ‘Who ever would thought it? Tell you this: you ain’t half going to be sore later. You done a man’s job! Almost goblin job! Three! Count ’em! Well, count bits of ’em and work it out, but three dwarf crack fighters smash down like skittles. Two of ’em wearing first-class micromail armour, assassin grade, worth mint. Pillage. Here, take this as souvenir to show Miss Adora Belle. Good on mantelpiece!’
The goblin threw over what Moist had thought was a lump of wood and which he could now see was the head of a dwarf, still inside its helmet.
‘That’s right! Get it out of system! Throw it up, throw it up and throw it up again. Very good for tubes, does world of good. Better out than in.’
Moist staggered to his feet and said, through the winding mists, ‘I couldn’t have killed three dwarfs! I’m no fighter! Never! It plays havoc with your shoes.’
‘Reckon dwarfs would disagree. Mind you, I show the one over there bit of goblin disapproval, as you may say! Especially when I got him on ground. Most time, everybody keep out of your way, just in case. You was getting a bit … indiscriminate, oh yeees. Still, no harms done.’
‘No harm done?’ Moist wailed. ‘I just killed three dwarfs! Wouldn’t you say that counts as a little harm?’
‘Was fair fight, Mister Slightly Damp. One against many, like in best anecdote. Tell you already, most us lads climbing trees to get away from you. And you not a fighter. You said this, we all hear.’
‘It was that drink! That’s what it was! You’ve filled me full of goblin rot-gut! Who knows what it’s done to me!’
‘Me?’ said Of the Twilight the Darkness, trying to look hurt. ‘I keep you alive so you will see your very nice lady, who is always kind to goblins. Take from me, Mister Sopping, that drink just open up what’s there already.’
‘And what was here, may I ask?’
‘Rage, Mister Dripping. You let something off leash. Now you can help us clean bloody mess and get us out of here.’
Moist looked at what remained of the railway workers who had just been doing their job, being no threat to anybody. Simple men who knew nothing whatsoever about politics and had wives and children and were now lying dead for a quarrel they had nothing to do with, and the rage swelled up again, almost lifting him off the ground. They hadn’t deserved it, nor had those goblins whose fallen corpses he now saw here and there across the battlefield.
Of the Twilight the Darkness was staring at him and said, ‘Amazing, what things we learn, that goblins can be people and you, Mister Damp, has a heart and crying because of death of men you don’t know. World is full of miracle. Maybe I will see you singing in choir.’
In the misty light of morning Moist stared at the grinning goblin: as evil-looking as anything in a picture book that was designed to give the little kiddies all the nightmares they would ever need, and yet reading him a lecture on morality.
‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been listening to you for days, and you look like a goblin, no doubt about that, but every so often you come out with something I wouldn’t expect to hear from a goblin. No offence meant, but you are a smart one.’
The goblin relit his pipe, which made him somehow more human, and said carefully, ‘Are you saying goblins not ever clever, Mister Lipwig? Goblins not ever brave? Goblins not ever learn? Me, finest learner. All things to all men and all goblins.’
Moist looked at the little pile of micromail armour. It was treasure and a half. Light and strong. And easy to carry. And worth a fortune, lying there on the damp grass. He looked into the goblin’s eyes.
‘All yours, Mister Lipwig. To the victor the spoils,’ Of the Twilight the Darkness said cheerfully.
‘No. They can have it,’ said Moist, indicating the Quirmian goblins.
‘Don’t need it,’ said the goblin. ‘Take your spoils, Mister Lipwig. You never know when useful.’