“You dare mutilate our mistress,” the knight with the claw hands cried. “Defiler! Despoiler!”
“You will die for your transgression,” another knight added. He reached toward her, his hands turning to wispy claws.
Obelia! Feril’s mind screamed. Obelia! Help me!
The specter of the ancient sorcerer appeared above and behind the line of knights, his sage companions forming a foggy cloud near him. Obelia’s hollow eyes met Feril, and he sadly shook his head.
“We cannot help you, elf-fish.”
Dhamon! she wanted to scream.
Looking around wildly, she could see no sign of her shadow.
Feril reached for the dropped sword, held the pommel tightly, and swung it wide. The blade harmlessly passed through the approaching ghost knights.
“You will die,” they said as one.
One smiling ghost knight floated so close that his form brushed against her. “Your spirit, too, will help guard this sacred dragon.”
10
Ragh hadn’t smelled a skunk in some time, spending so many months in the swamp where the creatures weren’t normally found, but the foul smell made him think that a family of skunks was headed toward him and his favorite white oak. Ragh growled. He wasn’t afraid of skunks, wasn’t afraid of much of anything. Dragons, he had to admit, scared him some. He was definitely afraid of dragons, particularly Sable…and any significant number of Knights of Neraka.
He fished around in the grass and managed to find a handful of pebbles. These Ragh heaved toward the noise that was rustling around some ferns near the base of a tree, not quite finding his mark but getting close enough.
Still, the rustling grew louder, the offensive smell stronger, and when a small feather-decorated spear poked out above the ferns, he realized the smell was coming not from skunks but from something else entirely. A shrill cry cut through the morning sky and the woods came alive with the pounding of tiny feet.
“Goblins!” Ragh snarled and braced himself, holding his clawed hands out to his sides.
Less than three feet tall, the goblins in question were manlike in form but had scaly skins like lizards. Their faces were drawn forward, giving them a ratlike visage, and their ears—though some had been bitten off—were pointed. Some of the goblins were the red-brown color of dried clay; others were dark brown or dirty yellow. There was one white-skinned goblin in the mix. Scraggly clumps of hair grew on top of their otherwise bald heads, and their wild, wide eyes were black as night and fixed belligerently on the draconian as they attacked.
“An army of stinking goblins.” There were several dozen of them that Ragh could see. He couldn’t outrun them, as goblins were fast and agile, and he certainly couldn’t fly away, but he could fight them, and he relished the opportunity.
“Stinking rats.” Ragh snatched at the first goblin to reach him, his scaly fist closing about the creature’s throat and squeezing until he heard its neck snap. Ragh hurled the dead one into another trio of goblins that was rushing at him, spears thrust out as if to skewer him. The corpse bowled over the others, and Ragh crouched and turned his attention to a barrel-chested goblin who had come up close and was wielding a small axe.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he spat. “I’ll wet the ground with your putrid blood.”
Ragh’s voice was craggy, a rasping whisper that would have hinted at weakness or age had it come from another creature, but it got that way from many throat wounds earned in battle. His neck was thick with the scars. “Goblins come to bother me, fool thing for you to do. Stink up my tree. Last thing you’ll ever do.”
The draconian fought hard—not only against the goblins, but to keep from gagging, the stench from the goblins settling hard on his tongue and filling his nostrils. He’d traveled in the company of goblins before when he, Dhamon, and Maldred were heading to the mountains on the other side of the New Sea. They’d struck up a temporary alliance with some goblins, and those had looked up to Ragh as if he were some sort of general. Those goblins were from dry lands, and though they smelled bad, they didn’t stink so much as this bunch.
“By the memory of the Dark Queen! What did the lot of you roll in? Rats, you are! Stinking, filthy rats!” One of them jabbed at him with a spear. He cursed at the goblins in an old language he knew and kicked out at the one who dared jab him, the force of his blow caving in the small creature’s chest.
He slammed his fist down on the skull of another, smiling when he heard the bones crack and saw the goblin crumple. Ragh grabbed two more, one of them the white goblin he’d spotted, wringing both their scrawny necks. Tossing the two bodies over his shoulders, he picked up a fallen spear with his right hand and started skewering the red-skinned goblins. He alternately batted goblins away and bashed in their skulls. He had to step over a growing pile of bodies to keep fighting.
It was exhilarating to Ragh, after all these days of boredom. He threw back his head and howled, the sound quieting the goblins for a moment and giving the front rank pause. The spear slipped through his fingers, his hands were so coated with their black blood.
Ragh kicked one goblin so hard it sailed over the heads of his surprised fellows. He could read the hesitation on the faces of the closest goblins and the scent of their fear mingled with their stench.
“Stinking rats, come to disturb my morning!” the sivak cursed. His eyes sparkled darkly and a big grin spread wide across his scaly face. “I’ll kill all of you and let Dhamon toss the lot of your dead bodies in that damnable lake!”
Another goblin managed to get close, chattering maniacally, and jabbed a spear deep into his already-wounded leg.
“Foul little beasts!” Ragh hollered, stepping back and shaking his claws dripping with goblin blood. “What are you doing in these parts, anyway?”
The goblin tugged the spear free and stabbed again at the same wound. He cluttered at Ragh and eluded the sivak’s grasp, lunging at Ragh’s stomach.
One of the tallest goblins shouted long and loud in its spitting guttural tongue. Ragh had spent enough centuries on Krynn to learn most languages. The tall goblin had said, “Hurt him, yes, but don’t kill the wingless one. We need him alive!”
Alive? Ragh redoubled his efforts, though his arms and legs were moving slower from wounds and fatigue. What in the memory of the Dark Queen would a pack of goblins want with an old, scarred draconian without wings?
Another wave of goblins rushed out of the trees. Ragh guessed there were a hundred or more of the disgusting creatures. In general, goblins certainly weren’t anything to fear…but how many more of them were lurking nearby?
An uncharacteristic chill raced down Ragh’s spine, and he risked a glance over his shoulder at the lake. The surface was still and there was no sign of the elf or Dhamon. Calling for help would do no good; he doubted anyone would hear him underwater.
Ragh slammed his teeth together and growled from deep in his chest. He fought against the fatigue and clawed at every goblin within reach. He didn’t cry out for mercy, even when they gradually circled and cornered him, jabbing at the back of his legs with their tiny spears and knives.
Mere pinpricks, he told himself. They can’t hurt me. Ragh ripped open the chest of the tall goblin whom he’d heard ordering the others not to kill him. Then he trampled the body and tore into a couple more. The draconian’s eyes were watering fiercely—from the exertion, from the strong smells of blood and the reeking goblins. He batted at his eyes and shook his head to clear his vision.