Page 1 of Court of Treachery

1

DIMITRI

The stench of carrion on the warm, moist air clogged Dimitri’s nostrils. Dimitri took shallow breaths through his mouth to avoid the worst of it. He resisted the urge to flinch away from the denizens prowling around them, darting forward and back to test the boundaries. Dimitri and Saradon turned with them, never revealing their backs to the scavengers surrounding them. The threat of their elven power kept the goblins at bay.

Saradon seemed unperturbed by the nature of their hosts. He stood tall and uncowed by the numbers that faced them, unbothered by the shrill chatter that echoed around the caves. It peppered their ears with harsh clicks and guttural shrieks that Dimitri wished he could silence, because they grated on his very bones. His head pounded. But it would not do to offend the goblin horde, for Saradon had brought him here to seek their help.

Dimitri wished he had never mentioned them. Never fed Saradon the information that they massed in rebellion against the dwarven kingdom of Valtivar. He had meant to seed instability in Tournai, not inspire Saradon to seek a new ally. They were even worse in person than he had feared, and for thefirst time, he wondered how any of the reports had ever made it back, for the goblins were not shy about their murderous intent.

How could these creatures be an ally? More importantly, how would they, a strife-loving species, bring a peaceful vision for Pelenor? Misgivings lurked in Dimitri’s mind, but he pushed them aside.

At the subtle beckon of Saradon’s curling finger, Dimitri stepped forward, bearing the small chest. A bribe. It had been easy to take from the king’s horde unnoticed, so trivial it was to Toroth. But the goblins’ shrieks intensified at the sight as he flipped the lid back to reveal a nest of cut and polished gems. Immediately, it was snatched from his grasp by warm and unpleasantly clammy hands. Knobby calluses and broken nails scraped across his skin in their haste. Dimitri clenched his jaw and forced himself to slowly lower his hands to his sides. He longed to recoil and cleanse himself, his skin crawling with the ghost of their touch.

Squabbling amongst themselves to touch the stones and carry the chest, they hauled it to the goblinpascha, their leader, biting and clawing each other out of the way. Torn, dark rags of mismatched leathers, skin, and furs fluttered about them as they fought. Like so much else of theirs, it seemed cobbled together with whatever scraps they found or took, having no protection against the seeping cold of the stone underfoot.

Dimitri wondered fleetingly how they coped, scrabbling around barefoot, before realising that he cared not—he just wanted to leave. It took four of them to lift the chest, so bowed and stunted were they. If they stood tall, they would have come to Dimitri’s chest. Their advantage laid in numbers and feral abandon, not in training or strength.

These goblins were bigger than thetikrit, the lowest goblins of all. Those thigh-high creatures hovered around the fringes ofthe gathering, as was their place, too lowly and puny to dare enter the presence of thepascha.

Thepaschahissed with anticipation, showing his filed, yellowing teeth. “Ssssssspeak,” he growled as he scooped up handfuls of gems and let them flow through his splayed fingers. He spoke the Common Tongue with difficulty, as if his mouth struggled to form itself around the words. His sibilant voice echoed, and the host around them quieted at his orders, their attention shifting to Dimitri and Saradon. Shadows flickered on the wall, thrown by the huge pyre in the centre of the cave. It was a constant grotesque dance, the host’s shadows cavorting behind them, each form distorted on the rough-hewn stone.

Dimitri stirred and inclined his head, though not too much. The goblins needed no opportunity to think he and Saradon were weak or subservient. “Announcing Lord Saradon Ettrias Thelnar of House Ravakian.”

Hisses arose and the frenzy around them intensified, until a glare from Saradon and a guttural bark from thepaschasilenced them.

“I know that name,” said thepascha. He bared his teeth at Saradon. “It cannot be. He is dead.”

“I was never dead,” Saradon said and stalked forward. He spread his hands wide and turned in a slow circle, inviting them all to look at him. “I am Lord Saradon, and I will take my dues. I bring my blade, as proof of my claim.” Saradon drew his sword with a metal hiss, holding it high. The slim, river-steel blade shimmered with its own glow in the dark cavern, and the ruby pommel blazed with a bloody light. The instant outcry of shrieking and chattering confirmed that the goblins indeed knew the legend of his blade that, before he had come to wield it, had slain many of their kind in the hands of his forefathers. “You will help me, and I will raise you from this pitiful hole in the ground to where you desire.”

The chatter crescendoed around them, the undercurrent of energy shifting from hostility to a thrill at the sight of that blade. Dimitri snuck a glance around the cave. It was much as their underground passage had been. Once great, carved, dwarven halls under the hills ruined by the vermin now inhabiting them. Pristine carvings had been battered and chipped away until they were unrecognisable, and the walls ran red with daubed blood. Whose, Dimitri did not care to dwell on.

The dwarves had abandoned it, albeit reluctantly, with the ebb and flow of their race’s dominion over the land as they chased the seams of mineral riches through the mountains. The goblins had been only too eager to seize the location and strip it of any association with its former masters. The dwarves had closed ranks to defend their remaining strongholds, abandoning the occasional tunnel network or spent mine.

The goblin’s location was but a small part of the dwarven realm of Valtivar, but the rift between the races ran deep. Ever had the goblins loved the caves and fought the dwarves for control of their territory. Inexorably, with their failure to present a unified force, and instead fractured by infighting amongst clans, they had been pushed back and, as in the case of thetikrit,enslaved by the dwarves for their own ends.

It was the only incentive Saradon could offer that they would have been tempted by. He had chosen wisely, as much as Dimitri disagreed.

Thepaschabared his teeth in a feral smile. “You will take Valtivar with us?” Dimitri saw the greedy gleam in his eyes at the prospect.

“We will. After you help me take Tournai,” Saradon clarified. His tone was dark with the threat of revenge for those who had wronged him. Dimitri felt it, too. “As it should have been five hundred years ago, so it will be now. I will rule Pelenor. You mayhave Valtivar. I care not for the dwarves. Do what you will with their strongholds.”

Dimitri stiffened. He could not have heard him correctly. Why would Saradon make such a generous offer, one that involved the fall of their own, most desired kingdom? Surely Saradon would not ally Pelenor with their historic enemies.

Thepaschaclicked, hissed, and chattered in his strange tongue to his chieftains, who lurked behind him. They were all dressed in the finest garbs, taken and re-shaped from dwarves, men, and even elves, judging by the patterns on their robes. Dimitri swallowed his distaste.

“We will consider it,” thepaschasaid eventually. “Leave us.”

To Dimitri’s surprise, Saradon did not challenge the lack of respect, but turned on his heel without a further word and strode out, Dimitri quick to follow.Tikritbounded through the wide halls, close enough to snatch at their heels, though they did not dare to, scattering away on all fours as soon as they got too close. The goblin-kin surrounded them, stampeding down the halls in chaos.

Saradon refused to be hurried. Dimitri matched his confident stride through the seething mass of bodies. Dimitri could bear the moist, fetid, rotting air no longer. It pressed down upon him like a physical force. As the first caress of outside air touched his cheek, he hurried forward until they burst through the shattered dwarven doors into the cool night air to breathe in deep, fresh breaths.

A heartbeat later, they raced side by side through the ether of the world. Dimitri had been unsurprised to learn that Saradon could travel as he did, unseen through the shadows of the world’s essence. Little surprised him about Saradon now… except his deal with the goblins. Had Saradon learned his skills at the same hands as Dimitri? Hands teaching arcane ways in a secret order that did not exist? One that had inspired Dimitri’sown dreams of defiance and creating a new order, but one that, in the end, he had been desperate to escape.

As they stopped, stepping from the void into Dimitri’s chambers in Tournai, the royal city of Pelenor, Dimitri turned to Saradon. “Lord Saradon, you cannot be serious about dealing with such…” He could not find a word that fit how lowly and scum-like the goblins were, how beneath either of their notice. This was not the new order he wanted to create.

Saradon barked with laughter as he grabbed a crystal tumbler and helped himself to the contents of Dimitri’s finest drink before he answered. “They are a means to an end. Fear not, Dimitrius.” Saradon sank onto a couch before the roaring fire, then beckoned for Dimitri to join him.

Dimitri drew closer but did not sit.

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