Oh how lovely to once again feel the rush of the wind against my face.  There are the night sounds too, of course, but this of the rising air is intoxicating to me.  I had forgotten how much I loved to fly.

But I know that I do not fly, I but stand at the edge and hear and feel, though not with my true self.  This self I have chosen sighs of its own accord it almost seems.

I open my eyes in the Captain’s quarters.  I am only standing on his balcony hung on the side of the tallest tower of the capital city, not flying at all. I have hid myself in that damned cave too long.

A smile twists my lips as I turn and walk inside.  I confess, I’ve left the captain’s quarters a mess.  The dead whore in his bed will be particularly difficult for Allston Soulaucy to explain.  But it is all arranged. The madam will remember that the Captain of the City guard gazed at her with favor and that his man, me of course, paid the blood price for her.  Even in the capital city of the most righteous of kings the most disgusting perversions can be had for the right price.

There is a knock at the door.  “My Lord?  Do you have need of me?” calls a voice, quavering slightly.  I think the captain is not so kind to subordinates as he might be.  One wonders if they will miss him at all.  Likely they will easily believe the worst of a man they despised already.

“I don’t need you,” I croak, “Go away.” I catch my reflection in one of the captain’s many mirrors.  I am covered in the whore’s blood, literally from head to foot.  What if the man suspects?  What if he comes in?  I tense to deal with him like I did the woman, but relax as I hear retreating footfalls.

I must do something about all this blood.  There is a basin and water.  I wipe the gore from my body, the worst of it, I take more care with my face and hands.  I will need to presentable when I leave with the marvelous suit of armor I found treasured in an armoire.  Fit for the commander of the king’s personal guard unless I miss my guess.

Paladin are strange folk.  It may well be that it would please the captain to know that he will never face the disgrace of the allegations.  He will answer no more questions ever again.

More likely he would be tormented that he will never clear his name, not from where he lies in the belly of the wurm at the heart of Ashimura, not where his bright armor will lie in my horde when his flesh and bone have nourished me and only his armor is left intact to be eliminated.

I close my eyes to remember the delicious surprise.  “Enough of your games, Giard.  I will speak to the Wurm at the Heart of Ashimura myself.” He had said and when I begged him for patience he had run me through.  The cold steel of his sword had caused me such delicious agony.  His boot had shoved this poor shell into the soup of my resting place making the transition of my consciousness simultaneous.

I’m sure he thought he’d killed weak Giard.  Oh the delicious irony.  I saw the fear before I slipped beneath the water.  These poor eyes witnessed his shock and horror as the massive bulk of my true body rose from the depths and I beheld him through two sets of eyes, one above and one below, when a blast of fire from my maw crisped him to tasty deliciousness.

I don’t know where the idea that dragons enjoy virgins ever got started, I’ve always preferred my prey with more meat and wrapped in shiny metal.  Oh I had my fill when I ate two whole armies (Not really, I had my choice of the shiniest bits and left the rest to the crows,) but I imagine that’s how the legend went until this new king, calling himself the dragon, built his citadel upon the great volcanic rock that I crawled beneath to digest my meal.

I look at the whore, torn and bloody, on the bed.  A sad thing really, she looks more lovely dead than alive.  There is some recovery of innocence in death, I think.  When I choked the life out of her she did not fight as hard as her young body should have.  There was a sad resignation that made the killing so much less enjoyable than the arrogant captain.  Ah well, she is mere window dressing.

None will mourn you Allston Soulaucy, and when they hunt for you, they will not find you.

I was back in the dark hole of the sidhe.  It was cool, but in the pit of my stomach there was colder ice.  I was afraid for my people and afraid for myself.  If they were truly gone I, who was familiar with being alone from time to time, was not just alone I was lost.

I scrambled to my feet.  There was light from the hole I had collapsed in the false roof of the sidhe.  I don’t know why I’d been so stupid.  There was dry wood aplenty in the wreckage.  I had steel and flint, I had my tinderbox.  It was the work of a few moments and I had a fire started.  I reserved a manageable branch for a torch.  Moments later I could again clearly see the inside of the sidhe.  There were still metal items that had caught the light, tarnish dulled, they had suffered from inattention.

With torch in hand I walked to the entrance of the tunnel that Jella called the souterrain.  I found the loose otter stone and its cache of lamp and oil.  My first instinct was to go as quickly as possible to find my people. 

On a moments reflection I remembered my seeing.  My visions were true.  My visions of Jella, the lamp and oil, this pendant with flint and steel that I held was proof enough.  I had seen our camp overrun, I couldn’t go there.  It was too late to warn, my duty and my hope was to find.  So I put the lamp in my pack, and I put the pendant around my neck.  I walked back into the great hall of the sidhe to see if there was something, anything, that would help us. . .”

“Did you find your people Grand-father?”  asked the youngest.

The elder boys elbowed the youngest. “He’s here isn’t he?”

“I did find our people.  Most of them.  Some of the other lads who had gone out before didn’t come back, but warning arrived before I knew of the danger.  We had to run and sneak and we didn’t have deer or horses to ride either.  We got food from the secret place which supplied us for our flight south, but our warring with the evil hordes cost us plenty.”

There was a yawn, and another.  “Well, that’s pretty much what I know about the deer-riders.  Maybe you three aught to go find your beds.”

The boys looked at each other and didn’t move as fast as they usually did he thought.  “Of course you can help yourself to what’s left of dinner.  Can’t have good bread go to waste.”

The boys dug in and murmured thanks as they parcelled out the last of supper.  Mouths still full, the boys exited the tent.  They were mounted in a flash, almost before the old man could make it out of his tent.

The eldest turned back before he and the others rode off, “Thank you Grand-father.” His fellows mumbled their thanks around their last mouthfuls.

“Off with you then my lads.  You’re likely to scare the Deer Riders off if you’re around making noise and chewing so loudly.”

“Right, scare off the deer-riders, “Laughing, they waved and pelted off toward the main camp leaving the old man alone with his thoughts. 

He closed his eyes.  Perhaps from long practice or because he was older now and the veil between life and death was thinner for him now, but he could see so much easier now.  As forgetful as he was becoming he could imagine walking away from his body and just never coming back.  Perhaps that was what dying was.  The man felt sure he would know someday soon.

But tonight he flew above the world.  He saw from above the herd deer’s approach.  He saw the stream of tawny bodies and clattering horn.  They were coming.  The moon was often his guide, somethings do not change.  Now he felt the rush of the herd through his feet.  His old horse nickered.  He breathed deep. Was that the deer he smelled?

He walked briskly to the spot he had chosen.  On a little knoll above his camp there was a tree with roots sunk into the rocky hill top.  He had almost left himself short.  He turned just in time to see the first of the herd deer burst over the nearby rise.  His hand found purchase on the tree for stability and comfort.  He could hear the coming of the deer now as well as feel it. 

The herd cleared the rise before him on a broad front and it split to pass his place by the tree.  The beasts were running blind for the most part now.  But the tree was a big enough obstruction. 

He had old eyes in an old body, but eyes aren’t the only way to see, he knew.  And so he saw.  On the back of a deer, a bit larger than most, was a person he knew. He smiled, it was good to see old friends, a bit sad to remember others. “Heyaah!  Oren,” He yelled.

“Heyaah Dream-Walker,”  The deer-rider called and waved as he thundered past among the tawny deer.

I am the mother of my people.  I am the chief of my clan.  I fought Gloona and beat her until she yielded.  I led our females to drive off the rouge, Mulak, when he killed Peltook.  I faced him and drove him off.  But Gloona was too proud until I beat her.

I am the mother.  I wish there was no need for males, no need for a mate, but we need young to grow strong.  We still raise Peltook’s last brood.  Moogat, the witch, says I should eat them as many mothers do when they rise.  This I will not do.

Our males are too young or I would choose from them and chase away the rest.  I must choose between two bad paths.  I must go to other clans and take a mate or I must find a band of ogres, bachelors who may or may not have gone mad with blood lust.

I am now mother.  I mate, but I will keep no mate.  Moogat warns that this is not the path of wisdom.  Moogat talks and talks, but I see no wisdom in her words.  Her council is empty.  Moogat talks to Gloona too and I know some of the words.

Perhaps I will chase Moogat and Gloona out of the clan like we chase off the old males that like to kill the females and eat the young.  Sometimes smart and swift is better than strong.

It is strange that only the mother breeds.  Don’t we need more young?  What if every mature female was a mother and a clan was like a gathering of clans?

This I will think on.

This little snippet gives an idea of one small Gobli clan. I doubt seriously that they will think of themselves in terms that Tolkien did. Perhaps I will come up with something better, but in truth these creatures are a reflection of nightmare in a mind touched by the All Mind. If that mind thought in Tolkiensian terms then it is possible that they would be known by Tolkien’s names. Perhaps I can construct a better foundation. Anyhow, this is a start.