The Great Goblin Prophet of Orcon lies face down on the floor, telling himself, it's just one of those days. Blood trickles down from the corner of his mouth where his lip has been split open. His cheeks are swollen and his eyes are black. Illians have been working him over for two days, now and he does not know how much more of it he can take. He lifts himself up on one elbow, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. The two illian warriors, standing over him, are grinning. Scryier would like to knock the grin right off their hideous faces, but he's not certain that would be terribly beneficial at this time.

 

    "What a shame," Arama says, his head shaking back and forth. He is sitting behind a rickety wooden table in a soft, buck skin chair. He lifts his feet up onto the table. "My heart is heavy with the burden of having to watch two more warriors disburse so much of their energy beating you to a pulp."

 

    "Stuff it, y' bloody baboon."

 

    Arama nods and a warrior kicks Scryier squarely in the gut. The goblin lets out a blood curdling cry. He rolls onto his stomach and struggles to catch his breath. The warrior struck him precisely where the wolf tore into his belly and now he is bleeding all over again. The wound has not bled since the griblit treated it to several of her powders some five days ago. Now it is bleeding all over again and the goblin wonders how much blood he has left to spare.

 

    He also wonders about Sandrell. Were they doing the same to her, or is she already dead?

 

    A warrior nudges Scryier with the toe of his boot and the goblin climbs to his knees. The goblin leans forward on elbows that are sore. He imagines his eyes are as black as night and can already feel the right one swelling shut. His ribs ache. Blood cakes his mouth and nose. He cannot last much longer. If his luck does not change soon, it will never go sour again.

 

    "One more time," Arama adds. "Where is the wizard?"

 

    "The wizard," Scryier begins.

 

    Arama sits up and leans forward. The goblin has finally lost his resolve.

 

    "Yes?" Arama asks. "Yes?"

 

    Scryier coughs.

 

    "Medra is in the Kinnear Caves," he finally says. "You'll find him gathering bat turd for you to bathe in."

 

    Commander Arama slams both of his fists down on the table. A warrior lifts a chair from the corner of the room and brings it crashing down over the goblins back. The chair breaks into several pieces and the goblin goes down hard, but considers himself lucky for the first time in days. A leg from the chair falls beside his hand and the sight of it is like a breath of fresh air coursing through his lungs. It renews his spirit. It tickles his resolve.

 

    Scryier reaches for the chair leg and lifts it straight up between the legs of the warrior standing closest to him. The warrior screams, falling back onto the seat of his pants. He cannot catch his breath. His companion is frozen. Scryier is up on one knee before he can react and even then, he is slow. His sword barely clears its sheath when the leg of the chair knocks his adams apple into the back of his neck.

 

    Arama cannot believe his eyes. One guard is whimpering on the floor and the other is dead. Where does this battered goblin get his fortitude?

 

    Scryier falls forward, onto his elbows again. He is clutching the leg of the chair and chuckling.

 

    "Only a goblin could do this," he says. "Elves are to bloody soft. Dwarves are too bloody stupid. Griblits can't do anything at all and illians? Illians are a bunch of impish wimp's who dab in games they can never hope to master."

 

    The goblin turns his gaze on Arama.

 

    "Goblins are tough," he adds. "Stubborn lot, we are. Or, maybe we're just too foolish to know when we're beaten. What do you say, Arama?"

 

    The illian commander draws his sword and comes out from behind the rickety old table. "I say, for this, you will die!"

 

    Scryier climbs wearily to his feet. He wipes blood from the corner of his mouth with his free hand. In the other hand, he clutches the leg of the chair. He takes several steps toward the illian.

 

    "Maybe," he says, as the two draw closer. "Maybe not."