Any other day, Cog would have been giggling at his ability to hide where larger people would get caught. Humans were way too tall to conceal themselves at the clink of approaching armor, and dwarves were too stubborn to consider it. Only a goblin could be wedged between two cabinets in the potion maker’s shop, covered by a pile of itchy burlap sacks. He should have been grinning from ear to pointed ear, but not today. Today, he cared about the big people who’d been captured. One in particular.
Cog huddled under the burlap, hugging his knees, his thoughts a whirl of despair. The armored figures who had dragged his friends away kicking and screaming were huge — taller than these dwarven tunnels were made for, and impervious to anything but perhaps a perfectly-placed arrow through the eye slit of a helmet. Even at the best of times, Cog couldn’t do much against something like that.
He could still hear them if he listened hard enough, tromping away deeper into the mountain. Dragging his friends into the same depths the potion maker had disappeared into. He hadn’t expected her to be gone already — no one had. The resistance had hung all their hopes on her fabled potions skills. But apparently the enemy had heard of her, too.
Cog wriggled a hand upward just enough to move the burlap an inch. The room looked empty. He knew it was; those clanking monstrosities were never quiet. But he took no chances. Inch by inch he pushed his covering away, ready to snatch it back up. Then he got to his feet, peered around the cabinets, and eased his way into the room.
No attackers. Good.
No bodies. Also good.
But everywhere was the wreckage of the once thriving potion shop.
Cog wandered across the floor. One part of his mind was busy being grateful for the thin leather boots that kept the broken glass out of his feet, while the other parts were split between indecision and grief. With vague thoughts of finding an intact vial of something that would help him fix this, he made his way to the back room.
It was no different: strewn with glass and liquids and broken furniture. The chemical smell was harsher here, either from a lack of ventilation or from the unmixed ingredients. This was where the potion maker had worked on perfecting her recipes. There were likely to be toxic things leaking into the air.
Cog sniffed experimentally. He didn’t feel lightheaded, or short of breath, or about to burst into flames. So he stepped farther into the room and searched for anything not yet broken.
After several minutes of frustration, he found a single case of intact vials. It had escaped destruction by being shoved into a corner, much as he had been. It was dusty enough to have been there for years. That only made it seem more a matter of destiny.
Cog blew off some of the dust and opened it.
The vials were full of faded blue liquid, some of which had evaporated despite the corks. They all had the same label, handwritten in careful dwarvish letters.
“Speed potion, Batch #5,” Cog read. Smaller letters proclaimed “In progress. Potentially toxic to some races. Do not use.”
Cog didn’t so much think about it as much as he let the ideas fly past him. The potion might kill him. The monstrosities might come back. He could get away if he left now. There might be money somewhere in the shop. His friends might die soon. One in particular. He had good enough aim to get something sharp through an eye slit if he took his time about it. A speed potion would give him that time.
In the end, it wasn’t much of a decision at all. He opened a vial and drank it.
It tasted bad, like sweet wine poured into a mule’s feed bag and left in the sun for weeks. His tongue felt sticky. The smell crawled up his nose.
Then the room seemed to drift sideways. Cog blinked, moving to put the empty vial back. He overshot and bumped it against the edge of the case, knocking the vial free of his fingers to… spin slowly in mid-air. It looked blurry. Cog blinked at it again, his thoughts turning just as slowly. As he watched, the glass vial sank to the floor. As soon as it touched, fractures skittered across the surface and the pieces began drifting apart.
Cog got his feet under himself and stood. His balance was wobbly and his eyes kept unfocusing. He kicked an empty wooden bowl and watched it drift in a graceful arc to where it clattered against the wall with a deep boom.
That sounded weird, Cog thought, starting to smile. He stepped forward, had to correct his step as the glass slid under his foot, then overcorrected and fell back against a shelving unit.
He giggled, and wondered absently why. He tried to focus. I know what I’ve gotta do. Moving carefully, he crouched to shut the lid of the vial case (this took him two tries), then shoved it back into the same dusty corner it had come from. He sneezed and spent a few moments watching the dust billow in slow motion. They he started to hiccup.
Right. Gotta do stuff. Save the people. Especially the hot one. He looked around the room for a weapon. Most of the valuable things had been taken, either by the people who’d kidnapped the potion maker, or by looters who’d taken advantage later, he couldn’t say. There were no knives or arrows or anything made for fighting. But there were an awful lot of glass shards and some burlap.
He only cut himself a little bit crafting the makeshift daggers. Then he raced off down the tunnel, still hiccuping, leaving burlap to drift lazily behind him.
* * *
Tylore stumbled along, alternately dragging his feet and skipping forward to avoid a backhand from an armored fist. He didn’t know whether he would be eaten, tortured, or just forced into a life of slavery far from daylight, but he didn’t like his odds. The mixed bag of freedom fighters trudged along in front of him. His place at the back of the line meant he got the brunt of the biggest monster’s irritation, but it also meant he could make a headcount in the faint light of the glowmoss on the ceiling.
Four other captives walked with their hands chained together. A sturdy dwarf striding with dignity, a young dwarf trying hard to do the same, an elven woman with long hair that caught in the chains, and a human woman who wordlessly freed it for her. Then Tylore, the human man bringing up the rear. No goblin.
What had happened to Cog? The attack had been chaos. Tylore tried to think if he’d seen the little fellow after the big bastards crashed into the room, but he couldn’t remember. He hoped Cog had gotten away. Hoped he hadn’t been crushed by iron-shod boots when Tylore wasn’t looking.
He was trying to convince himself that the world couldn’t be that cruel, despite all evidence to the contrary, when he heard something strange. A soft pattering with regular squeaks, and irregular thumps. He thought he felt the last thump through the floor. Was it some clockwork oddity made by the dwarves? Or a terrifying beastie that was waiting on a spiked leash to eat them? Or maybe…
The pattering got louder. Tylore turned just as a blur of something zipped into view around the corner, bounced off the wall, and made a beeline for the armored behemoth that stomped along like a troll made of spikes and hatred.
The monstrosity raised an arm to swat at the blur, but the thing ran straight up that arm toward the metal helm before leaping off.
The monster grunted, swayed, and fell with an echoing crash. Tylore saw ichor oozing from the eyes of its helmet. As he took in that sight, he heard a commotion further down the line. He turned back and witnessed the middle guard being taken down the same way, before the leading one could draw a weapon. This time, when the second armored form fell, there was a glint of broken glass jammed into its helmet.
The blur paused at the second monstrosity’s waist and, in a flash, ripped the enemy’s dagger from its belt. The blur dashed toward the third one, who was waving a serrated battle-knife in a threatening display. The blur tripped over nothing, sprawling and losing its grip on the dagger. This skittered to a stop against the wall, while the blur paused for a heartbeat before bouncing back up to gather its dagger and climb the enemy like a tree.
While the last monstrosity roared and gurgled, Tylore stood stunned. For that split second, he had seen a goblin lying on the floor.
The armored beastie fell like a collapsing building. The blur danced around it in circles before racing forward and back, tugging at the chain that bound the prisoners. It tripped several times, bumping into walls and people. Everyone was talking.
“What just happened?”
“Are they dead? Should we stab them again?”
“Who is that?”
The blur clambered over the armored forms, tumbling to the ground a few more times, then suddenly Tylore had a key in his hand and a vibrating goblin standing in front of him.
It looked like Cog, as far as he could tell. Delight and confusion flashed through his mind while he stared stupidly at the goblin’s attempt to talk to him. It was no good; the words were too fast, even though he seemed to be making an effort to slow them. Then Cog apparently lost patience, taking the key back and opening all the locks himself. The rest of the group exclaimed happily as their manacles fell away. Tylore wasn’t sure, but it looked like Cog was slowing down a little. He still tripped over things an awful lot, though.
Cog bounced off both walls, dropped the key, then zipped toward Tylore before dashing away back up the tunnel.
Was that a kiss? Tylore raised a hand to his mouth. He was still wondering moments later when footsteps pattered toward him again, at a nearly normal speed.
Cog dashed back into view, carrying a box. He was covered in bruises and ichor, and wearing the widest grin Tylore had seen from him yet.
“Ifoundaspeedpotion!” Cog exclaimed. “ThelabelsaiditmightbetoxicbutIfeelfine!” Cog stumbled again, but this time, Tylore was close enough to catch him before the box fell. It looked fragile.
Cog looked up from where he lay in Tylore’s arms with a sappy grin. “Sogladyouarenotdead,” he slurred. “Will you go on a mushroom-picking date with me?”
Tylore laughed. “After that rescue, you deserve all the mushroom dates you want! As long as you don’t die of speed poison first.”
Cog erupted into high-pitched giggles that were just this side of painful to hear. The elder dwarf peered over Tylore’s elbow at the case of potions.
“If there’s more of the stuff in there,” he said to Cog. “I might have some ideas to run past you, skinny one. How do you feel about assassinating the lich-king?”
Cog giggled some more and nodded with unnatural speed. “Sure! Why not? I’ve got plenty of Quicker Liquor left.” He laughed at his own cleverness.
The human woman spoke up. “If there’s a recipe, we could sell this stuff. There’s a good market for bad ideas.”
Cog waved an arm haphazardly. “We can rescue the potion lady and she’ll make tons!” Tylore set him back upright, hands close in case he fell.
“All those ideas and more,” he said sternly, “After the mushroom date.”
The dwarf harrumphed. “Well, of course. Priorities.”
Mara Johnstone (she/her) grew up in a house on a hill, of which the top floor was built first. She split er time between climbing trees, drawing fantastical things, reading books, and writing her own. She has a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing an continues to write, draw, and climb things.
Website: http://maralynnjohnstone.com/
Twitter: @MarlynnOfMany