The Nether Scroll - Lynn Abbey [25]
He continued a few steps, but the shrieking continued. A butcher wouldn't let an animal suffer; it soured the meat. Druhallen detoured into a maze of sheds and alleys. There was laughter, now, with the squealing. He'd loosened his knife and composed his mind for spellcasting before he came to a wide spot where a handful of men-most of them yellowed with the dust of Anauroch-had gathered at the open door of a chicken coop. The squeals came from within the coop, but no bird made them.
"What's happening here?" Dru asked the nearest man.
"Caught the bastard red-handed."
Never mind that he'd been planning to pound some sense into his foster-son, Dru's immediate concern was that Tiep had gotten caught and, whatever he'd done-even if it were a hanging offense-no one deserved the pain and terror radiating from the chicken coop. Dru shouldered his way to the open door and looked inside.
Not Tiep. Not Tiep.
With the dust and feathers and shadows, Druhallen couldn't be sure what the men were doing but their prey was smaller than Tiep. And, if it wasn't Tiep then, strictly speaking, it wasn't Dru's problem. Some of the men around the coop-perhaps all of them-were Zhentarim of one stripe of the other. With Amarandaris making veiled threats, Dru didn't want or need to get involved with Zhentarim justice. A man couldn't fight every battle or right every wrong-
The victim broke free. About the size of a goat, it charged toward the doorway's freedom and collided with Druhallen, who was blocking it. He looked down: a battered and bleeding
half-grown goblin clung to his leg.
"Kick it back over here," one of the batterers commanded.
An ugly, little face, made uglier by blood and bruises, peered up at him.
Point of fact: Druhallen didn't much like youngsters of any species. If he'd known that Rozt'a wasn't going to produce any, he might have agreed to marry her. Children, though, didn't sense his prejudice. They flocked to him like ants to honey. Smudge-faced, aromatic offspring would run away from their mothers for a chance to tug on his sleeve or ask him inarticulate questions. Every time it happened, he felt the urge to pick the little pest up by the neck and toss it into next week… and every time he resisted the urge.
He resisted it again.
"You've made your point," he said in his sternest voice.
"We ain't yet," a different man complained. "It's still alive."
Goblins weren't unnatural creatures. They were male and female, like humans, elves, chickens or goats-though from what Dru could see, he didn't know if he was risking his life for a boy-goblin or a girl.
"I said, it's over. I'll take this one back to the charterhouse. Lord Amarandaris can investigate your charges."
Dru knew that Amarandaris would welcome that chore about as much as he'd welcome a punch in the groin, but the name, he hoped, would have a chilling effect on the bullies. It did, for about three heartbeats. Then the man who'd asked Dru to free himself with a kick, made a grab for the goblin's long, twisted ears.
Druhallen had an instant to crush ash between his thumb and middle finger. Darkness like a foggy night in winter filled the coop, but the spell he'd cast was more than illusion of weather. Sadness and lethargy flowed with the fog. One of the men who'd been beating the goblin began sobbing and none of the others tried to stop Druhallen as he backed away.
Gloom continued to grow and thicken. It ate all the light in the alleys. One man ran away screaming. He was the lucky one; the rest were caught up in melancholy that might not dissipate before sundown-close quarters enhanced the spell, making it stronger and more enduring than it would be otherwise.
"Come along, little fellow," Dru said to the goblin still clinging to his leg. "Let's get out of here."
He reached down to pry the goblin free and lift it higher. The goblin trembled and hid its face in the crook of Dru's arm,