by Galen Wolf
‘So you’re leaving it to me?’ Tye says.
‘Sure. Just please stop wasting time,’ Bernard says.
I’m about to object but it’s too late. Tye screws up his bright blue eyes, mutters arcane syllables, waves around his hand and there’s a fizzing sound, a bright light like a flashbulb going off and a smell like lemon sherbet, and Tye transforms us.
Bernard blinks from the bright light, rubs his eyes and gazes around. He’s pretty changed. ‘What the hell?’
Fitheach’s little stubby jaw drops. ‘What’ve you done?’
I gaze at my dirty little hands that protrude from a badly woven, cheap brown shift thing. My nails are yellow and bitten, and I have faded home-made tattoos on my knuckles. The left one spells out H-A-T, as I only have four fingers on the left hand, the little pinkie having mysteriously gone missing; looks like it was chewed off by something long ago to be honest. I raise up my hand. ‘Hat?’
Tye says, ‘Probably should be “hate”, but the finger’s missing.’
‘Very detailed glamouring,’ I say.
Tye bows. He’s a filthy little goblin in a brown overcoat sitting on his mule. Henry is unchanged but seems upset to be carrying such a burden. ‘Thank you, master,’ Tye says.
I sigh. ‘Don’t call me “master”, “boss” was bad enough.’
‘No, master,’ Tye says, ‘But it goes with the role. You’re the boss goblin.’
The right hand has a little finger. I raise it. ‘FCUK?’
Tye says, ‘Yeah, something to do with fashion, I think.’
Bernard roars in indignation. ‘I stink. I can even smell my own stink, and that’s not right.’
‘Every sense should be perfect,’ Tye says.
Bernard is also a filthy little goblin, wearing a leather pork-pie hat that has seen better days. Fitheach is a slightly taller, skinnier but equally dirty and stinky goblin. He has a leather hat on that makes him look like the lead singer of Fields of the Nephilim. There are brown stains around his mouth as if he’s been eating something sloppy and brown but none too carefully.
‘Sweet Lord,’ Fitheach says.
Tye grins with his wicked little goblin mouth, showing rotted tooth pegs. He dribbles as he speaks. ‘Nobody is going to come near us when we’re disguised like this.’
He has a point.
‘So, we are what? What’s your concept?’ Fitheach asks.
Tye scratches his greasy, ratty hair. ‘Like I conceptualised as goblin shit traders. As far as anyone is concerned we are trading shit across the known world. We’ve got four wagons of it.’
‘Do goblins really trade shit?’ Fitheach says.
I say, ‘I’d rather you called it “poop”. It’s just more polite that way.’
Fitheach doesn’t stop looking at Tye. He seems more curious than angry. ‘Do they?’
Tye nods. ‘Sure. Of course. It’s a thing. Very lucrative.’
Bernard is also interested. ‘And is it goblin poop? Or another kind? I mean do they actually produce it to sell.’
Tye frowns. ‘You know, I don’t know. Never thought it through.’
‘Please, let’s go,’ I say. I look back and Grimdark is killing himself laughing in his tight wizard’s blue robe. I sigh deeply. This was not what I envisaged when I started playing a heroic fantasy role playing game. A goblin shit trader. Who’d have thought?
The mules take the strain and the wagons move off with a creak, then we’re off along the rough moorland way. A hawk streaks through the air in front of us.
‘Which way, master?’ Tye asks.
‘Yes, which way, master?’ Bernard asks.
I sigh again. ‘Down the escarpment to the valley of the River Idon then head south until we come to the Howgill Fells and the first checkpoints.
Tye says, ‘Don’t worry. We’ve got a rock-solid disguise thanks to me.’
I don’t even reply.
9
Smoke on the Water
There’s smoke over the mountains to the west but that’s the only sign of trouble as we head south. We wind through quiet countryside and mist wreathes the slow streams and low bushes. Our first trial is the hamlet of what used to be Croglin before it buzzed with the red and black haze of evil. It’s run by goblinoids now and instead of the decent little huts of the peasants that used to be there, we have the higgeldy-piggeldy hovels of goblinoids. Some evil looking goblinoids are manning a rough barrier across the road at the entrance to the village.
Before any of the others in my party open their big mouths, I say, ‘Greetings, brothers.’
The squint-eyed dwemmer in greasy leather armour clears his throat and spits on the ground in front of Spirit’s hooves. Spirit is glamoured as a broken down goblin nag, but he starts back as if offended. Surreptitiously, I stroke his neck and force a smile. I hope that to them I look like an ugly little goblin with bad tattoos on his dirty knuckles.
‘Toll,’ the dwemmer’s mate, a short, scruffy-haired boggart, barks.
I smile deferentially. ‘How much, brothers?’
The boggart says, ‘We ain’t your brothers, arse-face. Just pay up and get lost.’
I nod, but inside, I’m still smiling: they haven’t seen through our disguise. I reach into my inventory and pull out my purse. It too is disguised as a scruffy cloth bag with a suspicious chocolate coloured stain on it. Tye’s glamouring is pretty good, right down to the details. I open the purse and say, ‘How much?’
‘Two groats.’
I think I’ll get into role, so I whimper. ‘Two groats, brothers. That’s a bit steep.’
The dwemmer spits again. ‘Either pay it, or turn round and find another way south.’
‘But this is the main road south,’ goblin Bernard says.
‘Exactly,’ the boggart says.
Bernard continues from the back of his scraggy mule. ‘And the other roads are more dangerous.’
‘These here roads are protected by the laws of his Majesty King Satanus.’
I raise an eyebrow. He’s calling himself king now? I shrug and am about to pay, when the goblin who is Saint Fitheach sidles forward on his ugly, scarred mare. He leans in and whispers in my scarred ear, ‘Kill them?’
I sigh. The boggart tilts his head. ‘What’s he saying?’
I say, ‘Nothing.’
Fitheach repeats in a loud whisper. ‘There’s only two of them. Kill them.’
Fitheach’s been like this before. When he gets out of the dungeon, he goes ultra bloodthirsty. I try to shut him up, but he’s getting excited at the thought of killing stuff.
The boggart’s getting more suspicious and his hand goes to his greasy leather bound sword hilt. ‘Who’s he want to kill?’
I raise a hand in peace. ‘He doesn’t want to kill anyone.’
Fitheach hisses. ‘Yes, I do!’
The dwemmer raises his spear, and the boggart draws his sword. Things are looking ugly. I say, ‘He’s been drinking donkey grog.’ I make that drink up but it sounds nasty and strong. Fitheach reaches behind him and I think he’s going for his staff. We can’t afford to get uncovered this early in our journey. We have over a hundred miles to go yet.
He sneers. ‘I haven’t been drinking anything, but I know arseholes when I see them.’ He’s glaring at the boggart and dwemmer. This is about to kick off. I sigh and go for my sword hilt, but then Fitheach falls suddenly asleep and slumps backward in his saddle. He nearly slides off his mare to the floor when the goblin who is Tye, rides up beside him and catches the disguised saint. Tye gives me a knowing look. I don’t know how Fitheach fell asleep, but I’m glad he did. The goblins lower their weapons.
I pay up the extortionate sum, and they lift the barrier. We go slowly through the village, Fitheach still slumps forward over the neck of his mare, Tye riding beside with his hand on the goblin saint’s back to keep him steady. ‘I did that,’ Tye says.
‘I guessed,’ I say.
‘Think you’re smart, do you?’ Bernard asks without tur
ning.
‘Yee, I dee.’ Tye grins at himself, his dirty brown eyes glimmering below his dirty brown eyebrows.
We made it past our first challenge. I’m relieved.
We’re halfway through the village. I can see where the shabby houses end and the trail winds on between fields, woods and low hills. If they can just shut it until we’re through and out of ear-shot.
Tye leans over towards Bernard, who’s riding the other side of sleeping Fitheach. They’re shouting at each other over the back of the slumbering saint, their mules keeping pace with his mare. Tye says, ‘Yeah, well I didn’t notice any quick thinking from you, uncle.’
Bernard snarls. ‘Hah, you arrogant whipper-snapper! Let me tell you…’
The boggart and dwemmer have turned round and are watching us with mounting suspicion in their eyes.
Tye jabs a finger at Bernard. ‘At least I kept our cover!’
He says it so loud that the enemy guards must have heard it. I can only hope that they’re too stupid to understand what’s going on.
‘You kept our cover?’ Bernard sneers.
Tye nods furiously.
‘Like you blew our cover in New World Order?’
Tye blinks. ‘Did not.’
‘Oh, so did too.’
‘Not.’
‘Too.’
‘Totally not.’
‘You blew up a whole warehouse of smoky crystals!’
Tye ponders that, and I turn and hiss. ‘Shut up! In the name of all that’s holy.’
They turn their dirty little faces towards me.
‘I mean it,’ I say and they both fall silent. We plod on, on our swaying horses and mules until we’re out of the village.
Then Fitheach wakes up. ‘Did we kill them?’
I presume he is not sitting in the same room as Bernard and Grimdark now because he doesn’t know.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re under cover. We’re not killing anyone.’
He looks disappointed but nods. ‘I understand. I just get carried away. It’s to do with love of the Lord.’
‘Really,’ I say.
We’re about to enter a wood. I study the trees to see if they conceal danger.
Fitheach says, ‘I hope there’s some bad guys to slaughter soon.’
I ignore him. I say, ‘We need to remember to bind at the next milestone, otherwise if we get killed we’ll all end up back at Silver Drift.’ This was a problem that beset us on our trip to get the Jabberwock from St Cuthbert and I was wise to it now.
‘Trouble is,’ Bernard says, ‘These settlements will be under enemy control. So if we resurrect there, we will have to fight.’
Fitheach says, ‘Then we fight!’
Tye shakes his head. ‘But we’re not going to die. So it doesn’t matter. We’re disguised good!’
We’re just in the woods when, an arrow hisses out of the undergrowth and strikes me in the thigh. It beats my armour too.
Then the air is full of arrows and all my companions are getting hit. We can’t see where the arrows are coming from.
I scan round but see no one. I get hit again and look down to see a green-feathered arrow sticking in my armoured leg. I reach down and break off the shaft. Who the hell is shooting at us?
Then there’s a whooping and green clad figures with hoods emerge from the trees and rush us.
Bernard has the sense to take out a milky potion and throw it. It hits the ground to our right and a bank of white smoke billows up. He snatches out another potion and throws it left and soon we’re in the middle of a tunnel of smoke. We can’t see the enemy, but they can’t see us either. We can hear them though. A green-clad man comes through the bank of smoke out at me, whirling two scimitars. He fights like a ranger but he must be an evil brigand. He’s wearing guild insignia on his chest — a green fern leaf. I don’t recognise it. He has a mask pulled up over the bridge of his nose, so all I can see is a pair of dark eyes.
He hacks into me.
I pull out my sword and watch the flames of blue, white and yellow lick along its blade. Little snow flakes drift off the sword through the flames, and the Bleed Rune glitters unnaturally brightly as I hack into the ranger.
He hits me again for a further four hundred. Then another guy comes out of the smoke to my right. I hear grunts and clashes and I smell the sulphur stink of Tye’s fire spells, so I know the guys are doing the business somewhere in this smoke. The new assailant has a spear which he thrusts at me.
I hit the first guy and I crit for 1095, killing him.
I grab a blue healing potion - one of Bernard’s new 400’s and I’m up to 550, which is still worrying. I attack this new guy and my Doublestrike skill triggers, hitting him twice. He disappears into the smoke to heal up and I try to spur Spirit forward. I hear squealing and I remember the four wagons with their precious cargo. I turn and there’s a further melee behind me. There are so many green cloaked enemies that they will drag us down, and all of us are bound at Silver Drift. If we all get killed and zip back there, then we’ll leave our cargo here and that will be a catastrophe. We can’t allow the bad guys to get hold of both the Jabberwock ordure and the smoky crystals, no matter how well-glamoured.
I strike at the enemy with redoubled anger and kill two more of them. I have to sip health again but I’m okay. Then there’s the sound of a trumpet and the enemy run back off to the woods. Trouble is, they’re dragging our wagons with them. Bernard’s smoke is dissipating now and we need to get after them before they make off with our cargo. I shout to Fitheach, ‘Stop them!’
He fires a white beam of energy and strikes a ranger in the back. I see how many of them there are - there must be about fifteen and they look like a mixture of players and NPCs. There’s a smaller track leading into the trees and they’re herding the mules and wagons that way. Then there’s some big, half-ogre mage in flame effect robes and he fires something white and blobby at us. It’s coming from his open palms like a rain of tennis balls and when one hits me, it bursts with a splurge and sticky, good runs down my armour and down Spirit. Another tennis ball hits and soon I’m drenched in this goo, that is sticking us to the grassy ground. ‘What the hell?’ I exclaim.
Tye shouts, ‘It’s Morgan’s Adhesive Balls!’
‘Wizard spell,’ the gooed-up Bernard explains helpfully, though I’d got it already. He’s got goo in his beard and all over Henry who is complaining loudly and braying in frustration. I try to urge Spirit after the disappearing wagons but we’re stuck. We can’t go forward at all. Every time, Spirit raises a hoof and breaks the strands of goo, but another strand binds his other hoof.
‘It’ll wear off,’ Tye says.
‘Damn goo!’ Fitheach shouts, covered from head to foot in the stuff.
‘But they’re getting away!’ I say.
And then the rangers are gone, and the forest is quiet again, just the sound of us cursing helplessly in our casings of snot-like mucus.
‘Who the hell were they?’ I ask. ‘I saw the leaf emblem but I don’t know the guild. Are they with Satanus?’
Bernard shakes his head. ‘That’s Robin Hood’s Merry Men — the guild. They’re neutral. Been known to help the king.’
I lift my visor and wipe a faceful of goo off with my hand where it’s seeped through. ‘That’s no help. We need to find them.’
‘Damn sure,’ Bernard says, ‘They just went and stole our shit.’
10
Robin Hood
“I say — kill
them!’ Fitheach says sitting on his scraggy glamoured mare. He still looks like an ugly old goblin.
Bernard agrees. ‘For once, he’s right. We have to get our stuff back.’
I look round from the back of Spirit. ‘Did they take all four wagons — the crystals and the manure?’
Tye nods. ‘Even though they all just look like poop to them.’
I look to Bernard. ‘You know this guild? The Merry Men?’
He nods. ‘And I know Robin, a one-eyed dwarf ranger.’
‘But they’re not allied to Satanus?’
‘No, not that I recall.’
‘They could have gone over,’ Tye says.
Bernard shakes his head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘So why attack us?’ I ask.
‘Kill them all, that’s an answer,’ Fitheach says. I don’t even look in his direction.
Bernard says, ‘They take from the rich and give to the poor. They live by raiding.’
‘Raiding the enemy, I understand that …’ I say.
‘Have you seen us?’ Bernard says.
And he’s right. We look like four evil goblins, and we know goblins are allies of Satanus, even if they aren’t direct minions. Goblins are fair prey for ‘good’ guilds. I almost feel sorry for them, but I feel more sorry for us. The only consolation is that Robin Hood isn’t on the side of Satanus, but even so he’s got a ready-made vorpal weapon kit, if he can only figure it out.
Fitheach abruptly spurs his mare into the bushes after the retreating rangers. ‘Kill them!’
Bernard shakes his head and Tye laughs. Then we follow the crazy saint.
Robin Hood’s gang obviously didn’t expect us to follow as they don‘t seem in a hurry and we catch up with them as they enter a clearing. They turn and shoot arrows. I get hit again as do all the rest of our party. I yell, ‘Unglamour us, Tye!’
The wizard nods and flutters his hands while muttering arcane syllables, then we are normal. I’m a knight in armour, in fact I’m no longer the Green Knight either, I’m Sir Gorrow of the Bloody Field with my proper coat of arms. Bernard is a shabby alchemist, Fitheach a crazy-eyed, white-robed saint and Tye a ginger-haired, blue-robed wizard. The rangers hold fire, amazed at our transformation. I hear a voice, ‘What’s this?’ I look and the speaker is a one-eyed dwarf in green ranger robes. This must be Robin Hood.
