by Bryan Huff
The crow then spread its wings, and froze there like some sort of living statue. Its eyes began to glow green. And, without moving its beak, it began to emit a strange voice. Bodiless and booming, the voice echoed not inside the cave, but inside Hob’s own mind! By the frightened looks of the goblins in the crowd, it echoed in their minds too. The voice of the Sorcerer.
“the time has come, my goblin minions, to remember your bonds. your master has returned to the valley! you served me once, and shall serve me again. feel my power and know it to be true!”
Every goblin in the cave began to shudder. Hob had to cling to his stalagmite to stop himself from being shaken off. Unearthly power surged through him, causing his muscles to quake and his skin to fill with fire. He felt like he might explode. He felt like he could crush the stalagmite in two between his arms. Then the feeling faded, and the voice returned.
“the time has come for our revenge. the humans have kept you underground for too long. rise up, my minions! join me in making war on the humans, and this time the valley shall be ours for good! send me your best warriors. we attack when the first leaves of autumn fall.”
And with that, the voice was gone. The crow relaxed, closed its wings, and gave its feathers another shake. It blinked, and its eyes returned to normal.
“caw!” it added. “Each horde must send a troop of its best warriors to join the Sorcerer’s Army in Shadowguard. All march on the third moon. squawk!” Then it shuffled back down onto Chief Gobblestomp’s shoulder.
“Well, there you have it!” said the Chief. “But, er … I’ve got it from our shaman here, that there are traditions we gotta follow. And we’ve only got three moons to work with.”
To goblins, who lived their lives at night, “moons” simply meant “days.” So, three moons was not a lot of time.
“Tell ’em, Cooty,” added the Chief.
The old shaman shuffled back to the front of the platform, reclaiming as much space as he could from the Chief. “Thirty an’ five years ago,” he began, in his most quavering, mystical voice, “the humans’ magic sun-fire, so bright and terrible that it kept us underground even at night, disappeared. And I knew then, it must be a sign.”
The old goblin paused for dramatic effect, staring around the cave meaningfully. After a few moments, however, it became obvious he’d forgotten he was the one speaking. Instead, he began scratching at something in his ear.
“A sign that …” Chief Gobblestomp prompted him.
“Oh, yes! A sign that this day would come!” Toothless Cooty went on. “That the Sorcerer of old would return, and it would be time for us to serve him in his fight against the humans, once more.”
He paused again. His finger climbed to his ear.
“And so …” the Chief interjected.
“And so, the time has come to hold our traditional try-out for war,” Toothless Cooty exclaimed. “A contest to decide who among you will join the Sorcerer’s army. Yes! The time has come for The Clobbering!”
A hush filled the cave.
“Right!” said Chief Gobblestomp, bumping Toothless Cooty back out of the way. “So, we’re gonna hold the Clobbering on the second moon from tonight. And everyone’s gotta be there. We gotta make sure we send the Sorcerer all our best clobberer … ers. That gives ya one moon to get ready! Good luck!”
Then, to Hob’s horror, the goblins in the Great Cave all began to cheer.
“To war! To war!”
“The Sorcerer’s back!”
“To war!”
Chapter Four
The Clobbering
The next night, the caves and tunnels of the Gobble Downs were abuzz. They were filled with the hustle and bustle of every able-bodied goblin going about his preparations for the Clobbering—every able-bodied goblin except for Hob.
He just couldn’t bring himself to join in. What a disaster, he kept thinking. He’d read about the Sorcerer before, and he knew it was not good news the old wizard had returned. The last time the goblins had fought for him it had turned out horribly. What if Grunt ended up on the front lines? What if Hob didn’t even survive the Clobbering? It was all too much to take.
And so, Hob just went about his regular business and tried to ignore the excitement growing around him.
His regular business was that of Treasure Keeper. It was Hob’s job to sort, count, and care for the horde’s ever-growing treasure pile—a task the Chief had personally assigned him, on account of Hob’s knack for “knowin’ numbers and ’memberin’ stuff.”
And Hob was working on some important sorting—important to him, at least. Sitting beside the towering treasure pile in its gloomy, vaulted cave, he picked through the backpacks that had been taken from the two ambushed travelers. Despite the goings-on, Hob had been unable to get the pair off his mind. He’d been eager to learn what they’d been carrying.
Two fine swords and scabbards, an axe, seven gold coins, some light camping supplies, and a couple rations of hardtack biscuits were all he found. But to him, each piece represented a clue about their lost adventure.
The entire treasure pile had been amassed this way, through centuries of looting from humans. Hob felt bad about that. But the pile did have its uses. It was from the pile that he’d “borrowed” all his books—except one, which he’d inherited from the wise old goblin who’d taught him how to read in the first place.
Pausing for a moment, Hob stared hungrily at the travelers’ hardtack biscuits. They would just go to waste in the pile. He picked one up and tasted it. It was boring and difficult to chew, but at least it wasn’t gruel. Deciding to save the rest for later, Hob stuffed the biscuits through the front ties of his tunic into a large breast pocket inside—a pocket he used for carrying items that didn’t require his satchel.
“Hobblestraug!” Chief Gobblestomp barked, as he marched into the cave.
Hob froze, afraid the Chief might have seen him pocketing the hardtack.
“Excellent work!” the Chief continued. “The pile’s lookin’ nice and big!”
Hob relaxed. “Oh, thanks, sir,” he said, standing at attention. “I’m just finishing up with the latest ambush.”
“Good show,” said the Chief, as he walked around the pile, examining it closely.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Hob asked.
“There is!” said the Chief. “I need somethin’ shiny to wear while I’m judgin’ the Clobberin’.”
“No problem,” said Hob, happy to help. He remembered every item he’d sorted by heart, and he hurried to pick out a few of the shinier pieces for the Chief to accessorize with. “Do any of these catch your eye?”
“This one’s nice an’ shiny!” said Chief Gobblestomp, picking up a silver tiara and fiddling with it awkwardly.
“It goes on your head,” said Hob. “But you should know—”
“I already know everythin’ I should know!” said the Chief, adding the tiara to the front of his headdress.
“—that it’s meant for a princess,” Hob finished, entirely to himself.
The Chief wasn’t listening. He was studying his reflection in a dusty old mirror half-buried in the pile. He seemed pleased with his new look. It screamed, “toad-in-a-tiara.”
As the Chief turned to admire his profile, Hob took the opportunity to get a word in with him.
“Um, sir, there’s actually something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about …”
“Huh? What? What’s that?” asked the Chief, not taking his eyes off himself.
“Well, it’s about the Clobbering,” Hob began. He took a deep breath, and blurted out the rest before he lost his nerve. “I know you said we all have to participate. But I was thinking, maybe, I might not. I mean, it’s not like I could ever make the troop anyway. It makes no sense.”
“Hmm,” said Gobblestomp, turning to him. “No can do. Everyone’s gotta try out. That’s the rule.”
Hob had expected as much. Still, he had to
keep trying. “And you’re sure there are no exceptions? Because I’ve been thinking—”
“See, now, there’s yer problem,” said the Chief. “All this thinkin’. You know what you need, Hobblestraug? A few good hits to the head! Why don’t ya run along an’ practice? The pile can wait till after the Clobberin’. There’s a good fella. Out, out, out!”
With a powerful arm, the Chief shunted Hob out of the Treasure Cave. Then he stood in the entrance, making sure Hob ran off to practice.
Hob did run off—but not to practice. He made straight for his nook, intending to pick up The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer before sneaking off to his secret spot to keep reading.
“Hob! Wait!”
A voice stopped Hob halfway down the passage to his nook. He looked back to see Grunt hurrying after him.
“You said we was gonna practice together!” said Grunt, catching up.
“Sorry, Grunt. I forgot …”
“That’s okay! Plenty of time left!” Grunt gestured for Hob to follow him.
Hob hesitated. “Gee, I don’t know. I’ve got important, um … stuff to do.”
“What’s more important than practicing for the Clobbering?” asked Grunt. “If you don’t, you’ll get …”
“Clobbered?” Hob volunteered.
“Yup.”
“Don’t worry,” said Hob. “I’ve got everything under control. I’ve got a, um, strategy.”
But he didn’t. The Clobbering was not the sort of contest that lent itself to strategy—owing to the complete lack of rules. All you had to do was grab a stick, step into the ring, and clobber away, until you either got knocked out or you made the troop.
“You can practice that then,” Grunt replied. “C’mon. The Clobbering’s tomorrow moon. You gotta!”
Unfortunately, when Hob looked up into Grunt’s big, expectant eyes he simply couldn’t bring himself to say “no.”
A few minutes later, Grunt was leading Hob into the Great Cave for a practice session. They paused inside the entranceway. Looking down, Hob could see a wide chalk circle drawn around the edge of the cave’s bottom level. The next moon, it would be the Clobber-Ring. But, for now, it was the practice ring. It was full of goblins rehearsing various fighting maneuvers—all of which looked quite painful.
Noticing Hob taking everything in, Grunt placed a hand on Hob’s shoulder. “How lucky is this?” he said. “You was just sayin’ how ya wanna get outta here and go on adventures and stuff. Well, bein’ in the Sorcerer’s army would be a real adventure, wouldn’t it, Hob?”
“I guess so,” said Hob, “in a goblin-y sort of way.”
“Exactly!” said Grunt, missing the point entirely.
They descended to the practice ring. All around the outside, goblins sorted through barrels full of sticks.
“Oh! I know,” said Grunt. “Let’s pick ya out a clobber-stick.”
“Mine’s hickory!” volunteered an enthusiastic goblin, hitting himself over the head with a stick to test it.
“Hickory looks good, doesn’t it?” Grunt observed.
“I guess so,” said Hob.
A clobber-stick was the official weapon of the Clobbering, and if Hob was going to have to participate, he figured he might as well have one to defend himself with. He and Grunt began picking through the barrels, looking for a stick short enough for Hob—in hickory, if possible.
Once they found one, Hob gave it a test swing. It made a satisfying swish, which seemed to please Grunt.
“That’s a good one!” he said. “C’mon, you can try it out!”
Grunt took Hob by the hand and led—or, rather, dragged—him into the practice ring. Hob’s heart sank as they were joined by Ick, Uck, Skulldug, and several other rowdy goblins. The last thing Hob wanted was company!
“Um, Grunt, I thought it was gonna be just us,” he whispered.
“Lucky, huh?” Grunt replied. “It’ll be more fun with a group.”
And it would be—for the group.
Hob and the others practiced head-butts, slew-foots, stick-tackles, and pile-ups. And Hob got the worst of every one. Soon, he was battered, bruised, and buried under a heap of bodies.
It wasn’t going unnoticed, either. As Hob crawled out from beneath the pile, he saw a bunch of spectators gathered nearby.
“Pathetic,” said one.
“What’s wrong with him?” said another.
“I hear he’s a vegetarian …” whispered a third.
A few gasped aloud.
“He’s gonna get pounded at the Clobbering.”
“He’s mincemeat!”
“Ground gizzard!”
“Chopped chum!”
“He’s mine!” said Brute, muscling his way through the crowd, accompanied by Snivel and a gang of other lackeys. “And I’m so glad I found him!”
Brute and company gathered around the spot where Hob lay in the ring, and sneered down at him malevolently.
“So glad?” asked Grunt, poking his head into their huddle. “I thought you didn’t like Hob?”
Brute glared at him. “I’m glad I found him, so I can tell him what he’s in for,” he explained, turning back to Hob with a wicked grin.
“He’s gonna kill you,” Snivel whispered giddily, giving away the “surprise.”
“Shuddup!” snapped Brute.
“Aye, aye,” said Snivel, not really shutting up.
“So here goes, Hobby,” Brute went on. “As soon as the Clobberin’ starts, I’m comin’ straight for ya. I’m gonna get to ya first. And I’m gonna pound ya, till that big ol’ head of yers is knocked good an’ empty. And then, if ya survive, maybe you’ll know not to be such a weirdo. Got it?”
“Got it, Brute!” said Snivel.
“I was talkin’ to him,” snapped Brute.
Snivel stuck out his tongue at Hob, as if Brute scolding him was somehow Hob’s fault. Hob scowled back.
“Don’t count Hob out,” Grunt interjected. “He’s got a st-stragedy. Don’t ya, Hob?”
“Er, well …” Hob mumbled.
“Don’ matter,” Brute interrupted. “Ain’t no stragedy that’ll stop this!” He punched the air violently with both fists, causing Hob to flinch.
Except for Grunt, the nearby goblins all laughed.
That was it. Hob had had enough. He couldn’t hold back his frustration any longer. “You think this is funny?” he shouted at them, jumping to his feet. “That a try-out for war is some sort of game? Does going to fight for some crazy old magician with a vengeance complex really sound like a good idea to you?”
The goblins’ laughter gave way to stunned silence. Their faces turned menacing. They looked ready to clobber Hob right then. Especially Brute.
For a second, Hob held his breath, instantly regretting what he’d just said. Then he un-said it. “B-b-because, to me, it sounds like a great idea!”
Suddenly, the goblins were all laughing again.
“He’s right!”
“It is a great idea!”
“An awesome idea!”
“He’s still gonna get pounded though.”
“Oh, totally.”
Brute alone seemed unimpressed. It made no difference to him what Hob thought. “See ya tomorrow, Hobby,” he growled.
Then he and his followers strode off, shooting Hob threatening glances as they went.
Once they were gone, Hob fled the practice ring. He had no way of saving himself—no strategies, no plans. But one thing was for sure; more practice wasn’t going to help.
“Hob, wait! Where’re ya going?” shouted Grunt, catching up to him in the tunnel outside the Great Cave’s main entrance.
Hob stopped and turned back to him. “Away from here,” he muttered.
“But what about all that stuff ya just said?” asked Grunt, looking confused. “If ya kept that up, the other guys’d probably lay off ya. They might even help me get ya through the Clobbering.” He paused. “Please, Hob, j
ust this once, don’t go sneakin’ off. I’ve got a bad feeling …”
Hob didn’t answer. There was no way to make Grunt understand. “See you tomorrow, Grunt,” he said. Then he turned and stalked away.
Hob wanted to forget Grunt’s pleas—forget everything. He returned to his nook, plucked The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer from his shelf, tore the blanket from his bunk, and stuffed both into his satchel. Then he hurried off to his secret spot.
The night was almost over when Hob pulled himself above ground. Wasting no time, he sat down gingerly on his blanket, smarting from his bumps and bruises, and cracked open his book. He couldn’t wait to escape into The Ballad of Waeward the Wanderer—his last and only refuge from the nightmare that was the Clobbering. If he was going to get his brains pounded out the next moon, he figured he might as well finish the book while he still could.
He picked up right where he’d left off, and quickly lost himself in the tale.
Brave Waeward searched the Valley of Yore, but could find no way to wake Princess Parabelle from her cursed sleep. Then a mysterious traveler told him of a legendary Fountain of Youth, which was located in an ancient Lost City hidden somewhere deep in the mountains north of the valley. It was said water from the fountain could cure any illness with a single drop. The traveler gave Waeward cryptic directions, and sent him on his way. Waeward outfitted himself in a city called Valley Top, perched on a mountainside at the western edge of the valley, and set out from there into the wild lands beyond.
By the time Hob looked up from his book, dawn had come, and the sun was nearly up. Even in the recesses of the cave, it was getting too bright for him to see. But he had to know if Waeward ever found the Lost City. He crawled beneath his blanket so he could keep reading.
Feeling hungry and tired, Hob remembered the hardtack biscuits in the pocket inside his tunic. He reached in, and pulled out a handful of crumbs. The biscuits were a bit squashed from clobbering practice. But they were still edible. Hob nibbled away on handfuls of the crumbs, as he continued to read.
