by Pirateaba
But they would die soon. If not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then later. The only question was how they would die. For that was their fate.
They were Goblins. And they had no tribe. They were warriors without a purpose. They had fought and bled and half their number had died for a Human. A monster with a soul. Someone who had looked at them and seen a reflection.
And now six remained. Six Goblins. Elite warriors of the Redfang Goblin tribe, sent by Garen Redfang himself on a mission they had long since abandoned and no longer cared about.
Lost.
Last night, the Goblin Lord’s army had marched north. North, past the city of Liscor. North, towards Esthelm and the lands beyond. Their numbers were in the tens of thousands, not including the undead army that marched ahead of them. They were legion—an army to strike fear into the hearts of all but the mightiest. A Goblin Lord rode with them. A figure equivalent to any [General]. With him leading the army, they could destroy a lesser nation.
And yet, they had come under attack last night. Just once. It was as the group of six Redfang warriors were desperately hiding behind the cover of some rocks, lying low in case the patrolling sentries headed their way. They might have been found. Again, but for the goats.
Eater Goats. One of the monsters from the High Passes, a match for a Carn Wolf. These creatures were deadly, quick, fearless, and could eat anything. Their jaws could crunch stone or metal. And they hunted in packs.
A group of them had charged the Goblin Lord’s army. Just over a hundred attacking tens of thousands of Goblins. But the goats were fearless. And hungry. The winter had driven them from their homes. That, and…something else perhaps. Some disturbance. Whatever the case, they had spotted a lot of prey, and gone rampaging into the Goblin Lord’s ranks.
Hiding behind their cover, the Redfang warriors had enjoyed hearing the screams of Goblins as the Eater Goats ambushed them. The goats had taken down Hobs, chewed through armor and bitten through bone, and devoured the undead trying to kill them before retreating. Of course, the Goblin Lord’s army had encircled the goats with steel, shot arrows into their hides, blasted them with magic.
It was a testament, then, to the fearsome nature of the goats that after attacking an army of tens of thousands, a little over thirty goats still escaped. And not because they’d been dying either; it was just that they’d eaten their fill.
Monsters. But their intervention had allowed the Redfang Goblins to hide in the meantime and let the Goblin Lord’s army pass them by. And so the next day, the six Goblins rose and followed the Eater Goats as they headed south, searching for more food.
There was a logic to it. Despite the Eater Goats being considered a terrible threat worthy of a Gold-rank team, the Redfang Goblins knew they had little to fear from them. That was because their tribe, led by Garen Redfang, had lived in the High Passes for years and clashed with the Eater Goats many times. They were known to the Eater Goats, in short.
There were two settings the goats had. They regarded the world as made up of two things. Food and not-Food. Through bloody battles where they had slaughtered the goats, the Redfang Goblins had earned the enviable title of not-Food, allowing them to pass by the Eater Goats without incident. So long as one side or the other wasn’t hungry.
The trick was red paint on their faces and bodies. All six of the Redfang warriors wore it. That combination of red and green warned the Eater Goats not to attack. Thus, the Redfang warriors could let the goats move ahead and enjoy the protection of the ravenous monsters. Afraid of Shield Spiders, Mothbears, Armored Crawlers, or Wyverns? No problem. The Eater Goats would take down anything that moved.
And in the meantime, the Redfang warriors could scavenge the kills.
—-
The place where the Goblin Lord’s army had clashed with the Eater Goats still had a few fallen bodies. The goats, having eaten last night, were all resting until their systems worked through their meals. That meant the Redfang Goblins had a short window to procure their own rations. They were hungry; they’d been in hiding for the last day from the Goblin Lord’s army.
The six Goblins hurried down the pass and ran across the muddy ground, searching for fallen bodies that weren’t completely rotten. It was a miserable, horrible task, but they had to do it. It was that or starve. They were hungry enough to eat an undead Goblin, but all of them prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
One of the Redfang warriors paused as he found a figure in black armor lying in the snow. He nudged the body, turned it over, and saw a fat Hob’s face. Dead and still caked in mud. Skin cold from the air which still had yet to warm. Perfect.
He called the others over. Two Goblins approached. They eyed the Hob, nodded. Three lifted the huge corpse up and moved back towards their hiding spot. The other three hosted corpses of their own and joined them.
Normally, three Goblins couldn’t carry a Hob of any size, let alone a fat one with armor. But the Redfang warriors were strong. Unlike every other Goblin and some adventurers, they trained for combat. And the six who now started a fire in the snow were more different still.
Rabbiteater. Bugear. Numbtongue. Shorthilt. Badarrow. Headscratcher. They tossed wood on a growing flame, warmed their frozen bodies, and carved up the dead Goblins, roasting flesh on pans and eating greedily. Hungrily. They were starving. They’d been starving for days. Normally, a small Goblin could live for a week on a single body, but these Goblins consumed all they found and went back to look for more. Because they weren’t small Goblins any longer.
They were Hobs.
All six. Headscratcher carved more fat and tossed it into the pan, grunting with surprise when he missed. Badarrow caught the flesh out of the air. He had been the first to grow used to his longer limbs and new musculature. He tilted the pan and the smell made Rabbiteater grunt. Badarrow flipped the meat towards him and the other Hob grabbed it out of the air.
They ate for over an hour. Because they were hungry. It had been a week since the Goblins had begun growing at an abnormal rate, nearly doubling their height in a matter of days, and the cost of it was reflected in sunken cheeks, thin bellies, and their craving for any food—even the bodies of their own.
Shorthilt reappeared by their fire and tossed something down. The other Hobs looked and saw it was a pack. Of rations for the Goblin Lord’s soldiers! They were on it in a second, fighting over the hard, gritty bread and frozen bit of cheese and jerky. It didn’t matter that the food was half-rotten. Goblins would eat anything in hard times, and they knew they needed all the energy they could get.
The Hobgoblin transformation process was usually like this. But as Numbtongue pointed out with an eloquent grunt after their hunger pangs had subsided, it was rare for so many Hobs to appear at once.
The other Redfang warriors considered this. Bugear scratched at his ears, a tick left over from a time when bugs had actually infested his ears. Now they were gone, which was a disappointment since he could have used more to eat. But it was also a reminder of who he’d met, of who he’d lost.
The action was both a message and a habit. The other Goblins stared at Bugear and looked away. They remembered, too.
A city full of undead. A place of ruin and shattered Humans. A monster who ate like they did. A girl, begging for help. Goblins in black armor. The [Knight]. The skeleton dancing in delight. The flowers.
Death. That was what they had left behind. The Redfang warriors stared at the fire. They’d lost so many. Their leader, the taciturn Grunter, Rocksoup always complaining of indigestion, Leftstep, who’d once dueled a Gold-rank [Fencer] with a stick and a shield made of bark. Bitefly, who ate flies. Orangepoo, whose name spoke for himself. Patchhelm, obsessed with armor, and Justrust, whose swords were as deadly for tetanus as they were for their ability to cut.
All gone. The Redfang warriors sat, remembering. All gone, and for what? Badarrow gnashed his teeth as he gnawed at a bone, making his feelings plain.
Headscratcher held something up. The others
looked. It was a flower.
Eloquently put. Badarrow tossed the bone aside and sighed. Headscratcher ate the flower. They’d been over this too many times to count. Too many times to dwell on it, but they did.
They were alone. And they had lost their group, as well as their purpose. Or rather, their conviction. After meeting a Human, after fighting for her, perhaps loving her—how could they kill another Human? What was the point?
Shorthilt made their general position clear by tossing a bit of intestines too filthy even by Goblin standards into the fire. The smell made the other Goblins growl, but he was right.
Garen Redfang was wrong. He was also an idiot. Rags, their new and rightful Chieftain, was probably right. At the very least, she was smart and worth following. If they could rejoin her tribe.
But where were they? The Redfang warriors had combed the area looking for clues about where their tribe had gone. They’d tried to enter the High Passes, but found no sign of any Goblins in the area. And the danger was too great, so they’d come south, hoping to find Rags around Liscor.
However, all six knew that if the Flooded Waters tribe had been anywhere around Liscor, the Goblin Lord’s army would have already destroyed them utterly.
So what now? Headscratcher scratched his head and patted his stomach. The others looked at him gloomily. Yes, the problem was obvious. Besides finding their tribe, the six warriors were in dire straits of their own. Because they were still hungry, and they would continue being hungry for a while.
They were Hobs. Six new Hobs, which shouldn’t be! Most small tribes had one or two Hobs at most. Big tribes could of course have many Hobs—there were rumors of a tribe living in the mountains who had hundreds of Hobs, and the Goblin Lord’s army had thousands. But who’d heard of six Goblins all turning into Hobs at once?
It made no sense. But it had something to do with what they’d been through, the Redfang warriors were sure. Losing Grunter, their leader and only Hob had triggered the change, as well as the ferocity of the battle they’d been through. Normally this would be a cause for celebration; a Hob was special, and they would be far stronger for their transformation. But only if they were with their tribe. Out here, away from any support and scavenging for food in the last stages of winter?
It was a death sentence. Already, the Redfang warriors felt hungry again. Numbtongue and Rabbiteater went to look for more corpses. The rest sat and debated what to do.
It wasn’t a hard decision. To the Goblins’ uncomplicated minds, there was only death, and more death. To the north, there was merciless death, overwhelming death, the death of enemies from the Goblin Lord’s army. They couldn’t hide twice and they’d die in an instant against so many foes, Hobs or not. Surrendering to join the Goblin Lord’s army was…also not an option. They’d been seen fighting at Esthelm against the Goblin Lord’s army and besides that, the Redfang warriors had their pride.
South, then. The only way they could go. To Liscor. However, the Redfang Goblins were sure that meant another kind of death as well. Badarrow captured the idea by breaking a bit of ice with one hand. It would be a death of pieces, a slow death. They’d find food or starve. Or be hunted down as threats.
Bugear nodded. He kicked dirt over their fire and Headscratcher pointed. The Eater Goats were rising, already heading southwards for more food.
Yes, it would most likely be their deaths. But what other choice did they have? They were warriors. At least this way there was a chance. And if they had to die fighting, well…
The Eater Goats ran swiftly down the rocky slopes and onto the road, moving quickly, jumping incredible heights with ease. Their teeth were still red from their feast, their hides still matted with blood. They screamed a hunting call. The Redfang warriors followed at a distance.
If they had to die, at least they’d have a worthy foe to die fighting against. They hated those damn goats. But, as even Badarrow would concede, they were a lot easier to fight against than Gargoyles.
—-
“So you’re a [Farmer].”
“That is correct, Miss Solstice.”
“That’s cool. I mean, I don’t want to make assumptions. But it’s just weird. I didn’t think I’d ever uh, meet a Gnoll [Farmer]. Do you—is that normal?”
The Gnoll raised a furry eyebrow. His fur was a dirty blonde, and he’d paused in his chores long enough to chat with Erin. He shifted the empty pail as he considered her question.
“Hrm. No, I suppose it is not. My people, they do raise animals, but they do not plant, yes? However, we learned to farm the land from the Drakes, and so some of us abandon our travels to settle near cities.”
“Like Liscor. That’s what I never got. Why would anyone ever live in a village near the city? I mean, this is a nice hill you’ve got here. Very big. But…it’s uh, a bit undefended.”
The Gnoll bared his teeth as Erin gestured to the village she stood in. It really was a small place. A pair of farms, a few houses, and a ten-foot high wall were the only defenses. The Gnoll only shrugged.
“There is no safety anywhere, yes? So long as we do not stray beyond the walls, it is easy to defend. Stone Deceivers—”
“What? Oh, you mean Rock Crabs.”
“Rock Crabs? Hrm. That is a good name for them, yes. They do not attack walled settlements. Shield Spiders are a threat if they burrow, but they can be heard tunneling. As for Goblins and other threats…I have a bow and the others in the village are able to fight. The Watch patrols in the area. It is safe, and needed.”
“Because you feed the city?”
“Exactly so. Without us, Liscor would starve. Oh, there is fishing to be done in the spring, and [Shepherds] can keep their sheep within the walls if need be. But all cities save for the Walled Cities require [Farmers].”
“Right. I gotcha. And you specialize in milk, right?”
The Gnoll nodded.
“That is so. I keep many cows. They are curious creatures, or so I think. Even after raising them for many years, I find it odd, yes? But they give milk, which my people love. You said you wished some.”
“Oh! Right. I’d like to buy some, yeah. Krshia said she gets it from you and you were going to bring some in a day or two, but I’d like some today if you have any you can spare.”
“Certainly. It is expensive in the winter of course—”
“I’ve got money. Don’t worry. I just need some. You see, I have this little Gnoll I’m helping to look after—”
“Mrsha. Hrr. Yes. I know.”
Erin blinked.
“You do—but—right.”
The [Farmer] smiled. He gestured towards his house.
“We have different kinds of milks, yes? Some cows give better milk. Richer, fatter…and of course I have had the great luck of obtaining a Fischer Cow pair. Now I have several such cows. And goats. I believe a young Gnoll would like goat milk most.”
“Goat milk? Well, I wouldn’t mind having some of—what’s a Fischer Cow?”
“They like meat. Their milk is very rich, although the cows themselves…they bite.”
The [Farmer] showed Erin a scar on one arm. She shuddered.
“Meat eating cows. What’s next?”
“I would love to have one of the magical types of cows in my barn one day. But they are rare and hard to raise, yes? For now, I have several bottles of goat milk and more. Come, please.”
Erin sneezed. It was cold, and the Gnoll’s offer was very tempting.
“Okay. I might have to make a few trips to get all the milk I want, though. I’ll buy in bulk. I have a little sled—”
“It is no issue. I will be here all day.”
“Cool. Hey, do you want to buy some honey? Lyonette got a lot last time and I thought I’d ask. Don’t know if cows eat honey, but it’s good stuff.”
“…Honey?”
—-
“I am Bird. Bird I am. I hunt birds with my bow. This is my song. La. Lah, la…birds.”
Bird sang quietly to himself as he stood
in his watch tower on top of Erin’s inn. His bow was in hand, and he was scanning the sky for birds. This was his purpose, but he was being extra alert today.
Because he had failed. Two people had died while he was on duty. True, one had died inside the inn, at the hands of a Named Adventurer and the other had been killed in the city, but the deaths weighed on Bird.
He was a guard. A protector. Revalantor Klbkch had impressed on him the grave nature of his duty. He had been given a chance, a chance to protect Erin to whom he and his comrades owed so much.
She had given him the bow he held. She had taught him chess. She had freed his fellow Workers. Freed them in their heads.
For that he would always love her. And he had failed her. Her guests were dead. Bird knew he didn’t understand things like Pawn did, but he understood failure.
So he stood in his watch tower, ignoring the cold. He hunted for birds. He would hunt for birds and that would make things better. One bird, two birds…if it took him a thousand birds, he would shoot them all down. That was the only way he knew how to make things better.
Bird didn’t know much about the world. He knew some things were bad. Some things he had to watch out for. Rock Crabs, Shield Spiders, Face-Eater Moths…these things weren’t birds, so the Antinium only identified them as threats. The world was hard and complex.
Not like birds. There were blue birds and red birds, yellow birds and black birds. There were birds that flew high overhead, birds who could fly through the clouds thousands of miles overhead. The Antinium was still trying to figure out how he was going to shoot them down.
There were birds who could fly faster than the wind. Birds who were larger than houses. Birds who flew through the sky and left trails of glowing air in their wake. Birds that were beauty and wrath, elegance and cunning.
They flew. Bird could still remember the wonder he’d felt the first time he’d looked up and seen a bird flying. The envy. And he could remember shooting one. He hunted birds because he was jealous. Because they were beautiful. Because they were food.
