The Wandering Inn_Volume 1

by Pirateaba

  Except maybe Garen Redfang. He thought they could skirmish with the Goblin Lord’s forces, but that was because he was used to a small tribe with groups of elite mounted warriors. If all the Goblins tried that they would be very dead, very quickly.

  So Rags had ordered their forces north, against Garen’s objections, to buy time. It had taken some doing but she’d pointed out the obvious to the surly Goblin Chieftain. If the combined tribes around the High Passes were equivalent to one of the Goblin Lord’s warbands, they had no hope of facing his main force.

  So, north. Surprisingly, once Garen had accepted the idea he had been the one to lead them to this spot. He claimed to know where another Goblin tribe was based, one strong enough to help fight the Goblin Lord.

  It had been a long journey, although not necessarily a difficult one. Rags had been more concerned with affairs inside the tribe rather than any external threat. The most exciting thing that had happened had been when they’d spotted the magical carriage. But it had gotten away.

  And the trip had been helpful for Rags in another way. She’d gotten to know her tribe better—that was to say, she now knew who was loyal to her and who was not. And she’d gotten stronger.

  Rags had leveled many times over the journey. Not so much as a [Mage] or [Tinkerer], and certainly not as her old class – [Scavenger]. But through Garen’s intense training she’d leveled up as a [Warrior], gained two levels as a [Tactician], and more than ten as a [Leader]. Soon, the other Chieftains told her, her [Leader] class would turn into a [Chieftain] class, unique to their race.

  That was the good bit. But Rags knew the bad bit started and ended with one simple fact: somehow, in some way, she’d suddenly lost her position as leader over all the tribes. Not that she’d ruled over all the tribes to begin with—this was a coalition army. But…

  She was not in command here. In battles, yes. The few times the Goblins had had to defend themselves all the other Chieftains had obeyed her orders quickly and without complaint, as had their warriors. But they were not here, joining together because of Rags. And it was not her authority they respected.

  It was his.

  Garen Redfang appeared out of the trees, riding his huge rust-red Carn Wolf mount. Rags pulled at her wolf’s head gently, forcing it to slow down. She stared up at Garen, and not for the first time, resented his physique.

  He looked like what all Goblins dreamed of being. Garen was strong. His muscles stood out on his bare chest and he looked like he barely noticed the cold. He was covered in scars, he had a magical sword at his side and a mighty beast under his command—he looked like a proper Chieftain, not Rags.

  That was the problem.

  Garen Redfang and his tribe were under Rags’ command. She had beaten his tribe, and so it was part of hers now. That was how it went, but somehow Garen had made a mess of that simple fact.

  He had lost, but somehow, he hadn’t lost. Rags knew he’d thrown the fight, but a defeat was a defeat in Goblin society. She should have taken his tribe and obtained his unquestioning loyalty unless he challenged her.

  But he didn’t obey. Garen glanced down at Rags and smiled. But not just in greeting—there was something patronizing about his smile, and indeed his attitude. It was as if he was obeying Rags because it was convenient, not because she was Chieftain.

  Frankly, it made Rags furious. She jumped off her mount to give her stiff legs a chance to move. She glared up at Garen, ignoring the way his wolf sniffed at her. If it licked her, she’d punch it in the nose.

  Report.

  He blinked at her, almost as if he was surprised by her tone. But he answered her casually.

  “We are here. This is the place where the other tribe lives.”

  Here?

  Rags glanced around the miserable little forest. This was hardly the place she’d have chosen for a tribe. But Garen just nodded.

  “Here. In the Human lands.”

  They are strong?

  Rags wanted to know all the details he’d withheld from her. But her question seemed to amuse Garen. He laughed loudly, and she flushed. Other Goblins would watch them talk! Garen hadn’t dismounted. Did he not understand how to behave in front of his own Chieftain?

  Garen pointed at the mountain.

  “There. There is where they live. And they are strong, yes.”

  He raised his voice. Rags saw Goblin’s heads turn as he spoke loudly. Garen gestured to the sky.

  “This is the land where Goblins are strongest. The Humans have built grand cities and their adventurers fight with all monsters. But the Goblins remain, and fight. This is the place where Goblins are mighty.”

  Rags had never heard of the tribes living to the north. But she had never ventured out of the area around Liscor, never known more than her miserable existence in her small tribe before this. She looked at Garen.

  Strongest Goblins live here?

  He shrugged, as if he actually wasn’t sure.

  “On this continent. Aside from Goblin Lord. Others live across the sea. On islands. They are strong too. But here? Yes.”

  Across the sea?

  There were other Goblins on other continents? Rags couldn’t imagine it. But Garen nodded. He had seen the world Rags couldn’t imagine.

  “Some live on Terandria, but fewer. Some on Chandrar too; strong tribes, that live in their own places. Few on Baleros. Fewer still on Rhir. Too much death there. Overwhelming death.”

  One of the worst kinds of death. Rags shuddered. Garen nodded darkly, baring his teeth in a scowl.

  “We live in other places. But the enemies find us wherever we go. The last Goblin King came across sea. Many did. They fought greater enemies than Drakes and Gnolls and Humans.”

  But tribe here. It is—

  Rags hesitated. Inwardly, she cursed the fact that she still couldn’t speak the common language like Garen could. The Goblin tongue was so…so…hard to use! There were countless words for death, but few words for what she needed.

  It is strong? Leader is strong? Will help?

  “He is. And he may help. We will see.”

  How?

  Garen shrugged. Rags wanted to punch him, but he sat too high up. He looked towards the mountain and nodded to Rags.

  “I will go. To prepare. You follow.”

  That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Rags was supposed to order him to do that, not the other way around! She opened her mouth to shout that at Garen, but he was already wheeling his wolf, letting it lope towards the foot of the mountain.

  Disgusted, Rags watched him ride away, already calling out to other Chieftains and his warriors. Not good. She was losing more control over him each day, she felt. What would happen if she lost what control she had left? She didn’t know, but she feared the result, especially as she prepared herself to meet this new Chieftain.

  —-

  Goblin politics. As Headscratcher and the band of Redfang warriors had observed, the situation between Rags and Garen Redfang was anything but ordinary. The Flooded Waters tribe, Rags’ tribe, was the largest tribe in the coalition of fifteen or so tribes by a good margin. And the strongest, Rags felt.

  They had nearly eight hundred warriors and several thousand Goblins in total, and over ten Hobs, the most out of any tribe by far. And yet, Rags didn’t count the Redfang tribe when she thought of her tribe. They were with the Flooded Waters tribe, but like Garen, they were separate.

  He still gave orders to his tribe, although it was Rags who made sure the warriors were fed. She’d taken over, organized them efficiently and taken the burden off of Garen’s beleaguered Hobs, who’d had to do all the work because their Chieftain was a terrible leader when it came to such matters. And yet, if it came down to it, Rags was fairly certain they’d listen to Garen and not her if they butted heads.

  Not good. Garen had lost, but he didn’t seem to regard losing as being less superior in any way. Normally, Rags would have killed or exiled him for disobeying her orders, but she couldn’t because Garen was
too strong. If she challenged him, he would beat her easily. Ordinarily Rags would have just sneered and had several Hobs beat him up—a Chieftain ruled by more than just force!—but Garen was quite capable of taking down any number of Hobs she sent at him.

  And if she used her Goblins, his tribe would defend him. And if Rags made it a battle between tribes, it wouldn’t end until one side was dead and the other crippled. And if that happened, the other Chieftains in this tenuous alliance of tribes would choose sides and either way, it would end in disaster.

  This Rags knew, but she didn’t like it. She could only grit her teeth and bear the humiliation and slights Garen offered her seemingly without thought. He was too strong.

  She didn’t have to order anyone to follow Garen. He rode off with his warriors and the other Goblins followed. Grumpily, Rags left her wolf—another Goblin would ride it if they could get on without it biting them—and strode off.

  She needed to know things. What things? Anything. Garen had told her nothing. But who could she ask. Telling other Chieftains she couldn’t command Garen was as good as shooting herself with her black crossbow, Rags knew. She had to ask someone from her tribe. But who?

  Rags had conquered four tribes with her small one. She had made all of them hers, and she knew most of them thought of her as a proper Chieftain. At least two tribes did. One was…well, she’d absorbed them only a few days before meeting the Redfang tribe, and so she hadn’t gained as complete control over them as the others. They respected Garen’s strength more than her cunning.

  But it was the Chieftains Rags thought about, the former Chieftains, that was. They were hers, too. Chieftains were smart, some of them, and some knew a lot. So could she ask one of them?

  Rags thought. The first tribe she’d attacked was…the Rockjaw tribe. She’d killed their leader herself. Oops.

  Well, he was out. What about the second tribe? The Still Grass tribe’s leader was alive, but he was young like her. And like Rags, he had risen to power early and his tribe was weak, only having had one Hob when she’d crushed it. She doubted he knew anything of the world.

  The third tribe was the least loyal to her, the Fire Bite tribe. Their Chieftain, a Hob, was hard to control. Rags couldn’t talk to him.

  She ground her sharp teeth together. But wait! There was one last tribe.

  The Gold Stone Tribe. Rags hesitated. She’d conquered them literally seconds before the Redfang Tribe had attacked, but to their credit, their Chieftain had instantly thrown all of his support behind Rags like a proper Goblin, when backstabbing her would have led to her instant demise.

  Could she trust him? Rags closed her eyes and remembered.

  Rags didn’t even see him swing his sword. She only saw the Hob next to her move, and then the Gold Stone Chieftain was in front of her, taking the one-handed slash meant for Rags.

  Yes, she could trust him. Rags opened her eyes and blinked rapidly. For a second she was still in the past, heart beating rapidly as she stared up at Garen Redfang, sure this was the end. Then she was back in the present, standing on muddy ground as Goblins walked past her.

  It was getting easier to do that. Rags had found recalling past events was simpler now that her tribe had grown. She still couldn’t ‘look’ back that far in time, but what she could see was easier, and she could will the visions to happen most of the time.

  And it helped in matters like these. Rags began walking through the snow. She didn’t have to search to find the Gold Stone Tribe’s former Chieftain. He was part of her tribe and assigned to managing them on the march, being the most competent Hob at the job.

  She found the Gold Stone Chieftain munching on something as he rested near a tree. He was waiting for the Goblins around him to keep moving forwards—Rags had passed by a pile of Goblins. One idiot had slipped and the others had all fallen down because of that.

  Rags eyed the former Chieftain as he chewed contentedly, scratching at his belly. He was a classical Hob, fat, trusting in his extra body mass to shield him as much as his armor. But like all Hobs he was strong and Rags knew he was fairly good with an axe and shield.

  She was about to yell at him for eating—it wasn’t meal time! Hobs had to respect her rules and stay away from the rations, the same as everyone else. But then she saw what he was eating.

  Pine needles. The Hob was chewing them down slowly, letting the sharp tufts stick out of his mouth. He had a handful of the green needles and as Rags watched, shoved some more into his mouth.

  She had to admire that. The pine needles were easy to get on the march, and it was a good snack. If you could handle the pricking, that was. She saw several other Goblins around the Chieftain trying to imitate him and spitting out the sharp pine needles after a few moments. But the Gold Stone Chieftain just chewed determinedly, grinding the touch fibers into mush.

  He turned as Rags marched over. The Gold Stone Chieftain nodded his head towards her—Rags felt better about that. It wasn’t as if Goblins had to salute her or bow, but they did acknowledge their Chieftain.

  You. Question.

  That was all she said. As far as she knew, the Gold Stone Chieftain had no name. His tribe had no [Shaman] – they were rare – and so he lacked a name. She just thought of him as the Gold Stone Chieftain, which might be how he thought of himself.

  Chieftain.

  His voice was a rumble. The Gold Stone Chieftain said that word and nothing else. He just chewed his food, waiting for her to say something.

  Rags pursed her lips, trying to figure out how to ask her question concisely. She could speak in the Human or rather, common tongue, but it hurt her throat to try. She pointed at the mountain.

  This place. Tribe. Is strong?

  It was a question with a lot of nuance, which Garen should have understood when Rags asked him. The Gold Stone Chieftain heard Rags’ question and the layers beneath it. Properly translated, her stance, the context in which she was asking and the current state of the tribes meant she was really asking: ‘How dangerous is this tribe? Are they likely to betray us? Why has Garen taken us here, and what can I expect?’

  At last, the Gold Stone Chieftain nodded. Rags waited with bated breath for his response.

  Is strong Goblin. Goblins here is strong.

  That was the problem with other Goblins, even other Chieftains. None of them were particularly verbose, which made sense given their language. All he was telling her was that the Chieftain was as strong as his tribe, which was apparently very. She eyed him dourly, and the Hob shrugged as if apologizing.

  Talking wasn’t his strong suit. Rags turned to go, deciding she’d have to figure out what to do herself. But she heard a grunt, and then a rumble, and words in a language that was not Goblin.

  “Chieftain. You. Chieftain?”

  She turned, eyes widening. The Gold Stone Chieftain stared at her pensively. For a second, white-hot fury flared up in Rags’ chest and she debated taking the shortsword from her belt and stabbing him with it.

  But she didn’t. It was a question, not an attack. Rags was so angry she didn’t reply in Goblin, but again in the common language.

  “I…Chieftain. I always…Chieftain!”

  She glared at him. The Gold Stone Chieftain met her eyes—not afraid, just searchingly. Then he bowed his head and nodded slowly.

  Is so. Will not ask again.

  She stared at him, but the Hob just went back to chewing his pine needles. Rags looked around. Other Goblins immediately bowed their heads and pretended to be busy kicking snow, picking nostrils, or throwing prickly burrs at each other. But they had heard.

  Was the Gold Stone Chieftain questioning her too? No—as Rags left and calmed down she considered what had been said. He’d questioned her, yes, but when she’d declared herself as Chieftain he’d acknowledged her in front of the others.

  Maybe, just maybe, she had one supporter she could count on. The other Hobs were loyal to her as well, but she had known they could turn on her if dissatisfied, as one of them had wh
en they were losing to the Redfang Tribe. But the Gold Stone Chieftain…could she count on him?

  Rags didn’t know. But then she found herself striding up to the mountain, and saw where Goblins were streaming into fissures in the stone, caves leading into the mountain. She walked upwards and found herself in another world, in the heart of a small kingdom of Goblins. And there she met the one who called himself Great Chieftain, the Chieftain above all others.

  —-

  Her cold feet left snowy tracks that melted on the rough stone floor of the city within a mountain. Rags saw other Goblins stumbling on the rough ground; though places had been worn smooth, this was no place of architecture and masonry. The vast tunnel they walked down had been hewn out of the very rock one chip at a time.

  By degrees, the darkness of the caverns lightened, as bits of fire appeared overhead, lighting the way. Lanterns hung from rough hemp rope or strapped to lengths of wood dangled off of balconies, sputtering with the cheap animal fat oil.

  The smoke of such flames drifted upwards, to the walkways made out of stone and the bridges of rope and timber where dark shapes scurried about. Upwards, and ever upwards the Goblins looked, for the crisscrossing tunnels and passages led up into the heart of the mountain.

  At first, they saw the guards, hidden in alcoves or behind barricades disguised as piled stone. Arrows glinted, but the Goblins watched them carefully without putting any to their bows. They wore steel armor which made even some Hobs look on in jealousy.

  Next, they saw other Goblins dragging in a dead bear’s carcass, and next to it, the cub, both riddled with arrows. A rat darted out of the shadows to lick at the trail of blood. Another Goblin grabbed the rat, and a few of the roaches which clung to a wall. All things lived here, and all things were eaten.