The Wandering Inn_Volume 1

by Pirateaba

  And Mrsha? She looked around and saw many people, happy and sad. But no one was dead. No one.

  Not even her.

  Lyonette hugged Mrsha again, crying. Mrsha stared at her, and felt something break in her heart. But it wasn’t a bad thing. The thing that broke was a wall, or maybe it was fear itself. She hugged Lyonette back and felt hot tears trickle into her fur. And Mrsha cried too. Because she was safe.

  She was finally home.

  3.28 G

  Sometimes, in the silence of her own mind, Rags knew why her kind was so despised across the world. Privately, she could acknowledge the bitter truth.

  Goblins were weak. They didn’t level as much as other races—because they were cowards, too. They lived hand-to-mouth, eating their own dead, fighting each other over scraps. The strongest tribes were still forced to raid the more successful races to survive. Goblins were not creators; they only destroyed.

  That was what she had been told. That was what she had known all her life; the contempt of other species. And Rags had believed it. But oh, if they could see what Goblins had wrought here. In this mountain, Goblinkind had built something greater than their miserable existences. They had created something vast, something new.

  A kingdom. Or perhaps, a new sort of tribe.

  That was the only way Rags could think of it. She stared down from the balcony, down a mile to the bottom of the place the Great Goblin Chieftain had claimed as his own. Twisting corridors built into spires of rock that stretched upwards, countless bridges made of rope and stone, and always, always, the hanging lanterns, some unlit, others shedding faint light in the darkness. That was what she saw below her; a vast anarchy stretching downwards, like some strange spider’s web.

  She shivered, feeling a chill from respect as much as awe. Never had she ever seen something like this. This mountain had been hollowed out and made into a dwelling place for tens of thousands of Goblins. It had been built, under the leadership of Tremborag, or perhaps he had stolen it and claimed it as his own. Either way, it was a marvel.

  And it was also a mystery. How could one tribe be so huge and yet, be ruled only by a Chieftain? This was the first of the things Rags pondered on her second day living in this mountain. Her tribe—and all the tribes around Liscor—had officially allied with Tremborag, and now lived in his home. There was plenty of room to spare.

  But back to the Chieftain. Tremborag. He was only the sixth Goblin that Rags had ever known with a name. His tribe was known, fittingly, as the Mountain City Tribe. But Rags had heard him more often referred to as the Great Chieftain’s Tribe.

  Great Chieftain. Rags frowned and spat over the edge of the balcony. She didn’t know if she’d hit someone—no doubt she had. One of the dangers of living in this place was that a careless stone or object dropped from on high could turn into instant death for the Goblins moving about below.

  How could it be? There was no such thing as a Great Chieftain, at least, as far as Rags knew. To be more precise, such an existence should have been impossible.

  Some things all Goblins knew, even odd ones like Garen. You had your tribe, and you were lead by your Chieftain. But…there were other Goblins whose existence was greater than Chieftain. Rags could feel it.

  A Goblin Lord was superior to a Chieftain. Their presence unified tribes, drawing Chieftains to them like a magnet. Unless you opposed one with all your might, Rags was sure any Goblin would end up following a Goblin Lord, even a powerful Chieftain.

  And a Goblin King? Rags knew without a doubt that if one existed—and one did not, she was sure—every Goblin in the world would follow such a person. The desire for a King, a leader, was built into every Goblin deep down.

  So it followed that all Chieftains would eventually become Goblin Lords, and into a Goblin King if they grew strong enough. It wasn’t a choice they would make; it was just nature asserting itself, like how fire burned or how you had to poop after eating.

  But then why had Tremborag not become a Goblin Lord? He could become one, Rags was sure. Like the Goblin Lord to the south, he had a tribe too vast for any Chieftain. Yet he was not a Lord. She would have felt it.

  It made no sense. Like much in this place, really. Rags turned away from the balcony and walked down into a stone corridor. Two shadows walked after her.

  Hobs. The Gold Stone Chieftain and a Hob from his tribe. They were Rags’…bodyguards.

  Again, a foreign concept. But Rags had grown to understand that protection was necessary in this place. For while this tribe was Tremborag’s, it was anything but peaceful.

  There were…factions in this place. Not other tribes; Tremborag’s had been the only one until Rags and the others had arrived. But the various sub-Chieftains who managed parts of the tribes or led their own bands of warriors fought with each other for influence.

  Tremborag was in charge, but there were Hobs and normal Goblins below him who had huge amounts of control over other Goblins. It boggled Rags’ mind to think of it that way, but it made a twisted kind of sense.

  There was no way a Chieftain could manage tens of thousands of Goblins. But…if you assumed he was ruling over other, lesser, sub-Chieftains then it might work. It obviously worked. But it made no sense.

  “Not Goblin.”

  Rags growled the words out loud. The Hob walking behind her flinched, but the bigger, fatter one, didn’t. The Gold Stone Chieftain followed Rags silently, crunching down some rock salt as he walked. He was an odd Hob. He always had something to eat, and he rarely said a word. Actually, that wasn’t uncommon for Goblins, but Rags had noticed the Gold Stone Chieftain’s face rarely changed. He seemed unperturbed by anything.

  But he was loyal. Rags was fairly certain of that, and grateful for it. It meant she had some power in this place.

  Of course, Rags still ruled over her tribe. Only…where was her tribe? She recognized some of her Goblins scurrying down the corridors, carrying wood, helping butcher animal carcasses—or Goblin bodies. But they were scattered, already becoming absorbed into this place. In a very real sense, Rags no longer had a tribe, only her own small faction.

  In some ways, Rags was the exact opposite of Ryoka and more like Erin. She didn’t waste time wondering how all this had happened, she just dealt with the facts. She’d lost her tribe. Tremborag wasn’t her ally and Garen was Garen. She was on her own and she had to find a way to survive in this new place.

  As always. In fact, Rags took this new situation to be a challenge, and so dealt with it calmly and in true Goblin fashion. The first thing she did was go exploring, after making sure she wouldn’t be stabbed in the back. The two Hobs helped in that regard.

  The mountain was vast. From the outside it was obviously huge, but that was in a climbing sense. Inside, Rags couldn’t help but feel she was in an entirely different world. There was so much space! Goblins had taken what was apparently an abandoned Dwarf city and slowly chipped away at the rock walls and ceiling for decades, perhaps centuries, enlarging this place until it was larger than Esthelm or Celum. Perhaps larger than Liscor.

  And like any city, there were places to sleep, places to eat, and places where going to the bathroom was acceptable and places where it was not, although it had to be said Goblins usually didn’t pay attention to that last part. Rags already knew where her and a lot of the new Goblin’s sleeping quarters were; they were higher up near the top.

  She sensed this was another slight, or a sign of their weak position in Tremborag’s tribe. Of course, normally higher meant better, but all the really good things like the exits, the main eating halls and the cooking places and forges were further down, which meant Goblins living near the top had further to go. Plus, it was more dangerous high up where you could fall thousands of feet before you went splat on the ground.

  Rags didn’t mind the height. She kept away from any place without railings or where she might slip. In short order she located another important place in the mountain, one that was again foreign to most Goblins.

 
; The armory. Rags stared curiously at the four Hobs who stood guard around the doors. She understood vaguely what they were here for. But the presence of the armory herself baffled her.

  She took a step towards the doors and the Hobs tensed. Rags raised her hands to show them she wasn’t trying to get in. They relaxed, and a smaller Goblin came scurrying out, waving his arms frantically.

  “Can’t go in! Go away!”

  He seemed to be in charge of managing the items inside. Rags pointed.

  Why? Why needed?

  He looked archly at her.

  “For worthy Goblins.”

  Rags frowned at his disdain. She’d spoken in Goblin and he’d refused to use it. It seemed almost every Goblin in this place spoke the common tongue, however broken. Speaking in the actual Goblin tongue was looked down upon, it seemed.

  And worthy Goblins? Rags supposed that fed into the idea of factions too. Any Goblin with Tremborag’s favor—or a lot of influence—could get what they wanted. Anyone else had to fight for what was left over.

  “What is in?”

  The small Goblin—small compared to the Hobs, that was, he was still a bit taller than Rags—shrugged.

  “Can look.”

  The small Goblin meekly approached one of the Hobs. He snorted in irritation, but when he saw Rags and the two Hobs standing at her back he grudgingly opened the door for her to peek inside.

  What Rags saw made her eyes widen. Racks of carefully placed swords hung in order of value, from high-quality steel to blades that looked like the metal had been forged by a true master of the craft.

  Rags had never heard of Damascus steel, but if Ryoka had been here she would have recognized the superiority of some of the blades. Yet these were less important than the few arms that glowed or sparkled or shone in Rags’ vision as magical artifacts. There were few of these, but the swords were just one section of the armory.

  Maces, axes, shields—a collection of bows and armor in all shapes and sizes! Rags saw a pile of books that had to be magical before the Hob shut the door. She stared at him, noting his superior armaments.

  “Very good. Tremborag say, you take. Otherwise—not!”

  The small Goblin ushered Rags back. She took a few steps and pointed towards the doors.

  “Why not give to all Hobs?”

  Why not distribute these weapons among all the warriors? Rags knew they could be of use; for every Hob she’d seen walking around with steel weaponry, she saw ten or twenty warriors with little more than sharpened sticks to fight with. If she equipped a force with what she’d seen inside they’d be many times more powerful.

  “Only worthy Goblins. Only.”

  “Makes no sense.”

  Rags frowned at the Goblin, but he just shrugged and motioned her away. Reluctantly, she left. Did Tremborag fear Goblins would attack him if they had those weapons? Or was it just because he wanted to keep them fighting over such riches? Rags could understand that, but it still felt stupid to her. He was hurting his own tribe by keeping such treasures locked away!

  No sense. Nonsense. It wasn’t the first time Rags had had that thought here. This mountain was so foreign, and Tremborag’s tribe so alien to her.

  Some things made sense. Rags found the huge storage rooms filled with food, preserved by the cold temperatures, and magic runes in a few store rooms! She discovered areas devoted entirely to fletching, or where Goblins would hammer dents out of metal equipment, or clumsily craft things like the lanterns on poles. And of course the huge forge works and kitchens were equally impressive.

  But always Rags was reminded that this place was not united. She saw some Goblins wearing ragged armbands, or tattooed with inks on certain parts of their body to differentiate themselves. All of the [Blacksmiths] seemed to be wearing a bracelet or necklace made of chain, for instance. Clearly they were in some faction that had a monopoly on manufactured arms.

  And the divisions were clearer when Rags ate that night. She ate again with Tremborag and Garen at the head table—this time no one contested her seat, although she felt hostile glares which she easily ignored.

  After a few minutes of eating, Rags glanced at Garen and Tremborag. Both had looked at her a few times, but neither had spoken to her directly. So she raised her voice above the din and spoke to both now.

  “When fight Goblin Lord?”

  Instantly, the length of the table—all those who had heard Rags—went still. All eyes turned to Tremborag. He looked down at Rags and grinned around a mouthful of bloody meat.

  “Ah, you are impatient. Good. But foolish! I have told Garen Redfang this and I will tell you now: if the Goblin Lord comes here we will fight. Otherwise I will not move. It is easy to defend here.”

  Rags saw other Goblins nodding at this, but she frowned. She understood the logic—this mountain was a natural stronghold that would take vast numbers of enemies to crack open. But Tremborag really intended to let the Goblin Lord gain strength while he hid here?

  She looked at Garen. The Hob had shifted in his seat when Tremborag spoke, but he hadn’t openly opposed the Great Chieftain. Rags did, though. She grabbed some cheese and bit into it, chewing and speaking around her mouthful.

  “Should go. Send army. I will go. As leader.”

  It was a blatant challenge. Rags would gladly fight with an army against the Goblin Lord and level if Tremborag was too cowardly to. But he just laughed hugely, making his layers of fat vibrate and bounce.

  “Ah, but who would follow you into battle? One or two Hobs? Your small tribe’s warriors?”

  Tremborag pointed down the table at the Gold Stone Chieftain eating with the few Hobs and warriors loyal to Rags.

  “The Goblin Lord would swat you like a bug, small Rags.”

  He laughed and everyone at the table besides Garen laughed too. Rags bit her tongue. She had seen the bugs that lived around Liscor. Some were acid flies and they exploded when you swatted them. But she waited for Tremborag to finish laughing. He gestured at his hall full of Goblins.

  “You can do nothing, not even with the legendary Garen Redfang. But I have an army as strong as the Goblin Lord’s. Stronger.”

  She wasn’t sure if that was true. But Tremborag’s words had roused his warriors. They banged on the tables, shouting until he raised a hand. The Great Chieftain pointed at Rags, his voice booming.

  “You want to fight the Goblin Lord? Well then. My warriors, my Hobs! Who would fight with Rags? Who would give her their warriors to command?”

  Not a single one of the Goblins sitting at the high table moved. Rags didn’t blush; she just narrowed her eyes at Tremborag as he grinned toothily at her.

  “You see? You have no power here.”

  “I…lead. I am smart. I lead armies!”

  She retorted. Tremborag laughed.

  “You lead? Yes, you have [Tactician]. Garen said. Good. Then we shall see if you are as skilled as Redfang claims. Later.”

  He waved a hand, and the conversation was done. Rags sat and pushed the rest of the cheese into her mouth, washing it down with some kind of pulpy juice, fuming. That was how it was, was it? Tremborag had just told her she had no power.

  She was angry, but the rich food cheered Rags up. Clearly rank had its privileges here. Rags could look at the other Goblins in the huge throne room and see far less sumptuous food available to them. Indeed, some of the hungrier-looking Goblins glanced longingly at those eating at the high table. They had to make do with raw mushrooms, rats, and mass-produced soup that looked like the worst of the meals Rags had eaten when she was young.

  Now that she was more able to take in her surroundings, Rags looked around and counted Hobs. Yes, a lot of them. Over a hundred. Perhaps hundreds of them walked Tremborag’s halls, given that not all Goblins ate at the same time. It was a huge force, but again, a fractured one.

  And most of the Hobs were young. As were most of the Goblins, in truth. In this place which was relatively safe, Goblins still didn’t have long lifespans.


  Then again…Rags had never seen an old Goblin, and she knew some, like the Gold Stone Chieftain, were over thirty or forty years old. But they looked like any other Hob—they didn’t really show their age.

  Except for one. Rags’ attention was caught by a Goblin sitting in a corner of the room. He was seated not at a table but on the ground, a sign of his inferiority. But he—

  He was old. Rags saw he actually had a beard. Some Goblins had hair, but she hadn’t known Goblins could grow beards. But it was white and scraggly and dirty, and it kept getting into the bowl of soup he was eating with his bare hands.

  She wrinkled her nose as she watched the old Goblin eat. He was messy, even by Goblin standards. He had a few teeth, but many were missing. He ate the scraps served to him greedily, laughing and chattering away with the filthy Goblins around him. For some reason, they all looked female.

  Another…faction. She supposed only a very weak one would want a Goblin like him. But it was a sign that some Goblins could live for a long time in this place. Outside, elderly Goblins would simply fall behind or die to monsters or in battle as a matter of course. Again, not that Rags had ever seen one remotely as old as him.

  At the table, the feast was still going on, but Rags wasn’t hungry. She had a smaller belly than any of the other Goblins at the table. She was young. And small. And no one was paying attention to her. That was how she’d been relegated, Rags realized.

  Tremborag and Garen kept their own council and talked to each other in private, and Rags apparently wasn’t important enough to be included in any other discussions. Not that there was anything important happening since they weren’t going to war yet.

  The Great Chieftain and Garen seemed more interested in the little key he possessed. Rags could sense they had some pact of their own, although neither one of them said anything. They just laughed and ate hugely, boasting of their abilities and achievements as they ate.

  She had to admit, she didn’t have the qualities to attract a following out of sheer might. Rags thought about this as she idly sipped more of her drink. She was smart and her tribe was strong, but that mattered little here it seemed. If only she was better with a sword or magic! She was learning both, but slowly. Meanwhile, the two sitting ahead of her were far more powerful than she was.