by Kumo Kagyu
His thoughts were interrupted when an open palm struck him hard on the back.
“What, now, no need to be so serious, Beard-cutter!” It was Dwarf Shaman. Dwarves’ small stature belied their physical strength, and this one gave Goblin Slayer another slap on the back. “We’re hardly even playing the same game they are! Just do what you always do.”
Goblin Slayer nodded.
“…Right.”
The truth was, there wasn’t much time to think, anyway.
They were few, and their enemy legion.
They would have to be quick, subtle, and precise if they wanted to have any chance of victory.
It was only the presence of his party members that kept him from conceding defeat. That was something he had no inkling how to repay.
He had no idea—but if they requested an adventure, then he would go on an adventure.
Even if they forbade him from using his traps for some reason—well, he had plenty of other tactics.
“From the east and the west, is it? They’re attempting a pincer attack.” Goblin Slayer rose. “We’re going to stop them.”
§
At the risk of giving away the rest of the story, that is exactly what they did.
The thunder rumbled overhead, and the insects cried from their hidden places in the grass.
The goblins approaching through the woods from the west stopped when they saw the lights of the town.
They could see humanoid shapes.
Something was pressed up against the trees along the roadside, as though it thought it was hidden.
But the helmet was all too obvious. There was no mistaking it. This was some kind of adventurer.
The goblin leading them—not through any personal desire or ambition—made a “wait” gesture.
He pointed to a subordinate, then shoved the spear he held into the creature’s hands. Go jab that shadow.
“GRBB.”
“GOOB!”
The subordinate shook his head furiously; his leader replied with a slap in the face and a kick in the rear.
The goblin now holding the weapon shuffled fearfully closer.
There was no movement. The goblin swallowed heavily.
He hefted the crude spear and offered his best stab.
It was a good blow, by goblin standards. Certainly enough to take a person’s life.
The blade struck something with a thump.
At the same moment, the silhouette tilted, then collapsed without a sound.
The goblins were simple creatures. Satisfied with the results, they set off again.
So they didn’t notice until it was too late.
They didn’t notice the rusty old helmet roll to the ground, revealing the face that had been chalked onto it.
It wasn’t a person?
In the next instant, a weighted pulley went into action, and death came raining down on the goblins’ heads.
“!”
“?!”
Death arrived in the form of sharpened stakes clustered in balls.
The balls were attached to the pulley by a string, and the force of the pulley flung them mercilessly down on their victims.
Adventurers referred to these nasty spiked balls as Guten Tag, popularly understood to mean “Good day—now die!”
After they had made a first pass through the goblins, the spiked balls pitched back under their own weight and speed, swinging like pendulums.
As much as they wanted to, the goblins found themselves unable to scream and failed to raise the alarm.
In fact—there was no noise at all.
“O Earth Mother, abounding in mercy, grant us peace to accept all things…”
It was, if you will, a miracle.
The wind tousled Priestess’s garments while she raised her flail in stunning fashion during the spell’s incantation.
Silence. Proof that the gods responded to her faithful heart.
Priestess was protected from the goblins in front of her by the Earth Mother’s blessing.
But the goblins, whose ranks had been culled by the trap, were not simply scared.
They believed anyone but themselves should suffer harm, and they burned with anger over their fallen companions.
That was simply their nature.
“—!!!”
With a soundless war cry, the goblins raised primitive weapons and attempted to mob Priestess.
In moments, the maiden would surely be overrun, trampled by goblin feet.
They should have known.
No support role would take on a horde of goblins alone.
“—?!”
One of the monsters suddenly tumbled spectacularly to the ground.
What was this? They all stopped to see. An arrow protruded from the forehead of the fallen creature.
Suddenly a bud-tipped arrow blossomed from the throat of another monster, having threaded all the way through the mouth.
It brought to mind the saying that a sufficiently advanced skill was indistinguishable from magic.
Nothing exemplified that maxim as well as High Elf Archer plying her elven marksmanship. Sometimes the great poets understand even better than the ancient elves.
The arrows released not a whisper as they flew, scything through the crowd of foes.
One after another was struck down, sowing a mighty confusion—and the goblins could not endure chaos or ambush for long.
Still, the very last of them came within footsteps of Priestess—
“Take…that!”
She sounded almost relieved as she smacked the attacker soundly with her flail. As he reeled from the blow, two, then three, arrows found him… And all was still.
“Huff… Huff…”
“Nice work. I’d say that went pretty well.” High Elf Archer patted Priestess on the shoulder. The younger girl was still gasping for breath, while her enemy’s remains collapsed just feet away.
“Th-thank you. S-somehow, I…”
Sweat streamed down her face, yet she smiled bravely. She tried hard to remain standing.
“Sheesh.” High Elf Archer laughed, stroking Priestess’s head.
“Huh?”
“When someone tells you to be bait, it’s okay to be a little upset about it.”
“Well, I mean… I guess…” But, blinking, Priestess concluded, “It was just my role in the plan.”
“You just don’t care with Orcbolg, do you? He could punch you in the face and you’d forgive him.”
“Ah— Ah, ha-ha-ha…”
High Elf Archer made a sound of disgust and reminded her that he’d instructed them to count the bodies.
Priestess said nothing and picked the helmet up off the ground with a strained expression.
Well used and covered in gruesome blotches, it was the same as Goblin Slayer’s helmet. It was probably an old one of his that he had saved for a situation exactly like this one.
She patted the visor. Sheesh. Really. She smiled and murmured.
“Well, he can’t be helped.”
And what was that person “who couldn’t be helped” doing at that moment?
He was killing goblins, of course.
§
“Hmph.”
A rock whistled through the air, cracking a goblin’s skull.
The creature stumbled and fell backward before vanishing into the murk.
“GOROOG?!”
Perhaps vanishing was the wrong word—or rather, only a human perspective. The superior night vision of goblins was perfectly capable of perceiving what had happened to their companion.
He was at the bottom of the cleft in the ground—a hole filled with sharpened spikes.
“GRRROROR!”
“GORRRB!”
The pit was merely a pit. But it was still a pit.
The goblins did not know that such traps had claimed the lives of many adventurers in many labyrinths.
But they did know better than to push ahead at random.
When the first one dropped int
o the hole along the footpath, the warband came to a halt.
Colored pebbles dotted the road in front of them.
Ah, markers!
The leader of the goblin party, pleased with his own perceptiveness, ordered his troops to avoid the pebbles.
The first step they took went quite well. Then the second, the third, the fourth. On the fifth step—
Another creature was swallowed up into a suddenly gaping maw.
“GOROOB?!”
“GROOROB! GOROBOB!!”
The goblins fell into a panic. There were no colored stones here.
Those pebbles had not marked anything at all. They had merely been a distraction.
The goblins were falling steadily into pits now. They couldn’t advance and they couldn’t retreat.
Those first steps had simply been lucky. There was no guarantee the ground would still be safe if they passed back over it.
“GROB! GOROROB!”
“GOOROBOG!!”
Soon they were at one another’s throats.
It was an ugly fight. The underlings blamed the leader who had told them to forge ahead, while the leader tried to foist the blame on his followers.
Caught up in their mutual suspicion and anger, none of them realized that this was precisely the point.
That was why some of the colored stones had, in fact, marked a pit.
And Goblin Slayer was not one to give up the advantage of surprise.
More whistling stones whipped through the air, striking down one goblin after another.
The screeching, scrambling monsters tossed their spears, threw rocks, cognizant that they were fighting for their lives.
But all their projectiles were repelled by the defensive wall he had prepared beforehand.
“Gracious. Wouldn’t our lives have been easier if we’d kept Long-Ears with us?” Dwarf Shaman growled, working stone and sling with his stubby fingers. He always carried the weapon, but magic was his forte.
“Not possible.” Goblin Slayer calmly fired off a stone, muttering, “Nineteen.” Then he explained, “She has less endurance. In a fight behind fortifications, it would be dangerous if any unexpected events were to occur.”
“Unexpected events… Do you speak of a shaman, perchance?” Lizard Priest was gathering stones for the two of them, setting them at their feet. He poked his head out from behind the battlement.
Two to the right, several yet to the left. He indicated the numbers to Goblin Slayer with his fingers, who gave his acknowledgment.
“Correct.” Goblin Slayer nodded, provoking a grumble from the dwarf.
“Well. She may have an anvil for a chest, but I suppose she is more at home leaping through the trees than crouching behind a pile of dirt.”
“I admit, it bothers me,” Goblin Slayer said.
“The fact that she doesn’t even have enough bosom to jiggle?”
“No.” As he made this flat refusal, he peeked through an opening in the battlement at the goblins, who were on the brink of routing. “Four bands of fifteen makes a total of sixty… Have you seen any superior breeds?”
“They all appear to be quite average, as far as I can tell.”
“Scaly’s right. Though Long-Ears might be able to pick up something else.”
“No spell-casters, no champions, no lords, no meat shields. And all attacking at precisely the same moment…?” Goblin Slayer muttered. “I can only think they are toying with us.”
Dwarf Shaman nodded. Not entirely without flippancy, but he was more serious than before.
“Can’t just chalk this one up to goblin idiocy, can we?”
“They’re stupid, but they’re not fools.”
“Meaning,” Lizard Priest said with a swish of his tail, “their mysterious commander believes he has a chance of victory.”
“We should assume so.”
The last one. Goblin Slayer split its skull, counting off, “Thirty.”
After making sure the corpse had fallen into the pit, he rose from behind the wall.
“We should link up with the others, then go reinforce the southern route.”
“The south—that’s where your farm is, isn’t it?” Dwarf Shaman asked.
“Yes.”
The next question came from Lizard Priest.
“Have you set traps near the farm?”
“No.”
“But that’s where you want to have the final confrontation?” Dwarf Shaman seemed to doubt the soundness of this plan.
“It is where they expect to launch their attack,” he said. “They are wrong.”
In other words.
“We will slaughter all the goblins.”
That was when the first droplet descended from the heavens and onto Goblin Slayer’s visor.
It would be a wet battle.
It had been a long and difficult battle.
But now five—no, six—mangled corpses lay before him.
New equipment, still just recognizable for what it was, was the only remaining testament to its former owners.
The girls had opposed him tenaciously, but with enough of a beating from his goblins…
Perhaps I should have left them alive?
He shook his head lightly, dismissing the thought as soon as it came to him. Useless speculation.
If the girl in the front lines had not taken that club to the face, shattering her lovely forehead, he would probably be dead instead of her.
But by fate or by chance, the gods had granted him a critical hit.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that it determined the course of the fight.
The air was humid, thick with the sweet stench of rotting flesh, and buffeted by a piercing cold. He savored all of it.
His eyes functioned as well in this dimness as they did in daylight. The grumbling goblins in front of him he found at once ridiculous and lovable.
They had stood bravely for him against these adventurers who had penetrated into the ritual site deep in this cave.
True, it was greed and not loyalty that had motivated them, but his life was saved just the same.
He had a quest, a mission.
A crucial quest, bestowed upon him from the distant pitch-black beyond, by the gods of chaos themselves.
He trembled with joy each time he remembered their handout, their oracle.
It was a rare honor to receive a handout directly from the gods.
Those who were granted such things, if they were adventurers, became heroes. If they were aligned with the forces of chaos, they became legendary villains.
It led to death and glory, to honor and legend. To all these things, he held the key.
It was in a bizarre shape, like a twisted, empty talon stretching out to grasp something.
Now all he needed was living sacrifices.
However—he had by no means enough yet.
He would have to order the goblins to bring him more sacrifices. And if that was not enough…
Well, adventurers had a special love of money and women. They could be brought from order to chaos easily.
What a simple thing it was to brutally, cruelly overrun those made foolish by festivity when one was guided from within…
They would cross the defensive walls, tear down the decorations, slaughter those who fled in panic, rape, pillage.
And then he would make his offering.
The black-skinned dark elf smiled broadly thinking of it.
The canary chirped against the pouring rain.
It sang a melody from its cage, and the droplets pelting the window formed the accompaniment.
Cow Girl sat by the window. She touched the fogged glass with a fingertip and exhaled.
She leaned on her arms. The dress she still wore was all that was left of her festival morning.
She could feel the cool air on her cheeks. A faint smile appeared, and she murmured, “I wonder where your master is now. What he’s doing.”
There was no reply. The bird just continued to twitter tu
nefully.
The bird he had brought home that summer now lived with them on the farm.
When she had asked, “Is it a gift for me?” he had replied, “Not really.” He could be strange sometimes.
Strange. For him, that included going to a festival, or going on a date.
“…”
Maybe he’s not coming back.
She buried her face in her arms as the thought crossed her mind.
She didn’t want to see herself reflected in the window. She couldn’t stand to.
Her right hand clenched. It still bore the ring—really just a toy—that he’d given her.
She’d been quite content with it when they were together. But now that they were apart, it was not nearly enough.
More, more, more.
More of what?
“Have I always been this selfish…?”
She could hear the throaty rumble of thunder in the distance.
Old stories told that such sounds were the voices of dragons, but she didn’t know whether it was true.
Thankfully, she had yet to meet a dragon. And hopefully she never would.
Rumble, rumble. The thunder was getting closer. Thunder…?
Cow Girl realized the sound had stopped just near her.
That wasn’t thunder. So what…?
She lifted her head, confused. She could see herself in the glass. She looked terrible. And past her reflection…
A grimy steel helmet, drenched with rain.
“Wha?! Oh… Wha?!”
She sat up in a rush, her mouth opening and closing.
What should she say? What could she say? Words and emotions whirled around her head and heart.
She couldn’t quite manage Welcome back or Are you all right?
“Wh-what are you doing out in the rain like that? You’ll catch a cold!”
That was the greeting she settled on as she pulled the window open with a bang.
“Sorry. The light was on, so I thought you were awake.”
Compared to her disheveled state, he was so composed it made her angry.
“Something’s come up.”
“Something like…?”
“I’ll be back in the morning,” he said calmly, and then after a moment’s thought, added, “I would like stew for breakfast.”
“Uh—”
He would be back. He was going out of his way to tell her he would be back. And that he wanted to eat her cooking.